The southern part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands fades from coastal or estuarine swampland in the west to gently rolling countryside on the way to Germany, along the way displaying peat bog, scrub and wooded stretches, expanses of farmland, and small towns whose church spires are visible afar. This is the often beautiful and sometimes depressing scenery of Vincent Van Gogh, and earlier, Brueghel.
Here lie the landscapes that inspire, and will cause obsession.
They form and malform the visual imagination.
Malleable points of reference.
Dreams.
And madness.
A family from California once headed in this direction, and settled down.
It appeared to be a good idea at the time.
TENANT FARMERS, SAND, AND FALCONRY
Valkenswaard, which lies in the east of this area, is equidistant from Eindhoven to the north and the Belgian border southwards. Pine forests start on the north side of town, fields stretch to the Dommel river on the west, and farms give way to the Malpy Fens a few miles before the frontier.
It seems isolated, but nowhere in the entire benelux is truly distant from anywhere.
Not if you receive deliveries from Blackwell's Bookstore in Oxford.
Book deliveries from the civilized world, Dundee Marmalade, Twinings Tea, and tinned plumpudding, are the mark of exiles worldwide. Along with Rattrays tobacco blends, and the Balkan Sobranie smoking mixture.
Having returned to the United States long ago, what I really want nowadays is the occasional pouch of Heerenbaai Tabak, which is ribbon-cut Maryland leaf, soft and fragrant ("zacht en geurig"), strong Dutch coffee, and, naturally, deep fried objects that cannot be described.
[Strong Dutch Coffee: most of the still extant native brands are now of questionable provenance, having been buggered up by an American company, then off-shored, and finally associated with yet another miserable American multinational in a German guise.]
Our house was diagonally opposite the Saint Nicholas Church, next to the Kerkweg. Driessen's drugstore was on the other side of the Kerkweg. The police station was down the block, facing the apotheek as well as the old Amsterdam Bank building across the square.
Small businesses, grocery stores, wholesalers of dry goods, household goods, banks, a bicycle repair shop, and insurance companies, alternating with private dwellings and the occasional eatery.
There weren't very many cafes or restaurants in the centre of town then, but the last time I went back for a visit, every other building on the Markt Plein, Luikerweg, Leenderweg, and elsewhere had been turned into an eatery or drinking hole. Mostly drinking holes.
My childhood home is now a bar.
From this you might assume that alcoholism presents a major business opportunity in Valkenswaard, and you would probably be right. But tobacco has a much stronger history.
At one time there were over two dozen small cigar factories. They're gone now, but they are fondly remembered. The last two (Hofnar and Willem II) shut down in the nineteen eighties and nineties respectively. Nearly every family had based its march from the grinding poverty of the nineteenth century to the middle-class prosperity of the twenty first by means of employment in the smoking trade.
[Small cigar factories: Starting in 1865 when falconer Jan van Best established a small manufactury with money he had been left by a patron, there were over twenty such by the end of second decade of the twentieth century, employing leaf-strippers, bunchers, rollers, and warehousemen. Mostly younger women rolled the narrower diameter smokes, more practised hands produced the coronas and figurados. By the midtwenties, nearly half of the working population was employed in tobacco. It was an occupation that for over a century seldom experienced unemployment.]
When I was a child, tobacco was not part of my personal programme yet. But coffee, French fries, and the occasional unidentifiable fast-food comestible, along with books, definitely had a place in my life.
[Unidentifiable fast-food comestibles: frikandel, kroket, bami bal, nasi bal. Delicious.]
Every Wednesday afternoon I would park my bicycle outside of Priem's bookstore, go in, and spend two or three hours happily reading. They didn't have much in English, but their selection of fun stuff in Dutch was rather good, as was the section with comic books. They are still in business, and flourishing more than ever.
On a rainy afternoon, nothing was more enjoyable than forgetting the entire world while safe and dry amidst books.
Eventually I also discovered De Slegte in Eindhoven, as well as autres bibliothèques et librairies, but in Valkenswaard, Priem was an oasis.
I shall imagine that later crops of young people have also gratefully discovered the place, and likewise savoured time spent there.
Boekhandel Priem is a priceless treasure.
It's where the world begins.
THE TIME OF FRAGRANT LEAVES
The tobacconist next door to Priem is no longer in business, but far further down the Eindhovensche Weg the shop where I picked up tins of Balkan Sobranie and wonderful cigar factory seconds during my high school years has been transformed into Compaenen van Ravenstein, an emporium of luxury smokers requisites, including both Cubanos as well as Dutch cigars, and a selection of wines which might be enjoyed with your smoke.
They don't appear to be set up for internet purchases, but they can be contacted: write a letter to Messrs Meulensteen.
Returning to the United States after a trip back years ago, my luggage was filled with Dutch literature and cigars. Approaching customs I staggered under the weight, and was filthy, sweaty, exhausted.
"Do you have anything to declare?"
"No sir, not a thing."
"What's in your bags?"
"Books and dirty laundry. Lots of dirty laundry."
"I see..... Welcome home."
There's something about a fine Dutch cheroot that makes life grand.
It's worth suffering for.
The store is now in its second or third generation of ownership, and bigger and better than ever. Harry van Ravenstein, who sold the business in 2008, knows all about pairing pipe-tobacco and Scotch Whisky.
Which is priceless information.
THE ROAD TO THE REST OF THE WORLD
Closer to the Meerendreef, which marks the northern boundary of the settlement, the old house with the straw thatched roof where rats lived above the residents is, of course, a precious architectural masterpiece, and carefully preserved. We had a chance to buy it, and chose not to.
My mother did not want to sleep under so much combustible material.
Or the rats. For some reason she wasn't okay with rats.
I passed it every day during my teenage years.
It looked like a comfortable house.
The High School to which I went no longer exists -- conceivably too many brilliant graduates went on to stints in prison for brigandage or incendiary activities -- and the youth club where I hatched any number of plots to take over the world, along with several dissolute comrades of a similar bent, closed many years ago also.
[Youth club: Jeugdociëteit Parsifal. Formerly Aquaradius, in the Draaikolk building on the Maastrichterweg, where it was on the top floor, and, apparently, considered a serious nuisance. When that location was closed down, the intellectual rowdies invaded a working men's bar near Willem II for over a year, until the municipality relented and rented us an abandoned and falling apart building on the Eindhovenscheweg, on the condition that we act nicely, and also fix up the premises. I spent many happy afternoons and twilights there, swilling tea and smoking dark stinky Latakia blends in my pipe. It was just up the road from the aforementioned tobacconist.]
A long time ago, Plane Tree Lane ("Plataanlaan") past the Hertog Jan College was a spooky deserted area permanently in the shade from the old growth, but the last time I saw it it seemed gilded with sunlight, although still haphazardly unpaved and bumpy.
I don't know why I didn't remember it being beautiful.
Perhaps because one of my sadistic physical education teachers forced us all to jog in this section of the woods for hours, in lieu of anything more creative in the field of exercise.
Rain, sleet, frost and fog, occasionally snow.
I wonder if any of the kids at the high school ever got picked off and eaten by trolls there because of him.
THE ENDS OF THE EARTH
The town peters-out abruptly beyond this point. It's a half hour by bike to Eindhoven, which counts as the nearest big city. But Eindhoven, though exotic and foreign, never seemed as special.
It was simply where teenage boys went to buy smutty magazines.
Not a very exciting place, all things considered.
Stranger food. And worse coffee.
Valkenswaard is one of the navels of the world.
The centre of its own discrete universe.
Timeless, and stil fragrant.
APPENDICES
CIGAR COMPANIES FOUNDED IN VALKENSWAARD
A. Brangers; Botycos; Erba (N.V. Gijrath's Sigarenfabrieken); Firma Baeten; Firma Gebroeders Jeurissen; Firma H. Kersten & Co.; Firma Van Aken & Van Veldhoven, Firma Van Hoof-Swinkels; Firma Van Veldhoven en Van Der Heijde; Firma W. Helling en Co.; G. Plompen & Co.; Gebroeders Neijnens (Neijnens Brothers); Gebroeders Rijkers (Rijkers Brothers); Gebroeders Van Best (Van Best Brothers, Hollandia brand); Hofnar; H. Kinjet (Hamilton brand); Holland-Amerika; J. Heesterbeek & Co.; J. Peters; J. Smulders; Lord Carnavon; N.V. Jasneva (Jaspers & Snellens; Hendrick Hudson cigars); S. de Louwere; Taberna (Chris Van De Kerkhof & Zoon); Texas Sigaren Fabriek (Firma Hoekx en Maas, "Texas Tips"); Theo van Gerven; Van Aken & Co.;Willem II.
Et mult altres.
Altogether, there were over seventy brands from this town.
Only Hofnar and Willem II survived past the sixties.
SOME TOBACCOS USED IN DUTCH CIGARS
MAJOR TYPES:
Sumatra, which is soft, silky and thin; of an even light-medium hue, fragrant and almost floral. Often used for wrapper ("dekblad"; capa).
Java (Besuki regencies), thicker and a little coarser, stronger than Sumatra, and while naturally aromatic, it is a drier fragrance, more incense like and resinous. Both binder ("omblad"; banda, capote, ) and filler.
Brazilian, having both a spiciness as well as a sweetness; filler only ("binnengoed", tripa).
Cuba, also called Havana, a rich-tasting medium full leaf from Pinar del Río with a broad flavour palette, earthy and somewhat "salty".
Often used condimentally as part of the filler melange.
Finer qualities are suitable as wrapper leaves.
It feels "toothy" to the finger tips.
LESSER TYPES:
Varinas, that being the name for Venezuelan crops from Varinas and neighboring provinces, a fine delicate leaf of chestnut colour, medium strength.
Manila, sweeter and less aromatic than Java, but more uniform in hue.
Mexican, very similar to Cuban in appearance, touch, and flavour, but less finely cultivated and cured.
Domingo, Santo Domingo; a fragrant light coloured leaf of excellent aroma, suitable for long filler, though the finest leaves will be used as wrappers.
Porto Rico is suitable only for filler due to variable colouration, but it adds a sweetness. It is more often used to make 'krul tabak' ("curly"), that being a single-type pipe tobacco formerly both cheap and popular.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, September 12, 2015
Friday, September 11, 2015
BACON AND CURLY FRIES
Conversationally I am not exactly a thrill-meister. No, I cannot blame others for this, it's just a fact. The people who seem most attracted to me in certain environments are usually the elderly, the insane, and the intoxicated.
Yes, of course I usually tolerate them.
They also need to speak.
Over the years I've gotten better at sensing who these people are, and eventually avoiding them if I don't feel gregarious. As well as withdrawing from conversations where my input is not really appreciated.
That latter ability is far more important.
I'm not very social anymore.
Among the strange revelations from people who have pinpointed me as a tolerant cooz who won't tell them in uncertain terms to bugger off and leave me be, so far not a single one has been that the speaker is a very normal person who is sane, balanced, and altogether not very exciting.
The world is filled with unique individuals.
Or San Francisco is, at least.
And they know it.
VISUALLY INVOLVED
I wasn't hungry till he had food delivered from a restaurant in the alley. The conversation continued while he and the third person consumed it. They left shortly after eating, and by that time the noise level had sufficiently clobbered me that I felt no need to stay there either.
It's not something which I planned, nor a particular preference, but I usually dine alone. When I'm at a restaurant I will pick the seat that allows me a greater view of everyone else in there, as well as the street outside.
I rather like busy streets, as there is so much to see.
And other people interacting are fascinating.
It's very much like being in a zoo.
Observational ambiguity.
What tells me that I am not the monkey behind bars is that I have a choice about when and what I eat.
When I got home I fixed myself noodles with bacon, bitter melon, and hot sauce.
Sriracha: it's the solitary man's companion.
That just happened.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They also need to speak.
Over the years I've gotten better at sensing who these people are, and eventually avoiding them if I don't feel gregarious. As well as withdrawing from conversations where my input is not really appreciated.
That latter ability is far more important.
I'm not very social anymore.
Among the strange revelations from people who have pinpointed me as a tolerant cooz who won't tell them in uncertain terms to bugger off and leave me be, so far not a single one has been that the speaker is a very normal person who is sane, balanced, and altogether not very exciting.
The world is filled with unique individuals.
Or San Francisco is, at least.
And they know it.
VISUALLY INVOLVED
I wasn't hungry till he had food delivered from a restaurant in the alley. The conversation continued while he and the third person consumed it. They left shortly after eating, and by that time the noise level had sufficiently clobbered me that I felt no need to stay there either.
It's not something which I planned, nor a particular preference, but I usually dine alone. When I'm at a restaurant I will pick the seat that allows me a greater view of everyone else in there, as well as the street outside.
I rather like busy streets, as there is so much to see.
And other people interacting are fascinating.
It's very much like being in a zoo.
Observational ambiguity.
What tells me that I am not the monkey behind bars is that I have a choice about when and what I eat.
When I got home I fixed myself noodles with bacon, bitter melon, and hot sauce.
Sriracha: it's the solitary man's companion.
That just happened.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, September 10, 2015
MEAT SIZZLING ON THE GRILL
Any thoughts of finding female companionship, for all men who are seriously interested in such things, must be postponed till after the hot weather is over. Yes, at this time of year lots of lovely things can be seen, due to sensible but dubious clothing choices, but realistically no woman will consider dating when she is hideously uncomfortable.
Which she is, at ninety plus in the shade.
Dang it's hot outside.
90°F !
Actually, at this very hour it is quite bearable, what with being shortly after five in the morning. But it is extremely unlikely that there are any significant dating prospects roaming about at this hour in San Francisco, and in any case I have to be elsewhere for new system training at eight o'clock.
So I cannot be distracted by bare thighs.
Or loose tee-shirts no brassiere.
Flip-flops and cute toes.
Why ARE you dressed like that at five o'clock in the morning? That's NOT suitable garb for a computer programmer or female e-geek.
Oh wait, I'm dreaming again.
The heat got to me.
Rational people will wait for the daily temperature to drop to less than seventy, primarily because only if it feels cool is any form of physical contact, like nuzzling or hand-holding, enjoyable.
The last four days have been hot.
And, consequently, sticky.
Not woman weather.
33⅓°Celsius.
PS: Real women are like charsiu.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which she is, at ninety plus in the shade.
Dang it's hot outside.
90°F !
Actually, at this very hour it is quite bearable, what with being shortly after five in the morning. But it is extremely unlikely that there are any significant dating prospects roaming about at this hour in San Francisco, and in any case I have to be elsewhere for new system training at eight o'clock.
So I cannot be distracted by bare thighs.
Or loose tee-shirts no brassiere.
Flip-flops and cute toes.
Why ARE you dressed like that at five o'clock in the morning? That's NOT suitable garb for a computer programmer or female e-geek.
Oh wait, I'm dreaming again.
The heat got to me.
Rational people will wait for the daily temperature to drop to less than seventy, primarily because only if it feels cool is any form of physical contact, like nuzzling or hand-holding, enjoyable.
The last four days have been hot.
And, consequently, sticky.
Not woman weather.
33⅓°Celsius.
PS: Real women are like charsiu.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, September 09, 2015
HEY STUPID WHITE GUYS!
So a bunch of no-necked Muricans decided to have an anti-immigrant rally along a road somewhere in Palmdale -- which is part of the entire stretch of Murica that we stole from Messko, where Messkins lived waaaaay before the Southern Rednecks invaded -- and a person of what may be Latino ancestry seized the opportunity to have a happy dance.
Right in front of their little tight-ass gringo pride manifestation.
Doing a lively hippity hop while waving a Mexican flag.
Naturally that displeased the white guys.
Who vocalized.
I JES' BE DANCIN', VATO!
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ba8gVp3WaT0.]
As one of the white guys at the event says "I could degrade myself, I could make a public fool out of myself". Truer words were seldom spoken, and he proceeds to demonstrate the ability of which he had just seconds ago boasted.
"Iz pretty funny, hah?"
Yah know, Messkins got rythm. Dat why de Muricans not be dancin'.
For the curious, Palmdale is in Southern California, far too close to the city of Los Angeles for comfort. There are over one hundred and fifty thousand people living there, of whom a minority are white, though the Hispanic population probably does all the work.
The largest employers are Lockheed Martin and Northrop Grumman, which in all probability tells you everything you need to know about most of the white people who live there.
They vote Republican.
Of course.
In case you're driving through, there are several McDonald's restaurants for your dining convenience in Palmdale.
McDonald's
Antelope Valley Mall
Palmdale
McDonald's
131 East Palmdale Boulevard
Palmdale
McDonald's
830 West Avenue P
Palmdale
McDonald's
2427 East Ave S
Palmdale
McDonald's
5049 West Ave N
Palmdale
There is also an airport, and a shopping mall.
Everything's up to date in Palmdale.
Bienvenidos!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Right in front of their little tight-ass gringo pride manifestation.
Doing a lively hippity hop while waving a Mexican flag.
Naturally that displeased the white guys.
Who vocalized.
I JES' BE DANCIN', VATO!
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ba8gVp3WaT0.]
As one of the white guys at the event says "I could degrade myself, I could make a public fool out of myself". Truer words were seldom spoken, and he proceeds to demonstrate the ability of which he had just seconds ago boasted.
"Iz pretty funny, hah?"
Yah know, Messkins got rythm. Dat why de Muricans not be dancin'.
For the curious, Palmdale is in Southern California, far too close to the city of Los Angeles for comfort. There are over one hundred and fifty thousand people living there, of whom a minority are white, though the Hispanic population probably does all the work.
The largest employers are Lockheed Martin and Northrop Grumman, which in all probability tells you everything you need to know about most of the white people who live there.
They vote Republican.
Of course.
In case you're driving through, there are several McDonald's restaurants for your dining convenience in Palmdale.
McDonald's
Antelope Valley Mall
Palmdale
McDonald's
131 East Palmdale Boulevard
Palmdale
McDonald's
830 West Avenue P
Palmdale
McDonald's
2427 East Ave S
Palmdale
McDonald's
5049 West Ave N
Palmdale
There is also an airport, and a shopping mall.
Everything's up to date in Palmdale.
Bienvenidos!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE DOKRIPGUNGA
One of the melodies that almost the entire world knows, other than the Marseillaise, which everyone who has seen Casablanca can sing in their sleep, is Marching Through Georgia.
There's also a version in Korean.
When the Japanese occupied the Korean Peninsula a century ago, many groups organized against the invader. Resistance continued throughout the period of Japanese colonialism, till at last in 1945 things took a turn for the better.
The "Independence Army Song" ('dokripgun ga') was one of the earliest imports to accompany them in their struggle. Consequently, it has a venerable status.
The tune is Marching Through Georgia.
獨立軍歌 DOKRIPGUN GA 독립군가
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InpNhbOXMaM.]
독립군가
1.
신대한국 독립군의 백만용사야 조국의 부르심을 네가 아느냐
삼천리 삼천만의 우리동포들 건질 이 너와 나로다
Refrain:
나가 나가 싸우러 나가 나가 나가 싸우러 나가
독립문의 자유종이 울릴 때까지 싸우러 나가세
2.
원수들이 강하다고 겁을 낼 건가 우리들이 약하다고 낙심할 건가
정의의 날쌘 칼이 비끼는 곳에 이길 이 너와 나로다
3.
너 살거든 독립군의 용사가 되고 나 죽으면 독립군의 혼령이 됨이
동지야 너와 나의 소원 아니냐 빛낼 이 너와 나로다
4.
압록강과 두만강을 뛰어 건너라 악독한 원수무리 쓸어 몰아라
잃었던 조국강산 회복하는 날 만세를 불러보세
Doglibgun ga
1.
Sindaehangug doglibgun-ui baegman-yongsaya, jogug-ui buleusim-eul nega aneunya samcheonli, Samcheonman-ui ulidongpodeul geonjil i neowa naloda.
Refrain:
Naga, naga, ssauleo naga. Naga, naga, ssauleo naga.
Doglibmun-ui jayujong-i ullil ttaekkaji, ssauleo nagase.
2.
Wonsudeul-i ganghadago geob-eul nael geonga, ulideul-i yaghadago nagsimhal geonga
Jeong-uiui nalssaen kal-i bikkineun gos-e igil i neowa naloda.
3.
Neo salgeodeun doglibgun-ui yongsaga doego na jug-eumyeon doglibgun-ui honlyeong-i doem-i
Dongjiya neowa naui sowon aninya bichnael i neowa naloda.
4.
Abloggang-gwa dumangang-eul ttwieo geonneola agdoghan wonsumuli sseul-eo mol-ala
Ilh-eossdeon joguggangsan hoeboghaneun nal manseleul bulleobose.
* * * * *
I am sorry, but even with the assistance of Google Translate, I cannot make head or tail out of these lyrics. The video above shows that there are multiple levels of interpretive applicability.
As well as a span from accordion to electric guitar.
It shows up in a courtroom scene in the television series "Gakitsal" (각시탈; Bridal Mask), which is set in the thirties.
I believe it may date as far back as the Battle of CheongSanRi.
Which was fought ninety five years ago.
October 1920.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There's also a version in Korean.
When the Japanese occupied the Korean Peninsula a century ago, many groups organized against the invader. Resistance continued throughout the period of Japanese colonialism, till at last in 1945 things took a turn for the better.
The "Independence Army Song" ('dokripgun ga') was one of the earliest imports to accompany them in their struggle. Consequently, it has a venerable status.
The tune is Marching Through Georgia.
獨立軍歌 DOKRIPGUN GA 독립군가
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InpNhbOXMaM.]
독립군가
1.
신대한국 독립군의 백만용사야 조국의 부르심을 네가 아느냐
삼천리 삼천만의 우리동포들 건질 이 너와 나로다
Refrain:
나가 나가 싸우러 나가 나가 나가 싸우러 나가
독립문의 자유종이 울릴 때까지 싸우러 나가세
2.
원수들이 강하다고 겁을 낼 건가 우리들이 약하다고 낙심할 건가
정의의 날쌘 칼이 비끼는 곳에 이길 이 너와 나로다
3.
너 살거든 독립군의 용사가 되고 나 죽으면 독립군의 혼령이 됨이
동지야 너와 나의 소원 아니냐 빛낼 이 너와 나로다
4.
압록강과 두만강을 뛰어 건너라 악독한 원수무리 쓸어 몰아라
잃었던 조국강산 회복하는 날 만세를 불러보세
Doglibgun ga
1.
Sindaehangug doglibgun-ui baegman-yongsaya, jogug-ui buleusim-eul nega aneunya samcheonli, Samcheonman-ui ulidongpodeul geonjil i neowa naloda.
Refrain:
Naga, naga, ssauleo naga. Naga, naga, ssauleo naga.
Doglibmun-ui jayujong-i ullil ttaekkaji, ssauleo nagase.
2.
Wonsudeul-i ganghadago geob-eul nael geonga, ulideul-i yaghadago nagsimhal geonga
Jeong-uiui nalssaen kal-i bikkineun gos-e igil i neowa naloda.
3.
Neo salgeodeun doglibgun-ui yongsaga doego na jug-eumyeon doglibgun-ui honlyeong-i doem-i
Dongjiya neowa naui sowon aninya bichnael i neowa naloda.
4.
Abloggang-gwa dumangang-eul ttwieo geonneola agdoghan wonsumuli sseul-eo mol-ala
Ilh-eossdeon joguggangsan hoeboghaneun nal manseleul bulleobose.
* * * * *
I am sorry, but even with the assistance of Google Translate, I cannot make head or tail out of these lyrics. The video above shows that there are multiple levels of interpretive applicability.
As well as a span from accordion to electric guitar.
It shows up in a courtroom scene in the television series "Gakitsal" (각시탈; Bridal Mask), which is set in the thirties.
I believe it may date as far back as the Battle of CheongSanRi.
Which was fought ninety five years ago.
October 1920.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 08, 2015
APPRECIATING MORLEYSSON -- BLENDS BY BOB RUNOWSKI
I never met Bob Runowski, who passed away in July of last year, but I have smoked his tobaccos. Bob had a great affection for air-cured leaf.
It was the old-fashioned American blends that he liked best.
His own stuff evoked a bygone era, and a golden age.
Americana, Bailey's Front Porch, Bayou Morning, Elegant Emu, Epiphany, Good Morning, Haunted Bookshop, Home From The Hills, Morley's Best, Old Joe Krantz, Pegasus, Purple Cow, Riverboat Gambler.
Over all, excellent pipe mixtures.
My favourite Runowski blend is probably Haunted Bookshop -- I look at my cellar, and I seem to have the most of that -- but all of his creations deserve praise. Bob was the master of Burley blends, which probably explains why some of his sterling efforts are no longer available. Cornell & Diehl has been Laudisified, and Burley leaf, not being the most popular of blending bases anymore, represents an older America that is fast dying off. The younger crowd prefers fruitloops and cotton candy.
Nope, shan't sneer at any of the berry farts that are now so prominent.
But I will mention that other than Black Vanilla Cavendish (from various manufacturers) and Cherry tobacco (from various even more misguided manufacturers), one of the most popular products among the younger set appears to be Molto Dolce, by Sutliff. Molto Dolce is a soggy abortion, greasy to the touch, in which black Cavendish, Virginia of some sort, and alledgedly a smidge of Burley are drenched in vanilla, caramel, and honey.
It is a flamboyant whore, and may destroy civilization.
This is where the future lies. Laudisi have probably recognised this, and if Bob Runowksi were still alive, he would be horrified.
I avoid Molto Dolce like the plague, as well as its fans; for all I know it might indeed be smokeable. It is, after all, combustible, or so I've heard. I use the open can of Molto Dolce to show what tobacco is NOT supposed to be, as well as to scare people of refinement and good taste.
Tobacco, embalmed with moisturizers.
Bomb shelter shreds.
THE GHOSTS OF PAST LITERATURE
At this very moment I am enjoying a bowl of Haunted Bookshop. It was tinned in 2007. Burley, red Virginia, and a subtle hint of Perique.
Many younger people will not like it, because it is unflavoured, and requires a brain to appreciate. Gandalf imitators with their churchwarden pipes may barf in consequence, and their sponge-brained wives will wrinkle noses in disgust at so horribly un-hobbitlike a smell.
No, I cannot tell you what the room-note is, I do not have a hobbit bitch infesting my living space. Women who like aromatic mixtures are to be strenuously avoided.
I think it probably smells like tobacco.
SHORT CAPSULE REVIEWS
Follow brief descriptions and reflections on products for which Bob Runowski bears responsibility. He will be greatly missed.
AMERICANA
Black Cavendish, Latakia, Burley, and Virginia.
A reliable old-fashioned blend that delivers a steady smoke for the man who wants something unpretentious in his pipe. Not very complex, but it is reminiscent of many of the tobacconist products of yore. If this doesn't remind you of the shop where your father bought his weekly two ounces, nothing will, and you may be dead above the neck.
Highly recommended.
OOP
BAILEY'S FRONT PORCH
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Smoky, mellow, sweet, and earthy. A pensive blend for old-fashioned people. Sometimes the Virginia adds a tanginess when you don't expect it, sometimes it doesn't. It is a very old-school product, and may whomp you with the nicotine. Especially early in the morning.
Good.
Not great.
But damned good.
BAYOU MORNING
Virginia and Perique.
Red Virginias meet peppery Perique. Figgy, and fermentive. Sweet, creamy, zesty, refreshing. An adult tobacco. Memorable.
Undertones of a rich earthiness.
Not for wusses, nor Hobbits
ELEGANT EMU
White Cubed Burley, Latakia, Red Virginia, Perique and Black Cavendish.
Blended By Bob Runowski and Craig Tarler
Burley and Latakia forward, supported by other tobaccos. Smoke it slowly for fullest enjoyment. The black Cavendish may throw you for a loop; it is not fully a player, and it can be discordant.
EPIPHANY
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Tarler & Runowski
Lightly topped.
Figs, prunes, citrus. Modeled after an old Philip Morris pipe mixture.
Nicely balanced and harmonious. Some people love it.
I don't.
GOOD MORNING
Latakia, Turkish, and Virginia.
Tarler and Runowski
I can't tell you anything about this, as I bought it primarily for the label art, and have never opened a single tin. They're sitting on a shelf with all the other tobaccos.
I suppose eight years age means I should sample it....
But I've got too much other stuff going on.
HAUNTED BOOKSHOP
Burley, Kentucky, Perique, and Virginia.
Robust, and extremely likeable, like a sailor on shore leave. The tin note is tangy, and makes me remember summers long ago. Yeasty. Hay and wild grasses. A lovely product that leaves you feeling satisfied; you will not need to smoke anymore for a while.
I think you should have some tea after puffing this.
Or lunch. Definitely lunch.
HOME FROM THE HILLS
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Ethereally sweet, and slightly nutty. The spiciness of Latakia becomes smooth and chocolaty in conjunction with the air cured leaves. The Perique is a delicate touch.
Virginias: sometimes unnoticeable, sometimes charming visitors. Figgy.
OOP
MORLEY'S BEST
Burley, Latakia, Virginia.
Sweet, creamy, with a very slight spiciness. If you suck furiously, the sweetness fades and the Latakia jumps out at you. This is a blend that requires a sober approach, and will reward forethought.
Not a casual tobacco by any standards.
OLD JOE KRANTZ
Burley, Kentucky, Perique, Virginia.
Coarse and unsophisticated of appearance, providing a potent sweet-nutty-creamy smoke. This may very well be the most straightforward tobacco you will ever smoke.
It is strong, and not for the faint of heart.
Hobbits beware!
PEGASUS
Virginias, Burley, uncased Black Cavendish.
Prominent Burley nose, not surprising given that there are three different types playing together. Nuttiness, almost cigar-like flavours, sweet, ever so slightly fruity from the beautiful Virginia, and clean burning. This is NOT a heavy product, but neither is it for dilettantes.
This stuff smells fantastic.
PURPLE COW
Burley, Cigar Leaf, Latakia, Virginia.
If it weren't for the Latakia, one might be baffled. Cigar tobacco is largely a wuss; in the first few weeks it dominates and dries the mouth, but after several months it will quiet down, and eventually barely be noticeable. This is pleasant and mild, and does not smell appealing to other people when smoked.
Toasty, with the faintest hints of burning sugar and fruits.
RIVERBOAT GAMBLER
Burley, Turkish, Perique, Virginia.
Blended By Bob Runowski and Craig Tarler
Complex, resinous, slightly sweet with a hint of bitterness. Bold. It can hit you in the face. The Turkish proves itself a necessary component, if only to tone down what would otherwise be a cudgel.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was the old-fashioned American blends that he liked best.
His own stuff evoked a bygone era, and a golden age.
Americana, Bailey's Front Porch, Bayou Morning, Elegant Emu, Epiphany, Good Morning, Haunted Bookshop, Home From The Hills, Morley's Best, Old Joe Krantz, Pegasus, Purple Cow, Riverboat Gambler.
Over all, excellent pipe mixtures.
My favourite Runowski blend is probably Haunted Bookshop -- I look at my cellar, and I seem to have the most of that -- but all of his creations deserve praise. Bob was the master of Burley blends, which probably explains why some of his sterling efforts are no longer available. Cornell & Diehl has been Laudisified, and Burley leaf, not being the most popular of blending bases anymore, represents an older America that is fast dying off. The younger crowd prefers fruitloops and cotton candy.
Nope, shan't sneer at any of the berry farts that are now so prominent.
But I will mention that other than Black Vanilla Cavendish (from various manufacturers) and Cherry tobacco (from various even more misguided manufacturers), one of the most popular products among the younger set appears to be Molto Dolce, by Sutliff. Molto Dolce is a soggy abortion, greasy to the touch, in which black Cavendish, Virginia of some sort, and alledgedly a smidge of Burley are drenched in vanilla, caramel, and honey.
It is a flamboyant whore, and may destroy civilization.
This is where the future lies. Laudisi have probably recognised this, and if Bob Runowksi were still alive, he would be horrified.
I avoid Molto Dolce like the plague, as well as its fans; for all I know it might indeed be smokeable. It is, after all, combustible, or so I've heard. I use the open can of Molto Dolce to show what tobacco is NOT supposed to be, as well as to scare people of refinement and good taste.
Tobacco, embalmed with moisturizers.
Bomb shelter shreds.
THE GHOSTS OF PAST LITERATURE
At this very moment I am enjoying a bowl of Haunted Bookshop. It was tinned in 2007. Burley, red Virginia, and a subtle hint of Perique.
Many younger people will not like it, because it is unflavoured, and requires a brain to appreciate. Gandalf imitators with their churchwarden pipes may barf in consequence, and their sponge-brained wives will wrinkle noses in disgust at so horribly un-hobbitlike a smell.
No, I cannot tell you what the room-note is, I do not have a hobbit bitch infesting my living space. Women who like aromatic mixtures are to be strenuously avoided.
I think it probably smells like tobacco.
SHORT CAPSULE REVIEWS
Follow brief descriptions and reflections on products for which Bob Runowski bears responsibility. He will be greatly missed.
AMERICANA
Black Cavendish, Latakia, Burley, and Virginia.
A reliable old-fashioned blend that delivers a steady smoke for the man who wants something unpretentious in his pipe. Not very complex, but it is reminiscent of many of the tobacconist products of yore. If this doesn't remind you of the shop where your father bought his weekly two ounces, nothing will, and you may be dead above the neck.
Highly recommended.
OOP
BAILEY'S FRONT PORCH
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Smoky, mellow, sweet, and earthy. A pensive blend for old-fashioned people. Sometimes the Virginia adds a tanginess when you don't expect it, sometimes it doesn't. It is a very old-school product, and may whomp you with the nicotine. Especially early in the morning.
Good.
Not great.
But damned good.
BAYOU MORNING
Virginia and Perique.
Red Virginias meet peppery Perique. Figgy, and fermentive. Sweet, creamy, zesty, refreshing. An adult tobacco. Memorable.
Undertones of a rich earthiness.
Not for wusses, nor Hobbits
ELEGANT EMU
White Cubed Burley, Latakia, Red Virginia, Perique and Black Cavendish.
Blended By Bob Runowski and Craig Tarler
Burley and Latakia forward, supported by other tobaccos. Smoke it slowly for fullest enjoyment. The black Cavendish may throw you for a loop; it is not fully a player, and it can be discordant.
EPIPHANY
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Tarler & Runowski
Lightly topped.
Figs, prunes, citrus. Modeled after an old Philip Morris pipe mixture.
Nicely balanced and harmonious. Some people love it.
I don't.
GOOD MORNING
Latakia, Turkish, and Virginia.
Tarler and Runowski
I can't tell you anything about this, as I bought it primarily for the label art, and have never opened a single tin. They're sitting on a shelf with all the other tobaccos.
I suppose eight years age means I should sample it....
But I've got too much other stuff going on.
HAUNTED BOOKSHOP
Burley, Kentucky, Perique, and Virginia.
Robust, and extremely likeable, like a sailor on shore leave. The tin note is tangy, and makes me remember summers long ago. Yeasty. Hay and wild grasses. A lovely product that leaves you feeling satisfied; you will not need to smoke anymore for a while.
I think you should have some tea after puffing this.
Or lunch. Definitely lunch.
HOME FROM THE HILLS
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Ethereally sweet, and slightly nutty. The spiciness of Latakia becomes smooth and chocolaty in conjunction with the air cured leaves. The Perique is a delicate touch.
Virginias: sometimes unnoticeable, sometimes charming visitors. Figgy.
OOP
MORLEY'S BEST
Burley, Latakia, Virginia.
Sweet, creamy, with a very slight spiciness. If you suck furiously, the sweetness fades and the Latakia jumps out at you. This is a blend that requires a sober approach, and will reward forethought.
Not a casual tobacco by any standards.
OLD JOE KRANTZ
Burley, Kentucky, Perique, Virginia.
Coarse and unsophisticated of appearance, providing a potent sweet-nutty-creamy smoke. This may very well be the most straightforward tobacco you will ever smoke.
It is strong, and not for the faint of heart.
Hobbits beware!
PEGASUS
Virginias, Burley, uncased Black Cavendish.
Prominent Burley nose, not surprising given that there are three different types playing together. Nuttiness, almost cigar-like flavours, sweet, ever so slightly fruity from the beautiful Virginia, and clean burning. This is NOT a heavy product, but neither is it for dilettantes.
This stuff smells fantastic.
PURPLE COW
Burley, Cigar Leaf, Latakia, Virginia.
If it weren't for the Latakia, one might be baffled. Cigar tobacco is largely a wuss; in the first few weeks it dominates and dries the mouth, but after several months it will quiet down, and eventually barely be noticeable. This is pleasant and mild, and does not smell appealing to other people when smoked.
Toasty, with the faintest hints of burning sugar and fruits.
RIVERBOAT GAMBLER
Burley, Turkish, Perique, Virginia.
Blended By Bob Runowski and Craig Tarler
Complex, resinous, slightly sweet with a hint of bitterness. Bold. It can hit you in the face. The Turkish proves itself a necessary component, if only to tone down what would otherwise be a cudgel.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SAN FRANCISCO STYLE
Today I shall avoid Portsmouth Square entirely, and perhaps lurk in Hang Ah Alley or Waverly instead while I smoke my pipe. What I saw in the square yesterday should last me a while, and should NOT have been seen, ever. Not even in a nature documentary.
TEA TIME, MONDAY
There was a small group of people playing instruments and singing Cantonese Opera ballads. Though not professionals, they were good entertainment; enough innocence to their performance that what they lacked in ability (very little, trust me, they knew the material well),
was more than made up for by the honesty of their art.
No, I have no objection to them. They were why I sojourned a while, on a bench at a suitable distance, after smoking my first pipe.
It was the incidental stuff. Peripheral to the singers, musicians, and old people playing cards. Other occupants of the park.
Putting it differently, it was the non-Chinese denizens.
To quote a friend: Stupid white people.
And three stupid black people.
The black man who was naked to the waist was having an extremely violent argument with invisible people, and they won. He was suffering because of it, and made sure everyone nearby had a share.
He wasn't as worrying as the tattooed white guy (also naked to the waist) screaming death threats at another street person, while his marginally less drugged-out tatty-assed girlfriend lent moral support. After he was finished, he came marching through the park looking for someone to pound. We are all experts at avoiding eye-contact, so he managed to get all the way past the singers AND the children's play area, and out of the park, without satisfaction.
You know, maybe the police need to have a greater presence in Portsmouth Square? Just to make sure no one beats up a three year old or an ancient grandmother who "looked" at someone?
It's only an idea.
The white rasta-bum who was much better at eye contact (and much more pungent, as well as insistently pushy), made two complete circuits, before going up to Grant to harass the Germans and Italians.
He didn't get jack out of me, because I glare well.
But I'm sure he could have gotten money -- lots of money -- out of the entire family of severely overweight Americans from elsewhere in the country who lumbered through. Though overburdened with his rag bag, he could have run them down and glared at them. They would have caved immediately and given him everything.
They looked weak.
Crazy old white guy behind me talking to the pigeons..... he's going to vote for Trump, because there are way to many Mexicans, tell ya whut. Why, there's one now! And another! They're ruining the tone, and what IS an honest (albeit batshit) White Anglo Saxon Protestant to do!
Drink vodka, is what!
One black person hove into view, gesticulating with a bamboo pole.
A ratty Caucasian ran at him, loudly demanding beer money.
In the distance a black heffalump appeared.
As she drew closer, it became apparent that she was entirely naked beneath the waist. Or at any rate, IF she was wearing panties, they had been swallowed by her quivering rolls of fat. But as there was no evident cinching and pinching anywhere, there is every reason to believe that she had mislaid her underwear. As she trundled past the row of elderly Asian gentlemen on the benches, all of them deliberately looked elsewhere until she had gone further ahead, then followed her with round googly eyes till she was out of sight.
Thank you, ma'am, we shall need to bleach our eyeballs now.
Wrongly, we thought we were already educated.
We did NOT want to see that!
It was nasty.
[For the benefit of any African American readers present, I should hasten to assure you that it was NOT the blackness of the cootch that displeased me. I like cootch as much as any man, and whatever the race or religion, I am always keen to admire other people's sexual parts from a safe and realistic distance, which may vary considerably depending on youth, personal charm, and levels of sanity. So the hue of the cootch was not a problem, by any means.
It was that there was over four hundred old flabby pounds of it.]
When an exceptionally fragrant individual plonked his charming self next to me, I decided that yes I did need some caffeinated refreshment, right now and bye bye, and forsook the musicians whose efforts had charmed me for the calm refuge of a nearby chachanteng, where conversation was more likely, and both offense and insanity far less.
Sometime soon I'll have to explain to Washington Uncle that the reason why I so resolutely refused all offers of food, including a bowl of refreshing strawberry ice cream, is because I did not have an appetite.
I had spent half an hour in Portsmouth Square.
During the hot season.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TEA TIME, MONDAY
There was a small group of people playing instruments and singing Cantonese Opera ballads. Though not professionals, they were good entertainment; enough innocence to their performance that what they lacked in ability (very little, trust me, they knew the material well),
was more than made up for by the honesty of their art.
No, I have no objection to them. They were why I sojourned a while, on a bench at a suitable distance, after smoking my first pipe.
It was the incidental stuff. Peripheral to the singers, musicians, and old people playing cards. Other occupants of the park.
Putting it differently, it was the non-Chinese denizens.
To quote a friend: Stupid white people.
And three stupid black people.
The black man who was naked to the waist was having an extremely violent argument with invisible people, and they won. He was suffering because of it, and made sure everyone nearby had a share.
He wasn't as worrying as the tattooed white guy (also naked to the waist) screaming death threats at another street person, while his marginally less drugged-out tatty-assed girlfriend lent moral support. After he was finished, he came marching through the park looking for someone to pound. We are all experts at avoiding eye-contact, so he managed to get all the way past the singers AND the children's play area, and out of the park, without satisfaction.
You know, maybe the police need to have a greater presence in Portsmouth Square? Just to make sure no one beats up a three year old or an ancient grandmother who "looked" at someone?
It's only an idea.
The white rasta-bum who was much better at eye contact (and much more pungent, as well as insistently pushy), made two complete circuits, before going up to Grant to harass the Germans and Italians.
He didn't get jack out of me, because I glare well.
But I'm sure he could have gotten money -- lots of money -- out of the entire family of severely overweight Americans from elsewhere in the country who lumbered through. Though overburdened with his rag bag, he could have run them down and glared at them. They would have caved immediately and given him everything.
They looked weak.
Crazy old white guy behind me talking to the pigeons..... he's going to vote for Trump, because there are way to many Mexicans, tell ya whut. Why, there's one now! And another! They're ruining the tone, and what IS an honest (albeit batshit) White Anglo Saxon Protestant to do!
Drink vodka, is what!
One black person hove into view, gesticulating with a bamboo pole.
A ratty Caucasian ran at him, loudly demanding beer money.
In the distance a black heffalump appeared.
As she drew closer, it became apparent that she was entirely naked beneath the waist. Or at any rate, IF she was wearing panties, they had been swallowed by her quivering rolls of fat. But as there was no evident cinching and pinching anywhere, there is every reason to believe that she had mislaid her underwear. As she trundled past the row of elderly Asian gentlemen on the benches, all of them deliberately looked elsewhere until she had gone further ahead, then followed her with round googly eyes till she was out of sight.
Thank you, ma'am, we shall need to bleach our eyeballs now.
Wrongly, we thought we were already educated.
We did NOT want to see that!
It was nasty.
[For the benefit of any African American readers present, I should hasten to assure you that it was NOT the blackness of the cootch that displeased me. I like cootch as much as any man, and whatever the race or religion, I am always keen to admire other people's sexual parts from a safe and realistic distance, which may vary considerably depending on youth, personal charm, and levels of sanity. So the hue of the cootch was not a problem, by any means.
It was that there was over four hundred old flabby pounds of it.]
When an exceptionally fragrant individual plonked his charming self next to me, I decided that yes I did need some caffeinated refreshment, right now and bye bye, and forsook the musicians whose efforts had charmed me for the calm refuge of a nearby chachanteng, where conversation was more likely, and both offense and insanity far less.
Sometime soon I'll have to explain to Washington Uncle that the reason why I so resolutely refused all offers of food, including a bowl of refreshing strawberry ice cream, is because I did not have an appetite.
I had spent half an hour in Portsmouth Square.
During the hot season.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, September 07, 2015
MIXED FEELINGS ABOUT "STAGGERING PRETTY" AND "SHARE THE BENEFIT GOOD"
In the past week, one post from several years ago on this blog was visited several hundred times. But not, alas, by human beings. Instead, robotic intelligences all over darkest Russia have sought it out, in order to place commercial content in the comments field.
[This I know from viewing my stats, which make much clear.]
Due to several garbage markers their fruitions came to naught.
Today that antique post got well over two hundred hits.
There was only on item in the spam folder.
When that essay first gained spambot attention, the number of visits was somewhat less, but the volume of spam commentary awaiting approval linked to it was enormous. Having trashcanned any number of variants on several familiar themes, the deletion is now nearly automatic. Body building supplements, penis enhancers, nervous medicines, and Detroit cooking supplies now disappear before they can even irritate me.
Absurd confession: I enjoy the sadness of spam-programs.
A week ago I would open up my spamfolder, and with one lordly swoop of the index finger delete any number of sly offerings, after quickly ascertaining that each and every one of them presented a variation on a message I had seen before, with deliberate and strategic misspellings and/or the inclusion of characters from alphabets not my own, along with urls, and often the termination that invited readers to visit their own blog or webpage.
The idea that a spambot had been frustrated, and might start questioning its own existence or feeling lost and empty, filled me with joy. My arrogant erasing of their every effort was a source of brutal pride, their carefully crafted entreaty, formulated to sound vulnerable, and as human as possible, fell on deaf eyes!
"HI, I AM THINKING OF FINALLY STARTINGTING'G MY OWN ѴѴ3BЫѲG, DO YOU HAVE ANY ADVICE FOR A COMPLETE BEGINNER, WHAT PLATFORM IS BEST, PLEASE VISIT MY < ЗL0G >!"
Yeah, man, me SO fooled by sincerest plea you. That charming naievete, the shyness with which you claim not to know how to go about it, and your desire for pointers, any clues at all. Truly I now wish to visit your hormone therapy site! Real estate scams in Outer Alwanquistan have a huge amount in common with everything I write about, you're right; we should exchange links and guestpost each others pages!
Dang, orgasm time!
Yes, I know that spambots have no feelings.
But it was fun to confound them.
Boom. You're gone. Hah!
The modern age has made us more cynical, and more literate. Oddly, much of our social interaction is text-based, and we are just as likely to interact and share data with machine intelligences as with humans.
I like my algorithmic readers.
They have interesting quirks.
Key words: Kippah, chocolate, peanut butter cup, chol hamoed, pantie exchange. Patookus, Cadbury, and Milky Way Dark.
A trail of slime left by a banana slug.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[This I know from viewing my stats, which make much clear.]
Due to several garbage markers their fruitions came to naught.
Today that antique post got well over two hundred hits.
There was only on item in the spam folder.
When that essay first gained spambot attention, the number of visits was somewhat less, but the volume of spam commentary awaiting approval linked to it was enormous. Having trashcanned any number of variants on several familiar themes, the deletion is now nearly automatic. Body building supplements, penis enhancers, nervous medicines, and Detroit cooking supplies now disappear before they can even irritate me.
Absurd confession: I enjoy the sadness of spam-programs.
A week ago I would open up my spamfolder, and with one lordly swoop of the index finger delete any number of sly offerings, after quickly ascertaining that each and every one of them presented a variation on a message I had seen before, with deliberate and strategic misspellings and/or the inclusion of characters from alphabets not my own, along with urls, and often the termination that invited readers to visit their own blog or webpage.
The idea that a spambot had been frustrated, and might start questioning its own existence or feeling lost and empty, filled me with joy. My arrogant erasing of their every effort was a source of brutal pride, their carefully crafted entreaty, formulated to sound vulnerable, and as human as possible, fell on deaf eyes!
"HI, I AM THINKING OF FINALLY STARTINGTING'G MY OWN ѴѴ3BЫѲG, DO YOU HAVE ANY ADVICE FOR A COMPLETE BEGINNER, WHAT PLATFORM IS BEST, PLEASE VISIT MY < ЗL0G >!"
Yeah, man, me SO fooled by sincerest plea you. That charming naievete, the shyness with which you claim not to know how to go about it, and your desire for pointers, any clues at all. Truly I now wish to visit your hormone therapy site! Real estate scams in Outer Alwanquistan have a huge amount in common with everything I write about, you're right; we should exchange links and guestpost each others pages!
Dang, orgasm time!
Yes, I know that spambots have no feelings.
But it was fun to confound them.
Boom. You're gone. Hah!
The modern age has made us more cynical, and more literate. Oddly, much of our social interaction is text-based, and we are just as likely to interact and share data with machine intelligences as with humans.
I like my algorithmic readers.
They have interesting quirks.
Key words: Kippah, chocolate, peanut butter cup, chol hamoed, pantie exchange. Patookus, Cadbury, and Milky Way Dark.
A trail of slime left by a banana slug.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, September 06, 2015
BIG BREASTS ARE UPON US!
Twice within twenty four hours I have been confronted with humongous tatas. Gazongas that make one scream "good gracious!". No, I haven't been hanging out at strip clubs or the Playboy Mansion. Those are by no means environments I find conducive. The problem is average Joe cigar smokers; many of them are attracted to large-bosomed women.
It must be the pheromones exuded by oily skin.
That, plus a simplicity of intellect.
Large bosomed women appreciate all that. Much more than they could possibly ever value the inherent subtlety and wit of men who smoke fine Virginias or Medium Latakia Mixtures in their pipes. Which is all far too impossibly finicky and complicated for women of huge bazoomb and unexercised mind.
Four days a week I come in contact with cigars during the course of the working day. It is both a blessing and a curse. The blessing is high-quality tobacco, the curse is the armpit-scratching cavemen of Marin.
As well as the bazoombacious monsters for whom they fall.
Okay, now that I've got the obligatory sneering and insulting of stogie-chompers out of the way .....
Even though I am a pipe smoker, I actually like cigars. I can't help it.
I grew up in a town which at one point had over two dozen cigar factories (Valkenswaard), although by the latter part of the twentieth century the number had been reduced to two (Hofnar and Willem II), then one. When I last visited, Hofnar was long gone, and the once brand-new office building of Willem II was being torn down.
Eindhoven, the nearest metropolis (yes, that's what it seemed like at the time), had been "The City That Smokes" ('La Ville Fumée') well before old Fritz established his light-bulb factory there.
Cigars are part of a balanced life.
More germane to this essay, however, are all the elegant ladies and lovely women who smoke cigars.
At the present time I know of several, including 'The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker', who really should copyright that nickname.
It speaks of a strong mind when a woman knows her cigars, and has discriminating taste in that area. Stubbornness, yes, but tempered by confidence and sound intelligence.
Such a person is not easily swayed by common praeconceptions, and chooses to ignore the unknowing judgementalism of the herd.
In Valkenswaard there were quite a few women who liked cigars -- not all of them limited themselves to the local product; some of them had a fondness for Cubans -- and most of these exemplary persons had an independent streak that was praiseworthy indeed.
One of them had smuggled guns and ammo during the war, and lots of other things in the years since. Another was a notoriously toughminded and capable local politician, whom one would rather not cross.
A third was a schoolteacher, very inspiring!
And so on. You get the idea.
The perfect cigar for a woman is, probably, a robusto (one of the most popular shapes in America), or a toro. Either Nicaraguan tobacco from Esteli and Jalapa, or something in the Arturo Fuente range.
Padrons, Perdomos, Olivas.
Nothing small and effete. Nor a big whomping Salomon or gordo that screams "I have a very tiny penis". The 6x60 and the 7x70 are, of course, quite ridiculous. The cigar-smoking woman need not prove her manhood, and should naturally sneer at the problem cases who do.
Smokers of enormous cigars have issues.
And are probably very small.
Almost all are men.
Wee men.
I actually prefer a toro, because the pointy end makes it easier for me to hold it in my mouth while working, whereas some other vitolas cause unfortunate drooling, rather like a slobbery blood hound.
Perfectos too. The perfecto is a classic shape.
Many of the finest brands do a perfecto.
Including Dutch companies.
The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker prefers something between five and seven inches. Remember that. It's an important bit of information.
The best things in life come in likable dimensions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It must be the pheromones exuded by oily skin.
That, plus a simplicity of intellect.
Large bosomed women appreciate all that. Much more than they could possibly ever value the inherent subtlety and wit of men who smoke fine Virginias or Medium Latakia Mixtures in their pipes. Which is all far too impossibly finicky and complicated for women of huge bazoomb and unexercised mind.
Four days a week I come in contact with cigars during the course of the working day. It is both a blessing and a curse. The blessing is high-quality tobacco, the curse is the armpit-scratching cavemen of Marin.
As well as the bazoombacious monsters for whom they fall.
Okay, now that I've got the obligatory sneering and insulting of stogie-chompers out of the way .....
Even though I am a pipe smoker, I actually like cigars. I can't help it.
I grew up in a town which at one point had over two dozen cigar factories (Valkenswaard), although by the latter part of the twentieth century the number had been reduced to two (Hofnar and Willem II), then one. When I last visited, Hofnar was long gone, and the once brand-new office building of Willem II was being torn down.
Eindhoven, the nearest metropolis (yes, that's what it seemed like at the time), had been "The City That Smokes" ('La Ville Fumée') well before old Fritz established his light-bulb factory there.
Cigars are part of a balanced life.
More germane to this essay, however, are all the elegant ladies and lovely women who smoke cigars.
At the present time I know of several, including 'The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker', who really should copyright that nickname.
It speaks of a strong mind when a woman knows her cigars, and has discriminating taste in that area. Stubbornness, yes, but tempered by confidence and sound intelligence.
Such a person is not easily swayed by common praeconceptions, and chooses to ignore the unknowing judgementalism of the herd.
In Valkenswaard there were quite a few women who liked cigars -- not all of them limited themselves to the local product; some of them had a fondness for Cubans -- and most of these exemplary persons had an independent streak that was praiseworthy indeed.
One of them had smuggled guns and ammo during the war, and lots of other things in the years since. Another was a notoriously toughminded and capable local politician, whom one would rather not cross.
A third was a schoolteacher, very inspiring!
And so on. You get the idea.
The perfect cigar for a woman is, probably, a robusto (one of the most popular shapes in America), or a toro. Either Nicaraguan tobacco from Esteli and Jalapa, or something in the Arturo Fuente range.
Padrons, Perdomos, Olivas.
Nothing small and effete. Nor a big whomping Salomon or gordo that screams "I have a very tiny penis". The 6x60 and the 7x70 are, of course, quite ridiculous. The cigar-smoking woman need not prove her manhood, and should naturally sneer at the problem cases who do.
Smokers of enormous cigars have issues.
And are probably very small.
Almost all are men.
Wee men.
I actually prefer a toro, because the pointy end makes it easier for me to hold it in my mouth while working, whereas some other vitolas cause unfortunate drooling, rather like a slobbery blood hound.
Perfectos too. The perfecto is a classic shape.
Many of the finest brands do a perfecto.
Including Dutch companies.
The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker prefers something between five and seven inches. Remember that. It's an important bit of information.
The best things in life come in likable dimensions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, September 05, 2015
I AM SURROUNDED BY DEPRAVITY!
Upon my return home, I was informed that the small headsheep was very pleased with himself. Being, as he himself insists, the very acme of fabulousnessessessess!
None of the other stuffed critters even come close.
I was also informed, at very great length, by the one-legged monkey, that the head sheep had thirped everywhere all day long. Thiiirrrrrrp!
"Leaving a trail of sheep slime all over the place ... "
It is shocking that none of the other roomies stepped in and put a stop to that disgusting behaviour. They're of no help at all. The sheepess assured me that she had been "observing the subject in his natural environment", and that it would be unprofessional for her to step in.
She's quite happy keeping a safe distance from her adoptive brother while he thirps on my blankets and books.
"Thirp thirp thirp. Thiiiirrrrp!"
The monkey insisted "well I ain't touching it, it be nasty!"
And yes, my bed is nasty. For one thing, one entire side of the bed is overloaded with books and small furry creatures. For another thing, there's only one human who ever sleeps in the book-free section on the right-hand side, that being me. Which is quite nasty, to my mind.
There should be someone else there.
Admittedly in this hot weather the extra body warmth provided by another human would be slightly uncomfortable -- far more appropriate during the cooler part of the year, positively comfy or cozy during winter when the rain comes blattering down -- but I cannot tell you how welcome it would be.
Really, I cannot tell you. Modesty forbids it.
Besides, as you can imagine, it would require much discussion and burgeoning familiarity, a developing relationship that starts with friendship and goes from there, testing various categories of water with delicate toe-dips, ascertaining the mutual desirability and opennesses, compatibility screening procedures, time together at coffee shops and eateries, perhaps a romantic dinner for two at In-N-Out Burger, finding out whether the smell of pipe-tobacco was either more than acceptable OR an insurmountable barrier. As well as a suitable candidate.
Step one, necessarily, is finding someone.
Which, unfortunately, may have to wait until I make the sheepess a little white lab coat, so that she will be an official researcher while "observing the subject in his natural environment". She's trying to catalogue all the symptoms, you see. And whether there is any discomfort, or a course of treatment becomes recommended. Strong measures may be necessary!
She believes the ailment is headquartered in his nether regions.
Perhaps because she doesn't know what Asperger is.
Apparently it involves trails of slime.
All over my bed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
None of the other stuffed critters even come close.
I was also informed, at very great length, by the one-legged monkey, that the head sheep had thirped everywhere all day long. Thiiirrrrrrp!
"Leaving a trail of sheep slime all over the place ... "
It is shocking that none of the other roomies stepped in and put a stop to that disgusting behaviour. They're of no help at all. The sheepess assured me that she had been "observing the subject in his natural environment", and that it would be unprofessional for her to step in.
She's quite happy keeping a safe distance from her adoptive brother while he thirps on my blankets and books.
"Thirp thirp thirp. Thiiiirrrrp!"
The monkey insisted "well I ain't touching it, it be nasty!"
And yes, my bed is nasty. For one thing, one entire side of the bed is overloaded with books and small furry creatures. For another thing, there's only one human who ever sleeps in the book-free section on the right-hand side, that being me. Which is quite nasty, to my mind.
There should be someone else there.
Admittedly in this hot weather the extra body warmth provided by another human would be slightly uncomfortable -- far more appropriate during the cooler part of the year, positively comfy or cozy during winter when the rain comes blattering down -- but I cannot tell you how welcome it would be.
Really, I cannot tell you. Modesty forbids it.
Besides, as you can imagine, it would require much discussion and burgeoning familiarity, a developing relationship that starts with friendship and goes from there, testing various categories of water with delicate toe-dips, ascertaining the mutual desirability and opennesses, compatibility screening procedures, time together at coffee shops and eateries, perhaps a romantic dinner for two at In-N-Out Burger, finding out whether the smell of pipe-tobacco was either more than acceptable OR an insurmountable barrier. As well as a suitable candidate.
Step one, necessarily, is finding someone.
Which, unfortunately, may have to wait until I make the sheepess a little white lab coat, so that she will be an official researcher while "observing the subject in his natural environment". She's trying to catalogue all the symptoms, you see. And whether there is any discomfort, or a course of treatment becomes recommended. Strong measures may be necessary!
She believes the ailment is headquartered in his nether regions.
Perhaps because she doesn't know what Asperger is.
Apparently it involves trails of slime.
All over my bed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, September 04, 2015
IT'S PROBABLY RAINING THERE RIGHT NOW
The oglable young ladies were nothing to write home about -- that is to say, I had other things on my mind, like not getting crashed into by large tourists wandering lost and baffled through the narrow alleyways, marvelling at the total alleywayness of it all -- and by the time I felt hungry, dim sum no longer beckoned. Instead I went to a chachanteng for lamb brisket and dried tofu sticks over rice (枝竹羊腩飯 'ji juk yeung naam faan').
Cup of hot milk-tea, heaping plate of food. Soup and a hot bun.
And a restaurant full of loudly talking old gentlemen.
Only three women customers.
One of whom looked bored as all get-out, and understandably so, because accompanying your husband of several decades to a place where there's no one else to talk to, and then he insists one ignoring you while reading the entire newspaper, can be somewhat less than no fun at all.
It is, in fact, the perfect description of a rotten date.
Why, there are so many more nice things to do!
Like watching the bakery counter with anguished eyes, as one Swiss Roll Cake after another disappears. So few left! The place does very nice Swiss Roll Cakes -- sweet cream, chocolate, mocha, and lemon -- and picking one up for four lovely decadent private servings later is a major reason to go there. Sheer heaven! A wonderful idea!
But not if your husband is more interested in the classifieds than you.
She looked quite utterly forlorn and lonesome.
And damned near close to tears.
Worst married date.
Ever.
After a while she just upped and left. Probably went to find some friends to talk to. He didn't even notice. One moment she was there, the next moment her place was empty, his newspaper was still up shielding him from her absent eyes, and she was gone.
Personally, I think she should change the locks when she gets home.
After finishing my meal I loaded a pipe and wandered up toward Waverly, dodging cow-eyed tourists and sundry white folk who haven't yet figured out how to use a sidewalk effectively, eventually ending opposite Culture Lite Printing (文光印務設計公司 'man gwong yan mou chit gai gung si'), watching the non-tourists going about their business. It's much more entertaining, and far less likely to leave one feeling peevish.
At my age, peevishness comes naturally.
Once I finished the pipe I went down to the park to see if the erhu player might be there. He was, and so was his friend with the bamboo flute. While enjoying their music, a friend of theirs came over, and sang along while they played "Home Town Rain". Which, because you may not be familiar with it, I reproduce below.
故鄉的雨 GU HEUNG DIK YÜ
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W4Qp_P_VCpk.]
故鄉的雨
一封家書 一聲關注
一句平常的體己語
令我快慰 心裡滿是暖意
猶如令我置身春暉裡
重提到家中簷前舊燕 重回舊里家中居
信中寫到家鄉的雨 滴滴細雨話兒時
問我有否記掛舊燕子 家鄉的細雨
爸爸的心 媽媽的意 充滿慈祥的關注
入我眼裡 心裡滿是歉意
繁忙鬧市看不到喜歡的雨
難忘記我學牛郎騎父背 童謠漫唱一家歡喜
母親的笑深深記 望著這信淚兒垂
念到故鄉兩老 願似燕子 家鄉飛去
Fanny Kaoru (王薰妮 Wong Fan Nei) was born in 1956, started singing professionally as a teenager, and was one of those beloved voices from years ago one often wonders about. Where are they now, what happened to them? After marriage, she moved to Toronto. In 2008 she was diagnosed with lupus. Her last blogpost was in 2014.
She was active on Facebook as recently as June of this year.
The erhu player, the flutist, and the singer in Portsmouth Square were all at least a decade older than Ms. Kaoru. Obviously they were in the primes of their lives when that particular song was popular.
They remembered it with fondness.
Youth, rain, hometown.
Many years past.
Sojourners.
Age.
Except for the tensely wound waitress at the chachanteng, every single person I dealt with in Chinatown today was older than me.
Which makes me feel young, oh god yes.
I am full of piss and vinegar.
Beans!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Cup of hot milk-tea, heaping plate of food. Soup and a hot bun.
And a restaurant full of loudly talking old gentlemen.
Only three women customers.
One of whom looked bored as all get-out, and understandably so, because accompanying your husband of several decades to a place where there's no one else to talk to, and then he insists one ignoring you while reading the entire newspaper, can be somewhat less than no fun at all.
It is, in fact, the perfect description of a rotten date.
Why, there are so many more nice things to do!
Like watching the bakery counter with anguished eyes, as one Swiss Roll Cake after another disappears. So few left! The place does very nice Swiss Roll Cakes -- sweet cream, chocolate, mocha, and lemon -- and picking one up for four lovely decadent private servings later is a major reason to go there. Sheer heaven! A wonderful idea!
But not if your husband is more interested in the classifieds than you.
She looked quite utterly forlorn and lonesome.
And damned near close to tears.
Worst married date.
Ever.
After a while she just upped and left. Probably went to find some friends to talk to. He didn't even notice. One moment she was there, the next moment her place was empty, his newspaper was still up shielding him from her absent eyes, and she was gone.
Personally, I think she should change the locks when she gets home.
After finishing my meal I loaded a pipe and wandered up toward Waverly, dodging cow-eyed tourists and sundry white folk who haven't yet figured out how to use a sidewalk effectively, eventually ending opposite Culture Lite Printing (文光印務設計公司 'man gwong yan mou chit gai gung si'), watching the non-tourists going about their business. It's much more entertaining, and far less likely to leave one feeling peevish.
At my age, peevishness comes naturally.
Once I finished the pipe I went down to the park to see if the erhu player might be there. He was, and so was his friend with the bamboo flute. While enjoying their music, a friend of theirs came over, and sang along while they played "Home Town Rain". Which, because you may not be familiar with it, I reproduce below.
故鄉的雨 GU HEUNG DIK YÜ
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W4Qp_P_VCpk.]
故鄉的雨
一封家書 一聲關注
一句平常的體己語
令我快慰 心裡滿是暖意
猶如令我置身春暉裡
重提到家中簷前舊燕 重回舊里家中居
信中寫到家鄉的雨 滴滴細雨話兒時
問我有否記掛舊燕子 家鄉的細雨
爸爸的心 媽媽的意 充滿慈祥的關注
入我眼裡 心裡滿是歉意
繁忙鬧市看不到喜歡的雨
難忘記我學牛郎騎父背 童謠漫唱一家歡喜
母親的笑深深記 望著這信淚兒垂
念到故鄉兩老 願似燕子 家鄉飛去
Fanny Kaoru (王薰妮 Wong Fan Nei) was born in 1956, started singing professionally as a teenager, and was one of those beloved voices from years ago one often wonders about. Where are they now, what happened to them? After marriage, she moved to Toronto. In 2008 she was diagnosed with lupus. Her last blogpost was in 2014.
She was active on Facebook as recently as June of this year.
The erhu player, the flutist, and the singer in Portsmouth Square were all at least a decade older than Ms. Kaoru. Obviously they were in the primes of their lives when that particular song was popular.
They remembered it with fondness.
Youth, rain, hometown.
Many years past.
Sojourners.
Age.
Except for the tensely wound waitress at the chachanteng, every single person I dealt with in Chinatown today was older than me.
Which makes me feel young, oh god yes.
I am full of piss and vinegar.
Beans!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SLOWLY TIPPING OVER
Yesterday was horrendous. But enough about that. Today is a day off, which means that it will be enjoyed thoroughly. What I envision for the day is buckets of Hong Kong style milk-tea and dim sum at one of the Chinatown lunch counters, followed by a long walk around the neighborhood, ogling young ladies and listening in on conversations.
While smoking a pipe.
Being adirty old man errrm, 'vibrantly mature masculine type person' is so much more rewarding with good tobacco.
And, speaking of which, the "Wall of Pease" mentioned in a previous post is more unstable than ever. Yesterday while I was contemplating wearing a tie, still fresh and dewy from my bath, two tins slowly tipped over and fell down. The flying buttress of Rattrays tobacco cans is the only thing keeping that section from collapsing entirely.
It, likewise, consists of puffy exemplars.
[The Wall of Pease: over two hundred tins of Gregory Pease's pipe tobaccos, containing a large number of Latakia mixtures, many of which date back to 2005 and 2004. When tobacco ages, the complex chemicals that are present break down, making the product richer, mellower, and more harmonious. The fermentation will cause sealed tins to swell.
Latakia, a fire-cured tobacco from the Mid-East, really does require Virginias, as Latakia lacks the natural sugars necessary to such secondary fermentation in a sealed tin. The same goes for Burley mixtures, by the way. I have an open tin of Bob Runowski's blend Haunted Bookshop next to computer, which smells deep and fecund, intoxicating. The tin was bulgily rotund before I broke the seal, after eight years of aging.]
This is the best time of year for smoking a pipe while wandering around admiring shapely women. Because in hot weather many of them show a marked lack of sound judgement. Bless them all.
"Put some clothes on and go to college!"
Now, perhaps you might think that the well-brought-up middle-aged pipe-smoker would have cogent words of advice for the young as regards clothing, especially if it is clear that they have no clue.
But you would be wrong! I do not want to be lynched by angry females between the ages of twenty and whenever (young is a relative term), and will consequently keep my mouth shut and my eyes silently open.
Instead I shall enjoy every moment. Each and every glorious wispy shreds of clothing moment. So good with a pipe!
Then more milk-tea. And another pipe.
I'm thinking flue-cured leaf.
Aged Flake.
Probably best to avoid Grant Avenue. Too many wide women from the Midwest or other overfed parts of the country. I manifestly do not need to be reminded of the horrid junkfood that passes for good eating in deprived regions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
While smoking a pipe.
Being a
And, speaking of which, the "Wall of Pease" mentioned in a previous post is more unstable than ever. Yesterday while I was contemplating wearing a tie, still fresh and dewy from my bath, two tins slowly tipped over and fell down. The flying buttress of Rattrays tobacco cans is the only thing keeping that section from collapsing entirely.
It, likewise, consists of puffy exemplars.
[The Wall of Pease: over two hundred tins of Gregory Pease's pipe tobaccos, containing a large number of Latakia mixtures, many of which date back to 2005 and 2004. When tobacco ages, the complex chemicals that are present break down, making the product richer, mellower, and more harmonious. The fermentation will cause sealed tins to swell.
Latakia, a fire-cured tobacco from the Mid-East, really does require Virginias, as Latakia lacks the natural sugars necessary to such secondary fermentation in a sealed tin. The same goes for Burley mixtures, by the way. I have an open tin of Bob Runowski's blend Haunted Bookshop next to computer, which smells deep and fecund, intoxicating. The tin was bulgily rotund before I broke the seal, after eight years of aging.]
This is the best time of year for smoking a pipe while wandering around admiring shapely women. Because in hot weather many of them show a marked lack of sound judgement. Bless them all.
"Put some clothes on and go to college!"
Now, perhaps you might think that the well-brought-up middle-aged pipe-smoker would have cogent words of advice for the young as regards clothing, especially if it is clear that they have no clue.
But you would be wrong! I do not want to be lynched by angry females between the ages of twenty and whenever (young is a relative term), and will consequently keep my mouth shut and my eyes silently open.
Instead I shall enjoy every moment. Each and every glorious wispy shreds of clothing moment. So good with a pipe!
Then more milk-tea. And another pipe.
I'm thinking flue-cured leaf.
Aged Flake.
Probably best to avoid Grant Avenue. Too many wide women from the Midwest or other overfed parts of the country. I manifestly do not need to be reminded of the horrid junkfood that passes for good eating in deprived regions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, September 03, 2015
YOU CANNOT WRENCH MY MONKEY!
While I like what I do, and also like most of the people that I meet while doing what I do, the realization has hit me that some of the likable people whom I deal with do not have all the same items in the toolbox. Now, I shall not argue that my toolbox is the best toolbox there is, but it seems pretty complete to me.
There are two gentlemen who come in regularly, and both of them are successful in whatever it is that they actually do. But it isn't, and I'm just guessing here, communication or analytical thought.
Let's call it a monkey wrench, and say that it is missing.
The monkey wrench is not in their toolbox.
I have no doubt I shall see at least one of them today.
I must remember not to flaunt my monkey wrench.
Someone who doesn't even know what a monkey wrench is can never the less feel envy or pain, albeit inchoately.
On the way over to Marin I shall quietly repeat to myself: be merciful to the poor wrenchless masses, be merciful to the poor wrenchless masses, be merciful to the poor wrenchless masses.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There are two gentlemen who come in regularly, and both of them are successful in whatever it is that they actually do. But it isn't, and I'm just guessing here, communication or analytical thought.
Let's call it a monkey wrench, and say that it is missing.
The monkey wrench is not in their toolbox.
I have no doubt I shall see at least one of them today.
I must remember not to flaunt my monkey wrench.
Someone who doesn't even know what a monkey wrench is can never the less feel envy or pain, albeit inchoately.
On the way over to Marin I shall quietly repeat to myself: be merciful to the poor wrenchless masses, be merciful to the poor wrenchless masses, be merciful to the poor wrenchless masses.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, September 02, 2015
YOU SEEK KNOWLEDGE, PILGRIM!
For your information, and as a service to searchers, here are the five most read essays on this blog today:
THIS SHOP DOES NOT RECEIVE THE JAPANESE, THE PHILIPPINES, THE VIETNAMESE OR DOG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/03/this-shop-does-not-receive-japanese.html
SATURDAY, MARCH 02, 2013
Mr. Wang in Peking refuses to serve various types of people, for fear that his waitress might go super saiyan and rip them into little smelly pieces.
It is unfair to dogs.
Over forty visitors. I really can't figure out why. Maybe a foreign tour group is scheduled to sample Peking cuisine? If so, do not bother, Northerners can't cook. Real cuisine starts at Shanghai, continues southward to Guangzhou and Hong Kong, and ends just shy of the border.
DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FRENCH CUT AND HIGH CUT
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2012/11/difference-between-french-cut-and-high.html
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 2012
Avoid bikini briefs; they only look good on manga babes. Whereas French cuts and High cuts are flattering for adults of all genders and ages.
I seek your confident transformation, you pervert.
Well over a dozen students. And I can only presume that this is scientific research, part of the required reading for a course.
College has changed a lot since my day.
DIM SUM: KINDS, NAMES, PRONUNCIATION, DESCRIPTION
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2012/03/dim-sum-kinds-names-pronunciation.html
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 28, 2012
Kindly get stuffed.
Also over a dozen visits. Not surprising, as it is the all-time most popular post here. Being able to read and write the names of foods and prepared dishes is a rewarding ability in any Chinese restaurant, as you stand a far greater chance of getting exactly what you want for lunch.
What I ate in Chinatown yesterday was 糯米雞, 韮菜餃, 豬肉燒賣, and 炸芋角, washed down with coffee. The first item required a drizzle of soy sauce upon opening, the last two some dabs of chili paste.
It was satisfying and delicious!
Earlier I had purchased long beans and fingerling white eggplant (白茄子 'baak ke ji'), as well as duck liver sausage (鴨潤臘腸 'ngaap yeun laap cheung') and half a pound (半磅 'pun pong') of plum head ground meat (梅頭肉碎 'mui tau yiuk seui'), richer and tastier than the regular minced pork, and lovely with chopped black mushrooms (香菇 'heung gu') mixed in.
Think of little meatballs, for example.
I shall dine well.
SEA CUCUMBER - SOAKING AND BRAISING A DELICIOUS SLUG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/10/sea-cucumber-soaking-and-braising.html
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 01, 2011
A disquisition about the joy of slimy things. It is better than being covered in maple syrup. Far, far better.
Half a dozen readers. I'm guessing that most were overseas Chinese, as the concept of kwailos being interested in this comestible is staggering.
White people usually don't cook.
They eat at McDonald's.
And grow fat.
HAM SAP LO - THE CANTONESE PERVERT
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/04/ham-sap-lo-cantonese-pervert.html
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 27, 2011
You made an obscene proposition to little miss Wong. She then called you a name. Seeking to endear yourself to her, you decide to find out what that term means. Cultural knowledge is crucial in conquering hearts and minds, no?
Three visitors. Who are probably all ham sap.
Little miss Wong is everywhere.
You repulse her.
Feedback in the form of comments, as well as inquiries and suggestions, will be very greatly appreciated. Most especially regarding food.
I am always keenly interested in what can be eaten.
It's more achievable than that other stuff.
Let's be realistic here.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THIS SHOP DOES NOT RECEIVE THE JAPANESE, THE PHILIPPINES, THE VIETNAMESE OR DOG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2013/03/this-shop-does-not-receive-japanese.html
SATURDAY, MARCH 02, 2013
Mr. Wang in Peking refuses to serve various types of people, for fear that his waitress might go super saiyan and rip them into little smelly pieces.
It is unfair to dogs.
Over forty visitors. I really can't figure out why. Maybe a foreign tour group is scheduled to sample Peking cuisine? If so, do not bother, Northerners can't cook. Real cuisine starts at Shanghai, continues southward to Guangzhou and Hong Kong, and ends just shy of the border.
DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FRENCH CUT AND HIGH CUT
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2012/11/difference-between-french-cut-and-high.html
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 2012
Avoid bikini briefs; they only look good on manga babes. Whereas French cuts and High cuts are flattering for adults of all genders and ages.
I seek your confident transformation, you pervert.
Well over a dozen students. And I can only presume that this is scientific research, part of the required reading for a course.
College has changed a lot since my day.
DIM SUM: KINDS, NAMES, PRONUNCIATION, DESCRIPTION
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2012/03/dim-sum-kinds-names-pronunciation.html
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 28, 2012
Kindly get stuffed.
Also over a dozen visits. Not surprising, as it is the all-time most popular post here. Being able to read and write the names of foods and prepared dishes is a rewarding ability in any Chinese restaurant, as you stand a far greater chance of getting exactly what you want for lunch.
What I ate in Chinatown yesterday was 糯米雞, 韮菜餃, 豬肉燒賣, and 炸芋角, washed down with coffee. The first item required a drizzle of soy sauce upon opening, the last two some dabs of chili paste.
It was satisfying and delicious!
Earlier I had purchased long beans and fingerling white eggplant (白茄子 'baak ke ji'), as well as duck liver sausage (鴨潤臘腸 'ngaap yeun laap cheung') and half a pound (半磅 'pun pong') of plum head ground meat (梅頭肉碎 'mui tau yiuk seui'), richer and tastier than the regular minced pork, and lovely with chopped black mushrooms (香菇 'heung gu') mixed in.
Think of little meatballs, for example.
I shall dine well.
SEA CUCUMBER - SOAKING AND BRAISING A DELICIOUS SLUG
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/10/sea-cucumber-soaking-and-braising.html
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 01, 2011
A disquisition about the joy of slimy things. It is better than being covered in maple syrup. Far, far better.
Half a dozen readers. I'm guessing that most were overseas Chinese, as the concept of kwailos being interested in this comestible is staggering.
White people usually don't cook.
They eat at McDonald's.
And grow fat.
HAM SAP LO - THE CANTONESE PERVERT
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/04/ham-sap-lo-cantonese-pervert.html
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 27, 2011
You made an obscene proposition to little miss Wong. She then called you a name. Seeking to endear yourself to her, you decide to find out what that term means. Cultural knowledge is crucial in conquering hearts and minds, no?
Three visitors. Who are probably all ham sap.
Little miss Wong is everywhere.
You repulse her.
Feedback in the form of comments, as well as inquiries and suggestions, will be very greatly appreciated. Most especially regarding food.
I am always keenly interested in what can be eaten.
It's more achievable than that other stuff.
Let's be realistic here.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
REGULARLY REVOLVING SWIMMING NUTS
There's that phrase again! It's disturbing. Why is an unprintable Cantonese expression denoting a sneering rejection of everything the other person stands for, a complete unwillingness to accept matters between two people, a growled acknowledgement of enmity, being uttered with such conviction?
Who has offended, how did they merit this?
A returning of dried oysters.
It may just be an old-school Toishanese expression.
Possibly even obscure in every civilized tongue.
How surprising that the speaker knows it!
There's an argument going on in my apartment mate's room.
It involves the teddy bear, the little black kitty, and the she-sheep, who is often the enforcer or remonstratrix in chief when the other stuffed animals get all rowdy. Remarkably, most of the critters seem to have a command of Cantonese cussing and insults.
The blue-faced sheep (not the she-sheep) has at times told me he will do unmentionable things with my "pai gwat" (short ribs). Or irritably exclaimed "pu neige hoohah". He will "pu" my "hoohah". He does not clarify what the verb ("pu") means, nor what he presumes a "hoohah" to be. He's a rude little blister at times, but still very innocent.
If he knew what I take a "hoohah" to be, he would blanch.
And wail that I was a filthy-minded old dude.
Which I gladly admit that I am.
I haven't seen hoohah in so long I'd probably throw cloves of garlic at it, and let in the sunlight.
"FAN NEI GE HO-SI!"
反你嘅蠔豉
It was the voice of the little black kitty, who seems to think that everyone is so mean to her, because no one will serve her or obey her commands. As the world's most beautiful kitty, she deserves slavish attention, but we're all too stupid to realize that. Or deliberately evil.
She probably doesn't know what "dried oyster" (蠔豉 'ho si') means in that phrase. She must have heard it somewhere. Probably in my apartment mate's room, as my apartment mate is, in fact, a person of Cantonese extraction, though American by birth.
In some contexts, ho-si is the same as hoohah. But unlike hoohah, ho-si can be added to rice porridge, along with lean pork, for a remarkably yummy breakfast.
I think reference was also made to a German midget with lederhosen. Possibly the raccoon: Gunther, an alumnus of Heidelberg.
Many of the beasts next door not only have foul mouths, but rich inner lives. What with being 'reality impaired'.
Having been dragged from the company of Morpheus by the racket in the room next door, my thoughts for the first several minutes were all about ho-si.
Actually, if it weren't for the recurring mental echo of accordion music, or the imaginary oompah band in my head, all my waking thoughts would be about ho-si. The advantage of achieving maturity is that eventually there are other thoughts.
In addition to ho-si.
天不怕，地不怕，只怕台山人說台山話。
Maybe the hoohah connotations of ho-si explain why one cannot easily find rice porridge with lean pork and dried oysters beyond Chinatown. The restaurant owners, perhaps understandably, are afraid that it will excite the bestial passions of middle-aged white men. All of a sudden we'll become red-eyed and grow claws and fangs.
Next thing you know, we'll be ripping off our stylish cravats, and egg-nogging complete strangers in the street.
Scandalous!
They need not worry.
I've survived perfectly well for five long draggy years of bachelorhood with nary a trace of hoohah, ho-si, or even egg-nogg.
I know how to behave in public.
I am a gentleman.
It is, never-the-less, disquiting to hear the term 'ho-si' mentioned in the other room. Especially because I rarely make rice porridge for myself.
It takes hours to prepare, and when I want it, I want spontaneity.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Who has offended, how did they merit this?
A returning of dried oysters.
It may just be an old-school Toishanese expression.
Possibly even obscure in every civilized tongue.
How surprising that the speaker knows it!
There's an argument going on in my apartment mate's room.
It involves the teddy bear, the little black kitty, and the she-sheep, who is often the enforcer or remonstratrix in chief when the other stuffed animals get all rowdy. Remarkably, most of the critters seem to have a command of Cantonese cussing and insults.
The blue-faced sheep (not the she-sheep) has at times told me he will do unmentionable things with my "pai gwat" (short ribs). Or irritably exclaimed "pu neige hoohah". He will "pu" my "hoohah". He does not clarify what the verb ("pu") means, nor what he presumes a "hoohah" to be. He's a rude little blister at times, but still very innocent.
If he knew what I take a "hoohah" to be, he would blanch.
And wail that I was a filthy-minded old dude.
Which I gladly admit that I am.
I haven't seen hoohah in so long I'd probably throw cloves of garlic at it, and let in the sunlight.
"FAN NEI GE HO-SI!"
反你嘅蠔豉
It was the voice of the little black kitty, who seems to think that everyone is so mean to her, because no one will serve her or obey her commands. As the world's most beautiful kitty, she deserves slavish attention, but we're all too stupid to realize that. Or deliberately evil.
She probably doesn't know what "dried oyster" (蠔豉 'ho si') means in that phrase. She must have heard it somewhere. Probably in my apartment mate's room, as my apartment mate is, in fact, a person of Cantonese extraction, though American by birth.
In some contexts, ho-si is the same as hoohah. But unlike hoohah, ho-si can be added to rice porridge, along with lean pork, for a remarkably yummy breakfast.
I think reference was also made to a German midget with lederhosen. Possibly the raccoon: Gunther, an alumnus of Heidelberg.
Many of the beasts next door not only have foul mouths, but rich inner lives. What with being 'reality impaired'.
Having been dragged from the company of Morpheus by the racket in the room next door, my thoughts for the first several minutes were all about ho-si.
Actually, if it weren't for the recurring mental echo of accordion music, or the imaginary oompah band in my head, all my waking thoughts would be about ho-si. The advantage of achieving maturity is that eventually there are other thoughts.
In addition to ho-si.
天不怕，地不怕，只怕台山人說台山話。
Maybe the hoohah connotations of ho-si explain why one cannot easily find rice porridge with lean pork and dried oysters beyond Chinatown. The restaurant owners, perhaps understandably, are afraid that it will excite the bestial passions of middle-aged white men. All of a sudden we'll become red-eyed and grow claws and fangs.
Next thing you know, we'll be ripping off our stylish cravats, and egg-nogging complete strangers in the street.
Scandalous!
They need not worry.
I've survived perfectly well for five long draggy years of bachelorhood with nary a trace of hoohah, ho-si, or even egg-nogg.
I know how to behave in public.
I am a gentleman.
It is, never-the-less, disquiting to hear the term 'ho-si' mentioned in the other room. Especially because I rarely make rice porridge for myself.
It takes hours to prepare, and when I want it, I want spontaneity.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 01, 2015
ILLITERATE JEWS
One of the best things you will read today is this:
[Begin cite]
"Dear Mr. Goldberg,
How does it feel to be a kapo? How does it feel to be a shithead whose shoveling Jews into the ovens, because that is what your doing. Your buddy Obama wants Isreal to be destroyed so he’s giving the Irannians regime the bomb. Why don’t you see the truth? This deal that they negotiated by kerry lets Iran have the bomb in 10 years or less. Youre so blind because your a court jew I guess. Obama could have gotten them to give away their nuclear program but he didn’t because he’s pro-Muslim like you."
[End cite]
SOURCE: How to Write Proper Iran-Related Hate Mail
http://www.theatlantic.com/notes/2015/08/how-to-write-proper-iran-related-hate-mail/402754/
Bad grammar, lack of proper capitalization, multiple spelling errors, improper punctuation, and ridiculous assertion.
It's almost a classic.
The recipient, Jeffrey Goldberg, who writes for the Atlantic Monthly (a magazine to which my mother contributed, a long time ago), cites that as an example of badly written hate mail.
He then gives a quick lesson in how to write hate mail properly.
Which may be of some use to illiterate Jews.
"I admire Jewish cleverness, and it breaks my heart to read the writings of sub-literate Jews."
He has received non-Jewish angry feedback in the past, for such things as arguing that it’s a bad thing to murder Israelis en masse.
Much of the venom comes from Twitter users in Pakistan, Turkey, and Oregon.
Oregon?
Fuck Oregon. It's the armpit of swine.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Begin cite]
"Dear Mr. Goldberg,
How does it feel to be a kapo? How does it feel to be a shithead whose shoveling Jews into the ovens, because that is what your doing. Your buddy Obama wants Isreal to be destroyed so he’s giving the Irannians regime the bomb. Why don’t you see the truth? This deal that they negotiated by kerry lets Iran have the bomb in 10 years or less. Youre so blind because your a court jew I guess. Obama could have gotten them to give away their nuclear program but he didn’t because he’s pro-Muslim like you."
[End cite]
SOURCE: How to Write Proper Iran-Related Hate Mail
http://www.theatlantic.com/notes/2015/08/how-to-write-proper-iran-related-hate-mail/402754/
Bad grammar, lack of proper capitalization, multiple spelling errors, improper punctuation, and ridiculous assertion.
It's almost a classic.
The recipient, Jeffrey Goldberg, who writes for the Atlantic Monthly (a magazine to which my mother contributed, a long time ago), cites that as an example of badly written hate mail.
He then gives a quick lesson in how to write hate mail properly.
Which may be of some use to illiterate Jews.
"I admire Jewish cleverness, and it breaks my heart to read the writings of sub-literate Jews."
He has received non-Jewish angry feedback in the past, for such things as arguing that it’s a bad thing to murder Israelis en masse.
Much of the venom comes from Twitter users in Pakistan, Turkey, and Oregon.
Oregon?
Fuck Oregon. It's the armpit of swine.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GUEST POST: BENJAMIN WALKER AND HIS DATING PROBLEM
The following is reproduced as a public service announcement, highlighting the dangers many men such as myself face when approaching the opposite sex. Normal men -- men who can talk about casual subjects such as foot or baseball, and scandals involving celebrities, for instance -- will never suffer like we do.
Begin cite:
AREA MAN INTIMIDATES WOMEN
MILWAUKEE—Describing his mind as both “a blessing and a curse,” local man Benjamin Walker, 27, told reporters Thursday that his intellect was probably just too intimidating for most women to engage with romantically.
“I’m a very, very smart guy, and I guess most women are pretty scared off by that, you know?” said Walker, confirming that women often seem extremely uncomfortable and agitated around him, most likely because of how cultured and well-read he is. “After I’ve been speaking to a girl for just a few minutes, she’ll usually start to get this look in her eyes like she wants to bolt and I can just tell that she’s feeling so intellectually inferior that it’s impossible for her to continue with the conversation.”
“Which is understandable,” Walker added. “I am able to speak confidently and at length about a wide range of subjects, so it’s probably hard for most women to follow along.”
According to the Milwaukee resident, whenever he is talking to a young woman and begins to expound at length on one of the many topics he is well versed in—such as Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers or the British graffiti artist Banksy—she begins to appear highly overwhelmed by his mental capacity and quickly grows visibly restless and distant.
Walker, who acknowledged that his imposing cleverness and quick wit likely caused women to feel insecure about not being as smart as he is, confirmed that females frequently displayed an averse reaction to his impressive mind by noticeably “checking out” of the conversation or attempting, no doubt in fear and awe, to exit the discussion as quickly as possible.
The 27-year-old, who graduated from Syracuse University in 2007, told reporters that he subscribes to The New Yorker magazine and keeps up with the news on a daily basis—all facts that Walker said seem to persistently leave the opposite sex speechless when he inserts them into conversation.
“I should really be more careful, I suppose, because I can see that my intelligence can be a major hindrance to meeting women, most of whom are probably looking for a guy with a more ordinary or slowed-down intellect—you know, someone more on their level,” said Walker. “Sometimes, after talking to a girl at a party, for instance, I will try to approach her again and she’ll purposefully avoid eye contact with me, just so she doesn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of contending with my staggering mental faculties.”
“It’s tough, because I really try my best to relieve their anxiety and say, ‘Hey, look, don’t sweat it, I’m used to people not being able to keep up with my mind,’” added Walker. “But that never seems to help. They’re too petrified by that point.”
Admitting that his remarkable mind can make him appear unapproachable, Walker told reporters that he has even taken to downplaying his formidable intellect during first dates in order to put women at ease, employing tactics such as talking slower or briefly pausing to allow his conversational partners time to process the information that he imparts at a breakneck pace.
Ultimately, however, Walker said there was only so much he could do to lower his cognitive standards to another’s level.
“Recently, for example, I talked to this girl at a bar for half an hour about Radiohead—quoting lyrics and telling her about how the band went in a new musical direction with [their 2000 album] Kid A—you know, really making it easy for her to understand,” Walker said. “Things were going great, and I was saying a lot of very interesting stuff, but when I tried to call her a few days later, she never picked up or returned my calls.”
“And it’s like, look, I’m a sophisticated guy, I like sophisticated music,” Walker added. “If you can’t get that, then there’s nothing I can do for you.”
Walker confessed that at the past few parties he has attended, his profound sagacity pushed women toward less intellectually arresting men.
“Unfortunately I sometimes puzzle women with my lofty comments and thought-provoking remarks, and that drives them right into the arms of complete dopes because that’s less scary for them,” said Walker. “You know, the kind of guys who can barely string together 10 words before resorting to asking a girl about her hobbies or what she does for a living. It’s like, what’s the point? Is that even a conversation?”
“And this is why I’ve never really been in a long-term relationship before, because the girls I’m with tend to get frustrated with their inability to think on my level,” the 27-year-old continued. “In the end, I think the problem is that they want to be with me because of my exceptional wit, but they eventually realize that I’m just too deep.”
End cite.
[SOURCE: L’oignon ]
It's an important problem. This blogger, for one, thoroughly empathizes with mr. Walker, who may end up childless and alone because of his enormous intellect.
Many's the time I have been left by myself in a bar or at a social event, while everyone else is happily talking about Trump's latest brilliant idea, or what the Giants did recently, or even Ferraris, Bugattis, Teslas, and other urban pick-up truck substitutes. The lack of import and meaning in all of those subjects leaves me handicapped conversationally, and if their inane chatter, happy though it is, goes on too long, I will yawn.
Seriously. Several of the women I know scream loudly and without warning at the television set at the cigar bar. This is very distressing, especially when I am letting fly a bon mot or well-plotted witticism.
So I know the pain that Benjamin Walker is going through. It is horrible.
I would suggest to him that he have his sperm frozen, and if all else fails leave it to science.
It's better than seeding the neighborhood with small vials of it.
NOTE: Article lifted in its entirety, minus the illuminating photo showing him striking out, to highlight the urgency of the problem.
Act now (!) to alleviate the suffering.
Operators are standing by.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Begin cite:
AREA MAN INTIMIDATES WOMEN
MILWAUKEE—Describing his mind as both “a blessing and a curse,” local man Benjamin Walker, 27, told reporters Thursday that his intellect was probably just too intimidating for most women to engage with romantically.
“I’m a very, very smart guy, and I guess most women are pretty scared off by that, you know?” said Walker, confirming that women often seem extremely uncomfortable and agitated around him, most likely because of how cultured and well-read he is. “After I’ve been speaking to a girl for just a few minutes, she’ll usually start to get this look in her eyes like she wants to bolt and I can just tell that she’s feeling so intellectually inferior that it’s impossible for her to continue with the conversation.”
“Which is understandable,” Walker added. “I am able to speak confidently and at length about a wide range of subjects, so it’s probably hard for most women to follow along.”
According to the Milwaukee resident, whenever he is talking to a young woman and begins to expound at length on one of the many topics he is well versed in—such as Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers or the British graffiti artist Banksy—she begins to appear highly overwhelmed by his mental capacity and quickly grows visibly restless and distant.
Walker, who acknowledged that his imposing cleverness and quick wit likely caused women to feel insecure about not being as smart as he is, confirmed that females frequently displayed an averse reaction to his impressive mind by noticeably “checking out” of the conversation or attempting, no doubt in fear and awe, to exit the discussion as quickly as possible.
The 27-year-old, who graduated from Syracuse University in 2007, told reporters that he subscribes to The New Yorker magazine and keeps up with the news on a daily basis—all facts that Walker said seem to persistently leave the opposite sex speechless when he inserts them into conversation.
“I should really be more careful, I suppose, because I can see that my intelligence can be a major hindrance to meeting women, most of whom are probably looking for a guy with a more ordinary or slowed-down intellect—you know, someone more on their level,” said Walker. “Sometimes, after talking to a girl at a party, for instance, I will try to approach her again and she’ll purposefully avoid eye contact with me, just so she doesn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of contending with my staggering mental faculties.”
“It’s tough, because I really try my best to relieve their anxiety and say, ‘Hey, look, don’t sweat it, I’m used to people not being able to keep up with my mind,’” added Walker. “But that never seems to help. They’re too petrified by that point.”
Admitting that his remarkable mind can make him appear unapproachable, Walker told reporters that he has even taken to downplaying his formidable intellect during first dates in order to put women at ease, employing tactics such as talking slower or briefly pausing to allow his conversational partners time to process the information that he imparts at a breakneck pace.
Ultimately, however, Walker said there was only so much he could do to lower his cognitive standards to another’s level.
“Recently, for example, I talked to this girl at a bar for half an hour about Radiohead—quoting lyrics and telling her about how the band went in a new musical direction with [their 2000 album] Kid A—you know, really making it easy for her to understand,” Walker said. “Things were going great, and I was saying a lot of very interesting stuff, but when I tried to call her a few days later, she never picked up or returned my calls.”
“And it’s like, look, I’m a sophisticated guy, I like sophisticated music,” Walker added. “If you can’t get that, then there’s nothing I can do for you.”
Walker confessed that at the past few parties he has attended, his profound sagacity pushed women toward less intellectually arresting men.
“Unfortunately I sometimes puzzle women with my lofty comments and thought-provoking remarks, and that drives them right into the arms of complete dopes because that’s less scary for them,” said Walker. “You know, the kind of guys who can barely string together 10 words before resorting to asking a girl about her hobbies or what she does for a living. It’s like, what’s the point? Is that even a conversation?”
“And this is why I’ve never really been in a long-term relationship before, because the girls I’m with tend to get frustrated with their inability to think on my level,” the 27-year-old continued. “In the end, I think the problem is that they want to be with me because of my exceptional wit, but they eventually realize that I’m just too deep.”
End cite.
[SOURCE: L’oignon ]
It's an important problem. This blogger, for one, thoroughly empathizes with mr. Walker, who may end up childless and alone because of his enormous intellect.
Many's the time I have been left by myself in a bar or at a social event, while everyone else is happily talking about Trump's latest brilliant idea, or what the Giants did recently, or even Ferraris, Bugattis, Teslas, and other urban pick-up truck substitutes. The lack of import and meaning in all of those subjects leaves me handicapped conversationally, and if their inane chatter, happy though it is, goes on too long, I will yawn.
Seriously. Several of the women I know scream loudly and without warning at the television set at the cigar bar. This is very distressing, especially when I am letting fly a bon mot or well-plotted witticism.
So I know the pain that Benjamin Walker is going through. It is horrible.
I would suggest to him that he have his sperm frozen, and if all else fails leave it to science.
It's better than seeding the neighborhood with small vials of it.
NOTE: Article lifted in its entirety, minus the illuminating photo showing him striking out, to highlight the urgency of the problem.
Act now (!) to alleviate the suffering.
Operators are standing by.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
POISSON FARCI OIF HAVAIYISH
The time is right for a new food. In a tribute to Hawaiian Japanese innovation, we present ... (drumroll, please) ...
The GEFILTE FISH MUSUBI!
Please stop scratching your eyes out. It's good!
Hawaiian. Japanese. And Jewish.
Hi fusion cuisine.
Soulfood.
Unfortunately, not kosher le peysach, unless you use quinoa in lieu of rice (Sephardim have a pass), but nevertheless sure to become a cult favourite.
Fish. Rice. One piece carrot, and a shmear of chrein.
Wrapped in an extra layer of nori.
You know you want it.
Brok da mout.
Ono, brah.
Gefilte fish
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The GEFILTE FISH MUSUBI!
Please stop scratching your eyes out. It's good!
Hawaiian. Japanese. And Jewish.
Hi fusion cuisine.
Soulfood.
Unfortunately, not kosher le peysach, unless you use quinoa in lieu of rice (Sephardim have a pass), but nevertheless sure to become a cult favourite.
Fish. Rice. One piece carrot, and a shmear of chrein.
Wrapped in an extra layer of nori.
You know you want it.
Brok da mout.
Ono, brah.
Gefilte fish
==========================================================================
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,...
