There have been violent protests in Vietnam against economic zones and proposed leases to Chinese companies. Yes, some of those protests have been distinctly tinged with racialist anti-Chinese sentiment.
Vietnam has a long history of fighting Chinese invasion and control.
The country also sent a very large portion of its Chinese population into the sea in rickety vessels, where they were attacked by Thai pirates.
Those were the boat people.
I am neither Vietnamese nor Chinese.
Phở, cà phê sữa đá, bánh mì, and bún thịt nướng, are all utterly marvelous.
Still, we know what they are and how to make them now, so realistically speaking we have no more use for the Vietnamese.
None whatsoever.
[ 越南河粉，越南冰咖啡，越式三明治，串燒豬肉米粉。]
I hope the Vietnamese realize that nước mắm now comes from many other places, and that in fact there were already many other fish sauces.
Yü lou (魚露) is native to the entire South China coast.
Fish sauces have been traditionally manufactured all the way from Zhejiang to Kuala Lumpur and beyond, and even in Post-War Holland, well before any Viet exile presence.
I have Viet-style fish sauce made by a company in Hong Kong founded by expellees, as well as Sino-Thai fish sauce made for export, in my kitchen.
The Vietnamese I know here in San Francisco are all pissy and racist.
Kinda like Filipinos, but more ingratiatingly smirky.
They're very "polished" people.
仆街嘞，佢哋。
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Friday, June 15, 2018
Thursday, June 14, 2018
HAVARTI AND JALAPEÑO TOASTS
No doubt about it; I am magnetic. While smoking on the front steps, three people with issues approached me. I fled to a nearby bar, and three more started conversations. The drunk from Seattle was easy to deal with.
"I'm sorry, I'm stepping outside to continue this pipe."
Admittedly I had to do that twice.
I did have an extra pipe.
It wasn't a lie.
The person with Tourette's Syndrome was a different matter.
I'm afraid I still don't know how to deal with that.
The alcoholic with a leg cast was also quite painfree.
She couldn't move; I'm relatively spry.
I am not a very social person.
The evening ended in quiet and solitude with a delicious snack.
I would have shared, but there was no one to do so with.
All shy bookish nerds were asleep already.
As the dingo says: "sad".
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"I'm sorry, I'm stepping outside to continue this pipe."
Admittedly I had to do that twice.
I did have an extra pipe.
It wasn't a lie.
The person with Tourette's Syndrome was a different matter.
I'm afraid I still don't know how to deal with that.
The alcoholic with a leg cast was also quite painfree.
She couldn't move; I'm relatively spry.
I am not a very social person.
The evening ended in quiet and solitude with a delicious snack.
I would have shared, but there was no one to do so with.
All shy bookish nerds were asleep already.
As the dingo says: "sad".
==========================================================================
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Wednesday, June 13, 2018
REMARKABLE PEOPLE
The prospect of food had me in C'town by five o'clock. It should have done so much earlier, but single men of the Dutch and middle-aged variety are easily distracted for long hours by reading material, and my stomach didn't make any noise till tea-time.
Naturally I ended up at the place run by a Toishanese family -- the grandma speaks nearly no Cantonese, but one would assume that she understands Mandarin pretty well, as she's addicted to emotional roller-coaster soap operas from the mainland -- where the woman who is nearly always behind the counter was absent, as was the little girl who comes home from school around that time. That left grandma, her son the little girl's dad, and a female relative of indeterminate connection.
I missed the little girl. She's very bright, and in second grade now.
But she and her mommy were out somewhere.
涼瓜斑球飯
I place my order from the wall -- lerng gwaa pan kau faan -- and sat down to wait. At the table over from me there were two old people, plus their adult daughter and two school age grandchildren. The kids kept themselves occupied during the wait by reading the Chinese menu.
All five at that table were occupied in that effort.
The grown-ups in the role of auxiliaries.
The children did an exceptional job of it. I often overlook that if one isn't in the Chinatown environment on a regular basis, learning the language enough to read it is an arduous task. Three languages were deployed at that table. The grandparents spoke standard city Cantonese plus English, the woman and her children conversed in English and a bit of Cantonese, and all of them also threw Mandarin into the mix, because, I think, the kids went to a Chinese school where that was the language assigned to the characters and reading material.
Which is fairly common; lesson books give Pinyin, as do dictionaries.
And Pinyin is not particularly hard.
It takes quite a while before Cantonese sounds adhere to characters one has learned in Mandarin. Longer when one's native tongue is English.
Instead of either version of Chinese.
I had forgotten how difficult it is.
Those two children are very intelligent, clearly diligent students, and admirable. They are a credit to their mom and her parents.
It was a joy and a privilege to listen in.
Thank you.
==========================================================================
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Naturally I ended up at the place run by a Toishanese family -- the grandma speaks nearly no Cantonese, but one would assume that she understands Mandarin pretty well, as she's addicted to emotional roller-coaster soap operas from the mainland -- where the woman who is nearly always behind the counter was absent, as was the little girl who comes home from school around that time. That left grandma, her son the little girl's dad, and a female relative of indeterminate connection.
I missed the little girl. She's very bright, and in second grade now.
But she and her mommy were out somewhere.
涼瓜斑球飯
I place my order from the wall -- lerng gwaa pan kau faan -- and sat down to wait. At the table over from me there were two old people, plus their adult daughter and two school age grandchildren. The kids kept themselves occupied during the wait by reading the Chinese menu.
All five at that table were occupied in that effort.
The grown-ups in the role of auxiliaries.
The children did an exceptional job of it. I often overlook that if one isn't in the Chinatown environment on a regular basis, learning the language enough to read it is an arduous task. Three languages were deployed at that table. The grandparents spoke standard city Cantonese plus English, the woman and her children conversed in English and a bit of Cantonese, and all of them also threw Mandarin into the mix, because, I think, the kids went to a Chinese school where that was the language assigned to the characters and reading material.
Which is fairly common; lesson books give Pinyin, as do dictionaries.
And Pinyin is not particularly hard.
It takes quite a while before Cantonese sounds adhere to characters one has learned in Mandarin. Longer when one's native tongue is English.
Instead of either version of Chinese.
I had forgotten how difficult it is.
Those two children are very intelligent, clearly diligent students, and admirable. They are a credit to their mom and her parents.
It was a joy and a privilege to listen in.
Thank you.
==========================================================================
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BLONDE HEADS IN A BOX
Why does she do it? She doesn't want to be like them, in fact she was decrying their general lack of manners, good taste, sense, and behavioural standards. As well as their awareness of their societally sanctioned desirability.
Blondes. Why were all the women on teevee last night blondes?
When I returned from eating baked Portuguese chicken rice, my apartment mate was watching teevee and sneering at the people. Indeed, I share her revulsion, pain even, but I'm not the person in this abode who hogs the television with garbage reality programmes, just to be made angry.
If it were up to me, it would be Japanese Shakespeare anime all the time.
Hamlet, or Merchant of Venice, set in a highschool.
You know, quality entertainment.
Like her, I am not enamoured of blondes.
But mostly I avoid them.
Maybe some nature show.
Crocodile eats tourist.
Munch munch.
==========================================================================
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Blondes. Why were all the women on teevee last night blondes?
When I returned from eating baked Portuguese chicken rice, my apartment mate was watching teevee and sneering at the people. Indeed, I share her revulsion, pain even, but I'm not the person in this abode who hogs the television with garbage reality programmes, just to be made angry.
If it were up to me, it would be Japanese Shakespeare anime all the time.
Hamlet, or Merchant of Venice, set in a highschool.
You know, quality entertainment.
Like her, I am not enamoured of blondes.
But mostly I avoid them.
Maybe some nature show.
Crocodile eats tourist.
Munch munch.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
MUCK THAT OTHERS EAT
Under an essay I wrote this past Sunday (about English bad habits, here), someone posted the following comment: "England: It's like San Francisco with better food."
The only food even mentioned in that essay was 'Bubble and Squeak'. Which is basically refried beans, made without beans but substituting cooked potato and cabbage. A very English public school delicacy.
It is the quintessential British food.
Practically a national dish.
"England: It's like San Francisco with better food."
A discussion yesterday involved cioppino, about which several participants had strong and differing opinions. I am awfully tempted to say that cioppino is similar to bubble and squeak or refried beans in some ways.
But really, it isn't. It is quite edible.
The only possible intersections are the grease used in the preparation (lard or olive oil both work), as well as the bottle of hotsauce on the table.
And the suitability of the dish for breakfast.
Adding bacon is a tempting heresy.
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The only food even mentioned in that essay was 'Bubble and Squeak'. Which is basically refried beans, made without beans but substituting cooked potato and cabbage. A very English public school delicacy.
It is the quintessential British food.
Practically a national dish.
"England: It's like San Francisco with better food."
A discussion yesterday involved cioppino, about which several participants had strong and differing opinions. I am awfully tempted to say that cioppino is similar to bubble and squeak or refried beans in some ways.
But really, it isn't. It is quite edible.
The only possible intersections are the grease used in the preparation (lard or olive oil both work), as well as the bottle of hotsauce on the table.
And the suitability of the dish for breakfast.
Adding bacon is a tempting heresy.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GOOD LUCK WATERING HOLE
Two drinks, two pipefulls of tobacco, and a very peaceful dog. So started the weekend. Not at the karaoke place with the lovely portico where I sheltered from the rain during the wet season -- two months ago I got fed up with the arrogant snooty primadonnas who behaved like condescending deities, and gave them a piece of my mind -- but at a local establishment where the regulars have fewer issues and are more socially adept.
White people doing karaoke are an unpleasant lot.
Asian Americans and karaoke, ditto.
Attitudes and egos.
I am rather stupid. I like places where I can subside into routine. Which is probably why I tolerated the East Bay crowd so long as well as the karaoke dive (with the portico), and it's the same reason why I like certain bakeries and chachantengs in Chinatown. Places with a boisterous, loud, and engaging Toishanese clientele.
The latter category is far less abrasive than karaokers.
Not as hip, supercilious, and vicious.
And, truth be told, I'd far rather discuss food than whatever garbage subject fills the minds of karaoke mavens. Cantonese people often talk about food. Many of the folks at the "local establishment" also discuss culinaria.
Neither group are overly impressed with themselves.
When the rains come I'll be rather hosed. The karaoke joint had a peaceful and dry portico. That by itself, during that time of year, was a major draw.
But attempts at conversation inside were painful and frustrating.
The local place has no attitude-problem customers.
No brawls, no primadonnas, no "stars".
Also no Am-Filipinos.
Or Mỹ-gốc Việt.
Draw your own conclusion about the last data.
I will not say a damned thing.
I'm diplomatic.
And I have an umbrella.
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
White people doing karaoke are an unpleasant lot.
Asian Americans and karaoke, ditto.
Attitudes and egos.
I am rather stupid. I like places where I can subside into routine. Which is probably why I tolerated the East Bay crowd so long as well as the karaoke dive (with the portico), and it's the same reason why I like certain bakeries and chachantengs in Chinatown. Places with a boisterous, loud, and engaging Toishanese clientele.
The latter category is far less abrasive than karaokers.
Not as hip, supercilious, and vicious.
And, truth be told, I'd far rather discuss food than whatever garbage subject fills the minds of karaoke mavens. Cantonese people often talk about food. Many of the folks at the "local establishment" also discuss culinaria.
Neither group are overly impressed with themselves.
When the rains come I'll be rather hosed. The karaoke joint had a peaceful and dry portico. That by itself, during that time of year, was a major draw.
But attempts at conversation inside were painful and frustrating.
The local place has no attitude-problem customers.
No brawls, no primadonnas, no "stars".
Also no Am-Filipinos.
Or Mỹ-gốc Việt.
Draw your own conclusion about the last data.
I will not say a damned thing.
I'm diplomatic.
And I have an umbrella.
==========================================================================
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Monday, June 11, 2018
SUAVE DON JUAN
This blogger candidly admits that Pepe the king prawn is, totally and completely, the hottest crustacean-American on youtube. Okay?
I just wish I had half his Barcelonean sex appeal.
Okay?
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I just wish I had half his Barcelonean sex appeal.
Okay?
==========================================================================
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Sunday, June 10, 2018
SOMEWHERE WARM AND DRY
Per reliable reports, chairman Kim's first meal in Singapore will be Hainan Chicken. Which is a splendid representation of the southern Chinese talent for mix and meld, as the ideal condiment is sambal. Freshly made sambal. With a splash of skimmed fat from the top of the stock to make it unctuous.
Donald Trump, of course, is having McDonalds flown in on an army transport. Not because, as the urban folklore holds, he is scared of being poisoned, but instead because he thinks they named the chain after him.
Oh, and he has no culinary imagination.
From a bartender friend's Facebook page: "If Justin Trudeau and Donald Trump were both drowning and you could only save one... where would you take Justin for lunch afterwords?"
Thanks, David D.
I would credit your entire name, but then the Christians would know who you are. And today's Christians do more than pray for your salvation, they shoot schoolchildren and piss on their graves.
Still, it's a good question. Obviously one saves the more useful world leader, but Trump floats. So you'd need a boat hook to push him under.
After saving Justin, dump chum into the water.
Just to be sure.
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Donald Trump, of course, is having McDonalds flown in on an army transport. Not because, as the urban folklore holds, he is scared of being poisoned, but instead because he thinks they named the chain after him.
Oh, and he has no culinary imagination.
From a bartender friend's Facebook page: "If Justin Trudeau and Donald Trump were both drowning and you could only save one... where would you take Justin for lunch afterwords?"
Thanks, David D.
I would credit your entire name, but then the Christians would know who you are. And today's Christians do more than pray for your salvation, they shoot schoolchildren and piss on their graves.
Still, it's a good question. Obviously one saves the more useful world leader, but Trump floats. So you'd need a boat hook to push him under.
After saving Justin, dump chum into the water.
Just to be sure.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BEASTLY EXPLODING PENGUINS
In a week in which the Free World displeased Donald Trump, Anthony Bourdain died as well as some fashion figure beloved by many people with whom I have never associated, two pudgy dictators flew into Singapore for noodles, and it was revealed that Moscow is surrounded by out of control toxic waste landfills, the one thing that caught my eye was an increase of the French Pox in England.
Quote:
"Syphilis might be more commonly associated with centuries past. But it's been on the rise for the past decade in England, with more cases last year than in any year since 1949.
The disease was, in effect, eradicated in the UK in the mid-80s only to re-emerge around 1999."
End quote.
[SOURCE: BBC - Why is syphilis is on the rise?.]
Apparently the cause for the dramatic spread includes dating apps, drugs, and group sex. Almost San Franciscan type behaviour.
Quote:
"The increase in syphilis was almost all among gay, bisexual and other men who have sex with men, according to government agency Public Health England, accounting for 78% of all cases diagnosed last year."
End quote.
This paints a picture of an England where the social activities of a public school dormitory have broken through to adult life, and cold showers are no longer common. Which is distressing.
As an unabashed Anglophile I naturally blame the Irish.
Now please excuse me as I retire to my booklined study to contemplate the dissolution of proper standards, rise in immorality and sea levels, creeping Trumpism, and culinary improvements that undermine society and make people believe they could actually enjoy life, instead of being miserable and reserved. Which I shall do with a cup of tea and some bubble and squeak.
Than which nothing is more self-chastising.
Those British need birching.
==========================================================================
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Quote:
"Syphilis might be more commonly associated with centuries past. But it's been on the rise for the past decade in England, with more cases last year than in any year since 1949.
The disease was, in effect, eradicated in the UK in the mid-80s only to re-emerge around 1999."
End quote.
[SOURCE: BBC - Why is syphilis is on the rise?.]
Apparently the cause for the dramatic spread includes dating apps, drugs, and group sex. Almost San Franciscan type behaviour.
Quote:
"The increase in syphilis was almost all among gay, bisexual and other men who have sex with men, according to government agency Public Health England, accounting for 78% of all cases diagnosed last year."
End quote.
This paints a picture of an England where the social activities of a public school dormitory have broken through to adult life, and cold showers are no longer common. Which is distressing.
As an unabashed Anglophile I naturally blame the Irish.
Now please excuse me as I retire to my booklined study to contemplate the dissolution of proper standards, rise in immorality and sea levels, creeping Trumpism, and culinary improvements that undermine society and make people believe they could actually enjoy life, instead of being miserable and reserved. Which I shall do with a cup of tea and some bubble and squeak.
Than which nothing is more self-chastising.
Those British need birching.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
Friday, June 08, 2018
A LUSUS NATURAE
So as it turns out, pipesmokers are remarkable curiosities, and damned well sehenswürdigkeiten von großem ausmaß. Beachtlich. Or sumpin'. This is the only conclusion one can draw from the episode the other night, when a woman took one look at me and my pipe and started screaming that me and my pipe were fabulous. Absolutely fabulous! OMG!
Well, the pipe is indeed fabulous. A sterling military mount Peterson billiard of great age, but very decent condition, and an excellent smoke.
Shape 106.
And yes, the term OMG is apposite.
It's a lovely pipe.
She really must have meant the pipe. Because the smoker is not nearly so exclaim-worthy. Although he does think he looks rather dashing with that pipe clenched between his teeth. Though alas, hardly OMG.
If she had established physical contact, I would have yelped.
I am easily disturbed.
Seeing a pipesmoker (with a fabulous pipe) was probably the capstone of her evening, especially after the basketball game and her burger and fries.
A walking talking antique, by gum.
This way to the egress.
OMG.
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Well, the pipe is indeed fabulous. A sterling military mount Peterson billiard of great age, but very decent condition, and an excellent smoke.
Shape 106.
And yes, the term OMG is apposite.
It's a lovely pipe.
She really must have meant the pipe. Because the smoker is not nearly so exclaim-worthy. Although he does think he looks rather dashing with that pipe clenched between his teeth. Though alas, hardly OMG.
If she had established physical contact, I would have yelped.
I am easily disturbed.
Seeing a pipesmoker (with a fabulous pipe) was probably the capstone of her evening, especially after the basketball game and her burger and fries.
A walking talking antique, by gum.
This way to the egress.
OMG.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, June 07, 2018
GIGOLOS ARE NOT CANDY ...
And gluten-phobic vegetarian foodie white women are a monumental pain in the sphincter. Airy-faerie. My apartment mate wishes that they'd shut the hell up. No, I shall not mention where or when this was, as the oppressive persons in question might actually know how to read.
They are not as nice as monkeys.
I'm beginning to think that most white women don't know diddly about food, and seldom visit the kitchen except for more yoghurt.
Or soyghurt, if they're vegan.
"We've been coming here a long time!"
Bitches, bitches, bitches, bitches. My apartment mate asked me if there really was a particular ("white) way to hold a strawberry.
How the heck should I know? I may appear 'white", but underneath my pale dermoid exterior I am a scaly green space alien. I only look this way because it's easier. I can move around on this planet without anyone wondering how to skin me and wear me. My apartment mate ('Chinese American') has to constantly worry about white bitches with crazy tendencies.
Or at least, that's the impression I get.
I, personally, don't know any gluten-phobics. When I worked part-time at an Indian restaurant, the number of weird-ass white folks with food hang-ups who came through the door was frightening. It seemed like every white-ass modahfo was "special". This one couldn't eat dairy, that one couldn't touch bread, she over there would (she said) bloat up if even in the same room as citrus, and that person over there was allergic to chilies, cilantro, and cumin.
So you'll naturally understand that I have an extremely low regard for people with self-assumed dietary needs. Unless you're carrying around medication and hypodermic needles, or a note from your doctor -- NOT the holistic snake oil salesman who soothes your fragile ego or the chiropractor who reaches deep into your wallet while stroking your sense of uniqueness, you little flower you -- I will assume you to be neurotic, in need of drugs.
Or, exceptionally, a savage beating.
Right now I'm thinking about a bacon-cheese burger on a crusty toasted bun, with a thick salsa of chilies, cilantro, and cumin, with a bit of lime juice to make it sloppy.
By the way, I've been told that gigolos are delicious.
That may be a crazy white woman thing.
But I do not know.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They are not as nice as monkeys.
I'm beginning to think that most white women don't know diddly about food, and seldom visit the kitchen except for more yoghurt.
Or soyghurt, if they're vegan.
"We've been coming here a long time!"
Bitches, bitches, bitches, bitches. My apartment mate asked me if there really was a particular ("white) way to hold a strawberry.
How the heck should I know? I may appear 'white", but underneath my pale dermoid exterior I am a scaly green space alien. I only look this way because it's easier. I can move around on this planet without anyone wondering how to skin me and wear me. My apartment mate ('Chinese American') has to constantly worry about white bitches with crazy tendencies.
Or at least, that's the impression I get.
I, personally, don't know any gluten-phobics. When I worked part-time at an Indian restaurant, the number of weird-ass white folks with food hang-ups who came through the door was frightening. It seemed like every white-ass modahfo was "special". This one couldn't eat dairy, that one couldn't touch bread, she over there would (she said) bloat up if even in the same room as citrus, and that person over there was allergic to chilies, cilantro, and cumin.
So you'll naturally understand that I have an extremely low regard for people with self-assumed dietary needs. Unless you're carrying around medication and hypodermic needles, or a note from your doctor -- NOT the holistic snake oil salesman who soothes your fragile ego or the chiropractor who reaches deep into your wallet while stroking your sense of uniqueness, you little flower you -- I will assume you to be neurotic, in need of drugs.
Or, exceptionally, a savage beating.
Right now I'm thinking about a bacon-cheese burger on a crusty toasted bun, with a thick salsa of chilies, cilantro, and cumin, with a bit of lime juice to make it sloppy.
By the way, I've been told that gigolos are delicious.
That may be a crazy white woman thing.
But I do not know.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, June 06, 2018
THE ENORMITY
During the night I dreamed that San Francisco had become a dictatorship of gluten-phobic vegans. For, you understand, our own good. It is a surprising dream, given how much steak and bacon is served in this town, along with crusty French bread and sourdough, and the prevalence of pizza places.
Though I am sure that some would wish it were so.
There is NO such thing as a vegan San Franciscan crab dinner. Yes, there are vegan "equivalents" of crab, but they are in the same ballpark as gluten-free pasta and pizza, or mock roast goose and soy-steak.
Not by a long shot edible.
焗葡國雞飯，燒鴨飯，也許燒鵝。
Today's late lunch will probably be either baked Portuguese chicken rice or roast duck over rice. They are both gluten-free, more or less, and quite as vegetarian as I wish to ever go.
The first consists of a layer of egg-fried rice, on top of which are chunked cooked chicken and potatoes, smothered in a mild Hong Kong and Macao style curry sauce, with shredded cheese liberally strewn over it, stuck under the broiler till bubbly. The second is a fresh plump duck, killed, brushed with a marinade, then roasted at high temperature, before finally being chopped into large chunks and dumped on a mound of rice with some of its juices.
I might go down to Man Jai Kei for roast goose rice instead.
As you can see, no gluten. So half of you pesky food-Protestants could be happy. The other half may wail about dead birds with loving families that deserved to live, so sad, and how could I, oh heartless brute.
Here's German intellectual Werner Herzog:
CHICKENS!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhMo4WlBmGM.]
"The enormity of ... of their flat brain, the enormity of their stupidity, is just overwhelming --- the intensity of stupidity that is looking back at you is just amazing."
He could say the same things about many other birds.
Penguins are not, strictly speaking, edible.
But that is hardly relevant.
Everything he said about chickens is also applicable to food-Protestants.
Sometime after dark I will have focaccia with crisped bacon.
And perhaps a fried egg.
慢慢食。
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Though I am sure that some would wish it were so.
There is NO such thing as a vegan San Franciscan crab dinner. Yes, there are vegan "equivalents" of crab, but they are in the same ballpark as gluten-free pasta and pizza, or mock roast goose and soy-steak.
Not by a long shot edible.
焗葡國雞飯，燒鴨飯，也許燒鵝。
Today's late lunch will probably be either baked Portuguese chicken rice or roast duck over rice. They are both gluten-free, more or less, and quite as vegetarian as I wish to ever go.
The first consists of a layer of egg-fried rice, on top of which are chunked cooked chicken and potatoes, smothered in a mild Hong Kong and Macao style curry sauce, with shredded cheese liberally strewn over it, stuck under the broiler till bubbly. The second is a fresh plump duck, killed, brushed with a marinade, then roasted at high temperature, before finally being chopped into large chunks and dumped on a mound of rice with some of its juices.
I might go down to Man Jai Kei for roast goose rice instead.
As you can see, no gluten. So half of you pesky food-Protestants could be happy. The other half may wail about dead birds with loving families that deserved to live, so sad, and how could I, oh heartless brute.
Here's German intellectual Werner Herzog:
CHICKENS!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhMo4WlBmGM.]
"The enormity of ... of their flat brain, the enormity of their stupidity, is just overwhelming --- the intensity of stupidity that is looking back at you is just amazing."
He could say the same things about many other birds.
Penguins are not, strictly speaking, edible.
But that is hardly relevant.
Everything he said about chickens is also applicable to food-Protestants.
Sometime after dark I will have focaccia with crisped bacon.
And perhaps a fried egg.
慢慢食。
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YOU ARE ALL STUPID AND YOUR CITY SUCKS
The preliminary results of the election are in. And, as was to be expected, San Francisco proved itself largely populated by morons.
In nearly every way.
This year democracy was wasted on you people.
Repressive, blinkered, and stupid.
A total waste of air.
Old socks.
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In nearly every way.
This year democracy was wasted on you people.
Repressive, blinkered, and stupid.
A total waste of air.
Old socks.
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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, June 05, 2018
STICKY DEPOSITS OF SWEETNESS AND LIGHT
There are times when I wish my apartment mate looked at things with much greater attention and interest. Like when she does the dishes. I often have to rewash things, and stack them more efficiently and sensibly in the rack. And then there are the moments when I am damned glad that her typical Chinese vision casually overlooks things that an anal-retentive Netherlandish house person could not fail to notice. Like, as a perfect example, the fact that I am a bit of a slob, and that there are empty tobacco tins in corners of the teevee room taking up space and gathering dust.
Or that there is a two foot tall native statue of a presumably nautical person with beads and cowrie shells immediately behind her chair.
I can see it. I doubt that she is even aware of it.
It's been there for several months.
He is a presence.
I had a haircut today. She has not noticed yet.
There are things a Chinese person just won't see of which a Dutch person cannot fail to be painfully aware. This may relate to cultural-temperament differences, or some other nurture versus nature thing. I shall not hazard a guess, but I have marked it as a pattern that works well for me.
And I'm totally fine with it. I know what the feather dusters are for, even though I rarely use them. In her case, though she has seen them every day, she probably would not know where either duster is if I asked.
As I mentioned previously, I am slobby.
It also helps that her sense of smell is not optimum. On my days off I smoke inside the apartment with the windows open, letting it air out for three or four hours before she comes home from work. And sometimes late at night, when she has already gone to sleep in her room, I light up also.
So I shall not mention the crud on the coffee spoons from her hot chocolate in the morning. Instead, I'll wash all the implements in the rack again without her knowing. It is best to let sleeping Cantonese females lie.
They can be savage when roused.
But usually aren't.
And she buys cookies.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or that there is a two foot tall native statue of a presumably nautical person with beads and cowrie shells immediately behind her chair.
I can see it. I doubt that she is even aware of it.
It's been there for several months.
He is a presence.
I had a haircut today. She has not noticed yet.
There are things a Chinese person just won't see of which a Dutch person cannot fail to be painfully aware. This may relate to cultural-temperament differences, or some other nurture versus nature thing. I shall not hazard a guess, but I have marked it as a pattern that works well for me.
And I'm totally fine with it. I know what the feather dusters are for, even though I rarely use them. In her case, though she has seen them every day, she probably would not know where either duster is if I asked.
As I mentioned previously, I am slobby.
It also helps that her sense of smell is not optimum. On my days off I smoke inside the apartment with the windows open, letting it air out for three or four hours before she comes home from work. And sometimes late at night, when she has already gone to sleep in her room, I light up also.
So I shall not mention the crud on the coffee spoons from her hot chocolate in the morning. Instead, I'll wash all the implements in the rack again without her knowing. It is best to let sleeping Cantonese females lie.
They can be savage when roused.
But usually aren't.
And she buys cookies.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SUN DRENCHED FRAGRANCES
When is a good time for a Nicaraguan? People ask me this all the time. "Uncle Stinky Dutchman," they will say, "when is a good time for a Nicaraguan?" And I enjoy giving them an honest answer, because I have thought deeply about the issue. The best time for a Nicaraguan is mid-morning, around nine or ten o'clock, when you are having coffee before going out to vote for anyone else but London Breed as mayor of San Francisco. Mark Leno or Jane Kim, for instance. By doing so you will piss off the real estate interests and the big tech companies who want to maximize their assets by destroying what makes San Francisco truly San Francisco.
San Francisco could do far worse than Mark Leno.
Jane Kim is not really my first choice.
Breed and Alioto not at all.
The key here is that your apartment mate is out of the house, the windows are wide open for ventilation, and her door is firmly shut, because the dear lady does not like the smell of cigars.
Trust me on this. Uncle Stinky Dutchman knows.
This particular Nicaraguan is a toro (six inches long, with a 52 ring gauge), a dark wrapper leaf, and despite the body it is mild. Not as good as the My Father or the Oliva Melanio Series V from a few days ago.
Still, it pairs nicely with coffee.
Strong coffee.
I wish I could tell you who made this cigar, but I cut it and put it aside to smoke yesterday, and seem to have misplaced the band. The appealing wrapper leaf appears to be a corojo.
Pipes later.
Milk tea.
Virginia.
Day off.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
San Francisco could do far worse than Mark Leno.
Jane Kim is not really my first choice.
Breed and Alioto not at all.
The key here is that your apartment mate is out of the house, the windows are wide open for ventilation, and her door is firmly shut, because the dear lady does not like the smell of cigars.
Trust me on this. Uncle Stinky Dutchman knows.
This particular Nicaraguan is a toro (six inches long, with a 52 ring gauge), a dark wrapper leaf, and despite the body it is mild. Not as good as the My Father or the Oliva Melanio Series V from a few days ago.
Still, it pairs nicely with coffee.
Strong coffee.
I wish I could tell you who made this cigar, but I cut it and put it aside to smoke yesterday, and seem to have misplaced the band. The appealing wrapper leaf appears to be a corojo.
Pipes later.
Milk tea.
Virginia.
Day off.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
INNOCENT, INNOCENT
My apartment mate seems a little grumpy because the lengthy break-up with 'Wheelie Boy' (her 'boyfriend') is nearing completion. She no longer wants to deal with him and his bizarre personality over the phone, she's tired, her door is snecked firmly shut.
Okay, I sympathize. It's been what? Five months?
A soft and gradual disengagement.
Big. Hairy. Deal.
This pipeful of blonde Virginia that I'm smoking will be over soon too. And is infinitely more lamentworthy. Sympathy for him, for her, and their operatic split, is not something I'm good at.
I have been a single grumpus for nearly eight years. Oh sure, I'd really love someone nice and soft and warm next to me while I doze, or even a nearly naked person flitting in and out of my room when my apartment mate is off at the salt mines, but this is San Francisco, and most candidates are too eccentric to be realistic possibilities.
Mental checklist: Do they like porkchops? Do they not mind tobacco too much? Do they like warm beverages which aren't Starbucks, and don't have weird tapioca things? Do they read? Are they okay with Dutch and Cantonese language comments / outbursts / snide remarks?
Well, that leaves nearly nobody.
Vegans and the gluten-phobics can find their own damned vegetable to hug. This rutabaga is stolidly not interested. The closest I've come to other female companionship in recent months is casually commenting on the inebriated conversation of two darling black lesbians exchanging tales of their church-going relatives. Having lived around severe Calvinists telling me I'd go to hell, I can sort of relate. Minus the fried chicken and grits.
With or without hot sauce or creamy ranch dressing.
Severe Calvinists don't eat that stuff.
They disapprove.
This Orlik Golden Sliced is seriously good. There is a subtle sweetness, and an old-timey perfume to the smoke. It's rather like having a wife or girlfriend, but different.
It's nearly three in the morning, and I'm sorry, but it's effing cold outside, so smoking on the front steps is out of the question. Good thing your bedroom door is shut. I'm enjoying a late night smoke while sipping "Old-Syphilitic Bastard" Scotch, and listening to the silence. Three hour nap, the briar that's associated with the intersection in between several places that do good porkchops in Chinatown, and two days off.
My life is by no means perfect.
But it's good.
["Old Syphilitic Bastard Scotch": Loch Seann Phogan Losgadh ('Uisge Beatha').
Cheap Scotch whisky. Peaty fire-water. Paint stripper. Plonkum.]
My apartment mate neither drinks nor smokes.
This is not objectionable.
TOBACCO INDEX
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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A soft and gradual disengagement.
Big. Hairy. Deal.
This pipeful of blonde Virginia that I'm smoking will be over soon too. And is infinitely more lamentworthy. Sympathy for him, for her, and their operatic split, is not something I'm good at.
I have been a single grumpus for nearly eight years. Oh sure, I'd really love someone nice and soft and warm next to me while I doze, or even a nearly naked person flitting in and out of my room when my apartment mate is off at the salt mines, but this is San Francisco, and most candidates are too eccentric to be realistic possibilities.
Mental checklist: Do they like porkchops? Do they not mind tobacco too much? Do they like warm beverages which aren't Starbucks, and don't have weird tapioca things? Do they read? Are they okay with Dutch and Cantonese language comments / outbursts / snide remarks?
Well, that leaves nearly nobody.
Vegans and the gluten-phobics can find their own damned vegetable to hug. This rutabaga is stolidly not interested. The closest I've come to other female companionship in recent months is casually commenting on the inebriated conversation of two darling black lesbians exchanging tales of their church-going relatives. Having lived around severe Calvinists telling me I'd go to hell, I can sort of relate. Minus the fried chicken and grits.
With or without hot sauce or creamy ranch dressing.
Severe Calvinists don't eat that stuff.
They disapprove.
This Orlik Golden Sliced is seriously good. There is a subtle sweetness, and an old-timey perfume to the smoke. It's rather like having a wife or girlfriend, but different.
It's nearly three in the morning, and I'm sorry, but it's effing cold outside, so smoking on the front steps is out of the question. Good thing your bedroom door is shut. I'm enjoying a late night smoke while sipping "Old-Syphilitic Bastard" Scotch, and listening to the silence. Three hour nap, the briar that's associated with the intersection in between several places that do good porkchops in Chinatown, and two days off.
My life is by no means perfect.
But it's good.
["Old Syphilitic Bastard Scotch": Loch Seann Phogan Losgadh ('Uisge Beatha').
Cheap Scotch whisky. Peaty fire-water. Paint stripper. Plonkum.]
My apartment mate neither drinks nor smokes.
This is not objectionable.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, June 04, 2018
WHY IS HE DRESSED LIKE A MIME?
It was a sentence that I wish I had not heard. "You mean he's Dutch?!? Oh my gawd, I knew he smelled bad!" To the best of my knowledge, that person was not referring to me. Because I speak impeccable English without a trace of a Dutch accent, and, of course, I don't smell bad.
At least not that early in the day.
It's different matter when I head back home after work. At which time I may whiff a bit of the cigars that are smoked around me all day.
When I got off the bus, I could still smell stogies.
"You mean he's Dutch?!? Oh my gawd, I knew he smelled bad!"
Having had some experience with the Dutch, I cannot say that I associate a particular odour with the type. Some smell delightfully of herring, others do not. A few reek of cheese. But other than that, no particular fragrance.
At times I am in a position to hear the tinfoil hat brigade.
I seldom encourage their conversation.
They'll still say things.
I wish they wouldn't.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
At least not that early in the day.
It's different matter when I head back home after work. At which time I may whiff a bit of the cigars that are smoked around me all day.
When I got off the bus, I could still smell stogies.
"You mean he's Dutch?!? Oh my gawd, I knew he smelled bad!"
Having had some experience with the Dutch, I cannot say that I associate a particular odour with the type. Some smell delightfully of herring, others do not. A few reek of cheese. But other than that, no particular fragrance.
At times I am in a position to hear the tinfoil hat brigade.
I seldom encourage their conversation.
They'll still say things.
I wish they wouldn't.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOUR KIND CYNICISM
It may surprise you, but I am a complete "realist". Which is why twenty percent of the profit goes to the schools. No, it isn't a cigarette; we call it a "papaveresse". Caramel vanilla clove flavour, with caffeine (for alertness), nicotine (short term memory and cerebral function), taurine (whatever), and morphine. Because it's all about the precious infants, their attention span, and their academic performance.
But really, it is all about the children. A year ago, it was because of youth, minorities, and the LGBTQ community. But now, kiddiewinkies. It helps them perform academically, while calming the little f*ckers down.
HUFF HAPPY FERRETS; THEY'RE 'SASSY'!
This fine product was made in the Amazon Rainforest by little green men who recycle and hug dolphins!
Caffeine, "NO-citine", papaverotinic goodness, and candy flavours, for sheer childlike beneficiality. Feel free to operate heavy equipment, or mega-burst weaponry, while utilizing this product. Remember, twenty percent. The pay-off to well connected friends of Jeff Sessions and the gubmint is an overhead. Some rich white bitch is earning half a million a year plus overseeing the programme (children!) while having cocktails with Republicans.
It's green, gluten-free, and ecological.
Save the planet!
This Tuesday San Francisco votes to ban all flavoured tobacco products. Pot is perfectly okay, and the homeless are defecating in public. Please don't ask me what I witnessed Saturday night just before twelve midnight on Polk Street between two parked cars, I did not know that that was even doable, but the open sores on his hips, glutei, and lower stomach are healing, because this is San Francisco and London Breed, man, London Breed!
She's got great teeth. They're perfect.
Please vote.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But really, it is all about the children. A year ago, it was because of youth, minorities, and the LGBTQ community. But now, kiddiewinkies. It helps them perform academically, while calming the little f*ckers down.
HUFF HAPPY FERRETS; THEY'RE 'SASSY'!
This fine product was made in the Amazon Rainforest by little green men who recycle and hug dolphins!
Caffeine, "NO-citine", papaverotinic goodness, and candy flavours, for sheer childlike beneficiality. Feel free to operate heavy equipment, or mega-burst weaponry, while utilizing this product. Remember, twenty percent. The pay-off to well connected friends of Jeff Sessions and the gubmint is an overhead. Some rich white bitch is earning half a million a year plus overseeing the programme (children!) while having cocktails with Republicans.
It's green, gluten-free, and ecological.
Save the planet!
This Tuesday San Francisco votes to ban all flavoured tobacco products. Pot is perfectly okay, and the homeless are defecating in public. Please don't ask me what I witnessed Saturday night just before twelve midnight on Polk Street between two parked cars, I did not know that that was even doable, but the open sores on his hips, glutei, and lower stomach are healing, because this is San Francisco and London Breed, man, London Breed!
She's got great teeth. They're perfect.
Please vote.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
