I now face several choices which I did not expect to have to make in my life, certainly not at this time. Situations have changed, and certain things which were fundamental are now less so.
Forgive me for being coy – I do not wish to share the details yet, as I am still in the process of digesting matters, making sense of it all, coming to terms.
I just want you to know that if things seem a little strange here over the next few months, it isn’t you. It’s me. And I apologize.
KOL HASCHALOS KASHOS
Life changes, and developments force you to grow. Sometimes great flexibility is required, but if you face issues saying gamzu le tova, you may be surprised at how much personal resilience you can muster, and how different circumstances lead to new things and pleasant discoveries.
Over time some of those new things will probably appear on this blog.
[Heck, that's pretty much guaranteed. ]
Please bear in mind that I will impart my view and impose my interpretation. It may be transparent, but that does not mean that it is insincere.
A certain level of dissimulation is natural, and I am a devious man.
Note of dreary reassurance: No, this is NOT job-related. Nor an ideological shift of any kind. And no, I am not joining the Foreign Legion. Or any freakazoid cult.
I have no intention of doing a Michael Jackson, having ill-advised plastic surgery, disappearing into the jungle, or undergoing a complete sex and identity change.
[Although if YOU intend to do any of those things, I will be fascinated by all the dirty details you wish to share – please send pictures.]
Again, there may be odd things here over the next few months. Think of it as a project in process. There is no real plan as yet, that will come with time – but I’m flying by the seat of my pants at present.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
STRAWBERRY CAKE!
Fellow San Franciscan and blogger Steffy Chou has put up a post baldly telling people what she wants for her birthday.
It is quite the verbal portrait of an individualist, despite her claim that "ALL teenagers are alike". Perhaps so, but some are clearly far less alike than others.......
"Maybe another big book about Italian food? Or a copy of the Larouse Gastronomique in English."
The post is a remarkable document, as the people who read her blog have almost certainly never met her, and the people she knows personally probably have no clue that she blogs.
So it’s really an exercise in imagination, or wishful thinking.
EXAMPLE:
"Please do NOT get me anymore Hello Kitty stuff. When you’re not even five feet tall, Hello Kitty shit just makes you look infantile. Not feminine. It's kinda silly. Please think in terms of chocolate."
I have never met her.
But I think I can describe her pretty well.
“You are long-haired, and fairly small. You probably stick your tongue out at people often, mentally at least. You don't particularly like most adults, though there are some you get along with well - primarily if they aren't boring. None of the friends and relatives you described above are boring, though some are not entirely comfortable with your interests or obsessions; your burning curiosity sometimes gives them a feeling of disquiet - less so if they are older and have long been elsewhere in the world.”
For some reason I'm thinking of *CHOCOLATE* right now.
It’s probably a good thing that we’ve never met, as she would probably smack me fiercely in the face with a pie. Over the past year or so I’ve pushed several envelopes in the comments underneath her blog posts. Feisty teenagers do NOT react with equanimity when teased.
Still. Meeting a person like that would be fun. And despite the danger of ending up with sticky fruit-gloop all over my face and a broken jaw (say, what kind of pie WAS that?), it would probably be worth it. At the very least I could dare her to lick off the crumbs, after which I would buy her strawberry cake. She sounds ... nice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It is quite the verbal portrait of an individualist, despite her claim that "ALL teenagers are alike". Perhaps so, but some are clearly far less alike than others.......
"Maybe another big book about Italian food? Or a copy of the Larouse Gastronomique in English."
The post is a remarkable document, as the people who read her blog have almost certainly never met her, and the people she knows personally probably have no clue that she blogs.
So it’s really an exercise in imagination, or wishful thinking.
EXAMPLE:
"Please do NOT get me anymore Hello Kitty stuff. When you’re not even five feet tall, Hello Kitty shit just makes you look infantile. Not feminine. It's kinda silly. Please think in terms of chocolate."
I have never met her.
But I think I can describe her pretty well.
“You are long-haired, and fairly small. You probably stick your tongue out at people often, mentally at least. You don't particularly like most adults, though there are some you get along with well - primarily if they aren't boring. None of the friends and relatives you described above are boring, though some are not entirely comfortable with your interests or obsessions; your burning curiosity sometimes gives them a feeling of disquiet - less so if they are older and have long been elsewhere in the world.”
For some reason I'm thinking of *CHOCOLATE* right now.
It’s probably a good thing that we’ve never met, as she would probably smack me fiercely in the face with a pie. Over the past year or so I’ve pushed several envelopes in the comments underneath her blog posts. Feisty teenagers do NOT react with equanimity when teased.
Still. Meeting a person like that would be fun. And despite the danger of ending up with sticky fruit-gloop all over my face and a broken jaw (say, what kind of pie WAS that?), it would probably be worth it. At the very least I could dare her to lick off the crumbs, after which I would buy her strawberry cake. She sounds ... nice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, September 09, 2010
SAY SOMETHING NICE!
I am in receipt of an e-mail which made me smile. It’s always nice when someone takes time out of their busy schedule to send you a compliment – especially when it’s for a remarkable quality, skill, or characteristic.
As one of my coworkers did today.
"You are a very bad man, and I mean that in a good way."
See, stuff like that nearly makes me cry. It's so sweet! Thank you!
I had suggested that certain young visitors to the company needed rigid supervision in order to have fun.
Controlled fun. Strict guidance. Laugh on cue, dammit! Now clap and squeal!
Here's some sugar.
Sugar!
It's educational.
We still had some cake left over from Shank Dog's farewell party last week. It sat out on the kitchen counter from Wednesday till this Tuesday afternoon. I believe some kind soul must have refrigerated it since. And obviously it would be ideal for the little dears - surely they weren't expecting anything better? Cake with an image of an assault rifle on the icing. Perfect.
I also had a vision of running them around the block several times, but today's juveniles are just so out of shape. Pudgy. There's no way they could pull a chariot with a middle-aged man yelling "mush, mush". At least not with any great speed.
Fat lazy little peckers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
As one of my coworkers did today.
"You are a very bad man, and I mean that in a good way."
See, stuff like that nearly makes me cry. It's so sweet! Thank you!
I had suggested that certain young visitors to the company needed rigid supervision in order to have fun.
Controlled fun. Strict guidance. Laugh on cue, dammit! Now clap and squeal!
Here's some sugar.
Sugar!
It's educational.
We still had some cake left over from Shank Dog's farewell party last week. It sat out on the kitchen counter from Wednesday till this Tuesday afternoon. I believe some kind soul must have refrigerated it since. And obviously it would be ideal for the little dears - surely they weren't expecting anything better? Cake with an image of an assault rifle on the icing. Perfect.
I also had a vision of running them around the block several times, but today's juveniles are just so out of shape. Pudgy. There's no way they could pull a chariot with a middle-aged man yelling "mush, mush". At least not with any great speed.
Fat lazy little peckers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WISE WORDS
QUOTE:
"It is important to remember that about 5 percent of our population is and always will be totally crazy. I don’t mean mentally ill. According to the National Institute for Mental Health, 26 percent of American adults suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in any given year. So, basically, that’s just normal life. I mean crazy in the sense of “Thinks it is a good plan to joke with the flight attendant about seeing a bomb in the restroom.”
There is nothing you can do about the crazy 5 percent except ask the police to keep an eye on them during large public events ......... "
Taken from an article in the NYT.
-------------------------------------------------------
Naturally this is relevant to both the Mosque and the planned scriptural combustion.
I'm not vested in the five percent figure - judging by some of the things I've read in recent weeks, it might be more than fifteen percent. Either way, a substantial and totally unreassuring number.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"It is important to remember that about 5 percent of our population is and always will be totally crazy. I don’t mean mentally ill. According to the National Institute for Mental Health, 26 percent of American adults suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in any given year. So, basically, that’s just normal life. I mean crazy in the sense of “Thinks it is a good plan to joke with the flight attendant about seeing a bomb in the restroom.”
There is nothing you can do about the crazy 5 percent except ask the police to keep an eye on them during large public events ......... "
Taken from an article in the NYT.
-------------------------------------------------------
Naturally this is relevant to both the Mosque and the planned scriptural combustion.
I'm not vested in the five percent figure - judging by some of the things I've read in recent weeks, it might be more than fifteen percent. Either way, a substantial and totally unreassuring number.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
HAPPY NEW YEAR
Le shana tova tikasevu ve sechasemu le chayim tovim u le shalom, be sifran shel tzaddikim gamurim!
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
PALESTINIAN SHOW-STOPPER
Palestinian warlord Mahmoud Abbas yesterday demonstrated his inability to negotiate in good faith.
This was not surprising – Abbas knows that his political life is circumscribed by two things:
1. No yielding on the intemperate demands of his hardliners (not only among the Palestinian terrorist factions, but also the other terrorist groupings so generously supported by Arab governments).
2. No peace. Ever. Even if it means continual violence and chaos.
Abbas, showing the characteristic duplicity of his mentor, insisted that he will not agree on realistic borders, refuses to accept the right of Jews to build in their land, demanded that several million people who were never in British Mandate Palestine be admitted into Israel pronto, and restated his refusal to recognize Israel as a Jewish state.
Abbas knows that yielding on any of these points will result in either his own demise, or being forced into exile. Peace would also bring far greater scrutiny and limitations on the endemic corruption of the Palestinian Authority, and might even make the Europeans realize that their generous support of this rapacious clique has resulted in an entirely new class of Arab millionaire.
In this day of diminished expectations, the doctrinaire socialists among the European legislators might have to answer hard questions from their constituencies about such counterproductive spendthriftiness - which explains of course why the Europeans are upset that they weren't invited to the negotiations; one can do much more damage on the inside.
No sitting European politician sincerely wants peace.
Evenso, the chance of these negotiations succeeding is remote. The only possible outcome is a number of photos that show the US president smiling between Netanyahu and the Palestinian warlord.
Followed eventually by pictures of the Secretary of State smiling between Netanyahu and the Palestinian warlord.
POLITICAL EXPEDIENCE
President Obama sides with the PA on many issues - perhaps in an effort to pander to the Arabs, whose oil and quiescence we still need. But cognizant of the damage it would do to his image and his party's prospects come November, he has not made any overt declarations. It is in Obama's interest to keep the veil on this farce from being lifted, and the smoke and mirrors from being exposed, for another two months.
For that to succeed, both Netanyahu and the PW would have to keep up the energetic public pretence of bland good-faith diplomacy. A certain level of subtlety is required of both men.
Mahmoud Abbas, by demanding that Obama intervene and force the Jews to continue the building freeze, may have ruined the prospect of any further charades. By so crudely playing to the extremist peanut-gallery, Abbas did Obama no favours.
===========================================
Crossposted at PRO-ISRAEL BAY BLOGGERS;
http://proisraelbaybloggers.blogspot.com/
This post: PALESTINIAN SHOW-STOPPER;
http://proisraelbaybloggers.blogspot.com/2010/09/palestinian-show-stopper.html
===========================================
This was not surprising – Abbas knows that his political life is circumscribed by two things:
1. No yielding on the intemperate demands of his hardliners (not only among the Palestinian terrorist factions, but also the other terrorist groupings so generously supported by Arab governments).
2. No peace. Ever. Even if it means continual violence and chaos.
Abbas, showing the characteristic duplicity of his mentor, insisted that he will not agree on realistic borders, refuses to accept the right of Jews to build in their land, demanded that several million people who were never in British Mandate Palestine be admitted into Israel pronto, and restated his refusal to recognize Israel as a Jewish state.
Abbas knows that yielding on any of these points will result in either his own demise, or being forced into exile. Peace would also bring far greater scrutiny and limitations on the endemic corruption of the Palestinian Authority, and might even make the Europeans realize that their generous support of this rapacious clique has resulted in an entirely new class of Arab millionaire.
In this day of diminished expectations, the doctrinaire socialists among the European legislators might have to answer hard questions from their constituencies about such counterproductive spendthriftiness - which explains of course why the Europeans are upset that they weren't invited to the negotiations; one can do much more damage on the inside.
No sitting European politician sincerely wants peace.
Evenso, the chance of these negotiations succeeding is remote. The only possible outcome is a number of photos that show the US president smiling between Netanyahu and the Palestinian warlord.
Followed eventually by pictures of the Secretary of State smiling between Netanyahu and the Palestinian warlord.
POLITICAL EXPEDIENCE
President Obama sides with the PA on many issues - perhaps in an effort to pander to the Arabs, whose oil and quiescence we still need. But cognizant of the damage it would do to his image and his party's prospects come November, he has not made any overt declarations. It is in Obama's interest to keep the veil on this farce from being lifted, and the smoke and mirrors from being exposed, for another two months.
For that to succeed, both Netanyahu and the PW would have to keep up the energetic public pretence of bland good-faith diplomacy. A certain level of subtlety is required of both men.
Mahmoud Abbas, by demanding that Obama intervene and force the Jews to continue the building freeze, may have ruined the prospect of any further charades. By so crudely playing to the extremist peanut-gallery, Abbas did Obama no favours.
===========================================
Crossposted at PRO-ISRAEL BAY BLOGGERS;
http://proisraelbaybloggers.blogspot.com/
This post: PALESTINIAN SHOW-STOPPER;
http://proisraelbaybloggers.blogspot.com/2010/09/palestinian-show-stopper.html
===========================================
Friday, September 03, 2010
GIRL JUST GOTTA HAVE FUN!
As a child I was exposed to much the same literature as others of my age - talking animals, strange creatures performing marvelous exploits, and men transforming into monsters - Beatrix Potter, Lloyd Alexander, and Robert A. Heinlein or even some grotty Frenchman.
Plus magic, mythology, folk tales, and Germanic and Celtic legends.
In addition to a hedgehog that did laundry and a wondrous pig, I also learned about witches, warlocks, vampires, and werewolves, along with shapeshifters, avatars, and magical beasts in disguise.
I am a sleek panther crossing the roof tops of the city, I am a crow pecking at a cadaver.
In my mind my scales reflect gold and I chew cattle bones.
This, naturally, brings up cross-dressing.
What if one could at will change one's gender? Be a were-sexual, as it were?
GENDERALLY SPEAKING
What it would be like to be "the widow Betty", elegant and wistful in mourning weeds?
Which seductive hue of lipstick would be appropriate? Do corsets also come in black? Are high-heels REALLY that idiotic?
1. Morocco by Laura Paige; 2. yes they do; 3. and yes they are. Painful too.
[Morocco: "Keep your lips soft, subtle and beautiful with this creamy, smooth, lasting lipstick that glides on sheer, sensual colour. Delivers a radiant, smooth finish that keeps lips soft and supple all day".]
The first answer is based on good taste, the second on profound research, the third on a connoisseur's knowledge of anatomy.
I do not have to experiment, no testing is required.
I'm not buying black anytime soon.
Like Ranma Nibun-no-Ichi, the actual form is immaterial. Ranma shifts back and forth between being a boy and being a girl, but remains the same person, even if in his feminine form he is capable of putting on the blinky-eyed little babydoll act, for entirely selfish and manipulative man-child motives. He remains a boy, no matter how curvaceous and downright sexy his female incarnation.
I am not like Ranma, but far more like grandmaster Happosai.
"The very definition of a dirty old man, Happosai is the grandmaster and founder of the Anything Goes Martial Arts school. Genma and Soun were his original disciples, but they got fed up having to steal lingerie and food for the old lecher and decided to try and finish him off. They were quite surprised when he showed up many years later to make them miserable and find a successor in the Art. Unfortunately for Ranma, he was the incorrigible old freak's choice. He is an immensely skilled and powerful martial artist, with but one weakness: bras, panties, and pantyhose. Happosai is so obscenely addicted to his perversion that he suffers from withdrawal if he goes without them for an extended period. He is always scheming to get people to help him on his "panty raids", but often gets disrupted by Ranma, boosting his dislike for the boy, though ironically he lusts after his female form. It seems as though he always shows up at the most inconvenient moments. Happosai can go to great lengths to ruin the life of anyone that displeases him, but usually chooses silly methods. He nonetheless shows a soft spot for children." [Source: WIKIPEDIA]
We all have an image of ourselves as different characters in a tale. Sometimes it closely overlaps reality, sometimes it differs enormously. Suffice to say that in reality Happosai and I are not at all alike.
I am totally not interested in panty hose.
Some men are. Interested in pantyhose, that is. Being what fills the stockings, rather than feeling the filled stockings.
They don't have gender-issues, really, they know exactly what they like and what they are.
They just choose to be differently engendered.
One of my favourite people dresses up like a hard-nosed office-bitch type to go out to dinner with friends, which are followed by cocktails in a quiet and tasteful dive. He's been doing it for years, and is entirely the lady.
His girlfriend has known about it for a long time now, but accepts that occasionally he just needs to be herself. As do we.
You go, girl.
It's cool.
He's the same person, whether he's wearing a banker's suit or a trim little skirt.
Sometimes it takes a real man to be a lady.
I am always in awe of the flexibility and breadth of his self-image.
And sweet Jesus, do his legs look great in panty hose!
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Plus magic, mythology, folk tales, and Germanic and Celtic legends.
In addition to a hedgehog that did laundry and a wondrous pig, I also learned about witches, warlocks, vampires, and werewolves, along with shapeshifters, avatars, and magical beasts in disguise.
I am a sleek panther crossing the roof tops of the city, I am a crow pecking at a cadaver.
In my mind my scales reflect gold and I chew cattle bones.
This, naturally, brings up cross-dressing.
What if one could at will change one's gender? Be a were-sexual, as it were?
GENDERALLY SPEAKING
What it would be like to be "the widow Betty", elegant and wistful in mourning weeds?
Which seductive hue of lipstick would be appropriate? Do corsets also come in black? Are high-heels REALLY that idiotic?
1. Morocco by Laura Paige; 2. yes they do; 3. and yes they are. Painful too.
[Morocco: "Keep your lips soft, subtle and beautiful with this creamy, smooth, lasting lipstick that glides on sheer, sensual colour. Delivers a radiant, smooth finish that keeps lips soft and supple all day".]
The first answer is based on good taste, the second on profound research, the third on a connoisseur's knowledge of anatomy.
I do not have to experiment, no testing is required.
I'm not buying black anytime soon.
Like Ranma Nibun-no-Ichi, the actual form is immaterial. Ranma shifts back and forth between being a boy and being a girl, but remains the same person, even if in his feminine form he is capable of putting on the blinky-eyed little babydoll act, for entirely selfish and manipulative man-child motives. He remains a boy, no matter how curvaceous and downright sexy his female incarnation.
I am not like Ranma, but far more like grandmaster Happosai.
"The very definition of a dirty old man, Happosai is the grandmaster and founder of the Anything Goes Martial Arts school. Genma and Soun were his original disciples, but they got fed up having to steal lingerie and food for the old lecher and decided to try and finish him off. They were quite surprised when he showed up many years later to make them miserable and find a successor in the Art. Unfortunately for Ranma, he was the incorrigible old freak's choice. He is an immensely skilled and powerful martial artist, with but one weakness: bras, panties, and pantyhose. Happosai is so obscenely addicted to his perversion that he suffers from withdrawal if he goes without them for an extended period. He is always scheming to get people to help him on his "panty raids", but often gets disrupted by Ranma, boosting his dislike for the boy, though ironically he lusts after his female form. It seems as though he always shows up at the most inconvenient moments. Happosai can go to great lengths to ruin the life of anyone that displeases him, but usually chooses silly methods. He nonetheless shows a soft spot for children." [Source: WIKIPEDIA]
We all have an image of ourselves as different characters in a tale. Sometimes it closely overlaps reality, sometimes it differs enormously. Suffice to say that in reality Happosai and I are not at all alike.
I am totally not interested in panty hose.
Some men are. Interested in pantyhose, that is. Being what fills the stockings, rather than feeling the filled stockings.
They don't have gender-issues, really, they know exactly what they like and what they are.
They just choose to be differently engendered.
One of my favourite people dresses up like a hard-nosed office-bitch type to go out to dinner with friends, which are followed by cocktails in a quiet and tasteful dive. He's been doing it for years, and is entirely the lady.
His girlfriend has known about it for a long time now, but accepts that occasionally he just needs to be herself. As do we.
You go, girl.
It's cool.
He's the same person, whether he's wearing a banker's suit or a trim little skirt.
Sometimes it takes a real man to be a lady.
I am always in awe of the flexibility and breadth of his self-image.
And sweet Jesus, do his legs look great in panty hose!
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, September 02, 2010
WHERE DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN IT RAINS?
There are times when the destination is the point of the journey, times when the journey itself is the point. And sometimes it is neither. The way-stations of the journey are what is important.
I was watching the cat-bus scene from My Neighbor Totoro recently, when I realized that only the large dignified furry creature was actually going somewhere. The two little girls were just waiting - the place itself was the purpose, though neither the beginning nor end of their journey.
There should have been a restaurant or café at that bus-stop. Or perhaps a noodle shop. But if there had been such a business, they would not have shared the umbrella with the troll.
Really, there's only one indoors environment in the universe where I could imagine the troll waiting for transit in the company of two little girls.
THE STATION RESTAURANT
One of the pleasures of life is arriving early at Amsterdam Central Station, so that one may refresh oneself while waiting for the train to Bun Futz in Brabant (or wherever you are going). You do this at the Grand Café Restaurant in the terminal, next to track 2B.
High ceilings. Palm trees. Coffee. A parrot.
[Address: Stationsplein 15, Centraal Station, Amsterdam; Postal code: 1012 AB. Tel: (020) 625 01 31 Fax: (020) 625 01 31]
SUMATRA HALF-CORONAS
Until a few years ago you could still smoke inside, now alas that is verboden. Times change.
In 1975 and 1976 I was there several times, enjoying the typical Dutch pleasures of a cigar and a demitasse. Sometimes a pastry, sometimes a light meal. And sometimes a big bowl of ice cream - I was, after all, still in my mid-teens, and still had childish tastes. But always a smoke, timed exactly for the period before boarding.
Once, when it was crowded, I shared the table with an angular elderly gentleman reading a newspaper. Our only moments of contact had been when I asked if he minded me sitting there, and when he had borrowed my matches to light up. After finishing his cigar he folded his newspaper very neatly, stood up, and said "bedankt voor de vriendelijke stilte, het was zeer aangenaam" ('thanks for the friendly silence, it was very enjoyable'). He then went to catch the train for the Hague, which was arriving at that precise moment.
Twelve minutes later I finished my cigar just as the train for 'sHertogenbosch pulled in.
No wasted tobacco - there's something to be said for a Dutch sense of time.
Whenever you go to Amsterdam, visit the Station Restaurant. Same thing in Antwerp. These two places are, really, the beginning and end-points of the Dutch world. Both train stations evoke the era of foreign possessions and prosperity born from tropical imports, both speak of a different time, and a different sense of our place in the universe.
They have outlived the empires. One no longer drinks coffee from "our" Java, the cigars are no longer from "our" Sumatra. The Dutch coffee and Tea companies are now largely owned by Sarah Lee, the cigar companies are almost all held by Swedish Match, and many of the great mercantile enterprises are now headquartered elsewhere.
Even the rattan in the chairs comes from 'just someplace warm'.
At the other end of the platform there is now a Burger King for the feckless. Times have changed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I was watching the cat-bus scene from My Neighbor Totoro recently, when I realized that only the large dignified furry creature was actually going somewhere. The two little girls were just waiting - the place itself was the purpose, though neither the beginning nor end of their journey.
There should have been a restaurant or café at that bus-stop. Or perhaps a noodle shop. But if there had been such a business, they would not have shared the umbrella with the troll.
Really, there's only one indoors environment in the universe where I could imagine the troll waiting for transit in the company of two little girls.
THE STATION RESTAURANT
One of the pleasures of life is arriving early at Amsterdam Central Station, so that one may refresh oneself while waiting for the train to Bun Futz in Brabant (or wherever you are going). You do this at the Grand Café Restaurant in the terminal, next to track 2B.
High ceilings. Palm trees. Coffee. A parrot.
[Address: Stationsplein 15, Centraal Station, Amsterdam; Postal code: 1012 AB. Tel: (020) 625 01 31 Fax: (020) 625 01 31]
SUMATRA HALF-CORONAS
Until a few years ago you could still smoke inside, now alas that is verboden. Times change.
In 1975 and 1976 I was there several times, enjoying the typical Dutch pleasures of a cigar and a demitasse. Sometimes a pastry, sometimes a light meal. And sometimes a big bowl of ice cream - I was, after all, still in my mid-teens, and still had childish tastes. But always a smoke, timed exactly for the period before boarding.
Once, when it was crowded, I shared the table with an angular elderly gentleman reading a newspaper. Our only moments of contact had been when I asked if he minded me sitting there, and when he had borrowed my matches to light up. After finishing his cigar he folded his newspaper very neatly, stood up, and said "bedankt voor de vriendelijke stilte, het was zeer aangenaam" ('thanks for the friendly silence, it was very enjoyable'). He then went to catch the train for the Hague, which was arriving at that precise moment.
Twelve minutes later I finished my cigar just as the train for 'sHertogenbosch pulled in.
No wasted tobacco - there's something to be said for a Dutch sense of time.
Whenever you go to Amsterdam, visit the Station Restaurant. Same thing in Antwerp. These two places are, really, the beginning and end-points of the Dutch world. Both train stations evoke the era of foreign possessions and prosperity born from tropical imports, both speak of a different time, and a different sense of our place in the universe.
They have outlived the empires. One no longer drinks coffee from "our" Java, the cigars are no longer from "our" Sumatra. The Dutch coffee and Tea companies are now largely owned by Sarah Lee, the cigar companies are almost all held by Swedish Match, and many of the great mercantile enterprises are now headquartered elsewhere.
Even the rattan in the chairs comes from 'just someplace warm'.
At the other end of the platform there is now a Burger King for the feckless. Times have changed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
GUNS, NUDES, METAL OBJECTS
Evidence of the Product Development Department’s eccentric agenda is mounting. Not only was there that incident at the window with the assault rifle (mentioned in a previous post), but we have seen the fish. Specifically, a large fish (five feet?) mounted on a board. We do not know what the fish represented, or why it was there.
As a company, we do not deal in fish.
Additionally, there are the photos. Many disturbing photos, which gradually revealed several themes: Nostrils. Beer. Motorcycles. Beer. Piracy. Beer. Greek violence. Beer. Body parts. Beer. Carboard tubes, beer, and strange nude dolls. Beer. Fried food. Beer.
A head-sized open face Reuben sandwich.
Shank Dog grimly insists that all of these things were involved in ‘research’. His jaw is clenched. He looks pale. His loyal staff nod affirmatively.
What, we sneeringly ask, could one possibly research with weapons, fetiches, and beer?
They cannot answer. They are mute.
They are hungover.
Yesterday was Shank Dog’s penultimate day at the company. True to form, it involved massive amounts of beer. Except for the fleshy old gal with the negligee and a feather boa, plus the man in Texas, everyone was complicit in an attempt to drink him under the table.
Ten years with the company. That means a lot of beer - some of it drunk through a luncheon meat straw.
I also recall a tub of onion dip and a bag of large gummy insects. Green and red and yellow. And beer.
Today, the giant fish, the oil-portrait of the elderly feathered bawd (someone’s mother?), the assault rifles, and the hospital gurney are leaving the building forever. More beer.
Bon voyage, Shank Dog. And G-d speed.
We’ll read about you in the papers one of these days.
I'm sure of it.
Beer.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
As a company, we do not deal in fish.
Additionally, there are the photos. Many disturbing photos, which gradually revealed several themes: Nostrils. Beer. Motorcycles. Beer. Piracy. Beer. Greek violence. Beer. Body parts. Beer. Carboard tubes, beer, and strange nude dolls. Beer. Fried food. Beer.
A head-sized open face Reuben sandwich.
Shank Dog grimly insists that all of these things were involved in ‘research’. His jaw is clenched. He looks pale. His loyal staff nod affirmatively.
What, we sneeringly ask, could one possibly research with weapons, fetiches, and beer?
They cannot answer. They are mute.
They are hungover.
Yesterday was Shank Dog’s penultimate day at the company. True to form, it involved massive amounts of beer. Except for the fleshy old gal with the negligee and a feather boa, plus the man in Texas, everyone was complicit in an attempt to drink him under the table.
Ten years with the company. That means a lot of beer - some of it drunk through a luncheon meat straw.
I also recall a tub of onion dip and a bag of large gummy insects. Green and red and yellow. And beer.
Today, the giant fish, the oil-portrait of the elderly feathered bawd (someone’s mother?), the assault rifles, and the hospital gurney are leaving the building forever. More beer.
Bon voyage, Shank Dog. And G-d speed.
We’ll read about you in the papers one of these days.
I'm sure of it.
Beer.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
ZOMBIES!
Might as well face it, the Zombies are going to win. They have help.
This morning over coffee Savage Kitten and I got into a heated discussion about Zombies. Not an argument - the heat was caused by the fact that when she wakes up she's full of piss and vinegar, whereas when I wake up I am slow and lethargic like a normal person. Her mind is going ninety, mine is ambling along at thirty.
Conversationally, at that hour, I am the old geezer driving a nineteen sixties station wagon in the fast lane that she so desperately wants to pass. Old fart, move!
I brought up the scientific article that Tzipporah linked in a comment underneath the post about Shank Dog standing at a window with an assault rifle, facing the offices across the street.
My speculation was that he was going to deal with that nest of investment bankers over there, Tzipporah seems convinced that Shank Dog was just preparing for the Zombie Invasion.
REASONS A ZOMBIE OUTBREAK WOULD FAIL
Savage Kitten rejected the article's conclusions, based on "valid" reasons that I cannot remember (I may have mentioned that my brain was slow and lethargic), which she argued with verve and passion.
Whatever I said was ineffective, I clearly didn't understand the situation.
My input at that point may have been to wail sleepily "but but but, they're Zombies!"
It seemed reasonable enough to me - Zombies, being walking protein and rather stupid, would be eaten by wild dogs and IRS agents LONG before there were enough of them to swing the balance. Besides, legally the undead have no rights - they wouldn't be allowed on the bus, nobody would hire them, they'd stumble into traffic.......
I may not have remembered enough of the article Tzipporah had linked to make much sense.
Savage Kitten insisted that by the time society noticed the Zombies it would be far too late. They would have multiplied so rapidly that there would be no hope.
2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64 ..... . Or even 5, 25, 125, 625, 3125 ........
Just in case, she happily started strategizing on their behalf. Zombies may not move very fast, therefore they would have to employ guile and tactics. Heck, no problem. They just need a leader.
How a woman who cannot find any redeeming qualities in a human-size cockroach can support America's undead is beyond me. Zombies just aren't worthwhile members of society.
She, on the other hand, values their potential input and will passionately defend their dignity.
Sensing I was losing the battle, I fled to the bathroom with my books and coffee.
While I was ensconced therein, she periodically padded up to the closed door to renew the assault.
"They'd probably eat solitary people when there were no witnesses first."
'You mean like elderly apartment dwellers?'
"No, more like drunks in the middle of the night."
'Oh come on, even drunks are hard to catch.'
"Not you - there you'd be, stumbling home from the bar at three in the morning, moving slowly because of your gouty foot......"
'I do NOT stumble!'
"Hah, I've heard you!"
'That must've been somebody else.'
"You ain't fooling the Zombies......."
It just seems so unfair. Not only is she backing the Zombies, but she's accusing me of being a tippler.
I hardly EVER drink to excess, I am the very epitome of probity!
Sane and reasonable behaviour are my middle names, sobriety is my one character flaw.
Zombies are just wrong!
Tonight some of us are going out drinking with Shank Dog. We'll probably have several cocktails, and it will be a happy party - we really appreciate his company. He's the only thing that stands between us and Zombies.
Or investment bankers.
I can't imagine anything worse than being eaten by investment bankers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This morning over coffee Savage Kitten and I got into a heated discussion about Zombies. Not an argument - the heat was caused by the fact that when she wakes up she's full of piss and vinegar, whereas when I wake up I am slow and lethargic like a normal person. Her mind is going ninety, mine is ambling along at thirty.
Conversationally, at that hour, I am the old geezer driving a nineteen sixties station wagon in the fast lane that she so desperately wants to pass. Old fart, move!
I brought up the scientific article that Tzipporah linked in a comment underneath the post about Shank Dog standing at a window with an assault rifle, facing the offices across the street.
My speculation was that he was going to deal with that nest of investment bankers over there, Tzipporah seems convinced that Shank Dog was just preparing for the Zombie Invasion.
REASONS A ZOMBIE OUTBREAK WOULD FAIL
Savage Kitten rejected the article's conclusions, based on "valid" reasons that I cannot remember (I may have mentioned that my brain was slow and lethargic), which she argued with verve and passion.
Whatever I said was ineffective, I clearly didn't understand the situation.
My input at that point may have been to wail sleepily "but but but, they're Zombies!"
It seemed reasonable enough to me - Zombies, being walking protein and rather stupid, would be eaten by wild dogs and IRS agents LONG before there were enough of them to swing the balance. Besides, legally the undead have no rights - they wouldn't be allowed on the bus, nobody would hire them, they'd stumble into traffic.......
I may not have remembered enough of the article Tzipporah had linked to make much sense.
Savage Kitten insisted that by the time society noticed the Zombies it would be far too late. They would have multiplied so rapidly that there would be no hope.
2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64 ..... . Or even 5, 25, 125, 625, 3125 ........
Just in case, she happily started strategizing on their behalf. Zombies may not move very fast, therefore they would have to employ guile and tactics. Heck, no problem. They just need a leader.
How a woman who cannot find any redeeming qualities in a human-size cockroach can support America's undead is beyond me. Zombies just aren't worthwhile members of society.
She, on the other hand, values their potential input and will passionately defend their dignity.
Sensing I was losing the battle, I fled to the bathroom with my books and coffee.
While I was ensconced therein, she periodically padded up to the closed door to renew the assault.
"They'd probably eat solitary people when there were no witnesses first."
'You mean like elderly apartment dwellers?'
"No, more like drunks in the middle of the night."
'Oh come on, even drunks are hard to catch.'
"Not you - there you'd be, stumbling home from the bar at three in the morning, moving slowly because of your gouty foot......"
'I do NOT stumble!'
"Hah, I've heard you!"
'That must've been somebody else.'
"You ain't fooling the Zombies......."
It just seems so unfair. Not only is she backing the Zombies, but she's accusing me of being a tippler.
I hardly EVER drink to excess, I am the very epitome of probity!
Sane and reasonable behaviour are my middle names, sobriety is my one character flaw.
Zombies are just wrong!
Tonight some of us are going out drinking with Shank Dog. We'll probably have several cocktails, and it will be a happy party - we really appreciate his company. He's the only thing that stands between us and Zombies.
Or investment bankers.
I can't imagine anything worse than being eaten by investment bankers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 30, 2010
NOT WHAT I WANTED TO TALK ABOUT
This is not what I wanted to even consider at any time.
I do not want to feel it now.
She has always been what matters most in my life. But at some point our situations may be so different as to be unrecognizable. There are moments when the future is a dark and frightening place.
I do not know. I know less than ever.
I do not want to feel it now.
She has always been what matters most in my life. But at some point our situations may be so different as to be unrecognizable. There are moments when the future is a dark and frightening place.
I do not know. I know less than ever.
TORTURING THE KITTEN
My better half has had a severe cold. For over a week, Savage Kitten was wheezing, sneezing, and rubbing her nose raw. Most amazing.
I had the same cold, but got over it in one day. Very quick recovery.
I credit my healthy lifestyle. Her, on the other hand........
Part of it may be related to the monthly visitor. Women tend to be more susceptible to opportunistic infections at that time. Their body temperature also tends to make them much better hosts.
If YOU were a virus, would YOU infest a cold man? Or would you far rather victimize a hot young thing? Even if cranky and foul-tempered.
I think we know the answer to that question, don't we?
There was, however, a very distinct upside. She could barely smell. Almost not a darn thing. Not only did that mean I could be a bit, errm, casual about certain things..........
It also meant she didn't notice me smoking in the teevee room.
Normally Savage Kitten hates smoking in the apartment. While she's "tolerant" of my bad habits like smoking and drinking and scratching myself, she prefers it if I pursue my smellier peculiarities either outside or in the kitchen.
The public can darn well put up with it, she and the Teddy Bear (senior room mate, oldest friend) won't.
Go smoke the devil's weed elsewhere! Feh! Bad man! Smelly!
[Actually, the Teddy Bear (Ms. Bruin) is surprisingly tolerant, and usually doesn't comment. Maybe she likes the manly smell of tobacco. Does it remind her of autumn leaves?]
Last week I enjoyed several bowls of MacBaren's Virginia Flake (a nice pressed tobacco with a slight aroma added - anise, I think), as well as Orlik Golden Sliced (the choice of all sober judges, being pressed Virginia with a little Burley for a bit of oomph).
Plus three or four bowls of Samuel Gawith St. James Flake (tasty medium Virginias made zingy with Perique).
And a cigar.
A nice sizeable dark Nicaraguan.
Although it made her eyes sting (the air was blue with smoke), she didn't even notice. She was too busy watching borrowed movies, and her nose was thoroughly plugged up.
I'm not sure if the redness around the eyes was from my smoke (doubtful), her infection (possible), or watching Felix and Oscar trying to live together (probable). One fastidious to a fault, the other a cigar-chomping, poker-playing, hard-drinking, bachelor with a vengeance. Quite the comedy.
At one point she turned to me and said "you know, you're rather like Felix".
Felix and Oscar were in a restaurant at that moment - Oscar had ordered a pastrami sandwich and a beer, Felix was making deep throaty ahooharharrrh sounds to drain his ears, which attracted the attention of other patrons. This was after a long neurotic disquisition about his allergies, and a bellyache about ventilation, dust, and airconditioning.
'Scuse me, Hon, but do you notice the Corona? Oh wait - you're referring to my cleanliness, aren't you?
"You're rather like Felix"
Okay.... I'll take that in the spirit of compliment that you intended.
You're too kind.
If I had known how profoundly affected her nose was, I would have upped the ante, and smoked pipefulls of something dark and stinky with Latakia. But, you see, I was just pushing the envelope. Very carefully.
I did not want to risk the Teddy Bear's wrath.
Turns out Ms. Bruin had a cold too.
Remarkable coincidence.
Darn.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I had the same cold, but got over it in one day. Very quick recovery.
I credit my healthy lifestyle. Her, on the other hand........
Part of it may be related to the monthly visitor. Women tend to be more susceptible to opportunistic infections at that time. Their body temperature also tends to make them much better hosts.
If YOU were a virus, would YOU infest a cold man? Or would you far rather victimize a hot young thing? Even if cranky and foul-tempered.
I think we know the answer to that question, don't we?
There was, however, a very distinct upside. She could barely smell. Almost not a darn thing. Not only did that mean I could be a bit, errm, casual about certain things..........
It also meant she didn't notice me smoking in the teevee room.
Normally Savage Kitten hates smoking in the apartment. While she's "tolerant" of my bad habits like smoking and drinking and scratching myself, she prefers it if I pursue my smellier peculiarities either outside or in the kitchen.
The public can darn well put up with it, she and the Teddy Bear (senior room mate, oldest friend) won't.
Go smoke the devil's weed elsewhere! Feh! Bad man! Smelly!
[Actually, the Teddy Bear (Ms. Bruin) is surprisingly tolerant, and usually doesn't comment. Maybe she likes the manly smell of tobacco. Does it remind her of autumn leaves?]
Last week I enjoyed several bowls of MacBaren's Virginia Flake (a nice pressed tobacco with a slight aroma added - anise, I think), as well as Orlik Golden Sliced (the choice of all sober judges, being pressed Virginia with a little Burley for a bit of oomph).
Plus three or four bowls of Samuel Gawith St. James Flake (tasty medium Virginias made zingy with Perique).
And a cigar.
A nice sizeable dark Nicaraguan.
Although it made her eyes sting (the air was blue with smoke), she didn't even notice. She was too busy watching borrowed movies, and her nose was thoroughly plugged up.
I'm not sure if the redness around the eyes was from my smoke (doubtful), her infection (possible), or watching Felix and Oscar trying to live together (probable). One fastidious to a fault, the other a cigar-chomping, poker-playing, hard-drinking, bachelor with a vengeance. Quite the comedy.
At one point she turned to me and said "you know, you're rather like Felix".
Felix and Oscar were in a restaurant at that moment - Oscar had ordered a pastrami sandwich and a beer, Felix was making deep throaty ahooharharrrh sounds to drain his ears, which attracted the attention of other patrons. This was after a long neurotic disquisition about his allergies, and a bellyache about ventilation, dust, and airconditioning.
'Scuse me, Hon, but do you notice the Corona? Oh wait - you're referring to my cleanliness, aren't you?
"You're rather like Felix"
Okay.... I'll take that in the spirit of compliment that you intended.
You're too kind.
If I had known how profoundly affected her nose was, I would have upped the ante, and smoked pipefulls of something dark and stinky with Latakia. But, you see, I was just pushing the envelope. Very carefully.
I did not want to risk the Teddy Bear's wrath.
Turns out Ms. Bruin had a cold too.
Remarkable coincidence.
Darn.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, August 27, 2010
HIGH CALIBER, SQUARE JAW
I work in a remarkable place. I have just seen photos of our design chief standing at the office window with an assault rifle. It doesn’t help matters that he has a military build, feral agility, and looks capable. There’s a resolve to his shoulders as seen from the back. Tense.
Locked, loaded, and ready to go.
We are several floors up. There are several floors of investment bankers across the street. One of these days, boys, one of these days.
Shank Dog - got gun, will travel.
Dot dot dot
Earlier today I overheard a conversation in which the following phrases occurred: “That looks terrible!” "Oh my G-d!" “You mean your doctor let you go like that?” "Yipes!" “It’s non-infectious.” "If anybody saw that, they’d be scared out of their gourd."
I do not know what the ailment is that elicited the comments, nor what it looks like. But I can imagine. Shank Dog's department probably has something to do with it – perhaps there was a leak from the lab. Someone broke the isolation on a tank of goo. We’re no longer sterile.
I’m thinking in terms of a Biblical plague or a Central-American parasite.
I really don’t have clear picture what EXACTLY they do in the design department. Testing, experiments? Lab rats, children?
Data is provided on a need to know basis, and I’m just an accountant.
All I know is that we sell “things”. “Things”, that’s what those are, “things”. Right? Shank Dog and his crew develop things.
The expression ‘weapons grade’ should not ever come to mind, forget that you heard it, just forget.
There’s no such critter.
We are investment bankers.
That is all.
I have NO problem with anything we sell. I will just repeat that I don’t know what it is.
Please don’t ask.
Still doesn’t explain why Shank Dog was at the window with an assault rifle…..
It’s Friday, I’m leaving soon, and I ain’t gonna say a darn thing. Just keep my mouth shut.
He probably won’t be here much longer.
Have good and safe weekend, y’all.
Locked, loaded, and ready to go.
We are several floors up. There are several floors of investment bankers across the street. One of these days, boys, one of these days.
Shank Dog - got gun, will travel.
Dot dot dot
Earlier today I overheard a conversation in which the following phrases occurred: “That looks terrible!” "Oh my G-d!" “You mean your doctor let you go like that?” "Yipes!" “It’s non-infectious.” "If anybody saw that, they’d be scared out of their gourd."
I do not know what the ailment is that elicited the comments, nor what it looks like. But I can imagine. Shank Dog's department probably has something to do with it – perhaps there was a leak from the lab. Someone broke the isolation on a tank of goo. We’re no longer sterile.
I’m thinking in terms of a Biblical plague or a Central-American parasite.
I really don’t have clear picture what EXACTLY they do in the design department. Testing, experiments? Lab rats, children?
Data is provided on a need to know basis, and I’m just an accountant.
All I know is that we sell “things”. “Things”, that’s what those are, “things”. Right? Shank Dog and his crew develop things.
The expression ‘weapons grade’ should not ever come to mind, forget that you heard it, just forget.
There’s no such critter.
We are investment bankers.
That is all.
I have NO problem with anything we sell. I will just repeat that I don’t know what it is.
Please don’t ask.
Still doesn’t explain why Shank Dog was at the window with an assault rifle…..
It’s Friday, I’m leaving soon, and I ain’t gonna say a darn thing. Just keep my mouth shut.
He probably won’t be here much longer.
Have good and safe weekend, y’all.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
GILAD BOGNER'S SUSPICIOUS FAMILIARITY WITH LILY VON SHTUPP
To a very large extent I haven’t a clue what today’s teenager listens to – nor am I particularly interested. I'll just assume that it's garbage.
I’ve never actually been taken by what comes out of the radio, as it all seemed like dreck anyway. My late brother, Tobias, often tuned in to Radio Luxembourg and the pirate stations in the NorthSea, but insofar as I paid any attention to what was coming from his desk while he was studying, it was to marvel at the commercials.
“Decide for yourself whether you are small, medium, or large”
Excellent advice! Even if it was only to purchase a shirt featuring the visage of some lithe and hairy pop trog. Expecially, perhaps, because of the haughty Brit accent and supercilious delivery. I have taken the recommendation to heart.
It is SO multi-applicable.
What I actually listened to was the victrola.
When I was about ten or eleven I discovered my father’s collection of Bertold Brecht & Kurt Weill operas, which featured the voice of Lotte Lenya.
There was just … something. Husky. Nice plonky music. A bit sleazy and nightclubish.
PLONK PLONK PLONK!
One of the most recognized songs from the Dreigroschen Oper by Brecht and Weill is ‘ Mackie Messer’. You’ve probably heard the limpwanged version sung in English – heck, some dillwad did a bad rendition of it every time you visited the karaoke bar – but this version is different:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aPG9GcykPIY&feature=player_embedded
That's how it's supposed to sound.
I rediscovered it while reading Treppenwitz today.
[This post: http://www.treppenwitz.com/2010/08/overheard.html ]
Thanks, Trepp.
Tell Gilad that Lotte Lenya does NOT sound "just like Lily von Shtupp".
Not in the slightest!
If you, dear reader, are interested in songs that haven't been bollixed up by English-speakers, here's Lotte Lenya singing Surabaya Johnny:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJKkqC8JVXk
This is a lively tune about soldiers - Kanonen song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi433VgJ5bc&feature=related
[Fun version subtitled in Portuguese: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yuj0HEght0E&feature=related Or how about the 2006 performance at the Theaterhaus in Jena: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iorl1qin54E&feature=related - it's very German.]
We'll finish this recital with Kurt Weill and Bertold Brecht's most famous song, Alabama:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6orDcL0zt34&feature=channel
Now, wasn't that much better than the crap you hear on the radio?
I’ve never actually been taken by what comes out of the radio, as it all seemed like dreck anyway. My late brother, Tobias, often tuned in to Radio Luxembourg and the pirate stations in the NorthSea, but insofar as I paid any attention to what was coming from his desk while he was studying, it was to marvel at the commercials.
“Decide for yourself whether you are small, medium, or large”
Excellent advice! Even if it was only to purchase a shirt featuring the visage of some lithe and hairy pop trog. Expecially, perhaps, because of the haughty Brit accent and supercilious delivery. I have taken the recommendation to heart.
It is SO multi-applicable.
What I actually listened to was the victrola.
When I was about ten or eleven I discovered my father’s collection of Bertold Brecht & Kurt Weill operas, which featured the voice of Lotte Lenya.
There was just … something. Husky. Nice plonky music. A bit sleazy and nightclubish.
PLONK PLONK PLONK!
One of the most recognized songs from the Dreigroschen Oper by Brecht and Weill is ‘ Mackie Messer’. You’ve probably heard the limpwanged version sung in English – heck, some dillwad did a bad rendition of it every time you visited the karaoke bar – but this version is different:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aPG9GcykPIY&feature=player_embedded
That's how it's supposed to sound.
I rediscovered it while reading Treppenwitz today.
[This post: http://www.treppenwitz.com/2010/08/overheard.html ]
Thanks, Trepp.
Tell Gilad that Lotte Lenya does NOT sound "just like Lily von Shtupp".
Not in the slightest!
If you, dear reader, are interested in songs that haven't been bollixed up by English-speakers, here's Lotte Lenya singing Surabaya Johnny:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJKkqC8JVXk
This is a lively tune about soldiers - Kanonen song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi433VgJ5bc&feature=related
[Fun version subtitled in Portuguese: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yuj0HEght0E&feature=related Or how about the 2006 performance at the Theaterhaus in Jena: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iorl1qin54E&feature=related - it's very German.]
We'll finish this recital with Kurt Weill and Bertold Brecht's most famous song, Alabama:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6orDcL0zt34&feature=channel
Now, wasn't that much better than the crap you hear on the radio?
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
THE PLEASURE IS ALL MINE!
It irritates Savage Kitten when I monopolize the crapper for over an hour in the morning. What, she undoubtedly wonders, is that crazy old coot DOING in there?
Apparently the luggage I shlep into the bathroom has not sufficiently clued her in. She hardly ever takes stuff with her to go “powder a delicate nose”, whereas I seem to need an entire shopping cart.
Her: in and out. Me: sitting out the siege of Bergen op Zoom.
I thought it might be instructive to provide a list of items which are essential for the morning eliminatory and ablutionary interlude.
NECESSITIES:
Pen
Notebook
Phrasebook
Paperclips
Small slips of paper
Thumbtacks (optional)
Pocket knife OR tweezers
Cigarillos
Lighter
Matches (in case the lighter fails)
Ash tray
Coffee cup (filled, second cup of day)
Coaster
Foreign language dictionary
Reading specs
It should be obvious what all that time in the loo is about, right?
Surely I’m not the ONLY person in the whole wide world who learns while ‘sequestered’?
You probably take a similar collection of items in with you, to make your stay there as productive as possible.
Certainly paperclips, notepaper, and a steaming cup.
Maybe you don’t need a Phrasebook of Tajik (“ohe, peshkhizmat, ba man lazim ast, namak o rogan e domba” – oh waiter, please bring me salt and clarified sheep-tail fat), or a Collection of Chagatai Poems in Translation (‘my galloping heart is like a dromedary, seeking the water of your passion, oh sleek she-wolf of the steppes’), but I’m sure you have your own essentials.
Cigarettes, the NYT, and junkfood. Plus the teevee guide.
Unfinished correspondence.
Maybe a cellphone.
You wouldn’t believe how often I’ve heard flushing in the background while calling.
I’ve learned to avoid certain people at certain hours. Arnold? No, I think I’ll call him around ten-thirty, when he isn’t ‘preoccupied’. Estefan? The last time I asked about an invoice, he dropped his wallet – it took another three weeks before he gave me the new credit card number. Ludovico? Naaaa, he eats pizza Tuesday evenings, told me all about it last time.
Randall is just a little water-sprite after lunch, splashes like a kid in a fountain. So no.
I have to wonder what hand they use when answering my calls while returning the call of nature. Do they also text their nearest and dearest with those hands? Mrs. Smith, don’t answer that message! Do you know where your son’s hand has BEEN while thumbing those loving words? You should be horrified!
I am, on your behalf!
And why do they share their activities with whoever calls? Can they not delay the water sounds until AFTER we’ve taken down the minutes of the call-in meeting?
We really didn’t need to know so much about them. Trust us, we’ll just assume they’re human, they don’t need to prove it.
Please, don’t prove it.
I’d far rather people not talk to me while they’re in there. Long-distance attention is far less flattering when you keep interrupting our conversation to grab more toilet-paper.
Savage Kitten should be glad that I read while in the little boys room.
It’s a very old-fashioned habit, indicative of clean habits and correct morals.
I was raised properly.
Porcelain means private time. Not conversational opportunity.
Apparently the luggage I shlep into the bathroom has not sufficiently clued her in. She hardly ever takes stuff with her to go “powder a delicate nose”, whereas I seem to need an entire shopping cart.
Her: in and out. Me: sitting out the siege of Bergen op Zoom.
I thought it might be instructive to provide a list of items which are essential for the morning eliminatory and ablutionary interlude.
NECESSITIES:
Pen
Notebook
Phrasebook
Paperclips
Small slips of paper
Thumbtacks (optional)
Pocket knife OR tweezers
Cigarillos
Lighter
Matches (in case the lighter fails)
Ash tray
Coffee cup (filled, second cup of day)
Coaster
Foreign language dictionary
Reading specs
It should be obvious what all that time in the loo is about, right?
Surely I’m not the ONLY person in the whole wide world who learns while ‘sequestered’?
You probably take a similar collection of items in with you, to make your stay there as productive as possible.
Certainly paperclips, notepaper, and a steaming cup.
Maybe you don’t need a Phrasebook of Tajik (“ohe, peshkhizmat, ba man lazim ast, namak o rogan e domba” – oh waiter, please bring me salt and clarified sheep-tail fat), or a Collection of Chagatai Poems in Translation (‘my galloping heart is like a dromedary, seeking the water of your passion, oh sleek she-wolf of the steppes’), but I’m sure you have your own essentials.
Cigarettes, the NYT, and junkfood. Plus the teevee guide.
Unfinished correspondence.
Maybe a cellphone.
You wouldn’t believe how often I’ve heard flushing in the background while calling.
I’ve learned to avoid certain people at certain hours. Arnold? No, I think I’ll call him around ten-thirty, when he isn’t ‘preoccupied’. Estefan? The last time I asked about an invoice, he dropped his wallet – it took another three weeks before he gave me the new credit card number. Ludovico? Naaaa, he eats pizza Tuesday evenings, told me all about it last time.
Randall is just a little water-sprite after lunch, splashes like a kid in a fountain. So no.
I have to wonder what hand they use when answering my calls while returning the call of nature. Do they also text their nearest and dearest with those hands? Mrs. Smith, don’t answer that message! Do you know where your son’s hand has BEEN while thumbing those loving words? You should be horrified!
I am, on your behalf!
And why do they share their activities with whoever calls? Can they not delay the water sounds until AFTER we’ve taken down the minutes of the call-in meeting?
We really didn’t need to know so much about them. Trust us, we’ll just assume they’re human, they don’t need to prove it.
Please, don’t prove it.
I’d far rather people not talk to me while they’re in there. Long-distance attention is far less flattering when you keep interrupting our conversation to grab more toilet-paper.
Savage Kitten should be glad that I read while in the little boys room.
It’s a very old-fashioned habit, indicative of clean habits and correct morals.
I was raised properly.
Porcelain means private time. Not conversational opportunity.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
ALL THE HOT SAN FRANCISCO LUCK
The weather in SF is fine. Last week, it wasn't. Really, now is when all of you European tourists should come here, as we are finally the California you've been dreaming about.
But your timing is way off - you were all over the place up until last week, bellyaching about the biting cold and the wind and the fog........
At present, there are almost none of you around.
No offense, but that is pretty much how we like it.
When the weather improves at the end of summer you might see things we would rather you didn't.
Such as bra straps when there is no bra. As passed by while I was outside smoking a moment ago. Honest, I don't know why that woman even wears a bra, no support whatsoever is needed. Nor any uplift. Maybe a touch of lace, but a wispy camisole would accomplish the same. Brassieres are so constricting, don't you agree?
Anyway, I'm glad you didn't see that. We deserve something for living here.
Yesterday evening on the cable car you tourists were marked by your complete absence.
The cabin was almost empty, except for an elderly Chinese gentleman who had picked his granddaughter up from school. Cute kid. She spent considerable time rooting through her backpack rearranging things. As soon as he dozed off (top of the hill, between Pacific Union and Grace), she frantically started rearranging her clothing. The poor little thing was wearing all synthetics, in bright functional colours and textures. In this weather one should only wear cotton - she must have suffered all day. At one point she reached in and scratched fiercely right where I imagine the waist-band of her panty to be.
Sweetheart, I really don't need to imagine where the waist-band of your panty is..... but neither do the German tourists. They're all horrid perverts, and we're glad there aren't any of them around, aren't we?
This morning, on my way to work, I had a splendid view of a young miss dressed for heat. I was standing, and could look down at the people waiting for the bus - it was far too crowded for any of them to get on.
You looked so very very disappointed, my dear - but you also looked like cake, so I'm quite pleased. Sorry.
HOW MIXED ARE THE MESSAGES
Of course, not everything in San Francisco is female.
The strapping fellow on California street last night certainly wasn't. Unfortunately I could see all of his tattoos. I really didn't want to. Why do some men adorn themselves with obscenities? Does it look macho? Is there a frisson of contradictory temptation if a large bosomy goth harpy illustrates your shoulders? Really, do you NEED to have some buxom vampire babe straddling your ripped stomach, rising up from your pubes? And what is the message these sexbabe she-daemon images are supposed to send? Are you confused?
I know I am.
Do you spend way too much time looking at yourself in the mirror?
Dang, those are some muscles. Looks like pythons in a gunny sack.
Slick moist pythons.
If you got it, flaunt it, I guess.
Anyhow, that's just a selection of San Francisco sights which you visitors do not need to see. I'm not sure you could handle the excitement - the visual stimulation, plus the heat, would affect your poor shriveled Northern European brains. There's no telling what it might make you do.
You all are just lucky you're not here.
And so are we.
But your timing is way off - you were all over the place up until last week, bellyaching about the biting cold and the wind and the fog........
At present, there are almost none of you around.
No offense, but that is pretty much how we like it.
When the weather improves at the end of summer you might see things we would rather you didn't.
Such as bra straps when there is no bra. As passed by while I was outside smoking a moment ago. Honest, I don't know why that woman even wears a bra, no support whatsoever is needed. Nor any uplift. Maybe a touch of lace, but a wispy camisole would accomplish the same. Brassieres are so constricting, don't you agree?
Anyway, I'm glad you didn't see that. We deserve something for living here.
Yesterday evening on the cable car you tourists were marked by your complete absence.
The cabin was almost empty, except for an elderly Chinese gentleman who had picked his granddaughter up from school. Cute kid. She spent considerable time rooting through her backpack rearranging things. As soon as he dozed off (top of the hill, between Pacific Union and Grace), she frantically started rearranging her clothing. The poor little thing was wearing all synthetics, in bright functional colours and textures. In this weather one should only wear cotton - she must have suffered all day. At one point she reached in and scratched fiercely right where I imagine the waist-band of her panty to be.
Sweetheart, I really don't need to imagine where the waist-band of your panty is..... but neither do the German tourists. They're all horrid perverts, and we're glad there aren't any of them around, aren't we?
This morning, on my way to work, I had a splendid view of a young miss dressed for heat. I was standing, and could look down at the people waiting for the bus - it was far too crowded for any of them to get on.
You looked so very very disappointed, my dear - but you also looked like cake, so I'm quite pleased. Sorry.
HOW MIXED ARE THE MESSAGES
Of course, not everything in San Francisco is female.
The strapping fellow on California street last night certainly wasn't. Unfortunately I could see all of his tattoos. I really didn't want to. Why do some men adorn themselves with obscenities? Does it look macho? Is there a frisson of contradictory temptation if a large bosomy goth harpy illustrates your shoulders? Really, do you NEED to have some buxom vampire babe straddling your ripped stomach, rising up from your pubes? And what is the message these sexbabe she-daemon images are supposed to send? Are you confused?
I know I am.
Do you spend way too much time looking at yourself in the mirror?
Dang, those are some muscles. Looks like pythons in a gunny sack.
Slick moist pythons.
If you got it, flaunt it, I guess.
Anyhow, that's just a selection of San Francisco sights which you visitors do not need to see. I'm not sure you could handle the excitement - the visual stimulation, plus the heat, would affect your poor shriveled Northern European brains. There's no telling what it might make you do.
You all are just lucky you're not here.
And so are we.
Monday, August 23, 2010
FOND THOUGHTS ABOUT PAMELA GELLER, NEWT GINGRICH, AND GEERT WILDERS
Over on Dovbear's blog, where the debate in favour of civilized values and building a mosque, versus darkness, stupidity, and idolatrous worship of a pit, is once again in full swing, I made a comment about wanting to buy pornography, cheap liquor, and a snack near ground zero.
Perhaps a teensy bit crass.
But in all honesty, flaming holes like Pamela Geller, Newt Gingrich, and Geert Wilders do not bring out the best in me. And their acolytes are, if possible, even more repulsive.
"Brown bag hooch, tittie glossies, and a snickers bar and I'm good to go. It's a secular religious experience."
Pamela Geller is a bigot who spent far too much time making banana comments about Obama, Newt Gingrich is a moral midget and ethical cripple, and Geert Wilders is a shameless political whore.
Please note: everything between 'Pamela Geller' and 'whore' is an opinion, and therefore constitutionally protected free-speech.
All three are rank opportunists.
If I were visiting a brothel, they would probably be splendid company. Especially if teenage sex-slaves, ambisextrous midgets, and beating parties were part of the night's programme.
So, inevitably, I must think of dildos.
LARGE REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS
Years ago I lived around the corner from a delightfully old fashioned boutique where one could browse a truly amazing selection of flexible pink rubber items. Everything from modest and discreet little poink-poinks to immense strainful-looking arm-sized knobby brutes, and several rather startling iterations in between.
I would frequently drop by to talk with the manager, who was a very intelligent academic from Russia. Perhaps because of the conversation pieces framing him, our discussions veered all over the board. It's hard to stay on subject when a humongous fright-cock made out of shocking pink elastomer is staring you straight in the face.
Occasionally we would talk about penises. Not often.
The presence of artificial dongus in so many forms tends to put a damper on any mention of Richard..... . but some exemplars were just so spectacular that they demanded to be discussed.
If it boggles the mind, just imagine what else it might boggle.
Some of them, we thought, just had to be trophies. Surely no one could fit something that monstrous?
But I was proven wrong.
A friend invited a few of us over for sketching party. At that time I still had pretensions of being a graphic artist, so someone modeling nude presented a golden opportunity. I was getting very good at shading over the muscle groups, evoking warm skin.
H struck several classical poses. He was excellent at modeling, held himself immobile for several minutes at a stretch, and the lighting was perfect.
What he did with a certain pink object defied both imagination and medical science. It disappeared entirely several times.
Discobolus, with blissed expression -- Spear-thrower, with blissed expression -- Lady Justitia, with blissed expression -- Saint Sebastian, with blissed expression -- Leda and the swan.
H passed away years ago. It was a profound loss to art and culture in SF.
I still have those sketches somewhere. I haven't shown them to anyone in the quarter of a century since.
If you knew H, you would recognize him immediately. I really worked on the face. So it just wouldn't be "diplomatic" to show the pictures.
Given H's personality, I think it would please him immensely if Pamela Geller, Newt Gingrich, and Geert Wilders were beaten to death with his twenty inch long flexible rubber monster hose.
But I suspect he was buried with it.
And that, truly, is hallowed ground.
Perhaps a teensy bit crass.
But in all honesty, flaming holes like Pamela Geller, Newt Gingrich, and Geert Wilders do not bring out the best in me. And their acolytes are, if possible, even more repulsive.
"Brown bag hooch, tittie glossies, and a snickers bar and I'm good to go. It's a secular religious experience."
Pamela Geller is a bigot who spent far too much time making banana comments about Obama, Newt Gingrich is a moral midget and ethical cripple, and Geert Wilders is a shameless political whore.
Please note: everything between 'Pamela Geller' and 'whore' is an opinion, and therefore constitutionally protected free-speech.
All three are rank opportunists.
If I were visiting a brothel, they would probably be splendid company. Especially if teenage sex-slaves, ambisextrous midgets, and beating parties were part of the night's programme.
So, inevitably, I must think of dildos.
LARGE REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS
Years ago I lived around the corner from a delightfully old fashioned boutique where one could browse a truly amazing selection of flexible pink rubber items. Everything from modest and discreet little poink-poinks to immense strainful-looking arm-sized knobby brutes, and several rather startling iterations in between.
I would frequently drop by to talk with the manager, who was a very intelligent academic from Russia. Perhaps because of the conversation pieces framing him, our discussions veered all over the board. It's hard to stay on subject when a humongous fright-cock made out of shocking pink elastomer is staring you straight in the face.
Occasionally we would talk about penises. Not often.
The presence of artificial dongus in so many forms tends to put a damper on any mention of Richard..... . but some exemplars were just so spectacular that they demanded to be discussed.
If it boggles the mind, just imagine what else it might boggle.
Some of them, we thought, just had to be trophies. Surely no one could fit something that monstrous?
But I was proven wrong.
A friend invited a few of us over for sketching party. At that time I still had pretensions of being a graphic artist, so someone modeling nude presented a golden opportunity. I was getting very good at shading over the muscle groups, evoking warm skin.
H struck several classical poses. He was excellent at modeling, held himself immobile for several minutes at a stretch, and the lighting was perfect.
What he did with a certain pink object defied both imagination and medical science. It disappeared entirely several times.
Discobolus, with blissed expression -- Spear-thrower, with blissed expression -- Lady Justitia, with blissed expression -- Saint Sebastian, with blissed expression -- Leda and the swan.
H passed away years ago. It was a profound loss to art and culture in SF.
I still have those sketches somewhere. I haven't shown them to anyone in the quarter of a century since.
If you knew H, you would recognize him immediately. I really worked on the face. So it just wouldn't be "diplomatic" to show the pictures.
Given H's personality, I think it would please him immensely if Pamela Geller, Newt Gingrich, and Geert Wilders were beaten to death with his twenty inch long flexible rubber monster hose.
But I suspect he was buried with it.
And that, truly, is hallowed ground.
Friday, August 20, 2010
STICK THIS IN YOUR PIPE AND SMOKE IT
Nearly a month ago the local tobacconist decided that people should not smoke. Or at least, not smoke at the shop. This wasn't because of some dictat from San Francisco's city fathers (tobacconists had been specifically grandfathered in), they just didn't like their customers.
Three years ago they had installed comfy chairs and televisions to encourage people to spend time and money at the store. Now they have removed all chairs save two, and imposed a rule that ONLY folks who spend a minimum of twenty five dollars per day can smoke there. Only two customers at a time. If they smoke what they bought that day.
Otherwise just pay and leave.
That excludes most of us. Even the cigar aficionados.
We patronized the place purely because we wished to support a local tobacconist, where we could smoke without being harassed by the vicious wheat-germ snarfing anti-tobacco healthnazi Berkeleyite earthmoms so common on the streets of San Francisco.
[Five days a week, for over five years, I would head around the corner with my pipe in my mouth, to purchase a box of cigarillos at the store. Often I ended up buying several tins of tobacco there too - much of my personal stockpile was purchased locally - and I have also acquired over a score of pipes from them.]
If we are not welcome, why should we patronize them?
A tin of pipe tobacco which sells for $17.95 in San Francisco is only nine dollars by parcel post, and cigar smokers can save nearly seventy percent by not shopping locally.
Yes, we cannot smoke in 'Parcel Post' (there is no actual place named 'Parcel Post', alas) - but we can't smoke at the tobacconist either.
The pleasure of shopping in SF is, perhaps, not worth the extra money - certainly not when the pleasure isn't pleasant.
There are several reputable tobacconists on the internet.
They will welcome your business.
PIPETOBACCO
Four Noggins
http://www.4noggins.com/
Cup o Joes
http://www.cupojoes.com/
Pipes & Cigars dot com
http://www.pipesandcigars.com/
All three of these internet merchants are reliable and have excellent selections of pipe tobaccos. The first one listed ships orders by next day post.
COLLECTIBLE PIPES
Vermont Pipes
http://vtpipes.com/
Pulvers Briar
http://www.pulversbriar.com/
Vermont Pipes (Pipeworks & Wilke) has a good selection of house blends in addition to pieces of wood, and offers a number of other services like repair and restoration. Carol, the proprietor, knows her stuff, and has been selling pipes and tobacco to an appreciative clientele for decades. Her blends are highly rated.
Pulvers Briar (Marty Pulvers) is how the previous owner of Sherlock's haven keeps himself entertained now that he's retired. In addition to being one of the most knowledgeable fellows in the business, Marty is also a witty and beloved fixture of the Bay Area tobacco scene - many of us fondly remember afternoons at his shop turning the air of the financial district blue in good company. If you need a fine collectible from one of the famous pipe makers of the past, he's your man.
CORNELL & DIEHL and G. L. PEASE
Decades ago Craig Tarler acquired a tobacco company named after an exotic dancer (the wife of the previous owner). After changing the name to Cornell & Diehl he packed the entire shebang up and moved to the country with his wife. He's been manufacturing and inventing fine blends ever since. For several years now he has been producing Greg Pease's blends also.
http://www.cornellanddiehl.com/
http://www.cornellanddiehl.com/oldindex.html
Both Craig and Greg have experimented in recent years with pressed tobaccos, to extraordinary effect; I am staggered by the results, and highly recommend what they do.
Bear in mind that I have always been a smoker of traditional English blends - Greg's Westminster and Craig's Red Odessa are among my favourites - but dammit, these flakes are fine stuff.
Cornell & Diehl and GLPease tobaccos can be bought from Craig at the internet site shown above. You can also discuss your order with him - he wants to make sure you get something that makes you happy.
All of the on-line entities listed above will smile, say hello to you all, take your money ("thank you!") and provide compensatory merchandise for the pleasure of taking your money.
It isn't complicated.
Times have changed, boys and girls. We can no longer rely on local tobacconists.
Feel free to patronize the internet instead. Spend your money wisely.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
AFTERTHOUGHT
It could be argued that 'pay-up-and-piss-off' is normal for the retail trade. But when all your customers are aware that they can get what they want over the internet for considerably less, and far more reliably besides, that is no longer strictly true.
Additionally, when most of the customers know more about the merchandise than the merchant, and are graciously willing to put up with shortages entirely unknown on the internet, there has to be something to pull the people in - mere convenience does not prompt daily spending.
[Perhaps mere convenience does work for cigarette smokers - but they had already been chased away two years ago. "We don't sell cigarettes, snnnnfff!"]
The joy of discovering new things, too, was not a factor, as frequently customers would ask about very well-known products with which the owners were not familiar, and with which they intended to remain unfamiliar.
The respite of sanctuary kept us coming in; the glow of other times made us overlook interpersonal ineptness and occasional uncomfortable moments.
But it has gone beyond that.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Three years ago they had installed comfy chairs and televisions to encourage people to spend time and money at the store. Now they have removed all chairs save two, and imposed a rule that ONLY folks who spend a minimum of twenty five dollars per day can smoke there. Only two customers at a time. If they smoke what they bought that day.
Otherwise just pay and leave.
That excludes most of us. Even the cigar aficionados.
We patronized the place purely because we wished to support a local tobacconist, where we could smoke without being harassed by the vicious wheat-germ snarfing anti-tobacco healthnazi Berkeleyite earthmoms so common on the streets of San Francisco.
[Five days a week, for over five years, I would head around the corner with my pipe in my mouth, to purchase a box of cigarillos at the store. Often I ended up buying several tins of tobacco there too - much of my personal stockpile was purchased locally - and I have also acquired over a score of pipes from them.]
If we are not welcome, why should we patronize them?
A tin of pipe tobacco which sells for $17.95 in San Francisco is only nine dollars by parcel post, and cigar smokers can save nearly seventy percent by not shopping locally.
Yes, we cannot smoke in 'Parcel Post' (there is no actual place named 'Parcel Post', alas) - but we can't smoke at the tobacconist either.
The pleasure of shopping in SF is, perhaps, not worth the extra money - certainly not when the pleasure isn't pleasant.
There are several reputable tobacconists on the internet.
They will welcome your business.
PIPETOBACCO
Four Noggins
http://www.4noggins.com/
Cup o Joes
http://www.cupojoes.com/
Pipes & Cigars dot com
http://www.pipesandcigars.com/
All three of these internet merchants are reliable and have excellent selections of pipe tobaccos. The first one listed ships orders by next day post.
COLLECTIBLE PIPES
Vermont Pipes
http://vtpipes.com/
Pulvers Briar
http://www.pulversbriar.com/
Vermont Pipes (Pipeworks & Wilke) has a good selection of house blends in addition to pieces of wood, and offers a number of other services like repair and restoration. Carol, the proprietor, knows her stuff, and has been selling pipes and tobacco to an appreciative clientele for decades. Her blends are highly rated.
Pulvers Briar (Marty Pulvers) is how the previous owner of Sherlock's haven keeps himself entertained now that he's retired. In addition to being one of the most knowledgeable fellows in the business, Marty is also a witty and beloved fixture of the Bay Area tobacco scene - many of us fondly remember afternoons at his shop turning the air of the financial district blue in good company. If you need a fine collectible from one of the famous pipe makers of the past, he's your man.
CORNELL & DIEHL and G. L. PEASE
Decades ago Craig Tarler acquired a tobacco company named after an exotic dancer (the wife of the previous owner). After changing the name to Cornell & Diehl he packed the entire shebang up and moved to the country with his wife. He's been manufacturing and inventing fine blends ever since. For several years now he has been producing Greg Pease's blends also.
http://www.cornellanddiehl.com/
http://www.cornellanddiehl.com/oldindex.html
Both Craig and Greg have experimented in recent years with pressed tobaccos, to extraordinary effect; I am staggered by the results, and highly recommend what they do.
Bear in mind that I have always been a smoker of traditional English blends - Greg's Westminster and Craig's Red Odessa are among my favourites - but dammit, these flakes are fine stuff.
Cornell & Diehl and GLPease tobaccos can be bought from Craig at the internet site shown above. You can also discuss your order with him - he wants to make sure you get something that makes you happy.
All of the on-line entities listed above will smile, say hello to you all, take your money ("thank you!") and provide compensatory merchandise for the pleasure of taking your money.
It isn't complicated.
Times have changed, boys and girls. We can no longer rely on local tobacconists.
Feel free to patronize the internet instead. Spend your money wisely.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
AFTERTHOUGHT
It could be argued that 'pay-up-and-piss-off' is normal for the retail trade. But when all your customers are aware that they can get what they want over the internet for considerably less, and far more reliably besides, that is no longer strictly true.
Additionally, when most of the customers know more about the merchandise than the merchant, and are graciously willing to put up with shortages entirely unknown on the internet, there has to be something to pull the people in - mere convenience does not prompt daily spending.
[Perhaps mere convenience does work for cigarette smokers - but they had already been chased away two years ago. "We don't sell cigarettes, snnnnfff!"]
The joy of discovering new things, too, was not a factor, as frequently customers would ask about very well-known products with which the owners were not familiar, and with which they intended to remain unfamiliar.
The respite of sanctuary kept us coming in; the glow of other times made us overlook interpersonal ineptness and occasional uncomfortable moments.
But it has gone beyond that.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
