One of my acquaintances is heading over to Hong Kong for the fabulous shopping. Now, silly me, I assumed -- because she is somewhat educated (Stanford) and has good taste -- that she intended to go browsing for antiques on Hollywood Road (荷李活道 'ho lei wut dou') on Hong Kong Island (香港島 'heung gong dou').
I could not have been more wrong.
She isn't interested in Jun glazes (鈞泑), Ding porcelain (定瓷), Ru ware (汝窯), Guan (官窯), Ge ware (哥窯) from Chekiang (浙江), Celadon (青磁), 建陽窯, or Ming Era (明代) blue-and white (青花瓷).
The entire oeuvre of Jing De Zhen (景德鎮) tickles her not in the slightest.
[Jun ware (鈞窯): a distinct blue celadon-type with opalescence caused by variations in the kiln-temperature during a slow heating-up and gradual cooling-off period in the firing, allowing the glaze to remain viscous for a long time. As with Celadon, there is iron in the material, which gives the blueish hues, and often traces of copper which render purplish streaks.
Ding porcelain (定瓷): Ivory or cream-hued products famous from the Tang Dynasty onwards.
Ru ware (汝窯): Beautiful pale blue crackly glaze with hue variations. The iron oxide in the glaze becomes greenish and blueish when fired in a reducing atmosphere. Ru wares vary from off-white to beautiful pale blues, with brownish crackling due to the different expansion rates of the body and the glaze.
Guan ware (官窯): Thin-walled thick glazed porcelains made under court supervision from the Sung Dynasty, more particularly Southern Sung. The body is brown or greyish brown, the luminescent glaze itself a velvety enamelesque with bold crackles, in shades of white, off-yellow, faint greens, or pale pale blues.
Ge ware (哥窯): Related to Guan ware, and developed during late Song - early Yuan. Jing De Zhen. Both crackled blueish-glazed ware and yellowish glaze with bold dark crackles interspersed with lighter reddish hairlines.
Celadon (青磁):The famous greenish - blueish - yellow-brownish hue range is because of iron oxides, the reduction firing makes it crackly. This was most famously manufactured at the Long Guan kilns (Longguan: 龍泉) in Chitkong province (Zhejiang: 浙江), which is south of Shanghai. It was also produced at King Tak Chan (Jingdezhen: 景徳鎮), as well as in Korea and Japan. It is still made in all those places.
Blue and white wares (青花): White porcelain with cobalt oxide decorative patterns sealed-in by a clear glaze. The blue pigment was usually somewhat impure, which added character and a glowing quality, especially with faint bleeding past the lines during firing.]
No, she doesn't even know what rabbits' fur, oil spot, or imperial yellow are. Those must be fuddy-duddy things, yes?
[Rabbit's fur (兔毫): Often called 'partridge pattern glaze' (鹧鸪斑釉), these are usually black or dark brown (黑釉) tea-bowls (茶碗) from the Kienyang kiln (建陽窯黑釉) created during the Sung Dynasty, with striations and streaks like partridge feathers (鹧鸪羽毛) caused by iron oxide "curdling" in the glaze during firing. Prized variations include greyish rabbit fur (灰兔毫), yellow rabbit fur (黃兔毫), silver rabbit fur (銀兔毫), and gold rabbit fur (金兔毫).
Oil-spot (油點瓷 or 天目釉) is technically a variation of rabbit's fur, in which the glaze is applied thickly, and as the red iron oxide molecules release oxygen they head to the surface, where the oxygen escapes and traces of iron are left, creating spots. Really thick glazes require a higher proportion of feldspar to stiffen so that they do not run and fuse the ceramic objects to the surfaces within the kiln on which they were placed. At extremely high temperatures, the glaze flows down, creating the rabbit fur effect; naturally these products will have a relatively thin glaze compared to oil-spot, and often the foot is comparatively tall and bare.
Imperial yellow, aka mustard yellow enamel (黄搪瓷): In Chinese the various constituents are not differentiated, but you should know that so-called 'imperial yellow' is lead-antimonate -- three parts lead oxide, one part powdered quartz, plus oxides and binders -- fired at a lower temperature than porcelain glazes, and hence not safe for food service. But the result is beautiful, and vessels with an interior free of the enamel (in other words with a white porcelainous glaze) should be safe. Often called 'soft yellow' (嬌黄).]
What does this woman seek in Hong Kong?
Chanel, Gucci, Hermès, Prada, Tiffany, and Vuitton!
All of these are products unknown to the treasure fleets that travelled from Europe to the emporium of the world for four centuries.
Personally, I think she's nuts.
CANTON ROAD 廣東道
The insanity starts almost as soon as you disembark from the Star Ferry on the mainland side. The first stretch of Canton Road consists of hotels and grand complexes, with Tiffany and Cartier immediately opposite the Grand Ocean, followed by Brequet, Piaget, van Cleef & Arpels, and Mont Blanc (pens! writing equipment!) opposite the Marco Polo Hong Kong Hotel. There's a Lane Crawford just up a bit, next to the Marco Polo, then Hermès, Gucci, and Coco Chanel.
Dior is at the corner of Peking Road (北京道 'pak keng dou').
[Chanel is in Harbour City, and also on Nathan Road. Besides being in the Sun Plaza on Canton Road, Gucci is in the Harbour City complex. Hermès is located all over, being at the airport, in the Harbour City complex, in the Peninsula Hotel, and three different spots on Hong Kong Island. Prada is also in Harbour City as well as the Peninsula.]
Louis Vuitton has an establishment on the left, street-level of the Harbour City mall (海港城), opposite Emperor Watch and Jewelry (英皇鐘錶珠寳), which is a must-visit. It's adjacent to Omega and Puyi Optical (溥儀眼鏡), Swarovski is right next to that.
Ralph Lauren is just across the alleyway.
[Consider for a moment the sense of humour required to name a spectacle store (Puyi Optical) after a man whose unprepossessing visage was graced by round bottle-bottom lenses, and who was not known for perspicacity or any remarkable brilliance.]
Swarovski is overpriced, but you already knew that.
DKNY is nearby. I have no idea what they sell, or who they are. They appeared out of nowhere in the past decade or so, and seem to be an upscale version of Hollister for young spendthrifts.
I am not sure, and I do not want to know.
There is no need.
The Armani Exchange is on the right-hand side at the corner of Haiphong Road (海防道), opposite Dolce & Gabbani.
The entrance to the Sun Arcade (新太陽廣場) is a few paces up.
Once you pass Gateway Boulevard (港城大道) on the left, you are in front of China Hong Kong City (中港城) with even more fab shopping.
When you get to Li Fung Tower (利豐大厦) at the northern end of China Hong Kong City, Canton Road pretty much peters out. You might want to head over to the Peninsula Hotel (半島酒店) where there are some more nice stores, and an opportunity to take afternoon tea. It's not far, only three blocks over on Salisbury Road (梳士巴利道) along the waterfront.
Walking is good for you.
I myself cannot imagine wanting to spend any time on the lower end of Canton Road, as there is nothing there that I need, want, or even like. Other than Mont Blanc pens. But if you are a typical nouveau riche Philippina, this is probably as close to heaven as you can get.....
Outside of Makati.
Many women consider shopping a version of therapy.
Men usually need therapy afterwards.
Food for thought.
==========================================================================
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Friday, April 12, 2013
Thursday, April 11, 2013
BEAUTIFUL BRASSIERES
Right around the time that Savage Kitten and this blogger broke-up (in the summer 2010), one of the best local antique stores closed down.
A pity, as I had enjoyed many hours there. It was quite a lovely place.
As an omen of a changing world, a fabulous new business moved in.
Specifically, a shop selling lingerie. Really very beautiful lingerie.
Obviously I cannot browse there, it would discomfit people.
My ex, however, does browse there.
Which discomfits me.
That's part of the neighborhood that I no longer visit. There are frightening things down there now. In addition to some very snooty places, for very snooty people. It just doesn't feel comfortable.
The nightmare part of Polk Street.
The Municipal Transit Authority and the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition are planning to remove streetside parking all along Polk Street, so that it will become a new urban bike corridor. The Polk merchants, of course, are up in arms. And I thoroughly sympathise with them, because bicyclists are, on the whole, arrogant pissants with absolutely no regard for us pedestrians or any one else who uses the public street. They really seem to believe that babies, cripples, absent-minded wanderers on sidewalks, children, and retired people, do not deserve to be out in the open.
I rather wish that there were no helmet laws, as anything that will diminish either the number of two-wheeled terrorists, OR frighten them into acting like civilized people, is a good thing.
But I'm okay with all streets within a several block radius of that lingerie shop being closed to vehicular traffic and any parking whatsoever.
I have no reason to support their commerce.
It's exceptionally beautiful lingerie.
The worst block of SF.
What would really improve that stretch is an antique store.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A pity, as I had enjoyed many hours there. It was quite a lovely place.
As an omen of a changing world, a fabulous new business moved in.
Specifically, a shop selling lingerie. Really very beautiful lingerie.
Obviously I cannot browse there, it would discomfit people.
My ex, however, does browse there.
Which discomfits me.
That's part of the neighborhood that I no longer visit. There are frightening things down there now. In addition to some very snooty places, for very snooty people. It just doesn't feel comfortable.
The nightmare part of Polk Street.
The Municipal Transit Authority and the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition are planning to remove streetside parking all along Polk Street, so that it will become a new urban bike corridor. The Polk merchants, of course, are up in arms. And I thoroughly sympathise with them, because bicyclists are, on the whole, arrogant pissants with absolutely no regard for us pedestrians or any one else who uses the public street. They really seem to believe that babies, cripples, absent-minded wanderers on sidewalks, children, and retired people, do not deserve to be out in the open.
I rather wish that there were no helmet laws, as anything that will diminish either the number of two-wheeled terrorists, OR frighten them into acting like civilized people, is a good thing.
But I'm okay with all streets within a several block radius of that lingerie shop being closed to vehicular traffic and any parking whatsoever.
I have no reason to support their commerce.
It's exceptionally beautiful lingerie.
The worst block of SF.
What would really improve that stretch is an antique store.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
COMING UP FOR AIR
Since the weather has improved it is enjoyable to spend time outdoors. Yesterday I headed over the hill craving a red-bean pastry and a cup of coffee for my tea, after which I wandered around smoking. Passed the intersection of Washington and Grant without any incident other than a little girl bumping into me at full tilt, then staring up in amazement.
Wah, kweilo with a piece of burning wood in his beak!
How extremely peculiar!
The corner ladies handing out menus to tourists completely ignored me.
I suspect that stinky white dude is NOT the type of "guest" that their restaurant desperately wants. Imagine the smell. Very nasty.
It was a robustly full-flavoured mixture of Latakia, flue-cured leaf, and some air-cured. And it was utterly delicious.
Especially when I got some hot milk-tea (港式奶茶).
Mmmmmmmmmm! Can you say "oral heaven"?
Then now would be the right time to say it.
You know, I'm surprised that women have not discovered the combination.
The mixture of large glisteny brown tapioca balls with milk-tea and crushed ice is baffling, yet very popular among the gentler gender. All over C'town you will see girls anywhere between junior high and retirement age slurping on buckets of that horrid bubble concoction, never mind that enormous gluey globs of dense tapioca are quite indigestible, while it's so obvious that the best pairing for milk-tea (hot) is a pipe-full of excellent tobacco.
The sweetness and creaminess of the tea, how re-invigorating!
The smoky and resinous perfume of Latakia, divine!
And a touch of incense-like blonde leaf.
Just close your eyes in bliss.
Ladies, come on over to the dark side.
You'll be much happier.
If you need advice on which high-quality pipe goes best with that fake Louis Vuitton purse (Hong Kong status queen), or those ultra-high heels and the itsy skirt (if you're one of those Taiwanese pie-face girls that go slumming in C'town), or even what type of pipe tobacco suggests squealing childlike innocence despite the fact that you're over thirty (again Taiwanese), I can advise you. Heck, if you're looking for something interesting other than a full-flavoured mixture, there are some very nice Virginias -- Germain and Son produce nice Vapers, Rattrays of Perth are exceptional, also Sam Gawith Best Brown or Full Virginia -- and for those of you who crave something totally over the top, let me thoroughly recommend Bracken Flake.
Just remember, ditch the damned tapioca balls.
Yat pui gong-sik naai cha, m-koi.
Yit ge, mou bo baa.
一杯港式奶茶，唔該。
热嘅，冇波霸。
It was a wonderful tea-time. Thoroughly enjoyed it.
Got home while it was still light out.
A brightness from the west.
Contentment.
By the way, tapioca is incredibly fattening, whereas Latakia slims you down. You should know this. It's useful information.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wah, kweilo with a piece of burning wood in his beak!
How extremely peculiar!
The corner ladies handing out menus to tourists completely ignored me.
I suspect that stinky white dude is NOT the type of "guest" that their restaurant desperately wants. Imagine the smell. Very nasty.
It was a robustly full-flavoured mixture of Latakia, flue-cured leaf, and some air-cured. And it was utterly delicious.
Especially when I got some hot milk-tea (港式奶茶).
Mmmmmmmmmm! Can you say "oral heaven"?
Then now would be the right time to say it.
You know, I'm surprised that women have not discovered the combination.
The mixture of large glisteny brown tapioca balls with milk-tea and crushed ice is baffling, yet very popular among the gentler gender. All over C'town you will see girls anywhere between junior high and retirement age slurping on buckets of that horrid bubble concoction, never mind that enormous gluey globs of dense tapioca are quite indigestible, while it's so obvious that the best pairing for milk-tea (hot) is a pipe-full of excellent tobacco.
The sweetness and creaminess of the tea, how re-invigorating!
The smoky and resinous perfume of Latakia, divine!
And a touch of incense-like blonde leaf.
Just close your eyes in bliss.
Ladies, come on over to the dark side.
You'll be much happier.
If you need advice on which high-quality pipe goes best with that fake Louis Vuitton purse (Hong Kong status queen), or those ultra-high heels and the itsy skirt (if you're one of those Taiwanese pie-face girls that go slumming in C'town), or even what type of pipe tobacco suggests squealing childlike innocence despite the fact that you're over thirty (again Taiwanese), I can advise you. Heck, if you're looking for something interesting other than a full-flavoured mixture, there are some very nice Virginias -- Germain and Son produce nice Vapers, Rattrays of Perth are exceptional, also Sam Gawith Best Brown or Full Virginia -- and for those of you who crave something totally over the top, let me thoroughly recommend Bracken Flake.
Just remember, ditch the damned tapioca balls.
Yat pui gong-sik naai cha, m-koi.
Yit ge, mou bo baa.
一杯港式奶茶，唔該。
热嘅，冇波霸。
It was a wonderful tea-time. Thoroughly enjoyed it.
Got home while it was still light out.
A brightness from the west.
Contentment.
By the way, tapioca is incredibly fattening, whereas Latakia slims you down. You should know this. It's useful information.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
SOCIAL OPTIONS FOR THE QUITE UN-HIP
I am on occasion flabberghasted that there are people who like spending time in my company. No, it isn't that rare that I should notify the papers, but it isn't entirely common either. Middle-aged dudes are not exactly the exemplar summum fastigium of sparklingly cool.
Especially not if they smoke pipes, despise tattoos, and don't do any drugs. People nowadays expect mature men to be knowledgeable in the ways of psychedelia, and assume that we're the quidem maxime inspiratum et simpliciter perfectus of punks from the era of the Sex Pistols.
You know, "old school".
When 'old school' was still excitingly new.
So sorry to bust your bubble. I never liked the Sex Pistols. As far as I was concerned, they were a bunch of vulgarians and poseurs.
Much like The Rolling Stones.
The best music from that age was what they played on the Muppet Show.
Trust me, that charming and perspicacious frog knew his artists.
Clean acts, with only one notorious stoner.
A freak named Floyd Pepper.
I despise drugs.
The only substances a person needs other than regular nutrition and water are caffeine, nicotine, theobromine, and capsaicin.
Coffee and tea, pipe tobacco or cigars, chocolate, and hot sauce.
Plus highly refined sugar.
Or perhaps some honey.
My Teddy Bear said so.
That's how you can judge strangers. Do they like a nice cup of tea, smoke good tobacco, love chocolates, and dump extra hot sauce all over their shredded jalapeño salad?
If the answer is 'yes', they're probably decent folks.
On the other hand, if the response to leading questions is "huh, I wasn't listening, could you repeat moss is a fuel source of profoun, profoun, profoun....., where are my shoes, I lost my damned shoes!", then you may well be dealing with a whacked-out pothead. And such people are a complete waste of time.
My idea of a wild party does not involve drugs. Rather, there should be a large heated urn of tea there, with milk and sugar for the ones that want it, as well as ashtrays and open windows.
And maybe a bowl of fresh jalapeños.
As well as a jar of honey.
No music.
Nor gun nuts, drug addicts, artistic types, vegans, shop-a-holics, rock-and-rollers, punks, drunks, republicans, bankers, life coaches, tattooed lesbians or performers, brass poles, joints, little red pills, world music, tofu, tempeh, sustainable green crap, carrots, players, rappers, gangstas, spiritual people, caucasian buddhists, zen masters, disapproving stares, chihuahuas, yorkies, psychotics, jazz, coke dealers, meth-heads, cultists, mystics, crystal healers, channelers, crusaders, lobbyists, bankers, stock brokers, peta-members, tofu freaks, basketweavers, nudity, tie-dye, porn stars, ten thousand year old reincarnees of any sort, television personalities, heavy metal fans, sports enthusiasts, gamers, mountain climbers, surfers, health-club members, doll collectors, reality show competitors, deviants, city hall insiders, hysterics, neurotics, self-absorbed quasi-intellectuals, beatniks, poets, the glamorous people, wine snobs, aspiring movie stars, fashion models, amateur stage performers, exhibitionists, nicotine patches, electronic cigarettes, needles, small glass smoking devices, asthma inhalers, wheat allergies, flying saucer faithful, millenarians, excessive make-up, missionaries, and occultists.
Okay.
I think that leaves two people.
With my luck the other one is in a different time-zone.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Especially not if they smoke pipes, despise tattoos, and don't do any drugs. People nowadays expect mature men to be knowledgeable in the ways of psychedelia, and assume that we're the quidem maxime inspiratum et simpliciter perfectus of punks from the era of the Sex Pistols.
You know, "old school".
When 'old school' was still excitingly new.
So sorry to bust your bubble. I never liked the Sex Pistols. As far as I was concerned, they were a bunch of vulgarians and poseurs.
Much like The Rolling Stones.
The best music from that age was what they played on the Muppet Show.
Trust me, that charming and perspicacious frog knew his artists.
Clean acts, with only one notorious stoner.
A freak named Floyd Pepper.
I despise drugs.
The only substances a person needs other than regular nutrition and water are caffeine, nicotine, theobromine, and capsaicin.
Coffee and tea, pipe tobacco or cigars, chocolate, and hot sauce.
Plus highly refined sugar.
Or perhaps some honey.
My Teddy Bear said so.
That's how you can judge strangers. Do they like a nice cup of tea, smoke good tobacco, love chocolates, and dump extra hot sauce all over their shredded jalapeño salad?
If the answer is 'yes', they're probably decent folks.
On the other hand, if the response to leading questions is "huh, I wasn't listening, could you repeat moss is a fuel source of profoun, profoun, profoun....., where are my shoes, I lost my damned shoes!", then you may well be dealing with a whacked-out pothead. And such people are a complete waste of time.
My idea of a wild party does not involve drugs. Rather, there should be a large heated urn of tea there, with milk and sugar for the ones that want it, as well as ashtrays and open windows.
And maybe a bowl of fresh jalapeños.
As well as a jar of honey.
No music.
Nor gun nuts, drug addicts, artistic types, vegans, shop-a-holics, rock-and-rollers, punks, drunks, republicans, bankers, life coaches, tattooed lesbians or performers, brass poles, joints, little red pills, world music, tofu, tempeh, sustainable green crap, carrots, players, rappers, gangstas, spiritual people, caucasian buddhists, zen masters, disapproving stares, chihuahuas, yorkies, psychotics, jazz, coke dealers, meth-heads, cultists, mystics, crystal healers, channelers, crusaders, lobbyists, bankers, stock brokers, peta-members, tofu freaks, basketweavers, nudity, tie-dye, porn stars, ten thousand year old reincarnees of any sort, television personalities, heavy metal fans, sports enthusiasts, gamers, mountain climbers, surfers, health-club members, doll collectors, reality show competitors, deviants, city hall insiders, hysterics, neurotics, self-absorbed quasi-intellectuals, beatniks, poets, the glamorous people, wine snobs, aspiring movie stars, fashion models, amateur stage performers, exhibitionists, nicotine patches, electronic cigarettes, needles, small glass smoking devices, asthma inhalers, wheat allergies, flying saucer faithful, millenarians, excessive make-up, missionaries, and occultists.
Okay.
I think that leaves two people.
With my luck the other one is in a different time-zone.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BALLS OF PSYCHEDELIC SKUNK FUR
One of my fellow-pipesmokers has a liking for Saint Bruno Flake, having spent some time in Old Foggy ('England') during his student-days. Being somewhat of a severe purist ('savage prude') myself, I cannot quite develop such an affection for the product, but generations of Englishmen have, as well as quite a few English women.
And naturally it's unavailable here in the United States. Where almost all of us pipesmokers are cast out into the outer darkness, which is cold, and where scant civilized company can be found. Smoking is something that we can only do when out in the shed at the back of the extensive garden when our children, helpmeets, and disgustingly irritating non-smoking neighbors are fast asleep.
A garden which might well look like the one in the video below, if you live in San Francisco where sixteen days out of every fortnight icy gales blow in from the ocean. Good lord it's buggery frigid here, no wonder we're surrounded by pushy do-gooders and wheatgerm snarfing earthmoms!
SLOW-BURNING SATISFYING ST. BRUNO
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=aO-c4nq4yDE.]
Doesn't he look happy when the new supply of tobacco arrives? No angry Berkeleyite busybodies around, a tolerant and understanding canine who brings him tobacco, and a cosy garden shed far from the madding crowd.
Ah, peace at last.
Wouldn't be surprised if that sweater reeks a bit. Given that he probably spends a lot of time in the shed, where there is no running water (pipes frozen solid) and no washing machine.
But the dog probably likes it.
Smells like home.
Meaty.
Just for the heck of it, here's another.
THAT PRECIOUS CONDOR MOMENT
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e7lbdq9sqP4.]
Makes you wonder how on earth our society ended up so blisteringly condemning and rigid, doesn't it? Oh, except for "medicinal marijuana", which that many Californians huff that the air all over Berkeley, San Fran bloody cisco, and San Raphael in Marin is so blue with tetra-hydro-cannabinolic allergens that normal people can't breathe without hacking up balls of psychedelic skunk fur.
It's "therapeutic".
Hmmph.
Medicinal, my aunt.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And naturally it's unavailable here in the United States. Where almost all of us pipesmokers are cast out into the outer darkness, which is cold, and where scant civilized company can be found. Smoking is something that we can only do when out in the shed at the back of the extensive garden when our children, helpmeets, and disgustingly irritating non-smoking neighbors are fast asleep.
A garden which might well look like the one in the video below, if you live in San Francisco where sixteen days out of every fortnight icy gales blow in from the ocean. Good lord it's buggery frigid here, no wonder we're surrounded by pushy do-gooders and wheatgerm snarfing earthmoms!
SLOW-BURNING SATISFYING ST. BRUNO
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=aO-c4nq4yDE.]
Doesn't he look happy when the new supply of tobacco arrives? No angry Berkeleyite busybodies around, a tolerant and understanding canine who brings him tobacco, and a cosy garden shed far from the madding crowd.
Ah, peace at last.
Wouldn't be surprised if that sweater reeks a bit. Given that he probably spends a lot of time in the shed, where there is no running water (pipes frozen solid) and no washing machine.
But the dog probably likes it.
Smells like home.
Meaty.
Just for the heck of it, here's another.
THAT PRECIOUS CONDOR MOMENT
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e7lbdq9sqP4.]
Makes you wonder how on earth our society ended up so blisteringly condemning and rigid, doesn't it? Oh, except for "medicinal marijuana", which that many Californians huff that the air all over Berkeley, San Fran bloody cisco, and San Raphael in Marin is so blue with tetra-hydro-cannabinolic allergens that normal people can't breathe without hacking up balls of psychedelic skunk fur.
It's "therapeutic".
Hmmph.
Medicinal, my aunt.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, April 09, 2013
WHY DO WOMEN LIKE MEN?
"What does one need a man for", she asked with evident sincerity, "I mean, why on earth would you want a man? They're all angular!"
That last part was something I had not thought about. She was right; we men are all angular. Even I am angular.
I would've thought that was a good thing, given that it provides places to hang your handbag. Or handbags. Plural. Which is very useful if you're shopping, like they were. But perhaps she meant that we are not the bee's knees for decorative qualities. In which case I would be inclined to agree. I don't want a creature like that hanging around my living quarters either.
What do women need men for?
Excluding procreation, many women see no use for the male of the species. We men are rather boring conversationalists, seeing as we can only talk about sports, and never watch movies unless forced. Our culinary skills tend towards primitive -- "red meat on grill GOOD, green vegetable substance guacamole ONLY, wash down with bourbon, belch and grunt" -- and we're bugger-all use around the house. Most women are better at chores like unplugging the crapper or screwing-in light bulbs than us, and we make it a perverse habit to smell as bad as we can.
Even now, for instance, I reek amazingly of pigskin and pizza, good lord I might as well be a Forty Niner or a Washington Redneck. Except that I'm not wearing those weird stretchy-spandex pants, and there isn't a drop of beer in the house. I do not need such artificial aids, because as a man I just radiate my uncontrollable hormones, and presto! A football and funky cheese-pie odeur like you wouldn't believe!
All men can do that.
It's a talent.
Personally, I cannot imagine any use for a man. Other than myself, of course, and only to me. I can make pizza.
What do women need men for?
I doubt it's stimulation, and it certainly isn't good company or aesthetics. Those things only go one way in any case: from the woman to the man. Even when a man is doing something sweet for the woman, it's often a profoundly selfish act. "If I feed her, she will smile; nice!" Or "I'll do the dishes every night, that way she won't have cause to complain!"
What the doofus doesn't realize is that his mere existence is frustrating.
If he weren't around, she could slob around as much as she wanted.
Have buckets of fried chicken delivered every night.
Order pizza with extra anchovies.
Sleep in all day.
The occasional gift, plus cake on her birthday and a bunch of flowers, just doesn't make up for the fact that he and his kind are, on the whole, rather unusually useless, and take up way too much space on the couch.
Kind of like a cat, but far less fun.
* * * * *
I like listening in on other people's conversations, especially when I am not part of the exchange. It allows me a window into other people's exciting lives.
Unfortunately the two of them switched to discussing books or Hello Kitty or some such crap, so I wandered away. If it ain't sports or pizza, I'm just not interested.
As far as I can tell, there is no indication that women do like men.
Unless you factor in temporary insanity.
Which may work both ways.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
What do women need men for?
Excluding procreation, many women see no use for the male of the species. We men are rather boring conversationalists, seeing as we can only talk about sports, and never watch movies unless forced. Our culinary skills tend towards primitive -- "red meat on grill GOOD, green vegetable substance guacamole ONLY, wash down with bourbon, belch and grunt" -- and we're bugger-all use around the house. Most women are better at chores like unplugging the crapper or screwing-in light bulbs than us, and we make it a perverse habit to smell as bad as we can.
Even now, for instance, I reek amazingly of pigskin and pizza, good lord I might as well be a Forty Niner or a Washington Redneck. Except that I'm not wearing those weird stretchy-spandex pants, and there isn't a drop of beer in the house. I do not need such artificial aids, because as a man I just radiate my uncontrollable hormones, and presto! A football and funky cheese-pie odeur like you wouldn't believe!
All men can do that.
It's a talent.
Personally, I cannot imagine any use for a man. Other than myself, of course, and only to me. I can make pizza.
What do women need men for?
I doubt it's stimulation, and it certainly isn't good company or aesthetics. Those things only go one way in any case: from the woman to the man. Even when a man is doing something sweet for the woman, it's often a profoundly selfish act. "If I feed her, she will smile; nice!" Or "I'll do the dishes every night, that way she won't have cause to complain!"
What the doofus doesn't realize is that his mere existence is frustrating.
If he weren't around, she could slob around as much as she wanted.
Have buckets of fried chicken delivered every night.
Order pizza with extra anchovies.
Sleep in all day.
The occasional gift, plus cake on her birthday and a bunch of flowers, just doesn't make up for the fact that he and his kind are, on the whole, rather unusually useless, and take up way too much space on the couch.
Kind of like a cat, but far less fun.
* * * * *
I like listening in on other people's conversations, especially when I am not part of the exchange. It allows me a window into other people's exciting lives.
Unfortunately the two of them switched to discussing books or Hello Kitty or some such crap, so I wandered away. If it ain't sports or pizza, I'm just not interested.
As far as I can tell, there is no indication that women do like men.
Unless you factor in temporary insanity.
Which may work both ways.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ULTRA MEGA FASTIDIOUS BLOG, GREAT SITE!
Holy Moley! I was away from the city all day yesterday, and the spambots had a frenzy. There were 288 spam comments awaiting approval.
Sad to say, they all got nixed.
Somewhere a spambot is crying.
Oh tragic spambot, my piles bleed for you!
But no. I shall not let your effort see light of day. Despite your fulsome praise -- you used the term "fastidious" over a dozen times, which is nice (fastidious, perhaps even), as well as that tricky little weird rounded double-u, (ω) and the square root symbol (ѵ) which without a doubt are as good a way of searching for blogs that have let your comment through as the word "fastidious" might be -- but I have no interest in anything you have to say, nor whatever it is that you are selling.
So no.
Bad dog, no biscuit. Bad monkey, no banana. Bad cop, no donut.
Bad rocker, no groupie. Bad pothead, no brownie.
Bad whacko teabag, no assault rifle.
Bad bot, no spam
I am fastidious.
So is this blog.
For some reason, a French anthem is playing in my mind at present.....
Le Chant Du Depart
No real reason, but it's stirring.
..........
De nos yeux maternels ne craignez pas les larmes,
Loin de nous de lâches douleurs!
Nous devons triompher quand vous prenez les armes,
C'est aux rois à verser des pleurs...
Again, no real reason. But I'm feeling editorially victorious.
So obscure anthems have their place.
It's ... fastidious.
[Here's a link to over four minutes of the 'Depart'.]
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sad to say, they all got nixed.
Somewhere a spambot is crying.
Oh tragic spambot, my piles bleed for you!
But no. I shall not let your effort see light of day. Despite your fulsome praise -- you used the term "fastidious" over a dozen times, which is nice (fastidious, perhaps even), as well as that tricky little weird rounded double-u, (ω) and the square root symbol (ѵ) which without a doubt are as good a way of searching for blogs that have let your comment through as the word "fastidious" might be -- but I have no interest in anything you have to say, nor whatever it is that you are selling.
So no.
Bad dog, no biscuit. Bad monkey, no banana. Bad cop, no donut.
Bad rocker, no groupie. Bad pothead, no brownie.
Bad whacko teabag, no assault rifle.
Bad bot, no spam
I am fastidious.
So is this blog.
For some reason, a French anthem is playing in my mind at present.....
Le Chant Du Depart
No real reason, but it's stirring.
..........
De nos yeux maternels ne craignez pas les larmes,
Loin de nous de lâches douleurs!
Nous devons triompher quand vous prenez les armes,
C'est aux rois à verser des pleurs...
Again, no real reason. But I'm feeling editorially victorious.
So obscure anthems have their place.
It's ... fastidious.
[Here's a link to over four minutes of the 'Depart'.]
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, April 08, 2013
BLENDER GOO
You can grill it! That being what will pull in significant numbers of Texans and Australians. The concept of grilling excites the minds of people who reside elsewhere. Here in San Francisco most of us will never stand out in our back yard with a refreshing long-drink in one hand, and a pair of tongs in the other, flipping hunks of red meat over glowing coals as gentle summer zephyrs caress our brow. Primarily because many of us don't have back yards, and secondarily because it's rather cold around dinner time.
Fog blows in, or there are bitter winds from the sea.
But mostly, because many of our San Franciscan friends and acquaintances love wheatgerm and tofu. In lieu of actual animal protein. The concept of a nice juicy hunk of slaughtered animal offends people. Why, it's absolutely horrifying! That thing had a mommy.
A mommy!
As a carnivore I often feel somewhat out of place. Yes, I know the darn thing -- let's call him 'Fluffy' -- had a mommy, but she looked extremely edible and I may have eaten her last year. She was delicious!
I marinated her with soy, sugar, garlic, lemon grass, and just a touch of tamarind. Then I served her with a fresh dipping liquid that included fish sauce, scallions, lime juice, sliced green chilies, and black pepper.
Did I already mention delicious? Mmmmmmmm .......
But I didn't grill her.
I probably heated the skillet up red hot, drizzled in some oil, and promptly slapped Fluffy's mom right in with sliced onions. Seared for two minutes on each side, then a splash of sherry for the theatrical explosion, after which I covered the pan and turned off the heat. Five minutes of warm residual moisture, followed by a period on a plate to settle. Then cut thinly.
Let's pretend it was a skirt-steak, and serve it thus.
She was nice and streaky-fatty, though.
I think she spoke 'baa'.
Nah, I didn't do it like the folks in Austin. No guacamole, beans, salsa, tomatoes, or cheese. Nor tortillas.
Instead, some cold bean thread noodles for a chewy effect -- these absorb juices and flavours nicely -- plus cilantro, limply browned onion from the pan, sliced cucumber, carrot shreds, and slivered daikon. Wrap it up in a crisp lettuce leaf, splash on the dipping liquid, and shove it into your mouth.
Let the flavours explode. Meat with a thin skin of black on the outside, still pink within. Tangy, savoury, juicy, sweet, and then there are those thinly sliced hot green chilies ........
Not a shred of tofu anywhere in sight.
But heck, if there had been any vegans visiting, I suppose I could always have dumped some wheatgerm and soybean cake into the blender and whizzed them up delicious shakes. No sugar (leads to aggression and bad karma), no honey (brutal exploitation of our apidean friends), no corn syrup (that's an evil representation of the imperialism of the American food industry and their non-sustainable exploitation of resources).
Just some politically correct fruit juice concentrate.
Actually, scrap the fruit juice concentrate.
I have no idea where to buy that crap.
The shake wouldn't be sweetened.
It's plain old blender goo.
I'm sure it's good.
Please enjoy.
In the meantime, I'll be pouring the remaining tasty mommy baa pan grease into a bowl, and dunking in some barbecue potato chips. It would remind me of warmer climes, where one can actually cook in the back yard.
Without being interrupted by politically correct food nuts.
Wheat germ and tofu is probably great for the rose bushes.
For your information, I hardly eat with other people, preferring instead to savagely hunt down my terrified prey ("baa, baa, baa") among the rose bushes, then chop it up before the last anguished wail has faded.
It's better than switching on my blender.
Tofu tastes wonderful with lamb and chilies.
Drenched in meaty goodness.
All Fluffy's mom.
On second thought, scrap the wheatgerm too. That stuff is like grits for the non-southern urban fluff-brains. There is still over half a canister of grits in the kitchen which I'll never finish, so I sure ain't gonna buy wheatgerm.
It's too similar in texture, but far less appealing.
Want some cornmeal in your tofu?
It's good for you.
PS. Everything tastes better with hot-sauce. Everything. Ice cream. And cheese.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Fog blows in, or there are bitter winds from the sea.
But mostly, because many of our San Franciscan friends and acquaintances love wheatgerm and tofu. In lieu of actual animal protein. The concept of a nice juicy hunk of slaughtered animal offends people. Why, it's absolutely horrifying! That thing had a mommy.
A mommy!
As a carnivore I often feel somewhat out of place. Yes, I know the darn thing -- let's call him 'Fluffy' -- had a mommy, but she looked extremely edible and I may have eaten her last year. She was delicious!
I marinated her with soy, sugar, garlic, lemon grass, and just a touch of tamarind. Then I served her with a fresh dipping liquid that included fish sauce, scallions, lime juice, sliced green chilies, and black pepper.
Did I already mention delicious? Mmmmmmmm .......
But I didn't grill her.
I probably heated the skillet up red hot, drizzled in some oil, and promptly slapped Fluffy's mom right in with sliced onions. Seared for two minutes on each side, then a splash of sherry for the theatrical explosion, after which I covered the pan and turned off the heat. Five minutes of warm residual moisture, followed by a period on a plate to settle. Then cut thinly.
Let's pretend it was a skirt-steak, and serve it thus.
She was nice and streaky-fatty, though.
I think she spoke 'baa'.
Nah, I didn't do it like the folks in Austin. No guacamole, beans, salsa, tomatoes, or cheese. Nor tortillas.
Instead, some cold bean thread noodles for a chewy effect -- these absorb juices and flavours nicely -- plus cilantro, limply browned onion from the pan, sliced cucumber, carrot shreds, and slivered daikon. Wrap it up in a crisp lettuce leaf, splash on the dipping liquid, and shove it into your mouth.
Let the flavours explode. Meat with a thin skin of black on the outside, still pink within. Tangy, savoury, juicy, sweet, and then there are those thinly sliced hot green chilies ........
Not a shred of tofu anywhere in sight.
But heck, if there had been any vegans visiting, I suppose I could always have dumped some wheatgerm and soybean cake into the blender and whizzed them up delicious shakes. No sugar (leads to aggression and bad karma), no honey (brutal exploitation of our apidean friends), no corn syrup (that's an evil representation of the imperialism of the American food industry and their non-sustainable exploitation of resources).
Just some politically correct fruit juice concentrate.
Actually, scrap the fruit juice concentrate.
I have no idea where to buy that crap.
The shake wouldn't be sweetened.
It's plain old blender goo.
I'm sure it's good.
Please enjoy.
In the meantime, I'll be pouring the remaining tasty mommy baa pan grease into a bowl, and dunking in some barbecue potato chips. It would remind me of warmer climes, where one can actually cook in the back yard.
Without being interrupted by politically correct food nuts.
Wheat germ and tofu is probably great for the rose bushes.
For your information, I hardly eat with other people, preferring instead to savagely hunt down my terrified prey ("baa, baa, baa") among the rose bushes, then chop it up before the last anguished wail has faded.
It's better than switching on my blender.
Tofu tastes wonderful with lamb and chilies.
Drenched in meaty goodness.
All Fluffy's mom.
On second thought, scrap the wheatgerm too. That stuff is like grits for the non-southern urban fluff-brains. There is still over half a canister of grits in the kitchen which I'll never finish, so I sure ain't gonna buy wheatgerm.
It's too similar in texture, but far less appealing.
Want some cornmeal in your tofu?
It's good for you.
PS. Everything tastes better with hot-sauce. Everything. Ice cream. And cheese.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, April 07, 2013
IN PRAISE OF YELLOW
While pausing over an unnecessary function it struck me that yellow is a lovely and memorable colour. The label-hue of the tin of Rattrays tobacco, contrasting with the two-tone finish of a Comoy pipe, reminded me of my dad's desk back in Valkenswaard, in daylight, during spring and summer.
And also a semi-subliminal suggestion of green and shade outside.
There were a lot of trees in the old neighborhood. During summer it was always shady. Only when they started to modernize the town did that change.
Yellow is beneficial to the psyche, and dominant in many bookshelves, due partly to the presence of National Geographic magazines. When someone has subscribed for several years the evidence takes up at least one row, sometimes two or more. And buying copies with interesting articles to augment the collection at second-hand bookstores adds to that.
Yes, I realize that what I'm saying does not compute. So many people only read about celebrities nowadays, and only on line, that concepts such as 'book shelf' and 'second-hand bookstore' are completely opaque.
Very well then. For those people: Christina Aquilera, Elton John, Ben Afleck, Kim Kardasian, Anne Hathaway, Beyoncé Knowles, Miley Cyrus, Selena Gomez, Justin Timberlake, Taylor Swift, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, and Jessica Alba are all MARRIED TO EACH OTHER!
As well as involved in a religious cannibalism cult headquartered at 1062 South Robertson Boulevard in Los Angeles, where thousands of illegal aliens from Guatemala and Costa Rica have been EATEN.
They were deliciously basted with balsamic.
There, you happy now?
Oh all right, one more: Justin Bieber is actually a zombie.
Yellow is the colour of bright interiors in Naarden during the early sixties, daffodils in our garden, forsythia blooms in spring, cheerful vistas, the Spui Plein in Amsterdam during autumn, Indonesian foods, MacBaren's Virginia No. 1 (ready rubbed), imperial yellow porcelains from the Ching Dynasty, creamy amber, fallen ginkgo leaves along Clay between Leavenworth and Jones or down near the Ping Yuen projects in C'town, restaurants on Polk Street that welcome the peckish, street lights, deep porticoes of apartment buildings located on Washington, Jackson, and the stretch of Hyde Street in between, cozy living rooms behind a veil of fresh spring leafery, a bistro four blocks away where one might dine........
Unfortunately, it is also the dominant hue of several fast-food places, which ruin the attraction by plainness, ugly surfaces, and a greasy atmosphere made even more unappealing with a general reek of fryer funkum.
But ignore that! Think instead of golden turmeric, crisp lumpia, gulai ayam, ripe mangoes from Cebu, the sensual flesh interior of peaches, saffron rice, apricots, alder florets, Strelitzia, marigolds, chrysanthemum, and mirasol.
Someday I will have a study painted a warmer shade than ochre.
Yes, it will make my skin look a bit washed out.
Yellow hues do that to everyone.
But if I am the only person there, it will not matter.
The living room will be a variant of Sienna.
Sort of a vibrant brickish colour.
Flattering to others.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And also a semi-subliminal suggestion of green and shade outside.
There were a lot of trees in the old neighborhood. During summer it was always shady. Only when they started to modernize the town did that change.
Yellow is beneficial to the psyche, and dominant in many bookshelves, due partly to the presence of National Geographic magazines. When someone has subscribed for several years the evidence takes up at least one row, sometimes two or more. And buying copies with interesting articles to augment the collection at second-hand bookstores adds to that.
Yes, I realize that what I'm saying does not compute. So many people only read about celebrities nowadays, and only on line, that concepts such as 'book shelf' and 'second-hand bookstore' are completely opaque.
Very well then. For those people: Christina Aquilera, Elton John, Ben Afleck, Kim Kardasian, Anne Hathaway, Beyoncé Knowles, Miley Cyrus, Selena Gomez, Justin Timberlake, Taylor Swift, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, and Jessica Alba are all MARRIED TO EACH OTHER!
As well as involved in a religious cannibalism cult headquartered at 1062 South Robertson Boulevard in Los Angeles, where thousands of illegal aliens from Guatemala and Costa Rica have been EATEN.
They were deliciously basted with balsamic.
There, you happy now?
Oh all right, one more: Justin Bieber is actually a zombie.
Yellow is the colour of bright interiors in Naarden during the early sixties, daffodils in our garden, forsythia blooms in spring, cheerful vistas, the Spui Plein in Amsterdam during autumn, Indonesian foods, MacBaren's Virginia No. 1 (ready rubbed), imperial yellow porcelains from the Ching Dynasty, creamy amber, fallen ginkgo leaves along Clay between Leavenworth and Jones or down near the Ping Yuen projects in C'town, restaurants on Polk Street that welcome the peckish, street lights, deep porticoes of apartment buildings located on Washington, Jackson, and the stretch of Hyde Street in between, cozy living rooms behind a veil of fresh spring leafery, a bistro four blocks away where one might dine........
Unfortunately, it is also the dominant hue of several fast-food places, which ruin the attraction by plainness, ugly surfaces, and a greasy atmosphere made even more unappealing with a general reek of fryer funkum.
But ignore that! Think instead of golden turmeric, crisp lumpia, gulai ayam, ripe mangoes from Cebu, the sensual flesh interior of peaches, saffron rice, apricots, alder florets, Strelitzia, marigolds, chrysanthemum, and mirasol.
Someday I will have a study painted a warmer shade than ochre.
Yes, it will make my skin look a bit washed out.
Yellow hues do that to everyone.
But if I am the only person there, it will not matter.
The living room will be a variant of Sienna.
Sort of a vibrant brickish colour.
Flattering to others.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOUR MOST REPULSIVE FETISH
Somebody found my blog today by going online and search for {deleted}. Suffice to say I'm absolutely flabberghasted, as I have never EVER posted about {deleted}. Nor are there links to that, or content even remotely suggesting {deleted}.
{deleted} harshes my mellow epically.
Yeah, I suppose not even mentioning {deleted} will fetch me accusations of bigotry. Some softy San Francisco spambrains, of the everything goes who am I to judge type, will insist that I should open myself up to {deleted} and at least mentally embrace the gestalt. All sensual fields are equal as long as no one gets hurt and it's between consenting adults and neither the rainforest nor third-world farmer are exploited, surely I can show my acceptance by positive warm buttery feelings about {deleted} and all that?
Or at least indicate that it's perfectly normal?
Nope.
This blogger is not interested in {deleted}. Their kin, yes, quite likely.
But it would ruin everything if {deleted} suddenly appeared.
Go away.
This blog will not mention {deleted}.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
{deleted} harshes my mellow epically.
Yeah, I suppose not even mentioning {deleted} will fetch me accusations of bigotry. Some softy San Francisco spambrains, of the everything goes who am I to judge type, will insist that I should open myself up to {deleted} and at least mentally embrace the gestalt. All sensual fields are equal as long as no one gets hurt and it's between consenting adults and neither the rainforest nor third-world farmer are exploited, surely I can show my acceptance by positive warm buttery feelings about {deleted} and all that?
Or at least indicate that it's perfectly normal?
Nope.
This blogger is not interested in {deleted}. Their kin, yes, quite likely.
But it would ruin everything if {deleted} suddenly appeared.
Go away.
This blog will not mention {deleted}.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, April 06, 2013
JUST ENOUGH SPICE
A while back I was smoking a pipe filled with one of my own blends. No, this post is NOT about tobacco, that's just a lead-in. Point is that I realized I had hit a nail upon its head. The blend was not too strong, not over-loaded with condimental tobaccos. It was balanced.
Things should be balanced.
There can indeed be too much of a good thing.
Hot sauce, for instance. Most amateur-made hot sauces include everything plus the kitchen sink. If ten habanero chilies are good, surely five hundred must be better?
Garlic? We've included all of this year's Gilroy.
Cumin? It's stiff with cumin!
And much mustard.
Plus turmeric.
And also ...
Wouldn't you rather know exactly what's in your food?
One of my favourite meals in Chinatown isn't even Chinese. It's a Vietnamese soup - noodle - grilled meat - and other stuff concoction.
燒豬肉河粉湯
SIU CHÜ-YIUK HO-FAN TONG
There's a pleasant simplicity to siu chü-yiuk ho-fan. A bowl of fine broth, with white rice stick noodles (ho fan 河粉 'river rice-noodle') and fresh crunchy bean sprouts (ngaa choi 牙菜 'tooth vegetable'), accompanied by a plate of charcoal-grilled sliced pork. The soup is dolled-up with a little chopped scallion (chung 葱), cilantro (heung choi 香菜), and fried garlic (jaa suen pin 炸蒜片 'oil-scalded garlic slivers'). The grilled pork may have been lightly marinated, though probably not.
What you do is cut up the pork with the fork and knife provided, add a hefty sploodge of hot-sauce to the plate for dipping, then tackle the soup, noodles, and meat with porcelain spoon and chopsticks, slurping liquid, lifting and inhaling the pearlescent white noodles, and flying the pieces of dipped pork over to your mouth either to join the happy community there, or to punctuate.
It's fun playing with the hot sauce. The standard Vietnamese-Chinese Restaurant always provides a bottle of Sri Racha (manufactured by Huy Fong down in southern California), and there is usually a flask of fish sauce (yü lou 魚露 'fish dew') on the table, along with the typical Cantonese oily hot compound (laat yau 辣油 'spicy oil'), and oyster sauce (hou yau 蠔油 'heroic-bivalve grease').
Put a half teaspoon of sugar on the plate. Add a generous amount of Sri Racha. A squiggle of oyster sauce for savouriness. Plus a drizzle of oil from the 辣油 container.
Also augment the soup with some of the liquid from the sliced chili in tamarind or vinegar with fish sauce (pau laat chiu 泡辣椒 'steeped hot pepper') for tangy-sour, and a few drops of the amber-hued fish sauce (魚露) from the little bottle on the condiment tray.
Do not include too much of the fried chilies from the hot oil, or the crunchy red peppers from the pickle.
If the pickled peppers are made fresh daily, there may be lime juice (ching ning chap 青檸汁 'green lemon sap') and tamarind (suen dau 酸豆 'sour bean') in the liquid, as well as some fish sauce. If, on the other hand, the restaurant puts them up in large batches, it will be vinegar (tsou 醋) and a little salt (yim 鹽). The salt-content helps the vegetable matter share its goodness with the pickling liquid, either way.
Dig in.
What makes the meal fun is the contrast of alternating textures and flavours, the crunchiness of the beansprouts versus the smooth slickness of the rice stick noodles, and savoury-smoky sabor of the meat, with just a little juiciness from the streaks of fat among the lean, and the total all-round deliciousness of the zesty red dip that drips from each chopsticked morsel.
Plus hot soothing broth, when you lift the now depleted bowl to your lips to drink the last comforting drop.
Ah, good. Very good.
Dawdle over your glass of chilled Vietnamese coffee while looking around with contented bleary eyes. Everything seems so much better, doesn't it?
Almost sepia and warm. Time slows down, and the waitstaff drift to and fro between the tables. Even the sounds become muted.
Rinse your mouth with the tea that was brought when you first sat down, and load-up a pipeful of tobacco for after.
Pay and tip, leave, light up.
Bowls of heaven.
Balance.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Things should be balanced.
There can indeed be too much of a good thing.
Hot sauce, for instance. Most amateur-made hot sauces include everything plus the kitchen sink. If ten habanero chilies are good, surely five hundred must be better?
Garlic? We've included all of this year's Gilroy.
Cumin? It's stiff with cumin!
And much mustard.
Plus turmeric.
And also ...
Wouldn't you rather know exactly what's in your food?
One of my favourite meals in Chinatown isn't even Chinese. It's a Vietnamese soup - noodle - grilled meat - and other stuff concoction.
燒豬肉河粉湯
SIU CHÜ-YIUK HO-FAN TONG
There's a pleasant simplicity to siu chü-yiuk ho-fan. A bowl of fine broth, with white rice stick noodles (ho fan 河粉 'river rice-noodle') and fresh crunchy bean sprouts (ngaa choi 牙菜 'tooth vegetable'), accompanied by a plate of charcoal-grilled sliced pork. The soup is dolled-up with a little chopped scallion (chung 葱), cilantro (heung choi 香菜), and fried garlic (jaa suen pin 炸蒜片 'oil-scalded garlic slivers'). The grilled pork may have been lightly marinated, though probably not.
What you do is cut up the pork with the fork and knife provided, add a hefty sploodge of hot-sauce to the plate for dipping, then tackle the soup, noodles, and meat with porcelain spoon and chopsticks, slurping liquid, lifting and inhaling the pearlescent white noodles, and flying the pieces of dipped pork over to your mouth either to join the happy community there, or to punctuate.
It's fun playing with the hot sauce. The standard Vietnamese-Chinese Restaurant always provides a bottle of Sri Racha (manufactured by Huy Fong down in southern California), and there is usually a flask of fish sauce (yü lou 魚露 'fish dew') on the table, along with the typical Cantonese oily hot compound (laat yau 辣油 'spicy oil'), and oyster sauce (hou yau 蠔油 'heroic-bivalve grease').
Put a half teaspoon of sugar on the plate. Add a generous amount of Sri Racha. A squiggle of oyster sauce for savouriness. Plus a drizzle of oil from the 辣油 container.
Also augment the soup with some of the liquid from the sliced chili in tamarind or vinegar with fish sauce (pau laat chiu 泡辣椒 'steeped hot pepper') for tangy-sour, and a few drops of the amber-hued fish sauce (魚露) from the little bottle on the condiment tray.
Do not include too much of the fried chilies from the hot oil, or the crunchy red peppers from the pickle.
If the pickled peppers are made fresh daily, there may be lime juice (ching ning chap 青檸汁 'green lemon sap') and tamarind (suen dau 酸豆 'sour bean') in the liquid, as well as some fish sauce. If, on the other hand, the restaurant puts them up in large batches, it will be vinegar (tsou 醋) and a little salt (yim 鹽). The salt-content helps the vegetable matter share its goodness with the pickling liquid, either way.
Dig in.
What makes the meal fun is the contrast of alternating textures and flavours, the crunchiness of the beansprouts versus the smooth slickness of the rice stick noodles, and savoury-smoky sabor of the meat, with just a little juiciness from the streaks of fat among the lean, and the total all-round deliciousness of the zesty red dip that drips from each chopsticked morsel.
Plus hot soothing broth, when you lift the now depleted bowl to your lips to drink the last comforting drop.
Ah, good. Very good.
Dawdle over your glass of chilled Vietnamese coffee while looking around with contented bleary eyes. Everything seems so much better, doesn't it?
Almost sepia and warm. Time slows down, and the waitstaff drift to and fro between the tables. Even the sounds become muted.
Rinse your mouth with the tea that was brought when you first sat down, and load-up a pipeful of tobacco for after.
Pay and tip, leave, light up.
Bowls of heaven.
Balance.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, April 05, 2013
MUCH IS MISSING
It had been a while since I saw the woman with the nicely sculpted head and elegant hands, so I went to New Sandalwood Island (新檀島) for dinner yesterday evening. Having eaten jook and a yautiu the previous day, plus some crackers and Cheddar cheese late at night, I realized that both health and sanity required vegetables and hot sauce.
I think she likes me; she's very kind. But that may be just a gentleness to her, and I shall probably never find out.
How does one approach the opposite gender? And if I did so, what would I say? What, in fact, do I actually know about her?
Life would be so much easier if people came with a series of warning lights above their heads. One to indicate the random possibilities, and another to indicate whether or not there is anything in common. My Cantonese ability is limited enough that conversation may not be the best way to tell, and while I am fluent in English and Dutch, I'm just not fit to flirt in those either.
Life is a crapshoot at the best of times.
And my hand is missing the Joker.
Besides, middle-aged men do well not to read too much into things. We've reached the years where we can assume that well-brought up people who are half our age will treat us with a certain amount of courtesy, and we must respond accordingly. Which means NOT startling the crap out of them with unexpected forwardness or pushing any unpredictable envelopes. Doing so upsets the societal apple cart.
It would be so much better if they were to surprise us.
Unlikely, and a mere pipe dream, nevertheless.
We're easily tickled in our senescence.
Ridiculously optimistic, too.
Maturity means nuts.
Didn't you know?
.........
So how was dinner?
有好食物、好氛圍、同一個靚女；改善啲, 站喺我嘅立場, 係無可能嘅！
[Rather nice, thank you.]
Afterwards I wandered over to Portsmouth Square (花園角) with a pipe.
Smokers aren't allowed into San Francisco parks anymore (the world will end if we enter), so I stayed outside, on Fa Yuen Street (花園街), looking in. I saw something which I should never mention to my ex, as she had a rather unhappy childhood. I would not want to make her sad.
A mother and her two little girls wandered past. The adult had a kvetching tone to her voice, and seemed horribly impatient. This is what Cantonese moms often sound like, and the best way to tell what it really means is by the reaction of the children at whom the bellyache is directed.
Those two tykes seemed quite happy.
And it soon became apparent that the woman did indeed love her children very much; she had bought them both ice cream pops, and happily helped them play on the climbing bars in the kiddies' play area. From my vantage point I could see the shapes moving around, the little ones wearing jackets of the same cheery hue as the flowering plums nearby, the mother in somewhat plainer clothes, and I heard the joyful squeals.
They were there for over fifteen minutes.
I left when it was no longer light.
My ex-girlfriend's mother hated her while she was a child, and always begrudged her any happiness. It would be unkind to describe this scene to her. She's in her forties now, and though she hides it, she is still wounded.
Maturity means keeping quiet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I think she likes me; she's very kind. But that may be just a gentleness to her, and I shall probably never find out.
How does one approach the opposite gender? And if I did so, what would I say? What, in fact, do I actually know about her?
Life would be so much easier if people came with a series of warning lights above their heads. One to indicate the random possibilities, and another to indicate whether or not there is anything in common. My Cantonese ability is limited enough that conversation may not be the best way to tell, and while I am fluent in English and Dutch, I'm just not fit to flirt in those either.
Life is a crapshoot at the best of times.
And my hand is missing the Joker.
Besides, middle-aged men do well not to read too much into things. We've reached the years where we can assume that well-brought up people who are half our age will treat us with a certain amount of courtesy, and we must respond accordingly. Which means NOT startling the crap out of them with unexpected forwardness or pushing any unpredictable envelopes. Doing so upsets the societal apple cart.
It would be so much better if they were to surprise us.
Unlikely, and a mere pipe dream, nevertheless.
We're easily tickled in our senescence.
Ridiculously optimistic, too.
Maturity means nuts.
Didn't you know?
.........
So how was dinner?
有好食物、好氛圍、同一個靚女；改善啲, 站喺我嘅立場, 係無可能嘅！
[Rather nice, thank you.]
Afterwards I wandered over to Portsmouth Square (花園角) with a pipe.
Smokers aren't allowed into San Francisco parks anymore (the world will end if we enter), so I stayed outside, on Fa Yuen Street (花園街), looking in. I saw something which I should never mention to my ex, as she had a rather unhappy childhood. I would not want to make her sad.
A mother and her two little girls wandered past. The adult had a kvetching tone to her voice, and seemed horribly impatient. This is what Cantonese moms often sound like, and the best way to tell what it really means is by the reaction of the children at whom the bellyache is directed.
Those two tykes seemed quite happy.
And it soon became apparent that the woman did indeed love her children very much; she had bought them both ice cream pops, and happily helped them play on the climbing bars in the kiddies' play area. From my vantage point I could see the shapes moving around, the little ones wearing jackets of the same cheery hue as the flowering plums nearby, the mother in somewhat plainer clothes, and I heard the joyful squeals.
They were there for over fifteen minutes.
I left when it was no longer light.
My ex-girlfriend's mother hated her while she was a child, and always begrudged her any happiness. It would be unkind to describe this scene to her. She's in her forties now, and though she hides it, she is still wounded.
Maturity means keeping quiet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, April 04, 2013
FROM A DANGEROUS DECLIVITY TO THE LOWER RINGS: 從舂磡至下環
There are stretches along the road back from Chung Hom Kok (舂磡角) where both Round Island (銀洲) and Lantau (爛頭島) can be seen across the water, or, if you look further toward the north, Head Island (頭洲) which demarcates the edge of the bay (舂磡灣). Smooth Ripples (熨波洲) and Deep Water (深水灣) are slightly beyond that, with the Duck's Tongue (鴨脷洲) as well as the Yellowing Bamboo Pit (黃竹坑) barely even visible through the haze.
The view is lovely, especially on a warm day.
And it's a noiseless solitary area.
Quite unusual.
港景
A friend and former customer has an office on the Duck's Tongue, though she actually lives in Horse Pissing Water (馬尿水). She owns a bookstore which I think may be somewhere on the island, or near Oil Sharps (油尖).
I have never been to her place of business, so I really don't have a clue.
There was little chance to travel for over five years, and I did not know about the shop until a year ago, during the final gasps of our company.
Chung Hom Kok Road (舂磡角道) is quite twisty along the cliffs before you head back inland, and there is thick growth on both sides; it isn't until you're nearly at Cape Road (環角道) that it becomes a proper two-lane street. When you get far beyond Repulse Bay the trees and luxury housing estates have thinned out, and high-rise developments are the norm, but it is still much greener than you expected in so populous a territory.
This place is, in some ways (especially at its southern end), an entirely different world.
Where Broadwood Road (樂活道) joins Link Road (連道), the very tall buildings almost blot out the sky. Here are Bubbling Yellow Mud (黃泥涌), Blue Pools (藍塘), and a Great Big Pit (大坑). This part fell to the invading Japanese (倭寇) on December 19, 1941.
Six days before the end at Stanley.
Happy Valley (跑馬地) gazes out over the densest part of the universe, and Wan Chai (灣仔區) further down defies belief. Remarkably, there are few public housing projects in "little bay" itself; incomes are too high.
From the outermost extreme to the very heart of the city.
A short distance, an extraordinary difference.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The view is lovely, especially on a warm day.
And it's a noiseless solitary area.
Quite unusual.
港景
A friend and former customer has an office on the Duck's Tongue, though she actually lives in Horse Pissing Water (馬尿水). She owns a bookstore which I think may be somewhere on the island, or near Oil Sharps (油尖).
I have never been to her place of business, so I really don't have a clue.
There was little chance to travel for over five years, and I did not know about the shop until a year ago, during the final gasps of our company.
Chung Hom Kok Road (舂磡角道) is quite twisty along the cliffs before you head back inland, and there is thick growth on both sides; it isn't until you're nearly at Cape Road (環角道) that it becomes a proper two-lane street. When you get far beyond Repulse Bay the trees and luxury housing estates have thinned out, and high-rise developments are the norm, but it is still much greener than you expected in so populous a territory.
This place is, in some ways (especially at its southern end), an entirely different world.
Where Broadwood Road (樂活道) joins Link Road (連道), the very tall buildings almost blot out the sky. Here are Bubbling Yellow Mud (黃泥涌), Blue Pools (藍塘), and a Great Big Pit (大坑). This part fell to the invading Japanese (倭寇) on December 19, 1941.
Six days before the end at Stanley.
Happy Valley (跑馬地) gazes out over the densest part of the universe, and Wan Chai (灣仔區) further down defies belief. Remarkably, there are few public housing projects in "little bay" itself; incomes are too high.
From the outermost extreme to the very heart of the city.
A short distance, an extraordinary difference.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DELICIOUS IRONY
For the past several weeks I have been enjoying some tobacco compounds of my own concocting. I have the blending tobaccos on the premises -- my apartment mate is quite long suffering and puts up with a wealth of eccentricities -- as well as a fine-tuned scale. This being San Francisco, where half the population is determined to be sick as blazes so that they can continue to enjoy the therapeutic benefits of medical marijuana, accurate scales capable of measuring minute quantities are widely available, cheap, and probably subsidized by the board of education because it's the only way to get the little bastards to learn fractions.
I have been experimenting with blending pipe-tobacco ever since working at Drucquer & Sons in Berkeley. Partly out of curiosity -- what do this and that combined taste like? -- partly out of a conviction that everything I like will eventually become unavailable.
And with the ongoing march toward outlawing all the pleasures of which the meaningful tofu-snarfing know-it-betters disapprove (that being bourgeois white dillwads and anything fun respectively), the prospect of not being able to buy tobacco in the great state of California becomes ever more likely.
In our lifetimes all nicotine products will be outlawed.
And tetrahydrocannabinol obligatory.
On that day, some of these idiots will cream in their sustainably green knickers. At last we're free of evil, and therapized up the wazoo!
.................
Sorry, I got distracted by my severe protestant disapproval of drug-using hippies for a moment. Live and let live, just ignore the damned potheads.
And kick them fiercely when they're stoned.
You know, one of the reasons why China and India are getting ahead of us is because they aren't such a bunch of smirking milksop druggies.
BLEND 453.17
Thirty five percent Latakia, and some Turkish leaf. The rest of the blend consists of Virginia with the merest touch of fire-cured. It's smoky and resinous, and like all medium Latakia mixtures works best in a fairly broad bowl; a Pot, a Prince, or a Squat Bulldog.
I have more than a dozen of the last mentioned shape, many of them very fine old pipes. Most recently I smoked this tobacco in a Sasieni that dates from around my birth year.
The taste is much like a pre-war English.
Orgasmic, and divine.
A mental-sparker of no mean proportion; images of late evening at various cafés in Valkenswaard come to mind, as well as more recently hours enjoyed in the company of Mark and Robin at the cigar club, with Bob as the genial and welcoming host. Relatively quiet times, except for when the visiting glee club from Missouri came to town. I also recall the young lady at the restaurant where I sometimes get bittermelon and chicken over rice. It's a very nice dish, but that isn't the only reason to go there. She has a lovely smile.
BLEND 810.4
This one is ten percent fire-cured, the rest four different Virginias, of which one is a ribbon to promote burnability. It's rather like Rattray's Hal O' The Wynd, though not as pronounced a medium red flavour. An all-day smoke, extremely pleasant and mild, with a sweetness upon the tongue.
Very much a blend for old badgers.
For some reason I cannot get the living room of the house we lived in many years ago out of my mind. Which is odd, because this is nothing like a Dutch cavendish! But the association may go deeper than I realize. Possibly it's the level of nicotine. More likely, the sparkling allure of Virginia.
BLEND 10-0121
A peculiar Virginia concoction, with around five percent Perique, and nearly a fifth Latakia. It reminds me of my father, and it took me a while to figure out why. The main impact is the nearly unnoticed absence of any Turkish hue whatsoever. What my father smoked when he was still a teenager in Beverly Hills was a mildly spiced mostly American blend, albeit with a dollop of Syrian. Such things tend to have interesting presences in the nose, combined with what are now profoundly old-fashioned taste-spectra.
This blend has that old-time memory and mood-prompting note.
Naturally it works best in older shapes and bowls.
It yields a spare and ancient fragrance.
Like re-visiting a gentler era.
In the sixties and early seventies my father would work on blueprints at his desk, and pipe smoke would waft over from that corner. At that time I was still too young to indulge -- Dutch tobacconists won't cater to the single-digit crowd -- but the dry aroma has stayed with me since then, still alive somewhere in the back of my mind. His pipes always echoed the perfume of his favourite blends, and the smell always brings him back.
All three of these are fairly recent recipes. And while I have jars with some of my older blends gathering a nice mellowness of age on the shelves where I keep my Judaica, obscuring Halachic texts and chumeshim with commentaries, I have not smoked them much lately. Not even the stinky blend which exemplifies everything most women hate about pipe tobacco, that I enjoy so much.
Nor have I opened any new tins from my humongous stockpile.
I've stashed nearly three decades worth of tobaccos.
Everything I like will become unavailable.
Especially fine smoking products.
But I'm puffing new stuff.
And running out.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I have been experimenting with blending pipe-tobacco ever since working at Drucquer & Sons in Berkeley. Partly out of curiosity -- what do this and that combined taste like? -- partly out of a conviction that everything I like will eventually become unavailable.
And with the ongoing march toward outlawing all the pleasures of which the meaningful tofu-snarfing know-it-betters disapprove (that being bourgeois white dillwads and anything fun respectively), the prospect of not being able to buy tobacco in the great state of California becomes ever more likely.
In our lifetimes all nicotine products will be outlawed.
And tetrahydrocannabinol obligatory.
On that day, some of these idiots will cream in their sustainably green knickers. At last we're free of evil, and therapized up the wazoo!
.................
Sorry, I got distracted by my severe protestant disapproval of drug-using hippies for a moment. Live and let live, just ignore the damned potheads.
And kick them fiercely when they're stoned.
You know, one of the reasons why China and India are getting ahead of us is because they aren't such a bunch of smirking milksop druggies.
BLEND 453.17
Thirty five percent Latakia, and some Turkish leaf. The rest of the blend consists of Virginia with the merest touch of fire-cured. It's smoky and resinous, and like all medium Latakia mixtures works best in a fairly broad bowl; a Pot, a Prince, or a Squat Bulldog.
I have more than a dozen of the last mentioned shape, many of them very fine old pipes. Most recently I smoked this tobacco in a Sasieni that dates from around my birth year.
The taste is much like a pre-war English.
Orgasmic, and divine.
A mental-sparker of no mean proportion; images of late evening at various cafés in Valkenswaard come to mind, as well as more recently hours enjoyed in the company of Mark and Robin at the cigar club, with Bob as the genial and welcoming host. Relatively quiet times, except for when the visiting glee club from Missouri came to town. I also recall the young lady at the restaurant where I sometimes get bittermelon and chicken over rice. It's a very nice dish, but that isn't the only reason to go there. She has a lovely smile.
BLEND 810.4
This one is ten percent fire-cured, the rest four different Virginias, of which one is a ribbon to promote burnability. It's rather like Rattray's Hal O' The Wynd, though not as pronounced a medium red flavour. An all-day smoke, extremely pleasant and mild, with a sweetness upon the tongue.
Very much a blend for old badgers.
For some reason I cannot get the living room of the house we lived in many years ago out of my mind. Which is odd, because this is nothing like a Dutch cavendish! But the association may go deeper than I realize. Possibly it's the level of nicotine. More likely, the sparkling allure of Virginia.
BLEND 10-0121
A peculiar Virginia concoction, with around five percent Perique, and nearly a fifth Latakia. It reminds me of my father, and it took me a while to figure out why. The main impact is the nearly unnoticed absence of any Turkish hue whatsoever. What my father smoked when he was still a teenager in Beverly Hills was a mildly spiced mostly American blend, albeit with a dollop of Syrian. Such things tend to have interesting presences in the nose, combined with what are now profoundly old-fashioned taste-spectra.
This blend has that old-time memory and mood-prompting note.
Naturally it works best in older shapes and bowls.
It yields a spare and ancient fragrance.
Like re-visiting a gentler era.
In the sixties and early seventies my father would work on blueprints at his desk, and pipe smoke would waft over from that corner. At that time I was still too young to indulge -- Dutch tobacconists won't cater to the single-digit crowd -- but the dry aroma has stayed with me since then, still alive somewhere in the back of my mind. His pipes always echoed the perfume of his favourite blends, and the smell always brings him back.
All three of these are fairly recent recipes. And while I have jars with some of my older blends gathering a nice mellowness of age on the shelves where I keep my Judaica, obscuring Halachic texts and chumeshim with commentaries, I have not smoked them much lately. Not even the stinky blend which exemplifies everything most women hate about pipe tobacco, that I enjoy so much.
Nor have I opened any new tins from my humongous stockpile.
I've stashed nearly three decades worth of tobaccos.
Everything I like will become unavailable.
Especially fine smoking products.
But I'm puffing new stuff.
And running out.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
SAN FRANCISCO NO LONGER ROCKS - IT PROBABLY NEVER DID ANYWAY
A while back I resolved to cease visiting a certain establishment located in downtown San Francisco, because I realized that I did not belong there.
I liked the place, but it wasn't suitable. I'm a stubborn middle-aged fish, and I do not wish to associate with people who won't respect that.
Such people being mostly young and unbearably hip.
Lord knows I am not young and hip.
Far from it, in fact.
Having some smirking know-it-all urban white-bread bitch smarmily pulling a humongously precious attitude, while surrounded by equally ignorant and smarmy youthful hipsters who support her point of view because they greatly esteem her pillowy tits, is not part of the programme.
I find such excessive mammaries offensive.
Which is why I wasn't impressed.
Actually, I didn't even notice the damned things until you brought them up. And what was the point of that, by the way? Did you fear that they were
the only thing that made you stand out?
You were probably right.
My patience is finite. I do not accept snoot from superficial barely post grammar school San Francisco hipsters. Not regarding cellphones or my astounding lack of same, not about matters Netherlandish, not pursuant whatever cultural or political identity I claim, nor about what I am in
how many parts and to what extent.
I am as I am. Suck it up, or choke on it.
I am both 100% other than you lot, as well as 100% normal.
It is immaterial that you do not grasp the distinction.
You do not get to persnick these matters.
Given that I am clearly too old, stingy, and peculiar, I have decided that that particular business establishment and this blogger are a horrid fit most of the time. Consequently I shall only patronize it on rare occasions, when dipwads do not come, and people I actually like might be there.
Life is too short to drink Starbucks, or deal with dingo-brains.
Or to spend money at places where such people are welcome.
Did I already mention "stingy"? It's a Dutch habit I have not been able to shake. See, Dutch people don't like wasting their money, especially not at places where it doesn't seem to be worthwhile. Such as places which cater to a more free-wheeling hip and with-it clientele. A clientele far more appreciated, in the grand scheme of things, than eccentric middle-aged
gits with moderate spending habits.
Yeah, I know that that describes all of San Francisco.
But lets face it, this city is sliding backwards.
Nothing but glibbety-wibbeties here.
Pretentious, shallow, dull.
Thoroughly hip.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I liked the place, but it wasn't suitable. I'm a stubborn middle-aged fish, and I do not wish to associate with people who won't respect that.
Such people being mostly young and unbearably hip.
Lord knows I am not young and hip.
Far from it, in fact.
Having some smirking know-it-all urban white-bread bitch smarmily pulling a humongously precious attitude, while surrounded by equally ignorant and smarmy youthful hipsters who support her point of view because they greatly esteem her pillowy tits, is not part of the programme.
I find such excessive mammaries offensive.
Which is why I wasn't impressed.
Actually, I didn't even notice the damned things until you brought them up. And what was the point of that, by the way? Did you fear that they were
the only thing that made you stand out?
You were probably right.
My patience is finite. I do not accept snoot from superficial barely post grammar school San Francisco hipsters. Not regarding cellphones or my astounding lack of same, not about matters Netherlandish, not pursuant whatever cultural or political identity I claim, nor about what I am in
how many parts and to what extent.
I am as I am. Suck it up, or choke on it.
I am both 100% other than you lot, as well as 100% normal.
It is immaterial that you do not grasp the distinction.
You do not get to persnick these matters.
Given that I am clearly too old, stingy, and peculiar, I have decided that that particular business establishment and this blogger are a horrid fit most of the time. Consequently I shall only patronize it on rare occasions, when dipwads do not come, and people I actually like might be there.
Life is too short to drink Starbucks, or deal with dingo-brains.
Or to spend money at places where such people are welcome.
Did I already mention "stingy"? It's a Dutch habit I have not been able to shake. See, Dutch people don't like wasting their money, especially not at places where it doesn't seem to be worthwhile. Such as places which cater to a more free-wheeling hip and with-it clientele. A clientele far more appreciated, in the grand scheme of things, than eccentric middle-aged
gits with moderate spending habits.
Yeah, I know that that describes all of San Francisco.
But lets face it, this city is sliding backwards.
Nothing but glibbety-wibbeties here.
Pretentious, shallow, dull.
Thoroughly hip.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THIS IS WHY YOU ARE HERE
Thoughtful people spout interesting questions. Often without realizing that those questions have been asked for thousands of years, starting back in our cave-man days when we bashed people over the head for asking stuff we couldn't answer.
Which was, of course, shortly after they had grown large enough that we couldn't just clout them upside their ear and tell 'em to eat their damned broccoli and shut up.
What is the meaning of life?
Why am I here?
Will I die tomorrow?
What's for lunch?
As a public service, I shall provide the answers.
Life has no intrinsic meaning.
The internet brought you here.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
Chinese food.
And broccoli is inedible. I can understand why you don't want to finish it.
Broccoli is the Oakland of vegetables, there is no there there.
Chinese broccoli is an entirely different kettle of fish.
Which is why you will have Chinese food.
Besides, it's the Financial District.
Quite the best thing there.
Now shut up and eat your 芥蘭。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which was, of course, shortly after they had grown large enough that we couldn't just clout them upside their ear and tell 'em to eat their damned broccoli and shut up.
What is the meaning of life?
Why am I here?
Will I die tomorrow?
What's for lunch?
As a public service, I shall provide the answers.
Life has no intrinsic meaning.
The internet brought you here.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
Chinese food.
And broccoli is inedible. I can understand why you don't want to finish it.
Broccoli is the Oakland of vegetables, there is no there there.
Chinese broccoli is an entirely different kettle of fish.
Which is why you will have Chinese food.
Besides, it's the Financial District.
Quite the best thing there.
Now shut up and eat your 芥蘭。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, April 02, 2013
THE MURCHISON DEAL
What, I have wondered, if I had been born a girl? Specifically, if I were female, what kind of woman-person would I be?
It isn't so very odd a question, as many people have reputedly been born thus.
Probably a large percentage of humanity.
I often play such mental games with myself. What if I had been a German? What about Serbo-Croat, or a camel? What if instead of being a snarky Dutch-American, I was a hamster? What if I had been born a Mormon?
If I had been born a Mormon I would either be a very bad Mormon indeed, or quite suicidal. Irrespective of gender.
If I had been born a girl, I think I should like to be at least twenty years or so younger than my current age, and probably six inches shorter. That way my opportunities would be massive. A young woman has far more options for misbehaviour, and a shorter woman just looks a lot more interesting, besides being able to find clothing in her size. And of course I would misbehave. Though very discretely.
You could never tell from my demeanor or my choice of clothing what my personal life was like. I'd dress conservatively, even modestly, and would rarely go out drinking, if at all. Any alcohol would be consumed in known and safe company, and never more than one small glass. And as far as my love life was concerned, well, that would be none of your business.
If there was one. Which you wouldn't know.
There probably would be a love-life.
At a suitable post-academic time.
Quietly, and very privately.
It would not involve football players, nor business majors. Especially not business majors! Those people are actually rather boring to talk to, and I could not imagine myself feeling at ease in the company of such dubious types. Besides, there's no commonality. None to speak of, at least.
And if there's nothing to speak of, there likely is no conversation either.
How dull!
'Hi Hon, how was your day?'
"I closed the Murchison deal! I closed the Murchison deal!
I closed the Murchison deal!"
'That's nice....., what else did you do?'
"I closed the Murchison deal! I closed the Murchison deal!
I closed the Murchison deal!"
'Where did you go for lunch?'
"I closed the Murchison deal! I closed the Murchison deal!
I closed the Murchison deal!"
'Say, did you read that interesting article in the .... ?'
"I closed the Murchison deal! I closed the Murchison deal!
I closed the Murchison deal!"
'Do you feel like .... ?'
"I closed the Murchison deal, the Murchison deal, I did, it's closed, Murchison, I closed the Murchison deal!"
See? Nothing there. It's all spam. The only way to get his meatball mind off the Murchison deal is tons of trollop make-up, huge cleavage, finger-nail paint, and tacky slutwear not suitable anywhere that I would want to go!
Instead of a nice elegant skirt, and a lovely top that flatters my figure.
You never want to be embarrassed by a companion in public.
How much worse when it's yourself that embarrasses!
You know, if any man even tried to go on and on about the Murchison deal, it would be a temptation greater than I could bear to either clout him upside the head with a two-by-four, OR explain the menstrual cycle (and attendant cramps) in very great detail.
After which I would probably go off and eat some lobster.
Entirely without him. While wearing nice clothes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Probably a large percentage of humanity.
I often play such mental games with myself. What if I had been a German? What about Serbo-Croat, or a camel? What if instead of being a snarky Dutch-American, I was a hamster? What if I had been born a Mormon?
If I had been born a Mormon I would either be a very bad Mormon indeed, or quite suicidal. Irrespective of gender.
If I had been born a girl, I think I should like to be at least twenty years or so younger than my current age, and probably six inches shorter. That way my opportunities would be massive. A young woman has far more options for misbehaviour, and a shorter woman just looks a lot more interesting, besides being able to find clothing in her size. And of course I would misbehave. Though very discretely.
You could never tell from my demeanor or my choice of clothing what my personal life was like. I'd dress conservatively, even modestly, and would rarely go out drinking, if at all. Any alcohol would be consumed in known and safe company, and never more than one small glass. And as far as my love life was concerned, well, that would be none of your business.
If there was one. Which you wouldn't know.
There probably would be a love-life.
At a suitable post-academic time.
Quietly, and very privately.
It would not involve football players, nor business majors. Especially not business majors! Those people are actually rather boring to talk to, and I could not imagine myself feeling at ease in the company of such dubious types. Besides, there's no commonality. None to speak of, at least.
And if there's nothing to speak of, there likely is no conversation either.
How dull!
'Hi Hon, how was your day?'
"I closed the Murchison deal! I closed the Murchison deal!
I closed the Murchison deal!"
'That's nice....., what else did you do?'
"I closed the Murchison deal! I closed the Murchison deal!
I closed the Murchison deal!"
'Where did you go for lunch?'
"I closed the Murchison deal! I closed the Murchison deal!
I closed the Murchison deal!"
'Say, did you read that interesting article in the .... ?'
"I closed the Murchison deal! I closed the Murchison deal!
I closed the Murchison deal!"
'Do you feel like .... ?'
"I closed the Murchison deal, the Murchison deal, I did, it's closed, Murchison, I closed the Murchison deal!"
See? Nothing there. It's all spam. The only way to get his meatball mind off the Murchison deal is tons of trollop make-up, huge cleavage, finger-nail paint, and tacky slutwear not suitable anywhere that I would want to go!
Instead of a nice elegant skirt, and a lovely top that flatters my figure.
You never want to be embarrassed by a companion in public.
How much worse when it's yourself that embarrasses!
You know, if any man even tried to go on and on about the Murchison deal, it would be a temptation greater than I could bear to either clout him upside the head with a two-by-four, OR explain the menstrual cycle (and attendant cramps) in very great detail.
After which I would probably go off and eat some lobster.
Entirely without him. While wearing nice clothes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, April 01, 2013
INVENTING THE FEMININE PRONOUN: HER
The Chinese spoken languages do not possess a third person pronoun equivalent to 'her'. Classical third person singular (qí 其) always was non-sexual, to be interpreted contextually as masculine, feminine, neuter, this, that, or other.
In modern Mandarin, that third person is 'tā'.
Which was eventually found to be far too imprecise.
Nowadays one can be more specific.
Sometimes one must.
他、它們、與其他的。
TA, TA MEN, YU QI TA DE.
[Him, those, and the others.]
The standard masculine third person singular 他 (tā) is composed of a human (rén 人 shown in the left side position 亻) with the phonetic element 也 (yě: also, too) on the right. Originally this fairly modern grapheme meant the third person singular in all iterations and both genders, the context being relied on to make clear what precisely was meant.
Different forms have since been invented.
她 is the feminine form (nǚ 女 woman, female, next to 也).
牠 is the animalian form (niú 牛 ox; animal category character component, next to 也).
它 is plain 'it'; written with a roof (mián 宀) over a ladle (bǐ 匕).
祂 represents the divine form, used in religious contexts when referring to a deity. It is a spirit or ancestor (shì 示), which nowadays by itself means to be revealed or manifested, next to the 也 glyph.
They are all pronounced the same.
All of these are pluralized with 們 (a gate 門 mén next to the human 亻).
Thus 他們、她們、牠們、它們、and 祂們。Tāmen.
The exception is the formal, or third person singular respectful, character, 怹 (tān), which is used like its ancestor with no regard to gender.
It is formed according to the same pattern as the respectful version of you 您 (nín), which is you (你 nǐ) over xīn 心 (heart, mind, feelings).
In Cantonese, which is the descendant of the Tang-Sung koine, different characters are used for the pronouns: 佢 ('keui': he, him), 姖 ('keui': she, her), and 渠 ('keui': it). The last character (渠) also stands in for all third person singulars, but more so in pre-war writing. There does not appear to be a third person divine yet, possibly because the Cantonese are the most cynical of all the Chinese.
Nor is there a formal version in Cantonese for either the second or third person; probably for the same reason as there is no supernatural third.
Plurals of the Cantonese pronouns are formed by appending the phonetic 哋, which is 'earth' (地 'tei') with a mouth (口 'hau') on the first side to indicate that it is a sound rather than a significant.
Thus: 佢哋、姖哋、渠哋。 All of which are 'keui tei'.
The Cantonese pronunciation 'keui' (洰 rivulet, irrigation ditch) developed from 'kei' (其) over the centuries since the Tang (618 – 907 CE) and Sung (960 - 1279 CE) periods.
The locution 其他 (Mandarin: qí tā; Cantonese: 'kei ta') is the equivalent of undsoweiter, enzovoorts, i taka natatŭk, etcetera, et autres, and so forth.
It is not quite as useful in Chinese as in the European languages.
[In Mandarin: 我 (wǒ)、我們 (wǒ men)；你 (nǐ)、你們 (nǐ men)；他 (tā)、他們 (tā men)；她們 (tā men)、牠們 (tā men)、它們 (tā men)；祂們 (tā men)。
In Cantonese: 我 ('ngoh')、我哋 ('ngoh tei')；你 ('nei')、你哋 ('nei tei')；佢 ('keui')、佢哋 ('keui tei')；姖哋 ('keui tei')、渠哋 ('keui tei')。]
Note: Both Cantonese and Mandarin will understand the character 妳 as being singular second person feminine, but speakers may wonder at the usefulness of such a coinage.
劉半農之創新。
LUI BAN-NONG ZHI CHUANG XIN.
[Liu Ban-nong's innovation.]
In the period after the 1911 revolution, during the New Culture Movement (新文化運動), numerous scholars educated in the traditional fashion which emphasized classical forms of literature and traditional learning, began experimenting with new writing styles, composing their essays, plays, and poetry in the common language. This was considered both modern, and more popularly approachable. Colloquial speech had not resembled the ancient model for several centuries if not millennia at that time, and developing a corpus of literature that expressed ideas in ways that the common man could grasp was considered an important step towards pulling China out of the depths to which it had sunk during the age of Western Imperialism. The difficulty of acquiring literacy in the classical language was, it was felt, a handicap that could only stunt mass development.
The irony of their approach was of course that they themselves were products of that same classical educational norm, and frequently framed their thoughts in a style that their literati ancestors would have well understood, whereas the speech of daily society had till then seldom ever been transcribed.
Many of them realized this, and sought ways to write what had theretofore not been written, and strove to create a common written language.
New characters had to be invented, new words coined.
Written Chinese has always been fairly flexible. As I showed above, in the construction of characters, parts can be combined to create new graphemes, using a signific element and a phonetic element. And though one may think of Chinese as monosyllabic, in actual practise the vocabulary mainly consists of bi-syllabic constructs. It is that second facet which permits new words to enter the language, either by complete phonetic borrowing, such as is common in Cantonese-speaking areas, or combining two or more single-syllable words to express a new datum, such as Mandarin-speakers have done.
Poetry, which had long been constrained by specific forms, also headed into the bright new world. One of the more important writers of the late teens and early twenties of the last century was 劉半農 (Liu Ban-nong, aka 劉復 Liu Fu, pen-name of 劉壽彰 Liu Shou-Zhang), a native of central China who contributed to the literary periodical 新青年 (Xīn Qīng Nián, La Jeunesse, New Youth; founded in Shanghai by 陳獨秀 Chen Duxia in 1915, published in Peking from 1920 to 1926 ).
In 1920, Liu wrote a poem entitled 教我如何不想她 (jiāo wǒ rú hé bù xiǎng tā: "tell me how to not remember her"), which is the first time that the character 'her' showed up in print. He is credited as the inventor, though he may have found it when researching 宋元以來俗字譜 (Sòng Yuán yǐ-lái sú-zì pǔ: "Sung Yuan after vernacular chart", the vernacular characters used since the Song and Yuan dynasties).
It is a rather beautiful poem, which absolutely requires the feminine third person singular for it's impact.
教我如何不想她
天上飄著些微雲
地上吹著些微風
啊...
微風吹動了我的頭髮
教我如何不想她
月光戀愛著海洋
海洋戀愛著月光
啊...
這般蜜也似的銀夜
教我如何不想她
水面落花慢慢流
水底魚兒慢慢游
啊...
燕子你說些什麼話
教我如何不想她
枯樹在冷風裡搖
野火在暮色中燒
啊...
西天還有些兒殘霞
教我如何不想她
Up in the sky faint clouds float,
There is a slight breeze along the ground,
Ah...
That breeze ruffling my hair,
Tells me how to forget her.
The moonlight is passionately in love with the ocean,
The ocean yearns for the moonlight,
Ah ...
This sweet and silvery night,
Tells me how to forget her.
Petals float upon the face of the water,
Underneath, fish lazily drift along,
Ah ...
Oh swallow, what do you say,
Tell me how to forget her.
Barren trees shaking in the cold winds,
And wildfires burning in the darkest nights,
Ah ...
Crimson clouds in the western sky,
Tell me how to forget her.
You will note a subtle change from factual statement ending the first two verses (something 'tells me how to forget her') to an entreaty, almost pleading - oh please tell me how to forget her. The entire poem in effect states that no matter what he has experienced since, he cannot forget her, that memory is always alive.
In another sense, the verses say that it would be unreasonable to even ask him to forget her; everything reminds him of that other person.
It is immaterial who he remembers, it is the fact of remembering that stars in this poem. And, crucially, she would be even more anonymous without this pronomial distinction.
That said, here's miss 韋秀嫻 (Wéi Xiù-xián) singing it from the other side of the linguistic mechitza:
韋秀嫻 ~ 〈教我如何不想他〉
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMD5Jw4CkbM.]
In this rendition, the third person is not ' her' (她) but very specifically 'him' (他). The sense is still very much the same, and the audience will automatically think of the correct pronoun.
Lovely, eh? Truly a voice like molten sugar. Who could possibly forget that?
Set to music with a melody by fellow linguistics scholar 趙元任 (Zhào Yuánrèn, Tianjin 1892 – Cambridge MA 1982), this was one of the all-time hits during the twenties and thirties in China, and is still very well known among aficionados of modern Chinese music.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In modern Mandarin, that third person is 'tā'.
Which was eventually found to be far too imprecise.
Nowadays one can be more specific.
Sometimes one must.
他、它們、與其他的。
TA, TA MEN, YU QI TA DE.
[Him, those, and the others.]
The standard masculine third person singular 他 (tā) is composed of a human (rén 人 shown in the left side position 亻) with the phonetic element 也 (yě: also, too) on the right. Originally this fairly modern grapheme meant the third person singular in all iterations and both genders, the context being relied on to make clear what precisely was meant.
Different forms have since been invented.
她 is the feminine form (nǚ 女 woman, female, next to 也).
牠 is the animalian form (niú 牛 ox; animal category character component, next to 也).
它 is plain 'it'; written with a roof (mián 宀) over a ladle (bǐ 匕).
祂 represents the divine form, used in religious contexts when referring to a deity. It is a spirit or ancestor (shì 示), which nowadays by itself means to be revealed or manifested, next to the 也 glyph.
They are all pronounced the same.
All of these are pluralized with 們 (a gate 門 mén next to the human 亻).
Thus 他們、她們、牠們、它們、and 祂們。Tāmen.
The exception is the formal, or third person singular respectful, character, 怹 (tān), which is used like its ancestor with no regard to gender.
It is formed according to the same pattern as the respectful version of you 您 (nín), which is you (你 nǐ) over xīn 心 (heart, mind, feelings).
In Cantonese, which is the descendant of the Tang-Sung koine, different characters are used for the pronouns: 佢 ('keui': he, him), 姖 ('keui': she, her), and 渠 ('keui': it). The last character (渠) also stands in for all third person singulars, but more so in pre-war writing. There does not appear to be a third person divine yet, possibly because the Cantonese are the most cynical of all the Chinese.
Nor is there a formal version in Cantonese for either the second or third person; probably for the same reason as there is no supernatural third.
Plurals of the Cantonese pronouns are formed by appending the phonetic 哋, which is 'earth' (地 'tei') with a mouth (口 'hau') on the first side to indicate that it is a sound rather than a significant.
Thus: 佢哋、姖哋、渠哋。 All of which are 'keui tei'.
The Cantonese pronunciation 'keui' (洰 rivulet, irrigation ditch) developed from 'kei' (其) over the centuries since the Tang (618 – 907 CE) and Sung (960 - 1279 CE) periods.
The locution 其他 (Mandarin: qí tā; Cantonese: 'kei ta') is the equivalent of undsoweiter, enzovoorts, i taka natatŭk, etcetera, et autres, and so forth.
It is not quite as useful in Chinese as in the European languages.
[In Mandarin: 我 (wǒ)、我們 (wǒ men)；你 (nǐ)、你們 (nǐ men)；他 (tā)、他們 (tā men)；她們 (tā men)、牠們 (tā men)、它們 (tā men)；祂們 (tā men)。
In Cantonese: 我 ('ngoh')、我哋 ('ngoh tei')；你 ('nei')、你哋 ('nei tei')；佢 ('keui')、佢哋 ('keui tei')；姖哋 ('keui tei')、渠哋 ('keui tei')。]
Note: Both Cantonese and Mandarin will understand the character 妳 as being singular second person feminine, but speakers may wonder at the usefulness of such a coinage.
劉半農之創新。
LUI BAN-NONG ZHI CHUANG XIN.
[Liu Ban-nong's innovation.]
In the period after the 1911 revolution, during the New Culture Movement (新文化運動), numerous scholars educated in the traditional fashion which emphasized classical forms of literature and traditional learning, began experimenting with new writing styles, composing their essays, plays, and poetry in the common language. This was considered both modern, and more popularly approachable. Colloquial speech had not resembled the ancient model for several centuries if not millennia at that time, and developing a corpus of literature that expressed ideas in ways that the common man could grasp was considered an important step towards pulling China out of the depths to which it had sunk during the age of Western Imperialism. The difficulty of acquiring literacy in the classical language was, it was felt, a handicap that could only stunt mass development.
The irony of their approach was of course that they themselves were products of that same classical educational norm, and frequently framed their thoughts in a style that their literati ancestors would have well understood, whereas the speech of daily society had till then seldom ever been transcribed.
Many of them realized this, and sought ways to write what had theretofore not been written, and strove to create a common written language.
New characters had to be invented, new words coined.
Written Chinese has always been fairly flexible. As I showed above, in the construction of characters, parts can be combined to create new graphemes, using a signific element and a phonetic element. And though one may think of Chinese as monosyllabic, in actual practise the vocabulary mainly consists of bi-syllabic constructs. It is that second facet which permits new words to enter the language, either by complete phonetic borrowing, such as is common in Cantonese-speaking areas, or combining two or more single-syllable words to express a new datum, such as Mandarin-speakers have done.
Poetry, which had long been constrained by specific forms, also headed into the bright new world. One of the more important writers of the late teens and early twenties of the last century was 劉半農 (Liu Ban-nong, aka 劉復 Liu Fu, pen-name of 劉壽彰 Liu Shou-Zhang), a native of central China who contributed to the literary periodical 新青年 (Xīn Qīng Nián, La Jeunesse, New Youth; founded in Shanghai by 陳獨秀 Chen Duxia in 1915, published in Peking from 1920 to 1926 ).
In 1920, Liu wrote a poem entitled 教我如何不想她 (jiāo wǒ rú hé bù xiǎng tā: "tell me how to not remember her"), which is the first time that the character 'her' showed up in print. He is credited as the inventor, though he may have found it when researching 宋元以來俗字譜 (Sòng Yuán yǐ-lái sú-zì pǔ: "Sung Yuan after vernacular chart", the vernacular characters used since the Song and Yuan dynasties).
It is a rather beautiful poem, which absolutely requires the feminine third person singular for it's impact.
教我如何不想她
天上飄著些微雲
地上吹著些微風
啊...
微風吹動了我的頭髮
教我如何不想她
月光戀愛著海洋
海洋戀愛著月光
啊...
這般蜜也似的銀夜
教我如何不想她
水面落花慢慢流
水底魚兒慢慢游
啊...
燕子你說些什麼話
教我如何不想她
枯樹在冷風裡搖
野火在暮色中燒
啊...
西天還有些兒殘霞
教我如何不想她
Up in the sky faint clouds float,
There is a slight breeze along the ground,
Ah...
That breeze ruffling my hair,
Tells me how to forget her.
The moonlight is passionately in love with the ocean,
The ocean yearns for the moonlight,
Ah ...
This sweet and silvery night,
Tells me how to forget her.
Petals float upon the face of the water,
Underneath, fish lazily drift along,
Ah ...
Oh swallow, what do you say,
Tell me how to forget her.
Barren trees shaking in the cold winds,
And wildfires burning in the darkest nights,
Ah ...
Crimson clouds in the western sky,
Tell me how to forget her.
You will note a subtle change from factual statement ending the first two verses (something 'tells me how to forget her') to an entreaty, almost pleading - oh please tell me how to forget her. The entire poem in effect states that no matter what he has experienced since, he cannot forget her, that memory is always alive.
In another sense, the verses say that it would be unreasonable to even ask him to forget her; everything reminds him of that other person.
It is immaterial who he remembers, it is the fact of remembering that stars in this poem. And, crucially, she would be even more anonymous without this pronomial distinction.
That said, here's miss 韋秀嫻 (Wéi Xiù-xián) singing it from the other side of the linguistic mechitza:
韋秀嫻 ~ 〈教我如何不想他〉
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMD5Jw4CkbM.]
In this rendition, the third person is not ' her' (她) but very specifically 'him' (他). The sense is still very much the same, and the audience will automatically think of the correct pronoun.
Lovely, eh? Truly a voice like molten sugar. Who could possibly forget that?
Set to music with a melody by fellow linguistics scholar 趙元任 (Zhào Yuánrèn, Tianjin 1892 – Cambridge MA 1982), this was one of the all-time hits during the twenties and thirties in China, and is still very well known among aficionados of modern Chinese music.
==========================================================================
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,...
