One of the Dutch comestibles I miss is the frikadel. No, this is NOT what the Scandinavians, Belgians, or Indonesians would think of - instead, it is sausage composed of finely ground meat with spices (primarily nutmeg, paprika, coriander, herbs, salt, and pepper) and binders, dipped in eggwhite and rolled in fine breadcrumbs, then deep fried. The high temperature seals it, and the result is sheer heaven with chopped onions and sauces. The perfect cold-weather fast food.
Mmmmmmm!
It was invented in North Brabant, like so many good (fried) things in the Netherlands.
There is little reason to go anywhere else in the country, most of the decent restaurants are in the Meiery of 's-Hertogenbosch; culinarily, North Brabant knocks the socks off the other eleven provinces.
FROZEN TREAT!
Per today's Telegraaf, a court in Leeuwarden has found three teenagers not guilty of raping a fourteen year old companion with a frikadel. It is not clear whether the victim was a boy or a girl.
According to the court, "forcible penetration with a food-item can not necessarily be seen as sexual". Not in this case.
http://www.telegraaf.nl/binnenland/5525088/__Vrijspraak_voor_frikadellenverkrachting__.html?p=18,1
QUOTE: "Hoewel volgens de raadsheren in het algemeen het anaal inbrengen van een bevroren frikadel een seksuele lading heeft, ontbreekt die strekking in dit geval."
Translation: Even though, according to the members of the court, anally inserting a frozen frikadel commonly has a sexual import, in this case that connotation is lacking.
It should be clarified that the incident happened, more or less, with the co-operation of the penetratee.
QUOTE: "Het anaal inbrengen van de snack maakte -- deel uit van een weddenschap."
Translation: The anal insertion of the snack was part of a bet.
Please note: I have in the past suggested that there is a streak of insanity among the Dutch.
I wish to emphasize that I am still convinced of that, and in no way intend to argue otherwise. Ever.
No indeed.
NON-SEXUAL FRIKADEL
When I said that I miss the frikadel, I meant it gustatorily.
What Frisians do with food is not my business, nor anything I have ever experienced.
Thank heavens.
Many Frisians, as is well known, are barking mad, and their teenagers have 'issues'.
It must be all that inbreeding.
Raar volkje, die Friezen.
Keyneynahora.
It may be a while ere I eat another frikadel.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Monday, December 07, 2009
FUR COATS ON NOB HILL
There are lovely houses on Jackson Street between Hyde and Larkin.
I noticed this again late one night as I was heading home. Old-style, modest apartment buildings - two or three floors, two apartments to the floor. One imagines spacious for a couple, or a little tight for a young family. That block is not as populated as nearby streets, given both the buildings, and a school located in the middle.
The intersection of Hyde and Jackson looks charming in the middle of the night. I had almost forgotten that.
Several months ago the bookseller and I were crossing the hill when ahead of us we noticed two huge furry raccoons at the intersection of Pacific and Hyde. They crossed with the green light, and we could see them very calmly and methodically checking each doorway all the way up Hyde Street, alternating hopscotch-like from house to house. The pair had a system, and were in no hurry. I think they paused for the light at Hyde and Jackson, but I'm not entirely sure.
They acted just like an old couple at peace in each other's company.
It would have been cute if they had been smaller. At their size, they owned the street.
The neighborhood is bounded on the west by Van Ness Avenue, on the south by the demilitarized zone (the five block wide stretch between California and Geary Streets), on the north by Vallejo, and on the east by Chinatown. Some parts are heavily Chinese - especially "le Rue de Toishan" (Pacific Avenue) and Hyde and Larkin Streets - whereas the top of Nob Hill is mostly wasp.
Downslope areas are more ethnically diverse - Chinese-Americans, white immigrants from the palest Midwest, Mexicans, Middle-Easterners, a few subcontinentals ...........
And raccoons.
It used to be more whitey-white, as attested by the six or seven churches within a few blocks of my apartment. Three of them are now Chinese, one of the others is abandoned, the remaining two have congregations from outside the area (or their members are too darn lazy to walk a few blocks). In the past, such a wealth of churches attracted 'white' families - a good solid neighborhood in which to raise children.
Now, I suspect, precisely that attracts the raccoons. It's still a good solid neighborhood in which to raise children.
Furry children.
Nob Hill, from Stockton Street to Polk, probably has the savviest bunch of raccoons in the Bay Area. Big, succesful, and self-confident.
Raccoons with a bourgeois attitude, civilized fellow residents of the neighborhood.
To the best of my knowledge, none of them has EVER been arrested for disturbing the peace.
I noticed this again late one night as I was heading home. Old-style, modest apartment buildings - two or three floors, two apartments to the floor. One imagines spacious for a couple, or a little tight for a young family. That block is not as populated as nearby streets, given both the buildings, and a school located in the middle.
The intersection of Hyde and Jackson looks charming in the middle of the night. I had almost forgotten that.
Several months ago the bookseller and I were crossing the hill when ahead of us we noticed two huge furry raccoons at the intersection of Pacific and Hyde. They crossed with the green light, and we could see them very calmly and methodically checking each doorway all the way up Hyde Street, alternating hopscotch-like from house to house. The pair had a system, and were in no hurry. I think they paused for the light at Hyde and Jackson, but I'm not entirely sure.
They acted just like an old couple at peace in each other's company.
It would have been cute if they had been smaller. At their size, they owned the street.
The neighborhood is bounded on the west by Van Ness Avenue, on the south by the demilitarized zone (the five block wide stretch between California and Geary Streets), on the north by Vallejo, and on the east by Chinatown. Some parts are heavily Chinese - especially "le Rue de Toishan" (Pacific Avenue) and Hyde and Larkin Streets - whereas the top of Nob Hill is mostly wasp.
Downslope areas are more ethnically diverse - Chinese-Americans, white immigrants from the palest Midwest, Mexicans, Middle-Easterners, a few subcontinentals ...........
And raccoons.
It used to be more whitey-white, as attested by the six or seven churches within a few blocks of my apartment. Three of them are now Chinese, one of the others is abandoned, the remaining two have congregations from outside the area (or their members are too darn lazy to walk a few blocks). In the past, such a wealth of churches attracted 'white' families - a good solid neighborhood in which to raise children.
Now, I suspect, precisely that attracts the raccoons. It's still a good solid neighborhood in which to raise children.
Furry children.
Nob Hill, from Stockton Street to Polk, probably has the savviest bunch of raccoons in the Bay Area. Big, succesful, and self-confident.
Raccoons with a bourgeois attitude, civilized fellow residents of the neighborhood.
To the best of my knowledge, none of them has EVER been arrested for disturbing the peace.
MUSIC MONDAY - BALLS AND A WATER BUFFALO
Friend and colleague Bavaji forwarded a must-see video. If you've ever grooved to bhangra, and the stylings of that mad, bad, mixmaster Bally Sagoo (featuring the HOTTEST bhangra bands in town - or anything even similar), you will enjoy this.
PUNJABI CELEBRATORY MUSIC
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QwWHySXEGaY
Or: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hiTJf8u_1as
[Please note: All characters in the video are clearly identifiable as Panjabis - including the three-legged odd critters, who are wearing the keski - possibly because though amritdari they are not yet formally members of the khalsa. Sat sri akal.]
It is appropriate for the season. Oh yes ji. In all particulars.
E-kvetcher - ball's in your court.
Grant Patel - wake up, dammit, this is right up your alley.
PUNJABI CELEBRATORY MUSIC
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QwWHySXEGaY
Or: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hiTJf8u_1as
[Please note: All characters in the video are clearly identifiable as Panjabis - including the three-legged odd critters, who are wearing the keski - possibly because though amritdari they are not yet formally members of the khalsa. Sat sri akal.]
It is appropriate for the season. Oh yes ji. In all particulars.
E-kvetcher - ball's in your court.
Grant Patel - wake up, dammit, this is right up your alley.
Friday, December 04, 2009
NO PANTIES LEFT BEHIND
At times my father must have really wondered what went on in my mind. It was not that he was too distant to have much familiarity with his offspring, but my brother and I had turned out differently than he expected.
When Dad was a teenager he had been popular with the girls at Beverly Hills High School - everything I heard from people he had known during that era made that clear. And as a young man he had been quite the catch, as photos of him in his pilot's uniform show. Imagine a handsome young fellow with foxy good looks, sparkling eyes, and a very intelligent face, and there you have it: poster boy for the war against the Nazis.
He must have broken many hearts while stationed in England.
When he left the RCAF at war's end and returned stateside he went back to Berkeley for a while, but eventually broke off studying and went to sea. At that time he had a beard - reddish and scraggly - but was still trim and boyish. On shore leave at one point he was introduced to a woman who would eventually marry him.
She took one look at his beard, and sneered: "Are you a poet?!?"
Well, it was the early-fifties. Not many people had beards at that time. And my mother was an English major, so she had probably been exposed to way too many poetasters. Elegant bearded bohemians, heavily into 'literature', writers manqué, serious(!) and sensitive(!).
She despised the type.
Fortunately my dad was not a poet.
Several years later they married.
By that time the beard had disappeared - it had been a discordant hue anyway.
SEVERAL YEARS LATER AND SOMEWHERE ELSE
When I was a teenager, he was still a dashed handsome fellow - militarily trim and erect, wiry.
I remember several times at the local shops, when the young ladies behind the counter would bat their eyes at him. One time a particularly foxy little miss leaned over the counter at me, and ruined my day by whispering "is HE your handsomer older brother?"
It was keenly disappointing - she was delicious looking. A lovely girl, probably fifteen years old. Just what the doctor ordered.
The one of us who stood a chance was not on the market, the one on the market did not stand a chance.
I was not as self-assured as him, and certainly not as well-built. Large gatherings made me nervous (they still do), and I often felt out of place among my peers.
Nor did I seek out the company of the opposite gender - women were a disquieting foreign field.
Yes, I keenly lusted after many of the young ladies of my ken ..... .....
.....
The Netherlands, during my teenage years, was as good as a monastery, albeit one with a splendid view of temptations beyond my reach. Given that we lived in the centre of town, the eye-feast on the street in front of the house every day was incredible.
I lived in perpetual frustration.
When my father went on a trip to London for two weeks, leaving me in charge of the house, he probably expected me to seize the opportunity.
There would be time, there would be privacy. My brother would be away in Tilburg at school, the house was otherwise empty, Dad had given me a generous purse for necessary expenses, and the liquor cabinet was fully stocked and unlocked.
Perfect.
No red-blooded eighteen year old could have asked for more.
If he considered me a potential rake or roué, he would be disappointed. The extent of high living during his absence was twice the amount of pipe tobacco and coffee as normal, and fresh sautéed mushrooms at every meal.
Sheer heaven. Ten whole days.
Instead of the house reeking of shenanigans when he came back, it stank of strong tobacco.
No stockings hanging from the chandelier. No empty panties between the sofa cushions.
No abandoned little brassiere draped over a lamp-shade.
No ribald message scrawled in crimson lipstick on the bathroom mirror.
Not even the faintest trace of feminine fragrance.
He must have thought me somewhat dense. But he hid it well.
When Dad was a teenager he had been popular with the girls at Beverly Hills High School - everything I heard from people he had known during that era made that clear. And as a young man he had been quite the catch, as photos of him in his pilot's uniform show. Imagine a handsome young fellow with foxy good looks, sparkling eyes, and a very intelligent face, and there you have it: poster boy for the war against the Nazis.
He must have broken many hearts while stationed in England.
When he left the RCAF at war's end and returned stateside he went back to Berkeley for a while, but eventually broke off studying and went to sea. At that time he had a beard - reddish and scraggly - but was still trim and boyish. On shore leave at one point he was introduced to a woman who would eventually marry him.
She took one look at his beard, and sneered: "Are you a poet?!?"
Well, it was the early-fifties. Not many people had beards at that time. And my mother was an English major, so she had probably been exposed to way too many poetasters. Elegant bearded bohemians, heavily into 'literature', writers manqué, serious(!) and sensitive(!).
She despised the type.
Fortunately my dad was not a poet.
Several years later they married.
By that time the beard had disappeared - it had been a discordant hue anyway.
SEVERAL YEARS LATER AND SOMEWHERE ELSE
When I was a teenager, he was still a dashed handsome fellow - militarily trim and erect, wiry.
I remember several times at the local shops, when the young ladies behind the counter would bat their eyes at him. One time a particularly foxy little miss leaned over the counter at me, and ruined my day by whispering "is HE your handsomer older brother?"
It was keenly disappointing - she was delicious looking. A lovely girl, probably fifteen years old. Just what the doctor ordered.
'--- Is HE your handsomer older brother? ---'
The one of us who stood a chance was not on the market, the one on the market did not stand a chance.
I was not as self-assured as him, and certainly not as well-built. Large gatherings made me nervous (they still do), and I often felt out of place among my peers.
Nor did I seek out the company of the opposite gender - women were a disquieting foreign field.
Yes, I keenly lusted after many of the young ladies of my ken ..... .....
.....
The Netherlands, during my teenage years, was as good as a monastery, albeit one with a splendid view of temptations beyond my reach. Given that we lived in the centre of town, the eye-feast on the street in front of the house every day was incredible.
I lived in perpetual frustration.
When my father went on a trip to London for two weeks, leaving me in charge of the house, he probably expected me to seize the opportunity.
There would be time, there would be privacy. My brother would be away in Tilburg at school, the house was otherwise empty, Dad had given me a generous purse for necessary expenses, and the liquor cabinet was fully stocked and unlocked.
Perfect.
No red-blooded eighteen year old could have asked for more.
If he considered me a potential rake or roué, he would be disappointed. The extent of high living during his absence was twice the amount of pipe tobacco and coffee as normal, and fresh sautéed mushrooms at every meal.
Sheer heaven. Ten whole days.
Instead of the house reeking of shenanigans when he came back, it stank of strong tobacco.
No stockings hanging from the chandelier. No empty panties between the sofa cushions.
No abandoned little brassiere draped over a lamp-shade.
No ribald message scrawled in crimson lipstick on the bathroom mirror.
Not even the faintest trace of feminine fragrance.
He must have thought me somewhat dense. But he hid it well.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
THE FAMILY CLYSTER
The well-informed reader will know that 'clyster' is a word for an old-fashioned appliance much favoured by medical men during the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries. It was somewhat fearsome, and modern practitioners would undoubtedly frown on a solidly made, reusable rectal syringe, with a long metal plunger and a pointy metal nozzle.
Occasionally one finds them in antique stores, comically mis-identified by the proprietor, who may never have conceived of such a thing.
Nowadays rubber squeeze bulbs and softer insertion devices are more common.
Although I really wonder how common.... outside of certain fetishist circles on Polk Street, or among aficionados of strange health-regimens, most people balk at the very idea of an enema.
[Per Wikipedia: 'An enema (plural enemata or enemas) is the procedure of introducing liquids into the rectum and colon via the anus. The increasing volume of the liquid causes rapid expansion of the lower intestinal tract, often resulting in very uncomfortable bloating, cramping, powerful peristalsis, a feeling of extreme urgency and complete evacuation.....']
WINONA AND EILEEN
My mother kept a device in the medicine cabinet which she fondly referred to as 'the trusty old family clyster'. Rubber squeeze bulb, flexible tubing, smooth plug-like nozzle.
Very pink, at once both obscene and clinical looking.
To the best of my knowledge it had never once been used.
She had acquired the enema shortly after marriage - possibly a wedding gift from one of her college friends - and there is probably some truth to the rumour that she had initially put it in the nightstand of the guest bedroom when my grandmother Eileen came to visit. My mother did not particularly like her mother-in-law at that time, and seeding the guest bedroom with that device was, perhaps, a manifestation of passive aggressive "hospitality".
It may also have been a comment of culinary disdain - Winona had been told that she was a poor cook (true), and Eileen did food in a rather severe Protestant fashion (string beans in the pressure cooker for half an hour).
The two women were rivals for the rank of worst cook within the family. Both had come from households with servants, both had been in the military, both had lived rather bachelor-like independent lives for several years.
Such circumstances are not exactly conducive to any great culinary anal-retention, you will agree.
Digestive issues may have been a recurring subject of conversation.
I have no idea how my grandmother reacted when she found the enema.
She visited us several more times over the next two decades.
I recall that she and my mother got along well enough in later years, but those visits were never-the-less a strain on my mother.
[Once my mother refused to speak to me for a week after grandmother and I recited most of Macbeth at each other one afternoon. She was not particularly fond of Shakespeare, and resented us having that much in common. Such pedestrian literary tastes! Why had I bothered learning that Scottish play, when I could have, and should have, memorized Beowulf?!!? "Hwaet! We gardena in geardagum, theod-kyninga, thrym gefrunon, hu tha aethelingas ellen fremedon..... ".]
"CLEAN" LIVING
When we moved to Valkenswaard, the enema was stashed in the bathroom cabinet. Where it would inevitably be discovered by a cleaning lady at some point.
This would be followed by a startled wail or a howl - if they recognized what it was.
My mother lived for those moments.
For some reason we had a whole succession of cleaning ladies. Only two stayed with us for very long - Mrs. Geene and Mrs. Vos. Both were strong-minded woman, very admirable.
No, I have no idea who may have ended up with that enema in the years since my mother died.
Nor do I really want to know.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Occasionally one finds them in antique stores, comically mis-identified by the proprietor, who may never have conceived of such a thing.
Nowadays rubber squeeze bulbs and softer insertion devices are more common.
Although I really wonder how common.... outside of certain fetishist circles on Polk Street, or among aficionados of strange health-regimens, most people balk at the very idea of an enema.
[Per Wikipedia: 'An enema (plural enemata or enemas) is the procedure of introducing liquids into the rectum and colon via the anus. The increasing volume of the liquid causes rapid expansion of the lower intestinal tract, often resulting in very uncomfortable bloating, cramping, powerful peristalsis, a feeling of extreme urgency and complete evacuation.....']
WINONA AND EILEEN
My mother kept a device in the medicine cabinet which she fondly referred to as 'the trusty old family clyster'. Rubber squeeze bulb, flexible tubing, smooth plug-like nozzle.
Very pink, at once both obscene and clinical looking.
To the best of my knowledge it had never once been used.
She had acquired the enema shortly after marriage - possibly a wedding gift from one of her college friends - and there is probably some truth to the rumour that she had initially put it in the nightstand of the guest bedroom when my grandmother Eileen came to visit. My mother did not particularly like her mother-in-law at that time, and seeding the guest bedroom with that device was, perhaps, a manifestation of passive aggressive "hospitality".
It may also have been a comment of culinary disdain - Winona had been told that she was a poor cook (true), and Eileen did food in a rather severe Protestant fashion (string beans in the pressure cooker for half an hour).
The two women were rivals for the rank of worst cook within the family. Both had come from households with servants, both had been in the military, both had lived rather bachelor-like independent lives for several years.
Such circumstances are not exactly conducive to any great culinary anal-retention, you will agree.
Digestive issues may have been a recurring subject of conversation.
I have no idea how my grandmother reacted when she found the enema.
She visited us several more times over the next two decades.
I recall that she and my mother got along well enough in later years, but those visits were never-the-less a strain on my mother.
[Once my mother refused to speak to me for a week after grandmother and I recited most of Macbeth at each other one afternoon. She was not particularly fond of Shakespeare, and resented us having that much in common. Such pedestrian literary tastes! Why had I bothered learning that Scottish play, when I could have, and should have, memorized Beowulf?!!? "Hwaet! We gardena in geardagum, theod-kyninga, thrym gefrunon, hu tha aethelingas ellen fremedon..... ".]
"CLEAN" LIVING
When we moved to Valkenswaard, the enema was stashed in the bathroom cabinet. Where it would inevitably be discovered by a cleaning lady at some point.
This would be followed by a startled wail or a howl - if they recognized what it was.
My mother lived for those moments.
For some reason we had a whole succession of cleaning ladies. Only two stayed with us for very long - Mrs. Geene and Mrs. Vos. Both were strong-minded woman, very admirable.
No, I have no idea who may have ended up with that enema in the years since my mother died.
Nor do I really want to know.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
DREAMY ADOLESCENCE
I was probably a peculiar fourteen year old. For which I give all credit to my home environment.
My older brother Tobias was the local chess prodigy, and had thousands of games memorized. He could also quote all of Charles Dickens, and the bible in both Dutch and English.
These eccentricities made holding a conversation with him hard, as his grammar school friends one by one had discovered. His friends from the Hertog Jan College were a bit more like him.
There was only one of them with whom I really got along - he lent me Multatuli's book 'Max Havelaar'. It was the first Dutch book I had read in quite a while at the time - we did not have many Dutch books in the house.
[It wasn't untill later that I discovered the Dutch poets and playwrights, as well as many fine writers. What I read was in our bookshelves, and that reflected the home language.]
My mother was an avid reader, and regularly received packages from Blackwells. At one point I tried counting how many books were in the house, and gave up at around five thousand, with probably a far greater number not included in the count. Of course not all of the books were hers, but many of them were.
Between the four of us we were probably responsible for quite a bit of deforestation, as there were bookshelves in every room including the hayloft over the stables. And one of the sheds.
Children's books. Science Fiction. Poetry. Mythology. Art.
Reference. Textual Criticism. Architecture. Religious Studies.
Old Norse, Old Irish, Old English - in the original languages, plus translated, annotated.
Mystery Novels.
Medicine.
That last category was one shared by both of my parents, though neither were medical people.
By the time I was fourteen I had read all of Kipling, Saki (H.H. Munro), Shakespeare, Nabokov, Heinlein, Poul Anderson, Simenon, Conan Doyle, Lewis Carroll, C.S. Lewis, plus Tanach and the Christian Subsequentia.
All of the National Geographic mags published between 1950 and 1974. Ditto for all issues of The Magazine of Fantasy And Science Fiction, from founding date in 1949 onward. Two and a half decades worth of Scientific American. A decade and a half of Horizon Magazine. The Larouse Gastronomique.
The medical books I browsed through had told me all about human reproduction and digestion by the time I was nine, and I had gotten into trouble at school when Mijnheer Goes discovered me drawing a detailed diagram of the urinary system for my classmates - with "witty" asides about all the things that could go wrong.
The Merck Manual inflamed my imagination with all manner of fascinating diseases, their diagnosis and prognosis, and the recommended treatment.
I happily quoted clinical jargon, and got sent home for using 'bad language'.
I also read Candide by Voltaire.
Not because I was precocious and intellectual, which you might expect me to claim (I won't), but because the cover intrigued me.
THERE WAS A NAKED BREAST ON THE COVER!
A BEAUTIFUL GORGEOUS CREAM-HUED WELL-ROUNDED PERKY BREAST!!!
WITH A ROSY NIPPLE!!!!!
I read the entire book very attentively trying to find that breast.
Which, of course, also explains much of the Science Fiction I had read, as pulp-covers were delightfully lurid and imagination-sparking. You've seen the illustration style - buxom young thing with fruity cleavage is distressed in the fore-ground, a very handsome and erect rocket is in the middle distance, the mountains and sky in the background are not on earth.
Like Candide, the covers had very little if anything to do with the contents. But the Sci-fi was infinitely more interesting than Candide, much of which must have gone right over my head.
Now, at fifty years of age, I have little urge to read anymore Science-Fiction, but I think I ought to try reading Candide again.
Perhaps I will finally find that naked breast.
If I do, it will remind me of my well-spent youth.
My older brother Tobias was the local chess prodigy, and had thousands of games memorized. He could also quote all of Charles Dickens, and the bible in both Dutch and English.
These eccentricities made holding a conversation with him hard, as his grammar school friends one by one had discovered. His friends from the Hertog Jan College were a bit more like him.
There was only one of them with whom I really got along - he lent me Multatuli's book 'Max Havelaar'. It was the first Dutch book I had read in quite a while at the time - we did not have many Dutch books in the house.
[It wasn't untill later that I discovered the Dutch poets and playwrights, as well as many fine writers. What I read was in our bookshelves, and that reflected the home language.]
My mother was an avid reader, and regularly received packages from Blackwells. At one point I tried counting how many books were in the house, and gave up at around five thousand, with probably a far greater number not included in the count. Of course not all of the books were hers, but many of them were.
Between the four of us we were probably responsible for quite a bit of deforestation, as there were bookshelves in every room including the hayloft over the stables. And one of the sheds.
Children's books. Science Fiction. Poetry. Mythology. Art.
Reference. Textual Criticism. Architecture. Religious Studies.
Old Norse, Old Irish, Old English - in the original languages, plus translated, annotated.
Mystery Novels.
Medicine.
That last category was one shared by both of my parents, though neither were medical people.
By the time I was fourteen I had read all of Kipling, Saki (H.H. Munro), Shakespeare, Nabokov, Heinlein, Poul Anderson, Simenon, Conan Doyle, Lewis Carroll, C.S. Lewis, plus Tanach and the Christian Subsequentia.
All of the National Geographic mags published between 1950 and 1974. Ditto for all issues of The Magazine of Fantasy And Science Fiction, from founding date in 1949 onward. Two and a half decades worth of Scientific American. A decade and a half of Horizon Magazine. The Larouse Gastronomique.
The medical books I browsed through had told me all about human reproduction and digestion by the time I was nine, and I had gotten into trouble at school when Mijnheer Goes discovered me drawing a detailed diagram of the urinary system for my classmates - with "witty" asides about all the things that could go wrong.
The Merck Manual inflamed my imagination with all manner of fascinating diseases, their diagnosis and prognosis, and the recommended treatment.
I happily quoted clinical jargon, and got sent home for using 'bad language'.
I also read Candide by Voltaire.
Not because I was precocious and intellectual, which you might expect me to claim (I won't), but because the cover intrigued me.
THERE WAS A NAKED BREAST ON THE COVER!
A BEAUTIFUL GORGEOUS CREAM-HUED WELL-ROUNDED PERKY BREAST!!!
WITH A ROSY NIPPLE!!!!!
I read the entire book very attentively trying to find that breast.
Which, of course, also explains much of the Science Fiction I had read, as pulp-covers were delightfully lurid and imagination-sparking. You've seen the illustration style - buxom young thing with fruity cleavage is distressed in the fore-ground, a very handsome and erect rocket is in the middle distance, the mountains and sky in the background are not on earth.
Like Candide, the covers had very little if anything to do with the contents. But the Sci-fi was infinitely more interesting than Candide, much of which must have gone right over my head.
Now, at fifty years of age, I have little urge to read anymore Science-Fiction, but I think I ought to try reading Candide again.
Perhaps I will finally find that naked breast.
If I do, it will remind me of my well-spent youth.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
THE GREAT HEALTHCARE DEBATE
Spent most of the morning in a company-wide meeting about our employee insurance plan.
There was deeply thrilling in-depth discussion of options, deductibles, copays, old age, prenatal care, assisted living, dependant care, premature senility, family coverage, arthritic knees, childhood disease, massive gastric failure, dental coverage, hair loss, osteoporotic degredation, and oedematic swelling.......
Basically, a lot of existential bullcrap about getting old.
Angst, and stuff.
At least, that's what I got out of it.
One of the salespeople, on speakerphone conference call, shivered his timbers about which options were best for him and his family. He has four kids, all of whom have been in the emergency room numerous times in the last year, he can guarantee that they'll be there again in the coming year. It's kinda a regular thing, seeing as they're all healthy kids.
Due, probably, to hereditary rambunction. Or ADD. Just guessing.
His concern was that the copays will prove onerous.
He worried at great and repetitive length. For thirty long and repetitive minutes. Repeatedly, and in detail. Despite the proffered explanations, he still had questions - many of them remarkably identical to previous questions. About children's accidents, emergency room visits, and such like. And copayment thereof, specifically.
It was.... a bit repetitive.
Dude! Children's valium is covered!
Get those brats properly drugged, and they'll be far less accident prone. Better living through medication is not just a phrase, it's a life-style choice THAT SAVES YOU MONEY!
Necessary restraint devices are also fully refundable.
Under preventative medicine.
Gotta keep those little organ donors healthy till adulthood.
There was deeply thrilling in-depth discussion of options, deductibles, copays, old age, prenatal care, assisted living, dependant care, premature senility, family coverage, arthritic knees, childhood disease, massive gastric failure, dental coverage, hair loss, osteoporotic degredation, and oedematic swelling.......
Basically, a lot of existential bullcrap about getting old.
Angst, and stuff.
At least, that's what I got out of it.
One of the salespeople, on speakerphone conference call, shivered his timbers about which options were best for him and his family. He has four kids, all of whom have been in the emergency room numerous times in the last year, he can guarantee that they'll be there again in the coming year. It's kinda a regular thing, seeing as they're all healthy kids.
Due, probably, to hereditary rambunction. Or ADD. Just guessing.
His concern was that the copays will prove onerous.
He worried at great and repetitive length. For thirty long and repetitive minutes. Repeatedly, and in detail. Despite the proffered explanations, he still had questions - many of them remarkably identical to previous questions. About children's accidents, emergency room visits, and such like. And copayment thereof, specifically.
It was.... a bit repetitive.
Dude! Children's valium is covered!
Get those brats properly drugged, and they'll be far less accident prone. Better living through medication is not just a phrase, it's a life-style choice THAT SAVES YOU MONEY!
Necessary restraint devices are also fully refundable.
Under preventative medicine.
Gotta keep those little organ donors healthy till adulthood.
Monday, November 30, 2009
KEEP THE EUROPEANS (ESPECIALLY THE DUTCH) OUT!
European ministers in Brussels have agreed to provide data to American authorities about international money transfers by account holders in Europe.
This is not unusual, or in fact new. There are limitations to the agreement, and it involves only transactions and accounts that fit certain criteria.
Think in terms of law-enforcement efforts.
A news article about the deal in one of Holland's biggest dailies provoked a veritable storm of rhetoric among the readers - who as of this writing have left several hundred comments.
VS krijgen toegang bankgegevens EU
http://www.telegraaf.nl/buitenland/5454820/__Inzage_in_bankgegevens_EU__.html?p=32,1
[The article is in Dutch - I shan't bother translating it, as it leaves out crucial facts and merely serves to rile up the readers, most of whom prove themselves incapable of comprehension, many of whom are also unable to think straight, and quite a number of whom are so paranoid or schizo as to convince one that the Dutch are congenitally defective, zotsed to the gills on drugs, and all-round dangerous. Being largely of Dutch ancestry myself, this is NOT the impression I wish to give - so I've even omitted any quotes.]
Of course most of the comments are anti-American - what did you expect?
Like a lot of Europeans, the Dutch are not fond of us. Many (almost all) of them despise us with a passion, consider themselves vastly superior, and insist that there is nothing we have in common.
[A majority of Europeans believe us inbred retrogrades, genetically prone to vice and violence, and they rather thoroughly loathe us. There are parts of Europe where being an American is considered degeneracy that justifiably leads to fists or phlegm.]
I have no problem with that. I don't really care what the average European thinks.
I have a problem with letting those scum buckets enter the United States.
Most European visitors to the United States sneer at our society, find fault with nearly everything, and so far as possible avoid dealing with the natives. The average European tourist in San Francisco has probably spent three weeks visiting national parks, but a scant three days in the cities (one day each in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, San Francisco).
They love the outdoors here, but deeply regret that much of this country is filled with us instead of bears and Indians.
If it weren't for the wilderness, most Europeans would not even think of visiting.
Europeans who travel do so primarily as either sex-tourists or booze-tourists. The Germans are known for visiting third world countries to slake their lusts on juveniles, the British go abroad primarily to drink themselves into a stupor, puke in public, and pick fights.
DUTCH SCUM
The Dutch combine the worst of both English and German characteristics, being simultaneously phenomenal alcoholics and completely amoral sexually.
Last week two lads from Drenthe spent three hours at one of the local bars trying to get into the panties of one of the other people there, who was drinking by herself. The process was quite 'interesting' - their remarks to each other in Dutch were so vile and repulsive that I regretted ever having learned their language. American women, in their world, were nothing more than creatures to be exploited and discarded. Their sole disappointment was that this was hard to do - they had expected American girls to be looser than Dutch teenagers, and it had been a difficult three weeks for them.
They were not unusual.
This past year Dutch tourists have been in the bar several times.
Tim, who takes keen delight in my discomfiture around my distant kin, makes sure to let them know that I speak Dutch. Then walks away smiling in anticipation of my ranting furiously after the poxy bastards finally leave.
Once the Dutch tourists tell me that they cannot understand how I can stand to live in this horrible place - implying that I am a liar and that I must be severely defective or a wanted criminal for not returning to civilization - conversations invariably revolve around the same rhetorical points: terrible coffee, bad beer, stupid American sports, and women who won't jump at the opportunity to get banged by a European why not how are the girls in San Francisco they're effing desperate and do I know any sluts?
Well now.
The coffee suits the locals fine, most Americans like mild beer, if you don't know how football or baseball are played you really should shut your trap about those games, and seeing as you lot are arrogant, crude, uncircumcised, and don't wash nearly often enough, why would the women get anywhere near you?
Yes, we know about your coffee and beer - you just won't shut up about them.
As for soccer, we realize that you are incredibly proud of the game and the attendant violence, we've seen videos of the riots.
Regarding your animalistic urges, it's a pity that you are such sexual predators that you can't keep your gropy hands to yourselves, you swine.
Of course, I never say any of this - unlike Europeans, we do not consider it polite to rile-up people we don't know. Especially if they are visiting.
We aren't like them, thank God.
One the whole, it would be a good thing if we let far fewer Europeans into our country. I won't miss them. Neither will you.
---------------------------------------------
AFTERWORD: DUTCH SEX PREDATORS
Not a week goes by without a news report of a Dutch childmolester or drug-rapist being arrested overseas, scarcely a month in which several suspects aren't apprehended for producing and distributing child-pornography or snuff films.
As is well-known, Rotterdam is the epicenter of human-trafficking, and many Dutch youth are accustomed to cap off their weekend of binge-drinking by sexually brutalizing the young foreign women who have been sold into Dutch brothels.
Lest you think, however, that the Dutch are bigots who regard foreign females as throw-away objects, I hasten to add that this is not so.
As another article in DeTelegraaf makes clear:
http://www.telegraaf.nl/vrouw/psyche_relatie/5455682/__Kwart_jonge_vrouwen_slachtoffer_seksueel_geweld__.html?p=23,2
Kwart jonge vrouwen slachtoffer seksueel geweld - Bijna een kwart van de meisjes en vrouwen tussen de 15 en 25 jaar heeft ooit te maken gehad met seksueel geweld.
[Translation: Quarter of young women victim of sexual violence - nearly a quarter of the girls and women between fifteen and twenty five years of age has been subjected to sexual violence.]
The Dutch sexual violence detailed in the article, which quotes a government report, includes rape, forced disrobing, groping, and forcible oral sex.
The Dutch do not regard foreign women as throw-away objects, they regard ALL women as such. It's normal over there.
Drugs, rape, and bestiality are almost national passions.
Banning the Dutch permanently from entering the United States would be of great benefit to the United States.
I for one would wholeheartedly support such an idea.
==============================================
==============================================
UPDATE
GRATUITOUS LAGNIAPPE: EVEN MORE DUTCH DEGENERACY
12/03/2009
This article (in Dutch) casts light on the unpleasant sexual subculture in Den Helder:
http://www.telegraaf.nl/binnenland/5477856/__Meisjes_laten_zich_aftuigen__.html?p=38,1
In short: fourteen and fifteen year-old Dutch girls enthusiastically seek out abusive ethnic boyfriends, and consider being beaten up, raped, and getting pregnant at a young age, absolutely normal.
Which, in Den Helder, it probably is.
Here's a news item about a Dutch pervert who photographed thousands of little girls while employed as a swimming instructor in Den Bosch:
http://www.telegraaf.nl/binnenland/5480882/__60_slachtoffertjes_Benno_L._bekend__.html?p=33,1
He is suspected of having committed indecent acts with a few dozen victims, but as yet there is no conclusive proof, according to his lawyer.
The case came to light last year.
This piece discusses a dangerous Dutch 'pedosexual' whom the city of Utrecht wishes to keep out:
http://www.telegraaf.nl/binnenland/5484191/__Stadsverbod_pedo_ongeldig__.html?p=24,1
Sytze van der Velde was convicted three times of unlawful sex with young boys. He is well-known to authorities and among fellow-paedophiles in the Netherlands, and has been active in his chosen perversion for well over three decades.
NOTE: All three articles cited are from today's edition of 'De Telegraaf'. It seems like every day there are juicy bits about rapists, pedophiles, and practitioners of bestiality in the Netherlands. Either they're very bored over there, or the heat and humidity are getting to them. It has a bad effect on the temperament.
==============================================
==============================================
This is not unusual, or in fact new. There are limitations to the agreement, and it involves only transactions and accounts that fit certain criteria.
Think in terms of law-enforcement efforts.
A news article about the deal in one of Holland's biggest dailies provoked a veritable storm of rhetoric among the readers - who as of this writing have left several hundred comments.
VS krijgen toegang bankgegevens EU
http://www.telegraaf.nl/buitenland/5454820/__Inzage_in_bankgegevens_EU__.html?p=32,1
[The article is in Dutch - I shan't bother translating it, as it leaves out crucial facts and merely serves to rile up the readers, most of whom prove themselves incapable of comprehension, many of whom are also unable to think straight, and quite a number of whom are so paranoid or schizo as to convince one that the Dutch are congenitally defective, zotsed to the gills on drugs, and all-round dangerous. Being largely of Dutch ancestry myself, this is NOT the impression I wish to give - so I've even omitted any quotes.]
Of course most of the comments are anti-American - what did you expect?
Like a lot of Europeans, the Dutch are not fond of us. Many (almost all) of them despise us with a passion, consider themselves vastly superior, and insist that there is nothing we have in common.
[A majority of Europeans believe us inbred retrogrades, genetically prone to vice and violence, and they rather thoroughly loathe us. There are parts of Europe where being an American is considered degeneracy that justifiably leads to fists or phlegm.]
I have no problem with that. I don't really care what the average European thinks.
I have a problem with letting those scum buckets enter the United States.
Most European visitors to the United States sneer at our society, find fault with nearly everything, and so far as possible avoid dealing with the natives. The average European tourist in San Francisco has probably spent three weeks visiting national parks, but a scant three days in the cities (one day each in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, San Francisco).
They love the outdoors here, but deeply regret that much of this country is filled with us instead of bears and Indians.
If it weren't for the wilderness, most Europeans would not even think of visiting.
Europeans who travel do so primarily as either sex-tourists or booze-tourists. The Germans are known for visiting third world countries to slake their lusts on juveniles, the British go abroad primarily to drink themselves into a stupor, puke in public, and pick fights.
DUTCH SCUM
The Dutch combine the worst of both English and German characteristics, being simultaneously phenomenal alcoholics and completely amoral sexually.
Last week two lads from Drenthe spent three hours at one of the local bars trying to get into the panties of one of the other people there, who was drinking by herself. The process was quite 'interesting' - their remarks to each other in Dutch were so vile and repulsive that I regretted ever having learned their language. American women, in their world, were nothing more than creatures to be exploited and discarded. Their sole disappointment was that this was hard to do - they had expected American girls to be looser than Dutch teenagers, and it had been a difficult three weeks for them.
They were not unusual.
This past year Dutch tourists have been in the bar several times.
Tim, who takes keen delight in my discomfiture around my distant kin, makes sure to let them know that I speak Dutch. Then walks away smiling in anticipation of my ranting furiously after the poxy bastards finally leave.
Once the Dutch tourists tell me that they cannot understand how I can stand to live in this horrible place - implying that I am a liar and that I must be severely defective or a wanted criminal for not returning to civilization - conversations invariably revolve around the same rhetorical points: terrible coffee, bad beer, stupid American sports, and women who won't jump at the opportunity to get banged by a European why not how are the girls in San Francisco they're effing desperate and do I know any sluts?
Well now.
The coffee suits the locals fine, most Americans like mild beer, if you don't know how football or baseball are played you really should shut your trap about those games, and seeing as you lot are arrogant, crude, uncircumcised, and don't wash nearly often enough, why would the women get anywhere near you?
Yes, we know about your coffee and beer - you just won't shut up about them.
As for soccer, we realize that you are incredibly proud of the game and the attendant violence, we've seen videos of the riots.
Regarding your animalistic urges, it's a pity that you are such sexual predators that you can't keep your gropy hands to yourselves, you swine.
Of course, I never say any of this - unlike Europeans, we do not consider it polite to rile-up people we don't know. Especially if they are visiting.
We aren't like them, thank God.
One the whole, it would be a good thing if we let far fewer Europeans into our country. I won't miss them. Neither will you.
---------------------------------------------
AFTERWORD: DUTCH SEX PREDATORS
Not a week goes by without a news report of a Dutch childmolester or drug-rapist being arrested overseas, scarcely a month in which several suspects aren't apprehended for producing and distributing child-pornography or snuff films.
As is well-known, Rotterdam is the epicenter of human-trafficking, and many Dutch youth are accustomed to cap off their weekend of binge-drinking by sexually brutalizing the young foreign women who have been sold into Dutch brothels.
Lest you think, however, that the Dutch are bigots who regard foreign females as throw-away objects, I hasten to add that this is not so.
As another article in DeTelegraaf makes clear:
http://www.telegraaf.nl/vrouw/psyche_relatie/5455682/__Kwart_jonge_vrouwen_slachtoffer_seksueel_geweld__.html?p=23,2
Kwart jonge vrouwen slachtoffer seksueel geweld - Bijna een kwart van de meisjes en vrouwen tussen de 15 en 25 jaar heeft ooit te maken gehad met seksueel geweld.
[Translation: Quarter of young women victim of sexual violence - nearly a quarter of the girls and women between fifteen and twenty five years of age has been subjected to sexual violence.]
The Dutch sexual violence detailed in the article, which quotes a government report, includes rape, forced disrobing, groping, and forcible oral sex.
The Dutch do not regard foreign women as throw-away objects, they regard ALL women as such. It's normal over there.
Drugs, rape, and bestiality are almost national passions.
Banning the Dutch permanently from entering the United States would be of great benefit to the United States.
I for one would wholeheartedly support such an idea.
==============================================
==============================================
UPDATE
GRATUITOUS LAGNIAPPE: EVEN MORE DUTCH DEGENERACY
12/03/2009
This article (in Dutch) casts light on the unpleasant sexual subculture in Den Helder:
http://www.telegraaf.nl/binnenland/5477856/__Meisjes_laten_zich_aftuigen__.html?p=38,1
In short: fourteen and fifteen year-old Dutch girls enthusiastically seek out abusive ethnic boyfriends, and consider being beaten up, raped, and getting pregnant at a young age, absolutely normal.
Which, in Den Helder, it probably is.
Here's a news item about a Dutch pervert who photographed thousands of little girls while employed as a swimming instructor in Den Bosch:
http://www.telegraaf.nl/binnenland/5480882/__60_slachtoffertjes_Benno_L._bekend__.html?p=33,1
He is suspected of having committed indecent acts with a few dozen victims, but as yet there is no conclusive proof, according to his lawyer.
The case came to light last year.
This piece discusses a dangerous Dutch 'pedosexual' whom the city of Utrecht wishes to keep out:
http://www.telegraaf.nl/binnenland/5484191/__Stadsverbod_pedo_ongeldig__.html?p=24,1
Sytze van der Velde was convicted three times of unlawful sex with young boys. He is well-known to authorities and among fellow-paedophiles in the Netherlands, and has been active in his chosen perversion for well over three decades.
NOTE: All three articles cited are from today's edition of 'De Telegraaf'. It seems like every day there are juicy bits about rapists, pedophiles, and practitioners of bestiality in the Netherlands. Either they're very bored over there, or the heat and humidity are getting to them. It has a bad effect on the temperament.
==============================================
==============================================
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
DEATH IN MINDANAO - CONVENIENT MUSLIM CADAVERS
Yesterday forty six people were slaughtered in Maguindanao. The news is reporting it as a feud between two datu clans among the Moros. Blood feuds among politically important clans in the Philippines are not uncommon, and the rivalry of the two Mindanawan families involved (Mangudadatu and Ampatuan) is well known.
Further, Maguindanao is underdeveloped, there are unexploited resources in Maguindanao, and there are shifting appreciations of ancestral claims to status.
[Mangudadatu and Ampatuan are both powerful in Maguindanao and Sultan Kudarat, and both originate from Dumatu lineages in the Maguindanao area. The Dumatu class claim descent from a pre-Islamic noble (Tabunaway) who acknowledged the sovereignty of Sharif Kabungsuwan in the fifteen hundreds, being granted hereditary privileges and exemptions in return. The word 'dumatu' indicates one who is of chiefly (datu) rank without necessarily being a chief - chiefly by inherited status rather than by position or appointment. They are neither "datu" (rulers, chiefs) nor "tau ma'indatu" (the ruled, the subject populace). The Dumatus were politically important in the sultanate. No leader could become sultan without Dumatu backing. Maguindanao and Sultan Kudarat are both Muslim areas in Mindanao, most of which has been Christianised by land theft and ethnocide throughout the American period and Philippine independence, shockingly so during the Marcos years.]
DEATH TOLL RISES TO 46 FOR PHILIPPINES KILLINGS
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8375588.stm
[And also: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8374507.stm]
The explanation of a political blood feud is too easy, and given the murderous involvement of Christians in Mindanao, not believable.
It is not that long ago that Ferdinand Marcos caused Muslims to fight each other, and the memory of the death-squads (ilaga) employed by Christian industrialists and entrepreneurs to eradicate whole villages in the hinterlands is still fresh - the empty eye sockets of dead Muslims still ooze blood in the memories of their kinfolk. And if the Marcos goons and Illustrado death-squads weren't enough to cast suspicion on impugned motives and glib explanations for mass death in Mindanao, the record of the Philippine Constabulary (Hukbo'ng Pamayapa nang Pilipinas) in the south speaks for itself. The PC depopulated where it could not conquer, raped and enslaved among brutalized Moros when convenient, and engaged in wholesale torture, brigandage, and corruption where-ever the Christian Philippinos wished Muslims disinherited or driven from the land. Marcos sent them to Mindanao to suppress a revolt which he had engineered, and multitudes of rapacious opportunists followed them into the south to expropriate land and exploit resources. The Philippine timber industry was built on the theft of Muslim property.
A large bunch of dead Muslim Philippinos is just too convenient.
Every Philippine president since the fifties has claimed violence in Mindanao as an excuse to pull a staggering bit of chicanery in Luzon.
President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo may be the ultimate beneficiary of these murders - she's capable, she's cunning, and she's well-connected. And certainly, manipulation, treachery, and political warfare are all hers by both nature and nurture, given that she is a member of the Philippine ruling elite.
Ms. Arroyo has a well-known personal connection to Mindanao, and is herself a member of a powerful dynasty - her father (Diosdado P. Macapagal) was president of the Philippines in the early sixties.
Even if she herself has clean hands, her cronies most certainly do not.
There have been numerous allegations of corruption, illegal detentions, torture, and political murder against her regime.
It will be interesting to see what develops.
Further, Maguindanao is underdeveloped, there are unexploited resources in Maguindanao, and there are shifting appreciations of ancestral claims to status.
[Mangudadatu and Ampatuan are both powerful in Maguindanao and Sultan Kudarat, and both originate from Dumatu lineages in the Maguindanao area. The Dumatu class claim descent from a pre-Islamic noble (Tabunaway) who acknowledged the sovereignty of Sharif Kabungsuwan in the fifteen hundreds, being granted hereditary privileges and exemptions in return. The word 'dumatu' indicates one who is of chiefly (datu) rank without necessarily being a chief - chiefly by inherited status rather than by position or appointment. They are neither "datu" (rulers, chiefs) nor "tau ma'indatu" (the ruled, the subject populace). The Dumatus were politically important in the sultanate. No leader could become sultan without Dumatu backing. Maguindanao and Sultan Kudarat are both Muslim areas in Mindanao, most of which has been Christianised by land theft and ethnocide throughout the American period and Philippine independence, shockingly so during the Marcos years.]
DEATH TOLL RISES TO 46 FOR PHILIPPINES KILLINGS
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8375588.stm
[And also: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8374507.stm]
The explanation of a political blood feud is too easy, and given the murderous involvement of Christians in Mindanao, not believable.
It is not that long ago that Ferdinand Marcos caused Muslims to fight each other, and the memory of the death-squads (ilaga) employed by Christian industrialists and entrepreneurs to eradicate whole villages in the hinterlands is still fresh - the empty eye sockets of dead Muslims still ooze blood in the memories of their kinfolk. And if the Marcos goons and Illustrado death-squads weren't enough to cast suspicion on impugned motives and glib explanations for mass death in Mindanao, the record of the Philippine Constabulary (Hukbo'ng Pamayapa nang Pilipinas) in the south speaks for itself. The PC depopulated where it could not conquer, raped and enslaved among brutalized Moros when convenient, and engaged in wholesale torture, brigandage, and corruption where-ever the Christian Philippinos wished Muslims disinherited or driven from the land. Marcos sent them to Mindanao to suppress a revolt which he had engineered, and multitudes of rapacious opportunists followed them into the south to expropriate land and exploit resources. The Philippine timber industry was built on the theft of Muslim property.
A large bunch of dead Muslim Philippinos is just too convenient.
Every Philippine president since the fifties has claimed violence in Mindanao as an excuse to pull a staggering bit of chicanery in Luzon.
President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo may be the ultimate beneficiary of these murders - she's capable, she's cunning, and she's well-connected. And certainly, manipulation, treachery, and political warfare are all hers by both nature and nurture, given that she is a member of the Philippine ruling elite.
Ms. Arroyo has a well-known personal connection to Mindanao, and is herself a member of a powerful dynasty - her father (Diosdado P. Macapagal) was president of the Philippines in the early sixties.
Even if she herself has clean hands, her cronies most certainly do not.
There have been numerous allegations of corruption, illegal detentions, torture, and political murder against her regime.
It will be interesting to see what develops.
SM, BEAUTY QUEEN, BUSH
Sometimes the readers of Dovbear's blog go off-topic in their feedback. And sometimes that is a very good thing. I probably need not mention that I enjoy comment mining, yes?
In the reactions underneath a posting about eight steamy sextapes by some woman named Prejean, regular reader SM posted a doozy.
In reaction to the question "why is a hypocrite the WORST THING A PERSON CAN BE?" he wrote:
Oh, it isn't. You could be a moronic, aggressive know-all who only accepts the 'advice' you want to hear. Like Bush.
Or you could be a corrupt, grasping, avaricious torturer who ensures his friends benefit from you holding high office. Like Cheney.
Or you could be a vacuous, unread lightweight who runs out on responsibility and exploits their own family. Like Palin.
Hope that helps adjust your mindset and ease your worries.
[SM 11.24.09 - 3:14 am ]
--- --- ---
SOURCE:http://www.haloscan.com/comments/dovbear/4566218363177038963/?src=hsn
POST UNDER WHICH APPENDED:http://dovbear.blogspot.com/2009/11/carrie-prejean.html
Apparently ms. Carrie Prejean is a beauty queen. Big frikkin' whoop. That usually guarantees spam and cottonwool between the ears, and a very high degree of slut-whore-tramp morality. Unfortunately, it does NOT guarantee scandals sufficiently juicy to really peek my interest, nor amateurish sex-tapes of compellingly high quality.
Life is far too short to watch bad porn.
Prolonged interest in beauty queens does actually equal the effect of a lobotomy.
Interacting with them is like two lobotomies, one of which done with a rusty icepick wielded by a drunk - more is not always a good thing.
Like self-gratification with straps and sharp objects, the less pageant-veteran beauty-queen there is in your life, the better. Also avoid street-drugs, as these too damage the brain.
In the reactions underneath a posting about eight steamy sextapes by some woman named Prejean, regular reader SM posted a doozy.
In reaction to the question "why is a hypocrite the WORST THING A PERSON CAN BE?" he wrote:
Oh, it isn't. You could be a moronic, aggressive know-all who only accepts the 'advice' you want to hear. Like Bush.
Or you could be a corrupt, grasping, avaricious torturer who ensures his friends benefit from you holding high office. Like Cheney.
Or you could be a vacuous, unread lightweight who runs out on responsibility and exploits their own family. Like Palin.
Hope that helps adjust your mindset and ease your worries.
[SM 11.24.09 - 3:14 am ]
--- --- ---
SOURCE:http://www.haloscan.com/comments/dovbear/4566218363177038963/?src=hsn
POST UNDER WHICH APPENDED:http://dovbear.blogspot.com/2009/11/carrie-prejean.html
Apparently ms. Carrie Prejean is a beauty queen. Big frikkin' whoop. That usually guarantees spam and cottonwool between the ears, and a very high degree of slut-whore-tramp morality. Unfortunately, it does NOT guarantee scandals sufficiently juicy to really peek my interest, nor amateurish sex-tapes of compellingly high quality.
Life is far too short to watch bad porn.
Prolonged interest in beauty queens does actually equal the effect of a lobotomy.
Interacting with them is like two lobotomies, one of which done with a rusty icepick wielded by a drunk - more is not always a good thing.
Like self-gratification with straps and sharp objects, the less pageant-veteran beauty-queen there is in your life, the better. Also avoid street-drugs, as these too damage the brain.
Monday, November 23, 2009
LOVE IN A TIME OF GOUT
Often Savage Kitten says things that really encapsulate our relationship. As some of you know, she is Cantonese-American, I am white. So aside from a height difference (she's fine-boned, I am normal), there are also "cultural" differences.
What comes out of her mouth reflects exactly how different Cantonese people are from all the rest of us.
INSTRUCTIVE EXAMPLES
ME: 'I'm going to the store, hon, you need anything?"
HER: "A lobster!"
This is an example of optimistic Cantonese tunnel-vision. Eventually I must bring back a lobster from the corner store - logic takes a backseat to a positive attitude.
If you wish it, it has got to happen.
HER: "I know, you could go visit my mom, I'll stay home. Just tell her you're me."
ME: 'She'd spot the difference immediately'.
HER: "Not if you don't say anything."
Her mom does not know Savage Kitten is living with me, and thinks she's an old maid living with a classmate from college, another old maid. And, seeing as all of us white people look alike, surely mom won't notice a thing provided I keep my mouth shout. Savage Kitten knows I can do that, and therefore she has complete confidence in the workability of her idea.
ME: 'I'm sorry, I didn't know you were in here!'
HER: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaauugh!!!!!"
ME: 'I just heard the tank running, I had no idea you ......'
HER: "Nasty Old Toad!"
ME: 'Look, I'm really sorry, it's just that the water....'
HER: "You should've stayed in here then and waited for it to finish!"
ME: 'Well, now I know.'
HER: "I have no heartbeat. It's stopped, I'm turning blue, it's all over. Cold, so cold.... What are you going to tell my family?"
ME: 'Nonsense, I can feel it beating.'
HER: "If our landlords ask about the screaming, the toilet scared you."
Our landlords are also Cantonese. All Cantonese KNOW that Caucasians are irrational and easily startled.
And only a middle-aged white man would scream like a girl in the middle of the night.
HER: "Silly Toad, why didn't you tell me you had gout, letting me order all those oysters!"ME: 'Well, you wanted oysters and you were so happy....'
HER: "But if I had known, I would've bitten the bullet - I would've eaten all of them myself."
True love. Note the element of selflessness and sacrifice. All couples should be so compatible.
In another month we will have been together for twenty years.
=========================================================
AFTERWORD
Savage Kitten left a message for me on my office answering machine. We are having "White Person's Duck" for Thanksgiving!
See, we always do duck for holidays - a turkey is just too much for two people. But yesterday the May Wah Market was entirely sold out of duck (we may not be the only people in SF to prefer roast duck to dry monster bird), as were all the other meat markets in San Wah Fao. Not a Chinese Duck to be had. Today she found a duck nearer home, at one of those pretentious food stores that cater to snobby white folks into granola, wheat germ, and tofu. This duck was all macrobiotic veggie fed, free range, no antibiotics. In her words, "It's a healthyass duck". Probably a little lean, and may require some extra grease. White People. And their ducks.
What comes out of her mouth reflects exactly how different Cantonese people are from all the rest of us.
INSTRUCTIVE EXAMPLES
ME: 'I'm going to the store, hon, you need anything?"
HER: "A lobster!"
This is an example of optimistic Cantonese tunnel-vision. Eventually I must bring back a lobster from the corner store - logic takes a backseat to a positive attitude.
If you wish it, it has got to happen.
HER: "I know, you could go visit my mom, I'll stay home. Just tell her you're me."
ME: 'She'd spot the difference immediately'.
HER: "Not if you don't say anything."
Her mom does not know Savage Kitten is living with me, and thinks she's an old maid living with a classmate from college, another old maid. And, seeing as all of us white people look alike, surely mom won't notice a thing provided I keep my mouth shout. Savage Kitten knows I can do that, and therefore she has complete confidence in the workability of her idea.
ME: 'I'm sorry, I didn't know you were in here!'
HER: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaauugh!!!!!"
ME: 'I just heard the tank running, I had no idea you ......'
HER: "Nasty Old Toad!"
ME: 'Look, I'm really sorry, it's just that the water....'
HER: "You should've stayed in here then and waited for it to finish!"
ME: 'Well, now I know.'
HER: "I have no heartbeat. It's stopped, I'm turning blue, it's all over. Cold, so cold.... What are you going to tell my family?"
ME: 'Nonsense, I can feel it beating.'
HER: "If our landlords ask about the screaming, the toilet scared you."
Our landlords are also Cantonese. All Cantonese KNOW that Caucasians are irrational and easily startled.
And only a middle-aged white man would scream like a girl in the middle of the night.
HER: "Silly Toad, why didn't you tell me you had gout, letting me order all those oysters!"ME: 'Well, you wanted oysters and you were so happy....'
HER: "But if I had known, I would've bitten the bullet - I would've eaten all of them myself."
True love. Note the element of selflessness and sacrifice. All couples should be so compatible.
In another month we will have been together for twenty years.
=========================================================
AFTERWORD
Savage Kitten left a message for me on my office answering machine. We are having "White Person's Duck" for Thanksgiving!
See, we always do duck for holidays - a turkey is just too much for two people. But yesterday the May Wah Market was entirely sold out of duck (we may not be the only people in SF to prefer roast duck to dry monster bird), as were all the other meat markets in San Wah Fao. Not a Chinese Duck to be had. Today she found a duck nearer home, at one of those pretentious food stores that cater to snobby white folks into granola, wheat germ, and tofu. This duck was all macrobiotic veggie fed, free range, no antibiotics. In her words, "It's a healthyass duck". Probably a little lean, and may require some extra grease. White People. And their ducks.
PATHAN DANCE FURY
Hot dance rhythms, copious liquor, and a society fighting a slow-burn civil war.
The result is this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qn0mYIUczU&feature=player_embedded
It is good to see that despite their country going to blazes between warring fundamentalists, corrupt politicians, incompetent baboo bureaucrats, litigious vakils, and just general opportunism and mayhem, there are still Pakistanis who focus on the important stuff.
DANCING, MUSIC.
M. Ali Sheray, Naveed, Najeeb, Ihsan Ali, Raheel Zeb, Shafi Jan, Sayed Ali Shah, Rafi Jan, Shahzaf Ayan, and Zahoor Ahmad. Azhgar Ali, Amjid Khan, Sohail Ahmad, Mohsin Ali, Javed Banghash, and the creator of the short: M. Ismail Khan.
Here's some more partying with full benefit of booze and a rythm section.
http://www.youtube.com/user/Fulldrunker
Looks like a blast. Makes me wish I were there. Dur ke dhol suhav'ne.
Party on, dudes. Bismillah.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
ADDENDUM
Discovered these videos by cruising into Mathew's facebook page. Thanks, Matt. Good stuff.
All videos and more available at fulldrunker's youtube account: http://www.youtube.com/user/Fulldrunker#p/u
Good stuff. Think of it as a window into another world.
The result is this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qn0mYIUczU&feature=player_embedded
It is good to see that despite their country going to blazes between warring fundamentalists, corrupt politicians, incompetent baboo bureaucrats, litigious vakils, and just general opportunism and mayhem, there are still Pakistanis who focus on the important stuff.
DANCING, MUSIC.
M. Ali Sheray, Naveed, Najeeb, Ihsan Ali, Raheel Zeb, Shafi Jan, Sayed Ali Shah, Rafi Jan, Shahzaf Ayan, and Zahoor Ahmad. Azhgar Ali, Amjid Khan, Sohail Ahmad, Mohsin Ali, Javed Banghash, and the creator of the short: M. Ismail Khan.
Here's some more partying with full benefit of booze and a rythm section.
http://www.youtube.com/user/Fulldrunker
Looks like a blast. Makes me wish I were there. Dur ke dhol suhav'ne.
Party on, dudes. Bismillah.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
ADDENDUM
Discovered these videos by cruising into Mathew's facebook page. Thanks, Matt. Good stuff.
All videos and more available at fulldrunker's youtube account: http://www.youtube.com/user/Fulldrunker#p/u
Good stuff. Think of it as a window into another world.
Friday, November 20, 2009
SMILING FISHILY AT CHILDREN
Years ago in a bar down on Market Street a bright-faced woman came up to me and said "smile".
"What?"
"SMILE!"
I made the mistake of asking why. She punished me with a long and incredibly inane lecture about positivism and happy faces, spreading sunshine and light, and crap about dolphins, beauty, and nature.
Since then, whenever some cluckhead tells me to smile, I usually snarl back "I am smiling, bitch!"
Or something to that effect.
Yesterday I was at a bar when a woman put her hand on my arm and said "if it all gets to be too much, think of the children".
"IF IT ALL GETS TO BE TOO MUCH, THINK OF THE CHILDREN!"
"What?"
"Think of the children! If it all gets too much, think of the children!"
"Why?"
"They're innocent, the children."
"So why do I have to think of them? If it's about innocence, why can't I think of fish?"
"Errrm, the children...... "
"No no no, fish! Not the children, fish. Fish are innocent. Children only SEEM innocent, because in comparison to us they have the intelligence of a boiled potato. But fish are truly stupid. No brain at all. They're fish. Totally innocent fish. "
"But fish have no personalities, and aren't happy!"
"Firstly, how do you know they aren't happy, and secondly, they do so have personality. Lots of personality, with a little soy and vinegar. Steamed or fried, TONS of sweetly innocent personality. Not like children."
"For GOD's sake, they aren't people!!!! You gotta think about people!!!! People are beautiful!!!" Think of the children!!!!"
"Lady, you're losing track of what I'm trying to say here. Fish have plenty of personality if you just cook 'em right, which you can't do to kids. And they're innocent as all git-out, what with having no intelligence. Yeah, kids ARE beautiful, especially teenage girls - yowza hot! Smoking!
But if I start thinking that way, I'll get in trouble with the law.
So I'll just think of fish, thank you very much."
"Stop being so obtuse!"
OH MY UNCLE!
To drive my point home, I told her all about uncle Gerry, who said that his greatest aim in life was to die in bed with two naked girls, one on each side, and a big sloppy grin all over his face. A wonderful fantasy, and I must assume that at least part of it came true, seeing as he's quite dead now. Must have been good, I can almost see the devilish gleam in his eyes as he croaked. Probably left a mess, what with two shapely nude witnesses and the divorced wife fighting over the money, and the cops wondering what the heck had gone on there. I can just imagine the coroner's report. How did the two bucknaked teenagers figure into the official file?
Juicy I bet - especially if there were photos of them in bed next to the corpse. Colour photos.
See, that's what happens when you think of children. You die happy. And because I would rather not snuff it at this point, instead of thinking about children, I will think of fish.
Fish are good.
She looked like she was about to cry right about then, so I tried to comfort her - "okay, if you insist, I'll think of the children"
I may have ruined it by clarifying "the naked teenage children, with smooth skin, like eels."
She stomped off angry. I think I heard her mumbling about a sickass bastard as she left.
Such a terrible attitude, poor woman.
See, she needs to think of the children. What will all the kids think if she pouts so? It's a lousy example to any attractive teenage daughters she might have.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"What?"
"SMILE!"
I made the mistake of asking why. She punished me with a long and incredibly inane lecture about positivism and happy faces, spreading sunshine and light, and crap about dolphins, beauty, and nature.
Since then, whenever some cluckhead tells me to smile, I usually snarl back "I am smiling, bitch!"
Or something to that effect.
Yesterday I was at a bar when a woman put her hand on my arm and said "if it all gets to be too much, think of the children".
"IF IT ALL GETS TO BE TOO MUCH, THINK OF THE CHILDREN!"
"What?"
"Think of the children! If it all gets too much, think of the children!"
"Why?"
"They're innocent, the children."
"So why do I have to think of them? If it's about innocence, why can't I think of fish?"
"Errrm, the children...... "
"No no no, fish! Not the children, fish. Fish are innocent. Children only SEEM innocent, because in comparison to us they have the intelligence of a boiled potato. But fish are truly stupid. No brain at all. They're fish. Totally innocent fish. "
"But fish have no personalities, and aren't happy!"
"Firstly, how do you know they aren't happy, and secondly, they do so have personality. Lots of personality, with a little soy and vinegar. Steamed or fried, TONS of sweetly innocent personality. Not like children."
"For GOD's sake, they aren't people!!!! You gotta think about people!!!! People are beautiful!!!" Think of the children!!!!"
"Lady, you're losing track of what I'm trying to say here. Fish have plenty of personality if you just cook 'em right, which you can't do to kids. And they're innocent as all git-out, what with having no intelligence. Yeah, kids ARE beautiful, especially teenage girls - yowza hot! Smoking!
But if I start thinking that way, I'll get in trouble with the law.
So I'll just think of fish, thank you very much."
"Stop being so obtuse!"
OH MY UNCLE!
To drive my point home, I told her all about uncle Gerry, who said that his greatest aim in life was to die in bed with two naked girls, one on each side, and a big sloppy grin all over his face. A wonderful fantasy, and I must assume that at least part of it came true, seeing as he's quite dead now. Must have been good, I can almost see the devilish gleam in his eyes as he croaked. Probably left a mess, what with two shapely nude witnesses and the divorced wife fighting over the money, and the cops wondering what the heck had gone on there. I can just imagine the coroner's report. How did the two bucknaked teenagers figure into the official file?
Juicy I bet - especially if there were photos of them in bed next to the corpse. Colour photos.
See, that's what happens when you think of children. You die happy. And because I would rather not snuff it at this point, instead of thinking about children, I will think of fish.
Fish are good.
She looked like she was about to cry right about then, so I tried to comfort her - "okay, if you insist, I'll think of the children"
I may have ruined it by clarifying "the naked teenage children, with smooth skin, like eels."
She stomped off angry. I think I heard her mumbling about a sickass bastard as she left.
Such a terrible attitude, poor woman.
See, she needs to think of the children. What will all the kids think if she pouts so? It's a lousy example to any attractive teenage daughters she might have.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, November 19, 2009
SIZE SIX BURKA, STILL MOIST
There's a huge discussion over on Dovbear's blog about tzenua (modesty). Apparently someone out there believes that female blogging is untzniusdik (immodest). Women should discretely stay out of sight, even on the internet, and not remind men of their gender, or that they even exist.
I have to agree!
You see, I am a tall Black amazon, early twenties, with large nicely shaped breasts and a statuesque figure. Curves in all the right places, narrow waisted.
I just pretend to be a pudgy middle-aged white male pipe smoker so that my target audience (glandularly stressed fifteen year old boys) does not go into hormonal angst while reading my blog.
[Teenage girls obviously do not read blogs, least of all mine. They are at home tzniusly cooking and cleaning and caring for the younger children. When not making themselves as sexless and unattractive as possible.]
It's a question of covering up anything that might excite the fragile male fancy - men are easily distracted, their kavana and kedusha vanish at a mere hint of femininity. So, dark long skirts, and long-sleeved shirts underneath baggy sweaters. A tichel at all times.
Plus baggy mittens. Because, of course, my elegant silky smooth-skinned hands with the long long tapered fingers (so soft, so soft!) are also sensual.
Even the polished fingernails are ... sensual.
Which, if you are a male between fifteen and seventy, ALWAYS means 'sexual'.
Mittens.
One of my mittens is missing in action. Maybe I accidentally left it somewhere?
Some pervert must have stolen it, and even as we speak! is putting it to his nose and inhaling the feminine aroma left behind. His knees are quivering, he trembles, fever develops. In a frenzy, with repeated deep sniffs at the wrist-opening, he is getting light headed, his knees give way, and barely resisting! he slips moistly to the floor. Blood trickles from his nose, his clothing is drenched.
Oh, it is good. Oh!
I'm certain that my landlord is raiding my sock drawer.
My feet, as you can guess, are attached to the rest of me, and thus serve to remind him of my tall statuesque high pert fully rounded early twenties black breasts. Everything twixt toes and tits.
He's just a normal man - how can he resist?
Snnnffff!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
If men get any more excited, I may have to wear a burka. Full body sack.
Heaven forfend I should accidentally leave that burka behind anywhere.
What if the mitten-pervert has an older brother?
I have to agree!
You see, I am a tall Black amazon, early twenties, with large nicely shaped breasts and a statuesque figure. Curves in all the right places, narrow waisted.
I just pretend to be a pudgy middle-aged white male pipe smoker so that my target audience (glandularly stressed fifteen year old boys) does not go into hormonal angst while reading my blog.
[Teenage girls obviously do not read blogs, least of all mine. They are at home tzniusly cooking and cleaning and caring for the younger children. When not making themselves as sexless and unattractive as possible.]
It's a question of covering up anything that might excite the fragile male fancy - men are easily distracted, their kavana and kedusha vanish at a mere hint of femininity. So, dark long skirts, and long-sleeved shirts underneath baggy sweaters. A tichel at all times.
Plus baggy mittens. Because, of course, my elegant silky smooth-skinned hands with the long long tapered fingers (so soft, so soft!) are also sensual.
Even the polished fingernails are ... sensual.
Which, if you are a male between fifteen and seventy, ALWAYS means 'sexual'.
Mittens.
One of my mittens is missing in action. Maybe I accidentally left it somewhere?
Some pervert must have stolen it, and even as we speak! is putting it to his nose and inhaling the feminine aroma left behind. His knees are quivering, he trembles, fever develops. In a frenzy, with repeated deep sniffs at the wrist-opening, he is getting light headed, his knees give way, and barely resisting! he slips moistly to the floor. Blood trickles from his nose, his clothing is drenched.
Oh, it is good. Oh!
I'm certain that my landlord is raiding my sock drawer.
My feet, as you can guess, are attached to the rest of me, and thus serve to remind him of my tall statuesque high pert fully rounded early twenties black breasts. Everything twixt toes and tits.
He's just a normal man - how can he resist?
Snnnffff!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
If men get any more excited, I may have to wear a burka. Full body sack.
Heaven forfend I should accidentally leave that burka behind anywhere.
What if the mitten-pervert has an older brother?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
BAD NEWS FROM FRANCE
Today I received an extremely disturbing e-mail about anti-Semitism in France.
This is what it says:
"I AM A JEW -- therefore I am forwarding this to everyone on all my e-mail lists.
I will not sit back and do nothing. Nowhere have the flames of anti-Semitism burned more furiously than in France. In Lyon , a car was rammed into a synagogue and set on fire. In Montpellier, the Jewish religious center was firebombed; so were synagogues in Strasbourg and Marseilles; so was a Jewish school in Creteil - all recently.. A Jewish sports club in Toulouse was attacked with Molotov cocktails and on the statue of Alfred Dreyfus in Paris, the words 'Dirty Jew' were painted. In Bondy, 15 men beat up members of a Jewish football team with sticks and metal bars. The bus that takes Jewish children to school in Aubervilliers has been attacked three times in the last 14 months. According to the Police, metropolitan Paris has seen 10 to 12 anti-Jewish incidents PER DAY in the past 30 days. Walls in Jewish neighborhoods have been defaced with slogans proclaiming 'Jews to the gas chambers' and 'Death to the Jews.' A gunman opened fire on a kosher butcher's shop (and, of course, the butcher) in Toulouse, France. A Jewish couple in their 20's were beaten up by five men in Villeurbanne, France (the woman was pregnant). A Jewish school was broken into and vandalized in Sarcelles, France. This was just in the past week."
"So I call on you, whether you are a fellow Jew, a friend, or merely a person with the capacity and desire to distinguish decency from depravity, to do - at least - these three simple things:
First, care enough to stay informed. Don't ever let yourself become deluded into thinking that this is not your fight. I remind you of what Pastor Neimoller said in World War II: 'First they came for the Communists, and I didn't speak up, because I wasn't a Communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn't speak up, because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for the Catholics, and I didn't speak up, because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me, and by that time there was no one left to speak up for me.'
Second, boycott France and French products. Only the Arab countries are more toxically anti-Semitic and, unlike them, France exports more than just oil and hatred. So boycott their wines and their perfumes. Boycott their clothes and their foodstuffs. Boycott their movies. Definitely boycott their shores. If we are resolved, we can exert amazing pressure and, whatever else we may know about the French, we most certainly know that they are like a cobweb in a hurricane in the face of well-directed pressure.
Third, send this along to your family, your friends, and your co-workers. Think of all of the people of good conscience that you
know and let them know that you - and the people that you care - about need their help. The number one bestselling book in France is....'September 11: The Frightening Fraud' which argues that no plane ever hit the Pentagon! Please Pass This On, Let's not let history repeat itself, thank-you for your time and consideration."
Well, that is just awful , isn't it?
Problem is, it's an absolute crock. Total bushwa. Complete and utter nonsense.
Balderdash, claptrap, and fiddlesticks.
ELSEWHERE MENTIONS
I first saw that e-mail over a year ago. A quick search of the internet yielded several dozen mentions of the letter, many of them foreworded or afterworded in apocalyptic terms, many not dated or sourced in any way, spread out over the last seven years.
1. A posting on April 4, 2009:
http://listserv.tau.ac.il/cgi-bin/wa?A3=ind0904&L=iirs-asmi&P=7680&E=1&B=--Boundary_%28ID_tZ5L779zgrwJ2oR5N21JbQ%29&T=text%2Fhtml
2. An earlier appearance of the letter, on July 12, 2008:
http://www.2rbetter.org/archives/2008.07.12%20-%20French%20Jews
3. Another posting on March 7, 2007:
http://jewalaska.blogspot.com/2007/03/anti-semitism-in-france.html
4. A previous posting on October 21, 2006:
http://analogkid12.wordpress.com/2006/10/21/it-is-the-time-of-kristalnacht-again/
5. Oooooooooh, here's a good one! December 8, 2003:
http://www.jpfo.org/alerts/alert20031208.htm
6. This writer gives a date as early as April 4, 2002:
http://www.city-data.com/forum/politics-other-controversies/591082-more-countries-have-partisan-media-bad.html
HOAX! HOAX! HOAX! HOAX! HOAX! HOAX!
----------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------------------
UPDATE: As of this writing (January 4th 2012) the hoax e-mail is still circulating. Once these things are launched, there is no ending them.
And it is still as false as it ever was, not made any more reliable by further dissemination.
It was forwarded to me twice in the past several months, prefaced by outrage that the world was ignoring the situation, the media not reporting, the American government studiously obfuscating………..
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/06/attention-bad-news-from-france-e-mail.html
A newsletter I regularly receive also cited the damned thing. This despite the editor being told two years ago (and three years ago) that it was nonsense.
Irritating me'od.
-----ATBOTH
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This is what it says:
"I AM A JEW -- therefore I am forwarding this to everyone on all my e-mail lists.
I will not sit back and do nothing. Nowhere have the flames of anti-Semitism burned more furiously than in France. In Lyon , a car was rammed into a synagogue and set on fire. In Montpellier, the Jewish religious center was firebombed; so were synagogues in Strasbourg and Marseilles; so was a Jewish school in Creteil - all recently.. A Jewish sports club in Toulouse was attacked with Molotov cocktails and on the statue of Alfred Dreyfus in Paris, the words 'Dirty Jew' were painted. In Bondy, 15 men beat up members of a Jewish football team with sticks and metal bars. The bus that takes Jewish children to school in Aubervilliers has been attacked three times in the last 14 months. According to the Police, metropolitan Paris has seen 10 to 12 anti-Jewish incidents PER DAY in the past 30 days. Walls in Jewish neighborhoods have been defaced with slogans proclaiming 'Jews to the gas chambers' and 'Death to the Jews.' A gunman opened fire on a kosher butcher's shop (and, of course, the butcher) in Toulouse, France. A Jewish couple in their 20's were beaten up by five men in Villeurbanne, France (the woman was pregnant). A Jewish school was broken into and vandalized in Sarcelles, France. This was just in the past week."
"So I call on you, whether you are a fellow Jew, a friend, or merely a person with the capacity and desire to distinguish decency from depravity, to do - at least - these three simple things:
First, care enough to stay informed. Don't ever let yourself become deluded into thinking that this is not your fight. I remind you of what Pastor Neimoller said in World War II: 'First they came for the Communists, and I didn't speak up, because I wasn't a Communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn't speak up, because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for the Catholics, and I didn't speak up, because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me, and by that time there was no one left to speak up for me.'
Second, boycott France and French products. Only the Arab countries are more toxically anti-Semitic and, unlike them, France exports more than just oil and hatred. So boycott their wines and their perfumes. Boycott their clothes and their foodstuffs. Boycott their movies. Definitely boycott their shores. If we are resolved, we can exert amazing pressure and, whatever else we may know about the French, we most certainly know that they are like a cobweb in a hurricane in the face of well-directed pressure.
Third, send this along to your family, your friends, and your co-workers. Think of all of the people of good conscience that you
know and let them know that you - and the people that you care - about need their help. The number one bestselling book in France is....'September 11: The Frightening Fraud' which argues that no plane ever hit the Pentagon! Please Pass This On, Let's not let history repeat itself, thank-you for your time and consideration."
Well, that is just awful , isn't it?
Problem is, it's an absolute crock. Total bushwa. Complete and utter nonsense.
Balderdash, claptrap, and fiddlesticks.
ELSEWHERE MENTIONS
I first saw that e-mail over a year ago. A quick search of the internet yielded several dozen mentions of the letter, many of them foreworded or afterworded in apocalyptic terms, many not dated or sourced in any way, spread out over the last seven years.
1. A posting on April 4, 2009:
http://listserv.tau.ac.il/cgi-bin/wa?A3=ind0904&L=iirs-asmi&P=7680&E=1&B=--Boundary_%28ID_tZ5L779zgrwJ2oR5N21JbQ%29&T=text%2Fhtml
2. An earlier appearance of the letter, on July 12, 2008:
http://www.2rbetter.org/archives/2008.07.12%20-%20French%20Jews
3. Another posting on March 7, 2007:
http://jewalaska.blogspot.com/2007/03/anti-semitism-in-france.html
4. A previous posting on October 21, 2006:
http://analogkid12.wordpress.com/2006/10/21/it-is-the-time-of-kristalnacht-again/
5. Oooooooooh, here's a good one! December 8, 2003:
http://www.jpfo.org/alerts/alert20031208.htm
6. This writer gives a date as early as April 4, 2002:
http://www.city-data.com/forum/politics-other-controversies/591082-more-countries-have-partisan-media-bad.html
HOAX! HOAX! HOAX! HOAX! HOAX! HOAX!
But, of course, the main place you need to go for the letter is here:
http://www.zionism-israel.com/log/archives/00000267.html
QUOTE:
"In fact, this quote is taken from an article by Jeff Jacoby in the Boston Globe, dated April 28, 2002!. The anonymous French Jew who supposedly sent an e-mail turns out to be an American Jew living in Boston. The period in question was the height of the Intifada in Israel, and the height of the hysteria about the supposed Jenin "massacre."
END QUOTE.
Ami Isseroff goes into detail about the letter, and brings up cogent points.
QUOTE:
Before circulating such letters please check and consider -
* Is there a stated author and a URL?
* Is the source reliable?
* Check a part of the text in a search engine to see if it was reported as a hoax (add the word "hoax" to the search query) and if there is a reliable source listed for it.
* Check in search engines and with friends to verify the news.
* If there is a policy recommendation or action item in the letter, does it make sense?
* If the item is a hoax, inform the people who mailed it to you.
END QUOTE.
I shall not question the sincerity of the people who forward such bogus letters. But I do question their brains, and their sanity. Despite being inundated with texts and newsletters about Israel, Palestine, Jews, and Jihadis, I can still remember reading that letter before. Over one year earlier.
And I knew at that time it was a load of horsepuckey.
Please stop forwarding lariekoek like this. You do not do your cause any favours by disseminating such treif.
Thank you.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
AFTERTHOUGHT
It seems appropriate to finish with La Marseillaise.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4K1q9Ntcr5g
Turn up the speakers, because the linked recording above is long, loud, and vibrant. And well worth it.
The French, on the whole, are not a bad lot.
Quite a lot of Jews think so too.
Feel free to forward the link to La Marseillaise to as many people as possible.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------------------
UPDATE: As of this writing (January 4th 2012) the hoax e-mail is still circulating. Once these things are launched, there is no ending them.
And it is still as false as it ever was, not made any more reliable by further dissemination.
It was forwarded to me twice in the past several months, prefaced by outrage that the world was ignoring the situation, the media not reporting, the American government studiously obfuscating………..
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2011/06/attention-bad-news-from-france-e-mail.html
A newsletter I regularly receive also cited the damned thing. This despite the editor being told two years ago (and three years ago) that it was nonsense.
Irritating me'od.
-----ATBOTH
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Tuesday, November 17, 2009
PER TZIPPORAH, ELEVEN DAYS!
Yesterday I delicately hinted that a mere twenty-four hours seemed stingy for a celebration of 'Dutch-American Heritage', especially when other groups got an entire month.
It was a note of bitterness - why, I seemed to ask, do we only get just one day, one lousy day, one stinking unexciting single cold autumn day, when other groups get an entire month?
An entire month!
What are we, gehakte leber?!?
[Groups like the Jews (all Dutch anyhow), Blacks (neither Jews nor Dutch), Historical Women (who?), the Irish (quite inferior to the Dutch), Sober People (what?), Asian Pacific Islanders (very much appreciated by the Dutch), Confoederates (damned Romans!), Haitians (not Dutch), Halifax Asians (Canadians! 'Nuff said), Jewish-Americans (Dutch, I keep telling you!), Latinos (people from Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao), National Parks (not even people!), Older Americans (crabby, just like the Dutch), People of Restricted Access (whatever that means - not Dutch), Dancing Ukrainians (well, at least they're not killing people - not Dutch at all), Zoos (we Dutch have a zoo too - Artis), Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender people (I got nothing, discuss), Carribeans (Aruba, Bonaire, Curaçao, Suriname, and some Dutch-owned boogers on a map), Portuguese, Graeco-Americans, Hispanic-Latinos, Italian Americans, Conscious and Employed Disabled Nationals, Polish Americans, American Indians, Retailers, and Human Rights Shmoes (all of them not Dutch either). All of these get an entire month.]
See this post:
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2009/11/time-for-serious-fun.html
Fellow blogger Tzipporah commented:
"Oops, guess I missed it. Maybe you can stretch it out by questioning the basis of the calendar... ;) "
[Tzipporah blogs here: http://midianitemanna.blogspot.com/]
Guess you missed it? How! Could! You?
Such a gevaldige day. Too.
Sniff.
But her comment was, nevertheless, brilliant.
EPPES BRILLIANT!
In chutz l'aretz, chagim are TWO days. This is based on the communication via signal fires (or telegrams, in our era) from the Amsterdam Beis Din to the yeshives outside the land.
Per the gemara, when the two days of Yom Ha Nirlandim-Amerikani fall immediately prior to Shabbes, the lechem hashakad ("BOTERKOEK") is eaten on the eleventh day after being baked.
[Which, lechatchila AND kal ve chomer, implies an extension of ten days beyond the first day even during times when that is not the case, in order to be mehudar min hamhudar min hamhudar min chol mehadrin (min hamehameha).]
Rashi asks why does the Beraisa say two days of Yom Ha Nirlandim-Amerikani, and not 'two days of yontif sheni shel galuyes'?
Irritatingly, he answers his own question by explaining "in the years of the Boterkoek (in other words, during the Dutch Golden Age), there was no second day of Yontif, nebech".
[But Rashi lived in France - vos sol a farkakte Tzarfiter foon puterkichel oder mandelgebektes veissen? Meh, doch, es macht emmes kein difirentz.]
Good.
So I should be able to drag Dutch-American Heritage Day all the way into Thanksgiving then.
Hah, screw those Puritans, their little dry-birdie feast does not concern me, as I shall be celebrating our 'Dutch-American Heritage'.
Whatever that is.
It was a note of bitterness - why, I seemed to ask, do we only get just one day, one lousy day, one stinking unexciting single cold autumn day, when other groups get an entire month?
An entire month!
What are we, gehakte leber?!?
[Groups like the Jews (all Dutch anyhow), Blacks (neither Jews nor Dutch), Historical Women (who?), the Irish (quite inferior to the Dutch), Sober People (what?), Asian Pacific Islanders (very much appreciated by the Dutch), Confoederates (damned Romans!), Haitians (not Dutch), Halifax Asians (Canadians! 'Nuff said), Jewish-Americans (Dutch, I keep telling you!), Latinos (people from Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao), National Parks (not even people!), Older Americans (crabby, just like the Dutch), People of Restricted Access (whatever that means - not Dutch), Dancing Ukrainians (well, at least they're not killing people - not Dutch at all), Zoos (we Dutch have a zoo too - Artis), Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender people (I got nothing, discuss), Carribeans (Aruba, Bonaire, Curaçao, Suriname, and some Dutch-owned boogers on a map), Portuguese, Graeco-Americans, Hispanic-Latinos, Italian Americans, Conscious and Employed Disabled Nationals, Polish Americans, American Indians, Retailers, and Human Rights Shmoes (all of them not Dutch either). All of these get an entire month.]
See this post:
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2009/11/time-for-serious-fun.html
Fellow blogger Tzipporah commented:
"Oops, guess I missed it. Maybe you can stretch it out by questioning the basis of the calendar... ;) "
[Tzipporah blogs here: http://midianitemanna.blogspot.com/]
Guess you missed it? How! Could! You?
Such a gevaldige day. Too.
Sniff.
But her comment was, nevertheless, brilliant.
EPPES BRILLIANT!
In chutz l'aretz, chagim are TWO days. This is based on the communication via signal fires (or telegrams, in our era) from the Amsterdam Beis Din to the yeshives outside the land.
Per the gemara, when the two days of Yom Ha Nirlandim-Amerikani fall immediately prior to Shabbes, the lechem hashakad ("BOTERKOEK") is eaten on the eleventh day after being baked.
[Which, lechatchila AND kal ve chomer, implies an extension of ten days beyond the first day even during times when that is not the case, in order to be mehudar min hamhudar min hamhudar min chol mehadrin (min hamehameha).]
Rashi asks why does the Beraisa say two days of Yom Ha Nirlandim-Amerikani, and not 'two days of yontif sheni shel galuyes'?
Irritatingly, he answers his own question by explaining "in the years of the Boterkoek (in other words, during the Dutch Golden Age), there was no second day of Yontif, nebech".
[But Rashi lived in France - vos sol a farkakte Tzarfiter foon puterkichel oder mandelgebektes veissen? Meh, doch, es macht emmes kein difirentz.]
Good.
So I should be able to drag Dutch-American Heritage Day all the way into Thanksgiving then.
Hah, screw those Puritans, their little dry-birdie feast does not concern me, as I shall be celebrating our 'Dutch-American Heritage'.
Whatever that is.
Monday, November 16, 2009
ASSAULTED BY TEENAGE GIRLS
Balabusta in Blue Jeans writes about having to supervise the girls' locker room. If you ever thought of that as being like a little slice of heaven, you are mistaken.
It is war. Combat duty, and horrors beyond belief.
Plus skin goo.
QUOTE:
"They worry about their arms, and their legs. They have to be completely moisturized at all times..."
END QUOTE.
SOURCE:
http://balabustabluejeans.blogspot.com/2009/11/oceans-of-lotions.html
Okay, that doesn't sound too bad at all.
I'll be the first to admit that high-school girls should, under ideal circumstances, be soft and smooth to the touch.
QUOTE:
"They run around screaming "Does anyone have lotion?"
END QUOTE.
Screaming? Girls do not scream. There's something wrong if they're screaming.
QUOTE:
"Then, just in case they might not smell fruity-floral enough, they pull whole bottles of body spray or cologne out of their lockers, and spritz each other until the whole place smells like Bath and Bodyworks after a bad earthquake."
END QUOTE.
[Read BBJ's blog here: http://balabustabluejeans.blogspot.com/ ]
DAMP AND SWEET-SMELLING!
Good freakin' heavens! When I was a kid, back before Noah set sail on his round-the-world voyage, there were no spritzes and body lotions!
Just stuff in a brown glass bottle from the chemist.
With a squirt-attachment at the top.
This is war, soldier, and don't you forget it!
My dad and I would irritate the spit out of my severe older brother by flamboyantly and extravegantly using a hand-lotion(!) in the middle of winter for our chapped skin. We would squeeze some out, then sensually slide it up and down our fingers, restoring to health the delicate masculine membranes that had been exposed to the harsh Dutch climate, softly and smoothly rubbing it into the cracked and calloused areas. Mmmmmmm!
Hand lotion - it was the ONLY lotion available at the local stores. And it was pink, and faintly perfumed.
VERY FEMMY!
Such unmanly decadence disgusted Tobias.
He cringed at the depravity thus displayed by his father and his effete younger brother.
The local high school girls used no lotions. No lip balm. No spritzed spray. No expensive oils and unguents. No eye liner. No skin creme. No lipstick even, most of the time. Maybe a very subtle touch of eye-shadow if they were feeling daring - after school!
And they looked radiant!
Like bowls overflowing with peaches and cream. Strawberries, apricots, cherries, and tart little apples pearled with dew.
Ashy. Hmmpph!
No one smelled fruity floral then either. Just regular green soap, alleviated perhaps by the refreshing fragrance of dark rolling tobaccos.
Perfume and factory-mades are for losers.
Northern California, such a rotten place.
So self-indulgent, so Roman. Feh!
Noah, saddle up the Ark again - we're leaving!
It is war. Combat duty, and horrors beyond belief.
Plus skin goo.
QUOTE:
"They worry about their arms, and their legs. They have to be completely moisturized at all times..."
END QUOTE.
SOURCE:
http://balabustabluejeans.blogspot.com/2009/11/oceans-of-lotions.html
Okay, that doesn't sound too bad at all.
I'll be the first to admit that high-school girls should, under ideal circumstances, be soft and smooth to the touch.
QUOTE:
"They run around screaming "Does anyone have lotion?"
END QUOTE.
Screaming? Girls do not scream. There's something wrong if they're screaming.
QUOTE:
"Then, just in case they might not smell fruity-floral enough, they pull whole bottles of body spray or cologne out of their lockers, and spritz each other until the whole place smells like Bath and Bodyworks after a bad earthquake."
END QUOTE.
[Read BBJ's blog here: http://balabustabluejeans.blogspot.com/ ]
DAMP AND SWEET-SMELLING!
Good freakin' heavens! When I was a kid, back before Noah set sail on his round-the-world voyage, there were no spritzes and body lotions!
Just stuff in a brown glass bottle from the chemist.
With a squirt-attachment at the top.
This is war, soldier, and don't you forget it!
My dad and I would irritate the spit out of my severe older brother by flamboyantly and extravegantly using a hand-lotion(!) in the middle of winter for our chapped skin. We would squeeze some out, then sensually slide it up and down our fingers, restoring to health the delicate masculine membranes that had been exposed to the harsh Dutch climate, softly and smoothly rubbing it into the cracked and calloused areas. Mmmmmmm!
Hand lotion - it was the ONLY lotion available at the local stores. And it was pink, and faintly perfumed.
VERY FEMMY!
Such unmanly decadence disgusted Tobias.
He cringed at the depravity thus displayed by his father and his effete younger brother.
The local high school girls used no lotions. No lip balm. No spritzed spray. No expensive oils and unguents. No eye liner. No skin creme. No lipstick even, most of the time. Maybe a very subtle touch of eye-shadow if they were feeling daring - after school!
And they looked radiant!
Like bowls overflowing with peaches and cream. Strawberries, apricots, cherries, and tart little apples pearled with dew.
Ashy. Hmmpph!
No one smelled fruity floral then either. Just regular green soap, alleviated perhaps by the refreshing fragrance of dark rolling tobaccos.
Perfume and factory-mades are for losers.
Northern California, such a rotten place.
So self-indulgent, so Roman. Feh!
Noah, saddle up the Ark again - we're leaving!
TIME FOR SERIOUS FUN!
One day. Just ONE measly day. That's all we get. Other groups, far smaller than us, are given way more time.
But apparently we're too whitish, too wasp, too boring and too darn successful at flying in under the radar.
What am I on about?
This:
January: Jewish Heritage Month;
February: Black History Month / African American History Month;
March: National Women's History Month / Irish-American Culture Month / Sobriety Workshops Month;
April: Asian Pacific Islander Month / Confederate Heritage Month;
May: Asian Pacific Heritage Month / Haitian Heritage Month / Halifax Asian Heritage Month / Jewish-American Heritage Month / Latino Heritage Month / National Parks Month / Older Americans Month / Restricted Access Month / Ukrainian Dance Month / Zoological Gardens Month;
June: Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender Heritage Month / Caribbean Heritage Month / Portuguese Heritage Month / Greco-American Heritage Month;
September - October: National Hispanic-Latino Heritage Month (Sept. 15-Oct. 15);
October: National Italian American Heritage Month / National Disability Employment Awareness Month / Polish American Heritage Month;
November: National American Indian Heritage Month / National Retail Month;
December: Universal Human Rights Month.
--- --- ---
"DUTCH-AMERICAN HERITAGE DAY"
That's right. TODAY. November sixteenth. Kiss my toe, bitches, it's all about me.
Us.
[One day? That's it?!?! One stinkin' day? Just ONE? One measly darn day in the middle of nothing, just twenty four tiddly hours, not even an extra few days for the hang-over after the parade!!!!! What, no parade either? You gave those drunks their own month to recover all green and pasty-faced, and we've even been here longer than they have too! Only one gloomy buck-autumn day with fog and sleet, no sunshine, no cheer, one short day. Hmmmph! We gave you Humphrey Bogart, Meryl Streep, and Audrey Hepburn! Cheese! Yachts and sloops! Bulwark, boulevard, and several other useful things! Scalping! We taught the natives about scalping! How useful is that?!?
Don't anybody DARE mention Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates - you can take those "silver skates", hammer 'em till there's naught left but sharp corners, and stick 'em in your ear. Yeah, pound some sand after 'em too! One. Freeking. Lousy. Stinking. Autumn. Day. One day. Gee, thanks, dudes. Thanks for remembering. One. Day. One. ]
On the other hand, once you're sick and tired of all those month-long celebrations (four weeks of hotsy totsy - how can you stand it all?!?), Dutch-American Heritage DAY (November 16) must come as a relief.
Clogs and illicit substances - whoopee!
Go ahead and make happy.
But apparently we're too whitish, too wasp, too boring and too darn successful at flying in under the radar.
What am I on about?
This:
January: Jewish Heritage Month;
February: Black History Month / African American History Month;
March: National Women's History Month / Irish-American Culture Month / Sobriety Workshops Month;
April: Asian Pacific Islander Month / Confederate Heritage Month;
May: Asian Pacific Heritage Month / Haitian Heritage Month / Halifax Asian Heritage Month / Jewish-American Heritage Month / Latino Heritage Month / National Parks Month / Older Americans Month / Restricted Access Month / Ukrainian Dance Month / Zoological Gardens Month;
June: Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender Heritage Month / Caribbean Heritage Month / Portuguese Heritage Month / Greco-American Heritage Month;
September - October: National Hispanic-Latino Heritage Month (Sept. 15-Oct. 15);
October: National Italian American Heritage Month / National Disability Employment Awareness Month / Polish American Heritage Month;
November: National American Indian Heritage Month / National Retail Month;
December: Universal Human Rights Month.
--- --- ---
"DUTCH-AMERICAN HERITAGE DAY"
That's right. TODAY. November sixteenth. Kiss my toe, bitches, it's all about me.
Us.
[One day? That's it?!?! One stinkin' day? Just ONE? One measly darn day in the middle of nothing, just twenty four tiddly hours, not even an extra few days for the hang-over after the parade!!!!! What, no parade either? You gave those drunks their own month to recover all green and pasty-faced, and we've even been here longer than they have too! Only one gloomy buck-autumn day with fog and sleet, no sunshine, no cheer, one short day. Hmmmph! We gave you Humphrey Bogart, Meryl Streep, and Audrey Hepburn! Cheese! Yachts and sloops! Bulwark, boulevard, and several other useful things! Scalping! We taught the natives about scalping! How useful is that?!?
Don't anybody DARE mention Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates - you can take those "silver skates", hammer 'em till there's naught left but sharp corners, and stick 'em in your ear. Yeah, pound some sand after 'em too! One. Freeking. Lousy. Stinking. Autumn. Day. One day. Gee, thanks, dudes. Thanks for remembering. One. Day. One. ]
On the other hand, once you're sick and tired of all those month-long celebrations (four weeks of hotsy totsy - how can you stand it all?!?), Dutch-American Heritage DAY (November 16) must come as a relief.
Clogs and illicit substances - whoopee!
Go ahead and make happy.
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My apartment mate, as she sees it, has two objectives this evening. The first is to avoid getting bit by the mosquito, to which end she is n...
