THE GATHERING

Remember, I am not a particularly social person. Which may explain why I am still a pipesmoker, and have remained single since my break-up years ago.
Pipesmoking, as you undoubtedly realize, is not a social activity.
Nor endearing to the fairer sex.
I do not endear.

Today was consequently a little trying. I could easily ignore the rancid old Magaites drooling and gibbering in the back room -- all they need, really, is carrion and a teevee -- but when the gentleman from Shanghai and his adult daughter and son came in we ended up talking for over two hours. A pipesmoker, keenly interested in the environment in which we were. He did not know many pipesmokers in Shanghai, it was mostly a private pursuit. He liked Latakia blends, knew about the Scandinavian Tobacco Group's recent purchase of MacBarens/Sutliff (which means that the spectrum be reduced to a mere fraction (four hundred plus distinctly different products down to about a dozen), was reasonably familiar with the outside world despite not speaking English, somewhat acquainted with zhuan shu (篆書 sealscript) as well the full forms of many characters. A very good thing, as my ability in Mandarin is poor and haphazard; his daughter (a very nice person) was a capable translator when necessary.
He was glad to be there, as I was glad he had discovered the place.

I hope I see him again next year when he visits his daughter again. Shortly after the three of them left, the pipe club members started trickling in. We had not seen each other since two weeks before the inaugeration. We all share much the same opinions about the subsequent actions and appointees. At one point I casually reminded Nick, who is in his eighties, of the time a young lady was so taken by his elfin charm (he's in his eighties, but cute looking with sparkling eyes that reflect his puckish personality) that she hopped onto his lap and stuck her tongue in his ear. Startling, and memorable.

Nick smokes aged Virginias and fine flakes, as do I. Neil, who had provided two nice pâtés, tends to sometimes indulge in those, but usually puffs medium to full Latakia mixtures. We agree on some of the limited edition C&D flakes, as well as Palmetto Balkan, which proves overwhelmingly that Jeremy Reeves is an absolute genius.


Bernard, another gentleman, and I discussed African wildlife. He agrees with me that it's a jolly good thing that honey badgers have neither opposable thumbs nor the ability to form complete sentences. If man had to compete with them, we'd lose.


Altogether about a dozen pipe smokers, several tobaccos, at least two bottles of wine, and good cheese in addition to the pâté.


So it was a succesful pipe club meeting. And the members had a good time.
As did I. But I am not a social person, and am a bit frazzled.
And my right foot is painful and twitching.
Tomorrow will be quieter.


Perhaps a few bland sentences about food. After a few days of being twirling mister charm surrounded by Orcs in the salt flats I probably need that. I really must stress that I am not a very social person. Nor like Gandalf in any way. You might mistakenly assume otherwise.
And I am certainly not a blasted Hobbit.



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THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING!

Imagine a television quiz show featuring intoxicated Australians. Foster's Lager, shrimp on the barbie, and large personal knives as well as crocodiles.

The grand prize: a lifetime supply of Vegemite.
Of course Aussies would be contestants.
And only Aussies, no one else.

Remember, they're drunk.

Rapid fire questions.


What's the capital of Australia?

"Kangaroo!"

What insect flies over the mudflats?

"Kangaroo!"

What green fruit is harvested in orchards?

"Kangaroo!"

Australian Academy Award winner?

"Kangaroo!"

Square root of ...

"Kangaroo!"

American President?

"Kangaroo!"

As it turns out, kangaroo dude is the winner. And gets awarded that lifetime supply of rancid kangaroo paste. The audience erupts in wild cheering. The show becomes a run-away hit.



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THE MISSING DINNER

One of the dishes that I haven't had in around four years is Baked Portuguese Chicken Rice. Which should be cooked chicken with mild coconut curry sauce, and preferably a large piece or two of pan-gilded Linguiça plus potato chunks, on a bed of egg fried rice, bunged under the broiler and served piping hot in the oven-proof dish. It's a balance.
And totally great with Sriracha or sambal oelek.

There may be some melted cheese on top.

It isn't pretentious, but it's good chachanteng chow. Problem is that the few chachantengs in this part of the city do not do it. At least not anything like how it's supposed to be done.

焗葡國雞飯

A chachanteng is the kind of place that local neighborhood folks go to where they can be themselves, get a quick comforting meal, swill Hong Kong milk tea, read the racing page, and not worry about appearances. Flip flops totally can.

Also, it's kind of noisy. And there might be eccentrics. Or kids.
It's a guarantee that there is Spam on the premises.

Having worked in restaurants, I have my own ideas about fine places to eat. So it's probably a darn good thing that I'm not dating anyone, because on Valentine's Day (yesterday) I'd take them to a neighborhood place where the food is good albeit somewhat pedestrian, the staff is engaging and businesslike, the tables are clean, the lighting is bright rather than mood or romantic, and there is hot sauce on every table. Not. A. Single. Red. Rose. In. Sight.

At a chachanteng you do not have to jump through hoops to get a reservation for Valentine's Day or any other holiday. They don't take reservations. Show up, inform them however many people you are (幾位？), and get whatever you want on the menu. If you wish to propose to her on bended knee, that's entirely up to you, but everyone else there will look at you funny. And if you show up with a giant bunch of red, red roses, both of you dressed to impress, the other customers may assume that you missed out on a much more pretentious expensive restaurant due to bad planning, or that you are goofy as well as cheap.

A good woman likes her tucker. As well as a cup of milk tea.

There is no champagne. You want bubbles? Boba.


The true romantic and perfect lover thinks that his woman is absolutely adorable slurping a frosty tapioca ball drink. If that's what she want to do. Trust me. Adorable.

As you can tell, I really miss Portuguese chicken rice.



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THE EMPTY TOOLBOX

Being sceptical is intellectually healthy. Provided that there actually is an intellect there. And that it's fully loaded with tools. What's obvious is that most of this country is mind-blowingly stupid. Trump's supporters prove that.

The confirmation of RFK Jr. once again confirms that we share this country with Very. Stupid. People. We already knew that; it's why Trump go elected. Twice. But it's absolutely undeniable. No, they didn't get conned or "played". They are just Very. Stupid. People.

But not just stupid. They're self-centered, greedy, entitled, and full of hatred for everyone.
Basically, the entire country is like Tommy Tuberville's constituancy.
Chuckleheaded, inbred, and vicious.


So it's probably a good thing that we're going to hell in a handbasket.
The American Century is over, there's little to redeem.

The last few weeks I've been listening to Kurt Weill and Bertold Brecht a lot. Stuff that dates from the Germany that disappeared with Hitler, but has remained timeless, and appropriate for any age of mass stupidity.

Assuming, of course, that you understand German.
Many Americans don't even know English.
A series of caveman grunts.
Their version.
Y'all.



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STRIKE THE LITTLE MAN

One of the things that would really make San Francisco a world-class metropolis is catering to the vengeful instincts of the modern urban man. Or woman. Such as old ladies who, for a minimal fee, will curse your enemies or coworkers that you have grievances toward. And it seems to me that in precisely that way a number of elderly women among the local community would be gainfully and usefully employed.

打你個死個頭！

A friend says that he regularly had that done, when he was living in Hong Kong. It made him feel better, and by framing the requests he made in a very focused way he was able to come to the United States over thirty years ago and start a succesful computer repair business. He wishes that the same service was available here, as it's nearly time to retire and he wants a bigger house and a new car.

In Hong Kong you can find these useful civil functionaries near the Canal Road Flyover (堅拿道天橋) right around Hennessy Road, conveniently close to fine lunch opportunities so that you may have a quick meal afterwards. Present them with data (names, age, gender, and more, like for instance a recent photo) plus the right amount of cash (no credit cards, no Apple Pay) and they will strike it fiercely with an old shoe till the paper rips, uttering imprecations and bad luck wishes.

[Hennessy Road (軒尼詩道) runs east to west through Wanchai (灣仔). Right around the Causeway Bay area (銅鑼灣) is where the Canal Road Flyover (堅拿道天橋) crosses Hennessy, easily reachable by public transport. The weeks leading up to the equinox, which is when hibernating insects awaken (驚蟄 'king jat') are the best time of year for this enterprise.]

There is obviously very good reason for that part of Hong Kong being the most expensive commercial rent zone on the planet. Valuable business services!

Imagine combining your break with improving the world. Here in San Francisco, you would probably write down things like the make of the car and the license plate number of the idiot who parked in a handicap zone or the driveway of your building, such as the morons who go to the donut place at all hours or need to have a drink at local bars to make their lives perfect. Or the people plonked in the bus lanes during rush hour.

打小人

Also the two funguses who park their Tesla wankpanzers on Grant Avenue.
And several political figures, including President Musk.
The entire damned Republican Party.



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LET US NOT SPEAK OF SUCH THINGS

The one thing I have do today that requires leaving shelter is picking up more latanoprost. Which means being in the middle of the deluge. So I might as well have lunch while doing it. And it's a good thing that A) I have a thick coat and a sturdy umbrella, and B) there are at least three awnings over empty storefronts within two blocks of the pharmacy.

Yes, I could shelter during in the area in front of the hospital where the pharmacy is located, part of which is recessed. But that would mean being more social than I would normally wish to be, and not smoking my pipe while there.


For me, one of the great functions of Chinatown is as a place to smoke without Karenesque mostly Caucasian earthmothers yelling at me for killing butterflies and little kittens.

A life avoiding the Karenesque Caucasian earthmothers is a good life.
An excellent reason to avoid yoga studios and vegan restaurants.

An added benefit is that it's nowhere near the flood zone.
On a slope, well above sealevel.

It strikes me that one cannot have a civilized conversation with a person keen to show off what an unique, caring, and artistic individual they are, and lecture people about kale, apple cider vinegar, and manuka honey. Which is why the sensible person avoids karaoke joints (erm, I don't follow my own advice there, because I like watching disasters unfold) as well as many coffee shops (poets, writers, deep thinkers, and more unique individuals than you can shake a stick at).

At a Cantonese bakery one seldom runs into totally unique individuals. The patrons are usually there primarily for snackipoos and hot beverages (港式奶茶 'gong sik naai chaa'), secondarily to be undisturbed by creative types. Leave me alone, you crazy bozo, I am snarfing a cocktail bun (雞尾包 'kai mei baau'), I don't know a damned thing about kale (羽衣甘藍 'yu yi gam laan') or gluten (麵筋 'min kan'), besides, everything here probably has gluten anyway, and your meaningful tattoos are really quite appalling (睇到眼都可反感 'tai dou ngaan dou ho faan gam').

In short: Het spijt mij, ik wens niet met u te spreken over die dingen.
Zoals velen hier bent u waarschijnlijk hardstikke dwaas.
Mijn sterrenbeeld gaat u geen klap aan.


對唔住，我唔想同你講呢啲嘢。
同呢度好多人一樣，你可能完全黐線。
我嘅星座唔關你事。



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PLENTY OF THEM ON GRANT AVENUE

The problem with old people is that one of them doesn't listen and the other one is deaf as a post. The third is absent minded and grumbles. And I say this because I am better than two decades younger than all of them. Still, they are rather nice dudes. And on the whole fairly liberal. Cheap, crotchetty, strongly opinionated despite sometimes not having many clues what they are or should be opinionated about. But open minded secular humanists.

Which brings me to the lantern festival. Which today is. In Jakarta and Den Haag it's known as 十五暝 ('sap ng ming', Hokkien: tjap go meh), here in a far flung suburb of Guangzhou it's 上元天官誕 ('sueng yuen tin kun daan'), 元宵节 ('yuen siu jit'), 上元節 ('seung yuen jit') and various other names. Concerning which there is a whole lot of legendry and blah blah blah, but it's the final day of the Spring Festival, so that's probably all you really need to know.

The Spring Festival this year is cold, wet, and miserable.

In the words of one old fellow: 'Taint spring!

I am presently in the room where the computers reside, wearing two layers of underwear, a plaid flannel shirt (thick), a sweater, and a warm garment over that. Drinking a hot beverage of the Mandarin Duck variety (鴛鴦 'yuen yeung') with plenty ginger.

Elsewhere people are freezing their Maganuts off.
Ted Cruz has probably gone to Cancun.

This weekend is both the parade and some basketball thing. So the city will be crowded, and wherever the tourists are expected to go the drug addicts and homeless people are being persuaded to go elsewhere, and turds are being picked up.


Good thing it will be raining. Both of those demographics and their refuse will get washed, and the tourists may dissolve.



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WHERE KANGAROOS COME FROM

A video shows two Australian healthcare workers promising to kill Israeli patients and uttering other anti-Semitic sentiments. And over the last few years there have been quite a number of crimes down under that indicate that Australia is, as you already suspected, a pretty damned unpleasant place. In recent decades there have been many anti-Subcontinental occurences there, anti-Chinese outrages, and generally despicable acts against anybody and anything which isn't sheep abusive descendant of British criminals.

Yeah, I wasn't planning to go there.
And I don't like Vegemite.

Besides, I've met Australians. They're all over South East Asia. And they're drunk.
We have drunken people here too, and they don't talk funny.
Plus I think they're cleaner.


Okay, now that the sneering is out of the way, I must admit that I'm charmed by their videos featuring Australian magppies and parrots on balconies.

Most Australians whom I have spoken to were actually rather decent people.


And the succulent Chinese Meal man was a prince among men.



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THE GREAT TUNDRA EXPEDITION

A late jaunt with a pipe in the cold of evening. Dinner had been fatty roast pork chunks with tau pok (火腩豆腐飯 'fo naam tau fu fan') with strong milk tea. Fortifying. But too brisk outside for real comfort. Two layers of undergarment, a plaid flannel shirt, sweater, scarf, and a heavy Canafdian overcoat. I felt thus garbed like a refugee fleeing the red army.
Also, two layers of woolen sock, each foot.

The cheerful natives on Nevsky Prospekt (Waverly Place) seemed nearly nude. That is to say, quite underdressed for the arctic chill. They will do well in Siberia. Teenagers!

I caught a bus going up the hill with a mother and her two lovely daughters, then finished my smoke on the steps of my building.


Further down the block between the parked cars opposite a gentleman was peeing into the street while talking to himself. Probably continuing a conversation that had started in a bar on Polk. The beer had cheered him up, the cold air outdoors when he left stimulated his bladder, and the alcohol coursing through his veins fuelled a discourse now sadly internal, though he may not have been aware of it changing.

Judging by the length of time it took, it had been a sixpack's worth. Coupled with the first stages of a prostate problem, so I'm guessing mid to late middle age.

Somewhat elderly drunks relieving themselves on frigid streets is in many ways an important signature feature of San Francisco. You should take pictures.
Something to show the folks back in Iowa.


Aunt Martha on the Golden Gate Bridge.
And here's aunt Martha at Coit Tower.
And also in front of a peeing man.
Aunt Martha on Folsom Street.
With jazz musicians.


Tell everyone how much you enjoyed your trip.



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A NEW GOLDEN ERA

Trump wants America to become more Christian. Okay now! As someone who is hereditarily Dutch Calvinist, because my first American ancestors were born in Nieuw Amsterdam, I will welcome the banning of repulsive heresies like the Methodists, Baptists, Southern Baptists, Jehova's Witnesses, Millenialists, Cathars and other pescatarians, Seventh Day Adventists, Mormons, and all manner of charismatics, fundamentalists, evangelicals, and pentacostals.
As well as so-called Prosperity Theology and similar idolatrous heathendoms.
Pitchforks and torches, dudes, pitchforks and torches.

I would like to remind everyone that the greatest period in Western civilization perfectly coincided with the Dutch Golden Age, when all those odious heathendoms and their occultic practices were held in check, repressed, outlawed, and burned at the stake. The sensible Netherlanders were in charge. Biggest trading company, the world's bankers, scientists artists, poets, and the best organized military under Stadholder Prince Mauritz.

Leave it to us, you heathens. We'll make this world work yet.
As well as telling all of you what to think.

I particularly look forward to repressing those folks in the Southern States, because they're all basically violent incest-practicing idolaters with pickup trucks, and largely illiterate.
With the highest numbers of STDs, high school dropouts, and psychopaths.

I cannot think of any American region with a more pressing need of stern treatment.

Just think of all those pale milk-white backs, purulent and blistering in the hot sun on our thriving tobacco plantations. Trailer parks with windmills for electricity. Proper dikes and levees along the Mississippi. And New Orleans finally free of alcoholism and syphilis!

No more "American Football" ever!

I thrill at the thought.



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BUT WE NEED THE RAIN!

According to the news a ferocious earthshaking monumental apocalyptic storm is heading to California, which will hit the areas mostly down south where life is tacky and all-American. It's going to briefly touch the Bay Area, but we are on a different planet, so meh and whatever. This means that if you want to do your laundry this week it would be best to do so Monday or Tuesday. If you're in a different part of the country that is unimportant, because you eat too much, smell bad, and your mom dresses you funny anyhow.


As I understand it, the rest of the country eats buckets of fried food, vegs out in front of their televisions watching lifestyles of the rich and famous, and is addicted to weight loss pills and fentanyl. And mostly lives off manufacturing methamphetamine in their Christian trailer parks. While wishing that they could still put lesbians and those woke wheelchair users to work in the cotton fields, like in the good old days. Occasionally they look at all those foreigners infesting the big cities and think lustfully of the shapely native wimmins.
While banning dragshows and books about evolution.

It's Chick-fil-A country out there.
Cold, greasy, and dark.

Note to self: Don't hang your clothes out to dry on a nearby convenient structure (pictured above), don't eat at fast food joints, and don't think about watching the parade this coming Saturday evening because there will be over half a million people along the route making noise and being damp.


Late yesterday I was wondering what to do for lunch today. Chachanteng, rice noodle rolls, or claypot rice with chicken and lapcheung? I think I'll save the claypot rice for Thursday when inclement weather will suggest something comforting.


I've considered asking my apartment mate to go have claypot rice with me, as she has likely never had it. But the place that does several versions of that has all of the choices written on the wall in Chinese, which she doesn't read, and though she speaks Toisanwaa, which is the language of the people who run the place, my Cantonese is probably more fluent than she is in her parent's language so she might look bad, and in any case there are some issues with a smarty pants kwailo going into the heart of Rue Du Toishan with a female companion who is not very Chinese though looking the part. There is only one Chinese restaurant where we ever eat together. The proprietess is also from here, and is quite nice and understanding, American born. The claypot place is not very English-speaking, too Chinese. So I hesitate considerably. I should probably be far more comfortable there than she ever could.

[Also, Chinesy Chinese usually assume that two people of opposite genders eating together are romantically involved, and then start wondering what they see in each other, especially if she's Asian and he's white. How are they matched? What does she see in him? Is she "strange"? And what did it really take to tame him?]

Yeah, I actually don't know anybody I could go there with.
But claypot rice is quite ideal for single diners.
And I am not even seeing anyone.
Perfectly single.




Look at my picture in the top right hand corner. Does that look tamed to you? Domesticated? Capable of being house-trained? I assure you not! Quite uncivilized, possibly feral and rabid. And I probably read horrid stuff like political tracts and Dutch literature.




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AND WHAT SHAPE DID YOU SAY?

The best superbowl posting on social media right now is someone mentioning that he was smoking a pipe while watching. He had red vagina in a Peterson Dublin. Which leads me to assume, once again, that spellcheck is a mixed blessing. I myself have an open tin of Red Virginia Small Batch from C&D near my chair. It's good stuff. Vir. Gi. Nia.
It's tobacco, dude. Not... that.

Vur. Gee. Nee. Yah.

Cornell & Diehl's Small Batch Red Virginia Deserves better than watching jejune garbage on teevee. Now if Taylor Swift and Donald Trump were to have a knock down drag out dust up, I'd watch. My money is on Taylor Swift. She younger than the old fart. And she's not wearing a leakproof garment. Those things limit mobility and rather drag one down, I hear.

Of course, a golf player benefits from a lower centre of gravity.

I'll watch the Dorito commercial tomorrow.
The goat was priceless.

Virginia tobacco is a trade crop grown in many countries. Golden seed stock, cultivated in a warm humid environment with good sunlight for three to four months, then immediately after harvest hung in flue-heated barns for a week to kill the leaf quickly, which preserves a lovely yellow hue as well as leaf sugars. With slightly lower heat and one or two days longer curing it becomes red Virginia. Which has an appealing, mellow flavour.

Doritos are an American product loved by goats.


I think tomorrow I will smoke my Peterson Dublin, shape #120.
That pipe is nearly sixty years old.
Very nice. Rewarding.



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WHEN PIG FLIES

Later today several people, allegedly adults, will scream and soil their diapers. While eating piles of unhealthy stuff that probably involves bacon. And drinking suds. I shall not be part of that giddy crowd. While I approve of bacon, and derivatives of pig in general, I have no need to wash down high salt and fat artery cloggers with crappy American beer while admiring shiny spandex clad rumps getting pounded into the astroturf.
I have no horse in this race. I never do.
Football is a stupid game.

I'll check out the Doritos commercial when it's all over.
During the game I shall be somewhere else.
There will be no pigs there.


Without a doubt red blooded Americans will ask me what I thought of the game tomorrow, and spout insane and boring drivel about the plays, the long shot, the comeback, the surprise twist, and how one side romped all over the other side like totally and pummeled them into oblivion how marvelous.

Rather than admitting that I am not a red blooded American -- what with being a transduced Netherlander with green reptilian slime running through my veins and barely hidded fangs and sharp sharp talons -- I shall change the damned subject. To food.

The picture above represents slabs of stewed fatty pork nestled in salted vegetables with soy and molasses. Which is far more appealing than a flying pig skin.

Stop waffling about abused porcine dermis.
You're all obsessive and neurotic.
Clearly clinically insane.

Psycho goobers.




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THE SEVERELY EDITED MAN

Somebody I thought had a brain seems to have lost the capacity for rational thought as well as any sense of perspective since he married a Vietnamese American anti-communist just before he retired. I stopped respecting him during the first Trump administration, which was right around the time they got married. I'm attributing his near-total moronicity to his having gotten hitched to a cute little pit viper.

Some men are just weak.

I'll ascribe his loss of sense and ethics to the she-demon.

[He's also become much more xenophobic and intolerant over the past several years, and I don't know whether that's the baleful influence of his wife, who is very pro-Trump and "patriotic", or a tendency that was always there, made far worse by everything as well as an enlarged prostate and chronic digestive problems.]


Through no actual planning on my part, I am myself unmarried and not involved with the opposite gender. Part of that is that I'm a stubborn old git, part of it is that my former long term girl-friend was and still is also stubborn and strongminded, and part of it is that having been told be several wellmeaning and very misguided people that if only I would change many things about myself I could be up to my eye-brows in married bliss.

Which sounded then, and still sounds, like a recipe for disaster.

I am quite capable of being happily miserable without self-torture.


One suggestion which struck me as insane at the time was that I should hang around at the Marina Safeway scoping out the single women there, and attempt to strike up conversations with them. Erm, eh, ah, urk. Because that was were the single women were. Either that or join a yoga class. A friend who conceived of it as her mission in life to get me hooked up, eventually gave up, conceded defeat, and moved out of state with her husband.

So you can probably understand why I have little respect for the man who changed his insights, morals, and ethics to be more acceptable to his new wife and her kinfolk.
I wonder how the adult children from his first marriage feel about that.



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IT'S TOO COLD FOR THAT

Because of the weather, the business was bad. But the waiter welcomed me and took my order. He seemed like a relic from a distant era in his neat clothing that would have been perfect for one of the Chinatown restaurants back in the fifties. Stylish even. Black pants, pressed shirt, waistcoat. Also, his shoes were polished I believe.

Possessed of an old fashioned reserve.
A man with self respect.
Professional.

The kind of man you address as elder born (先生 'sin saang'; mister), rather than uncle (叔叔，阿叔 'suk suk', 'aa suk'). And whose surname you should find out, because a correct adress softens the distance. So and so elder born. Still formal, but by using his surname indicating that there is a respectable distance but not an impersonal gulf.
Definitely 'sin saang' instead of 'ah sook'.

Indeed, I shall go there again. The food was good, the ambiance suits me.

And neither one of us reacted to the occasional salt-of-the-earth language issuing forth from the kitchen. Not dining room suitable, but not expressed in the dining room.
It was a private discussion, so to speak.


Next time, I'll just sit a little further away from the kitchen.


It had been barely raining when I arrived. It had mostly stopped, barely a sprinkle, when I left and lit my pipe. I caught a bus after a while and finished my pipe on the front steps of my building. It was too cold to flutter around like a gay little butterfly.



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A DAY TO AVOID LAWYERS

Neurotically I am obsessing about three things right now. The weather, a Comoy Tradition from the early fifties, and what to have for lunch today. The weather especially; it was low forties late last night when I stepped out for a last pipefull, and I cursed under my breath in several languages repeatedly. It's only mid forties right now. And it's a good thing I have an umbrella, a thick coat, and two layers of socks. My ancestors tromped through the snows of mediaeval winters wearing woolen longjohns, and I pale in comparison. What I really want to do is spend all day under the blankets arguing with my stuffed animals swilling hot tea and occasionally smoking a pipe. While reading trashy fiction or reference books.
There are stacks of reading material on my bed.
Normal bachelor style.

The Comoy Tradition is what is known as a billiard shape. I've recarved the mouthpiece and worked on the rim, as well as dealt with the inside of the bowl. But I haven't smoked it yet. It was a project I had delayed a while. The previous owner probably puffed it all the way into the nineties, then it sat in the bin for a quarter of a century. Caked up, sooty, neglected.
But it has that lovely old wood. It's time to bring it back.
I'll probably smoke it this weekend.

FLOODED STORM DRAINS

The rain will impact my lunch. I do not intend to go more than a block from the bus stop, although smoking afterwards may be hazardous because that restaurant, which has finally reopened since the pandemic, is in a stretch with no awnings sheltering the portices and entryways of defunct businesses, and no convenient overhangs nearby.

There are two law offices. Lawyers are notoriously kvetchy and contentious.
So those buildings are out of the question.
Professional Karens.

Either chicken and noodles in broth with cilantro, scallion, and ginger, or stirfried chicken with bittermelon over rice. Probably the latter, as I can use Sriracha to my hearts content.
Washed down with Vietnamese coffee.

I'm looking forward to it.



Last night's midnight snack was the same as what I'm having with my second cup of coffee: thin little Chinese cheesy crackers. These things would be great with some cheese.



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VEHEMENT WAFFLES

A scrap of conversation I caught at lunch perked my ear: "I apologize for being eighty percent wrong". To which the response was, naturally, "and I apologize for being eighty percent right". "That's NOT what I said!"

They were too far away in a busy restaurant to overhear much else.

So instead I concentrated on my cup of Hong Kong milk tea, and people watching.
Lunch had been good. I looked forward to lighting up my pipe outside.


Although today was dry and sunny, it wasn't warm by a long shot. Random tempers seemed short and choppy, and the street crazies are more berserk than ever. The cold temperatures and wetness are getting everyone down. We can't wait for this horrid spell to finally be over. Not me of course, as I am as bright and cheerful of mood as ever, a veritable ray of light ... get away from me you hound!

That is to say my peaks and valleys are not as high or as deep as everybody else's.
They are moody, depressed and temperamental. I am equanimous.
A veritable iceberg of phlegmatism.

I bought my downstairs neighbor some snow pears (雪梨 'suet lei') and for myself got various other semi-essentials, then went to the bakery for tea and a snackie. Forty five minutes or so of conversation later I left and lit another pipe. The bus was not overful, but I'm inclined to think that most people on it were somewhat coarse, nasty, and brutish.
Maybe the horrid weather IS affecting me.

Possibly twenty percent.



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FOWL WEATHER

Today it rained in spades. Bucketloads. It was a good day to stay indoors and not do laundry. Perhaps I will have nothing but slightly smelly clothes for my workweek. Which will be rare treat for the noxious old farts in the backroom, although they may not notice over the stink from their loathsome cheroots.


Lunch was stirfried meat with satay sauce, veggies, rice. While I was eating a friend joined me at my table. I've known him since before my stent was installed, back when I was still a grumble-womble instead of the lovable old elf I am now. And all of you in the back row can stop giggling over my self-description. We exchanged mutual news and chatted cheerfully while I ate. He seems more worried about diabetes than I am -- a reasonable amount of physical exercise puts it much further away for me, and I get plenty of walking done as a pipesmoker with an active life -- and he mentioned something about rice being disadvised. Which is somewhat amusing, as the old folks I see in the waiting area at the clinic are the same people I might encounter an hour or so later at a bakery furthering the progress of diabetes. If I don't pass them smoking a ciggie on the way to their midmorning pastry.
My friend was eating a baked product as he spoke.

A few years ago near where I smoke my pipe before our pubcrawl I observed a crow landing on a ledge under an awning, scattering the pigeons perched there, and very deliberately stealing an egg for dinner. It scooted a little bit sideways, looked at me knowingly, and flew off with the egg in its beak. Ten minutes later it returned. Another egg. Oddly, I remembered this because a shivering streetperson was huddled in the niche nearby where I usually ensconce myself with a pipe one evening a week. I did not begrudge him. Or her.
I have not seen pigeons or crows all day.
And hardly any street people.
It's beastly cold.

Yes, I spend time in bakeries. In Chinatown. A small pastry and cup of milk tea is a lovely afternoon indulgence. And because I smoke my pipe afterwards, which you can't do indoors, I get an awful lot of walking done. So it's healthy. Fresh air, physical exercise, and benefits to the digestion. I would recommend that everyone smoke a pipe for their health, but I vastly prefer not having any of them bumping into me or bumming a pipe cleaner, so no.

When I leave the house my left breast pocket has a notebook, a pen, a pipe tamper, and seven pipe cleaners in it. The right coat pocket has a pouch of tobacco and two pipes.
I might smoke both. That would mean using four or five pipe cleaners.

If I was absolutely certain that I'd meet a friendly crow, I'd also carry an egg.
Or maybe a more convenient less potentially messy snack.
I like my corvid fellow citizens.




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