Sadly, this blogger does not know any place where one may find Chiu Chow Brined Duck (潮州滷水鴨 'chiu jau lou seui ngaap'). Which is a great and good thing to eat with a little garlic chili vinegar dip.
And rice splashed with a little of the liquid.
Late at night.
The process is simple enough: a whole duck is first plucked, then briefly blanched to remove the gaminess, after wich it is simmered in a brine flavoured with galangal, ginger, coriander seeds, dried mandarin peel, fennel, soy sauce, and star anise, for a scant hour on the lowest heat.
The pot is taken off the stove and left to cool for a few hours.
And voila! The bird can be served!
One can use pretty much the same process to do brined goose (鹵水鵝 'lou seui ngo'), factoring in that it's a bigger bird.
Both are famous Chiu Chow specialties available in Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia ......
San Francisco is none of those.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, September 17, 2017
Saturday, September 16, 2017
A BANE UPON HIS TRIBULATION!
Good thing I went out to eat yesterday afternoon, because when I finally returned home she was cooking a delicious vegetable stew for her mucky man, and the kitchen was off limits. So preparing my own food would have been out of the question entirely, as I wouldn't have been able to use the kitchen till long after nine o'clock.
She didn't used to be so neurotic about me being in there at the same time that she's making food to take over to mucky man's house, but without her he'd probably subsist on protein bars and non-dairy yoghurt.
My presence can be baleful.
There are cookies in the teevee room in case I get desperate, but this week they are "pumpkin sandwich cookies with pumpkin cream filling in every bite", which, if you ask me, is a repulsive concept so bad that some people are going to burn for an eternity in hell just for inventing them.
Her absurd experimentation with a new snack.
Not mine. I am not that adventurous.
Pumpkins are evil.
Besides, it is far too early for anything pumpkin, despite what Mary Walters back east says. Now is the time for mooncakes (月餅 'yuet bing'). Which are finally available again at several bakeries in Chinatown. The two best sources are Eastern Bakery on Grant and Double AA on Stockton.
AA BAKERY & CAFÉ
永興餅家茶餐廳 ('wing hing bing ka cha chan teng')
1068 Stockton Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
(415) 981-0123
EASTERN BAKERY
東亞餅家 ('tung ah bing ka')
720 Grant Avenue
San Francisco, CA 94108
(415) 433-7973
Remember, I like double egg yolk, either lotus seed paste or red bean. 雙黃蓮蓉 ('seung wong lin yung')or 雙黃豆沙 ('seung wong dau saa').
In case anyone wants to buy me a treat.
Because they are delicious!
The mid-autumn festival is on October 4 this year.
中秋節 ('jung chau jit').
Years ago I would share mooncakes with my coworkers, but I discovered that if they were white and American they weren't as excited about them as I was. Their reactions often amounted to "that's so interesting I do not want another piece", and some of them would stay out my way for the rest of the week, for fear that I would force more new concepts on them.
I remember one blonde, attractive in a way, who never spoke to me again. No, not the paranoid ditz in International Sales at the computer company who became convinced that I had evil voodoo skillz -- I had disquisitioned on kuru in the weeks before the Arkansas chicken ranch cannibal episode ("Chaco Chicken") of the X-Files aired, forgetting that many people are too literal minded, and have no curiosity -- but a woman at an auditing firm.
The mooncake was just too foreign strange weird for her.
Mooncakes fill me with childish pleasure.
Some people don't have that.
My apartment sort-of likes them. She's younger than me, but not as childish. I'll just assume that her boyfriend Old Muckity doesn't.
I don't know. He's as white as I am, but more of an idiot.
Whether he gets mooncakes or not, meh.
Not my concern either way.
Doof.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
She didn't used to be so neurotic about me being in there at the same time that she's making food to take over to mucky man's house, but without her he'd probably subsist on protein bars and non-dairy yoghurt.
My presence can be baleful.
There are cookies in the teevee room in case I get desperate, but this week they are "pumpkin sandwich cookies with pumpkin cream filling in every bite", which, if you ask me, is a repulsive concept so bad that some people are going to burn for an eternity in hell just for inventing them.
Her absurd experimentation with a new snack.
Not mine. I am not that adventurous.
Pumpkins are evil.
Besides, it is far too early for anything pumpkin, despite what Mary Walters back east says. Now is the time for mooncakes (月餅 'yuet bing'). Which are finally available again at several bakeries in Chinatown. The two best sources are Eastern Bakery on Grant and Double AA on Stockton.
AA BAKERY & CAFÉ
永興餅家茶餐廳 ('wing hing bing ka cha chan teng')
1068 Stockton Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
(415) 981-0123
EASTERN BAKERY
東亞餅家 ('tung ah bing ka')
720 Grant Avenue
San Francisco, CA 94108
(415) 433-7973
Remember, I like double egg yolk, either lotus seed paste or red bean. 雙黃蓮蓉 ('seung wong lin yung')or 雙黃豆沙 ('seung wong dau saa').
In case anyone wants to buy me a treat.
Because they are delicious!
The mid-autumn festival is on October 4 this year.
中秋節 ('jung chau jit').
Years ago I would share mooncakes with my coworkers, but I discovered that if they were white and American they weren't as excited about them as I was. Their reactions often amounted to "that's so interesting I do not want another piece", and some of them would stay out my way for the rest of the week, for fear that I would force more new concepts on them.
I remember one blonde, attractive in a way, who never spoke to me again. No, not the paranoid ditz in International Sales at the computer company who became convinced that I had evil voodoo skillz -- I had disquisitioned on kuru in the weeks before the Arkansas chicken ranch cannibal episode ("Chaco Chicken") of the X-Files aired, forgetting that many people are too literal minded, and have no curiosity -- but a woman at an auditing firm.
The mooncake was just too foreign strange weird for her.
Mooncakes fill me with childish pleasure.
Some people don't have that.
My apartment sort-of likes them. She's younger than me, but not as childish. I'll just assume that her boyfriend Old Muckity doesn't.
I don't know. He's as white as I am, but more of an idiot.
Whether he gets mooncakes or not, meh.
Not my concern either way.
Doof.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, September 15, 2017
SEVERAL ALLEYWAYS AND A DINGBAT
Speculatively, the badger picked up a pipe and the tin of tobacco, thought for a moment, then put both items down. Not now. He would smoke after lunch. Life was good, and everything indicated that it would be a lovely day.
Except, of course, that due to modern laws he could not enjoy a smoke indoors except in his own home when the kitten was at work, and lunch as usual would be down in Chinatown.
It was probably a good thing that his apartment mate of many years was a non-smoker, as otherwise his place would stink. It was even better that her love interest was some blinky marmot in a wheelchair who lived over near the wharf, because what with being a bitter hardened cynic, the badger was sickened by other folks's saccharine interactions. Except for the two black gay guys tonguing each other in a bar the other night; that had been strangely fascinating.
The badger was, as you would probably guess, a bachelor. There was no female in his life, a love weasel or humpity beaver, or whatever have you.
He found the gentler sex attractive, but was cognizant of his own image of non-approachability and fearsomeness.
Badgers are irascible.
Besides, ladies who liked pipe-smoking forest creatures and comforts such as hot milk tea, porkchops, and just wandering through forest glades occasionally growling angrily at the pretty butterflies were rare.
There was a grey mouser with beautiful soft fur who lives near the diggings on 新呂宋巷 who allowed brief petting, but the badger could not tell the gender of the beast. It could well have been male, and in any case they spoke different languages.
A beautiful world.
* * * * *
Yeah, I'm heading into C'town for eaties later. The third tin of Stonehenge Flake is almost gone. The pipe I'll bring is large enough that it should last from somewhere near Grant Avenue all the way down to where the parrots congregate in the evening. Sadly, they've removed all the benches from that particular park, because the street people hiding in the bushes there scared folks, and tended to hog the seating.
While watching a rat scurrying through the fallen leaves there recently I was approached by an individual who entirely unbidden and without prompting told me about his run-ins with the FBI, because they knew his thoughts.
He also shared those details. The rat was far more interesting.
I like animals somewhat better than humans.
There are benches on 襟美慎街 near the 關帝廟 as well as a small park where it is pleasant to sit, and by the time I've finished lunch (should I have pork chops and rice?) the office workers will be few.
There may be a feline who lives nearby.
It looks like a cat kind of area.
NOTES
Spofford Alley, Commercial Street, and a temple dedicated to Lord Guan.
GLP's Stonehenge Flake is mostly Virginia, complex and mild.
The pipe is a Peterson System Standard, shape 307.
It's a private park, smoking is allowed.
Tomato pork chop rice.
蕃茄豬扒飯。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It was probably a good thing that his apartment mate of many years was a non-smoker, as otherwise his place would stink. It was even better that her love interest was some blinky marmot in a wheelchair who lived over near the wharf, because what with being a bitter hardened cynic, the badger was sickened by other folks's saccharine interactions. Except for the two black gay guys tonguing each other in a bar the other night; that had been strangely fascinating.
The badger was, as you would probably guess, a bachelor. There was no female in his life, a love weasel or humpity beaver, or whatever have you.
He found the gentler sex attractive, but was cognizant of his own image of non-approachability and fearsomeness.
Badgers are irascible.
Besides, ladies who liked pipe-smoking forest creatures and comforts such as hot milk tea, porkchops, and just wandering through forest glades occasionally growling angrily at the pretty butterflies were rare.
There was a grey mouser with beautiful soft fur who lives near the diggings on 新呂宋巷 who allowed brief petting, but the badger could not tell the gender of the beast. It could well have been male, and in any case they spoke different languages.
A beautiful world.
* * * * *
Yeah, I'm heading into C'town for eaties later. The third tin of Stonehenge Flake is almost gone. The pipe I'll bring is large enough that it should last from somewhere near Grant Avenue all the way down to where the parrots congregate in the evening. Sadly, they've removed all the benches from that particular park, because the street people hiding in the bushes there scared folks, and tended to hog the seating.
While watching a rat scurrying through the fallen leaves there recently I was approached by an individual who entirely unbidden and without prompting told me about his run-ins with the FBI, because they knew his thoughts.
He also shared those details. The rat was far more interesting.
I like animals somewhat better than humans.
There are benches on 襟美慎街 near the 關帝廟 as well as a small park where it is pleasant to sit, and by the time I've finished lunch (should I have pork chops and rice?) the office workers will be few.
There may be a feline who lives nearby.
It looks like a cat kind of area.
NOTES
Spofford Alley, Commercial Street, and a temple dedicated to Lord Guan.
GLP's Stonehenge Flake is mostly Virginia, complex and mild.
The pipe is a Peterson System Standard, shape 307.
It's a private park, smoking is allowed.
Tomato pork chop rice.
蕃茄豬扒飯。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, September 14, 2017
THE MENTAL FEAST
We do not need your lunatics, we have our own. I came home to women who were overweight and underdressed. As well as drunk. Habitually.
My apartment mate was watching The Real House Wives of ... Someplace Gerdawful. She herself weighs half of what those ladies do, but then she's Cantonese and not an alcoholic. Other than some minor peculiarities she would not make good television. You'd have to know her.
Knowing her is a good thing. Knowing me, likely far less so.
I tend to have obsessions more intense than hers.
And I can't seem to drop subjects.
Plus I'm too full of myself.
Like Peter Ustinov.
Bad Poirot
A friend in New York has said "the heck with cholent, we're having beef bourguignon for supper on Saturday". Which is a very lovely idea.
It sparked my recollection.
BOEUF BOURGUIGNONNE
Posted on Wednesday, May 2, 2012
No, it isn't a recipe, but a description of procedure and eye-balled proportion. It always works, though.
Cholent, Beef Bouguignon, Dhansak (also part of the memory string), and several dishes that since becoming single again I never cook anymore.
I miss them, but there is nobody with whom to eat.
Instead of complicated stuff, I had fuzzy melon and pork soup, with garlic bread for dinner tonight. Home made, and easy to prepare.
Sort of Chinese meets Italian American.
It was good.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My apartment mate was watching The Real House Wives of ... Someplace Gerdawful. She herself weighs half of what those ladies do, but then she's Cantonese and not an alcoholic. Other than some minor peculiarities she would not make good television. You'd have to know her.
Knowing her is a good thing. Knowing me, likely far less so.
I tend to have obsessions more intense than hers.
And I can't seem to drop subjects.
Plus I'm too full of myself.
Like Peter Ustinov.
Bad Poirot
A friend in New York has said "the heck with cholent, we're having beef bourguignon for supper on Saturday". Which is a very lovely idea.
It sparked my recollection.
BOEUF BOURGUIGNONNE
Posted on Wednesday, May 2, 2012
No, it isn't a recipe, but a description of procedure and eye-balled proportion. It always works, though.
Cholent, Beef Bouguignon, Dhansak (also part of the memory string), and several dishes that since becoming single again I never cook anymore.
I miss them, but there is nobody with whom to eat.
Instead of complicated stuff, I had fuzzy melon and pork soup, with garlic bread for dinner tonight. Home made, and easy to prepare.
Sort of Chinese meets Italian American.
It was good.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THEY ALSO DO WHITE BREAKFAST
While eating lunch and watching the television in the corner I also scoped out the specials on the walls. For most of them a translation was provided, but there were five listed near the teevee with no English.
Breakfast noodles.
I should go there for breakfast sometime, but I had already decided on the Thai gravy pork chop rice (泰汁豬扒飯 'taai jap chyu baa faan') and the kitchen stops doing breakfast at around eleven. Much of their business is early in the morning, and lunch is mostly the icing on the cake, and a far more casual thing, seeing as they close at three thirty.
This was one of the very few times I got out of the house early enough to have lunch there and dawdle over my hot beverage.
Which is a precious pleasure.
Their lunch specials come with soup of the day, garlic bread, and Hong Kong style milk tea.
In any case, the Chinese-only breakfast specials did not strike me as in any way racist or discriminatory, seeing as I too will assume that most if not entirely all Caucasians and many American-born Chinese would not consider them suitable food for the crack of dawn.
Maybe even not ever.
蠔油豬肚湯麵 Oyster sauce pig stomach soup noodles.
蠔油豬肚米粉 Oyster sauce pig stomach rice vermicelli.
蠔油豬肚河粉 Oyster sauce pig stomach rice stick.
蠔油豬肚瀨粉 Oyster sauce pig stomach laaifun.
蠔油豬肚公仔麵 Oyster sauce pig stomach insta-noodle.
[Explicata: 蠔油豬肚湯麵 'hou-yau chyu-tou tong min' 米粉 'mai fan' 河粉 'ho fan' 瀨粉 'laai fun' 公仔麵 'gung jai min'.]
You can see now why I am determined to go there for breakfast, and soon. It sounds scrumpty, even though pig stomach is something impossible to eat. Perhaps they'll do a substitution? I'm thinking oyster sauce PORK CHOP laaifun. As just one thing that comes easily to mind.
蠔油豬扒瀨粉 'hou-yau chyu baa laai fan'.
I'll gladly pay more for that.
新麗晶西餐廳
638 Pacific Avenue,
San Francisco, CA 94133.
(415) 392-6688
For breakfast they have things with bacon and eggs, or ham and eggs, steak and eggs, pork chop and eggs, or spam, sausage, and eggs .....
AND they have Sriracha hotsauce!
I'm also thinking that I should ask about 港式咖哩豬扒。
Curry pork chop ('gong sik gaa-lei chyu baa').
Maybe for lunch next time. With rice.
Please note that I post their name and address with enormous trepidation, because my places are so often not other people's places, and this place is seriously old-school Hong Kong Cantonese. Besides, Caucasians, Indians, Europeans, and Americanized Chinese, all delight in slamming restaurants where something was not up to their impossibly high standards OR they weren't treated like some deity shat them out, and will find anything imaginable to belly-ache about. Especially young urban types.
Shan't even mention the Filipinos.
Am I obsessing over pork chops?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Breakfast noodles.
I should go there for breakfast sometime, but I had already decided on the Thai gravy pork chop rice (泰汁豬扒飯 'taai jap chyu baa faan') and the kitchen stops doing breakfast at around eleven. Much of their business is early in the morning, and lunch is mostly the icing on the cake, and a far more casual thing, seeing as they close at three thirty.
This was one of the very few times I got out of the house early enough to have lunch there and dawdle over my hot beverage.
Which is a precious pleasure.
Their lunch specials come with soup of the day, garlic bread, and Hong Kong style milk tea.
In any case, the Chinese-only breakfast specials did not strike me as in any way racist or discriminatory, seeing as I too will assume that most if not entirely all Caucasians and many American-born Chinese would not consider them suitable food for the crack of dawn.
Maybe even not ever.
蠔油豬肚湯麵 Oyster sauce pig stomach soup noodles.
蠔油豬肚米粉 Oyster sauce pig stomach rice vermicelli.
蠔油豬肚河粉 Oyster sauce pig stomach rice stick.
蠔油豬肚瀨粉 Oyster sauce pig stomach laaifun.
蠔油豬肚公仔麵 Oyster sauce pig stomach insta-noodle.
[Explicata: 蠔油豬肚湯麵 'hou-yau chyu-tou tong min' 米粉 'mai fan' 河粉 'ho fan' 瀨粉 'laai fun' 公仔麵 'gung jai min'.]
You can see now why I am determined to go there for breakfast, and soon. It sounds scrumpty, even though pig stomach is something impossible to eat. Perhaps they'll do a substitution? I'm thinking oyster sauce PORK CHOP laaifun. As just one thing that comes easily to mind.
蠔油豬扒瀨粉 'hou-yau chyu baa laai fan'.
I'll gladly pay more for that.
新麗晶西餐廳
638 Pacific Avenue,
San Francisco, CA 94133.
(415) 392-6688
For breakfast they have things with bacon and eggs, or ham and eggs, steak and eggs, pork chop and eggs, or spam, sausage, and eggs .....
AND they have Sriracha hotsauce!
I'm also thinking that I should ask about 港式咖哩豬扒。
Curry pork chop ('gong sik gaa-lei chyu baa').
Maybe for lunch next time. With rice.
Please note that I post their name and address with enormous trepidation, because my places are so often not other people's places, and this place is seriously old-school Hong Kong Cantonese. Besides, Caucasians, Indians, Europeans, and Americanized Chinese, all delight in slamming restaurants where something was not up to their impossibly high standards OR they weren't treated like some deity shat them out, and will find anything imaginable to belly-ache about. Especially young urban types.
Shan't even mention the Filipinos.
Am I obsessing over pork chops?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, September 13, 2017
THE OBSESSIVE LIST
There are some things one hesitates to do in public, because they give other people murderous impulses. One of those is smoking a full Latakia mixture in one's pipe. If one were to do that in Berkeley, for instance, one might get pummeled to death by full-on Feminist-o-vegan dumptrucks, or triggered willow-men, also vegan.
Plus earth-mothers and sun-fathers.
Moonbeams in Mayan shirts.
So, for the third day in a row I shall studiously avoid Berkeley. And like yesterday head down to Chinatown, where men are men and women are fairly tolerant of peculiar old farts. Lunch, then a bench in an alleyway.
I am smoking Dunhill's Nightcap, which reminds me of my youth.
Thoroughly misspent, and enjoyable.
It's a Lat bomb.
But that brings up another question, namely the list of pipe tobaccos that a newbie really must try. And everyone has seen such a list. Here's mine, in alpha order, with why you should try these.
Bengal Slices.
Both the original and Russ Oullette's version are damned fine smokes, though the latter is way stinkier. Remember Berkeley?
This will get you killed there.
Borkum Riff -- aromatic Cav. mix.
Named, appropriately, after the location of numerous ship wrecks.
Mediocre mouth-burning sog-pew.
Capstan -- flake.
Solid stuff. Good-o.
Captain Black Grape -- grape soda Cavendish.
Not one iota of tobacco flavour, smooth and mild, and virtually bite free.
It may ghost your pipe and prompt your friends to stage an intervention.
I hope they use whips and chains.
Captain Black White -- rhymes with 'shite'.
Some pervert will recommend this to you. Only reason to smoke it is probably bragging rights, like riding a mechanical bull.
Cornell & Diehl Haunted Bookshop -- Burley based.
The late Bob Runowski created this splendid blend. Good when fresh, but gorgeous when aged a year or more. Like Bob's many other creations this is old-fashioned Americana, and perhaps not to everyone's liking.
Cult Blood Red Moon -- Cavendish Burley Cherry.
Mary in the Carolinas loved this when she was a wee lass about a year ago. I think she's grown up since then. I smoked it once. Only once.
Tastes like chocolate cherry, emphasis on the cherry.
I despise such things, and so should you.
Dunhill Early Morning Pipe -- mild English.
Good stuff.
Dunhill Dark Flake -- a mahogany-hued Virginia.
Almost perfumy, and quite mild. A contemplative smoke, perfect in cold rainy weather or the quiet after midnight.
Dunhill Flake -- a standard Virginia.
Decent tobacco, good as a palate cleanser.
Dunhill My Mixture 965 -- medium Oriental.
This has become the standard medium Latakia mixture by which others in this class are judged, though Dunhill's London Mixture is quite as valid, and Greg Pease's Westminster is better.
Dunhill Nightcap -- full Latakia mixture.
Pretty wonderful stuff. May get you killed. Worth it. The recipe has changed since the seventies.
Dunhill Ready Rubbed -- Virginia, and a little Burley.
The leaf was grown in Africa and India. Some people mistakenly detect Turkish. It's an unassuming and pleasant product, which will not impress you on first smoke, but once you have finished the tin you will wish you bought more.
Erinmore Flake -- bizarre fruit fragrance flake.
Bragging rights and nightmares are the only reason.
I have a year's worth stockpiled.
Sick.
Esoterica Penzance -- full-press Latakia crumble.
A cult tobacco, reminiscent of the old Bengal slices. The perfect smoke just before dawn, but some people fetishize it ridiculously, and as soon as Arango has received a shipment from Jersey they start calling up every tobacconist they know and making nuisances of themselves.
It is an over-rated must-have.
Esoterica Stonehaven -- Burley & Virginia flake.
Cult tobacco, again. Why?!?
Germain & Son Brown Flake OR Medium Flake.
Both are classic Virginias which you should acquire whenever you see them in the United States. Incense-like tobacco.
GLP Haddo's Delight -- Virginias and aircured stuff.
Smells wonderful when someone else is smoking it. A cult tobacco.
GLP Regents Flake -- Virginia and Turkish.
There was a sample tin from the sales rep. Which I pocketed because it's lovely stuff. Finished that over a year ago, and persuaded the local store to stock more of it. Some of which I now have stashed.
GLP Stonehenge Flake -- Virginias, Perique.
Grassy and creamy Virginia - Burley - Perique compound, top notch.
GLP Union Square -- Virginia Flake.
If you don't like Latakia, this is the best thing Greg has ever done.
GLP Westminster -- medium full Latakia.
If you like Latakia, this is the best thing Greg has ever done.
Very old-fashioned. What a tobacco should be.
Half and Half -- aircured and fluecured.
A decent smoke can be coaxed out of this in a cob.
McClelland No. 5100 Red Cake - Virginia.
The classic red Virginia to judge other red Virginias by. Solid, respectable, and altogether pretty good.
McConnell's Folded Flake -- Virginia and Perique.
People tend to ignore this, but it's a very nice product.
I found several ten-year old tins.
Orlick's Golden Sliced -- thin Virginia flakes.
A solid regular tobacco, the choice of all shrewd judges.
Peter Stokkebye Luxury Bullseye -- sliced coin.
A very respectable and satisfying staple at most tobacconists, and an excellent fall-back position.
Peter Stokkebye Balkan Supreme -- bulk Oriental.
Also a staple, or it should be. One of the very best bulk blends.
Peterson Irish Flake -- dark flake.
Smells lovely in the tin. Strong. I hesitate to open it because it wallops me. What aftershave should smell like.
Peterson's Perfect Plug -- block.
Men or women who smoke this habitually have issues.
That aside, it is a solid product.
Educational.
Rattray Red Rapparee -- medium Oriental.
Solid stuff. One can understand how Rattray became so well-known. In the seventies and eighties it was manufactured by McConnell, now it is made by Orlick for Kohlhase & Kopp.
RLP 6 -- slighty fruity Medium Cav. mixture.
Like 1Q, it is on every list, and shares with that crap the distinction of being incredibly popular.
St. Bruno Flake -- firecured leaf and Virginia, topped.
A tobacco for elderly fuddy-duddies with only a modicum of depravity and bad taste. Smokes well, enjoyable, rather monodimensional.
By the third tin you will need a vacation.
Samuel Gawith Full Virginia Flake.
Solid stuff. Needs drying after rubbing out a supply. Very satisfying. If you like this, the Best Brown and the Golden Glow will also please you.
Samuel Gawith Squadron Leader -- medium Oriental.
If you were somewhere where this, and only this, were available, you'd be in a mighty fine place. Don't leave.
Samuel Gawith 1792 Flake -- Good lord!
Assertively flavoured with tonquin, this smells like your elderly maiden aunt. It's good, in a questionable sort of way. Most people find it peculiar.
Solomon's Presbyterian Mixture - Orientals.
You are a degenerate and you do not mind others knowing that. Your wife or apartment mate may harbour evil intent towards you. Go smoke near the ruined church with the weasels and hobos.
Good stuff. Stinky.
Sutliff Molto Dolce -- aromatic and eternally moist.
This is mummified tobacco that does not dry. A disgusting experience.
It is the best example of what a smoking mixture should never be.
Popular among neckbeards and mamma's boys.
Sutliff Mixture 79 -- Burley, urinal disc.
Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, and even Hugh Heffner smoked this. The last time I tried it, it ruined my mouth for the rest of day.
Sock drawer bug repellant.
1Q -- medium Cavendish mixture with caramel.
This is shit tobacco, but available everywhere under different names, and while it's basically crap, repulsive and odious, it is not too bad. Though it does lead to insanity.
Over the weekend I did a few bowls of Penzance from my gloat-stash ("ha ha, I have it and you don't"), but nightcap is much more fun.
[A previous essay mentioning Penzance indirectly taught me the meaning of 'neckbeard'. Regarding aros, what I wrote about McClelland's Honeydew is still valid.]
I honestly do not understand why Penzance is a must-have. Blakeney's Best Latakia Flake (by McClelland) is just as good, and reminds me more of the old Bengal Slices. And it goes very well with a glass of Oloroso. Some of Greg Pease's pressed Latakia mixtures are better by far, and MacBaren's HH Latakia Flake is damned well perfume-candy-incense in the pressed Latakia compounds category, intoxicating and musk-like.
All of these smell like heaven.
"J'adore l'arôme unique de Clan ... "
In a world where women exclaim that the smell of Clan Pipe Tobacco (now made by STG) makes them, like, totally lubricious, it stands to reason that aromatic garbage is the largest category of smoking mixture available.
Such women are sluts, their pipe-men depraved.
Or vice versa.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Moonbeams in Mayan shirts.
So, for the third day in a row I shall studiously avoid Berkeley. And like yesterday head down to Chinatown, where men are men and women are fairly tolerant of peculiar old farts. Lunch, then a bench in an alleyway.
I am smoking Dunhill's Nightcap, which reminds me of my youth.
Thoroughly misspent, and enjoyable.
It's a Lat bomb.
But that brings up another question, namely the list of pipe tobaccos that a newbie really must try. And everyone has seen such a list. Here's mine, in alpha order, with why you should try these.
Bengal Slices.
Both the original and Russ Oullette's version are damned fine smokes, though the latter is way stinkier. Remember Berkeley?
This will get you killed there.
Borkum Riff -- aromatic Cav. mix.
Named, appropriately, after the location of numerous ship wrecks.
Mediocre mouth-burning sog-pew.
Capstan -- flake.
Solid stuff. Good-o.
Captain Black Grape -- grape soda Cavendish.
Not one iota of tobacco flavour, smooth and mild, and virtually bite free.
It may ghost your pipe and prompt your friends to stage an intervention.
I hope they use whips and chains.
Captain Black White -- rhymes with 'shite'.
Some pervert will recommend this to you. Only reason to smoke it is probably bragging rights, like riding a mechanical bull.
Cornell & Diehl Haunted Bookshop -- Burley based.
The late Bob Runowski created this splendid blend. Good when fresh, but gorgeous when aged a year or more. Like Bob's many other creations this is old-fashioned Americana, and perhaps not to everyone's liking.
Cult Blood Red Moon -- Cavendish Burley Cherry.
Mary in the Carolinas loved this when she was a wee lass about a year ago. I think she's grown up since then. I smoked it once. Only once.
Tastes like chocolate cherry, emphasis on the cherry.
I despise such things, and so should you.
Dunhill Early Morning Pipe -- mild English.
Good stuff.
Dunhill Dark Flake -- a mahogany-hued Virginia.
Almost perfumy, and quite mild. A contemplative smoke, perfect in cold rainy weather or the quiet after midnight.
Dunhill Flake -- a standard Virginia.
Decent tobacco, good as a palate cleanser.
Dunhill My Mixture 965 -- medium Oriental.
This has become the standard medium Latakia mixture by which others in this class are judged, though Dunhill's London Mixture is quite as valid, and Greg Pease's Westminster is better.
Dunhill Nightcap -- full Latakia mixture.
Pretty wonderful stuff. May get you killed. Worth it. The recipe has changed since the seventies.
Dunhill Ready Rubbed -- Virginia, and a little Burley.
The leaf was grown in Africa and India. Some people mistakenly detect Turkish. It's an unassuming and pleasant product, which will not impress you on first smoke, but once you have finished the tin you will wish you bought more.
Erinmore Flake -- bizarre fruit fragrance flake.
Bragging rights and nightmares are the only reason.
I have a year's worth stockpiled.
Sick.
Esoterica Penzance -- full-press Latakia crumble.
A cult tobacco, reminiscent of the old Bengal slices. The perfect smoke just before dawn, but some people fetishize it ridiculously, and as soon as Arango has received a shipment from Jersey they start calling up every tobacconist they know and making nuisances of themselves.
It is an over-rated must-have.
Esoterica Stonehaven -- Burley & Virginia flake.
Cult tobacco, again. Why?!?
Germain & Son Brown Flake OR Medium Flake.
Both are classic Virginias which you should acquire whenever you see them in the United States. Incense-like tobacco.
GLP Haddo's Delight -- Virginias and aircured stuff.
Smells wonderful when someone else is smoking it. A cult tobacco.
GLP Regents Flake -- Virginia and Turkish.
There was a sample tin from the sales rep. Which I pocketed because it's lovely stuff. Finished that over a year ago, and persuaded the local store to stock more of it. Some of which I now have stashed.
GLP Stonehenge Flake -- Virginias, Perique.
Grassy and creamy Virginia - Burley - Perique compound, top notch.
GLP Union Square -- Virginia Flake.
If you don't like Latakia, this is the best thing Greg has ever done.
GLP Westminster -- medium full Latakia.
If you like Latakia, this is the best thing Greg has ever done.
Very old-fashioned. What a tobacco should be.
Half and Half -- aircured and fluecured.
A decent smoke can be coaxed out of this in a cob.
McClelland No. 5100 Red Cake - Virginia.
The classic red Virginia to judge other red Virginias by. Solid, respectable, and altogether pretty good.
McConnell's Folded Flake -- Virginia and Perique.
People tend to ignore this, but it's a very nice product.
I found several ten-year old tins.
Orlick's Golden Sliced -- thin Virginia flakes.
A solid regular tobacco, the choice of all shrewd judges.
Peter Stokkebye Luxury Bullseye -- sliced coin.
A very respectable and satisfying staple at most tobacconists, and an excellent fall-back position.
Peter Stokkebye Balkan Supreme -- bulk Oriental.
Also a staple, or it should be. One of the very best bulk blends.
Peterson Irish Flake -- dark flake.
Smells lovely in the tin. Strong. I hesitate to open it because it wallops me. What aftershave should smell like.
Peterson's Perfect Plug -- block.
Men or women who smoke this habitually have issues.
That aside, it is a solid product.
Educational.
Rattray Red Rapparee -- medium Oriental.
Solid stuff. One can understand how Rattray became so well-known. In the seventies and eighties it was manufactured by McConnell, now it is made by Orlick for Kohlhase & Kopp.
RLP 6 -- slighty fruity Medium Cav. mixture.
Like 1Q, it is on every list, and shares with that crap the distinction of being incredibly popular.
St. Bruno Flake -- firecured leaf and Virginia, topped.
A tobacco for elderly fuddy-duddies with only a modicum of depravity and bad taste. Smokes well, enjoyable, rather monodimensional.
By the third tin you will need a vacation.
Samuel Gawith Full Virginia Flake.
Solid stuff. Needs drying after rubbing out a supply. Very satisfying. If you like this, the Best Brown and the Golden Glow will also please you.
Samuel Gawith Squadron Leader -- medium Oriental.
If you were somewhere where this, and only this, were available, you'd be in a mighty fine place. Don't leave.
Samuel Gawith 1792 Flake -- Good lord!
Assertively flavoured with tonquin, this smells like your elderly maiden aunt. It's good, in a questionable sort of way. Most people find it peculiar.
Solomon's Presbyterian Mixture - Orientals.
You are a degenerate and you do not mind others knowing that. Your wife or apartment mate may harbour evil intent towards you. Go smoke near the ruined church with the weasels and hobos.
Good stuff. Stinky.
Sutliff Molto Dolce -- aromatic and eternally moist.
This is mummified tobacco that does not dry. A disgusting experience.
It is the best example of what a smoking mixture should never be.
Popular among neckbeards and mamma's boys.
Sutliff Mixture 79 -- Burley, urinal disc.
Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, and even Hugh Heffner smoked this. The last time I tried it, it ruined my mouth for the rest of day.
Sock drawer bug repellant.
1Q -- medium Cavendish mixture with caramel.
This is shit tobacco, but available everywhere under different names, and while it's basically crap, repulsive and odious, it is not too bad. Though it does lead to insanity.
Over the weekend I did a few bowls of Penzance from my gloat-stash ("ha ha, I have it and you don't"), but nightcap is much more fun.
[A previous essay mentioning Penzance indirectly taught me the meaning of 'neckbeard'. Regarding aros, what I wrote about McClelland's Honeydew is still valid.]
I honestly do not understand why Penzance is a must-have. Blakeney's Best Latakia Flake (by McClelland) is just as good, and reminds me more of the old Bengal Slices. And it goes very well with a glass of Oloroso. Some of Greg Pease's pressed Latakia mixtures are better by far, and MacBaren's HH Latakia Flake is damned well perfume-candy-incense in the pressed Latakia compounds category, intoxicating and musk-like.
All of these smell like heaven.
"J'adore l'arôme unique de Clan ... "
In a world where women exclaim that the smell of Clan Pipe Tobacco (now made by STG) makes them, like, totally lubricious, it stands to reason that aromatic garbage is the largest category of smoking mixture available.
Such women are sluts, their pipe-men depraved.
Or vice versa.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
WE ARE BETTER THAN ASIA
Nowadays it looks like the only civilized areas of Asia are Japan, South Korea, Hong Kong, and Vietnam. Which is a pity, because after the end of both colonialism and the cold war, that region showed such promise. As just a highlight of things being wrong, consider Burma (ethnic cleansing on a massive scale), the Philippines (extra-judicial killings on a massive scale), and Thailand (sex slavery on a massive scale). Admittedly the Australians and Europeans are partly responsible for the last item, given that they can't brutalize juveniles quite so blatantly in Amsterdam and Sydney, but while the tourists are the customers, the Thais supply the commodity.
India, of course, has become a basket case under Modi.
Lynchings, rape, and journalist killings.
The Philippines are probably the biggest disappointment, for a variety of reasons. But the problem is, largely, that they are idiots.
"Lawmakers in the Philippines have voted to give an annual budget of just 1,000 pesos ($20; £15) to the public body investigating the country's controversial war on drugs. The cut to the budget of the Commission on Human Rights was supported by a margin of 119 to 32 in Congress."
Source: Duterte drug war - BBC
The last time I was in the Philippines it was a shitty banana republic, under Marcos, but we all thought things would get better when that CIA stooge and his shopaholic wife were eventually removed.
We were wrong.
Since then the list of offenses wreaked upon Philippinos committed by their own people has grown beyond comprehension. Timothy Mo once wrote a novel painting the place and the natives in a bad light. Justifiably, but he didn't tell the half of it.
They have great food. They are extremely nice people.
Their society is vicious, rotten, and depraved.
Twenty dollars isn't nearly enough to buy a handbag.
Not even a bootleg Louis Vuitton.
Made locally.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
India, of course, has become a basket case under Modi.
Lynchings, rape, and journalist killings.
The Philippines are probably the biggest disappointment, for a variety of reasons. But the problem is, largely, that they are idiots.
"Lawmakers in the Philippines have voted to give an annual budget of just 1,000 pesos ($20; £15) to the public body investigating the country's controversial war on drugs. The cut to the budget of the Commission on Human Rights was supported by a margin of 119 to 32 in Congress."
Source: Duterte drug war - BBC
The last time I was in the Philippines it was a shitty banana republic, under Marcos, but we all thought things would get better when that CIA stooge and his shopaholic wife were eventually removed.
We were wrong.
Since then the list of offenses wreaked upon Philippinos committed by their own people has grown beyond comprehension. Timothy Mo once wrote a novel painting the place and the natives in a bad light. Justifiably, but he didn't tell the half of it.
They have great food. They are extremely nice people.
Their society is vicious, rotten, and depraved.
Twenty dollars isn't nearly enough to buy a handbag.
Not even a bootleg Louis Vuitton.
Made locally.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DRIED SLUG, OR VINEGAR, SUGAR, AND HINTS OF TOMATO
Sea cucumber is delicious! One of my apartment mate's coworkers gave her some sea cucumber to take home that she had prepared herself, and my apartment mate made disgusting nom-nom-nom sounds while eating it. Naturally I was jealous. Nobody ever (!) gives me sea cucumber, and my colleagues wouldn't recognize it if it came up and bit them in the gand.
Most of them start screaming hysterically when they barely look outside their culinary comfort zone. One of them has a hardboiled egg in his lunch several times a week.
The only points of difference, at times, seem to be the degree of hot sauce and their wildly divergent cigar preferences.
Personally, I can understand people not being on the same page regarding hot sauce -- there are so many types to choose from -- but besides adding a necessary vegetable quotient to one's diet it does tend to make food in the suburbs at least passably edible, which without it far too often isn't.
So I am surprised that the egg man doesn't use it.
Hardboiled eggs and salt.
There are packets of ketchup in the work refrigerator. That's pretty much universal in the United States (and probably nowhere else in the world), because everybody always grabs extra, just in case we run out when someone needs it, which is obviously a common fear.
IF YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT, MANY OF YOU ARE DULL
There is almost certainly a correlation between gustatory adventurousness and mental acuity or breadth of vision. That probably explains why many groupfeeding rituals are dominated by boring shit and pizza. Much more so, and much worse, when it involves company lunches. Which is one good reason why I am happy not to work in a "normal" enterprise, and I still shudder when recalling the choice between vegetarian and vegan.
Two or more kinds in each category, good grief.
How more San Franciscan can it be?
Of course, in the rest of the country, the choices are between beef, beef, beef, and beef, so the vegetarian-vegan-vegetarian trichotomy is an understandable reaction, but still.
For lunch today I shall have rice, or noodles, or rice sticks, or mien pao, or mantou, or even a kong si saam man ji. Stirfried, steamed, boiled, baked, or simmered, with a plentiful choice between two and four legs, feathers, scales, shells, carapaces, and none of the four vegetables that all white people in this country agree upon: lettuce, tomato, onion, and broccoli.
I might even find me some sea cucumber.
Or peanuts, gluten, and meat.
Plus hot sauce.
And I still can't believe that the ONLY condiment that all of you ever agree upon is ketchup. Salt, sugar, vinegar, preservatives, red food colouring.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Most of them start screaming hysterically when they barely look outside their culinary comfort zone. One of them has a hardboiled egg in his lunch several times a week.
The only points of difference, at times, seem to be the degree of hot sauce and their wildly divergent cigar preferences.
Personally, I can understand people not being on the same page regarding hot sauce -- there are so many types to choose from -- but besides adding a necessary vegetable quotient to one's diet it does tend to make food in the suburbs at least passably edible, which without it far too often isn't.
So I am surprised that the egg man doesn't use it.
Hardboiled eggs and salt.
There are packets of ketchup in the work refrigerator. That's pretty much universal in the United States (and probably nowhere else in the world), because everybody always grabs extra, just in case we run out when someone needs it, which is obviously a common fear.
IF YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT, MANY OF YOU ARE DULL
There is almost certainly a correlation between gustatory adventurousness and mental acuity or breadth of vision. That probably explains why many groupfeeding rituals are dominated by boring shit and pizza. Much more so, and much worse, when it involves company lunches. Which is one good reason why I am happy not to work in a "normal" enterprise, and I still shudder when recalling the choice between vegetarian and vegan.
Two or more kinds in each category, good grief.
How more San Franciscan can it be?
Of course, in the rest of the country, the choices are between beef, beef, beef, and beef, so the vegetarian-vegan-vegetarian trichotomy is an understandable reaction, but still.
For lunch today I shall have rice, or noodles, or rice sticks, or mien pao, or mantou, or even a kong si saam man ji. Stirfried, steamed, boiled, baked, or simmered, with a plentiful choice between two and four legs, feathers, scales, shells, carapaces, and none of the four vegetables that all white people in this country agree upon: lettuce, tomato, onion, and broccoli.
I might even find me some sea cucumber.
Or peanuts, gluten, and meat.
Plus hot sauce.
And I still can't believe that the ONLY condiment that all of you ever agree upon is ketchup. Salt, sugar, vinegar, preservatives, red food colouring.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, September 11, 2017
NOT VISIBLE TO UNASSISTED EYE
This day is strange. It is raining right now in San Francisco, and there is thunder and lightening. Yet the apartment still feels too warm, and I am presently wearing only zesty boxer shorts, you should see me.
Actually, you shouldn't. I am actually a fairly modest man, my exhibitionist tendencies are a private affair, and I'm afraid that only the stuffed animals have seen me thus these past few years.
They are usually properly horrified, and have expressed the opinion that human beings are on the whole rather repulsive, unlike their own fine fuzzy selves when naked.
Still. Thunder, lightening, rain.
Since before seven o'clock.
Intermittent squalls.
Our banana slug president blames the Chinese, Rush Limbaugh opines that it's a liberal plot, and Alex Jones is convinced it's an evil conspiracy to impose a global government by the Bilderbergers and lizard people.
I'll take 'the Chinese' for a thousand dollars, Mr. Trebek.
I heard one of those Chinese people go on and on today about little white nipples. He sounded halfway insane, even if you factored in that what he actually meant was the adapter that made a standard can of butane suitable for an old-style Dunhill lighter. The little white nipple.
Everybody else calls it the little white nipple too.
It's not just him.
But never mind that. Normal people do NOT spend over forty five minutes hectoring another person about little white nipples. Thanks to that fine exemplar of obsessed Chinese manly consumerhood, I still have the phrase "little white nipples" stuck in my head.
I myself, as a Caucasian male, have relatively small white nipples, though they used to be even bitsier. The only person who has seen them in several years is my apartment mate, presently in her room asleep with the window open. She has no interest in my little white nipples.
Unlike her queer fellow tribesman.
The nice little white nipples.
Of which there are two.
Rather pinkish.
Time for strawberry ice cream.
UPDATE AS OF 10:26 PM
There is no strawberry ice cream! Nor any Rocky Road, or Cookie Dough! She ate all of it! What's left is a triple chocolate, which is delicious but a bit heavy. That Chinese woman must have had it for dinner, no wonder she's so exhausted. And on second thought, she does have a thing for some little white nipples, because her boyfriend is white, but I do not know how his little white nipples compare to my little white nipples. They are probably better. He is younger, more boyish, and immature.
I have never in my entire life talked about nipples for more than ten minutes.
White or otherwise.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Actually, you shouldn't. I am actually a fairly modest man, my exhibitionist tendencies are a private affair, and I'm afraid that only the stuffed animals have seen me thus these past few years.
They are usually properly horrified, and have expressed the opinion that human beings are on the whole rather repulsive, unlike their own fine fuzzy selves when naked.
Still. Thunder, lightening, rain.
Since before seven o'clock.
Intermittent squalls.
Our banana slug president blames the Chinese, Rush Limbaugh opines that it's a liberal plot, and Alex Jones is convinced it's an evil conspiracy to impose a global government by the Bilderbergers and lizard people.
I'll take 'the Chinese' for a thousand dollars, Mr. Trebek.
I heard one of those Chinese people go on and on today about little white nipples. He sounded halfway insane, even if you factored in that what he actually meant was the adapter that made a standard can of butane suitable for an old-style Dunhill lighter. The little white nipple.
Everybody else calls it the little white nipple too.
It's not just him.
But never mind that. Normal people do NOT spend over forty five minutes hectoring another person about little white nipples. Thanks to that fine exemplar of obsessed Chinese manly consumerhood, I still have the phrase "little white nipples" stuck in my head.
I myself, as a Caucasian male, have relatively small white nipples, though they used to be even bitsier. The only person who has seen them in several years is my apartment mate, presently in her room asleep with the window open. She has no interest in my little white nipples.
Unlike her queer fellow tribesman.
The nice little white nipples.
Of which there are two.
Rather pinkish.
Time for strawberry ice cream.
UPDATE AS OF 10:26 PM
There is no strawberry ice cream! Nor any Rocky Road, or Cookie Dough! She ate all of it! What's left is a triple chocolate, which is delicious but a bit heavy. That Chinese woman must have had it for dinner, no wonder she's so exhausted. And on second thought, she does have a thing for some little white nipples, because her boyfriend is white, but I do not know how his little white nipples compare to my little white nipples. They are probably better. He is younger, more boyish, and immature.
I have never in my entire life talked about nipples for more than ten minutes.
White or otherwise.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE STANDING, SIT
There are two issues which more than any other fuel discord in American households, and because of them I think you are all nuts.
Irreversibly insane.
Toilet seats and how to hang the roll.
Fastidious struggling of the inner soul, moral torture, and existential crises. Special ops. Cerulean trousers. Chins up, men, and trousers down.
And little personal things like smelling your own armpits.
My apartment mate and I have never argued about this, and solved both problems admirably without realizing the sheer heresy of doing so.
Or doing it in the manner we did it.
The seat goes whichever way is best for the person in the bathroom at that moment, the roll stands on a nearby surface.
We are both from outer space, and observing this planet for the invasion fleet; when our job is done the ship will come to take us home. Okay?
The rest of you are quite batshit.
You know that, right?
"There's that marvellous unpunctuated motto over the lavatory saying, "Gentlemen lift the seat". What exactly does this mean? Is it a sociological description, a definition of a gentleman which I can either take or leave?
Or, perhaps it's a Loyal Toast?"
---Jonathan Miller, The Heat-Death of the Universe, Beyond the Fringe
All of this comes to mind because I have not seen or considered the nudity and frequently linked thereto bathroom usage of any man or woman other than my own self in one hell of a long time. And, consequently, I have no idea how other households cope with either issue (seats and bumwad).
In this apartment we have not devoted much thought to it at all, and we use bathrobes to maintain propriety, but it is, apparently, a major source of tiff and howling among the masses. Who at this hour are engaged in screaming at each other over the bathroom, and plotting vengeful mayhem.
Or so many people tell me. Mostly women.
Gentlemen lift the seat.
The first cup of coffee does marvelous things to the mind.
And makes one think of bathrooms and rolls.
Rather rangy marsh birds.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Irreversibly insane.
Toilet seats and how to hang the roll.
Fastidious struggling of the inner soul, moral torture, and existential crises. Special ops. Cerulean trousers. Chins up, men, and trousers down.
And little personal things like smelling your own armpits.
My apartment mate and I have never argued about this, and solved both problems admirably without realizing the sheer heresy of doing so.
Or doing it in the manner we did it.
The seat goes whichever way is best for the person in the bathroom at that moment, the roll stands on a nearby surface.
We are both from outer space, and observing this planet for the invasion fleet; when our job is done the ship will come to take us home. Okay?
The rest of you are quite batshit.
You know that, right?
"There's that marvellous unpunctuated motto over the lavatory saying, "Gentlemen lift the seat". What exactly does this mean? Is it a sociological description, a definition of a gentleman which I can either take or leave?
Or, perhaps it's a Loyal Toast?"
---Jonathan Miller, The Heat-Death of the Universe, Beyond the Fringe
All of this comes to mind because I have not seen or considered the nudity and frequently linked thereto bathroom usage of any man or woman other than my own self in one hell of a long time. And, consequently, I have no idea how other households cope with either issue (seats and bumwad).
In this apartment we have not devoted much thought to it at all, and we use bathrobes to maintain propriety, but it is, apparently, a major source of tiff and howling among the masses. Who at this hour are engaged in screaming at each other over the bathroom, and plotting vengeful mayhem.
Or so many people tell me. Mostly women.
Gentlemen lift the seat.
The first cup of coffee does marvelous things to the mind.
And makes one think of bathrooms and rolls.
Rather rangy marsh birds.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, September 10, 2017
COPING WITH YOUR WEATHER
One of the truisms I heard several times today was that you can find death in five inches of water. This, it seems, was most particularly relevant to the flooding and storm surges brought by Hurricane Irma in Florida. Though of significantly less value as urgent information or warning in deepest Marin, where it was repeated.
Most of us have spent our whole lives not being face down in five inches of water without even trying. My own survival till now is largely because at no single time did I remain face down in five inches of water long enough for it to be a issue. That was just one subconscious strategy.
There have been others.
While Florida was getting a sprinkle, we sweltered. The heat came back. This blogger is presently wearing baggy boxers and a wife beater and nothing else. Parts of me that should not itch, itch.
"My blood is too thick for California: I have never been able to properly explain myself in this climate."
-----H. S. Thompson
A friend in Florida cheerily informed us that he has a sufficiency of alcohol, coconuts, and the possibility of instant noodles, as his approach to coping with five inches of water, and that as far as he was concerned that was a traditional and typical Floridan answer to hurricane-type problems.
I have little doubt that during the last presidential election he had recourse to the same shopping list, augmented perhaps with plywood for boarding up his house to keep the rioting zombies out.
It would not work here.
Such things only work in Florida.
Where there often is five inches of water.
I'm thinking of putting icecubes on top of all my chakras right now.
Cold wet chakras; traditional, and typically Californian.
Hä ... wir können hier nicht anhalten!
Das ist fledermausland.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Most of us have spent our whole lives not being face down in five inches of water without even trying. My own survival till now is largely because at no single time did I remain face down in five inches of water long enough for it to be a issue. That was just one subconscious strategy.
There have been others.
While Florida was getting a sprinkle, we sweltered. The heat came back. This blogger is presently wearing baggy boxers and a wife beater and nothing else. Parts of me that should not itch, itch.
"My blood is too thick for California: I have never been able to properly explain myself in this climate."
-----H. S. Thompson
A friend in Florida cheerily informed us that he has a sufficiency of alcohol, coconuts, and the possibility of instant noodles, as his approach to coping with five inches of water, and that as far as he was concerned that was a traditional and typical Floridan answer to hurricane-type problems.
I have little doubt that during the last presidential election he had recourse to the same shopping list, augmented perhaps with plywood for boarding up his house to keep the rioting zombies out.
It would not work here.
Such things only work in Florida.
Where there often is five inches of water.
I'm thinking of putting icecubes on top of all my chakras right now.
Cold wet chakras; traditional, and typically Californian.
Hä ... wir können hier nicht anhalten!
Das ist fledermausland.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SAY 'HI' TO YOUR RELATIVES
If you were going to leave Florida before your aunt Irma arrives, you should have hastily apoculated yesterday. Or even considerably earlier.
It is far too late now.
But don't worry, little grasshopper, all will be well. In a few days you shall emerge from your mom's basement, and the sun will shine, birds will tweet, and those horrible neighbors of yours, the brown people, will be gone.
Because there is no climate change, and the weather in the Sunshine State is always perfect. Precisely as your favourite broadcast personality, Rim Lushbeau, declared. It is a hoax by pussy liberals and Chinese.
Your friends from the Christian True Patriots League will come visit soon.
With cake! Because you were right! They shouldn't have doubted.
If you go upstairs, you will discover that your mom left an extra large jar of peanut butter on her kitchen counter, just in case you get hungry while she's gone. And a big box of chez-0-crackers to smear it on!
What's that? You are allergic to peanuts?
Oh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It is far too late now.
But don't worry, little grasshopper, all will be well. In a few days you shall emerge from your mom's basement, and the sun will shine, birds will tweet, and those horrible neighbors of yours, the brown people, will be gone.
Because there is no climate change, and the weather in the Sunshine State is always perfect. Precisely as your favourite broadcast personality, Rim Lushbeau, declared. It is a hoax by pussy liberals and Chinese.
Your friends from the Christian True Patriots League will come visit soon.
With cake! Because you were right! They shouldn't have doubted.
If you go upstairs, you will discover that your mom left an extra large jar of peanut butter on her kitchen counter, just in case you get hungry while she's gone. And a big box of chez-0-crackers to smear it on!
What's that? You are allergic to peanuts?
Oh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, September 09, 2017
ROMANTIC AND MYSTERIOUS PULSNITZ
Do not ask how I came to know this, but Pulsnitzer Spitzen are wedges of gingerbread with a layer of fruit confiture or egg liqueur cream in between, enrobed with dark chocolate. Which sounds quite delightful. But there is still no real reason to visit a former Sorbian settlement abutting Poland.
It is undoubtedly a charming place.
Still, no.
Cherries. Raspberries. Strawberries. Preiselbeere. And boozy egg-cream.
The proper season for gingerbread anything is autumn through the holidays, at which time parts of Europe have a beastly climate. Unless you are Canadian you will find that a bad time to travel there.
The first week in November there is a Pfefferkuchenmarkt.
An assiduous internet search yielded three recommended restaurants.
SCHUMANN'S GENUSSWERKSTATT
Kastanienweg 7,
01896 Pulsnitz, Sachsen, Deutschland
Telephone: +49-0-35955-43841
WALDBLICK PULSNITZ
Konigsbrücker Straße 119,
01896 Pulsnitz, Sachsen, Deutschland
Telephone: +49 35955 7450
HARLEKIN
Julius-Kühn-Platz 2,
01896 Pulsnitz, Sachsen, Deutschland
Telephone: +49 35955 71106
To the best of my current knowldege there are no McDonalds located there, but there may be a pizza place, which is no doubt staffed by Turks who are going quietly insane. What the heck were they thinking?!?
Settling among savage Saxons and Sorbs.
In the far east, near Poland.
Aman tanrım!
On the plus side, one is unlikely to encounter Americans, Englishmen, or Australians there. And they could be a bit casual about no-smoking rules, seeing as stupid dictats from Brussels may strike them as Stalinist and puritanical.
You will probably have to take a train to get there, as the nearest flughafen is in Dresden. Both forms of transportation are komplett rauchfrei in any case, being under the baleful eye of grim German Eurocrats.
There are no tabakladen in Pulsnitz.
Bring your own supplies.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It is undoubtedly a charming place.
Still, no.
Cherries. Raspberries. Strawberries. Preiselbeere. And boozy egg-cream.
The proper season for gingerbread anything is autumn through the holidays, at which time parts of Europe have a beastly climate. Unless you are Canadian you will find that a bad time to travel there.
The first week in November there is a Pfefferkuchenmarkt.
An assiduous internet search yielded three recommended restaurants.
SCHUMANN'S GENUSSWERKSTATT
Kastanienweg 7,
01896 Pulsnitz, Sachsen, Deutschland
Telephone: +49-0-35955-43841
WALDBLICK PULSNITZ
Konigsbrücker Straße 119,
01896 Pulsnitz, Sachsen, Deutschland
Telephone: +49 35955 7450
HARLEKIN
Julius-Kühn-Platz 2,
01896 Pulsnitz, Sachsen, Deutschland
Telephone: +49 35955 71106
To the best of my current knowldege there are no McDonalds located there, but there may be a pizza place, which is no doubt staffed by Turks who are going quietly insane. What the heck were they thinking?!?
Settling among savage Saxons and Sorbs.
In the far east, near Poland.
Aman tanrım!
On the plus side, one is unlikely to encounter Americans, Englishmen, or Australians there. And they could be a bit casual about no-smoking rules, seeing as stupid dictats from Brussels may strike them as Stalinist and puritanical.
You will probably have to take a train to get there, as the nearest flughafen is in Dresden. Both forms of transportation are komplett rauchfrei in any case, being under the baleful eye of grim German Eurocrats.
There are no tabakladen in Pulsnitz.
Bring your own supplies.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, September 08, 2017
PERHAPS THE AMPHIBIAN IS CHINESE
Sometimes one suspects that a very bored person cruising the internet late at night has lighted upon one's lotus leaf and is thinking of shooting out his tongue to snap one's fly. Okay, frog. A bored frog.
This metaphor isn't working, forgive me.
However, that bored frog seems to be dwelling on past essays, and I think perhaps I can detect a thematic link to the various post he or she is reading here. The essays in question are all from 2015, and all contain reference to the Cantonese, their behaviour, and their language.
SCENES OF HEART RENDING DESPAIR AND TRAGEDY!
Oct 8, 2015
A post more or less in praise of womanhood; loud, disruptive, and single minded. As represented by someone acting out all the best scenes of a tearjerker soap opera, such as you might watch by yourself one rainy evening on the telly while snarfing noodles in your underwear.
HI JACKIE
Oct 7, 2015
Response to a correspondent from Hong Kong. This piece is more than usually gibberant, and foreign terms are flung all over. Including mention of Vincente Minneli and Old Dark Fired.
I suspect that Jackie might be a teenager, and grumpy old fossils such as myself seldom communicate with people like that. We jump out of the shadows yelling, and they run away in a panic.
Quite unreasonable.
I DO NOT SMELL BAD!
Jun 17, 2015
Many refined old Chinese biddies are convinced that bearded white men are a putrid smelling lot. My apartment mate, on the other hand, while she acknowledges that I am sometimes a bit smoky around the edges, has opined that many elderly Asian women smell like old dried fish.
She's Cantonese herself, and in a position to know.
No, I shan't ask how she knows.
However, since becoming aware of a pattern of revulsion on the part of dessicated female relics heading into Chinatown from my neighborhood on the other side of the hill, I take pains not to board the bus if I've just had a smoke, lest some nasty antique auntie detect the whiff of tobacco and wail, faint, turn green, pee herself, or start loudly commenting about evil kwailo, wah, gam lan ge, chuen baang lan chau, yin hei fan tin, ayaaaa!
[惡鬼佬，咁爛嘅，葾崩爛臭，煙氣燻天！]
The person scoping out my blog, if it's all one reader rather than several coincidentals, is probably of Chinese derivation. And may be wondering how nuts I really am. Trust me, I am relatively sane.
My voices tell me so.
AFTERTHOUGHT
My apartment mate's boyfriend, given how sensitive he is to even the ghost of a hint of a whisper of smoke near where his food was prepared several hours before he even tastes it (please see this post: The Kitchen Caper) most likely was a neurotic old Chinese lady in a previous life.
Maybe even a snooty dame from Shanghai or Taiwan.
He has no beard, and does not touch tobacco.
I feel these are personal failings of his.
Old dried fish.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This metaphor isn't working, forgive me.
However, that bored frog seems to be dwelling on past essays, and I think perhaps I can detect a thematic link to the various post he or she is reading here. The essays in question are all from 2015, and all contain reference to the Cantonese, their behaviour, and their language.
SCENES OF HEART RENDING DESPAIR AND TRAGEDY!
Oct 8, 2015
A post more or less in praise of womanhood; loud, disruptive, and single minded. As represented by someone acting out all the best scenes of a tearjerker soap opera, such as you might watch by yourself one rainy evening on the telly while snarfing noodles in your underwear.
HI JACKIE
Oct 7, 2015
Response to a correspondent from Hong Kong. This piece is more than usually gibberant, and foreign terms are flung all over. Including mention of Vincente Minneli and Old Dark Fired.
I suspect that Jackie might be a teenager, and grumpy old fossils such as myself seldom communicate with people like that. We jump out of the shadows yelling, and they run away in a panic.
Quite unreasonable.
I DO NOT SMELL BAD!
Jun 17, 2015
Many refined old Chinese biddies are convinced that bearded white men are a putrid smelling lot. My apartment mate, on the other hand, while she acknowledges that I am sometimes a bit smoky around the edges, has opined that many elderly Asian women smell like old dried fish.
She's Cantonese herself, and in a position to know.
No, I shan't ask how she knows.
However, since becoming aware of a pattern of revulsion on the part of dessicated female relics heading into Chinatown from my neighborhood on the other side of the hill, I take pains not to board the bus if I've just had a smoke, lest some nasty antique auntie detect the whiff of tobacco and wail, faint, turn green, pee herself, or start loudly commenting about evil kwailo, wah, gam lan ge, chuen baang lan chau, yin hei fan tin, ayaaaa!
[惡鬼佬，咁爛嘅，葾崩爛臭，煙氣燻天！]
The person scoping out my blog, if it's all one reader rather than several coincidentals, is probably of Chinese derivation. And may be wondering how nuts I really am. Trust me, I am relatively sane.
My voices tell me so.
AFTERTHOUGHT
My apartment mate's boyfriend, given how sensitive he is to even the ghost of a hint of a whisper of smoke near where his food was prepared several hours before he even tastes it (please see this post: The Kitchen Caper) most likely was a neurotic old Chinese lady in a previous life.
Maybe even a snooty dame from Shanghai or Taiwan.
He has no beard, and does not touch tobacco.
I feel these are personal failings of his.
Old dried fish.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THESE CHEMICALS AND THOSE MUSCLES
There is a very good chance that people with severe neurological dysfunction for which they take medication should not drink alcohol.
Not being a medical professional, my judgment may be clouded.
It took over a hour and a half to get them safely into a cab heading back to their hotel. The police at one point stopped to see what was happening, but figured they were just blotto and sitting on the curb outside the bar where they had drunk too much, and got back into their cruiser to respond to a "real emergency".
Which this actually may have been. I have no idea what medications they were taking or how it interacted with booze, but they had only had two drinks, and that does not normally take away the ability to stand.
Other than panicking over whether they would ever get back to their room at the top of the hill, they were as reasonably lucid (though losing it) as one would expect from two people whose legs were no longer working.
Helplessness on the sidewalk late at night in San Francisco attracts street people in desperate need of calmatives, cigarettes, and cash.
Shoo, little opportunistic hobo, shoo shoo!
I'm not good with people.
The first cab took off like a rocket when the driver saw what looked like two horribly intoxicated individuals, leading to howls of outrage from one of them (chap from New Orleans), so when a second cab finally appeared in the next block, I indicated to the two of them to remain somewhat invisible while I flagged it down. When it stopped I opened both passenger side doors so that it couldn't speed off, and we shoved both floopy-legged individuals in before the driver really knew what hit him.
I figured it would be damned hard to force two people who can't control their limbs to get out, and with less than half a dozen blocks to go, the cabbie might figure that if he just took them to their destination it would on the whole be just as easy to get them out there. As well as the responsible thing to do. When the cab crossed the intersection and I was sure they were safely on their way, I went back inside to finish my drink.
My evening was a bit more exciting than I wanted, but theirs was worse.
Unless such things happen often they will remember this trip.
San Francisco warmly welcomes you two.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Not being a medical professional, my judgment may be clouded.
It took over a hour and a half to get them safely into a cab heading back to their hotel. The police at one point stopped to see what was happening, but figured they were just blotto and sitting on the curb outside the bar where they had drunk too much, and got back into their cruiser to respond to a "real emergency".
Which this actually may have been. I have no idea what medications they were taking or how it interacted with booze, but they had only had two drinks, and that does not normally take away the ability to stand.
Other than panicking over whether they would ever get back to their room at the top of the hill, they were as reasonably lucid (though losing it) as one would expect from two people whose legs were no longer working.
Helplessness on the sidewalk late at night in San Francisco attracts street people in desperate need of calmatives, cigarettes, and cash.
Shoo, little opportunistic hobo, shoo shoo!
I'm not good with people.
The first cab took off like a rocket when the driver saw what looked like two horribly intoxicated individuals, leading to howls of outrage from one of them (chap from New Orleans), so when a second cab finally appeared in the next block, I indicated to the two of them to remain somewhat invisible while I flagged it down. When it stopped I opened both passenger side doors so that it couldn't speed off, and we shoved both floopy-legged individuals in before the driver really knew what hit him.
I figured it would be damned hard to force two people who can't control their limbs to get out, and with less than half a dozen blocks to go, the cabbie might figure that if he just took them to their destination it would on the whole be just as easy to get them out there. As well as the responsible thing to do. When the cab crossed the intersection and I was sure they were safely on their way, I went back inside to finish my drink.
My evening was a bit more exciting than I wanted, but theirs was worse.
Unless such things happen often they will remember this trip.
San Francisco warmly welcomes you two.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, September 07, 2017
THE HERRING SELLER HAS NO HAMBURGERS!
A friend is learning Dutch. While this is commendable, it is also fraught, as the Dutch language can be a bitch. To help him in his endeavor, here are the most important phrases in that language, translated for him to study assiduously and internalize.
I will not buy this record, it is scratched.
Ik zal deze langspeelplaat niet kopen, daar hij gekrast is.
Deze elpee wil ik niet kopen, omdat ie gekrast is.
Ah! I will not buy this tobacconist's, it is scratched.
Ach, I zal deze tabakszaak niet kopen, daar het gekrast is.
Allee, deze tabakswinkel wil ik niet kopen, omdat ie gekrast is.
Yes, cigarettes. My hovercraft is full of eels.
Ja, sigareten. Mijn hovercraft zit vol met paling.
Jawel, peuken. M'n luchtkussen dinges is gevuld met aal.
Er, do you want ... do you want to come back to my place, bouncy bouncy?
Euhhh, wil je ... wil je mee terug naar m'n apartmentje gaan, boemse boemse?
Mmm, zou je mee naar huis willen gaan om te boemsen?
You great pouf.
Jij immense nicht.
Ge zijt 'n geweldige flikker.
I am no longer infected.
Ik ben niet meer besmet.
Ik ben al lang niet meer besmettelijk.
You have beautiful thighs.
Je hebt lekkere dijen.
Goh, die dijen van jou!
Drop your panties, Sir William, I cannot wait till lunchtime.
Laat je onderbroekje afzakken, Heer Willem, ik kan niet tot het middagmaal wachten.
Laat je broek zakken, oet, ik haal het niet langer.
My nipples explode with delight.
Mijn tepels ontploffen van genot.
Mijn puntkens/clara mamilis/puting-puting staan op barsten.
I had earlier metioned to him that the most useful phrase my apartment mate learned, and the only one which she pronounced one hundred percent correctly, is "mag ik alstublieft een haring hebben, met uitjes". She averred that haring was the most important thing the Dutch had ever done, and that if one wanted to be treated as a human being by a haringboer, it behooved one to learn to effectively communicate with the man, rather than spending ten minutes staring at the various edible substances with almost bovine incomprehension before asking in English "y'all got any hamburgers?"
I wish him all the best of success. One has not experienced Shakespeare until one has read him in the original Dutch.
A USEFUL APPENDIX
Gekopijeerd van Wikipedia:
Te zijn of niet te zijn, dat is de kwestie:
Of het nobeler is om te lijden
Onder alles wat het wrede Lot je toeslingert
Of om de wapens op te nemen tegen een zee van zorgen
En er al vechtend een einde aan te maken?
Te sterven, te slapen, niets meer;
En in die slaap rust vinden voor alle hartzeer
En de duizend pijnen die je lichaam je bezorgen,
Dat zou een einde zijn om jezelf toe te wensen.
Te sterven; te slapen: misschien wel dromen: Ach nee,
Daar wringt het 'm: want welke dromen komen in die dodenslaap,
Als we de aardse zorgen hebben afgeworpen,
Het doet ons weifelen: dit is de overweging die leidt
Tot de ellende van zo'n lang leven,
Want wie zou de gesel en de hoon van de tijd verdragen,
Het onrecht van de onderdrukker, de arrogantie van de rijke,
De pijnen van een onbeantwoorde liefde, de dwalingen van het recht,
De onbeschoftheid van een ambtenaar, en de verachting
Waarmee onbenullen je geduldige werk belonen,
Wanneer je rust kan vinden met een simpele dolkstoot?
Wie zou dit alles verdragen, zweten en kreunen onder een ellendig bestaan
Als niet de dreiging van wat achter de dood komt er was,
Het onontdekte land waar geen reiziger uit weerkeert
Verwart ons en maakt ons zwak,
Zodat we liever de lasten dragen die we kennen
Dan het onbekende tegemoet te gaan.
Zo verlamt het geweten ons tot lafaards,
En zo wordt gezonde daadkracht verziekt door bleek gepieker
En lopen grootse ondernemingen op niets uit.
Stil nu, daar is mooie Ophelia! Nymf,
Laat mijn zonden in je gebeden herinnerd worden.
-----vertaling: J. Grandgagnage
In case you were wondering, this post was not spell-checked.
Het zou immers amper nut hebben.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I will not buy this record, it is scratched.
Ik zal deze langspeelplaat niet kopen, daar hij gekrast is.
Deze elpee wil ik niet kopen, omdat ie gekrast is.
Ah! I will not buy this tobacconist's, it is scratched.
Ach, I zal deze tabakszaak niet kopen, daar het gekrast is.
Allee, deze tabakswinkel wil ik niet kopen, omdat ie gekrast is.
Yes, cigarettes. My hovercraft is full of eels.
Ja, sigareten. Mijn hovercraft zit vol met paling.
Jawel, peuken. M'n luchtkussen dinges is gevuld met aal.
Er, do you want ... do you want to come back to my place, bouncy bouncy?
Euhhh, wil je ... wil je mee terug naar m'n apartmentje gaan, boemse boemse?
Mmm, zou je mee naar huis willen gaan om te boemsen?
You great pouf.
Jij immense nicht.
Ge zijt 'n geweldige flikker.
I am no longer infected.
Ik ben niet meer besmet.
Ik ben al lang niet meer besmettelijk.
You have beautiful thighs.
Je hebt lekkere dijen.
Goh, die dijen van jou!
Drop your panties, Sir William, I cannot wait till lunchtime.
Laat je onderbroekje afzakken, Heer Willem, ik kan niet tot het middagmaal wachten.
Laat je broek zakken, oet, ik haal het niet langer.
My nipples explode with delight.
Mijn tepels ontploffen van genot.
Mijn puntkens/clara mamilis/puting-puting staan op barsten.
I had earlier metioned to him that the most useful phrase my apartment mate learned, and the only one which she pronounced one hundred percent correctly, is "mag ik alstublieft een haring hebben, met uitjes". She averred that haring was the most important thing the Dutch had ever done, and that if one wanted to be treated as a human being by a haringboer, it behooved one to learn to effectively communicate with the man, rather than spending ten minutes staring at the various edible substances with almost bovine incomprehension before asking in English "y'all got any hamburgers?"
I wish him all the best of success. One has not experienced Shakespeare until one has read him in the original Dutch.
A USEFUL APPENDIX
Gekopijeerd van Wikipedia:
Te zijn of niet te zijn, dat is de kwestie:
Of het nobeler is om te lijden
Onder alles wat het wrede Lot je toeslingert
Of om de wapens op te nemen tegen een zee van zorgen
En er al vechtend een einde aan te maken?
Te sterven, te slapen, niets meer;
En in die slaap rust vinden voor alle hartzeer
En de duizend pijnen die je lichaam je bezorgen,
Dat zou een einde zijn om jezelf toe te wensen.
Te sterven; te slapen: misschien wel dromen: Ach nee,
Daar wringt het 'm: want welke dromen komen in die dodenslaap,
Als we de aardse zorgen hebben afgeworpen,
Het doet ons weifelen: dit is de overweging die leidt
Tot de ellende van zo'n lang leven,
Want wie zou de gesel en de hoon van de tijd verdragen,
Het onrecht van de onderdrukker, de arrogantie van de rijke,
De pijnen van een onbeantwoorde liefde, de dwalingen van het recht,
De onbeschoftheid van een ambtenaar, en de verachting
Waarmee onbenullen je geduldige werk belonen,
Wanneer je rust kan vinden met een simpele dolkstoot?
Wie zou dit alles verdragen, zweten en kreunen onder een ellendig bestaan
Als niet de dreiging van wat achter de dood komt er was,
Het onontdekte land waar geen reiziger uit weerkeert
Verwart ons en maakt ons zwak,
Zodat we liever de lasten dragen die we kennen
Dan het onbekende tegemoet te gaan.
Zo verlamt het geweten ons tot lafaards,
En zo wordt gezonde daadkracht verziekt door bleek gepieker
En lopen grootse ondernemingen op niets uit.
Stil nu, daar is mooie Ophelia! Nymf,
Laat mijn zonden in je gebeden herinnerd worden.
-----vertaling: J. Grandgagnage
In case you were wondering, this post was not spell-checked.
Het zou immers amper nut hebben.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE KITCHEN CAPER
The domestic situation is not exceptional or complicated, but requires some explanation. You may be aware that there are two people and several stuffed animals in this apartment. Myself -- a singular middle-aged fellow, pipe smoker, Dutch American, not peculiar -- and my apartment mate, a Cantonese American woman eight and a half years my junior.
Years ago we had something going on, but now we are just good friends who kept on living together. We have separate sleeping quarters.
We share the television room, bath room, and kitchen.
Unfortunately she has a young gentleman errrm ...
Some dude in a wheelchair, who can't visit.
Hills and stairs are in the way.
Fortunately I do not have to deal with him, because the poor shmo is not only stymied by slopes and second floors, but apparently lives twixt awe and fear of me as I am equally twixt apathy and intellectual dislike of him. The stuffed animals ("roomies") are mostly on the same page as myself regarding that person, though she voices them more than I do.
Now this is the thing: When she makes meals for him, which she does very often because he's even whiter than me and can't cook worth blazes, the kitchen is off limits. Later when the casserole is on the counter cooling and I go in to grab a snack or a warm beverage, I may not smoke in there like I normally do, because he and his food are "sensitive". Tobacco has bad karma that would diminish his nutritional progress when she shleps the chow over to his place. Psychic echoes and auras, or something.
Last night I went in to fetch myself some icecream.
"Don't you dare smoke in there!"
Of course I abstained, but while she was still in the teevee room I savagely whispered the words 'gluten, dairy products, salt, fat, and gmos' at the oven with the roast.
Afterwards I went outside to have a small cheroot.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Years ago we had something going on, but now we are just good friends who kept on living together. We have separate sleeping quarters.
We share the television room, bath room, and kitchen.
Unfortunately she has a young gentleman errrm ...
Some dude in a wheelchair, who can't visit.
Hills and stairs are in the way.
Fortunately I do not have to deal with him, because the poor shmo is not only stymied by slopes and second floors, but apparently lives twixt awe and fear of me as I am equally twixt apathy and intellectual dislike of him. The stuffed animals ("roomies") are mostly on the same page as myself regarding that person, though she voices them more than I do.
Now this is the thing: When she makes meals for him, which she does very often because he's even whiter than me and can't cook worth blazes, the kitchen is off limits. Later when the casserole is on the counter cooling and I go in to grab a snack or a warm beverage, I may not smoke in there like I normally do, because he and his food are "sensitive". Tobacco has bad karma that would diminish his nutritional progress when she shleps the chow over to his place. Psychic echoes and auras, or something.
Last night I went in to fetch myself some icecream.
"Don't you dare smoke in there!"
Of course I abstained, but while she was still in the teevee room I savagely whispered the words 'gluten, dairy products, salt, fat, and gmos' at the oven with the roast.
Afterwards I went outside to have a small cheroot.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, September 06, 2017
THEY WON'T GIVE THAT TO WHITE PEOPLE
It's a common belief among some folks that Chinese restaurants hide the best food among the daily specials posted on the wall, which are written in characters that Caucasians cannot read. "Totally delicious, but they don't want us to have any!"
And there are so many things that the desperate white gourmand would like to eat but cannot.
He's utterly despondent.
餐蛋公仔麵
The astute wall specials reader will instantly recognize that what is offered in those five characters is a flash in the pan, as it were. Something quick for the person on the go. And let's see if it proves popular among the target audience (neighborhood people), before we bother translating it. Two slices Spam browned in a skillet, with a fried egg, over a bowl of instant noodles, and perhaps a vegetable of some sort added. Sorry, I cannot imagine most Anglos lining up for that, and there are not enough Hawaiians in this city to make it one of their best sellers to a "foreign" audience either. Here's the google search that shows you exactly what to expect: 餐蛋公仔麵 -- Images. It's a typical Hong Kong lunch concept.
Good with a cup of milk tea.
The same place that offers the Spam & egg noodles also had freshly pressed soy bean milk, soft fresh tofu with syrup, all kinds of bubble tea, Ovaltine, orange juice, carrot juice, and various ice creams.
All of which is on the wall in Chinese.
阿華田 ('ah waa tin').
The macaroni (通粉) dishes are also advertised in Chinese. Ham and egg macaroni, chicken chunk macaroni, luncheon meat macaroni, shrimp macaroni, chicken soup and chopped ham macaroni .....
It's not that they're hiding all the good stuff from Whitey, but that Whitey is a very hard customer to deal with, barking all kinds of difficult questions, pointing and exclaiming, and then usually asks for the restroom key.
Often without buying anything .......
Except for a nice elderly couple yesterday, who looked at everything, asked what it was, bought a few of each to sample later without understanding all of the explanation, and happily spent about twenty or thirty bucks on Chinese baked goods without any fuss and bother.
And then didn't need the key at all.
[The key is hidden in the slot between the register and the display case with pandan Swiss roll cakes (班蘭瑞士蛋糕卷 'baan-laan seui-si daan-gou kuen'), if you must know.]
The two greatest advantages of being able to read Chinese yesterday were recognizing the wall special as an old familiar that didn't need any clarifying despite the dense abbreviation ("dine egg doll noodle"), and knowing what the foot and half tall person with the floppity hair that made her round head look bigger in proportion was excitedly singing about.
"Ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou!"
A sponge or chiffon (紙包蛋糕), single serving, light and fluffy.
Described by Wikipedia: Paper wrapped cake.
Lots of Google images.
She was a very nice little girl, and her dad buying her ji baau dan gou really did make the world sunny and bright.
Unless 紙包蛋糕 or a nice cup of 港式奶茶 can make your world sunny and bright, you do not need to know what it is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He's utterly despondent.
餐蛋公仔麵
The astute wall specials reader will instantly recognize that what is offered in those five characters is a flash in the pan, as it were. Something quick for the person on the go. And let's see if it proves popular among the target audience (neighborhood people), before we bother translating it. Two slices Spam browned in a skillet, with a fried egg, over a bowl of instant noodles, and perhaps a vegetable of some sort added. Sorry, I cannot imagine most Anglos lining up for that, and there are not enough Hawaiians in this city to make it one of their best sellers to a "foreign" audience either. Here's the google search that shows you exactly what to expect: 餐蛋公仔麵 -- Images. It's a typical Hong Kong lunch concept.
Good with a cup of milk tea.
The same place that offers the Spam & egg noodles also had freshly pressed soy bean milk, soft fresh tofu with syrup, all kinds of bubble tea, Ovaltine, orange juice, carrot juice, and various ice creams.
All of which is on the wall in Chinese.
阿華田 ('ah waa tin').
The macaroni (通粉) dishes are also advertised in Chinese. Ham and egg macaroni, chicken chunk macaroni, luncheon meat macaroni, shrimp macaroni, chicken soup and chopped ham macaroni .....
It's not that they're hiding all the good stuff from Whitey, but that Whitey is a very hard customer to deal with, barking all kinds of difficult questions, pointing and exclaiming, and then usually asks for the restroom key.
Often without buying anything .......
Except for a nice elderly couple yesterday, who looked at everything, asked what it was, bought a few of each to sample later without understanding all of the explanation, and happily spent about twenty or thirty bucks on Chinese baked goods without any fuss and bother.
And then didn't need the key at all.
[The key is hidden in the slot between the register and the display case with pandan Swiss roll cakes (班蘭瑞士蛋糕卷 'baan-laan seui-si daan-gou kuen'), if you must know.]
The two greatest advantages of being able to read Chinese yesterday were recognizing the wall special as an old familiar that didn't need any clarifying despite the dense abbreviation ("dine egg doll noodle"), and knowing what the foot and half tall person with the floppity hair that made her round head look bigger in proportion was excitedly singing about.
"Ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou, ji baau dan gou!"
A sponge or chiffon (紙包蛋糕), single serving, light and fluffy.
Described by Wikipedia: Paper wrapped cake.
Lots of Google images.
She was a very nice little girl, and her dad buying her ji baau dan gou really did make the world sunny and bright.
Unless 紙包蛋糕 or a nice cup of 港式奶茶 can make your world sunny and bright, you do not need to know what it is.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
TANGY WITH A FAINT HINT OF SWEAT
When I got up at three for a necessary visit to the loo (which is not age specific, I realize, as many people of all ages do that all the ti...
