Please imagine that in the cave labyrinth underneath Telegraph Hill there is a bakery run by giant spiders. And that, because they are all vegetarians, the char siu sou (叉燒酥)) is filled with tofu.
An altogether horrible idea!
Yet some of my readers may not realize how repulsive that is. "Surely", they will say, "char siu flavoured soybean curd is a great good?"
Unless of course they are spiders.
Who think it's natural.
I will insist that vegetarians have no business taking over our beloved foods and mucking them up by subterfuge. Do we insist upon kelp or wheatgrass flavoured beefsteak? Has anyone ever produced bacon with the appearance of tempeh or miso?
IT'S DAMNED NEAR VEGAN!
At one point a little girl will wander into the spider bakery. She took a wrong turn after twilight (dusk starts shortly after five at this time of year), and, while answering a text message from a beloved classmate ("what caused the fall of the Roman Empire? There are too many possibilities!"), she stumbled into a long dark tunnel -- the entrance was on an alley way, next to the mahjong parlour -- at the very end of which was a bright cheerful light. As she drew closer, shadows in the glowing nimbus became apparent. Lumpish things, some with horns, and also undefinable balls of fur. Plus creatures with many long spindly legs. And there was happy chatter, and good-natured chortling, such as people enjoying a spot of tea and a pastry are wont to make.
Did she still have that ten dollar bill her mommy gave her for lunch? Oh goody, she did! She realized that she was totally starving, she had eaten nothing since breakfast!
She skips up to the counter, excited at the prospect of tasty things to nibble on, and a hot cup of milk tea! All the pastries look so lovely! Crisp and flaky, and there's crumbly roll with red bean paste, and linyong pastry, and egg-tarts, and char siu sou ......
As she's pointing at the char siu sou, the friendly spider behind the counter says "I'm so sorry, little girl, that isn't really char siu, but tofu (and red dye). And that isn't real egg tart (yellow no. 5)."
The child looks utterly crest fallen.
Very very disappointed.
Uncle Spidy gently suggests a strawberry tartlet, and some of the gooey almond bread. They'll be better than even real char siu would have been, and much much nicer than tofu!
And they are.
She stays till seven, when they close, doing her homework.
Afterwards the friendly arachnid walks her up the tunnel to the entrance, and tells her to carefully remember where it is, but be circumspect about telling anyone. The folks in the mahjong parlour in the alleyway don't even know, they're kind of abstracted by their game.
She still has eight dollars left.
He must not have charged her for the hot milk tea. Maybe he forgot? He really wanted her to enjoy the pastries, perhaps that distracted him.
She'll go back tomorrow afternoon and offer to pay.
And to have more strawberry tart.
It's a nice place.
I'll forgive the arachnids for not using butter, or clarified lard, in their baking.
They're repulsed by such things, and just can't help it.
But they really should post a warning.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
WHAT IS RED, HOT, AND FRIGHTENS CHILDREN?
A number of State governors have declared that they will refuse to accept anyone fleeing violence in Syria. Not surprisingly, a majority of these men are Republicans (whose party created Isis), and most of their states are toxic pits of tea-party venom, meanspiritedness, Protestantism, and sheer unmitigated loathsomeness.
States which won't welcome Syrian refugees:
Alabama
Arizona
Arkansas
Florida
Georgia
Illinois
Indiana
Iowa
Louisiana
Massachusetts
Michigan
Mississippi
New Hampshire
North Carolina
Ohio
Texas
Wisconsin
Okay, well, maybe New Hampshire isn't so bad. Everybody loves maple syrup, right? And Louisiana is dirt-poor, and cannot even take care of its own. Besides, they have Bobby Jindal; they're cursed.
Polls show Donald Trump and Ben Carson winning easily in ALL these states, however. Along with Darth Vader.
Maple Syrup also comes from Canada and Vermont -- which are mighty fine places -- and Sriracha is so much better than McIlhenny's shitty pepper vinegar that I'm surprised Tabasco is even still sold. Anywhere.
I will continue to buy Crystal Hot Sauce, despite its provenance.
It's an excellent product. Sometimes I drink it straight.
And I cannot imagine my kitchen without it.
There's nothing from Texas.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
States which won't welcome Syrian refugees:
Alabama
Arizona
Arkansas
Florida
Georgia
Illinois
Indiana
Iowa
Louisiana
Massachusetts
Michigan
Mississippi
New Hampshire
North Carolina
Ohio
Texas
Wisconsin
Okay, well, maybe New Hampshire isn't so bad. Everybody loves maple syrup, right? And Louisiana is dirt-poor, and cannot even take care of its own. Besides, they have Bobby Jindal; they're cursed.
Polls show Donald Trump and Ben Carson winning easily in ALL these states, however. Along with Darth Vader.
Maple Syrup also comes from Canada and Vermont -- which are mighty fine places -- and Sriracha is so much better than McIlhenny's shitty pepper vinegar that I'm surprised Tabasco is even still sold. Anywhere.
I will continue to buy Crystal Hot Sauce, despite its provenance.
It's an excellent product. Sometimes I drink it straight.
And I cannot imagine my kitchen without it.
There's nothing from Texas.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, November 16, 2015
THE UNITED STATES OF MONKEY
There was no game on, so the cigar smokers in the barn tried their hands at conversation. Five tightly arse-clenched Republicans fueled by bananas.
Dear lord.
Nearly an hour of droning inanity.
Of course I was already frazzled at that point, having previously dealt with someone who was unbearably precious, and shortly following that, a visit from a survivalist gun-rights activist and anti-vaxxer worried about gmos and Round-Up (Glyphosate) in his tobacco. From whom I got the intelligence that them folks in Washington are deliberately flooding the country with violent Syrian refugees in order to drive up the price of gold.
It is a plot.
Ladies and gentlemen, it does NOT take all kinds.
There are several we can well do without.
On the other hand, I thoroughly enjoyed everything I stuck in my mouth today. Four successive pipe-fulls of one of my own experimental Virginia mixtures, the entire sequence briefly interrupted by lunch.
I am presently savouring a cup of coffee, while contemplating a fifth pipe.
The problem is that it is cold outside. Ideally I would be ensconced in a throw-rug and indoors, enjoying my tobacco. But my apartment mate gets theatrical when I light up in our quarters. The last time, a whole host of small stuffed animals accused me of murderous intent.
I would go to one of my favourite hang-outs, but Chewzilla is working there tonight, and life is too short to deal with fanged gorgonids.
By sheer necessity, I must wait until Savage Kitten is at work tomorrow before I can smoke a pipe. I think I shall celebrate by getting under the covers entirely nude, with a good book. An ashtray and a cup of tea within easy reach on the bedside table.
Why nude? Because I can, it's sensual, and I shall be alone.
If there were someone with me, I would be entirely clothed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Dear lord.
Nearly an hour of droning inanity.
Of course I was already frazzled at that point, having previously dealt with someone who was unbearably precious, and shortly following that, a visit from a survivalist gun-rights activist and anti-vaxxer worried about gmos and Round-Up (Glyphosate) in his tobacco. From whom I got the intelligence that them folks in Washington are deliberately flooding the country with violent Syrian refugees in order to drive up the price of gold.
It is a plot.
Ladies and gentlemen, it does NOT take all kinds.
There are several we can well do without.
On the other hand, I thoroughly enjoyed everything I stuck in my mouth today. Four successive pipe-fulls of one of my own experimental Virginia mixtures, the entire sequence briefly interrupted by lunch.
I am presently savouring a cup of coffee, while contemplating a fifth pipe.
The problem is that it is cold outside. Ideally I would be ensconced in a throw-rug and indoors, enjoying my tobacco. But my apartment mate gets theatrical when I light up in our quarters. The last time, a whole host of small stuffed animals accused me of murderous intent.
I would go to one of my favourite hang-outs, but Chewzilla is working there tonight, and life is too short to deal with fanged gorgonids.
By sheer necessity, I must wait until Savage Kitten is at work tomorrow before I can smoke a pipe. I think I shall celebrate by getting under the covers entirely nude, with a good book. An ashtray and a cup of tea within easy reach on the bedside table.
Why nude? Because I can, it's sensual, and I shall be alone.
If there were someone with me, I would be entirely clothed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, November 15, 2015
A DAY WITH A SUAVE LATINO
He was up on the ladder when he spoke. "My hands are tied right now." This in answer to my asking how long he wanted me to stand there holding aloft the box of push-pins. There were things I needed to do, and five gorgeous Preben Holm freehands I wanted to get my fingers on. Offering push-pins for the convenience of someone tying himself in knots six feet above the ground was not what I had envisioned.
My natural response was to exclaim "then now is the right time for auntie to beat you with a soggy brassiere, large size!"
I put the push-pins on the top rung and moved out of flailing distance.
A man with Christmas ornamentation can be unpredictable.
Especially two weeks before Thanksgiving.
It's far too early for that.
While heading back toward the box of briar pipes that begged for clean-up and restoration, I speculated that his sex life was getting weirder by the week, and he shouldn't have talked the fat blonde neighbor-lady into participating in his queer bondage game. Yeah, she's desperate; it's been ages since her alcoholic husband got up off the couch, he's been lying there since the last Bush administration ended, gorging on micro-wave macaroni and cheese washed down with rootbeer-flavoured vodka, and the care-giver comes in only once a week to help him evacuate, poor big-ass constipated lardo. But sadomasochism on ladders with a hung-over Guatemalan is NOT the answer, and good sturdy bras are hard to find.
I'm not certain that the Ectorinator appreciated the lecture.
He said something about a sick Dutchman.
Perhaps he's seeing things.
Anyway, nothing more eventful than that happened.
It was a very peaceful day.
I'm rather enchanted by the mental image of a gentleman smoking a cigar being roundly abused with wet underwear, extra large size, by a sweaty blonde naked whale of a woman. He deserves a bit of fun, the dear man.
Me personally, I prefer women to be smaller and not violent. But I believe that peroxided orcas are the American standard of beauty.
You are all welcome to it. And them.
Whatever lifts your spirits.
Ruddy perverts.
It is far too early to put up Christmas decorations.
That, also, may be a ruddy perversion.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My natural response was to exclaim "then now is the right time for auntie to beat you with a soggy brassiere, large size!"
I put the push-pins on the top rung and moved out of flailing distance.
A man with Christmas ornamentation can be unpredictable.
Especially two weeks before Thanksgiving.
It's far too early for that.
While heading back toward the box of briar pipes that begged for clean-up and restoration, I speculated that his sex life was getting weirder by the week, and he shouldn't have talked the fat blonde neighbor-lady into participating in his queer bondage game. Yeah, she's desperate; it's been ages since her alcoholic husband got up off the couch, he's been lying there since the last Bush administration ended, gorging on micro-wave macaroni and cheese washed down with rootbeer-flavoured vodka, and the care-giver comes in only once a week to help him evacuate, poor big-ass constipated lardo. But sadomasochism on ladders with a hung-over Guatemalan is NOT the answer, and good sturdy bras are hard to find.
I'm not certain that the Ectorinator appreciated the lecture.
He said something about a sick Dutchman.
Perhaps he's seeing things.
Anyway, nothing more eventful than that happened.
It was a very peaceful day.
I'm rather enchanted by the mental image of a gentleman smoking a cigar being roundly abused with wet underwear, extra large size, by a sweaty blonde naked whale of a woman. He deserves a bit of fun, the dear man.
Me personally, I prefer women to be smaller and not violent. But I believe that peroxided orcas are the American standard of beauty.
You are all welcome to it. And them.
Whatever lifts your spirits.
Ruddy perverts.
It is far too early to put up Christmas decorations.
That, also, may be a ruddy perversion.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOU CANNOT DIE FROM CROOKED TEETH
Apparently I can cook really well. Which is yet another reason that my apartment mate's boyfriend is jealous as all git-out. Of me. Upon returning home I made the mistake of asking her how she was. You should probably never ask an Asperger syndrome person how she is; the answer may be incredibly long and detailed.
Especially if she if fraught.
"How are you?"
A simple question. A forty minute (plus) answer. And yes, Wheelie Boy is partly responsible for that. Seeing as, being an Aspie even more than she is, he is quite insensitive to her mental state.
Can't read any of the signs.
Dingo.
Her oldest brother too. He's apparently also somewhere on the dark side of the spectrum.
Even though he is not green and lovable.
But still. Wheelie Boy.
Most of it.
"Love is not slapping the sh*t out of someone who irritates the f*ck out of you."
Yeah, that works. Personally, I'm a bit more of a romantic.
She also categorized both of them as "just like sea monkeys but not as bright". Now, seeing as even after all these years I've never met her oldest brother, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of the statement as it applies to him. Yes, I've met her boyfriend once or twice. But discretion and tact forbid me from describing him in any way. Other than by saying that he's got a nice shiny wheelchair, why, it makes him the very best mobility impaired person on his block. Top notch.
Yowzers.
The crooked teeth referenced in the title of this post? Her dental retainers broke. They are the only thing keeping her lower jaw from going out of sync with her upper chompers, apparently.
And that also is a profound cause of frustration.
Other than that, she's doing fine.
And let's not forget that she's living with someone who is sparklingly sane, which is a good thing. Stable, understanding, tolerant of stuffed animals, and kind to her teddy bear.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Especially if she if fraught.
"How are you?"
A simple question. A forty minute (plus) answer. And yes, Wheelie Boy is partly responsible for that. Seeing as, being an Aspie even more than she is, he is quite insensitive to her mental state.
Can't read any of the signs.
Dingo.
Her oldest brother too. He's apparently also somewhere on the dark side of the spectrum.
Even though he is not green and lovable.
But still. Wheelie Boy.
Most of it.
"Love is not slapping the sh*t out of someone who irritates the f*ck out of you."
Yeah, that works. Personally, I'm a bit more of a romantic.
She also categorized both of them as "just like sea monkeys but not as bright". Now, seeing as even after all these years I've never met her oldest brother, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of the statement as it applies to him. Yes, I've met her boyfriend once or twice. But discretion and tact forbid me from describing him in any way. Other than by saying that he's got a nice shiny wheelchair, why, it makes him the very best mobility impaired person on his block. Top notch.
Yowzers.
The crooked teeth referenced in the title of this post? Her dental retainers broke. They are the only thing keeping her lower jaw from going out of sync with her upper chompers, apparently.
And that also is a profound cause of frustration.
Other than that, she's doing fine.
And let's not forget that she's living with someone who is sparklingly sane, which is a good thing. Stable, understanding, tolerant of stuffed animals, and kind to her teddy bear.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HAND ME THE PITCHFORK
So. I got home mere moments ago, and I found that my bed was an utter disaster. Lordy. And, quite logically, I shall blame my ex-girlfriend. Who five years afterwards is still my apartment mate, and has her own room, and her own bed. Which, I point out, is spotless.
My bed, however .....
The reason for the bed-mess is that she had asked, five hours ago when she went to take a bath, if it was okay to root through my mail for any catalogues to read while she soaked.
I had no problem with that.
For the past many months or more my mailbox has been overflowing with junkmail. Upon emptying it, I pull the bills and statements, and dump the remainder to the right of the fish-obsessed teddy bear on my bed whom I brought home a decade ago. And then I studiously ignore it.
Actually, precisely like the bills and statements.
I stack them separately, unread.
Along with catalogues.
On the bed.
Snail mail is basically a waste of time. I call in to pay all my bills regularly, and I keep track of my expenditures accurately enough that whatever the recorded voice says is not worth questioning. I haven't bothered opening bank or utility statements in several months.
I figure stuff out as it happens.
And pay on time.
She must have found quite a few catalogues. The election flyers and voter-recommendations are a bit scattered in consequence. Presently the spider hand-puppet (Pierpont) is sitting on top of the mail-dune threatening the froad (Tyrone Thibbet). A troll (Totoro) is to the side advising the little black kitty (Gigi). There's a stuffed cow (Louise) there too.
All of them are wide awake.
And far too lively.
The friend who drove me home advised me earlier to sign-up for match dot com, as a means of perhaps solving my lack of romance. I rather doubt that even match dot com would help, because as a first step I would probably have to get rid of all the printed detritus in the entire apartment, much of which I haven't even read yet. What I intend to do before going to sleep tonight is simply re-stack what's on the bed, randomly but neatly.
I don't feel like housecleaning at this present time.
There's nothing that is actually dirty.
Cleanliness is next to godliness.
I am not quite the devil.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My bed, however .....
The reason for the bed-mess is that she had asked, five hours ago when she went to take a bath, if it was okay to root through my mail for any catalogues to read while she soaked.
I had no problem with that.
For the past many months or more my mailbox has been overflowing with junkmail. Upon emptying it, I pull the bills and statements, and dump the remainder to the right of the fish-obsessed teddy bear on my bed whom I brought home a decade ago. And then I studiously ignore it.
Actually, precisely like the bills and statements.
I stack them separately, unread.
Along with catalogues.
On the bed.
Snail mail is basically a waste of time. I call in to pay all my bills regularly, and I keep track of my expenditures accurately enough that whatever the recorded voice says is not worth questioning. I haven't bothered opening bank or utility statements in several months.
I figure stuff out as it happens.
And pay on time.
She must have found quite a few catalogues. The election flyers and voter-recommendations are a bit scattered in consequence. Presently the spider hand-puppet (Pierpont) is sitting on top of the mail-dune threatening the froad (Tyrone Thibbet). A troll (Totoro) is to the side advising the little black kitty (Gigi). There's a stuffed cow (Louise) there too.
All of them are wide awake.
And far too lively.
The friend who drove me home advised me earlier to sign-up for match dot com, as a means of perhaps solving my lack of romance. I rather doubt that even match dot com would help, because as a first step I would probably have to get rid of all the printed detritus in the entire apartment, much of which I haven't even read yet. What I intend to do before going to sleep tonight is simply re-stack what's on the bed, randomly but neatly.
I don't feel like housecleaning at this present time.
There's nothing that is actually dirty.
Cleanliness is next to godliness.
I am not quite the devil.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, November 14, 2015
UP THE TURKEY!
In less than a fortnight that horrid event will occur. And, for several days before, people will be happily burbling about their plans, while for more than a week after, the same people and others will be recounting what a totally splendid time they all had, what they did, and how much they ate.
Then they will memory belch, and ease their stomachs.
No, I'm not talking about vacationing in a small pilgrim town in the Pennines, waking up late, reading the Times over tea and buttered toast, then wandering around the village green or under the stately chestnut trees before noshing on tea, hot scones, clotted cream, and preserves at The Tay Cottage, with an array of goodies arrayed on spotless damask, followed by gin and tonics plus lawn bowling at twilight, then a delicious curry dinner around nine o'clock, prepared by an ex-major in the Indian Army at the Taj Mahal Restaurant, and afterwards a long stroll back to the Angler's Rest Hotel on the bank of the river Swythe.
The lunch buffet is terrific.
From Frodekker's "Guide To Holiday Destinations of England":
"The settlement of Saint Bulgar On The Swythe dates to Roman times, though by the middle-ages the beautiful market town on the road to Hadrian's Wall had shrunk to a shadow of its former glory. The discovery of iron tongs said to have been wielded by Saint Cuthbert The Pincher (now housed in the Old Bulgarian Museum, formerly the parish school 'De Pravitatis Rectum') brought notoriety to the town, and the subsequent entombing of Saint Bulgar The Very Pious (who founded a seminary for sons of local farmers in the nearby forests) led a few years later to the establishment of the renunciant order of Saeva Verberibus Pro Fide, whose missionaries brought literacy and cold bathing to many areas of West Africa during the age of sail.
The picturesque baroque church in the centre of the gas district (the 'Mediaeval Quarter') is surrounded by groves of chestnut trees that extend to the river Swythe, where festive boating parties overturn in early summer, when the trees are in bloom along both banks. During Autumn, from early October to late November, visitors come especially for the local culinary marvel, chestnut meringue, which is sold in dense bricks of one to two kilos, and is said to keep for several months. It is also available in decorative enamel tins.
The town boasts several fine restaurants."
End quote.
That is actually a very nice fantasy, and hot fresh scones are indeed something to celebrate, even if you aren't going up north for the season. They're rather like southern biscuits, which make an excellent substitute, and here in San Francisco clotted cream can nowadays be found. If you like fruit preserves, there are several excellent recipes on the internet, and the markets are filled with autumn produce right now. Pitted plums in gingered syrup is good, for instance, and a compote of quartered skinned peach with a touch of orange zest speaks for itself.
For a smoke afterwards, pop open a tin of Rattray's Old Gowrie, or even Marlin Flake, and load up a Peterson pipe. I'm sure you have a full-bent army mount somewhere, the classic Peterson System Standard (typically, shape 307, 308, or 312). Everyone does, we all bought one at some point.
It would be a little slice of perfect paradise, you can be certain.
Wandering alone through the fallen leaves.
Growling at icky little lap dogs.
Or swatting them.
But that is not the point of this essay.
I'm talking about the turkeys.
Thanksgiving.
Which, as the acknowledged eccentric uncle of all my friends, I do not celebrate. What with not being a family friendly sort of guy and all that. Apparently I eat little children or worship Satan or something.
Boo.
TURKEY DAY OF THE DAMNED
So instead, here is a pre-emptive description of what my Thanksgiving will probably end up being. In which you must imagine the author (me) in the persona of a somewhat anti-social badger wandering around with pipe and tobacco in the wilds of Nob and Telegraph, before heading down into Chinatown for some roast duck or roast goose at a place where they will charge me less than ten dollars, then perhaps having a cup of Hong Kong style milk tea and some pie at a local bakery while listening to middle-aged Toishanese gentlemen gossiping.
I'm getting pretty good at understanding Toishanese, especially if it's larded with swear words or Hong Kong slang.
The roast duck (or goose) will have a shiny warm mahogany-hued skin, crispy-juicy, with rich tender flesh underneath. It will have leaked some of its grease into the bed of vegetables underneath -- usually freshly blanched lettuce, as the sweetness goes well with fowl -- and along with soup, rice, and globs of hotsauce, it will have been a perfect meal.
Far far nicer than that dry bird most folks will have.
And, even better, there won't a ballgame on!
Or whiny brats demanding stuffing.
Supermarket pumpkin pie.
And cool whip!
Cran-buggery-berries!
For afters, I may stuff some Orlik Golden Sliced (a beautiful blonde pressed Virginia with a touch of Perique) into a Peterson shape 150, before heading down to the cigar bar to see what the other holiday losers have been up to.
Peterson shape 150 is the classic straight bulldog, though like some other shapes there has been variation over the years. The one I'm thinking of does not have the characteristic long heel, and there's a bevel to the inner rim. It is aesthetically extremely satisfying, though somewhat small, and I've cut a piss-elegant taper stem for it, to replace the saddle, which was visually not as exciting. It was the first quality pipe I could afford, and I have had it for a very long time.
[Other shapes that I would like to eventually acquire are the chubby 999, that being a fat little Rhodesian, and shape 356, which is a system standard (full bent, military mount) with an amusing severity to the bowl. Plus, of course, the type of squat bulldog that the Irish haven't made in years. It used to be so popular.]
My apartment mate will probably take over the kitchen early in the morning, clattering around preparing a Thanksgiving feast for her boyfriend with the sensitive digestion, then, having gotten all tense and frustrated because of time constraints, she'll take over the bathroom, bring the car around by mid-afternoon, and rush off, first to Wheelie Boy's place, then to one or other relative's house for a family dinner with her various kin.
Her Thanksgiving will be tense and fraught.
Boyfriend and brothers, separately.
And a store-bought pie.
Mine will be calm, musteloidal, and Cantonese-ish.
Good tobacco, duck, and hot milk tea.
Then a little whiskey.
The closer it gets to Thanksgiving, the more I will avoid humans. There will be a definite badgerlike solitariness afterwards too, till Xmas.
I really do not want to hear about it.
BULGAR ALL
In the years before I bought my first Peterson pipe, I did rather enjoy Thanksgiving and other holidays. Warmth, good cheer, and fine food. But those were family events. My father, mother, and older brother are gone now, and I failed to develop a thanksgiving habit of my own since returning to the States. Life intervened, and I don't really like turkey.
Duck is fine, though. I like duck.
At this moment I am eating gooey brie, crackers, and Sriracha hot sauce. And drinking a cup of really strong tea. In another few moments I shall load up a Peterson with a tangy red Virginia flake and head out. There's a stretch with crunchy fallen leaves further up the hill where it would be pleasant to spend a while.
A man should have a good selection of Peterson pipes. In addition to five Peterson System Standards, there are also several straight billiards, a few Canadians, a bulldog or two, and an Oom Paul.
I also really like Comoys.
Got several.
Unlike turkey, brie with hotsauce does not lead to fitful dozing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Then they will memory belch, and ease their stomachs.
No, I'm not talking about vacationing in a small pilgrim town in the Pennines, waking up late, reading the Times over tea and buttered toast, then wandering around the village green or under the stately chestnut trees before noshing on tea, hot scones, clotted cream, and preserves at The Tay Cottage, with an array of goodies arrayed on spotless damask, followed by gin and tonics plus lawn bowling at twilight, then a delicious curry dinner around nine o'clock, prepared by an ex-major in the Indian Army at the Taj Mahal Restaurant, and afterwards a long stroll back to the Angler's Rest Hotel on the bank of the river Swythe.
The lunch buffet is terrific.
From Frodekker's "Guide To Holiday Destinations of England":
"The settlement of Saint Bulgar On The Swythe dates to Roman times, though by the middle-ages the beautiful market town on the road to Hadrian's Wall had shrunk to a shadow of its former glory. The discovery of iron tongs said to have been wielded by Saint Cuthbert The Pincher (now housed in the Old Bulgarian Museum, formerly the parish school 'De Pravitatis Rectum') brought notoriety to the town, and the subsequent entombing of Saint Bulgar The Very Pious (who founded a seminary for sons of local farmers in the nearby forests) led a few years later to the establishment of the renunciant order of Saeva Verberibus Pro Fide, whose missionaries brought literacy and cold bathing to many areas of West Africa during the age of sail.
The picturesque baroque church in the centre of the gas district (the 'Mediaeval Quarter') is surrounded by groves of chestnut trees that extend to the river Swythe, where festive boating parties overturn in early summer, when the trees are in bloom along both banks. During Autumn, from early October to late November, visitors come especially for the local culinary marvel, chestnut meringue, which is sold in dense bricks of one to two kilos, and is said to keep for several months. It is also available in decorative enamel tins.
The town boasts several fine restaurants."
End quote.
That is actually a very nice fantasy, and hot fresh scones are indeed something to celebrate, even if you aren't going up north for the season. They're rather like southern biscuits, which make an excellent substitute, and here in San Francisco clotted cream can nowadays be found. If you like fruit preserves, there are several excellent recipes on the internet, and the markets are filled with autumn produce right now. Pitted plums in gingered syrup is good, for instance, and a compote of quartered skinned peach with a touch of orange zest speaks for itself.
For a smoke afterwards, pop open a tin of Rattray's Old Gowrie, or even Marlin Flake, and load up a Peterson pipe. I'm sure you have a full-bent army mount somewhere, the classic Peterson System Standard (typically, shape 307, 308, or 312). Everyone does, we all bought one at some point.
It would be a little slice of perfect paradise, you can be certain.
Wandering alone through the fallen leaves.
Growling at icky little lap dogs.
Or swatting them.
But that is not the point of this essay.
I'm talking about the turkeys.
Thanksgiving.
Which, as the acknowledged eccentric uncle of all my friends, I do not celebrate. What with not being a family friendly sort of guy and all that. Apparently I eat little children or worship Satan or something.
Boo.
TURKEY DAY OF THE DAMNED
So instead, here is a pre-emptive description of what my Thanksgiving will probably end up being. In which you must imagine the author (me) in the persona of a somewhat anti-social badger wandering around with pipe and tobacco in the wilds of Nob and Telegraph, before heading down into Chinatown for some roast duck or roast goose at a place where they will charge me less than ten dollars, then perhaps having a cup of Hong Kong style milk tea and some pie at a local bakery while listening to middle-aged Toishanese gentlemen gossiping.
I'm getting pretty good at understanding Toishanese, especially if it's larded with swear words or Hong Kong slang.
The roast duck (or goose) will have a shiny warm mahogany-hued skin, crispy-juicy, with rich tender flesh underneath. It will have leaked some of its grease into the bed of vegetables underneath -- usually freshly blanched lettuce, as the sweetness goes well with fowl -- and along with soup, rice, and globs of hotsauce, it will have been a perfect meal.
Far far nicer than that dry bird most folks will have.
And, even better, there won't a ballgame on!
Or whiny brats demanding stuffing.
Supermarket pumpkin pie.
And cool whip!
Cran-buggery-berries!
For afters, I may stuff some Orlik Golden Sliced (a beautiful blonde pressed Virginia with a touch of Perique) into a Peterson shape 150, before heading down to the cigar bar to see what the other holiday losers have been up to.
The sane single individual is rather remarkably badger-like.
Peterson shape 150 is the classic straight bulldog, though like some other shapes there has been variation over the years. The one I'm thinking of does not have the characteristic long heel, and there's a bevel to the inner rim. It is aesthetically extremely satisfying, though somewhat small, and I've cut a piss-elegant taper stem for it, to replace the saddle, which was visually not as exciting. It was the first quality pipe I could afford, and I have had it for a very long time.
[Other shapes that I would like to eventually acquire are the chubby 999, that being a fat little Rhodesian, and shape 356, which is a system standard (full bent, military mount) with an amusing severity to the bowl. Plus, of course, the type of squat bulldog that the Irish haven't made in years. It used to be so popular.]
My apartment mate will probably take over the kitchen early in the morning, clattering around preparing a Thanksgiving feast for her boyfriend with the sensitive digestion, then, having gotten all tense and frustrated because of time constraints, she'll take over the bathroom, bring the car around by mid-afternoon, and rush off, first to Wheelie Boy's place, then to one or other relative's house for a family dinner with her various kin.
Her Thanksgiving will be tense and fraught.
Boyfriend and brothers, separately.
And a store-bought pie.
Mine will be calm, musteloidal, and Cantonese-ish.
Good tobacco, duck, and hot milk tea.
Then a little whiskey.
The closer it gets to Thanksgiving, the more I will avoid humans. There will be a definite badgerlike solitariness afterwards too, till Xmas.
I really do not want to hear about it.
BULGAR ALL
In the years before I bought my first Peterson pipe, I did rather enjoy Thanksgiving and other holidays. Warmth, good cheer, and fine food. But those were family events. My father, mother, and older brother are gone now, and I failed to develop a thanksgiving habit of my own since returning to the States. Life intervened, and I don't really like turkey.
Duck is fine, though. I like duck.
At this moment I am eating gooey brie, crackers, and Sriracha hot sauce. And drinking a cup of really strong tea. In another few moments I shall load up a Peterson with a tangy red Virginia flake and head out. There's a stretch with crunchy fallen leaves further up the hill where it would be pleasant to spend a while.
A man should have a good selection of Peterson pipes. In addition to five Peterson System Standards, there are also several straight billiards, a few Canadians, a bulldog or two, and an Oom Paul.
I also really like Comoys.
Got several.
Unlike turkey, brie with hotsauce does not lead to fitful dozing.
==========================================================================
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Friday, November 13, 2015
ADD SALT. IT BRINGS OUT THE FLAVOUR!
Hah! I have to laugh! Actually, giggle, and it's quite a bit later than the event that set me off. My apartment mate spent most of Armistice Day with her boyfriend, the one she's been seeing on again off again for over four operatic years, and came home complaining about the utter whiteness of his dietary preferences.
She could have had someone openminded about food -- in fact, years ago she did -- but she chose him. Possibly out of thousands. Tonnes of nice deserving dudes, of many types and hues, but she ended up with someone so culinarily white he probably glows in the dark.
Little Cantonese woman picked a winner!
Hah!
The poor fellow is sensitive to sodium, as well as dairy and gluten, and his poor little tum-tum is easily upset. Why, a jigger of hotsauce or soy would ruin his entire day!
I can't say as I have much sympathy for the woozums, as I regard much of contemporary society's attitudes towards good things to eat as neurotic and ridiculous.
Bunch of overindulged hysterics.
That's what.
Savage Kitten and I live together, still, even though we haven't been a couple for over half a decade. In that time, I have seriously enjoyed food, over-indulged in tasty stuff, found out everything about several new things to eat, and learned how to cook them with keen curiosity.
She started dating a food-obsessed Aspie.
Who likes protein bars.
Yeah, I know. Shouldn't have so much fun at his expense. Especially because I am NOT jealous, and do not begrudge either of them their pleasure in each other.
"We can't get that; it looks so good I would eat it all.
And you know what that would do to me!"
Apparently food-shopping or restaurant-visiting with the dude is an experience. A very frustrating experience. Laden and rife.
No salt! No gluten! No grease! And no dairy!
Very frustrating for a Cantonese girl.
I feel her pain.
My only dietary worry is that if I eat too much liver or shellfish, it might likely fire up an episode of gout. Especially if it were fried in ghee or chicken fat. But with only a little forethought such an eventuality is avoidable, and if I were to go out eating with someone, I would not prevent them from indulging themselves in such a manner. Go ahead, have all the greasy sauteed lobster and gehakte leber you want!
I'll just have a taste. Would you care for some of my duck?
Il est canard rôti a la façon Cantonais; assez délicieux!
Buttered toast points! Buttered toast points!
Duck, lobster, and gehakte leber make for splendid eating. Together at the same time, or separately on different occasions. With or without the delicious bitter vegetables, and condiments of character.
Plus a glass of champagne or sherry.
We must dine well.
Giggle.
By the way: I'm quite lean. Trim, even.
It really takes no effort at all.
I don't worry about it.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
She could have had someone openminded about food -- in fact, years ago she did -- but she chose him. Possibly out of thousands. Tonnes of nice deserving dudes, of many types and hues, but she ended up with someone so culinarily white he probably glows in the dark.
Little Cantonese woman picked a winner!
Hah!
The poor fellow is sensitive to sodium, as well as dairy and gluten, and his poor little tum-tum is easily upset. Why, a jigger of hotsauce or soy would ruin his entire day!
I can't say as I have much sympathy for the woozums, as I regard much of contemporary society's attitudes towards good things to eat as neurotic and ridiculous.
Bunch of overindulged hysterics.
That's what.
Savage Kitten and I live together, still, even though we haven't been a couple for over half a decade. In that time, I have seriously enjoyed food, over-indulged in tasty stuff, found out everything about several new things to eat, and learned how to cook them with keen curiosity.
She started dating a food-obsessed Aspie.
Who likes protein bars.
Yeah, I know. Shouldn't have so much fun at his expense. Especially because I am NOT jealous, and do not begrudge either of them their pleasure in each other.
"We can't get that; it looks so good I would eat it all.
And you know what that would do to me!"
Apparently food-shopping or restaurant-visiting with the dude is an experience. A very frustrating experience. Laden and rife.
No salt! No gluten! No grease! And no dairy!
Very frustrating for a Cantonese girl.
I feel her pain.
My only dietary worry is that if I eat too much liver or shellfish, it might likely fire up an episode of gout. Especially if it were fried in ghee or chicken fat. But with only a little forethought such an eventuality is avoidable, and if I were to go out eating with someone, I would not prevent them from indulging themselves in such a manner. Go ahead, have all the greasy sauteed lobster and gehakte leber you want!
I'll just have a taste. Would you care for some of my duck?
Il est canard rôti a la façon Cantonais; assez délicieux!
Buttered toast points! Buttered toast points!
Duck, lobster, and gehakte leber make for splendid eating. Together at the same time, or separately on different occasions. With or without the delicious bitter vegetables, and condiments of character.
Plus a glass of champagne or sherry.
We must dine well.
Giggle.
By the way: I'm quite lean. Trim, even.
It really takes no effort at all.
I don't worry about it.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, November 12, 2015
CONSIDER THE SINGLE DISH: MAPO TOFU
For the past several years I have cooked as a bachelor. What that means is that it has been effortless, and perfectly suited to only ONE person's taste. More importantly, it has been convenient and nutritious, and took far less time than you would imagine. Usually a simple meat and vegetable dish with ginger, garlic, sherry or rice wine, bean paste, hot sauce, vinegar or lime juice, sugar, black pepper, soy sauce, fish sauce, shrimp sauce, cayenne powder, red curry paste, chili paste, chili sauce, chili oil, pickled chilies, chili vinegar, and freshly chopped chilies.
Plus, sometimes, crystal or Tabasco.
But no chili flakes.
Not all of the above, naturally, and in constantly shifting proportion. Fish requires the merest hint, bittermelon just a touch, preserved pork and long beans not too much, and tofu everything in buckets.
Tofu is bland, and needs all the help it can get.
Which means mapo tofu. More or less.
麻婆豆腐
Mapo tofu need not be vegetarian, but it often is. The quick and easy process is to seethe smashed ginger and garlic in hot oil till fragrant, add a generous pinch of Szichuan pepper (花椒 'faa chiu'), followed by a generous spoonful or two of hot bean paste (辣豆瓣酱 'laat dau baan jeung'), a scant teaspoon of sugar, splash of sherry or ricewine, and some reduced stock with a little cornstarch mixed in. Also add a tablespoon of mashed re-moistened fermented black beans (豆豉 'dau si'), and various chili-type substances. Cook till velvety, add a jigger of soy sauce, then the chunks of fresh tofu, and gently turn to coat and heat through. Add a drizzle of sesame oil and chopped chives.
Serve on top of rice. Or in a bowl, next to the rice.
Takes no time at all, as you can see.
You can add bacon!
Rice actually takes longer to prepare, so most of the time no matter what is for dinner I will have noodles instead. Rice stick noodles need barely any cooking at all, regular wheat noodles or wheat noodles with shrimp roe scarcely longer, and nice white Kwan Miao noodle only a little bit longer yet.
[Rice stick noodles: 沙河粉 'saa ho fan'. Regular wheat noodles: 麵 'min'. Shrimp roe noodles: 蝦子麵 'haa ji min'. Taiwan Kwan Miao noodles: 臺灣關廟麵 'toi waan gwaan miu min'.]
I have a sufficiency of chili-type substances, in case you were wondering, to prepare darn well anything.
The possibilities are endless.
Dinner can always be followed by coffee or strong milk tea, and either a pipe or a cigar.
Bachelors are not tied to weekly television shows after eating.
The world awaits, there are people to disturb.
I may growl grumpily at them.
And puff smoke.
Aack!
I'm actually a pretty good cook, but I haven't been a social cook in a very long time. Rice is social, noodles not so much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Plus, sometimes, crystal or Tabasco.
But no chili flakes.
Not all of the above, naturally, and in constantly shifting proportion. Fish requires the merest hint, bittermelon just a touch, preserved pork and long beans not too much, and tofu everything in buckets.
Tofu is bland, and needs all the help it can get.
Which means mapo tofu. More or less.
麻婆豆腐
Mapo tofu need not be vegetarian, but it often is. The quick and easy process is to seethe smashed ginger and garlic in hot oil till fragrant, add a generous pinch of Szichuan pepper (花椒 'faa chiu'), followed by a generous spoonful or two of hot bean paste (辣豆瓣酱 'laat dau baan jeung'), a scant teaspoon of sugar, splash of sherry or ricewine, and some reduced stock with a little cornstarch mixed in. Also add a tablespoon of mashed re-moistened fermented black beans (豆豉 'dau si'), and various chili-type substances. Cook till velvety, add a jigger of soy sauce, then the chunks of fresh tofu, and gently turn to coat and heat through. Add a drizzle of sesame oil and chopped chives.
Serve on top of rice. Or in a bowl, next to the rice.
Takes no time at all, as you can see.
You can add bacon!
Rice actually takes longer to prepare, so most of the time no matter what is for dinner I will have noodles instead. Rice stick noodles need barely any cooking at all, regular wheat noodles or wheat noodles with shrimp roe scarcely longer, and nice white Kwan Miao noodle only a little bit longer yet.
[Rice stick noodles: 沙河粉 'saa ho fan'. Regular wheat noodles: 麵 'min'. Shrimp roe noodles: 蝦子麵 'haa ji min'. Taiwan Kwan Miao noodles: 臺灣關廟麵 'toi waan gwaan miu min'.]
I have a sufficiency of chili-type substances, in case you were wondering, to prepare darn well anything.
The possibilities are endless.
Dinner can always be followed by coffee or strong milk tea, and either a pipe or a cigar.
Bachelors are not tied to weekly television shows after eating.
The world awaits, there are people to disturb.
I may growl grumpily at them.
And puff smoke.
Aack!
I'm actually a pretty good cook, but I haven't been a social cook in a very long time. Rice is social, noodles not so much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
INDUSTRIAL AUTUMN
In a port city one expects wild creatures to inhabit the streets. Wharf rats, lizards, feral cats, and several varieties of sub-human, all living together in imperfect harmony when not fighting over booze, ciggies, or small bits of dead meat. Some are more socialized than others, of course.
The sub-human element is perhaps the least acclimatized.
In a city like San Francisco, they require drugs.
And, naturally, a political voice.
No, I do not fondly remember the occupy movement that encamped down at the beginning of Market Street and made Ferry Plaza so monumentally unhealthy. Most of those people were unwashed, uneducated, unwholesome, and the staggering epitome of bourgeois.
Entitled middle class poseurs and faux socialists.
Also Jack Hirschman.
But!
They have been replaced by well-tailored shallow careerists, who have driven up the rent while driving out the working classes. Soon everything that made this city unique will be gone, and Ed Lee will finally have his world-class metropolis.
Which is what the real-estate speculators also want.
You know, I really miss the raccoons. They used to overturn garbage cans, fight cats, and threaten the damned chihuahuas and other icky lap dogs. The recent arrivals love their nasty little canines, and quite a few of them value those loathsome beasts above the human residents of this city.
Newcomer biped and quadruped both pull up their refeened noses when confronted with lower middling long-time residents.
We need more sailors, whores, stevedores, machinists, printers, fork-lift operators, welders, bar tenders, and bricklayers.
And far fewer programmers, marketing types, junior investment bankers, real estate bozos, and Ed Lee.
Plus we need raccoons, possums, rats, and coyotes.
Like there used to be.
There should also be places where a person can wander around enjoying the smells of tar, petrol, rotten wood, wet cement, rusty machines, roasting coffee, damp jute, decaying leaves, bacon, and his own pipe.
My pipe smells good, you dry-cleaned hosebags.
Good!
Fortunately, Chinatown is still pretty real, and caters to an unpretentious crowd. Yes, there are stupid tourists and arrogant Mandarin speakers wandering around and lowering the quality of life, but it is still a far better place than North Beach, which is now divided between artistic types plotting a poetry plaza on Vallejo Street, upscale e-commerce capitalists evicting poor people, trust-fund bohemians, European visitors orgasming over the gemutliche Europeanity of it all, and meaningful beatnik wannabees.
Plus Ed Lee.
Last night I could smell roast duck on the air long after most of the restaurants had closed for the evening. Chinatown was softer in the darkness, a row of glowing streetlights on Waverly progressing in a graceful line from the Church toward the painted Hunanese place two blocks away, where old New King Tin Restaurant (擎天酒樓) had once been.
The sounds of opera fuelled dreams while I smoked.
It was rather wonderful.
Nobody assaulted me with their modern attitude towards tobacco, or sicced their icky little Mexican mongrel hound on me. No one told me about their traumas, trigger warnings, unique digestive fragility, suffering while growing up in the rest of the country, or how I should become a vegetarian, legalize marijuana, avoid GMOs, eat kale, and save the poor stupid stunted natives in the Amazon because inbred stone-age illiterates are a priceless resource with unimaginable spiritual wisdom.
Peace.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The sub-human element is perhaps the least acclimatized.
In a city like San Francisco, they require drugs.
And, naturally, a political voice.
No, I do not fondly remember the occupy movement that encamped down at the beginning of Market Street and made Ferry Plaza so monumentally unhealthy. Most of those people were unwashed, uneducated, unwholesome, and the staggering epitome of bourgeois.
Entitled middle class poseurs and faux socialists.
Also Jack Hirschman.
But!
They have been replaced by well-tailored shallow careerists, who have driven up the rent while driving out the working classes. Soon everything that made this city unique will be gone, and Ed Lee will finally have his world-class metropolis.
Which is what the real-estate speculators also want.
You know, I really miss the raccoons. They used to overturn garbage cans, fight cats, and threaten the damned chihuahuas and other icky lap dogs. The recent arrivals love their nasty little canines, and quite a few of them value those loathsome beasts above the human residents of this city.
Newcomer biped and quadruped both pull up their refeened noses when confronted with lower middling long-time residents.
We need more sailors, whores, stevedores, machinists, printers, fork-lift operators, welders, bar tenders, and bricklayers.
And far fewer programmers, marketing types, junior investment bankers, real estate bozos, and Ed Lee.
Plus we need raccoons, possums, rats, and coyotes.
Like there used to be.
There should also be places where a person can wander around enjoying the smells of tar, petrol, rotten wood, wet cement, rusty machines, roasting coffee, damp jute, decaying leaves, bacon, and his own pipe.
My pipe smells good, you dry-cleaned hosebags.
Good!
Fortunately, Chinatown is still pretty real, and caters to an unpretentious crowd. Yes, there are stupid tourists and arrogant Mandarin speakers wandering around and lowering the quality of life, but it is still a far better place than North Beach, which is now divided between artistic types plotting a poetry plaza on Vallejo Street, upscale e-commerce capitalists evicting poor people, trust-fund bohemians, European visitors orgasming over the gemutliche Europeanity of it all, and meaningful beatnik wannabees.
Plus Ed Lee.
Last night I could smell roast duck on the air long after most of the restaurants had closed for the evening. Chinatown was softer in the darkness, a row of glowing streetlights on Waverly progressing in a graceful line from the Church toward the painted Hunanese place two blocks away, where old New King Tin Restaurant (擎天酒樓) had once been.
The sounds of opera fuelled dreams while I smoked.
It was rather wonderful.
Nobody assaulted me with their modern attitude towards tobacco, or sicced their icky little Mexican mongrel hound on me. No one told me about their traumas, trigger warnings, unique digestive fragility, suffering while growing up in the rest of the country, or how I should become a vegetarian, legalize marijuana, avoid GMOs, eat kale, and save the poor stupid stunted natives in the Amazon because inbred stone-age illiterates are a priceless resource with unimaginable spiritual wisdom.
Peace.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
燒鴨之隨想 RANDOM THOUGHTS WHILE EATING ROAST DUCK
It was a choice of bittermelon and spareribs over rice (苦瓜排骨飯 'fu-gwaa paai-gwat faan') or roast duck over rice (燒鴨飯 'siu ngaap faan'). I like both, but wisely I chose duck.
It was exceedingly delicious, and remarkably cheap.
With tea and soup, five and a half dollars.
Better than anything suburban.
嘩，乜咁靚嘅鹹水雞，看起來都好可口！
['wah, mat-gam leng ge haam seui kai, hon hei loi dou hou ho hau!']
The restaurant in question has superior roast or brined meats, and a keenly talented kitchen besides.
While happily eating juicy Donald, several thoughts randomly entered and left my head.
"That's the fifth customer asking if they have roast pork foretrotter (豬手 'jyu sau'; "pig hand"), but each one gets told that only the back foot (後腿 'hau keuk') is left. It must be popular."
"Oh boy! Fatty duck, fatty duck!"
"Hah! The food is too salty for Savage Kitten's sensitive white boyfriend! They'll never eat here!"
"The early waitress has small bosoms and looks so young, but she's already married and a mother."
"Oh boy! Fatty duck, fatty duck!"
"Man, both the thin one and her friend with the round face and the thighs like giant hams are thoroughly enjoying the chicken wings! They look so happy!"
"These tables are entirely not sticky, and everything is clean."
"Am I the only white guy here? Why yes I am!"
"Pity they don't serve rabbit."
"School must be out. That would explain all the floppity pony tails going down the street."
"So far every customer getting food to go has been female. Either they're gonna eat it all by themselves, or their family members are getting a treat."
"That cute little girl is staring at my duck."
"He's going to order a plate of soy pork liver, despite the risk of gout.
And she'll let him, cause he's older than her.
Good for you, gramps."
"The old guy must be loaded, or that's a relative. But how come he can't speak Cantonese as well as her?"
"Those large white people looking in are Northern European tourists. They look so timid."
"It would be great if there were two of us; then we could also have some charsiu."
"Wow, those saltwater chickens look scrumptious!"
"Oh boy! Fatty duck, fatty duck!"
"Dang I love grease!"
Anyway, it was so good, and the pipe I smoked afterwards while wandering down to Portsmouth Square so utterly satisfying, that I entirely forgot to buy vegetables for dinner.
There are only two chilies left.
I think I'll just have a cheese sandwich to eat later.
With sliced green Jalapeños.
And tomato.
Next time I should get some saltwater chicken (鹹水雞 'haam seui kaai', also called 鹽水雞 'yim seui kaai') to go; that way I'm sure to remember to look for gailan (芥蘭 'gaai laan') on Stockton Street before heading home.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was exceedingly delicious, and remarkably cheap.
With tea and soup, five and a half dollars.
Better than anything suburban.
嘩，乜咁靚嘅鹹水雞，看起來都好可口！
['wah, mat-gam leng ge haam seui kai, hon hei loi dou hou ho hau!']
The restaurant in question has superior roast or brined meats, and a keenly talented kitchen besides.
While happily eating juicy Donald, several thoughts randomly entered and left my head.
"That's the fifth customer asking if they have roast pork foretrotter (豬手 'jyu sau'; "pig hand"), but each one gets told that only the back foot (後腿 'hau keuk') is left. It must be popular."
"Oh boy! Fatty duck, fatty duck!"
"Hah! The food is too salty for Savage Kitten's sensitive white boyfriend! They'll never eat here!"
"The early waitress has small bosoms and looks so young, but she's already married and a mother."
"Oh boy! Fatty duck, fatty duck!"
"Man, both the thin one and her friend with the round face and the thighs like giant hams are thoroughly enjoying the chicken wings! They look so happy!"
"These tables are entirely not sticky, and everything is clean."
"Am I the only white guy here? Why yes I am!"
"Pity they don't serve rabbit."
"School must be out. That would explain all the floppity pony tails going down the street."
"So far every customer getting food to go has been female. Either they're gonna eat it all by themselves, or their family members are getting a treat."
"That cute little girl is staring at my duck."
"He's going to order a plate of soy pork liver, despite the risk of gout.
And she'll let him, cause he's older than her.
Good for you, gramps."
"The old guy must be loaded, or that's a relative. But how come he can't speak Cantonese as well as her?"
"Those large white people looking in are Northern European tourists. They look so timid."
"It would be great if there were two of us; then we could also have some charsiu."
"Wow, those saltwater chickens look scrumptious!"
"Oh boy! Fatty duck, fatty duck!"
"Dang I love grease!"
Anyway, it was so good, and the pipe I smoked afterwards while wandering down to Portsmouth Square so utterly satisfying, that I entirely forgot to buy vegetables for dinner.
There are only two chilies left.
I think I'll just have a cheese sandwich to eat later.
With sliced green Jalapeños.
And tomato.
Next time I should get some saltwater chicken (鹹水雞 'haam seui kaai', also called 鹽水雞 'yim seui kaai') to go; that way I'm sure to remember to look for gailan (芥蘭 'gaai laan') on Stockton Street before heading home.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
AND FAINTLY, PHANTOSMIA
It was a pleasant autumn evening when something spooked the cats.
We had left the French doors open, and my brother and I were in the sunroom engaged in different activities at the long table. He was avidly replaying the moves of famous chess masters, I was reading and getting whacked on jasmine tea. The smell of fermenting apples on the breeze fought and lost against the reek of my pipe-tobacco.
Dark foetid odeurs, fertile perfumes.
I rather like the stink of overripe fall fruit, and our parents had not requested yet that the mushy blobs be swept up to give the wasps no magnet. So they lay there underneath the massive tree that demarcated the paved area, far enough away that whatever flying insects were hypnotized by sugary smells would not come into the house.
Where my potent smoke would chase them out.
Bugs do not like Latakia.
Suddenly, one by one, the cats came in. Nearly a dozen of them. Not only the original mommma-slut, but also her daughters and her various grand children. Normally some of them were too shy to congregate with us bipeds. There was a sound of happy grunting from the far end of the courtyard where the apple tree stood.
I could not see the source.
Something dark and low to the ground moved around in the shadows.
I swear there were also smacking sounds. Whatever it was, it was eating the apples.
The light from the house did not illuminate that area well. Just beyond the edge of the brickwork it was dark underneath the trees and shrubs in the garden, quite pitch black at the back.
Our house was barely five minutes from the open country side at the south end of town, so it could have been almost anything wild.
But I chose to assume it was a troll.
The idea of an imaginary hominid gorging on apples slightly beyond their prime appealed to me. Not the denatured inventions of writers such as C.S. Lewis or Tolkien, but a short hairy transformed rock or tree stump, come to life because of the heady reeks; a primordial phantasm now wandering around underneath the apple tree and seeking the fruit with the yeastiest and most syrupy taste.
I was reading Simenon at the time; Simenon does not, ever, mention trolls.
It's a flaw in his character, and in his characters' characters.
But if there were trolls, and if they could read, they would undoubtedly like that author. Why not? It's good moody stuff.
The chess games of the long deceased greats perhaps not so much.
I was sixteen at the time, my brother was eighteen.
Life seemed rather golden in those years.
In autumn I still smell apples.
Sweet decay.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
We had left the French doors open, and my brother and I were in the sunroom engaged in different activities at the long table. He was avidly replaying the moves of famous chess masters, I was reading and getting whacked on jasmine tea. The smell of fermenting apples on the breeze fought and lost against the reek of my pipe-tobacco.
Dark foetid odeurs, fertile perfumes.
I rather like the stink of overripe fall fruit, and our parents had not requested yet that the mushy blobs be swept up to give the wasps no magnet. So they lay there underneath the massive tree that demarcated the paved area, far enough away that whatever flying insects were hypnotized by sugary smells would not come into the house.
Where my potent smoke would chase them out.
Bugs do not like Latakia.
Suddenly, one by one, the cats came in. Nearly a dozen of them. Not only the original mommma-slut, but also her daughters and her various grand children. Normally some of them were too shy to congregate with us bipeds. There was a sound of happy grunting from the far end of the courtyard where the apple tree stood.
I could not see the source.
Something dark and low to the ground moved around in the shadows.
I swear there were also smacking sounds. Whatever it was, it was eating the apples.
The light from the house did not illuminate that area well. Just beyond the edge of the brickwork it was dark underneath the trees and shrubs in the garden, quite pitch black at the back.
Our house was barely five minutes from the open country side at the south end of town, so it could have been almost anything wild.
But I chose to assume it was a troll.
The idea of an imaginary hominid gorging on apples slightly beyond their prime appealed to me. Not the denatured inventions of writers such as C.S. Lewis or Tolkien, but a short hairy transformed rock or tree stump, come to life because of the heady reeks; a primordial phantasm now wandering around underneath the apple tree and seeking the fruit with the yeastiest and most syrupy taste.
I was reading Simenon at the time; Simenon does not, ever, mention trolls.
It's a flaw in his character, and in his characters' characters.
But if there were trolls, and if they could read, they would undoubtedly like that author. Why not? It's good moody stuff.
The chess games of the long deceased greats perhaps not so much.
I was sixteen at the time, my brother was eighteen.
Life seemed rather golden in those years.
In autumn I still smell apples.
Sweet decay.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, November 09, 2015
PUT ON SOME PANTS!
My apartment mate, like many Chinese people, changes from outdoor clothes to indoor wear upon returning home. At present, that means lime green silk pajama bottoms -- allegedly part of her kungfu outfit -- and a teeshirt. So, moments ago, she put on a coat to go out and buy flour for a roux. Apparently we've run out.
It's cold outside. Plus windy and wet. Most emphatically NOT thin silken pantaloon weather. Consequently I yelled at her to put on some pants. Which resulted in ten minutes of conversation impressing on me that all clothing has equal validity, what made me think that she wasn't wearing any, and why was I discriminating against thin flimsy garb.
"My cootchie ain't showing, I'm decent!"
Naturally I clarified that it wasn't a question of revelation, but rather advice about not freezing her arse off. She opined that I should have specified warm clothing, heavy trousers or something, blue jeans or corduroys, if that is what I meant, what with it being cold outside.
So buggery cold ......
She also imparted the datum that the middle 'V' in beaver might as well be a 'B', because who cares. Some people might be irritated at the perceived speech defect, obviously neurotic types, but unless they're channelling for Biebers, it is not such a big deal. Biebers, beavers. Vee, shmee.
Beavers do not wear pants at all, and they're warm.
Possibly it is fat, more likely fur.
Except for the tail.
Somehow I feel that I lost control of the subject completely.
My apartment mate has Asperger syndrome.
As well as an active mind.
Several of the people I deal with in Marin are rather similar, though not as bright. Usually I'm pretty good at guiding the conversation, or getting them back on the narrow track. Not always.
Over the years I've learned that you can tell a lot about people by how tightly constructed their train of thought is. In the case of Aspys, there may be obsessive refinement of the details through ever more precise repetition of themes, whereas neuro-typicals can be flighty and hard to nail down. One must measure progress differently. The Aspy becomes boring once you've fully grasped the stressed concept, the neuro-type progressively veers off target and starts resembling the head of a marketing department distracted by the beauty of his own wondrous mind.
That may be beside the point, however. She's out there buying flour, and I'm obsessed by the concept that Justin Bieber has a flat leathery tail.
And may or may not wear pants. As the mood strikes.
Strange people, those Canadians.
Reptilian.
Yes, she's wearing pants.
Warm pants.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's cold outside. Plus windy and wet. Most emphatically NOT thin silken pantaloon weather. Consequently I yelled at her to put on some pants. Which resulted in ten minutes of conversation impressing on me that all clothing has equal validity, what made me think that she wasn't wearing any, and why was I discriminating against thin flimsy garb.
"My cootchie ain't showing, I'm decent!"
Naturally I clarified that it wasn't a question of revelation, but rather advice about not freezing her arse off. She opined that I should have specified warm clothing, heavy trousers or something, blue jeans or corduroys, if that is what I meant, what with it being cold outside.
So buggery cold ......
She also imparted the datum that the middle 'V' in beaver might as well be a 'B', because who cares. Some people might be irritated at the perceived speech defect, obviously neurotic types, but unless they're channelling for Biebers, it is not such a big deal. Biebers, beavers. Vee, shmee.
Beavers do not wear pants at all, and they're warm.
Possibly it is fat, more likely fur.
Except for the tail.
Somehow I feel that I lost control of the subject completely.
My apartment mate has Asperger syndrome.
As well as an active mind.
Several of the people I deal with in Marin are rather similar, though not as bright. Usually I'm pretty good at guiding the conversation, or getting them back on the narrow track. Not always.
Over the years I've learned that you can tell a lot about people by how tightly constructed their train of thought is. In the case of Aspys, there may be obsessive refinement of the details through ever more precise repetition of themes, whereas neuro-typicals can be flighty and hard to nail down. One must measure progress differently. The Aspy becomes boring once you've fully grasped the stressed concept, the neuro-type progressively veers off target and starts resembling the head of a marketing department distracted by the beauty of his own wondrous mind.
That may be beside the point, however. She's out there buying flour, and I'm obsessed by the concept that Justin Bieber has a flat leathery tail.
And may or may not wear pants. As the mood strikes.
Strange people, those Canadians.
Reptilian.
Yes, she's wearing pants.
Warm pants.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHAT THAT SECOND CUP OF COFFEE DOES TO YOU
Certain signs indicate that it is Autumn. Two weeks ago it was still summer, now the howling winds are upon us. Well, this being California, the winds don't howl so much. At present it appears to be raining slightly. Which, no doubt, is making other people's commutes quite hellish, because Californians don't handle rain, and don't know how to drive in 'weather'.
Some people will take the bus rather than driving, because they don't want their car to get wet.
A few will tear the house apart looking for their umbrella.
They last saw it several years ago.
It cost good money!
Those of us who grew up in a cold wet boggy swamp -- such as, for instance, the Netherlands -- are quite calm and rational about the whole affair. We've occasionally seen rain before. We know what it is.
We will not panic, and shan't contribute to hysteria.
Calmness and rationality are what we radiate.
Instead, we say comforting things.
"Cheese? I can make cheese! I shall need a large quantity of play-doh, and some Elmer's glue. As well as turmeric."
See? The very mention of cheese has a soothing effect. And actually, that wasn't me, but my apartment mate, who is wide awake and full of energy early in the morning. No, I do not know what prompted that thought.
But her confidence about dairy processes is awe-inspiring.
As well as her familiarity with processed cheese.
The yellow crap sold in square slices.
Which tastes like victory.
Other people panic in rainy weather, not her. It's that innate Cantonese brashness. With joyful self-assurance she will tackle the challenges of a rainy day, and make the best of things. Some thoughts may be quite unintentionally voiced, not meant conversationally, and batshit loopy besides, but they provide fascinating insights into her mind.
She's of Cantonese ancestry. Which means berserk.
And judgmentally obsessive about cheese.
Which is square and yellow.
We've never had American-style processed cheese in the house, but she probably remembers it from her childhood, when it was undoubtedly part of school lunches, or added to macaroni, as part of the horrible growing-up that all children in this country are subjected to. Mystery meat, square cheese, raisin snackpacs, ding dongs, and frankenbeans. Hamburgers which are twenty-five percent agricultural product, because the California date farmers have a voice in state government. Tomato sauce which is no more than twenty five percent agricultural, because sugar and chemicals are so much better. Catsup: ten percent tomato. Mustard: turmeric, sugar, and vinegar, but bugger-all in the way of actual mustard. Canned Chinese food once a week, because it's educational.
Home-made sweet and sour pork, from a recipe that only involves two cans.
Okay, that last one was made-up. Most Americans simply buy the brand at the supermarket, and add salt, sugar, and extra hot sauce.
You can pour it over a hotdog, in lieu of canned chili.
Canned chili, of course, needs lots of cheese.
Little square slices, bright yellow.
Play-doh, glue, turmeric.
It's processed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Some people will take the bus rather than driving, because they don't want their car to get wet.
A few will tear the house apart looking for their umbrella.
They last saw it several years ago.
It cost good money!
Those of us who grew up in a cold wet boggy swamp -- such as, for instance, the Netherlands -- are quite calm and rational about the whole affair. We've occasionally seen rain before. We know what it is.
We will not panic, and shan't contribute to hysteria.
Calmness and rationality are what we radiate.
Instead, we say comforting things.
"Cheese? I can make cheese! I shall need a large quantity of play-doh, and some Elmer's glue. As well as turmeric."
See? The very mention of cheese has a soothing effect. And actually, that wasn't me, but my apartment mate, who is wide awake and full of energy early in the morning. No, I do not know what prompted that thought.
But her confidence about dairy processes is awe-inspiring.
As well as her familiarity with processed cheese.
The yellow crap sold in square slices.
Which tastes like victory.
Other people panic in rainy weather, not her. It's that innate Cantonese brashness. With joyful self-assurance she will tackle the challenges of a rainy day, and make the best of things. Some thoughts may be quite unintentionally voiced, not meant conversationally, and batshit loopy besides, but they provide fascinating insights into her mind.
She's of Cantonese ancestry. Which means berserk.
And judgmentally obsessive about cheese.
Which is square and yellow.
We've never had American-style processed cheese in the house, but she probably remembers it from her childhood, when it was undoubtedly part of school lunches, or added to macaroni, as part of the horrible growing-up that all children in this country are subjected to. Mystery meat, square cheese, raisin snackpacs, ding dongs, and frankenbeans. Hamburgers which are twenty-five percent agricultural product, because the California date farmers have a voice in state government. Tomato sauce which is no more than twenty five percent agricultural, because sugar and chemicals are so much better. Catsup: ten percent tomato. Mustard: turmeric, sugar, and vinegar, but bugger-all in the way of actual mustard. Canned Chinese food once a week, because it's educational.
Home-made sweet and sour pork, from a recipe that only involves two cans.
Okay, that last one was made-up. Most Americans simply buy the brand at the supermarket, and add salt, sugar, and extra hot sauce.
You can pour it over a hotdog, in lieu of canned chili.
Canned chili, of course, needs lots of cheese.
Little square slices, bright yellow.
Play-doh, glue, turmeric.
It's processed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, November 08, 2015
A BOOK-ENDISH SORT OF DAY
Being kind to cigar-smokers is very tiring. I spent all day surrounded by middle-aged men with lit bundles of leaves in their mouths, and now my head hurts. For one thing, it didn't keep them from talking. Or savagely screaming at the television set when the sports team from San Francisco did something. For another thing, I am a pipe smoker.
You can imagine the anguish.
Will no one appreciate the clever pipe smoking badger with his furry snout twitching as he demonstrates the famed tolerance and good nature of his kind by charitably putting up with the stogie whackers?
Oh woe is me!
The morning light was soft and gentle, and the drizzle had quieted down the city. Even the white-haired Harley riders who passed while I was waiting for the bus seemed restrained. Marin looked a little less brittle in the haze, and the smell of the tidal flats at Pickleweed was more muted than it had been most of the summer.
No wading marshbirds.
The tide was too high.
A solitary crow at the gas station seemed to nod in friendly greeting when I walked by, and I complimented him on his dashing appearance.
I don't really know him, but it was meant as a social gesture.
Wetness, and the quality of dreams.
Over the next several hours I drank tea and smoked two pipes while other people howled at the teevee and talked political smack. I fear that the next election will not stop them from uttering inane bullpucky.
At their advanced age, it's a habit that's hard to break.
Let us not speak of lunch at all.
It was frightfully Marin.
Arguably edible.
Dinner upon returning to the city was pork sausage with duck livers, bacon, and mustard green, over a bed of noodles with hot sauce, fishsauce, chopped tomato, and sliced Jalapeños.
Plus ginger. Lots of ginger.
After which I wandered around the neighborhood smoking a vibrant Virginia & Perique mixture, while frightening imaginary people, like innocent little tykes or night-haunting vegan non-smokers.
I am now finishing-off the day with a big bowl of French Vanilla Icecream and cup of strong black coffee before bed.
A good beginning, and a good end.
Just the centre wasn't right.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You can imagine the anguish.
Will no one appreciate the clever pipe smoking badger with his furry snout twitching as he demonstrates the famed tolerance and good nature of his kind by charitably putting up with the stogie whackers?
Oh woe is me!
The morning light was soft and gentle, and the drizzle had quieted down the city. Even the white-haired Harley riders who passed while I was waiting for the bus seemed restrained. Marin looked a little less brittle in the haze, and the smell of the tidal flats at Pickleweed was more muted than it had been most of the summer.
No wading marshbirds.
The tide was too high.
A solitary crow at the gas station seemed to nod in friendly greeting when I walked by, and I complimented him on his dashing appearance.
I don't really know him, but it was meant as a social gesture.
Wetness, and the quality of dreams.
Over the next several hours I drank tea and smoked two pipes while other people howled at the teevee and talked political smack. I fear that the next election will not stop them from uttering inane bullpucky.
At their advanced age, it's a habit that's hard to break.
Let us not speak of lunch at all.
It was frightfully Marin.
Arguably edible.
Dinner upon returning to the city was pork sausage with duck livers, bacon, and mustard green, over a bed of noodles with hot sauce, fishsauce, chopped tomato, and sliced Jalapeños.
Plus ginger. Lots of ginger.
After which I wandered around the neighborhood smoking a vibrant Virginia & Perique mixture, while frightening imaginary people, like innocent little tykes or night-haunting vegan non-smokers.
I am now finishing-off the day with a big bowl of French Vanilla Icecream and cup of strong black coffee before bed.
A good beginning, and a good end.
Just the centre wasn't right.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CAUCASIANS: SUPERIOR MORNING PEOPLE
There is a crispy-crunching sound from the other side of the computer.
The small Cantonese woman who lives with me has issued forth from her bedroom, and is eating garlic-flavoured shrimp chimps for breakfast. My guess is that she is not seeing her boy friend today. Or at least not this morning. He's a sensitive white guy, and would object strenuously to kissing a garlic pit.
As long as I've known her, Savage Kitten has had unusual food habits. Whereas, being white, mine are perfectly normal. Of course.
I actually do not eat breakfast. Strong coffee, news, tobacco, and a pit-stop in the small room for ablutory activity are enough to wake me up.
The cocoa-puffs, malt-o-bix, and fruitloops on top of the refrigerator are hers.
She also has a large container of oatmeal (bleah!) there.
It's probably a Cantonese American thing.
Shreddable breakfast!
Ever since I was a teenager the wake-up process has included a pipe full of tobacco, coffee, and news reports. Which is perfectly normal.
All rational middle-aged white dudes wake up with these things.
And then we energetically dance the tango.
We are full of piss and vinegar.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The small Cantonese woman who lives with me has issued forth from her bedroom, and is eating garlic-flavoured shrimp chimps for breakfast. My guess is that she is not seeing her boy friend today. Or at least not this morning. He's a sensitive white guy, and would object strenuously to kissing a garlic pit.
As long as I've known her, Savage Kitten has had unusual food habits. Whereas, being white, mine are perfectly normal. Of course.
I actually do not eat breakfast. Strong coffee, news, tobacco, and a pit-stop in the small room for ablutory activity are enough to wake me up.
The cocoa-puffs, malt-o-bix, and fruitloops on top of the refrigerator are hers.
She also has a large container of oatmeal (bleah!) there.
It's probably a Cantonese American thing.
Shreddable breakfast!
Ever since I was a teenager the wake-up process has included a pipe full of tobacco, coffee, and news reports. Which is perfectly normal.
All rational middle-aged white dudes wake up with these things.
And then we energetically dance the tango.
We are full of piss and vinegar.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, November 07, 2015
AVOID HUMPS IN THE ROAD
Beware the kavorka; it attracts the crazies. I've frequently seemed a bit magnetic to the loosely defined. In North Beach years ago that manifested itself by a regular flow of eccentrics and "creative" persons. Now, in middle-age, what has happened is that a few young ladies of the batshit variety at the cigar bar are calling me "professor". They are utterly fascinated.
I am quite certain that that doesn't work for me.
The kavorka, for those who have lived in a shell for the past decade, was the animal magnetism that made Kramer irresistible in the Latvian episode of Seinfeld.
"I got the Kavorka, Jerry. I'm dangerous, I'm very Dangerous!"
It's effect appears to be spotty. Rational women feel nothing. Several years ago a blonde cornered me in the front room of the Edinburgh Castle on Geary Street, and massaged a naked breast at me.
She was, of course, nowhere near sane.
"Are you threatened by my femininity?"
Nope. Rather appalled. Normal women do not do such things. Titty-showing requires much more familiarity and far greater privacy. This blogger is fond of titty, but not when it gets randomly shoved at me.
Oddly, though I can remember the incident, and her air of indignation once it became clear that the bait was not working, I cannot remember the breast at all. It must have been white, or whitish; she was clearly Caucasian, so that seems a safe bet. And I'm equally sure that it must have terminated in a nipple of indeterminate size.
But that's really it.
Sorry.
"Back off, miss, I've got a bra in my pocket that I will not hesitate to use!"
It's not that I fear for my safety, but I do not prize the company of floppy-breasted psychopaths.
Breasts by themselves are blameless, albeit often unremarkable.
I'd rather observe them pursuing others.
From a distance.
Unfamiliar naked breast is best observed from a long way off.
Or held at bay with a long-handled snake hook, if necessary.
Breast exposure has to be mutually agreeable.
What's key is the person in possession.
If she's nuts, nix that idea.
CONSIDERING BETTER BOSOM!
One naturally prefers familiar and beloved breasts, which are precious and praiseworthy, and ideally admired from close up, in a warm place safe from prying eyes, friends and family, and the winter chill. Indoors during a rainstorm, for instance, or at twilight while enjoying a nice hot cup of tea. The only witness might be a teddy bear -- who no doubt disapproves, and therefore risks being deposited in another room if he or she objects too strenuously -- but no other people. And I personally feel that a throw rug or down comforter is a necessary prop.
I have both a throw rug and a down comforter.
And more than one teddy bear.
But no breasts.
I should like to find the titty, of course, but I hesitate about titty that comes jumping up and flings itself at me in a well-lit public place when I am in the company of others. Especially if said titty calls me "professor" and vocally demonstrates A) that I am the bee's knees and the cat's miaow, and B) that they themselves are not the brightest star in the firmament.
Irrespective of whether or not they are fully covered.
As, so far, all five pairs have been.
I prefer quieter and better behaved titty. Titty that has an active brain, a subtle or sharp wit, and an educated sense of restraint.
Determined to always act civilized in public.
Not threatening sudden revelations.
Or embarrassing spectacles.
Fortunately, the kavorka appears to be less powerful during daylight, in areas where alcohol does not infect the fragile brain. So other than the young ladies who call me professor at the Oxxy, I have nothing to fear.
If any mammaries pop up, it will be a pair that is well-behaved, and supported by well-considered motivation.
Modest thoughtful breasts.
Not extroverts.
The only likely similarity between sane and balanced titty and totally crazy titty will be the briar pipe in my mouth or between my fingers.
The idea of good bosom is very appealing.
The reality could be delightful.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I am quite certain that that doesn't work for me.
The kavorka, for those who have lived in a shell for the past decade, was the animal magnetism that made Kramer irresistible in the Latvian episode of Seinfeld.
"I got the Kavorka, Jerry. I'm dangerous, I'm very Dangerous!"
It's effect appears to be spotty. Rational women feel nothing. Several years ago a blonde cornered me in the front room of the Edinburgh Castle on Geary Street, and massaged a naked breast at me.
She was, of course, nowhere near sane.
"Are you threatened by my femininity?"
Nope. Rather appalled. Normal women do not do such things. Titty-showing requires much more familiarity and far greater privacy. This blogger is fond of titty, but not when it gets randomly shoved at me.
Oddly, though I can remember the incident, and her air of indignation once it became clear that the bait was not working, I cannot remember the breast at all. It must have been white, or whitish; she was clearly Caucasian, so that seems a safe bet. And I'm equally sure that it must have terminated in a nipple of indeterminate size.
But that's really it.
Sorry.
"Back off, miss, I've got a bra in my pocket that I will not hesitate to use!"
It's not that I fear for my safety, but I do not prize the company of floppy-breasted psychopaths.
Breasts by themselves are blameless, albeit often unremarkable.
I'd rather observe them pursuing others.
From a distance.
Unfamiliar naked breast is best observed from a long way off.
Or held at bay with a long-handled snake hook, if necessary.
Breast exposure has to be mutually agreeable.
What's key is the person in possession.
If she's nuts, nix that idea.
CONSIDERING BETTER BOSOM!
One naturally prefers familiar and beloved breasts, which are precious and praiseworthy, and ideally admired from close up, in a warm place safe from prying eyes, friends and family, and the winter chill. Indoors during a rainstorm, for instance, or at twilight while enjoying a nice hot cup of tea. The only witness might be a teddy bear -- who no doubt disapproves, and therefore risks being deposited in another room if he or she objects too strenuously -- but no other people. And I personally feel that a throw rug or down comforter is a necessary prop.
I have both a throw rug and a down comforter.
And more than one teddy bear.
But no breasts.
I should like to find the titty, of course, but I hesitate about titty that comes jumping up and flings itself at me in a well-lit public place when I am in the company of others. Especially if said titty calls me "professor" and vocally demonstrates A) that I am the bee's knees and the cat's miaow, and B) that they themselves are not the brightest star in the firmament.
Irrespective of whether or not they are fully covered.
As, so far, all five pairs have been.
I prefer quieter and better behaved titty. Titty that has an active brain, a subtle or sharp wit, and an educated sense of restraint.
Determined to always act civilized in public.
Not threatening sudden revelations.
Or embarrassing spectacles.
Fortunately, the kavorka appears to be less powerful during daylight, in areas where alcohol does not infect the fragile brain. So other than the young ladies who call me professor at the Oxxy, I have nothing to fear.
If any mammaries pop up, it will be a pair that is well-behaved, and supported by well-considered motivation.
Modest thoughtful breasts.
Not extroverts.
The only likely similarity between sane and balanced titty and totally crazy titty will be the briar pipe in my mouth or between my fingers.
The idea of good bosom is very appealing.
The reality could be delightful.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, November 06, 2015
PETTING THE TURKEYS
Good lord, the holiday season is upon us! Halloween was last week, Thanksgiving is a mere three weeks away. And pretty soon it will be Christmas. Followed by New Year, then Valentine's Day.
All of which mean nothing to me.
Haven't had a Thanksgiving in aeons. The Christmas Season has been a major drag in just as long, with far too short an interruption for good seafood and excellent company. New Year's Eve brings out the party monsters. Valentine's is a disaster.
This blogger can barely wait till mid-spring.
I may be the only one
All over town merchants are already anxiously fondling their Christmas ornaments. They want the madness to commence, and the foaming, and some may jump the gun. Bah humbug.
I'm off on Thanksgiving day, but I shall be working on Black Friday.
In a field where there are no deals and no one will line up.
We do not cater to kiddie-winkies, thank heavens.
However, desperate middle-aged men, as well as reprieved turkeys, may seek shelter and solace within the precincts, to share pizza and horror stories while watching a game. I would imagine that they will look at each other with mutual suspicion, till about half-way through their first cigar or second bottle of whiskey (or 32 ounce bubbly softdrink from the nearest McGarbage Hut). Mumbling and mutters will give way to collective hoots at the prowess of men in spandex booties trotting across the screen.
Never give turkeys booze. They distrust your motives when you do that.
And start looking for the axe.
Or pooping on the barcalounger.
Bah humbug.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
All of which mean nothing to me.
Haven't had a Thanksgiving in aeons. The Christmas Season has been a major drag in just as long, with far too short an interruption for good seafood and excellent company. New Year's Eve brings out the party monsters. Valentine's is a disaster.
This blogger can barely wait till mid-spring.
I may be the only one
All over town merchants are already anxiously fondling their Christmas ornaments. They want the madness to commence, and the foaming, and some may jump the gun. Bah humbug.
I'm off on Thanksgiving day, but I shall be working on Black Friday.
In a field where there are no deals and no one will line up.
We do not cater to kiddie-winkies, thank heavens.
However, desperate middle-aged men, as well as reprieved turkeys, may seek shelter and solace within the precincts, to share pizza and horror stories while watching a game. I would imagine that they will look at each other with mutual suspicion, till about half-way through their first cigar or second bottle of whiskey (or 32 ounce bubbly softdrink from the nearest McGarbage Hut). Mumbling and mutters will give way to collective hoots at the prowess of men in spandex booties trotting across the screen.
Never give turkeys booze. They distrust your motives when you do that.
And start looking for the axe.
Or pooping on the barcalounger.
Bah humbug.
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GRITS AND TOFU
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