The refrigerator has tonnes of good stuff to eat, and I am keenly aware of that. Also, a cup of coffee would be very nice right now. Plus a satisfying smoke, aged Virginia in one of my older briars.
Except that I can do none of that; medical tests tomorrow, have to fast.
There is a large new bin of dark chocolate chunk and almond cookies within reach, as well as a hunk of delicious chocolate.
Have to fast.
I can drink water, though. Stay hydrated, which will help "them" find a suitable vein tomorrow.
This is all an intellectual exercise in not thinking of coffee, tea, cookies, cheese, bread, mustard greens, roast chicken, a tomato, an Italian sausage, tomato sauce, pasta, rice stick noodles, garlic and bacon drenched with chilipaste, toast with peanut butter and Sriracha, a jar of capers .......
There is also a bag of interestingly flavoured potato chips on the teevee room table.
Must not think of any of these things.
No lunch, no dinner.
Nor breakfast.
Or coffee.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 14, 2019
SPLENDID SOLITUDE
They advertised that it had been 'cask-mellowed' for four years. Which improved it, made it softer, richer, and more luxurious. Since the original manufacturer (Lorrilard) stopped making it, two other companies (one now defunct) duplicated it, the last being Sutliff.
Normally I eschew Sutliff. Some of their stuff is truly appalling.
But the other day Neil brought their match of Briggs Mixture around, and, after drying it a little bit, I enjoyed a bowl.
Burley (heat-treated), Virginias, Kentucky. Subtle top dressing.
Sort of a chunky cut, slow burning, and relatively clean.
The forties were indeed a different era. An degenerate affection for overly sweetened goopy aromatics -- a phenomenon that eventually reached it's horrible apogee by the eighties and has still not abated -- had not yet taken hold of America's manhood, and pipe tobaccos were still mostly honest attempts to bring a simple pleasure to the country's living rooms.
I could mention something about how most pipesmokers nowadays spend a lot of time in the garage or the potting shed at the end of the yard, or, lord help us, underneath awnings in Chinatown during the rainy season; banished thither by modern sensibilities and the odium towards tobacco with which society has infected our nearest and dearest. But I shan't. My house mate half the time does not even notice when I am in another room happily puffing away, and I always let the place air out when she is gone.
I also make sure the door to her room is firmly shut on my off-days.
And that both the kitchen and bathroom windows are open.
Simmering ginger-tea for a few hours helps.
The place smells clean afterwards.
Well, the fact that I only smoke indoors before lunch has a lot to do with that too, as well as her less than perfect sense of smell.
That is what I would like to do on my first day off this week, tomorrow, except that I have to be out of the house early for tests down at Chinese Hospital, which means no coffee, no tea, no smoking, and no eating, after early afternoon today. One of the tests is a "nuclear stress test", during which they'll drip a radioactive solution into my veins so that the picture of my circulation is clearer (gamma camera scans), as well as a chemical stimulant (dipyridamole, denosine, etcetera) to measure how my system deals with stress.
The fact that I'll be uncaffeinated, on low blood sugar, grouchy as all git-out, and dying for a good smoke, will both add to the stress level and the excitement. An adventure, by gum!
There will be a pipe in my pocket, as well as a modicum of the Briggs Mixture reproduction by Sutliff. It has a sort of bready earthy taste, is not particularly strong in either the nicotine or flavour department, and there's that old-fashioned fragrance that one remembers adults in one's childhood having. Slightly sweet, slightly herbal. A vegetal pungency. I thoroughly enjoyed smoking it yesterday, and cadged some from Neil for half a dozen more bowls. Decent stuff. Not knock your socks off exciting, but on the whole damn' decent. I am looking forward to that.
It's an evocative air.
The moment they let me step outside for a restorative meal and a hot beverage, I am lighting up.
Yes, I know smoking is bad for my health.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Normally I eschew Sutliff. Some of their stuff is truly appalling.
But the other day Neil brought their match of Briggs Mixture around, and, after drying it a little bit, I enjoyed a bowl.
Burley (heat-treated), Virginias, Kentucky. Subtle top dressing.
Sort of a chunky cut, slow burning, and relatively clean.
The forties were indeed a different era. An degenerate affection for overly sweetened goopy aromatics -- a phenomenon that eventually reached it's horrible apogee by the eighties and has still not abated -- had not yet taken hold of America's manhood, and pipe tobaccos were still mostly honest attempts to bring a simple pleasure to the country's living rooms.
I could mention something about how most pipesmokers nowadays spend a lot of time in the garage or the potting shed at the end of the yard, or, lord help us, underneath awnings in Chinatown during the rainy season; banished thither by modern sensibilities and the odium towards tobacco with which society has infected our nearest and dearest. But I shan't. My house mate half the time does not even notice when I am in another room happily puffing away, and I always let the place air out when she is gone.
I also make sure the door to her room is firmly shut on my off-days.
And that both the kitchen and bathroom windows are open.
Simmering ginger-tea for a few hours helps.
The place smells clean afterwards.
Well, the fact that I only smoke indoors before lunch has a lot to do with that too, as well as her less than perfect sense of smell.
That is what I would like to do on my first day off this week, tomorrow, except that I have to be out of the house early for tests down at Chinese Hospital, which means no coffee, no tea, no smoking, and no eating, after early afternoon today. One of the tests is a "nuclear stress test", during which they'll drip a radioactive solution into my veins so that the picture of my circulation is clearer (gamma camera scans), as well as a chemical stimulant (dipyridamole, denosine, etcetera) to measure how my system deals with stress.
The fact that I'll be uncaffeinated, on low blood sugar, grouchy as all git-out, and dying for a good smoke, will both add to the stress level and the excitement. An adventure, by gum!
There will be a pipe in my pocket, as well as a modicum of the Briggs Mixture reproduction by Sutliff. It has a sort of bready earthy taste, is not particularly strong in either the nicotine or flavour department, and there's that old-fashioned fragrance that one remembers adults in one's childhood having. Slightly sweet, slightly herbal. A vegetal pungency. I thoroughly enjoyed smoking it yesterday, and cadged some from Neil for half a dozen more bowls. Decent stuff. Not knock your socks off exciting, but on the whole damn' decent. I am looking forward to that.
It's an evocative air.
The moment they let me step outside for a restorative meal and a hot beverage, I am lighting up.
Yes, I know smoking is bad for my health.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 13, 2019
THAT CHARMING SOFTNESS
Let me make one thing absolutely clear: Fay Wray NEVER went skinny dipping in a banana daiquiri, and there was no sexy banana-peel sarong.
Whoever told you that King Kong was a touching love story between a human woman and an enormous beast may have been exaggerating.
[You smell remarkably like marijuana, and your pupils are a mile wide. Pitch black holes in your face. Please get off the bus somewhere in Sausalito. They'll love you, it's where you belong.
You epitomize a large part of Marin County.]
On the other hand, a giant wall along the border can indeed hold the giant hairy apes and ravenous dinosaurs at bay. As well as humongous spiders.
Precisely such a thing kept the savage Huns and Turks out of the Middle Kingdom, and the Picts out of Britain.
It's quite as effective as thoughts and prayers.
But if you really want to chase away foreigners, tell them about our food.
Nightmare muck in a crispy shell.
Cheese costs extra.
No chilies.
By the way: that white stuff on the right, nobody knows what that is.
There are a number of theories. None of them printable.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Whoever told you that King Kong was a touching love story between a human woman and an enormous beast may have been exaggerating.
[You smell remarkably like marijuana, and your pupils are a mile wide. Pitch black holes in your face. Please get off the bus somewhere in Sausalito. They'll love you, it's where you belong.
You epitomize a large part of Marin County.]
On the other hand, a giant wall along the border can indeed hold the giant hairy apes and ravenous dinosaurs at bay. As well as humongous spiders.
Precisely such a thing kept the savage Huns and Turks out of the Middle Kingdom, and the Picts out of Britain.
It's quite as effective as thoughts and prayers.
But if you really want to chase away foreigners, tell them about our food.
Cheese costs extra.
No chilies.
By the way: that white stuff on the right, nobody knows what that is.
There are a number of theories. None of them printable.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?
No one likes growing up. It means we have to act like responsible adults, for which we've had less practice than anything else. I am learning that all I can handle is one and a half drinks over a two or three hour period, because it really "augments" my blood pressure medication. Okay, two blocks from home, safe environment, good people, but still.
Rainy night. Two matched pipes. Dutch apples. Shape 419.
Samuel Gawith Saint James Flake.
Wetness.
According to a fellow half my age: "Hella dope".
Which, I think, is good.
As, finally, an adult, I realize that I am linguistically crippled. People say things around me which I cannot quite understand. Let's face it, the phrasing "hella dope" means absolutely nothing, it does not construe.
It means that he can see himself smoking a pipe while playing golf.
"Hella dope."
In the past I would have another shot of Scotch while finishing my last pipe in the teevee room late at night. Right around two thirty, three o'clock. That isn't in the cards anymore, as I am hesitant about the possible effect.
Scotch and Losartan are not the perfect combo.
Hella dope. Or whatever.
Dude.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Rainy night. Two matched pipes. Dutch apples. Shape 419.
Samuel Gawith Saint James Flake.
Wetness.
According to a fellow half my age: "Hella dope".
Which, I think, is good.
As, finally, an adult, I realize that I am linguistically crippled. People say things around me which I cannot quite understand. Let's face it, the phrasing "hella dope" means absolutely nothing, it does not construe.
It means that he can see himself smoking a pipe while playing golf.
"Hella dope."
In the past I would have another shot of Scotch while finishing my last pipe in the teevee room late at night. Right around two thirty, three o'clock. That isn't in the cards anymore, as I am hesitant about the possible effect.
Scotch and Losartan are not the perfect combo.
Hella dope. Or whatever.
Dude.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 12, 2019
NEAR WATER AND REEDS
Tomorrow afternoon ought to be interesting. A brief talk about Briggs Mixture, accompanied by wine and cheese. Plus chocolate, probably. In a warm dry brightly lit environment. Attended by forest creatures enjoying a companionable smoke. With, in another area, several rabid hell-hounds howling at a television screen while muscled shiny spandex men fight the war between good and evil, as represented by an oval shaped "ball".
That scene of barbarism will be far enough away that they should scarcely disturb us. With our wine and cheese. And chocolates. And hummus-pita-creamcheese-smoked salmon. We will feast.
All very civilized, I assure you.
BRIGGS MIXTURE -- WHEN A FELLER NEEDS A FRIEND
Lighter virginias with Burley, slight top-dressing.
Which might be Bourbon.
Briggs Mixture, like Edgeworth, dates from a kinder, gentler era. A time when having achieved the requisite two and a half children, cat, goldfish, and sleek station wagon parked in the driveway of his spacious modern suburban home, a gentleman would smoke a pipe. While reading the newspaper amid a scene of domestic harmony.
Both newspapers and domestic harmony are largely things of the past.
Although, in an imaginary world, they still exist. Next to the house where teenagers assiduously practice rock and roll in their dad's garage, and marijuana hasn't even been heard of yet.
Apparently the Sutliff duplicate of the venerable old product is quite decent.
Maybe tomorrow I can confirm that.
Many pipe smokers in the forties and fifties were accustomed to stodgy American mixtures and little else. Edgeworth, Briggs, Sir Walter Raleigh, Prince Albert, and Half & Half. Fluecured leaf, extended with air-cured, perhaps mildly spiced with fire-cured or Perique, only slightly topped.
Excepting Mixture 79, which smelled like a sailor on shore leave.
Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby, I have heard, smoked Mixture 79. Their music probably reflected that. Stodgy old codgers who go up river for trout fishing expeditions also smoke smoke it. I know two such creatures.
My Dad never mentioned Mixture 79. He may have tried it, but his preferred tobacco, as may be gathered from the faint whiff adhering to his pipes, was a blend of Virginias with a little Burley, a touch of Latakia, and a whisper of Perique. I do not know what he smoked when he was with in RCAF.
When I was growing up, he'd occasionally snake a hand across the dinner table for my tin of Balkan Sobranie and load a bowl.
I never tried 'American' mixtures till I got back to The States.
Drucquer's lighter blends. High quality. Long gone.
From my teens till middle age I liked Latakia.
Now I am mostly Virginias and Perique.
Anyhow, I am looking forward to Neil's talk about Briggs. Several months ago he was very informative at one of our meetings, about Comoys and Blue Ribands, and he himself tends toward particular blends and pipe shapes which are quite nice. The winemaker may still be in Beijing, an author will probably be in attendance, several other members are retired and don't do much, the collector of Rainer Barbi pipes will probably be there. Also someone who favours W.Ø. Larsen and the Danish pipe carvers.
Readers of books, and folks with interesting knowledge sets.
Basically, a meeting of badgers and river rats.
With good quality leaf.
No! 79!
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
That scene of barbarism will be far enough away that they should scarcely disturb us. With our wine and cheese. And chocolates. And hummus-pita-creamcheese-smoked salmon. We will feast.
All very civilized, I assure you.
BRIGGS MIXTURE -- WHEN A FELLER NEEDS A FRIEND
Lighter virginias with Burley, slight top-dressing.
Which might be Bourbon.
Briggs Mixture, like Edgeworth, dates from a kinder, gentler era. A time when having achieved the requisite two and a half children, cat, goldfish, and sleek station wagon parked in the driveway of his spacious modern suburban home, a gentleman would smoke a pipe. While reading the newspaper amid a scene of domestic harmony.
Both newspapers and domestic harmony are largely things of the past.
Although, in an imaginary world, they still exist. Next to the house where teenagers assiduously practice rock and roll in their dad's garage, and marijuana hasn't even been heard of yet.
Apparently the Sutliff duplicate of the venerable old product is quite decent.
Maybe tomorrow I can confirm that.
Many pipe smokers in the forties and fifties were accustomed to stodgy American mixtures and little else. Edgeworth, Briggs, Sir Walter Raleigh, Prince Albert, and Half & Half. Fluecured leaf, extended with air-cured, perhaps mildly spiced with fire-cured or Perique, only slightly topped.
Excepting Mixture 79, which smelled like a sailor on shore leave.
Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby, I have heard, smoked Mixture 79. Their music probably reflected that. Stodgy old codgers who go up river for trout fishing expeditions also smoke smoke it. I know two such creatures.
My Dad never mentioned Mixture 79. He may have tried it, but his preferred tobacco, as may be gathered from the faint whiff adhering to his pipes, was a blend of Virginias with a little Burley, a touch of Latakia, and a whisper of Perique. I do not know what he smoked when he was with in RCAF.
When I was growing up, he'd occasionally snake a hand across the dinner table for my tin of Balkan Sobranie and load a bowl.
I never tried 'American' mixtures till I got back to The States.
Drucquer's lighter blends. High quality. Long gone.
From my teens till middle age I liked Latakia.
Now I am mostly Virginias and Perique.
Anyhow, I am looking forward to Neil's talk about Briggs. Several months ago he was very informative at one of our meetings, about Comoys and Blue Ribands, and he himself tends toward particular blends and pipe shapes which are quite nice. The winemaker may still be in Beijing, an author will probably be in attendance, several other members are retired and don't do much, the collector of Rainer Barbi pipes will probably be there. Also someone who favours W.Ø. Larsen and the Danish pipe carvers.
Readers of books, and folks with interesting knowledge sets.
Basically, a meeting of badgers and river rats.
With good quality leaf.
No! 79!
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 11, 2019
OUTSIDE NORMAL PARAMETERS
The problem with the news these days is the same as the problem with the delinquents huffing cigars in the lounge behind me: too much angry dumb redneckism, and rightwing tantrums. Actually, there is no level of either of those things that is acceptable, it should all be squashed.
Yesterday I told Patrick that there were seven people back there, with five brains between them. So conversationally expect the worst.
He immediately guessed "three democrats and four republicans".
His math is impeccable. Not educated here.
For most of them, if they were to participate in the eighteenth annual 'no-pants Bart ride' this Sunday, it would be totally accidental.
There's a theory that our esteemed dumb-ass president is whacked out of his gourd on Adderall. Used in greater than therapeutic dosages, because as Ben Carson amply demonstrates, not every member of the medical branch is an honest doctor. Some of them are for sale.
At recreational levels of abuse, the side effects are consistent with Trump's behaviour (widely observed as well as anecdotally reported), trailer parks, and the methamphetamine junkies one runs into in North Beach.
Chemically-induced dysfunctionality.
The cigar smokers are prosperous gentlemen of Marin.
A region famous for cocaine and other drugs.
Draw your own conclusions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yesterday I told Patrick that there were seven people back there, with five brains between them. So conversationally expect the worst.
He immediately guessed "three democrats and four republicans".
His math is impeccable. Not educated here.
For most of them, if they were to participate in the eighteenth annual 'no-pants Bart ride' this Sunday, it would be totally accidental.
There's a theory that our esteemed dumb-ass president is whacked out of his gourd on Adderall. Used in greater than therapeutic dosages, because as Ben Carson amply demonstrates, not every member of the medical branch is an honest doctor. Some of them are for sale.
At recreational levels of abuse, the side effects are consistent with Trump's behaviour (widely observed as well as anecdotally reported), trailer parks, and the methamphetamine junkies one runs into in North Beach.
Chemically-induced dysfunctionality.
The cigar smokers are prosperous gentlemen of Marin.
A region famous for cocaine and other drugs.
Draw your own conclusions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 10, 2019
SHEEP TO COUNT
Sometimes, after a busy day at the salt mines, ideas of a decent nutritious dinner go right out the window. Thick-cut potato chips, a few chunks of chocolate, and a cup of coffee.
Then to nap. Which requires kicking off my shoes.
I may get up in a few hours for the last smoke of the day.
Or I could go right back to sleep.
It's cold out there.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Then to nap. Which requires kicking off my shoes.
I may get up in a few hours for the last smoke of the day.
Or I could go right back to sleep.
It's cold out there.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
KEEP YOUR PANTS ON!
A friend forwards the details for the 18th Annual "No Pants" BART Ride. In fond hopes that I will alert a mutual acquaintance ('Little White Nipple Guy') and report back what his input on the matter might be.
No.
The instructions are too precise for our friend 'Little White Nipple Guy'. He is by nature a rebel. A dreary unimaginative rebel. But a rebel.
Cite:
"Sit in the car as you normally would. Read a magazine or whatever you would normally do. Your team leader will have already divided you into smaller groups, assigning your group a specific stop."
"Remember, if anyone asks you why you’ve removed your pants, tell them that they were “getting uncomfortable” (or something along those lines)."
"Exit the train at your assigned stop and stand on the platform, pants-less. You will wait on the platform for the specified train to arrive."
"When you enter, act as you normally would. You do not know any of the other pants-less riders. If questioned, tell folks that you “forgot to wear pants” and yes you are “a little cold.” Insist that it is a coincidence that others also forgot their pants. Be nice and friendly and normal."
"Remember: Taking photos is not keeping a straight face. Enjoy the experience and resist the urge to document. Take those Instagram shots when the ride is over. There will be plenty of people who aren’t pants-less who will be taking pictures."
End cite.
[SOURCE: 18th Annual “No Pants” BART Ride Day | 2019 .]
Furthermore, Little White Nipple Guy has imperfect filters. His rich but dreary imaginary life and his neuroses are in permanent conflict.
And he is imperfectly socialized. No finesse whatsoever.
Were he to participate, he'd likely go 'rogue'.
Nobody wants that. Trust me, NO! body.
I'm worried about the children.
And innocent old folks.
I'll brief him about it after the fact.
That will be bad enough.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No.
The instructions are too precise for our friend 'Little White Nipple Guy'. He is by nature a rebel. A dreary unimaginative rebel. But a rebel.
Cite:
"Sit in the car as you normally would. Read a magazine or whatever you would normally do. Your team leader will have already divided you into smaller groups, assigning your group a specific stop."
"Remember, if anyone asks you why you’ve removed your pants, tell them that they were “getting uncomfortable” (or something along those lines)."
"Exit the train at your assigned stop and stand on the platform, pants-less. You will wait on the platform for the specified train to arrive."
"When you enter, act as you normally would. You do not know any of the other pants-less riders. If questioned, tell folks that you “forgot to wear pants” and yes you are “a little cold.” Insist that it is a coincidence that others also forgot their pants. Be nice and friendly and normal."
"Remember: Taking photos is not keeping a straight face. Enjoy the experience and resist the urge to document. Take those Instagram shots when the ride is over. There will be plenty of people who aren’t pants-less who will be taking pictures."
End cite.
[SOURCE: 18th Annual “No Pants” BART Ride Day | 2019 .]
Furthermore, Little White Nipple Guy has imperfect filters. His rich but dreary imaginary life and his neuroses are in permanent conflict.
And he is imperfectly socialized. No finesse whatsoever.
Were he to participate, he'd likely go 'rogue'.
Nobody wants that. Trust me, NO! body.
I'm worried about the children.
And innocent old folks.
I'll brief him about it after the fact.
That will be bad enough.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 09, 2019
PLEASE DON'T SING!
The way I figure it, Ming-Chai has multiple screws loose. He kept replaying something hip-hoppily insufferable, then changing the song on the karaoke machine within seconds of choosing it, and after about fifty skipped tunes, settling on a Cantopop number for several repeats.
Unlike the "Most Dangerous Man in Chinatown", who wasn't there, Ming-Chai is NOT a pothead. He's quite insufferable, though.
Two years ago he talked down to me in English. When everyone else was quite comfortable with my Cantonese. It took him several months (probably over a year) to figure out that his being a dunderhead in either language was A) quite utterly obvious, and B) not called for. Under any circumstance.
He's still extraordinarily stupid, but less talkative now.
Maybe his mom told him to shut up.
His taste in Cantopop is jejune.
Jennie gu-ma is a very tolerant woman. She deserves kudos for being such a talented baby-sitter. Especially when Portnoy Uncle comes by, or his equally crotchety kin-folk.
He wasn't there last night. Which is a jolly good thing, because Johnny's idiot younger brother was, and he tends to egg on or encourage Portnoy Uncle, which raises the insanity level by several notches.
There were several people in attendance who are splendid chaps, as well as a woman who with great social talent puts up with the madness.
The music was, as you would expect, awful.
Karaoke places often have bad singing.
Rainy nights are no different.
Except, thank the lord, no Marketing Departments, no drunken young white people, no Abba, Michael Jackson, or Elton John. I hate The Eagles, man. I've had a long day, and I hate The Eagles.
情影 was originally a Hokkien song. The tune is nicer than the lyrics.
The videos are always unimpressive.
It was a good night,
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Unlike the "Most Dangerous Man in Chinatown", who wasn't there, Ming-Chai is NOT a pothead. He's quite insufferable, though.
Two years ago he talked down to me in English. When everyone else was quite comfortable with my Cantonese. It took him several months (probably over a year) to figure out that his being a dunderhead in either language was A) quite utterly obvious, and B) not called for. Under any circumstance.
He's still extraordinarily stupid, but less talkative now.
Maybe his mom told him to shut up.
His taste in Cantopop is jejune.
Jennie gu-ma is a very tolerant woman. She deserves kudos for being such a talented baby-sitter. Especially when Portnoy Uncle comes by, or his equally crotchety kin-folk.
He wasn't there last night. Which is a jolly good thing, because Johnny's idiot younger brother was, and he tends to egg on or encourage Portnoy Uncle, which raises the insanity level by several notches.
There were several people in attendance who are splendid chaps, as well as a woman who with great social talent puts up with the madness.
The music was, as you would expect, awful.
Karaoke places often have bad singing.
Rainy nights are no different.
Except, thank the lord, no Marketing Departments, no drunken young white people, no Abba, Michael Jackson, or Elton John. I hate The Eagles, man. I've had a long day, and I hate The Eagles.
情影 was originally a Hokkien song. The tune is nicer than the lyrics.
The videos are always unimpressive.
It was a good night,
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 08, 2019
BIG ORANGE HISSY
Sometime this evening our president will be on television, which I have no intention of watching. What with reality television shows like the various Real Housewives, red neck swamp rats, and true crime re-enactments, as well as commercial sports, there is enough garbage being broadcast.
There is no need for anything else.
The four faces I want to throw Budweiser and Coors cans at when they are on the telly are: Trump, McConnell, Graham, Ryan, and Kavanaugh.
Make that six: add Louis Gomert to the mix.
If those people showed up for a public rally in the city, I would bring a couple of crates. Plenty of willing arms here.
I shall, obviously, be taking a long nap instead. It's better for mental health.
I fully expect 34% of the country (the alleged Trump base) to be reaching into their greasy long johns while avidly watching, however. Fox News will again briefly be the orgasm channel.
Ivanka, Melania, Pence, Giuliani, and Conway.
Oozing approval in the background.
For them, a shining moment.
Sharks in a sewer.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There is no need for anything else.
The four faces I want to throw Budweiser and Coors cans at when they are on the telly are: Trump, McConnell, Graham, Ryan, and Kavanaugh.
Make that six: add Louis Gomert to the mix.
If those people showed up for a public rally in the city, I would bring a couple of crates. Plenty of willing arms here.
I shall, obviously, be taking a long nap instead. It's better for mental health.
I fully expect 34% of the country (the alleged Trump base) to be reaching into their greasy long johns while avidly watching, however. Fox News will again briefly be the orgasm channel.
Ivanka, Melania, Pence, Giuliani, and Conway.
Oozing approval in the background.
For them, a shining moment.
Sharks in a sewer.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DON'T DROWN IN THE CHUM BUCKET
When unfriending, who gets cut? A friend on Facebook got axed recently because while he is a superb craftsman who makes beautiful things, his sly weasel sneering at Democratic politicians -- while seemingly being ignorant of their actual policies and points of view, and himself quite incapable of any nuance in that regard -- would, over time, lead me to dislike him as well as his ideas. We share dozens of friends within a narrow community.
But I do not need him anywhere near my life.
Besides, typically passive-aggressive, he silently yanked several of his more outrageous posts, when it became evident that many of his caveman-like correspondents in the Great American Bush lacked finesse.
Lovely wooden objects. Rather flawed human.
He won't notice. I didn't make a big deal of it. No flame war, no reasoned statement of principles objecting to his weltanschaaung, no appeal to his better nature, no shitty review of his products or services, just a click.
While it may take all kinds blah blah blah, as individuals we don't need all kinds. And during my outside life I am tolerant enough.
We're all in this boat together, so to speak, but I have no problem with some of my fellow sailors washing overboard.
It's a feeding frenzy.
CHUM
Noun: animal matter or fish scraps dumped in the water to attract sharks.
Intransitive verb: to throw chum overboard to attract prey when fishing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But I do not need him anywhere near my life.
Besides, typically passive-aggressive, he silently yanked several of his more outrageous posts, when it became evident that many of his caveman-like correspondents in the Great American Bush lacked finesse.
Lovely wooden objects. Rather flawed human.
He won't notice. I didn't make a big deal of it. No flame war, no reasoned statement of principles objecting to his weltanschaaung, no appeal to his better nature, no shitty review of his products or services, just a click.
While it may take all kinds blah blah blah, as individuals we don't need all kinds. And during my outside life I am tolerant enough.
We're all in this boat together, so to speak, but I have no problem with some of my fellow sailors washing overboard.
It's a feeding frenzy.
CHUM
Noun: animal matter or fish scraps dumped in the water to attract sharks.
Intransitive verb: to throw chum overboard to attract prey when fishing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ENOUGH OF THEM!
What upset me, I guess, was that she acted precisely like a bourgeois frat boy. Hypothetically, Brett Kavanaugh boofing in the Triangle with Squid and other buddies, then heading back home drunk and kicking over every single garbage can he could find. Such fun! Very Berkeley.
I do not mind such people pissing in their own backyard, but more usually than not, they do it on someone else's turf.
One of the reasons I never go to the East-Bay anymore is that I would probably end up fire-bombing the place.
Easily triggered, all-green, veggie-pot yoga totem animal anti-everything, latte-swilling trust-fund old souls, whose only grasp of history is what they got from Lord of the Rings. One of the most over-rated books of all time.
I will go across the Bay to Berkeley one of these days and piss or puke all over something meaningful.
Then demand gluten-free fair-trade pizza.
With a potato-starch plastic spork.
Which goes in the green bin.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I do not mind such people pissing in their own backyard, but more usually than not, they do it on someone else's turf.
One of the reasons I never go to the East-Bay anymore is that I would probably end up fire-bombing the place.
Easily triggered, all-green, veggie-pot yoga totem animal anti-everything, latte-swilling trust-fund old souls, whose only grasp of history is what they got from Lord of the Rings. One of the most over-rated books of all time.
I will go across the Bay to Berkeley one of these days and piss or puke all over something meaningful.
Then demand gluten-free fair-trade pizza.
With a potato-starch plastic spork.
Which goes in the green bin.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 07, 2019
LEAN GREEN LOVE-MACHINE
Mister Froad, who had been Miss Purr's beau, a few years ago started a dalliance with Louise the Cow, which went nowhere, but convinced the poor beast that he was a "Player". Since then the amphibian has been without a relationship. And, because he flipped when the monkey teased him about his gas problem, he's not been quite sane.
Currently he is fixated on the she-sheep. Who is in a very warm relationship with the giant black spider with two large and lovely blue eyes, Pierpont.
A very decent fellow who looks, to the crazed amphibian, very crab-like.
"If I eat her boyfriend, I can be her boyfriend!"
It is a novel idea, though I am sure some of our early hominid ancestors thought the same way. Not, however, an idea which can realistically float among civilized society, and all the other roomies have promised to whack him if he even comes close to our beloved arachnid house-mate.
So there is high drama at present. Fuzzy high drama.
Coupled with passionate hunger.
And angry sounds.
All of this mostly issuing from my apartment mate's room where she has retired for the night, though occasionally I utter squawks of outrage too.
Mister Froad has offered to share, hoping that this will bring us all around to his way of thinking.
It will not work. Decent people do not use mayonnaise on friends.
Or savoury garlic and black bean sauce.
I do not wish to hear anymore.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Currently he is fixated on the she-sheep. Who is in a very warm relationship with the giant black spider with two large and lovely blue eyes, Pierpont.
A very decent fellow who looks, to the crazed amphibian, very crab-like.
"If I eat her boyfriend, I can be her boyfriend!"
It is a novel idea, though I am sure some of our early hominid ancestors thought the same way. Not, however, an idea which can realistically float among civilized society, and all the other roomies have promised to whack him if he even comes close to our beloved arachnid house-mate.
So there is high drama at present. Fuzzy high drama.
Coupled with passionate hunger.
And angry sounds.
All of this mostly issuing from my apartment mate's room where she has retired for the night, though occasionally I utter squawks of outrage too.
Mister Froad has offered to share, hoping that this will bring us all around to his way of thinking.
It will not work. Decent people do not use mayonnaise on friends.
Or savoury garlic and black bean sauce.
I do not wish to hear anymore.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ALLEDGEDLY DEVELOPED BY A LADY
Over the weekend I smoked three bowls of something I felt sure would send my co-worker who hates aromatic pipe tobaccos into an operatic fit. For instance, when I smoked a bowl of Molto Dolce one Sunday afternoon with the doors open, he wailed, heartrendingly, "why are you DOING this to me?!?", and Peterson's Founder's Choice (cube cut Virginia and Burley with black cavendish, mango, rum, and cheap vanilla) had him calling me a ruddy degenerate from the far end of the business, near the Oliva cigars. Also with the doors to the outside world wide open.
Nothing. I thought his honker was off. Upper respiratory tract possibly affected by the various viruses going around. But no.
He figured just 'why bother?'
I feel cheated.
Used.
SAMUEL GAWITH'S FIREDANCE FLAKE
Best Brown Flake, whanged with blackberry, brandy and vanilla.
The blackberry is dominant, the brandy and vanilla allegedly round out the edges and give balance.
If you dilute this with other tobaccos, the results are increasingly bizarre the more you experiment. But on it's own, the fruity funk fades a quarter of the way down, and the result is a pleasant enough smoke, though more trollop-like than your usual Virginias. Infinitely better than Celtic-buggery-Talisman, from the same estimable company.
I was planning to give the rest of the tin to the pipe-club, now I think I'll keep it and just be a pervert.
The next meeting is coming up, the members will have to find something sickening else to smoke.
Sam Gawith and co. blame a woman for this.
Cowards.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Nothing. I thought his honker was off. Upper respiratory tract possibly affected by the various viruses going around. But no.
He figured just 'why bother?'
I feel cheated.
Used.
SAMUEL GAWITH'S FIREDANCE FLAKE
Best Brown Flake, whanged with blackberry, brandy and vanilla.
The blackberry is dominant, the brandy and vanilla allegedly round out the edges and give balance.
If you dilute this with other tobaccos, the results are increasingly bizarre the more you experiment. But on it's own, the fruity funk fades a quarter of the way down, and the result is a pleasant enough smoke, though more trollop-like than your usual Virginias. Infinitely better than Celtic-buggery-Talisman, from the same estimable company.
I was planning to give the rest of the tin to the pipe-club, now I think I'll keep it and just be a pervert.
The next meeting is coming up, the members will have to find something sickening else to smoke.
Sam Gawith and co. blame a woman for this.
Cowards.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 06, 2019
THOUGHTS ON NOT GETTING PREGNANT
This is the fourth complete day that I'm on the medications for high blood pressure, the warning labels on which advised me to avoid getting pregnant or nursing an infant while taking them.
And yes, I do feel a lot better now, but I remain disappointed about the nursing or pregnancy bit. I suspect that that is just a passing phase.
Although if I were a woman it might be more of an issue.
I have, like probably most men, thought about what would happen if I did get someone pregnant, and resultingly had an offspring. But I've always put those thoughts and the world they conjure up aside, as not practical unless I could support the little rugrat of whichever gender through college, and be around to give it a nice Mont Blanc fountain pen upon graduation.
Question of responsibility, you know.
Plus the female person who would carry the new life for nine months would also have to be totally okay with it, and I've always looked askance at women who are over-eager to jump into that adventure.
Of whom I have not met very many in any case, and the women with whom I have been involved were sensibly hesitant about the concept.
Because, basically, the entire thing is a crap-shoot.
That kind of commitment is immense.
And requires insanity.
Or causes it.
But I would make a great parent. Instructive.
"Don't pet that rattlesnake, Rosinda, and no we will NOT have a flamethrower party! Ever!"
See? Common sense. An even-keeled and stable temperament.
Precisely what little Rosinda needs while growing up.
Plus lots of books, and imaginative toys.
And good advice about behaviour.
"Coffee and tobacco will stunt your growth, young lady, and it would be wise to abstain until you are an adult. Just look at these photos of your grandmama and great grandmama! Such short women! Neither one an inch over four foot ten! Coffee and tobacco! At far too young an age!
Heavy users in grammar school!"
Okay, so in reality my mother and grandmother didn't start indulging in tobacco till their mid-twenties -- my grandmama probably not even until her thirties -- and neither woman ever developed a heavy coffee habit. But Rosinda need not be made aware of that till she's an adult, as both of them have passed on. And I am not a tall man (only five foot eight and a half), so I'll blame that on caffeine and nicotine too.
But I remain adamant about not petting rattlesnakes and not having flamethrower parties. No crotalids, no incendiaries.
"Auntie Savage Kitten avoided coffee till she was in college, and never smoked. That's why she's five foot four and a half. Statuesque!"
Shan't mention her ideas about flamethrowers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And yes, I do feel a lot better now, but I remain disappointed about the nursing or pregnancy bit. I suspect that that is just a passing phase.
Although if I were a woman it might be more of an issue.
I have, like probably most men, thought about what would happen if I did get someone pregnant, and resultingly had an offspring. But I've always put those thoughts and the world they conjure up aside, as not practical unless I could support the little rugrat of whichever gender through college, and be around to give it a nice Mont Blanc fountain pen upon graduation.
Question of responsibility, you know.
Plus the female person who would carry the new life for nine months would also have to be totally okay with it, and I've always looked askance at women who are over-eager to jump into that adventure.
Of whom I have not met very many in any case, and the women with whom I have been involved were sensibly hesitant about the concept.
Because, basically, the entire thing is a crap-shoot.
That kind of commitment is immense.
And requires insanity.
Or causes it.
But I would make a great parent. Instructive.
"Don't pet that rattlesnake, Rosinda, and no we will NOT have a flamethrower party! Ever!"
See? Common sense. An even-keeled and stable temperament.
Precisely what little Rosinda needs while growing up.
Plus lots of books, and imaginative toys.
And good advice about behaviour.
"Coffee and tobacco will stunt your growth, young lady, and it would be wise to abstain until you are an adult. Just look at these photos of your grandmama and great grandmama! Such short women! Neither one an inch over four foot ten! Coffee and tobacco! At far too young an age!
Heavy users in grammar school!"
Okay, so in reality my mother and grandmother didn't start indulging in tobacco till their mid-twenties -- my grandmama probably not even until her thirties -- and neither woman ever developed a heavy coffee habit. But Rosinda need not be made aware of that till she's an adult, as both of them have passed on. And I am not a tall man (only five foot eight and a half), so I'll blame that on caffeine and nicotine too.
But I remain adamant about not petting rattlesnakes and not having flamethrower parties. No crotalids, no incendiaries.
"Auntie Savage Kitten avoided coffee till she was in college, and never smoked. That's why she's five foot four and a half. Statuesque!"
Shan't mention her ideas about flamethrowers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 04, 2019
PRIMORDIAL OOZE
A custom for beginning the year is one which I encourage in general, but shan't participate in myself: making hate lists of people whose opinions one cannot stand and whose lives one wishes would end. In general, such a list would include the entire leadership of the United States Republican Party (especially those elected to office), Alex Jones, Alan Dershowitz, Caroline Glick, the Huckabees, and Rudy Giuliani, writers for Breitbart, and Fox News reporters, staff, and Fox whores. But I don't have the energy.
Other than wishing them all a cancer on their colons, meh.
I am far too Christian to compose such a thing.
The list of candidates is endless.
Besides, among the people I see regularly there are several who are politically and morally repulsive with whom I get along fairly well.
And yes, I wish a cancer on their colons too.
I am the veritable sweetness and the light.
I am not sure Sarah Huckabee Sanders has a colon, though.
Like the staff at a popular Washington area restaurant, I fear that something would ooze out through her ears if she ate anything. A lack of storage. Something has to give. Just go and be sticky elsewhere.
Evenso, there is a poetry to the universe.
The man she worships is all colon.
I am the sweetness and the light, bitches.
Nothing but positive thoughts.
A true Christian.
By the way: why is it that so many Southern versions of religious faith include flat-earthism and a belief in lizard aliens?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Other than wishing them all a cancer on their colons, meh.
I am far too Christian to compose such a thing.
The list of candidates is endless.
Besides, among the people I see regularly there are several who are politically and morally repulsive with whom I get along fairly well.
And yes, I wish a cancer on their colons too.
I am the veritable sweetness and the light.
I am not sure Sarah Huckabee Sanders has a colon, though.
Like the staff at a popular Washington area restaurant, I fear that something would ooze out through her ears if she ate anything. A lack of storage. Something has to give. Just go and be sticky elsewhere.
Evenso, there is a poetry to the universe.
The man she worships is all colon.
I am the sweetness and the light, bitches.
Nothing but positive thoughts.
A true Christian.
By the way: why is it that so many Southern versions of religious faith include flat-earthism and a belief in lizard aliens?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 03, 2019
GOING ALL SOFT
Well, another year has come and gone.
So, things to be grateful for:
A friend with whom I used to work at a bookstore. We still go out for drinkies every week. I have become more boring over the years, he still tolerates my grumbling inanities.
My apartment mate, whom I have know since she was in college. She has had to put up with a lot of queer shiznit over the last year, before my medical coverage came into effect, and she's still kind to me.
A good friend over in the East Bay who recently offered me a blood pressure measuring device.
A Parsee with a brain and two grandkids
And, just to piss off anti-smokers who may read this: Several Dunhill pipe tobacco mixtures which I have stockpiled, Greg Pease tobacco blends ditto, Rattrays also ditto, plus Penzance and Royal Jersey Latakia, tonnes of Sam Gawith, and enough McClelland to last for quite a while. The Syrian Three Oaks in particular is a fabulous rich smoky blend, just sheerly wonderful.
In fact, I remember once offering a puff to a young lady, momentarily convinced that she, too, would appreciate it as much as I did.
She kneed me in the groin after the first taste.
Dinner had been truly wonderful.
The kitchen floor was less so.
And I, it seems, not at all.
I was a monumental meanie.
She never has told my uncle and aunt what a right rotten scoundrel I was. She's asleep in her room right now, what with being fluish, and I have wished her a speedy recovery.
I am also pleased that typical Dutch stroop wafels are much more common in California than they once were.
It's a blessing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So, things to be grateful for:
A friend with whom I used to work at a bookstore. We still go out for drinkies every week. I have become more boring over the years, he still tolerates my grumbling inanities.
My apartment mate, whom I have know since she was in college. She has had to put up with a lot of queer shiznit over the last year, before my medical coverage came into effect, and she's still kind to me.
A good friend over in the East Bay who recently offered me a blood pressure measuring device.
A Parsee with a brain and two grandkids
And, just to piss off anti-smokers who may read this: Several Dunhill pipe tobacco mixtures which I have stockpiled, Greg Pease tobacco blends ditto, Rattrays also ditto, plus Penzance and Royal Jersey Latakia, tonnes of Sam Gawith, and enough McClelland to last for quite a while. The Syrian Three Oaks in particular is a fabulous rich smoky blend, just sheerly wonderful.
In fact, I remember once offering a puff to a young lady, momentarily convinced that she, too, would appreciate it as much as I did.
She kneed me in the groin after the first taste.
Dinner had been truly wonderful.
The kitchen floor was less so.
And I, it seems, not at all.
I was a monumental meanie.
She never has told my uncle and aunt what a right rotten scoundrel I was. She's asleep in her room right now, what with being fluish, and I have wished her a speedy recovery.
I am also pleased that typical Dutch stroop wafels are much more common in California than they once were.
It's a blessing.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FIRST TRIP TO THE DOCTOR IN SEVERAL YEARS
Losartan hctz comes with a warning not to take it if I become pregnant; the other prescription say that I must avoid taking it while breastfeeding OR becoming pregnant. I think I see a theme here.
They could've left off the warnings. Given my age and gender, we're not talking about any great likelihood.
And the stern lecture about the evils of smoking were kind of pointless; I already know it's dangerous, the damage has already been done, and I grew up in a town that used to have dozens of cigar factories.
And, as we know from television in the 1950s, more doctors smoke Camels than any other cigarette.
Probably out in the parking lot and when they think the receptionist isn't watching.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They could've left off the warnings. Given my age and gender, we're not talking about any great likelihood.
And the stern lecture about the evils of smoking were kind of pointless; I already know it's dangerous, the damage has already been done, and I grew up in a town that used to have dozens of cigar factories.
And, as we know from television in the 1950s, more doctors smoke Camels than any other cigarette.
Probably out in the parking lot and when they think the receptionist isn't watching.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
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,...
