I know this blog is generally used for long posts in which I ponder those aspects of life I do not understand and discuss the various reasons why the world in general and my life in particular would be better if everybody would just follow my line of thinking instead of their own (or as some people call it, completely missing the subtle beauty of my art, nagging), but for this post I would like to make an exception and pay tribute to the year that was 2005.
You see, 2005 was probably the best year of my life. It's not that all the previous years were miserable, but they just were missing a certain, oh I dunno, kick. Yes, a cocaine addiction can really add so much to your year.
(I joke, obviously...... sniiiiiiff).
However, I must say this past year has been awfully nice. First of all, I met a lot of very nice people, some I link with in so many ways it's scary. Others, not so much but we still get along. Either way, it fascinates me and it really makes me quite happy. Which is always a good thing. Second, I was able to not alienate most of the people I like in general, while ignoring those I like less so. Both of which is also a good thing.
Second, I was able to do quite a lot of travelling. Italy, this summer, bringing together some of my favorite people in the world (excluding Orlando Bloom and Orlando Bloom lookalikes, sadly). The UK with my bestest friend Merel, where we basically just watched TV and commented on slutty English girls (quite fun, try it). And, most recently, Kenya, which really was a huge eye opener in so many ways.
Career wise things are fine too. History is still the best motherfucking study in the world (to paraphrase Leopold von Ranke) and I'm still pretty darn good at it, which is why I'm doing the research master now (banging yourself on the chest and shouting I RULE! is mandatory warm up to our classes these days).
But none of that makes 2005 unique, and there were certainly some downsides to the year that need to be considered. Most of all my granddad passed away which I still believe should have been made illegal and, yes, we are still considering suing God. Second, there were the occasional "fuck it" moments (one of these moments lasted for the entire month of June) and Bruce Springsteen songs were played quite loudly to fight those moments. But surprisingly enough that didn't really influence the way I look at the year. Shit just happens and it's useless to complain about it; you can make a trauma out of everything if you want.
Overall I'm just really happy (aside from the fact that I still have no official plans for New Years Eve that is) with how things are going lately. So, ehm, goodie!
(too bad this post isn't funny though)
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Monday, December 19, 2005
My virtual Christmas card
I always tell myself that next year I will do the adult thing and sent actual Christmas cards. But then I forget until it is too late, or I just can't be bothered. Thankfully, there's a virtual solution. Last year my hilarious-virtual-Christmas-card had a Jerry Springer theme ("Ho! Ho! Ho!.... you're a ho yourself, bitch!"). This year, my hilarious-virtual-Christmas-card is going 'War on Christmas':
to my Christian friends:
Merry Christmas!
to my Jewish friends:
Merry Chanukkah!
to my fellow athiests:
Merry Non-Religious Gift Opening And Eating Dead Animals Ceremony !
and to Bill O'Reilly
Fuck You!
and to everybody in general: happy 2006!
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Under the bridge
The city government of Amsterdam has decided last year that it wanted to change the way people living in Amsterdam use water. The rules used to be that you payed a certain amount of money each month based on the amount of places in your house that you can use water from. For instance, if you have a big house with three bathrooms you pay more than if you have one. I never quite got the system completely, but overall I think nobody was really bothered by it.
The city government, however, was. We, the people, appareantly were using too much water. They also told us, the people, that we were paying too much per month and that with the new rules we'd probably end up paying less per month. Call me stupid, but if we were paying too much maybe we just weren't using enough water?
Anyhoo, the rules changed and about a month ago I received a letter warning me that a watermeter would be installed in my apartment. The letter explained that the procedure was quite simple but that the water-meter-install-people (which, I believe, is the technical term for their job) needed to be able to get into my home. Also, the letter warned me in a very Martha Stewarty way, that even after the thing was installed I still was not allowed to leave the house because waterpeople (the non technical term) had to check if everything worked after they were done. Also, the letter informed me that during the process the water would be turned off and because of that I should tap water for drinking, cooking and "using your toilet".
Right.
Knowing the efficiency of the Amsterdam civil servants I was already preparing myself mentally for spending days without water, dragging myself through my appartment surrounded by long emptied water bottles and waterpeople telling me they'd probably be done within a year. In fact, they were done within an hour. The installing proces was indeed quick and simple, the water people very qualified and the one installing my water thingie and I spent the 20 minutes he was working in my bathroom humming along to my new Creedence Clearwater Revival cd. The thing worked fine and no problems occured. So all's fine.
..... except that I hate having this thing. It works fine but I can't stand knowing how much water I use. Did you know that flushing the toilet takes 6 litres? SIX! Doing the dishes costs me 3 litres and taking a normal shower 25 to 30. I know I pay per every 1.000 l. but I can't stand knowing how fast I'm moving towards that.
This past week I've told about every single friend I have this story. Most got the clue that this means I expect them not to use my bathroom more than 3 times during their visit. It hasn't gotten so far that I bang on the bathroom door and tell them to quit it, or stop offering drinks after the bathroom break quota has been reached... but I'm considering it, and that's why the water thing is scaring me.
So please, city government: I don't mind paying more and I promise I'll keep my water usage to a minimum but can we please go back to the old system?
The city government, however, was. We, the people, appareantly were using too much water. They also told us, the people, that we were paying too much per month and that with the new rules we'd probably end up paying less per month. Call me stupid, but if we were paying too much maybe we just weren't using enough water?
Anyhoo, the rules changed and about a month ago I received a letter warning me that a watermeter would be installed in my apartment. The letter explained that the procedure was quite simple but that the water-meter-install-people (which, I believe, is the technical term for their job) needed to be able to get into my home. Also, the letter warned me in a very Martha Stewarty way, that even after the thing was installed I still was not allowed to leave the house because waterpeople (the non technical term) had to check if everything worked after they were done. Also, the letter informed me that during the process the water would be turned off and because of that I should tap water for drinking, cooking and "using your toilet".
Right.
Knowing the efficiency of the Amsterdam civil servants I was already preparing myself mentally for spending days without water, dragging myself through my appartment surrounded by long emptied water bottles and waterpeople telling me they'd probably be done within a year. In fact, they were done within an hour. The installing proces was indeed quick and simple, the water people very qualified and the one installing my water thingie and I spent the 20 minutes he was working in my bathroom humming along to my new Creedence Clearwater Revival cd. The thing worked fine and no problems occured. So all's fine.
..... except that I hate having this thing. It works fine but I can't stand knowing how much water I use. Did you know that flushing the toilet takes 6 litres? SIX! Doing the dishes costs me 3 litres and taking a normal shower 25 to 30. I know I pay per every 1.000 l. but I can't stand knowing how fast I'm moving towards that.
This past week I've told about every single friend I have this story. Most got the clue that this means I expect them not to use my bathroom more than 3 times during their visit. It hasn't gotten so far that I bang on the bathroom door and tell them to quit it, or stop offering drinks after the bathroom break quota has been reached... but I'm considering it, and that's why the water thing is scaring me.
So please, city government: I don't mind paying more and I promise I'll keep my water usage to a minimum but can we please go back to the old system?
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
It's Christmas time
We're getting to the end of the year again. People are making plans for the holidays, gifts are frantically being bought, people get snowed in, every single couple I know is breaking up, in the Netherlands some old guy with a beard and a bunch of black guys are handing out presents, and all my favorite shops are selling calendars with undressed men and women again.
Before I continue; If you used to read my old blog, you may remember this is an old pet hate of mine. However, I've decided in this post not to refer to before said calendars with the "p word" (no, not pantomime, moron) because people are still entering my old blog, google-ing "p. calendars". Now, my old blog was a slut and she doesn't complain, but this one has some dignity and therefore we shall not mention the p word here (no, not post-traumatic-stress-syndrome, idiot).
Anyhoo. I completely, utterly and totally do not get the point of undressed-people-calendars. It's not like I have a moral problem with them, far from it. It's just that I really do not get them. I shall explain.
The entire point of graphical representations of a person, or several persons, in an undressed state or in certain positions that otherwise would only occur behind closed doors (unless you have a really good sex life, in that case kudos!), is to give the person, or persons, watching it a sexual high. So far, no problem.
The entire point of a calendar is to give a person, or several persons, a sense of time. It is also a tool for these people to plan their lives, remember birthdays and other important occasions such as Christmas and scheduled court dates. These calendars often have pictures of places or persons to liven them up. For instance, Tuscan landscapes, bluessingers or Orlando Bloom. Again, so far no problem.
But why in earths name are they combining the two?? There's no logic! First of all; can you hang one of those calenders up and still not be an official pervert? Material of that kind (I'm getting good at not using the p word.... no, not panepedemic, weirdo) is perfectly normal, but you keep it in the bottom two shelves of your closet. You don't hang it up on the wall somewhere! It's insane!
Second. What's the theory behind it? That you look at one picture for an entire month? As my Spanish homeboys would say; PORQUE? It's one freaking picture, don't you get tired of looking at the same person in the same, most likely quite uncomfortable, position all month? Are you expected to bond with him (or if you're a sick twisted person with a disgusting lifestyle... her)? It's a picture, it doesn't talk back!
Conclusion? If you want to give someone a calendar for Christmas, pick one that has Italy or France or Orlando Bloom on it. If you want to give someone material of a certain graphic kind that George Bush doesn't agree with, buy them a magazine or a dvd. Do not combine the two.
Unless it's Orlando Bloom undressed, than you can ignore everything said above.
Before I continue; If you used to read my old blog, you may remember this is an old pet hate of mine. However, I've decided in this post not to refer to before said calendars with the "p word" (no, not pantomime, moron) because people are still entering my old blog, google-ing "p. calendars". Now, my old blog was a slut and she doesn't complain, but this one has some dignity and therefore we shall not mention the p word here (no, not post-traumatic-stress-syndrome, idiot).
Anyhoo. I completely, utterly and totally do not get the point of undressed-people-calendars. It's not like I have a moral problem with them, far from it. It's just that I really do not get them. I shall explain.
The entire point of graphical representations of a person, or several persons, in an undressed state or in certain positions that otherwise would only occur behind closed doors (unless you have a really good sex life, in that case kudos!), is to give the person, or persons, watching it a sexual high. So far, no problem.
The entire point of a calendar is to give a person, or several persons, a sense of time. It is also a tool for these people to plan their lives, remember birthdays and other important occasions such as Christmas and scheduled court dates. These calendars often have pictures of places or persons to liven them up. For instance, Tuscan landscapes, bluessingers or Orlando Bloom. Again, so far no problem.
But why in earths name are they combining the two?? There's no logic! First of all; can you hang one of those calenders up and still not be an official pervert? Material of that kind (I'm getting good at not using the p word.... no, not panepedemic, weirdo) is perfectly normal, but you keep it in the bottom two shelves of your closet. You don't hang it up on the wall somewhere! It's insane!
Second. What's the theory behind it? That you look at one picture for an entire month? As my Spanish homeboys would say; PORQUE? It's one freaking picture, don't you get tired of looking at the same person in the same, most likely quite uncomfortable, position all month? Are you expected to bond with him (or if you're a sick twisted person with a disgusting lifestyle... her)? It's a picture, it doesn't talk back!
Conclusion? If you want to give someone a calendar for Christmas, pick one that has Italy or France or Orlando Bloom on it. If you want to give someone material of a certain graphic kind that George Bush doesn't agree with, buy them a magazine or a dvd. Do not combine the two.
Unless it's Orlando Bloom undressed, than you can ignore everything said above.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Uh-oh
Ayaan Hirsi Ali will be making a new movie soon.
If you are not Dutch, you may not know who the hell Ayaan Hirsi Ali is. And, trust me you'd be very fortunate in that. You may also not know what's so bad (and trust me, it is) about her making movies. Fear not, I shall explain.
Ayaan Hirsi Ali is a Dutch MP for the Conservative Free Market Party Of Complete Idiots (but for some reason they call themselves the VVD) and she is originally from Somalia. She is also a former Muslim who got abused by the men in her surroundings. But then she came to the Netherlands and eventually became an influential member of parliament.
Happy end?
Not quite. As a member of parliament she spends most of her time defending Muslim women who get abused by their husbands or fathers. This, obviously, is a very noble issue to spend time on, and I believe even most Muslim men and women would agree with me on that. The problem lies in the way she does that. Basically, her campaign exists of her being an idiot. For instance, one of her ways of making bad Muslim men stop beating up their wifes is calling uber-Muslim Mohammed a pedophile.
Yeah. Whether or not he actually was one is an interesting question, but somehow I have a feeling that saying it isn't going to make a lot of muslim women feel safer. So, she's an idiot. She is also an idiot that gets a lot of death threats though, and that's what makes her a difficult person for people like me; on the one hand we dislike her because she's an idiot (I think 'idiot' is going to be the theme word of this post.... continue). However, on the other hand, we do feel she has the right to ventilate her idiotness by saying idiotic things without being threatened or killed by even bigger idiots (see, told you so).
Last summer the Hirsi Ali - Muslim men row reached its high point when she released a movie called Submission. In it, a young Muslim woman in a see-through Burqa (honest to god, not making this up) talked about being abused by her husband, while images were being shown of other scarred Muslim women with parts of the Quran painted on their bodies.
This in itself bores me more than it shocks me (naked women... again. Next!), but apparently to Muslims (which I accidentely am not, I know, shocking) it was a big deal. Baiscally all Muslims, including, ironically enough, Muslim women that had previously been abused by their husbands, hated the thing. Some hated it more than others. And one of them killed the director of the movie (Theo van Gogh) last year on the streets of Amsterdam in broad daylight.
Now, ms. Hirsi Ali is going to make another movie. It's going to be called Submission 2 (it's a sequal you see, much like Beethovens 2nd was a sequal to Beethoven) but this time it's going to be about.... the Islam and gay men.
Gulp.
Now, again. This is a very important issue, and attention should be given to it (in the past few weeks, for instance, several men have been executed in Iran just for being gay). But I'm not so sure anything good's going to come out of her paying attention to it. For some reason, I can't get the image of a Usama Bin Laden sitting in a cave thinking "Oh, yes! We forgot about the gays! Lets bash them!" out of my head.
So, in the open letter category;
Dear Ayaan Hirsi Ali,
I have no idea if I'm speaking for my entire people, but as for me; could you not do your new flick about gay issues? I know, I know, we're fun to work with, and we have the latest gossip, but unlike with you, the Dutch government isn't going to pay for my bodyguards.
Here's my suggestion; what about a movie about how some Muslims are mean to pets. Hmmm? Sounds good? You could have sheep in there with Quran things painted on them! Or cats! No, wait, I have a cat. What about birds? Or mice? Nobody likes mice! Would be fine if Islamoidiots would blow them up. Try that!
boris
If you are not Dutch, you may not know who the hell Ayaan Hirsi Ali is. And, trust me you'd be very fortunate in that. You may also not know what's so bad (and trust me, it is) about her making movies. Fear not, I shall explain.
Ayaan Hirsi Ali is a Dutch MP for the Conservative Free Market Party Of Complete Idiots (but for some reason they call themselves the VVD) and she is originally from Somalia. She is also a former Muslim who got abused by the men in her surroundings. But then she came to the Netherlands and eventually became an influential member of parliament.
Happy end?
Not quite. As a member of parliament she spends most of her time defending Muslim women who get abused by their husbands or fathers. This, obviously, is a very noble issue to spend time on, and I believe even most Muslim men and women would agree with me on that. The problem lies in the way she does that. Basically, her campaign exists of her being an idiot. For instance, one of her ways of making bad Muslim men stop beating up their wifes is calling uber-Muslim Mohammed a pedophile.
Yeah. Whether or not he actually was one is an interesting question, but somehow I have a feeling that saying it isn't going to make a lot of muslim women feel safer. So, she's an idiot. She is also an idiot that gets a lot of death threats though, and that's what makes her a difficult person for people like me; on the one hand we dislike her because she's an idiot (I think 'idiot' is going to be the theme word of this post.... continue). However, on the other hand, we do feel she has the right to ventilate her idiotness by saying idiotic things without being threatened or killed by even bigger idiots (see, told you so).
Last summer the Hirsi Ali - Muslim men row reached its high point when she released a movie called Submission. In it, a young Muslim woman in a see-through Burqa (honest to god, not making this up) talked about being abused by her husband, while images were being shown of other scarred Muslim women with parts of the Quran painted on their bodies.
This in itself bores me more than it shocks me (naked women... again. Next!), but apparently to Muslims (which I accidentely am not, I know, shocking) it was a big deal. Baiscally all Muslims, including, ironically enough, Muslim women that had previously been abused by their husbands, hated the thing. Some hated it more than others. And one of them killed the director of the movie (Theo van Gogh) last year on the streets of Amsterdam in broad daylight.
Now, ms. Hirsi Ali is going to make another movie. It's going to be called Submission 2 (it's a sequal you see, much like Beethovens 2nd was a sequal to Beethoven) but this time it's going to be about.... the Islam and gay men.
Gulp.
Now, again. This is a very important issue, and attention should be given to it (in the past few weeks, for instance, several men have been executed in Iran just for being gay). But I'm not so sure anything good's going to come out of her paying attention to it. For some reason, I can't get the image of a Usama Bin Laden sitting in a cave thinking "Oh, yes! We forgot about the gays! Lets bash them!" out of my head.
So, in the open letter category;
Dear Ayaan Hirsi Ali,
I have no idea if I'm speaking for my entire people, but as for me; could you not do your new flick about gay issues? I know, I know, we're fun to work with, and we have the latest gossip, but unlike with you, the Dutch government isn't going to pay for my bodyguards.
Here's my suggestion; what about a movie about how some Muslims are mean to pets. Hmmm? Sounds good? You could have sheep in there with Quran things painted on them! Or cats! No, wait, I have a cat. What about birds? Or mice? Nobody likes mice! Would be fine if Islamoidiots would blow them up. Try that!
boris
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
music in me
Once a year I torture myself. Ok, I probably torture myself on many ways throughout the year, but considering this particular issue it's only once a year. I don't know why I do it every year, but there's something that somehow forces me to do it again, and again, and again.
You guessed it, it is time to vote for the Top 2000 again.
For those not in the know; the Top 2000 is a yearly thing a Dutch radiostation does to me. The idea is the following; from boxing day to New Years eve this radiostation plays the favourite 2000 songs of the people who voted. You vote by picking your 10 favorite songs from a list they provide.
So far so good. Only problem?
How am I supposed to pick 10 songs out of over 2500 options? There's 5 Zucchero songs alone on the list! 16 Springsteen songs! One Ryan Adams song! 13 Creedence Clearwater Revival songs! God knows how many Acda en de Munnik songs! And I'm not even talking about Elton John, Fleetwood Mac, B.B. King, George Harrison, Johnny Cash, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Otis Redding, R.E.M., Randy Newman, The Rolling Stones, Stevie Wonder, Sting, The Band, U2 and Van Morrison.
Now, it might not quite be in the same category as world hunger, mass murder or Michael Bolton. But it is annoying to me and it's also a good reason why someone should smarten up and give me my own radiostation (come on folks! it's almost Christmas time!).
Anyway, every year again I end up with a list I'm not quite happy with. And every year I tell myself I'm not going to do it again next year. And, well, here we are again. The list below is in random order, and it lacks almost all my favourite songs;
You guessed it, it is time to vote for the Top 2000 again.
For those not in the know; the Top 2000 is a yearly thing a Dutch radiostation does to me. The idea is the following; from boxing day to New Years eve this radiostation plays the favourite 2000 songs of the people who voted. You vote by picking your 10 favorite songs from a list they provide.
So far so good. Only problem?
How am I supposed to pick 10 songs out of over 2500 options? There's 5 Zucchero songs alone on the list! 16 Springsteen songs! One Ryan Adams song! 13 Creedence Clearwater Revival songs! God knows how many Acda en de Munnik songs! And I'm not even talking about Elton John, Fleetwood Mac, B.B. King, George Harrison, Johnny Cash, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Otis Redding, R.E.M., Randy Newman, The Rolling Stones, Stevie Wonder, Sting, The Band, U2 and Van Morrison.
Now, it might not quite be in the same category as world hunger, mass murder or Michael Bolton. But it is annoying to me and it's also a good reason why someone should smarten up and give me my own radiostation (come on folks! it's almost Christmas time!).
Anyway, every year again I end up with a list I'm not quite happy with. And every year I tell myself I'm not going to do it again next year. And, well, here we are again. The list below is in random order, and it lacks almost all my favourite songs;
Bruce Springsteen - Born to run
(one of those few songs that you can listen to a million times and it never loses it's power)
Creedence Clearwater Revival - Who'll stop the rain?
(John Fogerty is one of the best song writers in the history of best song writers. I could only pick one CCR track and this is my favorite)
Derek & the Dominoes - Layla
(Plugged. OF COURSE! Eric Clapton wrotethis song when he was madly in love with his best friend George Harrison's wife, you can feel that absolutely horrible 'wanting-to-tear-out-your-heart' feeling of being in love with the wrong person in this song)
Otis Redding - The dock of the bay
(I would have gone for a Solomon Burke song, but King Solomon wasn't on the list (BASTARDS!). This, however, is one of the most beautiful soul songs ever made)
Rufus Wainwright - Beauty Mark
(Great song, interesting guy. Elton John thinks he's the new Elton John)
Ryan Adams - La cienega just smiled
(I fell deeply in love with Ryan Adams because of Gold and it's single New York New York. Since then I've been trying to get my posse (or my bitches if you will) to appreciate him too, sometimes with success. This was the only Ryan song on the list but it's also really beautiful)
Zucchero & B.B. King - Hey Man (Sing a Song)
(Hey Man was on Zucchero's 1988 Blue's album, in 1999 he performed it live with blues legend B.B. King and last year a studio adaption of that performance was released. It's a song about friendship, don't think I need to say more)
Zucchero - Diamante
(Always one of my favorite Zucchero tracks, for more recent emotional reasons read the "Fai piano i bimbi grandi non piangono" post)
Zucchero - Il Volo
(This song is from my favorite Zucchero album, Spirito DiVino, and it was also a big hit in The Netherlands. Which made me hate the song, but then I stopped hating it and now I think it's one of his best songs. If they play the duet version with Ronan Keating however I will personally come down to the radio station and castrate them)
Zucchero - Cosi Celeste
(I love this song. My Italian sucks but from what I get out of it, the song's about how someone can be a complete asshole at times but can do it so beautifully you still love that person. If it's not about that.... please don't tell me).
So, there you have it. Next year I'm so not doing it again.
Monday, November 07, 2005
ELTON!
I heard the saddest story today. Sad, that is, in a "I really shouldn't laugh but I do" sort of way, which, as you may or may not agree, is maybe the saddest of all sorts of sad.
Appareantly, last week in the UK a woman (probably in her early 70's or something) murdered her son. Sad isn't it? Wait, it gets sadder. The son in question, a man in his late 30's I believe, had Down syndrome. When I heard the story the big girl in me (the one I also blame for my weight) let out a big "Awww!".
So far, just sad no laughing. Unless you're really weird.
However, the reason the woman killed her son was the following; for weeks in a row her son had been listening to the same Elton John CD over and over and over and over again while constantly (and I do mean every-few-seconds-without-taking-a-break-constantly) chanting "ELTON! ELTON! ELTON! ELTON!". At a certain point something broke in the woman in question and she did what she did.
The thing is, that I can relate to the mother.
For years my sister, whose heart otherwise art blessed, had a fascination with horrible music. She used to not care at all about musicians untill she fell in love with.... 3T. For hours and hours in a row the absolutely horrific sounds of the Jackson brothers would come out of her room. And, sadly, also into my room. Although it was good to know my sister was no racist, that euphoria soon wore off as I (and my parents with me) realized that 3T songs were sweeter than the average Lionel Richie song (... I know).
Thankfully, like most teenage crushes my sisters obsession with Michael Jacksons nephews soon ended and was replaced by a Leonardo DiCaprio obsession. This was right around the time when Titanic was released and when the movie came out on video, my sister watched it at least twice a week (at her mothers place thankfully). For a moment me and my parents rejoiced. This obsession, which would proof far more lengthy than the 3T crush, at least would not involve music blasting through the house.
Obviously, we had not considered the role Celine Dion had played in the success of the movie Titanic.
Hours in a row "My heart will go on" was blasting through my sisters stereo. And although my father, never the best in historical details, later claimed it was Whitney Houston's "I will always love you" (thereby diminishing the depths of our pain by not remembering the actual song), we were hurting. And, I have to say, if we would have had my sister living with us 24/7, and thereby also playing that song 24/7, while chanting either "CELINE! CELINE! CELINE!" or "LEO! LEO! LEO!". Well....
So Elton boy, may you rest in peace. And if there is a heaven, I'm sure there's more Elton John music there than you've ever heard before.
Appareantly, last week in the UK a woman (probably in her early 70's or something) murdered her son. Sad isn't it? Wait, it gets sadder. The son in question, a man in his late 30's I believe, had Down syndrome. When I heard the story the big girl in me (the one I also blame for my weight) let out a big "Awww!".
So far, just sad no laughing. Unless you're really weird.
However, the reason the woman killed her son was the following; for weeks in a row her son had been listening to the same Elton John CD over and over and over and over again while constantly (and I do mean every-few-seconds-without-taking-a-break-constantly) chanting "ELTON! ELTON! ELTON! ELTON!". At a certain point something broke in the woman in question and she did what she did.
The thing is, that I can relate to the mother.
For years my sister, whose heart otherwise art blessed, had a fascination with horrible music. She used to not care at all about musicians untill she fell in love with.... 3T. For hours and hours in a row the absolutely horrific sounds of the Jackson brothers would come out of her room. And, sadly, also into my room. Although it was good to know my sister was no racist, that euphoria soon wore off as I (and my parents with me) realized that 3T songs were sweeter than the average Lionel Richie song (... I know).
Thankfully, like most teenage crushes my sisters obsession with Michael Jacksons nephews soon ended and was replaced by a Leonardo DiCaprio obsession. This was right around the time when Titanic was released and when the movie came out on video, my sister watched it at least twice a week (at her mothers place thankfully). For a moment me and my parents rejoiced. This obsession, which would proof far more lengthy than the 3T crush, at least would not involve music blasting through the house.
Obviously, we had not considered the role Celine Dion had played in the success of the movie Titanic.
Hours in a row "My heart will go on" was blasting through my sisters stereo. And although my father, never the best in historical details, later claimed it was Whitney Houston's "I will always love you" (thereby diminishing the depths of our pain by not remembering the actual song), we were hurting. And, I have to say, if we would have had my sister living with us 24/7, and thereby also playing that song 24/7, while chanting either "CELINE! CELINE! CELINE!" or "LEO! LEO! LEO!". Well....
So Elton boy, may you rest in peace. And if there is a heaven, I'm sure there's more Elton John music there than you've ever heard before.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Coughing hell
I feel one of those old fashioned rant posts coming up, so if you're a fan of one of those... goodie!
It all started about two weeks ago with the flu. Most people who know me will testify that I get the flu a lot. The flu and me, we're like this. We're friends, buddies, homeys if you will. We can, and will, hang together for weeks, maybe even months. Usually nobody gets hurt and I have a good excuse to lie in bed in the afternoon and watch Oprah (you go girlfriend).
Sadly enough, this time, the flu evolved into some weird other thing. First it moved upwards to my throat where it tried to choke me in thin slime (I never said it wasn't going to be a disgusting rant, okay). When that failed, it moved downwards to my chest area where it sticked around for a few days. The result was constant heavy coughing, some fever, and pain during breathing, which, as you may know, is something you do quite constantly while alive.
In short; problem.
The problem was magnified by the fact that the combination really hit me the hardest on saturday night. Although the Netherlands is one of the wealthiest countries per capita in the world, if you need a doctor in the weekend, you're screwed. Either you can try calling one and end up with that always helpful 'take an asprine and call me on monday' advice, or you can go straight to the ER (and since George Clooney left, who honestly cares).
So I coughed my way through the weekend and figured I'd call my doctor on monday morning, get an appointment for monday afternoon and figure out if I was going to live or not. Obviously, I forgot about the Dutch health system and it's prime problem; the assistent.
I started calling the doctors office around 8 AM and found the line was busy. I called again at 8.02 and found the line was busy. I called again at 8.07 and found the line was busy. I kept calling every few minutes untill 10.02 when the phone was finally answered and... I was put on hold. I was kept on hold for another 10 minutes until finally my doctors assistent answered the call. Jubilation!
I explained to the woman in question that I would like to make an appointment with my doctor (I should explain my doctor shares her practice with a few other doctors, thereby insuring in theory that someone can always help you, continue). The woman told me my doctor was on vacation.
Right.
Now, I have no problem with my doctor taking a, no doubt well deserved, break every now and then. She should, it's healthy. But why is it that in the last year I needed my doctor three times and all three times she's on vacation. What kind of evil plot is this? Does this woman plan her trips just around the time I am most volnerable for disseases?
Anyway. I explained to the woman that I then would like an appointment with her replacement. She told me that there were no replacements but other doctors also filling in for my doctor.
"Fine" I told her "I would like an appointment with one of them then".
"Only if it's urgent" she said "What are your complaints"
I explained the problem. The woman did not sound impressed.
"Do you have fever?" she asked.
"Not all the time but every few hours, yes" I answered.
"Temperature?" she informed
"I don't know" I told her "I don't have a thermometer"
The woman was silent for a moment. "How" she began "do you know you have a fever then?". You could hear her celebrate her personal victory on the other side of the line. I retaliated by telling her that, no, I could not give her exact numbers, but I could feel whether or not I had a fever. "No, you can't, because sometimes people say they have a fever and then it turns out they don't. So you can't".
I was stunned for a moment. Was I supposed to get into a discussion on fevers and if you can feel them with her?
"Okay, so maybe I do not have a fever. I have a serious complaint anyway, can I get an appointment?"
"No. We have to know if it's serious or not"
"It is"
"We have to know if you have a fever"
"Right now, I don't but sometimes I have"
"What you should do is buy a thermometer, take up your temperature and call me in the afternoon"
Now, my people generally likes bitchy women. We like them because we don't have to date them but when they start screwing us it stops being funny.
"Look" I said "I want an appointment, I can do any time today or tomorrow"
"I can't schedule you in for tomorrow"
By now I could see her as some human flesh eating African dictator, such was her character.
"I want an appointment"
".... Fine, tomorrow, 2;10 PM"
For the first time in quite a few weeks I was not quite sure what to say.
--
Anyway, turned out the coughing is just a virus and I got some pills that should stop it. Only problem; they make me really sleepy, so I'm not allowed to drive. Or touch machines. Goodie.
It all started about two weeks ago with the flu. Most people who know me will testify that I get the flu a lot. The flu and me, we're like this. We're friends, buddies, homeys if you will. We can, and will, hang together for weeks, maybe even months. Usually nobody gets hurt and I have a good excuse to lie in bed in the afternoon and watch Oprah (you go girlfriend).
Sadly enough, this time, the flu evolved into some weird other thing. First it moved upwards to my throat where it tried to choke me in thin slime (I never said it wasn't going to be a disgusting rant, okay). When that failed, it moved downwards to my chest area where it sticked around for a few days. The result was constant heavy coughing, some fever, and pain during breathing, which, as you may know, is something you do quite constantly while alive.
In short; problem.
The problem was magnified by the fact that the combination really hit me the hardest on saturday night. Although the Netherlands is one of the wealthiest countries per capita in the world, if you need a doctor in the weekend, you're screwed. Either you can try calling one and end up with that always helpful 'take an asprine and call me on monday' advice, or you can go straight to the ER (and since George Clooney left, who honestly cares).
So I coughed my way through the weekend and figured I'd call my doctor on monday morning, get an appointment for monday afternoon and figure out if I was going to live or not. Obviously, I forgot about the Dutch health system and it's prime problem; the assistent.
I started calling the doctors office around 8 AM and found the line was busy. I called again at 8.02 and found the line was busy. I called again at 8.07 and found the line was busy. I kept calling every few minutes untill 10.02 when the phone was finally answered and... I was put on hold. I was kept on hold for another 10 minutes until finally my doctors assistent answered the call. Jubilation!
I explained to the woman in question that I would like to make an appointment with my doctor (I should explain my doctor shares her practice with a few other doctors, thereby insuring in theory that someone can always help you, continue). The woman told me my doctor was on vacation.
Right.
Now, I have no problem with my doctor taking a, no doubt well deserved, break every now and then. She should, it's healthy. But why is it that in the last year I needed my doctor three times and all three times she's on vacation. What kind of evil plot is this? Does this woman plan her trips just around the time I am most volnerable for disseases?
Anyway. I explained to the woman that I then would like an appointment with her replacement. She told me that there were no replacements but other doctors also filling in for my doctor.
"Fine" I told her "I would like an appointment with one of them then".
"Only if it's urgent" she said "What are your complaints"
I explained the problem. The woman did not sound impressed.
"Do you have fever?" she asked.
"Not all the time but every few hours, yes" I answered.
"Temperature?" she informed
"I don't know" I told her "I don't have a thermometer"
The woman was silent for a moment. "How" she began "do you know you have a fever then?". You could hear her celebrate her personal victory on the other side of the line. I retaliated by telling her that, no, I could not give her exact numbers, but I could feel whether or not I had a fever. "No, you can't, because sometimes people say they have a fever and then it turns out they don't. So you can't".
I was stunned for a moment. Was I supposed to get into a discussion on fevers and if you can feel them with her?
"Okay, so maybe I do not have a fever. I have a serious complaint anyway, can I get an appointment?"
"No. We have to know if it's serious or not"
"It is"
"We have to know if you have a fever"
"Right now, I don't but sometimes I have"
"What you should do is buy a thermometer, take up your temperature and call me in the afternoon"
Now, my people generally likes bitchy women. We like them because we don't have to date them but when they start screwing us it stops being funny.
"Look" I said "I want an appointment, I can do any time today or tomorrow"
"I can't schedule you in for tomorrow"
By now I could see her as some human flesh eating African dictator, such was her character.
"I want an appointment"
".... Fine, tomorrow, 2;10 PM"
For the first time in quite a few weeks I was not quite sure what to say.
--
Anyway, turned out the coughing is just a virus and I got some pills that should stop it. Only problem; they make me really sleepy, so I'm not allowed to drive. Or touch machines. Goodie.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Dear Al Franken,
Hey Al! I know, I know. I thought the entire open letter routine would be over too (especially since nobody cares about them). But, honestly; I haven't posted for a week, tuesday's a slow news day, and I've got the fucking fwu, so bear with me. Basically see it as you making fun of Donald Rumsfeld, it's easy, it's fun, and you can sleep peacefully by the end of the day.
Anyhoo, the reason I'm writing you is because I just finished reading your new book 'The Truth (with jokes)', the long awaited follow up to your 2003 book "LIES and the lying liers who tell them" about... well.. lies. Although the title may fool some, in your new book you're basically doing the exact same thing you did in 'Lies'; talk about how right wing people lie and counter it with the truth.
Well, your truth.
Overall, I have to say; funny. Not always Lies funny, but definetly more funny than Michael Moore funny (but honestly, these days, what isn't?). During certain parts of your book I had a bit of a deja vu feeling (even a deja vu all over again feeling if you will) concerning your earlier material and certain parts I already knew just by following the news.
Mind you, there was some stuff I really liked about the book. Your views on the Kerry campaign, for instance, were pretty darn good (especially on how they decided to make the American people relive everybody's favorite era.... The Vietnam War), I liked your story on how you lived through election night and if what you wrote about Tom DeLay is only true for 20% the man should be in jail for the rest of his life. Oh, and that part where you talk about how you feel about religion and the role your father played in that... tears in my eyes, honestly.
I just have two little pieces of criticism.
First, the title. Now, I agree this isn't really your fault, and I also agree that the title (The Truth - with jokes) is quite funny. So no issues there. The problem is that my beloved bestest friend the Squirrel now adds 'with jokes' to every other word he says to me. If he were to talk about food he might say "Pizza.... with jokes". Sure, our pizzas are usually served with jokes, but I'm afraid this one might stick (we still do the SNL cowbell sketch every week).
Second, and this is sort of the main one; the last chapter, in which you write an open letter to your grandchildren. First of all, open letters, puhlease! So boring. But more importantly; you write the letter from the perspective of the future.
Ouch.
The problem here is, that it's just so painfully awkward. Awkward as in, I'm still trying to get my toes straight after reading it. In the chapter, you talk about how basically the Democrats have won everything after the 2004 election. You yourself even become senator (you live in New York, does this mean you expect Hillary to become president? or are you planning on killing the other senator?) . Then, in the few days between the installment of the new congress and the installment of the new president, you impeach George W. Bush for the fun of it. Also, as of now you have no grandchildren, so you're kind of putting the presure on your kids there.
The problem with the "writing-from-the-future-style" is that you're always gonna be wrong in the end. I mean, look at George Orwell with 1984, man was he wrong with that one! (.... no wait!). More importantly, it's so common. Michael Moore did it in one of his book for instance (and just as awkwardly... I like the word awkward, have you noticed?) and even this particular letter is written from the perspective of tomorrow morning.
Oh, and if you are getting in a fist fight with Bill O'Reilly, could we have video footage of that?
Cheerio!
boris
ps. do you know Michael Bolton?
Anyhoo, the reason I'm writing you is because I just finished reading your new book 'The Truth (with jokes)', the long awaited follow up to your 2003 book "LIES and the lying liers who tell them" about... well.. lies. Although the title may fool some, in your new book you're basically doing the exact same thing you did in 'Lies'; talk about how right wing people lie and counter it with the truth.
Well, your truth.
Overall, I have to say; funny. Not always Lies funny, but definetly more funny than Michael Moore funny (but honestly, these days, what isn't?). During certain parts of your book I had a bit of a deja vu feeling (even a deja vu all over again feeling if you will) concerning your earlier material and certain parts I already knew just by following the news.
Mind you, there was some stuff I really liked about the book. Your views on the Kerry campaign, for instance, were pretty darn good (especially on how they decided to make the American people relive everybody's favorite era.... The Vietnam War), I liked your story on how you lived through election night and if what you wrote about Tom DeLay is only true for 20% the man should be in jail for the rest of his life. Oh, and that part where you talk about how you feel about religion and the role your father played in that... tears in my eyes, honestly.
I just have two little pieces of criticism.
First, the title. Now, I agree this isn't really your fault, and I also agree that the title (The Truth - with jokes) is quite funny. So no issues there. The problem is that my beloved bestest friend the Squirrel now adds 'with jokes' to every other word he says to me. If he were to talk about food he might say "Pizza.... with jokes". Sure, our pizzas are usually served with jokes, but I'm afraid this one might stick (we still do the SNL cowbell sketch every week).
Second, and this is sort of the main one; the last chapter, in which you write an open letter to your grandchildren. First of all, open letters, puhlease! So boring. But more importantly; you write the letter from the perspective of the future.
Ouch.
The problem here is, that it's just so painfully awkward. Awkward as in, I'm still trying to get my toes straight after reading it. In the chapter, you talk about how basically the Democrats have won everything after the 2004 election. You yourself even become senator (you live in New York, does this mean you expect Hillary to become president? or are you planning on killing the other senator?) . Then, in the few days between the installment of the new congress and the installment of the new president, you impeach George W. Bush for the fun of it. Also, as of now you have no grandchildren, so you're kind of putting the presure on your kids there.
The problem with the "writing-from-the-future-style" is that you're always gonna be wrong in the end. I mean, look at George Orwell with 1984, man was he wrong with that one! (.... no wait!). More importantly, it's so common. Michael Moore did it in one of his book for instance (and just as awkwardly... I like the word awkward, have you noticed?) and even this particular letter is written from the perspective of tomorrow morning.
Oh, and if you are getting in a fist fight with Bill O'Reilly, could we have video footage of that?
Cheerio!
boris
ps. do you know Michael Bolton?
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
The fools they are as men
Before I start I would like to make it clear that the "men" mentioned in this title are not the ones of the "Hi, I have a penis and I like chopping wood" variety but of the general "animals related to monkeys" species. Just wanted to make that clear, continue reading!
As careful readers of this bilog (NOTE; I'm trying to introduce this as a new way of saying blog, you know, like bi-atch instead of bitch, is it catching on?) may know, I have a job. A job that includes way too many responsibilities for the amount of money they pay me and a nice, but homophobic, boss, but still a job. A job I have to get to. On sundays. Just bear with me.
To get to the place where I work I usally take a tram (which didn't drive last sunday because of the marathon, no problem I walked) and then the subway. The subway drives through a trainstation. Usually I have to wait about 10 minutes or something before the subway I need arrives. Honestly, I'm getting to a point.
When I entered the platform (does one enter a platform? I'm not sure) a woman was standing there with two little girls. At first I assumed they were waiting for a train or a subway, but when a man ran up the stairs and started screaming at the woman I quickly figured out what was going on. The man and the woman were either divorced or trying desperately to get to that stage and this was that magical moment where the kids were to be turned over from one parent to the other.
Or, as you could also call it; the moment the shit hits the fan.
Since the man was screaming at his (soon to be) ex-wife, it was fairly easy (if not impossible) for all the other people around them not to hear what was going on. The two had apparently agreed that the mom would bring the children to the station, where the dad would then take them home. Apparently the two weren't on the level of allowing eachother into their homes.
However, when making the appointment, the two had apparently forgot to specify where they were going to meet. The result was that the mom was standing on the platform with the two kids, while the dad was waiting at the main entrance. And, from what I got from the screaming, both had been there for over half an hour.
Usually when a mix up like that occurs, you get worried, you try to call people on cell phones (apparently they also were not on the level of calling eachother), and when you eventually do find eachother, there's a feeling of relief that nobody died. Or maybe that's just me, I'm a drama queen. But when you're in the middle of your divorce, apparently you don't feel that way.
Out of the two, the collective platform sympathy went to the woman. She remained calm while her ex-hubby screamed. Her ex-hubby lost even more valuable points by the sort of sentences he barfed out; "I'm giving you extra service by coming to this platform!" he yelled, "Do you know how much time you've stolen from me?". The fact that he had the worst (nouveau)-riche accent I have ever heard, didn't do much good either.
The entire thing could have been amusing in a disturbing way, were it not for the girls. From what I understand, a lot of kids of divorced parents for a long time keep on hoping that maybe they will come back together after all, add to that the fact that it's never fun to see two people you love scream to eachother, and you have the perfect nightmare. While their dad was screaming at their mom, the two girls wandered off to the end of the platform where they both cried like only little girls can cry; hard and heartbreaking.
When my subway finally arrived, the guy also finally decided he had enough of his own screaming, took the kids and left. Leaving me with the impression that his two daughters will probably be screwed up for the rest of their lives. Now, I may be getting too Dr. Phil-ish here, but all of this made me really, really sad.
Crap, I forgot to put jokes in this thing.
As careful readers of this bilog (NOTE; I'm trying to introduce this as a new way of saying blog, you know, like bi-atch instead of bitch, is it catching on?) may know, I have a job. A job that includes way too many responsibilities for the amount of money they pay me and a nice, but homophobic, boss, but still a job. A job I have to get to. On sundays. Just bear with me.
To get to the place where I work I usally take a tram (which didn't drive last sunday because of the marathon, no problem I walked) and then the subway. The subway drives through a trainstation. Usually I have to wait about 10 minutes or something before the subway I need arrives. Honestly, I'm getting to a point.
When I entered the platform (does one enter a platform? I'm not sure) a woman was standing there with two little girls. At first I assumed they were waiting for a train or a subway, but when a man ran up the stairs and started screaming at the woman I quickly figured out what was going on. The man and the woman were either divorced or trying desperately to get to that stage and this was that magical moment where the kids were to be turned over from one parent to the other.
Or, as you could also call it; the moment the shit hits the fan.
Since the man was screaming at his (soon to be) ex-wife, it was fairly easy (if not impossible) for all the other people around them not to hear what was going on. The two had apparently agreed that the mom would bring the children to the station, where the dad would then take them home. Apparently the two weren't on the level of allowing eachother into their homes.
However, when making the appointment, the two had apparently forgot to specify where they were going to meet. The result was that the mom was standing on the platform with the two kids, while the dad was waiting at the main entrance. And, from what I got from the screaming, both had been there for over half an hour.
Usually when a mix up like that occurs, you get worried, you try to call people on cell phones (apparently they also were not on the level of calling eachother), and when you eventually do find eachother, there's a feeling of relief that nobody died. Or maybe that's just me, I'm a drama queen. But when you're in the middle of your divorce, apparently you don't feel that way.
Out of the two, the collective platform sympathy went to the woman. She remained calm while her ex-hubby screamed. Her ex-hubby lost even more valuable points by the sort of sentences he barfed out; "I'm giving you extra service by coming to this platform!" he yelled, "Do you know how much time you've stolen from me?". The fact that he had the worst (nouveau)-riche accent I have ever heard, didn't do much good either.
The entire thing could have been amusing in a disturbing way, were it not for the girls. From what I understand, a lot of kids of divorced parents for a long time keep on hoping that maybe they will come back together after all, add to that the fact that it's never fun to see two people you love scream to eachother, and you have the perfect nightmare. While their dad was screaming at their mom, the two girls wandered off to the end of the platform where they both cried like only little girls can cry; hard and heartbreaking.
When my subway finally arrived, the guy also finally decided he had enough of his own screaming, took the kids and left. Leaving me with the impression that his two daughters will probably be screwed up for the rest of their lives. Now, I may be getting too Dr. Phil-ish here, but all of this made me really, really sad.
Crap, I forgot to put jokes in this thing.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Paperback Writer
As Jari, my favorite Finn in the world, already said on his blog; it's NaNoWriMo time.
NaNoWriMo, as you may, or more likely may not, know is a yearly thing that enables wannabe writers like myself, Jari and thousands of others around the world, to finally actually write something. The idea is quite simple; so many of us who try to write a book get stuck after page 5. The problem is that, even though we may have great ideas, we don't quite know how to move beyond the first stage. Also, we start combing through that first stage so finely that in the end there's nothing left, really. This generally makes us forget about the project and it stops us from imagening ever winning the Booker Prize.
Enter NaNoWriMo (short for National Novel Writing Month). The concept is the following; in one month (specifically November) people taking part are expected to write a book (fiction, non-fiction, thrillers, short stories, romantic novels, anything goes really) of 50 000 words. You start on november 1 at 0;01 and you end on november 31 at 23;59. If you succeed, the only thing you get is the right to gloat. If you lose, well, you lose.
Last year I took part for the first time. I tried to write a novel about two guys, of which one had just killed their mutual best friend (oh relax, he didn't mean to, he was stoned). The two guys were sitting in a car trying to get out of the country, which, obviously is not a bad strategy after you killed somebody. The problem was, that the amount of stuff you can write about two guys sitting in a car, is... well... limited. Needless to say, I learned that the hard way.
An additional problem was that the story took place in the United States, a country I love but I do not live in. This meant that I had to make a lot of stuff up. Sure, with fiction you make most stuff up, but entire landscapes in actual existing towns and places, I dunno. On top of that, I had no clear idea on what I wanted with the characters, loads of papers to write, and classes.
So yes, I failed. Lost. Screwed up. Crashed. Died. At the end of november I had nothing. Nada. Niente.
THIS year, I'm doing it completely different. Instead of one good idea, I have two ideas. One of them could actually lead to a good book, but it's going to be pretty darn difficult to write. The other one, might be very easy to write but it will be nothing special at the same time. For both ideas I have no plot, no characters, no names, no places.......
But! I do have the titles ready. So, basically, I can't think of a reason why this year I'm not going to win the Booker Prize next year.
===
For more info visit www.nanowrimo.org
NaNoWriMo, as you may, or more likely may not, know is a yearly thing that enables wannabe writers like myself, Jari and thousands of others around the world, to finally actually write something. The idea is quite simple; so many of us who try to write a book get stuck after page 5. The problem is that, even though we may have great ideas, we don't quite know how to move beyond the first stage. Also, we start combing through that first stage so finely that in the end there's nothing left, really. This generally makes us forget about the project and it stops us from imagening ever winning the Booker Prize.
Enter NaNoWriMo (short for National Novel Writing Month). The concept is the following; in one month (specifically November) people taking part are expected to write a book (fiction, non-fiction, thrillers, short stories, romantic novels, anything goes really) of 50 000 words. You start on november 1 at 0;01 and you end on november 31 at 23;59. If you succeed, the only thing you get is the right to gloat. If you lose, well, you lose.
Last year I took part for the first time. I tried to write a novel about two guys, of which one had just killed their mutual best friend (oh relax, he didn't mean to, he was stoned). The two guys were sitting in a car trying to get out of the country, which, obviously is not a bad strategy after you killed somebody. The problem was, that the amount of stuff you can write about two guys sitting in a car, is... well... limited. Needless to say, I learned that the hard way.
An additional problem was that the story took place in the United States, a country I love but I do not live in. This meant that I had to make a lot of stuff up. Sure, with fiction you make most stuff up, but entire landscapes in actual existing towns and places, I dunno. On top of that, I had no clear idea on what I wanted with the characters, loads of papers to write, and classes.
So yes, I failed. Lost. Screwed up. Crashed. Died. At the end of november I had nothing. Nada. Niente.
THIS year, I'm doing it completely different. Instead of one good idea, I have two ideas. One of them could actually lead to a good book, but it's going to be pretty darn difficult to write. The other one, might be very easy to write but it will be nothing special at the same time. For both ideas I have no plot, no characters, no names, no places.......
But! I do have the titles ready. So, basically, I can't think of a reason why this year I'm not going to win the Booker Prize next year.
===
For more info visit www.nanowrimo.org
Monday, October 10, 2005
Graceland - the pictures
EDIT; also check the link above.
"You're gonna put this on a photo blog. Dude, you're using too much!"
Obviously I am aware that this blog is not a photo-blog (Perish the thought though, old chap! A photo blog! Will the madness ever end?) but there's a few pics of my Kenya trip I wanted to share. Sorry for the immensly crappy quality of the pics, I'm trying to figure out a place where I can put the bigger versions online.
Two girls working at a school project. Unlike most Dutch and American schools, this school doesn't have internet so the computers are actually being used for studying, instead of porn searching. I am just as surprised as you are.
"You're gonna put this on a photo blog. Dude, you're using too much!"
Buffelos on safari: "Are you.... local people?"
This is a baby elephant crossing the road right behind our car. It's mommy was in the bushes to the right, and the driver was sorta nervous about it. I think he saw Jumanji too many times.
My friends at the school for the mentally handicaped...
... and the kids I talked about in my post below.
I've got loads more, but as I said, I just need a place to put them online. Suggestions are more than welcome!
Friday, October 07, 2005
Graceland
Fear not my faithful followers (... hi Jari), I have returned! And, just to kill the suspense I know so many of you are feeling right now, so far, I appear to be free of any weird disseases. So sorry Squirrel and Merel, you'll get my stuff later.
Anyhoo, Kenya. To somewhat paraphrase Jon Stewart; the short way to describe it is wow. The long way to describe it is wooooooooooooooooow. It is, maybe with the exception of certain parts of Italy (*Barry White music starts now* Honestly baby, that other country, it meant nothin' to me *Barry White music stops*), the most beautiful country I have ever seen. It's almost impossible to describe it, but there's a certain calmness and serenity in the landscape. Actually, in a way, it's exactly like Tuscany, but then again not quite.
Kenyans themselves are also a lot like Italians. But worse. Basically, I think they are how Italians would be if they had to deal with Kenyan temperatures and humidity rates. What that means is that Kenyan people are the most friendly and laidback people you will ever meet. What that also means is that, like with Italians, it's practically impossible to make appointments with them. In Italy, some trains have 'squigly lines' next to them on the schedules in the trainstations. These lines mean (and I swear to god I am not making this up) "this train may or may not arrive". In Kenya squigly lines would be everywhere. It sounds horrible, but once you let go of European or American time and surrender to Kenyan time, you'll find that an additional 15 minutes (or 30 minutes, or hour) doesn't really matter.
Not that any of the other tourists who go to Kenya ever find out. The hotel we were staying in was somekind of expensive resort located at the beach and with a huge pool. The people that go there generally went into the hotel, laid in the sun for two weeks, and then left. Most never got out of the entire resort. To give you a picture of what their vacation must have been like; at 7 in the morning breakfast started, which meant that at 7;05 at the latest they were awake and active so that they could dump their towels on one of the chairs around the pool. Not that there was a lack of chairs, but imagine having one not exactly next to the pool. Then after breakfast they sat in the sun. Around noon they had lunch, so they were back in their chairs around one. At 4 in the afternoon high tea started. This meant that everybody started waiting outside the restaurant area at five minutes before 4. After that they washed up for dinner, had dinner and went to bed.
Now, personally I don't see how you can do that for one day, let alone for 14 without either killing yourself or your fellow hotel guests (the same goes for being locked up at some godforsaken campingsite in France). The fun of traveling is that you go out, see new things, hear new things and meet new people. You can do nothing (or even worse semi-artistic crap) at home. Is it scary to go out into a new continent. Sure. Is it worth it? Damn right. But the thing I really really don't get is why they go to Kenya for that. It's an 8 hour flight. You can get the same sort of sun in f%cking Spain people!
While in Kenya I got to visit two schools. One is a school for orphanaged girls. Most of these girls have lost both their parents, and usually also some of their brothers, sisters, uncles and aunts to AIDS and god knows what else. It's almost impossible to imagine how anybody can survive that, but these girls are being brought up to basically take over the country. They're strong, they know what they want, they have a sense of humour and, because of international money they get the chance, not only to go to high school, but maybe even to university.
But even more impressive was a school for mentally handicaped children. These kids were dumped by their parents, sometime literary at the front gate, and they are some of the sweetest kids alive. The place they are now going to is, in fact, an actual school where they are being taught to read, to write and to make clothes. Because they can't stay at the school until they day they die they have to be prepared for real life, and the amazing teachers try their best to do just that. One teacher, who was working with four kids who couldn't yet write but who tried to copy lines and shapes, had a student that couldn't use his hands. The kid was extremely bright though, if you showed him a bottle, he could give the English word for it within a minute. The teacher explained that she was trying to help him to find ways to express himself "I'm trying to make it possible for him to try to write with his toes", she said, "Unfortunately, he can't walk so that might not work either. But we'll figure out something".
Forgive me for slipping into JFK mode, but let all those who don't believe in sending money and resources to Africa visit those two schools. Talk to those children. Talk to their teachers. See what is being accomplished there, and then explain to me why it's not worth it.
But then again, they'd have to leave the hotel to see that.
PS. for the record; during a Safari I have seen (aprox.) 8 elephants, one bush thingie, loads of antilopes and buffeloes, an eagle, two giraffes and wild swines. In the real world, I've seen quite a few monkeys, but none of them stole any of my stuff (*......checks for wallet*, nope none of them stole anything), also I didn't get stung by any f##### mosquito, but I was stuck with the side effects of the anti-Malaria pills (which appear to be similar to Malaria itself, so go figure).
Anyhoo, Kenya. To somewhat paraphrase Jon Stewart; the short way to describe it is wow. The long way to describe it is wooooooooooooooooow. It is, maybe with the exception of certain parts of Italy (*Barry White music starts now* Honestly baby, that other country, it meant nothin' to me *Barry White music stops*), the most beautiful country I have ever seen. It's almost impossible to describe it, but there's a certain calmness and serenity in the landscape. Actually, in a way, it's exactly like Tuscany, but then again not quite.
Kenyans themselves are also a lot like Italians. But worse. Basically, I think they are how Italians would be if they had to deal with Kenyan temperatures and humidity rates. What that means is that Kenyan people are the most friendly and laidback people you will ever meet. What that also means is that, like with Italians, it's practically impossible to make appointments with them. In Italy, some trains have 'squigly lines' next to them on the schedules in the trainstations. These lines mean (and I swear to god I am not making this up) "this train may or may not arrive". In Kenya squigly lines would be everywhere. It sounds horrible, but once you let go of European or American time and surrender to Kenyan time, you'll find that an additional 15 minutes (or 30 minutes, or hour) doesn't really matter.
Not that any of the other tourists who go to Kenya ever find out. The hotel we were staying in was somekind of expensive resort located at the beach and with a huge pool. The people that go there generally went into the hotel, laid in the sun for two weeks, and then left. Most never got out of the entire resort. To give you a picture of what their vacation must have been like; at 7 in the morning breakfast started, which meant that at 7;05 at the latest they were awake and active so that they could dump their towels on one of the chairs around the pool. Not that there was a lack of chairs, but imagine having one not exactly next to the pool. Then after breakfast they sat in the sun. Around noon they had lunch, so they were back in their chairs around one. At 4 in the afternoon high tea started. This meant that everybody started waiting outside the restaurant area at five minutes before 4. After that they washed up for dinner, had dinner and went to bed.
Now, personally I don't see how you can do that for one day, let alone for 14 without either killing yourself or your fellow hotel guests (the same goes for being locked up at some godforsaken campingsite in France). The fun of traveling is that you go out, see new things, hear new things and meet new people. You can do nothing (or even worse semi-artistic crap) at home. Is it scary to go out into a new continent. Sure. Is it worth it? Damn right. But the thing I really really don't get is why they go to Kenya for that. It's an 8 hour flight. You can get the same sort of sun in f%cking Spain people!
While in Kenya I got to visit two schools. One is a school for orphanaged girls. Most of these girls have lost both their parents, and usually also some of their brothers, sisters, uncles and aunts to AIDS and god knows what else. It's almost impossible to imagine how anybody can survive that, but these girls are being brought up to basically take over the country. They're strong, they know what they want, they have a sense of humour and, because of international money they get the chance, not only to go to high school, but maybe even to university.
But even more impressive was a school for mentally handicaped children. These kids were dumped by their parents, sometime literary at the front gate, and they are some of the sweetest kids alive. The place they are now going to is, in fact, an actual school where they are being taught to read, to write and to make clothes. Because they can't stay at the school until they day they die they have to be prepared for real life, and the amazing teachers try their best to do just that. One teacher, who was working with four kids who couldn't yet write but who tried to copy lines and shapes, had a student that couldn't use his hands. The kid was extremely bright though, if you showed him a bottle, he could give the English word for it within a minute. The teacher explained that she was trying to help him to find ways to express himself "I'm trying to make it possible for him to try to write with his toes", she said, "Unfortunately, he can't walk so that might not work either. But we'll figure out something".
Forgive me for slipping into JFK mode, but let all those who don't believe in sending money and resources to Africa visit those two schools. Talk to those children. Talk to their teachers. See what is being accomplished there, and then explain to me why it's not worth it.
But then again, they'd have to leave the hotel to see that.
PS. for the record; during a Safari I have seen (aprox.) 8 elephants, one bush thingie, loads of antilopes and buffeloes, an eagle, two giraffes and wild swines. In the real world, I've seen quite a few monkeys, but none of them stole any of my stuff (*......checks for wallet*, nope none of them stole anything), also I didn't get stung by any f##### mosquito, but I was stuck with the side effects of the anti-Malaria pills (which appear to be similar to Malaria itself, so go figure).
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Better run through the jungle
Oh god.
In about 84 hours I will be on a plane. This in itself doesn't scare me too much. I never liked planes, but most of the time I'm fine. And yes, I currently am in complete denial that I will be in this particular plane for 10 hours, thank you for asking. The problem is where the plane will be going. Or, better said in post 9/11 lingo, where the plane is scheduled to go.
Kenya.... oh dear god.
I'm not quite at the point yet where I start questioning the entire trip, but I am in complete awe of the event that is quickly approaching. Kenya. What was I thinking? Aside from the fact that I'll be running behind on papers, classes, and reading assignments, there's a part of me that is in extreme doubt whether I should be traveling to Africa. "Honestly", it tells me, "don't you think there's a reason our relatives left that place thousands and thousands of years ago?".
As said before (see below), I have my shots, and my malaria medication, so in that department I should be fine. Or, in post reading-the-different-articles-on-disseases-you-can-get-in-Africa lingo, I'm scheduled to be fine. That is if I don't touch anybody's blood or sperm. Neither of which I'm planning on.But for some reason the weird people at the travel clinic didn't give me drugs or pills to keep away the monkeys. Or the lions. Or the spiders. Or snakes (oh lord, I had forgotten about the snakes). Or the other bugs.
Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.
Sure, in Amsterdam we have those things too, but in Zoos! Where God intended them to be when he created them! Of course, I'll be spending a lot of time in civilized areas where I suspect the amount of deadly snakes to be, well, at least not huge. But monkeys are supposed to be everywhere, and I'm told they carry disseases (which, in a totally off-topic by-thought, could explain how Michael Jackson is these days... damn you Bubbles!), so I should not get in a fight with one of them.
But it is also scheduled that we will go into the bush to visit the orphanage/school that is the entire reason of our visit. I suggested importing the girls that visit the school to the hotel and just stay in our rooms for the entire trip, but for some reason I was outvoted.Anyhoo, I don't know if there will be internet in Kenya (there should be, I hear they even have phones in Friesland these days), I might not be back untill october. And if I haven't posted something about annoying blondes or stupid tv shows by november.... well... blame Bubbles.
Oh and in case I do die; my cd's and books go to the Squirrel, if only for the fact that he can never store them in his boat appartment, my Zucchero cd's go to my friend Merel together with the duty to listen to them every day (and I'll ghostly check that!), and, damnit, I want male strippers singing "Kamachameleon" at my funeral. That's about it really....
Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.
In about 84 hours I will be on a plane. This in itself doesn't scare me too much. I never liked planes, but most of the time I'm fine. And yes, I currently am in complete denial that I will be in this particular plane for 10 hours, thank you for asking. The problem is where the plane will be going. Or, better said in post 9/11 lingo, where the plane is scheduled to go.
Kenya.... oh dear god.
I'm not quite at the point yet where I start questioning the entire trip, but I am in complete awe of the event that is quickly approaching. Kenya. What was I thinking? Aside from the fact that I'll be running behind on papers, classes, and reading assignments, there's a part of me that is in extreme doubt whether I should be traveling to Africa. "Honestly", it tells me, "don't you think there's a reason our relatives left that place thousands and thousands of years ago?".
As said before (see below), I have my shots, and my malaria medication, so in that department I should be fine. Or, in post reading-the-different-articles-on-disseases-you-can-get-in-Africa lingo, I'm scheduled to be fine. That is if I don't touch anybody's blood or sperm. Neither of which I'm planning on.But for some reason the weird people at the travel clinic didn't give me drugs or pills to keep away the monkeys. Or the lions. Or the spiders. Or snakes (oh lord, I had forgotten about the snakes). Or the other bugs.
Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.
Sure, in Amsterdam we have those things too, but in Zoos! Where God intended them to be when he created them! Of course, I'll be spending a lot of time in civilized areas where I suspect the amount of deadly snakes to be, well, at least not huge. But monkeys are supposed to be everywhere, and I'm told they carry disseases (which, in a totally off-topic by-thought, could explain how Michael Jackson is these days... damn you Bubbles!), so I should not get in a fight with one of them.
But it is also scheduled that we will go into the bush to visit the orphanage/school that is the entire reason of our visit. I suggested importing the girls that visit the school to the hotel and just stay in our rooms for the entire trip, but for some reason I was outvoted.Anyhoo, I don't know if there will be internet in Kenya (there should be, I hear they even have phones in Friesland these days), I might not be back untill october. And if I haven't posted something about annoying blondes or stupid tv shows by november.... well... blame Bubbles.
Oh and in case I do die; my cd's and books go to the Squirrel, if only for the fact that he can never store them in his boat appartment, my Zucchero cd's go to my friend Merel together with the duty to listen to them every day (and I'll ghostly check that!), and, damnit, I want male strippers singing "Kamachameleon" at my funeral. That's about it really....
Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Brown on blondes
I officially despise blonde women. Well, obviously not all of them, that would be discrimination. And everybody who knows me, knows I hate discrimination. I believe discrimination is the lowest thing one human being can do to another and I absolutely hate it, I hate it even more than I hate Germans (this obviously is a joke.... how can I hate something more than the Germans? *1)/ And, I actually have blonde women among my best friends (Hi Becky!). But it's a certain kind of blonde woman that I really hate. You look puzzled, I'll try to explain.
This morning I was sitting next to one of them during an American Studies class. I didn't really notice her because, well... basically because I really couldn't care less about most women-I-don't-know if I tried (and I have). However, while I was happily ignoring her, she did notice me.
Let me start by saying that, yes, in theory she was right to complain. When I'm listening to a person talk to me for more than 10 minutes I get several ticks running through my body. They're pretty harmless, basically me shaking my right foot a lot, or me imagining a lepricorn sitting on my shoulder and telling me to burn things. Another one is me playing with my pen, the pen in question wasn't one of those you had to press to get the point to go up or down (and by doing that creating a "tsjlik tsjlik" sound). This was an ordinary pen with a little cap that I was opening and closing to the rhytm of "Bad Moon Rising" that was playing in my head.
Now, the sound that an action like that makes is ridiculously undisturbing. It's basically a "thup" sound and because my hands were on the pen I was muting the sound almost completely. Or so I thought. I was just happily thup-ping along when halfway through the lecture, the girl turned to me and whispered "Could you quit with the pen?".
It's not so much that she complained, it's the way she did it. First of all, to convey the message that I should quit playing with my pen, she used the Dutch verb "kappen". It's a word you usually reserve for either a friendly feud or the way you would complain if your next door neighbor would start playing gangsta rap at volume level 12 at 2 in the morning. It is most definitely not a thup-sound verb.
Second, it was the tone she used. She could have gone with a distant "Hi,-I-don't-know-you-and-I'm-sure-you're-a-decent-guy-,-but-I'm-trying-to-pay-attention-and-you're-distracting-me" tone. She didn't. She even could have gone with a, totally misplaced, "Hey,-we're-both-students-,-so-we're-buddies-,so-could-ya-do-me-a-favor-mate" tone. She didn't. Instead she went for the spoiled brat tone. That spoiled little girl tone. That tone that inmediately made me convinced that she had a father with way to much money on the bank and a mother on mood stabilizers. She knew I was going to stop the thupping, not because she was morally right, but because she always gets what she wants.
Then I took a look at her outfit. She wore those hip clothes people with actual sense of style stay away from as far as they can. The woman had a fucking belt with flowers and one of those coats with fake fur around the edges. She also smoked and (and I'm sure my female readers will now hate her too) she was ridiculously thin. In short, I was already in a bad mood, but now I was able to channel all my inner hatred towards a mental image of me smashing her head against her desk. Obviously, in the actual classroom I did the decent thing and stopped the thupping and started the foot shaking. But in the make-believe class room.... boy.
I'll say one thing for her though, great fag hag material.
---
1) this is obviously also a joke. God, you people are slow.
2) bonus points, and a "duh!", to the one who can guess which legendary album title I raped, butchered and spit on for the title of this post.
This morning I was sitting next to one of them during an American Studies class. I didn't really notice her because, well... basically because I really couldn't care less about most women-I-don't-know if I tried (and I have). However, while I was happily ignoring her, she did notice me.
Let me start by saying that, yes, in theory she was right to complain. When I'm listening to a person talk to me for more than 10 minutes I get several ticks running through my body. They're pretty harmless, basically me shaking my right foot a lot, or me imagining a lepricorn sitting on my shoulder and telling me to burn things. Another one is me playing with my pen, the pen in question wasn't one of those you had to press to get the point to go up or down (and by doing that creating a "tsjlik tsjlik" sound). This was an ordinary pen with a little cap that I was opening and closing to the rhytm of "Bad Moon Rising" that was playing in my head.
Now, the sound that an action like that makes is ridiculously undisturbing. It's basically a "thup" sound and because my hands were on the pen I was muting the sound almost completely. Or so I thought. I was just happily thup-ping along when halfway through the lecture, the girl turned to me and whispered "Could you quit with the pen?".
It's not so much that she complained, it's the way she did it. First of all, to convey the message that I should quit playing with my pen, she used the Dutch verb "kappen". It's a word you usually reserve for either a friendly feud or the way you would complain if your next door neighbor would start playing gangsta rap at volume level 12 at 2 in the morning. It is most definitely not a thup-sound verb.
Second, it was the tone she used. She could have gone with a distant "Hi,-I-don't-know-you-and-I'm-sure-you're-a-decent-guy-,-but-I'm-trying-to-pay-attention-and-you're-distracting-me" tone. She didn't. She even could have gone with a, totally misplaced, "Hey,-we're-both-students-,-so-we're-buddies-,so-could-ya-do-me-a-favor-mate" tone. She didn't. Instead she went for the spoiled brat tone. That spoiled little girl tone. That tone that inmediately made me convinced that she had a father with way to much money on the bank and a mother on mood stabilizers. She knew I was going to stop the thupping, not because she was morally right, but because she always gets what she wants.
Then I took a look at her outfit. She wore those hip clothes people with actual sense of style stay away from as far as they can. The woman had a fucking belt with flowers and one of those coats with fake fur around the edges. She also smoked and (and I'm sure my female readers will now hate her too) she was ridiculously thin. In short, I was already in a bad mood, but now I was able to channel all my inner hatred towards a mental image of me smashing her head against her desk. Obviously, in the actual classroom I did the decent thing and stopped the thupping and started the foot shaking. But in the make-believe class room.... boy.
I'll say one thing for her though, great fag hag material.
---
1) this is obviously also a joke. God, you people are slow.
2) bonus points, and a "duh!", to the one who can guess which legendary album title I raped, butchered and spit on for the title of this post.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Close your eyes (and think of England)
A few weeks ago I spent a few days visiting the UK. Not so much for the tourist attractions but for the fact that my friend Merel's natural habitat these days is in and around Coventry. Since both of us lost most of our money while vacationing in Italy earlier this summer, we spent our days together watching sitcoms on TV and walking around Coventry and Birmingham wondering which 16 year old girl was and which 16 year old girl wasn't pregnant.... in Dutch obviously, I don't know about Merel but I imagine most 16 year old English girls can probably kick my ass quite professionally, pregnant or not.
Every time I spent some time in England there's a few things that always surprise me, and usually pleasantly. For one thing, I love the way the country side looks. I love the fact that they have Queer as Folk on dvd in practically every cd/dvd store there is. In a really weird way I love how the cars drive on the wrong side of the street (for possible UK readers; yes, it is the wrong side). But mostly, I love the English.
I haven't been in France recently, and the times I have been there I didn't feel unwanted or hated by the reportedly bitchy local French population (then again, last time I was in France I was 5), but I can understand how people might react a little annoyed at tourists. Even in Amsterdam, a city where most people tend to be quite laidback, the police and the people running the public transportation system are usually not the most friendly to tourists screwing something up.
From what I've experienced, not in England. Last year, when I was in the UK to see Zucchero perform in London, I had to travel quite a lot by public transportation (trains, subway, busses the works) and I'm pretty sure that in the three days I was in England I broke every single rule there is. I rode on subways with a wrong ticket, I rode in a train without any valid ticket or pounds to buy one, I payed for a ticket in a bus and then didn't collect it from the machine, I tore my train ticket up after leaving the train but before passing the point where my ticket was to be checked again. I did everything wrong I could do wrong.
Now, if I would have done stuff like this in Amsterdam, no matter how well I could explain what I did wrong and why I did it, I would have ended up with half my years salary in fines and a bunch of grumpy people who work for the railway company bitching at me. Again; not in England. The men and women that checked my (torn up) tickets, answered my extremely stupid questions and helped me understand why my train had been cancelled and how I was to get to the airport in an alternative way while I was completely stressing out, were nice, friendly, and most of all easygoing.
Oh, and they called me 'love' (well, at least the women did).
There's only one problem I have with the English: I don't understand what the fuck they're saying. It's not the language that is a problem. After all, as you can see on this blog, English me fery are good. It's the accents. It took me ten minutes to figure out that the, again awfully nice, person selling me drinks meant "Do you want ice" and not "Do youwnjfksoisisuisdize?". The only reason I figured out what the extremely friendly woman selling me a gigantic potato with even more tuna salad meant when she asked "Ya want batr?" was because she was pointing at some butter with her knive. And people from Brmnghm.... well, they were all extremely nice but god knows what they said to me.
So, in short; people of England, I'm totally in favor of getting you guys to run the globe again for a couple of decades, but could ya please lose the accents???
Every time I spent some time in England there's a few things that always surprise me, and usually pleasantly. For one thing, I love the way the country side looks. I love the fact that they have Queer as Folk on dvd in practically every cd/dvd store there is. In a really weird way I love how the cars drive on the wrong side of the street (for possible UK readers; yes, it is the wrong side). But mostly, I love the English.
I haven't been in France recently, and the times I have been there I didn't feel unwanted or hated by the reportedly bitchy local French population (then again, last time I was in France I was 5), but I can understand how people might react a little annoyed at tourists. Even in Amsterdam, a city where most people tend to be quite laidback, the police and the people running the public transportation system are usually not the most friendly to tourists screwing something up.
From what I've experienced, not in England. Last year, when I was in the UK to see Zucchero perform in London, I had to travel quite a lot by public transportation (trains, subway, busses the works) and I'm pretty sure that in the three days I was in England I broke every single rule there is. I rode on subways with a wrong ticket, I rode in a train without any valid ticket or pounds to buy one, I payed for a ticket in a bus and then didn't collect it from the machine, I tore my train ticket up after leaving the train but before passing the point where my ticket was to be checked again. I did everything wrong I could do wrong.
Now, if I would have done stuff like this in Amsterdam, no matter how well I could explain what I did wrong and why I did it, I would have ended up with half my years salary in fines and a bunch of grumpy people who work for the railway company bitching at me. Again; not in England. The men and women that checked my (torn up) tickets, answered my extremely stupid questions and helped me understand why my train had been cancelled and how I was to get to the airport in an alternative way while I was completely stressing out, were nice, friendly, and most of all easygoing.
Oh, and they called me 'love' (well, at least the women did).
There's only one problem I have with the English: I don't understand what the fuck they're saying. It's not the language that is a problem. After all, as you can see on this blog, English me fery are good. It's the accents. It took me ten minutes to figure out that the, again awfully nice, person selling me drinks meant "Do you want ice" and not "Do youwnjfksoisisuisdize?". The only reason I figured out what the extremely friendly woman selling me a gigantic potato with even more tuna salad meant when she asked "Ya want batr?" was because she was pointing at some butter with her knive. And people from Brmnghm.... well, they were all extremely nice but god knows what they said to me.
So, in short; people of England, I'm totally in favor of getting you guys to run the globe again for a couple of decades, but could ya please lose the accents???
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Dear Pat Robertson,
Most honourable servant of God,
How's life? I've been a little busy the past two weeks so I didn't have time to write you any sooner. I was planning to do it a few days ago, honestly. I'm sorry! I understand you're upset, and I also understand that if I'd be gone from this earth oil production wouldn't be harmed in any way, but please, please don't have me killed!
Amen,
Boris
Hi Pat,
Obviously I didn't mean all that. I don't believe in God, so I'll be damned if I believe in you. To me you're just a silly old guy claiming he's talking to God (who doesn't exist, so you do the maths). But I just wanted to know; is this how your life is like these days? Are people afraid you'll throw a fatwah at them too? "Here's your coffee Mr. Robertson, I know I forgot the milk, please don't kill me!!!!'.
To those of you who missed it (must be tough living in a cardboard box btw). Our good friend and evangelist Pat Robertson recently said in his own TV show ' The 700 Club' that if Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez really thinks the U.S. is trying to kill him (which he does) then ", I think that we really ought to go ahead and do it. It's a whole lot cheaper than starting a war" (which it is). Obviously while saying that, you forgot that Chavez is a Democratically elected president (that is, as Democratically elected as any man can be in South America) and that he's a fellow Christian.
That's not to say that I don't agree with you that Chavez is a bit of an odd fellow and not a really good president to his people. But if that's a good reason to have someone killed, well, I feel for George W . My favourite part of your Kill Chavez rant, was the adding of 'And I don't think any oil shipments will stop'. As Jon Stewart of The Daily Show said 'That's right in line with the 10 Commandments; Thou shalt not kil... if any oil shipments will stop'.
After you proclaimed your fatwah, all hell obviously broke lose, and you responded in your typical Pat Robertson way; deny, attack 'liberal media', be confronted with taped video of you saying what you actually said and then in the end somewhat take it back while the rest of the world mocks you. Hey, if it makes you happy!
Your screw up did give me reasons to go back to the Pat Robertson hall of fame and check out some of your other quotes. My favourites;
"The feminist agenda is not about equal rights for women. It is about a socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism, and become lesbians."
"I know this is painful for the ladies to hear, but if you get married, you have accepted the headship of a man, your husband. Christ is the head of the household and the husband is the head of the wife, and that's the way it is, period."
"These girls (Robertson is talking about mothers on welfare) are not stupid. If you want to pay them five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred dollars a month, or whatever it is, to have a baby, they'll have babies. And if they'll stop paying them, they'll stop having babies. It's that simple. It's not heartless, it's not cruel, it's an intelligent use of money (Robertson opposes any form of sex education)".
"It's one thing to say, "We have rights to jobs ... we have rights to be left alone in out little corner of the world to do our thing." It's an entirely different thing to say, well, "We're not only going to go into the schools and we're going to take your children and your grandchildren and turn them into homosexuals." Now that's wrong."
and on number one: your "I totally concur" to Jerry Falwells "The ACLU has got to take a lot of blame for this (Falwell is talking about the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001). And I know I'll hear from them for this, but throwing God...successfully with the help of the federal court system...throwing God out of the public square, out of the schools, the abortionists have got to bear some burden for this because God will not be mocked and when we destroy 40 million little innocent babies, we make God mad...I really believe that the pagans and the abortionists and the feminists and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way, all of them who try to secularize America...I point the thing in their face and say you helped this happen."
You must be a proud man, Pat!
Anyhoo, I can't write too long; there's children to turn into homosexuals, earthquakes to cause, and women to be lesbianized, and it's a big worls, so you understand I gotta run.
Cheerio!
Boris
How's life? I've been a little busy the past two weeks so I didn't have time to write you any sooner. I was planning to do it a few days ago, honestly. I'm sorry! I understand you're upset, and I also understand that if I'd be gone from this earth oil production wouldn't be harmed in any way, but please, please don't have me killed!
Amen,
Boris
Hi Pat,
Obviously I didn't mean all that. I don't believe in God, so I'll be damned if I believe in you. To me you're just a silly old guy claiming he's talking to God (who doesn't exist, so you do the maths). But I just wanted to know; is this how your life is like these days? Are people afraid you'll throw a fatwah at them too? "Here's your coffee Mr. Robertson, I know I forgot the milk, please don't kill me!!!!'.
To those of you who missed it (must be tough living in a cardboard box btw). Our good friend and evangelist Pat Robertson recently said in his own TV show ' The 700 Club' that if Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez really thinks the U.S. is trying to kill him (which he does) then ", I think that we really ought to go ahead and do it. It's a whole lot cheaper than starting a war" (which it is). Obviously while saying that, you forgot that Chavez is a Democratically elected president (that is, as Democratically elected as any man can be in South America) and that he's a fellow Christian.
That's not to say that I don't agree with you that Chavez is a bit of an odd fellow and not a really good president to his people. But if that's a good reason to have someone killed, well, I feel for George W . My favourite part of your Kill Chavez rant, was the adding of 'And I don't think any oil shipments will stop'. As Jon Stewart of The Daily Show said 'That's right in line with the 10 Commandments; Thou shalt not kil... if any oil shipments will stop'.
After you proclaimed your fatwah, all hell obviously broke lose, and you responded in your typical Pat Robertson way; deny, attack 'liberal media', be confronted with taped video of you saying what you actually said and then in the end somewhat take it back while the rest of the world mocks you. Hey, if it makes you happy!
Your screw up did give me reasons to go back to the Pat Robertson hall of fame and check out some of your other quotes. My favourites;
"The feminist agenda is not about equal rights for women. It is about a socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism, and become lesbians."
"I know this is painful for the ladies to hear, but if you get married, you have accepted the headship of a man, your husband. Christ is the head of the household and the husband is the head of the wife, and that's the way it is, period."
"These girls (Robertson is talking about mothers on welfare) are not stupid. If you want to pay them five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred dollars a month, or whatever it is, to have a baby, they'll have babies. And if they'll stop paying them, they'll stop having babies. It's that simple. It's not heartless, it's not cruel, it's an intelligent use of money (Robertson opposes any form of sex education)".
"It's one thing to say, "We have rights to jobs ... we have rights to be left alone in out little corner of the world to do our thing." It's an entirely different thing to say, well, "We're not only going to go into the schools and we're going to take your children and your grandchildren and turn them into homosexuals." Now that's wrong."
and on number one: your "I totally concur" to Jerry Falwells "The ACLU has got to take a lot of blame for this (Falwell is talking about the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001). And I know I'll hear from them for this, but throwing God...successfully with the help of the federal court system...throwing God out of the public square, out of the schools, the abortionists have got to bear some burden for this because God will not be mocked and when we destroy 40 million little innocent babies, we make God mad...I really believe that the pagans and the abortionists and the feminists and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way, all of them who try to secularize America...I point the thing in their face and say you helped this happen."
You must be a proud man, Pat!
Anyhoo, I can't write too long; there's children to turn into homosexuals, earthquakes to cause, and women to be lesbianized, and it's a big worls, so you understand I gotta run.
Cheerio!
Boris
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Fai piano, i bimbi grandi non piangono
The above is a quote from one of my favourite Zucchero songs. Granted, most Zucchero songs are among my favourites, but this one, called ´Diamante´, has a special place in the ranking. The song, written by Zucchero and an Italian singer-songwriter called Francesco DeGregori, is about the death of Zucchero’s grandmother, whose name was Diamante. Although my Italian isn’t as good as it should be, I believe a fair enough translation of the sentence above, which in the song is whispered several times during the bridge, would be `Softly now, big kids don’t cry`, which I think is one of the best descriptions of how one feels when someone close passes away.
Yesterday, late in the afternoon, my grandfather died. He was 92 years and 22 days old. He had been ill for months, if not years. And in the past few weeks he had been visibly getting weaker and weaker. Basically, everybody, including himself, knew he was going to die soon, and everybody, including himself, were ´at peace with it´. When thinking about older people passing away, I always remember a Billy Christal movie I once saw in which he plays a comedian getting older. Somewhere in the movie his mother dies, and during a service for her he starts telling funny stories about her before breaking down and saying `She was 99 and she died too young!’.
It’s a pretty good line, but in this case I don’t think it’s appropriate. My grandfather died without too much pain, with dignity, with his mind still in excellent shape, and in the room that had been his home for the past 2 years. He was tired, he was done, there really wasn’t anything left he was waiting for, so he gave up and stepped out. My grandmother, who died in 2002, died in much the same way, and although there’s a lot of comfort in there for those left behind, there’s also the problem of having to combine sadness with realization that there really wasn’t another option.
As a kid with a working mom, I spent loads of time with them when I was younger, and I remember that as being in this big hot bath of complete and unconditional love. The funny thing about my grandparents was the difference between them as parents and the way they were with me and my nephews and nieces. They were both raised in the early 20th century and both strict Catholics, so you can imagine that as parents they weren’t always the most adapted to their 1960’s, soon-to-be-atheists, kids. As grandparents, however, they were simply the best: up until the very last moment, if you wanted to see my grandfather smile all you had to do was mention one of his grandchildren.
Yesterday, late in the afternoon, my grandfather died. He was 92 years and 22 days old. He had been ill for months, if not years. And in the past few weeks he had been visibly getting weaker and weaker. Basically, everybody, including himself, knew he was going to die soon, and everybody, including himself, were ´at peace with it´. When thinking about older people passing away, I always remember a Billy Christal movie I once saw in which he plays a comedian getting older. Somewhere in the movie his mother dies, and during a service for her he starts telling funny stories about her before breaking down and saying `She was 99 and she died too young!’.
It’s a pretty good line, but in this case I don’t think it’s appropriate. My grandfather died without too much pain, with dignity, with his mind still in excellent shape, and in the room that had been his home for the past 2 years. He was tired, he was done, there really wasn’t anything left he was waiting for, so he gave up and stepped out. My grandmother, who died in 2002, died in much the same way, and although there’s a lot of comfort in there for those left behind, there’s also the problem of having to combine sadness with realization that there really wasn’t another option.
As a kid with a working mom, I spent loads of time with them when I was younger, and I remember that as being in this big hot bath of complete and unconditional love. The funny thing about my grandparents was the difference between them as parents and the way they were with me and my nephews and nieces. They were both raised in the early 20th century and both strict Catholics, so you can imagine that as parents they weren’t always the most adapted to their 1960’s, soon-to-be-atheists, kids. As grandparents, however, they were simply the best: up until the very last moment, if you wanted to see my grandfather smile all you had to do was mention one of his grandchildren.
In the past few years I’d visit him usually once a week, and though the fluffy warmness of my grandmother had passed on, it was replaced by the sort of grown up discussions I never had with my grandmother. We used to talk about politics, news, history, sports and whatever else was going on. Also, clearly showing that we’re related, we spent quite a lot of time making jokes. His favourite material was money. Whenever there was a news story about stock prices falling, he would look at me semi-seriously and say “Don’t worry, sold everything”. “Phew” my mom and me would reply, “thank god the family fortune is safe!”.
The last time I saw him was last Monday but he was hardly able to stay awake for more than a few minutes. The day before I went to see him after work and we spent about twenty minutes talking, somehow ending up talking about food. He asked if I had eaten already, I said I hadn’t, and he then suggested we should get Chinese food together, ignoring for a moment he hadn’t eaten solid food in two weeks. My family doesn’t have many traditions but joking until your very last breath, thank god, is one of them. Eventually we moved on to my grandmothers cooking, and thinking about her food, but more importantly her, he boasted the biggest smile I have seen on him in the past month.
Now, personally I’m not a big philosopher concerning life and death. I don’t believe there is a heaven, and if there is one Mark Twain was probably right in saying he’d prefer heaven for the climate and hell for the company, but my grandfather did, and who knows, maybe he was right. Or maybe the late Dutch songwriter Bram Vermeulen had it right when he wrote
And when I die
Don’t cry
I’m not really dead
You should know
It’s just a body
That I left behind
Dead I’ll only be
Once you’ve forgotten about me.
And if that’s the case both my grandparents will live on for a long, long time.
Oh, and for the record: big kids most definitely do cry.
The last time I saw him was last Monday but he was hardly able to stay awake for more than a few minutes. The day before I went to see him after work and we spent about twenty minutes talking, somehow ending up talking about food. He asked if I had eaten already, I said I hadn’t, and he then suggested we should get Chinese food together, ignoring for a moment he hadn’t eaten solid food in two weeks. My family doesn’t have many traditions but joking until your very last breath, thank god, is one of them. Eventually we moved on to my grandmothers cooking, and thinking about her food, but more importantly her, he boasted the biggest smile I have seen on him in the past month.
Now, personally I’m not a big philosopher concerning life and death. I don’t believe there is a heaven, and if there is one Mark Twain was probably right in saying he’d prefer heaven for the climate and hell for the company, but my grandfather did, and who knows, maybe he was right. Or maybe the late Dutch songwriter Bram Vermeulen had it right when he wrote
And when I die
Don’t cry
I’m not really dead
You should know
It’s just a body
That I left behind
Dead I’ll only be
Once you’ve forgotten about me.
And if that’s the case both my grandparents will live on for a long, long time.
Oh, and for the record: big kids most definitely do cry.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
It's a jungle out there
In a month and a few days I'll be spending a week in Kenya.
Like all trips, preparations usually start about a month in advance, unlike my usual trips preparations for this one are quite important. My normal travel routine is standing in front of my bookcase wondering which cd's to bring (a task that is quite difficult and usually takes several test runs before all the boring cd's are eliminated), this time I have to get medication shot inside me so that I won't die.
Fun, and also, such a comforting thought!
To just get it over with me and my dad went to the KLM Travel Clinic yesterday morning. Since he already had his vaccinations last year I was the only one who actually had to get a shot, and it's been a while. I believe the last time was when I was 12 and all I remember from it is that I missed school and didn't cry (tear up, yes, but no crying!). Thankfully I didn't cry or pass out this time around either. Also, even though I got three shots (one against Yellow Fever, one against something call DTP and one against some other thing) the woman who gave me the shots was quite a professional and it only took about a minute to do it.
And then she talked about all the different things you can get in Kenya. Just so you know, there's this bug in still water around there so you should probably ask around before you take a swim. And if you do catch the bug, she added, you'll know because there will be blood in your urine. Oh, by the way she added, hepatitus B is quite big around there so be careful with any blood contact. For a moment I was confused and wondered who wouldn't be careful touching someone elses blood, but then I figured that if someone would give me 5 minutes I'm sure I'd be able to find at least 20 people on Gaydar. I left the building with a pile of brochures big enough to take up 50% of the luggage weight I'm allowed to take with me on the flight.
Overall the people who worked at the clinic seemed... well, they seemed weird, but they also seemed to know what they were doing. Sort of. There's only one thing that worried me.
While waiting for our turn my dad and I overheard this conversation between a woman of the clinic and a guy asking for some advice. The man was traveling to Indonesia soon and he was planning on staying on Java, would he need anti-malaria pills? The woman replied that no, he didn't because Java is malaria free, however just in case he should rub anti-mosquito stuff on him just in case. Then the man said he was also planning on staying on Lombok, would he need malaria pills for that? The woman looked at him and asked 'Will you be there for more than three nights?', the man replied that he was planning on only staying one night. 'Then you don't need them' the woman said.
Seeing that there are quite a lot of malaria carrying mosquitos in Kenya, this has left me with quite a few questions concerning the mosquito that I sort of would like to have answered before I leave. The most important one being; how could a mosquito know if you're just staying one night? Why would they suddenly get dangerous after three nights? Do they pinch humans the way people do in supermarkets when buying avocados? 'Neah, this one isn't ripe yet, come on guys let's go to the fat German in the other room!'.
Like all trips, preparations usually start about a month in advance, unlike my usual trips preparations for this one are quite important. My normal travel routine is standing in front of my bookcase wondering which cd's to bring (a task that is quite difficult and usually takes several test runs before all the boring cd's are eliminated), this time I have to get medication shot inside me so that I won't die.
Fun, and also, such a comforting thought!
To just get it over with me and my dad went to the KLM Travel Clinic yesterday morning. Since he already had his vaccinations last year I was the only one who actually had to get a shot, and it's been a while. I believe the last time was when I was 12 and all I remember from it is that I missed school and didn't cry (tear up, yes, but no crying!). Thankfully I didn't cry or pass out this time around either. Also, even though I got three shots (one against Yellow Fever, one against something call DTP and one against some other thing) the woman who gave me the shots was quite a professional and it only took about a minute to do it.
And then she talked about all the different things you can get in Kenya. Just so you know, there's this bug in still water around there so you should probably ask around before you take a swim. And if you do catch the bug, she added, you'll know because there will be blood in your urine. Oh, by the way she added, hepatitus B is quite big around there so be careful with any blood contact. For a moment I was confused and wondered who wouldn't be careful touching someone elses blood, but then I figured that if someone would give me 5 minutes I'm sure I'd be able to find at least 20 people on Gaydar. I left the building with a pile of brochures big enough to take up 50% of the luggage weight I'm allowed to take with me on the flight.
Overall the people who worked at the clinic seemed... well, they seemed weird, but they also seemed to know what they were doing. Sort of. There's only one thing that worried me.
While waiting for our turn my dad and I overheard this conversation between a woman of the clinic and a guy asking for some advice. The man was traveling to Indonesia soon and he was planning on staying on Java, would he need anti-malaria pills? The woman replied that no, he didn't because Java is malaria free, however just in case he should rub anti-mosquito stuff on him just in case. Then the man said he was also planning on staying on Lombok, would he need malaria pills for that? The woman looked at him and asked 'Will you be there for more than three nights?', the man replied that he was planning on only staying one night. 'Then you don't need them' the woman said.
Seeing that there are quite a lot of malaria carrying mosquitos in Kenya, this has left me with quite a few questions concerning the mosquito that I sort of would like to have answered before I leave. The most important one being; how could a mosquito know if you're just staying one night? Why would they suddenly get dangerous after three nights? Do they pinch humans the way people do in supermarkets when buying avocados? 'Neah, this one isn't ripe yet, come on guys let's go to the fat German in the other room!'.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Tough one
I was at work last Sunday killing time and chatting with my direct supervisor when I asked her how the hiring was going for other people working at the same place. When I left for my vacation they were still looking for new people to work at the same hours as I do, and I was pretty interested to find out who I’d end up with. My supervisor, a woman who is in her 30´s and seemed perfectly normal till then, explained that so far no people had been hired, though she did do one interview. But, she added, she had decided not to hire him since `well, you know, he had a sexual preference that was a little different than that of most men. Which is perfectly fine of course but I figured you wouldn’t be too comfortable working with him, and everybody should be comfortable going to work!´ after which she continued humming along to a Queen song on the radio.
Apart from the irony that she herself single-handedly destroyed all comfort I may have had in working at the place in those two sentences, and the fact that her gaydar is apparently not as fine-tuned as she thinks it is, the thing that hit me most about all of it was the way she said it. A little different. It reminded me of one of my friend Merel´s favourite stories; years ago during some school trip to the woods she got ill (flu, food poisoning, something like that) and spent a few days lying in bed with fever, nausea, and the urge to bitch at the other girls sharing a room with her. One morning she decided she wasn’t going to get up for breakfast and she stayed in bed, where one of the supervisors on the trip, a geography teacher with a wife and children, came to see how she was doing. He looked at her for a while and then asked the legendary question `Is it a…. you know…. a woman thingie?´.
Right after my supervisor transformed herself from a normal lady into an evil bitch from hell in my head the different me’s started a meeting on how to respond to this full frontal attack. Read-headed me was the first to think and shouted `HIT HER! IN HER FACE! WITH A BOOK! DO IT!´ while white foam was blowing out of his mouth. Against all normal rules he was joined by the idealist in me who, for the time being ignored his anti-violence beliefs, and joined in with a direct `I’d say resign right now, or at least strangle her!` and started unrolling his pride flags and started humming ´Imagine´.
The coward in me joined the realist on the other side of the table. ´Honestly´, the realist said, ´how do you think it will make any difference if we quit? Or kill her? This is a woman who apparently doesn’t like gay people, we don’t like bigots, it’s the exact same thing`. A valid point, to which the coward added a soft `Y-yeah, what he said` from his hiding place under the table. Realist came back with a good point `Guys, come on! Aren’t we the ones that always say `if you don’t say it’s wrong, than that says it’s right`? We have to stand by our principles!´ and started handing out ´We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it´ t-shirts to the other me´s.
By now my head was getting even more crowded than it usually is. The shopping addict in me ran into the room and shouted hysterically that we can’t quit because we need the money to buy things. The Seinfield fan in me wondered how my supervisor knew that the Anonymous Gay Guy was gay? ´I mean, seriously! Was he wearing a ´Kiss me I´m gay t-shirt? Did he tell her?´. The slut in me wondered out loud if we should ask for a phone number but after all the others looked at him in silent disgust for 2 minutes he left the meeting.
After that the stand-off was getting quite difficult. What to do? `KILL HER!´ read headed guy shouted. ´Lecture her!` idealist said. ´Yes! Do lecture her´ history teacher man said but he also was thrown out of the meeting by the others. ´Oh puhlease´ realist replied ´Do you honestly think it’s going to make a difference?´. ´Is she still out there?´ coward asked from beneath the table.
Eventually I decided to leave it for now. I usually find that people’s prejudices fade after one on one contact, but why always take the bullet? You can’t save or change everybody and at least now I have a very valid reason to despise my boss. Also I may quit after all in a few weeks and the nerd boy in me got his way in demanding I’d write a blog about it. But still, the coward in me was much too pleased with this solution.
But maybe, just maybe, I might listen to the bitch in me, the one who gets mad and gets even, and e-mail her loads of gay porn anonymously.
Apart from the irony that she herself single-handedly destroyed all comfort I may have had in working at the place in those two sentences, and the fact that her gaydar is apparently not as fine-tuned as she thinks it is, the thing that hit me most about all of it was the way she said it. A little different. It reminded me of one of my friend Merel´s favourite stories; years ago during some school trip to the woods she got ill (flu, food poisoning, something like that) and spent a few days lying in bed with fever, nausea, and the urge to bitch at the other girls sharing a room with her. One morning she decided she wasn’t going to get up for breakfast and she stayed in bed, where one of the supervisors on the trip, a geography teacher with a wife and children, came to see how she was doing. He looked at her for a while and then asked the legendary question `Is it a…. you know…. a woman thingie?´.
Right after my supervisor transformed herself from a normal lady into an evil bitch from hell in my head the different me’s started a meeting on how to respond to this full frontal attack. Read-headed me was the first to think and shouted `HIT HER! IN HER FACE! WITH A BOOK! DO IT!´ while white foam was blowing out of his mouth. Against all normal rules he was joined by the idealist in me who, for the time being ignored his anti-violence beliefs, and joined in with a direct `I’d say resign right now, or at least strangle her!` and started unrolling his pride flags and started humming ´Imagine´.
The coward in me joined the realist on the other side of the table. ´Honestly´, the realist said, ´how do you think it will make any difference if we quit? Or kill her? This is a woman who apparently doesn’t like gay people, we don’t like bigots, it’s the exact same thing`. A valid point, to which the coward added a soft `Y-yeah, what he said` from his hiding place under the table. Realist came back with a good point `Guys, come on! Aren’t we the ones that always say `if you don’t say it’s wrong, than that says it’s right`? We have to stand by our principles!´ and started handing out ´We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it´ t-shirts to the other me´s.
By now my head was getting even more crowded than it usually is. The shopping addict in me ran into the room and shouted hysterically that we can’t quit because we need the money to buy things. The Seinfield fan in me wondered how my supervisor knew that the Anonymous Gay Guy was gay? ´I mean, seriously! Was he wearing a ´Kiss me I´m gay t-shirt? Did he tell her?´. The slut in me wondered out loud if we should ask for a phone number but after all the others looked at him in silent disgust for 2 minutes he left the meeting.
After that the stand-off was getting quite difficult. What to do? `KILL HER!´ read headed guy shouted. ´Lecture her!` idealist said. ´Yes! Do lecture her´ history teacher man said but he also was thrown out of the meeting by the others. ´Oh puhlease´ realist replied ´Do you honestly think it’s going to make a difference?´. ´Is she still out there?´ coward asked from beneath the table.
Eventually I decided to leave it for now. I usually find that people’s prejudices fade after one on one contact, but why always take the bullet? You can’t save or change everybody and at least now I have a very valid reason to despise my boss. Also I may quit after all in a few weeks and the nerd boy in me got his way in demanding I’d write a blog about it. But still, the coward in me was much too pleased with this solution.
But maybe, just maybe, I might listen to the bitch in me, the one who gets mad and gets even, and e-mail her loads of gay porn anonymously.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Déjà Vu All Over Again
I was so sure reality TV had hit it’s all time low when `Playing it straight´ was on. For those who have missed it (bless you!) ´Playing it straight`, or as it was called in the Netherlands ´Recognize the homo´, was a dating show, with a twist. One girl, type: extremely stupid, asked FOX to set her up with a man. FOX said `Sure! But we’re gonna make it a bit harder for ya!` and instead of getting men that really want her, they get a bunch of men of which a certain number is gay.
I know, FOX is so wild.
The girl then gets what felt like seven hundred (but what might have been a little less) weeks to figure out which man is gay and which isn’t. At the end of each show she has to eliminate two men and at the end of the series she is left with one guy. If that guy is straight they both get 1 million dollars, if the guy is gay he gets 2 million and stupid girl gets nothing.
Stupid girl was allowed to test the guys (who looked like they all almost got the cowboy gig in the Village People) by making them do things and observe. So the men were expected to run away from horses (running, that one thing gay men famously cannot do!), kiss the stupid girl (kissing women without throwing up and running around screaming, that other thing gay men famously cannot do!) and chopping wood (insert own joke here, use at least one reference to ´wood´). In the end stupid girl picked a straight guy whose arm was broken earlier on (don’t ask) by a gay guy (go team!) and so dumb and dumber and the straight guy shared 2 million dollars.
Now, if you’re American you probably didn’t know all that, because the show got cancelled in the U.S. after only one episode. That’s right: ´Playing it straight´ was that rare piece of crap even Americans really didn’t care about. As said, in the jungle that is Dr. Phil, Oprah, Real World, Survivor and Friends (oh they fooled you too thinking those weren’t real people didn’t they!) I considered that to be the worst piece of reality TV ever.
Enter `Amish in the City´, a show so ridiculous you wonder how much cocaine people actually do use while making up ideas for television these days.
In this show a bunch of hip and happening (and by using the words `hip and happening´ I have just proved that I am not one of them) 20 somethingers get to share an amazing house somewhere in some American city with…. Amish 20 somethingers. So far I have only seen 30 minutes of this show, but I expect lots of fights, some sex and Amish people getting surprisingly bitchy and mean on the asses of the hip people. Also, I demand more shots of the blonde stupid looking Amish guy chopping wood without his shirt on.
Anyway, we’ll see if this show can live up to it’s badness, but in the meantime let’s see if I can come up with some suggestions for next years reality TV formats that are even worse than this one;
I´m so going to fire my agent when I get out of this dump – Show featuring have been celebrities from earlier Survivor and Real World series stuck in one room with David Hasselhoff for seven months. Interesting? No, but anything that keeps David Hasselhoff from releasing that scheduled rap album of his is worth it. Most boring moment? David telling for the 50000th time that Kit was totally his idea. Most dramatic moment? The point where the former Real World stars realize they are actually less interesting than David Hasselhoff.
Taliban in the Red Light District – Shot on location in Amsterdam’s red light district. Taliban warriors get to spent four months living next door to Betty Sue and her friends. Expect red lights, lewd comments and explosive situations…. Literary.
Playing it gay – 10 guys, plus one gay guy who gets to eliminate them. But some of them are straight! Exciting? No, but will you watch it? Damn right. Expect lots of pondering on why four guys have beer bellies and bore the rest of the group (and the world) with constant bickering on football, cycling or (even worse) car racing. Also, expect old clichés about gay men to be repeated 24/7. Stolen from ´Playing it straight´? I resent that suggestion!
There ya go! And that just took me 3 minutes! I expect royalties to start flowing in any moment now.
PS. Rupert Murdoch: Call me!
I know, FOX is so wild.
The girl then gets what felt like seven hundred (but what might have been a little less) weeks to figure out which man is gay and which isn’t. At the end of each show she has to eliminate two men and at the end of the series she is left with one guy. If that guy is straight they both get 1 million dollars, if the guy is gay he gets 2 million and stupid girl gets nothing.
Stupid girl was allowed to test the guys (who looked like they all almost got the cowboy gig in the Village People) by making them do things and observe. So the men were expected to run away from horses (running, that one thing gay men famously cannot do!), kiss the stupid girl (kissing women without throwing up and running around screaming, that other thing gay men famously cannot do!) and chopping wood (insert own joke here, use at least one reference to ´wood´). In the end stupid girl picked a straight guy whose arm was broken earlier on (don’t ask) by a gay guy (go team!) and so dumb and dumber and the straight guy shared 2 million dollars.
Now, if you’re American you probably didn’t know all that, because the show got cancelled in the U.S. after only one episode. That’s right: ´Playing it straight´ was that rare piece of crap even Americans really didn’t care about. As said, in the jungle that is Dr. Phil, Oprah, Real World, Survivor and Friends (oh they fooled you too thinking those weren’t real people didn’t they!) I considered that to be the worst piece of reality TV ever.
Enter `Amish in the City´, a show so ridiculous you wonder how much cocaine people actually do use while making up ideas for television these days.
In this show a bunch of hip and happening (and by using the words `hip and happening´ I have just proved that I am not one of them) 20 somethingers get to share an amazing house somewhere in some American city with…. Amish 20 somethingers. So far I have only seen 30 minutes of this show, but I expect lots of fights, some sex and Amish people getting surprisingly bitchy and mean on the asses of the hip people. Also, I demand more shots of the blonde stupid looking Amish guy chopping wood without his shirt on.
Anyway, we’ll see if this show can live up to it’s badness, but in the meantime let’s see if I can come up with some suggestions for next years reality TV formats that are even worse than this one;
I´m so going to fire my agent when I get out of this dump – Show featuring have been celebrities from earlier Survivor and Real World series stuck in one room with David Hasselhoff for seven months. Interesting? No, but anything that keeps David Hasselhoff from releasing that scheduled rap album of his is worth it. Most boring moment? David telling for the 50000th time that Kit was totally his idea. Most dramatic moment? The point where the former Real World stars realize they are actually less interesting than David Hasselhoff.
Taliban in the Red Light District – Shot on location in Amsterdam’s red light district. Taliban warriors get to spent four months living next door to Betty Sue and her friends. Expect red lights, lewd comments and explosive situations…. Literary.
Playing it gay – 10 guys, plus one gay guy who gets to eliminate them. But some of them are straight! Exciting? No, but will you watch it? Damn right. Expect lots of pondering on why four guys have beer bellies and bore the rest of the group (and the world) with constant bickering on football, cycling or (even worse) car racing. Also, expect old clichés about gay men to be repeated 24/7. Stolen from ´Playing it straight´? I resent that suggestion!
There ya go! And that just took me 3 minutes! I expect royalties to start flowing in any moment now.
PS. Rupert Murdoch: Call me!
Monday, July 04, 2005
Theory
I have a new historical theory on scientific development, wanna hear it?
Neah, I figured you didn't, but since you are reading my blog you obviously have nothing to do right now, so screeeeeew you (pronounced in a Little Britain way).
Anyway, as I was studying for my last bachelor exam this weekend I realized something that I thought was rather interesting. The exam, in fact an oral exam, which trust me in real life has nothing of the light eroticism of the words, was about science in ancient Greece. What makes that period (a couple of hundred years) so interesting is that, appareantly out of nowhere, a bunch of Greek guys suddenly started asking very interesting scientific and philosophical questions. Questions about the cause of things like lightning but also, for instance, the existence of gods, the shape of the earth, what 'things' exist of, etcetera etcetera.
What makes that even more interesting, is that we have no idea why they were the ones to start. For some reason scientists in other civilized societies (Egypt, India) did not ask those questions but a bunch of beardy guys in Meletus did. Odd.
Just as odd is why the scientific progress stopped at a certain point. Although the exact point is arguable, some say 300 BC, others go for a 100 BC, it is clear that progress somehow stops and is replaced by looking back at their achievements; instead of writing new works and investigating new questions scientists spent their time checking the work of their predecessors. Part of it is blamed on Christendom, which indeed isn't the most science-friendly club at times (or the most anything-other-than-Christians-friendly club for all that matters), but studying history for over 3 years has taught me that the Christians weren't that popular in 300 BC (I know and this isn't even the theory yet!).
Another possible reason are the Romans. Unlike what most people seem to think, the Romans were not really a smart people. They imported most of their knowledge (and in certain cases actual scientists) from the Greeks and hardly added anything themselves. Basically, the best way to look at the Romans is to compare them to those guys you see in football stadiums; in their pre-beerbelly years some of them are pretty attrective, but the odds of them curing cancer are pretty low (however, the odds of them wishing cancer upon the people supporting the other party are enormous).
Which brings me to my theory; people were just sick of scientific discovery. This may sound weird if you wander through the Forum Romanum and think "Oooookaay, so this was civilization??" (or as the American woman screamed "OH MY GOSH! This is the place where they shot Caesar!") but the Greeks made a huge leap forward in just a few years. Case in point; in Homers time a ship could carry 50 people at the most, 600 years later a ship was reported that could carry 7.250 people (!). What's the use then in making ships that can fit 10.000 people? It's not like you even have enough soldiers (or more importantly rowers) to fill the freaking thing!
Also, and maybe even more so, they were probably out of ideas. After the Greek period of science, a long period of nothing follows. This nothing we sometimes refer to as the middle ages. Some people adore that period and like to dress up in obvious fake clothes and call othother "ye". These people should die. Possibly today. But getting back to the point; the reason why hardly any scientific discoveries were made in those years was that people thought that they already knew everything. Hell, Aristotle lived from 384 to 322 BC and in 1450 his books were the only ones used in all (!!!) courses taught at most universities.
Again, this may sound weird and pretty darn pathetic with our current technology, but my idea is that we're currently moving towards that exact same scenario in our world. Example; the music industry. For years all we had were LP's, then suddenly tape was introduced. A shockwave! Then the CD was introduced. Huuuuge news. Then the minidisc, but everybody ignored that. And now MP3. I remember not too long ago that it took an hour to download a song from Napster and then you still could only listen to it on your computer. Now we have Ipods with more GBs than the average computer.
Which brings me to my point; if you can buy an Mp3 player that has more GBs on it then there is music in the world (and I believe you can), whats the use in technological progress from now on? Who needs more space if you can't fill the one you already have? Who needs smaller machinese when the player you have is already smaller than your wallet? The same point could be made with examples of photocameras. However, talking for more than 5 minutes about photography is excruciatingly boring and rather sad.
Anyhoo, we have come to a point where, in certain fields, we think we know everything. Which means we might very soon be done for a few centuries.
....
Ok, so the theory is crap but I got an 8 (out of 10) for my exam, so who cares!
Neah, I figured you didn't, but since you are reading my blog you obviously have nothing to do right now, so screeeeeew you (pronounced in a Little Britain way).
Anyway, as I was studying for my last bachelor exam this weekend I realized something that I thought was rather interesting. The exam, in fact an oral exam, which trust me in real life has nothing of the light eroticism of the words, was about science in ancient Greece. What makes that period (a couple of hundred years) so interesting is that, appareantly out of nowhere, a bunch of Greek guys suddenly started asking very interesting scientific and philosophical questions. Questions about the cause of things like lightning but also, for instance, the existence of gods, the shape of the earth, what 'things' exist of, etcetera etcetera.
What makes that even more interesting, is that we have no idea why they were the ones to start. For some reason scientists in other civilized societies (Egypt, India) did not ask those questions but a bunch of beardy guys in Meletus did. Odd.
Just as odd is why the scientific progress stopped at a certain point. Although the exact point is arguable, some say 300 BC, others go for a 100 BC, it is clear that progress somehow stops and is replaced by looking back at their achievements; instead of writing new works and investigating new questions scientists spent their time checking the work of their predecessors. Part of it is blamed on Christendom, which indeed isn't the most science-friendly club at times (or the most anything-other-than-Christians-friendly club for all that matters), but studying history for over 3 years has taught me that the Christians weren't that popular in 300 BC (I know and this isn't even the theory yet!).
Another possible reason are the Romans. Unlike what most people seem to think, the Romans were not really a smart people. They imported most of their knowledge (and in certain cases actual scientists) from the Greeks and hardly added anything themselves. Basically, the best way to look at the Romans is to compare them to those guys you see in football stadiums; in their pre-beerbelly years some of them are pretty attrective, but the odds of them curing cancer are pretty low (however, the odds of them wishing cancer upon the people supporting the other party are enormous).
Which brings me to my theory; people were just sick of scientific discovery. This may sound weird if you wander through the Forum Romanum and think "Oooookaay, so this was civilization??" (or as the American woman screamed "OH MY GOSH! This is the place where they shot Caesar!") but the Greeks made a huge leap forward in just a few years. Case in point; in Homers time a ship could carry 50 people at the most, 600 years later a ship was reported that could carry 7.250 people (!). What's the use then in making ships that can fit 10.000 people? It's not like you even have enough soldiers (or more importantly rowers) to fill the freaking thing!
Also, and maybe even more so, they were probably out of ideas. After the Greek period of science, a long period of nothing follows. This nothing we sometimes refer to as the middle ages. Some people adore that period and like to dress up in obvious fake clothes and call othother "ye". These people should die. Possibly today. But getting back to the point; the reason why hardly any scientific discoveries were made in those years was that people thought that they already knew everything. Hell, Aristotle lived from 384 to 322 BC and in 1450 his books were the only ones used in all (!!!) courses taught at most universities.
Again, this may sound weird and pretty darn pathetic with our current technology, but my idea is that we're currently moving towards that exact same scenario in our world. Example; the music industry. For years all we had were LP's, then suddenly tape was introduced. A shockwave! Then the CD was introduced. Huuuuge news. Then the minidisc, but everybody ignored that. And now MP3. I remember not too long ago that it took an hour to download a song from Napster and then you still could only listen to it on your computer. Now we have Ipods with more GBs than the average computer.
Which brings me to my point; if you can buy an Mp3 player that has more GBs on it then there is music in the world (and I believe you can), whats the use in technological progress from now on? Who needs more space if you can't fill the one you already have? Who needs smaller machinese when the player you have is already smaller than your wallet? The same point could be made with examples of photocameras. However, talking for more than 5 minutes about photography is excruciatingly boring and rather sad.
Anyhoo, we have come to a point where, in certain fields, we think we know everything. Which means we might very soon be done for a few centuries.
....
Ok, so the theory is crap but I got an 8 (out of 10) for my exam, so who cares!
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Let the music heal your soul
I’m a bit of a music junkie (all: No, really?) and from that perspective I strongly believe music is the highest of all art forms. It’s not that I don’t appreciate paintings, statues or photographs, because I do (well, specific photographs). It’s just that at a certain point they just get boring. Books and movies are in the same category as music but, unlike music they are of a more difficult material to work with. A normal pop song generally takes 4 minutes to digest, while a book or movie takes at least 2 hours. It’s true that this means that music can pass you by much quicker than a book, but it also means you can revisit it much easier and more frequently.
The part that I love most about pop music are the lyrics. Granted, not all lyrics, a lot of them are pretty darn bad (all: The Ketchup song!) but sometimes you run across some really nice lines. For some people it’s tough to follow the lyrics, but when you do, the lines do stuff for you. When you’re feeling good they help you feel better, when you feel crap because you’ve been dumped or something, they make you feel… well… less crap. And in case of a light depression (or in my case severe post-teenage angst) it works too, but it’s more difficult.
Problem in that category is that a lot of my favourite artists fail me there in subject matter. Although Ben Folds comes pretty close (“All I know is I’ve got to be/ Where my heart says I ought to be/ It often makes no sense/ In fact I never understand these things I feel” – Don’t change your plans), he loses me when writing about abortion and joining the army. Ryan Adams is a genius but most of the time too self-centred and Jason Mraz is just too darn sweet. Zucchero is God but his songs are all about either being happy because you love someone or being sad because you love someone, which are pretty interesting subjects, but sadly enough in angst- and depression-fighting he falls short.
Which is why I thank God on my knees at least once a month (or in bad months twice) for giving the world Bruce Springsteen.
When you’re down, listening to a Springsteen compilation is like having this guy sitting next to you, hand on your shoulder, saying “Dude, I feel your pain”. Bruce has either been there himself (Human Touch, Born to Run) or he knows loads of people who have (The River, Born in the U.S.A., Streets of Philadelphia, Darkness on the Edge of Town). He gives you lines like “Everything dies/ baby that’s a fact/ but maybe everything that dies/ someday comes back” (Atlantic City), “Will you walk with me out on the wire/ ‘Cause baby I’m just a scared and lonely rider” (Born to Run) and “Roy Orbison singing for the lonely/ Hey, that’s me and I want you only” (Thunder Road), lines which match your mood. But he also gives you “Glory Days”, “Dancing in the Dark” and “Waitin’ On A Sunny Day”, songs that can’t help but cheer you up completely. It’s a bit of an addiction this music thing, but some folks like to use alcohol to fight their problems, I buy Springsteen albums. I'm not sure it'll work forever but for right now it does and at the end of the day, I think we spent about the same amount of money… but my liver still works.
Of course Springsteen occasionally misses a beat (all: If he goes on about Crazy Janey one more time we’ll hit him! With a baseball bat! Hard! And often!) but when he does, he comes right back and hits me between the eyes with something like this:
The part that I love most about pop music are the lyrics. Granted, not all lyrics, a lot of them are pretty darn bad (all: The Ketchup song!) but sometimes you run across some really nice lines. For some people it’s tough to follow the lyrics, but when you do, the lines do stuff for you. When you’re feeling good they help you feel better, when you feel crap because you’ve been dumped or something, they make you feel… well… less crap. And in case of a light depression (or in my case severe post-teenage angst) it works too, but it’s more difficult.
Problem in that category is that a lot of my favourite artists fail me there in subject matter. Although Ben Folds comes pretty close (“All I know is I’ve got to be/ Where my heart says I ought to be/ It often makes no sense/ In fact I never understand these things I feel” – Don’t change your plans), he loses me when writing about abortion and joining the army. Ryan Adams is a genius but most of the time too self-centred and Jason Mraz is just too darn sweet. Zucchero is God but his songs are all about either being happy because you love someone or being sad because you love someone, which are pretty interesting subjects, but sadly enough in angst- and depression-fighting he falls short.
Which is why I thank God on my knees at least once a month (or in bad months twice) for giving the world Bruce Springsteen.
When you’re down, listening to a Springsteen compilation is like having this guy sitting next to you, hand on your shoulder, saying “Dude, I feel your pain”. Bruce has either been there himself (Human Touch, Born to Run) or he knows loads of people who have (The River, Born in the U.S.A., Streets of Philadelphia, Darkness on the Edge of Town). He gives you lines like “Everything dies/ baby that’s a fact/ but maybe everything that dies/ someday comes back” (Atlantic City), “Will you walk with me out on the wire/ ‘Cause baby I’m just a scared and lonely rider” (Born to Run) and “Roy Orbison singing for the lonely/ Hey, that’s me and I want you only” (Thunder Road), lines which match your mood. But he also gives you “Glory Days”, “Dancing in the Dark” and “Waitin’ On A Sunny Day”, songs that can’t help but cheer you up completely. It’s a bit of an addiction this music thing, but some folks like to use alcohol to fight their problems, I buy Springsteen albums. I'm not sure it'll work forever but for right now it does and at the end of the day, I think we spent about the same amount of money… but my liver still works.
Of course Springsteen occasionally misses a beat (all: If he goes on about Crazy Janey one more time we’ll hit him! With a baseball bat! Hard! And often!) but when he does, he comes right back and hits me between the eyes with something like this:
Now a life of leisure and pirate’s treasure
Don’t make much for tragedy
But it’s a sad man my friend who’s living in his own skin
And can’t stand the company
Every fool’s got a reason for feeling sorry for himself
And turning his heart to stone
Tonight this fool’s halfway to heaven and just a mile out of hell
And it feels like I’m coming home…
Don’t make much for tragedy
But it’s a sad man my friend who’s living in his own skin
And can’t stand the company
Every fool’s got a reason for feeling sorry for himself
And turning his heart to stone
Tonight this fool’s halfway to heaven and just a mile out of hell
And it feels like I’m coming home…
Thursday, June 23, 2005
People, oh, people
I've decided I've given up on trying to understand 50% of all people. I know, I know, I hear you saying "Ha! Boris, you're way behind us! We already did that last november when 51% of the American people voted for George W. Bush!" and you'd be right, but, ya know, I'm slow.
Anywayz.
A few weeks ago I was sitting in the bus on my way to a Joe Cocker concert (decent show btw, band sucked, Joe was great). After a few stops a woman sat next to me. No problem so far. Then the woman got her mobile phone out and started playing all her ringtones. No kidding! ALL of them! Then after doing that for five minutes, she stood up, walked to the other end of the bus and sat down there till the last stop. QUE? (For the record I would like to point out I did not smell funny either).
Then in the concert hall we (I was there with my parents) decided to sit down for the show and we picked a few pretty decent seats at the end of the hall. In between the lines of seats were stairs leading to the seats. So, most people would understand that you walk up the stairs, to the seats and sit down, right?
Nope.
After the seats filled up hundreds of people decided to sit down on the stairs. Now, if you want to do that at home, be my guest. But in a concert arena with a couple of thousand people there it might be a smarter move to keep the escape routes open, wouldn't you agree? They wouldn't. Every 15 minutes a security guard would come up to all the people sitting down explaining them they weren't allowed to sit here and asking them to leave. Which they then did (veeeeeeery slowly).... for 5 minutes and then they returned. And then the security guard came again, and they left, and returned, and... and... and....
Then this morning I was sitting in the university library wrestling myself through another G.E.R. Lloyd book for my exam on the 4th of july (lemme tell ya: after studying for this thing I can tell you for sure that all the stuff that was even remotely sexy about the words "oral exam" has totally dissapeared). Now you may never have visited this particular library but it's much like most libraries in that it has more signs telling you to 1) not talk, 2) not drink or eat and 3) most importantly NOT USE YOUR MOBILE PHONE. They're simple rules, anyone can follow them and it only means you're talk-, food- and phoneless for an hour or two.
Enter two girls that sat opposite me. They ate, they drank, they talked (in that annoying whispery tone that's always even worse than normal talking), they laughed, they didn't do anything constructive, and they talked on the phone. After an hour I felt the urge to grab one of them and pinch my ballpoint through her eye (and it's been done before and apparently it does kill).
And then I figured some of the other people in the library would probably write a post tonight on their weblog saying:
"nothing was happening and then some overweight guy suddenly screamed "WHOOOOOOOOOORE!", jumped over his table and strangled this one girl while clobbing another girl to death with her little water bottle! Proves once again 50% of the people are just completely insane".
So, I didn't. Instead I decided that there are many people in the world that I just do not understand and that the feeling is most likely mutual.
(Also, I'm afraid of going to jail.)
Anywayz.
A few weeks ago I was sitting in the bus on my way to a Joe Cocker concert (decent show btw, band sucked, Joe was great). After a few stops a woman sat next to me. No problem so far. Then the woman got her mobile phone out and started playing all her ringtones. No kidding! ALL of them! Then after doing that for five minutes, she stood up, walked to the other end of the bus and sat down there till the last stop. QUE? (For the record I would like to point out I did not smell funny either).
Then in the concert hall we (I was there with my parents) decided to sit down for the show and we picked a few pretty decent seats at the end of the hall. In between the lines of seats were stairs leading to the seats. So, most people would understand that you walk up the stairs, to the seats and sit down, right?
Nope.
After the seats filled up hundreds of people decided to sit down on the stairs. Now, if you want to do that at home, be my guest. But in a concert arena with a couple of thousand people there it might be a smarter move to keep the escape routes open, wouldn't you agree? They wouldn't. Every 15 minutes a security guard would come up to all the people sitting down explaining them they weren't allowed to sit here and asking them to leave. Which they then did (veeeeeeery slowly).... for 5 minutes and then they returned. And then the security guard came again, and they left, and returned, and... and... and....
Then this morning I was sitting in the university library wrestling myself through another G.E.R. Lloyd book for my exam on the 4th of july (lemme tell ya: after studying for this thing I can tell you for sure that all the stuff that was even remotely sexy about the words "oral exam" has totally dissapeared). Now you may never have visited this particular library but it's much like most libraries in that it has more signs telling you to 1) not talk, 2) not drink or eat and 3) most importantly NOT USE YOUR MOBILE PHONE. They're simple rules, anyone can follow them and it only means you're talk-, food- and phoneless for an hour or two.
Enter two girls that sat opposite me. They ate, they drank, they talked (in that annoying whispery tone that's always even worse than normal talking), they laughed, they didn't do anything constructive, and they talked on the phone. After an hour I felt the urge to grab one of them and pinch my ballpoint through her eye (and it's been done before and apparently it does kill).
And then I figured some of the other people in the library would probably write a post tonight on their weblog saying:
"nothing was happening and then some overweight guy suddenly screamed "WHOOOOOOOOOORE!", jumped over his table and strangled this one girl while clobbing another girl to death with her little water bottle! Proves once again 50% of the people are just completely insane".
So, I didn't. Instead I decided that there are many people in the world that I just do not understand and that the feeling is most likely mutual.
(Also, I'm afraid of going to jail.)
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
RE: Hmm... odd.
God it's chilly here, let's check the temperature....
yep...
just as I expected:
hell just froze over.
yep...
just as I expected:
hell just froze over.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Dear Howard Dean,
Hi! I'm not sure you remember me, but I was one of those people that were on your e-mail list back in 2003. You know, when you still thought you could become president?
Yeah...
Don't feel too bad about that one, we for a moment thought you could too! Obviously in our enthusiasm we forgot a few rules in politics. Rules like: just because you're hot on the internet doesn't mean you're hot in real life. Or: just because you raised the most money, it doesn't mean Dick Gephardt will shut his f-ing face and give up. Or in the same category: screaming during a rally, doesn't always make you look good.
Anyhoo, I'm glad you have a new job! Chairman of the Democratic party. Well done! Now, it's obvious that your style is a little different than that of the guy you're replacing, Terry McAuliffe. For example, people actually know you. And you can actually talk. And you have opinions. And you're not afraid to state them.... And that's sort of the problem, isn't it?
See, in the past few weeks you've been in the news for saying you "hated Republicans", you claimed that most Republicans "never made an honest living" in their life and you also said that Tom Delay should be send to jail (which is probably true, but I don't think you should say it). And then last week you said that "(the Republican party) is not very friendly to different kinds of people, they are a pretty monolithic party ... it's pretty much a white, Christian party"..... Ehm, Howie, to quote Jon Stewart: "It's pretty much a white, Christian nation. Shhhh! They can hear you!".
So I figured I'd give you some advice on public speaking. Now, don't mock it! If John Bolton and Jacques Chirac would have followed my advice they would be in a whole lot less trouble right now (... and I would probably be the prime-minister of France, see below). Anyway, my suggestions:
- whenever you plan on saying anything, ask yourself if FOX news is going to have to spin something with your statement. If they don't, for god sakes don't say it!
- right before giving a pressconference, sing along to some music on your Ipod. You know, calm, soothing songs to relax you and get rid of some anger. Like Rage against the machine or something.
- please don't do the entire 360 degrees head spin and please please don't say that Bush's mother is "sucking cock in hell", you tried it once and John Kerry is still not talking to you.
- and for crying out loud DON'T SCREAM! I know states are exciting but it really sends out the wrong message.
See ya during the next Anonymous Rush Limbaugh listeners convention!
Boris
Yeah...
Don't feel too bad about that one, we for a moment thought you could too! Obviously in our enthusiasm we forgot a few rules in politics. Rules like: just because you're hot on the internet doesn't mean you're hot in real life. Or: just because you raised the most money, it doesn't mean Dick Gephardt will shut his f-ing face and give up. Or in the same category: screaming during a rally, doesn't always make you look good.
Anyhoo, I'm glad you have a new job! Chairman of the Democratic party. Well done! Now, it's obvious that your style is a little different than that of the guy you're replacing, Terry McAuliffe. For example, people actually know you. And you can actually talk. And you have opinions. And you're not afraid to state them.... And that's sort of the problem, isn't it?
See, in the past few weeks you've been in the news for saying you "hated Republicans", you claimed that most Republicans "never made an honest living" in their life and you also said that Tom Delay should be send to jail (which is probably true, but I don't think you should say it). And then last week you said that "(the Republican party) is not very friendly to different kinds of people, they are a pretty monolithic party ... it's pretty much a white, Christian party"..... Ehm, Howie, to quote Jon Stewart: "It's pretty much a white, Christian nation. Shhhh! They can hear you!".
So I figured I'd give you some advice on public speaking. Now, don't mock it! If John Bolton and Jacques Chirac would have followed my advice they would be in a whole lot less trouble right now (... and I would probably be the prime-minister of France, see below). Anyway, my suggestions:
- whenever you plan on saying anything, ask yourself if FOX news is going to have to spin something with your statement. If they don't, for god sakes don't say it!
- right before giving a pressconference, sing along to some music on your Ipod. You know, calm, soothing songs to relax you and get rid of some anger. Like Rage against the machine or something.
- please don't do the entire 360 degrees head spin and please please don't say that Bush's mother is "sucking cock in hell", you tried it once and John Kerry is still not talking to you.
- and for crying out loud DON'T SCREAM! I know states are exciting but it really sends out the wrong message.
See ya during the next Anonymous Rush Limbaugh listeners convention!
Boris
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Wanted
Usually I'm not a big fan of filling out virtual question lists, you know the kind: what song were you listening to when you opened this e-mail, what book are you reading, do you have any weapons of mass destruction. All so demanding. However the other day I ran into one that I thought was quite amusing:
"If you would post a lonely hearts ad (which of course you don't cause you're not that desperate) what would it be like?"
Now, if this was my old Dutch blog I would just post the fake ad and continue with what I was doing before (googling you). Sadly enough my Dutch blog has passed away a month or two ago (don't be sad! it's in internet heaven with Netaid and Altavista!) and the entire set-up of this blog is that the articles posted on it should be at least one page long. And I'm not making that ad, even a fake one, one fucking page long. I mean seriously, do you KNOW how expensive these things are?
Anyway, most of the times my ideas about relationships are best described by Stephen Stills' song Love the one you're with, but not quite. The song's message is that if you can't be with the one you love, you might as well love the one you are with. Which is true, maybe not completely fair to the one you're with, but true.
However my main problem is not so much being or not being, it's finding the one you love. My bestest friend Merel (who also has a blog since yesterday btw, nothing's on it yet but you can click on the link to the left.... and then come back and read the rest.... helloooo???) is fond of saying that stuff like that always happens when you least expect it, but I'm not too sure. If that theory was true, wouldn't we all be having sex at age 5 (does explain the catholic church's problems though, I'm sure those altar boys really didn't expect it)? The main problem also isn't that I want someone now. As a matter of fact, right now is not that good a time since my ear hurts and I have to take care of my parents dog till sunday morning. It's just that a time frame would be appreciated (HEAR THAT GOD???).
But even in moments of great dispair and confusion I think of a show I once saw on MTV. They were following a bunch of people around that claimed they would do anything to get some money, for example one of the guys they interviewed was a kickboxer... slash sperm donor (and I swear to god I did not make that up!). Another guy they showed was this fellow that worked in Vegas as a freak show act known as the lizzard man. His entire face was tattooed green and his tongue was cut in half so that it seemed more, well, lizzardy. I also did not make him up. Anyway, in the show they followed Lizzard man around and towards the end of the show he married his longtime girlfriend (who I should add seemed fairly sane). And it made me think: if in this world lizzard man can find a soul mate, I'm sure it'll work out for me too.... (during my more depressed days however I think: lizzard man has someone and I don't???).
Oh and to answer that question:
"21 year old guy with unhealthy, and probably at times annoying, music, politics, books, and history addiction and a pathological fear of being left seeks likewise"
wow.... now there's a fucked up mix in the making...
"If you would post a lonely hearts ad (which of course you don't cause you're not that desperate) what would it be like?"
Now, if this was my old Dutch blog I would just post the fake ad and continue with what I was doing before (googling you). Sadly enough my Dutch blog has passed away a month or two ago (don't be sad! it's in internet heaven with Netaid and Altavista!) and the entire set-up of this blog is that the articles posted on it should be at least one page long. And I'm not making that ad, even a fake one, one fucking page long. I mean seriously, do you KNOW how expensive these things are?
Anyway, most of the times my ideas about relationships are best described by Stephen Stills' song Love the one you're with, but not quite. The song's message is that if you can't be with the one you love, you might as well love the one you are with. Which is true, maybe not completely fair to the one you're with, but true.
However my main problem is not so much being or not being, it's finding the one you love. My bestest friend Merel (who also has a blog since yesterday btw, nothing's on it yet but you can click on the link to the left.... and then come back and read the rest.... helloooo???) is fond of saying that stuff like that always happens when you least expect it, but I'm not too sure. If that theory was true, wouldn't we all be having sex at age 5 (does explain the catholic church's problems though, I'm sure those altar boys really didn't expect it)? The main problem also isn't that I want someone now. As a matter of fact, right now is not that good a time since my ear hurts and I have to take care of my parents dog till sunday morning. It's just that a time frame would be appreciated (HEAR THAT GOD???).
But even in moments of great dispair and confusion I think of a show I once saw on MTV. They were following a bunch of people around that claimed they would do anything to get some money, for example one of the guys they interviewed was a kickboxer... slash sperm donor (and I swear to god I did not make that up!). Another guy they showed was this fellow that worked in Vegas as a freak show act known as the lizzard man. His entire face was tattooed green and his tongue was cut in half so that it seemed more, well, lizzardy. I also did not make him up. Anyway, in the show they followed Lizzard man around and towards the end of the show he married his longtime girlfriend (who I should add seemed fairly sane). And it made me think: if in this world lizzard man can find a soul mate, I'm sure it'll work out for me too.... (during my more depressed days however I think: lizzard man has someone and I don't???).
Oh and to answer that question:
"21 year old guy with unhealthy, and probably at times annoying, music, politics, books, and history addiction and a pathological fear of being left seeks likewise"
wow.... now there's a fucked up mix in the making...
Friday, June 10, 2005
Part-man, part-monkey (baby, that's me)
Darwinism has me cornered and I think I have myself to blame for it.
Sigh... explanation.
For a long time I was a strong believer in survival of the fittest, mostly cuz it's like totally scientific and stuff but also because it seems to make sense. Species are confronted with a living environment with specific problems the species have to deal with. Some manage, through generations and generations, change and they survive at least a little longer, others don’t and die. It’s not a pretty picture (and if you don’t believe me Animal Planet has Slaughtering Bullies Night next Tuesday), but it seems to make sense.
That is in a world where physical strength and adaptation is everything, which is no longer the world we live in.
You see, in Europe and the U.S., anyone can survive these days. It hasn’t got anything to do with being the fittest. The problems animals used to be confronted with (food, other animals having them for brunch) are totally lost on us. If we want food all we have to do is walk (or if you’re American drive) to the nearest McDonalds (which I will pronounce as MACDonalds for as long as I live no matter what my insane American friends tell me) restaurant and eat. Really, the only thing that we can add to the human body for future generations is the ability to smell deep fryers from six blocks away.
So surviving is no longer a day to day affair for most of us (unless of course you were born in Africa or certain parts of Asia or the Middle East, then you’re just screwed and have to wait for Bob Geldof to save you). What’s important these days is being successful at living, or in other words in the age we live in now it’s about survival of the smartest. Think about it, if you manage to get into Harvard (which apparently 10% of the people who try to get in succeed in doing) you can pretty much be sure you have a job the rest of your life. If you’re smart (or better said if you use your brain better than some others) you generally get a better education, because of that a better paying job and eventually you live longer because you tend to eat better and you can afford better medical care.
Now those last two may sound like survival of the fittest, but it has nothing to do with the original theory. In this case it hasn’t got anything to do with the strongest parts of each specie continuing, it has to do with the most successful ones having the money to do those things that will keep them alive. And, since I’m not extremely stupid and rather successful in the educational department, I totally dig this new concept. But then old Darwinism reared it’s ugly head.
Enter my ear.
Specifically my left ear (that is, from my perspective, the right for you…. Unless you’re standing behind me, then also my left…. See, smart!). For years the ear has been causing me trouble. You see, normally there’s a little tube somewhere between your head and your ear that is supposed to take fluid out of the ear but sadly enough mine doesn’t work. This means that when fluid does enter my left ear it doesn’t go away and leaves me practically deaf on one side. Me and my ear-doctor (his last name is Stanojcic but everyone calls him by his first name Laki, which gives me a very safe E.R. like feeling) have come to the conclusion that it’s a problem that well never go away and actually might in the end cause me to lose all hearing in my left ear. Which is actually not as bad as it sounds, it just means I can’t hear stuff that happens to the left of me (SEE, smart!).
And then it hit me. This is survival of the fittest historian style! Say, in a couple of years I’ll be out in the open field, munching on a fresh biography I hunted down and killed in it’s natural environment, the library. Then suddenly a young historian approaches me from behind, but from the left so I can’t hear him coming, leaving me totally unprepared. Then suddenly he attacks me with a totally new thesis on Bobby Kennedy and the 1968 Democratic primaries. Not hearing him, I can’t defend myself making me look stupid in front of the other historians that have come to the drinking place to argue about whether Alexander the Great was gay or not.
Believe me, it’s a jungle out there!
Ps. Extra Boris-points for the one that can figure out where the title comes from.
Sigh... explanation.
For a long time I was a strong believer in survival of the fittest, mostly cuz it's like totally scientific and stuff but also because it seems to make sense. Species are confronted with a living environment with specific problems the species have to deal with. Some manage, through generations and generations, change and they survive at least a little longer, others don’t and die. It’s not a pretty picture (and if you don’t believe me Animal Planet has Slaughtering Bullies Night next Tuesday), but it seems to make sense.
That is in a world where physical strength and adaptation is everything, which is no longer the world we live in.
You see, in Europe and the U.S., anyone can survive these days. It hasn’t got anything to do with being the fittest. The problems animals used to be confronted with (food, other animals having them for brunch) are totally lost on us. If we want food all we have to do is walk (or if you’re American drive) to the nearest McDonalds (which I will pronounce as MACDonalds for as long as I live no matter what my insane American friends tell me) restaurant and eat. Really, the only thing that we can add to the human body for future generations is the ability to smell deep fryers from six blocks away.
So surviving is no longer a day to day affair for most of us (unless of course you were born in Africa or certain parts of Asia or the Middle East, then you’re just screwed and have to wait for Bob Geldof to save you). What’s important these days is being successful at living, or in other words in the age we live in now it’s about survival of the smartest. Think about it, if you manage to get into Harvard (which apparently 10% of the people who try to get in succeed in doing) you can pretty much be sure you have a job the rest of your life. If you’re smart (or better said if you use your brain better than some others) you generally get a better education, because of that a better paying job and eventually you live longer because you tend to eat better and you can afford better medical care.
Now those last two may sound like survival of the fittest, but it has nothing to do with the original theory. In this case it hasn’t got anything to do with the strongest parts of each specie continuing, it has to do with the most successful ones having the money to do those things that will keep them alive. And, since I’m not extremely stupid and rather successful in the educational department, I totally dig this new concept. But then old Darwinism reared it’s ugly head.
Enter my ear.
Specifically my left ear (that is, from my perspective, the right for you…. Unless you’re standing behind me, then also my left…. See, smart!). For years the ear has been causing me trouble. You see, normally there’s a little tube somewhere between your head and your ear that is supposed to take fluid out of the ear but sadly enough mine doesn’t work. This means that when fluid does enter my left ear it doesn’t go away and leaves me practically deaf on one side. Me and my ear-doctor (his last name is Stanojcic but everyone calls him by his first name Laki, which gives me a very safe E.R. like feeling) have come to the conclusion that it’s a problem that well never go away and actually might in the end cause me to lose all hearing in my left ear. Which is actually not as bad as it sounds, it just means I can’t hear stuff that happens to the left of me (SEE, smart!).
And then it hit me. This is survival of the fittest historian style! Say, in a couple of years I’ll be out in the open field, munching on a fresh biography I hunted down and killed in it’s natural environment, the library. Then suddenly a young historian approaches me from behind, but from the left so I can’t hear him coming, leaving me totally unprepared. Then suddenly he attacks me with a totally new thesis on Bobby Kennedy and the 1968 Democratic primaries. Not hearing him, I can’t defend myself making me look stupid in front of the other historians that have come to the drinking place to argue about whether Alexander the Great was gay or not.
Believe me, it’s a jungle out there!
Ps. Extra Boris-points for the one that can figure out where the title comes from.
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