She came in through the Bathroom Window

2003-12-01T09:11:00.000-05:00

More Tales from Floriduh

Now that Der Gropenfuhrer, has taken over in California, people in Floriduh are feeling pretty smug. They shouldn't be. Floriduh, where the Bushling is governor, is the official stupid voter state, the place that gave birth to expressions like "hanging chads" and "dimpled chads" , and was responsible for the dodgy election of our current Commander-in- Chimp, and no, I won't get over it! I see, personal freedoms eroded daily under this administration and here in the Kingdom of Jeb, things are not alright.

A local journalist and parent Dan DeWitt, recently dropped off some innocent film to be developed local drug store chain, what follows is an amazing tale stupidity and loss of civil rights. From the St. Pete Times 11/30

"I walked into the Brooksville Eckerd one day in August prepared for mild disappointment.

Most of the pictures I was there to pick up had been taken by our young sons and were likely to be a mess.

After quickly returning two sets of prints, the clerk spent several minutes looking for the third. She talked to her manager, who asked me my name, had a look for herself and disappeared into her office.

She seemed surprisingly grave when she emerged, but I still thought she would tell me what I already suspected, that none of the pictures on the last roll could be salvaged.

No, the news was quite a bit worse.

The photographs, she said, had been turned over to the Brooksville Police Department.

I asked her why. She wouldn't say. I asked her what right Eckerd had to seize innocent pictures of my family. She arched her eyebrows to suggest they weren't so innocent.

I asked more questions, most of which she answered the same way: "By law, we have to call the police whenever we come across suspicious material."

I drove away angry but also disoriented - a feeling of beginning to fall without knowing how soon I would land.

One part of me was ready to thunder about my civil rights. Another, quieter voice, wondered what those rights were and whether, maybe, something on that roll of film was truly shocking.

Absolutely not, my wife, Laura, said when I called her.

She had given our sons, then 5 and 7, disposable cameras to record their last day at a county-sponsored bike camp. When they returned, she had used one of the cameras to take a picture of them covered with sweat and grime.

A few minutes later she took another - of freshly washed boys and the filthy bathwater they were lying in.

"Do they know I took those pictures? Their mother?" she asked. If I was stunned, she was unhinged.

I tried to reassure her with what I thought was the truth, that the police would quickly return our photographs."

more here

Another from the St Pete Times' Robyn Blummer:
Miami crowd control would do tyrant proud, During the FTAA meeting on Nov. 20, Timoney dispatched 2,500 police officers in full riot gear against a crowd estimated at 8,000 people, mostly union members and retirees.

'Ever since the melee at the 1999 World Trade Organization meeting in Seattle, where demonstrators blocked streets and vandalized stores, conference planners and public officials have adopted a no- holds-barred approach to potential large-scale protests. And Timoney is their man. Militant protesters, "punks" as he calls them, are anathema to Timoney. Shutting them down with Pinkerton prowess is his specialty. Rights, schmights.

When men like Timoney and [John Ashcroft] are on the A-list of the nation's law enforcers, free speech doesn't stand a chance. It is open season on dissent. A vignette reported by the Miami Herald says it all: During the FTAA action, Timoney came upon a protester who was pinned against a car being arrested; without knowing anything about the circumstances, he pointed a finger at the demonstrator's face and said, "You're bad. F-- you!" People exercising their First Amendment rights are now considered the enemy.

The scene was a "massive police state," according to the president of the United Steelworkers of America, who has demanded a congressional investigation. Congress gave Miami $8.5-million for security during the FTAA meetings - funds slipped inside the $87-billion measure for Iraq. The steelworkers called it money for "homeland repression."

The National Lawyers Guild, a liberal legal organization, said the day was punctuated by "indiscriminate, excessive force against hundreds of nonviolent protesters with weapons including pepper spray, tear gas, and concussion grenades and rubber bullets."

Observers said the provocation for officers to shoot rubber bullets and paint balls filled with pepper spray at the predominantly peaceable crowd was often one person lobbing an orange in the direction of police or lighting a trash can on fire.

Nikki Hartman, a 28-year-old Pinellas County resident, was shot three times with rubber bullets - once, she said, when a police officer fired point-blank at her behind after she stooped to pick up a bandanna she'd dropped. The officer had kicked it her way before shooting her. She was later shot in the back while retreating from police lines. Her friend Robert Davis was shot seven times while trying to help Hartman to her feet.

In addition to such shootings, police abandoned any legitimate basis for searching and arresting people. Miles Swanson, 25, a legal observer for the lawyers guild, was punched numerous times while being taken in by officers for pointing out undercover police dressed up as protesters. Eight of 60 guild observers were arrested that day; they wore distinctive green hats and were apparently targeted. When Swanson was grabbed off the street by three Broward County sheriff's deputies - two of whom were in ski masks - he said they told him "this is what you get when you f-- with us." Then, Swanson said, the deputies drove him around while looking for another legal observer to arrest. He ultimately pleaded no contest to one charge of obstructing justice so he could return to law school in Washington, D.C."
more

and finally some good news

The Department of Homeland Security has decided to discontinue a controversial program that required thousands of Arab and Muslim men to register with immigration authorities in the aftermath of the Sept. 11 attacks, officials said on Friday.

Hoping to hunt down terrorists, immigration officials fingerprinted, photographed and interviewed about 85,000 Muslim and Arab noncitizens between November 2002 and May 2003 under the program. The effort - the largest to register immigrants in decades - required annual registration. Men from Iran, Iraq, Syria, Libya and Sudan have already begun reporting to immigration offices for a second round of registrations this month.

Officials have acknowledged that most of the Arab and Muslim immigrants who have complied with the registration requirements had no ties to terrorist groups. Of the 85,000 men who showed up at immigration offices earlier this year, and the tens of thousands more screened at airports and border crossings during that time period, 11 had links to terrorism, officials said.

The program was sharply criticized by civil liberties groups and advocates for immigrants who said it did little to uncover terrorists and alienated the very communities that could help uncover terrorists. Advocates for immigrants have also complained that officials have done little to publicize the second round of registrations, touching off waves of confusion and anxiety.

2003-11-25T09:21:00.000-05:00

Cherokee: "Aniyosgi Dotsigusdaa. ~ Unelanvhi Wigadoligi Ama Ayetli"
Lakota: "Nahan Akicita unkitawapi ki Owicikiunyapi kte. ~ Wakan Tanka makoce ki la waste kte"

English: We support our warriors. ~ God Bless Our Country!

In spite of my vociferous dislike of Dubya, Commander in Chimp, and because it is Thanksgiving in America, I think we should have a look at the contributions of Native Americans, after all they were invaded and occupied too. That first American Thanksgiving this is Edward Winslow's account,

"Our corn [i.e. wheat] did prove well, and God be praised, we had a good increase of Indian corn, and our barley indifferent good, but our peas not worth the gathering, for we feared they were too late sown. They came up very well, and blossomed, but the sun parched them in the blossom. Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors. They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor, and upon the captain and others. And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty."

America's treatment of it's native peoples wasn't always so benevolent, and in time broken treaties, atrocities, and eventual disenfranchisement, and the reservation sytem was implemented. Their lands appropriated, relegated to isolated reservation, alcohol, depression, poverty and suicide. This became part of the legacy the government has handed on to America's native people.

There was one legacy the government could not take away, and that is the legacy of service to the greater community,it is called, "the Warrior's Way." 17,000 Native Americans served in WW1, for a country that refused to offer them citizenship (Native Americans had not been American citizens before the American Indian Citizenship Act of 1924).

In 1917, at his own accord, Chief Red Fox went to Washington to see Secretary of War Newton D. Baker. He wanted to offer the services of the Indians in the Great War:

"From all over the West we now stand ready 50,000 Indians between the ages of seventeen and fifty-five. We beg of you, to give us the right to fight. We guarantee to you, sir, our hearts could be for no better cause than to fight for the land we love, and for the freedom we share."

WW2 saw the Native American, involved once again, read here about the true story of the Navajo peoples and the development of the Code Talkers. It should be mentioned that other American Indians, the Sioux, Choctaw, and Commanche, also used their native languages as a code during World War 2, for the U.S. Army, and yet have not so far been honored with any type of medal recognition. More than 44,000 American Indians out of a population numbering less than 350,000 at the time, served during World War II. The same Department of Defense sponsored study counts more than 42,000 American Indians involved in the Vietnam War. In all, more than 200,000 American Indians are veterans of military service. On a per capita basis, American Indians have been among the most active of all peoples within in the U.S. military.

It was not only their sons, Native Americans sent, but their daughters, too. Read here about Native American Women in the Military.

American & Canadian Indians
In The Military
US/Canadian Indian Tribes
Serving as of April 1, 2003
Source: Immigration Policy Center
and U.S. Defense Department

Army - 2,985 Eskimo - 98 Aleut - 79 = 3,162
Navy - 7,068 Eskimo - 116 Aleut - 199 = 7,383
USMC - 1,111 Eskimo - 30 Aleut - 31 = 1,172
USAF - 1,696 Eskimo - 30 Aleut - 22 = 1,748
US/Canadian Indians total = 12,860, plus
Eskimo - 274 & Aleut - 291 Total = 13, 425
Grand Total All Serving = 1,401,128

You may very well ask yourself why, after all that has happened to the Native American why they are still so keen to fight.

From the Chicago Tribune, William Hageman, Dec. 13, 2002

"How in the world can you defend a country after what has been done to you?

Ron Jordan, a Korean War veteran who says supporting America - even with its less than shining record when it comes to American Indians - is a tradition among his people.

"Nobody ever backs down," said Jordan, a retired instrument-controls designer from Chicago, speaking of fellow American Indians. "Because, see, among Native American people, long before the white man came, warriors were revered among the tribe. It was the men who went out to protect … their families. They were the hunters, and they were the providers for the families. So veterans are pretty highly thought of in the Native American community."

"This is what has been shared with me: This is our land. Although it's under others' control - the government or whatever - it's still our land. We were raised on it, and it's important to protect it.

"This is the land our great-grandparents were raised on, land that provided for all of us. So it's not a matter of what has been done to us; we have to protect the land, the country that was once all Indian land."

And as Jordan said, "Even today, I get a lump in my throat when I see the flag. Because I've been to other countries and seen how they live. … There's a lot of inequities around this country, but it's still the best around."

2003-11-21T10:47:00.000-05:00

Some British and American Luminaries, an open letter to Mr. Bush, courtesy of Grauniad

From the Blogosphere's own, Salam Pax

Dear George,

I hate to wake you up from that dream you are having, the one in which you are a superhero bringing democracy and freedom to underdeveloped, oppressed countries. But you really need to check things out in one of the countries you have recently bombed to freedom. Georgie, I am kind of worried that things are going a bit bad in Iraq and you don't seem to care that much. You might want it to appear as if things are going well and sign Iraq off as a job well done, but I am afraid this is not the case.

Listen, habibi, it is not over yet. Let me explain this in simple terms. You have spilled a glass full of tomato juice on an already dirty carpet and now you have to clean up the whole room. Not all of the mess is your fault but you volunteered to clean it up. I bet if someone had explained it to you like that you would have been less hasty going on our Rambo-in-Baghdad trip.

To tell you the truth, I am glad that someone is doing the cleaning up, and thank you for getting rid of that scary guy with the hideous moustache that we had for president. But I have to say that the advertisements you were dropping from your B52s before the bombs fell promised a much more efficient and speedy service. We are a bit disappointed. So would you please, pretty please, with sugar on top, get your act together and stop telling people you have Iraq all figured out when you are giving us the trial-and-error approach?

Anyway, I hope this doesn't disturb you too much. Have a nice stay in London, wave hello to the demonstrators, and give my regards to your spin doctors. I bet they are having a hell of a job making you look good.
Regards,
Salam Pax
The Baghdad Blogger

and from the Right:

Dear Mr President,

Today you arrive in my country for the first state visit by an American president for many decades, and I bid you welcome.

You will find yourself assailed on every hand by some pretty pretentious characters collectively known as the British left. They traditionally believe they have a monopoly on morality and that your recent actions preclude you from the club. You opposed and destroyed the world's most blood-encrusted dictator. This is quite unforgivable.

I beg you to take no notice. The British left intermittently erupts like a pustule upon the buttock of a rather good country. Seventy years ago it opposed mobilisation against Adolf Hitler and worshipped the other genocide, Josef Stalin.

It has marched for Mao, Ho Chi Minh, Khrushchev, Brezhnev and Andropov. It has slobbered over Ceausescu and Mugabe. It has demonstrated against everything and everyone American for a century. Broadly speaking, it hates your country first, mine second.

Eleven years ago something dreadful happened. Maggie was ousted, Ronald retired, the Berlin wall fell and Gorby abolished communism. All the left's idols fell and its demons retired. For a decade there was nothing really to hate. But thank the Lord for his limitless mercy. Now they can applaud Saddam, Bin Laden, Kim Jong-Il... and hate a God-fearing Texan. So hallelujah and have a good time.
Frederick Forsyth
Novelist
read the rest here,

2003-11-19T14:09:00.000-05:00

Courtesy our man in London, Glasgow's own David Walker sends us protest scenes from Trafalgar Square.

David has this to say, "Ahem: click here for more photos
Just to drop off a quick url for the Stop The War conference pics of the 18th from London (Tony Benn in particular was magnificent, Harold Pinter a close second), also pics from the Alternative Royal Motorcade Cavalcade Thingy from the 19th (many times expected numbers showed up as per usual.)

Here it be. All I could manage from this webcafe PC is a geocities account, so there's a bit of a bandwidth issue going on... more pics from the HUGE march as soon as can be. Toodles! Love.

Sorry Geocities has blocked hotlinking.... please use above link to see protests from London

Thanks, David!

2003-11-19T08:49:00.000-05:00

Feeding the Dogs of War

The cannon fodder is to be the poor and minorities, if a country is going to send people to war, governing principle must be that of shared sacrifice, with people of all economic backgrounds shouldering burden equally; and that those trumpeting war would be more circumspect if their own children were to be placed in harm's way and might bring about greater willingness to work out situation peacefully. Mind you this is just my personal opinion. There is a funny satire at www.whitehouse.org

Here's a bit of it:

PRESIDENT BUSH OPPOSES REP. CHARLES RANGEL'S PROPOSAL TO WEAKEN THE MILITARY BY REINSTATING THE WHITE IVY LEAGUE DRAFT

Statement by the President

THE PRESIDENT: "Good afternoon. As many of you know, this morning saw the publication of an Op-Ed piece in the New York Times by liberal Congressman Charles Rangel, in which he calls for a reinstatement of a military draft which is blind to both the color and socioeconomic status of potential draftees. Well I speak for all Caucasian millionaire war hawk Republicans with no relatives pathetic enough to be slumming it in the military when I say that I am categorically and inalterably opposed to such a dangerous and repugnantly Populistic move.

Now inasmuch as I strive to create the illusion that I collaborate with my political enemies, I called Congressman Rangel this morning, and I told him outright how I feel. I said, "Now listen Unky Remus (that's my little nickname for him) - I am NOT for this little Reverse Affirmative Action draft of yours. I am for an army of lower-class teens whose dreams of a better life instill in them a compulsion to march into napalm grenades all for the benefit of Ivy League princes such as myself whose lives must be protected if this country is to continue its proud tradition of inbred plutocratic rule." Well, the Congressman disagreed with me, and that's still his pre-war right. But as President, I want to assure all affluent Americans that there's not a chance in hell they're going to see their blue-eyed, blond-haired trust fund babies march off to die in a biochemical war just so some colored Harlem crybaby can work out his racial blood lust in the name of "shared sacrifice" and the "citizen soldier."

But here is what is really going on. Reinstating the Draft.

**

This FY 2004 APP identifies the activities and strategies that will take place during the
fiscal year to achieve Agency goals and objectives. It also identifies relevant performance
measurement target goals to be achieved. The performance goals for FY 2004 are:

1. Develop an Area Office Prototype Exercise that will test the Health
Care Personnel Delivery System (HCPDS) work flows and support
programs.

2. Redefine Agency infrastructure based on a Quinquennial Workload
Study.

3. Prepare and conduct an Area Office Prototype Exercise which tests
the activation process from SSS Lottery input to the issuance of the
first Armed Forces Examination Orders.

4. Ensure 90% of people tested are capable of implementing activation
procedures.

5. Ensure that 95% of the predefined readiness objectives are attained
and validated during an Area Office Prototype Exercise.

6. Train 90% of assigned State Directors (SDs) and Reserve Force
Officers (RFOs) on HCPDS and Timed-Phased Response (TPR)
functions and responsibilities.

7. Attain a 92% or greater compliance rate for men 18 through 25 years
old.

8. Attain and appoint Registrars in 85% of the Nation’s high schools.

9. Obtain 75% of all registrations electronically.

10. Maintain an average systems change request implementation time of
39 days.

11. Maintain a functional proponent and customer satisfaction level of
87%.

12. Have a telephone call completion rate of 93% or higher.

13. Answer correspondence in less than 10 days.

14. Train 90% of assigned SDs and RFOs on Alternative Service plans
and procedures.

ANNUAL PERFORMANCE REPORT

An annual report providing the results of the implementation of these performance
measures will be submitted by March 31, 2005. This report will address attained versus
planned levels of performance, explain unattained target levels, and identify where and
how strategies, performance goals, and performance indicators should be changed to
ensure that the SSS reaches its strategic and annual goals and objectives.

** read the government document here

2003-11-18T08:48:00.000-05:00

eeeeeek Heresy @ Guardian!

"The Beatles are what they always were - the safe, money-spinning, housewives' choice. Their albums are easy listening (fine for 50-somethings, but the Beatles were cardigan-wearing duffers in their 20s). Sgt. Pepper, their much-trumpeted "psychedelic" album was as mindbending as an Asda mushroom pie. Give or take Helter Skelter, they never even rocked, really. Next to the Stones, the Who or the Troggs, the Beatles are the low alcohol lager of the 60s."
more here

As far as I'm concerned he should be stripped bare made to wear a signboard, saying "Oasis is better than the Beatles" and marched through some of Liverpools more sylvan neighbourhoods, like the Dingle and Speke, then let Scouser nature take its course.

I will be blogging from home, as I sit on my well-toned bum and contemplate financial ruin. My contract has ended. This is the shameless bit where I go begging for employment. Well, I do have work publicising a particularly horrible book in the chutes. But surely there must be something better out there for moi!

also from Grauniad, wahey just for dear Melo, an interview with Hanif Kureishi. Don't know who Kureishi is, think Salman Rushdie, with something really to say.

"Hanif Kureishi used to know who his readers were. They were "hip young kids", riding the tube, reading The Buddha of Suburbia, his novel about sex, drugs and race in 70s south London. When the book came out in 1990, he was a rebel hero and 13 years on, although no longer sure of who his fans are, Kureishi retains the air of a man slightly too cool for his surroundings. Now 48 and smoothly turned out, he sits on a sofa in his publicist's office, legs akimbo, and observes the world with imperious ease. He has written a film, The Mother, about the sex life of a woman approaching 70. "I can't imagine hip young kids queueing at the Odeon to see a film about an old girl," he says laconically. "I don't really care. I didn't write it because I thought it would make me a rich man. I wrote it because I was interested in it." more insights into Kureishi here

A friend is off to the protests in London with any luck we shall have pics and an accounting of the welcome being staged for Mr. Bush.

A bit of an update on an earlier story, right in the middle of tropical Miami, World Capital of the dowagers hump, thousands are preparing. Negotiators from 34 nations are in the area until Friday, working toward an accord that would create a Free Trade Area of the Americas. They say open markets would spur economic development and raise living standards throughout the Americas.

Thousands of protesters also are in the region or heading this way. Ranging from retirees associated with the AFL-CIO to teenage anarchists, they say the free trade zone would take jobs from the United States and exploit cheaper labor elsewhere.

''We are . . . people just like you who wish to work with communities in Miami to challenge [the FTAA] meetings and work toward a world based on justice and equality,'' read a flier handed out by protesters Monday.

In other developments:

• A three-day, 34-mile march by about 140 opponents of the negotiations that began Sunday in Fort Lauderdale moved through Southeast Broward County on Monday and reached North Miami by evening. Ultimate destination: Miami, this morning.

STRIPPING DOWN

• A dozen activists associated with a group called the Gapatista Road Show stripped to their underwear outside a Gap store in Miami Beach to protest what they claimed were the company's exploitative labor practices.

''We'd rather wear nothing than wear Gap!'' they chanted.

• The SunTrust at 1400 NW 20th St. was evacuated shortly after 4 p.m., after a peculiar odor made several employees and customers cough and choke. One person was treated at the scene after fainting.

Miami police said two empty pepper-spray cans were found in a garbage container. It was not clear what connection, if any, the incident had to the FTAA talks.

Elsewhere, small scenes told the story.

An eight-foot-high fence surrounded AmericanAirlines Arena. Tourists strolled through Bayside Marketplace, but shoppers seemed in short supply. Prospects were especially gloomy at Let's Make a Daiquiri, where manager Roland Diaz bemoaned a ''rainy-day'' level of sales, as the sun shone brightly.

more to follow here

Currying Favour in Glasgow

GLASGOW has been crowned the curry capital of Britain for the second year in a row. The city retained its title as the country's hot-spot at a prestigious ceremony in London. Evening Times readers chose the Shish Mahal, Creme de la Creme, Mr Singh's India and Ashoka Ashton Lane to represent Glasgow.

I can heartily attest that this is true. Glasgow has some of the best Asian cuisine EVER and at much better prices. Perhaps its the prodigious amounts of alcohol imbibed in this City. Bradford and Edinburgh were runners-up, beating Cardiff, Manchester, Birmingham, Leicester, Sheffield, Newcastle and London.

Each city was judged on its four nominated restaurants and a dossier put together by the local council.
Glasgow also won the accolade of Kingfisher Curry Capital of Britain last summer - the first time the title had gone to a city outside England. Curry Capital judges decided Glasgow "gave a very professional submission and the city has really taken this award to its heart".

Charan Gill, managing director of the Harlequin Group which owns the Ashoka in Ashton Lane and Mr Singh's India, said he was "ecstatic" about the city being awarded the Curry Capital title for the second year running.
Mr Gill's restaurant, The Ashoka at the Mill, was one of those which helped the city scoop the title last year.
He added: "The council put this bid together and showed its support for us."

The restaurant boss praised the staff in the city's restaurants, whom he described as "fantastic and totally committed".
Mr Gill said he was not surprised Glasgow had beaten off stiff competition from restaurants all around Britain including Bradford, Birmingham and London. He added: "The quality of food in Glasgow is second to none and our restaurateurs in this city serve up quality time and time again."

Greater Glasgow and Clyde Valley Tourist Board said the award would help attract tourists to the city.
A spokesman said: "One of the reasons people come to the city is because the wining and dining experience is vibrant and eclectic.
"There are a good range of eateries in the city and people can dine in a different country each night of the week.
"The fact our Indian restaurants are superb helps the tourist board to promote the city as a destination.
"It gives us another reason to tell people to come to here and this award will be good for attracting customers to Glasgow both for business and leisure tourism." Lord Provost Liz Cameron was delighted with the accolade. She said: "This is wonderful news - our restaurants deserve recognition and our representatives in the competition are excellent ambassadors. "The title will give our restaurant trade a tremendous boost and encourage visitors to come to Glasgow and sample some great food." A council spokesman said Glasgow's Indian restaurants were legendary around the world. He added: "People come from far and wide to taste the delicious food and to sample the wide variety of dishes which originate from the Indian sub-continent."

TIMESFILE
•Glasgow's love affair with curry goes back to the 1920s, when a caterer opened a curry house on the Broomielaw for Indian seamen.
•The city's first proper Indian restaurant, The Taj Mahal, in Park Road, opened in the 1950s.
•Around 219 million Indian meals are eaten every year in the UK.
•Glasgow curry king Charan Gill is one of Britain's most wealthy Asians.
•Licensing laws helped. Pubs had to stop serving after 10pm, restaurants could serve alcohol later.
•Chicken tikka masala tops the £2.5bn curry industry in Britain, with Sainsbury's alone selling 1.1 million meals a year.
•In Scotland, a curry is known as a Ruby Murray, after the Irish singer. GLASGOW has been crowned the curry capital of Britain for the second year in a row.
Alba Gu brath!

2003-11-14T09:52:00.000-05:00

Oh Bugger!

It's been a rather longish week here, Window-ites. As a sort of compensation to listening to my long winded politicorants; I bring you an open letter to Prince Charles via the loverly peeps at theAntigeist:

"With all respect Sir, no one likes you. No one ever has. You are the saddest excuse for a prince the world has ever known. You are odd, cold, you don't photograph well, and you're boring. As a matter of fact none of your accomplishments, from your military service to your diplomatic efforts, have ever endeared you to your people. I bet even your Mum likes Andrew better. And with good reason. He's got pizzaz, a wry smile, he's dated porn stars. But you? It seems like you can't make a favourable impression on anybody, your life thus-far has been a senseless conundrum...unless your gay.

I can feel you shudder at the implication, thoughts of "What would become of the Monarchy? What would my Royal Subjects think of me?" I can't say what they'd think, but I can tell you what you would hear; A unison cry of "Oh!" bellowing forth from the Lake District to Brighton as everyone, the whole of the country, would finally put the pieces together. The shyness, the introverted behavior, the long, long voluntary stints in the Navy, the arranged marriage to the totally hot and much beloved Diana, your ditching her for a platonic existence with a mannish, horse-faced childhood chum, your impeccable (I must admit) taste in menswear, and finally, buggering your valet. You see, your being gay is the only thing that makes sense. "
read it all for yourself...here

Mining the blogosphere just for you my darlings I came across this, Mango Pudding Blues,
"About three days into it, as soon as I realized that my new job wasn’t like my last two evil motherfucking jobs, I felt a mainline seratonin rush, baby. You must get this; a hit of pure oxygen. Dizzyness. Paroxysms of joy. The shudder, the shudder of correcting brain chemistry washing out demons. The snapping of molecules into receptors. The bright firing of newly wired synapses blasting the cruft out of the carburetor. The buzzing ectoplasmic connection to the fractal universe, to history, to the gods. The ribbon in the sky! The ribbon in the sky! Like cocaine or a triple espresso, but cleaner burning. Like endorphins. Almost like being in love."
Still cant get no satisfaction??? here from From the Spectator...
Sympathy for the vicar.
Christopher Sandford says that Keith Richards — 60 next month — is a secret conservative: he eats shepherd’s pie, loves his mum and even goes to church
He doesn’t exactly look like your average squire, Keith Richards, with his piratical swagger and a complexion that’s been compared to old cat litter. But Keith, who turns 60 next month, is emerging as one of the most shockingly normal, and English, of rock stars, as well as one of the most self-aware. ‘I can be the cat on stage any time I want,’ he said some years ago. ‘I like to stay in touch with him.... But I’m a very placid, nice guy — most people will tell you that. It’s mainly to placate this other creature that I work.’ The man has dope convictions in three countries, after all. But he’s also a nostalgic and distinctly sentimental soul — a ‘diamond geezer’, awwwwwww!!!!!!

Related notes on two nasty cows:
Columnist Julie Burchill is leaving Guardian, she mooed this upon leaving

"'The civility and solidarity which this great liberal newspaper has shown me has completely changed my view of what I was brought up to think of as complacent bourgeoise prison-visiting filth"

Jools, I'm fookin touched, truly. This same heifer bellowed racial slurs against Irish in 2002, of London mayor Ken Livingstone's spending on St Patrick's Day in London, when she criticised Ireland and described the country's flag as "the Hitler-licking, altar-boy-molesting, abortion-banning Irish tri-colour".

Rosie O'Donnell, bloated chat show hostess and alleged Queen of Nice, has been in a bitter feud with the publishers of her now defunct vanity publication "Rosie." Testimony has brought out some lovely observations about Miss O'Donnell's social and management skills when she confronted employee and cancer survivor,Cindy Spengler, head of marketing at the magazine, about her silence during the meeting, insisting she was as good as lying by keeping quiet.

"You know what happens to people who lie," the witness quoted O'Donnell as saying. "They get sick and they get cancer. If they keep lying, they get it again."

Mooooooooo!!!

2003-11-13T09:45:00.000-05:00

2003-11-12T09:09:00.000-05:00

"If I went to a funeral this afternoon of a fallen soldier in Iraq, what would I say?
Did they fall there for democracy? They are not going to have a democracy.
It is going to be the Shiite democracy, like they have in Iran -- at best.
That is exactly what Secretary Rumsfeld said we were not going to have.
Was it for nuclear? No. Was it for terrorists? No, they didn't have terrorists there.
Your son gave his life for what? As their Senator, I am embarrassed. It wasn't for
any of those things. Why we went in, the administration has yet to tell us.
They keep changing the rules and the goalposts every time."
--Senator Fritz Hollings,

Lies and the Lying Liars

In the lead-up to the U.S. invasion of Iraq, Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld said U.S. forces would be welcomed by the Iraqi citizenry and that Saddam Hussein had large stockpiles of chemical and biological weapons.

Now, after both statements have been shown to be either incorrect or vastly exaggerated, Rumsfeld - with the same trademark confidence that he exuded before the war - is denying that he ever made such assertions.

"Before the war in Iraq, you stated the case very eloquently and you said . . . they would welcome us with open arms," Sinclair Broadcasting anchor Morris Jones said to Rumsfeld as the prelude to a question.

The defense chief quickly cut him off.
"Never said that," he said. "Never did. You may remember it well, but you're thinking of somebody else. You can't find, anywhere, me saying anything like either of those two things you just said I said."

more here

The American Tax Dollar at Work: courtesy of http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/President Bush's entourage for his trip to London will include:

• Up to 250 Secret Service agents.
• Up to 150 advisers from the National Security department and about 200 representatives of other US departments.
• About 50 White House political aides.
• A team of 15 sniffer dogs and their handlers.
• A personal chef and his team of four cooks.

Among the equipment they will bring will be:

• Two identical personal Boeing 747-200s and a third chartered jumbo.
• One personal US Marine Corps Sikorsky Sea King helicopter and a second A VH-60N, a VIP version of the Black Hawk helicopter.
• Two identical motorcades each made up of 20 mostly armoured vehicles, including the President's converted Cadillac Deville.
• The "football", a briefcase carried by a military aide which contains the launch codes for America's nuclear arsenal.

Take Back The Media

End of Rant

2003-11-11T10:34:00.000-05:00

Happiness is a warm gun
When I hold you in my arms
And I feel my finger on your trigger
I know no one can do me no harm
Because happiness is a warm gun.

"If any government sponsors the outlaws and killers of innocents," George Bush announced on the day he began bombing Afghanistan, "they have become outlaws and murderers themselves. And they will take that lonely path at their own peril."

For the past 55 years the US government has been running a terrorist training camp, whose victims massively outnumber the people killed by the attack on New York, the embassy bombings and the other atrocities laid, rightly or wrongly, at al-Qaida's door. The camp is called the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation, or Whisc. It is based in Fort Benning, Georgia, and it is funded by the US government.

Established in Panama in 1946 as a hemispheric Cold War beachhead, the U.S. Army School of the Americas (SOA) now WHISC, which operates solely for the training of Latin American military officers, was moved to Ft. Benning in Columbus, GA in 1984. Over 60,000 have graduated. They include Panamanian strongman Manuel Noriega and Bolivian dictator Hugo Banzer; the assassins of an archbishop, a bishop, six Jesuit priests and four American churchwomen; and countless other military strongmen responsible for the deaths of literally hundreds of thousands.

In 1996 the Pentagon was forced to release training manuals used at the school that advocated the use of torture, extortion and execution, according to The School of the America's Watch, a watchdog organization. Even after these were made public, Defense officials continued to point out that most of the school's graduates had not committed the scores of human rights abuses against the millions of refugees fleeing the wrath that's come. This may be true. At the same time, for the last 55 years most of the Latin American military officers who actually ordered these abuses learned their lessons well through the US taxpayer-supported SOA/WHISC.

Read more here

from Guardian and by George Monbiot -Tuesday October 30, 2001
"Last year, partly as a result of the campaign run by SOA Watch, several US congressmen tried to shut the school down. They were defeated by 10 votes. Instead, the House of Representatives voted to close it and then immediately reopen it under a different name. So, just as Windscale turned into Sellafield in the hope of parrying public memory, the School of the Americas washed its hands of the past by renaming itself Whisc. As the school's Colonel Mark Morgan informed the Department of Defense just before the vote in Congress: "Some of your bosses have told us that they can't support anything with the name 'School of the Americas' on it. Our proposal addresses this concern. It changes the name." Paul Coverdell, the Georgia senator who had fought to save the school, told the papers that the changes were "basically cosmetic".

But visit Whisc's website and you'll see that the School of the Americas has been all but excised from the record. Even the page marked "History" fails to mention it. Whisc's courses, it tells us, "cover a broad spectrum of relevant areas, such as operational planning for peace operations; disaster relief; civil-military operations; tactical planning and execution of counter drug operations".

Several pages describe its human rights initiatives. But, though they account for almost the entire training programme, combat and commando techniques, counter-insurgency and interrogation aren't mentioned. Nor is the fact that Whisc's "peace" and "human rights" options were also offered by SOA in the hope of appeasing Congress and preserving its budget: but hardly any of the students chose to take them.

We can't expect this terrorist training camp to reform itself: after all, it refuses even to acknowledge that it has a past, let alone to learn from it. So, given that the evidence linking the school to continuing atrocities in Latin America is rather stronger than the evidence linking the al-Qaida training camps to the attack on New York, what should we do about the "evil-doers" in Fort Benning, Georgia?

Well, we could urge our governments to apply full diplomatic pressure, and to seek the extradition of the school's commanders for trial on charges of complicity in crimes against humanity. Alternatively, we could demand that our governments attack the United States, bombing its military installations, cities and airports in the hope of overthrowing its unelected government and replacing it with a new administration overseen by the UN. In case this proposal proves unpopular with the American people, we could win their hearts and minds by dropping naan bread and dried curry in plastic bags stamped with the Afghan flag.

You object that this prescription is ridiculous, and I agree. But try as I might, I cannot see the moral difference between this course of action and the war now being waged in Afghanistan."

and now Iraq.

Granted Mr. Monbiot comes off a bit strong, but What could the American government possibly be thinking!

A few bad apples?
TOM BEARDEN: The school's commandant, U.S. Army Colonel Glenn Weidner, disputes that assertion. read his comments here

I'm really interested in what you think, please leave comments, about this issue.

People from across the Americas will converge from November 19-21, 2003 in Miami, Florida to voice their opposition to the Free Trade Area of the Americas agreement (FTAA) and from November 21-23 in Ft. Benning, Georgia to speak out against the School of the Americas (SOA). Miami will be the host of the FTAA ministerial meeting, which brings together the trade ministers of the hemisphere to launch the final stage of the FTAA negotiations. Fort Benning is the home of the School of the Americas, where repressive Latin American troops are being trained as the military muscle to enforce exploitative policies.

"International solidarity is not an act of charity: It is an act of unity between allies fighting on different terrains toward the same objective.
The foremost of these objectives is to aid the development of humanity to the highest level possible."
- Samora Machel (1933 - 1986)

Leader of FRELIMO,
First President of Mozambique

read more

more

2003-11-10T09:56:00.000-05:00

Guest blogger Aniraz, talks about the virtues,vilification, and stereotypes, in living the hijabified life.

From the land of the big black buffalos,
~Aniraz

I was fourteen when I started wearing hijab. That age now sounds so young, but at the time, I felt like I was late in implementing this article of my faith. By 14 I'd already walked a very strange path, lived in two worlds, and done a lot of searching.

I'd heard all the warnings against it. It was subjugation. It was unfair. It was wrong. It was cultural. It was outdated. It was dangerous. My mom, a devout Christian, was terrified that a scarf on my head would make me a target. She warned me to expect to get hit with stray balls in gym class. Other well-meaning women told me my scarf would yo-yo between off and on when the boys in my classes decided they didn't like my scarf and started pulling at it. Then there were the fears my hair would thin from the stress of being covered all the time, or that my scalp would grow some fungus, or my ears would turn green

Granted, I did become a target. By the simple act of covering my head I discovered what an unnatural fear people have of the different and unknown. I was spit on, had things thrown at me, was condemned to hell by followers of other religions, saw mothers fearfully hide their children behind them when I passed by, hadboys try and pull my scarf off, girls called me names, teachers had very little patience for me and no slack was given in my doings. I found myself taunted and insulted by complete strangers for no reason aside from the fact that there was a piece of fabric on my head. But at the same time, I became a target for people's questions.

Not everyone is hateful and unkind, and to many, my scarf prompted questions. The day I came into school with that cotton-poly blend of black around my hair and neck, I suddenly became an ambassador for my religion. Peers, teachers, friends, strangers, everyone wanted to know why more about my religion and my choice. Most didn't even know I was a Muslim prior to me becoming a hijabi. I had to go home that night and get out some books and look up the answers to their many questions. It didn't stop there - over the years, I have had to learn more and more, to not only satisfy my own thirst for knowledge, but also the curiosity of others.

Profanity slowly fell out of my vocabulary. It didn't fit with what I wanted to be, what I was trying to uphold. I was an envoy for Islam and as many people in the US rarely meet obvious Muslims, I realized that I would be taken as an example of my faith. I learned to be kinder, to be more patient, to speak clearly and make clear points, to be understanding and to listen.

For the first time in my life I had to answer to other people. That first Ramadan in high school, when I forgot I was fasting and went to go and buy a juice, I was reminded, "Hey, aren't you Muslim?" Yes, I was, and because of my hijab, everyone knew it. I curbed my anger and bit back my tongue when provoked. Used to beone slight, one dirty look or snide comment, and I'd be fists clenched and ready to go. I couldn't fight with kids any more, because I knew that for many of the onlookers to those hallway brawls, I would just be that "Muslim girl in the scarf" who was fighting. That would look bad for my religion and for me so I learned patience and developed a thicker skin.

When my girl-friends were agonizing about their weight, looks, hair, complexions, and clothes, I was comfortable in my own skin. By covering my hair,dressing modestly and not painting my face I was a mind before just a body. I was well protected from the consuming obsession of the self. I never became anorexic, or a bulimic. I didn't spend money I didn't have on clothes that would become passe in a week. I didn't have to wake up two hours before school just to style my hair and put together an outfit. I didn't have to worry if my waist was small enough, chest large enough and bum firm enough for the general public's approval. By guarding my sexuality I waschoosing what to be defined by and what would be important to me. Yes, I was a woman, but I was not a woman for everyone's pleasure.

I was spared from so many of the falls teenagers have with the help of my scarf. It not only saved me from those awkward teenage bad-hair days, but it also kept me from having to get used and abused in the dating scene. By wearing my religious beliefs on my sleeve, or rather, around my head, it was made known that Aniraz was a practicing Muslim and she didn't date. My friends knew, and wouldn't play the part of go-between when approached. When harassed, I found myself defended by boys, often not Muslim, who respected me and understood my struggle. The part of prevention kept me from temptation.

Instead of striving for conformity and acceptance among my peers, like so many other teenagers, I found the strength to do what I thought was right and be different if I must. I bucked the trends and walked to the beat of my own drum. In time, beside me walked others. I found friends with Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons, Hasidic Jews, Buddhists, Sikhs, Vegans and devout Hindus. Our paths headed in the same direction, against the flow of traffic and against the crush of society. In each other, we found support, likeness in our strangeness and the strength to decide for ourselves.

As I got older, stable in my beliefs, stable in my life, I became the rock among my friends. I saw them go through bad times - teen pregnancies, heartbreak, abortions, suicide attempts, depression, eating disorders and drug abuse - while I stood clear. We would cry on each others shoulders and I would try to offer a sympathetic ear and sound advice.

At times I had big shoes to fill. Sometimes I wanted to be silly too, to beirresponsible and foolish, to let go a bit, but I couldn't. The banner I waved above me, the banner of morality, self-discipline, personal accountability and faith, meant more was expected. I believed that God expected the best from us all, and each look in the mirror, where I saw my face framed in a triangle of fabric, was a reminder of that.

No, hijab is not everything. There is more to what I am than the scarf on my head, but I recognize how it has tested me, changed, tempered and bettered me. It has been hard, but I still have my ears, and no, they're not green.

2003-11-08T13:47:00.000-05:00

A Small Group of Dedicated People Might Actually Do Something

"You know, there are two kinds of politics in the world: the politics of love and the politics of fear. Love is about cooperation, sharing and inclusion. It is about the elevation of each individual to a life neither supressed nor exploited, but instead nourished to rise to its full potential – a life for its own sake and so that we may all benefit by the gift of that life. Fear and the politics of fear is about narrow ideologies that separate us, militarize us, imprison us, exploit us, control us, overcharge us, demean us, bury us alive in debt and anxiety and then bury us dead in cancers and wars. The politics of love and the politics of fear are now pitted against each other in a naked struggle that will define not only the 21st century but centuries to come.

The new mentality of profit maximization and unlimited mergers and no government control, was the untying of the monster and it was no accident. The ropes were further loosened in the greedy and morally corrupt Clinton and Bush administrations, until we find ourselves now with a government of, by and for the corporations. The new model CEO was the ruthless costcutter and dealmaker. CEO salaries went unbelievably high, where they have stayed. For every $100 that the average American worker makes, these top CEOs make $50,000. It is a moral outrage in the land of so many homeless and struggling and worried people.

A century ago, the ordinary people of America joined together to tie down the giant. The antitrust laws and environmental laws and the rights of workers to organize and collectively bargain for wages and benefits all joined to nurture the restoration of a great middle class – always the bedrock of democracy. The robber barons, the great giants, remained tied down, no longer free, liberated, to do as they pleased in crushing us with their great wealth and political power. And so it was for a time.

And now, loosed again, these giants have taken over our television networks and most of our newspapers, turning them against our interests and against the truth itself. These giants send our young people off to fight their commercial wars – great profitable ventures.

How free are we now, friends? Check your bills and your bank account. How much time and leisure do you have to enjoy your life and friends? How is your place in your community as a free and equal citizen? Or are we drones that go to work, go to bed to rest for more work, go to the stores to spend all that we earn and more, and watch television to receive our instructions what to buy the next day, if we have jobs at all? Is that freedom by some other name? It is not freedom by any name and it is nothing to push on the rest of the world in the name of freedom.

These corporations steal our time with their computerized telephone switchboards and their long waiting lines and few employees. They steal our jobs and our benefits and our pensions. They use fear at every turn to sell us a little protection, and a little more. And they steal our senators and congressmen just when they might have earned their keep protecting our democracy.

What shall we do, my fellows, about these corporate giants stalking our earth freely? How shall we get our children home from their wars and ourselves free from their captivities?

We the people, acting together in the new ways made possible by electronic communication, must become the large counterbalance to these powers – the counterbalance that our government no longer provides. By communicating and acting in concert, we can reward the good companies and thereby keep our money clear of the worst. We can make our demand for fair trade products and provide the shift in market share that will change the practices of those businesses that now exploit our brothers and sisters here and around the world. We can agree together which television news channel is the least objectionable, and agree to watch only that – for our watching and buying habits are votes for the kind of world we will live in.

By nudging market share, our small group of dedicated people can influence great changes. We have the tools now to do this now. It will not be an easy task, but we have no real alternative if we are to save the world, and that is what we must decide to do. "_ Granny D Haddock

Just in case we forget, there are still heroes out there, Granny "D" Haddock at the age of 90 walked across America, walking 10 miles a day. On Jan. 1, 1999, she began her walk in Pasadena, California. She walked 10 miles per day for 14 months, arriving in Washington, D.C. on Feb. 29, 2000. She was hospitalized once, in Arizona, with dehydration and pneumonia. She walked 3,200 miles.

Her route: Pasadena to Twentynine Palms CA, Parker AZ, Wickenburg, Phoenix, Tucson, Tombstone, Lordsburg NM, Las Cruces, El Paso TX, Midland, Dallas, Texarkana AK, Little Rock, Memphis TN, Louisville KY, Cincinnati OH, Parkersburg WV, Morgantown, Cumberland MD, Washington, D.C. Her hardest miles were climbing the Appalachian Range during blizzard conditions.

She made speeches along her walk, and made an effort to draw reform groups together. When she arrived in Washington, she was met by 2,200 people, representing a wide variety of reform groups. Several dozen Members of Congress walked the final miles with her. She is five-feet tall. She wore out four sets of shoes on her long walk. When snows between Cumberland, Maryland and Washington threatened to delay her arrival in February of 2000, she cross-country skied 100 miles along the old C&O Canal tow path. She has emphysema and arthritis, both of which improved during the walk.

She did this to stop huge corporate interests from further turning Washington DC into a whorehouse, through the use of soft money campaign contributions from big business.

"This is, after all, our world and our lives. Do you remember those few weeks after the 9/11 attacks when we, as an automatic antidote to the inhumanity of those attacks, sought to reassert our humanity again in a million little ways? For that moment we came out of the hypnosis we have come to live under and we saw the Eden of human love and cooperation. We must not fall back under that hypnosis again, as it is a waste of our life. The forces of life and death are in struggle, for those are the other names for love and fear. Let us choose life and love, and happily use ourselves up in loving service to one another."

Read more of the writings of this amazing woman.....here

and here

2003-11-06T10:45:00.000-05:00

I'm so sorry, No sari
Please make it a Salwar Khameez.

I've gained 2 kg.! How is this possible that even with a buggered right hand I am able to stuff parathas in my mouth with blinding speed. Right, just loosen the draw string a bit, aaahhh and... Wait, I've never shown any other signs of being ambidextrous. Gulp.
Indian and Pakistani women have been holding out on their Western sisters. For centuries they have had a cultural advantage over us. It is the world's best "fat clothes," the salwar khameez. They are attractive and hide a multitude of sins or what I affectionately call "Samosa bloat." Western Couture, are you paying attention. Every woman looks good in a Salwar Khameez, they impart grace, without being frumpy.

Salwar Khameez are made up of three pieces. The Salwar or pants, have a drawstring waist which allows you to make the pants as loose or tight fitting as you choose. This is especially helpful when mother nature takes revenge on our bodies via PMS and we need a little extra room. Even last trimester pregnant women can find enough room in the same size suit they had originally thanks to that invaluable drawstring. The Khameez is like a very long shirt that goes over the Salwar, and then there is the dupatta, or chunni, a long scarf-like arrangement that can be flung around in melodramatic, attention seeking gesture. It can also be used as a safety device when your aircraft is about to crash, it can double up as a parachute! You can tie the ends together and hold on to the for dear life. Instead of plummeting to the ground at a 100 miles/hr, you'll find yourself gliding to safety. Can Versace or Chanel make such claims!

Although we melatonin challenged Western women look a bit odd at first in such ethnically inspired clothing, there is also Fusion Fashion which matches the sensibilities of the East with the savoir faire of the West. check it out here

2003-11-03T10:01:00.000-05:00

I'm having a brief bout of tendonitis also known as carpal tunnel syndrome, a few days of analgesics and a break from repetitive actions, should set me to rights. So for right now....no typing, doctors orders.

2003-10-31T13:02:00.000-05:00

I have done what the US Military has failed to do... I have found Saddam Hussein, and Osama Bin Laden and of at all places Blogspot.com, here is what Saddam has to say today:
"Happy Halloween!!

Oh, you didn't know we celebrate Halloween here in Iraq? Well, congratulations on broadening your narrow little minds today! And you thought this site was a worthless waste of time....
The kids dress up in terrifying costumes such as ghosts, goblins, witches, and US Army Rangers. Then they go out trick-or-treating, collecting bagfuls of candy and munitions.

Then afterwards, the families gather around the fireplace, which is kind of stupid since it's still 87 degrees at night, and tell scary stories.
My personal favorite from when I was growing up was the one about the legend of the Camelman. He was supposedly a half-man, half-camel psycho killer who would prey on young lovers parked in the desert. Some say his ghost still appears on Halloween and wanders the streets of Fallujah looking for his head."

Osama's weblog here
Should I call Rummy right away? click here to visit Saddam.

2003-10-31T10:35:00.000-05:00

'Cause baby it's you (Sha la la la la la la)
Baby it's you (Sha la la la la la la, sha la la la)

It's a boy no...no, its a girl

London's Daily Mirror newspaper reported that Heather Mills, the wife of former Beatle Paul McCartney, gave birth to a baby boy on Tuesday.

But the report, like the delivery, was premature. In fact, Mills had a girl, Beatrice Milly McCartney.

SCITTBW Alumnus Abez has announced her engagement...sorta... on her weblog. Rumour has it that I will be catering Roast Camel for the lucky couple, if I can get over the hump. Mabrouk..girlfriend, go wish her well...here

The new blog mela is out, read some of the best blogging on the subcontinent here

Check out some of the new writing at Desi Journal

Aniraz reflects on being une femme du monde... in this beautifully beautifully written entry. read here

Coming soon through this bathroom window ... Peshawar and the Khyber, why there are no bloggers in Afghanistan, onward to Iran.

2003-10-30T08:43:00.000-05:00

The Explorer by Rudyard Kipling

There's no sense in going further -- it's the edge of cultivation,"
So they said, and I believed it -- broke my land and sowed my crop --
Built my barns and strung my fences in the little border station
Tucked away below the foothills where the trails run out and stop:

Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes
On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated -- so:
"Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges --
"Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and wating for you. Go!

The North West Frontier Province, as suggested by its name, shares a very long border with Afghanistan. Most of the area is occupied by the rugged mountains which are known for snowy cold winters. The people of the Swat Valley are Muslim Pathans or Pashtun, Kohistanis and Gujars. Some have very distinct features and claim to be descendants of Alexander the Great. In 327 BC, Alexander the Great fought his way to Udegram and Barikot.

Truly one of the most unspoiled places on earth, upon waking in the morning you would do well to convince yourself you're in Pakistan and not some alpine village in Austria or Switzerland. The People of Swat are famous for their embroidery work. Mirror work, Pearl work and Silma/ Star work. Works of these types are called "Kadhai."I've been in love with the handicrafts and textiles of this region every since my old hippie days.

Pashtun food is heartier and less subtle than the food in other parts of Pakistan, the pallet of spices is different. I saw two wallahs cooking their lamb kebabs over a few twigs in an open field, resting skewers on a thick branch cut from a nearby tree, & turning them every now & then. They then wrapped a piece of Naan bread around skewer & pulled off crisp brown meat.

here is an example of this simple soul satisfying cuisine. Of course you must supply your own twigs.

Murgh Kebab
(Chicken Kebab)

2 Whole breasts of chicken, cut into 1-in cubes
1 medium Onion, sliced thick
1/2 tablespoons of Pepper
1/2 tablespoons of Ground cinnamon
1/4 tablespoons of Ground turmeric
1 tablespoons of Salt

1. Mix everything together & marinate at room temperature for a minimum of 1 hour or preferably in refrigerator overnight.

2. Put 4 or 5 cubes of chicken, without onion, on twig :-) and broil over charcoal out in an open field. Serve hot with Afghan bread (Naan), salad, & pickles. Serve 4 or 5.

Pathan or Pashtun Naan

Makes 8 Naan

1 1/2 cup of Water, warm
1 package of (1/4 oz, 7 grams) dry yeast
1 tablespoons of Sugar
4 cup of Flour
1 tablespoons of Salt
1/4 cup of Corn oil
1 Egg yolk, mixed W/
1 tablespoons of Water
1 tablespoons of Black cuminseed or caraway -seeds

These small oval breads are baked in a tandoor, the stove of the region -- sometimes buried in the ground as it is in India. The Afghan oven is above ground & is of rounded bricks, which are heated. Nan are shaped & slapped & stuck on the hot bricks for fast baking.

1. Mix 1/2 cup of warm water, yeast, & sugar together & let it proof for 10 mins. When froth appears, sprinkle 1/2 ts flour on top & let it continue to proof for 5 mins more. The froth will rise quickly.

2. Put flour in a large mixing bowl & sprinkle salt over it. Make a well in middle of flour & add oil & yeast mixture. Stir this in & add small amounts of water until you have produced a soft, moist dough that can be handled. Knead well for 5 mins. Put dough ball back in bowl, cover w/towel, & let rise for 1-1/2 hours. Punch down dough.

3. Divide dough into 8 equal parts & roll each part into a ball. Roll each ball into a oval shape 6 to 7 inches long & 1/2 inch thick.

Draw tines of a fork in 3 lines along length of each noni for a decorative design. Paint each noni w/egg mixture & sprinkle over all 1/2 ts black cuminseeds. (This is traditional seed to use, but caraway seeds may be substituted if black cuminseed is unobtainable. Put noni on an ungreased cookie sheet & bake in a preheated 350 F.oven for 20 to 25 mins. The brown top will glisten. Makes 8 noni.

NOTE: Black Cumin (Bunium persicum B. Fedtsch): Smaller & sweeter than standard cuminseed; plants grow wild in Middle East. The seeds are used in Afghanistan, Iran, & Turkey. Black cuminseeds are sprinkled on Pashtun bread.

2003-10-28T10:17:00.000-05:00

Bloggers Behaving Badly

Little Green Footballs, also known as the Great Satan, by followers of this man's site, have been fomenting sectarian and racist bigotry with great success. He has a huge blogroll and can only be considered sadly an A-list blogger. The fact that hatred is the basis of so many of his posts and that they are so widely read and admired is truly a sad thing for all of the blogosphere. His comment box is full of venomous outpourings of self righteous war-bloggers with nothing but time on their hands.

It all started as a joke on Indymedia blog with this entry, granted it was mean-spirited, but then again so is most of the stuff on LGF. Metafilter, a blog full of geek goodness then posted this, a tale of bloggers gone bad. You have to read the comments to believe it. People get a life for fuxake.
Oh wait..how sad am I for posting this to begin with, something to be learned here? You bet! Embrace diversity, listen not just with your ears but with your heart. Look beyond the obvious differences to find common ground.

coming soon... The Sultan of Swat...no it isnt about my Florida Marlins winning the World Series.

Blog buddy Tom Love has published a short story, called the "$20 Mango" here...well done Tom

2003-10-27T10:13:00.000-05:00

The Long and Winding Road

The plan is to drive from Lahore to Islamabad spend the day and complete the 5 - 6 hour ride to Saidu-Shariff with a stop at Takht-e-Bahi to see the well-preserved Buddhist monastery. We'll meet up with Ali, Nadia's cousin, a doctor working with an NGO at Peshawar at the hotel in Saidu-Shariff then a visit of the Kalam Valley and some hiking at the Churchill Piquet on Damkot Hill.

You can park opposite the main gate of Chakdara fort. This fort was built in 1896 by the British on the foundation of the Emperor Akbar's 16th century fort, and is still occupied by the Pakistan army. The footpath up the hill to Churchill Piquet takes about 15 minutes to climb. On a clear day the whole of the lower Swat valley is spread out before you, against a backdrop of snow-clad mountains receding into the distance.

Here the young Winston Churchill, reporting for the London Daily Telegraph, covered the Pathan uprising in 1897, wrote this column.

" One man was shot through the breast and pouring with blood; another lay on his back kicking and twisting. The British officer was spinning round just behind me, his face a mass of blood, his right eye cut out. Yes, it was certainly an adventure.

It is a point of honour on the Indian frontier not to leave wounded men behind. Death by inches and hideous mutilation are the invariable measure meted out to all who fall in battle into the hands of the Pathan tribesmen. We all laid hands on the wounds and began to carry and drag them away down the hill.

I looked around to my left. Out from the edge of the houses rushed half a dozen Pathan swordsmen. The bearers of the poor Adjutant let him fall and fled at their approach. The leading tribesmen rushed upon the prostrate figure and slashed at it there or four times with his sword. I forgot everything else at this moment except a desire to kill this man. I wore my long cavalry sword well sharpened. After all, I had won the public school facing medal. I resolved on personal combat a lame blanche. The savage saw me coming, I was not more than twenty yards away. He picked up a big stone and hurled it at me with his left hand, and then awaited me, brandishing his sword. There were others waiting not far behind him. I changed my mind about the cold steel. I pulled out my revolver, took, as I thought, most careful aim, and fired. No result. I fired again. No result. Whether I hit him or not I cannot tell. I looked around. I was all alone with the enemy. I ran as fast as I could. I got to the first knoll. Hurrah, there were the Sikhs holding the lower one.

We fetched up at the bottom of the spur little better than a mob, but still with our wounded, while the tribesmen, who must have now numbered two or three thousand, gathered in a wide and spreading half-moon around our flanks. The Colonel said to me, The Buffs are not more than half a mile away. Go and tell them to hurry or we shall be wiped out.

But meanwhile I heard an order: Volley firing. Ready. Present. Crash! At least a dozen tribesmen fell. Another volley, and they wavered. A third, and they began to withdraw up the hillside. The bugler began to sound Charge. Everyone shouted. The crisis was over, and here, praise be to God, were the leading files of the Buffs."

(Churchill was getting a column, so it paid him to spin it out a bit). The door to Churchill Piquet is usually open. A shaky ladder inside leads to the roof. From the ramparts you can see why the position was so important; not only does it guard the river crossing, but it is high enough to overlook the Malakand Pass to the west: the Shah Kot and Mura Passes (from Thana to the Peshawar basin) to the south: Barikot, gateway to Buner and to Swat proper, to the east: and the Chakdara plain and the ancient trade route to the north.

These are the plans anway. My hosts will fast for Ramadan despite, the traveller's dispensation, I will fast with them. My stomach is growling already!

2003-10-24T10:13:00.000-04:00

Happy Deepavali, Ramadan Mubarak, and Happy Birthday to me,

Non veg Diwali recipes from Malaysia...sumptuous

Diwali Sweets here

and because its important to keep your strength up during Ramadan, so you dont bite off the heads of those who love you due to hypoglycaemia.

Some delicious recipes to break the fast. Sambak bi Tahina, Chicken with lemon and figs, and a delicious lentil stew.

or how about these: " Fresh figs stuffed with succulent goat cheese wrapped with grape leaves roasted on the grill and drizzled with honey. For an extra oomph of flavor skewer the figs on rosemary fronds. Yummmm

and end it all off with a lovely rosewater sorbet, or pista kulfi.

Ever find yourself with a really large crowd to feed, and don't have a clue what to prepare? From the "Al Qaida guide to gracious living."

Roast Stuffed Camel
1 whole camel, medium size
1 whole lamb, large size
20 whole chickens, medium size
60 eggs
12 kg rice
2 kg pine nuts
2 kg almonds
1 kg pistachio nut
110 gallons water
5 lbs black pepper
salt
1. Skin, trim and clean camel (once you get over the hump), lamb and chicken.
2. Boil until tender.
3. Cook rice until fluffy.
4. Fry nuts until brown and mix with rice.
5. Hard boil eggs and peel.
6. Stuff cooked chickens with hard boiled eggs and rice.
7. Stuff the cooked lamb with stuffed chickens.
8. Add more rice.
9. Stuff the camel with the stuffed lamb and add rest of rice.
10. Broil over large charcoal pit until brown.
11. Spread any remaining rice on large tray and place camel on top of rice.
12. Decorate with boiled eggs and nuts.
13. Serves a friendly crowd of 80-100.

2003-10-23T11:03:00.000-04:00

The Akond of Swat

WHO or why, or which, or what,
Is the Akond of SWAT?

Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?

Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?

Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk,
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or a COT,
The Akond of Swat?

When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?

Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat!

Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?

If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?

Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE?
O the Akond of Swat!

poetry courtesy of Edward Lear

What is it about mid-level bureaucrats of every nationality. Skin colour and language are different but beneath the cheap suits and air of self-importance, they share the same humourless expression,the Babu-ji expression. On them a smile becomes a facial tic, rather than an appropriate expression off happiness, or maybe its just gas.

I've been warned by my own Consulate that travelling to the Northern Frontier of Pakistan is inadvisable. Inspite of this I intend to push on, just as some people are pulled towards retracing their own footsteps on a journey, I am drawn to making new ones. I must obtain permission to make the journey to Peshawar via the Swat Valley and coming to my aid are old friends from Dubai, Adnan and Nadia Seddiqui, they've moved back to Pakistan after years of living the ex-pat life in the Gulf. I'm curious to see how they've adjusted after living in Dubai for so long, where the great God of Mammon rules.

They arrive in a new Suzuki 4x4 wearing the dust of miles of Pakistani roads. It is difficult to make out the colour, it is perhaps a dusty green or greenish beige, it must be khaki, yes, thats it. They've both put on weight as if being home agrees with them. We chat easily while we wait in queue for the Pakistani official. We catch up on the exploits of old acquaintances. Who's gone home, who's gotten sacked, who's sleeping with whom, the patter of middle aged, middle class expat workers the world over. We share this strange fraternity that bypasses culture,religion, and politics. We are all strangers in a strange land.

Snap! the permission to travel on, is fait accompli, due to some mysterious connections between Adnan and the bilious bureaucrat. No money changes hands but there is a round of hand shaking and smiling. Perhaps they cheer for the same Cricket team, God knows, but after a machine-gun like exchange of Urdu the deal is done. Cricket seems to be the universal language here.

"Uh, cheers, Adnan, for getting me through this."

"Before you go cheers, Adnan, you do know you are going to become a hijabi, for the next few days?"

"Huh?"

"It's really for your own safety, and for ours."

Nadia grabs my hand, caressing it as if in sympathy, as we wheel towards the market. Oooh, Islamic shopping til you drop, was so not what I expected. So its off to Walla-mart for me.

Several Salwar Khameez fittings later, Nadia picks out some head covering, and Adnan pick out a huge pair of black sunglasses. Back at the hotel, they demand a hijab fashion show. I begrudingly cover the blonde highlights, I paid so dearly for in the US and don the sunglasses and emerge, newly hijabified. Adnan laughs out loud at the transformation, as I try to go native.

Although my own hijabi experience were not faith based, I recommend the following weblogs to learn more about the decision many Muslim women make, and some of the observations of American converts to Islam. here
and veiled for Allah...here

2003-10-22T10:42:00.000-04:00

Not so Instant Karma

A must read from Guardian

If you live in a rich nation in the English-speaking world, and most of your work involves a computer or a telephone, don't expect to have a job in five years' time. Almost every large company which relies upon remote transactions is starting to dump its workers and hire a cheaper labor force overseas. All those concerned about economic justice and the distribution of wealth at home should despair. All those concerned about global justice and the distribution of wealth around the world should rejoice. As we are, by and large, the same people, we have a problem.

Britain's industrialization was secured by destroying the manufacturing capacity of India. In 1699, the British government banned the import of woolen cloth from Ireland, and in 1700 the import of cotton cloth (or calico) from India. Both products were forbidden because they were superior to our own. As the industrial revolution was built on the textiles industry, we could not have achieved our global economic dominance if we had let them in. Throughout the late 18th and 19th centuries, India was forced to supply raw materials to Britain's manufacturers, but forbidden to produce competing finished products. We are rich because the Indians are poor.

There is a profound historical irony here. Indian workers can outcompete British workers today because Britain smashed their ability to compete in the past. Having destroyed India's own industries, the East India Company and the colonial authorities obliged its people to speak our language, adopt our working practices and surrender their labor to multinational corporations.

Read more

"A garden," Babar wrote, "is the purest of human pleasure." This impressive Mughal monument, the most complete Moghal garden in the entire Indian subcontinent, is on the Grand Trunk Road five kilometres towards the Indian border from the center of Lahore.Laid out by Shah Jahan in1642 for the pleasure of royal household, which often stayed here for days or week at a time. Visit Shalimar garden with us

Rizwan Dar's photography does what only few artist can...transcend and transport, dont miss his photo journal on the faces of Lahore, amazing stuff

Abez and Owl and their blogging Mum have become my favourite reads these days. Today they are going on about Ramadan and pie, now I'm not sure about the relation between the two but with those two girls you can bet its half-baked.

SCITTBW's Alumni, Masala Drama Queen, Melodrama is doing a guest spot at Troubled Diva Props, dahlink!

2003-10-20T11:04:00.000-04:00

Bits and Ke- Bob

Blasphemy or Good Fun, a non-Muslimah calls for opinion, when Allah is in the House. click here to be horrified, amused, or feel the urge for fatwa.

How do you feel about a styrofoam plate full of reconstituted paste of lamb and spices slowly rotating on a spit and then carved into dry, skin-like peels by sweaty Middle Eastern men in a diesel fueled truck idling in the streets of an English town at 3:27 AM after a night of cougaring, drinking and public urination?

Does this sound like your kind of fine dining experience? via Thom Ringer's blog
its a kebab thang!

Welcome to an Exciting
New Concept in Transport

Combining the two most important features of the post-public house customer requirements, our new service provides a complete solution to the problem encountered by the "hungry drinker" by providing them SIMULTANEOUSLY with a prime quality Doner Kebab and a taxi ride home.

Using the latest in culinary hygiene technology, our engineers have been able to install a spit of finely chopped lamb and herbs in your taxi for you to "carve 'n consume" at your leisure as our professional drivers whisk you chez vous.

*Disclaimer* You are about to enter the world of the Doner Kebab. It is a sick andsometimes nauseating world. It can also be a heavenly world. Beware, diner,for this is me, and I am the Doner. for more kebabbery click here

A Tale of Shish, Shwarma, and Kofte, a scholarly discourse on you bet, KEBABS! here

and more from Auntie

And whilst we're on this kebab thing, a humourous blog, from Pewari Naan:

Pewari Naan can't be your real name, can it?!
Well done. I see I can't pull the wool over your eyes. No, Pewari Naan is a cunning Internet pseudonym I use from time to time. "Pewari" comes from the random name generator of an online game I used to play and "Naan" is just my attempt at a very bad pun. Very bad puns seem to feature a lot on this website. You have been warned. click here

Later this week, photos from Peshawar, and Shalimar, some veiled ladies speak out, a site redesign in the works, See for yourself what happens when some of the best bloggers in the World try to fit through this bathroom window.

2003-10-20T10:31:00.000-04:00

Food for the Gods

No journey is complete for me without sampling the major cuisines of a region, and it is quite unfair to lump all S. Asian cuisines together. The subcontinent provides a complex palette of spices, and ingredients that simply can't be understood without knowing its people and their diverse cultures.

South Asian food has evolved over centuries and has flourished under its many rulers . Chefs vied with one another to create exotic delicacies for their rajah's. The result is centuries of patronage to the art of cooking and a large repertoire of delicious recipes.

The hospitality in this part of the world is legendary. In Sanskrit Literature the three famous words 'Atithi Devo Bhava' or 'the guest is truly your god' are a dictum of this hospitality. Even the poorest look forward to guests and are willing to share their meager food with guest. And of particular importance is the host's pride that they will not let a guest go away un-fed or unhappy from their home. There is this incredible ability to serve food to their guests invited or uninvited, an impromptu bhel puri, or lovely curry whipped up at the spur of the moment is an immense source of pride throughout the Subcontinent and its diaspora.

Bawarchi.com is the mother of all South Asian cooking sites here are some Punjabi recipes, one of my favourite cuisines

South Indian food is famous for its ubiquitous idli and dosa, and vegan fare, click here

Goan food is rich in influence of the Portuguese and French, and is heavily based on fish. click here

The food of Kerala, is elegantly simple, but enriched with lashings of coconut, cardamom, and other exotic fruit. for Kerala recipes ...here

Kashmir is the dividing line between the hindu and muslim cuisine, and garlic becomes more prevalent a flavour. Hindus shun garlic as much as Muslims use it. more recipes

Bengali food is the taste of panchpuran, cumin, fenugreek, nigella,mustard and fennel, makes the food of Bengal tremendously aromatic. more here

The food of Gujarat is a great place for beginners to start...

Pakistani food is similar to that of northern India in that meat is used more prevalently. Add dollop of Afghan, Persian, and Middle Eastern influence thrown in for good measure and you have a menu peppered with baked and deep-fried breads (roti, chapattis, puri, halwa and nan), meat curries, lentil mush (dhal), spicy spinach, cabbage, peas and rice. Street snacks - samosas and tikkas (spiced and barbecued beef, mutton or chicken) - are delicious.

A major influence in the development of Pakistani cookery was the establishment of the Moghul Empire starting in 1526. The opulent tastes exhibited by such Emperors as Humayun, Akbar, Jahangir, Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb in art, architecture, music, dance, and jewelry was also extended to food.

A style of cookery called Mughlal evolved at the Moghul court and even today it remains centered in Lahore. Some latter-day and widely known survivors of court cookery are, for example, chicken tandoori, a dish in which chicken is cooked at low temperatures in special ovens called TANDOORS, and murgh musallum' in which the whole chickens are roasted with special spices and ingredients. More Pakistani recipes from Desicookbook..here

It's really ridiculous to try to cover these complex, challenging cuisines, in one post. One surely can't do it all justice.

Are you a cook with a superb family or regional recipe to share? Send me an email, shout out about it on the board or commenting features. I will dedicate a separate page and bio and links. g1bass at yahoo dot com.

2003-10-16T10:18:00.000-04:00

Taxi Cab Confessionals

Abez's recent ride in a taxi shows us somethings are truly universal.

"I seem to have the most interesting luck with cab drivers. I always get the ones who don’t speak either language that I do, or sometimes, I get the ones with ‘stiff neck syndrome,’ a terminal condition that prevents you from turning your head either way as you zoom out into an intersection. (I usually drive, but the car was otherwise booked)

I walked out of the house today and hailed a cab as it passed the house. The cab pulled up and I bent over and looked inside the window. Today’s cabbie was sporting those HUGE tinted shades with gold rims, the kind you would expect on a cheap cop show from the 70’s. He has the mustache to go with them, a tad too large for the typical Punjabi villager moustache, but no problem.

So I tell the guy where I’m going and how much I’m willing to pay him (this is Pakistan, that’s how it works) and instead of bargaining, he just kind of tilts his head sideways, which is the Pakistani gesture that means both yes and no, as well as maybe and whatever. It’s an all-purpose gesture, and I assumed it meant yes so I jumped into the cab and we were off.

As soon as we started driving past the first turn, I piped up and said, “Yahan left turn lena hay.” (take a left turn here.) And he made a sudden left turn and said, “Kahan turn karna tha?” (where was I supposed to turn?) “Yahan, left.” I said, trying to reassure him.

“Left?” he said, “Now is that badda (sp?) or gadda (sp?)?”

Now people, I can say left and right in three different ways because Pakistan has a lot of local languages, (whose speakers have nothing better to do than invent ways of confusing me.) but I have never, ever heard of badda or gadda. I still don’t know whether that’s what he was really saying. (bogga?) The moustache was causing some sound distortion.

“Ulta or seedha?” he asked, turning and looking at me like I was from outer Mongolia. Or space.

“Ulta,” I said, “Left is Ulta.”

“So now where do I go?” he asked.

Here I paused. See, in Urdu, the word for ‘straight’ and ‘right’ are the same. Seedha. I’ve had many moments with cab drivers that could pass as skits in some comedy (whose sole focus would be ridiculing white-washed Pakistanis) where I’ve said seedha as in straight, only to have the cab driver turn right, and where I’ve said seedha as in right, and the cabdriver has driven past my turn. I had to choose my words carefully.

“Aagay,” I said, “Ahead.”

So we drove ahead, and I used hand-signals as visual aides to the directions I called out from the back seat. When we got onto the main road that we were supposed to follow straight for about five kilometers, I relaxed in the back seat and started taking in the scenery. (on a clear day the Margalla hills are beautiful) After a couple minutes the cabdriver cleared his throat and nervously said, “You haven’t told me where to turn yet.”

“I know,” I said, “That because we’re going straight.”

At a certain point I realized that the guy had no idea where he was and no idea where he was going. The farther we went, the more nervous he got. Several times, as we drove straight through the major intersections that mark sector limits in Islamabad, I saw him sigh and make a frustrated gesture with his hand. (are we there yet?)

When we were about five minutes from the destination, and he had nearly passed two of the landmarks I had given him, driven uncertainly through red lights (which I think he didn’t know were there) and tried to turn down the wrong side of a street, I finally asked. “So,” I said, “How long have you been working in Islamabad?”

He actually turned around in his seat (while still driving!) and looked at me forlornly and said, “Two days. I’m from Karachi.”

Actually, I should’ve realized he was a Sindhi, because once his local language failed to work with me (badda? gadda? gobba? ???) he went to Urdu. The Punjabi cab drivers first try to use khabba and sajja, and when they realize I’m confused by it, they switch to English. (layft, raeet.)

Well folks, as long as this story is, I haven’t reached the end. We reached my destination and as I was getting the fare from my purse, he smiled sadly and said, “Baji, before you leave, can you tell me how to get back…?”

The End."

Abez dispenses laughs and great writing at her weblog Abez Sez Assalamualeikum...here

On a more serious note, Yasir Shah writes of the harships of leaving a family in Pakistan, in a sobering story of "Coming to America"

"Nomi has been promoted to 4th grade. Bubbly is going to start school soon and the other day she even inquired as to when Abu would come back from Amreeka. The monsoon season did not prove to be as problematic as we had dreaded. The tenants came by and finally paid the rent for the past two months. Nomi's birthday is coming up and he wants new shoes the kind that light up at the soles and will make him run faster than every boy in his class. Bubbly wants a Powerpuff girls coloring book.
Majid smiled to himself as he read the contents of the letter again and again. He scratched his two-day old stubble as he read each and every word carefully. He had already read the aerogramme front to back, but that did not matter. He loved getting letters with news from back home. Millions of miles away from his homeland, in a land where his taxicab and his profession were his only friends, it was the only company he often found himself in. "

from Desi Journal, Yasir Shah is 22 years old and is a senior undergraduate student from Pakistan. He published his first novel titled "Shrine" in Pakistan this past summer which he completed right before he turned 21. He is motivated by iced Mountain Dew, techno music, urban cafes and creative-writing. sometimes a combination of all produces his best stories. read the entire story here

read more Taxi Wallah tales ...Hussein Fancy peers through the barrier of the Plexiglas that separates passengers from their predominantly Pakistani cab drivers in New York City

2003-10-15T11:02:00.000-04:00

'UNDER certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. There are circumstances in which, whether you partake of the tea or not—some people of course never do—the situation is in itself delightful. Those that I have in mind in beginning to unfold this simple history offered an admirable setting to an innocent pastime.' -
Henry James, Portrait of a Lady.

Before I began this journey, I simply took for granted the ritual use of tea among us. Afternoon tea dances, in tatty Victorian hotels, standing on my grandfather's feet as he waltzed, were my first real introduction to civilised adult society. What followed in my teenage years bore none of that gentility and grace, but was rather a pastiche of inept stumbling, furtive looks, as dance class slowly became the bane of my existence. I took solace in my horses and their dances, which never failed me. But back to tea...

The tradition of drinking tea in the presence of company is one of the oldest sustenance rituals. Its roots can be found in many ancient societies and was used for many purposes. Business, celebration, and nourishment are all reasons for participating in the ritual of tea. As legend has it, tea was invented by a Chinese emperor in 2737 BC, when leaves accidentally blew into his pot of boiling water. It took many centuries to make it’s way to the rest of the world. Europe finally received this elixir in the 1600’s as Asian trade routes were carved out.

What started as a leisure ritual for the wealthy quickly caught on as essential with the working class. At 5pm, immediately following work, the middle class would partake in “family tea”. The advent of gas lighting brought on longer work days. Breakfast was eaten before the sunrise and a light portable snack was consumed for lunch at one’s work station. As per the rules of etiquette, supper wasn’t served until 8pm. The eight hours between lunch and supper were tough for a working man to handle. Tea quickly became a wonderful compromise. “Meat tea” or “High tea”, as it was called because of the standard table height where it was partaken, became the modern day dinner.
Brother Joseph Keenan, Ph.D., FSC discusses the sociological implications of tea here

And as we wind our way towards the Pakistani border, I bring you with pleasure the writings of the degrouchyowl, Occupation: Muslim, professional complainer, planner of harebrained ideas, dictator in the making. She tells us about the tea trolley ordeals of unmarried Pakistani women. She's brilliant, give a hallo to our latest find.

"A friend of mine has just been promoted to the most marriageable status. That means she'll be having to do the dreaded tea-trolley thing. That's when a girl presents and serves tea, on a trolley of course, to her prospective in-laws and possible future husband. It's really just an excuse for the dude appraise the girl. Seems iffy if you ask me, but luckily my family doesn't do that sort of thing, it's considered demeaning.

Anyways, so this friend of mine is worried cuz her dad has bad taste in guys. She's afraid he'll be bringing unsavory Quasimodo types for her to serve tea to. She doesn't really want to be approved by anyone like that, so she phoned me the other day and asked for some serious help.
Well Seema, you've come to the right place. I am a vessel of mischievous mayhem.

Aside from pretending to be nuthouse escapee, or arriving with teeth blackened out, there are a number of subtle ways to frighten off your prospective in-laws and Munay ki Abba." Read more of degrouchyowls writing here, she is one funny Muslimah

At Chai and Apple Pie, you'll read about the daily life of an American expat living in Islamabad here

I love Chai, there is no end to the diversity of recipes for making your own chai. Chai recipes are like Italian minestrone soup - its always good but everyone's recipe is different. so checkout some of these recipes.

Pakistani Bloggers, give us a shout out!
Coming soon, Guest blogger...Melodrama

2003-10-14T08:57:00.000-04:00

Poetry Of Departures

Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up everything
And just cleared off,
And always the voice will sound
Certain you approve
This audacious, purifying,
Elemental move.

And they are right, I think.
We all hate home
And having to be there:
I detect my room,
It's specially-chosen junk,
The good books, the good bed,
And my life, in perfect order:
So to hear it said

He walked out on the whole crowd
Leaves me flushed and stirred,
Like Then she undid her dress
Or Take that you bastard;
Surely I can, if he did?
And that helps me to stay
Sober and industrious.
But I'd go today,

Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,
Crouch in the fo'c'sle
Stubbly with goodness, if
It weren't so artificial,
Such a deliberate step backwards
To create an object:
Books; china; a life
Reprehensibly perfect.

Philip Larkin

The complacency Larkin rails against above is but another symptom of our excesses. Whether we be middle class Bangalorean, or an American or British suburbanite clattering towards a prairie dog city of cubicles; we all crave the journey. This audacious, purifying, elemental move, this escape from the mundane.

In 1955 he sent to D.J. Enright a 'Statement' in which he writes:

"I write poems to preserve things I have seen/thought/felt (if I may so indicate a composite and complex experience) both for myself and for others, though I feel that my prime responsibility is to the experience itself, which I am trying to keep from oblivion for its own sake."

I've been both pleased and startled by the revelations this journey and journal has presented me. Lest we all become complacent about the journey and the place of departure, to quote Larkin, "Surely I can if he did."

Scott is a Peace Corps worker in Nepal and guest blogger for today. This sobering tale is not about living in the shadow Everest, loyal Sherpa guides, or wealthy adventurers testing their mettle against a mountain, a manque travelogue. It is a life.

What I Do

My job is far more complicated than it seems in point. Basically, I work for the District Education Office in Birganj, a large industrial city south of Kathmandu, directly on the Nepal-India border. It's an awful place, known for institutions of smelting,refining, manufacturing, processing, et al.

Institutions of learning, as I am most loosely applying this term, are for the most part defunct. A thesis, doomed to pointlessness, would not be
sufficient to explain the problems of Nepal's government schools.Anyhow, I was doing a follow-up visit at a primary school in Chhapkyah area in Birganj. It's one of the poorer places, home to many migrant workers from India (less than a single kilometer away), who live in what an American might graciously refer to as manufactured housing.
Occasionally these are bulldozed. Hindus shout,
"Muslims!"
The Muslims shout,
"Oh fuck!"
Both parties commence in looting this and that. Rarely (never in my 20 months there) do people get hurt. I imagine Beavis and Butthead, one in lungee and the other wearing tikka, carrying on: "Yeah, yeah, break shit," "Huh, huh, shit." Things smolder, life continues.

So I'm a this school, Jail Road Primary (because it's located next to the jail). A couple teachers have been coming to my Friday trainings so I decided to pop by and see what I could do at the school. Hardly noble. My job description is mostly drinking tea, which I do well. I deftly slurp off the fleshy bit of coagulated milk off the top with skill as if I've been doing it all my life.

For some dumb reason I ask after nimbly slurping off the slime skin from my tea, like I'm the fucking King of Nepal,
"So why isn't anyone teaching today?" I ask
and I know the answer. They will tell me and I will say, "Ahhh," as if I have a slightest fucking idea what their lives or like I really fucking understand the problems of the Nepali school system. It's just a half-minded monkey trying fruitlessly to ejaculate to German porn. Yes! A perfect simile! I understand!

They of course tell me they haven't been paid in three years and have decided to stop teaching and I say, "Ahhh." I notice that the kids are running around, beating each other with the cane sticks the teachers usually use, (when paid) to beat them, to beat one another. It's as if some defacto student government has seized control of the school and assume responsibilities for instruction, i.e., beatings.

I am there mostly as a witness to all of this. Am I shocked? Hardly. During the winter one day I saw a few moderately frozen (thawing) dead bodies crumpled up in the gutters on my way to a school to teach. When I rode my bike by and saw the bodies I thought to myself, "Dead bodies," which should be differentiated from, "OHMYGODDEADBODIES!" or (less shocked, but same response due to physical revulsion, "OhmyGoddeadbodiescrumpleduplyinginthegutter!" My responses have become encyclopedical, as if I'm cataloging all of this for some inspired post-traumatic stress syndrome that I can sport as wisdom or depth to co-eds at college bars to get them to take off their pants in front of me later.

So I teach.
I put down my empty glass, wipe the tea slime off my lips, and say,
"All right, let's teach."
The teachers look at me and say with smirks,
"We haven't been paid in three years."
Would I work at a job if I hadn't been paid in three years? Hell no, I wouldn't.Would I wear a crown of thorns, climb up on a cross and get nailed to it if there wasn't some money involved? Probably not. So why am at a school, in the sun, drinking hot tea when it's around 110'F with 90% humidity, for a US$108 a month being a Peace Corps volunteer? I have no answer. I am satisfied with this.

I gather up the lazy, socially excluded kids that are allowed to play school and be beaten with the other kids into a classroom and start in with my usual just-walked-into-a-class-of-lazy-socially-unaccepted-kids-and-need-to-look-good repertoire. The kings sing, dance, happily write things they obviously don't comprehend, and I look like white Jesus, on holiday from heaven, spreading the good word of English to the poor children of Nepal. I am loved, therefore I am.

But something happens in class. It doesn't change the course of the class, just of my self-esteem. A kid, looking out the window as if he's bored or some shit, has his hand down the front of his mouth, as if he's tasting it or looking for something. After a moment he heaves and he's got my attention. A moment later, much to his clear satisfaction, vomits pours out of his mouth down his shirt, into his pants. I keep singing dancing, wearing my monkey suit, kids are laughing and enjoying and it's all because, for once in a long, long while, suddenly learning is in a safe environment.

This is what I do. This is what I model for the teachers. I honestly love what I'm doing. Yes, there are successes, but those are boring. Ok, so a teacher is using puppets to model dialogue after one of my meetings. But at Chhapkyah, the hopeless son of a hopeless migrant worker made himself vomit because of my teaching, my presence. I tell myself, "If I can just touch one kid..."

Addendum: This is not what I usually write on my blog.
While just as honest, there's some things I'd rather not bother my grandparents with and for them to read my garbage. Let's say, about how one time a headsir got me in a real nasty situation with a prostitute(trafficked, most likely) and ending with me granting a concession smooch just to get out alive, and then die. These are things to be considered.

Read more about Scott's journey....here

2003-10-13T11:01:00.000-04:00

WESTERN UNION BLOGAGRAM

Experiencing temporary blogging difficulties-STOP
Bloggers in Bhutan seem to be non-existent-STOP
Can this truly be Shangri-la, if it doesn't have internet connections?-STOP
Himalayas breath-taking -STOP
Experiencing Curry withdrawal-STOP
Miss you and wish you were here-STOP
Love -STOP
Arabella

2003-10-10T13:30:00.000-04:00

2003-10-10T09:56:00.000-04:00

"When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile his work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger*, tiger, burning bright,
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?"

I would be remiss this week in particular not to post something about tigers. It's been a newsworthy week for them. The Roy Horn story just gets weirder and weirder, after bopping white tiger, Montecore, on the nose with a microphone, Horn slipped and fell. The animal then went for Horn's jugular and attempted to drag him offstage. Horn's partner, Siegfried Fischbacher, said Wednesday in interviews on CNN and ABC that the animal had been trying to help.

"The cat wasn't trying to protect him," said Jonathan Kraft, who runs the Arizona-based nonprofit group Keepers of the Wild. "That was a typical killing bite."

"I admire the guys, I just think they are sending a wrong message," Kraft said. "The message needs to be: These are wild animals."

Yes, indeed.

You can't discuss Man vs. Tiger, without mentioning Jim Corbett, the less Indo-centric, and Anglophilic may not know that the Beatles tune, "Bungalow Bill", was written about his adventures.

Edward James Corbett was born in 1875 of English ancestry in Kumaon, at the picturesque foothills of the Himalayas. Corbett remembered his boyhood as a sort of forest idyll. Lying in his bed at night, he would listen to the sounds of the jungle. He learned to imitate the cries and calls of the animals so precisely that once, when he impersonated a leopard, a British hunter and a leopard crept toward him simultaneously.

Both the Indian villagers themselves and the British would petition Corbett for his assistance, with a typical villager request reading something like this:

"We, the public, venture to suggest that you very kindly take trouble to come to this place and shoot this tiger and save the public from this calamity. For this act of kindness the public will be highly obliged and will pray for your long life and prosperity."

But, no matter how much prayer went into it, Jim Corbett would never kill a tiger where he felt the animal was not a proven habitual killer. One or two attacks did not make it 'proven' and Corbett firmly believed that most tiger attacks were due to misfortune or a tigress protecting her cubs, rather than a true man-eater on the prowl.

Of all the sub-species of tiger it is the Bengal which has gained the worst reputation as a man-eater. It has been said that "at one time, in parts of India, at the beginning of the 19th century, man-eaters were so prevalent that it seemed to be a question of whether man or tiger would survive." Each night, fires encircled the villages and the native people only ever travelled in large groups, fully armed and beating drums to scare the cats.

In the 1930s tigers killed between 1,000 and 1,600 people each year, causing terror among the human population. One famous tigress known as Champawat killed some 200 men and women before being driven out of Nepal. She moved to another location, this time in India, and continued to kill bringing her total up to 436 before she was tracked down and killed in 1937 by Jim Corbett.

Between 1906 and 1941, Corbett hunted down at least a dozen man-eaters. It is estimated that the combined total of men, women and children those 12 animals are thought to have killed before he stopped them was more than 1,500.

In the 1920s, Corbett became appalled at the ever-increasing number of hunters, British and Indian, in the forests. He was concerned about the view of jungles as a source of profit from timber rather than a sanctuary for wildlife. He began speaking to groups of schoolchildren about their natural heritage.He helped create the Association for the Preservation of Game in the United Provinces, and the All-India Conference for the Preservation of Wild Life, and he established India's first national park, inaugurated in 1934 in the Kumaon Hills.

Tigers In India from the Ray I. Doan Photographic Collection, a fascinating site with great pics

From the World Wildlife Federation

*Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
English Poetry II: From Collins to Fitzgerald.The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
The New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy, Third Edition. 2002.

just trying out some new tricks with div tags :-)

2003-10-09T10:35:00.000-04:00

He roller coaster he got early warning, he got muddy water he one Mo-jo filter. He say one and one and one is three , got to be good looking cause he so hard to see.
Come Together Right Now,
Over Me.

What an amazing response from the Blogosphere, I am reading the blogs of so many clever, witty people, with so much to say, its truly a revelation! I can only hope this experience will be mirrored throughout the journey, the hospitality of the bloggers of India has left me loving this country and it's inhabitants more than ever.

(Literary interruption from Jules Verne, author of Around the World in 80 Days, in which he meets Passepartout)

A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared.

The new man,” said he.

A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.

“You are a Frenchman, I believe,” asked Phileas Fogg, “and your name is John?”

“Jean, if monsieur pleases,” replied the newcomer, “Jean Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for going out of one business into another. I believe I’m honest, monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I’ve had several trades. I’ve been an itinerant singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout.”

Today some excellent links:
When one of your mates gets married, a male perspective from Mundane Musings

Arunwho has this to say about eating Asian food in the UK.
"Othentic Indian and bongaldeshi cuisine sir.. 30% discount on oll items.." Brick lane is so bangla, the streets are marked in english and bangla. It's a small 100mts stretch of street lined with 2 dozen restuarants.. one after the other.. all serving bangladeshi and 'indian' cuisine. Each one had a guy standing at the door luring passersby with 30% discounts(!!) ..like the bus stand dosa shops in Pondicherry. Now the funny part.. they wouldn't ask us asians.. only the white skins get invited. we'd walk by and they'd turn their heads away. IDIOTS. Landed up in the 'Bombay' restaurant and stuffed ourselves."

You simply must see Arun's comics, they are top notch..click here for Arun, who?

Toinks tells us what its like to be a Tam Bram,
""You doing masters in Economics, right?" asked my young cousin. "No, in Literature," I hastily clarified. The question coming from anyone else would have been innocuous, but from my cousin who was a third year engineering student, it was almost offending.

As a card carrying member of the Tamil Brahmin community or Tam Brams (as the endearment goes), I knew that in his world - and that included his parents, relatives, colony friends, project group, dorm mates someone who was doing Literature obviously did so because he or she had a learning disability." more here

O Brother Where Art Thou, Melodrama reflects on the birth of her kid brother, " "When you were going to be born, Mamma told us that we could have either another sister or a brother. If it was a sister, no problemo, we knew how to deal with ovaries in our home, yes!" click on

Over at Brain Cells Gone Awry, elaichi chai, shares a moment of insight for all the female bloggers:
"Its so easy to take pot shots at men, spout witticisms such as: ‘Men are like toilets. They're either occupied or full of shit. But male bashing is not a show of power. Your power lies in being a woman, and in being the best that you can be." naming the author will only undermine the value of these words" ...here

I thank the above bloggers, and all who have posted for sharing, your lives and thoughts with us. If you would like a guest shout out, let me know. I pray there will be much more to come.

Coming Attractions to include:
Nepal
Bhutan
Pakistan

2003-10-08T09:32:00.000-04:00

I was alone, I took a ride, I didn’t know what I would find there.
Another road where maybe, I Could see another kind of mind there.

It will be a bit before Nepal connections are confirmed, via a guest spot "shout out" from Scott. Nothing to do but find a mehndi artist.

What is mehndi you ask! click here Sitting perfectly still so as not to ruin the paisley that is being labouriously applied to my skin. I used to wonder why women spent hours sitting having mehndis applied, and in a sense there is something wonderful about body decorations, it elevates us from the everyday and commonplace. It makes a woman special and beautiful, like a work of art, no wonder it is used by brides on that special day.

A special time is set aside for the application of mehndi to the hands and feet of the bride-to-be. Usually the ceremony takes place on the night before the actual wedding. The bride will be surrounded by all the female members of the household, as well as the friends, she has grown up with, and close relatives who have come to attend the wedding. There will be much singing and dancing interspersed with bouts of teasing the bride. It is an atmosphere full of joviality, nostalgia, and a tinge of sadness. The ceremony will probably last into the wee hours of the morning when, finally, the women will retire for a few hours slumber only to wake up for a hectic day ahead for the wedding.

The bride will usually sleep with the mehndi paste still on her hands and feet and not wash it off until the next morning. This is crucial, since the longer the paste stays on, the darker is the ultimate color. The next morning, when she does wash her hands and feet, everybody will come to admire the intricate patterns and the deep vibrant color. The darker the color the more her mother-in-law and husband are supposed to love her. Traditionally, as long as the bride has mehndi on her hands, she will not be asked to do any household work or chores at her mother-in-laws house once she reaches there after the wedding. So, the bride has her own special interests in trying to keep the mehndi paste on as long as possible to get the darkest possible color!

The art of mehndi dates as far back as 3000 BC. The ancient Egyptians applied henna to their nails and feet. From Egypt and other African countries the art of mehndi spread to the Middle East. It was probably taken to India either by the Persians when Mahmud of Ghazni invaded India during 1001-26 AD, or by the forerunners of the mughal empire around 1500 AD.

watch henna being applied here

Mehndi designs is actually quite simple but takes practice to master. Designs consists of taking small designs and motifs (Paisley [mango] shapes, straight lines, scallop lines, dots, tear-drops, leaf shapes, etc.) and combining them to make large, more complex designs. So many patterns to choose from!!

My 13 year old son has started his own weblog, called "Children Stay Crunchy in Milk" I'm not sure what thats all about yet. We'll just have to let him stretch his journalistic wings.

2003-10-07T11:05:00.000-04:00

My baby said she's travelin on the one after 909, She said, "Move over, honey, I'm travelin on that line.

M. Hoback of Darla72 fame writes:
"So exactly where is this Arabella? Are you in India for fun? for a long time? or just passing through?

I have had the lads back at Rough Travel Central pen this statement in responce to M. Hoback's enquiry:

Ever winsome Arabella always up for a challenge has given herself a new assignment, a world-wide tour of blogs. Imagine if you will a cross between, Michael Palin, Phineas Fogg, and Nigella Lawson, all wrapped up in one delicious, jodhpur and pith helmet wearing package. Follow Arabella through the more dodgy corners of the blogosphere where she attempts to edify and entertain her one loyal reader. Where in the World is Arabella O’ Buggery???? Just follow the trail of kebab crumbs.

My esteem and respect for the bloggers of India is increasing daily, however the steady diet of bhelpuri, samosas, and chapati, is making it increasingly difficult to hoist my prodigious bottom through the bathroom windows of this Subcontinent. And there was that unfortunate moment of getting stuck trying to make a graceful entrance at the Jockey Club. I won't go into the gruesome details, suffice it to say it took a litre of ghee, and the sweat of dhoti wearing legions to extricate me from that unfortunate situation.

Right, onto Blog Mela. Blog Mela is a group blogging project, about Blogging the best of India.

Many people asked me one simple question: What the heck is a blog mela ?. Here are some answers:

It is the selection of what you think is a collection of the best indian blogs for the week

One volunteer agrees to host it.

Others nominate best blogs (individual posts, not the whole blog).

You can nominate your own blogs

In reality, the person hosting does all of the above as no one sends any nominations (hopefully, as more people get involved, this will change)

On wednesday, the blog mela is put on the host's site and is mirrored

If you would like to host next wednesday's blog mela, just let us know through the comments section

the previous three mela's were hosted at realwomenonline

We request you to add a link every wednesday to the place where the blog mela is hosted.

Blog Mela credits to Ashwini and Shanti click here for excellent blogging via Blog Mela

2003-10-06T09:58:00.000-04:00

If we could talk to the animals, just imagine it
Chatting to a chimp in chimpanzee
Imagine talking to a tiger, chatting to a cheetah
What a neat achievement that would be.

Apparently there is a serious communication problem between people and pachyderm in Bangladesh, according to my madly, marvelous, mahout Marvin.

As Bangladesh's exploding population spills into the wild, the elephant is a major casualty of the animal-human clash, triggering fears that the endangered pachyderm may soon disappear from the South Asian country.

According to a report by The World Conservation Union (IUCN), as man invaded elephant territory, wild elephants killed at least 162 persons and injured over 600, while humans retaliated by killing 22 elephants between 1997 and 2002.

Twelve people died in the last eight months of this year.

"We have estimated that elephants caused damage worth US $500,000 in the Chittagong region last year. "

Bangladesh's impoverished farming community can't take such losses. Enraged villagers, therefore, tend to hit back and kill elephants.

The people of Rangamati district, are arming themselves. A late-night elephant stampede on June 19 killed three persons and injured eight others sleeping in their thatched houses in Rangamati.

A day earlier, in a similar stampede at around 8 pm, a woman died when a wild elephant grabbed her with its trunk and flung her off its path.

Elephant attacks were also reported on May 29 and March 25, when two persons were killed in the deep forests while collecting firewood.

During the harvest season, we often find ourselves surrounded by 40 to 50 elephants at night. We take shelter in the only brick house and watch them destroy crops and bamboo houses,"

There goes the neighbourhood!

Of course that was in poor taste, its a serious issue that I hope can be reconciled. The elephant has a position of distinction in human cultural and political history. Classical literature and other writings have accorded them a position of dignity and in some cultures divinity. I hope the Bangladeshi government can prevail, and somehow stop the encroachment into and preserve their legacy or elephants will become extinct in Bangladesh in the next five to six years.

We're packing it in here and moving up-country back into Mother India and over into Nepal for some more vicarious blog-adventuring. Hang on to your howdah!

A Hindi myth about how elephants came to be...here

Practical Elephant Management - A Handbook for Mahouts REALLY! here

2003-10-03T10:13:00.000-04:00

Sounds of laughter shades of earth are drifting through my open mind, Inciting and inviting me

Yes it is I, intrepid blog-explorer, Arabella O' Buggery (any resemblance to Carmen SanDiego, wherever the hell she is, is entirely coincidental.) We are leaving Calcutta, today and travelling in grand style aboard the Darjeeling Himalayan Railways, grand style means I share my seat with two caged chickens, and a 9 year old boy named Arun. read more about the trip on a toy train to Darjeeling here

Ferocious Bengal tigers once roamed the length of these tracks and in the early twenties, the Calcutta authorities received a frantic message from Tindharia, which when decoded read : " Tiger eating station master on platform. Rush instructions by telegraph!" Oh dear! We lose more station masters that way!

The tiny engine puts in its best effort while hauling one up more than 1,463 m to Kurseong. Smiling Bhutia and Lepcha women with babies strapped across the back, heavy silver trinkets oxidized by the air, costumes bright as a peacock's tail, all add to the charm of the journey.

Although the next bit of the journey is all downhill, it will be by elephant from Darjeeling to Bangladesh. What does the well dressed blog explorer wear on an elephant journey of this magnitude??

Time to meet Bangladeshi blogger, Rezwan, the eldest son of Mr. Nazrul Islam, who retired as a Controller of News, Radio Bangladesh. He has an MBA and works for ACNielsen Bangladesh Ltd., a subsidiary of the world's no. 1 market research company ACNielsen. Without further ado... here

2003-10-02T11:50:00.000-04:00

Words are flying out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe.

I've noticed a certain tendency towards cliques in the blogosphere. Like high school, there are many subcultures - and in each group a token icon. I really don't like this tendency of limiting oneself to reading only one type of blog, and the blogs that spin off from that one blog. Maybe I'm in denial about the self-esteem significance associated with acceptance, but there we are.

I've already ranted enough about the silliness of the blogging popularity contest, and being a link slut, and after reviewing my list of links of other bloggers I read, I realised how really white bread my link list had become. My list is stereo-typically white, 30-40 ish, white collar workers, in the US or UK. How bloody boring are we!

About 2 weeks ago, I decided to have a wee visit outside the safe confines of my white, middle-class blogosphere. First stop Rediff.com, rediff is the blogging portal for the Indian sub-continent, it is also the culture and media portal for millions of English speaking Indian IT workers.

I dropped an email to Indian blogger Jishnu Dasgupta and here is his reply:

Hello Gina,

i'm sorry the reply comes in so late, but here goes:

first off, thanks for the words of encouragement on my
blog - it's heartening to know people all over the
world are reading and appreciating my words.

well, blogging in india is still relatively new,
judging by the dates the hit counters have started.
the average indian blogger is usually

1. 22-30 years old
2. an above average-to-good command over english - as
he/she would probably have been to a school where eng
was the medium of instruction. hence the indian
blogger is urbanised, well educated and probably has a
lot of western influences in his/her life.
3. probably employed in an IT company - a techie, as
it were, and more often than not, blogs from work.

these are indicative points, and there are exceptions,
of course.

there is a sizable chunk of non-resident indian
bloggers, mostly software professionals working in the
US or students who are going to grad school. they use
blogs to stay in touch with what's happening back home
and also to build relationships etc.

the indian blogging community, i expect is like
blogging communities all over the world - an online
support system, if you will.

some of the blogs i frequent are :

Melodrama click here

SpeedZone

and with Jish's advice I was off hunting the mango ripe blogs of India,

Enjoy!

Goofiness Personified- tasty writing, tasty recipes, yummy veg kebab recipe

and as you'd expect a bit of this and that, at Smorgasbord

and on an even spicier note, a girl, a blog, some masala drama and you've got, Soul Curry..click here

A list of indian bloggers can be found here

Thank You Jishnu, and here is a link to Jishnu's blog, Carpe Diem" the snake entry by the way is brilliant . Namaste to Jish and his friends.

I'm putting on the pith helmet, and going in search of new quarry, I'll be reporting back from different places in the blogosphere. Wish me well on my journey. (Safari kit and Pith helmet courtesy of "Hats in the Belfry.")

2003-10-01T09:49:00.000-04:00

Auditioning today:
and for one day only, the following blogs of note.

Stratford-upon- Avon, The truth.
(Tony? George?...) 'Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it, misdiagnosing it and then misapplying the wrong remedies'. Groucho Marx (W Shakespeare is unwell.)

Duh!
All sorts of stuff jotted down in a haphazard manner for no particular reason, with a special emphasis on stupid crap.

Tales of a Tosser in Tinsel Town, From London to Los Angeles without Prozac

Say the word and you'll be free, say the word and be like me. Say the word I'm thinkin of, have you heard the word is love... it's so fine..it's sunshine, it's the word.....

2003-10-01T08:43:00.000-04:00

I Dig a Pony, Revisited.

With the release of Let It Be in 1970 came a soft-cover, black book full of wonderful glossy photo's taken during the recording of the album. It was simply called "Get Back" and also featured transcripts of the Beatles talking during the filming. Here is an excerpt from the creative process.

In Which Doris Gets Her Oats.

Lindsay-Hogg: Is there anything else you're writing?

John: I was going to do 'On the Road to Marakesh,' which is a sweet number, baby, a sweet number. I was going to use a big thirties orchestra, but I don't think I've got the energy. So I was going to use Hawaiian guitar, I was going to bring my little Hawaiian guitar for George. But I did 'Dig a Pony' instead. (singing)
I'd like to be
Underneath the sea

John: Is that a wide-angle lens?

Lindsay-Hogg: Just a little wider than regular.

John: I like distortion… OK, 'I dig a Pony Shemamma Sheguggy.'
(instrumental opening)

John: Eric Clapton! Do it like the Beatles now. Remember your poom de-deh-de-deh-de poom! How could you forget it? I'll never forget.

Paul: (sings)
All I want is you

John: (sings)
I uh ha-ha uh hai-hai dig a pony
You can celebrate anything you want
You can celebrate anything you want

John: In 'I dig a Pony', Ringo, the tick-tock… it's no good ticking on any cymbal unless it's the high hat, 'cos each has to be as loud as the other, you know, like a clock…
I hi-hi hi-hi dig a groundhog
You can penetrate any place you go
You can penetrate any place you go

Paul: It used to be "I dig a skylight."

John: Yeh, but I changed it to groundhog - it had to be rougher. I don't care if skylight was prettier.
I pick a moondog
You can radiate everything you are
You can radiate everything you are
I roll a stoney
You can imitate everyone you know
You can imiate everyone you know
I feel the wind glove
You can indicate everything you see
You can indicate everything you see

John: We got lost, you know. After we got to 'wind glove' I went berserk.

Paul: Like the wind he blew away.

George: I hear the wind glove?

John: Yeah, I've changed it to wind glove now. I just make it up as I go along… I dig a low bugadoo, I dig a groundhog.

Ringo: (screeching) Is that how you do it!

Lindsay-Hogg: What was the one about icon?

John: Oh, I con a Lowrie, but it didn't sing well, so I changed it to Dug a Pony. It's got to be d's and p's, you know.

Ringo: It's his fault. It's his fault all the time.

John: 'I Dig a Pony' by Charles Dawtrey and the Deaf Aids. Phase One in which Doris gets her oats.

Paul: Oh sometimes, John, I don't know.

Ringo: That tongue'll be the death of you.

John: (musing) Slither wildly like a blind dog… as he crept away across my underpants. Oh I'm a lyricist all right.

Paul: (manager's voice)
Richard Rogers has nothing on this boy, absolutely nothing…Lorenz Hart has nothing on this boy either.

John: (sings)
I hi-hi hi-hi dug a boney
You can syndicate every boat you row
You can syndicate every boat you row
ALL I WANT IS YOU

John: Could do better.

George: Have done.

Paul: See me.

John: We never seem to hit it together. We did it straight at the end and cockeyed at the beginning.

Paul: It's got a funny time.

John: Shall we do the beginning straight. (does simple riff) or surprise them (baroque phrasing)?

Paul: I dunno.

John: Toss a coin.

George: Straight. I'll make it straight if sounds better.

John: (sings)
I dig a pony
You can celebrate anything you want
You can celebrate anything you want
All I want is you
Everything has got to be
Just like you want it to.

Happy Rocktober

2003-09-30T09:39:00.000-04:00

Ooh you were meant to be near me,Ooh and I want to hear me,
Say we'll be together ev'ry day. Got to get you into my life.

The wee pink box on the right hand side is badly in need of a transfusion, some of the bloggers included therein have experienced a "crise de la créativité." This denouement although annoying will be a chance for me to rethink the concept of "Homo Bloggus Horribilis" and ask you for linkage input. Please recommend links! We will be auditioning links through the month of October (yes, of course this is another pathetic ploy for feedback from you, you see how I'm willing to debase myself for you).

American readers, if you have not been faithfully watching PBS/Martin Scorsese's tableau of the Blues airing at 9 pm, you should be punished by being force watch Gigli, during this time slot for the rest of the week. Last night's installment opened with Blind Willie Johnson's 1927 recording of Dark Was the Night,Cold Was the Ground, a slow, moaning, all but wordless meditation about the soul of a man; being played in deep space aboard the Voyager I. What would an alien think upon hearing this, I wonder?

Blues archivist Alan Lomax once wrote, and "when the whole world is bored with automated, mass distributed video music, our descendants will despise us for having thrown away the best of our culture." If you are thinking Ken Burn's linear, dogmatic style, fuhgeddaboutit, this is documentary film-making at its quirky, impressionistic best.

starkly photographed journal of Delta life, at Steber photo

Not to miss, Elvis Costello on NPR, Piano Jazz with Marian McPartland, click here for details

2003-09-29T10:32:00.000-04:00

You may say Im a dreamer,but Im not the only one, I hope some day you'll join us, And the world will live as one.

I remember that train trip across Britain's darkened Midlands, tucked under Michael's arm. The idealism on our faces, holding a place for the world weariness that would inevitably come to us. I think I can spot that girl in the mirror sometimes, before she disappears like a time traveller caught out of place.

Even the main line trains in those days were slow and dirty, and the pre-WW2 LMS cars were unspeakably foul. This was rail travel after Beeching. One of his money saving gestures must've been to fire all the cleaners. When you are in love, you don't see those things for what they are. We gladly sipped luke warm tea, and ate biscuits whilst we planned how we would change the world with less than £20 between us.

We were off to see Edward Said, speak at Cambridge. He was as a member of the Palestine National Conference, a parliament-in-exile. Yasser Arafat was an unknown entity in those days. We were champions of the disenfranchised, or so we thought. Michael's own Armagh pedigree assured him of years civil disobedience. I don't know if I was really interested in political activism, as I was trying to ameliorate my own bourgeois roots, and shagging Michael seemed a round about way to accomplish it all.

Said's thoughts on secular humanism were unlike any I'd ever heard, and he forever shaped my worldview.

"My idea in Orientalism was to use humanistic critique to open up the fields of struggle, to introduce a longer sequence of thought and analysis to replace the short bursts of polemical, thought-stopping fury that so imprison us. I have called what I try to do "humanism", a word I continue to use stubbornly despite the scornful dismissal of the term by sophisticated postmodern critics. By humanism I mean first of all attempting to dissolve Blake's "mind-forg'd manacles" so as to be able to use one's mind historically and rationally for the purposes of reflective understanding. Moreover humanism is sustained by a sense of community with other interpreters and other societies and periods: strictly speaking therefore, there is no such thing as an isolated humanist.

Thus it is correct to say that every domain is linked, and that nothing that goes on in our world has ever been isolated and pure of any outside influence. We need to speak about issues of injustice and suffering within a context that is amply situated in history, culture, and socio-economic reality. I have spent a great deal of my life during the past 35 years advocating the right of the Palestinian people to national self-determination, but I have always tried to do that with full attention paid to the reality of the Jewish people and what they suffered by way of persecution and genocide. The paramount thing is that the struggle for equality in Palestine/Israel should be directed toward a humane goal, that is, coexistence, and not further suppression and denial."

He once wisely called the Palestinians, "The Victims of the Victims."

Said’s job was to deconstruct colonial discourses to reveal the absurdity of the arguments that provided many warmakers with the peace of mind they needed. That he has died now in the midst of the rule of Mad George II is a maddening loss.

Poet Tamim Al Barghouti says this of him:

"To martyrs, prophets, crescents and daylights, death is the most powerful line ending the crescendo of the poem that is their life.
But this time, death interrupted Said; despite his great achievements, his job was not done yet."

Christopher Hitchens is well known for his character assasination of Mother Teresa, and Princess Diana, had this to say about Edward Said..here

The Palestinian National Initiative is an alliance of secular and democratic forces among the Palestinians, who reject both clerical fundamentalism and the venality of the Palestinian 'Authority'. It was partly launched by Edward Said, and its main spokesman is Dr Mustafa Barghouthi, read more about them here

2003-09-26T11:10:00.000-04:00

It doesn't really matter what clothes I wear,Or how I fare or if my hair is brown.When it's only a Northern song.

Disclaimer:I usually don't like to review or recommend things here. Nine times out of ten, what I like other people think is shite and vice versa. The blogosphere is currently constipated with histrionics, punditry, and popularity contests. The voices of millions of literate and semi-literate bloggers crying in this vast open space to be heard, read, and have their opinions validated by dodgy commenting services. I write with tongue firmly planted in cheek, I write because it amuses me, and hopefully you.

Now, with that out of the way, I've , been listening to the Seal 4 CD all week. Yes, this is the ickky bit where I opine. If you hate Seal you can just click here where other people dislike him vehemently.

If you like Seal, I will tell you why his new CD is the equivalent to post-coital glow. Seal is back, I know, I know, we all had "Kiss from a Rose" quite shoved down our throats with that unfortunate Batman sequel, and God knows I find Val Kilmer about as sexy, as toe jam. But Seal's voice envelops you like a cashmere sweater. Moody, atmospheric and lushly produced, its clear Seal has found his groove again after the disastrous "Human Being" CD. This CD is about as intimate as it gets without swapping bodily fluids. If you long for a break from pop's current insensibilities, and tonsil diving divas, receive a bit of aural sex from Seal.

Tired of buying CD's for one song? Seal has the entire CD posted on his website, and you can listen to it here for free.

2003-09-25T09:45:00.000-04:00

I Dig A Pygmy" by Charles Hawtrey and the Deaf Aids.
Phase one, in which Doris gets her oats.

Act1, Scene 1

Dim,cute, muscle guy, looking at cantaloupe with confusion.
Dim,cute, muscle guy: "I never know when these things are good."

Arabella O'Buggery, Z-list blogger, literary wannabe, produce groper extraordinaire:

"It's quite simple really," demonstrates by grasping cantaloupe gently, but with authority, "then you bring it up to your nose to check out it's olefactory qualities."

Dim,cute, muscle guy:
"Mmmmm, what's ole factory?"

Arabella O'Buggery:
"Why it's the place where they produce cantaloupes, silly."

Dim,cute, muscle guy:
"Wow?? They make these things in factories?"

Arabella O'Buggery:
"I assure you it's done as humanely as possible, the Be Kind to Produce Police are hyper-vigilant."

Dim,cute, muscle guy:
"Huh??"

Arabella smiles politely and disengages her trolley and heads for the frozen foods section,unbeknownst to her; Dim,cute, muscle guy pursues hesitantly.

Scene 2, Act 1
Dim,cute, muscle guy: crashes into cart, and looks embarassed.

Arabella O'Buggery:
"Let me guess,subtlety is not your strong suit."

Dim,cute, muscle guy:
"Huh?" (in total earnestness)
" I'm a carpenter, I don't wear suits, but if I did they'd probably have to be strong, you know."

Arabella laughs indecently, as she checks out Dim,cute, muscle guy's package. Dim,cute, muscle guy encouraged by the laughter lingers.

Dim,cute, muscle guy:
"What do you know about tuna?"

Arabella O'Buggery: "Hopefully, not as much as you."

Dim,cute, muscle guy: "What do you mean?" unsure whether he's been insulted or not.

Arabella smiles cryptically and heads for the checkout. Dim,cute, muscle guy disappears from view.

Act1, Scene3
Walking to her SUV, Arabella clicks to unlock doors, Dim,cute, muscle guy emerges from a car across the way and heads over.

Dim,cute, muscle guy:
"Could I help you with these?"

Arabella O'Buggery:shifting uneasily on her feet,
"You don't work here do you, You arent wearing one of those ugly red shirt things I normally associate with this process."

Dim,cute, muscle guy: "Gosh, can't a guy help a lady with her groceries, and ask for her number?"

Arabella O'Buggery: looking gobsmacked,
"Huh?"

2003-09-24T10:14:00.000-04:00

You, you know, you know my name
Look up my number

(Good evening and welcome to Slaggers featuring Denis O'Bell
Come on Ringo, Let's hear it for Denis O'Bell, good evening)

I thought the Nayme Gaimme ( I hate when people misspell in a particularly cutesie fashion, don't you?) deserved a bit more discussion, albeit one sided. When thinking of odd names, my ex's family always comes to mind. Rural Southerners, they relied on midwives, not only to deliver babies but to also contribute to the naming process, and since farm families needed lots of children for cheap labour in the tobacco fields, naming became quite an onerous task.

It seems that the white midwife in this small community was otherwise occupied on the day of one of my ex-brother-inlaw's birth, so a black midwife was called in to assist. Whilst all his other sibs were named after Confederate Generals, this boy was named Bascom Baxter Bass. Now to prove a point, I would like you to say this name, 3 times, very quickly. Yes, what comes out is Bascom Bastard Bass, and the boy quickly became the butt of every schoolyard joke imaginable. This went on for years until some compassionate teacher, gave him the nickname "B.B".

I've been quite unfair to Southerners, there are other groups who name themselves with equal ridiculousness, and they are the people on the Island of Hong Kong, and Mormons of Utah. Two disparate groups who inflict upon their children ridiculous monikers.

Hong Kong was a British Colony for nearly 150 years. During that time, British influence led many Hong Kong Chinese to adopt an English name. Newly converted Christians would choose an English name as a sign of faith, such as Peter or Mary. At English medium schools in Hong Kong, a child was often assigned an English name by a teacher, or chose one from a favorite book. Ordinary names such as Jane, Susan, Anne, Michael, David, and William were popular. However, in recent years there has been a tendency to break away from boring, traditional names.

OK in an effort to be concise I'm only going to list the A's and provide a link for the rest:
Action Kenny, Aegidia, Aioros, Akai, Alpha, Alphon, Alto, Andes, Antares, Ares, Arion, Arleta, Arwin, Atkin, Ave, Aylwin.

Now would someone please explain the thought process that goes into naming a child "Action Kenny"? for more sibilant silliness click here.

Do you have a name like DaNeen or Arverd or Jonette or Merlin?
If you live anywhere else in the United States, you might get some funny looks and major mispronunciations. But in Utah, it's a name like any other. Here is a sample of some Utah names.

The new parents couldn't be happier: Gladell & Delightra (sisters), Luvit, Delecta, Delite, Joyette, Joi, Joyia, Joyellen, Joycell, Hallah Lujah, Bliss, Joyanne
more creative naming from the LDS here

Finally from the Kabalarians, a group dedicated to share with all humanity the understanding of the natural laws of life which, if constructively applied, can create and maintain a harmonious balance between the physical body, the mind, and the universal spiritual life force within, which is a part of all forms of existence.

They perform a service which analyses children's names. So for a larf I typed in the name, Kaka and this was the response:
Important:
This analysis describes a few qualities of the first name of Kaka . There are many additional factors (legal name, nicknames, family surname, combined names, previous names, and business signature) that contribute to your entire personality - and your entire life. Order a Name Report for a full analysis. There had to be a catch right!

Your name of Kaka gives you the desire to understand and help others with their problems but, at the same time, you can become too involved in their problems and, as a result, worry too much. This name creates a pleasant, easy-going, yet responsible nature. It gives you a natural ability to express affection to those close to you, without feelings of embarrassment. You tend to avoid issues, however, and put off until tomorrow the things which should be done today. Accordingly, you would find difficulty in achieving success in positions requiring aggressiveness and drive. Also, you prefer to avoid strenuous work of a manual nature. Your natural inclination is to pursue a line of work where you have contact with people, where you carry some responsibility, and where you are engaged in mental rather than physical activity. You are diplomatic in your handling of people and always give others the benefit of the doubt. You appreciate good music and art. The health weaknesses created by this name affect the fluid functions.
Pwahahahahah, God, that is so bad!!

2003-09-23T10:56:00.000-04:00

When I was younger, so much younger than today,I never needed anybody's help in any way.

Today, I met Aspasia Lux, it was one of those moments, that seem like hours. I felt my eyes well up, my throat constrict, whilst trying to preserve some form of dignity. My mind was filled with Jim Carrey's vivid, auto-choke fandango, from Me, Myself, and Irene. The great Gods of Mirth had me in a choke hold and were shaking me, I knew that if I cracked, all would be lost.

Firstly and you must know this about me, I'm not one of those silly, tittering bitches. I never giggle and chuckling is anaethema to me. I laugh well. This has been a saving grace on many occasions. I am even guilty of the occasional guffaw. Aspasia Lux tested the limits of my endurance,when she introduced herself, and proudly proclaimed for all to hear (within half block radius), that she was a Mary Kay beauty consultant.

Dressed in what appeared to be Joan Collins's wardrobe from Dynasty, and assaulting me with a nasal Carolinian/Piedmont twang, she was on mission from God to aid me and my aging dermis. These are possibly the whitest fucking people on earth. They have a Stepford like quality.But, Oh dear God, it was the name that really sent me for a loop. It was perhaps the most perfect porn name ever created.

There are these peculiar naming tradition, here in the South. It's not limited to race either. Either way, the tale swings on the fictitious parents' lack of education and how this leads them to choose a totally unsuitable name.
courtesy of Snopes.com
Names reported to have resulted from misinterpretations of the written word:

Clitoris (cla-TORE-us)
Enamel (EE-na-mull)
Female (fuh-MALL-ee)
Gonorrhea (gu-NO-ree-ah)
Lemon Jello (le-MON-juh-lo)
No Smoking (NAWS-mo king)
Orange Jello (or-AN-juh-lo)
Pajama (PAH-ja-mah)
Shithead (shaw-THAYD)
Syphilis (suh-PHYL-lis)
Testicles (TESS-tic-clees)
Vagina (va-GEE-na)

Names reported to have resulted from overhearing an unusual but flowery-sounding term:

Chlamydia (kla-MID-e-ah)
Eczema (EX-suh-ma)
Latrine (la-TREEN)
Meconium (muh-CONE-knee-um)
Placenta (pla-SENT-a)
Urea (YUR-ee-ah)
Vagina (va-JAI-na)

From Institute for Naming Children Humanely

"One of the more recent trends in baby-naming is to slam together meaningless syllables until the parents believe the resultant chimera of sounds is a name. This trend is most noticeable among the Black community, with such oddities as "Laticia", "Moesha", "Tamika", "Laquanda", "Antwaine", and "Kameelah" all having been documented, along with a pile of three-syllable words ending in "sha". However, other racial groups also participate in this abomination, with ludicrous monikers like "Jaley", "Keegan", and the short but still preposterous "Zoe".

Examples of the "Scrabble Draw" Category:

Beyonce Knowles
Shaquille O'Neal
Kobe Bryant
Reese Witherspoon
Orenthal J. Simpson

In the past, I had disconnected my doorbell, had a "Beware of Dog" sign on my gate, and kept a pack of mastiff-like dogs slavering and looking for their favourite meal, Jehovah's Witness Jambalaya with a side order Avon Lady tartare, but somehow she slipped beneath the patented Rottweiller Radar. I have just ordered a pink padded suit for training purposes, Aspasia Lux, you haven't got a bloody chance!

2003-09-19T10:25:00.000-04:00

How do I feel at the end of the day. Are you sad because you're on your own?

How does one end a friendship? Regretfully? In the nick of time? With grace?
We never hear the loss of a friendship talked about. We talk about dying, about marriage relationships ending, about pets dying, etc. "Friendship is more tragic than love," Oscar Wilde wrote. "It lasts longer." Yet, friendships, when challenged, are fragile things, less elastic, than love. They shatter when they fall into the chasm between ideals and the daily business of being somebody's friend. And though we prepare for losses in love, the end of a friendship takes us by surprise.

This friendship began resembling the undead, a zombie friendship wafting the odour of failure and smelling of roadkill. Yes I was guilty of subjecting the friendship to cost-benefit analyses and performance evaluations, from time to time. But isnt that normal? Rather than ending in a tragi-comic folie a deux, it fell into grey ambivalence and finally to betrayal, as the sense of failure grew into one of final resignation.

From George Washington this bit of wisdom, "Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence. True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the appellation."

2003-09-18T12:07:00.000-04:00

I'm looking through you. You're not the same. No Baby, you've changed.

Eye Candy

Each one of these sites are sugary goodness, and have no calories...indulge!

Cracker Jack, not crackers, not by Jack... an American journey

Jaffa Cakes, England swings like a pendulum do

Down a lazy river, Steamboats and Jazz, man

Kings of Africa, if its from Ouagadougou,its gotta be good.

Give me land, lots of land under starry skies above, dont fence me in.

2003-09-17T10:34:00.000-04:00

Did you think that money was Heaven-sent?

3 CD's I'm buying this week:
Elvis Costello- North
Seal- Seal 4
David Bowie- Reality

"Why do so few pop singers use their own voices? The early heats of this year's Pop Idol confirmed a number of things: that there is no spectacle so compelling as human folly, that it's time thought was given to the reintroduction of conscription, etc.

What was most remarkable, though, was the homogenising of voices that occurred the instant the hapless contestants attempted to sing. When they spoke to the judges, they did so with the rich and extraordinary range of British regional accents.

When they sang, they all - Geordie and Scot, Cockney and Welsh, male and female - sounded like Justin Timberlake, or rather Justin Timberlake's congenitally half-witted and tone-deaf cousin. The accent of pop has become a characterless, gutless, transatlantic nothing that sounds as bland as hotel furniture looks." more from Guardian here

This site examines the accented speech of speakers from many different language backgrounds reading the same sample paragraph.
Might post my own voice latter.

I think we should all sit down and have a nice cup of tea, and some biscuits, nice ones mind you. Oh and some cake would be nice as well. Lovely.

2003-09-16T11:23:00.000-04:00

ok, off topic and so funny I nearly wet myself.

Funny Things I Have Said To "Famous Bloggers" That The "Famous Bloggers" Did Not Find Funny At ALL here

2003-09-16T10:16:00.000-04:00

Lady Madonna, lying on the bed, listen to the music playing in your head.

Crap singer, bad actress, the next Enid Blyton? I don't think so. Madonna's book, The English Roses has already made publishing history as the widest simultaneous release, with a target of more than 100 countries in 30 languages.

Monday, she hosted a tea-party launch in Kensington, west London, without a single copy of the book. Around 100 children turned up, including a class from North Ealing primary school and a batch of celebrity hell spawn.

And as part of her sell-out deal for Gap, Madonna has demanded that her ghastly children's book, The English Roses, is stocked in every Gap Kids store.

All I can say is Mama, Don't Preach, interesting stats coming in from Amazon tho, the people who have bought this book have also bought David Beckham's autobiography(you already know what I think about la famille de Beckham), Trinny and Susannah's What Not to Wear and the Madonna Encyclopedia(an Encyclopedia of Madonna, is there an entry for gratuitous lesbian inspired tonsil hockey?? would that be listed under SL*G?). That says it all: this is a book aimed at adults. Just because you put a fairy in a story, it doesn't mean it's a book for children.

An excerpt:

"Your look is so this-minute," she enthused. "How can I possibly help you?"
"Oh, go on," Fiona tossed coltishly. "Actually, it's Sheryl here. We're going on a country weekend. You know, visit some castles..."
"Meet some handsome princes!" Sheryl blurted (so incontinently that Fiona asked herself again, "Why am I friends with this person?").

Err Fiona shouldn't that be, why should any parent in their right minds let their children read this shite?

Shite childrens book extract here

A comparison of Enid Blyton and Madonna from the Mirror:
In Bed With Madonna is likely to mean 20 dancers in black leather taking it literally. In Bed With Enid is more likely to mean snuggling up for an evening with Five On A Treasure Island. And may I add lashings of ginger beer.

2003-09-15T13:56:00.000-04:00

I dig a pony, Well you can celebrate anything you want,
Yes you can celebrate anything you want, Oh.

In Praise of Foods Artisanal.

Long before demonstrators and police battled it out at the G8 summits, a more civilised attempt to guide and direct globalisation was evolving. The Slow Food Movement, dedicated to preserving and supporting traditional ways of growing, producing and preparing food.

In the mid-1990s Slow Food developed a new political dimension,
called eco-gastronomy. "We want to extend the kind of attention that environmentalism has dedicated to the panda and the tiger to domesticated plants and animals," says Carlo Petrini, the movement's founder.

"A hundred years ago, people ate between one hundred and
a hundred and twenty different species of food.Now our diet is made up of at most ten or twelve species."

Meet Renzo Sobrino, twenty-five years ago, Renzo --son, grandson and great-grandson of millers--took over an abandoned nineteenth-century mill with the idea of producing traditional kinds of cereals, grains and flours. Not only did he intend to use old-fashioned methods, including a nineteenth-century millstone, for some of the grains, he also wanted to revive strains of wheat and corn that had fallen out of use.

Sobrino tried to convince local farmers to grow a kind of corn called
ottofile (eight rows), which has eight large rows rather than the fourteen thin rows of most corn. Although its thick, dark kernels are full of flavor, it was replaced by American hybrid corns that yield five or six times more corn per acre. Even though Sobrino was willing to pay farmers for their crop, many of them simply refused, considering him crazy.

Local bakeries, which were his potential clients, only wanted to know the price of his flour and lost interest when they heard it was two or three times more expensive than most industrially produced flour.

For many years, Sobrino had to supplement his income by using the mill to mix cement, grinding grain only one or two days a week. "I felt like a Don Quixote quite literally tilting at the great industrial mills," says Sobrino. But now he has all the business he can handle. Williams-Sonoma has even proposed a contract so it can sell his flour and cornmeal in its stores and catalogues.

It is not hard to understand why, when you taste Sobrino's product. A Piedmontese baker named Eugenio Pol, who shares Sobrino's passion for traditional grains and methods, makes a whole-wheat
bread that, although it contains no sugar, no beer yeast and no preservatives, is bursting with flavor and lasts for up to two weeks. Pol gets orders for his bread from top restaurants that are several hours' drive away and has been approached by a Japanese company that would like to sell it in Tokyo. (With Slow Food's help, Pol is setting up a small school for teaching traditional baking methods.)

In today's prosperous, global consumer economy, Slow Food may have a message particularly for us who embrace a pleasure-loving environmentalism, that doesn't reject consumption, but rather homogenization and high-speed frenzy, and most especially the fast-food life.

Boasting 65,000 members in 45 countries organised into 560 local convivia. These convivia, or chapters, are the linchpins of the Slow Food Movement, interpreting and representing its philosophy at a local level. Convivia members meet informally to learn about culinary traditions and culture, arrange tastings, and of course to enjoy together the pleasures of slow eating and drinking. But they are also instrumental in the promotion of small, local producers.

Read about the Movements, Salone de Gusto
Learn about the Slow Food Movement and how to set up a convivia in your town.

Visit Slow Food USA
and dig into SlowFoodIreland...here

2003-09-14T17:46:00.000-04:00

I'd like to be under the sea, In an octopus' garden in the shade

Fresh shrimps are running in the Gulf and are a such a good value, just now. I love the vendor chanting heard at some of the markets, I've visited. I spent the morning and early afternoon at the farmer's market and beach.

"Juicy red watermelons! So sweet and fine! Eat the meat, pickle the rind, save the seeds 'til planting time!"

"Shwimps, fresh Shwimps! buy 'em fresh while ya can, Shwimps, fresh Shwimps! Buy 'em from da Shwimpy Man."

Few know that these street and work chants are the basis for the Blues,as far as historians can tell, the blues were born from this elaboration on work chants, “sorrow” slave songs, and the lyrical and haunting “field hollers.” As early as the American Civil War, white soldiers noted a different music created by black soldiers – songs about marching and other toils of war in which they “extemporized a half-dissonant middle part.” These songs were direct precursors to the blues, if not the real thing already.

So with the sea so bountiful and the temps still up in the 90s. Sunday dinner will consist of Grilled Shwimps from dat Shwimpy man.

My kitchen is a relaxed kitchen, especially on hot, sunny afternoons, for the most part I can't be arsed with loads of measurements for marinades. But this is another variation of the grilled shwimps procedure.

Soak 4-inch wooden skewers in cold water for 1 hour. Thread shrimp onto skewer.
Whisk together the soy, garlic, ginger, peanut oil, white wine vinegar, lime juice and together in a small bowl. Place shrimp skewers onto a plate and drizzle with peanut oil to lightly coat. Season with salt and pepper.

Heat grill. Grill shrimp 2 minutes per side or until just cooked through. Place shrimp on a platter, drizzle with vinaigrette and top with chopped coriander.

While at the market I stopped at the Oriental food stall and bought some seaweed. Hijiki seaweed is stringy like spaghetti, not the flat squares of nori, or the flakes of dulse. God this makes a huge amount! What will I do with all this seaweed!

I've always loved the seaweed salads at sushi bars and thought I'd try it
1 c dried hijiki seaweed
2 tb rice wine vinegar
2 ts sesame oil
2 tb sliced scallion greens
1 ts sugar
1 salt and white pepper; to
-taste

Instructions

In a bowl, pour warm water over seaweed and soak for 30 minutes, or until
soft. Boiling hot water will leak out too much flavor. Drain the seaweed
well. Mix all other ingredients and toss with the seaweed.
Check for seasoning.

I love the wond'rous nutty taste of sesame oil its so earthy and round.

I'm going to try this recipe for cold sesame noodles but I'm going to replace peanut butter with tahini paste. I told you I like sesame. recipe here

There were raspberries on sale at the market as well, I'll make a raspberry sauce, cut up a sponge cake into fingers, layer them into parfait glasses, small scoops of peach ice cream, topped with raspberry sauce, and amaretto whipped cream.

Simple, cool, and satisfying!

2003-09-12T10:57:00.000-04:00

You know that what you eat you are.But what is sweet now, turns so sour.We all know Ob-La-Di-Bla-Da. But can you show me, where you are?

My Mother said its horribly bad for you, Food Myths from Around the Globe, and what the hell is molecular gastronomy.

My kitchen should bear a warning sign posted most prominently on the door, one never knows what might be found. I, lacking the surgical precision, and expensive Wusthoff knives, of my gastronomic brethren, belong to the "hack and tear school." My veggies and herb, are lacking artifice, and consistent size. What I do to whole chicken is criminal, but somehow good ingredients and good intentions prevail.

Italy : Black pepper is bad for you.
FACT OR MYTH
Ever notice the small shakers full of red flaked chilis on the table at the Italian restaurant or pizza joint?
Pepper, the collective name for the fruit, is known as the "King of spices", and is the singlemost commonly used spice in the world. Trade in pepper and other spices was a major cause of medieval wars and a driving force behind world exploration. Pepper has been used for centuries in Asia to help treat colds and coughs, muscle aches and pains. Historically it has also been referred to as a wound-healer and aphrodisiac. Well, it can’t be that bad for you, then, can it?
When added to food, pepper stimulates the digestive juices, increases the appetite and aids digestion. It does this through thermogenesis, the metabolic process that generates energy at the cellular level in our body. Thermogenesis plays an important role in our body’s ability to properly utilize the daily foods and nutrients we take in. It sets in motion the mechanisms that lead to digestion and subsequent gastrointestinal absorption. Some say that black pepper is gritty and difficult to dissolve in the body, leading to potential festering points in the intestines, though we suspect that you would have to eat a shaker-full for this to happen. But who would want to try that anyway? One thing is true though, black pepper has been reported to congest blood vessels. Anyone who suffers from varicose veins or hemorrhoids might want to give it a pass.

Belgium:
Freshly squeezed orange juice should be drank a maximum 11 minutes after squeezing or it loses its vitamins
FACT OR MYTH
Our guess is that pinning the post- squeezing interval down to 11 minutes is a bit suspect, but freshness is certainly an advantage when making the most of your juice. The main vitamin in orange juice, as we all know, is Vitamin C. Vitamin C, or ascorbic acid, is an "antioxidant" (and haven't advertisers shoved this term down our throats at each and every possible opportunity) vitamin, essential to counteract harmful "free radicals" and do damage to things like DNA. Once Vitamin C, which is rather unstable, binds to a free radical, it self destructs in most cases. Because it works in this way, Vitamin C has a pretty short half life, so the longer it sits around, the less antioxidant potential it has. Fresh is better than frozen, and it’s probably better to gulp the fresh stuff down as soon as you can. By the way, if you are going to forego yer good ole’ glass of OJ for a quick-fix Vitamin C tablet, beware! Ascorbic acid particles will get packed into your teeth, and can rot them away. Brush your teeth right afterwards if you want to keep your tooth enamel. It isn't called acid for nothing.

Denmark :Parsley should never be reheated.
FACT OR MYTH
The Danish Mums might be right here. Parsley, both the curly English and the flat-leafed Italian type (or French and Spanish, as I’ve heard them called) have a more or less ruffly structure that increases the surface area where garden dirt and bacteria can reside. We often cut our parsley fresh from the garden, give it a quick rinse, and toss it in our salads or on top of cooked dishes. Fresh is fine. The problem is left- overs. Since those bacteria aren’t usually washed away completely by harried and hurried cooks, they continue to grow in the fridge. And since we don’t normally reheat long enough nor at high enough temperatures, our little microbial friendsfind the cosy incubation temperatures of the reheating pan an ideal environment for reproduction. In general it’s probably a bad idea to reheat any plant material.
Incidentally, the humble parsley plant is actually a potent tonic. A tablespoon of parsley a day provides you with more than half the daily dose required to combat infectious disease. It helps alleviate menstrual pain, reduces the severity of arthritis and can ease the pain of kidney stones.

Canada: Lettuce should never be cut with a knife, only torn, or else it turns bitter
FACT OR MYTH
The mostly likely explanation for this is that when you cut lettuce with a knife, the sharp cut opens up pores in the plant and juices leak out which could very well create a bitter flavor. By tearing the plant, the edges of the leaf are much less regular and could have more chance to foldover each other and seal off these 'pores'. A damaged cut lettuce leaf releases an ascorbic acid oxidase, which destroys vitamin C. Cut edges also discolor quickly. One beneficial aspect of this myth, however, at least for the kitchen gadget trade, is the insurgence of expensive plastic lettuce knives with corrugated blades that attempt to mimic the tearing action of your fingers. We think your fingers are a much cheaper alternative.

Spain : Drinking a glass of vinegar aids in weightloss.
FACT OR MYTH
Ohhh, yuck. judging from research, this is most likely a largely myth with very unpleasant side effects. One source says that vinegar works for weight loss because "the body transforms it into a powerful fat and carbohydrate burner." Another claims that vinegar helps you burn fat and increases metabolism. If this were true, I'd be bloody gargling with Balsamico. It's more than likely that the vinegar would kill some of the bacteria in your gut and give you the runs for a few days, leading to weight loss, mostly in the form of water. Our advice for the chubby Spaniard? Cut down on the churros and chocolate instead.

Germany: Carrots should be grated , or they have no vitamins, also you should put oil on them.
FACT OR MYTH
Well, we’re not so sure about the no vitamin part, but grating certainly introduces a structural change in the carrot, enhancing your body's ability to digest it. A rough grating will breakdown some of the carrot cell walls, much like pre-chewing. We humans, unlike rabbits, don't digest plant material very well. Breaking down the cell walls would also release Vitamin A, essential for healthy skin, eyes,bones, mucous membranes and hair (or feathers, if you've goth them), and helps prevent infections. It's also fat soluble. If you pour oil on your carrots, the vitamin A would likely leak out of the carrot into the oil and your body could digest this better than from the carrot itself. The Greeks and Romans knew about carrots and used them mainly for medicinal purposes. Greek physicians prescribed carrot root and juice to treat indigestion, skin ulcers, cancer and snake bites. Pliny, a Roman writer, reported that carrots had aphrodisiac properties. Our advice? Sprinkle some oil and pepper on your grated carrots,change into something more comfortable, put on some Barry White music and turn the lights down low. Ohhh baby.

Meet Heston Blumenthal (no, I didnt make this name up, nor did I cadge it from a certain Nigel, of our acquaintance). He was voted Chef's Chef of the Year by his fellow professionals in the 2002 AA Restaurant Guide. He was the Good Food Guide's Chef of the Year in 2001. His restaurant, The Fat Duck in Bray, Berkshire, has one star in the Michelin Guide and has become a place of pilgrimage for discerning eaters and curious chefs alike.
Imagine such dishes as: crab risotto with crab ice cream, cassonade of red pepper, saddle of lamb cooked at low temperature, roast onglet, and coffee and garlic dentelles, and parsnip cereal with parsnip milk.

Let's get physical
Heston Blumenthal

"When we cook and eat, physical, chemical and psychological processes occur. There is absolutely nothing that we can do to stop them. If we can understand even a small part of some of these processes, much of the ridiculous mystique that surrounds cooking disappears, leaving the kitchen a far more enjoyable and friendly place."

Scientists, are only now beginning to understand the basic mechanics of how we taste food - let alone how it affects us in other ways. It was only in the mid-Nineties that a group of American scientists proved the existence of umami. It is sensitive to glutamate, one of the 20 amino acids that make up the proteins in meat, fish and legumes such as bacon, scallops or peas. Glutamate also serves as a flavour enhancer in the man-made additive monosodium glutamate (MSG).

Read more about Heston Blumenthal's restaurant/mad scientists laboratory at his restaurants website.. the Fat Duck (not a porn site)

To learn more weird science click here

more from Guardian here

2003-09-11T09:41:00.000-04:00

I am the mashed fireman with breast-bone broken,
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades,
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels;
They have cleared the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake,

Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy,
White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their firecaps,
The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.

Distant and dead resuscitate,
They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock myself.

Walt Whitman

2003-09-10T12:12:00.000-04:00

His son is working for the Daily Mail. It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer ...Paperback writer

Tired of reading hacked up weblogs where everyone is writing about the same stupid things. Who are the best of today's young British novelists? Five Granta judges read and deliberated.

Confessions of a Middle-Aged Ecstasy Eater
'Perhaps no truth is more momentous, as none more difficult to face, than the blackest, most abject one about oneself. My son supplies me with drugs, with Ecstasy.' more here

and more here

Oddmusic.com is for anyone interested in unique, unusual, ethnic, or experimental music and instruments. So whether you play stalagmites in a cave, the kaval, bow telegraph wires across the Nullarbor Plain, twist electrons by circuit bending, call whales on a Waterphone, or just love listening, this site is for you.

And to conclude today's feast for the senses, René Magritte, a painting my son and I have dubbed "Fish and Chips," a mermaid in reverse.

"His work makes a constant call on us to relinquish, at least temporarily, our usual expectations of art. Magritte never responds to our demands and expectations. He offers us something else instead. His friend Paul Nougé has expressed the problem better than anyone else; what he said in 1944 still holds good: "We question pictures," he said, "before listening to them, we question them at random. And we are astonished when the reply we had expected is not forthcoming."

"Magritte's work allows one to conjure up a state of being which has become rare and precious - which makes it possible to observe in silence. Reading and reflection call for silence, listening no less. Silence can be used for waiting for an illumined vision of things, and it is to this vision that Magritte introduces us."

2003-09-08T10:31:00.000-04:00

He went out tiger hunting with his elephant and gun.

Comedians have always found strength and good material in ethnicity, and since we've already had a look at Shazia Mirza and Arab and Muslim humour, perhaps a look at Hindu, or "Desi" humour.

Desi:Sanskrit: One from our land, i.e., India. Loosely translated Desi means "native of", but the word holds a deeper meaning: Roots, Pride, and Culture.

In 1996 the BBC launched what was to become the flagship of South Asian humour on a radio show which later was produced for TV. Goodness Gracious Me! takes its name, with the irony which is a hallmark of the show, from Peter Sellers' cod-Indian novelty hit of 1960. The aim was to circumvent the ingrained impression that an ethnic-minority performance team would not be able to deliver a mainstream hit.

Despite its 'crossover' agenda, the show struck home on themes of Asian identity, was still continually inventive and became deservedly popular. Many of the sketches featured regular stock characters, notably the raddled Bollywood gossip columnist, 'Smita Smitten-Showbiz Kitten'; the all-Asian superhero, Bhangraman, who is able to avert disaster by practising traditional dance; the self-explanatory 'Mr Everything-is-Indian' and 'Mrs I-Can-Make-It-At-Home'; and the bourgeois Kapoors, who insist their name is pronounced 'Cooper', play golf and complain about immigration.

The success of "Goodness Gracious me! helped launch other Desi comic, notably the Funjabis. The Funjabis are a London based comedy group who take the mick out of Indian Asians with their own spicy mix of comedy sketches, jokes and "Singh-songs. click here for nirvana

Comedy is serious business for Briton Paul Chowdhry, "I have had assassination attempts on my life that is the risk you have to take," said Paul. The reason for this notoriety is that he bases his sketches on news events and relishes treading the invisible boundary between humour and horror.

Tonight the audience laughs riotously through jokes about the war on Iraq, the immigration crisis and paedophilia. "I will talk about anything that is going on in the world, but the war is obviously a sensitive area. I joke about joining the al-Qaeda network and being brown-skinned, they probably wonder if I am serious. I have to get to the punch line before a pint glass hits me on the face," said Paul when interviewed by Thisislocallondon.
Paul has perfected Pakistani, Arab and Iraqi accents and imitates Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden. But he is driven by a serious agenda. He turned to comedy after he was almost killed in a racial attack in Watford. "Comedy is the easiest way of breaking down barriers, to make people laugh and give them a serious message in a non-hostile environment."

American funny girl Vijai Nathan works the audience to debunk the myth about the innocent, traditional Indian girl, shocking the audience into hysterics with blatantly open jokes on sex, dating, plastic surgery, family expectations and religion. Born and raised in a suburb in Washington, D.C., Nathan abandoned a brief stint in journalism to pursue her dream of becoming a comedian.

One of her particularly funny jokes focused on Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin.’ She exclaimed, “I saw Madonna on the street and I was like, ‘God, it’s Madonna!’ because when I was a kid, I loved ‘Like a Virgin.’ I would sing that song 24/7. Finally, my mother pulled me by the throat and said (in an Indian accent), ‘Vijai, you are not like a virgin, you are a virgin.’”

“Guys will always offer to buy you a drink, you know, and I’m so broke and hungry, I would love an appetizer. For a plate of curly fries, I’d... My mom hates it when I do that joke, she’s like (in an Indian accent), ‘How can you let people think you would do such disgusting things for an appetizer? At least you should get dinner’.”

“My mom came home to visit me and she saw my thongs hanging in the bathroom and she was like, ‘Vijai, what is this?’ I panicked and I was like, ‘Oh, it’s a scrunchie’ and she totally bought it. But I had to wear it wrapped around my head for the entire weekend and then she wanted one too.” read more about Vijai ...here

NetAsia is the first Asian site on the Internet to bring you digitally mastered streaming MP3 real time audio jokes. click here to laugh

2003-09-05T15:05:00.000-04:00

Now let me introduce to you the act you've known for all these years... Billy Shears
I was fraught with indecision about the upcoming VO advice issue. Could I fashion myself into some latter day Marilyn Vos Idiot Savants, universal smarty-pants? or better yet...

Arabella O' Buggery, Oracle of Celtic Wisdom

It's wonderful to be here,
It's certainly a thrill.
You' re such a lovely audience,
We'd like to take you home with us,
We'd love to take you home.

Dear Arabella: I met a great man online, he is kind and considerate and altogether the man of my dreams. We have exchanged pictures of each other via email. His picture was of a man who was a cross between Brad Pitt and Colin Farrell. We set a date to meet "in real life," and he got there first. Luckily I looked through the window before I went in and spotted him . He looked just like his picture! Needless to say, I turned right around and went back home. What do you have to say about someone who would send an actual picture of himself to a prospective internet date?
Gobsmacked in Greenock

Dear Gentle Reader:
Colour this oracle of wisdom, stunned. Speechless. It is hard to imagine what would possess someone to present an actual image of themselves to an online date. The Internet was built on deception, fraud, and dishonesty, (not to mention, spam and porn) and there is just no place for this kind of behaviour. You did well to turn around, young lady. Nothing good could have come of a meeting between you two.

Dear Arabella: After watching Britney and Madonna kiss on MTV, I kissed my best friend Jessica on the mouth. Does this mean I'm a lesbian?
Confused in Cavan

Dear Gentle Reader:
Undoubtedly, watching sexy women share globs of saliva on live television makes for titillating TV.The smooch-fest between Madonna and Britney wasn’t about the honest passion of bi-curious lovers; it was all about manufacturing a moment fit for tabloid fodder. Talentless slags, equally desperate to stay relevant, they were happy to oblige by diving into each others tonsils while the cameras rolled. My question for you is: were there cameras involved? If so, you may have a very promising career ahead of you as a pop star or alternately, as a laundress for the Magdalene sisters.

Dear Arabella: I know this might sound a bit stupid but I was bashing the bishop in my sitting room while watching a blue movie and I didn't see my mates coming up the drive and they've seen me. They are giving me awful stick over it. What should I do about it? Please help me on this one.
Dozey Dick in Bishopsgate

Dear Gentle Reader: I'd love to prosletyse about the inherent evils of onanism, but years of Catholic guilt has made me unable to discuss any kind of normal sexual functions openly, this will surely impact on my career as Oracle of Wisdom, but we take the bitter with the sweet, but back to your problem Dick, I believe curtains would be a good idea.

2003-09-05T11:13:00.000-04:00

Can you hear me that when it rains and shines,
It's just a state of mind,
Can you hear me, can you hear me?

After yesterday's whiney, self referential binge of insecurity, I have been affirmed by my one and only loyal reader that I only partially suck.
< /drama >
< /narcissism >
< /neuroses>

Living and loving in Hurricane Alley has its own rites of passage, whilst September brings the return to school, and leaf raking to many; it brings to us massive, oddly named rainstorms. These are aptly called "toad-stranglers" in the native dialect. Today we are awaiting the arrival of a simpering, Gallic storm, named Henri. The process of naming storms seems quite random to me, I know that it is alphabetical, and they strive to be relatively PC, by alternating storm name sexuality. Attention guys at NOAA! Henri is not a good name for a storm, what can be said about a storm named, Henri. Henri was fastidious with a touch of insouciance, and owns a small poodle named Fifi, for fuxake. Guys at NOAA this simply won't do. We need to rethink our Hurricane and Tropical Storm naming system, for instance there has never been a Tropical Storm Bubbah, Why NOAA? I think we are desperately in need of Hurricane P Diddy or Hurricane Missy "Misdemeanor" Elliot. These are names that would scare Southern white people. Imagine your local weather person reading these lines
"While Hurricane Snoop Dogg is bearing down on Miami, local residents are boarding up windows, and female university students are taking off their blouses, for the filming of the latest "Hurricanes Co-Eds Go Wild." Frightening, right??( err alright a bit Florida-centric for some of the euro-readers).
I am starting a list of bad hurricane names. I never want to see a Hurricane Arbuthnot, or Hurricane Nigel, these are just not good names for weather systems. What are your thoughts?

2003-09-04T11:00:00.000-04:00

Listen, Do You Want to Know a Secret, Do You Promise Not To Tell, Whoooa Oh Closer.

Who are you people? You, who idly stumble through this window?

Who is 'proxy.anbell.net ' ??? You visit, do I know you? Why do you come here? Do we suck? Don't be shy proxy.anbell.net? Are you being served?

What about you, bel1s-p01.hq.dla.mil, should I snap to attention and give a military salute? Are you a lonely soldier far from home? Are you hot...or not???

What about you 'adsl-66-120-162-125.dsl.sntc01.pacbell.net '(that's a very long IP and you definitely have my attention) and cpe-66-74-165-132.socal.rr.com - west coasters, do you fancy my toiletries? My own is full of fluffy, thirsty towels, sandlewood soap,scented candles, and blues tunes belted out from under my shower massage...oooo errr Missus.

And you '68-132.corp.boingo.com' does my oingo make you go boingo?

'r2.courts.state.ny.us' Am I an arresting development in the People's Court?

'mail3.hbo.com' I'm a loyal watcher, have your people call my people, we'll do lunch.

And then there is the Brit Pack stopping by for some tea and sympathy. You blokes from blueyonder, btopenwound, and pol.co.uk. Quoting a dearly beloved Glaswegian expression. "Tits oot fer ra lads."

Alright so this is a very bizarre attempt at Quality Control, but I'm dreadfully curious about you and have this fevered imagination, I want you to know you aren't just numbers to me (moment of added drama). So stand up and be counted, proudly. I'm the very soul of discretion, as you already know.

2003-09-03T09:40:00.000-04:00

Were Gonna Have a Good Time.I'm Glad It's Your Birthday
Happy Birthday to You.

Amma is the white robed superstar of hugs, the empress of embraces, meet Mata Amritanandamayi, known to her followers as Amma, the hugging saint. They will be having a 4 day birthday party for her in Kerala, India, this month. The hugging saint, will sit for hours on a throne decorated with silk flowers, accepting flowers and fruit and drawings before giving everyone -- from babes in arms to elderly supplicants -- a hug.

And not just a little "thanks for coming, nice to see you" kind of hug. Sometimes she draws several people at a time to her bosom, rubbing their shoulders and arms while smiling beatifically. At other times, she embraces just one person for long moments, soothing each as they cry or laughing along with those overcome by giggles of joy.

Amma, who conducted media interviews while keeping up her hugging. Asked what she gets out of hugging thousands of people a day, day after day, she smiled as she replied in her native dialect.

"It's like asking a mother 'What do you get from hugging your baby?' " Amma said through her interpreter, Swami Amritswarup. "Sometimes she'll receive 35,000 people a day," Amritswarup added. Amma turned and spoke to him, and he quickly translated "she will do it faster" when that many show up.

To keep the crowds moving, people are handed stickers and wait patiently, first sitting and then kneeling in lines on the floors. Before hugging Amma, they must wipe their faces with tissues

Intrigued by this unusual guru, The Los Angeles Times asked Amma: "Why do you hug people?" She replied: "This question is like asking the river, 'why are you flowing?' Does anyone ask his or her mother, 'why do you hug me?'" she replied. During a memorable discussion, the BBC had a doubt: "You hug millions of people all over the world, who hugs you?" The answer was: "The entire creation hugs me."

If all this werent enough Amma is bit of a comedian as well, I don't expect our friend Shazia, need worry though. Amma received a standing ovation when she related a story of three spiritual leaders. This story is a parody of contemporary efforts towards peace. "The leaders of three religions—A, B and C—once decided to convene a meeting for peace. God was so pleased with their efforts that He sent an angel to them during the meeting. The angel asked the leaders what they wished. The leader of religion A said: 'Religion B is responsible for all the problems. So please wipe them off the face of earth!' The leader of religion B said: 'Religion A is the cause of all our troubles. You have to reduce them to ashes!' By now the angel was disappointed. The angel turned expectantly to the leader of religion C. With an expression of grave humility, C's leader said: 'I wish nothing for myself. It will be enough if you merely grant the prayers of my two colleagues."

Now if I could only overcome my desire to deliver an eager fist to the trachea and replace it with a hug, when someone next cuts me off in traffic. Ommmmmmmmmmmm!!!

2003-09-03T08:36:00.000-04:00

Yesterday All My Troubles Seemed So Far Away@#$%!!!! Blogger ate yesterday's post!!!!!

2003-08-29T11:07:00.000-04:00

Each Day Just Goes So Fast, You Turn Around its Past, You Don't Have Time to Hang a Sign on Me.

Our family is going through some horrendous crises this month, it's like there is a huge dark cloud overhead. After dealing with one critical illness, yesterday I received news that my nephew, (who is only like 5 years younger than I), was found unconscious in his home, the result of blood vessels exploding in his head. He rallied during the day yesterday, but last night lapsed into a coma. The doctors performed a surgery to relieve pressure on his brain and we await the outcome today. It's all too bloody much.

Exploding brains must be a genetic things in my ex's family, as he has had 2 major strokes and 2 minor strokes, and is now in the early stages of dementia. He was just released from hospital Monday, after surviving Septic shock and bilateral pneumonia. He is out of danger and his strength is returning.

It's also Labor Day here, I am going to cook up a bunch of foods that can be held over for a few days and eaten on the run, for everyone, so that those going or returning from hospital can grab a nosh. It will be therapeutic for me to do this and will be much appreciated by those sitting watch.

I think I'm going to do a Middle Eastern thing:

Falafels & Tahina sauce A simple, delicious chickpea fritter, nestled in a bed of my tabbouleh and topped with a creamy sauce, magic.

Chicken Shwarma - marinate 2lbs of boneless chicken sliced thinly, in this masala mix, grill and wrap in pita
1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg
1/4 tsp. ground cardamom
1/4 tsp. ground cloves
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. black pepper powder, salt
4 cloves garlic, crushed
1 onion, finely chopped
1/4 cup lemon juice
1/2 cup water
1/8 cup white vinegar
1/8 cup olive oil

Tabbouleh salad is simple really, soaked bulgur wheat, finely diced tomatoes, onion,parsley, and mint, and a dressing of olive oil and lemon juice as dressing.

Homemade Pita bread- for which I'll use a basic bread recipe, rolled flat. brushed with olive oil and baked on a pizza stone until brown

Fresh Figs with an Almond Mascarpone Cream - This recipe I made up but is cunningly simple, brown off some blanched slivered almonds in a warm pan,make a simple syrup using water, sugar and rosewater cut your figs in quarters, careful not to go all the way through, pop them into a shallow baking dish and roast quickly under the broiler. I will mix 1/2 tsp almond essence into the mascarpone, drizzle the syrup which was caramelised in the pan over figs, top with the mascarpone and toasted almonds.

If things settle down around here (fingers crossed) I'll try to go and see, Stephen Frears new film, "Dirty Pretty Things".

2003-08-28T12:13:00.000-04:00

She Laid it Down For All to See

Blogs the good,the bad and the ugly.

Writing is very visceral for most bloggers, I found this out last night. I'd bookmarked marked a web log purely based on the putrescence of its writing and design. Perhaps it was schadenfreude, the writing was inexcusably bad, I would surf over there and have a look. Someone flamed this blogger quite badly, I'm afraid I added insult to injury by being kind and pointing out that constructive criticism, is the most important tool a budding writer,or indeed any artist has, and to not take things too seriously. Well, the person got quite the strop on, she considers herself quite accomplished, she is obviously quite young, though claims to be a grad student.

This led me to consider how I would react to negative criticism, how does one judge something as personal as a weblog? As webloggers... we put it out for all to see, are we not inviting some sort of criticism or comparison by the public nature of the endeavour?

Glen Reynolds has this to say about the good, the bad etc

"In every case, though, what brings success is knowing something other people don't know, and expressing it well. "

I am compelled to write this blog as a way of illustrating my need to live a passionate life. It is me, condensed to an essence. I don't simply do it for myself, but as a way to show you (readers) the colours of my soul. The links on the right, are there simply because these people have given me a reason to smile. I don't ask for linkage, if you link me, fine..if not fine. This is one reason I will never become an A-list blogger, whatever the fuck that is. As I am laying it down for all to see, I will tell you they are there to provide "texture." Each link provides a bit of a different texture.

I invite your criticisms, not just your kudos, tell me whats wrong or right, but most of all thanks for reading.

2003-08-27T10:31:00.000-04:00

Being For the Benefit of Mr. Kite, There Will Be a Show Tonight, On Trampoline

Remember Afghanistan?

Afghanistan was the other, first, "war against terrorism", hailed at the time as a great triumph, where the task of reconstruction was supposed to set a precedent for the same work in Iraq. In reality the results have been dismal and are obscured only by the relative lack of concern shown by the international media, for whom the current, second, war is a more compelling subject.

What I know about Afghanistan could scarcely fill a Pashtun's turban. Yes, me the self-proclaimed Orientalist, and I'll be willing to bet all of you out there in Blue Meanie land know damn little about the "Stan's". So you are probably thinking, What's the deal with all the 'stan countries in Central Asia?

"Istan" is Persian for "place of." Many Central Asian towns and villages, as well as countries, have names ending with "istan."

The Clan of Stans

Kyrgyzstan-In Old Turkic, kyrg means "40" and yz means "tribes," so the word means "40 tribes."

Turkmenistan-In Turkic, turk refers to the Turks, an ancient people from that region. The word men means "I" or "me." So Turkmen means "I am a Turk." The Turkmen were originally nomadic tribes, known as the Oghuz, who came from what is now Mongolia and southern Syria.

Tajikistan-In Persian, Taj means "crown" and ik means "head," so tajik means "a person who wears a crown on his head." Tajiks are originally Iranian.

Afghanistan-Versions of the word Afghan go back as far as the 3rd century AD. Afgan may come from an 8th or 9th century Iraninan emperor named Apakan.

Pakistan- This name was made up in the 1930s when India's Muslims were trying to break away and form their own country. (They succeeded in 1947.) P-A-K is an acronym for some of the regions the people claimed as part of their homeland: Punjab, Afghania and Kashmir. The country's founders also chose pak because it means pure, in Urdu, the national language of Pakistan.

Kazakhstan-Kazakh is an Old Turkic word meaning "somebody who is independent and free."

Uzbekistan-Uzbek probably comes from two Turkic words:which means "genuine" and bek, which means man. So, the word means "genuine man."

Now that we've cleared that bit up. Did you know the poet/mystic Rumi, was Afghan? Don't know who Rumi is??
Click here you little dervish. Jonathan over at "Tales of Ordinary Wisdom" also has some Rumi and Sufi links.

Whilst we're talking about the 'Stans, ever see "Kite Fighting"??

Kite flying is more than a pastime in Afghanistan -- it is a national obsession. The streets of the capital, Kabul, are filled with shops selling kite-flying equipment, and the skies above the city are decorated each day with hundreds of colorful kites fluttering in the wind. Banned by the Taliban as un-Islamic, kite flying has now hit new heights of popularity.The Taliban regime banned hobbies such as kite flying and bird keeping, in the belief that such pastimes were un-Islamic.

Kite flying is a two-person affair. One person, the "charka gir," holds the wooden spool around which the wire, or "tar," is wound. The second person -- called the "gudiparan baz," or kite flyer -- actually controls the movement of the kite in the air.

In Afghanistan, wherever there are kites, there is kite fighting. During the fight, or "jang," two kites are flown close to one another, often at great heights. The object is to use the wire of your kite to cut the wire of your opponent's kite and set it free. Everything in Afghan kite fighting depends on the quality of the wire and how it is prepared. First, glass is finely ground and combined with an adhesive mixture to make a thick paste. The wire is then coated with this paste to make it strong and sharp. After it is dry, the wire is wound around the spool. Kite fighters often wrap a piece of leather around their fingers to protect themselves from the taut wire, which can cut to the bone.

When an opponent's kite is cut free, it flutters like a colorful, dying bird into the far reaches of the city. Such kites are said to be "azadi rawest," or "free and legal," and can be retrieved by neighborhood children to fly another day. Each neighborhood crowns its own "sharti," or kite-fighting champion.
In order to have a kite fight, 2 kites had to be airborne simultaneously at a close proximity. As soon as the wire of these two kites contacted each other, the fight had began. The fight would last from a split second to up to 1/2 hour, depending on wind, the difference in quality of tar between the two parties and other undetermined factors. Generally the one with most experience and patience win the fight, given the same quality of the tar, kite and charkha gir. The general concept was to release wire, and avoid pulling when in a kite fight. The faster you release the more likely one would win the fight. This theory is based on a complex dynamic relationship of the wires while in the air, which held true for the most part. Since larger kites had greater pull, greater release of wire per second was anticipated and thus greater chance of winning with a larger kite. However this theory had it's limitations - larger kites have been known to lose to much smaller kites. There is also wagering on kites which I expect is what aroused the ire of the arch-conservative Taliban in the first place.

more about kite fighting click
For all your turban needs ...click here

Having a hard time finding a Burqa? click here

Be the first on your block to get a little bootay (postini)...more

2003-08-26T10:42:00.000-04:00

Though I know I'll Never Lose Affection, For People and Things That Went Before

I've always been an avid Orientalist, from the time I saw a photo of my great grandfather and a Tuareg chieftain, astride Berber horses, I've been fascinated by things and people of an Oriental nature. As a child, I was enamoured of any and all kinds of adventure and travel, a stark contrast in my Catholic education. I dreamt of becoming another Beryl Markham. I saw Lawrence of Arabia five times hanging on to each word Peter O' Toole uttered. I kept a tattered copy of Lawrence's, the Seven Pillars of Wisdom, as a constant bedtime companion.

What makes a hero? Heroism is a moral concept. By its nature it is reserved for the person set apart—for the select few who tower above the rest. It is a sparsely populated classification. A hero's life is an unbroken and inviolable series of actions taken in accordance with his own principles in the teeth of any obstacle with which nature or other men confront him. A hero does, whilst others watch.

Today one of my heroes died. Sir Wilfred Thesiger, an unlikely hero for a horse-obsessed girl. You are probably not alone in wondering who Sir Wilfrid was.

"A cloud gathers, the rain falls, men live; the cloud disperses without rain, and men and animals die. In the deserts of southern Arabia there is no rhythm of the seasons, no rise and fall of sap, but empty wastes where only the changing temperature marks the passage of the year. It is a bitter, desiccated land which knows nothing of gentleness or ease. Yet men have lived there since earliest times. Passing generations have left fire-blackened stones at camping sites, a few faint tracks polished on the gravel plains. Elsewhere the winds wipe out their footprints. Men live there because it is the world into which they were born; the life they lead is the life their forefathers led before them; they accept hardships and privations; they know no other way. Lawrence wrote in Seven Pillars of Wisdom "Bedouin ways were hard, even for those brought up in them and for strangers terrible: a death in life." No man can live this life and emerge unchanged. He will carry, however faint, the imprint of the desert, the brand which marks the nomad; and he will have within him the yearning to return, weak or insistent according to his nature. For this cruel land can cast a spell which no temperate clime can match." Wilfred Thesiger, Arabian Sands

Sir Wilfred Thesiger, who died on Sunday aged 93, was the quintessential English explorer, and the last and greatest of that small band of travellers who sought out the secrets of the desert in the years before Arabia was transformed forever by the oil beneath her sands.Thesiger's reputation was established by two epic journeys he made in the 1940s across the Rub 'al Khali, or Empty Quarter, the most forbidding, least known and least penetrated region of Arabia.

His motive for crossing it was not primarily to reap glory for himself, but to share the hardship of the life of the Bedu and to earn their comradeship. He was not in thrall to the desert itself but, like T E Lawrence, to his admiration of those who lived there: "The harder the life," ran his credo, "the finer the person."The Empty Quarter is the largest sand desert in the world. It covers 250,000 square miles and contains ranges of dunes 100 miles long and 1,000ft high. At noon, the temperature of the surface of the sand reaches 80C.

In his books and in his partial autobiography, The Life of My Choice (1987), Thesiger set out his belief that Western civilisation was a corrupting force which had robbed the world of its diversity and stripped the primitive peoples he so admired of their finer traits. As time passed, many others came to share his distaste for the by-products of progress and, with the arrival of such concepts as eco-tourism, Thesiger's traditionalist concerns now perversely seem very contemporary.

In his old age, before leaving Kenya for England, Thesiger once said, "When I go, I have asked Lawi to dig a hole in his garden and pop me into it without any nonsense." Farewell, Sir Wilfred, traveller, writer, and one of the last solitary explorers of this shrinking planet.

Who were your heroes?

2003-08-25T12:25:00.000-04:00

``Will You Still Need Me, Will you Still Feed Me, when I'm 6 feet 4?''

They hae slain the Earl o' Moray,
And Lady Mondegreen

The word Mondegreen, meaning a mishearing of a popular phrase or song lyric, was coined by the writer Sylvia Wright, in 1954. Poor Lady Mondegreen, thought Sylvia,
'how poetic, to die with her Lord and liege'. There are those, whoever, who will deny the death of the Lady, Yea, even her life in the first place. Surprisingly, it doesn't take much for them to convince her mourners that perhaps their tears would be better shed over some other tragic heroine. She is no noblewoman, being nothing more than the misheard lyric: 'They hae slain the Earl o' Moray, and laid him on the green'. Her descendants, all became known as 'mondegreens'.

Meanwhile at the Center for the Humane Study of Mondegreens, they've been toting up the entries and applying the latest statistical correlative methods, even using their toes, to formulate at a semi-definitive answer. They believe that the most frequently submitted Mondegreen is still "Gladly, the cross-eyed bear" (known in the real world as that fine old hymn "Gladly The Cross I'd Bear"). A close second is "There's a bathroom on the right," a mishearing of "There's a bad moon on the rise" from the old Creedence Clearwater song "Bad Moon Rising."

Third place is still firmly held by "Excuse me while I kiss this guy," actually "Excuse me while I kiss the sky" from the Jimi Hendrix song "Purple Haze." Mr. Hendrix was himself aware that he had been Mondegreened, and would occasionally, in performance, actually kiss a guy after saying that line.

Fourth place is probably occupied by Round John Virgin, a Shakespearean figure occasionally found in "Silent Night." Also high on the charts is a Mondegreen from "Groovin'", a popular song of an earlier era. (Kids, "groovin'" was kind of like "chillin'" except the clothing fit more tightly). In that song, the Rascals were singing "You and me endlessly," but many people heard "You and me and Leslie," leading to speculation about the exact identity of Leslie and the popularity of multiple couplings in the music world.

And for the Neocons, the American pledge of allegiance is a hotbed of Mondegreens that one could create a composite of submitted entries: "I pledge a lesion to the flag, of the United State of America, and to the republic for Richard Stans, one naked individual, with liver tea and just this for all."

The Mondegreen family often worms its way into familiar phrases as well. My sister insists that we all inhabit "doggy dog world" populated by pushy people with a "no holes barred" attitude, while another friend believed that World War II was fought between the Zees and the Not Zees.
My 13 year old son kept on insisting that I buy either Coke and Pepsi in "cheerleader size." Imagining himself to simply be able to twist off that bottle cap and become the proud new owner of a Dallas Cowgirl, he was disappointed to learn that it was actually "two litre size."
And my friend Arabella O' Buggery's account that her parents' wealth did them no good at all because they just sat around their pool and "drank themselves to Bolivia."

Gavin Edwards admits his first meeting with the Mondegreens was at age 6, "when I learned to sing "Row, Row Your Boat." I was convinced that the line after "merrily merrily merrily" was "life's a butter dream," rather than the more canonical "life is but a dream." I wasn't sure what visions of dairy products had to do with a boat trip, but I didn't have the courage to ask anybody.

So, face it, you have been guilty of it since early childhood. Beginning with the nursery rhymes you heard on the playground to the national anthem you recited in school to crooning with the love songs on the radio, you have been misinterpreting and repeating them. Now you know there is a word for it and that you are not alone.

This is a call for you to step forward and post your most embarassing mondegreen. Let the Mangling begin!

Mondegreen Hall of Fame ...click here

2003-08-22T10:28:00.000-04:00

But the Fool on the Hill, Sees the Sun Going Down. And the Eyes in his Head, See the World Spinning 'Round.

It's time for the yearly siege of Edinburgh, when the Fringe takes over the normally staid, middle-class Scottish capital,and comedy, looney performance art and tourist abound . It's also the time for the Perrier Awards, over the years the Perriers have been attacked for a variety of reasons - for overlooking women comedians to its position within the Nestlé company, which is still targeted by baby milk campaigners, who criticise its marketing activities in emerging nations. Last year, it was even noted that the Perrier nominees were all teetotal, prompting knowing smiles among those comedians who were inclined to eschew bottled water for stronger drinks. This year is no different, as the debate over stand up and sketch comedy hots up, a new prize for stand up is being discussed.

The business of being funny is funny business indeed, meet Shazia Mirza, she's in Edinburgh for Fringe. Shazia Mirza is a good girl. She doesn't drink alcohol, she doesn't smoke, she doesn't go out with men. She attends the mosque regularly. And you have to give credit to anyone with the nerve to stand in front of a roomful of drunks and declare their virginity.

"I don't do jokes about sex because I have never had it," she says, in her deadpan nasal Brummie accent.

Only if George Clooney converted in the morning and threw himself at her feet would she even consider changing that. It's marriage or nothing.

"I'm serious!" she says.

A trailblazer for what, until she started appearing in small clubs three years ago in a hijab, was an oxymoron - devout Muslim comedy.

"We're not all fanatics. I tell audiences how they can distinguish me from Muslim terrorists: they have bigger moustaches than I do," she told the BBC.

Doing her act in front a mixed gathering of men and women she told the following joke about her pilgrimage to Mecca:

"I felt a hand on my bottom. I ignored it. I thought: "I'm in Mecca. It must be the hand of God."

And in America, "Everyone Loves Abdullah," as animosity and prejudice toward Arab Americans reach new highs,comedians responded by taking to the stage to both mock the stereotypes and humanise their culture to mainstream audiences.

In a bustling crowd that has gathered at the Comedy Store in West Hollywood on a recent Friday evening.
Up on stage, sporting curly hair, a three-day beard and a worn-out leather jacket, is Ahmed Ahmed, one of the few Arab-American comedians in the country, relating a story about going to a nightclub with a friend.

"We were carded at the door. I showed the woman my California driver’s license, which has my full name — Ahmed Aboubakr Ahmed — and a picture of me with a beard. Her eyes bugged out of her head.
I put my hand on her shoulder and said, ‘Look, we just want to come in and celebrate. I just graduated from flight school.”

And more:
Aron Kader, a Palestinian-American whose father has long been active in Palestinian causes, would come on stage and say: "You read the papers and they really don't support the Palestinians. It'll be headlines like 'Israeli Injured, 100 Palestinians dead.' Or 'Tank Scratched by Rock, Reprisal Warned.' Or 'Palestinian Attacks Bullet With Body, Aggression Condemned.'"

And to end this very unpc post for you web geneologists I present :

The Sadam Family Tree

Now that Uday & Qusay have been eliminated, a lot of the lesser-known
family, members are coming to the attention of World authorities.

Among the brothers:
Sooflay ............the restaurateur
Guday...............the half-Australian brother
Huray...............the sports fanatic
Sashay..............the gay brother
Kuntay & Kintay.....the twins from the African mother
Sayhay..............the baseball player
Ojay................the stalker/murderer
Gulay...............the singer/entertainer
Ebay................the Internet czar
Biliray.............the country music star
Ecksray.............the radiologist
Puray...............the blender factory owner
Regay...............the half-Jamaican brother
Tupay...............the one with bad hair

Among the sisters:
Lattay..............the coffee shop owner
Bufay...............the 300 pound sister
Phayray.............the zoo worker in the gorilla house
Sapheway............the grocery store owner
Ollay...............the half-Mexican sister

Finally, there is Oyvey, but the family doesn't even want to go there!

For more about the Edinburgh Fringe click here for joy

Learn more about Shazia Mirza here

to see her act click here
Watch some Arab American comedians ...here

2003-08-20T11:09:00.000-04:00

Will You Still Be Sending Me a Valentine, Birthday Greetings Bottle of Wine.

Well our little journal is a bit over a year old, so I thought I'd reprise some of the more interesting entries, as a SCITTBW retrospective.

Now she sucks her thumb and wonders,
The Anniversary of the Public Loo, after all this is "She Came in Through the Bathroom Window and a rollicking discussion of Un merveilleux GOD LATEX VIBRANT.

She could steal but she could not rob
Leah (who really gives a flying fuck) MacLaren slags British men and funny sports bloopers, for ra lads.

Boy, you're gonna carry that weight a long time.
TV Food Presenters we hate, and what we'd like to do to them.

Boy, you're gonna carry that weight, a long time.Redux
Celebrity chefs we like

I read the news today,oh boy!
The World's Funniest Joke, and why we laugh.

You never giving me your money, you only give me your funny papers
Why women aren't funny.

What Would You Do if I Sang Out of Tune
A sojourn into useless erections, British follies.

Get a Dose of Her in Jackboot and Kilt, She's Killer Diller when She's Dressed to the Hilt
Oor Ain Ode Tae the Imoortal Bard- The Burns Unit.

Sexy Sadie, What Have You Done?
The salacious and libertine joys of the original Valentines Day.

Er Majesty's a Pretty Nice Girl But She Changes from Day to Day
A look at Prince Philips gongs.

Lots of random googlers visit my site because they want to know what the song "She Came in Through the Bathroom window is about. I'm going to finally clear up this mystery. This song by Paul was inspired by an actual event. One day whilst he was away from his St. John's Wood home, some teenage girls,(known as Apple Scruffs) broke into his home. Although there were several in this group of girls, only one, later saying out of boredom,admitted using a ladder, propped it up to the bathroom window, and got inside. She then opened the door for the others.

There were two types of "Apple Scruffs" -- those that broke in and those that waited outside with cameras and autograph books. One such girl who eventually got to know Paul well as friends, would even walk his dog from time to time. Her name was Margo Bird. During this break-in, the girls took some of Paul's clothes, as well as some photograph's and negatives. One of the photos was a favorite of Paul's, a color-tinted photo of him in a frame from the thirties. Wanting this back, he appealed to Margo, who knew the culprits, and got it back for him. It was lucky, as when she located it, most of the other items taken were on their way to America. Paul describes these events in this song. The girls, being juveniles, by age, were then protected by the "silver spoon." His phrasing of Sunday on the phone to Monday, Tuesday on the phone to me, is Paul's take where the neighbors who saw the break-in were calling each other, and him, to report it. It's always been one of my favourites.

Oh Look Out!

2003-08-19T11:12:00.000-04:00

Whisper Words of Wisdom, Let it be.

Weaving the Cloths of Heaven

When I was 10, someone told me our lives were the cloths of heaven, and who am I to argue with the prettiness of this kind of Jesuit logic. I just accept it , as if it were a wafer host dissolving on a first communicant’s tongue. As my own cloth frays I came to understand the imagery of this phrase, and how the threads can come undone.

Some of the thread begins here, in a place where the heat rises off the pavement, and nights are thick with the crescendo of cicadas and the incessant hum of air conditioners. A place that magnified my differences and my catholic ways. This was the country of his family, and it had changed them in 8 generations, more than a thousand years of potato digging ever could. The years of toil had distilled their humanity into a flinty kernel. This dour group pushed southward from Virginia, through the Carolinas, farming cotton, peanuts, and tobacco, until the land played out. Packing up their hardscrabble existence and fierce work ethic into mule- drawn wagons, they started over again and again until they could go no further south. And here they stopped.

Broad, blue - black faces inhabited my life for the first time. I watched them walk cautiously between the two worlds, the white world of commerce and labour and the black world of country jukes, gold filled teeth, and scented hair pomades. Black Mandinka, Lowland Geechee, is what they called themselves away from white ears, as if to make some sense of their aborted history. Forgotten African words were passed down from generation to generation, as tribal talismans.

My husband’s work and our living depended on the hard physical labor of these men. The sense that they lived in a violent world always hung in the air around them, like some fiercely tragic blues chord. I was fascinated most by their hands, muscular, corded, and how their skin colour changed from calloused pink palms to a rich tannin in a matter of inches. They had nicknames for each other, “Red- Eyed Doobie, “Cryin Baby” and “Coffee.” My husband, always comfortable with them, joked and ate their food, and I envied him that ease. I never understood their loyalty or obligation to us. My brother-in-law once pistol-whipped a labourer who wouldn’t do his share. Why did they chose to weave themselves into our lives? They are weft bound threads of gold and blue, that catches the sunlight.

Every Sunday afternoon for years would be my lesson in local patois, as the powder blue Oldsmobile pulled carelessly onto the pine needles of my yard. The back tires underscoring their mission, as they braked too quickly, unsure of the distance between that shiny, massive chrome bumper and the creosote painted fence.

“Where bossman?”

“Excuse me?”

The unrepentant Mack and Doobie, had drank their entire paychecks in juke joints between Ocala and Wauchula and weren’t ready to quit running the roads. Their demands were issued in a thick, raspy incomprehensible growl, that originated somewhere between the back of their throats and East Africa. I seldom understood anything they said, first time around. I would say, “Pardon” and Excuse Me, and they would look at me as one would look at a charming imbecile.

“Where Benny?”

“Sorry?” I’d reply timidly.

“Where Benny?”

“Pardon?”

You gotta a dime, Ah jist needs a dime, til Friday.

“Bossman he in der? You tells him Mack need to see him.”

At some point, after they were sure I was mortified beyond all reason, Bossman would emerge and give them the “dime” or $10 they were after, and the blue Olds would peel out of the yard spraying bits of pine straws and sugar sand everywhere.

"I've got a black cat bone/ I got a mojo too/ I got the John the Conquerer root/ I'm gonna mess with you/ Make all you pretty girls/ take me by my hand/ Then the world gonna know/ I'm the Hoochie Coochie Man."
photo courtesy of Steberphoto.com
My favourite blues style has none of the brassiness and sophistication of Chicago or New Orleans, it tastes of red clay earth, hard labour, and moonshine. It speaks the language of the Delta, eight bars punctuated by poverty, love gone bad, and the supernatural. The delta home of the Bentonia Blues style distinctive for its high melismatic singing and complex melodies, its minor keyed, and intricately picked guitar parts. The originator of this style is Skip James, click here to listen to samples Hard Time Killin Floor BluesHis most intense and arguably disturbing work is crystallized in one single 78rpm track, that crackling and sputtering only enhances the ghostly, out of time feel of the song. His music offers no sanctuary and is not for the faint of heart. The songs address living with an unabashed intensity. They speak of surviving economic hardship, lost love, reckless living, and travel. They even aspire to salvation, although this salvation always seems distant or impossible to attain.

This is a brilliant photo-journal on Delta life courtesy of Steber Photo wanna go jukin'-?

2003-08-18T09:28:00.000-04:00

Expert,Texpert Choking Smoker Don't You Think the Joker Laughs at You

After spending a week watching what passes for health care in a rural hospital, I needed a laugh. The internet is useful for certain things porn, skiving work, and flame wars. I used to think I was the only blogger on the web with hormonally related anger management problems, but there is an entire subspecies called Homo Bloggus Horibilis. So while surfing the blogosphere I came across CrankyChicks excellent blog . She had saved one of the all time great flames from USENET and I shall post it forthwith:

"You are a bleating foul, a curdled, staggering, mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done. I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformity. You have all the appeal of a paper cut.

You snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid, set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs.
On a good day, you're a half-wit. You remind me of drool.

I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid. Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid - so stupid, that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularity stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid. You emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. Some pure essence of stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics as we know it.

You're a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon. I would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you."
I think that just about says it all, don't you?

2003-08-10T19:45:00.000-04:00

I Take a Walk the Sun is Shining Down, Burns My Feet as They Touch the Ground

Summer doesn't leave willingly in these latitudes, like a well satisfied lover, it wants to stay and stay and stay. I am loathe to let it go, as well. I love our mid-afternoon thundershowers, punctual enough to set your watch by. My horses, grow sleek and lazy with summer's ampleness.I am constantly in and out of any body of water I can find, snorkelling,swimming, tubing, fishing and crabbing. My hairdresser complains, whilst my hair goes from light brown to very blonde,with summer's benign neglect. My hips narrow from so much swimming and I can pretend I'm young again, wearing loose cotton shifts,simple gold earrings, my only make-up is sun kissed skin. Summer simplicity.

Visitors here, remark that we have no seasons, only to be met with the oldest of jokes. "We have seasons, we've got football season, basketball season, baseball season and huntin' season, ain't that right Bubbah! We won't see a serious frost until January, and I can count on fresh tomatoes and basil until at least October. The seasons do come here, not marked by remarkable foliage colours, but by subtleness of shortening days, my pastures cease the prolific and magnificent growth and approach dormancy. The sycamore tree drops it's leaves, and evenings coolness tempt me out on the trails, where I see the world between a magnificent pair of black equine ears.

School starts early here in the South, the Walmartians are out in force with their brood, buying loose leaf ring binders, pens and pencils,reams of paper. My son refers to it as his "voluntary term of incarceration, without chance of parole." I wish I could tell him, to relax, and enjoy it. I wish I could tell him that youth and summers are something to cherish, to hold onto mightily. That it all simply goes by so fast.

Summer Fades to Autumn
Sometimes it is too late for love,
I tell myself
Shadow lengthened days
Acorns raining down on tin.

And this one determined mockingbird,
Another unbeliever,
belting out borrowed tunes.
It’s plain to see, he doesn’t buy the reality
of shortened days,
Anymore than I do.

In a cardigan’s suburban embrace,
I burn leaves.
The poetry of my trees,
who wrote of golden days
On these now discarded pages.
My Bards of elm and oak,
dreaming of the samhain fire
And how summer loves are consecrated,
as lingering incense,
on the winds of autumn’s pyre.

photography courtesy of borrowed-images click here

2003-08-08T10:09:00.000-04:00

Sitting in an English Garden Waiting for the Sun,
if the Sun Don't Come You Get a Tan from Standing in the English Rain.

I guess I'm coming late to the party in admiring artist Mark Ryden's work, they remind me of some of the distinctly odd images from back in my days of hallucinogenic excess. Want to admire more of Mr. Ryden's disturbing yet oddly nostalgic art? click here for joy

A lovely rainy weekend looms ahead for me. I'll be off to see, Guitar Gods BB King and Jeff Beck play on Saturday. If you don't know who Jeff Beck is ...shame on you. Hendrix, Clapton, and Beck are the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost of Blues Rock Guitar, cross yourselves and genuflect, you heathens.

" As innovative as Jimmy Page, as tasteful as Eric Clapton, and nearly as visionary as Jimi Hendrix, Jeff Beck never achieved the same commercial success as any of his contemporaries, primarily because of the haphazard way he approached his career. After Rod Stewart left the Jeff Beck Group in 1971, Beck never worked with a charismatic lead singer who could have helped sell his music to a wide audience. He was simply too idiosyncratic, moving from heavy metal to jazz-fusion within a blink of an eye. As his career progressed, he became more fascinated by automobiles than guitars, releasing only one album during the course of the '90s. All the while, Beck retained the respect of fellow guitarists, who found his reclusiveness all the more alluring."

listen to Jeff here...

While we're discussing innovators, give a listen to Eigenradio.

Eigenradio plays only the most important frequencies, only the beats with the highest entropy. If you took a bunch of music and asked it, "Music, what are you, really?" you'd hear Eigenradio singing back at you. When you're tuned in to Eigenradio, you always know that you're hearing the latest, rawest, most statistically separable thing you can possibly put in your ear.
Tune in and hear the future of music. Listen

Alternate backup tune-in...here

More about Eigenradio

2003-08-07T10:33:00.000-04:00

Tuned to a natural E, happy to be that way
Now that you've found another key, what are you going to play? Baby, you're a rich man, baby you're a rich man, baby you're a rich man, too

California, replaces Floriduh, as the official SCITTBW stupid voter state.

Just how California's electoral process came to resemble a bad reality TV show is still unclear, but both Arnold and Gary Coleman, the diminutive star of the '80s sitcom "Diff'rent Strokes" have announced that they will join the low-budget, badly scripted production that is the California recall election. Whilst Hustler magazine publisher and would-be California governor Larry Flynt has been sued for sexual harassment by a former employee who claims she found sex toys in the company dishwasher. Flynt is running on the platform that residents of the "Fruits and Nuts State, should elect him on his platform, "a smut peddler who cares."

And then there is Arianna Huffington,representing the conservative gone liberal years ago. She stands for the California of best intentions -- the benevolent desire to travel down to South Central and deliver some of her energy-conscious, bottled-water, feel-good dogma from yon Brentwood.

She speaks and one is instantly reminded that her Greek accent makes her sound sort of like a grass-roots Zsa Zsa, darling.

"Today I am announcink that I am runnik for governor of the great state of California," she says. "Those are 16 words I never imagined I would hear myself say. And they are in no way based on the findings of British intelligence."

Michael Jackson is running, No not that one. (This one, according to the Los Angeles Times, is a satellite project manager from Long Beach.) Angelyne is also running. Here is a woman famous only for wanting to be famous, known mostly via her ubiquitous Hollywood billboards, which for many years have featured her ageless, platinum blond ampleness.

Not to be outdone, Silicon Valley has launched its own bit of political insanity.Stuart Vance, a Silicon Valley entrepreneur has launched a Web-based campaign Sunday to derail the recall by encouraging as many Californians as possible to run for governor.

In Stuart Vance describes as ``a denial-of-service attack on the recall,'' he and some tech buddies want to overwhelm election officials with up to 1,000 names. That could exceed the number that fits on ballots and force the Oct. 7 election to be delayed. here's his website.

Some other loonies running for Gov are:

William Pratt
Background: 18-year-old resident of San Bruno.

Experience: Lost six elections for student congress at St. Francis High School in Mountain View.

Quote: "I wasn't real good at campaigning."

Michael Wozniak

Background: Retired Oakland police officer.

Experience: Treasurer of a motorcycle club.

Motto: "No crybabies."

Issue: Legalization of the domestic ferret.

Jerry Morissette

Background: Longtime caretaker at Interstate 280 rest stop.

Georgy Russell

Background: 26-year-old high-tech programmer from Mountain View.

Motto: Beauty, brains, leadership.

Quote: "We had to do a little pandering at the start to get some attention."

Other names mentioned as possible candidates, Homer Simpson. Dylan Silverstein, a Fox executive, said, "We're dead serious. At his best, Homer Simpson embodies earnestness, honesty and middle-America family values."

And when cell phone giant Verizon heard about Fox's entry, they promptly entered their "Can-You-Hear-Me-Now?" guy into the race, and then there is MTV's candidate, Ozzy Osbourne,

"If I can bite the head off a live bat, then I can take a bite out of this f*ing state deficit."

So if you're a California resident, and want to be Gov; all it takes is a $3,500 deposit and 65 signatures. Or if you can gather 10,000 signatures, no deposit is required. The clock is ticking. But you better hurry, in order to qualify, you must declare your candidacy by Aug. 9.

It's just another vaguely anxious day in Paradise Lost.

2003-08-06T10:52:00.000-04:00

If Looks Could Kill it Woulda Been Us instead of Him, All de Children Sing

via Malcolm Gladwell @the New Yorker

All of us, a thousand times a day, read faces. When someone says "I love you," we look into that person's eyes to judge his or her sincerity. When we meet someone new, we often pick up on subtle signals, so that, even though he or she may have talked in a normal and friendly manner, afterward we say, "I don't think he liked me," or "I don't think she's very happy." We easily parse complex distinctions in facial expression. If you saw me grinning, for example, with my eyes twinkling, you'd say I was amused.

But that's not the only way we interpret a smile. If you saw me nod and smile exaggeratedly, with the corners of my lips tightened, you would take it that I had been teased and was responding sarcastically. If I made eye contact with someone, gave a small smile and then looked down and averted my gaze, you would think I was flirting. If I followed a remark with an abrupt smile and then nodded, or tilted my head sideways, you might conclude that I had just said something a little harsh, and wanted to take the edge off it. You wouldn't need to hear anything I was saying in order to reach these conclusions. The face is such an extraordinarily efficient instrument of communication that there must be rules that govern the way we interpret facial expressions. But what are those rules? And are they the same for everyone?

How good are you at deciphering peoples facial expressions? here's a test

Back in the 60's, a man named Paul Ekman began to study facial expression, and he discovered that no one knew the answers to those questions. Ekman went to see Margaret Mead, climbing the stairs to her tower office at the American Museum of Natural History. He had an idea. What if he travelled around the world to find out whether people from different cultures agreed on the meaning of different facial expressions? Mead, he recalls, "looked at me as if I were crazy." Like most social scientists of her day, she believed that expression was culturally determined— that we simply used our faces according to a set of learned social conventions.

Paul Ekman got his start in the face-reading business because of a man named Silvan Tomkins, and Silvan Tomkins may have been the best face reader there ever was. During the Depression, in the midst of his doctoral studies at Harvard, he worked as a handicapper for a horse-racing syndicate, and was so successful that he lived lavishly on Manhattan's Upper East Side. At the track, where he sat in the stands for hours, staring at the horses through binoculars, he was known as the Professor. "He had a system for predicting how a horse would do based on what horse was on either side of him, based on their emotional relationship," Ekman said. If a male horse, for instance, had lost to a mare in his first or second year, he would be ruined if he went to the gate with a mare next to him in the lineup. (Or something like that— no one really knew for certain.) Tomkins felt that emotion was the code to life, and that with enough attention to particulars the code could be cracked. He thought this about the horses, and, more important, he thought this about the human face.

A very cool game that allows a player to experiment with different effects of moving separate facial parts. In teaching someone how a face conveys emotion, you may choose to isolate one part, such as turning brows down to indicate disapproval, or up for surprise. more here

Summary of facial expressions. 1. Nose: nostril flare (arousal). 2. Lips: grin (happiness, affiliation, contentment); grimace (fear); lip-compression (anger, emotion, frustration); canine snarl (disgust); lip-pout (sadness, submission, uncertainty); lip-purse (disagree); sneer (contempt; see below, Sneer). 3. Brows: frown (anger, sadness, concentration); brow-raise (intensity). 4. Tongue: tongue-show (dislike, disagree). 5. Eyelids: flashbulb eyes (surprise); widened (excitement, surprise); narrowed (threat, disagreement); fast-blink (arousal); normal-blink (relaxed). 6. Eyes: big pupils (arousal, fight-or-flight); small pupils (rest-and-digest); direct-gaze (affiliate, threaten); gaze cut-off (dislike, disagree); gaze-down (submission, deception).

Once upon a 19th-century time, there lived a world-famous horse named Clever Hans, who displayed amazing mathematical ability. If somebody asked him to add, say, five plus seven, Hans would faithfully stomp 12 times, astounding all present. For years, puzzled scientists were baffled by how the animal could add and subtract. One Oskar Pfungst solved the riddle at last. According to Pfungst, Clever Hans looked closely at his human audience for subtle body cues [e.g., of the eyes and head] telling him when to stop tapping his hoof.

All I can say is :-)

2003-08-04T09:20:00.000-04:00

You're So Vain, You Probably Think This Blog is About You.

I just felt the need to comment on this today. Highly over-rated 70's folk pop icon,Carly Simon has agreed to reveal who she was singing about in her No. 1 hit song "You're So Vain." My question is after 30 years is who cares!! Let's make it interesting,Carly, like which one of you, Joni Mitchell or yourself has most recently seen an equine dentist.People magazine reports that the singer-songwriter will auction off the answer Aug. 4. But there's one catch: the winner has to sign an agreement never to tell anyone.

The winner will also be invited for private concert, and a dinner of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and vodka ala Carly. Way to go, Carly. There's a treat few could resist. The auction will raise money for community services on Martha's Vineyard. What exactly is community service on Martha's Vineyard, making sure the needy aren't trotting around in last year's Manolos??

The song which was released in 1972, has been rumored to be about either Mick Jagger, Warren Beatty, Kris Kristofferson or Cat Stevens -- all of whom Simon has reportedly had relationships with in the past. How this princess of entitlement and dubious talent got to shag these A-list men is fucking more of a mystery than who the actual mystery man is.

Simon, 58, joked recently that she could never say who inspired the song because if she did, "no one would have anything to talk to me about". "Here, Here" I say, and just to prove there is a God, Simon has been stricken with such severe stage fright and anxiety she seldom if ever performs in public.

What's next for the multi-talented Carly Simon??? Why it's her singing and narrative parts in the upcoming cultural odyssey,'Piglet's Big Movie', where childhood favourite, A.A. Milne's Winnie the Pooh characters are turned into a cash cow, and marketing extravaganza for the greedy pricks at Disney. Woohoo! Well, you won't hear me singing "Anticipation" over this one.

"Just for the wecord: I am not a wapist!"

This just goes to prove a psycho and his money are soon parted. Troubled boxing champ Mike Tyson, once estimated to be worth at least $US300 million, has filed for bankruptcy in an attempt to bring some order to his finances, his lawyer said today. The one-time heavyweight boxing champion - who served three years in prison in the mid-1990s on a rape conviction and was suspended from professional boxing for biting the ears of heavyweight boxer Evander Holyfield during a 1997 bout - opted for bankruptcy after years of financial mismanagement and free spending habits that saw him squander hundreds of millions of dollars in earnings.

According to media reports, Tyson amassed and spent between $US300 million and $US500 million. Yes, Mike. We all know you STILL HAVE MONEY. Funny how this times well with the upcoming charges of obviously beating some people very, very furiously in a public space. They can't get any damages out of you if you have no money... even if it is a open and shut case.

Here's a little wisdom for Mike and Kobe, courtesy of Socrates,

Regard your good name as the richest jewel you can possibly be possessed of – for credit is like fire; when once you have kindled it you may easily preserve it, but if you once extinguish it, you will find it an arduous task to rekindle it again.”

2003-08-01T10:49:00.000-04:00

Time after time
You refuse to even listen
I wouldn't mind
If I knew what I was missing

Well it's Meme Friday, time for us to dive into the Sargassum that is the World Wide Web and find noteworthy flotsam and jetsam. "She Came in Through the Bathroom Window" has past it's 1 year anniversary, with little fanfare. What've I learned from the experience? It's been a great aid to my dubious writing skills. It allows me to rage inappropriately, during moments of hormonal flux. This weblog continues being stumbled upon by people seeking information about frozen chicken bonking (you know who you are!), people who want to perform unspeakable acts upon Canadian pseudo-journalist Leah MacLaren, and people looking for information on lingam gnosis.

People seldom use the commenting feature (self-indulgent whine), like they do here but the good chaps at enetations.co.uk have made it so easy (free) to use, and it takes up so little space I guess it can stay. I can only think that a) nothing that I post is worthy of discussion, b) no one that reads anything here has anything to say, c) I should just fucking get over myself or d) all of the above.

So on we go:

courtesy of jwalk.com

The 3rd Annual Nigerian EMail Conference "Write better emails. Make more moneys. Like most Nigerians, you're probably finding that it's increasingly difficult to earn a decent living from email. That's why you need to attend the 3rd Annual Nigerian EMail Conference.

"This conference is an investment in your future. Learn to take advantage of modern technology, and make a great deal of money with very little effort. If you have any question, please contact me and I will send you a proposal that may be of interest to you. I await your response by return while assuring you that the transaction is absolutely risk free."

Following are just a few of the
many events that are scheduled.

Breakfast Kickoff Session:Your choice: A hard boiled egg, or two slices of white bread and a cricket.

Keynote Address:Dr. Hamza Kalu's adds some historical perspective in his keynote address: "From Postal Scams To Email Scams: We Have Come a Long Way Infant Child."

Debate:
Attend a lively debate between Lady Mariam Abacha and Mr. Godwin Oyathelem. Topic: "The effectiveness of using all UPPERCASE characters."

Practical Discussion:Mallam Mahmud Abacah answers the question, "Are 10 million emails a day too many?"

Competition:
Other countries are now adapting our business. Is this a threat or an opportunity?

Tech Session:Mrs. M Sese-Seko reveals valuable secrets in her session titled, "Those Pesky Email Headers"

Commerce:
Find out how banking systems throughout the world operate -- with special emphasis on money transfers.

Linguistics:Damn, spam, scam, sham. And more rhymes in the "sticks and stones" category.

Telecommunications:
Soliciting via cell phone text messaging: Can it work?

Accounting:The taxman he's a comin': Keeping good and accurate records.

Open Discussion:
We will resume last year's high-spirited discussion of unionization, including health benefits.

Workshop:Grammatical errors: What's the optimal number?

Statistics:
Dr. Kayode Naiyeju presents his ground-breaking research: "Analyzing response rates using analysis of variance: That pesky R-squared value," as published in The Nigerian Journal of Applied Statistics.

Economics:A round table discussion: Is email now Nigeria's top export?

For Newcomers:
View an entertaining PowerPoint presentation that describes how to get started in this lucrative business, with no initial investment!

Hand-on Session:Experts critique your emails, and offer valuable tips.

From Past Conferences...
"My business has increased by 45%, and I am now experiencing an 89.4% ROI" - Mariam Abacha

"It was a genuine pleasure to meet other honorable business persons such as myself." - Isa Ahmed

"The presentation on P.T. Barnum was especially helpful." - Farouk Bakoh

"The hotel was very, very upscale. The running water was a nice touch! - Dr, Collins Mdadiwe

"I am pleased. I got many new email addresses as a direct result of this most valuable conference." - Aku Chukwu

"Now I know how to respond when someone refers to my business as a scam." - Franklin Dimmoh

"I AM FIRMLY CONVINCED THAT USING UPPERCASE LETTERS MAKES MY WRITING MORE EFFECTIVE." - Mr. Ibrahim Ahmed

"The free daily newspaper was very good to receive, but it is not come on Saturday." - Mrs. Mabel Mamumbi (my kidney disease is getting better, but I am still a widow)

And from famed Gurning Expert, Sanford Manning comes Mindy Teaches the Dharma

And as part of my war against blog kittens comes "Dogs in Snoods" courtesy of the mob over at b3ta.com

2003-07-31T10:44:00.000-04:00

Take These Broken Wings and Learn To Fly, all your Lives, You Were Only Waiting for This Moment to Arise

Felix Baumgartner, the name doesn't sound particularly heroic, does it? Sounds like the name of an Austrian auto mechanic, which is what he is. Mental mages of Felix Baumgartner, call up visions of a stolid, germanic citizen, content changing the sparkplugs in BMWs. for the local burgermeister.
But Felix Baumgartner has done an amazing thing, he launched himself out of an airplane at 35,000 feet with a set of plastic wings on his back to soar across the English Channel from Dover to Calais. Yes, he bloody flew across the English Channel.

The mission named Icarus 2, ended on a happier note than the original Icarus. Remember your mythology?
It all started when Daedalus went to work for King Minos of Crete, There he constructed a wooden cow for the queen to hide in to satisfy her amourous longings for a white bull sent by Poseidon, and by which she became pregnant with the Minotaur. okay the Ancient Greeks were a kinky people, remember Leda and the Swan, but I digress. When the Minotaur was born, Daedalus built the Labyrinth to contain the monstrous half-man, half-bull.
After some shenanigans between Theseus, and Minos' daughter Ariadne, which thoroughly pissed old King Minos off, I mean the man had already been cuckolded by a bull, who could blame him for being irate, Daedalus and Icarus decided to get out of Dodge, or Crete. The only hitch being that Crete is an island, making escape quite difficult.

Not for our boy Daedalus tho, to escape, Daedalus built wings for himself and Icarus, fashioned with feathers held together with wax. Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sun, as it would melt his wings, and not too close to the sea, as it would dampen them and make it hard to fly.

They successfully flew from Crete, but Icarus grew exhilarated by the thrill of flying and began getting careless. Flying too close to the sun god Helios, the wax holding together his wings melted from the heat and he fell to his death, drowning in the sea.

Mr Baumgartner had prepared for three years for this flight, with rigorous training including strapping himself on to the top of a speeding Porsche. But he hinted he was still thirsty for a new challenge.

"This was my biggest project so far but there's still something left, so don't worry," he said. "It's top secret, but it's going to be awesome." No stranger to daredevil feats, usually launched from great heights. In 1999, he jumped from the statue of Christ in Rio de Janeiro and the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur - the tallest buildings in the world.

2003-07-30T10:12:00.000-04:00

Have you seen the bigger piggies
in their starched white shirts?
You will find the bigger piggies
stirring up the dirt,
always have clean shirts to play around in.

I try to keep apolitical, aside from cheap barbs and bad jokes at the expense of the Windsors, Tony and George (Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle- Dumber). I tend to avoid anything that smacks of punditry. There are thousands of verbose bloggers doing this already.

But this article in Fortune, really got to me.

"The Defense Department announced today that it is canceling a controversial program to develop a futures market that would allow traders to bet on wars, assassinations and terrorism in the Middle East."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WTF!

According to Fortune, these kinds of betting pools have actually been in existence for centuries. In the Middle Ages, European nobles often bet on the outcome of wars. More recently Internet "ghoul pools" have become popular. Generally, these sites allow people to bet on the day an elderly celebrity will die. At least one of these allows users to bet on the month and year India and Pakistan will have a nuclear exchange. And several sites allowed people to wager on when a war with Iraq would start. One of these sites, Tradesports.com, was extremely prescient in predicting the date Saddam Hussein would be removed from power. In fact, the idea of using futures exchanges to predict political events is so intriguing that it may surface again in another form.

Anyone care to wager how long either of the Tweedle twins will remain in office?

"It's the ability of markets to make accurate predictions and reveal otherwise hidden information that attracted the Pentagon to futures exchanges. Earlier this year, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) gave a $1 million grant to startup Net Exchange to establish a futures market for political events in the Middle East. Net Exchange was founded by a group of CalTech economists who have been leading proponents of using markets as information gathering tools. The Policy Analysis Market, which would have been run jointly by Net Exchange and The Economist Intelligence Unit, was to start registering traders this week, and was supposed to be fully operational by October 1. It would have allowed traders to place bets on events including whether Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat would be assassinated, or Jordan's King Abdullah II would be overthrown. Market participants could have remained anonymous, a fact that some senators critical of the program said raised the possibility that a terrorist could use the market to profit off his own attack.

The Pentagon had asked for an additional $8 million to fund the project next year, but yesterday Democratic Senators Byron Dorgan of North Dakota and Ron Wyden of Oregon held a press conference to attack the plan. Their criticisms were quickly echoed by other Democrats, and by the end of Tuesday, by leading Republicans as well. Deputy Defense Secretary Paul Wolfowitz, testifying before a Senate Foreign Relations hearing on Iraq, said the futures exchange program would be terminated immediately. Robin Hanson, professor of economics at George Mason University, and affiliated with Net Exchange, says he's disappointed the Pentagon has decided to eliminate funding for the futures market. He says criticism that terrorists could have profited from the market are overblown, since the architects of the exchange were not planning on allowing any wagers greater than about $100. "

Does Death Become Them

SITE LISTINGS
CashforCadavers.com - provides a haven for death mongers and puts the fun back in funeral.

Celebrity Death Pool - possibly fatal swimming hole reserved for politicians, musicians, and other unevolved groups of famous people.

Dewey's Death Pool - win a Hollywood death tour for two.

Game Gazette - includes current play, and history of this and other death pools.

Ghoul Pool - we don't wish celebrities dead, we only predict it.

Guess the Date of the Next Skyway Bridge Jumper Pool - put in your guess as to when the next jump will occur off the Skyway Bridge in Tampa Bay.

Halloween Dead Pool - yearly dead pool where teams are picked fantasy football style.

O.B.E. Celebrity Death Watch - tracking the demise of the rich and famous for fun and games.

stiffs.com - going for the gold that lies in the back teeth of the rich and feeble.

Who's Alive and Who's Dead? . - keep track of which famous people have died and which are still alive.

You Bet Their Life.

2003-07-29T09:29:00.000-04:00

Late of Pablo Fanques Fair - what a scene!
Over man and horses hoops and garters
Lastly through a hogshead of real fire!

Since I'm in an equine state of mind after seeing the film, "Seabiscuit," I thought we'd visit the Horse Fairs of the British Isles. You can scarcely mention horse fairs without mentioning "travellers" or "tinkers". These are the itinerant people of Britain, and you can learn more about them here
Their language is traveller's cant or Shelta. If you've seen the film, Snatch, with Brad Pitt, you've heard bits of it
When the little chavvies gets up, they take the grails down the pani, then we all have bread and kel and a piece of stinger, Some of the old raklis dodikins to the gorgios. They go out with the jukells shushing and a lot of muskros are in the pov.

translation:
"The little children are asleep in the wagons. When they get up, they water the horses, then everyone has bread and cheese and a little bit of onion. Some of the old ladies tell people's fortunes. They go rabbiting with the dogs and a lot of policemen are in the field."

I was, and still am, a woman enamoured of all things equine, attributable to the fact that at age 5, I proved so unco-ordinated as to be tossed out of ballet class. Hopelessly crushed, I moped about until asked, what I would most like in the world. It took me all of 3 seconds to recover my wits, and shout a PONY!. It was one of those happy accidents that happen in life and it has defined me in more ways, than you can imagine. At age 9, I kept a well-thumbed, dog eared copy of Anna Sewells Black Beauty on my nightstand. My imagination travelled on the back of Sham, the Godolphin Arabian, to far-away Morocco, via Marguerite Henry's "King of the Wind", and at 30, I babbled like a school-girl when introduced by a friend to Walter Farley, author of all the "Black Stallion" books, and yes I admit, I wept like a big nonce, as underdog Seabiscuit,took on all comers. So here is an anthropomorpic bit from "Black Beauty" about a .....

A Horse Fair

No doubt a horse fair is a very amusing place to those who have nothing to lose; at any rate, there is plenty to see.

Long strings of young horses out of the country, fresh from the marshes; and droves of shaggy little Welsh ponies, no higher than Merrylegs; and hundreds of cart horses of all sorts, some of them with their long tails braided up and tied with scarlet cord; and a good many like myself, handsome and high-bred, but fallen into the middle class, through some accident or blemish, unsoundness of wind, or some other complaint. There were some splendid animals quite in their prime, and fit for anything; they were throwing out their legs and showing off their paces in high style, as they were trotted out with a leading rein, the groom running by the side. But round in the background there were a number of poor things, sadly broken down with hard work, with their knees knuckling over and their hind legs swinging out at every step, and there were some very dejected-looking old horses, with the under lip hanging down and the ears lying back heavily, as if there were no more pleasure in life, and no more hope; there were some so thin you might see all their ribs, and some with old sores on their backs and hips. These were sad sights for a horse to look upon, who knows not but he may come to the same state.

There was a great deal of bargaining, of running up and beating down; and if a horse may speak his mind so far as he understands, I should say there were more lies told and more trickery at that horse fair than a clever man could give an account of. I was put with two or three other strong, useful-looking horses, and a good many people came to look at us. The gentlemen always turned from me when they saw my broken knees; though the man who had me swore it was only a slip in the stall.

The first thing was to pull my mouth open, then to look at my eyes, then feel all the way down my legs, and give me a hard feel of the skin and flesh, and then try my paces. It was wonderful what a difference there was in the way these things were done. Some did it in a rough, offhand way, as if one was only a piece of wood; while others would take their hands gently over one's body, with a pat now and then, as much as to say, "By your leave." Of course I judged a good deal of the buyers by their manners to myself.

There was one man, I thought, if he would buy me, I should be happy. He was not a gentleman, nor yet one of the loud, flashy sort that call themselves so. He was rather a small man, but well made, and quick in all his motions. I knew in a moment by the way he handled me, that he was used to horses; he spoke gently, and his gray eye had a kindly, cheery look in it. It may seem strange to say -- but it is true all the same -- that the clean, fresh smell there was about him made me take to him; no smell of old beer and tobacco, which I hated, but a fresh smell as if he had come out of a hayloft. He offered twenty-three pounds for me, but that was refused, and he walked away. I looked after him, but he was gone, and a very hard-looking, loud-voiced man came. I was dreadfully afraid he would have me; but he walked off. One or two more came who did not mean business. Then the hard-faced man came back again and offered twenty-three pounds. A very close bargain was being driven, for my salesman began to think he should not get all he asked, and must come down; but just then the gray-eyed man came back again. I could not help reaching out my head toward him. He stroked my face kindly.

"Well, old chap," he said, "I think we should suit each other. I'll give twenty-four for him."

"Say twenty-five and you shall have him."

"Twenty-four ten," said my friend, in a very decided tone, "and not another sixpence -- yes or no?"

"Done," said the salesman; "and you may depend upon it there's a monstrous deal of quality in that horse, and if you want him for cab work he's a bargain."

The money was paid on the spot, and my new master took my halter, and led me out of the fair to an inn, where he had a saddle and bridle ready. He gave me a good feed of oats and stood by while I ate it, talking to himself and talking to me. Half an hour after we were on our way to London, through pleasant lanes and country roads, until we came into the great London thoroughfare, on which we traveled steadily, till in the twilight we reached the great city. The gas lamps were already lighted; there were streets to the right, and streets to the left, and streets crossing each other, for mile upon mile. I thought we should never come to the end of them. At last, in passing through one, we came to a long cab stand, when my rider called out in a cheery voice, "Good-night, governor!"

"Halloo!" cried a voice. "Have you got a good one?"

"I think so," replied my owner.

"I wish you luck with him."

"Thank you, governor," and he rode on. We soon turned up one of the side streets, and about halfway up that we turned into a very narrow street, with rather poor-looking houses on one side, and what seemed to be coach-houses and stables on the other.

My owner pulled up at one of the houses and whistled. The door flew open, and a young woman, followed by a little girl and boy, ran out. There was a very lively greeting as my rider dismounted.

"Now, then, Harry, my boy, open the gates, and mother will bring us the lantern."

The next minute they were all standing round me in a small stable-yard.

"Is he gentle, father?"

"Yes, Dolly, as gentle as your own kitten; come and pat him."

At once the little hand was patting about all over my shoulder without fear. How good it felt!

"Let me get him a bran mash while you rub him down," said the mother.

"Do, Polly, it's just what he wants; and I know you've got a beautiful mash ready for me."

"Sausage dumpling and apple turnover!" shouted the boy, which set them all laughing. I was led into a comfortable, clean-smelling stall, with plenty of dry straw, and after a capital supper I lay down, thinking I was going to be happy.

2003-07-27T14:07:00.000-04:00

And of Course Henry the Horse Dances the Waltz

I've been to see the film "Seabiscuit', this should come as no surprise to anyone who knows my creds. Puh- Puh -puh poignant populist poetry aside I wonder if this film will effect the American public the way racing insiders hope it will. Racing as a sport has fallen down on some lean times since the real Seabiscuit dug his heels into the surface at Santa Anita. Luddites to the end, Racing's short-sighted men of power refused to embrace the embryonic medium of television in the 50's, and Racing has been wheezing along on three legs, behind auto racing and football to win the hearts and dreams of Americans. The cavernous stands of America's great race tracks stand empty most days of the week, adding slots and simulcast racing from other tracks, to ease the pain of their fall from populist glory.

Go to an American racetrack today and you don't see young people, or families, despite the millions spent by the NTRAs urgings of Go Baby Go, and at the backside you can see desperation, injury, alcoholism, and horses and people of broken spirit and body. What you see is the disposability, this is a business that chews 'em up and spits 'em out. Case in point, Ferdinand, the 1986 Kentucky Derby winner who went on to capture the following year's Horse of the Year title with a dramatic victory over 1987 Derby hero Alysheba in the Breeders' Cup Classic. Like Seabiscuit, Ferdinand achieved little at stud, and was sent to Japan, at a time that country's breeding farms were aggressively pursuing the purchase of American and European bloodstock. Ferdinand spent six breeding seasons at Arrow Stud on the northern island of Hokkaido, from 1995-2000. Initially popular with local breeders (he was mated to 77 mares his first year), Ferdinand was bred to just 10 mares in his final year at Arrow, and his owners opted to get rid of him. And get rid of him they did, as reported by Bloodhorse reporter, Barb Bayer,

"No one can say for sure when and where Ferdinand met his end, but it would seem clear he met it in a slaughterhouse."Unfortunately, to those well-versed in the realities beyond the glitter and glory of the racetrack, it comes as no surprise," Bayer wrote. "Ferdinand's story is the story of nearly every imported stallion in Japan at that point in time when the figures no longer weigh in his favor. In a country where racing is kept booming by the world's highest purses and astronomical betting revenues, Ferdinand's fate is not the exception. It is the rule."A simple paragraph inserted in a sales contract could have prevented this: giving an owner the right to repurchase, if he wants, an animal he cares about. Horses that are unsuccessful at the track routinely meet there end the same way in this country. Click here to adopt a race horse in the US.

In the end "Seabiscuit" is a wonderfully redemptive story, set against the backdrop of economic hardship and Depression, full of heart, just like "Pops" himself. Kudo's to Racing's leading glamour boy Gary Stevens, in his acting debut, I couldnt take my eyes off him. Racing co-ordination honours also go to super jockey Chris McCarron, who helped choreograph the "dirt in your face" racing scenes. Take a ride into the winners circle with "Seabiscuit", visit your local race track and learn about Racing , read Laura Hillenbrand's book, and if the option of horse ownership ever comes your way, adopt a retired Thoroughbred.

As an afterthought I decided to include this poem by Norah Pollard the daughter of Seabiscuit's famed jockey, Red Pollard.

Red Rider, Red Rider
(John "Red" Pollard, 1909-1981)

I.
You hardly were around
Quick star, dark storm racing lightning circuits of the track,
But when you came home, you came in gusts,
In gales of loud and louder,
Until the banging of your heart,
Your midnight valedictories from the roof
Took up the moon's room in my night;
And days, you shouted down the sun.

II.
When you'd leave, you'd leave enormous silence
In your wake.
The volume of your absence struck
The world deaf-still.
Even now that you are nine years gone,
I have to listen with extraordinary care
To hear the starting gate's bell gash air,
The thudding of those hooves less thundering than you

And for pure nostalgia
listen here to the 1940 running of the Santa Anita Handicap.

2003-07-25T10:35:00.000-04:00

I've got a word or two, To say about the things that you do,
You're telling all those lies. About the good things that we can have If we close our eyes

Qsay and Uday ead-day, es-yay
Will showing the Hussein brothers looking like post-apocalyptic hoummous win us friends and allies in Iraq or anywhere else for that matter?
Although I'm not upset they've been killed , I just don't feel celebrating their death is civilised. The son of one them, just 14, was apparently killed as well. Of course we won't hear much about this, and yes it's his father's fault. But I think his case is more tragic. What's yet more tragic is this child had no hope of becoming anything other than like his father and uncle, just as they had no hope of becoming anything other than like their own father. But that's their fault and their father's before them and so on, has this broken the cycle? One can only hope. And like magic Uranium-gate, sexed up reports, Daniel Kelly and those 16 words are miraculously now off the Worlds radar??

Is India, the bizarre news capital of the world? Last year it was monkey man ,where residents of the Indian capital, Delhi, were reported to be panicking after a series of attacks by mysterious creatures, described as "man-monkeys". At least one person is said to have died and 35 others have been injured while attempting to flee in panic.

This year it's Fly-boy, A 13-year-old boy whose bizarre ailment has a fly-like insect emerging out of him is far from being cured as doctors struggle to detect the source of the parasite. The fully-grown flies, as doctors described the parasites, have been emerging out of Chandan Goswami's genitals and flying off for more than two weeks now. here's the buzz

The original Monkey Man is 60... that's right antediluvian rocker Mick Jagger is having a birthday. Wanna know how he does it? Health tips from aging rockers, an oxymoron right? click here for joy

Sing Along

MONKEY MAN
(M. Jagger/K. Richards)

I'm a fleabit peanut monkey
All my friends are junkies
That's not really true

I'm a cold Italian pizza
I could use a lemon squeezer
What you do?

But I've been bit and I've been tossed around
By every she-rat in this town
Have you, babe?

Well, I am just a monkey man
I'm glad you are a monkey woman too

I was bitten by a boar
I was gouged and I was gored
But I pulled on through

Yes, I'm a sack of broken eggs
I always have an unmade bed
Don't you?

Well, I hope we're not too messianic
Or a trifle too satanic
We love to play the blues

Well I am just a monkey man
I'm glad you are a monkey, monkey woman
Monkey woman too, babe!

I'm a monkey! I'm a monkey!
I'm a monkey man! I'm a monkey man!
I'm a monkey! I'm a monkey! I'm a monkey! I'm a monkey!
Monkey! monkey! monkey!.......

2003-07-24T10:32:00.000-04:00

'Er Majesty's a Pretty Nice Girl But She Changes from Day to Day

From Reuters, this morning:

Queen Elizabeth got an unexpected view of one of her subjects on Tuesday when a guest at one of her regular Garden Parties dropped trou and scampered off among the tea-drinking crowd.
"He was a young man, an invited guest. He was about 10 yards from the Queen when he suddenly took off his trousers -- nothing more -- and sort of sprinted away from her as it were," said another guest, who asked not to be named.
"He was caught by one of the Yeomen of the Guard," she said, noting that the incident was in the Queen's line of sight. "

Surely this incident doesn't come as any great shock to her Majesty, who has been looking at asses ever since she married Prince Philip, a man notorious for blurting out stupid racist remarks and who had to take his wife's last name at marriage.

Here are some of the crass remarks attributed to the Duke of Edinburgh:

To a driving instructor he met during a stroll in Oban, Scotland:
"How do you keep the natives off the booze long enough to get them past the test?"

Comments to the World Wildlife Fund, on Chinese eating habits:

"If it has four legs and it's not a chair, if it has two wings and it flies but it's not an airplane, and if it swims and it's not a submarine, the Cantonese will eat it."

To further insult Canadians during a royal visit:
"We don't come here for our health. We can think of other ways of enjoying ourselves."

To grieving residents of Lockerbie, Scotland, during a 1993 visit after a plane exploded and crashed into the town, killing everyone on board and several people on the ground (and shortly after a fire swept through ONE wing of Windsor Castle):

"People usually say that after a fire it's the water damage that's the worst. We're STILL trying to dry out Windsor castle."

and and and...

In a separate controversy earlier this year, Philip reportedly asked British Indian Labour MP Parmjit Dhanda what he did before becoming an MP. When 31-year-old Dhanda replied that he had been a student and then trade union official, the prince replied: "So you didn't do anything then."

When Dhanda responded by asking, "What did you do before becoming the Prince of Edinburgh?" Philip replied, "I served in the Royal Navy during the war" and delivered a two-fingered salute before turning on his heel and walking off.

And from Throned Out.com, where the motto is: "They're overpaid inbred spongers, that's why it's only a matter of time before they are ... Throned Out comes this question regarding Philip's military service.

Q. As a combat veteran who has seen terrible things in battle, lost several limbs and won a couple of medals for my troubles, I couldn't help but notice Prince Phillip's impressive batch of gongs (slang for medals). Could you tell me what brave deeds he performed to win so much metalwork?

Answer: Pointing to gongs and explaining the importance of The Duke's service to the Crown

A) This one is the GCC - The Greek Cowards Cross for underpants soiling of royal proportions in combat. Phil won this for outstanding Y-front fertilising whilst being confronted by a mock Turkish attack, telling his trainer that he should be excused because centuries of inbreeding had made him susceptible to cuts.
B)The GSG- Goat Shaggers Gong- Awarded for heroics not on the batttlefield, but in Farmer Dopopolousis fields, he surprised a herd of goats and took them one by one.
C) The KAPM- The Kebab Afficionado' s Person of the Month
D)The MCA- The Medal Cheapeners Award, given for services to cheapen the value of all medals.

For a complete look at the glory that is Throned Out click here

The sad thing appears to be that the only way to get attention in Britain is if you are some weird "D"-list Big Brother celeb with a bad boob job, Madonna, or pull some insane (preferably nudity related) antic in front of a royal family member, there are definite hat-trick possibilities in this for the "Material Girl's" PR people.

and just to show I'm an equal opportunity insulter is BlairFacedLies.com

And just a brief note to my one and only reader
Dearest One and Only Reader:
I know its very lonely out there for you, posting anonymously to yourself on my commenting feature,pretending to be amused by my outrage and hormonal flux. I bet you're thinking to yourself, why doesn't Gina, post some of those cutesy kitten pictures, every fucking blogger in the world feels the need to include in their post-modern, odes to self. It ain't nevah gonna fuckin, 'appen, mate. Bloggers put kittens on their sites to confirm their normalcy, after all what could be more huggable,and approachable than a cute widdle innocent kitty. So, I'm just giving you a head's up, no effin kitties, EVER!

2003-07-23T10:55:00.000-04:00

Send Me a Postcard, Drop Me a Line, Stating Point of View.

Eschewing today's more interesting news about the sons of Saddam, Uday,Qusay, and his illegitimate American son Kobay, we shall embark through the bathroom window to discuss Cherie Blair's attempt at mollifying the media with her version the Beatle's classic, "When I'm 64" click here to view
Is there a career for Cherie presenting a special weekly show of Songs for the Prozac and Nexium crowd on one of Rupert Murdoch's endlessly looping cable channels, after they vacate #10 ? Should there be a national mandate that only allows Joe Cocker and Shirley Bassey to do Beatle covers because no one else can possibly do the originals justice?

Could these be more relevant lyrics, set to the same tune?

"When he's gets older, weaving his hair, 14 years from now.
Will he still be standing up at Question Time,
dodging calls of 'time to resign'?
If he could be PM once more would we bolt Number Ten's door?
Will we reject him, or will we elect him, when he's 64? Hoo!"
(courtesy of the Bootleg Beatles)

Here's your link to the greatest Beatles cover band in the World, yeah, yeah, yeah

A brilliant photo by Art Kane who once illustrated Beatle songs for Life Magazine, he perfectly captured that tatty British seaside, music hall feeling of the song with this gorgeous photo of a Chelsea pensioner in a red coat. here

More on the virtual love fest between me and the nice folks at Virtual Occoquan, links to the googlicious poetry contest and my entry ...Man Bonks Frozen Chicken. Here's how it works, start with Google. You pick a word or phrase, Google it, and look at the results. This is your poetry pile. You can't change sequence, but you can fix spelling, add punctuation and spacing. for more in depth info click here
So here is my entry using the googled phrase, Man Bonks Frozen Chicken.

Fancy a cluck?
Man bonks frozen chicken
Yes, ok
You'll be left
Frigid

There's loving,
a woman doesn't stand much of a chance against,
a favorite,
Frozen chicken,
not to belittle suppliers
especially for the riveting
Nightwatchman.

Divorce after catching her husband,
Interpreting the Second Amendment,
if agreeing with him,
the Chicken Man was Sloth.
“Do you want one?”
An especially good age,
the man relented.

After a series of dreams about dying wrapped in frozen meat.
A man is still a hug-junkie.
“The whole dehumanising Proteus madness,
it’s frozen your heart,
I can’t touch you as a man.”

Now frozen, as well as your friend,
a man does not
survive in the frozen wilderness.
It would take a lot of man,
if consumed as one serving.

This is about the man you love
There is a sudden boom
I meant… coming,
might've been amusement
followed by “No, Thanks I already have a penguin.”

2003-07-22T10:02:00.000-04:00

It Took Me Soooo Long to Find Out , but I Found Out.

I'd like to thank the people at Virtual Occoquan for including my peachy entry in their E-zine, amongst some of the nice people over at Salon.com. I think I may be the only Blogspotter included I shall inject a few perfunctory, "I am not worthy's" and provide a link here

I've had a bit of time to reflect on grace, between bites of luscious roadside peaches, voluptuous vine ripe "to-mah-toes", and squeaky white sand between my toes.

This weekend I wrote a note to place in a bottle. It was an exercise in ocean currents for my son and an exercise in metaphysics for me. I don’t know who will find it or if it will ever be found. Perhaps it will sit barnacle- encrusted and worn down by the salt and sea sand. I thought long and hard about what I was going to say to random beachcombing strangers, idly stumbling on my small moment captured inside the green glass bottle. Initially my words had no shape, nor definition, as my pen stroked the page. The caress became taut, letters weren’t written, but wielded as I looked for a way to define the shape of my life. There it sat in front of me , my own salty metaphor, a shell simple and bare. It’s architect conceived it perfectly, all whorls and gentle spiral, a tidy home for a dreamer.

My own shell isn't like this though, not a neatly geometric Frank Lloyd Wright bit of flotsam, but a more well-worn carapace. A place where dreams still enter, but are turned round and round by waves of appropriateness and tested for worthiness by the steady roll of breakers along my stretch of beach. We strolled along further, a summer coloured child and terrier in tow, a study in contrasts. The terrier’s compact, decisive energy animates him as he plunges at the dusky, grey seabirds, who take turns laughing at him.

The child - no-more a child, has a queer streak like his mother, which emerges when he hopes no one is looking. I see in sideward glances and off the cuff remarks, how the tides of my life have coloured him. Loose jointed and unsolicitous, they say only children are more comfortable with themselves than other children. That same comfort within their own thoughts makes them difficult to reach. I, a former child-who is no-more a child knows well the many chambers of that nautilus-heart.

Further along in the tidal pools and rock tumbles, we watched fiddler crabs begin their frenzied waving and we try to listen closely, with ears cupped. Is it a strathspey or a jolly reel they play for us and their starfish brethren? Carefully negotiating tumbled down granite giants, I bend down to examine some oysters, all determination and feathery lanyards. I knelt to pick one up, marvelling at how each one is formed and fitted by its own life and struggle to survive. A masterpiece of chitinous excretions, noble in their tenacity, there's a briny poetry, that a pearl should having such humble beginning.

The pearl sheds its shell to find its value. I'm also looking to shed my shell, with this seaside renunciation. A new stage of living, without those lofty ambitions and material encumbrances, that harboured me from self-actualisation. The yellow paper is folded and placed carefully inside. The top fixed on with a determined snap, a part of me is relieved of a nameless burden. The green bottle arcs against the blue sky and rights itself on the outgoing current.

As a child I loved the Lewis Carroll poem the Walrus and the Carpenter, I never tired of listening to it.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes- and ships- and sealing wax-
Of cabbages- and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed—
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?"

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

2003-07-18T10:53:00.000-04:00

I Read the News Today, oh, boy, About a Lucky Man Who Made the Grade.

History will forgive us, says Blair

I wonder if forgiveness and "darn good intelligence" are enough.

Polly Toynbee @ Guardian "He risked all against the will of his party and his people - a losing gamble. His narrowing circle of advisers may tell him Iraq will be off the voters' radar by the autumn. But its bitter residue is IDS's finger-pointing reprise, "Nobody believes a word they say!" lodged in the national mind. "

I can't help but wonder, what will happen to Tony's place in history, once all the dirt has been uncovered on WMD mole Daniel Kelly's death. My heart goes out to the Kelly family, and to the families of the security forces, (both British and American) still in Iraq.

Here is a link to the entire sordid affair... Lies, WMD, Alistair Campbell, the Beeb and the timeline of deception

Something smells like week old lutefiske in here
As a conspicuous consumer of liberal bastion NPR radio, I've always smugly sniggered at Garrison Keillor's allusion to
Norwegian bachelor farmers, on his radio show Prairie Home Companion. After reading this report from AFP, I now have complete understanding of the situation. Apparently, Seven per cent of Norwegian men and six per cent of women wear the same pair of undies for at least a whole week before changing to a fresh pair, according to a new poll. Norwegians with a high level of education change their underwear less often than those with a lower level of schooling, the survey of 1000 Norwegians, conducted by polling institute ACNielsen, showed.

(Note to self) Cancel tickets to Oslo this summer.

Your Homeland Security at Work: Indian woman dances for US visa

from the Times of India

Surekha Punekar is a "tamasha" dancer from the western state of Maharastra. "Tamasha" is a popular folk dance of the state.

She had been invited to participate in the annual festival of the New York-based Brihan Maharastra Mandal, an Indian organisation in the US.

The state's former minister for culture Pramod Navalkar told the Times of India newspaper: "When her turn came for the interview, she was shocked when the visa officer asked her to perform to prove that she was a dancer.

"This was really surprising, considering she is a dancer of repute."

The report quoted US consulate spokesperson Elizabeth Corwin as saying: "It is standard practice to ask people with special skills to demonstrate them before the visa officers.

"We have had cases when applicants have made false claims and obtained visas. By asking people to display their skills, we try to ensure there is no fraud involved.

"If an applicant is a cook, the visa officer will test his or her skill by asking the person to cook."

2003-07-16T10:18:00.000-04:00

Sexy Sadie, You'll Get Yours Yet

One can only hope, eh? Frustrated suburban housewives be of good cheer. Welcome to the Orgasmatic Washing Machine,where the spin cycle is saucy and the rinse cycle rampant....ohhh!!! click here for gratification

A wicked case of bloggorhea should go to this man who writes gustatorily about onanism in his blog, "Goin Blind" He even has a list of "Greatest Self- Love Songs of All Time"

Would I be marginalising him, if I called him a Bloglodyte?

Now from the ridiculous to the sublime, it seems Michaelangelo's masterpiece is causing a dispute in the international art world as experts bicker over how the statue should be cleaned ahead of its 500th birthday next year. Franca Falletti, director of Florence's Galleria dell'Accademia, where David is housed, believes wet poultices are needed to suck the grime out of the statue's pores. But restorer Agnese Parronchi, appointed to carry out the job, resigned in April, convinced that the dirt should only be brushed away using hair brushes. Ms Falletti argues that while this would remove dust, it would not shift other deposits.

Some 39 international art experts have signed a petition calling for David to stay dirty while an independent commission decides which method is best. Reports last night said a group, including celebrities Sting and Mel Gibson, were considering donating as much as £500,000 to the project. The Friends of Florence, said it had already donated £1m to restoration projects in Italy, £150,000 of which will be used to fund scientific research for the restoration of Michelangelo's masterpiece.

Right, you lads can't find better use for £500,000, I've an idea we can just toss Durty Davy into the Orgasmatic Washer
and Bob's your uncle.

2003-07-15T10:17:00.000-04:00

She Laid it Down For All to See, Sexy Sadie...Ah, What Have You Done

I've a neologism in mind, it's one for all the A-list bloggers, it's what they possess and what I hope never to possess, its called bloggadocio.It's not that weblogs are all bad, some are valid, thought provoking forums,some are self-indulgent pedantic, solipsistic whinges, (that includes mine).

According to the Register:

"In his Doonesbury strip, Garry Trudeau has already aimed a well-aimed lampoon at this phenomenon: with a series of cartoons last year pointing out the gulf between the webloggers' self-importance and their social marginalisation. In time, no doubt, some wag at Private Eye will discover the 'true' derivation of the word 'blog', which they will explain in Ancient Greek means 'boring'... and a whole new spate of boffin-bashing will begin.

But how did they get into such a mess?

Well, blog-lobbyists have overlooked a couple of truths. Firstly, evangelists for a specific mode or incarnation of a technology, or, if you like, fetishists for a particular kind of tool, usually get filed, quite rightly, alongside members of the tinfoil hat army. Sad, but true. If you can't get laid without your 'tool' - and blog-lobbyists seem to be a bunch of people who can't get laid without showing off their weblog credentials (perhaps they never meet other people except through weblogging?) then the scene does have a bit of a foul hum about it. You have noticed. Noted.

And secondly, the hallmark of a popular mass-market technology is that it kind of slips into people's lives without very much hype. Think of VCRs and mobile phones. Or fax machines. You had one because you thought it was useful, not because someone told you needed to have it."

And now just when I've become comfortable with solipsistic whinging comes AOL, ready to release free blog-publishing software to its 34 million members this summer. According to Rick Robinson, AOL's vice president for community products, AOL has dubbed its service "AOL Journals" because its surveys showed that members found the word "blogs" confusing. Is this a good time to interject with some bloggadocio, "Oh, fuck there goes the neighbourhood!

Here is a list of the top 100 blogs

Our friends at the Ezine Virtual Occiquan have recently bumbled through the bathroom window, and are considering some of my logorrhea for publishing, read what the lads at Round Raoul Publishing have to say. here

The parade of seekers of poultry porn continues unabated. I'm off to bewail my status as fodder for barnyard fetishists everywhere.

2003-07-11T09:56:00.000-04:00

Why Don' t We Do It In the Road

Well, the flood of people seeking poultry porn continues to this lonely outpost of pop-culture, which continues to mystify me. It's suddenly occured to me I could become an A-list blogger, by simply addressing my future posts to all aspects of sex with frozen food products, anything relating to crassly annoying pseudo-journalist Leah McLaren, and the naked Canadian cooking show, Barely cooking. I could then sell clever t-shirts with my logo, and become an Amazon affiliate and cash in! Nah!

This is for all you people who've been asked "What Kind of Idiot ARE you? Finally a definitive answer ...here

Now from the folks that brought us the original meme, about frozen chicken bonking, Britain's Sun, comes this heartwarming tale of young Leah Lowland, of Kent who whilst visiting Brighton pier innocently won a Hulk doll for knocking down bean cans with a ball.

SHOCKED six-year-old Leah Lowland checked out a mystery bulge on her Incredible Hulk doll — and uncovered a giant green WILLY.

Curious Leah noticed a lump after winning the monster, catchphrase “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry,” at a seaside fair.

And when she peeled off the green comic-book character’s ripped purple shorts, she found the two-inch manhood beneath them.

Horrified Leah immediately ran to mum Kim and reported the find. And last night Kim called for a ban on the saucy toy. She said: “A hulk with a bulk like this just shouldn’t be allowed. More here

2003-07-10T11:01:00.000-04:00

Sexy Sadie, the Greatest of them All.

I'm participating in a bit of an online discussion over on a Salon blog. Yes, you heard me, Salon, that bastion of liberalism and entitlement. The title of the blog is "Why Your Wife Won't have Sex with You, and thats only part of the story. The issue is online dating or online love affairs. Click here

A man's view click here

It being a relatively slow day here at work, I paused to check my referers, people visiting the site, (yes I'm that friggin sad ok, deal with it) And what to my wondering eyes do appear, but 6 people arriving to my lonely little weblog via search engines querying, "Man Bonks Frozen Chicken." Ok, now I can deal with one, possibly even two people querying this weirdness, but 6 !!!!!! So I'm gonna make it easy for you perverts, for all of you sickos seeking this link....here it is Now, please leave quietly via the backdoor.

2003-07-08T10:56:00.000-04:00

Live and Let Di

Ok, pretty tasteless I know, but not nearly as tasteless as this attempt to cash-in on Princess Diana's unfortunated demise. In this soon to be published Marvel Comic, Di appears as one of the team of super-powered mutants in a satirical look at fame and pop culture.

"X-Statix" writer Peter Milligan said the late princess was "tailor-made" for the series because she is "someone famous for being famous."
"They're more concerned about their bank accounts than saving people from injuries and saving the world."

"At a glance, Diana may not resemble the flying, teleporting, lethally oscillating characters that populate my comic, but the strange power she exerts from beyond the grave certainly makes her a valid subject to explore," Milligan said in a statement issued by Marvel. "And, of course, she looks great in Spandex!"

Flatus Interruptus
About 4 years ago in the midst of the dot.com boom, I came up with a parody of an e-commerce site called Thunderpants.com. Thunderpants, I touted being a sanitary alternative for the Post Lager/Curry Crowd. Was I tapping into that vast universal font of creativity, when I came up with this idea? Were people on other continence (sic) coming up with the very same idea? You be the judge!
'
From Kiwi friends comes Thunderwear, "They won't go up yer bum" with delicious colours and prints like popsicle starfish, be the first on your block... click here to order

I ask you, if this weren't coincidence enough, a film called, yep... you guessed it... Thunderpants. No there are no midnight feasts, talk of lashings of ginger beer or Enid Blyton. This film is about a flatulent British schoolboy whose skill is harnessed by Nasa. Inside, you'll find Simon Callow as a preening opera singer, Rupert Grint (Ron in Harry Potter) as an irksome boffin and Ned Beatty issuing the immortal command, "Let's blow ass." Duly instructed, our hero (Bruce Cook) squats over his throne, farting with such violent ecstasy that you fear he is about to start passing solids. Don't believe me??? Have a look for yourselves...here

And finally comes "Underease", the Leader in odour suppressant technology for flatulence. Read some of the more heart-warming testimonials on their site.

Are these ideas eligible to be included in this book????

Ok, thats it for now, time for me to work on my new idea, the Internet for Dogs, how long do you think it will take before we can achieve critical mass? Tattie byes.

2003-07-07T10:24:00.000-04:00

Ain't She Sweet.
or Gina and the Giant Peach

Sweat glistened Southern Julys,
bring with them
fireworks stands erupting like mushrooms,
afternoon showers
where raindrops shaped like
!
exclamation points
hit the hot black macadam
with a hiss
then vapourise
like a cheap magician's trick
in rising steam.

Best of all, it brings
Roadside peaches
all virginal blushes,
and teen age fuzz,
like young love,
Firm yet yielding
and lasting only
a short sweet time
in their perfection.

That Eve would tempt
with the crisp, authoritative apple
shows her poor judgement.
Give me peaches and
paradise anytime.

Yes, it's summer time, the time when I am most in love with my green grocer. This season has been an embarassment of riches, as I literally grope his wares. Is he embarassed by this attention??? I don't think so. Every guid-wyfe I know, is doing the same thing, thousand of hands literally, caressing, fondling, pinching in an orgiastic frenzy of summer produce.There is one caveat, however, and that is that there are no peaches quite as good as the ones picked ripe and sold at a roadside stand. These are summer memories, take a bite!

On a more serious note, the Chinese attribute great symbolic meanings to the Peach fruit. It is believed that almost every part of the Peach Tree entails great symbolism. For instance peach wood was said to posses the power to ward off evil spirits. It is not surprising to find that most Taoist spiritual tools are made of peach wood. Charms, amulets and seals are made of peach wood for its protective powers. This tradition has lived until today.

"The Chinese believe oval peaches which are very red on one side, to be a symbol of long life... According to the word of Chin-nough king, the peach Yu prevents death. If it is not eaten in time, it at least preserves the body from decay until the end of the world". - from a famous poem entitled "Nine Nectarines and Other Porcelain."

The Peach Fruit itself carries the most symbolic meaning in Chinese culture. The peach fruit is believed to be the fruit of immortality in Chinese mythology. It is said that the Goddess Hsih Hwang Mu (Goddess of the West) has a magical tree that bears the peaches of immortality. However who has the eaten the peaches will attain immortality. The Chinese concept of immortality refers to a long, tranquil and prosperous life.

One of the finest guitar inspired rock albums ever, featuring Duane Allman and Dickey Betts, is called "Eat a Peach".
Listen to samples here.

More essential Allman Brothers info....here

2003-07-02T11:59:00.000-04:00

I've Just Seen a Face I Can't Forget..the Time or Place Where We Just Met.

From the Lake District of England, home of quaint Cotswold Cottages and Morris Dancing comes gurning. Right, now all my readers outside the UK have not a clue what a "gurning" is. The word seems to have been originally Scots, in the form 'girn', which - appropriately enough - may have been a contorted form of 'grin'. It has had several meanings, of which the oldest - from medieval times - is still current in Scots and Irish dialect, and which is defined in the Oxford English Dictionary as, 'to show the teeth in rage, pain, disappointment, etc; to snarl as a dog; to complain persistently; to be fretful or peevish'. These days only the losers in the World Championship Gurning Competition do much of that.

And WHAT a competition it is! Hosted in lovely Cumbria since medieval times the folk of Egremont have celebrated Crab Apple time with a unique day of events. Crab Fayre day usually on a Saturday around the 16th of September features climbing up the greasy pole to try and get the leg of lamb nailed at the top, street races, a fun fair and in the evening at the Market Hall the World Gurning Campionships. Contestants have to try and pull the ugliest face with their heads stuck through a horse's collar.

At one time, such face-pulling contests were a common entertainment at fairs and gatherings around the UK (before the days of radio and television you had to make your own entertainment). The rules at Egremont are simple: competitors put their heads through a horse collar and then have a set time in which to contort their faces into the most gruesome, scary or daft expressions possible. False teeth may be left in or taken out, or even turned upside down if desired. The winner is the person who gets the most audience applause.

The 'Popeye' gurn so popular a few decades ago is no longer seen much, because competitors these days usually have a full set of teeth. My one dear reader is thinking to themself, 'I could do better than that', but I assure you in the globalised world of twenty-first century post-modern gurning it is not as easy as you think. Just puffing out your cheeks and popping your eyes (which is what most beginners tend to do) is regarded these days as hopelessly cliched and passe. So is the lupine half sneer, associated with a crinkling of the eyes. These days you have to be fresh and innovative to gain world gurning prominence.

Those clever Cumbrians have even devised an online gurning contest ...click here..Gurn, Baby, Gurn!

When I was young our elders would tell us not to pull faces, because the wind might change, and that would fix the silly expression on our face forever. It is possible that something like this may have happened to the leader of the free world, click here to see what I mean.

Here's me gurning the midnight oil to come up with a lovely poem by poet, David Pike.

The Gurning Lady Of Lydiard Park

The gurning lady of Lydiard Park

will only train after dark,

for many complex

and varied reasons;

some ponder

and suggest there is, perchance,

a special gurning season,

perhaps, in the long dark hours

of winter months?

Others have a different hunch

and surmise

the strange and hideous faces

she pulls

have somehow damaged her eyes,

making her nocturnal

in operational matters

relating to all things gurnal,

and it’s hard to know

who’s wrong or right -

but it doesn’t register two-hoots, really

because the gurning lady of Lydiard Park

will only train after dark,

so conjecture, supposition and patter

are all very well,

but when it comes to gurning

in the park

at the end of the day

(in the dark),

no-one sees her,

so it doesn’t matter.

2003-07-01T10:12:00.000-04:00

She Was a Working Girl, North of England Way, but Now She's Hit the Big Time...in the USA

The most phallic of all American holidays is nearly upon us. The 4th of July is nearly here and I fully expect it to be celebrated in all its Rumsfeldian excess. Why do I love the 4th of July, in its very nature its the antithesis of most holidays. There are no bloody cards to buy and mail, no gift giving, and no mandatory gathering of dysfunctional family. And fireworks, the ultimate phallic symbol. I don't mean those puny little Roman Candle varieties, I mean the booming, high flying, stars in your lover's eyes kind. What's not to love about them, (you get them going, they shoot stuff into the air).

Ever wondered how fireworks...well work? click here for the whole story

Would you like to design your own virtual fireworks display over your favourite city? here is the virtual fuse

Fourth of July means grilling outdoors, a real boon to us carb dodgers, heres a fool proof recipe for grilled prawn.

Use 30 to 40 small prawns, or 12 to 18 medium ones. Prawns should be peeled and deveined. Combine 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, thyme and 1/2 tsp minced garlic in small bowl. Dip prawns in oil mixture to coat well. Grill over hot coals just until seared. Combine 2 cups white wine,4 tblspoons butter and 2oz.sugar with 12 (yes, 12) garlic cloves in saucepan. Reduce to syrupy consistency. (Garlic will be caramelised and lovely.) Set aside. Combine radicchio, escarole and mesclun in bowl. Toss greens with garlic-syrup mixture (including caramelised garlic) and feta cheese. Add sherry vinegar and 3 tablespoons olive oil and season to taste with salt and pepper. Toss again then distribute greens among 6 plates. Arrange prawns and nicoise olives over greens.

2003-06-27T13:52:00.000-04:00

Dear Sir or Madam, Won't You Read My Book Took Me Years to Write, Won't You Take a Look.

Here's one for Oprah's Book Club!

According to Auntie ' Last Saddam novel' found.

The whereabouts of Saddam Hussein are still unknown , but copies of a final novel allegedly written by deposed Iraqi = have been found in Baghdad. The novel, called Get Out of Here, Curse You, were being stored at the Information Ministry buildings in Baghdad before going on sale when the US attacked Iraq in March.

It tells the story of Salem, an Arab nobleman who defeats his American and Jewish foes, represented by foreign tribes. Ali Abdel-Amir, an analyst and writer, said he thought it was Saddam's fourth book and was written "sometime in 2002".

He said the Iraqi dictator did not write the books himself, but came up with plot outlines and forced a committee of Information and Culture Ministry officials to actually write them.

"Saddam would record the outlines of his novel on a tape recorder and palace employees would transcribe it and give it to the committee, whose members included a number of writers and intellectuals," Abdel-Amir said.

"They would write the novel and return it to Saddam. It would go back and forth until the novel got his approval."

Signed "a book by its writer", Saddam's nom de plume, the new book was said to be allegorical.

"Saddam of course is Salem," Abdel-Amir said.

Most Iraqi newspapers had heaped praise on Saddam's novels.

"Writers did not dare do otherwise," Abdel-Amir said. "Who would dare criticise his work and stay alive?"

Gives the term "ghost writer" a whole new depth of meaning..eh? I miss those heady days of statue toppling and slipper hitting.

With the 4th of July just round the corner I couldn't help but share this with you.The hotdog is among the top ten items found in many lists concerning choking occurrences in young children. Pediatricians recommend slicing a hotdog linearly. The method of slicing a hotdog linearly can reduce the chances of choking during consumption. A sliced hotdog is a safer way to serve hotdogs to children. Behold the Octodog

Life often imitates Art, or wait is it the other way around, at any rate, The hit animated film "Finding Nemo" tells the story of a clownfish plucked from the Great Barrier Reef and plopped into a claustrophobia-inducing tank at a dentist's office. After failed attempts to escape, he decides that his avenue to freedom is the toilet, believing that all drains lead to the ocean.

The RotoRooter dispatch center in Valencia has received about 70 calls from families whose children have flushed their fish. "People are really talking about it," said spokesman Jeff Garcia.

Sasha De Marino, manager of Aquarium Stock in Los Angeles, said she has received seven calls from parents whose children won't believe them about the real destination of flushed fish.

"I've had to explain to these young kids that flushing them doesn't take the fishes to where they would want to go," De Marino said.

Most flushed fish die before they reach the sewers from trauma or exposure to fresh water.

"Unless you live in Fiji, putting a saltwater fish into a toilet is sudden death," said Christina Slagar, the curator of fish husbandry at the Monterey Bay Aquarium in Monterey. The fish go into shock, and their delicate bodies are damaged by the swirling journey out of the toilet bowl.

Even if an intrepid would-be Nemo survived a trip through the home plumbing, its adventure usually would end in the sewage system, which has gases, chemicals and bacteria that can poison or asphyxiate a fish.

The sewage drains to a water treatment plant, where solids are removed and taken to a dump site or sold for use as fertilizer or compost.

"The only thing that goes to the ocean is the water that's left. That's it. Everything else is taken out," said a representative of the Los Angeles Department of Public Works.

Comedian Ellen DeGeneres, who voiced the part of a fish named Dory in the movie, said on "The Tonight Show" Tuesday that "it's a beautiful sentiment that kids are trying to free the fish, but anyway it's a bad thing."

Can't wait to see how many children will expose themselves to Gamma Rays after seeing The Hulk.

2003-06-26T14:16:00.000-04:00

The Fool on the Hill Sees the World Spinning Round

In a bit of unrelated silliness, my beloved Comical Ali has surfaced again, that's right, Minister Mohammed Saeed al-Sahaf, the Iraqi Minister of Misinformation has become a cult figure thanks to his wild claims and colourful language.

According to the Mirror, (ok you, I heard that sniggering out there). THE family of Comical Ali last night begged US forces to release him insisting: "He's no war criminal."

Spin doctor Mohammed Saeed al-Sahaf, arrested on Monday near his Baghdad home, is being quizzed in the hope he will reveal Saddam Hussein's whereabouts.

One relative said: "We are concerned about Mohammed. I just want to see him and know he's OK. We do not believe they'll torture him or anything, but we're worried about his state of health.

"We don't believe he's a war criminal. We see him as a good man who tries to do the best for his country.

"We feel he should be free as soon as possible."

A US source was unsure how long Sahaf would be held. He added: "We have questions that need answering."

It is believed he could be released without charge.

Despite his high profile TV appearances, Information Minister Sahaf was never on the America's most wanted list.

A few weeks before The Mail reported: I AM NOT IN BAGHDAD

Comical Ali is alive and living in a Baghdad suburb - and still wearing his trademark uniform and beret, according to reports. The Mail on Sunday said it had tracked down the former Iraqi information minister, ending speculation he had committed suicide or fled the country.

The newspaper said it found him "cowering in his modest home, terrified his own people will kill him".

They said his wife and daughter act as his human shields while his sons had temporarily left their jobs as doctors to help protect him.

The paper described Ali - full name Mohammed Saeed Al-Sahaf - as "a broken man, spending his days pacing his study in his uniform and green beret".

He refused to talk to the paper and friends said he may never go out in public again.

"The family are worried he is going out of his mind", it reported one friend as saying.

Listen Ali, if you're out there, We love ya man, stay strong

One of my all time favourite Chemical Ali shticks is the one about the booby trapped pencils.
"The authority of the civil defence ... issued a warning to the civilian population not to pick up any of those pencils because they are booby traps," he said. He added that British and American forces were "immoral mercenaries" and "war criminals".

He continued: "I am not talking about the American people and the British people. I am talking about those mercenaries. ... They have started throwing those pencils, but they are not pencils, they are booby traps to kill the children."

Baghdad Bob... Simply the Best!

Have you ever dreamed of owning your own business? Have I got a contest for you. Win your own kebab shop in Iraq! by simply clicking here or email: ali@baghdadbroadcastcorp.tv for full rules.

As you, my one devoted reader, surely know by now, this blog tries to use lyrics from Beatles' songs as a literary device. It may be a stupid idea, but it's a unique one that has allowed me to hang my ideas on an interesting and readily identifiable framework. I admit to being a fan to their remarkable creativity and body of work (anticipatory snicker), but some people, let me explain.

Beatle myths abound and are regularly debated or debunked on Rec.Music.Beatles, but one myth that seems to escape serious discussion is that of just how far Paul McCartney went in playing the Fool on that French hilltop. Here is an investigation into the "shirt tail vs Macca's willie" question. I kid you not, some sad bastard has found a clip of what is supposedly is Macca exposing himself and documented it! Okay, you're dying for this link, right?? click here

2003-06-25T10:07:00.000-04:00

How Does it Feel to Be One of the Beautiful People

On some deeply primitive consumer level, it might be nice to celebrate the fact that the culture of greed has now allowed the Beckhams to depart for Real Madrid, and as far as I'm concerned good riddance. We have sadly become a celebrity-beguiled society that is spoon-fed a constant diet of glitterati comings and goings, in addition to the latest gossip from disreputable, as well as respectable media.

One of the biggest sports names in marketing, Beckham's brand was recently estimated to be worth 200 million pounds ($334.5 million) according to the Observer. Media reports say Beckham earned in excess of 90,000 pounds a week when he was at Manchester United and off-field activities earn him around 10 million pounds more a year. Cohn and Wolfe's Osborne said the ''clothes horse'' had a good 10 years in the public eye yet if his brand-savvy wife, (ex-Spice Girl, Posh) Victoria continued to manage their happy marriage with the media moguls.

''It's not just a whim that he decides to plait his hair, or a whim that he wants to wear a skirt. I think it is quite cleverly personally manipulated,'' said Osborne.

''His hair will probably go black next if he moves to Italy.''

''They are certainly capitalising on the peak interest in him now, the money he is supposed to be making from this Asian tour will be enough to set him up for life,'' said Osborne.

So are these athletically gifted specimens, better than us, mere mortals. They certainly seem to think so, An insight to the self important and arrogant mindset emerged recently, when POSH got pushy in a Los Angeles shoe shop because the owner didn't have a clue who they were.Victoria, 29, and David breezed into a sports shoe store with an entourage of bodyguards during a shopping spree.
They asked the owner to give them the Hollywood star treatment by closing up so they could browse in private.The owner was stunned when he saw their minders try to block the road with a limo.
He said: "I heard a commotion, looked out and saw a limo trying to stop traffic coming down the road. I was a bit surprised. He refused to close the shop and told a fuming Victoria: "I have no idea who you are!And when the minders pointed out that they were an extremely famous couple in Britain, the owner snapped: "They might be in Britain â€” but they're not here." "I'm not closing for anyone! We get Britney Spears in here all the time and she never asks me to close.
"We get other stars all the time, they just get on with it."

Almost half century ago Daniel Boorstin, the social historian, wrote:

Our age has produced a new kind of eminence... This new kind of eminence is "celebrity"... He has been fabricated... to satisfy our exaggerated expectations of human greatness. He is morally neutral... The hero was distinguished by his achievement; the celebrity by his image or trademark. The hero created himself; the celebrity is created by the media... The celebrity is always a contemporary. The hero is made by folklore, sacred texts and history books but the celebrity is the creature of gossip... of magazines, newspapers and the ephemeral images of movie and television screen... celebrities are differentiated mainly by trivia of personality... Entertainers are best qualified to become celebrities because they are skilled in the marginal differentiation of their personalities... Anyone can become a celebrity if only he can get into the news and stay there.

My question to you is where have the heroes gone??

2003-06-24T13:17:00.000-04:00

She was a DayTripper, One Way Ticket, Yeah

Well, I'm back to blogging, not sure why or how long. There is this vaguely comforting, self-indulgent feeling to it. Like eating full fat ice cream. I'm not sure to where begin. I don't think I'll be boring you with my life's details for the past few months. Let's just pick off where we've left off then.

Harry Potter

The Harry Potter phenomenon was a nice boon to young literacy while it lasted, but now it's just a plastic crap-laden marketing juggernaut like any other children's entertainment. There are even movies, so kids won't have to labor at actually reading anymore! Sort of defeats the purpose doesnt it.

The whoring of Harry has begun. Oh, my poor lightning-scarred, broomstick-riding, Muggle-defying little friend. Your days as an unwilling corporate shill are only just getting under way.
Here are some titles rejected by JK Rowling , courtesy of http://www.compendium.org

Harry Potter and the Running Sores

Death of Potter, Harry

(yeah, that really follows the format, there, Ace. Brilliant and funny.)

Harry Potter and the Blunt Connection

Harry Potter Does Dallas

Harry Potter and the Hairy Potter

Harry Potter and the Vast Anus of Douganfield

Harry Potter and the Pedant Pedophile

Harry Potter and the Bucket of Mucous

Harry Potter and the Bearded Clam

Harry Potter and The Endless Sequel

Harry Potter and SATAN'S SPAWN

Harry Potter and The Embarassing Incontinence

Harry Potter, Harry Potter, Harry Potter and the Biotech Cloning Industry

Harry Potter and The Star of Astoroth (copyright infringement)

Harry Potter and the Irrational Adolosecent Fascination
ADOLESCENT ADOLESCENT ADOLESCENT There. Jesus.

ADOLOSECENT ADOLESCENT ADOLOSCNET ADELOSECENET
ADOLCJSNCKJLSD;N;LSNDFALOSJDNL;SJDNVSL;NVSL
*whew* Sorry. Had a touch of the vapors for a moment.

(I was gonna fix that, but those are pretty damned funny... )

Harry Potter and the Regulan Butt Pirates

Harry Potter and The Unicursal Hexagram.

Harry Potter and The Book of Lies.

Harry Potter and The Underlying Geometry of the Temple of Solomon.

Harry Potter and the Endoplasmic Reticulum

Harry Potter, Pikachu, Furby, and the Inevitable Decline Into Obscurity

Harry Potter and the Running Sores

(That was, like, at the top, there, eh?)

(This is a relapse. It's actually herpes.)

(Oh, okay...then shouldn't that be:)

Harry Potter and the Herpes Symptom Relapse

Harry Potter and the Bloody Flux

Harry Potter and the Geniuses In Marketing

Harry Potter and the Cash Cow

Harry Potter teaches Michael Moorcock How to Crank Out Sequels

Harry Potter learns why the family name is Moorcock.

Harry Potter Gets Laid

Harry Potter Gets a Lesson in Sequels from Piers Anthony

Harry Potter and the Reappearing List

Harry Potter and the Pance of Love, Daddy-o (Oh HO, Yesh, baybee!)

Harry Potter and the Screaming Horde of Horny Teenage Sex Kittens

Harry Potter and His Pet Pussy

Harry Potter and the Tired Premise

Harry Potter and the List That Would Not Die

Harry Potter and the Doing Holding

Harry Potter and the Never Ending Story

Harry Potter and the Give it UP, man!

Harry Potter and the Incomprehensible Worthless Crap Revisited

Harry Potter and the Inability to Know When to Quit

Harry Potter and What He Was Doing Holding Chakka Khan

Harry Potter and the Wait For A Good End To The List

Harry Potter and The Bullies Who Wouldn't Grow Up and Just Leave Him the Fuck Alone

Harry Potter and the Artifically Inflated Collector's Market

Harry Potter and the Tangarine-Flavoured Douche Formula

Harry Potter, the Hardy Boys, and the Bottle of Mad Dog 20/20

Harry Potter and Can We Stop this Now, PLEASE?

Harry Potter and No, I'm Still Waiting For A Good Ending

The End

2003-02-18T14:44:00.000-05:00

Got A Good Reason For Taking the Easy Way Out

I've added a statistic tracker to the site, how sad is that? Ok, so I know neat stuff like what sites are referring visitors to me, and to my huge and utter shock about 75% of my traffic this week was generated by a brief Beatlesque nod to a Canadian cooking show called Barely Cooking on January 30th, which premiered last week. One of the presenters is someone called Dana Ashbaugh (I have no clue to who she is) but lots of people seem to want to see her naked according to my webstat list. Perhaps Nigella should step out from behind those twin sets and long skirts for a bout of naked cooking, could'nt hurt book sales.

Speaking of Nigella, she's written some interesting op/eds in Observer, " Now that politics is dead, I suppose it is no good saying that fat is still a feminist issue. But at this time of year particularly, when our resolutions waver but the flab remains, it seems to be the only issue."

Few Diets are as dangerous as this woman's attempt to get thin fast,

Ok, that was uncalled for but there are all of these roadrunner cartoons running through my head just now.

And while were disgussing flattery, did you know today is National Crab Stuffed Flounder Day, from what I can gather a flounder is not simply an attempt to get up after drinking too many vodkas on an empty stomach, it's a fish like plaice or sole. The recipe looks pretty tasty though...click here

Snopes those documenters of urban legends offers us a look at Japanese fashion gone horribly wrong, I don't know about you, but something smells fishy. .

2003-02-16T13:22:00.000-05:00

Some Are Dead and Some Are Living, in My Life, I've Loved Them All

James, was one of those people, who with his passing, makes people realise, what a successful life is. We seem to lose sight of this with our everyday living, it's so easy to lose the message amidst the pettiness and vulgarity. I'm a piss-poor eulogiser, but James was truly an exemplary human being, that I thought he deserved a mention here.

James was an anachronism and stood for many of the things that were good and wonderful about America. An American family farmer and rancher, he raised 3 daughters and 2 sons, and had a brood of grand children and great grandchildren that would have brought joy to the eyes of any biblical patriarch. Most of his children worked their way through University, with the exception of his eldest who is still farming and ranching, following the family tradition. He stayed married to his wife, Martha, my ex-sister in law for 47 years, in the small brick farmhouse, which was always full of his booming laughter, children, and delicious homegrown food.

He loved practical jokes and as they say in the South "cutting the fool". If he liked you, you would know it, he couldn't resist a joke or a hug. We first met 20 years ago he was gruff, and loud,thought testing my mettle would be sport for the afternoon. How much I would take, before exploding. Of course, the conversation, got around to horses, and he took me out to see some of the cracker cow horses, a scrubby black brown looking stallion and bay gelding, just outside in a paddock. My reputation had preceded me, and he meant to see what I could really do. These were cracker ponies, not quite the sort of thing I was used to and he hauled out a huge roping saddle, which he slung unceremoniously onto the waiting pony's back. The pony exhaled and inhaled sharply filling up his lungs with air, so the girth would seem tight. I knew as soon as I mounted, he would exhale and the girth would become perilously loose, as many a smart, devious pony has gotten rid of riders this way.

He roughly bridled the pony with a curb bit and bid me to mount. I could see that, he was trying really hard not to explode in laughter. I took the reins and walked the pony in a circle, when he asked did I mean to ride him or lead him round the paddock. I walked him back over, lifted the stirrup fender to reveal the loose girth, and asked as sweetly as possibly, if he would mind tightening up the girth as it seemed too loose. He looked at me sheepishly, knowing he'd been caught out . He tighten the girth and I mounted the pony and rode a few figure-eights, put him into a rocking horse, collected canter, and stopped him almost ontop of James' boots.

"Nice pony," I said as I swung my leg over to dismount, I looked over my shoulder and winked at him, and he roared in laughter. Our friendship and respect for each other was rooted in that day, and in my willingness to give as good as I got. One of my proudest moments, I was riding my own stallion at a horse show, and he had come to watch, and he told me I was one one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen, and that I should go in there and whoop all their prissy butts.

Most people assume that the cattle industry and all those cowboy traditions started in Texas or Montana.When the Spaniard Ponce de León discovered it in 1513, Florida was mostly wide, green spaces. In 1521 when he returned, he brought horses and seven Andalusian cattle, the ancestors of the Texas Longhorns. He knew he'd found pastureland. Spanish explorers turned Florida into America's oldest cattle-raising state.

Florida's old-time cowboys had a unique way of herding cattle. They used 10- to 12-foot-long whips made of braided leather. Snapping these whips in the air made a loud "crack." That sound brought stray cattle back into line fast and earned cowboys the nickname of "crackers." Many rode rugged, rather small horses known as "cracker ponies and used cowdogs and catch dogs useful in getting cattle out of thick swamp or palmetto thickets."

If you'd like to learn more about this rare breed click here

If you think all there is to Florida, is Disney World, read about Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, and her Pullitzer prize winning novel, The Yearling, she documented the lifestyle of these pioneers with great sensitivity and insight.

2003-02-14T11:34:00.000-05:00

Sexy Sadie, What Have You Done?

Mind the vitriolic backwash! In an effort to keep my one and only reader relatively free from harm, I shall be posting Estrogen Alerts, which will look like this The accompanying disclaimer will go something like this, "WARNING: We cannot accept any responsibility for unforeseen hostile reactions during certain lunar phases. Please remember that there are real, significant, and unknowable gender differences and that your sense of humour may not be shared, much less tolerated or appreciated. Forewarned is forearmed....

On we go then, to things of a more timeless nature, "Of She-wolves, Cupids,Lupernalia,and whipping. Another Roman holiday gone horribly wrong Valentine Day, is said to have evolved from Lupernalia.

Gamelion (mid-January to mid-February) was called Gamelion, the "Month of Marriage." A sacred marriage (hieros gamos) was celebrated at the end of the month to mark the marriage of Zeus and Hera. Preparation included purification.

Februarius, in Rome, was also a month for purification -- in preparation for the new year which began in March. Houses were swept, and sprinkled with salt and spelt.
The word Februarius itself comes from a word meaning purification or purgation.

Twin themes of purification and fertility come together in the Roman holiday called Lupercalia. Priests (luperci) of two colleges (Quintilii and Fabii) met at the cave where the she-wolf supposedly nursed the founding twins Romulus and Remus. Vestal Virgins offered their holy salt cakes. Priests sacrificed a dog and a goat, and smeared the animal blood on two boys who, clad only in a bit of goatskin, later led a band of revelers (luperci) whose antics included whipping bystanders with a goatskin strip (februa). Women so whipped -- even barren ones -- were thought to become fertile (you could think of this as possibly the world's first festish party). The priests may also have paired up youth of both sexes who were to stay paired up for the remainder of the year.

Enter the rectum clenching dogmatists of Catholicism, leave it to them to take the fun out of casual flagellation. De-sexed, stripped it of its more salacious and admittedly libertine joys, it has become the banal St. Valentine's Day. With Saint Valentine introduced into the mix, the Church invented some nice legend, tried to turn this most funky of pagan holidays into an homage to saccharine romantic love and Cadbury chocolates and Hallmark.

That fat, innocuous looking, arrow-toting cherub who adorns modern Valentine's Day cards wasn't always so pathetic. I blame the Victorian's for the de-sexing of this little fellow. Originally CUPID (or EROS as he is sometimes known) was thought to have arisen out of Chaos, along with Tartarus and Earth. Later he became associated with Aphrodite, often as her son. The love story with which he is chiefly associated comes from Apuleius' Golden Ass ( I am so NOT kidding!).

Courtesy of C.S. Lewis (Till We Have Faces) and told by N.S. Gill it goes something like this:
CUPID AND PSYCHE

Aphrodite was a jealous goddess, but she was also loving and sometimes her possessive instincts led her too far. When her son, Eros, found a mortal to love -- one whose beauty rivaled the Cyprian's -- Aphrodite did all in her power to thwart the marriage. Unfortunately for the young couple, she was not the only one trying to foul things up, for Psyche, which was the young woman's name, had two sisters as jealous as Aphrodite. When they learned about the luscious, extravagant lifestyle of their sister, they urged her to find out her husband's secret.

Eros was a god and for reasons known best to him, he didn't want his mortal wife to see his form. Psyche's sister didn't know he was a god, although they may have suspected it. They did know that her life was much happier than theirs, so they persuaded their sister that her husband was a hideous monster. She assured them they were wrong, but since she'd never seen him, she had her own doubts. Psyche decided to satisfy their curiosity, so that she night took a candle to her sleeping husband to look at him. The angelic form was exquisite, but while Psyche ogled him, she dropped a bit of wax and the awakened, irate, disobeyed husband-angel-god flew away.

"See, I told you she was a no good human," said mother Aphrodite. "Now you'll have to be content among the gods." Eros might have gone along, but Psyche couldn't. Impelled by love of her gorgeous husband, she implored her mother-in-law to give her a chance.

Aphrodite agreed saying, "I cannot conceive that any serving-wench as hideous as yourself could find any means to attract lovers save by making herself their drudge; wherefore now I myself will make trial of your worth," but she had no intention of playing fair. She devised four tasks (not three, this is a feminine story), each one more exacting than the last. Psyche passed the first three challenges with flying colors, sort a huge mount of barley, millet, poppy seeds, lentils, and beans. gather a hank of the wool of the shining golden sheep. fill a crystal vessel with the water of the spring that feeds the Styx and Cocytus. but the last one was too much for her.

Aphrodite asked Psyche to bring her back a box of Persephone's beauty cream. Going to the Underworld was a challenge for normal mortals, but even this was not too much for Psyche. What was too much was the temptation to make herself more beautiful. If the perfect beauty of the perfect Aphrodite needed this cream, Psyche reasoned, how much more would it help an imperfect human. Thus, Psyche opened the box and fell into a deathlike sleep.

With Zeus' connivance, Eros brought his wife to Olympus where Aphrodite reluctantly reconciled with her pregnant daughter-in-law about to give birth to a grandchild Aphrodite could dote on, Pleasure.

C.S. Lewis took Apuleius' version of this myth and turned it on its ear in Till We Have Faces. The tender love story is gone. Instead of having the story seen through the eyes of Psyche, it's seen through her sister Orval's perspective. Instead of the refined Aphrodite of the Roman story, the mother goddess in C.S. Lewis' version is a far more weighty power.

Didn't do the Classics at Uni, huh ? more on CS Lewis...here

2003-02-13T13:46:00.000-05:00

She May Be a Lover, But She Ain't No Dancer

The most loathesome and offensive of all manufactured holidays is nearly upon us. From Hallmark's Vomitorium of Verse to Walmart's kitschy, cheap and cheery, displays of cutesie wutsie, stuffed animals, my entire being shudders with anger.

So what do sadly embittered middle aged people like me do, those clever San Franciscans have come up with the perfect alternative to a day, which usually erodes into a festival self pity and overactive bile production. It is called International Quirkyalone Day, started by a group of feminists - but open to men as well as women - Quirkyalone Day is geared toward people who "resist the tyranny of coupledom," according to the movement's Web site. here

As for me, I don't think I ever want to experience the kind of love that landed me in a fucking nightmare of a marriage, that left my self esteem bagged up in 20 bin liners one for each year of my insanity. It's my opinion that in our society, many grave mental disturbances are defined by the phrase "It must be love." If you have a desire to control someone else, it must be love. If you have the desire to change someone else for their own good, it must be love. If you have the desire to stay with someone at any cost, it must be love. If you are obsessed, it must be love. If you lust for someone, it must be love. These are symptoms of something, but it is not love. I don't believe there is any truth to the term "crazy in love." If you feel crazy, you probably are just crazy, and not in love at all. If you are "lovesick," you are probably just sick, and not in love at all. Love should not be symptomatic.

That cute little cupid is merely the ogre of consumerized sentimentality and mass-produced displays of affection. So if you're one of those men that they think are going to get a little genital warming because you've dropped 6 weeks of pizza delivery fees on some cubic zirconia unicorn, you can fuck right off and take those clipon huggy bears and polyester roses, with you.

If his eyes, his lips, his restraining order are all saying "No, no, NO!!!" but you know he means "Yes, yes, YES!!!" click here for some joy

Some DIY Kama Sutra positions, click on the little rectangles

If you simply must have chocolate, a review of the finest chocolatiers, in Belgium ...click here