This blogger leads an altogether boring life. Yes, occasionally exciting things happen -- a burning ache in my right foot that sometimes extends all the way from my toes up to my anus, due to severely twisting a muscle in my calf last winter, or all the boxes in the shower stall at work suddenly falling all over the place (unbalanced due to the injudicious addition of one more bit of bubble-wrap) with a startling series of crashes -- but on the whole, my life is quiet and calm.
Not so my apartment mate.
I asked her last night, at ten past nine, why the phone was unplugged, and if could be plugged back in.
The reason it was de-plugged involved the toilet at her place of work overflowing and spilling black sludge while she was trapped in a stall, followed by world's worst chow mein. Which was mahogany coloured, and had almost no ingredients other than noodles, grease, and soy sauce. She's Chinese American, so you can well imagine how cheated she felt at having to pay good money for a simple pasta preparation which, normally, Chinese Americans take for granted.
Overflowing women's rooms are par for the course, though upsetting, but chow mein cooked by a culinary idiot is just too much.
Both things happened in the middle of the week. Naturally I did not notice, because she and I work in different places, and I'm just almighty dense to the occurrence of bad cuisine in other people's lives when they dine at work. My chow mein is never miserable -- because I make it myself -- but it is sometimes too richly flavoured.
The density of her colleagues also figures into it.
Now, if you have severe Asperger's syndrome, as she does, there are causal elements and subsequent connections that tie all this together. Her discourse lasted for forty five minutes, while I sat on the edge of her bed and listened.
She described it as "mundane dreariness", and absolutely "not tragic". But she tells a good story, so it seemed quite exciting. Like her, I too would be upset over crapper-floods and horrible chow mein.
Apparently her co-workers are rather dense.
And not Asperger interpretive.
I am disturbed by the events in the women's room. It does not seem right that the loo overflowed and spewed forth black sludge. If that happened where I work, it would, in fact, be disruptive.
All over the Bay Area there are office buildings where the pipes are antique, and the bathroom users are vigorous and dense.
Pent up and farklempt.
We had an issue like that where I work once. The plumber ended up pulling a massive clump of tangled tree roots out, that had gotten wedged where the sewer line exits the concrete slab and the local plants had cracked the tube. It really looked like giant Rasta-head.
Or an outer-space alien.
With teeth.
I worry about these things.
My life is dull.
Thank heavens the Seven-Eleven nearby does not do chow mein.
It would make me peevish if they did.
Anyhow, the phone can be plugged in again, but she isn't taking any calls. It's been a long week.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Saturday, June 13, 2015
YOU AND YOUR LITTLE NICK NICK EYEBALLS!
On my way home the other day I deftly avoided the idiot with a big plump marijuana cigarette and a defective lighter -- being easily nauseated by the reek of cannabis, and despising all drug-use to boot, you can understand that though I obviously had a functioning lighter (the evidence being the lit cigar in my mouth) there was no imperative on my part to help the shmoo further down the path of "therapeutic" wreck and ruin -- and nearly bumped into a very large black woman, of probably around five hundred pounds or so, heading in the opposite direction.
Small vessels get out of the way of large tankers.
Always. Basic harbour rules.
It has something to do with distances, the ability to break, and turning radius. Plus, of course, Newton's laws of motion.
"Force equals mass times acceleration."
What this means is that it takes more energy for a very large object to either decelerate OR change direction than a smaller quicker middle-aged man with a cigar.
Large black women should not have Hello Kitty tattooed on their right breast. Also their left breast. Either breast. Anywhere.
It just isn't a good idea.
My life flashed before my eyes.
Massive Kitty looked murderous.
As well as mighty unstable.
Thank you, Sir Isaac Newton.
It strikes me that I am damned lucky to have a small Chinese American woman as an apartment mate, rather than a gigantic football player. Not only do I despise sports, but smaller people are usually more graceful, and less likely to break my collection of pottery objects. These quarters are filled with handmade ceramics, mostly bowls and vases of relatively simple classic shape, with interesting glazes. Nothing garish, none of that weird crap with the tie-dye bleeding sunburst effect. Mostly blues and greens. Some earthy-browns. Some yellows.
My oldest pieces are two brush-jars that Richard Iseger in Tilburg made for me when we were both in school. Pale blue glazes. His fine eye was, now that I think about it, a formative influence.
My father's tastes in art were also formative.
As was the Avery Brundage collection.
Fine-eyed people are a blessing.
My apartment mate, who is a good friend I have known for years, also has a fine eye. For a long time now she has been neurotic about period and costume jewelry. She will insist that it was my persnickityness that educated her, but I must firmly poo-poo that assertion.
Some people have an eye. It just needs to be liberated.
Quite undeservedly, she lauds my little nick nick eyeballs.
The other great advantage to having a small Chinese American woman as an apartment mate is that I need never fear for my life -- which would be a constant if there were a five hundred pound person of either gender rolling through a cramped living space -- or my sanity. Trust me, the presence of a Hello Kitty tattoo on any part of another person's body is a cause for worry. It does not suggest sane and well-balanced, but rather points to a streak of stark raving batshit a mile wide.
Do sane people get Hello Kitty tattoos?
I rather think not.
Frequent exposure to that nasty creature causes bleeding from the orifices and leads to screaming dementia.
Hello Kitty is a curse.
Frightful anathema.
Quite loathsome.
Icky pussy!
* * * * *
Except, of course, for my Hello Kitty backpack! Which is a stylish item of the perfect size for half-a-dozen briar pipes, two or three tins of pipe-tobacco, tampers and pipe-cleaners, and other necessities for the civilized smoker.
No more perfect man-purse can be imagined.
An accessory in the very best of taste.
Black checkered mini pack.
The height of hip.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Small vessels get out of the way of large tankers.
Always. Basic harbour rules.
It has something to do with distances, the ability to break, and turning radius. Plus, of course, Newton's laws of motion.
"Force equals mass times acceleration."
What this means is that it takes more energy for a very large object to either decelerate OR change direction than a smaller quicker middle-aged man with a cigar.
Large black women should not have Hello Kitty tattooed on their right breast. Also their left breast. Either breast. Anywhere.
It just isn't a good idea.
My life flashed before my eyes.
Massive Kitty looked murderous.
As well as mighty unstable.
Thank you, Sir Isaac Newton.
It strikes me that I am damned lucky to have a small Chinese American woman as an apartment mate, rather than a gigantic football player. Not only do I despise sports, but smaller people are usually more graceful, and less likely to break my collection of pottery objects. These quarters are filled with handmade ceramics, mostly bowls and vases of relatively simple classic shape, with interesting glazes. Nothing garish, none of that weird crap with the tie-dye bleeding sunburst effect. Mostly blues and greens. Some earthy-browns. Some yellows.
My oldest pieces are two brush-jars that Richard Iseger in Tilburg made for me when we were both in school. Pale blue glazes. His fine eye was, now that I think about it, a formative influence.
My father's tastes in art were also formative.
As was the Avery Brundage collection.
Fine-eyed people are a blessing.
My apartment mate, who is a good friend I have known for years, also has a fine eye. For a long time now she has been neurotic about period and costume jewelry. She will insist that it was my persnickityness that educated her, but I must firmly poo-poo that assertion.
Some people have an eye. It just needs to be liberated.
Quite undeservedly, she lauds my little nick nick eyeballs.
The other great advantage to having a small Chinese American woman as an apartment mate is that I need never fear for my life -- which would be a constant if there were a five hundred pound person of either gender rolling through a cramped living space -- or my sanity. Trust me, the presence of a Hello Kitty tattoo on any part of another person's body is a cause for worry. It does not suggest sane and well-balanced, but rather points to a streak of stark raving batshit a mile wide.
Do sane people get Hello Kitty tattoos?
I rather think not.
Frequent exposure to that nasty creature causes bleeding from the orifices and leads to screaming dementia.
Hello Kitty is a curse.
Frightful anathema.
Quite loathsome.
Icky pussy!
* * * * *
Except, of course, for my Hello Kitty backpack! Which is a stylish item of the perfect size for half-a-dozen briar pipes, two or three tins of pipe-tobacco, tampers and pipe-cleaners, and other necessities for the civilized smoker.
No more perfect man-purse can be imagined.
An accessory in the very best of taste.
Black checkered mini pack.
The height of hip.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, June 12, 2015
GOAT-CRAZY FIT ON PUBLIC TRANSIT
She slid to the floor without much resistance. At first it seemed like she had merely lost her balance on the crowded bus, or maybe somebody pushed her inadvertently. But when she remained down, doubts were raised. One person pulled the foot of the fallen figure -- probably to ascertain that she was well and truly out, rather than to make off with it or steal the shoe -- and others started yelling at the bus driver to stop, there was an emergency.
The faintee was tall and blonde. I had nothing to do with it. Having barely gotten a seat, and being several lengths away from the fallen woman, I saw no need to put my very minor medical knowledge to any use; my bustling over would merely be a nuisance.
What does one do when there's a person down?
In my case, one reads the label of the bottle of fish sauce one has purchased at the same place as the delightful little baby cabbages.
VIET HUONG THREE CRABS BRAND SUPERIOR FISH SAUCE
越香
['yue heung'; Vietnam Fragrant, in which the second word represents Hong Kong, where the company is presently located.]
上等
['seung dang'; finest quality.]
魚露
['yü lou'; fish dew (exudate).]
Which is a 調味 ('tiu mei'; flavouring, condiment) that comes from 越香有限公司 ('yuet heung yau haan gung si'), a company founded several years ago by mr. Chung (鍾生先) in San Francisco. The product with which almost everybody is familiar is Three Crabs Brand (三蟹嘜 'saam haai mak').
The term 有限公司 ('yau haan gung si') means a limited company, fyi.
有限 ('yau haan'): have limitation. 公司 ('gung si'): equitable control, fair manage.
By the time the bus had stopped she had come to, and with the help of an understanding fellow passenger who had taken charge, she was guided to a seat. The bus driver informed us that responders were on their way, and the bus wasn't going to go anywhere for the duration, feel free to wait or walk.
I remained seated, because I was enjoying the harangue of a very ancient Toishanese woman who was animatedly explaining to other passengers that nobody had even noticed, they were all too busy looking at their handheld devices (手機 'sau kei'), possibly on purpose. A few of the others were querulating why we weren't moving, was another bus coming, how about an ambulance, and oh drat that hill looks far too steep to climb.
It wasn't that they were heartless, just that they were old.
One of the white passengers asked loudly if anyone on board was a doctor. And perhaps we should throw water in her face, it couldn't hurt.
One person admitted to a neighbor that he was a doctor of philosophy, and probably no help whatsoever.
After the emergency personnel had seized the young lady for further prodding, the bus driver informed the few passengers remaining that he couldn't leave till his supervisor showed up.
The oldsters disembarked and sat down dejectedly on a nearby ledge.
There was no second bus in sight. Those last two blocks to the top would be very hard.
I started trudging up the hill, wondering what the Cantonese words for what had occurred might be.
昏倒 'fan dou': to faint; to achieve a faint.
發昏 'faat fan': to faint; to become all faintsome.
驚厥 'geng kuet': to faint, have a convulsion.
暈 'waan': faint, dizzy; foggy, halo in the sky.
殫悶 'daan mun': to swoon, pass out.
倒 'dou': topple over, collapse.
冧 'lam': topple; flower bud; phonetic borrowing for 'number' (冧把 'lam baa'); to kill somebody.
癲 'din': deranged, mentally ill.
癲癇 'din haan'; epilepsy.
羊癲瘋 'yeung din fung': "goat-crazy fits"; given to epileptic episodes.
病突發 'beng tat faat': seizure.
低血糖 'dai huet tong': low blood sugar, hypoglycæmia.
For the next time it happens, the following phrases might be helpful.
哦，姖暈暈啲昏倒了，可能姖全日都冇食過嘢。
['o, keui waan-waan-di fan-dou le, ho-nang keui chuen yat dou mou sik gwo ye']
Whoopsie, she keeled over; possibly she hasn't eaten all day.
係，我有一樽太好牌嘅魚露。
['hai, ngo yau yat jeun taai hou paai ge yü-lou']
Yes, I have a bottle of very good brand fish sauce.
係我嘅。
['hai ngo ge']
It's mine.
No matter what, hold on to the sauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The faintee was tall and blonde. I had nothing to do with it. Having barely gotten a seat, and being several lengths away from the fallen woman, I saw no need to put my very minor medical knowledge to any use; my bustling over would merely be a nuisance.
What does one do when there's a person down?
In my case, one reads the label of the bottle of fish sauce one has purchased at the same place as the delightful little baby cabbages.
VIET HUONG THREE CRABS BRAND SUPERIOR FISH SAUCE
越香
['yue heung'; Vietnam Fragrant, in which the second word represents Hong Kong, where the company is presently located.]
上等
['seung dang'; finest quality.]
魚露
['yü lou'; fish dew (exudate).]
Which is a 調味 ('tiu mei'; flavouring, condiment) that comes from 越香有限公司 ('yuet heung yau haan gung si'), a company founded several years ago by mr. Chung (鍾生先) in San Francisco. The product with which almost everybody is familiar is Three Crabs Brand (三蟹嘜 'saam haai mak').
The term 有限公司 ('yau haan gung si') means a limited company, fyi.
有限 ('yau haan'): have limitation. 公司 ('gung si'): equitable control, fair manage.
By the time the bus had stopped she had come to, and with the help of an understanding fellow passenger who had taken charge, she was guided to a seat. The bus driver informed us that responders were on their way, and the bus wasn't going to go anywhere for the duration, feel free to wait or walk.
I remained seated, because I was enjoying the harangue of a very ancient Toishanese woman who was animatedly explaining to other passengers that nobody had even noticed, they were all too busy looking at their handheld devices (手機 'sau kei'), possibly on purpose. A few of the others were querulating why we weren't moving, was another bus coming, how about an ambulance, and oh drat that hill looks far too steep to climb.
It wasn't that they were heartless, just that they were old.
One of the white passengers asked loudly if anyone on board was a doctor. And perhaps we should throw water in her face, it couldn't hurt.
One person admitted to a neighbor that he was a doctor of philosophy, and probably no help whatsoever.
After the emergency personnel had seized the young lady for further prodding, the bus driver informed the few passengers remaining that he couldn't leave till his supervisor showed up.
The oldsters disembarked and sat down dejectedly on a nearby ledge.
There was no second bus in sight. Those last two blocks to the top would be very hard.
I started trudging up the hill, wondering what the Cantonese words for what had occurred might be.
昏倒 'fan dou': to faint; to achieve a faint.
發昏 'faat fan': to faint; to become all faintsome.
驚厥 'geng kuet': to faint, have a convulsion.
暈 'waan': faint, dizzy; foggy, halo in the sky.
殫悶 'daan mun': to swoon, pass out.
倒 'dou': topple over, collapse.
冧 'lam': topple; flower bud; phonetic borrowing for 'number' (冧把 'lam baa'); to kill somebody.
癲 'din': deranged, mentally ill.
癲癇 'din haan'; epilepsy.
羊癲瘋 'yeung din fung': "goat-crazy fits"; given to epileptic episodes.
病突發 'beng tat faat': seizure.
低血糖 'dai huet tong': low blood sugar, hypoglycæmia.
For the next time it happens, the following phrases might be helpful.
哦，姖暈暈啲昏倒了，可能姖全日都冇食過嘢。
['o, keui waan-waan-di fan-dou le, ho-nang keui chuen yat dou mou sik gwo ye']
Whoopsie, she keeled over; possibly she hasn't eaten all day.
係，我有一樽太好牌嘅魚露。
['hai, ngo yau yat jeun taai hou paai ge yü-lou']
Yes, I have a bottle of very good brand fish sauce.
係我嘅。
['hai ngo ge']
It's mine.
No matter what, hold on to the sauce.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, June 11, 2015
A SURFEIT OF GOATS
There are more gluten-intolerant anti-vaxers in California than tobacco-friendly old-fashioned liberals. That just isn't right. How did it become thus?
Largely because of our welcoming attitude towards hippies and other crazy freespirits.
I am not personally committed to the crazy free spirits.
Too many of them defecate in public.
Or scream at passers-by.
I like the Asian immigrants and the Central Americans. The Waspy goat-breeders from New York and New Jersey, not so much. Please go back, you people are ruining the quality of life here. Isn't there some other state you could bugger up?
I'm fairly certain that folks in Peru, Indiana, are unfamiliar with all the wonderful things you can do with tofu, tempeh, and safflower oil.
Their lives are incomplete.
Head East!
On second thought, don't. Find somewhere else. My Grandfather was born in Peru, Indiana, so right there I have to assume that the place has a saving grace or two. Of course he left, else I would not be here.
But still.
During the war he was stationed at the Red Cross hospital in Kiev. When the Bolsheviks took over he and other medical staff fled south to Kermanshah in Persia. After the war he was with the American Third Army posted to Koblenz, Germany.
One of these days I might want to visit the place he was born.
I would rather not find too many crazy freespirits.
Or gluten intolerant Waspy goat-breeders.
Kiev needs goats - go there.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Largely because of our welcoming attitude towards hippies and other crazy freespirits.
I am not personally committed to the crazy free spirits.
Too many of them defecate in public.
Or scream at passers-by.
I like the Asian immigrants and the Central Americans. The Waspy goat-breeders from New York and New Jersey, not so much. Please go back, you people are ruining the quality of life here. Isn't there some other state you could bugger up?
I'm fairly certain that folks in Peru, Indiana, are unfamiliar with all the wonderful things you can do with tofu, tempeh, and safflower oil.
Their lives are incomplete.
Head East!
On second thought, don't. Find somewhere else. My Grandfather was born in Peru, Indiana, so right there I have to assume that the place has a saving grace or two. Of course he left, else I would not be here.
But still.
During the war he was stationed at the Red Cross hospital in Kiev. When the Bolsheviks took over he and other medical staff fled south to Kermanshah in Persia. After the war he was with the American Third Army posted to Koblenz, Germany.
One of these days I might want to visit the place he was born.
I would rather not find too many crazy freespirits.
Or gluten intolerant Waspy goat-breeders.
Kiev needs goats - go there.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
SPORTS: THE BATTLE ETERNAL
As a loyal San Franciscan, I am required to presently adulate the Golden State Warriors, as well as the Giants. Actually, worship of the Giants is a far longer tradition, dating back to at least last year, but the Warriors have currently captured our hearts. And imaginations.
And our betting frenzy.
Sorry. I just don't see it.
This blogger is NOT into sports, either as a past-time OR spectacle, and frankly I don't give a damn who wins, loses, or spins half a turn sideways.
I am not a fan of baseball, football, basketball, ice-hockey, or soccer. Nor any other kind of entertainment that involves teams or individuals hitting or pursuing a ball or other missile.
I know this is a keen source of despair to my friends and associates, but at least I'm not a disappointment my parents. To the very best of my knowledge, they too were quite uninterested in the competitiveness of glandular freaks and beer drinkers.
I do not possess any garment with a swoosh or team logo. Nothing with loud screaming colours or bold totemic designs. The closest I come is a windbreaker with a dancing rabbi on the back, courtesy of a charity that I support. But I have never actually worn it. If I did, it would only be ironically, seeing as I do not follow their precise tradition, and think that the literalness with which they go through life is flawed at best, a metaphor for the surrender of rational thought at worst.
I am not on their team.
Sports-related cultural manifestations:
Pizza: Are there anchovies? If yes, good-o.
Beer: Not a fan.
Sweat: Mmm, no.
Loud screaming: It is time to leave.
Hormones: No thanks.
Commentators wearing loud checks: Mute button? Violent termination? Hate mail campaign?
Enthusiastic chanting: Exodus 20:3, and Exodus 22:18.
Chip and dip: All mine, I found it!
Crowds: A can of Raid.
National anthem: boring song, badly sung, by people who can't sing.
Why couldn't we have a lively spirited anthem? Either a good drinking song, OR something like Marching Through Georgia? The French have a boffo anthem, so do the Italians. Ours is kind of drippy, with words that do not reflect our national spirit, gallantry, or communal bloodlust.
Heck, even the Panzer Lied would have been better.
TO THE SCRIMMAGE NOW, BOYS!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9HFF9gnlY3c.]
Now that is stirring! It's got everything: bullets, vigour, and poetry!
The lyrics of cold steel and hot manly juices, yowza.
Plus it ends with lots of swearing.
If I decide to watch sports at all, it will be because of the pizza and spicy bean dip. Once those are gone, I'm outta here. Enjoy your hormones, gentlemen, it's time to go shopping.
By the way: why is everyone involved in sports stupid and ugly?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And our betting frenzy.
Sorry. I just don't see it.
This blogger is NOT into sports, either as a past-time OR spectacle, and frankly I don't give a damn who wins, loses, or spins half a turn sideways.
I am not a fan of baseball, football, basketball, ice-hockey, or soccer. Nor any other kind of entertainment that involves teams or individuals hitting or pursuing a ball or other missile.
I know this is a keen source of despair to my friends and associates, but at least I'm not a disappointment my parents. To the very best of my knowledge, they too were quite uninterested in the competitiveness of glandular freaks and beer drinkers.
I do not possess any garment with a swoosh or team logo. Nothing with loud screaming colours or bold totemic designs. The closest I come is a windbreaker with a dancing rabbi on the back, courtesy of a charity that I support. But I have never actually worn it. If I did, it would only be ironically, seeing as I do not follow their precise tradition, and think that the literalness with which they go through life is flawed at best, a metaphor for the surrender of rational thought at worst.
I am not on their team.
Sports-related cultural manifestations:
Pizza: Are there anchovies? If yes, good-o.
Beer: Not a fan.
Sweat: Mmm, no.
Loud screaming: It is time to leave.
Hormones: No thanks.
Commentators wearing loud checks: Mute button? Violent termination? Hate mail campaign?
Enthusiastic chanting: Exodus 20:3, and Exodus 22:18.
Chip and dip: All mine, I found it!
Crowds: A can of Raid.
National anthem: boring song, badly sung, by people who can't sing.
Why couldn't we have a lively spirited anthem? Either a good drinking song, OR something like Marching Through Georgia? The French have a boffo anthem, so do the Italians. Ours is kind of drippy, with words that do not reflect our national spirit, gallantry, or communal bloodlust.
Heck, even the Panzer Lied would have been better.
TO THE SCRIMMAGE NOW, BOYS!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9HFF9gnlY3c.]
Now that is stirring! It's got everything: bullets, vigour, and poetry!
The lyrics of cold steel and hot manly juices, yowza.
Plus it ends with lots of swearing.
If I decide to watch sports at all, it will be because of the pizza and spicy bean dip. Once those are gone, I'm outta here. Enjoy your hormones, gentlemen, it's time to go shopping.
By the way: why is everyone involved in sports stupid and ugly?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CHINESE PEOPLE AND THEIR PECULIAR FONDNESS FOR CAUCASIANS
Given that I spend a lot of time in Chinatown, some of my friends, both Chinese and Caucasian, assume that I should ideally find a Chinese girlfriend. The concept is mildly appealing. But only mildly. At best.
It's also frightening, and somewhat appalling. Imagine, if you will indulge me, being the white person in that relationship.
"Take bath, you smell like white person. Again."
"Take bath, my mom is coming over. Again."
"Take bath. Ney hou chau ge! Again."
Actually, it's downright terrifying.
This and similar indignities are often paradigmatic for the white person involved in a relationship with a Chinese person. The Japanese are even worse, of course. If they acknowledge that we're human at all, it is only as freaks with hairy skin and body odour; an imperfect stage of human.
Good lord, imagine being married to a white person!
Fuzzy clammy flesh, fuzzy clammy flesh!
Wet dog smell!
The Chinese aren't as bad, but they do consider it unfortunate when someone marries a white person. Perhaps he or she couldn't find anyone else?
Refined Cantonese people tend to assume that whitey stinks, and they pity the relatives of the anyone who gets married to one of us.
They like us alright, sometimes a lot, but they just can't get over the fact that we're smelly, hairy, large, loud, and clumsy.
Oh, and we don't think quite right either.
Some training is required.
That doesn't describe my previous relationship, as she was Chinese in appearance only, plus a few minor behavioural patterns, and had a bad sense of smell. As well as a keen wit, an admirable sharpness, and an active festering mind. Much more Monty Pythonesque and San Franciscan than one would expect from a Chinese person.
Except maybe a mainlander from one of those far Northern provinces where everyone reeks of garlic or cabbage, and speaks Mandarin with that furry sound. Those are nice people, but they're quite nuts.
My ex is not like that. For one thing, her aforementioned poor sense of smell, and a keen appreciation for the very white people who did the Monty Python stuff. For another thing, she never introduced me to her relatives during the two decades that we were a couple.
She was born here, and thinks in American English.
Her maternal unit always thought in Toishanese.
I've heard that according to her mom, white people make great tenants, because they don't cook but go out for pizza every night, never do their laundry in the bathtub, and are seldom home. Nor do they require the home-town discount (five dollars mei kam), they pay on time, and the apartment is in good shape when they move out in a few years.
Although they do stink a lot.
Not a problem if the next occupants are also white.
Who can be presumed to likewise have an odour about them.
All white people smell bad, dress funny, and eat too much.
I was reminded of this verity while riding the bus the other day. I had taken a seat next to a little old Cantonese lady, who promptly clapped her hand to her wee nose to shield herself from the phenomenal pong.
Not only am I a white person, but I'm a smoker (pipes and cigarillos), and therefore more than average fragrant. She looked quite sick.
If I had a Chinese girlfriend, THAT would be her mom.
Wah, sei kwai lo, kwai-sei gam chau-ge.
Ngo ding yan-m chu ah!
White folks so stink!
Thank you, auntie.
Hei-mong nei sei.
Chau nei-ge tau.
[All you need to know to grasp the gist of the utterances above is that 'sei' (死) means dead, and can be used as a verb, 'kwai' (鬼) is ghost-devil as well as damnable or sinister, and 'chau' (臭) means putrid and rotten.]
Suck it up, auntie. I'm a kwailo, and quite happy with that.
As are also many of my friends and relatives.
It's a white thing. Like milk.
[See, when two white people procreate, the result often is ....
Now imagine several generations of it.
Hundreds of them!]
My ex, however, still lives with me. She has her own room, and likes being in a place where she can let her hair down. She feels safe here. And in all honesty, I like having her around.
She's rather a splendid person.
Who else will yell out when I tell her that the phone is ringing (and more than likely for her), "I'm covered in mango!"
That was her excuse for not answering. Because, perhaps, when you're covered in mango, you cannot talk properly. Honestly I fail to see why that would make a difference, because she yelled just fine, so talking in a normal tone would not have been any challenge at all, even if she were covered in other fruits too, like bananas, lychees, or Anjou pears......
But she has high standards. Certain things cannot be done.
One should not come to the phone covered in fruit.
I think that must be a Chinese thing.
"I am covered in mango!!!"
She never told me I stink.
I appreciate that.
Enormously.
AFTER WORD: 泰迪熊
There are also the stuffed animals. They like her too. She voices for them.
Having a senior teddy bear as head-roomie is not, strictly speaking, part of the traditional Chinese family hierarchy. Remarkably, they are frequently food-obsessed. Which is very Chinese of them.
Or leastwise, Cantonese.
She's unique.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's also frightening, and somewhat appalling. Imagine, if you will indulge me, being the white person in that relationship.
"Take bath, you smell like white person. Again."
"Take bath, my mom is coming over. Again."
"Take bath. Ney hou chau ge! Again."
Actually, it's downright terrifying.
This and similar indignities are often paradigmatic for the white person involved in a relationship with a Chinese person. The Japanese are even worse, of course. If they acknowledge that we're human at all, it is only as freaks with hairy skin and body odour; an imperfect stage of human.
Good lord, imagine being married to a white person!
Fuzzy clammy flesh, fuzzy clammy flesh!
Wet dog smell!
The Chinese aren't as bad, but they do consider it unfortunate when someone marries a white person. Perhaps he or she couldn't find anyone else?
Refined Cantonese people tend to assume that whitey stinks, and they pity the relatives of the anyone who gets married to one of us.
They like us alright, sometimes a lot, but they just can't get over the fact that we're smelly, hairy, large, loud, and clumsy.
Oh, and we don't think quite right either.
Some training is required.
That doesn't describe my previous relationship, as she was Chinese in appearance only, plus a few minor behavioural patterns, and had a bad sense of smell. As well as a keen wit, an admirable sharpness, and an active festering mind. Much more Monty Pythonesque and San Franciscan than one would expect from a Chinese person.
Except maybe a mainlander from one of those far Northern provinces where everyone reeks of garlic or cabbage, and speaks Mandarin with that furry sound. Those are nice people, but they're quite nuts.
My ex is not like that. For one thing, her aforementioned poor sense of smell, and a keen appreciation for the very white people who did the Monty Python stuff. For another thing, she never introduced me to her relatives during the two decades that we were a couple.
She was born here, and thinks in American English.
Her maternal unit always thought in Toishanese.
I've heard that according to her mom, white people make great tenants, because they don't cook but go out for pizza every night, never do their laundry in the bathtub, and are seldom home. Nor do they require the home-town discount (five dollars mei kam), they pay on time, and the apartment is in good shape when they move out in a few years.
Although they do stink a lot.
Not a problem if the next occupants are also white.
Who can be presumed to likewise have an odour about them.
All white people smell bad, dress funny, and eat too much.
I was reminded of this verity while riding the bus the other day. I had taken a seat next to a little old Cantonese lady, who promptly clapped her hand to her wee nose to shield herself from the phenomenal pong.
Not only am I a white person, but I'm a smoker (pipes and cigarillos), and therefore more than average fragrant. She looked quite sick.
If I had a Chinese girlfriend, THAT would be her mom.
Wah, sei kwai lo, kwai-sei gam chau-ge.
Ngo ding yan-m chu ah!
White folks so stink!
Thank you, auntie.
Hei-mong nei sei.
Chau nei-ge tau.
[All you need to know to grasp the gist of the utterances above is that 'sei' (死) means dead, and can be used as a verb, 'kwai' (鬼) is ghost-devil as well as damnable or sinister, and 'chau' (臭) means putrid and rotten.]
Suck it up, auntie. I'm a kwailo, and quite happy with that.
As are also many of my friends and relatives.
It's a white thing. Like milk.
[See, when two white people procreate, the result often is ....
Now imagine several generations of it.
Hundreds of them!]
My ex, however, still lives with me. She has her own room, and likes being in a place where she can let her hair down. She feels safe here. And in all honesty, I like having her around.
She's rather a splendid person.
Who else will yell out when I tell her that the phone is ringing (and more than likely for her), "I'm covered in mango!"
That was her excuse for not answering. Because, perhaps, when you're covered in mango, you cannot talk properly. Honestly I fail to see why that would make a difference, because she yelled just fine, so talking in a normal tone would not have been any challenge at all, even if she were covered in other fruits too, like bananas, lychees, or Anjou pears......
But she has high standards. Certain things cannot be done.
One should not come to the phone covered in fruit.
I think that must be a Chinese thing.
"I am covered in mango!!!"
She never told me I stink.
I appreciate that.
Enormously.
AFTER WORD: 泰迪熊
There are also the stuffed animals. They like her too. She voices for them.
Having a senior teddy bear as head-roomie is not, strictly speaking, part of the traditional Chinese family hierarchy. Remarkably, they are frequently food-obsessed. Which is very Chinese of them.
Or leastwise, Cantonese.
She's unique.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, June 09, 2015
FEEL THE BURN
Without being fully aware of it, middle age has crept up on me. Which is disquieting, as it imposes limitations which I did not wish for.
There are reading spectacles on my nose, and white streaks in my beard. Occasionally, in the middle of the night, I listen to a creaking sound and realize that it is a joint somewhere in one of my limbs.
Gout sometimes sends me a twinge or two.
To remind me of the years.
Young people offer me a seat on the bus.
That last part is VERY disturbing, as it says that in their innocent eyes, and from below where they can see all the white in my beard, I look impossibly senior, why I might even remember when Jesus landed the Ark on the moon or whatever. When colour hadn't been invented yet, and everything was televised in black and white.
Actually, I am easily disturbed; that more than anything is a sign of middle age.
And by the way, I define middle age as forty plus, but hella time before thinking about retirement. So don't try to guess, and don't ask any questions.
[Young, as in "young people on the bus", means college age, plus bright and fresh-faced. It could also mean sweet and yum-yum, but let us not veer into dirty old man territory, there's time enough for that.]
I have not yet grown up, I've just become a bit more stubborn.
The words "pissy old git" are NOT in my vocabulary.
Certainly not any part of my self-definition.
Neither is the word "fossil".
This morning I woke up with a song in my head. It is an appropriate tune for a day when I shall travel north to deal with the savage self-impressed heathens of Marin County, who are gluten intolerant, spiritual, artistic, and ever so bollocky enlightened about everything.
Whose food is often damned well inedible.
Lunch there is severely protestant.
Nothing good near work.
LET US BURN IT ALL DOWN!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTjxqZWWmgc.]
Fortunately, the suburban convenience store near my place of employ sells Sriracha sauce. Which goes on everything. Life, for a vibrant youngster of refined food sensitivities such as myself, would be nigh unendurable in Marin without Sriracha sauce.
Chicken salad sandwich. Tuna salad sandwich. Diablo chicken sandwich. Breakfast muffin with fried shit. And salad in a box.
In the suburbs, texture and jalapeños are anathema.
Fortunately, tomorrow and Thursday I do not work, and can stay in the city. I shall read, wander around Chinatown, sneer at tourists, ogle the charms of random female persons of various ages, and explore holes and alleys.
I will watch sparrows and blackbirds, and pet stray cats.
My pipes will be filled with stinky tobacco at times, roast meats may cross my plate and palate, and inappropriate smiles may twist my lips, rude giggles will be stifled.
Urban life is also better with Sriracha.
But it isn't absolutely essential.
There are other things.
Curry. Sardines. Anchovies. Milk tea. Cappucino. Lo pou bing, flaky charsiu rolls, egg tarts, red bean pastries, lienyong bing. Charsiu bao. Marzipan. Chocolate. Mango pudding, pork floss buns, pork siu mai, rice sheet noodle with shrimp, chive and pork dumplings, chicken buns, rice porridge. Crème brûlée. Rice stick noodles, five layer pork cooked with salt vegetables, bitter melon stirfried with pork or chicken, fish-flavour eggplant, steamed fish. Decent French fries. Béarnaise sauce, mustard stalks with oyster sauce, steamed pork patty, roast duck, steamed fish, grilled pork, steamed fatty pork, long beans, spare ribs, and little bokchoi. Asparagus. Italian meatballs, Spanish sausage.
Philippino food. And pizza with clams and garlic.
Second hand bookstores. Coffee shops.
Volumes of Calvin and Hobbes.
Bloom County
A cup of milk-tea, followed by a stroll and a smoke.
More Sriracha sauce.
Just think of me as a friendly badger, keenly interested in the sparkling personalities of people I encounter and the need to eat good things in a friendly environment. Sometimes full of piss.
Mature, but perky.
Not adult.
Yet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There are reading spectacles on my nose, and white streaks in my beard. Occasionally, in the middle of the night, I listen to a creaking sound and realize that it is a joint somewhere in one of my limbs.
Gout sometimes sends me a twinge or two.
To remind me of the years.
Young people offer me a seat on the bus.
That last part is VERY disturbing, as it says that in their innocent eyes, and from below where they can see all the white in my beard, I look impossibly senior, why I might even remember when Jesus landed the Ark on the moon or whatever. When colour hadn't been invented yet, and everything was televised in black and white.
Actually, I am easily disturbed; that more than anything is a sign of middle age.
And by the way, I define middle age as forty plus, but hella time before thinking about retirement. So don't try to guess, and don't ask any questions.
[Young, as in "young people on the bus", means college age, plus bright and fresh-faced. It could also mean sweet and yum-yum, but let us not veer into dirty old man territory, there's time enough for that.]
I have not yet grown up, I've just become a bit more stubborn.
The words "pissy old git" are NOT in my vocabulary.
Certainly not any part of my self-definition.
Neither is the word "fossil".
This morning I woke up with a song in my head. It is an appropriate tune for a day when I shall travel north to deal with the savage self-impressed heathens of Marin County, who are gluten intolerant, spiritual, artistic, and ever so bollocky enlightened about everything.
Whose food is often damned well inedible.
Lunch there is severely protestant.
Nothing good near work.
LET US BURN IT ALL DOWN!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTjxqZWWmgc.]
Fortunately, the suburban convenience store near my place of employ sells Sriracha sauce. Which goes on everything. Life, for a vibrant youngster of refined food sensitivities such as myself, would be nigh unendurable in Marin without Sriracha sauce.
Chicken salad sandwich. Tuna salad sandwich. Diablo chicken sandwich. Breakfast muffin with fried shit. And salad in a box.
In the suburbs, texture and jalapeños are anathema.
Fortunately, tomorrow and Thursday I do not work, and can stay in the city. I shall read, wander around Chinatown, sneer at tourists, ogle the charms of random female persons of various ages, and explore holes and alleys.
I will watch sparrows and blackbirds, and pet stray cats.
My pipes will be filled with stinky tobacco at times, roast meats may cross my plate and palate, and inappropriate smiles may twist my lips, rude giggles will be stifled.
Urban life is also better with Sriracha.
But it isn't absolutely essential.
There are other things.
Curry. Sardines. Anchovies. Milk tea. Cappucino. Lo pou bing, flaky charsiu rolls, egg tarts, red bean pastries, lienyong bing. Charsiu bao. Marzipan. Chocolate. Mango pudding, pork floss buns, pork siu mai, rice sheet noodle with shrimp, chive and pork dumplings, chicken buns, rice porridge. Crème brûlée. Rice stick noodles, five layer pork cooked with salt vegetables, bitter melon stirfried with pork or chicken, fish-flavour eggplant, steamed fish. Decent French fries. Béarnaise sauce, mustard stalks with oyster sauce, steamed pork patty, roast duck, steamed fish, grilled pork, steamed fatty pork, long beans, spare ribs, and little bokchoi. Asparagus. Italian meatballs, Spanish sausage.
Philippino food. And pizza with clams and garlic.
Second hand bookstores. Coffee shops.
Volumes of Calvin and Hobbes.
Bloom County
A cup of milk-tea, followed by a stroll and a smoke.
More Sriracha sauce.
Just think of me as a friendly badger, keenly interested in the sparkling personalities of people I encounter and the need to eat good things in a friendly environment. Sometimes full of piss.
Mature, but perky.
Not adult.
Yet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, June 08, 2015
WHAT ALL FACEBOOK PAGES ATTRACT
We've all been there. The long convoluted discussions that sneakily mutate into exchanges of craziness with people who are incapable of understanding nuance, grasping fine details, or seeing things in shades of grey.
At that point you belatedly realize that you entered the Twilight Zone.
To some people -- likable people -- all is black or white.
There are NO subtleties in their beautiful world.
Easy charm hides a lack of depth.
Nice, but seriously nuts.
Too fervid.
Often those people will betray a complete inability to understand irony, sarcasm, or wit. They are threatened by differences or dissent.
On Facebook, they are friends of friends. Of other friends.
Or friends because of friends.
As a side-note, I should mention that the internet age has not increased the number of stark-raving nuts, but it has given them an opportunity to reveal themselves. They've come out of the woodwork, and rather than painting a battered old Volkswagen bus all over with their paranoid religious texts or conspiracies (all caps!), they weasel their way onto comment strings, or seed webpages with their candy.
Precisely resembling spam-bots, except human.
Somewhat like the gentleman below.
SERIOUS PERSON WITH AN AGENDA
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?t=98&v=EEyUeCyXl1Q.]
There are times when I feel that I'm taking part in conversations like the ones in the video clip above.
Hearing someone read Baudelaire until I wish that unforeseen circumstance would strike them down.
Being forced to eat six really BIG cakes.
Cake could hurt a person, you know.
A baguette is harder than a skull.
I mention this because I am getting ready for another round of de-friending people on social media. At this point there are less than half a dozen candidates for excision left, but never-the-less their regular visits to the surface to exhale before heading down again to consume schools of plankton and squid are disturbing, so close to the boat.
I would wish them more sporadic.
Or entirely absent, even.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
To some people -- likable people -- all is black or white.
There are NO subtleties in their beautiful world.
Easy charm hides a lack of depth.
Nice, but seriously nuts.
Too fervid.
Often those people will betray a complete inability to understand irony, sarcasm, or wit. They are threatened by differences or dissent.
On Facebook, they are friends of friends. Of other friends.
Or friends because of friends.
As a side-note, I should mention that the internet age has not increased the number of stark-raving nuts, but it has given them an opportunity to reveal themselves. They've come out of the woodwork, and rather than painting a battered old Volkswagen bus all over with their paranoid religious texts or conspiracies (all caps!), they weasel their way onto comment strings, or seed webpages with their candy.
Precisely resembling spam-bots, except human.
Somewhat like the gentleman below.
SERIOUS PERSON WITH AN AGENDA
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?t=98&v=EEyUeCyXl1Q.]
There are times when I feel that I'm taking part in conversations like the ones in the video clip above.
Hearing someone read Baudelaire until I wish that unforeseen circumstance would strike them down.
Being forced to eat six really BIG cakes.
Cake could hurt a person, you know.
A baguette is harder than a skull.
I mention this because I am getting ready for another round of de-friending people on social media. At this point there are less than half a dozen candidates for excision left, but never-the-less their regular visits to the surface to exhale before heading down again to consume schools of plankton and squid are disturbing, so close to the boat.
I would wish them more sporadic.
Or entirely absent, even.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BUT WHAT DOES THIS DREAM MEAN?
It ended with me accompanying my brother as he bought a banana healthfood smoothie at the friendly hippie supermarket on Washington between Taylor and Jones at the top of Nob Hill. Somehow, the spelling difference between 'there' and they're' figured in. And it was daylight.
It started in the middle of the night before the deserted intersection of Montgomery and Washington, just past Redwood Park.
All of Chinatown lies in between. Kearny, Grant, Stockton, Powell, and Mason Streets.
EPISODE OF UNREALITY
In dreams, the mind takes random stimuli and invents occurrences that reinterpret these in a way that, for the moment, makes sense and allows for a flow that provides a semblance of continuity. Frequently the first part of the dream flows effortlessly into the next, but if all events in that dream are examined there is no narrative cohesion or logic.
This should always be a tip-off.
What comes next is a dream.
Not objective reality.
I took a running leap and landed on the long concrete berm outside the Chinatown Campus of City College, underneath the trees, which separated under the impact and rocketed away at inordinate speed, sliding (flying) uphill on the rain-slick cobblestones. Across Grant -- past a few startled pedestrians patiently waiting for the light to cross -- and leaping over Stockton Street. Across Powell, across Mason, and approaching Taylor. Realizing that if it continued at that angle and such a velocity over the crest of the hill I would be airborne, I guided it to the curb by angling my feet, as if it were a skateboard -- precisely like I had scooted between obstructions for the previous four blocks -- and the friction against the pedestrian pavement slowed it down, till just before the friendly hippie supermarket at Jones it finally came to a halt. My brother met me inside.
While it happened, I realized the unreality. Meeting my brother, who passed away years ago, confirmed that, though within the framework it made perfect sense.
Of course he would be at the top of the hill.
In between chess games.
OBJECTION!
The sequence of events shows several flaws.
The banana smoothie loaded with healthfood-type ingredients is something which Tobias would have spurned.
There is no 'friendly hippie supermarket' at Jones and Washington where the hill levels out. The cablecar tracks there descend a very steep slope, the intersection is anchored by a tall apartment building filled with elderly types who would indeed benefit from something yoghurty with banana and high-fibre, but I cannot picture them wishing to consume such, especially if bought from a friendly hippie supermarket.
It was daylight up there. The transition from deepest midnight to brightest morning takes several hours, even if there is no fog to slow things down.
And there had been no fog from Montgomery to Taylor.
There were far too many trees and shrubs along the route.
There had been too many pedestrians for that hour in Chinatown.
Portsmouth Square was missing, and the streets were paved with reddish cobblestones instead of blacktop.
No one seemed surprised at my remarkable upwardly mobile skateboard, although when I got to the deserted stretch of Washington between Taylor and Jones, where all the green leafy trees and shrubs are (not in the real world), I was worrying that flying a fifty foot concrete slab up hill would get me in some kind of trouble. Surely the municipal bureaucracy would object to someone taking off with their concrete item?
How long before they would miss it?
And review security film?
At that point, I realized that the trip it could only have been possible if that section of concrete had been made out of styrofoam, because of the weight, but with the tensile strength of wood. And that surfboarding uphill is, altogether, not possible. Certainly not at that great speed.
And not without panicking.
I ascribe all of this to what I had for dinner six hours ago.
Very juicy Italian meatballs with summer squash in a spicy red curry sauce, over white wheat noodles (關廟拉麵 'kwan-miu la-mien').
I may have overspiced it somewhat; it was SOOO good.
Probably shouldn't have had a cup of coffee afterwards.
It made me sleepy so I took a bit of a lie-down.
And at present I feel a twinge of gout.
I probably need a cigar.
You know, I rather wish there was a friendly hippie supermarket in an old brick firestation at Jones and California. I would put up with the enormous number of bananas, to which I'm allergic, if my brother did shop there.
It seemed altogether very pleasant and civilized, and the noise was subdued, so even my distaste for crowds did not kick in.
The only explanation for the 'there' or 'they're' issue is that there would have been a need for conversation. But I must doubt that he would have understood the intense ire I felt at the error I encountered earlier.
In that regard I am more of a noodge than he ever was.
I miss my brother. There was a kindness to Tobias, as well as a gentle quality. He was easily hurt, though he hid it well.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It started in the middle of the night before the deserted intersection of Montgomery and Washington, just past Redwood Park.
All of Chinatown lies in between. Kearny, Grant, Stockton, Powell, and Mason Streets.
EPISODE OF UNREALITY
In dreams, the mind takes random stimuli and invents occurrences that reinterpret these in a way that, for the moment, makes sense and allows for a flow that provides a semblance of continuity. Frequently the first part of the dream flows effortlessly into the next, but if all events in that dream are examined there is no narrative cohesion or logic.
This should always be a tip-off.
What comes next is a dream.
Not objective reality.
I took a running leap and landed on the long concrete berm outside the Chinatown Campus of City College, underneath the trees, which separated under the impact and rocketed away at inordinate speed, sliding (flying) uphill on the rain-slick cobblestones. Across Grant -- past a few startled pedestrians patiently waiting for the light to cross -- and leaping over Stockton Street. Across Powell, across Mason, and approaching Taylor. Realizing that if it continued at that angle and such a velocity over the crest of the hill I would be airborne, I guided it to the curb by angling my feet, as if it were a skateboard -- precisely like I had scooted between obstructions for the previous four blocks -- and the friction against the pedestrian pavement slowed it down, till just before the friendly hippie supermarket at Jones it finally came to a halt. My brother met me inside.
While it happened, I realized the unreality. Meeting my brother, who passed away years ago, confirmed that, though within the framework it made perfect sense.
Of course he would be at the top of the hill.
In between chess games.
OBJECTION!
The sequence of events shows several flaws.
The banana smoothie loaded with healthfood-type ingredients is something which Tobias would have spurned.
There is no 'friendly hippie supermarket' at Jones and Washington where the hill levels out. The cablecar tracks there descend a very steep slope, the intersection is anchored by a tall apartment building filled with elderly types who would indeed benefit from something yoghurty with banana and high-fibre, but I cannot picture them wishing to consume such, especially if bought from a friendly hippie supermarket.
It was daylight up there. The transition from deepest midnight to brightest morning takes several hours, even if there is no fog to slow things down.
And there had been no fog from Montgomery to Taylor.
There were far too many trees and shrubs along the route.
There had been too many pedestrians for that hour in Chinatown.
Portsmouth Square was missing, and the streets were paved with reddish cobblestones instead of blacktop.
No one seemed surprised at my remarkable upwardly mobile skateboard, although when I got to the deserted stretch of Washington between Taylor and Jones, where all the green leafy trees and shrubs are (not in the real world), I was worrying that flying a fifty foot concrete slab up hill would get me in some kind of trouble. Surely the municipal bureaucracy would object to someone taking off with their concrete item?
How long before they would miss it?
And review security film?
At that point, I realized that the trip it could only have been possible if that section of concrete had been made out of styrofoam, because of the weight, but with the tensile strength of wood. And that surfboarding uphill is, altogether, not possible. Certainly not at that great speed.
And not without panicking.
I ascribe all of this to what I had for dinner six hours ago.
Very juicy Italian meatballs with summer squash in a spicy red curry sauce, over white wheat noodles (關廟拉麵 'kwan-miu la-mien').
I may have overspiced it somewhat; it was SOOO good.
Probably shouldn't have had a cup of coffee afterwards.
It made me sleepy so I took a bit of a lie-down.
And at present I feel a twinge of gout.
I probably need a cigar.
You know, I rather wish there was a friendly hippie supermarket in an old brick firestation at Jones and California. I would put up with the enormous number of bananas, to which I'm allergic, if my brother did shop there.
It seemed altogether very pleasant and civilized, and the noise was subdued, so even my distaste for crowds did not kick in.
The only explanation for the 'there' or 'they're' issue is that there would have been a need for conversation. But I must doubt that he would have understood the intense ire I felt at the error I encountered earlier.
In that regard I am more of a noodge than he ever was.
I miss my brother. There was a kindness to Tobias, as well as a gentle quality. He was easily hurt, though he hid it well.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, June 07, 2015
CUTE BABIES
If the video below doesn't make you squeal with all the maternal warm fuzzies you can muster, there may be something wrong with you.
Seriously. Your nurturing instinct.
Possibly missing in action.
See a doctor.
OOH! AH! ADORABLE!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qJzK0U95TsQ.]
And below, from bat motherhood at its finest, Rachel and Reka.
SOFT LEATHERY MOM WINGS
[SOURCE: https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=668986376568030&pnref=story. ]
That should be enough cuteness to start your day.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Seriously. Your nurturing instinct.
Possibly missing in action.
See a doctor.
OOH! AH! ADORABLE!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qJzK0U95TsQ.]
And below, from bat motherhood at its finest, Rachel and Reka.
SOFT LEATHERY MOM WINGS
Baby Reka is now a couple of weeks old and all is going well for her and mum, Rachel.Although I mostly leave mum and bub alone it is important to keep a check on Reka's tummy to ensure she is getting enough milk and that she is growing well.The nights are cold in South East Queensland and baby Reka is kept warm and toasty wrapped protectively in her mothers wings.Bat mothers are wonderful mothers and they care for their babies with affection and dedication which is why we always try for a reunion when a baby is found low to or on the ground.It is a very special feeling to reunite a frantic mother with a screaming infant and to watch mum scoop her baby up in her soft leathery wings before flying off into the night together.
Posted by Batzilla the Bat on Wednesday, June 3, 2015
[SOURCE: https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=668986376568030&pnref=story. ]
That should be enough cuteness to start your day.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, June 06, 2015
RECORD OF A RUT
Back in March of this year I decided to note down every place to which I went in Chinatown for a while, to see if there was any insight my own habits could give me. What do I eat, and which places do I like?
I am fond of certain places for two primary reasons, two secondary reasons.
Primary reasons: the food, and the people who work there. These two are inextricably linked, as good food tastes much better with good people, and one can only think positively about someone who serves you something nice to eat. When your mouth is filled with buttery crumbs, your mind must smile.
Secondary reasons: price, and the presence or absence of tourists. These two are also linked, as often the lower priced places scare away foreign tourists, who at most wander in, say something unintelligible, look confused, and possibly buy a can of Coca Cola and/or the most recognizable item, to be shared by several people. Then wander out again as fast as their pudgy legs can carry them.
Discombobulation is fun to watch.
I'm a meanie.
My day-off jaunts to Chinatown are usually in the afternoon, because the other person in this apartment is a non-smoker, so I need to let the place air out for several hours to erase the odour of my indulgence.
Chinatown folks don't object to smoking on the street, whereas the downtown business district is infested with ultra-sensitive white people who start screaming at you if there's a pipe in your mouth.
Unless it's a pot pipe. Pot is green and therapeutic.
Vegans use it to boost their weak appetites.
Because they eat boring food.
Mary Jane.
PC.
Food items I really, really like, in no particular order: flaky charsiu rolls, egg tarts, red bean pastries, lienyong bing, pork floss buns, pork siu mai, rice sheet noodle with shrimp, chive and pork dumplings, chicken buns, rice porridge, rice stick noodles in any number of ways, five layer pork cooked with salt vegetables, bitter melon stirfried with pork or chicken, fish-flavour eggplant, steamed fish, mustard stalks with oyster sauce, steamed pork patty, roast duck, steamed fish, grilled pork, steamed fatty pork, long beans, spare ribs, and little bokchoi.
You will note that beef is not on this list.
Boo, beef industry, boo.
So, what significant things can I learn about myself from keeping a running list of the various eateries in Chinatown I visit regularly?
Other than that I am somewhat neurotic and cheap?
And off Monday, Wednesday, Thursday?
Plus a creature of habit.
Of course.
March 11: New Hollywood; morning snack.
March 12: Yummy Bakery; late afternoon tea.
March 16: Blossom Bakery; teatime.
March 18: Capitol Restaurant; dinner.
March 19: New Fortune; late lunch.
March 23: Yummy Dimsum & Fast Food: late lunch.
March 25: Blossom Bakery: afternoon snack.
March 26: Washington Bakery & Restaurant: snack.
March 30: New Fortune; lunch. Yummy Bakery; tea and snack.
April 1: New Moon Restaurant: roast duck rice. Blossom Bakery: teatime.
April 2: Washington Bakery & Restaurant; kongsi saammanji.
April 5: House of Dim Sum; snack. Capitol Restaurant; dinner.
April 6: New Fortune; lunch.
April 8: Man Kee; roast goose rice (late lunch).
April 9: Mexican somewhere on Polk Street; burrito de carnitas sin frijoles, con salsa picante.
April 13: Blossom Bakery; teatime.
April 15: Washington Bakery & Restaurant; kongsi saammanji.
April 16: House of Dim Sum; lo mai gai & wu gok.
April 20: New Fortune; late lunch.
April 22: Blossom Bakery; late afternoon - pork floss bun, egg tart, milk tea.
April 23: AA Bakery; two flaky charsiu rolls and milk tea at 6:30 PM.
April 27: Lan Tin on Powell; sesame ball and coffee at teatime.
April 29: Washington Bakery at suppertime; kongsi saammanji.
April 30: House of Dim Sum: dim sum at teatime.
May 4: New Moon Restaurant; roast duck rice.
May 6: Man Kee; roast goose rice.
May 7: AA Bakery; very late teatime.
May 11: Blossom Bakery; late teatime.
May 13: New Fortune; lunch. Washington Bakery & Restaurant; teatime snack.
May 14: stayed home all afternoon.
May 18: Kampo on Powell; early dinner - roast duck rice.
May 20: Washington Bakery and Restaurant; kongsi saammanji.
May 21: Blossom Bakery; teatime.
May 25: Capitol Restaurant; early dinner - chicken and bittermelon over rice.Washington Bakery & Restaurant; just a cup of hot milk tea after finishing a pipe.
May 27: New Fortune; late lunch - lo mai kai.
May 28: AA Bakery; very late tea time - charsiu turnover, egg tart.
June 1: New Moon Restaurant; late lunch - roast duck rice.
June 3: New Fortune; late lunch.
June 4: Blossom Bakery; teatime.
What jumps out is that roast duck trumps milk tea.
The places where I ate it did not have milk tea.
Teatime (4 - 5 PM) is extremely important.
And for some reason I cannot fathom I have an urge to eat a club sandwich every three weeks or so at the Washington Bakery & Restaurant. Perhaps it's the view of the street and the facing alley way from my preferred seat in the window. And the excellent milk tea.
Places visited most: New Fortune on Stockton for late lunch, Blossom Bakery on Waverly at teatime.
批：平園咖啡店&新華僑餐廳 。
You know, I very seldom have pie these days. I miss the Ping Yuen Coffeeshop, and also Sun Wah Kue. Both places had excellent pie.
Counter or table service, ice cream on top if you wished.
Pie is no longer really a Chinatown thing.
Next week, I think I'll have a kongsi saammanji.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I am fond of certain places for two primary reasons, two secondary reasons.
Primary reasons: the food, and the people who work there. These two are inextricably linked, as good food tastes much better with good people, and one can only think positively about someone who serves you something nice to eat. When your mouth is filled with buttery crumbs, your mind must smile.
Secondary reasons: price, and the presence or absence of tourists. These two are also linked, as often the lower priced places scare away foreign tourists, who at most wander in, say something unintelligible, look confused, and possibly buy a can of Coca Cola and/or the most recognizable item, to be shared by several people. Then wander out again as fast as their pudgy legs can carry them.
Discombobulation is fun to watch.
I'm a meanie.
My day-off jaunts to Chinatown are usually in the afternoon, because the other person in this apartment is a non-smoker, so I need to let the place air out for several hours to erase the odour of my indulgence.
Chinatown folks don't object to smoking on the street, whereas the downtown business district is infested with ultra-sensitive white people who start screaming at you if there's a pipe in your mouth.
Unless it's a pot pipe. Pot is green and therapeutic.
Vegans use it to boost their weak appetites.
Because they eat boring food.
Mary Jane.
PC.
Food items I really, really like, in no particular order: flaky charsiu rolls, egg tarts, red bean pastries, lienyong bing, pork floss buns, pork siu mai, rice sheet noodle with shrimp, chive and pork dumplings, chicken buns, rice porridge, rice stick noodles in any number of ways, five layer pork cooked with salt vegetables, bitter melon stirfried with pork or chicken, fish-flavour eggplant, steamed fish, mustard stalks with oyster sauce, steamed pork patty, roast duck, steamed fish, grilled pork, steamed fatty pork, long beans, spare ribs, and little bokchoi.
You will note that beef is not on this list.
Boo, beef industry, boo.
So, what significant things can I learn about myself from keeping a running list of the various eateries in Chinatown I visit regularly?
Other than that I am somewhat neurotic and cheap?
And off Monday, Wednesday, Thursday?
Plus a creature of habit.
Of course.
March 11: New Hollywood; morning snack.
March 12: Yummy Bakery; late afternoon tea.
March 16: Blossom Bakery; teatime.
March 18: Capitol Restaurant; dinner.
March 19: New Fortune; late lunch.
March 23: Yummy Dimsum & Fast Food: late lunch.
March 25: Blossom Bakery: afternoon snack.
March 26: Washington Bakery & Restaurant: snack.
March 30: New Fortune; lunch. Yummy Bakery; tea and snack.
April 1: New Moon Restaurant: roast duck rice. Blossom Bakery: teatime.
April 2: Washington Bakery & Restaurant; kongsi saammanji.
April 5: House of Dim Sum; snack. Capitol Restaurant; dinner.
April 6: New Fortune; lunch.
April 8: Man Kee; roast goose rice (late lunch).
April 9: Mexican somewhere on Polk Street; burrito de carnitas sin frijoles, con salsa picante.
April 13: Blossom Bakery; teatime.
April 15: Washington Bakery & Restaurant; kongsi saammanji.
April 16: House of Dim Sum; lo mai gai & wu gok.
April 20: New Fortune; late lunch.
April 22: Blossom Bakery; late afternoon - pork floss bun, egg tart, milk tea.
April 23: AA Bakery; two flaky charsiu rolls and milk tea at 6:30 PM.
April 27: Lan Tin on Powell; sesame ball and coffee at teatime.
April 29: Washington Bakery at suppertime; kongsi saammanji.
April 30: House of Dim Sum: dim sum at teatime.
May 4: New Moon Restaurant; roast duck rice.
May 6: Man Kee; roast goose rice.
May 7: AA Bakery; very late teatime.
May 11: Blossom Bakery; late teatime.
May 13: New Fortune; lunch. Washington Bakery & Restaurant; teatime snack.
May 14: stayed home all afternoon.
May 18: Kampo on Powell; early dinner - roast duck rice.
May 20: Washington Bakery and Restaurant; kongsi saammanji.
May 21: Blossom Bakery; teatime.
May 25: Capitol Restaurant; early dinner - chicken and bittermelon over rice.Washington Bakery & Restaurant; just a cup of hot milk tea after finishing a pipe.
May 27: New Fortune; late lunch - lo mai kai.
May 28: AA Bakery; very late tea time - charsiu turnover, egg tart.
June 1: New Moon Restaurant; late lunch - roast duck rice.
June 3: New Fortune; late lunch.
June 4: Blossom Bakery; teatime.
What jumps out is that roast duck trumps milk tea.
The places where I ate it did not have milk tea.
Teatime (4 - 5 PM) is extremely important.
And for some reason I cannot fathom I have an urge to eat a club sandwich every three weeks or so at the Washington Bakery & Restaurant. Perhaps it's the view of the street and the facing alley way from my preferred seat in the window. And the excellent milk tea.
Places visited most: New Fortune on Stockton for late lunch, Blossom Bakery on Waverly at teatime.
批：平園咖啡店&新華僑餐廳 。
You know, I very seldom have pie these days. I miss the Ping Yuen Coffeeshop, and also Sun Wah Kue. Both places had excellent pie.
Counter or table service, ice cream on top if you wished.
Pie is no longer really a Chinatown thing.
Next week, I think I'll have a kongsi saammanji.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, June 05, 2015
TEENAGE FONDNESSES
Our reading preferences change. At least, if we've got more than half a brain they do. Which is an almighty good thing, given the dreck that held our attention when we were teenagers. Sometimes what we read as bothered adolescents pales considerably by comparison to what we enjoyed in early childhood.
Here's the thing. We were mentally quite distinct before the growth and sex hormones kicked in and messed up our lives for the next six years.
With a bit of luck, we will become distinct again.
Although a bit more twisted.
Children do not have a natural purity and innocence, but they do have interesting minds and a clarity of focus. Teenagers, on the other hand, are dealing with a swollen brain and physical developments, awash with chemicals that their bodies had not produced in such a flood before; consequently they're zotsed. Unstable, and monstrous.
Darned well retarded for the duration.
Well, the boys are.
When I was nearly thirty I reread several of the Heinlein novels that had excited me as an teenager. They were boring, thematically uninspired, and obsessed with sex. Altogether very unhealthy stuff.
I do not think that Heinlein liked women.
Other than as physical items.
He didn't like men either, but that's neither here nor there, seeing as sex and romance in the Heinlein universe was overwhelmingly heterosexual and female-objectifying.
What had happened between my early teens and my re-reads is that my body had calmed down, and my brain was no longer in a state of permanent booby-hunger. Plus the added breadth and perspective of a further decade and a half made the sparkling newness of rampant Fantasy & Science Fiction sexuality far less crisp.
SWEATY TEENAGE HORMONES!
Piers Anthony was one of those writers with whom I experimented as a twelve or thirteen year old. It was the briefest of flirtations.
Mordechai in New York posted on his Facebook page recently: "If anyone suggests you read the Xanth books, don't just not listen. Unfriend them and get away from them fast. Consider burning their bookshelves to be safe."
Which quite naturally sparked my curiosity.
For which the internet was invented.
It inevitably lead me to this:
Revisiting the sad, mysogynistic fantasy of Xanth
As brutal retrospections go, it's a dynamite read. The author no longer likes what, as a hormonally sodden penis with eyes and legs, he loved. He has grown up, calmed down, and become human.
And Xanth no longer suits him.
A few juicy quotes:
"During his first meeting with Iris, the sorceress changes her appearance numerous times in an attempt to seduce Bink. First she appears as an older woman, then as a voluptuous woman, then as a 14-year-old girl: “very slender, lineless, and innocent.” Bink becomes overwhelmed by the smorgasbord of female flesh laid out before him; it’s a shame Xanth's pervasive magic doesn’t include Internet porn. "
"What exactly is the desire that Bink has, the one that dare not speak its name? Being able to have sex with a variety of women at the snap of his fingers? Or being able to have sex with a 14-year-old?
In hindsight, it’s not a stretch to assume the latter. Since the height of Anthony’s popularity in the ’80s (spurred also by bestselling series like Apprentice Adept and Incarnations Of Immortality), his work has become increasingly shunned for its hints of pedophilia."
"Apart from one dodgy comment about 14-year-olds, A Spell For Chameleon doesn’t have anything to do with pedophilia. It’s all good, old-fashioned misogyny. "
"Ultimately, Anthony is the worst kind of misogynist: one who defends his offensive views by saying, in essence, how could he possibly hate women if he’s drooling over them all the time?"
"Her magic ability is to become three distinct beings: Wynne, a borderline mentally retarded woman -- whose lack of intelligence goes hand in hand with her promiscuity [ -- ]. Dee, who is average in both looks and smarts, at least according to Bink, who has demonstrated a surplus of neither of those qualities himself; and Fanchon, a hideous hag with enough cold, calculating cleverness to intrigue Bink—and to rescue his ass on more than once occasion."
"Chameleon has no control over her metamorphosis. It occurs naturally and gradually according to a monthly—or rather, “lunar”—cycle that’s obviously meant as a metaphor for the menstrual cycle. Because, of course, that’s what a woman’s period does: turns them into either mindless fuck-bunnies or devious, penis-wilting shrews."
End cites.
Source: Jason Heller, on AVClub dot com.
What I liked about Jason Heller's boffo article was that it was slammingly critical, almost to the point of being mean-spirited, but focused and monochromatic. He did not veer into the other thematic elements (which I presume do exist in the Xanth series), nor flame the jejune puns and wordplays which gave other critics the creeps, but drills down into the raw slime he found when re-reading Anthony's material.
"If anyone suggests you read the Xanth books, don't just not listen. Unfriend them and get away from them fast. Consider burning their bookshelves to be safe."
Precisely why I stopped reading Heinlein is why I will not reread Piers Anthony. And several other authors.
I am no longer a teenager, and I no longer think with my dick.
Oh sure, I am dirty-minded and haamsap.
But I've got perspective.
* * * * *
By the way, the menstrual cycle never frightened me. As an eight-year old I had already read all about it, and found the material quite as fascinating as the function of the kidneys, and the ventricles of the heart.
Hormonal shifting, and the clockwork of the tissues.
Human biology still awakes my curiosity.
I really must revisit Vesalius.
Good reading.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Here's the thing. We were mentally quite distinct before the growth and sex hormones kicked in and messed up our lives for the next six years.
With a bit of luck, we will become distinct again.
Although a bit more twisted.
Children do not have a natural purity and innocence, but they do have interesting minds and a clarity of focus. Teenagers, on the other hand, are dealing with a swollen brain and physical developments, awash with chemicals that their bodies had not produced in such a flood before; consequently they're zotsed. Unstable, and monstrous.
Darned well retarded for the duration.
Well, the boys are.
When I was nearly thirty I reread several of the Heinlein novels that had excited me as an teenager. They were boring, thematically uninspired, and obsessed with sex. Altogether very unhealthy stuff.
I do not think that Heinlein liked women.
Other than as physical items.
He didn't like men either, but that's neither here nor there, seeing as sex and romance in the Heinlein universe was overwhelmingly heterosexual and female-objectifying.
What had happened between my early teens and my re-reads is that my body had calmed down, and my brain was no longer in a state of permanent booby-hunger. Plus the added breadth and perspective of a further decade and a half made the sparkling newness of rampant Fantasy & Science Fiction sexuality far less crisp.
SWEATY TEENAGE HORMONES!
Piers Anthony was one of those writers with whom I experimented as a twelve or thirteen year old. It was the briefest of flirtations.
Mordechai in New York posted on his Facebook page recently: "If anyone suggests you read the Xanth books, don't just not listen. Unfriend them and get away from them fast. Consider burning their bookshelves to be safe."
Which quite naturally sparked my curiosity.
For which the internet was invented.
It inevitably lead me to this:
Revisiting the sad, mysogynistic fantasy of Xanth
As brutal retrospections go, it's a dynamite read. The author no longer likes what, as a hormonally sodden penis with eyes and legs, he loved. He has grown up, calmed down, and become human.
And Xanth no longer suits him.
A few juicy quotes:
"During his first meeting with Iris, the sorceress changes her appearance numerous times in an attempt to seduce Bink. First she appears as an older woman, then as a voluptuous woman, then as a 14-year-old girl: “very slender, lineless, and innocent.” Bink becomes overwhelmed by the smorgasbord of female flesh laid out before him; it’s a shame Xanth's pervasive magic doesn’t include Internet porn. "
"What exactly is the desire that Bink has, the one that dare not speak its name? Being able to have sex with a variety of women at the snap of his fingers? Or being able to have sex with a 14-year-old?
In hindsight, it’s not a stretch to assume the latter. Since the height of Anthony’s popularity in the ’80s (spurred also by bestselling series like Apprentice Adept and Incarnations Of Immortality), his work has become increasingly shunned for its hints of pedophilia."
"Apart from one dodgy comment about 14-year-olds, A Spell For Chameleon doesn’t have anything to do with pedophilia. It’s all good, old-fashioned misogyny. "
"Ultimately, Anthony is the worst kind of misogynist: one who defends his offensive views by saying, in essence, how could he possibly hate women if he’s drooling over them all the time?"
"Her magic ability is to become three distinct beings: Wynne, a borderline mentally retarded woman -- whose lack of intelligence goes hand in hand with her promiscuity [ -- ]. Dee, who is average in both looks and smarts, at least according to Bink, who has demonstrated a surplus of neither of those qualities himself; and Fanchon, a hideous hag with enough cold, calculating cleverness to intrigue Bink—and to rescue his ass on more than once occasion."
"Chameleon has no control over her metamorphosis. It occurs naturally and gradually according to a monthly—or rather, “lunar”—cycle that’s obviously meant as a metaphor for the menstrual cycle. Because, of course, that’s what a woman’s period does: turns them into either mindless fuck-bunnies or devious, penis-wilting shrews."
End cites.
Source: Jason Heller, on AVClub dot com.
What I liked about Jason Heller's boffo article was that it was slammingly critical, almost to the point of being mean-spirited, but focused and monochromatic. He did not veer into the other thematic elements (which I presume do exist in the Xanth series), nor flame the jejune puns and wordplays which gave other critics the creeps, but drills down into the raw slime he found when re-reading Anthony's material.
"If anyone suggests you read the Xanth books, don't just not listen. Unfriend them and get away from them fast. Consider burning their bookshelves to be safe."
Precisely why I stopped reading Heinlein is why I will not reread Piers Anthony. And several other authors.
I am no longer a teenager, and I no longer think with my dick.
Oh sure, I am dirty-minded and haamsap.
But I've got perspective.
* * * * *
By the way, the menstrual cycle never frightened me. As an eight-year old I had already read all about it, and found the material quite as fascinating as the function of the kidneys, and the ventricles of the heart.
Hormonal shifting, and the clockwork of the tissues.
Human biology still awakes my curiosity.
I really must revisit Vesalius.
Good reading.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, June 04, 2015
SCREAMING AND SHOUTING WHILE HAVING.... ERRM, BETTER NOT MENTION THAT!
Probably the most entertaining news item this week is about the vibrant woman in Birmingham, England, who got thrown in jail for making an unChristian racket during physical acts of a procreative nature.
Gemma Wale's boisterous noise infuriated a neighbor.
Who had previously filed a complaint.
"Gemma started screaming and shouting whilst having XXX, which woke us up; this lasted 10 minutes."
All indications are that her boyfriend Wayne made this possible.
At approximately five in the morning.
On January 29.
Bless both Gemma and Wayne. Quite unlike the thoroughly deserved reputation for well-behaved frigidity and reserve which many people in England, Ireland, Wales, and Scotland have, these two are capable of getting it on with commendable verve and enthusiasm.
There's hope for Britain yet.
I foresee endorsement contracts in their future.
Not necessarily for earplugs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Gemma Wale's boisterous noise infuriated a neighbor.
Who had previously filed a complaint.
"Gemma started screaming and shouting whilst having XXX, which woke us up; this lasted 10 minutes."
All indications are that her boyfriend Wayne made this possible.
At approximately five in the morning.
On January 29.
Bless both Gemma and Wayne. Quite unlike the thoroughly deserved reputation for well-behaved frigidity and reserve which many people in England, Ireland, Wales, and Scotland have, these two are capable of getting it on with commendable verve and enthusiasm.
There's hope for Britain yet.
I foresee endorsement contracts in their future.
Not necessarily for earplugs.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, June 03, 2015
SNARFING GOODIES ON STOCKTON STREET
As I often do, I went hunting for lunch in Chinatown today. Which almost inevitably meant items composed of pork and other substances plus a cup of coffee, followed by a pipefull of good tobacco.
Nothing particularly surprising there.
And other than eating at the dimsummery where they know me, I did not spend much time on Stockton Street. It was windy, and I do not need to do any grocery shopping today.
The single middle-aged pipe-smoker (me) does not purchase very much food; for one person, even with several meals at home, there's not much that is required. There are only so many fascinating new ingredients that one can play with.
If I were a householder, I would probably freak out my kin, however.
"What is it?"
"Something black and fungoid. Try it!"
"No way. Damn you, why can't we have burgers for once?"
And so, once again, there would be more for me, and I would make loud vulgar smacking sounds as I enjoyed my own culinary genius. The others at the table, ESPECIALLY the wee ones, would look on resentfully, while thinking of grey cow meat between sponges.
Can't really do that as a single man; it echoes a bit.
On the other hand, everything with hot sauce is distinctly possible.
Everything.
In San Francisco, most of us who are not involved in a relationship, or not eating with family, dump buckets of saucy stuff on our food. We maintain little condiment ghettos where the packets of soy sauce or mustard (and ketchup, for the aforementioned grey cow) we didn't use yet live.
Someday they will be needed.
After the next earthquake and tidal wave we'll trade them for penicillin and women's stockings. Plus apples and chocolate.
I figure that with two or three extra bottles of Sriracha, mayonnaise, plus a jerry can or two of cooking oil and soy sauce, I can be the next gangster kingpin of San Francisco.
I'll make a killing.
I have been single for about five years now.
On the plus side, I always get to eat porky substances with hot sauce whenever I want. Within reason, of course, not late at night; dimsum is strictly a daytime thing. And I also get to wander the streets of Nob, Russian, and Telegraph with a pipe in my mouth admiring the fading late afternoon light, or the fog slithering in from the ocean.
Altogether very poetic.
[Actually, given the beastly weather, the wandering around amounts mostly to huddling in a doorway out of the wind while watching tourists shivering from a distance. San Francisco in the summer is a frigid grey place, with bitter winds.]
On the minus side, well, there's no cuddles.
That's kind of a downer.
"You know why the sea is salty? That's from the tears of thousands of sharks, who just want to be hugged!"
Still, porky substances, rice, hot sauce, and a pipe.
All over the city there are people who just wish they had that luxury. You know, married men, young mothers, high school seniors, gay men in complex multi-partner relationships, stubborn little girls, Indian computer programmers living in a house-hold of judgemental fratboys, medical personnel with images to uphold.....
DUDE...!
I haven't seen any shitty movies in years, either.
Two people can have such wildly different ideas about new releases that often they are not at all on the same page regarding Hollywood films.
I like The Big Lebowski, Apocalypse Now, and Monty Python And The Holy Grail, whereas deeply meaningful and sensitive stuff leaves me drained.
I saw King Of Masks over thirty times.
Now that's a real man's movie!
On the other hand, Saving Private Ryan, Schindler's List, Good Will Hunting, The Shawshank Redemption, and The Talented Mr. Ripley never even got one trip to the theatre.
I did see The English Patient, Pretty Woman, and The Piano.
No intention of watching them ever again.
My idea of a perfect date, either with a new love (hoohah!) or someone longtime near-and-dear (yes, I'm giggling as I write this) is steamed fish for two, with rice, and some stir-fried bivalves with black-bean sauce, plus yauchoi, at a noisy Chinese restaurant -- I know just the place, four or five them in fact -- followed by a long stroll in the frigid summer twilight.
Both of us will be well-bundled up for warmth, and while I smoke an afterdinner pipe filled with a nice English flake, she'll enjoy either a cigarillo or a Davidoff Short Perfecto. Or maybe her own pipe.
Occassionally we'll see cats or raccoons.
The fog will shroud us all.
Afterwards, perhaps to the Caffe Trieste for a warm beverage.
The single person cannot eat a whole fish; it is usually too much.
That's actually a very good argument for romance.
Yes, this post is mislabelled.
Sorry for the tangent.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Nothing particularly surprising there.
And other than eating at the dimsummery where they know me, I did not spend much time on Stockton Street. It was windy, and I do not need to do any grocery shopping today.
The single middle-aged pipe-smoker (me) does not purchase very much food; for one person, even with several meals at home, there's not much that is required. There are only so many fascinating new ingredients that one can play with.
If I were a householder, I would probably freak out my kin, however.
"What is it?"
"Something black and fungoid. Try it!"
"No way. Damn you, why can't we have burgers for once?"
And so, once again, there would be more for me, and I would make loud vulgar smacking sounds as I enjoyed my own culinary genius. The others at the table, ESPECIALLY the wee ones, would look on resentfully, while thinking of grey cow meat between sponges.
Can't really do that as a single man; it echoes a bit.
On the other hand, everything with hot sauce is distinctly possible.
Everything.
In San Francisco, most of us who are not involved in a relationship, or not eating with family, dump buckets of saucy stuff on our food. We maintain little condiment ghettos where the packets of soy sauce or mustard (and ketchup, for the aforementioned grey cow) we didn't use yet live.
Someday they will be needed.
After the next earthquake and tidal wave we'll trade them for penicillin and women's stockings. Plus apples and chocolate.
I figure that with two or three extra bottles of Sriracha, mayonnaise, plus a jerry can or two of cooking oil and soy sauce, I can be the next gangster kingpin of San Francisco.
I'll make a killing.
I have been single for about five years now.
On the plus side, I always get to eat porky substances with hot sauce whenever I want. Within reason, of course, not late at night; dimsum is strictly a daytime thing. And I also get to wander the streets of Nob, Russian, and Telegraph with a pipe in my mouth admiring the fading late afternoon light, or the fog slithering in from the ocean.
Altogether very poetic.
[Actually, given the beastly weather, the wandering around amounts mostly to huddling in a doorway out of the wind while watching tourists shivering from a distance. San Francisco in the summer is a frigid grey place, with bitter winds.]
On the minus side, well, there's no cuddles.
That's kind of a downer.
"You know why the sea is salty? That's from the tears of thousands of sharks, who just want to be hugged!"
Still, porky substances, rice, hot sauce, and a pipe.
All over the city there are people who just wish they had that luxury. You know, married men, young mothers, high school seniors, gay men in complex multi-partner relationships, stubborn little girls, Indian computer programmers living in a house-hold of judgemental fratboys, medical personnel with images to uphold.....
DUDE...!
I haven't seen any shitty movies in years, either.
Two people can have such wildly different ideas about new releases that often they are not at all on the same page regarding Hollywood films.
I like The Big Lebowski, Apocalypse Now, and Monty Python And The Holy Grail, whereas deeply meaningful and sensitive stuff leaves me drained.
I saw King Of Masks over thirty times.
Now that's a real man's movie!
On the other hand, Saving Private Ryan, Schindler's List, Good Will Hunting, The Shawshank Redemption, and The Talented Mr. Ripley never even got one trip to the theatre.
I did see The English Patient, Pretty Woman, and The Piano.
No intention of watching them ever again.
My idea of a perfect date, either with a new love (hoohah!) or someone longtime near-and-dear (yes, I'm giggling as I write this) is steamed fish for two, with rice, and some stir-fried bivalves with black-bean sauce, plus yauchoi, at a noisy Chinese restaurant -- I know just the place, four or five them in fact -- followed by a long stroll in the frigid summer twilight.
Both of us will be well-bundled up for warmth, and while I smoke an afterdinner pipe filled with a nice English flake, she'll enjoy either a cigarillo or a Davidoff Short Perfecto. Or maybe her own pipe.
Occassionally we'll see cats or raccoons.
The fog will shroud us all.
Afterwards, perhaps to the Caffe Trieste for a warm beverage.
The single person cannot eat a whole fish; it is usually too much.
That's actually a very good argument for romance.
Yes, this post is mislabelled.
Sorry for the tangent.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
UPPING THE DIETARY FIBRE INTAKE QUITE STAGGERINGLY
Sometimes food experiments go disastrously wrong. But I know better now. Last night I cooked a vegetable that I may never have eaten before, and rather regretted the result.
I cut the vegetable in chunks, put them in the pan.
Added chopped bacon and sliced ginger.
When everything was nice and fragrant, I added a splash of water, a hefty dollop of chili paste, some fish dew, and a squeeze of lime.
Then cooked it down till glazey with pan-juices.
Dumped it over rice stick noodles.
And sat down to feast.
Dang that was unpleasant!
The taste was fine. Splendid, in fact. But this damned new vegetable was incredibly fibrous!
After I finished, there was a large pile of stringy green steel-wool in the ashtray next to my seat.
萵筍［莴笋］
WO SEUN
To the people who know this in English, it is 'celtuce', or 'asparagus lettuce'. And yes, it IS edible. The Chinese name for lactuca sativa angustata means 'lettuce bamboo-shoot', and that is appropriate, given the fibrous quality.
This stemmed lettuce has a pleasant and slightly bitter pith, surrounded by a dense wall of fibres that cannot be chewed. Wherefore the next time I cook it, I shall peel the bejazous out of it, and simmer it a whole lot longer. A slow-braise seems like it might work.
Or perhaps boil peeled chunks in lightly salted water for ten minutes before doing anything else with it.
It would go very well stirfried with chicken bits and fermented black bean sauce -- touch of garlic and ginger -- or dried shrimp and tamarind broth à l'Indonésienne, with a touch of galangal and ripped fresh herbs.
If fully cooked soft, it could be incorporated into an oyster omelette to good effect.
Or, perhaps, as a humble accompaniment to the noble boiled lobster.
A cooked lemon & mustard butter-sauce with capers and anchovies.
The comparison with asparagus in the second name is apt.
It might also make good nautical rope.
Or paper! Yes, paper!
It is, apparently, a very popular vegetable among the Chinese.
I like the flavour -- it possesses a mild grassy sweet freshness with a slight hint of bitter -- so I will most definitely purchase this thing again.
But I will bejazously out peel and thoroughly more cook it.
I can see where it might have a good texture then.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I cut the vegetable in chunks, put them in the pan.
Added chopped bacon and sliced ginger.
When everything was nice and fragrant, I added a splash of water, a hefty dollop of chili paste, some fish dew, and a squeeze of lime.
Then cooked it down till glazey with pan-juices.
Dumped it over rice stick noodles.
And sat down to feast.
Dang that was unpleasant!
The taste was fine. Splendid, in fact. But this damned new vegetable was incredibly fibrous!
After I finished, there was a large pile of stringy green steel-wool in the ashtray next to my seat.
萵筍［莴笋］
WO SEUN
To the people who know this in English, it is 'celtuce', or 'asparagus lettuce'. And yes, it IS edible. The Chinese name for lactuca sativa angustata means 'lettuce bamboo-shoot', and that is appropriate, given the fibrous quality.
This stemmed lettuce has a pleasant and slightly bitter pith, surrounded by a dense wall of fibres that cannot be chewed. Wherefore the next time I cook it, I shall peel the bejazous out of it, and simmer it a whole lot longer. A slow-braise seems like it might work.
Or perhaps boil peeled chunks in lightly salted water for ten minutes before doing anything else with it.
It would go very well stirfried with chicken bits and fermented black bean sauce -- touch of garlic and ginger -- or dried shrimp and tamarind broth à l'Indonésienne, with a touch of galangal and ripped fresh herbs.
If fully cooked soft, it could be incorporated into an oyster omelette to good effect.
Or, perhaps, as a humble accompaniment to the noble boiled lobster.
A cooked lemon & mustard butter-sauce with capers and anchovies.
The comparison with asparagus in the second name is apt.
It might also make good nautical rope.
Or paper! Yes, paper!
It is, apparently, a very popular vegetable among the Chinese.
I like the flavour -- it possesses a mild grassy sweet freshness with a slight hint of bitter -- so I will most definitely purchase this thing again.
But I will bejazously out peel and thoroughly more cook it.
I can see where it might have a good texture then.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, June 02, 2015
ARE YOU TORMENTED BY MOSQUITOES?
There are times when the grown man must admit something mildly embarrassing. Which I shall do now, it being late in the evening, and the customary weekly Bohemianism postponed due to a head-cold by the other participant in this twenty-plus year North-Beachian tradition.
I've had two strong cups of coffee since dinner.
The grown man is wide awake.
And talkative.
[Explicatum: Two gentlemen of a bookish bent go out and have whiskey while talking about affairs of the world in three seedy dives on a regular basis. Screaming is involved; one of the places has karaoke. Snide comments ensue. But not tonight.]
What I remember most about today (a work day) was a set of tatas. They're home for the summer, and a two year anniversary is coming up. They wish to scope out what is available prior to purchasing a nice anniversary gift.
There are no mosquitoes in Marin, but plenty of them in Ohio.
Where one of the tatas got bitten by a spider
It's amazing what nicotine does to the human speech organ.
This blogger likes college students.
They're so young and fresh and puppy-like.
Unfortunately, I cannot really remember her face, which was clearly visible. The tatas were somewhat coy, and far less visible. Although they seemed ready to spring out at a moments notice, possibly shouting "boo!".
Or "gotcha!". Then rejoicing in the startlement.
Bouncing up and down in giddy joy.
Hah! Surprised him!
When I think of tatas, quite naturally I think of leche flan, and either fruit or chocolate. Or sand dunes in slanting rays of the sun.
I blame my indulgence in several pipe tobaccos today for this predicament.
First smoke was a mild Virginia mixture of my own devising (medium on the nicotine), second smoke was HH Old Dark Fired (a smooth kick in the head as regards nicotine), third smoke was a corojo in a robusto form (holy mackerel, nicotine-wise), White Knight by Russ Oullette in a Peterson Prince after that, then a bowlful of brown flake before a late lunch.......
The tatas wandered in after lunch, right around tea-time.
Normally I ask college students what they're studying.
This time the conversation went slightly berserk.
I think I may have mentioned mosquito nets.
And snow-pear incense late at night.
Plus chilies and bananas.
It's been years since I put up the mosquito net around my bed; bugs don't find me yummy at all. As a white pipe smoker with overmuch chili pepper in my diet, I'm just not a target. I probably taste pretty horrid.
Bananas, apparently, make one much sweeter.
I do not eat bananas.
To recap: bananas, snow-pear incense, mosquito nets, and tatas; one could very well imagine that these subjects hid mental turbulence.
And I am normally such a restrained man!
Oh yeah, I had lots of caffeine too.
And Sriracha with my lunch.
It was a good day.
Tatas.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I've had two strong cups of coffee since dinner.
The grown man is wide awake.
And talkative.
[Explicatum: Two gentlemen of a bookish bent go out and have whiskey while talking about affairs of the world in three seedy dives on a regular basis. Screaming is involved; one of the places has karaoke. Snide comments ensue. But not tonight.]
What I remember most about today (a work day) was a set of tatas. They're home for the summer, and a two year anniversary is coming up. They wish to scope out what is available prior to purchasing a nice anniversary gift.
There are no mosquitoes in Marin, but plenty of them in Ohio.
Where one of the tatas got bitten by a spider
It's amazing what nicotine does to the human speech organ.
This blogger likes college students.
They're so young and fresh and puppy-like.
Unfortunately, I cannot really remember her face, which was clearly visible. The tatas were somewhat coy, and far less visible. Although they seemed ready to spring out at a moments notice, possibly shouting "boo!".
Or "gotcha!". Then rejoicing in the startlement.
Bouncing up and down in giddy joy.
Hah! Surprised him!
When I think of tatas, quite naturally I think of leche flan, and either fruit or chocolate. Or sand dunes in slanting rays of the sun.
I blame my indulgence in several pipe tobaccos today for this predicament.
First smoke was a mild Virginia mixture of my own devising (medium on the nicotine), second smoke was HH Old Dark Fired (a smooth kick in the head as regards nicotine), third smoke was a corojo in a robusto form (holy mackerel, nicotine-wise), White Knight by Russ Oullette in a Peterson Prince after that, then a bowlful of brown flake before a late lunch.......
The tatas wandered in after lunch, right around tea-time.
Normally I ask college students what they're studying.
This time the conversation went slightly berserk.
I think I may have mentioned mosquito nets.
And snow-pear incense late at night.
Plus chilies and bananas.
It's been years since I put up the mosquito net around my bed; bugs don't find me yummy at all. As a white pipe smoker with overmuch chili pepper in my diet, I'm just not a target. I probably taste pretty horrid.
Bananas, apparently, make one much sweeter.
I do not eat bananas.
To recap: bananas, snow-pear incense, mosquito nets, and tatas; one could very well imagine that these subjects hid mental turbulence.
And I am normally such a restrained man!
Oh yeah, I had lots of caffeine too.
And Sriracha with my lunch.
It was a good day.
Tatas.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THEY'RE SWINGING FROM THE CHANDELIERS
There was a crazy person on the bus, alternating between comatose and freely gibberant. The young lady next to whom he sat got up and stood in the aisle for the rest of her journey. I think he took that amiss; he babbled with greater agitation, and swung his head in wild circles.
No, I didn't do anything about it.
There were other folks far closer.
Besides, he seemed harmless enough. Incomprehensible, insane, and quite unfocused. Sad to say, his behaviour probably provided many passengers with something to talk about once they came home.
"Alas, there was a crazy person on the bus", they will begin, "who made everyone feel somewhat uncomfortable". And their housemates will exclaim in ooh and aah, before remarking that either it was a gluten allergy or possibly global warming.
Part of the problem is that back in the sixties we tipped the country sideways and all the goony birds slid down into the catch drain.
Part of the problem is that we encourage a wide spectrum of alternate reality in San Francisco.
And part of the problem is that Reagan when he was governor opened all the booby hatches to increase the number of Republican voters.
That is why they named an airport after him.
When the economic bubble bursts and all the internet start-ups go down the tubes, all the new residents will go back to Iowa and Ohio, even the numerous South Asians, people of British derivation, and Brazilians.
Unfortunately they will leave us all the crazies that they made homeless when they drove up rents.
Please guys, take your loonies with you!
Have you no compassion at all?
Oh, sorry, I quite forgot.
You're all Repubs.
Dammit!
San Francisco has nearly the twice the level of recreational drug use as the rest of the nation. No, that isn't the long-established nutballs, be real. They can't afford narcotics and designer chemicals, they're perfectly unhappy with alcohol. It's the programmers, marketing types, and proud designers of new exciting bees knees apps that have flocked here since the take-over by the tech industry. The glandular beast contingent.
When you work all day and party all night, you need help.
Comforting reliable chemical assists.
Hip bromides.
Heroin, methamphetamine, cocaine, and pineal gland extract.
The hormonal secretions of abducted tourists.
Concentrated pheromones.
Plus energy drinks.
You rockstar, you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, I didn't do anything about it.
There were other folks far closer.
Besides, he seemed harmless enough. Incomprehensible, insane, and quite unfocused. Sad to say, his behaviour probably provided many passengers with something to talk about once they came home.
"Alas, there was a crazy person on the bus", they will begin, "who made everyone feel somewhat uncomfortable". And their housemates will exclaim in ooh and aah, before remarking that either it was a gluten allergy or possibly global warming.
Part of the problem is that back in the sixties we tipped the country sideways and all the goony birds slid down into the catch drain.
Part of the problem is that we encourage a wide spectrum of alternate reality in San Francisco.
And part of the problem is that Reagan when he was governor opened all the booby hatches to increase the number of Republican voters.
That is why they named an airport after him.
When the economic bubble bursts and all the internet start-ups go down the tubes, all the new residents will go back to Iowa and Ohio, even the numerous South Asians, people of British derivation, and Brazilians.
Unfortunately they will leave us all the crazies that they made homeless when they drove up rents.
Please guys, take your loonies with you!
Have you no compassion at all?
Oh, sorry, I quite forgot.
You're all Repubs.
Dammit!
San Francisco has nearly the twice the level of recreational drug use as the rest of the nation. No, that isn't the long-established nutballs, be real. They can't afford narcotics and designer chemicals, they're perfectly unhappy with alcohol. It's the programmers, marketing types, and proud designers of new exciting bees knees apps that have flocked here since the take-over by the tech industry. The glandular beast contingent.
When you work all day and party all night, you need help.
Comforting reliable chemical assists.
Hip bromides.
Heroin, methamphetamine, cocaine, and pineal gland extract.
The hormonal secretions of abducted tourists.
Concentrated pheromones.
Plus energy drinks.
You rockstar, you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, June 01, 2015
INDIVIDUALS WITH DRIVE!
Four years ago I mentioned several nice things to think about: Chocolate cake, wonton noodle soup, steamed oysters, roshgullas, flaky meat pies, bon bons, romance novels, romantic vampires, samosas, and dairy products.....
Yankee pot-roast, madeleines, pudding.
Crustaceans, pizza, dim sum.
With the exception of the romance novels and romantic vampires, that list is still something I can solidly support.
I'm afraid that both steamy novels and lithe sexy vampires would set me off into a fit of the giggles if I were confronted with them; consequently at this time I wish to substite complex word problems and Minions.
RESPECT, POWER, BANANA!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVDk7PXNXB8.]
There are times when I fondly imagine the people around me to be minions. Especially on the bus; it makes them much more acceptable.
But not just the bus; everywhere.
Lovable ineptitude.
Purpose!
Work?
Minions.
Restaurants?
Minions.
Post office?
Minions.
Sales and Marketing department people?
Minions.
The United States Congress?
Errm. No. Idiots.
. . . . .
Cigar smokers?
Minions.
Well, loud boisterous minions.
With robust (i.e.: bad) breath.
Easily distracted by television.
Life is better with small yellow anarchists.
They're just filled with caffeine!
Naturally.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Crustaceans, pizza, dim sum.
With the exception of the romance novels and romantic vampires, that list is still something I can solidly support.
I'm afraid that both steamy novels and lithe sexy vampires would set me off into a fit of the giggles if I were confronted with them; consequently at this time I wish to substite complex word problems and Minions.
RESPECT, POWER, BANANA!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVDk7PXNXB8.]
There are times when I fondly imagine the people around me to be minions. Especially on the bus; it makes them much more acceptable.
But not just the bus; everywhere.
Lovable ineptitude.
Purpose!
Work?
Minions.
Restaurants?
Minions.
Post office?
Minions.
Sales and Marketing department people?
Minions.
The United States Congress?
Errm. No. Idiots.
. . . . .
Cigar smokers?
Minions.
Well, loud boisterous minions.
With robust (i.e.: bad) breath.
Easily distracted by television.
Life is better with small yellow anarchists.
They're just filled with caffeine!
Naturally.
==========================================================================
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,...
