LOOK BEHIND YOU, IT"S SITTING UP AGAIN!

The ugly adventure that is Hayward continues.  At least for a few more days.  For readers who are new to this blog, the background data is that the company for which I work moved from San Francisco to the armpit of the universe two months ago, which is a two hour commute by public transit away from civilization.  Currently it is changing hands.
Which means that this time next week I should be wondering how I shall gainfully spend my time.

The transfer was supposed to be done by now.
I have been there for over a decade.
All good things come to an end.
Then there are beginnings.
Change can be good.


The past two years have been exhilaratingly nightmarish.

The beast ain't dead yet, but I am looking forward to not spending four hours a day on public transit, and then ten hours at the office.
Why did I do it? Why did I stay so long?
Probably because I'm a little crazy.
Something you didn't notice.

I like discovering new things. Life lived by routine becomes a rut.
In that vein, I try different foods, read books I have never explored before, and talk to new people.
One of the things I also like doing is studying foreign-language dictionaries.
That used to be good for falling asleep, now it thrills me endlessly.
Folks with interesting minds also considerably please me.
Often they themselves do not realize that.
To them, they're quite normal.
To me, fascinating.

Hayward will continue for a few more days. This, too, should be stimulating.
It's been one heck of a ride over the cliff; high-speed roller-coaster.
My coworkers have shown their finest sides during the trip.
As well as surprising quirks and wit.
Good people.



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CELEBRATORY DONUT

Wednesday Evening:
It’s quiet in the industrial zone of Hayward at night. Except, of course, for people talking about labour costs in China. Such as is happening in a corner of the office. Long hours this week, and a note of finality.
Next week will be far less busy for me.
I’m very much looking forward to that.

First break in nearly twelve years.

Good for a new beginning.

No, I shall not spend hours updating my Facebook page. It was fun for a while, but nothing beats actual human contact. The face to face thing is both far more rewarding, and more enjoyable than anything FB to FB.
There is so much that the eyes convey which short texts cannot do.

Cute kitten pictures are of course different.
I don’t really believe that, but it’s safer to just give in.
Your forehead is probably crinkling in worry as you read this, because you love kittens. And stuff like this makes you doubt the solidity of your value system.
Such a disturbing statement!!!
Why is he challenging me?!?

I’ve neglected all the social networking sites and mailing lists over the past few months; they are not as thrilling as once they were, no longer sparkling and new.
Despite the kitten pictures.

Truth be told, I would rather stare at someone’s forehead for hours than dither around on Facebook.
Foreheads can be very interesting. Nice, even. Positively charming. This blogger has a pronounced thing for foreheads. Meet me over coffee and pastries sometime, and I’ll tell you ALL about it.
Twitter, MySpace, Hyves, and the ‘Association for the Advancement of Gastric Harmony’ cannot possibly compare to hearing real human voices, seeing the attractive costume jewelry pinned on a blouse, or secretly wondering how anyone can walk in those shoes.

Or, for that matter, admiring a forehead.


Thursday Morning:
I shall miss the crows in Hayward. There are far more of the little black rascals flying around here than in the city; their sparky personalities add a note of avian sanity to the place.
What I shall NOT miss are Doritos crunchy snax for breakfast at around ten o’clock, when oral boredom takes its frightful toll. Nor shall I miss the occasional venture into ruffled chip territory. If a crow cannot survive on it, it isn’t food.
The reverse does NOT hold true: crows sometimes eat crap that sensible humans eschew.
Except, perhaps in Hayward. Or elsewhere in the East Bay. People here eat some dubious things.
Hayward is the epicenter of gastric disharmony.


Today will be exciting. Whatever it takes.
I had a donut for energy.
On an intellectual level, I like donuts. They are one of the two great contributions that Dutch-Americans made to the U.S. (the other one being scalping – we taught the natives about that).

This is the final stretch. If all goes well, no more late nights for a while.
There will be no further blogposts here till Saturday evening.
I will let you know then if there was any celebration.
Foreheads; did I already mention foreheads?
Do you have a nice forehead?
I would like to see it.
Forehead.


Foreheads are better than donuts.

This is obvious.

Would you rather brush hair from a forehead, or from a donut?




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NECESSARY CONTENT

A friend advises me to head to China, suggesting that it might be an adventure, and that the relationship drought that presently holds could thus be solved.
Well, an adventure it certainly would be.
But not a solution to the drought.

Any person who enters my life will have to have English as a strong first language. Communication is vastly better if both sides think similarly, and in the same tongue, as well as to the same degree of literacy.

That final item requires elucidation.
I read some seriously deep stuff.
As well as complete garbage.
And I enjoy both equally.

Actually, besides news articles, for the past several months I've mostly read light fiction, manga, and trash. LOTS of trash.
Plus a little bit of Dutch and Chinese poetry.
Other than that, it's been lists of ingredients on packaged food. Admittedly there is not much literary value there, and no plot or character development...........


VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY

A companion should have an avid interest in food, a keen appreciation of Monty Python, and the ability to talk back.
Silence is deafening.

I suspect that such a person is somewhat more common on this side of the Pacific.
Possibly even here in San Francisco.

At least, I sure hope so.

We could compare our favourite lists of ingredients.




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YOUR HOT LOVING FINGERTIPS

Sometimes you have to stand tall and erect, stiffly straight.
On the other hand, maybe like a computer-age daemon Don Juan you want to crouch over the supine keyboard, which passively accepts your fervent strokes, as you lovingly input detailed credit memoranda rich in text and narrative. “This product was returned because the batteries ran out, leaving an entire classroom at Miss Dashbottom’s Academy for Gentlewomen gasping with disappointment!”
The poor young things! I feel for them!

They were horribly frustrated. I can understand that.
The little wheels and shiny plastic parts did NOT rotate.
The enslaved hamster wasn't twirled round and round till limp.

Please stop gasping. There are so many other pets you can have.
We are all your wigglyboos, you don't need batteries for that!
Or maybe you do. I shan't try to guess what you are doing.
If you want to just tell me, I will listen with interest.
Photos! I need photos! Of your hamster!

"Hello Miss Dashbottom, are you doing anything later?"

Several times these last few weeks I have wondered which of my colleagues in the Finance Team will have the first mental breakdown. We’ve all been working long hours, and the Comptroller and the CFO have been in the office on weekends.
Yesterday evening the entire department was at the office from before eight in the morning till eleven o’clock at night. No, I do not think we accomplished anything great, and it was only in very minor ways a bonding experience.
Being surrounded by fevered people is far more pleasant when you get to choose the company. As I'm sure you think also.
No offense, but I am glad it wasn’t anything to cause a glance askance.

The end is in sight, however.

I shall not have fits, because compared to them, I am old and sane.
Though I would deny the first part of that statement, as they would contest the second.


What shall I do when this is finally over?
De-compress. Sleep a bit. Read an awful lot.
I have every intention of smelling more like roses.

Oh, and perhaps meeting someone new.
It has been a very long time.



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A CHARMING GUACAMOLE-LIKE PERFUME...

The other day I saw several bins of avocadoes at a busy market in Chinatown. Which surprised me somewhat, as the avocado is not something I normally associate with Cantonese Cuisine.
How do you stirfy or steam an avocado?
More to the point: why?


奶油果 NAI YAU KWOH

The Cantonese, as is well-known, are not prodigious eaters of salsa. And while one can eat the avocado without much preprep, it is a somewhat boring item, being bland and buttery on the tongue, albeit not so greasy.
Guacamole is not something that you will see on many Chinese dinner tables, unless they've lived here quite a while.

But I can very well imagine women fixating on avocado as a skin rejuvenator, smearing it all over their faces in the hope that its rich emollient qualities will make them seem fresher and more radiant. Or, conceivably, one of them beating it smooth and rubbing it all over herself. In private. Perhaps for healthful purposes.

Maybe the shape of the fruit, and its name in Chinese, are suggestive of certain benefits: breast oil fruit.
In which case, go ahead and rub. It probably won't increase their dimension, if that is what you were counting on, but it's good for the skin, and feels very nice too.
No doubt better than birds nest, which many women use.

Several men bought avocadoes at the market in question.
No way of being certain, but I guess they're married.
Or have girlfriends who requested the fruits.


I would rather NOT imagine the alternative.


I do, however, have a pleasing mental picture of the avocadoes being put to good use.
Fresh and radiant.




NOTE: 'breast-oil' is the Chinese term for butter.


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A SHARP AND TANNIC SMELL

Though I prefer to live in a city, as can be deduced from my sneering at the suburbs in several essays on this blog, there are times when I fondly remember smaller towns.
In particular, several places in South East Asia, where the traffic is far less than in the metropoles but no less murderous, and the fields and forests are barely held at bay.
Not jungle - jungle is actually rather unpleasant.
But hillsides with rice paddies and undergrowth.
Wet, verdant, emeraude.

And also I recall villages in North Brabant, where I grew up.
Those locales are more memorable around this time of year, when fallen leaves drift in heaps, brown and crispy, and the world shuts down for a long dark wet spell, cold and Gothic.
Valkenswaard had areas which during the rest of the year were fairly bland, pleasant enough if not remarkable, but in Autumn became glorious, haunting, and deserted. The long twilights evoked more richly at the end of the year, and vegetal fragrances seemed intensely spicy in colder air.
Often there were nose-echoes of leaf-fires from a distance.
As well as cooking smells from nearby kitchens.
Olfactoria were more alive as light faded.

San Francisco is a lovely city, but there aren't enough trees, and nowhere near enough fallen leaves. Small furry things with vicious teeth do not scurry just beyond the edge of sight here, and cats do not prowl, hunting opportune prey; the raccoons would kill them if they did.

I miss brightly lit cafés, beckoning one in for a shot of Genever, a demi tasse of bitter coffee, and a friendly smoke. Being warmly indoors at a village taproom, reading the newspapers or chatting with semi-strangers, as layers of smoke whisp around the cups and glasses, is a way of life.
Going back will not still that memory; one cannot smoke in bars and cafes anymore. The Dutch have become as pedestrian as California in that regard, it's a change forced upon them by Brussels and the bureaucratic dislike of indulgence that their own Calvinists pioneered.

But at least one can probably wander down the Kromstraat or the Dommelsche Weg, where there are trees and shrubbery, smoking a pipe in the darkness, and happily crunching leaves underfoot.

There used to be a plantsoen with trees where the Maastrichter Weg and the Molenstraat intersected, with a bench amid.
I wonder if it's still there?


The cigar bar on Pine Street is a good place to smoke on Autumn evenings, but something is missing. Probably trees and wetness.
As well as Genever and Dutch coffee.
Certain friendly odours.



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IT'S REALLY NOT SUBTLE!

Upon reading the blogpost in which I praised hot greasy hamburgers for breakfast before six in the morning, a meal which if attempted might lead to gastric outrage, especially if no hot sauce or jalapeños were present, a friend remarked that living with me might prove vexing; clearly I was not sane before the coffee took hold.
Well, who is?


It was, I think, the little educational video clip embedded in that piece that roused his eye-brow. Somehow, it did not hit the spot.
It may have even persuaded him that a big fat oozing juices greasy bacon cheese burger was not what, in a sane world, anyone should eat.
Naturally I must vociferously disagree.
Hamburgers are gods.

Revere them.

Worship! them!

Such as the foxy redhead in this next video clip is doing. More praise than that for all manner of burgers is very hard to imagine.
It is poetic - a hymn to juicy things in buns.

OIL SPILL!


[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmy9CTn6xMs&feature=related .]


There are many things I can imagine for breakfast. A big greasy burger is just one of them.
The Japanese eat dried fish at dawn, with some miso soup to make it moist. They have a diet surprisingly rich in calcium. Indians have zesty curry, Bengalis avidly consume sorson ka maach, and the dutch go for buns with cheese.
Fish features as a wake-me-up in many cuisines.
Soft greasy things star in ours.

Some have fish. Some have crabs.

Well okay, maybe there is a subtext in that song.
Still, doesn't it make you salivate?

Aren't you a better man or woman for having experienced that?

Everyone should have a little oil spill in their lives.

Gusto!


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THE ASCENT

They had all had copious draughts of tea before they got on the cable car.  It was quite by chance that they had discovered the pavilion at the bottom of the hill where the trolley line ends; hidden in a courtyard, it did not beckon the passing tourist, nor seem to cater to aught save a few local folk.
It was a very comfortable place. One could perch there for hours, observing the throngs going past the gate at the far end of the enclosure. Mothers with rowdy children sabotaging the return home, customers of the tobacco shop on the corner with lit cheroots happily exhaling clouds of joy, desperate sickos speeding towards relief at the apothecary counter in the Walgreens.
As well as the occasional streetcorner vagrant despondently swigging from a bottle in a bag, or high-arsed hookers strutting for the fat suburbanite Johns looking for a good time Charlie.
While they were there, no one entered the courtyard.
Yet the clientele seemed to change regularly.
The tea pavilion was constantly busy.
Though always half empty.


The end of the line is always a new beginning. The trolley stops for ten minutes, before reversing and going back up the hill. 

All of them wished to wait for nightfall ere heading up. It would be better then, with fewer people about. They were aware that their black coats made them somewhat conspicuous, and they felt safe inside this wonderful establishment where there was tea, and where slices of cake and hot buns with butter and preserves could also be found. So cosy! So inviting, and very much like home.
It was quite the warmest place in this cold city.
Really, just a little while longer.
It's nice here.

They had travelled so long, and they were tired.

Long after the sun disappeared between layers of cumuliform clouds in the western sky, the golden orb shining copper and turning the edges of grey masses pink and orange, they paid for their lovely repast, and headed out into the foggy street, over to the cable car platform.
In the cabin, they sat in facing each other. Outside, on the running boards and the benches facing the street, travellers from Europe chattered at each other unintelligibly, tweetering in Scandinavian and Romance tongues like flocks of starlings. Other passengers settled down, wriggling slightly to position spongy masses just so; one must be comfortable, and these seats were hard.

The cable car lurched forward, and trundled toward the intersection. The conductor entered the cabin to collect the fares. When he saw their passes, he grinned knowingly - "don't see many like that nowadays, welcome back!" He assured them that he would tell them when to get off, he knew where they were going.
When he went back out,he left a faint reek of cheroot in the air, and the smell of something warming. Rum?
Definitely an eccentric fellow, but cheerful, and the top hat he wore added a note of gay individualism. It did not go with the uniform. They were sure they would remember him if they ever saw him again, even without the chapeau.

Past the palace at mid-level, where celebrants stood on the pavement outside with cocktails and cigarettes. From inside came tuneless singing, and down past the stairs that took pedestrians to lower levels they could see gay banners, and signboards with cryptic markings. Was this it? It could not be, it seemed, somehow, wrong! The conductor caught their glances, and shook his head, smiling. No, this was not it, though they were welcome to stay here a while, he would pick them up on the next trip.
He knew that they would be waiting.
They looked wistfully at the row of glowing streetlights that faded towards the bay, which they knew was there though they could not see it, and resolved to come back another time, when it was daylight and the vistas were new again.
But not tonight.

Up at the crossroads where most people disembarked, near the top, they anxiously asked "is this the place?" The conductor said no, still a bit longer. Please do not worry. You cannot miss it.
He knew where they were going, and why, and sought to reassure them.
Two more blocks, and except for themselves, the cabin was empty.
Outside there were hardly any other passengers left.
Just a little longer to go, almost, almost.
Then finally, this was it!

They descended from the car, gazed up, and were transformed.
A small child riding on an outside bench noticed, and afterwards excitedly told his mother that he had seen people become crows, and fly into the slowly opening bronze doors of the edifice.
The smallest bird had looked back at him, before entering the light.
Did it recognize him? Surely he would see it again?
She marveled at his imagination.
And did not believe him.
Seeing things!

The conductor, Mr. Samedi, knew otherwise. What children observed sometimes changed them, and might remain for the rest of their lives.
And sometimes just faded from their memory.
Passing, over the length of a lifetime.
When the very last passenger got off a few blocks later, the cable car nosed into the thick layer of fog blanketing the hillside and disappeared, never reaching the other end of the line.


All that remained was an aroma of cigars.
And something warming.
Rum?


From the cathedral above came the sound of bells.



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ABOUT BODY TEMPERATURE, AND SMELLY

It’s warm, soft, and incredibly nasty. No, it isn’t steamy shenanigans during the zombie apocalypse, but food in Hayward. It was supposed to be a hot lunch, but I’ll never look at Italian sausages the same way again.

Who on earth puts an entire sandwich in the microwave till the meat is cooked?
Then wraps it in plastic?

You know, getting your wrong on with the living dead might be better than this. Two hours out of San Francisco the wasteland starts. No wonder zombies eat human flesh; in this part of the world it is very well marbled, and pleasingly spongy.
The addition of mushrooms was a note of insanity, there are black lumps oozing out.
The slimy French roll has no traction, and the whole darn thing is falling apart.

Got home too late last night to eat dinner, and left too early this morning to have breakfast. Only five hours sleep, and jangly on caffeine. Low blood-sugar, starving.
In case you were wondering why I’m eating this.
Alone in the office.

It’s actually kind of pleasant pretending to be a zombie devouring his victim here right now. Stumble about making moaning noises, holding out my arms like a tyrannosaurus while crashing into things.
Sing a happy zombie song.
It’s all vowels.


Do not trust people in the suburbs with Italian sausage.
It’s a massacre. I cannot finish this.

Unfortunately it is way too early to attack that bottle of bourbon in the office supply cabinet. Civilized people do not drink till evening.



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REPUBLICAN PARTY DEVIL WORSHIPPERS

Two days ago Americans rejected a narrow-minded and mean-spirited view of the country, albeit by only a very slim majority. Predictably those parts of the country that have embraced the modern era voted Democrat, while the interior and southern crotch asserted an almost stone-age sensibility.



A PARTY BUILT ON XENOPHOBIA, RESENTMENT, AND GREED

To a large extent, Republican voters represent a weltanschauung that is white, ignorant, and male.
Yes, there are women in their world..... one suspects that their lives are nasty, brutish, and short.
Or at least filled with men who are nasty, brutish, and short.


Quote: "But the Republicans don’t have a Hispanic problem. They have an America problem, a country that is growing more diverse and, on a wide range of issues, shows a sensible moderation and social tolerance far out of step with radio ranting and Tea Party rigidity. It wasn’t just Hispanics who heartily rejected Republicans on Tuesday. It also was African-Americans, Asian-Americans, young people and, to perhaps the greatest effect, women." End quote.

[Source: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/08/opinion/the-republicans-post-election-day.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=edit_th_20121108.]


Both Romney and Obama have urged reconciliation.
This blogger does not have an appetite for that.

Venomously dishonest attacks on the president, on the democratic party, and on reasonably nuanced points of view, continued for four years.
Rabid right-wing pundits soured the discourse, possibly beyond any salvation; whether compromise & bi-partisanship in the coming years can be possible is very uncertain.

If the hate-filled ranting rightwing scum responsible for much of the bile continue their bloviating, the divide can only grow.
Which may be exactly what they want.

It is high time that the Republican rank and file disavow the extremists.
Though I fear that that may be the majority of the G.O.P.
Certainly most of their loudmouths.

It's probably a religious thing.




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NOTES ON THE ELECTION

Always carry spare socks. This is the considered opinion of our head of product development, pursuant last night’s debacle, for the slope-browed retrogrades upset over the election.

Who probably don’t wear socks, because those things are new-fangled and way too complicated.

I am still waiting for Karl Rove’s concession speech.
As well as Donald Trump’s.


FAT HEADS

Several "journalists" from overseas consider us all fools and utterly evil. Again.
Folks, if you do not live in the United States, perhaps you should just shut the 'F' up about our affairs?
We really do not care what you think.

I note, by the way, that several of the slope-browed retrogrades are determined to foment revolution and subvert the government, now that their candidate has been blown out of the water.
You can probably blame FOX news for their insanity.
Watching FOX kills brain cells.


Final comment: if electoral votes were assigned according to junk food ratios, we'd now have a Mormon president.



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A TENDER SUBJECT

One reader, who may have been severely influenced by fermented grain products, urged me to write about bottoms.


Sorry, I have no insights about bottoms.

I have a bottom.

But I have never seen it.

Even though it is the only bottom in my life.

It's out of sight.

No other bottoms are in view.

Not at this very moment, nor generally speaking.

Bottoms can be extremely charming.

I vaguely remember that.

Hail, bottoms!




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IT'S OFFICIAL: WOMEN ARE NUTS

Attempting to understand what the hoopla is, this blogger read the Wikipedia entry for ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’.
Which forces me into one conclusion:
A large number of my female fellow men are stark-raving bonkers.
Depraved hussies, who have twisted and unclean sexualities.


QUOTE:
"…tension between Ana and Christian eventually comes to a head after Ana asks Christian to punish her in order to show her how extreme a BDSM relationship with him could be. Christian fulfills Ana's request, beating her with a belt, only for Ana to realize that the two of them are incompatible."
END QUOTE.


It took a whupping to make you realize that?

And millions of women read this crap?

Good lord.

Yuck.


Ladies, how about some nice clean porn instead?

You know, happy people without weird fetishes, hang-ups, or neuroses. Literary smut about nice normal people who rather like each other, for whom sex is admittedly fun as blazes, but not the only part of the relationship.
Maybe they share a healthy interest in philately, or both of them collect antique watches. Something cozy, and intrinsically appealing to mildly obsessive types.

"She looked up from her bitter morning brew, and noticed the handsome middle-aged pipe collector with the graying goatee observing her from the other side of the Chinatown coffee shop. He was pretending to read the newspaper while eyeing her, but she knew better. The copy of 世界新聞 was upside down, you see. She noted with interest the headline which revealed that the provincial party secretary in Jiangsu had been arrested for anti-revolutionary crimes: an addiction to spanking, paid for out of the 'Public Funds for the Betterment of Morality among the Indigent'."

See, it's already got you hooked. A time and place are described, as well as keen knowledge-sets, among two people in a warm and nurturing environment. Perhaps he is a Dutch-American, and she could be anything from a shapely intellectual Germanic type (yes, such people exist!) through sparky red-head with a brain, to a literate and witty local woman.
Perhaps one with dark hair, dark eyes, and a foul mouth.

The only unrealistic aspect is the newspaper wrong way up, but it adds a romantic note of fluster.

All you have to do is imagine your own wholesome self in one of the roles.



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NINE IS DIVISIBLE BY THREE!

Sometimes you want a burger. It will hit the spot. A nice juicy burger will answer all of life's questions.

Eating a burger pushes existential angst away.


NEW BACON-INGS!

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAgYbiWh5rY.]


You do NOT want a free sample! You want the entire thing. Trust me, I'd eat here. At 5:44 in the morning. Bob's burgers. For breakfast.


Explanation for this post: woke up at four o'clock. My alarm clock was set for twenty past five. I'm supposed to be at the office in Hayward at eight.
Commute takes about two hours.
The brain is not frozen.
Neither are the patties.
It's all fresh-ground.


Lord Of The Flies - The Restaurant.
It comes with candy!
Is that a rash?

There's no wait.


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BADGERS DO NOT VACUUM!

The apartment mate has suggested that I might want to vacuum my room sometime. 
I've got news:  badgers do not vacuum. Bunny rabbits vacuum. Ferrets too.
Moles probably vacuum also, as well as mop and scrub.
But they're quite obsessive-compulsive.
As literate people realize.

The only reason why a bachelor vacuums his digs is because he has prospects of feminine company.
A bit of casual dusting, rearranging of books and pipes, and fondling the enormous collection of pipe tobacco (enough to survive the coming zombie apocalypse), and that's it. There is no reason at all for anything more.
No prospects of any friends coming over.
Why should I vacuum?

After six months the dust doesn't get any worse.

This single badger maintains personal cleanliness purely because it feels more comfortable to be reasonably laundered, washed, and shaved.
I sometimes groom my pelt when no one is watching.
But as far as the carpet is concerned on the one hand, or the thin veneer of dust here and there on the other, no.
I have neither allergies nor any visitors.
There is no point

The moment I vacuum, you will know that events have taken an interesting turn for the better. Why, I might even put a vase with lovely flowers in my room.
Rearrange the books and pipes frantically.

No perfumed candles, however.
I am not crazy.


I'm afraid that my apartment mate is unrealistic.  She frequently vacuums her room and common areas.  I am not entirely sure why.  As far as I can tell she isn't romantically inclined.
Perhaps it is a queer obsession.


I am a badger.  I do not understand women.

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I AM YOUR EVIL RELATIVE

Both of them were fascinated.  It is quite likely that they had never seen a pipesmoker before, though I'm sure they must have already been exposed to white people.  They kept circling around me, and I could tell that they were keenly observing my every action.

Middle-aged white dudes calmly puffing on a briar while leaning against one of the pillars of the Chinatown Phone Exchange aren't "normal".

Normal people aren't white. Normal people do not smoke. Normal people don't have a piece of wood sticking out of their mouth.
Dang I'm interesting!

Their parents were at the next-door restaurant chowing down on a splendid dinner.  Only their bird-like grandma was keeping an eye on them.  I felt almost like the witch in Hansel und Gretel. If I had really wanted, I could have roasted them and had a fine meal.

But I had a full bowl of flake going, and the pipe had just hit cruising level.
No way would I interrupt that for casual protein.
And they instinctively realized that.

Early evening, just after dusk. A lot of little old people still on the street, as well as several folks for whom C'town is a new experience.

Later at the cigar bar, pipe smokers were still a new experience.
According to many people, you don't see us often anymore.

I may have introduced three Chabadniks to pipe-smoking.
That's a mighty fine thing.

I would rather have taught the two little Chinese kids, though.
Innocence seems so much more so with pipe in mouth.

Besides, I was smoking a smooth apple shape, verging on a Prince.
The girl especially would've looked darling with that.
Pigtails and a polished blonde bowl.
Yowza, readers, Yowza.

However, I have been assured, countless times, that humans still in the single digits should avoid tobacco. Apparently it stunts your growth, leads to shrunken testicles, and makes you unlovable in the extreme. Teeth will fall out, and the esophagus shall bleed.
Short folks will develop wrinkles, and start playing cards.
Quite likely the world will end too.
If children smoke.


Just call me "uncle bad influence".


Come here, little girl, would you like a nice Virginia and Perique blend?
How about something with Turkish and Latakia?
I've got both, just ask.


Heh.

TOBACCO INDEX


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WORKING WITH VERY YOUNG CALVES - MOO!

Due to unforeseen circumstances, the usual plans for delivery of lunch to our outpost of humanity in the savage veldt of Hayward fell by the wayside today.
We were on our own. Which is very sad.

[Background: regular readers will know that the company moved to a warehouse location in the East Bay recently, forsaking our rather splendid digs in San Francisco. It is a hardship, as many of us live in the city, and some do not have vehicles. So to alleviate our suffering, the company makes sure that we don’t have to fend for ourselves amid the growling savages out here in the industrial wastelands several miles from anywhere.]


In consequence of this development, I discovered that some people are instinctively group feeders – let’s call them bovines – and some people are solitary diners – the rogue elephants, so to speak.

Herds versus bulls.

An e-mail I sent asking if anyone was planning to drive anywhere for lunch got one response.
Just one.


"I’m not, I have to run an errand."


That makes the person who answered one of three rogue elephants in the company.
But only for a day.  Another R.E. was too busy.
So actually, there is only one.


I'm well-mannered, considerate, cheerful, and I don't smell too badly.
But nevertheless, rogue elephant.
Not fit company for the self-acknowledged splendid folks in Operations, Sales, Marketing, or Management.
I handle bill collection.
I'm other.

I am the rogue elephant, roaming the swamp and terrifying the natives, I am the heavy tusked bull devouring the villagers and their adorable children!

I trample fields of sorghum and cause starvation.
Hear me trumpet!

Oh well, screw it. Wasn't looking forward to eating with that bunch of drips anyway.
It's extremely of peaceful here with none of them around. No long disquisitions about shopping, shoes, real housewives of wherever, baseball, football, ice hockey, or golf.

Hayward - the place that 'indigestion' calls home.

Having just finished the karmic equivalent of a can of cat food from the only deli within hiking distance, I will now go outside and smoke a bowl of Orlik Golden Sliced (a fine flake tobacco) while communing with the local corvid population. There's a tree not too far away, where three crows live.
They're cheerful fellows, perfect company.


Birds really do not seem to mind that I'm old and smelly, and cannot discourse wittily about shopping, shoes, real housewives, baseball, and football.



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BENEFICIAL INFORMATION, REGULARLY REGARDING FEET!

Sometimes spam is complimentary! Consider this gem: "Nice Blog!! Great Post !! Like your Blog and your ideas and i think its benificial for us and i keep to visit your blog regularly because i got lot of information through you blog.".

Truly wonderful words. The post under which it was placed, and from which it was duly scrubbed, is not germane. The point is that the reader felt it was a very nice blog post, and was almighty impressed by the beneficiality of all. I am worth visiting, regularly, and there is information here!


"Nice Blog!! Great Post !! Like your Blog and your ideas and i think its benificial for us and i keep to visit your blog regularly because i got lot of information through you blog."


The person who made that comment probably wishes that readers would be so moved by his insight that they would say to themselves "what a sensitive reader, surely I should click on his link, and happily browse through the commercial offerings that may be found".

Much like the makers of Atlanta Falcons Jerseys, Christian Louboutin, Isabell Marant, Ugg, Bootsoutlet, Birkin Bag, Cheapuggs, Genuine Boots, Hermes, Bootspascher, Bootsuggnederland, and many other visitors here.
Who leave endearing urls under my posts several dozen times a day.

There are times when all the reader-reactions consist of advertising.

Pipe fittings, electric cigarettes, magic pills, clothing, and footwear.

Mostly boots.

Boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots, boots!

Ugg.


If you came here to read, it is surely because you are fascinated by footwear. Soft supple leather gently and delicately, lovingly even, enfolding the fragile female foot, caressing the skin through which faintly blue veining shows, which feels warm and velvety to the manly man's touch, plus slightly moist. Those darling toes, that finely sculpted instep, the arched curve of the bridge, where silken texture gradually gives way to a flexible crêpe at the junction of digits.
Are toes actually digits? What would you call them. Pedal digits? Podagigitties? It does not matter.
You break out in a mild and dewy sweat, barely noticeable, at this point, slightly warm and tense; precisely like the objects in question, in their tailored leather husks.

Fragrances. Oh.

It's all comfortably form-fitting.

You find podiatrists incredible.

Tomorrow, yes tomorrow, you will go the boot store on Market Street, and run your nose along the rows. There's nothing like that new boot smell.
If I see you, I will surreptitiously take photos, to be uploaded to a file-sharing site and admired by the millions.

Why?

Because I am " boots, boots, boots!"



Good lord, it's six o'clock in the morning and I'm already gibbering.

Informative, and beneficial.



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