HIS INUTTERABLE SKEEVINESS

Having bought a quantity of Lanzhou noodles (蘭州拉麵 'laan jau laai min'), I let the apartment mate know that she was welcome to help herself, just as with the recently purchased yauchoi. Whereupon the turkey vulture asked if they were 'hamster flavoured', or whether they were suitable for feeding to little girl hamsters and lulling them into complacency or if they would nod off drowsily after eating them.

No, they are not. You should be feeling an aura of menace right now, little dude. Several of them. And Grandpa Hamster hates your guts. Because you are presenting a danger to his little grand-daughter. Whom we cherish. Very much.

Oh, and by the way, dang you are skeevy!


We have told him repeatedly that he may NOT eat any of our roomies, friends, or visitors. No matter how appetizing they might seem to him. And she does NOT look like a little meatball!

In fact she is lithe, and adept at smacking him sharply in sensitive parts of his anatomy with sticks or other pointy things. As he has experienced several times. Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!

He remains hopeful.

A VERY UNREPENTANT TURKEY VULTURE

Incorrigibly optimistic, in fact. And unrepentant.

Although extremely wary. And he frequently sounds like an absolute pervert when dreaming about the little girl hamster and what he will do with her, especially if there are fine French sauces, or port wine reductions and truffles on hand.

Fortunately we can all see through him and his skeevy byzantine plotting, and he's extremely ineffective, quite incompetent as a raptor. Turkey vultures have all the opportunistic instincts of carrion eaters, none of the skill of hawks or eagles, and not even a smidge of the clever guile which crows, sea gulls, or wild turkeys possess.

The little girl hamster is careful not to cause any serious damage.
She has never drawn blood when discouraging him.
But he has ended up badly bruised.


Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow Ow!


There are some charming pictures of hamsters eating noodles on the internet. Apparently they are very much like Italians or Japanese. Except smaller, more compact, and furry.



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THE BURNING CANE FIELDS

When I make milk tea at home I like to simmer it with several slices of ginger and some Chinese black dates, for both sweetness and flavour. The red dates are sweeter, but the black dates have a pleasant smokiness. Supposedly both types are mildly tonifying, and good for you, as is ginger. But whatever. Think of my version as kind of like masala chai.
Please do not think of masala chai at coffee places as masala chai.
That stuff is crap.

Come to think of it, everything at chain coffee places is crap.

Haven't been inside a Starbucks in years.


Today I had two cups of milk tea in Chinatown. Lunch, then a tea-time snack. Followed, as you would expect, by a bowlful of pipe tobacco enjoyed without anyone yelling at me that I'm killing children and little dogs, which tobacco smoke is known to do. That is why you cannot enjoy it in Berkeley, or the downtown Financial District. Or anywhere within ten miles of a school where the offspring of yuppies go.

The pipe in the illustration above always reminds me of a bakery run by vegetarian spiders under telegraph Hill, accessible only by an interdimensional portal in an alleyway that leads to a tunnel with soft lighting. At the end of which is the bakery in question.
Which I first heard about six or seven years ago.

It was a few years before I had a certain medical issue treated, and things were a bit strange during that time. I'm considerably better now, but the interdimensional portal is harder to find. Being more fully grounded in reality sadly has that effect.

This other pipe was smoked after lunch (龍脷魚飯、奶茶'lung lei yü fan, naai cha'). Started in that same alleyway with the tunnel, finished half an hour later in the alley where the Shanghainese lady lives on the edge of the Financial District, near my bank.

The real world bakery where I went used to have all kinds of tasty things, but business during covid has been a bit limiting, and many of the old regulars have stopped coming so often, for various reasons. I myself largely avoided inside dining and tea drinking until I had received two shots, and having now had four, I feel more confident about interiors.



Well over a hundred businesses have closed in Chinatown during the pandemic. These are hardworking people whose dreams have come to naught and jobs that have been lost. The neighborhood has been reduced. There are several shops and restaurants which are operating on a thinner margin. On my days off I shop and dine in Chinatown.
I desperately want the place to survive.



The title of this post is taken from the accounts of people who lived in Java during the twenties and thirties, when the Great Depression changed things for ever.
It would mean something to them and their descendants.
Destruction, sadness, and sweetness.



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SHARING THE NECESSARY PERSPECTIVE

In a discussion with a medical man across the country, a peculiar construct came to mind: 硬硬頸固執氣 ('ngaang ngaang geng gu jap hei'). Which describes a Dutch reality. Stubborn as all git out. Recalcitrant stiff necked obstinacy, and hard-headed beyond belief. Sometimes this is a good characteristic. Sometimes not. In this case probably the latter, as we were talking about tobacco use, which is fairly well established as not being beneficial to the person despite being a boon to society as well as the digestive processes.
Pipe smoking particularly.

Many years ago I was having a nice smoke on the way to work, walking on Battery Street.
A woman who saw me coming scowled, and when she was abreast of me screamed "thank you SO much for ruining my lungs!" Next to three lanes of slow moving high lead exhaust fumes in an area where every sewer grating reeks phenomenally, and there are potentially unstable lunatics in every doorway who haven't had their morning coffee yet.

Undoubtedly her outburst was good for her.
Manifestly a benefit to society.

Everybody happy?

On a daily basis I provide that blessing. Neither rain nor shine etcetera.

Which is as good a reason as any for people to have that cup of coffee before they leave their house or the cozy streetside doorway where they dossed down for the night. Society is immensely improved if they do so. Coffee is also useful for the digestive processes, as well as washing down the blood pressure medication (Metoprolol Succ Er, Losartan HCTZ, Amlodipine Besylate, et autres) which they take every morning.

Heck, if it weren't for caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined sugar, the milk of human kindness in me would have curdled long ago, instead of generously radiating outward in thick creamy waves of righteousness and benevolence.


I will gladly encourage you to have bad habits.
Perhaps you might like a cigarillo?
Or some pipe tobacco.
It's good.



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WE COME IN PEACE!

One of the most inspirational movies ever is Mars Attacks, featuring Jack Nicholson as the beleaguered president of the United States during an invasion by nasty little green men. Who wreak havoc and have a massive blasting spree, more fun than shooting fish in a barrel. Given that all the humans in the movie are dumber than a stack of logs, which is darn close to real life, one can sincerely admire the Martians' resolve and derring do.

What defeats them in the end is Jesus-cutlery-Christ-awmighty-awful-American-music from the golden age which makes their heads explode.


Last night the bookseller and myself went to the karaoke bar as is our wont, to say 'hi' to Jenny and enjoy the dulcet melodic stylings of sundry haphazard chanteurs. We do that regularly, but we were early yesterday because the second stop on our weekly educational visit to the Beat District was packed with Euries drinking in the colourful local nightlife.

So, karaoke.

He regretted ordering a second whisky.
I dry-heaved and had flashbacks.

We both spoke well of Andy Lau's crazy shiznit after that. One can never have too much Andy Lau, when the alternative is stupid kwailo yelling the lyrics of crappy popular songs.

There was pain and existential angst. It is distinctly possible that we were both bleeding from our ears when we left. I don't know, I didn't inspect his head; it would have been too forward.
There are times when I regret not touching alcohol. I could have done with a pan galactic gargle blaster to soften the aesthetic blows.



Remember those weapons the nasty little green men had? They would have made mincemeat out of the karaoke machine last night.



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PAT MYSELF ON THE BACK

Cut my hair, and paid the utility, internet, telephone, and medical insurance bills ahead and forward. Which means I can be an irresponsible idiot for the next two months. Not that I was actually planning to do that (the idiot part), seeing as I'm a stern puritanical sort, but it's a talent. The only things I absolutely must still do are head to the bank (tomorrow, as it's too late today), and purchase both fresh ginger and two or three bottles of Sriracha. That last is essential. Huy Fong has let it be known that there may (will) be a shortage. And seeing as Sriracha makes life in the United States tolerable, you don't want me openly revolting.
That, too, is a talent.

Some of my favourites places to eat may have to make do with the Sriracha made overseas, like the version produced in Toishan, and I expect sambal oelek may be in short supply also.

We must endure. Tolerate. Restrain ourselves. Suffer. Forbear.
For me this will be considerably easier than others.


Partly because there's a wide spectrum of chili peppers and hot condiments which are up to my standards, and partly because I do not intend to run out. Under any circumstances.

The character above (忍 'yan') is appropriate for the rest of you all. It's something that shows up calligraphically in every Hong Kong gangster movie or martial arts flick. Endure. Tolerate. Restrain. Suffer. Forbear. Steel yourself, and keep a stiff upper lip.

You all have my kindly support. My piles bleed for you. That's a colourful British expression expressing "mild" sympathy, and should not be taken literally.

In the meantime, I'm heading out to lunch.
And grocery shopping.


Buck up, you all.
Be strong.



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AN ORC WITH A PIPE

My apartment mate has casually requested that I do a painting of the salt flats, seeing as they frequently occur in conversation around this household. I said that it has already been done by Edward Gorey. Along with the abandoned glue works out near East Gorth. To which she responded that we don't have access to that illustration. Which is true. And it got me thinking that correct illustrations of Tolkien's Lord Of The Rings should have corpses everywhere. Hobbits. Orcs. Elves. Wizards. Middle Earth smelled depraved.

At six in the morning, from a northern point on Nob Hill, the hills of Marin County are visible. And it's far enough uphill that there are very few dogwalkers or sleeping street people.
Even insane joggers and exercise freaks are very rare.

I had of course gotten up at an ungodly hour because I needed to pee, having forgotten to do so before I retired last night. So, pills, coffee, clothes, and out of the house for a smoke.
After getting off the bus at Jones, walk north.
Light up away from the wind.
Sunlight.

It's not that cold at that hour, but my finger tips felt numb unless I kept them in my pockets. One of the other pipe smokers I know says that when it's cold one can keep the hands warm with a pipe, but I don't think he's ever tried that, seeing as he has all his pipes and has never spoken of a burn-out. If the pipe is hot enough to comfort the fingers, you are doing it wrong. Puff slow. It's okay if the beast threatens to go out, you can always touch up with another lucifer if necessary.

While I was outside, a young lady walking her dog smiled at me. Which is both pleasing, and unusual. In this city most people dislike smokers, but perhaps I come across as a likeable old fossil, and the bright sunlight may have softened my grouchy appearance. I should mention that I had already had a strong coffee, she may have already had a cup also, and both of us wear glasses. So there were multiple factors in play which affected perception either side.


When I returned home, my apartment mate was eating toast and reading the news.
Time for a second cup of coffee, and contemplate a shave and shower.
Then light up again once she's left.


I have tried reading Lord Of The Rings.
It's very long. And not that good.
No mention of salt flats.
A flaw, I think.



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THE SAN FRANCISCO FOG

The most typically San Franciscan things that people experience when they come here are littering, loonies, and a complete absence of clean comfortable places to take a leak because that's where the drug addicts would shoot up and turn tricks if such venues were available. These are all quite opposite of small town America, where everything is spotlessly clean, there are no loonies or drug addicts, and there's a toilet on every street corner.

If they stay too long, the liberals here will steal their souls, traffic their children for candy bars and spare change, and turn them into godless drug addicts.
Who will be desperate for places to pee.

There are no warm toilets here.
But we've got hippies.
And crabs.

Okay?!?!!?

Oh, and when the weather is right, we've got fog.

When I caught the bus back from Chinatown after tea and a smoke, an angry looking white dude was on the other side of the street shouting stuff about the Chinese, and kind of upset that everyone ignored him. I'm kind of hoping the cops rough him up en route to general for 72 hours in the psych ward, before those Chinese American ex-marines discover him.
No matter how crazy someone is, they're more of a mess when they're pounded.

We need a cultural exchange program with the great American heartland. We'll return their loonies and the opioid-crazed relatives they've chased away, so that they can see what's become of them, in return for their mothers and aunties who can cook rice-a-roni with appropriate neat-o keen recipes. We might even install public toilets for them.

Other than the loud crazy guy, of whom I became aware while on Waverly with my pipe, it was a pleasant quiet period of contemplation. And day dreaming.
A man sometimes needs to let his mind go.



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WHEN THERE WERE MONSTERS

One of the words I ran across the other day was a new one for me: 蠪蛭 ('lung jat'). Nowadays it means 'scorpion leech', a multi-headed monstrous semi-canine or lupine creature that sounds like a loud whiny insect and eats babies. The common image shows nine heads. The first character will not have an actual definition in most dictionaries, but is found in the Shuowen and Kangxi, This creature allegedly occurs in the North East.
Sorry, not New England. Perhaps Texas.

There was a day and age when everywhere beyond the settled areas was inhabited by strange and wondrous beings; monsters, warlocks, and daemons.
It must have been fascinating to be a child back then.
Everything was terrifying.

Um. Oh wait.

Run.

Fortunately those things have become rare.

It is probably worth keeping in mind that alcohol was invented several millenia years ago, whereas caffeinated beverages were discovered barely twelve centuries ago and not commonly enjoyed until the past few hundred years.


Early alcoholic beverages were semi-controlled and haphazard spoilage of grain soups; very probably these had some quite disturbing and unforeseen side effects, especially when people became roaring drunk or woke up with hangovers.
It was a more exciting age.



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WE ARE NOT THE SAME

The problem with putting god back in schools is that when I was in grammar school, most of my classmates firmly believed that I would go to hell because I was not of the same religion as them. Which they impressed upon me often. Which means that if I had children, and god were put back in the schools, I would want my children to be armed to the teeth.

If we put god back in schools, whose god? There are several branches of xtianity so heretical as to be intolerable in any guise by "saner" branches. The town where I lived from three to six years old was destroyed by the Spanish during a religious war three centuries ago. Men, women, children, cats, dogs, even the rats and birds. Please note that both sides in that conflict claimed that the deity was on their side.

Even as an adult, I do not gladly tolerate other people's religion.
And I firmly believe that churches should be taxed.
Or damned well burnt to the ground.



Freedom of religion means that all those blasted Christians in bible-thumping pig-arse parts of the country need to keep quiet. They are flaming idiots, and their beliefs are loathsome. Their cults border on witchcraft, their behaviours are quite repulsive, and their priests are swindlers, charlatans, and monsters.

"Can't we all just get along?" Oh sure we can. Provided your horrible ideas remain private.
Baptists, Methodists, Evengelicals, Seventh Day Adventists, and Mormons (et mult. altres) should be seen and never heard. And even seeing them can be offensive.




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GAPS IN THE CONTINUUM

Sometime today, at work, I'll smoke a pipe that reminds me of two Chinese American gentlemen. The first one had a seizure a few years ago near the corner of Clay Street and Grant Avenue. While bystanders attended to him, and the ambulance came, I realized that my Cantonese was just not sufficient to be of any use whatsoever at that moment.
I lacked the vocabulary that the situation required.

The second gentleman was upset that a particular dish at a restaurant was not as he thought it should be. Understandable, because when you want a particular taste, getting something else can be distressing. What he was in fact remembering was an Americanized version which is probably only available in suburbia or at eateries catering mostly to kwailo.
But his emotional response was no less valid for that.
And very keenly felt.


"This is not as it should be. The world is coming to an end, this is a sign of the coming apocalypse. Or at least a darker colder place. Woe."


Many suburbanites have undoubtedly felt the same way. Fortunately for them, the McRib sandwich has come back several times, the special sauce has returned occasionally also.
And everything at Olive Garden can be reproduced at Ruby Thunder or Thursday Box.

The dollar pancakes at the breakfast place weren't that good anyway, but they were small and 'precious'. The coffee was American standard, meaning fairly ghastly. The ambiance, however, that was 'it'. That's why people lined up around the block.

The pipe isn't that special. But it's a memory device.

I really shouldn't be going in to work today. I feel greater discomfort from a whole variety of factors than usual in the morning (which is why I woke up early). But duty calls, and we can't have just one person holding down the fort. In any case, it's the last workday of my week, and I will be off tomorrow.

I think I'll look for the box with the Comoy Blue Ribands then. There are some Lovatts in there I need to revisit. The briars of my misspent early adulthood. Memories.



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LITERACY; NO USE TO GOOD CHRISTIANS!

Apparently Pizza Hut is doing something that is really pissing the MAGA crowd off. They're encouraging kids to read books. Okay then. They've got my vote. Normally I don't eat pizza more than once or twice a year, seeing as I'm not a New Yorker and do know that there is other food in the universe, but it's probably a good time to up my pizza intake. Nothing says balanced diet with all the major food groups plus high fibre and heightened consciousness better than pizza.

Pizza is manna. Pizza is soulfood. Pizza is life.

There are several prominent MAGAites who have shat themselves already talking smack about the kids reading program -- one of the books is about a child who becomes a drag performer -- and one hopes that there will be more. Anything that gives those folks acid indigestion is good; I sincerely wish them burning acid indigestion down to their coccyx.

Pizza promotes literacy and flourishing civilization.

As I understand it, Florida, Ohio, and Texas are solid MAGA.
It's what happens when white bread goes moldy.
Or illiterate cousins inbreed .

I'm willing to bet that pizza in Florida, Ohio, and Texas, is downright inedible. Fit only for fundamentalist Christians, morons, and Ted Nugent fans; even the fratboys who normally thrive on left-over pizza for lunch to cure hangovers probably mail-order it from the civilized states, or drive for hours just to go somewhere where the pizza is actually edible.
Northern states, or the West Coast. Or Mexico during spring break.


If you live in Florida, Ohio, or Texas, being literate will only make you unhappy.



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DO NOT MOVE TO THE SALT FLATS

Did I mention the dead seagulls yet? That's what you'll be eating if you go live in the salt flats. And there are no apple turnovers there either. Or chicken thighs. Those are among the many reasons why you should stay here.


And your lovely rattle? They'll take it away and trade it for Olde English 800.


These are kindly words of advice, to dissuade you from making any rash decisions.
We realize that you are very young, and have not given this mature consideration.

They have been brutalized by their environment there, and will brutalize you.
Besides, you are a city boy, all candy-ass and stuff.
You won't survive there.



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PLEASE HAVE SOME COFFEE!

In news of the weird, a woman of Chinese ancestry has been arrested for making a racist scene in a Starbucks in Mountain View, physically attacking someone who spoke English with an accent, demanding that the manager go back to his own country, and yelling that she would have him deported back to Mexico. And I wish her good luck on all that. I myself have often been told to go back to my own country. Which I did. I was born here. My people have been here since Stuyvesant. My accent is because we went overseas when I was little.
And I've been told that immigration would deport me, they'd see to that.

The HR chief at one company interfered with salary payments to my bank account for two months, convinced that I was an illegal alien, which is why I damned well refuse to have electronic paychecks to this day.

What's truly bizarre is that the Chinese American woman essentially acted precisely like an Anglo. Kudos for that. High time. A nutball and a bigot. Maybe she's channelling for a Christian. Or maybe she just lost her mind.

And why at a Starbucks? Was this to prove that some people just aren't human before they've had their coffee?

The way to avoid making the same mistake again is for her to have some coffee before she goes to Starbucks. Highly advisable. I always have my coffee before I even leave the house.
Today I worked with someone who had failed to do so. And I was consequently subjected to a load of paranoid conspiracy horsepucky like you wouldn't believe while he slammed several cups of strong brew.

Like Miss Q he really should start having his coffee at home.
And stop watching youtube videos about rabbit holes.

I suspect that Miss Q may be suffering from the same mental stresses as the twelve galaxies guy. Which is very sad. It may be treatable with the right medication.
Something considerably stronger than coffee.



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AM I THE A**HOLE? YOU BETCHA!

One person whom I know to be a bigot has refused to get vaccinated, is worse than casual about masking, a borderline Nazi in that chickenshit way that so many self-made men are, and always does everything better than you do. I shall not shed a tear when he catches Covid, nor if he ends up on a ventilator. As far as I'm concerned, he's wasted space.

Diplomatically, I have not said any of this


I have no intention of contributing to his eventual funeral or attending any memorial service for him, and whether he dies in his sleep or in utter agony ist mir in toto scheißegal.


I note that some of the people with whom I was in conversation a few days ago are of the opinion that the United States is a worse place than it was before. Seeing as they are Chinese American, I can understand that. It IS a worse place than it was before.
Also, far more xenophobic than it was. As bad as during the Reagan years.

The one thing in which there has regrettably been no change is the repulsive quality of American Christianity. It is as utterly amoral and loathsome as ever, it's adherents as offensive and ignorant as they always have been.

There are very good reasons to fly over everything between SFO and New York.

The San Francisco suburbs are far too polyester for comfort.

It's an everything deepfried mentality.


NECESSARY DISCLAIMER: This post should NOT be construed as negative in any way against white people. Just purely factual. I have included this disclaimer so that Jonathan in the Shomron doesn't get his panties in a bunch over a perceived anti-Caucasian American slant. And I hasten to add that it's only because so many of the f*(kers are letting the side down or showing their a55 in public that that's even a question. Some of my best friends are white. White people are cool, white people are precious, without white people we wouldn't have McDonalds, Boo King, or probably even Starbucks! I sheerly love white people, bless their hearts!
Okay?!?!


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PRECIOUS, PRECIOUS WHITE PEOPLE

Per news reports the Bay Area is experiencing an avalanche of Covid infections that shows no end in sight. And though hospitalizations are rising, it's not as bad as this time last year, despite the number of cases of Covid being well over five times larger. Are people masking up again? No. Though the majority of Chinese Americans in the North Eastern part of the city are doing so, everywhere you look it's stupid white people doing stupid white people stuff.

Given that I thoroughly despise the anti-vaxxers I know and wish them ill, this does not displease me. I can stand to know fewer people.

So being the only white person in the restaurant was icing on the cake.
Lunch tasted all the better for that.


The only times I needed English or Dutch (certifiably white people languages) for several hours was when I was inaudibly cursing white people not wearing masks. Cantonese was employed at the restaurant, on the street afterwards, at a shop where I browsed, at Walgreens, and at a bakery where I went for a pastry and a cup of tea later.
Where I was again the only Caucasian on the premises.

Because I'm working the next few days, in a very white environment, I shall be surrounded by white people. And it's in Marin, where there are a large number of mask-free anti-vaxxers and people into spiritual healing, auras, and other white folks shiznit.


According to some spiritual white people, tobacco is powerful healing stuff in the right hands, being native American natural medicine, both purifying and unifying. So the fact that a vulgar person such as myself enjoys it, especially after non-spiritual things like lunch, is upsetting. Disrespectual and insulting, even. There should be a law!

There's probably something evil about my aura.
And I smell bad.

Smoked two pipes in Chinatown today. The one shown above was after tea-time. Glad to see that the woman at the bakery is a person who used to work at the other place with the same owner before the pandemic. Altogether there were over half a dozen folks there whom I recognized. It's a profoundly UNspiritual place.
No Caucasians.

I'm not looking forward to work.

Too many spiritual people.



NECESSARY DISCLAIMER: This post should NOT be construed as negative in any way against white people. Just purely factual. I have included this disclaimer so that Jonathan in the Shomron doesn't get his panties in a bunch over a perceived anti-Caucasian American slant. And I hasten to add that it's only because so many of the f*(kers are letting the side down or showing their a55 in public that that's even a question. Some of my best friends are white. White people are cool, white people are precious, without white people we wouldn't have McDonalds, Boo King, or probably even Starbucks! I sheerly love white people, bless their hearts!
Okay?!?!


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KEEPING YOUR CHOMPERS CLEAN

Is baby powder made from real babies? No. But like Raid and Blackflag, it elliminates them and solves a pesky problem. Next on the agenda: a discussion about girlscout cookies being like catnip for certain people. And why you should NEVER store them in your credenza at the office. Like everyone, I get all my 'scientific' knowledge from the internet. It saves time. No more peer-review publications and their paywalls, no more justifiable cynicism, no more critical reading skills, just pure horse dewormer.

It truly would make America great again if the majority of Republicans took strong doses of Ivermectin. If one pellet is good, five are better. Cures that suspicious cough that much faster. They'll no longer wake up hacking in the middle of the night. Praise Jesus.
Wash it down with choloroquine phosphate and bourbon.
Ah, bourbon, the brownest of brown liquors!
So red-blooded American!


Some stuff, however, does indeed sound worth giving a shot.

Copy-pasted from the post of a pipe smoker: "1 part hydrogen peroxide (3%) to 2 parts baking soda - mix into paste and brush teeth with it for a minute or two and do for 3 days - works like magic!"

This was presented as the home remedy for stained teeth. Too much coffee, tea, smoking, and probably sticky toffees.


Goldfish crackers are made with real goldfish (carp). That's why they're delicious and good for you. Builds strong bones, clear skin, and bright eyes. Fish is brain food. Jesus.

Do your own research.



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THE APPROPRIATE MIDNIGHT SNACK

Having gotten home around midnight, I realized that actually I hadn't eaten all day. Cookies. Some potato chips. Toffee. A little chicken pie in Chinatown around tea-time. And some frenchfries from my friend's plate. It was probably the caffeine that kept me going.
I had plenty of that.

There is something wrong with my innards, I rarely feel hungry anymore. That's probably connected to the exploding appendix three years ago in some way.
Yet when I eat, I enjoy my food very much.

[Well, except for lunch on working days, as that's always from the inconvenience store near the salt flats, which has a piss-poor selection of edibles and runs out of things regularly.]

So after getting home, I fixed myself a spinach omelette with plenty chopped green chilies, and a little potato with salt, chopped green chilies, pepper, and olive oil.
A small snack, really, barely covered a salad plate.
Plus some sambal on the side.

Later today I shall have a proper meal. Garlic baked dragon tongue fish, rice, greens.
Plus soup, and a hot cup of milk tea. At a restaurant where I like going.

Then it's back to work for a few days.



It's the first of the month.
Rabbit rabbit.




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CHEESY POOF

My apartment mate, like Cartman, likes cheesy poofs. So do I. However, not all cheesy poofs are equal. She has resolved to henceforth stay the heck away from anything claiming to be truffle flavoured. With which I can sympathise.
I shall not mention the brand, but:

Tastes of fromage, salt, and swimming pool with many mildewed swimming trunks in it. Reminds me of grammar school.

I would like to sneer that this is purely white folks crap. But there are also truffle-flavoured cheesies marketed for the Hong Kong crowd. So even the non yuppie white folks are enamoured of it. Hong Kong office workers probably snarf it by the bucketful.

She refuses to finish the bag.
So I will do so.

Other than the chemical mildewed bathing togs taste, it's rather addictive.
Salty crunchy, but not toothbreakingly so.


If you leave your trunks in your swimming bag for a week, they'll taste like this.


This evening was the weekly jaunt to North Beach and Chinatown for karaoke with the bookseller. Which teaches us that many people cannot sing and shouldn't even try.
Frank Sinatra is turning over in his grave.

Two things observed: A very large man with a very small girlfriend. No, I shan't say a damned thing about that. And I'm trying to get certain imagined scenes out of my mind, desperately, because I have a clean head here and I want to keep it that way. The other thing was a table full of dour looking English people, who because they were in a bar -- a natural environment for their kind -- may have been having a good time, despite not talking much with each other and not being able to smile or look reasonably cheerful. Maybe American food was affecting them badly. Too much flavour. And digestible. Must be quite a shock to the system if you're unprepared. Tomorrow they can look for a place that does baked beans out of a can. There must be one such place in San Francisco for people who want a change of pace.
Or are desperate to get away from food.

There's probably an Irish pub with grub somewhere.
Maybe they would have liked some karaoke.
It brings back indigestion.



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