BREASTS, FISH BALLS, NOODLES, AND DRAMA

When I came home yesterday my apartment mate was watching the movie Cleopatra, made in 1963, featuring Elizabeth Taylor, a woman who manifestly did NOT require a push-up bra, but probably benefited from a well-constructed supportive device at times. Very likely she ended up with a bad back. I could not recall her having monuments of such excessive size, but then, I never especially enjoyed her films.

Most of them, anyway.

This time around, I noticed how badly written the dialogue was in that production. Which explains why my apartment mate was fascinated.

The grand theatricality appeals to her Cantonese side, the ridiculous speeches and melodrama speak to her wicked sense of humour.
She's always loved splendidly vulgar cinematography.
Off-kilter declamation is its own reward.



Personally, I've never understood why Elizabeth Taylor was such a huge megastar. Must have largely been because of the breasts. That probably awed the critics. Simple souls, them.

A total cynic might surmise that smaller breasts make faces more noticeable. And that therefore intelligent looks would stand out.

I like intelligent faces, and I am indeed a total cynic.
Nix the enormous tits, they do not appeal.

I'm more of a face man in any case, and find humongous tatas rather repulsive. Sadly, Elizabeth Taylor's reptilian make-up -- Aegyptoid, in intent but not effect -- made her face look like a braindead bimbo.
There was far too much of her bosom, but that did not make up for her empty eyes, vacuous acting, or the laughably bad dialogue and Beverlyhillsian ho' costuming.


Who the hell designed that movie?!?!!


The sleazy lapdance-ish disportment at the banquet Marc Antony attended on Cleopatra's boat was reminiscent of nothing so much as a North Beach stripshow, albeit with many more plump vixens.
I used to live in North Beach, and I know tackiness.
No wonder Marc Antony got drunk.


Apparently that was something that Richard Burton, the actor portraying Marc Antony in that uninspired performance, excelled at.
In that regard the casting was brilliant.


Big breasts and alcoholism probably go together.




BIG DA DA DADA DADDY!

Elizabeth Taylor was brilliant in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, by the way. The mixture of steamy Southern degeneracy and Tennessee Williams' brilliant script gave her something into which she could sink her teeth.
I cannot remember either of her bosoms in that film.
They were probably featured, but evenso.
The dialogue was perfect.



AFTERWORD

This post was inspired by my reader Jackie, who mentioned fishballs (魚丸 'yü yuen') which are splendid in fishball rice-stick noodle soup (魚丸米粉湯 'yü yuen mai fan tong'), and also by a box of girl scout cookies. I was consequently reminded of how much I like to see nice women enjoying delicious food, which is exceedingly lovely.

A place I know in the Tenderloin serves fine fishball noodles.
It's well worth visiting.
Because.




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THE BEST USE OF A BLUE FEATHERED GET-UP

A correspondent reminded me of the days when I obsessively spent quarter after quarter punching in Lady Marmalade and the Witchdoctor song. I will confess that I am fonder of Lady Marmalade, even though the lyrics make far less sense.

It just sounds so deliciously degenerate and seedy.

Drink malt liquor while listening to this song.

And strip down to a push-up bra.

As I feel like doing.


PATTI LABELLE: A BEAST INSIDE


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4LWIP7SAjY.]


Just look at all those white people jigging!


I need to clarify a few things at this point: I never drink malt liquor, and, not being female, I do not own a push-up bra. In fact, I doubt that any of my friends do either. No, I shall not ask them.
Push-up bras are a great evil.


When did push-up bras become so common? It seems like a horrible thing to do to a nice pair of mammaries, forcing them into shapes they weren't meant for. It probably precedes surgery.

Breasts require no augmentation.
But I really shouldn't speculate.
About breasts and brassieres.

It's bad for mental health.



On second thought, please do not strip down to your push-up bra. Or, you should remove the damned bra, and be healthy. You might need some soothing ointment for soreness.
I am sorry I do not have any malt liquor to offer you.
Cup of tea instead?




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IT PROBABLY TASTED LIKE FROG. SUGARY FROG.

Pursuant something somebody said on Friday, which planted a blip in my subconscious, when I awoke this morning I had MacArthur Park playing in my head.

Donna Summer was one heck of a singer.


ALL THE SWEET GREEN ICING

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GWFHVBnR7G0.]


Lyrics

Spring was never waiting for us, girl
It ran one step ahead
As we followed in the dance
Between the parted pages and were pressed
In love's hot, fevered iron
Like a striped pair of pants

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again
Oh, no

I recall the yellow cotton dress
Foaming like a wave
On the ground around your knees
The birds, like tender babies in your hands
And the old men playing checkers
By the trees

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have the recipe again
Oh, no

There will be another song for me
For I will sing it
There will be another dream for me
Someone will bring it
I will drink the wine while it is warm
And never let you catch me looking at the sun
And after all the loves of my life
After all the loves of my life
You'll still be the one

I will take my life into my hands
And I will use it
I will win the worship in their eyes
And I will lose it
I will have the things that I desire
And my passion flow like rivers through the sky
And after all the loves of my life
Oh, after all the loves of my life
I'll be thinking of you
And wondering why

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again
Oh, no
Oh, no

No, no
Oh, no

[SOURCE: Google Play, MacArthur Park, Richard Harris.]


No, it isn't because it is a crazily romantic song and today is Valentine's Day. It's because of the icing. I cannot stand to see cake go to waste, even if it is a kind of rancid Saint Patrick's Day horror, or something.

All that sweet green icing, man, all that sweet green icing!

I just don't think that I can take it!

No, no, oh no.



No.



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REAL ROMANCE

One of the most romantic things a person can do for their significant other to celebrate Valentine's Day is provide them with a splendid meal. To which end, it is best if one avoids any and all fancy restaurants. Business will boom at such places this weekend, reservations are essential, and the service might be slapdash at best.

Stay in, and cook her a lobster. Or some such sh*t.
Real women like seafood. Avoid Vegans.


Traditionally men are the big losers during Valentine's Day, as we are, if coupled, expected to be all gooey, and throw money around like a priest spattering holy water on a dungeon full of gay young choirboys.


So, given that I am not connected to a typical sticky female, dammit it all to heck, I feel like a winner. Yep, real success story.


I'm thinking bacon and eggs for dinner. By myself. With hotsauce. And mustard greens, some chorizo, and a big cup of coffee. Followed by a pipe or two down at the cigar dive, which should be near-empty with all those successfull business dicks forced to act like humans for a change.
And sports NOT on teevee to spoil the atmosphere.


Punters!


One or two pipes full, some Scotch, and quiet conversation.


Eating soon. Then off to smoke a bit.




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WHEN MEN GET SOCKS: VALENTINE'S DAY FOR SINGLES

This Sunday (tomorrow) is Valentine's day. For most people, that means sharing a romantic day or evening with a loved one, the exchange of fancy chocolates and flowers (for her) with new socks (for him), or something equally inane. Valentine's Day is for young lovers.
And people who have young lovers.

Naturally, I shall be spending it with a bunch of hugely irritating middle-aged cigar-huffing yutzes over in Marin County, many (most) of whom are either apathetically married, or very deservedly divorced.
In any case, romance is NOT their game.
The one exception is the divorced white-haired gentleman who recently started seeing a Chinese American woman of his own age, who seems to have put a bounce back into his step. He's actually a very decent bloke, and it is quite understandable that a Chinese American woman of around sixty years old considers him acceptable.

There's not much you can say other than "good luck, boy-o".
We shan't take discussion of his love life further.


Please, do not even mention it.


But by the same token, feel free to discuss my love life if you wish. Which, being non-existent, doesn't leave much room for discussion. Despite what you may presume, I shall NOT be giving myself a box of Belgian chocolates, nor any lovely flowers.
And I already own a pair of completely unused socks.
Nice chocolate-grey woolen ones.

They're lying on a stack of books near my chair, next to several tobacco tins and a tray of pipes. There is a foldable single-pipe-stand on top of the socks holding a Peterson System Standard (shape 307).
A book about Valkenswaard lies underneath.

New socks do not automatically mean romance. If they did, I should purchase socks at the drop of a hat. Just think how fashionable and glowing with good cheer I would be, with my steady supply of comfy new socks and plenty of hot loving in my life.

Lots and lots of socks!


"Why hello, you adorable young brainiac, are you presently seeing someone?"

"Socks!"


Instead, there will be the prospective and not entirely welcome smell of cigars from nearly a dozen crotchety fossils acting for all the world like bachelors, whether wannabe or newly again. At that age, they tend toward the heavier and spicier cheroots, primarily Nicaraguans.

Nothing is as utterly romantic as a Nicaraguan.
That elegance, that mystery, that allure!
Hot Latin machismo, smoking!
Disturbingly homoerotic.

Go on, feel it.

Nope, I am not going to light up a Nicaraguan. I'm currently working on various Virginia pipe tobaccos, as well as temporarily ambivalent about cigars and cigar smokers.


This will be the sixth Valentine's day in a row that I intend to celebrate with good pipe tobacco, fine briars, and several cups of strong tea.

Although I honestly wouldn't mind some chocolate.
I'll take care of my own socks, though.
Got a sock thing going on.

Fuzzy.












Please do NOT give cigars to the woman you love.
Even if she's the person you married.
It really isn't a good idea.
Trust me.


I am unmarried, unattached, and I smell bad.
So I can do whatever I like.
I have socks.



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PUNCH HER IN THE COOTER, AND TELL HER CARLA SENT YOU

Thank to an impressive viral video about McRib sandwiches, this blogger has finally learned what a cooter is. How have I survived this long without this knowledge?

Actually, I have known what it is since my single digits, but not that it was also called a "cooter", which I heretofore had assumed to be an appropriate nickname for Bubba and Daisy-Sue's sibling or offspring.

Calling it a 'cooter' seems a bit raw. Whether or not it's linked rhetorically to a delicious McRib sandwich and a soda for six dollars and fifty eight cents at the late-night McDonalds on Dorsett.


"Shirlene and Carla and Dr. Pepper? Why yes, thank you, me and the Cooter will indeed enjoy a refreshment!"


A cooter is not only a puki, but also a large freshwater turtle common in the South, which makes 'The Great American Cooter Festival' held yearly in Inverness, Florida, a fully understandable concept. No, they aren't celebrating that other thing. Rather a pity.


Cooters are edible. No jokes, please. Just shut up and eat your cooter.


COOTER SOUP

One large cooter.
Two large onions.
Two or three sticks of celery.
Half a cup sherry.
One Tbs Worcestershire sauce.
One Tsp. peppercorns.
One Tsp. allspice berries.
One Tsp. whole clove.
Ginger and garlic if desired.


Use a machete or an axe to behead the cooter, and let it stand neck down to drain. Then put the beast in boiling water for about twenty minutes. Remove, cool, separate the shell, cut out and trim, discarding the innards and skin. Rinse, and place the meaty parts (with bone) in a cauldron, well covered with water or superior stock. Add the onion, celery, and whole spices, plus the garlic and ginger if you are using such. Simmer for about three hours, then remove the turtle parts and separate the meat from the bone. Strain the stock, and put the meat back in. Add the sherry and Worcestershire at this point, and augment the soup with potato chunks and tomato puree if you think it desirable to do so.
Simmer for about another half hour.

Thicken with a dark roux as appropriate, and bear in mind that fried smoky bacon is a great addition, as it is with so many other soups, stews, and sloppy messes.

What you should have is a delicious dish that can be eaten like a soup or spooned over rice, sufficient for four people. One large cooter yields about two to three pounds of usable meat.

Garnish with parsley or cilantro, and have hotsauce on the table.



Always handle the cooter carefully, and beware the bastard doesn't bite your fingers off when preparing him for the pot.
Cooters can be quite vicious.

Cooters can also be kept as pets, but why would you want to?
Make sure that your cooter has access to water if you do.

Small cooters (小龜) are sometimes available at the wet markets along Stockton Street, as many Chinese like cooter.



[From Wikipedia, Ryan Somma http://www.flickr.com/photos/ideonexus/ - http://www.flickr.com/photos/ideonexus/3415162308/ ]

Cooters are lovely.


Given a choice between McRib and cooter, no one in their right mind would choose McRib. That just wouldn't make any sense at all.



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AND A BOX, PLEASE

The leftover baked Portuguese Chicken rice would probably not have been eaten as a midnight snack anyhow. So giving it to the homeless person whom I recognized was the best thing to do.

Asking "have you eaten yet?" was probably not something he expected.

I'm actually feeling rather good about that.

It was still warm.



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BRING BACK KANG KANG! 康康必要平反！

When he was first spotlighted, the reaction of Chinese netizens was swift, and on the whole unfavourable; they did not like him. Since then, he's made fewer and fewer appearances, and now seems to have disappeared entirely.

He was shunned because they felt he was ugly, and said as much.

How very mean! And how superficial of them!

He's an auspicious animal.


實吉祥物！

[Source: Weibo, via BBC.]


小猴康康

Kang Kang the monkey did nothing to deserve such ill treatment, and an apology is in order.

All of you heartless cretins should be ashamed of yourselves.

Is that any way to start the new year?


Well, is it? Is it?!?


Bastards!



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NOT THE NICEST MAN

In looking over my own recent Facebook activity, I belatedly realize that "grouchy old codger" describes at least one aspect of my personality.
Not that I've ever considered spreading sweetness and light, OR radiating a note of positive encouragement.
I do not wish to inspire.

My Facebook activity paints an unflattering picture of my personality.
One with which I'm actually quite pleased. A grown man should never strive to be 'Little Miss Sunshine', but rather adhere to sane and coldly nihilistic realism. And sometimes, rain on parades.

To review:

On a report that the Stockton Street car ban may become permanent:
"The suggestion to expand it to Chinatown? Great way to kill the neighborhood and make it possible for developers to buy it up and put high rise office buildings there."

"Which, of course, will benefit all the usual people."

San Francisco politicians would love to get rid of Chinatown, and certain individuals may be inspired to get back at the neighborhood for not voting as Ed Lee told them to in the last election. Erasing the place would be immensely profitable, as at present it is little more than lots of poor people not paying enough rent or taxes, and squatting on the best piece of real-estate in the city, which would be an enormous gold mine if all those poor people would just leave. Chinatown only serves one purpose, as far as City Hall is concerned, and that's to provide tourists from elsewhere with a folk-loric experience and exotic thrills. A two block stretch of Grant Avenue -- for instance, between Bush and California Streets -- would do that admirably. The rest of Chinatown looks seedy and run down, and detracts from the sheer commercial beauty of our city, as well as it's appeal to investors.
There isn't even a Starbucks there!

The last time politicians told us something was a brilliant plan, we ended up paying through the nose for Willie Brown's stadium. The time before that, they tore down the freeway and everybody with holdings along the waterfront became fabulously rich while countless businesses in Chinatown and North Beach went bankrupt.

Naturally, one should be paranoid when San Francisco politicians have ideas. That usually means someone is going to get screwed.


On a comment string devoted to a medical visit:
"Never stick anything smaller than your elbow in your butt!"

"Consult a professional in this case. It might help."

Years ago, during a visit to the emergency room with a pipe cleaner jammed in my ear, over a dozen medical people examined me with bemusement, one by one, and each of them gave me the advice their daddy OR their college professor had given them: "never stick anything smaller than your elbow in your ear". That sage advice, though irritating at the time, as well as patronizing, applies to many situations.
It isn't just limited to ears.

Why did I have a pipe cleaner stuck in my ear? Does the phrase "cheapskate Dutchman" mean anything to you? And it seemed like a good idea when I had run out of Q-Tips.


On a sneer that San Francisco built a stadium at taxpayer expense while doing nothing about the homeless:
"Santa Clara is NOT San Francisco, but rich asshats connected with the boom economy."

Everything south of Daly City needs to be gassed out of existence, and returned to cattle pasture.


On the question whether San Francisco should ever host the Superbowl again:
"Please, never again!"

Machine-gun toting security goons scared that if they relax their vigilance for even one moment they will get butt-raped by one of the natives, and a whole bunch of Republican racist asswipes from North Carolina, Colorado, and points further hick, trashing the city, along with opportunistic criminals from Oakland, are in no way anything to have encouraged, and once experienced should never be repeated. It was repulsive.
Please go back to Denver, Charlotte, and Oakland.
And never come back to San Francisco.
You guys suck balls, big time.
So does Ed Lee.

[By the way, one of my friends suggests that blowing over five million San Francisco taxpayer dollars on hosting big corporations and rich shmoes who paid four thousand five hundred dollars on tickets demands an audit and an investigation. He is convinced that Ed Lee and his master Willie Brown will reap mega political bucks out of this, as payback for subsidizing "business". Personally, I think that is an unfounded assertion, and far too cynical. All the small businesses and working stiffs in San Francisco undoubtedly benefited, and most people at the stadium down in Santa Clara assuredly were those very same working stiffs, who had shelled out four and a half K for the occasion, and gladly forked over thirteen bucks for watery beer. Surely Ed Lee and Willie blew all that money out of sheer goodness and civic pride! 
Any attempt to recall mayor Ed Lee in November is just mean.]


On a phrase quoted in reference to Frances Yip:
"BTW: "happiness that overflowing from her heart" is a phrase that makes me want to barf."

Make no mistake, Frances Yip is a stellar performer, whose rendition of the theme song from Shanghai Shoals (上海灘 'seung hoi taan') is still ever-green, deservedly a classic. Her other work is not to be sneezed at. But describing her with the statement "happiness that overflowing from her heart" is just wrong. Very wrong.
Totally pukeworthy.


On a post about rioting and arson on Lower Polk last Saturday night:
"Well, that's in the dmz between "Lower Nob" and "Upper Loin". So it was just techno-yuppies who were high on designer drugs."

This city is being overrun with people like that. To quote a neighbor, something bad is brewing, soon the shitcan will blow up all over the newcomers.

*   *   *   *   *   *

One reaction which I did not post, but probably should have, on various pipe smoking fora where members were expressing joy at what was in their briars:

"Why does every single redneck pipe tobacco smell like goddamned fruitloops?"

Real tobacco smells like tobacco; not vanilla caramel raspberry ape barf. Good lord. Some of you guys are sick bastards, candy-huffing psychopaths. Did y'all grow up in houses of ill-repute?
Buch of miserable degenerates.
Real tobacco!


I am a grouchy old codger.
It's a gift.

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HAVE A HAPPY MONKEY YEAR! FIND OUT HOW!

As you know, the Year of the Monkey started yesterday morning, in consequence of which several readers discovered an essay I wrote a few years ago which seems perfectly appropriate for the festive season. Wherefore I would bring it to your attention.
It is informative and educational.

Dare I say it, enlightening.


MONKEYS CURE GOUT
[ http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/10/monkeys-cure-gout.html ]


I must correct a misapprehension that I had at that time, and which many people still have, namely that mid-fifties means elderly or even antique.
That is by no means accurate.

The mid-fifties are the 'new Lion King era', albeit primarily for males.
Men of that age have finally matured, become thoughtful, and many of them are ready to settle down with a zesty hot blonde.
Who could be of either gender.
Possibly both.

Being the eccentric that I am, hot blondes (of all genders) do not do much for me -- small zesty brunettes, on the other hand -- but I sincerely encourage all hot blondes who read this to seriously look at the single men around them again. Sure, the scraggy-chinned hipster with the man-bun and the fancy bicycling get-up may look appealing, but he's got nothing on Captain Haddock over there.


Young men, especially nowadays, are largely soulles "shpritz-for-brains" and cannot possibly give you the intelligent conversation and "beefsteak-in-a-romantic-grillroom-with-fine-wine-and tablecothes" that you desire.

They're still eating tofu, kale, and glutenfree pizza at that age. As well as interrupting every single conversation with "hold on, I've got to answer my cell phone", "this is great for your abs", and similar inane utterances.
Heck, many of them would rather play World of Warcraft or Ultimate Ninja Storm Revolution than have a conversation.


For your information, I am a vibrant and mature male, with well-formed thoughts, and an educated taste in food. And I never play video games, but smoke a pipe, read books and scholarly articles, and take long walks accompanied by an imaginary dog.



Nor do I have a cellphone; we will not be interrupted.


Remember, monkeys cure gout!
I can prove it.




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DEBAUCHED, WITH A BANANA

Yesterday evening my apartment mate returned home happily vocalizing about ice-cream. Then she had a bowl while watching Home Shopping Network. Rocky Road, made with dark and walnuts.
I'm more of a chocolate swirl kind of guy.
Or caramel swirl. With chocolate.

She was happily oblivious to everything except the intellectual concept which is known as 'mallowmar', apparently an East Coast variation on what civilized people may know as 'negerinnetetten'. We don't have those here. She wondered about them.


Now, kindly imagine what would have transpired if at that moment I had been debauching a young lady with bowls of caramel swirl gelato. She would be lying in my bed, nearly nude, with stickiness around her lips.
It was a warm day, unseasonable, and the partial disrobing is explained the same way as the ice cream: cooling down for comfort. And it allows her to clutch one of the monkeys to her bosom, who is loudly clamoring for banana flavour. Dammit, where's my nana and dairy!


"What kind of a heathen country is this, with banana igloo bars so hard to find?!?

"Bollocks, I say, complete and utter pig bollocks!"


"Honey, I think he's talking about you", the young lady whispers into my ear with her hot sticky rosebud lips brushing my lobes -- it had been a very large and delicious serving -- as she hides completely under a sheet from the now agitated simian.

"Why on earth would you think that?" I shall then ask, "you haven't seen them yet!"

Which is true; our partial undress is "modest".

And only for the heat.


[Clarification as of 11:15 AM: It should be mentioned that I merely removed my socks and shoes, but encouraged her to take off far more, because women are so sensitive to excesses of temperature, and I am a considerate and caring man. The monkey,
of course, is more carefree and disarrayed than either of us.]


Right about now my apartment rate comes leaping in, hollering about icecream, gaily oblivious to the other human in the room.

Who, still hiding from the rambunctious ape, remains entirely invisible. Consequently my apartment mate does not notice her at all. And hands me a big bowl of ice cream: "here, taste this, it is delicious!"
Cautiously I try some. It is indeed delicious.

A small monkey paw comes out of the covers with a spoon, scoops up a bit, and withdraws into hiding again. There are smacking sounds, and my apartment mate stares, mesmerized.

"Who is THAT?!?"

Three voices simultaneously exclaim "monkey", thus blowing believability. Mine and hers, OR mine and the monkey's, would have been logical.

My apartment mate now draws back the blankets, to reveal my delightful debauchee with a furry animal on her chest, who in the icecream interval had managed to reclaim his favourite spot, and now assertively insists:
"I found her, she's mine!"

"Banana!"

The beast growls possessively, to protect the young lady from my depredations. I am flummoxed.



"Bananananana!!!"



The Rocky Road Icecream was very good, even though marshmallows always make me think of little odious bubbles of slime. Unfortunately there was no innocent maiden to have some also, and the monkey merely sneered from the other room, because there was no banana.
So I had to eat too much ice cream last night.
One bowl of swirl, and bowl of road.


There is no young lady to debauch.
It would have added so much.


The amusing thing is that my apartment mate's boyfriend is lactose intolerant. So she has to share the icecream with me.



One of the monkeys (the small gorilla) is presently sitting in the teevee room with a box of Lemon Bites from Just Desserts on his lap.
I think he's trying to tell me something.



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PROSPECTS OF CHINESE FOOD FOR THE NEW YEAR

Given my schedule, it should not surprise you that I am looking forward to tomorrow. Which is when my weekend begins. Normally I head into Chinatown for sustenance, but tomorrow will necessarily be somewhat exploratory, seeing as many places will still be closed for New Year.
Those that aren't may become wonderful new favourites, however.

Doubtlessly many of the Bubble Tea shops will be open; teenagers need their fruity tapioca ball drinks, the world is a cold and sad place if these aren't available!

Several of the emporia and restaurants that cater to tourists will likewise be open for business, because who knows, a rich Iowan or New Hampshire matron of enormous girth and no taste whatsoever may waltz in, squeal in happy discovery, and promptly blow half of her late husband's fortune on Trinkets! And Eggrolls!


The world is also a cold and sad place without trinkets and eggrolls.


Although today is the first day of Chinese New Year, I shall be working. The rules of good luck and bad luck work differently for white people, maybe not even at all, and I am white, so I have no pressing need to avoid potentially fraught encounters.

If necessary, I shall tell people that what they want, they cannot have.

Gently, with compassion, but evenso exceedingly firmly.

Maybe there are alternatives.



Hypothetically:
You cannot have Cubans because the embargo has not been lifted yet, Denver lost yesterday so sad so sad, our side will win the next election and you will be bereft, it's still bad for your health no matter how much kale you put in it, have you considered putting a raw beefsteak on that eye, and that's a damned ugly motorcar.

All uttered quite sincerely, with a charming clarity to my voice and my diction, like I'm their newly-found understanding uncle or whatever.

I'm actually thinking of what I will have for lunch tomorrow as I say that.

And wondering if a nice strong cup of milk-tea may be had.




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SKIDDING ON THE MUSHY FRUIT

The heck with it; simply avoid cigar smokers as much as possible. Most of them are pricks.


[Petulant whine that occupied this space removed. Anything written so late at night is often rather unreadable. And therefore not worth putting down, save for the cooler headed review afterwards.]


I do not want their bananas.




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ENJOYING THE SUPERBOWL

We closed at three today so that the cigar smokers in the lounge could enjoy the Superbowl in quiet undisturbed comfort, screaming and yelling, with no incriminating cellphone photos, nor reports of their unseemly hi-jincks reaching their wives.

These are people whom I see nearly everyday. We get along well.
They brought a tonne of food. Arranged a veritable feast.
All spread out, buffet style, where I was working.

They invited my co-worker to eat with them.


They and their food started arriving before two o'clock, serious eating began shortly thereafter. And some of that food smelled absolutely wonderful, even over the cigar fumes. I had to pass by frequently while working.

The fragrance permeated my working area.

I left at five o'clock, having cleaned up nine fine briars after we closed, for a customer who is moving across country.


They were still noshing at that time, there was that much food.


TASTES LIKE ASHES, WITH HOTSAUCE ON TOP

I'm home, and I finally had lunch, moments ago. It was just a convenient microwaveable item purchased from a shop around the corner from my apartment. The uninspiring sandwich I brought to work in the morning from 7-eleven will be still in the refrigerator tomorrow when I get in.


[Here are a few phrases that were never uttered by the organizers of the ad-hoc picnic:
"Have you had lunch yet?" "Would you like a bit to eat?" "Have some of this!"
"Surely you'll enjoy a bite?" "Have some food!" "Please, take a plate!"
"Say, it's right around your lunchtime, why don't you join us!"
"Please eat something!" "Are you hungry?"]


It is NOT that I necessarily wished to be included, but what happened was completely and clearly the opposite.
Done deliberately.

By the time the football game had started, an invite would have been politely demurred with either one of two face-saving lies: "no thank you, I've already eaten", or "no thank you, I'm too busy right now".

If at such a moment I said that I wasn't hungry it would have been the truth.
I had lost my appetite, and wouldn't have enjoyed eating at all.


[In any case, no grudging leftovers were proffered, so that is a moot point.]


Consuming my 7-eleven sandwich anytime between two and five o'clock might likely have been seen as "the insult and exclusion of the individual has been registered and understood", or maybe "what the hell is wrong with him?" It could also have been taken as pissing on every one else's parade. Whatever; avidly interpreted or mis-interpreted, and one should rather not have one's humble crust subjected to analysis and undue interest.

Especially when it cannot compare to the exquisite and varied dainties that every single other person present is having.


[Hypothetical conversation that did not, and will never take place: "Did you have some of the food?" "No." "Why not?" "Because I was not offered any." "Then why didn't you say something!?!" "Hell will effing freeze over before I whine to please be included!" "Don't be so stupid! You could have eaten!" "Am I a beggar?!?" ('And screw all of you cocksure oafs.')]


My coworker, who is staying until the game is over, is welcome to their company.




No, I actually can't stand football, and sportsfans get on my nerves.
They tend to be a crude and graceless lot.
Complete swine.

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CAUCASIANS AND TOFU

A good friend knows someone who is vegetarian, gluten-phobic, lactose intolerant, and just sheerly LOVES sweet and sour tofu.
Vegetarian is a choice, often a rather stupid one.
Gluten-phobic is a mental condition.
Lactose intolerant?
Okay.


Sweet and sour tofu is NOT food!


Seriously, if you really like tofu -- some people do, even though if they're white they're probably kind of crazy and food-nutzo -- you should know that tofu is totally stupendous prepared ma-po style, with fried chopped bacon still greasy from the pan added. You might even do fish chunks and black bean sauce with chilies and crumbled tofu.
Or even just plain, served with peanuts and Sriracha.
Also pressed, dressed in vinegar and garlic.


Sweet and sour tofu is an abomination.


Slice the tofu into large chunks, cut a slit in the side of each piece and insert a teaspoonful of stinky fish paste, then wrap each piece with a strip of bacon, double dip (flour and salt and pepper breadcrumbs), and chuck it in the deep fryer. Serve it with hot sauce (Sriracha), mustard, and a zesty remoulade.


Sweet and sour tofu is weird white sh*t.


Bacon & tofu spaghetti Alfredo.



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ASIAN AMERICAN RUNAWAY IN MARIN

An Asian American female, probably of Chinese or Vietnamese ancestry, maybe even Japanese American. About sixteen or seventeen years old, of slight build, with a square and intelligent face, pale-ish complexion. Speaks clear unaccented English, has a good vocabulary. Height around five foot three or four inches. Thin, possibly no more than ninety or a hundred pounds.

Somewhat shy and hesitant, uncertain of herself. Tends to hold her hand in front of her mouth rather a lot.

Encountered at the Marin City Bus Hub at Donahue and Terners Street at six fifteen PM, Saturday February 6th., 2016.



She approached me and asked about homeless shelters or resources, stated that she was homeless, and explicitly requested that I not mention to anyone that she was homeless because she was trying to "keep a low profile". Which, along with her innocence and uncertainty makes pretty plain that she is a very recent runaway.

Not having a cellphone, I called the Marin Sheriff's Department immediately upon reaching home.



Naturally I became more and more worried about her the more I thought about what I had encountered. To put it in dirty old man terms, she's tasty. And very young. And of slight build. Just imagine everything that can go wrong.

I guess she approached me because I look harmless. Or avuncular.

I just wish that I had been fully alert at the time, instead of somewhat abstracted.



Two other crucial data: her clothes were greenish, possibly army surplus type, baggy; and the young lady did not have a pronounced bosom.




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DRIED OYSTERS, SEA CUCUMBER, AND OTHER LUCKY FOOD

The top three posts that readers have visited for the past week on this blog have been Chinese New Year related.


HO SI FAT CHOI 好事發財 DRIED OYSTERS WITH BLACK MOSS
Feb 1, 2011
Pageviews: 1340

SEA CUCUMBER - SOAKING AND BRAISING A DELICIOUS SLUG
Oct 1, 2011
Pageviews: 268

CHINESE NEW YEAR - LUCKY WISHES, LUCKY FOODS
Jan 30, 2011
Pageviews: 195


[Oh by the way: If nothing else, you really must grasp the the lucky money and lucky phrases gestalt: Appropriate mental frame work. Why? Because if you don't, everyone will think you are an idiot. If you aren't Caucasian, they might be right.]


I am glad to see that people are using the internet to research stuff that is vastly more important than kitten pictures, Donald Trump, smut, or the Super Bowl.

I myself seldom look up three out of those four.

Though I admit a weakness for kittens.










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SMIRKY DOUCHEBAG

Martin Shkreli. That is the person you need to always recall when the words "smirky douchebag" are uttered. Because mister Martin Shkreli -- a great American entrepreneur of Yugoslavian (crypto Albanian) ancestry from the bowels of Brooklyn -- completely exemplifies "smirky douchebag", as well as everything wrong with modern American capitalism.

The Smirky Douchebag (Mr. Martin Shkreli) purchased rights to produce a medication for Turing Pharmaceuticals, a company he had started, and immediately raised the price of a single dose.
To seven hundred and fifty dollars.
$750.00.

It had previously cost a mere $13.50.

The Smirky Douchebag in action.

Turing Pharmaceuticals.


From Wikipedia:

"In accordance with Shkreli's business plan, Turing acquired Daraprim (pyrimethamine) – an FDA-approved therapeutic since 1953 – for US$55 million on August 10, 2015, from Impax Laboratories. The drug's most prominent use as of late 2015 was as an anti-malarial and an antiparasitic, in conjunction with leucovorin and a sulfonamide, to treat patients with toxoplasmosis, including in AIDS populations. The patent for Daraprim expired in 1953, and no generic version was available. The Turing-Impax deal included the condition that Impax remove the drug from regular wholesalers and pharmacies, and so in June 2015, two months before the sale to Turing was announced, Impax switched to tightly controlled distribution. In keeping with its strategy for pricing in the face of limited competition, Turing maintained the closed distribution"

[End cite.]


Unfortunately, because Martin Shkreli has so clearly won the title of Smirking Douchebag from all others who were competing for the distinction (Donald Trump, Ted Cruz, Yassir Arafat, Phyllis Schafly, Idi Amin, Ted Nugent, Vladimir Putin, and a whole diverse host of contenders), the very useful expression 'Smirking Douchebag' can now ONLY be used in connection with his name. No one else comes so close.
Or so perfectly exemplifies the concept.

Martin Shkreli IS Smirking Douchebag.
Always and forever.


His parents must be so proud.




Of course, this is only an opinion. Please feel free to nominate any and all candidates that you think are better qualified in the comments field, and briefly explain why they deserve the honour.
I am all ears.




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