Rabbit rabbit. This blogger is looking forward to Dave's monthly illustration of rabbits getting jacked on coffee, and Sid and Kristen posting photos of their rabbits.
All of them have different appeal. Dave's look like they're staving off existential dread in coffee shops that keep some customers away by playing both heavy metal and experiment jazz, Sid and Kristen's leporids seem like they need a cat tree. Only just a little bit more horizontal.
Es ist eine komplete gestalt sache.
This blogger is baffled as to why when I typed 'leporid' into my search bar I ended up with 'total bowel release, proven results, official website' and 'booking dot com'. Yeah, okay, how do those relate? And does A.I. want me to check into a spa or luxury hotel for a pooh fest? Just how much money does A.I. think I have? Surely I can pooh all I want at home?
Is anything wrong with that?
I am hideously upset that A.I. is concerned with my pooh situation. Do they not realize by now that I am not like other Americans, AND this computer user is in California where we don't eat fried crap morning noon and night?
We have more bicycles in this state than personal mobility scooters.
Unlike Alabama, Louisiana, and Mississippi.
And unlike numerous celebrities in Deep Southern places, very few people here spend their waking hours in hammocks, on the couch, or lazing in the porch swing drinking gallons of sweet ice tea while washing down the boiled peanuts and cheetos.
It's a deliberate lifestyle choice.
Rabbit rabbit.
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At the back of the hill
Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.
Friday, August 01, 2025
Thursday, July 31, 2025
STILL DOING THAT
Years ago after my girlfriend and I broke up I started hanging out in Chinatown more. It's close to where I live and as good a way of getting away from it all as any, and seeing as besides speaking fluent Dutch I also speak Cantonese and German, albeit badly, it feels comfortable. No, speaking Dutch and German actually doesn't help in any way.
Except when I express existential despair or talk about philosophy.
After a while I realized that it also helped me recover from job-exposure to the neo-fascists in the suburbs. None of whom dare to visit Chinatown because there are people there.
When Covid hit, it was the nearest environment where folks wore their masks, and where one could buy rice stick noodles, bitter melon, chilipaste, and fatty pork.
Plus my doctor, the clinic, and the pharmacy are there. Like rice stick noodles, bitter melon, chilipaste, and fatty pork, that also was incredibly conducive to mental and physical survival. Well, pipesmoking too, and I should mention, pursuant thereto, that all Chinese people either have relatives who still smoke, or are that relative. So they're far less likely to throw a temper tantrum at someone visibly enjoying tobacco half a block away than folks in Berkeley, or in fact say anything at all. Unlike Anglos, they mind their own damned business. And one additional factor, which should absolutely not be overlooked, as that there are no fast-food franchises in that neighborhood. That, too, lowers the number of objectionables. Even pizza is hard to find unless you're at that one place that has 披薩 ('pei saat') on the menu. Which we're not going to mention, because I don't want to encourage outsiders.
I tend to be a loner, and I can do that there.
It's also where I acquired many of the stuffed animals that keep me and my antisocial apartment mate from wigging out entirely.
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Except when I express existential despair or talk about philosophy.
After a while I realized that it also helped me recover from job-exposure to the neo-fascists in the suburbs. None of whom dare to visit Chinatown because there are people there.
When Covid hit, it was the nearest environment where folks wore their masks, and where one could buy rice stick noodles, bitter melon, chilipaste, and fatty pork.
Plus my doctor, the clinic, and the pharmacy are there. Like rice stick noodles, bitter melon, chilipaste, and fatty pork, that also was incredibly conducive to mental and physical survival. Well, pipesmoking too, and I should mention, pursuant thereto, that all Chinese people either have relatives who still smoke, or are that relative. So they're far less likely to throw a temper tantrum at someone visibly enjoying tobacco half a block away than folks in Berkeley, or in fact say anything at all. Unlike Anglos, they mind their own damned business. And one additional factor, which should absolutely not be overlooked, as that there are no fast-food franchises in that neighborhood. That, too, lowers the number of objectionables. Even pizza is hard to find unless you're at that one place that has 披薩 ('pei saat') on the menu. Which we're not going to mention, because I don't want to encourage outsiders.
I tend to be a loner, and I can do that there.
It's also where I acquired many of the stuffed animals that keep me and my antisocial apartment mate from wigging out entirely.
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DABBLING IN DICTIONARIES
Occasionally I explore the volumes at my disposal, sometimes with a purpose in mind. And, as you perhaps know, I have a fondness for dictionaries. This quite probably started when my father gave me a dictionary of the English language, very likely because I kept mispronouncing many of the words I had learned from reading -- as a child I taught myself how to read in English, because we had vastly more books in that language in the house than Dutch, and I had already done every single Dutch book we had in the house including an Indonesian cookbook -- and I discovered the foreign language dictionaries on the bookshelves in the upstairs living room.
Come si dice "nasi goreng" in italiano?
Among my many dictionaries are a number which give the Chinese seal-script versions of the characters. Seal-script developed when they were still using a stylus to engave or carve the language on bamboo slats before the development of paper and flexible brushes, and often tends toward a stiffness and emblematic quality. It is still in limited use. Seals. Inscriptions. Also sometimes colophons, couplets, artistic calligraphies.
Two examples of my own calligraphy: Not the classical language, nor any deeply meaningful statements. Merely the titles of two recent illustrations rendered in seal-script as a literary fancy for my own amusement.
Google images thinks there is a tripod there. There isn't. No tripod is mentioned at all. Google images is sometimes wonderful, sometimes entirely wrong.
Nasi goreng is probably "riso fritto in stile indonesiano".
In case you were wondering. Very possible.
It can be quite delicious.
Requires sambal.
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Come si dice "nasi goreng" in italiano?
Among my many dictionaries are a number which give the Chinese seal-script versions of the characters. Seal-script developed when they were still using a stylus to engave or carve the language on bamboo slats before the development of paper and flexible brushes, and often tends toward a stiffness and emblematic quality. It is still in limited use. Seals. Inscriptions. Also sometimes colophons, couplets, artistic calligraphies.
Two examples of my own calligraphy: Not the classical language, nor any deeply meaningful statements. Merely the titles of two recent illustrations rendered in seal-script as a literary fancy for my own amusement.
Google images thinks there is a tripod there. There isn't. No tripod is mentioned at all. Google images is sometimes wonderful, sometimes entirely wrong.
Nasi goreng is probably "riso fritto in stile indonesiano".
In case you were wondering. Very possible.
It can be quite delicious.
Requires sambal.
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DON'T GO THERE
A medical student on my Facebook posted someone else's off-kilter remark about the AZ jab, which inevitably had me reading up on the individual cited. Who, it appears, is a total nutball muckracker and I shan't mention the name that person because you do not need to go there. The anti-vax loons love her. The medical student quoted her word-belch without a comment. Which was very diplomatic of him. Rest assured that he's rational, however, and does not subscribe to the anti-scientific foolishness that so many do. He can't.
The reason why he's alive is standard medicine.
Several people with whom I have to deal because of work refuse to accept the fact that they too are alive because of standard medicine. Like many such people they have blind spots. I'm still waiting for one of them to die of lockjaw. Which will happen. Because they're idiots.
I might be retired by then. But I'll come back just to gloat.
Heck, if any of them die or are hospitalized because something that could be prevented by not being a total magaite qanon loon, I will gloat. Celebration time, baby.
If RFK Jr. croaks of something like that, I will also gloat.
Deservedly.
As a liberal, I'm all in favour of legalized freedom of speech and being able to put out any and all ridiculous unfounded opinions, as for instance our president and his people regularely do, but far too many folks out there are gullible dunderheads without any critical thinking skills or, in fact, the ability to read. The dense undergrowth is filled with morons swilling antiparasitics, hydroxychloroquine, and diluted bleach. Too many Republicans had multiple parasitic infections anyway, and if they're dead now they don't. You can't catch anything if you don't breathe.
Double the dose, boys, it works faster that way.
Same goes for the folks treating their ailments with apple cider vinegar, manuka honey, green tea extracts, and turmeric. Triple doses! Good!
Crystals and planetary alignments?
Avoiding gluten? De-toxing?
Copper bracelets?
Upon due consideration and weighing all the evidence, I'd advise them to go for it.
They should by all means go ahead and knock themselves out.
BTW: You don't need a yoni to use a yoni egg.
==========================================================================
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The reason why he's alive is standard medicine.
Several people with whom I have to deal because of work refuse to accept the fact that they too are alive because of standard medicine. Like many such people they have blind spots. I'm still waiting for one of them to die of lockjaw. Which will happen. Because they're idiots.
I might be retired by then. But I'll come back just to gloat.
Heck, if any of them die or are hospitalized because something that could be prevented by not being a total magaite qanon loon, I will gloat. Celebration time, baby.
If RFK Jr. croaks of something like that, I will also gloat.
Deservedly.
As a liberal, I'm all in favour of legalized freedom of speech and being able to put out any and all ridiculous unfounded opinions, as for instance our president and his people regularely do, but far too many folks out there are gullible dunderheads without any critical thinking skills or, in fact, the ability to read. The dense undergrowth is filled with morons swilling antiparasitics, hydroxychloroquine, and diluted bleach. Too many Republicans had multiple parasitic infections anyway, and if they're dead now they don't. You can't catch anything if you don't breathe.
Double the dose, boys, it works faster that way.
Same goes for the folks treating their ailments with apple cider vinegar, manuka honey, green tea extracts, and turmeric. Triple doses! Good!
Crystals and planetary alignments?
Avoiding gluten? De-toxing?
Copper bracelets?
Upon due consideration and weighing all the evidence, I'd advise them to go for it.
They should by all means go ahead and knock themselves out.
BTW: You don't need a yoni to use a yoni egg.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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Wednesday, July 30, 2025
FINELY HONED CONVERSATIONAL SKILLS
As I usually do on Wednesdays, I hastened down to Chinatown, for lunch at the place where I almost always go (on Wednesdays) before they closed. They do breakfast and lunch, not dinner. Obviously I like the place. I've been going there for years. I used to get the porkchop, then I started having the baked sole. In the past several months I've been branching out. Their fish sandwich with fries is good.
And hotsauce, of course. I'm a man of habit; everything goes with hot sauce.
Porkchop, baked sole, chicken curry, fish sandwich. Fries.
They know that by now and bring it.
Weird kwailo? Hot sauce!
A smoke afterwards, plus errands and shopping then off to the bakery for a cup of milk tea and a snackiepoo. Where I arrived shortly after four o'clock, which is as you know universally teatime. Soon the two elderly Chinese American gentlemen I often chat with got there too.
They are still spry and active. Although sometimes I do wonder about what goes on in their heads. Not that they're losing it, in any way, but the older one gets the more obsessive and sometimes oddly focused one can often become. You may have noticed that about me, for instance. Since I turned into an adult a few years (decades) ago I've become a little more gibberant.
So I got to listen to two ninety year-olds for half an hour talking about underpants.
It's a truly fascinating subject, which entrances the finest minds.
I still don't know which they prefer.
Boxers. Or briefs.
It's probably a good thing that the ladies who work there AND the few other regulars present at that time are not English-fluent, or they would have wondered how seriously nuts you have to be to act fully American. Do you have to talk about underwear? Do all Americans complain that their nether garments are getting so see-through from wear and washing that they dry in minutes? You mentioned the place around the corner as a source, but too expensive; as far as anybody knows they sell panties and bras. So what, exactly, where you looking at?
Did it have a Hello Kitty motif, and if so, why didn't that tip you off?
Thirty minutes about underwear.
And plans to buy it.
So sorry, but I nearly fell asleep twice while that was going on.
Despite the cup of strong milk tea.
I have NO intention at all of doing any research and browsing at the shop around the corner.
I have passed it many times, and laud them for their fabulous selection of bras, panties, bikini briefs, French cuts, high cuts, "boy shorts", grannies, and Hello Kitties. And possibly also thongs, but I don't know.
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And hotsauce, of course. I'm a man of habit; everything goes with hot sauce.
Porkchop, baked sole, chicken curry, fish sandwich. Fries.
They know that by now and bring it.
Weird kwailo? Hot sauce!
A smoke afterwards, plus errands and shopping then off to the bakery for a cup of milk tea and a snackiepoo. Where I arrived shortly after four o'clock, which is as you know universally teatime. Soon the two elderly Chinese American gentlemen I often chat with got there too.
They are still spry and active. Although sometimes I do wonder about what goes on in their heads. Not that they're losing it, in any way, but the older one gets the more obsessive and sometimes oddly focused one can often become. You may have noticed that about me, for instance. Since I turned into an adult a few years (decades) ago I've become a little more gibberant.
So I got to listen to two ninety year-olds for half an hour talking about underpants.
It's a truly fascinating subject, which entrances the finest minds.
I still don't know which they prefer.
Boxers. Or briefs.
It's probably a good thing that the ladies who work there AND the few other regulars present at that time are not English-fluent, or they would have wondered how seriously nuts you have to be to act fully American. Do you have to talk about underwear? Do all Americans complain that their nether garments are getting so see-through from wear and washing that they dry in minutes? You mentioned the place around the corner as a source, but too expensive; as far as anybody knows they sell panties and bras. So what, exactly, where you looking at?
Did it have a Hello Kitty motif, and if so, why didn't that tip you off?
Thirty minutes about underwear.
And plans to buy it.
So sorry, but I nearly fell asleep twice while that was going on.
Despite the cup of strong milk tea.
I have NO intention at all of doing any research and browsing at the shop around the corner.
I have passed it many times, and laud them for their fabulous selection of bras, panties, bikini briefs, French cuts, high cuts, "boy shorts", grannies, and Hello Kitties. And possibly also thongs, but I don't know.
==========================================================================
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OLD AGE REGRETS
It's been over four days since I heard Jeff vociferating about Zohran Mamdani, and I still can't get over his petulant retired civil servant rightwing dildo-head whining. He is, supposedly, an educated man. A university graduate. So why does he always sound like a redneck grampa bitching that his spoon isn't right? A senile old fart bellyaching that those people are using the municipal pool again?
He's my age. Took early retirement. Not a damned day too soon.
An ex-New Yorker, though he's always lived in California.
He didn't like the "rent's too darn high" candidate.
Though Jewish, he doesn't like Jews either.
Tends toward an Irish cop mentality.
He's a stereotype of horrid stereotypes.
He'll be the first person to tell you that he doesn't hate anybody and has no preconceived biases. That he is, in fact, at heart a liberal.
Unlike most of the repulsives in the treehouse, he actually reads occasionally. Real books too. Judging by his torment of the subcontinental, he really dislikes Indians, not the Iranians, blacks, Asians other than the anticommunist virago he married, and Eastern Europeans who aren't Putin. He never says anything good about them, though at least he's been well-trained and actually never talks about them. But that Muslim Communist Radical anti-American really gets his goat. Besides the hippies running San Francisco, the bastards. He's a lot like me. Same number of limbs, eyes, ears. Breathes methane rarely. With a body that's approximately 60% water, plus oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus, and traces of potassium, sulfur, sodium, chlorine, & magnesium.
The resemblance is striking!
The main difference between me and him is that I am all sweetness and light, with good cheer and warm fellow-feeling toward everybody. A veritable paragon of humanity.
Jeff says "there ought to be a law". Which there is, and he really should know that.
But perhaps during his years as a civil servant he ignored it.
Probably shouldn't apply to people he dislikes.
You know, those people.
Yeah, okay, I'll admit that I dislike most of the world, especially my fellow Americans who voted for the orange pustule (and the parts of the country where they live, and all their personal habits, alleged cuisines, inbred relations and religions), but that's normal.
Screw them. I'm still all sweetness and light. Trust me.
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He's my age. Took early retirement. Not a damned day too soon.
An ex-New Yorker, though he's always lived in California.
He didn't like the "rent's too darn high" candidate.
Though Jewish, he doesn't like Jews either.
Tends toward an Irish cop mentality.
He's a stereotype of horrid stereotypes.
He'll be the first person to tell you that he doesn't hate anybody and has no preconceived biases. That he is, in fact, at heart a liberal.
Unlike most of the repulsives in the treehouse, he actually reads occasionally. Real books too. Judging by his torment of the subcontinental, he really dislikes Indians, not the Iranians, blacks, Asians other than the anticommunist virago he married, and Eastern Europeans who aren't Putin. He never says anything good about them, though at least he's been well-trained and actually never talks about them. But that Muslim Communist Radical anti-American really gets his goat. Besides the hippies running San Francisco, the bastards. He's a lot like me. Same number of limbs, eyes, ears. Breathes methane rarely. With a body that's approximately 60% water, plus oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus, and traces of potassium, sulfur, sodium, chlorine, & magnesium.
The resemblance is striking!
The main difference between me and him is that I am all sweetness and light, with good cheer and warm fellow-feeling toward everybody. A veritable paragon of humanity.
Jeff says "there ought to be a law". Which there is, and he really should know that.
But perhaps during his years as a civil servant he ignored it.
Probably shouldn't apply to people he dislikes.
You know, those people.
Yeah, okay, I'll admit that I dislike most of the world, especially my fellow Americans who voted for the orange pustule (and the parts of the country where they live, and all their personal habits, alleged cuisines, inbred relations and religions), but that's normal.
Screw them. I'm still all sweetness and light. Trust me.
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
SOUNDS LIKE MACHINERY
By the time the bookseller arrived nearly two whole blocks had been generously treated to a moaning unintelligible rendition of 'Country Roads', and when we passed the karaoke place someone was loudly doing something not quite singing in the crowded dive. Which was filled with white people. An unwell-boding sign. After the burger joint we headed over to the beer place -- too crowded -- and then directly to our customary bail-out back-up.
Miss Vivien is looking a little more preggers than last week.
I figure in another month or two she'll be a mommy.
Which means all of you hosebags better behave!
Mentally I am not prepared for a bar tender to actually be an adult. It's a new thing. They're supposed to be delinquency-ennablers, for craps' sake!
Shortly after sitting down a voice behind me happily said "ah maa teen, lei hou". Tat Yee had entered. For the next half hour he and someone who looked like the "most dangerous man in Chinatown" had a loud jovial discussion at the far end of the counter, which combined with the music and the teevee made it quite impossible for me to seem like a rational man because I couldn't understand everything being said. Which is okay, I'm used to being an idiot in such places. Three sources of ambient noise. We probably all sounded berserk.
Besides, there was baseball on the telly. The Giants either did something or failed at it. Attention spans were fragmented, and trains of thought were derailed because of that. My leg has been throbbing off and on all day. I know that we will have to do the peripheral angioplasties on the lower extremities sometime soon, after which I will be young and spry again. Dr. Tran (陳醫生) will likely lecture me to stop smoking -- which I shall probably try for two or three weeks to promote recovery -- but pipes are too much a part of me to give up.
I thoroughly enjoyed my pipe in Chinatown this evening. Other than the hellish sounds from the karaoke place a block away, and the alley with disturbed crazy people nearby, it was remarkably peaceful. Imagine a state of zen-like bliss. Om.
Aged Virginia, smidge of Perique.
The last time I was in the hospital I didn't have a pipe for five days. But that was because my appendix exploded. The stent was an overnighter, as will also be the periph-o-plasties. Even though theoretically these are both in-and-out procedures they often give the patient valium to keep the bugger from twitching on the table. So they will not let you leave on your own steam for several hours. You might end up driving or operating heavy machinery.
Yeah no. No one wants me doing that.
==========================================================================
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Miss Vivien is looking a little more preggers than last week.
I figure in another month or two she'll be a mommy.
Which means all of you hosebags better behave!
Mentally I am not prepared for a bar tender to actually be an adult. It's a new thing. They're supposed to be delinquency-ennablers, for craps' sake!
Shortly after sitting down a voice behind me happily said "ah maa teen, lei hou". Tat Yee had entered. For the next half hour he and someone who looked like the "most dangerous man in Chinatown" had a loud jovial discussion at the far end of the counter, which combined with the music and the teevee made it quite impossible for me to seem like a rational man because I couldn't understand everything being said. Which is okay, I'm used to being an idiot in such places. Three sources of ambient noise. We probably all sounded berserk.
Besides, there was baseball on the telly. The Giants either did something or failed at it. Attention spans were fragmented, and trains of thought were derailed because of that. My leg has been throbbing off and on all day. I know that we will have to do the peripheral angioplasties on the lower extremities sometime soon, after which I will be young and spry again. Dr. Tran (陳醫生) will likely lecture me to stop smoking -- which I shall probably try for two or three weeks to promote recovery -- but pipes are too much a part of me to give up.
I thoroughly enjoyed my pipe in Chinatown this evening. Other than the hellish sounds from the karaoke place a block away, and the alley with disturbed crazy people nearby, it was remarkably peaceful. Imagine a state of zen-like bliss. Om.
Aged Virginia, smidge of Perique.
The last time I was in the hospital I didn't have a pipe for five days. But that was because my appendix exploded. The stent was an overnighter, as will also be the periph-o-plasties. Even though theoretically these are both in-and-out procedures they often give the patient valium to keep the bugger from twitching on the table. So they will not let you leave on your own steam for several hours. You might end up driving or operating heavy machinery.
Yeah no. No one wants me doing that.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, July 29, 2025
KIND WORDS ABOUT OTHER PLACES
LIke everybody, this blogger has immense respect for the State of Florida. Which still exists. Despite the efforts of its governor, officials, and general populace, to wipe it deservedly off the map. Not to disparage their efforts, but literacy is still above forty percent, the number of people infected with venereal disease below forty percent. Rates of inbreeding are unknown, but presumed to still be lower than Louisiana. Neck and neck with Alabama.
Despite that, however, congenital idiocy is fairly common.
As is demonstrated by the many news articles.
About the exploits of Florida man.
It's as if they're all aliens trying to remember that they have to act human.
That said, things are going to get a whole lot worse there. They've decided to create a giant mosquito breeding ground right in the middle of the swamp, called Alligator Alcatraz. There are any number of illnesses spread by mosquitoes, but the one most likely to make a humongous impact is probably Dengue.
So I'd advise people likely to be accidentally incarcerated there or the politicians visiting for a publicity photo-shoot, for the benefit of their trailer trash voting base, to apply massive doses of insect repellent, in hopes that enough of it will wash off during rainstorms to kill every bug within a ten-mile radius. Let us assume that the armed goons guarding the place are far too stupid to notice a mass outbreak, even if a few of them fall sick and die. They'll just assume that it's the food, which is likely to go bad within hours in that climate, and some of the staff are from Arkansas and can't spell salmonella, escherichia coli, or campylobacter. Or soap.
Things are slightly better in many other places in the red states. Still scandalous inbreeding and casually spread diseases, but not quite so hot, wet, and flat, and consequently far less likely to wash away because of climate change and a rise of sea-levels.
There are still some libraries without bookbans there.
Also, reputedly, people who can spell.
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Despite that, however, congenital idiocy is fairly common.
As is demonstrated by the many news articles.
About the exploits of Florida man.
It's as if they're all aliens trying to remember that they have to act human.
That said, things are going to get a whole lot worse there. They've decided to create a giant mosquito breeding ground right in the middle of the swamp, called Alligator Alcatraz. There are any number of illnesses spread by mosquitoes, but the one most likely to make a humongous impact is probably Dengue.
So I'd advise people likely to be accidentally incarcerated there or the politicians visiting for a publicity photo-shoot, for the benefit of their trailer trash voting base, to apply massive doses of insect repellent, in hopes that enough of it will wash off during rainstorms to kill every bug within a ten-mile radius. Let us assume that the armed goons guarding the place are far too stupid to notice a mass outbreak, even if a few of them fall sick and die. They'll just assume that it's the food, which is likely to go bad within hours in that climate, and some of the staff are from Arkansas and can't spell salmonella, escherichia coli, or campylobacter. Or soap.
Things are slightly better in many other places in the red states. Still scandalous inbreeding and casually spread diseases, but not quite so hot, wet, and flat, and consequently far less likely to wash away because of climate change and a rise of sea-levels.
There are still some libraries without bookbans there.
Also, reputedly, people who can spell.
==========================================================================
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LIKE A CAT IN TAI O
In the peripheral areas of Hong Kong are a number of villages and settlements with a history of smuggling, piracy, and fishing. And, naturally, producing salt fish (鹹魚 'haam yü'; "briny fish"), which is a traditional product still semi-popular all over South East Asia. Many modern educated people won't touch it, but their ancestors relied upon it. White people are famous for eschewing it, unless they're into food, or speak Dutch with an Indonesian hue. If both of those things, it's probably a guarantee that they love it along with its relatives shrimp paste (鹹蝦醬 '"haahm haa jeung"') and fish sauce (魚露 'yü lou').
What I mean to say is that if someone is a typical high school educated Anglo twit from the Midwest, East Coast, South, or Central Valley, they'll probably exclaim "eewwwww" and wrinkle their little white button nose at it. Then head on over to McDonalds or Boo-king instead for the "good eating". Growing bodies and all that. They need grease.
Even if they're old enough to know better.
For them, that's grandma's age.
It's some good stuff. Coarse minced in fried rice, mixed into a fatty pork dish, with braised eggplant, in tofu and salt fish soup, or simply eaten with some white steamed rice and chilipaste (which is not a standard Hong Kong idea). Hip modern word: umami.
There is a McDonalds near where I work in the suburbs.
But there is no real Chinese restaurant.
That tells you something.
Chilipaste is rare, sambal blatjang unknown. They're almost like Iowa in their culinary stodginess. Barbecue sauce is exotic. The most popular condiment is ketchup.
Some of them are vegan, taking culinary puritanism to an extreme. Some of the best salt fish is produced in Tai O (大澳 'daai ou'; "deep inlet", "large cove"), on the south side of Lantau Island (大嶼山 'daai yü saan'; "big island mountain"). Occasionally you can find it in Chinatown, look for glossiness, thickness, and a tissue around the head to keep the flies out. It should still have a slight softness. To prepare it, cut off the head, then rinse it to remove dust and some of the salt, and split it so that you can take out the spine. That last is, strictly speaking, not entirely necessary. What you need for most dishes is one or two pieces about the size of a finger. That is sufficient for steamed pork patty with salt fish (咸魚蒸肉餅 'haam yü jing yiuk beng').
For two people, one pound of fatty ground pork, maybe a little chopped water chestnut and rehydrated black mushroom, plus a pinch of sugar, ground pepper, scant drizzle sesame oil, a tablespoon of cornstarch more or less, and some shredded ginger to add on top half way through the cooking. Mix everything except the ginger and salt fish, flatten it into hamburger thickness or slightly thinner on an oiled plate, and place the salt fish pieces on top. Steam for eight to ten minutes, strewing the ginger over it around midpoint.
Eat with rice, some veggies, and sambal.
Looks ugly, tastes grand.
Tai O is worth visiting if you go to Hong Kong. It's a small village where most people still dwell in stilt houses (棚屋 'pang ok'; "shed house, stilt dwelling") at the river mouth and have ties to fishing or salt making. There is, to the best of my knowledge, no American fast food franchise of any kind anywhere nearby.
If you're traveling with American teenagers, there are shopping malls in Kowloon.
Just leave them there. You will all be happier.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
What I mean to say is that if someone is a typical high school educated Anglo twit from the Midwest, East Coast, South, or Central Valley, they'll probably exclaim "eewwwww" and wrinkle their little white button nose at it. Then head on over to McDonalds or Boo-king instead for the "good eating". Growing bodies and all that. They need grease.
Even if they're old enough to know better.
For them, that's grandma's age.
It's some good stuff. Coarse minced in fried rice, mixed into a fatty pork dish, with braised eggplant, in tofu and salt fish soup, or simply eaten with some white steamed rice and chilipaste (which is not a standard Hong Kong idea). Hip modern word: umami.
There is a McDonalds near where I work in the suburbs.
But there is no real Chinese restaurant.
That tells you something.
Chilipaste is rare, sambal blatjang unknown. They're almost like Iowa in their culinary stodginess. Barbecue sauce is exotic. The most popular condiment is ketchup.
Some of them are vegan, taking culinary puritanism to an extreme. Some of the best salt fish is produced in Tai O (大澳 'daai ou'; "deep inlet", "large cove"), on the south side of Lantau Island (大嶼山 'daai yü saan'; "big island mountain"). Occasionally you can find it in Chinatown, look for glossiness, thickness, and a tissue around the head to keep the flies out. It should still have a slight softness. To prepare it, cut off the head, then rinse it to remove dust and some of the salt, and split it so that you can take out the spine. That last is, strictly speaking, not entirely necessary. What you need for most dishes is one or two pieces about the size of a finger. That is sufficient for steamed pork patty with salt fish (咸魚蒸肉餅 'haam yü jing yiuk beng').
For two people, one pound of fatty ground pork, maybe a little chopped water chestnut and rehydrated black mushroom, plus a pinch of sugar, ground pepper, scant drizzle sesame oil, a tablespoon of cornstarch more or less, and some shredded ginger to add on top half way through the cooking. Mix everything except the ginger and salt fish, flatten it into hamburger thickness or slightly thinner on an oiled plate, and place the salt fish pieces on top. Steam for eight to ten minutes, strewing the ginger over it around midpoint.
Eat with rice, some veggies, and sambal.
Looks ugly, tastes grand.
Tai O is worth visiting if you go to Hong Kong. It's a small village where most people still dwell in stilt houses (棚屋 'pang ok'; "shed house, stilt dwelling") at the river mouth and have ties to fishing or salt making. There is, to the best of my knowledge, no American fast food franchise of any kind anywhere nearby.
If you're traveling with American teenagers, there are shopping malls in Kowloon.
Just leave them there. You will all be happier.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A GETTING AWAY PLACE
Yesterday evening there were still many people about on Grant Avenue, almost all of them tourists happily exploring and wandering about. They were probably pleased that our weather is not hellishly hot, unlike much of the country. We're experiencing the coldest July since Noah moored the ark, so it's been around sixty degrees most days. More. And less.
My late lunch was a good reminder that getting out of the house is a good idea. Especially if done earlier in the day. Because the restaurant to which I went specializes in claypot rice and is a popular destination for locals wanting comfort food, it gets packed at dinner time.
When I finished there wasn't an empty table in the place.
Like the last time, I told myself to sometime try the Taishan yellow eel (台山黃鱔煲仔飯 'toi saan wong sin pou jai faan') claypot rice. But I ordered salt fish spareribs claypot rice (鹹魚排骨煲仔飯 'haam yü paai gwat pou jai faan') 鹹魚排骨煲仔飯, because the combination of fatty meat and savoury-salty appealed to me at that moment. The first dish mentioned is very Sei Yap (四邑), the second recalls a Hong Kong crowded living quarters residential estates boat dwellers working people fifties and sixties style. The backround chatter, as you would expect, reflected both of those demographic elements, with one table speaking Mandarin and everybody else chattering in Toisaan or Cantonese.
Well, not me, of course. I was eating alone and had no one to chat with.
It struck me that claypot rice is, when you think about it, both self-indulgent and not really suitable for two people on a first or second date. There is no sharing. This is MY claypot rice. Mine! Eat your own! A couple beyond the getting acquainted phase might happily have it in each other's company, maybe splitting some stirfried mustard or cauliflower (炒芥菜,炒菜花 'chaau gai choi, chaau choi faa') because they agree that veggies are good for you.
But did I mention that this is MY claypot rice?
It's my salt fish fatty meat.
The restaurant is probably perfect for slightly Aspy people.
It's a very home-town kind of place. Barely two blocks from the hospital. Remarkably I've never seen any of the people I know from there there. The only other customer I have ever recognized is the Indonesian Chinese fellow who lives near my apartment. We occasionally chat in Mandarin or Malay when we see each other at the bus stop on Van Ness.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
My late lunch was a good reminder that getting out of the house is a good idea. Especially if done earlier in the day. Because the restaurant to which I went specializes in claypot rice and is a popular destination for locals wanting comfort food, it gets packed at dinner time.
When I finished there wasn't an empty table in the place.
Like the last time, I told myself to sometime try the Taishan yellow eel (台山黃鱔煲仔飯 'toi saan wong sin pou jai faan') claypot rice. But I ordered salt fish spareribs claypot rice (鹹魚排骨煲仔飯 'haam yü paai gwat pou jai faan') 鹹魚排骨煲仔飯, because the combination of fatty meat and savoury-salty appealed to me at that moment. The first dish mentioned is very Sei Yap (四邑), the second recalls a Hong Kong crowded living quarters residential estates boat dwellers working people fifties and sixties style. The backround chatter, as you would expect, reflected both of those demographic elements, with one table speaking Mandarin and everybody else chattering in Toisaan or Cantonese.
Well, not me, of course. I was eating alone and had no one to chat with.
It struck me that claypot rice is, when you think about it, both self-indulgent and not really suitable for two people on a first or second date. There is no sharing. This is MY claypot rice. Mine! Eat your own! A couple beyond the getting acquainted phase might happily have it in each other's company, maybe splitting some stirfried mustard or cauliflower (炒芥菜,炒菜花 'chaau gai choi, chaau choi faa') because they agree that veggies are good for you.
But did I mention that this is MY claypot rice?
It's my salt fish fatty meat.
The restaurant is probably perfect for slightly Aspy people.
It's a very home-town kind of place. Barely two blocks from the hospital. Remarkably I've never seen any of the people I know from there there. The only other customer I have ever recognized is the Indonesian Chinese fellow who lives near my apartment. We occasionally chat in Mandarin or Malay when we see each other at the bus stop on Van Ness.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, July 28, 2025
IT'S NOT BIG
Someone, I cannot remember who, a fellow pipe-smoker in any case, remarked recently that the pipe I was smoking was not large. To which I was somewhat taken aback. Was this a sneer at my presumed manhood in comparison to his? I'm sorry, I did not know that smoking a pipe was about penises. All this time I thought that the reason that most pipes had internal dimensions that were very similar was mostly because of chemistry, burn rates, and optimum enjoyment of the tobacco. Really, I had no idea that it was about glands, hormones, and pheromones.
Well um. Colour me properly diminished.
I'm all shriveled up now.
I will go and whimper sadly in my corner, deflated, me and my small pipe. My quite inferior unmanly sized briar. Perhaps if I acquire a snazzy convertible and a curvaceous trophy blonde it will not be quite so noticeable.
Maybe I should reconsider my teacup, whisky bottle, and the tool I tamp down my tobacco with also? I assure you that my preferred tobacco is normal, the shreds of a near-uniform standard width and length (for their class). No minitude there, no sir!
You want large? There's a mountain nearby. Well gatverdamme, paskudniak.
If there were a tobacco that suggested Axe Body Spray, this would probably be it. My aged red Virginia flake, with just the right amount of Perique, is just effing drenched with mucho macho manliness. Can't get any more butch than this. It's positively stinking. Radiates the very essence of houndstooth jacket, hunting rifle, and dead lion. Elephants tremble in fear and soil their diapers when I stride across the veld. Hyenas howl in quivering defiance.
The savage wildebeest stampede and flatten a native village.
It encourages the thriving growth of elderberries, of which your mother richly reeks.
Have you ever wondered why that is? She's been mentally hamstered!
She cannot resist the fierce rodential perfume!
Her knees tremble and are wet.
The merest whiff!
Perhaps I should emphasize that pipe size, sports car horsepower, or the jiggly breastiness of a female companion, do not equate to penile endowment, or in fact relate to it or its totally imaginary social worth in anyway at all. Your pipes should, like the bear's porridge, ideally be neither too large or too small, but just right.
Pauline at Drucquers, who had the best pipe collection I ever saw, had briars of a fairly uniform standard size. Generally speaking, Dunhil group 3 and 4, seldom 5. They were exquisite. She herself was a small woman, who always smoked Blend 805.
Which was one of the best tobacco mixtures ever invented.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well um. Colour me properly diminished.
I'm all shriveled up now.
I will go and whimper sadly in my corner, deflated, me and my small pipe. My quite inferior unmanly sized briar. Perhaps if I acquire a snazzy convertible and a curvaceous trophy blonde it will not be quite so noticeable.
Maybe I should reconsider my teacup, whisky bottle, and the tool I tamp down my tobacco with also? I assure you that my preferred tobacco is normal, the shreds of a near-uniform standard width and length (for their class). No minitude there, no sir!
You want large? There's a mountain nearby. Well gatverdamme, paskudniak.
If there were a tobacco that suggested Axe Body Spray, this would probably be it. My aged red Virginia flake, with just the right amount of Perique, is just effing drenched with mucho macho manliness. Can't get any more butch than this. It's positively stinking. Radiates the very essence of houndstooth jacket, hunting rifle, and dead lion. Elephants tremble in fear and soil their diapers when I stride across the veld. Hyenas howl in quivering defiance.
The savage wildebeest stampede and flatten a native village.
It encourages the thriving growth of elderberries, of which your mother richly reeks.
Have you ever wondered why that is? She's been mentally hamstered!
She cannot resist the fierce rodential perfume!
Her knees tremble and are wet.
The merest whiff!
Perhaps I should emphasize that pipe size, sports car horsepower, or the jiggly breastiness of a female companion, do not equate to penile endowment, or in fact relate to it or its totally imaginary social worth in anyway at all. Your pipes should, like the bear's porridge, ideally be neither too large or too small, but just right.
Pauline at Drucquers, who had the best pipe collection I ever saw, had briars of a fairly uniform standard size. Generally speaking, Dunhil group 3 and 4, seldom 5. They were exquisite. She herself was a small woman, who always smoked Blend 805.
Which was one of the best tobacco mixtures ever invented.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, July 27, 2025
MEDIAEVAL PEASANT GARB
Right after lunchtime the man who only dates psychopathic female professionals stopped by. Somehow we ended up talking about the hat he wore during Winter, and I think I frightfully offended him by remarking that it was ugly and stupid looking. Which it is. He's proud of it, quite bizarrely. Apparently that was the last bit of fur of that precise hue. I tried to reassure him that there are plenty of cats in Kazakhstan now. They're all over the place and the population has rebounded considerably since Borat emigrated.
For some reason he was not comforted.
It's a very ugly hat.
I'm rather surprised that none of his crazy girlfriends told him. If I were a woman, I would be ashamed to be seen in public anywhere near that hat. Heck, irrespective of gender I do not want to be even proximally associated with it. I would need a Groucho Marx mustache and spectacles mask if. If. If. Double if.
Ladies, do not date cigar smokers. No matter how hot and Latin you might think they look. Demand to see their hats first and then tell them you'll think about it. You 'll thank me.
He's looking a bit ragged around the edges. The nutzo women are wearing him out. Because of the on-going horrid lunch situation at work, I fixed myself tasty comfort food when I got home. Chicken, cucumbers, rice noodles, with peanut sauce, ginger, curry spices, and fresh chilies. Hence the appropriateness of the illustration above. Which shows scenery nowhere near my place of employment. It's culturally suited to my dinner.
Think about it. Horrid food, ghastly hats, sportsfans, jangled "manly" men, and rabid rightwingers. A little slice of the seventh circle.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For some reason he was not comforted.
It's a very ugly hat.
I'm rather surprised that none of his crazy girlfriends told him. If I were a woman, I would be ashamed to be seen in public anywhere near that hat. Heck, irrespective of gender I do not want to be even proximally associated with it. I would need a Groucho Marx mustache and spectacles mask if. If. If. Double if.
Ladies, do not date cigar smokers. No matter how hot and Latin you might think they look. Demand to see their hats first and then tell them you'll think about it. You 'll thank me.
He's looking a bit ragged around the edges. The nutzo women are wearing him out. Because of the on-going horrid lunch situation at work, I fixed myself tasty comfort food when I got home. Chicken, cucumbers, rice noodles, with peanut sauce, ginger, curry spices, and fresh chilies. Hence the appropriateness of the illustration above. Which shows scenery nowhere near my place of employment. It's culturally suited to my dinner.
Think about it. Horrid food, ghastly hats, sportsfans, jangled "manly" men, and rabid rightwingers. A little slice of the seventh circle.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IT WAS A GREAT VICTORY
Today is the San Francisco Marathon. Sorry, I am not participating. The whole concept of running twenty six miles, even without bronze armour, is out of the question. And as usual Kenyans will be in the lead, serious people will claim their own participation certificates, and zanies will trot along gamely for part of the route before deciding that they've done their bit, Athens has already won, no point in making it all the way in any decent time at all, and, just maybe, the idea of participating in an epic endurance challenge in which the first ever participant ended up dying dramatically is rather ridiculous.
But heck, kudos to all the stallwarts who complete the course.
Remember that we also have fun things to do here.
Bars! We've got a tonne of bars!
Rehydrate!
Just like our other famous running event it's allegedly great fun and there are many visitors to our fine city. Plus people won't stop talking about it. Those are conversations in which I will gladly not participate, as all sporting events leave me cold. Yes yes, stellar achievement, great that you did it, can we please go back to discussing Nietsche and Kant? The only Marathon that I ever took part in was a shoot-em-up in a space ship taken over by aliens. Many times! Still remember it fondly. The engineering department was addicted to it. Even the boss of the company.
Imagine a whole bunch of people on the spectrum actually being on the same page at the same time. Feelings of gemütlichkeit and camaraderie among the profoundly un-social.
Like you had never seen before. Triumph! Success!
It's surprising that not more of them were tea-drinking pipesmokers with book collections.
I would've thought that would have been the natural and logical fall-back escape from the clamouring throngs. But no. That might have required too much of a leap.
Or possibly been too competitive.
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But heck, kudos to all the stallwarts who complete the course.
Remember that we also have fun things to do here.
Bars! We've got a tonne of bars!
Rehydrate!
Just like our other famous running event it's allegedly great fun and there are many visitors to our fine city. Plus people won't stop talking about it. Those are conversations in which I will gladly not participate, as all sporting events leave me cold. Yes yes, stellar achievement, great that you did it, can we please go back to discussing Nietsche and Kant? The only Marathon that I ever took part in was a shoot-em-up in a space ship taken over by aliens. Many times! Still remember it fondly. The engineering department was addicted to it. Even the boss of the company.
Imagine a whole bunch of people on the spectrum actually being on the same page at the same time. Feelings of gemütlichkeit and camaraderie among the profoundly un-social.
Like you had never seen before. Triumph! Success!
It's surprising that not more of them were tea-drinking pipesmokers with book collections.
I would've thought that would have been the natural and logical fall-back escape from the clamouring throngs. But no. That might have required too much of a leap.
Or possibly been too competitive.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, July 26, 2025
MID-AFTERNOON ENTERTAINMENTS
Most of the poisonous rightwing pustules weren't in today, only the tall bald troublemaker was in, but there was no one there to agree with him, so he remained quiet. Neither the petulantly whining ex-judicial person, nor the Irishman who gives other Irish people a bad rep, or even their friend the psychopathic dgenerate troll, showed themselves. I'm guessing that at least two of them were told by their minders or helpmeets to sit still and act like a doorstop.
Han, who lives near me in the city, came in twice. But he's a very decent fellow, and consequently not at all a pain in the "Netherlands".
So even though it barely got over sixty degrees, overcast, and depressing weather, it was a lovely summer day. As I understand it the Red States are on a stay indoors and try not to breathe alert presently, but here in civilization it's the gloomiest July in living memory.
Which is perfect.
I worked on a handful of pipes for someone -- his grandfather's smoking equipment -- and smoked four of my own. One Loewe & Company straight grain billiard, one Peterson (Dublin & London), one pre-Lane Charatan Zulu, and a piss-elegant Savinelli DeLuxe that makes me look sporty and sophisticated.
Spent most of the day high as a kite on caffeine. Cup and a half strong coffee before heading to work. Three cups of tea before lunch, cup of coffee immediately afterwards, then three more cups of tea. And of course there is a hot caffeinated beverage to my left now. Neil and Joel showed up around tea-time and were very pleased that none of the Magats were present. We discussed sunburned knees from spending your entire vacation at the Costa Del Sol under your Deux Chevaux, plus cinchona bark and black water fever, Zika, West Nile, and the Chikungunya virus. None of these are our problems -- see my previous description of Bay Area weather -- and I am able to turn illness into entertaining small talk.
Especially when there is tea and tobacco.
Words of advice: Park your crappy car in the shade, stay out of tropical swamps and the American Deep South, and use both sunblock and mosquio repellent.
You remember Elizabeth Taylor in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof?
No neck little monsters! They're everywhere!
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Han, who lives near me in the city, came in twice. But he's a very decent fellow, and consequently not at all a pain in the "Netherlands".
So even though it barely got over sixty degrees, overcast, and depressing weather, it was a lovely summer day. As I understand it the Red States are on a stay indoors and try not to breathe alert presently, but here in civilization it's the gloomiest July in living memory.
Which is perfect.
I worked on a handful of pipes for someone -- his grandfather's smoking equipment -- and smoked four of my own. One Loewe & Company straight grain billiard, one Peterson (Dublin & London), one pre-Lane Charatan Zulu, and a piss-elegant Savinelli DeLuxe that makes me look sporty and sophisticated.
Spent most of the day high as a kite on caffeine. Cup and a half strong coffee before heading to work. Three cups of tea before lunch, cup of coffee immediately afterwards, then three more cups of tea. And of course there is a hot caffeinated beverage to my left now. Neil and Joel showed up around tea-time and were very pleased that none of the Magats were present. We discussed sunburned knees from spending your entire vacation at the Costa Del Sol under your Deux Chevaux, plus cinchona bark and black water fever, Zika, West Nile, and the Chikungunya virus. None of these are our problems -- see my previous description of Bay Area weather -- and I am able to turn illness into entertaining small talk.
Especially when there is tea and tobacco.
Words of advice: Park your crappy car in the shade, stay out of tropical swamps and the American Deep South, and use both sunblock and mosquio repellent.
You remember Elizabeth Taylor in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof?
No neck little monsters! They're everywhere!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 25, 2025
THE SATISFACTION OF HARVESTING
Upon deciding that I needed to get out of the house yesterday afternoon, I took the bus to the top of the hill, got out, loaded my pipe, and strolled down past familiar places. Taylor Street has some very nice spots. I would like to live there. Close enough to walk down to the shops and restaurants, but far enough uphill that the crazies seldom stumble around there. Plus one or two coffee shops nearby. A roast pig and duck place which I like four blocks away.
So I walked to the claypot restaurant because I couldn't remember when they'd be back from vacation, which looks to be next week. I'm looking forward to having a meal there.
Lunch, after the pipe, was further into Chinatown. Rice sheet noodle with pork liver and cilantro (豬肝腸粉同芫茜 'jyu gon cheung fan tong yuen sai'), lavishly condimentalized. While I was there I saw three largish groups of foreign visitors (Midwestern or European) march in expectantly, look at the menu above the counter, realize that they hadn't a clue, and depart hastily. The only people not speaking Cantonese there were a table of Taiwanese and a young lady with a bearded white boyfriend. Which to me is amazing. The food is delicious. We're enjoying it. Just look at us. Go on, take a risk. You will be glad you did. They even have black sesame dessert soup!
Okay, maybe sesame goo (香滑黑芝麻湖 'heung waat ji maa wu') isn't quite an attraction.
It's not why I'm there, and I almost never indulge in it. But did I mention the cheung fan? There is a great satisfaction to be had by finding fun things to eat. Which requires an adventurous approach, and a willingness to try stuff one has never eaten before.
That type of cheung fan is rare in Chinatown.
Yeah, sometimes that means a plate of fragrant garlicky pig belly (廣東鹵水豬肚 'gwong dung lou seui jyu tou'). Which was delicious, but absolutely unchewable. Like rubber bands. Tried it twice. Both times I had to give up. So I can't recommend it.
Years ago I also tried tripe. Um, no.
==========================================================================
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So I walked to the claypot restaurant because I couldn't remember when they'd be back from vacation, which looks to be next week. I'm looking forward to having a meal there.
Lunch, after the pipe, was further into Chinatown. Rice sheet noodle with pork liver and cilantro (豬肝腸粉同芫茜 'jyu gon cheung fan tong yuen sai'), lavishly condimentalized. While I was there I saw three largish groups of foreign visitors (Midwestern or European) march in expectantly, look at the menu above the counter, realize that they hadn't a clue, and depart hastily. The only people not speaking Cantonese there were a table of Taiwanese and a young lady with a bearded white boyfriend. Which to me is amazing. The food is delicious. We're enjoying it. Just look at us. Go on, take a risk. You will be glad you did. They even have black sesame dessert soup!
Okay, maybe sesame goo (香滑黑芝麻湖 'heung waat ji maa wu') isn't quite an attraction.
It's not why I'm there, and I almost never indulge in it. But did I mention the cheung fan? There is a great satisfaction to be had by finding fun things to eat. Which requires an adventurous approach, and a willingness to try stuff one has never eaten before.
That type of cheung fan is rare in Chinatown.
Yeah, sometimes that means a plate of fragrant garlicky pig belly (廣東鹵水豬肚 'gwong dung lou seui jyu tou'). Which was delicious, but absolutely unchewable. Like rubber bands. Tried it twice. Both times I had to give up. So I can't recommend it.
Years ago I also tried tripe. Um, no.
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
Thursday, July 24, 2025
PERFECT ACCESSORY
After having seen any number of horrid tattoos, which the wearers will probably regret once they're older and realize that no one wants to rent to them and any divorces have been ruled in their disfavour because they look like sex-gargoyles, as well as the male short-shorts and female pudgy belly bare shirts, I can only consider that society's style choices will swing back to something much more severe and almost puritanical looking. Draw everyone's attention away from their scars and the flesh-coloured skin goop covering the evidence of their youthful stupidity and meaningfulness.
By the way: I am indebted to Steve Dallas' mom for the term "sex-gargoyle". As in "come over here and kiss your son the sex-gargoyle hello". Just imagine hairy thighs and shiny metal studs. Plus the inevitable dark sunglasses hiding that he was chronically hung-over under a veneer of Rayban coolness. How that penguin put up with him I don't know.
In any case, accessories. Specifically ones that say that the possessor is NOT a slave to fashion, but a totally unique individual, with a dress sense entirely their own, expressing their sober severity and nuanced spiritual nature. But not in a way that gets them fired or kicked out of public places.
Stylish. Hip. Geschmakvol. Yet serious.
The fez. When he's wearing that, you can't even see his 'Billy And The Boingers' tattoo, can you? You can hire him. He's a great barista and really has a way with the yuppie sludge that oozes in every morning ready to be fuelled up for their meaningless job slaving for Intra AI Holdings LLC. With a shot of Red Bull syrup and a dusting of cinnamon. Low fat.
Guten Tag, Herr Drudge, möchten sie heute ihr übliches hyperkoffeinhaltiges getränk?
The place reeks of cheap Eastern European cigarettes stylishly smoked with ivory cigarette holders. A girl looking very punk Parisian Apache plonks away at a period portable typewriter. She is part of the Beatnik Poetry Revival Movement; intensely political and deliberately last century. Taking America back to a pre-Nixon gestalt. When we still had values as a society.
No studs. No piercings. No visible tattoos anymore.
Just a respectful in-your-face accoutrement.
Timeless and classic. The fez.
You should know that I have several ivory cigarette holders and look precisely like the younger Evelyn Waugh. Ein ernster mann. I am so ready for a new world order.
Follow me for more style tips.
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
By the way: I am indebted to Steve Dallas' mom for the term "sex-gargoyle". As in "come over here and kiss your son the sex-gargoyle hello". Just imagine hairy thighs and shiny metal studs. Plus the inevitable dark sunglasses hiding that he was chronically hung-over under a veneer of Rayban coolness. How that penguin put up with him I don't know.
In any case, accessories. Specifically ones that say that the possessor is NOT a slave to fashion, but a totally unique individual, with a dress sense entirely their own, expressing their sober severity and nuanced spiritual nature. But not in a way that gets them fired or kicked out of public places.
Stylish. Hip. Geschmakvol. Yet serious.
The fez. When he's wearing that, you can't even see his 'Billy And The Boingers' tattoo, can you? You can hire him. He's a great barista and really has a way with the yuppie sludge that oozes in every morning ready to be fuelled up for their meaningless job slaving for Intra AI Holdings LLC. With a shot of Red Bull syrup and a dusting of cinnamon. Low fat.
Guten Tag, Herr Drudge, möchten sie heute ihr übliches hyperkoffeinhaltiges getränk?
The place reeks of cheap Eastern European cigarettes stylishly smoked with ivory cigarette holders. A girl looking very punk Parisian Apache plonks away at a period portable typewriter. She is part of the Beatnik Poetry Revival Movement; intensely political and deliberately last century. Taking America back to a pre-Nixon gestalt. When we still had values as a society.
No studs. No piercings. No visible tattoos anymore.
Just a respectful in-your-face accoutrement.
Timeless and classic. The fez.
You should know that I have several ivory cigarette holders and look precisely like the younger Evelyn Waugh. Ein ernster mann. I am so ready for a new world order.
Follow me for more style tips.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
HALF LIGHT, BOOKS, WARM WEATHER
Having discovered the secret staircase I spent several hours happily browsing through the vast library the upstair neighbors had left behind. Room after room of bookcases, with here and there windows looking out over the leafy tree-lined street outside their apartment. Which I had also been unaware of. And such lovely reference books. When I went downstairs afterwards my landlady told me that they weren't coming back for any of it. So enjoy!
That should probably be the last time I have two bowls of icecream before going to bed. It doesn't do good things to my mind while I'm asleep. The actual last tenants that were above me were students at the conservatory, they did not leave a lovely bookcollection spanning several rooms, and there is no shady avenue that breaks the sunlight outside.
It is quite possible that the amlodipine besylate also had a hand in my dream.
I take that in late afternoon. The other pills I pop in the morning.
I do very much wish that there was an abandoned library without any other people above me. Occasionally my land lady drifting through, or my apartment mate happily reading something in a chair on the landing. Several rooms past that some windows open near the table with the ashtray so that I could smoke my pipe while there. That's the second time I've dreamed of a different spatial reality connected to where I live in recent months. It really must be caffeine, sugar, and medication related. Both dreams involved shade and very distinctly experienced weather.
This was the first time I've wandered through a silent library with so many books and scarcely anybody there. It was very wonderful. I was loathe to wake up.
I just wanted to have all that.
Note: the painting is a remembered estuary as seen from above.
Water, sandbanks, and jungle masses.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
That should probably be the last time I have two bowls of icecream before going to bed. It doesn't do good things to my mind while I'm asleep. The actual last tenants that were above me were students at the conservatory, they did not leave a lovely bookcollection spanning several rooms, and there is no shady avenue that breaks the sunlight outside.
It is quite possible that the amlodipine besylate also had a hand in my dream.
I take that in late afternoon. The other pills I pop in the morning.
I do very much wish that there was an abandoned library without any other people above me. Occasionally my land lady drifting through, or my apartment mate happily reading something in a chair on the landing. Several rooms past that some windows open near the table with the ashtray so that I could smoke my pipe while there. That's the second time I've dreamed of a different spatial reality connected to where I live in recent months. It really must be caffeine, sugar, and medication related. Both dreams involved shade and very distinctly experienced weather.
This was the first time I've wandered through a silent library with so many books and scarcely anybody there. It was very wonderful. I was loathe to wake up.
I just wanted to have all that.
Note: the painting is a remembered estuary as seen from above.
Water, sandbanks, and jungle masses.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, July 23, 2025
FRESH WATER AND MEDICATION
Ater lunch I communed with pigeons. Meaning that in the quiet cul-de-sac where I was smoking my pipe, two birds were wandering around, frequently coming within two feet of me, and occasionally looking at me with interest. And seemingly paying attention when I talked to them. They must have sensed that our time together was coming to an end, because they flew off seconds before I finished the bowl.
I had expressed my regret to them that there wasn't a nearby bird bath, because they both looked self-conscious about the state of their feathers. It's hard to stay clean in the urban jungle if there is no water. They both could have used a bath.
Nice birds. Good company.
A few hours later I passed a portico in which a raggedy individual was angrily shouting at no one, or life in general, the whole world, existence, or abstract concepts. Not sure, as I hurried past and did not listen attentively. Had I caught his eye and he engaged, he would probably not have been good company. He too could have used a bath.
It's hard to stay sane in the urban jungle.
So altogether I'm doing an excellent job of it. Lunch had been a fish sandwich and fries (香酥魚柳包 · 薯條 'heung sou yü lau baau, sue tiu'), with a cup of milk tea. I had been looking forward to it for a day or two, and I like the place where I ate it. My kind of place. No tourists, no sweet and sour pork. No big meatballs from the Midwest, no Texans, no Eastcoasters. Just decent folks, not being irritating.
We are not photogenic or picturesque. We are eating lunch. I suspect that I am not the only person on bloodpressure pills there.
Unsurprisingly they sell bucket loads of house special chicken (招牌燒雞 'jiu paai siu gai'). Which I've actually never ordered, because it looks like it would be a bit much for me.
And there's nowhere to nap afterwards.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I had expressed my regret to them that there wasn't a nearby bird bath, because they both looked self-conscious about the state of their feathers. It's hard to stay clean in the urban jungle if there is no water. They both could have used a bath.
Nice birds. Good company.
A few hours later I passed a portico in which a raggedy individual was angrily shouting at no one, or life in general, the whole world, existence, or abstract concepts. Not sure, as I hurried past and did not listen attentively. Had I caught his eye and he engaged, he would probably not have been good company. He too could have used a bath.
It's hard to stay sane in the urban jungle.
So altogether I'm doing an excellent job of it. Lunch had been a fish sandwich and fries (香酥魚柳包 · 薯條 'heung sou yü lau baau, sue tiu'), with a cup of milk tea. I had been looking forward to it for a day or two, and I like the place where I ate it. My kind of place. No tourists, no sweet and sour pork. No big meatballs from the Midwest, no Texans, no Eastcoasters. Just decent folks, not being irritating.
We are not photogenic or picturesque. We are eating lunch. I suspect that I am not the only person on bloodpressure pills there.
Unsurprisingly they sell bucket loads of house special chicken (招牌燒雞 'jiu paai siu gai'). Which I've actually never ordered, because it looks like it would be a bit much for me.
And there's nowhere to nap afterwards.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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