There is a narrowness about life now. It seems that my ability to communicate is no longer what it was.
Or maybe it is that I am now much more aware that I cannot correctly convey what I mean, or convince others when I speak.
Savage Kitten listens, but I do not think she hears. It will probably take a long time before she understands what I have, in these past few months, tried to say. She is not prepared to grasp my points, nor realize that what she said when she broke off our relationship, and how she said it, were in effect if not intent almost impossibly wounding.
I admire her resilience.
Unfortunately, I cannot speak to anyone else either. Some things just cannot and should not be said, and I myself find it hard to speak of other matters.
What I do not clearly say requires more intensive listening than most people are capable of, and more attention than I can demand of my friends.
Really, who is avid for subjects not bright and easy?
And why should anyone even expect that of their friends?
I do not speak, I have no voice.
And I resent my own muteness.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
IT FLIES!
This blog occasionally mentions music. Yes. Music that represents the eclectic taste of the blogger.
Consequently I am proud – yes, that’s it, proud – to present my latest youtube discovery.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mjatRkpSa5U&feature=channel
Rather good stuff.
Aren't you glad I didn't embed that video?
You never would've clicked on that channel if I had. Your loss.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Oh what the heck.
HOVER BACON - THE VIDEO
Deservedly a classic.
Short, sweet, and to the point. Imagine a whole new world. Go on.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Consequently I am proud – yes, that’s it, proud – to present my latest youtube discovery.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mjatRkpSa5U&feature=channel
Rather good stuff.
Aren't you glad I didn't embed that video?
You never would've clicked on that channel if I had. Your loss.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Oh what the heck.
HOVER BACON - THE VIDEO
Deservedly a classic.
Short, sweet, and to the point. Imagine a whole new world. Go on.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
DIM SUM! OR, NOTHING SAYS CHRISTMAS LIKE CHINESE FOOD!
In a previous life I must have done something very wrong. Why else would I be so surrounded by unimaginative eaters?
I realize this today because the departmental holiday lunch is coming up.
Naturally I suggested dim sum.
There have been sub-audible howls.
Several years back there were slightly more Asians in finance, and consequently my scheme would have stood a very good chance of succeeding. At present, excluding the person who had a meltdown a few months ago (now out on disability), there are five times more NON-ASIANS than Asians.
So we're probably NOT going here:
城景 CITY VIEW RESTAURANT
662 Commercial Street
(between Montgomery and Kearny).
San Francisco, CA 94111
415-398-2838
They've got some pretty darn good dim sum at City View. It's close to the office. Clean, fast, comfy, and cheerfully noisy..... Quite the best place to go. And really, nothing says Christmas spirit better than Chinese food - just ask any Jew you know!
[Nope, none of them in accounting either. Jesus, I must have been a right son-of-a-bitch in that previous life! What the hell did I do?!?]
But of course, there are some things that today's sensitive suburbanite will not touch with a ten foot pole. Let alone chopsticks.
Ha gau (蝦餃) for instance. It just looks too pretty to eat. Minced shrimp, or shrimp and pork, in a delicate pale slightly translucent bonnet, steamed........ this is the Hello Kitty of dumplings.
It is very beautiful
Suburban food does NOT look beautiful. Ever.
Siu mai (燒賣) are another example. That wrapper looks suspiciously wrinkly, and it's open on top! Good lord, you can see what 'they' filled it with! We don't care that it's high quality pork! Juicy and oh so good within the little wheat-dough pocket!
Fung jau (鳳爪) are definitely off the list. Who wants to eat chicken feet? Even if they are yummy and delicious? Those poor feetless birds!
Got any tempeh or wheat germ instead? Anybody want to make a run to Mickey D's?
Ngau yiuk kau (牛肉球) are just meat balls, you can't fool us. We've been to Italian restaurants. We're not morons!
Chu cheung fan (猪腸粉) ....? NO! Especially not after the snarky Dutchman explains what the name means ('pig intestine noodle'), because of its appealing slick pearlescent appearance! To us, no recognizable part of an animal looks good. Yes, we can tell it's actually a steamed soft rice noodle sheet around delicious fresh shrimp or beef, but we can't get that image out of our heads. We have no imagination.
Dau chup pai gwat (豆汁排骨) don't appeal to us either. They should use a sweet sticky sauce instead of a savoury, garlicky, fragrant, scrumptious black-bean sauce. And can't they debone the spareribs as is common in fast-food lunch places? We don't like bones - they remind us of Bambi. And Thumper.
Do they serve anything else?
DOT -- DOT -- DOT
The problem with woo gou (芋角 taro cake), lobak gou (蘿蔔糕 daikon cake), and ma tai gou (馬蹄糕 water chestnut cake) is that there is no meat in them. Well, not more than a smidge in the middle one..... Yes, I know we objected to everything that did have meat already. But we've been conditioned to crave meat. And that stuff looks like goo.
Surely they can wrap a steak or a hamburger in a dumpling skin?
Etcetera.
All in all it's probably a darn good thing that we'll probably choose a random Mexican place instead. Red and green salsa is ever so festive, and we can have cheese on everything!
I won't have to translate anything either. That would've put a serious crimp in my eating.
And it's dining as a group that's important. The shared experience and all that.
All of us together, we've made it through another year, huzzah and hooray.
I might lose sight of that if I enjoyed myself too much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I realize this today because the departmental holiday lunch is coming up.
Naturally I suggested dim sum.
There have been sub-audible howls.
Several years back there were slightly more Asians in finance, and consequently my scheme would have stood a very good chance of succeeding. At present, excluding the person who had a meltdown a few months ago (now out on disability), there are five times more NON-ASIANS than Asians.
So we're probably NOT going here:
城景 CITY VIEW RESTAURANT
662 Commercial Street
(between Montgomery and Kearny).
San Francisco, CA 94111
415-398-2838
They've got some pretty darn good dim sum at City View. It's close to the office. Clean, fast, comfy, and cheerfully noisy..... Quite the best place to go. And really, nothing says Christmas spirit better than Chinese food - just ask any Jew you know!
[Nope, none of them in accounting either. Jesus, I must have been a right son-of-a-bitch in that previous life! What the hell did I do?!?]
But of course, there are some things that today's sensitive suburbanite will not touch with a ten foot pole. Let alone chopsticks.
Ha gau (蝦餃) for instance. It just looks too pretty to eat. Minced shrimp, or shrimp and pork, in a delicate pale slightly translucent bonnet, steamed........ this is the Hello Kitty of dumplings.
It is very beautiful
Suburban food does NOT look beautiful. Ever.
Siu mai (燒賣) are another example. That wrapper looks suspiciously wrinkly, and it's open on top! Good lord, you can see what 'they' filled it with! We don't care that it's high quality pork! Juicy and oh so good within the little wheat-dough pocket!
Fung jau (鳳爪) are definitely off the list. Who wants to eat chicken feet? Even if they are yummy and delicious? Those poor feetless birds!
Got any tempeh or wheat germ instead? Anybody want to make a run to Mickey D's?
Ngau yiuk kau (牛肉球) are just meat balls, you can't fool us. We've been to Italian restaurants. We're not morons!
Chu cheung fan (猪腸粉) ....? NO! Especially not after the snarky Dutchman explains what the name means ('pig intestine noodle'), because of its appealing slick pearlescent appearance! To us, no recognizable part of an animal looks good. Yes, we can tell it's actually a steamed soft rice noodle sheet around delicious fresh shrimp or beef, but we can't get that image out of our heads. We have no imagination.
Dau chup pai gwat (豆汁排骨) don't appeal to us either. They should use a sweet sticky sauce instead of a savoury, garlicky, fragrant, scrumptious black-bean sauce. And can't they debone the spareribs as is common in fast-food lunch places? We don't like bones - they remind us of Bambi. And Thumper.
Do they serve anything else?
DOT -- DOT -- DOT
The problem with woo gou (芋角 taro cake), lobak gou (蘿蔔糕 daikon cake), and ma tai gou (馬蹄糕 water chestnut cake) is that there is no meat in them. Well, not more than a smidge in the middle one..... Yes, I know we objected to everything that did have meat already. But we've been conditioned to crave meat. And that stuff looks like goo.
Surely they can wrap a steak or a hamburger in a dumpling skin?
Etcetera.
All in all it's probably a darn good thing that we'll probably choose a random Mexican place instead. Red and green salsa is ever so festive, and we can have cheese on everything!
I won't have to translate anything either. That would've put a serious crimp in my eating.
And it's dining as a group that's important. The shared experience and all that.
All of us together, we've made it through another year, huzzah and hooray.
I might lose sight of that if I enjoyed myself too much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 13, 2010
CANTONESE AMERICAN GIRLS
Regular readers here already know that I have discovered my blog stats as an endless source of mild amusement. Today's stats, however, have a narrative cohesion which is rather sad.
I weep for the various stalwarts who in their hopeful ignorance stumbled in here, and did not find what they sought.
"Cantonese American Girls"
"closet chainsmoker"
"Balkan Sobranie Turkish Cigarettes Gold"
"hot bikes and chicks"
"I can see your nipples"
You see? Clearly the searchers COLLECTIVELY were looking for female Cantonese American cigarette smokers with refined tastes and pleasingly risqué personal qualities.
I can sympathize with them completely. I once knew several Cantonese American girls who smoked Balkan Sobranie cigarettes - both the gold-tipped Black Russians as well as the white tin Oriental straights ("The Balkan Sobranie Cigarettes - Made from the Finest Yenidje Tobacco - 10 CIGARETTES"), and yes, they were closet smokers.
I particularly remember strolling with them after a banquet in Los Angeles Chinatown, several yards behind their various parents. The girls took surreptitious puffs, then hid the cigarettes behind their backs. Mom and Dad should NOT see their dear daughters smoking, ever!
I was the only person openly smoking........ which, of course, added to the unpleasant smell that I as a white person surely possessed.
It should be noted that it is unlikely in the extreme that any of the three sets of parents had EVER done a comparative sniff-test of their daughters versus the Caucasian family friend and minor business associate. They might have been surprised. Pipesmokers ALWAYS smell better than cigarette smokers.
Especially closet chain-smokers.
A female Cantonese American cigarette smoker with refined tastes and pleasingly risqué personal qualities .....
One of those Cantonese American girls also had a motorbike.
I really don't know whether the bike was hot - I have no taste in such matters - but she certainly was, oh yes. Smoking. Yowza. Oooweee.
No, I never saw her nipples.
That option did not seem germaine or likely at the time.
I now regret that 'oversight' keenly.
Back then I wasn't nearly so much a dirty old man as I am now, you see.
Biker leather really adds charm to a slim girlish figure. Formfitting and shiny - it emphasizes both the curvaceousness and the aerodynamic quality of the small feminine person in question, rakish and enchanting, with one foot on the pavement, and a Balkan Sobranie cigarette twixt gloved fingers........ a smear of daemon-temptress red lipstick staining the golden tip.
But alas, none of that is on this blog. You will certainly not find cigarettes here (I disapprove of them), and neither Cantonese American girls nor nipples visit much.
I wouldn't mind if they did, honest - I like both Cantonese American girls AND nipples - but this blog really does not have much appeal to Cantonese American girls OR nipples.
It's sad.
So I'm very sorry. You are disappointed. I have failed you.
I wish you every luck in finding chainsmoking hot Cantonese American biker chicks (with nipples) somewhere else on the internet. Keep up the good search. Just remember to come back and leave me a link when you find them.
Thank you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I weep for the various stalwarts who in their hopeful ignorance stumbled in here, and did not find what they sought.
"Cantonese American Girls"
"closet chainsmoker"
"Balkan Sobranie Turkish Cigarettes Gold"
"hot bikes and chicks"
"I can see your nipples"
You see? Clearly the searchers COLLECTIVELY were looking for female Cantonese American cigarette smokers with refined tastes and pleasingly risqué personal qualities.
I can sympathize with them completely. I once knew several Cantonese American girls who smoked Balkan Sobranie cigarettes - both the gold-tipped Black Russians as well as the white tin Oriental straights ("The Balkan Sobranie Cigarettes - Made from the Finest Yenidje Tobacco - 10 CIGARETTES"), and yes, they were closet smokers.
I particularly remember strolling with them after a banquet in Los Angeles Chinatown, several yards behind their various parents. The girls took surreptitious puffs, then hid the cigarettes behind their backs. Mom and Dad should NOT see their dear daughters smoking, ever!
I was the only person openly smoking........ which, of course, added to the unpleasant smell that I as a white person surely possessed.
It should be noted that it is unlikely in the extreme that any of the three sets of parents had EVER done a comparative sniff-test of their daughters versus the Caucasian family friend and minor business associate. They might have been surprised. Pipesmokers ALWAYS smell better than cigarette smokers.
Especially closet chain-smokers.
A female Cantonese American cigarette smoker with refined tastes and pleasingly risqué personal qualities .....
One of those Cantonese American girls also had a motorbike.
I really don't know whether the bike was hot - I have no taste in such matters - but she certainly was, oh yes. Smoking. Yowza. Oooweee.
No, I never saw her nipples.
That option did not seem germaine or likely at the time.
I now regret that 'oversight' keenly.
Back then I wasn't nearly so much a dirty old man as I am now, you see.
Biker leather really adds charm to a slim girlish figure. Formfitting and shiny - it emphasizes both the curvaceousness and the aerodynamic quality of the small feminine person in question, rakish and enchanting, with one foot on the pavement, and a Balkan Sobranie cigarette twixt gloved fingers........ a smear of daemon-temptress red lipstick staining the golden tip.
But alas, none of that is on this blog. You will certainly not find cigarettes here (I disapprove of them), and neither Cantonese American girls nor nipples visit much.
I wouldn't mind if they did, honest - I like both Cantonese American girls AND nipples - but this blog really does not have much appeal to Cantonese American girls OR nipples.
It's sad.
So I'm very sorry. You are disappointed. I have failed you.
I wish you every luck in finding chainsmoking hot Cantonese American biker chicks (with nipples) somewhere else on the internet. Keep up the good search. Just remember to come back and leave me a link when you find them.
Thank you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
INDIVISIBLE PIG
Last night I had a fever - I may have caught whatever ailment Savage Kitten had on Friday - and consequently had the darndest time sleeping. The fever certainly influenced the mind, as there were two particularly vivid 'episodes'.
Twixt wake and sleep, strange things erupt.
I do some of my "best" thinking when not fully conscious.
Falling asleep: the impossible camaraderie of numbers
All prime numbers beyond 3 are separated from the next and preceding prime number by a multiple of two. 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, etcetera.
Even numbers are wet, prime numbers are dry.
If you take a number of two or more digits and reverse the first and last digits (for instance: changing 29 to 92, 103 to 301, 8007 to 7008 and so forth), the difference between the first number and the second will always be divisible by nine.
Subtract one from a square number and the resultant number is divisible by the number immediately preceding and following the root, and is in fact those two numbers multiplied by each other - for instance, 25 minus 1 is 24, which is divisible by 4 and 6; 144 minus 1 is 143 which is 11 times 13, etcetera.
Waking up: documentary of a waterplant that never was
Close-up video of a boggy stretch of rivers-edge on screen, while an educated sounding voice speaks over: "Now observe these pale plump segments among the dark leaves and tendrils - it is the symbiote "Waterspek", which provides nutrients that allow the "Vark Op Zee" to thrive among the reeds above the waterline, whereas at and below water level both plants - Vark Op Zee and Waterspek - exist entirely separately. In the past, it was thought that Waterspek, Vark Op Zee above the water, and Vark Op Zee below the water were in fact THREE different plants. Waterspek was known from Linnaeus, but Vark Op Zee was thought to have come in bilge water sometime after the war - it wasn't till the sixties that this invasive weed was fully studied. The collaboration of these two completely different species is a remarkable example of recent natural adaptation, truly remarkable"
Hmmmph! What's truly remarkable is that there are NO such plants, but there should be.
Vark Op Zee means 'pig at sea'. Waterspek, naturally, translates as 'water bacon'.
Why is there green treif in my dreams?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Twixt wake and sleep, strange things erupt.
I do some of my "best" thinking when not fully conscious.
Falling asleep: the impossible camaraderie of numbers
All prime numbers beyond 3 are separated from the next and preceding prime number by a multiple of two. 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, etcetera.
Even numbers are wet, prime numbers are dry.
If you take a number of two or more digits and reverse the first and last digits (for instance: changing 29 to 92, 103 to 301, 8007 to 7008 and so forth), the difference between the first number and the second will always be divisible by nine.
Subtract one from a square number and the resultant number is divisible by the number immediately preceding and following the root, and is in fact those two numbers multiplied by each other - for instance, 25 minus 1 is 24, which is divisible by 4 and 6; 144 minus 1 is 143 which is 11 times 13, etcetera.
Waking up: documentary of a waterplant that never was
Close-up video of a boggy stretch of rivers-edge on screen, while an educated sounding voice speaks over: "Now observe these pale plump segments among the dark leaves and tendrils - it is the symbiote "Waterspek", which provides nutrients that allow the "Vark Op Zee" to thrive among the reeds above the waterline, whereas at and below water level both plants - Vark Op Zee and Waterspek - exist entirely separately. In the past, it was thought that Waterspek, Vark Op Zee above the water, and Vark Op Zee below the water were in fact THREE different plants. Waterspek was known from Linnaeus, but Vark Op Zee was thought to have come in bilge water sometime after the war - it wasn't till the sixties that this invasive weed was fully studied. The collaboration of these two completely different species is a remarkable example of recent natural adaptation, truly remarkable"
Hmmmph! What's truly remarkable is that there are NO such plants, but there should be.
Vark Op Zee means 'pig at sea'. Waterspek, naturally, translates as 'water bacon'.
Why is there green treif in my dreams?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 12, 2010
THE DINNER TABLE ISSUE
Bit of a quandary. As you have noticed, food is one of my major obsessions.
I like to cook, I like to eat. But in the past few months, I have hardly done any cooking. There doesn’t seem to be much point it any more, not without someone to eat with.
It’s the sharing of a meal that makes it worthwhile. Good company – for instance, a charming young lady at the same table – makes food taste so much better.
The other night I made myself a bowl of noodles. Somehow I got distracted, and the next morning I discovered it on the table.
I had only had a few bites. It had been good, but I didn’t have much of an appetite the previous evening.
Food by oneself is mere rote eating, it has no significance.
Consider this: it’s six a clock on a Sunday evening, and I’m sitting at my desk at work, wondering what to eat. Not that I’m hungry, but if I’m going to have a drink later, it would be best not to do that on an empty stomach. The list of eateries near the bar where I shall have my cocktail is fairly extensive – three Chinese, two Thai, two Pizza, a Mexican restaurant, two Vietnamese restaurants, two Mediterranean restaurants, three Sushi places, two steak houses, a seafood restaurant, a very good French place ……… none of them seem particularly appealing, and most places serve portions that are far too large for just one person.
Well, one person who doesn’t enjoy his food as much anymore.
Now, if I had someone to eat with, I would jump at any one of those restaurants. Even forego the drink.
[Seriously, someone out there! If you’ve got sparkling eyes and a sunny disposition, how about it? Dinner and a movie, and I’ll get you home at a reasonable hour. I’ll even dress for the occasion! And I promise I won’t try to grope you. Though if you’re up for some totally innocent hand-holding I would be delighted!]
Tonight I’ll probably just head right on over to cocktails. Food without company has near-zero appeal.
There will be folks I know at the bar. Likeable people. Gregarious.
It’s better than just sitting alone at home (even though I am catching up on my reading, big time).
As long as there aren’t any couples sucking each other’s tonsils out, petting each other, or audibly smooching, it will be just the ticket.
One or two hours in a public place, with a cocktail or two. Yeah, I’ll be fine.
A glass of warm milk and a cookie before going to bed, later.
This sucks. But it’s really not that bad.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I like to cook, I like to eat. But in the past few months, I have hardly done any cooking. There doesn’t seem to be much point it any more, not without someone to eat with.
It’s the sharing of a meal that makes it worthwhile. Good company – for instance, a charming young lady at the same table – makes food taste so much better.
The other night I made myself a bowl of noodles. Somehow I got distracted, and the next morning I discovered it on the table.
I had only had a few bites. It had been good, but I didn’t have much of an appetite the previous evening.
Food by oneself is mere rote eating, it has no significance.
Consider this: it’s six a clock on a Sunday evening, and I’m sitting at my desk at work, wondering what to eat. Not that I’m hungry, but if I’m going to have a drink later, it would be best not to do that on an empty stomach. The list of eateries near the bar where I shall have my cocktail is fairly extensive – three Chinese, two Thai, two Pizza, a Mexican restaurant, two Vietnamese restaurants, two Mediterranean restaurants, three Sushi places, two steak houses, a seafood restaurant, a very good French place ……… none of them seem particularly appealing, and most places serve portions that are far too large for just one person.
Well, one person who doesn’t enjoy his food as much anymore.
Now, if I had someone to eat with, I would jump at any one of those restaurants. Even forego the drink.
[Seriously, someone out there! If you’ve got sparkling eyes and a sunny disposition, how about it? Dinner and a movie, and I’ll get you home at a reasonable hour. I’ll even dress for the occasion! And I promise I won’t try to grope you. Though if you’re up for some totally innocent hand-holding I would be delighted!]
Tonight I’ll probably just head right on over to cocktails. Food without company has near-zero appeal.
There will be folks I know at the bar. Likeable people. Gregarious.
It’s better than just sitting alone at home (even though I am catching up on my reading, big time).
As long as there aren’t any couples sucking each other’s tonsils out, petting each other, or audibly smooching, it will be just the ticket.
One or two hours in a public place, with a cocktail or two. Yeah, I’ll be fine.
A glass of warm milk and a cookie before going to bed, later.
This sucks. But it’s really not that bad.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 10, 2010
CASTIGATING THE SMALL FELINE
Today I have 'anger issues' towards my ex-girlfriend.
No, it's not because she dumped me after more than two decades and we're just roommates now. It's not that. I've digested it, and am working it out of my system.
It's what happened this morning.
Savage Kitten provided TWO prime invitations to a foul mood.
THE SOMEWHAT LESSER ISSUE
She kindly left me a pair of lovely tamales with sauce to eat yesterday. They were delicious.
It is now abundantly clear that I should have eaten only one of them at most, and it would have probably been far better if I had also had less of the sauce.
It's not what you think. Montezuma and his fairies did NOT visit last night, I experienced no brutalizing of my colon by the chilies.
And there was NO panicked rush to the crapper at Casa Toad this morning.
Far otherwise.
Gout.
Gout.
Gout.
My right foot is trying to self-destruct at present. I can hardly walk, and I feel the enlarged joint of the big toe weeping and wailing and gnashing its teeth. It does not like me, nay far otherwise, the swollen poxy bastard hates me with a passion, and if it breaks free, it will wreak horrid vengeance upon the world.
It is possessed by a daemon, and it is filled with thoughts of violence.
Pain up to the knee.
Technicolour dreams during the night. Villainous things, tamales are. So good, yet so very cruel.
Ambulatorily, my progress this morning has been twitchy and slow. With overmuch therapeutic use of the 'F' word, not always sotto voce.
I startled two drug-addicts on my way to work - probably thought I had shot a bad dose or something. They hopped out of my way.
Alacritous bitches!
I am suffering intensely.
THE DISTINCTLY GREATER ISSUE
Stubborn woman! When you are running a fever and look like you're about to keel over, you really should stay home. Go on, call your boss and tell her you're sick. Yes, I know you feel it would be wussy and irresponsible to miss work. Sometimes you just have to do so. Listen to me! You look like death warmed over. Stop saying that you don't do enough, you'll be all right, there is still much to be done, and that you need to take care of people. This is all immaterial, you need to be good to yourself. The best thing you can do for the people you love is to take care of Savage Kitten.
Why don't you listen? Do you really think it's constructive to argue with me for twenty minutes about how you'll be okay and I shouldn't worry? Those muffled weak sounds from beyond the bathroom door are not at all convincing.
You are on the point of collapse. Stay home. Dammit!
Once she is set on something it is impossible to change her mind.
I'm certain she dragged herself in to the office after I left.
If her coworkers have any brains, they'll send her home.
She should be in bed right now, getting some rest.
Stubborn woman!
AFTERWORD
Just got a call from my own phone number. Would you care to guess who is home again right now, sounding weak and fragile?
Hmmmm? Hmmmmmmmmmmmm?!?
I'll bring her some hot rice porridge from C'town when I come home this evening.
And I'll make sure she's tucked in warmly.
Her Teddy Bear will give her the necessary stern lecture, once she's well again.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, it's not because she dumped me after more than two decades and we're just roommates now. It's not that. I've digested it, and am working it out of my system.
It's what happened this morning.
Savage Kitten provided TWO prime invitations to a foul mood.
THE SOMEWHAT LESSER ISSUE
She kindly left me a pair of lovely tamales with sauce to eat yesterday. They were delicious.
It is now abundantly clear that I should have eaten only one of them at most, and it would have probably been far better if I had also had less of the sauce.
It's not what you think. Montezuma and his fairies did NOT visit last night, I experienced no brutalizing of my colon by the chilies.
And there was NO panicked rush to the crapper at Casa Toad this morning.
Far otherwise.
Gout.
Gout.
Gout.
My right foot is trying to self-destruct at present. I can hardly walk, and I feel the enlarged joint of the big toe weeping and wailing and gnashing its teeth. It does not like me, nay far otherwise, the swollen poxy bastard hates me with a passion, and if it breaks free, it will wreak horrid vengeance upon the world.
It is possessed by a daemon, and it is filled with thoughts of violence.
Pain up to the knee.
Technicolour dreams during the night. Villainous things, tamales are. So good, yet so very cruel.
Ambulatorily, my progress this morning has been twitchy and slow. With overmuch therapeutic use of the 'F' word, not always sotto voce.
I startled two drug-addicts on my way to work - probably thought I had shot a bad dose or something. They hopped out of my way.
Alacritous bitches!
I am suffering intensely.
THE DISTINCTLY GREATER ISSUE
Stubborn woman! When you are running a fever and look like you're about to keel over, you really should stay home. Go on, call your boss and tell her you're sick. Yes, I know you feel it would be wussy and irresponsible to miss work. Sometimes you just have to do so. Listen to me! You look like death warmed over. Stop saying that you don't do enough, you'll be all right, there is still much to be done, and that you need to take care of people. This is all immaterial, you need to be good to yourself. The best thing you can do for the people you love is to take care of Savage Kitten.
Why don't you listen? Do you really think it's constructive to argue with me for twenty minutes about how you'll be okay and I shouldn't worry? Those muffled weak sounds from beyond the bathroom door are not at all convincing.
You are on the point of collapse. Stay home. Dammit!
Once she is set on something it is impossible to change her mind.
I'm certain she dragged herself in to the office after I left.
If her coworkers have any brains, they'll send her home.
She should be in bed right now, getting some rest.
Stubborn woman!
AFTERWORD
Just got a call from my own phone number. Would you care to guess who is home again right now, sounding weak and fragile?
Hmmmm? Hmmmmmmmmmmmm?!?
I'll bring her some hot rice porridge from C'town when I come home this evening.
And I'll make sure she's tucked in warmly.
Her Teddy Bear will give her the necessary stern lecture, once she's well again.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 09, 2010
GOOD VIBES - WHISKEY REQUIRED
As some of you know, one of my few secret vices is Karaoke.
That is to say, I occasionally have a whiskey and water while listening to other people trying to sing.
I myself do not sing, for the simple reason that I do not wish to drive people away. My musical ability is the audible equivalent of bad body odour, you see. Everyone steps out for a smoke when I croon - even the nonsmokers and timorous virgins.
You don't want me to melodiate.
Take my word for it.
You know what's good for you.
WAILING FOR PEACE
Most Karaoke practitioners are people of doubtful taste anyhow.
Can't sing, shouldn't sing.
They should've listened to their mommies. And darn it all, they still 'sing'!
What else can you say about a dozen gen X suburbanites doing the Oakland Booty song?
['The Oakland Booty song': "I like big butts and I don't know why!" by Sir Mixalot. It really doesn’t work for Anglos from San Leandro. Trust me.]
Some 'artists' are more than passing strange.
And some pick songs that perfectly express their wonderful personality.
It's a profoundly beautiful thing when that happens.
The other night a wan young man wearing skin-tight clothing sat at the bar swearing at his companion till it was his turn to sing.
Please imagine what he looked like while you read the following lyrics:
"We were at a party,
His ear lobe fell in the deep;
Someone reached in and grabbed it,
It was a rock lobster!
We were at the beach,
Everybody had matching towels;
Somebody went under a dock,
And there they saw a rock;
It wasn't a rock....
It was a rock lobster!
Motion in the ocean,
His air hose broke;
Lots of trouble,
Lots of bubble,
He was in a jam,
Stuck in a giant clam!
Down, down!
Underneath the waves,
Mermaids waving.
Waving to mermen,
Waving sea fans,
Sea horses sailing;
Dolphins wailing!
Red snappers snapping,
Clam shells clapping;
Muscles flexing,
Flippers flipping!
Down, down!
Let's rock!
Boys in bikinis,
Girls in surfboards;
Everybody is rocking,
Everybody is frugging!
Twisting round the fire,
Having fun;
Baking potatoes,
Baking in the sun!
Put on your nose guard,
Put on the lifeguard,
Pass the tanning butter.
Here comes a stingray,
There goes a manta ray,
In walked a jelly fish.
There goes a dog fish,
Chased by a catfish,
In flew a sea robin.
Watch out for that piranha,
There goes a narwhale,
Here comes a bikini whale. "
['Rock Lobster', by The B-52's.]
Dude, that was exquisite! It was you!
Really, it was. No one else could have so well embodied the new cultural paradigm inherent in those words. You are the Rock Lobster!
AFTERTHOUGHT
Actually, the very best audio-visual at the Karaoke bar ever! is Miss Joyce doing "sweat, baby, sweat, baby, sex is a Texas drought; me and you do the kind of stuff that only Prince would sing about".
It's got bounce. It's got rhythm. It's Miss Joyce to da max.
A religious experience.
"You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals,
So let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel!"
[From 'The Bad Touch', by The Bloodhound Gang.]
"Love - the kind you clean up with a mop and bucket,
Like the lost catacombs of Egypt only God knows where we stuck it;
Hieroglyphics? Let me be Pacific I wanna be down in your South Seas,
But I got this notion that the motion of your ocean means 'Small Craft Advisory'! "
This is wonderful. Don't any of you poseurs DARE to go out to smoke while she's belting that out.
It's real, baby. It's why you took the long trek from San Leandro to the city tonight.
And yes, Miss Joyce is only 'miss' part of the time.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
That is to say, I occasionally have a whiskey and water while listening to other people trying to sing.
I myself do not sing, for the simple reason that I do not wish to drive people away. My musical ability is the audible equivalent of bad body odour, you see. Everyone steps out for a smoke when I croon - even the nonsmokers and timorous virgins.
You don't want me to melodiate.
Take my word for it.
You know what's good for you.
WAILING FOR PEACE
Most Karaoke practitioners are people of doubtful taste anyhow.
Can't sing, shouldn't sing.
They should've listened to their mommies. And darn it all, they still 'sing'!
What else can you say about a dozen gen X suburbanites doing the Oakland Booty song?
['The Oakland Booty song': "I like big butts and I don't know why!" by Sir Mixalot. It really doesn’t work for Anglos from San Leandro. Trust me.]
Some 'artists' are more than passing strange.
And some pick songs that perfectly express their wonderful personality.
It's a profoundly beautiful thing when that happens.
The other night a wan young man wearing skin-tight clothing sat at the bar swearing at his companion till it was his turn to sing.
Please imagine what he looked like while you read the following lyrics:
"We were at a party,
His ear lobe fell in the deep;
Someone reached in and grabbed it,
It was a rock lobster!
We were at the beach,
Everybody had matching towels;
Somebody went under a dock,
And there they saw a rock;
It wasn't a rock....
It was a rock lobster!
Motion in the ocean,
His air hose broke;
Lots of trouble,
Lots of bubble,
He was in a jam,
Stuck in a giant clam!
Down, down!
Underneath the waves,
Mermaids waving.
Waving to mermen,
Waving sea fans,
Sea horses sailing;
Dolphins wailing!
Red snappers snapping,
Clam shells clapping;
Muscles flexing,
Flippers flipping!
Down, down!
Let's rock!
Boys in bikinis,
Girls in surfboards;
Everybody is rocking,
Everybody is frugging!
Twisting round the fire,
Having fun;
Baking potatoes,
Baking in the sun!
Put on your nose guard,
Put on the lifeguard,
Pass the tanning butter.
Here comes a stingray,
There goes a manta ray,
In walked a jelly fish.
There goes a dog fish,
Chased by a catfish,
In flew a sea robin.
Watch out for that piranha,
There goes a narwhale,
Here comes a bikini whale. "
['Rock Lobster', by The B-52's.]
Dude, that was exquisite! It was you!
Really, it was. No one else could have so well embodied the new cultural paradigm inherent in those words. You are the Rock Lobster!
AFTERTHOUGHT
Actually, the very best audio-visual at the Karaoke bar ever! is Miss Joyce doing "sweat, baby, sweat, baby, sex is a Texas drought; me and you do the kind of stuff that only Prince would sing about".
It's got bounce. It's got rhythm. It's Miss Joyce to da max.
A religious experience.
"You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals,
So let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel!"
[From 'The Bad Touch', by The Bloodhound Gang.]
"Love - the kind you clean up with a mop and bucket,
Like the lost catacombs of Egypt only God knows where we stuck it;
Hieroglyphics? Let me be Pacific I wanna be down in your South Seas,
But I got this notion that the motion of your ocean means 'Small Craft Advisory'! "
This is wonderful. Don't any of you poseurs DARE to go out to smoke while she's belting that out.
It's real, baby. It's why you took the long trek from San Leandro to the city tonight.
And yes, Miss Joyce is only 'miss' part of the time.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
INCENSE-LIKE CURLS OF SMOKE
Apparently my fellow smokers are scared of a little Autumn rain. I was the only member of the minyan to make it to the accustomed spot today, pipe happily trailing fumes under my umbrella. Normally there would be several of us there. Nope.
The cigar smokers are all wussy. Maybe they fear they’ll melt.
Truth be told, I would rather have been inside also. But one cannot smoke indoors during the working day.
In addition to being inside, I would have liked it to be teatime too.
Around five o’clock.
Nice warm living room.
Perhaps in a comfy chair. Corner bay-window. Overlooking a be-treed intersection on Nob Hill, near San Kwong or U-Lee.
Pipeful of Cornell & Diehl’s Yale Mixture (blend no. 531).
In sweet company – I’m thinking someone with dark soft hair, at a nearby table, head bent over her textbooks………
Heck, a man can dream, eh?
FINE PORCELAIN
While I’m at it, the tea is Golden Tips, Autumn, Fragrant Darjeeling.
Her hair is long - past her shoulders.
There are interesting pockets of shadow where the golden lamp light does not reach.
Instead of all that, I got wet.
My toes feel a little soggy at present.
Teatime is a while hence, but I will still be at the office.
When I get home, the apartment will be empty. My roommate is having dinner with an old friend.
I’ll fix myself a pot of tea (Golden Tips, Autumn, Fragrant Darjeeling), and hang out in the kitchen by the open window, smoking and dreaming.
I’ve got nothing more strenuous planned for this evening than drying my toes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The cigar smokers are all wussy. Maybe they fear they’ll melt.
Truth be told, I would rather have been inside also. But one cannot smoke indoors during the working day.
In addition to being inside, I would have liked it to be teatime too.
Around five o’clock.
Nice warm living room.
Perhaps in a comfy chair. Corner bay-window. Overlooking a be-treed intersection on Nob Hill, near San Kwong or U-Lee.
Pipeful of Cornell & Diehl’s Yale Mixture (blend no. 531).
In sweet company – I’m thinking someone with dark soft hair, at a nearby table, head bent over her textbooks………
Heck, a man can dream, eh?
FINE PORCELAIN
While I’m at it, the tea is Golden Tips, Autumn, Fragrant Darjeeling.
Her hair is long - past her shoulders.
There are interesting pockets of shadow where the golden lamp light does not reach.
Instead of all that, I got wet.
My toes feel a little soggy at present.
Teatime is a while hence, but I will still be at the office.
When I get home, the apartment will be empty. My roommate is having dinner with an old friend.
I’ll fix myself a pot of tea (Golden Tips, Autumn, Fragrant Darjeeling), and hang out in the kitchen by the open window, smoking and dreaming.
I’ve got nothing more strenuous planned for this evening than drying my toes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
DUTCH JEWS, LEAVE!
I'm using my comments underneath a post on Dovbear’s blog as the basis for this piece.
BOLKENSTEIN
Prominent Dutch politician Frits Bolkestein sparked an uproar in the Netherlands by saying practicing Jews had "no future here, and should emigrate to the US or Israel"
Dov, naturally, found that reprehensible. That a politician would say that Jews should leave 'for their own good' should normally be considered ipso facto anti-Semitic.
Normally the government might actually gave a damn, and the police could actually do their job.
But this is the Netherlands we're talking about.
DUTCH JEWS
‘QUOTE: "joden die als zodanig herkenbaar zijn, zoals orthodoxe joden", aldus Bolkestein - "Voor hen zie ik geen toekomst hier vanwege het antisemitisme onder vooral Marokkaanse Nederlanders, die in aantal blijven toenemen."
[Translation: "Jews who are recognizable as such, like Orthodox Jews", according to Bolkenstein - "For them I do not see any future here, due to anti-Semitism, especially among Moroccan Dutch, who keep increasing in number".]
QUOTE: Volgens de oud-eurocommissaris kunnen ze daarom hun kinderen maar beter aanraden om te emigreren naar Amerika of Israël. Hij heeft weinig vertrouwen in de huidige plannen om het antisemitisme te bestrijden, zoals het inzetten van ‘lokjoden’ – een voorstel van PvdA-Kamerlid Ahmed Marcouch.
[Translation: According to the ex-Eurocommissioner it is better that they advise their children to emigrate to the United States or Israel. He has little confidence in current plans to combat anti-Semitism, such utilizing 'decoy Jews' - a proposal by Labour Party congressman Ahmed Marcouch. ]
Plainly put, Fritz Bolkenstein has no confidence in either the Dutch government OR the Dutch population to put an end to anti-Semitism, which he blames on the non-assimilation of Moroccans and Turks (sly jab at the Labour Party, who are widely held responsible for the 'gedoog beleid' policies that led to this situation), and he frankly advises Jews that the Netherlands is neither safe, nor tolerant.
He is a pessimist. As are a number of others.
Do I think Jews have a future in the Netherlands? Hell no. Fudge no.
Nor would I advise anyone to walk around wearing a kippah in even the Netherlands' most Jewish city - Amsterdam - because it might mean their life. Like Bolkenstein, I would suggest that all Dutch Jews emigrate.
Unlike Bolkenstein, I would further suggest that they emigrate PRIMARILY to San Francisco, but that's because I am a self-serving opportunist.
I could use more Dutch-speakers here with whom I can agree.
The current bunch are mostly pricks.
DUTCH MUSLIMS
There are about 800 thousand Muslim Dutch, primarily of North-African and Turkish ancestry. Many of them were born in the Netherlands. They aren’t immigrants by any standard, though they are not considered ‘native’ (“autochtoon”). They dominate certain neighborhoods in most of the inner cities.
Coincidentally, that would also be where most Dutch Jews reside. One might possibly say that then the problem would be easily resolved by moving Jews out to the provinces....... except that that is where Stormfront Netherlands resides.
Unlike Bolkenstein and many others, I do not blame the Moroccan and Turkish Dutch. Their venomous anti-Semitism could not thrive if the Dutch did not tolerate it. The Dutch cannot claim that it throve outside of their sight, it was plainly visible for an entire generation.
It was allowed to flourish by Dutch politicians and Dutch society, and it was conveniently overlooked, because it seemed to serve as an admirable outlet, and as an occasionally useful political voice when Dutch society had a fit over what the Israelis were doing to those poor, poor Palestinians.
Claiming that it's only the Muslim-Dutch is a cop-out. It's a nice try at plausible deniability, but it doesn't hold water.
Again, I do not blame the Muslim Dutch - their anti-Semitism is a thoroughly Netherlandish product.
I blame the Dutch.
By the way, calling Bolkenstein, as a former VVD parliamentarian, a rightist, is, in the American context, more than absurd. The VVD are liberals, and only right-wing by Dutch standards.
By US Republican standards, the agenda of the VVD is damn’ near filthy communist.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BOLKENSTEIN
Prominent Dutch politician Frits Bolkestein sparked an uproar in the Netherlands by saying practicing Jews had "no future here, and should emigrate to the US or Israel"
Dov, naturally, found that reprehensible. That a politician would say that Jews should leave 'for their own good' should normally be considered ipso facto anti-Semitic.
Normally the government might actually gave a damn, and the police could actually do their job.
But this is the Netherlands we're talking about.
DUTCH JEWS
‘QUOTE: "joden die als zodanig herkenbaar zijn, zoals orthodoxe joden", aldus Bolkestein - "Voor hen zie ik geen toekomst hier vanwege het antisemitisme onder vooral Marokkaanse Nederlanders, die in aantal blijven toenemen."
[Translation: "Jews who are recognizable as such, like Orthodox Jews", according to Bolkenstein - "For them I do not see any future here, due to anti-Semitism, especially among Moroccan Dutch, who keep increasing in number".]
QUOTE: Volgens de oud-eurocommissaris kunnen ze daarom hun kinderen maar beter aanraden om te emigreren naar Amerika of Israël. Hij heeft weinig vertrouwen in de huidige plannen om het antisemitisme te bestrijden, zoals het inzetten van ‘lokjoden’ – een voorstel van PvdA-Kamerlid Ahmed Marcouch.
[Translation: According to the ex-Eurocommissioner it is better that they advise their children to emigrate to the United States or Israel. He has little confidence in current plans to combat anti-Semitism, such utilizing 'decoy Jews' - a proposal by Labour Party congressman Ahmed Marcouch. ]
Plainly put, Fritz Bolkenstein has no confidence in either the Dutch government OR the Dutch population to put an end to anti-Semitism, which he blames on the non-assimilation of Moroccans and Turks (sly jab at the Labour Party, who are widely held responsible for the 'gedoog beleid' policies that led to this situation), and he frankly advises Jews that the Netherlands is neither safe, nor tolerant.
He is a pessimist. As are a number of others.
Do I think Jews have a future in the Netherlands? Hell no. Fudge no.
Nor would I advise anyone to walk around wearing a kippah in even the Netherlands' most Jewish city - Amsterdam - because it might mean their life. Like Bolkenstein, I would suggest that all Dutch Jews emigrate.
Unlike Bolkenstein, I would further suggest that they emigrate PRIMARILY to San Francisco, but that's because I am a self-serving opportunist.
I could use more Dutch-speakers here with whom I can agree.
The current bunch are mostly pricks.
DUTCH MUSLIMS
There are about 800 thousand Muslim Dutch, primarily of North-African and Turkish ancestry. Many of them were born in the Netherlands. They aren’t immigrants by any standard, though they are not considered ‘native’ (“autochtoon”). They dominate certain neighborhoods in most of the inner cities.
Coincidentally, that would also be where most Dutch Jews reside. One might possibly say that then the problem would be easily resolved by moving Jews out to the provinces....... except that that is where Stormfront Netherlands resides.
Unlike Bolkenstein and many others, I do not blame the Moroccan and Turkish Dutch. Their venomous anti-Semitism could not thrive if the Dutch did not tolerate it. The Dutch cannot claim that it throve outside of their sight, it was plainly visible for an entire generation.
It was allowed to flourish by Dutch politicians and Dutch society, and it was conveniently overlooked, because it seemed to serve as an admirable outlet, and as an occasionally useful political voice when Dutch society had a fit over what the Israelis were doing to those poor, poor Palestinians.
Claiming that it's only the Muslim-Dutch is a cop-out. It's a nice try at plausible deniability, but it doesn't hold water.
Again, I do not blame the Muslim Dutch - their anti-Semitism is a thoroughly Netherlandish product.
I blame the Dutch.
By the way, calling Bolkenstein, as a former VVD parliamentarian, a rightist, is, in the American context, more than absurd. The VVD are liberals, and only right-wing by Dutch standards.
By US Republican standards, the agenda of the VVD is damn’ near filthy communist.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOUR POSITIVE REGARD
Sometimes the feed-back here is amazing.
Not necessarily strange (although some of it definitely is), but truly extraordinary. That the people who regularly cruise into this blog will form a mental image of me, which may or may not be accurate, should come as no surprise. That, despite the occasional oddity, they can sometimes be totally spot-on, however is ..... well, rewarding.
Smile-inducing. Nice.
SPOT ON!
Long-time reader and friend of blog Ari left an advisory comment under my recent post "TOAD-MAN WITH PIPE SEEKS TOLERANT YOUNG LADY":
[In that piece I described a recent match-making misadventure that Boruch Hashem did NOT result in any actual meeting. Nor an arrest. Some people mean well. Yes, that's it. ]
[QUOTE]
"Hmmm. Ok, how about this:
'Me: pipe-puffing tobacco enthusiast, mercurial, middle aged, borderline misanthropic, foodie, news junkie, student of history, Judeophile, Sinophile, autodidact, bookworm, lover of all things frilly and silky worn by females of the species, hater of most things Dutch, practitioner of elaborate morning rituals and ablutions, detester of slick marketing types, zest for life yet very cynical, derisive of Berkeley leftists and Sara Palin.
You: petite, whip-smart, feisty, saucy, appreciator of gastronomic delights, admirer of men with life experience, blogger, long-time denizen of the East or West Coast, news junkie, knows when to babble and knows when to keep quiet. Is able to put up with a lot. And I do mean a lot.
Let's meet and hang out for ten, twenty, years or more.' "
[Posted by Ari to At the back of the hill at 11:32 AM]
[END QUOTE ]
ABLE TO PUT UP WITH A LOT
That really says it all. It's the perfect description. Dealing with The Toad takes patience. The way he's word-picture-painted the ideal other person is truly remarkable.
Yes, this is precisely what the doctor ordered.
"Petite, whip-smart, feisty, saucy, appreciator of gastronomic delights, admirer of men with life experience, blogger, long-time denizen of the East or West Coast, news junkie..........."
Just one minor quibbling little detail............
Well, two, actually.
1. One coast only. Not "long-time denizen of the East or West Coast". Local. West. SF. Please.
2. More than one language. Not necessarily two, but more than one. Double Dutch is not a language, fyi.
There. That's perfect. Now let's see how long it will take before anyone notices.
. . . . . . . . . . .
PS: Ari also wrote: "Pilfer from it shamelessly. Now, get out there and circulate. "
Circulate? Good heavens, man, I'm positively twirling!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Not necessarily strange (although some of it definitely is), but truly extraordinary. That the people who regularly cruise into this blog will form a mental image of me, which may or may not be accurate, should come as no surprise. That, despite the occasional oddity, they can sometimes be totally spot-on, however is ..... well, rewarding.
Smile-inducing. Nice.
SPOT ON!
Long-time reader and friend of blog Ari left an advisory comment under my recent post "TOAD-MAN WITH PIPE SEEKS TOLERANT YOUNG LADY":
[In that piece I described a recent match-making misadventure that Boruch Hashem did NOT result in any actual meeting. Nor an arrest. Some people mean well. Yes, that's it. ]
[QUOTE]
"Hmmm. Ok, how about this:
'Me: pipe-puffing tobacco enthusiast, mercurial, middle aged, borderline misanthropic, foodie, news junkie, student of history, Judeophile, Sinophile, autodidact, bookworm, lover of all things frilly and silky worn by females of the species, hater of most things Dutch, practitioner of elaborate morning rituals and ablutions, detester of slick marketing types, zest for life yet very cynical, derisive of Berkeley leftists and Sara Palin.
You: petite, whip-smart, feisty, saucy, appreciator of gastronomic delights, admirer of men with life experience, blogger, long-time denizen of the East or West Coast, news junkie, knows when to babble and knows when to keep quiet. Is able to put up with a lot. And I do mean a lot.
Let's meet and hang out for ten, twenty, years or more.' "
[Posted by Ari to At the back of the hill at 11:32 AM]
[END QUOTE ]
ABLE TO PUT UP WITH A LOT
That really says it all. It's the perfect description. Dealing with The Toad takes patience. The way he's word-picture-painted the ideal other person is truly remarkable.
Yes, this is precisely what the doctor ordered.
"Petite, whip-smart, feisty, saucy, appreciator of gastronomic delights, admirer of men with life experience, blogger, long-time denizen of the East or West Coast, news junkie..........."
Just one minor quibbling little detail............
Well, two, actually.
1. One coast only. Not "long-time denizen of the East or West Coast". Local. West. SF. Please.
2. More than one language. Not necessarily two, but more than one. Double Dutch is not a language, fyi.
There. That's perfect. Now let's see how long it will take before anyone notices.
. . . . . . . . . . .
PS: Ari also wrote: "Pilfer from it shamelessly. Now, get out there and circulate. "
Circulate? Good heavens, man, I'm positively twirling!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 06, 2010
TOAD-MAN WITH PIPE SEEKS TOLERANT YOUNG LADY
One of my well-meaning but clueless friends who does not read this blog, upon hearing that I am single again and "probably desperate for a lay" (his insane and intemperate interpretation!), suggested in the strongest possible terms that a woman he knew was perfect, just perfect, and I'd really enjoy meeting her. She's so interesting! Why, we we're ideal for each other!
"And she's only forty six!"
Okay...............................
E-MAIL EXCHANGE
Apparently, among many other 'interesting things' (ten pages worth) she takes "long walks on the beach with her several dogs, and likes nothing better than spending lots of time with her nine grandkids".
Holy Chrysler!
Nine grandkids?!?
What happened, lady, the entire tribe of Judah tromped through your pelvis?
It never even came to a meeting.
I have no plans to date the 'Dog Woman Ancestress Of The Fecund Loins'.
That's one tribal epic that ain't gonna get written.
But it got me thinking. What kind of personal ad would appeal to EXACTLY the right type?
Self-depreciation?
"Non-athletic grumpus wants weak-minded female....."
How about startlingly blunt?
"Crusty old fart seeks like-minded opposite number....."
Disarmingly honest?
"Middle-aged person of merely average height....."
A note of forewarning, perhaps?
"Decent looking enough, slight reek of tobacco....."
An appeal to oddness?
"Man with a reverie-inducing smell of cigars....."
Frankness?
"Let's go out together and sneer at the same things....."
Bald-faced lies! Those always work!
"Sensitive mature Adonis....."
Okay, maybe a minor fudging of details.
"Strong silent type with square chin....."
I'm still working on it.
It's extremely doubtful that anything will come of it, seeing as lonely heart adverts are dreadfully old-fashioned (as well as being amusingly desperate), but it might make an interesting literary endeavor.
In any case, it's better than being bullied by amateur matchmakers.
I tried to explain to my friend that other than the demographic bomb and the dogs, I had NO objection to grandmothers, really, even if they do have food hang-ups (quote: "Chinese food gives me gas"), political ideas straight out of the dark-ages (quote: "Sarah Palin is right about..."), cultural ignorance to a fare-thee-well (quote: "I don't read books by Russians!"), abysmally bad taste (quote: "my collection of puppy figurines..."), old-time religion (quote: "if you're right by Jesus..."), and horrid personal habits (quote: "I paint my fingernails every Thursday...").
Truly.
I could probably put up with almost any of those, even in combination.
Provided I was at least twenty miles removed from the woman at all times.
I'm assuming that she's a woman. Although she could be a troll. Or an Orc.
There's NO part of her habitus that accords with mine. None.
No, I cannot see myself sitting down to a cup of tea, a pipe, and a good book in her company. Nor heading to a new restaurant for some enjoyable food discoveries in early evening, just the two of us. Or walking over the top of Nob Hill on a crisp night, arm in arm.
I can, however, see myself moving at great speed to get away from her pack of dogs and rabid grandkids.
Even with that head-start of twenty miles I mentioned.
Don't you DARE spring her on me unannounced!
She lives in Fremont, you say?
Boruch Hashem.
I am SO avoiding Fremont.
But thanks a lot for "thinking" of me.
Dude.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"And she's only forty six!"
Okay...............................
E-MAIL EXCHANGE
Apparently, among many other 'interesting things' (ten pages worth) she takes "long walks on the beach with her several dogs, and likes nothing better than spending lots of time with her nine grandkids".
Holy Chrysler!
Nine grandkids?!?
What happened, lady, the entire tribe of Judah tromped through your pelvis?
It never even came to a meeting.
I have no plans to date the 'Dog Woman Ancestress Of The Fecund Loins'.
That's one tribal epic that ain't gonna get written.
But it got me thinking. What kind of personal ad would appeal to EXACTLY the right type?
Self-depreciation?
"Non-athletic grumpus wants weak-minded female....."
How about startlingly blunt?
"Crusty old fart seeks like-minded opposite number....."
Disarmingly honest?
"Middle-aged person of merely average height....."
A note of forewarning, perhaps?
"Decent looking enough, slight reek of tobacco....."
An appeal to oddness?
"Man with a reverie-inducing smell of cigars....."
Frankness?
"Let's go out together and sneer at the same things....."
Bald-faced lies! Those always work!
"Sensitive mature Adonis....."
Okay, maybe a minor fudging of details.
"Strong silent type with square chin....."
I'm still working on it.
It's extremely doubtful that anything will come of it, seeing as lonely heart adverts are dreadfully old-fashioned (as well as being amusingly desperate), but it might make an interesting literary endeavor.
In any case, it's better than being bullied by amateur matchmakers.
I tried to explain to my friend that other than the demographic bomb and the dogs, I had NO objection to grandmothers, really, even if they do have food hang-ups (quote: "Chinese food gives me gas"), political ideas straight out of the dark-ages (quote: "Sarah Palin is right about..."), cultural ignorance to a fare-thee-well (quote: "I don't read books by Russians!"), abysmally bad taste (quote: "my collection of puppy figurines..."), old-time religion (quote: "if you're right by Jesus..."), and horrid personal habits (quote: "I paint my fingernails every Thursday...").
Truly.
I could probably put up with almost any of those, even in combination.
Provided I was at least twenty miles removed from the woman at all times.
I'm assuming that she's a woman. Although she could be a troll. Or an Orc.
There's NO part of her habitus that accords with mine. None.
No, I cannot see myself sitting down to a cup of tea, a pipe, and a good book in her company. Nor heading to a new restaurant for some enjoyable food discoveries in early evening, just the two of us. Or walking over the top of Nob Hill on a crisp night, arm in arm.
I can, however, see myself moving at great speed to get away from her pack of dogs and rabid grandkids.
Even with that head-start of twenty miles I mentioned.
Don't you DARE spring her on me unannounced!
She lives in Fremont, you say?
Boruch Hashem.
I am SO avoiding Fremont.
But thanks a lot for "thinking" of me.
Dude.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 05, 2010
THE COMPLETE INTERNET FETISHIST
Occasionally I check out the stats for this blog to find out how many people cruised on in, and what they were looking for.
My readers (including you) are a fascinating lot.
You'll be pleased to know that the Pakistanis haven't discovered me yet - they lead the world in Google searches for "child sex", "animal sex", and "rape sex", so it should be quite a while before they come here. None of those categories of typical Pakistani sexuality are featured much on this blog.
Except in passing, primarily to sneer at Pakistanis.
What are my readers looking for instead?
Drucquer & sons tobacconist
This search I can well understand. I worked at Drucquers for a few years, and like many pipesmokers I keenly wish it had not faded from sight. The famous mixtures that this store produced are no longer made, alas. But those who remember blends such as Trafalgar or Red Lion with fondness will no doubt have already discovered Greg Pease, who since leaving Drucquers went into the tobacco business for himself, and has compounded some absolutely fabulous stuff.
Balkan Sobranie
Another search-criterium that has my sympathy. And like Drucquers, Sobranie is no more. Some people are paying extraordinary prices for unopened tins, three hundred dollars and up. Which is rather ridiculous.
I still have over a dozen tins, and I'm not selling. Sorry.
Frilly panties
A cute posterior attractively packaged in frilly panties may well be one of the finer things in life. But you will find no pictures on this blog, nor excessively tactile descriptions. Again, sorry.
I encourage you to find or feel your own.
Geert wilders
This must be a newly popular sexual fetish. Frankly, I am rather appalled, but I realize that most people cruise the internet looking for Balkan Sobranie, kittens, and Japanese porn. To the best of my knowledge, there is no Japanese porn featuring Geert Wilders. Yet.
Black lace garter belt
Like the aforementioned 'Frilly Panties', one of the finer things in life. At some point I may acquire one of these myself, but I would much rather meet a person who wears one.
Pipe smoking ladies
Probably the sweetest fantasy that anyone can have. No, it's not sexual. Charming young women should smoke pipes. Cigarettes are for sailors, snuff is for coots.
Little virgins
This too is wonderful, especially if you're a Dutchman. Cover 'em with chopped onion. Even many non-Dutch love little virgins, although the Germans tend to pickle them in a vinegar solution, and other people drench them with cream or capers.
I do not know anyone who isn't fond of matjes herring.
You will note that this post is both self-serving and YOU serving.
I got to post links to some of my most popular articles (thus boosting them in internet searches), and you now have a handy list of everything you've always wanted. Enjoy.
Sorry, Pakistanis, nothing here for you.
But do please keep checking.
Regularly.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My readers (including you) are a fascinating lot.
You'll be pleased to know that the Pakistanis haven't discovered me yet - they lead the world in Google searches for "child sex", "animal sex", and "rape sex", so it should be quite a while before they come here. None of those categories of typical Pakistani sexuality are featured much on this blog.
Except in passing, primarily to sneer at Pakistanis.
What are my readers looking for instead?
Drucquer & sons tobacconist
This search I can well understand. I worked at Drucquers for a few years, and like many pipesmokers I keenly wish it had not faded from sight. The famous mixtures that this store produced are no longer made, alas. But those who remember blends such as Trafalgar or Red Lion with fondness will no doubt have already discovered Greg Pease, who since leaving Drucquers went into the tobacco business for himself, and has compounded some absolutely fabulous stuff.
Balkan Sobranie
Another search-criterium that has my sympathy. And like Drucquers, Sobranie is no more. Some people are paying extraordinary prices for unopened tins, three hundred dollars and up. Which is rather ridiculous.
I still have over a dozen tins, and I'm not selling. Sorry.
Frilly panties
A cute posterior attractively packaged in frilly panties may well be one of the finer things in life. But you will find no pictures on this blog, nor excessively tactile descriptions. Again, sorry.
I encourage you to find or feel your own.
Geert wilders
This must be a newly popular sexual fetish. Frankly, I am rather appalled, but I realize that most people cruise the internet looking for Balkan Sobranie, kittens, and Japanese porn. To the best of my knowledge, there is no Japanese porn featuring Geert Wilders. Yet.
Black lace garter belt
Like the aforementioned 'Frilly Panties', one of the finer things in life. At some point I may acquire one of these myself, but I would much rather meet a person who wears one.
Pipe smoking ladies
Probably the sweetest fantasy that anyone can have. No, it's not sexual. Charming young women should smoke pipes. Cigarettes are for sailors, snuff is for coots.
Little virgins
This too is wonderful, especially if you're a Dutchman. Cover 'em with chopped onion. Even many non-Dutch love little virgins, although the Germans tend to pickle them in a vinegar solution, and other people drench them with cream or capers.
I do not know anyone who isn't fond of matjes herring.
You will note that this post is both self-serving and YOU serving.
I got to post links to some of my most popular articles (thus boosting them in internet searches), and you now have a handy list of everything you've always wanted. Enjoy.
Sorry, Pakistanis, nothing here for you.
But do please keep checking.
Regularly.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 03, 2010
DATING MYSELF
Back when I was a bachelor, the idea of asking a sweet young thing out on a date presented me with a quandary: what do people DO on dates?
Movies did not clarify matters - according to most American high school flicks, EITHER you got drunk and had messy sex in the back of a car, OR you danced yourself jiggy at the sock-hop, and shared a malted afterwards.
[Women's movies were even worse! Pianos, whales, weeping, and Mel Gibson.]
I had no car. Couldn't find a sock-hop if it came up and bit me.
What I grasped was that relationships involve liquor, cars, dancing, and perversion.
Books also proved surprisingly useless - shan't tell you what Van Veen and Ada did with each other, it's entirely immaterial. Barbara Cartland left everything! up to her readers imagination. German Bodice Rippers spelled it out with near-clinical precision.
Regarding Van Veen and Ada, Nabokov had totally perverted tendencies.
Regarding reading Cartland and imagining things, I also have perverted tendencies.
Regarding German Bodice Rippers -- Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!
Guys, you lot are NO help.
So for over two decades I didn't think about dating. Instead, I took walks with someone, went out to dinner, occasionally watched movies and held hands. Sometimes we had hot chocolate with whipped cream.
All of this seemed to work just fine. While it lasted.
THE MODERN ERA
Here it is, twenty-one years later, and now apparently dating involves vehicles, drunkenness, and spasmic jerking to electro-house funk or world beats. The equivalent of a sock-hop seems to be a crowded warehouse space with strobe lights and designer drugs. Plus mega perversion.
I've read about such things, but I refuse to experience them myself.
Well, except perhaps for the perversion.
Nabokov, Cartland, and the authors of German Bodice Rippers would not know what to make of it either.
You will understand that I am somewhat hesitant about the whole dating thing.
On the one hand I have absolutely no interest in girls with tattoos or piercings, on the other hand I'm not looking for someone from my own era either, seeing as I've never actually been to a sock hop.
All I'm really interested in is taking walks, going out to dinner, and occasionally watching movies or holding hands.
And perhaps some perversion.
Or hot chocolate with whipped cream.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Movies did not clarify matters - according to most American high school flicks, EITHER you got drunk and had messy sex in the back of a car, OR you danced yourself jiggy at the sock-hop, and shared a malted afterwards.
[Women's movies were even worse! Pianos, whales, weeping, and Mel Gibson.]
I had no car. Couldn't find a sock-hop if it came up and bit me.
What I grasped was that relationships involve liquor, cars, dancing, and perversion.
Books also proved surprisingly useless - shan't tell you what Van Veen and Ada did with each other, it's entirely immaterial. Barbara Cartland left everything! up to her readers imagination. German Bodice Rippers spelled it out with near-clinical precision.
Regarding Van Veen and Ada, Nabokov had totally perverted tendencies.
Regarding reading Cartland and imagining things, I also have perverted tendencies.
Regarding German Bodice Rippers -- Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!
Guys, you lot are NO help.
So for over two decades I didn't think about dating. Instead, I took walks with someone, went out to dinner, occasionally watched movies and held hands. Sometimes we had hot chocolate with whipped cream.
All of this seemed to work just fine. While it lasted.
THE MODERN ERA
Here it is, twenty-one years later, and now apparently dating involves vehicles, drunkenness, and spasmic jerking to electro-house funk or world beats. The equivalent of a sock-hop seems to be a crowded warehouse space with strobe lights and designer drugs. Plus mega perversion.
I've read about such things, but I refuse to experience them myself.
Well, except perhaps for the perversion.
Nabokov, Cartland, and the authors of German Bodice Rippers would not know what to make of it either.
You will understand that I am somewhat hesitant about the whole dating thing.
On the one hand I have absolutely no interest in girls with tattoos or piercings, on the other hand I'm not looking for someone from my own era either, seeing as I've never actually been to a sock hop.
All I'm really interested in is taking walks, going out to dinner, and occasionally watching movies or holding hands.
And perhaps some perversion.
Or hot chocolate with whipped cream.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BUTTONS: NEWER POSTS, OLDER POSTS
Noticed a while back that not all posts in a given month show up if you click on that month. Haven't been able to figure out why - but a quick and dirty solution seems to be to add buttons.
Now the casual reader who wants to scroll sequentially through EVERYTHING that I have written (i.e. stalkers, maniacs, sweet lonesome young ladies, and people trying desperately to fall asleep late at night) may satisfy themselves - in fact, I positively urge you to satisfy yourselves, especially if all of me that you have available is this blog.
FYI: HTML code added to the bottom of the template:
<$BlogPaginationLinks$>
The 'Newer' and 'Older' buttons show in pale purple right above the counter at the very bottom of this page. Hard to spot, I know. Sorry. Not codemonkey enough to bother figuring out how to make 'em more legible. But now you know that they are there.
Casual readers who want MORE of me than what is available on this blog may contact me privately by hitting this LETTER BOX LINK .
In fact, I positively urge you to do so - unless you are a stalker, a maniac, or someone trying desperately to fall asleep late at night.
Now the casual reader who wants to scroll sequentially through EVERYTHING that I have written (i.e. stalkers, maniacs, sweet lonesome young ladies, and people trying desperately to fall asleep late at night) may satisfy themselves - in fact, I positively urge you to satisfy yourselves, especially if all of me that you have available is this blog.
FYI: HTML code added to the bottom of the template:
<$BlogPaginationLinks$>
The 'Newer' and 'Older' buttons show in pale purple right above the counter at the very bottom of this page. Hard to spot, I know. Sorry. Not codemonkey enough to bother figuring out how to make 'em more legible. But now you know that they are there.
Casual readers who want MORE of me than what is available on this blog may contact me privately by hitting this LETTER BOX LINK .
In fact, I positively urge you to do so - unless you are a stalker, a maniac, or someone trying desperately to fall asleep late at night.
HUNTING KUDJAPLIKI!
Comrades! Good news! We finally have a candidate for company spokesperson! He is loveable! And cute! And furry!
Yes, I think this will boost are standing with the juvenile demographic immensely.
I for one am incredibly excited by this candidate's ability to convey emotion and reach out engagingly. He's got character.
And I'm sure the folks in Marketing will agree with me.
They don't often.
But they will this time!
I gave them vodka.
CHASING THE DREAM!
LOTS of vodka.
YOUR NEW BEST FRIEND!
He probably cleans up nice. Yes, he looks like artificially re-animated roadkill at the moment, but just give him a bath and some coffee, and he'll be right as rain. He's not a Frankenstein's squirrel, he has charisma! Personality!
Trust me. I've got experience.
Pity that the friend he helped catch spiders whacked his wife. They're so temperamental, these artists. But evenso, just shove him in pinstripe, and kids will love him!
They don't need to know where the body is buried.
Or why the station wagon smells.
My guess is that once alcoholism in Russia is down to acceptable levels (only 40% of the population), we can hire this little guy for peanuts!
He'll be desperate for work at that point.
And he's got soul.
SEE HIM AGAIN!
Man! Tons of soul!
I know where he's coming from.
And I, for one, am a fan.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yes, I think this will boost are standing with the juvenile demographic immensely.
I for one am incredibly excited by this candidate's ability to convey emotion and reach out engagingly. He's got character.
And I'm sure the folks in Marketing will agree with me.
They don't often.
But they will this time!
I gave them vodka.
CHASING THE DREAM!
LOTS of vodka.
YOUR NEW BEST FRIEND!
He probably cleans up nice. Yes, he looks like artificially re-animated roadkill at the moment, but just give him a bath and some coffee, and he'll be right as rain. He's not a Frankenstein's squirrel, he has charisma! Personality!
Trust me. I've got experience.
Pity that the friend he helped catch spiders whacked his wife. They're so temperamental, these artists. But evenso, just shove him in pinstripe, and kids will love him!
They don't need to know where the body is buried.
Or why the station wagon smells.
My guess is that once alcoholism in Russia is down to acceptable levels (only 40% of the population), we can hire this little guy for peanuts!
He'll be desperate for work at that point.
And he's got soul.
SEE HIM AGAIN!
Man! Tons of soul!
I know where he's coming from.
And I, for one, am a fan.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 02, 2010
FOND MEMORIES
Several years ago friend and coworker the Werewolf mentioned a lovely home movie that his family had shot on the farm. It involved bullets, a bucket, and a frightened little boy with a long wooden stick.
No, there was no plot - as a four year old the Werewolf was drafted to help at a family boucherie.
[The Werewolf is not his real name, but it is an apt description. He is an excessively hirsute man, of French ancestry, from some small community up near the Quebec border. Think 'pelt'. Imagine speckles of robust black follicle shading his cheeks by ten in the morning, and dense dark wires growing on his arms....... imagine that same man being sent to Hong Kong, where they think all white people are furry cavemen anyhow...... ]
A boucherie is a pig butchering. It happens in Autumn, usually, when the animal is nice and fully formed, dense with fatty goodness. It's very traditional among the Québécois and Cajuns.
The reason why a plural of bullets is mentioned is because the first bullet miraculously didn't down the beast. It ran around squealing furiously, and they needed several more shots to finish the job.
Finally they clubbed it to death with a hoe.
All of this chaos lovingly caught on camera.
Let's just say that they have interesting shared memories in that family.
The long wooden stick? That was for stirring the blood in a bucket, so that they could make boudin noir - blood sausage.
Blood sausage, while not exceedingly popular in the United States, is nevertheless traditional white-folks food. Farming communities all over Northern Europe make it in autumn. You used to be able to buy it at the local butchers, but nowadays health codes forbid it in most places.
In the Kempen and the Peel regions we had our own version.
My mother would not allow it in the house.
Don't know why.
BLOED WORST
Two cups stock from cooking meat.
Two cups fresh hog blood.
Eight slices of stale bread.
Half a pound heart.
Half a pound bacon or fatback.
1½ TBS salt.
2 Tsp. ground coriander.
1 Tsp. mace.
1 Tsp. ground pepper.
½ Tsp. ground cloves.
½ Tsp. ground nutmeg.
½ Tsp. ground cinnamon.
½ Tsp. dry ginger.
Large sausage casing.
Bring stock to boil. Add the bread and meats, all finely ground. Add the spices.
After a brief boil, let it cool down and mix in the blood.
Fill the casing, not too firmly, and coil the sausage in a large pan of water with a plate on the bottom. The plate will assist in distributing the heat evenly, as will the heat-absorbing pad which you will also use.
Simmer below boiling till the sausage has stiffened, at which point the blood has congealed - this will take slightly over an hour.
Hang to dry in a cold wind for two days.
Be especially careful not to have the heat under the pan too high, as the sausage might rupture.
You don't want that.
By the same token, do not allow women into the kitchen while simmering, as the sausage might rupture.
You don't want that.
Thick slices of blood sausage may be pan-fried on both sides, and put on bread with a sprinkling of sugar or a dab of hot sauce. Or even some nice sliced apple.
I would finish this post with a hearty 'bon appetit', except that I suspect many of my readers will be slightly green at this point. Sorry.
Please note that I waited till after lunch to post this. I am a considerate blogger.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, there was no plot - as a four year old the Werewolf was drafted to help at a family boucherie.
[The Werewolf is not his real name, but it is an apt description. He is an excessively hirsute man, of French ancestry, from some small community up near the Quebec border. Think 'pelt'. Imagine speckles of robust black follicle shading his cheeks by ten in the morning, and dense dark wires growing on his arms....... imagine that same man being sent to Hong Kong, where they think all white people are furry cavemen anyhow...... ]
A boucherie is a pig butchering. It happens in Autumn, usually, when the animal is nice and fully formed, dense with fatty goodness. It's very traditional among the Québécois and Cajuns.
The reason why a plural of bullets is mentioned is because the first bullet miraculously didn't down the beast. It ran around squealing furiously, and they needed several more shots to finish the job.
Finally they clubbed it to death with a hoe.
All of this chaos lovingly caught on camera.
Let's just say that they have interesting shared memories in that family.
The long wooden stick? That was for stirring the blood in a bucket, so that they could make boudin noir - blood sausage.
Blood sausage, while not exceedingly popular in the United States, is nevertheless traditional white-folks food. Farming communities all over Northern Europe make it in autumn. You used to be able to buy it at the local butchers, but nowadays health codes forbid it in most places.
In the Kempen and the Peel regions we had our own version.
My mother would not allow it in the house.
Don't know why.
BLOED WORST
Two cups stock from cooking meat.
Two cups fresh hog blood.
Eight slices of stale bread.
Half a pound heart.
Half a pound bacon or fatback.
1½ TBS salt.
2 Tsp. ground coriander.
1 Tsp. mace.
1 Tsp. ground pepper.
½ Tsp. ground cloves.
½ Tsp. ground nutmeg.
½ Tsp. ground cinnamon.
½ Tsp. dry ginger.
Large sausage casing.
Bring stock to boil. Add the bread and meats, all finely ground. Add the spices.
After a brief boil, let it cool down and mix in the blood.
Fill the casing, not too firmly, and coil the sausage in a large pan of water with a plate on the bottom. The plate will assist in distributing the heat evenly, as will the heat-absorbing pad which you will also use.
Simmer below boiling till the sausage has stiffened, at which point the blood has congealed - this will take slightly over an hour.
Hang to dry in a cold wind for two days.
Be especially careful not to have the heat under the pan too high, as the sausage might rupture.
You don't want that.
By the same token, do not allow women into the kitchen while simmering, as the sausage might rupture.
You don't want that.
Thick slices of blood sausage may be pan-fried on both sides, and put on bread with a sprinkling of sugar or a dab of hot sauce. Or even some nice sliced apple.
I would finish this post with a hearty 'bon appetit', except that I suspect many of my readers will be slightly green at this point. Sorry.
Please note that I waited till after lunch to post this. I am a considerate blogger.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
DEATH ON MA WEI SLOPE
The astute reader will have noticed the clickable label 唐人街 under several posts discussing Chinatown on this blog.
The words 唐人街 ('Tong-Yan Kai') literally mean Tang Person Street - that being the name for the Chinese district in San Francisco, as well as most Chinatowns elsewhere. It is strictly a Cantonese term; the Cantonese refer to themselves as men of Tang, after China's arguably most splendid era.
In the Western World, the Tang dynasty is known mainly for San-Tsai pottery and horse paintings, whereas to the Chinese that period is famous primarily for poetry, fat beauties, and Turks.
The Cantonese, like all Chinese, take great pride in the poetry.
Not so much the fat beauties or the Turks.
Here in San Francisco we have Chinese people, and also enough plump hell-cats to make an emperor drool. Quite likely we have Turks as well.
[Honestly, what is it with modern San Francisco girls? Why do so many of them pack more poundage than I do? Why is there such a surfeit of young ladies here, so much younger than yours truly yet so much heavier? I'm a mature man, Fercrapsakes!
I'm not supposed to look trimmer and spryer than you lot! Really!]
No other Chinese describe themselves as Tang, only the Cantonese. It is deliciously odd.
INCESTUOUS THREATS
The Tang Dynasty (Tong Chiew: 唐朝 - anno 618 CE to 907 CE) was one of the high-water marks of Chinese civilization, during which the empire reached its furthest expanse. Great advances in the arts and sciences were made, and due to the many splendid achievements, especially in literature, the Tang Dynasty truly counts as one of the golden ages of human history.
Yet there was always a haunting sense of fragility.
Several societies have traditionally been endangered by howling savages from the north - Rome had the Germanic tribes, Israel has the Lebanese, and we have the Canadians.
China for centuries has had the Turks.
More than the fashionably fat temptresses beloved by the grandees of the capital, the constant threat of invasion by barbarians from beyond the frontier shaped Tang society. Scholars and officials for generations either were posted north to fend off the fur-clad mob, or fled south to escape their depredations. The sight of men on horseback was a constant in metropoles north of the Yangtze, and returnees told harrowing tales of deprivation and endurance in the waste lands.
Ironically the Tang Dynasty itself was actually part Turkish, albeit long Sinicized and acclimatized. The ruling clan, and of much of the Northern aristocracy, had been on the frontier for generations, and represented a subculture that was more-or-less Chinese politically, but had overmuch in common with the tribes that beset the border.
The ancestors of many such clans had been heathen warlords co-opted by titles and power, and gradually brought into the civilized fold.
They were 'gentled' by their association with Chinese culture, but not entirely converted - during periods of instability, their opportunism and rapacious native tendencies would resurface.
The following poem adds to that irony - it references the killing of the emperor's concubine during a period of crypto-Turkic rebellion and bloodshed.
Now please note: the ruling family of Tang was named Li (Lei: 李), a surname that very often indicates a Barbaric origin (hence so many Turco-Chinese, Koreans, Vietnamese, and others of questionable antecedents thus appelled). The lady in this quatrain was surnamed Yang (Yeung: 楊), that being also the name of the crypto-Turkic clan that the Lis of Tang had superceded (and both she herself as well as her lord were in fact related by blood to the previous dynasty), yet Yang is a very Chinese name with absolutely no heathen hue.
Though people with these surnames are USUALLY fully Chinese, these particular Lis and Yangs were MOSTLY of 'foreign' origin.
This poem could NOT be more Chinese - yet the people in it were barely so.
If anything, they were Tang.
馬嵬坡 - MA WEI PO
玄宗回馬楊妃死， 雲雨難忘日月新。
終是聖明天子事， 景陽宮井又何人。
[詩者: 鄭畋]
MA NGAI PO ('Ma Wei Slope')
Yun-Tsong wui ma Yeung-Fei sei,
Wan-yiu naan-mong yat-yuet san;
Jung-si Sing-Ming tien-ji si,
Ging-Yeung Gung jeng yau ho-yan?
[Written by Zheng Tian (Jeng Tin 鄭畋) ]
Translation:
Hsuan-Tsung return horse Yang honoured consort dead,
Cloud-rain difficult forget day month new;
Finality indeed Sheng-Ming son-of-heaven business,
Ching-Yang Palace waterwell once-more who?
Paraphrasis:
When Hsuan-Tsung came back from his ride Lady Yang was already dead,
His love for her will be remembered for all eternity;
‘Recollect the affair of the Sing-Ming emperor............
And who (also) ended up in the well at the Ging-Yeung Palace?’
In short, while the emperor was off riding, his soldiers killed his concubine, whose family they hated.
CLARIFICATORY BACKGROUND
In the year 712 CE Li Longji (Lei LungKei: 李隆基 born 685 CE, died 762 CE) became the seventh emperor of the Tang Dynasty (styled Tang Hsuan-Tsung / Tong Yun-Tsong: 唐玄宗), reigning till 756 CE. After several years of quite able rule, he grew lax and careless, eventually bringing the empire to the edge of ruin. The name most associated with this latter period is Yang Kweifei - the imperial consort Yang.
Yang Yu-Hwan (Yeung Yiuk-Waan: 楊玉環 - born 719 CE, died 756 CE), the daughter of Yang Hsuan-Yan (Yeung Yun-Yim: 楊玄琰), was the wife of Hsuan-Tsung's son the Prince of Shou. After emperor Hsuan-Tsung noticed her, she divorced her husband, became a Buddhist nun for while to ensure plausible deniability, then rejoined the world (circa 737 or 738 CE) and became the emperor's concubine, receiving the title kweifei (gwaifei: 貴妃 honoured consort).
[The Prince of Shou (Sau Wong: 壽王): Li Mao (Lei Mo: 李瑁) born 715 CE died 775 CE. The eighteenth son of the emperor, whose mother was Consort Wu (Wu Wuifei / Mou Waifei 武惠妃), daughter of a clan that had nearly usurped the throne in a previous generation. Consort Wu never became empress due to the extreme wariness of court officials, who remembered what had happened. She never the less had great status and influence in the palace, and was deferred to as the highest lady in the land. She died in 737 CE.
Like many other power-circles within the imperial court, the Wus were border aristocracy and related by blood to the imperial family. The surname Wu (Mou: 武) means martial, military, warlike - characteristically a surname chosen by Sinified barbarians in the North. ]
As the emperor became ever more besotted by his lady, he acceded to her requests to bestow favours upon her relatives, making her cousin Yang Kuo-Chong (Yeung Kok-Chung: 楊國忠) prime minister, and several of her other kinsmen high officials. Over the years while the power of the Yang family grew affairs of state were neglected and the treasury despoiled, leading to rebellion in the provinces.
In 755 CE, An LuShan (On LokSan: 安禄山), a feudal lord of mixed Sogdian and Central-Asian Turkish ancestry from the North-Eastern border of the empire, raised the standard of revolt and marched on the capitol Chang-An (Cheung-On: 長安 - modern day Hsi-An/Sei-On: 西安).
The imperial court fled south towards Shu (Suk: 蜀 - modern day Szechuan), and at Ma Wei Station (Ma-NGai Yik: 馬嵬驛) in Shaansi (Simsai: 陝西) the military escort decided to exact revenge for the destruction that the emperor's concubine and her rapacious relatives had wrought.
The emperor's tearful objections were stilled when he was reminded that ONE death might not be enough - killing ineffective rulers also had historic precedents.
SO FAR, SO GOOD .......
After slaughtering several court officials and members of the Yang family, troops and officers remonstrated with the emperor.
Thereupon Yang Kweifei was taken to a nearby Buddhist temple and strangled, following which she was unceremoniously buried at Ma Wei slope (馬嵬坡).
In 757 CE, when the now retired emperor Hsuan-Tsung returned to Chang-An, he wished to retrieve her body for a proper entombment, but was dissuaded by his officials, who feared tumult if the military should hear of it.
Historians are of two minds about the reputation of Lady Yang – was she the root of trouble, or merely a symptom? And who deserves more blame – the emperor for his weakness, Lady Yang for her manipulation on behalf of her kinsmen, or her relatives for being so unworthy of benefice?
Was she a vixen, or merely a victim of her time and place?
[I need not even mention that she was also rumoured to have had an affair with An Lu-Shan. Who was, notabene, an honorary 'adopted' son of the emperor!]
Whatever her true role in the convoluted court politics of Tang may have been, Yang Kweifei is mainly remembered as one of the greatest temptresses of all time, charming enough to alter the course of history - pleasingly plump and full figured, pale, with a lively and intelligent face.
A classic Chinese beauty. And thus a dangerous woman.
TONG YAN KAI
To the Cantonese, the distant Northern Border might as well be on the far side of the moon. Nothing in their environment prepares them for the extreme cold, the dryness, the aridity. The idea of being sent to man an outpost in the sands of Turkestan is enough to make them blanch.
Yes, the Cantonese are proud of China's achievements, and of the extension of empire along the Silk-Road - but everything North of the great river is a foreign world, and arguably not even Chinese. Certainly not proper Chinese.
They talk funny, eat weird crap, and smell funky, up there in the North.
Why, they're probably even half Turks!
NOTE: The two types of pronunciation given for Chinese characters above reflect Mandarin, which is the official language, and Cantonese, which is spoken here in San Francisco. In addition to being the Chinese language with which I am most familiar, Cantonese is also much more appropriate in the context of this post: It is the Chinese language whose pronunciation is closest to the koine of the Tang period.
As many Cantonese proudly assert, and educated Northerners grudgingly acknowledge.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The words 唐人街 ('Tong-Yan Kai') literally mean Tang Person Street - that being the name for the Chinese district in San Francisco, as well as most Chinatowns elsewhere. It is strictly a Cantonese term; the Cantonese refer to themselves as men of Tang, after China's arguably most splendid era.
In the Western World, the Tang dynasty is known mainly for San-Tsai pottery and horse paintings, whereas to the Chinese that period is famous primarily for poetry, fat beauties, and Turks.
The Cantonese, like all Chinese, take great pride in the poetry.
Not so much the fat beauties or the Turks.
Here in San Francisco we have Chinese people, and also enough plump hell-cats to make an emperor drool. Quite likely we have Turks as well.
[Honestly, what is it with modern San Francisco girls? Why do so many of them pack more poundage than I do? Why is there such a surfeit of young ladies here, so much younger than yours truly yet so much heavier? I'm a mature man, Fercrapsakes!
I'm not supposed to look trimmer and spryer than you lot! Really!]
No other Chinese describe themselves as Tang, only the Cantonese. It is deliciously odd.
INCESTUOUS THREATS
The Tang Dynasty (Tong Chiew: 唐朝 - anno 618 CE to 907 CE) was one of the high-water marks of Chinese civilization, during which the empire reached its furthest expanse. Great advances in the arts and sciences were made, and due to the many splendid achievements, especially in literature, the Tang Dynasty truly counts as one of the golden ages of human history.
Yet there was always a haunting sense of fragility.
Several societies have traditionally been endangered by howling savages from the north - Rome had the Germanic tribes, Israel has the Lebanese, and we have the Canadians.
China for centuries has had the Turks.
More than the fashionably fat temptresses beloved by the grandees of the capital, the constant threat of invasion by barbarians from beyond the frontier shaped Tang society. Scholars and officials for generations either were posted north to fend off the fur-clad mob, or fled south to escape their depredations. The sight of men on horseback was a constant in metropoles north of the Yangtze, and returnees told harrowing tales of deprivation and endurance in the waste lands.
Ironically the Tang Dynasty itself was actually part Turkish, albeit long Sinicized and acclimatized. The ruling clan, and of much of the Northern aristocracy, had been on the frontier for generations, and represented a subculture that was more-or-less Chinese politically, but had overmuch in common with the tribes that beset the border.
The ancestors of many such clans had been heathen warlords co-opted by titles and power, and gradually brought into the civilized fold.
They were 'gentled' by their association with Chinese culture, but not entirely converted - during periods of instability, their opportunism and rapacious native tendencies would resurface.
The following poem adds to that irony - it references the killing of the emperor's concubine during a period of crypto-Turkic rebellion and bloodshed.
Now please note: the ruling family of Tang was named Li (Lei: 李), a surname that very often indicates a Barbaric origin (hence so many Turco-Chinese, Koreans, Vietnamese, and others of questionable antecedents thus appelled). The lady in this quatrain was surnamed Yang (Yeung: 楊), that being also the name of the crypto-Turkic clan that the Lis of Tang had superceded (and both she herself as well as her lord were in fact related by blood to the previous dynasty), yet Yang is a very Chinese name with absolutely no heathen hue.
Though people with these surnames are USUALLY fully Chinese, these particular Lis and Yangs were MOSTLY of 'foreign' origin.
This poem could NOT be more Chinese - yet the people in it were barely so.
If anything, they were Tang.
馬嵬坡 - MA WEI PO
玄宗回馬楊妃死， 雲雨難忘日月新。
終是聖明天子事， 景陽宮井又何人。
[詩者: 鄭畋]
MA NGAI PO ('Ma Wei Slope')
Yun-Tsong wui ma Yeung-Fei sei,
Wan-yiu naan-mong yat-yuet san;
Jung-si Sing-Ming tien-ji si,
Ging-Yeung Gung jeng yau ho-yan?
[Written by Zheng Tian (Jeng Tin 鄭畋) ]
Translation:
Hsuan-Tsung return horse Yang honoured consort dead,
Cloud-rain difficult forget day month new;
Finality indeed Sheng-Ming son-of-heaven business,
Ching-Yang Palace waterwell once-more who?
Paraphrasis:
When Hsuan-Tsung came back from his ride Lady Yang was already dead,
His love for her will be remembered for all eternity;
‘Recollect the affair of the Sing-Ming emperor............
And who (also) ended up in the well at the Ging-Yeung Palace?’
In short, while the emperor was off riding, his soldiers killed his concubine, whose family they hated.
CLARIFICATORY BACKGROUND
In the year 712 CE Li Longji (Lei LungKei: 李隆基 born 685 CE, died 762 CE) became the seventh emperor of the Tang Dynasty (styled Tang Hsuan-Tsung / Tong Yun-Tsong: 唐玄宗), reigning till 756 CE. After several years of quite able rule, he grew lax and careless, eventually bringing the empire to the edge of ruin. The name most associated with this latter period is Yang Kweifei - the imperial consort Yang.
Yang Yu-Hwan (Yeung Yiuk-Waan: 楊玉環 - born 719 CE, died 756 CE), the daughter of Yang Hsuan-Yan (Yeung Yun-Yim: 楊玄琰), was the wife of Hsuan-Tsung's son the Prince of Shou. After emperor Hsuan-Tsung noticed her, she divorced her husband, became a Buddhist nun for while to ensure plausible deniability, then rejoined the world (circa 737 or 738 CE) and became the emperor's concubine, receiving the title kweifei (gwaifei: 貴妃 honoured consort).
[The Prince of Shou (Sau Wong: 壽王): Li Mao (Lei Mo: 李瑁) born 715 CE died 775 CE. The eighteenth son of the emperor, whose mother was Consort Wu (Wu Wuifei / Mou Waifei 武惠妃), daughter of a clan that had nearly usurped the throne in a previous generation. Consort Wu never became empress due to the extreme wariness of court officials, who remembered what had happened. She never the less had great status and influence in the palace, and was deferred to as the highest lady in the land. She died in 737 CE.
Like many other power-circles within the imperial court, the Wus were border aristocracy and related by blood to the imperial family. The surname Wu (Mou: 武) means martial, military, warlike - characteristically a surname chosen by Sinified barbarians in the North. ]
As the emperor became ever more besotted by his lady, he acceded to her requests to bestow favours upon her relatives, making her cousin Yang Kuo-Chong (Yeung Kok-Chung: 楊國忠) prime minister, and several of her other kinsmen high officials. Over the years while the power of the Yang family grew affairs of state were neglected and the treasury despoiled, leading to rebellion in the provinces.
In 755 CE, An LuShan (On LokSan: 安禄山), a feudal lord of mixed Sogdian and Central-Asian Turkish ancestry from the North-Eastern border of the empire, raised the standard of revolt and marched on the capitol Chang-An (Cheung-On: 長安 - modern day Hsi-An/Sei-On: 西安).
The imperial court fled south towards Shu (Suk: 蜀 - modern day Szechuan), and at Ma Wei Station (Ma-NGai Yik: 馬嵬驛) in Shaansi (Simsai: 陝西) the military escort decided to exact revenge for the destruction that the emperor's concubine and her rapacious relatives had wrought.
The emperor's tearful objections were stilled when he was reminded that ONE death might not be enough - killing ineffective rulers also had historic precedents.
SO FAR, SO GOOD .......
After slaughtering several court officials and members of the Yang family, troops and officers remonstrated with the emperor.
Thereupon Yang Kweifei was taken to a nearby Buddhist temple and strangled, following which she was unceremoniously buried at Ma Wei slope (馬嵬坡).
In 757 CE, when the now retired emperor Hsuan-Tsung returned to Chang-An, he wished to retrieve her body for a proper entombment, but was dissuaded by his officials, who feared tumult if the military should hear of it.
Historians are of two minds about the reputation of Lady Yang – was she the root of trouble, or merely a symptom? And who deserves more blame – the emperor for his weakness, Lady Yang for her manipulation on behalf of her kinsmen, or her relatives for being so unworthy of benefice?
Was she a vixen, or merely a victim of her time and place?
[I need not even mention that she was also rumoured to have had an affair with An Lu-Shan. Who was, notabene, an honorary 'adopted' son of the emperor!]
Whatever her true role in the convoluted court politics of Tang may have been, Yang Kweifei is mainly remembered as one of the greatest temptresses of all time, charming enough to alter the course of history - pleasingly plump and full figured, pale, with a lively and intelligent face.
A classic Chinese beauty. And thus a dangerous woman.
TONG YAN KAI
To the Cantonese, the distant Northern Border might as well be on the far side of the moon. Nothing in their environment prepares them for the extreme cold, the dryness, the aridity. The idea of being sent to man an outpost in the sands of Turkestan is enough to make them blanch.
Yes, the Cantonese are proud of China's achievements, and of the extension of empire along the Silk-Road - but everything North of the great river is a foreign world, and arguably not even Chinese. Certainly not proper Chinese.
They talk funny, eat weird crap, and smell funky, up there in the North.
Why, they're probably even half Turks!
NOTE: The two types of pronunciation given for Chinese characters above reflect Mandarin, which is the official language, and Cantonese, which is spoken here in San Francisco. In addition to being the Chinese language with which I am most familiar, Cantonese is also much more appropriate in the context of this post: It is the Chinese language whose pronunciation is closest to the koine of the Tang period.
As many Cantonese proudly assert, and educated Northerners grudgingly acknowledge.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
