After our relationship changed to just friends in 2010, Savage Kitten took up with someone else, whom I never have to meet though she still lives in the apartment we share (her room, my room, and the common space), and with whom the only contact necessary is hollering out "yo, your dumbass boyfriend is on the phone" when he calls to speak with her.
Please understand that "yo, your dumbass boyfriend etcetera" is just a metaphoric translation of what I actually say. She'd probably be a little irritated if I actually used that phrase.
We live uphill, and upstairs. He's in a wheel chair.
Even if she wanted him over, he can't visit.
So she goes over to his place.
The other reason I don't actually refer to him as the dumbass boyfriend in her presence is that it would probably prompt her to tell me, as just a possible example "your dumbass girlfriend just used up all the hot water", if, hypothetically speaking, I actually found another woman with whom to share any aspect of my life, or someone crazy-curious enough to investigate just how messy my quarters really are. The phrase "yo, your dumbass Snookie Pie ate ALL the cookies" has a certain ring to it, I'll admit, but it isn't one I want Savage Kitten to utter.
It's unlikely, but I want to be prepared.
I'm a little peculiar that way.
There are cookies.
Always.
No, I'm not shocked at her shamelessly carrying on with an unmarried man. She's very discreet, and this is the twenty first century. Cantonese women are no longer obliged to get hitched at a young age, and many of them at some point in their lives have relationships that would startle their ancestors. Very normal relationships too.
Some of which last for years, and in many ways resemble marriage.
Whatever happens is a private matter.
Consequently, I'm not going to speculate in any way at all about my ex-girlfriend and her beau. It wouldn't be gentlemanly of me to do so, and it just isn't my business. She's merely an apartment mate, and entitled to her privacy. Our break was clean, sudden, and preceded her developing an affection for Wheelie Boy.
IT'S DELICIOUS, YAAR!
But I do know where she and he are eating dinner tonight.
The reason being that I just went through the recent internet searches on this computer -- usually she looks at jewelry sites -- and found a restaurant.
She's eating Indian food.
I've enjoyed almost no Indian food in nearly four years. Since, in fact, Savage Kitten ended the relationship. I like Indian food, but it's somewhat tainted by association.
We frequently went to the local Indian restaurants for dinner together.
Since then, a number of spice combinations have become painful.
Contradictorily, Cantonese food does not have that problem.
She hardly ever cooked it and we never ate it elsewhere.
And in any case I made it more often than she did.
Cantonese food is totally safe.
I should go out to dinner tonight myself, to a Cantonese restaurant even, but I do not feel like it. Instead, I'll just go to bed early and read a book.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
PROPORTIONAL DIVIDERS
An early dinner recently became an immensely frustrating experience. No, both the food and the service were more than up to standard, the cutlery and glassware were quite clean and shiny, as was the entire restaurant. And the food was unexceptionally excellent. It is by no means due to anything that the restaurant had a handle on that I was frustrated.
Well, maybe one thing that they can be blamed for.
Their waitress. Her clothes.
Particularly.
And at this point I might as well admit that I am at times a giant hamsaplo.
[The term 'hamsaplo' is explicated here: Aunt Mildred.]
The Vietnamese coffee was perfect, and the bitter melon and chicken over rice was entirely up to snuff. They add a little more fermented black bean to the saucing than other places, but the vegetable was pleasingly crunchy and startling in its intensity. It was a splendid foil, in fact, for the hotsauce of which I plooped a liberal measure on my plate.
Food and drink-wise, it was a completely satisfying experience.
There weren't many other customers there at the time.
One member of the staff remembered me.
And was happy to see me again.
She's learning English.
Which is hard.
[Vietnamese coffee: cà phê sữa đá (咖啡奶冰 'ka-fei naai-bing'). Bittermelon and Chicken over Rice: 涼瓜雞球飯 ('leung gwa gai kau fan'). Bitter melon: 苦瓜 ('fu gwa'), 凉瓜 ('leung gwa'); momocordica charantia. Fermented black beans: 豆豉 ('dau si'); a dry condimental substance remoistend and mashed, it accounts for a dark speckled sauce with a savoury taste in a number of preparations. Hotsauce: Tương Ớt Sriracha (是拉差香甜辣椒醬 'silaja heung-tim laat-chiu jeung'), which is manufactured by Huy Fong Foods Corporation (滙豐食品公司 'wui fung sik-pan gung-si') in the wilds of Southern California (南加州 'naam ga jau'; 野蠻南域 'ye maan naam wik').]
I always like it when Chinese people finally learn English, because my Cantonese is not entirely fluent (understatement) and it just makes it so much easier to communicate when there's a fallback position. English is the default fallback, even if both of us also speak Mandarin.
Cantonese people speaking Mandarin sound nearly as bad as white people (such as myself) using that tongue, and my ability with, lets say, Teochew, Hakka, and Hokkien is virtually non-existent.
Not even mentioning Shanghainese.
[Cantonese: 廣東話 ('gwong jau wa'), 粵語 ('yuet yü'). Mandarin: 官話 ('gwun wa'), 北京話 ('baak keng wa'), 普通話 ('po tong wa'), 國語 ('gwok yü'). Teochew: (潮州話 'chew jau wa'). Hakka: (客家話 'hak gaa wa'). Hokkien: (福建話 'fuk kin wa'), 福州話 ('fuk jau wa'), 廈門話 ('haa mun wa'). Shanghainese: 上海話 ('seung hoi wa').]
Many years ago I was able to converse at a kindergarten level in Hokkien, but every time I opened my mouth, people would look at me funny. Finally someone said "you know, I have an auntie who lives in the hills who still talks like that".
Apparently his auntie was an idiot.
[Idiot: su ku. His auntie is an idiot: "I e lao gu si kung ngaa bo e".]
YAT DEUI LIN-TAU M-KIN JO LAA?
Anyhow, what frustrated me while eating was not the English-learner, who is a very pleasant middle-aged woman and mother of at least two young adults, but the waitress.
Who is considerably younger, and bi-lingual.
I kept wondering where her nipples were.
An attractive young lady, with a lovely smile and lively eyes. Soft-looking hands. Clearly intelligent. And extremely nice though meaty thighs -- they had good proportion, and her legs tapered curvily, and I've always liked what dark semi-opaque panty hose do to the view -- as well as lovely knees (see previously mentioned dark hose).
Circumstantial evidence suggests that she is flat-chested. Or reasonably so. And there's nothing wrong with that, it really works for some people.
Very well, in fact.
Further circumstantial evidence indicated that whatever brassiere she employed had a certain amount of padding, for both support and comfort.
As well as a safeguard against chafing.
Which is also important.
[Nipple: 奶頭 ('naai tau'), 姩頭 ('nin tau').]
If I had had my proportional dividers and a drafting compass on me (and the triangles and French-curves), I probably could have determined the exact location of the nipples, based on distances and degrees, but it still would have been no more than an educated guess. And in all probability she might have objected to the process. There's even a distinct probability that the considerable charm she normally displayed would be replaced by something approaching screaming fury and indignation.
Women are funny that way.
It remained an intellectual problem, but investigating the matter, which is not any of my business, would have encountered obstructions.
I used to be a draughtsman; some things stay with you.
Very nearly started figuring it out with the mound of steamed rice.
I'll definitely go there again, but the next time I might sit facing the other direction.
No, I shan't ask her out. One should never date the waitresses at restaurants that one likes going to. Or even think of it. Such things must inevitably lead to lessened dining options for oneself, and potentially cause further problems for the young ladies in the excercise.
Besides, I don't know anything about her.
Not enough to go by.
She's nice.
And that will have to remain all that I know.
Dining by myself makes me keenly aware of the fact that I have not had a relationship for several years. There is much that I miss about that.
Conversation, holding hands, a smile, and sparkling eyes.
Many things, in fact.
None of which require proportional dividers.
I guess the excess of hotsauce is to compensate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well, maybe one thing that they can be blamed for.
Their waitress. Her clothes.
Particularly.
And at this point I might as well admit that I am at times a giant hamsaplo.
[The term 'hamsaplo' is explicated here: Aunt Mildred.]
The Vietnamese coffee was perfect, and the bitter melon and chicken over rice was entirely up to snuff. They add a little more fermented black bean to the saucing than other places, but the vegetable was pleasingly crunchy and startling in its intensity. It was a splendid foil, in fact, for the hotsauce of which I plooped a liberal measure on my plate.
Food and drink-wise, it was a completely satisfying experience.
There weren't many other customers there at the time.
One member of the staff remembered me.
And was happy to see me again.
She's learning English.
Which is hard.
[Vietnamese coffee: cà phê sữa đá (咖啡奶冰 'ka-fei naai-bing'). Bittermelon and Chicken over Rice: 涼瓜雞球飯 ('leung gwa gai kau fan'). Bitter melon: 苦瓜 ('fu gwa'), 凉瓜 ('leung gwa'); momocordica charantia. Fermented black beans: 豆豉 ('dau si'); a dry condimental substance remoistend and mashed, it accounts for a dark speckled sauce with a savoury taste in a number of preparations. Hotsauce: Tương Ớt Sriracha (是拉差香甜辣椒醬 'silaja heung-tim laat-chiu jeung'), which is manufactured by Huy Fong Foods Corporation (滙豐食品公司 'wui fung sik-pan gung-si') in the wilds of Southern California (南加州 'naam ga jau'; 野蠻南域 'ye maan naam wik').]
I always like it when Chinese people finally learn English, because my Cantonese is not entirely fluent (understatement) and it just makes it so much easier to communicate when there's a fallback position. English is the default fallback, even if both of us also speak Mandarin.
Cantonese people speaking Mandarin sound nearly as bad as white people (such as myself) using that tongue, and my ability with, lets say, Teochew, Hakka, and Hokkien is virtually non-existent.
Not even mentioning Shanghainese.
[Cantonese: 廣東話 ('gwong jau wa'), 粵語 ('yuet yü'). Mandarin: 官話 ('gwun wa'), 北京話 ('baak keng wa'), 普通話 ('po tong wa'), 國語 ('gwok yü'). Teochew: (潮州話 'chew jau wa'). Hakka: (客家話 'hak gaa wa'). Hokkien: (福建話 'fuk kin wa'), 福州話 ('fuk jau wa'), 廈門話 ('haa mun wa'). Shanghainese: 上海話 ('seung hoi wa').]
Many years ago I was able to converse at a kindergarten level in Hokkien, but every time I opened my mouth, people would look at me funny. Finally someone said "you know, I have an auntie who lives in the hills who still talks like that".
Apparently his auntie was an idiot.
[Idiot: su ku. His auntie is an idiot: "I e lao gu si kung ngaa bo e".]
YAT DEUI LIN-TAU M-KIN JO LAA?
Anyhow, what frustrated me while eating was not the English-learner, who is a very pleasant middle-aged woman and mother of at least two young adults, but the waitress.
Who is considerably younger, and bi-lingual.
I kept wondering where her nipples were.
An attractive young lady, with a lovely smile and lively eyes. Soft-looking hands. Clearly intelligent. And extremely nice though meaty thighs -- they had good proportion, and her legs tapered curvily, and I've always liked what dark semi-opaque panty hose do to the view -- as well as lovely knees (see previously mentioned dark hose).
Circumstantial evidence suggests that she is flat-chested. Or reasonably so. And there's nothing wrong with that, it really works for some people.
Very well, in fact.
Further circumstantial evidence indicated that whatever brassiere she employed had a certain amount of padding, for both support and comfort.
As well as a safeguard against chafing.
Which is also important.
[Nipple: 奶頭 ('naai tau'), 姩頭 ('nin tau').]
If I had had my proportional dividers and a drafting compass on me (and the triangles and French-curves), I probably could have determined the exact location of the nipples, based on distances and degrees, but it still would have been no more than an educated guess. And in all probability she might have objected to the process. There's even a distinct probability that the considerable charm she normally displayed would be replaced by something approaching screaming fury and indignation.
Women are funny that way.
It remained an intellectual problem, but investigating the matter, which is not any of my business, would have encountered obstructions.
I used to be a draughtsman; some things stay with you.
Very nearly started figuring it out with the mound of steamed rice.
I'll definitely go there again, but the next time I might sit facing the other direction.
No, I shan't ask her out. One should never date the waitresses at restaurants that one likes going to. Or even think of it. Such things must inevitably lead to lessened dining options for oneself, and potentially cause further problems for the young ladies in the excercise.
Besides, I don't know anything about her.
Not enough to go by.
She's nice.
And that will have to remain all that I know.
Dining by myself makes me keenly aware of the fact that I have not had a relationship for several years. There is much that I miss about that.
Conversation, holding hands, a smile, and sparkling eyes.
Many things, in fact.
None of which require proportional dividers.
I guess the excess of hotsauce is to compensate.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 10, 2014
HAEMOWHATSIS
A friend mentioned me in a post about garlic and dill, asafoetida, and haemorrhoids. Which duly flatters me. Apparently his breath has recently stunk, and he didn't go to a housewarming party in Jaffa. If you knew him, you would understand the connection.
But feel free to speculate if you don't.
Personally, I've always thought of housewarming parties as a giant pain in the sphincter. There you are, surrounded by the newness of it all, in the company of several people you do not know, trying to make happy in a relatively quiet way so that the landlord will not have a pretext to kick out the new tenant.
"Dammit, your friends wrecked the stairwell, and the smell won't go away. So you will have to. You have until Tuesday."
And on Tuesday, his brutish cousin Grunter comes over to beat up the recalcitrant party thrower, who has not left yet. But, impressed by the damage to the stairwell, Grunter stays for an impromptu festivity.
Which involves booze, illicit substances, and strippers. And a disco ball. At eleven o'clock in the morning, in the stairwell. Which you wrecked during the housewarming party. With your unbelievable smells. If you were quieter, and a much more civilized person, this would NOT have happened; it's all your fault.
It's a horrible responsibility.
Years ago, someone I knew threw a housewarming party after he moved into the loft above the bakery. I was not invited, and for several weeks afterwards I resented the implied unfamiliarity. Especially because someone else kept boasting about the fun, the good cheer, the warm embrace of comradeship, and all the other good stuff.
I had heard the noise and seen the flashing lights of the disco ball on my way home that evening, so I knew that a rousing good time had taken place.
I very much wished the baker had not retired and let out his loft.
I've never liked housewarming parties.
Or disco.
[I'm fairly okay with extra potent garlic and dill cream cheese, though. Especially with lots of mashed fresh garlic. Bagel day sounds like a giant opportunity.]
Now, decades later, I realize that disco balls have become cool again, because they're retro. At any moment, bellbottoms, beads, and tie-dye will come back into fashion too. Along with illicit substances, which were very popular then. And patchouli.
I'm rather glad my landlords haven't rented to any of the young google or twitter yuppies filling the city. I don't want the sound of the horny hordes stampeding up and down the stairs at all hours of the night. Or screams, hoots, and excessive gaiety elsewhere in the building.
The quietness is nice, there are no wild parties.
No flashing lights, no loud disco music.
No garlic and dill cream cheese.
Nor even asafoetida.
Haemorrhoids.
None.
On a somewhat related note, I should inform you that I did not experience sex until after I left the Netherlands, and I avoid illicit substances and people who use such things.
I mention these matters because when I returned to the States, most people assumed that I had spent my years over there either madly rutting in a drug-induced haze, or sucking giant spleeve in Amsterdam bordellos.
No such thing; I lived a relatively normal life.
Like most teenagers at that time.
According to Wikipædia:
"Asafoetida, انگدان, آنغوزه or asafetida (Ferula assa-foetida) / æsəˈfɛtɨdə /, is the dried latex (gum oleoresin) exuded from the rhizome or tap root of several species of Ferula, a perennial herb that grows 1 to 1.5 m tall. The species is native to the deserts of Iran, mountains of Afghanistan, and is mainly cultivated in nearby India. As its name suggests, asafoetida has a fetid smell (see etymology below) but in cooked dishes it delivers a smooth flavor reminiscent of leeks. It is also known as asant, food of the gods, giant fennel, jowani badian, stinking gum, Devil's dung, hing, kayam and ting."
And, fascinatingly:
"It was familiar in the early Mediterranean, having come by land across Iran. Though it is generally forgotten now in Europe, it is still widely used in India. It emerged into Europe from a conquering expedition of Alexander the Great, who, after returning from a trip to northeastern Persia, thought they had found a plant almost identical to the famed silphium of Cyrene in North Africa—though less tasty. Dioscorides, in the first century, wrote, "the Cyrenaic kind, even if one just tastes it, at once arouses a humour throughout the body and has a very healthy aroma, so that it is not noticed on the breath, or only a little; but the Median [Iranian] is weaker in power and has a nastier smell." Nevertheless, it could be substituted for silphium in cooking, which was fortunate, because a few decades after Dioscorides's time, the true silphium of Cyrene became extinct, and asafoetida became more popular amongst physicians, as well as cooks."
It's connection to haemorrhoids and housewarming parties in Jaffa must remain one of the mysteries of life. Though I suspect that like drugs and sex in Holland, there is less there than meets the eye.
In all honesty, I wouldn't mind a discreet bit of excessive gaiety.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But feel free to speculate if you don't.
Personally, I've always thought of housewarming parties as a giant pain in the sphincter. There you are, surrounded by the newness of it all, in the company of several people you do not know, trying to make happy in a relatively quiet way so that the landlord will not have a pretext to kick out the new tenant.
"Dammit, your friends wrecked the stairwell, and the smell won't go away. So you will have to. You have until Tuesday."
And on Tuesday, his brutish cousin Grunter comes over to beat up the recalcitrant party thrower, who has not left yet. But, impressed by the damage to the stairwell, Grunter stays for an impromptu festivity.
Which involves booze, illicit substances, and strippers. And a disco ball. At eleven o'clock in the morning, in the stairwell. Which you wrecked during the housewarming party. With your unbelievable smells. If you were quieter, and a much more civilized person, this would NOT have happened; it's all your fault.
It's a horrible responsibility.
Years ago, someone I knew threw a housewarming party after he moved into the loft above the bakery. I was not invited, and for several weeks afterwards I resented the implied unfamiliarity. Especially because someone else kept boasting about the fun, the good cheer, the warm embrace of comradeship, and all the other good stuff.
I had heard the noise and seen the flashing lights of the disco ball on my way home that evening, so I knew that a rousing good time had taken place.
I very much wished the baker had not retired and let out his loft.
I've never liked housewarming parties.
Or disco.
[I'm fairly okay with extra potent garlic and dill cream cheese, though. Especially with lots of mashed fresh garlic. Bagel day sounds like a giant opportunity.]
Now, decades later, I realize that disco balls have become cool again, because they're retro. At any moment, bellbottoms, beads, and tie-dye will come back into fashion too. Along with illicit substances, which were very popular then. And patchouli.
I'm rather glad my landlords haven't rented to any of the young google or twitter yuppies filling the city. I don't want the sound of the horny hordes stampeding up and down the stairs at all hours of the night. Or screams, hoots, and excessive gaiety elsewhere in the building.
The quietness is nice, there are no wild parties.
No flashing lights, no loud disco music.
No garlic and dill cream cheese.
Nor even asafoetida.
Haemorrhoids.
None.
On a somewhat related note, I should inform you that I did not experience sex until after I left the Netherlands, and I avoid illicit substances and people who use such things.
I mention these matters because when I returned to the States, most people assumed that I had spent my years over there either madly rutting in a drug-induced haze, or sucking giant spleeve in Amsterdam bordellos.
No such thing; I lived a relatively normal life.
Like most teenagers at that time.
According to Wikipædia:
"Asafoetida, انگدان, آنغوزه or asafetida (Ferula assa-foetida) / æsəˈfɛtɨdə /, is the dried latex (gum oleoresin) exuded from the rhizome or tap root of several species of Ferula, a perennial herb that grows 1 to 1.5 m tall. The species is native to the deserts of Iran, mountains of Afghanistan, and is mainly cultivated in nearby India. As its name suggests, asafoetida has a fetid smell (see etymology below) but in cooked dishes it delivers a smooth flavor reminiscent of leeks. It is also known as asant, food of the gods, giant fennel, jowani badian, stinking gum, Devil's dung, hing, kayam and ting."
And, fascinatingly:
"It was familiar in the early Mediterranean, having come by land across Iran. Though it is generally forgotten now in Europe, it is still widely used in India. It emerged into Europe from a conquering expedition of Alexander the Great, who, after returning from a trip to northeastern Persia, thought they had found a plant almost identical to the famed silphium of Cyrene in North Africa—though less tasty. Dioscorides, in the first century, wrote, "the Cyrenaic kind, even if one just tastes it, at once arouses a humour throughout the body and has a very healthy aroma, so that it is not noticed on the breath, or only a little; but the Median [Iranian] is weaker in power and has a nastier smell." Nevertheless, it could be substituted for silphium in cooking, which was fortunate, because a few decades after Dioscorides's time, the true silphium of Cyrene became extinct, and asafoetida became more popular amongst physicians, as well as cooks."
It's connection to haemorrhoids and housewarming parties in Jaffa must remain one of the mysteries of life. Though I suspect that like drugs and sex in Holland, there is less there than meets the eye.
In all honesty, I wouldn't mind a discreet bit of excessive gaiety.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 09, 2014
HE TWIRLS!
"If he's an African prince, then just maybe he's back in Africa!" It sounded like an interesting conversation, so quite naturally I listened in.
However, once they mentioned spanking, I closed my ears.
I may be fifty-four years old, but my ears remain clean.
'I don't know nuttin' 'bout no spankin' miz Scarlett.'
The modern age, you will grant, is disturbing.
And there is almost no ginger in the ale.
White people are scared of taste.
Plucky little charwomen.
Sometimes I wish I were a fly on the wall. Other people's discussions can be interesting, but as a human you risk being pulled in to their world. As a bug, all you need to worry about is staying outside of smack-reach.
"I don't know if I want to get naked and have everybody else see me without clothes"
"You're mispronunciation tells me you're either ignorant or English"
Both of those conversational gambits presage mayhem. The first begs the response "me neither if I was you", the second invites a sock in the jaw.
Again, stay out of smack reach.
Irrespective of the scene, I tend to stick around the edge of the crowd rather than anywhere near the centre. And I always know where the exit is, and how far I am in relation to same. A quick escape is always one of the possibilities. More to the point, I make sure that no one invites me to bachelor parties -- there's always one man who after fifteen ill-considered shots of rye gets everyone in trouble, or suggests heading to the strip show and twerking -- or other embarrassing events of an alleged social slant.
Bridal showers, speed dating, football games, singles parties, monkey hugging, beer and barbecue, ladies nights (errm, the male equivalent: bourbon nights), dolls tea parties, and the like.
There are several words that I feel should never be used casually, or in public, or, in fact, with anyone other than the person whose naughtiness delightfully matches your own. No need to mention these locutions; you know what they are, even if regrettably you lack wickedness at present.
We are judged by our friends. And what they say.
I am rather like Kermit the Frog that way.
Assume that my friends are muppets.
Clean-spoken, and innocent.
Occasionally rowdy.
Never foul.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
However, once they mentioned spanking, I closed my ears.
I may be fifty-four years old, but my ears remain clean.
'I don't know nuttin' 'bout no spankin' miz Scarlett.'
The modern age, you will grant, is disturbing.
And there is almost no ginger in the ale.
White people are scared of taste.
Plucky little charwomen.
Sometimes I wish I were a fly on the wall. Other people's discussions can be interesting, but as a human you risk being pulled in to their world. As a bug, all you need to worry about is staying outside of smack-reach.
"I don't know if I want to get naked and have everybody else see me without clothes"
"You're mispronunciation tells me you're either ignorant or English"
Both of those conversational gambits presage mayhem. The first begs the response "me neither if I was you", the second invites a sock in the jaw.
Again, stay out of smack reach.
Irrespective of the scene, I tend to stick around the edge of the crowd rather than anywhere near the centre. And I always know where the exit is, and how far I am in relation to same. A quick escape is always one of the possibilities. More to the point, I make sure that no one invites me to bachelor parties -- there's always one man who after fifteen ill-considered shots of rye gets everyone in trouble, or suggests heading to the strip show and twerking -- or other embarrassing events of an alleged social slant.
Bridal showers, speed dating, football games, singles parties, monkey hugging, beer and barbecue, ladies nights (errm, the male equivalent: bourbon nights), dolls tea parties, and the like.
There are several words that I feel should never be used casually, or in public, or, in fact, with anyone other than the person whose naughtiness delightfully matches your own. No need to mention these locutions; you know what they are, even if regrettably you lack wickedness at present.
We are judged by our friends. And what they say.
I am rather like Kermit the Frog that way.
Assume that my friends are muppets.
Clean-spoken, and innocent.
Occasionally rowdy.
Never foul.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
AVUNCULAR FETISH HARANGUE
There were TWO search criteria that caught my eye this morning. As you know, I scope out the various paths by which people find my blog semi-regularly, one of the main methods being the noting of search terms that random goobers world-wide type into their engine which then finds them this blog.
I like being found. It's better than being an orphan.
All alone in a deep dark world.
Today there were TWO priceless searches.
That brought readers to this very blog.
ONE: "How are Cantonese girls so pretty?"
TWO: "Naked Europe Schoolgirl."
Darnitall, I probably know these guys! Or I feel that I do. Maybe it's a question of auras or karma.
Cantonese girls are pretty if you think they are pretty. The prettiest Cantonese girls are quirky faced to the point of kinda ugly, but with both brilliant intelligence and a level of defiant self-consciousness; precisely like all other pretty girls on the planet. Stupid and indecisive just aren't "pretty" characteristics. Brains are. Think about it; you've talked her into going out to dinner with you. There is a long dull silence between the cocktail and the lobster thermidore. Is that attractive? Or would you rather have someone who can talk world politics, give snarky reviews of teevee shows, and explain algebra? While at the same time making tongue in cheek Monty Python references, and showing a keen appreciation for Arrested Development and Pride and Prejudice?
That could be an intelligent young lady of ANY ethnic background.
If she's Cantonese, she is like all others, one hot mamma. It actually doesn't matter what racial group -- even if you are stereotypic and have a fetish -- an intelligent and well-balance witty conversationalist is by definition a keeper. You had best cleave to her like super-glue.
The question is: are you good enough for her?
If not, just pay for dinner.
Then slink off.
As far as Naked Schoolgirls from Europe are concerned, this is quite a problematic fascination. Schoolgirls are, usually, too young to be legally naked. The exceptions may have been held back several years, especially if they are lower-class Anglo-Saxons, and then their intelligence is severely to be doubted. If they are below eighteen, please rethink the entire paradigm; too young and emotionally un-developed.
If, exceptionally, they are over eighteen years old, they might have the mental acuity of a pile of bricks. In which case any and all conversation will be stultifying, and possibly Eastern European. Frustrating, at least.
Which should prompt the intelligent querant into flight.
No matter how voluptuous the sexy moron.
Slink away, she's only 15 watts!
In short: stop looking for either blonde or black-haired temptresses of a youthful nature. Instead, search for algebra and Sudoku freaks. If they are of a discrete feminine build, in addition to being fascinating and frustrating conversationalists, that is the icing on the cake. But their physical type should not be the prime consideratum.
Can they read?
Do they use words of more than two syllables?
Is their conversation fascinating, infuriating, stimulating, entrancing, and absorbing?
Did taking them out to a restaurant leave you feeling like there are things you should've said that would keep them talking, and in that discussion, kept you guessing?
Some Cantonese girls are indeed "so pretty". And some European schoolgirls are naked.
These are mighty good thing, and very appetizing indeed.
But there is more than that.
Talk.
In another two hours I shall be heading out to Marin County. While I'm there, I may very well think of pretty Cantonese girls, as well as naked European maidens. That is neither here nor there.
Without conversational ability and more than a modicum of brains, the pretty Cantoneseness OR the European nudity is a waste of time.
Nice. But pointless.
By the way: I am a naked European schoolgirl, and my tits glow in the dark.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I like being found. It's better than being an orphan.
All alone in a deep dark world.
Today there were TWO priceless searches.
That brought readers to this very blog.
ONE: "How are Cantonese girls so pretty?"
TWO: "Naked Europe Schoolgirl."
Darnitall, I probably know these guys! Or I feel that I do. Maybe it's a question of auras or karma.
Cantonese girls are pretty if you think they are pretty. The prettiest Cantonese girls are quirky faced to the point of kinda ugly, but with both brilliant intelligence and a level of defiant self-consciousness; precisely like all other pretty girls on the planet. Stupid and indecisive just aren't "pretty" characteristics. Brains are. Think about it; you've talked her into going out to dinner with you. There is a long dull silence between the cocktail and the lobster thermidore. Is that attractive? Or would you rather have someone who can talk world politics, give snarky reviews of teevee shows, and explain algebra? While at the same time making tongue in cheek Monty Python references, and showing a keen appreciation for Arrested Development and Pride and Prejudice?
That could be an intelligent young lady of ANY ethnic background.
If she's Cantonese, she is like all others, one hot mamma. It actually doesn't matter what racial group -- even if you are stereotypic and have a fetish -- an intelligent and well-balance witty conversationalist is by definition a keeper. You had best cleave to her like super-glue.
The question is: are you good enough for her?
If not, just pay for dinner.
Then slink off.
As far as Naked Schoolgirls from Europe are concerned, this is quite a problematic fascination. Schoolgirls are, usually, too young to be legally naked. The exceptions may have been held back several years, especially if they are lower-class Anglo-Saxons, and then their intelligence is severely to be doubted. If they are below eighteen, please rethink the entire paradigm; too young and emotionally un-developed.
If, exceptionally, they are over eighteen years old, they might have the mental acuity of a pile of bricks. In which case any and all conversation will be stultifying, and possibly Eastern European. Frustrating, at least.
Which should prompt the intelligent querant into flight.
No matter how voluptuous the sexy moron.
Slink away, she's only 15 watts!
In short: stop looking for either blonde or black-haired temptresses of a youthful nature. Instead, search for algebra and Sudoku freaks. If they are of a discrete feminine build, in addition to being fascinating and frustrating conversationalists, that is the icing on the cake. But their physical type should not be the prime consideratum.
Can they read?
Do they use words of more than two syllables?
Is their conversation fascinating, infuriating, stimulating, entrancing, and absorbing?
Did taking them out to a restaurant leave you feeling like there are things you should've said that would keep them talking, and in that discussion, kept you guessing?
Some Cantonese girls are indeed "so pretty". And some European schoolgirls are naked.
These are mighty good thing, and very appetizing indeed.
But there is more than that.
Talk.
In another two hours I shall be heading out to Marin County. While I'm there, I may very well think of pretty Cantonese girls, as well as naked European maidens. That is neither here nor there.
Without conversational ability and more than a modicum of brains, the pretty Cantoneseness OR the European nudity is a waste of time.
Nice. But pointless.
By the way: I am a naked European schoolgirl, and my tits glow in the dark.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 08, 2014
IT'S A LIFE-STYLE CHOICE
At the recent meeting of the pipe club, rather than a lighthearted and informational lecture about some facet of our hobby (neurotic obsession), we instead discussed our very first pipes, and how we started off as pipe-smokers. Some of us began in high-school, many later as university students. A pipe, it seemed, was fitting in an academic environment.
Naturally I agree; nothing says "collegiate" more than a fine briar.
So I was shocked, surprised, and disappointed. Utterly.
That no one took it up in a girls school.
And why not, I wish to know?
Female pipe smokers?
So civilized!
Perhaps because none of us are women. That would explain a lot.
Well, maybe there are such beings. But our local pipe club consists entirely of very likable gentlemen, many of them several years past Gymnasium or Universität in age; from youngish to "avuncular".
Women have not joined, though we would welcome them.
No matter their age or background.
Collegially.
Fond fantasy of mine: young lady starts smoking a pipe while enrolled at Holy Rood Latin Academy For Girls. By the time she hits Oxford, she's developed a taste for full-bodied Balkan Mixtures. After a stint as a mercenary in Bosnia and Rwanda, she begins to dabble in the Virginia-Perique mixtures she eschewed as a lass, and discovers a taste for fine red and brown flue-cured compounds made tangy with Louisiana leaf.
In her early thirties, she goes into local politics. Henceforth there will be sherry at all city council meetings.
Either that, or sweet fruity cocktails served ironically with Hello Kitty swizzle sticks.
At the beginning of our meeting, the cigar smokers in the lounge were hooting up a storm. Unlike us pipe men, they cannot express themselves without excessive usage of the F word. And they are loud, too.
It resembled a homo-erotic mating frenzy.
Very uncouth of them.
After the meeting ended, four of us repaired to the only commercial establishment in San Francisco where you may smoke indoors.
Which was filled with big beefy middle-aged fratboys and loud drunken blondes. Nothing, absolutely nothing, harshes a civilized mellow more than the voice of a brassy fag huffing fishwife, blitheringly blotto.
Fortunately the worst exemplar was carted off by her swain, leaving the floor to somewhat less appalling bimborettas; still a pain in the gand, but the fever level went down.
Another fond fantasy: barely post-teenage Asian American garbed like a manga death-goth-nurse strides in with an AK 47 and clears the room of all loud intoxicated suburbanites, then, satisfied that the selective massacre restored sanity and civilization, lights up a Leon Jimines Belicoso (Connecticut wrapper, Dominican long-filler), puts her still smoking weapon on the blood-stained counter and orders a Flying Grasshopper (crème de menthe, crème de cacao, and vodka), which the shaking bartender silently and unprotestingly places in front of her.
She pulls out a well-worn copy of Death In Venice (Thomas Mann), removes the bookmark, and continues reading where she left off.
Gustav has returned to his hotel, and started drinking heavily.
He obsesses over the lithe and beautiful Polish boy.
Youthful, lissome, and positively Greek!
Mein himmel, so schön ist er!
Auch sehr epizän.
In the now quiet and peaceful smoking environment, the four pipe smokers and the ladylike cigar-chomping Asian American terrorista enjoy their tobacco and chosen libations, while the bartender wonders why nobody thought of doing this before. Scrubbing with lead, that is.
Why, it's SO much better than it was! Heavenly!
Bitch to clean up tomorrow, though.
Good that there are tiles.
Instead of wood.
Floor.
After finishing their pints of Guiness, the other three pipe smokers left.
I joined K-chai at his table near the window, and we talked about the Ukraine, crazy American ideas about foreign policy, and Cuban exiles.
Later we drove through the darkened post-midnight city, wondering where all the drunks had gone. I speculated that if they were white and young, they had gotten an early start, and were already three sheets and several coronas to the wind. If they were the typical middle-aged depressants of this quarter of the city, they might be lying in their hotel rooms with a tourniquet and a filthy needle, dreaming dreams of faded hippy glory. Polk Street was nearly empty, except for a few people lined up outside the donut place. No doubt computer engineers getting a sugar fix, there is more code-monkeying to be done!
As you first read this, it is Saturday night. The city is awash with intemperance, the cigar bar has pulled in the rabid mob, who wish to start their orgies with a fine cheroot. If it were up to me, the place would be filled with pipe smokers, gothic nurses quietly reading (or polishing their Kalashnikovs), and cups of jasmine tea. Well, not really filled. Maybe only a dozen people or so, and variations on a grasshopper.
With a Hello Kitty swizzle stick.
See, I am a rather civilized fellow, unlike the majority of cigar smokers. Or twenty-something dotcommers. Who are all deviants and alcoholics.
I doubt a single one of them has read Thomas Mann.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Naturally I agree; nothing says "collegiate" more than a fine briar.
So I was shocked, surprised, and disappointed. Utterly.
That no one took it up in a girls school.
And why not, I wish to know?
Female pipe smokers?
So civilized!
Perhaps because none of us are women. That would explain a lot.
Well, maybe there are such beings. But our local pipe club consists entirely of very likable gentlemen, many of them several years past Gymnasium or Universität in age; from youngish to "avuncular".
Women have not joined, though we would welcome them.
No matter their age or background.
Collegially.
Fond fantasy of mine: young lady starts smoking a pipe while enrolled at Holy Rood Latin Academy For Girls. By the time she hits Oxford, she's developed a taste for full-bodied Balkan Mixtures. After a stint as a mercenary in Bosnia and Rwanda, she begins to dabble in the Virginia-Perique mixtures she eschewed as a lass, and discovers a taste for fine red and brown flue-cured compounds made tangy with Louisiana leaf.
In her early thirties, she goes into local politics. Henceforth there will be sherry at all city council meetings.
Either that, or sweet fruity cocktails served ironically with Hello Kitty swizzle sticks.
At the beginning of our meeting, the cigar smokers in the lounge were hooting up a storm. Unlike us pipe men, they cannot express themselves without excessive usage of the F word. And they are loud, too.
It resembled a homo-erotic mating frenzy.
Very uncouth of them.
After the meeting ended, four of us repaired to the only commercial establishment in San Francisco where you may smoke indoors.
Which was filled with big beefy middle-aged fratboys and loud drunken blondes. Nothing, absolutely nothing, harshes a civilized mellow more than the voice of a brassy fag huffing fishwife, blitheringly blotto.
Fortunately the worst exemplar was carted off by her swain, leaving the floor to somewhat less appalling bimborettas; still a pain in the gand, but the fever level went down.
Another fond fantasy: barely post-teenage Asian American garbed like a manga death-goth-nurse strides in with an AK 47 and clears the room of all loud intoxicated suburbanites, then, satisfied that the selective massacre restored sanity and civilization, lights up a Leon Jimines Belicoso (Connecticut wrapper, Dominican long-filler), puts her still smoking weapon on the blood-stained counter and orders a Flying Grasshopper (crème de menthe, crème de cacao, and vodka), which the shaking bartender silently and unprotestingly places in front of her.
She pulls out a well-worn copy of Death In Venice (Thomas Mann), removes the bookmark, and continues reading where she left off.
Gustav has returned to his hotel, and started drinking heavily.
He obsesses over the lithe and beautiful Polish boy.
Youthful, lissome, and positively Greek!
Mein himmel, so schön ist er!
Auch sehr epizän.
In the now quiet and peaceful smoking environment, the four pipe smokers and the ladylike cigar-chomping Asian American terrorista enjoy their tobacco and chosen libations, while the bartender wonders why nobody thought of doing this before. Scrubbing with lead, that is.
Why, it's SO much better than it was! Heavenly!
Bitch to clean up tomorrow, though.
Good that there are tiles.
Instead of wood.
Floor.
After finishing their pints of Guiness, the other three pipe smokers left.
I joined K-chai at his table near the window, and we talked about the Ukraine, crazy American ideas about foreign policy, and Cuban exiles.
Later we drove through the darkened post-midnight city, wondering where all the drunks had gone. I speculated that if they were white and young, they had gotten an early start, and were already three sheets and several coronas to the wind. If they were the typical middle-aged depressants of this quarter of the city, they might be lying in their hotel rooms with a tourniquet and a filthy needle, dreaming dreams of faded hippy glory. Polk Street was nearly empty, except for a few people lined up outside the donut place. No doubt computer engineers getting a sugar fix, there is more code-monkeying to be done!
As you first read this, it is Saturday night. The city is awash with intemperance, the cigar bar has pulled in the rabid mob, who wish to start their orgies with a fine cheroot. If it were up to me, the place would be filled with pipe smokers, gothic nurses quietly reading (or polishing their Kalashnikovs), and cups of jasmine tea. Well, not really filled. Maybe only a dozen people or so, and variations on a grasshopper.
With a Hello Kitty swizzle stick.
See, I am a rather civilized fellow, unlike the majority of cigar smokers. Or twenty-something dotcommers. Who are all deviants and alcoholics.
I doubt a single one of them has read Thomas Mann.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 07, 2014
BACHELOR VEGETABLES
Reviewing the meals of the past seven days, I notice with both pleasure and delight that most of it was healthy by gum. We shall ignore the salami and cookies, however.
There were lots of vegetables!
The following items qualify as green crap suitable for a nutritious and satisfying single man's diet:
1) Capers. They're VERY green! They even taste green! Something so utterly greeny-green tasting can only be good for you.
2) Pickled pepperoncini. It's like sauerkraut and chili combined. Full of vitamin C.
3) Fresh green chili peppers. Crispy crunchy salad!
4) Thai green chili paste.
5) Hot sauce. Concentrated vegetable goodness!
6) Ketchup. Purely of vegetable origin.
Budding chefs will be pleased to know that you can stirfry with all of these.
They're also good with goat cheese, peanut butter, and crackers.
There is lots of yoghurt in the ideal bachelor diet.
Other things of vegetable origin:
Coffee. Tea. Bread.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There were lots of vegetables!
The following items qualify as green crap suitable for a nutritious and satisfying single man's diet:
1) Capers. They're VERY green! They even taste green! Something so utterly greeny-green tasting can only be good for you.
2) Pickled pepperoncini. It's like sauerkraut and chili combined. Full of vitamin C.
3) Fresh green chili peppers. Crispy crunchy salad!
4) Thai green chili paste.
5) Hot sauce. Concentrated vegetable goodness!
6) Ketchup. Purely of vegetable origin.
Budding chefs will be pleased to know that you can stirfry with all of these.
They're also good with goat cheese, peanut butter, and crackers.
There is lots of yoghurt in the ideal bachelor diet.
Other things of vegetable origin:
Coffee. Tea. Bread.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
AN APPROPRIATE TIME FOR THAT
My current schedule sees me elsewhere four days a week. Most of that time is indoors. Three days are my own: Monday, Tuesday, and Friday.
Even if it is cold or rainy, I will spend some time outside.
But those three days the apartment is mine alone.
Well, except for the stuffed animals.
Who are a riotous bunch of beasts.
All men should have a collection of stuffed animals; it will give them someone to read to. My current reading list includes A Wrinkle In Time, Tribal Cultures, India of the Princes, several dictionaries, and manga.
I'm actually re-reading Azumanga Daioh, as well as Chibi Vampire.
[Azumanga Daioh was written by Kiyohiko Azuma, and came out in English about a decade ago. Chibi Vampire, in fourteen volumes, was published in English starting in 2006.]
The stuffed animals breathlessly await each new development in both of those manga. They thrill along with Osaka-san, Chiyo-chan, and Kaorin, while expressing appreciative oohs and aahs over the adventures of Karin Maaka and her grim-faced love-interest Kenta Usui.
It's a roller-coaster of excitement.
The stuff about tribal cultures rather bores them.
They don't have the curiosity required.
Humans, they know, are pigs.
Are trolls animals? Or a form of human, just magical, hairy, and rotund?
I ask, because I have three representations of Totoro, who was the troll in a famous anime movie. One grins, one looks quizzical and grabs my pipe whenever I put it down, and the third is only an inch tall and quite upset about that.
An inch tall fuzzy wuzzy has very little gravitas.
And is inclined to hop angrily.
On all three days I'll head out to Chinatown around mid-afternoon, for a snack and often the final pipe of the day (as I need to let the apartment air out before my apartment mate returns at six).
The stuffed animals usually doze during that period; the excitement they experienced being read to and misbehaving during the morning pooped them out. Frantic attempts to find my wallet or steal my credit card came to naught, sips of my coffee or tea gave them a buzz, and the fights and sniping they embarked upon from the moment they woke up have run their course.
At least I think they nap while I'm away.
But I'm not sure.
One of these days I'll have to hide in the closet to find out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Even if it is cold or rainy, I will spend some time outside.
But those three days the apartment is mine alone.
Well, except for the stuffed animals.
Who are a riotous bunch of beasts.
All men should have a collection of stuffed animals; it will give them someone to read to. My current reading list includes A Wrinkle In Time, Tribal Cultures, India of the Princes, several dictionaries, and manga.
I'm actually re-reading Azumanga Daioh, as well as Chibi Vampire.
[Azumanga Daioh was written by Kiyohiko Azuma, and came out in English about a decade ago. Chibi Vampire, in fourteen volumes, was published in English starting in 2006.]
The stuffed animals breathlessly await each new development in both of those manga. They thrill along with Osaka-san, Chiyo-chan, and Kaorin, while expressing appreciative oohs and aahs over the adventures of Karin Maaka and her grim-faced love-interest Kenta Usui.
It's a roller-coaster of excitement.
The stuff about tribal cultures rather bores them.
They don't have the curiosity required.
Humans, they know, are pigs.
Are trolls animals? Or a form of human, just magical, hairy, and rotund?
I ask, because I have three representations of Totoro, who was the troll in a famous anime movie. One grins, one looks quizzical and grabs my pipe whenever I put it down, and the third is only an inch tall and quite upset about that.
An inch tall fuzzy wuzzy has very little gravitas.
And is inclined to hop angrily.
On all three days I'll head out to Chinatown around mid-afternoon, for a snack and often the final pipe of the day (as I need to let the apartment air out before my apartment mate returns at six).
The stuffed animals usually doze during that period; the excitement they experienced being read to and misbehaving during the morning pooped them out. Frantic attempts to find my wallet or steal my credit card came to naught, sips of my coffee or tea gave them a buzz, and the fights and sniping they embarked upon from the moment they woke up have run their course.
At least I think they nap while I'm away.
But I'm not sure.
One of these days I'll have to hide in the closet to find out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 06, 2014
AN UNEXPURGATED CODE
-------------------------
This WAS going to be an extremely vicious and vituperative screed, damning modern standards of behavior. But I decided against it, and erased the draft. It was far too mean-spirited.
The only part left is the afterthought.
-------------------------
AFTERTHOUGHT
If you ever see me squiring a young lady around town -- miracles are possible, and yes it would surprise me too if it ever happened -- please just assume that she is my niece or my calligraphy student. And in all possible ways a fine upstanding person of sound morals, keen discernment, and impeccable character.
Do not speculate any further than that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 05, 2014
TEATIME? FULL OF BEANS!
The other day I had a splendid lunch at Hon's Wun-Tun House down on Kearney Street. The place was nearly filled at one o'clock on a Monday afternoon, but thank heavens hardly any white people. Mind you, I like white people. Some of my best friends are white. And I, also, am white. Whiter than that you cannot get. But white people, by and large, talk funny and eat with trepidation. In addition to asking irrelevant questions like "is the rice stick noodle made with brown rice?" and "do you have any wheat and gluten free vegan dishes?"
Then they'll bellyache about the soy sauce or something.
Real food does not change its colours for neurotics.
Which many white folks nowadays are.
洪記麵家 "Hung Gei Mien Ga"
HON'S WUN-TUN HOUSE (CA.) LTD.
648 Kearny Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
415-433-3966
Most of the patrons were middle-aged Chinese (Cantonese) people, whose clothing and language indicated that they came there by choice rather than mere convenience, and many of them did so habitually, because they had known the place for years.
Realistically, the reason to go there is won ton noodle soup (雲吞麵), stewed pigs knuckle (南乳豬手), stewed brisket (牛腩), beef tendon (牛筋) and seui gaau (水餃). They also do other things, but NOT vegan kibble, brown rice crap, or gluten-free muck. If you want any of those last three items, maybe you should eat elsewhere. There's always someplace that caters to your kind, even when you are away from your ethnic enclave (in the suburbs). There are several restaurants that exist exclusively to welcome problematic nutballs in other parts of the city.....
I've reviewed a number of them: eat vegetarians!
I hope that's helpful.
Hon's Wun Tun House.
It's good. It's cheap. It's got meat.
I had the chasiu wonton with rice stick noodles.
叉燒雲吞粉。
Ate with gusto. Broth, noodles, dumplings, and barbecue pork.
Departed happy as a clam (譁，蜆笑噉開心㗎！).
Which pleasant mental state lasted till I got to Safeway, where the sour oppressive atmosphere of hatchet-faced old folks from the condo tower above the store left me drained and enervated.
There's just something about vicious about elderly middle-classes.
It's that cannibalistic aura that many of them have.
They got theirs, screw everyone else.
Maybe they're just related to too many people who have wheat and gluten allergies, avoid meat, and demand brown rice or vegan crap.
Family dinners must be really frustrating for them.
Probably gives them constipation.
That, or the prunes.
I had fully recovered by tea-time, in case you were wondering. Felt like smoking another pipe, and going out into the public thoroughfare to blow noxious fumes at people's children and pets. Boo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Then they'll bellyache about the soy sauce or something.
Real food does not change its colours for neurotics.
Which many white folks nowadays are.
洪記麵家 "Hung Gei Mien Ga"
HON'S WUN-TUN HOUSE (CA.) LTD.
648 Kearny Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
415-433-3966
Most of the patrons were middle-aged Chinese (Cantonese) people, whose clothing and language indicated that they came there by choice rather than mere convenience, and many of them did so habitually, because they had known the place for years.
Realistically, the reason to go there is won ton noodle soup (雲吞麵), stewed pigs knuckle (南乳豬手), stewed brisket (牛腩), beef tendon (牛筋) and seui gaau (水餃). They also do other things, but NOT vegan kibble, brown rice crap, or gluten-free muck. If you want any of those last three items, maybe you should eat elsewhere. There's always someplace that caters to your kind, even when you are away from your ethnic enclave (in the suburbs). There are several restaurants that exist exclusively to welcome problematic nutballs in other parts of the city.....
I've reviewed a number of them: eat vegetarians!
I hope that's helpful.
Hon's Wun Tun House.
It's good. It's cheap. It's got meat.
I had the chasiu wonton with rice stick noodles.
叉燒雲吞粉。
Ate with gusto. Broth, noodles, dumplings, and barbecue pork.
Departed happy as a clam (譁，蜆笑噉開心㗎！).
Which pleasant mental state lasted till I got to Safeway, where the sour oppressive atmosphere of hatchet-faced old folks from the condo tower above the store left me drained and enervated.
There's just something about vicious about elderly middle-classes.
It's that cannibalistic aura that many of them have.
They got theirs, screw everyone else.
Maybe they're just related to too many people who have wheat and gluten allergies, avoid meat, and demand brown rice or vegan crap.
Family dinners must be really frustrating for them.
Probably gives them constipation.
That, or the prunes.
I had fully recovered by tea-time, in case you were wondering. Felt like smoking another pipe, and going out into the public thoroughfare to blow noxious fumes at people's children and pets. Boo.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CRIMEA, RUSSIA, AND IMPERIAL AMBITIONS
Note to the United States and Britain: kindly shut up, and stand aside.
The Ukraine is neither your backyard, nor any of your business.
Yes, the annexation of the Crimea by the Russians would be an act of gangsterism. But they would also be taking back what was historically and by all rights theirs.
Until the Soviets boneheadedly transferred the peninsula to Kievan control in 1954, it was a part of Russia, and fundamentally so.
I'll admit that the Crimean Tatars have an older claim. They collaborated with the Germans, so screw them. It's probably a good thing that Stalin did not erase all memory of their existence, but merely deported them. It shows that underneath that Saddamesque mustache, he was actually pretty humane.
As far as the Ukrainians are concerned, all their politicians, most especially including the bunch of boneheads and fascists that seized control recently, are rapacious brigands and opportunists, very much like their commissar cousins. There is no percentage in this dispute, and other than the Europeans, who for some ridiculous reason feel that they should squawk up a storm over a country that consists famously of potatoes, cabbages, turnips, and fungus -- perhaps they need more of such things in the European Union? -- the Western World has no dog in this fight.
Stay out, shut up, and make nice with that Muscovite bastard.
He's right in this case. And Russia should annex Crimea.
Obama and the Great British dill-heads can stuff it.
Repercussions? What repercussions? No more caviar at state dinners, and British civil servants will suddenly stop accepting free vodka?
Oh boo hoo!
Seriously, what stupid move were you proposing?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The Ukraine is neither your backyard, nor any of your business.
Yes, the annexation of the Crimea by the Russians would be an act of gangsterism. But they would also be taking back what was historically and by all rights theirs.
Until the Soviets boneheadedly transferred the peninsula to Kievan control in 1954, it was a part of Russia, and fundamentally so.
I'll admit that the Crimean Tatars have an older claim. They collaborated with the Germans, so screw them. It's probably a good thing that Stalin did not erase all memory of their existence, but merely deported them. It shows that underneath that Saddamesque mustache, he was actually pretty humane.
As far as the Ukrainians are concerned, all their politicians, most especially including the bunch of boneheads and fascists that seized control recently, are rapacious brigands and opportunists, very much like their commissar cousins. There is no percentage in this dispute, and other than the Europeans, who for some ridiculous reason feel that they should squawk up a storm over a country that consists famously of potatoes, cabbages, turnips, and fungus -- perhaps they need more of such things in the European Union? -- the Western World has no dog in this fight.
Stay out, shut up, and make nice with that Muscovite bastard.
He's right in this case. And Russia should annex Crimea.
Obama and the Great British dill-heads can stuff it.
Repercussions? What repercussions? No more caviar at state dinners, and British civil servants will suddenly stop accepting free vodka?
Oh boo hoo!
Seriously, what stupid move were you proposing?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 04, 2014
DEPROGRAMMING THE DOGS
Words that come to mind:
Gestalting: trying to find the one reality, or understanding of reality, that explains everything.
From Wikipedia:
"The concept of gestalt was first introduced in philosophy and psychology in 1890 by Christian von Ehrenfels (a member of the School of Brentano). The idea of gestalt has its roots in theories by David Hume, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Immanuel Kant, David Hartley, and Ernst Mach.
Max Wertheimer's unique contribution was to insist that the "gestalt" is perceptually primary, defining the parts it was composed from, rather than being a secondary quality that emerges from those parts, as von Ehrenfels's earlier Gestalt-Qualität had been."
Rosebud: through the gate to the big house, first shot of Citizen Kane.
I didn't enjoy the movie at all. It was a load of poofle.
Psychologist: snake-oil salesman.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
I've never really liked the double claro, or as it is now known: candela.
As cigar wrappers go it is very much more a curiosity than a worthwhile flavour component. And aesthetically it has scant appeal; no one really wants to stick a puke green thing into his (or her) mouth.
I expect it will sell well on Saint Patrick's Day.
La Flor Dominicana.
Arturo Fuente.
Rocky.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Gestalting: trying to find the one reality, or understanding of reality, that explains everything.
From Wikipedia:
"The concept of gestalt was first introduced in philosophy and psychology in 1890 by Christian von Ehrenfels (a member of the School of Brentano). The idea of gestalt has its roots in theories by David Hume, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Immanuel Kant, David Hartley, and Ernst Mach.
Max Wertheimer's unique contribution was to insist that the "gestalt" is perceptually primary, defining the parts it was composed from, rather than being a secondary quality that emerges from those parts, as von Ehrenfels's earlier Gestalt-Qualität had been."
Rosebud: through the gate to the big house, first shot of Citizen Kane.
I didn't enjoy the movie at all. It was a load of poofle.
Psychologist: snake-oil salesman.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
I've never really liked the double claro, or as it is now known: candela.
As cigar wrappers go it is very much more a curiosity than a worthwhile flavour component. And aesthetically it has scant appeal; no one really wants to stick a puke green thing into his (or her) mouth.
I expect it will sell well on Saint Patrick's Day.
La Flor Dominicana.
Arturo Fuente.
Rocky.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHATEVER IT IS, IT IS
The other day in conversation it was established that this blogger qualifies as "mei git-jo-fan, loh". Meaning that whatever my actual circumstance, I have not succeeded in talking a female person into tying the knot.
Which, by itself, qualifies as a mark of sheer insanity.
A woman agreeing to marry me, that is.
I am NOT what you are looking for. Though a mature man, I am not settled. My habits are not standard and suburban in tone. My reading matter does not reverberate for most. My lifestyle is distinctly outside the norm for my age. I am stubborn to the point of pig head.
I'm not boasting about it, it isn't a great achievement.
But it is just the way things turned out.
It was probably inevitable.
I am, in too many ways, an unsuitable man.
Your parents would be quite upset if you and I were to associate with each other. Even if, hypothetically speaking, you had already divorced mister right and decided that you could not stand another moment of televised sports or handbag shopping, and were never going to become the doctor or lawyer that your parents always wanted you to be.
Or marry; they probably really wish that you'd marry one.
It would give them something to puff about.
Not that I'm, dangerous, please understand, but none of your relatives would ever consider me prime date material. Under any circumstance.
I am not a successful industrialist with status, connections, and a Beemer.
Not a promising young grad with prospects of a career.
Nor amazingly talented, likely to go far.
I'm quite okay with that.
The great fear of any single man is a relationship with an entire family. Not just the person of lovable qualities herself, but her snooty cousins and her possibly delinquent nephews, as well as the vulgar aunt, or the completely insane elderly relative who must be respected or else all hell will break loose.
I suspect that that fear works both ways. I am pleased to report that my all of relatives are located somewhere else entirely, and there aren't very many of them. To the best of my knowledge, they are all more or less sane. Some of them are quite brilliant. But again, I stress the distance: over a thousand miles away, a few considerably more than that.
Returning once more to hypothesis: if anyone were to go out to dinner or dancing with me, the chances of haphazardly bumping into nosey parkers from my side of the equation, for whom certain things might need discreet explaining, and whose confidentiality might require careful and diplomatic assuring, is so slim as to approximate zero, even a negative number. There are no cousins who would spill any beans, no uncles and aunts residing in any part of this city that would make association a secretive affair. There isn't a nephew or niece in this city who will ever breathlessly report that "cousin Bongo" has a tomato.
"We should hire a private eye, and possibly warn her of his regrettable tendencies."
Any dancing on tabletops will not be spoken of at my family events.
Lampshades can be worn without fear of repercussion.
Champagne drunk out of a shoe?
No one will know.
At some point I should like to take full advantage of this. Every family has at least one eccentric uncle, who is known to be highly individualistic, rather likable despite his peculiarities, charming at times, and not precisely the most social of creatures. A man who prefers to live his own life outside of the normal orbit, in a town or city where no other close kin can keep an eye on him. Or breathlessly report his latest misbehavior.
A person of adult years and habits, who relishes his privacy.
Who sometimes does risky things, which we will imagine.
But we don't know, because he won't talk about it.
It would appear that I am presently my kinfolks' most likely candidate for the "eccentric uncle" position.
Not something I would ever have expected many moons ago.
But I've probably had sufficient practice.
.jpg)
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which, by itself, qualifies as a mark of sheer insanity.
A woman agreeing to marry me, that is.
I am NOT what you are looking for. Though a mature man, I am not settled. My habits are not standard and suburban in tone. My reading matter does not reverberate for most. My lifestyle is distinctly outside the norm for my age. I am stubborn to the point of pig head.
I'm not boasting about it, it isn't a great achievement.
But it is just the way things turned out.
It was probably inevitable.
I am, in too many ways, an unsuitable man.
Your parents would be quite upset if you and I were to associate with each other. Even if, hypothetically speaking, you had already divorced mister right and decided that you could not stand another moment of televised sports or handbag shopping, and were never going to become the doctor or lawyer that your parents always wanted you to be.
Or marry; they probably really wish that you'd marry one.
It would give them something to puff about.
Not that I'm, dangerous, please understand, but none of your relatives would ever consider me prime date material. Under any circumstance.
I am not a successful industrialist with status, connections, and a Beemer.
Not a promising young grad with prospects of a career.
Nor amazingly talented, likely to go far.
I'm quite okay with that.
The great fear of any single man is a relationship with an entire family. Not just the person of lovable qualities herself, but her snooty cousins and her possibly delinquent nephews, as well as the vulgar aunt, or the completely insane elderly relative who must be respected or else all hell will break loose.
I suspect that that fear works both ways. I am pleased to report that my all of relatives are located somewhere else entirely, and there aren't very many of them. To the best of my knowledge, they are all more or less sane. Some of them are quite brilliant. But again, I stress the distance: over a thousand miles away, a few considerably more than that.
Returning once more to hypothesis: if anyone were to go out to dinner or dancing with me, the chances of haphazardly bumping into nosey parkers from my side of the equation, for whom certain things might need discreet explaining, and whose confidentiality might require careful and diplomatic assuring, is so slim as to approximate zero, even a negative number. There are no cousins who would spill any beans, no uncles and aunts residing in any part of this city that would make association a secretive affair. There isn't a nephew or niece in this city who will ever breathlessly report that "cousin Bongo" has a tomato.
"We should hire a private eye, and possibly warn her of his regrettable tendencies."
Any dancing on tabletops will not be spoken of at my family events.
Lampshades can be worn without fear of repercussion.
Champagne drunk out of a shoe?
No one will know.
At some point I should like to take full advantage of this. Every family has at least one eccentric uncle, who is known to be highly individualistic, rather likable despite his peculiarities, charming at times, and not precisely the most social of creatures. A man who prefers to live his own life outside of the normal orbit, in a town or city where no other close kin can keep an eye on him. Or breathlessly report his latest misbehavior.
A person of adult years and habits, who relishes his privacy.
Who sometimes does risky things, which we will imagine.
But we don't know, because he won't talk about it.
It would appear that I am presently my kinfolks' most likely candidate for the "eccentric uncle" position.
Not something I would ever have expected many moons ago.
But I've probably had sufficient practice.
.jpg)
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 03, 2014
YOU NEED A TOWEL!
We've had far more rain in the last week than in the entire previous three months. It neither affected my travels nor my time, seeing as I spent a very large part of that period indoors. Still, I got to tell a lot of people to "stay dry", even as they headed out into the storm, and not getting wet was not part of their immediate prospect.
I just peered out of the window.
It looks like it will rain again.
Stay dry, y'all. Stay dry.
Ideally, what one should do in rainy weather is lie on the couch in the living room, positioned so that one can look out over the street.
Naked, and underneath a comfy throw rug.
With another person.
Occasionally one or other of you gets up, pads to the kitchen to fetch tea and cookies, then hurries back to the warm nest. One may read, one may doze. Or one may do other things.
If one is a smoker, and the other one isn't, the tobacco aficionado may have to step out of the room at intervals to light up his pipe. It's only polite and companionable to do so. And equally, the non-smoking woman should also put on her clothes at that point and keep the smoker company.
I can think of no better use to put an umbrella than that.
Then go back inside for more tea and cookies.
As well as reading and dozing.
Think about it.
As a practical consideration, there should be two towels within handy reach. Alternatively, one very large and absorbent one.
This is essential.
According to the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy:
"A towel is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value - you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal; you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.
More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with."
It goes without saying that the towel should be clean, fluffy, and smell absolutely April-fresh.
As Dale Breckenridge Carnegie would no doubt explain "if your towel is clean and fluffy, you too will be clean and fluffy."
Everybody should strive to be thus.
As well as April-fresh.
Absolutely.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers who might wish to inspect my towels may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I just peered out of the window.
It looks like it will rain again.
Stay dry, y'all. Stay dry.
Ideally, what one should do in rainy weather is lie on the couch in the living room, positioned so that one can look out over the street.
Naked, and underneath a comfy throw rug.
With another person.
Occasionally one or other of you gets up, pads to the kitchen to fetch tea and cookies, then hurries back to the warm nest. One may read, one may doze. Or one may do other things.
If one is a smoker, and the other one isn't, the tobacco aficionado may have to step out of the room at intervals to light up his pipe. It's only polite and companionable to do so. And equally, the non-smoking woman should also put on her clothes at that point and keep the smoker company.
I can think of no better use to put an umbrella than that.
Then go back inside for more tea and cookies.
As well as reading and dozing.
Think about it.
As a practical consideration, there should be two towels within handy reach. Alternatively, one very large and absorbent one.
This is essential.
According to the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy:
"A towel is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value - you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal; you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.
More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with."
It goes without saying that the towel should be clean, fluffy, and smell absolutely April-fresh.
As Dale Breckenridge Carnegie would no doubt explain "if your towel is clean and fluffy, you too will be clean and fluffy."
Everybody should strive to be thus.
As well as April-fresh.
Absolutely.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers who might wish to inspect my towels may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
MY HEAD HURTS!
And why does my head hurt, I hear you ask. Did I consume too much cheap whiskey? Did I play bull fight with a large muscle-bound nimnoo in a bar last night? Was I misbehaving up a storm with all the other fifty-year old bachelors down at Mad Kevin's Cow Shack, while somebody played brass pole music for invisible hoochies?
Hoochies which we desperately wished were there?
Though we wouldn't know what to do if they were?
Was I pulling an all-nighter dancing nude by myself on a table top except for the stylish lampshade which was on my head?
If so, you surmise, that head ache is explicable.
Even if not entirely well deserved.
None of that!
I was attempting to speak Hindi.
Or an equivalent Indian tongue.
MALLUM? KIA RAHAH HEH EH, BHAI?
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uj56IPJOqWE.]
It's complicated. Google Translate didn't know what to make of it.
The other day I was listening in on two Desi-log (ek Panjabi, aur ek Tamilian) having a conversation about dating women. The older one was telling the younger one "above all, be a gentleman, and be honest".
Furthermore, eat and drink at the same tempo as the girl, don't talk too much about yourself, and make sure she gets home safely.
Dress business casual, or slightly more than.
Do NOT go on and on about cars.
This is all sound advice!
If I ever meet a woman, I should keep it in mind.
I am resolved to leave my stylish lampshade at home, keep my clothes on (and the dancing table out of sight), and not take her down to Mad Kevin's Cow Shack. At least until the second date.
Please stop shaking your head.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Hoochies which we desperately wished were there?
Though we wouldn't know what to do if they were?
Was I pulling an all-nighter dancing nude by myself on a table top except for the stylish lampshade which was on my head?
If so, you surmise, that head ache is explicable.
Even if not entirely well deserved.
None of that!
I was attempting to speak Hindi.
Or an equivalent Indian tongue.
MALLUM? KIA RAHAH HEH EH, BHAI?
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uj56IPJOqWE.]
It's complicated. Google Translate didn't know what to make of it.
The other day I was listening in on two Desi-log (ek Panjabi, aur ek Tamilian) having a conversation about dating women. The older one was telling the younger one "above all, be a gentleman, and be honest".
Furthermore, eat and drink at the same tempo as the girl, don't talk too much about yourself, and make sure she gets home safely.
Dress business casual, or slightly more than.
Do NOT go on and on about cars.
This is all sound advice!
If I ever meet a woman, I should keep it in mind.
I am resolved to leave my stylish lampshade at home, keep my clothes on (and the dancing table out of sight), and not take her down to Mad Kevin's Cow Shack. At least until the second date.
Please stop shaking your head.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 02, 2014
BALKAN SOBRANIE - MORE THAN YOU EVER WANTED, BUT NOT THE RECIPE
Balkan Sobranie Original Mixture was composed of fifty percent Latakia, around 22 percent Turkish from various sources, and the remainder a base of flue-cured tobaccos. That said, recreating it would require both the specific Orientals and Virginias, in addition to a knowledge of the blending protocol employed first by Redstone (Sobranie House), later by Gallaghers.
Given that several of the varietal tobaccos once available are also no longer around, you can well imagine the scope of the problem. But as numerous companies produce mixtures that are comfortably in the same ballpark, there is little point in even trying.
THE BALKAN SOBRANIE
I've probably gibbered as much about that legendary tobacco mixture as anybody else; all my Sobranie-related wafflegab can be found by clicking this link: BALKAN DREAMS. Some of this is only tangentially relevant.
You might instead want to go directly to the big mack daddy of all the Sobranie posts: BALKAN POSTSCRIPT.
In that second essay meanings of the name are given, semi-educated guesswork concerning the product is speculated, and the pleasing experience is recalled.
It's extensive. Perhaps more than you wanted to know.
The Oriental? Click here: YENIDJE.
I miss that tobacco, but not too much; I have a half year supply from the early nineteen eighties stashed away, and I intend to smoke it.
MISSING LINKS
Other tobaccos I also sincerely miss, perhaps more than Balkan Sobranie: Dobie's Foursquare Blue (two ancient tins left), John Cotton's No. 1 and 2 Medium (one tin left), and John Cotton's Smyrna (four tins left).
Over a hundred tins of Durbar -- But I restrain myself.
State Express mixture (two tins), Dunhill My Mixture 73 and Dunhill Mr. Alfred's Own (one 100 gramme tin each), and Balmoral Mixture.
That last one is a stumper. I have no tins. Nor do I know who made it.
It was probably the first product containing Latakia that I ever smoked, and rather likely something continental instead of British.
It was a very long time ago.
Back in that distant childhood (14 years old) I also remember horrendous tongue burn from Capstan (both the blue and the yellow), but I sincerely wish now I that had stocked up just in case my love affair with Latakia slackened. As, indeed, it has. Same goes for Three Nuns, and several other British products now made by better Danes than the English ever were.
Times have changed. Tobacco no longer comes in enamel-top tins, pressed as a disc into a neatly crimped paper lining. The effect of being perennially broke was much alleviated by the luxury, once a week, of opening up a new container and viewing the funky bonbon within, that greeted the nose with a beguiling whiff of maturity, all plum-like and fruity. The Balkan Sobranie itself presented a lovely speckled brindle to the eyes, bright ribbons contrastingly interwoven with shiny tar-hued black.
And a most appealing sooty aroma.
For the deprived, Greg Pease's oeuvre is ALWAYS an intelligent option. Maybe the only one. Many of his English and Balkan blends are extraordinarily intelligent, and age exceptionally well.
For the mad Latakia bomber: Odyssey.
For the Londonian: Westminster.
For the rake: Kensington.
And plenty more.
BUT OTHERWISE
Slight sideways speculation: one of the regulars at Telfords in Marin is a young lady of a winsome mien who smokes Padrons and Julius Caesars, among other fine cigars. Precisely that, but in the form of a pipesmoker, would be someone well-worth knowing. Oh my heavens yes.
I've always found the darker fragrances enchanting.
Cartier, Aoud, Safari, et mult altres.
Slightly wicked perfumes.
These allure.
For a dalliance with the sensuous side, see this post: leafy mistress.
It's about an experimental blend that I never quite finished developing. Slightly depraved, very old-fashioned. At some point I should dig up my blending notes and finalize it.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Given that several of the varietal tobaccos once available are also no longer around, you can well imagine the scope of the problem. But as numerous companies produce mixtures that are comfortably in the same ballpark, there is little point in even trying.
THE BALKAN SOBRANIE
I've probably gibbered as much about that legendary tobacco mixture as anybody else; all my Sobranie-related wafflegab can be found by clicking this link: BALKAN DREAMS. Some of this is only tangentially relevant.
You might instead want to go directly to the big mack daddy of all the Sobranie posts: BALKAN POSTSCRIPT.
In that second essay meanings of the name are given, semi-educated guesswork concerning the product is speculated, and the pleasing experience is recalled.
It's extensive. Perhaps more than you wanted to know.
The Oriental? Click here: YENIDJE.
I miss that tobacco, but not too much; I have a half year supply from the early nineteen eighties stashed away, and I intend to smoke it.
MISSING LINKS
Other tobaccos I also sincerely miss, perhaps more than Balkan Sobranie: Dobie's Foursquare Blue (two ancient tins left), John Cotton's No. 1 and 2 Medium (one tin left), and John Cotton's Smyrna (four tins left).
Over a hundred tins of Durbar -- But I restrain myself.
State Express mixture (two tins), Dunhill My Mixture 73 and Dunhill Mr. Alfred's Own (one 100 gramme tin each), and Balmoral Mixture.
That last one is a stumper. I have no tins. Nor do I know who made it.
It was probably the first product containing Latakia that I ever smoked, and rather likely something continental instead of British.
It was a very long time ago.
Back in that distant childhood (14 years old) I also remember horrendous tongue burn from Capstan (both the blue and the yellow), but I sincerely wish now I that had stocked up just in case my love affair with Latakia slackened. As, indeed, it has. Same goes for Three Nuns, and several other British products now made by better Danes than the English ever were.
Times have changed. Tobacco no longer comes in enamel-top tins, pressed as a disc into a neatly crimped paper lining. The effect of being perennially broke was much alleviated by the luxury, once a week, of opening up a new container and viewing the funky bonbon within, that greeted the nose with a beguiling whiff of maturity, all plum-like and fruity. The Balkan Sobranie itself presented a lovely speckled brindle to the eyes, bright ribbons contrastingly interwoven with shiny tar-hued black.
And a most appealing sooty aroma.
For the deprived, Greg Pease's oeuvre is ALWAYS an intelligent option. Maybe the only one. Many of his English and Balkan blends are extraordinarily intelligent, and age exceptionally well.
For the mad Latakia bomber: Odyssey.
For the Londonian: Westminster.
For the rake: Kensington.
And plenty more.
BUT OTHERWISE
Slight sideways speculation: one of the regulars at Telfords in Marin is a young lady of a winsome mien who smokes Padrons and Julius Caesars, among other fine cigars. Precisely that, but in the form of a pipesmoker, would be someone well-worth knowing. Oh my heavens yes.
I've always found the darker fragrances enchanting.
Cartier, Aoud, Safari, et mult altres.
Slightly wicked perfumes.
These allure.
For a dalliance with the sensuous side, see this post: leafy mistress.
It's about an experimental blend that I never quite finished developing. Slightly depraved, very old-fashioned. At some point I should dig up my blending notes and finalize it.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CURRY AND PERFECT COMPANY
Several days ago, I woke up with raging acid indigestion, a splitting headache, gout, and a state of what can only be described as a "teenage boy" characteristic. The indigestion and the head problem were both the result of Jameson's Irish Whiskey -- a mighty fine product despite its links to frightful bog trolls -- and the other issue was a middle-aged response to a full bladder.
Years ago, one of my friends said never to ignore those things; their occurrence was unreliable, unpredictable, and didn't crop up often enough.
Given that he's screamingly gay, he may have meant something else.
Maybe random chance in dark alleys off of Polk Street.
Beer, shared cigarettes, and titters.
The problem is that the body provides certain stock responses to a full bladder as one gets older that may seriously sabotage any attempts to solve the problem.
Then the sleeping mind responds by filling in the blanks. The unconscious or sleeping mind is the spoiler in this scenario, as it is filled with all manner of wonderful memories (mammaries, yay!) and visual images of an "aesthetic" nature.
Put differently, the middle-aged male is multi-facetedly perverse.
Our subconscious is both our best and our worst friend.
All in all, a randy-pantsed reprobate.
Non-apologetic about it.
Confident, too.
And our dream companions, as our non-rational selves instinctively know, have velvety characteristics, healthy appetites, and infinite charm.
Besides being sexy and brilliant.
I spent nearly ten minutes deliberately thinking of nasty frigid swamps, cold blasts of arctic air, car crashes on frozen roads in the Midwest, orc carcasses on snow-covered heaths on the trail to Mordor, howling storms, and wolves gnawing off my leg to get away.
But I still remember the golden moments filled with sunny cheer and subtle charms before I woke up.
No, dear readers, this has nothing to do with being single and unfulfilled -- please do not leave intrusive comments suggesting I date your distant relatives in trailer parks or shopaholic Filippinas from Daly City -- but everything to do with the nature of the mature male bladder. Especially one trained by long hours of not going to the bathroom because I did not trust my coworkers at the Indian restaurant years ago not to promptly make several monetary errors and mistakes if I stepped away from the cash-box for even one moment.
That engagement with the purveyance of subcontinental cuisine endured for several years.
Because the hot air from the beer chest blew straight into my legs at my station guarding the cash-box, I required hydration, commonly swilling down five or six pots of weak tea between five and twelve o'clock. After the last dinner bill had been totaled up, collected, and the days' take had been counted -- twice, for accuracy -- and the till balanced, tips counted out, and expenses paid, I would frantically dive for the head like a madman. While never-the-less maintaining the composure and phlegmatism for which we Dutch are known.
It would be a calm and patient dive, with dignity.
But inexorable; do not dare intervene.
This Dutchman has to pee.
The other evening I had a few cocktails (aforementioned Jameson's), after which I compounded my errors by snarfing down a perfectly nasty mutton curry with greasy naan at a Pakistani place in the Tenderloin.
It was a mistake, and I should've known better. The combination of whiskey, slightly rotten pack mule, and a bucket of ghee, plus salt, was what caused all my problems the next morning.
In all honesty, I would have vastly preferred it if there had been wonderful mammaries (ah, memories!), aesthetic appreciation, health, velvet, and a brilliant female mind. Golden moments, subtle cheer, and sunny charms.
Instead.
John Jameson's, stringy Pakistani boiled cat, and a ten-gallon jug of ghee are not conducive to female companionship.
They aren't even the equivalent.
I am an adult; I know this now.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Years ago, one of my friends said never to ignore those things; their occurrence was unreliable, unpredictable, and didn't crop up often enough.
Given that he's screamingly gay, he may have meant something else.
Maybe random chance in dark alleys off of Polk Street.
Beer, shared cigarettes, and titters.
The problem is that the body provides certain stock responses to a full bladder as one gets older that may seriously sabotage any attempts to solve the problem.
Then the sleeping mind responds by filling in the blanks. The unconscious or sleeping mind is the spoiler in this scenario, as it is filled with all manner of wonderful memories (mammaries, yay!) and visual images of an "aesthetic" nature.
Put differently, the middle-aged male is multi-facetedly perverse.
Our subconscious is both our best and our worst friend.
All in all, a randy-pantsed reprobate.
Non-apologetic about it.
Confident, too.
And our dream companions, as our non-rational selves instinctively know, have velvety characteristics, healthy appetites, and infinite charm.
Besides being sexy and brilliant.
I spent nearly ten minutes deliberately thinking of nasty frigid swamps, cold blasts of arctic air, car crashes on frozen roads in the Midwest, orc carcasses on snow-covered heaths on the trail to Mordor, howling storms, and wolves gnawing off my leg to get away.
But I still remember the golden moments filled with sunny cheer and subtle charms before I woke up.
No, dear readers, this has nothing to do with being single and unfulfilled -- please do not leave intrusive comments suggesting I date your distant relatives in trailer parks or shopaholic Filippinas from Daly City -- but everything to do with the nature of the mature male bladder. Especially one trained by long hours of not going to the bathroom because I did not trust my coworkers at the Indian restaurant years ago not to promptly make several monetary errors and mistakes if I stepped away from the cash-box for even one moment.
That engagement with the purveyance of subcontinental cuisine endured for several years.
Because the hot air from the beer chest blew straight into my legs at my station guarding the cash-box, I required hydration, commonly swilling down five or six pots of weak tea between five and twelve o'clock. After the last dinner bill had been totaled up, collected, and the days' take had been counted -- twice, for accuracy -- and the till balanced, tips counted out, and expenses paid, I would frantically dive for the head like a madman. While never-the-less maintaining the composure and phlegmatism for which we Dutch are known.
It would be a calm and patient dive, with dignity.
But inexorable; do not dare intervene.
This Dutchman has to pee.
The other evening I had a few cocktails (aforementioned Jameson's), after which I compounded my errors by snarfing down a perfectly nasty mutton curry with greasy naan at a Pakistani place in the Tenderloin.
It was a mistake, and I should've known better. The combination of whiskey, slightly rotten pack mule, and a bucket of ghee, plus salt, was what caused all my problems the next morning.
In all honesty, I would have vastly preferred it if there had been wonderful mammaries (ah, memories!), aesthetic appreciation, health, velvet, and a brilliant female mind. Golden moments, subtle cheer, and sunny charms.
Instead.
John Jameson's, stringy Pakistani boiled cat, and a ten-gallon jug of ghee are not conducive to female companionship.
They aren't even the equivalent.
I am an adult; I know this now.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 01, 2014
GOOBER PARK
An acquaintance, knowing that I despise the twenty-something drunks of Friday and Saturday nights on Polk Street and elsewhere in this fine alcoholic city, said: "Dude, no wonder you don't have a sex life! The places you like are terminally unhip!"
As it turns out, hole-in-the-wall eateries in Chinatown and a cigar bar filled with middle-aged men are not optimum places to pick up chicks.
He never goes there, and he advised me to do likewise. Only hip people get any action, and the way to be hip is to go to all the hip places.
He suggested a number of venues.
None of which appeal to me in any way at all.
Skanks, wolves, pervs, and sloppy drunks can be found there.
WHERE ONE SHOULD NOT GO
Follows a list of drinking establishments where you will never find this blogger. Unless it's the end times, or I've finally lost my mind.
They are all delightfully hip.
Ambassador Bar
673 Geary Street.
Fancy and pretentious, great décor.
Hip.
Americano Bar
8 Mission Street.
Prowling single bankers and junior stockbrokers; a great place for pinstriped lizards. Went there once. Never again. Not my crowd.
They made my skin crawl. Vermin.
Hip.
Bourbon and Branch
501 Jones Street.
Terminally hip. If that is a disease, you'll catch it here.
Hippy hip hip.
John Colins
90 Natoma Street.
Good place for alcoholic office drones; great selection of booze.
Hippity bippity.
Kimo's
1351 Polk Street.
Responsible for more drunken trannies pissing in the street than almost any other place on Polk. Years ago I walked past and one of the patrons nearly hit me with a stream of urine. This happened in broad daylight. Basically, Polk Street from California southward to City Hall is where scum and sleaze intersect, and it gets worse with each block.
Hoop.
Matador Bar
10 6th Street.
Vintage crap and cocktails for junior members of the marketing team, as well as the sales department. Très yup.
Yep.
Slide Speakeasy
430 Mason Street.
Hip, pretentious, and filled with singles spreading disease.
Very popular, and considered the epitome of hip.
Hipnacious.
Ruby Skye
420 Mason Street.
Just about dripping with hipness. More lame wannabees and trash than you can possibly imagine. But oh so very hip. Hip. Hip. Hip.
Hop.
Red Devil Lounge
1695 Polk Street
Currently a crew of working men is tearing this place up, praise be. Though I dread what will be located there next. For years their flood of loathsome drunks would piss in every doorway for blocks around, or simply standing in between parked cars and doing it in the street.
Hos.
Rickhouse
246 Kearny Street.
If it weren't for all the rutting office trash that accumulates here, this would be a truly splendid place. The staff knows far more about liquor than ninety nine percent of the patrons, and the selection of distillates is extraordinary. Very professional and skilled mixologists. Though that is largely wasted on the mob of oversexed worker bees.
Hunkum.
Rouge Night Club
1500 Broadway.
A jam-packed pickup joint, filled with hungry single male maniacs and truly trashy women. Broken glass, sticky floors, and the occasional fight. This place epitomizes absolutely everything I hate about hip bars, twenty-somethings, suburbanites, marketing teams, alcoholics, and hipsters. The phrase 'incurable diseases' comes to mind.
Dips.
The Parlor
2801 Leavenworth Street.
Full service on many different levels, but not a place for the contemplative man.
Unless he's slumming among the high-priced office trollops.
Woof.
AFTER WORD
It is presently Saturday night. Like many people, I shall enjoy a cocktail at some point, but not wherever callow yuppies rut. One should go to a local drinking establishment for conversation, not because one is sexually desperate or depraved.
If one's sexual partners cannot stand the light of day, something is wrong. Perhaps they're vampires.
Hip is for pigs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He never goes there, and he advised me to do likewise. Only hip people get any action, and the way to be hip is to go to all the hip places.
He suggested a number of venues.
None of which appeal to me in any way at all.
Skanks, wolves, pervs, and sloppy drunks can be found there.
WHERE ONE SHOULD NOT GO
Follows a list of drinking establishments where you will never find this blogger. Unless it's the end times, or I've finally lost my mind.
They are all delightfully hip.
Ambassador Bar
673 Geary Street.
Fancy and pretentious, great décor.
Hip.
Americano Bar
8 Mission Street.
Prowling single bankers and junior stockbrokers; a great place for pinstriped lizards. Went there once. Never again. Not my crowd.
They made my skin crawl. Vermin.
Hip.
Bourbon and Branch
501 Jones Street.
Terminally hip. If that is a disease, you'll catch it here.
Hippy hip hip.
John Colins
90 Natoma Street.
Good place for alcoholic office drones; great selection of booze.
Hippity bippity.
Kimo's
1351 Polk Street.
Responsible for more drunken trannies pissing in the street than almost any other place on Polk. Years ago I walked past and one of the patrons nearly hit me with a stream of urine. This happened in broad daylight. Basically, Polk Street from California southward to City Hall is where scum and sleaze intersect, and it gets worse with each block.
Hoop.
Matador Bar
10 6th Street.
Vintage crap and cocktails for junior members of the marketing team, as well as the sales department. Très yup.
Yep.
Slide Speakeasy
430 Mason Street.
Hip, pretentious, and filled with singles spreading disease.
Very popular, and considered the epitome of hip.
Hipnacious.
Ruby Skye
420 Mason Street.
Just about dripping with hipness. More lame wannabees and trash than you can possibly imagine. But oh so very hip. Hip. Hip. Hip.
Hop.
Red Devil Lounge
1695 Polk Street
Currently a crew of working men is tearing this place up, praise be. Though I dread what will be located there next. For years their flood of loathsome drunks would piss in every doorway for blocks around, or simply standing in between parked cars and doing it in the street.
Hos.
Rickhouse
246 Kearny Street.
If it weren't for all the rutting office trash that accumulates here, this would be a truly splendid place. The staff knows far more about liquor than ninety nine percent of the patrons, and the selection of distillates is extraordinary. Very professional and skilled mixologists. Though that is largely wasted on the mob of oversexed worker bees.
Hunkum.
Rouge Night Club
1500 Broadway.
A jam-packed pickup joint, filled with hungry single male maniacs and truly trashy women. Broken glass, sticky floors, and the occasional fight. This place epitomizes absolutely everything I hate about hip bars, twenty-somethings, suburbanites, marketing teams, alcoholics, and hipsters. The phrase 'incurable diseases' comes to mind.
Dips.
The Parlor
2801 Leavenworth Street.
Full service on many different levels, but not a place for the contemplative man.
Unless he's slumming among the high-priced office trollops.
Woof.
AFTER WORD
It is presently Saturday night. Like many people, I shall enjoy a cocktail at some point, but not wherever callow yuppies rut. One should go to a local drinking establishment for conversation, not because one is sexually desperate or depraved.
If one's sexual partners cannot stand the light of day, something is wrong. Perhaps they're vampires.
Hip is for pigs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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