Flee, Willy!
Lovable cetacean is pursued by evil Japanese whaling ship
Stab Wars
Luke Skywalker travels back in time to take on Jack the Ripper
Dorki Park
The exploits of an inept gang of fur-smugglers
The Bids
Real estate wars in Bodega Bay turn ugly
Thane
John Ford's classic reinterpretation of Macbeth as a Western
Seven Bribes for Seven Brothers
A corrupt family's stranglehold on city government in Providence, RI.
Danes with Wolves
Lars van Trier goes Costner one better. Shot with only a single camera, from the wolf's point of view .
Badbands
Spinal Tap put on a benefit concert at Mount Rushmore, and the whole thing is filmed by Louis Malle. Or maybe Terence. Whatever. It's a definite highlight when Ted Nugent shoots Lincoln's nose right off.
Bake
A terrible misunderstanding between the Hoggetts means curtains for a certain lovable porker.
Dunces with Wolves
Mrs Parker's class had been looking forward to their trip to Yellowstone for weeks already. Who could have suspected that things would go so horribly, horribly wrong?
A Mad Zeus!
The real story behind the Trojan wars (soundtrack by Salieri)
Gallupoli!
An unpopular war abroad becomes a fiasco when public opinion turns against its leaders
Apocalypse Cow
This frightening documentary tracks the devastating spread of mad cow disease, beginning with "Brain-dead Bessie", the cow first believed to have brought the disease to Texas.
The 39 Stews
In a case of mistaken identity, a man is plunged into the internecine squabbles and dark rivalries that make up the sinister world of British haute cuisine.
Hedwig and the Angry Itch
Fortunately, there was fast-actin' Tinactin
Mary Poplins *
New governess brings order, harmony, and a dazzling array of synthetic fabrics.
La Cage aux Dolles
Daring new transvestite production of an Ibsen standard
Blue Vervet
Monkey is ostracized due to unusual pigmentation and succumbs to depression.
Blue Velveta
Be an instant gourmet!
The Mousecrap
Posthumous Agatha Christie play savaged by Broadway critics
Pilates of the Caribbean
Even buccaneers gotta exercise.
Das Boor
Idiosyncratic german translation of The Jerk
*: I'm pretty sure this one is not mine, but I can't for the life of me remember where I may have borrowed it. If it's yours, please leave a comment, and I will attribute appropriately.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Marmalade Cat Humiliation
(Search Engine Phrases by Which People Arrived at This Blog)
Who died at Swensen's ice-cream in Chapel Hill?
Viggo Mortensen stalkers.
The unfeasibly tall Greek billionaire.
What can I buy with 10 dollars?
Pictures of dogs you can buy for under ten dollars.
Hideous ugly animals.
Two-headed bunny.
Six-headed bunnys.
Does travel broaden the mind?
Buenos Aires Christian theme park.
Large papier mache animals.
Hideous, ugly animals.
What can I buy with 10 dollars?
Dickensian workhouse fare.
Dickensian workhouse fair.
Hideous, ugly animals.
Two headed bunny.
Does the travel can broaden the mind?
Travel does not broaden the mind.
Travel should broaden the mind.
What can I buy with 10 dollars?
Ruthless rhymes.
Spongebob Squarepants clerihews.
Peach Malba.
Pampas meat.
Panda Madrid.
Peach maravilla.
La lluvia en Sevilla es una maravilla.
The rain in Spain?
Mainly on the plain.
Peach maravilla.
Rebellious 24-year old child still living at home.
Missing coins.
Puddy tats.
What is puddy tats.
Kitty serendipity.
Marmalade cat humiliation.
How to complete the case of the missing coins.
How to study on the pampas for a test.
In on the pampas grandma expects her to
dismantle a dirt bike for shipment.
900 lb woman on Maury.
Caisson disease constipation.
Hemorrhoid cream and tanning?
Ethel the aardvark goes quantity surveying.
Kafka beach.
Kafka feliz.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Incident at Barajas
Authorities at Barajas airport in Madrid reported a baffling incident earlier this morning. A passenger arriving from the United States was briefly detained when a routine customs check indicated that she was attempting to introduce a number of unquarantined animals into the country. After a warning, the passenger was let go, and the animals sequestered in the quarantine facility at Barajas.
However, an hour later, under mysterious circumstances, following a heated altercation with a heavily bearded man at the main office of the quarantine facility, it was discovered that the animals in question had been "liberated" and could no longer be accounted for. Authorities now believe that the bearded stranger was in fact acting as a distraction while his attractive female accomplice was engaged in liberating the animals in question.
An all points bulletin has been issued to residents of the autonomous community of Madrid to be on the alert for a number of fecally incontinent animals, who may be travelling as a gang, or who may possibly have split up and be travelling solo, possibly disguised as candy spokesbeasts. The animals are not believed to be violent and may respond to snacks of jelly beans or other similar candy treats.
Authorities remain baffled by the incident, but stress that there is no cause for general alarm.
In completely unrelated news:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/gaelstat/sets/72157615935912673/
However, an hour later, under mysterious circumstances, following a heated altercation with a heavily bearded man at the main office of the quarantine facility, it was discovered that the animals in question had been "liberated" and could no longer be accounted for. Authorities now believe that the bearded stranger was in fact acting as a distraction while his attractive female accomplice was engaged in liberating the animals in question.
An all points bulletin has been issued to residents of the autonomous community of Madrid to be on the alert for a number of fecally incontinent animals, who may be travelling as a gang, or who may possibly have split up and be travelling solo, possibly disguised as candy spokesbeasts. The animals are not believed to be violent and may respond to snacks of jelly beans or other similar candy treats.
Authorities remain baffled by the incident, but stress that there is no cause for general alarm.
In completely unrelated news:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/gaelstat/sets/72157615935912673/
Friday, March 27, 2009
Even more regrettable doggerel
Felipe Segundo of Thpain
In his portraits, looks like he's in pain
Persecuting the Flemish
Will make a king phlegmish
And probably give him migraine.
QQ 24 - 27
Chapters 24 & 27.
(Cardenio's tale is split over these two chapters, for no particular reason. I summarize both here)
Cardenio (that's the wretch's name)
Loved, and pined, and wooed in vain.
So rent his garments. Went quite mad.
(In fact the poor boy's tale's quite sad)
Now lurks in mountains; lives in cave
Cursing the name of the vile knave
Who stole his love, a damsel fickle,
And left him in his current pickle.
DEAR GOD, YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I REGRET HAVING STARTED THIS ENDEAVOUR. BUT REST ASSURED THAT MY NOT SO BORDERLINE OBSESSIVE PERSONALITY WILL FORCE ME TO SEE IT THROUGH, AT LEAST TO THE END OF BOOK I.
Chapter 25.
Up in this remote mountain eyrie
The Don's behavior gets quite hairy
Decides -- to honor Dulcinea --
That in the mountains he will stay a
While and practice knightly courtesies
(Unfortunately starting with a strip-tease)
Gives squire a note for Dulz the Dainty
And sends him off with Rocinante
Chapter 26.
Repulsed by views of naked Don,
Sancho skedaddles, and e'er long
Is back at inn, with knaves and varlets
And - pace, maiden aunt - that harlot,
And - some good luck for Sancho Panza -
That priest and barber from La Mancha.
Tells them about exposed rear end
of Don. They scheme to rescue friend.
Plain people of Ireland: How long do you plan on recycling that appalling "varlet-harlot" rhyme? It was already stale the first time around.
MOTP: Feel free to step in and take over any time you like. Until then, SILENCE, INSOLENT RABBLE!!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Visitor
An excellent film, which may have slipped under your radar. If so, I strongly recommend that you see it.
Surprisingly many films are shown undubbed (that is, in the original language, with Spanish subtitles) here in Madrid. Several cinemas, many of them quite large multiplexes, show only undubbed movies. The three films I've seen since coming to Madrid - "Milk", "Nixon/Frost" and, this afternoon, "The Visitor" were all in English.
I won't attempt a review of "The Visitor" other than to say that it features actors that I hadn't seen or heard of previously*, was understated, and ultimately very moving.
(* with the exception of Michael Cumpsty, a fine actor who happened to be in the same scholarship program as me in Chapel Hill. Go Mooseheads!)
Surprisingly many films are shown undubbed (that is, in the original language, with Spanish subtitles) here in Madrid. Several cinemas, many of them quite large multiplexes, show only undubbed movies. The three films I've seen since coming to Madrid - "Milk", "Nixon/Frost" and, this afternoon, "The Visitor" were all in English.
I won't attempt a review of "The Visitor" other than to say that it features actors that I hadn't seen or heard of previously*, was understated, and ultimately very moving.
(* with the exception of Michael Cumpsty, a fine actor who happened to be in the same scholarship program as me in Chapel Hill. Go Mooseheads!)
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Change One Letter Update
We haven't played "Change One Letter" in a while. You remember the rules - change (or add, or delete) one letter in an existing book title and give a brief description of the resulting work.
Mon Quixote : Caribbean version of a classic picaresque tale
Coriolangus : A rebel cow threatens to destroy Glasgow, but is dissuaded by his mom, only to be butchered and sold to a local steakhouse by his fellow rebels.
Hart of Darkness : The real story of Bambi's mother, and why she had to die.
Exopus : When their ice-floe is threatened by global warming, one brave penguin leads his tribe to find the promised land.
Walter the Farming Dog : The story of a canine ahead of his time, who tries to persuade his pack-members to give up their hunting-gathering ways and settle down.
Portrait of a Lad : Henry James's recently discovered masterful account of the life of a Glasgow soccer hooligan
The Three Billy Goats Ruff : These caprine caperers are more interested in playing bridge than crossing it.
Oscar and Lucida : Disturbed young man is almost saved by a pretty new font.
The Belle Jar : A southern debutante´s descent into madness.
When You Are Engulfed in Flakes : David Sedaris battles dandruff.
Cannery Roe : The Story of Caviar
The God : Fatter Why not take Buddha as your personal savior?
The Compleat Mangler Boxing Tips from Isaak Walton
Mon Quixote : Caribbean version of a classic picaresque tale
Coriolangus : A rebel cow threatens to destroy Glasgow, but is dissuaded by his mom, only to be butchered and sold to a local steakhouse by his fellow rebels.
Hart of Darkness : The real story of Bambi's mother, and why she had to die.
Exopus : When their ice-floe is threatened by global warming, one brave penguin leads his tribe to find the promised land.
Walter the Farming Dog : The story of a canine ahead of his time, who tries to persuade his pack-members to give up their hunting-gathering ways and settle down.
Portrait of a Lad : Henry James's recently discovered masterful account of the life of a Glasgow soccer hooligan
The Three Billy Goats Ruff : These caprine caperers are more interested in playing bridge than crossing it.
Oscar and Lucida : Disturbed young man is almost saved by a pretty new font.
The Belle Jar : A southern debutante´s descent into madness.
When You Are Engulfed in Flakes : David Sedaris battles dandruff.
Cannery Roe : The Story of Caviar
The God : Fatter Why not take Buddha as your personal savior?
The Compleat Mangler Boxing Tips from Isaak Walton
QQ 19 - 23
Chapter 19.
Our pair are left without a saddlepack.
They're up a creek. How will they paddle back?
It's easy for a loony knave,
Attack some mourners, traveling grave-
ward. Loot the corpse. Break someone's leg.
And when they're down, just make them beg
for mercy. Then just steal their stuff.
As if the injury weren't enough.
By now most readers will be thinking
our Don's behaving like a stinking
turd, whose acts, e'en for a mad guy
seem suited to some Mafia bad guy.
Chapter 20.
Nothing happens, really. Noises in the night, Don prattling, Sancho takes a dump. For God's sake, I'm supposed to weave this into some kind of tapestry of rhyme???
Plain people of Ireland: (expectantly)
We're ..... WAITING .... here.
MOTP: Oh, ALL RIGHT then!!!
Don prates 'bout things eschatological
Sancho's behavior's scatological
"Fulling-hammers" in the night
Give quite a fright to squire and knight.
Plain people of Ireland: (grudgingly)
Not too bad. Gotta admire those internal rhymes in that last line. But what are "fulling-hammers"?
MOTP: Why, I'm so glad you asked. "Fulling" is what these jolly ladies are doing -
It basically consists of beating cloth into submission, and used to involve urine (a.k.a. "lant") for softening purposes, and repeated blows e.g. from dainty feet, as in the picture above, or in the case of Quixote, hammers powered by a water mill.
Chapter 21.
A barber who must serve two villages
Is the next victim of Don's pillages
His battered brassy shaving basin's
A lure to Don, like fleece to Jason.
Once again, like a bambino
He steals. "The Helmet of Mambrino".
REVIEWER'S ASIDE -
By this point, I confess, dear Reader
My view of Don had reached its nadir
Thought "If this is Mickey's obra maestra,
Then he can shove it up his keister!"
But thought of you, my little cupcakes,
Made me continue, for your poor sakes.
Chapter 22.
Next up, to prove he's not all bad
Don does something that made me glad
Frees troop of prisoners, decked in chains
But doesn't get much for his pains.
Freed ruffians, spoiling for a fight,
Attack fat squire and scrawny knight,
And steal their stuff (payback's a bitch)
And leave our duo in the ditch.
Chapter 23.
Our heroes, suffering and in pain, are
Next seen in the Sierra Morena
In dark and craggy mountain pass
Freed prisoner steals poor Sancho's ass.
(But here, at times, it seems Mick's clueless.
Can't quite remember Sancho's muleless.
The donkey, stolen by a badass,
Appears and vanishes like a mad ass.
Mule reappears for a few pages,
Then vanishes, just like Don's rages.)
They find a bag, in mountains jagged.
With gold and such, and then a ragged
Creature, who at first seems mad,
But, it turns out, is not all bad.
Our pair are left without a saddlepack.
They're up a creek. How will they paddle back?
It's easy for a loony knave,
Attack some mourners, traveling grave-
ward. Loot the corpse. Break someone's leg.
And when they're down, just make them beg
for mercy. Then just steal their stuff.
As if the injury weren't enough.
By now most readers will be thinking
our Don's behaving like a stinking
turd, whose acts, e'en for a mad guy
seem suited to some Mafia bad guy.
Chapter 20.
Nothing happens, really. Noises in the night, Don prattling, Sancho takes a dump. For God's sake, I'm supposed to weave this into some kind of tapestry of rhyme???
Plain people of Ireland: (expectantly)
We're ..... WAITING .... here.
MOTP: Oh, ALL RIGHT then!!!
Don prates 'bout things eschatological
Sancho's behavior's scatological
"Fulling-hammers" in the night
Give quite a fright to squire and knight.
Plain people of Ireland: (grudgingly)
Not too bad. Gotta admire those internal rhymes in that last line. But what are "fulling-hammers"?
MOTP: Why, I'm so glad you asked. "Fulling" is what these jolly ladies are doing -
It basically consists of beating cloth into submission, and used to involve urine (a.k.a. "lant") for softening purposes, and repeated blows e.g. from dainty feet, as in the picture above, or in the case of Quixote, hammers powered by a water mill.
Chapter 21.
A barber who must serve two villages
Is the next victim of Don's pillages
His battered brassy shaving basin's
A lure to Don, like fleece to Jason.
Once again, like a bambino
He steals. "The Helmet of Mambrino".
REVIEWER'S ASIDE -
By this point, I confess, dear Reader
My view of Don had reached its nadir
Thought "If this is Mickey's obra maestra,
Then he can shove it up his keister!"
But thought of you, my little cupcakes,
Made me continue, for your poor sakes.
Chapter 22.
Next up, to prove he's not all bad
Don does something that made me glad
Frees troop of prisoners, decked in chains
But doesn't get much for his pains.
Freed ruffians, spoiling for a fight,
Attack fat squire and scrawny knight,
And steal their stuff (payback's a bitch)
And leave our duo in the ditch.
Chapter 23.
Our heroes, suffering and in pain, are
Next seen in the Sierra Morena
In dark and craggy mountain pass
Freed prisoner steals poor Sancho's ass.
(But here, at times, it seems Mick's clueless.
Can't quite remember Sancho's muleless.
The donkey, stolen by a badass,
Appears and vanishes like a mad ass.
Mule reappears for a few pages,
Then vanishes, just like Don's rages.)
They find a bag, in mountains jagged.
With gold and such, and then a ragged
Creature, who at first seems mad,
But, it turns out, is not all bad.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Oh those Germans! Whatever will they think of next?
Tender, juicy Obama fingers hit the shelves.
Thanks to my good friend, Peter C., for bringing this link to my attention.
Thanks to my good friend, Peter C., for bringing this link to my attention.
Iberian Mysteries (III) : Animals in my Inbox
OK. This would have the potential to be embarrassing, if I weren't so completely blameless. Ever since my arrival in Spain, I've been subjected to a peculiar kind of torment which, depending on my mood, I find either hilarious, or bizarrely creepy.
It has to do with spam and animals. Naturally (I hope), by now, any normal reader is thinking of pigs. But I don't mean that kind of spam, nor - unfortunately - not always that kind of animal. No, the kind of spam I'm referring to is what is referred to in Spanish as "correos de basura", or trash-mail. In this particular case, trash e-mail. The kind that, in any half-way decent e-mail system would be routed automatically to your trash folder. The problem is that I don't have a half-way decent e-mail provider - I have Yahoo! Which seems constitutionally unable to filter anything, no matter how obvious the signals that a particular message might be spam. Furthermore, its spam filter seems to get worse, not better, with training.
So, every time I check my e-mail, I end up having to label a whole bunch of obvious trash messages as spam. Obviously, I don't open them - I'm not an idiot. But it gets infuriating, because each time Yahoo! sends me a (lying) message, thanking me for training its spam filter to do a better job, while I know full well that next time I log in there will be a whole fresh batch of equally obvious trash for me to deal with.
Now, at home, the nature of these messages ran the predictable, if annoying gamut. You know, the standard letter from that Nigerian politician's widow, winning tickets in the Falklands lottery, products that promised to cleanse my colon of 10 pounds of black gunk (as seen on Oprah!), offers to supply me with Vi;-gra, Ci=@lis, beautiful babes that wanted to date me in my city, the usual kind of stuff.
But here in Spain, it's a different matter. With frightening single-mindedness, at least half my spam messages here have titles that fit the general formula:
"You won't believe what these (choose one from column A) do with (choose one from column B)"
or
"Watch young (choose one from column A) (disgusting prepositional verb from column C) (choose one from column B)"
Column A: girls, sluts, and other more vulgar epithets unsuited to a family blog
Column C: verb indicating some vile sexual act; "get it on with" is about the only one that can be reproduced here
Column B is the most disturbing part, generally naming either some specific barnyard animal, or occasionally just using the term "barnyard animals". More recently, perhaps out of disappointment that I have never, not even once, opened any of these e-mails, there appears to have been an effort to up the ante, so that "giraffes" have been receiving more recent mention of late.
Well, this frosts my eyeballs for all kinds of different reasons. First of all, how can a spam filter not recognize an e-mail in which the word "sluts" and the vulgar term for the privy member of a horse appear in the title as being obscene and pornographic? And even if it doesn't the first time around, how many times does it need to be told? "MILFS with giraffes"? Good grief, Yahoo! How irritatingly stupid can one e-mail system be?
Then, of course, there's the greater puzzle. Just why is it that this kind of spam has been proliferating in my inbox of late, with its beginning exactly coinciding with my arrival in Madrid. Believe me, gentle reader, I never got messages about barnyard sex back in San Francisco. Also believe me - AND I CAN NOT STRESS THIS HIGHLY ENOUGH - when I assure you that I have never in my life done anything to encourage such an onslaught, not even once clicking on, or opening one of these messages, even by accident.
So why the sudden onslaught here in Madrid. Is there something about the particular combination of my e-mail address and I.P. address that attracts these messages?
I can only think of two possible explanations. One is that whoever rented this apartment before me was some kind of rampant bestiality freak, and that the I.P. address is forever associated out there in spamland with barnyard animal lovers.
The other, though seemingly unlikely, cannot entirely be ruled out. My first week here, for reasons I don't fully recall, I ended up sending an e-mail to a friend, alerting him to the delightful online video of bovine revolutionary zeal
Cows with Guns.
Quite reasonably, I titled the message in question "Cows with Guns".
Only later did the horrendous possibility occur to me that some illiterate spam spider bot interpreted the title of my e-mail (you know how they like to permute word-spellings) as "Cows with Gnus", and took it as a sign of an interest in interspecies cavorting.
Is it possible that I have unwittingly been the cause of the onslaught? I guess we will never know for sure.
It has to do with spam and animals. Naturally (I hope), by now, any normal reader is thinking of pigs. But I don't mean that kind of spam, nor - unfortunately - not always that kind of animal. No, the kind of spam I'm referring to is what is referred to in Spanish as "correos de basura", or trash-mail. In this particular case, trash e-mail. The kind that, in any half-way decent e-mail system would be routed automatically to your trash folder. The problem is that I don't have a half-way decent e-mail provider - I have Yahoo! Which seems constitutionally unable to filter anything, no matter how obvious the signals that a particular message might be spam. Furthermore, its spam filter seems to get worse, not better, with training.
So, every time I check my e-mail, I end up having to label a whole bunch of obvious trash messages as spam. Obviously, I don't open them - I'm not an idiot. But it gets infuriating, because each time Yahoo! sends me a (lying) message, thanking me for training its spam filter to do a better job, while I know full well that next time I log in there will be a whole fresh batch of equally obvious trash for me to deal with.
Now, at home, the nature of these messages ran the predictable, if annoying gamut. You know, the standard letter from that Nigerian politician's widow, winning tickets in the Falklands lottery, products that promised to cleanse my colon of 10 pounds of black gunk (as seen on Oprah!), offers to supply me with Vi;-gra, Ci=@lis, beautiful babes that wanted to date me in my city, the usual kind of stuff.
But here in Spain, it's a different matter. With frightening single-mindedness, at least half my spam messages here have titles that fit the general formula:
"You won't believe what these (choose one from column A) do with (choose one from column B)"
or
"Watch young (choose one from column A) (disgusting prepositional verb from column C) (choose one from column B)"
Column A: girls, sluts, and other more vulgar epithets unsuited to a family blog
Column C: verb indicating some vile sexual act; "get it on with" is about the only one that can be reproduced here
Column B is the most disturbing part, generally naming either some specific barnyard animal, or occasionally just using the term "barnyard animals". More recently, perhaps out of disappointment that I have never, not even once, opened any of these e-mails, there appears to have been an effort to up the ante, so that "giraffes" have been receiving more recent mention of late.
Well, this frosts my eyeballs for all kinds of different reasons. First of all, how can a spam filter not recognize an e-mail in which the word "sluts" and the vulgar term for the privy member of a horse appear in the title as being obscene and pornographic? And even if it doesn't the first time around, how many times does it need to be told? "MILFS with giraffes"? Good grief, Yahoo! How irritatingly stupid can one e-mail system be?
Then, of course, there's the greater puzzle. Just why is it that this kind of spam has been proliferating in my inbox of late, with its beginning exactly coinciding with my arrival in Madrid. Believe me, gentle reader, I never got messages about barnyard sex back in San Francisco. Also believe me - AND I CAN NOT STRESS THIS HIGHLY ENOUGH - when I assure you that I have never in my life done anything to encourage such an onslaught, not even once clicking on, or opening one of these messages, even by accident.
So why the sudden onslaught here in Madrid. Is there something about the particular combination of my e-mail address and I.P. address that attracts these messages?
I can only think of two possible explanations. One is that whoever rented this apartment before me was some kind of rampant bestiality freak, and that the I.P. address is forever associated out there in spamland with barnyard animal lovers.
The other, though seemingly unlikely, cannot entirely be ruled out. My first week here, for reasons I don't fully recall, I ended up sending an e-mail to a friend, alerting him to the delightful online video of bovine revolutionary zeal
Cows with Guns.
Quite reasonably, I titled the message in question "Cows with Guns".
Only later did the horrendous possibility occur to me that some illiterate spam spider bot interpreted the title of my e-mail (you know how they like to permute word-spellings) as "Cows with Gnus", and took it as a sign of an interest in interspecies cavorting.
Is it possible that I have unwittingly been the cause of the onslaught? I guess we will never know for sure.
Iberian Mysteries (II) : The Haunting
So, one Spanish mystery was cleared up (literally) during the week. On Friday I noticed that the condensation which had been fogging up the inside of my watch face had completely disappeared. Perhaps the exertion at, and higher elevation of, the Escorial on Thursday did the trick. Or the lugubrious shade of Felipe II was enough to scare away the condensation demons. Anyway, I am happy not to have to squint to tell the time any more.
But one moisture-related mystery has been replaced by another, potentially more perplexing. As generally happens to me when I've been fully immersed in Spanish for a while, occasionally I hit a week where it becomes hard to sleep. I've always taken this to be evidence that my brain is somehow working overtime, engaged in language-related extra processing activity during nocturnal hours. It doesn't bother me particularly, as this kind of sleepless week has, in the past, been accompanied by a noticeable improvement in my command of Spanish.
Anyway, this past week has been one of those weeks. Reading Don Quijote hasn't helped either. Even though it is, frankly, turning out to be a colossal bore, its episodic nature seems to be fueling strange shadowy dreams, not quite scary enough to be considered nightmares, but not particularly pleasant either, and definitely contributing to the overall poor quality of my sleep. Anyway, at around 4:15 am, I woke up to the sound of someone apparently taking a shower upstairs. At first, I thought "How, rude!", turned over and tried to get back to sleep. Then I remembered that there is no "upstairs" - as I live on the top floor. So I listened again, only to realise (cue creepy music) that the noise appeared to be coming from the bathroom in my own apartment. As I staggered out of bed to investigate, the shower noise stopped, but (cue really creepy music), when I turned on the light in the bathroom, the bath surface was completely wet, exactly as if someone had just been showering and had just turned off the shower.
Back to bed, distinctly spooked. I'd noticed strange nocturnal noises before around the apartment, but this was the first clear evidence of a haunting. Ten minutes later, the noise starts up again. Now I leap out of bed, and make for the bathroom. The noise subsides as I turn on the light, but the second shower head is definitely still dripping water, and the bathtub directly under it is completely wet.
There is, I tell myself, a (quasi) rational potential explanation for this. The shower heads in question (see picture) have this odd feature. There's a kind of a dustbin-lid shaped pan, through whose holes the water comes through. Depending on the orientation of the pan, relative to the horizontal, it can trap a certain amount of water, even after the flow has been turned off. Then, if its orientation is changed at some later point, this causes a runoff of the accumulated water.
That's what I tell myself at least. And indeed, this seems like a reasonable enough explanation for the first occurrence, though what mysterious force might have caused the pan to tilt enough at 4:15 on a Sunday morning is a question that remains unanswered. The part that really spooks me out, though, is the second, 4:25 am "shower", since I have never, in the month that I have lived here, actually turned on, or used that particular shower head.
It's probably just my overactive imagination that makes me positive that I didn't make up the bed before going out to get coffee this morning. So that I shouldn't make anything of the fact that the duvet was perfectly arranged, as if in a hospital infirmary, when I got back.
At least I know that, if there is a ghost in the apartment, it is a clean, neat phantom.
QQ 11 - 18
Chapter 11.
Goatherds share meat with Don and Panza.
There's pastoral poetry - many a stanza.
Chapters 12 - 14.
Lady likes to dress like shepherdess.
Spurns swain. He dies. His flock's now shepherdless.
More pastoral poems -- endless verse;
Snooze quotient's going from bad to worse.
Friends bury him. At shepherd's grave,
Once more - dear God! - Don starts to rave.
Chapter 15.
Next Rocinante wanders, frisky.
Gets amorous with some mares, a risky
Move. Backfires when owners in alarm
Attack our boys and do them harm.
By end of scene (knightlife's a bitch)
Once more our boys are in the ditch.
Chapter 16.
Our battered duo finds an inn.
Don gets confused; gets taken in.
Thinks "castle" when he should think "inn".
Hilarious fun, with knaves and varlet
And -- pace, Maiden Aunt -- a harlot.
Plain people of Ireland: Hey, we've already seen this bit! Boo! Hiss! Rhubarb! Rhubarb! (etc)
MOTP: Aha! So you're paying attention, are ye? Well don't blame me that it's déjà lu all over again. That'd be Mick's doing.
Plain people of Ireland: ¡¡¡But this is BO-O-RING!!!
MOTP: Yes, isn't it though? Think how I must feel. Now please be quiet, so that we can keep this "story", such as it is, moving along.
Chapter 17.
Kicked out of inn. The Don won't pay.
(Civil behavior's not his way)
Some louts have fun with Sancho P.
Playing toss-the-squire with obvious glee.
Don watches motionless, like an anchor
(again behaving like a wanker)
Doesn't even lift a finger
What a cringing, minging, whinger!
EDITORIAL ASIDE (regarding the Don's "character", or lack thereof)
It's clear our Don's a scrawny psychopath,
Who, if you met him on a bikepath,
Would steal your bike and kick your crotch
All while his dopey sidekick watched.
Chapter 18.
When next we catch up with our peeps,
They have a run-in with some sheeps.
It don't go well, Quixote scholars
By chapter's end, Don's down three molars.
Plain people of Ireland (doubtfully): Is "sheeps" a real word?
MOTP: It is now.
Plain people of Ireland: And what about that "scholars-molars" rhyme?
MOTP: Silence, wretches! What about it?
Goatherds share meat with Don and Panza.
There's pastoral poetry - many a stanza.
Chapters 12 - 14.
Lady likes to dress like shepherdess.
Spurns swain. He dies. His flock's now shepherdless.
More pastoral poems -- endless verse;
Snooze quotient's going from bad to worse.
Friends bury him. At shepherd's grave,
Once more - dear God! - Don starts to rave.
Chapter 15.
Next Rocinante wanders, frisky.
Gets amorous with some mares, a risky
Move. Backfires when owners in alarm
Attack our boys and do them harm.
By end of scene (knightlife's a bitch)
Once more our boys are in the ditch.
Chapter 16.
Our battered duo finds an inn.
Don gets confused; gets taken in.
Thinks "castle" when he should think "inn".
Hilarious fun, with knaves and varlet
And -- pace, Maiden Aunt -- a harlot.
Plain people of Ireland: Hey, we've already seen this bit! Boo! Hiss! Rhubarb! Rhubarb! (etc)
MOTP: Aha! So you're paying attention, are ye? Well don't blame me that it's déjà lu all over again. That'd be Mick's doing.
Plain people of Ireland: ¡¡¡But this is BO-O-RING!!!
MOTP: Yes, isn't it though? Think how I must feel. Now please be quiet, so that we can keep this "story", such as it is, moving along.
Chapter 17.
Kicked out of inn. The Don won't pay.
(Civil behavior's not his way)
Some louts have fun with Sancho P.
Playing toss-the-squire with obvious glee.
Don watches motionless, like an anchor
(again behaving like a wanker)
Doesn't even lift a finger
What a cringing, minging, whinger!
EDITORIAL ASIDE (regarding the Don's "character", or lack thereof)
It's clear our Don's a scrawny psychopath,
Who, if you met him on a bikepath,
Would steal your bike and kick your crotch
All while his dopey sidekick watched.
Chapter 18.
When next we catch up with our peeps,
They have a run-in with some sheeps.
It don't go well, Quixote scholars
By chapter's end, Don's down three molars.
Plain people of Ireland (doubtfully): Is "sheeps" a real word?
MOTP: It is now.
Plain people of Ireland: And what about that "scholars-molars" rhyme?
MOTP: Silence, wretches! What about it?
The Aragorn Effect
The figure above summarizes daily visit statistics to this blog during the last month. Usually the number of daily visits chugs along at somewhere between 15 and 20, sometimes reaching an average of up to 30 if I add new content daily. So I was surprised by the March 14th peak*, shown in the diagram above.
A little closer investigation, using the sitemeter tools, shows that this is evidently a direct consequence of a specific post I made wherein I mentioned that I might be reading "Don Quixote" in parallel with Viggo Mortensen. A great number of those 130 visitors ended up on my blog following a search on the name "Viggo Mortensen".
What I found strange (and kind of nice, really) was that a surprisingly high proportion stayed and poked around the blog for several minutes. Obviously Viggo's got a highly discerning fanbase.
*: Still nowhere near the all-time daily record of 1500 visits for the June 1st, 2008 post (explainable by having been linked to on the Genentech intranet).
By the way, I do not recommend equipping your blog site with the sitemeter "extra" statistics module. Although it's not hugely expensive ($6.95 a month), it's almost guaranteed to cause you to waste huge amounts of time, if you have even a mildly obsessive personality. Questions such as who might be visiting your site from Palau or Tuvalu, or who your stalker in Kazhakstan might be, will just haunt you incessantly. Though I did find it amusing, during my 2007 trip to Spain, to be able to total up just how much work time Genentech employees were spending visiting the blog in an average day. A figure which I will not share here, to protect the guilty.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
QQ 9-10
Chapter 9.
Next Mick gets cutesy with narrating
A trick, once fresh, now irritating.
Been copied by, to name a few
Jorge Borges, Paul Auster too.
It's cutesy, clever, très post-mod.
Personally I just find it odd.
"What happens next" I hear you ask,
"Between Quixote and the Basque?"
Well, after our narrator handoff,
We learn the fight turns out a standoff.
Neither wins, though both are hurt
(There might be damage to Don's shirt).
No - strike that! In the catalog of woundage,
It's the Don's ear that needs the bandage.
Chapter 10.
Nothing whatsoever happens. Really. Trust me.
Plain people of Ireland: We don't believe you! Boo! Hiss! Rhubarb! Rhubarb!
MOTP (disgusted): Oh, for CHRIST'S sake. ALL RIGHT!
"The Don and Sancho chat and eat
Just bread and cheese, cause there's no meat."
Happy, now, rabble?
Plain people of Ireland: Well, that wasn't very interesting!
MOTP: {sigh}
Next Mick gets cutesy with narrating
A trick, once fresh, now irritating.
Been copied by, to name a few
Jorge Borges, Paul Auster too.
It's cutesy, clever, très post-mod.
Personally I just find it odd.
"What happens next" I hear you ask,
"Between Quixote and the Basque?"
Well, after our narrator handoff,
We learn the fight turns out a standoff.
Neither wins, though both are hurt
(There might be damage to Don's shirt).
No - strike that! In the catalog of woundage,
It's the Don's ear that needs the bandage.
Chapter 10.
Nothing whatsoever happens. Really. Trust me.
Plain people of Ireland: We don't believe you! Boo! Hiss! Rhubarb! Rhubarb!
MOTP (disgusted): Oh, for CHRIST'S sake. ALL RIGHT!
"The Don and Sancho chat and eat
Just bread and cheese, cause there's no meat."
Happy, now, rabble?
Plain people of Ireland: Well, that wasn't very interesting!
MOTP: {sigh}
QUIK QUIXOTE : CHAPTERS 4 -- 8
Chapter 4.
Don leaves the inn. "Saves" boy being whipped.
Attacks muleteers. Is ill-equipped.
Gets thrown from horse. Is soundly battered.
And left in ditch. Completely shattered.
Chapter 5.
Neighbor finds the Don, half-dead.
Rescues, brings him home to bed.
Anxious family; much relief.
Blame Don's books for all his grief.
Chapter 6.
Our Don's in bed; head, heart on fire.
Priest and barber plan a bonfire
in the library. What's worth saving?
Are interrupted by Don's fresh raving.
Chapter 7.
And so the books, source of temptation
Are fuel for major conflagration.
Library's sealed. Housekeeper grins.
Thinks lack of books will rein Don in.
Rejoicing too - Don's niece demure,
But celebration's premature.
Don rests at home, seems calm and sane,
but's planning to take off again.
He needs a squire - think Tony Danza;
Tony's not free - finds Sancho Panza.
Seduces Sancho with fine words.
The pair head out, adventure-wards.
Chapter 8.
The Windmill Scene! It's quite dramatic.
And of our tale so emblematic.
But over soon. It's disappointing.
I have to say, Mick left me wanting
More. But no - one page, then on.
To further exploits of our Don.
He fights a Basque, with sword immense.
The tale breaks off --- we´re in suspense!
Don leaves the inn. "Saves" boy being whipped.
Attacks muleteers. Is ill-equipped.
Gets thrown from horse. Is soundly battered.
And left in ditch. Completely shattered.
Chapter 5.
Neighbor finds the Don, half-dead.
Rescues, brings him home to bed.
Anxious family; much relief.
Blame Don's books for all his grief.
Chapter 6.
Our Don's in bed; head, heart on fire.
Priest and barber plan a bonfire
in the library. What's worth saving?
Are interrupted by Don's fresh raving.
Chapter 7.
And so the books, source of temptation
Are fuel for major conflagration.
Library's sealed. Housekeeper grins.
Thinks lack of books will rein Don in.
Rejoicing too - Don's niece demure,
But celebration's premature.
Don rests at home, seems calm and sane,
but's planning to take off again.
He needs a squire - think Tony Danza;
Tony's not free - finds Sancho Panza.
Seduces Sancho with fine words.
The pair head out, adventure-wards.
Chapter 8.
The Windmill Scene! It's quite dramatic.
And of our tale so emblematic.
But over soon. It's disappointing.
I have to say, Mick left me wanting
More. But no - one page, then on.
To further exploits of our Don.
He fights a Basque, with sword immense.
The tale breaks off --- we´re in suspense!
Friday, March 20, 2009
Public service announcement : Quik Quixote
You may be interested to know how my reading of "Don Quixote" is coming along. Well, I've finished two books of the twelve-volume set. So far, so good. But I'd be lying if I said it's all beer and skittles. The language is reasonably understandable - Spanish has changed much less in the last four centuries than English has done. But I did find it necessary to go out and buy a used copy of the Penguin Classics translation, which I am reading in parallel, to make sure I am not missing anything crucial. While it's not quite the snoozefest I had feared, it's not exactly a laff riot either.
Which is why, here at MOTP central, we are inaugurating, with this post, a new public service for our readers. We are slogging through "Don Quixote"; why should you have to? The answer is - you don't! Just subscribe to our new service -- QUIK-QUIXOTE -- and get the abbreviated version of this classic picaresque tale in convenient serial form. Note that this offer is of limited duration, and available to platinum MOTP subscribers only.
Clearly, it would be unreasonable to expect our readers to subscribe to a pig in a poke, so herewith the MOTP introduction, and summary of the first few chapters. Please also be sure to read the CONSUMER PRODUCT WARNING at the end of this post.
INTRODUCTION
This literary gem of the siglo d'oro,
I have to say's been my bête noir, O
spare your censure, gentle reader,
I bet you haven't read it either.
Let's make a deal. I'll save you time.
Give you a crib in deathless rhyme.
A Cliff Notes version of the Don,
Cause Mick Cervantes does drone on.
So tune back in, my little cupcakes,
And watch this space for future updates.
Too many books; our Don's brain's addled.
So he decides that he'll get saddled.
His scrawny steed? That's Rocinante.
His secret sweetheart, Dulz the dainty.
Don sallies forth in search of fame.
Soon gets confused (recurrent theme
Throughout this tale). Gets taken in.
Thinks "castle", when he should think "inn".
Hilarious fun, with knaves and varlets
And -- pace, Maiden Aunt -- two harlots.
By chapter's end, our Don's a Knight
And off in search of wrongs to right.
A warning will, I hope, here be excused.
How much the reader -- you -- will be amused,
Depends on how you view a poor confused
Clown's antics. Are you laughing? Or bemused?
If it's the latter, here's a quick suggestion.
Just stop right now. Spare yourself indigestion.
But if your favorite circus act's the clown,
Read on, and I'll try not to let you down.
Which is why, here at MOTP central, we are inaugurating, with this post, a new public service for our readers. We are slogging through "Don Quixote"; why should you have to? The answer is - you don't! Just subscribe to our new service -- QUIK-QUIXOTE -- and get the abbreviated version of this classic picaresque tale in convenient serial form. Note that this offer is of limited duration, and available to platinum MOTP subscribers only.
Clearly, it would be unreasonable to expect our readers to subscribe to a pig in a poke, so herewith the MOTP introduction, and summary of the first few chapters. Please also be sure to read the CONSUMER PRODUCT WARNING at the end of this post.
INTRODUCTION
This literary gem of the siglo d'oro,
I have to say's been my bête noir, O
spare your censure, gentle reader,
I bet you haven't read it either.
Let's make a deal. I'll save you time.
Give you a crib in deathless rhyme.
A Cliff Notes version of the Don,
Cause Mick Cervantes does drone on.
So tune back in, my little cupcakes,
And watch this space for future updates.
Chapter 1.
Too many books; our Don's brain's addled.
So he decides that he'll get saddled.
His scrawny steed? That's Rocinante.
His secret sweetheart, Dulz the dainty.
Chapters 2 - 3.
Don sallies forth in search of fame.
Soon gets confused (recurrent theme
Throughout this tale). Gets taken in.
Thinks "castle", when he should think "inn".
Hilarious fun, with knaves and varlets
And -- pace, Maiden Aunt -- two harlots.
By chapter's end, our Don's a Knight
And off in search of wrongs to right.
CONSUMER PRODUCT WARNING
A warning will, I hope, here be excused.
How much the reader -- you -- will be amused,
Depends on how you view a poor confused
Clown's antics. Are you laughing? Or bemused?
If it's the latter, here's a quick suggestion.
Just stop right now. Spare yourself indigestion.
But if your favorite circus act's the clown,
Read on, and I'll try not to let you down.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Cuy Bono?
This little guy, whom you or I might call a guinea pig, is known as a "cuy" in Peru. No, it's not because of the little cuy-cuy squeaking noise he makes, it comes from the Quechua word "quwi" (though I suppose that name could be based on the little quwi-quwi squwiking noise.
You probably know that guinea pigs make very popular pets.
You may even know that they are a very popular food source in the Andes.
But did you know that they were also the main dish at The Last Supper?
No, I didn't think so.
Don't say this blog isn't educational.
You probably know that guinea pigs make very popular pets.
You may even know that they are a very popular food source in the Andes.
But did you know that they were also the main dish at The Last Supper?
No, I didn't think so.
Don't say this blog isn't educational.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Elegy for Eliot
I believe there was a request for doggerel. Who am I to disappoint? Though this was written some time ago, I don't think it's appeared on this blog. So, to commemorate the one-year anniversary of a certain politician's peccadilloes (or rather the public disclosure of the aforementioned indiscretions), here is the
LOVE SONG OF J. ELIOT SPITZER
Let us go then, you and I
While the evening is spread out against the sky
Like the Baghdad skyline behind Wolf Blitzer
Or a criminal taken down by A.G. Spitzer
In the room the women come and go
“I’m called an escort, not a ho.”
The corridors of power are lonely, late at night
The bad guys all day long you have to fight
You deserve a little reward – maybe a cookie?
Nope – even a hero needs some nookie.
In the room the women come and go
“Plastic works, a cheque, or cash to go.”
Temptation looms – a vision, out of reach.
The voice of conscience: “Don’t you eat that peach!”
Too late! Our hero reaches for his cheques.
Another politician laid low by the lure of sex.
In the room the women come and go
“Eliot? Oh yeah, huge ego and libido.”
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling across the shores of silent seas.
Instead my taste for high-priced whores
Has made of me the emperor of sleaze.
(with apologies to, you know, Tom)
While the evening is spread out against the sky
Like the Baghdad skyline behind Wolf Blitzer
Or a criminal taken down by A.G. Spitzer
In the room the women come and go
“I’m called an escort, not a ho.”
The corridors of power are lonely, late at night
The bad guys all day long you have to fight
You deserve a little reward – maybe a cookie?
Nope – even a hero needs some nookie.
In the room the women come and go
“Plastic works, a cheque, or cash to go.”
Temptation looms – a vision, out of reach.
The voice of conscience: “Don’t you eat that peach!”
Too late! Our hero reaches for his cheques.
Another politician laid low by the lure of sex.
In the room the women come and go
“Eliot? Oh yeah, huge ego and libido.”
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling across the shores of silent seas.
Instead my taste for high-priced whores
Has made of me the emperor of sleaze.
(with apologies to, you know, Tom)
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
OPERATION BAKED GOODS : SAINT PATRICK'S DAY SPECIAL EDITION
I may have mentioned previously that I was slated to bring pastries to class this morning, in celebration of Saint Patrick's Day. I know some of you will be waiting with bated breath for an update, so here is a partial pictorial record. Clicking on the images and following them to Flickr should lead to some further comments and notes.
The first picture was taken before the marauding hordes of students attacked:
This assortment represented a half kilogram (so about 18 ounces) of the finest from the Horno San Onofrio, about a block and a half from my house. The total of 30 "units" cost 14.50€, or about 50 centimos apiece (roughly 65 cents U.S.) As noted in the comment on the photo, as a general rule, palatability was inversely proportional to the vividness of the colour. The brown ones were by far the best; this definitely had something to do with the fact that most of them were either truffles or profiterole-like. The less said about the green ones the better.
Our second photo was taken after the hordes had been grazing for a while:
For a version of this photo with notes, see this link:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/gaelstat/3363960520/in/set-72157615421912417
Or, for more extensive photographic documentation, see the entire set:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/gaelstat/sets/72157615421912417/
A note of apology. It will be obvious to anyone browsing the set that this blog is in serious need of a professional food wrangler. It might, to give just one example, have helped avoid the unflattering - and unwarranted - resemblance of one of the more delicious pastries to a malignant tumour. (Lighting is everything)
The fact is that we had a professional food wrangler on staff, but had to let him go last week when he was caught repeatedly nibbling on the scenery. (See last week's post regarding el Ratoncito Pérez).
All in all, OBG St Patrick's Day 2009 was a hugely popular success. It seems almost churlish to point out that a major contributing factor to its popularity was the relative paucity of actual baked goods in the sample. Thus the desiccant potential of the delicacies was kept within acceptable limits.
Even the German students were happy during today's testing.
The first picture was taken before the marauding hordes of students attacked:
This assortment represented a half kilogram (so about 18 ounces) of the finest from the Horno San Onofrio, about a block and a half from my house. The total of 30 "units" cost 14.50€, or about 50 centimos apiece (roughly 65 cents U.S.) As noted in the comment on the photo, as a general rule, palatability was inversely proportional to the vividness of the colour. The brown ones were by far the best; this definitely had something to do with the fact that most of them were either truffles or profiterole-like. The less said about the green ones the better.
Our second photo was taken after the hordes had been grazing for a while:
For a version of this photo with notes, see this link:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/gaelstat/3363960520/in/set-72157615421912417
Or, for more extensive photographic documentation, see the entire set:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/gaelstat/sets/72157615421912417/
A note of apology. It will be obvious to anyone browsing the set that this blog is in serious need of a professional food wrangler. It might, to give just one example, have helped avoid the unflattering - and unwarranted - resemblance of one of the more delicious pastries to a malignant tumour. (Lighting is everything)
The fact is that we had a professional food wrangler on staff, but had to let him go last week when he was caught repeatedly nibbling on the scenery. (See last week's post regarding el Ratoncito Pérez).
All in all, OBG St Patrick's Day 2009 was a hugely popular success. It seems almost churlish to point out that a major contributing factor to its popularity was the relative paucity of actual baked goods in the sample. Thus the desiccant potential of the delicacies was kept within acceptable limits.
Even the German students were happy during today's testing.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Once in a blue moon
If you ever played Trivial Pursuit back in the 80's then, like I did, you probably think you know the origin of the expression "once in a blue moon". It means something rare, because a blue moon occurs when there are two full moons in the same calendar month - a rare occurrence - right?
Wrong! It turns out that this is a misconception, which took hold in the popular imagination during the 1980's, promulgated by a (mistaken) American radio broadcast and the makers of Trivial Pursuit. The correct definition of a blue moon turns out to be a little more complicated, and refers to an event which is even rarer still.
What is the correct definition? Listen up, and I'll tell you. A blue moon is the third full moon in a season that has four full moons. How often does this happen? Let's take a look:
The "Maine Farmer's Almanac" Rule referred to in the diagram is the definition I just gave, 3rd full moon in a season with 4.
It's evident from the diagram that this happens somewhat less often than the occurrence of two full moons in the same calendar month. Furthermore, while the short duration of February means that the latter definition can never happen in February, the Farmer's Almanac definition implies that February is one of only four months in which a blue moon can occur.
The plain people of Ireland: Sure you could be making all this up. How do we know you're not just pulling our legs, in some kind of Saint Patrick's Day prank?
The management: Ye're a suspicious lot, aren't ye? But don't take my word for it. Check it out for yeerselves here. The good scientists at Sky and Telescope wouldn't be misleading the public.
Wrong! It turns out that this is a misconception, which took hold in the popular imagination during the 1980's, promulgated by a (mistaken) American radio broadcast and the makers of Trivial Pursuit. The correct definition of a blue moon turns out to be a little more complicated, and refers to an event which is even rarer still.
What is the correct definition? Listen up, and I'll tell you. A blue moon is the third full moon in a season that has four full moons. How often does this happen? Let's take a look:
The "Maine Farmer's Almanac" Rule referred to in the diagram is the definition I just gave, 3rd full moon in a season with 4.
It's evident from the diagram that this happens somewhat less often than the occurrence of two full moons in the same calendar month. Furthermore, while the short duration of February means that the latter definition can never happen in February, the Farmer's Almanac definition implies that February is one of only four months in which a blue moon can occur.
The plain people of Ireland: Sure you could be making all this up. How do we know you're not just pulling our legs, in some kind of Saint Patrick's Day prank?
The management: Ye're a suspicious lot, aren't ye? But don't take my word for it. Check it out for yeerselves here. The good scientists at Sky and Telescope wouldn't be misleading the public.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
El Museo del Ratoncito Pérez
In Ireland and the U.S. we have the tooth fairy ("la hada de las dientes"). In Korea and Japan, children are exhorted to throw their baby teeth on the roof "for good luck", while chanting some kind of ditty to a magpie. In Mongolia, baby teeth are hidden in a piece of meat and fed to the dog. (Hey, I don't make this stuff up, OK?) In France, it's the Bonne Petite Souris who is charged with exchanging baby teeth for new ones.
Here in Spain, a mouse plays a key role as well. But not just any old mouse. No, indeed. It's the famous Ratoncito Pérez:
It is a little-known fact that el Ratoncito Pérez was born and lived in Madrid. And that there is a museum in his honor in the house of his birthplace, at the Calle Arenal #8, a mere quarter of a mile from Kilometer Zero in Plaza del Sol:
At this site, in the Prast pastry shop, in a tin of biscuits, lived the mouse Pérez, invented by Father Coloma in the eponymous story, written for future king Alfonso XIII when he was a child.
On Thursday I visited the museum. Thus I can reliably inform my readers that the biscuit tin in question was a tin of Huntley and Palmer's biscuits, and that the story was written when Alfonso was just eight years old. The story features the eponymous mouse, el Ratoncito Pérez and a very aristocratic child named Bubi, who is an obvious stand-in for the prince:
Bubi is understandably nervous about the whole losing-a-tooth business:
But through his magic powers, the little mouse is able to transform Bubi so that he can accompany him on his tooth-gathering activities throughout Spain, thereby dispelling his fear (at the cost of giving him distinctly mouse-like features, but I suppose some willing suspension of disbelief is called for here):
And so, ever since, el Ratoncito Pérez, by royal decree, goes on his nightly mission of exchanging baby teeth for little gifts of toys throughout the land.
Admission to the museum is only one Euro. When I went I was the only visitor, so I received individual attention from the lady guide, who was obviously delighted that someone had wandered in off the street. A cultural experience not to be missed!
Here in Spain, a mouse plays a key role as well. But not just any old mouse. No, indeed. It's the famous Ratoncito Pérez:
It is a little-known fact that el Ratoncito Pérez was born and lived in Madrid. And that there is a museum in his honor in the house of his birthplace, at the Calle Arenal #8, a mere quarter of a mile from Kilometer Zero in Plaza del Sol:
At this site, in the Prast pastry shop, in a tin of biscuits, lived the mouse Pérez, invented by Father Coloma in the eponymous story, written for future king Alfonso XIII when he was a child.
On Thursday I visited the museum. Thus I can reliably inform my readers that the biscuit tin in question was a tin of Huntley and Palmer's biscuits, and that the story was written when Alfonso was just eight years old. The story features the eponymous mouse, el Ratoncito Pérez and a very aristocratic child named Bubi, who is an obvious stand-in for the prince:
Bubi is understandably nervous about the whole losing-a-tooth business:
But through his magic powers, the little mouse is able to transform Bubi so that he can accompany him on his tooth-gathering activities throughout Spain, thereby dispelling his fear (at the cost of giving him distinctly mouse-like features, but I suppose some willing suspension of disbelief is called for here):
And so, ever since, el Ratoncito Pérez, by royal decree, goes on his nightly mission of exchanging baby teeth for little gifts of toys throughout the land.
Admission to the museum is only one Euro. When I went I was the only visitor, so I received individual attention from the lady guide, who was obviously delighted that someone had wandered in off the street. A cultural experience not to be missed!
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Passing of a Giant
Genentech Inc., the world's first biotechnology company, and the place where I spent almost a third of my life working, effectively ceased to exist on Thursday. With the announcement that its board of directors had approved the takeover bid by Roche, the majority shareholder, for an estimated $47 billion, or $95 a share, its existence as a separate company comes to an end.
Although I stand to benefit financially from the takeover, I find myself enormously saddened by the news. It was an extraordinary place to work, and I feel exceptionally lucky to have been a part of it. I hope to write a little more about what made the company so special in future posts, but frankly, I'm a little too choked up to do so right now.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090312/ap_on_bi_ge/eu_switzerland_roche_genentech
Although I stand to benefit financially from the takeover, I find myself enormously saddened by the news. It was an extraordinary place to work, and I feel exceptionally lucky to have been a part of it. I hope to write a little more about what made the company so special in future posts, but frankly, I'm a little too choked up to do so right now.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090312/ap_on_bi_ge/eu_switzerland_roche_genentech
Iberian Mysteries (I)
Ever since my return to Spain a couple of minor mysteries have been baffling me. The first of these concerns my watch, pictured above. If you zoom in on the picture (e.g. by calling up the 'large' or 'original' size on Flickr), you will notice something a little odd, namely a little circle of bubbles of condensation on the inside of the watch face, at the centre. This particular phenomenon started up again within 12 hours of my arriving in Spain. Its exact manifestation changes depending on the time of day, and on how long I have been wearing the watch continuously - at times it gets big enough to obscure almost the entire watch face, at times it is more of a ring than an unbroken circle, at times it is all but invisible. I say that it "started up again" because it used to happen regularly during my last stay in Spain as well. This time there is the peculiar added feature that the watch stops going altogether about once a week, which I assume has something to do with the condensation becoming severe enough to affect the battery. After leaving it off for a day or so, the watch starts up again, keeps time perfectly (though murkily) for another week, and so forth.
The mystery lies in the fact that this is a peculiarly Spanish phenomenon. The watch works perfectly the rest of the time, with no visible condensation problems. In Guanajuato last year - no problem. Similarly, for the seven weeks I was in Buenos Aires, the watch worked perfectly. But within 12 hours of arriving in Spain, it's weeping like the statue of some kind of cheap plaster saint in an Andalucian church. In 2007 this happened not only in Madrid, but in Sevilla and Granada as well (though not to the point of stopping entirely). Oddly enough, there were no problems in Salamanca.
I assume it has to do with some odd combination of perspiration and the local ambient conditions, but am at a loss to understand exactly how such a phenomenon might work. Or its bizarre geographical specificity.
Friday, March 13, 2009
My first video
Believe me, I am not particularly proud of the fact that the first video published to my blog involves a penguin-pooping confectionery dispenser.
But then, there are a lot of things in my life that I am not particularly proud of. The worst part is that, as one grows older, the number just keeps increasing. It's not clear why one's most shameful moments should be preserved forever in memory, as if in amber, but that appears to be how things work.
El ingenioso hidalgo Don Quijote de La Mancha
Yesterday, on the way home from lunch, stuffed with nicanores and nata, I came across the following quadricentennial edition of Don Quijote.
The price was right - a paltry 10€ - and the convenience of the 12 slim volumes appealed to me. So I decided to take the plunge. During the transaction, I was making small talk with the book store clerk about the feasibility of a foreigner making it through the entire set in the original Spanish. He was encouraging, saying that they sold copies in Spanish to foreigners all the time, and that just yesterday they had sold a copy of the very same edition I was buying to Viggo Mortensen*.
I think this may be just the impetus that I need. Knowing that I may be reading it in parallel with Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is quite motivating.
*What he failed to mention was that, according to Wikipedia:
His family moved to Venezuela, Argentina, and Denmark, settling in Argentina, where he learned Spanish and became a fan of Club Atlético San Lorenzo de Almagro. His father managed chicken farms and ranches in Argentina. They remained there until Mortensen was eleven
which gives Viggo a certain advantage, as far as navigating the Spanish is concerned.
But still. I am oddly motivated.
The price was right - a paltry 10€ - and the convenience of the 12 slim volumes appealed to me. So I decided to take the plunge. During the transaction, I was making small talk with the book store clerk about the feasibility of a foreigner making it through the entire set in the original Spanish. He was encouraging, saying that they sold copies in Spanish to foreigners all the time, and that just yesterday they had sold a copy of the very same edition I was buying to Viggo Mortensen*.
I think this may be just the impetus that I need. Knowing that I may be reading it in parallel with Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is quite motivating.
*What he failed to mention was that, according to Wikipedia:
His family moved to Venezuela, Argentina, and Denmark, settling in Argentina, where he learned Spanish and became a fan of Club Atlético San Lorenzo de Almagro. His father managed chicken farms and ranches in Argentina. They remained there until Mortensen was eleven
which gives Viggo a certain advantage, as far as navigating the Spanish is concerned.
But still. I am oddly motivated.
OPERATION BAKED GOODS REDUX
Yesterday I was presented with an irresistible opportunity to continue this blog's ongoing (if sporadic) investigation into the desiccant properties of assorted baked goods native to the Iberian peninsula.
The latest entry in our parade of decadent desiccant dulces is shown in the photograph. The pastries in question are known as "nicanores", and are native to the little pueblo of Boñar, which is -- as far as my lazy, google-based research has been able to ascertain -- somewhere not too far outside of Madrid, in the province of (Castilla-)León.
It seems only fair to allow the Nicanores a chance to give their side of the story -
The latest entry in our parade of decadent desiccant dulces is shown in the photograph. The pastries in question are known as "nicanores", and are native to the little pueblo of Boñar, which is -- as far as my lazy, google-based research has been able to ascertain -- somewhere not too far outside of Madrid, in the province of (Castilla-)León.
It seems only fair to allow the Nicanores a chance to give their side of the story -
The Nicanores are an exquisite puff pastry which the main row material is the butter. After a caring manipulation, they have turned into a puff pastry of a extraordinary quality as the smooth of their layers make them so delicate that they get dissolved in your mouth in the same way that it happens with the own butter.
Here at Operation Baked Goods Central, our standards have to be a little higher. (Our readers deserve no less). Our reviewer's opinion:
Although the nicanores share the unique desiccant properties common to all eThpanish baked goods, eating them was not an entirely painful experience. The saliva-absorbency did not quite reach the levels of the little desiccant packages found in new luggage, and the cardboard taste that is regrettably common in the pastries of the Iberian peninsula was refreshingly absent. They were, however, extremely friable, reaching the maximum 5 points on the flakiness scale. Consumption was definitely aided by the large dollops of "nata" shown in the picture, though it is this reviewer's opinion that the "dairy product" in question was definitely closer to Kool-Whip (sic) than actual whipped cream. However, its presence had a definitive ameliorative effect on the consumability of the nicanores, and extra points are due to the restaurant for providing the entertaining little sugar stars as decoration. Sadly, none of this was enough to make a person ever want to eat this particular delicacy more than once in a lifetime.
The pastry chefs of Vienna, indeed of all of Northern Europe, have little to fear from this Iberian delicacy.
Although the name suggests that this pastry might be a particular favorite of suave, martini-swilling, couples with a taste for sleuthing, this appears to be nothing more than a lexicographical coincidence.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Segovian shenanigans
Brad is visiting from San Francisco this week, so on Sunday we went on a little excursion to Segovia. A town famous for its Roman aqueduct:
its delicious local culinary specialty, the cochinillo, or suckling pig (YUM):
and assorted historical sculptures and statues:
There's also the Alcazar, the Cathedral, and about a gazillion other churches, though - it pains me to break the news - the museum of witchcraft closed last year due to poor attendance.
Nonetheless, Brad managed to track down what might reasonably be considered the most hideously inappropriate, ugliest souvenir your imagination could possibly conjure up. As this is a family blog, more or less, it is entirely impossible for me to provide photographic evidence. Let's just refer to it as a carved wooden "male fertility idol", and if that doesn't conjure the right kind of graphic image in your mind, perhaps the words "grotesquely oversized genitalia" will do the trick.
Now, far be it from me to criticize the souvenir choices of any of my houseguests, though frankly, my slight (and understandable, if you saw the bloody monstrosity) embarrassment when he insisted on roping me in as an interpreter during the purchase seemed to provoke an unnecessary amount of glee on his part.
Tables were turned when we got to the station on the way home, however, because all the bubble wrap in the world won't save you from embarrassment when you have to put your fertility idol with the grotesquely oversized genitalia through the X-ray screening machine required to board the train from Segovia to Madrid. I'm ashamed to admit that the one doing the gleeful cackling at that point was me.
We had a great day in Segovia.
I'm pleased to say that I managed to convince Brad that it wasn't really necessary to take the idol out of its bubble wrap for the cleaning lady's benefit yesterday
its delicious local culinary specialty, the cochinillo, or suckling pig (YUM):
and assorted historical sculptures and statues:
There's also the Alcazar, the Cathedral, and about a gazillion other churches, though - it pains me to break the news - the museum of witchcraft closed last year due to poor attendance.
Nonetheless, Brad managed to track down what might reasonably be considered the most hideously inappropriate, ugliest souvenir your imagination could possibly conjure up. As this is a family blog, more or less, it is entirely impossible for me to provide photographic evidence. Let's just refer to it as a carved wooden "male fertility idol", and if that doesn't conjure the right kind of graphic image in your mind, perhaps the words "grotesquely oversized genitalia" will do the trick.
Now, far be it from me to criticize the souvenir choices of any of my houseguests, though frankly, my slight (and understandable, if you saw the bloody monstrosity) embarrassment when he insisted on roping me in as an interpreter during the purchase seemed to provoke an unnecessary amount of glee on his part.
Tables were turned when we got to the station on the way home, however, because all the bubble wrap in the world won't save you from embarrassment when you have to put your fertility idol with the grotesquely oversized genitalia through the X-ray screening machine required to board the train from Segovia to Madrid. I'm ashamed to admit that the one doing the gleeful cackling at that point was me.
We had a great day in Segovia.
I'm pleased to say that I managed to convince Brad that it wasn't really necessary to take the idol out of its bubble wrap for the cleaning lady's benefit yesterday
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
New York, New York
I haven't yet made it to the Shackleton exhibition ("Trapped in the Ice"), but I did visit the collection of photos of WeeGee's New York on display in the Telefónica Building at the other end of Calle Valverde on Friday afternoon. There were around 200 photos in what turned out to be a really fascinating (and free) exhibition. I believe the three shown below do not have copyright restrictions:
Here is the link to the Telefónica website:
http://www.fundacion.telefonica.com/arteytecnologia/exposiciones/weegee.htm
Here is the link to the Telefónica website:
http://www.fundacion.telefonica.com/arteytecnologia/exposiciones/weegee.htm
Bizarre confectionery dispenser dioramas
Anyone following my (poorly organized) photostream on Flickr may be baffled by the inclusion of a number of photos like the one below.
There is no satisfactory "explanation", except to say that boredom on a Sunday evening and way too much time on my hands contributed to the first in this series. Before I could stop myself, a tradition was born, and now Sunday would seem incomplete without assembling another one and posting the photographic evidence. I am worried that the polar bear dispenser planned for next weekend appears to be temporarily out of stock, but hopeful that the situation can be remedied before Sunday rolls around.
Yes. It's true. I am 8 years old. Given the right headgear, I could be a South Park character.
There is no satisfactory "explanation", except to say that boredom on a Sunday evening and way too much time on my hands contributed to the first in this series. Before I could stop myself, a tradition was born, and now Sunday would seem incomplete without assembling another one and posting the photographic evidence. I am worried that the polar bear dispenser planned for next weekend appears to be temporarily out of stock, but hopeful that the situation can be remedied before Sunday rolls around.
Yes. It's true. I am 8 years old. Given the right headgear, I could be a South Park character.
He lives in the coffin. He drinks of the blood.
A recurring theme in this blog is the way that traveling can bring out different facets of one's personality. The combination of novelty, anonymity, and sometimes sheer necessity, leads you to do things en route that you might never consider at home.
Despite that promising opening, there are no major confessions to follow - sorry to get anyone's hopes up. But a small illustration is provided by my behavior in restaurants and cafés. Back in the U.S., my preferred interaction with waiters is to as cordially brief and to the point as possible, a probable reaction against the "waiter as buddy" model adopted by far too many eating establishments. Here in Spain, it's quite the reverse - I will engage even the surliest of waiters in conversation. Partly it's a desire to see if I can make a dent in the surly exterior, partly it's because the reason I'm here is to converse with Spanish people (so waiters qualify). It helps to know that one is anonymous - what have I got to lose - and there's always a readymade excuse. Since I generally have something that I'm reading, underlining the unknown vocabulary words, if nothing else I can always ask what a particular word means.
The answers to this opening line can range from brusque and boring to engaging and entertaining. One of my favorite recent responses was in answer my asking the meaning of the word "ataúd". The waiter puzzled for a moment as to how best to explain, then broke into a wide grin and explained:
"El ataúd es donde vive el Conde Dracula" (it's where Count Dracula lives).
I couldn't have put it more succinctly myself.
The little coffin shown in the picture is on display in the Alcazar, the old fortress/museum that is one of the highlights of Segovia, which we visited on Sunday. The story that goes with it is a sad one. At some point in the castle's history, a particularly unlucky royal nanny had the misfortune to drop the baby princeling in her charge from the ramparts. Rather than face disgrace and certain death as punishment, she flung herself to her death after him. The coffin is alleged to have contained the little royal remains (seems kind of unlikely). One imagines that the nanny's remains fared less well.
Despite that promising opening, there are no major confessions to follow - sorry to get anyone's hopes up. But a small illustration is provided by my behavior in restaurants and cafés. Back in the U.S., my preferred interaction with waiters is to as cordially brief and to the point as possible, a probable reaction against the "waiter as buddy" model adopted by far too many eating establishments. Here in Spain, it's quite the reverse - I will engage even the surliest of waiters in conversation. Partly it's a desire to see if I can make a dent in the surly exterior, partly it's because the reason I'm here is to converse with Spanish people (so waiters qualify). It helps to know that one is anonymous - what have I got to lose - and there's always a readymade excuse. Since I generally have something that I'm reading, underlining the unknown vocabulary words, if nothing else I can always ask what a particular word means.
The answers to this opening line can range from brusque and boring to engaging and entertaining. One of my favorite recent responses was in answer my asking the meaning of the word "ataúd". The waiter puzzled for a moment as to how best to explain, then broke into a wide grin and explained:
"El ataúd es donde vive el Conde Dracula" (it's where Count Dracula lives).
I couldn't have put it more succinctly myself.
The little coffin shown in the picture is on display in the Alcazar, the old fortress/museum that is one of the highlights of Segovia, which we visited on Sunday. The story that goes with it is a sad one. At some point in the castle's history, a particularly unlucky royal nanny had the misfortune to drop the baby princeling in her charge from the ramparts. Rather than face disgrace and certain death as punishment, she flung herself to her death after him. The coffin is alleged to have contained the little royal remains (seems kind of unlikely). One imagines that the nanny's remains fared less well.
Friday, March 6, 2009
MAD COWS
Photographic documentation of the mad cow invasion is an ongoing process, so check out the VACAS LOCAS link (in the column on the right) from time to time to be sure to see the most current version.
Have a cupcake
If anyone is wondering why text entries are relatively scarce on the blog at the moment, it's partly because my friend Brad arrived from San Francisco yesterday, so I will be busy playing tour guide this weekend and for much of next week. Also because school takes 7 hours a day, and because I am a lazy blogger, to boot. I promise to try harder at the weekend.
But, for right now, it's time to head out to see "Atrapados en el Hielo" (Trapped in the Ice), the exposition about the Shackleton expedition. And maybe catch the exhibition of photos by Weejee (sp?) in the Telefónica Building down the street.
Have I mentioned how much I LOVE Madrid?
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
In the apartment
Here is a picture of the apartment. Although it is pretty IKEA-ish, it's not quite as bleakly sterile as the photo might suggest. I just uploaded a bunch of other photos of the apartment, the street of hideous lamp shops, and two new cows (yea!!) to Flickr:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/gaelstat/
I don't know who either of the people in the apartment pictures are, or if indeed they are supposed to represent actual persons.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Book Review : A Melon for Ecstasy
A MELON FOR ECSTASY
by John Fortune and John Wells
Quite simply the funniest book I have ever read in my life. Written as a series of letters; as the correspondence mounts, the overall message becomes hilariously clear. Never get between a man and his trees.
Starring Humphrey Mackevoy, a man who loves trees, maybe a little too much. The sudden epidemic of holes bored into local trees, all 33 inches from the ground at an angle of 15 degrees to the horizontal, has everyone in town buzzing. The authorities are outraged at such wanton vandalism, the police are on high alert, the ornithological society is ecstatic, believing that the fabulously rare crested woodpecker has returned to the British Isles. Humphrey is more concerned with occupational hazards like splinter wounds and the toxic effects of the new pesticide being sprayed on the trees.
What with the prison chaplain dedicated to making the Gospel more relevant by rewriting it as a Western (Posse from Galilee), assorted power-crazed local councillors, a sex-crazed sixteen-year-old girl desperate to get laid, and the ever-present Humphrey's Mummy, there is never a dull moment.
Given the spicy gumbo that the authors have concocted, rich with every hilarious village archetype you've ever come across, the tree-porn sections are lagniappe. A certain bewitching laburnum stirs Humphrey to flights of soft-porn eloquence:
"Lasciviously I turned my face, brushing the cold bark with my lips, and began to explore its texture with my tongue. And you couldn't stop me, my laburnum, you with your branches pinioned in the air, leaving your trunk so bare, so bare, so unprotected, so vulnerable..."
Possibly the finest epistolary novel ever written.
by John Fortune and John Wells
Quite simply the funniest book I have ever read in my life. Written as a series of letters; as the correspondence mounts, the overall message becomes hilariously clear. Never get between a man and his trees.
Starring Humphrey Mackevoy, a man who loves trees, maybe a little too much. The sudden epidemic of holes bored into local trees, all 33 inches from the ground at an angle of 15 degrees to the horizontal, has everyone in town buzzing. The authorities are outraged at such wanton vandalism, the police are on high alert, the ornithological society is ecstatic, believing that the fabulously rare crested woodpecker has returned to the British Isles. Humphrey is more concerned with occupational hazards like splinter wounds and the toxic effects of the new pesticide being sprayed on the trees.
What with the prison chaplain dedicated to making the Gospel more relevant by rewriting it as a Western (Posse from Galilee), assorted power-crazed local councillors, a sex-crazed sixteen-year-old girl desperate to get laid, and the ever-present Humphrey's Mummy, there is never a dull moment.
Given the spicy gumbo that the authors have concocted, rich with every hilarious village archetype you've ever come across, the tree-porn sections are lagniappe. A certain bewitching laburnum stirs Humphrey to flights of soft-porn eloquence:
"Lasciviously I turned my face, brushing the cold bark with my lips, and began to explore its texture with my tongue. And you couldn't stop me, my laburnum, you with your branches pinioned in the air, leaving your trunk so bare, so bare, so unprotected, so vulnerable..."
Possibly the finest epistolary novel ever written.
(Fiesta de) Despedida de Soltera
Spanish for "hen party", and extremely popular on Saturday nights in Madrid. Last night, during my random wanderings, I encountered three, and had some drunken señorita flash me her boobies from a limousine.
By reputation, hen parties are now more boisterous than stag parties, throughout Europe. I am reliably informed that the town of Kilkenny has banned hen parties in perpetuity, after a particularly notorious night of debauchery some years back, in which squads of Gárdaí had to be summoned in from neighboring towns to quell the ongoing raucousness.
Rumor has it that the republic of Slovenia is also plagued by overly rowdy prenuptial public oestrogen-fests.
By reputation, hen parties are now more boisterous than stag parties, throughout Europe. I am reliably informed that the town of Kilkenny has banned hen parties in perpetuity, after a particularly notorious night of debauchery some years back, in which squads of Gárdaí had to be summoned in from neighboring towns to quell the ongoing raucousness.
Rumor has it that the republic of Slovenia is also plagued by overly rowdy prenuptial public oestrogen-fests.
More ruthless rhymes
Little Willie, mean as hell
Drowned his sister in the well.
Mother said, while drawing water,
"Gee, it's hard to raise a daughter."
Little Willie found a mirror,
Went and sucked the mercury off,
Thinking in his childish error,
It would cure his whooping cough.
At the funeral, Willie's mother
Sadly said to Mrs. Brown,
"'Twas a chilly day for Willie
When the mercury went down."
(from "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes" by Harry Graham, 1902)
Drowned his sister in the well.
Mother said, while drawing water,
"Gee, it's hard to raise a daughter."
Little Willie found a mirror,
Went and sucked the mercury off,
Thinking in his childish error,
It would cure his whooping cough.
At the funeral, Willie's mother
Sadly said to Mrs. Brown,
"'Twas a chilly day for Willie
When the mercury went down."
(from "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes" by Harry Graham, 1902)
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Book Review -- Limits of Language
Another one of our occasional MOTP reviews (a positive one, this time). Obviously, it was written some time ago. But my delight in this book remains unabated:
"Limits of Language" arrived today from Amazon. I've never smoked crack, but reading this book approximates what I imagine it would feel like -- an initial rush of pure pleasure, followed by the irresistible craving for just one more bump, yielding to that craving over and over until - six hours later - you find yourself surrounded by cats not fed, laundry not done, unwashed dishes, unpaid bills, and yet you still can't stop yourself. You want more. You want it to last forever. Damn you, Mikael Parkvall! How could you write a book that caters so brilliantly to my utter fascination with words and all things language-related? And be so smart and funny too?
I just tore myself away to feed the cats and pass this message along to goodreads members. There are still three shopping weeks until Christmas. Nobody else appears to be listing this book. So - if you know anyone with an interest in words or language - buy them a copy. Their puppy-like gratitude will last all year. Heck, now that it's out in paperback, you can get your own copy for less than twenty bucks.
A pdf preview of the detailed table of contents and the first 19 pages is here:
http://www.wmjasco.com/limits/LLPreview.pdf
The table of contents at the link above is very detailed, but fails to capture the author's wit, and the sheer geekish zaniness of some of the topics. Some highlights -
A 30-page "linguist's calendar", marking the anniversary of various linguistic milestones (e.g. 'birth of Kanzi, the most talking ape there is';'the Dalmatian language becomes extinct, when the last surviving speaker accidentally steps on a landmine') giving linguists an excuse to celebrate throughout the year.
Habla Usted Phrase-Bookish? A side-splitting selection of useless phrases culled from phrasebooks around the world. For instance -
"At what time were these branches eaten by the rhinoceros?"
"I have my own syringe".
"The beast had a human body, the feet of a buck, and a horn on its head".
"I don't play the violin, but I love cheese".
Untranslatable Words: e.g. the Kuot word aFone "to drink from a bottle in such a fashion that drool trickles from the mouth back into the bottle", the Czech umudrovat se "to philosophize oneself into the madhouse", or the Ciluba word ilunga "a person who is willing to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time".
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to reading about the word's most dadaistic verb morphology*.
I don't play the violin, but I LOVE this book!
* Oh, OK. Here is the paragraph in question:
Linguists are supposed to take languages seriously. We are not supposed to laugh at them. So, apologies to all Kobon speakers out there, but I just can't help it. The prize for the language with the verb morphology most looking like it had been thought up by Tristan Tzara must go to Kobon. If there are any sceptics among the readers, here follows the suffixal paradigm for the counterfactual mood in Kobon:
1sg -- bnep 1du -- blop 1pl -- bnop
2sg -- bnap 2du -- blep 2pl -- bep
3sg -- böp 3du -- blep 3pl -- blap
Limits of Language
by Mikael Parkvall"Limits of Language" arrived today from Amazon. I've never smoked crack, but reading this book approximates what I imagine it would feel like -- an initial rush of pure pleasure, followed by the irresistible craving for just one more bump, yielding to that craving over and over until - six hours later - you find yourself surrounded by cats not fed, laundry not done, unwashed dishes, unpaid bills, and yet you still can't stop yourself. You want more. You want it to last forever. Damn you, Mikael Parkvall! How could you write a book that caters so brilliantly to my utter fascination with words and all things language-related? And be so smart and funny too?
I just tore myself away to feed the cats and pass this message along to goodreads members. There are still three shopping weeks until Christmas. Nobody else appears to be listing this book. So - if you know anyone with an interest in words or language - buy them a copy. Their puppy-like gratitude will last all year. Heck, now that it's out in paperback, you can get your own copy for less than twenty bucks.
A pdf preview of the detailed table of contents and the first 19 pages is here:
http://www.wmjasco.com/limits/LLPreview.pdf
The table of contents at the link above is very detailed, but fails to capture the author's wit, and the sheer geekish zaniness of some of the topics. Some highlights -
A 30-page "linguist's calendar", marking the anniversary of various linguistic milestones (e.g. 'birth of Kanzi, the most talking ape there is';'the Dalmatian language becomes extinct, when the last surviving speaker accidentally steps on a landmine') giving linguists an excuse to celebrate throughout the year.
Habla Usted Phrase-Bookish? A side-splitting selection of useless phrases culled from phrasebooks around the world. For instance -
"At what time were these branches eaten by the rhinoceros?"
"I have my own syringe".
"The beast had a human body, the feet of a buck, and a horn on its head".
"I don't play the violin, but I love cheese".
Untranslatable Words: e.g. the Kuot word aFone "to drink from a bottle in such a fashion that drool trickles from the mouth back into the bottle", the Czech umudrovat se "to philosophize oneself into the madhouse", or the Ciluba word ilunga "a person who is willing to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time".
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to reading about the word's most dadaistic verb morphology*.
I don't play the violin, but I LOVE this book!
* Oh, OK. Here is the paragraph in question:
Linguists are supposed to take languages seriously. We are not supposed to laugh at them. So, apologies to all Kobon speakers out there, but I just can't help it. The prize for the language with the verb morphology most looking like it had been thought up by Tristan Tzara must go to Kobon. If there are any sceptics among the readers, here follows the suffixal paradigm for the counterfactual mood in Kobon:
1sg -- bnep 1du -- blop 1pl -- bnop
2sg -- bnap 2du -- blep 2pl -- bep
3sg -- böp 3du -- blep 3pl -- blap
The Quiet Man
It may look inviting, and I'm sure those 5€ mojitos are delicious. But, lemme tell you, the ambience can only be described as distinctly creepy. Not in a good way, either. More in a transvestite hooker kind of way. A pity, since it would be a good candidate for my local hangout, being right next door to the building my apartment's in.
Varmint Cuisine
Ever since I was bitten by an American gray squirrel (right), for a crime no worse than feeding it peanuts, it's no secret that I have not been a fan of this particular form of vermin. They are just rats with bushy tails, and don't let anyone try to convince you otherwise.
Thus, the news that Great Britain has instituted a campaign to save the native red squirrel population by encouraging the hunting and eating of the varmints on the right in the picture can only be considered a step forward for mankind. So, to my British readers out there, what are you waiting for? Shouldn't you be out there hunting to feed your family?
As the slogan puts it, "Eat a squirrel! Save a squirrel!"
Source: New York Times, January 7th, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Abstinence Teacher
Here at MOTP, we run occasional book reviews. Filtering out the dreck so that you don't have to.
WARNING: may not be entirely suitable for maiden aunts.
THE ABSTINENCE TEACHER
by Tom Perrotta.
JESUS WANTS YOU ........ TO GROW A PAIR.
Tommy, Tommy, Tommy! How did such a promising young literary stud like yourself turn out to be such an emasculated whore? When did things start to go so horribly, horribly wrong?
Let me be clear. When I picked you up at the airport in San Francisco, it was with entirely clear-eyed, realistic expectations. Let's face it. I wasn't looking for the literary love of my life. Just a two-plane romance - enough to while away the time it takes to get from SFO to Madrid. Maybe a little bathroom nookie during my stopover in Dulles. And believe me - I'm no snob about this s**t. I think there's everything to be said for the fleeting joy of airplane lit. Done right, it can be one of life's great pleasures. And the possibility can never be ruled out that it may lead to a deeper and more passionate commitment. I mean, look at Nate and Brenda in "Six Feet Under", and how well it worked out for them. Even the briefest of airport bathroom encounters is pregnant with possibility.
So I'll admit to a certain nervous excitement as I boarded the plane at SFO, your manly bulk in my pocket, pressing against my crotch in mute promise of pleasures yet to come. And for the first 20 pages or so, you didn't disappoint. There was wit, a sense of direction, a certain ability to nail characters with brisk efficiency within a couple of snappy paragraphs.
But I should have heeded the warning signs that were obvious right there in the book store. Even if the appalling cutesy biographical sketch could be excused as a horrendous contrivance foisted upon you by your publicist, there was that truly worrisome 'author portrait', which presumably you had to have approved at the very least. You know the one I'm talking about. The one where your desperate need to be liked permeates every line of the simpering come-hither rictus of a wistful little-lost-geisha-boy pout that you project to your potential johns. It might as well have been subtitled "me make you happy long time".
Did they teach you that at geisha school, Tommy? To try to be all things to all men? Because, here's the thing, eunuchboy. Let me let you in on a little secret. Nowadays even the sweatiest of Japanese salarymen no longer finds the response "Who would you like me to be?" even faintly arousing in answer to the question "Who are you?".
So that, when your thin excuse for a bold courageous novel touching on polemic issues related to sex education degenerated into an incoherent mess of not wanting to offend anybody under any circumstances, frankly my frustration increased in direct proportion to the flaccidity of your prose. What was particularly weird was that you were hardly fooling anyone with your lethally boring 150 pages of padding trying to cover up the moral vacuum at the heart of your cardboard ex-stoner Jesus freak.
And what about plot, Tommy? Do castrati get a pass?
WARNING....... POSSIBLE SPOILER AHEAD .... BUT ONLY IF YOU ARE REALLY, REALLY STUPID ... AS STUPID AS THE AUTHOR ... WHICH SEEMS UNLIKELY ...
Or is that what passes for resolution these days? Fading to black as hormonal Barbie and stoner Ken get it on. Despite the well-documented lack of genitalia of said eponymous action figurines.
And apparently of the author of this excessively wordy piece of trash of a book, devoid of almost any smidgen of intellectual content. Guaranteed to offend nobody. Unless, of course, you have a brain.
WARNING: may not be entirely suitable for maiden aunts.
THE ABSTINENCE TEACHER
by Tom Perrotta.
JESUS WANTS YOU ........ TO GROW A PAIR.
Tommy, Tommy, Tommy! How did such a promising young literary stud like yourself turn out to be such an emasculated whore? When did things start to go so horribly, horribly wrong?
Let me be clear. When I picked you up at the airport in San Francisco, it was with entirely clear-eyed, realistic expectations. Let's face it. I wasn't looking for the literary love of my life. Just a two-plane romance - enough to while away the time it takes to get from SFO to Madrid. Maybe a little bathroom nookie during my stopover in Dulles. And believe me - I'm no snob about this s**t. I think there's everything to be said for the fleeting joy of airplane lit. Done right, it can be one of life's great pleasures. And the possibility can never be ruled out that it may lead to a deeper and more passionate commitment. I mean, look at Nate and Brenda in "Six Feet Under", and how well it worked out for them. Even the briefest of airport bathroom encounters is pregnant with possibility.
So I'll admit to a certain nervous excitement as I boarded the plane at SFO, your manly bulk in my pocket, pressing against my crotch in mute promise of pleasures yet to come. And for the first 20 pages or so, you didn't disappoint. There was wit, a sense of direction, a certain ability to nail characters with brisk efficiency within a couple of snappy paragraphs.
But I should have heeded the warning signs that were obvious right there in the book store. Even if the appalling cutesy biographical sketch could be excused as a horrendous contrivance foisted upon you by your publicist, there was that truly worrisome 'author portrait', which presumably you had to have approved at the very least. You know the one I'm talking about. The one where your desperate need to be liked permeates every line of the simpering come-hither rictus of a wistful little-lost-geisha-boy pout that you project to your potential johns. It might as well have been subtitled "me make you happy long time".
Did they teach you that at geisha school, Tommy? To try to be all things to all men? Because, here's the thing, eunuchboy. Let me let you in on a little secret. Nowadays even the sweatiest of Japanese salarymen no longer finds the response "Who would you like me to be?" even faintly arousing in answer to the question "Who are you?".
So that, when your thin excuse for a bold courageous novel touching on polemic issues related to sex education degenerated into an incoherent mess of not wanting to offend anybody under any circumstances, frankly my frustration increased in direct proportion to the flaccidity of your prose. What was particularly weird was that you were hardly fooling anyone with your lethally boring 150 pages of padding trying to cover up the moral vacuum at the heart of your cardboard ex-stoner Jesus freak.
And what about plot, Tommy? Do castrati get a pass?
WARNING....... POSSIBLE SPOILER AHEAD .... BUT ONLY IF YOU ARE REALLY, REALLY STUPID ... AS STUPID AS THE AUTHOR ... WHICH SEEMS UNLIKELY ...
Or is that what passes for resolution these days? Fading to black as hormonal Barbie and stoner Ken get it on. Despite the well-documented lack of genitalia of said eponymous action figurines.
And apparently of the author of this excessively wordy piece of trash of a book, devoid of almost any smidgen of intellectual content. Guaranteed to offend nobody. Unless, of course, you have a brain.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
A ruthless rhyme
L'Enfant Glacé
When Baby's cries grew hard to bear,
I popped him in the Frigidaire.
I never would have done so if,
I'd known that he'd be frozen stiff.
My wife said: 'George, I'm so unhappé!
Our darling's now completely frappé!
(from "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes", 1902, by Harry Graham)
When Baby's cries grew hard to bear,
I popped him in the Frigidaire.
I never would have done so if,
I'd known that he'd be frozen stiff.
My wife said: 'George, I'm so unhappé!
Our darling's now completely frappé!
(from "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes", 1902, by Harry Graham)
Serendipity
I hadn't intended to see "My Name is Harvey Milk" tonight. But I had a hard time finding the movie theatre, so that by the time I got there, the film I'd intended to see was already 15 minutes underway, so I chose Harvey Milk instead. It just blew me away - extraordinarily moving, and Sean Penn's performance has to be among the top five performances I've seen by any actor or actress. In anything. Ever.
I'm still so jazzed by the film it's hard to consider going to bed. But it's midnight, so I'd best call it a day for now.
A truly wonderful movie, all the better for having stumbled across it serendipitously.
I'm still so jazzed by the film it's hard to consider going to bed. But it's midnight, so I'd best call it a day for now.
A truly wonderful movie, all the better for having stumbled across it serendipitously.
En la Escuela
So, classes started yesterday, and once again I am left to ponder the eternal question - what is it about studying advanced Spanish that makes it a virtually exclusively female pursuit? I am the only guy in a class of 8. It's odd, because there are plenty of male students in the school - they just apparently never make it through to the most advanced levels.
I'm also the oldest, though not egregiously so - the age mix is definitely better than in Buenos Aires. Once again, my classmates make the mistake of underestimating me, presumably on the entirely erroneous assumption that anyone over 50 must essentially be some kind of doddering escapee from the senior citizens' center. Why then, was I the only one to know that the Smurfs are called "los pitufos" en español (a term also used as a synonym for the English phrase "rug rats")?
Or that this gentleman:
is called "Bob Esponja".
I also know the names of the seven dwarves in Thpanish, but I didn't want to show off. (OK, just a little: "Grumpy" is "Gruñon" and "Sleepy" is "Dormilón").
In other news, all of Madrid is bery bery happy that Penelope won the Oscar. This was the first thing I learned when I showed up for class yesterday morning, even before taking the placement test. El País ran a whole special on her, including the most hilarious picture of her first communion class, wherein she can already be seen preening in ostentatiously diva-like fashion. My sources here inform me reliably that she and Javier Bardem are an item. Also that the Bardem family run a restaurant right in the neighborhood. Which, believe me, I fully intend to track down.
My readers deserve nothing less.
I'm also the oldest, though not egregiously so - the age mix is definitely better than in Buenos Aires. Once again, my classmates make the mistake of underestimating me, presumably on the entirely erroneous assumption that anyone over 50 must essentially be some kind of doddering escapee from the senior citizens' center. Why then, was I the only one to know that the Smurfs are called "los pitufos" en español (a term also used as a synonym for the English phrase "rug rats")?
Or that this gentleman:
is called "Bob Esponja".
I also know the names of the seven dwarves in Thpanish, but I didn't want to show off. (OK, just a little: "Grumpy" is "Gruñon" and "Sleepy" is "Dormilón").
In other news, all of Madrid is bery bery happy that Penelope won the Oscar. This was the first thing I learned when I showed up for class yesterday morning, even before taking the placement test. El País ran a whole special on her, including the most hilarious picture of her first communion class, wherein she can already be seen preening in ostentatiously diva-like fashion. My sources here inform me reliably that she and Javier Bardem are an item. Also that the Bardem family run a restaurant right in the neighborhood. Which, believe me, I fully intend to track down.
My readers deserve nothing less.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Saturday afternoon stroll
Just being out and about in Madrid is enough to cheer a body up. Check it out for yourself:
Saturday afternoon pictures
Saturday afternoon pictures
Settling in
I'd forgotten just how completely crazy Madrid can be -- people out and about at all hours of the day and night. Yesterday was a terrific day -- got some necessary chores taken care of in the morning. Then, as if to make me feel at home, when I went out to get some lunch (around 2pm or so), in quick succession, a few random occurrences helped dispel that "alone in the big city" feeling.
The first was, just as I was leaving the building, I bumped into the mailman who was vainly scanning the mailboxes for a "David Giltinan". It seemed impossible, as I hadn't remembered giving the address to anyone. But no, when I talked to my Scottish friend Yvonne on Saturday before leaving S.F. I had given her the address, and sure enough - he had a welcoming letter from Yvonne to brighten my day. Then, when I reached ROOT, one of my favorite restaurants from when I was here last time, the hostess greeted me, all smiles - and remembered me, even to the point of asking after my cats "with the Russian names". Now, granted, this was just professional hospitality on her part, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel nice to be remembered and welcomed. Later on in the afternoon, just wandering along, I spied a familiar face - someone waving at me from one of the little cafes - it was Pedro, director of the DonQuijote school. So that, all of a sudden, I didn't feel quite so far from home.
All in all, an afternoon that made me feel welcome to be back in Madrid, and not quite so anonymous. I'm really psyched about starting classes again on Monday morning. It'll be interesting to see how much of my Spanish I remember, and whether I picked up any really bad linguistic habits down in Buenos Aires.
The first was, just as I was leaving the building, I bumped into the mailman who was vainly scanning the mailboxes for a "David Giltinan". It seemed impossible, as I hadn't remembered giving the address to anyone. But no, when I talked to my Scottish friend Yvonne on Saturday before leaving S.F. I had given her the address, and sure enough - he had a welcoming letter from Yvonne to brighten my day. Then, when I reached ROOT, one of my favorite restaurants from when I was here last time, the hostess greeted me, all smiles - and remembered me, even to the point of asking after my cats "with the Russian names". Now, granted, this was just professional hospitality on her part, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel nice to be remembered and welcomed. Later on in the afternoon, just wandering along, I spied a familiar face - someone waving at me from one of the little cafes - it was Pedro, director of the DonQuijote school. So that, all of a sudden, I didn't feel quite so far from home.
All in all, an afternoon that made me feel welcome to be back in Madrid, and not quite so anonymous. I'm really psyched about starting classes again on Monday morning. It'll be interesting to see how much of my Spanish I remember, and whether I picked up any really bad linguistic habits down in Buenos Aires.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The key to happiness
Well, I'm not claiming to have any definitive answers. But I think it must have something to do with being able to stick the right kind of plug in the right kind of hole and have it fit.
And although I did arrive at this conclusion after an hour and a half searching through Chueca, Madrid's ultra-chic gay ghetto, you can all get your collective mind out of the gutter and rest assured that my search was through various hardware stores. Looking for just the right adapter that would allow me to use the expensive battery charger I bought in Buenos Aires for my camera battery here in Madrid.
So when I found just the right adapter in the fourth store I tried, for only 2€, I was one happy customer indeed. Equally cheering was the sheer helpfulness of the guys in each of the first three stores I tried. In that totally straight middle-aged helpful hardware store guy kind of way, not at all like the cruisy gay hardware store guy kind of way one encounters at Cliff's Hardware on Castro Street. Not that I spend much time hanging out at Cliff's, or any other hardware stores. As those of you who know me hardly need to be reminded.
But anyway, for this morning, it's mission accomplished. The battery she is charging. So that later on I can go out and get appropriate photographic documentation of the cows that seem to have taken over the streets of Madrid.
Watch this space.
And although I did arrive at this conclusion after an hour and a half searching through Chueca, Madrid's ultra-chic gay ghetto, you can all get your collective mind out of the gutter and rest assured that my search was through various hardware stores. Looking for just the right adapter that would allow me to use the expensive battery charger I bought in Buenos Aires for my camera battery here in Madrid.
So when I found just the right adapter in the fourth store I tried, for only 2€, I was one happy customer indeed. Equally cheering was the sheer helpfulness of the guys in each of the first three stores I tried. In that totally straight middle-aged helpful hardware store guy kind of way, not at all like the cruisy gay hardware store guy kind of way one encounters at Cliff's Hardware on Castro Street. Not that I spend much time hanging out at Cliff's, or any other hardware stores. As those of you who know me hardly need to be reminded.
But anyway, for this morning, it's mission accomplished. The battery she is charging. So that later on I can go out and get appropriate photographic documentation of the cows that seem to have taken over the streets of Madrid.
Watch this space.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Barren Nihilistic Wasteland
Spanish TV. I'd forgotten just how appallingly dreadful it is. I lose IQ points just thinking about it. Dear God.
Greetings from Madrid
Yes, folks! Rather than spend February and March mooning around in the cold in San Francisco, I thought it would be more fun to do so in Madrid. So aquí estoy, figuring out yet again how to work this very ethpanish keyboard. I´ve already had to stop by FNAC to buy a mouse (el ratón); my general lack of physical coordination means I am most emphatically not a trackball kind of guy.
I got here on Tuesday -- have spent an inordinate amount of time sleeping since then. But have managed to get out and about enough to check some of my favorite haunts. Will be starting school on Monday - given my usual lack of restraint about these things it will be 7 hours a day of class for the next seven weeks. Though I´m glad to say last year's time in Buenos Aires and Guanajuato were obviously of some use - when I stopped by the school yesterday afternoon to finalize registration details, I managed to acquit myself fairly well.
DonQuijote (the school) has moved to much larger, more luxurious digs since I was here last. I am staying in an apartment I found online and that I've rented for two months until mid-April. it's close to where I stayed last time, so I know the neighborhood, and it's about a 15-minute walk to school, which seems ideal. Given the shameful state I was in by the time I walked up the 4 floors to the apartment with my suitcase on Tuesday, the exercise that walking around madrid will bring can only do me good.
yes, as soon as I get around to it, I will change the name of the blog back to MAINLY ON THE PLAIN.
I got here on Tuesday -- have spent an inordinate amount of time sleeping since then. But have managed to get out and about enough to check some of my favorite haunts. Will be starting school on Monday - given my usual lack of restraint about these things it will be 7 hours a day of class for the next seven weeks. Though I´m glad to say last year's time in Buenos Aires and Guanajuato were obviously of some use - when I stopped by the school yesterday afternoon to finalize registration details, I managed to acquit myself fairly well.
DonQuijote (the school) has moved to much larger, more luxurious digs since I was here last. I am staying in an apartment I found online and that I've rented for two months until mid-April. it's close to where I stayed last time, so I know the neighborhood, and it's about a 15-minute walk to school, which seems ideal. Given the shameful state I was in by the time I walked up the 4 floors to the apartment with my suitcase on Tuesday, the exercise that walking around madrid will bring can only do me good.
yes, as soon as I get around to it, I will change the name of the blog back to MAINLY ON THE PLAIN.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
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