Somebody recently posted as an argument against women's liberation (or empowerment, or equality) the following clarion call: "have kids get married and be happy - feminism leads down a dark path of cats, pizza, and wine."
That actually sounds pretty good. I need to know more feminists. On a rainy day like today I could call up and say: "do you mind if I stop by?", and a feminist might respond "come on over, I started on the pizza and wine early; me and the cats are watching 1950s horror movies".
As I said, pretty darn good.
ENGINEERS WITH LIPSTICK
On work days I deal with a lot of cigar smokers, of which unfortunately and unsurprisingly the overwhelming majority are men. Who, when women are not around, drop their pants and reveal themselves as insensitive superficial over-entitled middle-class clods. Their company is not as enjoyable as they think, and their utterances prove that you don't have to stupid to be dumb as a bag of hammers. Yes, most of them are decent enough. Some of them also show some likable characteristics. Sparks of sweetness.
But good lord they're a bunch of door posts.
To put it differently, they are typical male fellow citizens, and perfectly suited to the typical female fellow citizen.
The dark path that leads to cats, pizza, and wine, sounds rather attractive. During inclement weather alluring even. Like a door into summer, or a wardrobe between worlds. A dimensional portal.
"Feminism leads down a dark path of cats, pizza, and wine."
Ladies, please raise your daughters to be feminists.
Encourage tool-use and scientific curiosity.
Introduce them to pizza early.
There are cats!
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Tuesday, January 10, 2017
FORTY PERCENT DOUGH, THIRTY PERCENT BUTTER, THIRTY PERCENT SUGAR
It seems to attract the ants, and it's probably not a very healthy breakfast. But, being American-born, and having tastes formed by being brought up in San Francisco, with not nearly enough exposure to her ancestral culture, the kouign amann has almost automatically become one of her favourite 'start-the-day' items. Not surprising, really. None of us eat now what our grandparents or great-grandparents ate. I believe my greats sometimes had kidneys, and seldom had coffee. Hers probably had rice-gruel (粥 'juk') with a bit of dried fish (柴魚 'chaai yü'.
Rice gruel with a bit of dried fish, and some fried peanuts, is actually very tasty, but makes a better light lunch. The coffee, however, is essential irrespective. I only have coffee in the morning.
While my apartment mate's great-grandparents were rooting around in the mud of Toishan, mine were leading very staid upper-crustian Anglo lives in New York City and somewhere in the Midwest. In between exploiting the defenseless working classes and possible disenfranchising people.
With kidneys, but almost certainly without coffee.
It was a calmer and nastier age.
No coffee.
Coffee is the great American drink, but it for a long time it was neither universal nor essential. And people did unspeakable things with it.
We now do unspeakable things with other things.
We hardly ever fry kidneys.
I believe that a warm beverage of choice is customary when consuming a kouign amann. A product about which I did not know a blessed thing at all until I noticed the ants.
Tomorrow morning, while I am still asleep, my apartment mate will leave her room and toddle into the kitchen, and discover the ants. Whereupon she will exit the kitchen in high dudgeon, enter my room, and accusatorily wake me up to tell me that we have ants. Which is naturally not her fault (despite the package of kouignoù amann).
She's never done anything at all to encourage ants.
Whereas I am white, and, well, you know.
It somehow HAS to be my fault.
Look, I have coffee for breakfast. Ants abjure coffee. It's too exciting. They probably also don't enjoy salt fish or rice porridge either, and therefore, quod erat demonstrandum, 柴魚花生粥 and coffee must be the chosen breakfast, fit for kings, breakfast of champions.
They're your buttery pastries, sweetie, not mine. You've never even shared 'em with me. So I am going back to sleep, it's my day off, and I'll deal with your ants later, when I arise.
"Good morning ants, have you eaten?"
Tiny little voices, hardly audible at all, will pipe back "why yes we have, thank you for asking, it was very good!"
"I am so glad you liked it."
"Kouign amann."
AFTERWORD
I shall probably get up at nine thirty, nearly two hours after she has left for work. Coffee, conversation with the ants, perhaps asking them politely to be more discreet, then a bath, and off to Chinatown for a haircut and some lunch. Amble under the awnings smoking a pipe.
I really have nothing else planned.
I shall be a vegetable.
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Rice gruel with a bit of dried fish, and some fried peanuts, is actually very tasty, but makes a better light lunch. The coffee, however, is essential irrespective. I only have coffee in the morning.
While my apartment mate's great-grandparents were rooting around in the mud of Toishan, mine were leading very staid upper-crustian Anglo lives in New York City and somewhere in the Midwest. In between exploiting the defenseless working classes and possible disenfranchising people.
With kidneys, but almost certainly without coffee.
It was a calmer and nastier age.
No coffee.
Coffee is the great American drink, but it for a long time it was neither universal nor essential. And people did unspeakable things with it.
We now do unspeakable things with other things.
We hardly ever fry kidneys.
I believe that a warm beverage of choice is customary when consuming a kouign amann. A product about which I did not know a blessed thing at all until I noticed the ants.
Tomorrow morning, while I am still asleep, my apartment mate will leave her room and toddle into the kitchen, and discover the ants. Whereupon she will exit the kitchen in high dudgeon, enter my room, and accusatorily wake me up to tell me that we have ants. Which is naturally not her fault (despite the package of kouignoù amann).
She's never done anything at all to encourage ants.
Whereas I am white, and, well, you know.
It somehow HAS to be my fault.
Look, I have coffee for breakfast. Ants abjure coffee. It's too exciting. They probably also don't enjoy salt fish or rice porridge either, and therefore, quod erat demonstrandum, 柴魚花生粥 and coffee must be the chosen breakfast, fit for kings, breakfast of champions.
They're your buttery pastries, sweetie, not mine. You've never even shared 'em with me. So I am going back to sleep, it's my day off, and I'll deal with your ants later, when I arise.
"Good morning ants, have you eaten?"
Tiny little voices, hardly audible at all, will pipe back "why yes we have, thank you for asking, it was very good!"
"I am so glad you liked it."
"Kouign amann."
AFTERWORD
I shall probably get up at nine thirty, nearly two hours after she has left for work. Coffee, conversation with the ants, perhaps asking them politely to be more discreet, then a bath, and off to Chinatown for a haircut and some lunch. Amble under the awnings smoking a pipe.
I really have nothing else planned.
I shall be a vegetable.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 09, 2017
IT'S ACTUALLY QUITE NICE
An acquaintance disparaged the place where I spent many years. Or maybe it was my mental state. Something or somewhere with which I have an intimate personal connection, he avers, is a nasty bog.
As would anyone, I vociferously disagreed.
Plus there is herring there.
Imagine!
But though I was eloquent, I failed to convince him.
A NEW WORLD ORDER
All folks from the Netherlands or Denmark have toenail fungus because of the climate and are sick, sick, sick. Plus they are frigid souls. Soggy.
He's a fevered Christian, and feels that the United States is G-d's own country, compared to which all else but faintly flickers. Though it could be better: if gays were banned from bathrooms, Jayzis was taught in all the schools, and Roe versus Wade were overturned. As, now that his people finally control the government, is bound to happen.
Blessed be, and hallelujah.
DOT DOT DOT
The best thing I said all weekend was: "If I had a vagina I sure would not want the Republican Congress to regulate it." But I did not say it to him or even mention it. Given that I would have to mansplain it, which would have confused the poor dear. Either that or he would not have appreciated the irony of my detailing what life would be like were I a woman.
He has an intelligence quotient in the high one digits.
Life is so much harder for people like him.
His wife has my deepest sympathy.
"If I had a vagina I sure would not want the Republican Congress to regulate it."
Seriously. What do Paul Ryan and Mitch McConnell know about the opposite gender? Can they identify it, if it comes up and bites them?
Or would they blame space aliens?
Please don't regulate my imaginary vagina.
Thank you.
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As would anyone, I vociferously disagreed.
Plus there is herring there.
Imagine!
But though I was eloquent, I failed to convince him.
A NEW WORLD ORDER
All folks from the Netherlands or Denmark have toenail fungus because of the climate and are sick, sick, sick. Plus they are frigid souls. Soggy.
He's a fevered Christian, and feels that the United States is G-d's own country, compared to which all else but faintly flickers. Though it could be better: if gays were banned from bathrooms, Jayzis was taught in all the schools, and Roe versus Wade were overturned. As, now that his people finally control the government, is bound to happen.
Blessed be, and hallelujah.
DOT DOT DOT
The best thing I said all weekend was: "If I had a vagina I sure would not want the Republican Congress to regulate it." But I did not say it to him or even mention it. Given that I would have to mansplain it, which would have confused the poor dear. Either that or he would not have appreciated the irony of my detailing what life would be like were I a woman.
He has an intelligence quotient in the high one digits.
Life is so much harder for people like him.
His wife has my deepest sympathy.
"If I had a vagina I sure would not want the Republican Congress to regulate it."
Seriously. What do Paul Ryan and Mitch McConnell know about the opposite gender? Can they identify it, if it comes up and bites them?
Or would they blame space aliens?
Please don't regulate my imaginary vagina.
Thank you.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 08, 2017
HELLO DEATH METAL PANDA: AGGRESSIVE RETSUKO IS THE WAVE OF THE FUTURE
Finally Sanrio has given birth to a character with whom we can all identify: Aggretsuko, a red panda who works in a Tokyo office, and is so frustrated and irritated by her idiot co-workers and aspects of her job that she binge-drinks beer in karaoke bars and sings death metal.
I know I can identify with her; it's almost as if she's my spirit animal. Despite the fact that I do not work in an office. Don't binge drink.
And do not scream-roar plangent death metal lyrics.
Heck, I've hardly ever done karaoke.
Some individuals may remember when I sang "All My Exxes Live In Texas" with Dildo Bob, and others possibly recall the ghastly rendition of a ballad by Teresa Teng I did once or twice.
They need to drink more.
I drink sparingly, unlike most Caucasians, and I actually rather like my job. Today I spent several hours in a smoke-filled environment listening to pudgy middle-aged specimens screaming over football, but I was far enough away from them that I could hear myself think. The only time I came closer was when I asked Jeff about the raw sewage cascading over the concrete floors of his office.
"Yeah no I'm on the fourth floor, but down there they were putting plastic shopping bags around their feet."
To the best of my knowledge no raw sewage has ever swirled over my docksiders. I would have known. Details, you know. Still, I and everybody else can thoroughly sympathize with Aggressive Retsuko, and see her as a Hello Kitty-esque icon for modern adults such as ourselves.
Male or female, es macht kein diefferenz.
As far as the death metal is concerned, that's in Japanese, so it is probably not quite what you can do either. But it's never too late to learn.
Probably the best Sanrio character ever. Edgy. Angry. Office worker. Female. In other words, possessed of a non-threatening even cute exterior, but a seething cauldron inside. Meek, mild, playful, yet justifiably filled with a burning rage that might just boil over at any moment, incendiarizing the nimnos and twizzle-heads around her, and take it all down, baby, till yer dead and burnt to crispy ashes, oh yeah.
Yep. Adorable.
When my Hello Kitty backpack in which I stash pipes when commuting wears out, I will replace it with an Aggretsuko item of similar dimensions.
Hello, little Death Metal Panda; we are ready for your merchandise!
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I know I can identify with her; it's almost as if she's my spirit animal. Despite the fact that I do not work in an office. Don't binge drink.
And do not scream-roar plangent death metal lyrics.
Heck, I've hardly ever done karaoke.
Some individuals may remember when I sang "All My Exxes Live In Texas" with Dildo Bob, and others possibly recall the ghastly rendition of a ballad by Teresa Teng I did once or twice.
They need to drink more.
I drink sparingly, unlike most Caucasians, and I actually rather like my job. Today I spent several hours in a smoke-filled environment listening to pudgy middle-aged specimens screaming over football, but I was far enough away from them that I could hear myself think. The only time I came closer was when I asked Jeff about the raw sewage cascading over the concrete floors of his office.
"Yeah no I'm on the fourth floor, but down there they were putting plastic shopping bags around their feet."
To the best of my knowledge no raw sewage has ever swirled over my docksiders. I would have known. Details, you know. Still, I and everybody else can thoroughly sympathize with Aggressive Retsuko, and see her as a Hello Kitty-esque icon for modern adults such as ourselves.
Male or female, es macht kein diefferenz.
As far as the death metal is concerned, that's in Japanese, so it is probably not quite what you can do either. But it's never too late to learn.
TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MvClxgjYJZ4.]
Probably the best Sanrio character ever. Edgy. Angry. Office worker. Female. In other words, possessed of a non-threatening even cute exterior, but a seething cauldron inside. Meek, mild, playful, yet justifiably filled with a burning rage that might just boil over at any moment, incendiarizing the nimnos and twizzle-heads around her, and take it all down, baby, till yer dead and burnt to crispy ashes, oh yeah.
Yep. Adorable.
When my Hello Kitty backpack in which I stash pipes when commuting wears out, I will replace it with an Aggretsuko item of similar dimensions.
Hello, little Death Metal Panda; we are ready for your merchandise!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BLONDES DON'T BOTTLE UP
Not entirely sure why she does it, but the apartment mate watches bitchy women shows on television. She calls it "life-styles of the small-souled".
It's arguably about female empowerment. And white folks sex.
The golden haired individuals headed to Montauk.
Not sure where the heck that is.
I could look it up.
"I haven't had a birthday trip in like two years!"
They are no stranger to recreational vehicles, these twenty-somethings. Oh em gee. And they will not stop for cosmetic damage. Montauk is, like, the perfect place for them to, like, get away. Give them the veranda.
Stop bitching. And don't bottle, like, anything up.
I am resolved to never go to Montauk.
Snapchat and ocean-front view.
What IS this show?
Because of what went on in this episode, the apartment mate is now aware of jock straps, crotch rot, man smells, award-winning vodka, and "weird bacteria fermenting". Plus hip collective inebriation.
Not sure that this is a win-win.
She's learning way too much about Caucasians.
And big white person cleavage.
Oh dear.
There will be consequences.
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It's arguably about female empowerment. And white folks sex.
The golden haired individuals headed to Montauk.
Not sure where the heck that is.
I could look it up.
"I haven't had a birthday trip in like two years!"
They are no stranger to recreational vehicles, these twenty-somethings. Oh em gee. And they will not stop for cosmetic damage. Montauk is, like, the perfect place for them to, like, get away. Give them the veranda.
Stop bitching. And don't bottle, like, anything up.
I am resolved to never go to Montauk.
Snapchat and ocean-front view.
What IS this show?
Because of what went on in this episode, the apartment mate is now aware of jock straps, crotch rot, man smells, award-winning vodka, and "weird bacteria fermenting". Plus hip collective inebriation.
Not sure that this is a win-win.
She's learning way too much about Caucasians.
And big white person cleavage.
Oh dear.
There will be consequences.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 07, 2017
MISPLACED DIRECTIONS, INSTRUCTION BOOKLET MISSING
Sometimes situations come up which are ... "peculiar". At least to one of the people involved. Like, erm, romance. And one is confused about the proper way to proceed.
The work-supervisor of a friend of a coworker had some interaction with me in a professional capacity before the holiday, and has since expressed an interest in me to her subordinate with a request that he should ascertain through his friend (my colleague) whether I was perchance single and available.
Which I am.
But as I explained to my fellow employee, I didn't know the woman from Adam. He needed to give me more than just describing her as a redhead. So he messaged his friend, and an hour later showed me a photo on his cellphone. And asked what should he tell his friend on my behalf?
"Just say I'm mildly interested."
I realize that that did not sound enthusiastic, but in all honesty I still didn't know diddly about the woman. She could be all kinds wonderful, brilliant, engaging, extremely tolerant of the fact that neither my life nor my living arrangements are perfectly neat. She could also be an axe-murdereress who wishes to harvest me for streaky meat.
And I still cannot remember her.
Years ago an acquaintance got married after a whirlwind romance. Lordy, he was smitten. Within a year he regretted it, and it took over five years to extricate himself. "Fred", we would ask whenever we saw him, "how goes the divorce?"
It was a mess, but very entertaining, as such things are.
Heh heh heh.
I should also mention that the world's cutest cigar smoker is a divorcee. And one could see where a man would have easily been smitten by her, but I suspect that after a number of years she got unsmote, and realized that mere smite was not enough for her to continue that relationship.
Yes, I strongly suspect that she decided on the split.
She's very strong minded and intelligent.
I shan't ask, ain't my beeswax.
I am not a spring chicken, as you may have already surmised, and I'm odd of habit and rather set in my ways. Furthermore, it has been a while since I dated anyone, and even then I was not a dab hand (though at one point I was seeing three women concurrently; don't ask, it just happened).
I do not know how to proceed.
I am only mildly interested.
And I am chicken.
Mildly.
POST SCRIPTUM
The last time someone inquired whether I was single and available, it was for a friend of hers. At a restaurant, to which I have not gone back since, despite their nice food. That tells you something.
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Which I am.
But as I explained to my fellow employee, I didn't know the woman from Adam. He needed to give me more than just describing her as a redhead. So he messaged his friend, and an hour later showed me a photo on his cellphone. And asked what should he tell his friend on my behalf?
"Just say I'm mildly interested."
I realize that that did not sound enthusiastic, but in all honesty I still didn't know diddly about the woman. She could be all kinds wonderful, brilliant, engaging, extremely tolerant of the fact that neither my life nor my living arrangements are perfectly neat. She could also be an axe-murdereress who wishes to harvest me for streaky meat.
And I still cannot remember her.
Years ago an acquaintance got married after a whirlwind romance. Lordy, he was smitten. Within a year he regretted it, and it took over five years to extricate himself. "Fred", we would ask whenever we saw him, "how goes the divorce?"
It was a mess, but very entertaining, as such things are.
Heh heh heh.
I should also mention that the world's cutest cigar smoker is a divorcee. And one could see where a man would have easily been smitten by her, but I suspect that after a number of years she got unsmote, and realized that mere smite was not enough for her to continue that relationship.
Yes, I strongly suspect that she decided on the split.
She's very strong minded and intelligent.
I shan't ask, ain't my beeswax.
I am not a spring chicken, as you may have already surmised, and I'm odd of habit and rather set in my ways. Furthermore, it has been a while since I dated anyone, and even then I was not a dab hand (though at one point I was seeing three women concurrently; don't ask, it just happened).
I do not know how to proceed.
I am only mildly interested.
And I am chicken.
Mildly.
POST SCRIPTUM
The last time someone inquired whether I was single and available, it was for a friend of hers. At a restaurant, to which I have not gone back since, despite their nice food. That tells you something.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ALL THE PERVERTS AND ME
Thanks to the intrepid Dutch press (De Telegraaf) I now know that my fellow Dutchmen (randy perverts, mostly) are intrigued by lesbians and teens, whereas our more staid southern neighbors the Belgians favour stepmothers and stepsisters, though not in the same scene. This was clarified by the 2016 search statistics published by Pornhub.
Which is an endlessly fascinating document.
First time on my radar.
Let me clarify at this point that I never search the internet for smut, and obsessively watch sports on television. Oh, those rounded football bottoms, men in tight spandex, the sheer excitement of watching pigskin fly!
And those beer commercials!
Zesty!
HIGHLIGHTS:
Icelanders watch more porn than Canadians.
Belgians are very similar to Americans.
Most visits are around 9 minutes.
Lesbians, MILFs, moms.
Cell phones.
Please note that Mississippians watch far more than Oregonians. Either because of slow synapses or rain, would be my guess.
But this is not a hard science.
From eleven to midnight are peak traffic times.
When many people are drunk and alone.
Pornsurfers in India put the word 'Indian' in almost all their searches, and like teenage lesbians. Perhaps these are bhainchoot fantasies, but I dare not speculate. The Japanese naturally prefer 'Japanese', and 'amateur'.
The French are a bunch of right degenerates: anal.
All I can say is I am shocked. Shocked.
They are just like the Germans.
But unlike the Brits.
Russians, Spaniards, and Brazilians, are all sick.
What is monumentally frightful is that Kim Kardashian is a favourite subject. Truly my fellow human beings are horrifying. Quite. What on earth is wrong with you people?!? You are all insane! You disgust me!
Most people who watch smut are young.
Alas, this makes me feel old.
AFTER WORD
This post was written courtesy of the link provided by De Telegraaf newspaper, which understood that serious readers wished to research these matters, and news mavens would need substantiation.
Especially for that claim about the Belgians.
Who are mighty queer.
What I search the internet for is food, kitten pictures, linguistic terms, and tobacco-related material. Plus pretty pictures of Totoro or Hello Kitty.
And sometimes articles in Chinese or Dutch.
I visit Wikipedia and Snopes a lot.
And various news sites.
I am restrained.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
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==========================================================================
Which is an endlessly fascinating document.
First time on my radar.
Let me clarify at this point that I never search the internet for smut, and obsessively watch sports on television. Oh, those rounded football bottoms, men in tight spandex, the sheer excitement of watching pigskin fly!
And those beer commercials!
Zesty!
HIGHLIGHTS:
Icelanders watch more porn than Canadians.
Belgians are very similar to Americans.
Most visits are around 9 minutes.
Lesbians, MILFs, moms.
Cell phones.
Please note that Mississippians watch far more than Oregonians. Either because of slow synapses or rain, would be my guess.
But this is not a hard science.
From eleven to midnight are peak traffic times.
When many people are drunk and alone.
Pornsurfers in India put the word 'Indian' in almost all their searches, and like teenage lesbians. Perhaps these are bhainchoot fantasies, but I dare not speculate. The Japanese naturally prefer 'Japanese', and 'amateur'.
The French are a bunch of right degenerates: anal.
All I can say is I am shocked. Shocked.
They are just like the Germans.
But unlike the Brits.
Russians, Spaniards, and Brazilians, are all sick.
What is monumentally frightful is that Kim Kardashian is a favourite subject. Truly my fellow human beings are horrifying. Quite. What on earth is wrong with you people?!? You are all insane! You disgust me!
Most people who watch smut are young.
Alas, this makes me feel old.
AFTER WORD
This post was written courtesy of the link provided by De Telegraaf newspaper, which understood that serious readers wished to research these matters, and news mavens would need substantiation.
Especially for that claim about the Belgians.
Who are mighty queer.
What I search the internet for is food, kitten pictures, linguistic terms, and tobacco-related material. Plus pretty pictures of Totoro or Hello Kitty.
And sometimes articles in Chinese or Dutch.
I visit Wikipedia and Snopes a lot.
And various news sites.
I am restrained.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 06, 2017
FAINTLY SMELLY TIMES
Had to explain to a very dear cigar smoking gentleman yesterday that the single greatest advance in civilization and leap in progress for society was cleanliness. Followed closely by heating. And warm beverages.
It surprised me that he did not realize how far we've come because of these.
Cleanliness = potable water, sterile equipment (less contamination), safe food, and you don't stink.
In the Middle Ages you could drink the ditch water, which would eventually make you sick or kill you (it's natural), or you could start, continue, and end the day with ale or wine. You'd live a little longer, but the drawback was you'd be English by lunchtime, and blitheringly Roman by dinner.
Blotto and out by nightfall.
Sterile equipment means you made good beer and didn't die of lockjaw or gangrene. Both of those are major improvements, don't you agree?
Oh and your mom didn't expire in childbirth.
Shan't detail the last two contributions of cleanliness, because you should be getting the point by now, and there are many more than just those four.
And surely heating and warm beverages speak for themselves.
One of the side-benefits is that more than ever before, we can choose our personal odours. Mine is a discrete whiff of good pipe tobacco, with an undertone of cigarillos, and just subtle hints of brimstone and soap.
Other folks, understandably, prefer Aramis or Versace Eros.
Bad decisions will be made.
I have decided that today I will focus ONLY on the positive.
I am not dying of food poisoning, malnutrition, liver damage, tetanus, or festering wounds. The apartment is warm, I've got nice pajamas, and the plumbing works so there is no fermenting sewage cesspool in a nearby midden or dirt road. Remarkably few of my fellow humans are wearing clothing so caked up with crud that they crackle when they walk, plus they don't leave a trace of foul greasy slime on bus seats or door handles.
And though I am out of cookies, I know where to get more.
Did I already mention the personal smell issue?
Matured Virginia leaf primarily.
And small cigars.
Please note: without caffeinated beverages none of this would be possible.
And I assure you that I appreciate all the benefits of coffee and tea.
The enlightenment, industrialization, and the computer age.
Less murder at dawn's first crack than ever before.
Existenzangst has always been with us.
But you are saner now.
Caffeine.
And just remember: I smell good.
It's important that you realize that.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It surprised me that he did not realize how far we've come because of these.
Cleanliness = potable water, sterile equipment (less contamination), safe food, and you don't stink.
In the Middle Ages you could drink the ditch water, which would eventually make you sick or kill you (it's natural), or you could start, continue, and end the day with ale or wine. You'd live a little longer, but the drawback was you'd be English by lunchtime, and blitheringly Roman by dinner.
Blotto and out by nightfall.
Sterile equipment means you made good beer and didn't die of lockjaw or gangrene. Both of those are major improvements, don't you agree?
Oh and your mom didn't expire in childbirth.
Shan't detail the last two contributions of cleanliness, because you should be getting the point by now, and there are many more than just those four.
And surely heating and warm beverages speak for themselves.
One of the side-benefits is that more than ever before, we can choose our personal odours. Mine is a discrete whiff of good pipe tobacco, with an undertone of cigarillos, and just subtle hints of brimstone and soap.
Other folks, understandably, prefer Aramis or Versace Eros.
Bad decisions will be made.
I have decided that today I will focus ONLY on the positive.
I am not dying of food poisoning, malnutrition, liver damage, tetanus, or festering wounds. The apartment is warm, I've got nice pajamas, and the plumbing works so there is no fermenting sewage cesspool in a nearby midden or dirt road. Remarkably few of my fellow humans are wearing clothing so caked up with crud that they crackle when they walk, plus they don't leave a trace of foul greasy slime on bus seats or door handles.
And though I am out of cookies, I know where to get more.
Did I already mention the personal smell issue?
Matured Virginia leaf primarily.
And small cigars.
Please note: without caffeinated beverages none of this would be possible.
And I assure you that I appreciate all the benefits of coffee and tea.
The enlightenment, industrialization, and the computer age.
Less murder at dawn's first crack than ever before.
Existenzangst has always been with us.
But you are saner now.
Caffeine.
And just remember: I smell good.
It's important that you realize that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 05, 2017
PLANNING INSANITY THREE MONTHS IN ADVANCE
Mordechai in New York/New Jersey asked his friends what their favourite beverages are. Mordechai, it turns out, knows some extremely hardcore alcoholics. Of which I am not one. Yes, we are Facebook friends. But judging from the responses he received, a number of his other friends may be passed out cold at this hour.
Or gibbering.
Scotch. Absinthe. Mojito. Whiskey & Gingerale. Fireball in apple cider. Bombay Sapphire. Vodka. Jaeger bomb. Long Island Ice Tea. Glenfiddich. Rye. Laphroaig. Box wine. Pina Colada. Screwdriver. Washington Apple. Strawberry Daiquiri. Fuzzy Navel. Bourbon. Equal parts whiskey and Amaretto. Tequila. Sloe Gin Fizz. Cosmo. Lagavulin. Glenfiddich. Whiskey Sour. Eagle Rare. Woodford Reserve. Rum. Rumchata. Sweet Fruity Bullshit. Balvenie Single Cask 39. Glengoyne. Pickle Back. Brandy Old Fashioned. New Orleans Hurricane. Pink Lady. White Russian. Pappy van Winkle. Abuelo 12. Knob Creek. Manhattan. Mexican Bulldog. Bunnahabhain Cruach Mhona. Gin & Tonic. Jameson Mule. Black Basil. Screwdriver. Brass Monkey. Harvey Wallbanger. Root Beer Schnaps. Drambuie and Baileys. Glenlivet French Oak. Abelour 10. Isle of Jura. Lagavullin 16. Ardbeg.
Etcetera.
Either Mordechai is planning the Purim party that goes nuclear, OR they tapped him to host the kiddush club at his shul. In either case, there were far too many horrid fruity drinks, and Long Island Ice Tea seems to be a dominant theme. Many of his friends are obviously twenty two year old blondes or eighty year old grandmothers.
The appropriate brocha is mi sheberach, and after a sufficient interval (24 to 48 hours) has passed, birchas ha gomel.
These folks will drink anything.
Long Island Ice Tea?!?
Good gracious!
Pervs!
Now is the appropriate time to mention that I myself am an abstemious man, of fiercely Calvinistic sensitivities and restraint. I hardly ever drink.
Once in a blue moon, maybe.
My answer to the question he posed was: Cheap bar Scotch and a splash of tap water. Single malts late at night. Sherry sometimes with spicy food. Wine occasionally. Jameson's Irish Whiskey at the place owned by the crazy lady after hours when pubcrawling with the bookseller.
The bookseller is an abstemious man too.
The crazy lady is not.
I hope Mordechai invites me to that party. I would be honoured, damned well pleased as punch, but there is no chance that I would go. For one thing, it's the East Coast, and one has to be smashed to contemplate it.
Blessed is Mordechai.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or gibbering.
Scotch. Absinthe. Mojito. Whiskey & Gingerale. Fireball in apple cider. Bombay Sapphire. Vodka. Jaeger bomb. Long Island Ice Tea. Glenfiddich. Rye. Laphroaig. Box wine. Pina Colada. Screwdriver. Washington Apple. Strawberry Daiquiri. Fuzzy Navel. Bourbon. Equal parts whiskey and Amaretto. Tequila. Sloe Gin Fizz. Cosmo. Lagavulin. Glenfiddich. Whiskey Sour. Eagle Rare. Woodford Reserve. Rum. Rumchata. Sweet Fruity Bullshit. Balvenie Single Cask 39. Glengoyne. Pickle Back. Brandy Old Fashioned. New Orleans Hurricane. Pink Lady. White Russian. Pappy van Winkle. Abuelo 12. Knob Creek. Manhattan. Mexican Bulldog. Bunnahabhain Cruach Mhona. Gin & Tonic. Jameson Mule. Black Basil. Screwdriver. Brass Monkey. Harvey Wallbanger. Root Beer Schnaps. Drambuie and Baileys. Glenlivet French Oak. Abelour 10. Isle of Jura. Lagavullin 16. Ardbeg.
Etcetera.
Either Mordechai is planning the Purim party that goes nuclear, OR they tapped him to host the kiddush club at his shul. In either case, there were far too many horrid fruity drinks, and Long Island Ice Tea seems to be a dominant theme. Many of his friends are obviously twenty two year old blondes or eighty year old grandmothers.
The appropriate brocha is mi sheberach, and after a sufficient interval (24 to 48 hours) has passed, birchas ha gomel.
These folks will drink anything.
Long Island Ice Tea?!?
Good gracious!
Pervs!
Now is the appropriate time to mention that I myself am an abstemious man, of fiercely Calvinistic sensitivities and restraint. I hardly ever drink.
Once in a blue moon, maybe.
My answer to the question he posed was: Cheap bar Scotch and a splash of tap water. Single malts late at night. Sherry sometimes with spicy food. Wine occasionally. Jameson's Irish Whiskey at the place owned by the crazy lady after hours when pubcrawling with the bookseller.
The bookseller is an abstemious man too.
The crazy lady is not.
I hope Mordechai invites me to that party. I would be honoured, damned well pleased as punch, but there is no chance that I would go. For one thing, it's the East Coast, and one has to be smashed to contemplate it.
Blessed is Mordechai.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
GRUNTLEMENT!
When I arrived there was only one other table there. An elderly couple were sharing some fried river noodles, nearing the end of their repast.
I sat down in the back with a good view of the entire restaurant and quickly ordered baked Portuguese chicken rice and a milk tea. Having spent most of the afternoon either reading or bathing, I was relaxed, refreshed, and ravenous.
Baked Portuguese chicken rice is comfort food, especially on a rainy day.
I had toyed with the idea of requesting that they dump the chicken and sauce over French fries instead, but decided that my Cantonese was almost certainly not good enough to communicate that idea.
Still, one of these days.
[Fried river noodles: 炒粉 ('chaau fan'), utilizing broad rice stick noodles (河粉 'ho fan') with ginger, scallion, soy sauce, and beef slivers, stir-fried. Baked Portuguese chicken rice: 焗葡國雞飯 ('guk pou gwok gai faan'), a layer of egg-fried rice with chicken and potatoes covered with mild coconut-milk curry sauce, a sprinkle of cheese, and (not always) some shredded coconut strewn over, heated under the broiler till bubbly. French fries: 薯條 ('sue tiu').]
By the time my order came it had filled up a little more. There was a very neat young lady with spectacles four tables over, a trim Hong Kong type two tables across, and a table with middle-aged ladies a little further away. A white couple with eccentric hair, young, and accompanied by a durian. Also two working men, and a table full of Mandarin speaking women.
The very neat young lady with spectacles ordered wontons in broth.
The trim Hong Kong type had wonton noodle soup.
No, I don't know what the white couple with the durian ordered, nor what the middle-aged ladies or the Mandarin speakers got.
Too far away to understand.
[To clarify, I had not actually heard what the bespectacled miss with the long ponytail OR the HK person said, but some things are recognizable from a distance. Especially when they are being eaten.]
Neat miss Spectacles experimented with chili paste once her bowl was in front of her. The Hong Kong person paused to photograph her food.
The elderly couple packed their leftovers and departed.
There is something hypnotic about elegant fingers manipulating rigid plastic shafts to pick up small dumplings, either thoughtfully dipping the food in the condiment saucer for a smear or crimson chili, or (HK person) shoveling it in with gusto. The neat person scrolled through her messages while eating. The HK woman added tonnes more sugar to her lemon tea, then asked the waitress for more lemon.
[Lemon tea: 香港凍檸茶 ('heung gong tung ning chaa') or simply 檸檬茶 ('ning mung chaa'). Strong tea, simple syrup, multiple slices of lemon (four to six), and ice. Very refreshing during warm weather, but obviously also good on rainy days in winter. Served in a tall glass with a long spoon for pressing the lemon slices, and a straw. To make, use Liptons yellow label tea bags.]
What the white couple with the hair had I could not see, but thankfully it would not involve the durian, which was still whole off to the side.
Nor do I know if their fingers were elegant.
I suspect not, but that's just a glib and superficial snap-judgment.
That hair, you know, and certain other details.
We all have our own comfort foods.
The neat woman has wonton.
Others like noodles.
Or lemon tea.
I don't think the durian qualifies as comfort food, but fortunately I finished before they did anything with it. Perhaps it was never put into play. They'll open it up once they get back to the hotel, and it will negatively influence the dreams of everybody else on that floor.
THE FUZZY BITS
I wandered around near the park in the rain after leaving, shielding my lit pipe with my umbrella. At one point I noticed a little girl in the back of a restaurant across the street, playing with a white bunny and a pink teddy bear. All three of them sat at a table, she served them.
I approve; everyone needs stuffed animals.
Even grown-ups. I have several.
They're fond of tea too.
And cookies.
I'm fairly sure they don't like durian.
But I don't really know.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I sat down in the back with a good view of the entire restaurant and quickly ordered baked Portuguese chicken rice and a milk tea. Having spent most of the afternoon either reading or bathing, I was relaxed, refreshed, and ravenous.
Baked Portuguese chicken rice is comfort food, especially on a rainy day.
I had toyed with the idea of requesting that they dump the chicken and sauce over French fries instead, but decided that my Cantonese was almost certainly not good enough to communicate that idea.
Still, one of these days.
[Fried river noodles: 炒粉 ('chaau fan'), utilizing broad rice stick noodles (河粉 'ho fan') with ginger, scallion, soy sauce, and beef slivers, stir-fried. Baked Portuguese chicken rice: 焗葡國雞飯 ('guk pou gwok gai faan'), a layer of egg-fried rice with chicken and potatoes covered with mild coconut-milk curry sauce, a sprinkle of cheese, and (not always) some shredded coconut strewn over, heated under the broiler till bubbly. French fries: 薯條 ('sue tiu').]
By the time my order came it had filled up a little more. There was a very neat young lady with spectacles four tables over, a trim Hong Kong type two tables across, and a table with middle-aged ladies a little further away. A white couple with eccentric hair, young, and accompanied by a durian. Also two working men, and a table full of Mandarin speaking women.
The very neat young lady with spectacles ordered wontons in broth.
The trim Hong Kong type had wonton noodle soup.
No, I don't know what the white couple with the durian ordered, nor what the middle-aged ladies or the Mandarin speakers got.
Too far away to understand.
[To clarify, I had not actually heard what the bespectacled miss with the long ponytail OR the HK person said, but some things are recognizable from a distance. Especially when they are being eaten.]
Neat miss Spectacles experimented with chili paste once her bowl was in front of her. The Hong Kong person paused to photograph her food.
The elderly couple packed their leftovers and departed.
There is something hypnotic about elegant fingers manipulating rigid plastic shafts to pick up small dumplings, either thoughtfully dipping the food in the condiment saucer for a smear or crimson chili, or (HK person) shoveling it in with gusto. The neat person scrolled through her messages while eating. The HK woman added tonnes more sugar to her lemon tea, then asked the waitress for more lemon.
[Lemon tea: 香港凍檸茶 ('heung gong tung ning chaa') or simply 檸檬茶 ('ning mung chaa'). Strong tea, simple syrup, multiple slices of lemon (four to six), and ice. Very refreshing during warm weather, but obviously also good on rainy days in winter. Served in a tall glass with a long spoon for pressing the lemon slices, and a straw. To make, use Liptons yellow label tea bags.]
What the white couple with the hair had I could not see, but thankfully it would not involve the durian, which was still whole off to the side.
Nor do I know if their fingers were elegant.
I suspect not, but that's just a glib and superficial snap-judgment.
That hair, you know, and certain other details.
We all have our own comfort foods.
The neat woman has wonton.
Others like noodles.
Or lemon tea.
I don't think the durian qualifies as comfort food, but fortunately I finished before they did anything with it. Perhaps it was never put into play. They'll open it up once they get back to the hotel, and it will negatively influence the dreams of everybody else on that floor.
THE FUZZY BITS
I wandered around near the park in the rain after leaving, shielding my lit pipe with my umbrella. At one point I noticed a little girl in the back of a restaurant across the street, playing with a white bunny and a pink teddy bear. All three of them sat at a table, she served them.
I approve; everyone needs stuffed animals.
Even grown-ups. I have several.
They're fond of tea too.
And cookies.
I'm fairly sure they don't like durian.
But I don't really know.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A SONG ABOUT CLOTHING: 紅屋の娘
No, the internet does not clarify precisely what the lyrics might be when translated into English, and the title suggests but cannot convey with certainty any of the connotations.
"Daughter of the red shop"
I think it's probably related to the spring season. It seems to mention various things that might be pink, red, or crimson hued. Clothing. Perhaps undergarments the edges of which are visible in old-style kimonos.
A touch of cheek powder. The moon, however, when mentioned, is greyish, veiled by fog (of a pipe-clay character).
This is more than just a guess.
But less than a statement.
If I'm reading the slim data correctly, it dates from the fourth year of the Showa era. Chiyako Sato (佐藤 千夜子) did a version, as did a few other artists. Despite being a lovely tune it has fallen into the shadows.
Here are the people of the Azumino Singing Cafe rendering it.
紅屋の娘 【あづみ野うたごえ喫茶】
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_RYBsJleMM.]
Azumino City (安曇野市) is in Nagano Prefecture (長野縣).
Wikipedia does not say much about the place.
Sometimes answers are lacking.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"Daughter of the red shop"
I think it's probably related to the spring season. It seems to mention various things that might be pink, red, or crimson hued. Clothing. Perhaps undergarments the edges of which are visible in old-style kimonos.
A touch of cheek powder. The moon, however, when mentioned, is greyish, veiled by fog (of a pipe-clay character).
This is more than just a guess.
But less than a statement.
If I'm reading the slim data correctly, it dates from the fourth year of the Showa era. Chiyako Sato (佐藤 千夜子) did a version, as did a few other artists. Despite being a lovely tune it has fallen into the shadows.
Here are the people of the Azumino Singing Cafe rendering it.
紅屋の娘 【あづみ野うたごえ喫茶】
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_RYBsJleMM.]
Azumino City (安曇野市) is in Nagano Prefecture (長野縣).
Wikipedia does not say much about the place.
Sometimes answers are lacking.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 04, 2017
THE PAUSE THAT REFRESHES
If you are in the neighborhood, you probably know where it is. If not, you do not need to know the location. Suffice to say that being outnumbered by teenage Cantonese girls drinking tea is a disquieting experience. I had ducked in for a cup of naai cha because it was raining, and I was far from my usual codger haunts (in the rain short distances become enormous).
The tea was not that good. Too white for my taste. The next time I will ask for a stronger brew and less milk.
The mural intrigued me. A koala enjoying a hot beverage with several flying cheeses. Apparently this is the Chinatown outpost of an overseas chain that uses milk imported from Australia. Hence the Aussie furball.
For which I am grateful, because if they used Dutch Lady Milk, which is sold in Malaysia, Vietnam, and Hong Kong, it would have been a curvy dingbat in a long striped skirt and a winged cap, probably with blonde curls and an adorable smile. Surrounded by flying cheeses.
I am profoundly attuned to 'Dutch' sensibilities.
Dutch girl stereotypes need a trigger warning.
But everyone is cool with flying cheeses.
By the way, consumers of Dutch Lady Milk ALL have white moustaches. Which is just wrong. There is a marvelous invention known as a "napkin", perhaps you've heard of it?
A koala dreamily drinking a warm beverage of choice is something with which a man can deal. Even though I first misidentified it as a wombat.
No, female Cantonese teenagers are not loud and giddy, despite the caffeine coursing through their system. Instead, they quietly discuss homework, as far as I can tell, and check their e-mail. I wasn't really paying attention. From my own teenage years I do not remember girls drinking tea, or women of that age being particularly small.
Honestly, I do not recall a surfeit of tea parlours in Valkenswaard or Eindhoven; had they existed this blogger would have been a regular customer. The Dutch mostly swill strong coffee.
While there I thoroughly cleaned one pipe, and prepared another one for a soothing smoke in an abandoned doorway once I left. There are a number of such in the area, and of course Stockton Street substantially shuts down at six, so wandering back to the central zone under awnings and hugging the sides of buildings is both do-able and enjoyable.
I only finished half my cup. They do not carry any of the usual pastries, and teenage Cantonese girls speak English, so listening in on their conversation is possibly more undiplomatic and less interesting than overhearing a collection of old Canto codgers.
The second pipe was more enjoyable than the first.
It had already become night by then.
An excellent doorway.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The tea was not that good. Too white for my taste. The next time I will ask for a stronger brew and less milk.
The mural intrigued me. A koala enjoying a hot beverage with several flying cheeses. Apparently this is the Chinatown outpost of an overseas chain that uses milk imported from Australia. Hence the Aussie furball.
For which I am grateful, because if they used Dutch Lady Milk, which is sold in Malaysia, Vietnam, and Hong Kong, it would have been a curvy dingbat in a long striped skirt and a winged cap, probably with blonde curls and an adorable smile. Surrounded by flying cheeses.
I am profoundly attuned to 'Dutch' sensibilities.
Dutch girl stereotypes need a trigger warning.
But everyone is cool with flying cheeses.
By the way, consumers of Dutch Lady Milk ALL have white moustaches. Which is just wrong. There is a marvelous invention known as a "napkin", perhaps you've heard of it?
A koala dreamily drinking a warm beverage of choice is something with which a man can deal. Even though I first misidentified it as a wombat.
No, female Cantonese teenagers are not loud and giddy, despite the caffeine coursing through their system. Instead, they quietly discuss homework, as far as I can tell, and check their e-mail. I wasn't really paying attention. From my own teenage years I do not remember girls drinking tea, or women of that age being particularly small.
Honestly, I do not recall a surfeit of tea parlours in Valkenswaard or Eindhoven; had they existed this blogger would have been a regular customer. The Dutch mostly swill strong coffee.
While there I thoroughly cleaned one pipe, and prepared another one for a soothing smoke in an abandoned doorway once I left. There are a number of such in the area, and of course Stockton Street substantially shuts down at six, so wandering back to the central zone under awnings and hugging the sides of buildings is both do-able and enjoyable.
I only finished half my cup. They do not carry any of the usual pastries, and teenage Cantonese girls speak English, so listening in on their conversation is possibly more undiplomatic and less interesting than overhearing a collection of old Canto codgers.
The second pipe was more enjoyable than the first.
It had already become night by then.
An excellent doorway.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 03, 2017
THIS IS WHAT IT IS, YO
Braised pork belly with plum vegetable, black bean bitter melon, and stewed tomato. Rice, soup, coffee. In the anonymous company of codgers and country-types. If you can read this, there is a chance that you would not like it. The pipes I smoked afterward would not please you either.
Dark Virginia flake, fully rubbed.
Sweet, fragrant, perfumy.
Incense-like.
Welcome to my world.
Or not.
It was cheap, it was good. It was cash contante, because if you need to charge a six dollar meal on a card you are out of your mind, yuppie.
Which was something four people, separately, wished to do.
I have to seriously wonder what's wrong with them.
One of them totaled no more than three.
Dollars, not bit coins.
Dummies.
It's a Chinatown lunch counter, NOT a Starbucks or Blue Bottle. These people understand cash very well, and though they also grasp the fine nuances of plastic, that's one service that they will not pay their bank any extra money for facilitating. Why don't you have cash?
Three measly dollars? There's ATMs darn well everywhere, there's even one only two doors down. And around the corner. And down the street.
You do know that Chinatown folk love their banks, right?
There are banks in nearly every block.
Sometimes cheek by jowl.
I went to my bank today. They greeted me by name in Cantonese, we did business in Cantonese, and bid adieu in Cantonese. There were precisely two words in English: "receipt" (收據 'sau geui'), and "balance" (餘額 'jue ngaak').
There is NO reason to utilize your credit card in Chinatown.
Unless you're eating somewhere the locals seldom go.
One other thing: the locals do not make loud gagging sounds or give voice to a shitty attitude when passing someone smoking. Some of them may even look at my pipe enviously, and quite recently a waitress praised one of my briars as a beautiful object.
Why can't you yuppies be so tolerant? Or you gawking tourists?
Four hours in Chinatown, mostly out in the weather, because one cannot smoke indoors anymore, and I was letting the apartment air out before the apartment mate returned home. See, I am considerate of non-smokers.
In return for which some of you yoga practicing gluten-intolerant new-age spiritual types can jolly well shut up, and make a wide birth around me when you encounter me on the sidewalk. Next to two to six lanes of busy traffic (oh, those exhaust fumes!), between the sewer grates wafting pong at the corners of every block, and near the mentally unstable homeless person who hasn't had a bath since Christ kicked it.
In the bitter wind, cold, and rain.
Please go play in traffic.
On a more positive note, I now have a new umbrella.
I've already worn out two this season.
We need the rain.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Dark Virginia flake, fully rubbed.
Sweet, fragrant, perfumy.
Incense-like.
Welcome to my world.
Or not.
It was cheap, it was good. It was cash contante, because if you need to charge a six dollar meal on a card you are out of your mind, yuppie.
Which was something four people, separately, wished to do.
I have to seriously wonder what's wrong with them.
One of them totaled no more than three.
Dollars, not bit coins.
Dummies.
It's a Chinatown lunch counter, NOT a Starbucks or Blue Bottle. These people understand cash very well, and though they also grasp the fine nuances of plastic, that's one service that they will not pay their bank any extra money for facilitating. Why don't you have cash?
Three measly dollars? There's ATMs darn well everywhere, there's even one only two doors down. And around the corner. And down the street.
You do know that Chinatown folk love their banks, right?
There are banks in nearly every block.
Sometimes cheek by jowl.
I went to my bank today. They greeted me by name in Cantonese, we did business in Cantonese, and bid adieu in Cantonese. There were precisely two words in English: "receipt" (收據 'sau geui'), and "balance" (餘額 'jue ngaak').
There is NO reason to utilize your credit card in Chinatown.
Unless you're eating somewhere the locals seldom go.
One other thing: the locals do not make loud gagging sounds or give voice to a shitty attitude when passing someone smoking. Some of them may even look at my pipe enviously, and quite recently a waitress praised one of my briars as a beautiful object.
Why can't you yuppies be so tolerant? Or you gawking tourists?
Four hours in Chinatown, mostly out in the weather, because one cannot smoke indoors anymore, and I was letting the apartment air out before the apartment mate returned home. See, I am considerate of non-smokers.
In return for which some of you yoga practicing gluten-intolerant new-age spiritual types can jolly well shut up, and make a wide birth around me when you encounter me on the sidewalk. Next to two to six lanes of busy traffic (oh, those exhaust fumes!), between the sewer grates wafting pong at the corners of every block, and near the mentally unstable homeless person who hasn't had a bath since Christ kicked it.
In the bitter wind, cold, and rain.
Please go play in traffic.
On a more positive note, I now have a new umbrella.
I've already worn out two this season.
We need the rain.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE JOHN BELUSHI MOMENT
It was the best thing to happen during the Reagan Era, and, sadly, there were few things during that bleak twelve year period (factoring in Bush) to even come close. We named an airport after Ronnie, but, personally I feel that it would have been far, far better and much more rational to name something after Joliet Jake.
Reagan really was a horrible man. If you are sensible and human, you know that. It looks like the next four years will be a replay of all the worst lizard themes from that time.
You disagree? Please do some homework and develop a brain.
JAKE AND ELROY -- LOVING
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHV0zs0kVGg.]
The Teamsters supported Reagan, and to this day I ignore their picket lines.
A pipe-maker I know from the internet reminded me of the movie. Essentially, it's about rebellion and defiance of the law.
We have a long & honourable history of that.
Let's hope that spirit still lives.
Of course, Aretha also sang it best.
And might be more appropriate.
THINK!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vet6AHmq3_s.]
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Reagan really was a horrible man. If you are sensible and human, you know that. It looks like the next four years will be a replay of all the worst lizard themes from that time.
You disagree? Please do some homework and develop a brain.
JAKE AND ELROY -- LOVING
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHV0zs0kVGg.]
The Teamsters supported Reagan, and to this day I ignore their picket lines.
A pipe-maker I know from the internet reminded me of the movie. Essentially, it's about rebellion and defiance of the law.
We have a long & honourable history of that.
Let's hope that spirit still lives.
Of course, Aretha also sang it best.
And might be more appropriate.
THINK!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vet6AHmq3_s.]
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 02, 2017
EASILY STEPPED UPON
Today I met Lulubelle. Who stands up and does a little dance. Amazing. Never knew chihuahuas were trainable, I always assumed that they were dumber than chipmunks. Same as most humans.
I'll make an exception for Lulubelle. Who is a very calm and personable chihuahua. Yes, she's still ridiculous, what with the silly expression on her face and the tongue out at all times, but if a chihuahua may enter heaven, it will probably be Lulubelle.
Sad that she's been fixed; no contributions to the gene-pool.
No, she wasn't wearing a tutu.
If I were to get a hound with a head that close to the ground, it would probably not be a chihuahuahuahuahuahua but a dachshund. Calm and keenly intelligent, with killer instincts, savage and determined.
A chihoohah is basically a hyper bald puffball.
Chiziwhatzis are a problematic breed, prone to any number of ailments due to their physical defectiveness, plus they aren't very good around children.
If forced to choose betweeh a chibihahah and a child, choose the child.
Still, Lulubelle is a rather nice doggie.
Possibly better than a child.
Cleaner, too.
==========================================================================
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I'll make an exception for Lulubelle. Who is a very calm and personable chihuahua. Yes, she's still ridiculous, what with the silly expression on her face and the tongue out at all times, but if a chihuahua may enter heaven, it will probably be Lulubelle.
Sad that she's been fixed; no contributions to the gene-pool.
No, she wasn't wearing a tutu.
If I were to get a hound with a head that close to the ground, it would probably not be a chihuahuahuahuahuahua but a dachshund. Calm and keenly intelligent, with killer instincts, savage and determined.
A chihoohah is basically a hyper bald puffball.
Chiziwhatzis are a problematic breed, prone to any number of ailments due to their physical defectiveness, plus they aren't very good around children.
If forced to choose betweeh a chibihahah and a child, choose the child.
Still, Lulubelle is a rather nice doggie.
Possibly better than a child.
Cleaner, too.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A POINTLESS REVIEW OF THE YEAR AND NO RESOLUTIONS
Someone in Canada wants me to take a medicine I cannot pronounce. It would have been pronounceable if instead of deleting the fifteen comments that mentioned it I had attentively scoped out the texts, but instead I dumped them on the spam heap of recent history. Click.
In some ways, I wish I could do that to the entire past year. No, not because all my favourite celebrities passed away -- most of them I had hardly heard of, some of them were quite unknown, and several were minor deities with whose life work I was quite unfamiliar -- but because it was, on the whole, a remarkably unpleasant year.
Even the greatest personal victory in that time was, if you think about it, minor and extremely petty. And not really a cause for great jubilation.
I cleaned up my Facebook, and de-friended bucket loads of people.
Many of whom chose the past year to reveal themselves.
Gibberant, foolish, irredeemable.
Berniacs, Stein supporters, conspiracist, anti-vax.
Any anti-Semites, a few Jew-o-philes.
I also axxed the Christians.
Just "that" kind.
Not all.
You know, into every life some Christians must fall. But there is no reason to tolerate very many of them, and certainly not a certain type.
They can be quite the pest.
I am beginning to understand the Roman Emperors, and sympathize with their strongly held belief in the combustibility of the faithful.
Fortunately a few notorious "believers" also passed away this year, several of them adulated for their high achievements, though I cannot claim to have cared much about them till their death week. They were rather like many of the other celebrities who croaked, in that respect. Eliciting a mumbledly apathetic "who?" as well as "g'ddam, why are all my remaining friends having the vapours over that man/woman/thing?"
Did Mother Theresa die?
I cannot remember.
Savonarola?
I miss The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, though. Whom Boy George described as a midget dipped in a bucket of pubic hair.
Not so much the music, as that image.
To the best of my knowledge there was nothing wrong with him.
RESOLUTIONS
In the coming twelve months I am going to continue the behaviour and the intolerances of the past twelve. There is no reason to change that, nor to endure a greater spectrum of dunderheads.
They have every right to exist.
Just not in my life.
I have no New Year Resolutions. Not because I claim that perfection has been realized, or that further efforts in that direction are a waste of time, but because I am a realist and intend to play it by ear.
I'll probably become a little older.
And more grouchy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In some ways, I wish I could do that to the entire past year. No, not because all my favourite celebrities passed away -- most of them I had hardly heard of, some of them were quite unknown, and several were minor deities with whose life work I was quite unfamiliar -- but because it was, on the whole, a remarkably unpleasant year.
Even the greatest personal victory in that time was, if you think about it, minor and extremely petty. And not really a cause for great jubilation.
I cleaned up my Facebook, and de-friended bucket loads of people.
Many of whom chose the past year to reveal themselves.
Gibberant, foolish, irredeemable.
Berniacs, Stein supporters, conspiracist, anti-vax.
Any anti-Semites, a few Jew-o-philes.
I also axxed the Christians.
Just "that" kind.
Not all.
You know, into every life some Christians must fall. But there is no reason to tolerate very many of them, and certainly not a certain type.
They can be quite the pest.
I am beginning to understand the Roman Emperors, and sympathize with their strongly held belief in the combustibility of the faithful.
Fortunately a few notorious "believers" also passed away this year, several of them adulated for their high achievements, though I cannot claim to have cared much about them till their death week. They were rather like many of the other celebrities who croaked, in that respect. Eliciting a mumbledly apathetic "who?" as well as "g'ddam, why are all my remaining friends having the vapours over that man/woman/thing?"
Did Mother Theresa die?
I cannot remember.
Savonarola?
I miss The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, though. Whom Boy George described as a midget dipped in a bucket of pubic hair.
Not so much the music, as that image.
To the best of my knowledge there was nothing wrong with him.
RESOLUTIONS
In the coming twelve months I am going to continue the behaviour and the intolerances of the past twelve. There is no reason to change that, nor to endure a greater spectrum of dunderheads.
They have every right to exist.
Just not in my life.
I have no New Year Resolutions. Not because I claim that perfection has been realized, or that further efforts in that direction are a waste of time, but because I am a realist and intend to play it by ear.
I'll probably become a little older.
And more grouchy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 01, 2017
SMOKE RISING FROM MY SKULL
Looking up articles about Cajun French linguistics inevitably pulled my eye towards music videos, and in consequence I have seen things.
Things I really wish I had been spared.
I should mention that the musician performing these pieces is blameless entirely, the visuals decorating his songs might not be according to his probable preferences.
One cannot ascribe to him the peculiar taste of youtubers.
Although he could have approved. It's possible.
Three videos to start the year.
DEBRA PAGETT HOOTCHIE COOTCHIE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6J5ySCTn2k.]
JES' PILES OF STEAMIN' GIRLIE PIE!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Syp_JPhvyJA&spfreload=5.]
FRIGHTENING YELLOW FRUIT
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CstWYYaT-kg&spfreload=5.]
I'm afraid that heretofore I had no idea who Debra Pagett was, nor that Fritz Lang had filmed 'Das indische Grabmal' (The Indian Tomb).
Now that I know, what do I do with that information?
Potatoes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Things I really wish I had been spared.
I should mention that the musician performing these pieces is blameless entirely, the visuals decorating his songs might not be according to his probable preferences.
One cannot ascribe to him the peculiar taste of youtubers.
Although he could have approved. It's possible.
Three videos to start the year.
DEBRA PAGETT HOOTCHIE COOTCHIE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6J5ySCTn2k.]
JES' PILES OF STEAMIN' GIRLIE PIE!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Syp_JPhvyJA&spfreload=5.]
FRIGHTENING YELLOW FRUIT
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CstWYYaT-kg&spfreload=5.]
I'm afraid that heretofore I had no idea who Debra Pagett was, nor that Fritz Lang had filmed 'Das indische Grabmal' (The Indian Tomb).
Now that I know, what do I do with that information?
Potatoes.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CELEBRATORY WURST AND CRUNCHY BITS
Not having had enough sleep between Friday and Saturday, it would not have been wise to over-extend myself Saturday night. Which, in that it was New Years eve, naturally required a sound head and a full brain. But I was temperate, and restrained my bestial nature. Two pipes, two whiskies, and a lackadaisical attempt to get nearby people to sing 'Old Lang Syne'.
I failed.
I myself don't sing, and you may thank me. The fabric of the universe will rend if I sing in public. I shall use that power wisely and seldom.
Some time between twelve and one o'clock I gibbered about Kim Jong-un's fabulous current hairstyle. Hipster goobus.
When I got back to my neighborhood, I discovered that the Mexican selling grilled bacon-dogs and onions by the side of the road had run out of pickled jalapeños. He looked shell-shocked. I believe he may have been mobbed by people high on life, good cheer, mom the flag and apple pie, and the curvaceous gams of all the young ladies on any age who decided that a cold night was the perfect time to go out partying in mini dresses.
If I were a perky blonde or Latina, I too would make that rash decision.
I might look killer in sex death stiletto heels.
But, being a mature dude, I have the wisdom not to do that. High heeled pumps are bad for your back, and if you dance in those things your entire body will ache the next day. No amount of pink champagne and hot savoury grilled bacon dog (and condiments) can save you.
Or pickled jalapeños.
For some reason I remembered the last winter the company was in the building on Bush Street. In the week between Christmas and New Year the office was empty, except for Customer Service (one person), and the Operations Department (one person), as well as myself. The three of us were supposed to be there half-days only, but I would spend most of the day at the office, because due to a lack of female companionship I was perfectly okay by myself in a quiet place.
Now, I should mention that all through December the giftbaskets from sales rep companies, advertising agencies, consultants, and favoured customers kept rolling in. Colleagues had become fat and sassy off hickory sticks, brie, cheeseballs, chockies, jelly gobblers, and cookies. And fruit cakes. And crunchy mint bars. And all the fatty things that America feels are celebratorily appropriate.
So there was stuff to snack on, but the best things had already been eaten.
At one point, when I silently passed by the kitchen, I heard Mr. Kulin (the ops person) saying to no one in particular "chocolate covered bacon, what", and I paused. A few seconds later he muttered "mmm, nasty".
When he said that he sounded just so disillusioned.
He did not know that I was listening in.
I'm glad he took one for the team.
I appreciated the warning.
Chocolate bacon.
Nasty.
A day earlier I had looked at that package of bacon strips enrobed in dark chocolate, and contemplated eating the entire package for lunch. I am very glad I didn't even open it. Instead I had a tub of cheesy goo and a packet of thyme crackers. With some Sriracha from the fridge.
Last night, after enjoying my bacon wrapped dog in the cold, I went home and had a delicious truffle. First bacon, THEN some chocolate. This is what experience teaches you. Never have them in the same bite.
It would have been better with jalapeño chips.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I failed.
I myself don't sing, and you may thank me. The fabric of the universe will rend if I sing in public. I shall use that power wisely and seldom.
Some time between twelve and one o'clock I gibbered about Kim Jong-un's fabulous current hairstyle. Hipster goobus.
When I got back to my neighborhood, I discovered that the Mexican selling grilled bacon-dogs and onions by the side of the road had run out of pickled jalapeños. He looked shell-shocked. I believe he may have been mobbed by people high on life, good cheer, mom the flag and apple pie, and the curvaceous gams of all the young ladies on any age who decided that a cold night was the perfect time to go out partying in mini dresses.
If I were a perky blonde or Latina, I too would make that rash decision.
I might look killer in sex death stiletto heels.
But, being a mature dude, I have the wisdom not to do that. High heeled pumps are bad for your back, and if you dance in those things your entire body will ache the next day. No amount of pink champagne and hot savoury grilled bacon dog (and condiments) can save you.
Or pickled jalapeños.
For some reason I remembered the last winter the company was in the building on Bush Street. In the week between Christmas and New Year the office was empty, except for Customer Service (one person), and the Operations Department (one person), as well as myself. The three of us were supposed to be there half-days only, but I would spend most of the day at the office, because due to a lack of female companionship I was perfectly okay by myself in a quiet place.
Now, I should mention that all through December the giftbaskets from sales rep companies, advertising agencies, consultants, and favoured customers kept rolling in. Colleagues had become fat and sassy off hickory sticks, brie, cheeseballs, chockies, jelly gobblers, and cookies. And fruit cakes. And crunchy mint bars. And all the fatty things that America feels are celebratorily appropriate.
So there was stuff to snack on, but the best things had already been eaten.
At one point, when I silently passed by the kitchen, I heard Mr. Kulin (the ops person) saying to no one in particular "chocolate covered bacon, what", and I paused. A few seconds later he muttered "mmm, nasty".
When he said that he sounded just so disillusioned.
He did not know that I was listening in.
I'm glad he took one for the team.
I appreciated the warning.
Chocolate bacon.
Nasty.
A day earlier I had looked at that package of bacon strips enrobed in dark chocolate, and contemplated eating the entire package for lunch. I am very glad I didn't even open it. Instead I had a tub of cheesy goo and a packet of thyme crackers. With some Sriracha from the fridge.
Last night, after enjoying my bacon wrapped dog in the cold, I went home and had a delicious truffle. First bacon, THEN some chocolate. This is what experience teaches you. Never have them in the same bite.
It would have been better with jalapeño chips.
==========================================================================
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,...
