Further adventures of late-night snack-man.
An almond windmill cookie.
A smear of peanut butter.
Teaspoon of kasondi pickle.
And deli-fresh ham.
Repeat several times.
Yes, delicious. Better than the coconut chocolate macaroons with cheese, by a very wide margin.
Perhaps, at some point, physically regrettable.
We'll find out later.
Today.
My friend "V" will be working for twitter soon. He would appreciate the genius of the combination. Which is probably why twitter wanted him.
More gets twitted late at night.
The almond windmill - peanut butter combo was a stroke of genius.
With the kasondi pickle added, divine.
Deli-fresh ham.
Blue cheese. I must have blue cheese.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
THE SUMMER BLAHS
San Francisco in July is a somewhat grim city. Overcast, cold, and with savage winds in the evening as the heat in the Valley pulls in the chill air on the coast. Seagulls like it, but they are miserable creatures, and scoff at normal human comforts. They are rather like tourists in that regard, reveling in styles of dress that show off their pasty skin and pudgy Northern European physiques.
Normal people accept the weather with mild regret. We like the fog, and the fact that those Northern Europeans are freezing their several unwashed parts off. But we wish it were a little warmer.
Preventing the smell of fermentation from our foreign visitors with a blast of frigid air is not what we are all about. And it always drives them indoors, where we had hoped to enjoy a nice hot bowl of cioppino before being crowded out.
But do not be dismayed!
There is a solution!
Given that both foreigners AND all those snooty carpetbaggers from the Midwest and the Atlantic states HATE both seafood and tobacco, you can hide out with the neighborhood pipesmoker! Yes! Pipesmokers are the perfect cure for the summer blahs!
That isn't actually true, but it felt nice saying it.
There are one or two other fantastic statements here.
I will not hide it. I do not like cold weather, it makes me desperate for warm beverages and good company. As well as sheltered spots away from the wind where I can light up. And, given that I always air out the apartment from three in the afternoon onwards, so that my co-resident is not inconvenienced by the lingering aromas of tobacco, that means leaving the building for a smoke.
Warm beverages and good company are seldom found outdoors.
The liquid requirement is easily satisfied.
Purchase a drink to go.
Something hot.
But companionship is a quandary; pipe-smokers walk alone. There has not been any company in years. Sane people (other than pipe-smokers) tend to stay indoors at this time. They do not wish to brave the elements. And the seagulls. And the howling tourists.
They cluster inside, thinking of cioppino.
I can't really blame them, but I do miss them.
Warm company, good beverages, and a pipe.
I'm dreaming, aren't I?
I've got a dried fish.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Normal people accept the weather with mild regret. We like the fog, and the fact that those Northern Europeans are freezing their several unwashed parts off. But we wish it were a little warmer.
Preventing the smell of fermentation from our foreign visitors with a blast of frigid air is not what we are all about. And it always drives them indoors, where we had hoped to enjoy a nice hot bowl of cioppino before being crowded out.
But do not be dismayed!
There is a solution!
Given that both foreigners AND all those snooty carpetbaggers from the Midwest and the Atlantic states HATE both seafood and tobacco, you can hide out with the neighborhood pipesmoker! Yes! Pipesmokers are the perfect cure for the summer blahs!
That isn't actually true, but it felt nice saying it.
There are one or two other fantastic statements here.
I will not hide it. I do not like cold weather, it makes me desperate for warm beverages and good company. As well as sheltered spots away from the wind where I can light up. And, given that I always air out the apartment from three in the afternoon onwards, so that my co-resident is not inconvenienced by the lingering aromas of tobacco, that means leaving the building for a smoke.
Warm beverages and good company are seldom found outdoors.
The liquid requirement is easily satisfied.
Purchase a drink to go.
Something hot.
But companionship is a quandary; pipe-smokers walk alone. There has not been any company in years. Sane people (other than pipe-smokers) tend to stay indoors at this time. They do not wish to brave the elements. And the seagulls. And the howling tourists.
They cluster inside, thinking of cioppino.
I can't really blame them, but I do miss them.
Warm company, good beverages, and a pipe.
I'm dreaming, aren't I?
I've got a dried fish.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 15, 2013
FONDLING BOOKS IN THE DARK
There are three lovely waitresses at restaurants I regularly visit who seem to have a yen for me, which of course is mighty pleasing. And all three of them are intelligent and temptingly youthful. This blogger, as you may have realized, has a perverse streak a mile long.
The problem is that I am not what they think I am, nor what would be best for them. In many if not most ways this blogger (me) represents the worst possible choice that they could make.
So, these are avenues I cannot pursue.
I will never provide them with a dwelling in the suburbs.
There won't be any pirate adventures on the high seas.
I can't speak their language as well as they think.
My perverse streak, which is a mile long, must take a backseat to decency, common sense, and realism. I'm just not the type to settle down in Mountain View or South City, mowing the lawn and diligently saving for retirement. Or even out in the Richmond or Sunset districts, tolerating my drunken Irish neighbors and purchasing a year's supply of toilet paper and fabric softener at Target.
Not gonna happen.
Too much insane optimism is required.
I'm a city dweller; realistic dreams amidst urban decay.
Plus you don't want me near a car. I drive like bomber pilot.
And while I may look like a rascal, with my devilish little beard and moustache, and distinguished middle-aged man good looks -- like a younger brother of the most interesting man in the world, but with cleaner habits and far better taste -- I never drink Dos Equis, I shall not raft down the Amazon to wrestle a grizzly bear or a Scotsman, and both Skydiving and Icefishing are not part of the programme.
Perhaps I'll goad suburbanites into doing something stupid.
But that's only impatience, as they'd do it anyway.
Cruel opportunism, really, but so easy.
My rascality is not standard-issue rascality.
The language thing is the real stumbler. My first language is English, Dutch is a close second, and everything else is a distant third.
Sound relationships are built on being able to communicate, and without speech fluently held in common, that just isn't possible.
This blog is in English. The people with whom I communicate best are native speakers of that language. And I should expect that they express themselves primarily in that tongue, else why would they come here?
American English is fundamental.
My mile-long streak of perversion appreciates the attractive appearance of a large spectrum of womanhood, but both sanity and practicality demand that we be able to talk to each other.
What if there's a black-out?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The problem is that I am not what they think I am, nor what would be best for them. In many if not most ways this blogger (me) represents the worst possible choice that they could make.
So, these are avenues I cannot pursue.
I will never provide them with a dwelling in the suburbs.
There won't be any pirate adventures on the high seas.
I can't speak their language as well as they think.
My perverse streak, which is a mile long, must take a backseat to decency, common sense, and realism. I'm just not the type to settle down in Mountain View or South City, mowing the lawn and diligently saving for retirement. Or even out in the Richmond or Sunset districts, tolerating my drunken Irish neighbors and purchasing a year's supply of toilet paper and fabric softener at Target.
Not gonna happen.
Too much insane optimism is required.
I'm a city dweller; realistic dreams amidst urban decay.
Plus you don't want me near a car. I drive like bomber pilot.
And while I may look like a rascal, with my devilish little beard and moustache, and distinguished middle-aged man good looks -- like a younger brother of the most interesting man in the world, but with cleaner habits and far better taste -- I never drink Dos Equis, I shall not raft down the Amazon to wrestle a grizzly bear or a Scotsman, and both Skydiving and Icefishing are not part of the programme.
Perhaps I'll goad suburbanites into doing something stupid.
But that's only impatience, as they'd do it anyway.
Cruel opportunism, really, but so easy.
My rascality is not standard-issue rascality.
The language thing is the real stumbler. My first language is English, Dutch is a close second, and everything else is a distant third.
Sound relationships are built on being able to communicate, and without speech fluently held in common, that just isn't possible.
This blog is in English. The people with whom I communicate best are native speakers of that language. And I should expect that they express themselves primarily in that tongue, else why would they come here?
American English is fundamental.
My mile-long streak of perversion appreciates the attractive appearance of a large spectrum of womanhood, but both sanity and practicality demand that we be able to talk to each other.
What if there's a black-out?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 14, 2013
HAPPY AND SINGLE - AND FILLED WITH ZESTY PICKLES
My apartment mate, the legendary and fabulous miss Savage Kitten, lives with a man. That being me. It may not be how she imagined life when she was growing up, as men are somewhat notorious for not being fit company for females.
I certainly am not. My present relationship status proves that.
And I'm obviously rather full of myself.
Not at all repentant.
Unfit.
Men, as is well known, have peculiar tastes in food and entertainment. We like thokku and kasondi pickle, strong tobacco, and books by Russian authors. We take long walks around the Nob and Telegraph Hill neighborhoods with our pipes in our mouths, clearly deeply in thought or growling at pigeons. We remember the words to several bawdy songs and backroom ballads, as well as the odd bit of Shakespeare.
No mother wants to see her daughter associating with people like that, ever. It would ruin her reputation among all the people who count: women.
Women should have dogs instead.
Men are cat-people.
Feral.
I'm fine with that.
My most recent meal involved chili peppers, and I'm currently smoking a bowlful of Rattray's Brown Clunee, manufactured in this day and age by Kohlhase & Kopp in Germany instead of on the High Street in Perth. I may have associated with numerous other pipe-smokers in the last several hours or weeks; they were fun, their company was cheerful and stimulating. Quite a few of them probably ate something with chilies or hot sauce before or after our conversations.
Remarkably, some of them were married. Are. Not were. Present tense. Nevertheless very strange. Marriage is not the natural state for normal people. One cannot quote Shakespeare or bawdy verses at individuals of the opposite gender.
Or smoke something like Brown Clunee in their presence.
"A man needs a woman like a fish needs a bicycle"
-------Brett Collins
Some women -- a small and valiant minority -- are remarkably good company, and a joy to be around. They'll graciously put up with males, betraying not an iota of the effort and stress that entails. But their number is so slight that it is quite pointless to search for them.
Your chances of winning the lottery are greater by far.
Most women, however, can't stand thokku or kasondi.
Brown Clunee is a concept that utterly baffles them.
I'm fine with that, too.
I'll always have thokku and kasondi, at present there's an open tin of Brown Clunee on my desk, life is quite good and very enjoyable, and I'm probably too old and stubborn to be domesticated. Courting is a behavioural pattern more suited to the immature, and while most men and women do at some point associate overmuch with their opposite genders, eventually they will come to their senses, and acquire a cat or a dog, and several bottles of Indian pickles and hot sauce.
And, if they're men, tins of tobacco.
Men quote bawdy songs and Shakespeare.
Women cite Hello Kitty and Kim Kardasian.
And they say we're weird.
I am beginning to relish my unsuitability. My apartment mate, the saintly and patient aforementioned miss Savage Kitten, gave up on educating me several years ago, and has as yet utterly failed to realize that her companion (i.e. 'Boyfriend') Wheelie Boy -- whom I have no intention of ever meeting -- contains similar undomesticatable compounds underneath that veneer of loveability or whatever it is he possesses. Both of them insist that something is in the air, and that men and women are sympatico.
Heh.
They're young.
I am older than either of them.
I know.
No, I'm not bitter, I'm fluffy. And I'm enjoying life.
I get to look at women from a safe distance, without being required to adapt in any way. My pipes (and the Indian pickles) keep me company, the pigeons on Nob and Telegraph Hill fear me, and when I am old and eighty and in a retirement home, I thoroughly intend to torment the young and restless Philippina nurses.
"Come here, little girl" I will say, "would you like some adobo?"
Then I shall wave a crispy lumpia at them.
And hook them with my cane.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I certainly am not. My present relationship status proves that.
And I'm obviously rather full of myself.
Not at all repentant.
Unfit.
Men, as is well known, have peculiar tastes in food and entertainment. We like thokku and kasondi pickle, strong tobacco, and books by Russian authors. We take long walks around the Nob and Telegraph Hill neighborhoods with our pipes in our mouths, clearly deeply in thought or growling at pigeons. We remember the words to several bawdy songs and backroom ballads, as well as the odd bit of Shakespeare.
No mother wants to see her daughter associating with people like that, ever. It would ruin her reputation among all the people who count: women.
Women should have dogs instead.
Men are cat-people.
Feral.
I'm fine with that.
My most recent meal involved chili peppers, and I'm currently smoking a bowlful of Rattray's Brown Clunee, manufactured in this day and age by Kohlhase & Kopp in Germany instead of on the High Street in Perth. I may have associated with numerous other pipe-smokers in the last several hours or weeks; they were fun, their company was cheerful and stimulating. Quite a few of them probably ate something with chilies or hot sauce before or after our conversations.
Remarkably, some of them were married. Are. Not were. Present tense. Nevertheless very strange. Marriage is not the natural state for normal people. One cannot quote Shakespeare or bawdy verses at individuals of the opposite gender.
Or smoke something like Brown Clunee in their presence.
"A man needs a woman like a fish needs a bicycle"
-------Brett Collins
Some women -- a small and valiant minority -- are remarkably good company, and a joy to be around. They'll graciously put up with males, betraying not an iota of the effort and stress that entails. But their number is so slight that it is quite pointless to search for them.
Your chances of winning the lottery are greater by far.
Most women, however, can't stand thokku or kasondi.
Brown Clunee is a concept that utterly baffles them.
I'm fine with that, too.
I'll always have thokku and kasondi, at present there's an open tin of Brown Clunee on my desk, life is quite good and very enjoyable, and I'm probably too old and stubborn to be domesticated. Courting is a behavioural pattern more suited to the immature, and while most men and women do at some point associate overmuch with their opposite genders, eventually they will come to their senses, and acquire a cat or a dog, and several bottles of Indian pickles and hot sauce.
And, if they're men, tins of tobacco.
Men quote bawdy songs and Shakespeare.
Women cite Hello Kitty and Kim Kardasian.
And they say we're weird.
I am beginning to relish my unsuitability. My apartment mate, the saintly and patient aforementioned miss Savage Kitten, gave up on educating me several years ago, and has as yet utterly failed to realize that her companion (i.e. 'Boyfriend') Wheelie Boy -- whom I have no intention of ever meeting -- contains similar undomesticatable compounds underneath that veneer of loveability or whatever it is he possesses. Both of them insist that something is in the air, and that men and women are sympatico.
Heh.
They're young.
I am older than either of them.
I know.
No, I'm not bitter, I'm fluffy. And I'm enjoying life.
I get to look at women from a safe distance, without being required to adapt in any way. My pipes (and the Indian pickles) keep me company, the pigeons on Nob and Telegraph Hill fear me, and when I am old and eighty and in a retirement home, I thoroughly intend to torment the young and restless Philippina nurses.
"Come here, little girl" I will say, "would you like some adobo?"
Then I shall wave a crispy lumpia at them.
And hook them with my cane.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DOODLE SACK
The problem with eating is that it makes me hungry. After a bit of something tasty, one naturally wants more.
And then one feels bloated.
If one surrenders.
Food, alas, is not at all like sex.
I don't have breakfast until several hours after rising in the morning. Preferably closer to tea-time than lunch. Honestly, I do not feel peckish till then. Coffee, tea, and a pipe sustain me pretty darn well.
These too, alas, are not at all like sex.
What's really like sex is bag-pipe music.
Think about it. It's vibrant, loud, rambunctious, and though a pleasant private matter, best not done in public.
Nothing says dubious sense of values more than bagpipe music with more inspiration than skill, and exposure to mediocre public exhibit makes one feel slightly unwell.
For crapsakes, folks, get a hillside!
As you can tell, I rather like a bit of bag-pipe music now and then.
Don't worry, I shan't turn into a Scotsman.
Or a blancmange.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And then one feels bloated.
If one surrenders.
Food, alas, is not at all like sex.
I don't have breakfast until several hours after rising in the morning. Preferably closer to tea-time than lunch. Honestly, I do not feel peckish till then. Coffee, tea, and a pipe sustain me pretty darn well.
These too, alas, are not at all like sex.
What's really like sex is bag-pipe music.
Think about it. It's vibrant, loud, rambunctious, and though a pleasant private matter, best not done in public.
Nothing says dubious sense of values more than bagpipe music with more inspiration than skill, and exposure to mediocre public exhibit makes one feel slightly unwell.
For crapsakes, folks, get a hillside!
As you can tell, I rather like a bit of bag-pipe music now and then.
Don't worry, I shan't turn into a Scotsman.
Or a blancmange.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, July 13, 2013
A LOVELY TEA-TIME FROCK
If you guessed that I was presently wearing a lovely pale summer frock and reclining in the deep soft grass enjoying a long warm twilight, you were wrong. Twilight in the Bay Area takes only ten minutes, it's a bit chilly outside and the grass is cold and wet, and this is not the climate for lovely summer frocks.
I would want to do all those things, but circumstances conspire against me. Oh, and I'm a middle-aged man. Not quite the demographic for lovely summer frocks.
I AM NOT A GIRL
If I were female, I might enjoy all that. I would be a very nice woman, and wear pearls while doing so. And perhaps have a nice porcelain cup and saucer on a tray next to me, with a spot of Oolong or Earl Grey.
And it would, necessarily, be much further north.
Where it's warm and gentle in summer.
And twilights are longer.
I do not regret not being a woman, for several reasons. Women are softer and nicer than men, and those are characteristics that I really like. For another thing, as a man I get to smoke a pipe -- presently filled with a charming aged Virginia compound -- and drink Bourbon while thinking of women, or lovely frocks, or lovely women smoking pipes while wearing frocks. And enjoying cups of tea.
Women get all kinds of negative comments when they smoke a pipe, and Bourbon-drinking is not considered precisely a feminine thing either.
I cannot understand why this is so, as exceptional tobacco may only be enjoyed in a pipe, and Bourbon with a splash of branch water is a very pleasant and civilized beverage. On summer evenings.
Good women do NOT drink fruity cocktails.
Is that perfectly clear?
NOR DO I HAVE A CAT
When I was growing up, my favourite cat would probably not have been a good woman. As felines go, she was the neighborhood fireball, always out partying with the tomcats. I fondly imagine that her love life was rambunctious and multi-faceted, and that her good mother was probably horrified over her kitten's behavior. If she had been human, she would have been swilling wine-coolers and dancing on tables.
So it was probably a good thing she was a cat.
Hardly any inclination to sweet liquors.
Cats can't hold glasses.
No thumbs.
But she did like the smell of pipe-tobacco. Whenever I was in a long chair out under the cherry tree, she would come over and doze on my stomach. Many of my favourite books are consequently remembered as involving a warm furry presence making a low rumbling noise on my abdomen, and occasionally stretching, repositioning, and digging in the claws. When it got too dark to read, I would get up and go inside, she would roll off and go look up a yowling Don Juan.
It seemed for both of us the right thing to do.
I am a little jealous of her love life.
Human dates are never so noisy.
More complicated, too.
I've been drinking tea and smoking a pipe since early adolescence. The taste for Bourbon came much later, and consequently has always been somewhat modest and restrained. Bourbon (as well as Scotch and Irish) have always played second-fiddle to the caffeine and briars. Nice, but not essential, and nowhere near as important.
There are no cats in my life nowadays.
But I can always imagine them.
Really, I know cats.
Miao.
In case you were wondering, I never wore a summer frock, even then. Nor was I ever tempted, despite their gay appeal. Though quite utterly fascinated by feminine clothing, my interests were more abstract, and involved consideration of the actual people wearing such things. They were far better suited to floral prints and fluttery fabrics; softer, nicer, and altogether much more suitable. That made a world of difference.
But I've always liked the freshness and innocence frocks evoke.
One really does need a girlish figure to carry it off.
Which is something I never had.
The cat could have done it very well.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I would want to do all those things, but circumstances conspire against me. Oh, and I'm a middle-aged man. Not quite the demographic for lovely summer frocks.
I AM NOT A GIRL
If I were female, I might enjoy all that. I would be a very nice woman, and wear pearls while doing so. And perhaps have a nice porcelain cup and saucer on a tray next to me, with a spot of Oolong or Earl Grey.
And it would, necessarily, be much further north.
Where it's warm and gentle in summer.
And twilights are longer.
I do not regret not being a woman, for several reasons. Women are softer and nicer than men, and those are characteristics that I really like. For another thing, as a man I get to smoke a pipe -- presently filled with a charming aged Virginia compound -- and drink Bourbon while thinking of women, or lovely frocks, or lovely women smoking pipes while wearing frocks. And enjoying cups of tea.
Women get all kinds of negative comments when they smoke a pipe, and Bourbon-drinking is not considered precisely a feminine thing either.
I cannot understand why this is so, as exceptional tobacco may only be enjoyed in a pipe, and Bourbon with a splash of branch water is a very pleasant and civilized beverage. On summer evenings.
Good women do NOT drink fruity cocktails.
Is that perfectly clear?
NOR DO I HAVE A CAT
When I was growing up, my favourite cat would probably not have been a good woman. As felines go, she was the neighborhood fireball, always out partying with the tomcats. I fondly imagine that her love life was rambunctious and multi-faceted, and that her good mother was probably horrified over her kitten's behavior. If she had been human, she would have been swilling wine-coolers and dancing on tables.
So it was probably a good thing she was a cat.
Hardly any inclination to sweet liquors.
Cats can't hold glasses.
No thumbs.
But she did like the smell of pipe-tobacco. Whenever I was in a long chair out under the cherry tree, she would come over and doze on my stomach. Many of my favourite books are consequently remembered as involving a warm furry presence making a low rumbling noise on my abdomen, and occasionally stretching, repositioning, and digging in the claws. When it got too dark to read, I would get up and go inside, she would roll off and go look up a yowling Don Juan.
It seemed for both of us the right thing to do.
I am a little jealous of her love life.
Human dates are never so noisy.
More complicated, too.
I've been drinking tea and smoking a pipe since early adolescence. The taste for Bourbon came much later, and consequently has always been somewhat modest and restrained. Bourbon (as well as Scotch and Irish) have always played second-fiddle to the caffeine and briars. Nice, but not essential, and nowhere near as important.
There are no cats in my life nowadays.
But I can always imagine them.
Really, I know cats.
Miao.
In case you were wondering, I never wore a summer frock, even then. Nor was I ever tempted, despite their gay appeal. Though quite utterly fascinated by feminine clothing, my interests were more abstract, and involved consideration of the actual people wearing such things. They were far better suited to floral prints and fluttery fabrics; softer, nicer, and altogether much more suitable. That made a world of difference.
But I've always liked the freshness and innocence frocks evoke.
One really does need a girlish figure to carry it off.
Which is something I never had.
The cat could have done it very well.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 12, 2013
THE SASH OUTSIDE A CHURCH
In gentle remonstrance at the boys who vomited so copiously on Polk Street in San Francisco this past March 17, and all their syphilitic inbred kin, this blog presents a short educational video.
TWELFTH BAND PLAYS 'THE SASH' OUTSIDE A CATHOLIC CHURCH
[BBC mention: Outside St Patrick's Catholic Church on Donegall Street.]
Today is the commemoration of the Battle of the Boyne.
[Actually, it celebrates the Battle of Aughrim, which happened on July 12, 1691, under the 'old-style' calendar. The Battle of the Boyne took place a year earlier, on the first of July. In any case, a glorious event, despite the calendar change.]
Not coincidentally, today is also when drunken yobbos throw bricks at civilized folk, and commit mayhem. Much like Saint Patrick's Day, in other words, and celebrated in similar fashion by precisely the same permanently pissed-off people.
This blogger is not a fan of sporting events.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TWELFTH BAND PLAYS 'THE SASH' OUTSIDE A CATHOLIC CHURCH
[BBC mention: Outside St Patrick's Catholic Church on Donegall Street.]
Today is the commemoration of the Battle of the Boyne.
[Actually, it celebrates the Battle of Aughrim, which happened on July 12, 1691, under the 'old-style' calendar. The Battle of the Boyne took place a year earlier, on the first of July. In any case, a glorious event, despite the calendar change.]
Not coincidentally, today is also when drunken yobbos throw bricks at civilized folk, and commit mayhem. Much like Saint Patrick's Day, in other words, and celebrated in similar fashion by precisely the same permanently pissed-off people.
This blogger is not a fan of sporting events.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TONGUE STUD
Sometimes you can tell that someone is drawling. Even if you cannot hear them, but only have their written words to go by. Certain remarks practically beg for definite styles of speech.
Often, when I am writing, you must imagine a dryness which betrays a face studiously kept straight. The tongue may be in cheek, but that is carefully hidden. Perhaps there is no tongue, or I may even not want you to know or notice.
At times the readers who comment underneath posts here do exactly the same.
As becomes clear when you think about their statements.
At 10:35 PM on Friday July 2, 2010, Curdishly Amphibious said:
"I am relieved that 'anal' elicits more porn-spam than 'cheese'."
Two things must be mentioned. The first is that I know who wrote that, and I also know that he is inordinately fond of cheese. His passion for cheese at times knows no bounds, cheese defines him and colours his life. Cheese is a great fever. He loves cheese. It is, quite possibly, the romance of the century. More passionate than Dante and Beatrice, steamier than Tristan and Isolde, with greater lust even than Heloise had for Abelard, the man who signs himself 'Amphibious' is a curd-kenner of immense proportion.
The second is that he lives in San Francisco. Where a large part of the population is all about anal. Or infected with anal retentia.
About both of which the less said the better.
This blogger is neither. I am by natural tendency AND by predilective preference much more in the cheese camp than anywhere near the latter two affections. "Bugger all things anal", I will say, "give me fromage".
Käse ist ein ganz schönes substanz.
"I am relieved that 'anal' elicits more porn-spam than 'cheese'."
It's fairly certain that that needs to be dryly drawled for best effect.
The drawl, if you will, is inherent in the statement. Whatever your personal feelings about 'anal' or 'cheese'.
It's all in the tongue.
You can do amazing things with it.
I've never understood why some people get their tongues pierced.
It seems odd and somewhat depraved to tinker with the organ of taste, or to affect its sensitivity with such ridiculous abuse. Even if the intent is erotic -- as it apparently is -- how is that purpose better served by a studded tongue than one in its sensuous floppety-slick natural state?
It's already an enormously sexual asset, flexible and exhilarating as it skips and gambols over the skin, without needing any added artifice.
The touch of a tongue should not be corrupted by anything hard and metallic, but be soft and slippery-silky. Warm, wet, and smooth.
If it has to be studded, use cloves, and stew it for a few hours.
That, too, can be utterly and sublimely delightful.
Even without cloves; they're not essential.
Especially with a glass of Cabernet.
Or, even better, Amontillado.
Sometimes there's nothing quite so erotic as a plate of lingua estofado, sherry, and a bit of cheese for after. Think of it as a little orgy.
With the right company, divine.
PS.: I've got a recipe.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Often, when I am writing, you must imagine a dryness which betrays a face studiously kept straight. The tongue may be in cheek, but that is carefully hidden. Perhaps there is no tongue, or I may even not want you to know or notice.
At times the readers who comment underneath posts here do exactly the same.
As becomes clear when you think about their statements.
At 10:35 PM on Friday July 2, 2010, Curdishly Amphibious said:
"I am relieved that 'anal' elicits more porn-spam than 'cheese'."
Two things must be mentioned. The first is that I know who wrote that, and I also know that he is inordinately fond of cheese. His passion for cheese at times knows no bounds, cheese defines him and colours his life. Cheese is a great fever. He loves cheese. It is, quite possibly, the romance of the century. More passionate than Dante and Beatrice, steamier than Tristan and Isolde, with greater lust even than Heloise had for Abelard, the man who signs himself 'Amphibious' is a curd-kenner of immense proportion.
The second is that he lives in San Francisco. Where a large part of the population is all about anal. Or infected with anal retentia.
About both of which the less said the better.
This blogger is neither. I am by natural tendency AND by predilective preference much more in the cheese camp than anywhere near the latter two affections. "Bugger all things anal", I will say, "give me fromage".
Käse ist ein ganz schönes substanz.
"I am relieved that 'anal' elicits more porn-spam than 'cheese'."
It's fairly certain that that needs to be dryly drawled for best effect.
The drawl, if you will, is inherent in the statement. Whatever your personal feelings about 'anal' or 'cheese'.
It's all in the tongue.
You can do amazing things with it.
I've never understood why some people get their tongues pierced.
It seems odd and somewhat depraved to tinker with the organ of taste, or to affect its sensitivity with such ridiculous abuse. Even if the intent is erotic -- as it apparently is -- how is that purpose better served by a studded tongue than one in its sensuous floppety-slick natural state?
It's already an enormously sexual asset, flexible and exhilarating as it skips and gambols over the skin, without needing any added artifice.
The touch of a tongue should not be corrupted by anything hard and metallic, but be soft and slippery-silky. Warm, wet, and smooth.
If it has to be studded, use cloves, and stew it for a few hours.
That, too, can be utterly and sublimely delightful.
Even without cloves; they're not essential.
Especially with a glass of Cabernet.
Or, even better, Amontillado.
Sometimes there's nothing quite so erotic as a plate of lingua estofado, sherry, and a bit of cheese for after. Think of it as a little orgy.
With the right company, divine.
PS.: I've got a recipe.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 11, 2013
ST. BRUNO FLAKE - OGDEN'S ANSWER TO YOUR PERVERSE TENDENCIES
There are times when the civilized man craves something depraved. Such as happened this morning. I woke up to find the monkey attempting to steal my wallet -- a regularly recurring event -- and with a modicum of gastric distress from some crap I ate yesterday.
[Yesterday's supper: chicken curry, with a side of raita and a small amount of lime pickle. A very small amount, really. But I shouldn't have added the chilies. There was not enough raita.]
I felt like I had eaten a British dinner. Spam, baked beans from a can, plus spongy fried bread. It tasted much better, but the effect on the bowels was similar. Baked beans would be immeasurably improved by the addition of lime pickle and chilies. Try it sometime; you'll be astounded, mate.
[That last remark is for the benefit of wandering Englishmen. Who may or may not be seeking to expand their culinary range. Baked beans in a can may also be served vindaloo-style, with a cup of chicken tikka, or with butter-chicken sauce over bangers and mash. You'll never have to figure out how to cook, just open the tins and decant into the skillet. Very British.]
Gastric distress. And a larcenous simian. Who desires to buy a banana plantation and have naked white men sweating in the hot sun of Jamaica harvesting his fruits.
Yesterday his pet-turkey, Giuseppe-Bob (actually a three-inch tall plush rooster with lovely plumes), was threatening to burn him with matches if forced to fly over Wheelie Boy and spray him with an Armalite. Which is understandable, because manipulating a machine gun while flapping your wings is problematic, to say the least. Giuseppe-Bob is talented, but not even a boy scout could manage.
[The senior roomie, ms. Bruin, is the one who came up with the plan. Aged teddy bears do not react well when neglected by young women swooning over hot buns in wheelchairs. The young lady is my apartment mate and long-time friend, Savage Kitten. The hot buns in a wheelchair belong to some dude.]
The only possible response to all this drama -- raging dyspepsia, rowdy stuffed animals, and thoughts of British food -- is, naturally, a bowlful of St. Bruno Flake. That being a tobacco I once described as the antidote for eggs.
Yes, I can still understand why generations of married Englishmen fell for this stuff. It's the perfect answer to their wives' cooking. If you're going to open tins, might as well include one with good stuff inside. The top-dressing would mask the mildew funk of the house pretty well, and would not be amiss in a pub either. It's sort of a restrained middle-class village harlot odeur. All in all likely to remind Bruce or Winston of his years at school, when life was carefree and ale was cheap.
Before the endless routine of baked beans, fried tomato, and canned muck dumped on top. British married life. Which is icky.
ST. BRUNO FLAKE
Mildly sweet, if smoked slow. Dark steam-pressed Virginias with a touch of Kentucky, and an unidentifiable top-dressing of the "we're SO refined" type.
It bears relighting, and will not leave a funk.
Pleasant, full-bodied, and a bit earthy.
Provided you keep your pipe cool.
I want a spot of tea now.
Might even go with sherry.
Not a bad tobacco. If I were exiled to England, I would probably smoke this more often.
I took back my wallet, by the way. Much to the distress of a furry miscreant. I do not need a banana plantation in my apartment.
Despite the warm tropic ambiance it would bring.
He's howling on my bed right now.
I am, he says, utterly evil.
A very bad man.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Yesterday's supper: chicken curry, with a side of raita and a small amount of lime pickle. A very small amount, really. But I shouldn't have added the chilies. There was not enough raita.]
I felt like I had eaten a British dinner. Spam, baked beans from a can, plus spongy fried bread. It tasted much better, but the effect on the bowels was similar. Baked beans would be immeasurably improved by the addition of lime pickle and chilies. Try it sometime; you'll be astounded, mate.
[That last remark is for the benefit of wandering Englishmen. Who may or may not be seeking to expand their culinary range. Baked beans in a can may also be served vindaloo-style, with a cup of chicken tikka, or with butter-chicken sauce over bangers and mash. You'll never have to figure out how to cook, just open the tins and decant into the skillet. Very British.]
Gastric distress. And a larcenous simian. Who desires to buy a banana plantation and have naked white men sweating in the hot sun of Jamaica harvesting his fruits.
Yesterday his pet-turkey, Giuseppe-Bob (actually a three-inch tall plush rooster with lovely plumes), was threatening to burn him with matches if forced to fly over Wheelie Boy and spray him with an Armalite. Which is understandable, because manipulating a machine gun while flapping your wings is problematic, to say the least. Giuseppe-Bob is talented, but not even a boy scout could manage.
[The senior roomie, ms. Bruin, is the one who came up with the plan. Aged teddy bears do not react well when neglected by young women swooning over hot buns in wheelchairs. The young lady is my apartment mate and long-time friend, Savage Kitten. The hot buns in a wheelchair belong to some dude.]
The only possible response to all this drama -- raging dyspepsia, rowdy stuffed animals, and thoughts of British food -- is, naturally, a bowlful of St. Bruno Flake. That being a tobacco I once described as the antidote for eggs.
Yes, I can still understand why generations of married Englishmen fell for this stuff. It's the perfect answer to their wives' cooking. If you're going to open tins, might as well include one with good stuff inside. The top-dressing would mask the mildew funk of the house pretty well, and would not be amiss in a pub either. It's sort of a restrained middle-class village harlot odeur. All in all likely to remind Bruce or Winston of his years at school, when life was carefree and ale was cheap.
Before the endless routine of baked beans, fried tomato, and canned muck dumped on top. British married life. Which is icky.
ST. BRUNO FLAKE
Mildly sweet, if smoked slow. Dark steam-pressed Virginias with a touch of Kentucky, and an unidentifiable top-dressing of the "we're SO refined" type.
It bears relighting, and will not leave a funk.
Pleasant, full-bodied, and a bit earthy.
Provided you keep your pipe cool.
I want a spot of tea now.
Might even go with sherry.
Not a bad tobacco. If I were exiled to England, I would probably smoke this more often.
I took back my wallet, by the way. Much to the distress of a furry miscreant. I do not need a banana plantation in my apartment.
Despite the warm tropic ambiance it would bring.
He's howling on my bed right now.
I am, he says, utterly evil.
A very bad man.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FROM THE OTHER SIDE
She said that the pipe looked cool, she really liked the image. She was with a young man -- a gentleman at least several months if not a few years younger than myself, that is -- and two other ladies, and all of us had stopped to admire the view from that particular vantage point. The piers spread out below, Alcatraz in the distance, and far beyond that the vast savage hinterlands of the other side of the bay, where the wild tribes of suburbanites and trailerparkers live, committing their cannibal acts and voting tea-party. Or going to church.
It is refreshing when a young lady nowadays thinks that pipesmoking is 'cool'. When I first picked up the habit, at fourteen years of age, that was something that I also thought. But at that time it was a rather private 'cool'. It wasn't the primary consideratum behind the new-found habit. But I did know that cigarette smoking verged on sleazy and depraved, cigars just weren't my ticket, and chewing tobacco of any kind was incredibly nasty.
Pipe-smoking was a thoughtful thing to do.
And that is what it has turned out to be.
Pipe-smokers are conditioned to remain calm, and maintain the pipe at an even burn, never letting it overheat. Cruising altitude, so to speak. Ideally from first match till tapping out the ash should be a steady and smooth ride, culminating in the realization that that was a damned fine smoke. Very satisfying.
If all goes well, something worthwhile ill have been accomplished while engaged in the process. A work of literature will have been consumed, all the tolerances on an isometric drawing will have been inked in cleanly and accurately, or a piece of equipment lovingly restored. Algebra homework will have been done.
The pipe-smoker remains even-tempered throughout; one does not want the burn-rate to spike, the load in the bowl to turn sour, or the pipe to go out.
Practical jokers may set off fire-crackers right behind the person with a pipe, but it cannot startle him. There's a proper burn-rate.
At all times, calmness and proper burn-rate.
When I crashed my car years ago, I clambered from the wreckage with my briar still clenched between my teeth, and the bowl still evenly lit.
It had reached the proper burn-rate, and was at perfect cruise.
A cigarette smoker would have fouled himself instead.
So yeah, yes, pipe-smoking IS cool. And I am extremely glad that you think so. People who feel that pipe-smoking is cool are truly very nice people indeed, and always seem way more intelligent than the common herd. Their company is welcome and refreshing, their eyes are brighter, and their coats much shinier than the drab little wretches that skulk away scowling unhappily and scrunching up their faces.
I was on my front steps a few days ago enjoying a bowlful of Virginia flake, when two dessicated stick-insects of the middle-aged single-woman persuasion came down the street. Once they saw me and my pipe, they veered off to the edge of the sidewalk, and as they scurried past me even went out into the street to avoid coming anywhere near the fumes. Their expressions, behind the hands holding their noses, betrayed pain, outrage, despair, nausea, rodent-like emotions, and venomous hatred of men enjoying a bit of fine tobacco.
At the point when they were nearest, I drawled "ooh, poor babies, nosey-wosey all hurt-hurt?"
It's a very wide sidewalk, and there was a breeze. They could not possibly have even smelled the smoke from their distance. But the sight of a pipe aroused a well-trained disapproving repulsion.
People like that should choke on their wheatgerm.
Get a lump of tofu stuck in their throat.
Pipe-smoking is cool, bitches.
G'wan, suck it up.
"Ooh, poor babies, nosey-wosey all hurt-hurt?"
I'm convinced that most of the folks who evince dislike of smoking in general and pipe-smoking in particular have unresolved father issues. The man may have been a perfectly decent bloke, either a Harvard professor or a simple hod-carrier from Poughkeepsie, but he was somewhat oblivious to their desperate sensitivity, poetic natures, and sheer down-right specialness. Throughout their lives, he treated them as normal children developing into normal adults, never once veering into wide-eyed wonder at the sheer treasures of keenly-honed artistic insight and meaningfulness that were thriving in his own home.
Oh the sadness, oh the tragedy!
The bastard!
Either that or they're scared of their therapist. The man probably took his pipe out of his mouth at some point, and remarked "oh grow up, you sodding little pussy".
It was a well-reasoned word of advice.
Thoughtfully delivered.
My sympathies lie with the therapists; they have to deal with a lot of self-absorbed freaks.
On the other hand, people who like pipe-smoking are more than likely to have had normal relationships with their parents. Yes, they saw the flaws, but they also realized that the adults in their lives were, on the whole, pretty good people, whose insights and attention eventually made them the fine young adults they are today. Their mother and father did their best to provide them with a safe and comfortable place and time, so that they could develop into mature adults themselves. They are grateful for the years of happiness and support.
Maybe they still don't know what they will do the rest of their lives, but they feel confident that they'll manage to find interesting and worthwhile things along the way.
Without recourse to pot, spirituality, and puritanism.
Avoiding wheatgerm, tofu, and spirulina.
Dating a pipe-smoking man.
Or woman.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It is refreshing when a young lady nowadays thinks that pipesmoking is 'cool'. When I first picked up the habit, at fourteen years of age, that was something that I also thought. But at that time it was a rather private 'cool'. It wasn't the primary consideratum behind the new-found habit. But I did know that cigarette smoking verged on sleazy and depraved, cigars just weren't my ticket, and chewing tobacco of any kind was incredibly nasty.
Pipe-smoking was a thoughtful thing to do.
And that is what it has turned out to be.
Pipe-smokers are conditioned to remain calm, and maintain the pipe at an even burn, never letting it overheat. Cruising altitude, so to speak. Ideally from first match till tapping out the ash should be a steady and smooth ride, culminating in the realization that that was a damned fine smoke. Very satisfying.
If all goes well, something worthwhile ill have been accomplished while engaged in the process. A work of literature will have been consumed, all the tolerances on an isometric drawing will have been inked in cleanly and accurately, or a piece of equipment lovingly restored. Algebra homework will have been done.
The pipe-smoker remains even-tempered throughout; one does not want the burn-rate to spike, the load in the bowl to turn sour, or the pipe to go out.
Practical jokers may set off fire-crackers right behind the person with a pipe, but it cannot startle him. There's a proper burn-rate.
At all times, calmness and proper burn-rate.
When I crashed my car years ago, I clambered from the wreckage with my briar still clenched between my teeth, and the bowl still evenly lit.
It had reached the proper burn-rate, and was at perfect cruise.
A cigarette smoker would have fouled himself instead.
So yeah, yes, pipe-smoking IS cool. And I am extremely glad that you think so. People who feel that pipe-smoking is cool are truly very nice people indeed, and always seem way more intelligent than the common herd. Their company is welcome and refreshing, their eyes are brighter, and their coats much shinier than the drab little wretches that skulk away scowling unhappily and scrunching up their faces.
I was on my front steps a few days ago enjoying a bowlful of Virginia flake, when two dessicated stick-insects of the middle-aged single-woman persuasion came down the street. Once they saw me and my pipe, they veered off to the edge of the sidewalk, and as they scurried past me even went out into the street to avoid coming anywhere near the fumes. Their expressions, behind the hands holding their noses, betrayed pain, outrage, despair, nausea, rodent-like emotions, and venomous hatred of men enjoying a bit of fine tobacco.
At the point when they were nearest, I drawled "ooh, poor babies, nosey-wosey all hurt-hurt?"
It's a very wide sidewalk, and there was a breeze. They could not possibly have even smelled the smoke from their distance. But the sight of a pipe aroused a well-trained disapproving repulsion.
People like that should choke on their wheatgerm.
Get a lump of tofu stuck in their throat.
Pipe-smoking is cool, bitches.
G'wan, suck it up.
"Ooh, poor babies, nosey-wosey all hurt-hurt?"
I'm convinced that most of the folks who evince dislike of smoking in general and pipe-smoking in particular have unresolved father issues. The man may have been a perfectly decent bloke, either a Harvard professor or a simple hod-carrier from Poughkeepsie, but he was somewhat oblivious to their desperate sensitivity, poetic natures, and sheer down-right specialness. Throughout their lives, he treated them as normal children developing into normal adults, never once veering into wide-eyed wonder at the sheer treasures of keenly-honed artistic insight and meaningfulness that were thriving in his own home.
Oh the sadness, oh the tragedy!
The bastard!
Either that or they're scared of their therapist. The man probably took his pipe out of his mouth at some point, and remarked "oh grow up, you sodding little pussy".
It was a well-reasoned word of advice.
Thoughtfully delivered.
My sympathies lie with the therapists; they have to deal with a lot of self-absorbed freaks.
On the other hand, people who like pipe-smoking are more than likely to have had normal relationships with their parents. Yes, they saw the flaws, but they also realized that the adults in their lives were, on the whole, pretty good people, whose insights and attention eventually made them the fine young adults they are today. Their mother and father did their best to provide them with a safe and comfortable place and time, so that they could develop into mature adults themselves. They are grateful for the years of happiness and support.
Maybe they still don't know what they will do the rest of their lives, but they feel confident that they'll manage to find interesting and worthwhile things along the way.
Without recourse to pot, spirituality, and puritanism.
Avoiding wheatgerm, tofu, and spirulina.
Dating a pipe-smoking man.
Or woman.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
FEVERISHLY UNCLEAN MATERNAL RELATIVE
There are times when one wonders about the modern generation. 'Where is their head at?', one will wonder, 'heavens, where is their head at?'
It's a valid question. Perhaps they have no heads.
I was passing a rakish-looking young fellow the other day, who proved utterly enchanted by someone very near him. As what came out of his mouth made clear.
I think.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
And at that moment I realized that I was old. Older. Well, a little bit more mature, perhaps. In any case, an adult. You see, I have never said "hey there, hot filthy mama" to anyone. It is a sentence that has never even crossed my mind. My generation does not combine "hot" and "filthy" in the same phrase unless we're speaking of sewers.
We almost never speak of sewers.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
There's a note of insane optimism in that phrase. Plus the knowledge that the "attractive" young lady to whom it was addressed might take pride in certain actions and behaviours which are best not described. Even if, perfectly innocently, she's a municipal sanitation engineer.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
I hope she's a municipal sanitation engineer. But it seems a bit far-fetched. She didn't, at a passing glance, appear to have quite the intelligence or intellectual rigour that the job requires. And her state of dress and personal cleanliness at the time suggested strongly that municipal sanitation might not be at the forefront of her mind.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
It's sad when young people don't develop the skill-sets that would stand them in good stead in the modern world, and which would ensure employment and a decent future.
Success requires resolve, hard work, and dedication.
As municipal sanitation engineers know.
Not just efforts to look good.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
I rather wish I had said that.
It sounds adventurous.
And so depraved.
Delicious.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's a valid question. Perhaps they have no heads.
I was passing a rakish-looking young fellow the other day, who proved utterly enchanted by someone very near him. As what came out of his mouth made clear.
I think.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
And at that moment I realized that I was old. Older. Well, a little bit more mature, perhaps. In any case, an adult. You see, I have never said "hey there, hot filthy mama" to anyone. It is a sentence that has never even crossed my mind. My generation does not combine "hot" and "filthy" in the same phrase unless we're speaking of sewers.
We almost never speak of sewers.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
There's a note of insane optimism in that phrase. Plus the knowledge that the "attractive" young lady to whom it was addressed might take pride in certain actions and behaviours which are best not described. Even if, perfectly innocently, she's a municipal sanitation engineer.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
I hope she's a municipal sanitation engineer. But it seems a bit far-fetched. She didn't, at a passing glance, appear to have quite the intelligence or intellectual rigour that the job requires. And her state of dress and personal cleanliness at the time suggested strongly that municipal sanitation might not be at the forefront of her mind.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
It's sad when young people don't develop the skill-sets that would stand them in good stead in the modern world, and which would ensure employment and a decent future.
Success requires resolve, hard work, and dedication.
As municipal sanitation engineers know.
Not just efforts to look good.
"Hey there, hot filthy mama!"
I rather wish I had said that.
It sounds adventurous.
And so depraved.
Delicious.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE BEST INFLUENCES
My mother passed away in 1977 when we were still in Valkenswaard, my father died in 1990 in Eindhoven, my older brother followed in 1993 in Utrecht. It's been so long.
I still miss them.
Dammit, folks, you were the best and brightest family a young man could have. Your intelligence and remarkable insights are still strong, and I really wish I could have dinner with you again, all of us around the table in the sera, in summer, with the doors to the courtyard open, and the cats wandering in and out.
Later in the evening, after William and Winona have gone upstairs, Tobias will be at the table poring over books about chess, replaying the great games. I will go out on the terrace with my book, and read several chapters while smoking my pipe. The smell of Balkan-style tobacco, the fragrance of jasmine tea.
The click, flick, and shuffle of pieces from the room behind me.
Summer evenings, when everything was still young.
Cats. Fleeting rain. Warm lights.
A sense of peace.
You know, folks, I've been wondering what you would think about the Bay Area now. It's been so long since you left.
The place has changed a bit.
Tobias, you probably don't remember it much -- you were still a child when we moved overseas -- but you would probably like living here.
Brother, I really miss you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I still miss them.
Dammit, folks, you were the best and brightest family a young man could have. Your intelligence and remarkable insights are still strong, and I really wish I could have dinner with you again, all of us around the table in the sera, in summer, with the doors to the courtyard open, and the cats wandering in and out.
Later in the evening, after William and Winona have gone upstairs, Tobias will be at the table poring over books about chess, replaying the great games. I will go out on the terrace with my book, and read several chapters while smoking my pipe. The smell of Balkan-style tobacco, the fragrance of jasmine tea.
The click, flick, and shuffle of pieces from the room behind me.
Summer evenings, when everything was still young.
Cats. Fleeting rain. Warm lights.
A sense of peace.
You know, folks, I've been wondering what you would think about the Bay Area now. It's been so long since you left.
The place has changed a bit.
Tobias, you probably don't remember it much -- you were still a child when we moved overseas -- but you would probably like living here.
Brother, I really miss you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 09, 2013
KILLING PUPPIES FOR CHRIST
As some of my friends know I spend Sunday and Monday in Marin County, baby-sitting people who are too old for a bottle, and too young for a luxury retirement village. Most of them smoke cigars.
And when I say "smoke cigars", that does not mean that they are in any fashion mature adults. You know that most cigar smokers are not really grown-up. They live in a never-never land where the sun is always shining, and the grass is ever green.
At times it's like being at a summer picnic in a lovely frock.
Other times, more a re-enactment of Lord of the Flies.
Multiple 'F' bombs, and vile temper tantrums.
I swear they want to bite each other.
Growling, snapping, snarling.
All teeth & claws.
Oh the humanity!
Cigar smokers.
It's because there is no decent food in Marin County that they must act so. They lack for protein. As will without a doubt fail to surprise you, the natural diet of cigar smokers consists of puppies.
Fluffy lovable puppies.
Marin County is where Veganism started, and still thrives.
Consequently, Safeway there sells no puppies.
Nothing but tofu and wheatgerm.
People are starving.
Marin County, like much of Northern California, is so uber-sensitive and green-minded, downright soft on nature, social-consciousness, and sustaining Gaia, that high school kids there no longer dissect frogs or pig-foetuses. They dissect tofu.
It's a miracle of epic proportion that there are cigar smokers there.
But consequently, there are no puppies.
Somebody ate them all.
This blogger, being NOT a cigar smoker, and only a visitor there besides, does not feel their loss and their pain. I do not thrive on puppies -- unclean and gamey meat, dammit -- but feed instead on well-seasoned curries, fresh green chilies, and other ingredients in judicious combination.
Such as I did mere moments ago.
It was an early lunch.
Normally I get up between six and seven, forsake breakfast for coffee, followed by tea, and a few nice healthy bowls of tobacco, smoked in one of several pipes which radiate good taste, gravitas, and an overwhelming love of puppies.
Lunch -- the first meal of the day -- is usually right around tea-time. That being four o'clock in the afternoon. Which is when I regretfully deplete the food-supply, thus taking away protein that could have sustained an adorable little puppy.
Who probably goes to bed weeping, because he is so hungry.
I profoundly feel for the furball, not being a cigar smoker.
Lunch was delayed as long as humanly possible.
I tried, little fellow, I tried.
Lunch today was a plate of bami goreng. That being more or less Dutch soul-food. It was meaningful as well as nutritious, Marin County and the cigar smokers would surely have approved. Fried rice-stick noodles, chicken, chilies, ginger, fish-paste, hot sauce, and egg.
With a bit of cilantro, and a squeeze of lime juice.
No puppy meat; the cigar smokers, you know.
I now feel an urge to smoke a pipe.
It is time to head over the hill for a cup of milk-tea.
Which they don't have in Marin County either.
I blame the Vegans and cigar smokers.
SF is a far better place.
Milk-tea. Rice-stick noodles. And pipe-smokers.
Not a sustainably green Vegan anywhere.
Very few cigar smokers either.
It is wondrous.
IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER
Contrary to what you might presently think, I actually love puppies!
Puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies!
Evenso, if Jayzus came back from the dead and demanded a puppy sacrifice, I'd gladly slaughter a container-load of them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And when I say "smoke cigars", that does not mean that they are in any fashion mature adults. You know that most cigar smokers are not really grown-up. They live in a never-never land where the sun is always shining, and the grass is ever green.
At times it's like being at a summer picnic in a lovely frock.
Other times, more a re-enactment of Lord of the Flies.
Multiple 'F' bombs, and vile temper tantrums.
I swear they want to bite each other.
Growling, snapping, snarling.
All teeth & claws.
Oh the humanity!
Cigar smokers.
It's because there is no decent food in Marin County that they must act so. They lack for protein. As will without a doubt fail to surprise you, the natural diet of cigar smokers consists of puppies.
Fluffy lovable puppies.
Marin County is where Veganism started, and still thrives.
Consequently, Safeway there sells no puppies.
Nothing but tofu and wheatgerm.
People are starving.
Marin County, like much of Northern California, is so uber-sensitive and green-minded, downright soft on nature, social-consciousness, and sustaining Gaia, that high school kids there no longer dissect frogs or pig-foetuses. They dissect tofu.
It's a miracle of epic proportion that there are cigar smokers there.
But consequently, there are no puppies.
Somebody ate them all.
This blogger, being NOT a cigar smoker, and only a visitor there besides, does not feel their loss and their pain. I do not thrive on puppies -- unclean and gamey meat, dammit -- but feed instead on well-seasoned curries, fresh green chilies, and other ingredients in judicious combination.
Such as I did mere moments ago.
It was an early lunch.
Normally I get up between six and seven, forsake breakfast for coffee, followed by tea, and a few nice healthy bowls of tobacco, smoked in one of several pipes which radiate good taste, gravitas, and an overwhelming love of puppies.
Lunch -- the first meal of the day -- is usually right around tea-time. That being four o'clock in the afternoon. Which is when I regretfully deplete the food-supply, thus taking away protein that could have sustained an adorable little puppy.
Who probably goes to bed weeping, because he is so hungry.
I profoundly feel for the furball, not being a cigar smoker.
Lunch was delayed as long as humanly possible.
I tried, little fellow, I tried.
Lunch today was a plate of bami goreng. That being more or less Dutch soul-food. It was meaningful as well as nutritious, Marin County and the cigar smokers would surely have approved. Fried rice-stick noodles, chicken, chilies, ginger, fish-paste, hot sauce, and egg.
With a bit of cilantro, and a squeeze of lime juice.
No puppy meat; the cigar smokers, you know.
I now feel an urge to smoke a pipe.
It is time to head over the hill for a cup of milk-tea.
Which they don't have in Marin County either.
I blame the Vegans and cigar smokers.
SF is a far better place.
Milk-tea. Rice-stick noodles. And pipe-smokers.
Not a sustainably green Vegan anywhere.
Very few cigar smokers either.
It is wondrous.
IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER
Contrary to what you might presently think, I actually love puppies!
Puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies!
Evenso, if Jayzus came back from the dead and demanded a puppy sacrifice, I'd gladly slaughter a container-load of them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TEA! AND COOKIES! AND MORE TEA!
He was big and manly and intelligent and kind. And covered with sharp spikes. She really really liked the big manly intelligent kind qualities, but the spikes were a problem.
They were very sharp.
One cannot hug a hedgehog.
She wanted to touch him, running her fingers through his soft soft belly hair. But she knew that being sexually forward might cause him to instinctively curl up into a ball. Then there were those spikes.
She took another sip of her delicious hot beverage and contemplatively munched her cookie. He always provided such nice cookies! Strange that a hedgehog knew exactly what a squirrel liked. Walnut - almond - chocolate chip. And pecan brickle crunch. Peanut gobblers. Chestnut macaroons. Hazelnut puree rolls. Coconut macadamia dark chocolate.
He always surprised her.
She really wanted to jump his bones and make him squeal. But again, those spikes. It remained a quandary.
Munch. Sip. Munch.
The possibility that she might never rub up against his hot handsome body and squeak in pleasure, till they both fell asleep exhausted after fireworks, depressed and saddened her. What a horrible conception!
Dammit he was hot! There had to be a chance! There just had to!
Meanwhile there was tea, and there were cookies.
If she continued having nothing but tea and cookies, she feared that she would bloat up. Then, when finally something lascivious happened, she'd prick herself on one of his sharp spikes and explode!
She resolved to control herself. Tea and cookies in moderation.
And a careful approach to the naughty business.
Nothing too outrageous.
Yet.
When she moved in with him, they would probably need separate beds. If he tossed and turned in his sleep, or simply rolled over, he would draw blood. How on earth did hedgehogs EVER have sex? It seemed an impossible situation, and she was baffled that they weren't endangered. There had to be a trick to it.
An additional problem with hedgehogs shifting while asleep is that they inevitably they would end up 'hogging' all the covers. She'd seen what happened when little hedgehogs played in the forest. They rolled down the slope gathering leaves, till at last they seemed more vegetable than animal. Their mothers had to spend hours removing the crap.
Very patient women, those female hedgehogs.
As a squirrel, she knew she wasn't supposed to be seeing anything but other squirrels. But her mister hedgehog was such an enchanting personality, and so charmingly hospitable. She just could not resist coming over for tea and cookies. And his company was a joy, he told witty stories, and had experienced so much in his life already. Yes, he was indeed quite a bit older than her - and that also was something that would shock her peers -- but it was first and foremost the miscegenistic aspects that would cause the most negative commentary.
Hedgehogs and squirrels should not date.
But of course they do.
Tea and cookies. Lots of tea and cookies. Sometimes very careful handholding, but almost no other physical contact of any kind.
So, an awful lot of tea and cookies.
It was frustrating, and she always ended up wired to the eyebrows, with her bushy tail completely rigid. She seriously wanted to wrap it around him during hot passionate love-making, but the Velcro-effect of fur versus spikes would be a disaster.
It might even rip out whole handfuls, and leave reddish patches.
Tail-baldness was something all squirrels feared.
And she was especially pleased with hers.
It was fluffy! And so very soft!
Her lovely tail was sexy!
Looking good, girl!
Danged fine.
Perhaps they could spoon. There were no spikes on his front, just that lovely pale stomach fur. Which, she could see, was soft and silky. Spooning could easily lead to much more, and his little sensitive black forepaws could stroke her all over. It would take a bit of co-ordination, as well as pre-planning the time and place. But it could work!
Just fantasizing about it made her blush.
Had he noticed?
The only problem with the relationship, from her point of view, was not what her family would say, nor the disapproving glances of other forest creatures, nor even the possibility of bearing young. She knew they wouldn't have sharp spikes for at least several months after birth. And she'd cross that bridge when she -- when they -- came to it. Heck, if they resembled their father, they would have the cutest little noses, all pointy and whiskered, and his twinkling eyes.
Again, none of these was an issue.
Hedgehogs are extremely attractive to dust-bunnies.
She bitterly resented their attention.
Tea. And another cookie.
More tea.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They were very sharp.
One cannot hug a hedgehog.
She wanted to touch him, running her fingers through his soft soft belly hair. But she knew that being sexually forward might cause him to instinctively curl up into a ball. Then there were those spikes.
She took another sip of her delicious hot beverage and contemplatively munched her cookie. He always provided such nice cookies! Strange that a hedgehog knew exactly what a squirrel liked. Walnut - almond - chocolate chip. And pecan brickle crunch. Peanut gobblers. Chestnut macaroons. Hazelnut puree rolls. Coconut macadamia dark chocolate.
He always surprised her.
She really wanted to jump his bones and make him squeal. But again, those spikes. It remained a quandary.
Munch. Sip. Munch.
The possibility that she might never rub up against his hot handsome body and squeak in pleasure, till they both fell asleep exhausted after fireworks, depressed and saddened her. What a horrible conception!
Dammit he was hot! There had to be a chance! There just had to!
Meanwhile there was tea, and there were cookies.
If she continued having nothing but tea and cookies, she feared that she would bloat up. Then, when finally something lascivious happened, she'd prick herself on one of his sharp spikes and explode!
She resolved to control herself. Tea and cookies in moderation.
And a careful approach to the naughty business.
Nothing too outrageous.
Yet.
When she moved in with him, they would probably need separate beds. If he tossed and turned in his sleep, or simply rolled over, he would draw blood. How on earth did hedgehogs EVER have sex? It seemed an impossible situation, and she was baffled that they weren't endangered. There had to be a trick to it.
An additional problem with hedgehogs shifting while asleep is that they inevitably they would end up 'hogging' all the covers. She'd seen what happened when little hedgehogs played in the forest. They rolled down the slope gathering leaves, till at last they seemed more vegetable than animal. Their mothers had to spend hours removing the crap.
Very patient women, those female hedgehogs.
As a squirrel, she knew she wasn't supposed to be seeing anything but other squirrels. But her mister hedgehog was such an enchanting personality, and so charmingly hospitable. She just could not resist coming over for tea and cookies. And his company was a joy, he told witty stories, and had experienced so much in his life already. Yes, he was indeed quite a bit older than her - and that also was something that would shock her peers -- but it was first and foremost the miscegenistic aspects that would cause the most negative commentary.
Hedgehogs and squirrels should not date.
But of course they do.
Tea and cookies. Lots of tea and cookies. Sometimes very careful handholding, but almost no other physical contact of any kind.
So, an awful lot of tea and cookies.
It was frustrating, and she always ended up wired to the eyebrows, with her bushy tail completely rigid. She seriously wanted to wrap it around him during hot passionate love-making, but the Velcro-effect of fur versus spikes would be a disaster.
It might even rip out whole handfuls, and leave reddish patches.
Tail-baldness was something all squirrels feared.
And she was especially pleased with hers.
It was fluffy! And so very soft!
Her lovely tail was sexy!
Looking good, girl!
Danged fine.
Perhaps they could spoon. There were no spikes on his front, just that lovely pale stomach fur. Which, she could see, was soft and silky. Spooning could easily lead to much more, and his little sensitive black forepaws could stroke her all over. It would take a bit of co-ordination, as well as pre-planning the time and place. But it could work!
Just fantasizing about it made her blush.
Had he noticed?
The only problem with the relationship, from her point of view, was not what her family would say, nor the disapproving glances of other forest creatures, nor even the possibility of bearing young. She knew they wouldn't have sharp spikes for at least several months after birth. And she'd cross that bridge when she -- when they -- came to it. Heck, if they resembled their father, they would have the cutest little noses, all pointy and whiskered, and his twinkling eyes.
Again, none of these was an issue.
Hedgehogs are extremely attractive to dust-bunnies.
She bitterly resented their attention.
Tea. And another cookie.
More tea.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 08, 2013
THE PROSPECT OF A HOT BEVERAGE ELSEWHERE
There's a man who works at a food & beverage place which I frequent who, if he were a woman, would be adorable and enchanting. Both his intelligence and temperament suggest that from my nefarious point of view it is a great pity indeed that he was born a male, and that both of us are heterosexual. If things were otherwise, this blogger would hang around his work environment positively drooling.
Chalk it off to the many lost opportunities that never were.
He's got a sense of humour and a warm personality.
An expressive face with twinkling eyes.
If he was a woman, I would likely make a fool of myself. Especially considering that there would certainly already be someone else in the picture. People who are that nice usually get snapped up pretty darn quick, and I'm not the only shark in this particular swimming pool.
Women like that make it much harder to act like a gentleman, while nevertheless forcing one to at all times maintain proper conduct.
COOKIES? BUTTERED TOAST?
"Miss, what are you doing the rest of the day? Wanna go have milk-tea or yat pui yin-yeung somewhere? I know the NICEST place! It's got an old-timey atmosphere, and all the usual pastries. No one will bother us there.
Or maybe go over to my house? See if I have any books that you would like? I can offer you a nice quiet place to browse for hours. I'll make you something warm to drink, then leave you alone to read. Would you like some cookies or hot buttered toast? If you want to talk, I'll be in the other room with my own volume and a pipe. Just make a noise if you need anything.
Feel free to kick off your shoes."
"Tell me when you need to get back. I'll make sure you get home safely, and if you want we can stop and have a bite to eat on the way. Just leave a marker in the book, and it will be ready for you next time."
"Never mind the stuffed animals; they don't bite."
"The monkey is rude but harmless."
Honestly, I've never been particularly good at approaching the other gender. They always seem so different from the people I know.
It's like most of them don't get the same jokes, can't appreciate the same narratives, or even eat the same foods.
Frequently they don't really mellow-out until they're older, by which time, alas, they're preoccupied with a pizza-snarfing dude who crept into their life when no one was looking.
But someone nice, who liked reading and dozing, and perhaps snacking a bit with a warm beverage......
A person who was capable of passing the time by herself.
But would love good company while doing so.
And the occasional bit of humour.
Plus buttered toast.
So far, it remains a charming concept.
I wouldn't be surprised if 'food and beverage man' ends up finding a person precisely like that. He's got the intelligence and temperament that deserve good things happening.
His only flaw is that he's a non-smoker.
All men should have one bad habit.
So that it can be overlooked.
NOTE: cookies and buttered toast are not metaphors, but paradigms. Although they could be metaphors. It depends entirely on what the other person wishes to read into them. I will continue to insist that they are hospitably paradigmatic until such time as it becomes evident that perhaps they are not. Cookies and toast may precede or follow the opening or closing of books.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Chalk it off to the many lost opportunities that never were.
He's got a sense of humour and a warm personality.
An expressive face with twinkling eyes.
If he was a woman, I would likely make a fool of myself. Especially considering that there would certainly already be someone else in the picture. People who are that nice usually get snapped up pretty darn quick, and I'm not the only shark in this particular swimming pool.
Women like that make it much harder to act like a gentleman, while nevertheless forcing one to at all times maintain proper conduct.
COOKIES? BUTTERED TOAST?
"Miss, what are you doing the rest of the day? Wanna go have milk-tea or yat pui yin-yeung somewhere? I know the NICEST place! It's got an old-timey atmosphere, and all the usual pastries. No one will bother us there.
Or maybe go over to my house? See if I have any books that you would like? I can offer you a nice quiet place to browse for hours. I'll make you something warm to drink, then leave you alone to read. Would you like some cookies or hot buttered toast? If you want to talk, I'll be in the other room with my own volume and a pipe. Just make a noise if you need anything.
Feel free to kick off your shoes."
"Tell me when you need to get back. I'll make sure you get home safely, and if you want we can stop and have a bite to eat on the way. Just leave a marker in the book, and it will be ready for you next time."
"Never mind the stuffed animals; they don't bite."
"The monkey is rude but harmless."
Honestly, I've never been particularly good at approaching the other gender. They always seem so different from the people I know.
It's like most of them don't get the same jokes, can't appreciate the same narratives, or even eat the same foods.
Frequently they don't really mellow-out until they're older, by which time, alas, they're preoccupied with a pizza-snarfing dude who crept into their life when no one was looking.
But someone nice, who liked reading and dozing, and perhaps snacking a bit with a warm beverage......
A person who was capable of passing the time by herself.
But would love good company while doing so.
And the occasional bit of humour.
Plus buttered toast.
So far, it remains a charming concept.
I wouldn't be surprised if 'food and beverage man' ends up finding a person precisely like that. He's got the intelligence and temperament that deserve good things happening.
His only flaw is that he's a non-smoker.
All men should have one bad habit.
So that it can be overlooked.
NOTE: cookies and buttered toast are not metaphors, but paradigms. Although they could be metaphors. It depends entirely on what the other person wishes to read into them. I will continue to insist that they are hospitably paradigmatic until such time as it becomes evident that perhaps they are not. Cookies and toast may precede or follow the opening or closing of books.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 07, 2013
RELATIONSHIP ADVICE: THE DATE
Recently another person asked me for advice on dating. Seeing as by his shallow and barely post-teenage standards I am impossibly ancient and therefore must have a wealth of experience and folklore stored up, he felt that perhaps he could benefit from shaking my tree.
Let's see if any over-ripe fruit falls.
The old fart may know something.
He was somewhat squiffy at the time -- which explains his freedom in broaching the subject -- and I was cold sober, as I often am. I should also clarify that a twenty-two year old is not nearly mature enough to deal with the feminine sex in any way at all, and that a fifty-three year old man is not impossibly ancient. Not even close.
THE FRUIT OF KNOWLEDGE
I went out on my first date when I was in college. We smooched and drank beer after a meeting of the student council. That was it.
A perky red-head thanked me ever so prettily for lunch, and went home to Boston the next day. I have no idea what happened to her.
She was very engaging. I wish she had written back.
We shall not speak of the gun-nut in Berkeley. She was a fine woman, liked the occasional cigar, and drank Old Grand-Dad.
She later married a lawyer.
A few years after that a cheeky blonde insisted that we go eat at a vegetarian restaurant. I do not remember her name at all, but I have never forgotten how ghastly the food was. In the same year I took a Philippina to a screening of Bananas by Woody Allen. That was a mistake. Philippinas have no sense of humour.
Both women were fascinating on the surface, but dull deep down. Had they been interesting all the way to the bone, I would have desperately wanted to be around them despite the odd flaw.
After I had moved to San Francisco, I dated a lovely blonde from Marin County. She informed a coworker that I was "weird", and nothing came of it.
There was an insane person who stalked me for a few weeks.
But that doesn't count.
A very sweet waitress proved so mentally unbalanced that I have not been to the restaurant where she worked since. The food was very good, and I miss it intensely. But her moody deep-seated bat-shit craziness made associating with her, for the mere three dates our relationship lasted, tortuous, painful, and seemingly everlasting.
A very nice nurse went out for hot chocolate with me a couple of times. I'm not a doctor, which proved a stumbling block.
Savage Kitten and I often ended up at a coffee shop on Geary Street sharing pie and hot beverages. We saw movies, visited museums, and regularly went to see the reptiles and amphibians at the California Academy of Sciences. For the two decades that we were together we also ate out frequently. I suppose you could call those dates. Couples should above all feel good enough about each other that they dare to be ravenous together.
But that was then.
Since becoming single again three years ago, there have not been any dates.
"What do you want to do?"
So I really can't help you, kid. I don't know what people do on dates any more. I believe that they take designer drugs and have clumsy physical congress in the bathrooms of clubs south of Market Street.
Or go to fashionable restaurants where she can show off her handbag and boob job, and he can flirt with the busboys. Heck, for all I know they spend hours and hours yacking at each other about their work and how their parents traumatized them as children.
Imported beers and flavoured vodkas are essential to the process.
So are business cards, spirituality, and tofu.
As well as extremely loud music.
THE FIRST DATE
Judging by the experts on the internet, volunteering in a soup kitchen, hiking in the Himalayas, and sky-diving are quite perfect things to do, as are rafting down the Amazon, setting up a neighborhood recycling centre in a poor community, shooting the rapids on the wildest river in America, and going to a tattoo parlour for matching tats.
Tea and cookies just don't cut it anymore.
Seriously, kid, go bother someone else.
I haven't a clue.
Have you considered reading a book?
Perhaps "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Sex", or "The Other Gender for Dummies"?
Instead of getting drunk over cigars and expensive single malt, and bothering an avuncular stranger who is old enough to be terminally unenlightened, maybe you should simply ask the young lady herself what she would like to do.
A very good start would be the following phrase:
"What do you want to do?"
It might work.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Let's see if any over-ripe fruit falls.
The old fart may know something.
He was somewhat squiffy at the time -- which explains his freedom in broaching the subject -- and I was cold sober, as I often am. I should also clarify that a twenty-two year old is not nearly mature enough to deal with the feminine sex in any way at all, and that a fifty-three year old man is not impossibly ancient. Not even close.
THE FRUIT OF KNOWLEDGE
I went out on my first date when I was in college. We smooched and drank beer after a meeting of the student council. That was it.
A perky red-head thanked me ever so prettily for lunch, and went home to Boston the next day. I have no idea what happened to her.
She was very engaging. I wish she had written back.
We shall not speak of the gun-nut in Berkeley. She was a fine woman, liked the occasional cigar, and drank Old Grand-Dad.
She later married a lawyer.
A few years after that a cheeky blonde insisted that we go eat at a vegetarian restaurant. I do not remember her name at all, but I have never forgotten how ghastly the food was. In the same year I took a Philippina to a screening of Bananas by Woody Allen. That was a mistake. Philippinas have no sense of humour.
Both women were fascinating on the surface, but dull deep down. Had they been interesting all the way to the bone, I would have desperately wanted to be around them despite the odd flaw.
After I had moved to San Francisco, I dated a lovely blonde from Marin County. She informed a coworker that I was "weird", and nothing came of it.
There was an insane person who stalked me for a few weeks.
But that doesn't count.
A very sweet waitress proved so mentally unbalanced that I have not been to the restaurant where she worked since. The food was very good, and I miss it intensely. But her moody deep-seated bat-shit craziness made associating with her, for the mere three dates our relationship lasted, tortuous, painful, and seemingly everlasting.
A very nice nurse went out for hot chocolate with me a couple of times. I'm not a doctor, which proved a stumbling block.
Savage Kitten and I often ended up at a coffee shop on Geary Street sharing pie and hot beverages. We saw movies, visited museums, and regularly went to see the reptiles and amphibians at the California Academy of Sciences. For the two decades that we were together we also ate out frequently. I suppose you could call those dates. Couples should above all feel good enough about each other that they dare to be ravenous together.
But that was then.
Since becoming single again three years ago, there have not been any dates.
"What do you want to do?"
So I really can't help you, kid. I don't know what people do on dates any more. I believe that they take designer drugs and have clumsy physical congress in the bathrooms of clubs south of Market Street.
Or go to fashionable restaurants where she can show off her handbag and boob job, and he can flirt with the busboys. Heck, for all I know they spend hours and hours yacking at each other about their work and how their parents traumatized them as children.
Imported beers and flavoured vodkas are essential to the process.
So are business cards, spirituality, and tofu.
As well as extremely loud music.
THE FIRST DATE
Judging by the experts on the internet, volunteering in a soup kitchen, hiking in the Himalayas, and sky-diving are quite perfect things to do, as are rafting down the Amazon, setting up a neighborhood recycling centre in a poor community, shooting the rapids on the wildest river in America, and going to a tattoo parlour for matching tats.
Tea and cookies just don't cut it anymore.
Seriously, kid, go bother someone else.
I haven't a clue.
Have you considered reading a book?
Perhaps "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Sex", or "The Other Gender for Dummies"?
Instead of getting drunk over cigars and expensive single malt, and bothering an avuncular stranger who is old enough to be terminally unenlightened, maybe you should simply ask the young lady herself what she would like to do.
A very good start would be the following phrase:
"What do you want to do?"
It might work.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FIREWORKS
He seemed genuinely upset at the concept. "I can't do that, it means I might touch her..... you knows". Well, son, that's just the risk you'll have to take. Unless you want me to do it.
I made the offer in all sincerity.
No selfish reasons.
Courageously, he bit the bullet.
HEIMLICH MANOEUVRE
Many of my readers are probably familiar with Chinese Bubble Tea. Which is usually a sweet chilled beverage, which may or may not contain appreciable amounts of caffeine, to which disgusting rather large tapioca balls ("pearls") are added. The balls are dark-brown, gummy, and well-nigh indigestible.
Young Chinese American women, who have the digestive fortitude of goats or mules, are addicted to these drinks. They love sucking up the balls through the extra wide straws, feeling the pop as the nasty thing ricochets off the back of the mouth, and relishing the plop as it falls into the acid bath of the stomach, where it will take up abdominal space for several days as the digestive oozes wage a futile war to render it peptically primordial.
I suspect the fact that naught else can occupy that area for many hours, in consequence of which they feel no hunger at all, and can anorexify themselves up the wazzoo, is the primary pleasure.
It's rather like the effect of Golden Arches Cuisine.
Last time I ate at Mickey-D's, it was still with me the next morning, and the evening that followed. Despite the years that have passed I keenly remember it. A yummy MacGutbomb in a bun.
Life is all about educational experiences.
On Thursday evening I wandered over to a high point on Telegraph Hill to watch the fireworks. Standing near me, behind all the large glandular freaks blocking the view, were a young Chinese couple who also couldn't see a darn thing. Because of all the large glandular freaks.
Apparently there are no fireworks in Heffalumpistan.
Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, Minnesota.
Iowa, Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska.
Wisconsin and the Dakotas.
And all the south.
Etcetera.
She was enjoying a bubble milk tea.
A tapioca globule got stuck.
In her esophagaggy.
As she bent over making the most amazing sounds, I rapidly explained the Heimlich Manoeuvre to her swain. That was when he realized that succouring her might mean contact between his hands or arms and her maidenly swellings on the chest, around the middle of the rib cage.
He blanched. Then blushed. The streetlight showed this.
Meanwhile she hacked, and turned colours.
I offered to cut the Gordian knot.
I'm rather glad he manned up and did it for me. I got to see something both spectacular and touching, he got to accidentally feel parts of her with no ulterior motive and for all for the best of reasons, she got to breathe again, in the arms of her young man, and a complete stranger now has an ugly sticky tapioca booger on the drivers' side window of his or her Mazda.
It's a bonding experience, for everyone involved.
Fireworks, dude, fireworks.
Now that that barrier has been breached, I sincerely hope they become much better acquainted with each other. Judging by what I saw silhouetted in the light, there is plenty of willowy charm there.
She looked sweet, even when red-faced and panicky.
And he was totally desperate on her behalf.
Her knight in shining armour.
Happy 4th. of July.
Belatedly.
Final note: avoid those big tapioca balls, they're evil.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I made the offer in all sincerity.
No selfish reasons.
Courageously, he bit the bullet.
HEIMLICH MANOEUVRE
Many of my readers are probably familiar with Chinese Bubble Tea. Which is usually a sweet chilled beverage, which may or may not contain appreciable amounts of caffeine, to which disgusting rather large tapioca balls ("pearls") are added. The balls are dark-brown, gummy, and well-nigh indigestible.
Young Chinese American women, who have the digestive fortitude of goats or mules, are addicted to these drinks. They love sucking up the balls through the extra wide straws, feeling the pop as the nasty thing ricochets off the back of the mouth, and relishing the plop as it falls into the acid bath of the stomach, where it will take up abdominal space for several days as the digestive oozes wage a futile war to render it peptically primordial.
I suspect the fact that naught else can occupy that area for many hours, in consequence of which they feel no hunger at all, and can anorexify themselves up the wazzoo, is the primary pleasure.
It's rather like the effect of Golden Arches Cuisine.
Last time I ate at Mickey-D's, it was still with me the next morning, and the evening that followed. Despite the years that have passed I keenly remember it. A yummy MacGutbomb in a bun.
Life is all about educational experiences.
On Thursday evening I wandered over to a high point on Telegraph Hill to watch the fireworks. Standing near me, behind all the large glandular freaks blocking the view, were a young Chinese couple who also couldn't see a darn thing. Because of all the large glandular freaks.
Apparently there are no fireworks in Heffalumpistan.
Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, Minnesota.
Iowa, Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska.
Wisconsin and the Dakotas.
And all the south.
Etcetera.
She was enjoying a bubble milk tea.
A tapioca globule got stuck.
In her esophagaggy.
As she bent over making the most amazing sounds, I rapidly explained the Heimlich Manoeuvre to her swain. That was when he realized that succouring her might mean contact between his hands or arms and her maidenly swellings on the chest, around the middle of the rib cage.
He blanched. Then blushed. The streetlight showed this.
Meanwhile she hacked, and turned colours.
I offered to cut the Gordian knot.
I'm rather glad he manned up and did it for me. I got to see something both spectacular and touching, he got to accidentally feel parts of her with no ulterior motive and for all for the best of reasons, she got to breathe again, in the arms of her young man, and a complete stranger now has an ugly sticky tapioca booger on the drivers' side window of his or her Mazda.
It's a bonding experience, for everyone involved.
Fireworks, dude, fireworks.
Now that that barrier has been breached, I sincerely hope they become much better acquainted with each other. Judging by what I saw silhouetted in the light, there is plenty of willowy charm there.
She looked sweet, even when red-faced and panicky.
And he was totally desperate on her behalf.
Her knight in shining armour.
Happy 4th. of July.
Belatedly.
Final note: avoid those big tapioca balls, they're evil.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, July 06, 2013
WHAT THE WINE STEWARD RECOMMENDS
I should know by now that some combinations are inherently dangerous. Such as noshing on coconut Eggos, while enjoying some fine American whiskey. It just isn't a good interplay. It's NOT that Garden Bakery's fine product and Kentucky Bourbon don't see eye to eye -- they do, most marvelously -- but that it is wrong to snack on sweeties late at night. Primarily because the natural choice of beverage at three in the morning isn't warm milk-tea or coffee, but something less likely to stimulate and keep you up any further.
Which, if you've just returned from a long instructional evening at San Francisco's finest indoor smoking establishment, is ill-advised. This blogger may have had a large quantity of Scotch that evening.
Didn't need any more alcohol.
Had it anyway.
Garden Bakery's Coconut Eggo (椰心卷), Wafer Rolls with coconut flavour filling, are yummy and delicious. The Garden Company (嘉頓有限公司) in Hong Kong makes stellar products. No home should be without them.
I sing their praises.
The next morning I wasn't feeling quite up to snuff.
I think I ate the whole pack.
Net Wt./Poids Net/净重: 150g (克) 5.3 oz (安士).
Unwise.
SATURDAY NIGHT MADNESS
The evening had started off relatively well, and on a rational note.
But once the Bloated Toad sat near me, I moved to a different seat, concerned that he would start haranguing the young ladies nearby about his divorce, his lack of a sex life, how he was contemplating suicide if he didn't get some poon soon, and would they like to go somewhere else. He's chunky, red faced, and reptilian. And cigar-smoking ladies are infinitely attractive to elderly cretins.
Naturally.
I positioned myself in between them and him. At the very least this would provide some insulation. Or dilute the ill-effect. I needn't have worried. They were, if possible, far too lively for the Bloated Toad. One of the phrases I overheard was "dammit, Estelle, your vibrator kept me up all night!".
Oh good, Estelle is in touch with her feelings.
Her friend is too. With Estelle's feelings.
We're all about feelings.
At the cigar bar.
If I had been Estelle, I would've claimed that it wasn't a vibrator but my "Little Miss Mayhem' girl's chainsaw", and that I was practicing for marriage. Well, what DOES one say when the other person bitches about vibrator noise? Especially in a crowded smoking establishment where ninety percent of the clientele consists of unaccompanied men with truly excellent hearing?
"That was a can-opener! I'm making a scale model of the Statue of Liberty out of cat-food!"
What Estelle actually said was "I used up the batteries, you're safe for the next two days". Which, when you think about it, is a profoundly un-encouraging statement.
Nevertheless, thank you for sharing, Estelle.
The Bloated Toad heard none of this, as he was far too busy telling some visiting lawyers from the East-Coast all about pre-nups and his frigid ex-wife trying to take him to the cleaners. And how his woman-hating big macho divorce lawyer would get her, but good.
Bitch should've stayed married to him, she'd have guaranteed vacations in Florida every year, and her own damned car.
If 'F' bombs were dollar bills, everyone within hearing distance of 'Bloaty' would've been rich. The Bloated Toad cannot speak without expletives. They're adverbs, adjectives, punctuation, and particles of emphasis.
His ex-wife had to put up with this for thirty-plus years.
I hope she strips him naked, and drains him dry.
Though not in public. He's an ugly man.
It's those mean piggy eyes.
Between the soon-to-be-permanently single slug and the two female electrical appliance salesmen, that end of the bar proved to be far too trying for a sensitive man such as myself. I moved back down to where some friends were chatting with a gentleman from Hong Kong feasting on clam and garlic pizza. All three of them were smoking cigars. The husband and wife were enjoying a Partagas and an Oliva (series 'O') respectively -- him maduro, her a dark Habano seed wrapper -- while the pizzathiast had a Monte Cristo Habana in his left hand. Listening in on their conversation was enjoyable, till they got to the subject of children. With which all three of them have some connection. I don't, I'm rather like the vibrator woman in that regard, though my batteries are still full of electricity. But children are not my favourite subject.
Which is something I keep to myself.
The gentleman from Hong Kong had just dropped off his daughter in Berkeley for the summer programme. His wife was in London with the boy child for a similar reason. Judging by the fact that he was scarfing down clam and garlic pizza, and smoking a big fat cigar, he was faithful to his wife.
Or at least planning to be.
Commendable.
This blogger, in addition to singing the praises of Garden Bakery, also greatly esteems constancy as a virtue.
Along with cheese, clam, garlic, and Havana breath.
These are all mighty things.
[Somewhere along the line, all conversations were interrupted for a sing-a-long. "I was drunk the day my momma got out of prison, and I went to pick her up in the rain; but before I could get to the station in my pick-up truck.....".
That happens regularly there.
As I may have mentioned, we're all about feelings. Nothing says "feelings" quite like Country-Western. It's an essential part of the mix. Only one of us is from the South.
But we're very spiritual.]
I seldom have clam and garlic pizza. Not because I wish to make a good impression on some young lady with a refined nose, but more because of gout. I and my fine breath desire a good night's sleep.
Which, given the way I ended that evening, did not happen.
In the grand scheme of things, gout would've been better.
If I had had clam and garlic pizza, I would not have been arguing with two women at the end of the evening after my friends had left. One of whom is out of batteries and bat-shit crazy, the other one of which is Australian.
One cannot win an argument with an Australian.
Maybe they need batteries. Batteries help.
They're kind of like Valium.
I don't think Kentucky Bourbon goes with clam and garlic.
But I could be wrong.
Before I left the Occidental Cigar Club, I quoted at length from The Song of Songs. Innocently erotic ancient Hebrew poetry. Which is always a good sign that I've had too much stimulation.
I was ravenous when I got home.
Blame the cigar smokers.
Very bad influence.
Egg-wafer rolls are cigar-shaped.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Didn't need any more alcohol.
Had it anyway.
Garden Bakery's Coconut Eggo (椰心卷), Wafer Rolls with coconut flavour filling, are yummy and delicious. The Garden Company (嘉頓有限公司) in Hong Kong makes stellar products. No home should be without them.
I sing their praises.
The next morning I wasn't feeling quite up to snuff.
I think I ate the whole pack.
Net Wt./Poids Net/净重: 150g (克) 5.3 oz (安士).
Unwise.
SATURDAY NIGHT MADNESS
The evening had started off relatively well, and on a rational note.
But once the Bloated Toad sat near me, I moved to a different seat, concerned that he would start haranguing the young ladies nearby about his divorce, his lack of a sex life, how he was contemplating suicide if he didn't get some poon soon, and would they like to go somewhere else. He's chunky, red faced, and reptilian. And cigar-smoking ladies are infinitely attractive to elderly cretins.
Naturally.
I positioned myself in between them and him. At the very least this would provide some insulation. Or dilute the ill-effect. I needn't have worried. They were, if possible, far too lively for the Bloated Toad. One of the phrases I overheard was "dammit, Estelle, your vibrator kept me up all night!".
Oh good, Estelle is in touch with her feelings.
Her friend is too. With Estelle's feelings.
We're all about feelings.
At the cigar bar.
If I had been Estelle, I would've claimed that it wasn't a vibrator but my "Little Miss Mayhem' girl's chainsaw", and that I was practicing for marriage. Well, what DOES one say when the other person bitches about vibrator noise? Especially in a crowded smoking establishment where ninety percent of the clientele consists of unaccompanied men with truly excellent hearing?
"That was a can-opener! I'm making a scale model of the Statue of Liberty out of cat-food!"
What Estelle actually said was "I used up the batteries, you're safe for the next two days". Which, when you think about it, is a profoundly un-encouraging statement.
Nevertheless, thank you for sharing, Estelle.
The Bloated Toad heard none of this, as he was far too busy telling some visiting lawyers from the East-Coast all about pre-nups and his frigid ex-wife trying to take him to the cleaners. And how his woman-hating big macho divorce lawyer would get her, but good.
Bitch should've stayed married to him, she'd have guaranteed vacations in Florida every year, and her own damned car.
If 'F' bombs were dollar bills, everyone within hearing distance of 'Bloaty' would've been rich. The Bloated Toad cannot speak without expletives. They're adverbs, adjectives, punctuation, and particles of emphasis.
His ex-wife had to put up with this for thirty-plus years.
I hope she strips him naked, and drains him dry.
Though not in public. He's an ugly man.
It's those mean piggy eyes.
Between the soon-to-be-permanently single slug and the two female electrical appliance salesmen, that end of the bar proved to be far too trying for a sensitive man such as myself. I moved back down to where some friends were chatting with a gentleman from Hong Kong feasting on clam and garlic pizza. All three of them were smoking cigars. The husband and wife were enjoying a Partagas and an Oliva (series 'O') respectively -- him maduro, her a dark Habano seed wrapper -- while the pizzathiast had a Monte Cristo Habana in his left hand. Listening in on their conversation was enjoyable, till they got to the subject of children. With which all three of them have some connection. I don't, I'm rather like the vibrator woman in that regard, though my batteries are still full of electricity. But children are not my favourite subject.
Which is something I keep to myself.
The gentleman from Hong Kong had just dropped off his daughter in Berkeley for the summer programme. His wife was in London with the boy child for a similar reason. Judging by the fact that he was scarfing down clam and garlic pizza, and smoking a big fat cigar, he was faithful to his wife.
Or at least planning to be.
Commendable.
This blogger, in addition to singing the praises of Garden Bakery, also greatly esteems constancy as a virtue.
Along with cheese, clam, garlic, and Havana breath.
These are all mighty things.
[Somewhere along the line, all conversations were interrupted for a sing-a-long. "I was drunk the day my momma got out of prison, and I went to pick her up in the rain; but before I could get to the station in my pick-up truck.....".
That happens regularly there.
As I may have mentioned, we're all about feelings. Nothing says "feelings" quite like Country-Western. It's an essential part of the mix. Only one of us is from the South.
But we're very spiritual.]
I seldom have clam and garlic pizza. Not because I wish to make a good impression on some young lady with a refined nose, but more because of gout. I and my fine breath desire a good night's sleep.
Which, given the way I ended that evening, did not happen.
In the grand scheme of things, gout would've been better.
If I had had clam and garlic pizza, I would not have been arguing with two women at the end of the evening after my friends had left. One of whom is out of batteries and bat-shit crazy, the other one of which is Australian.
One cannot win an argument with an Australian.
Maybe they need batteries. Batteries help.
They're kind of like Valium.
I don't think Kentucky Bourbon goes with clam and garlic.
But I could be wrong.
Before I left the Occidental Cigar Club, I quoted at length from The Song of Songs. Innocently erotic ancient Hebrew poetry. Which is always a good sign that I've had too much stimulation.
I was ravenous when I got home.
Blame the cigar smokers.
Very bad influence.
Egg-wafer rolls are cigar-shaped.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
==========================================================================
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,...
