For the curious, here's a partial list of flower shops in Kowloon:
TSIM SHA TSUI (尖沙咀) : 新記花店、 維納斯花廊、 半島花店、
牛記花店、 聯藝花店、 利寶花店、 格蘭花店、 東方花舍、
祥興花店、 花道工作室、 花盧。
TSIM TUNG (尖東) : 紫之夢禮品花店、 水橋花、 花城花店。
MONG KOK (旺角) : 香港花店送禮坊。 Casablanca Flower Shop、
花團錦簇、 佳佳花店、 山城花藝、 心怡花舍、 繽紛花店、 培記、
百利花卉、 時新花店。
YAU MA TEI (油麻地) : 龍寶花店、 秀蘭軒、 妍楓鮮花。
KWUN TONG (觀塘) : 雅麗花屋、 水晶花屋、 四季棧花店、
花藝舍、 花藝軒。
HUNG HOM (紅磡) : 妍楓鮮花、 有間花店、 而影鮮花批發、
四季花舍、 世界花店、 明華花店。
CHEUNG SHA WAN (長沙灣) : 花 。果店、 緣份廊、
匯林里花廊、 卓思花藝、 怡豐禮品設計、 沙崙花藝創作、
攸然自得花圃 合興花店。
Useful and informative link:
MONGKOK FLOWER MARKET
Addresses and contact information:
九龍區花店 KOWLOON DISTRICT FLOWER SHOPS
Flower Market Road:
旺角花墟道
Kwun Tong:
觀塘區
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 11, 2013
CHANGE REGULARLY
The other day someone asked me all kinds of questions about pipes and tobacco. And seemed very surprised to hear that one should have more than one or two pipes. It seemed so wasteful and silly, why, all a man needed was one decent piece of briar and that was it!
He was quite vehement about this.
The opinionated swine.
No.
It's like underwear.
You always need MORE than one.
In fact, you probably need more briars than boxers. Unless you are a woman, or don't smoke. Then you can limit yourself to one, and who the hell actually cares? Yes, the logic is that a woman should not own (many) boxer shorts, and non-smokers can be as grungy as they want to be, because they are probably dried-up, and spiteful to boot.
If you ARE a woman, you should probably have more pipes than brassieres. This holds for men too, by the way.
The reason for such a plurality is cleanliness. A clean pipe that has not been over-used will make you happy, exactly like your underwear. Rotate, and maintain. Never smoke the same pipe two days in a row. This applies to all adult pipe-smokers. College students are different; they might not be able to afford more than one pipe, pair of boxers, or brassiere. They're skinned, all available funds are needed for beer, and we expect them to smell unpleasant.
It's been a while since I was in school, so I don't really know what goes one there, for all I know men and women now share everything, and all of it is thoroughly stained with pizza.
Besides, like most fine and upstanding young Americans, no doubt they no longer smoke tobacco, but make up for it by huffing incredible quantities of marijuana, in order to alleviate glaucoma, lack of appetite, lassitude, and attention deficit disorder. The less one speculates about collegiate underwear, the better.
Marijuana is green, and therapeutic.
One of my friends admits that she stole one of her boyfriend's boxer shorts, and wears them around the house when he's away on business to remind her of him. I think that's incredibly sweet. If any one were to steal my underwear, I would hope that there's a similar reason.
More likely, though, it will get purloined to wipe the windshield when washing the car.
That, also, is a good reason to have more than one, whether it's briar pipes, baggy cotton boxer shorts, or Victoria's Secret bras.
Around a dozen is probably a minimum.
Let them breathe when not in use.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He was quite vehement about this.
The opinionated swine.
No.
It's like underwear.
You always need MORE than one.
In fact, you probably need more briars than boxers. Unless you are a woman, or don't smoke. Then you can limit yourself to one, and who the hell actually cares? Yes, the logic is that a woman should not own (many) boxer shorts, and non-smokers can be as grungy as they want to be, because they are probably dried-up, and spiteful to boot.
If you ARE a woman, you should probably have more pipes than brassieres. This holds for men too, by the way.
The reason for such a plurality is cleanliness. A clean pipe that has not been over-used will make you happy, exactly like your underwear. Rotate, and maintain. Never smoke the same pipe two days in a row. This applies to all adult pipe-smokers. College students are different; they might not be able to afford more than one pipe, pair of boxers, or brassiere. They're skinned, all available funds are needed for beer, and we expect them to smell unpleasant.
It's been a while since I was in school, so I don't really know what goes one there, for all I know men and women now share everything, and all of it is thoroughly stained with pizza.
Besides, like most fine and upstanding young Americans, no doubt they no longer smoke tobacco, but make up for it by huffing incredible quantities of marijuana, in order to alleviate glaucoma, lack of appetite, lassitude, and attention deficit disorder. The less one speculates about collegiate underwear, the better.
Marijuana is green, and therapeutic.
One of my friends admits that she stole one of her boyfriend's boxer shorts, and wears them around the house when he's away on business to remind her of him. I think that's incredibly sweet. If any one were to steal my underwear, I would hope that there's a similar reason.
More likely, though, it will get purloined to wipe the windshield when washing the car.
That, also, is a good reason to have more than one, whether it's briar pipes, baggy cotton boxer shorts, or Victoria's Secret bras.
Around a dozen is probably a minimum.
Let them breathe when not in use.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 10, 2013
GOVERNMENT SHUTDOWN? NO! BOOBIES, FOOD, AND UNMENTIONABLES!
Today's most avidly read posts on this blog indicate that despite the queering of the American economy by rabid Republicans determined that the undeserving poor and middle-classes should NEVER get a whack at decent healthcare, my readers still have their heads screwed on straight, their priorities in order, and sound values solidly in place.
Which tells me that I've got the right demographic.
All writers want the right demographic.
My demographic is special.
The three most popular essays for the past twenty-four hours are about portions of the female anatomy and manly appreciation for same, good things to stick in your mouth, and underwear.
No. 1: fifty four years old, but still an adolescent at heart.
REPEATING THE MAGIC MANTRA
No. 2: places for your delicious little dumplings.
DIM SUM RESTAURANTS IN SAN FRANCISCO
No. 3: helpfully sharing my knowledge.
DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FRENCH CUT AND HIGH CUT
See, that's why you come here; the zesty combination of investigative journalism and useful recommendations.
Of these three, my own personal favourite is the one about good dim sum restaurants in San Francisco. It's more immediately useful, and far more relevant to my present life. Food is always fascinating.
The fact that I'm fifty-four is neither here nor there, given that only women are ever seriously concerned about age -- there is no woman in my life at present -- and I consider myself far younger than I really am.
Rather timeless, in fact. Like all amiable eccentrics.
And the last one is, if you think about it, rather sad.
There are absolutely no French or High cut items in my life. I didn't steal any when I had the chance, not that I would have done so, nor would they do me any good now.
Both French and High cuts are vastly improved by the right wearer. Mere possession of them rings hollow; they're cold and impersonal without the proper contents.
The only things that empty panties are good for is bringing bad luck to a business where one has been ill-treated, or for winning while playing mahjong. I am not a resentful man, so I will not shove less than new feminine underwear through the mailbox of any establishment, and I do not play mahjong, so I shan't wear them underneath my clothes to defeat the other players with my powerful yin-energy.
That doesn't mean I haven't been tempted.
But manfully I resist the urge.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which tells me that I've got the right demographic.
All writers want the right demographic.
My demographic is special.
The three most popular essays for the past twenty-four hours are about portions of the female anatomy and manly appreciation for same, good things to stick in your mouth, and underwear.
No. 1: fifty four years old, but still an adolescent at heart.
REPEATING THE MAGIC MANTRA
No. 2: places for your delicious little dumplings.
DIM SUM RESTAURANTS IN SAN FRANCISCO
No. 3: helpfully sharing my knowledge.
DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FRENCH CUT AND HIGH CUT
See, that's why you come here; the zesty combination of investigative journalism and useful recommendations.
Of these three, my own personal favourite is the one about good dim sum restaurants in San Francisco. It's more immediately useful, and far more relevant to my present life. Food is always fascinating.
The fact that I'm fifty-four is neither here nor there, given that only women are ever seriously concerned about age -- there is no woman in my life at present -- and I consider myself far younger than I really am.
Rather timeless, in fact. Like all amiable eccentrics.
And the last one is, if you think about it, rather sad.
There are absolutely no French or High cut items in my life. I didn't steal any when I had the chance, not that I would have done so, nor would they do me any good now.
Both French and High cuts are vastly improved by the right wearer. Mere possession of them rings hollow; they're cold and impersonal without the proper contents.
The only things that empty panties are good for is bringing bad luck to a business where one has been ill-treated, or for winning while playing mahjong. I am not a resentful man, so I will not shove less than new feminine underwear through the mailbox of any establishment, and I do not play mahjong, so I shan't wear them underneath my clothes to defeat the other players with my powerful yin-energy.
That doesn't mean I haven't been tempted.
But manfully I resist the urge.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I AM ANYTHING BUT UN-IMPRESSED WITH MY OWN SASSY SELF
Honestly, I do not know why I even bothered to sign-up for OKCupid. Maybe it was desperation. Or boredom. Perhaps just ill-advised curiosity about the other species.
OKCupid is a dating site. Years ago, when for laughs I joined as Borat Sagdiyev, I didn't expect that he would prove so popular among their subscribers. I had answered the questionnaire in character, assuming that no woman would be smitten by a crude sexist vulgarian.
I was wrong. No sane woman would.
Hundreds of others were.
Desperate times.
About a year ago I joined up again. As myself.
Desperation, boredom, & curiosity.
Crazy move, I know.
I am not Borat.
OKCupid insists on trying to link me up with people who are 100% perfect. Which their profiles take pains to make utterly and completely plain, so that even the densest of males will be astounded by their awesome wonderfulness.
Herewith a sampling of the most recent candidates.
"I am creative, devoted, and always up for trying new things. Current events, current movies, current books my interest"
"I'm physically active, secure, financially & otherwise and non-judgemental if you are interested in sharing my grand passion for authentic experiences"
"I am witty, kind and incredibly loyal, I'm also adventurous, well traveled and well read"
"I have done a lot of great things but I would love to share these experiences with someone special"
"I’m really good at writing singing playing guitar languages listening understanding designing and being spontaneous"
"I am charming, athletic, artistic, and driven. I love muscle cars, art, sports, and outdoors. I'm looking to meet someone who has a strong interest in sports"
"I am a pretty happy accomplished girl who loves traveling, camping, and finding new places to explore. I like being around people who are being spontanious, adventures and extraverted like me"
"I love photography, artistic things, acting and fashion"
"I spend a lot of time thinking about how to make a difference"
"I'm enjoy cooking, baking, cleaning, riding bicycle, playing music"
"I'm reading, singing, walking, looking forward to adventuring in Africa"
"I spend a lot of time thinking about why Africa moves so slowly, tofu, biogas"
Well now. Aren't they just.
I am flattered that OKCupid thinks they would be suitable for me.
But really, they deserve someone special.
Which I am decidedly not.
I am not creative, devoted, grandly passionate, adventurous, designing, spontaneous, charming, athletic, artistic, driven, accomplished, riding a bicycle, singing, or in any way looking forward to Africa.
I seldom think of biogas.
I am unworthy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
OKCupid is a dating site. Years ago, when for laughs I joined as Borat Sagdiyev, I didn't expect that he would prove so popular among their subscribers. I had answered the questionnaire in character, assuming that no woman would be smitten by a crude sexist vulgarian.
I was wrong. No sane woman would.
Hundreds of others were.
Desperate times.
About a year ago I joined up again. As myself.
Desperation, boredom, & curiosity.
Crazy move, I know.
I am not Borat.
OKCupid insists on trying to link me up with people who are 100% perfect. Which their profiles take pains to make utterly and completely plain, so that even the densest of males will be astounded by their awesome wonderfulness.
Herewith a sampling of the most recent candidates.
"I am creative, devoted, and always up for trying new things. Current events, current movies, current books my interest"
"I'm physically active, secure, financially & otherwise and non-judgemental if you are interested in sharing my grand passion for authentic experiences"
"I am witty, kind and incredibly loyal, I'm also adventurous, well traveled and well read"
"I have done a lot of great things but I would love to share these experiences with someone special"
"I’m really good at writing singing playing guitar languages listening understanding designing and being spontaneous"
"I am charming, athletic, artistic, and driven. I love muscle cars, art, sports, and outdoors. I'm looking to meet someone who has a strong interest in sports"
"I am a pretty happy accomplished girl who loves traveling, camping, and finding new places to explore. I like being around people who are being spontanious, adventures and extraverted like me"
"I love photography, artistic things, acting and fashion"
"I spend a lot of time thinking about how to make a difference"
"I'm enjoy cooking, baking, cleaning, riding bicycle, playing music"
"I'm reading, singing, walking, looking forward to adventuring in Africa"
"I spend a lot of time thinking about why Africa moves so slowly, tofu, biogas"
Well now. Aren't they just.
I am flattered that OKCupid thinks they would be suitable for me.
But really, they deserve someone special.
Which I am decidedly not.
I am not creative, devoted, grandly passionate, adventurous, designing, spontaneous, charming, athletic, artistic, driven, accomplished, riding a bicycle, singing, or in any way looking forward to Africa.
I seldom think of biogas.
I am unworthy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 09, 2013
REPEATING THE MAGIC MANTRA
This blogger, it should not surprise you, is not particularly given to existential crises, but is a rational and well-balanced individual.
I often deliberately overlook the slights that would wound more fragile people, and tolerate a fairly wide range of behavioural peculiarity from the folks around me. It is smoother to do so.
And I'm enough of a realist to realize that life, in the main, is a rather trying experience. Disappointing, and sometimes arid. Although it is vastly better than any alternatives that I am aware of.
Living is participation in a flawed process.
It's something one just has to do.
Enforced attendance.
Never-the-less, I am presently keenly aware that I am fifty four years old, and not loved. Sort-of liked, yes, and that by several people.
Not loved. I do not arouse passion or tenderness.
That isn't necessarily a bad thing -- Charlie Manson inspired love, and consequently no one told him that he was a lousy musician -- but you will agree that being just "sort-of liked" is not very inspiring.
I would much rather be loved.
It sounds zesty.
FIFTY FOUR
Middle-aged men are rather like Humpty Dumpty; words will always mean what we intend them to mean. And in this blogger's vocabulary, fifty four years old is EARLY fifties. Not, as some unbearably young people might assert, MID fifties. Early fifties. As in "early middle age". Or barely even an adult. Early at best.
The middle fifties are only after one has hit fifty five or fifty six, all the way to one year before sixty. Which is the 'late fifties'. At which point one may describe oneself as 'middle aged', rather than 'early middle aged', or 'barely grown-up'.
Old age doesn't start until a decade after retirement. At least. And then only if one is deaf, has severe arthritis, and there is leakage of some sort. Or the moral equivalent of leakage, if not any actual leaking.
A minimum of three symptoms have to be present to qualify.
Given that I am quite spry, vibrant, and flexible even, it will be a very long time indeed before anyone will describe me as old. Well, except for extremely young people seated on the bus, looking up at the lovely silver-blonde in my beard, and mistaking it for a sign of antiquity.
They're youthful, they're so very very inexperienced.
I shall forgive them, and no I don't need a seat.
Really, I am quite comfortable standing.
[The view is much better this way.]
Fossilhood is late eighties at the very earliest. Deafness, arthritis, leakage, querulousness, off-tangent remarks, and tremors.
As well as multiple reasons for physical embarrassment, plus mumbling, and voting the Republican ticket.
No longer an interest in boobies, but having become one.
By that last criterion, even mature adulthood may be a very long way off.
I'll have to re-think my definition of middle age.
I am still quite young, adolescent even.
Life is very good indeed.
Boobies. Nice.
It's the 'child within'.
Playful. Infantile.
Boooooobies.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I often deliberately overlook the slights that would wound more fragile people, and tolerate a fairly wide range of behavioural peculiarity from the folks around me. It is smoother to do so.
And I'm enough of a realist to realize that life, in the main, is a rather trying experience. Disappointing, and sometimes arid. Although it is vastly better than any alternatives that I am aware of.
Living is participation in a flawed process.
It's something one just has to do.
Enforced attendance.
Never-the-less, I am presently keenly aware that I am fifty four years old, and not loved. Sort-of liked, yes, and that by several people.
Not loved. I do not arouse passion or tenderness.
That isn't necessarily a bad thing -- Charlie Manson inspired love, and consequently no one told him that he was a lousy musician -- but you will agree that being just "sort-of liked" is not very inspiring.
I would much rather be loved.
It sounds zesty.
FIFTY FOUR
Middle-aged men are rather like Humpty Dumpty; words will always mean what we intend them to mean. And in this blogger's vocabulary, fifty four years old is EARLY fifties. Not, as some unbearably young people might assert, MID fifties. Early fifties. As in "early middle age". Or barely even an adult. Early at best.
The middle fifties are only after one has hit fifty five or fifty six, all the way to one year before sixty. Which is the 'late fifties'. At which point one may describe oneself as 'middle aged', rather than 'early middle aged', or 'barely grown-up'.
Old age doesn't start until a decade after retirement. At least. And then only if one is deaf, has severe arthritis, and there is leakage of some sort. Or the moral equivalent of leakage, if not any actual leaking.
A minimum of three symptoms have to be present to qualify.
Given that I am quite spry, vibrant, and flexible even, it will be a very long time indeed before anyone will describe me as old. Well, except for extremely young people seated on the bus, looking up at the lovely silver-blonde in my beard, and mistaking it for a sign of antiquity.
They're youthful, they're so very very inexperienced.
I shall forgive them, and no I don't need a seat.
Really, I am quite comfortable standing.
[The view is much better this way.]
Fossilhood is late eighties at the very earliest. Deafness, arthritis, leakage, querulousness, off-tangent remarks, and tremors.
As well as multiple reasons for physical embarrassment, plus mumbling, and voting the Republican ticket.
No longer an interest in boobies, but having become one.
By that last criterion, even mature adulthood may be a very long way off.
I'll have to re-think my definition of middle age.
I am still quite young, adolescent even.
Life is very good indeed.
Boobies. Nice.
It's the 'child within'.
Playful. Infantile.
Boooooobies.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
REPUBLICANS -- DID YOU KNOW...
Not only are Republicans incorrigible racists, but they are also sexists.
Did you know that?
For a number of years now the Republicans have been making thinly veiled remarks about black people that betray their essentially unreconstructed bigot backgrounds -- just look at any of the usual internet sites for hundreds, thousands upon thousands, of comments, that in addition to slope-browed spelling errors and utterly bone-headed fact-checking mistakes, also say all kinds of remarkable things about our current president, black people in general, Latinos, Asian Americans, homosexuals, and handicapped people -- but they also have a misogynist streak about as wide as the Mississippi.
[Editorial input: No no no, that's just wrong! Republicans LOVE black people, Asian Americans, homosexuals, handicapped people, and women! The rank and file as well as the upper echelons make every effort to be inclusionary, as is clear from important social policies that they support.]
Honestly, they don't like women.
[Editorial input: That's an unfounded statement. Many Republicans have married women. Working for them.]
They feel threatened by capable women. That may explain why they love Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachman, and Jennifer Carroll.
[Editorial input: All three of those women are extremely capable, that's why they rose so high in the party, and they're married.]
But they don't like Hillary.
[True that.]
"KFC HILLARY SPECIAL TWO FAT THIGHS TWO SMALL BREASTS ... LEFT WING"
------Button available at the Republican convention in Anaheim.
Source: Offensive anti-Hillary GOP buttons - SF Chronicle.
Outreach at the convention towards “Women on the Right”, “Asian Pacific American Elected Officials”, and “Latino Elected Officials” apparently does not contradict the well-known Republican National Obsession™ with vacuous huge-titted right wing zotsbrains.
[Editorial input: It doesn't. Those are all factual observations about Ms. Clinton. Are you going to deny the facts? How Democrat of you.]
They can tolerate "diversity" that chirps prettily.
They should try Texas; it's brain-dead country.
They'll get big hair and genuine idiocy also.
[Editorial input: Texas is the salt of the earth. There are no idiots there. And it's un-Christian and narrow-minded to be so negative about hair-style choices. This is a free country]
Although, if there's anywhere in California that qualifies as a rightwing paradise, Anaheim certainly does.
BTW: I enjoy talking smack about republicans. And Texans. And tea-baggers. And inbred trailerpark Tornado alley Southerners, mid-Westerners, fundamentalist Christians, Baptists, Idolaters and Romans, Nascar fans, Arabs, Wasps, Irish Americans, beauty queens, Bush, obnoxiously PC Berkeleyites, all Berkeleyites, hipppies, Rednecks, punk musians, Coors drinkers, Starbucks, suburbanites, wiccans, tattooed people, smokers of Acid cigars, Frenchmen, Argentinians, Brazilians, Serbians, non-Dutch speakers, cat lovers, peace activists, Tom Ammiano, City Lights Bookstore and their grating feel-good armchair revolutionary pretendeurism, vegans, moral crusaders, the anti-tobacco movement.......
And Anaheim.
Problem?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Did you know that?
For a number of years now the Republicans have been making thinly veiled remarks about black people that betray their essentially unreconstructed bigot backgrounds -- just look at any of the usual internet sites for hundreds, thousands upon thousands, of comments, that in addition to slope-browed spelling errors and utterly bone-headed fact-checking mistakes, also say all kinds of remarkable things about our current president, black people in general, Latinos, Asian Americans, homosexuals, and handicapped people -- but they also have a misogynist streak about as wide as the Mississippi.
[Editorial input: No no no, that's just wrong! Republicans LOVE black people, Asian Americans, homosexuals, handicapped people, and women! The rank and file as well as the upper echelons make every effort to be inclusionary, as is clear from important social policies that they support.]
Honestly, they don't like women.
[Editorial input: That's an unfounded statement. Many Republicans have married women. Working for them.]
They feel threatened by capable women. That may explain why they love Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachman, and Jennifer Carroll.
[Editorial input: All three of those women are extremely capable, that's why they rose so high in the party, and they're married.]
But they don't like Hillary.
[True that.]
"KFC HILLARY SPECIAL TWO FAT THIGHS TWO SMALL BREASTS ... LEFT WING"
------Button available at the Republican convention in Anaheim.
Source: Offensive anti-Hillary GOP buttons - SF Chronicle.
Outreach at the convention towards “Women on the Right”, “Asian Pacific American Elected Officials”, and “Latino Elected Officials” apparently does not contradict the well-known Republican National Obsession™ with vacuous huge-titted right wing zotsbrains.
[Editorial input: It doesn't. Those are all factual observations about Ms. Clinton. Are you going to deny the facts? How Democrat of you.]
They can tolerate "diversity" that chirps prettily.
They should try Texas; it's brain-dead country.
They'll get big hair and genuine idiocy also.
[Editorial input: Texas is the salt of the earth. There are no idiots there. And it's un-Christian and narrow-minded to be so negative about hair-style choices. This is a free country]
Although, if there's anywhere in California that qualifies as a rightwing paradise, Anaheim certainly does.
BTW: I enjoy talking smack about republicans. And Texans. And tea-baggers. And inbred trailerpark Tornado alley Southerners, mid-Westerners, fundamentalist Christians, Baptists, Idolaters and Romans, Nascar fans, Arabs, Wasps, Irish Americans, beauty queens, Bush, obnoxiously PC Berkeleyites, all Berkeleyites, hipppies, Rednecks, punk musians, Coors drinkers, Starbucks, suburbanites, wiccans, tattooed people, smokers of Acid cigars, Frenchmen, Argentinians, Brazilians, Serbians, non-Dutch speakers, cat lovers, peace activists, Tom Ammiano, City Lights Bookstore and their grating feel-good armchair revolutionary pretendeurism, vegans, moral crusaders, the anti-tobacco movement.......
And Anaheim.
Problem?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 08, 2013
PLAYING IN TRAFFIC
It has become apparent that my apartment mate and I do not necessarily get along smoothly. No, we understand each other far too well, and we've known each other such a long time, that we aren't ever likely to declare war on each other. And we actually have great mutual regard.
But we do need to be away from each other sometimes.
I don't behave around her like I would around other people, and my presence puts limitations on her necessary post-work decompression.
She requires time alone. I am alone most of the time anyway.
I get plenty of that.
So I probably will take long walks in the evenings. Ideally there would be somewhere that I could just hang out, read, and occasionally pause or step outside for a pipe-full of tobacco. But coffeeshops have become rowdy non-smoking environments for the chattersome classes, and while I like people, I don't like a multitude.
Someplace quiet.
Three to four hours, several evenings a week.
The library is out of the question, as it's filled with nuts.
Until the rains come, the upper reaches of Nob Hill and environs are the likeliest haunts. It's peaceful between here and Chinatown.
I'll just have to remember that smokers must humbly skulk in a wide arc around non-smokers with children or dogs.
Or unaccompanied children.
And dogs.
And stay out of parks. As well as maintain a minimum of fifteen feet distance from doors, windows, patios, foyers, outdoor seating, airwells, ventilation shafts or devices, elevators, service areas, entryways, bus stops, wheelchair ramps, homeless shelters, government offices, child-care facilities, passenger loading zones, educational and medical institutions, intellectuals, and politically correct people.
Most sidewalks around here are about ten feet wide.
Watch out for cars.
No reading.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But we do need to be away from each other sometimes.
I don't behave around her like I would around other people, and my presence puts limitations on her necessary post-work decompression.
She requires time alone. I am alone most of the time anyway.
I get plenty of that.
So I probably will take long walks in the evenings. Ideally there would be somewhere that I could just hang out, read, and occasionally pause or step outside for a pipe-full of tobacco. But coffeeshops have become rowdy non-smoking environments for the chattersome classes, and while I like people, I don't like a multitude.
Someplace quiet.
Three to four hours, several evenings a week.
The library is out of the question, as it's filled with nuts.
Until the rains come, the upper reaches of Nob Hill and environs are the likeliest haunts. It's peaceful between here and Chinatown.
I'll just have to remember that smokers must humbly skulk in a wide arc around non-smokers with children or dogs.
Or unaccompanied children.
And dogs.
And stay out of parks. As well as maintain a minimum of fifteen feet distance from doors, windows, patios, foyers, outdoor seating, airwells, ventilation shafts or devices, elevators, service areas, entryways, bus stops, wheelchair ramps, homeless shelters, government offices, child-care facilities, passenger loading zones, educational and medical institutions, intellectuals, and politically correct people.
Most sidewalks around here are about ten feet wide.
Watch out for cars.
No reading.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ALL-AMERICAN HOMOEROTICISM
There were ball games this past weekend. I could not fail to notice. Personally, however, I did not bother paying any attention, as displays of sweaty men in motion do not thrill me. Actually, sweaty people of either gender, especially if spandex is involved, are not appealing.
There were large screen televisions at three of the locales that this blogger frequented on Saturday and Sunday. At two of those places, insane hooting and wild gesticulation occurred. At one of those two, both 'F-bombs' and chocolate chip cookies were dropped.
I like chocolate chip cookies. There is absolutely NO homoeroticism involved with chocolate chip cookies. Chocolate chip cookies are a mighty fine thing, we can all agree to that.
Mmmmmm, chocolate......
If I have to see anything involving large Neanderthals wearing shiny spandex and arse-hugging tights, I would far far rather watch them engaged in tender loving appreciation of chocolate chip cookies.
Wide screen teevee, close up of some college-age thug masticating baked goods in slow motion, eyes dreamily half-closed........
Meaty lips slackly glistening.....
One the other hand, if I can get my hands on a bushel of ghost chilies, I've got a great plan for a new competitive candy item: toffee-coated bhut jolokia. Sugar, at the hard crack stage (146° to 154° Celsius), with a touch of anethole (thirteen times sweeter than sucrose), and a hint of refreshing mint, surrounding one of the hottest peppers in the world.
At first you taste only sweetness. Then your mouth starts burning.
The menthol both adds to the effect and soothes the membranes.
You must have more; you grab a handful.
So good! So hot. So good! So hot. So good! so hot. So good!
Then you organize contests: which hefty meatball or frat-boy can eat the most of these? It's the nutritious snack of champions. Spectators must be behind bullet-proof glass during the show.
And positively no beer is allowed
Yes, I might pay to watch.
Voluntary self-abuse.
It's American.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There were large screen televisions at three of the locales that this blogger frequented on Saturday and Sunday. At two of those places, insane hooting and wild gesticulation occurred. At one of those two, both 'F-bombs' and chocolate chip cookies were dropped.
I like chocolate chip cookies. There is absolutely NO homoeroticism involved with chocolate chip cookies. Chocolate chip cookies are a mighty fine thing, we can all agree to that.
Mmmmmm, chocolate......
If I have to see anything involving large Neanderthals wearing shiny spandex and arse-hugging tights, I would far far rather watch them engaged in tender loving appreciation of chocolate chip cookies.
Wide screen teevee, close up of some college-age thug masticating baked goods in slow motion, eyes dreamily half-closed........
Meaty lips slackly glistening.....
One the other hand, if I can get my hands on a bushel of ghost chilies, I've got a great plan for a new competitive candy item: toffee-coated bhut jolokia. Sugar, at the hard crack stage (146° to 154° Celsius), with a touch of anethole (thirteen times sweeter than sucrose), and a hint of refreshing mint, surrounding one of the hottest peppers in the world.
At first you taste only sweetness. Then your mouth starts burning.
The menthol both adds to the effect and soothes the membranes.
You must have more; you grab a handful.
So good! So hot. So good! So hot. So good! so hot. So good!
Then you organize contests: which hefty meatball or frat-boy can eat the most of these? It's the nutritious snack of champions. Spectators must be behind bullet-proof glass during the show.
And positively no beer is allowed
Yes, I might pay to watch.
Voluntary self-abuse.
It's American.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 07, 2013
I AM OSCAR
"Uncle Van Der Pervert", little children might ask me, "how do you stay so healthy and trim?" And they'll loudly wonder at the magic of it, knowing that I seldom seriously cook anymore, and tend toward very casual dining.
"I mean, you eat all kinda weird crap, and we worry about the fragile digestive system of a man in his early fifties who seemingly avoids fresh fruit and wholesome activities!"
Whereupon I would hasten to reassure them that the weird crap is not always part of my diet; why, there are days when I eat perfectly normal food! Please ignore the instance when I conceived that very old dry salami should make a perfect yoghurt salad (it did -- I added some chopped green chilies and left-over celery), or the many ghastly experiments with the Mexican Death Wurst (of which two inches still repine in the deep-freeze, waiting for the end-times).
Let us instead stress that on Saturday evening I ate only healthy stuff.
Basil leaf chicken (香花草鷄球) over rice. Which contained onion, bell pepper, green chilies, basil, and fresh chicken, plus a modicum of stock and rice wine. The rice was white (not the weird brown stuff). With a fierce jigger of Sriracha hot-sauce and a few dashes of chili pepper vinegar, it was delicious!
Both the Vietnamese ice coffee and the complimentary tea gave a necessary touch of hydration and wake-me-up-againity.
Altogether surely an extremely healthy meal.
香花草鷄球飯 HEUNG FAA CHO GAI KAU FAAN
In Chinese, basil is either 紫蘇葉 (ji sou yip) or 羅勒 (lou laak). But on the menus of Vietnamese-Chinese restaurants, it may be called 香花草 (heung faa cho). The first name means 'purplish spice-herb leaf', the second literally means 'birdnet strangle', and is probably a time-hallowed transcription of a vernacular name (many such terms exist, often with exceedingly odd meanings), and the third is descriptive: fragrant flower grassy-herb.
Hospitable environment, nice people. They probably think I must be a little odd, seeing as I often eat there, and always dine alone.
Men of my age in their world are not supposed to be single.
But they've never asked prying questions, though I was once required to explain pipes and pipe tobacco......
講明好簡單嘅， 高級煙斗用嘅煙草， 有香有醇， 甜甜潤潤。 味道香甜， 弗吉尼亞州嘅大黃色葉， 感覺如錦。 香馥， 因為土耳其煙。 煙熏味， 係拉塔基亞葉。
['Gong-ming hou gan-tan ge, kou-kap yin-tou ge yin-cho, yau heung yau seun, tim-tim yuen-yuen. Mei-to heung tim, Fatgatneiyaa chau ge taai wong-sik yip, gam-gok yiu kam. Heung-fuk, yanwai Touyigei yin. Yinfan-mei hai Laaitaapkeiyaa yip.'
"Simple explanation, high quality pipe tobacco has fragrance and richness, and is both sweet and mellow. The sweet taste derives from Virginia bright leaves, which feel silky to the touch. There is resinous perfume because of Turkish tobacco. The smokiness is Latakia leaf."]
I may have bollixed that up to a fare-thee-well, as it is quite unlikely they understood what the heck I was saying. Communication, unfortunately, is all about communication.
* * * * *
On Sunday evening, however, I was too tired to head into Chinatown; it had been a very long day. Two severe pipe stems, plus Ashton, Alec Bradley, Ghurka, Avo Uvezian, and a stab at the PerDomo section.
So I simply threw together something that seemed quite logical and sensible at the time: a custard bun sliced in half, with Braunschweiger, cheese, and sliced cucumber. Because the mayonnaise was running low, I added a touch of yoghurt and Crystal hot sauce.
I think it worked, sort of, not sure.
Can't really remember.
Custard and hot sauce compliment each other.
Yoghurt and cucumber will make it healthy.
Ate it off a paper plate in front of the computer, wearing pajama pants and an undershirt. Had a cigar to cap it off.
After several cups of tea I was fast asleep.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"I mean, you eat all kinda weird crap, and we worry about the fragile digestive system of a man in his early fifties who seemingly avoids fresh fruit and wholesome activities!"
Whereupon I would hasten to reassure them that the weird crap is not always part of my diet; why, there are days when I eat perfectly normal food! Please ignore the instance when I conceived that very old dry salami should make a perfect yoghurt salad (it did -- I added some chopped green chilies and left-over celery), or the many ghastly experiments with the Mexican Death Wurst (of which two inches still repine in the deep-freeze, waiting for the end-times).
Let us instead stress that on Saturday evening I ate only healthy stuff.
Basil leaf chicken (香花草鷄球) over rice. Which contained onion, bell pepper, green chilies, basil, and fresh chicken, plus a modicum of stock and rice wine. The rice was white (not the weird brown stuff). With a fierce jigger of Sriracha hot-sauce and a few dashes of chili pepper vinegar, it was delicious!
Both the Vietnamese ice coffee and the complimentary tea gave a necessary touch of hydration and wake-me-up-againity.
Altogether surely an extremely healthy meal.
香花草鷄球飯 HEUNG FAA CHO GAI KAU FAAN
In Chinese, basil is either 紫蘇葉 (ji sou yip) or 羅勒 (lou laak). But on the menus of Vietnamese-Chinese restaurants, it may be called 香花草 (heung faa cho). The first name means 'purplish spice-herb leaf', the second literally means 'birdnet strangle', and is probably a time-hallowed transcription of a vernacular name (many such terms exist, often with exceedingly odd meanings), and the third is descriptive: fragrant flower grassy-herb.
Hospitable environment, nice people. They probably think I must be a little odd, seeing as I often eat there, and always dine alone.
Men of my age in their world are not supposed to be single.
But they've never asked prying questions, though I was once required to explain pipes and pipe tobacco......
講明好簡單嘅， 高級煙斗用嘅煙草， 有香有醇， 甜甜潤潤。 味道香甜， 弗吉尼亞州嘅大黃色葉， 感覺如錦。 香馥， 因為土耳其煙。 煙熏味， 係拉塔基亞葉。
['Gong-ming hou gan-tan ge, kou-kap yin-tou ge yin-cho, yau heung yau seun, tim-tim yuen-yuen. Mei-to heung tim, Fatgatneiyaa chau ge taai wong-sik yip, gam-gok yiu kam. Heung-fuk, yanwai Touyigei yin. Yinfan-mei hai Laaitaapkeiyaa yip.'
"Simple explanation, high quality pipe tobacco has fragrance and richness, and is both sweet and mellow. The sweet taste derives from Virginia bright leaves, which feel silky to the touch. There is resinous perfume because of Turkish tobacco. The smokiness is Latakia leaf."]
I may have bollixed that up to a fare-thee-well, as it is quite unlikely they understood what the heck I was saying. Communication, unfortunately, is all about communication.
* * * * *
On Sunday evening, however, I was too tired to head into Chinatown; it had been a very long day. Two severe pipe stems, plus Ashton, Alec Bradley, Ghurka, Avo Uvezian, and a stab at the PerDomo section.
So I simply threw together something that seemed quite logical and sensible at the time: a custard bun sliced in half, with Braunschweiger, cheese, and sliced cucumber. Because the mayonnaise was running low, I added a touch of yoghurt and Crystal hot sauce.
I think it worked, sort of, not sure.
Can't really remember.
Custard and hot sauce compliment each other.
Yoghurt and cucumber will make it healthy.
Ate it off a paper plate in front of the computer, wearing pajama pants and an undershirt. Had a cigar to cap it off.
After several cups of tea I was fast asleep.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 06, 2013
BIKERS ARE SO MACHO IT TAKES THIRTY OF THEM TO BEAT UP ONE MAN!
Over in New York, twenty to thirty motorcyclists picked a fight with the driver of an SUV, and then went ballistic, pursuing him and his family for three miles before dragging him out of his vehicle in front of his wife and kid, beating him up, and slashing his face.
Bravo, guys, that takes balls.
Makes you want to shoot bikers, doesn't it?
Personally, I've always thought that people who roar around town with a hunk of steel between their sweaty gams have masculinity issues, as well as being more than average shitheads. The fact that it took an entire pack of them to commit an assault kind of proves that.
[There are exceptions, of course. I do not wish to discuss the exceptions at the moment. They may have other problems, or just love the thrill of hot metal throbbing so close to their groins.
Let's not go there.]
The incident was lovingly videotaped by one of the courageous perpetrators. Possibly for boasting purposes later.
THIRTY FINE YOUNG MEN!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZjRwjJeG1w.]
That happened in broad daylight in the biggest and best city in the world, and reports presently indicate that several undercover cops were on hand, even part of the mob. Which may explain why no authorities got involved until the incident ended.
There may be good reasons for their inaction. Possibly the likelihood of being slaughtered by a bunch of out-of-town hoodlums suggested a nuanced approach.
Or at least back-up with assault rifles and forty fives.
Thirty motorbikers. Out of control.
Armed with knives.
And get-away vehicles.
Way to go guys. Thirty of you pansy asses attacked one man, his wife, and his two year old daughter.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Bravo, guys, that takes balls.
Makes you want to shoot bikers, doesn't it?
Personally, I've always thought that people who roar around town with a hunk of steel between their sweaty gams have masculinity issues, as well as being more than average shitheads. The fact that it took an entire pack of them to commit an assault kind of proves that.
[There are exceptions, of course. I do not wish to discuss the exceptions at the moment. They may have other problems, or just love the thrill of hot metal throbbing so close to their groins.
Let's not go there.]
The incident was lovingly videotaped by one of the courageous perpetrators. Possibly for boasting purposes later.
THIRTY FINE YOUNG MEN!
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZjRwjJeG1w.]
That happened in broad daylight in the biggest and best city in the world, and reports presently indicate that several undercover cops were on hand, even part of the mob. Which may explain why no authorities got involved until the incident ended.
There may be good reasons for their inaction. Possibly the likelihood of being slaughtered by a bunch of out-of-town hoodlums suggested a nuanced approach.
Or at least back-up with assault rifles and forty fives.
Thirty motorbikers. Out of control.
Armed with knives.
And get-away vehicles.
Way to go guys. Thirty of you pansy asses attacked one man, his wife, and his two year old daughter.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HELLO KITTY BURNS HER MOUTH ON HOT PEPPERS
One of my friends, cognizant of the fact that this old pervert is turning fifty four years old soon, gifted me with a bright pink Hello Kitty ruler (twelve inches, thirty centimetres) recently, at the same time that he handed over the bhut jolokia chili pepper that he had reserved for me.
Just one chilipepper.
A small one.
Now, you may think that just ONE chilipepper is carping it, how measly, what can you do with just ONE chilipepper?
It's not enough for anything!
And you'll wail miserably at the prospect.
The wailing is appropriate. One bhut jolokia packs as much heat in its tiny fragile body as over two hundred Jalapeños. There is no way I can divide this little demon over more than a dozen dishes at most, but each one of those will be memorable.
Of course I tried the little bugger within hours of receiving it, cutting off a minuscule sliver the size of a fingernail paring. Chew chew chew, get the saliva going..... fruity, slightly metallic..... after a few seconds, the capsaicin kicks in..... and keeps on kicking.
Five minutes later, my tongue still feels numb, and the warmth has faded a bit, but I'm fairly certain it would not be a good idea to light a pipe, as I would not be able to taste the fine gradations of Virginia and Perique at the moment, and possible might not even notice that I inadvertently stuffed carpet tacks into my briar.
Mmmm, the saveur of polished brass! The best saddle-makers use this!
I must relish it, no one makes hob-nailed boots the old-fashioned way anymore! If I kiss someone, will they scream?
Tentatively, I lick the back of my hand.
No sting, even after a few minutes.
But the skin now looks..... pink.
My head is spinning.
Dang.
A few days ago, when I worried that I wasn't getting enough vegetables, I fixed myself a hot pepper sandwich with a little cucumber and salami. It was nice and crunchy, and just packed with vitamins. Trim young fifty-four year olds NEED their vitamins! If we're ever going to fool some nice woman into thinking that we're the bees knees and the cats miao, it behooves us to be chock full of vitamins!
Vibrant young people can be so draining!
I don't know how much vitamin C is in this bhut jolokia. My present life will become really interesting if it turns out there is also over two hundred times as much in there as in Jalapeño peppers.
I might end up screaming and infantile.
Women just love babies, I hear.
Gotta get more.
After twenty minutes, the effect has dissipated.
At this point I think I need another sliver.
Why did he give me a Hello Kitty item? Well, he's read this blog, so he knows that Hello Kitty has been mentioned several times. And he consequently assumes that I fetishize the beast. Why, my apartment must be FILLED with all manner of Hello Kitty stuff! Hello Kitty teacups, dolls, posters, brassieres, panties, sandwich boxes, schoolbags, pursies, cake mixes, colouring books, candies, perfume, boxer shorts. It's probably a veritable treasure trove of Hello Kitty!
It isn't; I now possess a grand total of two Hello Kitty things.
Not including the tobacco that Hello Kitty should smoke.
Which does not have Hello Kitty on the label at all.
Because Sanriø is a clean wholesome company.
They sell everything EXCEPT tobacco.
Bhut jolokia. That's over one million Scoville units.
It's the pepper Hello Kitty should eat.
My head is still spinning.
Damn you, Kitty.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Just one chilipepper.
A small one.
Now, you may think that just ONE chilipepper is carping it, how measly, what can you do with just ONE chilipepper?
It's not enough for anything!
And you'll wail miserably at the prospect.
The wailing is appropriate. One bhut jolokia packs as much heat in its tiny fragile body as over two hundred Jalapeños. There is no way I can divide this little demon over more than a dozen dishes at most, but each one of those will be memorable.
Of course I tried the little bugger within hours of receiving it, cutting off a minuscule sliver the size of a fingernail paring. Chew chew chew, get the saliva going..... fruity, slightly metallic..... after a few seconds, the capsaicin kicks in..... and keeps on kicking.
Five minutes later, my tongue still feels numb, and the warmth has faded a bit, but I'm fairly certain it would not be a good idea to light a pipe, as I would not be able to taste the fine gradations of Virginia and Perique at the moment, and possible might not even notice that I inadvertently stuffed carpet tacks into my briar.
Mmmm, the saveur of polished brass! The best saddle-makers use this!
I must relish it, no one makes hob-nailed boots the old-fashioned way anymore! If I kiss someone, will they scream?
Tentatively, I lick the back of my hand.
No sting, even after a few minutes.
But the skin now looks..... pink.
My head is spinning.
Dang.
A few days ago, when I worried that I wasn't getting enough vegetables, I fixed myself a hot pepper sandwich with a little cucumber and salami. It was nice and crunchy, and just packed with vitamins. Trim young fifty-four year olds NEED their vitamins! If we're ever going to fool some nice woman into thinking that we're the bees knees and the cats miao, it behooves us to be chock full of vitamins!
Vibrant young people can be so draining!
I don't know how much vitamin C is in this bhut jolokia. My present life will become really interesting if it turns out there is also over two hundred times as much in there as in Jalapeño peppers.
I might end up screaming and infantile.
Women just love babies, I hear.
Gotta get more.
After twenty minutes, the effect has dissipated.
At this point I think I need another sliver.
Why did he give me a Hello Kitty item? Well, he's read this blog, so he knows that Hello Kitty has been mentioned several times. And he consequently assumes that I fetishize the beast. Why, my apartment must be FILLED with all manner of Hello Kitty stuff! Hello Kitty teacups, dolls, posters, brassieres, panties, sandwich boxes, schoolbags, pursies, cake mixes, colouring books, candies, perfume, boxer shorts. It's probably a veritable treasure trove of Hello Kitty!
It isn't; I now possess a grand total of two Hello Kitty things.
Not including the tobacco that Hello Kitty should smoke.
Which does not have Hello Kitty on the label at all.
Because Sanriø is a clean wholesome company.
They sell everything EXCEPT tobacco.
Bhut jolokia. That's over one million Scoville units.
It's the pepper Hello Kitty should eat.
My head is still spinning.
Damn you, Kitty.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, October 05, 2013
CANTONESE HOME COOKING
After spending all of Saturday in Marin County comforting the weeping and delirious cigar smokers (such sensitive souls!), I usually don't get back to the city till after seven-thirty. Golden-Gate transit drops me off on Van Ness, and I skip around the corner to await the number one California bus at Clay, which will deliver me to Chinatown close to eight o'clock.
I've been in Suburbistan all day, I need food.
Unfortunately, there are only half-a-dozen or so places still open at that time. Excluding "Mandarin", "Szechuan", "Hunan", "Gourmet", "Peking", and "Palace", of course. Which aren't real food. Not in Chinatown.
A man needs Cantonese food to recover from Marin.
Nothing fancy, just good. Maybe even po-chai faan.
Yeah, I suppose I could cook dinner myself, but I've been shushing the emotionally fragile stogey maniacs all day, and I'm a wee bit tired.
I would rather someone else made dinner.
[Cantonese food, random sampling: 紅燒鮑翅、 高湯焗龍蝦伊面、 糯米雞、 燒鷄、 燒鴨、 煎蠔仔餅、 蒜茸蒸扇貝、 燒三層肉、 瑤柱賽螃蟹、 野菌炒魚肚、 滑蛋蝦仁、 豬潤燒賣、 紅燒鮮蟹肉生翅、 清蒸大海星班、 西洋菜湯、 南乳蓮藕燜花肉、 豉椒炒蜆、 鹹蛋蒸肉餅、 番茄炒蛋、 豉汁蒸鱔、 清蒸魚、 叉燒、 蒜蓉炒菜、 蒸水蛋、 柱侯牛腩、 老火湯、 蒸魚、 白灼蝦、 薑蔥龍蝦、 雲吞麵、 牛腩麵。
Po-chai faan, 煲仔飯: 肉餅煲仔飯、 臘味煲仔飯、 窩蛋牛肉煲仔飯、 排骨煲仔飯、 蒸雞臘腸煲仔飯、 田雞煲仔飯、 咖喱牛腩煲仔飯、 煲仔鷄飯。
Just paste any one of these terms into your browser for lovely pictures.]
I usually end up having a mixed something over rice. The selection for the single diner is rather limited, unfortunately, and I do not wish to order more than I can eat.
But I'd love to have simple home-style food.
FIVE DISHES
These five are the absolute quintessence of home-cooking.
Steamed meat patty 蒸猪肉餅 jing chu yiuk beng
Steamed chicken chunks 蒸滑雞 jing gwat kai
Stir-fried mustard green 炒油菜 chaau yau choi
Stir-fried baby bokchoy 炒白菜 chaau pak choi
Steamed omelette 蒸水蛋 jing seui daan
Two or three of these, with rice, and a bowl of either 老火湯 (lou fo tong: old-fire soup), or 西洋菜湯 (sai yeung choi tong: watercress soup), you've got yourself a splendid meal.
[Soup; 湯 tong: most Cantonese home-style soups start with a mixed broth made of pork bones and fresh chicken, with veggies or herbs thrown in for flavor, colour, and nutritive or tonifying benefit. Long simmering (老火) is often key. They are served by themselves or alongside meals to aid digestion and provide liquid, as often beverages are not on the table. But to my mind, huge amounts of tea are also essential. Hydration, and stimulation.]
Cantonese home cooking is quick, convenient, and comforting.
Clean taste, straightforward preparation, honest ingredients.
How utterly easy to make, and how very delightful to eat!
蒸猪肉餅: Steamed meat patty is incredibly easy to prepare.
Take enough ground pork for two people (about one third to half a pound), mix it with a little sesame oil, teaspoon of rice wine or sherry, and a touch of soy, let it stand for a while, then flatten it out onto a plate with ginger slivers strewn over, and steam it till done. Which will be between ten and twenty minutes, depending on the thickness.
Often either some sliced dry fish (咸魚 haahm yü), or a salty egg (鹹蛋 haahm daan), or other fragrant savoury additions, are arranged on top, to by their aroma and depth add appeal. But really, you could just add a teaspoon of shrimp-paste to the meat before steaming, and it would be delicious!
蒸滑雞: Jing gwat kai is also simple, and the process is similar, albeit with the addition of a teaspoon or two of corn starch rubbed into the half pound of chunked chicken before letting it sit for while to absorb the minor touches of sherry and soy sauce. Adding a little shredded ginger is optional.
It should be steamed for about fifteen minutes, then garnished with minced scallion.
The cornstarch makes it slick (滑) and velvety.
炒油菜: Stirfried mustard green has a delightful bitterness and crunch; blanch it before tossing it in the hot wok. A dash of oyster sauce and a splash of stock to reduce is quite optional.
炒白菜: Stirfried baby bokchoy does not need any blanching, as it will be sweet and toothsome with only a little time in the pan.
蒸水蛋: The steamed omelette is luxurious. But remarkably cheap. Two eggs. Four tablespoons water, or somewhat more. Dash of sesame oil, drop of soy, pinch of ground white pepper. And whatever chopped or rehydrated ingredients you think would be suitable, but don't overdo it, the essence is simplicity. Beat the eggs, water, and whatever else. Pour into a broad bowl, steam for about ten minutes till set.
Some minced chive or cilantro looks lovely on top.
Eh, add few thick slivers of lahp cheung (臘腸), preserved pork belly (臘肉), ham (火腿), or black mushroom, to one or other dish, for a little extra excitement.
Sometimes, on days when I'm not babysitting the cheroot-whackers in the wilds of Marin, I may cook variations of these. Over a small bowl of rice-stick noodle they make a perfect lunch. But really, they're so much more wonderful to come home to, and it's a pity that restaurants don't do half or third portions, so that one might have a bit of variety and happily peck around among the lovely things in front of one.
And I never do 老火湯 anymore.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I've been in Suburbistan all day, I need food.
Unfortunately, there are only half-a-dozen or so places still open at that time. Excluding "Mandarin", "Szechuan", "Hunan", "Gourmet", "Peking", and "Palace", of course. Which aren't real food. Not in Chinatown.
A man needs Cantonese food to recover from Marin.
Nothing fancy, just good. Maybe even po-chai faan.
Yeah, I suppose I could cook dinner myself, but I've been shushing the emotionally fragile stogey maniacs all day, and I'm a wee bit tired.
I would rather someone else made dinner.
[Cantonese food, random sampling: 紅燒鮑翅、 高湯焗龍蝦伊面、 糯米雞、 燒鷄、 燒鴨、 煎蠔仔餅、 蒜茸蒸扇貝、 燒三層肉、 瑤柱賽螃蟹、 野菌炒魚肚、 滑蛋蝦仁、 豬潤燒賣、 紅燒鮮蟹肉生翅、 清蒸大海星班、 西洋菜湯、 南乳蓮藕燜花肉、 豉椒炒蜆、 鹹蛋蒸肉餅、 番茄炒蛋、 豉汁蒸鱔、 清蒸魚、 叉燒、 蒜蓉炒菜、 蒸水蛋、 柱侯牛腩、 老火湯、 蒸魚、 白灼蝦、 薑蔥龍蝦、 雲吞麵、 牛腩麵。
Po-chai faan, 煲仔飯: 肉餅煲仔飯、 臘味煲仔飯、 窩蛋牛肉煲仔飯、 排骨煲仔飯、 蒸雞臘腸煲仔飯、 田雞煲仔飯、 咖喱牛腩煲仔飯、 煲仔鷄飯。
Just paste any one of these terms into your browser for lovely pictures.]
I usually end up having a mixed something over rice. The selection for the single diner is rather limited, unfortunately, and I do not wish to order more than I can eat.
But I'd love to have simple home-style food.
FIVE DISHES
These five are the absolute quintessence of home-cooking.
Steamed meat patty 蒸猪肉餅 jing chu yiuk beng
Steamed chicken chunks 蒸滑雞 jing gwat kai
Stir-fried mustard green 炒油菜 chaau yau choi
Stir-fried baby bokchoy 炒白菜 chaau pak choi
Steamed omelette 蒸水蛋 jing seui daan
Two or three of these, with rice, and a bowl of either 老火湯 (lou fo tong: old-fire soup), or 西洋菜湯 (sai yeung choi tong: watercress soup), you've got yourself a splendid meal.
[Soup; 湯 tong: most Cantonese home-style soups start with a mixed broth made of pork bones and fresh chicken, with veggies or herbs thrown in for flavor, colour, and nutritive or tonifying benefit. Long simmering (老火) is often key. They are served by themselves or alongside meals to aid digestion and provide liquid, as often beverages are not on the table. But to my mind, huge amounts of tea are also essential. Hydration, and stimulation.]
Cantonese home cooking is quick, convenient, and comforting.
Clean taste, straightforward preparation, honest ingredients.
How utterly easy to make, and how very delightful to eat!
蒸猪肉餅: Steamed meat patty is incredibly easy to prepare.
Take enough ground pork for two people (about one third to half a pound), mix it with a little sesame oil, teaspoon of rice wine or sherry, and a touch of soy, let it stand for a while, then flatten it out onto a plate with ginger slivers strewn over, and steam it till done. Which will be between ten and twenty minutes, depending on the thickness.
Often either some sliced dry fish (咸魚 haahm yü), or a salty egg (鹹蛋 haahm daan), or other fragrant savoury additions, are arranged on top, to by their aroma and depth add appeal. But really, you could just add a teaspoon of shrimp-paste to the meat before steaming, and it would be delicious!
蒸滑雞: Jing gwat kai is also simple, and the process is similar, albeit with the addition of a teaspoon or two of corn starch rubbed into the half pound of chunked chicken before letting it sit for while to absorb the minor touches of sherry and soy sauce. Adding a little shredded ginger is optional.
It should be steamed for about fifteen minutes, then garnished with minced scallion.
The cornstarch makes it slick (滑) and velvety.
炒油菜: Stirfried mustard green has a delightful bitterness and crunch; blanch it before tossing it in the hot wok. A dash of oyster sauce and a splash of stock to reduce is quite optional.
炒白菜: Stirfried baby bokchoy does not need any blanching, as it will be sweet and toothsome with only a little time in the pan.
蒸水蛋: The steamed omelette is luxurious. But remarkably cheap. Two eggs. Four tablespoons water, or somewhat more. Dash of sesame oil, drop of soy, pinch of ground white pepper. And whatever chopped or rehydrated ingredients you think would be suitable, but don't overdo it, the essence is simplicity. Beat the eggs, water, and whatever else. Pour into a broad bowl, steam for about ten minutes till set.
Some minced chive or cilantro looks lovely on top.
Eh, add few thick slivers of lahp cheung (臘腸), preserved pork belly (臘肉), ham (火腿), or black mushroom, to one or other dish, for a little extra excitement.
Sometimes, on days when I'm not babysitting the cheroot-whackers in the wilds of Marin, I may cook variations of these. Over a small bowl of rice-stick noodle they make a perfect lunch. But really, they're so much more wonderful to come home to, and it's a pity that restaurants don't do half or third portions, so that one might have a bit of variety and happily peck around among the lovely things in front of one.
And I never do 老火湯 anymore.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 04, 2013
STUFFED TO THE POINT OF EXPLODING -- SIK BAAU LAH!
People get all paranoid when folks around them are talking a foreign language. Even in so multinational a place as San Francisco. Tourists, for instance, start acting really jittery when the wait-staff at a restaurant speak Chinese instead of German, and Mid-Westerners really freak out surrounded by Cantonese or Russians on the bus.
The other day five folks from Ohio nearly exploded out of the rear-door in a panic, after having hysterics because the door wouldn't open. Multiple passengers had hollered out helpfully that in order for them to exit, they would have to step down -- Muni buses do not automatically open at the rear, only if someone is on the steps -- but nothing registered because, after all, all those un-American accents could not possibly be directed at them! They hadn't spoken to anyone, they were innocent!
Stop shouting at us! Help!
Of course, as soon as they had successfully escaped, we proceeded to talk ABOUT them. All of us came to the same conclusion: idiots.
Yes, it's true! We discuss you behind your back.
We're also plotting to sell your kidneys.
And we have poisoned cookies!
Actually, that may just be the Russians in the Sunset District, the Arab liquor store owners in the Tenderloin, or the snooty Frenchmen running whorehouses in Union Square.
Or any of the several other ethnic groups in the city.
Except the Cantonese.
The Cantonese talk about food.
你食咗飯未呀 -- NEI SIK JO FAN MEI AH?
The most common greeting to people you already know is "have you eaten yet?". Which serves as well as anything to introduce the one consuming passion of all Cantonese-speakers, namely food and good things to put in your mouth. Even when the white people nearby are interesting as blazes oh crikey yes, it's still about food. On that same bus ride, a large number of the passengers were local Chinese folks, and, being one of the very few white people on the bus who could understand what they were saying, naturally I listened in.
[Most white folks don't speak Cantonese. This may surprise you, given that a quarter of the population here is Cantonese, but it's true. Maybe white people don't talk about food? Anyway, seeing as my appearance strongly suggests bland monolinguality, I usually put on a poker face and open my ears. Flying undercover, as it were. Incognito. I am the secret kwailo, now please keep talking. About food. Yummy yummy food.]
The conversation nearest me was a long drawn-out vituperation about the sucky noodles at a place on Clement Street. "They could NOT be eaten, diu, like swallowing garbage!" The word I've translated as garbage is actually something else.
"And the owner prides himself on those pulled noodles (拉麵 laai min), he really insisted I order them!" Laai min are unusual among the Cantonese, being more a Northern thing -- the Cantonese are at the far southern end of China, safely behind mountain ranges that protect them from tall smelly people -- and if done well are almost airy, with an appealing texture.
These weren't thus.
"Too expensive, stinky, and just not edible!" Followed by "I felt horrible afterwards". After a brief pause, the speaker admitted that he had to restore himself by going down the street and having some roast duck elsewhere. It was very good roast duck, he had two portions. But the pulled noodles had been utterly nasty, and the indigestion kept him up all night!
I really wish I knew the name of the restaurant with those horrible noodles.
If the owner takes pride in them, perhaps I ought to try them just to see if they're really that bad?
At the moment that the disappointed noodler said the name, someone on the other side of me dreamily mentioned the lovely Portuguese tartlets at that new bakery on Stockton street. They were "hau fuk kwai sei gam hou mei ge, hou cheeeeeeng" (mouth lucky devil dead so delicious, very niiiiiiiice 口福鬼死咁好味嘅, 好正). For the next several blocks she and her friend animatedly discussed the lovely little pastries, tiny tartlets, fluffy rolls, yummy buns, soft breads, delicious little sweet-paste puffs......
They both adoooore that place, heavens, they could not shut up at all.
I never did find out what the nasty noodle joint is called.
Nor where exactly it is located.
But I do know the bakery.
小麥田 - FANCY WHEAT FIELD BAKERY
1362 Stockton Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
415-982-1368
Yes, the Portuguese tartlets (葡撻 pou taat) ARE delicious. Truly and utterly divine. They're like egg tarts (蛋撻 daan taat), with a much richer, creamier custard filling and an extra thick super-flaky crust, very 酥酥脆脆 (sou sou cheui cheui). And everything else they have is extremely beautiful too.
I am so glad I overheard that conversation, it might otherwise have been ages before I went there!
I only had the pou-taat, with a cup of milk-tea, and I must definitely go back to experiment with their vast range of yummies. But I know that everything there is wonderful, as the customers at both tables next to me were avidly discussing food.........
後記 AFTERWORD
The caption of this post is a word-play on the statement that one has finished dining, and dined quite well: 食咗飽啦 (sik jo baau la). It reassures the people at the restaurant that one is completely satisfied (滿意 mun yi), why, nothing, nothing at all, could be added; I'm stuffed!
The term 'baau' (飽) is almost exactly the same as 'baau' (爆), only the tone is different. The second word means an explosion, to explode.
飽嗮了。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The other day five folks from Ohio nearly exploded out of the rear-door in a panic, after having hysterics because the door wouldn't open. Multiple passengers had hollered out helpfully that in order for them to exit, they would have to step down -- Muni buses do not automatically open at the rear, only if someone is on the steps -- but nothing registered because, after all, all those un-American accents could not possibly be directed at them! They hadn't spoken to anyone, they were innocent!
Stop shouting at us! Help!
Of course, as soon as they had successfully escaped, we proceeded to talk ABOUT them. All of us came to the same conclusion: idiots.
Yes, it's true! We discuss you behind your back.
We're also plotting to sell your kidneys.
And we have poisoned cookies!
Actually, that may just be the Russians in the Sunset District, the Arab liquor store owners in the Tenderloin, or the snooty Frenchmen running whorehouses in Union Square.
Or any of the several other ethnic groups in the city.
Except the Cantonese.
The Cantonese talk about food.
你食咗飯未呀 -- NEI SIK JO FAN MEI AH?
The most common greeting to people you already know is "have you eaten yet?". Which serves as well as anything to introduce the one consuming passion of all Cantonese-speakers, namely food and good things to put in your mouth. Even when the white people nearby are interesting as blazes oh crikey yes, it's still about food. On that same bus ride, a large number of the passengers were local Chinese folks, and, being one of the very few white people on the bus who could understand what they were saying, naturally I listened in.
[Most white folks don't speak Cantonese. This may surprise you, given that a quarter of the population here is Cantonese, but it's true. Maybe white people don't talk about food? Anyway, seeing as my appearance strongly suggests bland monolinguality, I usually put on a poker face and open my ears. Flying undercover, as it were. Incognito. I am the secret kwailo, now please keep talking. About food. Yummy yummy food.]
The conversation nearest me was a long drawn-out vituperation about the sucky noodles at a place on Clement Street. "They could NOT be eaten, diu, like swallowing garbage!" The word I've translated as garbage is actually something else.
"And the owner prides himself on those pulled noodles (拉麵 laai min), he really insisted I order them!" Laai min are unusual among the Cantonese, being more a Northern thing -- the Cantonese are at the far southern end of China, safely behind mountain ranges that protect them from tall smelly people -- and if done well are almost airy, with an appealing texture.
These weren't thus.
"Too expensive, stinky, and just not edible!" Followed by "I felt horrible afterwards". After a brief pause, the speaker admitted that he had to restore himself by going down the street and having some roast duck elsewhere. It was very good roast duck, he had two portions. But the pulled noodles had been utterly nasty, and the indigestion kept him up all night!
I really wish I knew the name of the restaurant with those horrible noodles.
If the owner takes pride in them, perhaps I ought to try them just to see if they're really that bad?
At the moment that the disappointed noodler said the name, someone on the other side of me dreamily mentioned the lovely Portuguese tartlets at that new bakery on Stockton street. They were "hau fuk kwai sei gam hou mei ge, hou cheeeeeeng" (mouth lucky devil dead so delicious, very niiiiiiiice 口福鬼死咁好味嘅, 好正). For the next several blocks she and her friend animatedly discussed the lovely little pastries, tiny tartlets, fluffy rolls, yummy buns, soft breads, delicious little sweet-paste puffs......
They both adoooore that place, heavens, they could not shut up at all.
I never did find out what the nasty noodle joint is called.
Nor where exactly it is located.
But I do know the bakery.
小麥田 - FANCY WHEAT FIELD BAKERY
1362 Stockton Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
415-982-1368
Yes, the Portuguese tartlets (葡撻 pou taat) ARE delicious. Truly and utterly divine. They're like egg tarts (蛋撻 daan taat), with a much richer, creamier custard filling and an extra thick super-flaky crust, very 酥酥脆脆 (sou sou cheui cheui). And everything else they have is extremely beautiful too.
I am so glad I overheard that conversation, it might otherwise have been ages before I went there!
I only had the pou-taat, with a cup of milk-tea, and I must definitely go back to experiment with their vast range of yummies. But I know that everything there is wonderful, as the customers at both tables next to me were avidly discussing food.........
後記 AFTERWORD
The caption of this post is a word-play on the statement that one has finished dining, and dined quite well: 食咗飽啦 (sik jo baau la). It reassures the people at the restaurant that one is completely satisfied (滿意 mun yi), why, nothing, nothing at all, could be added; I'm stuffed!
The term 'baau' (飽) is almost exactly the same as 'baau' (爆), only the tone is different. The second word means an explosion, to explode.
飽嗮了。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 03, 2013
OSCAR THE GROUCH LOVES COMPANY
I happen to know that my ex took her boyfriend to an Indian restaurant for lunch recently. Which is ironic, given that I first introduced her to Indian food, two decades ago, and she and I used to go out to eat at Indian restaurants regularly. She still loves spicy dishes and ghee-drenched roti-shoti.
It's also a little painful; not just ironic. Her boyfriend allegedly has a sensitive stomach. I would hate to think that it's partly my doing that he presently tolerates Indian food.
I think I'll avoid Indian food for a while.
Somehow I've lost my appetite for it.
It does not taste good alone.
I miss being loved.
All in all I think I'm coping rather well with the realities of permanent bachelorhood, but there are times when I would like some companionship of the feminine persuasion.
It would be fun to discover food again with someone... soft.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's also a little painful; not just ironic. Her boyfriend allegedly has a sensitive stomach. I would hate to think that it's partly my doing that he presently tolerates Indian food.
I think I'll avoid Indian food for a while.
Somehow I've lost my appetite for it.
It does not taste good alone.
I miss being loved.
All in all I think I'm coping rather well with the realities of permanent bachelorhood, but there are times when I would like some companionship of the feminine persuasion.
It would be fun to discover food again with someone... soft.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 02, 2013
VINDICTIVE SON OF A BITCH
Over the years, some people have accused this blogger of not being a nice person, asserting that at times I seemed intent on carrying a grudge.
Why yes! That is indeed so.
It's a fine trait.
GEE WILLIKERS!
Back in 2010, a raving hysteric ex-hippie spent time at a sukka meal arguing that Geert Wilders was the very best things since sliced bread (well, sliced Dutch Crunch), and that the holy blessed saint G. Wilders was, if not The West's last desperate gasp at stemming the tide, then certainly Holland's only hope. Why, she insisted, could I not see that?!?
Was I a half-wit? Too pro-Democrat a tool to be redeemable?
An infiltrant from the other side?
She and her allies have taken over the group, by the way. They believe Obama is the anti-Christ, who will take away our guns and enforce the mass-sterilization of true-Americans, as is foretold. Thanks to them, about the only thing the group has been able to do since their ascendancy is twiddle its collective thumb up its rear.
When that started happening I decided to bail.
Right-wing onanism isn't my thing.
I notice that since Wilders came out against kashrus -- specifically the slaughter of food animals according to Halachic standards -- his fan base among the people I no longer hang out with quite so often seems to have shrunk. Evidently they have finally figured out that he's a vindictive little sod, whose xenophobia is very catholic.
Not quite what they originally thought.
Despite their adulation.
[As examples, two people (Walter and Laura) who never got back to me regarding their obscene worship of Mr. Wilders are in the comment string on this post: http://www.treppenwitz.com/2010/02/just-bite-me-ok.html.
Remarkable, because their assurance was striking. Maybe they've belatedly realized that they didn't know Jack? Or perhaps they overdosed. One can but hope. Hello, Walter and Laura? Hello?]
"Wilders is no friend of the U.S.: he opposes Dutch military involvement in Afghanistan; he believes development assistance is money wasted; he opposes NATO missions outside "allied" territory; he is against most EU initiatives; and, most troubling, he foments fear and hatred of immigrants."
[Source: Wikileaks, via The Guardian: US embassy cables: Barack Obama's briefing on Dutch politics.]
Even the raving psycho-paths on the internet (Atlas Shrugs, Yid with Lid, Debbie Schlussel, Doc's Talk, et mult altres) seem to have lost some of their enthusiasm for Mr. Wilders; maybe he is more unstable and less reliable than they previously assumed. Or perhaps they've gravitated toward other shiny things. The theory that Obama is gonna take away our guns run for the hills maw is still strong, as is the belief that we're headed toward mass-arrests and martial law. Plus, in Kansas, the berserk fringe is trying their damnedest to keep evolution out of the schools, and everywhere the extreme wing of the Republican party is yelling that Obamacare will bring the end-times. Support our fight, on ALL fronts, and we'll keep that Kenyan Socialist Muslim from selling Israel down river! The alternative is communism! And witchburning!
And abortion of white Americans!
On the bright side, the tide of ignorance is no greater than in the past. Opinionated stupid people have always been with us, except now thanks to modern technology their voice is somewhat louder. The selective deafness required IS greater than ever before, but their moronic cacophony is easily tuned out.
Keep on blipping, folks.
Sod the nuts.
Post scriptum: previous mentions of Geert Wilders can be found here: Geert Wilders.
You will note that over the years my opinion of him became more nuanced.
At present I think he's a pompadoured fool, and a sad sick little troll.
Muslims, Christians, and ideocentrics, are still idiots, however.
See previous instructions regarding sodding.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Why yes! That is indeed so.
It's a fine trait.
GEE WILLIKERS!
Back in 2010, a raving hysteric ex-hippie spent time at a sukka meal arguing that Geert Wilders was the very best things since sliced bread (well, sliced Dutch Crunch), and that the holy blessed saint G. Wilders was, if not The West's last desperate gasp at stemming the tide, then certainly Holland's only hope. Why, she insisted, could I not see that?!?
Was I a half-wit? Too pro-Democrat a tool to be redeemable?
An infiltrant from the other side?
She and her allies have taken over the group, by the way. They believe Obama is the anti-Christ, who will take away our guns and enforce the mass-sterilization of true-Americans, as is foretold. Thanks to them, about the only thing the group has been able to do since their ascendancy is twiddle its collective thumb up its rear.
When that started happening I decided to bail.
Right-wing onanism isn't my thing.
I notice that since Wilders came out against kashrus -- specifically the slaughter of food animals according to Halachic standards -- his fan base among the people I no longer hang out with quite so often seems to have shrunk. Evidently they have finally figured out that he's a vindictive little sod, whose xenophobia is very catholic.
Not quite what they originally thought.
Despite their adulation.
[As examples, two people (Walter and Laura) who never got back to me regarding their obscene worship of Mr. Wilders are in the comment string on this post: http://www.treppenwitz.com/2010/02/just-bite-me-ok.html.
Remarkable, because their assurance was striking. Maybe they've belatedly realized that they didn't know Jack? Or perhaps they overdosed. One can but hope. Hello, Walter and Laura? Hello?]
"Wilders is no friend of the U.S.: he opposes Dutch military involvement in Afghanistan; he believes development assistance is money wasted; he opposes NATO missions outside "allied" territory; he is against most EU initiatives; and, most troubling, he foments fear and hatred of immigrants."
[Source: Wikileaks, via The Guardian: US embassy cables: Barack Obama's briefing on Dutch politics.]
Even the raving psycho-paths on the internet (Atlas Shrugs, Yid with Lid, Debbie Schlussel, Doc's Talk, et mult altres) seem to have lost some of their enthusiasm for Mr. Wilders; maybe he is more unstable and less reliable than they previously assumed. Or perhaps they've gravitated toward other shiny things. The theory that Obama is gonna take away our guns run for the hills maw is still strong, as is the belief that we're headed toward mass-arrests and martial law. Plus, in Kansas, the berserk fringe is trying their damnedest to keep evolution out of the schools, and everywhere the extreme wing of the Republican party is yelling that Obamacare will bring the end-times. Support our fight, on ALL fronts, and we'll keep that Kenyan Socialist Muslim from selling Israel down river! The alternative is communism! And witchburning!
And abortion of white Americans!
On the bright side, the tide of ignorance is no greater than in the past. Opinionated stupid people have always been with us, except now thanks to modern technology their voice is somewhat louder. The selective deafness required IS greater than ever before, but their moronic cacophony is easily tuned out.
Keep on blipping, folks.
Sod the nuts.
Post scriptum: previous mentions of Geert Wilders can be found here: Geert Wilders.
You will note that over the years my opinion of him became more nuanced.
At present I think he's a pompadoured fool, and a sad sick little troll.
Muslims, Christians, and ideocentrics, are still idiots, however.
See previous instructions regarding sodding.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE HABITUAL MAN'S GUIDE TO LUNCH
I am a predictable man. That is to say, I resolved to try something new every week, something that I have never eaten before. Which, like clockwork, happens randomly, often more than once.
At other times I allow old favourites to guide my steps. At least two or three times a month I will have stir-fried bitter melon with pork, fish, or chicken, over rice. I love the crunchy green taste, so fresh, so startling.
Not infrequently I'm at one of several simple haunts.
There's one small food counter where I have yet to leave dis-satisfied. Like the congee place I mentioned last week, I won't divulge the who, where, or what of it, for the same reasons. It is completely unimpressive, not fancy but straightforwardly simple, nothing special, somewhat shabby, and almost universally sneered at by the yelping classes.
[The people who write reviews of eateries in Chinatown on Yelp are mostly a rather superficial and superior lot, with very white ideas. Yeah, in this city a large number of them are Chinese, but they're 'Chinese American'. Most are white, however, and they all write in English, for people who speak English, and think English. And, naturally, act like it. Michael Bauer wannabees.]
This eatery has dimsummy snackiepoos, steamed buns, the baked charsiu bao so very much loved by white people, and deep-fried sesame balls (煎堆) with a sweet red bean paste filling -- good with a hot beverage. But their primary demographic is the person who believes lunch is anytime between early morning and six in the afternoon, best enjoyed at the spur of the moment (I'm hungry, dammit), and eaten alone.
FIVE BUCKS PLUS A TIP
The lunch plates are all the same price: $3.75. There are three choices:
生焗排骨飯 spare ribs over rice.
生焗滑雞飯 steamed chicken over rice.
猪肉餅飯 pork patty over rice.
Big scoop of the white stuff, serving of the item in question over, a helping of veggies, and a bowl of simple soup. Add a cup of coffee, and it's five bucks.
Full meal. Five bucks.
I really like the pork meat patty over rice, but it's usually the first to go.
I have no clue how they make any money at all with those prices, but the people who eat there aren't breaking the bank at three bucks seventy five. Most customers are just plain folks, no snooty attitudes, not the yuppie yelping types.
As I said, I've never left dissatisfied.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
At other times I allow old favourites to guide my steps. At least two or three times a month I will have stir-fried bitter melon with pork, fish, or chicken, over rice. I love the crunchy green taste, so fresh, so startling.
Not infrequently I'm at one of several simple haunts.
There's one small food counter where I have yet to leave dis-satisfied. Like the congee place I mentioned last week, I won't divulge the who, where, or what of it, for the same reasons. It is completely unimpressive, not fancy but straightforwardly simple, nothing special, somewhat shabby, and almost universally sneered at by the yelping classes.
[The people who write reviews of eateries in Chinatown on Yelp are mostly a rather superficial and superior lot, with very white ideas. Yeah, in this city a large number of them are Chinese, but they're 'Chinese American'. Most are white, however, and they all write in English, for people who speak English, and think English. And, naturally, act like it. Michael Bauer wannabees.]
This eatery has dimsummy snackiepoos, steamed buns, the baked charsiu bao so very much loved by white people, and deep-fried sesame balls (煎堆) with a sweet red bean paste filling -- good with a hot beverage. But their primary demographic is the person who believes lunch is anytime between early morning and six in the afternoon, best enjoyed at the spur of the moment (I'm hungry, dammit), and eaten alone.
FIVE BUCKS PLUS A TIP
The lunch plates are all the same price: $3.75. There are three choices:
生焗排骨飯 spare ribs over rice.
生焗滑雞飯 steamed chicken over rice.
猪肉餅飯 pork patty over rice.
Big scoop of the white stuff, serving of the item in question over, a helping of veggies, and a bowl of simple soup. Add a cup of coffee, and it's five bucks.
Full meal. Five bucks.
I really like the pork meat patty over rice, but it's usually the first to go.
I have no clue how they make any money at all with those prices, but the people who eat there aren't breaking the bank at three bucks seventy five. Most customers are just plain folks, no snooty attitudes, not the yuppie yelping types.
As I said, I've never left dissatisfied.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 01, 2013
GHOST PEPPER -- BHUT JOLOKIA
A friend alerts me that the bhut jolokia pepper he grew for me has hit full ripeness. So this should be a very exciting week.
I may not be able to walk and chew gum in a day or two.
At least for the foreseeable future after dinner.
A bucket of yoghurt may be required.
As well as a cold compress.
I'll let you know.
Where.
[NOTE: Insanity pepper.]
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I may not be able to walk and chew gum in a day or two.
At least for the foreseeable future after dinner.
A bucket of yoghurt may be required.
As well as a cold compress.
I'll let you know.
Where.
[NOTE: Insanity pepper.]
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FOX HUNTING
From a fascinating little article on the BBC website comes this tidbit: "Of course she had to be stunning. But she also had to be between 22 and 24 years of age and have a master's degree from one of the top universities in Beijing or Shanghai."
These are the requirements a young lady must have to be considered as a potential wife by a real-estate tycoon in China, according to the article China's 'love hunters' seek brides for picky billionaires.
Peng Tai, the 'talent scout' quoted in the article, says "I am looking for girls with nice skin, nice white skin; they should be not too thin and not too chunky with a normal way of walking."
Dang! He sounds like a crazed Caucasian pervert hunting down the perfect little Cherry Blossom. There are magazines for people like that. As yet, though, it is doubtful that there are support groups and twelve-step programs.
I wonder what "normal way of walking" means.
Probably not a purposeful stride and a willingness to hike two blocks uphill rather than waiting for the bus.
"She has to be stunning. But she also has to be between 22 and 24 years of age and have a master's degree from one of the top universities..."
My criteria are far less extreme.
She must be less than me, and at the same time more.
That is to say, shorter and younger than I am, while simultaneously more adventurous and sensible. Smaller hands and feet, yes.
More than reasonably bright, also.
Can she speak in multiple complete sentences? That is very important. Many college graduates I've met fail that last test, even if they're from Berkeley or Stanford. And I fear that the situation in mainland China is just as bad. So I shan't even think of looking there, as any woman I might be interested in has to have at least one language in common with me. A vocabulary that includes all the whiny Mandarin terms for Vuitton, Jimmie Chew, Manolo Blahnik, Cartier, and Ferrari, absolutely does not qualify in the slightest.
A very good afternoon to you, ma'am, can you talk intelligently about food?
You know, real food. Not caviar, sushi, Kobe beef, or birdsnest.
Nor wheatgrass, nutritional yeast, quinoa, and lentils.
Crucially, can you do more with tofu than cook it like an irritating Berkeley Vegan? Deep-fry it stuffed with bacon?
Do you like fatty cuts of meat?
Fresh fish?
I live in San Francisco, so you can well imagine that I'm having the damnedest time finding anyone like that.
Non-judgemental tolerance and a sense of humour are also required; those last two really skew the search. Did I perhaps already mention that I live in San Francisco?
Do the math.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
These are the requirements a young lady must have to be considered as a potential wife by a real-estate tycoon in China, according to the article China's 'love hunters' seek brides for picky billionaires.
Peng Tai, the 'talent scout' quoted in the article, says "I am looking for girls with nice skin, nice white skin; they should be not too thin and not too chunky with a normal way of walking."
Dang! He sounds like a crazed Caucasian pervert hunting down the perfect little Cherry Blossom. There are magazines for people like that. As yet, though, it is doubtful that there are support groups and twelve-step programs.
I wonder what "normal way of walking" means.
Probably not a purposeful stride and a willingness to hike two blocks uphill rather than waiting for the bus.
"She has to be stunning. But she also has to be between 22 and 24 years of age and have a master's degree from one of the top universities..."
My criteria are far less extreme.
She must be less than me, and at the same time more.
That is to say, shorter and younger than I am, while simultaneously more adventurous and sensible. Smaller hands and feet, yes.
More than reasonably bright, also.
Can she speak in multiple complete sentences? That is very important. Many college graduates I've met fail that last test, even if they're from Berkeley or Stanford. And I fear that the situation in mainland China is just as bad. So I shan't even think of looking there, as any woman I might be interested in has to have at least one language in common with me. A vocabulary that includes all the whiny Mandarin terms for Vuitton, Jimmie Chew, Manolo Blahnik, Cartier, and Ferrari, absolutely does not qualify in the slightest.
A very good afternoon to you, ma'am, can you talk intelligently about food?
You know, real food. Not caviar, sushi, Kobe beef, or birdsnest.
Nor wheatgrass, nutritional yeast, quinoa, and lentils.
Crucially, can you do more with tofu than cook it like an irritating Berkeley Vegan? Deep-fry it stuffed with bacon?
Do you like fatty cuts of meat?
Fresh fish?
I live in San Francisco, so you can well imagine that I'm having the damnedest time finding anyone like that.
Non-judgemental tolerance and a sense of humour are also required; those last two really skew the search. Did I perhaps already mention that I live in San Francisco?
Do the math.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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