As you have probably guessed, Valentine's day means little to me.
It wasn't always so.
What it does mean, however, is that the apartment will be quiet this evening.
When I get home I will fix myself a nice spot of tea and some buttered toast with marmalade. I'm looking forward to that - there's a lovely crackled plate for the toast, and a jar of thick cut marmalade.
Then I shall get in bed, with my tea and toast, and happily read a thick cookbook.
Food porn.
It is exceptionally nicely illustrated.
Tea, toast, book. A warm feather comforter.
Corner lamps, instead of the overhead.
It sets a mellower mood, you see.
Softer, and more indirect.
Later I will light up my pipe.
I may even twiddle my toes.
It will be a good evening.
If I had really been thinking ahead, I would've sent myself some roses at work. Not just to flabbergast my colleagues, but also because I like roses.
The chocolate I can do without.
I miss the flowers.
Tea. And toast.
Book. Pipe.
Warmth.
Light.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
RABIES IN DATA LAND
There are times when one has to admit that one’s brain is fried.
Such as, for instance, today.
For the past two weeks we’ve been researching deductions taken by our big customers.
This in preparation for the board meeting and the presentation of our financials.
Normally I can simply spend most of my time calling up my portfolio of accounts, chatting about their kids and significant others, the weather, how about those Yankees then eh, would you believe what that governor said, the state of the world tssk tssk, here’s a recipe for stewed possum, oh and by the way you owe us money.
Unfortunately, I also must deal with “other” customers.
The big guys.
Our big customers are not so easy to deal with.
For one thing, they are all densely put-together Vendor Portals.
No human beings available, phone trees that go nowhere.
Just fully realized and inspired Vendor Portals.
The Vendor Portal has all the answers.
The Vendor Portal is Jesus and the Mahdi combined, trust us on this!
Now stop bugging us, we shan’t answer anymore e-mails, just go to our marvelous saintly sacred Vendor Portal and look it up.
All knowledge is given to the Vendor Portal pilgrim, with blessings!
If it isn’t there, you don’t need it, and shouldn't have it.
The second coming is also on there.
You just have to look.
Prayerfully.
Each Vendor Portal has a system which must have seemed inherent and logical to the team tasked with programming the internet face of these companies.
But using their sites is like discovering dysfunctional souls on-line.
Twisted data freaks who haven’t ever seen day.
Gibbering hairy sub-humans.
Trolls.
If you’re wondering at some strangeness on my blog in recent weeks, now you know why.
Prolonged exposure to rabid fruitbats.
And clerical cave-men.
Or women.
The goats are eating my mainframe.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Such as, for instance, today.
For the past two weeks we’ve been researching deductions taken by our big customers.
This in preparation for the board meeting and the presentation of our financials.
Normally I can simply spend most of my time calling up my portfolio of accounts, chatting about their kids and significant others, the weather, how about those Yankees then eh, would you believe what that governor said, the state of the world tssk tssk, here’s a recipe for stewed possum, oh and by the way you owe us money.
Unfortunately, I also must deal with “other” customers.
The big guys.
Our big customers are not so easy to deal with.
For one thing, they are all densely put-together Vendor Portals.
No human beings available, phone trees that go nowhere.
Just fully realized and inspired Vendor Portals.
The Vendor Portal has all the answers.
The Vendor Portal is Jesus and the Mahdi combined, trust us on this!
Now stop bugging us, we shan’t answer anymore e-mails, just go to our marvelous saintly sacred Vendor Portal and look it up.
All knowledge is given to the Vendor Portal pilgrim, with blessings!
If it isn’t there, you don’t need it, and shouldn't have it.
The second coming is also on there.
You just have to look.
Prayerfully.
Each Vendor Portal has a system which must have seemed inherent and logical to the team tasked with programming the internet face of these companies.
But using their sites is like discovering dysfunctional souls on-line.
Twisted data freaks who haven’t ever seen day.
Gibbering hairy sub-humans.
Trolls.
If you’re wondering at some strangeness on my blog in recent weeks, now you know why.
Prolonged exposure to rabid fruitbats.
And clerical cave-men.
Or women.
The goats are eating my mainframe.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, February 13, 2012
LOVE YOUR FROGS
The other day I made mention of cooked frog, which elicited comments.
Apparently some people have a hard time conceiving of frog as food.
The specific dish was 姜葱田雞 (geung-tsung tin kai: ginger scallion frog).
As an alternative, I suggested 宫保田雞 (gong-po tin kai: Kung Pao frog), but 豆豉田雞 (dau-si tin kai: black bean sauce frog) would be just as good.
Praise-worthy treatments for the noble amphibian!
They sound totally scrumptious to me.
Apparently I'm the only one.
The suggestion that eel be used instead, yielding respectively 姜葱鳗魚 (geung-tsung man-yu), 宫保鳗魚 (gong-po man-yu), and 豆豉鳗魚 (dau-si man-yu), has so far not prompted any feedback.
Why?
I can understand that people would avoid eating frog. After all, there's Kermit.
Kermit is our friend, we've known him since we were small.
Eating Kermit may be out of the question.
Same goes for Rabbit. Many people have pet rabbits. My roommate, Savage Kitten, remembers her family's pet rabbit when she was a little girl, and consequently will not even hear of cooking a nice plump rabbit.
Despite the two of us no longer being boy friend girl friend, in deference to her feelings I shall not cook rabbit in the apartment we share.
Feel free to invite me to cook it in yours.
Just don't tell me it's name.
But eel? Eel?!? No one has EVER had a pet eel when they were young. Eels are not warm and huggable. Nor do eels have intelligently bemused or quizzical facial expressions, like Kermit - eels do not speak to us.
Eels do not even have much personality.
Go on, eat the eel.
You know you want to.
Eat. The. Eel!
RIBBIT! RIBBIT!
Several years ago a friend and myself noticed frog on the menu of a local restaurant. When queried, the waitress brought out a large basket with live frogs for us to choose from.
The biggest one leaped out and hid behind my foot.
He was clearly the obvious choice, given his dimension.
But at that point I did not have the heart to 'finger' him.
Given his boldness, determination, and obvious intelligence, I rather hope he made a clean get-away and escaped off into the night once the restaurant closed.
Perhaps living to a ripe old age in the wilds of downtown San Francisco.
We didn't eat frog that evening.
Instead we had something else. Chicken, I think.
Chickens, very much like most eels, have scant personality.
It's a toss-up which one is more psychologically twisted, but in my opinion the chicken wins 'psychopath-of-the-cooking-pot' hands down.
Chickens radiate cold degenerate evil.
[Besides, I can't remember where I put the plank with the nail sticking up which I use for skinning and gutting eels, so it will just have to be chicken.]
The flawed character of a chicken is improved immensely if treated thus:
姜葱雞球 (geung-tsung kai kau), 宫保雞球 (gong-po kai kau), or 豆豉雞球 (dau-si kai kau).
Bon appétit!
If you want to, you can pretend it's frog.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Apparently some people have a hard time conceiving of frog as food.
The specific dish was 姜葱田雞 (geung-tsung tin kai: ginger scallion frog).
As an alternative, I suggested 宫保田雞 (gong-po tin kai: Kung Pao frog), but 豆豉田雞 (dau-si tin kai: black bean sauce frog) would be just as good.
Praise-worthy treatments for the noble amphibian!
They sound totally scrumptious to me.
Apparently I'm the only one.
The suggestion that eel be used instead, yielding respectively 姜葱鳗魚 (geung-tsung man-yu), 宫保鳗魚 (gong-po man-yu), and 豆豉鳗魚 (dau-si man-yu), has so far not prompted any feedback.
Why?
I can understand that people would avoid eating frog. After all, there's Kermit.
Kermit is our friend, we've known him since we were small.
Eating Kermit may be out of the question.
Same goes for Rabbit. Many people have pet rabbits. My roommate, Savage Kitten, remembers her family's pet rabbit when she was a little girl, and consequently will not even hear of cooking a nice plump rabbit.
Despite the two of us no longer being boy friend girl friend, in deference to her feelings I shall not cook rabbit in the apartment we share.
Feel free to invite me to cook it in yours.
Just don't tell me it's name.
But eel? Eel?!? No one has EVER had a pet eel when they were young. Eels are not warm and huggable. Nor do eels have intelligently bemused or quizzical facial expressions, like Kermit - eels do not speak to us.
Eels do not even have much personality.
Go on, eat the eel.
You know you want to.
Eat. The. Eel!
RIBBIT! RIBBIT!
Several years ago a friend and myself noticed frog on the menu of a local restaurant. When queried, the waitress brought out a large basket with live frogs for us to choose from.
The biggest one leaped out and hid behind my foot.
He was clearly the obvious choice, given his dimension.
But at that point I did not have the heart to 'finger' him.
Given his boldness, determination, and obvious intelligence, I rather hope he made a clean get-away and escaped off into the night once the restaurant closed.
Perhaps living to a ripe old age in the wilds of downtown San Francisco.
We didn't eat frog that evening.
Instead we had something else. Chicken, I think.
Chickens, very much like most eels, have scant personality.
It's a toss-up which one is more psychologically twisted, but in my opinion the chicken wins 'psychopath-of-the-cooking-pot' hands down.
Chickens radiate cold degenerate evil.
[Besides, I can't remember where I put the plank with the nail sticking up which I use for skinning and gutting eels, so it will just have to be chicken.]
The flawed character of a chicken is improved immensely if treated thus:
姜葱雞球 (geung-tsung kai kau), 宫保雞球 (gong-po kai kau), or 豆豉雞球 (dau-si kai kau).
Bon appétit!
If you want to, you can pretend it's frog.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, February 12, 2012
DELIGHTFUL LITTLE DUMPLINGS IN CHINATOWN
The best part of tea-time was neither the chicken bun nor the flaky charsiu turn-over, fine though both of those were. And even the cup of tea was good.
But both were cast into shadow because of the happy children during, and the splendid tobacco after.
You already know about the tobacco.
I've mentioned it often.
Let's talk about the children.
Normally I am ambivalent about children. I do not have any of my own, and other people's offspring, with very few exceptions, do not strike me as the precious little dumplings that their parents have told them that they are, and proudly advertised them to be.
[Exceptions being notably an ex-coworker's charming child, now in Hawaii with his mom and grandparents, and Anthony at one of the bakeries I used to go to years ago in Chinatown - a bright little boy at that time, now no doubt a college graduate.]
These kids were at the dim sum counter in Chinatown where I stopped around four o'clock for replenishment. Their parents were there, I believe, because of the new equipment. The place will henceforth also be selling frothy fruity tea-type beverages with tapioca balls, and hot egg-waffles.
These machines have complex instructions for use. In English.
The normal staff there are NOT fluent in English.
Certainly not in technical English.
"Put brass cock A over fitted conical nozzle B.
Rotate counterclockwise until the mechanism locks.
Plug the plug C in plug-socket D; when it is well and truly plugged, turn metal plate E to fit the levered brackets, and after engaging knob F, start performing an enchanting little dance with twirly ribbons and tinkling bells!"
Yes. I can just see them trying to make sense out of this.
But they have a relative who is fluent in English, who installed both objects, and demonstrated their use. His little son is proud that he too knows how to operate the devices - his father showed him how! Wanna see?
The smaller boy (Robert) wondered why they always had to eat hot food, especially on warm days. To which his mother replied that food was food, and it was not a warm day. Now eat these dumplings, AND the leafy green item which is also in your bowl.
She's right. It's not a warm day.
The tiniest child wandered around exploring while munching a hot dog roll. With avid curiosity she observed me filling my pipe. All of the kids were initially somewhat aghast at me, because white people do NOT talk Cantonese, and I had ordered my food in that language; they fell silent, briefly, when I spoke. But their cheerful vibrancy soon had them animatedly chattering again, and other than the fascination with elegant kwailo fingers carefully stuffing a dark kwailo substance into a bent kwailo object, evinced by the littlest one, they paid me scant mind.
[Brief interruption to mention food: A chicken bun (雞飽 kai bau) consists of a chopped chicken filling inside a hot steamed doughy bun. The filling will usually also have some ginger, black mushroom, and a sliver of Chinese sausage for extra flavour. A charsiu turnover (叉燒酥 cha siu sou) contains red barbecued pork within a flaky pastry crust. Frothy fruity tea-type beverages (珍珠奶茶 chanchyu nai cha, 波霸奶茶 boba nai cha) were invented in Taiwan. They are made by mixing tea, fruit flavouring, condensed milk, and a little ice, then adding large tapioca balls (珍珠 chanchyu: 'pearls'). Nowadays many varieties do not contain either tea (or coffee), and the most popular type is probably honeydew melon cream with balls (蜜瓜珍珠奶茶 mat-gwa chanchyu naicha), although some people really like mixed coffee and black tea bubble tea (鴛鴦珍珠奶茶 yuen-yeung chanchyu naicha). Note that Yuen-yeung (鴛鴦) is a combination of coffee and milk-tea very popular in Hong Kong, served either hot or cold, without the tapioca balls. Egg waffles (鷄蛋仔 kai dan chai) in the Hong Kong Cantonese world are eggy-sweet puff batter cooked in a special pan or press, served hot and eaten plain. They are very popular in HK, but only recently known in SF Chinatown. The dumplings that the smaller boy ate were wonton (雲吞 wan tan). The leafy green item that his mother also ladled into his bowl I cannot identify, but it may have been lettuce - Cantonese like the taste of cooked lettuce. The little girl was eating a hotdog baked in pillowy bread dough (腸仔包 cheung chai bau), which is a popular and convenient snack. Other tasty things I've had there are cocktail buns (雞尾包 kaimei bau) filled with a sweet coconut dough paste, and sesame seed balls (煎堆 jin dui), nice and chewy, filled with lotus-seed paste (蓮蓉 lienyong).
Dumplings, as in the title of this post, are dim sum (點心). They also have that.]
While I ate I could hear the kids behind me, interacting with each other, their parents, and an auntie. They were happy and even loud. But there was no indication whatsoever of them being spoiled or badly behaved, no evidence of selfishness or ill-temper. Just full of beans and very much alive. As well as attentive and respectful of their elders.
At one point one of the boys was explaining to his older sister (the girl behind the counter) that adults worked, which is why they were often tired. He was also tired, having practiced using one of the new machines, so maybe he should take a nap. Which is what old people who work often do.
This got the girl thinking, and within minutes she was negotiating with her father over suitable recompense - while the other three had been playing around, she had carried things, straightened the bakery trays, and helped out. Surely that required appropriate appreciation? She suggested that four dollars for ten minutes was adequate, she was even cutting him a deal!
She seemed fixated on the four dollars.
More work, no problem. Even another ten minutes!
But no less than four dollars. That amount is set in stone.
I'm guessing that something she really wants costs exactly four dollars.
There's reason to believe that when no-one was looking, her father gave her the money.
How can you resist the entreaty of a hard-working little girl, who is being so uncomplainingly useful?
Normally, by the time I head into Chinatown for snackipoos on weekend days, my energy level is low. Under those circumstances I may be grumpy, and before I've eaten noise can get on my nerves. But these children were such REAL human beings, and clearly sweet and intelligent, that it was loads of fun being in the same place as them and listening in.
They might even make one want to have kids of one's own.
Either that, or dawdle longer over tea.
When I finished loading my pipe I headed out onto Stockton Street.
Lit up, and wandered through the neighborhood with no set goal in mind, though upon finding myself near Yong Kee on Jackson, I stopped in to buy a couple of salted egg puffs (鹹蛋酥 haahm dan so), explaining to the uncle behind the counter that they were an excellent snack for later at the office.
Although now that I'm here, I don't think that I will be hungry enough.
I'll just take them home for my roommate, she likes them too.
Oddly, I'm still smiling.
Such delightful children.
And a lovely smoke after.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But both were cast into shadow because of the happy children during, and the splendid tobacco after.
You already know about the tobacco.
I've mentioned it often.
Let's talk about the children.
Normally I am ambivalent about children. I do not have any of my own, and other people's offspring, with very few exceptions, do not strike me as the precious little dumplings that their parents have told them that they are, and proudly advertised them to be.
[Exceptions being notably an ex-coworker's charming child, now in Hawaii with his mom and grandparents, and Anthony at one of the bakeries I used to go to years ago in Chinatown - a bright little boy at that time, now no doubt a college graduate.]
These kids were at the dim sum counter in Chinatown where I stopped around four o'clock for replenishment. Their parents were there, I believe, because of the new equipment. The place will henceforth also be selling frothy fruity tea-type beverages with tapioca balls, and hot egg-waffles.
These machines have complex instructions for use. In English.
The normal staff there are NOT fluent in English.
Certainly not in technical English.
"Put brass cock A over fitted conical nozzle B.
Rotate counterclockwise until the mechanism locks.
Plug the plug C in plug-socket D; when it is well and truly plugged, turn metal plate E to fit the levered brackets, and after engaging knob F, start performing an enchanting little dance with twirly ribbons and tinkling bells!"
Yes. I can just see them trying to make sense out of this.
But they have a relative who is fluent in English, who installed both objects, and demonstrated their use. His little son is proud that he too knows how to operate the devices - his father showed him how! Wanna see?
The smaller boy (Robert) wondered why they always had to eat hot food, especially on warm days. To which his mother replied that food was food, and it was not a warm day. Now eat these dumplings, AND the leafy green item which is also in your bowl.
She's right. It's not a warm day.
The tiniest child wandered around exploring while munching a hot dog roll. With avid curiosity she observed me filling my pipe. All of the kids were initially somewhat aghast at me, because white people do NOT talk Cantonese, and I had ordered my food in that language; they fell silent, briefly, when I spoke. But their cheerful vibrancy soon had them animatedly chattering again, and other than the fascination with elegant kwailo fingers carefully stuffing a dark kwailo substance into a bent kwailo object, evinced by the littlest one, they paid me scant mind.
[Brief interruption to mention food: A chicken bun (雞飽 kai bau) consists of a chopped chicken filling inside a hot steamed doughy bun. The filling will usually also have some ginger, black mushroom, and a sliver of Chinese sausage for extra flavour. A charsiu turnover (叉燒酥 cha siu sou) contains red barbecued pork within a flaky pastry crust. Frothy fruity tea-type beverages (珍珠奶茶 chanchyu nai cha, 波霸奶茶 boba nai cha) were invented in Taiwan. They are made by mixing tea, fruit flavouring, condensed milk, and a little ice, then adding large tapioca balls (珍珠 chanchyu: 'pearls'). Nowadays many varieties do not contain either tea (or coffee), and the most popular type is probably honeydew melon cream with balls (蜜瓜珍珠奶茶 mat-gwa chanchyu naicha), although some people really like mixed coffee and black tea bubble tea (鴛鴦珍珠奶茶 yuen-yeung chanchyu naicha). Note that Yuen-yeung (鴛鴦) is a combination of coffee and milk-tea very popular in Hong Kong, served either hot or cold, without the tapioca balls. Egg waffles (鷄蛋仔 kai dan chai) in the Hong Kong Cantonese world are eggy-sweet puff batter cooked in a special pan or press, served hot and eaten plain. They are very popular in HK, but only recently known in SF Chinatown. The dumplings that the smaller boy ate were wonton (雲吞 wan tan). The leafy green item that his mother also ladled into his bowl I cannot identify, but it may have been lettuce - Cantonese like the taste of cooked lettuce. The little girl was eating a hotdog baked in pillowy bread dough (腸仔包 cheung chai bau), which is a popular and convenient snack. Other tasty things I've had there are cocktail buns (雞尾包 kaimei bau) filled with a sweet coconut dough paste, and sesame seed balls (煎堆 jin dui), nice and chewy, filled with lotus-seed paste (蓮蓉 lienyong).
Dumplings, as in the title of this post, are dim sum (點心). They also have that.]
While I ate I could hear the kids behind me, interacting with each other, their parents, and an auntie. They were happy and even loud. But there was no indication whatsoever of them being spoiled or badly behaved, no evidence of selfishness or ill-temper. Just full of beans and very much alive. As well as attentive and respectful of their elders.
At one point one of the boys was explaining to his older sister (the girl behind the counter) that adults worked, which is why they were often tired. He was also tired, having practiced using one of the new machines, so maybe he should take a nap. Which is what old people who work often do.
This got the girl thinking, and within minutes she was negotiating with her father over suitable recompense - while the other three had been playing around, she had carried things, straightened the bakery trays, and helped out. Surely that required appropriate appreciation? She suggested that four dollars for ten minutes was adequate, she was even cutting him a deal!
She seemed fixated on the four dollars.
More work, no problem. Even another ten minutes!
But no less than four dollars. That amount is set in stone.
I'm guessing that something she really wants costs exactly four dollars.
There's reason to believe that when no-one was looking, her father gave her the money.
How can you resist the entreaty of a hard-working little girl, who is being so uncomplainingly useful?
Normally, by the time I head into Chinatown for snackipoos on weekend days, my energy level is low. Under those circumstances I may be grumpy, and before I've eaten noise can get on my nerves. But these children were such REAL human beings, and clearly sweet and intelligent, that it was loads of fun being in the same place as them and listening in.
They might even make one want to have kids of one's own.
Either that, or dawdle longer over tea.
When I finished loading my pipe I headed out onto Stockton Street.
Lit up, and wandered through the neighborhood with no set goal in mind, though upon finding myself near Yong Kee on Jackson, I stopped in to buy a couple of salted egg puffs (鹹蛋酥 haahm dan so), explaining to the uncle behind the counter that they were an excellent snack for later at the office.
Although now that I'm here, I don't think that I will be hungry enough.
I'll just take them home for my roommate, she likes them too.
Oddly, I'm still smiling.
Such delightful children.
And a lovely smoke after.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, February 11, 2012
THE VERY LONG WEEKEND
I do not eat breakfast in the morning. It takes me two cups of coffee to wake up plus a bit of reading, and only after I've shaved and showered am I ready for the day.
During the week that means heading off to work at that point, where over a period of four or five hours my stomach will gradually make its emptiness known.
On weekends I pad around in my jammies until my roommate leaves, whereupon I head into the bathroom to take a very long bath.
Warm water, luxurious soaking, and time to kill.
I lounge amid the rising steam.
Toes will be twiddled!
On Saturday I save the first pipe of the day for when I head to the office after a mid-afternoon bite in Chinatown.
Often Virginia tobacco, timed to last until I'm near the building.
Today, for instance, I indulged in a bowl of Samuel Gawith's St. James Flake, and was knocked over by how delicious it was.
In every way a thoroughly decadent and effete pleasure.
Not as good as sex, but oddly reminiscent thereof.
[Expect a full review of St. James Flake on this blog at some point, possibly in over-the-top terms, with metaphors of a very dubious nature. Pipe tobacco is for dirty minds.]
Tea at the office, plus several hours of reading on the internet.
It's a good place to stay for the afternoon - alone, but not lonesome.
Then, long after dark, off to the cigar bar for a dreamy end to an empty day.
My roommate always has a much fuller Saturday.
Even though she and wheelie boy have had some marvelous blow-ups, she's still together with that man - and she still gets that nauseating silly grin on her face whenever she thinks of him - so she will spend from lunchtime till late evening in his company.
After she's bounced around since the crack of dawn, fixed herself breakfast, chatted with him on the phone, and done various other things, she leaves the house between twelve and one o'clock to go have lunch with him.
I will not see her again till Sunday morning.
Usually only briefly then.
For a few hours at least I enjoy the peace of having the apartment to myself.
A nice long soak is profoundly good for the soul.
Eventually hunger and a longing for the presence of people combine to drive me out.
LUNCH TODAY, DINNER TOMORROW
Today I ate at a place where no one spoke English and all the dishes were in Chinese.
Because of the New Year fair and parade I decided to hunt for food further up hill, and picked this particular place entirely on a whim.
I didn't notice their extensive selection of offerings till I looked up from my shrimp bonnets and siu mai.
They are far more than just a snack counter.
This is a small neighborhood eatery that caters to a picky audience with very home town tastes, but which may not yet have quite the wealth to spend recklessly.
Their kitchen promises a number of yummy dishes.
FOR INSTANCE:
鹹魚蒸肉餅
Haahm yu tsing yiuk bing (steamed pork patty with salt fish).
姜葱田雞
Geung tsung tin kai (ginger and scallion frog).
涼瓜炒蛋
Leung gwa chau dan (scrambled egg and bitter melon)
枝竹班球
Kei tsuk ban kau (dried tofu with fish chunks).
蒜香肉排
Suen heung yiuk pai (dry garlic spareribs).
四季豆雞球
Sei gwai dau kai kau (stringbean chicken stirfry).
咖哩羊腩煲
Ka-lei yeung naam po (curry lamb in clay pot).
鹹魚茄子煲
Haahm yu kai-tzi po (salt fish and eggplant clay pot).
臘味煲子飯
Laap mei po-tzi fan (preserved pork belly and sausage clay pot rice).
冬菇雞煲子飯
Dong-gu kai po-tzi fan (black mushroom and chunked chicken clay pot rice).
鹹魚臘味煲子飯
Haahm yu laap mei po-tzi fan (salt fish and preserved pork clay pot rice).
麻婆豆腐, 黑椒排骨, 魚香雞球, 海鮮湯麵, 芥蘭肉片 ........
Mapo daufu, hakchiew pai gwat, yu heung kai kau, hoisin tong min, kai lan yiuk pien ........
[Respectively: tofu with spicy meat sauce, black pepper spare ribs, stir-fried garlic sauce chicken curls, seafood variety noodle soup, kai lan with pork...]
Many other dishes involving dried fish (鹹魚 haahm yu), bitter melon (涼瓜 leung gwa), tofu sheet (枝竹 kei tsuk), stringbeans (四季豆 sei gwai dau), preserved pork product (臘味 laap mei), in various combinations with beef, pork, chicken, whether sautéed or in a clay pot (煲子), perhaps involving ginger and scallion (姜葱 geung tsung), curry (咖哩 ka-lei).
Rice plates, noodle preparations, soup.
All at reasonable prices.
The siu mai and shrimp bonnets were utterly delicious.
It is a place that bears considerable investigation.
I look forward to going there again. Lunch or dinner.
Another person who can't read Chinese well but does know Cantonese would be ideal company at the table.
I can read everything they have on the wall, but I'm not a fluent speaker.
If there are two of us, we can share a selection of dishes.
More fun that way, and there's more to taste.
No, I'm not taking my roommate.
[Expect a review of the restaurant, probably soon. Until then I shan't mention the name or the address. But if those siu mai and shrimp bonnets are any indication, their prepared dishes are probably exceedingly tasty too.]
Dining with someone who likes trying something new is always better.
There is more that can be happily discovered that way.
And sharing tasty food is a pleasure.
Weekends mean solitude and smoking my pipe a lot.
Plus enjoying long baths and good food.
There used to be more.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
During the week that means heading off to work at that point, where over a period of four or five hours my stomach will gradually make its emptiness known.
On weekends I pad around in my jammies until my roommate leaves, whereupon I head into the bathroom to take a very long bath.
Warm water, luxurious soaking, and time to kill.
I lounge amid the rising steam.
Toes will be twiddled!
On Saturday I save the first pipe of the day for when I head to the office after a mid-afternoon bite in Chinatown.
Often Virginia tobacco, timed to last until I'm near the building.
Today, for instance, I indulged in a bowl of Samuel Gawith's St. James Flake, and was knocked over by how delicious it was.
In every way a thoroughly decadent and effete pleasure.
Not as good as sex, but oddly reminiscent thereof.
[Expect a full review of St. James Flake on this blog at some point, possibly in over-the-top terms, with metaphors of a very dubious nature. Pipe tobacco is for dirty minds.]
Tea at the office, plus several hours of reading on the internet.
It's a good place to stay for the afternoon - alone, but not lonesome.
Then, long after dark, off to the cigar bar for a dreamy end to an empty day.
My roommate always has a much fuller Saturday.
Even though she and wheelie boy have had some marvelous blow-ups, she's still together with that man - and she still gets that nauseating silly grin on her face whenever she thinks of him - so she will spend from lunchtime till late evening in his company.
After she's bounced around since the crack of dawn, fixed herself breakfast, chatted with him on the phone, and done various other things, she leaves the house between twelve and one o'clock to go have lunch with him.
I will not see her again till Sunday morning.
Usually only briefly then.
For a few hours at least I enjoy the peace of having the apartment to myself.
A nice long soak is profoundly good for the soul.
Eventually hunger and a longing for the presence of people combine to drive me out.
LUNCH TODAY, DINNER TOMORROW
Today I ate at a place where no one spoke English and all the dishes were in Chinese.
Because of the New Year fair and parade I decided to hunt for food further up hill, and picked this particular place entirely on a whim.
I didn't notice their extensive selection of offerings till I looked up from my shrimp bonnets and siu mai.
They are far more than just a snack counter.
This is a small neighborhood eatery that caters to a picky audience with very home town tastes, but which may not yet have quite the wealth to spend recklessly.
Their kitchen promises a number of yummy dishes.
FOR INSTANCE:
鹹魚蒸肉餅
Haahm yu tsing yiuk bing (steamed pork patty with salt fish).
姜葱田雞
Geung tsung tin kai (ginger and scallion frog).
涼瓜炒蛋
Leung gwa chau dan (scrambled egg and bitter melon)
枝竹班球
Kei tsuk ban kau (dried tofu with fish chunks).
蒜香肉排
Suen heung yiuk pai (dry garlic spareribs).
四季豆雞球
Sei gwai dau kai kau (stringbean chicken stirfry).
咖哩羊腩煲
Ka-lei yeung naam po (curry lamb in clay pot).
鹹魚茄子煲
Haahm yu kai-tzi po (salt fish and eggplant clay pot).
臘味煲子飯
Laap mei po-tzi fan (preserved pork belly and sausage clay pot rice).
冬菇雞煲子飯
Dong-gu kai po-tzi fan (black mushroom and chunked chicken clay pot rice).
鹹魚臘味煲子飯
Haahm yu laap mei po-tzi fan (salt fish and preserved pork clay pot rice).
麻婆豆腐, 黑椒排骨, 魚香雞球, 海鮮湯麵, 芥蘭肉片 ........
Mapo daufu, hakchiew pai gwat, yu heung kai kau, hoisin tong min, kai lan yiuk pien ........
[Respectively: tofu with spicy meat sauce, black pepper spare ribs, stir-fried garlic sauce chicken curls, seafood variety noodle soup, kai lan with pork...]
Many other dishes involving dried fish (鹹魚 haahm yu), bitter melon (涼瓜 leung gwa), tofu sheet (枝竹 kei tsuk), stringbeans (四季豆 sei gwai dau), preserved pork product (臘味 laap mei), in various combinations with beef, pork, chicken, whether sautéed or in a clay pot (煲子), perhaps involving ginger and scallion (姜葱 geung tsung), curry (咖哩 ka-lei).
Rice plates, noodle preparations, soup.
All at reasonable prices.
The siu mai and shrimp bonnets were utterly delicious.
It is a place that bears considerable investigation.
I look forward to going there again. Lunch or dinner.
Another person who can't read Chinese well but does know Cantonese would be ideal company at the table.
I can read everything they have on the wall, but I'm not a fluent speaker.
If there are two of us, we can share a selection of dishes.
More fun that way, and there's more to taste.
No, I'm not taking my roommate.
[Expect a review of the restaurant, probably soon. Until then I shan't mention the name or the address. But if those siu mai and shrimp bonnets are any indication, their prepared dishes are probably exceedingly tasty too.]
Dining with someone who likes trying something new is always better.
There is more that can be happily discovered that way.
And sharing tasty food is a pleasure.
Weekends mean solitude and smoking my pipe a lot.
Plus enjoying long baths and good food.
There used to be more.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, February 10, 2012
THE BESTEST TIME!
I have plans for the ideal date.
Now all I have to do is find someone.
Actually, it's more like a sequence of date-like events.
FIRST "DATE": Meet at a mutually agreed upon coffee shop, and have animated conversation fuelled by caffeine. Before parting, we decide on a future time and place for food together.
SECOND "DATE": Eating at a restaurant, as mentioned above.
My treat - I enjoy company during meals.
Nothing pretentious, just a nice place that at least one of us has tried before. Knowing what to expect is very important.
This should, ideally, be followed by going home together and happily reading in peace and quiet for a few hours.
Occasionally I will step outside of the room to smoke.
We each have our own book, though at times we read juicy passages aloud to each other, with relish.
"The skin secretions of Litoria Caerulea have antiviral and antibacterial properties"
As just an example. The text might not be about ANY of the Hylids.
But that there a fascinating datum, and one might wonder if the beast should be licked.
And whether Australians have actually tried that.
Caffeine is an important part of this scenario, though not necessarily coffee.
Sharing cups of tea is delightful.
And perhaps cookies?
THIRD "DATE": More happy conversation, more caffeine. More food.
Lunch or dinner.
Or both.
Likely more reading, too.
* * * * * * * *
One of my friends observed a long time ago that I see engaging with the opposite gender far too much in terms of friendship.
Instead of pursuit, razzle-dazzle, and magic.
Maybe so.
But if you cannot take pleasure in each other's company, and enjoy the presence of the other person, do you really have any business being together?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Now all I have to do is find someone.
Actually, it's more like a sequence of date-like events.
FIRST "DATE": Meet at a mutually agreed upon coffee shop, and have animated conversation fuelled by caffeine. Before parting, we decide on a future time and place for food together.
SECOND "DATE": Eating at a restaurant, as mentioned above.
My treat - I enjoy company during meals.
Nothing pretentious, just a nice place that at least one of us has tried before. Knowing what to expect is very important.
This should, ideally, be followed by going home together and happily reading in peace and quiet for a few hours.
Occasionally I will step outside of the room to smoke.
We each have our own book, though at times we read juicy passages aloud to each other, with relish.
"The skin secretions of Litoria Caerulea have antiviral and antibacterial properties"
As just an example. The text might not be about ANY of the Hylids.
But that there a fascinating datum, and one might wonder if the beast should be licked.
And whether Australians have actually tried that.
Caffeine is an important part of this scenario, though not necessarily coffee.
Sharing cups of tea is delightful.
And perhaps cookies?
THIRD "DATE": More happy conversation, more caffeine. More food.
Lunch or dinner.
Or both.
Likely more reading, too.
* * * * * * * *
One of my friends observed a long time ago that I see engaging with the opposite gender far too much in terms of friendship.
Instead of pursuit, razzle-dazzle, and magic.
Maybe so.
But if you cannot take pleasure in each other's company, and enjoy the presence of the other person, do you really have any business being together?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, February 09, 2012
RED MINNOW ISLAND
For generations the natives had farmed rice and tended small gardens.
At one point, their number was over five hundred, but by the late eighties there were probably only around several dozen of them left.
They no longer live there now, but somewhere else.
The island, as they knew it, no longer exists.
But they can see it from where they are.
It looks very beautiful, very modern.
赤鱲角村 TSEK LAP KOK TSYUN
There had been people living on Chek Lap Kok almost continuously since the Neolithic period. The ancestors of the current natives repopulated the island after the great Ching Dynasty Clearance (遷界令), which for several years (1661 - 1669) emptied the coastal areas to deny pirates and rebels any assistance.
In the late twentieth century the entire place was leveled, and connected to an even smaller islet (欖洲) by land reclamation.
Then a gigantic transit hub was built.
A village was created for the exiles near Tung Chung Wan (東涌灣), on the northern side of Lantau Island (爛頭), facing the new Hong Kong International Airport (香港國際機場).
It's barely a few miles away from where they came from.
[欖洲 (lam chau: 'olives isle') was less than half a kilometer long, just to the west of Chek Lap Kok. 爛頭 (lan tau: 'raggedy head') is properly named 大嶼山 (taai yiu saan: 'big islet mountain'). 東涌灣 (tung chung wan: 'eastern stream bay') was a just fishing settlement once, but is now a rapidly developing new town with high-rise apartment buildings, connected to Hong Kong and Kowloon by the MTR system as well as the expressway over the Tsing Ma Bridge (青馬大橋).]
In contrast to both Chek Lap Kok and Lam Chau, Lantau Island is relatively green, even verdant. There are forested areas and wooded hillsides.
The two smaller islands were mostly rock, and apart from farming, the locals quarried the granite that was used to build Hong Kong.
Things have improved for the villagers since the move - they're connected to the outside world better than before, travel to the city is easier, and there is greater security.
The ground that they were once the only people to tread upon is now traversed by thousands daily, and the entire world knows where Chek Lap Kok once was.
That could be comforting.
A source of some pride, perhaps.
Their 'island of red minnows' is famous.
But occasionally they must look across the water at the airport, and try to figure out where their homes once stood, thinking "that's where my parents lived...... I was born over there, our house was at that end...... there's the path I walked every day...... "
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, February 08, 2012
MY PERSONAL PLANS FOR THE CHINESE NEW YEAR PARADE
Three days hence, on Saturday February 11, the Chinese New Year Parade in San Francisco will take place.
You will probably not be surprised to find out that I will not watch it.
Indeed, I saw it once or twice, back in the eighties. But I've always found American parades to be too much and too slow. Really, how many high-school marching bands from the hinterlands and the delta do you have to see before you've had enough?
Or politicians in open vehicles, benignly doing the regal wave?
Yes, the various dragons and lion dances are neat-O.
So is the St. Mary's Drum and Bell Corps.
Evenso.
My biggest problem is that I would prefer to eat dinner on Kearny Street, either at the place with the waitress who has a kind face, or the restaurant where 'miss-lovely-small-hands' works. Rice-stick noodles in soup, or fish and greens.
But either place is out of the question.
Kearny Street is where all the crowds will be.
Anywhere in C'town is probably not a good idea this Saturday.
Not with half a million suburbanites in town.
Too many people, too much noise.
My best bet is to purchase a selection of snacky things (點心) in early afternoon, either from one of the dimsum counters on Stockton Street, or from 容記糕粉店 on Jackson.
Once I get to the office, I'll put them in the refrigerator for later.
糯米雞 or 雞飽, perhaps, and some 燒賣, 咸水角, and 蝦餃. Maybe even a 鹹蛋酥, despite the cholesterol. Or perhaps because of it. Even two of them - one is never enough.
A quiet little feast high above the frenzy.
[BRIEF EXPLANATION OF THE WORDS: 點心 (dimsum) = snacky things, little tasty dumplings or steamed small dishes, often eaten at a teahouse for breakfast or lunch. 容記糕粉店 (yong kee gou fan diem) = a store on Jackson Street that sells freshly made dimsum items and small pastries; they're usually out of stock and sweeping the floor by late afternoon. 糯米雞 (no mai kai) = glutinous rice and chicken wrapped in a lotus leaf and steamed - one package is enough for two people, hence the alternative, 雞飽. 雞飽 (kai bao), which is a steamed bun filled with chicken. 燒賣, 咸水角, and 蝦餃 (siu mai, haahm sui gok, and haa gau) = pork mince enfolded in a pasta cup and steamed, steamed and pan-fried pork and rice flour cake, and shrimp bonnets respectively. 鹹蛋酥 (haahm dan so) = a salt egg yolk nestled in lotus seed paste (莲蓉 lien yong) inside a pastry shell, utterly delicious! Very similar to a 蛋黃酥 (dan wong so), which is also high in cholesterol (and one is likewise never enough!), but not as deadly as 菠蘿油 filled with 餐肉, which is one of the most dangerous AND satisfying snacks in the known universe.
Trust me on this. Have one. With a nice hot cup of 奶茶. You'll thank me later.]
FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD
From the direction of Market Street, the sounds of drums and explosions will reach me as I eat.
I may even observe the festive throngs briefly from the windows thirteen floors up, before deciding to take a very long nap in the break room till it's all over.
There is a large beanbag pillow there, and nobody will hear me snoring.
Need to bring in an alarm clock.
Later I'll head over to the cigar bar.
They will probably not be busy afterwards.
It should be pleasant being around people again.
* * * * * *
It will have been a splendid parade. Colourful, glorious, joyous, and festive. Lots of fire crackers!
The five hundred thousand suburbanites (or more) will be bubbling over with excitement, and returning home stuffed to the gills with sweet and sour pork, kung pao prawns, and pork-fried rice. Plus imperial rolls!
If you've never seen it, you really must come.
It's a not-to-be-missed experience.
Happy New Year.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You will probably not be surprised to find out that I will not watch it.
Indeed, I saw it once or twice, back in the eighties. But I've always found American parades to be too much and too slow. Really, how many high-school marching bands from the hinterlands and the delta do you have to see before you've had enough?
Or politicians in open vehicles, benignly doing the regal wave?
Yes, the various dragons and lion dances are neat-O.
So is the St. Mary's Drum and Bell Corps.
Evenso.
My biggest problem is that I would prefer to eat dinner on Kearny Street, either at the place with the waitress who has a kind face, or the restaurant where 'miss-lovely-small-hands' works. Rice-stick noodles in soup, or fish and greens.
But either place is out of the question.
Kearny Street is where all the crowds will be.
Anywhere in C'town is probably not a good idea this Saturday.
Not with half a million suburbanites in town.
Too many people, too much noise.
My best bet is to purchase a selection of snacky things (點心) in early afternoon, either from one of the dimsum counters on Stockton Street, or from 容記糕粉店 on Jackson.
Once I get to the office, I'll put them in the refrigerator for later.
糯米雞 or 雞飽, perhaps, and some 燒賣, 咸水角, and 蝦餃. Maybe even a 鹹蛋酥, despite the cholesterol. Or perhaps because of it. Even two of them - one is never enough.
A quiet little feast high above the frenzy.
[BRIEF EXPLANATION OF THE WORDS: 點心 (dimsum) = snacky things, little tasty dumplings or steamed small dishes, often eaten at a teahouse for breakfast or lunch. 容記糕粉店 (yong kee gou fan diem) = a store on Jackson Street that sells freshly made dimsum items and small pastries; they're usually out of stock and sweeping the floor by late afternoon. 糯米雞 (no mai kai) = glutinous rice and chicken wrapped in a lotus leaf and steamed - one package is enough for two people, hence the alternative, 雞飽. 雞飽 (kai bao), which is a steamed bun filled with chicken. 燒賣, 咸水角, and 蝦餃 (siu mai, haahm sui gok, and haa gau) = pork mince enfolded in a pasta cup and steamed, steamed and pan-fried pork and rice flour cake, and shrimp bonnets respectively. 鹹蛋酥 (haahm dan so) = a salt egg yolk nestled in lotus seed paste (莲蓉 lien yong) inside a pastry shell, utterly delicious! Very similar to a 蛋黃酥 (dan wong so), which is also high in cholesterol (and one is likewise never enough!), but not as deadly as 菠蘿油 filled with 餐肉, which is one of the most dangerous AND satisfying snacks in the known universe.
Trust me on this. Have one. With a nice hot cup of 奶茶. You'll thank me later.]
FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD
From the direction of Market Street, the sounds of drums and explosions will reach me as I eat.
I may even observe the festive throngs briefly from the windows thirteen floors up, before deciding to take a very long nap in the break room till it's all over.
There is a large beanbag pillow there, and nobody will hear me snoring.
Need to bring in an alarm clock.
Later I'll head over to the cigar bar.
They will probably not be busy afterwards.
It should be pleasant being around people again.
* * * * * *
It will have been a splendid parade. Colourful, glorious, joyous, and festive. Lots of fire crackers!
The five hundred thousand suburbanites (or more) will be bubbling over with excitement, and returning home stuffed to the gills with sweet and sour pork, kung pao prawns, and pork-fried rice. Plus imperial rolls!
If you've never seen it, you really must come.
It's a not-to-be-missed experience.
Happy New Year.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THAT NICE FULL FEELING
Further to yesterday's zesty discussion of middle-aged male pulchritude, it has come to my attention that there are humane mouse traps which do not damage the little beastie.
They are battery operated.
One of the cigar smokers, who is NOT part of the gang at the wall, has acquired such a device.
Every day he eagerly checks to see if mice have been caught.
Then he takes them out and wrings their necks.
I need to emphasize that he is NOT part of the gang at the wall.
We just know him.
Okay?!?
Dave suggested that perhaps he ate his little victims, whereupon I observed that mice, no matter how plump and juicy, should not be considered a meaningful source of meal-time protein.
What with skinning and gutting (as well as removing the heads, paws, and tails), there can't be enough meat left for even half a sandwich, let alone a full meatloaf.
If he eats them (doubtful, in my estimation), he is probably best served by first braising them in butter, then seething them with a little red wine or brandy. That should get rid of the gamey taste.
Especially if he adds garlic.
Lots of garlic.
Still, hardly any meat. Doesn't seem worth it.
NAKED MAN ON ALL FOURS
Dave disagrees.
There's PLENTY of protein to be had from Murinae.
Why, according to Farley Mowatt, whom he read once, wolves out in the wilds of Canada derive most of their diet from mice running through the tall grass.
Extremely nutritious!
Both of us speculated a while about P.B. (the mouse catcher) loping across the prairie naked on all fours, leaping after fleeing vermin in an agile fashion.
Assuming that he channels for wolves.
Rather than Hannibal Lecter.
Naked running man.
Middle aged.
Thrill!
A naked man in motion, hurtling gazelle-like through the undergrowth.
BOUNDING MIDDLE-AGED NUDE
He'd have to be on all fours and naked, because that's how wolves hunt.
It must be the only way to catch enough mice for a full feeling.
Well, perhaps wearing his fetching head-gear.
P.B. has a collection of hats.
Further to the speculative feral nudity of our acquaintance, it is quite possible that instead of nourishment, the objective of his mouse-catching is to save up enough pelts to make a coat.
Especially if he's running around naked.
Imagine lots of pinkness.
And howling.
Cold.
A mouse-fur coat would be quite the conversation piece. And require a deft hand with a needle, which we would not be at all surprised to find out P.B. has.
A very nice fur coat.
All warm and soft.
Go on, touch it.
In the meantime, he probably stashes their little cadavers in the freezer.
So that other mice aren't scared off by his charnel house.
Likely puts cheese out to lure them in.
The more, the merrier!
Or 'furrier'...
We're waiting to hear that he has adapted his device for larger game.
Now that he's smelled blood.
Next up: chickens.
Or man.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PS: Notice the convenient clickable label below, which if pressed will bring up ALL posts that have relevance to the smokers at the wall, most recent post first.
Go on, click it! You know you want to.
They are battery operated.
One of the cigar smokers, who is NOT part of the gang at the wall, has acquired such a device.
Every day he eagerly checks to see if mice have been caught.
Then he takes them out and wrings their necks.
I need to emphasize that he is NOT part of the gang at the wall.
We just know him.
Okay?!?
Dave suggested that perhaps he ate his little victims, whereupon I observed that mice, no matter how plump and juicy, should not be considered a meaningful source of meal-time protein.
What with skinning and gutting (as well as removing the heads, paws, and tails), there can't be enough meat left for even half a sandwich, let alone a full meatloaf.
If he eats them (doubtful, in my estimation), he is probably best served by first braising them in butter, then seething them with a little red wine or brandy. That should get rid of the gamey taste.
Especially if he adds garlic.
Lots of garlic.
Still, hardly any meat. Doesn't seem worth it.
NAKED MAN ON ALL FOURS
Dave disagrees.
There's PLENTY of protein to be had from Murinae.
Why, according to Farley Mowatt, whom he read once, wolves out in the wilds of Canada derive most of their diet from mice running through the tall grass.
Extremely nutritious!
Both of us speculated a while about P.B. (the mouse catcher) loping across the prairie naked on all fours, leaping after fleeing vermin in an agile fashion.
Assuming that he channels for wolves.
Rather than Hannibal Lecter.
Naked running man.
Middle aged.
Thrill!
A naked man in motion, hurtling gazelle-like through the undergrowth.
BOUNDING MIDDLE-AGED NUDE
He'd have to be on all fours and naked, because that's how wolves hunt.
It must be the only way to catch enough mice for a full feeling.
Well, perhaps wearing his fetching head-gear.
P.B. has a collection of hats.
Further to the speculative feral nudity of our acquaintance, it is quite possible that instead of nourishment, the objective of his mouse-catching is to save up enough pelts to make a coat.Especially if he's running around naked.
Imagine lots of pinkness.
And howling.
Cold.
A mouse-fur coat would be quite the conversation piece. And require a deft hand with a needle, which we would not be at all surprised to find out P.B. has.
A very nice fur coat.
All warm and soft.
Go on, touch it.
In the meantime, he probably stashes their little cadavers in the freezer.
So that other mice aren't scared off by his charnel house.
Likely puts cheese out to lure them in.
The more, the merrier!
Or 'furrier'...
We're waiting to hear that he has adapted his device for larger game.
Now that he's smelled blood.
Next up: chickens.
Or man.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PS: Notice the convenient clickable label below, which if pressed will bring up ALL posts that have relevance to the smokers at the wall, most recent post first.
Go on, click it! You know you want to.
Tuesday, February 07, 2012
INTERNET ROMANCE
I was going to write about food today, and actually had a post tentatively mapped out, discussing such things as French fries with mayo, country paté, and head cheese.
You know, good solid eats from Holland.
The place where herring, Genever, frikadel, and speculaas come from.
But no.
I made the mistake of looking at my blog-stats first.
"naked middle aged"
Truly I am blessed. Someone is reading this blog right now looking for "naked middle aged".
That's it. No other qualifiers.
Not 'naked middle aged wombat'.
Nor 'naked middle aged man, woman, or child'.
Not even 'hot and sexy naked middle aged Dutch American with a pipe'.
All they want is 'naked middle aged'.
If that doesn't prove that middle age is the hottest and most fascinating period of physical development in a person's life, I don't know what.
You will be pleased to know that underneath my clothing, I am naked and middle aged.
Yes, both!
Imagine.
There are times when I am the veritable Adonis of 'hot and sexy middle aged Dutch American with a pipe'. It's usually a very lovely pipe, too.
It complements my steely battle-ship grey eyes.
Which I'm sure you would notice, were you to drink in the totality of my unclothed zesty personhood as I wander around the empty apartment on weekend afternoons prior to taking a bath.
There's a cup of coffee there too. Just imagine it in front of certain parts if you're shy. Don't worry, it's a big cup.
Many people have been naked and middle aged at some point in their lives.
But I make it look effortless. I'm extremely talented that way.
I've been studying my whole life for this moment.
It takes stamina and perseverance.
Practice makes perfect.
NAKED MIDDLE AGE IS THE MEANING OF LIFE
Dear reader-who-is-looking-for-naked-and-middle-aged, let me know what you find so appealing about 'naked middle aged'.
Is it the appeal of a smooth and emotionally stable adult?
The decorative qualities of mature nudes?
Perhaps that we're so loveable?
And fully developed?
Maybe even some deep passion within you that longs to become one with naked middle age?
Please write!
I know I'm darn special at present.
But your insights can make it even better.
You, after all, are the person who is fascinated by the condition.
I'm merely the prime exemplar.
I am not looking to find what I represent, by the way.
What I want is naked and "half my age".
I haven't grown up yet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You know, good solid eats from Holland.
The place where herring, Genever, frikadel, and speculaas come from.
But no.
I made the mistake of looking at my blog-stats first.
"naked middle aged"
Truly I am blessed. Someone is reading this blog right now looking for "naked middle aged".
That's it. No other qualifiers.
Not 'naked middle aged wombat'.
Nor 'naked middle aged man, woman, or child'.
Not even 'hot and sexy naked middle aged Dutch American with a pipe'.
All they want is 'naked middle aged'.
If that doesn't prove that middle age is the hottest and most fascinating period of physical development in a person's life, I don't know what.
You will be pleased to know that underneath my clothing, I am naked and middle aged.
Yes, both!
Imagine.
There are times when I am the veritable Adonis of 'hot and sexy middle aged Dutch American with a pipe'. It's usually a very lovely pipe, too.
It complements my steely battle-ship grey eyes.
Which I'm sure you would notice, were you to drink in the totality of my unclothed zesty personhood as I wander around the empty apartment on weekend afternoons prior to taking a bath.
There's a cup of coffee there too. Just imagine it in front of certain parts if you're shy. Don't worry, it's a big cup.
Many people have been naked and middle aged at some point in their lives.
But I make it look effortless. I'm extremely talented that way.
I've been studying my whole life for this moment.
It takes stamina and perseverance.
Practice makes perfect.
NAKED MIDDLE AGE IS THE MEANING OF LIFE
Dear reader-who-is-looking-for-naked-and-middle-aged, let me know what you find so appealing about 'naked middle aged'.
Is it the appeal of a smooth and emotionally stable adult?
The decorative qualities of mature nudes?
Perhaps that we're so loveable?
And fully developed?
Maybe even some deep passion within you that longs to become one with naked middle age?
Please write!
I know I'm darn special at present.
But your insights can make it even better.
You, after all, are the person who is fascinated by the condition.
I'm merely the prime exemplar.
I am not looking to find what I represent, by the way.
What I want is naked and "half my age".
I haven't grown up yet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, February 06, 2012
HONG KONG POSTING
One of my readers (S.B.) writes:
"I find myself in HK this month. Visited a Davidoff store in search of pipe tobacco. A tin of Royalty was a mere $358hkd. Uh, no thanks. Even more expensive than Canada where a tin runs for $30cad.
Thank goodness I packed a tin of Chelsea Morning before the flight here. Not my favourite blend but it tastes better knowing that I only spent $10 on it.
I did buy some cigarillos. Expensive at $194hkd for 10 Davidoff clubs but does well for a quick fix.
Off to enjoy the rest of HK. I'll search your archives on food later. I think I have a cha chang teng meal in my near future."
End quote.
EAT - DRINK - SMOKE
Readers in the United States should know that Royalty by Davidoff is an internationally available pipe tobacco that is smokeable in a pinch. Some people really like it, and while it is by no means a favourite of this blogger, I do have several tins stashed away to enjoy after the Zombie Apocalypse, along with all my other tobaccos.
Still, fifty bucks US for a tin of pipe tobacco is ridiculous. So is thirty dollars Canadian, but I understand they have to subsidize otters and polar bears, and those furry freeloaders are quite expensive.
What with their well-known laziness and all that.
Cute and loveable costs extra.
Here in California we think we're being royally screwed by the state government in Sacramento, who have yanked up the price of tobacco products to the point where homeless and unemployed people have to mug schoolkids for their lunch money or whack some old biddy over the head with a beer bottle for her pension cheque, just so that they can purchase a pack of smokes.
We often forget that elsewhere in this world the wheat-germ freaks and do-gooders have got their greasy claws more firmly around the scrotal sacks of our fellow tobacco mavens.
Which explains why the Zombie Apocalypse is inevitable.
It will be a needed cleansing of the earth.
No more damned puritans.
But I digress.
Anyhow, for the convenience of temporary visitors to Hong Kong, such as the writer of the message quoted above, here are links to previous articles on this blog about food in Fragrant Harbour.
IN MONG KOK, SNACK WITH YOUR FAT SISTER!
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/10/in-mong-kok-snack-with-your-fat-sister.html
All about eating stuff on a stick.
HONG KONG ROAST GOOSE IN SHAM TSENG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/10/hong-kong-roast-goose-in-sham-tseng.html
The what and why of a delicious bird.
KWUN TONG - HONG KONG'S CHANGING ORIGINAL SUBURB, PLUS A RESTAURANT
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/08/kwun-tong-hong-kongs-changing-original.html
A brief description of an industrial area of Hong Kong which is being transformed, ending with a fond description of the Shanghai Wing Wah Szechuan Restaurant (上海榮華川菜館), plus over a dozen recommended dishes there.
As well as a gratuitous mention of the Tsim Chai Kee Noodle Restaurant (沾仔記) in Central (中環), which does stellar shrimp wonton.
TAI PO MARKET 大埔
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/04/tai-po-market.html
Description of the town, and spot reviews of several local restaurants there. Plus recommendations.
Anyway, look for Hakka cuisine.
WIFE CAKE - PILGRIMAGE TO YUEN LONG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/04/wife-cake-pilgrimage-to-yuen-long.html
There are TWO reasons to go to Yuen Long (元朗) in the New Territories. One of them is poon choi (盤菜), the other one is wife cake.
FLOWER MARKET ROAD IN MONGKOK: 旺角花墟道
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/03/flower-market-road-in-mongkok.html
Kaidanchai at Uncle Fong's, the Saint Honoré Cake Shop (聖安娜餅屋) at the corner of Flower Market and Yuen Ngai, Cheesecake at the Supreme (貴族蛋糕, 160A Prince Edward Road West), and 七喜粥麵小廚 (chat hei jook mien siu tsyu) on Fa Yuen Street(花園街) for fishballs, rice porridge, and small eats.
FISHY INTERLUDE - TUNG CHOI STREET, HONG KONG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/03/fishy-interlude-tung-choi-street-hong.html
Aquarium stores, a book seller, and three restaurants to eat lunch.
IT'S JUST PAST THE SEVEN ELEVEN, YOU CAN'T MISS IT!
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/03/its-just-past-seven-eleven-you-cant.html
Random speculation about the lunch habits of our Hong Kong office, as well as three lovely eateries within walking distance of Mody Road (麼地道), on Hau Fook Street (厚福街), right in the centre of TsimShaTsui (尖沙咀).
WONTON, WANTAN, WUNTUN: HON'S WUN TUN HOUSE AND SCRAWNY MAK
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/01/wonton-wantan-wuntun-hons-wun-tun-house.html
After discussing Hon's Wun-Tun House on Kearny Street in San Francisco, the great mack-daddy of all Cantonese wuntuneries is detailed.
* * * * * *
Of course, Hong Kong is totally dimsum central. And everyone you speak to will have their own favourite cha tsan teng, than which there is no better, which they will insist on explaining in a manner that bears no contradiction, and at great inordinate length.
Unless they're willing to go there with you, however, take their opinion as advice rather than the gospel.
For everything I've ever written about Hong Kong, click this label: 香港.
There's rather a lot, and it's not all about food. Some of it is more or less gibberish.
Have a great time, eat well, and don't run out of pipe tobacco.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"I find myself in HK this month. Visited a Davidoff store in search of pipe tobacco. A tin of Royalty was a mere $358hkd. Uh, no thanks. Even more expensive than Canada where a tin runs for $30cad.
Thank goodness I packed a tin of Chelsea Morning before the flight here. Not my favourite blend but it tastes better knowing that I only spent $10 on it.
I did buy some cigarillos. Expensive at $194hkd for 10 Davidoff clubs but does well for a quick fix.
Off to enjoy the rest of HK. I'll search your archives on food later. I think I have a cha chang teng meal in my near future."
End quote.
EAT - DRINK - SMOKE
Readers in the United States should know that Royalty by Davidoff is an internationally available pipe tobacco that is smokeable in a pinch. Some people really like it, and while it is by no means a favourite of this blogger, I do have several tins stashed away to enjoy after the Zombie Apocalypse, along with all my other tobaccos.
Still, fifty bucks US for a tin of pipe tobacco is ridiculous. So is thirty dollars Canadian, but I understand they have to subsidize otters and polar bears, and those furry freeloaders are quite expensive.
What with their well-known laziness and all that.
Cute and loveable costs extra.
Here in California we think we're being royally screwed by the state government in Sacramento, who have yanked up the price of tobacco products to the point where homeless and unemployed people have to mug schoolkids for their lunch money or whack some old biddy over the head with a beer bottle for her pension cheque, just so that they can purchase a pack of smokes.
We often forget that elsewhere in this world the wheat-germ freaks and do-gooders have got their greasy claws more firmly around the scrotal sacks of our fellow tobacco mavens.
Which explains why the Zombie Apocalypse is inevitable.
It will be a needed cleansing of the earth.
No more damned puritans.
But I digress.
Anyhow, for the convenience of temporary visitors to Hong Kong, such as the writer of the message quoted above, here are links to previous articles on this blog about food in Fragrant Harbour.
IN MONG KOK, SNACK WITH YOUR FAT SISTER!
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/10/in-mong-kok-snack-with-your-fat-sister.html
All about eating stuff on a stick.
HONG KONG ROAST GOOSE IN SHAM TSENG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/10/hong-kong-roast-goose-in-sham-tseng.html
The what and why of a delicious bird.
KWUN TONG - HONG KONG'S CHANGING ORIGINAL SUBURB, PLUS A RESTAURANT
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/08/kwun-tong-hong-kongs-changing-original.html
A brief description of an industrial area of Hong Kong which is being transformed, ending with a fond description of the Shanghai Wing Wah Szechuan Restaurant (上海榮華川菜館), plus over a dozen recommended dishes there.
As well as a gratuitous mention of the Tsim Chai Kee Noodle Restaurant (沾仔記) in Central (中環), which does stellar shrimp wonton.
TAI PO MARKET 大埔
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/04/tai-po-market.html
Description of the town, and spot reviews of several local restaurants there. Plus recommendations.
Anyway, look for Hakka cuisine.
WIFE CAKE - PILGRIMAGE TO YUEN LONG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/04/wife-cake-pilgrimage-to-yuen-long.html
There are TWO reasons to go to Yuen Long (元朗) in the New Territories. One of them is poon choi (盤菜), the other one is wife cake.
FLOWER MARKET ROAD IN MONGKOK: 旺角花墟道
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/03/flower-market-road-in-mongkok.html
Kaidanchai at Uncle Fong's, the Saint Honoré Cake Shop (聖安娜餅屋) at the corner of Flower Market and Yuen Ngai, Cheesecake at the Supreme (貴族蛋糕, 160A Prince Edward Road West), and 七喜粥麵小廚 (chat hei jook mien siu tsyu) on Fa Yuen Street(花園街) for fishballs, rice porridge, and small eats.
FISHY INTERLUDE - TUNG CHOI STREET, HONG KONG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/03/fishy-interlude-tung-choi-street-hong.html
Aquarium stores, a book seller, and three restaurants to eat lunch.
IT'S JUST PAST THE SEVEN ELEVEN, YOU CAN'T MISS IT!
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/03/its-just-past-seven-eleven-you-cant.html
Random speculation about the lunch habits of our Hong Kong office, as well as three lovely eateries within walking distance of Mody Road (麼地道), on Hau Fook Street (厚福街), right in the centre of TsimShaTsui (尖沙咀).
WONTON, WANTAN, WUNTUN: HON'S WUN TUN HOUSE AND SCRAWNY MAK
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/01/wonton-wantan-wuntun-hons-wun-tun-house.html
After discussing Hon's Wun-Tun House on Kearny Street in San Francisco, the great mack-daddy of all Cantonese wuntuneries is detailed.
* * * * * *
Of course, Hong Kong is totally dimsum central. And everyone you speak to will have their own favourite cha tsan teng, than which there is no better, which they will insist on explaining in a manner that bears no contradiction, and at great inordinate length.
Unless they're willing to go there with you, however, take their opinion as advice rather than the gospel.
For everything I've ever written about Hong Kong, click this label: 香港.
There's rather a lot, and it's not all about food. Some of it is more or less gibberish.
Have a great time, eat well, and don't run out of pipe tobacco.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, February 05, 2012
GAUDEAMUS IGITUR
What happens if you aren’t interested in the superbowl?
After all, it's not like two teams anybody's ever heard of, or cared about, are playing today. And even if they were, football is a remarkably stupid game, in that it consists of very large chunky boys beating the crap out of each other, sometimes in slow motion.
The Superbowl is a complete non-event.
So what do you do when everyone is obsessed with the game?
You enjoy the peace and quiet in the city.
Every red-blooded male for miles around has drunk the coolaid, and is glued to the idiot box following the adventures of round-bottomed men in shiny spandex tights as they disport themselves gaily with a bit of dead pig.
The streets are nearly empty.
It was a nice afternoon, the few people who were about radiated good cheer and bonhomie, pleased to be outside on such a lovely day.
One could almost feel oneself bursting into song.
LET US BE HAPPY!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCZQPIRSKTY.]
Of course anybody singing this on the streets of San Francisco in this day and age would be promptly locked up.
At least for 72 hours of observation.
San Franciscans do not take kindly to people speaking in tongues.
Let alone singing in what they take to be gibberish.
For your edification, here are the complete lyrics.
GAUDEAMUS IGITUR
1.
Gaudeamus igitur,
iuvenus dum sumus.
Gaudeamus igitur,
iuvenus dum sumus.
Post iucundum iuventutem,
Post molestam senectutem,
Nos habebit humus.
Nos habebit humus.
2.
Ubi sunt qui ante nos,
In mundo fuere?
Ubi sunt qui ante nos,
In mundo fuere?
Vadite ad superos,
Transite in inferos,
Hos si vis videre.
Hos si vis videre.
3.
Vita nostra brevis est ,
Brevi finietur.
Vita nostra brevis est ,
Brevi finietur.
Venit mors velociter,
Rapit nos atrociter,
Nemini parcetur.
Nemini parcetur.
4.
Vivat academia,
Vivant professores.
Vivat academia,
Vivant professores.
Vivat membrum quodlibet,
Vivat membra quaelibet,
Semper sint in flore.
Semper sint in flore.
5.
Vivant omnes virgines,
Faciles, formosae.
Vivant omnes virgines,
Faciles, formosae.
Vivant et mulieres,
Tenerae amabiles,
Bonae laboriosae.
Bonae laboriosae.
6.
Vivant et res publica,
et qui illam regit.
Vivant et res publica,
et qui illam regit.
Vivat nostra civitas,
Maecenatum caritas,
Quae nos hic protegit.
Quae nos hic protegit.
7.
Pereat tristitia,
Pereant osores.
Pereat tristitia,
Pereant osores.
Pereat diabolus,
Quivis antiburschius,
Atque irrisores.
Atque irrisores.
You will have noted that the youtube version presented above does not contain the seventh stanza. Some colleges do not sing it, as it is taken to be too abrasive and smart-aleck. Or something.
[But you can hear it in this version: De Brevitate Vitae .
Apparently that college keeps rivalries alive. Good for them.]
For performances, frequently only verses one, four, and six are sung.
Somehow, a bunch of cleanly scrubbed upstanding young college chaps singing this for an audience, comes across as all wrong.
It should instead be bellowed out by unwashed disreputable intellectuals who stand no chance of graduating this year, preferably while getting disgracefully stinko on decent plonk.
Or alternatively high as a kite on tea and crumpets.
It is about as distant in attitude from the whole running around crashing into each other sports scene so beloved of urban America as you can get.
And therefore, suitable for everyone not obsessed over the game today.
Who's playing, did you say?
The New England Poncies against the Giant Budgie Wisers?
Who cares!
It was a perfect day to be in the city.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
After all, it's not like two teams anybody's ever heard of, or cared about, are playing today. And even if they were, football is a remarkably stupid game, in that it consists of very large chunky boys beating the crap out of each other, sometimes in slow motion.
The Superbowl is a complete non-event.
So what do you do when everyone is obsessed with the game?
You enjoy the peace and quiet in the city.
Every red-blooded male for miles around has drunk the coolaid, and is glued to the idiot box following the adventures of round-bottomed men in shiny spandex tights as they disport themselves gaily with a bit of dead pig.
The streets are nearly empty.
It was a nice afternoon, the few people who were about radiated good cheer and bonhomie, pleased to be outside on such a lovely day.
One could almost feel oneself bursting into song.
LET US BE HAPPY!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCZQPIRSKTY.]
Of course anybody singing this on the streets of San Francisco in this day and age would be promptly locked up.
At least for 72 hours of observation.
San Franciscans do not take kindly to people speaking in tongues.
Let alone singing in what they take to be gibberish.
For your edification, here are the complete lyrics.
GAUDEAMUS IGITUR
1.
Gaudeamus igitur,
iuvenus dum sumus.
Gaudeamus igitur,
iuvenus dum sumus.
Post iucundum iuventutem,
Post molestam senectutem,
Nos habebit humus.
Nos habebit humus.
2.
Ubi sunt qui ante nos,
In mundo fuere?
Ubi sunt qui ante nos,
In mundo fuere?
Vadite ad superos,
Transite in inferos,
Hos si vis videre.
Hos si vis videre.
3.
Vita nostra brevis est ,
Brevi finietur.
Vita nostra brevis est ,
Brevi finietur.
Venit mors velociter,
Rapit nos atrociter,
Nemini parcetur.
Nemini parcetur.
4.
Vivat academia,
Vivant professores.
Vivat academia,
Vivant professores.
Vivat membrum quodlibet,
Vivat membra quaelibet,
Semper sint in flore.
Semper sint in flore.
5.
Vivant omnes virgines,
Faciles, formosae.
Vivant omnes virgines,
Faciles, formosae.
Vivant et mulieres,
Tenerae amabiles,
Bonae laboriosae.
Bonae laboriosae.
6.
Vivant et res publica,
et qui illam regit.
Vivant et res publica,
et qui illam regit.
Vivat nostra civitas,
Maecenatum caritas,
Quae nos hic protegit.
Quae nos hic protegit.
7.
Pereat tristitia,
Pereant osores.
Pereat tristitia,
Pereant osores.
Pereat diabolus,
Quivis antiburschius,
Atque irrisores.
Atque irrisores.
You will have noted that the youtube version presented above does not contain the seventh stanza. Some colleges do not sing it, as it is taken to be too abrasive and smart-aleck. Or something.
[But you can hear it in this version: De Brevitate Vitae .
Apparently that college keeps rivalries alive. Good for them.]
For performances, frequently only verses one, four, and six are sung.
Somehow, a bunch of cleanly scrubbed upstanding young college chaps singing this for an audience, comes across as all wrong.
It should instead be bellowed out by unwashed disreputable intellectuals who stand no chance of graduating this year, preferably while getting disgracefully stinko on decent plonk.
Or alternatively high as a kite on tea and crumpets.
It is about as distant in attitude from the whole running around crashing into each other sports scene so beloved of urban America as you can get.
And therefore, suitable for everyone not obsessed over the game today.
Who's playing, did you say?
The New England Poncies against the Giant Budgie Wisers?
Who cares!
It was a perfect day to be in the city.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A MILD OBSESSION WITH LACE, SILK, AND COTTON.
You may have noticed that I placed a clickable LETTERBOX underneath my posts, just in case some of my readers wish to contact me privately.
It’s simply a dedicated comment field underneath a particular post, and serves no other purpose than confidential communication.
So far, one reader who remembered me from another blog dropped in to say ‘hi’, several sporadic visitors have introduced themselves, a few people asked questions to which either I do not know the answer OR to which I will eventually respond.
A multitude of spammers have tried to seed my box with adverts – they’ve been deleted.
And one person sent me a question that oh boy howdy do I know the answer to.
TEN answers, in fact.
Name withheld asked: “How do I get into girls' panties?”
It’s an interesting quandary. It says more about the querent than he could possibly imagine.
In fact it indicates a particular bent to his mind which is neither uncommon, nor entirely sane.
"How do I get into girls' panties?"
I did not consult anyone I know, as they do it naturally.
It's something they've done every day of their lives for as long as they can remember, but never thought about.
It hasn't been a problem; they wouldn't have a clue how to answer that question.
Might even consider it somewhat forward.
I've given it some serious thought, however.
TEN WAYS TO GET INTO GIRLS' PANTIES
1. Harvest items from the Laundromat.
2. One leg at a time.
3. Creatively rename your boxer shorts.
4. Hide in a hamper (do not go 'boo!').
5. I'm into pipe tobacco myself, btw.
6. Wait till there's no one else in them.
7. Insist on trying things on at the store.
8. Lose a bet with your college dorm mates.
9. Be careful what you wish for.
And lastly:
10. Zen-like concentration, grasshopper, Zen-like concentration!
Like any hobby, read up on the subject and learn about the materials before you start collecting. Decide whether you want to focus on size, texture, or trim. Or even delicate variations in hue from year to year.
Also, bear in mind that while it isn't rare for a male to develop a fascination for feminine undergarments - heck, ninety percent of the men I know find it an intriguing subject - women tend to look askance at this, especially if it becomes obsessive. Women never get into men's underwear, and no young lady has ever glanced at the manly men in the Sears catalogue modeling their 'tidy whities'.
Even comfortable boxers, such as I myself have on AT THIS VERY MOMENT, do not excite the female of the species.
Good lord man, no one actually has a clue what women like about men.
But it sure isn't our underpants.
Keep me updated on your progress, and feel free to post pictures of prize specimens on the internet.
And thank you so much for asking for my advice.
I have never felt so avuncular!
NOTE: The question that 'name withheld' actually posed was “How do I get into Chinese girls' panties”, but I felt that was narrowing it down a bit too much. Here in the Bay Area, MOST young ladies wear panties; consequently the diversity of sizes and shapes available at the stores is immense. The chance of finding panties in YOUR size is much greater if you expand your range.
As far as I know, there is no special material or decorative detail to Chinese girls' panties that sets them apart.
They wear much the same as everyone else.
What, you thought it was something like the secret Masonic handshake?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It’s simply a dedicated comment field underneath a particular post, and serves no other purpose than confidential communication.
So far, one reader who remembered me from another blog dropped in to say ‘hi’, several sporadic visitors have introduced themselves, a few people asked questions to which either I do not know the answer OR to which I will eventually respond.
A multitude of spammers have tried to seed my box with adverts – they’ve been deleted.
And one person sent me a question that oh boy howdy do I know the answer to.
TEN answers, in fact.
Name withheld asked: “How do I get into girls' panties?”
It’s an interesting quandary. It says more about the querent than he could possibly imagine.
In fact it indicates a particular bent to his mind which is neither uncommon, nor entirely sane.
"How do I get into girls' panties?"
I did not consult anyone I know, as they do it naturally.
It's something they've done every day of their lives for as long as they can remember, but never thought about.
It hasn't been a problem; they wouldn't have a clue how to answer that question.
Might even consider it somewhat forward.
I've given it some serious thought, however.
TEN WAYS TO GET INTO GIRLS' PANTIES
1. Harvest items from the Laundromat.
2. One leg at a time.
3. Creatively rename your boxer shorts.
4. Hide in a hamper (do not go 'boo!').
5. I'm into pipe tobacco myself, btw.
6. Wait till there's no one else in them.
7. Insist on trying things on at the store.
8. Lose a bet with your college dorm mates.
9. Be careful what you wish for.
And lastly:
10. Zen-like concentration, grasshopper, Zen-like concentration!
Like any hobby, read up on the subject and learn about the materials before you start collecting. Decide whether you want to focus on size, texture, or trim. Or even delicate variations in hue from year to year.
Also, bear in mind that while it isn't rare for a male to develop a fascination for feminine undergarments - heck, ninety percent of the men I know find it an intriguing subject - women tend to look askance at this, especially if it becomes obsessive. Women never get into men's underwear, and no young lady has ever glanced at the manly men in the Sears catalogue modeling their 'tidy whities'.
Even comfortable boxers, such as I myself have on AT THIS VERY MOMENT, do not excite the female of the species.
Good lord man, no one actually has a clue what women like about men.
But it sure isn't our underpants.
Keep me updated on your progress, and feel free to post pictures of prize specimens on the internet.
And thank you so much for asking for my advice.
I have never felt so avuncular!
NOTE: The question that 'name withheld' actually posed was “How do I get into Chinese girls' panties”, but I felt that was narrowing it down a bit too much. Here in the Bay Area, MOST young ladies wear panties; consequently the diversity of sizes and shapes available at the stores is immense. The chance of finding panties in YOUR size is much greater if you expand your range.
As far as I know, there is no special material or decorative detail to Chinese girls' panties that sets them apart.
They wear much the same as everyone else.
What, you thought it was something like the secret Masonic handshake?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, February 04, 2012
A FRAGRANCE IN THE MIND
There was a time when Henri smoked cigars, obviously without his parents knowing. Many young men in Valkenswaard and nearby villages experimented with cigars – this was, after all, where the factories that made these beloved products thrived – and most parents firmly believed that their children were angels, pure and innocent.
Somehow the idea that youthful smoking was a sin had taken root, despite the generations of tobacco leaf strippers, bunchers, and rollers that inhabited the Kempen region, and the multitude of cigar factories in the various Southern towns – De Huifkar, Karel 1, Willem II, Hofnar, et autres.
At that time I already smoked a pipe openly. I had been buying my own tobacco since I was fourteen, and few people thought it particularly unusual that I smoked. Other people’s children ALWAYS smoked.
Henri’s parents knew, and regarded it benignly.
So charmingly eccentric! A pipe!
Thank G_d it’s not a stogey, or one of those horrid shag cigarettes.
Henri used me as his cover. Whenever we met outside for a smoke in the glade of ancient trees several blocks away, he would light up as my smoke wafted around him, perfuming his clothes and disguising his indulgence. He smoked the ‘halve’ coronas made by Hofnar, as well as some other brands. Seldom Willem II cigars, as he disapproved of their ties to organized sports.
It seemed sneaky to him for a tobacco company to feign an interest in the mental and physical health of the community, when obviously what they were more keenly invested in was their image and the well-being of their continuing enterprise.
The only sport, he maintained, that had any possible connection with cigars, was horse racing.
After several months, his sister Suzanne was in on the secret, which pleased me immensely. She was delightful company, and the three of us would park our bikes against one of the trees and sit on the bench. Two of us smoking, the third as a vivacious sparkling presence witnessing our depravity. All three of us would end up smelling woodsy from the Latakia in my blend, mixed with something 'else'.
It was a wonderful way to spend the twilight.
In summer the mist would drift in among the trees, and the glow from nearby streetlights would paint the glade a warm warm gold.
One evening we didn’t make it to our private place. His parents had some people over, and Henri and Suzanne could not leave.
I smoked a pipe in the quiet by myself, then went over to their house. Their mom had let it be known that I was welcome to drop by for coffee after dinner. We sat out on the veranda under the stars, and Henri’s father offered cigars to his old friend, indicating that I should have one also if I felt so inclined. I demurred, and filled my pipe.
The three of us smoked, with Henri among us and Suzanne just off to the side. Henri looked somewhat down, clearly wanting to smoke too. Suzanne suggested cheerfully to her father “maybe you should give Henri a cigaartje, he would look SO elegant smoking!”
The answer was no, Henri shouldn’t acquire the habit until he went away to college. Then tobacco might prove useful, especially if he was studying late at night. All university students smoked.
Old-style parents in the Netherlands in that day often disapproved of their children smoking. Not so much because the habit itself, as the horrifying idea that their children would neglect propriety by lighting up around them. Smoking, in some way, was a marker of the hierarchical distinctions that a family needed to maintain.
The older generation smoked.
The younger generation didn’t.
At least not around their parents.
I let my pipe go out, in deference to Henri’s plight. I was somewhat disquieted at having inadvertently been party to his father re-emphasizing the generational differences of status and privilege.
The next evening we met at the usual spot. Henri did not refer to yesterday’s events, and seemed unconcerned – he had his own cigars with him, and happily drooled faint whisps of smoke into the evening air. Afterwards, as we parted, he mentioned that after I had left, his father and the old friend had had one more cigar each, “just to keep the mosquitoes away”.
Both he and Suzanne had reeked of smoke when they went back indoors.
It had been quite lovely.
That autumn he went away to college, and occupied rooms in Utrecht with other students from Valkenswaard. Together they drank lots of strong coffee, and smoked the cigars manufactured by Hofnar every single evening. Once every three of four weeks he would come home for the weekend if he could, but most of the time I had no one to smoke with in the glade of trees, and I stopped going there, especially after the weather turned cold.
Months later, after winter had passed and the weather had warmed up again, I was bicycling towards the Wilhelmina Park when Suzanne on her own bike came next to me. I was very happy to see her, and without even thinking we rode toward the glade of trees. It was not yet even close to evening time; mid-afternoon, and pleasantly warm. We parked our bikes against a tree and sat on the bench.
I lit up, and we chatted for over an hour. I had another pipe-full to make the moment last, and whisps of smoke lazily drifted past and over her. I couldn't help noticing that she was, well... , "curvier" than last year.
When it was time to go, we both mounted our bikes, and rode back, still talking.
As we parted, she mentioned that Henri would come home for the summer. She looked forward to the three of us meeting every evening for a smoke in the glade again.
“Does your father now know that Henri smokes?”
“Yes. But he doesn’t do it around the old man.”
“Then how... ?”
“You’ve never sniffed his shirts, huh?”
“Oh.”
“They no longer smell of your tobacco, but reek of Java and Sumatra.”
She also said that she very much preferred the fragrance of Latakia.
It just smelled so much more “civilized”.
And her mom agreed.
Very nice!
...
Much has changed since then. None of us live in Valkenswaard anymore.
I left over thirty years ago, it has been a dozen years since I last went back.
The cigar factories are all gone, the rollers have retired.
It smells different now.
WOODSY, AND SOMETHING ELSE
In another few minutes I shall leave the office and go around the corner to the cigar bar to smoke a pipe or two.
Definitely a full Latakia mixture, perfuming the sparse Saturday evening crowd.
Henri and Suzanne will NOT be there, alas. Probably no vivacious sparkling presence at all.
But the same gold gold glow from the grove of ancient trees will be all around.
And a familiar dreaminess will rekindle.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Somehow the idea that youthful smoking was a sin had taken root, despite the generations of tobacco leaf strippers, bunchers, and rollers that inhabited the Kempen region, and the multitude of cigar factories in the various Southern towns – De Huifkar, Karel 1, Willem II, Hofnar, et autres.
At that time I already smoked a pipe openly. I had been buying my own tobacco since I was fourteen, and few people thought it particularly unusual that I smoked. Other people’s children ALWAYS smoked.
Henri’s parents knew, and regarded it benignly.
So charmingly eccentric! A pipe!
Thank G_d it’s not a stogey, or one of those horrid shag cigarettes.
Henri used me as his cover. Whenever we met outside for a smoke in the glade of ancient trees several blocks away, he would light up as my smoke wafted around him, perfuming his clothes and disguising his indulgence. He smoked the ‘halve’ coronas made by Hofnar, as well as some other brands. Seldom Willem II cigars, as he disapproved of their ties to organized sports.
It seemed sneaky to him for a tobacco company to feign an interest in the mental and physical health of the community, when obviously what they were more keenly invested in was their image and the well-being of their continuing enterprise.
The only sport, he maintained, that had any possible connection with cigars, was horse racing.
After several months, his sister Suzanne was in on the secret, which pleased me immensely. She was delightful company, and the three of us would park our bikes against one of the trees and sit on the bench. Two of us smoking, the third as a vivacious sparkling presence witnessing our depravity. All three of us would end up smelling woodsy from the Latakia in my blend, mixed with something 'else'.
It was a wonderful way to spend the twilight.
In summer the mist would drift in among the trees, and the glow from nearby streetlights would paint the glade a warm warm gold.
One evening we didn’t make it to our private place. His parents had some people over, and Henri and Suzanne could not leave.
I smoked a pipe in the quiet by myself, then went over to their house. Their mom had let it be known that I was welcome to drop by for coffee after dinner. We sat out on the veranda under the stars, and Henri’s father offered cigars to his old friend, indicating that I should have one also if I felt so inclined. I demurred, and filled my pipe.
The three of us smoked, with Henri among us and Suzanne just off to the side. Henri looked somewhat down, clearly wanting to smoke too. Suzanne suggested cheerfully to her father “maybe you should give Henri a cigaartje, he would look SO elegant smoking!”
The answer was no, Henri shouldn’t acquire the habit until he went away to college. Then tobacco might prove useful, especially if he was studying late at night. All university students smoked.
Old-style parents in the Netherlands in that day often disapproved of their children smoking. Not so much because the habit itself, as the horrifying idea that their children would neglect propriety by lighting up around them. Smoking, in some way, was a marker of the hierarchical distinctions that a family needed to maintain.
The older generation smoked.
The younger generation didn’t.
At least not around their parents.
I let my pipe go out, in deference to Henri’s plight. I was somewhat disquieted at having inadvertently been party to his father re-emphasizing the generational differences of status and privilege.
The next evening we met at the usual spot. Henri did not refer to yesterday’s events, and seemed unconcerned – he had his own cigars with him, and happily drooled faint whisps of smoke into the evening air. Afterwards, as we parted, he mentioned that after I had left, his father and the old friend had had one more cigar each, “just to keep the mosquitoes away”.
Both he and Suzanne had reeked of smoke when they went back indoors.
It had been quite lovely.
That autumn he went away to college, and occupied rooms in Utrecht with other students from Valkenswaard. Together they drank lots of strong coffee, and smoked the cigars manufactured by Hofnar every single evening. Once every three of four weeks he would come home for the weekend if he could, but most of the time I had no one to smoke with in the glade of trees, and I stopped going there, especially after the weather turned cold.
Months later, after winter had passed and the weather had warmed up again, I was bicycling towards the Wilhelmina Park when Suzanne on her own bike came next to me. I was very happy to see her, and without even thinking we rode toward the glade of trees. It was not yet even close to evening time; mid-afternoon, and pleasantly warm. We parked our bikes against a tree and sat on the bench.
I lit up, and we chatted for over an hour. I had another pipe-full to make the moment last, and whisps of smoke lazily drifted past and over her. I couldn't help noticing that she was, well... , "curvier" than last year.
When it was time to go, we both mounted our bikes, and rode back, still talking.
As we parted, she mentioned that Henri would come home for the summer. She looked forward to the three of us meeting every evening for a smoke in the glade again.
“Does your father now know that Henri smokes?”
“Yes. But he doesn’t do it around the old man.”
“Then how... ?”
“You’ve never sniffed his shirts, huh?”
“Oh.”
“They no longer smell of your tobacco, but reek of Java and Sumatra.”
She also said that she very much preferred the fragrance of Latakia.
It just smelled so much more “civilized”.
And her mom agreed.
Very nice!
...
Much has changed since then. None of us live in Valkenswaard anymore.
I left over thirty years ago, it has been a dozen years since I last went back.
The cigar factories are all gone, the rollers have retired.
It smells different now.
WOODSY, AND SOMETHING ELSE
In another few minutes I shall leave the office and go around the corner to the cigar bar to smoke a pipe or two.
Definitely a full Latakia mixture, perfuming the sparse Saturday evening crowd.
Henri and Suzanne will NOT be there, alas. Probably no vivacious sparkling presence at all.
But the same gold gold glow from the grove of ancient trees will be all around.
And a familiar dreaminess will rekindle.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, February 03, 2012
I AM A THERMOMETER
There's a little known physical twist to me that makes it possible for other people to gauge the weather outside.
Specifically, after my mid-day pipe smoking break, you can look at my fingers to find out whether you need a jacket, a jacket and a sweater, or a jacket, a sweater, and someone else's stolen thermal underwear.
'Rainaud's phenomenon'.
According to Wikipedia, this is a "vasospastic disorder causing discoloration of the fingers, toes, and occasionally other areas. This condition can also cause nails to become brittle with longitudinal ridges. Named for French physician Maurice Raynaud (1814–1881), the phenomenon is believed to be the result of vasospasms that decrease blood supply to the respective regions. Stress and cold are classic triggers of the phenomenon."
Presently it's the middle of winter in San Francisco.
So my pipe break is a frigid affair.
Most of the time when I come back inside, two or three of my fingers look like they were fished out of the East River. Sometimes the vaso-constrictive pallor has progressed to cyanosis of the tips of one or two fingers.
They still look like corpse digits, but blue is a NICER colour.
Yes, I could wear gloves. But I need to be able to manipulate pipe, tamper, cleaners, and matches. Gloves interdict that effort, decreasing dexterity and digital sensitivity all around. Which is also why I never wear gloves when handling Habanero chilies either.
That has on occasion lead to some unfortunate moments - especially that one time when I reclined in the bath tub for over an hour with a bag of ice emptied over my private parts - but I'm all about sensations.
Texture and stuff.
Gotta feel things.
Tingly fingertips.
"Stress and cold are classic triggers ... "
Besides, if I wore gloves, my co-workers would NEVER know how cold it is.
One finger, two fingers, three fingers......
First digit, second digit......
White. Or blue.
I'm a public service announcement.
It's my altruistic streak.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Specifically, after my mid-day pipe smoking break, you can look at my fingers to find out whether you need a jacket, a jacket and a sweater, or a jacket, a sweater, and someone else's stolen thermal underwear.
'Rainaud's phenomenon'.
According to Wikipedia, this is a "vasospastic disorder causing discoloration of the fingers, toes, and occasionally other areas. This condition can also cause nails to become brittle with longitudinal ridges. Named for French physician Maurice Raynaud (1814–1881), the phenomenon is believed to be the result of vasospasms that decrease blood supply to the respective regions. Stress and cold are classic triggers of the phenomenon."
Presently it's the middle of winter in San Francisco.
So my pipe break is a frigid affair.
Most of the time when I come back inside, two or three of my fingers look like they were fished out of the East River. Sometimes the vaso-constrictive pallor has progressed to cyanosis of the tips of one or two fingers.
They still look like corpse digits, but blue is a NICER colour.
Yes, I could wear gloves. But I need to be able to manipulate pipe, tamper, cleaners, and matches. Gloves interdict that effort, decreasing dexterity and digital sensitivity all around. Which is also why I never wear gloves when handling Habanero chilies either.
That has on occasion lead to some unfortunate moments - especially that one time when I reclined in the bath tub for over an hour with a bag of ice emptied over my private parts - but I'm all about sensations.
Texture and stuff.
Gotta feel things.
Tingly fingertips.
"Stress and cold are classic triggers ... "
Besides, if I wore gloves, my co-workers would NEVER know how cold it is.
One finger, two fingers, three fingers......
First digit, second digit......
White. Or blue.
I'm a public service announcement.
It's my altruistic streak.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, February 02, 2012
DINNER AT ELEVEN
Salami. Cheddar cheese.
And seaweed flavoured rice crackers.
Chicken Vienna Sausages, with mayonnaise, mustard, and hotsauce.
Mango pickle. Lime pickle. With a small spoon.
Banana chips. More hotsauce.
Cigarillos.
"Votre oreilles sont comme tetes de poisson"
My dreams were in spreadsheet format, ms Excel.
Except for the one in which I twiddled nipples. I can't remember whose nipples they might have been - the only thing I noticed about her was the nipples - but she must have been a very nice person to dream about, as she was NOT in spreadsheet format.
Unless she was a formula in one of the cells.
'Equals sum parenthesis A1 times G1 end parenthesis'.
Yields nipples!
Highlight range in an appropriate colour, and do a control 'B'.
Click on cell, control 'C', and paste one over.
That way there are TWO of them.
Reduce font size.
Control 'S'.
Something tastes like dogfood.
Dang.
Have the Viennas gone bad?
Counting on the fruit juice to keep me regular.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And seaweed flavoured rice crackers.
Chicken Vienna Sausages, with mayonnaise, mustard, and hotsauce.
Mango pickle. Lime pickle. With a small spoon.
Banana chips. More hotsauce.
Cigarillos.
"Votre oreilles sont comme tetes de poisson"
My dreams were in spreadsheet format, ms Excel.
Except for the one in which I twiddled nipples. I can't remember whose nipples they might have been - the only thing I noticed about her was the nipples - but she must have been a very nice person to dream about, as she was NOT in spreadsheet format.
Unless she was a formula in one of the cells.
'Equals sum parenthesis A1 times G1 end parenthesis'.
Yields nipples!
Highlight range in an appropriate colour, and do a control 'B'.
Click on cell, control 'C', and paste one over.
That way there are TWO of them.
Reduce font size.
Control 'S'.
Something tastes like dogfood.
Dang.
Have the Viennas gone bad?
Counting on the fruit juice to keep me regular.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
INSTRUCTIONS ON RAISING CHILDREN
One of the other smokers at the wall is going to have a baby. This was entirely unplanned, and it's turning into a traumatic experience. The prospect of new life is frightening.
And a profound misfortune, as it so happens.
It's actually his "good lady" who is having the baby.
He isn't.
Though he is excessively chubby in sympathy with her.
Naturally we, his fellow tobacco mavens, have been fully supportive.
We've shared lots of information about condoms and their function with him these past few days.
Those aren't just for laundry coins, you know!
Prophylactic devices are infinitely useful.
More so if neither of you are married.
His "good lady", it turns out, is vexatious.
Over the weekend she went through his stockpile of cigars and pipe tobacco, and instructed him to get rid of a large portion of it.
The baby will need extra room. She insists that his past-time will have to bend to her demands.
The outrage among his concerned friends is palpable.
I, as the leader of pipe-gang, have been unstinting with kind words.
ADVICE TO A YOUNG FRIEND
If your child is a boy, not too much of a problem.
Just don't drop hot cigar ashes while you're changing diapers.
For the rest, let nature take its course, and keep him away from team sports.
If, however, it's a girl, EXTRA effort will be required!
You'll have to start conditioning the infant early.
Make sure that the smell of pipe tobacco is imprinted before she can even walk or talk, so that she instinctively associates good memories with the aroma.
Choose the tobaccos you smoke around her wisely.
Let delicate whisps of your favourite flake steal through the house during happy moments, and above all ensure that her vicious non-smoking troll-mom doesn't lecture the kid about tobacco.
If you catch your daughter trying one of your pipes, perhaps when she's thirteen or fourteen, invite her quietly to go back behind the barn with you for a friendly father-daughter chat about flue-cured, sun-grown, Perique, Latakia, packing techniques, bowl shapes, and such like.
Just take care that your "good woman" doesn't hear about it.
In this, as in so many other things, that horrid creature is bound to be a bad influence.
Allow the little girl to sniff your bowls occasionally, let her know that pipes are nice things ("see that lovely grain, sweetheart?"), and be gently supportive of her first experiments.
With the right encouragement early on, there's no doubt that you will be buying her a gorgeous high-quality straight grain for her sixteenth birthday.
Make sure to set funds aside for that.
A girl's sixteenth birthday is special, you know.
So is her eighteenth - she'll be able to buy her own tobacco.
As well as her twenty first, when you finally take her to the cigar bar.
Daughters are precious, and must be carefully nurtured, so that they do NOT turn out like their ghoblin-hag moms who want you to sell off some of your tobacco hoard.
You mentioned that she was even eyeing your pipes speculatively!
Tell her that HECK will freeze over before you put those up on e-bay.
And hands off the Samuel Gawith, you... THING!
As well as the G. L. Pease!
Have you considered building a man-cave behind the house? A secret compartment between some of the walls, like a giant humidor?
Perhaps an extension to the basement - she'll never go down those steep concrete steps while she's carrying, and by the time she spits the child forth from her loins, you could have another decade's worth of pipe tobacco and stogies stashed away safely without her ever even knowing.
Burrow into the hillside - once you're deep enough, the temperature will stabilize.
With due dilligence, your little girl will grow up normal.
Not interested in expensive purses or designer shoes like her mom.
Instead of jewelry, gimcracks, makeup, and her own car when she's a teenager, she'll want sensible things like a Dunhill pipe and her own set of Shas.
Italian straight grains plus several dozen reference books.
Ben Wade, Butz-Choquin, Charatan, Comoy.... And a library of timeless literary classics of her very own!
A few Peterson System Standards and some Canadians by the same company, plus Brendan Behan, Padraic Colum, JP Donleavy, Roddy Doyle, James Joyce, Charles Robert Maturin.
See, that's the problem with today's young women - far too much exposure to shallow shopaholic morons in the extended family, not nearly enough pipe smokers.
If their fathers had been paying sufficient attention while the girls grew up, they'd now all be happy well-adjusted academics with bright bespectacled eyes and excellent taste, instead of superficial self-absorbed little dipheads demanding jewelry and other pointless frip.
Always make time for your daughter.
When she's older, both of you will be glad you did.
If she turns out well, you can leave your pipe collection to her.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And a profound misfortune, as it so happens.
It's actually his "good lady" who is having the baby.
He isn't.
Though he is excessively chubby in sympathy with her.
Naturally we, his fellow tobacco mavens, have been fully supportive.
We've shared lots of information about condoms and their function with him these past few days.
Those aren't just for laundry coins, you know!
Prophylactic devices are infinitely useful.
More so if neither of you are married.
His "good lady", it turns out, is vexatious.
Over the weekend she went through his stockpile of cigars and pipe tobacco, and instructed him to get rid of a large portion of it.
The baby will need extra room. She insists that his past-time will have to bend to her demands.
The outrage among his concerned friends is palpable.
I, as the leader of pipe-gang, have been unstinting with kind words.
ADVICE TO A YOUNG FRIEND
If your child is a boy, not too much of a problem.
Just don't drop hot cigar ashes while you're changing diapers.
For the rest, let nature take its course, and keep him away from team sports.
If, however, it's a girl, EXTRA effort will be required!
You'll have to start conditioning the infant early.
Make sure that the smell of pipe tobacco is imprinted before she can even walk or talk, so that she instinctively associates good memories with the aroma.
Choose the tobaccos you smoke around her wisely.
Let delicate whisps of your favourite flake steal through the house during happy moments, and above all ensure that her vicious non-smoking troll-mom doesn't lecture the kid about tobacco.
If you catch your daughter trying one of your pipes, perhaps when she's thirteen or fourteen, invite her quietly to go back behind the barn with you for a friendly father-daughter chat about flue-cured, sun-grown, Perique, Latakia, packing techniques, bowl shapes, and such like.
Just take care that your "good woman" doesn't hear about it.
In this, as in so many other things, that horrid creature is bound to be a bad influence.
Allow the little girl to sniff your bowls occasionally, let her know that pipes are nice things ("see that lovely grain, sweetheart?"), and be gently supportive of her first experiments.
With the right encouragement early on, there's no doubt that you will be buying her a gorgeous high-quality straight grain for her sixteenth birthday.
Make sure to set funds aside for that.
A girl's sixteenth birthday is special, you know.
So is her eighteenth - she'll be able to buy her own tobacco.
As well as her twenty first, when you finally take her to the cigar bar.
Daughters are precious, and must be carefully nurtured, so that they do NOT turn out like their ghoblin-hag moms who want you to sell off some of your tobacco hoard.
You mentioned that she was even eyeing your pipes speculatively!
Tell her that HECK will freeze over before you put those up on e-bay.
And hands off the Samuel Gawith, you... THING!
As well as the G. L. Pease!
Have you considered building a man-cave behind the house? A secret compartment between some of the walls, like a giant humidor?
Perhaps an extension to the basement - she'll never go down those steep concrete steps while she's carrying, and by the time she spits the child forth from her loins, you could have another decade's worth of pipe tobacco and stogies stashed away safely without her ever even knowing.
Burrow into the hillside - once you're deep enough, the temperature will stabilize.
With due dilligence, your little girl will grow up normal.
Not interested in expensive purses or designer shoes like her mom.
Instead of jewelry, gimcracks, makeup, and her own car when she's a teenager, she'll want sensible things like a Dunhill pipe and her own set of Shas.
Italian straight grains plus several dozen reference books.
Ben Wade, Butz-Choquin, Charatan, Comoy.... And a library of timeless literary classics of her very own!
A few Peterson System Standards and some Canadians by the same company, plus Brendan Behan, Padraic Colum, JP Donleavy, Roddy Doyle, James Joyce, Charles Robert Maturin.
See, that's the problem with today's young women - far too much exposure to shallow shopaholic morons in the extended family, not nearly enough pipe smokers.
If their fathers had been paying sufficient attention while the girls grew up, they'd now all be happy well-adjusted academics with bright bespectacled eyes and excellent taste, instead of superficial self-absorbed little dipheads demanding jewelry and other pointless frip.
Always make time for your daughter.
When she's older, both of you will be glad you did.
If she turns out well, you can leave your pipe collection to her.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A CELEBRATION OF COMPLETE UNINTELLIGIBILITY - HET FRIES VOLKSLIED (THE FRISIAN ANTHEM)
Some songs just demand lots of beer. And it sounds like the overflowing stadium shown in the video below has already had a head start.
THE CHICKENSKIN MOMENT!
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnHBu-KopzE&feature=related.]
If after watching that you lament that you didn't understand what they were singing, you have my fullest sympathy.
That's why I have pasted the text below for your edification.
DE ÂLDE FRIEZEN
[Original written by Eeltsje Halbertsma, current version redacted by Jacobus van Loon, tune presumably by Heinrich Schnoor.]
1.
Frysk bloed tsjoch op! Wol no ris brûze en siede,
En bûnzje troch ús ieren om!
Flean op! Wy sjonge it bêste lân fan d'ierde,
It Fryske lân fol eare & rom!
Refrein:
Klink dan en daverje fier yn it rûn,
Dyn âlde eare, o Fryske grûn!
Klink dan en daverje fier yn it rûn,
Dyn âlde eare, o Fryske grûn!
2.
Hoe ek fan oermacht, need en see betrutsen,
Oerâlde, leave Fryske grûn;
Nea waard dy fêste taaie bân ferbrutsen,
Dy't Friezen oan har lân ferbûn.
Refrein.
3.
Fan bûgjen frjemd, bleau by 't âld folk yn eare;
Syn namme en taal, syn frije sin;
Syn wurd wie wet: rjocht, sljocht en trou syn leare,
En twang fan wa ek stie it tsjin.
Refrein.
4.
Troch-loftich folk fan dizze âlde namme,
Wês jimmer op dy âlders great!
Bliuw ivich fan dy grize hege stamme,
In grien, in krêftich bloeiend leat!
Refrein.
Chickenskin, in the title of the video, is a direct translation of the Dutch term for goosebumps (goose flesh, goose pimples, etcetera), which are a piloerective reaction to cold, fear, awe, or sexual arousal. The Germans also describe it in terms of geese (gänsehaut), as do the Danish (gåsehud). The dutch term refers to chickens, as do the terms in Chinese (雞皮疙瘩) and Finnish (kananliha).
Piloerection is sometimes a symptom of disease, neurological disorders, or withdrawal from hard drugs.
No idea what any of these things are in Frisian.
I do not speak Frisian.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE CHICKENSKIN MOMENT!
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnHBu-KopzE&feature=related.]
If after watching that you lament that you didn't understand what they were singing, you have my fullest sympathy.
That's why I have pasted the text below for your edification.
DE ÂLDE FRIEZEN
[Original written by Eeltsje Halbertsma, current version redacted by Jacobus van Loon, tune presumably by Heinrich Schnoor.]
1.
Frysk bloed tsjoch op! Wol no ris brûze en siede,
En bûnzje troch ús ieren om!
Flean op! Wy sjonge it bêste lân fan d'ierde,
It Fryske lân fol eare & rom!
Refrein:
Klink dan en daverje fier yn it rûn,
Dyn âlde eare, o Fryske grûn!
Klink dan en daverje fier yn it rûn,
Dyn âlde eare, o Fryske grûn!
2.
Hoe ek fan oermacht, need en see betrutsen,
Oerâlde, leave Fryske grûn;
Nea waard dy fêste taaie bân ferbrutsen,
Dy't Friezen oan har lân ferbûn.
Refrein.
3.
Fan bûgjen frjemd, bleau by 't âld folk yn eare;
Syn namme en taal, syn frije sin;
Syn wurd wie wet: rjocht, sljocht en trou syn leare,
En twang fan wa ek stie it tsjin.
Refrein.
4.
Troch-loftich folk fan dizze âlde namme,
Wês jimmer op dy âlders great!
Bliuw ivich fan dy grize hege stamme,
In grien, in krêftich bloeiend leat!
Refrein.
Chickenskin, in the title of the video, is a direct translation of the Dutch term for goosebumps (goose flesh, goose pimples, etcetera), which are a piloerective reaction to cold, fear, awe, or sexual arousal. The Germans also describe it in terms of geese (gänsehaut), as do the Danish (gåsehud). The dutch term refers to chickens, as do the terms in Chinese (雞皮疙瘩) and Finnish (kananliha).
Piloerection is sometimes a symptom of disease, neurological disorders, or withdrawal from hard drugs.
No idea what any of these things are in Frisian.
I do not speak Frisian.
==========================================================================
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,...
