When I left the house for lunch in Chinatown yesterday it felt like good things were going to happen. Let's just say that my senses were fair tingling with such an expectation.
My senses did not let me down.
During lunch I ended up in conversation with a nice gentleman from Jiangsu (江蘇 'gong sou') province, long a resident of our city.
We had to share a table, and we ate similar things.
I would have had the preserved egg and lean pork porridge (皮蛋瘦肉粥 'pei daan sau yiuk juk'), except I noticed him ordering that, and I did not want to seem to be imitating. Besides, I speak Cantonese, and can read the stuff on the wall.
Show-off time: Request the congee with dried fish and peanuts (柴魚花生粥 'chaai-yü faa-sang juk'). It's written in Chinese.
"Firewood fish" (柴魚 'chaai yü') really tells you what it is. Fatty tuna blanched, dried over heat, fermented with specific strains of bacteria, and lastly sawed into pieces, fragmented, or even finely ground for flavouring. The Japanese use something very similar for their miso soup (味噌汁 'mei chang jap').
Instead of chaai-yü it's called katsuo bushi (鰹節 'gin jit').
I do not think I've ever discussed Old English, Middle English, Early Modern English, and Germanic linguistics with someone from Northern China before.
[Yes yes, I do know that Jiangsu is central-south. But it's far to the north of Lingnan (嶺南), two language groups removed from Canton, and pushing up against the Mandarin Belt. So it's north. Almost as north as you can get.]
His son is taking Latin (拉丁語) in college.
Which is almost as practical as 古文.
Or, for that matter, Old English.
[By the way: the first strophe of Beowulf (hwæt, we Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon) is identified as 'Icelandic' by Google Translate. This is giving those wall-fish eating heathens way too much credit. Instead, a different bunch of savages are lauded: the Bright Speared Danes.]
After a pleasant post-prandial chat we parted ways. I left the restaurant and lit a pipe, wandering first through Spofford (新呂宋巷 'san leui song hong'), then up to Hang Ah Alley (香雅巷 'heung ya hong'), which is now also called Pagoda Alley (寶塔巷 'pou taap hong'), before finally circling around through Waverly (天后廟街 'tin hou miu kai') and down to Grant (都板街 'dou pan kai'). Eventually, after finishing my pipe, I ended up in a cluster of indoor shops. Great Source Commercial.
Where I ended up purchasing a copy of the Three Hundred Poems of the Tang Dynasty. Of which I already have several copies.
That I cannot find.
See, the problem is that I keep pulling a copy to look something up, whereupon it ends up in another stack, eventually covered by other books...... Earlier today I tried to find Mathews Dictionary of Chinese, but neither copy of that could be found. I'm sure I have both of them somewhere. Along with all copies of the Three Hundred Poems.
Somewhere. Don't know where.
Not a clue.
So indeed, I needed another one.
The elderly proprietor was so tickled at finding someone who gave a damn that he cut me a deal. How could I resist?
I think he'd had the book for years.
It's finally found a home.
唐詩三百首
The Three Hundred Tang Poems is a classic anthology compiled by the Retired Scholar of Heng Tang (衡塘退士 'hang tong teui-si', 1711 - 1778) during the Manchu Dynasty. All the greats are represented within, and since it was first published it has been a constant best-seller. For the truly literate, all is transparent. But like most people, my favourite verses are the ones that I can actually read entirely. Poems with too many words that I have to look up don't rank very high; it is only by repeated exposure that more examples get added to the list.
Many of the words are of little use in daily life.
Some only appear rarely at best.
Others not at all.
Evenso, re-reading the Three Hundred Poems of Tang is like revisiting lost places, which one had last seen very long ago, and again meeting the people who once were familiar.
Part of the reason for that is of course the re-sparked memories, but a larger part is due to the nature of Chinese literati versifying, namely to impart a sense of empathy with those who are elsewhere and elsewhen. Much of the output of the great poets was shaped by their own internal exiles and that of their friends and relatives, and a significant portion of what they wrote shared a sensitivity to time and place with the people whom they were sure would read their writings.
Fellow exiles, wanderers, transients.
Floating scholars.
Imagine the following sample as a series of letters floating in and out of inboxes, as members of the same social network communicate with each other and connect. Marginalia, perhaps; query or comment on their circumstances, certainly; the writers are observant, and show a heightened sensitivity to strange stimulation. Everything has newness.
As stigmata of their displacement, there is a sharp cognizance of detail.
夜雨寄北 YE YU JI BEI
By 李商隐 (Li Shangyin)
君問歸期未有期，巴山夜雨漲秋池。
何當共剪西窗燭，卻話巴山夜雨時。
Jūn wèn guī-qī wèi yǒu qī, bāshān yè yǔ zhǎng qiū chí.
Hé dāng gòng jiǎn xī chuāng zhú, què huà bā shān yè yǔ shí.
EVENING RAIN WHILE RESIDING IN THE NORTH
"You ask me when I will return, but I have no date set; the evening rain on Ba Mountain makes the autumn pool overflow; when shall we once more trim wicks together at the western window? Let's just say that it will be when autumn comes again on Ba Mountain."
YE YU GEI PAAK
Gwan man gwai kei mei yau kei, baa saan ye yu jeung chau chi;
Ho dong gong jin sai cheung juk, keuk wa baa saan ye yu si.
Note: 巴山夜雨漲秋池 can also be read to mean "my exile in this strange and godforsaken place has topped all extremes".
山行 SHAN XING
By 項斯 (Xiang Si)
青櫪林深亦有人，一渠流水數家分。
山當日午回峰影，草帶泥痕過鹿群。
蒸茗氣從茅舍出，繰絲聲隔竹籬聞。
行逢賣藥歸來客，不惜相隨入島雲。
Qīng lì lín shēn yì yǒu rén, yī qú liú shuǐ shǔ jiā fēn.
Shān dāng rì wǔ huí fēng yǐng, cǎo dài ní hén guò lù qún.
Zhēng míng qì cóng máo-shè chū, zǎo sī shēng gé zhú lí wén.
Xíng féng mài yào guī-lái kè, bù xī xiāng suí rù dǎo yún.
WANDERING IN THE MOUNTAINS
"In the verdant depths of the forest there are also people; along a stream there may live several households; during the day the sun delineates the peaks; grass casts stripes to hide the deer;
Tea fragrance comes from a rustic cottage; reeling silk whispersounds cross the garden fence; back from selling herbs the recluse wanders; with sure tread re-entering his island clouds."
SAAN HANG
Ching lik lam sam yik yau yan, yat keui lau seui sou gaa fan;
Saan dong yat ng wui fung, chou daai nai han gwo luk kwan.
Jhing ming hei chung maau se chut, chiu si seng gaak juk lei man;
Haang fung mai yeuk gwai loi haak, pat sik seung cheui yap dou wan.
夜雪 YE XUE
By 白居易 (Bai Juyi)
已訝衾枕冷，復見窗戶明。
夜深知雪重，時聞折竹聲。
Yǐ yà qīn zhěn lěng, fù jiàn chuāng-hù míng.
Yè shēn zhī xuě zhòng, shí wén zhé zhú shēng.
NIGHT SNOW
"Already astounded by the cold of my blanket and pillow, the brightness at the window added to that;
Late at night I knew the snow was thick, when I heard the cracking of bamboo."
YE SUET
yi ngaa kam ngam laang, fuk kin cheung wu ming;
ye sam ji suet chung, si man jit juk seng.
春雪 CHUN XUE
By 韓愈 (Han Yu)
新年都未有芳華，二月初驚見草芽。
白雪卻嫌春色晚，故穿庭樹作飛花。
Xīn nián dōu wèi yǒu fāng huá, èr yuè chū jīng jiàn cǎo yá.
Bái xuě què xián chūn-sè wǎn, gù chuān ting shù zuò fēi huā.
SPRING SNOW
"This new year still lacks fragrance, even by the second month it is startling to see buds;
Though white snow delays the colouration of Spring, a courtyard tree defiantly blossoms."
CHUN SUET
San nin dou mei yau fong waa, yi yuet cho geng kin chou ngaa;
Paak suet keuk yim cheun sik maan, gu chuen ting syue jok fei faa.
春思 CHUN SI
By 賈至 (Jia Zhi)
草色青青柳色黃，桃花歷亂李花香。
東風不為吹愁去，春日偏能惹恨長。
Cǎo-sè qīng-qīng liǔ-sè huáng, táo huā lì luàn li huā xiāng.
Dōng fēng bù wéi chuī chóu qù, chūn rì piān néng rě hèn zhǎng.
SPRING THOUGHTS
"Grasses are intensely green and the willows golden, peach trees riotously blooming and plums fragrant; The east wind does not blow to sadden, Spring days are not suitable for bitterness."
CHUN SI
Chou sik ching ching lau sik wong, tou faa lik-luen lei faa heung;
Tung fong pat wai cheui sau heui, cheun yat pin nang ye han cheung.
月夜憶舍弟 YUE YE YI SHE DI
By 杜甫 (Du Fu)
戍鼓斷人行，秋邊一雁聲。
露從今夜白，月是故鄉明。
有弟皆分散，無家問死生。
寄書長不避，況乃未休兵。
Shù gǔ duàn rén xíng, qiū biān yī yàn shēng.
Lù cóng jīn-yè bái, yuè shì gù-xiāng míng.
Yǒu dì jiē fēn sàn, wú jiā wèn sǐ shēng.
Jì shū cháng bù bì, kuàng nǎi wèi xiū bīng.
REMEMBERING MY BROTHERS BY MOONLIGHT
"Military drums cut the march, far off a migrating goose calls; Dew will be white from this night forward, and the moon is home-town bright;
My younger brothers are scattered hither and yon, with no one at home to ask whether they are alive or dead; mailed letters long await responses, and our troops have no relief."
YUET YE YI SE DAI
Syu gu duen yan hang, chau pin yat ngaan sing;
Lou chung gam ye paak, yue si gu heung ming.
Yau dai gaai fan saan, mou gaa man sei saang;
Gei syu cheung pat pei, fong naai mei yau bing.
It might not be too much to read a note of mild tension in these poems; there is no certainty, all termination is open-ended.
It is, on the other hand, relatively easy to understand how these poets appealed across the generations, when countless of their countrymen experienced distant postings, upheavals, changes of fortune, and displacement. Even today the simple straightforward evocation of something else, and something therefore exceptional, speaks in vibrant verse to the Chinese eye.
I am sorry; my paraphrasis of the texts in English cannot do them justice.
I have tried to give an idea of what they mean, and how they meant it.
POST SCRIPT
While waiting for the Pacific Avenue bus I encountered an old friend. She does not look worried now, and has changed jobs. I am not certain that her current employ gives her the time she needs for her daughter, but she seems less stressed. I hope it will work out.
She has that look of strength, vulnerability, and defiant stubbornness which I find so admirable among certain Cantonese women.
Seeing her again was marvelous.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
A FEARSOME LANGUAGE: 温州話
Pursuant a discussion on the facebook page of "nummer 39 met rijst" anent Dutch racism, particularly the casual bigotry displayed towards people of Chinese ancestry in the Netherlands, it struck me that among the Chinese Netherlanders there are, in fact, two common tongues: Dutch and English.
The reason for this is simple. Recent immigrants are familiar with English and still learning Dutch. People born there, however, grow up speaking Dutch on a daily basis, but learn English in highschool.
Neither Dutch nor English are Mandarin.
Which is the dominant form of Chinese.
So what do Dutch Chinese learn from their parents?
More than likely, the family does not speak Mandarin around the dinner table. Nor, in all likelihood, Cantonese, which is the most common form of Chinese in San Francisco, despite all those snooty provincials from elsewhere opening foot massage places in C'town.
One of the languages spoken around the dinner table is Wen Chow dialect.
Which is almighty peculiar.
天不怕地不怕，就怕温州人説温州話!
["Tin pat paa tei pat paa, jau paa wan jau yan suet wan jau waa!"]
Wenzhouhua (溫州話) is part of the Wu language (吳語) family, which is the dominant speech in Shanghai (上海), Soochow (蘇州), Hangchow (杭州), Ningpo (寧波), Chinhwa (金華) and Shiaohsing (紹興), et autres regiones, and is know for being soft and hissing, much like a leaky steamheater in an older apartment.
[吳語 Ng-yu: One of the major branches of Sinitic which started developing over two and a half millennia ago. 上海 Seung hoi: Shanghai, a well-known mercantile coastal metropolis that rose to prominence during the great age of imperialism.
蘇州 Sou jau: One of eastern China's great cultural cities, known for flowers, gardens (蘇州園林 'sou jau yuen lam'), poetry, and clear-skinned women. It is located an the Grand Canal (大運河 'daai wan ho'), which was built over several centuries, starting during the Spring And Autumn Period (春秋時代 771 BCE to 476 BCE), and continuing on through Sui (隋 581-618) and subsequent dynasties.
It was restored during Ming (大明 1368–1644) and Ch'ing (大清 1644–1912).
杭州 Hong jau: One of Chinese famous cities of culture, about which much poetry has been written, and where many famous intellectuals spent formative years. It is said that above us there is heaven, while here on earth there are Hangchow and Soochow (上有天堂下有蘇杭 'seung yau tin tong, haa yau sou hong').
寧波 Ning pou: an important commercial city on the coast. 金華 Kam waa: well-known for superior hams. 紹興 Siu hing: where the best yellow wine comes from.
Note: pronunciations in Cantonese, because that is the most useful.]
Among the Wu dialects there is considerable differentiation, with often a very low degree of mutual intelligibility. The elegant Soochow dialect has the greatest status, with Shanghainese (which largely derives from it) being given far less respect.
Wenchowese is the most peculiar.
"Fear not heaven, fear not earth; just fear Wenchow people speaking the Wenchow language!"
As Wu languages go, its divergence from the norm is due to isolation and the proximity of North-Eastern Min (閩東語), from which it has borrowed much. The situation is analogous to English, a Germanic language with a huge amount of Mediaeval French and Latin. That then is compounded by unique phonology and tones. With, of course, the accepted written language utilizing a vocabulary seldom encountered in speech.
No, this blogger does not speak Wenzhouhua. The local restaurant in the town where I grew up was owned by folks from Zhejiang (浙江 'jit gong'), but the kitchen staff were Cantonese, and the headwaiter came from Shanghai. Although everyone had spent time in Hongkong.
So I've heard something similar (Wenchow is located in Zhejiang), both from the proprietors and their families, and the headwaiter.
But I never learned it.
A pity, because one of the young ladies was extraordinarily nice.
It's something I've always regretted.
門不當，戶不對。
["Mun pat dong, wu pat deui."]
She entered highschool when I was already finishing my fourth year.
It would have been unsuitable, even by Dutch standards.
There was just too great a differential there.
Despite two languages in common.
Even so, she was very nice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The reason for this is simple. Recent immigrants are familiar with English and still learning Dutch. People born there, however, grow up speaking Dutch on a daily basis, but learn English in highschool.
Neither Dutch nor English are Mandarin.
Which is the dominant form of Chinese.
So what do Dutch Chinese learn from their parents?
More than likely, the family does not speak Mandarin around the dinner table. Nor, in all likelihood, Cantonese, which is the most common form of Chinese in San Francisco, despite all those snooty provincials from elsewhere opening foot massage places in C'town.
One of the languages spoken around the dinner table is Wen Chow dialect.
Which is almighty peculiar.
天不怕地不怕，就怕温州人説温州話!
["Tin pat paa tei pat paa, jau paa wan jau yan suet wan jau waa!"]
Wenzhouhua (溫州話) is part of the Wu language (吳語) family, which is the dominant speech in Shanghai (上海), Soochow (蘇州), Hangchow (杭州), Ningpo (寧波), Chinhwa (金華) and Shiaohsing (紹興), et autres regiones, and is know for being soft and hissing, much like a leaky steamheater in an older apartment.
[吳語 Ng-yu: One of the major branches of Sinitic which started developing over two and a half millennia ago. 上海 Seung hoi: Shanghai, a well-known mercantile coastal metropolis that rose to prominence during the great age of imperialism.
蘇州 Sou jau: One of eastern China's great cultural cities, known for flowers, gardens (蘇州園林 'sou jau yuen lam'), poetry, and clear-skinned women. It is located an the Grand Canal (大運河 'daai wan ho'), which was built over several centuries, starting during the Spring And Autumn Period (春秋時代 771 BCE to 476 BCE), and continuing on through Sui (隋 581-618) and subsequent dynasties.
It was restored during Ming (大明 1368–1644) and Ch'ing (大清 1644–1912).
杭州 Hong jau: One of Chinese famous cities of culture, about which much poetry has been written, and where many famous intellectuals spent formative years. It is said that above us there is heaven, while here on earth there are Hangchow and Soochow (上有天堂下有蘇杭 'seung yau tin tong, haa yau sou hong').
寧波 Ning pou: an important commercial city on the coast. 金華 Kam waa: well-known for superior hams. 紹興 Siu hing: where the best yellow wine comes from.
Note: pronunciations in Cantonese, because that is the most useful.]
Among the Wu dialects there is considerable differentiation, with often a very low degree of mutual intelligibility. The elegant Soochow dialect has the greatest status, with Shanghainese (which largely derives from it) being given far less respect.
Wenchowese is the most peculiar.
"Fear not heaven, fear not earth; just fear Wenchow people speaking the Wenchow language!"
As Wu languages go, its divergence from the norm is due to isolation and the proximity of North-Eastern Min (閩東語), from which it has borrowed much. The situation is analogous to English, a Germanic language with a huge amount of Mediaeval French and Latin. That then is compounded by unique phonology and tones. With, of course, the accepted written language utilizing a vocabulary seldom encountered in speech.
No, this blogger does not speak Wenzhouhua. The local restaurant in the town where I grew up was owned by folks from Zhejiang (浙江 'jit gong'), but the kitchen staff were Cantonese, and the headwaiter came from Shanghai. Although everyone had spent time in Hongkong.
So I've heard something similar (Wenchow is located in Zhejiang), both from the proprietors and their families, and the headwaiter.
But I never learned it.
A pity, because one of the young ladies was extraordinarily nice.
It's something I've always regretted.
門不當，戶不對。
["Mun pat dong, wu pat deui."]
She entered highschool when I was already finishing my fourth year.
It would have been unsuitable, even by Dutch standards.
There was just too great a differential there.
Despite two languages in common.
Even so, she was very nice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOU MAY SCREAM
Due to scheduling conflicts, the weekly visit to the place of howling madness with an old friend did not take place at the customary time. Which is probably just as well, given that a few years ago the owner installed a karaoke machine, and now hordes of young white people drop in to scream, shout, get drunk, and sing badly.
Under other circumstances this blogger approves of young people. Especially if they wish to misbehave. I've done that too.
Might like to do it again.
The combination of enormous numbers of them at top volume, with alcohol and crappy lyrics, is not conducive.
I prefer my young people somewhat quieter and more restrained.
No idea where those might be found.
At home in bed?
The best young people, assuming that they have already hit adulthood, do not go to Karaoke places, and very rarely drink. They know how to behave in public. The most extrovert that they can be is when they bite into a flaky charsiu turnover, and exclaim "my goodness, this is so delicious".
I would like to introduce them to that, but I fear them.
Especially here in San Francisco.
People have fangs.
Trust me; a hot cup of Hongkong style milk-tea, and a flaky charsiu turnover, are much much better than screaming into a microphone. Especially if you can appreciate the good things in life.
And calm rational company.
I know where to get charsiu turnovers and milk-tea.
And I am also a nice calm man.
Mature, even.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Under other circumstances this blogger approves of young people. Especially if they wish to misbehave. I've done that too.
Might like to do it again.
The combination of enormous numbers of them at top volume, with alcohol and crappy lyrics, is not conducive.
I prefer my young people somewhat quieter and more restrained.
No idea where those might be found.
At home in bed?
The best young people, assuming that they have already hit adulthood, do not go to Karaoke places, and very rarely drink. They know how to behave in public. The most extrovert that they can be is when they bite into a flaky charsiu turnover, and exclaim "my goodness, this is so delicious".
I would like to introduce them to that, but I fear them.
Especially here in San Francisco.
People have fangs.
Trust me; a hot cup of Hongkong style milk-tea, and a flaky charsiu turnover, are much much better than screaming into a microphone. Especially if you can appreciate the good things in life.
And calm rational company.
I know where to get charsiu turnovers and milk-tea.
And I am also a nice calm man.
Mature, even.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
KOREAN YAM —— 淮山葯
Years ago my apartment mate returned from the farmers market with something that could only be described as a "big ass yam".
Or 'big donkey yam', for the Bowdlerized version.
She was positively gloating about it.
It was indeed extraordinary.
A few minutes later the phone rang, with a salesperson in a trailer park out in Inbredistan trying to get me to switch plans back to ATT, so rather than explaining that they were barking mad, ATT sucked eggs, and Hades would sooner freeze entirely over, I instead gave vent to my worshipful admiration for the 'big ass yam'. Or big donkey yam. I waxed poetic.
It was a remarkably short phone conversation.
They might not have yams in Inbredistan.
Today I saw its cousin. And I had no clue what it was.
It is sold in Chinatown
.
淮山 WAAI SAAN
[Flumen or fontenym, plus 'mountain'.]
Okay, it's a root. Tuberous. And I feel quite tickled that I can read the Chinese name. That's a big step in the right direction.
But what the heck is it?
Several old ladies assured me that it was good for the kidneys (腎 'san'). As well as the spleen (脾 'pei'). And also the liver (肝 'gon'). Particularly when cooked with such things as tripe (百葉 'paak yip'), corn (粟米 'suk mai'), and carrots (紅蘿蔔 'hong lo bok'). Long simmering is best. Other things it can be cooked with include 枸杞子 ('gau gei ji': Lycium chinense), black wood ears (黑木耳 'hak muk yi'), and Chinese red dates (红枣 'hong jou').
It is very good!
Thank you, auntie.
I remain quite clueless.
淮山红枣糖水 SWEET WAAI SAAN ROOT AND RED DATE SOUP
[Waai saan hong jou tong sui]
淮山5兩 (five taels of Waaisaan).
红枣1兩 (one tael of red dates).
白糖适量 (a suitable amount of sugar).
淮山去皮，切片 (peel and chop the Waaisaan).
红枣洗净，切片 (rinse and chop the dates).
淮山同红枣放入水中 (dump both into water).
煮到淮山變軟 (cook until the Waaisaan softens).
加數量糖 (add a suitable quantity of sugar).
係噉 (that is all).
["Waai saan hong jou tong sui: Waai saan ng leung. Hong jou yat leung. Paak tong sik leung. Waai saan heui pei, chit pin. Hong jou sai jeng, chit pin. Waai saan tong hong jou fong yap sui jung. Jiu dou waai saan pin yuen. Gaa sou leung tong. Hai gam."]
Simple, tasty, and undoubtedly very healthful.
Good for yin energy (陰氣 'yam hei').
Your kidneys and spleen.
And the liver.
At this point I still didn't know what this most beneficial vegetable was. The vegetable seller didn't know the English name either, but assured me that it was "waai saan".
I should've asked her to write down how to cook it with meat, carrots, and corn too. Though I would've substituted parsnips, because I'm not too hep on carrots.
Turns out it's Dioscorea opposita - the Korean yam.
淮山葯 waai saan yeuk.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or 'big donkey yam', for the Bowdlerized version.
She was positively gloating about it.
It was indeed extraordinary.
A few minutes later the phone rang, with a salesperson in a trailer park out in Inbredistan trying to get me to switch plans back to ATT, so rather than explaining that they were barking mad, ATT sucked eggs, and Hades would sooner freeze entirely over, I instead gave vent to my worshipful admiration for the 'big ass yam'. Or big donkey yam. I waxed poetic.
It was a remarkably short phone conversation.
They might not have yams in Inbredistan.
Today I saw its cousin. And I had no clue what it was.
It is sold in Chinatown
.
淮山 WAAI SAAN
[Flumen or fontenym, plus 'mountain'.]
Okay, it's a root. Tuberous. And I feel quite tickled that I can read the Chinese name. That's a big step in the right direction.
But what the heck is it?
Several old ladies assured me that it was good for the kidneys (腎 'san'). As well as the spleen (脾 'pei'). And also the liver (肝 'gon'). Particularly when cooked with such things as tripe (百葉 'paak yip'), corn (粟米 'suk mai'), and carrots (紅蘿蔔 'hong lo bok'). Long simmering is best. Other things it can be cooked with include 枸杞子 ('gau gei ji': Lycium chinense), black wood ears (黑木耳 'hak muk yi'), and Chinese red dates (红枣 'hong jou').
It is very good!
Thank you, auntie.
I remain quite clueless.
淮山红枣糖水 SWEET WAAI SAAN ROOT AND RED DATE SOUP
[Waai saan hong jou tong sui]
淮山5兩 (five taels of Waaisaan).
红枣1兩 (one tael of red dates).
白糖适量 (a suitable amount of sugar).
淮山去皮，切片 (peel and chop the Waaisaan).
红枣洗净，切片 (rinse and chop the dates).
淮山同红枣放入水中 (dump both into water).
煮到淮山變軟 (cook until the Waaisaan softens).
加數量糖 (add a suitable quantity of sugar).
係噉 (that is all).
["Waai saan hong jou tong sui: Waai saan ng leung. Hong jou yat leung. Paak tong sik leung. Waai saan heui pei, chit pin. Hong jou sai jeng, chit pin. Waai saan tong hong jou fong yap sui jung. Jiu dou waai saan pin yuen. Gaa sou leung tong. Hai gam."]
Simple, tasty, and undoubtedly very healthful.
Good for yin energy (陰氣 'yam hei').
Your kidneys and spleen.
And the liver.
At this point I still didn't know what this most beneficial vegetable was. The vegetable seller didn't know the English name either, but assured me that it was "waai saan".
I should've asked her to write down how to cook it with meat, carrots, and corn too. Though I would've substituted parsnips, because I'm not too hep on carrots.
Turns out it's Dioscorea opposita - the Korean yam.
淮山葯 waai saan yeuk.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE WARM BUS RIDE
The bus stopped at Kearney and old people got on. One gentleman was so arthritic that he really should have used the front, where there is lift capability -- the bus will lower itself, and a little hydraulic platform would be able to make the ascent so much less problematic -- but he got on at the rear entrance, painfully attempting to hoist himself up the stairs. He refused help from passengers, but his wife pushed him up and in. It was a well-practiced manoeuvre; she had obviously done it many times before.
Before creaking over to a seat which a young person vacated for him, he swiped his transit card against the beeper. Whatever else, one must observe proper procedures. Two blocks later the couple got off.
I suspect that they meant to catch the Stockton bus.
Well, they're alive and kicking. And filled with determination neither grim nor excessively upbeat. Very matter of fact about the logistical problems that accompany old age.
Still.
In those two blocks, the bus went from jam-packed to sardine can.
There had been many elderly folks at Kearney Street.
Very few younger people got the memo.
Alleviating the tension that masses crammed together may feel, one woman was talking on her cell-phone. Normally I disapprove of cell-phone use on the bus, as it seems such a deliberate act of selfish personal imperialism.
"This is my space, screw you and both of your ears and even your very presence, I am an important and creative individual, and I will now assert my splendidiferous persontude by yacking loudly about nothing at all.
For the next ten blocks!"
"You gotta return to the warm embrace of Lesbian motherhood!"
Okay. Lady, you've got my complete attention. I love listening in on transit conversations, and I have NO intention of disturbing you while you talk about Lesbian maternal temperature.
This blogger, while not a Lesbian himself, has nothing but kind words for Lesbian embraces.
Which I do not want to actually see, please understand, unless they are fully clothed. Much like any other embracing. Embraces are a charming spectacle if the proprieties are maintained.
And I'm not a mother either. So that's TWO points of difference.
But believe me, I am all about warmth.
Especially in this weather.
Let us ALL embrace.
Mmm, toasty.
Turns out a friend is dallying temporarily with one of THOSE people. You know, a man. Male. Of masculine persuasion. It may be Christmas-related. Have to present a non-disturbing face to the folks during the holiday.
A pretense at standard heterosexual complacency is far more festive than casting dykeness into the family soup.
But just wait till afterwards. When it's all over.
You WILL return to the warm embrace.
Of the Lesbian earth-mother.
You can't help it.
Baby.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Before creaking over to a seat which a young person vacated for him, he swiped his transit card against the beeper. Whatever else, one must observe proper procedures. Two blocks later the couple got off.
I suspect that they meant to catch the Stockton bus.
Well, they're alive and kicking. And filled with determination neither grim nor excessively upbeat. Very matter of fact about the logistical problems that accompany old age.
Still.
In those two blocks, the bus went from jam-packed to sardine can.
There had been many elderly folks at Kearney Street.
Very few younger people got the memo.
Alleviating the tension that masses crammed together may feel, one woman was talking on her cell-phone. Normally I disapprove of cell-phone use on the bus, as it seems such a deliberate act of selfish personal imperialism.
"This is my space, screw you and both of your ears and even your very presence, I am an important and creative individual, and I will now assert my splendidiferous persontude by yacking loudly about nothing at all.
For the next ten blocks!"
"You gotta return to the warm embrace of Lesbian motherhood!"
Okay. Lady, you've got my complete attention. I love listening in on transit conversations, and I have NO intention of disturbing you while you talk about Lesbian maternal temperature.
This blogger, while not a Lesbian himself, has nothing but kind words for Lesbian embraces.
Which I do not want to actually see, please understand, unless they are fully clothed. Much like any other embracing. Embraces are a charming spectacle if the proprieties are maintained.
And I'm not a mother either. So that's TWO points of difference.
But believe me, I am all about warmth.
Especially in this weather.
Let us ALL embrace.
Mmm, toasty.
Turns out a friend is dallying temporarily with one of THOSE people. You know, a man. Male. Of masculine persuasion. It may be Christmas-related. Have to present a non-disturbing face to the folks during the holiday.
A pretense at standard heterosexual complacency is far more festive than casting dykeness into the family soup.
But just wait till afterwards. When it's all over.
You WILL return to the warm embrace.
Of the Lesbian earth-mother.
You can't help it.
Baby.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 09, 2013
IT IS ALIVE. BUT IS IT HUMAN?
Yesterday a local sports team did something fantastic. No, I did not watch the game, and have no actual idea what it was, or even how stupendous. The knowledge that it was mega-fantastic earthshattering super wonderful and just about the biggest thing since cheesedoodles was imparted by the noise in the nursery. That being a collection of cigar smokers in the lounge at The Last Man Standing.
Judging by their behaviour, watching sports is very much like drunken frat-boy sex; there's an awful lot of screaming and cussing.
I am not a sports-fan. Perhaps it's a character-flaw.
Nor do I feel any urge to support my team.
Whose names I do not know.
Unlike many people, I get most of my stimulation from caffeine.
So asking why I was anywhere near the cigar-smokers is a valid question; why the devil would I subject myself to that?
Well, I did not know that so important a game was scheduled.
In all honesty, I thought that right around this time nothing, absolutely nothing, would come between America and the popular must-have retailers. So I envisioned a nice quiet afternoon with the buffing wheels, polishing compounds, various waxes, poke-poke tools, and fluids, and an array of briar coming alive again in my hands.
Charatan, Comoy, Dunhill, Savinelli, and a few altogether interesting brands that I had seldom or never seen before. It was mostly Savinelli, but they were very nice pieces. Not filthy inside, slightly perfumed by Dunhill London Mixture, and the only thing that really required a focused neurosis was the tar embedded in the rims of the sandblasts.
Often when I fiddle with pipes I can imagine the type of rodent, raccoon, badger, or stoat-like creature that might love the object between my fingers.
This selection was part of a larger batch that had recently come in, all from the same owner. He liked English mixtures, and his tastes were twixt classic collegiate and sporty modern. But very balanced.
Possibly a very charming salamander or lizard of a man, with a tendency to wear overly colourful sweaters. Bright orb-eyes, and a subtle wit. A little pink flickety tongue snagging flies.
He may have liked curried grubs and beetles.
Followed by a spot of sourmash.
Once in a while, a cheroot.
A zesty Nicaraguan.
Or a Fuente.
Maduro.
Sometimes I wonder what my own pipe collection says about me. Could someone tell from my shape-preferences and prize-examples that I spent time in Europe and on planet Berkeley, before settling into digs in San Francisco? Do the pipes betray that I like noodles with grilled pork? Very fond of bittermelon? Vietnamese drip coffee, Hongkong-style milk-tea?
I think it's a stable and classic selection of briar, with a few notes of wildness. Only one or two queer lapses of judgment, which represent a chipper and upbeat streak of adventurism.
All in all, not an unlikable goobus.
Albeit rather offish.
Some pipes suggest a life in the sunlight, with the brightness of a California Spring or Summer coming in through the windows in mid-morning. Soft breezes, and the green of wooded areas, with alternating blots of brilliance and shadow. Late afternoons. Others hint at metal instruments and wooden surfaces, the distant echoes of machines, though not too loud for dreams.
Concrete, asphalt, iron bars. Abandoned tracks, loading docks.
A host of weasels, with a preference for VaPer flake.
A bright-eyed meerkat smoking a Zulu.
An otter, with a Rhodesian.
Rat and a Dublin.
Tangy leaf.
I'm certain that none of my pieces in any way says anything what so ever about football, or yelling at a television screen for several hours while chomping stogies and bloviating.
Because I can't imagine ever doing that myself.
I do not watch sports.
At all.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Judging by their behaviour, watching sports is very much like drunken frat-boy sex; there's an awful lot of screaming and cussing.
I am not a sports-fan. Perhaps it's a character-flaw.
Nor do I feel any urge to support my team.
Whose names I do not know.
Unlike many people, I get most of my stimulation from caffeine.
So asking why I was anywhere near the cigar-smokers is a valid question; why the devil would I subject myself to that?
Well, I did not know that so important a game was scheduled.
In all honesty, I thought that right around this time nothing, absolutely nothing, would come between America and the popular must-have retailers. So I envisioned a nice quiet afternoon with the buffing wheels, polishing compounds, various waxes, poke-poke tools, and fluids, and an array of briar coming alive again in my hands.
Charatan, Comoy, Dunhill, Savinelli, and a few altogether interesting brands that I had seldom or never seen before. It was mostly Savinelli, but they were very nice pieces. Not filthy inside, slightly perfumed by Dunhill London Mixture, and the only thing that really required a focused neurosis was the tar embedded in the rims of the sandblasts.
Often when I fiddle with pipes I can imagine the type of rodent, raccoon, badger, or stoat-like creature that might love the object between my fingers.
This selection was part of a larger batch that had recently come in, all from the same owner. He liked English mixtures, and his tastes were twixt classic collegiate and sporty modern. But very balanced.
Possibly a very charming salamander or lizard of a man, with a tendency to wear overly colourful sweaters. Bright orb-eyes, and a subtle wit. A little pink flickety tongue snagging flies.
He may have liked curried grubs and beetles.
Followed by a spot of sourmash.
Once in a while, a cheroot.
A zesty Nicaraguan.
Or a Fuente.
Maduro.
Sometimes I wonder what my own pipe collection says about me. Could someone tell from my shape-preferences and prize-examples that I spent time in Europe and on planet Berkeley, before settling into digs in San Francisco? Do the pipes betray that I like noodles with grilled pork? Very fond of bittermelon? Vietnamese drip coffee, Hongkong-style milk-tea?
I think it's a stable and classic selection of briar, with a few notes of wildness. Only one or two queer lapses of judgment, which represent a chipper and upbeat streak of adventurism.
All in all, not an unlikable goobus.
Albeit rather offish.
Some pipes suggest a life in the sunlight, with the brightness of a California Spring or Summer coming in through the windows in mid-morning. Soft breezes, and the green of wooded areas, with alternating blots of brilliance and shadow. Late afternoons. Others hint at metal instruments and wooden surfaces, the distant echoes of machines, though not too loud for dreams.
Concrete, asphalt, iron bars. Abandoned tracks, loading docks.
A host of weasels, with a preference for VaPer flake.
A bright-eyed meerkat smoking a Zulu.
An otter, with a Rhodesian.
Rat and a Dublin.
Tangy leaf.
I'm certain that none of my pieces in any way says anything what so ever about football, or yelling at a television screen for several hours while chomping stogies and bloviating.
Because I can't imagine ever doing that myself.
I do not watch sports.
At all.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 08, 2013
CONVERSATIONS WITH SALESREPS
An oldy but goody from 2009. Now presented in bullet list format, so that you can print it out and tack it up where it's visible. Like just above your phone, or to the right of your computer.
Suggestions & improvements welcomed.
I am here to help.
CONVERSATIONS WITH SALESREPS
When speaking to salesreps, bear in mind that they are simple folks and data confuses them. They cannot handle more than one thought at a time.
SO: If you need to discuss TWO issues (such as: 1. a past-due invoice; and 2. a deduction taken on a previous payment), please do the following:
Other things to keep in mind:
And please try to be as understanding as you possibly can.
Let them know that, they will appreciate it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Suggestions & improvements welcomed.
I am here to help.
CONVERSATIONS WITH SALESREPS
When speaking to salesreps, bear in mind that they are simple folks and data confuses them. They cannot handle more than one thought at a time.
SO: If you need to discuss TWO issues (such as: 1. a past-due invoice; and 2. a deduction taken on a previous payment), please do the following:
- Have TWO phone conversations, at least two weeks apart - one for each issue. This will keep them from jumbling the two together.
- Speak slowly, use simple words. They will understand better, and be able to read their own notes.
- Ask them to repeat back to you what you just told them. This is to ensure that the words, if not the meaning, have penetrated.
- Call them back a day later, to check if they need help, reminders, or further explanation.
- Reward them with positive and comforting interjections, like "good!", "marvelous", "you're SO smart", "fabulous!".
- Immediately make notes in the file. Whatever you said will change in many ways over time. Do not expect them to remember the details - they're too busy for that.
Other things to keep in mind:
- Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time. Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time. Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time. Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time. Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time. Repetition – they may not have heard you the first time.
- Always say 'hello'.
- Always say 'thank you'.
- Always say 'goodbye' – it could be the only way to END the conversation.
And please try to be as understanding as you possibly can.
Let them know that, they will appreciate it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PORK RIBS FROM CHICKEN
That wasn't a good idea. The potato chips were okay. The healthful yoghurt drink was fine. The delicious barbecued chicken rib sandwich may have been a mistake. Especially after adding ketchup, mustard, hotsauce, and capers. And sliced peppers. This batch of chilies was particularly vicious.
So even the ameliorating effect of marmalade (sweet, citrusy, beneficial to the stomach lining) was wasted. The effect I was aiming for was "tangy barbecue sauce".
I may have misfired. The aim was off.
The concept was bad from the git-go.
Italian sausage grilled with Cayenne?
I should know better than to attempt high cuisine after ten o'clock. Nobody has culinary judgement that late. It just ain't in the cards.
Yes, the sauce came out pleasantly glazy. Without even tasting it, I decided it would be better ("improved") if some hot lime pickle (nimbu achar) was added. A man needs zest in his life.
I have profound regrets.
Woke up with "angst".
Running on empty.
Learning curve.
Vikings.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So even the ameliorating effect of marmalade (sweet, citrusy, beneficial to the stomach lining) was wasted. The effect I was aiming for was "tangy barbecue sauce".
I may have misfired. The aim was off.
The concept was bad from the git-go.
Italian sausage grilled with Cayenne?
I should know better than to attempt high cuisine after ten o'clock. Nobody has culinary judgement that late. It just ain't in the cards.
Yes, the sauce came out pleasantly glazy. Without even tasting it, I decided it would be better ("improved") if some hot lime pickle (nimbu achar) was added. A man needs zest in his life.
I have profound regrets.
Woke up with "angst".
Running on empty.
Learning curve.
Vikings.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, December 07, 2013
WILL INVENT STUFF FOR BEER
Two days ago we had a reunion. The company no longer exists, since November of last year, but it had survived the sharks for nearly two decades. And, ignoring the grating surreality of the last two years, it was a good place to work.
The reunion was, naturally, at a bar. Creative types gravitate towards alcohol much the same way that crackheads are magnetically attracted to lost suburbanites.
There's just something about intelligent people which is infinitely alluring. Yes, some of them are female...... but don't worry, I was looking at their eyes. Same goes for the males among us.
We had actually done some pretty darn decent work while employed at that company. Won a few awards, made heads spin, fascinated crowds. But it became a leaner, more competitive market as time went on. And, truth be told, the retailers were falling like flies. The Big Box shops in mall-America have a lot to answer for.
None of the beefy fratboys from Sales or Marketing showed up, which is just as well. We would've eaten them.
OBLIGATORY ATTENDANCE
Every month we had a company meeting during which an overview of corporate health and progress would be given, followed by significant news, after which each department would in three minutes (!) explain either what they had been up to in the last four weeks or what they had achieved.
The most memorable mass meeting was the one in which Shank Dog ("creative") blew the Sales and Marketing dudes out of the water. First Sales blathered on for over ten minutes that they had done momentous things which were totally staggering, saved the world, cured cancer, won peace prizes, and increased prosperity, happiness, and emotional health all round they were just phenomenal and expected applause.
Enthused applause was duly rendered.
Then Marketing told us for fifteen minutes in glowing terms about their mission to Mars, Pluto, the lost continent of Mu, Walmart and Kmart. They had fought the good fight, trounced dragons and giants, performed feats of valour, and cured the sick, made the crippled see again, and were by themselves quite the biggest thing since topsy.
World leaders agreed that they were better than Sales.
Why crapazoola they were just wonderful.
Yes you may clap now.
So we clapped. Yay, team. Yay.
Then Shank Dog stood up, and succinctly explained what Product Development had done during that month.
"We hired a bus, loaded it up with beer, and drove to the Sierras. Blotto for an entire week. Bought more beer. Great time. We're expensing it as 'brainstorming'. Oh, and we also saved the world, just like those other two departments."
Wow. Total silence. Sales and Marketing didn't know what to say.
Clearly Product Development was cooler than them.
Suffice to say that most meetings after that were much shorter, more productive, and certainly more realistic.
I still think we should have produced 'The Little Miss Mayhem Junior Chainsaw', which I envisioned as coming in its own personalizable femmy pink sleeve, with Unicorn and Hello Kitty decals optional and according to the choice of the pig-tailed preteen end-user ("the ideal market segment"), as well as addictive biofeedback devices that would duplicate the pleasurable effects of four hours at the gym without the sweat, grunting, and wasted time -- just strap yourself in, set dials to max, and you'll be in heaven till you have to go to work again -- but what came out of the drunken brainstorming sessions of the Product Development Department was pretty damned cool too.
Nineteen years of corporate goofitude.
That's very good.
COCKY AND INTELLIGENT
On the way home, I heard crows. There are a few small colonies of them in the Nob Hill area. They're raucous and cheerful.
The last three months that the company existed, we were in Hayward. Out in the reclaimed swamplands made industrial, with wide roads, parking lots, and loading docks. Landscaping, trees, warehouses.
Where crows swagger in the weeds along the railroad tracks.
Self-assured, smarter than most other fowl.
More brains than Marketing.
Likely also Sales.
Definitely.
Crows.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The reunion was, naturally, at a bar. Creative types gravitate towards alcohol much the same way that crackheads are magnetically attracted to lost suburbanites.
There's just something about intelligent people which is infinitely alluring. Yes, some of them are female...... but don't worry, I was looking at their eyes. Same goes for the males among us.
We had actually done some pretty darn decent work while employed at that company. Won a few awards, made heads spin, fascinated crowds. But it became a leaner, more competitive market as time went on. And, truth be told, the retailers were falling like flies. The Big Box shops in mall-America have a lot to answer for.
None of the beefy fratboys from Sales or Marketing showed up, which is just as well. We would've eaten them.
OBLIGATORY ATTENDANCE
Every month we had a company meeting during which an overview of corporate health and progress would be given, followed by significant news, after which each department would in three minutes (!) explain either what they had been up to in the last four weeks or what they had achieved.
The most memorable mass meeting was the one in which Shank Dog ("creative") blew the Sales and Marketing dudes out of the water. First Sales blathered on for over ten minutes that they had done momentous things which were totally staggering, saved the world, cured cancer, won peace prizes, and increased prosperity, happiness, and emotional health all round they were just phenomenal and expected applause.
Enthused applause was duly rendered.
Then Marketing told us for fifteen minutes in glowing terms about their mission to Mars, Pluto, the lost continent of Mu, Walmart and Kmart. They had fought the good fight, trounced dragons and giants, performed feats of valour, and cured the sick, made the crippled see again, and were by themselves quite the biggest thing since topsy.
World leaders agreed that they were better than Sales.
Why crapazoola they were just wonderful.
Yes you may clap now.
So we clapped. Yay, team. Yay.
Then Shank Dog stood up, and succinctly explained what Product Development had done during that month.
"We hired a bus, loaded it up with beer, and drove to the Sierras. Blotto for an entire week. Bought more beer. Great time. We're expensing it as 'brainstorming'. Oh, and we also saved the world, just like those other two departments."
Wow. Total silence. Sales and Marketing didn't know what to say.
Clearly Product Development was cooler than them.
Suffice to say that most meetings after that were much shorter, more productive, and certainly more realistic.
I still think we should have produced 'The Little Miss Mayhem Junior Chainsaw', which I envisioned as coming in its own personalizable femmy pink sleeve, with Unicorn and Hello Kitty decals optional and according to the choice of the pig-tailed preteen end-user ("the ideal market segment"), as well as addictive biofeedback devices that would duplicate the pleasurable effects of four hours at the gym without the sweat, grunting, and wasted time -- just strap yourself in, set dials to max, and you'll be in heaven till you have to go to work again -- but what came out of the drunken brainstorming sessions of the Product Development Department was pretty damned cool too.
Nineteen years of corporate goofitude.
That's very good.
COCKY AND INTELLIGENT
On the way home, I heard crows. There are a few small colonies of them in the Nob Hill area. They're raucous and cheerful.
The last three months that the company existed, we were in Hayward. Out in the reclaimed swamplands made industrial, with wide roads, parking lots, and loading docks. Landscaping, trees, warehouses.
Where crows swagger in the weeds along the railroad tracks.
Self-assured, smarter than most other fowl.
More brains than Marketing.
Likely also Sales.
Definitely.
Crows.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 06, 2013
WHERE IS HUIZHOU? AND IS IT FABULOUS?
There are at least three major languages spoken in Huizhou by the locals, but you don't really need to know a word of any of them. Many residents will be able to hack some English, and they're so used to visitors being completely unintelligible that it doesn't faze them in any case. The climate is subtropical, and there are a number of interesting sights, including ancient pagodas and fabulous scenery. Daya Bay (大亞灣) has dozens of islands and reefs, and is a must for people of an aquatic bent.
[Languages: Cantonese (廣州話 gwongjau waa, 粵語 yuet yü), Hakka (客家話 hakka waa, 梅縣 moi yuen), and Mandarin (普通話 poutong waa, 官話 gun waa,
北方話 pak fong waa, 國語 gwok yü).]
In addition, Huizhou is a thriving city of industry and commerce, as well as a garrison town, home to the 42nd. army of the Peoples Republic of China (中國人民解放軍第42集團軍 "jung gwok yan man gaai fong kwan dai sei sap yi jaap tuen kwan").
The last item indicates how important the place is.
[中國 jung gwok: central country; China. 人民 yan man: people. 人 yan: person, human. 民 man: citizenry, populace. 解放軍 gaai fong kwan: liberation army.
解放 gaai fong: liberation. 解 gaai: loosen, untie; explain, elucidate. 放 fong: put something somewhere, release, set free; liberate. 第 dai: number, degree, sequence.
42: forty two; 四十二("sei sap yi"). 集團軍 jaap tuen kwan: army group, corps or division. 集 jaap: assemblage, collection. 團 tuen: ball, mass, lump.
軍 kwan: army; the military.]
The local cuisine is of Cantonese type, but diverse other attempts at cooking can also be found there, such as Szechuan, Shanghai, and Pizza.
Stick with Cantonese food and you won't go wrong.
Freshness, grande saveur, and zest.
It's fabulous.
惠州 WAI JAU
The city is northeast of Shenzhen (深圳) and Hongkong (香港), in the Pearl River Delta region (珠江三角洲) in Canton Province (廣東). Yes, there are people in San Francisco who speak the local dialect, but that isn't why I'm mentioning the place.
I'm mentioning it because of their traffic police.
Of whom I greatly approve.
惠州交警 —— 交通安全舞
[Wai jau gaau ging -- gaau tong on chuen mou]
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CymAEjZmUY#t=116.]
Well now. Jumping, dude. Rock out.
The nominal reason for the video is that 1-2-2 ("yat yi yi") is the Chinese traffic emergency phone-number, and therefore, more or less, December 2nd. is now 'Traffic Police Day'.
The real reason is probably "because we can". Yessiree, Huizhou Traffic Police totally rule.
I for one am mighty impressed; I cannot imagine our traffic cops doing something so utterly cool, ever. Heck, most of the C.H.P. can't get their creaky big buts off the saddle without ripping something.
"TRAFFIC SAFETY DANCE"
The background in the video makes me want to visit Huizhou. It's sunny there. And subtropical. There are trees, and broad boulevards.
It looks like a beautiful spacious modern city.
Clean, bright, and well-maintained.
No garbage on the streets.
Californian.
Altogether quite unlike San Francisco. Where I presently live.
The only thing we have in common with Huizhou is that our local cuisine is also of Cantonese type. Which is fabulous.
NOTE
I was made aware of this video, which shows that the Huizhou Traffic Police are a wonderful force to be reckoned with, by Beijing Cream, which regularly features some boffo stuff.
Fabulous.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Languages: Cantonese (廣州話 gwongjau waa, 粵語 yuet yü), Hakka (客家話 hakka waa, 梅縣 moi yuen), and Mandarin (普通話 poutong waa, 官話 gun waa,
北方話 pak fong waa, 國語 gwok yü).]
In addition, Huizhou is a thriving city of industry and commerce, as well as a garrison town, home to the 42nd. army of the Peoples Republic of China (中國人民解放軍第42集團軍 "jung gwok yan man gaai fong kwan dai sei sap yi jaap tuen kwan").
The last item indicates how important the place is.
[中國 jung gwok: central country; China. 人民 yan man: people. 人 yan: person, human. 民 man: citizenry, populace. 解放軍 gaai fong kwan: liberation army.
解放 gaai fong: liberation. 解 gaai: loosen, untie; explain, elucidate. 放 fong: put something somewhere, release, set free; liberate. 第 dai: number, degree, sequence.
42: forty two; 四十二("sei sap yi"). 集團軍 jaap tuen kwan: army group, corps or division. 集 jaap: assemblage, collection. 團 tuen: ball, mass, lump.
軍 kwan: army; the military.]
The local cuisine is of Cantonese type, but diverse other attempts at cooking can also be found there, such as Szechuan, Shanghai, and Pizza.
Stick with Cantonese food and you won't go wrong.
Freshness, grande saveur, and zest.
It's fabulous.
惠州 WAI JAU
The city is northeast of Shenzhen (深圳) and Hongkong (香港), in the Pearl River Delta region (珠江三角洲) in Canton Province (廣東). Yes, there are people in San Francisco who speak the local dialect, but that isn't why I'm mentioning the place.
I'm mentioning it because of their traffic police.
Of whom I greatly approve.
惠州交警 —— 交通安全舞
[Wai jau gaau ging -- gaau tong on chuen mou]
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CymAEjZmUY#t=116.]
Well now. Jumping, dude. Rock out.
The nominal reason for the video is that 1-2-2 ("yat yi yi") is the Chinese traffic emergency phone-number, and therefore, more or less, December 2nd. is now 'Traffic Police Day'.
The real reason is probably "because we can". Yessiree, Huizhou Traffic Police totally rule.
I for one am mighty impressed; I cannot imagine our traffic cops doing something so utterly cool, ever. Heck, most of the C.H.P. can't get their creaky big buts off the saddle without ripping something.
"TRAFFIC SAFETY DANCE"
The background in the video makes me want to visit Huizhou. It's sunny there. And subtropical. There are trees, and broad boulevards.
It looks like a beautiful spacious modern city.
Clean, bright, and well-maintained.
No garbage on the streets.
Californian.
Altogether quite unlike San Francisco. Where I presently live.
The only thing we have in common with Huizhou is that our local cuisine is also of Cantonese type. Which is fabulous.
NOTE
I was made aware of this video, which shows that the Huizhou Traffic Police are a wonderful force to be reckoned with, by Beijing Cream, which regularly features some boffo stuff.
Fabulous.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 05, 2013
JUMP SHRIMP SO MAD!
As I often do I was quietly listening in on a Cantonese conversation while riding the bus the other day. Being, as you know, rather much Caucasian ("white", with a small beard, and grey eyes), I can do that a lot.
And though I respect the right to privacy and confidentiality of other people, I feel that public conversation is fair game. I am a good listener.
Sure, it's an unfair advantage. No one naturally suspects that a beady-eyed Anglo can understand any part of their discussion. But is there really any reason to holler out 大家聽注，我識廣東話！when I get on the bus?
[大家聽注，我識廣東話！Taai gaa teng chu, ngo sik kwontungwa! "Everybody listen up, I understand Cantonese!"]
I think not.
Little motivates me to hamstring my own learning curve.
THIS I'VE NEVER HEARD BEFORE
The Cantonese language has some expressions and turns of phrase which are quite interesting, and the grammar also differs enough from Mandarin and other Chinese languages that it has a completely separate mental feel. Northerners often do not grasp the nuances, registers, and modes.
Consider this doozy: 我俾嗰箇人激到生蝦噉跳嘅喇 (ngo pei go-go yan gik dou saang haa gam tiu ge laa).
"I permitted that dude irritate me till live shrimp similar jump!"
Adjectival and passive construction (俾 pei: gave, let someone effect or affect something), with a comparative (噉 gam: thus, so, in such a manner), and an aspect marker (嘅喇 ge laa: a strong note of factual assertion).
[Note: Cantonese is particularly rich in particle clusters at the end of sentences, which nuance the 'topic - comment' feature of the language. If the first part of the typical sentence states the matter being mentioned, and the latter part delivers a cogent remark thereon, the finishing particle cluster serves to shade meanings by adding attitude and emotion. Including such diverse aspects as emphasis, a questioning note, a request, an expression of doubt, a reminding characteristic, or even softening statements and obviating bluntness.]
我俾嗰箇人激到生蝦噉跳嘅喇！
"He made me hopping mad"
Wow. To the extent of live shrimp jumping, so vexed. Must have been intense. People do that to me sometimes too.
I know how you feel.
呢樣嘅熟語，譁，諗極都諗唔到，當時今日我重未聽過㗎。
Ni yeung ge suk-yu, wa, lam gik dou lam m-dou, dong-si gam-yat ngo jung-mei teng gwo ga.
[This particular expression, well, I truly think that till today I haven't hear it before.]
It's a remarkable locution.
I am glad I heard that.
Thank you, stranger.
眞係嘅囉喎。
Truly.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And though I respect the right to privacy and confidentiality of other people, I feel that public conversation is fair game. I am a good listener.
Sure, it's an unfair advantage. No one naturally suspects that a beady-eyed Anglo can understand any part of their discussion. But is there really any reason to holler out 大家聽注，我識廣東話！when I get on the bus?
[大家聽注，我識廣東話！Taai gaa teng chu, ngo sik kwontungwa! "Everybody listen up, I understand Cantonese!"]
I think not.
Little motivates me to hamstring my own learning curve.
THIS I'VE NEVER HEARD BEFORE
The Cantonese language has some expressions and turns of phrase which are quite interesting, and the grammar also differs enough from Mandarin and other Chinese languages that it has a completely separate mental feel. Northerners often do not grasp the nuances, registers, and modes.
Consider this doozy: 我俾嗰箇人激到生蝦噉跳嘅喇 (ngo pei go-go yan gik dou saang haa gam tiu ge laa).
"I permitted that dude irritate me till live shrimp similar jump!"
Adjectival and passive construction (俾 pei: gave, let someone effect or affect something), with a comparative (噉 gam: thus, so, in such a manner), and an aspect marker (嘅喇 ge laa: a strong note of factual assertion).
[Note: Cantonese is particularly rich in particle clusters at the end of sentences, which nuance the 'topic - comment' feature of the language. If the first part of the typical sentence states the matter being mentioned, and the latter part delivers a cogent remark thereon, the finishing particle cluster serves to shade meanings by adding attitude and emotion. Including such diverse aspects as emphasis, a questioning note, a request, an expression of doubt, a reminding characteristic, or even softening statements and obviating bluntness.]
我俾嗰箇人激到生蝦噉跳嘅喇！
"He made me hopping mad"
Wow. To the extent of live shrimp jumping, so vexed. Must have been intense. People do that to me sometimes too.
I know how you feel.
呢樣嘅熟語，譁，諗極都諗唔到，當時今日我重未聽過㗎。
Ni yeung ge suk-yu, wa, lam gik dou lam m-dou, dong-si gam-yat ngo jung-mei teng gwo ga.
[This particular expression, well, I truly think that till today I haven't hear it before.]
It's a remarkable locution.
I am glad I heard that.
Thank you, stranger.
眞係嘅囉喎。
Truly.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
MANIFESTING FEMININE INDIVIDUALITY: WOMEN AND BRIAR
One of my favourite people is an elegant-looking woman who smokes Oliva Series V and other cigars. She and her husband sometimes share a cheroot case, often each brings their own selection when they visit the smoking place in the Financial District. It's very cute. His and hers cigar sleeves.
It shows that they have different but compatible tastes.
Many years ago a woman I knew had one of the best pipe-collections I have ever seen. She smoked a mixture that was fifty percent Latakia, twenty five percent Djubec (Turkish), and twenty five percent Virginia.
No, I do not remember what the Virginias were. And they're all unavailable now, because the industry has changed enormously since then.
So all in all the exact blend cannot be reproduced.
But the equivalent can be found.
Full English.
And with both of those examples, the concept that pipes and cigars are not for women is shot out of the water.
It is in fact a fond fantasy of mine that all over the world there are women, ranging from the teenage minx all the way to the superannuated great grandma, who are fond of their pipes, and when the disapproving stares of the moo herd are absent, light up and enjoy something spicy and medium full-bodied. Perhaps they're hiding out on the back porch, or in that little room off the library where the French literature is kept. Maybe putting on a fedora and an overcoat, and wandering around Russian Hill after dark, collar up and with a determined stride. "Don't you dare bug me, stranger, I'm a grouchy person! I will blow smoke at your wussy face if you speak!"
Personally I have a preference for pipes.
But cigars can also be nice.
Pipe-smoking in particular evokes a kinder and gentler age, when people still habitually read books, had a spot of tea now and then, took long walks, and might have a little sherry later in the day. Extensive moorlands, autumn leaves, a typewriter on a desk with a big glass ashtray, plus a cup and saucer, half of the black coffee now having gone cold.
Sunlight slanting in, reflective flickering.
A vase of flowers on a side table.
Quiet, and comfort.
If you disapprove of women pipe or cigar smokers, you likely also believe that they shouldn't vote. Or hold down serious jobs at equal pay. Or, for that matter, concern themselves with anything other than raising the kids and slopping the hogs.
And while I wholeheartedly support hog-slopping -- the pig is one of my favourite animals, so round so plump so packed with goodness -- it must be pointed out that many people who perform that altruistic service are in fact men, and plenty of them smoke. You have heard of corncob pipes? Yes?
They go perfectly with overalls, boots, tractors, pitchforks, and pigslop.
Despite being nowhere near a farm, I possess several cobs.
They are very decent smokes; sweet and mild.
Relatively durable, too.
Good value.
A woman should probably not smoke a corncob, though. Too much of a frisson. It smacks of hills, hollows, baling twine, and bad whiskey, when a woman lights up the old Missouri Meerschaum. You almost expect to see her shooting a varmint or driving a beat-up pickup through the woods.
Women should smoke real briar, standard shapes, well-made, and preferably of top-quality brands. Charatan, Dunhill, Sasieni, Comoy, GBD, BBB, Peterson, Stanwell, Butz-Choquin. Admittedly nearly everything I just named is no longer up to the extremely high standards of the past, as those companies have mostly been absorbed into a giant cheapazoid pipe-combine whose name I shall not mention, but there are several Italian companies that have sprung into the breach and now manufacture superior equipment.
Two great names to remember are Savinelli and Castello.
Mastro De Paya, Mastro Beraldi; also excellent.
Whereas your pipes are from Southern Europe, your tobacco naturally needs to come from the North. Italy is NOT known for decent mixtures, the Danes and the Germans are. Formerly all the best pressed aged Virginias and full Orientals were manufactured in England, now most of the famous brands have been farmed out to Kohlhase & Kopp (in Germany), Orlik, and Macbarens (both in Denmark).
Three notable exceptions are the firms Samuel Gawith and Gawith-Hoggarth in Cumbria, and J. F. Germain and Son in Jersey who in addition to their own products also put up the Esoterica line of tobaccos. These three English companies make splendid stuff, but their production is limited, and due to increasing popularity in the United States -- let's call it by it's real name: desperation -- supplies are more often than not bottlenecked, with frantic aficionados sometimes travelling hundreds of miles to deplete the one store in the entire territory that has any left.
You can't really go wrong with products from Kohlhase & Kopp. They hold various brands, like Astleys, McConnell, Rattrays, and Wessex, to name but four. For aged Virginias and pressed flakes, manufacture is farmed out north of the german-Danish border, where Orlik still operates steampresses, spinning machines, and heavy block cutters.
Nothing quite says refined femininity quite as well as a medium flake.
Last week I was smoking Orlik Golden Sliced - on the light side.
Yesterday I opened up a tin of Marlin Flake; medium-full.
The tin aroma is almost plum-like, rich, fruity.
Well aged, and a tactile pleasure.
Utterly perfect.
* * * * *
I've been rediscovering my favourite female authors lately: Marguerite Yourcenar, Mary Rennault, Nadine Gordimer. Among Dutch-language writers: Annemie MacGillavry, Maria Dermoût , Beb Vuyk, and Madelon Szekely-Lulofs.
There's just something about these books that demands fine flue-cured leaf, smoked slow. Stimulating, and requiring thought. Perhaps it's a memory of the pipe-smoking woman I mentioned earlier -- she introduced me to the first three authors -- or possibly it is the carefully constructed texts themselves that suggest calmer tobaccos.
Today I finished re-reading A Coin In Nine Hands.
Soon I'll be heading out over Nob Hill, to find a hot cup of milk-tea and something to nosh on. Afterwards, a long walk with a pipe.
It's late Autumn. Smoke weather.
Yellow ginkgo leaves.
Heaven.
AFTER WORD
For the unbearably curious -- and who could not be so after considering the text above -- there are a few posts you might find interesting.
A SUITABLE PIPE TOBACCO FOR A WOMAN
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-suitable-pipe-tobacco-for-woman.html
Wednesday, March 06, 2013
Opinions about women, tobacco, and the tobacco that women might like.
BREAKING IN A NEW PIPE
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/02/breaking-in-new-pipe.html
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Advice on a crucial matter, which is fundamental to all later enjoyment of the habit, and must not be casually approached.
PIPE SMOKING LADIES - FLAKE AND DARK TWIST
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2012/10/pipe-smoking-ladies.html
Friday, October 19, 2012
Fantasy. Dragonflies and pearls are mentioned. Fantasy.
VALKENSWAARD: THE FRAGRANCE OF CIGARS
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/11/valkenswaard-fragrance-of-cigars.html
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Narrative. Remembering a woman who smoked cigars.
FLAKES: A BRIEF PERSONAL INTRODUCTION
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/08/flakes-brief-personal-introduction.html
Friday, August 09, 2013
Sorry, it's not really brief. Except if you take into account that the vast majority of available flake is not mentioned at all. Nearly forty products ARE described, however, and that's as good an overview as any.
BALKAN MIXTURES
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/09/balkan-mixtures.html
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
An essay about full smoky mixtures that include Latakia, in which several good products are described.
And, as a lagniappe, here's the site of someone else who writes about pipes and tobacco:
DUTCH PIPE SMOKER
http://dutchpipesmoker.wordpress.com/
Unlike my own blog, which veers off into tangents, he stays on the subject.
He's readable, witty, and all-round decent. I like everything he's written, and many of his essays are more in-depth than I have the patience to be.
Very highly recommended.
* * * * *
As you can see, there is a lot more to enjoying a good smoke than merely combustion. If you decide to investigate, or even take up the habit, please drop me a line; it would be encouraging to know someone who does not consider pipe-smoking something that only elderly men do.
I am not an elderly man, by the way.
Possibly not even grown-up
Though I am male.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It shows that they have different but compatible tastes.
Many years ago a woman I knew had one of the best pipe-collections I have ever seen. She smoked a mixture that was fifty percent Latakia, twenty five percent Djubec (Turkish), and twenty five percent Virginia.
No, I do not remember what the Virginias were. And they're all unavailable now, because the industry has changed enormously since then.
So all in all the exact blend cannot be reproduced.
But the equivalent can be found.
Full English.
And with both of those examples, the concept that pipes and cigars are not for women is shot out of the water.
It is in fact a fond fantasy of mine that all over the world there are women, ranging from the teenage minx all the way to the superannuated great grandma, who are fond of their pipes, and when the disapproving stares of the moo herd are absent, light up and enjoy something spicy and medium full-bodied. Perhaps they're hiding out on the back porch, or in that little room off the library where the French literature is kept. Maybe putting on a fedora and an overcoat, and wandering around Russian Hill after dark, collar up and with a determined stride. "Don't you dare bug me, stranger, I'm a grouchy person! I will blow smoke at your wussy face if you speak!"
Personally I have a preference for pipes.
But cigars can also be nice.
Pipe-smoking in particular evokes a kinder and gentler age, when people still habitually read books, had a spot of tea now and then, took long walks, and might have a little sherry later in the day. Extensive moorlands, autumn leaves, a typewriter on a desk with a big glass ashtray, plus a cup and saucer, half of the black coffee now having gone cold.
Sunlight slanting in, reflective flickering.
A vase of flowers on a side table.
Quiet, and comfort.
If you disapprove of women pipe or cigar smokers, you likely also believe that they shouldn't vote. Or hold down serious jobs at equal pay. Or, for that matter, concern themselves with anything other than raising the kids and slopping the hogs.
And while I wholeheartedly support hog-slopping -- the pig is one of my favourite animals, so round so plump so packed with goodness -- it must be pointed out that many people who perform that altruistic service are in fact men, and plenty of them smoke. You have heard of corncob pipes? Yes?
They go perfectly with overalls, boots, tractors, pitchforks, and pigslop.
Despite being nowhere near a farm, I possess several cobs.
They are very decent smokes; sweet and mild.
Relatively durable, too.
Good value.
A woman should probably not smoke a corncob, though. Too much of a frisson. It smacks of hills, hollows, baling twine, and bad whiskey, when a woman lights up the old Missouri Meerschaum. You almost expect to see her shooting a varmint or driving a beat-up pickup through the woods.
Women should smoke real briar, standard shapes, well-made, and preferably of top-quality brands. Charatan, Dunhill, Sasieni, Comoy, GBD, BBB, Peterson, Stanwell, Butz-Choquin. Admittedly nearly everything I just named is no longer up to the extremely high standards of the past, as those companies have mostly been absorbed into a giant cheapazoid pipe-combine whose name I shall not mention, but there are several Italian companies that have sprung into the breach and now manufacture superior equipment.
Two great names to remember are Savinelli and Castello.
Mastro De Paya, Mastro Beraldi; also excellent.
Whereas your pipes are from Southern Europe, your tobacco naturally needs to come from the North. Italy is NOT known for decent mixtures, the Danes and the Germans are. Formerly all the best pressed aged Virginias and full Orientals were manufactured in England, now most of the famous brands have been farmed out to Kohlhase & Kopp (in Germany), Orlik, and Macbarens (both in Denmark).
Three notable exceptions are the firms Samuel Gawith and Gawith-Hoggarth in Cumbria, and J. F. Germain and Son in Jersey who in addition to their own products also put up the Esoterica line of tobaccos. These three English companies make splendid stuff, but their production is limited, and due to increasing popularity in the United States -- let's call it by it's real name: desperation -- supplies are more often than not bottlenecked, with frantic aficionados sometimes travelling hundreds of miles to deplete the one store in the entire territory that has any left.
You can't really go wrong with products from Kohlhase & Kopp. They hold various brands, like Astleys, McConnell, Rattrays, and Wessex, to name but four. For aged Virginias and pressed flakes, manufacture is farmed out north of the german-Danish border, where Orlik still operates steampresses, spinning machines, and heavy block cutters.
Nothing quite says refined femininity quite as well as a medium flake.
Last week I was smoking Orlik Golden Sliced - on the light side.
Yesterday I opened up a tin of Marlin Flake; medium-full.
The tin aroma is almost plum-like, rich, fruity.
Well aged, and a tactile pleasure.
Utterly perfect.
* * * * *
I've been rediscovering my favourite female authors lately: Marguerite Yourcenar, Mary Rennault, Nadine Gordimer. Among Dutch-language writers: Annemie MacGillavry, Maria Dermoût , Beb Vuyk, and Madelon Szekely-Lulofs.
There's just something about these books that demands fine flue-cured leaf, smoked slow. Stimulating, and requiring thought. Perhaps it's a memory of the pipe-smoking woman I mentioned earlier -- she introduced me to the first three authors -- or possibly it is the carefully constructed texts themselves that suggest calmer tobaccos.
Today I finished re-reading A Coin In Nine Hands.
Soon I'll be heading out over Nob Hill, to find a hot cup of milk-tea and something to nosh on. Afterwards, a long walk with a pipe.
It's late Autumn. Smoke weather.
Yellow ginkgo leaves.
Heaven.
AFTER WORD
For the unbearably curious -- and who could not be so after considering the text above -- there are a few posts you might find interesting.
A SUITABLE PIPE TOBACCO FOR A WOMAN
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-suitable-pipe-tobacco-for-woman.html
Wednesday, March 06, 2013
Opinions about women, tobacco, and the tobacco that women might like.
BREAKING IN A NEW PIPE
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/02/breaking-in-new-pipe.html
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Advice on a crucial matter, which is fundamental to all later enjoyment of the habit, and must not be casually approached.
PIPE SMOKING LADIES - FLAKE AND DARK TWIST
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2012/10/pipe-smoking-ladies.html
Friday, October 19, 2012
Fantasy. Dragonflies and pearls are mentioned. Fantasy.
VALKENSWAARD: THE FRAGRANCE OF CIGARS
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/11/valkenswaard-fragrance-of-cigars.html
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Narrative. Remembering a woman who smoked cigars.
FLAKES: A BRIEF PERSONAL INTRODUCTION
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/08/flakes-brief-personal-introduction.html
Friday, August 09, 2013
Sorry, it's not really brief. Except if you take into account that the vast majority of available flake is not mentioned at all. Nearly forty products ARE described, however, and that's as good an overview as any.
BALKAN MIXTURES
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/09/balkan-mixtures.html
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
An essay about full smoky mixtures that include Latakia, in which several good products are described.
And, as a lagniappe, here's the site of someone else who writes about pipes and tobacco:
DUTCH PIPE SMOKER
http://dutchpipesmoker.wordpress.com/
Unlike my own blog, which veers off into tangents, he stays on the subject.
He's readable, witty, and all-round decent. I like everything he's written, and many of his essays are more in-depth than I have the patience to be.
Very highly recommended.
* * * * *
As you can see, there is a lot more to enjoying a good smoke than merely combustion. If you decide to investigate, or even take up the habit, please drop me a line; it would be encouraging to know someone who does not consider pipe-smoking something that only elderly men do.
I am not an elderly man, by the way.
Possibly not even grown-up
Though I am male.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHATEVER GAVE YOU THAT IDEA?
In San Francisco, the typical person is not the same as elsewhere in this great country. For one thing, there are over sixty languages spoken in the city.
For another, over one third of the population is of Asian origin.
Less than half the population is 'wasp'.
You might think that marketers and sales wizards would have noticed.
But no.
They have ideas about this place which are not quite in tune with reality, despite which they continue to act as if we are like everywhere else, and meet at least some of their expectations.
GAP. OLD NAVY. VERSACE. VICTORIA'S SECRET.
JUICY COUTURE. ECKO UNLTD. PUMA.
NIKE. LACOSTE. PATAGONIA.
AMERICAN EAGLE.
HELLO KITTY.
All in all, it's a snapshot of your basic gender-bending cross-dressing ultra-cute border-line hermaphrodite.
I do not feel that that represents me.
We need a line of clothing, accoutrements, and outdoor equipment suitable for non-overweight adults who abjure tofu, are between four foot ten inches and five foot eight or nine tall, who occasionally smell of good tobacco or old books, and prefer their caffeinated beverages sold by ANY other place than Starbucks. People who would never eat at McDonalds, Chili's, or TGIF, because those corporations suck.
A glass of wine or whiskey, once in a while.
Not young, hip, or cutting edge.
Normal people.
Please stop suggesting that San Francisco is precisely like the suburbs or Texas, because it's not. That's where 'those people' live.
Silly buggers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For another, over one third of the population is of Asian origin.
Less than half the population is 'wasp'.
You might think that marketers and sales wizards would have noticed.
But no.
They have ideas about this place which are not quite in tune with reality, despite which they continue to act as if we are like everywhere else, and meet at least some of their expectations.
GAP. OLD NAVY. VERSACE. VICTORIA'S SECRET.
JUICY COUTURE. ECKO UNLTD. PUMA.
NIKE. LACOSTE. PATAGONIA.
AMERICAN EAGLE.
HELLO KITTY.
All in all, it's a snapshot of your basic gender-bending cross-dressing ultra-cute border-line hermaphrodite.
I do not feel that that represents me.
We need a line of clothing, accoutrements, and outdoor equipment suitable for non-overweight adults who abjure tofu, are between four foot ten inches and five foot eight or nine tall, who occasionally smell of good tobacco or old books, and prefer their caffeinated beverages sold by ANY other place than Starbucks. People who would never eat at McDonalds, Chili's, or TGIF, because those corporations suck.
A glass of wine or whiskey, once in a while.
Not young, hip, or cutting edge.
Normal people.
Please stop suggesting that San Francisco is precisely like the suburbs or Texas, because it's not. That's where 'those people' live.
Silly buggers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 03, 2013
MATURE BOZOS AND CULTURAL DISSONANCE
Quite a while back one of my friends suggested that, in order to as he put it, "meet girls", I should hang around the student union. Precisely like Snoopy.
Dang, dude, I can't possibly look like Joe Cool.
For one thing, I don't have sunglasses.
Those are extremely important.
Even at night.
Woof!
Besides, a middle-aged man hanging around any area where young people congregate (such as pools, playgrounds, church social halls, and universities) is a red flag. There are very good reasons why professors and library staff leave under armed guard right around the cocktail hour; that's when the students let down their hair and start smoking crack. Tension mounts, and any man past thirty will be savagely brutalized by jocks and junior Barbie.
A college campus is NO place for a rational person.
Reasonably mature pipe-smoking gentlemen hang around alleyways, the quiet end of Waverly, and on the periphery of Portsmouth Square, within a block of places where a nice cup of milk-tea may be found as well as flaky pastries, and no politically correct parents or sustainably green and Vegan teenagers will chivy him, flocking around and swiping at his calves with their sharp, sharp talons.
Real men avoid juvenile bloodsports.
They also frequent tobacconists. Which, I can assure you, are the very last places in the world where one can find a date. All women who enter do so with a "guide", and then act bored and cranky, because contrary to expectations there are no handbags or shoes there.
Women, for some reason that baffles me, do not smoke pipes or cigars.
Yes indeed, there are exceptions -- who are all attached, much as if totally magnetic -- but so very few that they do not count. Despite the immense appeal of good tobacco, whether in a pipe or rolled into a toro or perfecto, the modern American female understands that any chance of catching a wealthy banker or real-estate tycoon diminishes to the point of absolute zero if she shows an iota of the intelligence and individuality required to master the challenges that come with discriminating taste.
THE OPPOSITE OF THEIR GENDER
It goes without saying that the ideal woman is post-collegiate. But I am as far from understanding most of them as I am from relating to their mothers or their children. Some of them can be conversationally charming, but very few of them seem to have interests that translate into deep and wide knowledge sets, and many of them fall into set behavioural patterns quite as dull as their brothers and fathers. Though instead of watching sports, they subscribe to the "Shopping For Hello Kitty Pursies" channel, and choose clothing based on the latest scheme of three stylish colours as decided by Gap or Old Navy, instead of Jerseys that betray undying allegiance to the local collection of overpaid glandular freaks who run around on astroturf.
[Most modern females would like to do nothing better than spend the day internet shopping, swilling diet bevs, and listening to Miley Cyrus, precisely like men might want to play Grand Theft Otto and endlessly repeat sports stats. Yes, I know that that isn't quite true. But it's very close, isn't it?]
Our habits and passions are formed during childhood; the family and the school strengthen these, and we are rigidly conditioned away from any disturbing individualism. Boundaries are defined by the tolerances of our parents and peers, and, in the modern age, by television and social media.
If all of your friends are on Facebook and insta-message, there is a great chance that you will end up being a shallow spongiform unit, indistinguishable from your peers.
I suspect that there were people like that in Mediaeval times too, whose entire life revolved around parchment and oak-gall ink. They must have been unbearably dull.
Their friends probably thought they were cool, though.
Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet.
Nowadays people thumb-write and emotify their con; but do they still read anything? That is to say, anything requiring thought?
Or is it all fragmentary blink-byte?
I am mr. Badger, and I have a book you should read.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Dang, dude, I can't possibly look like Joe Cool.
For one thing, I don't have sunglasses.
Those are extremely important.
Even at night.
Woof!
A college campus is NO place for a rational person.
Reasonably mature pipe-smoking gentlemen hang around alleyways, the quiet end of Waverly, and on the periphery of Portsmouth Square, within a block of places where a nice cup of milk-tea may be found as well as flaky pastries, and no politically correct parents or sustainably green and Vegan teenagers will chivy him, flocking around and swiping at his calves with their sharp, sharp talons.
Real men avoid juvenile bloodsports.
They also frequent tobacconists. Which, I can assure you, are the very last places in the world where one can find a date. All women who enter do so with a "guide", and then act bored and cranky, because contrary to expectations there are no handbags or shoes there.
Women, for some reason that baffles me, do not smoke pipes or cigars.
Yes indeed, there are exceptions -- who are all attached, much as if totally magnetic -- but so very few that they do not count. Despite the immense appeal of good tobacco, whether in a pipe or rolled into a toro or perfecto, the modern American female understands that any chance of catching a wealthy banker or real-estate tycoon diminishes to the point of absolute zero if she shows an iota of the intelligence and individuality required to master the challenges that come with discriminating taste.
THE OPPOSITE OF THEIR GENDER
It goes without saying that the ideal woman is post-collegiate. But I am as far from understanding most of them as I am from relating to their mothers or their children. Some of them can be conversationally charming, but very few of them seem to have interests that translate into deep and wide knowledge sets, and many of them fall into set behavioural patterns quite as dull as their brothers and fathers. Though instead of watching sports, they subscribe to the "Shopping For Hello Kitty Pursies" channel, and choose clothing based on the latest scheme of three stylish colours as decided by Gap or Old Navy, instead of Jerseys that betray undying allegiance to the local collection of overpaid glandular freaks who run around on astroturf.
[Most modern females would like to do nothing better than spend the day internet shopping, swilling diet bevs, and listening to Miley Cyrus, precisely like men might want to play Grand Theft Otto and endlessly repeat sports stats. Yes, I know that that isn't quite true. But it's very close, isn't it?]
Our habits and passions are formed during childhood; the family and the school strengthen these, and we are rigidly conditioned away from any disturbing individualism. Boundaries are defined by the tolerances of our parents and peers, and, in the modern age, by television and social media.
If all of your friends are on Facebook and insta-message, there is a great chance that you will end up being a shallow spongiform unit, indistinguishable from your peers.
I suspect that there were people like that in Mediaeval times too, whose entire life revolved around parchment and oak-gall ink. They must have been unbearably dull.
Their friends probably thought they were cool, though.
Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet.
Nowadays people thumb-write and emotify their con; but do they still read anything? That is to say, anything requiring thought?
Or is it all fragmentary blink-byte?
I am mr. Badger, and I have a book you should read.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 02, 2013
THE SINGLE MAN, HIS APARTMENT MATE, HER BOYFRIEND, AND TURKEYS IN GENERAL
Sometimes I probably sound blocked. You know, frustrated and quivering. Then I wave my little furry arms around frantically.
Just about sprung with tension.
The beast.
Darn good thing my apartment mate has Aspergers coming out the ears, and is totally oblivious to any of my emotions unless I spell it out in cohesively organized detail.
She used to be my girlfriend. We broke up three and a half years ago, and I've gotten over that. Given that while I had initiated the relationship, she was the one who initiated the break-up, so has she.
It has been a very long time now.
That isn't the problem.
LYRIC BIRD CADENCES CAUSE FRUSTRATION
There are modulations in her voice when she talks to her boyfriend on the phone that drive me up the wall. Tones that I never heard her make before. She sounds sweet and full of character. Lively, funny, and affectionate.
As, melodiously, she speaks in detail about Thanksgiving Turkey.
She had it both days, and he had turkey too, because she cooked it for him. With all the trimmings.
Two people she knows had deep-fried turkey for Thanksgiving. The secrets to which, apparently, are moistness and peanut oil. That last item holds a higher temperature, which is melodiously optimum for doing a Turkey.
The person she spoke to melodiously is from Tennessee.
But not everyone had deep-fried Turkey. Others had it roasted, and a few ate ham. But all of them had a great four-day celebration with food and drink and relatives. Melodiously so. She heard from her fellow volunteers on Saturday, and her co-workers today. Everybody had a grand old time.
She was on the phone with her boyfriend this evening.
Talking about everyone talking about food.
Likable people, and their holidays.
I'm happy that they had fun.
And ate turkeys.
Truly.
Dammit, guys, can't you instead just talk about Cyber Monday?
Do you have to cause melodious turkey modulation?
It is almost like she's singing.
Nobody has ever sounded just so likable when talking about turkeys.
I don't know what I miss most; being loved, or someone kindly conversing with me about turkeys. Turkeys that they had, and I had. It cannot be the turkeys themselves, because they never taste as good as they look.
It's probably just the people who associate with turkeys.
Which is why I'll heading out after typing this.
This turkey needs time to be alone.
Turkeys beware; I growl.
"And so the grumpy badger of Nob Hill went out into the dark San Francisco night, with a pouch of rubbed-out Orlik tobacco and two pipes, to enjoy the fog, cold, dampness, and quiet at the top of the slope, where likely not a single person would speak melodiously to another person about turkeys, or fun times, or even sweetly of deep-frying with peanut oil. The key to which, for a large bird, is a high temperature."
I will also be carrying a tamper, matches, and pipe cleaners.
Like a furry boy scout, I come prepared.
Primed for modulation.
But pissy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Just about sprung with tension.
The beast.
Darn good thing my apartment mate has Aspergers coming out the ears, and is totally oblivious to any of my emotions unless I spell it out in cohesively organized detail.
She used to be my girlfriend. We broke up three and a half years ago, and I've gotten over that. Given that while I had initiated the relationship, she was the one who initiated the break-up, so has she.
It has been a very long time now.
That isn't the problem.
LYRIC BIRD CADENCES CAUSE FRUSTRATION
There are modulations in her voice when she talks to her boyfriend on the phone that drive me up the wall. Tones that I never heard her make before. She sounds sweet and full of character. Lively, funny, and affectionate.
As, melodiously, she speaks in detail about Thanksgiving Turkey.
She had it both days, and he had turkey too, because she cooked it for him. With all the trimmings.
Two people she knows had deep-fried turkey for Thanksgiving. The secrets to which, apparently, are moistness and peanut oil. That last item holds a higher temperature, which is melodiously optimum for doing a Turkey.
The person she spoke to melodiously is from Tennessee.
But not everyone had deep-fried Turkey. Others had it roasted, and a few ate ham. But all of them had a great four-day celebration with food and drink and relatives. Melodiously so. She heard from her fellow volunteers on Saturday, and her co-workers today. Everybody had a grand old time.
She was on the phone with her boyfriend this evening.
Talking about everyone talking about food.
Likable people, and their holidays.
I'm happy that they had fun.
And ate turkeys.
Truly.
Dammit, guys, can't you instead just talk about Cyber Monday?
Do you have to cause melodious turkey modulation?
It is almost like she's singing.
Nobody has ever sounded just so likable when talking about turkeys.
I don't know what I miss most; being loved, or someone kindly conversing with me about turkeys. Turkeys that they had, and I had. It cannot be the turkeys themselves, because they never taste as good as they look.
It's probably just the people who associate with turkeys.
Which is why I'll heading out after typing this.
This turkey needs time to be alone.
Turkeys beware; I growl.
"And so the grumpy badger of Nob Hill went out into the dark San Francisco night, with a pouch of rubbed-out Orlik tobacco and two pipes, to enjoy the fog, cold, dampness, and quiet at the top of the slope, where likely not a single person would speak melodiously to another person about turkeys, or fun times, or even sweetly of deep-frying with peanut oil. The key to which, for a large bird, is a high temperature."
I will also be carrying a tamper, matches, and pipe cleaners.
Like a furry boy scout, I come prepared.
Primed for modulation.
But pissy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FIDDULI FIDDULI HEI - WHICH PROBABLY RELATES TO SAUERKRAUT
There are times when I wished I spoke Hungarian fluently. No, this is not because I wish to read works by Zoltán Ambrus in his original language.
Nor is it because the exile from Bratislava of Béla Hamvas and his parents in some way speaks to me, or any fascination with the stupendous literary output of Miklós Vámos.
Nothing quite so high-fallutin.
It is because of a chanson I found on the internet, the lyrics of which fascinate me no end.
I wish I knew what they meant.
NÉMET TÁNC
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-r_jAc8mjk.]
The German-language original of these plangent lyrics is not much clearer. And surely it must have first been sung in German? There's leather hoses! Leather hoses, man, who else would wear such things?
DANCING WITH LEATHER HOSES
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXoR6YRx4DI.]
As far as I can make out, the pallid North-American version, no doubt sung by farmers in the Midwest, is a rather watery folksong, without much socio-cultural significance.
"I will do the German danz for you; It's fun und gay & tra la la;
I hope you will enjoy my danz, fiddely aye fiddely aye, hey!
Would you like some sauerkraut? German boy, German boy;
Yes I'd like some sauerkraut....."
Festive, and probably perfectly suitable for one of those many colourful ethnic celebrations common in places like Illinois and Texas, which are promoted by the local chambers of commerce.
But it sounds better in Hungarian.
Káposzta!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Nor is it because the exile from Bratislava of Béla Hamvas and his parents in some way speaks to me, or any fascination with the stupendous literary output of Miklós Vámos.
Nothing quite so high-fallutin.
It is because of a chanson I found on the internet, the lyrics of which fascinate me no end.
I wish I knew what they meant.
NÉMET TÁNC
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-r_jAc8mjk.]
The German-language original of these plangent lyrics is not much clearer. And surely it must have first been sung in German? There's leather hoses! Leather hoses, man, who else would wear such things?
DANCING WITH LEATHER HOSES
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXoR6YRx4DI.]
As far as I can make out, the pallid North-American version, no doubt sung by farmers in the Midwest, is a rather watery folksong, without much socio-cultural significance.
"I will do the German danz for you; It's fun und gay & tra la la;
I hope you will enjoy my danz, fiddely aye fiddely aye, hey!
Would you like some sauerkraut? German boy, German boy;
Yes I'd like some sauerkraut....."
Festive, and probably perfectly suitable for one of those many colourful ethnic celebrations common in places like Illinois and Texas, which are promoted by the local chambers of commerce.
But it sounds better in Hungarian.
Káposzta!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 01, 2013
TEMPERANCE AND SELF-CONTROL
This blogger did NOT intend to spend the entire day with insane people. In fact, there are far better things to do on a lovely crisp Autumn weekend than coddling the mentally deficient, while they yell and scratch themselves.
One could, for instance, have spent it entirely surrounded by books. Which is what one of my friends did. He works in a bookstore, and consequently has been exposed to a better class of people all day.
People who don't smell so bad.
Regular bathers.
I, on the other hand, fiddled around with pipes while the wild monkeys trashed the cigar lounge. It being a sports day an all.
Not sure, but I think our team won. Apparently they beat the stuffing out of a bunch of turkeys from the Midwest. The Detroit Daisies, or perhaps the Missouri Lalas. Or something.
It was epic.
I AM A VERY TOLERANT MAN.
PATIENT, TOO.
One of the phrases I overheard was "they just shouldn't allow a man to stand there playing midfield with a pickle".
Someone remarked that the tofu tacos at a certain restaurant were really really good. Despite no Mexicans working there.
A third memorable sentence: "he and his mom have hookah parties behind the backs of her husband and his father. That explains the fruity sh*t, both of them think it's just pot".
I can imagine a very close mother-son relationship. Patchouli oil, paisley prints, narghiles, and a tray of delicious halwa. The two of them furtively huffing strawberry mint melba together out on the porch.
Suddenly a man sprints across the lawn holding a pickle.
Possibly a missing Mexican.
You know, pipesmokers are normal people. Sensible, usually, and of above average intelligence. Calm -- most of the time -- sane, balanced, and far more often than you can imagine utterly likable.
There's something about a pipe which appeals to the decent bloke, as well as the well-read person of stable and thoughtful habits, possessed of creative problem solving abilities, insight, rectitude, and humility.
Not so cigars, and cigar smokers. They are a thoroughly frightful bunch. Loud, boastful, vainglorious, and obsessed with petty stuff.
Almost every cigar smoker is sport-obsessed.
Even the women.
I happen to know that ninety two percent of ALL cigar smokers haven't had a bath since Wednesday, and over 85 percent of them ate pizza recently. Venereal disease, leprosy, dermatomycosis, lupus erythematosus, and purulent lesions; all these are common ailments of cigar smokers, and at least one of them has hands which are cold, clammy, and limp. I don't know what he touched recently, but it wasn't alive anymore, and probably hadn't been for at least a day. My only question is where does he keep it when he's out and about. Freak.
Cigar smokers are the type of people who would purchase fruity aromatics, if they decided to experiment with a pipe.
Plainly put: they're all kinds of nasty.
UP SHOT
Cleaned and polished sixteen pipes over the weekend. Three cute vintage Charatans, an Upshall, a nice little French 'amuse-doigt', three Italians, and several funky Danes. The Scandinavians use truly first rate carbon rubber, whereas the Charatan stems all betrayed an oxidation-permeability that is exceptionally irritating.
Upshall utilizes top-notch ebonite.
I'm on a largely yoghurt diet right now, due to several misguided experiments since Wednesday with chili peppers. It is soothing.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One could, for instance, have spent it entirely surrounded by books. Which is what one of my friends did. He works in a bookstore, and consequently has been exposed to a better class of people all day.
People who don't smell so bad.
Regular bathers.
I, on the other hand, fiddled around with pipes while the wild monkeys trashed the cigar lounge. It being a sports day an all.
Not sure, but I think our team won. Apparently they beat the stuffing out of a bunch of turkeys from the Midwest. The Detroit Daisies, or perhaps the Missouri Lalas. Or something.
It was epic.
I AM A VERY TOLERANT MAN.
PATIENT, TOO.
One of the phrases I overheard was "they just shouldn't allow a man to stand there playing midfield with a pickle".
Someone remarked that the tofu tacos at a certain restaurant were really really good. Despite no Mexicans working there.
A third memorable sentence: "he and his mom have hookah parties behind the backs of her husband and his father. That explains the fruity sh*t, both of them think it's just pot".
I can imagine a very close mother-son relationship. Patchouli oil, paisley prints, narghiles, and a tray of delicious halwa. The two of them furtively huffing strawberry mint melba together out on the porch.
Suddenly a man sprints across the lawn holding a pickle.
Possibly a missing Mexican.
You know, pipesmokers are normal people. Sensible, usually, and of above average intelligence. Calm -- most of the time -- sane, balanced, and far more often than you can imagine utterly likable.
There's something about a pipe which appeals to the decent bloke, as well as the well-read person of stable and thoughtful habits, possessed of creative problem solving abilities, insight, rectitude, and humility.
Not so cigars, and cigar smokers. They are a thoroughly frightful bunch. Loud, boastful, vainglorious, and obsessed with petty stuff.
Almost every cigar smoker is sport-obsessed.
Even the women.
I happen to know that ninety two percent of ALL cigar smokers haven't had a bath since Wednesday, and over 85 percent of them ate pizza recently. Venereal disease, leprosy, dermatomycosis, lupus erythematosus, and purulent lesions; all these are common ailments of cigar smokers, and at least one of them has hands which are cold, clammy, and limp. I don't know what he touched recently, but it wasn't alive anymore, and probably hadn't been for at least a day. My only question is where does he keep it when he's out and about. Freak.
Cigar smokers are the type of people who would purchase fruity aromatics, if they decided to experiment with a pipe.
Plainly put: they're all kinds of nasty.
UP SHOT
Cleaned and polished sixteen pipes over the weekend. Three cute vintage Charatans, an Upshall, a nice little French 'amuse-doigt', three Italians, and several funky Danes. The Scandinavians use truly first rate carbon rubber, whereas the Charatan stems all betrayed an oxidation-permeability that is exceptionally irritating.
Upshall utilizes top-notch ebonite.
I'm on a largely yoghurt diet right now, due to several misguided experiments since Wednesday with chili peppers. It is soothing.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HOW BEMUSING
According to one of my correspondents I am a piece of rat shit.
One of my other contacts asserts that my existence disturbs some people greatly. Not him, but he's seen the effects on people.
A third person -- who is aware that my existence is disturbing -- tells me "now you know what it feels like to be a Jew".
In all honesty, I still don't have a clue.
There's an immense irony here.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One of my other contacts asserts that my existence disturbs some people greatly. Not him, but he's seen the effects on people.
A third person -- who is aware that my existence is disturbing -- tells me "now you know what it feels like to be a Jew".
In all honesty, I still don't have a clue.
There's an immense irony here.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
