Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Bugs as a Language Infiltrator
This piece was sent to me recently from a cousin in the Old Country. The headline, "Srbi u šoku: Djeca govore hrvatski jezik zbog crtićaVećina crtanih filmova u Srbiju dolazi iz Hrvatske," translates as "The Serbs are in shock: Children speak Croatian language because the majority of animated cartoons that are broadcast in Serbia come from Croatia". One especially irate parent wrote to a station saying his 4 year old son call him "tatek" now instead of "otac" ("daddy" as opposed to "father"). The war in the Balkans is still raging, though at a less violent rate. Now nefarious agents of the animated sort are serving as conscripts in the battle of ethnic differences.
For those folks without excessive time on their hands to study the minutiae of the Croatia/Serbia/Yugoslavia conflict, I'm here to help. Way back in the days of the mid 1800's, when the main ethnic groups that constituted what was to be, in the early 1900's, Yugoslavia, the major powers that were, namely the Austrians, Hungarians, and Turks noticed the similarities between the Croatian & Serbian languages. A meeting, where the Vienna Literary Agreement was concocted, was held in 1850 wherein a combo artifical language of Serbo-Croatian was agreed to. (That must have been a hellacious meeting as only one Slovenian was invited and, as you can tell by the language name, his opinion was minimally included). But the practioners of this "new" language never seemed to take it firmly into their bosoms, i.e., in some parts of the the areas affected it was called Croatian-Serbian, in others just (still) Serbian or Croatian. Even though this part of the world was in perpetual change as invasion by various powers was seemingly a daily occurence, the occupants were not eager acceptors of change. (No surprise that the symbol for this part of the world is the magarac). Any incursion was an effront.
So, these days, with the break-up of the artificially created Yugoslavia (think of the British-concocted Iraq except without the oil resources) permanent (...uhmmm, that is, for the mooment), the language thing is once again a point of pride and of conflict. If you happen to be in Serbia or in Croatia (or any of the other former republics of the Federal Socialist Republics of Yugoslavia), you'd do well (and be safe) to NEVER use the term Serbo-Croatian in defining the language of that country. It's either Serbian, Croatian, or Slovenian or...you get the idea. So, now Bugs and his cartoon pals seem to be hired guns in the ongoing conflict of Slavic differentiation in the The Land of Croats and The Domain of Serbs. Chillin' will never be a national pastime in either of these places. Even the philosophy of fjaka takes a backseat to opportunities to moan.
So, these days, with the break-up of the artificially created Yugoslavia (think of the British-concocted Iraq except without the oil resources) permanent (...uhmmm, that is, for the mooment), the language thing is once again a point of pride and of conflict. If you happen to be in Serbia or in Croatia (or any of the other former republics of the Federal Socialist Republics of Yugoslavia), you'd do well (and be safe) to NEVER use the term Serbo-Croatian in defining the language of that country. It's either Serbian, Croatian, or Slovenian or...you get the idea. So, now Bugs and his cartoon pals seem to be hired guns in the ongoing conflict of Slavic differentiation in the The Land of Croats and The Domain of Serbs. Chillin' will never be a national pastime in either of these places. Even the philosophy of fjaka takes a backseat to opportunities to moan.
Labels: Croatia, Humans, Idiosyncracies
Saturday, September 12, 2009
A World of Confusion
From today's NYT, a short little piece tucked away announced that Cater Semenya, the world champion runner from South Africa, has withdrawn from a weekend race amid speculation about her sex.
Hmmm.
O.K.
Here's the lines that threw me for a loop, though.
"Arne Ljungqvist, the former medical commission chairman for track’s world governing body, would not comment specifically on this case, but he cautioned that a person’s sex is not always easy to define.
“There is no simple, single lab test that can tell if you are a man or a woman,” he said. "It is not black and white.""
Arne, come on! You have got to be kidding me?!? Is this how stupid PC behaviour has made us? Lab tests? What's happened to simple use of 20/20 vision?
Hmmm.
O.K.
Here's the lines that threw me for a loop, though.
"Arne Ljungqvist, the former medical commission chairman for track’s world governing body, would not comment specifically on this case, but he cautioned that a person’s sex is not always easy to define.
“There is no simple, single lab test that can tell if you are a man or a woman,” he said. "It is not black and white.""
Arne, come on! You have got to be kidding me?!? Is this how stupid PC behaviour has made us? Lab tests? What's happened to simple use of 20/20 vision?
Labels: Humans, The Sporting Thing
Friday, May 01, 2009
May Day
It's already May! 1/3 through 2009 and, I'm sure, folks are eagerly waiting for December 31st to roll around in hopes that the economic malaise, like the swine flu, duly runs its course through the 10th year of this century with the promise that the recovery, like the promised swine flu vaccine, arrives in plentitude in the autumn of this year.
But, before we descend back to the caves, huddling uneasily together for warmth while breathing in opposite directions, let's celebrate May, a month named with the possibility of Hope.
In Minneapolis, May Day is a big thing, almost European its celebratory style. I realize that the planning for this annual event has been in the works for months, but it is unfortunate timing that a good deal of the Day are tied in with
pigs. Even the main poster has a pig on the shoulders of a man, opressing him with a porcine attitude.
I'll assume that In the Heart fo the Beast Puppet & Mask Theatre, the folks that have been putting the May day Parade together for 35 years, are thumbing their nose at the Swine Flu and, yes, even the Avian Flu, by having a respective member of each flus' originators right there on the poster.
Take that Flu! We're at one with other species, no matter the ill health they are inadvertently sending in our general direction. We will march and jump and dance and wait for May 2nd to garner any ills you rain on our parade.
Labels: Humans, Only in America
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Pork Breathing
(Picture of John Hodgman, modeling the correct way to wear Crocs, from Adam Sachs' site. This picture is not connected with anything following; simply an indication of the need to have a Hodgman.)
It's a slow day and I'm being careful with things that my fingers touch today. One never knows, do one?
And to think and smack my lips about one of the tastiest of meats? Well, these are dangerous times.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Election Time: Cause for Worry #1
In an ongoing series, I'll be providing snippets of how the Dems may yet lose this year's election despite the current Republican White House Sitter's tenure in office running at a 29% approval rating.Here, on Amazon, there is an Amazon Meter measuring the popularity of Obama and McCain based on the completely objective measurement of Halloween masks purchased. As of today, it's 35% for McCain and 65% for Obama. Seems like an insurmountable lead for the Dem's, right?
OH SO Wrong!
Considering that McCain has readily admitted he couldn't tell a PC from a toaster and you may (tongue-in-cheek) assume that his followers would have similar Luddite thinking, it's scary that 35% were actually able to post their Halloween night masks purchase choice on Amazon.
Or,
Maybe I have it all wrong.
180 degrees wrong.
Maybe the folks buying the Obama masks are the folks (the 65% folks) that think Barak O. is such a scary guy that a facsimile of his face will strike horror in any person of voting age. So, the 65% winning mark for Mr. Obama reflects the percentage of Amazon presidential mask buyers who do not admire him but, rather, are in deep fear of him and of his potential win on November 4th (two days after the Day of the Dead). The buyers are hiding their McCain votes behind an Obama mask.
This is getting seriously scary.
Labels: Humans, Only in America
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Watching Joe
On the Rebublican National Commitee Site, right there in a continuous count-up red bannered box, is the Republican's tracking of the Time Since Biden's Last Gaffe.
(An aside here, the article just linked, from the CBS News site, was written by a certain Maria Gavrilovic. Now, for any living and breathing Croatian, one's mouth is watering at the mention of the name Gavrilovic. It is food that simply mentioning of can cause dementia in any native who is unluckily away from a Gavrilovic point of purchase. There is salami and then there is Gavrilovic. And now, back to the less spicy topic of politics).
I wonder, if buried somewhere deep in their site, to show their equanimity, the RNC has been keeping a DubyaMeter for our current White House resident's. The time since Biden's last gaffe is over 3 days; don't think they'd have to have a day-counter for the Prez. Hours would be sufficient. Just evidence of that old adage that what you despise/deplore in others is in great abundance in your own skin. The Decider's Party are just such Haters.
(An aside here, the article just linked, from the CBS News site, was written by a certain Maria Gavrilovic. Now, for any living and breathing Croatian, one's mouth is watering at the mention of the name Gavrilovic. It is food that simply mentioning of can cause dementia in any native who is unluckily away from a Gavrilovic point of purchase. There is salami and then there is Gavrilovic. And now, back to the less spicy topic of politics).
I wonder, if buried somewhere deep in their site, to show their equanimity, the RNC has been keeping a DubyaMeter for our current White House resident's. The time since Biden's last gaffe is over 3 days; don't think they'd have to have a day-counter for the Prez. Hours would be sufficient. Just evidence of that old adage that what you despise/deplore in others is in great abundance in your own skin. The Decider's Party are just such Haters.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Fugitifying ...
....is a new word coined by Mr. Eric Gordy over at East of Ethnia to define the action whereby a government or an interested party is actively engaged in protecting a citizen by launching him/her into that plastic existential time/space characterization of being a "fugitive". I think the Fugees were referring to non-criminal fugitives when they sang about the refugee process and were not considering Mr. Karadzic in their songbook.
In this post, he links to today's various launch points into the continuing psycho melodrama of Radovan Karadzic and his "fugitifying".
In this post, he links to today's various launch points into the continuing psycho melodrama of Radovan Karadzic and his "fugitifying".
Labels: Humans
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Cover
There have been enough comments, editorials, denials, espousals, and babies and bath water thrown out regarding the New Yorker cover. I won't throw my own two cents into the overflowing fountain of copper coinage. But, I would like to express some displeasure with The New Yorker.
Personally, I love Mr. Blitt's cover commentary. This cover was hilarious, as was this one, this one, and, well, this one, especially. In this week's New Yorker blog entry by the estimable Hendrik Hertzberg, it's noted that "The target (of the cover) was the grotesque pack of lies about the Obamas that have been widely disseminated, not only by the marginal right-wing Web sites and the sicko viral e-mail campaigns but also by such nominally respectable outfits as Fox News."
I have two issues with the New Yorker. The first would be the the usage by Mr. Hertzberg, a writer whose New Yorker pieces always seem to be well thought out and presented, of the words "respectable outfit" in conjunction with "Fox News". At first I thought he was being sly about it but a repetitive reading made it clear he was being sincere. I'm not one to pile on Fox News.....o.k. I am. But the point is I expect a nuclear meltdown before I see the words "respectable" and "Fox News" lying close to each other in connubial bliss.
My second issue with The New Yorker is their weekly issue, or the lack of delivery of such within a reasonable time. There it was. The big New Yorker Cover Scandal on Monday morning. Monday evening. Tuesday morning.... I had to go to the New Yorker site to catch a peak when I should have been able to stare at my own issue on Monday morning. What's with The New Yorker delivery process? I could swear I got my issue on Saturday or, at the latest, on Monday. It's not as if I live in the boondocks. There are lawyers, dentists, and doctors living and working on top of each other here in upper Delaware. I mean their offices require the latest New Yorker decorating their client waiting room. These days, I'm lucky if the current week's New Yorker arrives by Wed., usually it's Thursday.
Ever since I started sending my subscription payment out to their office in Denver a few years back, this latter part of the week delivery status has set in. Hey! I want my (paid)controversy to arrive on a more timely basis! Hear me, Mr. Remnick!
n.b.: NYT opinion page from Missoula, Montana worth reading.
Personally, I love Mr. Blitt's cover commentary. This cover was hilarious, as was this one, this one, and, well, this one, especially. In this week's New Yorker blog entry by the estimable Hendrik Hertzberg, it's noted that "The target (of the cover) was the grotesque pack of lies about the Obamas that have been widely disseminated, not only by the marginal right-wing Web sites and the sicko viral e-mail campaigns but also by such nominally respectable outfits as Fox News."
I have two issues with the New Yorker. The first would be the the usage by Mr. Hertzberg, a writer whose New Yorker pieces always seem to be well thought out and presented, of the words "respectable outfit" in conjunction with "Fox News". At first I thought he was being sly about it but a repetitive reading made it clear he was being sincere. I'm not one to pile on Fox News.....o.k. I am. But the point is I expect a nuclear meltdown before I see the words "respectable" and "Fox News" lying close to each other in connubial bliss.
My second issue with The New Yorker is their weekly issue, or the lack of delivery of such within a reasonable time. There it was. The big New Yorker Cover Scandal on Monday morning. Monday evening. Tuesday morning.... I had to go to the New Yorker site to catch a peak when I should have been able to stare at my own issue on Monday morning. What's with The New Yorker delivery process? I could swear I got my issue on Saturday or, at the latest, on Monday. It's not as if I live in the boondocks. There are lawyers, dentists, and doctors living and working on top of each other here in upper Delaware. I mean their offices require the latest New Yorker decorating their client waiting room. These days, I'm lucky if the current week's New Yorker arrives by Wed., usually it's Thursday.
Ever since I started sending my subscription payment out to their office in Denver a few years back, this latter part of the week delivery status has set in. Hey! I want my (paid)controversy to arrive on a more timely basis! Hear me, Mr. Remnick!
n.b.: NYT opinion page from Missoula, Montana worth reading.
Labels: Humans, New Yorker
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Tragedy & Sadness
On June 14th, Esbjorn Svensson died while scuba-diving in the Stockholm Archipelago. Forty-four. That's how young he was. As one of the founders of the Esbjorn Svensson Trio (usually simply known as E.S.T.), he had been one of the leaders in European jazz. Some of the group's earlier albums never made it state-side but their releases in the last 5-6 years were readily available here. A critic's delight, E.S.T. has had a tough time breaking in over the Atlantic. Each new album promised to be the key to their stardom. I latched on to them when they released Somewhere Else Before in 2001 and have been a loyal fan since then.
Well, sort of loyal. Early on last year, E.S.T. was scheduled to play at Zanzibar Blue Jazz Club in Philly. Something came up and I opted not to go, figuring the boys were still very young and they'd come around the following year. That April, Zanzibar Blue closed its doors, putting a serious hurt on live jazz in Philly.
Saturday, Esbjorn Svensson died at an all too early 44. My flippant attitude last year comes back to haunt me; I never had a chance to see this talented group.
I can't see the group going on without him. What a tragedy. Perhaps Nick Bartsch's Ronin, Marcin Wasilewski, and Bad Plus can carry on in the spirit of things.
This Sunday I have one of my dj-ing gigs at WVUD. It'll be a heavy portion of E.S.T., for sure.
Other tributes are here, here, and here. He was one of the good guys.
06/23/08: As pointed out by Chazzy G, here's a commentary of E.S.T. from The Bad Plus' blog, Do The Math. There's an interesting bit about the importance of having a great sound engineer.
Well, sort of loyal. Early on last year, E.S.T. was scheduled to play at Zanzibar Blue Jazz Club in Philly. Something came up and I opted not to go, figuring the boys were still very young and they'd come around the following year. That April, Zanzibar Blue closed its doors, putting a serious hurt on live jazz in Philly.
Saturday, Esbjorn Svensson died at an all too early 44. My flippant attitude last year comes back to haunt me; I never had a chance to see this talented group.
I can't see the group going on without him. What a tragedy. Perhaps Nick Bartsch's Ronin, Marcin Wasilewski, and Bad Plus can carry on in the spirit of things.
This Sunday I have one of my dj-ing gigs at WVUD. It'll be a heavy portion of E.S.T., for sure.
Other tributes are here, here, and here. He was one of the good guys.
06/23/08: As pointed out by Chazzy G, here's a commentary of E.S.T. from The Bad Plus' blog, Do The Math. There's an interesting bit about the importance of having a great sound engineer.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Wish I had a Tongue to Get Tied
From the Globe & Mail, a most excellent of articles dealing with funerals and their attendance. A favorite passage,
"Anyway, enough said on the topic of "You should have gone."
Since you didn't, I would say your best bet now is to send your sister a note of both condolence and apology - a note expressing your sincerest "condologies" (memo to Hallmark, you should have this type of card, it'd be a big seller: "I'm very, very sorry for your loss - and also my behaviour during your time of grief.") Be humble, don't try to justify. Say you're an idiot and really, really sorry.
".
Don't know about you, but I am an utter idiot when it comes to funerals/wakes/viewings, if I have the moral strength to come to them. Aside from saying the wrong thing, not saying anything, forgetting people's names (including my own at one occasion), not knowing when to move on in the line, shaking the hands of the grieving family too enthusiastically, and, last and certainly not the least, blubbering at every one of these events as if a closest family member of mine has gone on. You would think that with age would come an acceptance of the inevitable note, You're Gonna Die. It is a less disturbing site for friends and acquaintances to not have me at funerals they are tangentally involved with.
I'll try my best to at lease send a card or bouquet of black roses.
Labels: Family Matters, Humans
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Food-What you want. What you need.
In my days of youth and meals without guilt, when being a trencherman was not viewed as an odious hobby, parking myself in a greasy spoon with cutlery at the ready and an early morning appetite at full-tilt boogie seemed the enjoyable and harmless thing to do. Nowadays, with health claims/warnings/edicts running rampant and the distant future careening quickly to the pay-me-now present, I am forced to sooth the inner eater in me by tightening the belt and perusing offerings at sites like The London Review of Breakfasts. Such a cholesterol delivery, second-hand, is a life-protracting measure. I guess?!But, a tasty treat is always offered here. An example would be this review, which starts with,
"In Britain we have a problem with breakfasts. In fact, we have a problem with food in general and like a lot of problems in this country it boils down to class. I speak of the great divide between the caff and the café. In the caff you will be served enormous quantities of not very good quality food quickly and with no pretension or fuss. In the café, there may be a mission statement, there may be a picture of Nicaraguan peasants' children dancing happily because their parents have got a good price for their coffee, there may well be a family tree showing the lineage of the pork products. This will all be a mask to hide the fact that they don’t really know what they are doing. The service will be terrible, the sausages will be over-cooked and the eggs will be under-cooked. In places like this, I look at the quality of the ingredients and weep at the waste and weep at the bill too which normally tops £7 for a full English. Complaining is pointless because all the staff are part-time and most of them are as hungover as the clientele.
"
Don't know about you, but my college days memories, as plucked from the haze of encroaching senility, consisted of cheap restaurant meals, great overly loud concerts, one or two profs of distinction, standing room only at the Montreal Forum watching the Habs demolish another team, and eating at Schwartz's (yes, that's two categories of memories regarding food). I mention Schwartz's as it was more of a religious experience than simply a feeding-frenzy one. I seriously considered converting to Judaism after repeated visits there but swayed away from that temptation when a fellow student, a pre-med major who also partook of the smoked meat served there, brought me to my senses when he produced graphs and pie charts illustrating the short life span of a regular Schwartz's diner and a normal human being.
So, now I gnosh on little foods on little plates, while visions of large foods on gargantuan plates dance in my head. Being (somewhat) thin and miserable is not what I'd envisioned my life would be when I was parked at one of the common tables at Schwartz's, wholly enjoying the pleasures of real food.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Mysterious Sandwich Saves Philly
Per this article, it seems some sandwich, prepared in the Port Richmond section of town may have been responsible for averting a major vehicular disaster.
Who says Philly sandwiches are heart and life threatening?
The article mentions sausage sandwiches were digested from some restaurant in Port Richmond. Never realized that chomping on sausage was as effective as munching on carrots for improving one's eyesight. But, sausage seemed to do the trick for the eagle-eyed engineer who spotted the rather huge crack in a bridge's support column.
I'm willing to bet the sausage sandwich came from the famous Tacconelli's Pizza joint. I'm sure, there'll be a picture of the engineer, sausage hoagie in hand, posted inside the shop very shortly. So, go with the traditional Philly Sausage Hoagie as the Hero/Hoagie of the Day
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
1,311.5 to 1,211
After yesterday's voting results, all I can do is shake my head and think about the Cubbies. November 2008 looks like one of those grasping defeat from the jaws of victory things. Bush will be gone, the Evil Empire of Rovetenia and the Murky Region of Cheneykistan will fade from the geopolitical maps and yet....
Yet, it sure looks like it to me that the Dems will do their auto-da-fe dance and McCain will be grilling on the White House lawn. How has this happened? I know, I know. The Dems still have issues with this hubris thing.
Go ahead, Gwynne, roast me like a apple-eating pig. Looks like 4 more years of minority party rule.
Labels: Effluvia, Humans, Idiosyncracies
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Let's Talk.......or Not
I have a closed face. Well, that’s what I’ve been told by no less a facial perspective expert than my Ever-Loving Wife (ELW). Easily prompted to fill in the blanks (but not the blankness of my face), she theorized that my Slavic blood and my upbringing by just-off-the-boaters (a club that I include myself in, as well) in the Land of Croats and then in the Land of Asphalt were two factors constituting 90% of the cause of my dour uni-brow look. Throw in being schooled by nuns in 7 of my 8 years of grammar school and you have the balance of the 10% required to walk around life with a look that gives pause to even proselytizing Seventh Day Adventists. My body English translates into the Spanish Inquisition, so the pose that goes along with my face suggests that I’m employed by theStasi, not an organization bristling with friendliness.My Ever-Loving Wife (ELW), on the other hand, has a face that invites conversation from any sentient being. Dogs come up to her and seemingly hold 10 minute conversations. People? Well, people treat her as the Font of Einfühlung. When the ELW was in the Ever-Loving Fiancée (ELF) stage of our relationship, I was working and living in Montreal. I’d been up there around 6 months, unhappily living in Outremont wondering why people were so unfriendly. In my days as a student at McGill U. in Montreal, I’d experienced the somewhat reserved, some would say cold, attitudes of my fellow students. I always chalked it off as the standard self-doubt of the underclassmen and the course overload (Ah, doesn;t that seem so self-delusional these days of worklife?) that made student life unnecessarily miserable.
So, I’d expected the post-student life to be more open to the non-consequential conversations of humans in the social enclaves of stores, parks, and bus stops. I mean, couldn't I even get a "How’s it going, eh?" or even a close-mouthed "Hello"? It never happened or happened so rarely that the social interactions fit better in the "Never" basket.
Well, the ELF came up to visit for a spell while I resided in these "unfriendly" confines and proceeded to tell me of her experiences her first day in Montreal, when I came from work. She talked with so-and-so. Isn't that bus stop the friendliest place you'd encounter? How about that pâtisserie around the corner? How unfriendly; only 5 people spoke to her there (when I couldn't even elicit a merci beaucoup after dropping $30 for a box of pastries to die for, just a week ago)?
The answer was pretty obvious. It was me. It was the odorless gases emanating from me that either made me invisible or made me, well, odious. The ELF, on the other hand, casts her welcoming airs out and humans, dogs, cats, and bees swarm toward her.
(Quite) smartly, I made sure that the temporary "Fiancée" status was changed to "Wife" within a short timespan. I had to ensure that these social attraction agents began to be absorbed by yours truly. Let's face it folks, if I was hoping to be a father it would help if my kids were not immediately averse to my company. I'm not sure how well this absorption thing has been coming along, but I began to notice that dogs became less skittish around me (except for those constantly-underfoot-yelpy things that are more related to rodents than to real dogs) and that friends' kids were not immediately backing away with darting eyes.
Now, the kiddies are in different states but I'm assuming that they're there for educational reasons. Right, kids? Right?
Labels: Humans, Idiosyncracies
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Leningrad Cowboys
In a sporadic search on Netflix and elsewhere for a DVD version of Leningrad Cowboys Go America, I was disappointed, again, to learn only a VHS copy is available in the States. In Europe, where musical entertainment of a wider range is available, this movie is available on DVD, but in a format unplayable on USA DVD players. A shame, that. It is a movie worth seeing every once in a while, especially when you feel your life is in a rut and you need to explore alternate lifestyles. If you still have a VHS player, I would recommend you latching onto a tape of this movie, set a few hours free on a Friday night (because you'll need the weekend to recover from the visions of the movie), and lounge back and be prepared to be transported. Mr. Jarmusch even makes a cameo appearance, returning a favor to one of the actors, Matti Pellonpää, who was in Jarmusch's Night on Earth (which FINALLY came out on USA DVD last year!).
So, unable to get a fix from that film, I opted to take a chance on the concert film, Leningrad Cowboys: Total Balalaika Show. This 1993 live outdoor concert in Helsinki was filmed in the town center, with over 70,000 in attendance. The Cowboys played/sang/danced with the Aleksandorv Red Army Choir.
Featured songs include:
Finlandia
Let's Work Together
The Volga Boatmen's Song
Happy Together
Delilah
Knockin' on Heaven's Door
Polyushko Pole (Oh, Field)
Kalinka
Gimme All Your Loving
Jewelry Box
Sweet Home Alabama
Dark Eyes
Those Were The Days
Truly, it is one of the most interesting live concert films I've ever seen. The mix of a rock 'n roll band with a Russian chorus and band, complete with a brass section, a balalaika section, accordions and full military uniforms works well. As you can see, the song selection included 5 Russian songs. Even if you had minimal exposure to folk songs from Mother Russia, I'll bet you've heard, at least once, each of these five songs, although I doubt you've ever heard the versions as performed by the Cowboys and Red Chorus. Both of the groups obviously enjoyed themselves and the audience caught on quickly that the show was not a joke and was, most certainly, a result of a symbiosis of great talent.
The cover versions of "Delilah" and "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" are sublime. And "Sweet Home Alabama"? Ronnie VanZant would have appreciated the Russian-Finnish version, just to see how the Red Chorus got into it.
Here's the Cowboys & the Red Choir doing a popular Finnish/Slavic composition, "Sweet Home Alabama". Yes, that song.
The extra features on the DVD include 4 song videos and some short films by the director of the movie. All in all, an entertaining way of spending a Friday night in. Nothing offensive, save for the hairstyles and shoe extensions, so family viewing is definitely a possibility.
Crank up the sound and be prepared to hum and laugh.
Friday, February 15, 2008
PITA, Restaurant Style
It has been suggested, quite frequently in fact, by those close to my heart and to my wallet, that I am a lousy restaurant partner. My body sends off Fearmones that infuse all of my fellow dining guests with the uncomfortable feeling that we will be having a lousy meal. Well, let me confine that to the scenario that I will be the one having the lousy meal. Somehow, forking over money for a meal only means I get to taste the prepared food; the moolah does not, in the view of my fellow diners, allow me to comment, above a whisper, as to the quality and quantity of the food. It seems that I have been wrong in concluding that paying for a meal also means I own that meal. Well, I mean owning it as long as natural processes allow for my person to maintain possession thereof. I am a grown man who, unless I'm dining alone, has been took 'n told that I should just sit 'n eat. My food-related commentaries have fallen on unappreciative ears. That's me sitting in the corner of Chez Swank, with my back to you, mumbling, grumbling, and chewing.Succintly, as far as a restaurant guest, I'm your basic PITA. And I'm not talking about capitalized Greek bread.
I admit there is a crumb, perhaps a whole loaf, of truth to that perceived reputation. I've gone to restaurants that I've enjoyed in the past and have been tragically disappointed on a repeat visit. My Ever-Loving Wife once extracted a reluctant opinion out of me of a new restaurant we'd just supped at.
"Actually, it was quite good. Attentive service, without the need to exchange names. Arrival of our meals while we were still enjoying our first bottle of fine wine. Bread baskets re-filled without our need to take up the begging position. No hovering; no "And how is your meal now's". Yes, it was a solid evening."
She looked at me, one eyebrow slowly rising in momentary surprise.
"Well", she exhaled, "that'll be the only good meal you have there...."
Sadly, she was probably right. I can't remember if we've been back to that fine establishment that I've enjoyed as much as our initial visit.
In this NYT article, the writer Jeff Bell, a self-described OCD-er, details some of the agonies associated with folks living within this distressing state of affairs when within the confines of a restaurant. Though beseiged with a plethora of maladies, I can honestly state that I do not have OCD. I have, however, wined and dined with folks of that persuasion and can vouch for Mr. Bell's observations. The one point that he never mentions in his article, however, is the topic of personal choice and menus. My social skills at restaurants have evolved from the premise that the main reason, perhaps the only reason, for my being at a restaurant is to eat food prepared by someone other than me or my immediate family.
The steps from the arrival to the departure of a restaurant experience always seemed simple to me.
1) The menu is handed out.
2) There are choices to be made.
3) One makes choices.
4) One orders said choices.
5) One awaits the inevitable heartbreak of a good meal gone bad.
Witty repartee can be interspersed between steps # 4 and #5. However, from step #1 through #4, I tend toward the behaviour of monks who've committed their lives to silence. A menu is not a pamphlet from the door-to-door religious prosletizers to be ignored or put down on the table to catch bread crumbs. It is a treaty to be perused and then agreed to, in a timely manner. While I find your company enjoyable to the point of squealling, I find a table bereft of filled plates a tragedy of massive proportions. The menu is not a legal document that you must carefully study for clauses that will trip you up half way through your meal. It is what our tax laws should be. Direct connection between a promise of a reward, say an appetizer of Gnocchi with Stewed Portobello Mushrooms in a Sherry-reduced sauce, with the cost of said reward. Yes? No? It's that easy. Please!! Don't ask if the trees shading the Portobellos were oak or walnut! Complications and eating; they don't mix.
Decision-making in a dining environment should not exceed the time it takes to enjoy your first glass of wine, say 15 minutes.
Max.
Any time ticking past that will not make for pleasant table manners for your fellow trenchermen.
Gnawing on your arms will be almost permissible; table-side drooling will definitley be o.k.
(...to be continued)
Labels: Humans, Idiosyncracies, Quirks
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Insulation
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even
forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart."
Billy Collins
I was going to post a picture of some of my "memory aids" here but, out of concern for personal safety, opted not to. Suffice it to mention that these "aids" are piled/stacked/organized by my bed, by my desk, by my sofa. Basically, any furniture in the house has a "by my" pile associated with it. Yes, the memory has bee slipping for a while. I believe if I read less or had less books, less would be forgotten. I, however, am of the thinking that, perentage wise, the amount of forgetting as a function of the quantity of printed matter located within the property lines is significantly less than if I had a smaller inventory of books. While the books forgotten quantity may be the same, upping the composition of the divisor, i.e. # of books on hand, makes my forgetten books % lower.
That's my rationalized outlook on keeping the printed words around and I'll stick by it.
Besides, it's been rather chilly lately and the books stacked against the house's outer walls has been keeping us warm.
Labels: Home Decor, Humans, Idiosyncracies, Self-Therapy
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Cheney Chic
I actually empathize with Dick Cheney's coat-du-jour in this 2005 pic. I mean, he must have been freezing and decided decorum is colder than parka. I sit in my office, as I type with my frozen and cringed fingers, with a polartec and a ski jacket on. I'd forgotten my gloves so excuse me if there's a break in the typing as I blow on my fingers.The HVAC folks that we contract with are nice enough fellows. How do I know they're nice? Well, they're here most of the summer tinkering with the A/C. And, they're here most of the winter, yes, tinkering with the heating. These are the same folks who installed the brand spanking new HVAC system as well. Needless to say, I had zero to do with the contracting of this fine HVAC organization, though I have to tip my hat in their direction. During the summer, while repairing the A/C, all of the guys wear long sleeve t-shirts and long-sleeve insualted plaid shirts. When they're camped out in the building allegedly repairing the heating in the winter months, they don short sleeve t-shirts. The wimps in the office (I raise my hand) then feel even more wimpier as we protest (though not looudly) that 62 degrees is a bit cold to be working in. The repair guys just look at us and wipe their sniffly noses as they parade around with tools and look at the ceiling.
AHHHHH- Chooo.
God Bless you, too.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Hearing & Understanding
Came upon this Wiki-How at the bottom of this Wiki-How. This piece of advice was also a link. A thread of mis-understanding, I guess.All three communication advisories shared the following common points.
1) Keep your sentence structure simple.
2) Look in the person's eyes when you're listening or speaking.
3) Stay calm.
4) Be patient.
5) Smile.
I'd add one more.
6) Breath.
Often.
It will help you with points #1 and #3.
All common sense, you'd assume. But, think of your daily communications (an easy task for us introverts as we can number them off on our fingers and still have a whole hand left..or is that right?). How often do you leave the verbal exchange with minimal forward progress on the topics discussed? Work, home, social events, doesn't matter. Maybe it's just an introvert's take on the matter. If one has minimal verbal exchanges a greater level of importance is attached to the events. An extrovert would be having these exchanges from the time their morning head rise from the pillow until the night time head drop back. While their % of meaningful conversations may be the same as an introvert's, the number of meaningful conversations is much higher. As in baseball, averages can cloak the activity level.
When traveling, I tend to pay more attention to the mundanities in the place that I'm visiting than to those same mundanities in the place that I'm living.
(Short aside here: What's up with the word mundanity? One definition of the word is "The quality or character of being intellectually sophisticated and worldly through cultivation or experience or disillusionment" and another is its opposite, "The quality of being commonplace and ordinary").
Back to the topic.
On a recent trip to Pittsburgh, I had a chance to experience quite a few no-no's from this list. More specifically,
Point #2 Recognize that people wrongly think that turning up the volume somehow creates instant understanding. Avoid this common mistake.
I had treble luck.
1) I was a foreigner (Croatian and from Delaware)
2) I have graying hair, signifying I don't dye my hair and I'm over 40.
3) I hum, at times, in a tone that most exemplifies White Noise, thus thwarting any vocal missles launched my way.
I'm sure our waitress had goodness in her heart but she was dealing with me, an atrociously critical customer (well, viewed as such by my family). I was actually in a very positive mood. The October weather was July-like. The outdoor seating was covered by a canopy that softly snapped with each waft of cool air blowing in on us. The sun was shining brightly causing passing pedestrians to squint and duck their heads while we sat in the shade, eyes wide-open. Barbecued meat smells lingered and extra-cold beers sat in tall chilled glasses on our table. Life was good and a fine meal was anticipated.
My camera bag sat opened on the chair next to me. Some brochures of museums and sites poked their titles out of the bag. The waitress came by and saw all the tourist/foreigner sights and proceeded to bellow. My humming stopped; I cocked my head at the source. She was a tall glass of water and a loud torrent of words poured from her. She, being turned to high volume, expected comprehension and compensatory ordering action on my part. I, being swallowed in the thundering mass of words, struggled to catch my breath and to shield my ears. I mumbled something, nothing that I understood nor obviously she as she came back shortly with some fish-like product. My ever-loving wife, flashing her extrovert credentials, ordered something and received the same thing. I treated my meal like chum, hoping it would catch something delectable but, alas, no bite on the bait so no bite for me.
I will hone my Pittsburghese and stretch my facial muscles for the next time. When I'm back'air, it'll be a can a corn to order eats ovedder.
Labels: Humans, Idiosyncracies, Pittsburgh
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Thank You Don,
...I'm not going nuts. In this posting, Mr. Don Lindich of Sound Advice Blog answers a nagging iPod situation I've blogged on (and on and on) about in the past.
Namely, the lousy sound quality of the iPod, specifically when played through any decent stereo equipment or set of headphones (and don't get me started on playing an iPod through a car stereo..).
I'm not posting this to continue any discussion/argument on this topic. Nor am I trying to change anyone's mind on the iPod. Please, go out and buy the newest version as soon as possible! Like, right now! Me, I'll stay here and fool around with my CD's. It's just good to know this old guy isn't quickly, as opposed to slowly, slipping off into senility. Thank you, Don.
The only thing Don left off of his answer was just how much of a loss of iPod hard drive space do you lose by opting for Apple Lossless Compression under the Importing options. Hmm, let's see if he answers that question.
And, stating the obvious, Don's post was just another reason for having his site listed on the Daily Clicks, off there to your right. It's always a place of interest as long as you heed the caveat of "Keep your wallet in a secure and hard to access place."
Namely, the lousy sound quality of the iPod, specifically when played through any decent stereo equipment or set of headphones (and don't get me started on playing an iPod through a car stereo..).
I'm not posting this to continue any discussion/argument on this topic. Nor am I trying to change anyone's mind on the iPod. Please, go out and buy the newest version as soon as possible! Like, right now! Me, I'll stay here and fool around with my CD's. It's just good to know this old guy isn't quickly, as opposed to slowly, slipping off into senility. Thank you, Don.
The only thing Don left off of his answer was just how much of a loss of iPod hard drive space do you lose by opting for Apple Lossless Compression under the Importing options. Hmm, let's see if he answers that question.
And, stating the obvious, Don's post was just another reason for having his site listed on the Daily Clicks, off there to your right. It's always a place of interest as long as you heed the caveat of "Keep your wallet in a secure and hard to access place."
Labels: Humans, Idiosyncracies
