ANGLO CULTURAL THINGS

Now that Black History Month is over -- which was celebrated by a lot of frat boys going to bars and getting puking drunk -- it's Saint Patrick's Day Month / Irish Cultural Celebration Month. Which is traditionally also celebrated by a lot of frat boys going to bars and getting puking drunk. Tax month after that. Puking drunk too, but with despair.

There is no month that isn't observed by drunk puking.

For frat boy people, it's a festive event.


A very white 'thing'.


As a white person, I feel immense guilt over not getting puking drunk for so long. Almost as if I'm neglecting a fundamental part of my heritage. Although it is mostly Anglo Saxons and Celts that engage in that (I'm of mostly Dutch heritage; we seldom get quite so blotto).

After Tax Celebration Month, frat boys will be observing the liberation of Europe on May fifth by Mexico, by once more going to bars and getting puking drunk. On tequila, this time. Plus sometimes spontaneously performing the Danse du Chapeau Mexicain (aka 'Guadalajara Syrup song'). They will also eat lots of avocados, cheesy snax, and little cakes.
In memory of the Alamo.


Frat boys are such a happy people.
And they've got rythm!



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THERE COULD BE WORSE PLACES

It fills me with great joy that per recent research the province of the Netherlands where we spent several years after moving overseas, where in fact many of my ancestors were distantly from, is NOT the most alcoholic territory in the country. North Brabant is slightly above average, but Overijsel is highly dysfunctional. Life is grim there, with nothing but cabbage and fried rats for dinner, and buckets of very bad beer and firewater to wash it all down and deaden the dullness. Poor liquour sodden in-bred peasants.
Neener, neener, neener.

The town where we lived (Valkenswaard, N-BR.) at one point had a few hundred drinking establishments for scarcely thirty thousand people. Reason being that the natives were a very social bunch. As well as given to breaking laws and engaging in smuggling activities because of the nearby border. Cheerful and engaging criminals.

I have never met anyone from Overijsel.
They aren't that social.


There are twelve provinces in the Netherlands, plus overseas territories. Overijsel's share of the GNP is less than six percent. Proving that the natives are unproductive, and probably tipsy most of the time. The dialect they speak is unintelligible, and possibly Welsh.

Sadly, Overijsel is not known for food, painting, music, or literature.



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YESTERDAY RAIN!

Being white and able to understand Cantonese gives me the opportunity to listen in on conversations, such as when I'm having a delicious tea-time pastry and hot caffeinated beverage in Chinatown before smoking my pipe on Waverly Place.
And such exciting conversations too!
Like you could imagine
.
"Old Wong had a major operation recently."

"Eh?"

"I said 'OLD WONG HAD AN OPERATION!"

"Oh."

[Pause.]


"His heart. He has heart trouble."

"Eh?"

"HEART TROUBLE!"

"Oh. Um."

In a way I feel sorry for Old Wong. I don't know exactly what his heart problem is, or what the operation was, but now everyone in the bakery doesn't know exactly also. The helpful lady behind the counter. The boss lady in the office. The two ladies with brooms.
Besides the two people having the animated conversation.
And me; such luck!

Continued:

"It's going to rain tomorrow."

"Eh?"

"RAIN. TOMORROW."

"What?"

"RAIN TOMORROW. RAIN. TOMORROW. RAIN."

"Rain?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Rain."

They'll both be back there on Wednesday. I won't, but I won't need to know that it rained yesterday. Rain. Yesterday. It rained yesterday.

After finishing my pastry and milk tea I left and lit up my pipe. There were few people about, it being late in the day, and the sky looked leaden, as if there might be rain soon.
Today, for instance.

If Old Wong is a pipesmoker, he'll be out of luck.
Unless he has an umbrella. Such as I do.

He's welcome to join me.


I haven't a clue what he looks like.
Chinese, would be my guess.


Yesterday's post-tea-time smoke was very nice.
I'm looking forward to today's.



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SEMI-DOMESTIC BLISS

Every year, like clockwork, pipesmokers in places like Michigan or Minnesota post variants of the Siberia Help Cry. "It's so cold! My garage is freezing! The wife won't let me smoke in the house! How do you guys stand it?" And naturally every year the responses are the same. "Dude, I live in California." "Buy a space heater." "Get a divorce." "Man up!"

Because, of course, a real he-man goes out on the frozen lake in his thermals with his trusty briar, and only a waist-length beard and his determination to keep him warm. Also, no testicles. Because they froze off while he was proving a point.

My advice, if I had any, would be to wear multiple layers of clothing and smear a layer of bear fat on exposed skin, then set fire to your neighbor's parked car. Which is probably up on cinder blocks anyway, given where you live.

I live in San Francisco and have a heavy overcoat and gloves.

For two or three months of the year I complain.

And wear two pairs of socks.


Honestly, I don't know how women pipe smokers do it. One of them I know has a husband who also smokes a pipe, and another one probably lives alone with her cats. There are others, but on pipe forums they're mostly silent, because otherwise they get marriage proposals from ten thousand or more lonely men.

I'm not sure I could stand living with another smoker. Pipes or otherwise. I wouldn't mind being the comforting fragrant presence in someone else's life, right around tea time for instance, but I don't particularly like sharing ashtrays. Even at work that's a problem.


A shared "habit" might not be sufficient common ground for cohabitation.
And in any case, that's what the public street is for.
Preferably in front of office high rises.

Either that or the common room at a residential establishment for academics, or the library down at the Imperialist Warmongers' Club. Where tea is served, followed by sherry and drinks, before dinner. Someplace where there is no talk of sports or religion.

And we can all agree that what should go on buttered toast is thick cut marmalade, or sardines. Or, if we're feeling controversial and gout-free today, chopped liver.
That last will have to be arranged in advance.
A contradiction.



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FOR MANGA FANBOYS

Several years back I ran into some discarded feminine undergarments on the sidewalk.
That was somewhat before my break-up twelve years ago. There have been occasional mentions of panties or brassieres on this blog since then, perhaps subconsciously linked to an absence of romance. At one point, a reader who has no doubt grown up by now (at least I hope so) expressed curiosity about the major differences between bikini briefs, French cut briefs, and hi-cut briefs. Which, after some pleasant research (I am scientifically minded), yielded this little essay:

DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FRENCH CUT AND HIGH CUT.
[Posted Monday, November 19, 2012.]

I am a helpful man.


Inexplicably, it is one of my post popular pieces.

You know, I've probably mentioned cheese and Josef Stalin more often in blogposts than panties. They are no less fascinating.

Quite likely I know more about both fine fromage and brutal communist dictators than about female underwear. At the present time, which has lasted longer than a decade, both of those have been considerably more important than the garments that the gentler sex allegedly wears under their over-clothes. At least I think most of them do so. Not sure.
My apartment mate very likely wears such things, I believe.
It's none of my business, and I haven't asked.
It's her business in any case.


The main demographic that has a burning interest in girls' underwear is probably teenage manga and anime aficionados. Also a few lonesome young men in Pakistan.
I am sadly neither a teenager nor Pakistani.
I feel their pain.

As a man I am attuned to the aesthetics of the subject, but not to any great extent.
Not enough to make any great investigative effort.

WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT TO THE OBSESSED:
I keenly support panty wearing, pipesmoking, warm caffeinated beverages, snackies, chilipaste, cheese, and comfortable warm clothing during this weather.
Brutal communist dictators not so much.

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HAWAIIAN TWEET VOLCANO

All the evidence points to Tulsi Gabbard being a lying treasonous Kremlin puppet who may very well be off her rocker. Naturally, she was one of the politicians being seriously considered once as presidential candidate material.

Per Tulsi Gabbard:
"There are 25 to 30 US-funded biolabs in Ukraine --- according to the U.S. government, these biolabs are conducting research on dangerous pathogens. Ukraine is in an active war zone. Widespread bombing, artillery, and shelling, and these facilities, even in the best of circumstances could be easily compromised and release these deadly pathogens."

Per Mitt Romney, frequent Fox News darling and rep from Hawaii Gabbard is spreading dangerous Putin propaganda which will cost lives.


CITE (NEWSWEEK):
"The theory that dangerous American-funded labs exist in Ukraine has also become associated with the QAnon conspiracy theorists, who have said without evidence that Russian President Vladimir Putin is invading Ukraine with the support of former President Donald Trump to destroy labs that are linked to Dr. Anthony Fauci. Fauci, director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, became a popular target among conspiracy theorists throughout the coronavirus pandemic, as people resisted protective measures like masks, lockdowns and vaccines."

In February, fact-checking website Snopes released a report debunking the Ukrainian biolab theory, saying no such labs exist.
End cite.

Tulsi Gabbard responded to Mitt Romney's statement with a slew of unhinged tweets.

Perhaps she should join her hero Snowden in Moscow.

She'll be warmly welcomed.



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BIG FLUFFY PUFF BALLS

So it turns out a lot of evangelicals are peeved because Pixar's movie 'Turning Red' is NOT about coming to Jesus, but apparently all about menstruation and maxi pads or something. They can't relate, because their daughters ain't gonna have those heathen periods ever. They're really upset. Also, too much womanhood! Might turn you lesbian.

Um. I don't think we're on the same page.

Don't know what page they're on.

Gonna have to see it now.

Bloody evangers.

Personally, I think those verkrampte evangelicks are reading too much into this, and getting their knickers in a twist over a minor butterfly that exists in their own bloody minds. They've got maxi pads on the brain. Plus their own fundy guilt or traumas.
Jesus angst embedded in their shrivelled souls.
Some of us just like puff balls.
Okay?


Puff balls!


Not having seen the movie, I can only imagine that the menstrual period and teenage boy bands in a fairy tale Toronto are a thing. Sounds goofy, but whatever.




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MEN SELF MADE

Imagine if you will a dozen gentlemen in various stages of fossiltude hanging around bellyaching about modern times and raggging on each other something fierce. That would be the cigar smokers. Now imagine a dozen sprightly young lads of the same range of ages as the angry fossils, happily discussing music and cars. That would be the pipe club. Which met indoors today for the first time since the pandemic started. I believe a good time was had.

Because I was busy with various things I did not join them at their gay partay, but I was witness to their giddiness sporadically. Morris arrived first with bottles of wine.
Which I believe were all empty when it was over.

The cigar smokers are more hardcore. Empty rum bottles are part of their regular trash.

I tend to describe them as bitter old men living in a bubble.


Because I do not partake of rum, and did not drink any wine, I spent the entire day giddy as a kite on caffeine, with multiple cups of tea. I had a good time, the pipesmokers had a good time, the cigar smokers may not have.

The cigar smokers pride themselves on being self-made men. The assembly instructions were badly written. Note to authors of same: dumb it down even more. Thank you.



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THAT'S JUST HOW I LOOK

When asked why I'm still wearing a mask, my answer is that I don't trust people. I don't trust them enough to want to touch their underwear, so why on earth would I want to share their lung cooties. Now aren't you sorry you asked?

Honestly, I feel more comfortable around a lot of people with a mask on.

A sense of anonymity, perhaps. As well as strange mystery.

With the mask, I look thirty years younger.


Unlike most men nowadays, I shave on a regular basis, around my beard, which I neatly trim religiously. So the mask is not hiding the Miami Vice look nor an "I'm hip and I just stepped out of bed" raggedy scruff which a lot of hipsters have. Clean face, neat beard, fresh underwear, and recent acquaintance with soap, deodorant, toothpaste, comb.

If a person of the opposite gender were to look deep into my eyes, she would not be distracted or dismayed by worrisome grooming failures. Which is just a hypothetical situation, of course, I actually know fair number of women, and none of them have ever indicated that they have an interest on my eyes except for a pleasant young woman in Chinatown with a PHD who prescribed Latanoprost for the left eye and advised me to get stronger reading glasses. I'm seeing her again right around tax time, and then in another four months.

The intraocular pressure seems to be better now.

I have a magnifying glass for small print and Chinese characters in dictionaries, by the way. Unless one can clearly identify strokes and building blocks, the character is meaningless.


The last time I didn't attend to my personal hygiene with the usual rigor was when I was in the hospital after rupturing my appendix. I'm sure you understand why.
Didn't feel up to cleanth for five days.



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DISTURBING THE TIME

Tonight marks the change over to daylight savings time. Which means that whereas this morning's walk with a pipe was lovely -- dawn already fully formed, birds tweeting, and all that jazz -- tomorrow it will be dark and gloomy when I stumble out with a trusty briar, braving the fog and the feral street people. Differently put: almost like we will have regressed a month. And no Vietnamese eatery to welcome the weary traveller with something warm and comforting, and a caffeinated beverage, because Nob Hill is not Little Saigon (the Tenderloin), and no way in heck am I going down there in darkness early in the morning.
There are wild things down there.

The more I think about it, a caffeinated beverage after a smoke would be lovely. During it would be even nicer. But one cannot smoke inside at a café any more, because civic minded drooges and do-gooders have decided that public health is best served by chasing us out into the cold to be mugged by heroin addicts and drunkards. For the children.

The precious children cannot be exposed.
Gates of hell might open up.
Mordor.

I'm sorry, at six o'clock in the maternal loving morning I don't tolerate the little wankers very well. Was there some memo I should have read and taken to heart? I didn't get it. Don't bother sending it to me again, just print out a hard copy to give me when you see me.
I'm a Luddite; there is no computer at my desk.

[This essay was typed on an old-school carrier pigeon.]

You know what really triggers little kiddie-winkies and their parents? A nice bowl filled with a Virginia mixture along with the caffeinated beverage and absolutely nothing tofu anywhere! Heartbreak! Despair! Profound self-doubt!

No caffeinated beverage to restore the inner man.
And it's cold and dark outside!



Now, you could say "why don't you leave the house at a later hour?"
The problem is that the streets are filled with grumpy people pooing their dogs then, as well as sourpusses heading to the yoga studio with their sweatmats under their arms.
The quiet and peacefulness has dissipated.


Besides, that's when all the elephants jump out of their treehouses.
Which is why beavers have flat tails.
So no.




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BLAME THE DUTCH!

In a recent interview, part of which was on twitter and mentioned elsewhere, the formerly most important loser and windbag-in-chief obstinately blamed the Ukraine war on Dutch people, Don Quixote, and technology invented overe five or six centuries ago.
Reminder: you people voted for him. He's senile.
You Republicans are morons.


"It would've never happened, and we did talk about it; he definitely wanted Ukraine, loved Ukraine, would never have happened. --- Well, and, and, I said this a long time ago, if this happens, we are playing, uh, right into their hands. Green energy. The windmills don’t work. They’re too expensive, they kill all the birds, they ruin your landscapes, and yet the environ-

 mentalists love the windmills. And I’ve been preaching this for years. The windmills, and I had them way down, but the windmills are the most expensive energy you can have. And they don’t work. And by the way they last a period of ten years, and by the time they start rusting and rotting all over the place, nobody ever takes them down, they just go on to the next piece of prairie or land, and destroy that. It's incredible ... "


Got that? It's windmills. Windmills, windmills, windmills!

Darn it, Jan, he done found us out! Our dastardly plan to kill Ammmurrrikan prairie fowl will come to naught, now that the smartest man in the Republican Party has seen through it.
Putin can go home now, we now know why he invaded the Ukraine.
We Dutch and our windmills caused all this.


I guess we'll have to come up with a different plan.




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BEAUTY BEAUTY BEAUTY!

It is with some regret (not a whole lot) that I again realize that I do not understand or share modern standards of feminine beauty. What brought it to the fore was a music video at the place where I had lunch. A female singer, Chinese, classic oval face ivory skin, slim and winsome. Who looked unappealing and altogether dull against the backdrop of a night time street scene in Hong Kong. It was a romantic ballad.

At a table in the middle of the room were three elderly ladies leisurely enjoying their meal together. Lazily their chopsticks drifted over the dishes, picking out morsels. Their conversation was not understandable from my distance, though one or two phrases in the silence between lyrics told me they spoke Cantonese. They were happy. And looked beautiful in consequence.

The waitress was pleased to see an old friend come in, and had been in a good mood before hand, probably because the kvetchy old biddy who is one of the regulars was not there.

A pleasure to watch.


On the other hand, pricess Di and the Mona Lisa look like total drips.


In movies where they cast the classic beauty as the heroine, the acting is often amateurish and the plot predictable. Sadly, the movie has the same intellect as the "beauties" in the lime light.

Exception being some movies with Marilyn Monroe.

On the other hand, a film starring the obsessed and clearly brilliant woman in this illustration would be well worth watching. Insane, but riveting. You'd blinkily stumble out of the theatre either swearing to never eat chips again, or you would go on a desperate hunt for them. Either way, fence sitting would NOT be part of the programme; chips are the most important things in the universe!

Do NOT disturb the woman eating chips. She will cripple you.

Same goes for women with ice cream, by the way.



I brought home three bags of potato chips: fried crab flavour, dried fish, and egg yolk. Sadly, they were out of cucumber flavour. The apartment mate bought cheddar sour cream.
And there is a smörgåsbord of icecream in the refrigerator.
We appreciate beauty.




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THE GOOD OLD DAYS

Sometimes I'm reminded of how far we've come as a civilization. We all remember the seventies and eighties, when life was different and carefree, filled with good things to eat, dolphins, and sensible choices. Choices that we didn't worry about too much.

The entire world embraced the California life style, drank affordable whisky marketed as quality liquour, and wore synthetic fabric clothing that was deliciously form fitting. McNuggets hadn't been invented yet. The Ford Pinto was America's motor vehicle.
Everyone was white and had blue eyes.
Rocks rolled.

The path to salvation was through glossy print, affordable plastics, thigh masters, feathered hair, and dancing to disco music while saying things like 'shazbot' and 'na nu na nu'.

Quality television shows! Dukes Of Hazard, Three's Company Too, Lawrence Whelk!
And who can possibly forget 'The A-Team'?
Only da fool!

Gosh, the Reagan Era was fun.

In retrospect, it was all about style, enlightened living, and good taste.

Every thing since then has just gotten better and better.

Just like they promised it would.

By golly.




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WALKABOUT

Every year when Daylight Savings Time began they performed the Magic Chicken Dance that kept the plagues away, ensured a bountiful production of methamphetamine, and purified the trailer park in the foothills. Last year had been wonderful, the dance had been more splendid than ever. The oldest member of the tribe was no longer able to do it, what with being stiff, arthritic, toothless, given to tremors and convulsions, and quite staggeringly insane, but his adult son had taken over, demonstrating all he had learned from his thirty year old father.

And there had been festive foods! Corn dogs and jello!

Oh, it had been truly very, very wonderful!

The spirits smiled upon them.

A fertile year.

At least, that's how I think life is in California's more rural Republican counties. It might be a little different than that, but I'll never know, because I have no reason to go into the bush. The very few visitors we've had from there usually demonstrated unstable mental characteristics, and had not been able to communicate very well. Some of the chemicals used in manufacturing crystal meth interfere with brain functions.

But the Magic Chicken Dance is something that anthropologists will surely be fascinated and thrilled by, and I encourage them to go into the hinterlands to record the native rituals on film before they disappear. Just avoid getting eaten. Accidentally.

If you survive, there's a PHD thesis there.

Head inland till you hear banjos.




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PRECISELY WHAT'S WRONG WITH AMERICA

The exact mid-point between lunch and afternoon tea was a cussing match with a Caucasian mask-rejector at Walgreens. Seeing as there is an immense overlap between mask-resistance, Trumpism, racism, Karenism, and syphilitic Texans, I'm quite glad it didn't come to blows; if it had I might have caught something. Other than that, it was a delightful afternoon. The waitress asked me how come I was having lunch there today. Didn't I usually come on Thursday?
Well yes, but sometimes I shake it up.

蒜蓉焗龍脷

Baked garlic filet of sole. With rice, soup, and a cup of Hong Kong milk tea. Note that they wrote the word 茸 ('yung'; sprouts, buds, downy fuzz, bits and pieces) on the daily specials board instead of 蓉 ('yung'; hibiscus, Chengdu, seed paste or similar mashed ingredients).
The use of 茸 always strikes me as a little sloppy in such a context.

And no, dear girl, It's not that I have a commitment or business to attend to tomorrow. I planned to have a baked snack a few doors up at tea-time, and they're closed tomorrow. At other places the lunch would have been too heavy to follow it with a pastry so soon after. But I don't wish to try to explain that in Cantonese, because I honestly don't think I could.
I already sound like a halfwit half the time.

According to the mask-rebel at Walgreens, people like me are what is wrong with this country. And you know, that's perfectly fine by me. Seeing as Florida, Miss'pi, and Texas are part of the United States, there's room for improvement; he can go there and they can leave. No one really needs angry elderly conservatives, racist hillbillies, and insane redneck cowboys.

Did I already mention the immense overlap between mask-resistance, Trumpism, racism, Karenism, and syphilitic Texans yet? Correlation is not causation.
Sometimes it's just a horrible coincidence.

The pipe and stroll after tea was splendid. I did have to dodge a few tourists -- sadly, they're back -- and there were too many people about for comfort, but the weather is gorgeous today.

Sometimes, all a grouchy Dutchman needs is Sriracha hotsauce, fish, milk tea, flaky pastries, and a bowlful of Virginia tobacco flake with a very minor addition of condimental leaves.
It's so simple.


There's a little moppet with a small pink piglet backpack who lives near the bakery.
I mention this, because it was absolutely the cutest thing I saw today.



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CULINARY POLITICS

According to many sources, the chimichanga ("whatchamacallit") was invented in Arizona or Texas back during the middle of the last century by accident, and is a buritto filled with rice, beans, and the mediocre meat preparations beloved by white people and cowboys.
Deepfried, then gussied up with guacamole, sourcream, and a chunky salsa.

This is just plain wrong. It should be filled with Spanish rice, and either ripped grilled chicken, or carnitas (or charsiu pork, if you want), semi-deepfried (panfried in deep oil), with a smooth pourable salsa of roasted chiles perron. I shall brook no dissent on this.

On a visit to London, England, which culinarily might as well be Texas, I mistakenly ordered a chimichanga in a pub. What arrived was a thing composed of a humongous moist commercial egg roll skin wrapped around chipped beef and Heinz beans, deepfried till almost black, with limp greasy fries. A big ghastly gut bomb. No salsa.


In none of these itterations is it a healthy dish. But the beanless version I described is the most edible. As well as delicious. If you want "healthy", have a side of chile verde (pork chunks cooked in roasted green chiles, stock, garlic, NO damned tomatillos.

Tomatillos are not as useful as you think they are.
Perhaps in fruity salsa. But evenso.

"IT WAS THIS BIG!"

Chimichangas, burittos, and simmered chile dishes ("chile con carne", "chile verde") are not Mexican, but were developed north of the border. The frito pie probably is Mexican, of the "let's see if those crazy gringos will eat it" variety.


By the way: Valentina hot sauce is not widely available here. Why is that?
Also: guacamole mashed smooth, extra lime juice, is excellent.



NOTE: Tex Mex simply means cheese and cumin in everything, with greasy tortilla chips on the side, served with beer. So it's perfectly suitable for Frat boys this coming Saint Paddy's Day.
Best avoid Frat boys and Texan things; they're nasty.
Ted Cruz represents both.




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IT'S FRANKIE'S WORLD

Some renditions of Frank Sinatra songs are truly unique, and should never hear the light of day. Which probably explains precisely why the book seller and myself were the only other customers there. The others had been driven out by Frankie. Fortunately, unlike Jenny who owns the place, our visit to Kahn Souphanousinphone's world wasn't very long at all. It just seemed that way.

Sadly, indoor singing IS allowed, but indoor pipe smoking isn't.


If it were, perhaps all the Sinatras of the world would be less dangerous. Sure, they'd probably have the bad taste to smoke rancid vanilla cavendishes or cherry blends, but that would be a small price to pay for greater ear comfort.


The world would be a much better place if all of you Frankies didn't sing.
You don't have to start smoking, that's just one option.
You could also move to Arlen, Texas.



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LATE TEA ON STOCKTON STREET

After staying home most of the day, I decided I needed to get out of the house to get the circulation going. Additionally, it was close enough to the time that the apartment mate (a non-smoker) would return home that I couldn't get away with lighting up a pipe indoors. One of these days I'll have to tell both of my doctors that the ONLY exercise I get is, legitimately, because I smoke. And that a tea time snack is a necessary part of that. It's a gestalt.

Milk tea. Egg tart. Pipe. Walk.

Exercise is good for the mind. Without it, a man could sedentarily squat in his favourite chair all day and become a vegetable. "What happened to your uncle?" "Oh, he became a cucumber and now sits at the club all day getting pickled." As so many cigar smokers do.

I am a pipe smoker, so naturally a more mentally active man.

I know a number of cigar smokers. Like a field of potatoes.
And soft elderly cabbages. That slighly fermented odour from a vegetable bin that hasn't been cleaned in several weeks.

Wearing a hazmat suit is for your own good. It isn't just a style choice.

Milk tea. Egg tart. Pipe. Walk.

The bakery was nearly empty, except for an old gentleman holding forth on health and medical herbs in Toishanese. Which was quite fascinating, if not entirely grounded in modern science. One thing he seemed insistent about was that if you drank liquids noticeably divergent from your own temperature -- iced carbonated beverages or hot water -- it would cause problems. Fortunately, my blood is roughly milk tea temperature, and I avoid chilled fizzies.

Sometimes, when a Toishanese person has a full head of hot caffeine going on (and too many pastries), it sounds exactly like someone with a heavy Welsh accent trying to speak Chinese. Sometimes it's somewhat Glaswegian. Sometimes completely Yorkshire.

Milk tea. Egg tart. Pipe. Walk.

There was a cold wind in the alleyways afterwards as night time slipped over the city. Pedestrians wandered home, there was the occasional non-Chinese strolling on Grant Avenue amazed at the tall buildings. They might not have three stories in Miss-pi.
I enjoyed my pipe. But I should have left home earlier.
A chill breeze can detract from pleasure.
Bit of a downer, really.



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