When I greeted a coworker this morning, he snapped "I have to work on a spreadsheet today, so I'm not in the mood!"
Seeing as I'm a bookkeeper-type individual, I guess I am co-guilty for the existence of spreadsheets, which are a potent tool for torturing sensitive innocents who do not deserve such treatment.
Him, plus kittens and butterflies.
It's all my fault.
"I have to work on a spreadsheet today, so I'm not in the mood!"
MS excel is NOT a blessing, his life would be SO MUCH better without it. For one thing, he'd still use quills and oak-gall ink. The mediaeval work-environment brought joy to thousands, but we bookkeeper-types (and Microsoft) just had to go ruin it with our brisk efficiency and need for quantifiable data; we took all the romance out!
Damn your rectilinear thinking! Damn your verticals and horizontals!
I guess YOU just aren't capable of thinking IN-side the box, huh? It prevents you from maximizing your potential, developing your core skill sets, and expanding your horizons. Organized summationality is too non-intuitive, the rigidity of a framework destroys your cozy relationship with the feeliness of it all. Straightjacket!
RECTILINEATION
Dude, I can remember when I first encountered excel - it was still a Macintosh-based program at that time. I thought it was head and shoulders above Lotus, both 1-2-3 and Symphony. And I had already energetically and enthusiastically mastered both of those. Excel, however, was the bee's knees, the cat's veritable miao.
Since that moment over twenty three years ago, there has scarcely been a day when I did not have an excel file open.
I even dream occasionally in excel.
I can hardly think without it.
No offense really intended, dude, but clearly neither can you.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Now, about the title of this post: Mackerel is not herring.
THINKING OUTSIDE THE BENTO
Yesterday evening Savage Kitten and myself had dinner at a sushi restaurant. She is inordinately fond of seafood, and being a coastal person who spent a lot of time in Holland (a country whose commercial enterprise was first formed by fishing fleets several centuries ago), I too am rather fond of fish.
Many sushi restaurants have herring. Though it is too fatty for Japanese tastes, it is a delicious fish, relatively cheap, easy to trim and slice, and the non-Japanese seem to like it.
This restaurant, however, did not have herring.
They did have mackerel. Like herring, mackerel is fine and fatty, but while the meat of herring is rather buttery, that of mackerel is oily. There is, consequently, a profound difference in mouth-feel, especially when raw. Because of this, and differences in texture and density, the fish can spoil quickly; it must be eaten soon after capture.
For sushi, a mild cure to prolong edibility is common - which precisely explains why I am fond of mackerel sushi. To me, taste-wise, it strongly echoes Dutch-style herring, which is also lightly cured. There is even a similarity of appearance, though the flesh looks softer and less glistensome, and has a yellower hue. It is close enough, and hence very nice.
Savage Kitten however is a purist, and fiercely disagrees.
What it feels like to the tongue is probably a stronger determinant in her case.
"Mackerel is NOT herring!"
The last types of sushi we ordered were ika and maguro. The waitress must have mistaken ika for ikura....
We ate it anyhow. Within the context of a sushi restaurant, and given the variables that influence American pronunciation of Japanese words, a framework is created wherein hearing 'ikura' for 'ika' is both logical and appropriate.
You must appreciate the ikura for what it is.
Mackerel is not herring - it is significantly different.
Salmon roe is not squid, but it is very much the same.
There is no connection between the first part of this post and the last. Though really, there is.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
MARCH OF THE UNACKNOWLEDGED
At the beginning of this week, the company marked another milestone. This was announced with great pride by someone connected with either Marketing or PR - I forget which.
Like the many HUNDREDS of milestones the marking of which we have celebrated in the last ten years, it is earthshaking, boundary-pushing, elemental, glorious - take it from me, as I have heard it multiple times from multiple people.
Marketing, Sales, and the PR branch have circulated congratulatory e-mails of fulsome praise for themselves all over the place. Daily.
This achievement is worthy of cake!
QUOTE:
"Very impressed! ... thought is looked cool ... content was deep ... GREAT JOB ... now LIVE! ... appreciation ... and the many others ... this project the best it can be ... big thanks ... Well done!"
End quote (and you may fill in the blanks).
Yay! Go team! Pom pom pom!
The neuro-typicals are VERY good at this sort of thing. They have changed the world, and done the moral equivalent of curing cancer. Yay.
Hmmmph!
Let’s hear it for the killer Finance team that makes all of this self-congratulatory poofle possible!
And how about the tolerant contributors in Customer Service, OPS, Prod. Dev., and IT, who year after year shore up the creaking timbers of the salt mine?
Yay, us! Yay!
And a raspberry to you!
Please note: NO Marketing People or PR provocateurs were harmed in this post.
We tried, but they weren't even aware of our presence. Sorry.
Plus the skittery little bastards ran away - they saw something shiny.
Like the many HUNDREDS of milestones the marking of which we have celebrated in the last ten years, it is earthshaking, boundary-pushing, elemental, glorious - take it from me, as I have heard it multiple times from multiple people.
Marketing, Sales, and the PR branch have circulated congratulatory e-mails of fulsome praise for themselves all over the place. Daily.
This achievement is worthy of cake!
QUOTE:
"Very impressed! ... thought is looked cool ... content was deep ... GREAT JOB ... now LIVE! ... appreciation ... and the many others ... this project the best it can be ... big thanks ... Well done!"
End quote (and you may fill in the blanks).
Yay! Go team! Pom pom pom!
The neuro-typicals are VERY good at this sort of thing. They have changed the world, and done the moral equivalent of curing cancer. Yay.
Hmmmph!
Let’s hear it for the killer Finance team that makes all of this self-congratulatory poofle possible!
And how about the tolerant contributors in Customer Service, OPS, Prod. Dev., and IT, who year after year shore up the creaking timbers of the salt mine?
Yay, us! Yay!
And a raspberry to you!
Please note: NO Marketing People or PR provocateurs were harmed in this post.
We tried, but they weren't even aware of our presence. Sorry.
Plus the skittery little bastards ran away - they saw something shiny.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
AROMATIC THINGS
Savage Kitten has been one of the most fortunate things to have happened to me; getting that woman crazy enough to actually live with me has been another.
Even though she believes me to be a a weird white man, an utter deviant, and an obsessed sicko, it turns out we are 'simpatico' in a number of ways.
Apparently my weird sick deviance does not disturb her too much.
Well, not any more than is necessary.
My food habits sometimes did surprise her, but were not disturbing at all. She already knew that white people were extremely odd about food. We had fetishes and dislikes. We didn't just eat anything, unlike the Cantonese.
White people were unimaginative eaters - we would order sweet and sour pork over rice every single time.
She and I share the kitchen, more or less, but have divergent ideas about doing so.
If I'm doing the cooking, I can be interrupted at any time for conversation. Multitasking is what whitey does best in a kitchen, though it is debatable that whitey should actually be in the kitchen at all when conversation is necessary - the jury still out.
Conversation is often necessary. I should know that by now.
If she's cooking, however, I must keep my distracting tuchus out of the kitchen as much as possible - whatever is on the stove is a surprise.
Go smoke somewhere, don't bother me; I'm cooking!
Culinarily, my chief function in this relationship is to keep the kitchen stocked with interesting stuff.
She was happy to discover that I kept shrimp paste (Haahm haa jeung 鹹蝦醬) in the refrigerator, along with oyster sauce (ho-yau 蠔油) and various other fragrant condiments.
The 'library' of hot sauces, mostly homemade, was far less thrilling - chilipepper was a fearsome plant, its aficionados possibly psychopaths. Certainly, I was a bad example.
[There was a period several years ago when she kept discovering bags of sugar and jugs of vinegar around the apartment - for a while I had been making and selling my own hot sauce - which convinced her that she was living with a loony. Ferreavensakes, who stores sugar in a bookcase?!? Then some relatives came to town and gibbered about liquor stores and "delicious pastries", ecstatic every time they passed a bakery or place that sold vodka. This convinced Savage Kitten that I was in fact quite 'normal'.]
Homemade peanut sauce, ketjap manis, and stinky Indonesian salad dressings were good, one could use them in many ways.
Coconut milk, olive oil? Sherry instead of rice wine? Cool!
Mayonnaise, mustard, banana ketchup, and chutneys likewise had their uses.
Olives and capers, however, were exceedingly nasty things. Even today she has a hard time thinking of them as edible.
What she really appreciated were the spices.
Cantonese-American girls grow up in an culinary environment that has five-spice powder (ng-heung fun 五香粉), black pepper (Wu-chiew 胡椒), dried orange peel (chanpei 陳皮), and salt (yim 鹽) - Toishanese cooking relies on fresh natural tastes in judicious combinations, plus garlic, and ginger; savoury additions like soy sauce (cheurng-yau 酱油 OR see-yau 豉油), oyster sauce (ho-yau 蠔油); and a number of strongly flavoured dried foods used as lesser ingredients. Hence a multiplicity of spices is virtually unknown.
[Five spice powder is compounded of cloves (ding-heung 丁香), star-anise (baat gok 八角), cinnamon (gwaipei 桂皮), fennel seed (woei-heung 茴香), and Szechuan pepper (faa-chiew 花椒;also called Prickly Ash). These are also found uncombined as whole spices. Star-anise is often used in slow-cooked meats. Additionally, black pepper (胡椒) is used - but the name alone says that it is foreign to the Chinese: 胡椒 ('Wu-chiew') literally means 'Barbarian Pepper'.]
Words that were new to her nearly twenty years ago: Anise, annato, basil (tulsi), bird's eye, black cardamom, black mustard seed (bidji sawi), bukbok kunit (yellow spice mixture), caraway (djinten itam), cayenne, chile de arbol, chiles rocoto, chiltepin, cinnamon (kayu manis), cloves (tjengkei), coriander (katumbar), cumin (djinten), curry leaf, Delhwi garam masala, dried Thai chilies, dry ginger, fenugreek, galangal (langkuwang - dwarf ginger, also called 高良薑), green cardamom, green curry paste, guajillo, Habanero, Jalapeno, kaffir lime (djeruk perut), kala masala, kluwak nuts, lemon grass (sere), mace, nutmeg (buwa pala), oregano, paprika, paura (bukbok ura - red spice mixture), red curry paste, saffron, sambal santaka, Scotch Bonnet, serrano, Sindhi garam masala, sweet Spanish pepper, tamo kuntji ('Chinese keys'), thyme, turmeric (kunit), white pepper, yellow curry paste.
She can recognize most of these things by sight now. Which means she no longer has to call me in and ask "what is this?". That alone has made cooking more fun for her - she can happily putter about and experiment without needing me to enter the kitchen at all, and her ever increasing familiarity with my spice shelf has made the results extraordinary.
The role of a Dutchman is to keep her supplied with exotic spices.
Now keep quiet and go smoke somewhere!
A secondary role is to remember exactly where each spice is, from the other side of the firmly closed kitchen door.
No, don't come in, just tell me where I put it!
Naturally, I remember spices - I am a Dutchman.
Even though she believes me to be a a weird white man, an utter deviant, and an obsessed sicko, it turns out we are 'simpatico' in a number of ways.
Apparently my weird sick deviance does not disturb her too much.
Well, not any more than is necessary.
My food habits sometimes did surprise her, but were not disturbing at all. She already knew that white people were extremely odd about food. We had fetishes and dislikes. We didn't just eat anything, unlike the Cantonese.
White people were unimaginative eaters - we would order sweet and sour pork over rice every single time.
She and I share the kitchen, more or less, but have divergent ideas about doing so.
If I'm doing the cooking, I can be interrupted at any time for conversation. Multitasking is what whitey does best in a kitchen, though it is debatable that whitey should actually be in the kitchen at all when conversation is necessary - the jury still out.
Conversation is often necessary. I should know that by now.
If she's cooking, however, I must keep my distracting tuchus out of the kitchen as much as possible - whatever is on the stove is a surprise.
Go smoke somewhere, don't bother me; I'm cooking!
Culinarily, my chief function in this relationship is to keep the kitchen stocked with interesting stuff.
She was happy to discover that I kept shrimp paste (Haahm haa jeung 鹹蝦醬) in the refrigerator, along with oyster sauce (ho-yau 蠔油) and various other fragrant condiments.
The 'library' of hot sauces, mostly homemade, was far less thrilling - chilipepper was a fearsome plant, its aficionados possibly psychopaths. Certainly, I was a bad example.
[There was a period several years ago when she kept discovering bags of sugar and jugs of vinegar around the apartment - for a while I had been making and selling my own hot sauce - which convinced her that she was living with a loony. Ferreavensakes, who stores sugar in a bookcase?!? Then some relatives came to town and gibbered about liquor stores and "delicious pastries", ecstatic every time they passed a bakery or place that sold vodka. This convinced Savage Kitten that I was in fact quite 'normal'.]
Homemade peanut sauce, ketjap manis, and stinky Indonesian salad dressings were good, one could use them in many ways.
Coconut milk, olive oil? Sherry instead of rice wine? Cool!
Mayonnaise, mustard, banana ketchup, and chutneys likewise had their uses.
Olives and capers, however, were exceedingly nasty things. Even today she has a hard time thinking of them as edible.
What she really appreciated were the spices.
Cantonese-American girls grow up in an culinary environment that has five-spice powder (ng-heung fun 五香粉), black pepper (Wu-chiew 胡椒), dried orange peel (chanpei 陳皮), and salt (yim 鹽) - Toishanese cooking relies on fresh natural tastes in judicious combinations, plus garlic, and ginger; savoury additions like soy sauce (cheurng-yau 酱油 OR see-yau 豉油), oyster sauce (ho-yau 蠔油); and a number of strongly flavoured dried foods used as lesser ingredients. Hence a multiplicity of spices is virtually unknown.
[Five spice powder is compounded of cloves (ding-heung 丁香), star-anise (baat gok 八角), cinnamon (gwaipei 桂皮), fennel seed (woei-heung 茴香), and Szechuan pepper (faa-chiew 花椒;also called Prickly Ash). These are also found uncombined as whole spices. Star-anise is often used in slow-cooked meats. Additionally, black pepper (胡椒) is used - but the name alone says that it is foreign to the Chinese: 胡椒 ('Wu-chiew') literally means 'Barbarian Pepper'.]
Words that were new to her nearly twenty years ago: Anise, annato, basil (tulsi), bird's eye, black cardamom, black mustard seed (bidji sawi), bukbok kunit (yellow spice mixture), caraway (djinten itam), cayenne, chile de arbol, chiles rocoto, chiltepin, cinnamon (kayu manis), cloves (tjengkei), coriander (katumbar), cumin (djinten), curry leaf, Delhwi garam masala, dried Thai chilies, dry ginger, fenugreek, galangal (langkuwang - dwarf ginger, also called 高良薑), green cardamom, green curry paste, guajillo, Habanero, Jalapeno, kaffir lime (djeruk perut), kala masala, kluwak nuts, lemon grass (sere), mace, nutmeg (buwa pala), oregano, paprika, paura (bukbok ura - red spice mixture), red curry paste, saffron, sambal santaka, Scotch Bonnet, serrano, Sindhi garam masala, sweet Spanish pepper, tamo kuntji ('Chinese keys'), thyme, turmeric (kunit), white pepper, yellow curry paste.
She can recognize most of these things by sight now. Which means she no longer has to call me in and ask "what is this?". That alone has made cooking more fun for her - she can happily putter about and experiment without needing me to enter the kitchen at all, and her ever increasing familiarity with my spice shelf has made the results extraordinary.
The role of a Dutchman is to keep her supplied with exotic spices.
Now keep quiet and go smoke somewhere!
A secondary role is to remember exactly where each spice is, from the other side of the firmly closed kitchen door.
No, don't come in, just tell me where I put it!
Naturally, I remember spices - I am a Dutchman.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
GREAT ROAD KILL STATE
A friend and colleague is moving to Texas. Naturally we gathered to drink him under the table in farewell. I'm not sure we succeeded - he's a hardened twenty something, and you know how dissipated that lot are - but if you had overheard our conversation while we were trying to get him hammered, you might pity Texas.
"Dude, you should buy a Glock 17."
"Why?"
"Because the ammo is available everywhere; Ohio, Estonia, Glasgow..... "
"So you're saying that it's an unimaginative weapon? I think I'd rather have something unique."
"No no no, man, suppose you get attacked by penguins, and there you are, without any ammo....."
"Penguins in Texas?"
"Well, say somewhere else - Alabama or the Congo, look, the idea is that you don't want the penguins to win!"
"Then if I'm attacked by penguins, all I have to do is go to the nearest Walmart....?"
"Exactly! Blam blam blam!"
"While you're there, get a gun rack."
"I don't even have a pickup truck, why should I get a gunrack?"
"For your bike or whatever - you don't want the natives to think you're wussy."
"How on earth would they know I'm from California?"
"Hey, get one of those things they have all over Texas, you know, that thing, what's it called ..... ?"
"Roadkill?"
"No, not roadkill, but that reminds me, you should get a stuffed armadillo holding a beer can. They got those too. It's like a cottage industry or sumpin' "
"Okay."
"Chicken-fried bacon strips! Chicken-fried bacon strips!"
"I am SO there!"
"Let us know if you need a care package."
"Dude!"
Anyhow, I'm a little hung-over today, and Alex is on his way to the Lone Star Republic.
Good luck, little water monkey, good luck and G-d speed.
Your boss finally came in about half an hour ago, looking rather green. Must have turned into a Texas-sized brawl after I left, huh?
They don't have Guinness in Texas, just so you know. Real men have Budweiser with their quiche.
Avoid penguins.
"Dude, you should buy a Glock 17."
"Why?"
"Because the ammo is available everywhere; Ohio, Estonia, Glasgow..... "
"So you're saying that it's an unimaginative weapon? I think I'd rather have something unique."
"No no no, man, suppose you get attacked by penguins, and there you are, without any ammo....."
"Penguins in Texas?"
"Well, say somewhere else - Alabama or the Congo, look, the idea is that you don't want the penguins to win!"
"Then if I'm attacked by penguins, all I have to do is go to the nearest Walmart....?"
"Exactly! Blam blam blam!"
"While you're there, get a gun rack."
"I don't even have a pickup truck, why should I get a gunrack?"
"For your bike or whatever - you don't want the natives to think you're wussy."
"How on earth would they know I'm from California?"
"Hey, get one of those things they have all over Texas, you know, that thing, what's it called ..... ?"
"Roadkill?"
"No, not roadkill, but that reminds me, you should get a stuffed armadillo holding a beer can. They got those too. It's like a cottage industry or sumpin' "
"Okay."
"Chicken-fried bacon strips! Chicken-fried bacon strips!"
"I am SO there!"
"Let us know if you need a care package."
"Dude!"
Anyhow, I'm a little hung-over today, and Alex is on his way to the Lone Star Republic.
Good luck, little water monkey, good luck and G-d speed.
Your boss finally came in about half an hour ago, looking rather green. Must have turned into a Texas-sized brawl after I left, huh?
They don't have Guinness in Texas, just so you know. Real men have Budweiser with their quiche.
Avoid penguins.
Monday, August 16, 2010
STINKING RICH
Savage Kitten is of the opinion that I am insane. Bonkers. Barking mad, in fact.
No, this is not a recent development. But events of the last six years have impressed it upon her much more than ever before.
Well, one event.
One long drawn-out event.
Since Marty Pulvers, the proprietor of Sherlock's Haven, retired, I have been stockpiling pipe tobacco. Initially I was just making sure that I wouldn't run out of favourite blends after Marty sold the store. Then there was the state proposition to tax tobacco out of existence in 2006 - not its officially stated purpose, you understand, but definitely a long-term goal of the health nut fringe. It was a cause of minor heart palpitations to tobacco afficionados.
In the run-up to the November election the non-smokers in San Francisco became insufferable, damn gloating beasts. Many of them were openly crowing over the gouging that would happen after their assuredly overwhelming victory. While they hooted and gibbered, I stockpiled.
The proposition was defeated, which took the wind out of their sails and the hot-air out of their squawking. They sulked, brooded, wept.
I still stockpiled.
Shortly afterwards, while I still stockpiled, British American Tobacco had a temper tantrum, and broke off their relationship with the company to whom they had farmed out most of their blends. They finally sold rights to everything except Dunhill (the most desirable brand) to their blender. I still stockpiled.
When the various Dunhill mixtures disappeared from American tobacconists shelves, I had socked away over five hundred tins - enough for ten years of smoking.
Dan Tobaccos also disappeared. Got a few years worth of those, too.
Supplies of both Samuel Gawith and Germains have been irregular - sometimes a surfeit, sometimes a painfull dearth - for the past few years.
I shan't run out of either brand any time soon.
Further increases in tobacco taxes, plus the conviction that the State of California is out to get me, have only encouraged me to stockpile.
Stuff that I like eventually becomes unavailable.
Neurosis is a good thing.
Today I received ten more tins of Three Oaks.
I'm still stockpiling.
At present I have more than a quarter of a century's supply of pipe-tobacco stashed away. I shall be smoking till the day I croak.
Tobacco improves with age, and much of it will have been unavailable for years by then. What remains will be worth several hundred dollars per tin.
Savage Kitten will be inheriting some prime e-bay material.
Maybe then she won't think I'm so crazy after all.
========================================================
========================================================
.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, this is not a recent development. But events of the last six years have impressed it upon her much more than ever before.
Well, one event.
One long drawn-out event.
Since Marty Pulvers, the proprietor of Sherlock's Haven, retired, I have been stockpiling pipe tobacco. Initially I was just making sure that I wouldn't run out of favourite blends after Marty sold the store. Then there was the state proposition to tax tobacco out of existence in 2006 - not its officially stated purpose, you understand, but definitely a long-term goal of the health nut fringe. It was a cause of minor heart palpitations to tobacco afficionados.
In the run-up to the November election the non-smokers in San Francisco became insufferable, damn gloating beasts. Many of them were openly crowing over the gouging that would happen after their assuredly overwhelming victory. While they hooted and gibbered, I stockpiled.
The proposition was defeated, which took the wind out of their sails and the hot-air out of their squawking. They sulked, brooded, wept.
I still stockpiled.
Shortly afterwards, while I still stockpiled, British American Tobacco had a temper tantrum, and broke off their relationship with the company to whom they had farmed out most of their blends. They finally sold rights to everything except Dunhill (the most desirable brand) to their blender. I still stockpiled.
When the various Dunhill mixtures disappeared from American tobacconists shelves, I had socked away over five hundred tins - enough for ten years of smoking.
Dan Tobaccos also disappeared. Got a few years worth of those, too.
Supplies of both Samuel Gawith and Germains have been irregular - sometimes a surfeit, sometimes a painfull dearth - for the past few years.
I shan't run out of either brand any time soon.
Further increases in tobacco taxes, plus the conviction that the State of California is out to get me, have only encouraged me to stockpile.
Stuff that I like eventually becomes unavailable.
Neurosis is a good thing.
Today I received ten more tins of Three Oaks.
I'm still stockpiling.
At present I have more than a quarter of a century's supply of pipe-tobacco stashed away. I shall be smoking till the day I croak.
Tobacco improves with age, and much of it will have been unavailable for years by then. What remains will be worth several hundred dollars per tin.
Savage Kitten will be inheriting some prime e-bay material.
Maybe then she won't think I'm so crazy after all.
========================================================
========================================================
.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, August 13, 2010
GROUND ZERO MOSQUE
There has been inordinate amount of noise recently about the stated intent by a Muslim organization to build a mosque on ground zero, which is hallowed ground. The mosque will mark Islamic dominance, and the Muslim victory over the West.
Except, of course, that that is balderdash.
The only part of it which is true is that mosque will be called “The Ground Zero Mosque” by most people.
You can thank America’s bigoted moron fringe for that last development, as the name they have given it will stick.
GROUND ZERO MOSQUE
In actual fact it is a cultural centre which will include a mosque in addition to restaurants, plus recreational, educational, and exercise facilities.
It is not on ground zero but two blocks away – and in so populous a city as New York, two blocks is a very fair distance.
It's on private property, manifestly not part of the ground zero site, in a district which is centrally located, and home to a very large number of people from all over the planet – Muslims, Buddhists, Christians, Animists, Atheists, and G-d knows what else including possibly worshippers of Saint Sarah Palin, Moose Killer.
The actual location is a defunct Burlington Coat Factory store.
At present, bums micturate against its 'hallowed' walls.
The opposition to the "mosque" is spearheaded by, among others, Pamela Geller, John Joseph Jay, Robert Spencer, David Yerushalmi, Newt Ginggrich, and Dutch political maverick and sometime media whore Geert Wilders.
These people are not exactly sane and balanced - the best that can be said for them is that they are possibly human. None of them is particularly known for rational discourse.
Truth be told, despite the Jews who have jumped on board the anti-mosque bandwagon, what fuels this debate is mean spirited Christian bullshit.
Bucket loads of it.
There's also more than a hint of racism in the opposition to the 'mosque'.
That, too, is a reflection of mean spirited Christian bullshit.
RELIGIOUS BUILDING
"If two blocks is too close to Ground Zero, how far away would be acceptable? Six blocks? One mile? Ten miles?"
------Chicago Sun-Times columnist Neil Steinberg
Two of the most prominent buildings in San Francisco are cathedrals - the Catholics have their monstrosity on the edge of Japantown, the Anglicans occupy the top of Nob Hill with a Gothic wedding cake. Both of these Christian houses of worship dominate their areas in a way which will be impossible for Cordoba House in New York.
Frankly, the presence of both of those Cathedrals repulses me. The long struggle for survival against Spain, Portugal, and the Church of Rome that my Calvinist ancestors fought still demands requital, and that the pussy Anglicans built a neo-Gothic horror out of cement, with frills and curlicues, instead of something more serene and Californian in its inspiration, demonstrates more than anything else possibly could that those sneering and superior WASPS can be as tacky, tasteless, and nouveau riche as anyone else.
Both of those buildings are scarce more than vulgarity brushed broad.
But in the United States, freedom of religion includes the right to build your religious edifices where and how you please.
1.General rule. No government shall impose or implement a land use regulation in a manner that imposes a substantial burden on the religious exercise of a person, including a religious assembly or institution, unless the government can demonstrate that imposition of the burden on that person, assembly or institution
a. is in furtherance of a compelling governmental interest; and
b. is the least restrictive means of furthering that compelling governmental interest.
HALLOWED GROUND
Pamela Geller and her repulsive cronies also wish to assert that Ground Zero, and everything within several blocks of it, is sacred territory, and that the Muslims by their evil plan would pollute it. Fie!
Bollocks - There is NOTHING there that is sacred. We Americans are not idolators or death worshippers. New York real-estate is by no means magic, and other than the actual site of ground zero, there is no symbolic value to any plot of land there.
"Sinds die Engelstaligen de boel verpest hebben is Nieuw Amsterdam naar de kloten gegaan."
['since the English speakers poxed the place, New Amsterdam has gone to the testicles'.]
I absolutely refuse to worship New York. Or its pizza. Or any of the stuff that is so New Yorkese.
I do not watch 'Friends' or 'Barney Miller'. Kojak was a lousy show too.
Broadway sucks. New York franks are pretty much crap, cheesecake gives me bile, big-ass sandwiches are an abomination.
As a refugee from that G-d forsaken place once said, "it was insanely loud, hot, and smelled like sulfur; perhaps for some folks it's their vision of the life hereafter."
To finish, let me quote another friend: "If New York represents anything, it represents the diversity, tolerance and vitality of America. Standing against a mosque and cultural center does not honor those traditions."
Except, of course, that that is balderdash.
The only part of it which is true is that mosque will be called “The Ground Zero Mosque” by most people.
You can thank America’s bigoted moron fringe for that last development, as the name they have given it will stick.
GROUND ZERO MOSQUE
In actual fact it is a cultural centre which will include a mosque in addition to restaurants, plus recreational, educational, and exercise facilities.
It is not on ground zero but two blocks away – and in so populous a city as New York, two blocks is a very fair distance.
It's on private property, manifestly not part of the ground zero site, in a district which is centrally located, and home to a very large number of people from all over the planet – Muslims, Buddhists, Christians, Animists, Atheists, and G-d knows what else including possibly worshippers of Saint Sarah Palin, Moose Killer.
The actual location is a defunct Burlington Coat Factory store.
At present, bums micturate against its 'hallowed' walls.
The opposition to the "mosque" is spearheaded by, among others, Pamela Geller, John Joseph Jay, Robert Spencer, David Yerushalmi, Newt Ginggrich, and Dutch political maverick and sometime media whore Geert Wilders.
These people are not exactly sane and balanced - the best that can be said for them is that they are possibly human. None of them is particularly known for rational discourse.
Truth be told, despite the Jews who have jumped on board the anti-mosque bandwagon, what fuels this debate is mean spirited Christian bullshit.
Bucket loads of it.
There's also more than a hint of racism in the opposition to the 'mosque'.
That, too, is a reflection of mean spirited Christian bullshit.
RELIGIOUS BUILDING
"If two blocks is too close to Ground Zero, how far away would be acceptable? Six blocks? One mile? Ten miles?"
------Chicago Sun-Times columnist Neil Steinberg
Two of the most prominent buildings in San Francisco are cathedrals - the Catholics have their monstrosity on the edge of Japantown, the Anglicans occupy the top of Nob Hill with a Gothic wedding cake. Both of these Christian houses of worship dominate their areas in a way which will be impossible for Cordoba House in New York.
Frankly, the presence of both of those Cathedrals repulses me. The long struggle for survival against Spain, Portugal, and the Church of Rome that my Calvinist ancestors fought still demands requital, and that the pussy Anglicans built a neo-Gothic horror out of cement, with frills and curlicues, instead of something more serene and Californian in its inspiration, demonstrates more than anything else possibly could that those sneering and superior WASPS can be as tacky, tasteless, and nouveau riche as anyone else.
Both of those buildings are scarce more than vulgarity brushed broad.
But in the United States, freedom of religion includes the right to build your religious edifices where and how you please.
1.General rule. No government shall impose or implement a land use regulation in a manner that imposes a substantial burden on the religious exercise of a person, including a religious assembly or institution, unless the government can demonstrate that imposition of the burden on that person, assembly or institution
a. is in furtherance of a compelling governmental interest; and
b. is the least restrictive means of furthering that compelling governmental interest.
HALLOWED GROUND
Pamela Geller and her repulsive cronies also wish to assert that Ground Zero, and everything within several blocks of it, is sacred territory, and that the Muslims by their evil plan would pollute it. Fie!
Bollocks - There is NOTHING there that is sacred. We Americans are not idolators or death worshippers. New York real-estate is by no means magic, and other than the actual site of ground zero, there is no symbolic value to any plot of land there.
"Sinds die Engelstaligen de boel verpest hebben is Nieuw Amsterdam naar de kloten gegaan."
['since the English speakers poxed the place, New Amsterdam has gone to the testicles'.]
I absolutely refuse to worship New York. Or its pizza. Or any of the stuff that is so New Yorkese.
I do not watch 'Friends' or 'Barney Miller'. Kojak was a lousy show too.
Broadway sucks. New York franks are pretty much crap, cheesecake gives me bile, big-ass sandwiches are an abomination.
As a refugee from that G-d forsaken place once said, "it was insanely loud, hot, and smelled like sulfur; perhaps for some folks it's their vision of the life hereafter."
To finish, let me quote another friend: "If New York represents anything, it represents the diversity, tolerance and vitality of America. Standing against a mosque and cultural center does not honor those traditions."
Thursday, August 12, 2010
FAT LITTLE VIRGINS
Fellow blogger Dovbear has posted a list of the best things that he has ever eaten. As you would expect, it is an interesting reflection of his environment, and I recommend reading his post, both for the vicarious gustatory pleasure as well as what is says about the man.
"The chicken is out of this world"
No, he's not the Swedish Chef.
He also suggested if any other semi-famous bloggers would like to pick up the meme, he would link in exchange for a link. I cannot claim to be semi-famous or even semi-infamous. In the slightest.
But I am an almighty opportunist. And I like the idea.
FUNNEST FOODS - A LIST
Herring at Van Altena's stand outside the Rijksmuseum
Mr. Van Altena was neurotic about the quality and presentation of his merchandise, and the cleanliness of his stand. He sold the finest and most delicious groene haring you would ever see, perfectly trimmed and boned - a veritable sushi-chef's praestation. His haring-kot was a landmark.
Unfortunately, he closed a few years back, because the municipality would not allow him to upgrade his water lines. Rabbosai, this was a tragedy of horrific proportions. Savage Kitten wept when she heard the news.
FYI: Groene haring is the same as matjes herring. The term 'matje' is demotic from 'maagdje', a 'little virgin'. So-called because the little virgin is still immature, and has been storing up fat for her first winter. It's the high percentage of fat which makes her delicious.
Once the fish is caught, it is gutted except for the alvleesklier (pancreas), and lightly salted, packed, chilled. The pancreatic enzymes and the very mild cure combined make for a very tender bit of fish. Now, in order to kill the herring nematode, Dutch law requires that the beastie get frozen solid for twenty four to forty eight hours, then thawed again under precise conditions. It is this which allows one to enjoy Dutch-style herring year-round, instead of just during the fishing season. As you may have surmised, Dutch herring is raw by American standards, though not so by Japanese taste. The cure is very light indeed.
Pickled herring is no substitute. Aside from being a repulsive German abomination of no edibility whatsoever. Just so you know. Ick poo.
Lunch at Heathrow AirportThe English are not famous for their food. About some of which the less said the better. Far worse than mediocre English food, however, is the prepackaged slopkettle which airlines are pleased to serve as grub on their longer flights. So it was with considerable pleasure that I discovered a chain of caviar huts at Heathrow. What the heck, why not? In addition to caviar, they also had smoked salmon, gravlax, and various other wonderful fishy things, plus chilled vodka.
We had lunch there while waiting for our flight. I drank her vodka. Then we had lunch again, less than five minutes after our first lunch. And more vodka - it came with the meal.
I was happy as a clam all the way back to San Francisco, and sneeringly rejected the humble chow that was offered on board. Darn fine eating, baby.
Dinner in AntwerpWhen Savage Kitten and I were overseas, we tripped to Antwerpen for the day. Yes, we left the hotel at a reasonable hour....... but en-route to Amsterdam Centraal Station we ran into obstacles. You see, there were herring stands (haring kotten) along the way. Savage Kitten felt a pressing though not altogether practical need to sample their wares, right then and right there, in order to compare them to Van Altena - in the spirit of scientific inquiry of course.
We arrived at the trainstation several hours delayed, nearly six hours later we rolled into Antwerpen. By then Savage Kitten's bloodsugar levels had plummeted, and she was tired, grumpy, and mewling fiercely. Only one thing to do - drag her to a restaurant and feed her.
At a place of which not even a trace remains on the internet, we feasted on a sumptuous array of chilled seafoods, followed by a few discrete warm dishes, and luscious desserts.
We've revisited Belgium a number of times since.
To quote Savage Kitten, more or less, "the Belgians beat the pants off of you Dutch when it comes to food good gracious you guys got nothing nothing man those Belgians can cook you guys suck you know that really suck hah eel and cheese but the Belgians that fish those shrimp the mussels anguilles au vert the darling little lamb chops baa baaaaaaa waterzooi and those chocolates pralines pastries the delightful pate carbonade soup sausages - cheeses H. that was good that was something oowee really can we go back again soon can we can we can we?"
Sushi for several hundred dollarsIn the early eighties there was a sushi restaurant at Grant and Bush, before that intersection became the Eurotrash district of Chinatown. It was a very good sushi restaurant. One time, several of us drove from Berkeley to San Francisco in the middle of the night to eat there, as we lusted for fine fish. We stayed till four in the morning. We spent every last dime we had. We left with smiles all over our faces and all over our insides.
Curried potatoesFor several years I worked at an Indian restaurant. The chef, Jeet Singh Rawat, was a clean man, and a darn fine cook. There was a dish he made for the staff which was fairly simple but utterly delicious. Potato chunks in a modicum of buttery spicy sauce. It was not on the menu, but was similar in some ways to a typical restaurant vindaloo - there was a tangy element almost overpowered by the main reason many Indians eat out: ghee. Plus garlic, cumin, fenugreek, deghi mirch, etcetera.
Gehakte leber
Which is how I found out about gout. It wasn't my own gehakte leber that did it. It was hers. I am too lazy to make it often, so she made some. It was very enjoyable. Delicious. Smooth, but not too smooshy - the smoothness was schmaltz. Liver, schmaltz, onion. Sheer heaven.
The attack of gout lasted for three days. I am become a grumpy old coot.
"The chicken is out of this world"
No, he's not the Swedish Chef.
He also suggested if any other semi-famous bloggers would like to pick up the meme, he would link in exchange for a link. I cannot claim to be semi-famous or even semi-infamous. In the slightest.
But I am an almighty opportunist. And I like the idea.
FUNNEST FOODS - A LIST
Herring at Van Altena's stand outside the Rijksmuseum
Mr. Van Altena was neurotic about the quality and presentation of his merchandise, and the cleanliness of his stand. He sold the finest and most delicious groene haring you would ever see, perfectly trimmed and boned - a veritable sushi-chef's praestation. His haring-kot was a landmark.
Unfortunately, he closed a few years back, because the municipality would not allow him to upgrade his water lines. Rabbosai, this was a tragedy of horrific proportions. Savage Kitten wept when she heard the news.
FYI: Groene haring is the same as matjes herring. The term 'matje' is demotic from 'maagdje', a 'little virgin'. So-called because the little virgin is still immature, and has been storing up fat for her first winter. It's the high percentage of fat which makes her delicious.
Once the fish is caught, it is gutted except for the alvleesklier (pancreas), and lightly salted, packed, chilled. The pancreatic enzymes and the very mild cure combined make for a very tender bit of fish. Now, in order to kill the herring nematode, Dutch law requires that the beastie get frozen solid for twenty four to forty eight hours, then thawed again under precise conditions. It is this which allows one to enjoy Dutch-style herring year-round, instead of just during the fishing season. As you may have surmised, Dutch herring is raw by American standards, though not so by Japanese taste. The cure is very light indeed.
Pickled herring is no substitute. Aside from being a repulsive German abomination of no edibility whatsoever. Just so you know. Ick poo.
Lunch at Heathrow AirportThe English are not famous for their food. About some of which the less said the better. Far worse than mediocre English food, however, is the prepackaged slopkettle which airlines are pleased to serve as grub on their longer flights. So it was with considerable pleasure that I discovered a chain of caviar huts at Heathrow. What the heck, why not? In addition to caviar, they also had smoked salmon, gravlax, and various other wonderful fishy things, plus chilled vodka.
We had lunch there while waiting for our flight. I drank her vodka. Then we had lunch again, less than five minutes after our first lunch. And more vodka - it came with the meal.
I was happy as a clam all the way back to San Francisco, and sneeringly rejected the humble chow that was offered on board. Darn fine eating, baby.
Dinner in AntwerpWhen Savage Kitten and I were overseas, we tripped to Antwerpen for the day. Yes, we left the hotel at a reasonable hour....... but en-route to Amsterdam Centraal Station we ran into obstacles. You see, there were herring stands (haring kotten) along the way. Savage Kitten felt a pressing though not altogether practical need to sample their wares, right then and right there, in order to compare them to Van Altena - in the spirit of scientific inquiry of course.
We arrived at the trainstation several hours delayed, nearly six hours later we rolled into Antwerpen. By then Savage Kitten's bloodsugar levels had plummeted, and she was tired, grumpy, and mewling fiercely. Only one thing to do - drag her to a restaurant and feed her.
At a place of which not even a trace remains on the internet, we feasted on a sumptuous array of chilled seafoods, followed by a few discrete warm dishes, and luscious desserts.
We've revisited Belgium a number of times since.
To quote Savage Kitten, more or less, "the Belgians beat the pants off of you Dutch when it comes to food good gracious you guys got nothing nothing man those Belgians can cook you guys suck you know that really suck hah eel and cheese but the Belgians that fish those shrimp the mussels anguilles au vert the darling little lamb chops baa baaaaaaa waterzooi and those chocolates pralines pastries the delightful pate carbonade soup sausages - cheeses H. that was good that was something oowee really can we go back again soon can we can we can we?"
Sushi for several hundred dollarsIn the early eighties there was a sushi restaurant at Grant and Bush, before that intersection became the Eurotrash district of Chinatown. It was a very good sushi restaurant. One time, several of us drove from Berkeley to San Francisco in the middle of the night to eat there, as we lusted for fine fish. We stayed till four in the morning. We spent every last dime we had. We left with smiles all over our faces and all over our insides.
Curried potatoesFor several years I worked at an Indian restaurant. The chef, Jeet Singh Rawat, was a clean man, and a darn fine cook. There was a dish he made for the staff which was fairly simple but utterly delicious. Potato chunks in a modicum of buttery spicy sauce. It was not on the menu, but was similar in some ways to a typical restaurant vindaloo - there was a tangy element almost overpowered by the main reason many Indians eat out: ghee. Plus garlic, cumin, fenugreek, deghi mirch, etcetera.
Gehakte leber
Which is how I found out about gout. It wasn't my own gehakte leber that did it. It was hers. I am too lazy to make it often, so she made some. It was very enjoyable. Delicious. Smooth, but not too smooshy - the smoothness was schmaltz. Liver, schmaltz, onion. Sheer heaven.
The attack of gout lasted for three days. I am become a grumpy old coot.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
SPLEENS IN THE MIST
I don’t know what it is. Perhaps the cold weather. It affects people.
One of my coworkers has indicated that in her estimation I am an incompetent and don’t know my job. That, at least, seems to be the gist of an angry e-mail squawk.
I have no evidence that she knows my job either.
Apparently, in addition to calling the relevant accounts payable contact person regarding a past-due invoice, I am also supposed to alert the buyer, the stock clerk, the warehouse manager, the receiving department, and the president of the delinquent company, in addition to our sales people, their marketing department, various important vice presidents, and the entire gardening crew of a gated community.
Had I alerted the customer that there was a past-due invoice?
Yes.
I left a clear message for the AP department. In addition to sending an e-mail.
As this customer is quite reliable, and financially stable besides, it is likely that the invoice has been misplaced. Their average days to pay are within five days of the due date. There have been some changes there but nothing to worry about, so no doubt in the fullness of time the invoice will be taken care of.
Whether the accounts payable person intends to tell the buyer, stock clerk, warehouse manager, receiving department, comptroller, president, or anybody else (possibly including but not limited to: salesreps, gatekeepers, coffeelady person, janitorial staff, or even the entire neighborhood) about the past-due invoice which is or will be paid (in the fullness of time) is not known to me.
I do not see how that would help…….. but it probably can’t do any harm.
If she feels like it, why not?
I have no idea what the customs are regarding past-due invoices in deep South Texas.
Maybe they garland them with strings of marigolds and sprightly bear them forth dancing, ere writing the cheque. All with great ceremony. Perhaps even feasting.
Bully for them if so.
The order that is scheduled to ship next week will indeed ship – I see no reason to hold it past the scheduled ship date.
There is, in fact, no indication that anything needs to be brought to the attention of the buyer, the stock clerk, the warehouse manager, the receiving department, and the company president. Or any sales people, marketing departments, concerned citizens, vice presidents, Fox newscasters, robed dignitaries, shrive-designated priests or witchdoctors, powerful local headmen and their retained soothsayers and ritualists, blind bards, or whoever mows the lawn and trims the shrubbery in any gated community anywhere.
The world is not coming to an end.
Not over this account in any case.
Trust me.
[-----LONG PAUSE-----]
In order to regain my composure – now that I’ve been alerted that I am an incompetent, just spinning my thumbs, and probably vastly overpaid for that paltry and useless service, in all no more than a hindrance to the proper functioning of the company and an unnecessesary obstacle to profit – I took a walk.
I ended up going to a tobacconist I seldom patronize, to browse quietly among the leaves.
While there I found a tin of pipe tobacco which they may have had on the shelf since Marty retired five years ago. In any case, several years old, nicely tin-aged and probably a delight to smoke. It’s a great find, and I shall enjoy it immensely.
Why had that tin of tobacco not sold in the interim?
Well, for much the same reason that I seldom patronize them.
They don’t know what they are doing.
Just like me.
One of my coworkers has indicated that in her estimation I am an incompetent and don’t know my job. That, at least, seems to be the gist of an angry e-mail squawk.
I have no evidence that she knows my job either.
Apparently, in addition to calling the relevant accounts payable contact person regarding a past-due invoice, I am also supposed to alert the buyer, the stock clerk, the warehouse manager, the receiving department, and the president of the delinquent company, in addition to our sales people, their marketing department, various important vice presidents, and the entire gardening crew of a gated community.
Had I alerted the customer that there was a past-due invoice?
Yes.
I left a clear message for the AP department. In addition to sending an e-mail.
As this customer is quite reliable, and financially stable besides, it is likely that the invoice has been misplaced. Their average days to pay are within five days of the due date. There have been some changes there but nothing to worry about, so no doubt in the fullness of time the invoice will be taken care of.
Whether the accounts payable person intends to tell the buyer, stock clerk, warehouse manager, receiving department, comptroller, president, or anybody else (possibly including but not limited to: salesreps, gatekeepers, coffee
I do not see how that would help…….. but it probably can’t do any harm.
If she feels like it, why not?
I have no idea what the customs are regarding past-due invoices in deep South Texas.
Maybe they garland them with strings of marigolds and sprightly bear them forth dancing, ere writing the cheque. All with great ceremony. Perhaps even feasting.
Bully for them if so.
The order that is scheduled to ship next week will indeed ship – I see no reason to hold it past the scheduled ship date.
There is, in fact, no indication that anything needs to be brought to the attention of the buyer, the stock clerk, the warehouse manager, the receiving department, and the company president. Or any sales people, marketing departments, concerned citizens, vice presidents, Fox newscasters, robed dignitaries, shrive-designated priests or witchdoctors, powerful local headmen and their retained soothsayers and ritualists, blind bards, or whoever mows the lawn and trims the shrubbery in any gated community anywhere.
The world is not coming to an end.
Not over this account in any case.
Trust me.
[-----LONG PAUSE-----]
In order to regain my composure – now that I’ve been alerted that I am an incompetent, just spinning my thumbs, and probably vastly overpaid for that paltry and useless service, in all no more than a hindrance to the proper functioning of the company and an unnecessesary obstacle to profit – I took a walk.
I ended up going to a tobacconist I seldom patronize, to browse quietly among the leaves.
While there I found a tin of pipe tobacco which they may have had on the shelf since Marty retired five years ago. In any case, several years old, nicely tin-aged and probably a delight to smoke. It’s a great find, and I shall enjoy it immensely.
Why had that tin of tobacco not sold in the interim?
Well, for much the same reason that I seldom patronize them.
They don’t know what they are doing.
Just like me.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
REAL ANIMAL LOVER
There’s a small personable dog outside the office building. It is on a leash, and the leash is attached to a sandwich board. The small dog is patiently waiting for the return of its human being.
The human being whose "return" is so patiently being awaited is in plain sight, in a long line of other humans at a food truck. The small dog is single-minded, and will not be distracted. It looks in one direction only, barely even sniffing my fingers before once more focusing intently on someone a few yards away.
I pride myself on offering a veritable smorgasbord of smells - do you know where my fingers have been? This is perilously close being rejected. My reek isn't fascinating enough for you?
The small dog, however, is completely uninterested. It just wants to know when its human being will stop standing in line and rejoin it. Everything else is moot.
The small dog is a dachshund puppy.
Dachshunds are very likeable creatures, due to their temperament, character, and intelligence.
Quite unlike chihuahuas, which are nasty little fluffbits suitable only for being dropkicked down California Street. Much like their high-strung dimwit bimbo owners.
CHIWAWAWAWAWA!
I used to wonder why so many decadent money-lenders' playthings owned chihuahuas. What was it that attracted these women of obvious mental deficiency to the runty little obscenities? Why did they so like having an ambulatory crap factory in their handbags? What was it about four-legged cockroaches that so appealed to them?
Well yes, I realized that the complete absence of any intelligence, let alone personality, played a factor..... much like it did with the choices made by men who maintained them......
Sort of like a having a perfectly brainless lump of quivering meat. Decorative, but no interaction actually required.
Not something that appeals to me, but degustibus non disputandem etcetera.
Still. Evenso. Why?
Now I know.
Chihuahua is also a slang term for penis.
Appropriate, no?
I suspect that if someone were to dropkick a chihuahua down California Street, a dachshund would wait expectantly for the decadent money-lender's plaything to be also hefted into the air. Dachshunds know what is proper.
The human being whose "return" is so patiently being awaited is in plain sight, in a long line of other humans at a food truck. The small dog is single-minded, and will not be distracted. It looks in one direction only, barely even sniffing my fingers before once more focusing intently on someone a few yards away.
I pride myself on offering a veritable smorgasbord of smells - do you know where my fingers have been? This is perilously close being rejected. My reek isn't fascinating enough for you?
The small dog, however, is completely uninterested. It just wants to know when its human being will stop standing in line and rejoin it. Everything else is moot.
The small dog is a dachshund puppy.
Dachshunds are very likeable creatures, due to their temperament, character, and intelligence.
Quite unlike chihuahuas, which are nasty little fluffbits suitable only for being dropkicked down California Street. Much like their high-strung dimwit bimbo owners.
CHIWAWAWAWAWA!
I used to wonder why so many decadent money-lenders' playthings owned chihuahuas. What was it that attracted these women of obvious mental deficiency to the runty little obscenities? Why did they so like having an ambulatory crap factory in their handbags? What was it about four-legged cockroaches that so appealed to them?
Well yes, I realized that the complete absence of any intelligence, let alone personality, played a factor..... much like it did with the choices made by men who maintained them......
Sort of like a having a perfectly brainless lump of quivering meat. Decorative, but no interaction actually required.
Not something that appeals to me, but degustibus non disputandem etcetera.
Still. Evenso. Why?
Now I know.
Chihuahua is also a slang term for penis.
Appropriate, no?
I suspect that if someone were to dropkick a chihuahua down California Street, a dachshund would wait expectantly for the decadent money-lender's plaything to be also hefted into the air. Dachshunds know what is proper.
Monday, August 09, 2010
IF IT SMELLS LIKE UNDERWEAR ...
Underneath a posting in which I said some very good things about Samuel Gawith tobaccos, linking their blends to various San Francisco-specific personality types, "Boltcutter" wrote: "I for one am a Captain Black man. What does that say about me. Be honest - I can take it."
[This post: Clean Wholesome Habits Only.]
Really, what can one think about such a frank admission of personality issues?
Dude, you are a heretic. We used to burn people like you. Or send them to Holland.
Deservedly so.
"I for one am a Captain Black man. What does that say about me. Be honest - I can take it."
You know what you like. I would not want to spend much ("any") time in the presence of your pipes, but Captain Black, underneath that cloying funk, is actually made from pretty decent tobacco. It was developed by Herman Lane back in the sixties, I believe, in order to supply a demand for a 'quality' aromatic. If the consumers want it, it must have valid properties.
Wouldn't smoke it myself, though. The words "last tobacco on earth" come to mind.......
I too occasionally veer into aromatic territory, as I like a bit of perverted fun now and then. Sometimes Erinmore, sometimes 1792 Flake - both of which I've stockpiled, as well as Independence by Dan Tobaccos, of which I've only got a few tins left.
NEVER EVER AGAIN THIS HORRIFYING ABORTION OF A BLEND: CLAN
All the Aromatics I have written about can be found here: Oooooh, Stinky!.
[But, if you sincerely wish to reform your evil ways, you really should read about Balkan Sobranie - it will open your eyes to a whole new world. Although it is no longer available, it is still the model by which many mavens and obsessive types judge tobaccos.]
Okay..... The ball is back in your court.
APPENDIX:TOBACCO PERSONALITIES - CONDENSED VERSION
1792 Flake: Electric pink panties, bright smile. Charming.
Balkan Flake: Lacy underwear, ruffles, spectacles, hello kitty. Girlish.
Commonwealth Mixture: Lovely raven hair, bright face. Evil sense of humour.
Full Virginia Flake: Dark skirts, pale blouses, strings of pearls, a perfect little lady.
Grousemoor: Fondness for smutty literature, only one brassiere (size: mosquito bite). Petite.
Skiff Mixture: Blue jeans, sweaters, ponytail. Sparkling.
Squadron Leader: Kissy-poo lips, blushing cheeks. Quite charming.
Saint James Flake: Spunky and vivacious. Stimulating conversationalist.
Westmoreland Mixture: Lacy garments well hidden, long soft hair, smart aleck. Self-assured.
[All products listed above are from Samuel Gawith, which is a very fine English tobacco company located in Kendall, Cumbria, somewhere north of nearly everywhere else.]
You see, anyone who smokes Samuel Gawith has a lot of common sense for her age, as well as exceptional taste, and quite the enchanting personality.
So we can assume that it must be incredibly popular among Cantonese-American high school girls attending Lowell.
The smoker of Captain Black, however, is probably a large butch blonde.
And the less said about such a person, the better.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[This post: Clean Wholesome Habits Only.]
Really, what can one think about such a frank admission of personality issues?
Dude, you are a heretic. We used to burn people like you. Or send them to Holland.
Deservedly so.
"I for one am a Captain Black man. What does that say about me. Be honest - I can take it."
You know what you like. I would not want to spend much ("any") time in the presence of your pipes, but Captain Black, underneath that cloying funk, is actually made from pretty decent tobacco. It was developed by Herman Lane back in the sixties, I believe, in order to supply a demand for a 'quality' aromatic. If the consumers want it, it must have valid properties.
Wouldn't smoke it myself, though. The words "last tobacco on earth" come to mind.......
I too occasionally veer into aromatic territory, as I like a bit of perverted fun now and then. Sometimes Erinmore, sometimes 1792 Flake - both of which I've stockpiled, as well as Independence by Dan Tobaccos, of which I've only got a few tins left.
NEVER EVER AGAIN THIS HORRIFYING ABORTION OF A BLEND: CLAN
All the Aromatics I have written about can be found here: Oooooh, Stinky!.
[But, if you sincerely wish to reform your evil ways, you really should read about Balkan Sobranie - it will open your eyes to a whole new world. Although it is no longer available, it is still the model by which many mavens and obsessive types judge tobaccos.]
Okay..... The ball is back in your court.
APPENDIX:TOBACCO PERSONALITIES - CONDENSED VERSION
1792 Flake: Electric pink panties, bright smile. Charming.
Balkan Flake: Lacy underwear, ruffles, spectacles, hello kitty. Girlish.
Commonwealth Mixture: Lovely raven hair, bright face. Evil sense of humour.
Full Virginia Flake: Dark skirts, pale blouses, strings of pearls, a perfect little lady.
Grousemoor: Fondness for smutty literature, only one brassiere (size: mosquito bite). Petite.
Skiff Mixture: Blue jeans, sweaters, ponytail. Sparkling.
Squadron Leader: Kissy-poo lips, blushing cheeks. Quite charming.
Saint James Flake: Spunky and vivacious. Stimulating conversationalist.
Westmoreland Mixture: Lacy garments well hidden, long soft hair, smart aleck. Self-assured.
[All products listed above are from Samuel Gawith, which is a very fine English tobacco company located in Kendall, Cumbria, somewhere north of nearly everywhere else.]
You see, anyone who smokes Samuel Gawith has a lot of common sense for her age, as well as exceptional taste, and quite the enchanting personality.
So we can assume that it must be incredibly popular among Cantonese-American high school girls attending Lowell.
The smoker of Captain Black, however, is probably a large butch blonde.
And the less said about such a person, the better.
TOBACCO INDEX
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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HULA TILL YOU'RE BLUE!
Several friends suggested that we should attend a cultural event - The 16th Annual San Francisco Aloha Festival - held at the Presidio. That was this past weekend.
Saturday & Sunday, August 7 & 8, 2010, 10am - 5pm
San Francisco Presidio Main Post/Parade Grounds
(next to the Visitor Center and Officers' Club)
http://www.pica-org.org/AlohaFest/index.html
Food, music, dancing! Hula hula hula! Mele mele mele!
I left the decision up to Savage Kitten. Saturday was out of the question, as she had a family thing to attend. On Sunday, when I brought matter up, she was ... pensive.
She likes other people's foods. And their interesting cultural quirks. Browsing handicrafts is always fun, and there might even be piles of meat!
We decided not to go. The prospect of watching large golden brown people with goosebumps and hula skirts going into hypothermic shock did not appeal to us. And we aren't trained first responders, so.......
ALOHA!
Coldest darn summer in San Francisco in decades. Bitter, nasty, positively Canadian. Like the buggery moors of Scotland. When I went out to Japantown yesterday afternoon to buy some books, an arctic wind was blowing. After leaving Kinokunya I could feel my beard turning soggy from the droplets in the air.
Japantown is considerably warmer and more sheltered than the Presidio.
Do Polynesians turn greyish when they're cold? Are chattering teeth acceptable rythmic accompaniment?
Is there a graceful and poetic way to dance-mime "I'm freezing my papa-kole off"?
These are questions for which I have no answer.
Maybe next year I shall go on my own. Wearing a sealfur Mikimak parka and heavy woolen underwear.
If I'm not back in a month, send in a rescue party.
Saturday & Sunday, August 7 & 8, 2010, 10am - 5pm
San Francisco Presidio Main Post/Parade Grounds
(next to the Visitor Center and Officers' Club)
http://www.pica-org.org/AlohaFest/index.html
Food, music, dancing! Hula hula hula! Mele mele mele!
I left the decision up to Savage Kitten. Saturday was out of the question, as she had a family thing to attend. On Sunday, when I brought matter up, she was ... pensive.
She likes other people's foods. And their interesting cultural quirks. Browsing handicrafts is always fun, and there might even be piles of meat!
We decided not to go. The prospect of watching large golden brown people with goosebumps and hula skirts going into hypothermic shock did not appeal to us. And we aren't trained first responders, so.......
ALOHA!
Coldest darn summer in San Francisco in decades. Bitter, nasty, positively Canadian. Like the buggery moors of Scotland. When I went out to Japantown yesterday afternoon to buy some books, an arctic wind was blowing. After leaving Kinokunya I could feel my beard turning soggy from the droplets in the air.
Japantown is considerably warmer and more sheltered than the Presidio.
Do Polynesians turn greyish when they're cold? Are chattering teeth acceptable rythmic accompaniment?
Is there a graceful and poetic way to dance-mime "I'm freezing my papa-kole off"?
These are questions for which I have no answer.
Maybe next year I shall go on my own. Wearing a sealfur Mikimak parka and heavy woolen underwear.
If I'm not back in a month, send in a rescue party.
Friday, August 06, 2010
FINE TOISHANESE QUALITY!
As you know, I drink and smoke. Abstention, in my life, is something best sampled sparingly. But I do not swear.
Savage Kitten on the other hand makes up for my defects by not drinking or smoking at all.
She swears like a trooper, but in her hands that’s a virtue. I have mentioned her mouth elsewhere, so shall not go into it here. It’s a very Cantonese thing.
[The Cantonese cannot help their foul tongues. Their native speech is a multi-layered construct of blisteringly unprintable hyperbole, made the more fertile by imaginative phrasing and a keen appreciation for the expressive possibilities of filth. A Cantonese woman swearing up a storm is a sight to hear – the earth shakes, dark clouds gather, and the temperature drops several degrees. Learn the language, then you will know.]
Pursuant a previous posting, reader Ari asked "Are you sure she doesn't smoke stogies or swill beer?"
Quite. Absolutely. One hundred and ten percent.
She is womanly virtue personified.
For one thing, she can't drink. If she has one or two teaspoons of whiskey in her warm milk at night, she'll sleep like a baby. A sip of hooch makes her face flush, and her mind will quiver dangerously in its moorings.
Which, I should add, is very disturbing.
Cantonese minds are twisty little beasts at the best of times, how much more so when the bonds of sobriety are loosened? Fortunately a stiff shot would knock her out before she got up on the table to dance.
As for smoking, a few weeks ago I was so thoroughly enjoying a pipeful of Three Oaks mixture that I suggested she take a delicate puff to taste. She has still not forgiven me.
Tobacco is the devil's weed. I am an evil white man. Punkt.
I rest secure in the knowledge that she will never smoke.
"Are you sure she doesn't smoke stogies or swill beer?"
A few years ago she won several medals at a martial arts tournament in Nevada. In high spirits she called me up to request a bottle of Champagne to celebrate when she came home.
I purchased a very good brand....... she likes good champagne, not that cheap swill that's served by her sister-in-law's crowd at baby showers. Or whenever. Expensive, lah!
It was a VERY good brand.
She drank a quarter of a glass.
Two weeks later I used the rest of the bottle in a pork stew. With dried mushrooms. And anchovies melted in the butter before adding the meat. I didn't want it to go bad, you see.
It was the most expensive pork stew I have ever made. But it was very good.
Savage Kitten on the other hand makes up for my defects by not drinking or smoking at all.
She swears like a trooper, but in her hands that’s a virtue. I have mentioned her mouth elsewhere, so shall not go into it here. It’s a very Cantonese thing.
[The Cantonese cannot help their foul tongues. Their native speech is a multi-layered construct of blisteringly unprintable hyperbole, made the more fertile by imaginative phrasing and a keen appreciation for the expressive possibilities of filth. A Cantonese woman swearing up a storm is a sight to hear – the earth shakes, dark clouds gather, and the temperature drops several degrees. Learn the language, then you will know.]
Pursuant a previous posting, reader Ari asked "Are you sure she doesn't smoke stogies or swill beer?"
Quite. Absolutely. One hundred and ten percent.
She is womanly virtue personified.
For one thing, she can't drink. If she has one or two teaspoons of whiskey in her warm milk at night, she'll sleep like a baby. A sip of hooch makes her face flush, and her mind will quiver dangerously in its moorings.
Which, I should add, is very disturbing.
Cantonese minds are twisty little beasts at the best of times, how much more so when the bonds of sobriety are loosened? Fortunately a stiff shot would knock her out before she got up on the table to dance.
As for smoking, a few weeks ago I was so thoroughly enjoying a pipeful of Three Oaks mixture that I suggested she take a delicate puff to taste. She has still not forgiven me.
Tobacco is the devil's weed. I am an evil white man. Punkt.
I rest secure in the knowledge that she will never smoke.
"Are you sure she doesn't smoke stogies or swill beer?"
A few years ago she won several medals at a martial arts tournament in Nevada. In high spirits she called me up to request a bottle of Champagne to celebrate when she came home.
I purchased a very good brand....... she likes good champagne, not that cheap swill that's served by her sister-in-law's crowd at baby showers. Or whenever. Expensive, lah!
It was a VERY good brand.
She drank a quarter of a glass.
Two weeks later I used the rest of the bottle in a pork stew. With dried mushrooms. And anchovies melted in the butter before adding the meat. I didn't want it to go bad, you see.
It was the most expensive pork stew I have ever made. But it was very good.
Thursday, August 05, 2010
FILTERED PORK PRODUCTS
There were over fifty e-mails that I did not get today. And actually, I’m feeling good about that. Not everything ever sent needs to arrive.
Most of the e-mails were about wonderful things I can do with my penis. Now, you would think that having had the thing for several years (my whole life, in fact), I myself would be most cognizant of strange tricks I can do with Brother Dongus. I’m in the best position to know, right?
No.
There’s a panel of experts out there, all of them alerting me to misuse.
Or leastways, incomplete or haphazard use. Of my penis. There is SO much more I can and should be doing (with my Johnson) that they feel the need to contact me.
Several of the e-mails had titles that referenced medication.
I did not open them, because I know EXACTLY where my John Thomas has been in the last thirty years or more, and I have reason to believe it has only been in good wholesome places.
My penis has led a fine upstanding life, in fact.
No medical treatment needed.
A number of e-mails suggested I should either encourage breathlessness, panicked gasping for air, or violent agitation.
Possibly this would also involve medication, and did I already mention that I’ve kept complete and accurate track of what my Dangling Modifier has ever done, and where?
I'm rather OCD that way. It's a gift.
Some messages were captioned in a way that suggested that penile dimensions and electric energy were linked – I do not intend to solve the energy crisis myself, so I did not read those either.
ZESTY YOUNG NUNS!
The one about teenage lesbians in the rectory looked interesting, but having seen more than enough nude documentaries over the years I am painfully aware that my tastes and the tastes of the average home and garden pervert do, in fact, differ considerably. I have good taste, the average deviant doesn’t.
Almost everything that Bubba MacSmut likes is unpleasant – the common pornographer has the jejune tastes of a twelve-year old, and the cinematographic hamhandedness of a tourist with a new gadget. We do NOT need to see your auntie wave at the camera in front of cousin Betsy blowing the world’s oldest donkey. But thank you for the offer, and feel free to keep showing that vacation tape to your friends and family.
They’ll be delighted!
The saddest e-mail was the one that may have suggested that sex with a teacher was in the cards.
I cannot remember any teachers who appealed to me in that way, although several of them did smoke cigars, and I like cigars. Cigars are very good.
Cigars are not a sound basis for exploitative sex with elderly people, however. And even though they weren’t elderly when I knew them, even in that day and age they weren’t quite my ‘type’.
Sorry.
Besides, it just isn’t right to depend on teachers for a bang. They probably cannot handle it with equanimity, and seeing the person who forced his exuberant youth on them in class everyday might make them nervous. In any case it would affect their instruction. Some teachers are shy, and blush easily, a few stutter at the drop of a hat.
And many are far too obsessed with their own peculiar subject to be interested in anyone else's "peculiar subject".
As per the recommendation of our e-mail filter, I have deleted all e-mails selected. Somewhere a spammer is weeping.
Most of the e-mails were about wonderful things I can do with my penis. Now, you would think that having had the thing for several years (my whole life, in fact), I myself would be most cognizant of strange tricks I can do with Brother Dongus. I’m in the best position to know, right?
No.
There’s a panel of experts out there, all of them alerting me to misuse.
Or leastways, incomplete or haphazard use. Of my penis. There is SO much more I can and should be doing (with my Johnson) that they feel the need to contact me.
Several of the e-mails had titles that referenced medication.
I did not open them, because I know EXACTLY where my John Thomas has been in the last thirty years or more, and I have reason to believe it has only been in good wholesome places.
My penis has led a fine upstanding life, in fact.
No medical treatment needed.
A number of e-mails suggested I should either encourage breathlessness, panicked gasping for air, or violent agitation.
Possibly this would also involve medication, and did I already mention that I’ve kept complete and accurate track of what my Dangling Modifier has ever done, and where?
I'm rather OCD that way. It's a gift.
Some messages were captioned in a way that suggested that penile dimensions and electric energy were linked – I do not intend to solve the energy crisis myself, so I did not read those either.
ZESTY YOUNG NUNS!
The one about teenage lesbians in the rectory looked interesting, but having seen more than enough nude documentaries over the years I am painfully aware that my tastes and the tastes of the average home and garden pervert do, in fact, differ considerably. I have good taste, the average deviant doesn’t.
Almost everything that Bubba MacSmut likes is unpleasant – the common pornographer has the jejune tastes of a twelve-year old, and the cinematographic hamhandedness of a tourist with a new gadget. We do NOT need to see your auntie wave at the camera in front of cousin Betsy blowing the world’s oldest donkey. But thank you for the offer, and feel free to keep showing that vacation tape to your friends and family.
They’ll be delighted!
The saddest e-mail was the one that may have suggested that sex with a teacher was in the cards.
I cannot remember any teachers who appealed to me in that way, although several of them did smoke cigars, and I like cigars. Cigars are very good.
Cigars are not a sound basis for exploitative sex with elderly people, however. And even though they weren’t elderly when I knew them, even in that day and age they weren’t quite my ‘type’.
Sorry.
Besides, it just isn’t right to depend on teachers for a bang. They probably cannot handle it with equanimity, and seeing the person who forced his exuberant youth on them in class everyday might make them nervous. In any case it would affect their instruction. Some teachers are shy, and blush easily, a few stutter at the drop of a hat.
And many are far too obsessed with their own peculiar subject to be interested in anyone else's "peculiar subject".
As per the recommendation of our e-mail filter, I have deleted all e-mails selected. Somewhere a spammer is weeping.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
SANDY, QUICK, AND FRAGRANT
We have been informed that our Hong Kong office is now on the other side of the road.
For the benefit of my coworkers, most of whom will never read this, here's a bit of linguistic help.
[If your machine is not configured to show Chinese script,you are well and truly hosed. Sorry.]
ADDRESS
地址 : 香港 九龍 尖沙咀東 麼地道 xx號 xx廣場 xx樓 xx室
[地址 address ('day-djee'; earth location, address): 香港 Hong Kong (Fragrant Harbour); 九龍 Kowloon (Nine Dragons); 尖沙咀東 Tsim Sha Tsui Tung (Sharp Sand Chew East); 麼地道 Mody Road (What? Earth Road; 道road, way, darma; also the Tao spoken of so fondly by white hippies) xx號 number xx xx廣場 XX Kwong Cheung ('XX Broad Stage/Threshing floor; 廣場 public square, commercial centre; 場 stage or threshing floor) xx樓 xxth storey (樓 lou = floor, storey; multi-storeyed building) xx室 xx room (室 sat = room, compartment, domicile).]
"Heungkong Kaulung Tseemsatsoey-tung, Mo-day tow xx ho, XX Kwong-cherng, xx lau, xx sat."
Region or country first, then city, then district, then street address, then floor, then room (suite).
Now please practice writing and saying that until you've got it down perfectly. There may be a test.
-----------------------------------------------------------
ADDITIONAL DATA
SHARP SAND
Tsim Sha Tsui (尖沙咀), often abbreviated TST, is an urbanised area in the Yau Tsim Mong District (油尖旺區) in southern Kowloon (九龍), Hong Kong (香港).
Tsim Sha Tsui East is mostly land reclaimed from Hung Hom Bay (紅磡灣; Hung Ham Waan - red sea-cliff bay) east of Tsim Sha Tsui. The area is bordered on the north by Austin Road and in the east by Hong Chong Road.
Geographically, Tsim Sha Tsui is a cape on the tip of the Kowloon Peninsula pointing towards Victoria Harbour (維多利亞港 Wei Do Lei Ya Gong). Several villages existed here before Kowloon was ceded to the British in 1860. Tsim Sha Tsui in Chinese means sharp sand mouth. It was also known as Heung Po Tau (香埗頭), fragrant wharf head - because of the export of tree-incense.
SWIFT WATER
Maps from the Ming (明朝) and Ching (清朝) dynasties give the channel between Tsim Sha Tsui and Central as Chung Mun (中門 middle gate) because it is located in between two other channels, Kap Shui Mun (汲水門 gulp water gate) in the west and Lei Yue Mun (鯉魚門 carp gate) in the east.
Kap Shui Mun (汲水門) is a large channel, between Lantau Island (爛頭 raggedy head, also called 大嶼山 - taai yu san: big islet mountain) and Ma Wan (馬灣 horse bay). It is on the major route along the southern coast, from Victoria Harbour to the Pearl River.
The original name of Kap Shui Mun was the same, but written with a different first character (急水門), thus reading as fast-moving water gate, which accurately references the treacherous current in the channel. In order to change the associations of the name with something more fortuitous, it was renamed: kap shui mun (汲水門), "water-fetching gate". Water implies wealth (so, in a sense, 'wealth seize gate').
SINKING FRANGRANCE
Incense tree (Aquilaria sinensis) from the New Territories was warehoused at wharves in Tsim Sha Tsui and transferred to Shek Pai Wan (石排灣 rock rows bay) on the southern shore of Hong Kong Island to be exported to rest of the world. Hence, of course, the name 'Fragrant Harbour' (香港 Heung Kong).
Aquilaria sinensis (agarwood 沈香 tsam heung: sinking frangrance) is a species of tree in the Thymelaeaceae family, native to China. The tree produces a heavy wood used for incense. Previously, incense sticks of this wood were manufactured in Hong Kong, but due to the scarcity of the wood this is now rare. Sandal wood and winter pear are still made locally, however.
The fragrant quality of the wood results from a stress condition that creates resin-rich strata within the heart wood. The resin can be extracted in large quantities at the site of natural fungal infections, or by incising to a depth of two inches through the bark. After a few years the resin which will have collected in the affected part can be harvested. Formerly, the tree would be felled and the resin expressed out by heat. Resin-rich pieces of the wood are still sold as an expensive and pure incense. Trees older than two decades yielded the best incense, and were more resin-rich, than young growth.
Nowadays decent quality agarwood is also derived from a related tree, Aquilaria malaccensis, but supplies of even that are diminishing.
Another name for the product is Pak Muk Heung (白木香) (White Wood Fragrance), because of the white to off-white hue of the wood.
NOTE: the very best 沈香 comes from old trees long dead in the wilds of Annam and Tonkin, or their malaccensis kin in the forests of Malaya and Borneo. These products can still be found in San Francisco if one looks with perseverance. But if such things are not available, or only the cheaper brands, you might prefer Snow Pear Fragrance (雪梨香 suut-lei heung).
Aquilaria renders a resinous almost oily aroma when smoldering, sandalwood and white sandalwood can be quite sweet, Snow Pear gives a thin dry mildly floral woodsiness.
Because of the spare fragrance of Snow Pear and the powderiness of the sawdust used to manufacture stick incense, joss can only be made when the humidity in the air is just right - less glue is used so as not to overpower - and the sticks can easily crack, the wood powder flake off in chunks, if badly made or improperly stored.
When you find it available, buy a few bundles for later.
All wood incenses discourage mosquitoes, evoke a literary mood, and will furthermore disguise the smell of pipe tobacco smoked in the side room overlooking the garden late at night, which one's significant other may have expressly and unreasonably forbidden.
Incense adds to the quality of life.
ADDENDUM: A FEW OTHER TERMS RELATED TO INCENSE
檀 Taan = sandalwood; purple-red; a surname.
紫檀 Zi taan = red sandalwood; 紫 Zi = purple, purple red; a surname.
青檀 Tseng taan = blue-green sandalwood (Pteroceltis tatarinowii Maxim), from the bark of which 宣紙 is made. 宣紙 = Suun chee ('proclamation paper'), an excellent caligraphy paper from Geng-Yun (涇縣), Suen Seng (宣城), in Onfai (安徽 Anhui) province.
栴檀 Jin taan = sandalwood.
欃 Tsaam = sandalwood (Santalum album), a tree that produces fragrant oil.
檀島 Taan-to = Sandalwood Isles; Hawaii.
For the benefit of my coworkers, most of whom will never read this, here's a bit of linguistic help.
[If your machine is not configured to show Chinese script,you are well and truly hosed. Sorry.]
ADDRESS
地址 : 香港 九龍 尖沙咀東 麼地道 xx號 xx廣場 xx樓 xx室
[地址 address ('day-djee'; earth location, address): 香港 Hong Kong (Fragrant Harbour); 九龍 Kowloon (Nine Dragons); 尖沙咀東 Tsim Sha Tsui Tung (Sharp Sand Chew East); 麼地道 Mody Road (What? Earth Road; 道road, way, darma; also the Tao spoken of so fondly by white hippies) xx號 number xx xx廣場 XX Kwong Cheung ('XX Broad Stage/Threshing floor; 廣場 public square, commercial centre; 場 stage or threshing floor) xx樓 xxth storey (樓 lou = floor, storey; multi-storeyed building) xx室 xx room (室 sat = room, compartment, domicile).]
"Heungkong Kaulung Tseemsatsoey-tung, Mo-day tow xx ho, XX Kwong-cherng, xx lau, xx sat."
Region or country first, then city, then district, then street address, then floor, then room (suite).
Now please practice writing and saying that until you've got it down perfectly. There may be a test.
-----------------------------------------------------------
ADDITIONAL DATA
SHARP SAND
Tsim Sha Tsui (尖沙咀), often abbreviated TST, is an urbanised area in the Yau Tsim Mong District (油尖旺區) in southern Kowloon (九龍), Hong Kong (香港).
Tsim Sha Tsui East is mostly land reclaimed from Hung Hom Bay (紅磡灣; Hung Ham Waan - red sea-cliff bay) east of Tsim Sha Tsui. The area is bordered on the north by Austin Road and in the east by Hong Chong Road.
Geographically, Tsim Sha Tsui is a cape on the tip of the Kowloon Peninsula pointing towards Victoria Harbour (維多利亞港 Wei Do Lei Ya Gong). Several villages existed here before Kowloon was ceded to the British in 1860. Tsim Sha Tsui in Chinese means sharp sand mouth. It was also known as Heung Po Tau (香埗頭), fragrant wharf head - because of the export of tree-incense.
SWIFT WATER
Maps from the Ming (明朝) and Ching (清朝) dynasties give the channel between Tsim Sha Tsui and Central as Chung Mun (中門 middle gate) because it is located in between two other channels, Kap Shui Mun (汲水門 gulp water gate) in the west and Lei Yue Mun (鯉魚門 carp gate) in the east.
Kap Shui Mun (汲水門) is a large channel, between Lantau Island (爛頭 raggedy head, also called 大嶼山 - taai yu san: big islet mountain) and Ma Wan (馬灣 horse bay). It is on the major route along the southern coast, from Victoria Harbour to the Pearl River.
The original name of Kap Shui Mun was the same, but written with a different first character (急水門), thus reading as fast-moving water gate, which accurately references the treacherous current in the channel. In order to change the associations of the name with something more fortuitous, it was renamed: kap shui mun (汲水門), "water-fetching gate". Water implies wealth (so, in a sense, 'wealth seize gate').
SINKING FRANGRANCE
Incense tree (Aquilaria sinensis) from the New Territories was warehoused at wharves in Tsim Sha Tsui and transferred to Shek Pai Wan (石排灣 rock rows bay) on the southern shore of Hong Kong Island to be exported to rest of the world. Hence, of course, the name 'Fragrant Harbour' (香港 Heung Kong).
Aquilaria sinensis (agarwood 沈香 tsam heung: sinking frangrance) is a species of tree in the Thymelaeaceae family, native to China. The tree produces a heavy wood used for incense. Previously, incense sticks of this wood were manufactured in Hong Kong, but due to the scarcity of the wood this is now rare. Sandal wood and winter pear are still made locally, however.
The fragrant quality of the wood results from a stress condition that creates resin-rich strata within the heart wood. The resin can be extracted in large quantities at the site of natural fungal infections, or by incising to a depth of two inches through the bark. After a few years the resin which will have collected in the affected part can be harvested. Formerly, the tree would be felled and the resin expressed out by heat. Resin-rich pieces of the wood are still sold as an expensive and pure incense. Trees older than two decades yielded the best incense, and were more resin-rich, than young growth.
Nowadays decent quality agarwood is also derived from a related tree, Aquilaria malaccensis, but supplies of even that are diminishing.
Another name for the product is Pak Muk Heung (白木香) (White Wood Fragrance), because of the white to off-white hue of the wood.
NOTE: the very best 沈香 comes from old trees long dead in the wilds of Annam and Tonkin, or their malaccensis kin in the forests of Malaya and Borneo. These products can still be found in San Francisco if one looks with perseverance. But if such things are not available, or only the cheaper brands, you might prefer Snow Pear Fragrance (雪梨香 suut-lei heung).
Aquilaria renders a resinous almost oily aroma when smoldering, sandalwood and white sandalwood can be quite sweet, Snow Pear gives a thin dry mildly floral woodsiness.
Because of the spare fragrance of Snow Pear and the powderiness of the sawdust used to manufacture stick incense, joss can only be made when the humidity in the air is just right - less glue is used so as not to overpower - and the sticks can easily crack, the wood powder flake off in chunks, if badly made or improperly stored.
When you find it available, buy a few bundles for later.
All wood incenses discourage mosquitoes, evoke a literary mood, and will furthermore disguise the smell of pipe tobacco smoked in the side room overlooking the garden late at night, which one's significant other may have expressly and unreasonably forbidden.
Incense adds to the quality of life.
ADDENDUM: A FEW OTHER TERMS RELATED TO INCENSE
檀 Taan = sandalwood; purple-red; a surname.
紫檀 Zi taan = red sandalwood; 紫 Zi = purple, purple red; a surname.
青檀 Tseng taan = blue-green sandalwood (Pteroceltis tatarinowii Maxim), from the bark of which 宣紙 is made. 宣紙 = Suun chee ('proclamation paper'), an excellent caligraphy paper from Geng-Yun (涇縣), Suen Seng (宣城), in Onfai (安徽 Anhui) province.
栴檀 Jin taan = sandalwood.
欃 Tsaam = sandalwood (Santalum album), a tree that produces fragrant oil.
檀島 Taan-to = Sandalwood Isles; Hawaii.
BIG BUCKET FULL
Savage Kitten is an exemplary woman. Most of the time. As my readers by now know, Savage Kitten is my longtime companion and better half. She is a small Cantonese-American female with a sharpish tongue and a lot of patience. She needs that patience because she lives with me.
Sometimes, however, I'm the one that needs the patience.
Especially when she says things in front of the open window that all the neighbors can hear.
Recently the kitchen sink got plugged. Probably because of her casual attitude towards tealeaves and other scrap material of vegetable origin. I am very careful about it, she believes that "if you wish it, it will go".
And everything goes in.
The kitchen sink is in front of the open window. The shared airwell is on the other side of the open window. Everything you say in front of that open window can be heard by everyone else on that airwell.
"Toad, have you been sh*tt*ng in the sink again?!?"
This pursuant the blockage that kept the basin from draining. I clarified that I had done no such thing. Ever.
You know what she meant, I know what she meant. Our neighbors do NOT know what she meant.
As is her wont, she looked studiously innocent after saying something embarrassing in front of the open window. The expression on her face said "who, me? I don't know what you're talking about". Looking like that is a carefully nurtured skill that usually works to my disadvantage, especially in public. She does it very well.
To deal with the drainage problem I proposed that I clear the liquid from the sink, and went to get a bucket from the bathroom.
"That's the bucket we bathe out of! Get a different bucket!"
The shower hasn't worked for years. It's rather pointless getting it fixed, as the equipment is a bit old. We simply dump buckets of water over ourselves.
As far as I'm concerned, our neighbors did not need to know that we bathe out of a bucket.
"No, not that one! That's my cootch bucket!!!"
Gee, hon, you really want everyone to know your c**tch is that big? What must they be thinking now? And what, pray tell, is a cootch bucket?
Turns out a cootch bucket is the bucket in which she washes her scanties. Women are strange that way, they'll wash their undies BEFORE taking them to the Laundromat.
No wonder those things smell so delightfully fresh. Mmmmm!
I didn't know one needed a special vessel for that. A cootch bucket.
The smallest bucket in the house. Delicate, tiny. Holds no more than four or five litres.
No idea what the ratio of cootches to litres is, your guess is as good as mine.
You could just wash 'em in the kitchen sink, hon, I wouldn't notice.
Oh wait. It's plugged. Never mind.
After I emptied the sink she insisted that I thoroughly wash her cootch bucket. When I suggested that that would be much more fun with her sitting in it, she screamed that I was a weird white man, an utter deviant, and an obsessed sicko.
In front of the open window.
I'm certain that several pairs of eyes followed me out of the building this morning.
POSTSCRIPT
In great good spirits she called me at work today to convey that the sink is no longer plugged, she had fixed it.
"In my hands a plunger is like a delicate surgeon's scalpel"
She is, after all, a landlords daughter, and related to engineers. She knows what she's doing. With her around, you don't need a man for your plumbing needs.
I hope the neighbors appreciate that there's no more sh*t in the sink.
Sometimes, however, I'm the one that needs the patience.
Especially when she says things in front of the open window that all the neighbors can hear.
Recently the kitchen sink got plugged. Probably because of her casual attitude towards tealeaves and other scrap material of vegetable origin. I am very careful about it, she believes that "if you wish it, it will go".
And everything goes in.
The kitchen sink is in front of the open window. The shared airwell is on the other side of the open window. Everything you say in front of that open window can be heard by everyone else on that airwell.
"Toad, have you been sh*tt*ng in the sink again?!?"
This pursuant the blockage that kept the basin from draining. I clarified that I had done no such thing. Ever.
You know what she meant, I know what she meant. Our neighbors do NOT know what she meant.
As is her wont, she looked studiously innocent after saying something embarrassing in front of the open window. The expression on her face said "who, me? I don't know what you're talking about". Looking like that is a carefully nurtured skill that usually works to my disadvantage, especially in public. She does it very well.
To deal with the drainage problem I proposed that I clear the liquid from the sink, and went to get a bucket from the bathroom.
"That's the bucket we bathe out of! Get a different bucket!"
The shower hasn't worked for years. It's rather pointless getting it fixed, as the equipment is a bit old. We simply dump buckets of water over ourselves.
As far as I'm concerned, our neighbors did not need to know that we bathe out of a bucket.
"No, not that one! That's my cootch bucket!!!"
Gee, hon, you really want everyone to know your c**tch is that big? What must they be thinking now? And what, pray tell, is a cootch bucket?
Turns out a cootch bucket is the bucket in which she washes her scanties. Women are strange that way, they'll wash their undies BEFORE taking them to the Laundromat.
No wonder those things smell so delightfully fresh. Mmmmm!
I didn't know one needed a special vessel for that. A cootch bucket.
The smallest bucket in the house. Delicate, tiny. Holds no more than four or five litres.
No idea what the ratio of cootches to litres is, your guess is as good as mine.
You could just wash 'em in the kitchen sink, hon, I wouldn't notice.
Oh wait. It's plugged. Never mind.
After I emptied the sink she insisted that I thoroughly wash her cootch bucket. When I suggested that that would be much more fun with her sitting in it, she screamed that I was a weird white man, an utter deviant, and an obsessed sicko.
In front of the open window.
I'm certain that several pairs of eyes followed me out of the building this morning.
POSTSCRIPT
In great good spirits she called me at work today to convey that the sink is no longer plugged, she had fixed it.
"In my hands a plunger is like a delicate surgeon's scalpel"
She is, after all, a landlords daughter, and related to engineers. She knows what she's doing. With her around, you don't need a man for your plumbing needs.
I hope the neighbors appreciate that there's no more sh*t in the sink.
REAL LUMBERJACK
A few years ago I mentioned that pipe smokers who have spent money on a tin of tobacco that they will never finish are a sour lot, given to vituperation and lyric fury. Consequently, the reviews they may render of a despicable product can be a joy to read.
Follows a sampling - some paraphrasis, and the actual name of the product omitted.
REVIEWS
"This is poo, and I'm tipping the rest of this ghastly mess in the dump. It smelled like the crapper caught fire.
If you like this you probably like smoking road kill."
"This one is not for sissies."
"I'm chucking the pipe in which I smoked this into the furnace."
"It tasted like unadulterated bear crap - not that I've ever smoked bear crap, but I will NOT spend my money on something that tastes like arse."
"It turned too harsh very quickly and made me sick."
"Heavy, sweet, and medicinal. It made me sick."
"Unique. It made me sick."
"This tobacco leaves a sticky brown residue on your hands. It takes great effort to light, then tastes like it smells - floral soap and chocolate.
I don't really like it that much."
"My wife did NOT like the way it smelled. But the dog didn't run away."
"I sing in the choir."
"It made me sick."
"Three stars, except for the burn and bite."
"The offensive topping smells like a sewer exploded - I've never tasted burning sewer, but you-all are real lumberjacks."
.........
Well now.
This sounds fascinating. Delightful, even.
I shan't tell you what product from which highly esteemed company this is, so as not to influence your buying decisions.
All I can say is I've got to get me a tin.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Follows a sampling - some paraphrasis, and the actual name of the product omitted.
REVIEWS
"This is poo, and I'm tipping the rest of this ghastly mess in the dump. It smelled like the crapper caught fire.
If you like this you probably like smoking road kill."
"This one is not for sissies."
"I'm chucking the pipe in which I smoked this into the furnace."
"It tasted like unadulterated bear crap - not that I've ever smoked bear crap, but I will NOT spend my money on something that tastes like arse."
"It turned too harsh very quickly and made me sick."
"Heavy, sweet, and medicinal. It made me sick."
"Unique. It made me sick."
"This tobacco leaves a sticky brown residue on your hands. It takes great effort to light, then tastes like it smells - floral soap and chocolate.
I don't really like it that much."
"My wife did NOT like the way it smelled. But the dog didn't run away."
"I sing in the choir."
"It made me sick."
"Three stars, except for the burn and bite."
"The offensive topping smells like a sewer exploded - I've never tasted burning sewer, but you-all are real lumberjacks."
.........
Well now.
This sounds fascinating. Delightful, even.
I shan't tell you what product from which highly esteemed company this is, so as not to influence your buying decisions.
All I can say is I've got to get me a tin.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
HOLDING FOR DOLLARS
Yes, that was probably me calling you about that invoice. The one for $1,024.95 which is now TWO MONTHS past-due. We want it paid.
Surely you can understand that?
I know you can!
And I really did enjoy little Jennifer answering the phone. I know you hire your staff because they are entertaining, or leastways ‘non-threatening’. Your customers are shy creatures and easily scared. It was so very amusing when she dropped the phone while taking a message. I’m truly sorry I said things that made her cry. Teenagers are SO fragile. Kiss her for me, and pat her on her shiny little head – there there, little one, everything is all right!
All right?
I hope she gets over the trauma; I wouldn’t want her first boyfriend to come stalking me.
Give her another bonbon.
No, I really don’t mind being on hold. While I’m waiting for you to emerge from your office, I’ll just fondle a piece of wood. It’s a Peterson pipe with a two-tone finish (a billiard shape, straight, tapered stem, with a shiny nickel band). An aesthetic experience, very comforting to the senses. Probably much more so than that bottle of Bourbon you hurriedly shoved back into the desk drawer when little Jennifer knocked and told you I was on line.
I knew if I called you three times before lunch I’d finally get a hold of you.
Stop drinking that cheap Bourbon. Real men drink Scotch.
A good piece of briar is quite the touchy-feely adventure. Erotic even.
I can fax the invoice, or e-mail it. I would prefer to e-mail it, I know you’re on the computer all day. I just tell myself that the internet exists for five things: recipes, pornography, kitten pictures, anti-Semitic ranting, and hunting down where you live and which sites you visit. Oh, and e-mailing you a complete list of what you owe us.
Your entire past is on line. I know which school you graduated from, your five last known addresses, where your parents live (so sorry about their divorce), the girl whose sister you married......
Did you know that little Jennifer put those embarrassing pictures from the "office" party on her myspace page? You and that Bourbon, my my my!
Thank you SO MUCH for saying that I should be in movies or on the radio! Yeah, other customers have said the same thing. Perhaps if I ever get off my duff I’ll make a demo tape and send it to a voice-agency.
[It’s probably the sensuous feel of the briar that I am slowly stroking while talking to you – it gentles my tone. Soothes the savage beast, as it were, and mellows the growl.]
SURE I’LL HOLD!
There are at least four more pipes on my desk I haven’t fondled yet. And some nice pipe-tobacco I have yet to sniff. Mmmm, gooooooood! Meanwhile, put little Jennifer on the line again. I am here to be entertained.
Surely you can understand that?
I know you can!
And I really did enjoy little Jennifer answering the phone. I know you hire your staff because they are entertaining, or leastways ‘non-threatening’. Your customers are shy creatures and easily scared. It was so very amusing when she dropped the phone while taking a message. I’m truly sorry I said things that made her cry. Teenagers are SO fragile. Kiss her for me, and pat her on her shiny little head – there there, little one, everything is all right!
All right?
I hope she gets over the trauma; I wouldn’t want her first boyfriend to come stalking me.
Give her another bonbon.
No, I really don’t mind being on hold. While I’m waiting for you to emerge from your office, I’ll just fondle a piece of wood. It’s a Peterson pipe with a two-tone finish (a billiard shape, straight, tapered stem, with a shiny nickel band). An aesthetic experience, very comforting to the senses. Probably much more so than that bottle of Bourbon you hurriedly shoved back into the desk drawer when little Jennifer knocked and told you I was on line.
I knew if I called you three times before lunch I’d finally get a hold of you.
Stop drinking that cheap Bourbon. Real men drink Scotch.
A good piece of briar is quite the touchy-feely adventure. Erotic even.
I can fax the invoice, or e-mail it. I would prefer to e-mail it, I know you’re on the computer all day. I just tell myself that the internet exists for five things: recipes, pornography, kitten pictures, anti-Semitic ranting, and hunting down where you live and which sites you visit. Oh, and e-mailing you a complete list of what you owe us.
Your entire past is on line. I know which school you graduated from, your five last known addresses, where your parents live (so sorry about their divorce), the girl whose sister you married......
Did you know that little Jennifer put those embarrassing pictures from the "office" party on her myspace page? You and that Bourbon, my my my!
Thank you SO MUCH for saying that I should be in movies or on the radio! Yeah, other customers have said the same thing. Perhaps if I ever get off my duff I’ll make a demo tape and send it to a voice-agency.
[It’s probably the sensuous feel of the briar that I am slowly stroking while talking to you – it gentles my tone. Soothes the savage beast, as it were, and mellows the growl.]
SURE I’LL HOLD!
There are at least four more pipes on my desk I haven’t fondled yet. And some nice pipe-tobacco I have yet to sniff. Mmmm, gooooooood! Meanwhile, put little Jennifer on the line again. I am here to be entertained.
Monday, August 02, 2010
BODY FLUIDS
One of my earliest memories of the Netherlands is being chased around a doctor’s office by a man with a needle.
It’s a very intense multi-facetted memory – institutional green surfaces, bright lights, a rainy day (a wet tannic aroma from the fallen leaves outside coming in through the open window), and the smell of strong disinfectant.
I’m not entirely sure, but I think my mother may have been laughing her head off. Discretely, of course. No need to traumatize the frantic three year old any MORE than necessary.
We can deduce TWO things from this little datum.
1. There must have been a previous experience with a needle. Why else would I panic?
2. Since then I have had an.. Issue.. With.. Hypodermics.. Puncturing.. Skin.. And.. Slipping.. Into.. Resistant.. Flesh.. Then.. Spurting.. Liquid.
I bring this up because there are good times to recount certain events and bad times.
What may seem like a good time to you may not be a good time to me.
On Saturday Savage Kitten donated blood.
Sunday afternoon we were on the bed, in a state of pronounced undress, when she started talking about being at the blood centre the previous day.
They no longer use butterfly needles at the blood centre - butterfly needles are useful for draining people who have narrow veins - which means that they're back to using the giant horse syringes that take a heavily muscled nurse Ratchett type to fiercely jab in, and in again, and again, until she finally finds that elusive vein.
Also, some middle-aged man in another donating bay was going into shock - they had to keep adding blankets over his shivering form, and apply cold towels to his fevered forehead.
At this point she casually remarked that in that light I looked distinctly green.
['No, honey pie, I too am going into shock. Do you HAVE to mention needles?']
Seeing as I didn't say anything, she blithely carried on. Apparently one person there had NO veins. They kept jabbing him and not finding anything. Or if they did, it was too tiny. See, that's where butterfly needles would have come in handy, they're good for small veins and delicately built victims. By the time they finally found a rich pulsating blood source in his other arm, he must have felt like a pincushion. She rolled the word 'pincushion' around in her mouth. Veins. Needles. Pincushion. Wonderful meaty words.
Long thin metal tubes with a vicious diagonal tip that just slides into the crux of the elbow. The spongy flesh resisting slightly, then enfolding the sharp device.
Savage Kitten also has thin veins. A butterfly needle would have been so nice. But they're probably economizing. Giant horse needles and nurse Ratchett instead.
Cheap sadistic bastards.
Warm dark red liquid pulsing into a baggy in an agitation device, sloshing back and forth, back and forth, to keep from coagulating. About forty minutes.
Everyone should give blood.
She was quite adamant about this. Detailed about the process, too.
Really, I'm going to have to tell that woman that certain things are just not bedroom conversation. Distracting in the extreme. They rather spoil the mood. And are, in fact, inappropriate subject matter for any time.
I was rendered quite "exhausted", and needed to "nap".
What did you expect?
It’s a very intense multi-facetted memory – institutional green surfaces, bright lights, a rainy day (a wet tannic aroma from the fallen leaves outside coming in through the open window), and the smell of strong disinfectant.
I’m not entirely sure, but I think my mother may have been laughing her head off. Discretely, of course. No need to traumatize the frantic three year old any MORE than necessary.
We can deduce TWO things from this little datum.
1. There must have been a previous experience with a needle. Why else would I panic?
2. Since then I have had an.. Issue.. With.. Hypodermics.. Puncturing.. Skin.. And.. Slipping.. Into.. Resistant.. Flesh.. Then.. Spurting.. Liquid.
I bring this up because there are good times to recount certain events and bad times.
What may seem like a good time to you may not be a good time to me.
On Saturday Savage Kitten donated blood.
Sunday afternoon we were on the bed, in a state of pronounced undress, when she started talking about being at the blood centre the previous day.
They no longer use butterfly needles at the blood centre - butterfly needles are useful for draining people who have narrow veins - which means that they're back to using the giant horse syringes that take a heavily muscled nurse Ratchett type to fiercely jab in, and in again, and again, until she finally finds that elusive vein.
Also, some middle-aged man in another donating bay was going into shock - they had to keep adding blankets over his shivering form, and apply cold towels to his fevered forehead.
At this point she casually remarked that in that light I looked distinctly green.
['No, honey pie, I too am going into shock. Do you HAVE to mention needles?']
Seeing as I didn't say anything, she blithely carried on. Apparently one person there had NO veins. They kept jabbing him and not finding anything. Or if they did, it was too tiny. See, that's where butterfly needles would have come in handy, they're good for small veins and delicately built victims. By the time they finally found a rich pulsating blood source in his other arm, he must have felt like a pincushion. She rolled the word 'pincushion' around in her mouth. Veins. Needles. Pincushion. Wonderful meaty words.
Long thin metal tubes with a vicious diagonal tip that just slides into the crux of the elbow. The spongy flesh resisting slightly, then enfolding the sharp device.
Savage Kitten also has thin veins. A butterfly needle would have been so nice. But they're probably economizing. Giant horse needles and nurse Ratchett instead.
Cheap sadistic bastards.
Warm dark red liquid pulsing into a baggy in an agitation device, sloshing back and forth, back and forth, to keep from coagulating. About forty minutes.
Everyone should give blood.
She was quite adamant about this. Detailed about the process, too.
Really, I'm going to have to tell that woman that certain things are just not bedroom conversation. Distracting in the extreme. They rather spoil the mood. And are, in fact, inappropriate subject matter for any time.
I was rendered quite "exhausted", and needed to "nap".
What did you expect?
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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,...
