What keeps this blogger going is snacky things, enjoying his tobacco pipes and books, and a dirty mind. It is quite possible that the last mentioned is a survival mechanism. I would be far less lively without lascivious thoughts. Milk tea, baked goods, and Virginia blends aren't enough to survive on.
Or get me out of the house much.
One the other hand, an attractive woman carrying a platter of cheeses and a stimulating beverage, boy howdy!
College graduates, fromage, and cake. The secret to longevity, an Academy Award thank-you speech, improved circulation, and a description of heaven.
All rolled into one.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 16, 2020
Wednesday, January 15, 2020
AND HOT BEVERAGES
Went down to Chinatown and dined at a chachanteng. Milk tea, bittermelon omelette and rice. And enjoyed observing the other nearby diners from my corner, though too far away to listen in on their conversations. The nearest couple were Chinese, in their mid-forties, and spoke too softly to make out what they were saying, though the waitress and the cleaning lady over at the counter were loud enough. The young fellow who also works there seems to be a Mandarin speaker, mostly. A mainlander.
His Canto is about on par with mine.
A sour and disapproving woman near the door had ordered food to go, then spent an inordinate amount of time scoping out the specials written on the wall. Which I had already looked at. The snow fish hotpot (雪魚煲仔 'suet yü pou jai') had mildly piqued my interest, the pork shreds with salt pressed vegetable (榨菜肉C 'jaa choi yiuk si') was a standard I've had a number of times elsewhere, and the lamb loin stew with tofu sticks (支竹羊腩煲 'ji juk yeung naam pou') is a winter classic, very warming. The concubine chicken (貴妃雞 'gwai fei kai') was no longer listed; the waitress assured me later that if I wanted that next time, it would be available anyway. They had made room on the board for something else.
The nearest couple previously mentioned were happily stuffing their faces with two regular menu items, one of which was baked porkchop spaghetti with tomato sauce, tonnes of cheese on top, the other being baked ham rice with cream sauce and cheese on top. Good solid fatty Hong Kong urban chow. Heart-attack on a plate.
I miss the years that I could do that without giving my doctor conniptions. Come to think of it, I miss having someone to do that with, more.
I miss having a girlfriend.
Someone with whom to listen to the rain in the middle of the night.
According to the weather report, it will come down in a few hours, and still be soggy weather for most of the day tomorrow. Good thing I'll be at work.
I'd hate to be smoking outdoors in that.
At this time of year, Raynaud's phenomenon is a frequent occurrence, and the regular pain in my fingers is a royal pain in the gand. No, I have not told my apartment mate about that; there is no need for her to know. When smoking my pipe outdoors the blueness of my digits chases me back inside, too often without finishing my pipe. It did so this evening also. Several of my fingers are still grey and tingling as I type this.
["Royal pain in the whatsis": 减少的血流 ('gaam-siu dik huet lau'; decreased blood circulation) in the fingers and toes. When the temperature drops to low fifties my fingers first turn whitish, then greyish, then blue from peripheral cyanosis. It will take nearly an hour of being in a warmer environment for full recovery. During which time they burn.
Gloves help a little bit.]
It is presently mid to high forties.
And further, my legs are stiffer and don't function quite as efficiently in this weather. That, too, is a royal pain in the doohickemajig.
On the plus side, I enjoyed my meal very much.
Happy diners, warm environment, social noise.
Hot milk tea, and a bottle of chili sauce.
A pretense of being human.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
His Canto is about on par with mine.
A sour and disapproving woman near the door had ordered food to go, then spent an inordinate amount of time scoping out the specials written on the wall. Which I had already looked at. The snow fish hotpot (雪魚煲仔 'suet yü pou jai') had mildly piqued my interest, the pork shreds with salt pressed vegetable (榨菜肉C 'jaa choi yiuk si') was a standard I've had a number of times elsewhere, and the lamb loin stew with tofu sticks (支竹羊腩煲 'ji juk yeung naam pou') is a winter classic, very warming. The concubine chicken (貴妃雞 'gwai fei kai') was no longer listed; the waitress assured me later that if I wanted that next time, it would be available anyway. They had made room on the board for something else.
The nearest couple previously mentioned were happily stuffing their faces with two regular menu items, one of which was baked porkchop spaghetti with tomato sauce, tonnes of cheese on top, the other being baked ham rice with cream sauce and cheese on top. Good solid fatty Hong Kong urban chow. Heart-attack on a plate.
I miss the years that I could do that without giving my doctor conniptions. Come to think of it, I miss having someone to do that with, more.
I miss having a girlfriend.
Someone with whom to listen to the rain in the middle of the night.
According to the weather report, it will come down in a few hours, and still be soggy weather for most of the day tomorrow. Good thing I'll be at work.
I'd hate to be smoking outdoors in that.
At this time of year, Raynaud's phenomenon is a frequent occurrence, and the regular pain in my fingers is a royal pain in the gand. No, I have not told my apartment mate about that; there is no need for her to know. When smoking my pipe outdoors the blueness of my digits chases me back inside, too often without finishing my pipe. It did so this evening also. Several of my fingers are still grey and tingling as I type this.
["Royal pain in the whatsis": 减少的血流 ('gaam-siu dik huet lau'; decreased blood circulation) in the fingers and toes. When the temperature drops to low fifties my fingers first turn whitish, then greyish, then blue from peripheral cyanosis. It will take nearly an hour of being in a warmer environment for full recovery. During which time they burn.
Gloves help a little bit.]
It is presently mid to high forties.
And further, my legs are stiffer and don't function quite as efficiently in this weather. That, too, is a royal pain in the doohickemajig.
On the plus side, I enjoyed my meal very much.
Happy diners, warm environment, social noise.
Hot milk tea, and a bottle of chili sauce.
A pretense of being human.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CONGEE IS NOT SUGGESTIVE
A few years ago I wrote a short account of eating congee (粥 'juk') at a place where a sullen girl worked, suggesting that if she had some excitement in her life she would look happier. And I haven't eaten there since. I realize now that perhaps it was her sullenness.
There are more cheery places.
For a bowl of jook.
Congee can be comforting.
The elderly crowd that flock to one of my favourite cheap C'town eateries sometimes clears them out of congee before I get there -- a man does not want to battle through a dense flock of senior citizens for a warm bowl, so he might get up late, on his days off -- and I'm not really peckish before I've had my coffee, read the news, and smoked the first pipe of the day.
Congee is warm white sludge. To the teenage mind it may look obscene, but we think the same about you, sonny, and we're cleaner thinking people. So we know it's good. Rice simmered to the break apart and cloudy stage in six to ten times its volume of water, with some thousand year egg or dried fish added. Maybe peanuts. Scallion. Chives. Or a fried dough stick.
The presence of a sullen female is NOT required.
Even Chowhound and Martha Stewart have discovered it, so I'm no longer ahead of the curve. And I shan't mention the places I go to, because I don't want the foodies or tourists to discover them and spoil it for me.
But it's easy to make, you can do it at home. Supply your own sullen person, of whichever gender you like. Just use a heat protector to keep it from scorching, stir it often, and if you're lazy employ the osterizer or blender as a shortcut. Two TBS of white rice to one cup of liquid.
Or more. Or less.
Add savoury things in the last minutes of cooking, and garnishes.
A SHORT LIST OF CONGEES
鮑魚粥 ('baau yü juk'): abalone rice porridge.
鮑魚滑雞粥 ('baau yü kwat kai juk'): abalone and chicken rice porridge.
柴魚花生粥 ('chai-yü faa-sang juk'): dried fish and fried peanuts porridge.
猪肝粥 ('chyu gon juk'): pork liver slices rice porridge.
豬潤粥 ('chyu yeun juk'): pig "gloss" jook; rice porridge with pork liver.
火鴨粥 ('fo ngaap juk'): rice porridge with roast duck.
滑雞粥 ( 'gwat kai juk'): chicken chunks (often bone-in) rice porridge.
虾粥 ('haa juk'): fresh shrimp and cilantro rice porridge.
香菇肉鬆粥 ('heung gu ngau song juk'): mushroom and meat threads porridge.
蠔豉瘦肉粥 ('ho si sau yiuk juk'): dried oysters and lean pork porridge.
海鮮粥 ('hoi sin juk'): mixed fresh seafood porridge.
雞球粥 ('kai kau juk'): chicken rice porridge.
北菇雞球粥 ('pak gu kai kau juk'): black mushroom and chicken porridge.
皮蛋瘦肉粥 ('pei dan sau yiuk juk'): preserved egg and lean pork porridge.
生滾蝦球粥 ('sang gwan ha kau juk'): jook with fresh shrimp.
生滾牛肉粥 ('sang gwan ngau yiuk juk'): rice porridge with sliced beef.
生滾肉片粥 ('sang gwan yiuk pin juk'): jook with sliced pork.
蝦球帶子粥 ('sin haa daai-ji juk'): shrimp and scallop porridge.
爽滑肉丸粥 ('song gwat yiuk yuen juk'): pork meat ball porridge.
碎牛粥 ('sui ngau juk'): rice porridge with minced beef.
魚片粥 ('yü pin juk'): fish curls rice porridge.
Again, sullen people or dirty-minded teenagers are absolutely not necessary, and they don't add anything worthwhile. But it's up to you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There are more cheery places.
For a bowl of jook.
Congee can be comforting.
The elderly crowd that flock to one of my favourite cheap C'town eateries sometimes clears them out of congee before I get there -- a man does not want to battle through a dense flock of senior citizens for a warm bowl, so he might get up late, on his days off -- and I'm not really peckish before I've had my coffee, read the news, and smoked the first pipe of the day.
Congee is warm white sludge. To the teenage mind it may look obscene, but we think the same about you, sonny, and we're cleaner thinking people. So we know it's good. Rice simmered to the break apart and cloudy stage in six to ten times its volume of water, with some thousand year egg or dried fish added. Maybe peanuts. Scallion. Chives. Or a fried dough stick.
The presence of a sullen female is NOT required.
Even Chowhound and Martha Stewart have discovered it, so I'm no longer ahead of the curve. And I shan't mention the places I go to, because I don't want the foodies or tourists to discover them and spoil it for me.
But it's easy to make, you can do it at home. Supply your own sullen person, of whichever gender you like. Just use a heat protector to keep it from scorching, stir it often, and if you're lazy employ the osterizer or blender as a shortcut. Two TBS of white rice to one cup of liquid.
Or more. Or less.
Add savoury things in the last minutes of cooking, and garnishes.
A SHORT LIST OF CONGEES
鮑魚粥 ('baau yü juk'): abalone rice porridge.
鮑魚滑雞粥 ('baau yü kwat kai juk'): abalone and chicken rice porridge.
柴魚花生粥 ('chai-yü faa-sang juk'): dried fish and fried peanuts porridge.
猪肝粥 ('chyu gon juk'): pork liver slices rice porridge.
豬潤粥 ('chyu yeun juk'): pig "gloss" jook; rice porridge with pork liver.
火鴨粥 ('fo ngaap juk'): rice porridge with roast duck.
滑雞粥 ( 'gwat kai juk'): chicken chunks (often bone-in) rice porridge.
虾粥 ('haa juk'): fresh shrimp and cilantro rice porridge.
香菇肉鬆粥 ('heung gu ngau song juk'): mushroom and meat threads porridge.
蠔豉瘦肉粥 ('ho si sau yiuk juk'): dried oysters and lean pork porridge.
海鮮粥 ('hoi sin juk'): mixed fresh seafood porridge.
雞球粥 ('kai kau juk'): chicken rice porridge.
北菇雞球粥 ('pak gu kai kau juk'): black mushroom and chicken porridge.
皮蛋瘦肉粥 ('pei dan sau yiuk juk'): preserved egg and lean pork porridge.
生滾蝦球粥 ('sang gwan ha kau juk'): jook with fresh shrimp.
生滾牛肉粥 ('sang gwan ngau yiuk juk'): rice porridge with sliced beef.
生滾肉片粥 ('sang gwan yiuk pin juk'): jook with sliced pork.
蝦球帶子粥 ('sin haa daai-ji juk'): shrimp and scallop porridge.
爽滑肉丸粥 ('song gwat yiuk yuen juk'): pork meat ball porridge.
碎牛粥 ('sui ngau juk'): rice porridge with minced beef.
魚片粥 ('yü pin juk'): fish curls rice porridge.
Again, sullen people or dirty-minded teenagers are absolutely not necessary, and they don't add anything worthwhile. But it's up to you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 14, 2020
CHINESE NEW YEAR SOON
The new year starts in less than two weeks, and in preparation for that, stalls are cropping up along Stockton Street selling the necessary things. Red packets, new clothes, new years cake (年糕 'nin gou'). Tangerines and oranges are in abundant supply. Soon also, one would expect, daffodils and blossoming plum branches.
春節
['Chun jit'. Spring festival.]
The year starts on January 25th. in 2020. Traditionally, people welcome it with a family dinner the evening before, after cleaning house and hanging lucky scrolls and plastering auspicious characters on doors. In China, travel madness will begin several days ere then, as people set off to get back to their kin in distant provinces in time. Chaos will have ensued at many train stations, with huge masses of passengers, and delays.
Here in San Francisco, it is far less hectic.
My apartment mate, a Cantonese American person, has been trying to get all of her siblings on the same page as far as a family dinner, without any significant success. As a Caucasian with no nearby kinfolk, I of course do not intend to do anything at all. Even if I were married to a Chinese person, that evening I would likely be by myself.
I shan't clean house, and I'm working that day, and the next. As well as the Monday following. As far as almost all culturally significant celebrations are concerned, I am a dried-up stick insect and don't care either way.
Chinese New Year is pretty much the same as Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentines, but without me grumbling or making snide comments.
Some dishes which are traditional, which I may or may not think of preparing:
Fatty pork and hard-boiled eggs (滷蛋紅燒豬肉 'lou daan hung siu chyu yiuk'). It keeps well, and goes great over rice. Arhat vegetarian dish (羅漢齋 'lo hon chai'), which is traditional, and can be quite good. And especially dried oysters with pork and hair vegetable 好事發財 ('ho si fat choi').
That last, in a cantonese-speaking environment, is a must.
There are also several other very appropriate dishes (described here: Lucky Foods), but I am less vested in them, and again, I am Caucasian, with no family in the area. So no. Not going to bother.
No gok jai (角仔), no lo hei (撈起).
Yes, I'll probably have dumplings at some point, and also noodles for good luck and long life. Plus a nice fish. Fish has a propitious connotation.
What I'm really looking forward to is the fireworks.
Several weeks of explosions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
春節
['Chun jit'. Spring festival.]
The year starts on January 25th. in 2020. Traditionally, people welcome it with a family dinner the evening before, after cleaning house and hanging lucky scrolls and plastering auspicious characters on doors. In China, travel madness will begin several days ere then, as people set off to get back to their kin in distant provinces in time. Chaos will have ensued at many train stations, with huge masses of passengers, and delays.
Here in San Francisco, it is far less hectic.
My apartment mate, a Cantonese American person, has been trying to get all of her siblings on the same page as far as a family dinner, without any significant success. As a Caucasian with no nearby kinfolk, I of course do not intend to do anything at all. Even if I were married to a Chinese person, that evening I would likely be by myself.
I shan't clean house, and I'm working that day, and the next. As well as the Monday following. As far as almost all culturally significant celebrations are concerned, I am a dried-up stick insect and don't care either way.
Chinese New Year is pretty much the same as Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentines, but without me grumbling or making snide comments.
Some dishes which are traditional, which I may or may not think of preparing:
Fatty pork and hard-boiled eggs (滷蛋紅燒豬肉 'lou daan hung siu chyu yiuk'). It keeps well, and goes great over rice. Arhat vegetarian dish (羅漢齋 'lo hon chai'), which is traditional, and can be quite good. And especially dried oysters with pork and hair vegetable 好事發財 ('ho si fat choi').
That last, in a cantonese-speaking environment, is a must.
There are also several other very appropriate dishes (described here: Lucky Foods), but I am less vested in them, and again, I am Caucasian, with no family in the area. So no. Not going to bother.
No gok jai (角仔), no lo hei (撈起).
Yes, I'll probably have dumplings at some point, and also noodles for good luck and long life. Plus a nice fish. Fish has a propitious connotation.
What I'm really looking forward to is the fireworks.
Several weeks of explosions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IT'S FRUIT FLAVOURED!
Three news items today got my attention: The MLB fining the Houston Astros for sign stealing, President Donald Trump lying through his damn teeth about his record as regards pre-existing conditions, and Senator Warren accusing Bernie Sanders of not playing cricket.
Well okay.
Who the blazes cares about the Houston Astros doing anything at all? It's sports, and of no consequence. Besides, they're Texans, so you have to expect shenanigans, and American Football is sodden with corruption, degeneracy, a-morality, and spandex anyway. Grow the F up.
Trump lies and is a complete wanker. His fanbase consists entirely of people who should have been extras from Deliverance.
Bernie not playing cricket? Look, everyone already knows that the coming election is going to be senile old farts whining, and that the Republicans are going to pull some stupendous skeevy shit to win -- assisted by the rotting cadavers of the NRA (owned lock stock and barrel by the Moscow mafia) and the religious right (psychopaths and closeted child molesters) -- so the philandering orange scumbag will probably win again.
Bernie not playing cricket? Isn't he dead yet?
The Democratic Party this time around can't run a winner if their lives depended upon it.
Senile Joe versus the angry gibbering fossil from New England. Aside from mouth foam, drooling, and old man idiocy on teevee, nothing exciting.
You'd almost think the whole process is rigged.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well okay.
Who the blazes cares about the Houston Astros doing anything at all? It's sports, and of no consequence. Besides, they're Texans, so you have to expect shenanigans, and American Football is sodden with corruption, degeneracy, a-morality, and spandex anyway. Grow the F up.
Trump lies and is a complete wanker. His fanbase consists entirely of people who should have been extras from Deliverance.
Bernie not playing cricket? Look, everyone already knows that the coming election is going to be senile old farts whining, and that the Republicans are going to pull some stupendous skeevy shit to win -- assisted by the rotting cadavers of the NRA (owned lock stock and barrel by the Moscow mafia) and the religious right (psychopaths and closeted child molesters) -- so the philandering orange scumbag will probably win again.
Bernie not playing cricket? Isn't he dead yet?
The Democratic Party this time around can't run a winner if their lives depended upon it.
Senile Joe versus the angry gibbering fossil from New England. Aside from mouth foam, drooling, and old man idiocy on teevee, nothing exciting.
You'd almost think the whole process is rigged.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HAVE PETS INSTEAD
By late afternoon the haze covered Mount Tam, and I decided to pull in the lawn furniture. Shortly after tea time the rain came. A soft wussy drizzle. If you stayed out in it for half an hour, you'd be drenched. And freezing.
Very English. Sweater and mildew weather.
And, remarkably, this morning it is sunny.
Almost springlike.
A fellow pipesmoker, thousands of miles away, managed to forget one of his children when driving to Essex. He blames his wife. No, I didn't read the entire screed, but the gist of it was that kids and mothers get in the way of a man quietly enjoying a pipe by himself while appreciating the landscape of the British Isles. An estuarine bog near Colchester or Tendring.
A point of view with which I can sympathize completely.
They can also get in the way of tea time.
Anything, really.
If you smoke around children nowadays, somebody will 'get triggered'. Before you know it, angry Berkeley or Marin Earthmothers will come thundering around a corner, thagomizer aloft, to screech fiercely and pound you into smithereens. Children, especially middle class children in Bay Area suburbs, are easily traumatized, fragile, and largely useless.
It isn't until their mid-teens that they start developing the tattoos and armour plating of their parents. As well as the nasty attitudes.
If left too long unattended, they bloat.
As you may gather, I myself don't have children. I've got my stuffed animals and solitary pursuits, and if I lived in a larger place, I'd probably have a cat.
A creature that would doze in the shafts of sunlight slanting in through the windows, eat a bit, and perhaps lick its butt.
Middle class children would be far more likeable if they did that too.
Wisely, the authorities in several places around the Bay Area have banned the sale of all flavoured tobacco products, because they attract children.
And nobody wants that.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Very English. Sweater and mildew weather.
And, remarkably, this morning it is sunny.
Almost springlike.
A fellow pipesmoker, thousands of miles away, managed to forget one of his children when driving to Essex. He blames his wife. No, I didn't read the entire screed, but the gist of it was that kids and mothers get in the way of a man quietly enjoying a pipe by himself while appreciating the landscape of the British Isles. An estuarine bog near Colchester or Tendring.
A point of view with which I can sympathize completely.
They can also get in the way of tea time.
Anything, really.
If you smoke around children nowadays, somebody will 'get triggered'. Before you know it, angry Berkeley or Marin Earthmothers will come thundering around a corner, thagomizer aloft, to screech fiercely and pound you into smithereens. Children, especially middle class children in Bay Area suburbs, are easily traumatized, fragile, and largely useless.
It isn't until their mid-teens that they start developing the tattoos and armour plating of their parents. As well as the nasty attitudes.
If left too long unattended, they bloat.
As you may gather, I myself don't have children. I've got my stuffed animals and solitary pursuits, and if I lived in a larger place, I'd probably have a cat.
A creature that would doze in the shafts of sunlight slanting in through the windows, eat a bit, and perhaps lick its butt.
Middle class children would be far more likeable if they did that too.
Wisely, the authorities in several places around the Bay Area have banned the sale of all flavoured tobacco products, because they attract children.
And nobody wants that.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, January 12, 2020
NOT EVERY ONE THERE WAS THERE
This is something which I feel I must make clear: I am alive and full of beans. The reason for the clarification being that today I had to assure people over a dozen times that my health is good, I've recovered from medical events, my strength is back, and I'm fine thank you for asking. Never thought I would have to say this, but really, I'm okay. Full of the proverbial P and V.
Yeah, mmm, the right leg is a bit wankel.
It's a circulatory issue.
When I become a zombie, I'll let you know.
Today was the monthly meeting of the local pipe club. Pipesmokers who are social enough to meet once a month may not be social enough. In this era we tend to be loners. People often say that they never see people smoking a pipe anymore, and why is that? well, in the fifties salesmen and advertising execs smoked pipes, by the seventies it was hairy beach apes and lawyers, and in this day and age it's crusty old Dutchmen or such like, who hide from women, children, and the typical middle class Californian busy bodies who want to make all lives of which they do not approve sheer hell on earth.
"HOW DARE YOU RUIN MY LUNGS?!?!!"
Who are you, and how did you gain access to my cave? Also, why are you breathing? I could mention something about Berkeley hipster-moms wearing Guatamalan stink-rags, burning sage and wearing sandals because of the dolphins and the suffering rain forest, and being totally okay with wheat grass, marijuana, and little Timmy on his ADD medication -- it's green sweetie, organic cow dung, and the need modern puritans have to self-affirmatively harangue people about their un-woke sinfulness -- but I won't.
We pipe smokers just aren't very social. Just leave us alone with our stinky leaves and a lovely cheese plate, and pretend we don't exist. We try not to exist in your perfect universe.
What I'm basically getting at is that I only see these gentlemen once a month at best, which means that it's been a mere six or seven actual days for many of them since I was in the hospital. One week. If that. They're nice people, but they were off in their own worlds, chasing the fox or sniffing the truffle, even ripping apart the fresh cadaver like a hungry turkey vulture. Whatever the modern middle-aged pipe smoker does.
Real time: six months.
Yeah, I wasn't the paradigm of sociability either. I spent a lot of time hiding out in Chinatown drinking Hong Kong Milk Tea, snarfing snackipoos, and just observing people. But I was not the life of the party, anywhere.
I didn't even use my telephone as a social instrument.
There has been no reaching out and touching.
In whichever direction.
There were two very fine cheeses at the meeting. I should've written down what they were, but I wasn't thinking. They were really quite tasty.
Naval bases in the Pacific got mentioned, as well as durian.
Bernard smoked a bowlful of Captain Black Gold, as an ironic gesture, seeing as all flavoured tobacco products have been banned in our locality.
Because of the children, who cannot resist such things.
It's all about the children.
There were at least two Scotches, and several bottles of very nice wine. Including an amazing Zinfandel, which I did not sample, but heard about.
Other than that, I can't really say much about the meeting, it was too busy, and I had to abandon them several times. Plus there were cigar-smokers screaming at the ball game in the back.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yeah, mmm, the right leg is a bit wankel.
It's a circulatory issue.
When I become a zombie, I'll let you know.
Today was the monthly meeting of the local pipe club. Pipesmokers who are social enough to meet once a month may not be social enough. In this era we tend to be loners. People often say that they never see people smoking a pipe anymore, and why is that? well, in the fifties salesmen and advertising execs smoked pipes, by the seventies it was hairy beach apes and lawyers, and in this day and age it's crusty old Dutchmen or such like, who hide from women, children, and the typical middle class Californian busy bodies who want to make all lives of which they do not approve sheer hell on earth.
"HOW DARE YOU RUIN MY LUNGS?!?!!"
Who are you, and how did you gain access to my cave? Also, why are you breathing? I could mention something about Berkeley hipster-moms wearing Guatamalan stink-rags, burning sage and wearing sandals because of the dolphins and the suffering rain forest, and being totally okay with wheat grass, marijuana, and little Timmy on his ADD medication -- it's green sweetie, organic cow dung, and the need modern puritans have to self-affirmatively harangue people about their un-woke sinfulness -- but I won't.
We pipe smokers just aren't very social. Just leave us alone with our stinky leaves and a lovely cheese plate, and pretend we don't exist. We try not to exist in your perfect universe.
What I'm basically getting at is that I only see these gentlemen once a month at best, which means that it's been a mere six or seven actual days for many of them since I was in the hospital. One week. If that. They're nice people, but they were off in their own worlds, chasing the fox or sniffing the truffle, even ripping apart the fresh cadaver like a hungry turkey vulture. Whatever the modern middle-aged pipe smoker does.
Real time: six months.
Yeah, I wasn't the paradigm of sociability either. I spent a lot of time hiding out in Chinatown drinking Hong Kong Milk Tea, snarfing snackipoos, and just observing people. But I was not the life of the party, anywhere.
I didn't even use my telephone as a social instrument.
There has been no reaching out and touching.
In whichever direction.
There were two very fine cheeses at the meeting. I should've written down what they were, but I wasn't thinking. They were really quite tasty.
Naval bases in the Pacific got mentioned, as well as durian.
Bernard smoked a bowlful of Captain Black Gold, as an ironic gesture, seeing as all flavoured tobacco products have been banned in our locality.
Because of the children, who cannot resist such things.
It's all about the children.
There were at least two Scotches, and several bottles of very nice wine. Including an amazing Zinfandel, which I did not sample, but heard about.
Other than that, I can't really say much about the meeting, it was too busy, and I had to abandon them several times. Plus there were cigar-smokers screaming at the ball game in the back.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NICE TO SEE ME!
When a young woman says "it's nice to see you again", what she means is that it's nice to see me again. Or possibly that it's very nice to see that my health is better, and it's good that the combination of doctor's visits and beastly cold weather hasn't pushed me into a early grave. Something nice and neutral, in any case. I am too senior a dude for it to mean anything naughty. There is an age difference of decades in her favour, and I have every reason to assume that I smell bad to sensitive creatures.
I'm old(er), and I smoke a pipe.
That right there says it all.
Still, it's nice that she feels that it's pleasant to see me again. A man likes to be seen again. And it's a very good thing I don't have thought balloons over my head.
I may look like a cute old geezer, even a decent bloke -- shan't speculate about that, though when I look in the mirror my recent haircut makes me seem quite civilized -- but I'm actually a nasty fellow. Wicked.
"Yo, old fossil, what do you want with my daughter?!?"
Nothing but gooooooood things, sir! We will pray together! Read the good book! In a nice warm comfortable place! Somewhere quiet.
Okay, I don't think I could pull that one off. Even I would choke if someone tried that crap on me. Especially someone like me.
It's so nice to see me again.
But that's all it is.
Dammit.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I'm old(er), and I smoke a pipe.
That right there says it all.
Still, it's nice that she feels that it's pleasant to see me again. A man likes to be seen again. And it's a very good thing I don't have thought balloons over my head.
I may look like a cute old geezer, even a decent bloke -- shan't speculate about that, though when I look in the mirror my recent haircut makes me seem quite civilized -- but I'm actually a nasty fellow. Wicked.
"Yo, old fossil, what do you want with my daughter?!?"
Nothing but gooooooood things, sir! We will pray together! Read the good book! In a nice warm comfortable place! Somewhere quiet.
Okay, I don't think I could pull that one off. Even I would choke if someone tried that crap on me. Especially someone like me.
It's so nice to see me again.
But that's all it is.
Dammit.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 11, 2020
OUR BOAT DOES NOT GO ALL THE WAY TO THE TOP
Like with many 'boomers', your misspellings and grammatical errors peeve me the hell off. Good example: freinds. The correct way to spell that is 'friends', pronounced "FRENDS". 'Freinds' is pronounced "FRAYNDS". Which is a different word. One that does NOT exist. There is only ONE conclusion which one reaches after reading a text that includes 'freinds'.
The writer is an idiot.
Well, not this text, of course.
I'm a ruddy genius.
Prove me wrong.
Some languages are easier to spell than others. Evenso, having seen the spellings 'mershum' for meerschaum, and 'falconite' for vulcanite, both of which conveyed the writers' meanings adequately, I realize that being an idiot is a natural state for some reasonably intelligent people, and trying to teach these bozos Dutch (which is written as it is pronounced, thank you) would be an unsanctifiable and hopeless task, as well as pissing into the wind for all the good it would do.
The United States is the nation that invented 'Covefe'.
We are filled to the brim with idiots.
The howling mob.
Also important: capitalization, punctuation, and the Oxford comma.
I am suffering from a severe lack of ice cream at this time.
There will be no more questions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The writer is an idiot.
Well, not this text, of course.
I'm a ruddy genius.
Prove me wrong.
Some languages are easier to spell than others. Evenso, having seen the spellings 'mershum' for meerschaum, and 'falconite' for vulcanite, both of which conveyed the writers' meanings adequately, I realize that being an idiot is a natural state for some reasonably intelligent people, and trying to teach these bozos Dutch (which is written as it is pronounced, thank you) would be an unsanctifiable and hopeless task, as well as pissing into the wind for all the good it would do.
The United States is the nation that invented 'Covefe'.
We are filled to the brim with idiots.
The howling mob.
Also important: capitalization, punctuation, and the Oxford comma.
I am suffering from a severe lack of ice cream at this time.
There will be no more questions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
FORTY NINER FANS
This blogger, as you know, is not a sports fan. Frankly I cannot stand televised games, particularly the stupid spectacle called football in the United States. On the other hand, watching (or hearing) sports fans is great entertainment. Lost bets, too much liquor and cigars, screams, sweating, Tourette Syndrome, quivering fits, bizarre chanting, and seizures. And that was just one man there. Sometimes a very stable man, what with being a responsible member of the community, with gravitas, and educated.
Some of the others were much much worse.
We had a room full of them.
Crazed gibbons.
The Monkey House at the zoo has nothing on these boys, damned good thing there was neither pooh nor bananas anywhere near them.
One of them came in as aged Parmesan, left as deliquescent Brie.
Other metaphoric cheeses: Gorgonzola, Swiss, Limburger.
Fan sports: the great cheese pit of life.
They probably all breakfasted on pizza before they got there.
And performed blood sacrifices. Live goats.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Some of the others were much much worse.
We had a room full of them.
Crazed gibbons.
The Monkey House at the zoo has nothing on these boys, damned good thing there was neither pooh nor bananas anywhere near them.
One of them came in as aged Parmesan, left as deliquescent Brie.
Other metaphoric cheeses: Gorgonzola, Swiss, Limburger.
Fan sports: the great cheese pit of life.
They probably all breakfasted on pizza before they got there.
And performed blood sacrifices. Live goats.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 10, 2020
BETTER SPEECHES, MORE TUNA SANDWICHES!
One of my friends apparently has a problem opening an Instagram account. Which he says he needs to keep abreast of his grandchildren. Because both Facebook and e-mail are SO last decade.
As a person who still uses both of those methodologies, I am now feeling incredibly ancient. Hence this blog post. I actually know people who write letters on paper, and at work we do a lot with "handwritten" notes.
However, whenever I feel old and grumpy, all I really need to do to feel young and sprightly again is read the news. There are so many examples of senile old farts out there shooting off their mouths that a man can't help but feel vibrant and full of barely post-teenage vinegar.
"I'm going to tell you about the Nobel Peace Prize, I'll tell you about that. I made a deal, I saved a country, and I just heard that the head of that country is now getting the Nobel Peace Prize for saving the country. I said: 'What, did I have something do with it?' Yeah, but you know, that's the way it is. As long as we know, that's all that matters... I saved a big war, I've saved a couple of them."
-----Donald Trump, speaking recently about someone else being awarded his Nobel Prize, several months after the fact.
It is entirely unclear what the heck he is talking about, as he had nearly nothing to do with the events to which he seems to be referring. Donald Trump is man who belongs in a retirement home with a curfew, like his buddies Rudy Guliani, and Joe Biden. Probably different homes, because one of them is convinced the other stole his tuna fish sandwich.
I rely on Facebook to tell me what those three fossils tweet.
Recent research indicates that drinking red wine regularly staves off senility, and the evidence shows that none of the gentlemen whom I mentioned drink nearly enough red wine. Why, the world would be a much safer and calmer place if they were sodden drunk at all times.
Ayatullah Khameini too.
At least they wouldn't be able to use Twitter. Except for the occasional 'covefefic' outburst, we could safely ignore them.
Well, besides their horrid breath.
Old men and tuna salad.
You know ...
This blogger firmly believes that their public utterances would be much nicer if they were squiffy. They'd make more sense, communicate more clearly, and at the very least fewer listeners would need hard drugs or valium.
Less people stoned can be a good thing.
And more tuna.
Oh, and Jonathan, Instagram can probably be used for drug deals and late night pizza delivery. You should probably stay off it. You don't need anymore craziness in your life, you've got plenty of that already.
Just have a sandwich.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
As a person who still uses both of those methodologies, I am now feeling incredibly ancient. Hence this blog post. I actually know people who write letters on paper, and at work we do a lot with "handwritten" notes.
However, whenever I feel old and grumpy, all I really need to do to feel young and sprightly again is read the news. There are so many examples of senile old farts out there shooting off their mouths that a man can't help but feel vibrant and full of barely post-teenage vinegar.
"I'm going to tell you about the Nobel Peace Prize, I'll tell you about that. I made a deal, I saved a country, and I just heard that the head of that country is now getting the Nobel Peace Prize for saving the country. I said: 'What, did I have something do with it?' Yeah, but you know, that's the way it is. As long as we know, that's all that matters... I saved a big war, I've saved a couple of them."
-----Donald Trump, speaking recently about someone else being awarded his Nobel Prize, several months after the fact.
It is entirely unclear what the heck he is talking about, as he had nearly nothing to do with the events to which he seems to be referring. Donald Trump is man who belongs in a retirement home with a curfew, like his buddies Rudy Guliani, and Joe Biden. Probably different homes, because one of them is convinced the other stole his tuna fish sandwich.
I rely on Facebook to tell me what those three fossils tweet.
Recent research indicates that drinking red wine regularly staves off senility, and the evidence shows that none of the gentlemen whom I mentioned drink nearly enough red wine. Why, the world would be a much safer and calmer place if they were sodden drunk at all times.
Ayatullah Khameini too.
At least they wouldn't be able to use Twitter. Except for the occasional 'covefefic' outburst, we could safely ignore them.
Well, besides their horrid breath.
Old men and tuna salad.
You know ...
This blogger firmly believes that their public utterances would be much nicer if they were squiffy. They'd make more sense, communicate more clearly, and at the very least fewer listeners would need hard drugs or valium.
Less people stoned can be a good thing.
And more tuna.
Oh, and Jonathan, Instagram can probably be used for drug deals and late night pizza delivery. You should probably stay off it. You don't need anymore craziness in your life, you've got plenty of that already.
Just have a sandwich.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 09, 2020
IMPORTANT QUESTIONS
When I was a teenager I knew everything, and would have been insufferable to myself now. This is not unusual. Teenage boys, are, in the main, unlikeable little sh*ts, and deep into adulthood we resent the exceptions.
[Exceptionalism can run in both directions: Donal Trump and Mitch McConnell are still insufferable.]
Unlike most unlikeable little sh*ts, I wasn't exposed to Monty Python till adulthood. Everything that starts with three questions must, inevitably, lead one to Saint Attila.
What is your name? What is your favourite colour? What is the airspeed velocity of a swallow?
The world long ago revolved around book rooms, comfy chairs in which to read while smoking one's pipe, hot caffeinated beverages, plates of buttered toast with Dundee marmalade, and deep fried unidentifiable objects.
Books came from Blackwells in England. Reference, dictionaries, Simenon, Nabokov, cuisine, scientific subjects, mediaeval and colonial history.
Comfy chairs (in book rooms) were all over the place.
Dundee marmalade also came from England.
As did varieties of decent tea.
Deep fried things are the Dutch National Cuisine. We lived in Holland at the time. The non-deepfried stuff is snert, eels, herring, or Indonesian food.
In retrospect it seems rather limited.
Nowadays you cannot smoke inside anymore, unless your apartment mate has left for work and it's your day off. So after two or three in the afternoon there will be no pipe lit up near the chair or the books. Haven't seen Dundee marmalade in a while, but there are many other things to put on toast.
The last two or three pipefulls of the day tend to be cold affairs.
Entirely without books. After the tea-cup is empty.
Outdoors, in a virtual Siberia.
The number of questions has considerably expanded, and I no longer know everything. I have a number of favourite colours presently.
But, via friends, I now know this: An unladen swallow will fly from 9 to 12 meters per second, depending on what it recently ate, whether it is being pursued, or how much of a hurry it is in. Elevation, humidity, temperature, coconuts, and the bird's age and size are also factors to consider.
So anywhere between 32 km p/h. and 41 km p/h.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Exceptionalism can run in both directions: Donal Trump and Mitch McConnell are still insufferable.]
Unlike most unlikeable little sh*ts, I wasn't exposed to Monty Python till adulthood. Everything that starts with three questions must, inevitably, lead one to Saint Attila.
What is your name? What is your favourite colour? What is the airspeed velocity of a swallow?
The world long ago revolved around book rooms, comfy chairs in which to read while smoking one's pipe, hot caffeinated beverages, plates of buttered toast with Dundee marmalade, and deep fried unidentifiable objects.
Books came from Blackwells in England. Reference, dictionaries, Simenon, Nabokov, cuisine, scientific subjects, mediaeval and colonial history.
Comfy chairs (in book rooms) were all over the place.
Dundee marmalade also came from England.
As did varieties of decent tea.
Deep fried things are the Dutch National Cuisine. We lived in Holland at the time. The non-deepfried stuff is snert, eels, herring, or Indonesian food.
In retrospect it seems rather limited.
Nowadays you cannot smoke inside anymore, unless your apartment mate has left for work and it's your day off. So after two or three in the afternoon there will be no pipe lit up near the chair or the books. Haven't seen Dundee marmalade in a while, but there are many other things to put on toast.
The last two or three pipefulls of the day tend to be cold affairs.
Entirely without books. After the tea-cup is empty.
Outdoors, in a virtual Siberia.
The number of questions has considerably expanded, and I no longer know everything. I have a number of favourite colours presently.
But, via friends, I now know this: An unladen swallow will fly from 9 to 12 meters per second, depending on what it recently ate, whether it is being pursued, or how much of a hurry it is in. Elevation, humidity, temperature, coconuts, and the bird's age and size are also factors to consider.
So anywhere between 32 km p/h. and 41 km p/h.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
COW RIVER
So, doctor's appointment yesterday (just a follow-up, not to worry), followed by a smoke in an alley-way near the clinic, then lunch. I had been thinking about bitter-melon omelette rice, but I do not like being so predictable. One of the dishes they also do is 'fried beef rice-stick noodles'. Broad rice stick is called "sand river rice-noodle: (沙河粉 'saa ho fan'), hence the abbreviation 乾炒牛河 ('gon chaau ngau ho'); or just 牛河 ("cow river").
Which can be stupendous. Or just so-so.
[Blanched rice stick, thin sliced beef, sliced onion, scallion chopped into inches, cleaned bean sprouts, soy sauce and rice wine. Extremely high heat, cooking oil smoking. First three into the pan to caramelize the edges, then add scallion and bean sprouts, flash and sizzle, slop onto a plate. To the table steaming and too hot to eat.]
It hit the spot. But I've learned that a popular chachanteng right around everybody else's lunch time is a bad idea for the single diner.
Worst seat in the house, and nearly invisible.
It takes a man with Asperger several hours to understand that the pleasant plump-faced waitress wasn't avoiding him, but just had her hands full, and her skill-level and energy could not compete with the hyper scrawny girl twirling twirling twirling. Fortunately I am patient, calm, and sometimes exceptionally well-mannered. As well as beset by self doubts.
The best time for me to head over to a chachanteng is probably between half past two and four thirty. After the crowd has died down, and with enough time to enjoy a leisurely meal before the crowd starts swelling up again.
Do not get between a hungry Cantonese person and food.
They will stampede right over you. Cow river.
And opening up the gates of hell.
Screaming banshees.
It's cataclysmicly low blood sugar combined and an entirely understandable pressing need to eat. Something. Right. Now. Dammit!
They themselves don't grasp the chemistry of it all, but they are at their most determinedly murderous in the last half hour before their regular lunch or dinner times. That's why bakeries do a booming business between tea-time and closing. A homicidal person has got to snack, see, and naturally presumes that those white people are just casually browsing with no perceived need to buy anything. If necessary, elbow someone and yell for attention. Gotta have that cupcake (紙包蛋糕 'ji bau daan gou') now!
And coffee! Milk tea! Boba drinkie!
Don't mind me, I'm just the middle-aged pipe-smoking white dude observing and analyzing. The outsider with keen eyes and a mental note pad.
In other news, I might end up getting a cell-phone sometime this year. First thing I'll do with it is take lovely still-shots of all of my dictionaries, in various settings. Dictionary and a cup of tea, dictionary on an end table, dictionary at an angle, softly lit. Then I shall send these pictures to people.
Unsolicited dic pics.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which can be stupendous. Or just so-so.
[Blanched rice stick, thin sliced beef, sliced onion, scallion chopped into inches, cleaned bean sprouts, soy sauce and rice wine. Extremely high heat, cooking oil smoking. First three into the pan to caramelize the edges, then add scallion and bean sprouts, flash and sizzle, slop onto a plate. To the table steaming and too hot to eat.]
It hit the spot. But I've learned that a popular chachanteng right around everybody else's lunch time is a bad idea for the single diner.
Worst seat in the house, and nearly invisible.
It takes a man with Asperger several hours to understand that the pleasant plump-faced waitress wasn't avoiding him, but just had her hands full, and her skill-level and energy could not compete with the hyper scrawny girl twirling twirling twirling. Fortunately I am patient, calm, and sometimes exceptionally well-mannered. As well as beset by self doubts.
The best time for me to head over to a chachanteng is probably between half past two and four thirty. After the crowd has died down, and with enough time to enjoy a leisurely meal before the crowd starts swelling up again.
Do not get between a hungry Cantonese person and food.
They will stampede right over you. Cow river.
And opening up the gates of hell.
Screaming banshees.
It's cataclysmicly low blood sugar combined and an entirely understandable pressing need to eat. Something. Right. Now. Dammit!
They themselves don't grasp the chemistry of it all, but they are at their most determinedly murderous in the last half hour before their regular lunch or dinner times. That's why bakeries do a booming business between tea-time and closing. A homicidal person has got to snack, see, and naturally presumes that those white people are just casually browsing with no perceived need to buy anything. If necessary, elbow someone and yell for attention. Gotta have that cupcake (紙包蛋糕 'ji bau daan gou') now!
And coffee! Milk tea! Boba drinkie!
Don't mind me, I'm just the middle-aged pipe-smoking white dude observing and analyzing. The outsider with keen eyes and a mental note pad.
In other news, I might end up getting a cell-phone sometime this year. First thing I'll do with it is take lovely still-shots of all of my dictionaries, in various settings. Dictionary and a cup of tea, dictionary on an end table, dictionary at an angle, softly lit. Then I shall send these pictures to people.
Unsolicited dic pics.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, January 08, 2020
MISS PINTO IS SO ANGRY!
Over on a forum for people who are interested in a specific cuisine, someone from Kentucky posted Christian religious trash about the Australian wild fires leading to prayer. She's a very lonely woman.
And not particularly likeable outside of her church on Sunday.
Which is a horribly day. In Jayz's Arse, Kentucky.
Christian proselytizing does not belong in that forum.
So people got a little peevish.
Angry Miss Pinto from deepest darkest Amsterdam then weighed in. Angry Miss Pinto has sheer buckets of good Christian faith. And love.
Alan: If you are a non-believer why would you waste your time praying? Utter nonsense.
Angry Miss Pinto: Alan because thats the only Hope for a miracle...but I see you have none!!!
Alan: No, I have no gods, I believe in reality and practicality. Miracles? Get real eh?
Bhaskar: takes more faith to believe everything is an accident food for thought.
Alan: Only food reference here...
Jesper: Please delete right away..!
Angry Miss Pinto: Jesper you should be deleted right away...
Jesper: It is a recipe group, not a religious group... If that is so difficult to understand, maybe you should get the f... out of this group as well...
Angry Miss Pinto: Jesper why are you commenting ,??? Its about praying for Australia...perhaps you should take your sorry helpless arse out.
Jesper: Angry Miss Pinto, moron...
John: Remove this please.
Angry Miss Pinto: John are you still in the Stone age????
John: You're a very funny person.. I can see by your posts that you're a comedian.
Richard: No such thing.
Atboth: Eh, just an opportunistic Jezus-freak in Kentucky. I fail to see what this has to do with food. And I doubt that she knows beans about Australia.
Angry Miss Pinto: Atboth Hope you found some patatoes.
Atboth: Aardappels. Niet zo goed met frietsaus, voortreffelijk met sambal.
Atboth: Neither religion nor 'watch parties' belong here.
Angry Miss Pinto: Atboth then what are you doing here ???
Atboth: Angry Miss Pinto, This page is specifically for Indian recipes, NOT religion. Feel free to post something about Indian food. Or read about Indian food. Posting religious crap is a discourtesy to other people here. Watch parties also, by the way.
Angry Miss Pinto: They have asked to Pray...its not to kill anyone, its to do good....why does it pinch your backside so much....????
Basil: They should ask to pray on their own page or a group of whom they are admin themselves .. not on a recipe group and bother everyone.
Angry Miss Pinto: If they said wear a Hijaab...everyone would do it without judging and no questions asked...( idiots), !!! but now its just a prayer and everyone starts doubting and questioning...
Angry Miss Pinto: Wake up you ignorant Fools.
Angry Miss Pinto: Up yours.
Jesper: Angry Miss Pinto stupid fucker...
Alison: Jesper not sure it’s working.
Jesper: Alison, Not really... Who Can fight against unintelligence.
Basil: Jesper hahaha ... UNINTELLIGENCE.
John: Admin can you please remove this post... It has absolutely nothing to do with FOOD and has been posted by a person with very little brain! Thank you
Basil: Because someone like you posts rubbish on a food group instead of your own page the people in Australia might suffer more from the curses you get. Do yourself and Australia a favour and remove the post .
Let us all think and pray for Angry Miss Pinto. She's originally from Pune, Maharashtra. And undoubtedly brings joy to her neighbors in Amsterdam. Much joy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And not particularly likeable outside of her church on Sunday.
Which is a horribly day. In Jayz's Arse, Kentucky.
Christian proselytizing does not belong in that forum.
So people got a little peevish.
Angry Miss Pinto from deepest darkest Amsterdam then weighed in. Angry Miss Pinto has sheer buckets of good Christian faith. And love.
Alan: If you are a non-believer why would you waste your time praying? Utter nonsense.
Angry Miss Pinto: Alan because thats the only Hope for a miracle...but I see you have none!!!
Alan: No, I have no gods, I believe in reality and practicality. Miracles? Get real eh?
Bhaskar: takes more faith to believe everything is an accident food for thought.
Alan: Only food reference here...
Jesper: Please delete right away..!
Angry Miss Pinto: Jesper you should be deleted right away...
Jesper: It is a recipe group, not a religious group... If that is so difficult to understand, maybe you should get the f... out of this group as well...
Angry Miss Pinto: Jesper why are you commenting ,??? Its about praying for Australia...perhaps you should take your sorry helpless arse out.
Jesper: Angry Miss Pinto, moron...
John: Remove this please.
Angry Miss Pinto: John are you still in the Stone age????
John: You're a very funny person.. I can see by your posts that you're a comedian.
Richard: No such thing.
Atboth: Eh, just an opportunistic Jezus-freak in Kentucky. I fail to see what this has to do with food. And I doubt that she knows beans about Australia.
Angry Miss Pinto: Atboth Hope you found some patatoes.
Atboth: Aardappels. Niet zo goed met frietsaus, voortreffelijk met sambal.
Atboth: Neither religion nor 'watch parties' belong here.
Angry Miss Pinto: Atboth then what are you doing here ???
Atboth: Angry Miss Pinto, This page is specifically for Indian recipes, NOT religion. Feel free to post something about Indian food. Or read about Indian food. Posting religious crap is a discourtesy to other people here. Watch parties also, by the way.
Angry Miss Pinto: They have asked to Pray...its not to kill anyone, its to do good....why does it pinch your backside so much....????
Basil: They should ask to pray on their own page or a group of whom they are admin themselves .. not on a recipe group and bother everyone.
Angry Miss Pinto: If they said wear a Hijaab...everyone would do it without judging and no questions asked...( idiots), !!! but now its just a prayer and everyone starts doubting and questioning...
Angry Miss Pinto: Wake up you ignorant Fools.
Angry Miss Pinto: Up yours.
Jesper: Angry Miss Pinto stupid fucker...
Alison: Jesper not sure it’s working.
Jesper: Alison, Not really... Who Can fight against unintelligence.
Basil: Jesper hahaha ... UNINTELLIGENCE.
John: Admin can you please remove this post... It has absolutely nothing to do with FOOD and has been posted by a person with very little brain! Thank you
Basil: Because someone like you posts rubbish on a food group instead of your own page the people in Australia might suffer more from the curses you get. Do yourself and Australia a favour and remove the post .
Let us all think and pray for Angry Miss Pinto. She's originally from Pune, Maharashtra. And undoubtedly brings joy to her neighbors in Amsterdam. Much joy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?
One of the questions I ask random callers trying to get money out of me OR get access to my credit card files as well as my computer is "what are you wearing?" Conversations usually go directly south from there, ending with me calling them a bhainchote, and putting down the telephone.
For years I did commercial collections work. The phone is MY domain.
You call, you volunteer. You are a guinea pig.
I am wearing pajama pants, an advertising tee-shirt for a cigar brand, and a dirty grey flannel bathrobe.
What are you wearing?
An internet friend asked the same question, and got answers. Which, if you have a certain personality, are fascinating.
"The weight of the world on my shou...oh. Blue shirt with a button/down collar and grey flannels."
"Orchid paisley tshirt, black velvet skirt, and wellies. Soon to switch boots for a couch and hizzy blanket and fog of sleep."
"Soft, comfortable, reasonably modest clothes appropriate for work, home."
"Shoes and indoor."
"A hospital gown."
"Today I was wearing a black corset with matching lace around it and a black leather miniskirt, pink fishnets and black combat boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside."
"Red hoody over my grey dress sweatpants."
"Wearing...?"
You will note that lace undies, a superman costume, or a snazzy catgirl outfit, are NOT mentioned. Sadly. This blogger would love for strangers to wander around downtown dressed like that, as if they had forgotten that they had to go to the office today. Along with other seasonally inappropriate clothes.
Obviously if I left the house in the dirty grey bathrobe a substantial purse or backpack would be needed. Bathrobe pockets are not large enough for two pipes, a tobacco pouch, pipe cleaners, matches, and a tamper. Such as the normal person would have secreted somewhere in his or her clothing.
And there is no backpocket for the wallet either.
Equally obviously, I seldom, rarely, almost never get social calls. My friends largely do not know my number, and there is no person of the opposite gender, curious or inquisitive about my sartorial decisions.
If there were, I'd probably dress better.
And wash my bathrobe.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For years I did commercial collections work. The phone is MY domain.
You call, you volunteer. You are a guinea pig.
I am wearing pajama pants, an advertising tee-shirt for a cigar brand, and a dirty grey flannel bathrobe.
What are you wearing?
An internet friend asked the same question, and got answers. Which, if you have a certain personality, are fascinating.
"The weight of the world on my shou...oh. Blue shirt with a button/down collar and grey flannels."
"Orchid paisley tshirt, black velvet skirt, and wellies. Soon to switch boots for a couch and hizzy blanket and fog of sleep."
"Soft, comfortable, reasonably modest clothes appropriate for work, home."
"Shoes and indoor."
"A hospital gown."
"Today I was wearing a black corset with matching lace around it and a black leather miniskirt, pink fishnets and black combat boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside."
"Red hoody over my grey dress sweatpants."
"Wearing...?"
You will note that lace undies, a superman costume, or a snazzy catgirl outfit, are NOT mentioned. Sadly. This blogger would love for strangers to wander around downtown dressed like that, as if they had forgotten that they had to go to the office today. Along with other seasonally inappropriate clothes.
Obviously if I left the house in the dirty grey bathrobe a substantial purse or backpack would be needed. Bathrobe pockets are not large enough for two pipes, a tobacco pouch, pipe cleaners, matches, and a tamper. Such as the normal person would have secreted somewhere in his or her clothing.
And there is no backpocket for the wallet either.
Equally obviously, I seldom, rarely, almost never get social calls. My friends largely do not know my number, and there is no person of the opposite gender, curious or inquisitive about my sartorial decisions.
If there were, I'd probably dress better.
And wash my bathrobe.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HEARTING CARCASSES
Three things: They've finally painted over the crappy art posters and the meaningful graffiti at the bus stop (and the author of same, an offensive eejit, will be very peeved at that); the proprietress of one of my favourite Chinatown grocery stores was on the bus this evening, a very pretty woman; and Sydney Fylbert, a stuffed Turkey Vulture we've recently adopted, wishes to know about my apartment mate, who is suffering from a horrid cold, "is she ripe yet?", and has expressed a desire for a tee-shirt that states "I ♡ carcasses!".
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SYDNEY FYLBERT
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 07, 2020
IT'S ALL A CONSPIRACY, MAN!
One of the joys of working in Marin is listening to all the things people up north believe, passionately, with every fibre of their being.
It's like visiting a different planet.
Trump was elected because of Polish cyber-meddling. Red meat will kill you. Vaccination is slow murder. The native Americans smoked clean pure tobacco and lived well into their hundreds because of it.
Drumming chases away evil spirits.
The Iranians are a lost tribe.
Epstein killed himself.
Qanon.
THE ACTOR IS JEFF EPSTEIN!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YuaYh9Gnrug&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR0gW-XZ9HfbB7r5X_0T1HJ-1cnhy-2yvfuaAOXX3UIpJaZCebvJ_TaIjis.]
I dunno, maybe red meat will indeed kill me. Is that a prediction?
Apparently I can research everthing for myself on the internet, and thus see that space aliens brought mankind religion, and are currently anally raping everyone in Sweden in order to make the apocalypse happen.
Oh boy. If only I knew.
If I ever see a mob of Red Meat coming at me with knives, I'm shooting first. Qanon. I've had all of my vaccinations, plus some. Jeffrey Epstein. Bugger the Iranians and Qasem Soleimani. Trump is dead. The native Americans smoked crap. Qanon. And died young of malnutrition and all that damned drumming. Jeffrey Epstein. Veganism leads to mental disorders.
Donald Trump is dead.
Jeffrey Epstein.
Qanon.
Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump.
Just click your heels three times.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's like visiting a different planet.
Trump was elected because of Polish cyber-meddling. Red meat will kill you. Vaccination is slow murder. The native Americans smoked clean pure tobacco and lived well into their hundreds because of it.
Drumming chases away evil spirits.
The Iranians are a lost tribe.
Epstein killed himself.
Qanon.
THE ACTOR IS JEFF EPSTEIN!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YuaYh9Gnrug&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR0gW-XZ9HfbB7r5X_0T1HJ-1cnhy-2yvfuaAOXX3UIpJaZCebvJ_TaIjis.]
I dunno, maybe red meat will indeed kill me. Is that a prediction?
Apparently I can research everthing for myself on the internet, and thus see that space aliens brought mankind religion, and are currently anally raping everyone in Sweden in order to make the apocalypse happen.
Oh boy. If only I knew.
If I ever see a mob of Red Meat coming at me with knives, I'm shooting first. Qanon. I've had all of my vaccinations, plus some. Jeffrey Epstein. Bugger the Iranians and Qasem Soleimani. Trump is dead. The native Americans smoked crap. Qanon. And died young of malnutrition and all that damned drumming. Jeffrey Epstein. Veganism leads to mental disorders.
Donald Trump is dead.
Jeffrey Epstein.
Qanon.
Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump. Qanon. Epstein. Trump.
Just click your heels three times.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
CLEAN SMELLING THINGS
Despite my work being a smoke-friendly environment, I enjoy my pipes and occasional cheroot much more when I am not there. Even outdoors freezing my rear-end off. And I think the reason is timing, pace, and freedom to not be the eternally upbeat pipe-expert ready to answer bizarre questions.
One of my key survival strategies is that I can and will take over the conversation, rather than letting others dominate it and blather.
Little White Nipple Guy is sort of the exception. When I absolutely cannot avoid interacting with him, I'll throw out little prods and pokes to help him realize his full potential as the big loud gibbering elephant in the room. Which, being a man with loose wires, never fails to bring out the flower within. This is all I can do for him.
[One or two readers will realize that I am quoting Any Lau here. And I'm sure situations like these are exactly what Andy Lau was referring to. Have you ever read his lyrics?
He's the wild sugar-crazed fruitbat of Canto-pop.]
One thing I often return to is the idea that your briar pipes are rather like your favourite boxer shorts. Yes, they look dashing, and howdy Jeebus are they comfortable! But they benefit from a good cleaning regularly, and should probably not be worn day in day out. Hence keeping a number of them in rotation, and making sure that you use plenty of pipe-cleaners.
Surely you don't want swamp on a stick four inches from your nose?
So you will understand that during my Weekends (Tuesday and Wednesday, as well as Friday), the pipes in my coat pocket when I head down to Chinatown in the afternoon for something to eat and a cup of hot Hong Kong Milk Tea will be carefully chosen. There are several that are specific to C'town usage, especially 'The Pipe For Watching Rats in Spofford Alley'.
[There are also pipes I will never bring to work, for fear that they will be jinxed by doing so. They could acquire associated moods and memories which might spoil the pleasure of touching, feeling, seeing, or smoking them.]
I sometimes say that pipe smoking is perfect for neurotic people.
Please do not feel free to riff off of that thought.
We've already explored the concept.
Extremely thoroughly.
My friend Neil has a number of pipes that remind him of events and places from years ago, as well as the tobacco he smoked then. Using those pipes brings back those memories, and he'll pensively speak of them at times.
Some pipes, some tobaccos, pull my mind back to summer evenings near the St. John's church in Valkenswaard, or rainy days at the train station in Tilburg, Indonesian restaurants in Den Haag (oh boy, maybe I should cook something with garlic, chilies, and tamarind, this evening), or even watching a man with two live cellphones nearly get run over on Sansome Street.
One pipe always reminds me of an old gentleman requiring an ambulance and Cantonese speaking emergency medical technicians on Grant and Clay in Chinatown, similar to a memory associated with 'The Pipe For Watching Rats in Spofford Alley', when Spofford was still a long trench with plank walkways (that was when the city was revamping it to make it more attractive for the tourists; the inefficient project benefitted the local rat population immensely). Ambulance technicians had a hard time moving a stretcher down narrow stairs onto the walkway, then carrying it gingerly through the obstacle course to Washington Street in the rain that night. The city should have been sued for letting the digging go on for so long and at so slow a pace. Doing so was extremely irresponsible of them.
It may actually have been murderous.
Nearly a year later almost no progress was evident.
But they finally gassed the rats.
[Rats, everybody agrees, are bad for the tourist trade. As well as bad for business in general. Though they immensely entertain pipe smokers, who might thoughtfully observe them for half an hour late at night.]
My plans today involve laundry (see aforementioned boxer shorts), lunch, and wandering around the alleyways for a while. A Virginia mixture which will remind me of good weather several years ago, down near the Pyramid, the fresh green of new leaves on the ginkgo trees, and the quietness of the Financial District on Sunday afternoons.
Then home for a long nap.
Tomorrow I'm taking a small Peterson Canadian from the early sixties (the confluence of different stamping on the shank suggests that era) with me for after my doctor's appointment, and I plan specifically to have bittermelon omelette over rice for lunch in Chinatown later.
The days are sunny now, but it is still too cold for normal people.
It will probably rain again later in the week. Bah.
I'm looking forward to warmer weather.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One of my key survival strategies is that I can and will take over the conversation, rather than letting others dominate it and blather.
Little White Nipple Guy is sort of the exception. When I absolutely cannot avoid interacting with him, I'll throw out little prods and pokes to help him realize his full potential as the big loud gibbering elephant in the room. Which, being a man with loose wires, never fails to bring out the flower within. This is all I can do for him.
[One or two readers will realize that I am quoting Any Lau here. And I'm sure situations like these are exactly what Andy Lau was referring to. Have you ever read his lyrics?
He's the wild sugar-crazed fruitbat of Canto-pop.]
One thing I often return to is the idea that your briar pipes are rather like your favourite boxer shorts. Yes, they look dashing, and howdy Jeebus are they comfortable! But they benefit from a good cleaning regularly, and should probably not be worn day in day out. Hence keeping a number of them in rotation, and making sure that you use plenty of pipe-cleaners.
Surely you don't want swamp on a stick four inches from your nose?
So you will understand that during my Weekends (Tuesday and Wednesday, as well as Friday), the pipes in my coat pocket when I head down to Chinatown in the afternoon for something to eat and a cup of hot Hong Kong Milk Tea will be carefully chosen. There are several that are specific to C'town usage, especially 'The Pipe For Watching Rats in Spofford Alley'.
[There are also pipes I will never bring to work, for fear that they will be jinxed by doing so. They could acquire associated moods and memories which might spoil the pleasure of touching, feeling, seeing, or smoking them.]
I sometimes say that pipe smoking is perfect for neurotic people.
Please do not feel free to riff off of that thought.
We've already explored the concept.
Extremely thoroughly.
My friend Neil has a number of pipes that remind him of events and places from years ago, as well as the tobacco he smoked then. Using those pipes brings back those memories, and he'll pensively speak of them at times.
Some pipes, some tobaccos, pull my mind back to summer evenings near the St. John's church in Valkenswaard, or rainy days at the train station in Tilburg, Indonesian restaurants in Den Haag (oh boy, maybe I should cook something with garlic, chilies, and tamarind, this evening), or even watching a man with two live cellphones nearly get run over on Sansome Street.
One pipe always reminds me of an old gentleman requiring an ambulance and Cantonese speaking emergency medical technicians on Grant and Clay in Chinatown, similar to a memory associated with 'The Pipe For Watching Rats in Spofford Alley', when Spofford was still a long trench with plank walkways (that was when the city was revamping it to make it more attractive for the tourists; the inefficient project benefitted the local rat population immensely). Ambulance technicians had a hard time moving a stretcher down narrow stairs onto the walkway, then carrying it gingerly through the obstacle course to Washington Street in the rain that night. The city should have been sued for letting the digging go on for so long and at so slow a pace. Doing so was extremely irresponsible of them.
It may actually have been murderous.
Nearly a year later almost no progress was evident.
But they finally gassed the rats.
[Rats, everybody agrees, are bad for the tourist trade. As well as bad for business in general. Though they immensely entertain pipe smokers, who might thoughtfully observe them for half an hour late at night.]
My plans today involve laundry (see aforementioned boxer shorts), lunch, and wandering around the alleyways for a while. A Virginia mixture which will remind me of good weather several years ago, down near the Pyramid, the fresh green of new leaves on the ginkgo trees, and the quietness of the Financial District on Sunday afternoons.
Then home for a long nap.
Tomorrow I'm taking a small Peterson Canadian from the early sixties (the confluence of different stamping on the shank suggests that era) with me for after my doctor's appointment, and I plan specifically to have bittermelon omelette over rice for lunch in Chinatown later.
The days are sunny now, but it is still too cold for normal people.
It will probably rain again later in the week. Bah.
I'm looking forward to warmer weather.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
