This blogger eventually will go see 'The Force Awakens', like my co-worker. who has a big romantic date planned with his wife this evening -- no, I don't know if he's bringing the kids too -- and who by this time tomorrow will have digested the biggest epickest blockbusterest space story ever in all details. And will, no doubt, be spewing spoilers for the rest of the month.
This blogger likes spoilers. Envious I am.
He'll probably forget all about them by next weekend, which is when we'll first be working together again. Or I'll be too distracted to ask.
I looked up 'The Force Awakes' on Wikipedia, and tried reading the plot. Lord helps us, it makes no sense whatsoever.
So I took the liberty of re-writing the entire movie.
Just a little. For greater clarity.
Appreciate it below.
Scene one:
The Force awoke. And had a good strong cup of coffee. Then fell asleep. And woke up again. And had another cup of coffee. Then gradually nodded off, woke up with a start, and rushed to the loo to heave. Memories of the sardine pizza it ate last night came flooding back, and up.
Scene two:
A soup pot floating in space with bunch of characterless drips on board breaks down. A senile old fart and his yeti sidekick capture it, repair the engine while fighting off a passel of Southern Baptists, then they kinda loose interest, or their attentions wander.
Scene three:
This is the part on Sprockets when we dance. Everybody fight now. Beware killer rabbits.
Scene four:
Stuff happens. Get over it. Celebrate, and give Luke some old garbage to remind him of someone else. Whatever.
The big bucket of popcorn tastes nasty.
It is time to leave.
The end.
Moral issues are raised, sh*t gets blown up, there are vistas, colours, and panoramas, and the special effects are truly amazing. Several people you have never heard of before are introduced -- Scooter, Dingo, and Q-Ball -- who will surprisingly survive all the pyrotechnics, but probably die between now and whenever the next episode of this turgid saga hits the theatres.
Which is okay, because they really weren't that interesting.
You only wanted to see the robots anyway.
And the big machinery.
Yep, definitely planning to see it.
Won't buy any popcorn.
I would also like to take somebody cute and charming to the movie, but unlike my coworker, I am not married. So that is not going to happen.
"If the generals back in Nha Trang could see what I saw, would they still want me to kill him? More than ever, probably. And what would his people back home want if they ever learned just how far from them he'd really gone? He broke from them, and then he broke from himself.
I'd never seen a man so broken up and ripped apart. "
I suspect that not a single line in the movie is worth remembering, unlike Monty Python And The Holy Grail, or Apocalypse Now, which are 100% quotable. As well as examples to live by.
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
Sunday, January 10, 2016
ALL-AMERICAN CUPCAKES
My apartment mate reminded me that Americans eat strange stuff. Something which I thought I knew already, but as it turns out, it's far worse than I suspected.
Kale cupcakes. Broccoli cupcakes.
Green tea icing cupcakes.
Kombucha cupcakes.
Plus "organic" gluten-free vegan all of the above.
Thank heavens none of that has been combined with Sriracha hotsauce, but it's just a matter of time before some bourgeois dingleberry does so.
I despair for modern society.
You folks are weird.
Fortunately there is chocolate pudding.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Kale cupcakes. Broccoli cupcakes.
Green tea icing cupcakes.
Kombucha cupcakes.
Plus "organic" gluten-free vegan all of the above.
Thank heavens none of that has been combined with Sriracha hotsauce, but it's just a matter of time before some bourgeois dingleberry does so.
I despair for modern society.
You folks are weird.
Fortunately there is chocolate pudding.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 09, 2016
THE CHINESE FOOD YOUR MOTHER WARNED YOU ABOUT!
Many of us grew up with severe parental warnings about Chinese food. It lacked subtlety (sweet and sour pork), there was no nutritional value in it (chow mein American restaurant style), it made you sick (if you ate too much, yes, but that was not the fault of the food), and on the whole it just wasn't a good solid meal. By "a good solid meal" was meant something that stayed with you for hours, rather than leaving you hungry after you ate it. And by that standard, muck from MacDonalds is "a good solid meal", because it's damned well indigestible, and will indeed stay with you.
A burger from most fast-food places is lousy company.
No wonder Americans drink like Scotsmen!
Whisky alleviates digestive angst.
Americans, for the longest time, cooked like Brits.
I can still vividly remember my last visit to England, which was culinarily horrendous. My ex-girlfriend insisted that we try the traditional English breakfast, and while she suffered no ill-effects, suffice to say it left me pondering the meaning of life for three ghastly days.
She's Cantonese, and has the digestion of a horse.
I'm a Dutchman, and consequently more delicate.
Hong Kong food, however, can keep both sides happy. Much of it is impossibly hearty and satisfying, and much of it is as delicate as a refined snooty person might desire.
Being a Dutchman, I cannot claim an excess of refinement. But a good meal that leaves me happy as a clam is something worthy of praise.
Baked porkchop over rice with tomato!
鮮茄焗豬扒飯
['sin ke guk chü paa faan']
2 - 3 cups freshly prepared egg-fried rice.
2 pork chops.
1 TBS sherry or rice wine.
1 TBS soy sauce.
1/2 tsp sugar.
2 TBS flour.
1/2 Tsp. finely ground white pepper.
2 cloves garlic, minced.
1 small onion, sliced.
5 ripe tomatoes, coarsely chunked.
2 TBS ketchup.
Dash of Worcestershire.
Quarter cup or more shredded mild cheese.
Marinate the pork chops with sherry, soy sauce, and sugar for an hour. Combine the flour and the ground white pepper and dust the pork chops with this, shaking off the excess. Fry the pork chops over medium heat on each side till browned. Remove the chops from pan.
Fry the garlic and onions till gilded and fragrant in the greasy pan. Lower the heat, add the tomatoes, ketchup and the dash of Worcestershire, and cook till the tomatoes are soft and the sauce is thick.
Now spread the egg-fried rice in a casserole or baking dish. Put the pork chops over the fried rice, glop the tomato and onion sauce evenly over the chops and rice and sprinkle the cheese on top. Stick it in an oven preheated to 425 - 450 degrees Fahrenheit (approximately 220 - 230 degrees Celsius), or under the broiler, and bake till the cheese is bubbly.
Baked tomato porkchop over rice is a tea-restaurant (茶餐廳 'chaa chanteng') classic, which often makes or breaks the reputation of the enterprise. Variables that must be mastered are how much to fry the chops depending on their thickness, how much sauce is required and how thick, the moistness and oil content of the egg-fried rice, and what type of cheese plus how much of it you really need. Ideally the chops should be tender and juicy, the rice underneath hot and comforting, and the tomato flavour more dominant than the cheese.
Naturally you wash it down with hot milk-tea (港式奶茶). Plus a cup of regular Oolong (烏龍) or Sui Hsin (水仙), or whatever semi-fermented tea you normally have with meals.
Most people do not do this at home, but prefer to go get it on the spur of the moment at a neighborhood place, so that they can people-watch while eating. Hong Kong style tea-restaurants are, when busy, the perfect place to do that.
Just like the Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice I mentioned last week, this is sustenance for the single diner, though it can easily be shared. Imagine, for instance, that you went to your bank to pick up cash for the weekend, then to Walgreens to add forty dollars to your transit card, and then decided "ah what the heck I don't feel like cooking this evening, perhaps I should get a bite to eat, then have a smoke while wandering around the old neighborhood".
Which was an excellent idea!
The poor waitress was somewhat disconcerted by the kwailo (鬼佬) speaking Cantonese. Instead of gongsik naaicha (港式奶茶), she brought me gwan seui (滾水). Which didn't sound like what I asked for at all.
No matter how horrendous my pronunciation.
I politely corrected her on that score.
好食啊。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A burger from most fast-food places is lousy company.
No wonder Americans drink like Scotsmen!
Whisky alleviates digestive angst.
Americans, for the longest time, cooked like Brits.
I can still vividly remember my last visit to England, which was culinarily horrendous. My ex-girlfriend insisted that we try the traditional English breakfast, and while she suffered no ill-effects, suffice to say it left me pondering the meaning of life for three ghastly days.
She's Cantonese, and has the digestion of a horse.
I'm a Dutchman, and consequently more delicate.
Hong Kong food, however, can keep both sides happy. Much of it is impossibly hearty and satisfying, and much of it is as delicate as a refined snooty person might desire.
Being a Dutchman, I cannot claim an excess of refinement. But a good meal that leaves me happy as a clam is something worthy of praise.
Baked porkchop over rice with tomato!
鮮茄焗豬扒飯
['sin ke guk chü paa faan']
2 - 3 cups freshly prepared egg-fried rice.
2 pork chops.
1 TBS sherry or rice wine.
1 TBS soy sauce.
1/2 tsp sugar.
2 TBS flour.
1/2 Tsp. finely ground white pepper.
2 cloves garlic, minced.
1 small onion, sliced.
5 ripe tomatoes, coarsely chunked.
2 TBS ketchup.
Dash of Worcestershire.
Quarter cup or more shredded mild cheese.
Marinate the pork chops with sherry, soy sauce, and sugar for an hour. Combine the flour and the ground white pepper and dust the pork chops with this, shaking off the excess. Fry the pork chops over medium heat on each side till browned. Remove the chops from pan.
Fry the garlic and onions till gilded and fragrant in the greasy pan. Lower the heat, add the tomatoes, ketchup and the dash of Worcestershire, and cook till the tomatoes are soft and the sauce is thick.
Now spread the egg-fried rice in a casserole or baking dish. Put the pork chops over the fried rice, glop the tomato and onion sauce evenly over the chops and rice and sprinkle the cheese on top. Stick it in an oven preheated to 425 - 450 degrees Fahrenheit (approximately 220 - 230 degrees Celsius), or under the broiler, and bake till the cheese is bubbly.
Baked tomato porkchop over rice is a tea-restaurant (茶餐廳 'chaa chanteng') classic, which often makes or breaks the reputation of the enterprise. Variables that must be mastered are how much to fry the chops depending on their thickness, how much sauce is required and how thick, the moistness and oil content of the egg-fried rice, and what type of cheese plus how much of it you really need. Ideally the chops should be tender and juicy, the rice underneath hot and comforting, and the tomato flavour more dominant than the cheese.
Naturally you wash it down with hot milk-tea (港式奶茶). Plus a cup of regular Oolong (烏龍) or Sui Hsin (水仙), or whatever semi-fermented tea you normally have with meals.
Most people do not do this at home, but prefer to go get it on the spur of the moment at a neighborhood place, so that they can people-watch while eating. Hong Kong style tea-restaurants are, when busy, the perfect place to do that.
Just like the Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice I mentioned last week, this is sustenance for the single diner, though it can easily be shared. Imagine, for instance, that you went to your bank to pick up cash for the weekend, then to Walgreens to add forty dollars to your transit card, and then decided "ah what the heck I don't feel like cooking this evening, perhaps I should get a bite to eat, then have a smoke while wandering around the old neighborhood".
Which was an excellent idea!
The poor waitress was somewhat disconcerted by the kwailo (鬼佬) speaking Cantonese. Instead of gongsik naaicha (港式奶茶), she brought me gwan seui (滾水). Which didn't sound like what I asked for at all.
No matter how horrendous my pronunciation.
I politely corrected her on that score.
好食啊。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 08, 2016
A TRUE REPUBLICAN AND UNCLE TOM
Allen West, who remarkably also writes a blog, today typed the following words into his machine: "This is your final year as president of the United States so let us come to an agreement: you leave us alone and we, the American people, will let you stay and finish your term."
Which is a threat of treason. He promises, as is made clear further on in his testicular ranting, to use his guns against his government. Along with others who, because background checks might prove them to be unstable or criminal, will do the same. Much like the folks circle jerking in Oregon with Ammon Bundy.
[Source: "President Obama, before you try that gun grab, I have a WARNING for you... "]
Shan't share the rest of his ridiculous rant. I feel ashamed and polluted since reading it.
But it is good to know what the other side is up to, and how the blisters think. Especially as so many of them are unstable and inclined toward violence. Besides being quite incapable of rational thought.
ALLEN WEST
From Wikipedia: "Members of the conservative movement viewed him as a "torch bearer" and "conservative icon," with Sarah Palin and Ted Nugent both suggesting him for vice president, and Glenn Beck supporting him for president. In January 2013, U.S. Representatives Paul Broun (R-Georgia) and Louie Gohmert (R-Texas) both voted for West as Speaker of the House, even though he was no longer a member of Congress. Some of his statements include calling President Barack Obama "an abject failure", ordering both pro-Palestinian demonstrators and the views of "chicken men" Democrats to "get the hell out" of the United States, opining that drivers with Obama bumper stickers are "a threat to the gene pool", and pronouncing that African American Democrats are trying to keep African Americans "on the plantation", while casting himself as the "modern-day Harriet Tubman" ferrying them to rescue."
End cite.
The iggerunt is strong with Allen West; the Sith Lords are pleased.
With each passing week, Republicans become more loathsome.
If I weren't such a law-abiding citizen ....
Allen West is a self-made psycho.
As are too many tea-partiers.
FYI: Threatening the President of the United States is a class E felony under United States Code Title 18, Section 871.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which is a threat of treason. He promises, as is made clear further on in his testicular ranting, to use his guns against his government. Along with others who, because background checks might prove them to be unstable or criminal, will do the same. Much like the folks circle jerking in Oregon with Ammon Bundy.
[Source: "President Obama, before you try that gun grab, I have a WARNING for you... "]
Shan't share the rest of his ridiculous rant. I feel ashamed and polluted since reading it.
But it is good to know what the other side is up to, and how the blisters think. Especially as so many of them are unstable and inclined toward violence. Besides being quite incapable of rational thought.
ALLEN WEST
From Wikipedia: "Members of the conservative movement viewed him as a "torch bearer" and "conservative icon," with Sarah Palin and Ted Nugent both suggesting him for vice president, and Glenn Beck supporting him for president. In January 2013, U.S. Representatives Paul Broun (R-Georgia) and Louie Gohmert (R-Texas) both voted for West as Speaker of the House, even though he was no longer a member of Congress. Some of his statements include calling President Barack Obama "an abject failure", ordering both pro-Palestinian demonstrators and the views of "chicken men" Democrats to "get the hell out" of the United States, opining that drivers with Obama bumper stickers are "a threat to the gene pool", and pronouncing that African American Democrats are trying to keep African Americans "on the plantation", while casting himself as the "modern-day Harriet Tubman" ferrying them to rescue."
End cite.
The iggerunt is strong with Allen West; the Sith Lords are pleased.
With each passing week, Republicans become more loathsome.
If I weren't such a law-abiding citizen ....
Allen West is a self-made psycho.
As are too many tea-partiers.
FYI: Threatening the President of the United States is a class E felony under United States Code Title 18, Section 871.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 07, 2016
COVERED IN EVIL ICING
Out of the blue, my apartment mate gave voice to a strong opinion.
Pursuant nothing at all she mentioned baked goods.
There was an irritated edge to her voice.
This was serious business.
"You know what the problem is with cupcakes? Cupcakes are like artificial bosoms, AND they're too trendy!"
"I'd rather have real cake!"
We all want that, Honey-Pie. Real cake. And real bosoms. Although judging by the boombalicious bombshell hanging on the arm of someone twice her age whom I saw recently, some men are Donald Trump. Or J. Howard Marshall. Or Donald T. Sterling, of whom you have also heard.
That's three men who like cupcakes.
In the same manner as my apartment mate, I too would wish for real cake, and real bosoms. Either one of those things could make me very happy, and if they happened to coincide -- their welcome presence came to be at the same time and in the same place, preferably either an apartment in which I was present or sharing a table in a gemütliches coffee shop -- it would restore my faith in humanity.
Which is at a low ebb at present, due to a vast surfeit of both cupcakes and artificial bosoms.
How did cupcakes end up being the hip and fashionable celebratory sacrament?
Cupcakes are just as nasty as fake boobs.
All fluff with a sugary overload.
Soft poofy confections.
Stressed sponge.
I have reason to doubt that my apartment mate is quite as concerned about breasts as I am. She'll likely be satisfied with just the cake.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Pursuant nothing at all she mentioned baked goods.
There was an irritated edge to her voice.
This was serious business.
"You know what the problem is with cupcakes? Cupcakes are like artificial bosoms, AND they're too trendy!"
"I'd rather have real cake!"
We all want that, Honey-Pie. Real cake. And real bosoms. Although judging by the boombalicious bombshell hanging on the arm of someone twice her age whom I saw recently, some men are Donald Trump. Or J. Howard Marshall. Or Donald T. Sterling, of whom you have also heard.
That's three men who like cupcakes.
In the same manner as my apartment mate, I too would wish for real cake, and real bosoms. Either one of those things could make me very happy, and if they happened to coincide -- their welcome presence came to be at the same time and in the same place, preferably either an apartment in which I was present or sharing a table in a gemütliches coffee shop -- it would restore my faith in humanity.
Which is at a low ebb at present, due to a vast surfeit of both cupcakes and artificial bosoms.
How did cupcakes end up being the hip and fashionable celebratory sacrament?
Cupcakes are just as nasty as fake boobs.
All fluff with a sugary overload.
Soft poofy confections.
Stressed sponge.
I have reason to doubt that my apartment mate is quite as concerned about breasts as I am. She'll likely be satisfied with just the cake.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SENSITIVE MEN
When I left the bar I knew I had set off a nuclear device. Whatever conversation remained before closing was going to be vociferous and darned well toxic. Which the owner acknowledged.
"Hey Kurt, I made them talk about "it"!"
"Gee thanks man."
For a few hours I had enjoyed the refreshing conversation of a smoker of very similar pipe tobacco to my own -- we exchanged pouches for at least one bowlful -- who had also been involved in the tobacco trade. When he left, one of the other people there asked me about modern life.
As any man would, I waxed ecstatic. Thirty years ago, if you wanted a tobacco that you had heard of, but your tobacconist didn't carry, it was "try this which we do have, or good frikkin' luck". Now they tell you 'good frikkin' luck' and minutes later it could be heading your way thanks to the internet.
Best possible times.
"But what about porn?"
Okay, still best of times. We've seen more super realistic live action on our computers than we could ever have dreamed of thirty years ago!
Thank heavens for the internet!
At that point, all hell broke loose.
Desensitization, g-spot, clitoris, and nipple. Nothing in the world is quite like a bunch of cigar smokers waxing both sensitive and intensitive over computer-age pornography.
I made sure that they all knew about the g-spot before I left.
And pointed out that it sharpened all the senses.
To see it in action on screen.
"G-spot, clitoris, and nipple"
The owner thanked me sneeringly when I left. Thanks to me and my effusive praise of internet smut, he had to listen for half an hour more to discussions of g-spots, clitorides, and nipples.
There's nothing quite like a bunch of tipsy cigar-smokers discussing female sexuality to end the night.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"Hey Kurt, I made them talk about "it"!"
"Gee thanks man."
For a few hours I had enjoyed the refreshing conversation of a smoker of very similar pipe tobacco to my own -- we exchanged pouches for at least one bowlful -- who had also been involved in the tobacco trade. When he left, one of the other people there asked me about modern life.
As any man would, I waxed ecstatic. Thirty years ago, if you wanted a tobacco that you had heard of, but your tobacconist didn't carry, it was "try this which we do have, or good frikkin' luck". Now they tell you 'good frikkin' luck' and minutes later it could be heading your way thanks to the internet.
Best possible times.
"But what about porn?"
Okay, still best of times. We've seen more super realistic live action on our computers than we could ever have dreamed of thirty years ago!
Thank heavens for the internet!
At that point, all hell broke loose.
Desensitization, g-spot, clitoris, and nipple. Nothing in the world is quite like a bunch of cigar smokers waxing both sensitive and intensitive over computer-age pornography.
I made sure that they all knew about the g-spot before I left.
And pointed out that it sharpened all the senses.
To see it in action on screen.
"G-spot, clitoris, and nipple"
The owner thanked me sneeringly when I left. Thanks to me and my effusive praise of internet smut, he had to listen for half an hour more to discussions of g-spots, clitorides, and nipples.
There's nothing quite like a bunch of tipsy cigar-smokers discussing female sexuality to end the night.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 06, 2016
RULES FOR DATING
A friend who writes for GeekDad has penned an article about dating. No, not normal adult dating, but teenager dating. Now, before you get your Starwars boxer shorts all in a twist, it is NOT about grownups preying on the young and geeky you pervert, but advice for adult geeks who have offspring who are or soon will be at an age where they start considering seeing another person as an alternative to playing Worlds of Warcraft.
Or obsessively watching My Little Pony.
That way lies madness.
His article also has valuable points for anyone not involved in the scenarios listed. Even the non-geekish and unreproduced can learn from it.
11 Rules for When Your Geeklet Starts Dating
Both the eleven rules he posits and the comments are worth reading. The sad thing is that there was only ONE arcane geekazoid reference that I had to look up: JLA.
Which, it turns out, is Justice League of America. A series produced by DC Comics. Probably a fundamental scripture of geekdom, a veritable spew of revelation and prophecy.
By realizing that I did not know that, and have neither read it religiously nor am ever likely to hunt it down for serious study, I have damaged my self-image and am traumatized.
I feel less of a man.
On the other hand, I have read (and internalized) tonnes of comic strips and science-fiction. And once played a video-game obsessively for two years with a bunch of engineers.
Plus I'll go see the latest Starwars movie, guaranteed.
That makes me a visitor on Planet Geek.
A semi-regular tourist.
[But I must confess that I also went two thirds of the way through Lord of the Rings (Tolkien), before concluding that it was all long-winded piffle and hobbity balderdash.
I'm not sure if that's a rejection of Geekery, or just heresy.]
If you have a teenager, OR yourself are considering regularly associating with a member of the gender that feels appropriate for you, go read
11 Rules for When Your Geeklet Starts Dating.
Feel free to cross genders, be hesitant about transcending age.
My contributions there to the comment string:
"Only date someone with whom you can be friends, and value them for what they are. And NEVER disrespect their teddy bear. They’ve known the teddy bear longer than you."
And:
"Never insist that they like the same manga or anime, never proselytize for your favourite manga or anime, and, realistically, don’t ask that they act or dress like any character in your favourite manga or anime. If anything, they are their own manga or anime in the process of being written."
Upon reflection, what that means is that you should only date a person who has a teddy bear or equivalent small fuzzy familiar (at least one), and stay away from cross-dressers or cosplayers.
Justice League of America. Seriously?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or obsessively watching My Little Pony.
That way lies madness.
His article also has valuable points for anyone not involved in the scenarios listed. Even the non-geekish and unreproduced can learn from it.
11 Rules for When Your Geeklet Starts Dating
Both the eleven rules he posits and the comments are worth reading. The sad thing is that there was only ONE arcane geekazoid reference that I had to look up: JLA.
Which, it turns out, is Justice League of America. A series produced by DC Comics. Probably a fundamental scripture of geekdom, a veritable spew of revelation and prophecy.
By realizing that I did not know that, and have neither read it religiously nor am ever likely to hunt it down for serious study, I have damaged my self-image and am traumatized.
I feel less of a man.
On the other hand, I have read (and internalized) tonnes of comic strips and science-fiction. And once played a video-game obsessively for two years with a bunch of engineers.
Plus I'll go see the latest Starwars movie, guaranteed.
That makes me a visitor on Planet Geek.
A semi-regular tourist.
[But I must confess that I also went two thirds of the way through Lord of the Rings (Tolkien), before concluding that it was all long-winded piffle and hobbity balderdash.
I'm not sure if that's a rejection of Geekery, or just heresy.]
If you have a teenager, OR yourself are considering regularly associating with a member of the gender that feels appropriate for you, go read
11 Rules for When Your Geeklet Starts Dating.
Feel free to cross genders, be hesitant about transcending age.
My contributions there to the comment string:
"Only date someone with whom you can be friends, and value them for what they are. And NEVER disrespect their teddy bear. They’ve known the teddy bear longer than you."
And:
"Never insist that they like the same manga or anime, never proselytize for your favourite manga or anime, and, realistically, don’t ask that they act or dress like any character in your favourite manga or anime. If anything, they are their own manga or anime in the process of being written."
Upon reflection, what that means is that you should only date a person who has a teddy bear or equivalent small fuzzy familiar (at least one), and stay away from cross-dressers or cosplayers.
Justice League of America. Seriously?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GOOD AROUND WATER, AND LIKES FISH
The Maine Coon Cat is one the largest of domesticated felines. It takes three years to grow to full size, is known to vocalize a lot in attempts to communicate abstract concepts to its humans, and is bemusedly tolerant of dogs and little children.
It can weigh up to thirty five pounds.
Except for some minor differences, that describes me precisely.
I too attempt to communicate abstract (or complicated) concepts to humans. Which, altogether, is a fruitless endeavor. Unlike the Maine Coon, there are no kitty nibbles to encourage me.
Other than that, you might notice a few points of difference.
My pelt, as just one example, is not silky.
I don't have a bushy tail.
I'm just pointing all this out in the interests of full disclosure, as some of you humans seem to be unclear.
I also weigh more.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Except for some minor differences, that describes me precisely.
I too attempt to communicate abstract (or complicated) concepts to humans. Which, altogether, is a fruitless endeavor. Unlike the Maine Coon, there are no kitty nibbles to encourage me.
Other than that, you might notice a few points of difference.
My pelt, as just one example, is not silky.
I don't have a bushy tail.
I'm just pointing all this out in the interests of full disclosure, as some of you humans seem to be unclear.
I also weigh more.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 05, 2016
SO STINK KWAILO! 咁臭嘅鬼佬！
The trip down to Chinatown was far less enjoyable than the dimsum enjoyed within twenty minutes of my landing there. Reason being three aunties on the bus, who all agreed that white people who smoked sure were stinky. Wow, putrid! Naturally this was all in Cantonese, and it is reasonable to assume that no one except Cantonese speakers would understand.
The overwhelming majority of white folks are manifestly not speakers of that lovely language, wherefore one can say whatever one damned well wants about the beaky-nosed middle-aged specimen with the faintest odeur of cigarillo standing nearby.
One of the ladies saw me looking right at her, and quailed a bit.
Was that the evil eye that the kwailo was casting?
Had he wigged on somehow?
Oh surely not.
Kap yin ge gwailo, wa, jan gam chau!
吸煙嘅鬼佬，哇，眞咁臭！
Keeping a straight face is worth it's weight in gold. It avoids senseless confrontation and strife. What I did NOT say was "nei gu me? Gam lou-ge tong baat-po dik suk hei-mei man hei loi ho-chi haahm yü!"
你估咩？噉老嘅唐八婆的餿氣味聞起來好似鹹魚！
I could have, but I didn't.
Even though I felt like it.
What made the subsequent snackies extra special was that while I was at Cheung Fook ordering food, the same lady who had opined that I was "SO stink!" came in, heard me talking, and promptly realized that I had actually understood what she had said on the bus. She quietly purchased a choi-yiuk bau and left, looking nearly sheet white. I can imagine her promptly getting on her cell-phone to one of her friends and wailing that the "so stink kwailo" spoke Cantonese!
It probably upset her dreadfully, though, as, in the exact same way that one normally assumes that random kwailo do not understand Tongwaa (唐話), one must equally assume that a casual remark about one's rich personal tobacco reek was not meant to hurt or intended as an insult.
What she and her friends said was, after all, private.
And I was not supposed to listen in.
Nor take it personally.
Sorry, Auntie.
FURTHER ADVENTURES OF 'SO STINK KWAILO'
After finishing my lunch I wandered around for a while smoking a pipe, ending up on Jackson Street under the awning of a defunct jewelry store observing passing pedestrians. When two darling little girl-tykes waved at me, I waved back. It seemed to enchant them. Later I read for an hour at City Lights, before going over to Pacific for tea.
Inside the eatery a middle aged woman examined how her new clothes fit in the mirror, while over at another table a young Hong Kong type was busily forking in 榨菜牛肉飯 while intently reading his e-mails and text messages.
An elderly rapscallion entered and cheerfully hollered at a friend "wow, you still aren't dead yet!
你重未死！
Afterwards while heading toward Portsmouth Square with a second pipe going, a little toddler came right up to me and stared in wide-eyed wonder.
I tried conversing with her, to the great amusement of her grandparents, but she just beamed at me. Never-the-less I feel that communication was established.
"So-stink Kwailo" is rather a decent sort.
Note-to-self: do NOT continue smoking the cigarillo once you see the bus turn the corner at the top of the hill, but discard it immediately.
Otherwise the smell will linger, and well-bred Chinese females of all ages will wrinkle their little button noses in disgust.
The bus to C'town is full of them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The overwhelming majority of white folks are manifestly not speakers of that lovely language, wherefore one can say whatever one damned well wants about the beaky-nosed middle-aged specimen with the faintest odeur of cigarillo standing nearby.
One of the ladies saw me looking right at her, and quailed a bit.
Was that the evil eye that the kwailo was casting?
Had he wigged on somehow?
Oh surely not.
Kap yin ge gwailo, wa, jan gam chau!
吸煙嘅鬼佬，哇，眞咁臭！
Keeping a straight face is worth it's weight in gold. It avoids senseless confrontation and strife. What I did NOT say was "nei gu me? Gam lou-ge tong baat-po dik suk hei-mei man hei loi ho-chi haahm yü!"
你估咩？噉老嘅唐八婆的餿氣味聞起來好似鹹魚！
I could have, but I didn't.
Even though I felt like it.
What made the subsequent snackies extra special was that while I was at Cheung Fook ordering food, the same lady who had opined that I was "SO stink!" came in, heard me talking, and promptly realized that I had actually understood what she had said on the bus. She quietly purchased a choi-yiuk bau and left, looking nearly sheet white. I can imagine her promptly getting on her cell-phone to one of her friends and wailing that the "so stink kwailo" spoke Cantonese!
It probably upset her dreadfully, though, as, in the exact same way that one normally assumes that random kwailo do not understand Tongwaa (唐話), one must equally assume that a casual remark about one's rich personal tobacco reek was not meant to hurt or intended as an insult.
What she and her friends said was, after all, private.
And I was not supposed to listen in.
Nor take it personally.
Sorry, Auntie.
FURTHER ADVENTURES OF 'SO STINK KWAILO'
After finishing my lunch I wandered around for a while smoking a pipe, ending up on Jackson Street under the awning of a defunct jewelry store observing passing pedestrians. When two darling little girl-tykes waved at me, I waved back. It seemed to enchant them. Later I read for an hour at City Lights, before going over to Pacific for tea.
Inside the eatery a middle aged woman examined how her new clothes fit in the mirror, while over at another table a young Hong Kong type was busily forking in 榨菜牛肉飯 while intently reading his e-mails and text messages.
An elderly rapscallion entered and cheerfully hollered at a friend "wow, you still aren't dead yet!
你重未死！
Afterwards while heading toward Portsmouth Square with a second pipe going, a little toddler came right up to me and stared in wide-eyed wonder.
I tried conversing with her, to the great amusement of her grandparents, but she just beamed at me. Never-the-less I feel that communication was established.
"So-stink Kwailo" is rather a decent sort.
Note-to-self: do NOT continue smoking the cigarillo once you see the bus turn the corner at the top of the hill, but discard it immediately.
Otherwise the smell will linger, and well-bred Chinese females of all ages will wrinkle their little button noses in disgust.
The bus to C'town is full of them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BUT THESE ARE JUST MINOR DETAILS
Somebody asked me why I tend to hang out in Chinatown so much, given that I am not Chinese, and very unlikely to pass for Chinese, ever.
It seemed peculiar to him.
Possibly even weird and obsessive.
A misguided eccentricity.
In truth, the answer is simple. Entirely aside from needing to leave the apartment on my days off after a certain time, so that the evidence of my smoking airs away before the non-smoking person with whom I share my digs returns from work, there's the recognizability factor.
All of the single Vegan moms, anti-vaxxers, pampered middle-class allergics, puritans, religious nuts, conspiracy theorists, gmo or chemtrail obsessed, tobacco-hating wheatgerm snarfing obnoxiously self-righteous and strident Berkeleyite pricks in Chinatown are clearly marked.
They are white, and speak fluent English.
Most of the people who are none of the above are also fairly easily recognized, by a Venn-diagrammatic overlap of two factors: they speak Cantonese, and / or they look Chinese. If there is a perfect match of those characteristics, we have lift-off. They'll happily tolerate me as long as I don't do anything obnoxiously white Anglo-Saxon Protestant dickhead; I'll get along well with whoever provided they don't pull any weird sh*t.
Not everyone who is English-speaking and white is like that.
But enough. Trust me. It's a preponderance.
You know, there are two fabulous words in Indo-Dutch.
Anstil, and Tingka.
The first means stuck-up, pissy attitude, whatever is her problem, and the second means pretentious, ooh just too damned precious, a completely self-centered set of expectations, and an easily bruised sense of entitlement, the poor dear.
Anstil is a characteristic, tingka is its manifestation.
While these are dreadfully common in Bay Area whites, and also crop-up among Chinese American female college graduates who didn't go to San Francisco State -- especially if they don't speak Cantonese -- they are comparatively rare among the people in C'town.
As I said, the answer is simple. It is filled with a certain amount of bile, and a whole bunch of concepts which are difficult for many modern Americans to comprehend, foreign ideas for most of them, but simple.
And I really enjoyed explaining it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It seemed peculiar to him.
Possibly even weird and obsessive.
A misguided eccentricity.
In truth, the answer is simple. Entirely aside from needing to leave the apartment on my days off after a certain time, so that the evidence of my smoking airs away before the non-smoking person with whom I share my digs returns from work, there's the recognizability factor.
All of the single Vegan moms, anti-vaxxers, pampered middle-class allergics, puritans, religious nuts, conspiracy theorists, gmo or chemtrail obsessed, tobacco-hating wheatgerm snarfing obnoxiously self-righteous and strident Berkeleyite pricks in Chinatown are clearly marked.
They are white, and speak fluent English.
Most of the people who are none of the above are also fairly easily recognized, by a Venn-diagrammatic overlap of two factors: they speak Cantonese, and / or they look Chinese. If there is a perfect match of those characteristics, we have lift-off. They'll happily tolerate me as long as I don't do anything obnoxiously white Anglo-Saxon Protestant dickhead; I'll get along well with whoever provided they don't pull any weird sh*t.
Not everyone who is English-speaking and white is like that.
But enough. Trust me. It's a preponderance.
You know, there are two fabulous words in Indo-Dutch.
Anstil, and Tingka.
The first means stuck-up, pissy attitude, whatever is her problem, and the second means pretentious, ooh just too damned precious, a completely self-centered set of expectations, and an easily bruised sense of entitlement, the poor dear.
Anstil is a characteristic, tingka is its manifestation.
While these are dreadfully common in Bay Area whites, and also crop-up among Chinese American female college graduates who didn't go to San Francisco State -- especially if they don't speak Cantonese -- they are comparatively rare among the people in C'town.
As I said, the answer is simple. It is filled with a certain amount of bile, and a whole bunch of concepts which are difficult for many modern Americans to comprehend, foreign ideas for most of them, but simple.
And I really enjoyed explaining it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
JESUS IS AN ANGRY BASTARD
Anne Graham Lotz, a certifiable Christ-fangirl, conservative source of inspiration and prophecy, and close kinsperson of the big mac daddy of popular fundamentalist preachers Billy Graham, believes that gay marriage will bring about the end times.
That's right! Not poverty, war, famine, the sexual abuse of farmyard fowl so popular in the Deep South, or the odious cruelties inflicted upon cousins (also Deep South, as well as the Arab Gulf), but gay marriage.
Because the Christian deity does not see any of that other stuff, but has a direct line to American bedrooms, much like Elf On A Shelf.
For all we know, they may actually be the same.
The "Divine Eye" and the "Elf".
Sauron is pleased.
Let the lord in, or he'll whup ya:
"That’s why he allows the terrorists to strike or a tornado to rip through our city because, for whatever reason, we don’t seem to give him our attention until we’re desperate, and so if we don’t give him our attention, then he’s going to allow things to happen to make us more and more desperate until we do cry out."
[SOURCE: Anne Graham Lotz: Satan Behind Gay Marriage Decision, End Times Looming.]
"You cannot change God’s institution of marriage, so what they’re asking is to join an institution that by its very definition they can’t join. So if the Supreme Court changes that legally in America, they are very seriously defying God. I think there are three reasons we could pass that tipping point. One is that reason, the second is abandoning Israel and the third one is the abortion, aborting babies for convenience. Women can scream and holler about that and say they don’t do that, but the statistics show that they do, they use it for birth control. Those three reasons alone would demand that God judge America."
And that, of course, explains why so many foreign nations no longer exist. Argentina, Belgium, Brazil, Canada, France, Iceland, Ireland, Luxembourg, Norway, Portugal, South Africa, Spain, Sweden and Uruguay. All were devoured in a storm of flame and smoke, as the fiery pit opened up underneath them belching brimstone eternal.
Plus you may have noticed that the state of Israel accepts same-sex marriages performed overseas, which means that soon the mighty sword will strike them too.
Yessir, I surely do love my fellow Americans.
But I want to keep them at arms-length.
Many of them are repulsively nuts.
Especially the ones with Jesus in their lives.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
That's right! Not poverty, war, famine, the sexual abuse of farmyard fowl so popular in the Deep South, or the odious cruelties inflicted upon cousins (also Deep South, as well as the Arab Gulf), but gay marriage.
Because the Christian deity does not see any of that other stuff, but has a direct line to American bedrooms, much like Elf On A Shelf.
For all we know, they may actually be the same.
The "Divine Eye" and the "Elf".
Sauron is pleased.
Let the lord in, or he'll whup ya:
"That’s why he allows the terrorists to strike or a tornado to rip through our city because, for whatever reason, we don’t seem to give him our attention until we’re desperate, and so if we don’t give him our attention, then he’s going to allow things to happen to make us more and more desperate until we do cry out."
[SOURCE: Anne Graham Lotz: Satan Behind Gay Marriage Decision, End Times Looming.]
"You cannot change God’s institution of marriage, so what they’re asking is to join an institution that by its very definition they can’t join. So if the Supreme Court changes that legally in America, they are very seriously defying God. I think there are three reasons we could pass that tipping point. One is that reason, the second is abandoning Israel and the third one is the abortion, aborting babies for convenience. Women can scream and holler about that and say they don’t do that, but the statistics show that they do, they use it for birth control. Those three reasons alone would demand that God judge America."
And that, of course, explains why so many foreign nations no longer exist. Argentina, Belgium, Brazil, Canada, France, Iceland, Ireland, Luxembourg, Norway, Portugal, South Africa, Spain, Sweden and Uruguay. All were devoured in a storm of flame and smoke, as the fiery pit opened up underneath them belching brimstone eternal.
Plus you may have noticed that the state of Israel accepts same-sex marriages performed overseas, which means that soon the mighty sword will strike them too.
Yessir, I surely do love my fellow Americans.
But I want to keep them at arms-length.
Many of them are repulsively nuts.
Especially the ones with Jesus in their lives.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 04, 2016
IT WAS FRECTIC
There are times when I only have myself to blame, as I really should have dumped a couple hundred tonnes of valium into the Marin county water supply when I had the chance. Those folks seriously need to calm down.
Actually, some of them might argue that I likewise need to calm a bit down, but I would counter that by pointing out that I come by my alertness and excitement naturally; I hydrate at work by drinking several cups of very strong Pu-Erh & Chrysanthemum tea. Which is good for you. Keeps you moist, replenishes your spirit, and helps you digest the heathen muck that passes for food in the absolute armpit of all suburbias.
Whereas the average Marin County Native is fragile, easily agitated, and has a sense of entitlement a mile and a half long.
Poor silly bastards.
The past three days have been fraught. And, at times, frectic.
Hectic, frenetic, and frustratingly frantic = Frectic.
Fortunately, I have two days off before I wade into the slime once more.
Two whole days of eating Chinese food, smoking my pipe in the quiet rain-drenched alleys of Chinatown, and reading informative stuff on Wikipedia or relaxing with a good manga and several fuzzy stuffed creatures.
I'm looking forward to some dimsum at Cheung Fook on Stockton tomorrow, then perhaps a charsiu sou and a cup of milk tea at Hollywood.
Followed and preceded by enjoyment of Dunhill Ready Rubbed, in the green tin. Which does not even resemble the ghastly dreck of the past, but is an entirely new offering composed of nice mild partially rubbed flake, mostly brights, perhaps with a touch of air-cured. Not a very distinctive product, but an enjoyable all-day smoke. Somewhat grassy, but with that ethereal air of carotenoids which one would expect from such a lovely compound.
It is a most enjoyable tobacco.
[Note about 'carotenoids': yes, these are the tetraterpenoid pigments present in several plants, particularly stone fruits, but as used in regards to tobacco, what I really mean are the aromatics such as ionones, damascones and damascenones; all resulting from carotenoid breakdown over time, especially in matured Virginias (flue-cured tobaccos).]
Ideally, I would also look forward to the company of other people.
But that might be too much to ask.
Not everybody likes Hong Kong style milk-tea, pipe smokers, day dreaming, and rainy alleyways.
Besides, most people work on weekdays.
Screw it, I'm going to relax.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Actually, some of them might argue that I likewise need to calm a bit down, but I would counter that by pointing out that I come by my alertness and excitement naturally; I hydrate at work by drinking several cups of very strong Pu-Erh & Chrysanthemum tea. Which is good for you. Keeps you moist, replenishes your spirit, and helps you digest the heathen muck that passes for food in the absolute armpit of all suburbias.
Whereas the average Marin County Native is fragile, easily agitated, and has a sense of entitlement a mile and a half long.
Poor silly bastards.
The past three days have been fraught. And, at times, frectic.
Hectic, frenetic, and frustratingly frantic = Frectic.
Fortunately, I have two days off before I wade into the slime once more.
Two whole days of eating Chinese food, smoking my pipe in the quiet rain-drenched alleys of Chinatown, and reading informative stuff on Wikipedia or relaxing with a good manga and several fuzzy stuffed creatures.
I'm looking forward to some dimsum at Cheung Fook on Stockton tomorrow, then perhaps a charsiu sou and a cup of milk tea at Hollywood.
Followed and preceded by enjoyment of Dunhill Ready Rubbed, in the green tin. Which does not even resemble the ghastly dreck of the past, but is an entirely new offering composed of nice mild partially rubbed flake, mostly brights, perhaps with a touch of air-cured. Not a very distinctive product, but an enjoyable all-day smoke. Somewhat grassy, but with that ethereal air of carotenoids which one would expect from such a lovely compound.
It is a most enjoyable tobacco.
[Note about 'carotenoids': yes, these are the tetraterpenoid pigments present in several plants, particularly stone fruits, but as used in regards to tobacco, what I really mean are the aromatics such as ionones, damascones and damascenones; all resulting from carotenoid breakdown over time, especially in matured Virginias (flue-cured tobaccos).]
Ideally, I would also look forward to the company of other people.
But that might be too much to ask.
Not everybody likes Hong Kong style milk-tea, pipe smokers, day dreaming, and rainy alleyways.
Besides, most people work on weekdays.
Screw it, I'm going to relax.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TOASTPOINTS, WE NEED TOASTPOINTS!
This blogger may not be the easiest person with whom to have a social relationship. This is a realization that took several years to form, as once upon a time I did not grasp what the differences were and how much they affected my life.
Judging by the number of people who enjoy meeting me and chatting, I am indeed likable.
But it seldom goes beyond that.
At times I consider myself the gehakte leber of friends. Great fun when the occasion presents itself, something one may have a deep and abiding affection for, but not on a daily basis, good grief no.
One would rather not be exposed too often.
A question of digestion.
That actually cuts both ways. There are many people whose company is truly enjoyable, but with whom I do not wish to spend much time having a conversation.
There are a few people of whom I do not mind a serious overdose.
It's not entirely mutual, though I believe there is some vice-versa.
They are unusual, by reason of personality, wit, and flexible intelligence. And while there is a streak of bite in them, they are not cruelly inspired.
Though they may be wicked. Good heavens yes.
But they are very sweet individuals.
I shall spare them and myself the embarrassment, and not identify them in any way in this post.
Much as I am sorely tempted.
Because I really do appreciate them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But it seldom goes beyond that.
At times I consider myself the gehakte leber of friends. Great fun when the occasion presents itself, something one may have a deep and abiding affection for, but not on a daily basis, good grief no.
One would rather not be exposed too often.
A question of digestion.
That actually cuts both ways. There are many people whose company is truly enjoyable, but with whom I do not wish to spend much time having a conversation.
There are a few people of whom I do not mind a serious overdose.
It's not entirely mutual, though I believe there is some vice-versa.
They are unusual, by reason of personality, wit, and flexible intelligence. And while there is a streak of bite in them, they are not cruelly inspired.
Though they may be wicked. Good heavens yes.
But they are very sweet individuals.
I shall spare them and myself the embarrassment, and not identify them in any way in this post.
Much as I am sorely tempted.
Because I really do appreciate them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 03, 2016
FIND ONE!
To my surprise, the last five comments underneath posts on this blog present a conversational progression, and a train of thought. Fortuitous, exciting, and great big giant vistas are now open before my eyes.
I don't know about you, but I see a pattern.
Pears in heavy syrup with miracle whip. Gag me with a spoon.
on BOSC PEARS ARE IN SEASON. SO IS BITTER MELON.
[Anonymous at 4:59 PM]
Hash is good for people whose teeth have gone bye-bye.
on YOUR FOOD STINKS
[Anonymous at 4:58 PM]
What the blistering fuck do Japanese cigarettes have to with feminists, abortion, uteruses, censorship, or debates about any of this?!? Jap cig dude, piss off, you're daft.
on DON'T THREATEN ME WITH YOUR UTERUS!
[I've got a great big giant clitoris! at 4:57 PM]
What kind of crazy chick would sleep over at your place?
on WHY THE DINOSAURS DIED
[Never that depserate! at 4:52 PM]
Find one.
on DON'T THREATEN ME WITH YOUR UTERUS!
[The back of the hill on 1/2/16]
In truth, only the last two form a cohesive thought, though that was not how they were intended. And I will frankly admit that the name chosen by the third commenter ('I've got a great big giant clitoris!') caught my eye almost immediately, before any patterns became apparent.
But let us not speculate about clitoris envy.
And not even mention Ms. Jenner.
That would be tacky.
[CLITORIS -- From Merriam-Webster: "a female sexual organ that is small, sensitive, and located on the outside of the body in front of the opening of the vagina". From Wikipedia: "A sensitive elongated erectile organ at the anterior part of the vulva in female mammals".]
Like most male bloggers, I have always thought of the clitoris as mister Penis's tiny younger brother, hiding unnoticed in the shrubbery. Or his younger sister, if we're going to be gender-correct. And perhaps bereft and alone, forsaken and forgotten. Which, I realize, is most unfair.
I suspect that in the case of miss I.G.A.G.B.G Clitoris, that in fact may not be so. Or possibly mister I.G.A.G.B.G Clitoris. Can't tell the gender from here, and don't really need any further personal details.
Mr. or Ms. "Big" has shared enough data.
Please, no more.
TMI.
I am keen for most of my readers but have little urge to find out much more about them than I can infer or guess from their comments.
Because I am a softie, I fervently wish that little clitorides all over the world find the company and attention they need.
But I shall not volunteer to give it to them, as I am a grouchy middle-aged badger-like individual, of somewhat solitary habits, and would at most be able to relate to only one of the little beasties if any. Nor am I really looking anymore, because while I love cats, dogs, and small furry animals, most clitorides almost certainly have rabies or distemper.
They should always be warm and comfy.
And have long fun-filled lives.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I don't know about you, but I see a pattern.
Pears in heavy syrup with miracle whip. Gag me with a spoon.
on BOSC PEARS ARE IN SEASON. SO IS BITTER MELON.
[Anonymous at 4:59 PM]
Hash is good for people whose teeth have gone bye-bye.
on YOUR FOOD STINKS
[Anonymous at 4:58 PM]
What the blistering fuck do Japanese cigarettes have to with feminists, abortion, uteruses, censorship, or debates about any of this?!? Jap cig dude, piss off, you're daft.
on DON'T THREATEN ME WITH YOUR UTERUS!
[I've got a great big giant clitoris! at 4:57 PM]
What kind of crazy chick would sleep over at your place?
on WHY THE DINOSAURS DIED
[Never that depserate! at 4:52 PM]
Find one.
on DON'T THREATEN ME WITH YOUR UTERUS!
[The back of the hill on 1/2/16]
In truth, only the last two form a cohesive thought, though that was not how they were intended. And I will frankly admit that the name chosen by the third commenter ('I've got a great big giant clitoris!') caught my eye almost immediately, before any patterns became apparent.
But let us not speculate about clitoris envy.
And not even mention Ms. Jenner.
That would be tacky.
[CLITORIS -- From Merriam-Webster: "a female sexual organ that is small, sensitive, and located on the outside of the body in front of the opening of the vagina". From Wikipedia: "A sensitive elongated erectile organ at the anterior part of the vulva in female mammals".]
Like most male bloggers, I have always thought of the clitoris as mister Penis's tiny younger brother, hiding unnoticed in the shrubbery. Or his younger sister, if we're going to be gender-correct. And perhaps bereft and alone, forsaken and forgotten. Which, I realize, is most unfair.
I suspect that in the case of miss I.G.A.G.B.G Clitoris, that in fact may not be so. Or possibly mister I.G.A.G.B.G Clitoris. Can't tell the gender from here, and don't really need any further personal details.
Mr. or Ms. "Big" has shared enough data.
Please, no more.
TMI.
I am keen for most of my readers but have little urge to find out much more about them than I can infer or guess from their comments.
Because I am a softie, I fervently wish that little clitorides all over the world find the company and attention they need.
But I shall not volunteer to give it to them, as I am a grouchy middle-aged badger-like individual, of somewhat solitary habits, and would at most be able to relate to only one of the little beasties if any. Nor am I really looking anymore, because while I love cats, dogs, and small furry animals, most clitorides almost certainly have rabies or distemper.
They should always be warm and comfy.
And have long fun-filled lives.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHY THE DINOSAURS DIED
Statement by the apartment mate: "you should only inquire about one sex at a time". Based on best guess, this probably is because if you ask about both, the answer is "yes".
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
"Yes."
Morning conversations around this place tend toward zen. There are times when I realize you had to have been there in order to grasp the meaning, and then realize that I actually was there.
There was a conversation about flamethrowers, which deviated directly into speculation about a species of dinosaur that survived entirely by consuming eggs. For some reason the females were always angry at the males, and eventually there were fewer and fewer of them.
This in connection with an omelette.
Her breakfast.
ENJOYING PLAGUES, FLOODS, AND FIRES
I myself seldom eat any breakfast. When I wake up, I am happiest with a cup of coffee or two, and the delightful prospect of smoking a pipe, possibly while reading news articles about what a truly horrible place the world has become, with wars, natural and industrial disasters, pestilence, and European politicians secretly getting twisted sex from Vladimir Putin's handmaidens, or whatever goes on in the closets of power.
I also like reading about Republican stupidity.
First food: lunch, late in the day.
When I'm vibrating.
Consequently, while I am still slowly waking up, my apartment mate has shot out of her room like a bat out of hell, and is whirling about with high bloodsugar, totally alert and full of piss and vinegar. I would ignore it, and go back to sleep, except that she is also conversational at that hour.
I can just imagine the sheer dawn horror if I actually had a girlfriend.
My apartment mate would wake up, then the person sleeping next to me, and both of them would have a wonderful breakfast together while cheerfully agreeing that the gentleman still grumblingly asleep (me) was a bit of an old sourpuss, especially before the coffee had taken effect, lets go dump some cold water on him, I will snatch the stuffed animals to safety while you yank off the covers.
All of this at freezing six o buggery clock in the A.M.
Morning conversations are like tar pits.
You stumble into them.
Never out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
"Yes."
Morning conversations around this place tend toward zen. There are times when I realize you had to have been there in order to grasp the meaning, and then realize that I actually was there.
There was a conversation about flamethrowers, which deviated directly into speculation about a species of dinosaur that survived entirely by consuming eggs. For some reason the females were always angry at the males, and eventually there were fewer and fewer of them.
This in connection with an omelette.
Her breakfast.
ENJOYING PLAGUES, FLOODS, AND FIRES
I myself seldom eat any breakfast. When I wake up, I am happiest with a cup of coffee or two, and the delightful prospect of smoking a pipe, possibly while reading news articles about what a truly horrible place the world has become, with wars, natural and industrial disasters, pestilence, and European politicians secretly getting twisted sex from Vladimir Putin's handmaidens, or whatever goes on in the closets of power.
I also like reading about Republican stupidity.
First food: lunch, late in the day.
When I'm vibrating.
Consequently, while I am still slowly waking up, my apartment mate has shot out of her room like a bat out of hell, and is whirling about with high bloodsugar, totally alert and full of piss and vinegar. I would ignore it, and go back to sleep, except that she is also conversational at that hour.
I can just imagine the sheer dawn horror if I actually had a girlfriend.
My apartment mate would wake up, then the person sleeping next to me, and both of them would have a wonderful breakfast together while cheerfully agreeing that the gentleman still grumblingly asleep (me) was a bit of an old sourpuss, especially before the coffee had taken effect, lets go dump some cold water on him, I will snatch the stuffed animals to safety while you yank off the covers.
All of this at freezing six o buggery clock in the A.M.
Morning conversations are like tar pits.
You stumble into them.
Never out.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 02, 2016
ARROZ DE FORNO COM FRANGO, ESTILO DE MACAU: 焗葡國雞飯
The place seemed quite full, but that was only because several tables near the front were occupied. Once inside, it was apparent that there was enough room. But it was never-the-less busy, and many people were happily enjoying scrumptious food. Surreptitious couples, small family groups, a table full of middle-aged ladies, and one or two large multi-generational family gatherings.
While many people were eating clay pot dishes or yummy noodles, over in the corner a kwailo was snarfing down Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice.
Which is delicious with hot sauce.
葡國汁
Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice (焗葡國雞飯 'guk pou gwok gai faan') is superlative cold-weather food. Hearty, warming, stick-to-yer-ribs goodness. And it is neither Portuguese, nor, despite the characters, Chinese. It's a little of both, and very Hong Kong. A version of chicken rice, with potato, onion, and bell pepper, and a coconut curry sauce on top, shoved into the oven until piping hot.
There is no need for me to provide a recipe, because if the preparation is not instinctive for you, you can find a very good recipe (minus the bell pepper, but including chorizo) simply by typing "Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice" into your search bar. The first thing that should come up is this: "baked portuguese chicken rice (po gok gai fan)", posted on October 26, 2014, by Diana Chan.
Man kann auch ein ausgezeichnetes Rezept finden, durch Fräulein Gracie Hui zu besuchen: Gebacken Portugiesische Huhn mit Reis.
A recipe for just Portuguese Chicken is here: 葡國雞. It is easy and straightforward, like many dishes on the Lee Kum Kee website.
Portuguese Sauce, in the food vocabulary of Hong Kong and Macau, is a simple coconut curry sauce either made at home using coconut milk, chicken stock, turmeric, cumin, and other spices, or available in bottles from Lee Kum Kee and other manufacturers. The inspiration comes more from a South East Asian yellow curry than anything else.
I make my own, using Thai yellow curry paste.
Just as Cantonese food is perfect for Christmas, this odd concoction called Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice is ideal for a quick lunch in the subtropics or tea time eating in the frozen tundras. San Francisco resembles the latter at present, as it is miserable and buggery cold.
The odd concoction hits the spot.
I dawdled over my beverage.
A cup of yuen yeung.
Also very good.
AFTER THOUGHT
My ex would probably like it, and maybe I'll mention it to her. But she'll have to discover it on her own, as our culinary histories have diverged.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
While many people were eating clay pot dishes or yummy noodles, over in the corner a kwailo was snarfing down Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice.
Which is delicious with hot sauce.
葡國汁
Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice (焗葡國雞飯 'guk pou gwok gai faan') is superlative cold-weather food. Hearty, warming, stick-to-yer-ribs goodness. And it is neither Portuguese, nor, despite the characters, Chinese. It's a little of both, and very Hong Kong. A version of chicken rice, with potato, onion, and bell pepper, and a coconut curry sauce on top, shoved into the oven until piping hot.
There is no need for me to provide a recipe, because if the preparation is not instinctive for you, you can find a very good recipe (minus the bell pepper, but including chorizo) simply by typing "Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice" into your search bar. The first thing that should come up is this: "baked portuguese chicken rice (po gok gai fan)", posted on October 26, 2014, by Diana Chan.
Man kann auch ein ausgezeichnetes Rezept finden, durch Fräulein Gracie Hui zu besuchen: Gebacken Portugiesische Huhn mit Reis.
A recipe for just Portuguese Chicken is here: 葡國雞. It is easy and straightforward, like many dishes on the Lee Kum Kee website.
Portuguese Sauce, in the food vocabulary of Hong Kong and Macau, is a simple coconut curry sauce either made at home using coconut milk, chicken stock, turmeric, cumin, and other spices, or available in bottles from Lee Kum Kee and other manufacturers. The inspiration comes more from a South East Asian yellow curry than anything else.
I make my own, using Thai yellow curry paste.
Just as Cantonese food is perfect for Christmas, this odd concoction called Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice is ideal for a quick lunch in the subtropics or tea time eating in the frozen tundras. San Francisco resembles the latter at present, as it is miserable and buggery cold.
The odd concoction hits the spot.
I dawdled over my beverage.
A cup of yuen yeung.
Also very good.
AFTER THOUGHT
My ex would probably like it, and maybe I'll mention it to her. But she'll have to discover it on her own, as our culinary histories have diverged.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 01, 2016
DON'T THREATEN ME WITH YOUR UTERUS!
The most egregious codswallop delivered by an intellectual in recent years was the sentence "the idea that in a free society absolutely everything should be open to debate has a detrimental effect on marginalised groups".
To which the appropriate response is "where's the bloody trigger warning? As a liberal with intellectual pretensions, I feel personally threatened and made uncomfortable by crap like that. Why the F is that crazy feminist b*tch trying to tell me what is and isn't right?"
[The context was a debate about abortion between Timothy Stanley and Brendan O'Neil at Oxford which was cancelled after threats from various interested parties. ]
This offensive assault on free speech is part of an opinion piece by Niam McIntyre, whom I have never met, but whose man-hating ideas I would like to see banned or silenced.
"The idea that in a free society absolutely everything should be open to debate has a detrimental effect on marginalised groups"
Only a culture jihadi could come up with dangerous nonsense like that. Niam McIntyre should come with a trigger warning, as should her like-minded associates. People like her make normal members of society extremely uncomfortable.
The Independent, Britain's foremost lefty tabloid, describes her as a second-year English student at Oxford University, and a writer interested in feminism and social justice.
I likewise am interested in feminism and social justice. Intolerant harpies such as Ms. McIntyre are a plague. My interest is consequently self-defensive, because people like her would gladly commit atrocities worse than Stalin and Pol Pot in service of their warped agendas.
There is no place in civilized society for her ilk.
Feel free to discuss.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
To which the appropriate response is "where's the bloody trigger warning? As a liberal with intellectual pretensions, I feel personally threatened and made uncomfortable by crap like that. Why the F is that crazy feminist b*tch trying to tell me what is and isn't right?"
[The context was a debate about abortion between Timothy Stanley and Brendan O'Neil at Oxford which was cancelled after threats from various interested parties. ]
This offensive assault on free speech is part of an opinion piece by Niam McIntyre, whom I have never met, but whose man-hating ideas I would like to see banned or silenced.
"The idea that in a free society absolutely everything should be open to debate has a detrimental effect on marginalised groups"
Only a culture jihadi could come up with dangerous nonsense like that. Niam McIntyre should come with a trigger warning, as should her like-minded associates. People like her make normal members of society extremely uncomfortable.
The Independent, Britain's foremost lefty tabloid, describes her as a second-year English student at Oxford University, and a writer interested in feminism and social justice.
I likewise am interested in feminism and social justice. Intolerant harpies such as Ms. McIntyre are a plague. My interest is consequently self-defensive, because people like her would gladly commit atrocities worse than Stalin and Pol Pot in service of their warped agendas.
There is no place in civilized society for her ilk.
Feel free to discuss.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
YOU COULD HAVE HAD AN IGUANA
A few drinks, and a few conversations. Smoked two pipefulls and had a little champagne. All in all a quiet new years eve, as wild partying and rampant misbehaviour is concerned. And yes, it was at the cigar club, which was bustling but not loud.
A person could actually hear him or herself think.
Which is rare for busy evenings.
No sports fans.
Shortly after arriving I ended up chatting with a gentleman visiting from Charleston smoking a Havana. We were soon joined at that end of the bar by a Chinese American babysitting her blitheringly intoxicated black boyfriend. Whose drunkenness cannot be exaggerated. When he got angry at her and went to hang out with some white dudes in the corner she had a few moments respite, but eventually he was back, worse than ever, and she had to take him home.
Idea for a festive dish: Iguana Thermidor.
Take all the meat and cook it, then mix it with cream, egg yolks, sherry, paprika, cayenne, a little mustard powder, and heat gently till it thickens and becomes custard-like. Strew this with Gruyere cheese and bread crumbs and brown under the broiler. Serve.
When done with lobster, the creamy goop is dumped into the lobster shell before browning, but obviously this is not practical with a blood-encrusted iguana skin (head still attached), although it would be artistic and inspired.
Chicken, by the way, can be done the same way.
All conversations with Chinese people, even Mandarin-speakers with drunk black lovers, end up being about food. But maybe that's just me.
I came up with the idea of Iguana Thermidor.
Anyhow, the Chinese American left with her nauseatingly blotto boy toy by ten o'clock, so she had an exciting but ultimately nasty new years eve.
This blogger, a gentleman from Charleston, three other pipesmokers, and several other people had a fine time.
Somewhat disappointingly Auld Lang Syne wasn't sung after the champagne, because no one else knows the words.
What is wrong with this generation?
They just don't know stuff.
This is important.
ADVICE
All problems with disgusting boyfriends can be quickly and easily solved with a baseball bat. Carry one in your purse at all times.
Traditional new years eve celebrations must involve champagne, rich food (suggestion: Iguana Thermidor), and an off-key rendition of Auld Lang Syne.
Here are the words:
AULD LANG SYNE
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And old lang syne?
Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely you’ll buy your pint cup,
And surely I’ll buy mine;
And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
[Repeat chorus]
There are more verses, and certain weird dialect pronunciations are sometimes considered customary, along with hairy drunks in skirts.
But unlike Iguana Thermidor, there is no conceivable benefit to having Scotsmen at you parties.
Skip that and learn how to sing it yourself.
NOTE: The only time when Scotsmen can sing is January 25th., which, is also when such people may be present. They should be silent at all other times, preferably absent entirely.
And for heavens sake, keep them away from the single malt.
We found it, it's ours.
Happy New Year.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A person could actually hear him or herself think.
Which is rare for busy evenings.
No sports fans.
Shortly after arriving I ended up chatting with a gentleman visiting from Charleston smoking a Havana. We were soon joined at that end of the bar by a Chinese American babysitting her blitheringly intoxicated black boyfriend. Whose drunkenness cannot be exaggerated. When he got angry at her and went to hang out with some white dudes in the corner she had a few moments respite, but eventually he was back, worse than ever, and she had to take him home.
Idea for a festive dish: Iguana Thermidor.
Take all the meat and cook it, then mix it with cream, egg yolks, sherry, paprika, cayenne, a little mustard powder, and heat gently till it thickens and becomes custard-like. Strew this with Gruyere cheese and bread crumbs and brown under the broiler. Serve.
When done with lobster, the creamy goop is dumped into the lobster shell before browning, but obviously this is not practical with a blood-encrusted iguana skin (head still attached), although it would be artistic and inspired.
Chicken, by the way, can be done the same way.
All conversations with Chinese people, even Mandarin-speakers with drunk black lovers, end up being about food. But maybe that's just me.
I came up with the idea of Iguana Thermidor.
Anyhow, the Chinese American left with her nauseatingly blotto boy toy by ten o'clock, so she had an exciting but ultimately nasty new years eve.
This blogger, a gentleman from Charleston, three other pipesmokers, and several other people had a fine time.
Somewhat disappointingly Auld Lang Syne wasn't sung after the champagne, because no one else knows the words.
What is wrong with this generation?
They just don't know stuff.
This is important.
ADVICE
All problems with disgusting boyfriends can be quickly and easily solved with a baseball bat. Carry one in your purse at all times.
Traditional new years eve celebrations must involve champagne, rich food (suggestion: Iguana Thermidor), and an off-key rendition of Auld Lang Syne.
Here are the words:
AULD LANG SYNE
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And old lang syne?
Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely you’ll buy your pint cup,
And surely I’ll buy mine;
And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
[Repeat chorus]
There are more verses, and certain weird dialect pronunciations are sometimes considered customary, along with hairy drunks in skirts.
But unlike Iguana Thermidor, there is no conceivable benefit to having Scotsmen at you parties.
Skip that and learn how to sing it yourself.
NOTE: The only time when Scotsmen can sing is January 25th., which, is also when such people may be present. They should be silent at all other times, preferably absent entirely.
And for heavens sake, keep them away from the single malt.
We found it, it's ours.
Happy New Year.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
