One of the search criteria that crops up regularly as the pathway by which someone new finds this blog is "boobs too big for shirt".
Suffice to say that I confess myself baffled. I doubt that I've mentioned breasts often enough here to even qualify as mildly perverse. Pipe tobacco and food have been mentioned FAR more often.
Even so, the phrase "pipe tobacco too big for shirt" doesn't have quite the panache of that other phrase, and "Chinese food to big for shirt" suggests strange dining practises involving lobster.
SOMETHING TOO BIG!
If I had my druthers, it would be the lobster. I am much more enchanted by humongous lobsters than excessive mammary blessings. One of the reasons I gave up on both Penthouse and Playboy magazines in my early twenties was the surplus of breasts and dearth of good articles. No, the excuse that we only bought those publications for the writing cannot hold; the articles were crap.
And big spongy mounds are just boring.
Unlike this blog, of course.
I assure you that you will NOT find huge bosoms here.
This blogger tends to avoid such things. One cannot have a conversation with a woman whose endowments frighten one. She'd have to have one hell of a brain to overcome those obstacles. And regarding shirts, I was not aware that it was so hard to find something in the right size. Yes, it might take a bit of a search.....
But when the worst comes to the worst, you can either shop at Rochester Big & Tall, OR have them tailor-made.
Even the best of shirts improve when your tailor adjusts them a bit.
Anyhow.
The people who use that phrase to find this blog are obviously not the sadly afflicted women themselves, but more likely their slope-browed kin, who are obsessed. It's a hormonal thing, very unfortunate and distressing.
Trauma, emotional scarring, and simple-mindedness.
Psychotherapy might help. Or electroshock.
The breast fetish is a mother complex.
Not so pipe tobacco.
Or food.
AFTER WORD
Whence the title of this post? Well, the most popular google searches in 2004 were 'Britney Spears', 'Paris Hilton', and 'Christina Aquilera'. Which I found out by reading 'Pearls Before Swine', a very fine sardonic comic strip by Stephan Pastis. So I thought I'd opportunistically lure in a better class of reader than the breast men. I actually have bugger-all to say about Britney, Paris, and Christina. Zero.
For all intents and purposes, they don't score anywhere on my own interest-scale, and I'm hard put to identify them in a police line-up, or remember what they did that made them famous.
What field are they in? Astro-physics? The fine arts?
You tell me. You came here because of them.
I know they aren't in pipe-tobacco.
Or involved with food.
Lobsters?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 13, 2013
PITY THE POOR PYTHONS
In a desperate move aimed at eradicating a non-native species that has gone rogue, the great state of Florida is organizing a Burmese Python hunt.
QUOTE:
The US state of Florida is set to begin a competitive Burmese python hunt, in an attempt to rid the Everglades wetlands of the invasive species.
About 550 people have signed up to compete for two prizes: $1,000 (£620) for the longest python killed and $1,500 for the most pythons taken.
[Source; http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-20994982. ]
My money is on the snakes.
Some snakes are smarter than humans.
Some humans.
Probably everyone named Cooter.
"The state will train hunters to avoid mistaking the python for native snakes"
If you ask me, and this is just a hunch, sending a whole bunch of folks armed to the teeth into the middle of a vast bog to find something many of them don't recognize, may be a recipe for disaster. Or at least high comedy. Kinda like one of those scenes in a zombie movie, where someone accidentally kills an uninfected person. "Why did you shoot him, Cooter, why?" "Well, ah thunked he wuz a sumby!"
Or in this case, Cooter thought that the other person looked Burmese.
1:100 and 1:3
Statistics are not in favour of this venture. One out of every hundred people is a howling psychopath, and one out of every three is subclinically neurotic.
Over five hundred folks with guns, heading into a swamp.
One out of three - that's over 180 Cooters.
Plus at least five Super-Cooters.
Gonna be educational.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
QUOTE:
The US state of Florida is set to begin a competitive Burmese python hunt, in an attempt to rid the Everglades wetlands of the invasive species.
About 550 people have signed up to compete for two prizes: $1,000 (£620) for the longest python killed and $1,500 for the most pythons taken.
[Source; http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-20994982. ]
My money is on the snakes.
Some snakes are smarter than humans.
Some humans.
Probably everyone named Cooter.
"The state will train hunters to avoid mistaking the python for native snakes"
If you ask me, and this is just a hunch, sending a whole bunch of folks armed to the teeth into the middle of a vast bog to find something many of them don't recognize, may be a recipe for disaster. Or at least high comedy. Kinda like one of those scenes in a zombie movie, where someone accidentally kills an uninfected person. "Why did you shoot him, Cooter, why?" "Well, ah thunked he wuz a sumby!"
Or in this case, Cooter thought that the other person looked Burmese.
1:100 and 1:3
Statistics are not in favour of this venture. One out of every hundred people is a howling psychopath, and one out of every three is subclinically neurotic.
Over five hundred folks with guns, heading into a swamp.
One out of three - that's over 180 Cooters.
Plus at least five Super-Cooters.
Gonna be educational.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 12, 2013
THE SEASONAL HUMBUG, REVISITED
The cocoa, coffee, and tea are all harmoniously combined. Good lord I'm alive!
Which in this case, naturally, means "wired to the gills". Itself a darn good thing, given the weather we're having. Hot beverages are called for. And those have been drunk, several times, since early morning. I've spent all day indoors, more or less. Except for a quick scoot across the hill for something to eat, which necessitated more warm liquids.
A day of infinite variety. Coffee. Black tea with milk and sugar. Hot chocolate. More tea. Pale jasmine tea and a tall glass of Vietnamese coffee, no ice.
Milk-tea. Coffee. Cocoa.
Pipe-smoke: Wessex Red Virginia flake, Escudo, Rattray's Accountants' Mixture, Dunhill 965. More Wessex. A blend of my own devising.
More Rattrays.
Except for the second time I loaded up a pipe with Wessex, these were all half-bowls, as I cannot smoke in the apartment, save in the kitchen near the open window behind the closed door. The post-lunch Wessex was marked by high-as-a-kiteness from the jasmine tea and Vietnamese coffee, as well as severe frost-bite, hypothermia, chilblains, convulsions from heat-loss, and assorted limbs and noses falling off. While walking through C'town with my pipe.
A stroll, they say, is good for the digestion.
I really envy women right now.
Not stupid, unlike men.
They stay inside.
Warmth!
If, at this point, you are guessing that miserable weather causes hyperbole, AND that I passionately long for warmer winds, you very well may be right.
This blogger is not a cold fish. And consequently does not like winter.
Except to look at. Silver-grey skies, soft rainy hazes, and all that crap.
If I were a woman, I would be indoors right now, munching crisp green apples while reading a mystery novel, in the nude. On an easy chair near the living room window overlooking the street, as the summer twilight fades to dusk and the shadows lengthen. Shiny hair in dis-array, my youthful curves delineated and limned by faintly golden directional light. A gentle warm breeze would occasionally part the curtains, affording a tempting glimpse of my glowing skin to any passersby three stories up, should they cast a glance in this direction. Either that, or it would be early spring, and though raining cats and dogs it would not be cold, but instead a very pleasant temperature outside.
I'd still be nude, though.
Pearls, fresh apples, and nudity. Plus a mystery novel. That's what this blogger needs. NOT frozen fingers, chilled extremities, a pounding headache from too much caffeine and fellow-citizens who cruelly gloat over the wintry weather.
"I like the cold season in San Francisco"
Oh yeah? Have you considered stuffing a sock in it? Highly recommended, before grumpy middle-aged pipesmokers AND a horde of naked women mob you, and tear the flesh from your bones. No, we're not hungry -- we've been snacking since dawn -- but we think that those bones and your clothes, oiled with a bit of grease from your fat head, would make a lovely BONFIRE!
So warm, and bright enough to read by!
Miss, have you finished that mystery novel?
Good, then let us discuss apples, and temptation.
Later this evening I will make the trek by dogsled across the frozen tundra of Nob Hill to the Occidental Cigar Bar, to spend several hours in smoke, surrounded by people who should NOT be naked, and whom I do not EVER wish to see munching apples in the buff while a warmish spring rain falls outside.
For crapsakes, gentlemen, close those living room curtains!
It's people like you that cause nightmares.
No mystery there.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which in this case, naturally, means "wired to the gills". Itself a darn good thing, given the weather we're having. Hot beverages are called for. And those have been drunk, several times, since early morning. I've spent all day indoors, more or less. Except for a quick scoot across the hill for something to eat, which necessitated more warm liquids.
A day of infinite variety. Coffee. Black tea with milk and sugar. Hot chocolate. More tea. Pale jasmine tea and a tall glass of Vietnamese coffee, no ice.
Milk-tea. Coffee. Cocoa.
Pipe-smoke: Wessex Red Virginia flake, Escudo, Rattray's Accountants' Mixture, Dunhill 965. More Wessex. A blend of my own devising.
More Rattrays.
Except for the second time I loaded up a pipe with Wessex, these were all half-bowls, as I cannot smoke in the apartment, save in the kitchen near the open window behind the closed door. The post-lunch Wessex was marked by high-as-a-kiteness from the jasmine tea and Vietnamese coffee, as well as severe frost-bite, hypothermia, chilblains, convulsions from heat-loss, and assorted limbs and noses falling off. While walking through C'town with my pipe.
A stroll, they say, is good for the digestion.
I really envy women right now.
Not stupid, unlike men.
They stay inside.
Warmth!
If, at this point, you are guessing that miserable weather causes hyperbole, AND that I passionately long for warmer winds, you very well may be right.
This blogger is not a cold fish. And consequently does not like winter.
Except to look at. Silver-grey skies, soft rainy hazes, and all that crap.
If I were a woman, I would be indoors right now, munching crisp green apples while reading a mystery novel, in the nude. On an easy chair near the living room window overlooking the street, as the summer twilight fades to dusk and the shadows lengthen. Shiny hair in dis-array, my youthful curves delineated and limned by faintly golden directional light. A gentle warm breeze would occasionally part the curtains, affording a tempting glimpse of my glowing skin to any passersby three stories up, should they cast a glance in this direction. Either that, or it would be early spring, and though raining cats and dogs it would not be cold, but instead a very pleasant temperature outside.
I'd still be nude, though.
Pearls, fresh apples, and nudity. Plus a mystery novel. That's what this blogger needs. NOT frozen fingers, chilled extremities, a pounding headache from too much caffeine and fellow-citizens who cruelly gloat over the wintry weather.
"I like the cold season in San Francisco"
Oh yeah? Have you considered stuffing a sock in it? Highly recommended, before grumpy middle-aged pipesmokers AND a horde of naked women mob you, and tear the flesh from your bones. No, we're not hungry -- we've been snacking since dawn -- but we think that those bones and your clothes, oiled with a bit of grease from your fat head, would make a lovely BONFIRE!
So warm, and bright enough to read by!
Miss, have you finished that mystery novel?
Good, then let us discuss apples, and temptation.
Later this evening I will make the trek by dogsled across the frozen tundra of Nob Hill to the Occidental Cigar Bar, to spend several hours in smoke, surrounded by people who should NOT be naked, and whom I do not EVER wish to see munching apples in the buff while a warmish spring rain falls outside.
For crapsakes, gentlemen, close those living room curtains!
It's people like you that cause nightmares.
No mystery there.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 11, 2013
TEMPTED BY A FLOOZIE
This blogger is a sucker for innocent eyes. And an appealing personal demeanor. As well as sweetly girlish expressions of curiosity.
Come here and let me hug you.
And thank heavens those claws don't penetrate.
Miao.
An immature pussy cat. No longer a kitten, but not yet fully grown.
And very friendly.
I was returning home the other night when I was confronted by this affectionate little temptress.
And, naturally, I fell completely for her bouncy blandishments. After petting her for a few minutes I wanted to move on, given that it was an exceptionally cold night, but she was not going to have any of that.
She followed me, vocalizing.
Apparently I looked like her long-lost cousin Myrtle, or something.
Myrtle. Myrtle. Myrtle.
Miao! Miao! Miao!
What. Ever.
So I didn't go any further, but tried to persuade her that she should find her own home. She looked sleek and clean, so there was obviously someone who cared for her. And I am not the kind of man to start affairs with chance-met and ever-so-attractive strangers on the sidewalk at night. That way lies an adventurous love-life filled with piercings, tattoos, canned beer and strange illicit substances.
Or broken crockery, recrimination, and a pick-up truck.
My life will NOT resemble a country song.
Shoo! Shoo!
Stop staring at me like that!
Her eyes looked up at me with admiration.
Here's a lesson, girls; how to weaken a man's resolve.
She proved totally deaf to all my arguments, and insistently remained affectionate. Playful, and full of beans. She may have even had a sense of humour, though as far as I could tell the point and punchline of every anecdote seemed to be a one syllable word of uncertain meaning.
And she sucked my fingers!
If I could've hurked down any lower, she probably would've started nibbling my ears and rubbing her face against mine. While batting her eyes and giving me that sweet girlish smile.
Did I already mention that it was very very very cold? Freeze the balls off a monkey, that frigid. Winds straight from the Arctic. She wasn't aware of it, in her luxurious fur coat. I am not covered with fur, however. Merely areas of sparse body hair in the usual places. Nice and feathery and all that, and probably fun to run your fingers through if you're a frisky human woman, but normally it's entirely under my clothes, and a small pussy cat could not possibly have known about it. Even with my clothes on and a coat, it was cold. Too cold! Is there a word for hypothermia in Feline Speak?
How about 'Rainaud's Syndrome'?
No?
Miao!
Oh, that's it, huh? Everything is 'miao'. Whatever the concept, it is best expressed by 'miao'. No wonder you guys don't have any congressional representation, despite all your partisans running internet sites devoted to your cause. Your powerful and persuasive lobby. All those pictures showing what adorable little furballs you are, and how your mere presence is enough to give senselessly idiotic joy, and make impressionable girlies of all ages swoon and weep.
As well as your important cultural ambassadors, like Hello Kitty.
You just won't get very far, if all you can say is 'miao'.
Rubbing up against my leg is not an argument!
Cute, yes, but what's your point?
Oooh, arched back!
Furry!
My f*&^%$g fingers are turning blue!
Miao?
Blue!
Twenty minutes later, a front door opened several yards away, and the beast was off like a bullet. Last I saw of her was a tight little haunch disappearing, and a taunting striped tail.
All I got for my loving was fingers that looked like they had been fished out of the East River. Yes, mister policeman, these are my REAL digits, and no I have not been robbing corpses for appendage replacements. Now kindly stop suggesting that I'm a zombie. That's so mean!
I am a sensitive man.
Hurt by that.
She didn't even kiss me goodbye.
I've got to stop letting myself get tempted.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Come here and let me hug you.
And thank heavens those claws don't penetrate.
Miao.
An immature pussy cat. No longer a kitten, but not yet fully grown.
And very friendly.
I was returning home the other night when I was confronted by this affectionate little temptress.
And, naturally, I fell completely for her bouncy blandishments. After petting her for a few minutes I wanted to move on, given that it was an exceptionally cold night, but she was not going to have any of that.
She followed me, vocalizing.
Apparently I looked like her long-lost cousin Myrtle, or something.
Myrtle. Myrtle. Myrtle.
Miao! Miao! Miao!
What. Ever.
So I didn't go any further, but tried to persuade her that she should find her own home. She looked sleek and clean, so there was obviously someone who cared for her. And I am not the kind of man to start affairs with chance-met and ever-so-attractive strangers on the sidewalk at night. That way lies an adventurous love-life filled with piercings, tattoos, canned beer and strange illicit substances.
Or broken crockery, recrimination, and a pick-up truck.
My life will NOT resemble a country song.
Shoo! Shoo!
Stop staring at me like that!
Her eyes looked up at me with admiration.
Here's a lesson, girls; how to weaken a man's resolve.
She proved totally deaf to all my arguments, and insistently remained affectionate. Playful, and full of beans. She may have even had a sense of humour, though as far as I could tell the point and punchline of every anecdote seemed to be a one syllable word of uncertain meaning.
And she sucked my fingers!
If I could've hurked down any lower, she probably would've started nibbling my ears and rubbing her face against mine. While batting her eyes and giving me that sweet girlish smile.
Did I already mention that it was very very very cold? Freeze the balls off a monkey, that frigid. Winds straight from the Arctic. She wasn't aware of it, in her luxurious fur coat. I am not covered with fur, however. Merely areas of sparse body hair in the usual places. Nice and feathery and all that, and probably fun to run your fingers through if you're a frisky human woman, but normally it's entirely under my clothes, and a small pussy cat could not possibly have known about it. Even with my clothes on and a coat, it was cold. Too cold! Is there a word for hypothermia in Feline Speak?
How about 'Rainaud's Syndrome'?
No?
Miao!
Oh, that's it, huh? Everything is 'miao'. Whatever the concept, it is best expressed by 'miao'. No wonder you guys don't have any congressional representation, despite all your partisans running internet sites devoted to your cause. Your powerful and persuasive lobby. All those pictures showing what adorable little furballs you are, and how your mere presence is enough to give senselessly idiotic joy, and make impressionable girlies of all ages swoon and weep.
As well as your important cultural ambassadors, like Hello Kitty.
You just won't get very far, if all you can say is 'miao'.
Rubbing up against my leg is not an argument!
Cute, yes, but what's your point?
Oooh, arched back!
Furry!
My f*&^%$g fingers are turning blue!
Miao?
Blue!
Twenty minutes later, a front door opened several yards away, and the beast was off like a bullet. Last I saw of her was a tight little haunch disappearing, and a taunting striped tail.
All I got for my loving was fingers that looked like they had been fished out of the East River. Yes, mister policeman, these are my REAL digits, and no I have not been robbing corpses for appendage replacements. Now kindly stop suggesting that I'm a zombie. That's so mean!
I am a sensitive man.
Hurt by that.
She didn't even kiss me goodbye.
I've got to stop letting myself get tempted.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 10, 2013
IN THE COLD AND SILENCE OF THE NIGHT
It's barely lunch-time, and I'm on my third pipe of the day, smoking Wessex Red Virginia Flake, and drinking strong tea with milk and sugar.
And listening to 張國榮 (Leslie Cheung) and 許冠傑 (Ah-Sam, aka Sam Hui) singing 沉默是金. Leslie Cheung is no longer alive, alas. Some of you may remember him from A Chinese Ghost Story (倩女幽魂), which came out in 1987, or from his first major international hit film Farewell My Concubine (霸王別姬), produced in 1993.
I miss Leslie Cheung.
He was a very fine actor, a great pop-singer, and a beautiful young man.
Yes, I suppose also in that way, but being neither gay nor female, that was never the aspect that appealed to me.
One of the main characteristics about Hong Kong movie stars is that they are always character actors. In whatever movie they are in, to a large extent they channel themselves rather than creeping into the skin of the person portrayed. The reason for this is that most HK movie scripts call for set roles -- the goon, the romantic scholarly type, the wise older man, or the loudmouthed married woman, the innocent good girl, the tough-as-nails female gangster -- which many of the actors have already played in other movies. They were chosen for the role because they do it well, and in almost all cases they do it so well because it's the alter-ego they could be in a fantasy world. To put it differently, they excel at portraying personalities which to a large extent they already are, doing things that would be utterly natural for that avatar in the circumstances of that movie.
Leslie Cheung was the kind of young man whom you could not help but love.
If you were a heterosexual man in the audience, it is quite likely that while watching the movie you would want yourself to be him.
Or have a friend exactly like him.
If you were a young woman watching the film there's really no telling what you would want. I could guess, but I'm SO not going there.
I don't know why I decided to hunt up Leslie on youtube. At four o'clock in the morning I woke up and turned on the computer, and somehow I ended up watching him and Sam Hui on stage singing.
It's a lovely song.
沉默是金
[Song starts at 3:45]
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FiFKio63Dns.]
夜風凜凜獨回望舊事前塵
是以往的我充滿怒憤
誣告與指責積壓著滿肚氣不憤
對謠言反應甚為著緊。
Ye fung lam lam, duk-wui mong gau-si chin-chan,
Si yi-wong dik ngoh chung-mun nou-fan;
Mou-gou yiu ji-jaak, zik-ngaat jeuk muntou hei pat fan,
Dui yiu-yin faanying sam-wai jeuk-gan.
受了教訓得了書經的指引
現已看得透不再自困
但覺有分數
不再像以往那般笨
抹淚痕輕快笑著行。
Sou-liu gaau fan, dak-liu syu-king dik ji-yan,
Yin-yi hon-dak tau pat-joi ji kwan,
Dan gwok yau fan-sou,
Pat-joi jeung yi-wong na bun-ban,
Mut leui han hing faai siu jeuk hang.
冥冥中都早注定你富或貧
是錯永不對真永是真
任你怎說安守我本份
始終相信沉默是金。
Mingming jung-dou jou jyu-deng nei fuk waak pan,
Si cho wing pat dui chan wing si chan;
Yam nei cham suet ngon sau ngoh bun-fan,
Chi-jung seung-sun cham-mak si gam.
是非有公理慎言莫冒犯別人
遇上冷風雨休太認真
自信滿心裡休理會諷刺與質問
笑罵由人灑脫地做人。
Si-fei yau gung-lei san-yin mok mou faan bit yan,
Yiu seung laang fung yiu yau taai ying-chan;
Ji-sun mun samleui, yau lei wui fung-chi yiu jat-man,
Siu maa yau yan, saa-tuet-dei jou yan.
少年人灑脫地做人
繼續行灑脫地做人。
Siu-nin yan, saa-tuet-dei jou yan.
Gai-juk hang, saa-tuet-dei jou yan.
It is a very Chinese song.
Condensed paraphrasis: 'In the cold and silence of the night I look back on old matters and previous slights, and I am filled with resentment; I am angry and feel that I have been wrongly blamed. But the classics instruct me to not let the past chain me down, so I forgive and I quickly wipe away my tears. Whether you are rich or poor, wrongs are never real, and fundamentally, silence is golden. I rely on you to keep me grounded, and to help me see the humour in things. Let's not take it all too seriously, and get on with living.'
NOTE: The clip is from Sam Hui's farewell concert over two decades ago.
Allegedly he retired. But his many performances since then strongly suggest that retirement is an active state. Exceedingly so.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And listening to 張國榮 (Leslie Cheung) and 許冠傑 (Ah-Sam, aka Sam Hui) singing 沉默是金. Leslie Cheung is no longer alive, alas. Some of you may remember him from A Chinese Ghost Story (倩女幽魂), which came out in 1987, or from his first major international hit film Farewell My Concubine (霸王別姬), produced in 1993.
I miss Leslie Cheung.
He was a very fine actor, a great pop-singer, and a beautiful young man.
Yes, I suppose also in that way, but being neither gay nor female, that was never the aspect that appealed to me.
One of the main characteristics about Hong Kong movie stars is that they are always character actors. In whatever movie they are in, to a large extent they channel themselves rather than creeping into the skin of the person portrayed. The reason for this is that most HK movie scripts call for set roles -- the goon, the romantic scholarly type, the wise older man, or the loudmouthed married woman, the innocent good girl, the tough-as-nails female gangster -- which many of the actors have already played in other movies. They were chosen for the role because they do it well, and in almost all cases they do it so well because it's the alter-ego they could be in a fantasy world. To put it differently, they excel at portraying personalities which to a large extent they already are, doing things that would be utterly natural for that avatar in the circumstances of that movie.
Leslie Cheung was the kind of young man whom you could not help but love.
If you were a heterosexual man in the audience, it is quite likely that while watching the movie you would want yourself to be him.
Or have a friend exactly like him.
If you were a young woman watching the film there's really no telling what you would want. I could guess, but I'm SO not going there.
I don't know why I decided to hunt up Leslie on youtube. At four o'clock in the morning I woke up and turned on the computer, and somehow I ended up watching him and Sam Hui on stage singing.
It's a lovely song.
沉默是金
[Song starts at 3:45]
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FiFKio63Dns.]
夜風凜凜獨回望舊事前塵
是以往的我充滿怒憤
誣告與指責積壓著滿肚氣不憤
對謠言反應甚為著緊。
Ye fung lam lam, duk-wui mong gau-si chin-chan,
Si yi-wong dik ngoh chung-mun nou-fan;
Mou-gou yiu ji-jaak, zik-ngaat jeuk muntou hei pat fan,
Dui yiu-yin faanying sam-wai jeuk-gan.
受了教訓得了書經的指引
現已看得透不再自困
但覺有分數
不再像以往那般笨
抹淚痕輕快笑著行。
Sou-liu gaau fan, dak-liu syu-king dik ji-yan,
Yin-yi hon-dak tau pat-joi ji kwan,
Dan gwok yau fan-sou,
Pat-joi jeung yi-wong na bun-ban,
Mut leui han hing faai siu jeuk hang.
冥冥中都早注定你富或貧
是錯永不對真永是真
任你怎說安守我本份
始終相信沉默是金。
Mingming jung-dou jou jyu-deng nei fuk waak pan,
Si cho wing pat dui chan wing si chan;
Yam nei cham suet ngon sau ngoh bun-fan,
Chi-jung seung-sun cham-mak si gam.
是非有公理慎言莫冒犯別人
遇上冷風雨休太認真
自信滿心裡休理會諷刺與質問
笑罵由人灑脫地做人。
Si-fei yau gung-lei san-yin mok mou faan bit yan,
Yiu seung laang fung yiu yau taai ying-chan;
Ji-sun mun samleui, yau lei wui fung-chi yiu jat-man,
Siu maa yau yan, saa-tuet-dei jou yan.
少年人灑脫地做人
繼續行灑脫地做人。
Siu-nin yan, saa-tuet-dei jou yan.
Gai-juk hang, saa-tuet-dei jou yan.
It is a very Chinese song.
Condensed paraphrasis: 'In the cold and silence of the night I look back on old matters and previous slights, and I am filled with resentment; I am angry and feel that I have been wrongly blamed. But the classics instruct me to not let the past chain me down, so I forgive and I quickly wipe away my tears. Whether you are rich or poor, wrongs are never real, and fundamentally, silence is golden. I rely on you to keep me grounded, and to help me see the humour in things. Let's not take it all too seriously, and get on with living.'
NOTE: The clip is from Sam Hui's farewell concert over two decades ago.
Allegedly he retired. But his many performances since then strongly suggest that retirement is an active state. Exceedingly so.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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Wednesday, January 09, 2013
RISKY BUSINESS
Back in the eighties Dennis owned an antique store on Grant Avenue in the Italian part of Chinatown. He had a good eye. Not only for collectibles, but also for arrangement and display. Too many antique ("junk") stores arrange everything higgeldy piggeldy, hurriedly priced and shoved among the like, without realizing that sometimes fewer is better, less is more.
It was a pleasure to browse in his shop.
On Polk Street, just north of Jackson, another antique store also understood the concept. Their approach was to stash everything they could in cabinets, and until business slowed down and the merchandise started piling up uncontrollably, it was fun to spend a few hours wandering around the back, pulling drawers open and investigating the wonderful things contained therein.
I've always enjoyed pulling open drawers.
And investigating wonderful things.
Yeah, I know. Sounds depraved, doesn't it? Permit me a little verbal naughtiness, okay? You should expect it by now.
Besides, you know what I mean.
It's just a happy bonus that it sounds wicked.
Dennis went back to the East Coast with his lover over thirty years ago. The place on Polk closed down a few years back. There are far fewer such places around today than there were, and bookstores have also bit the dust in remarkable numbers too.
There is far less scope for browsing than there ever used to be.
Between E-Bay and Amazon, our world has grown smaller.
And not, please understand, in a good way.
There is a huge difference between a happy discovery and a deliberate search, between "look at this aren't I lucky" and "see here what a clever dick I am!"
If I cannot touch it, admire it in the light, and even sniff it, perhaps I do not want it. In any case, it lacks that feeling of remarkable good fortune that a real live encounter would have, as well as the individuality that something suddenly recognized as good and pure and worthwhile will bring.
You know what you like. Go find it. Rely on your own sound judgement, and ignore the opinions of the herd.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was a pleasure to browse in his shop.
On Polk Street, just north of Jackson, another antique store also understood the concept. Their approach was to stash everything they could in cabinets, and until business slowed down and the merchandise started piling up uncontrollably, it was fun to spend a few hours wandering around the back, pulling drawers open and investigating the wonderful things contained therein.
I've always enjoyed pulling open drawers.
And investigating wonderful things.
Yeah, I know. Sounds depraved, doesn't it? Permit me a little verbal naughtiness, okay? You should expect it by now.
Besides, you know what I mean.
It's just a happy bonus that it sounds wicked.
Dennis went back to the East Coast with his lover over thirty years ago. The place on Polk closed down a few years back. There are far fewer such places around today than there were, and bookstores have also bit the dust in remarkable numbers too.
There is far less scope for browsing than there ever used to be.
Between E-Bay and Amazon, our world has grown smaller.
And not, please understand, in a good way.
There is a huge difference between a happy discovery and a deliberate search, between "look at this aren't I lucky" and "see here what a clever dick I am!"
If I cannot touch it, admire it in the light, and even sniff it, perhaps I do not want it. In any case, it lacks that feeling of remarkable good fortune that a real live encounter would have, as well as the individuality that something suddenly recognized as good and pure and worthwhile will bring.
You know what you like. Go find it. Rely on your own sound judgement, and ignore the opinions of the herd.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SUDDEN FITS
Readers may have already recognized that this blogger enjoys watching happy women eat. There is something cheering and heartwarming about seeing someone involved in so primal yet innocent an activity that is endlessly fascinating. The food-engaged face evens out to a look of keen concentration, or a visage of pure pleasure and peacefulness.
A woman at her best is a woman enjoying a bite to eat.
Especially a young woman with a lovely forehead.
A pretty young woman of wit and intelligence.
Who has a warm engaging smile.
It was early evening yet when I got to the restaurant, and rather than going whole hog on dinner I simply had some chow fun with bell pepper chicken fermented black bean sauce. Ginger and scallion. Crisp, savoury, slithery.
While I was eating (mm, splurt of hot sauce here, another one here...) the staff alleviated the boredom by one after another having their own dinner.
First Kitchen-Uncle got himself a bowl. Then the older woman. Then the younger one. As is typical of people working in restaurants, they all had different things to eat. Yet remarkably, seeing as the place serves mostly noodles, they each ate something noodly.
Naturally I observed the young woman most keenly of all. Middle-aged men are not nearly so much fun to watch, neither are older women. But bright young women with lovely foreheads, who are pretty, and have warm engaging smiles?
My complete surreptitious attention!
She holds her chopsticks in a way that is both girlish and elegant.
And despite her verve, she is very lady-like.
Kitchen-Uncle probably understands that one of the primary reasons I go to that restaurant is the young lady -- only when she's there do I come in -- so the observation must be discrete. Yet it adds so much to my own meal that I am quite nearly addicted.
A bright clean cheerful environment, a hospitable welcome, good food.
And a charming intelligent woman.
I finished my own meal and dawdled over my hot tea and iced coffee, so as to give the three of them plenty of time to finish their meal and chat among themselves.
Which lent me greater chance to observe. I am not entirely unaware of the benefits of fading into the background, you will understand.
Their accents are hard for me to place. They speak Cantonese, but it doesn't sound like HK Cantonese. I'm guessing somewhere close to Guangzhou, but not part of the metropolis itself. And likely not one of the industrial satelites either.
Mostly intelligible, except when Kitchen-Uncle discusses things with great intensity, then his speech shifts.
I hesitate to ask her her name. There's an age difference, you see. A rather startling one at that. It might also be taken as forwardness on my part.
A breach of sorts.
And I fear that if she knew my nomen, she'd append it with 'sook'.
Out of politeness, and in cognizance of my years.
Sook (叔) means 'uncle'.
In Chinese I usually go by 麥, which is a wordplay on my English name.
An easily pronounced single syllable to stand in for a multi-consonant compound.
Just call me 阿麥. Ah Mak. Not 麥叔. Except by children.
Being an equal is preferable to being an uncle.
She offered me more tea afterwards, but I declined. Later at the Occidental, while smoking my after-dinner pipe, I felt a sudden lonesomeness despite the jovial crowd of cigar smokers all around, and headed home.
Let's call it a surprise fit of 'avuncularity'.
And leave it at that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A woman at her best is a woman enjoying a bite to eat.
Especially a young woman with a lovely forehead.
A pretty young woman of wit and intelligence.
Who has a warm engaging smile.
It was early evening yet when I got to the restaurant, and rather than going whole hog on dinner I simply had some chow fun with bell pepper chicken fermented black bean sauce. Ginger and scallion. Crisp, savoury, slithery.
While I was eating (mm, splurt of hot sauce here, another one here...) the staff alleviated the boredom by one after another having their own dinner.
First Kitchen-Uncle got himself a bowl. Then the older woman. Then the younger one. As is typical of people working in restaurants, they all had different things to eat. Yet remarkably, seeing as the place serves mostly noodles, they each ate something noodly.
Naturally I observed the young woman most keenly of all. Middle-aged men are not nearly so much fun to watch, neither are older women. But bright young women with lovely foreheads, who are pretty, and have warm engaging smiles?
My complete surreptitious attention!
She holds her chopsticks in a way that is both girlish and elegant.
And despite her verve, she is very lady-like.
Kitchen-Uncle probably understands that one of the primary reasons I go to that restaurant is the young lady -- only when she's there do I come in -- so the observation must be discrete. Yet it adds so much to my own meal that I am quite nearly addicted.
A bright clean cheerful environment, a hospitable welcome, good food.
And a charming intelligent woman.
I finished my own meal and dawdled over my hot tea and iced coffee, so as to give the three of them plenty of time to finish their meal and chat among themselves.
Which lent me greater chance to observe. I am not entirely unaware of the benefits of fading into the background, you will understand.
Their accents are hard for me to place. They speak Cantonese, but it doesn't sound like HK Cantonese. I'm guessing somewhere close to Guangzhou, but not part of the metropolis itself. And likely not one of the industrial satelites either.
Mostly intelligible, except when Kitchen-Uncle discusses things with great intensity, then his speech shifts.
I hesitate to ask her her name. There's an age difference, you see. A rather startling one at that. It might also be taken as forwardness on my part.
A breach of sorts.
And I fear that if she knew my nomen, she'd append it with 'sook'.
Out of politeness, and in cognizance of my years.
Sook (叔) means 'uncle'.
In Chinese I usually go by 麥, which is a wordplay on my English name.
An easily pronounced single syllable to stand in for a multi-consonant compound.
Just call me 阿麥. Ah Mak. Not 麥叔. Except by children.
Being an equal is preferable to being an uncle.
She offered me more tea afterwards, but I declined. Later at the Occidental, while smoking my after-dinner pipe, I felt a sudden lonesomeness despite the jovial crowd of cigar smokers all around, and headed home.
Let's call it a surprise fit of 'avuncularity'.
And leave it at that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 08, 2013
A PLEASANT ODEUR OF SMOLDERING LEAVES
A breakfast of fried Italian sausage with chopped cucumber on buttered toast is, perhaps, not the most nutritious start of the day. So it's a good thing that I did not eat until several hours after I got up, when the coffee had been 'digested'. As well as a healthy pipe-full of some marvelously smelly tobacco.
Reviewed two volumes while thus occupied.
After which I took a very long bath.
Yes, of course by myself!
Do you really think anyone else could stand to be around me, when I'm reeking of Latakia, Turkish leaf, and pungent flue-cured tobaccos?!?
Well, other than a fellow pipe-smoker, of course.
Or an extremely unusual woman. One with very particular tastes, and an insane amount of boldness and determination.
After soaking I needed more caffeine. Following which I decided that the full-flavoured life absolutely required a zesty sandwich with unhealthy stuffing.
POST-PRANDIAL AMBLE
One more bowl of that very autumnal blend while strolling over the back-end of Nob Hill, where the cablecars rise on Washington, around the Clay Street side of the tall apartment buildings where the ginkgo trees are shedding golden leaves, then down Jackson to Hyde, where another cablecar passed me at the curve.
There's a small restaurant there which would be nice to invite someone to sometime, especially after seeing a couple inside happily sharing several orders of potstickers with hot sauce. Two people, with similar condimental tastes, scarfing down dumplings...... A very intimate moment, almost like being present in their home, despite their being very much in public. They scarcely said a word, communicating almost entirely with their eyes.
And their co-ordinated chopsticks.
有利飯店 U-LEE RESTAURANT
A very nice Chinese eatery at 1468 Hyde Street at the corner of Jackson, that does some splendid food indeed. Remarkably, many of their customers are white, which normally indicates a certain level of slapdash and sweet-sour. Very small, with seating for no more than maybe two dozen people if every seat is occupied.
Spare, not overly decorated. Yet their cooking is consistently good, and they do some purely marvelous potstickers.
It can get crowded by seven o'clock.
The menu has an extensive selection of standard Chinese restaurant dishes, as well as things that Chinese people like. Their chow fun is rather darned good, the long-beans and chicken is very very nice, the eggplant is superb.....
[NOTE: standard Chinese restaurant dishes nowadays refers to kung pao whatevers, Mongolian whatevers, General Tso's whatevers, Walnut whatevers, and several other constructs of a long-forgotten Hunanese - Szechuanese derivation. Stuff with which most Cantonese people are not particularly impressed. And the family that runs this restaurant are Cantonese. Evenso, they treat these white folk favourites with respect, and take deserved pride in their cooking. So whether your tastes are mundane, or eccentric and adventurous, you will certainly find plenty here to make you happy.]
Perfect for couples, if dining early.
And great potstickers.
Really great.
A RANT TO FINISH
It's nearly tea-time now. Perhaps I need another bowl of robust woman-repellent? Except it's getting close to the hour when my apartment mate returns, and because she has a slight fever, her sense of smell is more acute than normal.
So I should start airing out the place right around now.
Smoking my pipe in the kitchen is more than a little dreary.
It doesn't inculcate a home-like feeling.
Quite un-gezellig.
There are no places nearby where one can dawdle over a pot of Assam with a pipe and a book. For one thing, this is America, so nobody even understands tea.
For another, this is California, where the blasted wheatgerm-snarfing earthmother types have so thoroughly poisoned the discourse about tobacco that smokers are treated like lepers. And chased outside with curses and operatic screaming.
I'm somewhat baffled at the venom those watery-spined do-gooders have towards tobacco, when lighting up a joint in public is considered politically correct - the poor pothead needs it medicinally!
Medical pot: possibly the biggest con-job since proposition thirteen.
Pot is responsible for more societal ills than liquor.
Lordy but Californians can be fools.
Personally, I cannot stand the smell of marijuana.
Degustibus disputandem.
Freaks.
I'll probably dump some pipes and tobacco into my bag and wander across the hill to Chinatown to have a snack. With one or two cups of milk-tea.
After which I'll light up, and head over to the Occidental.
No potheads or earthmothers there.
No-one who smells.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Reviewed two volumes while thus occupied.
After which I took a very long bath.
Yes, of course by myself!
Do you really think anyone else could stand to be around me, when I'm reeking of Latakia, Turkish leaf, and pungent flue-cured tobaccos?!?
Well, other than a fellow pipe-smoker, of course.
Or an extremely unusual woman. One with very particular tastes, and an insane amount of boldness and determination.
After soaking I needed more caffeine. Following which I decided that the full-flavoured life absolutely required a zesty sandwich with unhealthy stuffing.
POST-PRANDIAL AMBLE
One more bowl of that very autumnal blend while strolling over the back-end of Nob Hill, where the cablecars rise on Washington, around the Clay Street side of the tall apartment buildings where the ginkgo trees are shedding golden leaves, then down Jackson to Hyde, where another cablecar passed me at the curve.
There's a small restaurant there which would be nice to invite someone to sometime, especially after seeing a couple inside happily sharing several orders of potstickers with hot sauce. Two people, with similar condimental tastes, scarfing down dumplings...... A very intimate moment, almost like being present in their home, despite their being very much in public. They scarcely said a word, communicating almost entirely with their eyes.
And their co-ordinated chopsticks.
有利飯店 U-LEE RESTAURANT
A very nice Chinese eatery at 1468 Hyde Street at the corner of Jackson, that does some splendid food indeed. Remarkably, many of their customers are white, which normally indicates a certain level of slapdash and sweet-sour. Very small, with seating for no more than maybe two dozen people if every seat is occupied.
Spare, not overly decorated. Yet their cooking is consistently good, and they do some purely marvelous potstickers.
It can get crowded by seven o'clock.
The menu has an extensive selection of standard Chinese restaurant dishes, as well as things that Chinese people like. Their chow fun is rather darned good, the long-beans and chicken is very very nice, the eggplant is superb.....
[NOTE: standard Chinese restaurant dishes nowadays refers to kung pao whatevers, Mongolian whatevers, General Tso's whatevers, Walnut whatevers, and several other constructs of a long-forgotten Hunanese - Szechuanese derivation. Stuff with which most Cantonese people are not particularly impressed. And the family that runs this restaurant are Cantonese. Evenso, they treat these white folk favourites with respect, and take deserved pride in their cooking. So whether your tastes are mundane, or eccentric and adventurous, you will certainly find plenty here to make you happy.]
Perfect for couples, if dining early.
And great potstickers.
Really great.
A RANT TO FINISH
It's nearly tea-time now. Perhaps I need another bowl of robust woman-repellent? Except it's getting close to the hour when my apartment mate returns, and because she has a slight fever, her sense of smell is more acute than normal.
So I should start airing out the place right around now.
Smoking my pipe in the kitchen is more than a little dreary.
It doesn't inculcate a home-like feeling.
Quite un-gezellig.
There are no places nearby where one can dawdle over a pot of Assam with a pipe and a book. For one thing, this is America, so nobody even understands tea.
For another, this is California, where the blasted wheatgerm-snarfing earthmother types have so thoroughly poisoned the discourse about tobacco that smokers are treated like lepers. And chased outside with curses and operatic screaming.
I'm somewhat baffled at the venom those watery-spined do-gooders have towards tobacco, when lighting up a joint in public is considered politically correct - the poor pothead needs it medicinally!
Medical pot: possibly the biggest con-job since proposition thirteen.
Pot is responsible for more societal ills than liquor.
Lordy but Californians can be fools.
Personally, I cannot stand the smell of marijuana.
Degustibus disputandem.
Freaks.
I'll probably dump some pipes and tobacco into my bag and wander across the hill to Chinatown to have a snack. With one or two cups of milk-tea.
After which I'll light up, and head over to the Occidental.
No potheads or earthmothers there.
No-one who smells.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 07, 2013
FEAR THE WEASEL, LOVE THE WEASEL!
Weasels are much maligned creatures. Both in literature and popular culture, weasels are described as bloodthirsty, murderous, and harbingers of ill-omen.
What nonsense.
From Wikipedia: "They are small, active predators, long and slender..."
If I didn't already know that a mustelid was being described, I would assume that the author of that sentence was talking about the ideal woman.
LITHE-MINDED INDIVIDUALS
It will probably not surprise you to discover that I have always liked weasels. Much like I am fond of badgers, raccoons, and many other animals.
It's refreshing to see goal-driven intelligences at work, and the more a creature can upset the applecart or get away with murder, the more I tend to admire it.
That raccoon-proof garbage can is not really raccoon-proof, you know. And you've likely given him a challenge he cannot resist. If he had his druthers, he would prefer to dine at that little French bistro on Hyde Street, wearing a coat and tie, and generously tipping the waitstaff, especially after the roast duck and foie gras.....
But he seriously wants to see the expression on your face when you discover that the raccoon lock is busted, the coffee grounds have been thrown at your window, the banana peels festively festoon your brand-new Prius, and the chicken carcass which you should have used for soup stock is now in your letter box.
And your teenage daughter has run off with Mr. Raccoon.
He's clearly a very intelligent and witty fellow.
With a wickedness that's magnetic!
Just because they're furry doesn't mean they can't outfox you.
Even weasels. Especially weasels. Mr. Weasel wants your chickens, you are powerless to resist. Attempts to eradicate his kind as pests have merely resulted in the more intelligent ones contributing much more to the mustelian gene pool. At this point, they're qualified to run for congress.
In another few generations they'll be running the banks.
And collecting European art.
Surrender now.
"Small active predators, long and slender"
I cannot help but wonder what a dinner date with a young female weasel would be like. Probably very exciting, from a food and company point of view. For one thing, she'd be keenly interested in meat. And seafood.
And tasty crustaceans.
For another, she would probably insist that we leave a very generous tip if the service was good, and burn the blasted place down if it wasn't.
Miss, why are you carrying a jerry-can instead of a Vuitton handbag?
Oh I see - it's the culturally accepted equivalent for your kind.
Weasels are small enough that they can sit ON the table. Instead of at it. Maybe she'd want the food to-go. Fois gras, roast duck, and fresh fresh chicken for a picnic. Crusty loaf, bottle of wine, tablecloth, and cutlery.
Indeed, a veritable feast!
Followed by cigarillos, and chucking garbage at the tourists.
Or raiding the fish-markets to liberate the lobster!
And reunite it with an old friend: mayonnaise!
I'll get you home by nine, sweetheart, 'cause I'm scared of your dad. He's still carrying a grudge from the Toad Hall incident. And he's a meanie.
As well as being my tax-accountant.
Somebody needs to write a story about nice weasels, showing them as the gallant, independent-minded, creative individuals that they are. Lovable and ferocious, and precisely the kind of people you want your children to know.
Well, except for the part where they stole the cutlery.
Might want to avoid mentioning that.
That was 'regrettable'.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
What nonsense.
From Wikipedia: "They are small, active predators, long and slender..."
If I didn't already know that a mustelid was being described, I would assume that the author of that sentence was talking about the ideal woman.
LITHE-MINDED INDIVIDUALS
It will probably not surprise you to discover that I have always liked weasels. Much like I am fond of badgers, raccoons, and many other animals.
It's refreshing to see goal-driven intelligences at work, and the more a creature can upset the applecart or get away with murder, the more I tend to admire it.
That raccoon-proof garbage can is not really raccoon-proof, you know. And you've likely given him a challenge he cannot resist. If he had his druthers, he would prefer to dine at that little French bistro on Hyde Street, wearing a coat and tie, and generously tipping the waitstaff, especially after the roast duck and foie gras.....
But he seriously wants to see the expression on your face when you discover that the raccoon lock is busted, the coffee grounds have been thrown at your window, the banana peels festively festoon your brand-new Prius, and the chicken carcass which you should have used for soup stock is now in your letter box.
And your teenage daughter has run off with Mr. Raccoon.
He's clearly a very intelligent and witty fellow.
With a wickedness that's magnetic!
Just because they're furry doesn't mean they can't outfox you.
Even weasels. Especially weasels. Mr. Weasel wants your chickens, you are powerless to resist. Attempts to eradicate his kind as pests have merely resulted in the more intelligent ones contributing much more to the mustelian gene pool. At this point, they're qualified to run for congress.
In another few generations they'll be running the banks.
And collecting European art.
Surrender now.
"Small active predators, long and slender"
I cannot help but wonder what a dinner date with a young female weasel would be like. Probably very exciting, from a food and company point of view. For one thing, she'd be keenly interested in meat. And seafood.
And tasty crustaceans.
For another, she would probably insist that we leave a very generous tip if the service was good, and burn the blasted place down if it wasn't.
Miss, why are you carrying a jerry-can instead of a Vuitton handbag?
Oh I see - it's the culturally accepted equivalent for your kind.
Weasels are small enough that they can sit ON the table. Instead of at it. Maybe she'd want the food to-go. Fois gras, roast duck, and fresh fresh chicken for a picnic. Crusty loaf, bottle of wine, tablecloth, and cutlery.
Indeed, a veritable feast!
Followed by cigarillos, and chucking garbage at the tourists.
Or raiding the fish-markets to liberate the lobster!
And reunite it with an old friend: mayonnaise!
I'll get you home by nine, sweetheart, 'cause I'm scared of your dad. He's still carrying a grudge from the Toad Hall incident. And he's a meanie.
As well as being my tax-accountant.
Somebody needs to write a story about nice weasels, showing them as the gallant, independent-minded, creative individuals that they are. Lovable and ferocious, and precisely the kind of people you want your children to know.
Well, except for the part where they stole the cutlery.
Might want to avoid mentioning that.
That was 'regrettable'.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 06, 2013
SOMETHING NOODLY AND DELICIOUS
There are days when I forget to eat till late afternoon. I'm surprised how busy I am now that I am no longer employed at the company where I worked for twelve years. Both yesterday and today have been days like that.
Yesterday I rushed out of the house frantically, to get down to Chinatown in time to have dinner at a certain restaurant. They close at eight, and I did not want to inconvenience them by being the last customer sitting.
Today I am rather at a loss. It's nearly six o'clock and early evening now, and even after being up for over ten hours I have yet to feel peckish.
Hot coffee, tea, and a pipe.
Repeated at intervals.
So, just not hungry.
Plus it's bitterly cold outside.
Makes one rather want to stay indoors and go into hibernation.
Except that both caffeine and nicotine stimulate.
And require one to be awake.
I've been wondering lately what it would be like to eat with another person. Just one other person. Someone who wouldn't mind going to a local restaurant that we both knew. Casual, relaxed, and completely at ease in each other's presence.
A familiar and comfortable thing to do.
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes, a bit....."
"Let's go eat, shall we?"
"Okay!"
You'll agree that that sounds very nice. And it presupposes that we would have spent time prior to the rise of peckishness around each other.
Like with all fantasies, problems present themselves.
The first one is that I've been so very busy today that I haven't even bathed.
Which does not necessarily mean that I've been wandering around all stinky, leaving traces of unclean wherever I went, but rather that the other person would either have to patiently wait while I made myself more presentable -- an imposition, you'll admit -- OR that she would have to be equally 'casual' at this very moment.
Which is highly unlikely.
The second problem is that such a person would have to live fairly close by, as a phone call containing the invite for a bite to eat suggests sudden whim rather than preplanning, and hunger now rather than one hour from now.
The third is that she would have to be a woman. In this scenario I can imagine myself spontaneously eating lunch or dinner with a woman.
Especially at some place in the neighborhood.
There are several zones where bites may be found in this vicinity.
Polk Street: where all the brash young party animals tend to go.
Hyde Street: which has many charming little bistros and U-Lee.
Chinatown: my favourite haunt for casual dining and good food.
Northbeach: where one may rub elbows with tourists and pizza.
Fillmore Street: a lovely walk, as well as interesting restaurants.
As you can see, the possibilities are well nigh endless.
Except for the problems I mentioned.
And, it's a fantasy.
Perhaps I'll load-up a pipe while contemplating this matter. Another smoke before a quick shower. After a refreshing bowl of Rattrays, I may be hungry.
And I'm sure I can find someplace with hot food on the other side of the hill.
Something noodly and delicious.
With ginger and scallions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yesterday I rushed out of the house frantically, to get down to Chinatown in time to have dinner at a certain restaurant. They close at eight, and I did not want to inconvenience them by being the last customer sitting.
Today I am rather at a loss. It's nearly six o'clock and early evening now, and even after being up for over ten hours I have yet to feel peckish.
Hot coffee, tea, and a pipe.
Repeated at intervals.
So, just not hungry.
Plus it's bitterly cold outside.
Makes one rather want to stay indoors and go into hibernation.
Except that both caffeine and nicotine stimulate.
And require one to be awake.
I've been wondering lately what it would be like to eat with another person. Just one other person. Someone who wouldn't mind going to a local restaurant that we both knew. Casual, relaxed, and completely at ease in each other's presence.
A familiar and comfortable thing to do.
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes, a bit....."
"Let's go eat, shall we?"
"Okay!"
You'll agree that that sounds very nice. And it presupposes that we would have spent time prior to the rise of peckishness around each other.
Like with all fantasies, problems present themselves.
The first one is that I've been so very busy today that I haven't even bathed.
Which does not necessarily mean that I've been wandering around all stinky, leaving traces of unclean wherever I went, but rather that the other person would either have to patiently wait while I made myself more presentable -- an imposition, you'll admit -- OR that she would have to be equally 'casual' at this very moment.
Which is highly unlikely.
The second problem is that such a person would have to live fairly close by, as a phone call containing the invite for a bite to eat suggests sudden whim rather than preplanning, and hunger now rather than one hour from now.
The third is that she would have to be a woman. In this scenario I can imagine myself spontaneously eating lunch or dinner with a woman.
Especially at some place in the neighborhood.
There are several zones where bites may be found in this vicinity.
Polk Street: where all the brash young party animals tend to go.
Hyde Street: which has many charming little bistros and U-Lee.
Chinatown: my favourite haunt for casual dining and good food.
Northbeach: where one may rub elbows with tourists and pizza.
Fillmore Street: a lovely walk, as well as interesting restaurants.
As you can see, the possibilities are well nigh endless.
Except for the problems I mentioned.
And, it's a fantasy.
Perhaps I'll load-up a pipe while contemplating this matter. Another smoke before a quick shower. After a refreshing bowl of Rattrays, I may be hungry.
And I'm sure I can find someplace with hot food on the other side of the hill.
Something noodly and delicious.
With ginger and scallions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NAVIGATOR - SMOKING ON THE EDGE OF CHINATOWN
I remarked to Dante that if one had a choice of service with a warm smile from a pretty woman, or haphazard attention from a not very bright uncle, it was always better to go on a night when the person who is pleasing to the eyes is working.
He agreed. As, naturally, any man would.
And I will admit that I tend to go to that restaurant ONLY when the pretty woman is working. The food seems to taste so much better that way.
That, possibly, also affects my present perception of Greg Pease's latest tobacco product: Navigator. I smoked a big, BIG bowlful after dinner.
But I had let enough time pass that the residual taste of the bitter melon chicken rice (凉瓜雞球飯) was long gone, though not the memory of the keen intelligent eyes and sincere smile.
GREG PEASE'S NAVIGATOR
[Sixth in the Old London Series.]
No, the person in question does NOT resemble red Virginia, neither in ribbon cut form nor lightly pressed flake. But if they began featuring charming women on tobacco posters again, she would be in the running.
Certainly my first choice.
'Smoke a blend of predominantly red VA, with a touch of yellow, brown, and something aircured plus a demure and mysterious extra note;
smoke GLP Navigator!'
I think we can all agree that my skills as an advertising copy writer leave something to be desired. But don't worry, she would be fully clothed. Shirt and v-neck sweater (it was cold last night), plus jeans. Although we'd have to shop around a bit for the jeans, leastways a better fit.
The sweater made her look very fresh and collegiate, and crisp white cotton shirts evoke innocence and clean living. The hair was perfect. Long, black, clean and shiny, with a clip keeping it out of her face.
She'd be the ideal poster-girl for a pure and generous tobacco.
Navigator tastes velvety in the mouth, with a good balance of boldness and complexity. Yet it is more subtle than you would at first think. This is the type of mixture that, if you smelled someone else smoking it, would inspire you to reveries, and might colour an entire period of your life, or bring back brilliant memories of an era long ago.
The pipe was a biggish Barling billard, and it sang. Perhaps overly optimistic of me to load such a large pipe to the brim with a product laden with nicotine (flue-cured leaf and Kentucky tend toward wallop), but an hour and a half later I was happy as a clam and high as a kite.
Nicotine stimulates quite a bit.
Navigator, a lot.
It was a splendid evening, what all Saturdays should be.
Good food, good company, good cheer.
Plus something evocative.
I'm wondering whether I should first order eight tins, or twelve. Or place two separate orders.
This tobacco will age well, I think. And it will likely end up in my regular rotation. Smokes down cool and clean, delivering graduating spectra of complexity, then quietly departs, leaving naught but happiness and a fine white ash.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He agreed. As, naturally, any man would.
And I will admit that I tend to go to that restaurant ONLY when the pretty woman is working. The food seems to taste so much better that way.
That, possibly, also affects my present perception of Greg Pease's latest tobacco product: Navigator. I smoked a big, BIG bowlful after dinner.
But I had let enough time pass that the residual taste of the bitter melon chicken rice (凉瓜雞球飯) was long gone, though not the memory of the keen intelligent eyes and sincere smile.
GREG PEASE'S NAVIGATOR
[Sixth in the Old London Series.]
No, the person in question does NOT resemble red Virginia, neither in ribbon cut form nor lightly pressed flake. But if they began featuring charming women on tobacco posters again, she would be in the running.
Certainly my first choice.
'Smoke a blend of predominantly red VA, with a touch of yellow, brown, and something aircured plus a demure and mysterious extra note;
smoke GLP Navigator!'
I think we can all agree that my skills as an advertising copy writer leave something to be desired. But don't worry, she would be fully clothed. Shirt and v-neck sweater (it was cold last night), plus jeans. Although we'd have to shop around a bit for the jeans, leastways a better fit.
The sweater made her look very fresh and collegiate, and crisp white cotton shirts evoke innocence and clean living. The hair was perfect. Long, black, clean and shiny, with a clip keeping it out of her face.
She'd be the ideal poster-girl for a pure and generous tobacco.
Navigator tastes velvety in the mouth, with a good balance of boldness and complexity. Yet it is more subtle than you would at first think. This is the type of mixture that, if you smelled someone else smoking it, would inspire you to reveries, and might colour an entire period of your life, or bring back brilliant memories of an era long ago.
The pipe was a biggish Barling billard, and it sang. Perhaps overly optimistic of me to load such a large pipe to the brim with a product laden with nicotine (flue-cured leaf and Kentucky tend toward wallop), but an hour and a half later I was happy as a clam and high as a kite.
Nicotine stimulates quite a bit.
Navigator, a lot.
It was a splendid evening, what all Saturdays should be.
Good food, good company, good cheer.
Plus something evocative.
I'm wondering whether I should first order eight tins, or twelve. Or place two separate orders.
This tobacco will age well, I think. And it will likely end up in my regular rotation. Smokes down cool and clean, delivering graduating spectra of complexity, then quietly departs, leaving naught but happiness and a fine white ash.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 05, 2013
WHAT DO I WANT TO EAT ON SATURDAY..., AND SUNDAY
When you pass Ping Yuen Estates on Pacific Avenue late at night, the bright lighting gloriously illumines the yellow ginkgo leaves. Altogether very lovely. Had I been by myself at that time, I would have paused a while, lost in visual splendour.
San Francisco, despite some ugly bits -- the weekend beer and vodka youths around Broadway and Columbus come to mind, as well as the flibberty-gibbets who flock to Polk on Friday and Saturday evenings -- still has a surfeit of beautiful sights and charming places.
That alone makes it hard to consider living anywhere else.
When I first returned to the United States I did not think it so. All of the Bay Area seemed so much uglier than what I had been used to, but in retrospect that must have been both unfamiliarity as well as a manifestation of loss or homesickness. I am much more attached to the place now.
Still have doubts about the people.
Folks, many of you are rather crass, and I despair over your reading habits. And some of you eat unspeakable things, in between your bouts of heavy drinking.
There is overmuch pretension among you too.
You are un-uniquely unique.
Really.
There is no reason to compromise. Why do some of you accept what is less than appropriate and fitting? Why the inadequacies in what you buy, what you eat, and whom you have affairs with?
Just because it was convenient, does not make it 'right'.
It makes for vulgarity and bad relationships.
Some of you are too eager to compromise your principles and subdue the ethical backbone. Shape up, people, we have high expectations!
Don't merely settle, but pursue, question, and explore.
Your mind will eventually thank you for it.
And you'll probably be happier.
That said, and contradicting my own strong inclination to try new things regularly, this evening I shall eat at a familiar place, because it's just too cold to do otherwise. This is the middle of winter, it is raining, and windy, I'm by myself, and I know exactly what I want. Regular readers will probably be able to hazard a guess, because I've mentioned all the elements often enough.
Afterwards, which is also entirely predictable, I shall light up a pipe filled with some tobacco. Though this time it will be filled with something I have not smoked in over three decades: Rattray's Accountants' Mixture.
It smells delicious, decadent and sinful.
"This mixture of dark-fired Virginias, smooth Black Cavendish and Latakia is full-bodied and spicy without being strong or sharp."
Sounds rather as I fondly imagine myself to be.
Full and spicy, but not strong or sharp.
As well as nicely fermented.
All in a good way.
CAN'T TRUST FURBALLS
When I came home from the monthly meeting of the pipe-club Thursday evening, I found a scene of discord and wailing at home. My roommates had gone APE while I was gone. Well, just one ape. One out of four.
The one-legged monkey whom the head of Marketing abused many years ago as part of the company pumpkin carving contest, had trashed my bed, ripping a sheet, scattering pillows, detritus, and wrapping paper along the side where I do not sleep.
There were books everywhere.
Several volumes of Calvin & Hobbes. Gujarati Reference Grammar. Twerski on Chumash. The Great Indian Mutiny, by Collier. As well as the Chinese-English Dictionary, Cantonese in Yale Romanization, Mandarin in Pinyin, by Chik Hon Man and Ng Lam Sim Yuk, published by The Chinese University Press.
Fortunately I have TWO of those.
All I can think is that Urasmus (the one-legged) monkey decided that while big stinky guy (me) was off puffing pipes with his pals, he would ransack the place for bananas and raid the bowl with laundry quarters. He had no luck whatsoever (can't climb), and he also must have been very upset to discover that I do not hoard bananas.
Evidently the Control Monkey was a disconcerted witness.
As well as an ineffective admonisher of the criminal.
He's been surprised at the level of miscreance.
Especially on my side of the apartment.
We're a badly run household.
I've already told him several times that the chaos in my room is entirely the fault of the more rowdy roomies -- now including a Hello Kitty that I was forced to adopt over the holidays, lordy what a twisted piece of work that feline is -- but he tends to believe that I have a hand in it.
Which I strenuously deny.
I do not hoard bananas.
Merely pipe-tobacco.
I still do not know what I am going to eat tomorrow.
Open to suggestions, though. Something fun.
As long as it does NOT involve bananas.
And I can smoke a pipe afterwards.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
San Francisco, despite some ugly bits -- the weekend beer and vodka youths around Broadway and Columbus come to mind, as well as the flibberty-gibbets who flock to Polk on Friday and Saturday evenings -- still has a surfeit of beautiful sights and charming places.
That alone makes it hard to consider living anywhere else.
When I first returned to the United States I did not think it so. All of the Bay Area seemed so much uglier than what I had been used to, but in retrospect that must have been both unfamiliarity as well as a manifestation of loss or homesickness. I am much more attached to the place now.
Still have doubts about the people.
Folks, many of you are rather crass, and I despair over your reading habits. And some of you eat unspeakable things, in between your bouts of heavy drinking.
There is overmuch pretension among you too.
You are un-uniquely unique.
Really.
There is no reason to compromise. Why do some of you accept what is less than appropriate and fitting? Why the inadequacies in what you buy, what you eat, and whom you have affairs with?
Just because it was convenient, does not make it 'right'.
It makes for vulgarity and bad relationships.
Some of you are too eager to compromise your principles and subdue the ethical backbone. Shape up, people, we have high expectations!
Don't merely settle, but pursue, question, and explore.
Your mind will eventually thank you for it.
And you'll probably be happier.
That said, and contradicting my own strong inclination to try new things regularly, this evening I shall eat at a familiar place, because it's just too cold to do otherwise. This is the middle of winter, it is raining, and windy, I'm by myself, and I know exactly what I want. Regular readers will probably be able to hazard a guess, because I've mentioned all the elements often enough.
Afterwards, which is also entirely predictable, I shall light up a pipe filled with some tobacco. Though this time it will be filled with something I have not smoked in over three decades: Rattray's Accountants' Mixture.
It smells delicious, decadent and sinful.
"This mixture of dark-fired Virginias, smooth Black Cavendish and Latakia is full-bodied and spicy without being strong or sharp."
Sounds rather as I fondly imagine myself to be.
Full and spicy, but not strong or sharp.
As well as nicely fermented.
All in a good way.
CAN'T TRUST FURBALLS
When I came home from the monthly meeting of the pipe-club Thursday evening, I found a scene of discord and wailing at home. My roommates had gone APE while I was gone. Well, just one ape. One out of four.
The one-legged monkey whom the head of Marketing abused many years ago as part of the company pumpkin carving contest, had trashed my bed, ripping a sheet, scattering pillows, detritus, and wrapping paper along the side where I do not sleep.
There were books everywhere.
Several volumes of Calvin & Hobbes. Gujarati Reference Grammar. Twerski on Chumash. The Great Indian Mutiny, by Collier. As well as the Chinese-English Dictionary, Cantonese in Yale Romanization, Mandarin in Pinyin, by Chik Hon Man and Ng Lam Sim Yuk, published by The Chinese University Press.
Fortunately I have TWO of those.
All I can think is that Urasmus (the one-legged) monkey decided that while big stinky guy (me) was off puffing pipes with his pals, he would ransack the place for bananas and raid the bowl with laundry quarters. He had no luck whatsoever (can't climb), and he also must have been very upset to discover that I do not hoard bananas.
Evidently the Control Monkey was a disconcerted witness.
As well as an ineffective admonisher of the criminal.
He's been surprised at the level of miscreance.
Especially on my side of the apartment.
We're a badly run household.
I've already told him several times that the chaos in my room is entirely the fault of the more rowdy roomies -- now including a Hello Kitty that I was forced to adopt over the holidays, lordy what a twisted piece of work that feline is -- but he tends to believe that I have a hand in it.
Which I strenuously deny.
I do not hoard bananas.
Merely pipe-tobacco.
I still do not know what I am going to eat tomorrow.
Open to suggestions, though. Something fun.
As long as it does NOT involve bananas.
And I can smoke a pipe afterwards.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 04, 2013
FOOD - NOW SPORADICALLY UPDATED
Yesterday evening, while I was smoking several bowls at the monthly meeting of the Golden Gate Pipe Club, a concerned person who does not identify herself commented under the post entitled Vindaloo.
Anonymous said...
Lets help ATBOTH focus on something else besides Women. And Food. And Women eating food.
Try this:
In a Mass Knife Fight to the Death Between Every American President, Who Would Win and Why?
http://faceintheblue.wordpress.com/2012/08/22/in-a-mass-knife-fight-to-the-death-between-every-american-president-who-would-win-and-why/
Care to weigh in?
End cite.
The internet is an amazing thing, isn't it? American presidents as street thugs. That's certainly food for thought. And I note, by the way, that there have been no women presidents. Ever. Yet. Or presidential women vices.
How odd is that?
MANGEZ CHEZ LÉZARD!
In point of fact, nothing will make me stop focusing on women. And food. Or women eating food. These must all logically overlap. They're a spectrum.
Everything is a reminder of something else, or its metaphoric symbol.
The one may serve in lieu of the other.
Food. Pipes and pipe tobacco. Poetry. Long baths. Cake. Eels. Furniture polish. Warm lights at night. Hot chili peppers. Tea. Reptiles. Fountain pens. Coffee. Biscuits. Marcel Proust and Vladimir Nabokov.
Fog-shrouded streets and the wildlife of Nob Hill.
But mostly food.
In follow-up to that comment, I have updated my recipe blog.
There are now several recipes there from the last year, including vindaloo, Cantonese steamed eggs, roast goose, various curries, and some lovely fatty pork dishes. More will be added over the next few days, as I continue to focus.
Food - the passionate pleasure.
"Let us help ATBOTH focus on something else besides Women.
And Food. And Women eating food."
Some things are just natural.
I cannot stop thinking about food. And women. And food being eaten by women.
But mostly food.
Food.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Anonymous said...
Lets help ATBOTH focus on something else besides Women. And Food. And Women eating food.
Try this:
In a Mass Knife Fight to the Death Between Every American President, Who Would Win and Why?
http://faceintheblue.wordpress.com/2012/08/22/in-a-mass-knife-fight-to-the-death-between-every-american-president-who-would-win-and-why/
Care to weigh in?
End cite.
The internet is an amazing thing, isn't it? American presidents as street thugs. That's certainly food for thought. And I note, by the way, that there have been no women presidents. Ever. Yet. Or presidential women vices.
How odd is that?
MANGEZ CHEZ LÉZARD!
In point of fact, nothing will make me stop focusing on women. And food. Or women eating food. These must all logically overlap. They're a spectrum.
Everything is a reminder of something else, or its metaphoric symbol.
The one may serve in lieu of the other.
Food. Pipes and pipe tobacco. Poetry. Long baths. Cake. Eels. Furniture polish. Warm lights at night. Hot chili peppers. Tea. Reptiles. Fountain pens. Coffee. Biscuits. Marcel Proust and Vladimir Nabokov.
Fog-shrouded streets and the wildlife of Nob Hill.
But mostly food.
In follow-up to that comment, I have updated my recipe blog.
There are now several recipes there from the last year, including vindaloo, Cantonese steamed eggs, roast goose, various curries, and some lovely fatty pork dishes. More will be added over the next few days, as I continue to focus.
Food - the passionate pleasure.
"Let us help ATBOTH focus on something else besides Women.
And Food. And Women eating food."
Some things are just natural.
I cannot stop thinking about food. And women. And food being eaten by women.
But mostly food.
Food.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 03, 2013
VINDALOO
One of the most typical of English dishes is vindaloo, a preparation which may be said to represent lower middle-class feasting in the same way that Chicken Tikka Masala is upper middle-class. Or perhaps normal food versus snooty.
Both of these are in competition for the British National Dish.
Altogether a very strange phenomenon.
You'd think that a country that invented spotted dick, peas porridge, and bubble and squeak, not even mentioning haggis, saveloy, Scotch egg, and the deep-fried snickers bar, would have a bit more pride in their own native culinary talent.
Did I mention 'boiled baby'? It's a plain suet pudding without any raisins added. Like its speckled cousin the spotted dick, it can be served with custard.
Both rare and delicious.
British cooking truly is a miracle.
DON'T ORDER THE CHICKEN!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUQZ4JMcMTE.]
Watching that got me all esurient. Viceroy Chicken is a mild curry with coconut cream and a little mango chutney added for sweetness.
Alas, far more British than Indian.
Ladies prefer vindaloo.
It's more real.
The typical Indian restaurant vindaloo is, remarkably, also far more British than Indian. Originally, vindaloo was Portuguese chunked pork marinated in wine and garlic, then the reinvention of the dish in Goa transformed it into a vinegar and chili pepper stew. In Indian restaurants in England and the United States, it is the standard restaurant curry with extra cayenne, ghee, and potatoes added.
The recipe below is not that.
PORK VINDALOO
2 Lbs. pork, cut into large cubes.
2 Large onions.
Minced garlic and ginger as you think fit.
1 TBS. ground cumin.
1 TBS. cayenne.
1 Tsp. ground coriander.
1 Tsp. ground black pepper.
1 Tsp. sugar.
1 Tsp. salt.
½ Tsp. cinnamon powder.
½ Tsp. turmeric.
Generous pinch of sugar.
One cup vinegar.
Hefty squeeze of lime or lemon juice.
Fresh cilantro.
Ghee, or any reasonable alternative.
A few whole red chilies, either fresh or dried.
Six green cardamom pods.
Three or four whole cloves.
Mix the vinegar and ground spices with the garlic, ginger, salt, and sugar. Massage this into the pork, and set it in the refrigerator for several hours.
Then chop the onions fine, and fry them in plenty of ghee or oil till golden, mooshing with a spatula as you go.
Cast the marinating pork into a sieve with a vessel underneath to catch the juices.
When most of the liquid has drained, add the meat to the pan and sear it well, turning with the spatula to ensure that the spices are also cooked. Then add the retained juices, and water to sparingly cover (approximately one cup), as well as the whole chilies, cardamom, and cloves, and simmer for about an hour on low, by which time the pork should be tender and the oil slightly separating.
Add the squeeze of lime juice and plenty chopped cilantro just before serving, and put the boiled rice and the condiments on the table at the same time.
If you wish, you can go kinda berserk with the garlic, and I wouldn't worry too much about the quantity of grease. It usually takes me one to two sticks of butter and a dash of olive oil to get this right. Besides, I add sambal ulek (red chili paste from a jar, either Indonesian or Dutch) to the pan when adding the meat, because it gives it a deeper, browner flavour.
A tablespoon or two of good sharp mustard added to the marinade is highly recommended, but in no way authentic.
No, lager does not go well with this at all.
Even if you ARE an Englishman.
Or from Australia.
Of course, if you want the standard restaurant vindaloo, made with either lamb or chicken, and potatoes, visit your local dhaba. There are tons of them all over the city, especially in the Tenderloin.
Ask any truck driver.
I really miss Jeet Singh Rawat's 'vindaloo' potatoes. Absolutely lovely with hot naan and green chilies. More of a thechwan than anything else.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Both of these are in competition for the British National Dish.
Altogether a very strange phenomenon.
You'd think that a country that invented spotted dick, peas porridge, and bubble and squeak, not even mentioning haggis, saveloy, Scotch egg, and the deep-fried snickers bar, would have a bit more pride in their own native culinary talent.
Did I mention 'boiled baby'? It's a plain suet pudding without any raisins added. Like its speckled cousin the spotted dick, it can be served with custard.
Both rare and delicious.
British cooking truly is a miracle.
DON'T ORDER THE CHICKEN!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUQZ4JMcMTE.]
Watching that got me all esurient. Viceroy Chicken is a mild curry with coconut cream and a little mango chutney added for sweetness.
Alas, far more British than Indian.
Ladies prefer vindaloo.
It's more real.
The typical Indian restaurant vindaloo is, remarkably, also far more British than Indian. Originally, vindaloo was Portuguese chunked pork marinated in wine and garlic, then the reinvention of the dish in Goa transformed it into a vinegar and chili pepper stew. In Indian restaurants in England and the United States, it is the standard restaurant curry with extra cayenne, ghee, and potatoes added.
The recipe below is not that.
PORK VINDALOO
2 Lbs. pork, cut into large cubes.
2 Large onions.
Minced garlic and ginger as you think fit.
1 TBS. ground cumin.
1 TBS. cayenne.
1 Tsp. ground coriander.
1 Tsp. ground black pepper.
1 Tsp. sugar.
1 Tsp. salt.
½ Tsp. cinnamon powder.
½ Tsp. turmeric.
Generous pinch of sugar.
One cup vinegar.
Hefty squeeze of lime or lemon juice.
Fresh cilantro.
Ghee, or any reasonable alternative.
A few whole red chilies, either fresh or dried.
Six green cardamom pods.
Three or four whole cloves.
Mix the vinegar and ground spices with the garlic, ginger, salt, and sugar. Massage this into the pork, and set it in the refrigerator for several hours.
Then chop the onions fine, and fry them in plenty of ghee or oil till golden, mooshing with a spatula as you go.
Cast the marinating pork into a sieve with a vessel underneath to catch the juices.
When most of the liquid has drained, add the meat to the pan and sear it well, turning with the spatula to ensure that the spices are also cooked. Then add the retained juices, and water to sparingly cover (approximately one cup), as well as the whole chilies, cardamom, and cloves, and simmer for about an hour on low, by which time the pork should be tender and the oil slightly separating.
Add the squeeze of lime juice and plenty chopped cilantro just before serving, and put the boiled rice and the condiments on the table at the same time.
If you wish, you can go kinda berserk with the garlic, and I wouldn't worry too much about the quantity of grease. It usually takes me one to two sticks of butter and a dash of olive oil to get this right. Besides, I add sambal ulek (red chili paste from a jar, either Indonesian or Dutch) to the pan when adding the meat, because it gives it a deeper, browner flavour.
A tablespoon or two of good sharp mustard added to the marinade is highly recommended, but in no way authentic.
No, lager does not go well with this at all.
Even if you ARE an Englishman.
Or from Australia.
Of course, if you want the standard restaurant vindaloo, made with either lamb or chicken, and potatoes, visit your local dhaba. There are tons of them all over the city, especially in the Tenderloin.
Ask any truck driver.
I really miss Jeet Singh Rawat's 'vindaloo' potatoes. Absolutely lovely with hot naan and green chilies. More of a thechwan than anything else.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FALKLAND ISLANDS, OR ISLAS MALVINAS?
What follows will not be an evenhanded discussion of who should own the Falkland Islands. Rather, it will be a short, sneering, and unwholesomely insulting retort to Argentine dingbat-in-chief Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, who has demanded that Britain hand over the Falkland Islands and all inhabitants to her country.
Which, by the way, is one of those countries that has achieved nothing of note, ever, and has an extraordinarily high rate of syphilis.
As well as many ugly people.
Ola, señora Kirchner,
Tu madre era un hámster, y tu padre olía a bayas del saúco!
Why is it that every rinky-dink mud country from the uncivilized parts of the world seems to have a big mouth? Don't you folks have anything better to do than brutally exploit your own people, run around the pampas in sexual pursuit of cows, turn corruption into a fine art, and inappropriately demand what isn't yours?
Maggie Thatcher handed your posterior portion back to you back in 1982. That should've ended the matter. Yet now, in a cynical play to the peanut gallery, you once again put your foot in your mouth.
Ms. Kirchner, shut up.
All the rest of you silly gauchos too.
By the way, I understand that certain unique strains of disease survive solely within several Argentinian families, serving almost as a genetic marker or biological evidence of ancestry and descent.
Specifically, bovine syphilis.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which, by the way, is one of those countries that has achieved nothing of note, ever, and has an extraordinarily high rate of syphilis.
As well as many ugly people.
Ola, señora Kirchner,
Tu madre era un hámster, y tu padre olía a bayas del saúco!
Why is it that every rinky-dink mud country from the uncivilized parts of the world seems to have a big mouth? Don't you folks have anything better to do than brutally exploit your own people, run around the pampas in sexual pursuit of cows, turn corruption into a fine art, and inappropriately demand what isn't yours?
Maggie Thatcher handed your posterior portion back to you back in 1982. That should've ended the matter. Yet now, in a cynical play to the peanut gallery, you once again put your foot in your mouth.
Ms. Kirchner, shut up.
All the rest of you silly gauchos too.
By the way, I understand that certain unique strains of disease survive solely within several Argentinian families, serving almost as a genetic marker or biological evidence of ancestry and descent.
Specifically, bovine syphilis.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 02, 2013
THE QUIET PLACES
The first day of the year was peaceful. My apartment mate left the house early to spend the morning, afternoon, and evening, with her boyfriend. In consequence of which I could take a long undisturbed bath, and read for several hours.
One negative aspect of the season is that it is rather cold outside. Which means that wandering around Nob Hill with a pipe is not quite as appealing as it should be.
Maybe I need to develop a pelt.
For the new year.
I left the apartment in mid-afternoon and wandered up to Jones and Washington, where I intended to catch a cablecar down for a few blocks to Chinatown. Would have done so, except that some Muni employees are grumpy, irritable, and arrogant, at the end of their shift. Such as the two troglodytes manning the cablecar.
Ended up walking.
Except for the gaggle of Europeans on the trolley, there were almost no people about. The city seemed at rest. Almost empty.
遲午餐在新檀島咖啡餅店
LATE LUNCH AT NEW SANDALWOOD ISLAND COFFEE SHOP AND BAKERY
Maybe next time I'll try the German pig knuckle (德國鹹豬手). But on the very first day of a new year it is best to stick to the tried and true. 凉瓜猪肉飯 (bittermelon & pork curls over rice) with two cups of milk-tea. And a large sploodge of Sriracha hot sauce - bitter melon is cooling, chilipepper is heating, so the result is the perfect gustatory balance, as well as being one of my favourite breakfasts.
[The way they do it here is exceptional. The bittermelon (苦瓜 fu gwa) is sliced thickly, at an extreme slant, and barely salted at all, so it is still quite bitter. Like everyone else they use salted blackbeans (豆豉) to flavour the dish, but the tausi are left whole, so they provide an elegant visual contrast to the intense grass-green of the vegetable. Flamboyantly fast stir-frying yields exceptional fresh toothsomeness. It explodes on the palate. Yes, it is yummy.]
Remarkably, there were not very many customers there at tea-time. Normally that is just about when the third or fourth flush of the day flocks in for hot hot tea and a snackipoo. The place appeals to both elderly Cantonese and young Taiwanese. Clean, comfortable, a selection of fine baked goods, and a kitchen which does an excellent job at Chinatown favourites as well as the strange selection of vaguely Anglo-Euro dishes customary at "tea restaurants"(茶餐廳 cha chan-teng).
The typical Hong Kong "tea restaurant" is an institution that reflects both the environment that gave it birth and the shifted culinary tastes of a metropole where east met west, mostly at the working-class end of the social scale, and both sides committed culinary mayhem in consequence.
Hot milk-tea made with condensed milk and boiled black tea. Ham and eggs. Choice of spaghetti or rice with your New York steak. Borscht. Clam chowder. Potato salad. Fish head in claypot. Baked tongue Portugaise, pork chops with rice and steamed veg, chicken cutlet with mushroom sauce, peanut butter and condensed milk toast.
As well as rice plates, wonton noodle soup, and chow fun.
Plus Cantonese baked goods, and cupcakes.
The New Sandalwood Island (New Café Honolulu) is one of the best in Chinatown.
NEW CAFÉ HONOLULU 新檀島咖啡餅店
888 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.
"San Taan-Tou Ka-Fei Bing-Dim"
The fossilized gentleman at a table near me ordered himself a second lunch. The remnants of his first lunch indicated that he had already eaten well, but I suspect he was merely dining for entertainment's sake at that point. He dropped one of his chopsticks on the floor again, and continued slowly eating with a fork while the waitress brought him another pair of chopsticks. This time she did not remove the extraneous chopstick. Which reflected good thinking: if he drops one more, he'll still have two. And there are as yet five salt and pepper chickenwings (椒香雞翅) remaining on his plate so there is a good chance of that happening. Whether he enjoyed the taste of the food more, or the sheer crapshoot of keeping chopsticks and utensils off the floor till the end of the second meal, is hard to say. An old lady at the table near the back, who had already finished her lunch, was observing him with avid fascination. She must have been close to a hundred, but I swear there was an element of love or lust in her look. Either that or familial concern.
Possibly Mr. Fossil was a cousin or nephew of hers.
Chew, chew, fumble. Chew, chew, crash.
No, not on the floor this time.
She smiled.
They had both already eaten by the time I got there. They were still there when I left. Even after dawdling over my second cup of milk tea.
Two more chicken wings to go.
Plus some lettuce.
The six Taiwanese at the round table near the pillar scarfed down their several culturally mixed orders in record time - one of them inundated her meal with hot sauce, I could see that the bottle was an inch less full after she was finished - and amid a flurry of shayshays (謝謝 xièxie) they paid and departed, anxious to continue exploring before dark.
The waitress had barely wiped the table when a crabby middle-aged gnome came in and ordered something with shortribs and green stuff in a claypot, bowl of rice on the side. When it came, he hunted and pecked with considerable pleasure, spearing the tasty meaty bits with his fork, and taking tiny bites of rice in between. When he first sat down he had been tired and grouchy. After the first few mouthfulls he seemed years younger, and considerably more elfin.
An amazing transformation.
Two women at the baked goods counter quarrelled with each other in English, while calmly asking for this and that in Chinese. Fluently unaccented in both.
I wonder if bad-temper simply sounds better in the language of Shakespeare?
Forsooth.
I should know by know to not fill up the Peterson System Standard all the way. Especially with pale pressed Virginias, which must be smoked slow and calm. Ended up walking all over Chinatown, even down to the stretch between Bush Street and California where there are nothing but tourist shops. It took over an hour to finish the entire bowl, and I really wanted to get back to my book.
Got home shortly after seven.
Fixed myself a four-bagger of milk-tea at around ten o'clock.
Fast asleep by one.
As good a start to the new year as can be imagined.
How was yours?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One negative aspect of the season is that it is rather cold outside. Which means that wandering around Nob Hill with a pipe is not quite as appealing as it should be.
Maybe I need to develop a pelt.
For the new year.
I left the apartment in mid-afternoon and wandered up to Jones and Washington, where I intended to catch a cablecar down for a few blocks to Chinatown. Would have done so, except that some Muni employees are grumpy, irritable, and arrogant, at the end of their shift. Such as the two troglodytes manning the cablecar.
Ended up walking.
Except for the gaggle of Europeans on the trolley, there were almost no people about. The city seemed at rest. Almost empty.
遲午餐在新檀島咖啡餅店
LATE LUNCH AT NEW SANDALWOOD ISLAND COFFEE SHOP AND BAKERY
Maybe next time I'll try the German pig knuckle (德國鹹豬手). But on the very first day of a new year it is best to stick to the tried and true. 凉瓜猪肉飯 (bittermelon & pork curls over rice) with two cups of milk-tea. And a large sploodge of Sriracha hot sauce - bitter melon is cooling, chilipepper is heating, so the result is the perfect gustatory balance, as well as being one of my favourite breakfasts.
[The way they do it here is exceptional. The bittermelon (苦瓜 fu gwa) is sliced thickly, at an extreme slant, and barely salted at all, so it is still quite bitter. Like everyone else they use salted blackbeans (豆豉) to flavour the dish, but the tausi are left whole, so they provide an elegant visual contrast to the intense grass-green of the vegetable. Flamboyantly fast stir-frying yields exceptional fresh toothsomeness. It explodes on the palate. Yes, it is yummy.]
Remarkably, there were not very many customers there at tea-time. Normally that is just about when the third or fourth flush of the day flocks in for hot hot tea and a snackipoo. The place appeals to both elderly Cantonese and young Taiwanese. Clean, comfortable, a selection of fine baked goods, and a kitchen which does an excellent job at Chinatown favourites as well as the strange selection of vaguely Anglo-Euro dishes customary at "tea restaurants"(茶餐廳 cha chan-teng).
The typical Hong Kong "tea restaurant" is an institution that reflects both the environment that gave it birth and the shifted culinary tastes of a metropole where east met west, mostly at the working-class end of the social scale, and both sides committed culinary mayhem in consequence.
Hot milk-tea made with condensed milk and boiled black tea. Ham and eggs. Choice of spaghetti or rice with your New York steak. Borscht. Clam chowder. Potato salad. Fish head in claypot. Baked tongue Portugaise, pork chops with rice and steamed veg, chicken cutlet with mushroom sauce, peanut butter and condensed milk toast.
As well as rice plates, wonton noodle soup, and chow fun.
Plus Cantonese baked goods, and cupcakes.
The New Sandalwood Island (New Café Honolulu) is one of the best in Chinatown.
NEW CAFÉ HONOLULU 新檀島咖啡餅店
888 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.
"San Taan-Tou Ka-Fei Bing-Dim"
The fossilized gentleman at a table near me ordered himself a second lunch. The remnants of his first lunch indicated that he had already eaten well, but I suspect he was merely dining for entertainment's sake at that point. He dropped one of his chopsticks on the floor again, and continued slowly eating with a fork while the waitress brought him another pair of chopsticks. This time she did not remove the extraneous chopstick. Which reflected good thinking: if he drops one more, he'll still have two. And there are as yet five salt and pepper chickenwings (椒香雞翅) remaining on his plate so there is a good chance of that happening. Whether he enjoyed the taste of the food more, or the sheer crapshoot of keeping chopsticks and utensils off the floor till the end of the second meal, is hard to say. An old lady at the table near the back, who had already finished her lunch, was observing him with avid fascination. She must have been close to a hundred, but I swear there was an element of love or lust in her look. Either that or familial concern.
Possibly Mr. Fossil was a cousin or nephew of hers.
Chew, chew, fumble. Chew, chew, crash.
No, not on the floor this time.
She smiled.
They had both already eaten by the time I got there. They were still there when I left. Even after dawdling over my second cup of milk tea.
Two more chicken wings to go.
Plus some lettuce.
The six Taiwanese at the round table near the pillar scarfed down their several culturally mixed orders in record time - one of them inundated her meal with hot sauce, I could see that the bottle was an inch less full after she was finished - and amid a flurry of shayshays (謝謝 xièxie) they paid and departed, anxious to continue exploring before dark.
The waitress had barely wiped the table when a crabby middle-aged gnome came in and ordered something with shortribs and green stuff in a claypot, bowl of rice on the side. When it came, he hunted and pecked with considerable pleasure, spearing the tasty meaty bits with his fork, and taking tiny bites of rice in between. When he first sat down he had been tired and grouchy. After the first few mouthfulls he seemed years younger, and considerably more elfin.
An amazing transformation.
Two women at the baked goods counter quarrelled with each other in English, while calmly asking for this and that in Chinese. Fluently unaccented in both.
I wonder if bad-temper simply sounds better in the language of Shakespeare?
Forsooth.
I should know by know to not fill up the Peterson System Standard all the way. Especially with pale pressed Virginias, which must be smoked slow and calm. Ended up walking all over Chinatown, even down to the stretch between Bush Street and California where there are nothing but tourist shops. It took over an hour to finish the entire bowl, and I really wanted to get back to my book.
Got home shortly after seven.
Fixed myself a four-bagger of milk-tea at around ten o'clock.
Fast asleep by one.
As good a start to the new year as can be imagined.
How was yours?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOU NEED BANANAS!
Many people have monkeys on their back. This blogger has a monkey on his lap. Which is much better. An eleven inch tall gorilla.
The Control Monkey.
In case you didn't know, a control monkey is the simian against which all others are measured. As well as being the overseer during an office move.
It is axiomatic that the properly organized office move (such as, for instance, from San Francisco to Hayward or any other poxy East-Bay hell hole) should have a control monkey making sure that credenzas and desks being wheeled down the hall at high speed to the assembly area in the big conference room, from whence the movers will take them to the freight elevator, do not crash into cubicle walls or structural pillars.
It is a VERY important task, which requires calmness, maturity, and sound judgement. An even-keeled personality, in other words. Alert & observant.
Afterwards he came home with me, and since that day he has lived here.
Contributing a civilized air to the household.
He's a super-nice little fellow.
Very lovable.
Naturally the other monkey is resentful. He (Urasmus Wazzoo) believes that Arabello Oyster is an usurper and an upstart. A degenerate African who will subvert everything good and proper. And steal all the bananas.
Damned immigrant!
My bananas!
Urasmus has been verbally abusive.
Mr. Oyster has taken it all with considerable grace.
Quite entirely as befits someone wearing a t-shirt which says: 'make a difference - preserve, conserve'. His presence will not lessen our quantity of bananas, but will almost certainly cause it to increase.
All households should have monkeys. And bananas.
That's just the way it is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The Control Monkey.
In case you didn't know, a control monkey is the simian against which all others are measured. As well as being the overseer during an office move.
It is axiomatic that the properly organized office move (such as, for instance, from San Francisco to Hayward or any other poxy East-Bay hell hole) should have a control monkey making sure that credenzas and desks being wheeled down the hall at high speed to the assembly area in the big conference room, from whence the movers will take them to the freight elevator, do not crash into cubicle walls or structural pillars.
It is a VERY important task, which requires calmness, maturity, and sound judgement. An even-keeled personality, in other words. Alert & observant.
Afterwards he came home with me, and since that day he has lived here.
Contributing a civilized air to the household.
He's a super-nice little fellow.
Very lovable.
Naturally the other monkey is resentful. He (Urasmus Wazzoo) believes that Arabello Oyster is an usurper and an upstart. A degenerate African who will subvert everything good and proper. And steal all the bananas.
Damned immigrant!
My bananas!
Urasmus has been verbally abusive.
Mr. Oyster has taken it all with considerable grace.
Quite entirely as befits someone wearing a t-shirt which says: 'make a difference - preserve, conserve'. His presence will not lessen our quantity of bananas, but will almost certainly cause it to increase.
All households should have monkeys. And bananas.
That's just the way it is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 01, 2013
DISCUSSING THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES
It is with keen disappointment that I realize that NOBODY is leaving messages for the hot and sexy blogger here. There are no sweetly suggestive comments underneath my posts, and no-one has availed themselves of the splendid opportunity presented by my letterbox to send me over-the-top propositions.
Why is that?!?
A lack of crazy self-assurance, perhaps?
On a related note, I must inform several people that their legs are not too fat. You women have no clue about feminine beauty. None whatsoever.
Skinny skank pins are what fashion-designers like to see wobbling down the runway, but you should realize by now that fashion designers have issues. Their sexuality is often twisted beyond belief, they hate women, and the only reason they want females enveloping them is as accessories to their own overblown sense of fabulosity. But never as conversational partners, friends, or equals. Merely as ego-stroke decoration, and to show off what divine aesthetic sense they possess.
Virtually the same sickeningly obsessive dynamic also informs men like Hugh Heffner, Silvio Berlusconi, and Dominique Gaston André Strauss-Kahn. Men so distressed by their own inadequacy that they must surround themselves with the trappings of power and pursue sex with a single-mindedness that calls out for psychotherapy and chemical castration.
Real women have real legs. Plus extra weight here and there, as well as figures that do not resemble stick insects. And above all, above it all, a head with a functioning brain. That last item is by far the most beautiful part of a woman's body. It explains all those hairy-armpitted European ladies who have husbands, lovers, casual flings, and besotted Frenchmen.
Real women have opinions. Real women have mouths. Real women have interests and moods. Real women are grouchy. Real women like long baths, or spending the weekend lounging around in grubby clothes, reading.
Real women sometimes want fried food.
Real women need vindaloo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Why is that?!?
A lack of crazy self-assurance, perhaps?
On a related note, I must inform several people that their legs are not too fat. You women have no clue about feminine beauty. None whatsoever.
Skinny skank pins are what fashion-designers like to see wobbling down the runway, but you should realize by now that fashion designers have issues. Their sexuality is often twisted beyond belief, they hate women, and the only reason they want females enveloping them is as accessories to their own overblown sense of fabulosity. But never as conversational partners, friends, or equals. Merely as ego-stroke decoration, and to show off what divine aesthetic sense they possess.
Virtually the same sickeningly obsessive dynamic also informs men like Hugh Heffner, Silvio Berlusconi, and Dominique Gaston André Strauss-Kahn. Men so distressed by their own inadequacy that they must surround themselves with the trappings of power and pursue sex with a single-mindedness that calls out for psychotherapy and chemical castration.
Real women have real legs. Plus extra weight here and there, as well as figures that do not resemble stick insects. And above all, above it all, a head with a functioning brain. That last item is by far the most beautiful part of a woman's body. It explains all those hairy-armpitted European ladies who have husbands, lovers, casual flings, and besotted Frenchmen.
Real women have opinions. Real women have mouths. Real women have interests and moods. Real women are grouchy. Real women like long baths, or spending the weekend lounging around in grubby clothes, reading.
Real women sometimes want fried food.
Real women need vindaloo.
==========================================================================
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,...
