It used to be when I went to check the Covid numbers from Johns Hopkins that finding the United States was easy; always at the top because of the 28-day figure. Not any longer.
Korea is way ahead of us. Followed by Vietnam, Germany, Russia, France, the United Kingdom, Japan, the Netherlands, Italy, and Brazil.
Let me restate that differently: we are behind Holland, which has population less than one twentieth of our size. They're more or less twenty five percent higher than us.
I don't know whether to call that a stellar achievement for the US or Holland.
In both infections and deaths, we are of course still way ahead of everyone else: 79,803,443 confirmed cases in the US and 973,213 deaths.
"Time out for many men of medicine usually means just long enough to enjoy a cigarette."
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 22, 2022
HWAET! FRENZIED DOGS!
When I was still very young, my mother thought it would be a grand idea if I were to read things such as the Anglo Saxon Chronicle, Beowulf, and the Icelandic Sagas in their original form. Surely, she thought, a youngster who can converse fluently in Dutch and make himself understood to Germans has the linguistic dexterity to bend his tongue and mind around the immortal classics?
Well, okay. Beowulf wasn't too bad.
Sir Gawain And The Green Knight? Piece of cake, along with some of Chaucer. We had dictionaries from her college years, I could look up what the heck it was all about in some of her textbooks, and Dutch and German are vaguely reminiscent of something that might be distantly related to how pre-mediaeval illiterate Dutch peasants might have grunted.
Actually, for those two years I had very strange dreams and slept badly.
It might have been traumatizing, I don't know.
Remarkably, I never had the urge to play Dungeons and Dragons after I returned to the United States.
There are monsters in the old stuff. Scaly things and beasts that growl.
I was eighteen when I arrived on these shores, and I had left my trusty magic blade with the glowing runes back in the Netherlands. As I understand it, D&D requires fluency in several old languages including Gothic and an ability to cast spells in Church-Latin.
My ability to hack my way through Latin is atrociously poor.
Every. Single. Icelandic. Saga. In a nutshell:
Thorkill "rabid rodents", father of Thurgi Stank-Arse, the son of Hack-spit the Rapist, who is the son of Gargle the Butt-ugly, the son of Greatwart Half-ape, son of Barfsack the Buggerer, whose half-sister was known all the way to Asgard as the most vicious she-thing in the north, famous as herder of pigs and elderly virgin, takes his club, says "Honey, I might be late for dinner, see to it that the fish don't stink too much", then goes to the other end of the island to his neighbour's hut and bashes his brains out. For which some people chastised him.
[Hwaet! Þorkill "freyðandi-nagdýr", faðir Þurga stinkur-rass, sonur Hakks-spýtti nauðgaranum, sem er sonur Gorgla asna ljóta, sonar Stóra vörtu hálfapa, sonar sonur ælu sekks þrjótsins, en hálfsystir hans var þekkt. Alla leið til Ásgarðs þar sem illvígasta kvendýr norðursins, fræg sem svínahirðir og öldruð meyja, tekur kylfuna sína, segir „Elskan, ég gæti verið of sein í matinn, passaðu að fiskurinn finni ekki, svo illa“, fer á hinn endann á eyjunni í kofa nágranna síns og slær út heilann. Fyrir sem sumir refsuðu honum.]
Unsurprisingly, I have always had a fondness for dried fish.
A nagdyr is literally "gnawing animal". Ljota: ugly. Ælu: vomit. Sekks þrjótsins: sack of the rapscallion. Svinahirðir is "swine herder". Passaðu að fiskurinn: beware of fish. Fer á hinn endann á eyjunni: fares to the hinter (other) end of the eyjun (island).
Og slær út heilann: and slaps out (his) brains.
It's a beautiful language.
It took me decades to realize that my mother projected her own fascination with weird Northern European shiznit onto me, and was more than a little bit on the spectrum.
Thanks to my mother and her fascination with horrible medical matters, I knew all about rabies ("lyssavirus"; "hondsdolheid"; "hundaæði") by the time I was eight. She was convinced that it was endemic in the Netherlands, which might have explained some of the natives. More than 95% of human deaths from rabies occur in primitive parts of the world.
Personally, I think it explains Old Norse behaviours.
As illuminated in their sagas.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sir Gawain And The Green Knight? Piece of cake, along with some of Chaucer. We had dictionaries from her college years, I could look up what the heck it was all about in some of her textbooks, and Dutch and German are vaguely reminiscent of something that might be distantly related to how pre-mediaeval illiterate Dutch peasants might have grunted.
Actually, for those two years I had very strange dreams and slept badly.
It might have been traumatizing, I don't know.
Remarkably, I never had the urge to play Dungeons and Dragons after I returned to the United States.
There are monsters in the old stuff. Scaly things and beasts that growl.
I was eighteen when I arrived on these shores, and I had left my trusty magic blade with the glowing runes back in the Netherlands. As I understand it, D&D requires fluency in several old languages including Gothic and an ability to cast spells in Church-Latin.
My ability to hack my way through Latin is atrociously poor.
Every. Single. Icelandic. Saga. In a nutshell:
Thorkill "rabid rodents", father of Thurgi Stank-Arse, the son of Hack-spit the Rapist, who is the son of Gargle the Butt-ugly, the son of Greatwart Half-ape, son of Barfsack the Buggerer, whose half-sister was known all the way to Asgard as the most vicious she-thing in the north, famous as herder of pigs and elderly virgin, takes his club, says "Honey, I might be late for dinner, see to it that the fish don't stink too much", then goes to the other end of the island to his neighbour's hut and bashes his brains out. For which some people chastised him.
[Hwaet! Þorkill "freyðandi-nagdýr", faðir Þurga stinkur-rass, sonur Hakks-spýtti nauðgaranum, sem er sonur Gorgla asna ljóta, sonar Stóra vörtu hálfapa, sonar sonur ælu sekks þrjótsins, en hálfsystir hans var þekkt. Alla leið til Ásgarðs þar sem illvígasta kvendýr norðursins, fræg sem svínahirðir og öldruð meyja, tekur kylfuna sína, segir „Elskan, ég gæti verið of sein í matinn, passaðu að fiskurinn finni ekki, svo illa“, fer á hinn endann á eyjunni í kofa nágranna síns og slær út heilann. Fyrir sem sumir refsuðu honum.]
Unsurprisingly, I have always had a fondness for dried fish.
A nagdyr is literally "gnawing animal". Ljota: ugly. Ælu: vomit. Sekks þrjótsins: sack of the rapscallion. Svinahirðir is "swine herder". Passaðu að fiskurinn: beware of fish. Fer á hinn endann á eyjunni: fares to the hinter (other) end of the eyjun (island).
Og slær út heilann: and slaps out (his) brains.
It's a beautiful language.
It took me decades to realize that my mother projected her own fascination with weird Northern European shiznit onto me, and was more than a little bit on the spectrum.
Thanks to my mother and her fascination with horrible medical matters, I knew all about rabies ("lyssavirus"; "hondsdolheid"; "hundaæði") by the time I was eight. She was convinced that it was endemic in the Netherlands, which might have explained some of the natives. More than 95% of human deaths from rabies occur in primitive parts of the world.
Personally, I think it explains Old Norse behaviours.
As illuminated in their sagas.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SHANGHAI WING WAH SZECHUAN RESTAURANT
A restaurant in Hong Kong for which I have immense fondness is experiencing extremely hard times due to Covid. The Shanghai Wingwah Szechuan Restaurant (上海榮華川菜館) in Kwun Tong, founded in 1975, may be forced to close permanently. But perhaps they can survive in a limited form by catering and doing food-to-go until better times.
Good food. Good people.
Our world is shrinking, and I don't like this one bit.
Possibly things will improve soon.
All I can do is hope.
Hong Kong will be a sadder place.
上海榮華川菜館
The Shanghai Wing Wah Szechuan Restaurant
Ground Floor, 15 Shung Yan Street, Kwun Tong.
[觀塘, 崇仁街 15號, 地下]
They were on all the delivery aps and sites.
And very much worth supporting.
Corner of Fu Yan Street (輔仁街) and Shung Yan Street (崇仁街 ), were Fu Yan Street turns west, on the ground floor of a multiple storey old-style apartment building. Not far from Yue Man Square (裕民坊) and the old Silver City Movie Theatre (銀都戲院).
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Good food. Good people.
Our world is shrinking, and I don't like this one bit.
Possibly things will improve soon.
All I can do is hope.
Hong Kong will be a sadder place.
上海榮華川菜館
The Shanghai Wing Wah Szechuan Restaurant
Ground Floor, 15 Shung Yan Street, Kwun Tong.
[觀塘, 崇仁街 15號, 地下]
[FACEBOOK COVER PHOTO]
They were on all the delivery aps and sites.
And very much worth supporting.
Corner of Fu Yan Street (輔仁街) and Shung Yan Street (崇仁街 ), were Fu Yan Street turns west, on the ground floor of a multiple storey old-style apartment building. Not far from Yue Man Square (裕民坊) and the old Silver City Movie Theatre (銀都戲院).
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
USEFUL JUICE
There's a meme you probably seen where someone, trying to pronounce 'Worcestershire sauce, sounds like he's just had a sudden stroke to the other person. And in much of the English-speaking world, if they use that product, they probably call it 'wustasoz'.
Because English is seldom pronounced exactly as it looks.
As any Dutchman will tell you.
Fortunately, here close to a community that doesn't go for the confusion of English when it's too problematic, one can say 喼汁 ('kip chap'; "convenience juice", or, for keenly filthy minded individuals, "arse sweat"). As in 喼汁畀我，唔該。'Kip chap pei ngo, m-koi'. "Please give me the Wurtsersorisistercarpsastangkertopsirgarberder sauce". Much simpler, fewer (no) hissing or gagging sounds. Great as an addition to marinades or liquids added after sautéeing.
喼 does NOT mean Worcestershire. That's 伍斯特郡 ('ng si tak gwan'; "five thus special county"). And not a subject of conversation, so saying it might mean ellucidating it, and writing down the characters for your baffled listener, who would never associate it with cooking because it's English and goofy. 喼 ('kip') is a Canto character used phonetically. Quickly, cap, valise, etcetera. A mouth (口 'hau') on the left hand side, an easily written phonetic element (急 'gap') on the right.
急 ('gap') means quickly, urgently, in a rush, or convenience. By itself, it is found in the dictionary under (心 / 忄) plus five strokes.
喼汁 is found in many Hong Kong kitchens.
Because it is useful.
免治 ('min chi') MACANESE HASH
Lightly brown minced onion. Add some ginger and garlic. When fragrant add spices and curry paste, dump in a pound of ground meat. When the meat is cooked add dashes of soy sauce, fish sauce, and Worcestershire, plus a pinch of sugar, mix and remove from heat. Brown a small amount of cubed potato well, add the meat sauce. If necessary a jigger of sherry or rice wine. Garnish with chives or cilantro, serve alongside rice and fried eggs.
Make sure there is hot sauce or sambal on the table.
This or variations of it are also good added to chopped cooked vegetables of various kinds. In the month after I got out of the hospital (an urgent appendectomy) I made a large (humongous) batch of it with lots of coconut milk and chili paste.
It was convenient.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Because English is seldom pronounced exactly as it looks.
As any Dutchman will tell you.
Fortunately, here close to a community that doesn't go for the confusion of English when it's too problematic, one can say 喼汁 ('kip chap'; "convenience juice", or, for keenly filthy minded individuals, "arse sweat"). As in 喼汁畀我，唔該。'Kip chap pei ngo, m-koi'. "Please give me the Wurtsersorisistercarpsastangkertopsirgarberder sauce". Much simpler, fewer (no) hissing or gagging sounds. Great as an addition to marinades or liquids added after sautéeing.
喼 does NOT mean Worcestershire. That's 伍斯特郡 ('ng si tak gwan'; "five thus special county"). And not a subject of conversation, so saying it might mean ellucidating it, and writing down the characters for your baffled listener, who would never associate it with cooking because it's English and goofy. 喼 ('kip') is a Canto character used phonetically. Quickly, cap, valise, etcetera. A mouth (口 'hau') on the left hand side, an easily written phonetic element (急 'gap') on the right.
急 ('gap') means quickly, urgently, in a rush, or convenience. By itself, it is found in the dictionary under (心 / 忄) plus five strokes.
喼汁 is found in many Hong Kong kitchens.
Because it is useful.
免治 ('min chi') MACANESE HASH
Lightly brown minced onion. Add some ginger and garlic. When fragrant add spices and curry paste, dump in a pound of ground meat. When the meat is cooked add dashes of soy sauce, fish sauce, and Worcestershire, plus a pinch of sugar, mix and remove from heat. Brown a small amount of cubed potato well, add the meat sauce. If necessary a jigger of sherry or rice wine. Garnish with chives or cilantro, serve alongside rice and fried eggs.
Make sure there is hot sauce or sambal on the table.
This or variations of it are also good added to chopped cooked vegetables of various kinds. In the month after I got out of the hospital (an urgent appendectomy) I made a large (humongous) batch of it with lots of coconut milk and chili paste.
It was convenient.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 21, 2022
IMAGINE A LITERATE WOMAN
If you've noticed the number of times I've mentioned cigar smokers recently, there is a reason for that; I have no wish to see them naked. I've seen several of them wearing shorts during warm weather, one of them in a kilt, and years ago there was a dessicated old fossil who would soak up rays while wearing a speedo and smoking a churchill on the lawn.
This week promises to be unseasonably warm.
I am filled with dread.
In that vein, pipesmokers dressed less aren't something I want to drink in either.
Thank heavens I haven't seen full frontal nudity in years, considering the people I know.
Only one or two of whom are likely presentable in the buff.
Wait, that's not quite true. I have seen a loony man near a public park naked.
Like a typical male I have a mental picture of the ideal nude, about which I need not go into any great detail as she is not particularly unusual. Pleasing proportions, nothing excessive.
Perhaps holding a book.
This evening on the way home from a smoke I found two volumes by Charles Dickens on top of a trash bin. Paperback, but clean and in very good condition. So I adopted them.
If someone wished to hold them, that would be splendid.
They're good literature. Comforting to grasp.
And thick too. Which is useful.
Reassuring.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This week promises to be unseasonably warm.
I am filled with dread.
In that vein, pipesmokers dressed less aren't something I want to drink in either.
Thank heavens I haven't seen full frontal nudity in years, considering the people I know.
Only one or two of whom are likely presentable in the buff.
Wait, that's not quite true. I have seen a loony man near a public park naked.
Like a typical male I have a mental picture of the ideal nude, about which I need not go into any great detail as she is not particularly unusual. Pleasing proportions, nothing excessive.
Perhaps holding a book.
This evening on the way home from a smoke I found two volumes by Charles Dickens on top of a trash bin. Paperback, but clean and in very good condition. So I adopted them.
If someone wished to hold them, that would be splendid.
They're good literature. Comforting to grasp.
And thick too. Which is useful.
Reassuring.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SWEET HOLY JESUS!
The Peterson Company, makers of many rather lovely briar pipes since the late eighteen hundreds, years ago contracted with McConnell to produce some pipe tobaccos suitable for the Irish market as well as elsewhere. The entire McConnell portfolio went to Kohlhase and Kopp in Germany over two decades ago. K & K tend to use Orlik (now part of Skandinavisk Tobakskompagni A/S) in Denmark as their blending house. Several of these mixtures (now owned by Scandinavian) are well-made using good tobacco, and a number of them have also resurfaced under alternative brandnaming still held by the Germans.
Sadly, most of them are heavily flavoured shite.
Many pipe smokers are ruddy degenerates with lapsed morals and no taste.
I blame the Americans for this state of affairs. We encouraged nasty aromatics, and have heavily promoted them, resulting in the three most popular pipe store tobaccos being 1Q (a Cavendish mixture with honey and vanilla), BCA (black Cavendish doused with vanilla), and RLP 6 (Cavendish and Burley with vanilla). That probably also accounts for a staggering number of butch manly after-shave lotions having a touch of vanilla.
As well as frappucinos flavoured with vanilla syrup.
Goes great with Southern bobbykew.
Germans, Danes, and the Irish can't resist vanilla.
Now then, a series of short tobacco reviews.
ARAN
Vanilla and floral perfume.
Black Cavendish, Virginia. Very mild. If I were stuck in rural Ireland far from a tobacconist who had Sam Gawith or Orlik Golden Sliced, this might suffice. I don't like vanilla tobacco.
BALKAN BLEND
Non-aromatic.
Virginia, Latakia, Perique.
No Oriental leaf at all, so quite mis-named. Decent. Similar to many other blends, some no longer made. Not as sweet as Baby's Bottom, nor as mustily mysterious as Dorisco.
Mild to medium, earthy. A decent product.
CONNEMARA BLACK
Cherry and berries.
Black Cavendish and Virginia. A bland and objectionable product.
CONNOISSEUR'S CHOICE
Tropical fruits, vanilla, and booze.
Over-the-top effing fruity. Young boys will like it. I don't. Smoked a few bowls while working with Hecky, which while amusing because of his temper tantrums, left me with a mouth that felt like a train station pissoir.
De LUXE MIXTURE
Aromatic nut liqueur, vanilla, honey.
Black Cavendish and dark Virginias. An okay mild product with a fragrance that women like. Except for anti-smokers. They don't like how anything smells. Maybe you should try smoking tofu? They probably won't like that either.
FOUNDER'S CHOICE
Rum, mango, vanilla.
Virginia, Burley, Oriental. Pressed then cube cut. Burns well. While I enjoyed the several bowls I smoked to irritate Hecky, and some other people also liked it (very much), this is not something I would eagerly smoke again. A medium-bodied summery tobacco.
Worthwhile and educational.
GOLD BLEND
Hickory nuts, vanilla, cinnamon.
Black Cavendish, Virginia, Burley. Not overly flavoured, and on the milder side.
Aromatic smokers will generally like this, the rest of us will sneer as usual.
HYDE PARK
Rum and maple.
Virginia and Burley. Earthy yet floral. Very American in a way.
IRISH DEW
Vanilla, blossoms, chocolate, whiskey.
Virginias, Burley. Ready rubbed. Remarkably decent.
IRISH FLAKE
Non-aromatic.
Burley, Virginia, and Dark-fired, in (reportedly) equal measures. A rather splendid product of which I cannot smoke much. The tin aroma is awesome. There are over two dozen tins in my bookshelf that have been aging for nearly a decade and a half. I am scared to open them.
It has almost floral notes.
Earthy.
IRISH OAK / IRISH CASK
Sherry barrel odours.
Virginias and Cavendish, touch or Perique. Soury, plummy, vaguely reminiscent of a bodega. Very flavourful, suitable for Autumn somewhere rainy and dark.
Good at night, too spicy at dawn.
IRISH WHISKEY / IRISH MIXTURE
Booze.
Burley, Kentucky, Virginia. Easy smoke, might kick you in the nads. Good stuff.
LUXURY BLEND
Black Cavendish, vanilla, honey.
Burley, Virginia, Maryland, black Cavendish. A mild aromatic, but a medium-bodied tobacco. If you like aromatics you will love this, if you don't like aromatics you'll enjoy it, without regret, but probably won't buy another tin.
NUTTY CUT
Macadamia nuts, coconut, rum.
Multiple Virginias plus Burley. Mild. Not overly fruity.
Better living through chemicals.
No.
OLD DUBLIN
Non-aromatic.
Latakia, Oriental, Virginia, black Virginia ribbon. Medium to full. Top notch, and a classic. If you like English / Balkan, you may absolutely love this very fine old-fashioned mixture.
The Turk comes through splendidly. If you prefer aros, this is not for you.
Berkeley used to smell like this, especially near the university.
Until the Vegans took over.
PETERSON'S PERFECT PLUG
Miscellaneous spritzes.
A hard block of Virginia with Burley. I tried smoking this, but don't think I'll ever do so again. It is dark, full bodied, and sort of potent. Highly regarded by many people, most of whom I do not know. For reasons.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
Assorted stone fruits and citrus.
Ribbon Virginias and Burleys, basically in the same vein as Samuel Gawiths Grousemoor, but more kick. Just as degenerate and likely to appeal to elderly perverts.
I like both products.
SIGNATURE FLAKE
Non-aromatic.
Virginias. A medium-bodied Virginia flake, and a very nice one too. No longer made. There are three one hundred gramme tins in my stockpile from 2015, which I will not share. Well, except if it's a woman with soft cheeks who likes sherry.
SUNSET BREEZE
Amaretto liqueur.
Virginia, Burley, black Cavendish. It's actually very good, despite what the mention of Amaretto liqueur might make you think. Too much casing for my taste.
SWEET KILLARNEY
Sweet caramel cream.
Virginia and black Cavendish topped with creamy caramel. Vanilla, nougat. A high quality overly sweet mediocrity. The room note is pleasantish, if far enough away.
I think many English people might like it.
UNIVERSITY FLAKE
Plums. Fruit.
Burley and Virginia that, while excellent, remind me of Hello Kitty. I do not find it nearly as enjoyable to smoke as some people, bless them, but if you have to smoke a pimp tobacco because of your kinfolk and their berserk ideas about smells, you could do far worse.
It is somewhat strong.
When I was still a teenager living in a small city in the Netherlands, before coming back to the States, Peterson pipes were something I knew about even though they were unavailable there. Since then I have acquire a number of them, many of which are among my favourite briars. There is a goodness about them which harkens back to an earlier age.
The venerable company is now owned by Laudisi enterprises.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sadly, most of them are heavily flavoured shite.
Many pipe smokers are ruddy degenerates with lapsed morals and no taste.
I blame the Americans for this state of affairs. We encouraged nasty aromatics, and have heavily promoted them, resulting in the three most popular pipe store tobaccos being 1Q (a Cavendish mixture with honey and vanilla), BCA (black Cavendish doused with vanilla), and RLP 6 (Cavendish and Burley with vanilla). That probably also accounts for a staggering number of butch manly after-shave lotions having a touch of vanilla.
As well as frappucinos flavoured with vanilla syrup.
Goes great with Southern bobbykew.
Germans, Danes, and the Irish can't resist vanilla.
Now then, a series of short tobacco reviews.
ARAN
Vanilla and floral perfume.
Black Cavendish, Virginia. Very mild. If I were stuck in rural Ireland far from a tobacconist who had Sam Gawith or Orlik Golden Sliced, this might suffice. I don't like vanilla tobacco.
BALKAN BLEND
Non-aromatic.
Virginia, Latakia, Perique.
No Oriental leaf at all, so quite mis-named. Decent. Similar to many other blends, some no longer made. Not as sweet as Baby's Bottom, nor as mustily mysterious as Dorisco.
Mild to medium, earthy. A decent product.
CONNEMARA BLACK
Cherry and berries.
Black Cavendish and Virginia. A bland and objectionable product.
CONNOISSEUR'S CHOICE
Tropical fruits, vanilla, and booze.
Over-the-top effing fruity. Young boys will like it. I don't. Smoked a few bowls while working with Hecky, which while amusing because of his temper tantrums, left me with a mouth that felt like a train station pissoir.
De LUXE MIXTURE
Aromatic nut liqueur, vanilla, honey.
Black Cavendish and dark Virginias. An okay mild product with a fragrance that women like. Except for anti-smokers. They don't like how anything smells. Maybe you should try smoking tofu? They probably won't like that either.
FOUNDER'S CHOICE
Rum, mango, vanilla.
Virginia, Burley, Oriental. Pressed then cube cut. Burns well. While I enjoyed the several bowls I smoked to irritate Hecky, and some other people also liked it (very much), this is not something I would eagerly smoke again. A medium-bodied summery tobacco.
Worthwhile and educational.
GOLD BLEND
Hickory nuts, vanilla, cinnamon.
Black Cavendish, Virginia, Burley. Not overly flavoured, and on the milder side.
Aromatic smokers will generally like this, the rest of us will sneer as usual.
HYDE PARK
Rum and maple.
Virginia and Burley. Earthy yet floral. Very American in a way.
IRISH DEW
Vanilla, blossoms, chocolate, whiskey.
Virginias, Burley. Ready rubbed. Remarkably decent.
IRISH FLAKE
Non-aromatic.
Burley, Virginia, and Dark-fired, in (reportedly) equal measures. A rather splendid product of which I cannot smoke much. The tin aroma is awesome. There are over two dozen tins in my bookshelf that have been aging for nearly a decade and a half. I am scared to open them.
It has almost floral notes.
Earthy.
IRISH OAK / IRISH CASK
Sherry barrel odours.
Virginias and Cavendish, touch or Perique. Soury, plummy, vaguely reminiscent of a bodega. Very flavourful, suitable for Autumn somewhere rainy and dark.
Good at night, too spicy at dawn.
IRISH WHISKEY / IRISH MIXTURE
Booze.
Burley, Kentucky, Virginia. Easy smoke, might kick you in the nads. Good stuff.
LUXURY BLEND
Black Cavendish, vanilla, honey.
Burley, Virginia, Maryland, black Cavendish. A mild aromatic, but a medium-bodied tobacco. If you like aromatics you will love this, if you don't like aromatics you'll enjoy it, without regret, but probably won't buy another tin.
NUTTY CUT
Macadamia nuts, coconut, rum.
Multiple Virginias plus Burley. Mild. Not overly fruity.
Better living through chemicals.
No.
OLD DUBLIN
Non-aromatic.
Latakia, Oriental, Virginia, black Virginia ribbon. Medium to full. Top notch, and a classic. If you like English / Balkan, you may absolutely love this very fine old-fashioned mixture.
The Turk comes through splendidly. If you prefer aros, this is not for you.
Berkeley used to smell like this, especially near the university.
Until the Vegans took over.
PETERSON'S PERFECT PLUG
Miscellaneous spritzes.
A hard block of Virginia with Burley. I tried smoking this, but don't think I'll ever do so again. It is dark, full bodied, and sort of potent. Highly regarded by many people, most of whom I do not know. For reasons.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
Assorted stone fruits and citrus.
Ribbon Virginias and Burleys, basically in the same vein as Samuel Gawiths Grousemoor, but more kick. Just as degenerate and likely to appeal to elderly perverts.
I like both products.
SIGNATURE FLAKE
Non-aromatic.
Virginias. A medium-bodied Virginia flake, and a very nice one too. No longer made. There are three one hundred gramme tins in my stockpile from 2015, which I will not share. Well, except if it's a woman with soft cheeks who likes sherry.
SUNSET BREEZE
Amaretto liqueur.
Virginia, Burley, black Cavendish. It's actually very good, despite what the mention of Amaretto liqueur might make you think. Too much casing for my taste.
SWEET KILLARNEY
Sweet caramel cream.
Virginia and black Cavendish topped with creamy caramel. Vanilla, nougat. A high quality overly sweet mediocrity. The room note is pleasantish, if far enough away.
I think many English people might like it.
UNIVERSITY FLAKE
Plums. Fruit.
Burley and Virginia that, while excellent, remind me of Hello Kitty. I do not find it nearly as enjoyable to smoke as some people, bless them, but if you have to smoke a pimp tobacco because of your kinfolk and their berserk ideas about smells, you could do far worse.
It is somewhat strong.
The venerable company is now owned by Laudisi enterprises.
TOBACCO INDEX
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THE EVIL EYE
A correspondent asked about the evil eye, belief in which is still deeply embedded in some cultures. A relative of hers recently performed a ritual to ward it off. Other than people who read Lord Of The Rings (vide 'eye of sauron'), most literate people in the Western World have discarded faith in such primitive things, like church going and horse dewormer.
Or gordammit voting for Ron DeSantis.
The veil of odd remembrance is paper thin.
I used to work with Indians.
Happened years ago at the restaurant where I worked part time. Chanting of "deva danav siddag pujita parmeshvari purana rupa parma paratantra vinashini om". The Sanskrit scholar who worked there and I myself thought it was ridiculous, the dreadful South Indian Christian was convinced it was heathen witchcraft and left the building.
Which might indicate that it was effective.
Feel free to perform it with friends, while distributing dwarf ginger powder around your house and letting a ghee lamp burn. Chant it slowly and mindfully eleven times. If a dreadful South Indian Christian woman promptly leaves your house, you are blessed.
As with all New Age rituals, bathe yourself first.
Can't hurt, and at least you'll be clean.
Carrying around a copy of Das Kapital to smack daemons with also works.
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or gordammit voting for Ron DeSantis.
The veil of odd remembrance is paper thin.
I used to work with Indians.
Happened years ago at the restaurant where I worked part time. Chanting of "deva danav siddag pujita parmeshvari purana rupa parma paratantra vinashini om". The Sanskrit scholar who worked there and I myself thought it was ridiculous, the dreadful South Indian Christian was convinced it was heathen witchcraft and left the building.
Which might indicate that it was effective.
SOMEWHERE IN SCOTLAND
Feel free to perform it with friends, while distributing dwarf ginger powder around your house and letting a ghee lamp burn. Chant it slowly and mindfully eleven times. If a dreadful South Indian Christian woman promptly leaves your house, you are blessed.
As with all New Age rituals, bathe yourself first.
Can't hurt, and at least you'll be clean.
Carrying around a copy of Das Kapital to smack daemons with also works.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CARE FOR SOME CHOCOLATE?
Last week I mentioned the pantie demographic among my readers. Today, on a whim, I cruised into an article on SFGate entitled "Proof Panties make you feel sexy, (on your) period". Which is probably not written for males, so I don't expect more than a certain percentage of the people who visit my blog page to cruise in there for a gander.
For the inquisitive but sensitive male reader who quails at certain details, Proof Panties are a product aimed at women. That said, I expect the technology to be applied going forward to garments for at least two of the elderly cigar smokers I know. Perphaps all of them.
Key phrases lovingly crafted:
"You’re a lunar-loving demiurge who luxuriates in their own divinity with each cycle of the moon "
[This does not describe anyone I know. At least anyone that I know I know. But I shan't ask.]
"Uterus-haver who becomes a Bloaty Fart Gremlin shrouded in a den of blankets and Dove chocolate wrappers "
[The term "bloaty fart gremlin" has a certain charm. It should be on a tee-shirt.]
"Pads are either so thick I’m reduced to waddling like a crinkly duck in a diaper, or they’re so thin that they’re about as absorbent as a post-it note "
[I can now hear her walking.]
"This underwear works "
[Mine does too. But unlike hers, what I wear doesn't do combat duty.]
"An adorable extra lip of lace hem that extends flirtily down the outer thigh only, giving you a cute detail without it chafing in the inner thigh or crotch "
[Not a feature of most men's undergarments. Should it? Leave your comment pro or con.]
"Each year, approximately 19 billion pads and tampons are discarded each year, creating an environmental hazard and putting wildlife in danger. Save a turtle, wear a panty "
[There's a floating island in the Pacific the size of Alaska composed entirely of spent plastic bags, tampons, and pads. Oh wait, that IS Alaska!]
"Barring heavy physical activity however, it's period panties all the way "
[A brave new world men can only imagine. Might change the face of professional football.]
On a final note, I must mention that thanks to a lovely book about human biology meant for an older audience which I read when I was eight or nine, I knew all about the menstrual period early on. Exposure to it had to wait several years.
And I was in my thirties before I understood how important chocolate was.
I am surprised human civilization lasted that long.
AFTER THOUGHT
By "cigar smokers" are meant people who smoke cigars, which are rolled up tobacco leaves. A filler of high quality bunched aged tobacco which has not been shredded and consequently will not fall apart and burns slower; a binder leaf which is fairly sturdy and often spicier; and an outside (wrapper) leaf that frequently has a pleasant aroma (and contributes roughly thirty percent of the flavour) as well as aesthetic appeal. The term "elderly cigar smokers" refers to crusty old farts who often have confused and eccentric thought processes, from whom their nearest and dearest require frequent distance in order to put up with them.
Chocolate would benefit them immensely too.
And it soothes the palate.
For the inquisitive but sensitive male reader who quails at certain details, Proof Panties are a product aimed at women. That said, I expect the technology to be applied going forward to garments for at least two of the elderly cigar smokers I know. Perphaps all of them.
Key phrases lovingly crafted:
"You’re a lunar-loving demiurge who luxuriates in their own divinity with each cycle of the moon "
[This does not describe anyone I know. At least anyone that I know I know. But I shan't ask.]
"Uterus-haver who becomes a Bloaty Fart Gremlin shrouded in a den of blankets and Dove chocolate wrappers "
[The term "bloaty fart gremlin" has a certain charm. It should be on a tee-shirt.]
"Pads are either so thick I’m reduced to waddling like a crinkly duck in a diaper, or they’re so thin that they’re about as absorbent as a post-it note "
[I can now hear her walking.]
"This underwear works "
[Mine does too. But unlike hers, what I wear doesn't do combat duty.]
"An adorable extra lip of lace hem that extends flirtily down the outer thigh only, giving you a cute detail without it chafing in the inner thigh or crotch "
[Not a feature of most men's undergarments. Should it? Leave your comment pro or con.]
"Each year, approximately 19 billion pads and tampons are discarded each year, creating an environmental hazard and putting wildlife in danger. Save a turtle, wear a panty "
[There's a floating island in the Pacific the size of Alaska composed entirely of spent plastic bags, tampons, and pads. Oh wait, that IS Alaska!]
"Barring heavy physical activity however, it's period panties all the way "
[A brave new world men can only imagine. Might change the face of professional football.]
On a final note, I must mention that thanks to a lovely book about human biology meant for an older audience which I read when I was eight or nine, I knew all about the menstrual period early on. Exposure to it had to wait several years.
And I was in my thirties before I understood how important chocolate was.
I am surprised human civilization lasted that long.
AFTER THOUGHT
By "cigar smokers" are meant people who smoke cigars, which are rolled up tobacco leaves. A filler of high quality bunched aged tobacco which has not been shredded and consequently will not fall apart and burns slower; a binder leaf which is fairly sturdy and often spicier; and an outside (wrapper) leaf that frequently has a pleasant aroma (and contributes roughly thirty percent of the flavour) as well as aesthetic appeal. The term "elderly cigar smokers" refers to crusty old farts who often have confused and eccentric thought processes, from whom their nearest and dearest require frequent distance in order to put up with them.
Chocolate would benefit them immensely too.
And it soothes the palate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 20, 2022
CRAZED CHIPMUNK
What with not being entirely clear on which term is "hurtful" or "politically incorrect", I'll just describe the person in question as "only debatably human, obviously small brained, emotionally crippled". ODHOSBEC for short. I'm sure the only two backroom boys who read my blog can easily identify who the subfunctioning degenerate bald troll to whom I refer actually is. Actually, let's not call him ODHOSBEC. Let's just call him "the Sh*t".
The Sh*t is in many ways typical for his class and kind. Self-centered, ideologically utterly reprehensible, opinionated in the way that only a severely stunted entitled white man can be, and, when he's whining about Nancy Pelosi or ragging R the Subcontinental, a thoroughly despicable vicious piece of trash. Probably a psychopath as well.
I actually rather like The Sh*t. No, not because it might be fun to poke him with a sharp stick or a cattleprod repeatedly, or perform unholy experiments on his bound body, but because despite his loathsomeness he actually has a sense of humour, and worships Sriracha.
But for the last year I've wished The Sh*t would just shut up.
Actually, that's the same for several others.
I babysit dreaful people.
Turds.
Sofar only one of the backroom boys wears diapers. Possibly two. Three. Within the next ten years most of them will. Then they'll get lost wandering around the salt marsh and sink below the surface of the mud, never to be seen again. So sad, so sad.
The salicornia thrives in that vicinity.
I wonder how many unlikeable elderly suburbanites fertilize the saltflats. Probably many people send their sour old relatives out for a walk there. It's cheaper than housing them in specialized facilities or subsidizing their unproductive years and behaviourial medicines.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The Sh*t is in many ways typical for his class and kind. Self-centered, ideologically utterly reprehensible, opinionated in the way that only a severely stunted entitled white man can be, and, when he's whining about Nancy Pelosi or ragging R the Subcontinental, a thoroughly despicable vicious piece of trash. Probably a psychopath as well.
I actually rather like The Sh*t. No, not because it might be fun to poke him with a sharp stick or a cattleprod repeatedly, or perform unholy experiments on his bound body, but because despite his loathsomeness he actually has a sense of humour, and worships Sriracha.
But for the last year I've wished The Sh*t would just shut up.
Actually, that's the same for several others.
I babysit dreaful people.
Turds.
Sofar only one of the backroom boys wears diapers. Possibly two. Three. Within the next ten years most of them will. Then they'll get lost wandering around the salt marsh and sink below the surface of the mud, never to be seen again. So sad, so sad.
The salicornia thrives in that vicinity.
I wonder how many unlikeable elderly suburbanites fertilize the saltflats. Probably many people send their sour old relatives out for a walk there. It's cheaper than housing them in specialized facilities or subsidizing their unproductive years and behaviourial medicines.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DOES IT MELT?
While returning home work from on the bus yesterday I got into a brief conversation with an individual who was carrying a box of pizza. On the bus. We have pizza in this city. So, why?
From which I learned two things: 1) Avoid random conversations with people, especially if they are doing something odd. 2) As a meat eater, I am an extremely unlikeable man.
That first one is the most important. In the Bay Area, very many people do stuff which is odd. The chances are that they are in their own way too judgemental for comfort, damned well downright Puritanical, and they may rattle a bit when they walk from all the loose screws. Random conversations almost always lead to strange places. Just don't talk to them.
Avoid catching their eye. Be quiet, composed, and reserved. Just sit.
On the other hand, vegan pizza is a thing.
I'm not sure why. Might be sacramental.
The veganatics plan to take over.
After dinner.
On a list of things that are wrong about me from one to a hundred, eating meat meat might be somewhere at 97 or 98. Somewhere near tobacco, utilizing plastics, gluten tolerance, and disliking The Grateful Dead.
The concept of vegan melted cheese is, to the rational mind, the stuff of nightmares. Horrible. Everyone KNOWS that whales have to die and be rendered for proper cheese, our fromage industry depends on regular Cetacean-American sacrifice. The peace loving revolutionairies at Valley Forge survived because of it! We fought those evil bastards in The South for our right to slaughter big sea-dwelling mammals.
Besides, the strategic grilled pork chop stockpile would shrink if we stopped.
You don't want those Russian bastards to win, do you?
What are you, communist?
There are many things wrong with me. Far too many to mention. And I don't plan to draw up a list from one to a hundred. But feel free to do so yourself. I'm sure you can do it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
From which I learned two things: 1) Avoid random conversations with people, especially if they are doing something odd. 2) As a meat eater, I am an extremely unlikeable man.
That first one is the most important. In the Bay Area, very many people do stuff which is odd. The chances are that they are in their own way too judgemental for comfort, damned well downright Puritanical, and they may rattle a bit when they walk from all the loose screws. Random conversations almost always lead to strange places. Just don't talk to them.
Avoid catching their eye. Be quiet, composed, and reserved. Just sit.
On the other hand, vegan pizza is a thing.
I'm not sure why. Might be sacramental.
The veganatics plan to take over.
After dinner.
On a list of things that are wrong about me from one to a hundred, eating meat meat might be somewhere at 97 or 98. Somewhere near tobacco, utilizing plastics, gluten tolerance, and disliking The Grateful Dead.
Besides, the strategic grilled pork chop stockpile would shrink if we stopped.
You don't want those Russian bastards to win, do you?
What are you, communist?
There are many things wrong with me. Far too many to mention. And I don't plan to draw up a list from one to a hundred. But feel free to do so yourself. I'm sure you can do it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 19, 2022
TOTAL CRINGE
The apartment mate had never been exposed to 'The Camptown Races'. She knew the refrain -- doo da, doo da -- but not the song. So I exposed her to it. Now it's an earworm. She's furious. Doo da, doo da. My dear, it's classic Americana. Part of your heritage too.
I showed her Al Jolson as E. P. Christie with his Ethiopean Serenaders. All of them in the blackest of blackface. Doo da doo da.
When I was in highschool in the Netherlands we were taught that song in music class. It is not suprising that I remember my high school years with some pain. Doo da. Doo. Da.
Our music teacher was a completely sadistic s.o.b., as were many of my classmates. And overseas Americans were universally considered scum, personally responsible for Richard Milhouse Nixon, Vietnam, and the extermination of the Indians.
At least we were at that time and in that place.
Doo da. Doo da.
In many ways I'm glad that society has changed. I'm sure that various ethnicities, religions, and sexual preferences are too. But I'm happy that the cringe factor has lessened considerably.
And of course I can now cringe in multiple languages. Whenever I hear someone being a horrid embarassment in one of my languages I tend to discreetly fade into the woodwork. Who me? No, I don't speak Dutch / American English / Yiddish / Indonesian / Cantonese. Those folks? They just landed from Outer Space. Yep. Outer Space. Don't know who they are, and I can't understand what the heck they're saying either!
Oh is that a door? I'll just quietly slip out now .....
No, we Netherlanders do not wear clogs or tulips, and just because you've seen Baywatch or the Dukes Of Hazard you mustn't assume that all of us Americans are like that. I do not have red Speedo swimming trunks or a trailer trash vehicle decorated with the rebel flag.
About that earworm? Must. Resist. Urge. To. Whisper. Doo. Da. Doo. Da. Melodically. At. The. Door. Of. Her. Room. When. She's. Asleep. I am not a sadistic music teacher.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I showed her Al Jolson as E. P. Christie with his Ethiopean Serenaders. All of them in the blackest of blackface. Doo da doo da.
When I was in highschool in the Netherlands we were taught that song in music class. It is not suprising that I remember my high school years with some pain. Doo da. Doo. Da.
Our music teacher was a completely sadistic s.o.b., as were many of my classmates. And overseas Americans were universally considered scum, personally responsible for Richard Milhouse Nixon, Vietnam, and the extermination of the Indians.
At least we were at that time and in that place.
Doo da. Doo da.
In many ways I'm glad that society has changed. I'm sure that various ethnicities, religions, and sexual preferences are too. But I'm happy that the cringe factor has lessened considerably.
And of course I can now cringe in multiple languages. Whenever I hear someone being a horrid embarassment in one of my languages I tend to discreetly fade into the woodwork. Who me? No, I don't speak Dutch / American English / Yiddish / Indonesian / Cantonese. Those folks? They just landed from Outer Space. Yep. Outer Space. Don't know who they are, and I can't understand what the heck they're saying either!
Oh is that a door? I'll just quietly slip out now .....
No, we Netherlanders do not wear clogs or tulips, and just because you've seen Baywatch or the Dukes Of Hazard you mustn't assume that all of us Americans are like that. I do not have red Speedo swimming trunks or a trailer trash vehicle decorated with the rebel flag.
About that earworm? Must. Resist. Urge. To. Whisper. Doo. Da. Doo. Da. Melodically. At. The. Door. Of. Her. Room. When. She's. Asleep. I am not a sadistic music teacher.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 18, 2022
DRUNKEN REVELRY INVITES DISEASE
As a sour old grumpus well past my thirties, my assigned societal role is to disapprove of you lot and your epic stupidity. Which I relish. Yesterday evening, and probably happening this evening as well, you did not disappoint me. Kudos. You got drunk. Celebrating the one sixteenth Irish ancestry and fifty percent self-indulgent fratboy within you.
You are all ... winners.
The pandemic isn't over. Indeed, transmission rates are low in California and a few other places, but they are still strong in the shithole states, and skyrocketing in the rest of the world.
[Important refresher: the shithole states are Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nevada, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. Plus Los Angeles, Orange County, Philadelphia, and San Diego.]
Going out to get blotto with a throng of people who have been godknowswhere plus godknowswithwhom in crowded bars is probably one of the stupidest things ever.
Same level as an orgy with a bunch of careless drug addicts.
And some things are just sinful. Disgusting beyond belief.
Green food colouring in a pint of beer?
Effing irredeemable.
This is why there are no snakes in Ireland.
You don't ruddy deserve them.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You are all ... winners.
The pandemic isn't over. Indeed, transmission rates are low in California and a few other places, but they are still strong in the shithole states, and skyrocketing in the rest of the world.
[Important refresher: the shithole states are Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nevada, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. Plus Los Angeles, Orange County, Philadelphia, and San Diego.]
Going out to get blotto with a throng of people who have been godknowswhere plus godknowswithwhom in crowded bars is probably one of the stupidest things ever.
Same level as an orgy with a bunch of careless drug addicts.
Green food colouring in a pint of beer?
Effing irredeemable.
This is why there are no snakes in Ireland.
You don't ruddy deserve them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 17, 2022
FREEZING TEA
Just around tea time I left the apartment for lunch. It was bitterly cold, because of the wind, and I wondered at what insane idea possessed me to head out into the blistering gale. Given that I don't like people, don't like the bus system, don't like risking the proximity of folks without masks, and could do all my errands today within a three block radius.
Low blood sugar tends to make a man grumpy.
I should've eaten something before going out to eat.
Wasn't very imaginative in my choice of restaurant or what to eat: barbecued pork and spring rolls rice vermicelli (燒豬肉春捲米粉 'siu chyu yiuk chun kuen mai fan') with a cup of dripped Vietnamese coffee no ice. Strictly comfort food, at a familiar place. During lunch I realized that I missed seeing children, especially nice ones, well-behaved and not loud. There were three kiddies there of barely school age, very small, with their books. Watching the littlest girl eat her lunch was very entertaining. When her mother had briefly returned to the kitchen she grabbed the soy sauce and carefully poured a little on her food. Whereas mom and auntie had spoken in Cantonese, the kids used English. Not surprising, when they were also using cutlery rather than chopsticks.
Not even the other white people (three individuals) were using chopsticks.
I was, because you can't eat cold noodles with a fork.
燒豬肉春捲米粉 starts with a layer of cucumber, shredded lettuce, basil leaf and mint. On top of that cold cooked thin rice stick noodle. A serving of chargrilled pork, and two imperial rolls cut into chunks, a handful of crumbled roast peanut. Plus a small bowl of tamarind water with fish sauce and chili flakes. It's soul food.
And it looks beautiful.
I always add a sploodge of Sriracha.
The littlest girl's eyes lit up when some friends came in with their mommy. I guess during this pandemic children also miss seeing children. It is a queer time to be a child.
Their responsibilities are greater than before.
Little Chinese kiddies are more mature than white kids their age.
The other thing that struck me is that white people seem to have lost the ability to divvy up a bill. Both the table of three and the take-out couples who came in together (and who gave every indication of intending to eat together) inconsiderately asked for separate checks. To my mind, the mathematically impaired have no business at all eating in company; it simply confuses things. I'm used to sneering at the spelling errors of this modern generation, I guess I can now start sneering at their inability to add and subtract also.
Anyhow, I'm glad I left the apartment; after lighting up outside I ran into the police officer who cited me for assault and battery several years ago. He's a regular at the bookstore, and asked after the bookseller. He's looking a little older now. We all are.
Good to see people you know.
[Assault and battery? I was brutally beating on a fellow twice my weight and half my age who attacked me at a rowdy demo and counter-demo. This shows you not to fracass with runty Dutch Americans; we're vicious when provoked.]
Lunch, pipe, and people, were good this afternoon.
Despite the perfectly horrid weather.
And maskless oafs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Low blood sugar tends to make a man grumpy.
I should've eaten something before going out to eat.
Wasn't very imaginative in my choice of restaurant or what to eat: barbecued pork and spring rolls rice vermicelli (燒豬肉春捲米粉 'siu chyu yiuk chun kuen mai fan') with a cup of dripped Vietnamese coffee no ice. Strictly comfort food, at a familiar place. During lunch I realized that I missed seeing children, especially nice ones, well-behaved and not loud. There were three kiddies there of barely school age, very small, with their books. Watching the littlest girl eat her lunch was very entertaining. When her mother had briefly returned to the kitchen she grabbed the soy sauce and carefully poured a little on her food. Whereas mom and auntie had spoken in Cantonese, the kids used English. Not surprising, when they were also using cutlery rather than chopsticks.
Not even the other white people (three individuals) were using chopsticks.
I was, because you can't eat cold noodles with a fork.
燒豬肉春捲米粉 starts with a layer of cucumber, shredded lettuce, basil leaf and mint. On top of that cold cooked thin rice stick noodle. A serving of chargrilled pork, and two imperial rolls cut into chunks, a handful of crumbled roast peanut. Plus a small bowl of tamarind water with fish sauce and chili flakes. It's soul food.
And it looks beautiful.
I always add a sploodge of Sriracha.
The littlest girl's eyes lit up when some friends came in with their mommy. I guess during this pandemic children also miss seeing children. It is a queer time to be a child.
Their responsibilities are greater than before.
Little Chinese kiddies are more mature than white kids their age.
The other thing that struck me is that white people seem to have lost the ability to divvy up a bill. Both the table of three and the take-out couples who came in together (and who gave every indication of intending to eat together) inconsiderately asked for separate checks. To my mind, the mathematically impaired have no business at all eating in company; it simply confuses things. I'm used to sneering at the spelling errors of this modern generation, I guess I can now start sneering at their inability to add and subtract also.
Anyhow, I'm glad I left the apartment; after lighting up outside I ran into the police officer who cited me for assault and battery several years ago. He's a regular at the bookstore, and asked after the bookseller. He's looking a little older now. We all are.
Good to see people you know.
[Assault and battery? I was brutally beating on a fellow twice my weight and half my age who attacked me at a rowdy demo and counter-demo. This shows you not to fracass with runty Dutch Americans; we're vicious when provoked.]
Lunch, pipe, and people, were good this afternoon.
Despite the perfectly horrid weather.
And maskless oafs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HOLD THAT THOUGHT
There are some people you deservedly distrust every time they open their pie holes, and a few who, after several years exposure, you automatically believe, even if, at times, you disagree with some of their points of view.
Among the untrustworthy lot are Tucker Carlson, Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, Lindsey Graham, President Xi, and Dmitry Medvedev. Four of those men have a cold, calculating, dishonest quality that becomes glaringly more apparent every time they speak.
The first one is simply a slimy opportunist.
Probably has mommy issues.
[BTW: Carlson, Trump, and Gabbard are, clearly, Russian assets.]
Other buckets of festering slime are Laura Ingraham, Candace Owens, Geert Wilders, and most television preachers especially if they operate out of Florida, plus many luminaries of the Republican Party.
[Also worth mentioning in the bucket category are the talking heads and intellectuals of Brazil, Eritrea, India, Kenya, Pakistan, South Africa, Syria, and Vietnam. Might as well just ignore China, Cuba, North Korea, and Turkmenistan.]
Among the people you trust when they say something are Walter Cronkite, Jimmy Carter, and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Though at times you might disagree with them.
I like Arnie. He's a mensch.
I didn't vote for him.
But I would.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Among the untrustworthy lot are Tucker Carlson, Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, Lindsey Graham, President Xi, and Dmitry Medvedev. Four of those men have a cold, calculating, dishonest quality that becomes glaringly more apparent every time they speak.
The first one is simply a slimy opportunist.
Probably has mommy issues.
[BTW: Carlson, Trump, and Gabbard are, clearly, Russian assets.]
Other buckets of festering slime are Laura Ingraham, Candace Owens, Geert Wilders, and most television preachers especially if they operate out of Florida, plus many luminaries of the Republican Party.
[Also worth mentioning in the bucket category are the talking heads and intellectuals of Brazil, Eritrea, India, Kenya, Pakistan, South Africa, Syria, and Vietnam. Might as well just ignore China, Cuba, North Korea, and Turkmenistan.]
Among the people you trust when they say something are Walter Cronkite, Jimmy Carter, and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
I like Arnie. He's a mensch.
I didn't vote for him.
But I would.
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CHICAGO'S FAVOURITE LIQUEUR
Thanks to Tim and Gary (!), I am now aware of Jeppson's Malört, Chicago's answer to San Francisco's bizarre fondness for Fernet Branca and Jägermeister. It helps you digest the deepdish pizza. Perfect for sipping. The "hold my beer" of liqueurs.
It is unlikely that I will ever try it. I like Fernet Branca, Jagermeister, and Underberg, but Malört has an aftertaste of bugspray, according to a panel of experts (random people on the internet who are now questioning their life choices).
It's a Swedish cultural thing.
Severely so.
What's significant about every video of a group tasting Malört is that first they show everyone downing it up to the point that it enters their mouth -- up to ten or twenty people, mostly the younger crowd, throwing it back -- and then they show all their faces, one by one, grimacing and gagging. Then folks wax eloquent. It inspires them. In a negative way.
It is, apparently, worse than Fireball. Much worse.
You're welcome to it, Chicago.
Like that pizza.
Carl Jeppson, the man who originally sold it, was a cigar chainsmoker, which probably explains why he drank it recreationally. One of my friends, deceased, smoked up to a dozen cigars a day and in consequence couldn't taste diddly. The one time I huffed eight pipe bowls filled with fine cigar tobacco (and four pipes of normal stuff) left me with a mouth that felt strangely alive, unable to taste chilipaste, and a nic hangover the next day the size of Texas. Regular cigar smoking leads to dementia, the foreign legion, and church attendance.
That typical odeur that elderly men have. Pee and vinyl.
And, indubitably, Malört.
It gets cold in Chicago. They ate all the polar bears.
And their football team sucks.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It is unlikely that I will ever try it. I like Fernet Branca, Jagermeister, and Underberg, but Malört has an aftertaste of bugspray, according to a panel of experts (random people on the internet who are now questioning their life choices).
It's a Swedish cultural thing.
Severely so.
What's significant about every video of a group tasting Malört is that first they show everyone downing it up to the point that it enters their mouth -- up to ten or twenty people, mostly the younger crowd, throwing it back -- and then they show all their faces, one by one, grimacing and gagging. Then folks wax eloquent. It inspires them. In a negative way.
It is, apparently, worse than Fireball. Much worse.
You're welcome to it, Chicago.
Like that pizza.
Carl Jeppson, the man who originally sold it, was a cigar chainsmoker, which probably explains why he drank it recreationally. One of my friends, deceased, smoked up to a dozen cigars a day and in consequence couldn't taste diddly. The one time I huffed eight pipe bowls filled with fine cigar tobacco (and four pipes of normal stuff) left me with a mouth that felt strangely alive, unable to taste chilipaste, and a nic hangover the next day the size of Texas. Regular cigar smoking leads to dementia, the foreign legion, and church attendance.
That typical odeur that elderly men have. Pee and vinyl.
And, indubitably, Malört.
It gets cold in Chicago. They ate all the polar bears.
And their football team sucks.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IT DOES NOT SMELL LIKE LUCKY CHARMS!
Today is Saint Patricks Day. At the end of it, you will be left with regret. That is, if you are like all the folks who live for this day and have nothing at all going on in their lives. It is the only day on which you'll be green. As a rational person, I am not vested in celebrating anybody's cultural heritage with larger quantities of alcohol than sanity permits, and I have no plans to consume corned beef and cabbage. Even dolled-up with dollops of sambal.
Remarkably, many people in Ireland feel the same way.
Of course they felt that way eight hours ago.
There's a time difference.
Which means that if anyone there left their house to have an early morning pipe, they were probably rained upon seven hours ago. This is important, because here in San Francisco the weather is not particularly wet, but still cold, grey, and gloomy. Blue finger tips are probably the most Irish thing about me. I look human otherwise.
I'm not wearing a scrap of green.
I'm wondering if I should open a tin of the most Irish tobacco in the house: Erinmore Flake.
No, it isn't Leprechaun tobacco. It's an old-style pressed and sliced compound with a slightly over-the-top fragrance added which counteracts the smell of mildew ever-present in drafty Northern European dwellings. It is full and fruity.
I've got enough to last several months.
Two decades old.
Probably the most Irish thing I could do would be, after my apartment mate has gone to work, to make myself a cup of strong tea and some buttered toast, then fill a bowl and light up.
Perhaps underneath a warm blanket.
As long as the door to her quarters remains closed, and I let the place air out for several hours before she comes back, I'll be safe. It's probably a good day to re-read parts of Ulysses by James Joyce. Then a late lunch, and more tea.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Remarkably, many people in Ireland feel the same way.
Of course they felt that way eight hours ago.
There's a time difference.
Which means that if anyone there left their house to have an early morning pipe, they were probably rained upon seven hours ago. This is important, because here in San Francisco the weather is not particularly wet, but still cold, grey, and gloomy. Blue finger tips are probably the most Irish thing about me. I look human otherwise.
I'm not wearing a scrap of green.
I'm wondering if I should open a tin of the most Irish tobacco in the house: Erinmore Flake.
I've got enough to last several months.
Two decades old.
Probably the most Irish thing I could do would be, after my apartment mate has gone to work, to make myself a cup of strong tea and some buttered toast, then fill a bowl and light up.
Perhaps underneath a warm blanket.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 16, 2022
WHAT HOBBITS TASTE LIKE
In addition to going to Chinatown for snackies and milk tea, I also shop there for essential supplies. Today that meant potato chips. Italian Red Meat Flavour (意大利香浓紅烩味), Green Sichuan Peppercorn Flavour (青花椒味), and Cucumber Flavour (黃瓜味). That last is ESSENTIAL, because some of my coworkers have never even heard of it.
It is crispy crunchy fried refreshing goodness!
意大利香濃紅燴味 ('yi daai lei heung hung wui mei'; "Italian fragrant red stew taste") and 青花椒味 ('ching faa jiu mei'; "green flower pepper taste") are for my apartment mate. She did not like the cucumber (黃瓜味 'wong gwaa mei'; "yellow cucurbit or gourd taste"). And she's Chinese! "Woman, you are supposed to love this!" But strangely, no.
Naturally I am wondering how my coworkers will react.
Not everything I bring back from Chinatown will be a hit. The salted egg yolk flavour (鹹蛋黃味 'haam daan wong mei') were, probably because of that lovely combination of richness and subtlety. Some of the snacky cakes with a shelf-life of ten thousand years, suitable for your fall-out shelter or earthquake preparedness kit, weren't. I am still refusing to take them to work to get them out of the house because I like them and refuse to share them.
In any case, I refuse to discuss how things taste with people from a country that invented seasonal pumpkin pie flavoured coffees and donuts, marshmallow vodka, grape koolaid, and green donuts for Saint Patrick's Day. It's pointless.
Oh, and ranch dressing on pizza!
Heretics!
Two pipes were smoked in Chinatown today.
One after lunch, one after tea.
You should be happy to know that I do not own a single pouch of Captain Black Grape OR Captain Black Watermelon pipe tobacco -- bizarre products which are staggeringly popular tobaccos somewhere in this country -- but instead both bowls were filled with Greg Pease's 'Embarcadero', which is a flake rather in the English tradition. Restrained, natural tasting, flue-cured leaf with a diplomatic addition of fine Turkish, very Oxford-Cambridge.
I think Hobbits smoke the two Captain Black blends I mentioned.
Probably because there is no ranch dressing Cavendish.
Such as J. R. R. Tolkien favoured.
Creamed hobbit.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It is crispy crunchy fried refreshing goodness!
意大利香濃紅燴味 ('yi daai lei heung hung wui mei'; "Italian fragrant red stew taste") and 青花椒味 ('ching faa jiu mei'; "green flower pepper taste") are for my apartment mate. She did not like the cucumber (黃瓜味 'wong gwaa mei'; "yellow cucurbit or gourd taste"). And she's Chinese! "Woman, you are supposed to love this!" But strangely, no.
Naturally I am wondering how my coworkers will react.
Not everything I bring back from Chinatown will be a hit. The salted egg yolk flavour (鹹蛋黃味 'haam daan wong mei') were, probably because of that lovely combination of richness and subtlety. Some of the snacky cakes with a shelf-life of ten thousand years, suitable for your fall-out shelter or earthquake preparedness kit, weren't. I am still refusing to take them to work to get them out of the house because I like them and refuse to share them.
In any case, I refuse to discuss how things taste with people from a country that invented seasonal pumpkin pie flavoured coffees and donuts, marshmallow vodka, grape koolaid, and green donuts for Saint Patrick's Day. It's pointless.
Oh, and ranch dressing on pizza!
Heretics!
Two pipes were smoked in Chinatown today.
You should be happy to know that I do not own a single pouch of Captain Black Grape OR Captain Black Watermelon pipe tobacco -- bizarre products which are staggeringly popular tobaccos somewhere in this country -- but instead both bowls were filled with Greg Pease's 'Embarcadero', which is a flake rather in the English tradition. Restrained, natural tasting, flue-cured leaf with a diplomatic addition of fine Turkish, very Oxford-Cambridge.
I think Hobbits smoke the two Captain Black blends I mentioned.
Probably because there is no ranch dressing Cavendish.
Such as J. R. R. Tolkien favoured.
Creamed hobbit.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
AND A STACK OF SIX PACKS
If you are a normal American, you still have several hundred rolls of toilet paper which you bought during the frenzy two years ago stashed in your trailer. And you've discovered that toilet paper is chemically unstable. Some brands turn yellowish and acidic after two years, others loose their elasticity and no longer hold together when handled, falling apart in little powdery shreds that you now can't get off the fingers of your right hand when you flush.
Plus you also have itchy lint in unimaginable places. It's a pain in the .....
Yeah um. My piles bleed for you. There never was a bumwad shortage, and during March of 2020 neither my apartment mate nor myself went totally ape... .
We bought no more TP than usual.
When the Apocalypse hits, Americans will have enough toilet paper and gas station convenience store brand vodka to stave off any number of zombies.
After two years, toilet paper becomes a bio-hazard. The rats that nested in it have mutated. They're now watching Tucker Carlson, and threaten to dismember you if you change the channel. And they're more respected as members of your church than you are. Plus they're urging you to take a job at Mickey D's during the present worker shortage, because that way you can A) score free junkfood (extra cheese), and B) visit the loo elsewhere instead of depleting their nests of insulation and little powdery shreds.
Sure, you are the Apex predator in the household.
But they are the Bpex, and don't you forget.
Your life has changed.
Sadly, folding toilet paper into origami of assault rifles, as you wish your children would do in their free time (good Christian handicrafts that keep their mind off becoming gay and moving to San Francisco) has proven impossible. It disintegrates and causes chemical burns that discolour their finger tips.
The giant radioactive centipede is breaking down your door.
She knows you have toilet paper there.
Food!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Plus you also have itchy lint in unimaginable places. It's a pain in the .....
Yeah um. My piles bleed for you. There never was a bumwad shortage, and during March of 2020 neither my apartment mate nor myself went totally ape... .
We bought no more TP than usual.
When the Apocalypse hits, Americans will have enough toilet paper and gas station convenience store brand vodka to stave off any number of zombies.
After two years, toilet paper becomes a bio-hazard. The rats that nested in it have mutated. They're now watching Tucker Carlson, and threaten to dismember you if you change the channel. And they're more respected as members of your church than you are. Plus they're urging you to take a job at Mickey D's during the present worker shortage, because that way you can A) score free junkfood (extra cheese), and B) visit the loo elsewhere instead of depleting their nests of insulation and little powdery shreds.
Sure, you are the Apex predator in the household.
But they are the Bpex, and don't you forget.
Your life has changed.
The giant radioactive centipede is breaking down your door.
She knows you have toilet paper there.
Food!
==========================================================================
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,...
