Fake Arabic
For reasons that are perfectly legit and PC, I’ve got to write some phoney Arabic. I am not, of course, the first to fool around with God’s own language. The Dan Rather story is still a giggle, and The Lost City is on my Christmas list.
For reasons that are perfectly legit and PC, I’ve got to write some phoney Arabic. I am not, of course, the first to fool around with God’s own language. The Dan Rather story is still a giggle, and The Lost City is on my Christmas list.
I’ve been doing some research on The Next Stage. I liked the bit on Stuart Simmons site (merci, Freuzel!) where he says, “People often ask if I had to drink a lot of beer to build an Earthship. The answer is no but it sure helps.” There’s no way you’d get away with proper earthships [...]
Just a footnote to the Boris Johnson piece: I think BJ may have put words into Judge Harris’ gob when he has him remark
that it was all very well talking about a new café-style culture, where we all sit around like Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, drinking slowly and moderately as we formulate new [...]
One of the words I missed yesterday was kletskop, apparently used in Antwerp to mean “baldie”. I’ve only seen it before in the sense of “chatterbox”, but here I guess that klets is onomatopoeiac, representing the sound made by smacking a bald bonce.
A while back a clown was operating outside Zurich on Plaza de Cataluña. [...]
Boris Johnson this morning has in his slightly misty sights
the new species of pissed ladette, profane, belly-flaunting, swigging shots of cocktail from brightly coloured and cunningly marketed bottles, and sweeping the streets in terrifying gangs.
For all the problems created by 24-hour drinking in Barcelona (the old town is full of well-established illegal bars [...]
The rest of the bullocks were taken off to be slaughtered this morning. The knacker sang to them as he walked into the yard. Some bellowed, one wailed, feeling what was coming; the vultures circled, just in case it didn’t.
Apparently some ladies & gents with whom I sing when the big geezer is off doing other stuff are going to be on the telly quite a lot.
Apart from the odd bit of arranging, the barrel organ is the thing at the moment, when I get time. It’s a somewhat more lonely path, but I’m not very good at dance steps or 80s music anyway.
Kalebeul wouldn’t watch a hagiography of a faghating totalitarian fuckwit like St Paul, so it sees no reason this weekend to take cinema seats away from Barcelona’s chiliastic masses in their nostalgic lust for Hispanic dictators and good-looking saints. Paul Berman’s piece from 2004 applies. Even the regime sociologists seem to have noticed that Cataloonia has lost track of reality.
Graffiti of Camarón de la Isla and guitarist, somewhere in Barcelona, I think in Carmelo, so overlooking the place where he died:

More here.
Kabe-Otoko/Wall Man, neither human nor demon, observes the world from within walls:
“Velen verzeggen Schiedam, maar sluiten dadelijk een verbond met Barcelona.” Is it about drinkers swearing by Dutch gin/jenever, only to turn to Spanish wine and brandy?