Suitable for Sunday Dinner, or, really, any other time. Which tomorrow I will not do, seeing as the whole concept of Sunday dinner has largely passed me by, and rarely do I cook for other people. But I like the concept.
Mutton chunks, dal gravy, rice.
And please note that per excellent authority the pulses in the gravy are mashed, forced through a sieve, and NOT whole and distinct, as food authorities on the internet seem to assume. Mashed. Smooth.
An actual gravy.
Mutton or goat. Not chicken.
Not vegetarian.
BAWI'S MOM'S DHANSAK
[Copied from a handwritten manuscript that Bawi lent me.]
Masala:
One teaspoon Methi (Fenugreek) seeds
Half teaspoon Cumin seeds
4 Cloves
2 Cardamoms (green)
Half inch stick cinnamon
Six to seven dry red chilies (guess: more like chile d'arbol than other)
One clove garlic
One and a half to two teaspoons dhana-jeera masala (add when frying paste)
Dal:
One and a half cups toovar dal
One onion, halved or quartered
Two and a half cups cubed red pumpkin
One eggplant (med - small) - no seeds if possible
One tomato
Half cup cilantro (not chopped)
Three to four sprigs mint (must!)
Four to five green chilies
Salt
Boil all vegetables and dal together until dal is done. Put dal and vegetables through sieve. Heat oil and fry ground masala paste. Add dhana-jeera masala and fry on low heat till done (clarification: the fragrance has changed and the oil has come out). Add dal and bring to boil.
Simmer 15 to 20 minutes longer.
Serve with brown rice (Parsi style rice - meaning gilded with some onion and sugar).
Note :there is no meat in this recipe - it is just the lentil gravy. Many people cook it with meat (NOT chased through the sieve), and some prefer chicken over mutton, for reasons that are entirely their own. I would add about a pound of mutton, goat, or lamb, in chunks, to this quantity of dal.
Browned in onion and spices first.
DHANSAK MASALA
[Spice mixture used for dhansak, my own version.]
Ingredients:
9 Dry chilies (Guajillo or New Mexico chiles secos).
Two and a half TBS coriander seed.
One and a half TBS cumin seed.
One TBS whole peppercorns.
Half a TBS fennel seed.
Half a TBS black mustard seed.
Half a TBS fenugreek seed.
Three Tej Patta (cassia leaves - omit if unavailable).
Three green cardamom pods, seeds only.
One black cardamom pod, seeds, only.
One three-inch stick of cinnamon.
One star-anise pod.
Nine whole cloves.
One Tsp. mace.
Roast all spices except the mace. Cool and grind. Add mace and regrind, sift. If it is to be stored use a brown or blue glass jar. Optionally add half a teaspoon of turmeric to inhibit mold if you intend to make more than you will use soon.
To use, mash with about eight or nine cloves of garlice and a thumb of ginger. It will be sufficient for enough dhansak to feed eight people.
You could use two thirds of a cup of toovar dal (telwalla), one third of a cup each of masoor and moong dal. Slightly more than a pound of red pumpkin, one or two Chinese eggplants, three or four tomatoes, two or three onions, and a small bunch of methi leaves plus a handful of cilantro. Use about a pound of mutton chunks on the bone, even up to two pounds.
AFTER WORD
Dhansak is a Parsee dish, served Sundays in many homes, and at the Ripon Club, located in the Fort, on Wednesdays, with kebabs.
The Parsees, as you know, invented Cricket.
[Hence the radio on the other side of the wall, describing India trouncing Pakistan or whoever, at certain times of the year. It is a dreary baffling past time, requiring cucumber sandwiches.]
LAGNIAPPE: AMBAKALIO
Parsee style green mango relish.
One pound small green mangoes (not squishy ripe mangoes).
Half a pound jaggery (palm sugar in big chunks).
A fragment of stick cinnamon.
Chopped onion (about a quarter; it's optional).
Two green cardamom pods.
Two whole cloves.
Water - two to four tablespoons.
Break jaggery apart, put in an enamel saucepan with water, the cardamom, and the cloves. Plus the onion, if you wish.
Cook till the jaggery dissolves.
Peel, cut, and de-seed the mangoes. Note that very nicely green mangoes will have a tender seed and the flesh will not have become all fibrous around it. Nor will juice and pulp cascade over your hands at this stage of unripeness, and the flesh is firm and fragrant, pleasingly tart.
Add the sliced mango to the jaggery water, and simmer till the mango has softened and the liquid has become stroppy. Serve alongside dhansak.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, October 13, 2012
FOND THOUGHTS ABOUT THE GERMANS
A discussion with a large beefy friend recently did not go as planned.
It was quite unpleasant, and for the record, I do not "plan" conversations, they just happen. Also calling him a friend is perhaps an exaggeration.
I know him. We talk. We're on casual conversation terms.
But he has views with which I cannot agree.
Such as the opinion he delivered: "a country should be small enough that we can steamroll it in three days". Now, given that he is of German ancestry, and knows that I speak Dutch and lived in Holland for a while, the astute student of recent European history will readily understand that he was obliquely referring to the German invasion which conquered the Netherlands during World War Two.
How the Dutch ended up on the winning side still baffles him.
So undeserved! But just wait until next time!
Supercilious arrogant bastard.
IN GERMANY
He got on the train just in time, and moved down the carriage looking for a seat. The other occupants drew up their long noses, and puffed themselves up to occupy all available space. Finally he found a seat, opposite a large bloated individual with facial scars that testified to past experiences in the duelling fraternity at university. Probably one of those Teutons who thought unkindly of his type.
He didn't really care. This was modern Europe.
Trolls had the same rights as humans.
Just to make a point he flexed his shorty furry arms, clenching the hands with the impressive claws. The old gentleman blinked, and studiously looked away.
Sigurd grinned. When he did so, fangs were visible.
The train rolled through verdant countryside, where hefty peasant women pulled plows while yodelling. Their unmusical vocalizations were audible over the rumbling of the carriages, and Sigurd grimaced. More fangs. What was it with these pale hairless things and their pretension of civilization? Everyone knew that trolls had invented the wheel, metallurgy, and the arts. Why did these krauts persist in befouling the world with their unimaginative attempts at "kultur"?
Outside of Germany, most people were rather fed up with them. Large clumsy farmers with ill-fitting uniforms, and brassy oompah music in lieu of refined melodies.
Germans - no taste at all.
Bah.
The train slid into Badschinkenfressersberg Station, and the scarred Teuton stood up to leave, hissing something insulting under his breath that ended in "trolln". Sigurd tripped him with his umbrella, and the oaf went flying.
"Entschuldigen sie bitte, es war doch eine ungeschiktigkeit...."
Horrid language!
Unlike Dutch, Flemish, and the various Scandinavian colloquials, German always sounded like someone coughing up a hairball - such as he himself did, whenever he licked himself in his sleep too often. It was a nervous childhood habit.
Anyway, German was an ugly sounding jargon. No wonder they had started dubbing their movies into English. A pity they hired their own people to do the voices.
The German got up redfaced, looking like he wanted to pugilate, then thought the better of it.
Sigurd and his kind were only half the height of adult humans, but built like tanks; on the whole a remarkable handsome race of sentient beings, though crucially, all muscle.
Solid, hard, whiplike muscle.
Later, near Loch Im See, while he was brushing the hair on his shoulders and stomach, a frail young fraulein came and sat across from him. Initially he paid her no mind, but when it became evident that she was fascinated by his thick, thick, glossy fur, and his well-muscled chest, he blushed a bit. Not that the flush could be seen underneath the fur. Even his snout was furry, and the skin underneath was utterly invisible. Still, he did have an element of modesty, and was easily embarrassed.
He put his leather overcoat back on, and composed himself.
She smiled at him in a most engaging manner.
It turned out that the young lady was part naiad, and majoring in human sociology at a school on the other side of the border, in France. Did he, she wanted to know, by any chance speak French? Why indeed he did! He was delighted to converse in a civilized language for a change, this constant barking of gutteral syllables was tiring his tongue.
Like all her kind she was feisty, juicy, and sharpwitted.
They had a splendid conversation for the next several hours, discussing all manner of things. Politics, mythology, Grecian financial acumen, metal work, and floodcontrol.
She talked about her mother, who had caused the disastrous flood of 1969 that wiped out Rundfunkschau in Bayern (it was meant to be a practical joke, and in any case everyone else thought it funny), as well as her uncle Minotaurion in Berlin, who believed that vegetarianism soothed the savage beast. She herself was a meat eater, but could very well see why Minotaurion had his ideas. The Germans were a good object lesson in that regard, as it wasn't until they began eating properly one generation ago that they had come out of their caves and started living in actual mud huts.
Sigurd mentioned his hometown, Trollholm, in the far north, and showed her some of the golden objects for which he was a manufacturers representative in this barbaric place. Golden bracelets, heavy rings, expensive vulgar pendants. And, lastly, the prize of his collection; a large garish steel banded horned helmet, with golden accents and heavy gold bezels around the rim. Once he had delivered it to the customer, a certain Frau Gackernschnek, who was a member of an opera guild, he was heading out of here.
Sometime around four in the morning they reached the town of Grossübelriech, near the border. Both got out, and shared lodgings at a hostelry run by missionaries of the Freemasons, who had long been attempting to spread literacy and cleanliness among the natives.
Elder de la Claise had no problem with them bunking together.
After all, they were different species!
What could possibly happen?
The next day he delivered the ghastly helmet to the fat lady, and met the half-naiad for supper at the very best Italian Restaurant in town. He bought her dinner, to thank her for being such splendid company.
He had thoroughly enjoyed chatting with her and criticising the Germans - so easy to talk smack about, and so very deserving of that treatment - but he had to go! Spending too much time in Germany was a profoundly traumatising experience - his race being rather sensitive, and easily depressed by hostile emanations and horrid food - and he was leaving that very evening. Would he ever see her again? She assured him that he was the best thing that ever happened to her, and quite the most civilized person in this ghastly place.
They exchanged communication spells and talismanic contact data, and strolled back to the hostel. When they arrived, the Freemason in charge was ranting about rolling tanks right across this pestilential country, dammit, all the way to Poland! Flatten the place.
Bloody Germans, they started it!
Both of them thought it wiser not to ask him what he was on about.
Really, it could be almost anything.
Rats, mooseheads, fruitsalad.
He seemed most upset.
After Sigurd finished packing, she went with him to the station. When the train came to a halt, she kissed him, and vanished in a puff of mist, as was the custom of her kind. He entered an empty carriage, and stowed his valise under the seat, then pulled out a briar and lit up.
Such a charming young lady! A bit too smooth and hairless for his taste, but just enough of the amoral immortal to excite. Pleasantly spicy!
Soft, too!
He was sure that one day he would read about her in the newspapers, washing away some dreary German burg on a drunken dare, or setting fire to the Reichstag, just for the hell of it.
He looked forward to that day.
As the pipe reached perfection and the Latakia smoke filled the carriage, the train crossed the border at Yolo Tengo, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Life was good, after all.
Even if there were Germans in the world.
And other humourless creatures.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was quite unpleasant, and for the record, I do not "plan" conversations, they just happen. Also calling him a friend is perhaps an exaggeration.
I know him. We talk. We're on casual conversation terms.
But he has views with which I cannot agree.
Such as the opinion he delivered: "a country should be small enough that we can steamroll it in three days". Now, given that he is of German ancestry, and knows that I speak Dutch and lived in Holland for a while, the astute student of recent European history will readily understand that he was obliquely referring to the German invasion which conquered the Netherlands during World War Two.
How the Dutch ended up on the winning side still baffles him.
So undeserved! But just wait until next time!
Supercilious arrogant bastard.
IN GERMANY
He got on the train just in time, and moved down the carriage looking for a seat. The other occupants drew up their long noses, and puffed themselves up to occupy all available space. Finally he found a seat, opposite a large bloated individual with facial scars that testified to past experiences in the duelling fraternity at university. Probably one of those Teutons who thought unkindly of his type.
He didn't really care. This was modern Europe.
Trolls had the same rights as humans.
Just to make a point he flexed his shorty furry arms, clenching the hands with the impressive claws. The old gentleman blinked, and studiously looked away.
Sigurd grinned. When he did so, fangs were visible.
The train rolled through verdant countryside, where hefty peasant women pulled plows while yodelling. Their unmusical vocalizations were audible over the rumbling of the carriages, and Sigurd grimaced. More fangs. What was it with these pale hairless things and their pretension of civilization? Everyone knew that trolls had invented the wheel, metallurgy, and the arts. Why did these krauts persist in befouling the world with their unimaginative attempts at "kultur"?
Outside of Germany, most people were rather fed up with them. Large clumsy farmers with ill-fitting uniforms, and brassy oompah music in lieu of refined melodies.
Germans - no taste at all.
Bah.
The train slid into Badschinkenfressersberg Station, and the scarred Teuton stood up to leave, hissing something insulting under his breath that ended in "trolln". Sigurd tripped him with his umbrella, and the oaf went flying.
"Entschuldigen sie bitte, es war doch eine ungeschiktigkeit...."
Horrid language!
Unlike Dutch, Flemish, and the various Scandinavian colloquials, German always sounded like someone coughing up a hairball - such as he himself did, whenever he licked himself in his sleep too often. It was a nervous childhood habit.
Anyway, German was an ugly sounding jargon. No wonder they had started dubbing their movies into English. A pity they hired their own people to do the voices.
The German got up redfaced, looking like he wanted to pugilate, then thought the better of it.
Sigurd and his kind were only half the height of adult humans, but built like tanks; on the whole a remarkable handsome race of sentient beings, though crucially, all muscle.
Solid, hard, whiplike muscle.
Later, near Loch Im See, while he was brushing the hair on his shoulders and stomach, a frail young fraulein came and sat across from him. Initially he paid her no mind, but when it became evident that she was fascinated by his thick, thick, glossy fur, and his well-muscled chest, he blushed a bit. Not that the flush could be seen underneath the fur. Even his snout was furry, and the skin underneath was utterly invisible. Still, he did have an element of modesty, and was easily embarrassed.
He put his leather overcoat back on, and composed himself.
She smiled at him in a most engaging manner.
It turned out that the young lady was part naiad, and majoring in human sociology at a school on the other side of the border, in France. Did he, she wanted to know, by any chance speak French? Why indeed he did! He was delighted to converse in a civilized language for a change, this constant barking of gutteral syllables was tiring his tongue.
Like all her kind she was feisty, juicy, and sharpwitted.
They had a splendid conversation for the next several hours, discussing all manner of things. Politics, mythology, Grecian financial acumen, metal work, and floodcontrol.
She talked about her mother, who had caused the disastrous flood of 1969 that wiped out Rundfunkschau in Bayern (it was meant to be a practical joke, and in any case everyone else thought it funny), as well as her uncle Minotaurion in Berlin, who believed that vegetarianism soothed the savage beast. She herself was a meat eater, but could very well see why Minotaurion had his ideas. The Germans were a good object lesson in that regard, as it wasn't until they began eating properly one generation ago that they had come out of their caves and started living in actual mud huts.
Sigurd mentioned his hometown, Trollholm, in the far north, and showed her some of the golden objects for which he was a manufacturers representative in this barbaric place. Golden bracelets, heavy rings, expensive vulgar pendants. And, lastly, the prize of his collection; a large garish steel banded horned helmet, with golden accents and heavy gold bezels around the rim. Once he had delivered it to the customer, a certain Frau Gackernschnek, who was a member of an opera guild, he was heading out of here.
Sometime around four in the morning they reached the town of Grossübelriech, near the border. Both got out, and shared lodgings at a hostelry run by missionaries of the Freemasons, who had long been attempting to spread literacy and cleanliness among the natives.
Elder de la Claise had no problem with them bunking together.
After all, they were different species!
What could possibly happen?
The next day he delivered the ghastly helmet to the fat lady, and met the half-naiad for supper at the very best Italian Restaurant in town. He bought her dinner, to thank her for being such splendid company.
He had thoroughly enjoyed chatting with her and criticising the Germans - so easy to talk smack about, and so very deserving of that treatment - but he had to go! Spending too much time in Germany was a profoundly traumatising experience - his race being rather sensitive, and easily depressed by hostile emanations and horrid food - and he was leaving that very evening. Would he ever see her again? She assured him that he was the best thing that ever happened to her, and quite the most civilized person in this ghastly place.
They exchanged communication spells and talismanic contact data, and strolled back to the hostel. When they arrived, the Freemason in charge was ranting about rolling tanks right across this pestilential country, dammit, all the way to Poland! Flatten the place.
Bloody Germans, they started it!
Both of them thought it wiser not to ask him what he was on about.
Really, it could be almost anything.
Rats, mooseheads, fruitsalad.
He seemed most upset.
After Sigurd finished packing, she went with him to the station. When the train came to a halt, she kissed him, and vanished in a puff of mist, as was the custom of her kind. He entered an empty carriage, and stowed his valise under the seat, then pulled out a briar and lit up.
Such a charming young lady! A bit too smooth and hairless for his taste, but just enough of the amoral immortal to excite. Pleasantly spicy!
Soft, too!
He was sure that one day he would read about her in the newspapers, washing away some dreary German burg on a drunken dare, or setting fire to the Reichstag, just for the hell of it.
He looked forward to that day.
As the pipe reached perfection and the Latakia smoke filled the carriage, the train crossed the border at Yolo Tengo, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Life was good, after all.
Even if there were Germans in the world.
And other humourless creatures.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 12, 2012
DRINKING IT ALL IN
There are people who demand one's complete attention. In the case of some of them, that is a good thing. These are the individuals one is mighty pleased to know.
One should always associate with such people. Their conversation enthralls, their presence by itself erases care. This is not about amorous interest, but companionship and camaraderie - in case you were wondering.
Indeed, the love of one's life should also be that way, but how sad if you only knew one person like that! Colleagues, comrades, co-conspirators, even drinking buddies and fellow miscreants, are among those that enthrall.
I am tickled pink that I know several such.
One of them I'm living with. We aren't lovers, just old friends.
I've mentioned my apartment mate before, many times, so I shan't bore you with further descriptions of her.
Suffice to say that she still surprises the heck out of me.
There are others.
SLIVOVITZ & TANG VODKA
Four of them are in the East Bay, a place which I have described elsewhere as a vast armpit, from Richmond in the north to Fremont in the south. An ugly festering expanse of mediocrity, middle-class values, and vulgarity, that borders on seedy and depressing, with pockets of self-satisfied pretendeurs (Berkeley) and stuck-up snotwads (Piedmont).
There is no 'there' there. At least, no there worth being there.
That a culinary student, a teacher in levis, a mother of rabbits, and a scholarly tax accountant, manage to maintain their sanity in the East Bay is amazing; one has to be crazy to do so.
They have a few characteristics in common with each other and with this blogger.
You don't need to know more about them than that, as it might tell you too much.
Several thrilling people are in San Francisco.
RYE WHISKY
One of them is a vibrant redhead a few years younger than myself, whose eyes sparkle. Without realizing it, her husband looks innocently happy when they're together, like a tall rangy looking Kermit the Frog. They are a couple who delight in each others company, and infect others with an equal joy.
Both of them like big cigars. Whenever they are at the Occidental the mood is lighter, the lights brighter, the company more enjoyable.
I am attracted to their vicinity as if by a magnet, and even if I am talking to someone else the conversation is much more alive.
SCOTCH AND TEA
Then there's the person half my age from somewhere south of Bombay, who has an ability to bat wits and float subjects which, in this country at this time, makes him an anomaly, as I suspect it also did in India. He's going back there soon, but I hope he returns. Whenever he drops by the cigar club I want to prolong the moment.
Imagine a mind that veers from the Elizabethan period to the modern age, with quick stops in Rome, Greece, and Persia.
He does not smoke. That isn't a failing.
One gentleman whom I encounter occasionally is married to a busty tattooed woman. Together they are an enchanting couple, but they do not have many interests in common. What binds them is shared wit and good humour, and a conversational flexibility that renders fascinating even subjects I had seldom thought about.
There are things I never knew about Buffy The Vampire Slayer.
Also deserving mention is a waitress at one of the local noodle shops. It isn't more than a social interest, as we do not think in the same language, and do not speak enough of each others tongue to talk to each other. Other than that she doesn't like bittermelon I know nothing about her. But she has lovely bright eyes and a warm smile. She's a very nice person, considerate of others, and I like seeing her interact with people.
Observing someone so nice is an innocent pleasure.
I say that without even a trace of the dirty-old-man aspect which you might expect from me, having read some of the rather rowdy stuff I've previously written.
I like watching people. When there's something in their face which appeals, and if they show wit, and a sincere regard towards others, I'm hooked.
Even when they silently betray sadness, they charm, utterly.
Eyes that are alive, and a keen intelligence, are infinitely engaging.
I've always loved faces that betray their owners, and show, without them even realizing it, that they are splendid people, with rich minds in constant motion.
I wonder, though. If someone is wonderful to look at and talk to, does that help or hinder at certain moments? Can it interfere with romance?
Perhaps it leads to embarrassed mumbling at each other.
Awkward admiration or nervous timidity.
And shyly holding hands.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One should always associate with such people. Their conversation enthralls, their presence by itself erases care. This is not about amorous interest, but companionship and camaraderie - in case you were wondering.
Indeed, the love of one's life should also be that way, but how sad if you only knew one person like that! Colleagues, comrades, co-conspirators, even drinking buddies and fellow miscreants, are among those that enthrall.
I am tickled pink that I know several such.
One of them I'm living with. We aren't lovers, just old friends.
I've mentioned my apartment mate before, many times, so I shan't bore you with further descriptions of her.
Suffice to say that she still surprises the heck out of me.
There are others.
SLIVOVITZ & TANG VODKA
Four of them are in the East Bay, a place which I have described elsewhere as a vast armpit, from Richmond in the north to Fremont in the south. An ugly festering expanse of mediocrity, middle-class values, and vulgarity, that borders on seedy and depressing, with pockets of self-satisfied pretendeurs (Berkeley) and stuck-up snotwads (Piedmont).
There is no 'there' there. At least, no there worth being there.
That a culinary student, a teacher in levis, a mother of rabbits, and a scholarly tax accountant, manage to maintain their sanity in the East Bay is amazing; one has to be crazy to do so.
They have a few characteristics in common with each other and with this blogger.
You don't need to know more about them than that, as it might tell you too much.
Several thrilling people are in San Francisco.
RYE WHISKY
One of them is a vibrant redhead a few years younger than myself, whose eyes sparkle. Without realizing it, her husband looks innocently happy when they're together, like a tall rangy looking Kermit the Frog. They are a couple who delight in each others company, and infect others with an equal joy.
Both of them like big cigars. Whenever they are at the Occidental the mood is lighter, the lights brighter, the company more enjoyable.
I am attracted to their vicinity as if by a magnet, and even if I am talking to someone else the conversation is much more alive.
SCOTCH AND TEA
Then there's the person half my age from somewhere south of Bombay, who has an ability to bat wits and float subjects which, in this country at this time, makes him an anomaly, as I suspect it also did in India. He's going back there soon, but I hope he returns. Whenever he drops by the cigar club I want to prolong the moment.
Imagine a mind that veers from the Elizabethan period to the modern age, with quick stops in Rome, Greece, and Persia.
He does not smoke. That isn't a failing.
One gentleman whom I encounter occasionally is married to a busty tattooed woman. Together they are an enchanting couple, but they do not have many interests in common. What binds them is shared wit and good humour, and a conversational flexibility that renders fascinating even subjects I had seldom thought about.
There are things I never knew about Buffy The Vampire Slayer.
Also deserving mention is a waitress at one of the local noodle shops. It isn't more than a social interest, as we do not think in the same language, and do not speak enough of each others tongue to talk to each other. Other than that she doesn't like bittermelon I know nothing about her. But she has lovely bright eyes and a warm smile. She's a very nice person, considerate of others, and I like seeing her interact with people.
Observing someone so nice is an innocent pleasure.
I say that without even a trace of the dirty-old-man aspect which you might expect from me, having read some of the rather rowdy stuff I've previously written.
I like watching people. When there's something in their face which appeals, and if they show wit, and a sincere regard towards others, I'm hooked.
Even when they silently betray sadness, they charm, utterly.
Eyes that are alive, and a keen intelligence, are infinitely engaging.
I've always loved faces that betray their owners, and show, without them even realizing it, that they are splendid people, with rich minds in constant motion.
I wonder, though. If someone is wonderful to look at and talk to, does that help or hinder at certain moments? Can it interfere with romance?
Perhaps it leads to embarrassed mumbling at each other.
Awkward admiration or nervous timidity.
And shyly holding hands.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 11, 2012
FABULOUS DINING!
One day the ant was struggling back to the nest with a big lump of fruit, when it encountered the grasshopper. It had seen the grasshopper before, and really admired the thick strong legs, well-rounded shoulders, deep chest, and impressive musculature of the creature. Surely so athletic and well-endowed an insect was capable of garnering much food? Achieving greatness?
Succeeding in life?
So it stopped and asked the grasshopper what it was doing. “I am dancing an ode to summer”, said the grasshopper, “it is deeply meaningful, and an act of beauty”.
It preened itself, satisfied that it was creating good in the world.
“But of what use is that?” asked the ant, “we’re already in early October, and soon it will turn cold – please tell me what you have done to prepare?”
“Not a darn thing”, boasted the big green layabout, “I don’t have to – my song is my meal ticket, and people love my performances.”
The ant was amazed at the hubris and self-delusion the creature displayed.
Did the grasshopper perhaps have a rich daddy? A secret bank account?
A trust fund that enabled it to do things no one else could dream of?
But the more questions it asked, the more it became clear that the grasshopper was a dill-head with not a care in the world, incapable of conceiving anything more complex than fun, parties, and politically approved forms of artistic self-expression.
“La la la”, sang the grasshopper, “la la la.”
And with every further query, it would respond “la la la”.
What about winter? Food stored up for when the cold struck?
“La la la, la la la!”
It was all incredibly irritating. The big green spam brain just kept repeating the same gay refrain.
“La la la, la la, la la la, la lah!!!”
By this time, there was a whole crew of ants around, listening with increasing vexation to the exchange. Because, after all, ants follow well-defined trails which have been scent marked, and the grasshopper had just stumbled across their food-supply route while they were working.
They were rather resentful of the lack of foresight the grasshopper evinced.
Such a parasite. Conceited and lazy.
A blithering idiot.
So they killed him, and sliced his big body into strips, to be dried into jerky for winter.
Both zesty teriyaki flavor, AND tangy chipotle!
There would be an abundance, because grasshoppers are at least two hundred times the size of ants, maybe more!
Kind of the equivalent of Cro-Magnons slaughtering a mastodon.
Then they took the soft spongiform brain, and made it into a tasty pie.
There was enough for everyone.
It was a feast!
* * * * *
There's an ant highway along the edge of the parking lot. Everytime I go out to smoke, I visit my little hardworking friends. When the sun shines they walk behind the concrete edging, in the shade, to avoid burning their feet.
When it's overcast or chilly they stride along the top of the concrete.
I admire their collective intelligence and enterprise.
And, of course, their tireless industry.
Kudos, little fellas, kudos.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Succeeding in life?
So it stopped and asked the grasshopper what it was doing. “I am dancing an ode to summer”, said the grasshopper, “it is deeply meaningful, and an act of beauty”.
It preened itself, satisfied that it was creating good in the world.
“But of what use is that?” asked the ant, “we’re already in early October, and soon it will turn cold – please tell me what you have done to prepare?”
“Not a darn thing”, boasted the big green layabout, “I don’t have to – my song is my meal ticket, and people love my performances.”
The ant was amazed at the hubris and self-delusion the creature displayed.
Did the grasshopper perhaps have a rich daddy? A secret bank account?
A trust fund that enabled it to do things no one else could dream of?
But the more questions it asked, the more it became clear that the grasshopper was a dill-head with not a care in the world, incapable of conceiving anything more complex than fun, parties, and politically approved forms of artistic self-expression.
“La la la”, sang the grasshopper, “la la la.”
And with every further query, it would respond “la la la”.
What about winter? Food stored up for when the cold struck?
“La la la, la la la!”
It was all incredibly irritating. The big green spam brain just kept repeating the same gay refrain.
“La la la, la la, la la la, la lah!!!”
By this time, there was a whole crew of ants around, listening with increasing vexation to the exchange. Because, after all, ants follow well-defined trails which have been scent marked, and the grasshopper had just stumbled across their food-supply route while they were working.
They were rather resentful of the lack of foresight the grasshopper evinced.
Such a parasite. Conceited and lazy.
A blithering idiot.
So they killed him, and sliced his big body into strips, to be dried into jerky for winter.
Both zesty teriyaki flavor, AND tangy chipotle!
There would be an abundance, because grasshoppers are at least two hundred times the size of ants, maybe more!
Kind of the equivalent of Cro-Magnons slaughtering a mastodon.
Then they took the soft spongiform brain, and made it into a tasty pie.
There was enough for everyone.
It was a feast!
* * * * *
There's an ant highway along the edge of the parking lot. Everytime I go out to smoke, I visit my little hardworking friends. When the sun shines they walk behind the concrete edging, in the shade, to avoid burning their feet.
When it's overcast or chilly they stride along the top of the concrete.
I admire their collective intelligence and enterprise.
And, of course, their tireless industry.
Kudos, little fellas, kudos.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
BRASHLY POSITIVE VIEW
Seeing as this is the month in which I turn fifty three, it seems a good idea to take stock of my life.
If I don't do it, no one else will.
The bad news is that fifty three isn't twenty three or thirty three.
Not that I would want to experience either of those ages again, but I wouldn't mind being that young and sprightly.
The good thing is that I'm still employed, which in this economy takes both good luck, and genius of a magnitude so staggering as to amaze myself.
I've still got all of my marbles, or at least the ones that count.
Healthy, full of piss and vinegar.
With a snarky attitude.
[On the material side, there is enough pipe tobacco stashed away that I can survive the coming Zombie Apocalypse -- everyone knows zombies HATE smoking -- plus a large collection of briars, books, and teapots. No entertainment system, no flashy watches or sportscars, no timeshare in a vacation home in a perfectly dreary part of the world.]
And I have friends that I care about.
Which is one of the most important things.
I do not have a girlfriend (the erstwhile squeeze is one of the friends I care about), nor offspring, and while I lament the lack of the first-mentioned quantity in my life, I do not especially regret the absence of children; putting them through college would be both a severe burden and a profound source of stress in today's world.
Still, no sweetness. Dang.
[Insert wry smile here.]
What I also have is the freedom to be a lively and somewhat irresponsible middle-aged coot. The liberty to behave as if I were still twenty three or thirty three, with a bit more maturity and wisdom.
Smoking my pipes, reading books, indulging in caffeinated beverages (warm and comforting!), and thinking naughty thoughts without any sense of guilt.
That last, of course, because that thinking has no object and no target.
Well, no point and no use, either, but that seems a very minor quibble.
If I were fortunate enough to find someone interesting I might redirect those fantasies, but given that a snarky middle-aged coot is not anyone's dreamboat, doing so could be dangerous.
And would very likely be disappointing.
An imperfect waste of time.
Instead of worrying about what might be, I now read a lot more than I used to when I was still in a relationship - I'm alone frequently enough these days that it is easy to do so - and smoke my pipe more often.
Which is precisely what the next twelve months will also be occupied with.
If, speaking hypothetically, a nice person of the female persuasion were to catch my attention, it would be because she expressed the insight that reading for several hours in the quiet of a weekend afternoon sounds like the perfect thing to do, with another person who is also that way inclined.
Perhaps at an opportune moment breaking for a bite to eat at a romantic little restaurant on Hyde Street or in Chinatown.
As well as frequently enjoying tasty dishes which I had prepared.
I love to cook; doing so needs someone with whom to dine.
The foregoing is all purely speculative, however.
Don't put any money on this race.
I can imagine myself, a few years hence, sitting on a ledge overlooking the bay at early evening, with a volume, a pipe, and ........ a cat.
A fiercely independent-minded cat.
But nevertheless, a cat.
I don't actually know many humans who read, you see.
And most of those object to tobacco use.
Or are, unfortunately, male.
Seafood. I can tempt them with seafood.
Yeah.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
If I don't do it, no one else will.
The bad news is that fifty three isn't twenty three or thirty three.
Not that I would want to experience either of those ages again, but I wouldn't mind being that young and sprightly.
The good thing is that I'm still employed, which in this economy takes both good luck, and genius of a magnitude so staggering as to amaze myself.
I've still got all of my marbles, or at least the ones that count.
Healthy, full of piss and vinegar.
With a snarky attitude.
[On the material side, there is enough pipe tobacco stashed away that I can survive the coming Zombie Apocalypse -- everyone knows zombies HATE smoking -- plus a large collection of briars, books, and teapots. No entertainment system, no flashy watches or sportscars, no timeshare in a vacation home in a perfectly dreary part of the world.]
And I have friends that I care about.
Which is one of the most important things.
I do not have a girlfriend (the erstwhile squeeze is one of the friends I care about), nor offspring, and while I lament the lack of the first-mentioned quantity in my life, I do not especially regret the absence of children; putting them through college would be both a severe burden and a profound source of stress in today's world.
Still, no sweetness. Dang.
[Insert wry smile here.]
What I also have is the freedom to be a lively and somewhat irresponsible middle-aged coot. The liberty to behave as if I were still twenty three or thirty three, with a bit more maturity and wisdom.
Smoking my pipes, reading books, indulging in caffeinated beverages (warm and comforting!), and thinking naughty thoughts without any sense of guilt.
That last, of course, because that thinking has no object and no target.
Well, no point and no use, either, but that seems a very minor quibble.
If I were fortunate enough to find someone interesting I might redirect those fantasies, but given that a snarky middle-aged coot is not anyone's dreamboat, doing so could be dangerous.
And would very likely be disappointing.
An imperfect waste of time.
Instead of worrying about what might be, I now read a lot more than I used to when I was still in a relationship - I'm alone frequently enough these days that it is easy to do so - and smoke my pipe more often.
Which is precisely what the next twelve months will also be occupied with.
If, speaking hypothetically, a nice person of the female persuasion were to catch my attention, it would be because she expressed the insight that reading for several hours in the quiet of a weekend afternoon sounds like the perfect thing to do, with another person who is also that way inclined.
Perhaps at an opportune moment breaking for a bite to eat at a romantic little restaurant on Hyde Street or in Chinatown.
As well as frequently enjoying tasty dishes which I had prepared.
I love to cook; doing so needs someone with whom to dine.
The foregoing is all purely speculative, however.
Don't put any money on this race.
I can imagine myself, a few years hence, sitting on a ledge overlooking the bay at early evening, with a volume, a pipe, and ........ a cat.
A fiercely independent-minded cat.
But nevertheless, a cat.
I don't actually know many humans who read, you see.
And most of those object to tobacco use.
Or are, unfortunately, male.
Seafood. I can tempt them with seafood.
Yeah.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THERE ARE NUTS HERE!
While smoking my pipe after lunch I came face to face with a beast.
That is to say, I was chilling with some flake when the creature wandered by.
For several minutes we kept each other in sight, out of the corners of our eyes.
No sudden moves, no loud noises. Relax, dude, it's all cool.
It circled around me, staying mostly in the shadows of the parked cars.
Investigated everything, including wheel wells.
I guess it was looking for nuts.
Which does NOT explain why it was interested in me!
And if you thought so, consider me properly huffy right now.
I believe it was a California Ground Squirrel.
Otospermophilus beecheyi (in the family Sciuridae).
Didn't know that they liked suburban industrial warehouse parking lots.
If I had known it was going to be there, I would've brought some tortilla chips from the kitchen for it to eat. Maybe the next time. Plus some salsa, for the vitamins.
Salsa turns tortilla chips into a nutritious snack.
I am concerned that it should eat properly.
A balanced diet means a shiny pelt.
And a happier saner squirrel.
On the way back from smoking I found an acorn on the ground.
That explains why the squirrel hung around.
It thinks I stole its nut!
That wasn't true then.
It is true now.
Mine!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
That is to say, I was chilling with some flake when the creature wandered by.
For several minutes we kept each other in sight, out of the corners of our eyes.
No sudden moves, no loud noises. Relax, dude, it's all cool.
It circled around me, staying mostly in the shadows of the parked cars.
Investigated everything, including wheel wells.
I guess it was looking for nuts.
Which does NOT explain why it was interested in me!
And if you thought so, consider me properly huffy right now.
I believe it was a California Ground Squirrel.
Otospermophilus beecheyi (in the family Sciuridae).
Didn't know that they liked suburban industrial warehouse parking lots.
If I had known it was going to be there, I would've brought some tortilla chips from the kitchen for it to eat. Maybe the next time. Plus some salsa, for the vitamins.
Salsa turns tortilla chips into a nutritious snack.
I am concerned that it should eat properly.
A balanced diet means a shiny pelt.
And a happier saner squirrel.
On the way back from smoking I found an acorn on the ground.
That explains why the squirrel hung around.
It thinks I stole its nut!
That wasn't true then.
It is true now.
Mine!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 09, 2012
RANDOM CRUELTY INSPIRED BY CHINESE CUISINE
They’re shooting craps over in the Marketing Department. I can hear yells and cheering. Good lord, we’re running a casino here during lunch. It’s like being held captive on a reservation, on a seat somewhere between the limitless Chinese Buffet and rows of one-armed bandits.
This is not a busload of elderly retirees from TongYanFau, but young vibrant college grads with so much still to live for. So very very much!
It's sad.
Inveterate gamblers, loud and dissipated.
Berserk and stircrazy at the new office.
Well, perhaps it’s Mandarin Chicken fuelled insanity.
Spicy salty high sugar content sauce.
They’re giddy.
Even pizza man is smiling.
"SIMPLICITY IN STYLE WILL BRING DESIROUS EYES YOUR WAY"
-----Fortune Cookie
Today’s office lunch was chopstickable, and included peanuts and cashews.
I’m not telling them, but I’m the only one here who has any jasmine tea. There isn’t enough to share. If you didn’t already know about the tea bags in the filing cabinet behind me, between the credit reports and some random applications for terms just dumped in there higgledy piggeldy, then you probably didn’t need to know.
Forget you ever heard anything.
Just remember guys, we’re all in this thing together.
Buses only come once every few hours.
Those are MY tea bags.
Hands off!
--- --- --- --- ---
Pizza man just walked by muttering that it smelled like socks in here.
He's not smiling anymore, reality re-asserted itself.
That’s not lunch, man, it’s just Hayward.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This is not a busload of elderly retirees from TongYanFau, but young vibrant college grads with so much still to live for. So very very much!
It's sad.
Inveterate gamblers, loud and dissipated.
Berserk and stircrazy at the new office.
Well, perhaps it’s Mandarin Chicken fuelled insanity.
Spicy salty high sugar content sauce.
They’re giddy.
Even pizza man is smiling.
"SIMPLICITY IN STYLE WILL BRING DESIROUS EYES YOUR WAY"
-----Fortune Cookie
Today’s office lunch was chopstickable, and included peanuts and cashews.
I’m not telling them, but I’m the only one here who has any jasmine tea. There isn’t enough to share. If you didn’t already know about the tea bags in the filing cabinet behind me, between the credit reports and some random applications for terms just dumped in there higgledy piggeldy, then you probably didn’t need to know.
Forget you ever heard anything.
Just remember guys, we’re all in this thing together.
Buses only come once every few hours.
Those are MY tea bags.
Hands off!
--- --- --- --- ---
Pizza man just walked by muttering that it smelled like socks in here.
He's not smiling anymore, reality re-asserted itself.
That’s not lunch, man, it’s just Hayward.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 08, 2012
DON'T TOUCH MY LAGOMORPH!
My bunny rabbit needs replacement batteries. Sometime during September it lost steam. A very great pity.
Like all credit and collections professionals, I have a robotic daemon on my desk, whose sole purpose is to torture coworkers.
In this case, an electronic Easter beast.
If you press him, he starts to sing.
Out of tune, and out of season.
It's sheer hell to hear.
Pay me now, bad debt saddled person, or I'll send him after you.
Send her. Not him. Something so evil can only be female.
A veritable Madame Mao among the leporids.
Horrid taste and a vicious streak.
[Hello Kitty, My Little Pony, and Dora The Explorah: all female. The sex of Michelle Bachman and Sarah Palin has a lot to answer for. Hoper edei deixai, and punkt.]
Women tend to be so much better at meanness (singing) and cruelty (off-key singing) than men; we hide it well, but we are actually deeply sensitive. Our souls cry out for beauty and light.
Unhappiness and sorrow, even if we are not directly involved, wound us.
Well, except for jocks, that is.
They are so vacuous and superficial that they might as well be cheerleaders.
Bring on the evil bunnies.
There is balance in the world.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Like all credit and collections professionals, I have a robotic daemon on my desk, whose sole purpose is to torture coworkers.
In this case, an electronic Easter beast.
If you press him, he starts to sing.
Out of tune, and out of season.
It's sheer hell to hear.
Pay me now, bad debt saddled person, or I'll send him after you.
Send her. Not him. Something so evil can only be female.
A veritable Madame Mao among the leporids.
Horrid taste and a vicious streak.
[Hello Kitty, My Little Pony, and Dora The Explorah: all female. The sex of Michelle Bachman and Sarah Palin has a lot to answer for. Hoper edei deixai, and punkt.]
Women tend to be so much better at meanness (singing) and cruelty (off-key singing) than men; we hide it well, but we are actually deeply sensitive. Our souls cry out for beauty and light.
Unhappiness and sorrow, even if we are not directly involved, wound us.
Well, except for jocks, that is.
They are so vacuous and superficial that they might as well be cheerleaders.
Bring on the evil bunnies.
There is balance in the world.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 07, 2012
WHAT BADGER PLANS
What was the badger going to do? He contemplated his next move. In the chess game of life, making the right decision is crucial.
Let us see.......
Bath, and a bit of a shave, perhaps a whisker trim. Then off to Chinatown for a haircut and a bite to eat. Followed by a pipefull of something odd. Germain's Plumcake, that being a tobacco of an old-fashioned degeneracy. He still couldn't quite figure out the berserk topping; perhaps rum, mint, and cloves. The stringy cut and basic decency of the mixture left a fine white ash, and the ghosting was minimal.
It was the perfect expression of sexual frustrations, nicely restrained.
Naturally he was a bit frustrated - this was San Francisco, and everyone else was lubricious, rutting like wild animals. Horrible examples, and constant reminders of physicality.
He remembered the woman next to him at Tosca's on Columbus the other day, who could not keep her hands and pelvis off her young man on the other side. He had moved away so that her long pony tail would not keep smacking him in the face, and to get a better view from the end of the bar. Nothing beats 'perspective'.
It also allows a badger to studiously ignore the raging pheromones and the athleticism of humans in heat. Dignified middle-aged badgers don't engage in such things.
They have balance, equilibrium, judgement.
And no opportunity at all.
Unlike dogs, they will not hump just any leg.
Yes, lunch and a nice trim.
Followed by a smoke.
Twitch.
He realized that the Blue Angels flying overhead, in their big big aerial machines, represented roaring sexuality of a stupendous dimension. Perfectly appropriate for a city like San Francisco.
Damn them, too loud!
Sometimes he wished he had a shoulder launched missile doohicky, so that he could fight back against the raging machismo in the sky.
But, he reflected, that too would be a typically male response.
Hardly civilized or dignified.
His snout twitched.
Off to the bath. With a small cigarillo.
It was going to be a quiet day.
Sunny, peaceful.
Nice.
Twitch.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Let us see.......
Bath, and a bit of a shave, perhaps a whisker trim. Then off to Chinatown for a haircut and a bite to eat. Followed by a pipefull of something odd. Germain's Plumcake, that being a tobacco of an old-fashioned degeneracy. He still couldn't quite figure out the berserk topping; perhaps rum, mint, and cloves. The stringy cut and basic decency of the mixture left a fine white ash, and the ghosting was minimal.
It was the perfect expression of sexual frustrations, nicely restrained.
Naturally he was a bit frustrated - this was San Francisco, and everyone else was lubricious, rutting like wild animals. Horrible examples, and constant reminders of physicality.
He remembered the woman next to him at Tosca's on Columbus the other day, who could not keep her hands and pelvis off her young man on the other side. He had moved away so that her long pony tail would not keep smacking him in the face, and to get a better view from the end of the bar. Nothing beats 'perspective'.
It also allows a badger to studiously ignore the raging pheromones and the athleticism of humans in heat. Dignified middle-aged badgers don't engage in such things.
They have balance, equilibrium, judgement.
And no opportunity at all.
Unlike dogs, they will not hump just any leg.
Yes, lunch and a nice trim.
Followed by a smoke.
Twitch.
He realized that the Blue Angels flying overhead, in their big big aerial machines, represented roaring sexuality of a stupendous dimension. Perfectly appropriate for a city like San Francisco.
Damn them, too loud!
Sometimes he wished he had a shoulder launched missile doohicky, so that he could fight back against the raging machismo in the sky.
But, he reflected, that too would be a typically male response.
Hardly civilized or dignified.
His snout twitched.
Off to the bath. With a small cigarillo.
It was going to be a quiet day.
Sunny, peaceful.
Nice.
Twitch.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, October 06, 2012
THE SOCIAL ANIMAL
When I was four years old I attended a birthday party to which I had been happily looking forward. After I got there, the birthday girl told me "you only came because you wanted cake!".
I spent the entire afternoon hiding under the table, behind the tablecloth.
It was a very nice party.
I did not have any cake.
I hadn't been invited by the person whose birthday it was, but by her parents who had insisted that my mother bring me.
When my mother came to take me home, I thanked the hostess for the wonderful time and for the lovely cake.
She complimented my mom on what a well-behaved little man I was, so quiet! Everyone else had been running around breaking things and screaming, she hadn't noticed me at all!
Probably because I had been invisible all afternoon.
Underneath the table with the cake.
Of which I didn't have any.
BRING ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE
Birthdays have always been fraught. In Dutch grammar schools at that time it was the tradition that the person celebrating brought candy to pass out to everyone. Which often was NOT what they wanted to do, but the teachers made sure everybody got some.
I remember several of us being told afterwards "the piece you had was poisoned, you are going to die!"
Saying that is a charming practical joke to play on the Jews, Indonesians, Surinamers, and the single American kid - after the first time, it no longer frightens, primarily because the candy will be discretely discarded later, as if one knows that it would taste like sawdust.
Take it to be polite. And to avoid alerting teachers.
Just don't eat the damned stuff.
It's cursed.
A novel spin on exclusion was the time when one of my classmates hissed "I'm not eating any of that filthy Yankee crap!" and refused to take the candy I was handing out. Several others did likewise.
In fact the candy I brought to school for my birthday was Droste's Pastilles, a very nice, quite addictive, Dutch chocolate, of high quality and excellent reputation. Which would be clearly recognizable to the little Netherlanders with whom I went to school, if only they had learned how to read; the label on the box was in their language, not mine.
I cannot recollect being at a single birthday party during those years, but many of my classmates must have wonderful memories of such events.
Afterwards they would gush.
High school was a relief. It was an academic environment (Atheneum and Gymnasium), so the others were not as casually vicious or close minded, and were more capable of understanding that being American was not necessarily a frightful personal failing. Nothing deliberate, probably just horrid luck.
And by that time the Yanks had already started negotiating with the North Vietnamese, so the sense of outrage at what the evil running dogs of colonialism were up to was fading.
In any case, my peers weren't deliberately cruel.
There was one birthday I attended during those years, but as I did not feel at ease (it having become apparent that I had been invited just so that I wouldn't feel left out), I spent a lot of time at the far end of the garden admiring the rose bushes, and made my excuses as soon as it was diplomatic to do so.
After another party several people wanted to know why I had not come. Well, I didn't know about it!
I actually did know about it, ALL about it, because I had heard nearly everyone talking about it for at least a week beforehand, but I had not been included in those conversations.
My error was that I should have assumed that I was invited.
Instead of waiting to be asked.
That way lies madness.
Three categories of personal versus group dynamic come into play.
Feeling welcome, grudgingly included, and being excluded.
Exclusion is painful, however a casual "just because" invite is not in any way better. One should always politely decline such things, rather than risk being embarrassed by someone wondering why one is even present.
Showing up uninvited is worst of all.
Some social events are obligatory, and almost sacramental - sharing food and drink in celebration with ones friends and companions, for instance.
But when one is merely there on sufferance it is better not to be there.
One's presence might add lustre, more likely disquiet.
Being absent is a benefit to everyone.
More satisfying, too.
I don't deal well with birthdays, and I don't do well with groups. Even when it's my own birthday I wonder if I should even be on hand, and for years I tried not to be noticed for months in advance, anxious that I not seem in any way to be alerting people to an occurrence which really wasn't significant, and which people might prefer to ignore.
Wiser not to draw any attention, because after all I'm only here for the cake.
When I still lived in Berkeley several of my friends once went out to eat together on my birthday. I heard later that they hadn't asked me to come along because "you know him, he doesn't like such things......".
Apparently they had a truly wonderful time.
The food was amazing, absolutely amazing!
KARMIC EQUIVALENT OF CAKE
I've been thinking about these matters a lot recently because I've had pizza with other people several times since August, which is far more than in the preceding half-year. Pizza truly is something that has to be shared, a group meal of which there must be enough for everyone.
Sharing food is psychologically and ritually important.
I rather like pizza. It speaks to me.
Casual, yet communal.
Sacramental.
I am accustomed to being on the outside looking in, but I was at two events recently where everyone made me feel welcome. Not as a deliberate inclusionary act, not with any forced bonhomie, but quite naturally and without any pretense.
They were genuinely happy to see me.
It's fun being around adults.
I'm quite chuffed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I spent the entire afternoon hiding under the table, behind the tablecloth.
It was a very nice party.
I did not have any cake.
I hadn't been invited by the person whose birthday it was, but by her parents who had insisted that my mother bring me.
When my mother came to take me home, I thanked the hostess for the wonderful time and for the lovely cake.
She complimented my mom on what a well-behaved little man I was, so quiet! Everyone else had been running around breaking things and screaming, she hadn't noticed me at all!
Probably because I had been invisible all afternoon.
Underneath the table with the cake.
Of which I didn't have any.
BRING ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE
Birthdays have always been fraught. In Dutch grammar schools at that time it was the tradition that the person celebrating brought candy to pass out to everyone. Which often was NOT what they wanted to do, but the teachers made sure everybody got some.
I remember several of us being told afterwards "the piece you had was poisoned, you are going to die!"
Saying that is a charming practical joke to play on the Jews, Indonesians, Surinamers, and the single American kid - after the first time, it no longer frightens, primarily because the candy will be discretely discarded later, as if one knows that it would taste like sawdust.
Take it to be polite. And to avoid alerting teachers.
Just don't eat the damned stuff.
It's cursed.
A novel spin on exclusion was the time when one of my classmates hissed "I'm not eating any of that filthy Yankee crap!" and refused to take the candy I was handing out. Several others did likewise.
In fact the candy I brought to school for my birthday was Droste's Pastilles, a very nice, quite addictive, Dutch chocolate, of high quality and excellent reputation. Which would be clearly recognizable to the little Netherlanders with whom I went to school, if only they had learned how to read; the label on the box was in their language, not mine.
I cannot recollect being at a single birthday party during those years, but many of my classmates must have wonderful memories of such events.
Afterwards they would gush.
High school was a relief. It was an academic environment (Atheneum and Gymnasium), so the others were not as casually vicious or close minded, and were more capable of understanding that being American was not necessarily a frightful personal failing. Nothing deliberate, probably just horrid luck.
And by that time the Yanks had already started negotiating with the North Vietnamese, so the sense of outrage at what the evil running dogs of colonialism were up to was fading.
In any case, my peers weren't deliberately cruel.
There was one birthday I attended during those years, but as I did not feel at ease (it having become apparent that I had been invited just so that I wouldn't feel left out), I spent a lot of time at the far end of the garden admiring the rose bushes, and made my excuses as soon as it was diplomatic to do so.
After another party several people wanted to know why I had not come. Well, I didn't know about it!
I actually did know about it, ALL about it, because I had heard nearly everyone talking about it for at least a week beforehand, but I had not been included in those conversations.
My error was that I should have assumed that I was invited.
Instead of waiting to be asked.
That way lies madness.
Three categories of personal versus group dynamic come into play.
Feeling welcome, grudgingly included, and being excluded.
Exclusion is painful, however a casual "just because" invite is not in any way better. One should always politely decline such things, rather than risk being embarrassed by someone wondering why one is even present.
Showing up uninvited is worst of all.
Some social events are obligatory, and almost sacramental - sharing food and drink in celebration with ones friends and companions, for instance.
But when one is merely there on sufferance it is better not to be there.
One's presence might add lustre, more likely disquiet.
Being absent is a benefit to everyone.
More satisfying, too.
I don't deal well with birthdays, and I don't do well with groups. Even when it's my own birthday I wonder if I should even be on hand, and for years I tried not to be noticed for months in advance, anxious that I not seem in any way to be alerting people to an occurrence which really wasn't significant, and which people might prefer to ignore.
Wiser not to draw any attention, because after all I'm only here for the cake.
When I still lived in Berkeley several of my friends once went out to eat together on my birthday. I heard later that they hadn't asked me to come along because "you know him, he doesn't like such things......".
Apparently they had a truly wonderful time.
The food was amazing, absolutely amazing!
KARMIC EQUIVALENT OF CAKE
I've been thinking about these matters a lot recently because I've had pizza with other people several times since August, which is far more than in the preceding half-year. Pizza truly is something that has to be shared, a group meal of which there must be enough for everyone.
Sharing food is psychologically and ritually important.
I rather like pizza. It speaks to me.
Casual, yet communal.
Sacramental.
I am accustomed to being on the outside looking in, but I was at two events recently where everyone made me feel welcome. Not as a deliberate inclusionary act, not with any forced bonhomie, but quite naturally and without any pretense.
They were genuinely happy to see me.
It's fun being around adults.
I'm quite chuffed.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 04, 2012
SOMETHING SLOSHY THIS WAY COMES
I suspect that there is no place in Hayward where one may get a serving of 雪菜肉絲湯米粉.
Chances are that if one were to ask for it, the waitress would give a pained and despairing look, then firmly request that one should speak either Spanish or Mandarin. Assuming, of course, that one requested 雪菜肉絲湯米粉 in a restaurant with a greater likelihood of such a dish being found.
Instead of at a taco truck.
As far as I know, taco trucks don't serve 雪菜肉絲湯米粉.
Probably don't even know what it is.
They really should, however.
Serve 雪菜肉絲湯米粉.
And know, too.
Today I worked from home, and consequently got to scarf down a delicious serving of 雪菜肉絲湯米粉 in a friendly and hospitable environment. One in which 雪菜肉絲湯米粉 may be often found.
Hadn't had it in a while. But hadn't forgotten how satisfying it is, either.
I'm happy as a clam. And wired to the eye-brows, coz working from home means much sitting in coffee shops that have wifi, but mostly just happy.
Got sweaty pits while eating, possibly because 雪菜 is a little salty, and the 湯 was piping hot. But it may have also been from the surfeit of caffeine.
Toned it down after lunch, but this morning's jag is still going strong.
I think I'll run around in circles now with my arms outstretched, pretending I'm an aeroplane. Should probably scream out jet-like noises while doing so, in imitation of the Blue Angles who have been rattling windows around here during fleet-week.
Weeeeeee!
If I bang into a wall doing so, it will remind me of my first cup of coffee.
When I was around seven years old.
And did exactly the same.
Man, I seriously like 雪菜肉絲湯米粉.
Just as much as jook or 腸粉.
As well as 河粉湯.
And 雲吞湯麵.
Bánh mỳ.
I hear a faint buzzing in both ears.
I am a jet-fighter overhead.
Dive bomb this city.
Give me soup!
雪菜肉絲湯米粉
Pork shreds and pickled vegetables in hot broth with thin noodles, plus coffee, tea, espresso, masala chai -- these are nature's generous gifts to grumpy Dutch-American credit & collections professionals.
There's a brocha for that: weeeeee!
Gotta go now.
Full bladder.
W.........
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Chances are that if one were to ask for it, the waitress would give a pained and despairing look, then firmly request that one should speak either Spanish or Mandarin. Assuming, of course, that one requested 雪菜肉絲湯米粉 in a restaurant with a greater likelihood of such a dish being found.
Instead of at a taco truck.
As far as I know, taco trucks don't serve 雪菜肉絲湯米粉.
Probably don't even know what it is.
They really should, however.
Serve 雪菜肉絲湯米粉.
And know, too.
Today I worked from home, and consequently got to scarf down a delicious serving of 雪菜肉絲湯米粉 in a friendly and hospitable environment. One in which 雪菜肉絲湯米粉 may be often found.
Hadn't had it in a while. But hadn't forgotten how satisfying it is, either.
I'm happy as a clam. And wired to the eye-brows, coz working from home means much sitting in coffee shops that have wifi, but mostly just happy.
Got sweaty pits while eating, possibly because 雪菜 is a little salty, and the 湯 was piping hot. But it may have also been from the surfeit of caffeine.
Toned it down after lunch, but this morning's jag is still going strong.
I think I'll run around in circles now with my arms outstretched, pretending I'm an aeroplane. Should probably scream out jet-like noises while doing so, in imitation of the Blue Angles who have been rattling windows around here during fleet-week.
Weeeeeee!
If I bang into a wall doing so, it will remind me of my first cup of coffee.
When I was around seven years old.
And did exactly the same.
Man, I seriously like 雪菜肉絲湯米粉.
Just as much as jook or 腸粉.
As well as 河粉湯.
And 雲吞湯麵.
Bánh mỳ.
I hear a faint buzzing in both ears.
I am a jet-fighter overhead.
Dive bomb this city.
Give me soup!
雪菜肉絲湯米粉
Pork shreds and pickled vegetables in hot broth with thin noodles, plus coffee, tea, espresso, masala chai -- these are nature's generous gifts to grumpy Dutch-American credit & collections professionals.
There's a brocha for that: weeeeee!
Gotta go now.
Full bladder.
W.........
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
THERE ARE CHICKENS IN HAYWARD!
And every time we flush here, it floods in Australia. This is what is known as the Coriolis effect.
I know this, because I now work in Hayward, where I was told that I should not drink out of the wrong faucet.
It seems we city folks CAN indeed learn a thing or two.
People here know more than we think.
Today it was my turn to arrange lunch for the crowd.
I sent out the following e-mail to my esteemed colleagues:
LEE'S SANDWICHES!
Find something zesty:
http://www.leesandwiches.com/main.php?act=productlist&catid=8
For timid people, they also have this:
http://www.leesandwiches.com/main.php?act=productlist&catid=11
Let me know what you want before eleven.
You probably want the bánh mì thịt nướng (餅麵串燒豬肉), right?
[Vietnamese baguettes: bánh mỳ (餅麵 "biscuit bread"). The dough is made with a mixture of wheat flour and rice flour, resulting in a lighter bread with a crust that benefits particularly from toasting without the interior becoming too moist or spongy.
The regular Vietnamese sandwich, also called bánh mỳ, or bánh mỳ đặc biệt (餅麵特別) contains sliced pork, either liver paté or head cheese, cilantro, sliced cucumber, and đồ chua (sour stuff: daikon and carrots shredded into diluted tamarind with a little fish sauce, sugar, chili flakes).
Sliced green chilies or red hot sauce may be added to taste. Frequently the inside of the baguette is buttered a bit to add flavour.]
Thank you.
------ATBOTH
[END CITE]
Apparently, they did NOT want bánh mì thịt nướng.
How very strange.
A number of them complained that it was exceptionally weird.
Several moaned about the lack of potato chips.
Was there even any salad?
Sodas?
BÁNH MÌ THịT NƯớNG
Folks, salad is NOT healthy for you. Firstly, if you put any meat, cheese, bacobits, or dressing in it, you've upped the calorie count and the hardened artery quotient immensely. Secondly, most cases of food poisoning in this country are caused by insufficiently rinsed salad vegetables and shredded turkey that sat out on the counter since nine o'clock in the morning.
Lettuce is best stirfried anyway.
Anyhoooooooo.......
Forty seven percent of the office chose the Vietnamese sandwich that best suited their personality.
Thirteen percent decided on 'European' ("white") sandwiches for their personality.
And forty percent (40%) found some chickenbleep excuse to go offsite and eat crap. They don't have a personality.
40% - good lord.
Several of us had the best darn lunch we've had in several weeks. Grilled pork on a crusty baguette, strong coffee drinkie (or Thai tea beverage), and a gloopy tapioca dessert (bột báng).
There was also a sweetened coconut dessert with boiled yam or banana.
Those last two you may know as kolak ube and kolak pisang.
Hayward ain't so bad after all.
By the way: potato chips are horrible for you. If you've ever wondered why there's an epidemic of diabetes and obesity in this country, look no further.
Potato chips.
Folks, please stop thinking inside the box.
It's mighty white inside that box.
Dark and gloomy, too.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I know this, because I now work in Hayward, where I was told that I should not drink out of the wrong faucet.
It seems we city folks CAN indeed learn a thing or two.
People here know more than we think.
Today it was my turn to arrange lunch for the crowd.
I sent out the following e-mail to my esteemed colleagues:
LEE'S SANDWICHES!
Find something zesty:
http://www.leesandwiches.com/main.php?act=productlist&catid=8
For timid people, they also have this:
http://www.leesandwiches.com/main.php?act=productlist&catid=11
Let me know what you want before eleven.
You probably want the bánh mì thịt nướng (餅麵串燒豬肉), right?
[Vietnamese baguettes: bánh mỳ (餅麵 "biscuit bread"). The dough is made with a mixture of wheat flour and rice flour, resulting in a lighter bread with a crust that benefits particularly from toasting without the interior becoming too moist or spongy.
The regular Vietnamese sandwich, also called bánh mỳ, or bánh mỳ đặc biệt (餅麵特別) contains sliced pork, either liver paté or head cheese, cilantro, sliced cucumber, and đồ chua (sour stuff: daikon and carrots shredded into diluted tamarind with a little fish sauce, sugar, chili flakes).
Sliced green chilies or red hot sauce may be added to taste. Frequently the inside of the baguette is buttered a bit to add flavour.]
Thank you.
------ATBOTH
[END CITE]
Apparently, they did NOT want bánh mì thịt nướng.
How very strange.
A number of them complained that it was exceptionally weird.
Several moaned about the lack of potato chips.
Was there even any salad?
Sodas?
BÁNH MÌ THịT NƯớNG
Folks, salad is NOT healthy for you. Firstly, if you put any meat, cheese, bacobits, or dressing in it, you've upped the calorie count and the hardened artery quotient immensely. Secondly, most cases of food poisoning in this country are caused by insufficiently rinsed salad vegetables and shredded turkey that sat out on the counter since nine o'clock in the morning.
Lettuce is best stirfried anyway.
Anyhoooooooo.......
Forty seven percent of the office chose the Vietnamese sandwich that best suited their personality.
Thirteen percent decided on 'European' ("white") sandwiches for their personality.
And forty percent (40%) found some chickenbleep excuse to go offsite and eat crap. They don't have a personality.
40% - good lord.
Several of us had the best darn lunch we've had in several weeks. Grilled pork on a crusty baguette, strong coffee drinkie (or Thai tea beverage), and a gloopy tapioca dessert (bột báng).
There was also a sweetened coconut dessert with boiled yam or banana.
Those last two you may know as kolak ube and kolak pisang.
Hayward ain't so bad after all.
By the way: potato chips are horrible for you. If you've ever wondered why there's an epidemic of diabetes and obesity in this country, look no further.
Potato chips.
Folks, please stop thinking inside the box.
It's mighty white inside that box.
Dark and gloomy, too.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, October 02, 2012
STAY TUNED FOR LUNCH
I have been tasked with arranging food for the office tomorrow. Obviously we're living dangerously.
So far we've had pizza (twice), panini (twice), turkey sandwiches (once), and mixed deli sandwiches (once).
Desperate individuals have patronized the taco truck.
Well, only one person.
A brave soul.
Hayward is the world's epicenter of Taco trucks.
There's one on every street corner.
Ground zero.
My coworkers NEED to embrace the taco gestalt.
At least, I think they do. But they hesitate.
The person who organizes lunch has a serious and important responsibility, as most of my colleagues are timid eaters.
Tact and consideration are required.
No simmered elephant trunk in moambé sauce. No tiger-pizzle in coconut broth with lemon grass, ginger, and green cardamom. No skewered sago grubs covered in chili paste and minced scallion. Cilantro optional.
Some people don't like cilantro.
And absolutely NO mutanjan, muzaffar, haleem, nahari, dhansak, shab deg, prawn patia, or delicious greasy biriani!
Many taste buds here are delicate little virgins, easily scared.
Nothing with jalapenos!
There's a sacramental quality to shared food.
Nothing with jalapenos!
A meal eaten with other people is a powerful bonding experience, just like the Iron John phenomenon or a drum circle.
It's meaningful.
Nothing with jalapenos!
I think tomorrow I'll bring in wonderbread, a jar of peanut butter and a jar of grape jelly.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So far we've had pizza (twice), panini (twice), turkey sandwiches (once), and mixed deli sandwiches (once).
Desperate individuals have patronized the taco truck.
Well, only one person.
A brave soul.
Hayward is the world's epicenter of Taco trucks.
There's one on every street corner.
Ground zero.
My coworkers NEED to embrace the taco gestalt.
At least, I think they do. But they hesitate.
The person who organizes lunch has a serious and important responsibility, as most of my colleagues are timid eaters.
Tact and consideration are required.
No simmered elephant trunk in moambé sauce. No tiger-pizzle in coconut broth with lemon grass, ginger, and green cardamom. No skewered sago grubs covered in chili paste and minced scallion. Cilantro optional.
Some people don't like cilantro.
And absolutely NO mutanjan, muzaffar, haleem, nahari, dhansak, shab deg, prawn patia, or delicious greasy biriani!
Many taste buds here are delicate little virgins, easily scared.
Nothing with jalapenos!
There's a sacramental quality to shared food.
Nothing with jalapenos!
A meal eaten with other people is a powerful bonding experience, just like the Iron John phenomenon or a drum circle.
It's meaningful.
Nothing with jalapenos!
I think tomorrow I'll bring in wonderbread, a jar of peanut butter and a jar of grape jelly.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 01, 2012
WELL-DONE THOUGHTS ABOUT PIZZA
I am puffed up and about to eructate.
Please imagine a bloated frog.
The effects of pizza.
Monday is cheese pie day in the little slice of heaven known as our office. Which is now down in Hayward. In an industrial park. Near train tracks. Far from anything.
So of course lunch gets brought in.
The person in charge of Monday eaties has confessed that if it were up to him, everyday would be pizza day. Life is too short NOT to have pizza. There aren't enough days in the year to eat all the pizza an amiable middle-aged man needs (in his view), and both the last supper and the very first supper were undoubtedly pizza.
Cheese pie. Flat, crusty, and just enough grease to make you happy.
Pizza is the fruit of sin and the spice of life combined.
Eat it!
Related thereto, my friend Kevin, who lives in Florida, informs me that due to the exceptional amount of rain they've had this summer, swamps which had long dried out have come back. And the frog population has exploded. Trailer park dwellers paddle canoes past dense blankets of them on their way to their pickup trucks parked on high ground near the road. Millions of small green fat critters, croaking and ribbiting among the tall weeds, thriving most marvelously on the bugs which are also plentiful because of the wetness.
Then getting on the roads, where they are flattened by traffic.
Commuters hydroplaning on amphibian protein slime.
A layer of green, red, and flat.
Parts of it are crisping on the hot tarmac, but there is so much that the smell is bestial.
Rich and fecund, like some kind of swamp.
Oh wait, it's Florida....
It IS a swamp.
What you need is a spatula, and maybe a pizza cutter.
Scoop 'em up, and dry them on the roof for later.
Or fry them in bacon fat, to disinfect them.
Just add chili flakes, for a cheap feast!
Plus a wee sprinkle of Parmesan.
"Finish your plate, honey."
"Don't wanna!"
"Why not?"
" 'Cause it tastes like FROG!!!"
"Well at least eat the green stuff....."
Please note: the frogs are real, but my mean-spirited characterization of Florida cuisine is not. Never having been there, I can only imagine what they do. Still, all that free protein going to waste.
It's a shame, is what it is.
Green road pie!
Someone ought to do something.
Everything tastes better with chili flakes and Parmesan.
dot. dot. dot.
I want to thank Scott for providing all of us with a tasty lunch and a glimpse into his world, and Angela for making a chocolate pie so incredibly rich that it left me buzzing and trembling.
I am the flittering insect born in the receding waters.
I am the vibrating haze above the asphalt.
I am the brazen frog on the road.
I am Anurid, hear me croak.
Squish.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Please imagine a bloated frog.
The effects of pizza.
Monday is cheese pie day in the little slice of heaven known as our office. Which is now down in Hayward. In an industrial park. Near train tracks. Far from anything.
So of course lunch gets brought in.
The person in charge of Monday eaties has confessed that if it were up to him, everyday would be pizza day. Life is too short NOT to have pizza. There aren't enough days in the year to eat all the pizza an amiable middle-aged man needs (in his view), and both the last supper and the very first supper were undoubtedly pizza.
Cheese pie. Flat, crusty, and just enough grease to make you happy.
Pizza is the fruit of sin and the spice of life combined.
Eat it!
Related thereto, my friend Kevin, who lives in Florida, informs me that due to the exceptional amount of rain they've had this summer, swamps which had long dried out have come back. And the frog population has exploded. Trailer park dwellers paddle canoes past dense blankets of them on their way to their pickup trucks parked on high ground near the road. Millions of small green fat critters, croaking and ribbiting among the tall weeds, thriving most marvelously on the bugs which are also plentiful because of the wetness.
Then getting on the roads, where they are flattened by traffic.
Commuters hydroplaning on amphibian protein slime.
A layer of green, red, and flat.
Parts of it are crisping on the hot tarmac, but there is so much that the smell is bestial.
Rich and fecund, like some kind of swamp.
Oh wait, it's Florida....
It IS a swamp.
What you need is a spatula, and maybe a pizza cutter.
Scoop 'em up, and dry them on the roof for later.
Or fry them in bacon fat, to disinfect them.
Just add chili flakes, for a cheap feast!
Plus a wee sprinkle of Parmesan.
"Finish your plate, honey."
"Don't wanna!"
"Why not?"
" 'Cause it tastes like FROG!!!"
"Well at least eat the green stuff....."
Please note: the frogs are real, but my mean-spirited characterization of Florida cuisine is not. Never having been there, I can only imagine what they do. Still, all that free protein going to waste.
It's a shame, is what it is.
Green road pie!
Someone ought to do something.
Everything tastes better with chili flakes and Parmesan.
dot. dot. dot.
I want to thank Scott for providing all of us with a tasty lunch and a glimpse into his world, and Angela for making a chocolate pie so incredibly rich that it left me buzzing and trembling.
I am the flittering insect born in the receding waters.
I am the vibrating haze above the asphalt.
I am the brazen frog on the road.
I am Anurid, hear me croak.
Squish.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, September 30, 2012
CAT ON A COLD LINOLEUM FLOOR
All kitchens should have a table. Not only is it utilitarian, but it's sexy. Those firm legs, that smooth flat surface just waiting for an opportune towel.........
Yes, second to beds, tables are the sexiest furniture.
She shuffled into the kitchen while it was barely light outside. Winter mornings were cold, so cold! The bathrobe and pajamas didn't guard entirely against the chill, but at least the kitchen was warm. The rest of the house felt icy.
She sensed a presence in the kitchen.
Was it another person?
A wild creature from the nearby woods?
Was it, perhaps, a big savage hairy bear, that would rippp! her clothes from her juicy hot body, drench her with honey, then li-li-lick her clean?
And tickle her till she screamed as she lay on the floor panting?
Eeeeeeeee!
Nah, just the cat.
Stupid cat.
The feline came over and rubbed against her legs. Cats are incredibly sensual, and this particular exemplar had come in heat recently. She had heard it yowling last night, sounding for all the world like a sex-crazed socialite demanding another bit of bling for every bang. Come on boys, the more the merrier. Just drop the diamonds in my purse.
Miaow.
Skanky little harlot. Acting all affectionate. All it wants is someone who can operate a can-opener. Once it's had it's breakfast, it will go off and find the nearest wealthy tomcat with esteem issues.
While the cat ate, she switched the coffee machine on, and sat on the table munching cookies. Good to get ones feet off the frigid floor. Her slippers dangled as she swung her legs, and one rabbit fell with a fwap onto the linoleum, startling the cat.
Randiness, apparently, makes creatures twitchy.
She waited till the cat had resumed eating before angling her foot just ever so.....
The other slipper slid..... slid..... slid....
Slapped down hard.
FWAP!
The cat screeched and jumped.
Kept watching her for the rest of it's meal.
Cats in heat have good reason to be wary; it's not just humans who do stupid things because of randiness. But the irony was that the cat was warily watching the human, who didn't even have a sex life.
Perhaps living at home and never dating wasn't wise?
She really wanted to be drenched in honey.
And then tickled till she screamed.
Right here in the kitchen.
Sometime!
On the other hand, she liked having dad around, even if he left early.
And this part of the house was warm and had a table.
A coffee maker was good on cold mornings.
And the cat was very nice company.
A ball of affectionate fur.
Even if she did go out and bang all the neighborhood toms.
Purring slut.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yes, second to beds, tables are the sexiest furniture.
She shuffled into the kitchen while it was barely light outside. Winter mornings were cold, so cold! The bathrobe and pajamas didn't guard entirely against the chill, but at least the kitchen was warm. The rest of the house felt icy.
She sensed a presence in the kitchen.
Was it another person?
A wild creature from the nearby woods?
Was it, perhaps, a big savage hairy bear, that would rippp! her clothes from her juicy hot body, drench her with honey, then li-li-lick her clean?
And tickle her till she screamed as she lay on the floor panting?
Eeeeeeeee!
Nah, just the cat.
Stupid cat.
The feline came over and rubbed against her legs. Cats are incredibly sensual, and this particular exemplar had come in heat recently. She had heard it yowling last night, sounding for all the world like a sex-crazed socialite demanding another bit of bling for every bang. Come on boys, the more the merrier. Just drop the diamonds in my purse.
Miaow.
Skanky little harlot. Acting all affectionate. All it wants is someone who can operate a can-opener. Once it's had it's breakfast, it will go off and find the nearest wealthy tomcat with esteem issues.
While the cat ate, she switched the coffee machine on, and sat on the table munching cookies. Good to get ones feet off the frigid floor. Her slippers dangled as she swung her legs, and one rabbit fell with a fwap onto the linoleum, startling the cat.
Randiness, apparently, makes creatures twitchy.
She waited till the cat had resumed eating before angling her foot just ever so.....
The other slipper slid..... slid..... slid....
Slapped down hard.
FWAP!
The cat screeched and jumped.
Kept watching her for the rest of it's meal.
Cats in heat have good reason to be wary; it's not just humans who do stupid things because of randiness. But the irony was that the cat was warily watching the human, who didn't even have a sex life.
Perhaps living at home and never dating wasn't wise?
She really wanted to be drenched in honey.
And then tickled till she screamed.
Right here in the kitchen.
Sometime!
On the other hand, she liked having dad around, even if he left early.
And this part of the house was warm and had a table.
A coffee maker was good on cold mornings.
And the cat was very nice company.
A ball of affectionate fur.
Even if she did go out and bang all the neighborhood toms.
Purring slut.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THIS PLACE IS A MESS
Looking around the apartment establishes very clearly that this blogger is a slob. The only prize that I am likely to get from Good Housekeeping Magazine is the all-time booby prize.
Too many books. A huge number of which I haven't finished reading, and others I would like to reread but cannot find.
Enough pipe tobacco to survive the end of the world, bring on the zombies.
Porcelain objects - including a Shekwan grinning degenerate.
Stacks, piles, boxes, and heaps.
Not nearly enough shelf space.
My bed is perfect proof of my personality.
It contains cookbooks, eight or nine years worth of Pipes And Tobaccos magazine, an Edward Gorey compendium, language study materials, manga series, a dictionary or two........
A sheet which is so old the material rips easily.
Pillows higgeldy piggeldy.
And two monkeys.
In addition to several other stuffed animals.
One of the monkeys (Urasmus Wazzoo) is a one-legged reprobate who was traumatised in the product development lab at work long ago, the other one is a small squat simian with lovely thick soft fur, who claims that his name is Arabella Oyster.
And everybody loves oysters.
He's happy about that.
The first mentioned is more than a little bit insane, the second is an extremely well-balanced individual, though often somewhat innocent.
He has faith in his fellow creatures.
Urasmus wants to kill him.
My apartment mate is a much neater person.
Her room is tidy, especially when compared to mine.
The various fuzzy creatures in her room are well-behaved.
There are no tins of pipe-tobacco obscuring the volumes arranged in her book cases, and no stacks of reading matter on the floor or in the bed.
I've offered, but she firmly resisted.
She says she has enough stuff.
No need for anymore things.
Especially not tobaccos.
It looks empty to me.
In my defense, I do the dishes much more often than she does, and much better.
That's something I have a peculiar talent for. Somehow I doubt that most women are equally blessed. I remember years ago a friend who insisted that the glasses in her kitchen cabinet were clean. They just had to be, they had been washed when they were put in there months ago. She could not feel the thin layer of grime, nor see the hazy film deposited on the surface. They had NOT been used since they came out of the machine, ergo it stood to reason that they were still good.
Another woman I knew had a layer of grease on everything.
Even her floors were oily - good for the wood, I guess.
A rich patina on the walls adds so much to life.
But it rather detracts from the table silver.
Not to mention the cups and saucers.
Why is an oil-slick on my tea?
My apartment mate is not that bad, not by a wide margin.
Still, I have several times over the years re-scrubbed the plates and cutlery that she put in the rack, after she's left the house in the morning.
That's something I've haven't ever mentioned to her.
It would be pointless to point it out, and cruel.
She doesn't have eyes in her fingertips.
I'm a frightfull slob.
A clean one.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Too many books. A huge number of which I haven't finished reading, and others I would like to reread but cannot find.
Enough pipe tobacco to survive the end of the world, bring on the zombies.
Porcelain objects - including a Shekwan grinning degenerate.
Stacks, piles, boxes, and heaps.
Not nearly enough shelf space.
My bed is perfect proof of my personality.
It contains cookbooks, eight or nine years worth of Pipes And Tobaccos magazine, an Edward Gorey compendium, language study materials, manga series, a dictionary or two........
A sheet which is so old the material rips easily.
Pillows higgeldy piggeldy.
And two monkeys.
In addition to several other stuffed animals.
One of the monkeys (Urasmus Wazzoo) is a one-legged reprobate who was traumatised in the product development lab at work long ago, the other one is a small squat simian with lovely thick soft fur, who claims that his name is Arabella Oyster.
And everybody loves oysters.
He's happy about that.
The first mentioned is more than a little bit insane, the second is an extremely well-balanced individual, though often somewhat innocent.
He has faith in his fellow creatures.
Urasmus wants to kill him.
My apartment mate is a much neater person.
Her room is tidy, especially when compared to mine.
The various fuzzy creatures in her room are well-behaved.
There are no tins of pipe-tobacco obscuring the volumes arranged in her book cases, and no stacks of reading matter on the floor or in the bed.
I've offered, but she firmly resisted.
She says she has enough stuff.
No need for anymore things.
Especially not tobaccos.
It looks empty to me.
In my defense, I do the dishes much more often than she does, and much better.
That's something I have a peculiar talent for. Somehow I doubt that most women are equally blessed. I remember years ago a friend who insisted that the glasses in her kitchen cabinet were clean. They just had to be, they had been washed when they were put in there months ago. She could not feel the thin layer of grime, nor see the hazy film deposited on the surface. They had NOT been used since they came out of the machine, ergo it stood to reason that they were still good.
Another woman I knew had a layer of grease on everything.
Even her floors were oily - good for the wood, I guess.
A rich patina on the walls adds so much to life.
But it rather detracts from the table silver.
Not to mention the cups and saucers.
Why is an oil-slick on my tea?
My apartment mate is not that bad, not by a wide margin.
Still, I have several times over the years re-scrubbed the plates and cutlery that she put in the rack, after she's left the house in the morning.
That's something I've haven't ever mentioned to her.
It would be pointless to point it out, and cruel.
She doesn't have eyes in her fingertips.
I'm a frightfull slob.
A clean one.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, September 29, 2012
BOTH WEEKLY AND DAILY
This blogger likes to claim that he is a temperate man, but the truth is far otherwise.
When it comes to food, tobacco, sex, and stimulating beverages (i.e. coffee and tea), there is scant restraint that I can muster.
These are the things that make some men passionate.
In that regard, I am positively Latin.
Brightly alive.
I love food. Many kinds. A vast spectrum.
Is it good to eat?
Very well then, let me mouth it!
I eat several times a week, often daily.
Tobacco is a private pleasure, though enjoyed semipublicly.
My apartment-mate is not particularly friendly toward the noble leaf, and has told me in no uncertain terms that if her teddy bear EVER starts reeking of smoke, bad things will happen. Very bad things.
Consequently I tend to partake outside of the home.
As regards sex, restraint is not the operative word, as it implies choice.
There is no choice, hasn't been any in years.
Ever since Savage Kitten (the aforementioned apartment mate, still a trusted and well-regarded friend) and THIS BLOGGER ceased to be an item, activities of a deliciously lascivious nature disappeared; they haven't been part of the program in a frightfully long time. When decent behaviour and sound judgement take the place of "restraint", a veritable aridity of the naughty stuff results. There is no rain in the wasteland.
Abstinence is something with which gentlemen are quite familiar.
It takes two to tango, however at present there is only one.
I think of sex several times a week, often daily.
And it's the thought that counts.
An active mind.
Years.
It seems that the world does not want anyone past a certain age and level of juvenile idiocy to have sexual relations; they've seen what happens when we do.
My generation produced vast flocks of over-privileged little monsters, many in their late teens and early twenties right now, who lack discernment, manners, morals, and nearly any redeeming qualities at all. An immodestly depraved lot.
Babyboomers should probably not have had sex from the git-go.
Bad things happened because we did.
Very bad things.
In my own defence I have to state that I am NOT responsible.
None of this was my doing. I have no children.
Those brats aren't my baggage.
I think the world owes me an apology.
It might take a bit of time before that happens.
While I'm waiting, I'll have a bit more coffee or tea, and light up another pipe.
Perhaps have a bite to eat first. Or afterwards. Or even both before and following the delicious warm beverage and the satisfying smoke.
While endeavoring to keep my mind clean and chaste.
Then I'll repeat the pattern. As often as it's necessary.
I am a patient man. I have restraint.
And I'm better than the bratpack currently abounding.
Tea and coffee. Tobacco. Food.
Several times a week.
Often daily.
I am more thoughtful now than I used to be.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
When it comes to food, tobacco, sex, and stimulating beverages (i.e. coffee and tea), there is scant restraint that I can muster.
These are the things that make some men passionate.
In that regard, I am positively Latin.
Brightly alive.
I love food. Many kinds. A vast spectrum.
Is it good to eat?
Very well then, let me mouth it!
I eat several times a week, often daily.
Tobacco is a private pleasure, though enjoyed semipublicly.
My apartment-mate is not particularly friendly toward the noble leaf, and has told me in no uncertain terms that if her teddy bear EVER starts reeking of smoke, bad things will happen. Very bad things.
Consequently I tend to partake outside of the home.
As regards sex, restraint is not the operative word, as it implies choice.
There is no choice, hasn't been any in years.
Ever since Savage Kitten (the aforementioned apartment mate, still a trusted and well-regarded friend) and THIS BLOGGER ceased to be an item, activities of a deliciously lascivious nature disappeared; they haven't been part of the program in a frightfully long time. When decent behaviour and sound judgement take the place of "restraint", a veritable aridity of the naughty stuff results. There is no rain in the wasteland.
Abstinence is something with which gentlemen are quite familiar.
It takes two to tango, however at present there is only one.
I think of sex several times a week, often daily.
And it's the thought that counts.
An active mind.
Years.
It seems that the world does not want anyone past a certain age and level of juvenile idiocy to have sexual relations; they've seen what happens when we do.
My generation produced vast flocks of over-privileged little monsters, many in their late teens and early twenties right now, who lack discernment, manners, morals, and nearly any redeeming qualities at all. An immodestly depraved lot.
Babyboomers should probably not have had sex from the git-go.
Bad things happened because we did.
Very bad things.
In my own defence I have to state that I am NOT responsible.
None of this was my doing. I have no children.
Those brats aren't my baggage.
I think the world owes me an apology.
It might take a bit of time before that happens.
While I'm waiting, I'll have a bit more coffee or tea, and light up another pipe.
Perhaps have a bite to eat first. Or afterwards. Or even both before and following the delicious warm beverage and the satisfying smoke.
While endeavoring to keep my mind clean and chaste.
Then I'll repeat the pattern. As often as it's necessary.
I am a patient man. I have restraint.
And I'm better than the bratpack currently abounding.
Tea and coffee. Tobacco. Food.
Several times a week.
Often daily.
I am more thoughtful now than I used to be.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, September 28, 2012
FEMININE PLEASURES
She dozed upon the soft pillows, against his leg. She still felt all tingly, and his hand against her back made her feel beloved, and at home.
His touch was so nice.
It was comfortable to lie here, eyes half-shut, listening to the birds outside. They nested in the ivy that covered the building, and several of them were young, rambunctious, noisy.
And, without a doubt, warm and juicy.
She adored warm and juicy.
Both of those characteristics suggested sweet things.
Fun activities, and happy results.
She purred.
He also dozed. It had been a wonderful afternoon. Staying at home with a book, a pot of tea, and the lively company of a pussy cat.
She had earlier dug her claws into his lap, which made him yelp.
Sharp and painful, dammit. Please stop!
Wicked beast.
But she soon relaxed, and let him stroke her, before finally going limp.
She probably dreamed of the sardines she had eaten earlier.
Playfully she had rubbed against his legs.
Yowling....... Feed me!
Delicious!
A spirited little creature, smaller than most house cats.
The fierce silken-furred huntress, on the prowl.
Those tinned fish didn't stand a chance.
Later he would have another hot cup of tea.
And feed her some more seafood.
Salty, oily, delicious.
She very rarely ate mice. After catching one, she would bat it back and forth a while, till it was too tired to run. Whereupon she would lose interest, and wander off, leaving her plaything to quiver by itself, panicked and rigid. A warm vibrating mess.
Eventually the rodent would recover from the ordeal - there had been no claws, those were reserved for laps and thighs - and scurry off wondering what had happened.
Possibly it was always the same mouse. Or mice.
Sometimes felines are creatures of habit.
Given to fits of constancy.
Familiar routines.
It was time for a bath. How does one get a cat to stay asleep?
She followed him in, and waited outside the curtain.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
His touch was so nice.
It was comfortable to lie here, eyes half-shut, listening to the birds outside. They nested in the ivy that covered the building, and several of them were young, rambunctious, noisy.
And, without a doubt, warm and juicy.
She adored warm and juicy.
Both of those characteristics suggested sweet things.
Fun activities, and happy results.
She purred.
He also dozed. It had been a wonderful afternoon. Staying at home with a book, a pot of tea, and the lively company of a pussy cat.
She had earlier dug her claws into his lap, which made him yelp.
Sharp and painful, dammit. Please stop!
Wicked beast.
But she soon relaxed, and let him stroke her, before finally going limp.
She probably dreamed of the sardines she had eaten earlier.
Playfully she had rubbed against his legs.
Yowling....... Feed me!
Delicious!
A spirited little creature, smaller than most house cats.
The fierce silken-furred huntress, on the prowl.
Those tinned fish didn't stand a chance.
Later he would have another hot cup of tea.
And feed her some more seafood.
Salty, oily, delicious.
She very rarely ate mice. After catching one, she would bat it back and forth a while, till it was too tired to run. Whereupon she would lose interest, and wander off, leaving her plaything to quiver by itself, panicked and rigid. A warm vibrating mess.
Eventually the rodent would recover from the ordeal - there had been no claws, those were reserved for laps and thighs - and scurry off wondering what had happened.
Possibly it was always the same mouse. Or mice.
Sometimes felines are creatures of habit.
Given to fits of constancy.
Familiar routines.
It was time for a bath. How does one get a cat to stay asleep?
She followed him in, and waited outside the curtain.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
