So far the San Francisco Department of Public Health has put several affordable eateries in Chinatown out of business. More are undoubtedly shortlisted. One might suspect them of being stuck-up officious Filipinos employing that well-known racism against the Chinese, or puritanical white xenophobes from Arizona or the Deep South. Or even, heaven forfend, corrupt city employees trying to solicit bribes.
I would not be at all surprised to discover that there are city employees enthusiastically making use of their position and English ability to squeeze people who do not speak English, who are just trying to make an honest living in an increasingly unfriendly cultural environment. Corruption is endemic when the victims are neither able to fight back nor willing to stand up and tell the bureaucrats to go piss up a rope.
But more than likely, they're simply among the more easily impressed readers of Yelp and other venom-spewing social media sites. Or they wish, desperately, to cater to the e-yuppies who are taking over and ruining San Francisco. Clueless, unimaginative, and self-impressed.
Some of whom actually are bigoted Filipinos.
Or disapproving white folk from Arizona.
And other southern-mentality zones.
As well as the East Coast.
Consider these doozies lifted from Yelp of several of my favourite food places in Chinatown:
"The service is terrible... very rude... very little meat ... did not look clean... get the hell out... mediocre... a funny flavor... horrible... avoid... outdated like everyone else here... way overrated... total disappointment."
[All of that describes a place where despite the crowded conditions I have never been disappointed. If I eat there too often, I'll probably die fat and happy far too soon.
It's underrated.]
"Cold and bland... super disappointing... expect to not be understood if you don't speak whatever Chinese dialect... the worst food I've ever had... it wasn't even edible... random parts of the pig... very unpleasant... no meat in it at all... an absolutely awful aftertaste... not enough meat."
[I've eaten there several times. I don't even recognize it in any of this. I've never had a dissatisfying experience there at all, and it's always crowded with happy people.
BTW: they speak Cantonese, Mandarin, and English.]
"I like Jollibee fried chicken better... the rice was okay... the kitchen is very dirty... when I got home, I had the runs... it was covered in batter.... mostly bone and fat... about the most tasteless I've ever had... a dirty cheap Chinese place."
[Jollibee, in case you didn't know, is a Filipino joint, run by Filippinos, for Filipinos. The place described in unflattering terms is ten times better than Jollibee.
Damned Filipinos. Please stay in Daly City.]
"Bland and oily... bad service... rude and mean... saturated in oil... lacking in substance... service was so bad... a nightmare... Do they know how it's served in Hong Kong? Not impressed... a rather fugly looking mess... even unhealthier than HK. They don't give a shit...totally unprofessional crap... there are far tastier, magnificent HK edibles elsewhere."
[The white person who went to Hong Kong thinks far too much of himself. He's probably big, spongy, and overfed. And a computer programmer. As well as one hell of a superficialist.]
"Service doesn't exist at this place... they should at least be lukewarm and still crispy... dirty and dirty.... hate this place... I will never come back here... dirty floors, sticky tables, stinky restrooms... congealed mess... how bad could it be... grits!"
[Were they even talking about the same place? Maybe instead they described some restaurant in Pittsburgh or Detroit, or heaven help us New York. They probably weren't sufficiently fawned over by the hard-working staff.]
"Far from good... clueless... minimal English... nothing else ordered was palatable... extremely oily... stay away from the seafood... sketchy... a real let down... you can't expect a whole lot coming from Chinatown."
[Okay. I can accept that you have no clue. Everything there is more than palatable, and quite delicious. Which I know from experience. The seafood is very fresh. I expect a lot from them, they always deliver.]
"Greasy, too much dough and very little filling. Also not very clean."
[Some dude from Illinois -- they know from food there? Hoo hah!]
And it goes on and on. I have to ask, how many white tourists does it really take to buy a can of coca cola? All five of you? You take up space, have no clue that you're blocking everyone else, and that you are asking all kinds of stupid questions about stuff you have NO intention of eating anyhow is a monumental waste of the counter-lady's time and patience. The only upside is that she might learn some more English from exposure to you.
Why is it, that ten of you beef-fed Midwestern lardasses can make more noise and waste more of the staff's time than several times that number of neighborhood people? Then bellyache a storm about something totally unimportant and immaterial? Are you lot habitually loathsome?
Or just so full of yourselves?
Look, fast-food burger joints were invented specifically for your exqui dining pleasure. The menu is simple enough that even children can understand it, and you really really can have it your way. The only intellectually stressful decision you'll have to make is whether you want fries with that.
Go for the fries; you deserve a break today.
You want cheap, I get that. But your expectations are unrealistic. Whole Foods and Trader Joe level ingredients cost money. These folks know their customers, and if they started charging for the best cuts of meat and fancy imported European ingredients, they'd go out of business. They're catering to an audience which is NOT living high off the hog. And which actually likes a bit of animal fat, offal, gluten, and cholesterol.
This afternoon I was so looking forward to bowl of congee and a yautiu, only to discover that the bastards have closed the place down till further notice. Either the European tourists, the buggery Midwesterners, or the e-trash yuppies alerted the San Francisco Department of Public Health.
Whose socially-impaired and quite possibly corrupt as all git-out pencil pushers saw a splendid opportunity to show nice white San Franciscans that, by golly, they really cared.
The folks who run that restaurant work their netherends off.
That's an entirely family now without income.
Who still have rent to pay.
The people who eat there regularly want a good solid meal at a price they can afford. Me too. Their fried oil stick was the best on Stockton Street.
Yeah, the coffee is scheisse. But I don't go there for that.
In conclusion, will all of you pretentious pricks who expect Cordon Bleu food and service kindly go elsewhere. That isn't what you will get in a largely working-class neighborhood, which is now vastly more densely populated than ever before, due to rising rents and decreasing business opportunities. There are plenty of places where you can eat something exotic and have smiling patient waiters and waitresses attend to your every wish.
They're called 'Thai Restaurants'.
AFTER WORD
A regular reader left a wistfull comment underneath a post recently:
"Years ago this was a place to come for astute political commentary. Now, with slight variations its more about what you had for supper on any given day."
Yeah, I know, and I'm sorry. I've given up on political commentary. Between the far-right asshats and the dangerously loony leftwing, it just ain't worth it any more. I am no longer moved to indignation, but simply ignore the gun-nuts, radical Teabaggers, ignorant sods, and pretty much everybody who wants to save the whales, hug random trees, or ban plastic bags.
Let us eat the whales. We'll take the leftovers home.
In a convenient (and free) plastic bag.
Bon appétit.
Lunch sucked, by the way.
Please note: the "white people" referenced in the title of this post are not those for whom it is merely a happenstance of identity, but specifically those folks in which it is a glaring character defect. Much like veganism, spirituality, gun-nut, teabaggery, and other offensively defensive ethnicities and subcultures.
Please feel free to object
Whatever.
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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Monday, May 12, 2014
STOP STARING
One person I know has a pet snake. For him, given his access to edible mice, it's probably an ideal situation. Edible mice are those rodents specifically sold as reptile food. In case you were wondering, my sympathies are entirely with the small furry beasties. While I like snakes and other squamates, their capacity for emotional response is limited.
They don't even grunt, dammit.
Many years ago I woke up after a new years eve party with a large iguana on my chest, in my sweater. It decided in the middle of the night that I was significantly better than an electric rock, and had moved on in.
It would be a slight exaggeration to say that we bonded.
It just could not back out, because of its spines.
Nor move forward; my chin was in the way.
It just lay there, placidly blowing into my face.
Lizard breath. An herbivorous beast.
Thank goodness for that.
No digested rat.
"A relationship between a cat and a human can involve mutual attraction, personality compatibility, ease of interaction, play, affection and social support"
[Source: Cats bond with women -- and not just for food - NBC News.]
Other than it's fondness for the body temperature of the sleeping Dutchman, the iguana didn't have much personality.
While I was still living in a hellhole burb on the other side of San Francisco Bay (Berkeley), I had a cat that was always overjoyed to see me. She was a very lovable creature when asleep, but a veritable Hound of the Basker-villes among felines when awake. It was the only creature I ever had in my dwelling who could climb walls -- other than the squirrel who moved in when I was still in the Netherlands -- and it did so by sheer energy and insane determination. Three quarters of the way up it would loose its grip and fall, then whirl about the room bouncing off the furniture and the occupant.
As I said, lovable when at rest.
A terror otherwise.
Animals always take advantage of me. They recognize me as harmless and infinitely patient, tolerant of a very wide spectrum of opportunistic behaviour. Especially if they are small, cute, and cuddly. The iguana probably believed itself such, though, being a cold-blooded reptile, it may not have understood what "cute and cuddly" actually meant.
This explains why I will NEVER visit the desert or the tropical rainforests of Central America: scorpions and tarantulas. I can just imagine their heartbreak at being told that they are NOT cuddly. Or cute.
Beady arthropod eyes staring at me with resentment.
Sad, disillusioned, and hurt.
Unblinking.
I am at times a reserved creature, and find it hard to look directly at my interlocutors. It's an Asperger thing. I often have to check myself, realizing that I'm instinctively gazing down or sideways, which most people think of as shifty when they finally notice it. I'm certain that my newfound poisonous multi-legged friends would take it amiss.
Given their single-focus, they couldn't help but noticing.
Cats, raccoons, and squirrels wouldn't mind.
Too busy ripping the place apart.
Not poisonous, too.
As long as there were plenty of food and things to bounce off of, these small hyperactive furballs would consider that all the requirements of personal compatibility, ease of interaction, play, affection, and social support, where being met.
With humans, I'll just try to convince them that I am not a lizard or a newt. I'll repeat " I am human, just like the rest of you" with conviction.
Avoiding any sudden tongue movements.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They don't even grunt, dammit.
Many years ago I woke up after a new years eve party with a large iguana on my chest, in my sweater. It decided in the middle of the night that I was significantly better than an electric rock, and had moved on in.
It would be a slight exaggeration to say that we bonded.
It just could not back out, because of its spines.
Nor move forward; my chin was in the way.
It just lay there, placidly blowing into my face.
Lizard breath. An herbivorous beast.
Thank goodness for that.
No digested rat.
"A relationship between a cat and a human can involve mutual attraction, personality compatibility, ease of interaction, play, affection and social support"
[Source: Cats bond with women -- and not just for food - NBC News.]
Other than it's fondness for the body temperature of the sleeping Dutchman, the iguana didn't have much personality.
While I was still living in a hellhole burb on the other side of San Francisco Bay (Berkeley), I had a cat that was always overjoyed to see me. She was a very lovable creature when asleep, but a veritable Hound of the Basker-villes among felines when awake. It was the only creature I ever had in my dwelling who could climb walls -- other than the squirrel who moved in when I was still in the Netherlands -- and it did so by sheer energy and insane determination. Three quarters of the way up it would loose its grip and fall, then whirl about the room bouncing off the furniture and the occupant.
As I said, lovable when at rest.
A terror otherwise.
Animals always take advantage of me. They recognize me as harmless and infinitely patient, tolerant of a very wide spectrum of opportunistic behaviour. Especially if they are small, cute, and cuddly. The iguana probably believed itself such, though, being a cold-blooded reptile, it may not have understood what "cute and cuddly" actually meant.
This explains why I will NEVER visit the desert or the tropical rainforests of Central America: scorpions and tarantulas. I can just imagine their heartbreak at being told that they are NOT cuddly. Or cute.
Beady arthropod eyes staring at me with resentment.
Sad, disillusioned, and hurt.
Unblinking.
I am at times a reserved creature, and find it hard to look directly at my interlocutors. It's an Asperger thing. I often have to check myself, realizing that I'm instinctively gazing down or sideways, which most people think of as shifty when they finally notice it. I'm certain that my newfound poisonous multi-legged friends would take it amiss.
Given their single-focus, they couldn't help but noticing.
Cats, raccoons, and squirrels wouldn't mind.
Too busy ripping the place apart.
Not poisonous, too.
As long as there were plenty of food and things to bounce off of, these small hyperactive furballs would consider that all the requirements of personal compatibility, ease of interaction, play, affection, and social support, where being met.
With humans, I'll just try to convince them that I am not a lizard or a newt. I'll repeat " I am human, just like the rest of you" with conviction.
Avoiding any sudden tongue movements.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, May 11, 2014
THE WRITTEN LIFE
A very good friend confesses herself completely baffled by my blog. Yes, this one. She hasn't a clue what I'm on about, and doesn't know what the point is.
Why am I writing this, she wonders, and what if any profound knowledge is imparted here? It all seems like so much random gibbering.
Well, precious goober, that's because it IS random gibbering.
Some blogs are single-subject, and obsessively delve into the author's field and fanaticism.
This blog doesn't do that.
It's a soapbox, mixed with memoir à clef, and self-advertisement.
I get to spout off about pipe-tobacco, Hong Kong style milk tea, politics (occasionally), food (often), crap I've read somewhere, favourite authors, amorous thoughts and a disquieting lack of amorous reality, gout, lizards, Chinese subjects, music, what an utter pestilent subject sports are as well as the loudness of football-watching yutzes in groups of more than a single person, pizza, and cigar smokers.
Primarily, I seek to keep my readers mildly entertained; the writing here is not good enough to keep them entranced. Neither the wit nor the eloquence are extraordinary.
Secondarily, this is a one-sided conversation; regular readers sometimes comment, more likely they go back to work after one paragraph.
I value their rare feedback.
It's also a calling card: this man is middle-aged chronologically, though quite spry in the mind. At least I think so. If you want to discuss this over coffee (or tea) and books, at a place where you can quietly admire my VanDyke beard and deep-set eyes, that's always an option.
And what do you plan to do when you graduate?
Save the planet, or the whales?
Chinatown, Hello Kitty, and the headhunting cannibals of Marin County are frequent subjects, noodles and fatty pork make regular appearances.
Manga sometimes gets mentioned. There are absolutely no pornographic photos anywhere here, that's what the rest of the internet is for.
Sometimes I say snarky things about rabbits.
Cigar smokers get short shrift.
So do blondes.
The various subjects that interest me are speckled throughout. History, languages, cooking, and self-indulgence with hot beverages. As well as herring, sensuality, animals, and strange social practices.
South-East Asia, North America, Europe.
Unidentified fried objects.
Chilies.
But there is no actual point here.
I'm not seeking converts.
Amusement only.
AFTER THOUGHT
By the way, since I purchased a Hello Kitty backpack to carry my pipes and tobacco in while out of the house, I've actually become somewhat fond of the saccharine feline. Previously I felt she was only an icky-poo creepazoid marketing pussy, now I can actually appreciate her expressionless visage as a bright and simplistic decorative element that appeals to the very young and childish; it makes them feel good.
I fear that some six-year old will try to steal my bag.
That's mine, you little thug, piss off!
I saw it first!
Pretty!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Why am I writing this, she wonders, and what if any profound knowledge is imparted here? It all seems like so much random gibbering.
Well, precious goober, that's because it IS random gibbering.
Some blogs are single-subject, and obsessively delve into the author's field and fanaticism.
This blog doesn't do that.
It's a soapbox, mixed with memoir à clef, and self-advertisement.
I get to spout off about pipe-tobacco, Hong Kong style milk tea, politics (occasionally), food (often), crap I've read somewhere, favourite authors, amorous thoughts and a disquieting lack of amorous reality, gout, lizards, Chinese subjects, music, what an utter pestilent subject sports are as well as the loudness of football-watching yutzes in groups of more than a single person, pizza, and cigar smokers.
Primarily, I seek to keep my readers mildly entertained; the writing here is not good enough to keep them entranced. Neither the wit nor the eloquence are extraordinary.
Secondarily, this is a one-sided conversation; regular readers sometimes comment, more likely they go back to work after one paragraph.
I value their rare feedback.
It's also a calling card: this man is middle-aged chronologically, though quite spry in the mind. At least I think so. If you want to discuss this over coffee (or tea) and books, at a place where you can quietly admire my VanDyke beard and deep-set eyes, that's always an option.
And what do you plan to do when you graduate?
Save the planet, or the whales?
Chinatown, Hello Kitty, and the headhunting cannibals of Marin County are frequent subjects, noodles and fatty pork make regular appearances.
Manga sometimes gets mentioned. There are absolutely no pornographic photos anywhere here, that's what the rest of the internet is for.
Sometimes I say snarky things about rabbits.
Cigar smokers get short shrift.
So do blondes.
The various subjects that interest me are speckled throughout. History, languages, cooking, and self-indulgence with hot beverages. As well as herring, sensuality, animals, and strange social practices.
South-East Asia, North America, Europe.
Unidentified fried objects.
Chilies.
But there is no actual point here.
I'm not seeking converts.
Amusement only.
AFTER THOUGHT
By the way, since I purchased a Hello Kitty backpack to carry my pipes and tobacco in while out of the house, I've actually become somewhat fond of the saccharine feline. Previously I felt she was only an icky-poo creepazoid marketing pussy, now I can actually appreciate her expressionless visage as a bright and simplistic decorative element that appeals to the very young and childish; it makes them feel good.
I fear that some six-year old will try to steal my bag.
That's mine, you little thug, piss off!
I saw it first!
Pretty!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TYROSINE
Like most men, I am flaberghasted when I see a cat fight. "How do these women define friendship?" I will ask (rhetorically), and the answer comes in a whisper: "it means not using weapons". Nor committing slaughter.
Most men seldom, if ever, get to watch women do battle.
Which is a darn good thing. We'd be disillusioned if we did. We still have this image of women as being the kinder gentler sex, quite ridiculously in contrast with the reality that women are some of the most vicious brutes on the planet. It's that über-competitiveness; men lack it entirely.
Probably a thyroid imbalance.
Not all women, though.
Some are sane.
* * *
Wow, ladies! Menus should NEVER be used that way! Neither, for that matter, should the word 'whore' be flung out so casually; it's only proper place is in politics. One rather expects such a lack of gallantry and manners in Washington or Sacramento, not in a Chinese Restaurant.
Well, perhaps a Chinese Restaurant out in the suburbs.
Some place like Folsom or Oakland.
Savage pit-bogs.
Anyhow, along with dinner, I got a free show.
I betcha shoes were the cause of this.
Jimmy Choo?
Chinese Restaurants are far too cautious about calling the cops. There's something about admitting that you don't know how to handle the situation that seems shameful, and surely almost anything can and should be expected from the regrettably non-Chinese anyhow?
I think these ladies were from back east. New Jersey or New York.
Those horrid heathen accents are hard to keep apart.
As, indeed, were the two women.
Still, kudos to the boss-lady of the restaurant. "HEY! YOU! STOP EAT FOOD NOW! IT GETTING COLD!" Subtext: "please continue killing each other afterward, when you've finished the food, paid the bill, tipped, and left my business".
Of course they ignored her. Each one of them outweighed her by a good thirty pounds. I'm fairly certain that they also outweighed me, but I've never tried to heft blonde women, so I don't know.
They look quite unmanageable.
One of the women stormed out screaming, closely followed by the other. The man who was with them hurriedly paid the bill, then went out after them.
I don't know what they did to each other next. I'm sorry, I didn't follow them. I'm not crazy, I shall not abandon my dinner just because two large women want to wallop each other and have now galumphed out of sight. Besides, there were little girls in the restaurant, so I'm certain my Hello Kitty backpack would be gone by the time I returned from the fight.
That Hello Kitty backpack contains my paraphernalia.
Five pipes, including a Dunhill Rootbriar.
Liverpool shape. Sweet smoke.
Plus three tobaccos.
Tampers.
A little girl could not possibly appreciate the fine pipes and tobacco. She'd just kip it all into the garbage, and then claim "I found it; it's mine!"
If she had an aunt with good taste, maybe there's a chance.
Pipes are aesthetic, and fun to fondle.
One must have sound priorities. No matter how interesting the spectacle of two big blonde twizzle-heads clobbering each other, always, ALWAYS, be careful around little girls.
Oh, and big blonde women armed with menus too, but that almost goes without saying.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which is a darn good thing. We'd be disillusioned if we did. We still have this image of women as being the kinder gentler sex, quite ridiculously in contrast with the reality that women are some of the most vicious brutes on the planet. It's that über-competitiveness; men lack it entirely.
Probably a thyroid imbalance.
Not all women, though.
Some are sane.
* * *
Wow, ladies! Menus should NEVER be used that way! Neither, for that matter, should the word 'whore' be flung out so casually; it's only proper place is in politics. One rather expects such a lack of gallantry and manners in Washington or Sacramento, not in a Chinese Restaurant.
Well, perhaps a Chinese Restaurant out in the suburbs.
Some place like Folsom or Oakland.
Savage pit-bogs.
Anyhow, along with dinner, I got a free show.
I betcha shoes were the cause of this.
Jimmy Choo?
Chinese Restaurants are far too cautious about calling the cops. There's something about admitting that you don't know how to handle the situation that seems shameful, and surely almost anything can and should be expected from the regrettably non-Chinese anyhow?
I think these ladies were from back east. New Jersey or New York.
Those horrid heathen accents are hard to keep apart.
As, indeed, were the two women.
Still, kudos to the boss-lady of the restaurant. "HEY! YOU! STOP EAT FOOD NOW! IT GETTING COLD!" Subtext: "please continue killing each other afterward, when you've finished the food, paid the bill, tipped, and left my business".
Of course they ignored her. Each one of them outweighed her by a good thirty pounds. I'm fairly certain that they also outweighed me, but I've never tried to heft blonde women, so I don't know.
They look quite unmanageable.
One of the women stormed out screaming, closely followed by the other. The man who was with them hurriedly paid the bill, then went out after them.
I don't know what they did to each other next. I'm sorry, I didn't follow them. I'm not crazy, I shall not abandon my dinner just because two large women want to wallop each other and have now galumphed out of sight. Besides, there were little girls in the restaurant, so I'm certain my Hello Kitty backpack would be gone by the time I returned from the fight.
That Hello Kitty backpack contains my paraphernalia.
Five pipes, including a Dunhill Rootbriar.
Liverpool shape. Sweet smoke.
Plus three tobaccos.
Tampers.
A little girl could not possibly appreciate the fine pipes and tobacco. She'd just kip it all into the garbage, and then claim "I found it; it's mine!"
If she had an aunt with good taste, maybe there's a chance.
Pipes are aesthetic, and fun to fondle.
One must have sound priorities. No matter how interesting the spectacle of two big blonde twizzle-heads clobbering each other, always, ALWAYS, be careful around little girls.
Oh, and big blonde women armed with menus too, but that almost goes without saying.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, May 10, 2014
MAYBE NOT ACTUALLY WHAT WOMEN WANT
"He was hard, hard as granite!" Which was remarkable, seeing as he was made entirely out of quartzite. This was the thought that ran through my head after reading that ridiculous opening sentence. A friend had lent me a book of erotic fiction aimed at the other gender, with the words "here, find out what women really want".
One story described a young female archaeologist having randy feelings about a block statue of a priest. A very virile priest.
Women, it turns out, want bald men.
To hump along the Nile.
Thebes, Luxor.
Among the other things that they want is incredible Tyrannosaurus love.
Why anyone thinks I need to know that beats the heck out of me.
I would far rather not.
It was a collection of short stories. Which was to be expected; erotic fiction caters to a remarkable focus and short attention span.
That probably explains why I fell asleep.
Oh, and I giggled a lot.
T-Rex Sex.
Heh.
Why is it that so far no one has written an exciting and salacious romance novel about a lovable badger (Meles meles), as so perfectly described by Kenneth Grahame in The Wind in the Willows?
A solitary individual, with kindly intelligent eyes, who wanders the hills and valleys of San Francisco, smoking his pipe and looking forward to Hong Kong style milk-tea?
Well, probably because no one would even be remotely interested.
"His nose twitched, he could smell fresh tangerines. Someone, somewhere, was eating citrus fruit! The zesty fragrance combined nicely with the carotenoids in his aged Best Brown Flake, made by the venerable firm of Samuel Gawith, founded in Kendall, Cumbria, in 1792.
He puffed out, slowly, languorously. He luxuriated in the perfume-like whisps, which brought back memories of a female badger long ago...."
Okay, that's not as strange as wild Velociraptor Porn, but it's more than a little unexciting. Except to me.
"Softly, softly, he padded down the deserted alley, at the end of which a woman waited with a cup of steaming hot Hong Kong style milk-tea. He hoped her eyes sparkled, and that she was full of beans. Often she seemed drowsy, especially after a long hike over Russian Hill...."
Perhaps the badger should've primed her with lots of that milk-tea beforehand, instead of dragging her up and down the SF hillsides.
That's bound to shag anybody out.
"His deft paws reached out and stroked her silken arm hair..."
Whereupon she probably screamed bloody murder; she wasn't expecting a beast, and certainly not while she was reading about Egyptian statuary.
In a park in San Francisco on a warm sunny day in May, 2014.
Quickly, she called Animal Control on her cell phone...
"Help, I am being fondled by a badger!"
There is, in fact, almost no context in which I can think of a badger being the strong aggressive hero who gallantly fights off all assailants, then sweeps a young lady up in his strong manly arms. The main reason of course being that a badger normally is a rather short and furry individual, "generally a peaceful animal, having been known to share its burrow with other species such as rabbits, red foxes and raccoon dogs", and easily pacified by head-scritchies.
Trust me, badgers totally loooooooove head-scritchies.
It's a weakness that defeats them every time.
Wuzza wuzzah wuzzah.
Oooooh!
"She lost herself in his dark, dark eyes. Then the dream image shattered.
Sports was on teevee again."
Unlike dinosaurs and bald-headed Egyptian pickle-heads, badgers and other mustelids (such as otters, weasels, and wolverines) don't rank particularly high in the imaginary love lives of modern women.
There is something sorely lacking.
Why is that?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One story described a young female archaeologist having randy feelings about a block statue of a priest. A very virile priest.
Women, it turns out, want bald men.
To hump along the Nile.
Thebes, Luxor.
Among the other things that they want is incredible Tyrannosaurus love.
Why anyone thinks I need to know that beats the heck out of me.
I would far rather not.
It was a collection of short stories. Which was to be expected; erotic fiction caters to a remarkable focus and short attention span.
That probably explains why I fell asleep.
Oh, and I giggled a lot.
T-Rex Sex.
Heh.
Why is it that so far no one has written an exciting and salacious romance novel about a lovable badger (Meles meles), as so perfectly described by Kenneth Grahame in The Wind in the Willows?
A solitary individual, with kindly intelligent eyes, who wanders the hills and valleys of San Francisco, smoking his pipe and looking forward to Hong Kong style milk-tea?
Well, probably because no one would even be remotely interested.
"His nose twitched, he could smell fresh tangerines. Someone, somewhere, was eating citrus fruit! The zesty fragrance combined nicely with the carotenoids in his aged Best Brown Flake, made by the venerable firm of Samuel Gawith, founded in Kendall, Cumbria, in 1792.
He puffed out, slowly, languorously. He luxuriated in the perfume-like whisps, which brought back memories of a female badger long ago...."
Okay, that's not as strange as wild Velociraptor Porn, but it's more than a little unexciting. Except to me.
"Softly, softly, he padded down the deserted alley, at the end of which a woman waited with a cup of steaming hot Hong Kong style milk-tea. He hoped her eyes sparkled, and that she was full of beans. Often she seemed drowsy, especially after a long hike over Russian Hill...."
Perhaps the badger should've primed her with lots of that milk-tea beforehand, instead of dragging her up and down the SF hillsides.
That's bound to shag anybody out.
"His deft paws reached out and stroked her silken arm hair..."
Whereupon she probably screamed bloody murder; she wasn't expecting a beast, and certainly not while she was reading about Egyptian statuary.
In a park in San Francisco on a warm sunny day in May, 2014.
Quickly, she called Animal Control on her cell phone...
"Help, I am being fondled by a badger!"
There is, in fact, almost no context in which I can think of a badger being the strong aggressive hero who gallantly fights off all assailants, then sweeps a young lady up in his strong manly arms. The main reason of course being that a badger normally is a rather short and furry individual, "generally a peaceful animal, having been known to share its burrow with other species such as rabbits, red foxes and raccoon dogs", and easily pacified by head-scritchies.
Trust me, badgers totally loooooooove head-scritchies.
It's a weakness that defeats them every time.
Wuzza wuzzah wuzzah.
Oooooh!
"She lost herself in his dark, dark eyes. Then the dream image shattered.
Sports was on teevee again."
Unlike dinosaurs and bald-headed Egyptian pickle-heads, badgers and other mustelids (such as otters, weasels, and wolverines) don't rank particularly high in the imaginary love lives of modern women.
There is something sorely lacking.
Why is that?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, May 09, 2014
THE REAL SEE-THROUGH SLUTWEAR OF NEW YORK
The other day I was exposed to a television show about shallow rich women in an East-Coast metropolis, as well as the Hamptons. Other than the huge amount of blonde attitude and perfect teeth (both caste determinants as strong as anything), the one thing that stood out was transparent garments.
I now know far too much about middle-aged blonde bottoms.
And thighs. And boob jobs.
No, they did indeed wear underwear. Don't know if any of it was age-appropriate -- looked away every time the ladies with those "summer dresses" were on screen -- but I suspect not.
I not certain that see-through is proper for anybody, or at anytime.
Other than moments alone with a sexual partner.
Interesting bed-room kink.
If that shakes your cocktail, that's okay.
And I too might enjoy that.
Ain't saying.
There are several other garments that are aesthetically pleasing to both genders. Some of these suggest youth, voluption, or steamingly hot hot hot HOT! sexuality.
Saris, for instance, always suggests breasts like ripe mangoes. Possibly because of a snippily stuck-up Gujarati woman that I once worked with.
I was rather disappointed to find out that she had had a boob-job at the same time that she had her nose done, and her teeth fixed.
Ripe mangoes. Sweet, fragrant soft.
Green mangoes are hard.
I never asked.
[Actually, green mangoes taste far better. And they're great with a little salt. Mmmmmm!]
CRAZY WOMEN
One of the most beautiful women I have ever known was a co-worker, who moved back to Hawaii several years ago. What made her so stunning was not her radiant smile or clean, tasteful, and proper clothing -- garb that did not reveal or expose, but covered in a way that demonstrated that she had common sense and sound judgement -- but rather her sweetness, consideration for others, her courtesy, and a strong mind.
A very responsible person, ethical and honest.
Not blunt.
Exhibitionism is blunt.
I've always felt that cleavage is the moral equivalent of assault with blunt instruments. "Here, look at 'em!", is the message that extremely visible cleft sends, "or I'll pout and whine and bitch up a peevish storm".
Yet obeying that psychotic command also spells trouble.
"What are you staring at, creep?"
Followed by war.
Big exposed cleave-surfaces, even if not totally undressed, tend to turn any social event into a combat situation. Well-bred men will move their heads in any direction they can to avoid the tasteless partial nudity, all women except the blonde nymphos fiercely resent the girl who is showing off her bigger, stronger, and more competitive breasts.
Exhibitionism has its place; most men will discretely stare with their peripheral vision, even gentlemen. What are they? Oh my, there are TWO of them! Can they move independently? They can? They've just GOT to be carnivorous! Perhaps even cannibalistic! Plus it will inevitably remind us of our classes in high-school, when bare girlish arms made us pleasantly uncomfortable, and old man Hillemans blushed like a rose when forced by the textbook to explain human sexuality. By the time it got to body tissue with numerous vascular spaces -- not even mentioning the perineal sponge -- his redness and stuttering got the better of him. For the last three weeks of that class, his place was taken by a tall strong-minded matter-of-fact Northern woman who brooked absolutely no nonsense.
Her attitude cured us of our problems.
Many of us got stellar grades.
Quite dispassionately.
[She may have been a contributing factor to my inner issues with blondes. Conversely, my subconscious could very well have acquired a marked preference for intelligent strong-minded women precisely because of her.
I just don't know.]
Anyway, most men will not fail to absorb the exposed and educational physical details. It's instinctive, and quite subconscious. We honestly don't mind looking at a bit of curvy tastelessness, provided we don't ever have to be seen with it, in public, when we're unguarded.
Men will gladly tolerate the female exhibitionist.
But we won't remember her conversation.
Possibly not even her name.
TOUCHING THE MEMORIES
Per Wikipedia:
From an information processing perspective there are three main stages in the formation and retrieval of memory:
Encoding or registration: receiving, processing and combining of received information
Storage: creation of a permanent record of the encoded information
Retrieval, recall or recollection: calling back the stored information in response to some cue for use in a process or activity
[End cite]
From a different Wikipedia entry:
Working memory includes subsystems that store and manipulate visual images or verbal information, as well as a central executive that coordinates the subsystems. It includes visual representation of the possible moves, and awareness of the flow of information into and out of memory, all stored for a limited amount of time.
And:
In 1974, Baddeley and Hitch introduced and made popular the multicomponent model of working memory. This theory proposes a central executive that, among other things, is responsible for directing attention to relevant information, suppressing irrelevant information and inappropriate actions, and for coordinating cognitive processes when more than one task must be done at the same time. The central executive has two "slave systems" responsible for short-term maintenance of information, and a "central executive" is responsible for the supervision of information integration and for coordinating the slave systems. One slave system, the phonological loop (PL), stores phonological information (that is, the sound of language) and prevents its decay by continuously articulating its contents, thereby refreshing the information in a rehearsal loop. It can, for example, maintain a seven-digit telephone number for as long as one repeats the number to oneself again and again. The other slave system, the visuo-spatial sketchpad, stores visual and spatial information. It can be used, for example, for constructing and manipulating visual images, and for the representation of mental maps. The sketchpad can be further broken down into a visual subsystem (dealing with, for instance, shape, colour, and texture), and a spatial subsystem (dealing with location).
[End cite]
To put it in simple terms, part of the mind automatically decides what will be remembered, based on factors such as importance and significance, as recognized at a non-conscious level. Much of what gets stored in long-term memory may not seem worthwhile to the conscious mind; but it is precisely because of what one chooses to recall, and how often, that the mind establishes a hierarchical rating for new data.
How does this work? There are tree things to consider: primacy, recency, and selectivity. Primacy means that the first thing noticed will stick around in the head longer (because it will be 'repeated' more), recency indicates that the closer in time to the present the stimulus was experienced the better it is recalled -- details will fade over time -- and selectivity establishes what is more worth storing as a memory versus what is of lesser importance.
From another wikipedia article:
Several studies have demonstrated that the presentation of emotionally arousing stimuli (compared to neutral stimuli) results in enhanced memory for central details (details central to the appearance or meaning of the emotional stimuli) and impaired memory for peripheral details.
And:
Emotional items also appear more likely to be processed when attention is limited, suggesting a facilitated or prioritized processing of emotional information.
[End cite]
Due entirely to their appearances and behaviour, I cannot remember all the names of the ladies on Real Housewives of New York.
One of them is named, or nicknamed, 'Toaster'.
Men will graciously hold the door for the woman exposing large "tracts of land" as much as for women who did not display themselves. But we'll damned well fall over ourselves rushing to do so for ladies like my gracious coworker or the replacement high-school teacher I mentioned.
Gallantry, like memory, is prompted by details.
And emotionally arousing stimuli.
A value system.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I now know far too much about middle-aged blonde bottoms.
And thighs. And boob jobs.
No, they did indeed wear underwear. Don't know if any of it was age-appropriate -- looked away every time the ladies with those "summer dresses" were on screen -- but I suspect not.
I not certain that see-through is proper for anybody, or at anytime.
Other than moments alone with a sexual partner.
Interesting bed-room kink.
If that shakes your cocktail, that's okay.
And I too might enjoy that.
Ain't saying.
There are several other garments that are aesthetically pleasing to both genders. Some of these suggest youth, voluption, or steamingly hot hot hot HOT! sexuality.
Saris, for instance, always suggests breasts like ripe mangoes. Possibly because of a snippily stuck-up Gujarati woman that I once worked with.
I was rather disappointed to find out that she had had a boob-job at the same time that she had her nose done, and her teeth fixed.
Ripe mangoes. Sweet, fragrant soft.
Green mangoes are hard.
I never asked.
[Actually, green mangoes taste far better. And they're great with a little salt. Mmmmmm!]
CRAZY WOMEN
One of the most beautiful women I have ever known was a co-worker, who moved back to Hawaii several years ago. What made her so stunning was not her radiant smile or clean, tasteful, and proper clothing -- garb that did not reveal or expose, but covered in a way that demonstrated that she had common sense and sound judgement -- but rather her sweetness, consideration for others, her courtesy, and a strong mind.
A very responsible person, ethical and honest.
Not blunt.
Exhibitionism is blunt.
I've always felt that cleavage is the moral equivalent of assault with blunt instruments. "Here, look at 'em!", is the message that extremely visible cleft sends, "or I'll pout and whine and bitch up a peevish storm".
Yet obeying that psychotic command also spells trouble.
"What are you staring at, creep?"
Followed by war.
Big exposed cleave-surfaces, even if not totally undressed, tend to turn any social event into a combat situation. Well-bred men will move their heads in any direction they can to avoid the tasteless partial nudity, all women except the blonde nymphos fiercely resent the girl who is showing off her bigger, stronger, and more competitive breasts.
Exhibitionism has its place; most men will discretely stare with their peripheral vision, even gentlemen. What are they? Oh my, there are TWO of them! Can they move independently? They can? They've just GOT to be carnivorous! Perhaps even cannibalistic! Plus it will inevitably remind us of our classes in high-school, when bare girlish arms made us pleasantly uncomfortable, and old man Hillemans blushed like a rose when forced by the textbook to explain human sexuality. By the time it got to body tissue with numerous vascular spaces -- not even mentioning the perineal sponge -- his redness and stuttering got the better of him. For the last three weeks of that class, his place was taken by a tall strong-minded matter-of-fact Northern woman who brooked absolutely no nonsense.
Her attitude cured us of our problems.
Many of us got stellar grades.
Quite dispassionately.
[She may have been a contributing factor to my inner issues with blondes. Conversely, my subconscious could very well have acquired a marked preference for intelligent strong-minded women precisely because of her.
I just don't know.]
Anyway, most men will not fail to absorb the exposed and educational physical details. It's instinctive, and quite subconscious. We honestly don't mind looking at a bit of curvy tastelessness, provided we don't ever have to be seen with it, in public, when we're unguarded.
Men will gladly tolerate the female exhibitionist.
But we won't remember her conversation.
Possibly not even her name.
TOUCHING THE MEMORIES
Per Wikipedia:
From an information processing perspective there are three main stages in the formation and retrieval of memory:
Encoding or registration: receiving, processing and combining of received information
Storage: creation of a permanent record of the encoded information
Retrieval, recall or recollection: calling back the stored information in response to some cue for use in a process or activity
[End cite]
From a different Wikipedia entry:
Working memory includes subsystems that store and manipulate visual images or verbal information, as well as a central executive that coordinates the subsystems. It includes visual representation of the possible moves, and awareness of the flow of information into and out of memory, all stored for a limited amount of time.
And:
In 1974, Baddeley and Hitch introduced and made popular the multicomponent model of working memory. This theory proposes a central executive that, among other things, is responsible for directing attention to relevant information, suppressing irrelevant information and inappropriate actions, and for coordinating cognitive processes when more than one task must be done at the same time. The central executive has two "slave systems" responsible for short-term maintenance of information, and a "central executive" is responsible for the supervision of information integration and for coordinating the slave systems. One slave system, the phonological loop (PL), stores phonological information (that is, the sound of language) and prevents its decay by continuously articulating its contents, thereby refreshing the information in a rehearsal loop. It can, for example, maintain a seven-digit telephone number for as long as one repeats the number to oneself again and again. The other slave system, the visuo-spatial sketchpad, stores visual and spatial information. It can be used, for example, for constructing and manipulating visual images, and for the representation of mental maps. The sketchpad can be further broken down into a visual subsystem (dealing with, for instance, shape, colour, and texture), and a spatial subsystem (dealing with location).
[End cite]
To put it in simple terms, part of the mind automatically decides what will be remembered, based on factors such as importance and significance, as recognized at a non-conscious level. Much of what gets stored in long-term memory may not seem worthwhile to the conscious mind; but it is precisely because of what one chooses to recall, and how often, that the mind establishes a hierarchical rating for new data.
How does this work? There are tree things to consider: primacy, recency, and selectivity. Primacy means that the first thing noticed will stick around in the head longer (because it will be 'repeated' more), recency indicates that the closer in time to the present the stimulus was experienced the better it is recalled -- details will fade over time -- and selectivity establishes what is more worth storing as a memory versus what is of lesser importance.
From another wikipedia article:
Several studies have demonstrated that the presentation of emotionally arousing stimuli (compared to neutral stimuli) results in enhanced memory for central details (details central to the appearance or meaning of the emotional stimuli) and impaired memory for peripheral details.
And:
Emotional items also appear more likely to be processed when attention is limited, suggesting a facilitated or prioritized processing of emotional information.
[End cite]
Due entirely to their appearances and behaviour, I cannot remember all the names of the ladies on Real Housewives of New York.
One of them is named, or nicknamed, 'Toaster'.
Men will graciously hold the door for the woman exposing large "tracts of land" as much as for women who did not display themselves. But we'll damned well fall over ourselves rushing to do so for ladies like my gracious coworker or the replacement high-school teacher I mentioned.
Gallantry, like memory, is prompted by details.
And emotionally arousing stimuli.
A value system.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A WORD TO THE WISE
Too many cigar smokers are right-wing nutjobs. It probably comes with the territory. According to many of them, one of these three is the anti-Christ: Hillary Clinton. Barack Obama. Nancy Pelosi.
Benghazi was a massive cover-up, Obama-care is radical communism, and the New World Order will take away your guns.
How your wives put up with you lot I will never know. Probably more of you are divorced than the national average. Several of you need to move back to New Hampshire, Arizona, Southern California, Chicago, Texas, and that place where grits are considered food.
The only break was when baseball was on the platter.
The SF team was playing that bunch from LA.
Baseball, like all sports, is boring.
You watch merely to underline how unbearably all-American and masculine you are, or conversely for the inherent homo-eroticism of the game. Either way, dull and too unimaginative to be depraved.
Paint dries with greater entertainment value than that game, and imparts more intellectual stimulation than your chatter.
If you are reading this and feel offended, good.
Laundry will occur at ten o'clock (or there abouts tomorrow), following which I shall return home to take a bath. Me, soap, hot water. No baseballs, no crackpot ultra-rightwing conspiracy theories, and no cigars.
It will be long, indolent, and possibly even sensual.
Any conversation will be stimulating.
It might include plans for lunch.
If another person shows up.
Which is doubtful
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
===========================================================
Benghazi was a massive cover-up, Obama-care is radical communism, and the New World Order will take away your guns.
How your wives put up with you lot I will never know. Probably more of you are divorced than the national average. Several of you need to move back to New Hampshire, Arizona, Southern California, Chicago, Texas, and that place where grits are considered food.
The only break was when baseball was on the platter.
The SF team was playing that bunch from LA.
Baseball, like all sports, is boring.
You watch merely to underline how unbearably all-American and masculine you are, or conversely for the inherent homo-eroticism of the game. Either way, dull and too unimaginative to be depraved.
Paint dries with greater entertainment value than that game, and imparts more intellectual stimulation than your chatter.
If you are reading this and feel offended, good.
Laundry will occur at ten o'clock (or there abouts tomorrow), following which I shall return home to take a bath. Me, soap, hot water. No baseballs, no crackpot ultra-rightwing conspiracy theories, and no cigars.
It will be long, indolent, and possibly even sensual.
Any conversation will be stimulating.
It might include plans for lunch.
If another person shows up.
Which is doubtful
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
===========================================================
Thursday, May 08, 2014
HEY MARIN COUNTY, SIT UP AND PAY ATTENTION!
Why do people wear cycling apparel? I mean, why do some people INSIST upon wearing those garments? People who really shouldn't, that is. Far be it from me to recommend a burka, but sackcloth would be preferable to bicycle togs.
Anything is better than sleek aerodynamic shiny stretch fabric on the middle-aged bottom, even if the possessor of said bottom is still in his or her twenties.
They're not going nearly fast enough to make it worthwhile.
And the same can be said for yoga-pants in public.
In either case, sausage casing.
I do, as a practical aesthetic matter, appreciate the double layer of fabric up the crack. It's reinforced. Heaven forefend that there should be an accident, but at least because of two shiny layers of body-hugging material, reinforced seams, visual disaster remains unlikely.
Beyond seeing it in the first place.
Honestly, I am as salacious and perverse as the next guy, but no matter your physique, it does not appeal to me in bicycle clothing or yoga pants. It would be better if instead you were wearing French cut panties and nothing else. Or high-cuts, and nothing else. Boy shorts, or even bloomers, such as is common exercise garb in old-fashioned high-schools. Nothing else. All of these do remarkable things to the female posterior and the male mind.
Assuming that there is adherence to a dimensional standard.
People of my age should hesitate to attempt this. Much like they should put the yoga pants and bicycle tights aside too. For the common good
I speak with wisdom and good taste on this issue.
My sit-upon is exemplary only in its frequent occlusion by means of sensible clothing. Such as comfortable (baggy) slacks or chinos.
I've seen my bottom in the mirror, and know of what I speak.
'Tis a wise man who knows his own but.
Everyone who wears skin-tight shiny fabric, either doesn't know his or her own rump, OR is out to get us, by means of shock, horror, and dismay.
Only possible exception: Japanese manga heroines.
Which middle-aged Marin-county weekend fitness buffs aren't.
On the whole, I would rather see bugs for my daily dose of iridescence.
Thank you in advance for being more civic-minded.
And for saving the wales.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
===========================================================
Anything is better than sleek aerodynamic shiny stretch fabric on the middle-aged bottom, even if the possessor of said bottom is still in his or her twenties.
They're not going nearly fast enough to make it worthwhile.
And the same can be said for yoga-pants in public.
In either case, sausage casing.
I do, as a practical aesthetic matter, appreciate the double layer of fabric up the crack. It's reinforced. Heaven forefend that there should be an accident, but at least because of two shiny layers of body-hugging material, reinforced seams, visual disaster remains unlikely.
Beyond seeing it in the first place.
Honestly, I am as salacious and perverse as the next guy, but no matter your physique, it does not appeal to me in bicycle clothing or yoga pants. It would be better if instead you were wearing French cut panties and nothing else. Or high-cuts, and nothing else. Boy shorts, or even bloomers, such as is common exercise garb in old-fashioned high-schools. Nothing else. All of these do remarkable things to the female posterior and the male mind.
Assuming that there is adherence to a dimensional standard.
People of my age should hesitate to attempt this. Much like they should put the yoga pants and bicycle tights aside too. For the common good
I speak with wisdom and good taste on this issue.
My sit-upon is exemplary only in its frequent occlusion by means of sensible clothing. Such as comfortable (baggy) slacks or chinos.
I've seen my bottom in the mirror, and know of what I speak.
'Tis a wise man who knows his own but.
Everyone who wears skin-tight shiny fabric, either doesn't know his or her own rump, OR is out to get us, by means of shock, horror, and dismay.
Only possible exception: Japanese manga heroines.
Which middle-aged Marin-county weekend fitness buffs aren't.
On the whole, I would rather see bugs for my daily dose of iridescence.
Thank you in advance for being more civic-minded.
And for saving the wales.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
===========================================================
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
INDIANS ALWAYS COOK SMELLY CURRIES!
Several years ago I worked part-time at an Indian Restaurant. Part of the deal, when you work in restaurants, is that your meal is included. How on earth could you recommend the food if you've never even tasted it? And that also benefits the proprietor, because informed and interested staff is a potent tool for quality control.
Even as the gaura khazanchi ('white cashier'), I had a vested interest in maintaining standards.
I never got food-poisoning there. Yet I met several people who told me they felt ill after eating Indian food. Reason always being, as subsequent questioning revealed, that they were severely food-phobic.
They feared taste. And never used spices.
Some people even opined that the ONLY reason to spice things up was to mask perfectly horrid main ingredients. "Surely", they averred, "if the food was totally fresh, there would be no need for all that muck?"
A few even suggested that cat, rat, and dead dog were common.
Based on my own experiences, I can assure you that cat, rat, and dead dog are extremely uncommon. You will most likely find them at French restaurants ("une belle ragoût de chat, rat, et le chien mort"), as bribing the San Francisco Health Department into approving those for consumption will cost an arm and a leg.
Besides which, Swami-ji, Prakash, and Jagminder Singh will commit mayhem if they ever get served something like that, when what they really wanted was murgh makhni (tender tandoori chicken chunks in a lovely tomato - butter -cream emulsion, with touches of dark toasted cumin, cayenne, garam masala), paneer tikka (spiced compressed cottage cheese grilled and served with an onion relish), hot fresh buttery naan (delicious toasty soft flatbread), and aam-achar (a pickle made of unripe sliced mango with turmeric, mustard, hot chili, salt, and heated mustard oil).
It would upset their equanimity if that were to occur.
They're disturbed enough already.
Do not piss them off.
Kindly.
As for the French and their weird eating-habits, meh.
Bally stupid gaura-log.
Befkoof.
"Indians always cook smelly curries"
In Singapore, which prides itself on the spectrum of cuisine available, the spiciness and saveur of local specialties, and the sheer verve and gusto of its food culture, many landlords refuse to rent to Indians.
The reason being that while the English have gone totally foreign in their gustatory tastes, the Singaporeans have become increasingly Victorian in their sensibilities and attitudes.
Si peh haolian, kayu.
Kentang.
SINGLISH SNOBS
Singapore, in case you didn't know, started as a coolie colony where poncy Brits lorded it over desperately underpaid labourers, dealt opium, spread venereal disease, and trans-shipped tropical crops grown and harvested by starving peasants. As a port city of empire, a large portion of the population arrived poor, remained poor, and died poor.
The terms "nasty", "smelly", "exploited", and "brutalized" were applicable.
Not all of it though, and not for everybody; social circles in which no Chinese, Indians, Malays, and Arabs were allowed did exist. Those being the environment in which tea, whisky pani, and gin pahits were common, everyone addressed the white master as 'tuan' and his wife as 'memsahib', and the best dressed natives wore servant-garb.
Colonialism collapsed after World War Two, and under the leadership of Lee Kwan Yew et al, Singapore changed from a rowdy working-class hellhole with communist labour agitators and violent social activists to a little slice of stolidly middle-class Mandarin and English speaking heaven. A more western and consumerite society can scarcely be imagined, especially in that part of the world.
It's very civilized.
[The servants are now all Indonesians and Filipinos, but still desperately underpaid, often maltreated, and without legal protection. Maid abuse is common; they're almost like the Arab world in that respect.]
A profoundly British attitude prevails.
Neo-British. Somersetian.
A slice of shire.
Cites from a BBC article:
"I called up several landlords who had listed rooms for rent. Things would start out OK, maybe because of my accent - but the moment they heard my name, they'd blank out. Many said 'sorry, we don't rent to these people', or 'sorry, no room for Indians'. I told them that Sri Lanka was not India, that I wouldn't eat or cook in the apartment, and that I would be outside all day. But still, they wouldn't offer me a room."
[Sunil, quoted above, is a Sri Lankan who lived in Blighty for several years.]
Okay, casual housing discrimination. We can recognize that. Offensive, but not at all uncommon. Here in San Francisco we prefer not to rent to Republicans or Christians, because of their bad aura.
"A quick glance at online rental listings shows many that include the words: "no Indians, no PRCs [People's Republic of China]"
A count on 24 April found that there were more than 160 housing adverts on the website PropertyGuru that clearly stated that the landlord did not wish to rent to Indians and/or mainland Chinese."
Sounds like all is not well in the Lee Family capitalist heaven, eh?
"Singapore's government places a strong emphasis on racial harmony. Studies suggest that there is relatively little racial discrimination in the public sphere, but things can be different in private."
[Source: 'No Indians No PRCs': Singapore's rental discrimination problem.]
Judging by this, Singapore may have a Hokkien problem.
Tisk, tisk.
My landlord here in San Francisco has never objected to the smells of curry that for over twenty years have been issuing from my apartment.
Nor the fabulous reek of shrimp-paste, dried fish, garlic, and fermenting vegetables.
But that's probably because we live in San Francisco, where food is king, and many languages are spoken. We place a strong emphasis on culinary harmony, and there is relatively little culinary bias.
Of course, we haven't spent the last half century trying to become more English than the English, either.
Except for the sexual bit. In that regard, we're very Public School.
But minor peccadilloes must be forgiven.
AFTER THOUGHT
In all fairness, I must mention that many ethnic Chinese landlords in San Francisco much prefer renting to white people rather than anybody else, even their own fellow villagers, because "white people rarely use the kitchen, don't fry, and send their laundry out". So there is absolutely no wear and tear on the property. Although they do belly-ache about maintenance an awful lot.
But white people belly-ache about many things.
You can usually let it slide.
As long as they don't wreck the place and swing from the chandeliers while engaged in their very British sexual practises, white people are wonderful tenants.
Remember, they rarely use the kitchen.
They're perfect.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Even as the gaura khazanchi ('white cashier'), I had a vested interest in maintaining standards.
I never got food-poisoning there. Yet I met several people who told me they felt ill after eating Indian food. Reason always being, as subsequent questioning revealed, that they were severely food-phobic.
They feared taste. And never used spices.
Some people even opined that the ONLY reason to spice things up was to mask perfectly horrid main ingredients. "Surely", they averred, "if the food was totally fresh, there would be no need for all that muck?"
A few even suggested that cat, rat, and dead dog were common.
Based on my own experiences, I can assure you that cat, rat, and dead dog are extremely uncommon. You will most likely find them at French restaurants ("une belle ragoût de chat, rat, et le chien mort"), as bribing the San Francisco Health Department into approving those for consumption will cost an arm and a leg.
Besides which, Swami-ji, Prakash, and Jagminder Singh will commit mayhem if they ever get served something like that, when what they really wanted was murgh makhni (tender tandoori chicken chunks in a lovely tomato - butter -cream emulsion, with touches of dark toasted cumin, cayenne, garam masala), paneer tikka (spiced compressed cottage cheese grilled and served with an onion relish), hot fresh buttery naan (delicious toasty soft flatbread), and aam-achar (a pickle made of unripe sliced mango with turmeric, mustard, hot chili, salt, and heated mustard oil).
It would upset their equanimity if that were to occur.
They're disturbed enough already.
Do not piss them off.
Kindly.
As for the French and their weird eating-habits, meh.
Bally stupid gaura-log.
Befkoof.
"Indians always cook smelly curries"
In Singapore, which prides itself on the spectrum of cuisine available, the spiciness and saveur of local specialties, and the sheer verve and gusto of its food culture, many landlords refuse to rent to Indians.
The reason being that while the English have gone totally foreign in their gustatory tastes, the Singaporeans have become increasingly Victorian in their sensibilities and attitudes.
Si peh haolian, kayu.
Kentang.
SINGLISH SNOBS
Singapore, in case you didn't know, started as a coolie colony where poncy Brits lorded it over desperately underpaid labourers, dealt opium, spread venereal disease, and trans-shipped tropical crops grown and harvested by starving peasants. As a port city of empire, a large portion of the population arrived poor, remained poor, and died poor.
The terms "nasty", "smelly", "exploited", and "brutalized" were applicable.
Not all of it though, and not for everybody; social circles in which no Chinese, Indians, Malays, and Arabs were allowed did exist. Those being the environment in which tea, whisky pani, and gin pahits were common, everyone addressed the white master as 'tuan' and his wife as 'memsahib', and the best dressed natives wore servant-garb.
Colonialism collapsed after World War Two, and under the leadership of Lee Kwan Yew et al, Singapore changed from a rowdy working-class hellhole with communist labour agitators and violent social activists to a little slice of stolidly middle-class Mandarin and English speaking heaven. A more western and consumerite society can scarcely be imagined, especially in that part of the world.
It's very civilized.
[The servants are now all Indonesians and Filipinos, but still desperately underpaid, often maltreated, and without legal protection. Maid abuse is common; they're almost like the Arab world in that respect.]
A profoundly British attitude prevails.
Neo-British. Somersetian.
A slice of shire.
Cites from a BBC article:
"I called up several landlords who had listed rooms for rent. Things would start out OK, maybe because of my accent - but the moment they heard my name, they'd blank out. Many said 'sorry, we don't rent to these people', or 'sorry, no room for Indians'. I told them that Sri Lanka was not India, that I wouldn't eat or cook in the apartment, and that I would be outside all day. But still, they wouldn't offer me a room."
[Sunil, quoted above, is a Sri Lankan who lived in Blighty for several years.]
Okay, casual housing discrimination. We can recognize that. Offensive, but not at all uncommon. Here in San Francisco we prefer not to rent to Republicans or Christians, because of their bad aura.
"A quick glance at online rental listings shows many that include the words: "no Indians, no PRCs [People's Republic of China]"
A count on 24 April found that there were more than 160 housing adverts on the website PropertyGuru that clearly stated that the landlord did not wish to rent to Indians and/or mainland Chinese."
Sounds like all is not well in the Lee Family capitalist heaven, eh?
"Singapore's government places a strong emphasis on racial harmony. Studies suggest that there is relatively little racial discrimination in the public sphere, but things can be different in private."
[Source: 'No Indians No PRCs': Singapore's rental discrimination problem.]
Judging by this, Singapore may have a Hokkien problem.
Tisk, tisk.
My landlord here in San Francisco has never objected to the smells of curry that for over twenty years have been issuing from my apartment.
Nor the fabulous reek of shrimp-paste, dried fish, garlic, and fermenting vegetables.
But that's probably because we live in San Francisco, where food is king, and many languages are spoken. We place a strong emphasis on culinary harmony, and there is relatively little culinary bias.
Of course, we haven't spent the last half century trying to become more English than the English, either.
Except for the sexual bit. In that regard, we're very Public School.
But minor peccadilloes must be forgiven.
AFTER THOUGHT
In all fairness, I must mention that many ethnic Chinese landlords in San Francisco much prefer renting to white people rather than anybody else, even their own fellow villagers, because "white people rarely use the kitchen, don't fry, and send their laundry out". So there is absolutely no wear and tear on the property. Although they do belly-ache about maintenance an awful lot.
But white people belly-ache about many things.
You can usually let it slide.
As long as they don't wreck the place and swing from the chandeliers while engaged in their very British sexual practises, white people are wonderful tenants.
Remember, they rarely use the kitchen.
They're perfect.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SOUNDS REMARKABLY LIKE DUTCH (NETHERLANDISH)
The other day I noticed a film clip from Lord of the Rings on a friend's facebook page. Which almost magically prompted me to watch a few other LOTR clips -- including one which did not appear in the released version of the movie, namely 'Sauron's Mouth' -- and then cruise into Wikipedia, to read up on Tolkien's stuff. Middle-Earth mythology.
Followed by articles about constructed languages.
Tolkien invented several such. But he's not the only person to have done so. Among others, Frank Herbert created one in Dune, and Nineteen Eighty Four by whatsisname also has one. As does Clockwork Orange.
Then there's Purfuit, built around the concept that an alien tribe analysed the wrong set of "human" sounds in order to find a way to communicate with man. Two tenses: stative, marked by long vowels, and 'eruptive', indicated by consonant clusters that are worse than Russian.
K'urk thrareeep, kahahakstrakhtrekhlit thlaakloukh-ta!
[English: "The elderly man began to speak".]
In which 'thrareeep' represents the condition of being old (stative), and the praefix 'kahahakstrakh' indicates an ongoing action (eruptive). Final "ta" is a directional postfix. Past tenses are eruptives with a stative praefix and one of several stative postfixes, future tenses are doubled eruptives.
Something between Tagalog and Turkish, I guess.
Some bloody awful vocalizing.
The problem with most constructed languages is that there is often not enough material to make them fully functional.
One notable exception is Klingon.
"You have not experienced Shakespeare until you have read him in the original Klingon."
Which sounds entirely like hairballs being horked up.
Or Dutch.
taH pagh taHbe'
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RF0k4qV1I1Y.]
There's also an opera in Klingon.
Appropriately, it was composed by a Dutchman.
And first performed in the Netherlands, where no doubt some people mistook it for Frisian. Alternatively, a Limburgian dialect.
* * * * *
Oh heck, you probably want to see the Sauron's Mouth clip too.
PEARLY BRITISH TEETH
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=To_RJ_mPNqM.]
If you've ever had braces, you may have felt that you resembled either of these types. But life was much better afterwards, when you sounded normal again, and looked far more kissable.
No one kisses Klingons or the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Followed by articles about constructed languages.
Tolkien invented several such. But he's not the only person to have done so. Among others, Frank Herbert created one in Dune, and Nineteen Eighty Four by whatsisname also has one. As does Clockwork Orange.
Then there's Purfuit, built around the concept that an alien tribe analysed the wrong set of "human" sounds in order to find a way to communicate with man. Two tenses: stative, marked by long vowels, and 'eruptive', indicated by consonant clusters that are worse than Russian.
K'urk thrareeep, kahahakstrakhtrekhlit thlaakloukh-ta!
[English: "The elderly man began to speak".]
In which 'thrareeep' represents the condition of being old (stative), and the praefix 'kahahakstrakh' indicates an ongoing action (eruptive). Final "ta" is a directional postfix. Past tenses are eruptives with a stative praefix and one of several stative postfixes, future tenses are doubled eruptives.
Something between Tagalog and Turkish, I guess.
Some bloody awful vocalizing.
The problem with most constructed languages is that there is often not enough material to make them fully functional.
One notable exception is Klingon.
"You have not experienced Shakespeare until you have read him in the original Klingon."
Which sounds entirely like hairballs being horked up.
Or Dutch.
taH pagh taHbe'
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RF0k4qV1I1Y.]
There's also an opera in Klingon.
Appropriately, it was composed by a Dutchman.
And first performed in the Netherlands, where no doubt some people mistook it for Frisian. Alternatively, a Limburgian dialect.
* * * * *
Oh heck, you probably want to see the Sauron's Mouth clip too.
PEARLY BRITISH TEETH
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=To_RJ_mPNqM.]
If you've ever had braces, you may have felt that you resembled either of these types. But life was much better afterwards, when you sounded normal again, and looked far more kissable.
No one kisses Klingons or the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, May 06, 2014
LITTLE BOYS ARE DEADLY
All of a sudden I have a craving for Girl Scout Cookies, I don't know why.
I cannot even remember the last girl-scout I bought them from.
It may have been over six years ago. One year I bought twenty boxes to keep at my desk as emergency rations. Better safe than sorry. What if there was an earthquake? Massive civil unrest? Zombie Apocalypse?
A man has to have a goodly supply of girl-scout cookies; I can trade them for medicine and silk-stockings. Or sell them at a high prices to my desperate co-workers. They'll trade their clean underwear for food.
One has to be prepared for any eventuality, just in case.
I ate them all within a month.
After that, I resolved to not buy Girl Scout Cookies again, no matter how winsome the little salesperson selling them.
The sad thing is that little girls are fully realized people until adolescence, then there's a hiatus of approximately eight to twelve years before they become people again. Between the ages of twelve and twenty, most female persons are dangerously unstable. Rather like the inmates of an asylum.
Or ravenous apocalyptic zombies.
Boys too, but there's a reason no one ever buys Boy Scout Cookies.
We'd worry that the little monsters had sprinkled poison on them.
It would be incredibly disappointing to discover that one's emergency rations were NOT just flour, palm oil, dessicated coconut, chocolate, corn syrup, baking powder, and preservatives, but more complex snacks, sodden with strychnine or anthrax.
My desperate coworkers rely on them for their survival!
Can't trust boys; they've got a wicked tendency.
But girl scouts are a different story.
Girl scouts don't kill.
That month of twenty boxes was a crazy month.
Most of it I was whacked on sugar.
What are those lemony cream things called?
Are they really baked by little girls?
Somehow one tends to doubt.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I cannot even remember the last girl-scout I bought them from.
It may have been over six years ago. One year I bought twenty boxes to keep at my desk as emergency rations. Better safe than sorry. What if there was an earthquake? Massive civil unrest? Zombie Apocalypse?
A man has to have a goodly supply of girl-scout cookies; I can trade them for medicine and silk-stockings. Or sell them at a high prices to my desperate co-workers. They'll trade their clean underwear for food.
One has to be prepared for any eventuality, just in case.
I ate them all within a month.
After that, I resolved to not buy Girl Scout Cookies again, no matter how winsome the little salesperson selling them.
The sad thing is that little girls are fully realized people until adolescence, then there's a hiatus of approximately eight to twelve years before they become people again. Between the ages of twelve and twenty, most female persons are dangerously unstable. Rather like the inmates of an asylum.
Or ravenous apocalyptic zombies.
Boys too, but there's a reason no one ever buys Boy Scout Cookies.
We'd worry that the little monsters had sprinkled poison on them.
It would be incredibly disappointing to discover that one's emergency rations were NOT just flour, palm oil, dessicated coconut, chocolate, corn syrup, baking powder, and preservatives, but more complex snacks, sodden with strychnine or anthrax.
My desperate coworkers rely on them for their survival!
Can't trust boys; they've got a wicked tendency.
But girl scouts are a different story.
Girl scouts don't kill.
That month of twenty boxes was a crazy month.
Most of it I was whacked on sugar.
What are those lemony cream things called?
Are they really baked by little girls?
Somehow one tends to doubt.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
MAN THE BATTLEMENTS!
While I was in Marin County, the Wall of Pease finally toppled. It had reached instability sometime last week, but all attempts to save it came to naught. Alas, I lament its short happy life (a mere four years), and promise to treat the corpse with all the respect it deserves.
An Embankment of Pease is in the works.
A far more durable construction.
Engineering masterpiece.
What, I hear you asking, was the Wall of Pease?
The answer, unless you are a pipe-smoker, may convince you that I am living in my own world, and you are certain you do not wish to join me there. The Wall of Pease was over two hundred tins of tobaccos that were blended by Gregory Pease (some dating back to 2005, many over five years old), which was constructed along the left hand side of my computer desk (where there are two devices I no longer use - they're older than the tobacco). What made it unstable to the point of collapse was the tin-fermentation, which, because the tins were sealed with enough air inside to keep the micro-organisms which change tobacco for the better over time still alive, had caused the oldest tins (Kensington, Black Point) to swell up.
In consequence they no longer stacked.
Several other tins also showed a nice bulgy quality.
I can only imagine how nice they'll be.
Rich, fecund, fruity.
No, I'm not insane. You just think I am.
It is somewhat possible that I am reaching the point of surplus. I have enough pipe-tobacco stashed to last well past my eventual demise.
That is an immensely good feeling.
Ashton, Astley's, Balkan Sobranie (1980, 1981, and Arango), Butera, Cornell & Diehl, Dan Tobacco, Davidoff, Dobie's Foursquare, Dunhill, Drucquer & Sons, Esoterica Tobaciana, Fribourg & Treyer, Gallaher, Gawith-Hoggarth, John Cotton, Kohlhase Kopp und Co., Mac Baren, McClelland, McConnell, Orlik, Pease, Rattray, Samuel Gawith, State Express, Solomon, Wessex.
My apartment mate long ago concluded that I was not strictly speaking sane and possibly even stark raving mad (hah, she should talk!) though quite safe. I shall of course aver that the sensible man will naturally stockpile pipe tobacco, in preparation of the day when it becomes impossible to buy, and illegal to sell. Anybody with an ounce of sense realizes that as people's stocks of tobacco dry up -- especially if they are cigarette smokers -- the Zombie Apocalypse becomes increasingly likely.
The do-gooders will be the very first to get eaten.
Followed by vegans and health-nuts.
I'm not worried.
The only part of the Wall of Pease that did not cascade downward was the section held up by the Tower of Rattray's. Which was supported by the Buttress of Thirty Five Year Old Blends Which Are No Longer Made.
I am fully prepared for the Zombie Apocalypse.
There is more than enough to smoke.
Or block all entry.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
An Embankment of Pease is in the works.
A far more durable construction.
Engineering masterpiece.
What, I hear you asking, was the Wall of Pease?
The answer, unless you are a pipe-smoker, may convince you that I am living in my own world, and you are certain you do not wish to join me there. The Wall of Pease was over two hundred tins of tobaccos that were blended by Gregory Pease (some dating back to 2005, many over five years old), which was constructed along the left hand side of my computer desk (where there are two devices I no longer use - they're older than the tobacco). What made it unstable to the point of collapse was the tin-fermentation, which, because the tins were sealed with enough air inside to keep the micro-organisms which change tobacco for the better over time still alive, had caused the oldest tins (Kensington, Black Point) to swell up.
In consequence they no longer stacked.
Several other tins also showed a nice bulgy quality.
I can only imagine how nice they'll be.
Rich, fecund, fruity.
No, I'm not insane. You just think I am.
It is somewhat possible that I am reaching the point of surplus. I have enough pipe-tobacco stashed to last well past my eventual demise.
That is an immensely good feeling.
Ashton, Astley's, Balkan Sobranie (1980, 1981, and Arango), Butera, Cornell & Diehl, Dan Tobacco, Davidoff, Dobie's Foursquare, Dunhill, Drucquer & Sons, Esoterica Tobaciana, Fribourg & Treyer, Gallaher, Gawith-Hoggarth, John Cotton, Kohlhase Kopp und Co., Mac Baren, McClelland, McConnell, Orlik, Pease, Rattray, Samuel Gawith, State Express, Solomon, Wessex.
My apartment mate long ago concluded that I was not strictly speaking sane and possibly even stark raving mad (hah, she should talk!) though quite safe. I shall of course aver that the sensible man will naturally stockpile pipe tobacco, in preparation of the day when it becomes impossible to buy, and illegal to sell. Anybody with an ounce of sense realizes that as people's stocks of tobacco dry up -- especially if they are cigarette smokers -- the Zombie Apocalypse becomes increasingly likely.
The do-gooders will be the very first to get eaten.
Followed by vegans and health-nuts.
I'm not worried.
The only part of the Wall of Pease that did not cascade downward was the section held up by the Tower of Rattray's. Which was supported by the Buttress of Thirty Five Year Old Blends Which Are No Longer Made.
I am fully prepared for the Zombie Apocalypse.
There is more than enough to smoke.
Or block all entry.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, May 05, 2014
THE TIME FOR SCHNITZELI IS UPON US!
Probably the best and worst advice that I've heard recently is "you really should invite her out for ein wiener schnitzel". Best, because it sounds like a darned good idea. Worst, because I just cannot imagine any young women in San Francisco today wanting wiener schnitzel, or even knowing what it is.
There I'll be, impressing young ladies at the club dancing to house music, representing totally dude, and I'll seductively slink up to a fine intelligent looking specimen and say "would you like a wiener schnitzel?"
I'm quite sure she would react to that.
Perhaps not well.
Which is sad, because a breaded veal cutlet, cooked just right, with lemon, capers, a sardine or two, cucumber salad, and pommes frites or kartoffelsalat, can be both an eye-opener as well as a wonderful romantic experience.
Roll the very thin meat in flour, dip it in beaten egg, then toss it with dry breadcrumbs. Fry it in a pan, moving it around a bit. When it is golden, it is perfectly done. Do no more.
It should never be as thick and as coarse as the typical fried fish, which is an inedible English object. The wiener schnitzel should be knusprig, saftig, und zart.
LEOPOLD'S
A decent place to get a pork schnitzel wiener art (in other words, not a real wiener schnitzel, which is only made with kalbsfleisch) close to my apartment is Leopold's Restaurant, between Union and Filbert Streets on Polk. Only a short walk away.
Whole lotta pork.
It probably isn't a good place for a date, though. Not on a Friday or Saturday night. It's small and cozy, which means that when it's packed, it's loud and super lively.
Plus many people love the beer.
I note that they have neither Riesling nor Elbling.
"Would you like a wiener schnitzel, Fräulein?"
When I was a child, heading south during summer to Switzerland or Austria always meant the prospect of wiener schnitzel. For some reason they never palled. I doubt that it was the crisp white wine (see above), because at that young age my parents would not allow me to have any.
But wine is far more appropriate than beer.
I despair of ever introducing a nice young lady to wiener schitzel.
There really aren't any in the Bay Area.
That I know of.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There I'll be, impressing young ladies at the club dancing to house music, representing totally dude, and I'll seductively slink up to a fine intelligent looking specimen and say "would you like a wiener schnitzel?"
I'm quite sure she would react to that.
Perhaps not well.
Which is sad, because a breaded veal cutlet, cooked just right, with lemon, capers, a sardine or two, cucumber salad, and pommes frites or kartoffelsalat, can be both an eye-opener as well as a wonderful romantic experience.
Roll the very thin meat in flour, dip it in beaten egg, then toss it with dry breadcrumbs. Fry it in a pan, moving it around a bit. When it is golden, it is perfectly done. Do no more.
It should never be as thick and as coarse as the typical fried fish, which is an inedible English object. The wiener schnitzel should be knusprig, saftig, und zart.
LEOPOLD'S
A decent place to get a pork schnitzel wiener art (in other words, not a real wiener schnitzel, which is only made with kalbsfleisch) close to my apartment is Leopold's Restaurant, between Union and Filbert Streets on Polk. Only a short walk away.
Whole lotta pork.
It probably isn't a good place for a date, though. Not on a Friday or Saturday night. It's small and cozy, which means that when it's packed, it's loud and super lively.
Plus many people love the beer.
I note that they have neither Riesling nor Elbling.
"Would you like a wiener schnitzel, Fräulein?"
When I was a child, heading south during summer to Switzerland or Austria always meant the prospect of wiener schnitzel. For some reason they never palled. I doubt that it was the crisp white wine (see above), because at that young age my parents would not allow me to have any.
But wine is far more appropriate than beer.
I despair of ever introducing a nice young lady to wiener schitzel.
There really aren't any in the Bay Area.
That I know of.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, May 04, 2014
SPECULATING ABOUT DIET AS A ROMANTIC DETERMINANT
When someone's apartment mate makes a rather unsatisfactory bread pudding, just cut it into thin slices and fry it with butter. It will taste exactly like matzah brei, especially if you add fruit preserves. Having discovered that, I had a second helping, on Tuesday around tea-time.
While bustling around that morning, she woke me up to mention that she wasn't happy with how the bread pudding worked out. Perhaps not enough sugar, or missing some other key ingredient.
I should mention that even though she has her own room, because of the layout of the apartment, her morning about-bustling often wakes me up.
If I ever sneak a snoogums into the apartment (hah, miracles might happen!) who stays overnight, I shall probably end up in the middle of a three-way conversation. Both women will probably be wide awake, cheerfully exchanging notes about my many peculiarities, while I, the sleep-deprived person, make a valiant attempt to ignore everything and go back to sleep. Difficult under the circumstances. Women are more likely to bouncing with energy earlier in the day than men.
They're wild animals, they hunt for breakfast.
As I see it, sisterhood is powerful, and both the hypothetical snoogums and my apartment mate might discover that they have a lot in common.
More than either have with me.
One thing they'll probably do is decide on my new shared nickname.
In grammar school it was 'fried noodle dumpling' (bamibal), which to the childish mind replicated my actual name. Adult women are far more capable of pronouncing multi-consonant clusters than children.
As well as inventive, and way more daemonic.
What are his ticklish spots? What's his least favourite teevee show? What embarrasses the kadoodle out of him? Makes him cringe? Would you like a cup of gingery chocolate-coffee? Some toast and jam?
By the way, he hates breakfast. Especially the smell of frying.
You hungry? Wanna BIG plate of bacon and eggs?
Pancakes!
I am worried and disturbed at that prospect.
More than at the bad bread pudding.
After frying it was delish.
There were raisins in it. If you soak raisins and fry them, they can be added to rice pilaf. Along with nuts and zereshk, especially good in polo ba morgh and similar preparations. But they are also good in various Moroccan dishes, in lieu of or alongside prunes. Parsees might add apricots, and prepare a sweet-sour curry-type preparation.
A very dear friend, who seriously wants to see me in a relationship again, has said that my current living arrangements might problematic. As she put it, "you can't have two women sharing a kitchen, it just leads to trouble". Which is far too sexist a point of view, I think. It assumes that women cook, men don't. And if the future snoogums was indeed a cook, in all likelihood she'd already have access to cooking facilities.
Besides, that's MY kitchen.
I'm the cook.
Far more problematic is the prospect of two women sharing the same bathroom. My apartment mate is rather like a man, in that she doesn't leave hundreds of beauty products and feminine hygiene requisites all over the place higgildy piggildy. I think she'd be disturbed if all of a sudden such things cluttered-up the apartment.
As, indeed, would I.
Same goes for an excess of shoes.
We fear Imelda Marcos.
Quite the most important question -- more serious than the kitchen access and the lotions, unguents, depilatories, balls of cotton wool, and massive amounts of footwear -- is the issue of food. This blogger can only date omnivores. As both my food blog and numerous essays here will show, eating is as much about discovery and experimentation as it is feeding the beast. More so, even.
It's not a question of needing variety at the expense of everything else, but if I had to limit myself food-wise, it would only be a matter of time before I strayed. Eventually she'd find me with a mouthful of gehakte leber. Consorting with a bowl of chilipepper beef.
Mating bacon with tofu.
Stilton!
Peanuts, pecans, pistachios, pine nuts, coconuts, and walnuts; seeds, cheese, gluten, shellfish......
Fish paste, bittermelon, gailan, choi sam, gau choi, jit gwaa, dau miu.
Browned onions and bacon added to almost anything.
Did I ever mention chili peppers?
Obviously, these would not be present if and when a snoogums meets the person who lives on the other side of the apartment. But my only hope is that the aforementioned snoogums accepts them as important in my life.
Along with hot caffeinated beverages.
There's got to be a commonality.
It's just common sense.
On a different note, expect a recipe for zereshk polo ba morgh here sometime soon. It's yummy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
While bustling around that morning, she woke me up to mention that she wasn't happy with how the bread pudding worked out. Perhaps not enough sugar, or missing some other key ingredient.
I should mention that even though she has her own room, because of the layout of the apartment, her morning about-bustling often wakes me up.
If I ever sneak a snoogums into the apartment (hah, miracles might happen!) who stays overnight, I shall probably end up in the middle of a three-way conversation. Both women will probably be wide awake, cheerfully exchanging notes about my many peculiarities, while I, the sleep-deprived person, make a valiant attempt to ignore everything and go back to sleep. Difficult under the circumstances. Women are more likely to bouncing with energy earlier in the day than men.
They're wild animals, they hunt for breakfast.
As I see it, sisterhood is powerful, and both the hypothetical snoogums and my apartment mate might discover that they have a lot in common.
More than either have with me.
One thing they'll probably do is decide on my new shared nickname.
In grammar school it was 'fried noodle dumpling' (bamibal), which to the childish mind replicated my actual name. Adult women are far more capable of pronouncing multi-consonant clusters than children.
As well as inventive, and way more daemonic.
What are his ticklish spots? What's his least favourite teevee show? What embarrasses the kadoodle out of him? Makes him cringe? Would you like a cup of gingery chocolate-coffee? Some toast and jam?
By the way, he hates breakfast. Especially the smell of frying.
You hungry? Wanna BIG plate of bacon and eggs?
Pancakes!
I am worried and disturbed at that prospect.
More than at the bad bread pudding.
After frying it was delish.
There were raisins in it. If you soak raisins and fry them, they can be added to rice pilaf. Along with nuts and zereshk, especially good in polo ba morgh and similar preparations. But they are also good in various Moroccan dishes, in lieu of or alongside prunes. Parsees might add apricots, and prepare a sweet-sour curry-type preparation.
A very dear friend, who seriously wants to see me in a relationship again, has said that my current living arrangements might problematic. As she put it, "you can't have two women sharing a kitchen, it just leads to trouble". Which is far too sexist a point of view, I think. It assumes that women cook, men don't. And if the future snoogums was indeed a cook, in all likelihood she'd already have access to cooking facilities.
Besides, that's MY kitchen.
I'm the cook.
Far more problematic is the prospect of two women sharing the same bathroom. My apartment mate is rather like a man, in that she doesn't leave hundreds of beauty products and feminine hygiene requisites all over the place higgildy piggildy. I think she'd be disturbed if all of a sudden such things cluttered-up the apartment.
As, indeed, would I.
Same goes for an excess of shoes.
We fear Imelda Marcos.
Quite the most important question -- more serious than the kitchen access and the lotions, unguents, depilatories, balls of cotton wool, and massive amounts of footwear -- is the issue of food. This blogger can only date omnivores. As both my food blog and numerous essays here will show, eating is as much about discovery and experimentation as it is feeding the beast. More so, even.
It's not a question of needing variety at the expense of everything else, but if I had to limit myself food-wise, it would only be a matter of time before I strayed. Eventually she'd find me with a mouthful of gehakte leber. Consorting with a bowl of chilipepper beef.
Mating bacon with tofu.
Stilton!
Peanuts, pecans, pistachios, pine nuts, coconuts, and walnuts; seeds, cheese, gluten, shellfish......
Fish paste, bittermelon, gailan, choi sam, gau choi, jit gwaa, dau miu.
Browned onions and bacon added to almost anything.
Did I ever mention chili peppers?
Obviously, these would not be present if and when a snoogums meets the person who lives on the other side of the apartment. But my only hope is that the aforementioned snoogums accepts them as important in my life.
Along with hot caffeinated beverages.
There's got to be a commonality.
It's just common sense.
On a different note, expect a recipe for zereshk polo ba morgh here sometime soon. It's yummy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HEALTH DEPARTMENT VISITS CHINATOWN
As everyone who eats out on the cheap must know, the worst thing to happen to your food is that it has acquired the taste of the bleach rag used to clean surfaces. See, the San Francisco Health Department Food Service Inspectors, in their chosen role as killer-nazi disapproval unit, will often insist that restaurants use a bleach rag instead of regular boiling water and standard operational cleanliness. In their universe, nothing beats disinfecting the crap out of everything with an oily rag dipped in bleach. Shmutz on the counter? Bleach rag! Food scrap on the table? Bleach rag! Spilled soup? Bleach rag! Chopping block or cutting board? Bleach rag!
Cooking juices staining a plate?
Bleach rag!
Also use it after hitting the head, for extra clean!
Door knobs, window panes, floors, buckets, and refuse bins can ALL be made sterile with the efficacious and efficient bleach rag.
You know that careful attention and normal precautionary measures are for suckers, when you are armed with the bleach rag. Heck, you'll never have to worry again. The disapproving killer-nazis from the Health Department said so.
They damned well insisted that you listen.
Imagine, if you will, what should have been a lovely bowl of pearlescent rice porridge, perfectly sliced meat, chopped chives, and slivered ginger.....
And a strong taste of bleach rag.
哎吔撞鬼噉，好白水抹布味嘅！
It should have been delicious and nutritious. Instead, it tasted like the health inspector.
The work surfaces on which all ingredients except for the rice and water had briefly reposed had been subjected to thorough application of the bleach rag.
Kitchen rags should be changed often, and cleaned with boiling water and vinegar. Boiling water and vinegar are also good for chopping blocks and food-preparation surfaces. Why can't the damned San Francisco Health Department understand that a bleach-sodden rag does not belong anywhere near food?
Bleach Rag ain't Jesus.
You dig?
Agri-business and the meat-industry are responsible for far more cases of food-poisoning than honest restaurateurs preparing decent chow at an affordable price. If you really want to protect innocent San Francisco diners, outlaw Texas and all those filthy farm-factories in the fly-over states.
Just keep your nasty bleach-sodden rags away from my dinner.
Feel free to fling your stinky wipes at Texas.
And over-fly filth.
Between the snooty gringos on Yelp bellyaching because they weren't treated like mommy's little prince or the place was far too busy to cuddle them and their golden curls, AND the ignorant pig-bottoms of the health department advocating bleach as the only appropriate counter measure against the rising tide of darkness, disease, communism, atheists, and the horrendous epidemic of communicable vulgarity, it's a miracle that there are any restaurants in this city at all.
白水抹布你嘅死人頭！
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Cooking juices staining a plate?
Bleach rag!
Also use it after hitting the head, for extra clean!
Door knobs, window panes, floors, buckets, and refuse bins can ALL be made sterile with the efficacious and efficient bleach rag.
You know that careful attention and normal precautionary measures are for suckers, when you are armed with the bleach rag. Heck, you'll never have to worry again. The disapproving killer-nazis from the Health Department said so.
They damned well insisted that you listen.
Imagine, if you will, what should have been a lovely bowl of pearlescent rice porridge, perfectly sliced meat, chopped chives, and slivered ginger.....
And a strong taste of bleach rag.
哎吔撞鬼噉，好白水抹布味嘅！
It should have been delicious and nutritious. Instead, it tasted like the health inspector.
The work surfaces on which all ingredients except for the rice and water had briefly reposed had been subjected to thorough application of the bleach rag.
Kitchen rags should be changed often, and cleaned with boiling water and vinegar. Boiling water and vinegar are also good for chopping blocks and food-preparation surfaces. Why can't the damned San Francisco Health Department understand that a bleach-sodden rag does not belong anywhere near food?
Bleach Rag ain't Jesus.
You dig?
Agri-business and the meat-industry are responsible for far more cases of food-poisoning than honest restaurateurs preparing decent chow at an affordable price. If you really want to protect innocent San Francisco diners, outlaw Texas and all those filthy farm-factories in the fly-over states.
Just keep your nasty bleach-sodden rags away from my dinner.
Feel free to fling your stinky wipes at Texas.
And over-fly filth.
Between the snooty gringos on Yelp bellyaching because they weren't treated like mommy's little prince or the place was far too busy to cuddle them and their golden curls, AND the ignorant pig-bottoms of the health department advocating bleach as the only appropriate counter measure against the rising tide of darkness, disease, communism, atheists, and the horrendous epidemic of communicable vulgarity, it's a miracle that there are any restaurants in this city at all.
白水抹布你嘅死人頭！
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, May 03, 2014
DOUBLE GLEEP!
One can love someone, without being in love with them. Or, heaven forefend, in lust. This needs to be clarified, because I love my friends, many of whom are either male or otherwise totally unsuitable. Some of whom are, in fact, in caring physical relationships with people of the gender most appropriate for them.
It is that last part that is a more than a little irritating.
Despite their otherwise sterling qualities.
Them and their life-partners.
And when I say "irritating", please understand that if I were in their Jockeys or Jimmie Choos, I would do exactly the same. Namely touch, stroke, or affectionately pat the person I was with at the cigar bar or tobacconist. Nothing more, because making out in public is in bad taste -- it's blatant enough that you brought your husband or boyfriend to a place where you can light up that big Gurkha Maduro.
Don't make it more uncomfortable than it is.
Take some responsibility for once.
Be kind to others.
It's a powerhouse, described as "Nicaraguan longfillers and Dominican binder rolled (in) dark oily Brazilian wrappers -- This cigar is pure evil -- characteristically smooth and earthy with notes of pepper, cedar and nuts on a woody finish -- hints of anise and some fruity accents in the mix."
Kaizad Hansotia is responsible for Gurkha cigars.
Your companion is probably sipping his sherry and wondering when he can go home to his teddy bear. A nice soothing personality, that bear, so understanding!
He's out of his element, what with being an exercise nut from a gym.
I am a man's man; I don't need a teddy bear to hold my hand.
Plus I don't mind an environment filled with smoke.
Being myself an aficionado of tobacco.
[And besides which, the teddy bears in the apartment I share with a non-smoker are all insane. These are not your warm fuzzy nurturing bears, but a murderous psycho bear, a sexist pig bear, a strange little autistic pink orphan, and a fish-obsessed neurotic.]
There are a number of people, of either gender, who insist on dragging their significant others to the cigar bar. Despite the unsuitability of that. No one wants to see a non-smoker suffering from existential angst because their entire welt-anschauung has been cast into doubt by the wholesome good cheer of so many people enjoying a habit they have always considered sheer heresy. Their self-confidence has been krenked, they look lost.
They are dangerously out of their element.
A reassuring pat is in order.
Trust me, seeing other people being affectionate does NOTHING for the single man. It's disquieting, and creates a disturbance in the force.
It's just as bad when the two people in question are BOTH smokers of cigars or pipes. Worse, even. They're too damned happy.
Dammit, we were talking! Ignore him or her!
Just get them another drink already!
Quiet down, little loveballs.
In the case of tense and uncomfortable non-smokers, just tell them "it's the Fong Shway of the moment". I actually have no clue what that means, as I overheard it being used on a television show I never watch, when everybody was surrounded by Brie and crackers, plus various fruits. Some dillwad panicked because they couldn't find their crème brûlée torch.
Which challenged their inner harmony.
When you're surrounded by cigar smokers, you need never fear not being able to make crème brûlée; all those triple-torch Xikar lighters make a perfect substitute.
For me, as a pipe smoker, that's also comforting.
Far better than the exercise nut's wussy-ass soothing and understanding teddy bear. Hah! My teddy bears can beat up his teddy bear.
Then brûlée the spit out of the saccharine fuzzball.
Wouldn't mind some of the Brie and crackers, though. Brie and crackers are very reassuring, and ameliorate almost any inconvenience. If you will insist on bringing that drippy non-smoking party crasher with you, please bribe us with brie and crackers; all will be forgiven.
And that brings me back to the point of this: I am seething with envy!
If I had someone to take to the cigar bar -- preferably a young lady who appreciated pipes and stogies -- then I too would irritate all the single people by showing off my good fortune.
At totally inappropriate moments I would theatrically stop listening to the boring bachelors and lonesome singles, and give my companion some well-deserved attention. Make little affectionate cooing sounds, buy her another Bourbon, and like a gentleman light up her box pressed maduro bellicoso, holding the crème brûlée torch so that she can rotate the tip before puffing deeply. We'll stare into each other's eyes...... the universe stops rotating for a brief moment...... there is deep silence...... then we innocently ask the people with whom we were talking "huh, what did you say?"
We will hold hands reassuringly.
I'm still here, do not worry.
So sweet, very nice!
Smoking!
There are other and better reasons for a relationship, of course.
But the frustrate-your-neighbor-factor is important.
Especially if you're "so cute" together.
There's someone to light up.
Or not, if neither of you are that kind of person.
In which case you really shouldn't be here.
The local gym is missing its nuts.
Please don't bring your children to the cigar bar.
They're ugly; we're here to escape that.
If you must, smoke at home.
Thank you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It is that last part that is a more than a little irritating.
Despite their otherwise sterling qualities.
Them and their life-partners.
And when I say "irritating", please understand that if I were in their Jockeys or Jimmie Choos, I would do exactly the same. Namely touch, stroke, or affectionately pat the person I was with at the cigar bar or tobacconist. Nothing more, because making out in public is in bad taste -- it's blatant enough that you brought your husband or boyfriend to a place where you can light up that big Gurkha Maduro.
Don't make it more uncomfortable than it is.
Take some responsibility for once.
Be kind to others.
It's a powerhouse, described as "Nicaraguan longfillers and Dominican binder rolled (in) dark oily Brazilian wrappers -- This cigar is pure evil -- characteristically smooth and earthy with notes of pepper, cedar and nuts on a woody finish -- hints of anise and some fruity accents in the mix."
Kaizad Hansotia is responsible for Gurkha cigars.
Your companion is probably sipping his sherry and wondering when he can go home to his teddy bear. A nice soothing personality, that bear, so understanding!
He's out of his element, what with being an exercise nut from a gym.
I am a man's man; I don't need a teddy bear to hold my hand.
Plus I don't mind an environment filled with smoke.
Being myself an aficionado of tobacco.
[And besides which, the teddy bears in the apartment I share with a non-smoker are all insane. These are not your warm fuzzy nurturing bears, but a murderous psycho bear, a sexist pig bear, a strange little autistic pink orphan, and a fish-obsessed neurotic.]
There are a number of people, of either gender, who insist on dragging their significant others to the cigar bar. Despite the unsuitability of that. No one wants to see a non-smoker suffering from existential angst because their entire welt-anschauung has been cast into doubt by the wholesome good cheer of so many people enjoying a habit they have always considered sheer heresy. Their self-confidence has been krenked, they look lost.
They are dangerously out of their element.
A reassuring pat is in order.
Trust me, seeing other people being affectionate does NOTHING for the single man. It's disquieting, and creates a disturbance in the force.
It's just as bad when the two people in question are BOTH smokers of cigars or pipes. Worse, even. They're too damned happy.
Dammit, we were talking! Ignore him or her!
Just get them another drink already!
Quiet down, little loveballs.
In the case of tense and uncomfortable non-smokers, just tell them "it's the Fong Shway of the moment". I actually have no clue what that means, as I overheard it being used on a television show I never watch, when everybody was surrounded by Brie and crackers, plus various fruits. Some dillwad panicked because they couldn't find their crème brûlée torch.
Which challenged their inner harmony.
When you're surrounded by cigar smokers, you need never fear not being able to make crème brûlée; all those triple-torch Xikar lighters make a perfect substitute.
For me, as a pipe smoker, that's also comforting.
Far better than the exercise nut's wussy-ass soothing and understanding teddy bear. Hah! My teddy bears can beat up his teddy bear.
Then brûlée the spit out of the saccharine fuzzball.
Wouldn't mind some of the Brie and crackers, though. Brie and crackers are very reassuring, and ameliorate almost any inconvenience. If you will insist on bringing that drippy non-smoking party crasher with you, please bribe us with brie and crackers; all will be forgiven.
And that brings me back to the point of this: I am seething with envy!
If I had someone to take to the cigar bar -- preferably a young lady who appreciated pipes and stogies -- then I too would irritate all the single people by showing off my good fortune.
At totally inappropriate moments I would theatrically stop listening to the boring bachelors and lonesome singles, and give my companion some well-deserved attention. Make little affectionate cooing sounds, buy her another Bourbon, and like a gentleman light up her box pressed maduro bellicoso, holding the crème brûlée torch so that she can rotate the tip before puffing deeply. We'll stare into each other's eyes...... the universe stops rotating for a brief moment...... there is deep silence...... then we innocently ask the people with whom we were talking "huh, what did you say?"
We will hold hands reassuringly.
I'm still here, do not worry.
So sweet, very nice!
Smoking!
There are other and better reasons for a relationship, of course.
But the frustrate-your-neighbor-factor is important.
Especially if you're "so cute" together.
There's someone to light up.
Or not, if neither of you are that kind of person.
In which case you really shouldn't be here.
The local gym is missing its nuts.
Please don't bring your children to the cigar bar.
They're ugly; we're here to escape that.
If you must, smoke at home.
Thank you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, May 02, 2014
I AM CONTEMPLATING YOUR NAVEL.
They're a cute couple, if you ignore the gigantism of the male partner. She is considerably shorter than her man, which makes me wonder what she sees in him. I'm guessing chin.
Either that or a source of meat after the zombie apocalypse.
The only thing that works in his favour, as far as I'm concerned, is that he more than tolerates her favourite habits, actually caters to them. Most men balk at certain things; peculiarity tends to frighten them off. Given that so many males have a completely shallow imagination, any evidence that a woman is not a mere replica of himself tends to cause fits in the average dude.
THE PANIC OF THE INTENDED VICTIM
What's quite apparent is that men and women might as well be two different species. Women will probably never figure out what men want beyond a certain basic instinct, and men don't talk to women the way they do to other men, because doing so is likely to blow up in their face.
Probably why men usually end up with shorter girlfriends.
Less likely to splatter shrapnel in the eyes.
And easier to 'overlook'.
It's ideal.
I know a fair amount about men, seeing as I associate a lot with them.
Plus they're all over, so it's hard to avoid them.
There are differences between men and women other than the obvious one, that being that men think about sex a lot, and women don't.
[NOTES: men tend to be amorous and nurturing, whereas women at their most vibrant often resemble lionesses fighting off rivals for the fresh Louis Vuitton or Prada carcasses out on the African veldt. On the other hand, women talk about their feelings a lot, men almost never do that. Reason being that women aren't thinking about sex but about vicious combat, whereas to a man, "feelings" are too damned close to things one might like to do, behind closed doors if you please, with a person who isn't savagely brutalizing wild game or other women at the time, and who has recently washed off the blood and spatter.]
The main problem with men is that they often find a stand-in subject to think about when sex isn't part of the programme. Women of course don't need that; there is no subject in their mind that can exist in lieu of any other, all issues are related. Sex is neither a subject nor an issue, ergo it is immaterial, and simply not worth thinking about.
Most men will talk about sports or business.
Which are emotional substitutes.
Symbolic issues.
CONVERSATIONS BOTH PAINFUL AND TERRIFYING
Personally, I've always tried to avoid discussing sports with my fellow men, because it's far too much like finding out about their sex-lives, regarding the tenor of which I would rather hear as little as possible. Unfortunately nearly everything else they talk about is also gonadic.
I would talk to women more, except I fear getting roped into one of their madcap schemes to acquire Louis Vuitton or Prada carcasses, while slaughtering all other females who come close. "That's my hunk of decorative dead leather, bitch, step away from the corpse."
There's no percentage in it for me.
I do not engage in violence.
My home is a sanctuary, in which I can take long baths or read with a cup of tea, far away from men and their testicular obsessions, or women and their blood-crazed female relatives discussing the hunt.
Or gossipping about rival members of the pack.
Quiet, safe. At the back of the building.
Perhaps a bit messy, but warm.
A comfortable den.
Secret.
Yes, there are exceptions to those two gender-specific behavioural patterns. That being people who are also hiding out.
We'll probably recognize each other after the zombie apocalypse, when everybody else has been eaten.
AFTERWORD
For some inexplicable reason I still fantasize about ending up friends with a person of the opposite gender. The problem is that it's hard to imagine calmly looking someone in the eye when you know their greatest talent and most recent achievement comprise mayhem and disemboweling.
I rather like my bowels, they've served me well all these years.
Someone only a little shorter would be perfect.
At least up to my collar bone.
Most of the people I know are men.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Either that or a source of meat after the zombie apocalypse.
The only thing that works in his favour, as far as I'm concerned, is that he more than tolerates her favourite habits, actually caters to them. Most men balk at certain things; peculiarity tends to frighten them off. Given that so many males have a completely shallow imagination, any evidence that a woman is not a mere replica of himself tends to cause fits in the average dude.
THE PANIC OF THE INTENDED VICTIM
What's quite apparent is that men and women might as well be two different species. Women will probably never figure out what men want beyond a certain basic instinct, and men don't talk to women the way they do to other men, because doing so is likely to blow up in their face.
Probably why men usually end up with shorter girlfriends.
Less likely to splatter shrapnel in the eyes.
And easier to 'overlook'.
It's ideal.
I know a fair amount about men, seeing as I associate a lot with them.
Plus they're all over, so it's hard to avoid them.
There are differences between men and women other than the obvious one, that being that men think about sex a lot, and women don't.
[NOTES: men tend to be amorous and nurturing, whereas women at their most vibrant often resemble lionesses fighting off rivals for the fresh Louis Vuitton or Prada carcasses out on the African veldt. On the other hand, women talk about their feelings a lot, men almost never do that. Reason being that women aren't thinking about sex but about vicious combat, whereas to a man, "feelings" are too damned close to things one might like to do, behind closed doors if you please, with a person who isn't savagely brutalizing wild game or other women at the time, and who has recently washed off the blood and spatter.]
The main problem with men is that they often find a stand-in subject to think about when sex isn't part of the programme. Women of course don't need that; there is no subject in their mind that can exist in lieu of any other, all issues are related. Sex is neither a subject nor an issue, ergo it is immaterial, and simply not worth thinking about.
Most men will talk about sports or business.
Which are emotional substitutes.
Symbolic issues.
CONVERSATIONS BOTH PAINFUL AND TERRIFYING
Personally, I've always tried to avoid discussing sports with my fellow men, because it's far too much like finding out about their sex-lives, regarding the tenor of which I would rather hear as little as possible. Unfortunately nearly everything else they talk about is also gonadic.
I would talk to women more, except I fear getting roped into one of their madcap schemes to acquire Louis Vuitton or Prada carcasses, while slaughtering all other females who come close. "That's my hunk of decorative dead leather, bitch, step away from the corpse."
There's no percentage in it for me.
I do not engage in violence.
My home is a sanctuary, in which I can take long baths or read with a cup of tea, far away from men and their testicular obsessions, or women and their blood-crazed female relatives discussing the hunt.
Or gossipping about rival members of the pack.
Quiet, safe. At the back of the building.
Perhaps a bit messy, but warm.
A comfortable den.
Secret.
Yes, there are exceptions to those two gender-specific behavioural patterns. That being people who are also hiding out.
We'll probably recognize each other after the zombie apocalypse, when everybody else has been eaten.
AFTERWORD
For some inexplicable reason I still fantasize about ending up friends with a person of the opposite gender. The problem is that it's hard to imagine calmly looking someone in the eye when you know their greatest talent and most recent achievement comprise mayhem and disemboweling.
I rather like my bowels, they've served me well all these years.
Someone only a little shorter would be perfect.
At least up to my collar bone.
Most of the people I know are men.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, May 01, 2014
STOP GIGGLING, I AM SERIOUS
Some well-meaning goobers.., errrm, I mean 'friends', have suggested that the tobacco thing will have to fade by the wayside if I wish to improve the likelihood that some oblivious woman will inexplicably fall in love or lust with me. "Why heavens", they aver, "your chances will increase from near-zero to not at all that unlikely in the long run".
This because today's woman despises tobacco and its users.
Not so. I have actually met women who do not dislike the substance. Not everyone draws away from me on the bus; just super-sensitive healthfreaks, Berkeleyites, and little flowers.
Entirely aside from which, I happen to be associated with one of the last tobacco enterprises still remaining in California. Just imagine what I smell like on certain days.
And realistically, that's an awfully big habit-change to go through on the slim chance that some woman who hates what I like might enter my life.
In anything approaching a positive way.
I do not gamble.
If you are the right kind of person, you now have a fantasy aroma in your mind. Your nose is twitching. Maduro, double claro, fire-cured, fruity, and slightly floral-resinous. A heady almost intoxicating perfume, yet suprisingly subtle.
If you are the wrong kind of person, you are probably gagging right now, or heaving into your embroidered Hello Kitty handkerchief.
Poor little you.
Not only do I presently have NO intention of disconnecting from pipes and tobacco, but if you leave your friends, relatives, or any other suggestible people in my care, I fully intend to seduce them with flue-cured leaves, fine polished briars, aged dark cake, and richly decadent Orientals.
I am not a sexist, racist, ageist, or species-ist. Everybody can appreciate something truly excellent. Except for neurotic types with 'trust-issues'.
It's entirely about having an open mind.
Would you like a cheroot?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This because today's woman despises tobacco and its users.
Not so. I have actually met women who do not dislike the substance. Not everyone draws away from me on the bus; just super-sensitive healthfreaks, Berkeleyites, and little flowers.
Entirely aside from which, I happen to be associated with one of the last tobacco enterprises still remaining in California. Just imagine what I smell like on certain days.
And realistically, that's an awfully big habit-change to go through on the slim chance that some woman who hates what I like might enter my life.
In anything approaching a positive way.
I do not gamble.
If you are the right kind of person, you now have a fantasy aroma in your mind. Your nose is twitching. Maduro, double claro, fire-cured, fruity, and slightly floral-resinous. A heady almost intoxicating perfume, yet suprisingly subtle.
If you are the wrong kind of person, you are probably gagging right now, or heaving into your embroidered Hello Kitty handkerchief.
Poor little you.
Not only do I presently have NO intention of disconnecting from pipes and tobacco, but if you leave your friends, relatives, or any other suggestible people in my care, I fully intend to seduce them with flue-cured leaves, fine polished briars, aged dark cake, and richly decadent Orientals.
I am not a sexist, racist, ageist, or species-ist. Everybody can appreciate something truly excellent. Except for neurotic types with 'trust-issues'.
It's entirely about having an open mind.
Would you like a cheroot?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
