THE FLOWER PRINCESS

Lunch in Chinatown after errands, pipe full of tobacco, and altogether between all of that, walking thirty blocks. My doctor advised me to walk more. And walking, naturally, requires a smoke. As long as I don't tell him about that second part, he'll be happy, and I shall be healthy.
When I got home my apartment mate insisted I share some of her fried chicken. She worries that I am too scrawny. Which is the result of all the walking.

Later in the evening I headed over to Chinatown again. Pipe. Mixed soda. Tea. And hot water.
This is the extent, nowadays, of my misbehaviour. Years ago it would have included a pint of beer and several whiskeys, but I am necessarily a more temperate man now, though still irritating and at times rowdy.

The rats in Spofford Alley are back again. Not exactly thriving, but worth observing while smoking one's pipe. Engaging social creatures. More likable and more sensible than the tourists. Rather than trying to exterminate them, we should give them the vote.

Chinatown is quieter at night than it used to be. The drunken white twenty-somethings are no longer an infestation. So there is considerably less vandalism, shouting, and thuggery.


Things in the old neighborhood have changed a bit. It's quiet, people are abiding till better times. Even North Beach is calmer now.

帝女花

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

The video clip above shows Leslie Cheung (張國榮 'cheung gwok wing') singing a famous duet with Elder Sister Wang (汪明荃 'wong ming chuen'; Liza Wang Ming Chuen).
The Fragrant Sacrifice (香夭 'heung yiu'; youthful martyrdom).

One thing that was remarkable was at one point hearing a native speaker of Mandarin from Liaoning (遼寧 'liu ning') singing Cantonese opera at the karaoke dive. She did the female part of an exchange between Princess Changping (朱媺娖, 長平公主 'jyu mei juk', 'jeung ping gong jyu') and her fiance Zhou Shixian (周世顯 'jau sai hin'). The tale of her life was gruesome but "inspiring". Especially given the distaste for the horrible barbarians who supplanted the Ming. Like with Western opera, many of the stories in Canto opera are tragic, often ending in tears.
I can't say that The Flower Princess (帝女花 'tai neui faa' is one of my favourites.
But it is exceedingly well known.

[The classic performance is the one with Yam Kim Fei (任劍輝) and Bak Sut Sin (白雪仙): 帝女花之香夭 Fragrant Sacrifice 任白名曲, youtube: (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5rgNRdbPdtg).]


My friend who is always part of this weekly jaunt doubts that karaoke is a good thing. Which is something of which for many years I have been trying to convince him.
It keeps dangerous people off the street.
No, I don't sing. Be glad of that.




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PLEASE, NO WET GARBAGE!

Five years ago, when I was still desperately in need of the medical attention that over a year later I finally got, I described the inhabitants of a county to the north of here as "wet garbage".
For which I apologize. What I meant was "sodden garbage", a term that actually has a verb in it and therefore suggests action, process, and progress. They sod, they are sodding, they would or shall sod, they have been sodded, they are sodden.

That was also when I mentioned Tinfoil Hat Stevie. Whom I haven't seen in aeons, and rather miss. Since the most expensive cigarettes in Christendom became no longer available, he no longer sits on the lawn twitching and muttering. The CIA are tracking him.
Everyone needs a paranoid garden gnome.
Sodden elf.

It wasn't drugs that made him so, though that region is sodden with cocaine abuse. He is just naturally sub-functional. One cup of coffee, and he's off to the races and off his rocker. There was the Sunday when the dingos were watching the superbowl inside while stuffing their faces with barbecue and quiche, and he was outside moaning about the Clinton Foundation and the Russians. Cigarettes and caffeine.

I myself rely on caffeine and nicotine to become human every morning. A cup of strong coffee, a pipeful of good tobacco, and a walk for several blocks. Gets the juices going, the mind active, and the barely sentient morning gloom to dissipate. At that time of day there are fewer people about. One or two walking their poo factories, some elderly Cantonese getting in a spot of exercise, and no pot users to be seen or smelled anywhere. It's quite lovely.

As a matter of personal habit, philosophy, and distaste, I despise drugs. The minute quantity of cocaine in dental anaesthetics as a vaso-constrictor gives me irregular heart beats. Codeine sends me into shock. And pot bores me, aside from making me sub-comatose for several hours. Plus I'm needle phobic, and paranoid about uncontrolled substances.

So obviously I very much prefer the naturally insane.
They're more creatively loopy.

STELLAR EXAMPLE OF PARAPHERNALIA

Plus I'm a total self-control freak. With caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined sugar, whatever happens is gradual and can be monitored or tweaked. These things are controllable. Alcohol up to a point also has that benefit. Most people who rely on these substances do so in moderation and other than folks in Operations, Marketing, and Advertising, don't get whacked out of their gills on frappucinos or cheap cigars and cocktails.

As a side note: pipe smokers are largely restrained individuals of sound judgement and sober conduct. Exceptions being the habitual smokers of aromatics, whose choice of vanilla-caramel, mango-strawberry, watermelon-bosc pear, or passion-fruit-bourbon-honeysuckle, strongly suggests that they are habitual drunkards, wife beaters, and syphilitics.

The road to hell is paved with cherry cavendish.
As well as 1Q, RLP-6, and BCA.

TOBACCO INDEX


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BALANCE; BETTER WITH A TAIL

A friend from Ramallah who eats latkes asked what people put on theirs. She favours labne and a pinch of za'atar, most other people mentioned sour cream, apple sauce, even ketchup.
Plus salsa, gochujang, and, gottenyu, nacho cheese.
Guess who said Sriracha.

Which of course brought up mayonnaise, peanut sauce, and zuurvlees.
A horsemeat stew from Brabant and Limburg.
Which Americans can't eat.

The horse meat is first marinated in vinegar, with cloves, other spices, and sugar (in the south they use 'stroop', that being either apple or beet molasses). It is cut into small cubes, browned, and then stewed for two hours. The gravy is finished by the addition of 'peperkoek', a sweet spiced rye bread that thickens the sauce. Many people also put peperkoek in the marinade. Horse meat is traditional, and rather lean, so it benefits from this treatment.

If you are a Brabander, you eat funny. It makes up for so much.


Now, speaking of eating funny, last night I was pleased to see a raccoon quickly scoot out from underneath a parked car and up the side of a building. It shows that nature is adapting, and the neighborhood is hospitable to animals again, rather than just the damned dogs, dog owners, bums, and crack fiends. The abandoned supermarket is taking over the role the abandoned church had several years ago, before they tore it down and built condos.

For while there were no raccoons here, though it is (was) their natural habitat.


I suppose if one snuck in through the open kitchen window I'd panic. What do I do? Do I offer it some tea? The prospect of it bringing friends to party, a small cluster of burglar furballs hepped to the gills on hot comforting caffeinated beverages, does not thrill me.

Neither does the idea of having to shut the kitchen window. The paint on the wood work is rather old and flakes a bit, I cook with strong flavours, and I'd have to s


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==========================================================================top smoking in the kitchen when my apartment mate is out. So I need that ventilation.

I did not know that they climbed that well.




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CULTURALLY DISSECTED LUNCH

No jaunt over the hill today. It was too cold, and my feet hurt from work. Soon the time to wear two pairs of socks will be upon us. Well, for me. Probably not for you. As a pipesmoker, on my days off I spend a lot of time in the wild outdoors -- urban San Francisco -- by necessity, as my apartment mate is a non-smoker whose comfort I value (she's reliable and trustworthy, and a joy to live with), whereas the nose-coddling of random pedestrians is NOT my mission in life.
The happiness of my cold-sensitive my feet is.

I'll head over to Chinatown tomorrow. Bank, lunch, long walk with a briar.
Plus I need to do some vegetable shopping.

It may rain. So warmer clothes, and an umbrella. The delightful row of awnings opposite Chinese Hospital were finally taken down, so that that building could be painted, and I'm not sure where there are awnings for shuttered stores without entryways to the flats upstairs (one doesn't want to inconvenience the residents), so it will be sort of a voyage of discovery.
The entryway of Chong Imports on Walter Lum Place is no longer an option; Empress by Boon has put up fencing to keep the riff-raff (people like me) out. But the old Great Star Theater is still largely defunct, and there are one or two places on Washington Street. Plus Waverly is always hospitable even though the Four Seas Restaurant overhang is gone.

There's also the entryway to the Sun Sing Theater, which was a grungy bazaar type place for several years and is now empty and abandoned. The bakery next door is never open.


A very late lunch today. Bami goreng (Indonesian Dutch Chinese fried noodles), with extra ginger. With a mug of strong milk tea to fortify myself for a stroll with a pipe in a short while.
It's gotten colder since running an errand a while earlier, and threatens to drizzle.

The bami goreng was not very good. I've done better. A little too much chili, and the freshly ground black pepper was overkill. I just wasn't particularly inspired. I didn't eat all of it.

Chinatown is a good place to have a pipe. No woken earthmoms to scream that if I just chewed on celery sticks instead it would be so much better for their suburban lungs filthy horrid man.

In Berkeley, they'd make a vegetarian bami goreng, because "meat is murder", and flavour is cultural appropriation. Quinoa noodles, wheatgrass based texture wedges, and turmeric because it ayurvedicly good for you. No fried egg on top. Eggs have souls.
No onion, garlic, or ginger; those excite the bestial instincts.
Frying only with safflower and avocado oils!
Tempeh. To save the planet.
No peanuts!




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ESSENTIAL SUPPLIES FOR THE HOLIDAYS

As we get closer to Christmas, we must ask ourselves if we are properly prepared. Do we have the material that will help us survive this season with equinamity and good cheer? Are we well stocked up on coffee, tea, pipe tobacco? Band aids? Duct tape? Draino? Also, are we most of the time going to be far enough away from sound systems so that Little Drummer Boy doesn't send us into a psychotic rage parom pa pa pom?

It times like these I am grateful that my parents never bought albums of Christmas carols for the record player. And that back in the stone age Christmas movies hadn't been invented yet, and in any case never played outside of the American world.

The rest of you are perhaps less fortunate.


A few years ago, a coworker figured out how to have holiday music playing all day at work. Nothing inspires murderous fits quite as much as that. What was he thinking?

Fortunately, we are all placid sheep.


He quit in 2018, and sofar no one has remembered how to do that. But it's only a matter of time before the boss remembers the happiness, the good cheer, the dulcet tones, and the little children's radiant faces. No children are allowed anywhere near us or in the building, by the way. If there are NO children around, we should be safe, right?


To me, nothing says Christmas more than avoiding shopping areas, public gatherings, skating rinks, little children, parents with little children, grammar schools, doting grandparents with little children, charities with posters of little children, mall santas, the children's department at Macys, or photo opportunities (with little children).

I will be purchasing extra coffee and tea this week. I have enough pipe tobacco stashed to last me till after the nuclear fall out dies down. I haven't had a record player for years, and I have unsubscribed from cable television. There is no pumpkin spice in the house.
There's hot sauce and cheese. I'll be okay.



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THE HABITS

The dangerous thing about life-saving medication is that one might forget to take it, but more likely one could just not remember that one took it. Which is where neurotic rituals come in. Because I take some of my medicines just after waking up, before I've had a chance to swill coffee, I put the bottles on the computer keyboard one by one after each pill, so that returning from the first smoke of the day I'll see them there as reminders that I'm good. The untaken pill bottles will be turned upside down in the rack to remind me that they still need to be done, in the evening, whereupon I will rightside them up again. And sometimes stack them.
Because, of course, a double dose would be not good.

The routine is get up, pop pills while the water is on the stove, swill coffee, pee, have a smoke, and return to dither on the internet a while.

In the evening it's fix some more coffee (or tea), snack a bit, pills, then out for a smoke.

I'll have to explain this to my doctor sometime.

To show that smoking is good.

The first pipe of the day, to what shall I liken it? There's nothing quite like it. It greets the sun and parrots overhead, the crows clustering near the dead street people, the pigeons fighting over a half-eaten slice of pizza, and meter maids ticketing the cars that didn't read about no parking because of street cleaning. It, too, is ritual.


The first pipe of the day has to be outside, because I always get up when my apartment mate is still in. That isn't ritual, just firm habit, made stronger by the need to always take one's pills at the same time more or less every day.

Habits and rituals are a sign of maturity, the rational person developes them over time.
They make life easier.


Next up: why you should sing a little song when putting on your boxer shorts.
And always eat pizza with only one hand.


Also, tie an onion to your belt!
It's the style.




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OFFICERS WITH GUNS

Weapons are a standard part of police outfits. And will, except in the Deep South or Texas, not often be used. If you are a witness of a crime speaking to the police, or a victim of a traffic accident, you will be near police guns.

Quote: "We made a mistake and apologize for the unfortunate incident Friday when we asked members of the San Francisco Police Department to leave our restaurant."

[Soon after the officers were seated, staffers "asked them to leave". Because the weapons made them uncomfortable.]

My problem with this is that anyone with half a friggin' brain would have understood that doing what they did would be incredibly bad optics and publicity, as well as ripe material for spoofing and criticizing the city. That, in fact, both social media and Fox News would have a field day. The phenominal stupidity (and brain-dead blinkered self-righteousness) is beyond belief.

Seeing police in Chinatown, interacting with the locals and protecting the community, improves my comfort level immensely. Especially given the anti Asian American incidents which have increased enormously over the last year and a half, as well as the huge numbers of unbalanced individuals belligerating on the streets of San Francisco.

I had never heard of Hilda and Jesse (701 Union Street, San Francisco, CA 94133) before this.


"We made a mistake and apologize for the unfortunate incident Friday when we asked members of the San Francisco Police Department to leave our restaurant."


If I had, I would not have been keen to try them; their menu does not cater in any way to my type or my income level, and strikes me as "precious". Very twee boutique. And I'll probably forget all about them in a week or two, for the same reasons.

So, other than admiring their unerring aim pissing into their own eyes, I really have nothing to say about them.

Officers with their guns enjoying a meal in the same restaurant as myself would not make me uncomfortable. Seeing cops patrolling Chinatown or my own neighborhood affects my comfort level in a very positive way.

Hilda and Jesse is two blocks away from Northern Station. Maybe it's in the wrong neighborhood. They might want to re-think their paradigm.

And consider moving to Portland.



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HE TOOK EARLY RETIREMENT. JUST IN TIME.

It was a sports day today. So the backroom was filled with uncouth yobbos. Whose ecstacy and despair was loud, long, and peace-disturbing. Between wetting his panties whenever the local team did something stupendous, and getting his knickers in a bunch at times when they didn't, the retired member of the judicial branch probably had soggy silken shreds constricting his withered nether regions by the time he left. He looked drained.

At one point he had to take a phone call. So he left the containment area. And once he finished his call, I explained things to him. "Dear boy, give me something to work with; I can't keep on explaining that your lack of a mask is because you're a half wit if you keep using words of two syllables or more that everyone can hear. And unlike Danny, you don't look the part. Plus he has that degeneracy going for him. It's very convincing. Could you please act demented and drool a bit? Play the part. Because otherwise you're blatantly setting a horrid example."

I don't think he heard me. He was upset about the progress of the game.

Seattle simply is a better team, and he knows it.

His world was closing in.

Despair!


Danny, who looks the part, has an obvious close familial kinship with Bigfoot going for him.
The retired member of the judicial branch looks human.

Henceforth I shall insist that the judiciary retired member drool. Given his age, that should convince anyone. He's a football fan, so it should be easy.

He also howls occasionally, and erupts in foul language. Very Tourettes.
That too I can use to explain his mask-idiocy.
"He's quite demented."
"Sad."




The Seahawks won, by the way. They played splendidly.




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WHY THE SPHINX HAS NO NOSE

Women used to dress up and go to cocktail parties or restaurants to drink. Nowadays, they gather in the apartment directly opposite the front door of this building, on the second floor, wearing next to nothing and swilling white wine. Of course, this IS during a pandemic.
Rather than the nineteen fifties when no one got infected.

The apartment mate was browsing for compacts on the internet. Small flat cases with a mirror and a powder puff. A proper lady couldn't pee in public without one.

I did not know that.

Well, I did, of course. I've seen enough of old television shows to know that when Della Street picks up her compact she's going to the ladies' room.


Per the apartment mate:


'Oh, it was sweet! Once upon a time women had to go powder their noses! Instead of "out of my way, Twats, I have to pee!"'


Do not get in the way of a woman whose bladder speaks to her. The bladder is saying something urgent, she may too. Don't let it bother you, you are being too senstive.
Get out of her path and clear some space, she has to pee.

I have never seen a woman pee. I didn't doubt that they did so, but I haven't ever actually had direct evidence; it wasn't necessary. Women talk about it, sometimes at very great length.
A lady explorer speaking of her dire trek in the Amazon will mention that finding a quiet spot to pee away from the gauchos became a pressing need, by the third or fourth day. They had to dodge poisoned arrows from the natives and piranhas or crocodiles.
Oh, it was a fearsome journey!

A male explorer detailing his trip to the piramids in Egypt will casually let fall that he took a giant leak from the top, if he mentions his bodily functions at all. Or that the nose of the sphinx fell off because of stone softening caused by generations of urinating Egyptian ragamuffins and Frenchmen standing right on top of the head, happy go luckily taking a whizz.


Judging by the existence of sterling silver compacts, at one time women needed their noses to pass water. They would have had a hard time in Egypt. We've made progress since then.




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YOU ARE DYSFUNCTIONAL

The Dutch holiday tradition is that Sinterklaas comes sliding down the chimney in the middle of the night on December 5th., and if you've been good he leaves you candy and prezzies. If you have been bad -- which he knows because he's been spying on you and your parents have ratted you out -- he'll order a bunch of black men in mediaeval drag to whup the bejayzus out of you, stuff you in a gunny sack and drag you off to Spain to be sold to North Africans as slaves. The implication, of course, is that Dutch adults were good people when younger, whereas there is NO such guarantee about anyone else. Possibly they were just better at hostage-taking.

"Well, kiddo, you HAD older siblings, you just don't remember."

"No, we never tried to find them afterwards, why do you ask?"


This is all quite normal. And like ALL good Dutch traditions, it cannot be changed.
It's sanctified minhag mi Sinai.

Another hallowed part of the Dutch holiday tradition is the first letter of your name in solid chocolate. Plus marzipan. Again, conditional on you having been a good little boy or girl. And surely that makes up for you crapping your trousers all the way through Autumn?

Chocolate! Marzipan! Safe for another year!


Of course I never actually believed that Sinterklaas shiznit, and my mom and dad were both Americans -- there is plenty of Dutch in the family tree, but we're not crazy -- so they never laid that stuff on me. But every year I wondered how big of a damned idiot Sinterklaas (or whoever was subbing for him) was, because several horrid kids kept showing up at school the next day. Surely in a wise and just world they would have been kidnapped and sold to the Moors?

Trust me, a lot of of the little children in Valkenswaard were vicious bloody monsters who by everything good and proper should have been labouring in the salt mines under the heel of vicious Berbers for the rest of their lives.

There is no justice in this world. Cynicism is the correct approach.
The Moors don't want nasty kids. They're useless.

At FAO Schwarz on Union Square 'It's a Small World After All' was always on permanent loop.
One of the most popular Christmas songs is "The Little Drummer Boy'. Most holiday songs are nauseating dreck. Which are played for weeks. You Anglo Americans are a sick bunch of bastards, you know that? No wonder your kids grow up to be psychopaths.

The Moors certainly don't want your kids either.
They too are quite useless.


I could also mention Mall Santa.
But I won't.




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GO AHEAD, BULGE IF YOU FEEL LIKE IT

A neighbor across the street, on the third floor, is in the habit of wandering around his semidark apartment naked. Twilight time, morning or evening. The first smoke of the day and the last are enlivened by his ghostly moonlightlike glow from high above. Because of the angle I cannot see his groin, which I didn't want to anyway.

Maybe he's wearing boxer shorts or briefs.

I am not interested in his underwear either.

My only curiosity about underwear is about my own -- is it comfy? -- and possibly yours, same question. If you are a woman, your undergarb very likely isn't as comfortable as mine.
Baggy boxer shorts, coloured tee-shirt. No, I shan't offer to trade.

Women's underwear might be too constricting.
It often is.


Not that I have very much experience with that. Or any at all for the last eleven plus years. So it's quite hypothetical, and based on the glimpses I've caught of panties and bras for sale at stores which I've passed. Or in rock videos of which I've accidentally seen a bit.

My earliest exposure to women's undergarments was grainy grey line drawings in the Sears catalogue between furniture and holiday chocolates. Highly engineered form-shaping support habiliments which I believe very old women still wear. A layer of scientifically designed fabric with just enough stretch and firmness that, hypothetically, a person who ate too many of the holiday bon bons could sit in the featured furniture without showing peculiar bulges.
I've always been aware of the need to hide peculiar bulges.
For many women, it is a keenly felt need.
They have bulge awareness.


"Does this make me look bulgy?"

I don't know. Do you want it to?


If I were magically transported to a womens' locker room, I would observe everything around me with a scientic eye. It would be a learning experience. For everyone concerned.



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SENSITIVE PEOPLE

Facebook and Mark Zuckerberg have standards. Which is hard to believe. And occasionally mild mannered soft spoken gentlemen will run afoul of them, because of rhetorical flourishes which bloody minded literalists, Indian programming monkeys, and artificial intelligences don't quite appreciate. No offense to all the bloody minded literalists, subcontinental programming monkeys, and buggery unnatural intelligences, some of my best friends etcetera.

Will no one think of the mild mannered soft spoken gentlemen?
Oh, the humanity!


Today marks the last day of the 30 day Facebook ban (hate, community standards). This post caused it: "The apartment mate informs me that Kimchi Tofu Soup, as available at a local yuppie enterprise, looks unappetizingly like it's filled with "B B 曱甴" ('bi bi gaa tzaat'; baby cockroaches). Because it also contains black rice. The immortal words of a very good friend are entirely applicable in this instance: "stupid f*cking white people"."
November 2, 2021.
You couldn't post or comment for 30 days

What I said about Mike Pence cringingly sucking up to Trump (harassment and bullying): "Turns out he's a whore."
October 6, 2021
You couldn't post or comment for 7 days

The previous ban was because of this comment about rich bastards posting selfies in space: "Shoot them up. Leave them there."
July 7, 2021.
You couldn't post or comment for 3 days
You couldn't advertise for 30 days
You couldn't go live for 30 days

Earlier: "I hate pot. I'd probably burn the building down and hire a hit man."
June 7, 2021.
You couldn't post or comment for 24 hours

The first offense on Facebook, about a hypothetical pot smoker: "Beat him to death."
April 19, 2021.
We understand that mistakes happen, so we didn't restrict your account


I'm not ashamed of any of that. At all. Facebook is wussy.
And very stupid f*cking white. Sensitive!


I despise Trader Joe's dickhead products, space tourists, Mike Pence, and pot smokers.


I'm "on the fence" about literalists, computer simians, and AI.
As well as Mark Zuckerberg.

I wouldn't die in his hospital if you paid me.




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THE FUNDAMENTS OF CIVILISED LIFE

As every reader knows, quaint English villages are perfect places to get murdered. Especially when your dotty aunt is in the vicinity. Look for somewhere with a mediaeval church, elderly parishioners and retirees, someone's senile or neurotic relative, and a charming tea shoppe. There's bound to be a weapon from the Afghan wars somewhere, or an entire crate of rat poison. The English seem to love rat poison. It's inexplicable.

I like the English habit of tea in the middle of the afternoon with snackies to fortify one for a long evening of cocktail parties, or sherry in the library, or actually sitting in front of the computer becoming mildly peevish about all the stupidity in the world.
Followed, perhaps, by a nap.

Given that I live in San Francisco, fresh scones with clotted cream, cucumber or salmon sandwiches, and a thick slice of Dundee cake are not part of the programme.

Charsiu sou (叉燒酥), daan taat (蛋撻), gai pai (雞批), lo po beng (老婆餅). Sometimes Preserved egg in a flaky crust (蛋黃酥 'pei dan sou'), red bean pastry (豆沙餠 'dau sa beng'), ham and cheese bun (火腿芝士包 'fo tui ji si baau'), or a hot dog bun 香腸包 ('heung cheung baau'). It's not English. More American.

Adrian, who lived in Hong Kong, had access to more English tea time things. But I rather doubt that he ate anything at that time as the wish for a nice smoke outside the building may have trumped the snack urge. Pipe, rain, sheltered area out of the way of foot traffic.
He has returned to England; the pipe and rain are more constant now.

John, who was in HK for several years in his twenties and thirties, never developed a tea habit. Americans seldom do. If you order tea in a bar or restaurant in the United States, what you get is lukewarm water that took ten minutes to get to the mezzanine with all the pints and cocktails, a selection of strange herbal bags, and a thick slice of lemon. I'm guessing that when we dumped the tea in Boston Harbour we didn't let it steep very much.

No idea what Starbucks or other chains do. It's probably awful. I am a little neurotic about my tea. Consequently I will head into Chinatown for a decent cup. Hong Kong style milk tea.
Strong brewed, sweetened and creamed with condensed milk.

There are no eccentric elderly English people in Chinatown, or crates of rat poison. These staples of British country living are gladly missing. The locals tolerate a Dutch American smoking a pipe. And it seldom rains.

Perhaps the old Peterson sandblast today.
I haven't smoked it recently.
It feels right.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THAT OLD-TIMEY WHITE TRASH

One of the reasons I despise American Christianity is because I'm a frightful effing snob, and television preachers are the absolute epitome of white trash. So naturally I should be overjoyed that another one of their number, anti-vaxxer and righwing blowtard Marcus Lamb, president and CEO of Daystar Television Network, kicked the bucket recently because of Covid.
But really, it's sad, so sad ... he left behind his loving wife Joni and three children ...

Alexa, play 'Despacito' for me.

Yeah, no, screw them all and their camels. Between the religious nuts, rightwingers, antivax idiots, and the damned tourists spreading new variants around the world, it's no wonder that this ain't over by a long shot.

Get this straight, boyos: American Christianity consists overwhelmingly of repulsive heresies, from the Papists all the way to the Mormons, including the Baptists, Methodists, Adventists, Fundamentalists, and Charismatics. In a just and righteous universe they would be wiped entirely from society and their various dominions cleansed by fire.

They are garbage, and their ideas are garbage.

And I say this as an atheist.


My ancestors didn't come here to practice religious tolerance, they were fleeing a campaign of extermination by the Spanish on behalf of Rome. The Dutch fought an eighty year war for their independence and survival. The Dutch West Indies Company which founded New York (New Amsterdam) had, as part of their warrant, pursuit of the struggle against the Spanish and treacherous other European nations aiding and abetting them.

The direct descendent of a man who had to leave Brabant because of the Spaniards and their religious fervor landed in the new world in 1630. So don't even think of preaching that smarmy "we're all God's chillun" pretence at pluralism at me. It's only purpose is so that y'all can be backstabbing two-faced hypocrites. Religion must have NO place in politics.

One cannot associate with people who hold otherwise.

This country is fast becoming a shithole.

Let's stop pretending it isn't.

Merry Xmas, bitches.


Damn' Texans.



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HIDING AMONG THE HIGH RISES

In an article about flocks of crows in the city (a flock of crows is called a murder, which is a fowl canard if ever there was one), one key sentence caught my eye. Which I initially misread: "The downtown high-rises also provide an ideal environment for the birds because they not only offer safety from predators, but also shelter from the elephants."

Shelter from the elephants is very important.

Especially in San Francisco.

It's a quest.



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MORE THAN ONE

Lunch was not very good. And I should've known better than to order a fried chicken sandwich (炸雞三文治 'jaa gai saam man ji'), given how unwieldy a large chicken cutlet is, and how tough fried chicken can get. But I didn't feel like noodles. They've simplified their menu because of covid. Also, when the second waitress went home early -- probably because she needed to get stuff done for the family -- it left only one person working the floor, who was up to her neck and on the cusp of losing it. It wasn't that busy. But for one person it was plenty.
I like the place, and I hope they survive.
I tipped fifty percent.

Both the pipe afterwards and the slight chicken queasiness were extremely enjoyable. And watching four policemen acting like social workers, quieting down an old lady pissed at her husband, was instructive, interesting, educational. Local neighborhood boys, now in uniform and dealing with their own people. The social work aspect is necessary because the ice in Chinatown is thin. Thinner after twenty months of pandemic.

Some businesses are closed and will eventually reopen. Some will never return.

The neighborhood feels different. Stressed.


Further along Waverly a crazy woman, non-Chinese, was sitting on a doorstep loudly bewailing bitch-hood, what the bitches were doing or had done, bitches, bitch, and those bitches.
No one listened.

When Cantonese people are stressed by uncertainty, many of them try to create a greater sense of community for themselves. It boosts their sense of security, of not being alone.

When non-Chinese have the same situation, some of them become poison-tongued.
It puts up dividers and marks out a mental space. Bitch.



Honestly, I do not mind complete strangers on the bus, upon seeing my cane, urging me to sit, and the subsequent back and forth of 唔使客氣，我唔坐，你坐，你坐，坐坐坐 。Ah Sook is NOT a cripple, but appreciates your courtesy greatly. It makes us seem connected.
And I would prefer it that you sat, mother with two kids.
You look tired, and I'm full of beans.




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DEAD SEAGULLS

With maturity comes the wisdom to be less impressed by sparkly new things, and considerably less optimistic about every one else's bright ideas. I like to think that the young can benefit at least from a dosage of my sarcasm, cynicism, and bad temper. This was prompted by a friend and myself comparing our medications, which would not be safe for some idiot to raid from gran'ma's medicine cabinet wanting to get high.

My friend is vibrantly alive and full of piss and vinegar. Looking for a love interest.

He's older than I am, more medicated, and more optimistic.

Whereas I am a self-assured younger woman. At least, that's my perky Facebook avatar on the alternate account, because I got Facebook Jailed for an entire month for being a meanie. As any sane man would be. The alternative is supporting the patriarchy, buying into traditional flesh-based gender and age roles, as well as watching sports on teevee.

While swilling crappy American beer.

No, I am not identity confused. But I am certain that the slew of Christmas related dreck will get me banned again on one of my accounts. At the very least some fat old white asshole in an unwashed red bathrobe will be triggered -- apparently that's half the country, probably the people who voted for Trump, who is a fat old white asshole -- due to my ongoing "war on Christmas", which, clearly, is about selling beer, X-boxes, and little children.

Also, a plot to make Tucker Carlson feel good about himself.


How much different the holidays would be if dead seagulls were a theme.

Johnny, you are getting a brand new dead seagull for Yule tide! Seeing as you finally finished the last one. Shiny! Irridescent with the putrescing of flesh underneath the feathers.
And plumped up with gasses! Oh, the joy!

This day marks the anniversary of when the Romans nailed a dead seagull to a cross out in the saltflats. The secret to enjoying a dead seagull is letting it age properly. And softening it up by whacking football players with it, or savagely stomping it to death in overcrowded shopping malls. Scrooge handing out dead seagulls to his staff on Dead Seagull Morning. Rich in oils and vitamin D oozing from the flesh. Pursuant which, please note that Vitamin D is "a group of fat-soluble secosteroids responsible for increasing intestinal absorption of calcium, magnesium, and phosphate, and many other biological effects. In humans, the most important compounds in this group are vitamin D3 (also known as cholecalciferol) and vitamin D2 (ergocalciferol). The major natural source of the vitamin is synthesis of cholecalciferol in the lower layers of skin epidermis through a chemical reaction that is dependent on sun exposure (specifically UVB radiation)". [Wikipedia]

Midwinter holidays are all about a lack of vitamin D. Nowadays there are dietary supplements. We no longer need Tucker Carlson, call the whole thing off.

Will no one think of the dead seagulls?!?
Instead of X-boxes and beer?
Or Tucker Carson?


This episode of 'Bah, Humbug' brought to you by maturity, medication, horrid tacky decorations everywhere, and a profound distaste for what's on television. Plus the fact that putting any of it on Facebook would trigger all the Trumps and Carlsons of the world, damn them.

Please note that no fat old white perverts in greasy red bathrobes were harmed in the making of this post. You may go back to 'Little Drummer Boy' on permanent loop now.

Remember to take all of your pills.
Especially vitamin D.



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MAGIC MIRACLE PILLOW

For some reason the Facebook algorithm for both accounts is giving me pillow advertisements that tell me I can sleep without waking up in the middle of the night, and need no longer suffer from reflux or shoulder pain. I've never discussed my sleep patterns on Facebook, but if I have to pee in the middle of the night, I would prefer to wake up. Seems the correct thing to do.
Also, reflux isn't my problem. I chew my food.

The magic pillow is 30% off for a limited time.

It can't be very good if they're so desperate to get rid of it.

Maybe in parts of the country they don't mind being fast asleep while peeing (and probably behind the wheel of their pickup truck), but this is the San Francisco Bay Area.
We've kind of gotten used to the flush feature.



In other news: we got to see Andy Lau on screen at the karaoke joint last night wearing a goofy costume. He used to be a serious (movie) actor, what the heck happened? Did he become so enamoured of moist concert venue seats that he decided to see how far he could push that envelope with his screaming fans?

If so, I can recommend a pillow.
Easier, less embarrassing.



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