FAIRY PRINCESS BREAKFAST

If you really think about it, the breakfast of total champions should be a big slice of Swedish Princess Cake, a small cup of strong coffee with sugar and hot milk, and a half shot of good dark rum. With that in your system you can tromp the moors, smoking dark British style flake in a shellbriar billiard with a taper stem, the sandblasted pipe of the just, whacking at the weeds with a blackthorn walking stick while joggers and dog walkers yield before you.

My apartment mate called in sick today. The flue shot is ambushing her out of left field. She had a slice of Swedish Princess Cake for breakfast, none of that other stuff, then predictably forwent the pipe and dark tobacco, and retired to her room to nap. I had woken up to Rajeev or Manesh or some other skeevy subcontinental trying to tell me about unallocated burial funds up to ten thousand dollars per lucky decedent in California, and simply disconnected the call. So there were opportunities unavailed aplenty.


My apartment mate is uninformed about good dark rums. Like many good little Chinese girls she's made it all the way to middle-age without habitual drinking, her indulgence being once or twice every several months adding a teaspoon of liqueur to a hot beverage at night to help her sleep. There would be no point in gifting her a bottle.

Diplomatico Ambassador Selection, for instance.

And unlike me, she doesn't smoke a pipe.

We agree on Swedish Princess Cake. I had it for dinner last night, she had it to start the day this morning. The perfect tobacco for tromping about the moors whacking at prickleburs was Fribourg & Treyer Special Brown Flake. The moor where the whacking happened is the top of Nob Hill, or one block down on Taylor street if I'm feeling energetic (because I need to eventually trek back up to get over the hill, and my legs you know).

"Paige from State Resource Center" just called to inform me that "social security often leaves gaps for final expenses" at which point I hung up. A robocall by subcontinentals.
No Swedish Princess Cake for Sanjeev.
Bad Indian!


We have no rum in the house. I do not eat breakfast. Cup of strong coffee, pipeful, tromping. Avoid Van Ness, no need to inspect the fentanyl trolls going into a coma down there near the childcare facilities, slowly amble up a block or two, then across and down again.



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SMACK THE FAT MAN

Maybe I should watch more sports so I understand the language. Because I overheard one of the senile old gentlemen in the backroom exclaim "that sawed it all down but they're just not bicycling" about what was going on between the Forty Niners and the Cardinals.
To which the others all agreed. A chorus of sagely nodding.
I have no idea what that meant.

I like "poetry".
Which this wasn't.

See, that's the problem. Sportspeak is way beyond me. And one cannot hope that the nasty cretins will talk about cooking, seeing as they're all members of an ethnic group whom the Italians wouldn't let into the kitchen. We Dutch would. We have a sick sense of humour.

Art and literature are also above their paygrade.
They aren't qualified to speak of such things.

Anyway, the Forty Niners won, so they had every reason to be chuffed, and consequently it was a rather boring game. I vastly prefer that the local team loses, because it upsets them, and there is screaming and shouting, and Jeffrey cusses up a storm with such foul language that he sounds like a daemon dragged up from the bowels of the earth who might need to be burned with holy water. He's been retired for a few years, so football and Metamucil are the most exciting things in his life. Neck and neck for thrills.

Much of the time I can't understand him at all.
I am not adept at senile dingo speak.
But the howling continues.

I'm home now. Dinner was two slices of Swedish Princess Cake, and a cup of coffee. You will undoubtedly be pleased to know that no Swedish Princesses were sacrificed to make it, so it's virtually vegan. As good as. Light and fluffy.


I've also got some packaged cakes with panda icing.
That stuff keeps forever.



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FRATERNITIES

Some universities need to be burned down and the earth where they stood salted so that nothing can ever grow there again. And fraternities should be outlawed. If you've been on the internet in the last twelve hours, you know to which university I am refering. And you are also sickened and outraged. So I do not need to mention which one, nor the fraternity that needs to be expunged (all of them), or the names of the seven young men. And the administrators that shielded them and thought writing essays was a sufficient slap on the wrist.

The incident perfectly illustrates one facet of what is wrong with this country. And why, just perhaps, unimaginable violence may, sometimes, be imagined. Deservedly.

One can well understand why the people who are not at the top of the piramid in this country may, at times, perhaps even most of the time, wish to burn it down.


If, in reviewing résumés and curricula vitae, you see mention of belonging to a fraternity, that's a firm 'no'. As well as a reason to blackball the bastard however possible.

If you've been even half-assedly sentient in the last twelve hours you are aware of the names of the men involved, their fraternity, and the respected university which tried to sweep the incident under the rug. And you may have, quite possibly, researched incendiary devices and methods of committing mayhem. As well as baseball bats, pitchforks, and your own circle of friends and acquaintances.

Far be it from me to tell you to calm down and breathe.


That is the last thing on my mind.



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AND SCRUPULOUSLY POLITE

Work was a cinch. No fights. No screaming fits. No rightwing temper tantrums. The coke-snorting drunk was not on the premises. The retired member of the judicial branch wasn't either. So he didn't raise his whiney voice furiously disputing with the sh*tdisturbing subcontinental know-it-all. Smarmbag 1 and smarmbag 2 were absent.
The subcontinental also wasn't in.

Oh, and the weather was perfect.
Probably did not even hit seventy.

However, I do have a complaint. There were too many people on the bus going to work I was on my feet for a full day and too many people got on the bus back to the city in Sausalito my right foot hurt like hell and I nearly passed out in the last two blocks from the busstop home.


On the other hand, I tried out a pipefull of McConnell's Glen Piper, which in it's current iteration is not as I remember it. Supposedly top-dressed with rum, very mild hints of chocolate, vanilla, and fruity-wooty. Not. A. Trace. I'll try another bowl tomorrow.

The first bowl was really quite enjoyable.

Curiosity: sated.

Both smarmbags (no. 1, no. 2) will be in tomorrow, because there's a game on teevee just after one o'clock. I do not know if the coke fiend will be in, but I'm fairly certain that the retired judicial goobus and the subcontinental troublemaker will get there. One of them avoids news that isn't in his ideological ballpark, the other man reads the headlines but not the underlying article, then jumps to incorrect conclusions that fit his bent. Even though the legal booger is retired and has turned into an intellectually lazy fascist cabbage, he can still think circles around the poor doofus Punjabi, and leave him spinning in his own mental puddle.
It's a recurring pattern and the repetition has become dreary beyond belief.


Robert McConnell's Glen Piper, per the old descriptions, has black cavendish, medium Virginia, Kentucky, and Perique. With a boozy topdressing. That description is no longer correct. I did not notice any black cavendish. Both the Kentucky and Perique, if actually present, are subdued and subtle. I'm fairly certain that booze wasn't used.

This is a nicely behaved German Scotsman.
Not an uncouth hairy brute.



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VERY HORRID PLACES

It figures that on a day when I will be working, the temperatures will be unbearable. And naturally I'm blaming the rest of the world for it, in particular the Midwest, the Deep South, the heckhole known as Texas, and the entire third world, particularly every single country with human rights abuses, corruption, and generally speaking failed systems. Oh, and Ireland. Because I do not like Ireland. They talk funny, eat too much, and smell a bit off.
I've read James Patrick Dunleavy, so I know.

This is an improvement over years ago, when I would simply blame the Belgians and the French. The range of horrid countries to sneer at has expanded enormously, there are so many of them that just aren't up to snuff.

Sadly, the Midwest, the Deep South, and Texas are still tops.
Neck and neck in the race toward the bottom.
Slimy place finish.


Nowadays I also judge by heat most of the year.
Not just nasty things on my plate.

I also judge by the cold in winter, stupid tee-shirts, and whether or not the coffee is reputed to be drinkable. The cheese scale cannot be relied on, because that puts France and Wisconsin at the top, and we all know that's just wrong.

Some of those places have hot sauce. Which speaks well of them.
At least some of the natives can be forgiven.




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DO NOT ASK FOR KETCHUP

One of the places of which I am rather fond in Chinatown has dumplings for breakfast, and I'm awfully tempted. Breakfast last until eleven or so, then it's lunch for another three and a half hours, during which they have 'sets'. Bowl of soup, plate lunch, cup of hot strong milk tea, lots of old folks.

Because many of their customers are middle-aged or older it tends to be quieter and quite bearable even when crowded. Many teenagers and twenty somethings tend to be loud, and, if Caucasian, exceptionally so. Over in Europe they see a lot of those visiting from the United States, often complaining about the lack of water, odd time and temperature marking, and the distressing fact that no one waits for them. Here too, but I don't eat at those places.

I'm rather fond of Europe also. I can speak some of the languages there fluently or at least passably, and I'm quite good at not being loud and obnoxious.
Sadly, that isn't taught in schools here.

By the way: it is presently 68 degrees Fahrenheit, which is 20 Celsius. So it will be rather warmish today. Entitled people may wish to stay at the hotel till twilight, as almost nowhere else in San Francisco has airconditioning, and we probably won't give you any ice cube water anyway. We aren't particularly vested in you thriving.

You have to ask for ketchup. It isn't automatic.


In order that as many as possible of you lot are pissed off, much, even most, of the food in Chinatown is not vegan, and even the bland and safe for Midwesterners stuff is probably politically incorrect. Whether right, left, or karen.

Please note that the reason so many of the old folks in Chinatown are smoking their ciggies on the sidewalk is because there are children and other family members inside, whereas there are very many whiny white people on the street, so it's unhealthy ab initio. I want to emphasize this, to make absolutely damned sure that you know it. That is also why after my breakfast or lunch (more likely lunch) down there today, I will be filling my pipe and enjoying tobacco in public. Thus being a horrible example for your precious kiddiewinkies, who will take one look and immediately realize that smoking is cool, hip, and with it. I am Dutch American, but please feel free to think of me as French, here for your inconvenience.

On first thought, none of you deserve dumplings.
There is no second thought.




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BITTER MELON AND AVOCADOS

No, not some fascinating and delicious recipe from one of the exotic cuisines of the world, just grocery shopping and handing a bag off to the elderly neighbor about whom we worry a bit. She's Indonesian Chinese, so unlike an anglo oldster the bitter melon is not a frightening object. A friend who is Parsi has, several times, indicated that she is still traumatized by bitter melon, having been forced to eat it because it's good for you, but most rational adults rather like it. For many of the dishes in which it will feature you can use wax gourd (節瓜 'jit gwa') instead, which will make them more appealing to little children and Anglos, but we're all adults here, right?

You cannot serve bitter melon (苦瓜，涼瓜 fu gwaa, leung gwaa') to most people in the British Isles. Unless you creatively combine it with Spam.

English cuisine, in short: Egg and bacon; egg sausage and bacon; egg and spam; egg bacon and spam; egg bacon sausage and spam; spam bacon sausage and spam; spam egg spam spam bacon and spam; spam sausage spam spam bacon spam tomato and spam; spam spam spam egg and spam; spam spam spam spam spam spam baked beans spam spam spam; lobster thermidor aux crevettes with a mornay sauce served in a Provençale manner (with tomatoes, olive oil, and garlic) with shallots and aubergines garnished with truffle pâté, brandy and with a fried egg on top and spam.

All of which are accompanied by tinned beans and fried tomatoes.

And, in Southern California, avocado toast.

On second thought, lets not go to Southern California, it is a rather silly place. And I'm sorry, but I cannot give you a recipe for bitter melon and Spam, I will assume that you know how to cook and will come up with your own variations. Over rice with a splash of Sriracha or a sploodge of sambal (chili paste condiment).

And, speaking of such things, I should probably get her a jar of sambal oelek. That always comes in handy. I need to restock on that myself, seeing as sambal oelek (Dutch spelling, Indonesian is 'sambal ulek') is one of the basic building blocks of the kitchen upon which fundament many edifices are built.


I would love to claim that we Dutch invented sambal, but although we were instrumental with the process of it coming into being, we were merely coincidental. It happened during our time in Indonesia, and went along with with much of what we ate while there. So although it does overlap Dutch and Indonesian culture, it actually is Indonesian. But there is a vast array of chilipastes with other things added (sambals) available in the Netherlands, manufactured there, many of which are rare, regional, or quite unusual in Indonesia.
Often I make my own. But I start with sambal oelek.



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THE WET

The old Dutchman needs to use the bathroom. Very desperately. But the old Dutchman will be patient. Because the younger Chinese American apartment mate is in there, splashing about, possibly with one or two of her stuffed animals giving her instructions on where to swab for maximum cleanliness, I shall not speculate. Her ablutions are a mystery.
The watery sounds make the wait sheer torture.

The old Dutchman patiently makes himself a cup of coffee. While clenching. When at last she exits, rather than rushing in in unseemly haste he puts down his cup and with measured pace marches toward relief. One does not run in a hallway lined with book boxes.
If there were a fire one still would not run.

One strives to be dignified about all things.

Having lived in San Francisco for a great many years, I know what 'undignified' looks like.
It looks silly. Years ago I resided at a residential hotel entirely occupied by men, many of them at that time middle aged, where there were hallway sinks, water closets, and showers on every floor. We automatically learned to pace ourselves during rush hours. Except for the "water sprite", who, if a shower was unavailable, washed himself at the hallway sink, splash splash scrubbity swabbity sponge, splash splash!

He was ex-military. So he knew that cleanliness was important.

Since then I have prefered not to live with men. They're nice and all, and several of my friends are men, but if there are too many of them in a building it leads to weirdness and puddles. Women are, on the whole, much cleaner, although often more fastidious and neurotic about bathroom-related matters. Which is why there are TWO bottles of skin unguent in there. She uses one kind on her face, I use the other on my dry calves.

Fortunately, being of Chinese ancestry, she does not need a razor.
Otherwis it would have to be clearly marked.
To avoid confusing them.

White women, as is well known, sometimes need a whole body shave. Even, so I've heard, the soles of their feet.


Anyhow, I've micturated, so all is well with the world.



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STINKY PILLOW

My apartment mate and I went out to dinner. During which she alerted me to a new terror, one which is disconcerting all of her stuffed creatures, and is most fearsome and to be dreaded. I, of course, was entirely unaware of its existence. I had never heard of it.
But now I know, I shall be wary. New pillow smell.

New. Pillow. Smell.

If you are sensitive to odours this is something to fear. Halfway between stack of plastic bags and something vaguely oceanic in origin. But if you are a pipesmoker, like me, even burying your snoot in it and inhaling deeply, when she upon returning home fetches it out of her room for presentation and sniff-testing, will not yield bupkes. Okay. Smells clean.
Like the laundry I did today.

In some minor way it makes her occasionally refering to me as "stinky man" a little more understandable. I have never actually thought of myself in those terms, but given that as a smoker my sense of smell might not be optimum, fully functioning, I might be entirely unaware of a faint whiff that exceptionally might adhere.

I try to smell like daisies, honest!

And I have no idea why all those sensitive maidens and little children draw away shrieking. Whatsoever. Dogs seem to love me. It is possible that they sense a rich and deep smörgåsbord that recalls the ancient Greeks. I do not know.

Anyhow, a few hours later I was smoking my pipe at the usual place, cognizant not of smells but of noises. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth from the karaoke place further down, indicating that for sensitive souls it would be off limits for a while. As indeed it proved to be. The original bail-out bar was closing by that time, so we went to the bail-out-from-the-bail-out. Where there was, distressingly, karaoke.


Perhaps I need to find out what brand of pillow that was.
It would probably clear out all the songbirds.
And could be used to stifle them.




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CLEAN, OH YEAH!

So, having misread the time entirely, I ended up being ten or fifteen minutes late for my doctor's appointment. Upon leaving the house to catch a bus I read the card again and promptly panicked. As one would. Especially if one prides oneself on ALWAYS being between fifteen minutes and up to an hour early. As one does.

I apologized profusely.

Fortunately, she could still see me. We went over the test results, including the recent MRI scan (電腦斷層掃描 'din nou tuen chang sau miu'), and the bloodwork. Plus urine and solid waste, etcetera. Good results, I'm as clean healthbillwise as could be expected. Yes, I still have minor heart disease, that will not go away, but I don't use it much anyway. Got my flu shot, a covid booster will happen in a few weeks, and we have an appointment scheduled to start the process all over again ten months hence. Within a minute or two of getting out of the hospital I had filled and lit my pipe, and headed off to buy a lottery ticket and illegal cigies. With an extra hour slack time.

Nah, didn't bother having lunch in Chinatown. I'm having dinner with my apartment mate this evening, and did not want to be overloaded. At my age, one doesn't eat much, as the system works a bit slower than it did in my twenties.


On the bus back over the hill I encountered my friend with the broken wrists who severely disapproves of tobacco. I probably still reeked of the evil product of centuries of colonial exploitation and the backbreaking toil of the conquered peoples.

Calmly savoured in a Dunhill Shellbriar.
Sorry.

One thing my doctor and I agree upon was cutting down on chocolates. This will prove hard to do, as chocolate, coffee, frikandellen, herring, and tobacco are the five substances which sustain a Dutchman, and two of those are absent in the United States for reasons I do not quite understand. No wonder this country has lower life expectancies than the rest of the developed world. Y'all need to work on your game.

What's really amazing is that my bloodpressure was excellent when they cuffed me at the hospital. Because despite being a calm, rational, phlegmatic Dutch American, I had been in quite a tizzy after noting that I had the time wrong.

Probably the same genetic factors that gave me slightly high uric acid levels (though not anything to worry about there). On the other hand, vitamin D is excellent.

So I'm good.



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A POX ON THEIR FANS

My two most recent Facebook entries indicate that the world and the United States have become distinctly more odious and hateful places than they were. One speaks of rightwing morons getting their knickers in a twist over Tillamook cheese being halal certified, another mentions Jewish institutions needing armed guards. That's two sides of the same coin.

Blame MAGA and the Texas-style Republicans for the one, Macklemore and Greta Thunberg and all their fellow Goebbels fanboys for the other.

The same spiteful ignorance that fuels extremists on the right thrives on the left.

The perfect illustration of this insanity is that Mamdani is receiving backlash for a recent meeting with Trump, and Trump is getting attacked because he met with Mamdani.
Naturally I do not have a positive opinion about either of them.
Their circle jerking does not change that.

--- --- --- --- ---

Meanwhile, the universe also improves in small ways. A recent article in Circulation Research mentions that at UCLA a research team reports favourably results on FAP.CAR-NKT cells for clearing arterial plaque. I do not have complete access to the article, because I am neither an institution nor a medical man myself. But I'm certain that my cardiologist will come across it, as well as my regular car physician.

[FAP-Directed CAR-NKT Cells for Multi-Target Suppression of Atherosclerotic Progression]


And, pursuant thereto:
CITE: A UCLA research team has engineered a new type of immune cell that attacks atherosclerotic plaques — the fatty buildup inside artery walls that drives most heart attacks and strokes. These engineered cells work by recognizing three harmful cell types within plaques. In a mouse model, a lab-grown mini blood vessel and artery tissue from patients with severe heart disease, these “triple-threat” cells outperformed a single-target version, clearing out more of the cell types that keep plaques active and dangerous. END CITE.

[Source: UCLA team engineers ‘triple-threat’ immune cells to fight plaque buildup behind heart attacks, strokes - UCLA RESEARCH BRIEF.]

No, this does NOT mean that five years from now I'll be running a marathon.
But I'll probably have some tea and a smoke in celebration.
For many more years there after.

I have bookmarked that article from UCLA, and await further developments with keen anticipation. Hi boys, potential target test subject here, where can I sign up for the full rotorootering? Drill, baby, drill. Illustration above is symbolically representational of my circulatory system. Actually a drawing of the after-effects of a typhoon, but never mind.

Please observe the strewn detritus.



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HOT AND NASTY

You know, we could go out for tea. A spot of hot tea around four o'clock would be quite lovely. Followed by smoking our pipes as we tromp around the moors outside the pavilion, wearing our rubber boots because the heather is wet and tall. Perhaps instead of a skirt you should wear thick brown corduroy trousers, as otherwise your hems would get damp.
Uncomfortable if it slaps against your legs.

Then back for more tea. After the pipes.

One of the things I remember from growing up in Northern Europe was, of course, frequent dampness. Almost everpresent. Before climate change every Summer had some absolutely soggy moments, and there were several good rainstorms every month of the year. Which is perfect weather for having a long smoke out on the patio under the deep overhang, while the falling water clatters onto the bricks a yard or two away. Teapot on the table, creamer, sugar bowl, big cup and saucer. Ashtray. Matches. And one or two of the cats.

The rhododendron and forsythia at the far end, past the apple tree, are heavy and intensely green in the diminished brightness of mid-afternoon.

Here in San Francisco however, mildew is not a way of life.
It barely ranks as a personal philosophy.
But we have tea.

Because of the unseasonal coolth, leaves on some of the trees down the block are already turning. Very subtle signs of Autumn. Once you get inland the temperatures will be up near ninety, here it's presently still below mild and might get up to late sixties by mid-afternoon. And it's cloudy. When crossing the bridge these past few days there was fog, and in the evening the approach to the Golden Gate went through grey vistas.

Unlike many natives, I do not like hot weather. Far be it from me to gambol nearly nude revelling in the oppressive sunlight, inviting cancerous growth on pallid flesh.
Indian Summer quite frankly leaves me cold.


There used to be a chap who during the hot weather would flake himself out on the grass in front of the building wearing naught but shorts, turning the saggy wrinkles on his gams and chest into hardened bronze shoe leather while smoking a Hoyo.

It was quite repulsive. Even the dogs stayed away.


Stringy old gits should not sunbathe.
At least not in public.




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HOLD ON TO THE BALLS

If you choose only the broken cookies it's almost like you didn't have any, and therefore you don't have to feel guilty. Also, when you need to use the bathroom, walk down the hall twice to, and twice from, so that you get some exercise and your apartment mate thinks you're insane, that way she won't hide the cookies. Follow me for more brilliant life hacks.

The backroom had the usual bunch of fascist fossils yowling at the screen today in between trying to bite the lone liberal's head off, because the football season has started, and today's game showed the San Francisco team beating the living crap out of Miami. Because I'm a contrarian, and despise the political leanings of those men, naturally in so far as I supported any team it was the Floridans, even though normally I wouldn't be caught dead thinking well of those inbred savages.

But I was in Marin, and those fellows vote Republican. I hate Marin, I absolutely hate Republicans, and I hate and despise American sports.


Yes, I know that they are in the backroom to get away from the wife and kids, and grunt and fart and be themselves, and trust me I can understand that; their wives are all angry elderly Karens wearing yoga pants who probably shriek habitually, and the kids are all little twenty or thirty something congenitally entitled leeches who want a new car and a trip to Biarritz every year. Anyone would want to escape, even if only for a few hours. But in the Christian mystical tradition redemption is by suffering, and out of the sheer kindness of my heart, my warm and deeply spiritual humanity, I deeply want them to be redeemed. Ten times over. One hundred times over. So damned redeemed that they don't get a moment's relief.

Also, I dislike many of their personal habits and preferences. Intensely.

And let's not mention that Jeff sounds for all the world like an old whiny kvetching East Coaster. Hard to believe that he used to be human. Of course that was before he got remarried. To an anti-communist harridan. Who has him by the balls.

If she ever lets go he'll die from sudden blood loss.



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THIS IS A CLEAN BLOG

Another day, and what do I see on Facebook? A friend has posted an example of Maga fanboy art, Trump wearing priestly robes and holding a bible redeeming the faithful. "Pastor, President, Protector. Trump Walks With God." With a snarky comment about kool-aid. Indicating that to him the cult has maybe, just perhaps, lost their minds.
I find his cynicism well placed and refreshing.

Shan't show it here. I don't do pornography.
And I loathe "true believers".

In other news, some elements among rabid rightwing are having the shits over Tillamook Cheese having Halal certification, just like they've done so many times in the past over products showing a kosher stamp. The comments on the internet are bizarre.

Look, it's very simple: Halal certification on any product means that they also want the devout Muslims to enjoy it. Kosher certification means that they think devout Jews will perhaps find it appealing too. Not made in the territories means that anti-Semites (Irish, Malays, Pakistanis, and Spaniards) can buy it. It is rare to find all three certifications on the same item.

I see little problem in trying to make money with an honestly made product.
You will also find terms like "organic" and "vegan" on some things.
Basically, those indicate that it's overpriced.
They're being truthful.

Now myself, I do not boycott based on such things. I will still buy a Peterson pipe despite it having been made by presumed raging anti-Semites, and Jameson's Irish Whiskey (formerly Dublin, now Middleton, County Cork) is a mighty fine product significantly better than any of that Bourbon crap. Bourbon, by the way, is fancy paint thinner. Except for Old Granddad.
An ex-girlfriend (very long time ago) drank the stuff, so I have fond memories of it.


Shan't consume any of the three big American beers, not because of any certifications or lack thereof, but because they're absolute nasty tasting shite.
No sensible person swills that stuff.


And honestly, no tobacco maven I know is the least bit concerned that ALL of it comes from human rights shitholes. Just like most coffee, much tea, and some Scotch.

I do not drive an American car, though.



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ALL OF YOU SMELL LIKE LUTEFISK

A discussion with a friend in Europe is stumbling, because I brought up that it perhaps would be wisest to re-examine his own way of thinking about Israel. And Jews living in Europe. After all, anti-Semitism is deeply entrenched in the European psyche, with two thousand years of creatively finding new ways to blame the Jews for everything, and seems to be well on its way to becoming listed as part of each European country's intangible cultural heritage according to Unesco.

He's in Scandinavia. So keep Martin Luther's rabid hatred for Jews in mind.
As well as the screaming horror that was Abba.
And lutefisk.


Nowadays, when they hear the term 'anti-Semitism', many Europeans automatically bring up Gaza, as if that justifies their current crappy behaviour, and then start excusing everybody who previously brought up Gaza as an excuse for crappy behaviour. Which is kind of like every European country claiming that they were actually victims during world war two, didn't have anyone willingly collaborating, and if you think about things correctly the colonial age was bringing light and civilization to the rest of the world why just look at the still beloved educational and legal systems of the allegedly repressed and exploited new nations!

It's a depressing discussion with him that won't actually go anywhere.
Because of course the Europeans never do anything wrong.

As an American descended from the settlers in New Amsterdam over three centuries ago, with very much of my ancestry deriving from that community, who also speaks, reads, and writes Dutch fluently for "reasons", and is fairly capable in German and Indonesian as well, it is expected that I should understand and sympathize with the European points of view.

Which I absolutely do not.
Screw that.



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SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR BEER

It's rather remarkable how racism, religion, and rightwing politics in the United States have combined to put medical care and education beyond the means of most Americans. Sadly, by almost any standard this country is so far behind the Europe that we can scarcely be called first world at all, and there are huge areas where the most important things are sixpacks, gun racks, pick-up trucks, and football.

Like, for instance, the Central Valley.


What, you thought I was going to mention Alabama, Mississippi, or Texas?

Dude, those aren't even America. That's booga booga country.


The best prospect for many of those people is joining the army, ICE, or the FBI, now that standards have been lowered or stretched to accommodate them and their repulsive tendencies.

The booga booga also laps at the shores of the Central Valley, and probably the best thing that can be said about that entire region, beyond the fact that if it weren't for all the speakers and readers of Spanish there would be nothing there but illiterates, is that there are marginally fewer FBI candidates there than Alabama, Mississippi, and Texas.
I know that ain't much, but at least it's something.

Sadly, football season has started again, which means that conversations for most people will be happy belching, grunting, and bellowing in front of the television, followed by intensely repetitive gibbering about the game, and that other game, plus a team they also support, and how badly the New York team played, in between snacking on bags of fatty snacks and scratching their balls.


No, I'm not enthusiastic about the next half year.

By the way, your beer sucks too.

Tastes like water.



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DRESSED FOR SUCCESS

One of the best pipe smokes ever while dodging the nuts. From the restaurant down to the Embarcadero Center there was a plurality of them in every block, recognizable in most cases by their habiliments. Now, I am not exactly a fashion plate myself, but I could have been in Paris strutting down the catwalk by comparison. Despite being a slightly rumpled old coot.

That is to say, I don't look like an extra in a mediaeval epic.

Nor, and I stress this, do I look perverted in any way.

I pride myself on not radiating skeeviness.

Rumpled, yes. Disreputable, no.


So even though I have a pipe I do not look like a damned Hobbit. And quite unlike Captain Haddock, I am not a bad-tempered alcoholic. Too trim to be Santa.


Lunch was something somewhat simple and common-place eaten while sitting at a counter in Chinatown: Flat fish chunks with eggplant over rice (茄子龍脷飯 'ke ji lung lein faan), consumed with lots of chili paste, washed down with plenty of tea.
The breakfast, lunch, and dinner of champions.

Happy as a clam I lit up after leaving, away from the door so as not to displease anyone in the restaurant. Puff puff. The loonies appeared once I got into the Financial District, where besides living on the street they might also work. It's been a few years since I had an office job down there, so I don't know what bar they have to reach or what the qualifications are that get people hired down there. Who am I to judge their appearance? That seems so classist and disabling.


Once you cross Montgomery Street, the entire place smells like sewer. Much more so near Battery Street. I guess some people dress accordingly, which is very wise of them.



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ENLIGHTENMENT IN SHORTS

Some parts of the country face heat warnings today, with temperatures over ninety degrees. San Francisco is not one of those places. We're going to be mid-sixties at best. Never-the-less, there will be people walking around in tee-shirts and shorts, because, you know. Gotta show off them tattoos. Especially while walking Ralphie. Ooh, look at me, I've got meaningful skin art AND a French bulldog, I'm very special. Not buff. Not attractive in any way, or even decorative if I keep my mouth shut, but special. This tattoo marks the first time one of my clients reached satori!

Dude, you're a g-ddamned junior stockbroker. Your clients NEVER reach satori.

Point is, we're not very warm here, and yet there are some people who insist on dressing themselves as if this were California. The nerve of them!

And by the way, I hate shorts. On most people they look rather silly, and on older men they are almost always appalling. Pole dancers and marathon runners are the only people who should wear them, possible exception being little kids. Tourists, never. This isn't Malaga, we have no Watney's Red Barrel, we are not hosting flamenco for foreigners, and if everything works out right there will not be previously frozen peas on your plate. We do have tea. Very likely not made properly, luv, but this ain't Brighton. Points for catching all those references.

No, I'm not jealous. I have no wish to show off my gams.
And neither should you.

That being said, I do enjoy the visuals of nice legs passing by. They're usually never mine, for aforementioned reasons. Nor anyone I know. No, I shan't go over and introduce myself.
It always rains on that parade, I am old enough to know that.

No, let's NOT exchange phone numbers.
That leads only to spam.

[Just got a call identifying itself as "Jason from Final Care Services" about an unallocated amount from 2025 ..... Which seems to be ninety plus percent of all the calls I ever get. Just for that, I think I'll refuse to die. So there!]

Word to the wise: if you search for "lovely thighs" on the internet, you are likely to get news articles about diet aids, excercise studios, pills, deep tissue massage, and whatnot on your MSN Start Page. And Facebook will seed your feed with sponsored content about all of that plus related videos. You don't need that. Because I am aware of the algorithm and its evil ways, I never search for lovely thighs.

The character above is satori (悟 'ng') written in sealscript. Feel free to have it engraved upon your dermis. Unless you live in Berkeley where everyone is a free spirit, most people who can read it will think you're an idiot. But it's meaningful, significant, and deeply spiritual, almost at the same level as burning sage and chanting.

I do not like your French bulldog. And your Grateful Dead tee-shirt needs a wash.
For some reason I have to think about Limburger cheese now.


Let's not do lunch.



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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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