As usual the songs on the karaoke machine at the dive where we have been going once a week for several years presented visions of love, lust, Michael Jacksonesque pretensions, and existenzangst. Mostly in Chinese, and this time mostly in Mandarin.
I pay attention, because I can read the lyrics. The Bookseller doesn't, because he is illiterate in Chinese. Pilgrim pays attention, because he is sarcastic; he delivers the text in a cynical world-weary monotone while quivering and twitching.
Pop karaoke is just as bad as you want it to be. In any tongue.
There is little point in listening in on most conversations further down the bar, because they are repetitive, and punctuated by the word 'dew', which means something nasty and is used much like the 'f' word.
But, thanks to this regular adventure, I know now that there is a Mandarin-language version of "Nobody", a song by The Wondergirls.
A Korean girl group.
I WANT NOBODY, NOBODY, NOBODY!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TS4MV3zNEnc.]
This datum adds precisely nothing to my life. On the other hand, the song in which the artist wonders how it would be to have her present life if she were her more innocent fifteen year old self from years ago enriches me.
She first speculates that she would be baffled or hurt at her office job, and then envisions telling her teenage persona (and classmates) something that they would find valuable.
Her fifteen year old self looks like a goober.
An uber super duper goober.
The Bookseller refuses to imagine himself as a fifteen year old Mandarin-speaking schoolgirl wearing a uniform. It is entirely beyond possibility.
His mind does not work in that manner.
I, on the other hand, welcome the wonders of my fifteen year old Chinese female ego, and will keenly explore this fascinating concepcion.
Without in any way looking gooberish.
I would probably be either a juvenile delinquent, or a knowing minx, with a switchblade somewhere on my person or in my schoolbag.
But exceptionally well-behaved either way.
Because the key to life is not pissing off the grown-ups, and always having plausible deniability. As well as a credible threat.
Especially if you are a schoolgirl.
Which I am.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Tuesday, May 09, 2017
THE PROPER TYPE FACE FOR 'WON TON NOODLE SOUP' IS COMIC SANS
A long time ago I knew more about typefaces, fonts, and points, than I do now. Aside from a marked affection for Helvetica and Times New Roman, such details are no longer on the forefont (stet) of my mind, and the fact that use of Comic Sans is enough to disqualify a text from serious consideration is a mere minor matter.
[Comic Sans: "Describing it, Microsoft has explained that "this casual but legible face has proved very popular with a wide variety of people."
"The typeface's widespread use, often in situations for which it was not intended, has been criticized."]
I think my affection for Times New Roman and Helvetica probably goes back to my early childhood, but in that I was entirely unexceptional, as both are among the most popular letter-styles in the world. Since the computer age, Arial has come to rival them, along with Courier and Verdana.
Still popular, for some bizarre reason, are typewriter fonts.
That is probably the result of World War Two, during which more people were introduced to typewritten communication than at any time before. Subsequent conflagrations furthered that development.
SIXTEENTH CENTURY INTERLUDE
A reader (Kostis) wishes me to now write something "scholarly" about Aldus Manutius (a Bassianoan/Venetian publisher, born 1449, died 1550) who designed fonts, and standardized the use of certain punctuations.
He forwarded a link to a book description:
"The Greek Editions of Aldus Manutius and his Greek Collaborators was first published in Greek in 2015, in order to commemorate the 500th anniversary of the death of the Venetian printer. A succinct introduction on the pioneers of Renaissance humanism in Crete is followed by a thorough presentation of the graphic aspect of Aldus's Greek editions, that is, initials and headpieces as well as different families of typeface and other features. The second part of the book consists of a catalogue and commentary of all his Greek editions in chronological order. The comments focus on the main subject of each work, its previous editions in Greek or in Latin translation, if any, and on the Prefaces written by Aldus. With an Introduction by Stepanos Kaklamanis. Illustrated in color."
[See more at: Oaknoll - pages - books - Konstantinos Staikos]
Something scholarly? Me? I wish I could. But I do best at neurotic detail and absurdity. Serious subjects are not my strength. Did Aldus Manutius eat Chinese food? Smoke a pipe? Say something about the Dutch?
Well, he probably did say something about the Dutch.
At some point in his career.
Whatever.
Fifteenth century Venice was not known for pipe stores and Chinese restaurants.
IF YOU VISIT VENICE
Regarding that first subject, visit: Pipa Club Del Venezia. And please note that they cary Gawith and Rattrays, so you won't have to smoke dessicated beaverpelt in your Priceless Castello briars.
VENEZIA PIPA CLUB
via Piave 62, 30171 - MESTRE (VE)
Tel: 041 98 97 81
Fax: 041 98 97 81
E-mail: vepipaclub@gmail.com
As far as Chinese restaurants in Venice are concerned, there are a number, but unless you speak Cantonese or Wenchouese, you may very well end up consuming the usual slop of which Westerners are so fond. Sweet and sour pork, General Tzo's chicken, eggrolls, kung pao unidentifiable protein, cream of mushroom soup, and fried rice.
If they are not Hong Kong Cantonese, even the won ton noodle soup will be mediocre, and bitter melon fish slices won't be on the menu. If they are Hongkongers, the won ton noodle soup could still be awful.
It depends on how dispirited they are.
Uninspired.
Sorry. I got distracted by the potential ghastliness of Venice.
In any case, a cursory scan of material on the internet brought me to this book as mentioned on Wikipedia:
MR. PENUMBRA'S 24-HOUR BOOKSTORE:
"Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore combines elements of fantasy, mystery, friendship and adventure as a way of looking at the modern conflict and transition between new technology (electronic) and old (print books). The protagonist is a laid-off Silicon Valley tech worker who begins working at a dusty bookstore with very few customers, only to start discovering one secret after another. The mysterious old books, along with the store's owner, lead to a 500-year-old secret society."
[And a book description at Amazon.]
This novel is highly regarded, and might be worth reading.
Typefaces are mentioned, as a minor detail.
I am slightly curious.
I think I will have won ton noodle soup for lunch today.
Because I live near Chinatown, I can do that.
The Venetians probably can't.
Manutius didn't.
AFTERWORD
FYI: If it isn't won ton noodle soup (雲吞湯麵 'wantan tong min'), it will probably end up being pickled vegetable and pork shreds stirfried over rice (榨菜肉絲飯 'jaa choi yiuk si faan') plus a cup of milk tea. Preceded by an overdue haircut, and followed by Germain's Club Mixture in a straight bulldog with a silver band.
Germain's Club Mixture is a mild product, very satisfying over time, suitable for contemplative moods -- almost trance inducing -- that initially does not seem particularly distinct. Two unsauced Cavendishes and some Virginias, plus what I believe may be Maryland. A topping that fades with airing.
Like all Germains products it needs drying out before use.
I knew you'd want to know this.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Comic Sans: "Describing it, Microsoft has explained that "this casual but legible face has proved very popular with a wide variety of people."
"The typeface's widespread use, often in situations for which it was not intended, has been criticized."]
I think my affection for Times New Roman and Helvetica probably goes back to my early childhood, but in that I was entirely unexceptional, as both are among the most popular letter-styles in the world. Since the computer age, Arial has come to rival them, along with Courier and Verdana.
Still popular, for some bizarre reason, are typewriter fonts.
That is probably the result of World War Two, during which more people were introduced to typewritten communication than at any time before. Subsequent conflagrations furthered that development.
SIXTEENTH CENTURY INTERLUDE
A reader (Kostis) wishes me to now write something "scholarly" about Aldus Manutius (a Bassianoan/Venetian publisher, born 1449, died 1550) who designed fonts, and standardized the use of certain punctuations.
He forwarded a link to a book description:
"The Greek Editions of Aldus Manutius and his Greek Collaborators was first published in Greek in 2015, in order to commemorate the 500th anniversary of the death of the Venetian printer. A succinct introduction on the pioneers of Renaissance humanism in Crete is followed by a thorough presentation of the graphic aspect of Aldus's Greek editions, that is, initials and headpieces as well as different families of typeface and other features. The second part of the book consists of a catalogue and commentary of all his Greek editions in chronological order. The comments focus on the main subject of each work, its previous editions in Greek or in Latin translation, if any, and on the Prefaces written by Aldus. With an Introduction by Stepanos Kaklamanis. Illustrated in color."
[See more at: Oaknoll - pages - books - Konstantinos Staikos]
Something scholarly? Me? I wish I could. But I do best at neurotic detail and absurdity. Serious subjects are not my strength. Did Aldus Manutius eat Chinese food? Smoke a pipe? Say something about the Dutch?
Well, he probably did say something about the Dutch.
At some point in his career.
Whatever.
Fifteenth century Venice was not known for pipe stores and Chinese restaurants.
IF YOU VISIT VENICE
Regarding that first subject, visit: Pipa Club Del Venezia. And please note that they cary Gawith and Rattrays, so you won't have to smoke dessicated beaverpelt in your Priceless Castello briars.
VENEZIA PIPA CLUB
via Piave 62, 30171 - MESTRE (VE)
Tel: 041 98 97 81
Fax: 041 98 97 81
E-mail: vepipaclub@gmail.com
As far as Chinese restaurants in Venice are concerned, there are a number, but unless you speak Cantonese or Wenchouese, you may very well end up consuming the usual slop of which Westerners are so fond. Sweet and sour pork, General Tzo's chicken, eggrolls, kung pao unidentifiable protein, cream of mushroom soup, and fried rice.
If they are not Hong Kong Cantonese, even the won ton noodle soup will be mediocre, and bitter melon fish slices won't be on the menu. If they are Hongkongers, the won ton noodle soup could still be awful.
It depends on how dispirited they are.
Uninspired.
Sorry. I got distracted by the potential ghastliness of Venice.
In any case, a cursory scan of material on the internet brought me to this book as mentioned on Wikipedia:
MR. PENUMBRA'S 24-HOUR BOOKSTORE:
"Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore combines elements of fantasy, mystery, friendship and adventure as a way of looking at the modern conflict and transition between new technology (electronic) and old (print books). The protagonist is a laid-off Silicon Valley tech worker who begins working at a dusty bookstore with very few customers, only to start discovering one secret after another. The mysterious old books, along with the store's owner, lead to a 500-year-old secret society."
[And a book description at Amazon.]
This novel is highly regarded, and might be worth reading.
Typefaces are mentioned, as a minor detail.
I am slightly curious.
I think I will have won ton noodle soup for lunch today.
Because I live near Chinatown, I can do that.
The Venetians probably can't.
Manutius didn't.
AFTERWORD
FYI: If it isn't won ton noodle soup (雲吞湯麵 'wantan tong min'), it will probably end up being pickled vegetable and pork shreds stirfried over rice (榨菜肉絲飯 'jaa choi yiuk si faan') plus a cup of milk tea. Preceded by an overdue haircut, and followed by Germain's Club Mixture in a straight bulldog with a silver band.
Germain's Club Mixture is a mild product, very satisfying over time, suitable for contemplative moods -- almost trance inducing -- that initially does not seem particularly distinct. Two unsauced Cavendishes and some Virginias, plus what I believe may be Maryland. A topping that fades with airing.
Like all Germains products it needs drying out before use.
I knew you'd want to know this.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
AREN'T YOU TOO DEPRAVED FOR TWO SO YOUNG?
It is probably a good thing that I have committed no crimes against G-d or man in this country. Or Canada, or The Netherlands. We shall not speak of anywhere else.
At this point I do not wish to revisit South East Asia.
Remember that Hong Kong is NOT in South East Asia.
Last night I had two drinks around the corner, because after three days of babysitting pudgy middle-aged Republicans, a man needs to unwind.
A local karaoke bar, and single malt.
The howled lyrics were not enough to drown out the nearby conversations. In consequence of which I now know far too much about Lidocaine and anal sex, and am quite aghast at the dis-innocence of the younger generation. That being the specific subject I overheard.
In my adolescence, we "trusted" sparkling rosé.
Pale amber fruity rosé spumante.
As well as corduroy.
I still remember the aggressive blonde fondling her bare breast at me years ago. It seemed so forward and explicit at the time, but in this modern day that may actually be subtle or innocent.
I do not wish to assume that what I overheard last night represents the current version of romantic conversation.
Let me remain a fuddy duddy.
Spare me the details.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Remember that Hong Kong is NOT in South East Asia.
Last night I had two drinks around the corner, because after three days of babysitting pudgy middle-aged Republicans, a man needs to unwind.
A local karaoke bar, and single malt.
The howled lyrics were not enough to drown out the nearby conversations. In consequence of which I now know far too much about Lidocaine and anal sex, and am quite aghast at the dis-innocence of the younger generation. That being the specific subject I overheard.
In my adolescence, we "trusted" sparkling rosé.
Pale amber fruity rosé spumante.
As well as corduroy.
I still remember the aggressive blonde fondling her bare breast at me years ago. It seemed so forward and explicit at the time, but in this modern day that may actually be subtle or innocent.
I do not wish to assume that what I overheard last night represents the current version of romantic conversation.
Let me remain a fuddy duddy.
Spare me the details.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, May 08, 2017
THE SUBSTANCE AND THE MATERIAL ARE SILKY
What do my readers want? Or rather, what strange data and thoughts reflected on this site bring visitors, some of whom may linger (while others quickly go elsewhere)?
This IS the internet, and most folk are, shall we say, a little twisted.
Not the type that you bring home to mom.
So naturally, the post from aeons back that drew the largest number of gawkers the past few weeks was the one about the difference between French cut and High cut briefs. Because people in Dubai and Bangladesh respect the deep knowledge of someone who knows from women's underwear. About which they are curious. Commendably.
I have little curiosity about women's underwear. Unless there is somebody inside of the garment(s). Which is quite missing from my life.
On the whole, I suppose, I am in favour of it.
If you are woman, please wear it.
In the best of health.
As a single man with no involvements dammit, my own curiosity tends towards food and tobacco, as well as linguistic oddities.
Plus on a daily basis the news.
Several visits here have been the result of similar interests. On a planet of eight billion people, there must be a few others who share my fascination with food, tobacco, and linguistics. Unfortunately most of the comments have been saly pink pork shoulder compound about worlds of warcrap and medication to get your dick hard. Or your bald spots to disappear.
With assiduous application of something.
In the fullness of time.
If you are bald, please rub some lard or tofu on it.
For that other medical problem do likewise.
If you play video games, ditto.
Then, in all cases, dance widdershins around a pile of women's panties that you stole from the local laundromat or a girl's locker room.
You problems will soon seem insignificant.
Trust me. I'm a doctor.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This IS the internet, and most folk are, shall we say, a little twisted.
Not the type that you bring home to mom.
So naturally, the post from aeons back that drew the largest number of gawkers the past few weeks was the one about the difference between French cut and High cut briefs. Because people in Dubai and Bangladesh respect the deep knowledge of someone who knows from women's underwear. About which they are curious. Commendably.
I have little curiosity about women's underwear. Unless there is somebody inside of the garment(s). Which is quite missing from my life.
On the whole, I suppose, I am in favour of it.
If you are woman, please wear it.
In the best of health.
As a single man with no involvements dammit, my own curiosity tends towards food and tobacco, as well as linguistic oddities.
Plus on a daily basis the news.
Several visits here have been the result of similar interests. On a planet of eight billion people, there must be a few others who share my fascination with food, tobacco, and linguistics. Unfortunately most of the comments have been saly pink pork shoulder compound about worlds of warcrap and medication to get your dick hard. Or your bald spots to disappear.
With assiduous application of something.
In the fullness of time.
If you are bald, please rub some lard or tofu on it.
For that other medical problem do likewise.
If you play video games, ditto.
Then, in all cases, dance widdershins around a pile of women's panties that you stole from the local laundromat or a girl's locker room.
You problems will soon seem insignificant.
Trust me. I'm a doctor.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IN PRAISE OF THE FECKFULNESS OF THE FRENCH
The realist in me is a bit dense. Only now do I realize that the reason why the rightwingers in the lounge were viciously chivying the only liberal there was because Marine Le Pen lost to the reasonable man. No, I really had no idea those morons were that passionate about French politics!
I didn't think they even knew that it existed.
The French have retained the right to intellectually sneer at us.
But, whatever you say about Marion Anne Perrine Le Pen, she mostly speaks in complete sentences. Which our feckless leader doesn't.
[Feckless does not mean what probably, if you are someone who voted for the schmuck, you think it means.
Definition of feckless: 1: weak, ineffective. 2: worthless, irresponsible. Someone feckless is lacking in feck. Feck is a Scots term that means "effect" or "majority" and comes from an alteration of the Middle English effect. So something without feck is without effect, or ineffective. In the past, feckful (meaning "efficient," "sturdy," or "powerful") made an occasional appearance (Merriam Webster.]
She is, never-the-less, a repulsive Fascist, the unclean spawn of a repulsive Fascist, and the leader of repulsive Fascists. There is reason to breathe a sigh of relief, while hoping that the whole ghastly heap of them die of the plague, syphilis, or cannibalism, in the next few years.
She and everyone who voted for her can feck themselves backwards.
So can the several slopebrowed lounge dingos.
As well as you know who.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I didn't think they even knew that it existed.
The French have retained the right to intellectually sneer at us.
But, whatever you say about Marion Anne Perrine Le Pen, she mostly speaks in complete sentences. Which our feckless leader doesn't.
[Feckless does not mean what probably, if you are someone who voted for the schmuck, you think it means.
Definition of feckless: 1: weak, ineffective. 2: worthless, irresponsible. Someone feckless is lacking in feck. Feck is a Scots term that means "effect" or "majority" and comes from an alteration of the Middle English effect. So something without feck is without effect, or ineffective. In the past, feckful (meaning "efficient," "sturdy," or "powerful") made an occasional appearance (Merriam Webster.]
She is, never-the-less, a repulsive Fascist, the unclean spawn of a repulsive Fascist, and the leader of repulsive Fascists. There is reason to breathe a sigh of relief, while hoping that the whole ghastly heap of them die of the plague, syphilis, or cannibalism, in the next few years.
She and everyone who voted for her can feck themselves backwards.
So can the several slopebrowed lounge dingos.
As well as you know who.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, May 07, 2017
HE HAS ALREADY BOUGHT SEVERAL!
This blogger is not a nice person. Sometimes I can be amazingly uncaring and selfish. There were two tins of Pelican left, and MT presumed that they would be there for him to add to his growing stockpile when he wished to buy them. One of them was happily spotted by a native of Odessa (at that moment smoking a bowl of Brebbia Balkan No. 10), leaving only one.
MT was puffing away at the opposite end of the room.
Maybe he noticed, but I am not certain.
Speaking of 'noticing', I did not notice him leaving -- things got hectic, and when I looked up he was gone -- so at an opportune moment I bought the last Pelican myself.
Indeed, I like MT. He's one of my favourite fellow pipe smokers. He's got an excellent eye, great skill with wood, and he's a very easy-going tolerant man. He graciously puts up with you-know-who and you-know-who.
But that's now my buggery tin of Pelican.
I plan to sit on it for several years.
It is to be hoped that MT gets over the heartache and despair that the disappearance of those tins causes, because babies, I don't feel bad.
There's a war on.
The variety of worms grows smaller with each month.
Soon the only leaf left will be Cavendish!
Fit for unspeakables only.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
MT was puffing away at the opposite end of the room.
Maybe he noticed, but I am not certain.
Speaking of 'noticing', I did not notice him leaving -- things got hectic, and when I looked up he was gone -- so at an opportune moment I bought the last Pelican myself.
Indeed, I like MT. He's one of my favourite fellow pipe smokers. He's got an excellent eye, great skill with wood, and he's a very easy-going tolerant man. He graciously puts up with you-know-who and you-know-who.
But that's now my buggery tin of Pelican.
I plan to sit on it for several years.
It is to be hoped that MT gets over the heartache and despair that the disappearance of those tins causes, because babies, I don't feel bad.
There's a war on.
The variety of worms grows smaller with each month.
Soon the only leaf left will be Cavendish!
Fit for unspeakables only.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
INSTEAD OF FATTY SNACKS, SOTO BAKSO IKAN
On my way home from the bus stop I passed two young ladies snarfing donuts. And, being a totally superficial old sexist, the first thing that came to mind was that if they ate better they would not look so ..... um, "healthy".
The second thing was to wonder what kind of person eats donuts at seven twenty in the evening.
Upon reflection I realized that very likely they had been celebrating Cinco de Mayo all day, and like tipsy people frequently do they "needed" a Bob's Donuts fix. That usually happens at two thirty in the morning, but these girls had had a head start.
There are several things that, because of a puritanical attitude, I cannot bring myself to do.
One of them is smoking cigars in bed, the other is alcohol before tea-time.
I always felt hugely uncomfortable at office celebrations.
Beer during daylight is so gauche!
I know, I know, as someone who spent a lot of time in Europe I should be used to inebriating beverages from lunch-time onward, the entire continent is basically plotsed by mid-afternoon, and in places like the Midwest and Pennsylvania they maintain that as a fine tradition, along with weiswurst, headcheese, hákarl, pâté & gherkins, and pickled pigs feet.
Il est une tradition très ancienne!
I confess myself defective.
If there were a Dutch snackbar with deepfried savoury things around the corner, I might be big as a house by now. Instead, I am verging on thin.
For dinner I had curry fishball noodle soup with gailan, plus bacon and mashed fresh chilies. What you might call cà ri cá viên kiểu Hà Lan.
We'll call it kiểu Hà Lan for want of a better term.
Sometimes I really miss Dutch junkfood.
Everything with sambal.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The second thing was to wonder what kind of person eats donuts at seven twenty in the evening.
Upon reflection I realized that very likely they had been celebrating Cinco de Mayo all day, and like tipsy people frequently do they "needed" a Bob's Donuts fix. That usually happens at two thirty in the morning, but these girls had had a head start.
There are several things that, because of a puritanical attitude, I cannot bring myself to do.
One of them is smoking cigars in bed, the other is alcohol before tea-time.
I always felt hugely uncomfortable at office celebrations.
Beer during daylight is so gauche!
I know, I know, as someone who spent a lot of time in Europe I should be used to inebriating beverages from lunch-time onward, the entire continent is basically plotsed by mid-afternoon, and in places like the Midwest and Pennsylvania they maintain that as a fine tradition, along with weiswurst, headcheese, hákarl, pâté & gherkins, and pickled pigs feet.
Il est une tradition très ancienne!
I confess myself defective.
If there were a Dutch snackbar with deepfried savoury things around the corner, I might be big as a house by now. Instead, I am verging on thin.
For dinner I had curry fishball noodle soup with gailan, plus bacon and mashed fresh chilies. What you might call cà ri cá viên kiểu Hà Lan.
We'll call it kiểu Hà Lan for want of a better term.
Sometimes I really miss Dutch junkfood.
Everything with sambal.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, May 06, 2017
IT ISN'T IN NEW JERSEY
This blogger is cognizant of failure. Mostly, however, everybody else's.
As an example, consider this conversation overheard between two small individuals the other day: "I'm gonna kick you in the carbuncle!" "What? Where's my carbuncle?" "In New Jersey!".
Now, admittedly it shows exposure to a wider world, and an awareness of concepts beyond the universe bounded by Sacramento Street, Stockton, Broadway, and Kearny Street. Which is commendable. But a lack of comprehension (and crucial facts) is also evident.
If you were to ask me, your carbuncle is not in New Jersey.
It is, in fact, much closer than you think.
Here, let me prove it.
There is, never-the-less, something beautiful and out of this world about a little person thinking he had to go to New Jersey to kick a friend in the carbuncle.
I have never been to New Jersey, and have no desire to ever visit, despite having very distant relatives all over that place. I am convinced none of us have carbuncles there.
Maybe he understands something else under "New Jersey".
As a side track, and perhaps not even tangentially related or relevant in any way, presented in a recent under-post comment which was obviously opportunistic pork shoulder, there were, after everything useless and spammatic had been excised, these three sentences: "This factuality, all horrendous. Renderings with space are very awesome. Booming in a goal nicely presents peas." There was a lot more, several goofy pages.
But I think this captures the essence of it.
It is poetry. Magic.
Spam song.
"This factuality, all horrendous; renderings with space are very awesome; booming in a goal nicely presents peas!"
Dude, I have no idea what you just said, but I feel an urge, an enormous irrepressible and joyful urge, to kick you in the carbuncle right now.
Spam bots are in some ways similar to children.
In other ways like senile old farts.
Strive for peas.
SIDE TRACK
In a totally unrelated matter, I asked the waitress at the restaurant where I ate yesterday what "yellow flower fish" (黃花魚) was in English. She did not know, but she and an "uncle" explained that it was popular in Hong Kong.
The specials on the wall mentioning it were 豆豉蒸黃花魚('dausi jing wong faa yü'; "black bean sauce steamed yellow flower fish") and 煎封黃花魚 ('jin-fung wong faa yü'; "pan seared yellow flower fish").
Wikipedia says this: 大黃魚（學名：Larimichthys crocea），又名黃瓜魚、黃花魚，是鱸形目石首魚科黃魚屬魚類中的一種食用魚。一般體長30-40厘米，體重400-800克，身體呈金黃色，尾柄長為高的3倍多。
It is the large yellow croaker, now commercially farmed in China.
Very popular in Chinese and Korean cuisine.
Apparently it is delicious.
Sweet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
As an example, consider this conversation overheard between two small individuals the other day: "I'm gonna kick you in the carbuncle!" "What? Where's my carbuncle?" "In New Jersey!".
Now, admittedly it shows exposure to a wider world, and an awareness of concepts beyond the universe bounded by Sacramento Street, Stockton, Broadway, and Kearny Street. Which is commendable. But a lack of comprehension (and crucial facts) is also evident.
If you were to ask me, your carbuncle is not in New Jersey.
It is, in fact, much closer than you think.
Here, let me prove it.
There is, never-the-less, something beautiful and out of this world about a little person thinking he had to go to New Jersey to kick a friend in the carbuncle.
I have never been to New Jersey, and have no desire to ever visit, despite having very distant relatives all over that place. I am convinced none of us have carbuncles there.
Maybe he understands something else under "New Jersey".
As a side track, and perhaps not even tangentially related or relevant in any way, presented in a recent under-post comment which was obviously opportunistic pork shoulder, there were, after everything useless and spammatic had been excised, these three sentences: "This factuality, all horrendous. Renderings with space are very awesome. Booming in a goal nicely presents peas." There was a lot more, several goofy pages.
But I think this captures the essence of it.
It is poetry. Magic.
Spam song.
"This factuality, all horrendous; renderings with space are very awesome; booming in a goal nicely presents peas!"
Dude, I have no idea what you just said, but I feel an urge, an enormous irrepressible and joyful urge, to kick you in the carbuncle right now.
Spam bots are in some ways similar to children.
In other ways like senile old farts.
Strive for peas.
SIDE TRACK
In a totally unrelated matter, I asked the waitress at the restaurant where I ate yesterday what "yellow flower fish" (黃花魚) was in English. She did not know, but she and an "uncle" explained that it was popular in Hong Kong.
The specials on the wall mentioning it were 豆豉蒸黃花魚('dausi jing wong faa yü'; "black bean sauce steamed yellow flower fish") and 煎封黃花魚 ('jin-fung wong faa yü'; "pan seared yellow flower fish").
Wikipedia says this: 大黃魚（學名：Larimichthys crocea），又名黃瓜魚、黃花魚，是鱸形目石首魚科黃魚屬魚類中的一種食用魚。一般體長30-40厘米，體重400-800克，身體呈金黃色，尾柄長為高的3倍多。
It is the large yellow croaker, now commercially farmed in China.
Very popular in Chinese and Korean cuisine.
Apparently it is delicious.
Sweet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, May 05, 2017
WHAT DOES CINCO DE MAYO REALLY MEAN?
Something that surprises many Anglos is that Cinco De Mayo falls on the same day every year. It's almost as if those pesky Mexicans pre-planned this whole thing. They probably had help.
I miss the ethnic jollifications planned by HR and the glee club at the office.
Oh, the zaniness! The fat executives from sales in sombreros from Chevys Restaurant, the fruit punch flavoured with Cuervo, the bowl of mayonnaise with green food colour and a few drops of Tabasco!
Stone-ground purple tortilla chips!
Ay yai yai, señores!
Cinco De Mayo being on Friday, you can expect throngs of post-college fratboys to be throwing up all weekend long.
In between drunken sex and a capella renditions of La Cucaracha.
Whatever you eat today, it is probably better than anything from that chain responsible for outbreaks of food poisoning among middle class office workers and vegetarians the name of which I shall not mention here because I don't want C##po##e to sue me.
I will not let them take my pantalones by legal knavery.
Nothing libellous here.
A BERSERK ORANGE-FACED POO-GIBBON
We know what he's having: carefully constructed pre-barf. It's a pre-existing condition. There are two people whom I would wish this dish on. Literally.
One of them nearly always wears raggedy programmer garb to hide his tummy, the other one has snappy blue suits and tailored shirts. Which might be considerably improved by having the contents of a taco bowl artfully spattered all over. He'd look good with that.
It's gonna be yuuge™.
I myself do not plan to eat anything too distinctly Mexican today or even all weekend, because drunken Gringos, of whatever ethnicity and hue, are not my chosen company. What with being a fairly sober Anglo of too much taste and common sense to hang out with that lot.
Instead, in another two or so hours, I shall be consuming dim sum or congee in a neighborhood where people are neither Anglo nor Chicano, as well as having some tea, smoking a pipe, and purchasing food supplies because there are no more vegetables left in the crisper. There are no sombreros there. Straw coolie hats yes, but just like sombreros, Caucasians look like damned idiots wearing them.
All the rest of you please enjoy the green mayo and crystal hot sauce dip.
Happy Mexican Independence Day! We have bacon bits for your tacos!
I'm listening to a bunch of Latins singing right now.
That's as close as I will get to celebration.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I miss the ethnic jollifications planned by HR and the glee club at the office.
Oh, the zaniness! The fat executives from sales in sombreros from Chevys Restaurant, the fruit punch flavoured with Cuervo, the bowl of mayonnaise with green food colour and a few drops of Tabasco!
Stone-ground purple tortilla chips!
Ay yai yai, señores!
Cinco De Mayo being on Friday, you can expect throngs of post-college fratboys to be throwing up all weekend long.
In between drunken sex and a capella renditions of La Cucaracha.
Whatever you eat today, it is probably better than anything from that chain responsible for outbreaks of food poisoning among middle class office workers and vegetarians the name of which I shall not mention here because I don't want C##po##e to sue me.
I will not let them take my pantalones by legal knavery.
Nothing libellous here.
A BERSERK ORANGE-FACED POO-GIBBON
We know what he's having: carefully constructed pre-barf. It's a pre-existing condition. There are two people whom I would wish this dish on. Literally.
One of them nearly always wears raggedy programmer garb to hide his tummy, the other one has snappy blue suits and tailored shirts. Which might be considerably improved by having the contents of a taco bowl artfully spattered all over. He'd look good with that.
It's gonna be yuuge™.
I myself do not plan to eat anything too distinctly Mexican today or even all weekend, because drunken Gringos, of whatever ethnicity and hue, are not my chosen company. What with being a fairly sober Anglo of too much taste and common sense to hang out with that lot.
Instead, in another two or so hours, I shall be consuming dim sum or congee in a neighborhood where people are neither Anglo nor Chicano, as well as having some tea, smoking a pipe, and purchasing food supplies because there are no more vegetables left in the crisper. There are no sombreros there. Straw coolie hats yes, but just like sombreros, Caucasians look like damned idiots wearing them.
All the rest of you please enjoy the green mayo and crystal hot sauce dip.
Happy Mexican Independence Day! We have bacon bits for your tacos!
I'm listening to a bunch of Latins singing right now.
That's as close as I will get to celebration.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, May 04, 2017
A BAG OF HAMMERS
Lovely conversation on social media tonight.
"Republicans, you own this. You should be shot."
"It may come to that, once their constichints figger it out."
"Of course, their constitchints tend to be dumber than a bag of hammers..."
"Their constitchints think "pre-existing condishun" is sumpin' ya catch from a terlet seat that the wrong person sat upon."
"I'm hoping the bastards just shot themselves."
What is remarkably absent from this is the Republican voice of unreason.
Of course I do know some Republicans, but like Paul Ryan they are probably all drunk right now, giddily celebrating.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"Republicans, you own this. You should be shot."
"It may come to that, once their constichints figger it out."
"Of course, their constitchints tend to be dumber than a bag of hammers..."
"Their constitchints think "pre-existing condishun" is sumpin' ya catch from a terlet seat that the wrong person sat upon."
"I'm hoping the bastards just shot themselves."
What is remarkably absent from this is the Republican voice of unreason.
Of course I do know some Republicans, but like Paul Ryan they are probably all drunk right now, giddily celebrating.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE GIRL FROM MANCHURIA
There are times that the internet leads one into rabbit holes of strange proportion. Somewhere in between Midori no Chiheisen and Biwako Aiga on Youtube one will find Manshu Musume. It's also in the vicinity of Shanghai no Odoriko and Fue no Hakuju.
満州娘 -- MANSHU MUSUME
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4i_u3n_mGGQ.]
Tinkelty-plonk. Nice, cheerful, and rather inane tinkelty-plonk. And though dated, also timeless. As the fact that it is on the internet establishes.
On the whole I think I prefer Beniya no Musume (紅屋の娘), which is also cheerful, laden with symbolism (red shop - moon - red clouds - sun - diluted dye - plaintive request - rainbow), and has a lovely tune.
[Note: As for the lyrics of Beniya no Musume, the only words I recognize are the Kanji, because Chinese is easy, Japanese is not. So I can't provide a translation.]
Manshu Musume was a hit in the pre-war period, and obviously the theme fit right in to the designs of Japan's empire builders. Most of Manchuria rejoined China after 1945, the Japanese who resided there were eventually repatriated, and all pipe-dreams of separation snuffed out. Considering that the Ching Dynasty had started the land scramble in Manchuria because it was grossly underpopulated, and they (rightfully) feared Russian designs on their territory, it is fitting that Northern China's most on-again-off-again region is now permanently and predominantly Han.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
満州娘 -- MANSHU MUSUME
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4i_u3n_mGGQ.]
Tinkelty-plonk. Nice, cheerful, and rather inane tinkelty-plonk. And though dated, also timeless. As the fact that it is on the internet establishes.
On the whole I think I prefer Beniya no Musume (紅屋の娘), which is also cheerful, laden with symbolism (red shop - moon - red clouds - sun - diluted dye - plaintive request - rainbow), and has a lovely tune.
[Note: As for the lyrics of Beniya no Musume, the only words I recognize are the Kanji, because Chinese is easy, Japanese is not. So I can't provide a translation.]
Manshu Musume was a hit in the pre-war period, and obviously the theme fit right in to the designs of Japan's empire builders. Most of Manchuria rejoined China after 1945, the Japanese who resided there were eventually repatriated, and all pipe-dreams of separation snuffed out. Considering that the Ching Dynasty had started the land scramble in Manchuria because it was grossly underpopulated, and they (rightfully) feared Russian designs on their territory, it is fitting that Northern China's most on-again-off-again region is now permanently and predominantly Han.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, May 03, 2017
RETHINK YOUR PRIORITY!
A reader recently opined that falling asleep after drinking, with a lit cigar in the mouth, was divine. The locale suggested was a bed or couch indoors.
In the comfort of your own flammable home.
I beg to differ. If you are going to fall asleep with a lit cigar, do NOT do so on and in combustible circumstance. Far better, in fact, to do so outside, in a moist cow pasture, where you are guaranteed not to set your surroundings on fire, and might be awakened just before dawn by the dew.
You will feel refreshed. Instead of charred. Or dead.
Your choice of stogie is also important.
If you are going to die horribly in a conflagration of your own engineering, one which was completely avoidable but no matter, how sad it would be to smoke cheap garbage en-route to your fiery demise!
What a horrible waste of your life.
Avoid El Ropo.
It is obviously far better to smoke something exquisite.
So that your last conscious memory is good.
Even if you are intoxicated.
Seriously, my advice is to not accidentally kill yourself by falling asleep with a smouldering cheroot dropping from your slack mouth onto your silk nightie and setting yourself and your couch on fire.
Please, out in the cow pasture, with a quality cigar, and wearing some suitably stylish non-combustible farm clothing.
Personally I think the whole idea is ridiculous, but I have only your best interest in mind. Hence the expensive Salomon, and the dew. Though it's not something I would do. This evening, in fact, I will go out and have a quiet drink at a karaoke bar around the corner, then get home at a reasonable hour, as well as reasonably sober. I lead a rather unexciting life.
There is no ashtray next to my bed, I have no couch.
I'll probably smoke on the way home.
Short, and sweet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In the comfort of your own flammable home.
I beg to differ. If you are going to fall asleep with a lit cigar, do NOT do so on and in combustible circumstance. Far better, in fact, to do so outside, in a moist cow pasture, where you are guaranteed not to set your surroundings on fire, and might be awakened just before dawn by the dew.
You will feel refreshed. Instead of charred. Or dead.
Your choice of stogie is also important.
If you are going to die horribly in a conflagration of your own engineering, one which was completely avoidable but no matter, how sad it would be to smoke cheap garbage en-route to your fiery demise!
What a horrible waste of your life.
Avoid El Ropo.
It is obviously far better to smoke something exquisite.
So that your last conscious memory is good.
Even if you are intoxicated.
Seriously, my advice is to not accidentally kill yourself by falling asleep with a smouldering cheroot dropping from your slack mouth onto your silk nightie and setting yourself and your couch on fire.
Please, out in the cow pasture, with a quality cigar, and wearing some suitably stylish non-combustible farm clothing.
Personally I think the whole idea is ridiculous, but I have only your best interest in mind. Hence the expensive Salomon, and the dew. Though it's not something I would do. This evening, in fact, I will go out and have a quiet drink at a karaoke bar around the corner, then get home at a reasonable hour, as well as reasonably sober. I lead a rather unexciting life.
There is no ashtray next to my bed, I have no couch.
I'll probably smoke on the way home.
Short, and sweet.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A RICHLY REWARDING EXPERIENCE!
This post is about jury duty. Or rather, no jury duty for an entire year. Our group's instructions were to show up after lunch. Once there, we watched two video tapes, trooped upstairs to a courtroom, gave roll, listened to the honourable judge-type person explain the whats and wherefores, and filled out one of two questionnaires.
The hardship questionnaire was the easiest.
Being only one page, single sided.
Of course I claimed hardship; like anybody who isn't a superprogrammer tech yuppie, a real estate shark, an ethically crippled investment banker, or a drug baron, sitting on a jury till sometime in June would be an issue.
"He's guilty, no need for a trial, hang the bastard now!"
Please get this travesty of justice over with, and let us go back to our coolie grubbing. We need the money for insta-noodles and catfood, and the baby needs vaccinations. The dog needs to be put down. Grandma's gotta have an operation. We haven't paid for garbage service in six months, it's starting to move around on its own. It already reeked four months ago, like aunt Grace who died then, but it has come alive. Unlike aunt Grace. Who died. Four months ago. We put her out in the utility passage next to the airwell, none of us have opened our bathroom or kitchen windows since.
Oh, and we need to pay off our student loans.
"Please rise for the honourable Facoontai Yan"
And everybody except those weak with hunger rises, then demands to hang the guilty bastard. Dumb-ass disputed a parking ticket, he deserves it.
He works in a tech company? Shoot him!
Actually, the courthouse is airconditioned and luxuriously appointed. Cool. Quiet and calm. An oasis during the hot weather we are presently having. And well guarded. A good thing, seeing as all the glories of the Tenderloin start less than a block away. One the way there you will pass drug addicts and mental incompetents, alkies, and folks with no set abode.
They will go back and forth in front of the window of the place where you decided to have a quick lunch. They will not affect the taste of the chicken teriyaki over rice you ordered; that was uninspiring to begin with. Nor the coffee. Which was standard slop, with fake cream to make it worse.
But the place was clean and bright, the proprietress seems to know the locals, and employs hard working honest Mexicans instead of illiterate trailer trash inbreds from coalmine country, and she put a big bottle of Sriracha on the table without asking.
When I left paramedics were treating an overdose in the alleyway. A block further, a policeman rushed by toward a crime in progress. Almost at the courthouse and two cops had handcuffed a violent vagrant.
One the other hand, I passed by a gaggle of well-dressed lawyers, and didn't even once feel the need to brutally assault them.
Those were very nice suits. They would have looked better ripped.
You know, the "stressed look", just like jeans.
Free, no charge!
I was planning to have a hot Vietnamese sandwich and a cold cà phê sữa before showing my face at court, but the nearest shop was where the thugs hung out -- they're still there, by the looks of it -- and the other one had a line of skeevy types out the door. Bánh mì Sài Gòn for breakfast.
The excellent noodle place was too far to walk.
That's not because of the neighborhood.
Purely because of the heat.
Teriyaki chicken?
Meh.
Anyhow, I've done my civic duty. It's up to you folks to enact mob justice and condemn dissidents for the next twelve months.
If they are Republicans, lock them up.
If they're in e-commerce, ditto.
Livery drivers likewise.
Yeah, I'm pissed. I really wanted a Vietnamese sandwich.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The hardship questionnaire was the easiest.
Being only one page, single sided.
Of course I claimed hardship; like anybody who isn't a superprogrammer tech yuppie, a real estate shark, an ethically crippled investment banker, or a drug baron, sitting on a jury till sometime in June would be an issue.
"He's guilty, no need for a trial, hang the bastard now!"
Please get this travesty of justice over with, and let us go back to our coolie grubbing. We need the money for insta-noodles and catfood, and the baby needs vaccinations. The dog needs to be put down. Grandma's gotta have an operation. We haven't paid for garbage service in six months, it's starting to move around on its own. It already reeked four months ago, like aunt Grace who died then, but it has come alive. Unlike aunt Grace. Who died. Four months ago. We put her out in the utility passage next to the airwell, none of us have opened our bathroom or kitchen windows since.
Oh, and we need to pay off our student loans.
"Please rise for the honourable Facoontai Yan"
And everybody except those weak with hunger rises, then demands to hang the guilty bastard. Dumb-ass disputed a parking ticket, he deserves it.
He works in a tech company? Shoot him!
Actually, the courthouse is airconditioned and luxuriously appointed. Cool. Quiet and calm. An oasis during the hot weather we are presently having. And well guarded. A good thing, seeing as all the glories of the Tenderloin start less than a block away. One the way there you will pass drug addicts and mental incompetents, alkies, and folks with no set abode.
They will go back and forth in front of the window of the place where you decided to have a quick lunch. They will not affect the taste of the chicken teriyaki over rice you ordered; that was uninspiring to begin with. Nor the coffee. Which was standard slop, with fake cream to make it worse.
But the place was clean and bright, the proprietress seems to know the locals, and employs hard working honest Mexicans instead of illiterate trailer trash inbreds from coalmine country, and she put a big bottle of Sriracha on the table without asking.
When I left paramedics were treating an overdose in the alleyway. A block further, a policeman rushed by toward a crime in progress. Almost at the courthouse and two cops had handcuffed a violent vagrant.
One the other hand, I passed by a gaggle of well-dressed lawyers, and didn't even once feel the need to brutally assault them.
Those were very nice suits. They would have looked better ripped.
You know, the "stressed look", just like jeans.
Free, no charge!
I was planning to have a hot Vietnamese sandwich and a cold cà phê sữa before showing my face at court, but the nearest shop was where the thugs hung out -- they're still there, by the looks of it -- and the other one had a line of skeevy types out the door. Bánh mì Sài Gòn for breakfast.
The excellent noodle place was too far to walk.
That's not because of the neighborhood.
Purely because of the heat.
Teriyaki chicken?
Meh.
Anyhow, I've done my civic duty. It's up to you folks to enact mob justice and condemn dissidents for the next twelve months.
If they are Republicans, lock them up.
If they're in e-commerce, ditto.
Livery drivers likewise.
Yeah, I'm pissed. I really wanted a Vietnamese sandwich.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE REAL HOUSE WIVES OF ATLANTA, ROTTEN AND REVISITED
Good gracious these women have big ugly tits! And anger issues. But their teeth are just perfect. And that, dear readers, is what 'class' is all about in post Ronnie and Nancy America.
Sharp shiny teeth.
"Yeah, well, I'm not going to sit here and let somebody tell me to shut the f*&k up!"
I had just called someone to tell him I couldn't make it to our usual Tuesday night meeting (because I have to show up and be available to sit jury today), and upon my return to the television room my apartment mate was bound up in the Real Housewives of Atlanta.
I'll admit that watching vicious bitches rip each other another one can be "entertaining". Kind of like the bloodshed in the Roman Colosseum when gladiators fought. I will assume that these ladies are not representative of Southern Womanhood, because ladies, I am not favourably impressed.
I still find it hard to accept that the Apartment Mate watches this.
"Be careful leaving your credit cards lying around .... "
Sherree, Candy, Phaedra, Shamea, Kenya, Cynthia, et autres.
Further ugly quotes:
"That navel to the left; stop using Groupon for your plastic surgery!"
"Southern Belle today and hooker tomorrow."
"How awkward is this for you?"
No, I shan't discourage her. It's like watching a trainwreck. You just can't pull your eyes away. Never visit Atlanta, those people live there.
Nasty sex is something they also discuss.
As fond fabulous fantasies.
"That don't mean she's a lesbian!"
Ratchets.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sharp shiny teeth.
"Yeah, well, I'm not going to sit here and let somebody tell me to shut the f*&k up!"
I had just called someone to tell him I couldn't make it to our usual Tuesday night meeting (because I have to show up and be available to sit jury today), and upon my return to the television room my apartment mate was bound up in the Real Housewives of Atlanta.
I'll admit that watching vicious bitches rip each other another one can be "entertaining". Kind of like the bloodshed in the Roman Colosseum when gladiators fought. I will assume that these ladies are not representative of Southern Womanhood, because ladies, I am not favourably impressed.
I still find it hard to accept that the Apartment Mate watches this.
"Be careful leaving your credit cards lying around .... "
Sherree, Candy, Phaedra, Shamea, Kenya, Cynthia, et autres.
Further ugly quotes:
"That navel to the left; stop using Groupon for your plastic surgery!"
"Southern Belle today and hooker tomorrow."
"How awkward is this for you?"
No, I shan't discourage her. It's like watching a trainwreck. You just can't pull your eyes away. Never visit Atlanta, those people live there.
Nasty sex is something they also discuss.
As fond fabulous fantasies.
"That don't mean she's a lesbian!"
Ratchets.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, May 02, 2017
WORST HOTEL IN SAN FRANCISCO
An article on a Dutch news site highlighted a reporter's horrific experience at the Blair Victoria Hotel in London, which apparently was such a filthy hole that staying there might give you several diseases. At sixty pounds per night. The manager, a charming Pakistani gentleman of impeccable grace and courtesy, forcefully threw him and his cameraman out.
Now, years ago I lived in a residential hotel in North Beach, operated by a Muslim personage of East Indian extraction. Perhaps it was not the cleanest place in the world, but I have fond memories of that time.
And I will never speak ill of my amiable host, Abdullah.
He was a very tolerant man in a mad universe.
As well as equitable and calm.
A true gentleman.
Yet that article got me thinking. What is the worst hotel in San Francisco?
An internet search yielded a treasure trove.
Among the candidates:
The Europa Hotel
310 Columbus Ave, San Francisco, CA 94133.
The Renoir Hotel
45 McAllister St, San Francisco, CA 94102.
The Sonoma Inn
1485 Bush St, San Francisco, CA 94109.
Travelodge
1707 Market St, San Francisco, CA 94103.
The Best Hotel
162 Taylor St San Francisco, CA 94102.
Three of the five mentioned above appear to be closed now, but their owners/operators are probably still vending hospitality. Which in their case is misguided at best. Among the problems mentioned in great and eloquent detail on several different sites are bedbugs, drug use, sheer unmitigable filth that smelled bad and damned well made the dissatisfied customers heave or leave, dangerous wiring, sheets and carpets repossessed from a third world death camp, and crimes going on in the foyer or shared bathroom. As well as in the rooms next door.
Bedbugs, bedbugs, bedbugs!
There were an unbelievably huge number of other candidates, but I chose these five because they are known to me. The Europa Hotel is two blocks away from where I lived, and is still in business. The owners of one of the other places ate often at the Indian restaurant where I worked, and the neighborhoods of all of these lodgements are extremely familiar.
But I must stress that these are not the only ones.
The entire city has shitty hotels.
By the way, I would advise not staying in North Beach. After dark falls, the intersection of Broadway and Columbus attracts some rather skeevy types (perhaps they were asleep nearby during the day), several nightclubs are scarcely disguised sleaze pits, and the "hotels" in the neighborhood are between questionable and residential. The cleanest guests are probably programmers from South India lamenting their foolish decision to come to this town and work for starvation wages in the high-tech sweatshops of Internet Gulch. Peanuts, buggery, and barracoons.
There are also transient Europeans with lice and backpacks.
As well as a smorgasbord of drug addicts.
It's a full spectrum.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Now, years ago I lived in a residential hotel in North Beach, operated by a Muslim personage of East Indian extraction. Perhaps it was not the cleanest place in the world, but I have fond memories of that time.
And I will never speak ill of my amiable host, Abdullah.
He was a very tolerant man in a mad universe.
As well as equitable and calm.
A true gentleman.
Yet that article got me thinking. What is the worst hotel in San Francisco?
An internet search yielded a treasure trove.
Among the candidates:
The Europa Hotel
310 Columbus Ave, San Francisco, CA 94133.
The Renoir Hotel
45 McAllister St, San Francisco, CA 94102.
The Sonoma Inn
1485 Bush St, San Francisco, CA 94109.
Travelodge
1707 Market St, San Francisco, CA 94103.
The Best Hotel
162 Taylor St San Francisco, CA 94102.
Three of the five mentioned above appear to be closed now, but their owners/operators are probably still vending hospitality. Which in their case is misguided at best. Among the problems mentioned in great and eloquent detail on several different sites are bedbugs, drug use, sheer unmitigable filth that smelled bad and damned well made the dissatisfied customers heave or leave, dangerous wiring, sheets and carpets repossessed from a third world death camp, and crimes going on in the foyer or shared bathroom. As well as in the rooms next door.
Bedbugs, bedbugs, bedbugs!
There were an unbelievably huge number of other candidates, but I chose these five because they are known to me. The Europa Hotel is two blocks away from where I lived, and is still in business. The owners of one of the other places ate often at the Indian restaurant where I worked, and the neighborhoods of all of these lodgements are extremely familiar.
But I must stress that these are not the only ones.
The entire city has shitty hotels.
By the way, I would advise not staying in North Beach. After dark falls, the intersection of Broadway and Columbus attracts some rather skeevy types (perhaps they were asleep nearby during the day), several nightclubs are scarcely disguised sleaze pits, and the "hotels" in the neighborhood are between questionable and residential. The cleanest guests are probably programmers from South India lamenting their foolish decision to come to this town and work for starvation wages in the high-tech sweatshops of Internet Gulch. Peanuts, buggery, and barracoons.
There are also transient Europeans with lice and backpacks.
As well as a smorgasbord of drug addicts.
It's a full spectrum.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ROTTEN CABBAGE AND STEAMED BRAN MUFFINS
Normally this blogger works three days, enjoys two days off, works one day, and has another day off before the cycle repeats. On the plus side, my work environment allows me to enjoy smoking my pipe. The minus side: it puts me in contact with crazies, arrogant entitled people, and snooty cigar show-offs ("ooh, lookit me, such expensive burn-i-stick, yah").
One person who sometimes floats by is convinced that the Russians chose the location of their San Francisco consular offices so that they could see Marin County from there; he claims that the Russian mafia and the Clintons intend to frack the living daylights out northern coastal California and leave us bleeding, poor, and dehydrated.
Naturally on my days off I prefer an environment somewhat different.
Because the young lady who shares the apartment with me is a sensitive soul who hates the smell of burning tobacco, I amend my habits.
[Note: 'Young' is a relative term, as she was born only eight years after me. But she looks quite a bit more springy and youthful. 'Sensitive' is also relative, as she possesses a blistering vocabulary, very eloquent, damned well unprintable, when that proves absolutely necessary. She speaks English and Toishanese.
I am still not clear what "mother-snot" means. 'Lady' is a value judgement. She has a strong sense of ethics, is considerate to the nth degree, and is far more generous than she realizes. And she appreciates stuffed animals in the same way that I am drawn to cats and dogs. And parrots. And crows. And lizards. And ferrets and weasels. Etcetera. Chickens are fascinating too. Especially when you can see them think. She is definitely a lady.]
She isn't around on my weekend (Tuesday - Wednesday), so I open the windows, shut the door to her room firmly, and do whatever I please until early afternoon. The place needs to air out before she returns, and I often spend a few hours in Chinatown from then on, having late lunch or early dinner (actually, breakfast), people-watching and wandering around.
I mention all this as a preamble.
Two months ago a reader angrily called me to task for seeming to favour the Cantonese language over Mandarin.
At 10:54 AM, 金龙崛起 said…
"23333333 You stupid splittist, China is one united, you all list is only Chinese foods, because Hong Kong is fully part of China so is now fully Chinese, also you have so much gall to use english colony running dog spelling, you must want use true Chinese hanyu pinyin, dont give me your stupit "tofu", 豆腐 is called DOUFU, Chinese people need to use real Chinese language putonghua, otherwise nobody can understand, you still dare promote splittist local dialect!
妈的港独份子真的是洋鬼走狗，爱舔老外鸡巴的低种傻逼，我艹 "
[End cite.]
It is only now that I realize that 金龙崛起 must have thought that I was Chinese. Which I am not. I am so white I glow in the dark, you can read a book by the pallid reflection from my pale waspy dermis.
十分之十鬼佬。
I responded to 金龙崛起 at that time:
"Sorry, my dear 北猪, Cantonese is an older and more mellifluous language than that hackety-hack patois of yours, and in any case much more useful here in the United States. And Cantonese food is far better than anything in your part of the world."
"Do you Northerners even know how to make tofu? Aren't you all still eating rotten cabbage and steamed bran muffins?"
"BTW, that "English Colony running dog spelling" transcribes how Cantonese sounds, whereas pinyin was tailored specifically to Mandarin, and is quite irrelevant in the context of Hong Kong foods. And in any case, few Cantonese would pay attention to the Romanization; they would read the Chinese words and know what was meant."
[End cite.]
There were a few more subsequent back and forths underneath that essay, but my point was, more or less, that Cantonese and Mandarin are really two different languages. Albeit with the same writing system, and a somewhat similar vocabulary.
What should also be mentioned is that many Cantonese do actually speak and understand Mandarin, because they are not stupid, but Northerners overwhelmingly cannot communicate in Cantonese. And quite often speak Mandarin with such horrid accents that it might not be comprehensible.
[Quack, quack, quack, quack, quaaaack!]
The other day on the bus I heard a tour-guide speaking excellent Mandarin. His pronunciation was so clear and beautiful that even I could grasp what he was explaining to his group. In most if not every detail.
Unfortunately, their version of Mandarin sounded like Scottish.
They were completely unintelligible (to me, not him).
Bark, snarfle, growl, wheeze and hiss.
I'm now convinced that he was Cantonese.
A very civilized man.
By the way, when Hong Kongers speak ill of Mainlanders, it's mostly those barking hissing supercilious and badly mannered Northerners they despise.
Only sometimes do they mean all folks from beyond 羅湖。
Which is their northern boundary.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One person who sometimes floats by is convinced that the Russians chose the location of their San Francisco consular offices so that they could see Marin County from there; he claims that the Russian mafia and the Clintons intend to frack the living daylights out northern coastal California and leave us bleeding, poor, and dehydrated.
Naturally on my days off I prefer an environment somewhat different.
Because the young lady who shares the apartment with me is a sensitive soul who hates the smell of burning tobacco, I amend my habits.
[Note: 'Young' is a relative term, as she was born only eight years after me. But she looks quite a bit more springy and youthful. 'Sensitive' is also relative, as she possesses a blistering vocabulary, very eloquent, damned well unprintable, when that proves absolutely necessary. She speaks English and Toishanese.
I am still not clear what "mother-snot" means. 'Lady' is a value judgement. She has a strong sense of ethics, is considerate to the nth degree, and is far more generous than she realizes. And she appreciates stuffed animals in the same way that I am drawn to cats and dogs. And parrots. And crows. And lizards. And ferrets and weasels. Etcetera. Chickens are fascinating too. Especially when you can see them think. She is definitely a lady.]
She isn't around on my weekend (Tuesday - Wednesday), so I open the windows, shut the door to her room firmly, and do whatever I please until early afternoon. The place needs to air out before she returns, and I often spend a few hours in Chinatown from then on, having late lunch or early dinner (actually, breakfast), people-watching and wandering around.
I mention all this as a preamble.
Two months ago a reader angrily called me to task for seeming to favour the Cantonese language over Mandarin.
At 10:54 AM, 金龙崛起 said…
"23333333 You stupid splittist, China is one united, you all list is only Chinese foods, because Hong Kong is fully part of China so is now fully Chinese, also you have so much gall to use english colony running dog spelling, you must want use true Chinese hanyu pinyin, dont give me your stupit "tofu", 豆腐 is called DOUFU, Chinese people need to use real Chinese language putonghua, otherwise nobody can understand, you still dare promote splittist local dialect!
妈的港独份子真的是洋鬼走狗，爱舔老外鸡巴的低种傻逼，我艹 "
[End cite.]
It is only now that I realize that 金龙崛起 must have thought that I was Chinese. Which I am not. I am so white I glow in the dark, you can read a book by the pallid reflection from my pale waspy dermis.
十分之十鬼佬。
I responded to 金龙崛起 at that time:
"Sorry, my dear 北猪, Cantonese is an older and more mellifluous language than that hackety-hack patois of yours, and in any case much more useful here in the United States. And Cantonese food is far better than anything in your part of the world."
"Do you Northerners even know how to make tofu? Aren't you all still eating rotten cabbage and steamed bran muffins?"
"BTW, that "English Colony running dog spelling" transcribes how Cantonese sounds, whereas pinyin was tailored specifically to Mandarin, and is quite irrelevant in the context of Hong Kong foods. And in any case, few Cantonese would pay attention to the Romanization; they would read the Chinese words and know what was meant."
[End cite.]
There were a few more subsequent back and forths underneath that essay, but my point was, more or less, that Cantonese and Mandarin are really two different languages. Albeit with the same writing system, and a somewhat similar vocabulary.
What should also be mentioned is that many Cantonese do actually speak and understand Mandarin, because they are not stupid, but Northerners overwhelmingly cannot communicate in Cantonese. And quite often speak Mandarin with such horrid accents that it might not be comprehensible.
[Quack, quack, quack, quack, quaaaack!]
The other day on the bus I heard a tour-guide speaking excellent Mandarin. His pronunciation was so clear and beautiful that even I could grasp what he was explaining to his group. In most if not every detail.
Unfortunately, their version of Mandarin sounded like Scottish.
They were completely unintelligible (to me, not him).
Bark, snarfle, growl, wheeze and hiss.
I'm now convinced that he was Cantonese.
A very civilized man.
By the way, when Hong Kongers speak ill of Mainlanders, it's mostly those barking hissing supercilious and badly mannered Northerners they despise.
Only sometimes do they mean all folks from beyond 羅湖。
Which is their northern boundary.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, May 01, 2017
MELISSA GETS HER OWN POST!
This blogger spent the last five days answering questions about tobacco. No, it had nothing to do with anybody's twelve step programme or the Betty Ford clinic, I promote the stuff.
One of the things I disquisitioned on this past weekend was the desirability, pressing need even, to rope children into the habit. Billboards near school playgrounds, after class activities sponsored by tobacco companies, keen collectibles. Because when I am in my dotage, I shall require a strapping nurse to wheel me out to the designated smoking area seven to ten blocks away from all human habitation and the retirement home. And obviously, only a fellow-smoker (preferably female) would do so. Which means someone who starts smoking in this era.
Perhaps in a few years.
I figure two to three decades ere I shall need her services. So maybe there is some leeway. Someone who is not even born yet, who won't start enjoying tobacco until fifteen to twenty five years from now.
Because I intend to be a dirty old man by then.
I shall wish to enjoy the company.
Here nursey nursey!
What also needs to happen is a lessening of the sin tax burden, so that they can afford decent smokes. Maybe Partagas, Padron, or Arturo Fuente at the very least. Three or four Fuente Chateaux or Hemingways and maybe a Davidoff Colorado Claro Short Perfecto (which is really a piss-elegant cigar, and ultra-feminine to boot) per day.
Because there is no reason that high quality tobacco products should be affordable only to the wealthy. Anyone who is pulling in substantially more than one hundred K a year will have no reason to wheel us crusty old farts out to the place in the tidal swamp where smoking is allowed!
One has to think of these things.
Which is why I am hoping a recent reader is a sparkling Filipina between ten and twenty years of age.
At 11:32 AM, Melissa said…
"A cigarette? What do you think I am, a boor? I actually _care_ about quality tobacco, thank you very much, which is what led me to your blog. I smoke CIGARS at bedtime. Why do you jump to assume _cigarettes_?!"
I'm not quite sure that I approve of cigars at bedtime. That isn't what a teenager needs to do. The body is still growing and developing at that age, and cigars at bedtime lead to strange dreams and peculiar behaviour in school the next day. I know this, because from fifteen till eighteen I would not infrequently have a cigar and a genever at the Auberge Central, or at Parsifal (no genever, but cheap Havanas) when my funds were tight.
I think my parents would have objected to cigars in the bedrooms.
In any case, I assumed cigarettes in the discussion under that post because most people smoke cigarettes. Cigar smokers are a minority, and many find it difficult to smoke at home because their family members or co-tenants will force them out and toward the end of the yard, to commune with the skunks, muskrats, goats, feral garbage kids, and other "fragrant" things.
I pictured a haggard alcoholic wreck, with nicotine-stained fingers and blackened teeth. Apparently that was entirely wrong.
Now I'm fondly imagining a perky brown-eyed bronze damsel or a pink-faced blonde of curvy build. Perhaps with a little red sports car.
Which is also wrong, so very very wrong!
But differently.
You're probably more like the men in the lounge, though. Several of whom are bald and have paunches, but I don't mean physically. Same type of person, similar character, and also their kind of taste.
Except for Slug-dude. He smokes mail-ordered El Ropo, and brings bags of luncheon foods plus greasy kibble on his days of vegetabling in front of the television watching golf.
He will need to be wheeled out to the tidal flat soon.
But it may take two strong men to do so.
And a crowbar.
Anyhow, Melissa darling, do please tell me more about your own dissipated zesty sinful self.
Are you less than five feet six inches tall?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One of the things I disquisitioned on this past weekend was the desirability, pressing need even, to rope children into the habit. Billboards near school playgrounds, after class activities sponsored by tobacco companies, keen collectibles. Because when I am in my dotage, I shall require a strapping nurse to wheel me out to the designated smoking area seven to ten blocks away from all human habitation and the retirement home. And obviously, only a fellow-smoker (preferably female) would do so. Which means someone who starts smoking in this era.
Perhaps in a few years.
I figure two to three decades ere I shall need her services. So maybe there is some leeway. Someone who is not even born yet, who won't start enjoying tobacco until fifteen to twenty five years from now.
Because I intend to be a dirty old man by then.
I shall wish to enjoy the company.
Here nursey nursey!
... The mystique, the allure, the description on Cigar Afficionado's webpage ...
What also needs to happen is a lessening of the sin tax burden, so that they can afford decent smokes. Maybe Partagas, Padron, or Arturo Fuente at the very least. Three or four Fuente Chateaux or Hemingways and maybe a Davidoff Colorado Claro Short Perfecto (which is really a piss-elegant cigar, and ultra-feminine to boot) per day.
Because there is no reason that high quality tobacco products should be affordable only to the wealthy. Anyone who is pulling in substantially more than one hundred K a year will have no reason to wheel us crusty old farts out to the place in the tidal swamp where smoking is allowed!
One has to think of these things.
Which is why I am hoping a recent reader is a sparkling Filipina between ten and twenty years of age.
At 11:32 AM, Melissa said…
"A cigarette? What do you think I am, a boor? I actually _care_ about quality tobacco, thank you very much, which is what led me to your blog. I smoke CIGARS at bedtime. Why do you jump to assume _cigarettes_?!"
I'm not quite sure that I approve of cigars at bedtime. That isn't what a teenager needs to do. The body is still growing and developing at that age, and cigars at bedtime lead to strange dreams and peculiar behaviour in school the next day. I know this, because from fifteen till eighteen I would not infrequently have a cigar and a genever at the Auberge Central, or at Parsifal (no genever, but cheap Havanas) when my funds were tight.
I think my parents would have objected to cigars in the bedrooms.
In any case, I assumed cigarettes in the discussion under that post because most people smoke cigarettes. Cigar smokers are a minority, and many find it difficult to smoke at home because their family members or co-tenants will force them out and toward the end of the yard, to commune with the skunks, muskrats, goats, feral garbage kids, and other "fragrant" things.
I pictured a haggard alcoholic wreck, with nicotine-stained fingers and blackened teeth. Apparently that was entirely wrong.
Now I'm fondly imagining a perky brown-eyed bronze damsel or a pink-faced blonde of curvy build. Perhaps with a little red sports car.
Which is also wrong, so very very wrong!
But differently.
You're probably more like the men in the lounge, though. Several of whom are bald and have paunches, but I don't mean physically. Same type of person, similar character, and also their kind of taste.
Except for Slug-dude. He smokes mail-ordered El Ropo, and brings bags of luncheon foods plus greasy kibble on his days of vegetabling in front of the television watching golf.
He will need to be wheeled out to the tidal flat soon.
But it may take two strong men to do so.
And a crowbar.
Anyhow, Melissa darling, do please tell me more about your own dissipated zesty sinful self.
Are you less than five feet six inches tall?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
LOYALTY DAY, YOU GIBBONS, LOYALTY DAY!
Our fearless leader the Great Orange-faced Berk has proclaimed May First as "Loyalty Day". You are ordered to recite the pledge of allegiance while ignoring the naked baboon marching down the street holding a flag.
Very well.
"I pledge conditional allegiance to the banner of the Bear Flag Republic and the justified voices of dissent and reasonable discussion that it represents, one state which is arguably divisible depending on who you talk to and disregarding any mention of a deity because "separation of church and state" you hosebags, with liberty and sanctuary for all."
May First. Loyalty Day. Forsooth.
What a load of bollocks.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Very well.
"I pledge conditional allegiance to the banner of the Bear Flag Republic and the justified voices of dissent and reasonable discussion that it represents, one state which is arguably divisible depending on who you talk to and disregarding any mention of a deity because "separation of church and state" you hosebags, with liberty and sanctuary for all."
May First. Loyalty Day. Forsooth.
What a load of bollocks.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
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,...
