A GAME INVOLVING MALE POSTERIORS AND EUROPEANS

So far this blogger has escaped being infected with World-Cup excitement, as befits a true-blue American with three-and-a-half centuries of Yankee forebears. "What", I will remark, "is this poncy trotting around on grass by boys wearing silken panty-shorts?"
It seems like something only a Catholic priest would like.

And in fact there is naught wholesome about the spectacle at all.

Where, I demand to know, are the damned soccer riots?

Spectator violence is the only thing bearable.

About a game likely invented in Greece.

The source of multiple perversions.


On the entirely other hand, I saw approximately ten minutes of Belgium wiping the United States buttocks this past Tuesday. And was mightily impressed. Both sides fought like gentlemen.

Totally unlike every match that bunch of drama-queens from Italy have been involved in. Rolling around on the gras theatrically while screaming "he..., he..., he... HURT ME!" Then flailing arms and weeping.

What a silly Latin exhibit. It was enough to give a man indigestion.

No wonder that spoiled man-bitch (Chuckie Ciellini) got bit.

Luis "The Cannibal" Suarez deserves a medal.


By the way: not that I'm paying any attention at all, but I thoroughly enjoyed the Netherlandish team waltzing all over the Spanish five to one. Handing them their balls on a platter. Stomping them and their hopes into the ground. Wupping Iberian donkey. Rampaging roughly all over the Spanish Exquisition. Killing them, slaughtering them, ripping their eyes out, and utterly and completely defeating them. Spain will never live this down, it will be an eternal shame, they'll weep and soil their dhotis everytime they think of it, their busty love-interests will consider them infertile and testicularly impaired because of it, their mothers will chase them and their viagra-addicted syphilitic paternal elements from the family cave, and banks will refuse to extend loans to them.

Not that I'm paying any attention at all.

What a complete and utter waste of time.

Now ice-skating, that's a real sport!




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DUTCH SKATING COACH HONESTLY JUDGES AMERICAN FOOTBALL

Truth.


JILLERT ANEMA RIPS IT



[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=EzQIc_mFvms.]

In the interview above. Mr. Anema speaks about speed-skating, and explains that American Football is a rather silly game for strangely garbed pansies. Which is why the Seahawks won the World Series (limited to one country, just one country, only one country, no other countries, just one, only one, one alone), and got absolutely nothing in Speed-skating.
The Americans won no medals. In speed skating.
Not a single one. In speed skating.
We are not the world's best.
At speed skating.
We suck.


Honestly.


Zero gold medals.


Only Americans can come up with something, call it the World Series, and not invite any other country.


American Football.
Hoo hah!


Oh, and just so you know: the Seahawks suck.
Bunch of real Dilberts.
Go Denver.


We should have sent some of those neon-pantied pansies from football around the rink. Yeah, we still wouldn't have won Jack, but it would have been amusing.



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FRENCH FRIES AND MAYONNAISE

A very dear friend, seeing me for the first time inundate my fried potatoes with mayonnaise, succinctly opined "that's frikkin disgusting, dude".  This from a woman who scarfs down deep-fried tofu like there's no tomorrow. Honestly, can anyone even eat white folks tofu? It's a cross between dessicated sponge and a block of mahogany, and tastes like space alien.

American hippie vegans have NO business criticizing the Dutch for their culinary preferences. It ain't your damn horse we're eating, and it tastes fine. Horse is all lean meat, and bless it, it does NOT taste like chicken.
And neither do Thumper and Bambi.
They're delicious! Good solid food.
Not like that wheatgerm crap.

Perhaps vegan food would taste better with a heaping dollop of mayonnaise on top. Yeah, that might make it taste like chicken.

The Dutch like mayonnaise, fried stuff, and protein. Given the climate, and the nearby unpleasant presence of so many Germans, Frenchmen, and English, this is natural. A balanced diet makes it possible for you to fight off infections.


And, speaking of which, the best site for an overview of stuff that Dutch people like is appropriately entitled Stuff Dutch People Like.

It's not just skating. Skating. Skating. Skating. Traversing a frozen bog on little metal blades for hours upon hours. Skating. Skating. Skating.
Freezing toes. Skating. Skating Skating.



STUFF DUTCH PEOPLE LIKE

Gin. Waffles. English. Wetness. Tulips. Lumpy blended goo. Pants. Royalty. Midwives. Locutions. Yumminess. Mayonnaise. Stairs. Bicycles. Boo! Unfriendliness. Not working. Bad haircuts. Freezing tap water. Boogers. Skating. Mush. 2011. Clarity. Germans. Sinterklaas. Felicitation. Kissing. Tallness. Salmiak. Unmarriedness. Ugly pants. Gezelligheid.  Dat kan niet en dat mag niet. Appointments. Diseases. Camping. Herring. Jape. Minds. Windmills. Singing. Queen. Cake. Lactation. Blackface. Milk. Orange. Licorice. Inoffensiveness. Décor. Embarrassment. Goop. Weather.

Well, that leaves out coffee, cigars, soccer, Belgians, being wrong, and a host of other things.

Personally, I am extremely fond of Indonesian food, long rainy twilights, ditches, streams, creeks, rivers, trickles, rivulets, canals, sloughs, morasses, marshes, bogs, moors, and estuarine swamps.
But that may just be me.

The last entry on that blog dates from December 2012.
I sincerely hope that the author resumes her work.
Most of those things I had sort of forgotten.
It was great fun revisiting them.


Fried tofu with mayonnaise.
Now there's a thought.



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CALLING DISEASES DOWN ON GREAT AMERICAN PAST-TIMES

It soon became apparent that we came from different planets. That is to say, despite so many shared characteristics, we actually had almost nothing in common. Which seems to be a recurring issue when conversing with strangers. Set number of limbs, same number of eyes and ears.
Self-ambulatory, and arguably sentient.
But other than that.......
Nada.

My interests were just not his interests. I spoke of languages and food - both consuming fascinations - as well as history and geography. Yes, such matters are very limiting subjects of conversation, and will frequently bore other people to tears.
On the other hand, baseball stats, heck, any mention of sports beyond an insincere "oh jolly good show, what", will send me to sleep.
Unfortunately these were the only things that my interlocutor and his friends were both willing and capable of discussing.
I am a social man. But that was two hours from hell.


FLYING LEATHER CRAP

I believe that the baseball year has finally ended, and football season has begun. The continued prosperity of pizza-delivery services is consequently assured, along with corner liquor stores. No, I have no clue what the women do while their menfolk are busting groinmuscles cheering for the team and scarfing down cheese pie. They probably talk fondly of chili-cheese dip (served in a warmer which is shaped like a pig skin), and happily compare handbags and footwear.
I survived for years before knowing what a Birkin bag is, or what Ugs are.
Acquiring that precious knowledge did not enrich me.

I do not associate Autumn with sports. For me, Autumn means happy walks through streets littered with the yellow of fallen ginkgo leaves, haze over the bay, crisp air, a hot cuppa, and faint hints of woodsmoke.
Soon it will be crab season. That means crusty sourdough warmed up in the oven, fermented black bean ginger garlic scallion, papertowels, and bowls of hot water or tea to clean your fingers in.
The air will become chilly - cioppino, and other delicious seafood dishes.
A visit to a good steakhouse. Bearnaise sauce on French fries.
Crisp salads for alongside. Strong coffee afterwards.
A fond re-reading of mediaeval authors.
Poetry about cold weather.
Spot of sherry.


Somewhere an abandoned football is crying for the man that once so lovingly held it, caressed it, made it fly. Alas, no more orgasmic touchdowns, now that it is no longer youthfully taught and smooth. It will soar no more. Smudges of mud and grass still cling to it like dear memories, but its useful life is spent.

Now, if it were an expensive handbag, it would be carefully repaired and restored, by a professional who understood that pandering to the insanity of some women was mighty profitable. Especially if they had menfolk who would spend any amount of money to keep their precious wifey from whining during the most important part of the year, while the lads are vibrating on the couch, comparing tight male bun flesh in skintight buttock-sheaths, and swilling beer.
Female complaints can be SO irritating while the packers and the steelers and the niners and the broncos are engaged in homo-erotic behaviour on teevee.


From the above you may deduce that I have no interest in sports, shiny male yoga pants, expensive handbags, or shoes. You are right. Please vote me least likely to tolerate long conversations about any one of those subjects. But on the other hand, feel free to tell me what you are reading now, or what you ate recently that was utterly delicious. I know places where the ginkgo trees are gloriously yellow, and we can go somewhere to be warm while we read the New York Times.
Quiet streets, lovely vistas on hills, and peaceful sanctuaries.
Let us day-dream.



PS. The only worthwhile sports, in my humble opinion, are whist, ice-skating, and field-hockey. Especially the latter, if played by forty homicidal teenage psychopaths, of either gender, without a referee or physical education instructor in sight. A wooden ball comes whizzing towards you, followed immediately by a frothing horde, implements of maim and torture held high, eyes glowing red and animalistic, blood-speckled phlegm flecking their shirts and faces. Now that, gentlepersons, is what school sports are all about.

Ice skating is a close second. More suited to the solitary type.
Baseball, football, and basketball, are for deviants.
Doubtful types you wouldn't trust.

Ice skating. Trust me.



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VERY COLD POST

I am the veritable gazelle, the antelope and leopard of the ice!
Well, not quite Kristine Tsuya Yamaguchi, but darn close.
And unlike her, not a figure skater.

When I was in fifth grade it froze long enough that the local fens glazed over.
One of my friends sold me some blades which he no longer used.
After cleaning them up I learned how to skate.

My mother, as was her wont, wailed doom and gloom about the entire project.
She was sure that I would fall on my rump so often that I would come home black and blue, possibly with broken bones, or at the very least bumps, contusions, and a twisted ankle. Why, I might even plunge through the ice! My frozen corpse would not be found till weeks later! A massive search party would fail, miserably and utterly, to locate the missing boy. There would be prayers! I should NOT think that I was in any way Houdini – and HE never came back either. Ice-skating was incredibly hard. Sheer hubris to think that it was easily mastered.

Though eloquent, expressive, and poetic, she enjoyed such horrible predictions far too much to take them seriously.

I came back four hours later just about full of beans.
Hadn’t fallen. Nothing broken. Enjoyed myself immensely.
Now I shall fix myself some delicious hot cocoa and tell you all about it!

What made it incredibly easy was the style of skate.


FRYSKE TROCHRINNER






Also called the Friesche Doorloper ('Frysian long runner'). You can read all about it here: "in houten reed mei ien izer". It is best to wear two layers of thick woolen socks if you're tying them under your shoes, and contrary to what the article implies, clogs are not such a good idea. Neither are gum boots.

As it says, "tsjintwurdich binne der keunststof farianten op de âlde Fryske trochrinner".
Which is darn good to know. Treehuggers take note.


Thereafter I spent many hours on the fens, happily speeding along in a sere white landscape, usually alone. Flat ice, bumpy clumps of frozen vegetation sticking out here and there, brittle reeds still erect from autumn. The freeze lasted a few weeks.
That year the ice did not last long enough to organize the alvestêdetocht, unfortunately. But there was much excitement at the prospect that indeed, it might still happen. First time since the sixties.

Each year I looked forward to a good freeze. Usually it stayed only a day or two, and sometimes the ice was not even thick enough.
One year after several hours in the Malpy, I had myself a little picnic near the Dead Spaniard.
Hot coffee, cheese sandwich, and a pipe.


Last night I dreamt that I was skating, smoothly gliding for hours through a deserted fenscape.
Glorious! I even saw a barn owl.

First time in years that has happened.


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