ALL THE LOVELY DUMPLINGS

A large group of out-of-towners, around a dozen people, who clearly were an extended family, came into the bakery and proceeded to feast, exclaiming that the pastries were delicious. We don't often get that reaction from tourists. The Europeans will, after much thought cautiously risk one item split four ways, and marvel that Americans bake.
How much more miraculous that these are Chinese Americans!
This family enjoyed their snacks very much.

It became apparent that several of the kids were in Chinese Immersion classes. A seven year old girl softly read the word for watermelon on the wall (西瓜 xīguā, 'sai gwaa'), in Mandarin pronunciation. Later on the dad asked an older daughter what the sign over the entrance to the kitchen said. "Something something something, big". Well, she wasn't wrong, except she was reading it in the wrong direction. But other than that I don't know what it said either.
So I faked it. I feel bad about being so devious.


After leaving, I lit my pipe, and strolled around till I found myself in front of Hon's Wun-Tun on Washington Street, where three young women with deft hands were visible folding dumplings in the front prep area. Two of them making won ton, the third Northern style shui jiao (水餃 'seui gaau'). Which are larger and more meaty.

北式餃子

I watched for about ten minutes till she had finished a tray of them. Northern dumplings are among my favourite foods, very enjoyable indeed with a dash of dark vinegar and a sploodge of chilipaste. There are not many places in Chinatown which have them. To most Cantonese-speakers Seui Gaau mean slightly larger won ton with more shrimp in the filling.
Nice too, but not the same.


There's something magical about small hands deftly and efficiently filling round rolled out dumpling skins. Skilled dexterity. Poetry in motion.


Ma'am, your fingers make beauty.



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LET'S HAVE A TOAST!

There are seven pillars of life that help one maintain one's equanimity and balance in life. As a Dutch speaker in San Francisco, surrounded by diseased savages who emigrated from Arkansas, Mississippi, or Ohio. Or New York, as evinced by the proliferation of bagels, seltzer, mediocre hot dogs, and bad pizza. Errm, make that eight.

Eight pillars. Of civilized life.

Tea, whisky, pipe tobacco, curry, pastries, Chinese food, newspapers, and buttered toast with thick cut Dundee or Oxford marmalade.

These also work if you are a Parsee, or an Indian military officer.

Or, godforbid, if you are Scottish.

Whether you are located in Amsterdam, Bremerhaven, Stockholm, Glasgow, Aberdeen, Gandhinagar, Khadki, or San Francisco, these seven hold. Chilipaste, sambal, or Sriracha add inestimably to two of them. If you are a Parsee or an Indian Military officer, six of them are of even greater importance. Not being either a Parsee OR an Indian military gentleman, regrettably, I have done without whisky since my doctor put me on blood pressure meds.
But have thankfully increased my dosages of the others.

Well, except for the newspapers. I read my news on the internet nowadays, because printed feuilletons have largely become crap. And that goes double for the Algemeen Dagblad and De Telegraaf. If you are from New York, or live there still, then chilipaste, sambal, and Sriracha improve the bagels, dogs, and pizza. Nothing helps with selzer.


Current pipe tobaccos: Anthology and Carolina Red Flake by Cornell & Diehl, Palmetto Balkan by the same company, and Aberrant by Sutliff. The last two mostly at work, where there are open tins. I haven't cracked any of mine yet. Also smoking the flake marketed under the Charatan name (another open tin at work), which is exceedingly nice too.

I wish there was some way of making toast in Mill Valley.
I would keep butter and marmalade there.
It would alleviate matters.


I've already got Sriracha on site.
And tea. And pipe tobacco.



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A VERY NICE CUPPA MASALA CHAI

This morning I woke up considering the distance from the Brahmaputra to Ahmedabad and Bangalore. Because Peter from American Senior Health and his diverse cousins called me up. All of them actually being Jivanji or Guptu, working at call-centers in India, who have for convenience sake chosen very Anglo names, so that they might more seamlessly defraud senile old farts of their retirement funds and live comfortably in their tropic hutments.
So very distant from the mighty Brahmaputra.
Which is in the north.

[Well over a dozen calls between six and eight thirty. All of them different voices. Same script.]

Life is more comfortably in Ahmedabad or Bangalore when you're living on the yankee dollar. Not necessarily any less nasty, brutish, and short, but far more comfortable. You'll be able to afford a nice deluxe paan after tiffin, with some shredded sweet coconut mixed in with the betelnut, clove, and tobacco, as well as take in a movie at Anupama down on Tank Bund Road. Plus some luxury ciggies. A cup of chai in a real porcelain cup, not a bhar.
Oh, that would be so nice!

[A bhar is a disposable earthenware cup the size of a demitasse, for masala chai at a stall.]

So extremely sorry, ji, this doofus gaura will completely not cooperate. If we met face to face, I might treat you to some chai, while trying to dissuade you from nattering on about cricket, but I shall not buy, purchase, subscribe, or rent bugger-all anything over the phone.
Unless I initiated the call, and I won't type anything into my browser.

In fact, given everything going through my head at the moment, I may very well sing you a charming old air from my college days. "The duchess was a-dressing, Dressing for the ball, When she saw the student, Making water on the wall; With his bloody big dingle-dangle, Swinging proud and freeeeeeeee ........ "

In despair you will hang up.
Oh, bugger!

It's a classic. Imagine the sounds of youth in Berkeley.
Raising their cheerful voices over their cups.



What with being more than halfway down the spectrum myself, though not as Aspy as some, I am very much an aficionado of people all working from the same script. The predictability and rote appeal to me. The pauses in their speech for my response allow me creative ways to bollix their expectations.

Alex, on a recorded line, calling from American Benefits, however, is purely recorded Spam.
No real opening for surreal shiznit, so I simply don't say anything, and wait for the programme to register no response and hang up.

Nina with "The Healthcare Department" is a lizard. Possibly alien. Or Filippina.



It is over fourteen hundred kilometers from Ahmedabad (83°Fahrenheit, with nearly zero precipitation at this time) to Bangalore (72°Fahrenheit, rain extremely likely by teatime this afternoon). In Poona, where an old friend lives when she's not in the Bay Area, it will get to over eighty degrees today, and like Ahmedabad there is presently zilch on the rain-horizon. Please imagine pav bhaji with your chai. Bilkul svadista, ji! Ek sau percent yum yum, bapribap!


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UNSTOMACHABLE TWILIGHTS

Isaac looked at his bathroom window and screamed. It was back! He had been trying to avoid it most of his life, but no matter where he fled, it always found him.
And it demanded unspeakable "things".


"Only slightly higher, rather like a lateral pelvic tilt ... "


It wasn't over. It would never be over. His mother was right, he should have listened to her, and settled down with the Beis Jakov girl, instead of going off on a mad adventure.

Isaac is actually a friend who lives overseas, a scribe-musician, involved in some fascinating stuff. But part of his life is, in a way, nightmarish.

Odd objects are stored on the landing, including an ironing board.

Sometimes things take on a life of their own.

Ni. Pêng. Nee-wom!


Part of it is the light where he lives. Part of it is the strange foreign foods that affect the mind, because they affect the digestion. By the way, they have no frikandel there, and probably no Sriracha. So it's a hardship post.



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ABERRANT BIRDS

When I came home, dusk had come and gone; it's cold and dark and crazy people are about. A severely paranoid woman, who had been lecturing a black homosexual about sex slavery and sextortion, plus cyberstalking of her by the airforce, as well as the courts going against the constitution to take away her million dollar mansion, started screaming about Chinese werewolves when getting off the bus. Then a stoner with a skateboard accused the bus driver of theft, while four tourists insisted that he drive them to Chinatown, which he tried to explain was not on his route. When the bus got going again the people sitting in the front of the vehicle started comparing their twelve step programs , with helpful tips and hints.

Gibberant idiot at the bus stop, intoxicated person on the church steps, two druggies doing the "hey man, hey man" bit at the corner. Person waiting at the light stumbles against a car.

Honestly, I just take this bus to get home after dealing with special people in Marin all day.
I try not to catch anybody's eye, and I stay out of random conversations.
And thank you all for being so educational.


One thing I've noticed is that when I have too much nicotine in the system, people tend to be much more irritating than usual. The boss becomes more talkative -- as he was when we sampled 'HH Rustica' last year, oh boy -- I turn into a grounch.

There was an open tin of 'Aberrant' at work. I had three bowls.
And acquired a tin for myself.

SYDNEY FYLBERT WITH "I FOUND IT, BITCHES!"

Which the turkey vulture, Sydney Fylbert, promptly stole once I got home. Claiming that it was his, and swearing that he would "expunge" the rebels circling the perimeter of the airbase, with incredible force, fight off all comers, ultraviolence, he saw it first!
It may be affecting him badly. Some people shouldn't smoke.

"It's mine, you wankers, now piss off!"

He is, sometimes, an obsessive thieving bird.

ABERRANT
Signature Series by Per Georg Jensen

BLURB:
The unique tobacco used, Rustica, is a heavyweight among tobaccos. Originally smoked by the English settlers over 400 years ago, now used to spice up the blend and add strength. The earthy notes from the Rustica are paired with Virginias for sweetness, a note of vinegar, and balance. The blend is rounded off with just a handful of Dark Fired Kentucky as it fits perfectly with the Rustica and to add some underlying smoky notes.
End quote.

Original Artwork by Jacob McKenna

Smoked a big bowl while out walking before bed yesterday evening. The fog vibrated, almost irridescent. There was a feeling of foreboding, a disturbance in the web and woof of the world. And I felt like pissing against the wall of a building, because it irritated me.

This is good stuff. A variegated crumble cake. Medium bodied, broad spectrum of flavours, earthy-fruity, and quite satisfying. Slight peat, slighter pepper. Like a well-aged steak.
Burns cool, and needs only a little drying. I should purchase a few more tins.

Recommended.

You know, I probably shouldn't have so much coffee when I return home. I had trouble sleeping last night and was plagued with weird dreams. Maybe it's because I'm older.

TOBACCO INDEX


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MOIST, WITH CHERRIES

You'd think that having a birthday would, at a certain age, be an almighty depressing thing. But if you just ignore it, it becomes like any other day. I did not mention my birthday to anyone yesterday and in consequence had a pretty enjoyable afternoon. As a child with what was at that time not yet phrased as "on the spectrum", birthdays were always a combination of overstimulation and severe disappointment.
At one party I hid under the table the entire time, invisible because of the tablecloth.
Missed out on the cake, but I didn't have to deal with any people.

Even today, birthday singing makes me cringe.
And I'm just no good at parties.


Naturally I had too much cake. It made me slightly queasy, and after a nap I walked it off.
A lovely chilly evening, somewhat foggy. Saw three young couples while out.
They looked very sweet.

Two years ago my doctor was so pleased when I mentioned that I was taking plenty of walks, and utterly crestfallen when he found out that every walk meant smoking my pipe.
As a man wearing a nicotine patch himself, it distressed him.
Sorry doctor, but at least I'm getting my exercise.
Keeps the guts and the head healthy.
Good for circulation.

The cake was good. Schwartzwalder kirshtorte. Like in the movie Young Frankestein.
Yummy, in fact. Imagine that 'mmmmm' sound.



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ONE MILLION MORONS

Sometimes the nutballs write a book. In the comment string under a clip of Little Demon, the Christians have been having a breeding frenzy.


Quotes:

"This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. John 3:19."

"They are getting more bold. The mass desensitization is happening on a grand scale."

"You have to play the video in really slow motion and look at the symbols that flash at the end. Some satanists were definitely at work on this show."
"
"THIS IS DEMONIC! I'll be praying for those who agree with the devil on this junk and call it, "just entertainment." You're giving the devil permission to plant seeds in your mind and consequences come along with that. If you're a born again believer filled with the Holy Spirit and you're planning on watching this, don't grieve the Holy Spirit; He DOES NOT agree with evil. God bless!!"

"This is pure evil. It is so sad that they pass this off as entertaining… I will definitely be praying for the souls of anyone involved in this atrocity to get right with God before it’s too late."

"We're definitely in the end of the age. Like what is this suppose to be? Like what?"

"Father, I’m ready to build an ark….. "

And so on.

A group calling themselves 'One Million Moms' (actual number: low thousands, most of them juiceless old cretins) tried to get the show cancelled, because it was EVIL! As did The American Family Association (incels, gun nuts, eunuchs, and weepy old men).

This is just one reason why people think Christians have no brains.
As well as sticks up their rears.



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NO POINT IN BEING COY

Might as well get it out into the open: today is my birthday, I'm early sixties, there will be cake, but absolutely no wild abandon. As one commenter on my FB page said, a year closer to death. And seeing as I have a pipe tobacco stockpile which I intend to enjoy completely, I must live till I'm in my nineties. I shall be relying on the folks at Chinese Hospital to make sure of that; they'll hear from me if I don't.

Going down there later this morning to pick up some of my bloodpressure meds.

One question they ALWAYS ask us old farts is "when is your birthday?"

就係今日啦！

Yeah, um, okay.

They ask it because it helps them find us in the system, and it's also a good way to check our mental condition. Is the decrepit old fossil still (relatively) compos mentis, or is he/she starting to lose his/her faculties?

Ladies, I am still in full control of said faculties, more so than ever before, and they weren't any great shakes to begin with. Practice makes perfect.

And please don't expect philosophical insights on being a year older. If there weren't any deep thoughts before, there won't be any today either.


Several times I've had to impress upon my apartment mate that she should NOT purchase something scrumptuous to eat for my birthday. She's Chinese American, and considers food (and far too much of it) festive, and agrees with the turkey vulture that I am too scrawny. But there is absolutely no room in the refrigerator for left-overs (she's Chinese American), half the time I eat elsewhere, and I do only one main meal a day, plus if I eat too much I'll want to take a long nap. Getting older means your metabolism slows down. I am a lizard.
Besides, I don't want wastage.

Sometime next week I'll probably celebrate my advancing decrepitude with a burger or sumpin'. Is there actually a burger joint in SF which also has milk tea? As well as real cheese, not that queer substance Americans think of when burgers are mentioned?

No, a milk shake with it, as would be traditional, would wire me to the tits and put me to sleep immediately. Wait staff in this city are trained to put twitchy somnabulistic people out with the recycling, after rifling their pockets for candy and spare change. Every day there are bags of old folks sleeping next to the garbage, often in the black plastic bins for landfill.

You can hear arthritic creaking from the receptacles, if you listen closely.


The other day I watched an elderly gentleman at the next table chowing down on Hong Kong style French Toast, two slices of white bread, a plate of fried noodles, cheung fan, and a big bowl of plain congee. Jayzus, man, that's some serious starch only, right there. No nutrition whatsoever. Inevitable constipation; at your age you need to worry about that. I hope you have metamucil at home. What you need is meat and veggies, put some flesh on those rickety old bones. Your stuffed turkey vulture will thank you.

Early sixties is NOT old. I'm barely middleaged.

I still listen to Kool And The Gang.


[No, I don't like The Grateful Dead. That's senile old hippy music.]


There will be cake later.
She promised.



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IT'S MENTAL

When I was still a child I cannot remember cake very often. Now, cake is such a happy word. In large part because my apartment mate (formerly my girlfriend; just a good friend for over a decade) made the term so happy sounding. Cake is a cheering thing. I've had more cake as an adult than during my youth. Yesterday I had a slice of lemon Swiss roll cake (檸檬瑞士卷 'ning mung seui si kuen') with afternoon tea at a bakery in Chinatown.
一塊蛋糕，一杯奶茶。Happiness.

For the past two days I've been obsessing over food elsewhere. Panggarap, palakpak, soto, and sambal goreng (veggies with a tamarind sauce, veggies with fishpaste, soup-stew, stirfry with chilipaste). And especially guleh ikan, fish curry, often with chunked vegetables added.

Primarily made with grouper. But other fish can be used. Even salmon.

It's something I can cook, and do, but not very often.
I associate it with Penang and Singapore.
As well as Den Haag.

In the Netherlands, excellent Indonesian and Malay food can be had in Den Haag, to a lesser extent Amsterdam, and at a few restaurants out in the provinces. Here in the United States it is rare, and often a restaurant will have one or two exceptional dishes, and be quite mediocre otherwise.

By necessity I learned how to make the dishes I wished to eat, because otherwise I might never have them again. Here in SF one can nowadays find all the ingredients, but in the vast interior it is, I have heard, difficult. A very good reason not to go there.

You may have noticed a cavalier attitude toward the Red States.
I believe it is evident in very many of my essays.
Food has a lot to do with that.
I can't help it.


Life is primitive in the bush.



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WOMEN ARE NOT A FROG!

A friend posts 'Mysogeny check. Let your phone complete the sentence "women are...".' With predictable results. "Women are not a frog." This was predictable, because it was already widely known. Most of my own life I have been certain that "women are not a frog".
I'm guessing the same goes double for you.


In my life I have encountered many women. And other people.
So far very few of them have proven to be frogs.
Mostly only the anurids.

From Wikipedia: "A frog is any member of a diverse and largely carnivorous group of short-bodied, tailless amphibians composing the order Anura (ανοὐρά, literally without tail in Ancient Greek). The oldest fossil "proto-frog" Triadobatrachus is known from the Early Triassic of Madagascar, but molecular clock dating suggests their split from other amphibians may extend further back to the Permian, 265 million years ago. Frogs are widely distributed, ranging from the tropics to subarctic regions, but the greatest concentration of species diversity is in tropical rainforest. Frogs account for around 88% of extant amphibian species. They are also one of the five most diverse vertebrate orders. Warty frog species tend to be called toads, but the distinction between frogs and toads is informal, not from taxonomy or evolutionary history." End cite.

I'm pretty good at reading. This passage does not describe women. For one thing, they're not 265 million years old.

NOT A WOMAN

So I'd like to put that rumour to rest. It's pernicious.

Except for the clerk at Walgreens and the gentleman with the forklift, everybody I dealt with today was a women. Not a frog in the bunch. Waitress at restaurant, people at next table over, stock clerk at a grocery, cashier same place, lottery ticket clerk.
Old lady looking for Tiger Balm, waitress at bakery ...
No frogs.


My apartment mate is, unsurprisingly, also not a frog.
It's something I keenly appreciate.
She's good at it.



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DISEASE CARRYING IGNORAMUSES

Sometimes there are damned good reasons to discriminate and villify. And, as just one small example, it would be a mighty good idea to keep conservatives from Alberta (Canada) at pitchfork length. Given a refusal to get vaccinated.

"I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a situation in my lifetime where a person was fired from their job, or not allowed to watch their kids play hockey, or are not allowed to go visit a loved one in long-term care or hospital, or not allowed to go get on a plane to either go across the country to see family or even travel across the border."

"They have been the most discriminated against group that I’ve ever witnessed in my lifetime"

------Danielle Smith, premier of Alberta

[SOURCE: Danielle Smith calls unvaxxed people the ‘most discriminated against group’ she’s ever seen -- Toronto Star.]


Boohoo. If they don't get vaccinated, screw their jobs, screw hockey, screw their crossing the border. And screw Danielle Smith and the horse she rode in on. Damned clapped out nag.

Cite: "On Tuesday, Smith announced that she’d be getting rid of Alberta’s chief medical officer of health, Dr. Deena Hinshaw, who helped lead the province through the worst months of the pandemic by advising Kenney and his cabinet." End cite.

Here in California we've had some experience with vaccine-deniers. A number of disease clusters years ago, both in Marin and in Southern California, plus retirement homes that were festering pits of infection, and high schools where sensible people feared to send their kids because of very real risks. There are people who still refuse to take any precautions on public transit, and do not keep a safe distance away from the vulnerable.
As well as far too many tourists from the rest of the country.
Unmasked, and blithely spreading disease.

Nationwide, in the US there have been four thousand deaths from Covid 19 since the end of September. Two hundred thousand since the beginning of the year. Altogether well over a million in the two years seven months since the initial lockdown.

Now, admittedly the rest of the country consists mostly of cavemen, and Canada is filled with funny talking savages, so no big loss there, but for the good of all of us we need to close the state border and keep those morons out. People spreading disease are the unmasked and unvaccinated. And I do not see an issue with banning them.



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CHARRED ANIMAL PROTEIN AND NUKED TUBER

The bookseller always has a burger and fries after getting back to Chinatown/Northbeach. With a glass of the rotgut red. I always sneak a few of his fries, and wash them down with a mixture of Fanta and Coke. I purchase the drinks, he pays for the sustenance. As you would expect, there is Sriracha there. Both of us probably discovered Sriracha at the same time more or less. It must be over a quarter of a century ago, because we ate and drank there since the late eighties, when I lived nearby, and he worked down the street.
Sriracha is the vegetable component of a balanced meal.

I used to drink the wine there too. Stopped doing that when I decided I wasn't man enough. Sometimes it was incredibly nasty. Dang.

The nuked tuber strips are almost always excellent.

Anthony Bourdain liked the place.

It's good.


Having grown up near the Belgian border I have high standards for fries, and after returning to the States I often despaired of finding decent ones, as Americans failed miserably in that regard most of the time. Bl**dy effing awful. Precisely like the cheese, coffee, and beer. Really, you lot should hide your faces in shame.

After a while one adapts. One finds the places run by immigrants that have real cheese, and real coffee, beer, and fries. Sometimes they don't have all of those things. The burger joint can't do a chizbooger with melted blue, and their coffee is typical American slop, but with the decent charred meat, excellent hot tuber strips, and Sriracha, a man can tough it out in the wilderness. Still. That wine. Remarkable. Vin ordinaire des égouts de paris.
The recipe likely dates from prohibition days.

Earlier, as usual, I had smoked a pipe while wandering down to where we meet up after he gets off work. In Spofford Alley three little girls were playing at the near end, a twitchy white street person was settling in for the night with gesticulations in the middle, right in front of the florists shop, and some geezers were huffing ciggies while taking a break from their mahjong game at the far end.

We ended up not visiting the karaoke place; it was filled, and a screaming frathead inside was audible from a block away. There's just something about many drunken white people which makes the world a sadder and more vicious place. I hope the frathead chokes in his sleep.


I had eaten a late lunch earlier in Chinatown; curried fish (咖喱石斑 'gaa lei sek pan') and rice. Sek pan (石斑 "stone variegation") in the strict sense means grouper (a serranid, either Epinephelus or Mycteroperca). But there's no telling what the fish actually was, as fish nomenclature is not set in stone, and translations are often inexact. Good though.

On Wednesday I often have the baked filet of sole with rice ((蒜蓉焗龍脷飯 'suen yung lung lei yu faan') at a chachanteng, one of their three lunch sets. But, for diversity, I'll probably have the club sandwich (公司三文治 'gong si saam man ji') this time instead.
With some excellent fries and Sriracha.

Everything goes with Sriracha.
You know this, right?



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ADMISSION ON 'NATIONAL COMING OUT DAY'

A FB friend mentioned today that he was gay and non-gender conforming. Thus confirming what we all kind of suspected but weren't particularly concerned about, seeing as none of us were interested in dating him, althought he is a dashed handsome devil. See, it's the pipe tobacco he prefers. Some of Cornell & Diehl's more outrageous blends.

But that gayness? I'm middle-aged, straight male, and used to hang out in gay bars because the conversations were better. So, um, I'm okay with all that.

The one time the group of which I was a member had a booth at the Folsom Street Fair was great; the other volunteer in the booth was Orthodox Jewish... and mobility impaired, needing to sit down all the time, which put him right on eye level with everything he didn't want to see. I had great conversations with whole bunches of naked gay men while wondering where they were going to put all the pamphlets I gave them, and consequently still had loads of piss and vinegar left when he was starting to flag, and sounded like red stapler guy. Couldn't talk the group into Folsom Street the next year.

Possibly because the attendees, largely, had no pockets.

Pockets were undoubtedly important in their lives.

Even the women. Women love pockets.



The next time I go on a date, I too shall probably insist on pockets. For myself pockets are key, because that's where I keep pipes and tobacco (jacket, right side), extra pipe cleaners (in a tube) plus extra matches and tamper (jacket, left side), little note book, pen, tamper, five pipe cleaners (shirt, chest), as well as keys matches lighter (left side pants), coins (rsp), plus things like a wallet, and bandaids for my ears to alleviate irritation from mask strap friction and folded kleenexes as well as little yellow sticky notes with crucial data on them.
In other words, all the things for which a woman uses her handbag.

[Naked gay men smoke cigars. Because they have no pockets.]

No, I don't carry my cell phone around with me. It's sitting on the table at home, because there is nothing I want to talk about with an Indian call center while I'm in transit or smoking my pipe after snacking in Chinatown.
And actually, there is nothing I need to talk to them about when I'm not doing that either. The cellular device seems to exist only so that people in India can ask me questions about "American Senior Benefits" or "Medicare part A and Part B".

There is NO need for other people on the bus to hear me accuse folks of having fatty inner thighs and wearing clothes that constrict them. In lieu of my own personal details.
Because I do not answer personal questions when strangers call.
I prefer to sidetrack them instead.

Naturally, if I go on a date again, the woman who said "okay" will not want to hear any of that either. There has, so far, not been any phone conversation involving fried noodles and milk tea (which are likely subjects for discussions during a date), and I haven't had a girlfriend or gone on a date in more than a decade, because women who like fried noodles or milk tea are rare, and hard to find, given that they don't normally wear a sign stuck to their foreheads shouting it out to the world, and my guess would be that they despair of finding the right pipe smoking middle aged Dutchman to enjoy that with, because I also do not wear a sign.


I do not have fatty inner thighs, just so you know.
This displeases my stuffed turkey vulture.
I'm somewhat scrawny.




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THOSE JUICES

My apartment mate plans to get her bivalent shot this weekend, and I hope she really goes through with it. Naturally I want her to survive. I've been encouraging some people to get this third shot, and I've kept silent to others. Because I am selective. And altogether pissy.

Most people with common sense will probably get the bivalent booster soon.
Many people with sh*t for brains will justify not doing so.
It's not a political issue, but it is.


What with being an unpleasant man, I can think of many people whose early demise would not upset me in the slightest. Not all of them are celebrities or politicians or Tucker Carlson.

They all think that they are worthwile human beings.

They are wrong.

This morning's walk with a pipe will be alone in the fog, as usual, after finishing my first cup of coffee and reading the news. Hot coffee wakes me up and gets the vital juices flowing, reading the news pisses me off and gets the vital juices flowing, and an early walk while smoking calms me down, distracts the mind, and also gets the vital juices flowing.
I am a much better human being afterwards.
Perhaps a little more worthwhile.

I'll repeat the process several more time today, and eventually be a saint.



By the way, some of you should really get that third shot.
The others, naaah, forget it, you're good.
No need, no need.



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IN ADDITION TO TOMATOES AND CORN, HUMAN SACRIFICE!

My remarks about Columbus Day / Indigenous People's Day elsewhere were not very well received. And I have been informed that I am irredeemably white. Which, honestly, comes as no surprise. See, there's a mirror in the bathroom, and I can't help seeing myself every morning after I pee. Often I am the first person I see.
Taking a leak is rather essential.
More so when white.

We white people brought witch burnings and genocide to the entire rest of the world, where they were peacefully practicing innocent artistic tribal rituals like suttee, thuggee, extermination of the Dzungarian Tatars, and things of similar beauty.

So, to celebrate the sheer wonderfulness of pre-European invasion original inhabitants living in harmony with nature, all spiritual, I propose bringing back tribal warfare, ritual cannibalism, and sacrificing thousands of war captives to the sun god. For at least one day a year. Today for instance. Maybe we should build a massive pyramid in Berkeley.

PROPOSED HUMAN SACRIFICE PYRAMID FOR BERKELEY

And today we should penitently abstain from pizza, and burritos, as well as Sichuan, Hunan, Thai, Indonesian, Sicilian, Indian, Dutch, or even English food. As penance.
And NO sambal or Sriracha.

I guess that leaves French food.
Oh, the agony.



Neither Columbus nor the indigenous people speak to me. And both pumpkins and corn leave me cold. But potatoes, tomatoes, chilies, and tobacco are irreplaceable in my life.

Things would not be the same without French fries.



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HAPPY COLUMBUS DAY!

In keeping with the traditions of my tribe, I shall not be casting a critical look at white America today, and uttering platitudes about the original inhabitants of this continent or colonialism, technology, or infectious diseases. Nor weeping over all the beauty and saintly harmony with nature that was swept away by rapacious conquistadors and puritans. As the old saying goes: "f*ck that". I figure everybody else can jolly well do it, and they will, so it would be pointless to add further meaningless drivel to the big stinking heap of excoriation.
That's what places like Berkeley and Oakland are for.

Instead, I'll be celebrating coffee, milk tea, fine pipe tobacco, and the invention of printing. If it weren't for Columbus and the rape of an entirely new continent, such blessings as Sriracha and the flake tobacco press would not exist. Nor would the entire California wine sector.

On the plus side, none of us would ever have to eat turkey again.
And there wouldn't be such a thing as "pumpkin spice".

And given that the native diet of Europe north of the Alps was insufficiently nutritious without meat, Vegans wouldn't exist either. That would undoubtedly be a might fine thing.

The burrito as we know it is the direct result of colonialization. And as such, I expect the virtuous people of Berkeley to damned well abstain from feasting on such a thing.
Instead, let them eat plain boiled pumpkin and corn mush.

Plus lima beans. Yum yum, bitches.



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HOBBIT CONVULSIONS

Stumblety-Bumblety is getting more twitchy every time I see him. Much more. This morning he was at the transit centre smacking his ears, pulling a cap as far down as it would go, plus a hood, and frenetically wobbling his head from side to side while quivering and jerking. There must be a name for his condition.
Seeing as he's also vocal at times, I'm glad he didn't get on the bus.
A man trying to transform himself into one of the sandpeople.
While hiding his eyes and ears.

There have been times he's boarded at a mad rush and crashed into everything on his way to the very back, where he turns his headphones up loud enough that the driver has gotten madder at him than he or she already was.

He may suffer from the same mental issues that plagued Steven -- who has disappeared, thank merciful providence -- who loudly proclaimed that a certain celebrity did NOT commit suicide but was offed by Hillary Clinton. Because he knew what she had been doing with the Russians. Which is why he had taken the battery out of his cellphone.
That way they couldn't track him.

They may have tracked him. Haven't seen hide nor hair in two years.

Anyhow, if Steven has not been whacked yet, those two should meet up; they could make each other extremely happy in strange and wonderful ways, rather than the rest of us very uncomfortable.



Neither man is a pipesmoker. Several of whom were around in early afternoon for the meeting of our pipeclub. I can't remember if I told all of them about a new tobacco of which I've heard -- East Farthing, a Latakia blend with Burley and A VANILLA topping -- but by the time of the next meeting a month hence I should find out how many of them are deviantly inclined.

At least three fellow pipesmokers on the internet are hobbit wannabees.
Found that out this morning on Facebook.

To the best of my knowledge each of the gentlepersons in attendance still have all or most of their marbles. But there were only half a dozen (seven) of us today.

NEWS: The South African has finished badgering around in Northern Syria, and resolved his prostate problem -- those two things are NOT related -- and the dignified Frisian gentleman temporarily blacked out. Also not related.
The collector of Rhodesians is being treated for a urinary tract thing and plans to head up to Oregon next week. The skilled woodworker is back on English blends. The president of the club is thinking of buying a pied-à-terre in Athens or Portugal. The only fluent speaker of Dutch marvelled over the splendid cheese.

See, we're normal.

There was enough cheese present to keep everybody happy. At least three kinds. Including some nice creamy Brie. Which was delicious on the garlic and pepper crackers as well as the two kinds of soft flatbread. Exquisite. Cheese is marvelous. Did you know that?

For no logical reason, here's an illustration of sunset somewhere in the South China Sea. It has absolutely nothing to do with any of the foregoing, but it looks "aromatic". Should be a label for something fruity with a Hobbit or Gandalf theme. Even Elvish.

Sherlock Baggins Flake.
Tropical peaches.
Tooty.



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GLAG ME WITH A SPLOON

A show I never watch (because I did not know it was a series, and frankly wouldn't find it interesting anyhow), the Great British Bake-Off, had "Mexican Week". Featuring people with English accents tasked with making approximates of Tex-Mex foods. Like "glockymolo".
I hear it was rife with mispronunciation, stereotypes, bad puns, and stupid jokes.
It sounds like an absolute blast, the cultural event of the season.

I fondly remember the chimichanga I had in London. Largely because it was inedible and I've used it in anecdotes about travel to exotic places (deepest Central London) ever since. The item could be credibly duplicated by mixing two thirds baked beans and one third canned beef stew, wrapping it in a large spongy crepe, and deepfrying it to an even mahogony. Poke it with a knife to drain out the excess oil before plating it next to limp fries, and serve it with condiments on the side. Condiments being no salsa, no hot sauce, no guacamole.
No cheese, no sour cream, no tomatoes or sliced avocado.
Just salt, pepper, and malt vinegar.

The chimichanga is a Texan food invention.

The British chimichanga is a sin.

Much like their chips.


One condiment I'm very fond of is a simple cooked guajillo salsa. It brings out the fruity quality of that dried chile. And improves stupendously after two or three days in the refrigerator. Which is also not really Mexican, but more Arizona and California.
It goes great with chiles rellenos in particular.
Or, for instance, a chimichanga.


Glockymolo. Glood Glod.


Sorry, no illustration for this post. I couldn't think of anything suitable, and I didn't want to post a picture in bad taste. Like English food.

Maybe chicken tikka masala.
That's inoffensive.
Birmingham.



AFTERTHOUGHT:
It was horribly unfair to throw Mexican food at those contestants. It uses things like spices and chilies. You know, flavour. Something with which they were quite unfamiliar.

Probable trauma. Heartache.



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