She said that the pipe looked cool, she really liked the image. She was with a young man -- a gentleman at least several months if not a few years younger than myself, that is -- and two other ladies, and all of us had stopped to admire the view from that particular vantage point. The piers spread out below, Alcatraz in the distance, and far beyond that the vast savage hinterlands of the other side of the bay, where the wild tribes of suburbanites and trailerparkers live, committing their cannibal acts and voting tea-party. Or going to church.
It is refreshing when a young lady nowadays thinks that pipesmoking is 'cool'. When I first picked up the habit, at fourteen years of age, that was something that I also thought. But at that time it was a rather private 'cool'. It wasn't the primary consideratum behind the new-found habit. But I did know that cigarette smoking verged on sleazy and depraved, cigars just weren't my ticket, and chewing tobacco of any kind was incredibly nasty.
Pipe-smoking was a thoughtful thing to do.
And that is what it has turned out to be.
Pipe-smokers are conditioned to remain calm, and maintain the pipe at an even burn, never letting it overheat. Cruising altitude, so to speak. Ideally from first match till tapping out the ash should be a steady and smooth ride, culminating in the realization that that was a damned fine smoke. Very satisfying.
If all goes well, something worthwhile ill have been accomplished while engaged in the process. A work of literature will have been consumed, all the tolerances on an isometric drawing will have been inked in cleanly and accurately, or a piece of equipment lovingly restored. Algebra homework will have been done.
The pipe-smoker remains even-tempered throughout; one does not want the burn-rate to spike, the load in the bowl to turn sour, or the pipe to go out.
Practical jokers may set off fire-crackers right behind the person with a pipe, but it cannot startle him. There's a proper burn-rate.
At all times, calmness and proper burn-rate.
When I crashed my car years ago, I clambered from the wreckage with my briar still clenched between my teeth, and the bowl still evenly lit.
It had reached the proper burn-rate, and was at perfect cruise.
A cigarette smoker would have fouled himself instead.
So yeah, yes, pipe-smoking IS cool. And I am extremely glad that you think so. People who feel that pipe-smoking is cool are truly very nice people indeed, and always seem way more intelligent than the common herd. Their company is welcome and refreshing, their eyes are brighter, and their coats much shinier than the drab little wretches that skulk away scowling unhappily and scrunching up their faces.
I was on my front steps a few days ago enjoying a bowlful of Virginia flake, when two dessicated stick-insects of the middle-aged single-woman persuasion came down the street. Once they saw me and my pipe, they veered off to the edge of the sidewalk, and as they scurried past me even went out into the street to avoid coming anywhere near the fumes. Their expressions, behind the hands holding their noses, betrayed pain, outrage, despair, nausea, rodent-like emotions, and venomous hatred of men enjoying a bit of fine tobacco.
At the point when they were nearest, I drawled "ooh, poor babies, nosey-wosey all hurt-hurt?"
It's a very wide sidewalk, and there was a breeze. They could not possibly have even smelled the smoke from their distance. But the sight of a pipe aroused a well-trained disapproving repulsion.
People like that should choke on their wheatgerm.
Get a lump of tofu stuck in their throat.
Pipe-smoking is cool, bitches.
G'wan, suck it up.
"Ooh, poor babies, nosey-wosey all hurt-hurt?"
I'm convinced that most of the folks who evince dislike of smoking in general and pipe-smoking in particular have unresolved father issues. The man may have been a perfectly decent bloke, either a Harvard professor or a simple hod-carrier from Poughkeepsie, but he was somewhat oblivious to their desperate sensitivity, poetic natures, and sheer down-right specialness. Throughout their lives, he treated them as normal children developing into normal adults, never once veering into wide-eyed wonder at the sheer treasures of keenly-honed artistic insight and meaningfulness that were thriving in his own home.
Oh the sadness, oh the tragedy!
The bastard!
Either that or they're scared of their therapist. The man probably took his pipe out of his mouth at some point, and remarked "oh grow up, you sodding little pussy".
It was a well-reasoned word of advice.
Thoughtfully delivered.
My sympathies lie with the therapists; they have to deal with a lot of self-absorbed freaks.
On the other hand, people who like pipe-smoking are more than likely to have had normal relationships with their parents. Yes, they saw the flaws, but they also realized that the adults in their lives were, on the whole, pretty good people, whose insights and attention eventually made them the fine young adults they are today. Their mother and father did their best to provide them with a safe and comfortable place and time, so that they could develop into mature adults themselves.
They are grateful for the years of happiness and support.
Maybe they still don't know what they will do the rest of their lives, but they feel confident that they'll manage to find interesting and worthwhile things along the way.
Without recourse to pot, spirituality, and puritanism.
Avoiding wheatgerm, tofu, and spirulina.
Dating a pipe-smoking man.
Or woman.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
FEVERISHLY UNCLEAN MATERNAL RELATIVE
There are times when one wonders about the modern generation. 'Where is their head at?', one will wonder, 'heavens, where is their head at?'
It's a valid question. Perhaps they have no heads.
I was passing a rakish-looking young fellow the other day, who proved utterly enchanted by someone very near him. As what came out of his mouth made clear.
I think.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
And at that moment I realized that I was old. Older. Well, a little bit more mature, perhaps. In any case, an adult. You see, I have never said "hey there, hot filthy mama" to anyone. It is a sentence that has never even crossed my mind. My generation does not combine "hot" and "filthy" in the same phrase unless we're speaking of sewers.
We almost never speak of sewers.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
There's a note of insane optimism in that phrase. Plus the knowledge that the "attractive" young lady to whom it was addressed might take pride in certain actions and behaviours which are best not described. Even if, perfectly innocently, she's a municipal sanitation engineer.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
I hope she's a municipal sanitation engineer. But it seems a bit far-fetched. She didn't, at a passing glance, appear to have quite the intelligence or intellectual rigour that the job requires. And her state of dress and personal cleanliness at the time suggested strongly that municipal sanitation might not be at the forefront of her mind.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
It's sad when young people don't develop the skill-sets that would stand them in good stead in the modern world, and which would ensure employment and a decent future.
Success requires resolve, hard work, and dedication.
As municipal sanitation engineers know.
Not just efforts to look good.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
I rather wish I had said that.
It sounds adventurous.
And so depraved.
Delicious.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's a valid question. Perhaps they have no heads.
I was passing a rakish-looking young fellow the other day, who proved utterly enchanted by someone very near him. As what came out of his mouth made clear.
I think.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
And at that moment I realized that I was old. Older. Well, a little bit more mature, perhaps. In any case, an adult. You see, I have never said "hey there, hot filthy mama" to anyone. It is a sentence that has never even crossed my mind. My generation does not combine "hot" and "filthy" in the same phrase unless we're speaking of sewers.
We almost never speak of sewers.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
There's a note of insane optimism in that phrase. Plus the knowledge that the "attractive" young lady to whom it was addressed might take pride in certain actions and behaviours which are best not described. Even if, perfectly innocently, she's a municipal sanitation engineer.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
I hope she's a municipal sanitation engineer. But it seems a bit far-fetched. She didn't, at a passing glance, appear to have quite the intelligence or intellectual rigour that the job requires. And her state of dress and personal cleanliness at the time suggested strongly that municipal sanitation might not be at the forefront of her mind.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
It's sad when young people don't develop the skill-sets that would stand them in good stead in the modern world, and which would ensure employment and a decent future.
Success requires resolve, hard work, and dedication.
As municipal sanitation engineers know.
Not just efforts to look good.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
I rather wish I had said that.
It sounds adventurous.
And so depraved.
Delicious.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE BEST INFLUENCES
My mother passed away in 1977 when we were still in Valkenswaard, my father died in 1990 in Eindhoven, my older brother followed in 1993 in Utrecht. It's been so long.
I still miss them.
Dammit, folks, you were the best and brightest family a young man could have. Your intelligence and remarkable insights are still strong, and I really wish I could have dinner with you again, all of us around the table in the sera, in summer, with the doors to the courtyard open, and the cats wandering in and out.
Later in the evening, after William and Winona have gone upstairs, Tobias will be at the table poring over books about chess, replaying the great games. I will go out on the terrace with my book, and read several chapters while smoking my pipe. The smell of Balkan-style tobacco, the fragrance of jasmine tea.
The click, flick, and shuffle of pieces from the room behind me.
Summer evenings, when everything was still young.
Cats. Fleeting rain. Warm lights.
A sense of peace.
You know, folks, I've been wondering what you would think about the Bay Area now. It's been so long since you left.
The place has changed a bit.
Tobias, you probably don't remember it much -- you were still a child when we moved overseas -- but you would probably like living here.
Brother, I really miss you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I still miss them.
Dammit, folks, you were the best and brightest family a young man could have. Your intelligence and remarkable insights are still strong, and I really wish I could have dinner with you again, all of us around the table in the sera, in summer, with the doors to the courtyard open, and the cats wandering in and out.
Later in the evening, after William and Winona have gone upstairs, Tobias will be at the table poring over books about chess, replaying the great games. I will go out on the terrace with my book, and read several chapters while smoking my pipe. The smell of Balkan-style tobacco, the fragrance of jasmine tea.
The click, flick, and shuffle of pieces from the room behind me.
Summer evenings, when everything was still young.
Cats. Fleeting rain. Warm lights.
A sense of peace.
You know, folks, I've been wondering what you would think about the Bay Area now. It's been so long since you left.
The place has changed a bit.
Tobias, you probably don't remember it much -- you were still a child when we moved overseas -- but you would probably like living here.
Brother, I really miss you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 09, 2013
KILLING PUPPIES FOR CHRIST
As some of my friends know I spend Sunday and Monday in Marin County, baby-sitting people who are too old for a bottle, and too young for a luxury retirement village. Most of them smoke cigars.
And when I say "smoke cigars", that does not mean that they are in any fashion mature adults. You know that most cigar smokers are not really grown-up. They live in a never-never land where the sun is always shining, and the grass is ever green.
At times it's like being at a summer picnic in a lovely frock.
Other times, more a re-enactment of Lord of the Flies.
Multiple 'F' bombs, and vile temper tantrums.
I swear they want to bite each other.
Growling, snapping, snarling.
All teeth & claws.
Oh the humanity!
Cigar smokers.
It's because there is no decent food in Marin County that they must act so. They lack for protein. As will without a doubt fail to surprise you, the natural diet of cigar smokers consists of puppies.
Fluffy lovable puppies.
Marin County is where Veganism started, and still thrives.
Consequently, Safeway there sells no puppies.
Nothing but tofu and wheatgerm.
People are starving.
Marin County, like much of Northern California, is so uber-sensitive and green-minded, downright soft on nature, social-consciousness, and sustaining Gaia, that high school kids there no longer dissect frogs or pig-foetuses. They dissect tofu.
It's a miracle of epic proportion that there are cigar smokers there.
But consequently, there are no puppies.
Somebody ate them all.
This blogger, being NOT a cigar smoker, and only a visitor there besides, does not feel their loss and their pain. I do not thrive on puppies -- unclean and gamey meat, dammit -- but feed instead on well-seasoned curries, fresh green chilies, and other ingredients in judicious combination.
Such as I did mere moments ago.
It was an early lunch.
Normally I get up between six and seven, forsake breakfast for coffee, followed by tea, and a few nice healthy bowls of tobacco, smoked in one of several pipes which radiate good taste, gravitas, and an overwhelming love of puppies.
Lunch -- the first meal of the day -- is usually right around tea-time. That being four o'clock in the afternoon. Which is when I regretfully deplete the food-supply, thus taking away protein that could have sustained an adorable little puppy.
Who probably goes to bed weeping, because he is so hungry.
I profoundly feel for the furball, not being a cigar smoker.
Lunch was delayed as long as humanly possible.
I tried, little fellow, I tried.
Lunch today was a plate of bami goreng. That being more or less Dutch soul-food. It was meaningful as well as nutritious, Marin County and the cigar smokers would surely have approved. Fried rice-stick noodles, chicken, chilies, ginger, fish-paste, hot sauce, and egg.
With a bit of cilantro, and a squeeze of lime juice.
No puppy meat; the cigar smokers, you know.
I now feel an urge to smoke a pipe.
It is time to head over the hill for a cup of milk-tea.
Which they don't have in Marin County either.
I blame the Vegans and cigar smokers.
SF is a far better place.
Milk-tea. Rice-stick noodles. And pipe-smokers.
Not a sustainably green Vegan anywhere.
Very few cigar smokers either.
It is wondrous.
IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER
Contrary to what you might presently think, I actually love puppies!
Puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies!
Evenso, if Jayzus came back from the dead and demanded a puppy sacrifice, I'd gladly slaughter a container-load of them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And when I say "smoke cigars", that does not mean that they are in any fashion mature adults. You know that most cigar smokers are not really grown-up. They live in a never-never land where the sun is always shining, and the grass is ever green.
At times it's like being at a summer picnic in a lovely frock.
Other times, more a re-enactment of Lord of the Flies.
Multiple 'F' bombs, and vile temper tantrums.
I swear they want to bite each other.
Growling, snapping, snarling.
All teeth & claws.
Oh the humanity!
Cigar smokers.
It's because there is no decent food in Marin County that they must act so. They lack for protein. As will without a doubt fail to surprise you, the natural diet of cigar smokers consists of puppies.
Fluffy lovable puppies.
Marin County is where Veganism started, and still thrives.
Consequently, Safeway there sells no puppies.
Nothing but tofu and wheatgerm.
People are starving.
Marin County, like much of Northern California, is so uber-sensitive and green-minded, downright soft on nature, social-consciousness, and sustaining Gaia, that high school kids there no longer dissect frogs or pig-foetuses. They dissect tofu.
It's a miracle of epic proportion that there are cigar smokers there.
But consequently, there are no puppies.
Somebody ate them all.
This blogger, being NOT a cigar smoker, and only a visitor there besides, does not feel their loss and their pain. I do not thrive on puppies -- unclean and gamey meat, dammit -- but feed instead on well-seasoned curries, fresh green chilies, and other ingredients in judicious combination.
Such as I did mere moments ago.
It was an early lunch.
Normally I get up between six and seven, forsake breakfast for coffee, followed by tea, and a few nice healthy bowls of tobacco, smoked in one of several pipes which radiate good taste, gravitas, and an overwhelming love of puppies.
Lunch -- the first meal of the day -- is usually right around tea-time. That being four o'clock in the afternoon. Which is when I regretfully deplete the food-supply, thus taking away protein that could have sustained an adorable little puppy.
Who probably goes to bed weeping, because he is so hungry.
I profoundly feel for the furball, not being a cigar smoker.
Lunch was delayed as long as humanly possible.
I tried, little fellow, I tried.
Lunch today was a plate of bami goreng. That being more or less Dutch soul-food. It was meaningful as well as nutritious, Marin County and the cigar smokers would surely have approved. Fried rice-stick noodles, chicken, chilies, ginger, fish-paste, hot sauce, and egg.
With a bit of cilantro, and a squeeze of lime juice.
No puppy meat; the cigar smokers, you know.
I now feel an urge to smoke a pipe.
It is time to head over the hill for a cup of milk-tea.
Which they don't have in Marin County either.
I blame the Vegans and cigar smokers.
SF is a far better place.
Milk-tea. Rice-stick noodles. And pipe-smokers.
Not a sustainably green Vegan anywhere.
Very few cigar smokers either.
It is wondrous.
IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER
Contrary to what you might presently think, I actually love puppies!
Puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies!
Evenso, if Jayzus came back from the dead and demanded a puppy sacrifice, I'd gladly slaughter a container-load of them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TEA! AND COOKIES! AND MORE TEA!
He was big and manly and intelligent and kind. And covered with sharp spikes. She really really liked the big manly intelligent kind qualities, but the spikes were a problem.
They were very sharp.
One cannot hug a hedgehog.
She wanted to touch him, running her fingers through his soft soft belly hair. But she knew that being sexually forward might cause him to instinctively curl up into a ball. Then there were those spikes.
She took another sip of her delicious hot beverage and contemplatively munched her cookie. He always provided such nice cookies! Strange that a hedgehog knew exactly what a squirrel liked. Walnut - almond - chocolate chip. And pecan brickle crunch. Peanut gobblers. Chestnut macaroons. Hazelnut puree rolls. Coconut macadamia dark chocolate.
He always surprised her.
She really wanted to jump his bones and make him squeal. But again, those spikes. It remained a quandary.
Munch. Sip. Munch.
The possibility that she might never rub up against his hot handsome body and squeak in pleasure, till they both fell asleep exhausted after fireworks, depressed and saddened her. What a horrible conception!
Dammit he was hot! There had to be a chance! There just had to!
Meanwhile there was tea, and there were cookies.
If she continued having nothing but tea and cookies, she feared that she would bloat up. Then, when finally something lascivious happened, she'd prick herself on one of his sharp spikes and explode!
She resolved to control herself. Tea and cookies in moderation.
And a careful approach to the naughty business.
Nothing too outrageous.
Yet.
When she moved in with him, they would probably need separate beds. If he tossed and turned in his sleep, or simply rolled over, he would draw blood. How on earth did hedgehogs EVER have sex? It seemed an impossible situation, and she was baffled that they weren't endangered. There had to be a trick to it.
An additional problem with hedgehogs shifting while asleep is that they inevitably they would end up 'hogging' all the covers. She'd seen what happened when little hedgehogs played in the forest. They rolled down the slope gathering leaves, till at last they seemed more vegetable than animal. Their mothers had to spend hours removing the crap.
Very patient women, those female hedgehogs.
As a squirrel, she knew she wasn't supposed to be seeing anything but other squirrels. But her mister hedgehog was such an enchanting personality, and so charmingly hospitable. She just could not resist coming over for tea and cookies. And his company was a joy, he told witty stories, and had experienced so much in his life already. Yes, he was indeed quite a bit older than her - and that also was something that would shock her peers -- but it was first and foremost the miscegenistic aspects that would cause the most negative commentary.
Hedgehogs and squirrels should not date.
But of course they do.
Tea and cookies. Lots of tea and cookies. Sometimes very careful handholding, but almost no other physical contact of any kind.
So, an awful lot of tea and cookies.
It was frustrating, and she always ended up wired to the eyebrows, with her bushy tail completely rigid. She seriously wanted to wrap it around him during hot passionate love-making, but the Velcro-effect of fur versus spikes would be a disaster.
It might even rip out whole handfuls, and leave reddish patches.
Tail-baldness was something all squirrels feared.
And she was especially pleased with hers.
It was fluffy! And so very soft!
Her lovely tail was sexy!
Looking good, girl!
Danged fine.
Perhaps they could spoon. There were no spikes on his front, just that lovely pale stomach fur. Which, she could see, was soft and silky. Spooning could easily lead to much more, and his little sensitive black forepaws could stroke her all over. It would take a bit of co-ordination, as well as pre-planning the time and place. But it could work!
Just fantasizing about it made her blush.
Had he noticed?
The only problem with the relationship, from her point of view, was not what her family would say, nor the disapproving glances of other forest creatures, nor even the possibility of bearing young. She knew they wouldn't have sharp spikes for at least several months after birth. And she'd cross that bridge when she -- when they -- came to it. Heck, if they resembled their father, they would have the cutest little noses, all pointy and whiskered, and his twinkling eyes.
Again, none of these was an issue.
Hedgehogs are extremely attractive to dust-bunnies.
She bitterly resented their attention.
Tea. And another cookie.
More tea.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They were very sharp.
One cannot hug a hedgehog.
She wanted to touch him, running her fingers through his soft soft belly hair. But she knew that being sexually forward might cause him to instinctively curl up into a ball. Then there were those spikes.
She took another sip of her delicious hot beverage and contemplatively munched her cookie. He always provided such nice cookies! Strange that a hedgehog knew exactly what a squirrel liked. Walnut - almond - chocolate chip. And pecan brickle crunch. Peanut gobblers. Chestnut macaroons. Hazelnut puree rolls. Coconut macadamia dark chocolate.
He always surprised her.
She really wanted to jump his bones and make him squeal. But again, those spikes. It remained a quandary.
Munch. Sip. Munch.
The possibility that she might never rub up against his hot handsome body and squeak in pleasure, till they both fell asleep exhausted after fireworks, depressed and saddened her. What a horrible conception!
Dammit he was hot! There had to be a chance! There just had to!
Meanwhile there was tea, and there were cookies.
If she continued having nothing but tea and cookies, she feared that she would bloat up. Then, when finally something lascivious happened, she'd prick herself on one of his sharp spikes and explode!
She resolved to control herself. Tea and cookies in moderation.
And a careful approach to the naughty business.
Nothing too outrageous.
Yet.
When she moved in with him, they would probably need separate beds. If he tossed and turned in his sleep, or simply rolled over, he would draw blood. How on earth did hedgehogs EVER have sex? It seemed an impossible situation, and she was baffled that they weren't endangered. There had to be a trick to it.
An additional problem with hedgehogs shifting while asleep is that they inevitably they would end up 'hogging' all the covers. She'd seen what happened when little hedgehogs played in the forest. They rolled down the slope gathering leaves, till at last they seemed more vegetable than animal. Their mothers had to spend hours removing the crap.
Very patient women, those female hedgehogs.
As a squirrel, she knew she wasn't supposed to be seeing anything but other squirrels. But her mister hedgehog was such an enchanting personality, and so charmingly hospitable. She just could not resist coming over for tea and cookies. And his company was a joy, he told witty stories, and had experienced so much in his life already. Yes, he was indeed quite a bit older than her - and that also was something that would shock her peers -- but it was first and foremost the miscegenistic aspects that would cause the most negative commentary.
Hedgehogs and squirrels should not date.
But of course they do.
Tea and cookies. Lots of tea and cookies. Sometimes very careful handholding, but almost no other physical contact of any kind.
So, an awful lot of tea and cookies.
It was frustrating, and she always ended up wired to the eyebrows, with her bushy tail completely rigid. She seriously wanted to wrap it around him during hot passionate love-making, but the Velcro-effect of fur versus spikes would be a disaster.
It might even rip out whole handfuls, and leave reddish patches.
Tail-baldness was something all squirrels feared.
And she was especially pleased with hers.
It was fluffy! And so very soft!
Her lovely tail was sexy!
Looking good, girl!
Danged fine.
Perhaps they could spoon. There were no spikes on his front, just that lovely pale stomach fur. Which, she could see, was soft and silky. Spooning could easily lead to much more, and his little sensitive black forepaws could stroke her all over. It would take a bit of co-ordination, as well as pre-planning the time and place. But it could work!
Just fantasizing about it made her blush.
Had he noticed?
The only problem with the relationship, from her point of view, was not what her family would say, nor the disapproving glances of other forest creatures, nor even the possibility of bearing young. She knew they wouldn't have sharp spikes for at least several months after birth. And she'd cross that bridge when she -- when they -- came to it. Heck, if they resembled their father, they would have the cutest little noses, all pointy and whiskered, and his twinkling eyes.
Again, none of these was an issue.
Hedgehogs are extremely attractive to dust-bunnies.
She bitterly resented their attention.
Tea. And another cookie.
More tea.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 08, 2013
THE PROSPECT OF A HOT BEVERAGE ELSEWHERE
There's a man who works at a food & beverage place which I frequent who, if he were a woman, would be adorable and enchanting. Both his intelligence and temperament suggest that from my nefarious point of view it is a great pity indeed that he was born a male, and that both of us are heterosexual. If things were otherwise, this blogger would hang around his work environment positively drooling.
Chalk it off to the many lost opportunities that never were.
He's got a sense of humour and a warm personality.
An expressive face with twinkling eyes.
If he was a woman, I would likely make a fool of myself. Especially considering that there would certainly already be someone else in the picture. People who are that nice usually get snapped up pretty darn quick, and I'm not the only shark in this particular swimming pool.
Women like that make it much harder to act like a gentleman, while nevertheless forcing one to at all times maintain proper conduct.
COOKIES? BUTTERED TOAST?
"Miss, what are you doing the rest of the day? Wanna go have milk-tea or yat pui yin-yeung somewhere? I know the NICEST place! It's got an old-timey atmosphere, and all the usual pastries. No one will bother us there.
Or maybe go over to my house? See if I have any books that you would like? I can offer you a nice quiet place to browse for hours. I'll make you something warm to drink, then leave you alone to read. Would you like some cookies or hot buttered toast? If you want to talk, I'll be in the other room with my own volume and a pipe. Just make a noise if you need anything.
Feel free to kick off your shoes."
"Tell me when you need to get back. I'll make sure you get home safely, and if you want we can stop and have a bite to eat on the way. Just leave a marker in the book, and it will be ready for you next time."
"Never mind the stuffed animals; they don't bite."
"The monkey is rude but harmless."
Honestly, I've never been particularly good at approaching the other gender. They always seem so different from the people I know.
It's like most of them don't get the same jokes, can't appreciate the same narratives, or even eat the same foods.
Frequently they don't really mellow-out until they're older, by which time, alas, they're preoccupied with a pizza-snarfing dude who crept into their life when no one was looking.
But someone nice, who liked reading and dozing, and perhaps snacking a bit with a warm beverage......
A person who was capable of passing the time by herself.
But would love good company while doing so.
And the occasional bit of humour.
Plus buttered toast.
So far, it remains a charming concept.
I wouldn't be surprised if 'food and beverage man' ends up finding a person precisely like that. He's got the intelligence and temperament that deserve good things happening.
His only flaw is that he's a non-smoker.
All men should have one bad habit.
So that it can be overlooked.
NOTE: cookies and buttered toast are not metaphors, but paradigms. Although they could be metaphors. It depends entirely on what the other person wishes to read into them. I will continue to insist that they are hospitably paradigmatic until such time as it becomes evident that perhaps they are not. Cookies and toast may precede or follow the opening or closing of books.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Chalk it off to the many lost opportunities that never were.
He's got a sense of humour and a warm personality.
An expressive face with twinkling eyes.
If he was a woman, I would likely make a fool of myself. Especially considering that there would certainly already be someone else in the picture. People who are that nice usually get snapped up pretty darn quick, and I'm not the only shark in this particular swimming pool.
Women like that make it much harder to act like a gentleman, while nevertheless forcing one to at all times maintain proper conduct.
COOKIES? BUTTERED TOAST?
"Miss, what are you doing the rest of the day? Wanna go have milk-tea or yat pui yin-yeung somewhere? I know the NICEST place! It's got an old-timey atmosphere, and all the usual pastries. No one will bother us there.
Or maybe go over to my house? See if I have any books that you would like? I can offer you a nice quiet place to browse for hours. I'll make you something warm to drink, then leave you alone to read. Would you like some cookies or hot buttered toast? If you want to talk, I'll be in the other room with my own volume and a pipe. Just make a noise if you need anything.
Feel free to kick off your shoes."
"Tell me when you need to get back. I'll make sure you get home safely, and if you want we can stop and have a bite to eat on the way. Just leave a marker in the book, and it will be ready for you next time."
"Never mind the stuffed animals; they don't bite."
"The monkey is rude but harmless."
Honestly, I've never been particularly good at approaching the other gender. They always seem so different from the people I know.
It's like most of them don't get the same jokes, can't appreciate the same narratives, or even eat the same foods.
Frequently they don't really mellow-out until they're older, by which time, alas, they're preoccupied with a pizza-snarfing dude who crept into their life when no one was looking.
But someone nice, who liked reading and dozing, and perhaps snacking a bit with a warm beverage......
A person who was capable of passing the time by herself.
But would love good company while doing so.
And the occasional bit of humour.
Plus buttered toast.
So far, it remains a charming concept.
I wouldn't be surprised if 'food and beverage man' ends up finding a person precisely like that. He's got the intelligence and temperament that deserve good things happening.
His only flaw is that he's a non-smoker.
All men should have one bad habit.
So that it can be overlooked.
NOTE: cookies and buttered toast are not metaphors, but paradigms. Although they could be metaphors. It depends entirely on what the other person wishes to read into them. I will continue to insist that they are hospitably paradigmatic until such time as it becomes evident that perhaps they are not. Cookies and toast may precede or follow the opening or closing of books.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 07, 2013
RELATIONSHIP ADVICE: THE DATE
Recently another person asked me for advice on dating. Seeing as by his shallow and barely post-teenage standards I am impossibly ancient and therefore must have a wealth of experience and folklore stored up, he felt that perhaps he could benefit from shaking my tree.
Let's see if any over-ripe fruit falls.
The old fart may know something.
He was somewhat squiffy at the time -- which explains his freedom in broaching the subject -- and I was cold sober, as I often am. I should also clarify that a twenty-two year old is not nearly mature enough to deal with the feminine sex in any way at all, and that a fifty-three year old man is not impossibly ancient. Not even close.
THE FRUIT OF KNOWLEDGE
I went out on my first date when I was in college. We smooched and drank beer after a meeting of the student council. That was it.
A perky red-head thanked me ever so prettily for lunch, and went home to Boston the next day. I have no idea what happened to her.
She was very engaging. I wish she had written back.
We shall not speak of the gun-nut in Berkeley. She was a fine woman, liked the occasional cigar, and drank Old Grand-Dad.
She later married a lawyer.
A few years after that a cheeky blonde insisted that we go eat at a vegetarian restaurant. I do not remember her name at all, but I have never forgotten how ghastly the food was. In the same year I took a Philippina to a screening of Bananas by Woody Allen. That was a mistake. Philippinas have no sense of humour.
Both women were fascinating on the surface, but dull deep down. Had they been interesting all the way to the bone, I would have desperately wanted to be around them despite the odd flaw.
After I had moved to San Francisco, I dated a lovely blonde from Marin County. She informed a coworker that I was "weird", and nothing came of it.
There was an insane person who stalked me for a few weeks.
But that doesn't count.
A very sweet waitress proved so mentally unbalanced that I have not been to the restaurant where she worked since. The food was very good, and I miss it intensely. But her moody deep-seated bat-shit craziness made associating with her, for the mere three dates our relationship lasted, tortuous, painful, and seemingly everlasting.
A very nice nurse went out for hot chocolate with me a couple of times. I'm not a doctor, which proved a stumbling block.
Savage Kitten and I often ended up at a coffee shop on Geary Street sharing pie and hot beverages. We saw movies, visited museums, and regularly went to see the reptiles and amphibians at the California Academy of Sciences. For the two decades that we were together we also ate out frequently. I suppose you could call those dates. Couples should above all feel good enough about each other that they dare to be ravenous together.
But that was then.
Since becoming single again three years ago, there have not been any dates.
"What do you want to do?"
So I really can't help you, kid. I don't know what people do on dates any more. I believe that they take designer drugs and have clumsy physical congress in the bathrooms of clubs south of Market Street.
Or go to fashionable restaurants where she can show off her handbag and boob job, and he can flirt with the busboys. Heck, for all I know they spend hours and hours yacking at each other about their work and how their parents traumatized them as children.
Imported beers and flavoured vodkas are essential to the process.
So are business cards, spirituality, and tofu.
As well as extremely loud music.
THE FIRST DATE
Judging by the experts on the internet, volunteering in a soup kitchen, hiking in the Himalayas, and sky-diving are quite perfect things to do, as are rafting down the Amazon, setting up a neighborhood recycling centre in a poor community, shooting the rapids on the wildest river in America, and going to a tattoo parlour for matching tats.
Tea and cookies just don't cut it anymore.
Seriously, kid, go bother someone else.
I haven't a clue.
Have you considered reading a book?
Perhaps "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Sex", or "The Other Gender for Dummies"?
Instead of getting drunk over cigars and expensive single malt, and bothering an avuncular stranger who is old enough to be terminally unenlightened, maybe you should simply ask the young lady herself what she would like to do.
A very good start would be the following phrase:
"What do you want to do?"
It might work.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Let's see if any over-ripe fruit falls.
The old fart may know something.
He was somewhat squiffy at the time -- which explains his freedom in broaching the subject -- and I was cold sober, as I often am. I should also clarify that a twenty-two year old is not nearly mature enough to deal with the feminine sex in any way at all, and that a fifty-three year old man is not impossibly ancient. Not even close.
THE FRUIT OF KNOWLEDGE
I went out on my first date when I was in college. We smooched and drank beer after a meeting of the student council. That was it.
A perky red-head thanked me ever so prettily for lunch, and went home to Boston the next day. I have no idea what happened to her.
She was very engaging. I wish she had written back.
We shall not speak of the gun-nut in Berkeley. She was a fine woman, liked the occasional cigar, and drank Old Grand-Dad.
She later married a lawyer.
A few years after that a cheeky blonde insisted that we go eat at a vegetarian restaurant. I do not remember her name at all, but I have never forgotten how ghastly the food was. In the same year I took a Philippina to a screening of Bananas by Woody Allen. That was a mistake. Philippinas have no sense of humour.
Both women were fascinating on the surface, but dull deep down. Had they been interesting all the way to the bone, I would have desperately wanted to be around them despite the odd flaw.
After I had moved to San Francisco, I dated a lovely blonde from Marin County. She informed a coworker that I was "weird", and nothing came of it.
There was an insane person who stalked me for a few weeks.
But that doesn't count.
A very sweet waitress proved so mentally unbalanced that I have not been to the restaurant where she worked since. The food was very good, and I miss it intensely. But her moody deep-seated bat-shit craziness made associating with her, for the mere three dates our relationship lasted, tortuous, painful, and seemingly everlasting.
A very nice nurse went out for hot chocolate with me a couple of times. I'm not a doctor, which proved a stumbling block.
Savage Kitten and I often ended up at a coffee shop on Geary Street sharing pie and hot beverages. We saw movies, visited museums, and regularly went to see the reptiles and amphibians at the California Academy of Sciences. For the two decades that we were together we also ate out frequently. I suppose you could call those dates. Couples should above all feel good enough about each other that they dare to be ravenous together.
But that was then.
Since becoming single again three years ago, there have not been any dates.
"What do you want to do?"
So I really can't help you, kid. I don't know what people do on dates any more. I believe that they take designer drugs and have clumsy physical congress in the bathrooms of clubs south of Market Street.
Or go to fashionable restaurants where she can show off her handbag and boob job, and he can flirt with the busboys. Heck, for all I know they spend hours and hours yacking at each other about their work and how their parents traumatized them as children.
Imported beers and flavoured vodkas are essential to the process.
So are business cards, spirituality, and tofu.
As well as extremely loud music.
THE FIRST DATE
Judging by the experts on the internet, volunteering in a soup kitchen, hiking in the Himalayas, and sky-diving are quite perfect things to do, as are rafting down the Amazon, setting up a neighborhood recycling centre in a poor community, shooting the rapids on the wildest river in America, and going to a tattoo parlour for matching tats.
Tea and cookies just don't cut it anymore.
Seriously, kid, go bother someone else.
I haven't a clue.
Have you considered reading a book?
Perhaps "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Sex", or "The Other Gender for Dummies"?
Instead of getting drunk over cigars and expensive single malt, and bothering an avuncular stranger who is old enough to be terminally unenlightened, maybe you should simply ask the young lady herself what she would like to do.
A very good start would be the following phrase:
"What do you want to do?"
It might work.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FIREWORKS
He seemed genuinely upset at the concept. "I can't do that, it means I might touch her..... you knows". Well, son, that's just the risk you'll have to take. Unless you want me to do it.
I made the offer in all sincerity.
No selfish reasons.
Courageously, he bit the bullet.
HEIMLICH MANOEUVRE
Many of my readers are probably familiar with Chinese Bubble Tea. Which is usually a sweet chilled beverage, which may or may not contain appreciable amounts of caffeine, to which disgusting rather large tapioca balls ("pearls") are added. The balls are dark-brown, gummy, and well-nigh indigestible.
Young Chinese American women, who have the digestive fortitude of goats or mules, are addicted to these drinks. They love sucking up the balls through the extra wide straws, feeling the pop as the nasty thing ricochets off the back of the mouth, and relishing the plop as it falls into the acid bath of the stomach, where it will take up abdominal space for several days as the digestive oozes wage a futile war to render it peptically primordial.
I suspect the fact that naught else can occupy that area for many hours, in consequence of which they feel no hunger at all, and can anorexify themselves up the wazzoo, is the primary pleasure.
It's rather like the effect of Golden Arches Cuisine.
Last time I ate at Mickey-D's, it was still with me the next morning, and the evening that followed. Despite the years that have passed I keenly remember it. A yummy MacGutbomb in a bun.
Life is all about educational experiences.
On Thursday evening I wandered over to a high point on Telegraph Hill to watch the fireworks. Standing near me, behind all the large glandular freaks blocking the view, were a young Chinese couple who also couldn't see a darn thing. Because of all the large glandular freaks.
Apparently there are no fireworks in Heffalumpistan.
Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, Minnesota.
Iowa, Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska.
Wisconsin and the Dakotas.
And all the south.
Etcetera.
She was enjoying a bubble milk tea.
A tapioca globule got stuck.
In her esophagaggy.
As she bent over making the most amazing sounds, I rapidly explained the Heimlich Manoeuvre to her swain. That was when he realized that succouring her might mean contact between his hands or arms and her maidenly swellings on the chest, around the middle of the rib cage.
He blanched. Then blushed. The streetlight showed this.
Meanwhile she hacked, and turned colours.
I offered to cut the Gordian knot.
I'm rather glad he manned up and did it for me. I got to see something both spectacular and touching, he got to accidentally feel parts of her with no ulterior motive and for all for the best of reasons, she got to breathe again, in the arms of her young man, and a complete stranger now has an ugly sticky tapioca booger on the drivers' side window of his or her Mazda.
It's a bonding experience, for everyone involved.
Fireworks, dude, fireworks.
Now that that barrier has been breached, I sincerely hope they become much better acquainted with each other. Judging by what I saw silhouetted in the light, there is plenty of willowy charm there.
She looked sweet, even when red-faced and panicky.
And he was totally desperate on her behalf.
Her knight in shining armour.
Happy 4th. of July.
Belatedly.
Final note: avoid those big tapioca balls, they're evil.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I made the offer in all sincerity.
No selfish reasons.
Courageously, he bit the bullet.
HEIMLICH MANOEUVRE
Many of my readers are probably familiar with Chinese Bubble Tea. Which is usually a sweet chilled beverage, which may or may not contain appreciable amounts of caffeine, to which disgusting rather large tapioca balls ("pearls") are added. The balls are dark-brown, gummy, and well-nigh indigestible.
Young Chinese American women, who have the digestive fortitude of goats or mules, are addicted to these drinks. They love sucking up the balls through the extra wide straws, feeling the pop as the nasty thing ricochets off the back of the mouth, and relishing the plop as it falls into the acid bath of the stomach, where it will take up abdominal space for several days as the digestive oozes wage a futile war to render it peptically primordial.
I suspect the fact that naught else can occupy that area for many hours, in consequence of which they feel no hunger at all, and can anorexify themselves up the wazzoo, is the primary pleasure.
It's rather like the effect of Golden Arches Cuisine.
Last time I ate at Mickey-D's, it was still with me the next morning, and the evening that followed. Despite the years that have passed I keenly remember it. A yummy MacGutbomb in a bun.
Life is all about educational experiences.
On Thursday evening I wandered over to a high point on Telegraph Hill to watch the fireworks. Standing near me, behind all the large glandular freaks blocking the view, were a young Chinese couple who also couldn't see a darn thing. Because of all the large glandular freaks.
Apparently there are no fireworks in Heffalumpistan.
Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, Minnesota.
Iowa, Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska.
Wisconsin and the Dakotas.
And all the south.
Etcetera.
She was enjoying a bubble milk tea.
A tapioca globule got stuck.
In her esophagaggy.
As she bent over making the most amazing sounds, I rapidly explained the Heimlich Manoeuvre to her swain. That was when he realized that succouring her might mean contact between his hands or arms and her maidenly swellings on the chest, around the middle of the rib cage.
He blanched. Then blushed. The streetlight showed this.
Meanwhile she hacked, and turned colours.
I offered to cut the Gordian knot.
I'm rather glad he manned up and did it for me. I got to see something both spectacular and touching, he got to accidentally feel parts of her with no ulterior motive and for all for the best of reasons, she got to breathe again, in the arms of her young man, and a complete stranger now has an ugly sticky tapioca booger on the drivers' side window of his or her Mazda.
It's a bonding experience, for everyone involved.
Fireworks, dude, fireworks.
Now that that barrier has been breached, I sincerely hope they become much better acquainted with each other. Judging by what I saw silhouetted in the light, there is plenty of willowy charm there.
She looked sweet, even when red-faced and panicky.
And he was totally desperate on her behalf.
Her knight in shining armour.
Happy 4th. of July.
Belatedly.
Final note: avoid those big tapioca balls, they're evil.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, July 06, 2013
WHAT THE WINE STEWARD RECOMMENDS
I should know by now that some combinations are inherently dangerous. Such as noshing on coconut Eggos, while enjoying some fine American whiskey. It just isn't a good interplay. It's NOT that Garden Bakery's fine product and Kentucky Bourbon don't see eye to eye -- they do, most marvelously -- but that it is wrong to snack on sweeties late at night. Primarily because the natural choice of beverage at three in the morning isn't warm milk-tea or coffee, but something less likely to stimulate and keep you up any further.
Which, if you've just returned from a long instructional evening at San Francisco's finest indoor smoking establishment, is ill-advised. This blogger may have had a large quantity of Scotch that evening.
Didn't need any more alcohol.
Had it anyway.
Garden Bakery's Coconut Eggo (椰心卷), Wafer Rolls with coconut flavour filling, are yummy and delicious. The Garden Company (嘉頓有限公司) in Hong Kong makes stellar products. No home should be without them.
I sing their praises.
The next morning I wasn't feeling quite up to snuff.
I think I ate the whole pack.
Net Wt./Poids Net/净重: 150g (克) 5.3 oz (安士).
Unwise.
SATURDAY NIGHT MADNESS
The evening had started off relatively well, and on a rational note.
But once the Bloated Toad sat near me, I moved to a different seat, concerned that he would start haranguing the young ladies nearby about his divorce, his lack of a sex life, how he was contemplating suicide if he didn't get some poon soon, and would they like to go somewhere else. He's chunky, red faced, and reptilian. And cigar-smoking ladies are infinitely attractive to elderly cretins.
Naturally.
I positioned myself in between them and him. At the very least this would provide some insulation. Or dilute the ill-effect. I needn't have worried. They were, if possible, far too lively for the Bloated Toad. One of the phrases I overheard was "dammit, Estelle, your vibrator kept me up all night!".
Oh good, Estelle is in touch with her feelings.
Her friend is too. With Estelle's feelings.
We're all about feelings.
At the cigar bar.
If I had been Estelle, I would've claimed that it wasn't a vibrator but my "Little Miss Mayhem' girl's chainsaw", and that I was practicing for marriage. Well, what DOES one say when the other person bitches about vibrator noise? Especially in a crowded smoking establishment where ninety percent of the clientele consists of unaccompanied men with truly excellent hearing?
"That was a can-opener! I'm making a scale model of the Statue of Liberty out of cat-food!"
What Estelle actually said was "I used up the batteries, you're safe for the next two days". Which, when you think about it, is a profoundly un-encouraging statement.
Nevertheless, thank you for sharing, Estelle.
The Bloated Toad heard none of this, as he was far too busy telling some visiting lawyers from the East-Coast all about pre-nups and his frigid ex-wife trying to take him to the cleaners. And how his woman-hating big macho divorce lawyer would get her, but good.
Bitch should've stayed married to him, she'd have guaranteed vacations in Florida every year, and her own damned car.
If 'F' bombs were dollar bills, everyone within hearing distance of 'Bloaty' would've been rich. The Bloated Toad cannot speak without expletives. They're adverbs, adjectives, punctuation, and particles of emphasis.
His ex-wife had to put up with this for thirty-plus years.
I hope she strips him naked, and drains him dry.
Though not in public. He's an ugly man.
It's those mean piggy eyes.
Between the soon-to-be-permanently single slug and the two female electrical appliance salesmen, that end of the bar proved to be far too trying for a sensitive man such as myself. I moved back down to where some friends were chatting with a gentleman from Hong Kong feasting on clam and garlic pizza. All three of them were smoking cigars. The husband and wife were enjoying a Partagas and an Oliva (series 'O') respectively -- him maduro, her a dark Habano seed wrapper -- while the pizzathiast had a Monte Cristo Habana in his left hand. Listening in on their conversation was enjoyable, till they got to the subject of children. With which all three of them have some connection. I don't, I'm rather like the vibrator woman in that regard, though my batteries are still full of electricity. But children are not my favourite subject.
Which is something I keep to myself.
The gentleman from Hong Kong had just dropped off his daughter in Berkeley for the summer programme. His wife was in London with the boy child for a similar reason. Judging by the fact that he was scarfing down clam and garlic pizza, and smoking a big fat cigar, he was faithful to his wife.
Or at least planning to be.
Commendable.
This blogger, in addition to singing the praises of Garden Bakery, also greatly esteems constancy as a virtue.
Along with cheese, clam, garlic, and Havana breath.
These are all mighty things.
[Somewhere along the line, all conversations were interrupted for a sing-a-long. "I was drunk the day my momma got out of prison, and I went to pick her up in the rain; but before I could get to the station in my pick-up truck.....".
That happens regularly there.
As I may have mentioned, we're all about feelings. Nothing says "feelings" quite like Country-Western. It's an essential part of the mix. Only one of us is from the South.
But we're very spiritual.]
I seldom have clam and garlic pizza. Not because I wish to make a good impression on some young lady with a refined nose, but more because of gout. I and my fine breath desire a good night's sleep.
Which, given the way I ended that evening, did not happen.
In the grand scheme of things, gout would've been better.
If I had had clam and garlic pizza, I would not have been arguing with two women at the end of the evening after my friends had left. One of whom is out of batteries and bat-shit crazy, the other one of which is Australian.
One cannot win an argument with an Australian.
Maybe they need batteries. Batteries help.
They're kind of like Valium.
I don't think Kentucky Bourbon goes with clam and garlic.
But I could be wrong.
Before I left the Occidental Cigar Club, I quoted at length from The Song of Songs. Innocently erotic ancient Hebrew poetry. Which is always a good sign that I've had too much stimulation.
I was ravenous when I got home.
Blame the cigar smokers.
Very bad influence.
Egg-wafer rolls are cigar-shaped.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Didn't need any more alcohol.
Had it anyway.
Garden Bakery's Coconut Eggo (椰心卷), Wafer Rolls with coconut flavour filling, are yummy and delicious. The Garden Company (嘉頓有限公司) in Hong Kong makes stellar products. No home should be without them.
I sing their praises.
The next morning I wasn't feeling quite up to snuff.
I think I ate the whole pack.
Net Wt./Poids Net/净重: 150g (克) 5.3 oz (安士).
Unwise.
SATURDAY NIGHT MADNESS
The evening had started off relatively well, and on a rational note.
But once the Bloated Toad sat near me, I moved to a different seat, concerned that he would start haranguing the young ladies nearby about his divorce, his lack of a sex life, how he was contemplating suicide if he didn't get some poon soon, and would they like to go somewhere else. He's chunky, red faced, and reptilian. And cigar-smoking ladies are infinitely attractive to elderly cretins.
Naturally.
I positioned myself in between them and him. At the very least this would provide some insulation. Or dilute the ill-effect. I needn't have worried. They were, if possible, far too lively for the Bloated Toad. One of the phrases I overheard was "dammit, Estelle, your vibrator kept me up all night!".
Oh good, Estelle is in touch with her feelings.
Her friend is too. With Estelle's feelings.
We're all about feelings.
At the cigar bar.
If I had been Estelle, I would've claimed that it wasn't a vibrator but my "Little Miss Mayhem' girl's chainsaw", and that I was practicing for marriage. Well, what DOES one say when the other person bitches about vibrator noise? Especially in a crowded smoking establishment where ninety percent of the clientele consists of unaccompanied men with truly excellent hearing?
"That was a can-opener! I'm making a scale model of the Statue of Liberty out of cat-food!"
What Estelle actually said was "I used up the batteries, you're safe for the next two days". Which, when you think about it, is a profoundly un-encouraging statement.
Nevertheless, thank you for sharing, Estelle.
The Bloated Toad heard none of this, as he was far too busy telling some visiting lawyers from the East-Coast all about pre-nups and his frigid ex-wife trying to take him to the cleaners. And how his woman-hating big macho divorce lawyer would get her, but good.
Bitch should've stayed married to him, she'd have guaranteed vacations in Florida every year, and her own damned car.
If 'F' bombs were dollar bills, everyone within hearing distance of 'Bloaty' would've been rich. The Bloated Toad cannot speak without expletives. They're adverbs, adjectives, punctuation, and particles of emphasis.
His ex-wife had to put up with this for thirty-plus years.
I hope she strips him naked, and drains him dry.
Though not in public. He's an ugly man.
It's those mean piggy eyes.
Between the soon-to-be-permanently single slug and the two female electrical appliance salesmen, that end of the bar proved to be far too trying for a sensitive man such as myself. I moved back down to where some friends were chatting with a gentleman from Hong Kong feasting on clam and garlic pizza. All three of them were smoking cigars. The husband and wife were enjoying a Partagas and an Oliva (series 'O') respectively -- him maduro, her a dark Habano seed wrapper -- while the pizzathiast had a Monte Cristo Habana in his left hand. Listening in on their conversation was enjoyable, till they got to the subject of children. With which all three of them have some connection. I don't, I'm rather like the vibrator woman in that regard, though my batteries are still full of electricity. But children are not my favourite subject.
Which is something I keep to myself.
The gentleman from Hong Kong had just dropped off his daughter in Berkeley for the summer programme. His wife was in London with the boy child for a similar reason. Judging by the fact that he was scarfing down clam and garlic pizza, and smoking a big fat cigar, he was faithful to his wife.
Or at least planning to be.
Commendable.
This blogger, in addition to singing the praises of Garden Bakery, also greatly esteems constancy as a virtue.
Along with cheese, clam, garlic, and Havana breath.
These are all mighty things.
[Somewhere along the line, all conversations were interrupted for a sing-a-long. "I was drunk the day my momma got out of prison, and I went to pick her up in the rain; but before I could get to the station in my pick-up truck.....".
That happens regularly there.
As I may have mentioned, we're all about feelings. Nothing says "feelings" quite like Country-Western. It's an essential part of the mix. Only one of us is from the South.
But we're very spiritual.]
I seldom have clam and garlic pizza. Not because I wish to make a good impression on some young lady with a refined nose, but more because of gout. I and my fine breath desire a good night's sleep.
Which, given the way I ended that evening, did not happen.
In the grand scheme of things, gout would've been better.
If I had had clam and garlic pizza, I would not have been arguing with two women at the end of the evening after my friends had left. One of whom is out of batteries and bat-shit crazy, the other one of which is Australian.
One cannot win an argument with an Australian.
Maybe they need batteries. Batteries help.
They're kind of like Valium.
I don't think Kentucky Bourbon goes with clam and garlic.
But I could be wrong.
Before I left the Occidental Cigar Club, I quoted at length from The Song of Songs. Innocently erotic ancient Hebrew poetry. Which is always a good sign that I've had too much stimulation.
I was ravenous when I got home.
Blame the cigar smokers.
Very bad influence.
Egg-wafer rolls are cigar-shaped.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 05, 2013
THE UNMARRIED MAN'S GUIDE TO FINE DINING
Last week I published an episode of 'Feral Bachelor Chow', that being an unintentionally ongoing series about this blogger's casual approach to dinner since breaking up with Savage Kitten three years ago.
Now, bear in mind that I like to cook, and I really enjoy interesting and tasty food. But when you're only cooking for one person, and you are somewhat disturbingly conscious of the fact that there is no one to eat with, there is scant inspiration to sweat the details, or spend much time in the kitchen.
As I mentioned last time, it's mostly mix and match.
Yesterday evening's quick repast might have been better left unmixed, and unmatched. Though not a single one of the ingredients is to blame. Excellent products tastefully combined, and beautiful to look at.
Took about fifteen minutes to throw together.
I should've thrown it out instead.
But it was delicious.
Penne pasta.
Israeli couscous.
Green curry paste.
Yellow curry paste.
Chili paste.
Olive oil.
Little pork meatballs with cayenne.
Chopped baby bokchoi.
Kasondi pickle.
Ginger.
Garlic.
Yoghurt.
Coconut milk.
Splash of Bourbon.
Squeeze of lime juice.
Dash of hot sauce.
Three pickled Habaneros.
I added that last ingredient because after combining the cooked meatballs in their tasty yoghurt curry sauce with the pasta and couscous, it all seemed a little wishy-washy. Not assertive enough.
The Habaneros made it plenty assertive.
Readers will kindly note the posting time of this essay.
[6:06 AM. West-Coast Time.]
If anyone asks me to cook for them, I promise to leave the chilipaste, hotsauce, and pickled Habaneros at home. I'll rely on your selection of condiments.
I think I still need to fine-tune the exact quantities. I sort of did it by eye, while reading a book by Jan De Hartog.
Perhaps more yoghurt, less kasondi.
And a pinch of salt.
Thoughts by concerned culinarians are welcomed.
What do you think?
Some sliced cucumber on the side?
Beets?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Now, bear in mind that I like to cook, and I really enjoy interesting and tasty food. But when you're only cooking for one person, and you are somewhat disturbingly conscious of the fact that there is no one to eat with, there is scant inspiration to sweat the details, or spend much time in the kitchen.
As I mentioned last time, it's mostly mix and match.
Yesterday evening's quick repast might have been better left unmixed, and unmatched. Though not a single one of the ingredients is to blame. Excellent products tastefully combined, and beautiful to look at.
Took about fifteen minutes to throw together.
I should've thrown it out instead.
But it was delicious.
Penne pasta.
Israeli couscous.
Green curry paste.
Yellow curry paste.
Chili paste.
Olive oil.
Little pork meatballs with cayenne.
Chopped baby bokchoi.
Kasondi pickle.
Ginger.
Garlic.
Yoghurt.
Coconut milk.
Splash of Bourbon.
Squeeze of lime juice.
Dash of hot sauce.
Three pickled Habaneros.
I added that last ingredient because after combining the cooked meatballs in their tasty yoghurt curry sauce with the pasta and couscous, it all seemed a little wishy-washy. Not assertive enough.
The Habaneros made it plenty assertive.
Readers will kindly note the posting time of this essay.
[6:06 AM. West-Coast Time.]
If anyone asks me to cook for them, I promise to leave the chilipaste, hotsauce, and pickled Habaneros at home. I'll rely on your selection of condiments.
I think I still need to fine-tune the exact quantities. I sort of did it by eye, while reading a book by Jan De Hartog.
Perhaps more yoghurt, less kasondi.
And a pinch of salt.
Thoughts by concerned culinarians are welcomed.
What do you think?
Some sliced cucumber on the side?
Beets?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 04, 2013
MESSAGES FROM A BOTTLE
Several times a day spambots attempt to leave comments, hoping that this blogscribbler will not see through their sly subterfuging. But alas, machines and devious foreign conmen cannot understand the bloggomental dynamic, which demands that feedback be relevant to the post OR author under which OR whom it is appended, and above all NOT be a shameless attempt to direct traffic to their own unreadable website.
Sometimes they come very close. Still, no cigar.
This comment did not even come close.
Quote: "Βe determіned thаt the bed is for sleеpіng, not plаnning or stuԁyіng in. Eνеn moге ρertinent to panic attасkѕ іѕ the fact you are thе only one who cаn react to the ѕtimuli you еxperience. Арart from thіs, other thегapiеs like сognitive and bеhavior therapies aге offered to ρrovіԁe better tгeatment."
End quote.
Even in San Francisco (home of this blog), where people tend to have fluffy ideas about the universe and make attempts to either contact the space aliens or the tree-hugging dolphin within ourselves by chanting mantras and burning sage, there was no possible connection between the message about panicking in beds and an essay from five years ago underneath which the placement attempt was made.
THE MAD TYPOGRAPHER STRIKES
Seeding a text with a special script character so that it can subsequently be determined which websites and internet locations allowed it through is a rather useful trick. In this case, the most common one was г, that being the forth letter of the Cyrillic alphabet. The words in which it occurred should, because of this letter, be pronounced mowg, thughapies, aagh, and t'ghitmunt. Other ones were rho (ρ ) in rhertinent, and nhi (ν) in enen.
Previous baffling test-spammatographia have included omega (ω) and izhitsa (ѵ), as well as the word 'fastidious'.
Friendly message to spambots: It's all about cognition and behaviour. Or other deeply meaningful alternative methodologies. Cosmically it could be useful. Karmically, it may have content and meaning. If it can't be solved with wheatgerm and tofu, it's gotta be an evil typographic plot.
You dig, kemo sabe?
A LOT MORE NEATLY LIKED!
The second comment that stood out recently was a note of touching encouragement, perhaps composed in a language that wasn't English.
Quote: "What i do not understood is in fact how you're not really a lot more neatly-liked than you might be now. You're very intelligent. You recognize thus considerably in relation to this subject, made me in my opinion imagine it from numerous numerous angles. Its like men and women don't seem to be fascinated until it is one thing to accomplish with Woman gaga! Your individual stuffs outstanding. At all times maintain it up! " End quote.
Yes, I am very intelligent. Thank you! And I also cannot understand why I'm not a lot more neatly liked. In the past few years, naught in toto has been accomplished with women, gaga or otherwise, despite the truly outstanding qualities of my individual stuff. Nevertheless, I shall continue to maintain it up at all times.
Your fastidious input is appreciated.

==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sometimes they come very close. Still, no cigar.
This comment did not even come close.
Quote: "Βe determіned thаt the bed is for sleеpіng, not plаnning or stuԁyіng in. Eνеn moге ρertinent to panic attасkѕ іѕ the fact you are thе only one who cаn react to the ѕtimuli you еxperience. Арart from thіs, other thегapiеs like сognitive and bеhavior therapies aге offered to ρrovіԁe better tгeatment."
End quote.
Even in San Francisco (home of this blog), where people tend to have fluffy ideas about the universe and make attempts to either contact the space aliens or the tree-hugging dolphin within ourselves by chanting mantras and burning sage, there was no possible connection between the message about panicking in beds and an essay from five years ago underneath which the placement attempt was made.
THE MAD TYPOGRAPHER STRIKES
Seeding a text with a special script character so that it can subsequently be determined which websites and internet locations allowed it through is a rather useful trick. In this case, the most common one was г, that being the forth letter of the Cyrillic alphabet. The words in which it occurred should, because of this letter, be pronounced mowg, thughapies, aagh, and t'ghitmunt. Other ones were rho (ρ ) in rhertinent, and nhi (ν) in enen.
Previous baffling test-spammatographia have included omega (ω) and izhitsa (ѵ), as well as the word 'fastidious'.
Friendly message to spambots: It's all about cognition and behaviour. Or other deeply meaningful alternative methodologies. Cosmically it could be useful. Karmically, it may have content and meaning. If it can't be solved with wheatgerm and tofu, it's gotta be an evil typographic plot.
You dig, kemo sabe?
A LOT MORE NEATLY LIKED!
The second comment that stood out recently was a note of touching encouragement, perhaps composed in a language that wasn't English.
Quote: "What i do not understood is in fact how you're not really a lot more neatly-liked than you might be now. You're very intelligent. You recognize thus considerably in relation to this subject, made me in my opinion imagine it from numerous numerous angles. Its like men and women don't seem to be fascinated until it is one thing to accomplish with Woman gaga! Your individual stuffs outstanding. At all times maintain it up! " End quote.
Yes, I am very intelligent. Thank you! And I also cannot understand why I'm not a lot more neatly liked. In the past few years, naught in toto has been accomplished with women, gaga or otherwise, despite the truly outstanding qualities of my individual stuff. Nevertheless, I shall continue to maintain it up at all times.
Your fastidious input is appreciated.

==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A FAIRLY QUIET MAN
Adventures on the dating sites of the world continue! There's gold in them thar hills!
Meaning, of course, that this blogger's attempt to connect with live human beings has taken a backseat to his computer.
I love my computer. It seems so... responsive!
Petite. Cute. Full of life.
Possibly even female.
And multi-lingual.
As you may recall, I mentioned signing-up on OkCupid a while back. One of my readers had spoken of it, and it sounded like an interesting concept. I remembered when strictly for laughs I signed up on E-Harmony pretending to be Borat Sagdiyev, answering all questions in that precise persona (as detailed here). For several years afterwards, I received lovely romantic messages from hundreds of women who where desperate, utterly crazy-desperate, to meet mr. Wrong.
I had no clue that someone like Borat was so desirable.
Consequently, OkCupid seemed promising.
And at least better than a crap-shoot.
I may have been mistaken.
Most of the women on OkCupid are totally perfect. Not my type at all. I have no idea why they aren't all in the bestest and most rewardingest relationships ever.
Well, other than the grandmother of seven, who has named her dogs after the days of the week. She has three Sundays. Whether it's the dogs or the grandkids, rabies is a looming problem. Given that she lives in a trailer park out in the foothills.
Apparently she's a 95% match, 86% friend, and 8% enemy.
That last percentage is crucial. I betcha it's the smoking.
Despite what her profile says, she probably huffs two or three packs of Lucky Strikes per day. How else can she put up with seven grandkids and ten dogs?
And the looming threat of rabies.
It's hard when you have to shoot a grandkid.
But all the other people that OkCupid thinks would be in my ballpark have so much to offer.
Profile quotes:
"I explore my creative parts..."
"I live in America because I like the weather"
"I am living in the present and planning for the future."
"Living out of a camper, skydiving and then scuba"
"I'm like the girl next door!"
"I'm great with knives, knots, locks, cooking, massages"
"I like staying at home watching my SF Giants..."
"Scoring reservations at a time later than the normal senior citizen"
"Indignant about the lack of decent sushi"
"I enjoy making connections and I am well-traveled"
Judging by their profiles, they are all intelligent, alive, likable, active and involved, socially polished, adaptable, agreeable, perky, and nice.
I'm not really looking for nice.
What I'm looking for is a woman who might describe herself like this:
"I'm a post-graduate still living at home, perfectly happy not going to bars or nightclubs. I like staying up reading until the wee hours -- not only books by real authors, but also trashy novels, reference books, and crap I found at a rummage sale. Not into high-fashion, though I do dress nicely when I feel like it.
I'm looking for someone to eat with; that way I can order more interesting things at restaurants. My job is rather boring and mundane, but I enjoy my coworkers, and quite a few of them are fascinating and intelligent. "
See? She's utterly perfect. Someone who is at ease with herself, down to earth, and evinces a keen culinary vibrance.
The only things that I would add are:
"I have a thing for pipe-smokers, I prefer sensible shoes, and I only wear my Hello Kitty panties ironically!"
Someone who also likes Chinese and Indian food, warm beverages, hot sauce, and cookies, would be truly splendid.
REALITY BITES
The question you might ask at this point is what she would get out of a relationship with me. What's in it for her?
Other than someone with whom she could to go to restaurants and order the interesting things.
As well as a man who thinks she looks cute wearing Hello Kitty underwear ironically, and comfy flats.
I'm afraid I'm not good at filling out a profile (except for the time I was channeling for mr. Borat Sagdiyev).
Basically, I'm a normal guy who speaks Dutch, as well as a little Cantonese, Yiddish, German, and bits of other languages. I used to cook a lot more than I do now, and I would like to do so again.
I like being around other people, but not crowds.
I don't skydive, scuba, jog, work out at the gym, develop my creative and spiritual sides, or read self-help books. Lord knows I don't watch sports; anything with big butch men in tights makes my eyes glaze over.
Yeah, I read a lot. My living quarters are a fire-trap, what with cases and stacks of books everywhere.
My friends are all decent intelligent people with quirky interests and senses of humour.
They probably need that last characteristic, as they're all rather kind.
See? Hardly a description of Don Juan, an ideal daemon lover, the dark romantic stranger of a girl's dreams, or even Burt Reynolds. More like Sean Connery, considerably younger and with far less fat, a more intelligible accent, and a pipe. Sort of okay, I guess.
Food! She'd get food! And the recurring aroma of pipe-smoke!
That, plus occasional bursts of wit!
And beverages!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Meaning, of course, that this blogger's attempt to connect with live human beings has taken a backseat to his computer.
I love my computer. It seems so... responsive!
Petite. Cute. Full of life.
Possibly even female.
And multi-lingual.
As you may recall, I mentioned signing-up on OkCupid a while back. One of my readers had spoken of it, and it sounded like an interesting concept. I remembered when strictly for laughs I signed up on E-Harmony pretending to be Borat Sagdiyev, answering all questions in that precise persona (as detailed here). For several years afterwards, I received lovely romantic messages from hundreds of women who where desperate, utterly crazy-desperate, to meet mr. Wrong.
I had no clue that someone like Borat was so desirable.
Consequently, OkCupid seemed promising.
And at least better than a crap-shoot.
I may have been mistaken.
Most of the women on OkCupid are totally perfect. Not my type at all. I have no idea why they aren't all in the bestest and most rewardingest relationships ever.
Well, other than the grandmother of seven, who has named her dogs after the days of the week. She has three Sundays. Whether it's the dogs or the grandkids, rabies is a looming problem. Given that she lives in a trailer park out in the foothills.
Apparently she's a 95% match, 86% friend, and 8% enemy.
That last percentage is crucial. I betcha it's the smoking.
Despite what her profile says, she probably huffs two or three packs of Lucky Strikes per day. How else can she put up with seven grandkids and ten dogs?
And the looming threat of rabies.
It's hard when you have to shoot a grandkid.
But all the other people that OkCupid thinks would be in my ballpark have so much to offer.
Profile quotes:
"I explore my creative parts..."
"I live in America because I like the weather"
"I am living in the present and planning for the future."
"Living out of a camper, skydiving and then scuba"
"I'm like the girl next door!"
"I'm great with knives, knots, locks, cooking, massages"
"I like staying at home watching my SF Giants..."
"Scoring reservations at a time later than the normal senior citizen"
"Indignant about the lack of decent sushi"
"I enjoy making connections and I am well-traveled"
Judging by their profiles, they are all intelligent, alive, likable, active and involved, socially polished, adaptable, agreeable, perky, and nice.
I'm not really looking for nice.
What I'm looking for is a woman who might describe herself like this:
"I'm a post-graduate still living at home, perfectly happy not going to bars or nightclubs. I like staying up reading until the wee hours -- not only books by real authors, but also trashy novels, reference books, and crap I found at a rummage sale. Not into high-fashion, though I do dress nicely when I feel like it.
I'm looking for someone to eat with; that way I can order more interesting things at restaurants. My job is rather boring and mundane, but I enjoy my coworkers, and quite a few of them are fascinating and intelligent. "
See? She's utterly perfect. Someone who is at ease with herself, down to earth, and evinces a keen culinary vibrance.
The only things that I would add are:
"I have a thing for pipe-smokers, I prefer sensible shoes, and I only wear my Hello Kitty panties ironically!"
Someone who also likes Chinese and Indian food, warm beverages, hot sauce, and cookies, would be truly splendid.
REALITY BITES
The question you might ask at this point is what she would get out of a relationship with me. What's in it for her?
Other than someone with whom she could to go to restaurants and order the interesting things.
As well as a man who thinks she looks cute wearing Hello Kitty underwear ironically, and comfy flats.
I'm afraid I'm not good at filling out a profile (except for the time I was channeling for mr. Borat Sagdiyev).
Basically, I'm a normal guy who speaks Dutch, as well as a little Cantonese, Yiddish, German, and bits of other languages. I used to cook a lot more than I do now, and I would like to do so again.
I like being around other people, but not crowds.
I don't skydive, scuba, jog, work out at the gym, develop my creative and spiritual sides, or read self-help books. Lord knows I don't watch sports; anything with big butch men in tights makes my eyes glaze over.
Yeah, I read a lot. My living quarters are a fire-trap, what with cases and stacks of books everywhere.
My friends are all decent intelligent people with quirky interests and senses of humour.
They probably need that last characteristic, as they're all rather kind.
See? Hardly a description of Don Juan, an ideal daemon lover, the dark romantic stranger of a girl's dreams, or even Burt Reynolds. More like Sean Connery, considerably younger and with far less fat, a more intelligible accent, and a pipe. Sort of okay, I guess.
Food! She'd get food! And the recurring aroma of pipe-smoke!
That, plus occasional bursts of wit!
And beverages!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 03, 2013
CHIHUAHUA, WITH A SIDE OF MAYONNAISE
She had a hot beverage, and no one was going to take it away, bitches. Hers. All hers. She had had to fight darn well everyone at the caffeine counter for it, disabling not a few, but now she had it, and she was safe where no one could follow: behind the wainscoting, in the hollow between the walls. She curled her furry tail around her and admired her prize. The steaming pint glass was nearly as tall as she was. Lovingly she gazed up at the rim, planning how to reach the precise angle at which her snout could lean over and take a gulp. First up on the piece of wood, then onto the broken ledge. But it was still too hot.
Better wait. More good things needed to be got.
She had seen those dumb bunny rabbits with their baskets of hot hors d'oeuvres over at the vendor near the stairs. There were several stoats, some felines (including a handsome-looking tomcat with tight TIGHT haunches), a lynx (probably a foreigner), and that rancid Chihuahua that always slobbered at her in between. Fortunately she only shared one class with him. She was certain that a critical reading of Asian American literature was entirely beyond him, he had only signed up for the lectures because he was desperate for nookie. Hah! None of the women in that room, human or bestial, had even the slightest interest in him. He would have had more luck in remedial English, with the bunnies and the blondes! Stupid mutt.
BAD DOG! NO BISCUIT!
At just the right moment she shot out of the hole, between the table legs, past the stoats -- they looked up startled, maybe they should get her into the track team, damn she was fast -- over the felines and the sexy tomcat, who were too busy ripping apart a deep-fried fieldmouse to pay attention, past the lynx with his cream of wheat, and, with one mighty kick against the ribcage of the stupid Chihuahua, who yelped and whimpered in a blind panic at the unseen assault, cleared the edge of the furthest table. Now the target was within view. A hot basket of Crab Rangoon, with bottles of spicy mustard and Sriracha hotsauce next to the potted plant.
She landed on the counter, composed herself, and walked over to the girl at the register.
"Hello Mabel", she said, "could I please have some of those?" Mabel happily rang up one order, and asked her if she wanted sweet and sour sauce, or thick soy. "Neither, don't you remember that I like spicy?" "Oh yeah", said Mabel, "lots of red and a squeeze of yellow".
Mabel had chided her the last time, giving the opinion that she would not be surprised if someday the weasel's little fuzzy stomach exploded. Only 'mak-sei-go-yan' should eat so much hot sauce. She herself preferred a touch of mayo on Crab Rangoon, along with French fries. Mabel was American born, and a little depraved. Mathilda (the weasel) had seen little miss Mabel (the human) jump into a lobster tank once in Chinatown to arm-wrestle a gigantic New-Englander. She had then left with both of his claws, grinning.
Old man Wong drained the fried objects and dumped them into the paper-lined basket. "Dim-ah, siu-jeh, ho loi m-kin, hah" (hey sis, howzit, long time no see). She politely responded "Wong-sang, nei ho" (hello mr. Wong), before grabbing the basket and taking a running leap off the counter. Same route as before, but now she had the advantage of height. Passed over a table of fifteen watt Christian kids from the Valley, onto the stool where the lynx had sat with his cream of wheat -- the bowl was licked clean, she noticed -- and right next to the tomcat. She wuzzawuzzed his ears quickly, before scooting between the felines and their third mouse cadaver. Everything buffalo style, with blue cheese and celery stalks. They never ate the celery, but occasionally batted it around the floor or hit rabbits with it. The stoats saw her coming and scattered.
She got back to her hiding place in the wall at just the right moment.
The hot beverage had cooled to perfect temperature.
Perched on the ledge, she took a sip.
It was delicious!
An hour later, stuffed and happy, she wandered into Doctor Lee's "introduction to Asian American literature". The Chihuahua looked scared when she took a seat near him, and decided that really, he should sit elsewhere. Anywhere else. Like right next to the short Chinese girl with the bottle bottom glasses. The girl glared at him, grimaced, and swatted him with a rolled up newspaper, hissing "chau kwai mat, hui sei ah nei!". He left and found an empty desk next to the garbage can.
After class was over, Mathilda noticed that the garbage can was overturned. So like a stupid dog. Couldn't resist the temptation! He just had to play with smelly crap. He was probably covered with banana peels and scraps of candied rat. A randy creep, smelling appropriately.
Oh well, at least he hadn't humped any legs during the lecture.
Chihuahuas have no brains, nor any self control.
One of these days he would go too far.
She'd really bite him fiercely.
Scratch his eyes out.
She was waiting.
Any excuse.
Still two more years till she graduated. It would be a long time.
Maybe she might have some fun while she stayed at State.
The school still didn't have any blood sports yet.
Perhaps she should try to get a team going.
The Chinese girls would be perfect.
Especially miss Mabel Wong.
Incredibly fierce.
Terrifying.
AFTER WORD
Back in the nineties I audited a class on Asian American Lit at San Francisco State. No, I wasn't desperate for nookie, do I look like a damned Chihuahua to you? My squeeze-bit at the time was still working on her first degree, and it was lovely meeting her for lunch in the basement of the student union. But the food down there was more than a little strange.
That was where I first ran into 'crab raccoon'. Canned crab meat and cream cheese wrapped in a wonton skin and deep-fried.
Done well, I imagine it can be quite delicious.
I've always liked the ambiance of universities. The virtually deserted libraries, the folding tables out front with totally blinkered activists and idealists, the offensive and rude thug-jugend from a ghastly place with well-deserved inferiority complexes and a chip underneath the ugly scarves on their shoulders, the sweetly shy girl-students on their way to becoming the accounting major who saves civilization, boys who excel in sports, beer, and pizza........
Professors who love their subject, and can't understand why it isn't the most popular course of study in school, why in their day, sir, back in their day.......
Still. Crab Raccoon. I always imagined this to be a masked furball with a mallet, a bib, and a finger-bowl, fastidiously ripping limbs one by one off the boiled beast, cracking them, and dipping the silky white meat into mayonnaise. A veritable San Franciscan among the raccoons, smuggling his bottle of Chardonnay into the student union and sharing it with other animals, in little Dixie cups.
I was rather disappointed.
I would go back, but I no longer have a squeeze-bit, and people might think I was desperate. And there are not nearly enough animals at San Francisco State. Besides, the food in the basement of the student union is probably all vegan or sustainably green shit by now, crab meat is SO destructive of the rainforest, and cream cheese is very white.
I probably wouldn't enjoy it anymore.
And there would be nobody to eat lunch with.
Crab Raccoon. Sriracha hotsauce.
Plus a dab of mustard.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Better wait. More good things needed to be got.
She had seen those dumb bunny rabbits with their baskets of hot hors d'oeuvres over at the vendor near the stairs. There were several stoats, some felines (including a handsome-looking tomcat with tight TIGHT haunches), a lynx (probably a foreigner), and that rancid Chihuahua that always slobbered at her in between. Fortunately she only shared one class with him. She was certain that a critical reading of Asian American literature was entirely beyond him, he had only signed up for the lectures because he was desperate for nookie. Hah! None of the women in that room, human or bestial, had even the slightest interest in him. He would have had more luck in remedial English, with the bunnies and the blondes! Stupid mutt.
BAD DOG! NO BISCUIT!
At just the right moment she shot out of the hole, between the table legs, past the stoats -- they looked up startled, maybe they should get her into the track team, damn she was fast -- over the felines and the sexy tomcat, who were too busy ripping apart a deep-fried fieldmouse to pay attention, past the lynx with his cream of wheat, and, with one mighty kick against the ribcage of the stupid Chihuahua, who yelped and whimpered in a blind panic at the unseen assault, cleared the edge of the furthest table. Now the target was within view. A hot basket of Crab Rangoon, with bottles of spicy mustard and Sriracha hotsauce next to the potted plant.
She landed on the counter, composed herself, and walked over to the girl at the register.
"Hello Mabel", she said, "could I please have some of those?" Mabel happily rang up one order, and asked her if she wanted sweet and sour sauce, or thick soy. "Neither, don't you remember that I like spicy?" "Oh yeah", said Mabel, "lots of red and a squeeze of yellow".
Mabel had chided her the last time, giving the opinion that she would not be surprised if someday the weasel's little fuzzy stomach exploded. Only 'mak-sei-go-yan' should eat so much hot sauce. She herself preferred a touch of mayo on Crab Rangoon, along with French fries. Mabel was American born, and a little depraved. Mathilda (the weasel) had seen little miss Mabel (the human) jump into a lobster tank once in Chinatown to arm-wrestle a gigantic New-Englander. She had then left with both of his claws, grinning.
Old man Wong drained the fried objects and dumped them into the paper-lined basket. "Dim-ah, siu-jeh, ho loi m-kin, hah" (hey sis, howzit, long time no see). She politely responded "Wong-sang, nei ho" (hello mr. Wong), before grabbing the basket and taking a running leap off the counter. Same route as before, but now she had the advantage of height. Passed over a table of fifteen watt Christian kids from the Valley, onto the stool where the lynx had sat with his cream of wheat -- the bowl was licked clean, she noticed -- and right next to the tomcat. She wuzzawuzzed his ears quickly, before scooting between the felines and their third mouse cadaver. Everything buffalo style, with blue cheese and celery stalks. They never ate the celery, but occasionally batted it around the floor or hit rabbits with it. The stoats saw her coming and scattered.
She got back to her hiding place in the wall at just the right moment.
The hot beverage had cooled to perfect temperature.
Perched on the ledge, she took a sip.
It was delicious!
An hour later, stuffed and happy, she wandered into Doctor Lee's "introduction to Asian American literature". The Chihuahua looked scared when she took a seat near him, and decided that really, he should sit elsewhere. Anywhere else. Like right next to the short Chinese girl with the bottle bottom glasses. The girl glared at him, grimaced, and swatted him with a rolled up newspaper, hissing "chau kwai mat, hui sei ah nei!". He left and found an empty desk next to the garbage can.
After class was over, Mathilda noticed that the garbage can was overturned. So like a stupid dog. Couldn't resist the temptation! He just had to play with smelly crap. He was probably covered with banana peels and scraps of candied rat. A randy creep, smelling appropriately.
Oh well, at least he hadn't humped any legs during the lecture.
Chihuahuas have no brains, nor any self control.
One of these days he would go too far.
She'd really bite him fiercely.
Scratch his eyes out.
She was waiting.
Any excuse.
Still two more years till she graduated. It would be a long time.
Maybe she might have some fun while she stayed at State.
The school still didn't have any blood sports yet.
Perhaps she should try to get a team going.
The Chinese girls would be perfect.
Especially miss Mabel Wong.
Incredibly fierce.
Terrifying.
AFTER WORD
Back in the nineties I audited a class on Asian American Lit at San Francisco State. No, I wasn't desperate for nookie, do I look like a damned Chihuahua to you? My squeeze-bit at the time was still working on her first degree, and it was lovely meeting her for lunch in the basement of the student union. But the food down there was more than a little strange.
That was where I first ran into 'crab raccoon'. Canned crab meat and cream cheese wrapped in a wonton skin and deep-fried.
Done well, I imagine it can be quite delicious.
I've always liked the ambiance of universities. The virtually deserted libraries, the folding tables out front with totally blinkered activists and idealists, the offensive and rude thug-jugend from a ghastly place with well-deserved inferiority complexes and a chip underneath the ugly scarves on their shoulders, the sweetly shy girl-students on their way to becoming the accounting major who saves civilization, boys who excel in sports, beer, and pizza........
Professors who love their subject, and can't understand why it isn't the most popular course of study in school, why in their day, sir, back in their day.......
Still. Crab Raccoon. I always imagined this to be a masked furball with a mallet, a bib, and a finger-bowl, fastidiously ripping limbs one by one off the boiled beast, cracking them, and dipping the silky white meat into mayonnaise. A veritable San Franciscan among the raccoons, smuggling his bottle of Chardonnay into the student union and sharing it with other animals, in little Dixie cups.
I was rather disappointed.
I would go back, but I no longer have a squeeze-bit, and people might think I was desperate. And there are not nearly enough animals at San Francisco State. Besides, the food in the basement of the student union is probably all vegan or sustainably green shit by now, crab meat is SO destructive of the rainforest, and cream cheese is very white.
I probably wouldn't enjoy it anymore.
And there would be nobody to eat lunch with.
Crab Raccoon. Sriracha hotsauce.
Plus a dab of mustard.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHERE IS THE NEAREST PASTRY?
Where does this blogger hide out on a day (such as this is) when there is nothing pressing that demands his attention? The question is better stated: where do badgers and weasels go in San Francisco, when they want to spend time either in contemplation OR watching people do interesting things?
There's a logic to posing it in animalistic terms.
Doing so rules out most of the obvious haunts. The Caffe Trieste is right out, as the clientele there after eight in the morning includes artistic types and poseurs. They probably wouldn't bother the badger in the corner, but the weasel would have one hell of a lousy time.
She'd be quietly trying to read at her table, with pen, notebook, and cappuccino at hand, when some oily nouveau beatnik of the rodent-persuasion would sidle up and hiss: "say, little girl (weasel), you sure are purdy...". She'd shake him off. "Go away, I'm trying to read!" This would not help. The rodent is an EXPERT in reading. He does it ALL the time. Why, as recently as yesterday he read a book!
Which he will then describe.
It's quite likely a dreadful tome, deep and meaningful, and written with sewer-rats like him in mind. There are long words in it. He looked them up, and will now proudly demonstrate their use. While, of course, attempting to make eye-contact.
Because really, a nice young feminine weasel is precisely what suits his fancy. He thinks they'd could be GOOD friends. And does she want to do lunch sometime? Can he get her another cup of coffee? Care to go somewhere where we can talk? Do you like steampunk? Acid rock?
Beastie Boyz?
At this point, there is a commotion in the corner. Mr. Badger, who had been trying to read 'Chinese Characters: Their Origin, Etymology, History, Classification, and Signification', by Dr. L. Wieger, has had enough. He gets up, slams his book shut, overturns his latte onto the artistic doodles that the rat left on the table when he headed over to bother the young lady (weasel), and on the way out, "accidentally" trips the rodent.
See? All of the coffee places in North Beach are off-limits.
Badgers and weasels suffer indignities there.
Euro-trash, artists, hippies.
Not worth it.
I know. I used to live there.
STOCKTON STREET, ALLEYS, AND PARKS
Often I will head over to Stockton Street in C'town for something to eat, then wander around a bit with pipe in mouth. I favour alleyways, because they are quiet, emptier, and rather wind-free. Chinatown has a number of very nice alleys, with interesting signs on both sides. Family associations, printers, herbalists, Buddhist religious supplies, and some Christian missions providing misguidement to the locals.
Tourists occasionally wander in and out, but as there is nothing to buy there, they seldom stay long. Instead they stride with purpose toward the fortune cookie factory which is mentioned in the guide-book, to immerse themselves for half an hour in the mysteries of making a flat sweet circular biscuit with a touch of vanilla flavouring which is still malleable when warm, and can be folded over a strip of paper with a truism on one side and six potential lottery numbers on the other. When it has cooled down (and lost some of its moisture while doing so), it will be crispy-crunchy and delicious, and may function as the capstone and dessert of a nutritious meal. Who knows.
Stranger things have happened.
Stockton Street is too busy. Alleyways are perfect.
Walter Lum Place, named after Walter Uriah Lum (1882-1961) is another favourite haunting spot. It runs alongside Portsmouth Square, which is often filled with old men playing chess. This blogger, being a pipe-smoker, and at that time usually in full fuming mode, is banned from that park. All smokers are banned. San Francisco wishes tobacco aficionados ill, and would like to exile them to the howling wilds. We resist. We lean over the railing and rudely puff whisps of Virginia at the sparrows, flycatchers, thrushes, and hummingbirds.
They do not notice.
"Hello, my little chickadee", I might say, playfully mis-identifying the avian-American in question, "do you mind if I smoke?". The bird does not answer, just looks at me funny. Then continues going about the business at hand (wing), which probably involves food.
Birds aren't tofu-snarfing wheatgerm freaks; they don't mind smoke.
They'd probably object fiercely to tofu, though.
Unless it was covered in meat.
[Walter U. Lum Place used to be called Faa Yuen Kok (花園角 "flower garden corner"), but was name-changed years ago to honour a Chinese American activist and scholar. The sign now reads: 林華耀街 ('lam wah-yiu kai').]
Down near the Pyramid there are also nice alleys. Commercial Street between Montgomery and Sansome, with old-fashioned park benches, Leidesdorf which cuts across Commercial halfway down the block, and on the other side of the Pyramid, Hotaling Place. For the benefit of smokers, there is a bench on Hotaling, right off Washington Street, with a witches' hat for your buts. After finishing my pipe I usually dump the neurotically folded-over pipe cleaners in it.
There used to be many more bookstores in the downtown, and they were always fun for hours of browsing. But strangely, their number has decreased, and their offerings now tend toward the pedestrian. Self-help and best-sellers just aren't very interesting. After finishing my smoke I might head down to Sue Bierman Park and Ferry Plaza, to listen to the parrots in the tall trees while waiting for the number one bus.
Especially if it's later in the afternoon.
Get on before it gets crowded.
The law-office mob.
I also like wandering around Nob Hill. Once the bus has reached Jones Street, I may disembark and light up another pipe. If the wind is too fierce there's no point lighting it till further down the slope, though.
Still. Few of the natives seem to mind if I smoke.
They would probably expect it of badgers.
As well as middle-aged dudes.
On a summer day.
Chinatown is good and safe for badgers and weasels.
The Financial District somewhat less so.
Northbeach is a foreign land.
Too many 'Beats'.
Bring on ursines and wolverines, we need predation.
It's time to eat the nuts & niks.
Smoke them out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There's a logic to posing it in animalistic terms.
Doing so rules out most of the obvious haunts. The Caffe Trieste is right out, as the clientele there after eight in the morning includes artistic types and poseurs. They probably wouldn't bother the badger in the corner, but the weasel would have one hell of a lousy time.
She'd be quietly trying to read at her table, with pen, notebook, and cappuccino at hand, when some oily nouveau beatnik of the rodent-persuasion would sidle up and hiss: "say, little girl (weasel), you sure are purdy...". She'd shake him off. "Go away, I'm trying to read!" This would not help. The rodent is an EXPERT in reading. He does it ALL the time. Why, as recently as yesterday he read a book!
Which he will then describe.
It's quite likely a dreadful tome, deep and meaningful, and written with sewer-rats like him in mind. There are long words in it. He looked them up, and will now proudly demonstrate their use. While, of course, attempting to make eye-contact.
Because really, a nice young feminine weasel is precisely what suits his fancy. He thinks they'd could be GOOD friends. And does she want to do lunch sometime? Can he get her another cup of coffee? Care to go somewhere where we can talk? Do you like steampunk? Acid rock?
Beastie Boyz?
At this point, there is a commotion in the corner. Mr. Badger, who had been trying to read 'Chinese Characters: Their Origin, Etymology, History, Classification, and Signification', by Dr. L. Wieger, has had enough. He gets up, slams his book shut, overturns his latte onto the artistic doodles that the rat left on the table when he headed over to bother the young lady (weasel), and on the way out, "accidentally" trips the rodent.
See? All of the coffee places in North Beach are off-limits.
Badgers and weasels suffer indignities there.
Euro-trash, artists, hippies.
Not worth it.
I know. I used to live there.
STOCKTON STREET, ALLEYS, AND PARKS
Often I will head over to Stockton Street in C'town for something to eat, then wander around a bit with pipe in mouth. I favour alleyways, because they are quiet, emptier, and rather wind-free. Chinatown has a number of very nice alleys, with interesting signs on both sides. Family associations, printers, herbalists, Buddhist religious supplies, and some Christian missions providing misguidement to the locals.
Tourists occasionally wander in and out, but as there is nothing to buy there, they seldom stay long. Instead they stride with purpose toward the fortune cookie factory which is mentioned in the guide-book, to immerse themselves for half an hour in the mysteries of making a flat sweet circular biscuit with a touch of vanilla flavouring which is still malleable when warm, and can be folded over a strip of paper with a truism on one side and six potential lottery numbers on the other. When it has cooled down (and lost some of its moisture while doing so), it will be crispy-crunchy and delicious, and may function as the capstone and dessert of a nutritious meal. Who knows.
Stranger things have happened.
Stockton Street is too busy. Alleyways are perfect.
Walter Lum Place, named after Walter Uriah Lum (1882-1961) is another favourite haunting spot. It runs alongside Portsmouth Square, which is often filled with old men playing chess. This blogger, being a pipe-smoker, and at that time usually in full fuming mode, is banned from that park. All smokers are banned. San Francisco wishes tobacco aficionados ill, and would like to exile them to the howling wilds. We resist. We lean over the railing and rudely puff whisps of Virginia at the sparrows, flycatchers, thrushes, and hummingbirds.
They do not notice.
"Hello, my little chickadee", I might say, playfully mis-identifying the avian-American in question, "do you mind if I smoke?". The bird does not answer, just looks at me funny. Then continues going about the business at hand (wing), which probably involves food.
Birds aren't tofu-snarfing wheatgerm freaks; they don't mind smoke.
They'd probably object fiercely to tofu, though.
Unless it was covered in meat.
[Walter U. Lum Place used to be called Faa Yuen Kok (花園角 "flower garden corner"), but was name-changed years ago to honour a Chinese American activist and scholar. The sign now reads: 林華耀街 ('lam wah-yiu kai').]
Down near the Pyramid there are also nice alleys. Commercial Street between Montgomery and Sansome, with old-fashioned park benches, Leidesdorf which cuts across Commercial halfway down the block, and on the other side of the Pyramid, Hotaling Place. For the benefit of smokers, there is a bench on Hotaling, right off Washington Street, with a witches' hat for your buts. After finishing my pipe I usually dump the neurotically folded-over pipe cleaners in it.
There used to be many more bookstores in the downtown, and they were always fun for hours of browsing. But strangely, their number has decreased, and their offerings now tend toward the pedestrian. Self-help and best-sellers just aren't very interesting. After finishing my smoke I might head down to Sue Bierman Park and Ferry Plaza, to listen to the parrots in the tall trees while waiting for the number one bus.
Especially if it's later in the afternoon.
Get on before it gets crowded.
The law-office mob.
I also like wandering around Nob Hill. Once the bus has reached Jones Street, I may disembark and light up another pipe. If the wind is too fierce there's no point lighting it till further down the slope, though.
Still. Few of the natives seem to mind if I smoke.
They would probably expect it of badgers.
As well as middle-aged dudes.
On a summer day.
Chinatown is good and safe for badgers and weasels.
The Financial District somewhat less so.
Northbeach is a foreign land.
Too many 'Beats'.
Bring on ursines and wolverines, we need predation.
It's time to eat the nuts & niks.
Smoke them out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 02, 2013
CHOICES WHICH YOU MUST MAKE
You have a choice of feeding Paris Hilton ice cream, or a raccoon. What do you do?
And it need not necessarily be Paris Hilton. It could be any equivalent female of the youthful blondish persuasion with a deficit of wit. There are a huge number of them to choose from, indeed, an almost infinite supply.
But the point is the ice cream. With whom, in this world, would you rather share ice cream?
May I politely suggest the raccoon?
Yes, if it were the yellow-haired humanoid, there would be an excellent chance that at some point the clothing comes off. And though the raccoon is already naked, she is covered with fur. Let us assume that it is a she. From a strictly nasty point of view the female biped is a more natural prospect of enticement. Arms and legs of acceptable proportion and dimension, as well as secondary characteristics which the human male is programmed to find "interesting". Entirely unlike the raccoon.
But the raccoon has a much sweeter personality.
She's far better company, you'll agree.
And, crucially, she won't belly-ache about the flavour of the frozen treat.
Or it's fat-content.
She'll merely sit there happily enjoying her small furry animal sized portion, occasionally looking up at you with admiration -- she knows you have no ulterior motive, you're just an all-round decent guy with a fondness for fuzzy critters and a surplus of ice cream -- whereas the bimbettish blonde will suspect you of any number of things. And with enough sugar in her system, might even act upon those suspicions, in an incredibly unsuitable way. Disrobing or blinking her lashes.
Conceivably even rubbing up against you in public.
Which, if a raccoon were to do it, illustrates that you have a likability and sensitivity towards small animals. If a blonde does it, especially one who is half my age, it suggests dubious personality issues.
I would rather be seen in public with a raccoon.
It's far less likely to raise questions.
Once the raccoon has recovered from her sugar high, she's likely to play with the locks on your cat-door, or figure out a cunning way to open the refrigerator. Or steal your wallet, because at some point in the future she'll want more ice cream and you may not be around. At the time.
Surely you would want her to have more ice cream?
She can't use your credit card; she doesn't look like you in the slightest, and the counter clerk would be incredibly suspicious. But if she handed over a big pile of cash, there wouldn't be any problems.
The raccoon feels certain that you will agree.
Logically she must have the money.
Crisp green dollar bills.
Ice cream!
I would seriously suggest taking her out to dim sum first, though. There's not a whole heck of a lot of nutrition in ice cream, and as the adult male it is your responsibility to ensure a proper diet. Raccoons love both dimsum and ice cream, but they're likely to load up on whatever is first offered.
It's a conditioned reflex, brought on by years of exposure to humans.
Apparently we're fickle, and amazingly flighty.
Can't be relied on for more food.
We have whims.
But they agree that we're far better company than Paris Hilton, or equivalent females of the young blondish persuasion. It's that deficit of wit.
An insurmountable obstacle if ever there was one.
Plus I'm an all-round decent guy, and there's a possibility of ice cream.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And it need not necessarily be Paris Hilton. It could be any equivalent female of the youthful blondish persuasion with a deficit of wit. There are a huge number of them to choose from, indeed, an almost infinite supply.
But the point is the ice cream. With whom, in this world, would you rather share ice cream?
May I politely suggest the raccoon?
Yes, if it were the yellow-haired humanoid, there would be an excellent chance that at some point the clothing comes off. And though the raccoon is already naked, she is covered with fur. Let us assume that it is a she. From a strictly nasty point of view the female biped is a more natural prospect of enticement. Arms and legs of acceptable proportion and dimension, as well as secondary characteristics which the human male is programmed to find "interesting". Entirely unlike the raccoon.
But the raccoon has a much sweeter personality.
She's far better company, you'll agree.
And, crucially, she won't belly-ache about the flavour of the frozen treat.
Or it's fat-content.
She'll merely sit there happily enjoying her small furry animal sized portion, occasionally looking up at you with admiration -- she knows you have no ulterior motive, you're just an all-round decent guy with a fondness for fuzzy critters and a surplus of ice cream -- whereas the bimbettish blonde will suspect you of any number of things. And with enough sugar in her system, might even act upon those suspicions, in an incredibly unsuitable way. Disrobing or blinking her lashes.
Conceivably even rubbing up against you in public.
Which, if a raccoon were to do it, illustrates that you have a likability and sensitivity towards small animals. If a blonde does it, especially one who is half my age, it suggests dubious personality issues.
I would rather be seen in public with a raccoon.
It's far less likely to raise questions.
Once the raccoon has recovered from her sugar high, she's likely to play with the locks on your cat-door, or figure out a cunning way to open the refrigerator. Or steal your wallet, because at some point in the future she'll want more ice cream and you may not be around. At the time.
Surely you would want her to have more ice cream?
She can't use your credit card; she doesn't look like you in the slightest, and the counter clerk would be incredibly suspicious. But if she handed over a big pile of cash, there wouldn't be any problems.
The raccoon feels certain that you will agree.
Logically she must have the money.
Crisp green dollar bills.
Ice cream!
I would seriously suggest taking her out to dim sum first, though. There's not a whole heck of a lot of nutrition in ice cream, and as the adult male it is your responsibility to ensure a proper diet. Raccoons love both dimsum and ice cream, but they're likely to load up on whatever is first offered.
It's a conditioned reflex, brought on by years of exposure to humans.
Apparently we're fickle, and amazingly flighty.
Can't be relied on for more food.
We have whims.
But they agree that we're far better company than Paris Hilton, or equivalent females of the young blondish persuasion. It's that deficit of wit.
An insurmountable obstacle if ever there was one.
Plus I'm an all-round decent guy, and there's a possibility of ice cream.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ANYTHING BUT HELLO KITTY
It's about time I admit it: I like small animals. Always have. There's just something about anthropomorphically suggestive creatures with fur and likable traits that appeals immensely to me. Which you may have noticed on this blog before. Raccoons. Weasels. Intelligent rodents. Cats. Dogs. Otters. And my neighbor Totoro.
Also crows and amphibians, even though they lack fur.
They have other lovable characteristics.
As a child I read the stories by Beatrix Potter. They were probably my first foray into literacy, and prepared the way for the Narnia series. Over time other animals wandered into my imagination, and even in adulthood, they haven't left. But they're a bit darker now. Anarchic cigar-chomping raccoons terrorizing the local Chihuahua population, or grumpy badgers wandering around Nob Hill looking for weasel-damsels to court.
I'm sure badgers like weasels; they're small, cute, and wriggly.
As well as incredibly carnivorous.
Fiercely real.
This blogger is not a butterfly, blossom, and Hello Kitty person at all.
Hello Kitty usually induces a gag-reflex. Much like transformers, Barney the Dinosaur, Dora the Explorer, and all the other pablum saccharine garbage crammed down kiddies' throats these days. Anthropomorphic heroes and heroines are NOT cutesy-poo. They are fully developed personalities, with very real failings, bad habits, and logically necessary eccentricities.
Instead of two-dimensional, and safe for your kiddiewinkies.
Or, heaven forfend, decorative underwear motifs.
Real people do NOT wear Hello Kitty.
Although they may wear Snoopy pajamas.
Hello Kitty probably does not even like animal protein. Everything about her suggests that a can of tuna fish would rupture her brain, rather than send her into rapture. Damned little tofu-freak. Just pastries and soy-milk and Vegan shit. She probably lives in San Francisco, and has a tattoo.
Something meaningful and spiritual.
Hello Kitty is NOT suitable as a totem for any rational woman. Pallas Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, is. And maybe likewise Diane the Huntress. If we're talking imaginary. Among characters that really existed, perhaps Queen Boudica, who led the Celtic tribes of Britain in a savage war against Rome.
It takes confidence to model yourself after such representations.
Whereas Hello Kitty garbage exhibits weakness.
Primarily in the brain-department.
Hello Kitty has no sex.
She is neuter.
A freak.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Also crows and amphibians, even though they lack fur.
They have other lovable characteristics.
As a child I read the stories by Beatrix Potter. They were probably my first foray into literacy, and prepared the way for the Narnia series. Over time other animals wandered into my imagination, and even in adulthood, they haven't left. But they're a bit darker now. Anarchic cigar-chomping raccoons terrorizing the local Chihuahua population, or grumpy badgers wandering around Nob Hill looking for weasel-damsels to court.
I'm sure badgers like weasels; they're small, cute, and wriggly.
As well as incredibly carnivorous.
Fiercely real.
This blogger is not a butterfly, blossom, and Hello Kitty person at all.
Hello Kitty usually induces a gag-reflex. Much like transformers, Barney the Dinosaur, Dora the Explorer, and all the other pablum saccharine garbage crammed down kiddies' throats these days. Anthropomorphic heroes and heroines are NOT cutesy-poo. They are fully developed personalities, with very real failings, bad habits, and logically necessary eccentricities.
Instead of two-dimensional, and safe for your kiddiewinkies.
Or, heaven forfend, decorative underwear motifs.
Real people do NOT wear Hello Kitty.
Although they may wear Snoopy pajamas.
Hello Kitty probably does not even like animal protein. Everything about her suggests that a can of tuna fish would rupture her brain, rather than send her into rapture. Damned little tofu-freak. Just pastries and soy-milk and Vegan shit. She probably lives in San Francisco, and has a tattoo.
Something meaningful and spiritual.
Hello Kitty is NOT suitable as a totem for any rational woman. Pallas Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, is. And maybe likewise Diane the Huntress. If we're talking imaginary. Among characters that really existed, perhaps Queen Boudica, who led the Celtic tribes of Britain in a savage war against Rome.
It takes confidence to model yourself after such representations.
Whereas Hello Kitty garbage exhibits weakness.
Primarily in the brain-department.
Hello Kitty has no sex.
She is neuter.
A freak.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 01, 2013
DATING A PIPESMOKER: USEFUL THINGS TO KNOW BEFOREHAND
Many women go into relationships assuming that curves and a bit of nooky will be enough to keep their man happy and quiescent. Or at least shut him up, for hours on end. Slack-jawed, smiling. Not so when you date a pipe-smoker. Men with pipes are made of sterner stuff.
[IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: Pipe-smokers actually would love curves and a bit of nooky now and then.
But that is neither here nor there. It isn't the point of this post in any case. Curves and a bit of nooky.]
For one thing, they aren't really into pizza and the ball-game.
Consequently they won't have friends over on Sunday.
You might actually have to make conversation.
I know! Too ghastly to contemplate!
Most women are just not up to the task. They were counting on at least ONE day a week during which they could shop for handbags and shoes until they reach orgasm, after which they and their gaggle of girlfriends could head over to The Lobster Grotto to inhale melted butter and ogle that boy-toy Spanish waiter with the snake hips and rock-hard tush.
Intellectually, they just aren't ready to talk.
The same rule applies to dating a pipe-smoker as taking up pipe-smoking yourself.
Namely: 'if you weren't neurotic before, you will be soon'.
For heavens' sakes, he's thoughtful!
How perfectly horrid!
There are other things very nearly as disturbing, even depressing, about men who smoke pipes. Unlike standard-issue husband material, they tend to be like finger-prints: each one is unique.
As well as responsive to stimuli.
Most pipe-smokers have a faint to strong odour of tobaccos on their person at nearly all times. It might be something delightfully smoky, like a Latakia blend, or something markedly herbal in the aged Virginia category. If you're lucky, it will be tropic fruits and caramel. That type of pipe-smoker is nearly as brain-dead as the average male, and while there are moments when he may crave conversational interaction, it will just be idle chatter about videogames, Nascar, or Star Trek.
Overly aromatic tobaccos don't require a mind.
The worst ones are the types that can't settle on just one blend. You never know what that smell is, nor what they're likely to talk about. Any of the clever gambits that the average woman typically uses to calm down a normal man just cannot succeed.
"There there, little wombat", you will say, "things will be ALL right."
There there. Problem is that he's too complex for plain and simple existential angst, and thus your reassuring waffle will NOT work.
It wasn't angst, and if you continue thinking that it was, he will wonder at your sanity, and likely consider you mentally defective.
He won't say anything. But he'll think it.
It's the beginning of disaster.
"There there, little wombat; things will be all right!"
"Good lord, she's as dumb a dingo. I should know by know that big bosoms mean small brains."
A pipe-smoker will NEVER settle down into sports-watching pizza-snarfing dude-dom. That's what suburban types and folks from New Jersey are for. Instead, they're rather like the Europeans, but not nearly so arrogant or German.
Pipe-smoking inculcates clean habits, considerate behavior, an active mind, and generally speaking, a more intellectual approach to sexual relations. That last one means that they will habitually think pre-emptively and pro-actively. "If I give her something nice to eat", they might assume, "I may get her into the mood to watch Monty Python". After which we'll quote John Cleese and Eric Idle at each other while slowly melting. And then, the COMFY PILLOW!
No one expects the comfy pillow.
One the other hand, if you're the kind of woman who likes the Spanish Inquisition Sketch, or uttering the words "he's NOT the Messiah, he's a very naughty boy", go ahead and date a pipe-smoker. But don't say you weren't warned. He might turn into a Scotsman before your very eyes.
Or a blanc-mange.
Or both.
AFTER WORD
This blogger smokes a pipe, by the way. It's one of my more lovable habits. So far it has kept women away in droves, why, vast herds of the creatures have fled screaming southward towards San Mateo, where there are lots of nice safe pizza-snarfing sports maniacs. Or they've thundered off in the direction of Oakland and the Eastbay, where they can tearfully fall into the arms of drugdealers, streetthugs, and drunken frat-boys from Berkeley. People, I have good reason to believe, who are more their type.
For the past few years I have not been set upon by women.
I haven't been pressured into pizza or sports.
Or forced to go on shopping trips.
It's been 'peaceful'.
Very.
Albeit a bit too quiet at times.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: Pipe-smokers actually would love curves and a bit of nooky now and then.
But that is neither here nor there. It isn't the point of this post in any case. Curves and a bit of nooky.]
For one thing, they aren't really into pizza and the ball-game.
Consequently they won't have friends over on Sunday.
You might actually have to make conversation.
I know! Too ghastly to contemplate!
Most women are just not up to the task. They were counting on at least ONE day a week during which they could shop for handbags and shoes until they reach orgasm, after which they and their gaggle of girlfriends could head over to The Lobster Grotto to inhale melted butter and ogle that boy-toy Spanish waiter with the snake hips and rock-hard tush.
Intellectually, they just aren't ready to talk.
The same rule applies to dating a pipe-smoker as taking up pipe-smoking yourself.
Namely: 'if you weren't neurotic before, you will be soon'.
For heavens' sakes, he's thoughtful!
How perfectly horrid!
There are other things very nearly as disturbing, even depressing, about men who smoke pipes. Unlike standard-issue husband material, they tend to be like finger-prints: each one is unique.
As well as responsive to stimuli.
Most pipe-smokers have a faint to strong odour of tobaccos on their person at nearly all times. It might be something delightfully smoky, like a Latakia blend, or something markedly herbal in the aged Virginia category. If you're lucky, it will be tropic fruits and caramel. That type of pipe-smoker is nearly as brain-dead as the average male, and while there are moments when he may crave conversational interaction, it will just be idle chatter about videogames, Nascar, or Star Trek.
Overly aromatic tobaccos don't require a mind.
The worst ones are the types that can't settle on just one blend. You never know what that smell is, nor what they're likely to talk about. Any of the clever gambits that the average woman typically uses to calm down a normal man just cannot succeed.
"There there, little wombat", you will say, "things will be ALL right."
There there. Problem is that he's too complex for plain and simple existential angst, and thus your reassuring waffle will NOT work.
It wasn't angst, and if you continue thinking that it was, he will wonder at your sanity, and likely consider you mentally defective.
He won't say anything. But he'll think it.
It's the beginning of disaster.
"There there, little wombat; things will be all right!"
"Good lord, she's as dumb a dingo. I should know by know that big bosoms mean small brains."
A pipe-smoker will NEVER settle down into sports-watching pizza-snarfing dude-dom. That's what suburban types and folks from New Jersey are for. Instead, they're rather like the Europeans, but not nearly so arrogant or German.
Pipe-smoking inculcates clean habits, considerate behavior, an active mind, and generally speaking, a more intellectual approach to sexual relations. That last one means that they will habitually think pre-emptively and pro-actively. "If I give her something nice to eat", they might assume, "I may get her into the mood to watch Monty Python". After which we'll quote John Cleese and Eric Idle at each other while slowly melting. And then, the COMFY PILLOW!
No one expects the comfy pillow.
One the other hand, if you're the kind of woman who likes the Spanish Inquisition Sketch, or uttering the words "he's NOT the Messiah, he's a very naughty boy", go ahead and date a pipe-smoker. But don't say you weren't warned. He might turn into a Scotsman before your very eyes.
Or a blanc-mange.
Or both.
AFTER WORD
This blogger smokes a pipe, by the way. It's one of my more lovable habits. So far it has kept women away in droves, why, vast herds of the creatures have fled screaming southward towards San Mateo, where there are lots of nice safe pizza-snarfing sports maniacs. Or they've thundered off in the direction of Oakland and the Eastbay, where they can tearfully fall into the arms of drugdealers, streetthugs, and drunken frat-boys from Berkeley. People, I have good reason to believe, who are more their type.
For the past few years I have not been set upon by women.
I haven't been pressured into pizza or sports.
Or forced to go on shopping trips.
It's been 'peaceful'.
Very.
Albeit a bit too quiet at times.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
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,...
