FIRMLY IN CHECK

As you understand, while Facebook helps us stay connected with far-flung friends, it has limitations. It will not allow one to wish eternal damnation on protestors in London or homicidal psychopaths in parts of the Arab world, or Pakistan, or Malaysia. Or, in fact, on Montgomery Street in San Francisco yesterday. May all of them get visited by the angel of ass-cancer.

Berkeley and Oakland too. Abundantly and painfully visited. That's where a lot of the terror sympathizers in the Bay Area are from. The only thing that keeps me from really mouthing off is a Palestinian American woman in Nevada who is one of the best people I know, and has never said an unkind or homicidal word. Because I do not want to hurt her, I'm keeping an extremely low profile on Facebook.

And not cheering every bomb on Gaza, as I feel like doing.
All of Hamas deserves to get ass-cancer.
So does Hezbollah.

After dumplings for lunch I went down to Montgomery Street and passed by the consulate. It was peaceful there, though a car with a large terrorist flag over the top did drive by.

It was good to a break from scrolling doom on the internet.

The pipe in the picture above belonged to a man despised by many of his kin. After he died, none of them wanted it in their house.

It's not a shape I favour, but it's fun to hold, and it was fun to draw.

It's currently haze-drizzling in San Francisco.

The streets are quiet.



My apartment mate is browsing e-bay on her computer opposite me while softly singing the Swedish chef's song from the muppet show. Okay.



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ACT CALM

The rational response to the actions of Hamas are to speak in even tones about avoiding civilian fatalities as much as possible, adhering to reasonable standards of conduct in responding against the terrorists, and how Israel has always been ready to make peace, and does more than any other country's forces to safeguard lives on both sides.

Cite specific examples, highlight the complete opposite of such behaviour by the other side. Controll what you say, because we are the sane, rational, and humanist side.

Which. I. Don't. Feel. Like. Being. Right. Now.


Years from now we'll still remember that in London, Paris, Rotterdam, and even Oakland, people celebrated what Hamas did. We'll still remember that two Israeli tourists and a guide were shot dead in Egypt by a policeman.
We'll remember that Malaysian Muslims pledged to fully support jihad against Israel.
We'll also remember Pakistani celebrations of this horrid attack.

In any case, I had no plans to ever visit Egypt. It's nasty hellhole filled with thoroughly odious people. Should probably be bombed out of existence sometime. The same goes for Pakistan.
And I shan't say what I really think on Facebook, because Zuckerberg's Indian censorship officers get upset if I do. Sensitivities must be protected at all costs.


We need to seriously change our visa programme.



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EXPLAINING HOW THINGS WORK

It's surprising how much a good nights sleep can contribute to one's sense of wellbeing. Because it cooled down very significantly from the Republican temperatures we had for four days -- ninety and above -- it was actually possible to fall asleep, easily, and restore the tissues. During the preceding nights I had lain awake for hours with great pain and twitches in my legs, the body aching and uncomfortable. Now I understand whe Australians eat vegemite. It's sheer frustration, as well as a substitute for their own young.

Oh, and perversion. They're real sickos.
But mostly their beastly climate.

It also explains why they roar around the desert naked and tattooed, marauding each other's settlements in a kangaroo wasteland dominated by sadists and rapists on motorbikes.
As well as Johannes Bjelke Petersen, Scott Morrison, and William McMahon.

When I woke up I was refreshed, and considerably more human.

You probably wouldn't think so, because you know me.
But it's true. I am no longer Australian.
Heat creates perverts.

Australia, Florida, New Delhi, Texas. And Paris in August of 2003.

Undoubtedly, it also explains the hollywood writers' strike. Consider the climate down there.


"It's too hot, we're torpid and verklempt, we don't wanna work!"


If it weren't for temperate weather occasionally, the world would be dominated by Scandinavians, and we'd all be eating lutefisk. We'd have to.

Just look at Australia.



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UNDER A HOTTER SUN

You can't trust the government troops in these mountains. And they know what cameras look like. It's five days to the provincial capital. Better stay close to the airfield. Also, you cannot build a fire, so use iodine tablets. One tablet, one litre. Fresh squeezed lime juice added after half an hour to forty five minutes following the idodine will precipitate some of the iodine out and disguise the taste.


You'll need a lot of liquids. Canned meat contains plenty of salt.


When I woke up I was drenched in sweat. Had the airconditioning gone out? It couldn't have, there was light in the hallway. As my head cleared I realized that I couldn't pad into the kitchen for weak tea from the thermos, because I was only wearing boxers, there were no flip-flops but fuzzy slippers, and this being San Francisco rather than back there, then, there was no aircon either. It had been a blazing hot day yesterday, the building felt like an oven when I got home, and I spent the last four hours of the working day and first three hours upon my return in extreme discomfort.

And I haven't had a thermos of weak tea in the kitchen in years.
Our tap water is quite drinkable.

My apartment mate is hardier than I am, because when I had checked up on her earlier, she was lying on her bed in her pajamas. Women obviously need to cover up a little more, but it does indicate that she is more heat resistant than me at present. My bloodpressure meds combined with poor circulation in the nether extremities make heat surreal and torturous.
Also, the meds lead to interesting hyper-real dreams.

On the other hand, I haven't hung my mosquito net in a long time, unlike her. The little pests always liked her better anyway, and haven't bitten me in aeons; I think the stuff coursing through my system makes me less appetizing, less edible smelling.


"Ugh, what is that, it smells like a chemical dump!"


"Stay away from the large icky white one, he ain't good no more." If need be I can always light up a stick of snow pear incense (Sydney aloes wood; 雪梨檀香 'suet lei taan heung') to chase them out. Hah, the skeeters probably think I'm severely spalted. Veins of black resin permeating the flesh. Fungoid.

Do mosquitoes speak English among themselves? Of course they do! This is America.


I hadn't eaten last night. No appetite because of the heat. So I would have been a poor feast for the little buggers anyhow.


The end of this heat spell is in sight. It will cool off next week.
Might even rain a bit.



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SO GLAD THIS AIN'T MISSISSIPPI

Two times I've seen the same father and daughter at the bakery. He looks to be in his forties, his little girl is maybe three or four. She has braids. I've also seen them together at Walgreens on Stockton Street. They seem to get along very well.
Although she is stubborn at times, and wilful.
But not overly sugared up.

She is well behaved and not loud. That's something that I can appreciate, as sudden piercing shrieks are a thing that I hate about most brats, particularly little tourist kids. I vastly prefer a small person already developing social skills over the tantrum queens that modern society so often breeds. Modulate, you little monsters, modulate!

Yeah, no, not planning to talk to her.
No need to socialize.

In Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, Elizabeth Taylor (Maggie) describes her in-law's kids as "little no neck monsters". And so many of them are. Quiet and well-behaved small women persons, however, are a breath of fresh air.

This ain't her. I'm absolutely horrible at drawing people. But you will note that this one looks intelligent and clean, which are also very excellent characteristics.

Aunt Maggie would have undoubtedly approved.




It hit ninety degrees Fahrenheit two days in a row. Dammit, if I wanted to live in the South, I'd have moved there. And I'd speak drawling hick. Fluently.
Me and mah pick-up truck.

Not that that's germane to the foregoing.



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IT'S STILL BETTER THAN THE REST OF THE COUNTRY

It got up to ninety three degrees Fahrenheit in my part of San Francisco. It's mid eighties now. Warmish. So I staid home all day and fought with trolls on the internet periodically. As one does. There's something satisfying about telling a rightwing Karen that she should move to Florida. Whic really is the catch drain where all the human sewage goes.

Florida starts at the Arizona border.


In addition to being intolerant about most of my fellow Americans, I am also an immense food snob. I've seen what y'all eat. Commercial salsa made in New York is the best of it.
One word: Little Debbie. Oh yeah, and the McRib sammich.

Probably the apex of kweeseen for three thousand miles between here and Broolyn.

Oh look someone left their food leftovers on my stoop!

See, heat makes me an extremely unpleasant person, you don't want me heading into the other states with that attitude. My presence would disrupt the dream. Y'all ain't ready.



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REMEMBERING BÜNDNER GERSTENSUPPE

A journalist in Switzerland has been sentenced to sixty days jail time and a hefty fine for calling someone else an unhinged fat lesbian. Naturally, as any man would, I immediately suspected him of bubbling forth his repressed memories of grammar school and the good sisters who rapped him over the knuckles while he was failing to sit still, worship Jesus, and remember his numbers and letters. Switzerland has fewer numbers than anywhere else.
It's the secret to clockmaking and banking. And bündner gerstensuppe.

The place is chock-a-block with repressed Catholics.

Not too many unhinged fat lesbians.

If I remember correctly.

Because we went there on vacation a few times when I was a child, I have fond memories of Switzerland. Their food is better than Danish or English cooking, and less likely to give you heartburn. Sadly, I do not remember unhinged fat lesbians, though I'm sure that they are there. Probably in the German-speaking Cantons.

We went during the summer months. That may have had something to do with it. The unhinged fat lesbians are very likely in Northern Africa at that time, gaily disporting themselves with sand, sea, and surf. And eating well.


In winter, they probably cause avalanches.
Which are a common problem there.

Fat unhinged lesbians are iconic.
There ought to be TV show.



Bündner gerstensuppe (a regional barley soup) is a speciality of Graubünden, made with barley, carrot, turnip, potato, celery, leek, smoked sausage, bacon, and cream. It's edible.



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CRUSADING IVY-LEAGUE ELITISTS

One thing that gives me joy is the sheer number of snarky college grads outsourced to food delivery services in this city. If you're wondering why all those lunch places in the Financial District are going out of business, it's because they're hugely overpriced and cater to an office population which has discovered that two or three days a week they can work from home and get more inane drone work accomplished while there, without the distraction of Buffy or Kevin yattering about their weekend and last night's teevee programme. The coffee at home is better, and they can order lunch to be delivered without standing in line with infectious suburbanites or any of those horrid common people.

Oh, also twitter laid off scads, because a certain "Canadian" blood money baby probably doesn't want to enable future Gandhis or entrepreneurs. Might come back to bite.

[Important disclaimer: I have nothing against Canadians, why some of my dearest friends and nearest relatives are Canadian. Truly splendid people, those Canadians.]

Crowded salad bars, lousy food and service, and designer clothing?
Or dirty tees, ripped jeans, and no suburbanite drooges?

So of course Akbar-ji had to find a new job.
In between channelling for Elvis.

Nowadays he spouts Christian Nationalist drivel and dishes up word-salads. To be honest, Christian Nationalist drivel, Hindu Nationalist bullpuckey, and racist anti-Latino caste-ism overlap considerably. Whenever I listen to the elderly Republican assholes in the backroom, what I hear could just as well be Modi-ji spouting his hatred of Muslims, and in fact they do have that point in common.

Okay, Boomer?

The fact that he looks like Elvis is icing on the cake.
And of course Elvis is their era.
Billy Bob-ism.


It's amazing how many succesful people in this country turn into flaming dingoes when the lights are off. Or the bedsheets are over their heads.



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NICE CRISP BOXERS

Last night it was seventy five degrees when I went out for the final smoke of the day, without a jacket, and wearing a tee-shirt. Balmy, still a bit too hot. This morning it's mid sixties. Later it will be ninety or higher. So I'm torn between wanting to go downtown to do things and have a cup of milk tea, and letting common sense prevail. Exceptionally, I'll probably let common sense prevail.

I don't want to.

When it's over eighty degrees everything hurts and I'm not comfortable in my body. Years ago heat wasn't a problem. I'd happily stroll around acting tropical, la la la, this is great!
North Beach was a different world then.

Today, I'll probably stay indoors and move around as little as possible.
Yesterday I felt like crap until long after dark.

I disapprove of public nudity.

I've become an uncomfortable puritan.

A COLLEGE MAN'S ACCESSORY

During my Berkeley years heat did not affect me. That it does now I wish to blame on the frat boys, who are the source of everything wrong with this world. Typhoon Mankut five years ago? Frat boys! Russia's seizure of the Crimea? Frat boys! Fog in the Channel and the Continent isolated? Frat boys! Kanye foaming at the mouth psychotic? Frat boys!

Logically, of course, this does not hold water. But if I'm going to do the sensible thing today, there has to be something that gives.

I shall ponce around the apartment in my boxers, swilling weak tea.
While darning those frat boys all to heck.



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AND CLARICE'S MOMMA

It was eighty nine degrees Fahrenheit today. Which, when you have poor circulation in the extremities, high blood pressure, and medications which are determined to effect certain functions optimumly if it's the last thing they do, means that for six plus hours I was in nightmarish agony.

[The medications force the body to do what it does not wish to, which in hot weather becomes sheer torture. My legs, for instance, damned well refused to funtion properly, and were hot and throbby. It took me an hour to walk four blocks.]

Now, I know there are some people out there who say "oh it was lovely, I wish it was like this all the time!" "Such gorgeous weather!" "At last some summer temperatures, thank heavens!" Who, if I could function without being in pain, I would beat savagely with a blunt object (my walking stick, for instance).

Do you know what happens when it's that close to ninety degrees all the time?

The giant fricking spiders will land, that's what.

They'll colonize the planet.

Best case scenario: they'll keep us as pets, and allow us our own little personal libraries for entertainment, because we're so good at getting rid of their parasites, and very amusing when we have allergic reactions to venom splashes, and their irritating leg hairs.


Worst case: They'll have us fight each other with blunt objects.
It'so gosh darn entertaining when we club each other.



Best part of the day was overhearing a phone conversation: "Your momma ain't the same woman you saw last week, Clarice, the chemo and radiation are wrecking her, it smells like dead rat inside, and it's coming out of her pores. Last night she fell, and insisted the floor was covered with weeds and bushes. Dead rat, Clarice! I used to be a nurse at an old folks home, I know what that smells like! And she kept asking for Doogie!"
I wish I knew what Clarice felt about all that.



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THERE IS NO VACCINE FOR THAT

It turns out that several house Republicans are dumber than a pile of bricks. Which is quite appropriate, given the morons and dunderheads that elected them. Republicans have never been know for good qualities anyway. No wonder their states are nasty, polluted, and dangerous. With higher rates of inbreeding, teen-pregnancy, and syphilis.

Entirely besides not having drinkable light beer.
It's a crying shame.


Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene tweeted:
The only candidate for Speaker I am currently supporting is President Donald J. Trump.
He will end the war in Ukraine.
He will secure the border.
He will end the politically weaponized government.
He will make America energy independent again.
He will pass my bill to stop transgender surgeries on kids and keep men out of women’s sports.
He will support our military and police.
And so much more!
He has a proven 4 year record as President of the United States of America.
He received a record number of Republican votes of any Republican Presidential candidate!
We can make him Speaker and then elect him President!
He will MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!!!

She probably should have been drowned at birth, but it's useless dreaming about might've-beens.

Every time she speaks, more braincells die in her district.

Russia loves her.

Again, as a reminder, these are shithole states: Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

We keep our psychopaths in Placer and Shasta. They let them run wild.
It's 'sundown' territory out there. Plus zombies.
The turd-throwing demographic.



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WHAT GIVES YOU WINGS

My friend, who is younger than me, at one point likened us to Statler and Waldorf, the crusty old geezers from the Muppet Show who always had something pungent to say about the last act. This was at the karaoke bar. Where the best songs were when the automatic rotation brought up soulful Mandarin stuff with violins in a grand event venue on the tip of Kowloon. Which none of the white people sang along too, for some strange reason and thank heavens for that.

In retrospect I should have pointed out that a comparison with Kermit the Frog and Fozzy Bear would have been more appropriate. Or more flattering. Shan't mention who would be Fozzy, who Kermit.

I should also mention that at a previous stop he had alerted me to darling little sailors. Of the female persuasion. Charming young ladies radiating a no nonsense if you please attitude, absolutely the sweetest things. Because of Fleet Week, the military is in town. At one point there was a scene outside that bar that absolutely represented diversity and inclusionariness in the modern armed forces, and all of them, male and female, were very well behaved. Quite adorable in their clean crisp youthful disciplined innocence, happy to be here.

I hope I don't sound like a cynical old man at this point.
See, I've still got my youthful fuzz myself!
And I'm still quite springy!

SPOFFORD ALLEY DURING THE DAY

My evening started, of course, at Spofford, where I lit my pipe and strolled past the garbage heaped at the front of the alley. Sadly, no rats to be seen. I miss the threat of bubonic plague. A friend lives above that alley, and would probably be glad that there were no rodents tonight. Now if only the old farts playing mahjong would not snarf take-out food while enjoying themselves! So messy, and the discarded containers attract vermin!

[It's worth noting that he himself is well past seventy. So not a spring chicken.]

Naturally I sympathise, but I've always liked small creatures that show such cunning and determination. Our simplicidental fellow Americans! Champions among the gliriforms.


My friend is now safely in his bed, I presume, playing Fantasy Baseball. I've come home high as a kite on caffeine, seeing as I avoid alcohol. Coffee before I left. Caffeinated soft drink at one place. Tea (double bagger) at another, more tea at our final stop of the evening.
I am, in fact, wired to the tits.

I could really go for some greasy take-out food right now.
Salt and pepper chicken wings, for instance.

Where do those old geezers get it at this hour?
Not very many places are open late.



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LENGTHENING SHADOWS

It's Autumn in the Bay Area. Yesterday was cooler than I expected, and I might have needed a sweater while enjoying my post-lunch smoke wandering around near Pacific Avenue. The chachanteng where I went for a late lunch is on Broadway, and the milk tea there in the middle of the afternoon is bracing. It's a timing issue; sometimes you hit it just right.

[While smoking a pipe in Chinatown I tend to wander, as I do not want anyone to start bellyaching about the smell.]

They also have Sriracha. They real stuff again. Joy.

In the past I would go to a place at the other end of the neighborhood after hitting my bank or coming out of a medical appointment, but I get better treatment here. So, henceforth.

I think they're more comfortable with old fossils.
We few, we grouchy, we terminally unhip.
People who actually read the news.
Instead of our cellphones.


Some of the dishes on the menu they do very well indeed, but it's a crapshoot, because a few are wild misfires or not quite what you expected. Most of their offerings are standard stuff, decently done, not out of place in a densely packed neighborhood in Kowloon north of Tsim. I like their ambiance, but it won't appeal to someone expecting a Chinesey-pū décor as is standard in Kansas or Brooklyn, and the cuisine would likely not satisfy them either. And, as I understand it, both HK Milk Tea and bottles of decent hot sauce are rare in the Mid-West and New York. Quite possibly considered frightening, too.

HK French Toast with butter and golden syrup, however, is a distinctly wilder option. If you're not diabetic, go for it. I've never gone there during the lunch rush, as kwailo during crowded hours are not liked in more Chinese enviroments; even if we can order in Cantonese and do actually know what we're going to get, it's rather hard to overlook that we're a discordant and quite possibly Karen-like element, unpredictable and disruptive. We're known for that.
Our sheer whititude makes us stand out like kittens in a haystack.
I suspect they'd be okay, but I don't feel like risking it.
Don't want to discombobulate anyone.
Unnecessarily.


Some folks aren't too soundly bobulated to begin with.



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LIKE GRANDMA USED TO MAKE

Over on a site dedicated to Canto food, one member fondly recalled steamed pork patty with salt fish, and regretfully mentioned that he didn't know how to make it. It's actually really easy to do. And simple.

鹹魚蒸豬肉
HAAM YU JING YIUK BENG

Half pound ground pork.
One Tsp cornstarch.
One Tsp soy sauce.
One Tsp sherry or rice wine.
One Tsp cooking oil.
A little ginger, minced fine.
Pinch of ground white pepper.
Pinch of sugar.

A few thin slices of salt fish (咸魚 'haahm yü'), soaked to soften.

Mix everything except the salt fish and ginger, let it sit for thirty minutes. Then flatten it onto an oiled plate, arrange the salt fish on top, and add the ginger. Steam until done, about ten minutes or so.

When I first posted the pretty picture above on my Facebook page and clarified what it was, one friend reacted with "eloquent" distaste. That was a few years ago. She has yet to try it. Some people have limits to what they will or will not eat. So I shan't be surprised at all to hear that my more non-chopstickable food friends won't touch it either.
Sad, yes. Surprised, no.



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YOU PROBABLY DON'T WANT ME BACK, HUH?

You know I like a nice cup of Hong Kong Milk Tea, right? And, what with having been in the service industry myself, I cut restaurants an awful lot of slack. And I'm somewhat Apspergers too, so the chances of my noticing a deliberate slight are not very high, especially when I'm in a comfortable place. Never-the-less. There's a chachanteng I'm cutting the hell out of my regular routine for the time being. Several months. At least.

See, I'm kind of dense. The waitress asked what I wanted after taking the orders of more recent arrivals. My cup of milk tea was served last. The yautiu was brought to my table after several nearby tables were already eating. My congee didn't come till nearly twenty minutes after that. And I noticed that the doddering old bastard at the next table over got his bowl of jook in record time by comparison. He and his wife were fed, happy, paid up, and out of there in less than half the time. And when I asked for my check that took twenty minutes too.

Well goddammit, I guess being the only white guy in a Chinese restaurant means being treated like dirt sometimes, huh?

As I said, I'm kind of dense. So I paid it no mind till hours afterward, when I gradually realized that several tables that sat down after I had been seated for a while had gotten their food before I got mine. How bloody long does it take to dish up a bowl of congee?

I'm polite, clean, quiet, and no fuss.
I tip better than most customers.
And I speak Cantonese.


But I'm white, so I don't count for much.


Surely everybody knows that 我哋西洋鬼 are inconsequential, smell bad, and probably insensitive anyway. And we are too stupid to notice little things like shitty treatment. Heck, we deserve it! Especially when all the other customers are civilized people, "our" crowd, from the same home town, 同胞嘅, and must be made comfortable and happy!




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IT'S SHINY!

On my way to work there are crows, and I often hear them in my neighborhood. Crows are harbingers of good luck. Understandable, as they project an image of confidence and ownership. When walking, they strut. Cocky. They own this sidewalk.
It is theirs. They found it.

Unlike seagulls, who always seem to feel like rude interlopers, though unaware of the skeeviness of that. Bitch, gimme that slice of pizza! I want it!

Crows always give me a warm happy feeling.
And do not wish to take my pizza.
Unless I indicate sharesies.

One of these days I'll make sure to have snacks with me when I head down the sidewalk to work of a morning. Win friends and influence people, as Dale Carnegie would say.
Avian people. Corvid Americans.

Inclusionary egalitarianism.

If it were up to me, I'd give them the vote. They'd elect shiny people and cracked nuts. While avoiding the smelly grease stains and perfumed ponces. At least, I think so. We need somebody to outvote the suburban Karens, and I think crows could do it.

Instead of "you can't sell beverages here, little girl", they'd go "ooh, lemonade!" and happily cluster round. "We'll give you shiny things, just keep the lovely liquid coming!"


As the dominant species, it is our duty to introduce them to the benefits of the modern world. Lemonade, pizza, and Snickers Bars.



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FOND THOUGHTS OF SENSORY OVERLOAD

So when I came home it turned out that my apartment mate, who is a splendid person, and over a decade ago was romantically involved with me but came to her senses, albeit late in the game, has once again discovered that her people dress funny and eat too much. That would be people of Chinese ancestry. Well, perhaps not eat too much The eating too much would be my people (Caucasians), I mean have you SEEN some of the people visiting our city? Good lord.

Anyway, she described a busload of Mandarin speakers down near the library.

Perhaps expensive bad taste is a thing?

If I spoke passable Mandarin, I'd put my hands together court-official style right now and flutter my retroflex r at her. Unfortunately, I don't. And she'd probably brain me with a tub of cookies (currently located in the space between her computer and mine).
Angry at being snarked.

Both of us speak English as native languages. And both of us also speak Cantonese, but hers is the Toisan variant, which sounds like Welsh to me, or almost like a Limburgian, whereas I speak HK language (though not at all well), and am therefore far closer to someone from De Bilt or Den Haag ('sGravenhage).

Sorry, those comparisons are better for spoken Dutch. I speak excellent Dutch.
She doesn't. Which is probably just as well. It's useless in the US.
The best Mandarin sounds distinctly furry.

IMPECCABLE UNIFORMS AND PERFECT MANDARIN

In any case, loud clothing taste can set someone apart. Not favourably.
And it helps the authorities track them down.


"Suspect was wearing a knitted purple poofty hat, loud green and yellow check jumper, and zebra striped yoga pants. Metallic puce Nikes. Was last seen with a red shopping bag advertising a ginseng supplier, and a plastic bag of empty soda cans."

"Known to favor Hello Kitty motifs. Especially on socks and undies."

"Suspect tracked down on Grant Avenue. Several tourist blinded."


Probably NOT a mainland tourist. They seldom commit crimes as they've heard about our police brutality (which is something The U.S. is famous for all over the world), and any arrests would interrupt shopping sprees.

So possibly someone with diplomatic immunity.


Not Dutch, I can assure you.

Our horrid taste, though no less frightening, takes entirely different forms. Many of us when visiting wear Eurotrash garb anyway. Hello Kitty is English, not European. Remember Brexit?

We have Smurfs.

Sorry, totally free associating there.
My bad. Apologies.



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RABBIT RABBIT! RABBIT RABBIT! RABBIT .....

Rabbit rabbit. Positive vibes, little bunny, there is thumping. The ancient tradition brought down from Olympus by Hobbits after landing the Ark is alive an well. All across this vast land, from Topeka to Timbuctoo, old-fashioned Anglos are uttering the sacred phrase "rabbit rabbit" in hopes that will bring luck and abundant sacrifices.

Then they don their lucky team sweatshirt to watch the ballgame.

In order to be one with my people, I shall do likewise.

Far be it from me to blaze a trail unknown.

We are all red-blooded.


Some of us are rabbits.

A sweathsirt for an Orthodox rabbinic school. Which does not have a football team. Despite the football gaily emblazoned thereon. It's a garment I bought years ago when I was made aware of its existence, as an ironic statement encapsulating my complete disinterest and impartiality. I am consequently a fair witness to the stupid game.
And its loyal dumb-ass fans.

Especially when the Forty Niners are playing (the game begins at one-ish), and the retired member of the judicial branch is in backroom soiling his extra-baggy incontinence panties in his enthusiasm. A loyal fan. Let out of the house by his wife. So that he can whoop it up with boys. Cheering for the team that represents his kind, his class, his failure of intellect, diminished capacities, and everything he ever hoped to achieve.
He is the team. All of them are the team.


Rabbit rabbit.



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