Ran across an evocative utterance today: "the lone drummer now crosses the parade ground to re-join the massed bands". Which, to the person in the know, paints a picture. The bands move to the back of the field, the escort marches forward, the subaltern will hold them at twenty paces in front of the colour.
At which point the television announcer starts talking too much.
Dear man, we don't want to know all of that.
Or any of it at all, really.
We want drums.
Actually, what we really want to do is sneak off by ourselves, and in some deserted courtyard light up a pipe while the ritual continues, still audible, but faint in the distance.
The complicated turning of the bands is, I suppose, splendid, but other than the occasional sprightly tune and the bright colours, the whole affair is a bit boring for its length.
I have a fondness for a few marches, but find parades to be rather dull. It's like watching a puddle of John Phillip Sousa drying in the hot sun and fragment by fragment peeling off the tarmac in the breeze.
Perhaps Marathon races and parades ought to be combined. Everybody trotting past at high speed, with a bouncy musical accompaniment.
Like the strapping lads below.
COME QUESTI BERSAGLIERI ...
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tNHOLMRoMK4.]
Bouncity, bouncity, bouncity.
Vigorous boys!
A splendid spectacle, quite clever really, and those flippity floppity hats add a je ne sais quoi to it. Pom pom pom, pommity pommity pom pom pom.
==========================================================================
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Monday, April 17, 2017
WHORES OF THE OTTOMANS
Those Turks who voted for Erdogan's constitutional power grab while living in the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, or France, have no business continuing to live in Western Europe, and they should go home.
Go back to the Middle Ages. Leave the modern world.
Turkey became part of the Middle-East again yesterday. The region of despots, authoritarian governments, imprisoned reporters, religious nut educational systems, and deplorable human rights records.
Yes, the cities voted against Erdogan. But the primitive hinterland and its retrogrades voted overwhelmingly for him.
There is no place in the civilized world for those Turks.
Or their ethnic and cultural kinfolk.
Their sojourn should end.
Ze mogen oprotten.
==========================================================================
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Go back to the Middle Ages. Leave the modern world.
Turkey became part of the Middle-East again yesterday. The region of despots, authoritarian governments, imprisoned reporters, religious nut educational systems, and deplorable human rights records.
Yes, the cities voted against Erdogan. But the primitive hinterland and its retrogrades voted overwhelmingly for him.
There is no place in the civilized world for those Turks.
Or their ethnic and cultural kinfolk.
Their sojourn should end.
Ze mogen oprotten.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, April 16, 2017
LESS THAN PERFECTLY SOCIALIZED
Usually on a day off the grouchy badger firmly shuts his apartment mate's door, opens all the windows for ventilation, and lights up his trusty briar (one of several) as soon as his Cantonese American apartment mate leaves the building. What he reads, in no particular order: Wikipedia, Facebook, The BBC and Reuters, more Wikipedia, Google Translate, Jewish blogs and Chinese food. Plus at least three or four news sites in Dutch.
As well as stuff in German or Chinese.
The tobacco which will be enjoyed is often something with matured Virginia leaf and more often than not a little Perique.
Soul-stirring. Yet subtle.
Civilized.
I assure you it does not smell bad. But Mr. Badger's co-resident is a young lady of delicate sensibilities, and he has been told that if her teddy bear ever ends up whiffing of tobacco smoke, horrible things will happen.
Mr. Badger leaves for a snack or meal in Chinatown around mid-afternoon, which gives the apartment time to air out.
I've learned that one had best not offend Cantonese American women.
The ones who are worth knowing are not wusses.
Everything on my side of our dwelling has a faint perfume of Old Belt, Louisiana, and whisperings of Turk and Syrian. So it's a good thing that she and I are not amorously involved. I have not noticed my stuffed animals reeking of tobacco, but my sensibility is not particularly delicate.
The reason why I mention all of this is because this is a day off. Normally Sunday is one of my work days, but today the world is celebrating Zombie Bunny or National Eggs Benediction or whatever. So I am browsing the internet for news and knowledge. As wells as food and kitten pictures, because one must always make time for food and kittens.
But I cannot smoke.
I will leave for Chinatown somewhat earlier than usual for my teatime.
It is raining outside as I write this. How unfortunate!
I shall lurk in abandoned doorways.
Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice.
Hong Kong style milk tea.
Pipes and tobacco.
Umbrella.
My nickname is not 'Pig Sky', 'Balls', or 'Pongious Old Dude'.
Only the monkey calls me 'Boy-Boy'.
Stuffed animals.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
As well as stuff in German or Chinese.
The tobacco which will be enjoyed is often something with matured Virginia leaf and more often than not a little Perique.
Soul-stirring. Yet subtle.
Civilized.
I assure you it does not smell bad. But Mr. Badger's co-resident is a young lady of delicate sensibilities, and he has been told that if her teddy bear ever ends up whiffing of tobacco smoke, horrible things will happen.
Mr. Badger leaves for a snack or meal in Chinatown around mid-afternoon, which gives the apartment time to air out.
I've learned that one had best not offend Cantonese American women.
The ones who are worth knowing are not wusses.
Everything on my side of our dwelling has a faint perfume of Old Belt, Louisiana, and whisperings of Turk and Syrian. So it's a good thing that she and I are not amorously involved. I have not noticed my stuffed animals reeking of tobacco, but my sensibility is not particularly delicate.
The reason why I mention all of this is because this is a day off. Normally Sunday is one of my work days, but today the world is celebrating Zombie Bunny or National Eggs Benediction or whatever. So I am browsing the internet for news and knowledge. As wells as food and kitten pictures, because one must always make time for food and kittens.
But I cannot smoke.
I will leave for Chinatown somewhat earlier than usual for my teatime.
It is raining outside as I write this. How unfortunate!
I shall lurk in abandoned doorways.
Hong Kong style milk tea.
Pipes and tobacco.
Umbrella.
My nickname is not 'Pig Sky', 'Balls', or 'Pongious Old Dude'.
Only the monkey calls me 'Boy-Boy'.
Stuffed animals.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CHOCOLATE RABBITS ARE WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE WORLD
While researching Vegan spiral cut ham, possibly for this year's Easter Charity Dinner of the Firm Health Orphanage -- the 2016 event was less than well-attended, perhaps because the celebratory meal featured "a festive vegetarian bean smorgasbord" -- one item among my previous essays caught my eye. Beans, by the way, are not celebratory.
"I would far rather see a naughty nursy-wursy in the hallway mirror, holding a freshly baked apple pie. The naked man who pops up occasionally is not really my type."
At that point I realized that all the best pastry crusts for pies are made with lard. Clarified shortening. Hog fat. And it also brought my dislike of food fads, gluten-phobes, vegans, kale-snarfers, and all others of the dreadful puritanical Protestant social type into sharp focus.
Other people with whom I would, on the whole, rather not have to associate include people who voted for Stein, Trump, Johnson, and also many of the Bernie supporters whose vociferation helped sabotage the election. Berkeleyites, Marinites, Southern Californians. Anti-vaxxers, health food freaks, and the dingoes who believe celebrities.
When you think about it, a nurse holding a hot apple pie is a remarkably wholesome and cheering concept. Fresh, clean, alluring.
If I ever decide to celebrate anything Easter-ish in a family context, with cheap chockies and screaming little kids running around, I will make sure that there is at least one nurse making pies in the kitchen.
Gender somewhat irrelevant.
I still remember my keen disappointment at chocolate bunnies. That horrid smell, the disturbing lack of realistic details (as if designed by someone who just didn't care), and the fact that it was hollow with thin brittle walls.
It made a mockery of my childish conceptual delight. And it tasted fake.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"I would far rather see a naughty nursy-wursy in the hallway mirror, holding a freshly baked apple pie. The naked man who pops up occasionally is not really my type."
At that point I realized that all the best pastry crusts for pies are made with lard. Clarified shortening. Hog fat. And it also brought my dislike of food fads, gluten-phobes, vegans, kale-snarfers, and all others of the dreadful puritanical Protestant social type into sharp focus.
Other people with whom I would, on the whole, rather not have to associate include people who voted for Stein, Trump, Johnson, and also many of the Bernie supporters whose vociferation helped sabotage the election. Berkeleyites, Marinites, Southern Californians. Anti-vaxxers, health food freaks, and the dingoes who believe celebrities.
When you think about it, a nurse holding a hot apple pie is a remarkably wholesome and cheering concept. Fresh, clean, alluring.
If I ever decide to celebrate anything Easter-ish in a family context, with cheap chockies and screaming little kids running around, I will make sure that there is at least one nurse making pies in the kitchen.
Gender somewhat irrelevant.
I still remember my keen disappointment at chocolate bunnies. That horrid smell, the disturbing lack of realistic details (as if designed by someone who just didn't care), and the fact that it was hollow with thin brittle walls.
It made a mockery of my childish conceptual delight. And it tasted fake.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
KEEP EGGS OUT OF OUR SCHOOLS!
As a public service, here is important news for this weekend.
I felt that there were things you needed to know.
Saturday April 15, 10:00 AM
NEWS FLASH: In a move to pacify angry Californians, the Governor's Office has announced that the yearly Easter Egg Hunt on the grounds of the State Capitol will be replaced with a 'carrot quest', in an effort to provide "our state's children" with a heart-healthy snack that does not connote any exploitation of animals and contains no artificial colorants. The traditional chocolate candy will no longer be made available either.
Instead, quinoa roll-ups are suggested.
The Press Release clarified that anyone attempting to distribute "candy" to minors will be arrested and charged with child-endangerment. Also, there is a "safe zone" extending up to seven miles from the Capitol Grounds where tobacco, alcohol, gluten, pornography, and a comprehensive list of triggering behaviours, statements, words, and attitudes will NOT be allowed without an official permit (or government I.D.).
Medicinal herb-use excepted.
Saturday, April 15, 3:00 PM
NEWS FLASH: The Sacramento Police Department has issued a lookout for a person known as the "Bunny Bandit", suspected of pelting motorists near where the 'Governor's Annual Carrot Quest' will take place tomorrow with hard-boiled eggs. The eggs are painted in a variety of hues to disguise them, such as Red Number 40, Yellow Number 5, and Venetian Ceruse. The public is cautioned to stay away from any offending albumen.
He (or she) is dressed in a fluffy pink velour body suit.
The suspect's gender-identity is unknown.
And considered immaterial.
Extra security will be provided for Sunday's "Healthstravaganza".
Saturday, April 15, 5:42 PM
NEWS FLASH: In a response to months of activism by concerned citizens from all backgrounds, mainly Berkeley, officials have recommended that matze-brei be classified as a health hazard, due to the inclusion of gluten and what has been called "a shocking amount of heart-unhealthy butter", in addition to other dairy material, sweeteners, and processed food products.
"It's a splendid example of social responsibility" said spokesperson Priscilla ('Prissie') Codswallop, "the first step of many towards a better future".
She also announced that their next target is the avocado.
An inedible genetically modified fake fruit.
"It looks unnatural, like an egg."
Saturday, April 15, 9:36 PM
NEWS FLASH: Crowds of intoxicated fans are currently engaged in a food fight in Sleep Train Arena, having smuggled so-called "Easter Eggs" into the stadium in defiance of tight security. In a related matter, Capitol Police have recommended cavity searches of all attendees for future events. Beer sales were halted ten minutes ago and the bathrooms locked; it is hoped that this will eventually persuade the mob to leave.
Sunday, April 16, 11:42 AM
NEWS FLASH: The Governor's Annual Carrot Quest descended into chaos and mayhem today as crowds of obese youngsters fought desperately with invasive rabbits intent upon the vegetable prizes. The slow moving children were no match for the agile and aggressive leporids, whose vicious bites and powerful hind claws disemboweled a number of infants. Mothers were seen fleeing from the grounds wailing "oh the humanity" and demanding conflict resolution. They were consoled by a statement from a Buddhist Abbot offering words of peace and love.
Sunday, April 16, 4:23 PM
NEWS FLASH: The rabbit swarm in Sacramento has developed a taste for human flesh, and is heading towards the suburbs.
Save yourselves.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I felt that there were things you needed to know.
Saturday April 15, 10:00 AM
NEWS FLASH: In a move to pacify angry Californians, the Governor's Office has announced that the yearly Easter Egg Hunt on the grounds of the State Capitol will be replaced with a 'carrot quest', in an effort to provide "our state's children" with a heart-healthy snack that does not connote any exploitation of animals and contains no artificial colorants. The traditional chocolate candy will no longer be made available either.
Instead, quinoa roll-ups are suggested.
The Press Release clarified that anyone attempting to distribute "candy" to minors will be arrested and charged with child-endangerment. Also, there is a "safe zone" extending up to seven miles from the Capitol Grounds where tobacco, alcohol, gluten, pornography, and a comprehensive list of triggering behaviours, statements, words, and attitudes will NOT be allowed without an official permit (or government I.D.).
Medicinal herb-use excepted.
Saturday, April 15, 3:00 PM
NEWS FLASH: The Sacramento Police Department has issued a lookout for a person known as the "Bunny Bandit", suspected of pelting motorists near where the 'Governor's Annual Carrot Quest' will take place tomorrow with hard-boiled eggs. The eggs are painted in a variety of hues to disguise them, such as Red Number 40, Yellow Number 5, and Venetian Ceruse. The public is cautioned to stay away from any offending albumen.
He (or she) is dressed in a fluffy pink velour body suit.
The suspect's gender-identity is unknown.
And considered immaterial.
Extra security will be provided for Sunday's "Healthstravaganza".
Saturday, April 15, 5:42 PM
NEWS FLASH: In a response to months of activism by concerned citizens from all backgrounds, mainly Berkeley, officials have recommended that matze-brei be classified as a health hazard, due to the inclusion of gluten and what has been called "a shocking amount of heart-unhealthy butter", in addition to other dairy material, sweeteners, and processed food products.
"It's a splendid example of social responsibility" said spokesperson Priscilla ('Prissie') Codswallop, "the first step of many towards a better future".
She also announced that their next target is the avocado.
An inedible genetically modified fake fruit.
"It looks unnatural, like an egg."
Saturday, April 15, 9:36 PM
NEWS FLASH: Crowds of intoxicated fans are currently engaged in a food fight in Sleep Train Arena, having smuggled so-called "Easter Eggs" into the stadium in defiance of tight security. In a related matter, Capitol Police have recommended cavity searches of all attendees for future events. Beer sales were halted ten minutes ago and the bathrooms locked; it is hoped that this will eventually persuade the mob to leave.
Sunday, April 16, 11:42 AM
NEWS FLASH: The Governor's Annual Carrot Quest descended into chaos and mayhem today as crowds of obese youngsters fought desperately with invasive rabbits intent upon the vegetable prizes. The slow moving children were no match for the agile and aggressive leporids, whose vicious bites and powerful hind claws disemboweled a number of infants. Mothers were seen fleeing from the grounds wailing "oh the humanity" and demanding conflict resolution. They were consoled by a statement from a Buddhist Abbot offering words of peace and love.
Sunday, April 16, 4:23 PM
NEWS FLASH: The rabbit swarm in Sacramento has developed a taste for human flesh, and is heading towards the suburbs.
Save yourselves.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHEN BEEF IS NOT AN OPTION
For years I had a full-colour picture on the refrigerator door of the egg bacon cheeseburger donutwich. Which wasn't on my bucket list, but did represent an intellectual ideal of beauty. It disappeared one day, and now all that's left are Stephan Pastis' cartoons involving bad wordplays. Cringeworthy, at times, but no less beautiful.
So of course on a whim I typed 'Eggs Benedict Burger' into my browser, and did an image search. The result was delicious food porn.
Big! Patties! Of juicy! Grilled meat!
Gloopy cascades of Bearnaise.
Strips of crispy bacon.
And gluten.
As well as "The French Toast Benny Burger" at Slater's, described quite lovingly so: "breakfast sausage patty, chipotle Hollandaise, Canadian bacon, sunny-side up egg, spinach, on sourdough French toast".
Your dietician, as well as your ditzy Vegan boyfriend, will be righteously offended when you eat it. Devour it. Luxuriate in its greasy heart-stopping goodness. Celebrate the resurrection of a mythical space alien by creating this sacrifice in your shared kitchen, sending a cloud of delicious meaty fragrance from the communal stove top through the dormitory. Perhaps chanting a mantra: "where's the beef, bitches, where's the beef?"
"Breakfast sausage, chipotle Hollandaise, bacon, egg, spinach, sourdough French toast ... "
Because, of course, it is entirely beef-free.
Sausage patties are made of pork.
My life is much richer now.
I found the grail.
For extra goodness, have a big plate of sliced avocado, garlic-gruyère-fries, and Sriracha hot sauce on the side. Avocado is healthy.
Girl, you're wearing sunglasses, it's dark, there's half a pack of cigarettes, a full tank of gas, and over a hundred miles. Hit it!
April 16 is 'National Eggs Benedict Day'.
Celebrate wisely, eat well.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
So of course on a whim I typed 'Eggs Benedict Burger' into my browser, and did an image search. The result was delicious food porn.
Big! Patties! Of juicy! Grilled meat!
Gloopy cascades of Bearnaise.
Strips of crispy bacon.
And gluten.
Goes well with a pint of Riesling or Elbling.
As well as "The French Toast Benny Burger" at Slater's, described quite lovingly so: "breakfast sausage patty, chipotle Hollandaise, Canadian bacon, sunny-side up egg, spinach, on sourdough French toast".
Your dietician, as well as your ditzy Vegan boyfriend, will be righteously offended when you eat it. Devour it. Luxuriate in its greasy heart-stopping goodness. Celebrate the resurrection of a mythical space alien by creating this sacrifice in your shared kitchen, sending a cloud of delicious meaty fragrance from the communal stove top through the dormitory. Perhaps chanting a mantra: "where's the beef, bitches, where's the beef?"
"Breakfast sausage, chipotle Hollandaise, bacon, egg, spinach, sourdough French toast ... "
Because, of course, it is entirely beef-free.
Sausage patties are made of pork.
My life is much richer now.
I found the grail.
For extra goodness, have a big plate of sliced avocado, garlic-gruyère-fries, and Sriracha hot sauce on the side. Avocado is healthy.
Girl, you're wearing sunglasses, it's dark, there's half a pack of cigarettes, a full tank of gas, and over a hundred miles. Hit it!
April 16 is 'National Eggs Benedict Day'.
Celebrate wisely, eat well.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, April 15, 2017
CANTONESE GIRLS AND BEAUTIFUL EATS
It's not that what I ate wasn't good -- the restaurant caters to a lot of single male diners of an age between thirty and three hundred, so their selection of things a solitary person could order is rather exceptional -- but what the two young ladies at the next table had looked scrumptious. One of them was a little chunky of physique, the other one had a pleasing round face and plump little hands. Both were intelligent and vibrant. Probably because of the splendid company and fine food. Or more so than usual.
Steamed rice sheet rolls, fried calamari, fried sauced tofu, sauteed dau miu, and a savoury meat dish. And my heavens those girls packed it in! While keeping up a constant stream of juicy gossip. Ah Sam (a male) is getting serious, Ah Peggy has a problem with her husband (who is ho yiuk maa!), Ah Lilly just gave birth .... chopsticks held with plump little fingers snaked out and grabbed some dau miu, deftly folding the vegetable over so that a precise packet could be delivered to glistening kissy lips. While demanding more details about Ah Peggy and her man, the chunkish miss caused some more dau miu to disappear. As I squooze some Sriracha sauce on my fish, Plump Hands changed the subject; when I looked up she was attacking the calamari and announced that on Tuesday or Wednesday she would "call sick". Which was a good idea, the chopsticks snatching a lump of fried tofu said. There was still some of the steamed rice sheet (corn, cilantro, some fried meat on top), and both women periodically lessened the amount.
Talk talk talk, eat eat eat! Surely this is what heaven is like? Eat more!
The fried tofu seemed endless, but I saw both of them go at it.
The dau miu was diminishing fast, however.
The other food was secondary.
When I finished my tea and paid up, I heard Plump Hands admit that she was bau bau dei (飽飽哋). That did not stop her from continuing, however.
There were dau miu and fried calamari bits to finish!
I applaud her deft little hands and kissy lips.
As well as her lively appetite.
My food was good too. But I cannot eat so much, and when one is limited to rice-plate specials the variety is really not that exciting. The milk tea was yummy, and the other customers were also mildly interesting.
But I really lucked out on that neighboring table.
Eat, ladies, nobody is watching you.
You are alone here.
Enjoy!
NOTE
美食 ('mei sik'): "beautiful eats", refined dainties.
Some very nice casual food.
Yumminess!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Steamed rice sheet rolls, fried calamari, fried sauced tofu, sauteed dau miu, and a savoury meat dish. And my heavens those girls packed it in! While keeping up a constant stream of juicy gossip. Ah Sam (a male) is getting serious, Ah Peggy has a problem with her husband (who is ho yiuk maa!), Ah Lilly just gave birth .... chopsticks held with plump little fingers snaked out and grabbed some dau miu, deftly folding the vegetable over so that a precise packet could be delivered to glistening kissy lips. While demanding more details about Ah Peggy and her man, the chunkish miss caused some more dau miu to disappear. As I squooze some Sriracha sauce on my fish, Plump Hands changed the subject; when I looked up she was attacking the calamari and announced that on Tuesday or Wednesday she would "call sick". Which was a good idea, the chopsticks snatching a lump of fried tofu said. There was still some of the steamed rice sheet (corn, cilantro, some fried meat on top), and both women periodically lessened the amount.
Talk talk talk, eat eat eat! Surely this is what heaven is like? Eat more!
The fried tofu seemed endless, but I saw both of them go at it.
The dau miu was diminishing fast, however.
The other food was secondary.
When I finished my tea and paid up, I heard Plump Hands admit that she was bau bau dei (飽飽哋). That did not stop her from continuing, however.
There were dau miu and fried calamari bits to finish!
I applaud her deft little hands and kissy lips.
As well as her lively appetite.
My food was good too. But I cannot eat so much, and when one is limited to rice-plate specials the variety is really not that exciting. The milk tea was yummy, and the other customers were also mildly interesting.
But I really lucked out on that neighboring table.
Eat, ladies, nobody is watching you.
You are alone here.
Enjoy!
NOTE
美食 ('mei sik'): "beautiful eats", refined dainties.
Some very nice casual food.
Yumminess!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, April 14, 2017
WHAT A SAD STATE OF AFFAIRS!
Several crises have entirely gone me by. Sorry for the bad English, as a foreigner excuses I have. This week is Passover, Easter, and tax time combined. And I laugh. Because I am so foreign. Oh bally yes.
One of the regulars at the cigar lounge, in answer to the question how his Seder was, explained that his in-laws presented a roast Passover ham for dinner, and that he at that point quietly put the matze back in his bag.
I didn't even bother asking him about the plagues and the chrein. Another one regaled us with an account of his twelve year old accidentally refilling her glass repeatedly from the Manischewitz jug instead of the Concord grape juice and being lit as a fireworks display for the rest of the night.
And a third just grunted apathetically while finishing the cookies.
From all this I gather that Passover, for some of the people I know, may not have been fully Peysachdik. Nisht 100% koisher le Peisekh.
The Christian element is not any better off. Today starts a lamentation and guilt extravaganza that will be finally alleviated only by egg salad sandwiches and cheap rodent chocolate.
And intestinal gas.
I don't participate in either the Passover, Or the resurrected Bunny Rabbit and Egg Hoojemahah. Not because I don't want to, but because I am apparently far too anti-social to trust around your kids.
Nor do I fruss much over tax time.
Been there, done it.
The full extent of my involvement is that on Saturday in Marin I might have an egg salad sandwich for lunch (Seven Eleven should have that on matze, one hopes), and on Sunday in lieu of rabbit in champagne sauce I will have Chinese food. As is multidenominationally correct, yes?
Today is, I believe, Good Friday.
So suffer, Christians.
No matze brei either.
Sunday I shall be off. Like many people I shall take the opportunity to eat something good, unconnected with either Passover or Easter.
The rest of you, please be constipated.
Woo hoo, bitches.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One of the regulars at the cigar lounge, in answer to the question how his Seder was, explained that his in-laws presented a roast Passover ham for dinner, and that he at that point quietly put the matze back in his bag.
I didn't even bother asking him about the plagues and the chrein. Another one regaled us with an account of his twelve year old accidentally refilling her glass repeatedly from the Manischewitz jug instead of the Concord grape juice and being lit as a fireworks display for the rest of the night.
And a third just grunted apathetically while finishing the cookies.
From all this I gather that Passover, for some of the people I know, may not have been fully Peysachdik. Nisht 100% koisher le Peisekh.
The Christian element is not any better off. Today starts a lamentation and guilt extravaganza that will be finally alleviated only by egg salad sandwiches and cheap rodent chocolate.
And intestinal gas.
I don't participate in either the Passover, Or the resurrected Bunny Rabbit and Egg Hoojemahah. Not because I don't want to, but because I am apparently far too anti-social to trust around your kids.
Nor do I fruss much over tax time.
Been there, done it.
The full extent of my involvement is that on Saturday in Marin I might have an egg salad sandwich for lunch (Seven Eleven should have that on matze, one hopes), and on Sunday in lieu of rabbit in champagne sauce I will have Chinese food. As is multidenominationally correct, yes?
Today is, I believe, Good Friday.
So suffer, Christians.
No matze brei either.
Sunday I shall be off. Like many people I shall take the opportunity to eat something good, unconnected with either Passover or Easter.
The rest of you, please be constipated.
Woo hoo, bitches.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, April 13, 2017
CIGAR REVIEWS: A FEELING OF EXISTENTIAL ANOMIE
You probably (correctly) picture me with a pipe in my mouth. Which is absolutely on target, especially because by and large I despise most of the cigar smokers with whom I am acquainted. Nasty puffed-up gits with too much self-worth, who smell bad and eat too much.
But sometimes I smoke cigars.
The boss came back from Mexico with stogies for everyone. And his wife, of course, felt that in return for this consideration we should review a few, providing feedback which would help them decide which to stock.
A reasonable request, and I am anything if not opinionated.
So, last night before the rain came pouring down, I wandered around Nob Hill with a cheroot in my mouth, which was the very last of the ones I chose to smoke in the near term.
I feel slightly dirty now.
NESTOR MIRANDA COROJO ROBUSTO
A dark resinous wrapper which smells earthy and deep. The pre-light draw reminds me of Camel non-filters, which is a positive memory-laden effect.
It is good to lick. The cigar itself is tightly rolled,and burns unevenly, to the extent that I gave up halfway through, despite the over all pleasant smoke.
It is spicy, sweet, but not very memorable. I really wanted to like it more than I did. The ash is lovely, flaky and veering on white.
It could be good. But I was disappointed.
ROMEO 505 NICARAGUA TORO
Medium-full bodied, with a lovely dark wrapper which is perfumy to the nose. The roll could be firmer and more uniform. Upon lighting it is very pleasant, but about a third of the way down it becomes far less enjoyable.
Not bad, mind you -- the tobaccos are probably excellent -- but just not a very interesting product. It looks better than it is.
ALEC BRADLEY SANCTUM ROBUSTO
Very well rolled. Medium brown wrapper, mildly veined, variegated, and silky. This is a complex cigar, but a little fussy. The ash fell apart easily. Rather than a sweetness on the tongue the beast seemed tangy.
Towards the end I was quite reminded of nutmeg.
It is visually more appealing than it tastes.
But it's not bad.
VILLIGER SAN'DORO COLORADO ROBUSTO
A bit peppery, goes well with black coffee. Or Bourbon. Becomes more complex and enjoyable about halfway in, sweet and perfumy toward the end. Probably one of the most interesting cigars I've tasted in a while.
The ash is medium grey.
SLAUGHTERHOUSE CHURCHILL
Veers between tasty, over the top, and nasty. It is badly made and burns irregularly. I'm convinced that this is meant for poker players and sold in shoeboxes. What the heck were they thinking naming it?
It's not good, and just not very interesting.
I gave up halfway through.
LFD RESERVA ESPECIAL ROBUSTO
Medium buff hue to the wrapper, is that Connecticut? It is a mild puppy, without any very great complexity, but quite satisfying. An almost creamy or velvety taste, building to a caramel finish. Worth smoking down to the last inch, and would go well with a Pinot Noir. Burnt slightly irregularly, but this is a cigar I would revisit.
GURKHA HARTFIELD -- "A BOURBON COUNTRY DISTILLERY"
Oh pulleeze! I didn't even bother taking it out of the fancy-shmancy glass tube, and I dare not smoke this at the Occidental for fear Curtis Post would bust a gut laughing and throw me out. You're kidding, right?
I'll smoke it after I've finished admiring the marketing snazzle.
Perhaps very late at night.
I returned home in a downpour, finished writing what I thought, and fired off the e-mail. Then I lit up a pipe and read Mencius till past twelve.
I am re-studying the master, whom I first discovered years ago.
齊宣王問曰：「湯放桀，武王伐紂，有諸？」
孟子對曰：「於傳有之。」
曰：「臣弒其君可乎？」
曰：「賊仁者謂之賊，賊義者謂之殘，殘賊之人謂之一夫。聞誅一夫紂矣，未聞弒君也。」
King Hsuen of Chai asked: "Tang replaced Git , King Mou subjugated Jau, is that correct?"
Mencius responded: "that's how it was recorded."
King Hsuen: "but how can a minister kill his prince?"
Mencius: "the malevolent is called an evil-doer, the unrighteous is a scoundrel. Both are commonly considered ruffians. I have heard that a ruffian was whacked, but NOT that a prince was killed."
One of the best passages. When the person at the top is a son-of-a-bitch, it is better that his reign be brought to a close.
This is relevant to the current age, but I hesitate to mention it at work, because too many cigar smokers are supporters of the regime.
And utterly bat shit besides.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But sometimes I smoke cigars.
The boss came back from Mexico with stogies for everyone. And his wife, of course, felt that in return for this consideration we should review a few, providing feedback which would help them decide which to stock.
A reasonable request, and I am anything if not opinionated.
So, last night before the rain came pouring down, I wandered around Nob Hill with a cheroot in my mouth, which was the very last of the ones I chose to smoke in the near term.
I feel slightly dirty now.
NESTOR MIRANDA COROJO ROBUSTO
A dark resinous wrapper which smells earthy and deep. The pre-light draw reminds me of Camel non-filters, which is a positive memory-laden effect.
It is good to lick. The cigar itself is tightly rolled,and burns unevenly, to the extent that I gave up halfway through, despite the over all pleasant smoke.
It is spicy, sweet, but not very memorable. I really wanted to like it more than I did. The ash is lovely, flaky and veering on white.
It could be good. But I was disappointed.
ROMEO 505 NICARAGUA TORO
Medium-full bodied, with a lovely dark wrapper which is perfumy to the nose. The roll could be firmer and more uniform. Upon lighting it is very pleasant, but about a third of the way down it becomes far less enjoyable.
Not bad, mind you -- the tobaccos are probably excellent -- but just not a very interesting product. It looks better than it is.
ALEC BRADLEY SANCTUM ROBUSTO
Very well rolled. Medium brown wrapper, mildly veined, variegated, and silky. This is a complex cigar, but a little fussy. The ash fell apart easily. Rather than a sweetness on the tongue the beast seemed tangy.
Towards the end I was quite reminded of nutmeg.
It is visually more appealing than it tastes.
But it's not bad.
VILLIGER SAN'DORO COLORADO ROBUSTO
A bit peppery, goes well with black coffee. Or Bourbon. Becomes more complex and enjoyable about halfway in, sweet and perfumy toward the end. Probably one of the most interesting cigars I've tasted in a while.
The ash is medium grey.
SLAUGHTERHOUSE CHURCHILL
Veers between tasty, over the top, and nasty. It is badly made and burns irregularly. I'm convinced that this is meant for poker players and sold in shoeboxes. What the heck were they thinking naming it?
It's not good, and just not very interesting.
I gave up halfway through.
LFD RESERVA ESPECIAL ROBUSTO
Medium buff hue to the wrapper, is that Connecticut? It is a mild puppy, without any very great complexity, but quite satisfying. An almost creamy or velvety taste, building to a caramel finish. Worth smoking down to the last inch, and would go well with a Pinot Noir. Burnt slightly irregularly, but this is a cigar I would revisit.
GURKHA HARTFIELD -- "A BOURBON COUNTRY DISTILLERY"
Oh pulleeze! I didn't even bother taking it out of the fancy-shmancy glass tube, and I dare not smoke this at the Occidental for fear Curtis Post would bust a gut laughing and throw me out. You're kidding, right?
I'll smoke it after I've finished admiring the marketing snazzle.
Perhaps very late at night.
I returned home in a downpour, finished writing what I thought, and fired off the e-mail. Then I lit up a pipe and read Mencius till past twelve.
I am re-studying the master, whom I first discovered years ago.
齊宣王問曰：「湯放桀，武王伐紂，有諸？」
孟子對曰：「於傳有之。」
曰：「臣弒其君可乎？」
曰：「賊仁者謂之賊，賊義者謂之殘，殘賊之人謂之一夫。聞誅一夫紂矣，未聞弒君也。」
King Hsuen of Chai asked: "Tang replaced Git , King Mou subjugated Jau, is that correct?"
Mencius responded: "that's how it was recorded."
King Hsuen: "but how can a minister kill his prince?"
Mencius: "the malevolent is called an evil-doer, the unrighteous is a scoundrel. Both are commonly considered ruffians. I have heard that a ruffian was whacked, but NOT that a prince was killed."
One of the best passages. When the person at the top is a son-of-a-bitch, it is better that his reign be brought to a close.
This is relevant to the current age, but I hesitate to mention it at work, because too many cigar smokers are supporters of the regime.
And utterly bat shit besides.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THAT'S NOT MEAN, THAT'S NICE!
Cruising through clickbait (we all do, no point in denying it) I came across an article on Tickld. It interested me because I sometimes like to read examples of other people failing at life, and doing it very well.
Item number 27 from "29 People Share The Meanest Thing They've Ever Done That They Don't Regret At All."
Quote: "I stole someone's pet rabbit. I went to a party and the guys who lived there kept her in a tiny cage meant for hamsters and blew weed smoke at her face all the time. They never gave her veggies, instead they were feeding her wet cat food so she was super malnourished.
My friend created a diversion and I grabbed the cage and booked it to the car. I took her to the vet and they kept her for two weeks to get her back to normal. She was apparently seizing from the withdrawal combined with dehydration. She was also incredibly mean, due to the abuse.
The vet said there was evidence of prior broken bones that had never been healed. The dudes who owned her had no idea who took her and were posting pleas on Myspace to give her back.
Fat chance! She required intense care, so I gave her to our vet tech who was also our petsitter because I couldn't take care of her the way she required. I don't feel bad about the theft (bunny-napping?) for a second."
End quote.
No, that wasn't mean of you. Mean would have been burning down their house without removing the bunny rabbit first. Or calling the cops on their skanky asses right then and there, which would have done the bunny no good, as she would have been part of the evidence of drug use, and probably tested for THC. You know what that means.
See, in a situation like this, it's okay to poison the punch.
Or open the refrigerator door to take a piss.
Defenestration, and razors.
But save the rabbit first.
Because it's important.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Item number 27 from "29 People Share The Meanest Thing They've Ever Done That They Don't Regret At All."
Quote: "I stole someone's pet rabbit. I went to a party and the guys who lived there kept her in a tiny cage meant for hamsters and blew weed smoke at her face all the time. They never gave her veggies, instead they were feeding her wet cat food so she was super malnourished.
My friend created a diversion and I grabbed the cage and booked it to the car. I took her to the vet and they kept her for two weeks to get her back to normal. She was apparently seizing from the withdrawal combined with dehydration. She was also incredibly mean, due to the abuse.
The vet said there was evidence of prior broken bones that had never been healed. The dudes who owned her had no idea who took her and were posting pleas on Myspace to give her back.
Fat chance! She required intense care, so I gave her to our vet tech who was also our petsitter because I couldn't take care of her the way she required. I don't feel bad about the theft (bunny-napping?) for a second."
End quote.
No, that wasn't mean of you. Mean would have been burning down their house without removing the bunny rabbit first. Or calling the cops on their skanky asses right then and there, which would have done the bunny no good, as she would have been part of the evidence of drug use, and probably tested for THC. You know what that means.
See, in a situation like this, it's okay to poison the punch.
Or open the refrigerator door to take a piss.
Defenestration, and razors.
But save the rabbit first.
Because it's important.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
A COMFORTABLE LITTLE NEIGHBORHOOD
Three people visited my blog today specifically for an article from a few years ago, written when I was still young, innocent, and in a relationship.
I am less young, and not in a relationship anymore.
But still innocent, oh lord yes!
There is no one more saintly and innocent than me. Among dirty old men, at least. Which is a group that statistically represents all of society, although comprised largely of springy fellows in early vibrant middle-age, many of whom are single and smoke pipes. And like Virginia-Perique mixtures, because they have good taste.
You will now kindly note that I am an absolute paradigm.
[Like Graham Chapman, Sean Connery, & Gerald Ford, all rolled into one.]
Several of my acquaintances are also rather like that, albeit not nearly so springy, and some of them don't smoke, which is very sad for them.
Although it does leave more for the rest of us.
The post visited today was Chinatown Sex Dungeons.
Short recap: One day I returned home and my apartment mate accused me of knowing all about places in her old neighborhood that she had never even heard of, and people setting fire to the sleeping homeless.
Because I am white, and we know.
As of yesterday, the closest Chinatown comes to the aforementioned sex dungeons is foot massage places where your nasty old stompers will get a wash and a hard rubbing, and though bums do sleep in the neighborhood, they are mainly ex-cons dossing down in Hang Ah Alley, mostly white or wheatish of complexion, plus very Caucasian Berkeley frat-boys losing consciousness after drinking like fish in North Beach and sprees of casual vandalism (ripping down signs and tipping over garbage bins).
University cities like Berkeley have more sexual violence, death by being set on fire, drug use, and general mayhem and thuggery, than neighborhoods like Chinatown.
You don't believe me? Try walking through Berkeley late at night.
Especially near the campus and Frat Row.
Perky middle-aged men like myself dare not go there.
See, we're not frat boys. We're normal.
Sweet and well-behaved.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I am less young, and not in a relationship anymore.
But still innocent, oh lord yes!
There is no one more saintly and innocent than me. Among dirty old men, at least. Which is a group that statistically represents all of society, although comprised largely of springy fellows in early vibrant middle-age, many of whom are single and smoke pipes. And like Virginia-Perique mixtures, because they have good taste.
You will now kindly note that I am an absolute paradigm.
[Like Graham Chapman, Sean Connery, & Gerald Ford, all rolled into one.]
A representative of the type.
Several of my acquaintances are also rather like that, albeit not nearly so springy, and some of them don't smoke, which is very sad for them.
Although it does leave more for the rest of us.
The post visited today was Chinatown Sex Dungeons.
Short recap: One day I returned home and my apartment mate accused me of knowing all about places in her old neighborhood that she had never even heard of, and people setting fire to the sleeping homeless.
Because I am white, and we know.
As of yesterday, the closest Chinatown comes to the aforementioned sex dungeons is foot massage places where your nasty old stompers will get a wash and a hard rubbing, and though bums do sleep in the neighborhood, they are mainly ex-cons dossing down in Hang Ah Alley, mostly white or wheatish of complexion, plus very Caucasian Berkeley frat-boys losing consciousness after drinking like fish in North Beach and sprees of casual vandalism (ripping down signs and tipping over garbage bins).
University cities like Berkeley have more sexual violence, death by being set on fire, drug use, and general mayhem and thuggery, than neighborhoods like Chinatown.
You don't believe me? Try walking through Berkeley late at night.
Especially near the campus and Frat Row.
Perky middle-aged men like myself dare not go there.
See, we're not frat boys. We're normal.
Sweet and well-behaved.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE NEXT TIME A CHINESE WOMAN OFFERS TO PLAY DICE WITH YOU, DO SO!
After a night of carousing I returned home with a damp bottom and soggy feet. I had been out dancing in the rain, and because that hill is immense, especially late at night, I needed to rest by perching on numerous fire hydrants on the way home. Which were wet. Because of the rain.
The city is extraordinarily beautiful in the rain.
Perhaps my bottom not.
I no longer bound up steep streets with the vim of a gazelle.
I am getting older.
Cantonese opera. A small midnight meal. Half a pint of good beer. A little whiskey. As carousing goes, extremely temperate.
Some of the other patrons at the bar were examples of excess, probably before we even arrived.
In particular a blonde woman who believed she could sing. That bar has made a lot of money off people like her, which keeps it generously afloat. So it has survived well for several years, which we certainly appreciate in a city where landlord corporations gouge and e-commerce yuppies ruin everything, so I shan't complain .....
But please don't sing.
It's a Chinese bar. None of the Chinese sang. Instead, they ate.
Cantonese love late night dining (消夜) more than Remy Martin.
And while they find Caucasians making spectacles of themselves quite entertaining, because they love street theatre and a free show, especially when its ridiculous bad behaviour by white people, the sheer repetitiveness and predictability of loud off-key renditions of mediocre songs which were almost forgotten -- deservedly so! -- palls very fast. The sheer ego and sense of specialness evinced by the performers do not appeal for long.
Not everyone has the charm and spirit to be Florence Foster Jennings.
It is very sad. But duck, a bottle of Sriracha, and this savoury noodle soup, now that's good. Infinitely engaging! Here, have a dumpling. Rice porridge, fried yautiu, roast meats, concubine chicken ..... yummy!
The spirited and curvaceous young lady from Hunan offered to teach the blonde and her drunken companions liars dice, which would have been quite an improvement over the yowling, but they would not listen, because they were too far gone.
Instead of pop songs from the seventies, the next time I should prefer an endless parade of chicken wings, fried noodles, shrimp, rice porridge, tea eggs, peanuts and pistachios, soy sauce meats, steamed buns .....
The way to my ear goes through my stomach.
Hunter S. Thompson would have shot the karaoke machine.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The city is extraordinarily beautiful in the rain.
Perhaps my bottom not.
I no longer bound up steep streets with the vim of a gazelle.
I am getting older.
Cantonese opera. A small midnight meal. Half a pint of good beer. A little whiskey. As carousing goes, extremely temperate.
Some of the other patrons at the bar were examples of excess, probably before we even arrived.
In particular a blonde woman who believed she could sing. That bar has made a lot of money off people like her, which keeps it generously afloat. So it has survived well for several years, which we certainly appreciate in a city where landlord corporations gouge and e-commerce yuppies ruin everything, so I shan't complain .....
But please don't sing.
It's a Chinese bar. None of the Chinese sang. Instead, they ate.
Cantonese love late night dining (消夜) more than Remy Martin.
And while they find Caucasians making spectacles of themselves quite entertaining, because they love street theatre and a free show, especially when its ridiculous bad behaviour by white people, the sheer repetitiveness and predictability of loud off-key renditions of mediocre songs which were almost forgotten -- deservedly so! -- palls very fast. The sheer ego and sense of specialness evinced by the performers do not appeal for long.
Not everyone has the charm and spirit to be Florence Foster Jennings.
It is very sad. But duck, a bottle of Sriracha, and this savoury noodle soup, now that's good. Infinitely engaging! Here, have a dumpling. Rice porridge, fried yautiu, roast meats, concubine chicken ..... yummy!
The spirited and curvaceous young lady from Hunan offered to teach the blonde and her drunken companions liars dice, which would have been quite an improvement over the yowling, but they would not listen, because they were too far gone.
Instead of pop songs from the seventies, the next time I should prefer an endless parade of chicken wings, fried noodles, shrimp, rice porridge, tea eggs, peanuts and pistachios, soy sauce meats, steamed buns .....
The way to my ear goes through my stomach.
Hunter S. Thompson would have shot the karaoke machine.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
RED AILANTHUS AND OTHER ELEMENTS
On April 6, 1941, eleven college boys rowing on Lake Biwa in Japan perished when their boat overturned in bad weather. The following year one thousand cherry trees were planted near where it happened as a memorial.
A few months after they drowned, a song was released, the Biwako Aika (Biwa Lake Elegy), which has a sweet and plaintive melody.
Lake Biwa is Japan's largest lake. Kyoto (京都) is to the south-west, about eight kilometres away, and Hikone Castle (彦根城), which is mentioned in the first verse, is visible along the eastern shore. The Castle is about ten kilometres south of Nagahama (長浜), and looks out over the water towards Takashima (高島) on the opposite shore.
Shiga Perfecture (滋賀県), where Lake Biwa is situated, is altogether about two hundred and fifty kilometres distant from Tokyo, and much closer to Osaka (大阪) and Kobe (神戸).
You probably know the last mentioned from the Studio Ghibli film 'Grave of the Fireflies' (火垂るの墓 Hotaru no haka). If not, please see it.
The classic rendition of the song is by Shoji Taro (東海林太郎) and Ogasawara Mitsuko (小笠原美都子). The video below was made over a quarter of a century after the song was published.
It is still a favourite.
琵琶湖哀歌．東海林太郎．小笠原美都子．
Source, along with a transcription and a translation:
http://photoguide.jp/txt/Biwako_Aika.
To my mind the lyrics have much of the same taste as many poems from China written during the Tang Dynasty. Marsh birds, water as a backdrop to sadness, distant views of castles, or bridges, or settlements, across the lake or river, regret and remembrance.
That may just be my mind recognizing kinships which aren't there.
I am a foreigner to both Chinese and Japanese cultures.
As an outsider looking in, I see different things.
Related themes with reflected symbologies.
Of course, like a complete freak, I prize the Vocaloid version more.
And naturally I found that rendition first.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A few months after they drowned, a song was released, the Biwako Aika (Biwa Lake Elegy), which has a sweet and plaintive melody.
Lake Biwa is Japan's largest lake. Kyoto (京都) is to the south-west, about eight kilometres away, and Hikone Castle (彦根城), which is mentioned in the first verse, is visible along the eastern shore. The Castle is about ten kilometres south of Nagahama (長浜), and looks out over the water towards Takashima (高島) on the opposite shore.
Shiga Perfecture (滋賀県), where Lake Biwa is situated, is altogether about two hundred and fifty kilometres distant from Tokyo, and much closer to Osaka (大阪) and Kobe (神戸).
You probably know the last mentioned from the Studio Ghibli film 'Grave of the Fireflies' (火垂るの墓 Hotaru no haka). If not, please see it.
The classic rendition of the song is by Shoji Taro (東海林太郎) and Ogasawara Mitsuko (小笠原美都子). The video below was made over a quarter of a century after the song was published.
It is still a favourite.
琵琶湖哀歌．東海林太郎．小笠原美都子．
Source, along with a transcription and a translation:
http://photoguide.jp/txt/Biwako_Aika.
To my mind the lyrics have much of the same taste as many poems from China written during the Tang Dynasty. Marsh birds, water as a backdrop to sadness, distant views of castles, or bridges, or settlements, across the lake or river, regret and remembrance.
That may just be my mind recognizing kinships which aren't there.
I am a foreigner to both Chinese and Japanese cultures.
As an outsider looking in, I see different things.
Related themes with reflected symbologies.
Of course, like a complete freak, I prize the Vocaloid version more.
And naturally I found that rendition first.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHAT WOMEN WANT
A few weeks ago I saw a list of what women really notice about men, and what turns them on. Of course the list was based on the responses of a few very extroverted ladies who did not mind telling the interviewer far too much about themselves, rather than the introverted shy geology graduates most normal men would like to date, so it does not reflect objective reality.
Naturally I skipped over most of the responses as being ridiculous if not downright idiotic. Fortunately a few have some bearing.
Herewith the truly important ones.
Nothing else is important.
"Does he have a British accent? "
This blogger dare not venture out too far on Saint Patrick's Day or Indian Independence Day, because at those times things may happen that aren't pleasant. Especially with his accent. Too British-sounding, and much more so when confronting tipsy idiots. Basil Fawlty talking at O'Reilly.
But the accent is more in-between than British.
"The cleanliness of his car. "
No car.
"Clean neat eyebrows."
Yes.
"Books; he has to have books."
Far too many of them. Books give me a sense of security, and being surrounded by them gives me a feeling of home.
"I don’t find bald men attractive."
Neither do I.
"Shoes, always."
I've got shoes.
"Clean ears."
This is your lucky decade!
"I only date foreign guys. "
This blogger is so bally foreign he practically qualifies as a green tentacled lizard alien. I voted for Kang and Kodos, twice. Because I misread the ballot (honestly, I thought it was the menu at a fast-food restaurant). Yandelavasa gudenwi stravenka. This tobacconist is scratched. Donde esta el inodoro?
Jagshemash, and chinqui.
"Is he shirtless and playing beach volleyball? "
No.
"Feet."
Yes.
It might be interesting to now list what it is that I first notice about women, but in all seriousness, I don't know what that is. Occasionally my dingbat-o-meter goes off, sometimes it's breasts, or perhaps that she is talking on a cell-phone. Does she have tousled hair? Is she happy?
How high is the unskankiness quotient?
A kind intelligent face?
With men, it's easy. How much do they look like trailer trash or druggies? And how self-important and entitled do they seem to be?
The key thing, especially once they open their mouths, is if they are odd enough that one instinctively draws back, and realizes that they might be a hassle to know any better. But that also counts for women.
In either case, it is best to avoid people who believe in flying saucers.
Unless they actually are space aliens, in which case contributing to interplanetary understanding is a noble cause.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Naturally I skipped over most of the responses as being ridiculous if not downright idiotic. Fortunately a few have some bearing.
Herewith the truly important ones.
Nothing else is important.
"Does he have a British accent? "
This blogger dare not venture out too far on Saint Patrick's Day or Indian Independence Day, because at those times things may happen that aren't pleasant. Especially with his accent. Too British-sounding, and much more so when confronting tipsy idiots. Basil Fawlty talking at O'Reilly.
But the accent is more in-between than British.
"The cleanliness of his car. "
No car.
"Clean neat eyebrows."
Yes.
"Books; he has to have books."
Far too many of them. Books give me a sense of security, and being surrounded by them gives me a feeling of home.
"I don’t find bald men attractive."
Neither do I.
"Shoes, always."
I've got shoes.
"Clean ears."
This is your lucky decade!
"I only date foreign guys. "
This blogger is so bally foreign he practically qualifies as a green tentacled lizard alien. I voted for Kang and Kodos, twice. Because I misread the ballot (honestly, I thought it was the menu at a fast-food restaurant). Yandelavasa gudenwi stravenka. This tobacconist is scratched. Donde esta el inodoro?
Jagshemash, and chinqui.
"Is he shirtless and playing beach volleyball? "
No.
"Feet."
Yes.
It might be interesting to now list what it is that I first notice about women, but in all seriousness, I don't know what that is. Occasionally my dingbat-o-meter goes off, sometimes it's breasts, or perhaps that she is talking on a cell-phone. Does she have tousled hair? Is she happy?
How high is the unskankiness quotient?
A kind intelligent face?
With men, it's easy. How much do they look like trailer trash or druggies? And how self-important and entitled do they seem to be?
The key thing, especially once they open their mouths, is if they are odd enough that one instinctively draws back, and realizes that they might be a hassle to know any better. But that also counts for women.
In either case, it is best to avoid people who believe in flying saucers.
Unless they actually are space aliens, in which case contributing to interplanetary understanding is a noble cause.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, April 10, 2017
TUMULT FROM THE PEANUT GALLERY
It is surprising how depraved and innocent she sounds. As well as clueless. Gigi wishes Pierpont to be her "boyfriend", and Angus is wailing "I want to go home! We didn't have to deal with Nubian sex slaves there!"
I'll admit, Gigi is a very pretty little black kitty. And Pierpont the gallant spider is indeed black. But he and the she-sheep (Angus) have a thing going, and Gigi does not wish to accept or understand that.
Plus Gigi wishes to be worshipped.
And obeyed slavishly.
Apparently strange things go on in the apartment when I am away during the daytime. Strange things also go on when I'm here, but not the same kind of strange.
My apartment mate took the day off today to help her recover from dealing with her crazy relatives. Think of it as a necessary 'sanity break'.
I too at times need to have a day off to calm my mind. For the next two days, as regularly scheduled every week, I shall be resting.
On my days off the roomies are not obstreperous or rambunctious.
Perhaps they fear the "old galoot who smokes a pipe".
I'm not quite sure how comfortable I am with being called the "old galoot".
It sounds disrespectful, and the implications of either part of that term are not, strictly speaking, very flattering.
I prefer to think of myself as the "vibrant and suave (young-ish) fellow with a great deal of real likeability". It just sounds better and more appropriate.
As I am sure everyone who knows me would agree.
Vibrant and suave. Oh very yes.
That's me.
There are no Nubian sex-slaves here.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I'll admit, Gigi is a very pretty little black kitty. And Pierpont the gallant spider is indeed black. But he and the she-sheep (Angus) have a thing going, and Gigi does not wish to accept or understand that.
Plus Gigi wishes to be worshipped.
And obeyed slavishly.
Apparently strange things go on in the apartment when I am away during the daytime. Strange things also go on when I'm here, but not the same kind of strange.
My apartment mate took the day off today to help her recover from dealing with her crazy relatives. Think of it as a necessary 'sanity break'.
I too at times need to have a day off to calm my mind. For the next two days, as regularly scheduled every week, I shall be resting.
On my days off the roomies are not obstreperous or rambunctious.
Perhaps they fear the "old galoot who smokes a pipe".
I'm not quite sure how comfortable I am with being called the "old galoot".
It sounds disrespectful, and the implications of either part of that term are not, strictly speaking, very flattering.
I prefer to think of myself as the "vibrant and suave (young-ish) fellow with a great deal of real likeability". It just sounds better and more appropriate.
As I am sure everyone who knows me would agree.
Vibrant and suave. Oh very yes.
That's me.
There are no Nubian sex-slaves here.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THERE'S SOMETHING VERY WRONG WITH THE BOY!
Don't ever bring your Christian kin to Ching Ming (清明節). For one thing, they'll be useless because they don't do that heathen stuff. They won't clean graves, considering it completely useless and a total waste of time -- wishing to get the whole thing over with fast so they can go eat at the nearby famous restaurant -- and they won't burn incense, because hah who is going to smell it anyway?!? It's so silly!
Flowers and fruit for the graves? Do we really have to?
And don't even mention the paai san paai san.
We are Christians! We don't do that!
Well, you lot are fairly effing useless, are you sure you're even Chinese?
拜神拜神
My apartment mate did Ching Ming this past weekend with her kinfolk .
A few of whom have acquired Christian characteristics.
I got to experience it second-hand.
Christians do not burn incense or paper money at graves. They express surprise that graves should be scrubbed, and fresh flowers put out, even if only once a year. They do not understand any concept involving reverence for departed relatives, at all. They are, all things considered, fairly lazy and stupid, and the well-adjusted pagans present end up doing all the work. Which involves fruits, flowers, buns and roast meats from Chinatown, plus shlepping and scrubbing and setting fires and other things that work up a sweat. The Christians won't lift a finger in this heathen ritual.
They'll just whine and say "can we go eat now?"
Because they heard of a restaurant...
Famous, and very nearby!
With ice-cream!
My apartment mate despairs over the youngest one, because the dear boy seems totally unacquainted with fire, has led a sheltered and pampered life filled with nothing that could offend him, and might be quite unable to ever hold his own in math class when the time comes because logic and causality are foreign to him. He has an insular existence.
I have told her not to worry, the kid is Christian.
He'll never need that, and Christians don't burn.
Besides, no one ever cleans up Christian graves.
He hasn't any clear brightness; he's a Christian.
All he has to worry about are the maggots, eventually, and being poked at with a sharp stick to see if he still moves. If he doesn't, just tip some leaves over him and go off to the restaurant.
There is ice-cream there!
I've heard of it.
PS.: Wild Irish Rose is NOT a suitable liquor for the dead.
Hennesy or rice wine. Never bottom shelf bum plonk.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Flowers and fruit for the graves? Do we really have to?
And don't even mention the paai san paai san.
We are Christians! We don't do that!
Well, you lot are fairly effing useless, are you sure you're even Chinese?
拜神拜神
My apartment mate did Ching Ming this past weekend with her kinfolk .
A few of whom have acquired Christian characteristics.
I got to experience it second-hand.
Christians do not burn incense or paper money at graves. They express surprise that graves should be scrubbed, and fresh flowers put out, even if only once a year. They do not understand any concept involving reverence for departed relatives, at all. They are, all things considered, fairly lazy and stupid, and the well-adjusted pagans present end up doing all the work. Which involves fruits, flowers, buns and roast meats from Chinatown, plus shlepping and scrubbing and setting fires and other things that work up a sweat. The Christians won't lift a finger in this heathen ritual.
They'll just whine and say "can we go eat now?"
Because they heard of a restaurant...
Famous, and very nearby!
With ice-cream!
My apartment mate despairs over the youngest one, because the dear boy seems totally unacquainted with fire, has led a sheltered and pampered life filled with nothing that could offend him, and might be quite unable to ever hold his own in math class when the time comes because logic and causality are foreign to him. He has an insular existence.
I have told her not to worry, the kid is Christian.
He'll never need that, and Christians don't burn.
Besides, no one ever cleans up Christian graves.
He hasn't any clear brightness; he's a Christian.
All he has to worry about are the maggots, eventually, and being poked at with a sharp stick to see if he still moves. If he doesn't, just tip some leaves over him and go off to the restaurant.
There is ice-cream there!
I've heard of it.
PS.: Wild Irish Rose is NOT a suitable liquor for the dead.
Hennesy or rice wine. Never bottom shelf bum plonk.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, April 09, 2017
HOW'S YOUR APPETITE?
At times I regret so very rarely eating dinner with somebody else, but then I remember that I am not particularly social, and almost everybody else is, more or less, dysfunctional. Most are more rather than less.
In particular, I remember a conversation at a restaurant where I worked part time in the evenings, three times a week.
Like so:
"Oh my gawd they're all meat! No wonder their auras suck. Suck, do you hear me?!? And everything has gluten in it! This is SO unhealthy, dammit, why are we here?!? Are you trying to kill me? It's that blonde bitch at your office, isn't it? She made a pass at you and now you're taking revenge by feeding me inedible sh*t. Don't they have any wheat-free naan breads? Lentils give me gas!"
Then to the waiter: "Is that a slice of lemon in that water? I'm allergic."
This is San Francisco. There are many people like that.
It was an Indian restaurant, and though that couple had a splendid time, all the food was far too spicy for her, and she ended up with awful heartburn, which I only know because she kept up a running update about the state of her digestion from before the first bite till after the last beer.
I believe they were a happy couple. He got regular sex, and worked with a blonde bitch who appreciated him. She got fed stuff that helped her feel special. For some people it just doesn't get any better.
Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to go out to dinner with a woman who likes beef and bacon and fatty pork and oysters and garlic pizza and steamed mussels and stuffed tofu and fish and chow mein and crusty bread and asparagus and black bean spareribs and smoked Ardenner ham and country paté and schnitzel and Bearnaise sauce and bitter melon and mustard greens and lemons and eggs and gluten and hot sauce.
Then I fry up some noodles with veggies and animal protein, plus savoury condimental flavourings, and eat by myself at the computer.
I'm having an after-dinner coffee right now.
Tuesday, one the first day of my weekend, I'll probably go have some fatty pork and bitter vegetables, plus hot sauce, with rice. By myself.
I'll just have to imagine a conversation.
Maybe I'll bring along a stuffed animal.
For company, you understand.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In particular, I remember a conversation at a restaurant where I worked part time in the evenings, three times a week.
Like so:
"Oh my gawd they're all meat! No wonder their auras suck. Suck, do you hear me?!? And everything has gluten in it! This is SO unhealthy, dammit, why are we here?!? Are you trying to kill me? It's that blonde bitch at your office, isn't it? She made a pass at you and now you're taking revenge by feeding me inedible sh*t. Don't they have any wheat-free naan breads? Lentils give me gas!"
Then to the waiter: "Is that a slice of lemon in that water? I'm allergic."
This is San Francisco. There are many people like that.
It was an Indian restaurant, and though that couple had a splendid time, all the food was far too spicy for her, and she ended up with awful heartburn, which I only know because she kept up a running update about the state of her digestion from before the first bite till after the last beer.
I believe they were a happy couple. He got regular sex, and worked with a blonde bitch who appreciated him. She got fed stuff that helped her feel special. For some people it just doesn't get any better.
Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to go out to dinner with a woman who likes beef and bacon and fatty pork and oysters and garlic pizza and steamed mussels and stuffed tofu and fish and chow mein and crusty bread and asparagus and black bean spareribs and smoked Ardenner ham and country paté and schnitzel and Bearnaise sauce and bitter melon and mustard greens and lemons and eggs and gluten and hot sauce.
Then I fry up some noodles with veggies and animal protein, plus savoury condimental flavourings, and eat by myself at the computer.
I'm having an after-dinner coffee right now.
Tuesday, one the first day of my weekend, I'll probably go have some fatty pork and bitter vegetables, plus hot sauce, with rice. By myself.
I'll just have to imagine a conversation.
Maybe I'll bring along a stuffed animal.
For company, you understand.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
ALL YOUR HELLO KITTY ARE BELONG TO US!
Courtesy of a friend who moved to Southern California to be one with the San Andreas Fault and Malibu Barbie, great news! A permanent Hello Kitty Cafe will be opening in a mall!
You are excited, I can tell. Your soft little hands are sweating.
"Squeal Alert: Hello Kitty Opening in Santa Anita"
"On the menu are adorable pies, tarts, cookies, pastries, and cakes alongside hot and cold beverages to wash it all down. Ultimately, it seems like quite the place to duck into for a mid-shopping pick-me-up, or a sweet treat after a meal"
Source: http://la.eater.com/2017/4/6/15212464/hello-kitty-mini-cafe-westfield-santa-anita.
I too am sort of (very) excited. I always despair of finding something cultural to do when visiting Southern California.
It's somewhere near the San Gabriel Mountains, which are visible.
So I am sure I can find it.
Why, you may ask, was I alerted to this?
Simple. I am a middle-aged pipe smoker.
As is perfectly normal, I carry my pipes and tobacco with me when I travel outside the city, in a Hello Kitty backpack. Which is of a convenient size and lightweight, plus hard to forget or leave behind in a bar accidentally.
Besides, the only kind of people who would steal it are mostly between two and three feet tall, and I can easily run those down.
And wrestle them to the ground.
Or outrun them, if they bite.
I have only seen one other person with the exact same backpack. She's a small person with an older brother and a mommy, and I am not certain that she uses it for briars and a tin or two of a zesty Virginia - Perique mixture. Maybe Dunhill's Elizabethan, or Esoterica's Dunbar. And Dorchester.
In any case, she's already got hers, so she won't be taking mine.
She doesn't look vicious at all.
They'll welcome me with open arms the next time I visit SoCal.
I can tell them all about fine smoking mixtures.
I'll be their pipe tobacco apostle.
They await.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You are excited, I can tell. Your soft little hands are sweating.
"Squeal Alert: Hello Kitty Opening in Santa Anita"
"On the menu are adorable pies, tarts, cookies, pastries, and cakes alongside hot and cold beverages to wash it all down. Ultimately, it seems like quite the place to duck into for a mid-shopping pick-me-up, or a sweet treat after a meal"
Source: http://la.eater.com/2017/4/6/15212464/hello-kitty-mini-cafe-westfield-santa-anita.
I too am sort of (very) excited. I always despair of finding something cultural to do when visiting Southern California.
It's somewhere near the San Gabriel Mountains, which are visible.
So I am sure I can find it.
Why, you may ask, was I alerted to this?
Simple. I am a middle-aged pipe smoker.
As is perfectly normal, I carry my pipes and tobacco with me when I travel outside the city, in a Hello Kitty backpack. Which is of a convenient size and lightweight, plus hard to forget or leave behind in a bar accidentally.
Besides, the only kind of people who would steal it are mostly between two and three feet tall, and I can easily run those down.
And wrestle them to the ground.
Or outrun them, if they bite.
I have only seen one other person with the exact same backpack. She's a small person with an older brother and a mommy, and I am not certain that she uses it for briars and a tin or two of a zesty Virginia - Perique mixture. Maybe Dunhill's Elizabethan, or Esoterica's Dunbar. And Dorchester.
In any case, she's already got hers, so she won't be taking mine.
She doesn't look vicious at all.
They'll welcome me with open arms the next time I visit SoCal.
I can tell them all about fine smoking mixtures.
I'll be their pipe tobacco apostle.
They await.
==========================================================================
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,...
