From the Telegraaf: "Geert Wilders is 'ontzettend blij' dat het Openbaar Ministerie (OM) vrijdag tot de conclusie is gekomen dat hij geen strafbare feiten heeft gepleegd met zijn uitspraken. De PVV-leider wees erop dat het al de tweede keer is dat het OM dit zegt; de eerste keer was toen het besloot Wilders niet te vervolgen. In opdracht van het hof in Amsterdam is dat alsnog gebeurd. "
[Translation: Geert Wilders is extremely happy that the Ministry of Public Affairs (OM) on Friday came to the conclusion that he did not commit punishable offenses with his utterances. The PVV leader pointed out that this is the second time that the OM has said this - the first time was when they decided not to prosecute. In furtherance of the court in Amsterdam this nevertheless happened.]
SOURCE: http://www.telegraaf.nl/binnenland/7937255/__Wilders__ik_ben_ontzettend_blij__.html
Article: Wilders: ik ben ontzettend blij
STUFF A SOCK IN YOUR LONG ISLAND MOUTH!
I suppose this won’t prove jack to the folks that still refuse to accept that the Dutch legal system is NOT the same as the American legal system, that the many differences ARE completely valid, and that intemperate criticism of a foreign country's legal processes, if based on ignorance and praeconception, is remarkably stupid......
But:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-11554635
Quote:
"Dutch prosecutors have recommended acquitting leading anti-Islam politician Geert Wilders on all five charges of hate speech. They said his comments had targeted Islam, not Muslims, and he had the right to comment on social issues."
---
"Prosecutors Birgit van Roessel and Paul Velleman ... (cut) "It would be hurtful to many Muslims when Wilders calls for a ban on the Koran but the feelings of this group can play no role in determining the facts of the case." "
End quote.
This is the Dutch legal equivalent of a full acquittal.
[CORRECTION QUITE A BIT LATER: Darn, I forgot that the Dutch legal system allows for even greater weirdness - There will have to be a retrial because one of the members of the court tried to influence a witness, and in consequence the entire trial was thrown out. Didn't ANYBODY give that juridiot a handbook to his own legal system?!?]
It confirms that even in the Netherlands, castigated these many months by rabid rightwingers and the teaparty insane, the law is still the law. It just isn't written the same way as United States law. Nor is there any reason it should be.
Dutch freedoms predate American liberty by several centuries.
They have a bit of tradition behind them.
HATEMAIL IN ENGLISH AND ARABIC
The Dutch Public Prosecutors Office has in the recent past received death threats from many Americans (a lot of which, remarkably, used rhetoric to be found word for word on a certain strident East-Coast bitch moron's blog, a source of hate speech par excellence, nota bene), and they will now undoubtedly receive death threats from loosely affiliated elements of JVP, Int'l ANSWER, Berkeley, and many people in the Muslim world.
It would be so nice if all these opinionated 'letter writers' would actually learn Dutch, and do some research about the Dutch legal and political environment, before they took poison pen to paper.
I despair of that ever happening. Ignorance is bliss.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 15, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
SMART MONKEY!
One of the things old-time San Franciscans have always suspected is that people who aren't speaking English are talking about us behind our back.
Usually, this paranoia is directed at the Chinese.
This idea puts the white person at the centre of the universe. Consequently even when confronted with the facts, most people will refuse to adjust their thinking - "whaddya mean they aren't talking about us?!? Of course they're talking about us! We're IMPORTANT, dammit!!"
Sorry, no. You aren't.
Unless you intend to buy something.
I can say this because I speak Cantonese, and in consequence get to listen in.
WAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Being able to speak Cantonese is not an unalloyed blessing. It has positives, but it also has negatives.
Very often I will be in a store that I have never patronized before. There will be an old lady sitting by the cash-register, and a few teenage grandchildren restocking the shelves or dealing with customers. I find what I need to buy, and go up to pay.
A few sentences after I have first spoken in Cantonese, the old lady will, with sudden surprise, realize that we're NOT speaking English - we haven't been talking in English at all!
She is very pleased at this point.
And she yells across the crowded store at her grandchildren:
Wa, ni-go kwailo ho lek-ge, sik Tong-wa!
嘩, 呢個鬼佬好叻嘅, 識唐話!
["Oy, this kwailo very smart, speaks Cantonese!"]
Because, after all, her grandkids should feel thoroughly ashamed that some stinky ghost-devil is making them look stupid - they only want to speak English to her! Bad grandkids, so worthless! Nice kwailo, so civilized!
Then she'll turn to me, and in a friendly tone affirm:
Ney kam tsong-ming ah!
你咁聰明呀!
["You so smart!"]
White people speaking Cantonese, no matter how badly, deserve praise. Especially if her stupid grandkids are watching and listening.
They should learn from this, and talk to their grandmother more often in a civilized language. Why aren't they embarrassed? Where are their manners?!?
I know where mine are. Being younger than the old lady, I will modestly discount my own abilities, appropriately using somewhat formal phrasing:
Tsan mm-hai ge, ngoh mm gam tong.
真唔係嘅, 我不敢當.
["Truly not thus, I dare not presume!"]
It's always sad when this happens. I would really like to keep patronizing a store where I can find everything I need. But those grandkids are going to remember me and recognize my face the next time.
A pity, because that girl over near the bottled condiments was very sweet. But no. Better find a store without a grandma.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Usually, this paranoia is directed at the Chinese.
This idea puts the white person at the centre of the universe. Consequently even when confronted with the facts, most people will refuse to adjust their thinking - "whaddya mean they aren't talking about us?!? Of course they're talking about us! We're IMPORTANT, dammit!!"
Sorry, no. You aren't.
Unless you intend to buy something.
I can say this because I speak Cantonese, and in consequence get to listen in.
WAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Being able to speak Cantonese is not an unalloyed blessing. It has positives, but it also has negatives.
Very often I will be in a store that I have never patronized before. There will be an old lady sitting by the cash-register, and a few teenage grandchildren restocking the shelves or dealing with customers. I find what I need to buy, and go up to pay.
A few sentences after I have first spoken in Cantonese, the old lady will, with sudden surprise, realize that we're NOT speaking English - we haven't been talking in English at all!
She is very pleased at this point.
And she yells across the crowded store at her grandchildren:
Wa, ni-go kwailo ho lek-ge, sik Tong-wa!
嘩, 呢個鬼佬好叻嘅, 識唐話!
["Oy, this kwailo very smart, speaks Cantonese!"]
Because, after all, her grandkids should feel thoroughly ashamed that some stinky ghost-devil is making them look stupid - they only want to speak English to her! Bad grandkids, so worthless! Nice kwailo, so civilized!
Then she'll turn to me, and in a friendly tone affirm:
Ney kam tsong-ming ah!
你咁聰明呀!
["You so smart!"]
White people speaking Cantonese, no matter how badly, deserve praise. Especially if her stupid grandkids are watching and listening.
They should learn from this, and talk to their grandmother more often in a civilized language. Why aren't they embarrassed? Where are their manners?!?
I know where mine are. Being younger than the old lady, I will modestly discount my own abilities, appropriately using somewhat formal phrasing:
Tsan mm-hai ge, ngoh mm gam tong.
真唔係嘅, 我不敢當.
["Truly not thus, I dare not presume!"]
It's always sad when this happens. I would really like to keep patronizing a store where I can find everything I need. But those grandkids are going to remember me and recognize my face the next time.
A pity, because that girl over near the bottled condiments was very sweet. But no. Better find a store without a grandma.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HAVE A GOOD LIFE
All I needed was a little water from the machine in our office kitchen. At that moment, one of my female coworkers came hurrying in and moved ahead of me, asking "can I just get my water first?"
What would you do? A gentleman yields. "Mmm, sure….., go ahead."
I occasionally regret my attempt to remain a 'gentleman'. It seems to lead to people at times running roughshod over me. It's the brash modern chase after immediate personal benefit.
Something I tend to associate with majority-culture in this country - the instant gratification upbringing, and the selfishness of today’s twenty-somethings. That, and the tendency to not even notice people until you have moved ahead of them.
"I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to Nancy!"
Okay…… shouldn’t the FIRST thing out of your mouth then have been 'good morning'? My teacup just needed a little refill, your empty super-size water bottle took a lot more time. And I was already there when YOU breezed right on ahead. Talking to Nancy so occupied your attention that you didn't notice a thing.
Does the term 'pushy' mean anything to you? How about 'rude'?
After getting your water, you started yakking with another co-worker (Nancy) who was in the kitchen.
You weren’t in ANY way rushed for time.
There are several terms in both Dutch and Chinese that I can also think of, that apply to your disconcerting Amerikaansche dringerigheid (American shove-it-in-your-faceness, lack of derech-eretz, etc.), but I suspect that even with clear annotation and explanatory comment, these would mean nothing to you. There’s a shallowness there that brooks no nuance. Nor any marked evidence of manners.
Pardon me for even thinking of such things.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
What would you do? A gentleman yields. "Mmm, sure….., go ahead."
I occasionally regret my attempt to remain a 'gentleman'. It seems to lead to people at times running roughshod over me. It's the brash modern chase after immediate personal benefit.
Something I tend to associate with majority-culture in this country - the instant gratification upbringing, and the selfishness of today’s twenty-somethings. That, and the tendency to not even notice people until you have moved ahead of them.
"I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to Nancy!"
Okay…… shouldn’t the FIRST thing out of your mouth then have been 'good morning'? My teacup just needed a little refill, your empty super-size water bottle took a lot more time. And I was already there when YOU breezed right on ahead. Talking to Nancy so occupied your attention that you didn't notice a thing.
Does the term 'pushy' mean anything to you? How about 'rude'?
After getting your water, you started yakking with another co-worker (Nancy) who was in the kitchen.
You weren’t in ANY way rushed for time.
There are several terms in both Dutch and Chinese that I can also think of, that apply to your disconcerting Amerikaansche dringerigheid (American shove-it-in-your-faceness, lack of derech-eretz, etc.), but I suspect that even with clear annotation and explanatory comment, these would mean nothing to you. There’s a shallowness there that brooks no nuance. Nor any marked evidence of manners.
Pardon me for even thinking of such things.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SON, WHAT WE HAVE HERE IS A FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE!
For more than twenty years, Savage Kitten and I were together. It was a wonderful time, and I remember it with great fondness; these are my best memories.
Twenty very good years!
All that time, however, we often didn't understand what the other person was saying. It was like we were speaking two different languages.
My mental speech is often Dutch or something else, hers sometimes her mother's version of Toishanese.
But that isn't it.
I speak mostly neuro-typical. She speaks Asperger.
People with Asperger syndrome do not read facial expressions and body language; they aren't wired that way.
The result is that while I often broadly grasp what she is trying to convey (if I'm actually capable of paying complete attention), most of the time she doesn't have a clue what I am saying – because a huge part of communication is nonverbal.
Conversation is difficult without all the clues.
[Asperger Syndrome is a developmental disorder marked by behavioral dysfunction and a deficit of non-verbal communication skills. Aspergers is manifested by physical OR verbal clumsiness, obsessive routines and thought processes, and social maladjustment. The person with Asperger (the 'Aspy') may be overly verbose on a very narrow range of subjects and tend towards repetitive re-clarification of data; an Aspy may typically engage in long detailed monologues without recognizing the listener's lack of interest. 'This is both intensely interesting and important - how can you NOT be totally fascinated?!?'
There is no impairment or delay in language acquisition, though there may be an inability to grasp nuance, shades of meaning, metaphor, or interpretive detail. Common also: eccentricities in speech involving pitch, intonation, loudness, and rhythm. Frequently there is a failure to make friends and enjoy the same pursuits as other people, coupled with inflexible understanding of social rules and styles of behaviour.
Asperger Syndrome tends to run in families, and may be genetic. Inconclusive evidence suggests a neurological basis. Causes are as yet not known.
The most endearing quality of many Aspies is that they are intensely knowledgeable about certain subjects and display brilliance in their chosen field. Famous people who displayed strong Asperger characteristics: Albert Einstein, Benjamin Franklin, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, John Quincy Adams, and Isaac Asimov. Please note that these people are listed alphabetically by first name.]
Both of us can be described as Aspergers, though me only very mildly so. In her case it is far more severe.
I can be devious. She is at times brutally honest.
JUST A BIT DENSE!
What has allowed me to do collections work for two decades without burning out is what I always describe as monumentally thick skin - I do listen, but I don't hear the same as most other people.
"You've got the plague and ALL your family died? I'm truly so SORRY - now, WHEN can you pay the bill?"
Additionally, I've always been guarded about my emotional state, so I usually come across as confident, even arrogant. That isn't a pretense - it's just that I am better at expressing my thoughts and feelings rather clinically, and the pay-off for actually even doing so is never worth the effort required. Far better to disparage any intense emotions I may have, and add a bit of wit at the end. Dry, rather than juicy.
Thick skin, emotional reserve - a fairly mild version of Asperger's Syndrome.
I am socially functional; not adept, but I can do it.
I'm just a bit dense.
SHY TO THE POINT OF WALLS
She has always been incredibly self-conscious AND shy. Cripplingly so at times - we once met some friends of mine in the Bart station, and when I turned around to introduce her she had disappeared. I later found her hiding behind a pillar; I think she may have been quivering. She was definitely tense.
Add to that her blasted bitch mom telling her several times a day, till Savage Kitten fled the house, that she was ugly, stupid, unwanted and entirely unlikeable, and you have a recipe for peril.
No matter what anyone else said, no matter how good her grades, or excellent her work - her mother's voice in her head negated any positive self-image. She has listened to it her entire life, it’s on permanent loop. It has carved a psychological wound so deep that probably nothing can ever cure it.
[Why would a mother do that? Well, Cantonese mothers often feel inadequate themselves for giving birth to a girl. Girl-spawn devalues a woman, whereas boys prove her worth. And some Chinese women treat all other females in the family as status-rivals and competitors. Her mother never learned English, and was very old-fashioned. The frustration she herself felt in a fifty-year marriage to a man who had been a complete stranger before the wedding night, the terror of a non-Chinese environment with which she never came to terms, resentment at the girl-child whose presence diminished her value - who also committed horrible treachery by learning English and being American...... And, of course, a sheer vicious selfish uncaringness...... Not all mothers should be mothers. Some mothers are twisted.]
When you combine shyness, a thoroughly sabotaged self-image, and lack of self-confidence, with a near-complete inability to utilize body language and facial expressions, OR understand anybody else's body language and facial expressions.........
[Do not confuse shyness with timidity. She's shy. But she's got guts like you wouldn't believe. She stubbornly confronts problems and explores new ideas. Knows the mechanics of car engines and electronic devices better than I ever could, and is by no means afraid to tackle household repair jobs. Tax forms, database management, reference works, Microsoft excel. Even figuring out how the damned VCR works! But these things are "easy" - no humans are involved, and there is straightforward logic.]
A TRANSLATION PROGRAM FOR BODY LANGUAGE WOULD HAVE BEEN REALLY USEFUL!
It's not that she can't speak like normal people - she expresses herself well, albeit a bit quirkily. She just has NO clue what their reaction to her really is.
If they don't spell out clearly what they're thinking, she's lost.
When someone tells her she's beautiful and accomplished, she cannot see the sincerity. "They're just being polite, what are they actually trying to say? What could it possibly mean? Huh, what?!?"
Despite an often irritating tendency to take everything literally, when it comes to praise she has from early childhood on been conditioned to disregard it. When she is the recipient thereof she neither believes it, nor understands it - it does not compute. Yes, she may trust the integrity and honesty of the person speaking........ but they're talking unintelligible gibberish right now, and have temporarily taken leave of their senses. She sincerely hopes the fit will not last.
Like many brilliant Aspies, Savage Kitten is very detail oriented and conscientious about everything (except, of course, for those things of which she is entirely oblivious). Her best subjects in school were geometry, algebra, calculus, statistics. She graduated from college with two degrees, summa cum laude. And she has intensely deep knowledge sets.
But she does not play well with others, and cannot do many of the social things that other women do.
Her Aspergers is far greater than mine.
For the past several years, when I told her that she was beautiful, that she was smart, that she was deliciously sexy, or that she was a loveable person, a wonderful woman to be with, and that I was incredibly fond of her, it did not penetrate.
All of her Aspergers and insecurity would speak up with mother's voice, countering mine. And the old lady was already inside Savage Kitten's head - she had an advantage which I lacked.
Savage Kitten sort of believes that I think highly of her, and that I find her attractive. She is not able to figure out why. She has always thought that insanity was the best explanation.
She is still wonderful, smart, and deliciously sexy, and she remains a beautiful person.
I am still fond of her.
I cannot speak convincingly to her, she cannot understand what I am saying.
I am too dense to always hear her when she talks.
My reserve and thick skin, her shyness and self-image issues. Aspergers.
--------------------------------------------------------------
AFTERTHOUGHT
Our relationship is no longer what it once was, and both of us are moving on, though not necessarily at the same speed.
The next person in my life will have to be more neuro-typical.
I need far clearer communication, if only to maintain my own sanity.
I would really like to understand what someone else is saying.
I'm a little dense.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Twenty very good years!
All that time, however, we often didn't understand what the other person was saying. It was like we were speaking two different languages.
My mental speech is often Dutch or something else, hers sometimes her mother's version of Toishanese.
But that isn't it.
I speak mostly neuro-typical. She speaks Asperger.
People with Asperger syndrome do not read facial expressions and body language; they aren't wired that way.
The result is that while I often broadly grasp what she is trying to convey (if I'm actually capable of paying complete attention), most of the time she doesn't have a clue what I am saying – because a huge part of communication is nonverbal.
Conversation is difficult without all the clues.
[Asperger Syndrome is a developmental disorder marked by behavioral dysfunction and a deficit of non-verbal communication skills. Aspergers is manifested by physical OR verbal clumsiness, obsessive routines and thought processes, and social maladjustment. The person with Asperger (the 'Aspy') may be overly verbose on a very narrow range of subjects and tend towards repetitive re-clarification of data; an Aspy may typically engage in long detailed monologues without recognizing the listener's lack of interest. 'This is both intensely interesting and important - how can you NOT be totally fascinated?!?'
There is no impairment or delay in language acquisition, though there may be an inability to grasp nuance, shades of meaning, metaphor, or interpretive detail. Common also: eccentricities in speech involving pitch, intonation, loudness, and rhythm. Frequently there is a failure to make friends and enjoy the same pursuits as other people, coupled with inflexible understanding of social rules and styles of behaviour.
Asperger Syndrome tends to run in families, and may be genetic. Inconclusive evidence suggests a neurological basis. Causes are as yet not known.
The most endearing quality of many Aspies is that they are intensely knowledgeable about certain subjects and display brilliance in their chosen field. Famous people who displayed strong Asperger characteristics: Albert Einstein, Benjamin Franklin, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, John Quincy Adams, and Isaac Asimov. Please note that these people are listed alphabetically by first name.]
Both of us can be described as Aspergers, though me only very mildly so. In her case it is far more severe.
I can be devious. She is at times brutally honest.
JUST A BIT DENSE!
What has allowed me to do collections work for two decades without burning out is what I always describe as monumentally thick skin - I do listen, but I don't hear the same as most other people.
"You've got the plague and ALL your family died? I'm truly so SORRY - now, WHEN can you pay the bill?"
Additionally, I've always been guarded about my emotional state, so I usually come across as confident, even arrogant. That isn't a pretense - it's just that I am better at expressing my thoughts and feelings rather clinically, and the pay-off for actually even doing so is never worth the effort required. Far better to disparage any intense emotions I may have, and add a bit of wit at the end. Dry, rather than juicy.
Thick skin, emotional reserve - a fairly mild version of Asperger's Syndrome.
I am socially functional; not adept, but I can do it.
I'm just a bit dense.
SHY TO THE POINT OF WALLS
She has always been incredibly self-conscious AND shy. Cripplingly so at times - we once met some friends of mine in the Bart station, and when I turned around to introduce her she had disappeared. I later found her hiding behind a pillar; I think she may have been quivering. She was definitely tense.
Add to that her blasted bitch mom telling her several times a day, till Savage Kitten fled the house, that she was ugly, stupid, unwanted and entirely unlikeable, and you have a recipe for peril.
No matter what anyone else said, no matter how good her grades, or excellent her work - her mother's voice in her head negated any positive self-image. She has listened to it her entire life, it’s on permanent loop. It has carved a psychological wound so deep that probably nothing can ever cure it.
[Why would a mother do that? Well, Cantonese mothers often feel inadequate themselves for giving birth to a girl. Girl-spawn devalues a woman, whereas boys prove her worth. And some Chinese women treat all other females in the family as status-rivals and competitors. Her mother never learned English, and was very old-fashioned. The frustration she herself felt in a fifty-year marriage to a man who had been a complete stranger before the wedding night, the terror of a non-Chinese environment with which she never came to terms, resentment at the girl-child whose presence diminished her value - who also committed horrible treachery by learning English and being American...... And, of course, a sheer vicious selfish uncaringness...... Not all mothers should be mothers. Some mothers are twisted.]
When you combine shyness, a thoroughly sabotaged self-image, and lack of self-confidence, with a near-complete inability to utilize body language and facial expressions, OR understand anybody else's body language and facial expressions.........
[Do not confuse shyness with timidity. She's shy. But she's got guts like you wouldn't believe. She stubbornly confronts problems and explores new ideas. Knows the mechanics of car engines and electronic devices better than I ever could, and is by no means afraid to tackle household repair jobs. Tax forms, database management, reference works, Microsoft excel. Even figuring out how the damned VCR works! But these things are "easy" - no humans are involved, and there is straightforward logic.]
A TRANSLATION PROGRAM FOR BODY LANGUAGE WOULD HAVE BEEN REALLY USEFUL!
It's not that she can't speak like normal people - she expresses herself well, albeit a bit quirkily. She just has NO clue what their reaction to her really is.
If they don't spell out clearly what they're thinking, she's lost.
When someone tells her she's beautiful and accomplished, she cannot see the sincerity. "They're just being polite, what are they actually trying to say? What could it possibly mean? Huh, what?!?"
Despite an often irritating tendency to take everything literally, when it comes to praise she has from early childhood on been conditioned to disregard it. When she is the recipient thereof she neither believes it, nor understands it - it does not compute. Yes, she may trust the integrity and honesty of the person speaking........ but they're talking unintelligible gibberish right now, and have temporarily taken leave of their senses. She sincerely hopes the fit will not last.
Like many brilliant Aspies, Savage Kitten is very detail oriented and conscientious about everything (except, of course, for those things of which she is entirely oblivious). Her best subjects in school were geometry, algebra, calculus, statistics. She graduated from college with two degrees, summa cum laude. And she has intensely deep knowledge sets.
But she does not play well with others, and cannot do many of the social things that other women do.
Her Aspergers is far greater than mine.
For the past several years, when I told her that she was beautiful, that she was smart, that she was deliciously sexy, or that she was a loveable person, a wonderful woman to be with, and that I was incredibly fond of her, it did not penetrate.
All of her Aspergers and insecurity would speak up with mother's voice, countering mine. And the old lady was already inside Savage Kitten's head - she had an advantage which I lacked.
Savage Kitten sort of believes that I think highly of her, and that I find her attractive. She is not able to figure out why. She has always thought that insanity was the best explanation.
She is still wonderful, smart, and deliciously sexy, and she remains a beautiful person.
I am still fond of her.
I cannot speak convincingly to her, she cannot understand what I am saying.
I am too dense to always hear her when she talks.
My reserve and thick skin, her shyness and self-image issues. Aspergers.
--------------------------------------------------------------
AFTERTHOUGHT
Our relationship is no longer what it once was, and both of us are moving on, though not necessarily at the same speed.
The next person in my life will have to be more neuro-typical.
I need far clearer communication, if only to maintain my own sanity.
I would really like to understand what someone else is saying.
I'm a little dense.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
OLD COOZ WISH LIST
Today I turned fifty-one years old. Ergo, I am now in my fifties, and officially an old fart.
It probably behooves me to act that way.
So, as a celebration at having failed at love, acquired gout, and lost weight (just three recent achievements that I can think of at the moment - there may be others), I have decided to post a list of things I dislike. Followed by some stuff I very much like.
The first list is longer than the second. Remarkable.
NASTY THINGS
Sports and discussion of the team
No, I don't care about the spread, or how butch your team looks. Please don't tell me how the game is played. And take off that stupid jersey, you look a right fool.
Single white women in bars
Ladies, you are not nearly as attractive as you think you are. For one thing, your slut-clothing and that "I am the most desirable bitch in Christendom" attitude doesn't work.
There's a reason those things are called 'tramp stamps'.
Wide-eyed tourists in Chinatown
Yes, that is an eel. It is edible. At some point it will be on a plate with some cilantro. Stop going 'ewwwwwww, yuck!' And for crap sakes DON'T keep ordering pork-fried rice and Kungpao Shrimp - eat something you've never had before.
Germans, Italians, and Poles on the Cable Car
Bitches, I live here, and I'm trying to get home. You lot are occupying way too much space. Don't block the entry-way, and stop constantly elbowing your way in and out of the cabin. Yes, it costs five dollars - maybe you should've had that cappuccino instead. Or gone to McDonalds.
Berkeleyite lefties and middle-aged middleclass save-the-world types
For G-d's sake, just shut up! Real people are fed up with you lot. Go twirl in pink somewhere else.
People who insist on speaking baby-talk to children
Why are you interfering with their language acquisition and ability to formulate their thoughts? They're still developing, so they're already operating under a terrible handicap.
How cruel of you!
Shallow white chicks yakking
What is it with single women from the majority culture that makes them think they're the only worthwhile people on this planet?
Marketing type twenty-somethings singing Karaoke
You are not 'entitled', your singing is horrid, and you habitually drink too much. Go home, boff your slutty girlfriend, and sleep vomit. Thank you.
Old grannies at Stockton and Sacramento, all vicious elbows getting on the bus
First on the bus is first up the mountain. Just remember that, sweetheart. And I know plenty of other Cantonese 'euphemisms' for getting buried. You are old. I respect that.
Men boasting tactlessly about sex
Apparently the concept 'gentleman' doesn't exist in your world. You will probably go into politics, sports, or marketing. Pig.
People who insist on recommending a bestseller
There's ONE reason why it's popular: it's crap. Just because I read a lot does not mean I have to love the latest piece of mass-printed garbage. Okay, it changed your life - I now have second thoughts about knowing you.
References to Friends, Survivor, America's Next Top Model, and Desperate Housewives
Do you ever formulate any original thoughts? Or are you so shallow and mentally underdeveloped that you automatically engage in imitative behaviours? This isn't reassuring.
Just so my readers don't end up thinking this is all middle-aged bitterness, there's also a bunch of stuff I like.
NICE THINGS
Teenage Cantonese-American girls eating
Your appreciation of food is both total and broadminded. I applaud that.
Illustrated cookbooks
Food porn. Lovely. I have a big skillet.
Cool beverages with small tapioca balls
Much nicer on the tongue than those large Taiwanese lumps. Small things taste better.
Pipe tobacco that has personal erotic connotations
All perversions are oral. Mine especially.
Early dawn on Nob hill
It's the light. And the quiet. And the complete absence on the street of self-impressed single white women or their Marketing-type mid twenty sports-aficionado dumb yutz boyfriends.
I guess both of you are still sleep-barfing, huh?
Dim sum
Probably the best thing San Francisco has to offer. And remarkably free of tourists, Berkeleyites, world-savers, sports fans, marketing types, or shallow white chicks. I need to find a bunch of culinarily broad-minded people to eat with in the Chinatown area.
Now, that wasn't that bad, was it? Twelve nasties, six nicies. Better than any number of walks on the beach or guitar-playing nuns.
Please remember this list when gift-giving time comes. Anything on the shorter list can be giftwrapped and delivered.
Feel free to e-mail me your own lists, or post them in the comments.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It probably behooves me to act that way.
So, as a celebration at having failed at love, acquired gout, and lost weight (just three recent achievements that I can think of at the moment - there may be others), I have decided to post a list of things I dislike. Followed by some stuff I very much like.
The first list is longer than the second. Remarkable.
NASTY THINGS
Sports and discussion of the team
No, I don't care about the spread, or how butch your team looks. Please don't tell me how the game is played. And take off that stupid jersey, you look a right fool.
Single white women in bars
Ladies, you are not nearly as attractive as you think you are. For one thing, your slut-clothing and that "I am the most desirable bitch in Christendom" attitude doesn't work.
There's a reason those things are called 'tramp stamps'.
Wide-eyed tourists in Chinatown
Yes, that is an eel. It is edible. At some point it will be on a plate with some cilantro. Stop going 'ewwwwwww, yuck!' And for crap sakes DON'T keep ordering pork-fried rice and Kungpao Shrimp - eat something you've never had before.
Germans, Italians, and Poles on the Cable Car
Bitches, I live here, and I'm trying to get home. You lot are occupying way too much space. Don't block the entry-way, and stop constantly elbowing your way in and out of the cabin. Yes, it costs five dollars - maybe you should've had that cappuccino instead. Or gone to McDonalds.
Berkeleyite lefties and middle-aged middleclass save-the-world types
For G-d's sake, just shut up! Real people are fed up with you lot. Go twirl in pink somewhere else.
People who insist on speaking baby-talk to children
Why are you interfering with their language acquisition and ability to formulate their thoughts? They're still developing, so they're already operating under a terrible handicap.
How cruel of you!
Shallow white chicks yakking
What is it with single women from the majority culture that makes them think they're the only worthwhile people on this planet?
Marketing type twenty-somethings singing Karaoke
You are not 'entitled', your singing is horrid, and you habitually drink too much. Go home, boff your slutty girlfriend, and sleep vomit. Thank you.
Old grannies at Stockton and Sacramento, all vicious elbows getting on the bus
First on the bus is first up the mountain. Just remember that, sweetheart. And I know plenty of other Cantonese 'euphemisms' for getting buried. You are old. I respect that.
Men boasting tactlessly about sex
Apparently the concept 'gentleman' doesn't exist in your world. You will probably go into politics, sports, or marketing. Pig.
People who insist on recommending a bestseller
There's ONE reason why it's popular: it's crap. Just because I read a lot does not mean I have to love the latest piece of mass-printed garbage. Okay, it changed your life - I now have second thoughts about knowing you.
References to Friends, Survivor, America's Next Top Model, and Desperate Housewives
Do you ever formulate any original thoughts? Or are you so shallow and mentally underdeveloped that you automatically engage in imitative behaviours? This isn't reassuring.
Just so my readers don't end up thinking this is all middle-aged bitterness, there's also a bunch of stuff I like.
NICE THINGS
Teenage Cantonese-American girls eating
Your appreciation of food is both total and broadminded. I applaud that.
Illustrated cookbooks
Food porn. Lovely. I have a big skillet.
Cool beverages with small tapioca balls
Much nicer on the tongue than those large Taiwanese lumps. Small things taste better.
Pipe tobacco that has personal erotic connotations
All perversions are oral. Mine especially.
Early dawn on Nob hill
It's the light. And the quiet. And the complete absence on the street of self-impressed single white women or their Marketing-type mid twenty sports-aficionado dumb yutz boyfriends.
I guess both of you are still sleep-barfing, huh?
Dim sum
Probably the best thing San Francisco has to offer. And remarkably free of tourists, Berkeleyites, world-savers, sports fans, marketing types, or shallow white chicks. I need to find a bunch of culinarily broad-minded people to eat with in the Chinatown area.
Now, that wasn't that bad, was it? Twelve nasties, six nicies. Better than any number of walks on the beach or guitar-playing nuns.
Please remember this list when gift-giving time comes. Anything on the shorter list can be giftwrapped and delivered.
Feel free to e-mail me your own lists, or post them in the comments.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
THE EYES HAVE IT!
Some facial expressions can just melt your heart. There are people who show such delight when they smile that you instantly fall for them.
You cannot help yourself, you are bowled over by their loveableness.
Earlier today I was on the bus watching a young blonde woman talking with her friends. Her smile, her eyes that lit up with every exchange, reminded me of Ms. 森田 - an old friend and former coworker. Even her face looked the same.
When I first met Ms. 森田 several years ago, she was newly married. Young, vibrant, engaging. And a very happy woman. Her face when she smiled showed no guile, no calculation - it was warm, open, sincere. Since then much has happened that might have caused her to shield her sweetness or hide the honesty of her expressions - she has a child now, is single again, and has gone back home, no longer feeling comfortable in San Francisco. If her name suggests to you that she is of Japanese extraction, you are correct. But home, in her case, is somewhere else in the United States. I shall not mention where, as I respect her privacy. But it must be a remarkable place to have produced a person so nice.
Ms. 森田 is ten years older than she was then. But she is still young, vibrant, engaging. She is a truly remarkable woman, a person one is very happy to know.
I wondered as I looked at the blonde girl on the bus if she too was from the same place as Ms. 森田. The resemblance was striking - how can two people so different have such similar smiles and such heartwarming eyes?
Actually, the question should be: 'How can THREE people have those exact same qualities in common?'
And surely there must be others!
SPRINGLIKE WARMTH
A few weeks after our break-up, Savage Kitten accidentally ran in to me on the street. The sheer deliciousness of her smile as she saw me fair bowled me over. Despite the difficulty between us now, she was extremely happy that we met.
Her smile was completely guileless. And utterly charming.
It always gladdened me to have that smile awaiting me when I came home. Though her romantic feelings for me are now gone, and she has disinvolved herself emotionally - I am now only a room-mate - we are still glad to see each other again every day.
Her smile has no guile, no calculation.
There are issues, but we have remained friends.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You cannot help yourself, you are bowled over by their loveableness.
Earlier today I was on the bus watching a young blonde woman talking with her friends. Her smile, her eyes that lit up with every exchange, reminded me of Ms. 森田 - an old friend and former coworker. Even her face looked the same.
When I first met Ms. 森田 several years ago, she was newly married. Young, vibrant, engaging. And a very happy woman. Her face when she smiled showed no guile, no calculation - it was warm, open, sincere. Since then much has happened that might have caused her to shield her sweetness or hide the honesty of her expressions - she has a child now, is single again, and has gone back home, no longer feeling comfortable in San Francisco. If her name suggests to you that she is of Japanese extraction, you are correct. But home, in her case, is somewhere else in the United States. I shall not mention where, as I respect her privacy. But it must be a remarkable place to have produced a person so nice.
Ms. 森田 is ten years older than she was then. But she is still young, vibrant, engaging. She is a truly remarkable woman, a person one is very happy to know.
I wondered as I looked at the blonde girl on the bus if she too was from the same place as Ms. 森田. The resemblance was striking - how can two people so different have such similar smiles and such heartwarming eyes?
Actually, the question should be: 'How can THREE people have those exact same qualities in common?'
And surely there must be others!
SPRINGLIKE WARMTH
A few weeks after our break-up, Savage Kitten accidentally ran in to me on the street. The sheer deliciousness of her smile as she saw me fair bowled me over. Despite the difficulty between us now, she was extremely happy that we met.
Her smile was completely guileless. And utterly charming.
It always gladdened me to have that smile awaiting me when I came home. Though her romantic feelings for me are now gone, and she has disinvolved herself emotionally - I am now only a room-mate - we are still glad to see each other again every day.
Her smile has no guile, no calculation.
There are issues, but we have remained friends.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 11, 2010
SOMETHING WITH BALLS
I’m tired of being treated like a freak, regarded as abnormal, degenerate, inadequate, unmasculine, either a dangerous dissident or anti-social.
So I'll come right out and say it:
ALL OF YOU SPORTS FANS ARE A BUNCH OF MORONS!
Apparently this past weekend was very important for you people. And dammit, you made sure that people like me would realize that. It was the most weighty thing ever, and you would not speak of anything else. One of your teams, Los Gigantes or something, won something stupendous.
Sweet Jesus, you've been creaming in your panties for four solid days!
Driving through the neighborhood late in the evening screaming and blaring your horn sure is a mature way of showing your appreciation of their great prestation.
Morons!
All weekend long, you "normal" people talked about games. Something having to do with balls. Couldn't go anywhere without neuro-typicals going all orgasmic over men wearing silly costumes. Play ball, tally ho, and whoopee!
Friday, balls. Saturday, balls. Sunday, balls. And now Monday, all day long, balls.
I already know what you will be talking about this evening.
Fercrapsakes!
I have never been able to understand what the entertainment in team-sports is. Yes, I suppose it is rather marvelous that they can run around getting clobbered for one or two hours. But in what way is that the achievement to end all achievements? How is that exciting? Do you guys also like to watch car crashes? Sewer floods? Maybe paint drying?
What about the stupid clothing you buy to show that you identify with the team? You don't even know them personally, but you want to flash your affiliation with a bunch of men who specialize in strange physical maneuvers and jumping.
I don't get it - y'all look like idiots. Badly dressed idiots. And many of you smell bad.
It's not like you are them. In any way. And they didn't do whatever they did for you.
MORONS!
So, henceforth, if you insist on talking to me about your men with balls, I will tune you out. Say snide things at your expense. Perhaps go have a conversation with your wife or girlfriend. Unless she's a dumb cluck into 'the game' also.
As I understand some women are - chiefly chunky white chicks with Stockholm Syndrome.
Life is far too short for me to put up with your homo-eroticism. Please go ball each other on your own time, and stop quivering with excitement. It's an unseemly public display.
Bally morons.
I do not care what the Giants did, will do, or even what you hope they will achieve. Nor do I know or care who they are playing against, or how well endowed they are in the package department. Screw them, and the cheerleaders they rode in on.
I wish the pox, a burning pain in the underpants, and permanent athletes foot in more areas of the body than you care to imagine on both them and you.
The colours that they wear or the beer that they drink is not something I need to hear about.
I do not know their names, I am ignorant of their likes and dislikes, I haven't a frikkin' clue what game they play.
You lot are morons.
All I got out of an hour long radio-broadcast yesterday was that a game starts at 4:37 PM Pacific Time today. The rest of it was white noise.
I'm normal. You folks are morons.
Utter morons.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So I'll come right out and say it:
ALL OF YOU SPORTS FANS ARE A BUNCH OF MORONS!
Apparently this past weekend was very important for you people. And dammit, you made sure that people like me would realize that. It was the most weighty thing ever, and you would not speak of anything else. One of your teams, Los Gigantes or something, won something stupendous.
Sweet Jesus, you've been creaming in your panties for four solid days!
Driving through the neighborhood late in the evening screaming and blaring your horn sure is a mature way of showing your appreciation of their great prestation.
Morons!
All weekend long, you "normal" people talked about games. Something having to do with balls. Couldn't go anywhere without neuro-typicals going all orgasmic over men wearing silly costumes. Play ball, tally ho, and whoopee!
Friday, balls. Saturday, balls. Sunday, balls. And now Monday, all day long, balls.
I already know what you will be talking about this evening.
Fercrapsakes!
I have never been able to understand what the entertainment in team-sports is. Yes, I suppose it is rather marvelous that they can run around getting clobbered for one or two hours. But in what way is that the achievement to end all achievements? How is that exciting? Do you guys also like to watch car crashes? Sewer floods? Maybe paint drying?
What about the stupid clothing you buy to show that you identify with the team? You don't even know them personally, but you want to flash your affiliation with a bunch of men who specialize in strange physical maneuvers and jumping.
I don't get it - y'all look like idiots. Badly dressed idiots. And many of you smell bad.
It's not like you are them. In any way. And they didn't do whatever they did for you.
MORONS!
So, henceforth, if you insist on talking to me about your men with balls, I will tune you out. Say snide things at your expense. Perhaps go have a conversation with your wife or girlfriend. Unless she's a dumb cluck into 'the game' also.
As I understand some women are - chiefly chunky white chicks with Stockholm Syndrome.
Life is far too short for me to put up with your homo-eroticism. Please go ball each other on your own time, and stop quivering with excitement. It's an unseemly public display.
Bally morons.
I do not care what the Giants did, will do, or even what you hope they will achieve. Nor do I know or care who they are playing against, or how well endowed they are in the package department. Screw them, and the cheerleaders they rode in on.
I wish the pox, a burning pain in the underpants, and permanent athletes foot in more areas of the body than you care to imagine on both them and you.
The colours that they wear or the beer that they drink is not something I need to hear about.
I do not know their names, I am ignorant of their likes and dislikes, I haven't a frikkin' clue what game they play.
You lot are morons.
All I got out of an hour long radio-broadcast yesterday was that a game starts at 4:37 PM Pacific Time today. The rest of it was white noise.
I'm normal. You folks are morons.
Utter morons.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 08, 2010
THE ITALIAN PART OF CHINATOWN
There was a time when Chinatown ended at Broadway and North Beach began. Chinese-Americans who crossed that divide risked being beaten up by maladjusted Mediterraneans, and the Beatniks looked on approvingly.
By the Seventies, that was no longer so. For one thing, ideas in American society were changing (it was now the Hippie era), and for another the American-born Chinese saw no reason to let the old situation stand. If their country was sending them to Vietnam and expecting them to die for the flag, they were not going to be obedient little yellow men upon their return.
There were a few confrontations, and the situation resolved itself – an 'amicable' ceasefire between the two ethnicities ensued.
The only ones who were not entirely pleased were the Beatniks and Hippies, who regarded North Beach as their stomping ground.
NOT LIKE IT USED TO BE!
They were roundly ignored. The Chinese bought real-estate and slowly settled in the neighborhood. The Italians gradually moved to the suburbs – they no longer needed an enclave, it having been discovered at some point that they too, mirabile dictu, were white - as was their food! Hosanna!
By the eighties, North Beach was about thirty percent Chinese. The rest of the population consisted of some sour and elderly Italians, plus yuppies and immigrants from the oddest places.
Along with Beatniks and Hippies, who fondly spoke of the old days.
They were boring and repetitive.
By now the terms ‘Beatnik’ and ‘Hippie’ had expanded to include every type of Artistic or Bohemian loser in the book, as well as tarot-readers, blank-verse "poets", free-spirits, social dissidents, Jack Hirsch, punks, and spoiled brats far past their childhood.
Suffice to say that what they primarily had in common was a very white attitude, no matter their ethnic background (most of them actually were white), a sense of superior entitlement ("we are intellectuals!"), and drugs (pot, speed, and LSD).
As well as the highest incidence of psychological dysfunction and venereal disease in the city. In San Francisco, these things often go together.
The superiorly entitled (i.e.: 'Beatniks', and 'Hippies') lived in residential hotels. So did many Chinese immigrants, but not in the same hotels. There was a distinct sense of racial segregation - the Chinese immigrants did not wish to have addicts, pervs, and excons as neighbors; the drug-users, deviants, and criminally inclined were convinced the Chinese were filthy and didn't deserve to be in the same building.
And as long as everybody kept to their own hell-hole, everyone was happy.
Then in the mid-eighties everything started to fall apart.
THE CHINESE ARE COMING! THE CHINESE ARE COMING!
Two things happened. The strip (Broadway between Columbus and Montgomery) started changing. Restaurants closed, tit-shows and nightclubs no longer attracted the well-to-do from the suburbs, and the easy availability of porn videos meant that many of San Francisco's finest citizens finally realized that they didn't need to ogle strippers in sleazy dives.
At the same time, fears of the Communist takeover were prompting Hong Kong investors to pour money into the San Francisco real-estate market, and regular Hong Kong citizens moved over to the US in larger numbers than before.
Pretty soon the remaining Italians, and the Beatniks and Hippies, were complaining that all the places in North Beach were being bought by the Chinese.
'The Chinese are taking over. How dare they. It's unheard of!'
Tempers flared, and there was animus. The Chinese were seen as foreigners.
Never mind that the old Italians were the ones selling and retiring, or jacking up the rent on commercial locations and forcing out long-time tenants. Never mind that the Beatniks and Hippies did not contribute one iota to the neighborhood, and included more sex-criminals than a trailer park.
The Chinese, it was widely perceived and loudly opined, were a problem.
The Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989, however was the death-knell of the old Italian neighborhood. The freeway that served both the Chinese and Italians was shut down, never to be used again. People who had driven in to both ethnic districts to buy old-country foods stopped coming.
The Italians, mostly, left. They were replaced by newer immigrants - not only a few from Italy, but also many from North Africa. Yes, some of the old cafes are still owned by Italians - the staff are largely Maghrebi. And the owners are often not the same Italians who started the place, but some Roman or Venetian newcomer who took over once the Sicilian and Calabrese founders retired.
The Chinese became the majority in North Beach, primarily because they did not have anywhere else to go.
Other than multitudes of European tourists, the main customers for the cafes and restaurants are local Chinese-Americans, and people from outside the neighborhood drinking in the colourful atmosphere.
Oh, and the Beatniks and Hippies. Who are now into cheap heroine and caffeinated beverages - the combo is better than a speedball.
Especially when you chase it with a Red Bull.
JUST LIKE OLD TIMES!
As they do in the Tenderloin, the Chinese north of Broadway retire to their dwellings at night, leaving the neighborhood to the other denizens. Who wants to hang around with drug users, degenerates, and people with attitude?
The atmosphere changes, the ambiance is different. It becomes another world entirely than it was during the day. The strip clubs and tit shows open their doors for business, the Beatniks and Hippies come out and howl in the streets.
Yes, the white folks are back, they actually never left.
It's like nothing ever changed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
By the Seventies, that was no longer so. For one thing, ideas in American society were changing (it was now the Hippie era), and for another the American-born Chinese saw no reason to let the old situation stand. If their country was sending them to Vietnam and expecting them to die for the flag, they were not going to be obedient little yellow men upon their return.
There were a few confrontations, and the situation resolved itself – an 'amicable' ceasefire between the two ethnicities ensued.
The only ones who were not entirely pleased were the Beatniks and Hippies, who regarded North Beach as their stomping ground.
NOT LIKE IT USED TO BE!
They were roundly ignored. The Chinese bought real-estate and slowly settled in the neighborhood. The Italians gradually moved to the suburbs – they no longer needed an enclave, it having been discovered at some point that they too, mirabile dictu, were white - as was their food! Hosanna!
By the eighties, North Beach was about thirty percent Chinese. The rest of the population consisted of some sour and elderly Italians, plus yuppies and immigrants from the oddest places.
Along with Beatniks and Hippies, who fondly spoke of the old days.
They were boring and repetitive.
By now the terms ‘Beatnik’ and ‘Hippie’ had expanded to include every type of Artistic or Bohemian loser in the book, as well as tarot-readers, blank-verse "poets", free-spirits, social dissidents, Jack Hirsch, punks, and spoiled brats far past their childhood.
Suffice to say that what they primarily had in common was a very white attitude, no matter their ethnic background (most of them actually were white), a sense of superior entitlement ("we are intellectuals!"), and drugs (pot, speed, and LSD).
As well as the highest incidence of psychological dysfunction and venereal disease in the city. In San Francisco, these things often go together.
The superiorly entitled (i.e.: 'Beatniks', and 'Hippies') lived in residential hotels. So did many Chinese immigrants, but not in the same hotels. There was a distinct sense of racial segregation - the Chinese immigrants did not wish to have addicts, pervs, and excons as neighbors; the drug-users, deviants, and criminally inclined were convinced the Chinese were filthy and didn't deserve to be in the same building.
And as long as everybody kept to their own hell-hole, everyone was happy.
Then in the mid-eighties everything started to fall apart.
THE CHINESE ARE COMING! THE CHINESE ARE COMING!
Two things happened. The strip (Broadway between Columbus and Montgomery) started changing. Restaurants closed, tit-shows and nightclubs no longer attracted the well-to-do from the suburbs, and the easy availability of porn videos meant that many of San Francisco's finest citizens finally realized that they didn't need to ogle strippers in sleazy dives.
At the same time, fears of the Communist takeover were prompting Hong Kong investors to pour money into the San Francisco real-estate market, and regular Hong Kong citizens moved over to the US in larger numbers than before.
Pretty soon the remaining Italians, and the Beatniks and Hippies, were complaining that all the places in North Beach were being bought by the Chinese.
'The Chinese are taking over. How dare they. It's unheard of!'
Tempers flared, and there was animus. The Chinese were seen as foreigners.
Never mind that the old Italians were the ones selling and retiring, or jacking up the rent on commercial locations and forcing out long-time tenants. Never mind that the Beatniks and Hippies did not contribute one iota to the neighborhood, and included more sex-criminals than a trailer park.
The Chinese, it was widely perceived and loudly opined, were a problem.
The Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989, however was the death-knell of the old Italian neighborhood. The freeway that served both the Chinese and Italians was shut down, never to be used again. People who had driven in to both ethnic districts to buy old-country foods stopped coming.
The Italians, mostly, left. They were replaced by newer immigrants - not only a few from Italy, but also many from North Africa. Yes, some of the old cafes are still owned by Italians - the staff are largely Maghrebi. And the owners are often not the same Italians who started the place, but some Roman or Venetian newcomer who took over once the Sicilian and Calabrese founders retired.
The Chinese became the majority in North Beach, primarily because they did not have anywhere else to go.
Other than multitudes of European tourists, the main customers for the cafes and restaurants are local Chinese-Americans, and people from outside the neighborhood drinking in the colourful atmosphere.
Oh, and the Beatniks and Hippies. Who are now into cheap heroine and caffeinated beverages - the combo is better than a speedball.
Especially when you chase it with a Red Bull.
JUST LIKE OLD TIMES!
As they do in the Tenderloin, the Chinese north of Broadway retire to their dwellings at night, leaving the neighborhood to the other denizens. Who wants to hang around with drug users, degenerates, and people with attitude?
The atmosphere changes, the ambiance is different. It becomes another world entirely than it was during the day. The strip clubs and tit shows open their doors for business, the Beatniks and Hippies come out and howl in the streets.
Yes, the white folks are back, they actually never left.
It's like nothing ever changed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ONE PART TEARS, FIVE PARTS PISS AND VINEGAR
Some days are better than others. I’m still processing the changes in my life since Savage Kitten and I broke up, as you can well imagine. The weirdest things are the obsessive mood swings.
I am not an operatic man, and I seldom ride roller coasters.
So this is a rather new experience.
THAT FAMOUS QUASI BRITISH RESERVE
As a child I remember fierce crying jags, as an adolescent those were impossible.
For one thing, showing your vulnerable side to the vicious natives ….. errm, I mean my Dutch grammar school classmates who hated my guts, was unthinkable. Expose your soft underbelly and those little brutes would stick a verbal shiv into it. Or just punch you.
My father always told me to keep my pecker up.
That was his way of communicating that a stiff upper lip was not a bad thing.
He, my brother, and I had much need for the stiff upper lip in those days. Being Yanks in the most viciously sanctimonious country on earth was not a blessing during the late sixties and seventies (America being so, SO, much worse than even the Nazis that many Dutch despised, loathed, and hated with a fierce self-righteous passion the country where they had so many investments and which was underwriting both their economic well-being and their freedom), and my mother was dying of cancer, which in the eyes of the ignorant savages …… errm, I mean my Dutch classmates who hated my guts, was probably as contagious as the black death and had all the hell-bound sinner connotations of leprosy. In that sense, they were very religious. Bibilical, even.
The Dutch are, in some ways, quintessential bigots.
My classmates in Valkenswaard especially so.
[No, I do not correspond with any of them, and yes, I have tried to forget most of their names.]
KEEPING MY PECKER UP
When my mother died in 1977, I managed what now seems a rather gentlemanly bit of weeping, and that was it.
My grandmother with whom I lived for three years in Berkeley died in 1981.
I managed what now seems a gentlemanly bit of weeping, and that was it.
When my father passed away in 1990, I managed what now seems a gentlemanly bit of weeping, and that was it.
My brother died in 1992, so did my father’s wife. I was very fond of both of them.
I managed what now seems a gentlemanly bit of weeping …………
Not really comfortable with emotions. Not an expressive person. Rock of stability and all that, dontcha know.
I keep my pecker up.
THE WARM AND FUZZY BITS
So you can imagine how disconcerted Savage Kitten was to discover me a few weeks ago on the kitchen floor bawling like a baby.
["Oh for crapsakes, Old Toad, what are you doing down there? Come on, get up off the floor! Please!" "But I like it down here!" "It's not right! Get your a** up! " " 'z okay, it's all clean and sh*t..." "I just washed the floor!" "I know! Nice!" "Whatever... get up!" "No! It's warm down here!" "But it's the floor!!!" "Your point is ..... ?" And so on... ]
Damn, I though she wasn’t going to be back for a while!
After twenty years of being with that woman, I have finally learned to have emotions. It just took me a while to realize that.
It’s a bit disturbing, but I am convinced I am a far better person because of it.
There’s an excitement to feeling things – she may not think so, because she has been desperately unhappy at many times in her life (do NOT ask about old-fashioned Cantonese mothers, you don’t want to know!).
This is so much better than a gentlemanly bit of weeping.
Liberating, even.
Thanks, hon, I feel more human now.
Someday, I may go back to Valkenswaard with a Glock 17 to confront those beastly aboriginals …… errm, I mean my Dutch classmates who hated my guts. No discussion necessary, I am in gonzen not interested in what they think. Just some payback.
And yes, that will be a very good day.
They will be expressly permitted a gentlemanly bit of weeping.
Should be a totally new experience for the swine.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I am not an operatic man, and I seldom ride roller coasters.
So this is a rather new experience.
THAT FAMOUS QUASI BRITISH RESERVE
As a child I remember fierce crying jags, as an adolescent those were impossible.
For one thing, showing your vulnerable side to the vicious natives ….. errm, I mean my Dutch grammar school classmates who hated my guts, was unthinkable. Expose your soft underbelly and those little brutes would stick a verbal shiv into it. Or just punch you.
My father always told me to keep my pecker up.
That was his way of communicating that a stiff upper lip was not a bad thing.
He, my brother, and I had much need for the stiff upper lip in those days. Being Yanks in the most viciously sanctimonious country on earth was not a blessing during the late sixties and seventies (America being so, SO, much worse than even the Nazis that many Dutch despised, loathed, and hated with a fierce self-righteous passion the country where they had so many investments and which was underwriting both their economic well-being and their freedom), and my mother was dying of cancer, which in the eyes of the ignorant savages …… errm, I mean my Dutch classmates who hated my guts, was probably as contagious as the black death and had all the hell-bound sinner connotations of leprosy. In that sense, they were very religious. Bibilical, even.
The Dutch are, in some ways, quintessential bigots.
My classmates in Valkenswaard especially so.
[No, I do not correspond with any of them, and yes, I have tried to forget most of their names.]
KEEPING MY PECKER UP
When my mother died in 1977, I managed what now seems a rather gentlemanly bit of weeping, and that was it.
My grandmother with whom I lived for three years in Berkeley died in 1981.
I managed what now seems a gentlemanly bit of weeping, and that was it.
When my father passed away in 1990, I managed what now seems a gentlemanly bit of weeping, and that was it.
My brother died in 1992, so did my father’s wife. I was very fond of both of them.
I managed what now seems a gentlemanly bit of weeping …………
Not really comfortable with emotions. Not an expressive person. Rock of stability and all that, dontcha know.
I keep my pecker up.
THE WARM AND FUZZY BITS
So you can imagine how disconcerted Savage Kitten was to discover me a few weeks ago on the kitchen floor bawling like a baby.
["Oh for crapsakes, Old Toad, what are you doing down there? Come on, get up off the floor! Please!" "But I like it down here!" "It's not right! Get your a** up! " " 'z okay, it's all clean and sh*t..." "I just washed the floor!" "I know! Nice!" "Whatever... get up!" "No! It's warm down here!" "But it's the floor!!!" "Your point is ..... ?" And so on... ]
Damn, I though she wasn’t going to be back for a while!
After twenty years of being with that woman, I have finally learned to have emotions. It just took me a while to realize that.
It’s a bit disturbing, but I am convinced I am a far better person because of it.
There’s an excitement to feeling things – she may not think so, because she has been desperately unhappy at many times in her life (do NOT ask about old-fashioned Cantonese mothers, you don’t want to know!).
This is so much better than a gentlemanly bit of weeping.
Liberating, even.
Thanks, hon, I feel more human now.
Someday, I may go back to Valkenswaard with a Glock 17 to confront those beastly aboriginals …… errm, I mean my Dutch classmates who hated my guts. No discussion necessary, I am in gonzen not interested in what they think. Just some payback.
And yes, that will be a very good day.
They will be expressly permitted a gentlemanly bit of weeping.
Should be a totally new experience for the swine.
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NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 07, 2010
EATING TOGETHER WITH CHOPSTICKS
I always liked dining with other people. When I was still employed at Fweebink in Menlo Park, I’d often get a bunch of colleagues together and we’d head into Palo Alto for eaties. Indian Restaurants, the lone Jamaican place, Mexican food …… didn’t matter what, as long as there were other folks at the table. Even mediocre Japanese sushi or suburban lunch counter chow. Sit down, talk, enjoy the time. In any case better than Abdul Slamdunk’s Deli back in the industrial park, no?
[NOTE: The names ‘Fweebink’ and 'Abdul Slamdunk’s Deli' are fictitious. Fweebink was a computer company where I worked for four years – some of my friends remember the place – and Abdul Slamdunk’s is my catch-all for almost any substandard sandwich shop run by apatheticals. It was misguided of them to go into food-service, but a stroke of genius to do so where there was no competition and most folks would settle for whatever was quick and nearby.]
食自己 - SIK TZI KEI
EATING ON ONE'S OWN
I got out of the habit of eating with coworkers at the end of the last century. For one thing, some of the places where I worked had neither atmosphere nor employees that were warm to the concept. At the law-offices there were far too many Philippinas to even consider social eating – sorry, just not particularly fond of Philippinas – many suburbanite white folk with broomsticks up their donkeys, and far fewer engineers and computer geeks.
Since then I have been surrounded by people who talk about sports or television shows.
I’m not interested in sports, television is crap.
And I no longer work in an environment with a lot of Chinese-Americans. White folks and good food are not a natural combination.
Nor am I interested in introducing people to eats in Chinatown. Most folks think they already know everything about what the Cantonese eat, and are convinced that what they themselves do not order every single time at the chop-suey shack up the road from their suburban ranch dwelling is strange, odd, unusual, unappetizing, weird, incredibly nasty, or just plain wrong.
"Steamed pork belly with shredded ginger and shrimp paste?!? Eeeeoooooooo!"
Followed by: "you can have all of it, I’ll just stick to my Kung Pao Shrimp over rice, no sharing please, separate checks".
This doesn’t always happen – sometimes I’ll order lionsheads or all family happy, or something similarly earthy. But most white people are not inspired eaters, and I’ll be damned if I settle for mu shu anything just to keep the other lofans at the table quiet. What’s the point of eating out if you don’t ever wish to taste something new?
And why even bother heading into Chinatown if YOU are going to order sweet and sour pork riceplate, then look with no little wonder and disgust at the bowl of rice porridge with salt vegetable and minced chicken which I requested?
Just try it, you stupid kwailo! Yes, with the cut-up fried poof-dough stick mixed in! And peanuts!
Shee……… ! Choke on some bubble-tea, why don’t you?
I miss eating with other people. I miss having fellow diners making happy mouth sounds while tucking into something scrumptious. Most of all, I miss the adventure of finding something new in charming company.
Savage Kitten was very nice to eat with, and keen to discover interesting things. She doesn’t have much of an appetite now, and our schedules have changed. I’m not hungry, and don’t feel like going out on my own.
We both miss eating with each other, but, you know…… we’re ‘readjusting’.
It will take a while before we start doing that again, and it won’t be as it once was. Good. But not quite.
I miss that unabashed joy at chopsticking delicious things.
Seriously, I need to be adopted by happy Chinese food eaters. And if they’ve read fun stuff recently, so much the better. It will give us something to chat about while slurping. We can share fun things to eat.
Choi sum with garlic. Pork cake with dried fish. Country casserole of dried seafood products with rich brown stock, slivered Chienkang ham, and mountain root. White cooked chicken chunks, sesame oil brushed, with a dab of hot sauce. Dark-roasted duck, nice and fatty.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[NOTE: The names ‘Fweebink’ and 'Abdul Slamdunk’s Deli' are fictitious. Fweebink was a computer company where I worked for four years – some of my friends remember the place – and Abdul Slamdunk’s is my catch-all for almost any substandard sandwich shop run by apatheticals. It was misguided of them to go into food-service, but a stroke of genius to do so where there was no competition and most folks would settle for whatever was quick and nearby.]
食自己 - SIK TZI KEI
EATING ON ONE'S OWN
I got out of the habit of eating with coworkers at the end of the last century. For one thing, some of the places where I worked had neither atmosphere nor employees that were warm to the concept. At the law-offices there were far too many Philippinas to even consider social eating – sorry, just not particularly fond of Philippinas – many suburbanite white folk with broomsticks up their donkeys, and far fewer engineers and computer geeks.
Since then I have been surrounded by people who talk about sports or television shows.
I’m not interested in sports, television is crap.
And I no longer work in an environment with a lot of Chinese-Americans. White folks and good food are not a natural combination.
Nor am I interested in introducing people to eats in Chinatown. Most folks think they already know everything about what the Cantonese eat, and are convinced that what they themselves do not order every single time at the chop-suey shack up the road from their suburban ranch dwelling is strange, odd, unusual, unappetizing, weird, incredibly nasty, or just plain wrong.
"Steamed pork belly with shredded ginger and shrimp paste?!? Eeeeoooooooo!"
Followed by: "you can have all of it, I’ll just stick to my Kung Pao Shrimp over rice, no sharing please, separate checks".
This doesn’t always happen – sometimes I’ll order lionsheads or all family happy, or something similarly earthy. But most white people are not inspired eaters, and I’ll be damned if I settle for mu shu anything just to keep the other lofans at the table quiet. What’s the point of eating out if you don’t ever wish to taste something new?
And why even bother heading into Chinatown if YOU are going to order sweet and sour pork riceplate, then look with no little wonder and disgust at the bowl of rice porridge with salt vegetable and minced chicken which I requested?
Just try it, you stupid kwailo! Yes, with the cut-up fried poof-dough stick mixed in! And peanuts!
Shee……… ! Choke on some bubble-tea, why don’t you?
I miss eating with other people. I miss having fellow diners making happy mouth sounds while tucking into something scrumptious. Most of all, I miss the adventure of finding something new in charming company.
Savage Kitten was very nice to eat with, and keen to discover interesting things. She doesn’t have much of an appetite now, and our schedules have changed. I’m not hungry, and don’t feel like going out on my own.
We both miss eating with each other, but, you know…… we’re ‘readjusting’.
It will take a while before we start doing that again, and it won’t be as it once was. Good. But not quite.
I miss that unabashed joy at chopsticking delicious things.
Seriously, I need to be adopted by happy Chinese food eaters. And if they’ve read fun stuff recently, so much the better. It will give us something to chat about while slurping. We can share fun things to eat.
Choi sum with garlic. Pork cake with dried fish. Country casserole of dried seafood products with rich brown stock, slivered Chienkang ham, and mountain root. White cooked chicken chunks, sesame oil brushed, with a dab of hot sauce. Dark-roasted duck, nice and fatty.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PIRATES SANK OWN SHIP
Remember last January when I waxed spiteful about pretentious bourgeois-leite and their hypocritical damn'-near racist venom directed at the Japanese?
Quote:
Frankly, I think that whaling in this day and age is misguided, to say the least. It would probably be best if it ceased entirely.
But I take exception to a bunch of know-it-all middle-class white folks imposing their view on the rest of the world through bully-boy tactics, and furthermore doing it in ways which are calculated to insult, demean, and infuriate other cultures.
End quote.
[Original post: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2010/01/sea-shepherd-terrorists-attack-japanese.html ]
Again, I clarify that I am not in favour of whaling. But even less, by a very wide margin, am I inclined favourably toward dipwads from Hobbit-Land (and one Kaaskop) who are just about rancid with their own self-righteousness.
["Five criminals from New Zealand and one Dutchman ..... "]
Turns out the New-Zealanders gave what they got coming to them themselves.
FROM THE BBC:
An estranged former member of direct action anti-whaling group Sea Shepherd alleges it ordered its own boat to be scuttled to win public sympathy.
Peter Bethune was captain of the hi-tech Ady Gil when its bow was shorn off in a collision with a Japanese whaler it was shadowing in January.
It sank two days later, but Mr Bethune now alleges he was ordered to scuttle it by Sea Shepherd head Paul Watson.
READ MORE HERE: Sea Shepherd 'sank its own anti-whaling boat'
What we're really talking about here is a bunch of self-important damn spoiled middle-class pretendeurs in an expensive toy, bought for them by a rich meddlesome Californian sugar-daddy. They're lucky they didn't drown.
"Mr Watson now reportedly says Mr Bethune was expelled from Sea Shepherd in October after it discovered the New Zealander had given false information to Japanese authorities about Mr Watson in exchange for leniency."[SOURCE: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-pacific-11490958 ]
The maritime adventurism that they engage in is completely illegal. The posse mentality, which drives them to act as judge, jury, and executioner entirely on their own authority, is exactly equivalent to a lynch mob, an Al Qaeda cell, or the U.S. administration that got us involved in the Iraq war.
That they are allegedly liberal humanists does not justify their taking unilateral action and committing illegal acts.
The Sea Shepherd organization is on extremely thin ice, whereas the Japanese 'research' vessels are legally in the right. Even in Australia and New Zealand.
And let's not forget that neither Australia nor New Zealand are stellar examples of civilization. They should be no means think themselves entitled to tell the rest of us what to do. It is absurd.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Quote:
Frankly, I think that whaling in this day and age is misguided, to say the least. It would probably be best if it ceased entirely.
But I take exception to a bunch of know-it-all middle-class white folks imposing their view on the rest of the world through bully-boy tactics, and furthermore doing it in ways which are calculated to insult, demean, and infuriate other cultures.
End quote.
[Original post: http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2010/01/sea-shepherd-terrorists-attack-japanese.html ]
Again, I clarify that I am not in favour of whaling. But even less, by a very wide margin, am I inclined favourably toward dipwads from Hobbit-Land (and one Kaaskop) who are just about rancid with their own self-righteousness.
["Five criminals from New Zealand and one Dutchman ..... "]
Turns out the New-Zealanders gave what they got coming to them themselves.
FROM THE BBC:
An estranged former member of direct action anti-whaling group Sea Shepherd alleges it ordered its own boat to be scuttled to win public sympathy.
Peter Bethune was captain of the hi-tech Ady Gil when its bow was shorn off in a collision with a Japanese whaler it was shadowing in January.
It sank two days later, but Mr Bethune now alleges he was ordered to scuttle it by Sea Shepherd head Paul Watson.
READ MORE HERE: Sea Shepherd 'sank its own anti-whaling boat'
What we're really talking about here is a bunch of self-important damn spoiled middle-class pretendeurs in an expensive toy, bought for them by a rich meddlesome Californian sugar-daddy. They're lucky they didn't drown.
"Mr Watson now reportedly says Mr Bethune was expelled from Sea Shepherd in October after it discovered the New Zealander had given false information to Japanese authorities about Mr Watson in exchange for leniency."[SOURCE: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-pacific-11490958 ]
The maritime adventurism that they engage in is completely illegal. The posse mentality, which drives them to act as judge, jury, and executioner entirely on their own authority, is exactly equivalent to a lynch mob, an Al Qaeda cell, or the U.S. administration that got us involved in the Iraq war.
That they are allegedly liberal humanists does not justify their taking unilateral action and committing illegal acts.
The Sea Shepherd organization is on extremely thin ice, whereas the Japanese 'research' vessels are legally in the right. Even in Australia and New Zealand.
And let's not forget that neither Australia nor New Zealand are stellar examples of civilization. They should be no means think themselves entitled to tell the rest of us what to do. It is absurd.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
CANTONESE DAUGHTERS AND THEIR MOMS - THE NEGATIVE ASPECT OF CHINATOWN
It crossed my mind recently that most white people do not understand the Cantonese girl dynamic, and the Cantonese mother phenomenon.
Or grasp that in some ways, many Chinatown girls are dysfunctional to a fare-thee-well.
啊媽 - MOM!
Old-fashioned Cantonese mothers can be absolutely vicious to their daughters. This is traditional, and often thoroughly appreciated by Cantonese-American men.
You see, women are pretty much worthless. The only measure of their value is how many sons they produce, and whether those sons go to college. Daughters are a burden, and drain family resources. Who in their right mind even wants to spend money on a daughter's education?
It only needs to be done because it's illegal to drown the little nuisance at birth, and you have to get rid of her somehow - can't marry her off if she's illiterate in this crazy modern world.
[In the past, female children were expendable. Rearing them took away resources that could be far better applied to raising and educating sons, and it was common knowledge that literacy and food were wasted on girls. Even though China has modernized, and people in cities such as Hong Kong have different attitudes, many old ideas about females are still fairly pervasive. Not everyone has an increased appreciation of the worth of women, but everyone does have tons of relatives and neighbors who still think in traditional terms. Outside of the urbanized areas, there are many who rather resent that women now have rights and even a voice. You may treat your daughters like human beings if you wish - but you have relatives who think you're spoiling them, and are convinced that you are insane or an idiot for doing so.]
There are many Chinatown girls who are going to City College or SF State University, working part-time at shitty jobs to pay for their own education, while their brothers are at a decent school and subsidized by the entire family. Not all boys have their academic life paid for by their folks, but if there are limited resources, the boys will be first in line.
The daughters of those families will have from early childhood on probably been accustomed to wait their turn, even if it never comes, and yield the better morsels at dinner to their brothers or sacrifice their own comfort for the males of the family.
At this point, dear reader, you may be thinking that I exaggerate - what I am describing is impossibly old-fashioned, this is the twenty-first century, surely attitudes have changed, and in any case this cannot possibly still maintain in the United States.
Forgive me for saying so, but you need to get your head out of that donkey.
死丫頭 - CURSED WENCH!
EXAMPLE ONE
The daughter of a certain family was expected to work several hours a day at the family store in Chinatown in addition to helping her mother with housework AND getting straight A's in her college courses. She did her homework in between stocking the shelves, attending to customers, and cleaning up. This did not particularly please her dad and his brother who ran the shop - studying takes too much time! She was thin as a rail and hardly spoke.
When I first saw her brothers, I did not even realize that they were related - the boys were chunky and well-fed, and their faces showed that they lived happy lives. Gregarious and cheerful. They hardly ever showed up at the store - they didn't have to.
EXAMPLE TWO
Bright, vivacious, super intelligent. Her mom frequently verbally abused her in public, and the entire family got on her case for being admitted to Berkeley - stupid girl, so much money! So she never went. Did City College for three years, committed suicide in the fourth.
Her brother went to Stanford, and had his own apartment in Palo Alto. His education was funded entirely by his grandfather, because the boy would make the family proud.
Last I heard, they were very proud of him. He's a PHD.
It is forbidden to ever mention that bad luck girl. Who?
EXAMPLE THREE
"Why did we educate you if you can't even find a man to marry?"
The woman in question has two PHD's, a very good job, and is well-read, interesting, reasonably well-adjusted. She's also a lesbian - a problem, you will agree, when her parents believe that the only thing still needed to make her a real person is for her to get married and give birth to at least two or three boys.
"Lesbianism, what's that? Oh, only silly white people get that, let us find you a good man..."
壞女孩 - BAD GIRL!
One of the most appalling scenes in Chinatown is seeing a mother venomously abusing her little daughter while her fat-faced spoiled brat son is misbehaving up a storm.
Boys are allowed to be noisy and act out, girls are expected to suck it up.
Many little Chinese boys need a good whipping. Unfortunately, that's far more likely to happen to the girls.
This isn't universal, but it is common enough. Even urban educated Chinese will allow boys greater latitude, while expecting obedience and conformity from girl-children. That's just the way it is.
Such traditional attitudes are strongest among American-Chinese from country districts and with less education, such as the majority in Chinatown, who are from Toishan. Professionals who emigrated from Hong Kong are not as likely to be unnecessarily cruel towards their daughters, and may actually be quite fond of them. In any case they often wish the best for the girls, and hope that things go well for them. They're also more likely to live out in the avenues away from Chinatown - there's a cultural divide in residence patterns that matches how well the family has adapted.
Given that the deck is stacked against Cantonese-American girls within the confines of their own ethnic group, it should come as no surprise that many of them marry out. Very few young ladies want a Cantonese mother in law, and almost none of them are willing to put up with the pampered son attitudes of many Cantonese-American men. From the point of view of an American-raised Cantonese girl, seeing the contrast between Chinese social norms and regular American social norms, it seems that white men have more egalitarian attitudes and fewer domineering relatives - a different environment entirely, and a mother who acts rather human - and that not being SO Chinese means far greater freedom.
Certainly less repression.
And many of them wouldn't inherit in any case - the family wealth stays with the sons. So it doesn't matter so much if they find a white man.
Every body likes to be treated like a human, right?
好似馬鞭! - LIKE A HORSE!
There is a corresponding idea among Cantonese-American young men that Caucasians prey on little yellow women, and that the only reason why they themselves can't get a date is because of all those white boys luring away the pretty girls with their big endowments.
That their own atrocious behaviour, always expecting Chinese girls to listen to them and act admiringly, and that their fright-bitch mom might have less than no appeal, never seems to cross their minds.
The reason why so many Cantonese-American girls still live at home is because they won't date Chinese boys (see previously mentioned atrocious behaviour), they can't date white guys (imagine everyone talking about her voracious sexual habits), and living alone is not an option.
The reason why so many adult Cantonese-American men still live at home is because they can't get a Cantonese-American girlfriend (see previously mentioned atrocious behaviour), have zero appeal for blonde chicks, are getting pampered at home, and are saving money to spend on themselves.
華女 - SWEETIE PIE
As a side note, when my father and his wife said that Savage Kitten should just come right out and inform her kin that she was living with me, I looked at them like they had taken leave of their senses. Clearly they did not understand a thing, despite their own experiences and openness to different social norms. The same holds for everyone else who said that telling her family about our relationship was the thing to do.
Unremarkably, all of the people with this opinion were white.
None of them had any exposure to the operatic aspect of Chinatown life.
"Oh woe is me, that my worthless smelly daughter who should have been a boy is now whoring around with a degenerate white man who entirely lacks real-estate! She is sleeping with a stinky ghost-devil! I am undone, I'm having a heart-attack! Bitch-slut daughter, how can you do this to me?!? You're killing your brothers, you are ruining their chances of EVER finding a stupid obedient home-town girl to marry! They hate you! They want to kick you fiercely until you bleed and weep! And I will let them! Our tenants / neighbors / customers will henceforth point at me and laugh, saying that I have no face! Because my daughter has no respect for me, and exposes her tortoise parts to thieves and soldiers!
I shall now continue to carry on insanely on a crowded street using multiple exclamation marks, loudly telling the whole world (consisting ONLY of our fellow Toishanese in San Francisco) in colourful detail about what an immoral hussy you turned out to be, must be your dad's side of the family, szey-yaaaaah! lord knows it wasn't anybody on my side, I'm not even convinced you're really my daughter, should've drowned you at birth, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, I've always been the best of mothers, you worthless pile of dog doo, why couldn't you marry a dentist? You are mow-yong! You should kill yourself! You have no shame! Not even human! You are NOT allowed to associate with any of your family ever again, and you don't exist. Pay me back for all the food I ever gave you! Listen while I repeat everything insistently, and much louder!"
Please imagine that in public. Multiple times yearly. And broadcast, with much imaginative detail, to every soul the Old Bag knows.
Yeah, I'm sure it would have been very entertaining.
But the Old Fruitbat would've had been a right bitch if her sons ever talked to her daughter again, and would've made their lives miserable.
Savage Kitten loves her brothers. They're the only family she really has.
The Venomous Old Sow would be overjoyed if she ever found out that Savage Kitten and I are no longer a couple - "Hah, dead smelly girl, you are worthless now, no one wants you! Stretched out wide as a tunnel. Never should've gone to live with that szey lo fan! Keui-ah, kang-hai mow mat yong! Should've obeyed me, you'd be married to a rich businessman, have five kids by now! But noooooooo!"
Entirely unknowingly, her mom was a factor in our breakup. It's that poisonous old-biddy miasma, I guess.
臭氣 - PUTRID!
One Cantonese mother I know burns the sheets after each time her daughter and white son-in-law visit. She says that no amount of washing can remove the smell. Another keeps suggesting that her white son-in-law must be a drug-user, and prefers that he keep his distance - she regularly gives her daughter the names of good divorce lawyers. A third is convinced that white people reek of slaughtered cows and wet dogs. All stinky, lah!
Being able to speak Cantonese, by the way, does not win me any brownie-points. Whenever a Chinese person says "you're so smart, should marry a Chinese girl", they always mean someone else's daughter. Other people deserve a white son-in-law. Not them. Besides, that way I'll take some useless girl-thing out of the herd, and reduce the chance of a nice Chinese boy being saddled with her.
Yeah, I know I sound just a little bit bitter right now. It's just me.
NOTES:
啊媽 - Ah maaaaaa! Imagine a girl howling 'mom' in that good lord how excruciating way. Common exclamation.
死丫頭 - Szey ya-tou: 'Dead slave-girl head'. In which 'dead' is a curse, and slave girl (ya) is modified disparagingly with 'head', meaning in this case mere object. Common exclamation.
壞女孩 - Hwaai noey-tsai: 'Rotten girl-child'. Hwaai also means thoroughly disobedient. Common exclamation.
好似馬鞭 - Ho chi ma-pien: 'very much like a horse penis', as one might exclaim upon seeing a gifted exhibitionist.
Pien, while technically meaning 'whip', is also colloquially used for animal regenerative members.
臭氣 - Chauhey: 'the smell of something rotten or decayed. Unflatteringly applied to many things, including people.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or grasp that in some ways, many Chinatown girls are dysfunctional to a fare-thee-well.
啊媽 - MOM!
Old-fashioned Cantonese mothers can be absolutely vicious to their daughters. This is traditional, and often thoroughly appreciated by Cantonese-American men.
You see, women are pretty much worthless. The only measure of their value is how many sons they produce, and whether those sons go to college. Daughters are a burden, and drain family resources. Who in their right mind even wants to spend money on a daughter's education?
It only needs to be done because it's illegal to drown the little nuisance at birth, and you have to get rid of her somehow - can't marry her off if she's illiterate in this crazy modern world.
[In the past, female children were expendable. Rearing them took away resources that could be far better applied to raising and educating sons, and it was common knowledge that literacy and food were wasted on girls. Even though China has modernized, and people in cities such as Hong Kong have different attitudes, many old ideas about females are still fairly pervasive. Not everyone has an increased appreciation of the worth of women, but everyone does have tons of relatives and neighbors who still think in traditional terms. Outside of the urbanized areas, there are many who rather resent that women now have rights and even a voice. You may treat your daughters like human beings if you wish - but you have relatives who think you're spoiling them, and are convinced that you are insane or an idiot for doing so.]
There are many Chinatown girls who are going to City College or SF State University, working part-time at shitty jobs to pay for their own education, while their brothers are at a decent school and subsidized by the entire family. Not all boys have their academic life paid for by their folks, but if there are limited resources, the boys will be first in line.
The daughters of those families will have from early childhood on probably been accustomed to wait their turn, even if it never comes, and yield the better morsels at dinner to their brothers or sacrifice their own comfort for the males of the family.
At this point, dear reader, you may be thinking that I exaggerate - what I am describing is impossibly old-fashioned, this is the twenty-first century, surely attitudes have changed, and in any case this cannot possibly still maintain in the United States.
Forgive me for saying so, but you need to get your head out of that donkey.
死丫頭 - CURSED WENCH!
EXAMPLE ONE
The daughter of a certain family was expected to work several hours a day at the family store in Chinatown in addition to helping her mother with housework AND getting straight A's in her college courses. She did her homework in between stocking the shelves, attending to customers, and cleaning up. This did not particularly please her dad and his brother who ran the shop - studying takes too much time! She was thin as a rail and hardly spoke.
When I first saw her brothers, I did not even realize that they were related - the boys were chunky and well-fed, and their faces showed that they lived happy lives. Gregarious and cheerful. They hardly ever showed up at the store - they didn't have to.
EXAMPLE TWO
Bright, vivacious, super intelligent. Her mom frequently verbally abused her in public, and the entire family got on her case for being admitted to Berkeley - stupid girl, so much money! So she never went. Did City College for three years, committed suicide in the fourth.
Her brother went to Stanford, and had his own apartment in Palo Alto. His education was funded entirely by his grandfather, because the boy would make the family proud.
Last I heard, they were very proud of him. He's a PHD.
It is forbidden to ever mention that bad luck girl. Who?
EXAMPLE THREE
"Why did we educate you if you can't even find a man to marry?"
The woman in question has two PHD's, a very good job, and is well-read, interesting, reasonably well-adjusted. She's also a lesbian - a problem, you will agree, when her parents believe that the only thing still needed to make her a real person is for her to get married and give birth to at least two or three boys.
"Lesbianism, what's that? Oh, only silly white people get that, let us find you a good man..."
壞女孩 - BAD GIRL!
One of the most appalling scenes in Chinatown is seeing a mother venomously abusing her little daughter while her fat-faced spoiled brat son is misbehaving up a storm.
Boys are allowed to be noisy and act out, girls are expected to suck it up.
Many little Chinese boys need a good whipping. Unfortunately, that's far more likely to happen to the girls.
This isn't universal, but it is common enough. Even urban educated Chinese will allow boys greater latitude, while expecting obedience and conformity from girl-children. That's just the way it is.
Such traditional attitudes are strongest among American-Chinese from country districts and with less education, such as the majority in Chinatown, who are from Toishan. Professionals who emigrated from Hong Kong are not as likely to be unnecessarily cruel towards their daughters, and may actually be quite fond of them. In any case they often wish the best for the girls, and hope that things go well for them. They're also more likely to live out in the avenues away from Chinatown - there's a cultural divide in residence patterns that matches how well the family has adapted.
Given that the deck is stacked against Cantonese-American girls within the confines of their own ethnic group, it should come as no surprise that many of them marry out. Very few young ladies want a Cantonese mother in law, and almost none of them are willing to put up with the pampered son attitudes of many Cantonese-American men. From the point of view of an American-raised Cantonese girl, seeing the contrast between Chinese social norms and regular American social norms, it seems that white men have more egalitarian attitudes and fewer domineering relatives - a different environment entirely, and a mother who acts rather human - and that not being SO Chinese means far greater freedom.
Certainly less repression.
And many of them wouldn't inherit in any case - the family wealth stays with the sons. So it doesn't matter so much if they find a white man.
Every body likes to be treated like a human, right?
好似馬鞭! - LIKE A HORSE!
There is a corresponding idea among Cantonese-American young men that Caucasians prey on little yellow women, and that the only reason why they themselves can't get a date is because of all those white boys luring away the pretty girls with their big endowments.
That their own atrocious behaviour, always expecting Chinese girls to listen to them and act admiringly, and that their fright-bitch mom might have less than no appeal, never seems to cross their minds.
The reason why so many Cantonese-American girls still live at home is because they won't date Chinese boys (see previously mentioned atrocious behaviour), they can't date white guys (imagine everyone talking about her voracious sexual habits), and living alone is not an option.
The reason why so many adult Cantonese-American men still live at home is because they can't get a Cantonese-American girlfriend (see previously mentioned atrocious behaviour), have zero appeal for blonde chicks, are getting pampered at home, and are saving money to spend on themselves.
華女 - SWEETIE PIE
As a side note, when my father and his wife said that Savage Kitten should just come right out and inform her kin that she was living with me, I looked at them like they had taken leave of their senses. Clearly they did not understand a thing, despite their own experiences and openness to different social norms. The same holds for everyone else who said that telling her family about our relationship was the thing to do.
Unremarkably, all of the people with this opinion were white.
None of them had any exposure to the operatic aspect of Chinatown life.
"Oh woe is me, that my worthless smelly daughter who should have been a boy is now whoring around with a degenerate white man who entirely lacks real-estate! She is sleeping with a stinky ghost-devil! I am undone, I'm having a heart-attack! Bitch-slut daughter, how can you do this to me?!? You're killing your brothers, you are ruining their chances of EVER finding a stupid obedient home-town girl to marry! They hate you! They want to kick you fiercely until you bleed and weep! And I will let them! Our tenants / neighbors / customers will henceforth point at me and laugh, saying that I have no face! Because my daughter has no respect for me, and exposes her tortoise parts to thieves and soldiers!
I shall now continue to carry on insanely on a crowded street using multiple exclamation marks, loudly telling the whole world (consisting ONLY of our fellow Toishanese in San Francisco) in colourful detail about what an immoral hussy you turned out to be, must be your dad's side of the family, szey-yaaaaah! lord knows it wasn't anybody on my side, I'm not even convinced you're really my daughter, should've drowned you at birth, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, I've always been the best of mothers, you worthless pile of dog doo, why couldn't you marry a dentist? You are mow-yong! You should kill yourself! You have no shame! Not even human! You are NOT allowed to associate with any of your family ever again, and you don't exist. Pay me back for all the food I ever gave you! Listen while I repeat everything insistently, and much louder!"
Please imagine that in public. Multiple times yearly. And broadcast, with much imaginative detail, to every soul the Old Bag knows.
Yeah, I'm sure it would have been very entertaining.
But the Old Fruitbat would've had been a right bitch if her sons ever talked to her daughter again, and would've made their lives miserable.
Savage Kitten loves her brothers. They're the only family she really has.
The Venomous Old Sow would be overjoyed if she ever found out that Savage Kitten and I are no longer a couple - "Hah, dead smelly girl, you are worthless now, no one wants you! Stretched out wide as a tunnel. Never should've gone to live with that szey lo fan! Keui-ah, kang-hai mow mat yong! Should've obeyed me, you'd be married to a rich businessman, have five kids by now! But noooooooo!"
Entirely unknowingly, her mom was a factor in our breakup. It's that poisonous old-biddy miasma, I guess.
臭氣 - PUTRID!
One Cantonese mother I know burns the sheets after each time her daughter and white son-in-law visit. She says that no amount of washing can remove the smell. Another keeps suggesting that her white son-in-law must be a drug-user, and prefers that he keep his distance - she regularly gives her daughter the names of good divorce lawyers. A third is convinced that white people reek of slaughtered cows and wet dogs. All stinky, lah!
Being able to speak Cantonese, by the way, does not win me any brownie-points. Whenever a Chinese person says "you're so smart, should marry a Chinese girl", they always mean someone else's daughter. Other people deserve a white son-in-law. Not them. Besides, that way I'll take some useless girl-thing out of the herd, and reduce the chance of a nice Chinese boy being saddled with her.
Yeah, I know I sound just a little bit bitter right now. It's just me.
NOTES:
啊媽 - Ah maaaaaa! Imagine a girl howling 'mom' in that good lord how excruciating way. Common exclamation.
死丫頭 - Szey ya-tou: 'Dead slave-girl head'. In which 'dead' is a curse, and slave girl (ya) is modified disparagingly with 'head', meaning in this case mere object. Common exclamation.
壞女孩 - Hwaai noey-tsai: 'Rotten girl-child'. Hwaai also means thoroughly disobedient. Common exclamation.
好似馬鞭 - Ho chi ma-pien: 'very much like a horse penis', as one might exclaim upon seeing a gifted exhibitionist.
Pien, while technically meaning 'whip', is also colloquially used for animal regenerative members.
臭氣 - Chauhey: 'the smell of something rotten or decayed. Unflatteringly applied to many things, including people.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
FINE CHINESE DICTIONARY PROSPECTS
You know, I really wish this hadn’t happened. Savage Kitten and me breaking up, that is. Our friendship is still there, and probably stronger than ever. But she is no longer excited by me romantically. That must have faded quite a while back. So I can understand why she called an end to those aspects of our relationship.
It hurts, but I’m glad we’re still so close.
Evenso. All facets of the relationship were still very much alive in me. That, I think, is why she hesitated so long before finally discussing matters. But she had to - letting things continue as they were would have been dishonest, and made her live a lie. And I could not have forced her to remain my lover.
It would have made us both desperately unhappy, and ruined what is, at heart, a beautiful friendship.
We are companions, and roommates. We are still the best of friends. No one knows me better.
Of course, a major problem is that I still think she’s one hot mama.
Yowza.
Lookin’ fine!
ACTING LIKE A GENTLEMAN – NOT ALLWAYS ACTUALLY BEING ONE, PLEASE UNDERSTAND, JUST DESPERATELY ACTING LIKE ONE.
IT'S THE GALLANT THING TO DO. KEEPING MY BRAIN FLEXIBLE, MY EYES OPEN, AND MY MOUTH SHUT.
I have to subdue certain feelings now. It would not be civilized to veer into what might be considered sexual harassment. And it would betray the complete trust we both have in each other were I to do so. We feel safe and comfortable with each other around, and we wish to keep it that way.
Living together as roommates necessarily means a certain blindness. At times just pretending I didn’t notice a darn thing.
Think of it as my foray into 'method acting'.
Seriously, I like having a roommate who trusts me completely.
Especially as I can often see her going down the hallway to bathe. I did mention that she’s one hot mama, right?
Damn’ good thing that I’m still not fully caffeinated at that time – a slim and shapely young lady in a state of undress is a beautiful thing to see, and a great way to start the day.
I do not flatter myself that I present a sight anything near as charming when I head to the shower.
I drink my morning coffee sitting up on my bed, so the view into the hallway is pretty good. No, I didn’t start doing that since the break-up, I’ve always done it. It’s just, however, that I now realize precisely how advantageous it is to sit there with a steaming cup and sleepy-looking eyes – never mind that they’re half-closed deliberately!
I may look like I’m not paying any attention, my dear, but I underneath these heavy lids I am absolutely pop-eyed.
PRIME VANTAGE POINT
I frequently sit on my bed, even in the early evening. Books are strewn on the side near the window, as well as small quarreling stuffed animals (the 'roomies': a one-legged monkey, two degenerate Teddy bears, a Steiff raccoon, and a small fat fluffy creature of indeterminate species – they have strong personalities and don’t always get along amicably).
It’s the perfect spot to read, or scribble in my notebooks. Or fight with the roomies
The other night she was in her room trying on some new high heels. Her legs, by the way, look fabulous in high-heels.
The only full length mirror is at the far end of the hallway, and the only way you can tell that pumps are just right is by walking in them, and posing with them in front of a full length mirror. See how they look coming and going. Turn just so, to observe how they look from the side, what they do to the lines. How they perk up the rump.
I’ve never tried it myself, but I am experienced in these matters, so I know whereof I speak.
It works even better when you’re wearing nothing but tiny pink panties and a tee-shirt.
That way you can see the entire line of the leg.
I had to go have a couple of stiff ones at the bar that evening. It was a sudden urge to enjoy the company of some other men, and some fine bad singing. Get some fresh air. Distract the mind. Smoke too much and utter startling exclamations. Dang it.
When I got back I spent three hours going through a dictionary of classical Chinese (University of Hawaii Press). Must have read many of the same pages three or four times. Yeah, that fascinating.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It hurts, but I’m glad we’re still so close.
Evenso. All facets of the relationship were still very much alive in me. That, I think, is why she hesitated so long before finally discussing matters. But she had to - letting things continue as they were would have been dishonest, and made her live a lie. And I could not have forced her to remain my lover.
It would have made us both desperately unhappy, and ruined what is, at heart, a beautiful friendship.
We are companions, and roommates. We are still the best of friends. No one knows me better.
Of course, a major problem is that I still think she’s one hot mama.
Yowza.
Lookin’ fine!
ACTING LIKE A GENTLEMAN – NOT ALLWAYS ACTUALLY BEING ONE, PLEASE UNDERSTAND, JUST DESPERATELY ACTING LIKE ONE.
IT'S THE GALLANT THING TO DO. KEEPING MY BRAIN FLEXIBLE, MY EYES OPEN, AND MY MOUTH SHUT.
I have to subdue certain feelings now. It would not be civilized to veer into what might be considered sexual harassment. And it would betray the complete trust we both have in each other were I to do so. We feel safe and comfortable with each other around, and we wish to keep it that way.
Living together as roommates necessarily means a certain blindness. At times just pretending I didn’t notice a darn thing.
Think of it as my foray into 'method acting'.
Seriously, I like having a roommate who trusts me completely.
Especially as I can often see her going down the hallway to bathe. I did mention that she’s one hot mama, right?
Damn’ good thing that I’m still not fully caffeinated at that time – a slim and shapely young lady in a state of undress is a beautiful thing to see, and a great way to start the day.
I do not flatter myself that I present a sight anything near as charming when I head to the shower.
I drink my morning coffee sitting up on my bed, so the view into the hallway is pretty good. No, I didn’t start doing that since the break-up, I’ve always done it. It’s just, however, that I now realize precisely how advantageous it is to sit there with a steaming cup and sleepy-looking eyes – never mind that they’re half-closed deliberately!
I may look like I’m not paying any attention, my dear, but I underneath these heavy lids I am absolutely pop-eyed.
PRIME VANTAGE POINT
I frequently sit on my bed, even in the early evening. Books are strewn on the side near the window, as well as small quarreling stuffed animals (the 'roomies': a one-legged monkey, two degenerate Teddy bears, a Steiff raccoon, and a small fat fluffy creature of indeterminate species – they have strong personalities and don’t always get along amicably).
It’s the perfect spot to read, or scribble in my notebooks. Or fight with the roomies
The other night she was in her room trying on some new high heels. Her legs, by the way, look fabulous in high-heels.
The only full length mirror is at the far end of the hallway, and the only way you can tell that pumps are just right is by walking in them, and posing with them in front of a full length mirror. See how they look coming and going. Turn just so, to observe how they look from the side, what they do to the lines. How they perk up the rump.
I’ve never tried it myself, but I am experienced in these matters, so I know whereof I speak.
It works even better when you’re wearing nothing but tiny pink panties and a tee-shirt.
That way you can see the entire line of the leg.
I had to go have a couple of stiff ones at the bar that evening. It was a sudden urge to enjoy the company of some other men, and some fine bad singing. Get some fresh air. Distract the mind. Smoke too much and utter startling exclamations. Dang it.
When I got back I spent three hours going through a dictionary of classical Chinese (University of Hawaii Press). Must have read many of the same pages three or four times. Yeah, that fascinating.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FROM A CHINATOWN BAKERY
The other day I found out that Auntie Jenny is eighty years old. Which is both an approximate, and the first time I have ever really known her age. You see, she isn’t family – the term 'Auntie' is what in many cultures you call women who are of your parents generation.
Auntie Jenny is a woman I have known far longer than most people in the United States. When I first met her she was in her early fifties. No, I never asked her age – despite the jet black hair, it was obvious that she was a generation older.
In those days I regularly went to a bakery in Chinatown. My routine was rather predictable – if it was early evening, I would usually have a dowsa-bing or a lowpoh-bing plus a cup of coffee while reading the newspapers.
If it was earlier in the day a gaibow and coffee. Many cups of coffee.
I was there more often in late afternoon than in the morning.
[Dowsa-bing: 豆沙餅 - sweet red bean paste enfolded in a layer of thin flaky pastry. Lowpoh-bing: 老婆餅 - "old wife cake"; candied melon confiture enfolded in a layer of thin flaky pastry. Gaibow: 雞包 - steamed bun filled with chicken, including some ginger and black mushroom for taste and texture, and a slice of lahp-cheung for a salty-sweet flavour addition. Lahp-cheung: 臘腸 - Chinese sausage; usually made with pork, sometimes with duck and duck liver.]
They also had cake - coffee crunch cake and strawberry cake, both very good. As well as many types of pies, and excellent pastries. So sometimes a slice of apple or custard pie. But mostly just the small red-bean pastry.
[Many of the Chinatown bakeries had been opened by cooks who worked at the fancy white-folks hotels and restaurants back in the day when Chinese were never allowed in as customers. Unlike most modern Chinese-American bakeries, which derive a lot of their inspiration from Hong Kong, the old-style bakery / coffee shop / lunch counter had many products that would have been instantly recognizable to white people if they had ventured in. Better and more sincerely made, too. These men justifiably took pride in their abilities.]
Auntie Jenny was one of the three ladies who worked behind the lunch counter. She and her husband ran a laundry, and had worked hard - she owned her own home. After he passed away, she took a job where she could be around people - yes, Cantonese speakers, but her English was perfect. It was a question of atmosphere, mostly.
At that time there were still many folks in Chinatown who had come of age before racial barriers came down, and while they were fully Americanized, C'town was always home. It was the place where they could let their hair down. Their comfort zone.
It was also the one place in the Bay Area where no one ever commented about my accent.
Not even when I started speaking Cantonese.
[And good heavens, I still sound thoroughly atrocious, but now it's mostly because I sound like a thug, rather than just unintelligible.]
For nearly fifteen years I was a frequent customer at that bakery, until they tore out the lunch counter to make room for boxes, and Auntie Jenny had to find another job. Well, she didn't actually need to - she could've easily retired, but she liked being around people. It was her pleasure in the company of others that had kept me going back. Around warm sociable people one always feels welcome; her sparkle and her gentleness drew me in.
Since then I've gone to other C'town bakeries, but it isn't the same.
Auntie Jenny lives in the same neighborhood as I do - about four blocks away. We bump into each other occasionally.
She's a tiny woman, at least a foot shorter than me. She no longer dyes her hair, it's now silvery white. Her eyes shine, she likes to chat with people, and she's got all of her faculties. Lively.
Her hands have become smaller and much more delicate-looking with age - speckled, slightly arthritic, but still strong, still warm.
In her own words: "not doing badly for an eighty year old".
Not too many can say as much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Auntie Jenny is a woman I have known far longer than most people in the United States. When I first met her she was in her early fifties. No, I never asked her age – despite the jet black hair, it was obvious that she was a generation older.
In those days I regularly went to a bakery in Chinatown. My routine was rather predictable – if it was early evening, I would usually have a dowsa-bing or a lowpoh-bing plus a cup of coffee while reading the newspapers.
If it was earlier in the day a gaibow and coffee. Many cups of coffee.
I was there more often in late afternoon than in the morning.
[Dowsa-bing: 豆沙餅 - sweet red bean paste enfolded in a layer of thin flaky pastry. Lowpoh-bing: 老婆餅 - "old wife cake"; candied melon confiture enfolded in a layer of thin flaky pastry. Gaibow: 雞包 - steamed bun filled with chicken, including some ginger and black mushroom for taste and texture, and a slice of lahp-cheung for a salty-sweet flavour addition. Lahp-cheung: 臘腸 - Chinese sausage; usually made with pork, sometimes with duck and duck liver.]
They also had cake - coffee crunch cake and strawberry cake, both very good. As well as many types of pies, and excellent pastries. So sometimes a slice of apple or custard pie. But mostly just the small red-bean pastry.
[Many of the Chinatown bakeries had been opened by cooks who worked at the fancy white-folks hotels and restaurants back in the day when Chinese were never allowed in as customers. Unlike most modern Chinese-American bakeries, which derive a lot of their inspiration from Hong Kong, the old-style bakery / coffee shop / lunch counter had many products that would have been instantly recognizable to white people if they had ventured in. Better and more sincerely made, too. These men justifiably took pride in their abilities.]
Auntie Jenny was one of the three ladies who worked behind the lunch counter. She and her husband ran a laundry, and had worked hard - she owned her own home. After he passed away, she took a job where she could be around people - yes, Cantonese speakers, but her English was perfect. It was a question of atmosphere, mostly.
At that time there were still many folks in Chinatown who had come of age before racial barriers came down, and while they were fully Americanized, C'town was always home. It was the place where they could let their hair down. Their comfort zone.
It was also the one place in the Bay Area where no one ever commented about my accent.
Not even when I started speaking Cantonese.
[And good heavens, I still sound thoroughly atrocious, but now it's mostly because I sound like a thug, rather than just unintelligible.]
For nearly fifteen years I was a frequent customer at that bakery, until they tore out the lunch counter to make room for boxes, and Auntie Jenny had to find another job. Well, she didn't actually need to - she could've easily retired, but she liked being around people. It was her pleasure in the company of others that had kept me going back. Around warm sociable people one always feels welcome; her sparkle and her gentleness drew me in.
Since then I've gone to other C'town bakeries, but it isn't the same.
Auntie Jenny lives in the same neighborhood as I do - about four blocks away. We bump into each other occasionally.
She's a tiny woman, at least a foot shorter than me. She no longer dyes her hair, it's now silvery white. Her eyes shine, she likes to chat with people, and she's got all of her faculties. Lively.
Her hands have become smaller and much more delicate-looking with age - speckled, slightly arthritic, but still strong, still warm.
In her own words: "not doing badly for an eighty year old".
Not too many can say as much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 04, 2010
A PLACE TO WATCH THE WORLD GO BY WHILE EATING
Back in the eighties, during a bad time of my life, I lived on the edge of Chinatown. It was...... comfortable. Food was cheaper and more varied in C'town than in North Beach, and I didn’t have to put up with the artistic types or drug-users that infested the Italian neighborhood.
[Artistic types and drug-users: pretty much the same thing, there being so all-encompassing an overlap that one can scarce tell the difference. Since the Beat era, hip creative people have settled in North Beach where the wine and pasta are cheap (too damn' expensive), the atmosphere is picturesque and continental (seedy and littered with art and drugs), and elderly Italian gentlemen make love with their eyes to the frisky young ladies (old geezers glare disapprovingly at the pretentious slags and tarts). North Beach is probably the most bohemian neighborhood in San Francisco (bums, potheads, meth-freaks, whackos, trollops, and unintelligent dipwads with attitudes and tattoos – most Italians moved out years ago). Plus residential hotels, cafés, and a few food stores.]
The great thing about the many lunch counters then still extant in Chinatown was the warm no-nonsense atmosphere that tolerated a broad range of eccentricity provided you didn’t offend anyone, and the constant refills of coffee. Plus some of those places had bright young girls working behind the counter. That, by itself, encourages experimentation in dining.
And why yes, thank you, I will have some more coffee!
Most of the Chinatown lunch counters are gone now – the Eastern Bakery is now just a bakery with tables in the back (the kitchen is no longer full service), Uncle’s Coffee Shop removed the counter and now only offers table seating, the owners of Ping Yuen Bakery and Café retired several years ago.........
But there are still great places to eat without having to put up with an excess of artistic types.
Or visitors.
The Capitol Restaurant (京都餐館 on Clay Street up from Grant, between Waverly and Hang-Ah Alley) is still there. Full meals for a low price, darn decent quality, too. Brisk service, great salt and pepper wings, and good ox tail with tofu skin. Plus they have bitter melon. Family food.
I'll probably go there in a month or so when I have my appetite back.
On the other hand, I may head over to 華盛頓茶餐廳 (Washington Bakery and Restaurant) just below Grant for some 粥 (jook: rice porridge, congee) sometime this weekend.
I find 皮蛋猪肉粥 (rice porridge with preserved egg and pork) to be superlative comfort food. Especially with good quality lean meat (瘦肉).
It's very Cantonese.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Artistic types and drug-users: pretty much the same thing, there being so all-encompassing an overlap that one can scarce tell the difference. Since the Beat era, hip creative people have settled in North Beach where the wine and pasta are cheap (too damn' expensive), the atmosphere is picturesque and continental (seedy and littered with art and drugs), and elderly Italian gentlemen make love with their eyes to the frisky young ladies (old geezers glare disapprovingly at the pretentious slags and tarts). North Beach is probably the most bohemian neighborhood in San Francisco (bums, potheads, meth-freaks, whackos, trollops, and unintelligent dipwads with attitudes and tattoos – most Italians moved out years ago). Plus residential hotels, cafés, and a few food stores.]
The great thing about the many lunch counters then still extant in Chinatown was the warm no-nonsense atmosphere that tolerated a broad range of eccentricity provided you didn’t offend anyone, and the constant refills of coffee. Plus some of those places had bright young girls working behind the counter. That, by itself, encourages experimentation in dining.
And why yes, thank you, I will have some more coffee!
Most of the Chinatown lunch counters are gone now – the Eastern Bakery is now just a bakery with tables in the back (the kitchen is no longer full service), Uncle’s Coffee Shop removed the counter and now only offers table seating, the owners of Ping Yuen Bakery and Café retired several years ago.........
But there are still great places to eat without having to put up with an excess of artistic types.
Or visitors.
The Capitol Restaurant (京都餐館 on Clay Street up from Grant, between Waverly and Hang-Ah Alley) is still there. Full meals for a low price, darn decent quality, too. Brisk service, great salt and pepper wings, and good ox tail with tofu skin. Plus they have bitter melon. Family food.
I'll probably go there in a month or so when I have my appetite back.
On the other hand, I may head over to 華盛頓茶餐廳 (Washington Bakery and Restaurant) just below Grant for some 粥 (jook: rice porridge, congee) sometime this weekend.
I find 皮蛋猪肉粥 (rice porridge with preserved egg and pork) to be superlative comfort food. Especially with good quality lean meat (瘦肉).
It's very Cantonese.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 01, 2010
KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE SMALL ONE
Savage Kitten asked me the other day why I had named her ‘Savage Kitten’. I waffled a bit, mumbling something about independent minded, small, and claws.
I actually came up with the nickname because she is ferocious yet vulnerable.
FEROCIOUS
Whenever I attended demonstrations where our side was outnumbered, it worried her. She knows how vicious pro-Palestinian activists can be, and has witnessed their bully-boy tactics first-hand.
[She attended San Francisco State University, which rivals UC Berkeley as the most mean-spirited anti-Semitic and liberal campus on the West Coast. She’s seen the Arab-American Jugend in action.]
After making the mistake years ago of telling her about the behaviour displayed in front of the consulate, I learned not to mention it again – I did not want to be in the position of having to bail her out of jail. She demanded that I bring her along the next time so she could protect me, and she could have done a damn fine job of it. She's fierce enough.
Yes, the average West-Coast pro-Palestinian is a bulky young chap of thuggish tendencies with major psychological problems. And she’s only 105 LBS.
But the average West-Coast pro-Palestinian is also a bully (meaning: coward), and does not have sound judgment or common sense, who might think that a small Asian woman would be an easy victim.
He’s both a racist and a sexist, and very much an opportunist with no morals.
She’s done nearly twenty years of Martial Arts. Has several gold and silver medals.
And some unresolved anger issues. Doesn't like chauvinists or swine.
She’s fighting fit.
She would rip his chickenshit guts out and feed them to him.
I know she could do it. But seeing as she might then turn her fury on the soft middle-aged Berkeleyites who are enablers and wetnurses for the Arab-American rowdies, it could become very ugly.
I am a peaceful man, I prefer that these riots not turn into mayhem.
It isn’t that I would particularly mind bailing her out of jail. It’s that I wouldn’t want her to be exposed to any blood from those people.
Nor would I want her bruised from pounding their stupid heads in. Or upset.
You see, she’s vulnerable.
And that's just one more reason I want her to remain my roommate, even though we are no longer a couple. I'll know that she's not in jail, and I won't have to bail her out.
Cantonese-American girls can be SO violent.
And this city is filled with stupid people.
Besides, I just feel safer with her around.
==========================================================================
NOTE: If you wish, you may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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I actually came up with the nickname because she is ferocious yet vulnerable.
FEROCIOUS
Whenever I attended demonstrations where our side was outnumbered, it worried her. She knows how vicious pro-Palestinian activists can be, and has witnessed their bully-boy tactics first-hand.
[She attended San Francisco State University, which rivals UC Berkeley as the most mean-spirited anti-Semitic and liberal campus on the West Coast. She’s seen the Arab-American Jugend in action.]
After making the mistake years ago of telling her about the behaviour displayed in front of the consulate, I learned not to mention it again – I did not want to be in the position of having to bail her out of jail. She demanded that I bring her along the next time so she could protect me, and she could have done a damn fine job of it. She's fierce enough.
Yes, the average West-Coast pro-Palestinian is a bulky young chap of thuggish tendencies with major psychological problems. And she’s only 105 LBS.
But the average West-Coast pro-Palestinian is also a bully (meaning: coward), and does not have sound judgment or common sense, who might think that a small Asian woman would be an easy victim.
He’s both a racist and a sexist, and very much an opportunist with no morals.
She’s done nearly twenty years of Martial Arts. Has several gold and silver medals.
And some unresolved anger issues. Doesn't like chauvinists or swine.
She’s fighting fit.
She would rip his chickenshit guts out and feed them to him.
I know she could do it. But seeing as she might then turn her fury on the soft middle-aged Berkeleyites who are enablers and wetnurses for the Arab-American rowdies, it could become very ugly.
I am a peaceful man, I prefer that these riots not turn into mayhem.
It isn’t that I would particularly mind bailing her out of jail. It’s that I wouldn’t want her to be exposed to any blood from those people.
Nor would I want her bruised from pounding their stupid heads in. Or upset.
You see, she’s vulnerable.
And that's just one more reason I want her to remain my roommate, even though we are no longer a couple. I'll know that she's not in jail, and I won't have to bail her out.
Cantonese-American girls can be SO violent.
And this city is filled with stupid people.
Besides, I just feel safer with her around.
==========================================================================
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,...
