IT'S THE FOG

Rumours of my social sparkle may have been grossly exaggerated. As well as my hail fellow well mettishness and bonhomie. Consider the cat, which ensconces itself in a convenient box so that it rear-end and vital organ areas are safely out of sight, only the head with fangs and the paws with claws are showing. Precisely so. This box is my fortress.

But I will venture forth for pâté, of which there was a tempting sufficiency durin the meeting of the pipe club, most of whom I like rather much. I am fond of pink meat goo.
Pink meat goo is as good a social lubricant as there is.
Look, I'm smiling.


Ten people and two whiskey bottles showed up. Plus several tins of tobacco. One or two of the members look more fragile than they did last month, and I think there was a pick-up truck with Texas plates parked outside. Not that that is germane, he lives locally. There were, sadly, no women. For some reason I cannot fathom we have no women members.

Ladies, if you like fine Virginia Perique mixtures, and pink meat goo, please show yourselves! Come for the meat goo, stay for the fabulous company. Have some flake! Delicious!

It ended with people fading into the fog, which was starting to roll over the coastal hills. It's gotten colder since nightall, by about fifteen to twenty degrees. The road across the bridge was enveloped in white silk which also veiled the view of the city. Some pelicans flapped near the bus, then disappeared into the mists.


Because it's the beginning of the football season, the depraved cigar smoking old gits in the backroom were in high spirits, a perfect rutting frenzy, and loudly insulted each other as they vied for the attention of imaginary females of their species, ruffling their wattles in splendid display. I had earlier told them to behave better than they normally do, no venomous and vehement fighting over politics, go ahead and discuss religion, that's a safe subject and you're all heretics who will burn at the stake anyhow, so nobody will be offended.

They talked politics.


Anyhow, the pipe smokers had a fine time. At the appointed hour I told them that some of them were in danger of turning into pumpkins, and if they stayed much longer I would have to mop up the pumpking guts, please avoid the cheroot crowd on the way out they all have diseases. Unclean, unclean! A few members crossed themselves as they left.

Nick is looking to buy his first Comoy. I suggested that if he didn't want to spring for a Blue Riband, he should look for a London Pride or research some of the Comoy off-brands.
Many of those are also nice. I look forward to seeing what he finds.
He's in his eighties. But still spry and hobbit-like.



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MISSING IN ACTION

We can be fairly certain bowls of melted butter had nothing to do with it. As there would have been greasy spots on the bed. Which I would have noticed. Additionally, there has not been a time in the last eight months more or less that I woke up smelling like butyric acid and ginger or garlic. I'm fairly certain of that. So we can be sure that the various frogs and the turkey vulture on my bed did not eat him.

Nevertheless, the smal crab wearing a sweater who joined the household last December, who lives on my side, is missing in action. I have told my apartment mate that he's bound to be around somewhere, but crabs are an adventurous lot. Decapods, by and large, are not strictly territorial. They're rather like the adventurous commercial travellers of the crustacial world. Hat salesmen. "Hello, can I interest you in a fancy chapeau?" You will try one or two of them on, the crab will assure you that you look stunning, and the sale will be finalized.
Trust me. Would I lie? I'm an expert, I can say these things!

I don't think I convinced her. She retired to her room looking worried.

He's bound to turn up again. Sometime in the next few days I shall have to turn my quarters upside down searching. Last night I alreay founds some tins of pipetobacco and two books that I had entirely forgotten about.

Oh, so that's where the pajama top is. I'd simply been using tee-shirts.

My tee-shirts come from three different fields of enterprise: computers, spy toys, and the tobacco trade. They serve as undershirts and pajama tops. Crabbity dude is probably wearing one of them. While hiding among the dictionaries.
I'm sure I'll find him.



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THE GHOST FROM THE PHOTO

The corner of one's eye is not a reliable source of information. Especially not when the fog is rolling in. And no, there is nothing actually wrong with my eyes. Well, except that I do need reading specs (which I've got), and in maybe eight to ten years I'll need cataract surgery, perhaps, and the left eye seems to have incipient glaucoma which may render it kind of useless at this rate in another twenty years or so. Anyhow, specs I've got, latanoprost eyedrops for the left one also, and I can surefire identify the Golden Gate bus.
From nearly four blocks away.

But at the end of a long day dealing with elderly morons the mind is a bit abstracted.

That's why I thought I saw a person from a National Geographic article.

Just sitting alone. Upstairs. Across the street.

At twilight. In an unlit apartment.

[The disconnect with reality of those aforementioned elderly morons is not catching. Don't worry.]

A photo from an article I haven't read in years.
Set in some far-off place.

Almost as good as seeing an unexpected taco truck, I think you'll agree.

Feminine elegance. You can tell she's wearing that thin lacy old-style upper garment favoured by women in certain tropical countries, as well that that is a pre-transition Barling she's smoking. Probably with a nice English mixture. Perhaps from Rattrays. Because, of course, a refined lady pipe smoker would prefer a civilized product over the noxious reek of aromatics favoured by Gandalf-Hobbit wannabees. Such as there will probably be another wave of after the new Lord Of The Rings television series has made many young basement dwellers borrow the movie series from the library and then play act their favourite parts by cosplaying with props such as cheap cheesy pearwood churchwarden pipes.
Made in Eastern Europe for precisely that demographic.

And naturally she has pipe cleaners.



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THE WATERLESS FAUCET

There are times when I think it's what is in the water. In many parts of the country there are chemicals, bugs, rotten biological substances, molds, metals, and psychedelic elements lurking in the water supply. And, obviously, it affects people.

Of course it could also be praescriptions, hamberders, the adulation of idiots, or cult koolaid. Any one of those things could do it. Just look at Ohio and Kentucky. Both places not known for mental stability. And then there's Florida.

But I think it's the water.

No water in your faucets. You ever try buying a new home and you turn on. You want to wash your hair or you wanna wash your hands. You turn on the water and it goes drip, drip the soap. You can't get it off your hand. So you keep it running for about 10 times longer. You trying, the worst is your hair. I have this beautiful luxuriant hair and I put stuff on. I put it in lather. I like lots of lather because I like it to come out extremely dry because it seems to be slightly thicker that way. And I lather up and then you turn on this crazy shower and the thing drip, drip and you say I'm gonna be here for 45 minutes. What? There's so much water. You don't know what to do with it. You know, it's called rain. It rains a lot in certain places. But, now their idea, you know, did you see the other day? They just, I opened it up and they closed it again. I opened it, they close it, washing machines to wash your dishes. There is a problem. They don't want you to have any water.


Forcrapsakes, don't mention adderal. Amphetamine salts have great therapeutic effects and have helped more people than nuthouses. Euphoria, alertness, improved cognitive abilities, faster reaction times. Paranoia, delusions, hallucinations, and dementia are rare, comparatively speaking.



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THE SUCCULENT CHINESE MEAL

It is with sadness that we read that the man who over two decades ago gifted the Australian language with jewels such as "a succulent Chinese meal", "get your hand off my penis", and "democracy manifest" has passed away at age eighty two. Those phrases and more were uttered during his arrest outside a restaurant in what may have been a case of mistaken identity. He was presumed to be a notorious other person.
Specifically a Hungarian chessplayer.

"In 1991 the British Empire lay in ruins and foreign nationals frequented the streets of Brisbane, many of them Hungarian chess players ... "

During his last few weeks, he begged his relatives to smuggle his pipe into the hospital. Which is something that I can thoroughly sympathise with.


The last time I saw my barber he just couldn't shut up about the roast goose in Hong Kong, and even put several roast goose videos on his laptop for us both to enjoy while he snipped away. I'm not sure, but I think he was drooling. He really misses Hong Kong. This time, it was Peking duck (北京烤鴨 'bak ging haau ngaap'). Several luxuriously appointed restaurants in Guangzhou, Hong Kong, and Shenzhen. Luxurious settings. Lovely restaurants famous for catering to the prosperous cognoscenti, with impeccable table service, serving succulent Chinese meals. Beautiful and gorgeous.

Here in San Francisco it may cost you over one hundred dollars per person.

Far better indeed than the fleshpots of Egypt. No wonder my barber is losing his mind.

So of course I went to a chachanteng immediately afterwards and had something else. Black bean sauce and peppers porkchop over rice (豉椒豬扒飯 'si jiu chü baa faan'). And, after enjoying my succulent meal, I filled and lit up my pipe.


Cecil George Edwards (aka Jack Karlson) was an original. The world and Australia are poorer for his passing. RIP, Johann Kelmut Karlson, Cecil George Edwards, Cecil Gerry Edwards, Mr Democracy Manifest. And 'get your hand off my penis!'


According to my barber, in conversation with another customer, I am from Hong Kong, a pretty boy, and a ladies man like you wouldn't imagine. And when she goes back she should go with me and live it up. It will be such fun. Roast goose, roast duck, and fatty pork! Succulence, in Cantonese, is 多汁 ('dwo jap'; "much juice").
That does not apply here.




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THEY CRAWL AMONG US

Yesterday someone slimed about Walz to me. Proving that Republican disinformation is alive and well. Now, this person walks upright and doesn't drag his knuckles, and is also extremely literate, but it disturbs me that he uncritically fell for falsehood that J. D. Vance spread to the gullibles. So this election will be longer than usual, and I dread going in to work tomorrow, because of the sour old Republican sacks of shit with whom I regularly deal.

No, I shall not rehash that rightwing bullpuckey here, because I have no wish to discuss it in any way with squawking dingos sputtering "but, but, but, he said ..." and then making stupid remarks that I would have to dispute. There is no point in talking about anything at all with people who have their heads up their asses.

Which seems to be a larger group than I previously thought.


Years ago I was a more boring and disputatious person. Now I am less "social and outgoing", and prefer to keep my counsel to myself, discussing many things only with close friends, and anonymously (because you don't know who I am) on this blog.

There is no need to convince everyone that the world is not flat or that creationism is a load of bollocks and evolution is real. Or, for that matter, that they really should get flu and covid shots. Some people are just much more likely to die alone in their basements of completely avoidable diseases, still convinced that only they know the truth.

IT'S LIKE A SEMI-PRIVATE ISLAND

And I'm cool with that. I am on an extended mental vacation from idiocy. I have sustenance, wikipedia, actual news sites (even though a few of them have nauseating biases), places for milk tea and snacks, and a stockpile of pipe tobacco stashed in the book-littered apartment which I share with an antisocial person with her own interests, who is much saner than she thinks she is and has become more tolerant of my peculiarities over the years.

Mmm. Yes, okay, hearing her talking with the small animals in her own room late at night or early in the morning is a bit odd. But they're mostly sane too, except for two or three who frequently have to be spoken to quite firmly.

But none of them are Republicans, flat-earthers, or anti-vaxxers.
And only one of them has Nazi tendencies.



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CHARMING!

Late in the morning there was noise from the garden next door. Because this apartment is at the back of the building, I could hear it clearly. Two children were digging a hole there, under the direction of their grandfather. Children love digging holes. Good. Employ them for that.
Happy childish voices.

Later, at the chachanteng where I went for lunch, a kid at the next table fondly clutched his stuffed capybaras. One of which had a duck mounted on its back. I had not seen stuffed capybaras before. Basically big blobs of fur.

While on the bus, at one of the stops, an elderly Caucasian gentleman getting off loudly told a woman to move her fat ass. Now personally I'm wondering what his hurry was, given that at his age he was undoubtedly retired and therefore not late for work -- and if he actually had any pressing business on Leavenworth Street perhaps he should have gotten into gear much earlier himself -- and, if his bowels bothered him perhaps he shouldn't have left the house before taking precautions.

I snidely remarked "charming" as he passed.
I hope he gets an infarction.
Not a gentleman.

Not charming either. In all of eighty years he hasn't improved. He has failed at life.
Eighty years more or less. Could be considerably older.
A real piece of work.

Lunch (焗葡國雞飯) with milk tea (港式奶茶) followed by a smoke (煙斗), then shopping for groceries on Stockton and at the big provisioners (大利) where they have curry pastes and dry noodles, in addition to lots of other stuff. Teatime at a bakery, and another smoke.

While on Waverly I spent some time watching the police deal with a vagrant who had tried to set himself on fire. A man who was clearly at the end of his tether. There was desperation in his voice, as well as defiance and an attempt to maintain a certain pride and personal integrity. They were very patient with him, and pretended not to understand the absolutely horrible language he hurled at them. Some of those things were earblistering. After half an hour the ambulance showed up, they gently inveigled him into quieting down and getting on the brancard. A medical check-up, psych ward observation, some warm food, and quiet time are in order, plus, one hopes, getting him into the system so that A) he's not living on the street, and B) sees other options than setting himself on fire.

His Cantonese was clear, distinct, and eloquent.
Of course I had to listen in.
Educational!

If this were a Republican city they would have simply clubbed him into submission, cuffed him, and thrown him in the drunk tank. The paperwork would have shown some crime, no doubt, and no one would have even uttered a peep about it. You know that's true.
The red states have a rotten record in that regard.

Three cops, two emergency medicals, one down and outer.
One full pipe. Two observers. Nearly an hour.


After coming home I gave my downstairs neighbor some mangoes.
Hence the picture above.



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OR MAYBE DON'T ADD VINEGAR

It was a dream set in Southern California in which I was winning at mah jong. The game had gone on too long, as those things usually do, there had been food, and the place was near water. Sunset. West is that way. I need to catch a bus going back East. I have to leave!

I kept winning. The game continued.

It has been years since I played mah jong. Longer than I visited So. Cal.

The food was particularly good. Lumpia, pancit, binagoongan baboy, and green beans.
Plus rice. There had to be rice.

Many things Filippino take place near water.
It's often cooler there.


Binagoongan baboy is pork belly with shrimp paste, garlic, and vinegar. Often tomatoes are added to stew along, many people add a little sugar too. Garlic is essential, but onion isn't, though it's often added at the same time after browning the meat a little and before liquids are thrown in. Stew for an hour, classic. Salty, tangy, sweet, saucy. Manomnomnoman!

The kitchen needs ventilation, otherwise the entire building ends up smelling like that cheap flophouse on Mabini. Or the rickety covered market where inasal na manok was sold along with sinangag made with ginamos. Sarap nyan!

Sinangag: fried rice. Ginamos: Southern type bagoong dilis, fermented anchovy paste. Binagoongan: similar to pinatisan, but it's made with bagoong instead.
If doing pinatisan, huwag nang magdagdag ng suka.
A little squeeze of kalamansi, fine.


Inasal is strongly marinated grilled meat.
Usually chicken, large pieces.



It was far too early to think of food. I ascribe that dream to my apartment mate being up before me, in the kitchen cooking herself breakfast. And also eating too much chocolate yesterday, and the tea had during the late evening "pub crawl" (I don't drink alcohol).
Plus I think I was a little dehydrated.



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NOT DISCUSSING THE WEATHER

If you have too much chocolate after lunch (eaten late in the afternoon, first meal all day), it will give you a slight bout of acid indigestion. So you swallow a stomach settling pill (平胃片 'ping wai pin') with a shot of coffee before leaving the house. And by the time I finished a very satisfying bowl of tobacco in Chinatown, while watching the European tourists heading back to their hotels and the American businessmen here for important meetings going out for a night on the town, everything was oojah cum spiff.

Well, okay, one of the passers-by was disquiting. A lanky dude with loud angry statements about heads that had to be cut off. Bit of a nutter.
Still audible after a block.


Because the beer place was crowded, and we could see a shower of c*nts heading in to the karaoke den, we went elsewhere. Where both Tat Yee and the "most dangerous man in Chinatown" (self styled) were hanging out. Anthony Bourdain on one television, the Paris Olympics on the other three. Fatty grilled meats and lean sweaty runners.

["A shower of cunts" is a popular expression in Britain. A group of annoying tw*ts.]


It is likely that head cutting dude isn't welcome there.

I mentioned to my friend that I have a phone appointment next week to talk about the same issue that call-centre droogs keep calling me about. Whenever the spammers phone I keep responding in Cantonese and they hang up. This morning one of the callers was actually Cantonese. From my insurance company. Legitimate.
What are the odds?


You'll be glad to know that if anyone tries to cut off my head I will be fully covered. And it's not just my head; all violent attacks using sharp or pointy weapons with the goal of separating body parts will also be taken care of.


Not that I worry particularely about that, but San Francisco does get visitors from Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Jersey, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming, so there is always the threat of off kilter behaviours.

Well, besides karaoke, I mean.



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DON'T VISIT BRITAIN!

False information spread on X contributed massively to the civil unrest in Britain. As is quite understandable, when you consider that the paranoiacs and loonies who years ago would slowly drive their vans around town with their entire batshit crazy thesis painted on the sides and roof (eh, we're supposed to climb up a ladder) or utilize sticky letters to cut and paste angry screeds to photocopy down at the print-O-mat now can spread their ideas to a far wider audience than ever before, far more efficiently, and add photos too.

The nuts have always been out there. The computer age has made them better.
At being nuts.

X, which in a different era was known as Twitter, is excellent for that.

During the Occupy Wall Street movement I utilised it to find out what the situation was at the transit stations so that I could tell my coworkers where the naked deomonstrators were, in order that they time their commute accordingly when leaving for the day.


"Ugly nudists presently at Civic Center Station, they'll be at Powell in approximately ten minutes. Leave now, before they shut the gates at Montgomery."


Social media is useful for keeping track of people not wearing clothes.
If used wisely.

Between them, exhibitionists and Twitter wrecked the Occupy Wall Street movement. Things are much more shocking, impactful, and offending to the sensibilities when they are unexpected and startle, not when they are known and avoided.

CLOUDS OF TEARGAS, RIOT SQUADS

On that note, civilized people should probably avoid Great Britain for the next decade. There are violent racists and nazis everywhere, attacking everyone who looks or sounds different, torching mosques, shops, and hostels, looting, throwing cinder blocks and molotovs at the police, and screaming unintelligibly in peculiar forms of English only understood by locals living under bridges safeguarding goats. As yet there are no "nudists for racehatred".
But that's because of the climate rather than common sense.

The England that stood as one against the blitz is gone. In its stead, pasty white pudgies run through the streets and trash their own monuments for whatever insane cause they support, no matter how bloodthirsty and murderous it may be.


CITIES TO PARTICULARLY SHUN: Aldershot, Belfast, Birmingham, Blackburn, Blackpool, Bolton, Bristol, Darlington, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Hartlepool, Hastings, Hull, Leeds, Leicester, Liverpool, London, Manchester, Middlesbrough, Nottingham, Plymouth, Preston, Rotherham, Solihull, Southport, Stockton, Stoke-on-Trent, Sunderland, Tamworth, Weymouth, Woking.



AFTERWORD: You can find excellent marmelades in the United States, as well as sources of superior tea. There is probably an electric kettle in your hotel room, and a teapot is easily purchased at a local emporium. Scones, biscuits, muffins, and even crumpets, can often be sourced locally. The nearby restaurants will offer better food which is less greasy and not so heavy on the stomach. Baked beans in a tin will probably take a bit of searching. Mushy peas are unavailable, unlamentably. And in most parts of the country the natives speak far more understably than over there.

There is good craft beer here. English pipe tobacco is now mostly manufactured in Germany or Denmark. Fine English cigarettes are imported from Nigeria, and Canadian cigarettes are also widely available. Curry is made by Indians and Pakistanis.
And we have real Chinese food in many cities.


Good coffee can be found.




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THE ENGLISH ARE OFF THEIR NUT

The Engish love foreigners. Especially those who stay in the kitchen and cook food that's better than English food. They want them there 24 hours, seven days a week. If they are obsequious and humble, so much the better. Foreigners also make great food servers, gardeners, and chimney sweeps.

That explains the righ wing yobbos rioting on the streets of Belfast, Bristol, Hull, Liverpool, Manchester, Plymouth Rotherham, Southport, Tamworth, as well as several other places where British people live. Many foreigners were not obsequious enough.
And some of them can't cook.

That last item is particularly grievous; the bar is set low.
They love McDonalds, for crap sakes!


Earlier many English people had rioted for several months against the Jews.
Notably in Blackburn, Brighton, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Leeds and London.
The issue there is very much the same. Food and obsequity.

What probably made things get out of hand most recently was that Spain (quintessential foreigners) soundly trounced them in the Euro Cup this year held in a place with far better beer (Germany) where any drunken rioting by British fans was efficiently discouraged.
It's not easy being holy. Something had to give.

ENGLISH FOLKLORISTIC EVENT

Intellectually, I like England. But in very real terms, I don't think I or anyone else should ever visit the place again. There's far too much xenophobia, rudeness, loudness, and violence.
Nigel Farage, Tommy Robinson, and multiple repulsive others.

For Americans it's particularly out of the question. They've never forgiven us for saving their hash, twice, and not worshipping them. And we talk funny. Which offends them immensely.

It's become a more frightful place than it ever was before, which is hard to imagine.
Also, their food is often rather unsettling. To say the least.
Sometimes a crime against humanity.



English people have recently torched a number of hostels for asylum seekers and ransacked shops run by foreigners, as well as screamed vitriol outside mosques. In addition to trashing a number of their own city centres. Hardly cricket, boys.


And did I already mention their horrid food?




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THE SQUAWKING LIFE

When Daniel from Green Hills Electric called, something indicated that he wasn't a real person. The phone number had been flagged as "possible spam call", number one. The mechanical clicks, number two. The heavy nearly unintelligible Indian accent, number three. Well, actually a real human, but in his real life probably not 'Daniel'. Unless, perhaps, he was a South Indian Christian. In which case he and I have a lot in common. We're both male. We both have a name with resonance in Scripture. And we both speak, more or less, English. But I answered him in Cantonese and kept him on line for five minutes.
I thoroughly enjoyed the call.

In some ways I'm a real asshole.

Laura, who had called earlier to remind me of the time I asked her to call me about funeral expenses, reacted less kindly to my speaking Cantonese at her. She asked several times how old I was, and when I told her that she was a very silly woman (你係個好傻嘅女人 'nei hai go hou so ge neui yan') repeatedly, and that I did not wish to speak with her, hung up in exhasperation. Judging by her trustworthy educated British accent, she should have been able to understand me -- her type queened it up over the Crown Colony for over a century, there were hordes of them near Connaught Road -- so I was eloquently surprised at her dullness, but maybe she didn't wigg on because of context. No one expects to phone someone about funeral expenses and hear snarky Cantonese.

The subject demands gravitas and gloomy seriousness! Perhaps I should have tried an African language which I don't speak. Twi, for instance: U ngu kwase u bumen kpishi!

In point of fact, I have never asked anyone to call me about funeral expenses.

To quote Monty Python: "I'm not dead yet, I feel fine. I think I'll go for a walk now".


你係個好傻嘅女人！


One the whole, I prefer spam from Daniel. Despite Laura's plummy accent, which is similar to mine when I'm speaking English, I've heard people exactly like her far too often being worse assholes than I am to get along very well with her type. Also, in her case, the accent is due to hard work at sounding like she's better than her original environment, and there's just that edge to it which suggests a familiarity with fry-ups, baked beans from a tin, and room temperature Wattney's Red Barrel.

Not my class, Darling. I come from frikandel, sambal, and a spot of oude genever with a Glorie van Java cigar. It's an entirely different background. I'm not saying it's better (or worse, heaven forbid), but Daniel at least knows how to cook food with flavour, and ablutes himself regularly, whereas you probably have wanky plumbing and consequently go several days without a decent bath in your small drafty flat in Hoxton.
Even with good plumbing.

Your people get drunk in Lan Kwai Fong and act disgracefully. I've drunk whisky with chaps like Daniel at rough Korean bars on Geary Street. He's actually a very decent fellow, even though professionally I would not share my personal data with him.


My cell-phone is a device which allows Indians to mis-communicate with me.
Or rather, me to completely non-communicate with Indians.
A miraculous device in many ways.



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BE WARY WHEN YOU'RE OFFERED AN ORANGE

The weather these past two days has been perfect.Fog in the morning when I've crossed bridge, and again in the evening. And not too warm during the day. I hope this continues for a while, rather than changing into another hot spell, when I'll have to go around naked.
And so will you. Which I really don't want to see.

Besides, pipesmokers need pockets. Some place for matches, a tamper, pouch of tobacco, pipe cleaners, and a second pipe. Nudity is consequently inconvenient away from the apartment. And even inside. Breadcrumbs get everywhere. Or it feels like it.

Nudity is not to be enjoyed. It's supposed to build character.

Foggy weather, on the other hand ...

Perfect pocket weather.


For some reason my apartment mate is somewhat obsessed with the beneficial effects of oranges on the digestion. Very good for British people! Who need it, because of the horrible food over there. Which plugs you up. The reason why the British first went to China was NOT tea, or porcelain, or silk, but rhubarb. A wondrous cure for gastric obstruction caused by the British diet. Culinarily, of course, Britain is like bat country (fear and loathing style), with nothing edible save for gila monsters, curry, and Chinese take-out. Apparently there is now rhubarb growing all over the British Isles. That may be why they gave up Hong Kong. Once you plant rhubarb you can never get rid of it. Darn it, don't I know anything, stupid Anglo!
I point out gently that I am not Anglo, but Dutch.


Hah! You guys need rhubarb too! I've had Dutch food!


We all have our own obsessions.
Mine include handy pockets.
Don't need rhubarb.
Or oranges.


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SOME VERY FINE PEOPLE

Yesterday two of the rancid old rightwing dillwads in the backroom nearly shat themselves with pleasure listening to the orange egomaniac droning on at a rally in Georgia where no one tried to shoot him. Despite him having two ears. Symmetry is a good thing, you know. Make it so.

So, yesterday evening, to rinse my own ears clean of the garbage to which they had been subjected, I put on the Uganda Police Band, playing Mapambano and Kweli Kweli. Splendid.
A rousing good time. Also listened to a girlish anime figure singing an upbeat song about the Dutch East Indies Company. Cheerful. And insane.


Like many people, I'll be glad when the election is over and we can back to sentencing the bozo. Lock him up, lock him up. We've had enough of old white men trying to run things and tell us what to do. Ditch them all. You know, some of my best friends are old white men, and they say so too. And I myself am an old white man. I can oldwhitemansplain, because I'm entitled. Oldwhitemansplaining is my culural heritage!
I'm just better at it than them.
Old white men are exactly what infests the backroom at work soiling either the air or their diapers. We haven't called Orkin yet. Sad.

No, Trump and Bernie Sanders don't lurk there.


I also spent some time with computer paint yesterday. It's one of the things that keeps me sane. Here's a canal in a city in the Netherlands, where orange is the national colour, with not a shred of orange visible.

Orange is their national colour because of the fruit. Not the freak.

All of you old white men, kindly shut up.




Also, immensely cheering, was an account of the suffering and martyrdom of St. Isaac Jogues, a Frenchman who despite better instincts, inexplicably not followed, went back to missionize the Iroquios who had held him captive and tortured his companions to death. He was done in with a tomahawk (1646). Golly, what a suprise. Somewhere in the wilds of New Netherland (now New York). Pius XI canonized him in 1930. His feast day is October 19.
I suffered a gleeful fit of the giggles while reading about his life and martyrdom.
It would have been good material for a Monty Python skit.

What on earth would you serve on his feast day?
Cervelle de veau? Succotash?




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ENGLAND GOING TO THE DOGS!

Those of us who appreciate the England of marmalade, fine pipes and tobacco, potted shrimp, and a cup of tea, can only look on in sneering contempt as ultra-right yobbos in balaclavas burn down city centres and scream unintelligibly because there are too many people who aren't lilly white or properly obsequious flooding in to the country.
Good heavens, there is no further need to go to England.
They've become "some very fine people".


Some of my friends make splendid marmalade, fine pipes and tobacco now come from other countries, potted shrimp will give you gas, and tea, everyone now knows, is Chinese.
And the loud angry Brits are a bunch of bean-eating wankers.
Acid indigestion is a national characteristic.

A month ago it was still ultra-lefty useful idiots spouting the old-fashioned Stalinist party line about Americans and Jews, and American Jews. Mass marches every weekend. At that time I knew it might be a while before I visited Blighty. What with being a Jew-loving American.
Now I suspect it might be at least another decade.

If ever again.

I'll source my English supplies locally. Californian marmalade, Scandinavian-made pipe tobacco, and once in a while some homemade potted shrimp. Pacific shrimp. And Hong Kong style milk tea at a local chachanteng or bakery where there are NO rioting lower class unwashed Brit illiterates right outside tearing up the street and burning taxis and police cars, largely because the swine can't travel further than Spain where the locals don't want them.

Avoid constipation: yes to California marmalade, no to British pub food.


And, seeing as Patak's fine pickles are exported to the United States, one can get a taste of England simply by heading over to the local stores. I'm sure Mr. Patel will be glad to see me.



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WAIT, IS THAT PUMPKIN SPICE?

One of the cool things about Autumn is that NONE of my favourite bakeries and chachanteng will have anything with pumpkin spice. Whereas, totally proving that they are both crazy and degenerate, every damned Starbucks in the city will have EVERYTHING pumpkin spice. Which illustrates nicely why I haven't been in a Starbucks in fifteen years.
And then only because a friend needed to pee.

At one of the bakeries in Chinatown, there is a sign saying that the bathroom is out of order, because they don't want to get sued by someone in a wheelchair getting bent out of shape and figuring they can make a quick buck with a nuisance legal complaint. So now no one who reads English can leak there. Those of us who speak Chinese don't both reading the sign. We've gone there long enough that we don't have to.

Maybe y'all should go pee in Starbucks?
Let me give you directions.

I'm a good Christian in a way. I wish everybody at Starbucks should pee.
Don't clench, little pilgrims, it's bad for your bladder.
Gotta get rid of the pumpkin spice somehow.
And the tapioca balls.

A vast torrent, a rushing river, a veritable flood. Tourists at Starbucks. Grab your surfboards.
And kindly imagine The Ride Of The Valkyries from Apocalypse Now as background music.

Or, if it makes you feel better, that scene involving cars in The Blues Brothers. Far more mittel-Amerikanisch. Sweetness, love, butterflies.



While I was eating lunch yesterday (咖喱雞球、飯、熱港式奶茶 'gaa lei kai kau, faan, yit gong sik naai chaa'; chicken curry and rice with a cup of HK style milk tea) a white tourist was strong-armed into leaving a tip by the hardworking tough cookie waitress at the chachanteng. It was good. Smoked my pipe afterwards. Excellent.

Bumped into two people I know.
Ah choy looks older now.
But seems happy.



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HEARTFELT TOURIST APPRECIATION

Two years ago a very dear friend who is beyond the reach of Republicans wrote: “Pray as if Thomas, Alito, and Kavanaugh being grievously injured in a car crash depended on God. Bribe their mechanics as if it depended on you.” At the time, he had attributed the statement to Augustine of Hippo, whereas another source asserted that it was actually noted spiritual authority and mentor Clive Bundy. I am, as you would expect, on the fence about either assertion. I am a results-focused man. Who actually said it iz mir scheißegal.

The reason very much of the country is so messed up is partly because y'all were raised on mid-twentieth century middle American cuisine, and it shows.

Example: canned sausage supper

One medium onion, sliced thin.
Half a cup sliced celery.
Two TBS margerine.
Half cup ketchup.
Two TBS water.
Half Tsp. salt.
Half. Tsp. Worcestershire sauce.
Dash pepper.
One four ounce can of those little sausages you bought at the liquor store around the corner at one thirty AM when you were returning home after getting drunk at a sportsbar watching the Philadelphia Eagles getting their ass handed to them on a platter at Rick's Baller Sports Bar (four screens) with the boys. It was all very homo-erotic, you regret that now, and you pray that neither your wife nor the preacher on Sunday ever hear about it.
Two cans (15¼ ounces) macaroni in cheese sauce.

Sauté onion and celery in margerine till soft. Add ketchup and other ingredients except the cans of macaroni, raise to boil, turn low and simmer five minutes. Warm up the macaroni in separate pan, pour into a deep dish. Dump the meat sauce in the centre, and add parsley to garnish. Serves four.

Wash it down with a diet soda, have a frozen pudding dessert afterwards.


Please note that it actually does contain fresh vegetables (onion and celery plus parsley), so it is healthy and good for you and won't plug up your bowels. Even though you ate all of it by yourself while watching Everybody Loves Raymond.

Also please note that I've reproduced the recipe entirely without the brand names that were in the original, because I am not a corporate whore and won't advertise their crappy garbage. Buy all ingredients ethically sourced from small family farms, use real cheese, and replace at least half of the ketchup with Sriracha for better results next morning. Remember, it's full of vitamin C.

This is why half the country looks exactly like Blobbo The Tourist pictured above, as seen on Grant Avenue on his Little Sherman mobility device blocking the sidewalk. And why many of the rest of them have precisely two linked braincells between a family of eight (they take turns using them).

That's two adults, two grandadults, two kids, a dog and a lizard.

Blobbo's previous mobility device is up on cinder blocks in the drive-way of his home in Tennessee, very much like many other residents of his one-storey town have theirs.
Some of them are pick-up trucks with gun racks and offensive bumper stickers.
Silverados and Rams also qualify as mobility devices.


Still, that food above is too much work. Thank the lord for microwavable teevee dinners and instant ramen. So much more convenient! And if you place the microwave on one of those little tables in between the poofy recliner and the couch, you won't even have to get up.
Make modern technology work for you.


As it turns out Texas has more trailer parks than any other state. California comes a close second, proving that we're still as middle-American as they come, and chock full of good old boys too, representing, man, totally. We're just normal folks here despite what Fox News wants you to believe.

Can't put a trailer park in San Francisco. It would slide down hill.
That's probably why all the tourists come here.
Despite our horrible food.


I note, by the way, that Germany and all of Europe lag considerably in mobility device engineering. There must be a reason for that.



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RABBIT, RABBIT. AUGUST.

Rabbit rabbit. This month snuck up on me. Yes, I knew it would come, but it seems like only a few days ago we were in mid-July. I wasn't paying attention, and boom. Good thing I paid all my bills early. Including rent.

So far, this year has been a trainwreck. Not for me personally, but the rest of the world has had one heck of a year. No, shan't mention the Middle East -- truth be told most of the people there deserve what they get -- but the Europeans seem to have lost some of their braincells, much of the United States never had many to begin with and are now down to only one or two, and Africa and Latin America seem more violent and chaotic than ever before.

Must be all those high-grade pharmaceuticals.

Not being into drugs, unlike the top echelons of America's ruling and slacker classes, I can sit back and take a sober view of things.

Which I may not want to do.


Life is an endless karaoke evening with horrible singers at the microphone. Egomaniacs and psychopaths treating the rest of us to their renditions of 'Feelings' and 'Bohemian Rapsody', plus, if we're very lucky, the Oakland Booty song.

It's time to hide in the tall grasses.

Rabbit rabbit.



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