When I was in the sixth grade of grammar school, a girl from the north joined our class. No, there is no need to mention her name, though we all remember it well. She was small, slender, and incredibly alive.
Naturally all of us twelve-year old men were rather smitten.
Some people just make you feel more involved.
Or jealous; many of us became so.
Because, of course, there was just one of her.
And not everyone got to share the company.
The prospect of doing homework together with someone else, someone soft, suddenly became very attractive. I think most of us experienced a renewed enthusiasm for more academic pursuits at that time.
Which was a jolly good thing, as entrance exams for highschool were scheduled for late spring, and there was much yet to be done.
Quite a few of the students got into the better highschool that year, much to the surprise of mijnheer Goes, who normally expected a somewhat lower percentage to succeed. Not to criticise his inventivity and tutoring, but concupiscence is profoundly encouraging, especially when neither the subject nor the object actually grasp what is happening, and neither side knows how to put it into words, let alone finds a way of letting it out.
Some people just have a personality that encourages the best efforts of others, working on the subconscious remarkably like coffee. Their presence stimulates, and if there's even the faintest hue of something naughty about the glow one feels around them, so much the better.
Sweetness speeds the racing mind.
Innocence beguiles.
One the whole, it's a damned good thing that women don't know how men think. They'd probably start treating us as infected lab animals if they did.
Fascinating, yet repellent.
Nobody better tell.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, June 17, 2013
Sunday, June 16, 2013
GREEN ISLAND SERENADE - 綠島小夜曲
After the war and the precipitous retreat to Taiwan, Mandarin language songs entered a plaintive and regret-filled phase, expressed by romantic imagery, recollection of other times, and a profound sense of distance and separation.
The brashness and zesty vulgarity of the Shanghai years seemed forgotten, supplanted by something more introspective. It was a period of quieting down, and melodies became slower, even calmer.
A good representation of that tendency is found in a golden oldie from the mid-fifties:
"This verdant island, like a boat adrift in moonlight..."
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHQaUCsq0YM.]
綠島小夜曲
這綠島像一隻船, 在月夜裏搖啊搖
姑娘呀, 你也在我的心海裏飄啊飄
讓我的歌聲隨那微風, 吹開了你的窗簾
讓我的衷曲隨那流水, 不斷地向你傾訴
椰子樹的長影, 掩不住我的情意
明媚的月光, 更照亮了我的心
這綠島的夜已經這樣沉靜
姑娘喲, 你為什麽還是默默無語。
The recording above is not from that period, however. The singer is Vienna Teng (史逸欣), a California native born in the same year that I returned to the States. At present she is a young adult, and let us leave it at that. It is not diplomatic to speak overmuch of a woman's age, and in the case of people who wrinkle far less than Caucasians it may be somewhat pointless in any case.
Given that this song is timeless, and her rendition quite as evocative as earlier versions by other artists, mention of years misses the context.
It is a very sweet song. Far too slow for Cantonese speakers.
And Mandarin, spoken with a good accent, can be lovely.
For people entirely unconnected with Chinese political ferment from a generation ago, the lyrics can be enjoyed for their own sake. But an echoing of classical themes never-the-less must suggest an exile both involuntary and sharply bitter. Note particularly in that regard the intense hues and the palm trees that the lyrics mention; powerful visual codes for the far-southern marches of antiquity.
You hear the song today. Automatically you think of Tang and Sung.
And scholars dismissed and sent away, to wither among the gibbons.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The brashness and zesty vulgarity of the Shanghai years seemed forgotten, supplanted by something more introspective. It was a period of quieting down, and melodies became slower, even calmer.
A good representation of that tendency is found in a golden oldie from the mid-fifties:
"This verdant island, like a boat adrift in moonlight..."
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHQaUCsq0YM.]
綠島小夜曲
這綠島像一隻船, 在月夜裏搖啊搖
姑娘呀, 你也在我的心海裏飄啊飄
讓我的歌聲隨那微風, 吹開了你的窗簾
讓我的衷曲隨那流水, 不斷地向你傾訴
椰子樹的長影, 掩不住我的情意
明媚的月光, 更照亮了我的心
這綠島的夜已經這樣沉靜
姑娘喲, 你為什麽還是默默無語。
The recording above is not from that period, however. The singer is Vienna Teng (史逸欣), a California native born in the same year that I returned to the States. At present she is a young adult, and let us leave it at that. It is not diplomatic to speak overmuch of a woman's age, and in the case of people who wrinkle far less than Caucasians it may be somewhat pointless in any case.
Given that this song is timeless, and her rendition quite as evocative as earlier versions by other artists, mention of years misses the context.
It is a very sweet song. Far too slow for Cantonese speakers.
And Mandarin, spoken with a good accent, can be lovely.
For people entirely unconnected with Chinese political ferment from a generation ago, the lyrics can be enjoyed for their own sake. But an echoing of classical themes never-the-less must suggest an exile both involuntary and sharply bitter. Note particularly in that regard the intense hues and the palm trees that the lyrics mention; powerful visual codes for the far-southern marches of antiquity.
You hear the song today. Automatically you think of Tang and Sung.
And scholars dismissed and sent away, to wither among the gibbons.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BEWARE THE LITERALIST!
A long conversation with a very dear person recently illustrated once again that yours truly and the majority of upright sentient creatures are NOT on the same page. The subject was this blog, and it was soon very evident that my interlocutrice did not read English the same way I do. Despite English being her native language, one with which she has a lifetime's familiarity.
I enjoy the language.
She just uses it.
I do not presume that I am remarkably more intelligent than everyone else, but neither do I believe my language unusually dense.
Yet half the time I have to adapt my speech and screed to an audience that lacks a well-developed sense of irony, or, sometimes, any inventive flexibility with the language. And often my sense of humour falls on dead ears.
No, I do not love the sound of my own voice; that's why I write.
TOO MUCH ROSANNE ROSEANNADANNA.
NOT ENOUGH MUPPET.
Most of the world appears to consist of Marketing Department People, or salesmen, or very nice but very blinkered little mousy types in Accounting or Clerical Staff; many of the folks who actually understand what they read here are probably from Tech Support or the Anthropology Department.
There's a dissonance that cannot be breached.
If you feel a little alone out there, don't worry. This is a place where you can say things that someone will do his best to understand. Eccentric humour and twisty insights are welcomed.
Feel free to comment -- notice the convenient links for that purpose all over the place, including the "letterbox" -- and likewise respond to something that irritates you. If you have a Kermit the Frog expression on your face at that moment, that's good; at least you grasped what was being said.
Fozzy Bear is also fine.
NOTE: Both the 'comments' and the 'letterbox' offer you FOUR identity options. If you do not wish to link to your own blog, OR have no blogger account, and perhaps you plan to say something atrocious, you should choose the very last one: Anonymous. If you do not do so, your sincere input may just disappear into deepspace, never to be seen again. Always wait for the message that says that your comment went through and pends approval.
You might want to remember that this blogger is a dirty old man who hasn't had female companionship in several years before you suggest that we meet over coffee and crumpets, however.
At the haphazard moment I shall be awfully blinkered, and will misconstrue.
I can be rather dense at times.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I enjoy the language.
She just uses it.
I do not presume that I am remarkably more intelligent than everyone else, but neither do I believe my language unusually dense.
Yet half the time I have to adapt my speech and screed to an audience that lacks a well-developed sense of irony, or, sometimes, any inventive flexibility with the language. And often my sense of humour falls on dead ears.
No, I do not love the sound of my own voice; that's why I write.
TOO MUCH ROSANNE ROSEANNADANNA.
NOT ENOUGH MUPPET.
Most of the world appears to consist of Marketing Department People, or salesmen, or very nice but very blinkered little mousy types in Accounting or Clerical Staff; many of the folks who actually understand what they read here are probably from Tech Support or the Anthropology Department.
There's a dissonance that cannot be breached.
If you feel a little alone out there, don't worry. This is a place where you can say things that someone will do his best to understand. Eccentric humour and twisty insights are welcomed.
Feel free to comment -- notice the convenient links for that purpose all over the place, including the "letterbox" -- and likewise respond to something that irritates you. If you have a Kermit the Frog expression on your face at that moment, that's good; at least you grasped what was being said.
Fozzy Bear is also fine.
NOTE: Both the 'comments' and the 'letterbox' offer you FOUR identity options. If you do not wish to link to your own blog, OR have no blogger account, and perhaps you plan to say something atrocious, you should choose the very last one: Anonymous. If you do not do so, your sincere input may just disappear into deepspace, never to be seen again. Always wait for the message that says that your comment went through and pends approval.
You might want to remember that this blogger is a dirty old man who hasn't had female companionship in several years before you suggest that we meet over coffee and crumpets, however.
At the haphazard moment I shall be awfully blinkered, and will misconstrue.
I can be rather dense at times.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, June 15, 2013
I'VE GOT BETTER CHEEK BONES
When I still regularly went to the Great Star Theatre (大明星戲院) and the Pagoda Palace (金都戲院) in Chinatown to watch Hong Kong movies, I always thought of people like Cherie Chung (鍾楚紅 'chong cho hong') and Joey Wong (王祖賢 'wong cho yi') as the hottest things on four wheels.
I know that expression makes no sense.
Please don't tell me why.
Just extrapolate.
And, equally dishy, were the men in many HK movies. Just to mention two of them: Chow Yunfat (周潤發), and Andy Lau (劉德華 'lau tak wa'). Many of the other actors and actresses were also yummy. And though some of the actors with star-power were perhaps not quite so fine, they radiated character and maturity in their roles that overwhelmed their regular guy appearances.
If I were a woman, I would have wanted to jump any number of them.
Nothing quite says sexy beast like character.
Which, when you think about it, is exactly the same as regards the female of the species. Most men may ogle the big-breasted muffin head, but the person they want to talk to is the one who has a personality. Trust me on this. At any party or social event, observe who clusters around whom.
The jocks, apes, and corporate lawyers will tend to flock to the voluptuous blonde, whereas the engineers, intelligent humans, and interesting types will pool around the librarian.
People who have expressive faces are infinitely more magnetic than those who merely boast buns, curves, pecs, and boobs.
To prove to you that this is so, here's a picture.
Wang LeeHom
Steaming hot hunk-o-rama, Batman! Just scope-out that well-sculpted handsome face! And so intelligent looking, so aware, so awake!
If you are a woman, you may want to leave the room at this point.
We'll wait untill you come back, sweetheart, don't worry.
Wang LeeHom (王力宏) is a native of New York state, currently based in Taiwan. Possibly as intelligent and talented as the late Leslie Cheung (張國榮 'cheung kwok wing'), but without that sweetly fragile quality.
Never-the-less, that's one magnificent serving of man meat, quite capable of inducing peevish jealousy in men twice his age (me, for instance), and fevered fits of fantasy in women of any age.
Ladies, feel free to briefly leave the room again.
I know that you want to, you're sweating.
Come back when you're calmer.
Dang.
I'm actually rather glad that there are no more movie theatres in San Francisco's Chinatown. When people like mr. Stressed Jeans up there are on the loose, mere mortal men don't stand a chance. I certainly don't need anyone comparing me to the well-defined and thoughtful-looking profile in that picture.
One the other hand, I'm also mighty pleased that I am not a woman.
It must be extremely frustrating with tasty bits like him around.
Again, that handsome alert face, those intelligent eyes.
Apparently he's extremely talented.
And a university graduate.
Williams College
==========================================================================
NOTE: Curious women and other readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I know that expression makes no sense.
Please don't tell me why.
Just extrapolate.
And, equally dishy, were the men in many HK movies. Just to mention two of them: Chow Yunfat (周潤發), and Andy Lau (劉德華 'lau tak wa'). Many of the other actors and actresses were also yummy. And though some of the actors with star-power were perhaps not quite so fine, they radiated character and maturity in their roles that overwhelmed their regular guy appearances.
If I were a woman, I would have wanted to jump any number of them.
Nothing quite says sexy beast like character.
Which, when you think about it, is exactly the same as regards the female of the species. Most men may ogle the big-breasted muffin head, but the person they want to talk to is the one who has a personality. Trust me on this. At any party or social event, observe who clusters around whom.
The jocks, apes, and corporate lawyers will tend to flock to the voluptuous blonde, whereas the engineers, intelligent humans, and interesting types will pool around the librarian.
People who have expressive faces are infinitely more magnetic than those who merely boast buns, curves, pecs, and boobs.
To prove to you that this is so, here's a picture.
Wang LeeHom
Steaming hot hunk-o-rama, Batman! Just scope-out that well-sculpted handsome face! And so intelligent looking, so aware, so awake!
If you are a woman, you may want to leave the room at this point.
We'll wait untill you come back, sweetheart, don't worry.
Wang LeeHom (王力宏) is a native of New York state, currently based in Taiwan. Possibly as intelligent and talented as the late Leslie Cheung (張國榮 'cheung kwok wing'), but without that sweetly fragile quality.
Never-the-less, that's one magnificent serving of man meat, quite capable of inducing peevish jealousy in men twice his age (me, for instance), and fevered fits of fantasy in women of any age.
Ladies, feel free to briefly leave the room again.
I know that you want to, you're sweating.
Come back when you're calmer.
Dang.
I'm actually rather glad that there are no more movie theatres in San Francisco's Chinatown. When people like mr. Stressed Jeans up there are on the loose, mere mortal men don't stand a chance. I certainly don't need anyone comparing me to the well-defined and thoughtful-looking profile in that picture.
One the other hand, I'm also mighty pleased that I am not a woman.
It must be extremely frustrating with tasty bits like him around.
Again, that handsome alert face, those intelligent eyes.
Apparently he's extremely talented.
And a university graduate.
Williams College
==========================================================================
NOTE: Curious women and other readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, June 14, 2013
HERRING HAIRCUTS, MOUSTACHES, AND BAGGY COSSACK PANTS - IT'S ZESTY!
Readers have on occasion taken me to task for dwelling overmuch on certain subjects. They feel, wrongly so, that I have the same subjects on my mind far too often. Young ladies, pipe tobacco, underwear of either gender, milk-tea, and other depravities. Sometimes, they say, this seems a fetish blog.
And what, pray tell, is WRONG about that?!?
Everyone on the planet has fetishes.
We are all obsessed.
One of my friends dwells absurdly on his fantasy baseball team. Another one finds tequila infinitely fascinating. Yet others will, when squiffy, admit to keen curiosity about feminine undergarments.
At least I focus on the nether-gear of BOTH genders.
My own snazzy boxers, your lovely panties.
It's healthy, is what it is.
FETISHISTS OF THE WORLD UNITE! YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR CHAINS!
Wait a sec, that didn't come out right. Some of you do not want to lose your chains. But that's okay. In a protest march, you can scream in unison "pantie revolution now!"
If nothing else, avoid cotton fatigue; cast off your tired old undies.
This blogger is at heart a revolutionary.
A blog is NOT a source of news. It may provide opinions, but these need not be about weighty matters. A tin of pipe-tobacco is two ounces, a pair of lovely deep-pink cotton panties is scarcely half an ounce.
Nor is it a source of hard data, necessarily. See the two facts above.
If it is anything at all, it is a soap-box.
Think of it as an outpost of Hyde Park.
Or a rational alternative to Fox News.
Never-the-less, to cater to that segment of my readers who inexplicably are NOT endlessly fascinated with food, cotton with lace trim, pipe tobacco, or comforting beverages quaffed around four o'clock, it sometimes proves necessary to offer matters of more general interest.
Wherefore I present something else.
Dancing bare-chested men!
Запорізький марш
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4j4AYK8KGKU.]
The bare-chested men appear around the fortieth second in. And my heavens, though it barely lasted ten seconds, that is a sprightly dance!
It is a veritable ode to spring! Did you enjoy it?
Additionally there are large stocky gentlemen (with smooth chests) beating on a drum. That, too, may prove unbearably exciting if you are thus inclined.
Personally I would prefer to see the other gender so 'clothed', irrespective of their dancing skills or musical ability. But that's just the way I am.
I like the dude with the pipe, by the way.
His nickname is "crooked nose".
That's a lovely pipe.
I do not care about his underwear. I'm reasonably certain that it isn't a pretty cotton item. It is immaterial to me what he's got on down under, though it is to be hoped that his pipe-tobacco is excellent, his baggy boxers are comfy, his milk-tea is sufficiently sweet, and that he has nothing but wholesome and upstanding fetishes.
As do the rest of us.
AFTERWORD
Yes, panties are nice. Especially if clean and fresh. But it's more about the person inside of them. Who should also be clean and fresh.
That is all.
Please note the handy clickable label below ('Panties'). Hitting it will bring up everything I have to say about such, most recent post first. Which today is this. Just go below for more insight into the matter.
Pipe tobacco is also mentioned.
But no bare-chested men.
This is the first time.
For that subject.
NOTE: The scenes above are from the Polish movie 'With Fire And Sword', about the Cossack revolt that ushered in the twilight of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. When informed that the Poles were sending a military force to suppress ferment in the trans-Borysthene Ukraine, the leader of the Zaporizhian Sedge ('Kozaki Zaporoski') Bogdan Chmielnitski responded by marching against them, and in a series of well-done attacks routed their hosts. For the next several years Poland and Ukrayina burned, while the Polish king struggled against the constipation of his nobles and the magnates of the realm. All of this is lovingly detailed in the novels 'Ogniem i mieczem', 'Potop', and 'Pan Wołodyjewski', written by Henri Sienkiewits in the late nineteenth century.
Further note: Polish feminine nether garments might be red with white lace trim, Ukrainian scanties possibly blue with gold embroidery. But this is just random irresponsible speculation.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And what, pray tell, is WRONG about that?!?
Everyone on the planet has fetishes.
We are all obsessed.
One of my friends dwells absurdly on his fantasy baseball team. Another one finds tequila infinitely fascinating. Yet others will, when squiffy, admit to keen curiosity about feminine undergarments.
At least I focus on the nether-gear of BOTH genders.
My own snazzy boxers, your lovely panties.
It's healthy, is what it is.
FETISHISTS OF THE WORLD UNITE! YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR CHAINS!
Wait a sec, that didn't come out right. Some of you do not want to lose your chains. But that's okay. In a protest march, you can scream in unison "pantie revolution now!"
If nothing else, avoid cotton fatigue; cast off your tired old undies.
This blogger is at heart a revolutionary.
A blog is NOT a source of news. It may provide opinions, but these need not be about weighty matters. A tin of pipe-tobacco is two ounces, a pair of lovely deep-pink cotton panties is scarcely half an ounce.
Nor is it a source of hard data, necessarily. See the two facts above.
If it is anything at all, it is a soap-box.
Think of it as an outpost of Hyde Park.
Or a rational alternative to Fox News.
Never-the-less, to cater to that segment of my readers who inexplicably are NOT endlessly fascinated with food, cotton with lace trim, pipe tobacco, or comforting beverages quaffed around four o'clock, it sometimes proves necessary to offer matters of more general interest.
Wherefore I present something else.
Dancing bare-chested men!
Запорізький марш
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4j4AYK8KGKU.]
The bare-chested men appear around the fortieth second in. And my heavens, though it barely lasted ten seconds, that is a sprightly dance!
It is a veritable ode to spring! Did you enjoy it?
Additionally there are large stocky gentlemen (with smooth chests) beating on a drum. That, too, may prove unbearably exciting if you are thus inclined.
Personally I would prefer to see the other gender so 'clothed', irrespective of their dancing skills or musical ability. But that's just the way I am.
I like the dude with the pipe, by the way.
His nickname is "crooked nose".
That's a lovely pipe.
I do not care about his underwear. I'm reasonably certain that it isn't a pretty cotton item. It is immaterial to me what he's got on down under, though it is to be hoped that his pipe-tobacco is excellent, his baggy boxers are comfy, his milk-tea is sufficiently sweet, and that he has nothing but wholesome and upstanding fetishes.
As do the rest of us.
AFTERWORD
Yes, panties are nice. Especially if clean and fresh. But it's more about the person inside of them. Who should also be clean and fresh.
That is all.
Please note the handy clickable label below ('Panties'). Hitting it will bring up everything I have to say about such, most recent post first. Which today is this. Just go below for more insight into the matter.
Pipe tobacco is also mentioned.
But no bare-chested men.
This is the first time.
For that subject.
NOTE: The scenes above are from the Polish movie 'With Fire And Sword', about the Cossack revolt that ushered in the twilight of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. When informed that the Poles were sending a military force to suppress ferment in the trans-Borysthene Ukraine, the leader of the Zaporizhian Sedge ('Kozaki Zaporoski') Bogdan Chmielnitski responded by marching against them, and in a series of well-done attacks routed their hosts. For the next several years Poland and Ukrayina burned, while the Polish king struggled against the constipation of his nobles and the magnates of the realm. All of this is lovingly detailed in the novels 'Ogniem i mieczem', 'Potop', and 'Pan Wołodyjewski', written by Henri Sienkiewits in the late nineteenth century.
Further note: Polish feminine nether garments might be red with white lace trim, Ukrainian scanties possibly blue with gold embroidery. But this is just random irresponsible speculation.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, June 13, 2013
CHRISTIAN SCHOOLS UNDERMINE INTEGRATION
According to Amsterdam resident Burcin Cakir, religious educational institutions, such as Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish grammar and high schools, prepare their graduates for little more than an isolationistic existence, and should not be in any way state-supported, or perhaps even tolerated.
You will note that his name shows him to be a non-native of Amsterdam. And you can probably guess his derivation. Yes, his ancestry does indeed lie in a country where till not too long ago Sharia was the basis of law (*).
And you might well suspect him of certain tendencies which cause rabid gibbering in paranoid outposts of the internet.
The target of his ire, however, is not per se the lamentable Christianizing tendencies of parochial schools, catering to fine people of faith, nor the Jewish academies inculcating halachic adherencies, but the Ibn Ghaldoun institution in Rotterdam, that being an Islamic high-school whose students come from a Muslim background.
Here's what Burcin Cakir effendi has to say about religious schools:
"Ik heb nooit begrepen waarom men in een land waarin er een scheiding van kerk en staat zou moeten zijn, scholen op religieuze grondslag toestaat. En dat geldt dubbel voor islamitische scholen, die volgens rapporten van de onderwijsinspectie alleen maar segregatie in de hand werken en zeer lage onderwijsprestaties afleveren."
[Translation: I have never understood why, in a country where church and state are allegedly separated, religious schools are allowed to exist. And that goes double for Islamic schools, which, according to the reports of the education board, only ensure segregation and yield extremely low academic results.]
Source: http://www.telegraaf.nl/watuzegt/21646582/___Integratie_wordt_gedwarsboomd___.html (In Dutch, from the Telegraaf newspaper.
"Ibn Ghaldoun is een typisch voorbeeld van zo’n school. Een liberale moslim zal zijn kind nooit naar een islamitische school sturen. Enerzijds vanwege de slechte kwaliteit van het onderwijs en anderzijds omdat hij de geest van zijn kind niet wil laten corrumperen door conservatieve (lees: extremistische) moslims."
[Translation: Ibn Ghaldoun is a typical example of such a school. A liberal Muslim would never send his child to such an Islamic school; on the one hand because of the lousy quality of education, on the other because he would not wish the mind of his child to be corrupted by conservative (i.e. extremist) Muslims.]
"Ik heb dan ook geen goed woord over voor de ouders van de Ibn Ghaldoun-leerlingen. Zij bereiden hun kinderen niet voor op een goede toekomst, ze veroordelen hen juist tot een bestaan buiten de Nederlandse maatschappij. En de linkse en christelijke partijen die weigeren het onderwijs in Nederland openbaar te maken, zijn medeplichtig. Zij steunen niet alleen scholen als Ibn Ghaldoun, ze zorgen er bijvoorbeeld ook voor dat op dergelijke scholen Arabisch als eindexamenvak gegeven mag worden. Een vak dat voor de Nederlandse samenleving en economie geen enkele waarde heeft. Ondertussen keldert het onderwijsniveau al decennialang."
[Translation: Consequently, I have nothing good to say about the parents of the Ibn Ghaldoun students. They are not preparing their children for a good future, but rather condemn them to an existence outside of Netherlandish society. And the leftwing and Christian parties that refuse to make education in the Netherlands purely public are complicit. They not only support schools like Ibn Ghaldoun, they also provide that Arabic is final-exam material in such schools; a subject which has absolutely no value whatsoever to Dutch society or the Dutch economy. And in the meantime, educational standards have been plummeting for decades.]
And there you have it. Here a Dutchman of Muslim derivation slams ALL religious schools. And rightly so. In a country where Church and State are separate, religious propagandizing in lieu of public education should not be tolerated. If nutball parents want their kids to get any faith-based instruction, it should be entirely secondary to the public curriculum and in no way at all sabotage their children's intellectual development or understanding of the knowledge tax-funded institutions impart.
AFTERTHOUGHT
Here in California. it is public education that suffers, as the great American mob has made it clear that in the main they will not support any education at all, and prefer everyone who depends upon the public school system to end up as illiterate and ignorant as they can possibly be. Parents who wish their children to have a future fight to get them into those very few institutions that will inculcate a modicum of learning.
Hence upstanding Muslims sending their sons and daughters to Catholic schools, Wasps moving to gated communities, and the general desperation of San Francisco families to get their offspring into Lowell High.
In general, Americans are no dumber than anyone else.
Until they graduate.
Usually.
NOTES
Amsterdam is a liberal metropolis in northern Europe, you may have heard of the place. They speak Dutch there. Burcin Cakir is a Turkish name, it does not fit Dutch naming conventions or orthography; Turks are not originally from Northern Europe.
Many Amsterdammers with whom you should be familiar (e.g., a well-known playwright, a portraitist, a disputatious philosopher, et autres) similarly came from elsewhere.
Sharia is the Islamic law-code. Among other things it is remarkable for extremely rigorous standards of evidence and testimony, especially as regards offenses which require a punishment that cannot be undone; standards which the Salafists & Wahabis have discarded almost entirely.
Until the Hatt-ı Şerif-ı Gülhane (Tanzimât Fermânı, 1839), Sharia was the basis for Ottoman law. Successive promulgations increasingly supplanted religious law with civil code, at last replacing the entire structure with a system that guaranteed rights to all irrespective of creed or caste. This process was continued under Atatürk, and it should be noted that while many European countries still in some way enshrine religion as a basis for the state, by 1922 Turkey was a secular republic.
Turks in Northern Europe immigrated during the seventies and eighties because many middle-class Europeans refused to do necessary jobs; since then they have raised families, sent their children to school, and opened businesses. For some strange reason, in Holland a lot of them vote for the Christian Democratic Appeal and other not-left-wing parties.
They also write books.
Ibn Ghaldoun was a great philosopher and the father of modern historiography, in addition to being a Renaissance man of extraordinary talents. The Islamic school named after him in Rotterdam has recently been embroiled in a scandal involving stolen answers to final exams.
Ibn Ghaldoun, naturally, is a scholar whose labours will receive no attention in many Christian circles, as he contradicts their fondly held superstitions. Here is what he says about evolution: "The animal world then widens, its species become numerous, and, in a gradual process of creation, it finally leads to man, who is able to think and to reflect. The higher stage of man is reached from the world of the monkeys, in which both sagacity and perception are found, but which has not reached the stage of actual reflection and thinking. At this point we come to the first stage of man after the world of monkeys. This is as far as our physical observation extends." This is a suspiciously keen statement; clearly not suitable for fundamentalists.
As-sayid Abu-Zayd Abdur-Rahman ibn Muhammad ibn Khaldun al Hadramawti effendi would be most displeased that the students of the school named after him so dishonoured his memory.
As who wouldn't.
* * * * * * *
I should probably mention that when I lived in the Netherlands, the schools which I attended were indeed public and laudably secular. That was not the case with many of my contemporaries, most of whom went to rigid Catholic institutions where they were taught that we and everyone else at the public school were heathens, damned for all eternity, and to be avoided at all costs. Many of them have since then realized that other people are also human, but some of them remained the nasty narrow-minded little shits they were when finally spewed out by the monks.
Additionally, a number of children were sent to Protestant schools, so that their precious little souls would never get corrupted by ideas not vetted by clench-arsed Calvinist theologians.
For further critical thoughts about the Netherlands, click this link: Rottekaas.
You may not like what you find, however.
For more favourable reviews of both the country and the people, you might want to read the entries here: Valkenswaard.
These posts will show their more pleasant side as well as my own.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You will note that his name shows him to be a non-native of Amsterdam. And you can probably guess his derivation. Yes, his ancestry does indeed lie in a country where till not too long ago Sharia was the basis of law (*).
And you might well suspect him of certain tendencies which cause rabid gibbering in paranoid outposts of the internet.
The target of his ire, however, is not per se the lamentable Christianizing tendencies of parochial schools, catering to fine people of faith, nor the Jewish academies inculcating halachic adherencies, but the Ibn Ghaldoun institution in Rotterdam, that being an Islamic high-school whose students come from a Muslim background.
Here's what Burcin Cakir effendi has to say about religious schools:
"Ik heb nooit begrepen waarom men in een land waarin er een scheiding van kerk en staat zou moeten zijn, scholen op religieuze grondslag toestaat. En dat geldt dubbel voor islamitische scholen, die volgens rapporten van de onderwijsinspectie alleen maar segregatie in de hand werken en zeer lage onderwijsprestaties afleveren."
[Translation: I have never understood why, in a country where church and state are allegedly separated, religious schools are allowed to exist. And that goes double for Islamic schools, which, according to the reports of the education board, only ensure segregation and yield extremely low academic results.]
Source: http://www.telegraaf.nl/watuzegt/21646582/___Integratie_wordt_gedwarsboomd___.html (In Dutch, from the Telegraaf newspaper.
"Ibn Ghaldoun is een typisch voorbeeld van zo’n school. Een liberale moslim zal zijn kind nooit naar een islamitische school sturen. Enerzijds vanwege de slechte kwaliteit van het onderwijs en anderzijds omdat hij de geest van zijn kind niet wil laten corrumperen door conservatieve (lees: extremistische) moslims."
[Translation: Ibn Ghaldoun is a typical example of such a school. A liberal Muslim would never send his child to such an Islamic school; on the one hand because of the lousy quality of education, on the other because he would not wish the mind of his child to be corrupted by conservative (i.e. extremist) Muslims.]
"Ik heb dan ook geen goed woord over voor de ouders van de Ibn Ghaldoun-leerlingen. Zij bereiden hun kinderen niet voor op een goede toekomst, ze veroordelen hen juist tot een bestaan buiten de Nederlandse maatschappij. En de linkse en christelijke partijen die weigeren het onderwijs in Nederland openbaar te maken, zijn medeplichtig. Zij steunen niet alleen scholen als Ibn Ghaldoun, ze zorgen er bijvoorbeeld ook voor dat op dergelijke scholen Arabisch als eindexamenvak gegeven mag worden. Een vak dat voor de Nederlandse samenleving en economie geen enkele waarde heeft. Ondertussen keldert het onderwijsniveau al decennialang."
[Translation: Consequently, I have nothing good to say about the parents of the Ibn Ghaldoun students. They are not preparing their children for a good future, but rather condemn them to an existence outside of Netherlandish society. And the leftwing and Christian parties that refuse to make education in the Netherlands purely public are complicit. They not only support schools like Ibn Ghaldoun, they also provide that Arabic is final-exam material in such schools; a subject which has absolutely no value whatsoever to Dutch society or the Dutch economy. And in the meantime, educational standards have been plummeting for decades.]
And there you have it. Here a Dutchman of Muslim derivation slams ALL religious schools. And rightly so. In a country where Church and State are separate, religious propagandizing in lieu of public education should not be tolerated. If nutball parents want their kids to get any faith-based instruction, it should be entirely secondary to the public curriculum and in no way at all sabotage their children's intellectual development or understanding of the knowledge tax-funded institutions impart.
AFTERTHOUGHT
Here in California. it is public education that suffers, as the great American mob has made it clear that in the main they will not support any education at all, and prefer everyone who depends upon the public school system to end up as illiterate and ignorant as they can possibly be. Parents who wish their children to have a future fight to get them into those very few institutions that will inculcate a modicum of learning.
Hence upstanding Muslims sending their sons and daughters to Catholic schools, Wasps moving to gated communities, and the general desperation of San Francisco families to get their offspring into Lowell High.
In general, Americans are no dumber than anyone else.
Until they graduate.
Usually.
NOTES
Amsterdam is a liberal metropolis in northern Europe, you may have heard of the place. They speak Dutch there. Burcin Cakir is a Turkish name, it does not fit Dutch naming conventions or orthography; Turks are not originally from Northern Europe.
Many Amsterdammers with whom you should be familiar (e.g., a well-known playwright, a portraitist, a disputatious philosopher, et autres) similarly came from elsewhere.
Sharia is the Islamic law-code. Among other things it is remarkable for extremely rigorous standards of evidence and testimony, especially as regards offenses which require a punishment that cannot be undone; standards which the Salafists & Wahabis have discarded almost entirely.
Until the Hatt-ı Şerif-ı Gülhane (Tanzimât Fermânı, 1839), Sharia was the basis for Ottoman law. Successive promulgations increasingly supplanted religious law with civil code, at last replacing the entire structure with a system that guaranteed rights to all irrespective of creed or caste. This process was continued under Atatürk, and it should be noted that while many European countries still in some way enshrine religion as a basis for the state, by 1922 Turkey was a secular republic.
Turks in Northern Europe immigrated during the seventies and eighties because many middle-class Europeans refused to do necessary jobs; since then they have raised families, sent their children to school, and opened businesses. For some strange reason, in Holland a lot of them vote for the Christian Democratic Appeal and other not-left-wing parties.
They also write books.
Ibn Ghaldoun was a great philosopher and the father of modern historiography, in addition to being a Renaissance man of extraordinary talents. The Islamic school named after him in Rotterdam has recently been embroiled in a scandal involving stolen answers to final exams.
Ibn Ghaldoun, naturally, is a scholar whose labours will receive no attention in many Christian circles, as he contradicts their fondly held superstitions. Here is what he says about evolution: "The animal world then widens, its species become numerous, and, in a gradual process of creation, it finally leads to man, who is able to think and to reflect. The higher stage of man is reached from the world of the monkeys, in which both sagacity and perception are found, but which has not reached the stage of actual reflection and thinking. At this point we come to the first stage of man after the world of monkeys. This is as far as our physical observation extends." This is a suspiciously keen statement; clearly not suitable for fundamentalists.
As-sayid Abu-Zayd Abdur-Rahman ibn Muhammad ibn Khaldun al Hadramawti effendi would be most displeased that the students of the school named after him so dishonoured his memory.
As who wouldn't.
* * * * * * *
I should probably mention that when I lived in the Netherlands, the schools which I attended were indeed public and laudably secular. That was not the case with many of my contemporaries, most of whom went to rigid Catholic institutions where they were taught that we and everyone else at the public school were heathens, damned for all eternity, and to be avoided at all costs. Many of them have since then realized that other people are also human, but some of them remained the nasty narrow-minded little shits they were when finally spewed out by the monks.
Additionally, a number of children were sent to Protestant schools, so that their precious little souls would never get corrupted by ideas not vetted by clench-arsed Calvinist theologians.
For further critical thoughts about the Netherlands, click this link: Rottekaas.
You may not like what you find, however.
For more favourable reviews of both the country and the people, you might want to read the entries here: Valkenswaard.
These posts will show their more pleasant side as well as my own.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE UNSTUFFED SHIRT
Usually I stop smoking in the apartment before two o'clock, as it takes about three to five hours for the place to air-out. The other person who lives here is a non-smoker, you see, and while her sense of smell is blessedly poor, she will notice the reek if tobacco was burning too soon before she returns home at around seven.
The reason why I am living with a non-smoker is because we're good friends, and you have to have someone you trust around your stuff.
Which is why she and I will continue living together.
Despite both of us having quite separate lives.
Never give up on a reliable person.
It's that simple.
[Also, I will admit that I'm an immense opportunist: she's still thoughtful and considerate towards me, and one could scarcely find a better person.]
By tea-time I am usually so desperate for a pipe-full that I cross the hill into Chinatown, where I will load-up a briar and indulge, after a cup of tea and a snacky-poo.
A man has got to have his snacky-poo.
Chinatown is the perfect place to wander around reeking of pipe-tobacco.
The Chinese take three things for granted: many men smoke; white people smell peculiar; and middle-aged dudes will be odd. Consequently there is nowhere near the level of aggravation that demonstrating such a bad habit might cause elsewhere, like in the Financial District, near a herd of wheat-germ snarfing Berkeleyites, or around perky little cheerleader types.
Heaven forfend that a man should light up in enemy territory.
And yes, I do know that smoking is bad for me.
My growth is already stunted, thank you.
My apartment-mate, being herself Chinese, takes for granted that I have bad habits, smell peculiar, and tend toward a unique individuality (oddness). On the other hand, she's always appreciated that I can be trusted around her stuff, and that I've NEVER stopped respecting her teddy bear. Both of them (she and the fearsome teddy bear) rather wonder if I'll ever start dating again, and though they haven't said it, they hope I will find someone suitable. Which means, obviously, not a wheat-germ snarfing Berkeleyite, OR a perky little cheerleader type.
Honestly, I probably wouldn't mind the latter.
At least not too much. At the beginning.
Scratch that; perky means stupid.
Much like 'Berkeleyite'.
Poo on perky.
Tea and snacky-poos. A sincere tolerance for other people's regrettably non-smoking teddy bears, and a fervent dislike of Berkeleyites and perky cheerleader types. Someone who is capable of appreciating oddness (i.e. "unique individuality"), with one or two innocently bad habits of her own.
Who wouldn't mind the aroma of fine tobacco.
Perhaps willing to try a pipe.
Before 2 o'clock.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The reason why I am living with a non-smoker is because we're good friends, and you have to have someone you trust around your stuff.
Which is why she and I will continue living together.
Despite both of us having quite separate lives.
Never give up on a reliable person.
It's that simple.
[Also, I will admit that I'm an immense opportunist: she's still thoughtful and considerate towards me, and one could scarcely find a better person.]
By tea-time I am usually so desperate for a pipe-full that I cross the hill into Chinatown, where I will load-up a briar and indulge, after a cup of tea and a snacky-poo.
A man has got to have his snacky-poo.
Chinatown is the perfect place to wander around reeking of pipe-tobacco.
The Chinese take three things for granted: many men smoke; white people smell peculiar; and middle-aged dudes will be odd. Consequently there is nowhere near the level of aggravation that demonstrating such a bad habit might cause elsewhere, like in the Financial District, near a herd of wheat-germ snarfing Berkeleyites, or around perky little cheerleader types.
Heaven forfend that a man should light up in enemy territory.
And yes, I do know that smoking is bad for me.
My growth is already stunted, thank you.
My apartment-mate, being herself Chinese, takes for granted that I have bad habits, smell peculiar, and tend toward a unique individuality (oddness). On the other hand, she's always appreciated that I can be trusted around her stuff, and that I've NEVER stopped respecting her teddy bear. Both of them (she and the fearsome teddy bear) rather wonder if I'll ever start dating again, and though they haven't said it, they hope I will find someone suitable. Which means, obviously, not a wheat-germ snarfing Berkeleyite, OR a perky little cheerleader type.
Honestly, I probably wouldn't mind the latter.
At least not too much. At the beginning.
Scratch that; perky means stupid.
Much like 'Berkeleyite'.
Poo on perky.
Tea and snacky-poos. A sincere tolerance for other people's regrettably non-smoking teddy bears, and a fervent dislike of Berkeleyites and perky cheerleader types. Someone who is capable of appreciating oddness (i.e. "unique individuality"), with one or two innocently bad habits of her own.
Who wouldn't mind the aroma of fine tobacco.
Perhaps willing to try a pipe.
Before 2 o'clock.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
LEADING THE YOUNG ASTRAY
It's sad that so many of today's teenagers are so differently depraved that it's nearly impossible to tempt them with old-fashioned sin. They're tattooed, knowledgeable about cocktails and energy drinks, and busy huffing electronic cigarettes outside the school gates.
Probably pierced, blasted, and plugged.
The innocence is gone.
That innocence used to have such promise!
Back in the good old days, before cell-phones, super sensemilla pot strains, and casual rampant use of Ecstasy, hormone supplements, and mom's prescription Valium, kids were delightfully fresh faced and gullible.
And so easy to misguide.
Almost any young man of around fifteen or sixteen would happily purchase a pipe and some aromatic tobacco, or a bunch of cheap stogies bound with a ribbon (factory seconds), then jauntily stroll down the boulevard emitting smoke, and in all ways fancying himself a real dapper Dan.
Cute and by no means limp-wristed or slack-jawed girls would observe him out of the corner of their eye, and think "thrilling!"
And, it is conceivable, resolve to acquire their own smoking accoutrement plus Cavendish, or some cheroots to enjoy privately in a very quiet place, because after all cigars and briars are a male prerogative and though they are fascinated they do not wish their peers to think them gender-bent.
That just doesn't happen anymore.
Yes, this blogger is a calculating and dangerous man to have around your young; I have little real objection to teenagers learning about tobacco and pretending to be quiet and mature adults. It's far better than huffing weed and cruising for splatter porn on the internet, then posting pictures of themselves committing unnatural acts on facebook.
Or pictures of their parents doing so.
A different time, a different place.
When I was a wee lad of fifteen or sixteen, I already had a collection of briars, and was starting to learn about the quality of things. My opinions were not yet fully formed, but my companions and I were reading grown-up books (Marxist theory, Multatuli, Science-Fiction, and mediaeval literature), plus vociferating over imperialism, politics, and the very latest agricultural advances.
Slight exxageration.
But only slight.
Evenso.
We would hang around on the Merendreef after school, passing packs of dark shag around, and conversationally veering into things more suited to an older crowd. If you aspired to adulthood and maturity, and acted always accordingly, chances of being treated as a sensible individual were good.
Civilized people have self-control, and share tobacco.
"Ludwig, I'm a bit short, can I roll one of yours?"
"Of course Nicodemus old man, here's the pouch."
And Ludwig (Lodewijk, or 'Loetje') would hand over the packet of pitch-black hairy tobacco for Nicodemus (Niko or 'Niekje') to gratefully and with adept fingers produce a factory-perfect cigarette which he would slowly savour, as it might be many hours before he had another.
Then both gentlemen would head over to one or the other's house, where they would make a pot of unbearably strong coffee and swear unprintably over algebra till the parents came home.
In addition to knowing and judging all the brands of shag tobacco, pipe tobacco, and affordable cigars, we also knew and judged Karel Ende Elegast, Elkerlijck, Bredero, Stranger in a Strange Land, Bleak House, Catch 22, The Gallic Wars, Plutarch, Suetonius, Mash, Bonanza, and Kojak. Plus Asimov and Jan de Hartog.
We found them all equal.
As well as very useful for understanding the complexities of Asterix and Obelix, Guust Flater, Vader en Zoon, and many other comic strips.
Having discovered coffee, we were often high as a kite.
Boys and girls alike, no difference.
Shag and beans.
[Shag and beans: brands such as Erven de Weduwe van Nelle (both), Douwe Egberts (both), Dragon super-zwaar (tobacco) and other Van Rossem brands, Niemeyer (tobacco), the house brands of Albert Heyn (coffee), Twinings (綠茶), Sobranie (my preference), Dunhill (fancy ciggies and good pipetobacco), State Express, Coopvaert (Maryland), Voortrekker (Maryland), Sail (nasty), James keller & Sons (marmalade, essential for a buttered toast snack), and the merest touch of innocently depraved lipstick (girls only) in cerise or rubicundum.]
I doubt that we were any more interesting than teenagers are today -- exciting only to each other and elderly deviants -- but we probably did have a much better vocabulary, and tastes more keenly felt.
Yes, given half a chance, I would indeed lure a delightful young thing into a life of sin. Instruct her on the proper method for packing and lighting her pipes, how to tell good briar from bad, which tobaccos are suitable for quiet evenings over books with coffee, and why Perique differs from all other leaf.
Or how to roll a perfect smoke out of dark fragrant string-cut; female hands can be quite sensitive.
You cut the end of the cigar just so, that way there's still a shoulder.
Miss, you look so scholarly with that.
Adorable and grown-up!
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Probably pierced, blasted, and plugged.
The innocence is gone.
That innocence used to have such promise!
Back in the good old days, before cell-phones, super sensemilla pot strains, and casual rampant use of Ecstasy, hormone supplements, and mom's prescription Valium, kids were delightfully fresh faced and gullible.
And so easy to misguide.
Almost any young man of around fifteen or sixteen would happily purchase a pipe and some aromatic tobacco, or a bunch of cheap stogies bound with a ribbon (factory seconds), then jauntily stroll down the boulevard emitting smoke, and in all ways fancying himself a real dapper Dan.
Cute and by no means limp-wristed or slack-jawed girls would observe him out of the corner of their eye, and think "thrilling!"
And, it is conceivable, resolve to acquire their own smoking accoutrement plus Cavendish, or some cheroots to enjoy privately in a very quiet place, because after all cigars and briars are a male prerogative and though they are fascinated they do not wish their peers to think them gender-bent.
That just doesn't happen anymore.
Yes, this blogger is a calculating and dangerous man to have around your young; I have little real objection to teenagers learning about tobacco and pretending to be quiet and mature adults. It's far better than huffing weed and cruising for splatter porn on the internet, then posting pictures of themselves committing unnatural acts on facebook.
Or pictures of their parents doing so.
A different time, a different place.
When I was a wee lad of fifteen or sixteen, I already had a collection of briars, and was starting to learn about the quality of things. My opinions were not yet fully formed, but my companions and I were reading grown-up books (Marxist theory, Multatuli, Science-Fiction, and mediaeval literature), plus vociferating over imperialism, politics, and the very latest agricultural advances.
Slight exxageration.
But only slight.
Evenso.
We would hang around on the Merendreef after school, passing packs of dark shag around, and conversationally veering into things more suited to an older crowd. If you aspired to adulthood and maturity, and acted always accordingly, chances of being treated as a sensible individual were good.
Civilized people have self-control, and share tobacco.
"Ludwig, I'm a bit short, can I roll one of yours?"
"Of course Nicodemus old man, here's the pouch."
And Ludwig (Lodewijk, or 'Loetje') would hand over the packet of pitch-black hairy tobacco for Nicodemus (Niko or 'Niekje') to gratefully and with adept fingers produce a factory-perfect cigarette which he would slowly savour, as it might be many hours before he had another.
Then both gentlemen would head over to one or the other's house, where they would make a pot of unbearably strong coffee and swear unprintably over algebra till the parents came home.
In addition to knowing and judging all the brands of shag tobacco, pipe tobacco, and affordable cigars, we also knew and judged Karel Ende Elegast, Elkerlijck, Bredero, Stranger in a Strange Land, Bleak House, Catch 22, The Gallic Wars, Plutarch, Suetonius, Mash, Bonanza, and Kojak. Plus Asimov and Jan de Hartog.
We found them all equal.
As well as very useful for understanding the complexities of Asterix and Obelix, Guust Flater, Vader en Zoon, and many other comic strips.
Having discovered coffee, we were often high as a kite.
Boys and girls alike, no difference.
Shag and beans.
[Shag and beans: brands such as Erven de Weduwe van Nelle (both), Douwe Egberts (both), Dragon super-zwaar (tobacco) and other Van Rossem brands, Niemeyer (tobacco), the house brands of Albert Heyn (coffee), Twinings (綠茶), Sobranie (my preference), Dunhill (fancy ciggies and good pipetobacco), State Express, Coopvaert (Maryland), Voortrekker (Maryland), Sail (nasty), James keller & Sons (marmalade, essential for a buttered toast snack), and the merest touch of innocently depraved lipstick (girls only) in cerise or rubicundum.]
I doubt that we were any more interesting than teenagers are today -- exciting only to each other and elderly deviants -- but we probably did have a much better vocabulary, and tastes more keenly felt.
Yes, given half a chance, I would indeed lure a delightful young thing into a life of sin. Instruct her on the proper method for packing and lighting her pipes, how to tell good briar from bad, which tobaccos are suitable for quiet evenings over books with coffee, and why Perique differs from all other leaf.
Or how to roll a perfect smoke out of dark fragrant string-cut; female hands can be quite sensitive.
You cut the end of the cigar just so, that way there's still a shoulder.
Miss, you look so scholarly with that.
Adorable and grown-up!
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE THOUGHT PROCESS THAT LEADS TO SHERRY
The reason why you never see rabbits drinking tea is because the cups are too large. When you are small, furry, and incredibly silly, something of that size is just too unwieldy. You will end up with hot liquid all over your torso.
You are proud of your fur, it makes you look cute. And if you are a rabbit, being cute is the only thing you have going for you.
Leverage takes brains. As wells as dexterity.
The rabbits are excited enough already.
Manifestly NOT tea-drinkers.
They congregate at the local Starbucks instead, where there are flavours like mocha-raspberry frappucino, high-fructose cornsyrup hazelnut Latte bombs, and blueberry muffin soy grandes. Hot hippity bevies, plus WiFi.
If you ever wondered why those drinks come in tall paper cups with lids that have a small opening at the top for sucking, now you know. Rabbits.
It's that early morning rutting behaviour that keeps me out of the local Starbucks, what with being a sensitive man and all. I should rather find a place where calm thoughtful badgers and vibrant little weasels gather for mid-afternoon tea, except that badgers are more solitarily inclined, and weasels are very full of beans and never stick around anywhere long.
Bus to catch, shoe-store to raid, and rabbits to torment.
So much to do! So much to do!
The quiet and reserved weasel will make her own pot of tea; Darjeeling or Assam to enjoy while reading for a few hours. And the pensive badger, in his loamy dwelling, has a cup or two of fragrant keemun while devouring The Cathedral by Hugh Walpole. The only occasion you might see them is when they wander down to the cheese shop at Polk and Pacific.
But they are too intent on snackies at that time to talk.
A hunk of Wensleydale, and some crackers.
Perhaps a little sherry.
I've run out of sherry.
Need to get another bottle.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
You are proud of your fur, it makes you look cute. And if you are a rabbit, being cute is the only thing you have going for you.
Leverage takes brains. As wells as dexterity.
The rabbits are excited enough already.
Manifestly NOT tea-drinkers.
They congregate at the local Starbucks instead, where there are flavours like mocha-raspberry frappucino, high-fructose cornsyrup hazelnut Latte bombs, and blueberry muffin soy grandes. Hot hippity bevies, plus WiFi.
If you ever wondered why those drinks come in tall paper cups with lids that have a small opening at the top for sucking, now you know. Rabbits.
It's that early morning rutting behaviour that keeps me out of the local Starbucks, what with being a sensitive man and all. I should rather find a place where calm thoughtful badgers and vibrant little weasels gather for mid-afternoon tea, except that badgers are more solitarily inclined, and weasels are very full of beans and never stick around anywhere long.
Bus to catch, shoe-store to raid, and rabbits to torment.
So much to do! So much to do!
The quiet and reserved weasel will make her own pot of tea; Darjeeling or Assam to enjoy while reading for a few hours. And the pensive badger, in his loamy dwelling, has a cup or two of fragrant keemun while devouring The Cathedral by Hugh Walpole. The only occasion you might see them is when they wander down to the cheese shop at Polk and Pacific.
But they are too intent on snackies at that time to talk.
A hunk of Wensleydale, and some crackers.
Perhaps a little sherry.
I've run out of sherry.
Need to get another bottle.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
THE BOOKS YOU READ
I'm probably not the only one who does this. It's actually quite normal.
Or used to be. One of the things I always do when visiting someone is surreptitiously scope out the selection of books on their shelves. It's fascinating to see what other people read, and it says much about them. Their choice of reading matter describes them better than they themselves ever could.
One of my friends has a well-thumbed copy of The Da Vinci Code on his bedside table. One might think that it's there to bore him to sleep, but that would be wrong.
If you open it up, you will notice that nearly every page has a cogently rude comment written on it in red ink. Often several. He reads it when he's awake at night, and he cannot resist betraying that he used to teach 'creative writing'. The author (Dan Brown) gets a failing grade.
The Da Vinci Code is a load of codswallop.
Jejeune, stultifying, and turgid.
I have read more of it than almost anyone else I know. Frequent commenter here under amphibious pseudonyms S.H. claims he put it down after the first sentence. My ex read an entire paragraph. And I myself managed to get nearly two pages in before concluding that it was crap.
My friend with the red pen has read the entire thing. Several times. He's a glutton for punishment.
Another book that makes for a truly nasty reading experience is Memoirs of a Geisha.
I browsed through it at a bookstore for about an hour before deciding that everyone who had recommended it to me ("you should read it, it's so Asian, something you would like") had their head in a very uncomfortable place. Remarkable, because until then I had thought them sane and intelligent.
They had never spoken about The Da Vinci code, you see.
That fooled me into respecting them.
Which was wrong.
If you really need to read something "so Asian", try Hello Kitty Must Die, by Angela S. Choi. It's quite rip. Roaring. Demented. Pithy. And inspired.
Only tangentially about virginity.
Food plays a major role in the book.
It is not a sensitive portrayal of sweet Asian femininity and victimhood, or of the artistic meaningful spiritual aspect of an ancient culture. And consequently it is a far better read than Memoirs of a Geisha (by a white dude) could ever possibly be.
Artistic meaningful spiritual gives me gas.
My apartment is overloaded with books. Much is fiction, many are reference, and several are utter trash. An infinitesimally small percentage is meaningful or sensitive.
Absolutely none of it is The Da Vinci Code.
One of these days I'd like to meet someone who fondly remembers reading Beatrix Potter as a child. Or as an adult.
They would probably be fascinating to talk to.
And have good book recommendations.
As well as animalistic tendencies.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or used to be. One of the things I always do when visiting someone is surreptitiously scope out the selection of books on their shelves. It's fascinating to see what other people read, and it says much about them. Their choice of reading matter describes them better than they themselves ever could.
One of my friends has a well-thumbed copy of The Da Vinci Code on his bedside table. One might think that it's there to bore him to sleep, but that would be wrong.
If you open it up, you will notice that nearly every page has a cogently rude comment written on it in red ink. Often several. He reads it when he's awake at night, and he cannot resist betraying that he used to teach 'creative writing'. The author (Dan Brown) gets a failing grade.
The Da Vinci Code is a load of codswallop.
Jejeune, stultifying, and turgid.
I have read more of it than almost anyone else I know. Frequent commenter here under amphibious pseudonyms S.H. claims he put it down after the first sentence. My ex read an entire paragraph. And I myself managed to get nearly two pages in before concluding that it was crap.
My friend with the red pen has read the entire thing. Several times. He's a glutton for punishment.
Another book that makes for a truly nasty reading experience is Memoirs of a Geisha.
I browsed through it at a bookstore for about an hour before deciding that everyone who had recommended it to me ("you should read it, it's so Asian, something you would like") had their head in a very uncomfortable place. Remarkable, because until then I had thought them sane and intelligent.
They had never spoken about The Da Vinci code, you see.
That fooled me into respecting them.
Which was wrong.
If you really need to read something "so Asian", try Hello Kitty Must Die, by Angela S. Choi. It's quite rip. Roaring. Demented. Pithy. And inspired.
Only tangentially about virginity.
Food plays a major role in the book.
It is not a sensitive portrayal of sweet Asian femininity and victimhood, or of the artistic meaningful spiritual aspect of an ancient culture. And consequently it is a far better read than Memoirs of a Geisha (by a white dude) could ever possibly be.
Artistic meaningful spiritual gives me gas.
My apartment is overloaded with books. Much is fiction, many are reference, and several are utter trash. An infinitesimally small percentage is meaningful or sensitive.
Absolutely none of it is The Da Vinci Code.
One of these days I'd like to meet someone who fondly remembers reading Beatrix Potter as a child. Or as an adult.
They would probably be fascinating to talk to.
And have good book recommendations.
As well as animalistic tendencies.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, June 10, 2013
MEN! SUCH TROUBLE!
White people do not speak Cantonese. This is well known. They don't speak Mandarin either -- well, most of them -- and sometimes they're just invisible.
Especially when scarfing down yummies in the corner.
Almost non-existant!
SMAKELIJK - TASTY
I was in the back of an eatery in Chinatown enjoying a really inexpensive but oh-so-good bowl of wonton noodle soup when the kids came in. About half a dozen of them clustered up at the counter and placed their orders, then waited for their food while those who had not had a chance to ask auntie (the women behind the register) if those cheungfan were really fresh, did she have chindeui, ooh that deep fried thing is what?, and other food related questions, made a tumultuous attempt to get theirs before others got anything.
Food is the consuming passion of all Cantonese.
Life without food would bore them to death.
It could be the only time they don't talk.
But it isn't; food fuels conversation.
Love and philosophy combined
One of the boys, who was probably only about twelve or thirteen, used his recently acquired skills in Mandarin to speak to one of the young ladies.
Who may have been a little older, though she didn't look it.
"Wah, siau-chieh, wo chen shee-wang neee!"
[嘩，小姐，我真喜歡你！ Oh, miss, I reeeaaally like you!]
To which, naturally, her response was "yee chwun!
[愚蠢！ Stoo-pid!]
This may have been the reaction he was looking for, as he continued.
"Neee shir hen piao-liang de, siau-chieh, wo siang chiau-la neeee!"
[你是漂亮的，小姐，我想交了你！ You are very beautiful, I wish to date you!]
Quite forward of him, and her reaction was appropriate: "chew szzzz!"
[去死！ Go die!]
He giggled.
"Chiau ni ah, tan lien ai gay wo!"
[求你啊，談戀愛給我！ I beg you, go steady with me!]
Her companions were openly grinning at this point, and his friends were equally amused, but it was evident that she didn't appreciate the attention. Even if it was in a mixture of nearly unintelligible text-book Mandarin and creative phonetic guesswork.
He seemed extraordinarily pleased with himself. Wow, that foreign language (Mandarin) is actually good for something, not just the evening news!
She restrained herself from smacking him a good one.
"Mei-li de nuerhhhhh!"
[美麗的女兒！ Bee-yoo-tee-full girlllllll]
She drew back to hit him.
Then the counterwoman stepped in.
"Hey! Fools! You're food is ready!"
She and her friends retired to a table with their delicious noodles. She was still grumbling, but the steaming bowl in front of her demanded her attention, and soon pacified her.
He got his plate and went to another table.
As he ate, I could hear him happily mumbling.
"Ah, siau myen-pau ah, wo chen sheewang ni" (啊，小麵飽啊，我真喜歡你 oh little bun ah, I really like you). "Ni de pi na-moh liu-liu hwa-hwa de, chen ke ai..". (你的皮哪麼溜溜滑滑的，真可愛... your skin is so smooth and silky, truly adorable...).
"Hen siang, hen mei, shirfun hao chir, chen bu kan..."
And at this point, I cannot figure out how to translate it.
Either "very fragrant (香), very beautiful (美)", or "very fresh (鮮), very tasty (味)".
And utterly delicious (十分好吃), truly cannot bear it (真不堪).
He may have been using Mandarin to obliquely "court", if that is the right word, one of his classmates. More likely he just wanted to irritate the spit out of her. After all, if you say it in Mandarin, you're not really saying it; it's just for funsies.
But he was utterly sincere when speaking to his food.
The girl and her tablemates waited till he had left before talking about serious matters. Then they all agreed that men were 噉麻煩, 好肉麻 (gam maa fan, ho yiuk maa - so irritating, very 'frazzle the flesh').
Gik-sei (激死), in fact.
Men were quite the most difficult thing on the planet.
I'm inclined to agree.
男人，真係茶煲。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Especially when scarfing down yummies in the corner.
Almost non-existant!
SMAKELIJK - TASTY
I was in the back of an eatery in Chinatown enjoying a really inexpensive but oh-so-good bowl of wonton noodle soup when the kids came in. About half a dozen of them clustered up at the counter and placed their orders, then waited for their food while those who had not had a chance to ask auntie (the women behind the register) if those cheungfan were really fresh, did she have chindeui, ooh that deep fried thing is what?, and other food related questions, made a tumultuous attempt to get theirs before others got anything.
Food is the consuming passion of all Cantonese.
Life without food would bore them to death.
It could be the only time they don't talk.
But it isn't; food fuels conversation.
Love and philosophy combined
One of the boys, who was probably only about twelve or thirteen, used his recently acquired skills in Mandarin to speak to one of the young ladies.
Who may have been a little older, though she didn't look it.
"Wah, siau-chieh, wo chen shee-wang neee!"
[嘩，小姐，我真喜歡你！ Oh, miss, I reeeaaally like you!]
To which, naturally, her response was "yee chwun!
[愚蠢！ Stoo-pid!]
This may have been the reaction he was looking for, as he continued.
"Neee shir hen piao-liang de, siau-chieh, wo siang chiau-la neeee!"
[你是漂亮的，小姐，我想交了你！ You are very beautiful, I wish to date you!]
Quite forward of him, and her reaction was appropriate: "chew szzzz!"
[去死！ Go die!]
He giggled.
"Chiau ni ah, tan lien ai gay wo!"
[求你啊，談戀愛給我！ I beg you, go steady with me!]
Her companions were openly grinning at this point, and his friends were equally amused, but it was evident that she didn't appreciate the attention. Even if it was in a mixture of nearly unintelligible text-book Mandarin and creative phonetic guesswork.
He seemed extraordinarily pleased with himself. Wow, that foreign language (Mandarin) is actually good for something, not just the evening news!
She restrained herself from smacking him a good one.
"Mei-li de nuerhhhhh!"
[美麗的女兒！ Bee-yoo-tee-full girlllllll]
She drew back to hit him.
Then the counterwoman stepped in.
"Hey! Fools! You're food is ready!"
She and her friends retired to a table with their delicious noodles. She was still grumbling, but the steaming bowl in front of her demanded her attention, and soon pacified her.
He got his plate and went to another table.
As he ate, I could hear him happily mumbling.
"Ah, siau myen-pau ah, wo chen sheewang ni" (啊，小麵飽啊，我真喜歡你 oh little bun ah, I really like you). "Ni de pi na-moh liu-liu hwa-hwa de, chen ke ai..". (你的皮哪麼溜溜滑滑的，真可愛... your skin is so smooth and silky, truly adorable...).
"Hen siang, hen mei, shirfun hao chir, chen bu kan..."
And at this point, I cannot figure out how to translate it.
Either "very fragrant (香), very beautiful (美)", or "very fresh (鮮), very tasty (味)".
And utterly delicious (十分好吃), truly cannot bear it (真不堪).
He may have been using Mandarin to obliquely "court", if that is the right word, one of his classmates. More likely he just wanted to irritate the spit out of her. After all, if you say it in Mandarin, you're not really saying it; it's just for funsies.
But he was utterly sincere when speaking to his food.
The girl and her tablemates waited till he had left before talking about serious matters. Then they all agreed that men were 噉麻煩, 好肉麻 (gam maa fan, ho yiuk maa - so irritating, very 'frazzle the flesh').
Gik-sei (激死), in fact.
Men were quite the most difficult thing on the planet.
I'm inclined to agree.
男人，真係茶煲。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, June 09, 2013
THAT'S NOT MY EGG!
Earlier in the day I watched lively turdids eating worms. They skipped through the grass, heads down, till they found dinner, then jerked forward and seized their prey with their sharp straight beaks, pulling and yanking.
The one nearest me proved an adept hunter, which probably explained
why he was a fat little bird. Or she. I have no idea how to sex fowl.
And the identification as a turdid (thrush) is only speculative.
I'm fairly certain about the sparrows, though.
And anyone can identify a pigeon.
Later, while waiting for the bus on Pacific, I was startled by the biggest raven that I have ever seen. It landed across the street, and purposefully strode over to the car where the old gentleman was waiting for his relative. There was a flock of pigeons on top of the car, underneath, on the side-walk beside, and in front. Several birds happily perched on the roof, surveying their kingdom with a lordly air. The raven ambled over, as if to socialize all palsy-walsy hail fellow well met, and the pigeons politely gave way. Which was a wise move, given that the big black bird towered over them, and as everyone including a pigeon knows, ravens are extremely intelligent.
One naturally gives them a bit of space.
The interplay between pigeons, car, and raven continued for several minutes, till the driver's female relation showed up, whereupon the conveyance slowly took off up Pacific with several birds still on the roof. One by one they took flight, leaving a single bird holding on for dear life (Leonardo DiCaprio, "I'm the king of the world"), to the wonder of an elderly lady who swivelled her head to follow its stately progress past.
The last bird spread wing by the time they reached Miriwa Center.
Meanwhile, the raven flew onto the awning above me, and scrambled up under the roofing. I could hear the scrabbling sounds its feet made, and went a bit into the street to observe it. Once it got to the stable footing of the awning ridge, it sidled sideways, scooting along for several yards along the wall. Occasionally it looked in my direction, but it was mostly interested in the area with all the pigeon droppings.
Finally it found what it wanted. Carefully and deliberately it reached in, then slid down to the street-side of the awning, looked at me one last time, and took off with an egg in its beak.
I'm glad to see that someone has a use for pigeons.
We need more ravens in San Francisco.
The passengers on the Pacific bus, when it finally came, were not nearly so interesting, and a lot less chipper. Probably because they did not have a clue where to get their evening egg.
Obviously not as intelligent as a raven.
Dinner that night was a fried chicken foetus on hot buttered toast, with tomatoes, green chilies, and other tasty things.
It seemed the natural thing to do.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The one nearest me proved an adept hunter, which probably explained
why he was a fat little bird. Or she. I have no idea how to sex fowl.
And the identification as a turdid (thrush) is only speculative.
I'm fairly certain about the sparrows, though.
And anyone can identify a pigeon.
Later, while waiting for the bus on Pacific, I was startled by the biggest raven that I have ever seen. It landed across the street, and purposefully strode over to the car where the old gentleman was waiting for his relative. There was a flock of pigeons on top of the car, underneath, on the side-walk beside, and in front. Several birds happily perched on the roof, surveying their kingdom with a lordly air. The raven ambled over, as if to socialize all palsy-walsy hail fellow well met, and the pigeons politely gave way. Which was a wise move, given that the big black bird towered over them, and as everyone including a pigeon knows, ravens are extremely intelligent.
One naturally gives them a bit of space.
The interplay between pigeons, car, and raven continued for several minutes, till the driver's female relation showed up, whereupon the conveyance slowly took off up Pacific with several birds still on the roof. One by one they took flight, leaving a single bird holding on for dear life (Leonardo DiCaprio, "I'm the king of the world"), to the wonder of an elderly lady who swivelled her head to follow its stately progress past.
The last bird spread wing by the time they reached Miriwa Center.
Meanwhile, the raven flew onto the awning above me, and scrambled up under the roofing. I could hear the scrabbling sounds its feet made, and went a bit into the street to observe it. Once it got to the stable footing of the awning ridge, it sidled sideways, scooting along for several yards along the wall. Occasionally it looked in my direction, but it was mostly interested in the area with all the pigeon droppings.
Finally it found what it wanted. Carefully and deliberately it reached in, then slid down to the street-side of the awning, looked at me one last time, and took off with an egg in its beak.
I'm glad to see that someone has a use for pigeons.
We need more ravens in San Francisco.
The passengers on the Pacific bus, when it finally came, were not nearly so interesting, and a lot less chipper. Probably because they did not have a clue where to get their evening egg.
Obviously not as intelligent as a raven.
Dinner that night was a fried chicken foetus on hot buttered toast, with tomatoes, green chilies, and other tasty things.
It seemed the natural thing to do.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
BAAI TABAK
One of the tastes (or smells) that brings back long memory trains is Baai Tabak ("Bay tobacco"), that being what the Dutch call thin ribbon-cut leaf predominantly from Maryland, formerly shipped out via the Chesapeake.
Most of the currently available Netherlandish products in this category nowadays are sauced, often with extractives in the nasty aromatic vein.
Messing with the smell in such a fashion does nothing for the tobacco, and simply offends the rememberant.
It is remarkable that the damned Danes have not figured this out yet.
[All Dutch pipe tobaccos are presently manufactured in Scandinavia, where tobacco traditions are entirely different. Some fine products come out of the frigid boggy north, but many respected names now exist only in fantastically unlikeable interpretations. Good whores, those Danes.]
A real Baai Tabak consist overwhelmingly of plain barn-cured Maryland in a thin ribbon-cut, slightly steamed and fermented, then slow-dried to a proper humidity level for packaging. Flue-cured leaf as well as Burley may be added, provided in proper measure (minor proportions, in other words), and similarly treated.
[Stellar representations of the oeuvre: Echte Friesche Heeren Baai. Taconis et autres.]
The smell of such a product is pleasant, light, slightly nutty, and without the cloying sweetness of cigarettes or fruity flakes. There should be NO added sugar, nor any suggestion of vanilla, maple, chocolate, rum, or any other stinkum. It is supposed to be a clean healthy mixture.
Not a Viking perversion.
Voortrekker, Vier Heeren Baai, Rode Ster Rooktabak, Van Nelle's Echte Baai Tabak, Coopvaert, Echte Friesche Heeren Baai, and Troost Baai.
That last had some very odd leaves from the East Indies, but was still mostly barn-cured, and till the later years of production, unsauced.
The closest thing to Baai Tabak nowadays, given what those damned Danes have done, is probably the type of tobacco sold as Cavendish-cut for rolling into cigarettes. These are slightly broader in texture than regular shag, and for tax purposes categorized as pipe-tobacco. Yes, they roll a decent smoke, but they also perform very well in a briar. Most of these are, naturally, flue-cured leaves. But the "Amsterdam Cavendish" has a slight taste of something a Dutchman would recognize, the "Danish Cavendish" is mild and smokes very pleasantly, and the "Norwegian Cavendish" is quite enjoyable; smooth, sweet, and nutty. All need a little drying for the pipe, as they come finger-moist.
These are good simple products, of a more than decent quality.
Those damned Danes are doing something right.
Straightforward and honest.
Unfortunately, the avidly sought nose memory isn't there. They aren't, at the end of reckoning, from Maryland, where leaves grow that are exceptionally deficient in natural sweetness, like Burley, but also low in Nicotine, nearly at the impoverished level of Turkish.
A little age makes it a remarkable smoke.
Naturally fragrant.
The government of the state of Maryland expends much time and effort on discouraging the planting of tobacco, seeing as they're bucking for most politically correct green and fluffy socially responsible collection of pussy-pukes in the nation, and each year less and less acreage is devoted to the oldest cash crop they have. Once no more is grown there, there will be no reason to even visit them; they don't do anything else worth note.
Some Maryland-type tobacco is grown in Italy.
Baai Tabak today is not the same as it was.
The world is now a colder meaner place.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Most of the currently available Netherlandish products in this category nowadays are sauced, often with extractives in the nasty aromatic vein.
Messing with the smell in such a fashion does nothing for the tobacco, and simply offends the rememberant.
It is remarkable that the damned Danes have not figured this out yet.
[All Dutch pipe tobaccos are presently manufactured in Scandinavia, where tobacco traditions are entirely different. Some fine products come out of the frigid boggy north, but many respected names now exist only in fantastically unlikeable interpretations. Good whores, those Danes.]
A real Baai Tabak consist overwhelmingly of plain barn-cured Maryland in a thin ribbon-cut, slightly steamed and fermented, then slow-dried to a proper humidity level for packaging. Flue-cured leaf as well as Burley may be added, provided in proper measure (minor proportions, in other words), and similarly treated.
[Stellar representations of the oeuvre: Echte Friesche Heeren Baai. Taconis et autres.]
The smell of such a product is pleasant, light, slightly nutty, and without the cloying sweetness of cigarettes or fruity flakes. There should be NO added sugar, nor any suggestion of vanilla, maple, chocolate, rum, or any other stinkum. It is supposed to be a clean healthy mixture.
Not a Viking perversion.
Voortrekker, Vier Heeren Baai, Rode Ster Rooktabak, Van Nelle's Echte Baai Tabak, Coopvaert, Echte Friesche Heeren Baai, and Troost Baai.
That last had some very odd leaves from the East Indies, but was still mostly barn-cured, and till the later years of production, unsauced.
The closest thing to Baai Tabak nowadays, given what those damned Danes have done, is probably the type of tobacco sold as Cavendish-cut for rolling into cigarettes. These are slightly broader in texture than regular shag, and for tax purposes categorized as pipe-tobacco. Yes, they roll a decent smoke, but they also perform very well in a briar. Most of these are, naturally, flue-cured leaves. But the "Amsterdam Cavendish" has a slight taste of something a Dutchman would recognize, the "Danish Cavendish" is mild and smokes very pleasantly, and the "Norwegian Cavendish" is quite enjoyable; smooth, sweet, and nutty. All need a little drying for the pipe, as they come finger-moist.
These are good simple products, of a more than decent quality.
Those damned Danes are doing something right.
Straightforward and honest.
Unfortunately, the avidly sought nose memory isn't there. They aren't, at the end of reckoning, from Maryland, where leaves grow that are exceptionally deficient in natural sweetness, like Burley, but also low in Nicotine, nearly at the impoverished level of Turkish.
A little age makes it a remarkable smoke.
Naturally fragrant.
The government of the state of Maryland expends much time and effort on discouraging the planting of tobacco, seeing as they're bucking for most politically correct green and fluffy socially responsible collection of pussy-pukes in the nation, and each year less and less acreage is devoted to the oldest cash crop they have. Once no more is grown there, there will be no reason to even visit them; they don't do anything else worth note.
Some Maryland-type tobacco is grown in Italy.
Baai Tabak today is not the same as it was.
The world is now a colder meaner place.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, June 08, 2013
PERSONAL GROOMING FOR SPACE ALIENS.
Living with a Cantonese American female can be educational. My apartment-mate, Savage Kitten, is of that type. The great advantage of Cantonese American females is that they take up less space than large Nordic women, or even Dutch American types.
They are also a little weirder.
Okay, a lot.
Often, on weekend days when she plans to see her boyfriend, she will be in the teevee room watching the Real Housewives of Somewhere, revelling in white-woman vulgarity, with her pants rolled up to her knees, plucking leg hairs. Yes, people of Cantonese extraction do have hair there. Though if you're dating one, you might not know it.
They're black hairs, starkly visible.
Not pale shades of brown.
Pluckity pluckity.
Over two years ago when she first started seeing Wheelie Boy, she went through a period where she was also doing her nails and discovering all the femmy things that she had overlooked during her adolescence and first two decades of adult-hood. She's slim and youthful enough looking that this was no haggard pretence at a second spring, but polished augmentation of a fruit still perfect.
She no longer does the nails -- I think the crimson lacquer repines lonesome in her room wondering what happened to its faded popularity -- but she still yanks the hairs on her calves.
Jeans rolled up, sneaker-shod foot on the table, tweezers at ready.
A man of similar age will seldom do such things.
Men are not inclined toward a physical aesthetic.
Heck, most men are rather disgusting slobs, who will happily ignore any amount of personal hygiene till the Human Resources department comes bellyaching that the interns are green and fainting.
"Oh really", they will say, "I had NO idea that they huddled in fear behind the file cabinets".
And they promise they'll do something about the robust smell.
Stale cigars, bourbon whiskey, and pepperoni.
Three-month old blue jeans.
Soggy paper.
Years ago I regularly visited an ancient gentleman in the evening to discuss literature. He was ill, and consequently padded around his apartment in his pajamas, with his feet showing.
I could not help noticing that his toenails were too long.
Thick, yellowed, and sort of ridgy.
Beast-like.
Most men past middle age will neglect at least a few elements of personal hygiene on a daily basis. Some have crumbs from yesterday in their beard, others have a luxuriant growth of fine white hairs flourishing in their ears, and a few even cultivate belly button lint factories unbeknownst.
Wheresoever they go, they leave a relic.
It struck me that my elderly friend had absolutely no intention of making himself attractive to the opposite gender. Despite his lonesomeness and excellent social skills.
Gentlemen,
Trim your damned toenails! If those crackled yellow claws look like deadly weapons, no one will want to handle your feet! And for heavens' sake, deal with the ear-hair too. If you EVER want a sweet young thing (say, someone between twenty and fifty-three) to nibble on your lobes with sincere affection, those horrid tendrils have to go. And please disinfect your belly button while you're at it. I know you're fascinated by the tendency of lint to collect there, because every motion mechanically carries the fuz forward to the pit of the navel along the curves of your stomach hairs, eventually aggragating in an enormous furry octopus of cotton fibres and discarded trash, but damn!
Other people are NOT interested in your octopus!
Essential behavioural adjuncts for any man past thirty that must be stressed: foot powder, razor blades, nail clippers, tooth brush, tweezers.
And get a haircut!
I still clip, tweeze and otherwise groom myself, despite my complete faith that there will be NO sweet young things wandering into my life.
[Lets face it; perky cheerleaders with codger fetishes ONLY exist in literature. The pom-pom macoute prefer freshly showered football jocks who reek of testosterone and Old-Spice, over rather nice middle-aged pipesmokers. That's just the way it is.]
Here it is, Saturday night, and I'm washed, wearing clean clothes, and quite presentable. I look and feel civilized. But that's just a matter of self-respect. Instead of meeting someone of the female persuasion for a late dinner, and perhaps some discrete hand-holding, I shall head down to a place where I can smoke a few bowls and day-dream by myself, spending time in the company of tactful people who are somewhat similarly engaged.
My hair was recently cut, it is currently combed. My fingernails and toenails are clean and trimmed. Except for my freshly brushed beard, my chin skin is smooth. A veritable baby's bum.
Even the nasty purple tentacles growing out of my back that I use to kidnap little kids for the Trans-Galactic Slave Trade are washed and out of sight.
I look passably human.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They are also a little weirder.
Okay, a lot.
Often, on weekend days when she plans to see her boyfriend, she will be in the teevee room watching the Real Housewives of Somewhere, revelling in white-woman vulgarity, with her pants rolled up to her knees, plucking leg hairs. Yes, people of Cantonese extraction do have hair there. Though if you're dating one, you might not know it.
They're black hairs, starkly visible.
Not pale shades of brown.
Pluckity pluckity.
Over two years ago when she first started seeing Wheelie Boy, she went through a period where she was also doing her nails and discovering all the femmy things that she had overlooked during her adolescence and first two decades of adult-hood. She's slim and youthful enough looking that this was no haggard pretence at a second spring, but polished augmentation of a fruit still perfect.
She no longer does the nails -- I think the crimson lacquer repines lonesome in her room wondering what happened to its faded popularity -- but she still yanks the hairs on her calves.
Jeans rolled up, sneaker-shod foot on the table, tweezers at ready.
A man of similar age will seldom do such things.
Men are not inclined toward a physical aesthetic.
Heck, most men are rather disgusting slobs, who will happily ignore any amount of personal hygiene till the Human Resources department comes bellyaching that the interns are green and fainting.
"Oh really", they will say, "I had NO idea that they huddled in fear behind the file cabinets".
And they promise they'll do something about the robust smell.
Stale cigars, bourbon whiskey, and pepperoni.
Three-month old blue jeans.
Soggy paper.
Years ago I regularly visited an ancient gentleman in the evening to discuss literature. He was ill, and consequently padded around his apartment in his pajamas, with his feet showing.
I could not help noticing that his toenails were too long.
Thick, yellowed, and sort of ridgy.
Beast-like.
Most men past middle age will neglect at least a few elements of personal hygiene on a daily basis. Some have crumbs from yesterday in their beard, others have a luxuriant growth of fine white hairs flourishing in their ears, and a few even cultivate belly button lint factories unbeknownst.
Wheresoever they go, they leave a relic.
It struck me that my elderly friend had absolutely no intention of making himself attractive to the opposite gender. Despite his lonesomeness and excellent social skills.
Gentlemen,
Trim your damned toenails! If those crackled yellow claws look like deadly weapons, no one will want to handle your feet! And for heavens' sake, deal with the ear-hair too. If you EVER want a sweet young thing (say, someone between twenty and fifty-three) to nibble on your lobes with sincere affection, those horrid tendrils have to go. And please disinfect your belly button while you're at it. I know you're fascinated by the tendency of lint to collect there, because every motion mechanically carries the fuz forward to the pit of the navel along the curves of your stomach hairs, eventually aggragating in an enormous furry octopus of cotton fibres and discarded trash, but damn!
Other people are NOT interested in your octopus!
Essential behavioural adjuncts for any man past thirty that must be stressed: foot powder, razor blades, nail clippers, tooth brush, tweezers.
And get a haircut!
I still clip, tweeze and otherwise groom myself, despite my complete faith that there will be NO sweet young things wandering into my life.
[Lets face it; perky cheerleaders with codger fetishes ONLY exist in literature. The pom-pom macoute prefer freshly showered football jocks who reek of testosterone and Old-Spice, over rather nice middle-aged pipesmokers. That's just the way it is.]
Here it is, Saturday night, and I'm washed, wearing clean clothes, and quite presentable. I look and feel civilized. But that's just a matter of self-respect. Instead of meeting someone of the female persuasion for a late dinner, and perhaps some discrete hand-holding, I shall head down to a place where I can smoke a few bowls and day-dream by myself, spending time in the company of tactful people who are somewhat similarly engaged.
My hair was recently cut, it is currently combed. My fingernails and toenails are clean and trimmed. Except for my freshly brushed beard, my chin skin is smooth. A veritable baby's bum.
Even the nasty purple tentacles growing out of my back that I use to kidnap little kids for the Trans-Galactic Slave Trade are washed and out of sight.
I look passably human.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, June 07, 2013
SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT MORE MARLBOROS
The top two thirds are leaves, the trunks are below that. Big rigid clusters stick right up out of the mass, the others droop over. There is shade under the trees, and in the darkness there, huts can be seen. A cloud of smoke billows amid the wooden stripes, cooking fire backlit by the dawn light.
Languages and dialects morph as you go upriver. And water is the easiest way to get here. But you know that it would be madness to stop.
Something is wrong, there is too much silence.
There are parts here where the PC has gone over to the side of the loggers, and some villages bear permanent witness to that transformation.
Clean upstanding Christian boys from the Cag valley become different here. When they finally go back north again, their wives and sweethearts help them dream.
The colours are intense. Yellows, orange, green in a hundred dark shades, brown, and black.
Grey where the smoke rises above the trees.
Remarkably, there is no red.
There should be.
What expensive American equipment does is miraculous. Neat lines like zippers, or the perforations along which you might tear the scene apart.
It all looks frightfully clean.
In silence we head further up the stream. Praise be, we make scant sound, and hear even less. A few miles further on the heat drives thoughts from our minds and the temple pillars of the forest beckon with cool black shade.
But do not stop. Not now. This isn't a good place. Still too moist.
There's a whup whup whup from a long way away.
We'll know when we get to regular plantings of coconut palms. Distant fires are friendlier there. They might even have tinned fish.
There's crud on my face.
First shave in five days.
No more aspirin.
1985.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Languages and dialects morph as you go upriver. And water is the easiest way to get here. But you know that it would be madness to stop.
Something is wrong, there is too much silence.
There are parts here where the PC has gone over to the side of the loggers, and some villages bear permanent witness to that transformation.
Clean upstanding Christian boys from the Cag valley become different here. When they finally go back north again, their wives and sweethearts help them dream.
The colours are intense. Yellows, orange, green in a hundred dark shades, brown, and black.
Grey where the smoke rises above the trees.
Remarkably, there is no red.
There should be.
What expensive American equipment does is miraculous. Neat lines like zippers, or the perforations along which you might tear the scene apart.
It all looks frightfully clean.
In silence we head further up the stream. Praise be, we make scant sound, and hear even less. A few miles further on the heat drives thoughts from our minds and the temple pillars of the forest beckon with cool black shade.
But do not stop. Not now. This isn't a good place. Still too moist.
There's a whup whup whup from a long way away.
We'll know when we get to regular plantings of coconut palms. Distant fires are friendlier there. They might even have tinned fish.
There's crud on my face.
First shave in five days.
No more aspirin.
1985.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, June 06, 2013
WHY THIS BLOGGER DOES NOT HAVE A CELL-PHONE
There are times when I strongly identify with Kermit the Frog. No, not due to any physical similarity, as I am neither green nor bulbous of central torso.
But I do wear a trenchcoat and fedora well.
Much like the ace reporter of Sesame Street fame.
Again, I stress that I am not green.
Not even cabbage-hued.
Most of the time.
Kermit, as a noteworthy Amphibian American, is a role model, as I'm sure that you will agree. And, as the most mature and sensible individual in show-business for many years, he sets the tone.
Certainly he's a better person than nearly everyone currently featured in the gossip pages, and he's NEVER been involved in public displays of vulgarity, misbehaviour, sexual shenanigans, or snorting a line of coke off Paris Hilton's boobs.
That sets him apart.
I likewise have never snorted coke off Paris Hilton's frontage.
Even if given the chance, I wouldn't do that.
I like boobs, but not hers.
Nice boobs.
The best boobs are attached to the best people. It's as simple as that. A fine growth of mammary gland is by definition NOT involved with cocaine, ever, NOR with celebrity misbehaviour. Praise-worthy boobs are discrete; you cannot read about them in the Hollywood Reporter.
I have every reason to believe that a righteous frog like Kermit would NEVER associate with delinquent body parts.
I aim to be as upstanding as Kermit.
Slightly naughty boobs, perhaps, but only in private, and without any cell-phone nearby. There is nothing quite so destructive to reputations in this modern world as cellular devices with photographic capabilities, and people with intelligence and good taste switch those devices off if there's even a hint of boobish nudity possible in the immediate near-future.
Boobs and cell-phones do not mix.
Frogs, however, are different.
Ribbit.
[DOT]
[DOT]
[DOT]
I love the smell of coffee in the morning, it smells like green spirit!
Nothing else smells like that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But I do wear a trenchcoat and fedora well.
Much like the ace reporter of Sesame Street fame.
Again, I stress that I am not green.
Not even cabbage-hued.
Most of the time.
Kermit, as a noteworthy Amphibian American, is a role model, as I'm sure that you will agree. And, as the most mature and sensible individual in show-business for many years, he sets the tone.
Certainly he's a better person than nearly everyone currently featured in the gossip pages, and he's NEVER been involved in public displays of vulgarity, misbehaviour, sexual shenanigans, or snorting a line of coke off Paris Hilton's boobs.
That sets him apart.
I likewise have never snorted coke off Paris Hilton's frontage.
Even if given the chance, I wouldn't do that.
I like boobs, but not hers.
Nice boobs.
The best boobs are attached to the best people. It's as simple as that. A fine growth of mammary gland is by definition NOT involved with cocaine, ever, NOR with celebrity misbehaviour. Praise-worthy boobs are discrete; you cannot read about them in the Hollywood Reporter.
I have every reason to believe that a righteous frog like Kermit would NEVER associate with delinquent body parts.
I aim to be as upstanding as Kermit.
Slightly naughty boobs, perhaps, but only in private, and without any cell-phone nearby. There is nothing quite so destructive to reputations in this modern world as cellular devices with photographic capabilities, and people with intelligence and good taste switch those devices off if there's even a hint of boobish nudity possible in the immediate near-future.
Boobs and cell-phones do not mix.
Frogs, however, are different.
Ribbit.
[DOT]
[DOT]
[DOT]
I love the smell of coffee in the morning, it smells like green spirit!
Nothing else smells like that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
BETWEEN THE TREATY AND THE SWORD
One of the things which is remarkable about tribal societies is their sense that they alone represent the civilized world, all else is chaos and ignorance.
It's an insularity that sometimes goes haywire -- in our own country we've seen manifestations of such, think 'tea party' -- but in less developed parts of the world and in the past it sometimes was justified. The Mongols and the Turks assumed themselves to be the bees knees, but those they slaughtered had good reason to think otherwise.
In the Malayo-Polynesian world, many ethnicities took the animalistic nature of their neighbors for granted, and often strove mightily to protect civilization as they understood it.
NGABAENG NA DAYANG MANTJIT-TAMRENG
Tamadja nhi prabawa ilang sa lawot, Buwanten djuga tirog. Padjalap na panghibet mapuwi-puwo sa ngelongan, dari Duban ka Djambo banghurok makuwit-besi magrampok.
Ri Tubok-Lanen, bunyi parang sehi kabakalan dagat, bawo na kapatjokan itis datang taas Tama-Dambo. Tathapi ki pradjeno kangkaga'te, kaya banghaloro - ri surim na malem, tarang; sa panes na are, lelem guot. Bahelian kuno maukop, bugat puna.
Urasa angin mapaet, tan minum wae maasem; iriri pa wakt na bala. Udenger bunyi garandang maderongdong ri bungto; ki bangsa-bangsa matagbang.
Kabanyean na Kuwengen-hu, kita lahang tanggat mahawansa.
Uurip, tan banta.
Translation:
'Expressive statement of (or by) lady Mantjit-Tamreng'
'The power of Tamadja has disappeared into the past, and Buwanten also sleeps. The warships of the loathsome ones sail back and forth in the strait; from the southern tip to the northern promontories brigands with iron skins commit piracy.
In Tubok-Lanen, the sounds of battle are like the tumult of the ocean, the stench of slaughter inevitably must also come to Tama-Dambo. However, the responsibility (of maintaining civilization) is utterly firm, as it was transmitted - in the dark of night, brightness; during the heat of day, shaded and cool. Our ancient heritage is fragrant, weighty also.
Note the bitter winds, and drink the sour water; consider the time of recompense. Hear the sound of war drums thundering in the mountains; the tribes are on the rise.
Oh multitude of Kuwengen, we yet posses greatness.
Live, and fight.'
The polities named as Tamadja and Buwanten were the nation-states on Java and Sumatra during the pre-Islamic period, the "loathsome ones" (panghibet) were most likely the Portuguese, especially as they are described as 'iron-skinned' (makuwit-besi) and 'pillaging' (magrampok).
Tubok-Lanen ("reefy coastal passage") was to the south of Tama-Dambo ("the place of mangroves"), thought the exact locations I cannot determine. The entire cultural realm, between Duban (regionymic of a pre-Islamic territory) and Djambo ('the tassel') is 'Kuwengen'.
Lady Mantjit-Tamreng was a leader in her own right, being descended from important clans on both sides. This factor is fairly common for the ethnicities in the entire Borneo - Mindanao - Sulawesi triangle, where women were often powerful players, if they combined leadership qualities, and noble descent from paternal and maternal lineages.
Both families are anciently famous, Tamreng survived into the colonial era.
In Moro society noble women would be carried; their feet should not touch the common dirt. In the inconvertible inland areas of Borneo and Celebes (Sulawesi) and among some Dayak tribes they often strode forth and committed mayhem in their own name.
Kahakeian ite, djangpawan tja
'That which was entrusted, must be preserved'
Often the conflict between heavy responsibility and sheer joyous bloodlust was resolved by events. Sometimes a happy coincidence, more often an urgent need. Throughout the epoch from the fall of the ancient empires of Srivijaya and Mataram to the "pacification" imposed by colonial powers, the various tribes, ethnic polities, and trade-ports struggled with each other for survival, and the opportunistic rapaciousness of the Arabs and Portuguese smoothly transitioned to the brutal cruelty of Lanon slave-raiding, eventually Islamicising the coasts and driving the more stubborn elements into the hills.
The Dutch, English, and American imperialists did not bring civilization.
But they brought a relative calm, and were in any case better than the Catholics and the Muslims.
The hand on the sword hilt is often more important than the blade itself. Strong leaders and their factions cannot be single-facetted.
NOTE: The title of this blogpost translates the phrase 'antara kreang tan maempuwanon' - between the blade and the treaties. Both are necessary, and the ideal state is often in the tension between them.
Strength and agreement must be in balance.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's an insularity that sometimes goes haywire -- in our own country we've seen manifestations of such, think 'tea party' -- but in less developed parts of the world and in the past it sometimes was justified. The Mongols and the Turks assumed themselves to be the bees knees, but those they slaughtered had good reason to think otherwise.
In the Malayo-Polynesian world, many ethnicities took the animalistic nature of their neighbors for granted, and often strove mightily to protect civilization as they understood it.
NGABAENG NA DAYANG MANTJIT-TAMRENG
Tamadja nhi prabawa ilang sa lawot, Buwanten djuga tirog. Padjalap na panghibet mapuwi-puwo sa ngelongan, dari Duban ka Djambo banghurok makuwit-besi magrampok.
Ri Tubok-Lanen, bunyi parang sehi kabakalan dagat, bawo na kapatjokan itis datang taas Tama-Dambo. Tathapi ki pradjeno kangkaga'te, kaya banghaloro - ri surim na malem, tarang; sa panes na are, lelem guot. Bahelian kuno maukop, bugat puna.
Urasa angin mapaet, tan minum wae maasem; iriri pa wakt na bala. Udenger bunyi garandang maderongdong ri bungto; ki bangsa-bangsa matagbang.
Kabanyean na Kuwengen-hu, kita lahang tanggat mahawansa.
Uurip, tan banta.
Translation:
'Expressive statement of (or by) lady Mantjit-Tamreng'
'The power of Tamadja has disappeared into the past, and Buwanten also sleeps. The warships of the loathsome ones sail back and forth in the strait; from the southern tip to the northern promontories brigands with iron skins commit piracy.
In Tubok-Lanen, the sounds of battle are like the tumult of the ocean, the stench of slaughter inevitably must also come to Tama-Dambo. However, the responsibility (of maintaining civilization) is utterly firm, as it was transmitted - in the dark of night, brightness; during the heat of day, shaded and cool. Our ancient heritage is fragrant, weighty also.
Note the bitter winds, and drink the sour water; consider the time of recompense. Hear the sound of war drums thundering in the mountains; the tribes are on the rise.
Oh multitude of Kuwengen, we yet posses greatness.
Live, and fight.'
The polities named as Tamadja and Buwanten were the nation-states on Java and Sumatra during the pre-Islamic period, the "loathsome ones" (panghibet) were most likely the Portuguese, especially as they are described as 'iron-skinned' (makuwit-besi) and 'pillaging' (magrampok).
Tubok-Lanen ("reefy coastal passage") was to the south of Tama-Dambo ("the place of mangroves"), thought the exact locations I cannot determine. The entire cultural realm, between Duban (regionymic of a pre-Islamic territory) and Djambo ('the tassel') is 'Kuwengen'.
Lady Mantjit-Tamreng was a leader in her own right, being descended from important clans on both sides. This factor is fairly common for the ethnicities in the entire Borneo - Mindanao - Sulawesi triangle, where women were often powerful players, if they combined leadership qualities, and noble descent from paternal and maternal lineages.
Both families are anciently famous, Tamreng survived into the colonial era.
In Moro society noble women would be carried; their feet should not touch the common dirt. In the inconvertible inland areas of Borneo and Celebes (Sulawesi) and among some Dayak tribes they often strode forth and committed mayhem in their own name.
Kahakeian ite, djangpawan tja
'That which was entrusted, must be preserved'
Often the conflict between heavy responsibility and sheer joyous bloodlust was resolved by events. Sometimes a happy coincidence, more often an urgent need. Throughout the epoch from the fall of the ancient empires of Srivijaya and Mataram to the "pacification" imposed by colonial powers, the various tribes, ethnic polities, and trade-ports struggled with each other for survival, and the opportunistic rapaciousness of the Arabs and Portuguese smoothly transitioned to the brutal cruelty of Lanon slave-raiding, eventually Islamicising the coasts and driving the more stubborn elements into the hills.
The Dutch, English, and American imperialists did not bring civilization.
But they brought a relative calm, and were in any case better than the Catholics and the Muslims.
The hand on the sword hilt is often more important than the blade itself. Strong leaders and their factions cannot be single-facetted.
NOTE: The title of this blogpost translates the phrase 'antara kreang tan maempuwanon' - between the blade and the treaties. Both are necessary, and the ideal state is often in the tension between them.
Strength and agreement must be in balance.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
LOOKING FOR NIPPLE IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES
Mammals, according to Wikipedia, are a clade of warm-blooded amniotes. The word mammal derives from the Latin 'mamma', meaning teat or pap.
Simply put, mammals are nipplesome.
As are the vast majority of my readers.
Some of whom come here looking for nipples.
That more than anything else qualifies as a desperate act. This blog does not post pictures of such things -- not that I object to designs of an erotic nature, you understand; as a normal healthy male I am also 'visually inclined' -- but I may at times suggestively sing the praises of that which is unseen. This blog is text-rich, but titillation-poor.
The blogpost which pulls in the nipple-seekers does not actually describe the objects -- it is instead about the French language -- but the time has come to correct that omission.
THE NIPPLE
Back to Wikipedia: "Except for the five species of monotremes (which lay eggs), all living mammals give birth to live young. Most mammals, including the six most species-rich orders, belong to the placental group. The three largest orders, in descending order, are Rodentia (mice, rats, porcupines, beavers, capybaras, and other gnawing mammals), Chiroptera (bats), and Soricomorpha (shrews, moles and solenodons). The next three largest orders, depending on the classification scheme used, are the primates, to which the human species belongs, the Cetartiodactyla (including the even-toed hoofed mammals and the whales), and the Carnivora (cats, dogs, weasels, bears, seals, and their relatives)."
Most nipples on the planet are very small (rodentia, chiroptera, and soricomorphs, et al).
Eminently portable, too.
A different Wikipedia article states that "in its most general form, a nipple is a structure from which a fluid emanates. More specifically, it is the projection on the breasts or udder of a mammal by which breast milk is delivered to a mother's young. In this sense, it is often called a teat, especially when referring to non-humans, and the medical term used to refer to it is papilla. The rubber mouthpiece of a baby bottle or pacifier may also be referred to as a "nipple" or a "teat". In many cultures, female nipples are considered an erogenous zone and it is considered a public indecency to uncover them."
There is a photograph in that article.
Only consenting adults should see nipples.
I haven't looked at nipples in a very long time.
It is rather likely that I should like to do so again.
I will certainly wax ecstatic over nipples, but not here.
[Let us just assume that this blogger has a thing for nipples, which may at some point be awakened by someone charming, intelligent, and gifted with nipples -- pretty dang soon too, I should hope -- but that whatever affection or warmth I feel toward nipples and their charming intelligent presentatrice will remain a private matter.]
That same Wikipedia article (the second one cited) details the construction of the breast, listing the components that come together to provide a nipplish mass or object as follows: chest wall (1), pectoralis muscles (2), lobules (3), nipple (4), areola (5), milk duct (6), fatty tissue (7), and lastly, skin (8).
The illustration clarifying the relative placement of these within the human mammary shows them in various pretty colours, so that you may clearly understand the warp and woof thereof.
Normally such extreme differentiation does not occur.
There is never-the-less a large choice of attractive shades in which you will find breasts, and some people tend to have particular favourites. Likewise, size and shape may vary considerably, and also have their aficionados.
Ditto for nipples.
In most circumstances the nipple and breast will be covered by a garment called a brassiere, on the design of which considerable genius has been employed. Brassieres also come in an array of hues and dimensions.
Like almost anything, brassieres can be collectible.
"Most humans have two nipples after birth, located near the center of each breast, which are surrounded by an area of sensitive, pigmented skin known as the areola. Human fetuses develop several more nipples along the milk lines, which extend from the axilla (armpit), along the abdominal muscles, and down to the pubis (groin) on both sides. Those nipples usually disappear before birth, but sometimes remain, resulting in supernumerary nipples, which uncommonly have lactiferous glands attached. "
As with nipples, I have not looked at brassieres in a long time. This is a pity, as some of them are really quite beautiful. Neither of those Wikipedia articles shows a brassiere, by the way, there's a different Wikipedia entry for that. And as with nipples, only adults should go there.
"Nipple erections are a product of the pilomotor reflex which causes goose bumps. The erection of the nipple is partially due to the cylindrically arranged muscle cells found within it. "
Instead of visiting the brassiere page, I started looking up words in Chinese. Being the curious sort that I am. One should always be keen to learn new things. As an adult I already know plenty about brassieres, but I cannot remember ever discussion these matters in Chinese.
[In Dutch, yes. Borst = breast. Tepel = nipple. BeHa ("buusten houder") = brassiere. Buusten houder means "breast holder". Tepelhof = areola. Melk klier = milk gland.]
波霸 & 爆乳
Billows and exploding dairy things
The common word for both breasts and suckling is 乳 (yü), which has little erotic connotation except in writing. In Cantonese slang, the word 波 (po) is often used, which actually means wave or breaker. Informally, 奶奶 (naai naai) may be employed in an affectionate or even cutesy-poo way. 奶 means both breast and milk, the reduplicated word is also a term for your paternal grandmother.
Sometimes 脯 (pou), which means air-dried meat, is also employed in reference to breasts , though not advisable.
Some other interesting locutions:
爆乳 baau yü: large breasts. 爆 baau: snap, crackle, pop.
咪咪 mai mai: both a transliteration of the Western name 'Mimi' as well as a slang term for breasts. It suggests small and cute, unlike 爆爆 (baau baau), which boldly states the opposite.
乳沟、胸槽 yü gau, hung chou: cleavage. 沟 gau: ditch, drain, narrow rivulet. 胸 hung: breast, bosom, thorax; one's mind. 槽 chou: vat, tank, trough; distillery.
姩 lin, nin: Cantonese slang term for breasts, with various shades of meaning and usage.
波霸 bo baa: big breasts; also the tapioca balls used in chilled tea drinks. 波 bo: waves, undulations. 霸 baa; forceful or dictatorial government. Tyranny.
膺 ying: breast, chest; to receive, to bear. A rather dry term you are more likely to encounter on acupuncture charts and in manuals.
奶罩、胸罩 naai jaau, hung jaau: brassiere. 罩 jaau: fishing basket.
奶頭 naai tau: nipple.
姩頭 nin tau: nipple.
乳頭 yü tau: nipple.
Note that 乳 is almost the same sound as 魚 (yü), which means fish.
頭 (tau) is 'head'.
魚頭咖喱 yü tau gaa lei: Singaporean fish head curry, very delicious.
咖喱魚蛋 gaa lei yü daan: curried fish balls, popular in Hong Kong.
At this point, the only thing that really comes to mind is a famous phrase from Monty Python: "my hovercraft is full of eels".
有啲鰻魚盛產晒了我嘅飛翼船
Yau di maan yü sing chaan sai le ngo ge fei yik suen....
[Sorry, Mandarin speakers, this makes NO sense in your language.]
Nipples.
Fish.
Eels.
Hovercrafts.
John Cleese.
There's a natural connection.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Simply put, mammals are nipplesome.
As are the vast majority of my readers.
Some of whom come here looking for nipples.
That more than anything else qualifies as a desperate act. This blog does not post pictures of such things -- not that I object to designs of an erotic nature, you understand; as a normal healthy male I am also 'visually inclined' -- but I may at times suggestively sing the praises of that which is unseen. This blog is text-rich, but titillation-poor.
The blogpost which pulls in the nipple-seekers does not actually describe the objects -- it is instead about the French language -- but the time has come to correct that omission.
THE NIPPLE
Back to Wikipedia: "Except for the five species of monotremes (which lay eggs), all living mammals give birth to live young. Most mammals, including the six most species-rich orders, belong to the placental group. The three largest orders, in descending order, are Rodentia (mice, rats, porcupines, beavers, capybaras, and other gnawing mammals), Chiroptera (bats), and Soricomorpha (shrews, moles and solenodons). The next three largest orders, depending on the classification scheme used, are the primates, to which the human species belongs, the Cetartiodactyla (including the even-toed hoofed mammals and the whales), and the Carnivora (cats, dogs, weasels, bears, seals, and their relatives)."
Most nipples on the planet are very small (rodentia, chiroptera, and soricomorphs, et al).
Eminently portable, too.
A different Wikipedia article states that "in its most general form, a nipple is a structure from which a fluid emanates. More specifically, it is the projection on the breasts or udder of a mammal by which breast milk is delivered to a mother's young. In this sense, it is often called a teat, especially when referring to non-humans, and the medical term used to refer to it is papilla. The rubber mouthpiece of a baby bottle or pacifier may also be referred to as a "nipple" or a "teat". In many cultures, female nipples are considered an erogenous zone and it is considered a public indecency to uncover them."
There is a photograph in that article.
Only consenting adults should see nipples.
I haven't looked at nipples in a very long time.
It is rather likely that I should like to do so again.
I will certainly wax ecstatic over nipples, but not here.
[Let us just assume that this blogger has a thing for nipples, which may at some point be awakened by someone charming, intelligent, and gifted with nipples -- pretty dang soon too, I should hope -- but that whatever affection or warmth I feel toward nipples and their charming intelligent presentatrice will remain a private matter.]
That same Wikipedia article (the second one cited) details the construction of the breast, listing the components that come together to provide a nipplish mass or object as follows: chest wall (1), pectoralis muscles (2), lobules (3), nipple (4), areola (5), milk duct (6), fatty tissue (7), and lastly, skin (8).
The illustration clarifying the relative placement of these within the human mammary shows them in various pretty colours, so that you may clearly understand the warp and woof thereof.
Normally such extreme differentiation does not occur.
There is never-the-less a large choice of attractive shades in which you will find breasts, and some people tend to have particular favourites. Likewise, size and shape may vary considerably, and also have their aficionados.
Ditto for nipples.
In most circumstances the nipple and breast will be covered by a garment called a brassiere, on the design of which considerable genius has been employed. Brassieres also come in an array of hues and dimensions.
Like almost anything, brassieres can be collectible.
"Most humans have two nipples after birth, located near the center of each breast, which are surrounded by an area of sensitive, pigmented skin known as the areola. Human fetuses develop several more nipples along the milk lines, which extend from the axilla (armpit), along the abdominal muscles, and down to the pubis (groin) on both sides. Those nipples usually disappear before birth, but sometimes remain, resulting in supernumerary nipples, which uncommonly have lactiferous glands attached. "
As with nipples, I have not looked at brassieres in a long time. This is a pity, as some of them are really quite beautiful. Neither of those Wikipedia articles shows a brassiere, by the way, there's a different Wikipedia entry for that. And as with nipples, only adults should go there.
"Nipple erections are a product of the pilomotor reflex which causes goose bumps. The erection of the nipple is partially due to the cylindrically arranged muscle cells found within it. "
Instead of visiting the brassiere page, I started looking up words in Chinese. Being the curious sort that I am. One should always be keen to learn new things. As an adult I already know plenty about brassieres, but I cannot remember ever discussion these matters in Chinese.
[In Dutch, yes. Borst = breast. Tepel = nipple. BeHa ("buusten houder") = brassiere. Buusten houder means "breast holder". Tepelhof = areola. Melk klier = milk gland.]
波霸 & 爆乳
Billows and exploding dairy things
The common word for both breasts and suckling is 乳 (yü), which has little erotic connotation except in writing. In Cantonese slang, the word 波 (po) is often used, which actually means wave or breaker. Informally, 奶奶 (naai naai) may be employed in an affectionate or even cutesy-poo way. 奶 means both breast and milk, the reduplicated word is also a term for your paternal grandmother.
Sometimes 脯 (pou), which means air-dried meat, is also employed in reference to breasts , though not advisable.
Some other interesting locutions:
爆乳 baau yü: large breasts. 爆 baau: snap, crackle, pop.
咪咪 mai mai: both a transliteration of the Western name 'Mimi' as well as a slang term for breasts. It suggests small and cute, unlike 爆爆 (baau baau), which boldly states the opposite.
乳沟、胸槽 yü gau, hung chou: cleavage. 沟 gau: ditch, drain, narrow rivulet. 胸 hung: breast, bosom, thorax; one's mind. 槽 chou: vat, tank, trough; distillery.
姩 lin, nin: Cantonese slang term for breasts, with various shades of meaning and usage.
波霸 bo baa: big breasts; also the tapioca balls used in chilled tea drinks. 波 bo: waves, undulations. 霸 baa; forceful or dictatorial government. Tyranny.
膺 ying: breast, chest; to receive, to bear. A rather dry term you are more likely to encounter on acupuncture charts and in manuals.
奶罩、胸罩 naai jaau, hung jaau: brassiere. 罩 jaau: fishing basket.
奶頭 naai tau: nipple.
姩頭 nin tau: nipple.
乳頭 yü tau: nipple.
Note that 乳 is almost the same sound as 魚 (yü), which means fish.
頭 (tau) is 'head'.
魚頭咖喱 yü tau gaa lei: Singaporean fish head curry, very delicious.
咖喱魚蛋 gaa lei yü daan: curried fish balls, popular in Hong Kong.
At this point, the only thing that really comes to mind is a famous phrase from Monty Python: "my hovercraft is full of eels".
有啲鰻魚盛產晒了我嘅飛翼船
Yau di maan yü sing chaan sai le ngo ge fei yik suen....
[Sorry, Mandarin speakers, this makes NO sense in your language.]
Nipples.
Fish.
Eels.
Hovercrafts.
John Cleese.
There's a natural connection.
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
