Watching disco in old movies is a form of torture. People just did not dance well back in the golden age. And the clothes, good lord.
There is much about the seventies that deservedly got deep-sixed.
Clothing. Music. Politics.
Oh wait, many of today's vilest politicians were already adults then, and politically sentient. That explains an awful lot (and a lot that is awful).
Perhaps we should blame disco for all that is wrong.
Please don't bring it back.
It's evil.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, September 24, 2015
THE HONOURABLE DINGBAT
Marsha Blackburn, a Republican member of the House Energy Committee, rejects the theory of evolution, and says that global climate change is not happening.
I shall not dispute her right to believe horsepucky.
I just wish that the Republican party would stop being so obtuse, and would cease throwing up such morons. Appointing Marsha Blackburn to anything at all is a huge embarrassment for the United States. Sofar, she's managed to make us look stupid for over a decade, as a member of several committees where a modicum of intelligence would have been a virtue.
The Republicans keep doing that.
Not surprisingly, she represents a district in Tennessee.
As a top-notch retard, she does that very well.
Its a place with many fools.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I shall not dispute her right to believe horsepucky.
I just wish that the Republican party would stop being so obtuse, and would cease throwing up such morons. Appointing Marsha Blackburn to anything at all is a huge embarrassment for the United States. Sofar, she's managed to make us look stupid for over a decade, as a member of several committees where a modicum of intelligence would have been a virtue.
The Republicans keep doing that.
Not surprisingly, she represents a district in Tennessee.
As a top-notch retard, she does that very well.
Its a place with many fools.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
GOOD CLEAN HABITS
Between yesterday evening and a few hours ago, this blogger was involved in saving his computer from disaster. No protection on the machine, and an internet full of viruses all around. But, thanks to several people of sub-continental derivation, disaster has been averted.
I particularly thank miss Neta (from Madya Pradesh), mister Parvin Kumar (Karnataka), and Sreedevi (whose natal place was not mentioned).
The first two persons mentioned work for iYogi in Bangalore, the last one represents AVG Customer Care.
Other factors that bear on this are the Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival ("Moon Festival"), spicy food, flue-cured tobaccos ("Virginia"), Chinese internet sites, chai ('milky tea'), the grammar of Sanskrit, and a tar-encrusted Benton briar pipe.
[EXPLICATA: Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival: The moon festival originated as a harvest festival millenia ago, and has acquired encrustations of tradition and folk-lore ever since. Like several other Chinese festive observances it is family-oriented, in the sense that Chinese people automatically think of the old home town and family home, plus relatives far away, at this time. Mooncakes, which are large confections rather resembling cat food cans in appearance, being a thin baked dough skin enclosing a sweet filling, are eaten or gifted, and re-gifted; because one is often too much for a single person to eat, and the traditional box of four of them is way too much of a good thing. Spicy Food: after several days of working outside the city, a man needs something with a little more flavour than the pallid suburbs can handle. Wherefore one goes out and has bitter melon in black bean and garlic sauce with fresh collops of fish over rice, and chili paste on the side. It is delicious. Flue-cured tobaccos: commonly called Virginia tobacco, after the place where this style of drying and curing leaf rich in natural sugars originated, the product is now sourced from all over the world; even cigar producing areas such as the Dominican Republic and Central America grow it. Most of the crop is destined for cigarettes, but the finest gets pressed and aged for pipe tobacco. Chinese Internet Sites: all subjects are discussed, much interesting stuff can be found (like answers to questions about cigars, pipes, and the characteristics of Latakia tobacco). Chai: strong tea with milk, sugar, and spices; very upkicking to the tired computer-user, or a pipe-smoker recovering from a three-day suburban nightmare. Sanskrit Grammar: a fascinating subject codified most magnificently by Panini 25 centuries ago. His monumental Ashtadhyayi is the mother of all descriptive grammars, acknowledged as such since European philologists happily discovered it during the nineteenth century.
Tar-encrusted Benton: a plain bent pipe which smokes like a dream, and the only item in my collection of briar smoking devices on which I allow rim-buildup.]
Upon returning from my lunch and smoke jaunt yesterday, I discovered that my computer was no longer protected from infection, quite possibly (meaning that it is extremely likely) from recent browsing.
It could also have been the Chinese sites devoted to cigars and pipes, or describing various recipes in detail. There aren't many in-depth articles in English or Dutch about dried ingredients common to the Cantonese kitchen, and certain vegetables are barely described at all.
The Chinese web is anarchic and buggy.
So of course I sought help.
And found Indians.
If it weren't for Indians, single males across the world would be staring at blank screens in the middle of the night, sadly weeping into their rapidly cooling cups of chai.
Three hours with first miss Neta, then Mr. Parvin Kumar, both of them remotely accessing my machine, running diagnostics, removing infected bits, and also trying to keep up a conversation with customers, so that we don't start acting all frustrated, and vocalizing angrily about work that needs to be done or dinner that must be eaten. They know that Americans get cranky when their blood-sugar levels drop.
Fortunately I had already eaten.
Even more fortunately, my phone has an extremely long extension cord. Which meant that three times I went into the kitchen while they were wrestling with my computer to fix myself some chai and grab another slice of mooncake to nibble on.
MOONCAKE [月餅]
At this time of year, approaching the Autumn Moon Festival, this blogger does not think of the town where he grew up, but instead of Yuen Long (元朗) in the New Territories (新界), Hong Kong. The reason being, as you will immediately grasp, that that is where Wing Wah (榮華食品製造業有限公司 'wing-wa sik-pan jai-jou sat yau-haan-gong si') is located, who produce the best mooncakes exported from the territory.
Feeling somewhat alone, what with being a single man surrounded in San Francisco by freaks of a younger generation, I had purchased a full box. Single yolk, lotus seed paste (蛋黃蓮蓉月餅).
Mooncakes are addictive. And splendid with strong milk tea.
Consequently I ate one-and-a-half.
They're very rich.
The conversation with mister Parvin Kumar gradually lapsed, so I grabbed the translation of the Aṣṭādhyāyī from the bookcase nearby, and started reading selected bits of the preface and the introduction to him.
It's fascinating stuff.
But he's probably convinced that I'm crazy because of it.
Of course, being a native speaker of Kannada (a non-Sanskritic tongue), it also has scant import in his life, even though the pattern set by Panini influenced subsequent efforts by scholars writing in other languages.
Cite:
"Indeed, the tradition of the Aṣṭ was so strong that even grammars of some of the Dravidian languages were composed on its pattern, such as the Tolkāppiyam for Tamil, Līlātilakam (*), for Malayalam, Andra-sabda-cintamani for Telugu (*), and Śabda-maṇi-darpaṇa for Kannada."
End cite.
[SOURCE: Aṣṭādhyāyī of Pāṇini by Sumitra M. Katre.]
What I could also have mentioned was that the Kavirajamarga (ಕವಿರಾಜಮಾರ್ಗ), a classic Kannarese textbook on poetry written in the ninth century, by its very name alone attests to the influence of Sanskrit on the literature of the South Indian languages. The name is transparent to almost anyone with a knowledge of the Sanskrit vocabulary in Indonesian tongues, as it plainly says 'methodology of the princes of poets', or 'royal poetry path'. In other words, the way or praxis of writing splendid verse.
Kavi: Poetry, poetic language. Raja: Prince or king. Marga: Path, way.
Every term is Sanskrit.
I need to check Amazon to see if a translation is available.
Or perhaps a commentarial excursus.
It looks intriguing.
The Benton pipe enters into all of this about halfway through yesterday evening's tech support session. Hands must do something, and the tray of pipes is positioned close to the computer. I ended up smelling the pipe, which has a fragrance richly evocative of sunlight days of pleasure, comfort during wintry downpours, and any number of fine memory associations.
I fondled it, and sniffed deeply.
I cannot smoke in the apartment in the evening, even when my apartment mate is not around, as she is decidedly not a fan of tobacco.
So I merely enjoyed the echoed aromas of the past.
This morning, before even starting to finish-up on getting AVG to work again, I firmly shut my apartment mate's bedroom door and opened all the windows.
Then I studied Sreedevi's instructions sent in response to my screeching on the AVG Facebook page. Followed these, ran tests afterwards, confirmed that indeed AVG is now working again.
Filled the Benton pipe with one of the Virginia mixtures of my own devizing (this one is approximately fifty percent medium flake, with slightly over fifteen percent air-cured leaf), and lit up.
Altogether, for the entire excercise: three cups of hot chai yesterday evening, two cups of coffee this morning, one bowlful of fine tobacco, and five hours worth of computerized frustration.
Shan't mention the whiskey in between then and now.
AVG and iYogi are fine companies.
And have very good people.
Keep that in mind.
AFTERWORD
IF I were in a position to give a teenage boy a stern lecture about good habits versus bad practices, it would mostly include admonitions to avoid risky internet sites because they buggers up your computer, learn how to make chai as well as cook with strong flavours -- good for the mind and body -- and at all times avoid cheap drugstore tobaccos, especially aromatics. Flavoured tobacco is a mark of depravity.
If you cannot avoid risky internet sites, at least smoke good leaf.
Old fashioned mixtures, with honest Virginias.
And keep your pipes clean.
Oh, and eat mooncakes from Wing Wah.
They produce a splendid product.
Available everywhere.
By the way: spellcheck does NOT like this post.
There are highlights and underlines everywhere.
Which is very peculiar; it's written in English!
Spellcheck is probably an illiterate savage.
PS. There are five places I really must visit in India: Delhi, Bombay, Lucknow, Hyderabad, and Bangalore. The first four because of the food, and perhaps the architecture. The last because it is filled with very intelligent people. Oh, and the food is also worth exploring.
Udupi restaurants, among other things.
But mostly, intelligent people.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I particularly thank miss Neta (from Madya Pradesh), mister Parvin Kumar (Karnataka), and Sreedevi (whose natal place was not mentioned).
The first two persons mentioned work for iYogi in Bangalore, the last one represents AVG Customer Care.
Other factors that bear on this are the Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival ("Moon Festival"), spicy food, flue-cured tobaccos ("Virginia"), Chinese internet sites, chai ('milky tea'), the grammar of Sanskrit, and a tar-encrusted Benton briar pipe.
[EXPLICATA: Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival: The moon festival originated as a harvest festival millenia ago, and has acquired encrustations of tradition and folk-lore ever since. Like several other Chinese festive observances it is family-oriented, in the sense that Chinese people automatically think of the old home town and family home, plus relatives far away, at this time. Mooncakes, which are large confections rather resembling cat food cans in appearance, being a thin baked dough skin enclosing a sweet filling, are eaten or gifted, and re-gifted; because one is often too much for a single person to eat, and the traditional box of four of them is way too much of a good thing. Spicy Food: after several days of working outside the city, a man needs something with a little more flavour than the pallid suburbs can handle. Wherefore one goes out and has bitter melon in black bean and garlic sauce with fresh collops of fish over rice, and chili paste on the side. It is delicious. Flue-cured tobaccos: commonly called Virginia tobacco, after the place where this style of drying and curing leaf rich in natural sugars originated, the product is now sourced from all over the world; even cigar producing areas such as the Dominican Republic and Central America grow it. Most of the crop is destined for cigarettes, but the finest gets pressed and aged for pipe tobacco. Chinese Internet Sites: all subjects are discussed, much interesting stuff can be found (like answers to questions about cigars, pipes, and the characteristics of Latakia tobacco). Chai: strong tea with milk, sugar, and spices; very upkicking to the tired computer-user, or a pipe-smoker recovering from a three-day suburban nightmare. Sanskrit Grammar: a fascinating subject codified most magnificently by Panini 25 centuries ago. His monumental Ashtadhyayi is the mother of all descriptive grammars, acknowledged as such since European philologists happily discovered it during the nineteenth century.
Tar-encrusted Benton: a plain bent pipe which smokes like a dream, and the only item in my collection of briar smoking devices on which I allow rim-buildup.]
Upon returning from my lunch and smoke jaunt yesterday, I discovered that my computer was no longer protected from infection, quite possibly (meaning that it is extremely likely) from recent browsing.
It could also have been the Chinese sites devoted to cigars and pipes, or describing various recipes in detail. There aren't many in-depth articles in English or Dutch about dried ingredients common to the Cantonese kitchen, and certain vegetables are barely described at all.
The Chinese web is anarchic and buggy.
So of course I sought help.
And found Indians.
If it weren't for Indians, single males across the world would be staring at blank screens in the middle of the night, sadly weeping into their rapidly cooling cups of chai.
Three hours with first miss Neta, then Mr. Parvin Kumar, both of them remotely accessing my machine, running diagnostics, removing infected bits, and also trying to keep up a conversation with customers, so that we don't start acting all frustrated, and vocalizing angrily about work that needs to be done or dinner that must be eaten. They know that Americans get cranky when their blood-sugar levels drop.
Fortunately I had already eaten.
Even more fortunately, my phone has an extremely long extension cord. Which meant that three times I went into the kitchen while they were wrestling with my computer to fix myself some chai and grab another slice of mooncake to nibble on.
MOONCAKE [月餅]
At this time of year, approaching the Autumn Moon Festival, this blogger does not think of the town where he grew up, but instead of Yuen Long (元朗) in the New Territories (新界), Hong Kong. The reason being, as you will immediately grasp, that that is where Wing Wah (榮華食品製造業有限公司 'wing-wa sik-pan jai-jou sat yau-haan-gong si') is located, who produce the best mooncakes exported from the territory.
Feeling somewhat alone, what with being a single man surrounded in San Francisco by freaks of a younger generation, I had purchased a full box. Single yolk, lotus seed paste (蛋黃蓮蓉月餅).
Mooncakes are addictive. And splendid with strong milk tea.
Consequently I ate one-and-a-half.
They're very rich.
The conversation with mister Parvin Kumar gradually lapsed, so I grabbed the translation of the Aṣṭādhyāyī from the bookcase nearby, and started reading selected bits of the preface and the introduction to him.
It's fascinating stuff.
But he's probably convinced that I'm crazy because of it.
Of course, being a native speaker of Kannada (a non-Sanskritic tongue), it also has scant import in his life, even though the pattern set by Panini influenced subsequent efforts by scholars writing in other languages.
Cite:
"Indeed, the tradition of the Aṣṭ was so strong that even grammars of some of the Dravidian languages were composed on its pattern, such as the Tolkāppiyam for Tamil, Līlātilakam (*), for Malayalam, Andra-sabda-cintamani for Telugu (*), and Śabda-maṇi-darpaṇa for Kannada."
End cite.
[SOURCE: Aṣṭādhyāyī of Pāṇini by Sumitra M. Katre.]
What I could also have mentioned was that the Kavirajamarga (ಕವಿರಾಜಮಾರ್ಗ), a classic Kannarese textbook on poetry written in the ninth century, by its very name alone attests to the influence of Sanskrit on the literature of the South Indian languages. The name is transparent to almost anyone with a knowledge of the Sanskrit vocabulary in Indonesian tongues, as it plainly says 'methodology of the princes of poets', or 'royal poetry path'. In other words, the way or praxis of writing splendid verse.
Kavi: Poetry, poetic language. Raja: Prince or king. Marga: Path, way.
Every term is Sanskrit.
I need to check Amazon to see if a translation is available.
Or perhaps a commentarial excursus.
It looks intriguing.
The Benton pipe enters into all of this about halfway through yesterday evening's tech support session. Hands must do something, and the tray of pipes is positioned close to the computer. I ended up smelling the pipe, which has a fragrance richly evocative of sunlight days of pleasure, comfort during wintry downpours, and any number of fine memory associations.
I fondled it, and sniffed deeply.
I cannot smoke in the apartment in the evening, even when my apartment mate is not around, as she is decidedly not a fan of tobacco.
So I merely enjoyed the echoed aromas of the past.
This morning, before even starting to finish-up on getting AVG to work again, I firmly shut my apartment mate's bedroom door and opened all the windows.
Then I studied Sreedevi's instructions sent in response to my screeching on the AVG Facebook page. Followed these, ran tests afterwards, confirmed that indeed AVG is now working again.
Filled the Benton pipe with one of the Virginia mixtures of my own devizing (this one is approximately fifty percent medium flake, with slightly over fifteen percent air-cured leaf), and lit up.
Altogether, for the entire excercise: three cups of hot chai yesterday evening, two cups of coffee this morning, one bowlful of fine tobacco, and five hours worth of computerized frustration.
Shan't mention the whiskey in between then and now.
AVG and iYogi are fine companies.
And have very good people.
Keep that in mind.
AFTERWORD
IF I were in a position to give a teenage boy a stern lecture about good habits versus bad practices, it would mostly include admonitions to avoid risky internet sites because they buggers up your computer, learn how to make chai as well as cook with strong flavours -- good for the mind and body -- and at all times avoid cheap drugstore tobaccos, especially aromatics. Flavoured tobacco is a mark of depravity.
If you cannot avoid risky internet sites, at least smoke good leaf.
Old fashioned mixtures, with honest Virginias.
And keep your pipes clean.
Oh, and eat mooncakes from Wing Wah.
They produce a splendid product.
Available everywhere.
By the way: spellcheck does NOT like this post.
There are highlights and underlines everywhere.
Which is very peculiar; it's written in English!
Spellcheck is probably an illiterate savage.
PS. There are five places I really must visit in India: Delhi, Bombay, Lucknow, Hyderabad, and Bangalore. The first four because of the food, and perhaps the architecture. The last because it is filled with very intelligent people. Oh, and the food is also worth exploring.
Udupi restaurants, among other things.
But mostly, intelligent people.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
GLUTEN-FREE CHINESE FOOD
A friend, who has the peculiar conviction that I like cooking queer shiznit, sent me a recipe for "gluten free wontons", with the remark that it looked good enough that even I would consider it a masterpiece.
I sent him back a note telling him to never do that again. Never EVER do that again. If you value your ability to breath through a nose, do NOT ever do that again. Don't even think of doing that.
I know where your relatives live.
And I'll tell on you.
Depraved person!
Sorry for genuine coeliacals, but gluten-free Chinese food is the kind of garbage only white people eat. Please understand that the stuff which ignorant dingbats like David Perlmutter, Mark Sisson, and that rancid heap of poo Ms. Vani Hari might cook, in a mis-guided attempt to Chinkify culinary garbage, should NEVER be called 'Chinese food'.
That's a damned good way to offend every Chinese person alive.
As well as anyone who appreciates good cooking.
And legitimate nutritionists.
Now hear this: if you claim gluten intolerance, or peculiar food allergies, or special dietary needs, or are a vegan, DO NOT COOK CHINESE.
Heck, don't cook anything, and step away from the kitchen implements.
Slowly. The rest of us startle easily, and might start shooting.
Consider rolling up into a ball until you die of bowel blockage instead.
Or dye your hair indigo, and go meditate in an ashram in Somalia.
Move to Sweden, and invent a vegan version of surströmming.
Taunt the Russian military, or take up basket weaving.
These are all things I wish David Perlmutter, Mark Sisson, and that rancid heap of poo Ms. Vani Hari would do too.
Such evil people have NO business speaking about food.
It is opportunistic, and depraved.
Snake oil.
Won ton contains gluten. Period.
Bitches.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I sent him back a note telling him to never do that again. Never EVER do that again. If you value your ability to breath through a nose, do NOT ever do that again. Don't even think of doing that.
I know where your relatives live.
And I'll tell on you.
Depraved person!
Sorry for genuine coeliacals, but gluten-free Chinese food is the kind of garbage only white people eat. Please understand that the stuff which ignorant dingbats like David Perlmutter, Mark Sisson, and that rancid heap of poo Ms. Vani Hari might cook, in a mis-guided attempt to Chinkify culinary garbage, should NEVER be called 'Chinese food'.
That's a damned good way to offend every Chinese person alive.
As well as anyone who appreciates good cooking.
And legitimate nutritionists.
Now hear this: if you claim gluten intolerance, or peculiar food allergies, or special dietary needs, or are a vegan, DO NOT COOK CHINESE.
Heck, don't cook anything, and step away from the kitchen implements.
Slowly. The rest of us startle easily, and might start shooting.
Consider rolling up into a ball until you die of bowel blockage instead.
Or dye your hair indigo, and go meditate in an ashram in Somalia.
Move to Sweden, and invent a vegan version of surströmming.
Taunt the Russian military, or take up basket weaving.
These are all things I wish David Perlmutter, Mark Sisson, and that rancid heap of poo Ms. Vani Hari would do too.
Such evil people have NO business speaking about food.
It is opportunistic, and depraved.
Snake oil.
Won ton contains gluten. Period.
Bitches.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, September 21, 2015
WHEN ONE IS NEVER TRULY ALONE ...
This evening's bus back from Marin was, in a word, bizarre. And if you want to know why, it's because hot weather awakens the dormant brain worms in some people, which then begin twitching excitedly, and interfering with their "normal" synapses. Or burrowing deeper.
They start doing strange things.
And ululating.
Golden Gate Transit does not usually host the batshit crazy contingent; that's Muni's (SFMTA's) prerogative.
Behind me I could hear Arabic, Persian, and Hindi being spoken. That, of course, is to be expected. The Bay Area has lots of programmers and hospitality industry professionals from any number of ancestral sods.
Multiple languages are spoken in this part of the world.
We are a proudly diverse region.
The two middle-aged ladies sitting nearest, however, were not having any of it. One of them was speculating loudly and continuously about a bus full of rapists and sodomites, in addition to blackmailers and strong-arm bandits, and her companion was panicking and insistently urging the bus-driver to hurry dammit, in between muttering that if they didn't get back to Market Street before dark, they'd never get home alive.
It is the criminal element, Margaret!
When the bus driver sped up to get through a yellow light, I could hear one of them gratefully exclaiming that he was a life-saver, lordy, he'd have them reach sanctuary yet!
Sanctuary. Pronounced 'sunkshur-e'.
When I started clarifying to an attractive young Taiwanese woman how to return to Sausalito, it flipped them. They finally realized that the foreign legions had them surrounded. At one point I turned around and asked them to hush now dearie, and the frizzier-haired exemplar snapped that she would not be spoken to in such a manner by a communist.
Which is when I should have started singing the Internationale.
But that might have upset the Taiwanese girl.
Who was rather cute.
So, no rendition of 'Die Internationale', alas.
Which I sing entirely in German.
"Wacht auf, verdamten dieser erde, die stets man noch zum hungern zwingt,
Das recht, wie glut im kraterherde, nun mit macht zum durbruch dringt..."
[起來，飢寒交迫的奴隸！起來，全世界受苦的人！]
I always voice that song whenever I'm dealing with Neanderthalers and other slope-browed retrograde rightwing reactionaries.
For their entire tribe, I encourage apoplexy.
It's an attempt to improve the world.
German singing does that.
My only real regret is that I never got to explain my theory about brain worms symbiotically spelunking in the craniums of unstable people.
I think it illustrates the unique qualities of my commute.
She disembarked before we reached that moment.
Brainworms. And extremely hot weather.
Quod erat demonstrandum, babies.
A logical reason for everything.
Except for the wet seat.
That was an accident.
That is, probably.
Not certain.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They start doing strange things.
And ululating.
Golden Gate Transit does not usually host the batshit crazy contingent; that's Muni's (SFMTA's) prerogative.
Behind me I could hear Arabic, Persian, and Hindi being spoken. That, of course, is to be expected. The Bay Area has lots of programmers and hospitality industry professionals from any number of ancestral sods.
Multiple languages are spoken in this part of the world.
We are a proudly diverse region.
The two middle-aged ladies sitting nearest, however, were not having any of it. One of them was speculating loudly and continuously about a bus full of rapists and sodomites, in addition to blackmailers and strong-arm bandits, and her companion was panicking and insistently urging the bus-driver to hurry dammit, in between muttering that if they didn't get back to Market Street before dark, they'd never get home alive.
It is the criminal element, Margaret!
When the bus driver sped up to get through a yellow light, I could hear one of them gratefully exclaiming that he was a life-saver, lordy, he'd have them reach sanctuary yet!
Sanctuary. Pronounced 'sunkshur-e'.
When I started clarifying to an attractive young Taiwanese woman how to return to Sausalito, it flipped them. They finally realized that the foreign legions had them surrounded. At one point I turned around and asked them to hush now dearie, and the frizzier-haired exemplar snapped that she would not be spoken to in such a manner by a communist.
Which is when I should have started singing the Internationale.
But that might have upset the Taiwanese girl.
Who was rather cute.
So, no rendition of 'Die Internationale', alas.
Which I sing entirely in German.
"Wacht auf, verdamten dieser erde, die stets man noch zum hungern zwingt,
Das recht, wie glut im kraterherde, nun mit macht zum durbruch dringt..."
[起來，飢寒交迫的奴隸！起來，全世界受苦的人！]
I always voice that song whenever I'm dealing with Neanderthalers and other slope-browed retrograde rightwing reactionaries.
For their entire tribe, I encourage apoplexy.
It's an attempt to improve the world.
German singing does that.
My only real regret is that I never got to explain my theory about brain worms symbiotically spelunking in the craniums of unstable people.
I think it illustrates the unique qualities of my commute.
She disembarked before we reached that moment.
Brainworms. And extremely hot weather.
Quod erat demonstrandum, babies.
A logical reason for everything.
Except for the wet seat.
That was an accident.
That is, probably.
Not certain.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
PASSIONATELY EUROPEAN!
Yesterday, while the cigar smokers were waxing wroth over the local team in the lounge -- apparently the boys from San Francisco laid an egg or something -- a single woman with a girlish foreign accent informed my coworker that American men were all cold fish. No passion!
All they cared about was football.
This pursuant a conversation that had started with questions about prospective husband material, any boy friends, or even lust interests.
Which my coworker, being a diplomat, had not really answered.
Well, she's also unmarried, and not really looking.
At least that's the impression that I get.
And I will not query further.
Tain't my beeswax.
Anyway: cold fish, emotionally dead, sports nuts.
European men are different. They have passion!
And they're more engaging and polished.
Total social whizbangs, in fact.
Prizes, all of them!
Having been accused of being a European man since I returned to the States years ago, naturally I was all ears.
Hi.
I am 'European'.
Yes. And I can't stand football.
OF course I didn't say that, because I did not want to draw attention to myself, or seem to suggest anything. It would have been totally inappropriate, to say the least.
But the next time I find a to-be-wished-for-prospectivette, I may very well start the conversation by, à propos of nothing at all, informing her that I am Europeanish, and consequently both engaging and polished. With a great capacity for passion, and NO interest in football (strange as that may seem).
I am not a fish.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
All they cared about was football.
This pursuant a conversation that had started with questions about prospective husband material, any boy friends, or even lust interests.
Which my coworker, being a diplomat, had not really answered.
Well, she's also unmarried, and not really looking.
At least that's the impression that I get.
And I will not query further.
Tain't my beeswax.
Anyway: cold fish, emotionally dead, sports nuts.
European men are different. They have passion!
And they're more engaging and polished.
Total social whizbangs, in fact.
Prizes, all of them!
Having been accused of being a European man since I returned to the States years ago, naturally I was all ears.
Hi.
I am 'European'.
Yes. And I can't stand football.
OF course I didn't say that, because I did not want to draw attention to myself, or seem to suggest anything. It would have been totally inappropriate, to say the least.
But the next time I find a to-be-wished-for-prospectivette, I may very well start the conversation by, à propos of nothing at all, informing her that I am Europeanish, and consequently both engaging and polished. With a great capacity for passion, and NO interest in football (strange as that may seem).
I am not a fish.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, September 20, 2015
STAYING COOL IN SAN FRANCISCO
It is, at this moment, hot enough to cast off all clothing except bra and panties. Which I imagine people all over SF are doing. Unless, like me,
they utterly eschew bra and panties. For their own selves.
I am showing off my blue tartan boxer shorts.
This blogger does not like hot weather.
I vastly prefer rain storms.
If I had to choose what climactic conditions would accompany partial nudity shared with another person, it would be while it's bucketing down outside. Nothing is more comfortable than partial nudity indoors during a rainstorm. Assuming, of course, that neither person is feeling cold.
'Coz if they are, there's a nice down comforter.
This is NOT typical San Francisco weather.
It IS distressing and uncomfortable.
I am, naturally, displeased.
If you read about a partially nude Dutchman smoking a pipe getting arrested, that will be me. It will be a protest against the gross inequity of the present weather. A principled political statement.
It is just too hot, and I resent that.
What is horribly unfair about it is that men look splendid running around naked until about eight years of age, and after that become altogether displeasing, more so as they mature. Whereas women aren't even getting started at that age -- not till the bra and pantie years, usually -- and don't peak until they're in their thirties or even forties.
A man standing on a street corner in his boxer shorts looks lost.
A woman, similarly garbed, might simply be a bit lonesome.
If I come back as a woman, I'll put this theory to the test.
I've always wanted to have a conversation while in my blue tartan boxer shorts with a woman wearing only bra and panties during a downpour.
Now more than ever. Because it is so extremely hot, you see.
We all dream of cooler times during heat waves.
Don't worry, it is perfectly normal.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
they utterly eschew bra and panties. For their own selves.
I am showing off my blue tartan boxer shorts.
This blogger does not like hot weather.
I vastly prefer rain storms.
If I had to choose what climactic conditions would accompany partial nudity shared with another person, it would be while it's bucketing down outside. Nothing is more comfortable than partial nudity indoors during a rainstorm. Assuming, of course, that neither person is feeling cold.
'Coz if they are, there's a nice down comforter.
This is NOT typical San Francisco weather.
It IS distressing and uncomfortable.
I am, naturally, displeased.
If you read about a partially nude Dutchman smoking a pipe getting arrested, that will be me. It will be a protest against the gross inequity of the present weather. A principled political statement.
It is just too hot, and I resent that.
What is horribly unfair about it is that men look splendid running around naked until about eight years of age, and after that become altogether displeasing, more so as they mature. Whereas women aren't even getting started at that age -- not till the bra and pantie years, usually -- and don't peak until they're in their thirties or even forties.
A man standing on a street corner in his boxer shorts looks lost.
A woman, similarly garbed, might simply be a bit lonesome.
If I come back as a woman, I'll put this theory to the test.
I've always wanted to have a conversation while in my blue tartan boxer shorts with a woman wearing only bra and panties during a downpour.
Now more than ever. Because it is so extremely hot, you see.
We all dream of cooler times during heat waves.
Don't worry, it is perfectly normal.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE FACE OF HORROR
Last night a friend sent me a message asking me to come out and drink with her and her husband at a place where the nearest humanoid representation of both Godzilla and Chewbaca was working.
She knows of my hesitance about going there when Chewzilla is on duty, so I have to really wonder what was going through her head.
Perhaps it was the Bourbon speaking.
I am a patient and tolerant man.
So, with great patience and tolerance, I let her know that unless it was right at that moment raining blood, and the rivers had caught fire, and the three-headed dragon with crowns upon each head had appeared, there was very little chance of my heading in that direction.
I like monsters, but not that much.
It's mostly intellectual anyway.
"I've seen horrors, horrors that you've seen. But you have no right to call me a murderer. You have a right to kill me. You have a right to do that, but you have no right to judge me. It is impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means.
Horror has a face."
-----Colonel Kurtz
Things got confused out there. The mission doesn't exist; it never existed. Sometimes the dark side overcomes what Lincoln called the better angels of our nature.
Chewzilla is out there operating without any decent restraint, and totally beyond the pale of any acceptable human conduct.
dot - dot - dot
Anyhow, here it is, Sunday morning, and I suspect that everyone involved in last night's lapse of judgement is suffering right now.
I'm not.
I didn't even leave the house for a burrito. Just had coffee and read till twelve o'clock, then went to bed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
She knows of my hesitance about going there when Chewzilla is on duty, so I have to really wonder what was going through her head.
Perhaps it was the Bourbon speaking.
I am a patient and tolerant man.
So, with great patience and tolerance, I let her know that unless it was right at that moment raining blood, and the rivers had caught fire, and the three-headed dragon with crowns upon each head had appeared, there was very little chance of my heading in that direction.
I like monsters, but not that much.
It's mostly intellectual anyway.
"I've seen horrors, horrors that you've seen. But you have no right to call me a murderer. You have a right to kill me. You have a right to do that, but you have no right to judge me. It is impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means.
Horror has a face."
-----Colonel Kurtz
Things got confused out there. The mission doesn't exist; it never existed. Sometimes the dark side overcomes what Lincoln called the better angels of our nature.
Chewzilla is out there operating without any decent restraint, and totally beyond the pale of any acceptable human conduct.
dot - dot - dot
Anyhow, here it is, Sunday morning, and I suspect that everyone involved in last night's lapse of judgement is suffering right now.
I'm not.
I didn't even leave the house for a burrito. Just had coffee and read till twelve o'clock, then went to bed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, September 19, 2015
ENDORSING THE HOMOSEXUAL LIFESTYLE SINCE 2005
This blog began nearly ten years ago. And for that entire decade, its author has encouraged vulnerable adults to man-up and admit their own homosexuality, blasphemous tendencies, and carnivorous natures.
Go on, admit it; you like bacon.
Rainbow coloured bacon.
You're not too young for bacon. All teenagers and twenty-somethings enjoy bacon. Your idiot parents don't know what they're talking about.
Go on, have a bite. Plus some steak. Or a nice juicy burger.
With bacon, cheese, and mushrooms.
On a non-gluten-free bun.
You are deeply in love with animal protein. Which causes you to forsake the altar your family members still loyally and stupidly attend, religiously.
You do not wish to be seen in their Christian company anymore.
Nor eat the Vegan manna they fundamentally praise.
They have become sawdust in your mouth.
And deservedly so.
Both meat and homosexuality are equal opportunity.
I should mention that while I do engage in carnivorous behaviours, nearly every damned opportunity I get, homosexuality is NOT one of my practices.
I sincerely encourage it, darlings, but I abstain myself.
As a man, I much prefer the female of the species.
Some of whom are cute and huggable.
That being said, almost all the crazy-ass vegetarians and gluten-phobics that have crossed my path are women.
Some women are a little, um, irritating.
Because this is California, a huge number of people -- many of them of the feminine bent -- are obsessed with bowel blockage, meaningfulness, karmas and chakras, and projecting an air of precious spirituality.
The Bay Area is, unfortunately, ground zero for that.
Men will usually hide these peculiarities. Women, however, have no shame, and will impose their vegetarian life-style agenda on all and sundry. Because being 'special' is of all encompassing importance.
Californians tolerate a wide spectrum of crazy.
I am not that flexible.
One of the reasons I have taken to eating in Chinatown is because most of the pretentious food hangup hoohah is not something Chinese eateries have much patience for, nor a market-segment to whom they cater.
Chinatown is about meat. And seafood. And gluten.
Homosexuality, not so much.
But I suspect that being peculiar about food, and refusing to touch things which are good to eat, would be far more disturbing to the average Cantonese person than privately engaging in sticky business with a person of the same gender. Or any gender.
Dietary eccentricity is, largely, a life style choice.
And seen as profoundly anti-social.
A deliberate affront.
The Cantonese will tolerate our perversions, especially if we're paying real money to eat flavourless "health food good-karma" garbage, but they'll never-the-less marvel at our stupidity and lack of sense.
Gluten-intolerant veganism is strictly for the birds.
Crazy effing white people.
好食嘢 GOOD EAT THINGS
Follows a list of scrumptious nibbles which include either substances of animal origin, or gluten, or both.
Usually both.
Spring rolls (春捲). Wonton noodle (雲吞麺). Salted snow cabbage and pork shreds in broth with noodles (雪菜肉絲湯米粉). Charsiu buns (叉燒包). Sweet and sour spare ribs (糖醋排骨). Roast duck (燒鴨). White-cooked pork with sour vegetable (酸菜白肉). Steamed fish (蒸魚). Lamb with tofu sticks (腐竹羊肉). Lean pork and preserved egg congee (皮蛋瘦肉粥). Fatty pork meatballs and snow cabbage soup noodle (雪菜豬肉圓河粉). Grilled pork rice noodle soup (燒猪肉河粉湯). Steamed custard bun (奶皇飽). Pork kidney with ginger and scallion (姜葱腰花). Gailan with fish collops (蘭芯斑球). Steamed savoury egg custard (蒸水蛋). Fried dough stick (油條). Stir-fried pork shreds and snow fungus (炒肉絲銀耳). Braised 'lion's head' meatballs (紅燒獅子頭). Glutinous rice chicken steamed in a lotus leaf bundle (糯米雞). Shrimp croquettes (蝦餅). Black bean sauce spare ribs (豆豉排骨). Garlic chives dumplings (韭菜豬肉水餃). Fermented tofu pig trotters (南乳豬手). Curry beef (咖喱牛腩). Shrimp-filled noodle sheet (鮮蝦腸粉). Sea cucumber and pig knuckles (海參燜豬手). Deep-fried glutinous rice puffs (煎堆). Steamed fatty pork chunks (蒸五花腩). Pork floss bun (肉鬆飽). Meat and cabbage bun (菜肉飽). Fish balls on a stick (串魚蛋). Hainan chicken rice (海南雞飯). Shrimp sauce Chinese broccoli (蝦醬芥蘭). Shrimp mash filled bellpeppers (蝦膠釀青椒). Steamed chicken (蒸滑雞). Stewed trotter with peanuts (花生炆豬手). Pickled vegetable fatty pork chunks (梅菜扣肉). Hot and sour chicken (酸辣鷄球). Mixed organ meat rice porridge (及第粥). Lean pork and dried oyster congee (蠔豉瘦肉粥). Fish with crisp bokchoi (菜遠蘢利魚). Beef soup with noodles (牛腩湯麵). Egg tarts (蛋撻). Red bean pastries (豆沙餠). Fish with bittermelon (豆豉凉瓜魚片 OR 涼瓜斑球). Boiled dumplings (水餃). Porkchop with tomato sauce (蕃茄豬扒). Chicken stirfried with seasonal vegetables (炒時菜雞片). Ginger & scallion chicken chunks (薑蔥炆雞丁). Salt fish steamed pork patty (咸魚蒸肉餅). Chicken buns (雞包). Pork siu mai (豬肉燒賣). Typhoon shelter crab (避風塘炒蟹). Deep fried taro puff (芋角). Congee with dried scallops (干貝粥).
Doesn't all of that sound quite wonderful? See, if you're food-stupid, you can't have any. Nor any of the delicious bacon. Mmm, bacon.
Normal homosexuals, however, can; and do.
So do many other normal people.
And remarkable women.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Go on, admit it; you like bacon.
Rainbow coloured bacon.
You're not too young for bacon. All teenagers and twenty-somethings enjoy bacon. Your idiot parents don't know what they're talking about.
Go on, have a bite. Plus some steak. Or a nice juicy burger.
With bacon, cheese, and mushrooms.
On a non-gluten-free bun.
You are deeply in love with animal protein. Which causes you to forsake the altar your family members still loyally and stupidly attend, religiously.
You do not wish to be seen in their Christian company anymore.
Nor eat the Vegan manna they fundamentally praise.
They have become sawdust in your mouth.
And deservedly so.
Both meat and homosexuality are equal opportunity.
I should mention that while I do engage in carnivorous behaviours, nearly every damned opportunity I get, homosexuality is NOT one of my practices.
I sincerely encourage it, darlings, but I abstain myself.
As a man, I much prefer the female of the species.
Some of whom are cute and huggable.
That being said, almost all the crazy-ass vegetarians and gluten-phobics that have crossed my path are women.
Some women are a little, um, irritating.
Because this is California, a huge number of people -- many of them of the feminine bent -- are obsessed with bowel blockage, meaningfulness, karmas and chakras, and projecting an air of precious spirituality.
The Bay Area is, unfortunately, ground zero for that.
Men will usually hide these peculiarities. Women, however, have no shame, and will impose their vegetarian life-style agenda on all and sundry. Because being 'special' is of all encompassing importance.
Californians tolerate a wide spectrum of crazy.
I am not that flexible.
One of the reasons I have taken to eating in Chinatown is because most of the pretentious food hangup hoohah is not something Chinese eateries have much patience for, nor a market-segment to whom they cater.
Chinatown is about meat. And seafood. And gluten.
Homosexuality, not so much.
But I suspect that being peculiar about food, and refusing to touch things which are good to eat, would be far more disturbing to the average Cantonese person than privately engaging in sticky business with a person of the same gender. Or any gender.
Dietary eccentricity is, largely, a life style choice.
And seen as profoundly anti-social.
A deliberate affront.
The Cantonese will tolerate our perversions, especially if we're paying real money to eat flavourless "health food good-karma" garbage, but they'll never-the-less marvel at our stupidity and lack of sense.
Gluten-intolerant veganism is strictly for the birds.
Crazy effing white people.
好食嘢 GOOD EAT THINGS
Follows a list of scrumptious nibbles which include either substances of animal origin, or gluten, or both.
Usually both.
Spring rolls (春捲). Wonton noodle (雲吞麺). Salted snow cabbage and pork shreds in broth with noodles (雪菜肉絲湯米粉). Charsiu buns (叉燒包). Sweet and sour spare ribs (糖醋排骨). Roast duck (燒鴨). White-cooked pork with sour vegetable (酸菜白肉). Steamed fish (蒸魚). Lamb with tofu sticks (腐竹羊肉). Lean pork and preserved egg congee (皮蛋瘦肉粥). Fatty pork meatballs and snow cabbage soup noodle (雪菜豬肉圓河粉). Grilled pork rice noodle soup (燒猪肉河粉湯). Steamed custard bun (奶皇飽). Pork kidney with ginger and scallion (姜葱腰花). Gailan with fish collops (蘭芯斑球). Steamed savoury egg custard (蒸水蛋). Fried dough stick (油條). Stir-fried pork shreds and snow fungus (炒肉絲銀耳). Braised 'lion's head' meatballs (紅燒獅子頭). Glutinous rice chicken steamed in a lotus leaf bundle (糯米雞). Shrimp croquettes (蝦餅). Black bean sauce spare ribs (豆豉排骨). Garlic chives dumplings (韭菜豬肉水餃). Fermented tofu pig trotters (南乳豬手). Curry beef (咖喱牛腩). Shrimp-filled noodle sheet (鮮蝦腸粉). Sea cucumber and pig knuckles (海參燜豬手). Deep-fried glutinous rice puffs (煎堆). Steamed fatty pork chunks (蒸五花腩). Pork floss bun (肉鬆飽). Meat and cabbage bun (菜肉飽). Fish balls on a stick (串魚蛋). Hainan chicken rice (海南雞飯). Shrimp sauce Chinese broccoli (蝦醬芥蘭). Shrimp mash filled bellpeppers (蝦膠釀青椒). Steamed chicken (蒸滑雞). Stewed trotter with peanuts (花生炆豬手). Pickled vegetable fatty pork chunks (梅菜扣肉). Hot and sour chicken (酸辣鷄球). Mixed organ meat rice porridge (及第粥). Lean pork and dried oyster congee (蠔豉瘦肉粥). Fish with crisp bokchoi (菜遠蘢利魚). Beef soup with noodles (牛腩湯麵). Egg tarts (蛋撻). Red bean pastries (豆沙餠). Fish with bittermelon (豆豉凉瓜魚片 OR 涼瓜斑球). Boiled dumplings (水餃). Porkchop with tomato sauce (蕃茄豬扒). Chicken stirfried with seasonal vegetables (炒時菜雞片). Ginger & scallion chicken chunks (薑蔥炆雞丁). Salt fish steamed pork patty (咸魚蒸肉餅). Chicken buns (雞包). Pork siu mai (豬肉燒賣). Typhoon shelter crab (避風塘炒蟹). Deep fried taro puff (芋角). Congee with dried scallops (干貝粥).
Doesn't all of that sound quite wonderful? See, if you're food-stupid, you can't have any. Nor any of the delicious bacon. Mmm, bacon.
Normal homosexuals, however, can; and do.
So do many other normal people.
And remarkable women.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, September 18, 2015
NO GURLZ!
This blogger smoked too much yesterday. Cigar-smoker baby-sitting, and a meeting of the pipe club. Plus unwinding afterwards.
The cigar-smokers were naturally discussing the recent Republican candidate debate. From their conversation, three things stand out:
1) They approve of conservatives eating babies.
2) They will likely support Trump.
3) They are in denial.
And all three of these, you understand, explain why the world's cutest cigar smoker does not ever join them in their club house, as well as why normal people shun them.
Personally, I think we should throw stones at them. No, not because they're cigar smokers -- please put that whiny self-righteous Californian entitled puritanism where it belongs (and you may contact me for suggestions if you are unclear) -- but because like many of the dwindling Republican Party stalwarts they are sub-intelligent blinkered moral defectives.
You didn't used to need to be a bozo to be a Republican.
Nowadays it is manifestly an absolute requirement.
Plus you need a tree fort. Because otherwise normal people will recognize you for what you are, and avoid you like the plague.
In between feeding you bananas.
The meeting of the pipe club at the other end of the building was much more civilized. Some bread and cheese was consumed, along with a little fruit and wine. Conversations were engaged upon in normal tones of voice,
and both wit and logic were employed, as well as repartee.
There was camaraderie and sociability.
It's a life style choice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The cigar-smokers were naturally discussing the recent Republican candidate debate. From their conversation, three things stand out:
1) They approve of conservatives eating babies.
2) They will likely support Trump.
3) They are in denial.
And all three of these, you understand, explain why the world's cutest cigar smoker does not ever join them in their club house, as well as why normal people shun them.
Personally, I think we should throw stones at them. No, not because they're cigar smokers -- please put that whiny self-righteous Californian entitled puritanism where it belongs (and you may contact me for suggestions if you are unclear) -- but because like many of the dwindling Republican Party stalwarts they are sub-intelligent blinkered moral defectives.
You didn't used to need to be a bozo to be a Republican.
Nowadays it is manifestly an absolute requirement.
Plus you need a tree fort. Because otherwise normal people will recognize you for what you are, and avoid you like the plague.
In between feeding you bananas.
The meeting of the pipe club at the other end of the building was much more civilized. Some bread and cheese was consumed, along with a little fruit and wine. Conversations were engaged upon in normal tones of voice,
and both wit and logic were employed, as well as repartee.
There was camaraderie and sociability.
It's a life style choice.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, September 17, 2015
YOU WILL NOT MELT, AUNTIE!
Chinese people hate rain nearly as much as pipe smokers. That is to say, pipe smokers who really thought it wasn't going to rain, and left the house without an umbrella, but with two fine briars and a pouch of Virginia tobacco.
It sprinkled the barest little bit yesterday.
A wee sprinkle, nothing more.
When I stepped outside after lunch at Little Paris, weird wet crap was falling from the sky. Not much, but enough to convince me that lighting up my already filled pipe at that point and in so exposed a place was a bad idea. So I hurried over to the awning over the front of Dol Ho, because they were already closed, and consequently there would be no one connected with their business to object to my smoking out front.
[Dol Ho ("much good") is a dim sum restaurant. Breakfast, brunch.]
There were, however, three elderly women. Who looked remarkably sour when I arrived. They thought they had that broad spread of dry zone entirely to themselves.
I considerately positioned myself as far out into the weather as possible, and at a point where the smoke would blow away from them.
Grumble grumble grumble keui sik yin ge.
Grumble grumble grumble kwailo.
Grumble grumble, gam chau.
Grumble grumble. M-ho.
Again, the breeze was blowing the smoke AWAY from them. And I was at least fifteen feet away from the nearest dessicated old wreck.
The reason why pipe smokers do not like rain when they lack umbrellas is that rain drops leave speckles on the stem of a pipe, and also affect the finish of the wood. We care about our pipes, and do not wish them damaged by weird wet crap falling from the sky. We do not like that.
For ourselves, we are far less concerned.
A bit of rain never hurt anybody.
Except for Chinese people.
That was an extremely enjoyable smoke. Nearly empty streets, at an hour when there should have been mobs of people thronging all over Stockton and Pacific. Nearby bakeries must have been doing a booming business. Desperate Chinese people fleeing the frightening wetness.
The soft murmur of grumbling wreckage behind me.
Altogether peaceful and other-worldly.
After finishing, I went out into the now severely lessening bluster. Which, bear in mind, had been the lightest and wispiest of rains, barely even dampening the pavement.
There was a long-haired cat outside of one of the stores on Stockton Street, who instinctively understood that some folks need to commune with animals.
Either that, or working for a Chinese shopkeeper, she feels attention-starved. The Chinese are not very demonstrative, except when they're vocalizing sotto voce about white people smoking where they want to shelter from the ten drops of wet that might get their hair frizzy.
It's a very sweet cat. Very social and affectionate.
Her owners must be doing something right.
The cat isn't spooked by people.
Ten solid minutes of petting.
I'll have to remember that store and start buying stuff there. Judging by the cat, they are good people.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A wee sprinkle, nothing more.
When I stepped outside after lunch at Little Paris, weird wet crap was falling from the sky. Not much, but enough to convince me that lighting up my already filled pipe at that point and in so exposed a place was a bad idea. So I hurried over to the awning over the front of Dol Ho, because they were already closed, and consequently there would be no one connected with their business to object to my smoking out front.
[Dol Ho ("much good") is a dim sum restaurant. Breakfast, brunch.]
There were, however, three elderly women. Who looked remarkably sour when I arrived. They thought they had that broad spread of dry zone entirely to themselves.
I considerately positioned myself as far out into the weather as possible, and at a point where the smoke would blow away from them.
Grumble grumble grumble keui sik yin ge.
Grumble grumble grumble kwailo.
Grumble grumble, gam chau.
Grumble grumble. M-ho.
Again, the breeze was blowing the smoke AWAY from them. And I was at least fifteen feet away from the nearest dessicated old wreck.
The reason why pipe smokers do not like rain when they lack umbrellas is that rain drops leave speckles on the stem of a pipe, and also affect the finish of the wood. We care about our pipes, and do not wish them damaged by weird wet crap falling from the sky. We do not like that.
For ourselves, we are far less concerned.
A bit of rain never hurt anybody.
Except for Chinese people.
That was an extremely enjoyable smoke. Nearly empty streets, at an hour when there should have been mobs of people thronging all over Stockton and Pacific. Nearby bakeries must have been doing a booming business. Desperate Chinese people fleeing the frightening wetness.
The soft murmur of grumbling wreckage behind me.
Altogether peaceful and other-worldly.
After finishing, I went out into the now severely lessening bluster. Which, bear in mind, had been the lightest and wispiest of rains, barely even dampening the pavement.
There was a long-haired cat outside of one of the stores on Stockton Street, who instinctively understood that some folks need to commune with animals.
Either that, or working for a Chinese shopkeeper, she feels attention-starved. The Chinese are not very demonstrative, except when they're vocalizing sotto voce about white people smoking where they want to shelter from the ten drops of wet that might get their hair frizzy.
It's a very sweet cat. Very social and affectionate.
Her owners must be doing something right.
The cat isn't spooked by people.
Ten solid minutes of petting.
I'll have to remember that store and start buying stuff there. Judging by the cat, they are good people.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
TWIRLING FURRY PERVERT
What does the severely love-starved mature badger do to keep himself occupied, in the absence of a suitable female badger with whom to discuss Proust, Hegel, Kant, Kierkegaard, and post-modernism? How does he distract himself from man's immense solitude in a deep and vast universe of existential loneliness?
He smokes his pipe, and obsessively reads Wikipedia entries. He plays little mind games with himself, like trying to memorize all the Chinese characters that use a phonetic based on liquid characteristics or climactic conditions. He imagines various juxtaposed colours and textures.
He listens to civil war music on youtube, and he concocts tobacco blends that have never seen the light of day.
Deservedly so.
And he prepares himself scrumptious little feasts. In between going down to Chinatown for a steaming cup of milk-tea (Hong Kong style). Where he might oogle pretty girlies while thoughtfully smoking his pipe after his snackipoo and his nice warm beverage.
Before buying ingredients for the feast that will follow.
Often at or around ten o'clock at night.
When he is hungry.
* * * * *
Red curry braised noodles with bittermelon and diverse bits of oink. Italian sausage in a spicy cream sauce over Guan Miao wheat noodles. Oven-roasted potato slices with cumin, cilantro, chopped smoky bacon, dressed with a touch of cayenne béchamel. A salad Niçoise, with spicy fingerlings and smoked salmon, in lieu of the usual.
Perhaps another smoke. Let's see, something dark and flaky with Perique?
If so, I shall need another cup of tea. Or coffee.
Or coffee and tea mixed.
Then to dreamily contemplate the existence of nipple, before obsessively reading about Carolingian history on the internet.
He'll also remember the very fine collar bones he saw recently, before going out for a pack of crinkle chips shortly after midnight.
Bright laughing feminine eyes, wreathed in trails of fragrant smoke from an Illusione cigar, which is full-bodied enough for a man but smooth enough for a woman.
* * * * *
Did I mention nipple? I meant garlic. Nice plump cloves of fresh garlic, juicy and fragrant. And young crunchy ginger, sweet and tinged with pink.
The badger goes into the kitchen, and heats up some superior stock. When it boils, he dumps in eight pork wontons, and a handful of coarsely ripped little white cabbages, whose crispy stems and emerald leaves will present a brilliant contrast with the floating cloud dumplings. Squeeze of lime, a tablespoon of minced ginger, and a brisk dash of soy sauce.
When it is done, he prepares a little saucer of chili paste.
Then retires to his cane chair and has a meal.
It is utterly delicious. Healthy, too.
Disturbingly sensuous.
I think I need to wander around the neighborhood with a pipe now.
While trying not to think of lady badgers. Because doing so too much is not good for one's equilibrium.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He smokes his pipe, and obsessively reads Wikipedia entries. He plays little mind games with himself, like trying to memorize all the Chinese characters that use a phonetic based on liquid characteristics or climactic conditions. He imagines various juxtaposed colours and textures.
He listens to civil war music on youtube, and he concocts tobacco blends that have never seen the light of day.
Deservedly so.
And he prepares himself scrumptious little feasts. In between going down to Chinatown for a steaming cup of milk-tea (Hong Kong style). Where he might oogle pretty girlies while thoughtfully smoking his pipe after his snackipoo and his nice warm beverage.
Before buying ingredients for the feast that will follow.
Often at or around ten o'clock at night.
When he is hungry.
* * * * *
Red curry braised noodles with bittermelon and diverse bits of oink. Italian sausage in a spicy cream sauce over Guan Miao wheat noodles. Oven-roasted potato slices with cumin, cilantro, chopped smoky bacon, dressed with a touch of cayenne béchamel. A salad Niçoise, with spicy fingerlings and smoked salmon, in lieu of the usual.
Perhaps another smoke. Let's see, something dark and flaky with Perique?
If so, I shall need another cup of tea. Or coffee.
Or coffee and tea mixed.
Then to dreamily contemplate the existence of nipple, before obsessively reading about Carolingian history on the internet.
He'll also remember the very fine collar bones he saw recently, before going out for a pack of crinkle chips shortly after midnight.
Bright laughing feminine eyes, wreathed in trails of fragrant smoke from an Illusione cigar, which is full-bodied enough for a man but smooth enough for a woman.
* * * * *
Did I mention nipple? I meant garlic. Nice plump cloves of fresh garlic, juicy and fragrant. And young crunchy ginger, sweet and tinged with pink.
The badger goes into the kitchen, and heats up some superior stock. When it boils, he dumps in eight pork wontons, and a handful of coarsely ripped little white cabbages, whose crispy stems and emerald leaves will present a brilliant contrast with the floating cloud dumplings. Squeeze of lime, a tablespoon of minced ginger, and a brisk dash of soy sauce.
When it is done, he prepares a little saucer of chili paste.
Then retires to his cane chair and has a meal.
It is utterly delicious. Healthy, too.
Disturbingly sensuous.
I think I need to wander around the neighborhood with a pipe now.
While trying not to think of lady badgers. Because doing so too much is not good for one's equilibrium.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DIGITAL CLOCKS FINALLY REACH IRVING, TEXAS
It's really quite charming to realize that there are some parts of this great country where the modern age has been slow to penetrate. So slow, in fact, that much that we take for granted in our arrogantly superior coastal urban crust is completely unrecognizable.
Like technology.
Places where people still rub two sticks together to make fire. Or, in the mistaken belief that somehow it matters, rub two sticks together to tell time.
Places like Irving, Texas.
AHMED MAKES A CLOCK
In an effort to speed the march of progress, Ahmed Mohamed, a fourteen-year old highschool student, built himself a digital clock. Justifiably rather tickled with his own cleverness -- as well he should be, because lord knows most of us couldn't build a digital pair of shoes, let alone a digital clock -- he took the device to school.
And showed it to people who only understand analog.
Not digital.
[For the benefit of folks who were born during the modern age, I drew a quick illustration of an analog device. The long black line points to the top of the hour, the shorter one at the sequential number of the hour. In this illustration, the clock tells you that it is two o'clock. Hope this helps.]
Naturally, they took one look at all the complicated doohicky inside, and at Ahmed's guilty brown Muslim face, and blew a gasket.
It's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, IT'S A BOMB!
You will note that in this photo, Ahmed looks remarkably like a Mexican. But, as is well known, Mexicans with Spanish names are mostly rapists and criminals, whereas Mexicans with unpronounceable names are all Meslums.
[Simple rule of thumb: Spanish name = rape and cocaine party packs. Unpronounceable name = Meslum, and a bomb.]
According to the police in Irving, Texas, the device is not a bomb (they figured that out), but a 'hoax bomb'. Real bombs can explode.
CITE:
Ahmed Mohamed — who makes his own radios and repairs his own go-kart — hoped to impress his teachers when he brought a homemade clock to MacArthur High on Monday.
Instead, the school phoned police about Ahmed’s circuit-stuffed pencil case.
END CITE
[SOURCE: No charges against Ahmed, and race played no role.]
FURTHER CITE:
Update at 11:20 a.m. Wednesday: At a press conference this morning, Irving Police Chief Larry Boyd said Ahmed Mohamed was arrested for bringing "a hoax bomb" to school -- and not a clock, as Mohamed said he repeatedly told his teachers.
END CITE
Attentive readers interested in minutiae may remember Irving, Texas, as the soapbox for fractious anti-Muslim activist Beth Van Duyne, who may be a distant relative of mine, as many Americans with unpronounceable Dutch names are.
SEND THEM NOTHING
Now, a sarcastic evil person who wanted to drive the point home to folks in Irving, Texas, that fourteen-year old technologists are largely an innocent force for good, might strongly suggest sending mayor Beth Van Duyne, the Irving Police Department, and the principal of MacArthur High more digital clocks, in hopes that frequent exposure would lessen their fear and hysteria, and slowly acclimatize them to the modern age.
But I shall not do that.
Do not send them anything!
Because if you do, they will sic the FBI on you lickety split, and there will be warrants filed with the Texas Rangers, who will arrest you the moment you set foot in Texas.
Which would be bad, because eventually everybody visits Texas.
So I repeat: do NOT send them a thing!
Ms. Beth Van Duyne, City Hall
825 West Irving Boulevard
Irving, TX 75060
Mr. Larry Boyd, Irving Police Department
305 North O'Connor Road
Irving, TX 75061
Mr. Daniel Cummings, MacArthur High School
3700 North MacArthur Boulevard
Irving, TX 75062
Please note that this data is provided purely for informational purposes.
I am not a sarcastic or evil person.
My name is pronounceable.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Like technology.
Places where people still rub two sticks together to make fire. Or, in the mistaken belief that somehow it matters, rub two sticks together to tell time.
Places like Irving, Texas.
AHMED MAKES A CLOCK
In an effort to speed the march of progress, Ahmed Mohamed, a fourteen-year old highschool student, built himself a digital clock. Justifiably rather tickled with his own cleverness -- as well he should be, because lord knows most of us couldn't build a digital pair of shoes, let alone a digital clock -- he took the device to school.
And showed it to people who only understand analog.
Not digital.
[For the benefit of folks who were born during the modern age, I drew a quick illustration of an analog device. The long black line points to the top of the hour, the shorter one at the sequential number of the hour. In this illustration, the clock tells you that it is two o'clock. Hope this helps.]
Naturally, they took one look at all the complicated doohicky inside, and at Ahmed's guilty brown Muslim face, and blew a gasket.
[Photo from Geekdad, who lifted it from Ahmed's Twitter Stream.]
It's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, it's a bomb, IT'S A BOMB!
You will note that in this photo, Ahmed looks remarkably like a Mexican. But, as is well known, Mexicans with Spanish names are mostly rapists and criminals, whereas Mexicans with unpronounceable names are all Meslums.
[Simple rule of thumb: Spanish name = rape and cocaine party packs. Unpronounceable name = Meslum, and a bomb.]
According to the police in Irving, Texas, the device is not a bomb (they figured that out), but a 'hoax bomb'. Real bombs can explode.
CITE:
Ahmed Mohamed — who makes his own radios and repairs his own go-kart — hoped to impress his teachers when he brought a homemade clock to MacArthur High on Monday.
Instead, the school phoned police about Ahmed’s circuit-stuffed pencil case.
END CITE
[SOURCE: No charges against Ahmed, and race played no role.]
FURTHER CITE:
Update at 11:20 a.m. Wednesday: At a press conference this morning, Irving Police Chief Larry Boyd said Ahmed Mohamed was arrested for bringing "a hoax bomb" to school -- and not a clock, as Mohamed said he repeatedly told his teachers.
END CITE
Attentive readers interested in minutiae may remember Irving, Texas, as the soapbox for fractious anti-Muslim activist Beth Van Duyne, who may be a distant relative of mine, as many Americans with unpronounceable Dutch names are.
SEND THEM NOTHING
Now, a sarcastic evil person who wanted to drive the point home to folks in Irving, Texas, that fourteen-year old technologists are largely an innocent force for good, might strongly suggest sending mayor Beth Van Duyne, the Irving Police Department, and the principal of MacArthur High more digital clocks, in hopes that frequent exposure would lessen their fear and hysteria, and slowly acclimatize them to the modern age.
But I shall not do that.
Do not send them anything!
Because if you do, they will sic the FBI on you lickety split, and there will be warrants filed with the Texas Rangers, who will arrest you the moment you set foot in Texas.
Which would be bad, because eventually everybody visits Texas.
So I repeat: do NOT send them a thing!
Ms. Beth Van Duyne, City Hall
825 West Irving Boulevard
Irving, TX 75060
Mr. Larry Boyd, Irving Police Department
305 North O'Connor Road
Irving, TX 75061
Mr. Daniel Cummings, MacArthur High School
3700 North MacArthur Boulevard
Irving, TX 75062
Please note that this data is provided purely for informational purposes.
I am not a sarcastic or evil person.
My name is pronounceable.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
ROASTED DUCK TAKEOUT IN SAN FRANCISCO
If you're like me, you do not want anyone to observe you eating roast duck. It is a messy business, and you will want to suck on the bones, get the grease all over your face, and then lick your fingers. And duck, of course, is not a large animal. So it takes more tongue motion and picky treatment than an elephant. Which has humongous bones.
Fortunately, there are good places to pick up roast duck in Chinatown. Yes, also in "New Chinatown", but not nearly as good as "Real Chinatown".
New Chinatown is far too clean and hoity toity.
We are not hoity toity in this part of SF.
Good heavens, anything but.
My favourite place is right on Stockton Street, between Washington and Jackson. It's small, and the staff doesn't speak overmuch English.
Which I think is a very good thing.
Less competition for me.
From white folks.
Okay, sorry, I'm a bit of a snob, and I like throwing around that I can speak more than enough Cantonese to get whatever I want at a food place in Chinatown, and you probably can't.
Consider learning Cantonese.
It's well worth it.
Anyhow.
新凱豐燒臘店
SAN HOI FUNG SIU LAAP DIM
GOURMET DELIGHT BARBECUE
1045 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.
415-392-3288
["New triumphant surfeit roast meats shop"]
This is my favourite duck place. I love buying an entire bird, then going home and devouring it in a massively messy orgy of sweet savoury enjoyment. Just spread the newspapers around, and start stuffing.
Maybe with crusty sourdough, because I'm too lazy to cook rice.
And man, do I love stuffing myself on Donald.
And his little nephews.
Running close seconds are the following three places, also in Chinatown.
新月燒臘小館
SAN YUE SIU LAAP SIU GWUN
NEW MOON RESTAURANT
1247 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-434-1128
["New moon roast meats small establishment"]
This is where I often go to have roast duck over rice. It's small, the food is excellent, and the atmosphere speaks to me, because it has a comfortable gemütlich feel to it. Hometown, our kind of place, good folks.
港新寶燒腊小食
GONG SAN PO SIU LAAP SIU SIK
KAM PO (H.K.) K. - KAM PO KITCHEN
801 Broadway, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-982-3516
["Harbour new treasure roast meats eatery"]
Bright and clean, spacious, and efficient.
And some damned fine duck.
文仔記燒臘茶餐廳
MAN CHAI KEI SIU LAAP CHA CHAN TENG
YEE'S RESTAURANT
1131 Grant Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-576-1818
["Manny's roast meats and tea restaurant"]
My least favourite place for duck, because I go there mostly for the roast goose (燒鵝 'siu ngo'). Which very few other restaurants do. Indeed, I also love roast goose. They list lots of food on the wall, of which the most unusual is the braised fish called Stone Dog Duke (石狗公 'sek kau gung'). It is an ugly specimen.
And only in Chinese, because white people can't eat.
They also have fresh clams (蜆 'hin'), giant prawns (大蝦 'taai haa'), crabs (蟹 'haai'), and lobster (龍蝦 'lung haa'). Plus frog (田雞 'tin kai') and paddy snails (田螺 'tin lo').
Please go to all of them.
And learn to speak.
Be happy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
New Chinatown is far too clean and hoity toity.
We are not hoity toity in this part of SF.
Good heavens, anything but.
My favourite place is right on Stockton Street, between Washington and Jackson. It's small, and the staff doesn't speak overmuch English.
Which I think is a very good thing.
Less competition for me.
From white folks.
Okay, sorry, I'm a bit of a snob, and I like throwing around that I can speak more than enough Cantonese to get whatever I want at a food place in Chinatown, and you probably can't.
Consider learning Cantonese.
It's well worth it.
Anyhow.
新凱豐燒臘店
SAN HOI FUNG SIU LAAP DIM
GOURMET DELIGHT BARBECUE
1045 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.
415-392-3288
["New triumphant surfeit roast meats shop"]
This is my favourite duck place. I love buying an entire bird, then going home and devouring it in a massively messy orgy of sweet savoury enjoyment. Just spread the newspapers around, and start stuffing.
Maybe with crusty sourdough, because I'm too lazy to cook rice.
And man, do I love stuffing myself on Donald.
And his little nephews.
Running close seconds are the following three places, also in Chinatown.
新月燒臘小館
SAN YUE SIU LAAP SIU GWUN
NEW MOON RESTAURANT
1247 Stockton Street, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-434-1128
["New moon roast meats small establishment"]
This is where I often go to have roast duck over rice. It's small, the food is excellent, and the atmosphere speaks to me, because it has a comfortable gemütlich feel to it. Hometown, our kind of place, good folks.
港新寶燒腊小食
GONG SAN PO SIU LAAP SIU SIK
KAM PO (H.K.) K. - KAM PO KITCHEN
801 Broadway, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-982-3516
["Harbour new treasure roast meats eatery"]
Bright and clean, spacious, and efficient.
And some damned fine duck.
文仔記燒臘茶餐廳
MAN CHAI KEI SIU LAAP CHA CHAN TENG
YEE'S RESTAURANT
1131 Grant Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133.
415-576-1818
["Manny's roast meats and tea restaurant"]
My least favourite place for duck, because I go there mostly for the roast goose (燒鵝 'siu ngo'). Which very few other restaurants do. Indeed, I also love roast goose. They list lots of food on the wall, of which the most unusual is the braised fish called Stone Dog Duke (石狗公 'sek kau gung'). It is an ugly specimen.
And only in Chinese, because white people can't eat.
They also have fresh clams (蜆 'hin'), giant prawns (大蝦 'taai haa'), crabs (蟹 'haai'), and lobster (龍蝦 'lung haa'). Plus frog (田雞 'tin kai') and paddy snails (田螺 'tin lo').
Please go to all of them.
And learn to speak.
Be happy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
INDIRA'S NECKLACE
The more I know about India, the more I'm convinced I should never visit. It's rather like our own Deep South except with more interesting food; the same corrupt politicians, corrupt policemen, and brutal capitalists.
Yes, under normal circumstances, probably perfectly safe.
Unless you're a woman, of course.
Or have a "mouth".
My mouth has, on occasion, gotten me into trouble. I'm older and wiser now, and have over the years learned to be far more diplomatic.
But sometimes stuff comes out that, though I stand by it, would probably have been better not said.
Earlier this morning I started rereading material on the internet about Sajjan Kumar and Jagdish Tytler, and their personal involvement in the anti-Sikh riots of 1984. You might recall that two soldiers shot Indira Gandhi full of holes in October of that year for ordering the destruction of the central shrine of the Sikhs earlier that year?
[Actually, the entire Gandhi family should have been shot, given their corruption, opportunism, and overweening arrogance, during their entire history as operators and brutalists since Nehru, but no matter. Only the Italian is still alive from that generation.]
Good Hindus of all castes, including Christian, responded by going on a week-long rampage, killing between three and twenty thousand people, targeting their victims either by appearance, or by consulting voter lists provided by the Congress party for that express purpose.
The facts of these matters are too nauseating to detail here, but what is truly staggering is that three decades after the brutal killing of several thousand Sikhs by Congress Party mobs, very few people have been punished, and no significant Congress bigwigs have done any time at all. They always manage to get charges dropped, evidence covered up, cases thrown out, and witnesses silenced.
"WHEN A BIG TREE FALLS, THE EARTH SHAKES"
Sajjan Kumar and Jagdish Tytler both found that their careers were fast-tracked after organizing the mobs and encouraging the mayhem. They are just two examples; many other Congress politicians furthered their prospects by complicity, as did members of the Delhi police.
None have ever been punished.
One salient fact which is fascinating, is that 'necklacing' appears from all accounts to have been invented by stalwart Congress-party Indians.
The practice, which later gained fame as an African National Congress political tactic, consists of filling a tire with gasoline and placing it around the neck of the victim.
Often while an audience of approving activists looks on.
India in 1984. Africa in 1985.
[And Haiti by 1986.]
It's a toss-up whether Sajjan Kumar or Jagdish Tytler was the first man to suggest it. Maybe a more lowly Congress supporter was "inspired".
They certainly provided the fuel, however.
Plus detailed lists of targets.
Oh by the way: they're still very important people in Delhi, welcomed by the finest establishments, and invited to society events.
Their presence lightens up the gathering.
Very popular gentlemen.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yes, under normal circumstances, probably perfectly safe.
Unless you're a woman, of course.
Or have a "mouth".
My mouth has, on occasion, gotten me into trouble. I'm older and wiser now, and have over the years learned to be far more diplomatic.
But sometimes stuff comes out that, though I stand by it, would probably have been better not said.
Earlier this morning I started rereading material on the internet about Sajjan Kumar and Jagdish Tytler, and their personal involvement in the anti-Sikh riots of 1984. You might recall that two soldiers shot Indira Gandhi full of holes in October of that year for ordering the destruction of the central shrine of the Sikhs earlier that year?
[Actually, the entire Gandhi family should have been shot, given their corruption, opportunism, and overweening arrogance, during their entire history as operators and brutalists since Nehru, but no matter. Only the Italian is still alive from that generation.]
Good Hindus of all castes, including Christian, responded by going on a week-long rampage, killing between three and twenty thousand people, targeting their victims either by appearance, or by consulting voter lists provided by the Congress party for that express purpose.
The facts of these matters are too nauseating to detail here, but what is truly staggering is that three decades after the brutal killing of several thousand Sikhs by Congress Party mobs, very few people have been punished, and no significant Congress bigwigs have done any time at all. They always manage to get charges dropped, evidence covered up, cases thrown out, and witnesses silenced.
"WHEN A BIG TREE FALLS, THE EARTH SHAKES"
Sajjan Kumar and Jagdish Tytler both found that their careers were fast-tracked after organizing the mobs and encouraging the mayhem. They are just two examples; many other Congress politicians furthered their prospects by complicity, as did members of the Delhi police.
None have ever been punished.
One salient fact which is fascinating, is that 'necklacing' appears from all accounts to have been invented by stalwart Congress-party Indians.
The practice, which later gained fame as an African National Congress political tactic, consists of filling a tire with gasoline and placing it around the neck of the victim.
Often while an audience of approving activists looks on.
India in 1984. Africa in 1985.
[And Haiti by 1986.]
It's a toss-up whether Sajjan Kumar or Jagdish Tytler was the first man to suggest it. Maybe a more lowly Congress supporter was "inspired".
They certainly provided the fuel, however.
Plus detailed lists of targets.
Oh by the way: they're still very important people in Delhi, welcomed by the finest establishments, and invited to society events.
Their presence lightens up the gathering.
Very popular gentlemen.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, September 14, 2015
AND, SPEAKING OF AMPHIBIANS...
My ex is in the other room sleeping with a frog. The frog in question is minty green, and looks squeezable. He is a recent arrival in this household, and has as yet not been insulted by any of the other stuffed creatures, such as the one-legged monkey, the blue-faced sheep, or the little black cat, who believes herself to be worthy of a great deal more appreciation than any of the other silly animals are giving her.
My ex went to bed early today. She was already there when I came in just before eight o'clock. Consequently it has been a very quiet evening.
Yes, she has her own room. She did even before we broke up.
That is one of the reasons why we still live together.
And we still like each other as co-conspirators.
As I do not have a love interest, it works.
Because she and I have entirely different schedules, it will probably also work if there is a new love interest. But it could not work if I had short-term affairs.
One of my frequent statements is that "life is too short to drink Starbucks", by which I mean that if you cannot have exactly what you want, you should not settle for poor substitutes.
Drink Peets coffee if you need a big-ass hot drink.
Or make your own, exactly as you want it.
Don't just settle for Starbucks.
It's miserable muck.
It's also a question of priorities and what's within reach.
I haven't had Coors, Budweiser, Michelob, or Miller since 1985.
Nor have I drunk a Starbucks beverage since that time either.
No McDonalds in several years, not a single bite of fast-food burgers in over ten years, no sex in over five, no Bourbon in three, pizza in several weeks, a burrito in the past fortnight, hot sauce in twenty four hours, cookies in twenty .....
No durian since 1997.
Haven't had hot sauce since this morning, enjoyed a pipe since early evening, or drunk coffee in an hour and a half.
Obviously, some of those things are not on my list of 'must-haves', but instead occupy a place of honour on a rather long list of 'must-have-nots'. Coors and Budweiser, McDonalds, and Starbucks, for instance. Breakfast cereal is also on that list; haven't touched it in two decades.
Hamburgers have not been part of the programme since 2004 when the American beef industry was caught lying about certain practices.
Bourbon just doesn't suit me.
Everything else is an almost essential part of life.
The concept of dating a woman is often in the forefront of my consciousness, but unfortunately most women in San Francisco are rather like breakfast cereal, being bland except for soggy crunchy bits, and verging on indigestible.
[My ex eats breakfast cereal, and there are always BIG boxes, four or five different types, on top of the refrigerator. Which is inexplicable. Breakfast cereal is kinda nasty. But I have never held it against her. Tastes differ. Which they should. People are not all alike, our divergences make things interesting.]
I am looking for a woman who is more like a slice of pizza late at night; warm, charming, and just oozing goodness.
Necessary correction: When I said that I had not had hotsauce in 24 hours, it was ten minutes ago. I have since rectified that with a single-serving microwavable quiche. I also dabbed a bit of pickle relish on it.
Sometimes all a man needs is pickle relish.
And hot sauce.
I am manfully avoiding the bag of cookies that sits temptingly on the table between her computer and mine. Reason being that I know she'll want to finish them tomorrow morning when she gets up. She'll see the bag tempting her, and take one. Then another. Then the remaining two.
I'm not working tomorrow, so she deserves them.
Always be considerate of people who hug frogs.
Such individuals deserve our kindness.
A good woman needs cookies.
And stuffed creatures.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My ex went to bed early today. She was already there when I came in just before eight o'clock. Consequently it has been a very quiet evening.
Yes, she has her own room. She did even before we broke up.
That is one of the reasons why we still live together.
And we still like each other as co-conspirators.
As I do not have a love interest, it works.
Because she and I have entirely different schedules, it will probably also work if there is a new love interest. But it could not work if I had short-term affairs.
One of my frequent statements is that "life is too short to drink Starbucks", by which I mean that if you cannot have exactly what you want, you should not settle for poor substitutes.
Drink Peets coffee if you need a big-ass hot drink.
Or make your own, exactly as you want it.
Don't just settle for Starbucks.
It's miserable muck.
It's also a question of priorities and what's within reach.
I haven't had Coors, Budweiser, Michelob, or Miller since 1985.
Nor have I drunk a Starbucks beverage since that time either.
No McDonalds in several years, not a single bite of fast-food burgers in over ten years, no sex in over five, no Bourbon in three, pizza in several weeks, a burrito in the past fortnight, hot sauce in twenty four hours, cookies in twenty .....
No durian since 1997.
Haven't had hot sauce since this morning, enjoyed a pipe since early evening, or drunk coffee in an hour and a half.
Obviously, some of those things are not on my list of 'must-haves', but instead occupy a place of honour on a rather long list of 'must-have-nots'. Coors and Budweiser, McDonalds, and Starbucks, for instance. Breakfast cereal is also on that list; haven't touched it in two decades.
Hamburgers have not been part of the programme since 2004 when the American beef industry was caught lying about certain practices.
Bourbon just doesn't suit me.
Everything else is an almost essential part of life.
The concept of dating a woman is often in the forefront of my consciousness, but unfortunately most women in San Francisco are rather like breakfast cereal, being bland except for soggy crunchy bits, and verging on indigestible.
[My ex eats breakfast cereal, and there are always BIG boxes, four or five different types, on top of the refrigerator. Which is inexplicable. Breakfast cereal is kinda nasty. But I have never held it against her. Tastes differ. Which they should. People are not all alike, our divergences make things interesting.]
I am looking for a woman who is more like a slice of pizza late at night; warm, charming, and just oozing goodness.
Necessary correction: When I said that I had not had hotsauce in 24 hours, it was ten minutes ago. I have since rectified that with a single-serving microwavable quiche. I also dabbed a bit of pickle relish on it.
Sometimes all a man needs is pickle relish.
And hot sauce.
I am manfully avoiding the bag of cookies that sits temptingly on the table between her computer and mine. Reason being that I know she'll want to finish them tomorrow morning when she gets up. She'll see the bag tempting her, and take one. Then another. Then the remaining two.
I'm not working tomorrow, so she deserves them.
Always be considerate of people who hug frogs.
Such individuals deserve our kindness.
A good woman needs cookies.
And stuffed creatures.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, September 13, 2015
YES YOU MAY SMELL MY FINGERS
Recent adventures in the tobacco trade have left me with only one conclusion. Two. Actually, two conclusions.
I am a failure.
And on the other hand, I am also a success.
THE FAILURE
Alas, the club blend is off the table at present, because what was once one of my favourite small tobacco companies has in the last two years been chained by new corporate linkages, and is no longer the same friendly family run enterprise it used to be. Plus people have been put in place to interfere and throw stones.
I had hoped to get a blend I devised years ago produced by them, and the local pipe-club was already set to trumpet "our achievement" to all and sundry, as well as make suitable noise, but having been presented with only the possibility that it would be a one time production run, not available for retail, just shipped to us after payment for us to Gollum-like gloat over ("my precious, my precious"), I decided that they weren't suitable for this project -- or this project was not suitable for them -- and I thanked their people for all their efforts (hmmph!), and ended the discussion.
So for the foreseeable future, there will be no club blend.
I have failed, I have nothing to offer the boys.
I am disappointed in that company.
As well as myself.
THE SUCCESS
Back in May I started working with several flue-cured blending tobaccos, and after very pleasing results with three Virginias and some Turkish two months ago, today I concocted a blend containing two Virginias, Turkish, and Burley. The first bowls were very rewarding, and it smells quite heavenly. Quite possibly it might need no tweaking whatsoever.
It's far too early to tell for certain, though. I shall have to wait a few weeks for everything to stabilize, and for numerous trial smokes to tell me whether it has just the right balance. Patience is required.
In the meantime I'm smelling my finger tips.
Dang man, this is jes' wunnerful!
An ancient fragrance!
Each experimental pipe blend is naturally related to several potential further blends. How it smokes and smells will show one over time what went right, or in what direction to go.
The key test is always whether one makes it again.
But I think this one might be perfect.
I may need pom poms.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And on the other hand, I am also a success.
THE FAILURE
Alas, the club blend is off the table at present, because what was once one of my favourite small tobacco companies has in the last two years been chained by new corporate linkages, and is no longer the same friendly family run enterprise it used to be. Plus people have been put in place to interfere and throw stones.
I had hoped to get a blend I devised years ago produced by them, and the local pipe-club was already set to trumpet "our achievement" to all and sundry, as well as make suitable noise, but having been presented with only the possibility that it would be a one time production run, not available for retail, just shipped to us after payment for us to Gollum-like gloat over ("my precious, my precious"), I decided that they weren't suitable for this project -- or this project was not suitable for them -- and I thanked their people for all their efforts (hmmph!), and ended the discussion.
So for the foreseeable future, there will be no club blend.
I have failed, I have nothing to offer the boys.
I am disappointed in that company.
As well as myself.
THE SUCCESS
Back in May I started working with several flue-cured blending tobaccos, and after very pleasing results with three Virginias and some Turkish two months ago, today I concocted a blend containing two Virginias, Turkish, and Burley. The first bowls were very rewarding, and it smells quite heavenly. Quite possibly it might need no tweaking whatsoever.
It's far too early to tell for certain, though. I shall have to wait a few weeks for everything to stabilize, and for numerous trial smokes to tell me whether it has just the right balance. Patience is required.
In the meantime I'm smelling my finger tips.
Dang man, this is jes' wunnerful!
An ancient fragrance!
Each experimental pipe blend is naturally related to several potential further blends. How it smokes and smells will show one over time what went right, or in what direction to go.
The key test is always whether one makes it again.
But I think this one might be perfect.
I may need pom poms.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
INAUGURAL PARADE PRACTICE
It seems like Donald Trump, whose only military experience is several deferments and abusing the Mexicans who work for him, is keen to declare war on the world. When he becomes president. As indeed he might, given that so many Republicans think that he's the bees' knees and the cats' miao.
Doesn't matter against whom, as everyone knows that war is good for business. And The Donald is all about business.
We need business in this country. We've got nothing else to live for.
So I expect the drumbeat to increase the closer we get.
To inaugurating the craziest president ever.
Everyone likes a parade, right?
This might be one.
IN CLOSE ORDER!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wNf0QT9r97I.]
They're strong, they're resolute. They're geese.
Plus organized, and therefore dangerous.
They'll kill you in a heartbeat.
Republican voters.
Still over a year to go before the election. There will be much posturing between now and then. This promises to be the most exciting presidential race in my life-time.
Remember to eat all the Oreos you can, while you still can. The Donald hates Oreos, and may make them illegal when he becomes president.
Before declaring war on Mexico.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Doesn't matter against whom, as everyone knows that war is good for business. And The Donald is all about business.
We need business in this country. We've got nothing else to live for.
So I expect the drumbeat to increase the closer we get.
To inaugurating the craziest president ever.
Everyone likes a parade, right?
This might be one.
IN CLOSE ORDER!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wNf0QT9r97I.]
They're strong, they're resolute. They're geese.
Plus organized, and therefore dangerous.
They'll kill you in a heartbeat.
Republican voters.
Still over a year to go before the election. There will be much posturing between now and then. This promises to be the most exciting presidential race in my life-time.
Remember to eat all the Oreos you can, while you still can. The Donald hates Oreos, and may make them illegal when he becomes president.
Before declaring war on Mexico.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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WHAT'S IN THE STORM
Sometimes words transcend their original meaning, and are so descriptive and evocative that they demand to be used for entirely new reasons....
