OH LAY OFF OF FACEBOOK

The most popular social media platform in the world got slammed the other day because in a fit of prudery they took down a post by a reporter for a Scandinavian newspaper that featured Napalm Girl. Which, as I'm sure you will recall, is the iconic photo from the Vietnam War showing a naked tyke grievously wounded by flammatory substances used by the United States Armed Forces running down the road screaming in agony and terror.

It was the nudity.


But apparently removing that picture was censorship run amuck.

In consequence, right thinking people everywhere are dumping on Mark Zuckerbook massively, incensed that part of their childhood has been destroyed, why the nerve of that man! Please note that I do not have to reproduce the picture here, because you have already seen it.

I rely on Facebook for contact with the world and links to news as much as any one, and probably more than many of my friends, real or virtual.
Aleppo, Kaepernick, Nice, massive Indian strike, the idiocy of cleansing diets, Netanyahu, Star Trek, basselopes ...

The Squirrel of Judgment wondering why you aren't creating art ...


Plus Trump, and Irfan's courageous quest to eat photogenic treats at every hour of the day; there may be drag queens in either picture.


If it weren't for Facebook, I would probably have less of a social life than you can imagine -- because abso everybody else is tweeting or texting or sharing kitten pictures -- and also be far less exposed to news articles, history, art, music, cogent analyses of politics and events world-wide.
I have come to rely on Facebook as an essential Fourth Estate.
And Fifth Column.

I knew about Aleppo for a long time, of course. But thanks to Facebook, now almost everybody else knows too. Admit it, some of you thought it was a racehorse.


Ei aleppo. Tu aleppas. El / Ella aleppa. Ei aleppé. Tu aleppe. El / Ella aleppó. Ei aleppado. Tu / El / Ella aleppado. ...


Facebook has come to be the rational and informed person's interface with the world. We use it for information and selective outrage, and it's so cute that advertisers pay for it, imagining that we actually read their blurble.


Oh yeah. Kitten pictures. If only the New York Times or the Süddeutsche Zeitung interspersed their dense blocks of text with kitten pictures, their readership would skyrocket.


The only other site I use as much is Wikipedia.
Knowledge literally at my finger tips.
Sometimes regurged here.




Actually, I sometimes miss the STRONGLY worded letters to the editor, but the audible mumbling more than makes up for that.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

MOONCAKES, SAN FRANCISCO

The moon festival is a Chinese celebration on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month. This year it will be September 15. There's a whole bucket load of meaning and symbolism to the event, most of which you do not need to know, and would not pay any heed to whatsoever anyway.

So, in short, here are the most important things to keep in mind:


THE MOON FESTIVAL 
中秋節 ('jung chau jit')

Over three thousand years of tradition, worship in gratitude for the harvest.
Full moon.
There are stories.
Family togetherness.
Revolt against the foreigners.
Lanterns.
Eat mooncakes.


MOONCAKES 
月餅 ('yuet bing')

Mooncakes can be made with any number of fillings. Often they will contain a salted duck egg yolk, which makes them richer and adds complexity to the sweetness. Very delicious!

There are four kinds that in my mind you should consider:

單黃蓮蓉 ('daan wong lin yung'): single yolk lotus seed paste.
雙黃蓮蓉 ('seung wong lin yung'): double yolk lotus seed paste.
單黃豆沙 ('daan wong dau saa'): single yolk red bean paste.
雙黃豆沙 ('seung wong dau saa'): double yolk red bean paste.

Yes there are many others. And regional variations. But start with these.

Where might you buy them?


BAKERIES
餅家 ('bing kaa') 

THE AA BAKERY & CAFÉ
永興餅家茶餐廳 ('wing hing bing ka tsa tsan teng')
1068 Stockton Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
(415) 981-0123

EASTERN BAKERY
東亞餅家 ('tung ah bing ka')
720 Grant Avenue
San Francisco, CA 94108
(415) 433-7973

Both bakeries are famous for their mooncakes. The AA also has Hong Kong style milk-tea (港式奶茶 'gong sik naai chaa'), the Eastern is, additionally, famous for their coffee crunch cake.

Every bakery in Chinatown will have mooncakes.
Don't worry, you won't be left yearning.

If you do not have a chance to head into Chinatown, you can also purchase tins with four cakes apiece, made by several companies, available at many Chinese grocery stores out in the Richmond or Sunset.
A well-know imported brand is Wing Wah (榮華 、榮華餅家), from a company located in Yuen Long (元朗) in the New Territories.
Many people look forward to a tin.
It's a celebration.



I myself will NOT be buying a tin of mooncakes this year, as I am single, not particularly festive, and I feel fat.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

BLATNOY

My apartment mate likes to eat with her boyfriend Wheelie Boy. And to that end, she cooks frequently. Which means that I have to stay out of the kitchen. This should not be a problem, except that there are occasions when I also would like to eat, and do NOT wish to go out for a burrito, no matter how scrumptious.

She cooked last night. I have NO idea when Wheelie Boy will enjoy the Tarragon Chicken, the fire-roasted vegetables, the pasta with pesto, or the mushroom whatever that dish is (his micro wave will let him know).

By the time I was ravenous the kitchen was still occupied.

The whole apartment smelled utterly delicious.

The Mexican place was closed.


I am not the kind of person who lets hunger dominate his life. Hah! Food means nothing to me! At my age I've tasted it all before. Far, I say far, be it from me to grouchily sit in front of my computer endlessly playing food videos. Ich habe keine existenzangst.
Did I already mention that I have superhuman tolerance, and am saintly and calm? At all times?


NEW YORKSKIE TAKSIST

[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEZfCv3Ko1Q.]


This song has NO connection to the hunger, or the realization that eating alone is altogether miserable and unappealing.

Nor do I have any clue what the lyrics mean.


The song is a Russian criminal-type chanson, and sounds evocative of struggle and frustration. Plus it has a catchy beat.

Tarragon Chicken, fire-roasted vegetables, pasta with pesto.
And a mushroom whatever that was.




I have never had Tarragon Chicken.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

I HAVE NO IDEA

You probably had to be there. I was. And I am a very patient man. It also helped that the song "Bringing In The Sheaves" was going through my head during most of it.
"It" being lunch while the banker talked. In consequence of which I have NO idea how the amount of money in circulation ties in to the war in Irak and Afghanistan, or the startling similarities between Michael Jackson and Hillary Clinton. Perhaps I should have listened.

Church music, like "Bringing In The Sheaves" is not part of my background. But my apartment mate is convinced that such things are included in the heritage of all white people. She's Chinese, and has a mighty queer view of 'whitey'.

Surely the all-white part of the country is filled with wholesome bland people singing that kind of sh*t?

And aren't they all constipated?


A HUMONGOUS LOAD OF 'SHEAVES'

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u67Lb1RyXTU.]

I wonder why she thinks they're all constipated?

The first I ever heard about the sheaves may have been in a movie. At that time I was already an adult. White folks Jesus songs aren't a thing in my world. There is one exception, though.

Mahalia Jackson.

My mother had her records.


A STIRRING WAR SONG

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=63yBpl6Oixo.]

There is a civil rights struggle connection.

It's inspiring.


My lunch was taken up by the banker, who came in just as I sat down. After I finished eating, he went out and found someone on the veranda, where he stayed for nearly an entire hour before coming back inside for another victim.

He's harmless, and very intelligent. But his mind makes strange poetic connections between facts that likely have no link, and after he's been reading he needs a brick wall to bounce his ideas off of. It's a way of reformulating things in his mind, and because he puts it back into words, understanding the material better.

Most of us don't have a clue what he's on about.
Or, for that matter, what on earth he's on.

I wasn't expecting that for lunch.
But actually I do not mind.
He's a likable man.
And harmless.



Bringing In The Sheaves was an earworm because of things my apartment mate had said. Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves; we shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

She got up at five thirty. At which time I had already been up for an hour, and was on my second cup of coffee. Couldn't sleep.
Morning is the best time.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

GANESH BEER -- DRINK OF THE GODS

In a move sure to offend some Hindus (while amusing others), a Belgian brewery has started making an India Pale Ale with Ganesha on the label.
No, I have no idea how it tastes. I stopped experimenting with beer years ago, and now drink it only occassionaly, and only Anchor Steam Beer.

I am reasonably certain it is a splendid product, well worth drinking.


The Universal Society For Hinduism, a bunch of religious nuts founded by and seemingly consisting only of Gujarati busybody Rajan Zed (now based in Nevada) has strongly protested. The use of Lord Ganesha for commercial purposes is, apparently, appalling! Ranjan Zed demands that Musketeer Brewery cease forthwith! He demands apologies!
Man, the nerve of those Belgians!
Mercantile scum!

Rajan Zed should go fly a kite.


Ganesh Brand Ghee, and Ganesh Brand Agmark Ghee
Ganesh Super Fine Atta Flour
Ganesh Beedies
Shree Ganesh Saffron Half cut, And Shree Ganesh Pure Saffron
Ganesh Mustard Oil
Ganesh Holi Colour
Ganesh Papad
Ganesh Channa Masala Papad
Ganesh Jeera Masala Papad
Ganesh Chora Fali
Ganesh Matiya
Ganesh Brand Deluxe Mono Filament Twine
Health Cha Shree Ganesh
Sri Ganesha Glass & Sanitary Wares
Extra White Sri Ganpati Gypsum Building Plaster
Ganpati Plasfab Ltd.
Ganpati Brand Moth Polish


Sorry, I have no clue what Moth Polish is.

I found all these products with a quick image-search for 'Ganesh Brand'.

There's also Ganesh Industries in Ahmedabad (Gujarat), as well as Shree Ganesh Industries (jeep and tractor body parts), Sri Ganesh Industries (halwa making machines) ......



Don't poo your dhoti, Rajan.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

AIR CHINA MAGAZINE CORRECTION

An in-flight magazine for Air China made waves by including a safety warning for its passengers that stated the following: "London is generally a safe place to travel, however precautions are needed when entering areas mainly populated by Indians, Pakistanis and black people. We advise tourists not to go out alone at night, and females always to be accompanied by another person when travelling."

[SOURCE: Air China magazine - BBC.]

People are outraged. Outraged!

"Indians, Pakistanis and black people"


Where the heck is the Oxford comma?!?


Oh, wait. That's not the issue.

What they should have said is this:

"London is a festering dump and has numerous extremely unsafe areas you had best avoid, including Peckham, Brixton, Tottenham, Edmonton, Hackney, Croydon, Stockwell, Tulse Hill, Custom House, Grahame Park, Barking, Church Road, South Killburne, Harlesden, Basildon, Lewisham, Thornton Heath, and anywhere near the BBC Studios and the Houses of Parliament."

"In addition to numerous unintelligible oafs, louts, and yobbos, drunken Englishmen will take offense if you don't speak like them, and feel an urge to inflict violence upon you. Women should be advised that rape culture is strong at all levels of British society. Come to think of it, men should be advised of that as well. The only souvenir some people take home from a trip to London is severe mental trauma and festering sores."

"Avoid the place as much as you can, and land in London ONLY because there is a connecting flight to Frankfurt."


That last is not strictly true, of course. There are many nice places in England to visit, reachable by train from London. Canterbury, Exeter, Oxford, and others. Scotland is also an option (avoid Glasgow).
And the lake country is lovely.

The only worthwhile souvenirs are marmalade, Branston Pickle Relish, Jane Austen novels, and a briar pipe.
Dunhill is not nearly as good as it once was on that score, Charatan has been buggered up, and the following are now merely brandnames under the Cadogan banner: BBB, Comoys, and GBD.


If you do eat a traditional British fry-up (not advised), be sure to also order salad (saang choi: 生菜, 又名萵菜), yauchoi (油菜), and gailan (芥蘭); this will alleviate symptoms of peptic distress considerably.


Enjoy your trip!




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE AIR

You do not belong here. And neither do I. No one except the bronze-hued federwilden actually belong in California. We are an invasive species that the local environment rejects, casts out, and forcefully discourages. And California will never let you forget that you are special, sonny boy, and it hates you, and everything you represent.

Last night I went out drinking with the lads. That being precisely and exactly one lad, who is no longer laddish but a young and still vibrant early middle aged Italian American of the book merchant persuasion with whom I have been drinking once a week for several years. If I tell you how many you will think me ancient and be disinclined to jump my bones -- and assuming that you are a petite damsel of barely graduate school age or just at the PHD stage, that sounds very splendid to me -- so I won't mention how long that is and leave the specifics vague and abstract, just guess, but it's an established tradition at this point.

As a physics or math major you can appreciate that.

A real subject. Like a science.

Not basket weaving.

In any case, it was NOT my right leg that bothered me one the way home. Which it should have, because I managed to damage something three years ago while tossing and turning -- ripped a muscle or a nerve, dang that right leg hurts, hip to ankle, technically I probably qualify for a handicapped plaque except that I do not have a car, and I hide it very well so no one will notice, I work with very unobservant people -- and heading up over that hill hurts like Billy-o. Nor was it the staggers, because I do not drink beyond reason.

It was not old-age or decrepitude.
Good lord no.


It was my nose.


Ninety nine plus percent of the inhabitants of Northern California will become allergic to something.


This is the furthest part of the world, the end of the continent, the back of beyond. The water cascades down into the abyss a few miles beyond the shore. This is the ultimate end of the line.

Our ancestors were not from here. Natural selection did not adapt us to the plants. The pollens and micro-dusts are foreign to us.

I spent the last five blocks sneezing .

And sneezing. And sneezing.

And sneezing.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

THE SUBTLE APPROACH TO HAPPINESS

My apartment mate is wired to the tits. She couldn't get higher if she tried. And had a ladder. Man, she's quivering. She'll be bouncing off the walls for hours. It's going to be a long night.

Good thing I'm leaving later. I've got my own plans.

I'll be listening in on Cantonese Opera rehearsals in C'town for half and hour, then heading over to Broadway for rotgut red and a pint, followed by Jameson's at the crazy lady's place.


I blame all of this on a small Oriental female. See, years ago my apartment mate and I were in a popular pedestrian mall when we passed a little Asian girl outside her family's restaurant staffing the ice-cream table. Nobody was buying, and she obviously had been dragooned into the task very much against her will. Obedient, but oppressed.

She had a very simple sales pitch.


"Ice cream."

"Ice cream!!!"

"ICE CREAM!!!!!!!"

Finally, in howling fury and frustration:


"ICE!*!*! CREEEEEEAMMM!*!*!*!*!"


Not surprisingly, she got yanked. In most cases it is better to have a low-key ice cream seller than an over the top mad one.
A truly great performance, though.
We fondly remember her.


"ICE!*!*! CREEEEEEAMMM!*!*!*!*!"


My apartment mate is presently in the kitchen with two tubs of frozen dairy dessert, yelling "ice cream" at the top of her lungs.
She is deliriously swacked on sugar.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

THE SYMMETRICAL GESTALT

A few years ago I wrote here that a friend of Graf Dingus von Sproink (a pseudonym) wore bras and panties. Which most red-blooded males do not. There is no need to provide further details about Dingus OR the rancid man wot wore the scanties, as some readers might be able to shper the identities of the two individuals referenced, and I would not wish to embarrass them -- they are probably already embarrassed constantly for a whole variety of reasons -- and in any case these gentlemen aren't really germane, OR crucial to my life and this essay.


A reader posted the following comment underneath:

"You have any even more peculiar relationship with breasts than most men."


To which I responded:

"Rest assured. There is no relationship with breasts at all.
I haven't been within happy distance in years."


Years ago in a Dutch magazine for boys, I remember reading a science fiction story which featured aliens in crashed spaceship on a distant planet who for centuries had been using mind-control to enslave other species that inadvertently strayed near their inhospitable star system, to mine for the precious ore they needed to rebuild their machinery, and then finally return home. Their planet was so far away, so very far away.

They had been out of contact with all civilized parts of the universe for so long that they did not even know that their kind had died-out, and was just an obscure memory, a wispy variable legend .....

It was an illustrated story, what nowadays we would call a graphic novel.

One of the illustrations showed a long line of drudging labourers from many different planets.

Among the slaves was a tall blue humanoid.

With three breasts.


Which immediately informs the astute reader that the illustrator cannot have been considering mammals, because cell division of the ovum inevitably means symmetry, and therefore that alien cannot have been one of us, but instead was probably some kind of bipedal lizard.
The breasts were very probably defensive.
Like the horns on a triceratops.

Mammals have even numbers of breasts. Spaced in rows of two.
The belly button is aligned with the halfway point.
Not always underneath, sometimes before.
Precisely along the raphe.
Mammalian.



It strikes me that whoever drew that may have had "a peculiar relationship with breasts". Especially because a brassiere with three compartments would actually need four straps. Again, symmetry. And support.



In actual fact, symmetry is an essential quality for almost all creatures at some stage of development, not just mammals. So triple-breastedness is virtually impossible. But symmetrical balance seems a crucial characteristic of breasts.

I feel that this is very important.

It still upsets me.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

DUTERTE DOES NOT NEED THE UNITED STATES

The follow-up from Digong Duterte calling President Obama a "son of a whore" has been swift; a scheduled meeting between the two leaders has been cancelled, with no future confabs announced. Kumandar Duterte may be a capable leader of death squads, but is an abject failure at international relations.
Hubris has always been a problem for Filipinos.


"Putang ina mo!"


In electing Duterte, the Filipino people have thrown their trust in with a brutal thug, a bigot, and quite possibly a rapist. In fact, Rodrigo 'Rodeng' Duterte is such an all-round disgusting exemplar of Filipino manhood that one wonders how far back his well-documented murderous proclivities go. Was he at an early age involved in hunting down Muslims in Mindanao, like so many other Visayan settlers were? Was he a patron or leader of the Ilagas, notorious gangs of Northern immigrants who engaged in rape and murder among the Moros during the Marcos dictatorship?
Or did he leave that to able relatives?
That last is doubtful.


Until the Philippines elects a clean man, who doesn't represent the brutalist stratum in the entrenched political class, the United States relationship with that place should redefine "lowest ebb".


Unlike the Arab world, which cannot do its own housekeeping and needs Filipinas, the United States has no need for Filipino immigrants.
We aren't that fond of mangoes either.



Let us ignore Duterte's human rights violations as well as all Filipino claims to any part of the South China Sea. We need to have a good relationship with China and Japan.

We can well-afford to ignore the Philippines.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

FILIPINO PRESIDENT SHOWS TRUE COLOURS, CURSES OBAMA

The president of the Philippines, Rodrigo Duterte, has called the president of the United States a "son of a whore". Well now, is this any way for the leader of an ally to behave?

Perhaps the Philippines has forgotten the economic ties that bind us?
No, I shan't mention ties of friendship and common values, because if the Filipino president calls the leader of the United States a "son of a whore", we may in fact have very little in common.

Filipinos don't particularly like white people, generally speaking sneer ferociously at blacks, and just aren't very hep on the rest of us. They like our passports and our access to consumer goods.


"You must be respectful. Do not just throw away questions and statements. Son of a whore*, I will curse you in that forum!"

[Literally: Putang ina mo.]


If that rude, crude, thug Duterte represents them, nothing good can come of further relations. Perhaps we should reconsider our connection.


Actually I think we should boycott the damned place, halt all trade, and stop issuing visas to Filipinos, as well as criminalize transfers of money to Filipino nationals overseas. While we are at it, declare martial law in Daly City, and shoot anyone singing "Feelings, Nothing More Than Feelings".


Nobody really needs the Philippines.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

THE DAY WENT BY SO FAST!

Today I was just busting out Mister Charm. Hectored my coworker on the fine distinctions among various sects of Dutch Reformed (the most schism-prone of all of John Calvin's children), disquisitioned engagingly anent the Dutch colonial enterprise and the depraved bloodshed and tyranny thereof, spoke enlighteningly about Hong Kong eating habits (high sugar, high fat, and high blood pressure), and clearly explained to Richard that I keenly anticipated a revolution in which the gross bourgeoisie of Marin would get slaughtered, and that I would be happy to see his blood running in the streets.

All in all I had a fine old time.

I staved off boredom.

Mostly mine.


AFTER WORD

Yes, I know some great political shake-up involving purging society of the prosperous self-important parasites of Marin is not going to happen, due to the apathy of the exploited classes.
But a man can dream.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

HUGELY INAPPROPRIATE ACTION BY THE SANTA CLARA POLICE OFFICERS ASSOCIATION

I am appalled at the threat by the Santa Clara Police Officers Association to cherry-pick where and how they serve. Specifically, their threat to take no law enforcement action in matters involving Giants games. Apparently the lives of fans are of less account than the feelings of officers.

Let me quote from a letter that the easily wounded buttercups of the Santa Clara Police Officers Association recently sent to Mr. Jed York of the San Francisco 49ers:

"The 49ers organisation has taken no action to stop or prevent Mr Kaepernick from continuing to make inaccurate, incorrect and inflammatory statements"

"If the 49ers organisation fails to take action to stop this type of inappropriate workplace behaviour, it could result in officers choosing not to work at your facilities."

"Our members -- have the right to do their job in an environment free of unjustified and insulting attacks."


Sorry, no. You do not get to choose. If you refuse to protect the public in an area where it is your job to protect the public, you have no business still being police officers. You will be no more than goons with guns.

Besides, serving the public selectively, isn't that proving Colin Kaepernick's point?


There is also the little matter of police interfering with freedom of speech ....

Where and when have we seen that before?


It seems to me that the Santa Clara Police Officers Association suffers from House Nigger Syndrome, that being the toleration of minority individuals only in so far as they adhere to the dominant ethos.


"You aren't like the other XXXXs, I wouldn't mind you living in my neighborhood at all. I still wouldn't want my daughter to associate with you unsupervised, but sh*t man, you're just like one of us!"


In this country, the police are supposed to serve and protect all members of the public equally, regardless of their politics, religion, or skin tone.

So are members of the judiciary (even though we know that is not the case in Santa Clara).

I for one will not gladly visit a place where the cops pick and choose.

Or where some members of the public get a free pass.

It's probably risky as f*ck there.

Butthurt blues.





==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

PRAYING THAT YOU DON'T FIND JESUS

Despite the worried prediction of another person on Facebook, who said "soon you'll have almost no friends, the way you're going", I have more people on Facebook than two years ago. At the time I was rigorously weeding out folks with whom I disagreed. Which process started well before then, and continues to the present.


NEARLY TWENTY PERCENT MORE

Two years ago I weeded out both the anti-Israel asshats as well as the anti-Arab racists as they lost control of their senses. More have since been outed, and eliminated.
One of the people I got rid of would post any item that cast the Arabs in a bad light, no matter how unbelievable. He never checked sources, and failed to understand that spreading lies for a good cause was never the less spreading lies.
Another one took every opportunity to exaggerate the difference between the poor oppressed little Pallies, and the big brutish Israelis. Out.
Others showed no sympathy for casualties on whichever side they opposed.

Recently it has been the All Lives Matter folks, the immigrant bashers, and the Trumpelstilskins.


Yes, Facebook is turning into a personal echo-chamber.

It does not take all kinds; not every voice is valid.

Some people are stupid, or too wrong, to bother with.


There are still one or two Jesus-heads, and a couple of Jill Stein supporters. As well as a very mild Republican or two. I'll happily tolerate them, because while they are disappointingly delusional about one thing, they're okay on several others, and they don't offend the other residents.
Eventually they'll come to their senses.



Others who get the short end of my shrift are anti-vaxxers, believers in new age religions and philosophies, vegans, anti-gmo activists, gluten-phobes, conspiracy theorists, people who paste links to the Jerusalem Post (especially to articles by that bitch Caroline Glick), and anybody who approves of essays by Pamela Geller or Debbie Schlussel.

272+

Liberals only, please. That pretty much means reasonably educated, and greater than average intelligence; those that lack in formal education more than make up for it by character and brains.

[In other words, not liberals by rote, but by reason.]

Life is too short to drink Starbucks, or waste any time arguing with pyschopaths. I just don't have that kind of patience anymore.



THE 144 THOUSAND WITH EVERLASTING LIFE
[Sorry for the Calvinistic praedestinatory reference; it is meant humorously.]

People who stand NO CHANCE of ever being unfriended are Set ElemXXX, Spiros HiXXX, Maya ChaXXX, Tim LieXXX, Mordechai LuchXXX, Stephen BelXXX, Timothy CarmXXX, Mar 'Marmalade', and Siddharta the Rabbit Freak. Six real world friends, three virtual.
There are others, of course, but these people keep me sane.
It is because of them that I remain centered.
I'm grateful; thanks guys.


Man is known by the company he keeps.


In order: a severe rationalist with her heart and her head in the right place, a sarcastic humanist book seller, a snarky Parsee liberal of semi-impeccable tastes, a screaming liberal literary person, a geek dad with keen sense of ethics, a young rabbi with a goofy sense of humour and a linguistic bent, a calming influence who does the strange thing, a really likable dude who also speaks Dutch, and a brainiac Bengali with perspective severely hampered by rabbits.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

THE TRUTH SOMETIMES DISAPPOINTS

The ex-girlfriend has for many years referred to me as "The Old Cooz".
I assumed it was a fond mishmash of 'coot', 'cuss', 'codger', and also a reference, perhaps, to 'Koozebane', a planet featured occassionally on the Muppet Show, in the Pigs In Space segments.
It sounds friendly, affectionate.


My ex is a very innocent woman.


I myself did not know what 'cooz' meant until earlier this week. I am by no means an innocent woman, but I could be.

Apparently, cooz is something incredibly unprintable.

According to the Urban Dictionary.

No relation to coot.


No, I shall not inform my ex what 'cooz' means. As I said, she is a very innocent woman. Instead, I will let her remain ignorant of the real meaning of 'cooz', and think instead that it's a softened version of 'coot' which she invented.


She also calls me 'Toad', affectionately 'Toadie'. Or 'Toadie-blatt'.

According to the Urban Dictionary, toad is a "derogatory term for the African American, often used in prison." Also: "a new drug craze, "toad" is slang for the Colombian spotted toad. When licked, the toads give a euphoria that's ... that's just great. Side effects include chills all through your body, and loss of control of your bladder and your sphincter."


Now I happen to know that it's after Mr. Toad in Wind In The Willows, which is one of her favourite books. It is also one of my favourites. She saw similarities of behaviour between me and that estimable fellow.

Estimable?

Why yes!

"The world has held great heroes,
As history-books have showed;
But never a name to go down to fame,
Compared with that of Toad!
The clever men at Oxford,
Know all that there is to be knowed;
But none of them know half as much,
As intelligent Mr Toad!"

Mr. Toad is a talented and inventive fellow, and almost qualifies as a Renaissance man. But not very good with vehicles.
Despite his boundless enthusiasm.
An admirable amphibian.


She also loves Kermit The Frog.


Still. Cooz.





AFTER WORD

She was also all excited by the Swedish Pancakes at Sears Fine Foods, tiny and delicate, oooh! Precious little pancakes! Until she found out that they tasted like ... pancakes. That's it. Just pancakes.
Nothing different! So disappointing!
Waaaa.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

BODACIOUS TATAS

It has always baffled me what images and ideas cigar companies use to bring their products to consumer attention. Left to right, main wall: ninjas, ghost daemons, and savages in the Amazonian rain forest; race cars, superannuated stick insects (human), exploitation of the serfs on my vast plantation; excess, crazy Russians, partying drug dealers; tattooed freaks, more plantational exploitation, a hip subcontinental, gasoline; Roman emperors, dead Cubans, and revolutionary excesses in the tropics.
And more. Much more. It's frightening.

The demographic, however, remains constant.

Younger men who have too much money, middle-aged men who have too much money, and older men who have too much money. And men in all three categories who would like to have too much money, but perforce must buy slightly cheaper smokes.
In a range of body type, from fairly trim to more than pudgy.


I guess it's the romance of the object.


Which, when you think about it, is a stand-in for the intermediary between the cigar smoker and bodacious tatas. If A, then B, and inevitably, C.
Which is bodacious tatas. Bodacious tatas are magic.

[There is such a thing as too much. Every one's definition of the ideal tata is different. Bodacious is conceptual. It is a state of mind. Intellectual appreciation.]

Cigars, however, do not resemble tatas, of any type. Nor do they smell like tatas, in any way at all. I have on occasion smelled my mustache after indulging in a cigar, and regretfully I conclude that if tatas smelled like cigars nobody would want them.


Pipe tobacco DOES smell like tatas.


That is why I usually smoke a pipe.


Cheap stogies smell like nut sack.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

THE PASSION

Her eyes lit up when she saw the slice of cake. She had come in with her mommy, who steered her toward the table, where she obediently sat down. When her mom placed the slice of mango cake in front of her she clapped her hands. Slowly she attacked the confection with the fork, and despite the implement being far too large for her to handle, she ate neatly, quietly, and with intense dignity. Cake was something one must respect.

She barely noticed the old lady in the wheelchair at another table, who observed her with evident happiness. Was it a memory of her own childhood? Or of her middle-aged daughter, who looked after her? Perhaps just an instinctive response to an infant, not even four years old, enjoying a slice of cake, like it was the only cake in the whole world.
"Ho sik-ge maa" Does it taste good?
Evidently it did.

Mui-mui savoured her cake, despite the cloud of gasoline smoke from the concrete truck outside, that filled the bakery and made the air blue.

My milk-tea tasted industrial.

The boss-lady asked me to go speak to the workmen -- yes, I am typecast; clever kwailo and bilingual, therefore obviously the perfect choice for negotiator -- and after I came back inside (the smoke having lessened considerably, due to my minor skill at talking to gentlemen who deeply know their machines and how to make them perform optimally) she gave me another egg tart and some more milk-tea.

The wheelchair bound old lady said goodbye to the infant, who was too blissed-out to notice.

The little girl's mommy gaily signaled a friend who had just come in with her own little child. While the ladies chatted, the little boy eyed the cake.
The little girl carefully forked off another piece and conveyed it to her mouth. Her eyes closed in ecstasy as she smooshed it around.
Mmm. It was almost gone.
The little boy seemed dispassionate. He may have been fascinated by the process of forking and fastidiously conveying the tiny morsels beyond the perfect lips, to be intensely mooshed and swirled and oozily swallowed; a long fond farewell to each tiny bite.

Finally the child finished her serving of gâteau de mangue. She glowed and seemed, in her radiant sweetnes, to have absorbed the essence of the mango slices and angel food.
She looked dreamy.
And beamed.


She and her mommy left the bakery.


I finished my milk-tea and paid-up.


Two pipes. One after the other, while sitting on a bench in Hang Ah Alley. The mahjong parlours were locked, and other than two teenage girls over at the volleyball court, and a crazy lady operatizing at another bench, the alley and playground were deserted.

Halfway through the second pipe a little girl passed behind me singing about a little dog, and Dingo was its name-o.

Which is not here. Or there.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

IT BUBBLES DOWN THERE!

On evenings when my apartment mate uses the kitchen to prepare food for her boyfriend in a wheelchair to eat later in the week, it is impossible for me to cook my dinner. And, though she is Chinese, she cooks like a white person.It takes hours and hours. And hours.

It takes me far less time. And that despite the fact that as the resident white person in this apartment, I should not know how to cook.
Without taking all evening, that is.

In consequence of a cheese-rich microwavable thing -- the microwave is in the hallway -- acidus is tormenting me something fierce at present.


Cite:

"Casein contains a fairly high number of proline residues, which do not interact. There are also no disulfide bridges. As a result, it has relatively little tertiary structure. It is relatively hydrophobic, making it poorly soluble in water. It is found in milk as a suspension of particles, called casein micelles, which show only limited resemblance with surfactant-type micelles in a sense that the hydrophilic parts reside at the surface and they are spherical. However, in sharp contrast to surfactant micelles, the interior of a casein micelle is highly hydrated. The caseins in the micelles are held together by calcium ions and hydrophobic interactions. Any of several molecular models could account for the special conformation of casein in the micelles."

[SOURCE: Wikipedia - Casein.]


Phosphoproteins are well nigh indigestible, non-water soluble, and used in glues and paint. As well as artificial cloth. Which is very durable.

If I actually manage to fall asleep tonight, my dreams should be interesting.


Rabid dogs. That's it; rabid dogs.


Why oh why could she not have fallen in love with someone who knows how to cook, knows how to eat, and isn't so almighty food neurotic?
Poor hungry helpless little nutball in a wheelchair.


Good thing I don't have to deal with him.
I'd feed him gluten, salt, and cheese.
Till it made him explode.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================