tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33193753053985447022024-03-05T13:59:11.306-05:00bon bons of impertinencenaughty neural misfirings, psychotically pasquinaded plagiarisms and minty-fresh mirrored neurons of a 21st century saint and dystopian superheroLe Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.comBlogger156125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-27216369614127508582010-12-11T22:24:00.000-05:002010-12-11T22:26:03.716-05:00<object style="WIDTH: 565px; HEIGHT: 492px" width="565" height="492"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/zIflovCenXA?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/zIflovCenXA?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-11482504764084258592010-12-01T00:55:00.000-05:002010-12-07T01:46:27.301-05:00Of Elegance, Monster Soakies, The Rapture and Product Placement in Literary Classics<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-28aXon_kD4uLp2iVK3UQRWukRn9rrZJNjQVHVTd_obFePt3kfFfumoCNpe1SeYTqx9WKQRNRco0qlwZefIGZiY_l12l9DerJb8DAJk-XZ8j3nImvCV7ojyjUtEKb9y7kuTmGttEj_iK/s1600/soakiesgroup.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 298px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547802346416108866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-28aXon_kD4uLp2iVK3UQRWukRn9rrZJNjQVHVTd_obFePt3kfFfumoCNpe1SeYTqx9WKQRNRco0qlwZefIGZiY_l12l9DerJb8DAJk-XZ8j3nImvCV7ojyjUtEKb9y7kuTmGttEj_iK/s400/soakiesgroup.jpg" /></a>As you may have noticed I have not been writing much as of late. Mea Culpa. I shall try to rectify the situation as quickly and as elegantly as possible. We are rediscovering elegance you know.<br />As I sit poised at the Louis XIII desk in the study at Chez Moose, I ponder poor Louis and the Thirty Years' War against the House of Habsburg. To think, France's greatest victory in the war came at the Battle of Rocroi, five days after Louis' death — apparently from complications of intestinal tuberculosis. Un destin terrible!<br />I catch my reflection in the glass covering a Russian Icon portraying John the Baptists severed head as a single, thin, gloved finger, hovers over my lip like a stray branch - I notice I need my roots done.<br />Anyhoo, in the span of months I have spent away I have taken time to carefully re-read some of the classics and noticed the blatant use of product placement even in some of our favourite books, which I am now quite excited to share with you, but I will tell you, over the last six months I have found it to be almost excruciating to write.<br />It’s not so much elaborate Emu quill plume to paper or the fluid dance of my fingers across the keyboard so much as writing that doesn’t make my skin try to escape off my bones. When I get the feeling of a hag fish nestling in the cavity of my chest, I know that what I am about to write will not be good. It will not have pizzazz, as they say. Then when I pause to think, the only genius that springs to my tongue seems to be that of other people, as I am always quoting some dead saint or libertine. My word, I think, surely there must be some left of my own somewhere out here.<br />The very prospect of writing down the million or so ideas and interesting experiences that seem to come in rapid succession often daunts me. I suppose that these days it might be called stress.<br />Once upon a time it may even have been called hysteria and diagnosed as wandering body parts – this has always been my favourite Victorian diagnosis as it makes me think that my insides are like a dark forest and my body parts some small girl in a cloak. I long for the days of my youth when stress relief was only as far away as a bubble bath with my favourite Colgate Soaky. (I only liked the movie monsters naturally) Why, now I have to resort to <em>extremes</em>, like setting Lamborghinis on fire and pushing them off cliffs. - <em>Try it, you'll be amazed.<br /></em>I dislike the word stress. Stress is not elegant. Stress is always frizzy hair. Lopsided (lopsided is our current favourite word) glasses and frantic hand gestures. Move slowly, readers, always. In your car, pull out like it weighs nothing and is carried like a skein of silk on the breeze – you will never have a crash because everyone will stop in your presence. Use your hands slowly, like you are moving through molasses. Elegance is slowness, patience and eyes that could shoot a whole room dead if they wanted to. Go slow, speak quieter and hold longer, then people will listen.<br />Have you ever tried speaking quieter in a chatty group? Everyone gabs louder and louder and as soon as you open your mouth their silence and rapture.<br /><br />Oh – I must mention. I saw something recently that discussed the word Rapture. It seems that it has been misappropriated to an odd cause. The Second Coming, that of Mr. Christ and his cronies, will come down and take away (vanish, evaporate) those worthy to heaven – Leaving their clothes behind. My word, I thought, the only reason this might be possible is because there would be new wardrobes up there waiting – which almost made me convert but the fine print mentioned nothing of it. Even then, though, to leave behind my museum, my clothes, my photographs – surely I can pack a little overnight bag, Mr Christ? I shant take any of the champagne as I’m sure you are well stocked. Or perhaps I should, as you are better prepared for the middle class with your water to wine party trick.<br /><br />What I mean to say, without diversions, is that elegance is knowing you have freckles, ginger hair and buck teeth, but knowing full well that these are precisely the reason you are not tanned and working for InStyle magazine. I was never a face woman, but that doesn’t mean it’s not exactly what worked in my favour. You’d be able to pick me out of a line up blindfolded in the thickest wool.<br /><br />Oh piffle. Now where was I? I get so distracted. Oh yes....<br />Below, a few examples. Read carefully. See if you can discern the advertisement so well-woven into the text as to be indivisible from it. Truly, copy-writing genius at work.<br /><br />David Copperfield by Charles Dickens<br />Chapter Three<br />I Have a Change<br /><br /><em>The carrier's horse was the laziest horse in the world, I should hope, and shuffled along, with his head down, as if he liked to keep people waiting to whom the packages were directed. I fancied, indeed, that he sometimes chuckled audibly over this reflection, but the carrier said he was only troubled with a cough. If only he'd given the horse Dr. Locock's Pulmonic Wafers. They provide perfect freedom from coughs within ten minutes and instant relief and a rapid cure of asthma and consumption, coughs, colds, and all disorders of the breath and lungs.</em> The carrier had a way of keeping his head down, like his horse, and of drooping sleepily forward as he drove, with one of his arms on each of his knees.<em> I say 'drove', but it struck me that the cart would have gone to Yarmouth quite as well without him, for the horse did all that; and as to conversation, he had no idea of it but whistling.<br /><br /></em>Mansfield Park by Jane Austen<br />Chapter Twenty-Two<br /><br /><em>Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to be very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible. Oh, to have a W. & J. Sangster Alpaca umbrella! The superiority of Alpaca over every other material for Umbrellas being now generally acknowledged, W.&J. Sangster also always have a Stock of cheap Silk Umbrellas. The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way, and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's carriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was threatened.<br /><br /></em>Great Expectations by Charles Dickens<br />Chapter Eight<br /><em>"Look at me," said Miss Havisham. "You are not afraid of a woman who has never seen the sun since you were born?"<br />I regret to state that I was not afraid of telling the enormous lie comprehended in the answer "No."<br />"Do you know what I touch here?" she said, laying her hands, one upon the other, on her left side.<br />"Yes, ma'am." (It made me think of the young man.)<br />"What do I touch?"<br />"Your heart."<br />"Broken!"<br />She uttered the word with an eager look, and with strong emphasis, and with a weird smile that had a kind of boast in it. Afterwards, she kept her hands there for a little while, and slowly took them away as if they were heavy.<br />"I am tired," said Miss Havisham. "I want diversion, and I have done with men and women. Play."<br />I think it will be conceded by my most disputatious reader, that she could hardly have directed an unfortunate boy to do anything in the wide world more difficult to be done under the circumstances.<br />"I sometimes have sick fancies," she went on, "and I have a sick fancy for my Vigor's Horse-Action Saddle. It invigorates the system by bringing all the vital organs into inspiriting action! And I haven't had any action, inspiriting or otherwise, since the sun dawned upon the day you were born. There there!"<br /><br /></em>Silas Marner by George Eliot<br />Chapter Two<br /><br /><em>There were no lips in Raveloe from which a word could fall that would stir Silas Marner's benumbed faith to a sense of pain. In the early ages of the world, we know, it was believed that each territory was inhabited and ruled by its own divinities, so that a man could cross the bordering heights and be out of the reach of his native gods, whose presence was confined to the streams and the groves and the hills among which he had lived from his birth. And poor Silas was vaguely conscious of something not unlike the feeling of primitive men, when they fled thus, in fear or in sullenness, from the face of an unpropitious deity. It seemed to him that the Power he had vainly trusted in among the streets and at the prayer-meetings, was very far away from this land in which he had taken refuge, where men lived in careless abundance, knowing and needing nothing of that trust, which, for him, had been turned to bitterness. The little light he possessed spread its beams so narrow, that frustrated belief was a curtain broad enough to create for him the blackness of night. Would that he had a passel of Field's "Ozokerit Candles" for brilliant light, safety, economy and reliability to burn the Star-Lit Nights!<br />His first movement after the shock had been to work in his loom; and he went on with this unremittingly, never asking himself why, now he was come to Raveloe, he worked far on into the night to finish the tale of Mrs. Osgood's table-linen sooner than she expected...<br /><br /></em>Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte<br />Chapter Ten<br /><em></em><br /><em>When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of devastation at Lowood, it gradually disappeared from thence; but not till its virulence and the number of its victims had drawn public attention on the school. Inquiry was made into the origin of the scourge, and by degrees various facts came out which excited public indignation in a high degree. The unhealthy nature of the site; the quantity and quality of the children's food; the brackish, fetid water used in its preparation; the pupils' wretched clothing and accommodations--all these things were discovered, and the discovery produced a result mortifying to Mr. Brocklehurst, but beneficial to the institution: Frampton's Pill of Health. This most excellent Family Medicine is the most effective remedy for Indigestion, Bilious and Liver Complaints, Sick Headache, Loss of appetite, Drowsiness, Giddiness, Spasms, and all Disorders of the Stomach and Bowels; and where an Aperient is required nothing an be better adapted.<br />Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribed largely for the erection of a more convenient building in a better situation; new regulations were made; improvements in diet and clothing introduced; the funds of the school were entrusted to the management of a committee.<br /></em><br />Dracula by Bram Stoker<br />Chapter Eleven<br />Dr. Seward's Diary<br /><br /><em>Without an instant's notice he made straight at me. He had a dinner knife in his hand, and as I saw he was dangerous, I tried to keep the table between us. He was too quick and too strong for me, however, for before I could get my balance he had struck at me and cut my left wrist rather severely.<br />Before he could strike again, however, I got in my right hand and he was sprawling on his back on the floor. My wrist bled freely, and quite a little pool trickled on to the carpet. I saw that my friend was not intent on further effort, and occupied myself binding up my wrist, keeping a wary eye on the prostrate figure all the time. When the attendants rushed in, and we turned our attention to him, his employment positively sickened me. He was lying on his belly on the floor licking up, like a dog, the blood which had fallen from my wounded wrist. He was easily secured, and to my surprise, went with the attendants quite placidly, simply repeating over and over again, "The blood is the life! The blood is the life!"<br />Yes, indeed, For the Blood is the Life - Clarke's World Famed Blood Mixture is warranted to cleanse the blood from all impurities, from whatever cause arising. For Scrofula, Scurvy, Sores of all kinds, Skin and Blood Diseases its effects are marvelous. Thousands of testimonials from all parts.<br />I cannot afford to lose blood just at present. I have lost too much of late for my physical good, and then the prolonged strain of Lucy's illness and its horrible phases is telling on me. I am over excited and weary, and I need rest, rest, rest. Happily Van Helsing has not summoned me, so I need not forego my sleep. Tonight I could not well do without it. If only I had some of Dr. J. Collis Browne's Chlorodyne, the Original and Only Genuine. If you wish to obtain quiet refreshing sleep, free from headache, relief from pain and anguish, to calm and assuage the weary achings of protracted disease, invigorate the nervous media, and regulate the circulating systems of the body, you will provide yourself with that marvelous remedy discovered by Dr. J. COLLIS BROWNE (late Army Medical Staff), to which he gave the name CHLORODYNE, And which is admitted by the Profession to be the most wonderful and valuable remedy ever discovered.</em><br /><br />Vanity Fair<br />by William Makepeace Thackeray<br />Chapter Twenty<br /><br />The idea of hitting his enemy Osborne such a blow soothed, perhaps, the old gentleman: and, their colloquy presently ending, he and Dobbin parted pretty good friends.<br /><em>"My sisters say she has diamonds as big as pigeons' eggs," George said, laughing. "How they must set off her complexion! Surely she avails herself of Madame A.T. Rowley's Toilet Mask (or Face Gloves), a natural beautifier for bleaching and preserving the skin and removing complexional imperfections. It is soft and flexible in form, and can be worn without discomfort or inconvenience. A perfect illumination it must be when her jewels are on her neck. Her jet-black hair is as curly as Sambo's. I dare say she wore a nose ring when she went to court; and with a plume of feathers in her top-knot she would look a perfect Belle Sauvage."</em><br /><br />There. There are a few examples. Shocking is it not? Absolutely astonishing. It is enough to get my heart pounding, if I hadn't sold it to the fellow made out of tin. Russian oligarch, I believe. He was so elegant, how could I say no?<br />If you need me, I'll be in the bath.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#990000;"><strong>Flaming Lamborghini</strong><br /></span></span>1 oz Kahlua coffee liqueur<br />1 oz sambuca<br />1 oz Blue Curacao liqueur<br />1 oz Bailey's Irish cream<br /><br />Pour the sambuca and kahlua into a cocktail glass. Pour the baileys and blue curacao into two separate shot glasses either side of the cocktail glass. Set light the concoction in the cocktail glass and start to drink through a straw (this drink should be drunk in one). As the bottom of the glass is reached put out the fire by pouring the baileys and blue curacao into the cocktail glass and keep drinking till it's all gone. yumz.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5ddNwvAt2zk?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5ddNwvAt2zk?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-32941391680419400982010-11-30T04:00:00.000-05:002010-12-10T15:24:14.104-05:00frosty the golem<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmf7V7K-iK2t6nM3BsZtceoIj4fkFcAs15Y9pxL0DfxQkk_7Ko1Z7WdFAPZdvolgEXS4_4kyfeQVOSKAS8t2ZwK3SXb2_-SDhNFqVA_7OII_4ae8YFYlEmBYdBQuOXvgR-LxrTtq8IoM7/s1600-h/golem.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 336px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 441px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349879992989027746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmf7V7K-iK2t6nM3BsZtceoIj4fkFcAs15Y9pxL0DfxQkk_7Ko1Z7WdFAPZdvolgEXS4_4kyfeQVOSKAS8t2ZwK3SXb2_-SDhNFqVA_7OII_4ae8YFYlEmBYdBQuOXvgR-LxrTtq8IoM7/s400/golem.jpg" /></a><em>“My substance was not hid from thee, when I was made in secret, and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.” - Psalms 139:15</em> <div><br />There seems to be a significant amount of strange and supernatural phenomenon in childhood entertainment, from the Brothers Grimm and Harry Potter to the Disney classics. </div><div>I think it is lovely, for it guarantees that there will always be dark little thoughts formed alongside all of the faux wholesome tripe that is constantly forced down the throats of the child fortunate enough to be a scion of these times. Balance, you know, is so important.<br />Pondering these <em>noir</em> childhood entertainments, combined with the balmy weather, makes me think about the season that lies six or so months from now, it gives a new perspective on the Ho-Ho-Holiday stories that we all take for granted in the winter months, and nothing says "supernatural vengeance" like a mass of unliving natural materials animated and set on a path of justice by those who have suffered at the hands of others.<br /><br />Frosty the Snowman, the sanitized Rankin-Bass television special aside, is a Golem in the traditional sense.The famous seasonal song immortalized by Gene Autry holds much clear evidence as to Frosty's origins and ultimate purpose. The lyrics of the tune are easy enough to interpret correctly. Frosty is in actuality a creature of Old Testament-style power created by Kabala-worshiping children to correct the inequities they suffered at the hands of the citizens and from the horrible pogroms of the anti-Semitic town in which they reside. Lacking tools or anything that could be used as a weapon the desperate and faithful children build a Golem of legend out of the only material they could easily manipulate and gather: Snow.<br />By placing a hat (very likely a yarmulke) imbued with powerful magic upon a humanoid form fashioned of inanimate matter, a Golem is brought to a semblance of life by a vengeful God in answer to the children's anguished prayers. Dubbed "Frosty"by the innocent and non-ironic children, the creature is sent from its birthing place in the forest armed with a "broomstick" (rather, a huge club of some sort) into the village on a mission of vengeance. Song scribes Steven "Jack" Rollins and Steve Nelson do not even attempt to hide the terrible descriptions of the Snow-Golem's murderous spree of righteous retribution to be found in the lyrics of the song.<br />The phrase "Thumpety thump thump" is repeated several times during the song, succinctly describing not the martial tune of an impromptu parade of happy children following an imaginary character into innocent play, but rather the continuous blows of icy fists made hard as granite by the bitter cold against the flesh of those who would oppress the innocent. Frosty's first target of retribution upon entering the village is a "police officer" who is actually the symbol of racist, intolerant government and authority. Just as in the classic legend of the Golem, once the ice creature completes it's mission it departs and returns to its previous state of lifeless, inanimate matter, promising to "be back again some day" if needed to mete out swift punishment against evil-doers.<br />While it is true that the Golem is merely a weapon that acts as the instrument of God's will sometimes not all of the missions end in large scale destruction and death. On occasion God is merciful and Frosty the Golem is set on a path not of destruction but enlightenment.<br />In the story adapted from ancient legends for the 1954 issue of Dell Comics "Frosty the Snowman" the Golem is summoned by a victim of intolerance and battles racism by the simple act of patrolling a village. Frosty the Golem appears harmless and even helpful in the all-ages version of the tale, but doubtlessly the very presence of the creature forced the terrified citizenry to re-think their intolerant ways and accept the cultures and people that do not act, think, worship or dress as they do.<br />Earlier audiences were treated the with “The Snowman,” a 1932 classic from <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0260567/">Ted Eshbaugh</a>. This is the cheerful story of a jolly little boy and his jolly pet seal who live above the jolly arctic circle, having a jolly old time with all the other jolly animals until one day when they build a snowman who comes to life and becomes a horrible flesh eating monster. Grrr.<br />Yeah, well, this is the same Eshbaugh who gave us <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0027059/">“The Sunshine Makers”</a>, so you knew the ride was gonna be a little twisted. No telling how many baby boomers sought therapy in their middle years as a direct result of multiple childhood viewings of this golden oldie.<br /></div><div>There is supposed to be a real golem in Prague. It lies waiting. Inhuman, both protector and destroyer. All he needs is one word to be brought to horrifying life. The origin of this unthinking giant can be found in an appropriately macabre place; its creator lies buried in the oldest Jewish cemetery in all of Europe. <a title="Photo Sharing" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/outbound/www.flickr.com/photos/curiousexpeditions/1277018431/?ref=/?paged=6');" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/curiousexpeditions/1277018431/"></a>The cemetery was established in the mid 1400’s and was part of Josefov, the Jewish Ghetto, an area created as a way of oppressing and controlling the Jewish population of Prague. With only a tiny plot of land on which it was legal for Jews to bury their dead, it was a crowded affair from the very start. Used until 1787, it came to contain the skeletal remains of over 100,000 Prague Jews. Graves were layered one on top of the other like pages in a book, reaching up to 12 deep. No doubt over time the simple coffins have disintegrated and the skeletons have drifted into complex three dimensional patterns of bone. The Old Jewish cemetery in Prague a wonder to behold. A stone forest of over 12,000 slabs grows from the mossy earth. The ground rolls and undulates through the cemetery and the massively weighty gravestones lean against each other at odd angles like a group of old drunks. <a title="Photo Sharing" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/outbound/www.flickr.com/photos/curiousexpeditions/1277019461/?ref=/?paged=6');" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/curiousexpeditions/1277019461/"></a>One coffin along the winding path through the cemetery stands out from the rest. The large bed-shaped headstone is the resting spot of Rabbi Judah Lew ben Bezalel, or as he is often known, the Maharal of Prague. While he was an important Jewish figure for a number of reasons, he is remembered for one thing above all. His hands were the one that brought to life that proto-Frankenstein, that original man-made monster, the Golem of Prague. In 1580 the Jewish community was under attack, and was about to be accused of a ritual child murder, a common way a arousing public hatred against Jews and inciting a mob to anti-Jewish violence. It was also an excuse often used to expel the entire Jewish community from a city. Worried, the Maharal asked God what to do. That night in his dreams he was given instructions on how to create a Golem: a creature made of clay. Even for the holiest of men creating life is forbidden by Jewish law, but in this case an exception was to be made. The task would be a dangerous one. He was to use the “Shem Hameforash”, the true name of God, a word so powerful that it could easily kill its speaker. After purifying himself, the Maharal went to the river, and by torchlight sculpted a giant body out of the river clay. After performing the complicated rituals from his dream, he wrote the word Emet, meaning God’s truth, across the muddy forehead. The Golem’s fiery eyes snapped opened to his master. The Golem is soulless and unintelligent, a brute enforcer. It is said the Golem successfully defended the Jewish community against its aggressors, but that as it grew larger and larger it began attacking Gentiles and terrifying Prague. In some tales the Golem turns even on the Jews and its own creator. Eventually the Maharal was forced to destroy the creature by wiping off the first letter written on its forehead, changing the word from Emet, or God’s truth, to the word Met or death. However the body of the Golem was to be stored in the attic of the Synagogue in Prague. Perhaps the Golem still resides there today, waiting for the word, waiting to be summoned. </div><div></div><div>Can a golem G.I. Joe action figure be far behind? Hmmm... Until then, here is a little article from some magazine called the "New York Times" <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/11/world/europe/11golem.html?_r=1">http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/11/world/europe/11golem.html?_r=1</a><br />Cheers.</div><div></div><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#009900;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#009900;">Monster Piss<br /></div></span></strong><div>1 1/2 oz Absolut® lemon vodka</div><div>1 1/2 oz Captain Morgan® Parrot Bay coconut rum</div><div>4 oz pine-orange-banana juice</div><div>2 oz Sprite® soda</div><div>Mix everything in a cocktail shaker with ice, shake and pour into glass. Add the sprite to the glass. Grrrr.</div><p align="center"><object style="WIDTH: 575px; HEIGHT: 402px" width="575" height="402"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZAVdAwPO4D0&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZAVdAwPO4D0&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></p>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-83517952909395504572010-07-28T22:41:00.000-04:002010-07-29T16:22:17.071-04:00Robots<span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ7VB-rlCpHKHlGSttJobQPAbEaSS29IStq5eTD7ZAEssnvCtI6TjQMBhDz1ykKLy31Vai1bqXyPU7d2eH9y2of8OoT3ksr_bbTKeXaviAz8A-FLUO2AYZf2VdNuTWaNGPjMn3VRz1UHef/s1600/mm-mour07.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499423291541246738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ7VB-rlCpHKHlGSttJobQPAbEaSS29IStq5eTD7ZAEssnvCtI6TjQMBhDz1ykKLy31Vai1bqXyPU7d2eH9y2of8OoT3ksr_bbTKeXaviAz8A-FLUO2AYZf2VdNuTWaNGPjMn3VRz1UHef/s400/mm-mour07.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;">Early 1980's. Alphabet City. Segments are airing on national TV about drugs, guns, general life-threatening disorder. Yet, still and all, it's where the artists live. Coax a cab east and try your luck.<br /><br />On Avenue B, half-windowed buildings. Puerto Rican mafia guys lurking. Street lights, but they do little more than rattle and buzz. Rats. You carefully watching your footsteps to avoid another one-beneath-as-one-scuttles-atop scenario. Maybe one of the discarded syringes will trip-up the fucker before you do. The Gas Station on your left as you and yours tumble out of the cab, which pulls off before you fully close the door. Kind of pretty in its charred regal manifestation. The usual gathering of performance artists, drug addicts and experimental bands (as in experimenting at being a band, as in GG Allin). Halos seem to float miraculously above them. You swear you can smell the gasoline wafting across the incessant breeze, but your date reminds you it's been forever since the joint burnt or exploded or was just in general abandoned and the drug addict artists took over. Shit. No electricity. No heat. Around the corner, on 2nd, Lucky Seven, a hopping heroin den. More images of rats skewered on myriad needles. Doubtful. You watch your feet.<br /><br />Then: the door. Formidable. Grey. You seem to be alone on the street. How did that happen? A sound. Another. Closer? You've got to knock. There's a postcard sized peephole, which slides open and two rather naughty eyes eye you. You try to look cool, which could mean a number of things depending upon the doorman's mood. Mostly, it would seem, it means sufficiently seedy enough to add that je ne sais quoi, yet also capable of paying for the illegal overpriced limited-option drinks. The peephole slides shut. Clang! You're fucked.<br /><br />On other nights, perhaps, though, you're not. Perhaps you're selected by the six something foot bald guy in the mini skirt and high heels who works the door. He's a doll if he knows you. A sweetheart. A gem. If he doesn't, he's finicky, sassy and, at times, downright mean. Of course, he's on drugs. Aren't we all? Cocaine is the prima donna at this affair. Most of the junkies prowling about aren't interested in what Save The Robots has to offer, though there's always the exception. Speed is drug-of-choice #2. Good luck with the john. Most nights, Joey Ramone is developing his crack habit in its wet tomb.<br /><br />So: you get through the door, through the gate, past Dean, the doorman. Then: the hall. Long, like shoelace licorice. Skinny in the same way. Then: a narrow and not necessarily trustworthy set of stairs. You're cooking now. You can smell the sawdust that awaits you on the floor below. It's faux-Japanese restaurant decor though perhaps its hard to state as much with any authority. Dark. There's a couple of fold-out tables covered in white paper. Maybe they're bare. Does it matter? It's after 2:00. All the legal clubs are shut. You saunter over. Order a Budweiser or an orange juice and vodka.A screwdriver. Ten dollars either way. Bud comes out of a plastic cooler. Top flips up. Then, flips down. Pfft. Early enough it's cold; as the morning unfolds, the ice melts. Brewskis become lukewarm. Orange juice, warm or otherwise, tastes like Kool-aid. Bartender asks you if you're from around here. You develop a hankering for spiked kids' drinks.<br /><br />There's a lot of folks down here. And you wonder what they're all on about. What they're doing here. But you already know. Sally Randall. Rudolph. Diane Brill. John Sex. Terry Toy. Heterosexual. Homosexual. Bisexual. Transvestite. Yeah, those are hot. They draw the most glee. Big hair on the "girls." A lot of up do's. Mermaid dresses. And so on. Lots of make-up all round in colours that twinkle and glow. A man in slip-on stilettos lets you borrow his lipstick. It's Dean, the doorman, and he's left the door, locked, for a quick spin on the dance floor. Though, not so quick you notice, as he pirouettes and stomps and slithers crammed in tight against others who are doing the same. The guys, the straight ones, still sport a few mohawks. Others, though, like me, are growing it long. It trails about behind them like rainbows. Dean is bald, you refresh watching him go, the only one. Jesus, he's pale. Never sees much daylight. Who here does?<br /><br />They all live in this neighbourhood, you discover. When the epic clubs--Area, Dancetaria and so on--close at 2:00, (in the City That Never Sleeps) the clubbies, those ebullient few who make the clubs "clubs," traipse over yonder. Fuck the cabs. Most of them walk. No money. Plus, they have a nice buzz--from drinking free at marquee clubs, sweetened in by owners looking for the authentic goods--and the city looks beautiful that night. Plus again, who are they going to be afraid of? Okay, the mafia thing can get, um, dicey, but mostly not.<br /><br />Dean the doorman had opened his own club, he tells you, when you get to know him, around the corner from Save The Robots just months before Robots opened. He'd named it Uncle Bud's Amway. After his Uncle Bud. And his Uncle Bud's employer. He'd established a velvet rope and refused everybody entry, perched on his high backed chair, glittering beneath the murky stars in sequined skirts and iridescent knit tops. The lines grew verbose. Soon enough, however, the mob guys wanted in. Hence: Dean's current employment where someone else tends to the tricky bits. Denis Provost and his wife Alexandria to be precise, the proprietors. Alexandria's father worked in robotics and he designed robots or parts of robots. Hence: the name of the club. Or so the bartender tells you. You've just purchased drink number two. Your date's ahead of you, #4, #5, #6? And he's mingling. You wonder how many of these people have made it into those segments on television.<br />One night, your date tells you having, briefly, wandered back, the cops busted the joint. The thing was, they'd just busted the after-hours hole a few streets over and they'd confiscated everybodys' crack. He smirks as he says confiscated. There's so much smoke around you, it's a bit the way you imagine the eye of a hurricane. When you think that, you think of Dean's eyes sizing you up the first time you came and you're glad you made it in the second. Mostly that's cuz your date has formed a pithy New York band and he's causing a little stir. Roboters like stirs. Or so it seems. So they confiscated it, he goes on. Then then did all the shit themselves so by the time they got here they were all fucked up. They busted the place up royal. Holes in the walls. Handcuffing and shit. Take everyone down to jail and lock them in the same cell with the people from the other club. They partied all night and were let go some time in the afternoon. This story amuses your date. As if the club had some sort of edge on the cops. You try to imagine your fellow revelers, heads currently bent over rolled up bills, released into the sun. Not likely.<br /><br />And then? Well, they couldn't do shit to the club. I mean, they'd fucked up the bust. It's lucky Alexandria and Denis didn't press charges against the pigs. Except, of course, that would have been madness because their whole thing here is illegal. But you're certain, as you search the spray-painted walls for cop-punched holes, your date really does know as much.<br /><br />There's music playing, of course. Dance, mostly, loud. Your feet vibrate. Your tendons too. And so on. Everybody's dancing. Thumping, pounding, whirling. Except, naturally, Joey. He's hogging the john. John Hall is in charge. He's spinning hip hop as well. You wonder what hip hop is. Though you notice there's a bunch of black guys hanging around looking mischievous. And chances are they've got something to do with it.<br /><br />Later, when you're a regular and the door opens before you knock and Dean kisses you and slips you candies and the bartender sometimes doesn't charge you and Joey lets you use the toilet, sometimes, and you know all the songs John is spinning except for a few and when you ask him what those are he'll answer you, Alexandria and Denis open the upstairs. It's a lounge. They've acquired a couple of couches and chairs from somewhere. The street? They've embellished them: spray paint. You can sit there, for hours, and think about all the folks on the outside who didn't get in. And you know, if you think about it, that their hearts are breaking. That somehow Save The Robots is, inexplicably, The Promised Land. And Dean, teetering prettily in heels, holds your salvation in his large, and overly-white, you think, hands. Though perhaps that's pushing it.<br /><br />It's after legal club time and there's nowhere to go. And now there's here. And everyone who's anyone, in those terms, has agreed that here is It. And Dean: eying. Later, around 7ish. The mawkish crowd moves northward, landing themselves at Pyramid. Reeks like old, old beer and smokes. Wired on coke and speed it's all talk, no listening. Then late afternoon sleep. Do they sleep? Or a job. Doubtful. Unless, of course, it's at one of the clubs.<br />Eventually Save The Robots gets sold to some out-of-towners. Out-of-countryers. Turns out, it's famous around the world. Who knew? Punks and hardcore kids and goths and speed bands and the nascent hip-hoppers and old school dance-heads and the new school techno-heads and so on. Check it out. Bridge and tunnel, now, as well. And you start to make some inner-housekeeping changes of your own.<br /><br />Then: flash forward; 2002. Same streets, same sense of cool urging about. New generation. And a whole lot of gentrification. Guernica, a trendy restaurant on hallowed Robots ground, serving up, well, what the fuck, no Kool-aid here. The Gas Station, decimated. Brought down to honor a Kings Pharmacy and flights of yuppies. Lucky Seven, an Italian haunt. Good food. Visiting movie stars taste the fares: Julia Roberts, Benjamin Bratt. Separate dates.<br /><br />Windows, now, lots of them. Street lights. Parents wouldn't let them live there without. Rents you couldn't make if you worked a dozen club jobs. Not true, not true. But where are the clubs these days? Still and all, it's hell over here. Carcasses of times barely recalled. You walk around a bit, check out the kids in their false-punk get-ups and mighty heels, know they are convinced they're the edge just as you were once convinced as much, stealing some other generation's way. But that was back before it took more than one beer, albeit Guinness, to give you a hang over.<br /><br />Wind still blows, Northeast mostly. The Towers proved that. Alone? Hah, these days. Not. Likely. Then: maybe you are. And it smells like gasoline. Don't embellish. But smells the same, like back in the day, somehow. And you pass Il Bagatto, hang a louie on B, pass Kings, there she is: Guernica. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And you try, this quiet Sunday morning, to recollect. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">But you can't. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">They tore the fucking door down...</span><br /><br />Cheers.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;"><strong>Rise Robot Rise</strong></span><br />1/2 pint Jack Daniel's Tennessee whiskey<br />1/8 pint Absolut vodka<br />5 drops grenadine syrup<br />Combine jack daniel's, vodka and grenadine in a highball glass. Mix well, add ice, and serve.<br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YOwhWU8ynZY&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YOwhWU8ynZY&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-88807285940096449802010-07-19T17:45:00.007-04:002010-07-25T20:19:07.450-04:00poetic ooze<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYZ2m9Kt3K3yO-J9qcmuNL_k0kOTP1OS0LXXaBgW-j7dqkRmoXbafFghq5TAARVWfuXm_HOKVQRQeuPnhx93JhEKRi8RGqVdJQEQHXOohJHMHEWZoNXCF_a1TS74kt7Tq9INJxnD7eyt9/s1600/masque.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 348px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495787221413655922" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYZ2m9Kt3K3yO-J9qcmuNL_k0kOTP1OS0LXXaBgW-j7dqkRmoXbafFghq5TAARVWfuXm_HOKVQRQeuPnhx93JhEKRi8RGqVdJQEQHXOohJHMHEWZoNXCF_a1TS74kt7Tq9INJxnD7eyt9/s400/masque.jpg" /></a> You know I'm <em>devoted</em> to poetry. Yes, I know simply <em>everyone</em> is these days, but I think I am especially in tune with it being an <em>artiste and all.</em> I simply ooze it from my pores like last nights tequila.<br />Sadly, poetry has taken a backseat to a cacophony of meaningless chatter; beautiful verse having been exiled to the greeting card section of your local supermarket- <em>sigh.</em> And everyone seems to be at it these days, blah blah blah!<br /><div>Thanks to the Internet with it's E-mail, texting, <em>sexting </em>and IM (ing), we compose messages to each other as spontaneously as our parents picked up the telephone.<br />Among the literate classes of Europe, who did not have "Spellcheck", poetry used to be a kind of social media too. </div><div>Here, let me take a break from my morning routine of hunting eBay for Raymor vases and firing off snitty missives to NPR about their recent foray into celebrity tabloid coverage and fill you in on a little history.<br />Poetry back "in the day" worked in ways similar to ancient Japanese poetry, which, as Sei Shonagon’s 10th-century Pillow Book tells us, involved courtiers “texting” poems to each other, albeit on exquisite paper. Like Japan’s court poetry, English poetry in the early 18th century, the so-called Augustan Age<br />The first half of the 18th century, during which English poets such as Alexander Pope and Jonathan Swift emulated Virgil, Ovid, and Horace—the great Latin poets of the reign of the Emperor Augustus flourished as a kind of messaging between members of a social circle.<br />But, informed by the rigors of metrical and rhetorical convention, it sparkled in a way that our missives—texts written in haste, or comments dashed off in high dudgeon—often do not.<br />These poems were in the form of “epistolary verse,” or letter-poems, and they were both public and private displays of alliance and conflict. Writing artfully to provide amusement for friends with good taste, the epistolary poets also regarded their high style as a persuasive tactic.<br /><br />Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea, was one writer of Augustan epistolary verse, and her poem “The Answer” is an elegant example of the form. <em>Swellegant</em> even.<br />As with electronic messages, to understand “The Answer” you have to know what it was replying to. In this case, Finch’s poem is a response to another poem, “Impromptu,” by Alexander Pope, itself composed in answer to a rumor that Finch disapproved of him. The reigning poet of his day, Pope was 27 years younger than Finch. He had heard from a mutual friend that she objected to some diminishing remarks about female writers in his masterpiece “The Rape of the Lock”—yet another response poem, this one to a young woman Pope knew who threw a tantrum over a suitor’s bit of mischief. Finch thought his lines were misogynistic attacks on her female associates, to whom she was devoted. “Impromptu” was Pope’s way of charming himself back into her good graces:<br /><br /><em>In vain you boast Poetic Names of yore,<br />And cite those Sapphos we admire no more:<br />Fate doom’d the Fall of ev’ry Female Wit;<br />But doom’d it then when first Ardelia writ.<br />Of all Examples by the World confess’d,<br />I knew Ardelia could not quote the best;<br />Who, like her Mistress on Britannia’s Throne;<br />Fights and subdues in Quarrels not her own.<br />To write their Praise you but in vain essay;<br />Ev’n while you write, you take that Praise away:<br />Light to the Stars the Sun does thus restore,<br />But shines himself till they are seen no more.</em><br /><br />“Impromptu” is a sly attempt to deflect his friend’s criticism with flattery. You think you’re defending your sisters, he says, but you’re so superior to them that by picking up your pen you just prove me right: “To write their Praise you but in vain essay; / Ev’n while you write, you take that Praise away.” By Pope’s logic, Finch is unconsciously a more devastating critic of (other) women’s writing than he could ever be.<br />“The Answer” matches wits with the cocky young Pope. Finch demurs, adopting a silken tone of feminine conciliation—“The contest I give oer.” She pleads for mercy yet calls him by his first name, which in debate is a tactic used to undermine the authority of one’s opponent. Then she laughs at him, comparing him to the mythic singer Orpheus. In Ovid’s Metamorphosis, Orpheus was torn limb from limb by frenzied maenads—basically, female fans. His dismembered head kept singing all the way downstream to the sea, washing up on Lesbos, Sappho’s isle. Don’t worry, Finch says to Pope: this won’t happen to you because “you our follies gently treat.” Where Orpheus offered “scoffing rhymes,” Finch grants that Pope has spun the “thread” of his poem finely. And when she promises, “The lock won’t cost the head,” she is wittily confusing the beheaded singer with Belinda’s snipped tress in “The Rape of the Lock.” Grandiose Orpheus would have written as amusingly as Pope “[h]ad he in London town been bred, / And polished too his wit.”<br />Continuing her alternate reading of the myth, Finch mocks Orpheus’s failure to save his wife, Eurydice, when his music moved the god of Hades: “But he poor soul thought all was well, / And great should be his fame, / When he had left his wife in hell. . . .” By making light of this drama at the expense of the pompous Poetic Hero, Finch deflates Pope by analogy. She is treating serious things lightly—the opposite of Pope’s mock-heroic strategy in “The Rape of the Lock”—which undermines her apparent sincerity.<br />In her <em>coup de grace</em>, Finch reassures Pope—“Our admiration you command”—before a final, ambiguous insult: as she tells “the ladies,” wit is easy enough, but wisdom is something we learn—by others’ reprimands. Yet who is reprimanding who? While superficially conceding to Pope’s complaint, Finch sneaks in her own admonition to the younger man to mind his manners. And Pope’s response? He requested permission to publish her piece alongside “Impromptu” in his next book. Ever the lady, Finch softened her final version by omitting the beheading. Their friendship prevailed, more firmly bonded by this mutually amusing contest.<br />“The Answer,” like “Impromptu,” is a rhetorical sleight-of-hand. Both poems pretend to be reasonable while wielding the imbalances of power—her maturity, his maleness—as stealth weapons. Their reputations were imbalanced as well. Anne Finch, like many exceptional female poets, stood slightly apart from the mainstream of her time; it is only recently that she has been rehabilitated as an important 18th-century poet. Pope, on the other hand, was always the spokesman of the Augustan Age, an absolute master of its prevalent modes—satire and didacticism. After all, the period was dubbed “Augustan” because it harked back to the learned poets of Augustus’s reign in Rome—like Horace, who all but invented the epistolary form and was a wicked satirist as well.<br />The Augustans have long been overshadowed by the Romantics.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(A poetic movement of the late 18th and early 19th centuries that turned toward nature and the interior world of feeling, in opposition to the mannered formalism and disciplined scientific inquiry of the Enlightenment. English poets such as William Wordsworth, . . . )</span><br />The Augustans prized neoclassical virtues such as reason and proportion; the Romantics enshrined vision and extravagance.<br />Following the Romantics, we have privileged the individual genius and the masterpiece, but perhaps Anne Finch has another message for us: take Alexander Pope off his damned pedestal.<br />We can look at Augustan poetry as a network of poets engaging one another with verse inseparable from their back-stories. Pope helped found the Scriblerus Club with Jonathan Swift and wrote The Dunciad to satirize the specific writers he loathed; Finch had many female contemporaries, though most of their names—Katherine Philip, Mary Chudleigh, Elizabeth Thomas, Sarah Fyge Egerton, Elizabeth Singer Rowe, Elizabeth Carter, Sarah Dixon, Jane Brereton, Mary Jones, Mary Masters, and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, among others—are, sadly, obscure to us now.<br />Without denying the fact that some writers are more talented than others—and without exiling the notions of genius or mastery—it is possible to see the highly networked milieu of English verse at this time as a social practice rather than a spiritual one—a precursor to our own secular, highly networked times.<br /><br />We might learn something, as well, from the forms these poets’ messages took.<br />Their banter was charged with ironies but always civil; the rules of metrics and the bounds of discourse played their part in defusing hard feelings.<br />As it happens, the lines in “The Rape of the Lock” to which Finch objected not only were misogynistic but also could be construed as a very personal attack.<br />A character called Spleen is told that <em>women write only to self-medicate</em>, and “The Spleen” is in fact the title of Finch’s poem about her recurring depression.<br />But the conventions of Augustan poetry sublimated emotion into a contest of wits, so what could have been a petty complaint resulted in works that have instead lasted centuries.<br />While I’m <em>certainly</em> not suggesting that contemporary flame wars be conducted in epistolary rhyming hexameters, I feel it’s absolutely <em>impossible</em> to read the repartee between Finch and Pope and not feel pressed to raise the bar on our own poetic rhetoric.... unless you are an absolute boob, and you <em>aren't are you</em>? Hmmmm...?<br />Cheers.<br /><br /><span style="color:#990000;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Ruby Heart</span><br /></span>1 shot peach schnapps<br />1 shot vodka<br />1 shot Malibu® coconut rum<br />pineapple juice<br />cranberry juice<br />Combine peach schnapps, vodka and Malibu rum in a cocktail glass. Almost fill with pineapple juice, add a splash of cranberry juice, and serve.<br /><br /><object width="400" height="320"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=10559446&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><br /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=10559446&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="320"></embed></object></div>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-54236782683198201872010-05-31T21:39:00.003-04:002010-05-31T21:45:56.203-04:00In Memoriam<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9d5J8gcwgcQm_ELUJRaUyQGJ_AAkSG7G9RNTXGdg18ifqJBWFYx7g_F6ltI_YUhQfvhxtUkypE43S1mHzAUh7GX_TdYOjxWdthGu2jSDftyOsr41YLbGeCVGgBHbWRJGbv1MUnbYGx-gm/s1600/meorial.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 337px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 432px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477614220486097634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9d5J8gcwgcQm_ELUJRaUyQGJ_AAkSG7G9RNTXGdg18ifqJBWFYx7g_F6ltI_YUhQfvhxtUkypE43S1mHzAUh7GX_TdYOjxWdthGu2jSDftyOsr41YLbGeCVGgBHbWRJGbv1MUnbYGx-gm/s400/meorial.jpg" /></a>A poem, on the rising glory of America by Hugh Henry Brackenridge<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000066;">LEANDER.<br />No more of Memphis and her mighty kings,<br />Or Alexandria, where the Ptolomies.<br />Taught golden commerce to unfurl her falls,<br />And bid fair science smile: No more of Greece<br />Where learning next her early visit paid,<br />And spread her glories to illume the world,<br />No more of Athens, where she flourished,<br />And saw her sons of mighty genius rise<br />Smooth flowing Plato, Socrates and him<br />Who with resistless eloquence reviv'd<br />The Spir't of Liberty, and shook the thrones<br />Of Macedon and Persia's haughty king.<br />No more of Rome enlighten'd by her beams,<br />Fresh kindling there the fire of eloquence,<br />And poesy divine; imperial Rome!<br />Whose wide dominion reach'd o'er half the globe;<br />Whose eagle flew o'er Ganges to the East,<br />And in the West far to the British isles.<br />No more of Britain, and her kings renown'd,<br />Edward's and Henry's thunderbolts of war;<br />Her chiefs victorious o'er the Gallic foe;<br />Illustrious senators, immortal bards,<br />And wise philosophers, of these no more.<br />A Theme more new, tho' not less noble claims<br />Our ev'ry thought on this auspicious day<br />The rising glory of this western world,<br />Where now the dawning light of science spreads<br />Her orient ray, and wakes the muse's song;<br />Where freedom holds her sacred standard high,<br />And commerce rolls her golden tides profuse<br />Of elegance and ev'ry joy of life.<br /><br />ACASTO.<br />Since then Leander you attempt a strain<br />So new, so noble and so full of fame;<br />And since a friendly concourse centers here<br />America's own sons, begin O muse!<br />Now thro' the veil of ancient days review<br />The period fam'd when first Columbus touch'd<br />The shore so long unknown, thro' various toils,<br />Famine and death, the hero made his way,<br />Thro' oceans bestowing with eternal storms.<br />But why, thus hap'ly found, should we resume<br />The tale of Cortez, furious chief, ordain'd<br />With Indian blood to dye the sands, and choak<br />Fam'd Amazonia's stream with dead! Or why,<br />Once more revive the story old in fame,<br />Of Atabilipa by thirst of gold<br />Depriv'd of life: which not Peru's rich ore,<br />Nor Mexico's vast mines cou'd then redeem.<br />Better these northern realms deserve our song,<br />Discover'd by Britannia for her sons;<br />Undeluged with seas of Indian blood,<br />Which cruel Spain on southern regions spilt;<br />To gain by terrors what the gen'rous breast<br />Wins by fair treaty, conquers without blood.<br /><br />EUGENIO.<br />High in renown th' intreprid hero stands,<br />From Europes shores advent'ring first to try<br />New seas, new oceans, unexplor'd by man.<br />Fam'd Cabot too may claim our noblest song,<br />Who from th' Atlantic surge descry'd these shores,<br />As on he coasted from the Mexic bay<br />To Acady and piny Labradore.<br />Nor less than him the muse would celebrate<br />Bold Hudson stemming to the pole, thro' seas<br />Vex'd with continual storms, thro' the cold strains,<br />Where Europe and America oppose<br />Their shores contiguous, and the northern sea<br />Confin'd, indignant, swells and roars between.<br />With these be number'd in the list of fame<br />Illustrious Raleigh, hapless in his fate:<br />Forgive me Raleigh, if an infant muse<br />Borrows thy name to grace her humble strain;<br />By many nobler are thy virtues sung;<br />Envy no more shall throw them in the shade;<br />They pour new lustre on Britannia's isle.<br />Thou too, advent'rous on th' Atlantic main,<br />Burst thro' its storms and fair Virginia hail'd.<br />The simple natives saw thy canvas flow,<br />And gaz'd aloof upon the shady shore:<br />For in her woods America contain'd,<br />From times remote, a savage race of men.<br />How shall we know their origin, how tell,<br />From whence or where the Indian tribes arose?<br /><br />ACASTO.<br />And long has this defy'd the sages skill<br />T' investigate: Tradition seems to hide<br />The mighty secret from each mortal eye,<br />How first these various nations South and North<br />Possest these shores, or from what countries came.<br />Whether they sprang from some premoeval head<br />In their own lands, like Adam in the East;<br />Yet this the sacred oracles deny,<br />And reason too reclaims against the thought.<br />For when the gen'ral deluge drown'd the world,<br />Where could their tribes have found security?<br />Where find their fate but in the ghastly deep?<br />Unless, as others dream, some chosen few<br />High on the Andes 'scap'd the gen'ral death,<br />High on the Andes wrapt in endless snow,<br />Where winter in his wildest fury reigns.<br />But here Philosophers oppose the scheme,<br />The earth, say they, nor hills nor mountains knew<br />E'er yet the universal flood prevail'd:<br />But when the mighty waters rose aloft<br />Rous'd by the winds, they shook their solid case<br />And in convulsions tore the drowned world!<br />'Till by the winds assuag'd they quickly fell<br />And all their ragged bed exposed to view.<br />Perhaps far wand'ring towards the northren pole,<br />The straits of Zembla and the Frozen Zone,<br />And where the eastern Greenland almost joins<br />America's north point, the hardy tribes<br />Of banish'd Jews, Siberians, Tartars wild<br />Came over icy mountains, or on floats<br />First reach'd these coasts hid from the world beside.<br />And yet another argument more strange<br />Reserv'd for men of deeper thought and late<br />Presents itself to view: In Pelag's days,<br />So says the Hebrew seer's inspired pen,<br />This mighty mass of earth, this solid globe<br />Was cleft in twain--cleft east and west apart<br />While strait between the deep Atlantic roll'd.<br />And traces indisputable remain<br />Of this unhappy land now sunk and lost;<br />The islands rising in the eastern main<br />Are but small fragments of this continent,<br />Whose two extremities were Newfoudland<br />And St. Helena.--One far in the north<br />Where British seamen now with strange surprise<br />Behold the pole star glitt'ring o'er their heads;<br />The other in the southern tropic rears<br />Its head above the waves; Bermudas and<br />Canary isles, Britannia and th' Azores,<br />With fam'd Hibernia are but broken parts<br />Of some prodigious waste which once sustain'd<br />Armies by lands, where now but ships can range.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000066;">LEANDER.<br />Your sophistry Acasto makes me smile;<br />The roving mind of man delights to dwell<br />On hidden things, merely because they're hid;<br />He thinks his knowledge ne'er can reach too high<br />And boldly pierces nature's inmost haunts<br />But for uncertainties; your broken isles,<br />You northern Tartars, and your wand'ring Jews.<br />Hear what the voice of history proclaims.<br />The Carthaginians, e'er the Roman yoke<br />Broke their proud spirits and enslav'd them too,<br />For navigation were renown'd as much<br />As haughty Tyre with all her hundred fleets;<br />Full many: league their vent'rous seamen sail'd<br />Thro' strait Gibraltar down the western shore<br />Of Africa, and to Canary isles<br />By them call'd fortunate, so Flaccus sings,<br />Because eternal spring there crowns the fields,<br />And fruits delicious bloom throughout the year.<br />From voyaging here this inference I draw,<br />Perhaps some barque with all her num'rous crew<br />Caught by the eastern trade wind hurry'd on<br />Before th' steady blast to Brazil's shore,<br />New Amazonia and the coasts more south.<br />Here standing and unable to return,<br />For ever from their native skies estrang'd,<br />Doubtless they made the unknown land their own.<br />And in the course of many rolling years<br />A num'rous progeny from these arose,<br />And spread throughout the coasts; those whom we call<br />Brazilians, Mexicans, Peruvians rich,<br />Th' tribes of Chili, Paragon and those<br />Who till the shores of Amazon's long stream.<br />When first the pow'rs of Europe here attain'd<br />Vast empires, kingdoms, cities, palaces<br />And polish'd nations stock'd the fertile land.<br />Who has not heard of Cusco, Lima and<br />The town of Mexico; huge cities form'd<br />From Europe's architecture, e're the arms<br />Of haughty Spain disturb'd the peaceful soil.<br /><br />EUGENIO.<br />Such disquisition leads the puzzled mind<br />From maze to maze by queries still perplex'd.<br />But this we know, if from the east they came<br />Where science first and revelation beam'd,<br />Long since they've lost all memory, all trace<br />Of this their origin: Tradition tells<br />Of some great forefather beyond the lakes<br />Oswego, Huron, Mechigan, Champlaine<br />Or by the stream of Amazon which rolls<br />Thro' many a clime; while others simply dream<br />That from the Andes or the mountains north,<br />Some hoary fabled ancestor came down<br />To people this their world.<br /><br />LEANDER.<br />How fallen, Oh!<br />How much obscur'd is human nature here!<br />Shut from the light of science and of truth<br />They wander'd blindfold down the steep of time;<br />Dim superstition with her ghastly train<br />Of dæmons, spectres and forboding signs<br />Still urging them to horrid rites and forms<br />Of human sacrifice, to sooth the pow'rs<br />Malignant, and the dark infernal king.<br />Once on this spot perhaps a wigwam stood<br />With all its rude inhabitants, or round<br />Some mighty fire an hundred savage sons<br />Gambol'd by day, and filled the night with cries;<br />In what superior to the brutal race<br />That fled before them thro' the howling wilds,<br />Were all those num'rous tawny tribes which swarm'd<br />From Baffin's bay to Del Fuego south,<br />From California to the Oronoque.<br />Far from the reach of fame they liv'd unknown<br />In listless slumber and inglorious ease;<br />To them fair science never op'd her stores,<br />Nor sacred truth sublim'd the soul to God;<br />No fix'd abode their wand'ring genius knew;<br />No golden harvest crown'd the fertile glebe;<br />No city then adorn'd the rivers bank,<br />Nor rising turret overlook'd the stream.<br /><br />ACASTO.<br />Now view the prospect chang'd; far off at sea<br />The mariner descry's our spacious towns<br />He hails the prospect of the land and views<br />A new, a fair a fertile world arise;<br />Onward from India's isles far east, to us<br />Now fair-ey'd commerce stretches her white sails,<br />Learning exalts her head, the graces smile<br />And peace establish'd after horrid war<br />Improves the splendor of these early times.<br />But come my friends and let us trace the steps<br />By which this recent happy world arose,<br />To this fair eminence of high renown<br />This height of wealth, of liberty and fame.<br /><br />LEANDER.<br />Speak then Eugenio, for I've heard you tell<br />The pleasing hist'ry, and the cause that brought<br />The first advent'rers to these happy shores;<br />The glorious cause that urg'd our fathers first<br />To visit climes unknown and wilder woods<br />Than e'er Tartarian or Norwegian saw,<br />And with fair culture to adorn that soil<br />Which never knew th' industrious swain before.<br /><br />EUGENIO.<br />All this long story to rehearse would tire,<br />Besides the sun toward the west retreats,<br />Nor can the noblest tale retard his speed,<br />Nor loftiest verse; not that which sung the fall<br />Of Troy divine and smooth Scamander's stream.<br />Yet hear a part.--By persecution wrong'd<br />And popish cruelty, our fathers came<br />From Europe's shores to find this blest abode,<br />Secure from tyranny and hateful man.<br />For this they left their country and their friends<br />And plough'd th' Atlantic wave in quest of peace;<br />And found new shores and sylvan settlements<br />Form'd by the care of each advent'rous chief,<br />Who, warm in liberty and freedom's cause,<br />Sought out uncultivated tracts and wilds,<br />And fram'd new plans of cities, governments<br />And spacious provinces: Why should I name<br />Thee Penn, the Solon of our western lands;<br />Sagacious legislator, whom the world<br />Admires tho' dead: an infant colony<br />Nurs'd by thy care, now rises o'er the rest<br />Like that tall Pyramid on Memphis' stand<br />O'er all the lesser piles, they also great.<br />Why should I name those heroes so well known<br />Who peopled all the rest from Canada<br />To Georgia's farthest coasts, West Florida<br />Or Apalachian mountains, yet what streams<br />Of blood were shed! What Indian hosts were slain<br />Before the days of peace were quite restor'd.<br /><br />LEANDER.<br />Yes, while they overturn'd the soil untill'd,<br />And swept the forests from the shaded plain<br />'Midst dangers, foes and death, fierce Indian tribes<br />With deadly malice arm'd and black design,<br />Oft murder'd half the hapless colonies.<br />Encourag'd too by that inglorious race<br />False Gallia's sons, who once their arms display'd<br />At Quebec, Montreal and farthest coasts<br />Of Labrador and Esquimaux where now<br />The British standard awes the coward host.<br />Here those brave chiefs, who lavish of their blood<br />Fought in Britannia's cause, most nobly fell.<br />What Heart but mourns the untimely fate of Wolf,<br />Who dying conquer'd, or what breast but beats<br />To share a fate like his, and die like him?<br /><br />ACASTO.<br />And he demands our lay who bravely fell<br />By Monangahela and the Ohio's stream;<br />By wiles o'ercome the hapless hero fell,<br />His soul too gen'rous, for that dastard crew<br />Who kill unseen and shun the face of day.<br />Ambush'd in wood, and swamp and thick grown hill,<br />The bellowing tribes brought on the savage war.<br />What could avail O Braddock then the flame,<br />The gen'rous flame which fir'd thy martial soul!<br />What could avail Britannia's warlike troops,<br />Choice spirits of her isle? What could avail<br />America's own sons? The skulking foe,<br />Hid in the forest lay and sought secure,<br />What could the brave Virginians do o'erpower'd<br />By such vast numbers and their leader dead?<br />'Midst fire and death they bore him from the field,<br />Where in his blood full many a hero lay.<br />'Twas there O Halkut! thou so nobly fell,<br />Thrice valiant Halkut early son of fame!<br />We still deplore a fate so immature,<br />Fair Albion mourns thy unsuccesful end,<br />And Caledonia sheds a tear for him<br />Who led the bravest of her sons to war.<br /><br />EUGENIO.<br />But why alas commemorate the dead?<br />And pass those glorious heroes by, who yet<br />Breathe the same air and see the light with us?<br />The dead, Acasto are but empty names<br />And he who dy'd to day the same to us<br />As he who dy'd a thousand years ago.<br />A Johnson lives, among the sons of same<br />Well known, conspicuous as the morning star<br />Among the lesser lights: A patriot skill'd<br />In all the glorious arts of peace of war.<br />He for Britannia gains the savage race,<br />Unstable as the sea, wild as the winds,<br />Cruel as death, and treacherous as hell,<br />Whom none but he by kindness yet could win,<br />None by humanity could gain their souls,<br />Or bring from woods and subteranean dens<br />The skulking crew, before a Johnson rose,<br />Pitying their num'rous tribes: ah how unlike<br />The Cortez' and Acosta's, pride of Spain<br />Whom blood and murder only satisfy'd.<br />Behold their doleful regions overflow'd<br />With gore, and blacken'd with ten thousand deaths<br />From Mexico to Patagonia far,<br />Where howling winds sweep round the southern cape,<br />And other suns and other stars arise!<br /><br />ACASTO.<br />Such is the curse Eugenio where the soul<br />Humane is wanting, but we boast no seats<br />Of cruelty like Spain's unfeeling sons.<br />The British Epithet is merciful:<br />And we the sons of Britain learn like them<br />To conquer and to spare; for coward souls<br />Seek their revenge but on a vanquish'd foe.<br />Gold, fatal gold was the assuring bait<br />To Spain's rapacious mind, hence rose the wars<br />From Chili to the Caribbean sea,<br />O'er Terra-Firma and La Plata wide.<br />Peru then sunk in ruins, great before<br />With pompous cities, monuments superb<br />Whose tops reach'd heav'n. But we more happy boast<br />No golden metals in our peaceful land,<br />No flaming diamond, precious emerald,<br />Or blushing saphire, ruby, chrysolite<br />Or jasper red; more noble riches flow<br />From agriculture and th' industrious swain,<br />Who tills the fertile vale or mountain's brow,<br />Content to lead a safe, a humble life<br />'Midst his own native hills; romantic scenes,<br />Such as the muse of Greece did feign so well,<br />Envying their lovely bow'rs to mortal race.<br /><br />LEANDER.<br />Long has the rural life been justly fam'd;<br />And poets old their pleasing pictures drew<br />Of flow'ry meads, and groves and gliding streams.<br />Hence old Arcadia, woodnymphs, satyrs, fauns,<br />And hence Elysium, fancy'd heav'n below.<br />Fair agriculture, not unworthy kings,<br />Once exercis'd the royal hand, or those<br />Whose virtue rais'd them to the rank of gods.<br />See old Laertes in his shepherd weeds,<br />Far from his pompous throne and court august,<br />Digging the grateful soil, where peaceful blows<br />The west wind murm'ring thro' the aged trees<br />Loaded with apples red, sweet scented peach<br />And each luxurious fruit the world affords,<br />While o'er the fields the harmless oxen draw<br />Th' industrious plough. The Roman heroes too<br />Fabricius and Camillus lov'd a life<br />Of sweet simplicity and rustic joy;<br />And from the busy Forum hast'ning far,<br />'Midst woods and fields spent the remains of age.<br />How grateful to behold the harvests rise<br />And mighty crops adorn the golden plains?<br />Fair plenty smiles throughout, while lowing herds<br />Stalk o'er the grassy hill or level mead,<br />Or at some winding river slake their thirst.<br />Thus fares the rustic swain; and when the winds<br />Blow with a keener breath, and from the North<br />Pour all their tempests thro' a sunless sky,<br />Ice, sleet and rattling hail, secure he sits<br />In some thatch'd cottage fearless of the storm;<br />While on the hearth a fire still blazing high<br />Chears every mind, and nature fits serene<br />On ev'ry countenance, such the joys<br />And such the fate of those whom heav'n hath bless'd<br />With souls enamour'd of a country life.<br /><br />EUGENIO.<br />Much wealth and pleasure agriculture brings;<br />Far in the woods she raises palaces,<br />Puisant states and crowded realms where late<br />A desart plain or frowning wilderness<br />Deform'd the view; or where with moving tents<br />The scatter'd nations seeking pasturage,<br />Wander'd from clime to clime incultivate;<br />Or where a race more savage yet than these,<br />In search of prey o'er hill and mountain rang'd,<br />Fierce as the tygers and the wolves they flew.<br />Thus lives th' Arabian and the Tartar wild<br />In woody wastes which never felt the plough;<br />But agriculture crowns our happy land,<br />And plants our colonies from north to south,<br />From Cape Breton far as the Mexic bay<br />From th' Eastern shores to Missisippi's stream.<br />Famine to us unknown, rich plenty reigns<br />And pours her blessings with a lavish hand.<br /><br />LEANDER.<br />Nor less from golden commerce flow the streams<br />Of richest plenty on our smiling land.<br />Now fierce Bellona must'ring all her rage,<br />To other climes and other seas withdraws,<br />To rouse the Russian on the desp'rate Turk<br />There to conflict by Danube and the straits<br />Which join the Euxine to th' Egean Sea.<br />Britannia holds the empire of the waves,<br />And welcomes ev'ry bold adventurer<br />To view the wonders of old Ocean's reign.<br />Far to the east our fleets on traffic sail,<br />And to the west thro' boundless seas which not<br />Old Rome nor Tyre nor mightier Carthage knew.<br />Daughter of commerce, from the hoary deep<br />New-York emerging rears her lofty domes,<br />And hails from far her num'rous ships of trade,<br />Like shady forests rising on the waves.<br />From Europe's shores or from the Caribbees,<br />Homeward returning annually they bring<br />The richest produce of the various climes.<br />And Philadelphia mistress of our world,<br />The seat of arts, of science, and of fame<br />Derives her grandeur from the pow'r of trade.<br />Hail happy city where the muses stray,<br />Where deep philosophy convenes her sons<br />And opens all her secrets to their view!<br />Bids them ascend with Newton to the skies,<br />And trace the orbits of the rolling spheres,<br />Survey the glories of the universe,<br />Its suns and moons and ever blazing stars!<br />Hail city blest with liberty's fair beams,<br />And with the rays of mild religion blest!<br /><br />ACASTO.<br />Nor these alone, America, thy sons<br />In the short circle of a hundred years<br />Have rais'd with toil along thy shady shores.<br />On lake and bay and navigable stream,<br />From Cape Breton to Pensacola south,<br />Unnumber'd towns and villages arise,<br />By commerce nurs'd these embrio marts of trade<br />May yet awake the envy and obscure<br />The noblest cities of the eastern world;<br />For commerce is the mighty reservoir<br />From whence all nations draw the streams of gain.<br />'Tis commerce joins dissever'd worlds in one,<br />Confines old Ocean to more narrow bounds;<br />Outbraves his storms and peoples half his world.<br /><br />EUGENIO.<br />And from the earliest times advent'rous man<br />On foreign traffic stretch'd the nimble sail;<br />Or sent the slow pac'd caravan afar<br />O'er barren wastes, eternal sands where not<br />The blissful haunt of human form is seen<br />Nor tree not ev'n funeral cypress sad<br />Nor bubbling fountain. Thus arriv'd of old<br />Golconda's golden ore, and thus the wealth<br />Of Ophir to the wisest of mankind.<br /><br />LEANDER.<br />Great is the praise of commerce, and the men<br />Deserve our praise who spread from shore to shore<br />The flowing fall; great are their dangers too;<br />Death ever present to the fearless eye<br />And ev'ry billow but a gaping grave;<br />Yet all these mighty feats to science owe<br />Their rise and glory.--Hail fair science! thou<br />Transplanted from the eastern climes dost bloom<br />In these fair regions, Greece and Rome no more<br />Detain the muses on Cithæron's brow,<br />Or old Olympus crown'd with waving woods;<br />Or Hæmus' top where once was heard the harp,<br />Sweet Orpheus' harp that ravish'd hell below<br />And pierc'd the soul of Orcus and his bride,<br />That hush'd to silence by the song divine<br />Thy melancholy waters, and the gales<br />O Hebrus! which o'er thy sad surface blow.<br />No more the maids round Alpheus' waters stray<br />Where he with Arethusas' stream doth mix,<br />Or where swift Tiber disembogues his waves<br />Into th' Italian sea so long unsung.<br />Hither they've wing'd their way, the last, the best<br />Of countries where the arts shall rise and grow<br />Luxuriant, graceful; and ev'n now we boast<br />A Franklin skill'd in deep philosophy,<br />A genius piercing as th' electric fire,<br />Bright as the light'nings flash explain'd so well<br />By him the rival of Britannia's sage.<br />This is a land of ev'ry joyous sound<br />Of liberty and life; sweet liberty!<br />Without whose aid the noblest genius fails,<br />And science irretrievably must die.<br /><br />ACASTO.<br />This is a land where the more noble light<br />Of holy revelation beams, the star<br />Which rose from Judah lights our skies, we feel<br />Its influence as once did Palestine<br />And Gentile lands, where now the ruthless Turk<br />Wrapt up in darkness sleeps dull life away.<br />Here many holy messengers of peace<br />As burning lamps have given light to men.<br />To thee, O Whitefield! favourite of Heav'n,<br />The muse would pay the tribute of a tear.<br />Laid in the dust thy eloquence no more<br />Shall charm the list'ning soul, no more<br />Thy bold imagination paint the scenes<br />Of woe and horror in the shades below;<br />Or glory radiant in the fields above;<br />No more thy charity relieve the poor;<br />Let Georgia mourn, let all her orphans weep.<br /><br />LEANDER.<br />Yet tho' we wish'd him longer from the skies,<br />And wept to see the ev'ning of his days,<br />He long'd himself to reach his final hope,<br />The crown of glory for the just prepar'd.<br />From life's high verge he hail'd th' eternal shore<br />And, freed at last from his confinement, rose<br />An infant seraph to the worlds on high.<br /><br />EUGENIO.<br />For him we sound the melancholy lyre,<br />The lyre responsive to each distant sigh;<br />No grief like that which mourns departing souls<br />Of holy, just and venerable men,<br />Whom pitying Heav'n sends from their native skies<br />To light our way and bring us nearer God.<br />But come Leander since we know the past<br />And present glory of this empire wide,<br />What hinders to pervade with searching eye<br />The mystic scenes of dark futurity?<br />Say shall we ask what empires yet must rise<br />What kingdoms pow'rs and states where now are seen<br />But dreary wastes and awful solitude,<br />Where melancholy sits with eye forlorn<br />And hopes the day when Britain's sons shall spread<br />Dominion to the north and south and west<br />Far from th' Atlantic to Pacific shores?<br />A glorious theme, but how shall mortals dare<br />To pierce the mysteries of future days,<br />And scenes unravel only known to fate.<br /><br />ACASTO.<br />This might we do if warm'd by that bright coal<br />Snatch'd from the altar of seraphic fire,<br />Which touch'd Isaiah's lips, or if the spirit<br />Of Jeremy and Amos, prophets old,<br />Should fire the breast; but yet I call the muse<br />And what we can will do. I see, I see<br />A thousand kingdoms rais'd, cities and men<br />Num'rous as sand upon the ocean shore;<br />Th' Ohio then shall glide by many a town<br />Of note: and where the Missisippi stream<br />By forests shaded now runs weeping on<br />Nations shall grow and states not less in fame<br />Than Greece and Rome of old: we too shall boast<br />Our Alexanders, Pompeys, heroes, kings<br />That in the womb of time yet dormant lye<br />Waiting the joyful hour for life and light.<br />O snatch us hence, ye muses! to those days<br />When, through the veil of dark antiquity,<br />Our sons shall hear of us as things remote,<br />That blossom'd in the morn of days, alas!<br />How could I weep that we were born so soon,<br />In the beginning of more happy times!<br />But yet perhaps our fame shall last unhurt.<br />The sons of science nobly scorn to die<br />Immortal virtue this denies, the muse<br />Forbids the men to slumber in the grave<br />Who well deserve the praise that virtue gives.<br /><br />EUGENIO.<br />'Tis true no human eye can penetrate<br />The veil obscure, and in fair light disclos'd<br />Behold the scenes of dark futurity;<br />Yet if we reason from the course of things,<br />And downward trace the vestiges of time,<br />The mind prophetic grows and pierces far<br />Thro' ages yet unborn. We saw the states<br />And mighty empires of the East arise<br />In swift succession from the Assyrian<br />To Macedon and Rome; to Britain thence<br />Dominion drove her car, she stretch'd her reign<br />Oer many isles, wide seas, and peopled lands.<br />Now in the West a continent appears;<br />A newer world now opens to her view;<br />She hastens onward to th' Americ shores<br />And bids a scene of recent wonders rise.<br />New states new empires and a line of kings,<br />High rais'd in glory, cities, palaces<br />Fair domes on each long bay, sea, shore or stream<br />Circling the hills now rear their lofty heads.<br />Far in the Arctic skies a Petersburgh,<br />A Bergen, or Archangel lifts its spires<br />Glitt'ring with Ice, far in the West appears<br />A new Palmyra or an Ecbatan,<br />And sees the slow pac'd caravan return<br />O'er many a realm from the Pacific shore,<br />Where fleets shall then convey rich Persia's silks,<br />Arabia's perfumes, and spices rare<br />Of Philippine, Coelebe and Marian isles,<br />Or from the Acapulco coast our India then,<br />Laden with pearl and burning gems and gold.<br />Far in the South I see a Babylon,<br />As once by Tigris or Euphrates stream,<br />With blazing watch towr's and observatories<br />Rising to heav'n; from thence astronomers<br />With optic glass take nobler views of God<br />In golden suns and shining worlds display'd<br />Than the poor Chaldean with the naked eye.<br />A Niniveh where Oronoque descends<br />With waves discolour'd from the Andes high,<br />Winding himself around a hundred isles<br />Where golden buildings glitter o'er his tide.<br />To mighty nations shall the people grow<br />Which cultivate the banks of many a flood,<br />In chrystal currents poured from the hills<br />Apalachia nam'd, to lave the sands<br />Of Carolina, Georgia, and the plains<br />Stretch'd out from thence far to the burning Line,<br />St Johns or Clarendon or Albemarle.<br />And thou Patowmack navigable stream,<br />Rolling thy waters thro' Virginia's groves,<br />Shall vie with Thames, the Tiber or the Rhine,<br />For on thy banks I see an hundred towns<br />And the tall vessels wafted down thy tide.<br />Hoarse Niagara's stream now roaring on<br />Thro' woods and rocks and broken mountains torn,<br />In days remote far from their antient beds,<br />By some great monarch taught a better course,<br />Or cleared of cataracts shall flow beneath<br />Unnumbr'd boats and merchandize and men;<br />And from the coasts of piny Labradore,<br />A thousand navies crowd before the gale,<br />And spread their commerce to remotest lands,<br />Or bear their thunder round the conquered world.<br /><br />LEANDER.<br />And here fair freedom shall forever reign.<br />I see a train, a glorious train appear,<br />Of Patriots plac'd in equal fame with those<br />Who nobly fell for Athens or for Rome.<br />The sons of Boston resolute and brave<br />The firm supporters of our injur'd rights,<br />Shall lose their splendours in the brighter beams<br />Of patriots fam'd and heroes yet unborn.<br /><br />ACASTO.<br />'Tis but the morning of the world with us<br />And Science yet but sheds her orient rays.<br />I see the age the happy age roll on<br />Bright with the splendours of her mid-day beams,<br />I see a Homer and a Milton rise<br />In all the pomp and majesty of song,<br />Which gives immortal vigour to the deeds<br />Atchiev'd by Heroes in the fields of fame.<br />A second Pope, like that Arabian bird<br />Of which no age can boast but one, may yet<br />Awake the muse by Schuylkill's silent stream,<br />And bid new forests bloom along her tide.<br />And Susquehanna's rocky stream unsung,<br />In bright meanders winding round the hills,<br />Where first the mountain nymph sweet echo heard<br />The uncouth musick of my rural lay,<br />Shall yet remurmur to the magic sound<br />Of song heroic, when in future days<br />Some noble Hambden rises into fame.<br /><br />LEANDER.<br />Or Roanoke's and James's limpid waves<br />The sound of musick murmurs in the gale;<br />Another Denham celebrates their flow,<br />In gliding numbers and harmonious lays.<br /><br />EUGENIO.<br />Now in the bow'rs of Tuscororah hills,<br />As once on Pindus all the muses stray,<br />New Theban bards high soaring reach the skies<br />And swim along thro' azure deeps of air.<br /><br />LEANDER.<br />From Alleghany in thick groves imbrown'd,<br />Sweet music breathing thro' the shades of night<br />Steals on my ear, they sing the origin<br />Of those fair lights which gild the firmament;<br />From whence the gale that murmurs in the pines;<br />Why flows the stream down from the mountains brow<br />And rolls the ocean lower than the land.<br />They sing the final destiny of things,<br />The great result of all our labours here,<br />The last day's glory, and the world renew'd.<br />Such are their themes for in these happier days<br />The bard enraptur'd scorns ignoble strains,<br />Fair science smiling and full truth revealed,<br />The world at peace, and all her tumults o'er,<br />The blissful prelude to Emanuel's reign.<br /><br />EUGENIO.<br />And when a train of rolling years are past,<br />(So sang the exil'd seer in Patmos isle,)<br />A new Jerusalem sent down from heav'n<br />Shall grace our happy earth, perhaps this land,<br />Whose virgin bosom shall then receive, tho' late,<br />Myriads of saints with their almighty king,<br />To live and reign on earth a thousand years<br />Thence call'd Millennium. Paradise a new<br />Shall flourish, by no second Adam lost.<br />No dang'rous tree or deathful fruit shall grow,<br />No tempting serpent to allure the soul,<br />From native innocence; a Canaan here<br />Another Canaan shall excel the old<br />And from fairer Pisgah's top be seen,<br />No thistle here or briar or thorn shall spring<br />Earth's curse before: the lion and the lamb<br />In mutual friendship link'd shall browse the shrub,<br />And tim'rous deer with rabid tygers stray<br />O'er mead or lofty hill or grassy plain.<br />Another Jordan's stream shall glide along<br />And Siloah's brook in circling eddies flow,<br />Groves shall adorn their verdant banks, on which<br />The happy people free from second death<br />Shall find secure repose; no fierce disease<br />No fevers, slow consumption, direful plague<br />Death's ancient ministers, again renew<br />Perpetual war with man: Fair fruits shall bloom<br />Fair to the eye, sweet to the taste, if such<br />Divine inhabitants could need the taste<br />Of elemental food, amid the joys<br />Fit for a heav'nly nature. Music's charms<br />Shall swell the lofty soul and harmony<br />Triumphant reign; thro' ev'ry grove shall sound<br />The cymbal and the lyre, joys too divine<br />For fallen man to know. Such days the world<br />And such America thou first shall have<br />When ages yet to come have run their round<br />And future years of bliss alone remain.<br /><br />ACASTO.<br />This is thy praise America thy pow'r<br />Thou best of climes by science visited<br />By freedom blest and richly stor'd with all<br />The luxuries of life. Hail happy land<br />The seat of empire the abode of kings,<br />The final stage where time shall introduce<br />Renowned characters, and glorious works<br />Of high invention and of wond'rous art,<br />Which not the ravages of time shall wake<br />Till he himself has run his long career;<br />Till all those glorious orbs of light on high<br />The rolling wonders that surround the ball,<br />Drop from their spheres extinguish'd and consum'd;<br />When final ruin with her fiery car<br />Rides o'er creation, and all nature's works<br />Are lost in chaos and the womb of night.</span>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-15930390016321741992010-05-21T21:33:00.010-04:002010-05-22T12:05:17.773-04:00Wakey Wakey<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUen4Y6PV0e3MlfQOuqWtyQB0TG_R5ZJkmhhY4a0DNLl2jWjsbyg4wcDdNPiVhMllr1R_zau-2YeplT8TFqFScRTv0tjD0dxR3F1bZ6-FWJRkwxVLwyNoFydCBxoO3mJt6YB_CybupfQbf/s1600/wish.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 330px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473915240072089858" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUen4Y6PV0e3MlfQOuqWtyQB0TG_R5ZJkmhhY4a0DNLl2jWjsbyg4wcDdNPiVhMllr1R_zau-2YeplT8TFqFScRTv0tjD0dxR3F1bZ6-FWJRkwxVLwyNoFydCBxoO3mJt6YB_CybupfQbf/s400/wish.jpg" /></a>Deal on, deal on, my merry men all,<br /><em>Deal on your cakes and your wine;<br />For whatever is dealt at her funeral today<br />Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.<br />–Maria Edgeworth, 1810</em><br /><div><br />Isn't that nice? I knew you would like that. I procured this quote for <em>mon frère jumeau mauvais</em>, Le Petit-Guignol, for his little pet project <a href="http://temerariousbesties.blogspot.com/">http://temerariousbesties.blogspot.com/</a> , I think its wonderful that he finally has a hobby. Just wondering around that cemetery day and night must be a drag, I mean, honestly, <em>no one</em> to talk to but a bunch of <em>stiffs</em>, get it? I know, I should be on stage. Anywho, I am just glad he had wifi hooked up to the family tomb, now he is less likely to scare the bejesus out of the tourists, now if I could just get him to quit playing musical coffins with the neighbors, its so... <em>unbecoming</em>. Oh well, <em>Family...</em> <em>what</em> are you going to do? </div><div>We had the most awful row last week, Le Petit criticized my particular brand of Joie de vivre and said that I was a little too much of a Pollyanna, and that I needed to dim my eternally bright disposition a bit... The nerve! I slammed his coffin lid so hard that it split down the center- I felt so awful about the entire ordeal. I had a puss on for days. But no worries, we have since mended fences-or<em> coffins</em> as it were, He <em>did</em> send me the nicest gift as a peace offering, a tasteful granite marker that says "Wish you were here"- always the charmer.)</div><div>Speaking of the dead, and we <em>were</em>, I just attended the most fabulous wake. It was epic - hired mourners wailing away-in Armani- the entire venue veiled in black crepe, the heady scent from ten thousand tuberose's choking the air with their sticky sweetness, a rather ominous looking Sin Eater (that doubled as bartender) and an 18th century clockwork string quartet that played well past midnight until their little automaton fingers were worn out. You should have been there- well maybe you were, it's so hard to tell who's who in all that candlelight with everyone wearing veils and dark sunglasses-it's the silliest thing, oh well, c'est guerre, or rather c'est la mort.<br /></div><div>You know, I think wakes are such a great Idea, don't you? I mean, isn't it better to make someones passing a <em>real</em> party with an old fashioned wake rather than your typical American post funeral bring-a-green-bean casserole affair? Well yes, of course I'm right. </div><div>Here is a little background to feed your thirst for knowledge of all things macabre. You're welcome.</div><div>When many people think of a wake, they envision the typical Irish wake. Friends and relatives of the deceased gathered to have a big hurrah to send their loved one off to their final reward. Drinking, eating, telling stories. But this is not the way the tradition originally began. Over the centuries, the wake has gone from a somber vigil over the dead to a boisterous event condemned by local officials and scorned by the church. The bastards.<br />Earlier wakes were a more practical affair. Ancient Greeks waited three days between death and burial, observing the dead to make sure they had actually transpired and to protect them from harm, just in case. Ancient Hebrews would also hold a vigil over the body to avoid premature burial and to investigate for signs of foul play. Early Christians continued the practice and allowed relatives and intimates to come and pray for the body and scrutinize it for signs of life.<br />Over time, this practice evolved to include more lively activities as guards attempted to enliven the tedious task by “rousing the ghost.” This often included practical jokes on superstitious relatives of the deceased and black magic rituals to raise the dead. This became so common that the Council of York forbade any attempts to raise the dead in 1376 and one guild would only allow members to stand watch if the agreed to “abstain from raising apparitions, and from indecent games.”<br />In some cases, the corpse would play a part in the practical jokes. After the limbs of an arthritic corpse were tied down to straighten them, a prankster would cut the ropes to make the body move or sit up. Irish wakes and their Scottish equivalent, the lykewake, were the most notorious for their rowdiness. Whiskey, wine and porter flowed freely and food was plentiful. In 1896, the Records of Inverness and Dingwall Presbytery wrote of lykewakes, “ƒthey were more boisterous than weddings, the chamber of the dead being filled night after night with jest, song and story, music of the fiddle and the pipe, and the shout and clatter of the Highland reel.” The typical wake included storytelling; the singing of love, patriotic or religious songs; music and dancing (often including the deceased for a reel or two!); and card playing, with the deceased often dealt into the game or being used as the card table. British, Germany and Scandinavian wakes often became even bawdier with lewd games, courtship and lovemaking taking place in the hall.<br />Attempts were made to decrease the debauchery of the wakes. In one instance, a Scottish schoolteacher removed the corpse and had an accomplice hide under the sheet. He was supposed to rise up and scare the party-goers, but instead he himself passed away! This so frightened the assembled that the merrymaking at lykewakes ceased for a period. </div><div>In 906 AD Regino, the abbot of Lorraine, France ordered his monks that “diabolical songs be not sung at night hours over the bodies of the dead, let no one there presume to sing diabolical songs nor make jest and perform dances which pagans have invented by the Devil’s teaching.” </div><div>The custom of wake soon diminished in France as his word spread. Wasn't that just like old Regino to ruin everyone's fun like that, the old poof.<br />As immigrants found homes in Colonial America, the tradition of the wake found its way here, as well. Often it was the only time, aside from weddings, when citizens were allowed to publicly drink alcohol. (huzzah) </div><div>In 19th century America, the body was displayed in the home and viewing the remains replaced the custom of visiting before and during death. True to form, the Irish immigrants brought their rowdy practices to the Colonies. </div><div>At one particular wake in the late 19th century, two brothers died in a railroad accident a passenger train collided with their handcar. One of the brothers was decapitated, but revelers placed his severed head on high stool with his pipe in his mouth so he could watch the whole affair. This was how ventriloquism was invented. Just kidding, I was checking to see if you were listening. Now sit up straight and get your finger out of your mouth. Thank you.</div><div>Often in the coal mining regions of Pennsylvania, the coffin had to be checked before burial to make certain the deceased was inside. </div><div>Revelers would often remove the deceased in order to sleep off their inebriation in the comfort of the casket instead of on the hard floor.<br />The practice of “waking the dead” is not restricted to European society. In South America, the Jivaro Indians would prop up the fully dressed body of the deceased and play dice for his possessions. Food and drink were plentiful during these festivities. </div><div>The Tana Toradja tribe of Sulawesi held a mourning ritual that would last for months or years, during which the corpse remained in its home. His wife would continue to care for him and provide him food. A festival would be held, with drinking and games. Finally, when the body was naturally mummified, it would be buried. The Isneg and Apayo tribes of the Philippines went even further by leaving the body to rot during their festivities. During this time, the living spouse is required, by tribal custom, to continue sleeping in the same bed as their dead mate. Once the body had reached an advanced state of decomposition it would be buried. As a result of this practice the tribes have developed a strong stomach in order to handle the constant stench. The Ilongo tribe of the Philippines is less extreme, only requiring that no one bath during the wake.<br />Over time, the wake has evolved into the contemporary “viewing” where the body is placed on display for respects to be paid to the family of the deceased. Food is still provided in most viewing, but the overall mood has become one of somber respect. Some vestiges of the old-fashioned wake still remain.<br />In one case, B.T. Collins, a state legislator for California arranged to have a wake held in a ballroom in Sacramento. It included three bars, a seven-piece band and a buffet with a massive ice sculpture. </div><div>It was attended by nearly 3,000 party-goers who saw him out in style. Statistically, only 22% of Anglo-Saxon Americans want a wake held for them, and only one-fourth of them want it in their homes. </div><div>Some psychologists defend the value of the wake to the bereaved. Bertram S. Puckle maintained that a delay between death and burial conditioned friends and relatives to the changed condition of the deceased and allowed them to observe the corpse to quell hopes that it might return to consciousness. Still, there are those who oppose the wake as a gruesome and needless activity. Perhaps the future will see a return of the traditional Irish wake or Scottish lykewake, but only when we can come to terms with our societal stigma on death. </div><div>In the meantime...<br /><br />Why do cemeteries all have walls?<br />It’s silly beyond a doubt;<br />The people outside don’t want to get in<br />And the people inside can’t get out!<br /></div><br /><div>Oh ha ha - I kill me! (I'll be here all week...)</div><div>Cheers.</div><div></div><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Wednesday Addams</span></strong><br />1 oz Vodka<br />1 oz Southern Comfort<br />1 oz Amaretto<br />1/2 oz Sloe gin<br />1/2 oz Triple sec<br />Fill with Orange juice<br />1 dash Lime juice<br />1 oz Mummy Dust (optional)<br />Add all ingredients, Stir and serve over ice.<br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YMPF6lpM0XM&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YMPF6lpM0XM&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-27992995123563052972010-04-06T23:17:00.016-04:002010-04-23T17:49:35.361-04:00More from the Golden Treasury of Childhood<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiENYx7R5mE16JzXWU4o_GDNoO6-1lMefP_GEaR-0tZL3tTYUTcHxZ5OBOOupPNHZtj32sJVVi1t_RPebOf-z6TlcnmkXjnQGZN1VU9zBbZ0gju0pEu49jGznnz3fu6h7GoniDFUFYvnVHl/s1600/tumblr_kybtslLGNW1qa2wqso1_500.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 259px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463452509981312610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiENYx7R5mE16JzXWU4o_GDNoO6-1lMefP_GEaR-0tZL3tTYUTcHxZ5OBOOupPNHZtj32sJVVi1t_RPebOf-z6TlcnmkXjnQGZN1VU9zBbZ0gju0pEu49jGznnz3fu6h7GoniDFUFYvnVHl/s400/tumblr_kybtslLGNW1qa2wqso1_500.jpg" /></a>Personal Journal. April 6ish Nineteen Hundred Seventy-something.:<br />I write this while my gracious hosts play cards in the grand salon of a half empty house - built in the Palladian style- on the Côte d’Azur, (named "The Domain"...I call it "The Romaine" because my hostess incessantly refers to a salad she is known for- on the continent- which continent, it seems, is a mystery) I sit here happy as a clam in the never used chapel, scribbling and writing in this book that will never be read by anyone except me. Funny that.<br />Note to my future self: Your amazing hair was wasted on these people. That is all. Close this book now and die what I hope is a lovely sort of death. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Santi and all that jazz...<br />I have been dubbed "Cherie" by my hosts, not because of the steadfast affection they display toward my quixotic yet lovable nature, but because I remind them of the character in the movie "Bus Stop" played by Marilyn Monroe- must have been the riveting rendition of "That Old Black Magic" I performed on the terrace after too much champagne- I wonder what my friends in New york would make of this? Fuck them. They are probably all coked out of their minds at Studio. I am the only person I know that hates disco- and Barbara Streisand. I think I need new friends. And maybe some coke. TTFN - le C.<br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4jKBy2tVRk8&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4jKBy2tVRk8&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-35619537939780178942010-03-12T13:57:00.024-05:002010-12-07T16:18:22.194-05:00More Artifice and Less Pretence please.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6ne883TRxGowFCKn3vPaQC9WWVkLh_5Zrm8d_pULb00eeK64fggbMxJON99hu8TM8fWEgPYzCl2LUUz_RlxkBQUPeALDgG0jIZjEgKLsxn0pY71tHrE692mdfXeKc-Xoz8u6J1De0AM5/s1600-h/grandmama.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 279px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447852725491731762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6ne883TRxGowFCKn3vPaQC9WWVkLh_5Zrm8d_pULb00eeK64fggbMxJON99hu8TM8fWEgPYzCl2LUUz_RlxkBQUPeALDgG0jIZjEgKLsxn0pY71tHrE692mdfXeKc-Xoz8u6J1De0AM5/s400/grandmama.jpg" /></a>I found this great photo today while going through some boxes. It is a photo of my Great-Grandmother dressed as a Gothic cathedral. I am assuming that it was for Mardi Gras or a fancy dress party, but with my family it could have been anything from a bris to a royal wedding. *sigh*<br /><div>Taking a break from whatever it was I needed to take a break from today, going through old photos and such, I decided to trot over to the National gallery while I'm here in DC to look at some of the Bronzino's.<br />I find it quite amusing that 25 years or so ago I felt <em>so</em> differently about his work- or any of the other Mannerists for that matter. I found an old VHS tape from 1985 of me at a speaking engagement at the Junior League (of all places) talking about how one can learn all sorts of decorative tricks and somehow develop a broader taste for the "Nature morte" tableaux by studying artistic masterpieces through the ages. I seem to have gone off on a tangent, from singing the praises of Flemish Vanitas paintings and how much fun it is to recreate them for your centerpiece at your next dinner party, ("Rotting fruit and human skulls can provide a certain element of surprise for your dinner guests...") then changing the subject and preceding to give my personal opinion ( to audible gasps and clutching of pearls) on how much I detested the Mannerists, everything Picasso and the current unnecessary incessant praise for blue and white Chinese import porcelain.<br />Although since that time I have softened my opinion- <em>only</em> slightly- on Picasso and blue and white porcelain- I find over the years I have developed quite an appreciation for the Mannerist movement. I discovered that how like the Fauvist, Dada and Pop art movements, the punk phenomena in the seventies or even the couture created by people like Gareth Pugh, Gaultier or the late Schiapparelli, Franco Maschino and Alexander McQueen, the Mannerists were renegades, wishing to change the idea of what is beautiful. (In his day, the then idealized beauty was being created by the "High Renaissance" artists like Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael and so forth)<br />As a stylistic label, "Mannerism" (also referred to at the time as "abrasive art") is not easily pigeonholed. It was used by Swiss historian Jacob Burckhardt and popularized by German art historians in the early 20th century to categorize the seemingly uncategorizable art of the Italian 16th century — art that was no longer perceived to exhibit the harmonious and rational approaches associated with the High Renaissance.<br />One of the examples of Bronzino's work at the National Gallery is this painting: </div><div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRmyDhi9vY1sF9K24g3d7diYBdtRgz-nporrpzirA3Lt7a6zWSpOiT5GzY6vx0r8l7o-RFerFN8nfAvqJvm6h0VXd2rFt_qVKAzi6bQN4I3rQAfmfD4g244Hy-pg1TUPK6BFddoiNEqHy/s1600-h/a000080d.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 298px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 390px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447842230652971330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRmyDhi9vY1sF9K24g3d7diYBdtRgz-nporrpzirA3Lt7a6zWSpOiT5GzY6vx0r8l7o-RFerFN8nfAvqJvm6h0VXd2rFt_qVKAzi6bQN4I3rQAfmfD4g244Hy-pg1TUPK6BFddoiNEqHy/s400/a000080d.jpg" /></a>The boy’s ghostly paleness—he is painted over the green background—and his compressed position reflect the painting’s history as much as they do the artist’s decisions. What is typically mannerist, however, is the sitters’ reserved elegance and, for Bronzino, their cold hardness. The woman appears invulnerable behind her detachment. No enigmatic smile here Mona. In the cruel intrigues of the Medici court, this was a useful, perhaps even necessary, protection. It has been said that the typical Bronzino portrait contained figures seemingly made with steel on the inside encased with ice, and was notable for its intellectual sophistication as well as its artificial (as opposed to naturalistic) qualities. (More Artifice and less Pretence I always say, I should have that engraved on something, hmmmm?)<br />The great Bronzino's so-called 'allegorical portraits,' such as that of a Genoese admiral, Andrea Doria as Neptune is less typical but possibly even more fascinating due to the peculiarity of placing a publicly recognized personality in the nude as a mythical figure:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMidxAC_nwKP5zUh2tZy-mxWmc2i2fdpI6RkKM0T1TGBy712K9850dhe8GSnVmQpOYT85CYyBOpmYZAwWnhEyoLM19V8QBX38u7ajA5GTFcZxdNPyU3IdY5PUVdw8i6rBrzEZPetrgvpzg/s1600-h/Angelo_Bronzino_048Andrea+Doria+as+Neptune,+1550-55%3B+Oil+on+canvas%3B+Pinacoteca+di+Brera,+Milan..jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 289px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447841398543304418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMidxAC_nwKP5zUh2tZy-mxWmc2i2fdpI6RkKM0T1TGBy712K9850dhe8GSnVmQpOYT85CYyBOpmYZAwWnhEyoLM19V8QBX38u7ajA5GTFcZxdNPyU3IdY5PUVdw8i6rBrzEZPetrgvpzg/s400/Angelo_Bronzino_048Andrea+Doria+as+Neptune,+1550-55%3B+Oil+on+canvas%3B+Pinacoteca+di+Brera,+Milan..jpg" /></a> Bronzino was commissioned to paint Andrea Doria for a gallery of portraits of great men. Indeed, there was no more illustrious man of war in the 16th century than this famous Genoese admiral. <span style="font-size:85%;">(Doria (c1466-1560) had a dramatic effect on European history when in 1528 he abandoned his ally, the king of France, and sided with France's enemy Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor and ruler of Spain. He put his galleys at Charles's disposal, and the Genoese fleet became the dominant power in the western Mediterranean on behalf of the Habsburgs. In 1535 Doria and Charles V conquered Tunis in a daring attack on the Ottoman empire. In his power over the sea, Doria seemed comparable to the god Neptune, with whom he is equated here)<br /></span>Among the distinguishing features, Bronzino has the mighty admiral tantalisingly exposing his pubic hair behind the cloth he holds, which just barely conceals his penis. The painting consciously equates naval and sexual prowess, as Neptune/Doria holds aloft a thick-shafted trident in front of a powerful mast. (oink)<br />His richly flowing grey beard has the florid abundance of a fertile deity of the green waters; his chest and arms twist, ripple and flex like the rigging of a ship rolling into battle. He is old but his flesh is still supple. There is massive muscular force in his right hand, which shapes itself against the wooden shaft, almost like a crab or a coiling seashell. His beard, too, belongs in the sea, like weeds waving in the water.<br />He looks as if he has posed - as if Bronzino had painted Doria naked, from life - but this is not the case. And yet the provocative sense of nude posing, and the danger this brings to the image, anticipates Caravaggio in making us aware of a strong frisson of sex and power. Bronzino's admiral on the deck of his ship looks out of the picture, ready for anything, and convinces us that the sea is his to command.<br />Of course there were other and more "over the top" painters in the Mannerist style, why look at El Greco! He attempted to express the religious tension with exaggerated Mannerism. This exaggeration would serve to cross over the Mannerist line and be applied to Classicism. After the realistic depiction of the human form and the mastery of perspective achieved in high Renaissance Classicism, some artists started to deliberately distort proportions in disjointed, irrational space for emotional and artistic effect. There are aspects of Mannerism in El Greco such as the jarring "acid" color sense, elongated and tortured anatomy, irrational perspective and light of his crowded composition, and obscure and troubling iconography.<br />Whats not to like?<br />I could simply go in for hours about him too, but I bore easily, so here is a recap: We are totes Team Mannerist but as far as Blue and white porcelain, meh.<br />Cheers.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;"><em><strong>Neptunes Banana</strong></em></span><br />2 oz gin<br />2 oz Pisang Ambon® liqueur<br />fill with Sprite® soda<br />Mix gently, and add ice cubes. Serve with a straw.<br /></p></div><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='484' height='372' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxzcRBVD1Pcppevq8utOL3MV5EDN9iEVxyRi-Y3GdkEyC6zva3oDKJc1wSz1hiNmbaTRE0hQiYv16vMXlOl-g' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-53044454004646532532010-03-10T21:57:00.015-05:002010-03-10T22:33:48.125-05:00Springtime for Xipe Totec (and Germany)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfCEf4FLMSVn0bc82DBkzfVT58luPRIqq_tmRflJQ16nW1m8zcijLqngGUybqT0y-aXNs4WLmOpR2WJCZcG7PtA0_PpWpT2iM0kGRad9XZu7UDWZCElIrcVdWjST2_UUArQkYasFgnxvW/s1600-h/Xipe_Totec_1_clean.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 373px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447207916190105554" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfCEf4FLMSVn0bc82DBkzfVT58luPRIqq_tmRflJQ16nW1m8zcijLqngGUybqT0y-aXNs4WLmOpR2WJCZcG7PtA0_PpWpT2iM0kGRad9XZu7UDWZCElIrcVdWjST2_UUArQkYasFgnxvW/s400/Xipe_Totec_1_clean.jpg" /></a> Spring is here at <em>last</em>.<br />Spring, as the frenzily copulating neighbors that you can see across the street will tell you, is a time for reproduction, rebirth and regeneration. But Nature, scrupulous accountant that he-she is, demands competition, carnage and sacrifice in return for all that blooming Qi.<br /><div>As Darwin put it in The Origin:<br /><span style="color:#003300;"><em>"We behold the face of nature bright with gladness, we often see superabundance of food; we do not see, or we forget, that the birds which are idly singing round us mostly live on insects or seeds, and are thus constantly destroying life; or we forget how largely these songsters, or their eggs, or their nestlings are destroyed by birds and beasts of prey; we do not always bear in mind, that though food may be now superabundant, it is not so at all seasons of each recurring year."</em><br /></span>And while, as Darwin notes, we may personally do our best to ignore the harsh realities of the season, our religious traditions do their darnedest to remind us. Some one billion or so practicing Catholics will be fasting on Good Friday, ostensibly to mark the date a dude was "nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change" (in the words of Douglas Adams). Jews will be celebrating their own spring holiday, Passover, remembering a spate of plagues, the decimation of a reproductive cohort, and a hasty flight into a forbidding desert and all that.<br />The Mesoamericans had their own grisly spring rites, centered around this guy:<br />Xipe Totec, "Our Lord the Flayed One"…Sort of an Aztec cross between Demeter, Leatherface and punk rock Jesus. </div><div>In Aztec mythology and religion, Xipe Totec ("our lord the flayed one") was a life-death-rebirth deity, god of agriculture, vegetation, the east, disease, spring, goldsmiths, silversmiths and the seasons.</div><div>Xipe Totec flayed himself to give food to humanity, symbolic of the way maize seeds lose their outer layer before germination and of snakes shedding their skin. Without his skin, he was depicted as a golden god.</div><div>Xipe Totec was believed by the Aztecs to be the god that invented war.</div><div>He had a temple called Yopico within the Great Temple of Tenochtitlan.<br />The worshippers of Xipe Totec emerging from the rotting, flayed skin after twenty days symbolised rebirth and the renewal of the seasons, the casting off of the old and the growth of new vegetation.</div><div>The living god lay concealed underneath the superficial veneer of death, ready to burst forth like a germinating seed. </div><div>The deity also had a malevolent side and Xipe Totec was said to afflict mortals with rashes, abscesses and skin and eye infections.</div><div>The flayed skins were believed to have curative properties when touched and mothers took their children to touch such skins in order to relieve their ailments.</div><div>People wishing to be cured made offerings to him at Yopico.<br />The annual festival of Xipe Totec was celebrated on the spring equinox before the onset of the rainy season, it was known as Tlacaxipehualiztli ("flaying of men in honour of Xipe") and fell in March at the time of the Conquest. </div><div>Annually, slaves or captives were selected as sacrifices to Xipe Totec. After having the heart cut out, the body was carefully flayed to produce a nearly whole skin which was then worn by the priests for twenty days during the fertility rituals that followed the sacrifice.</div><div>The skins were often adorned with bright feathers and gold jewellery when worn.</div><div>The Tlacaxipehualiztli festival both began and culminated with a "gladiator sacrifice" ritual.</div><div>During the festival, victorious warrior wearing flayed skins carried out mock skirmishes throughout Tenochtitlan, they passed through the city begging alms and blessed whoever gave them food or other offerings. </div><div>When the twenty day festival was over, the flayed skins were removed and stored in special containers with tight-fitting lids designed to stop the stench of putrefaction from escaping. These containers were then stored in a chamber beneath the temple.<br /><br />Some accounts indicate that a thigh bone from the sacrifice was defleshed and used by the priest to touch spectators in a fertility blessing. Paintings and several clay figures have been found which illustrate the flaying method and the appearance of priests wearing flayed skins.<br />Various methods of human sacrifice were used to honour this god. The flayed skins were often taken from sacrificial victims who had their hearts cut out, and some representations of Xipe Totec show a stitched-up wound in the chest.<br />"Gladiator sacrifice" is the name given to the form of sacrifice in which an especially courageous war captive was given mock weapons, tied to a large circular stone and forced to fight against a fully armed Aztec warrior. As a weapon he was given a macuahuitl (a wooden sword with blades formed from obsidian) with the obsidian blades replaced with feathers. </div><div>A white cord was tied either around his waist or his ankle, binding him to the sacred temalacatl stone. </div><div>At the end of the Tlacaxipehualiztli festival, gladiator sacrifice (known as tlauauaniliztli) was carried out by five Aztec warriors; two jaguar warriors, two eagle warriors and a fifth, left-handed warrior.<br />"Arrow sacrifice" was another method used by the worshippers of Xipe Totec. The sacrificial victim was bound spread-eagled to a wooden frame, he was then shot with many arrows so that his blood spilled onto the ground.<br />Other forms of sacrifice were sometimes used; at times the victim was cast into a firepit and burned, others had their throats cut.</div><div>See? And you thought doing your taxes this time of year was a sacrifice.</div><div><br />So much for "Ladies Cultural Awareness Day", if you need me, I will be sacrificing my hard earned cash at Sak's.</div><div>Cheers.</div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#663366;">Death in the Springtime</span></div><div></div>1 oz absinthe herbal liqueur<br />3 grenadine syrup<br />1.5 oz London dry gin<br />Champagne<br />Maraschino cherries<br />Pour the Absinthe into a chilled Champagne flute. Add the Grenadine and then the Gin. Now pour the chilled Champagne into the Flute glass making sure to pour down the side of the glass so the drink mixes itself. Be sure to fill the glass with only just enough room left for the cherry which you should now add. Feel free to adjust the ingredients slightly as they suit your taste.<br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/1i-qidIMK8c&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/1i-qidIMK8c&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-17747068341772093282010-02-11T12:36:00.006-05:002010-02-11T14:06:38.250-05:00Hells Angels and Prolific Demons<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha-ccBcok6Cc8tTiK8oyPBHF4YSJUm5-NCAqUyKKZ24SBuqzTd5CXZMMyE1Y7QZhnGv8A3TPg2s_gvMYHz2jmkyY8tTxN_dIXo9RClWWaKJv0k8lyMXVvatazoFOlsinukffpVpsCiEbp8/s1600-h/AlexanderMc.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 332px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437041263722240498" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha-ccBcok6Cc8tTiK8oyPBHF4YSJUm5-NCAqUyKKZ24SBuqzTd5CXZMMyE1Y7QZhnGv8A3TPg2s_gvMYHz2jmkyY8tTxN_dIXo9RClWWaKJv0k8lyMXVvatazoFOlsinukffpVpsCiEbp8/s400/AlexanderMc.jpg" /></a> Alexander McQueen 1969- 2010 - suicide<br /><div></div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The Dance of Death</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Carrying a bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves,<br />Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves<br />With all the careless and high-stepping grace,<br />And the extravagant courtesan's thin face.<br /><br />Was slimmer waist e'er in a ball-room wooed?<br />Her floating robe, in royal amplitude,<br />Falls in deep folds around a dry foot, shod<br />With a bright flower-like shoe that gems the sod.<br /><br />The swarms that hum about her collar-bones<br />As the lascivious streams caress the stones,<br />Conceal from every scornful jest that flies,<br />Her gloomy beauty; and her fathomless eyes<br /><br />Are made of shade and void; with flowery sprays<br />Her skull is wreathed artistically, and sways,<br />Feeble and weak, on her frail vertebrae.<br />O charm of nothing decked in folly! they<br /><br />Who laugh and name you a Caricature,<br />They see not, they whom flesh and blood allure,<br />The nameless grace of every bleached, bare bone,<br />That is most dear to me, tall skeleton!<br /><br />Come you to trouble with your potent sneer<br />The feast of Life! or are you driven here,<br />To Pleasure's Sabbath, by dead lusts that stir<br />And goad your moving corpse on with a spur?<br /><br />Or do you hope, when sing the violins,<br />And the pale candle-flame lights up our sins,<br />To drive some mocking nightmare far apart,<br />And cool the flame hell lighted in your heart?<br /><br />Fathomless well of fault and foolishness!<br />Eternal alembic of antique distress!<br />Still o'er the curved, white trellis of your sides<br />The sateless, wandering serpent curls and glides.<br /><br />And truth to tell, I fear lest you should find,<br />Among us here, no lover to your mind;<br />Which of these hearts beat for the smile you gave?<br />The charms of horror please none but the brave.<br /><br />Your eyes' black gulf, where awful broodings stir,<br />Brings giddiness; the prudent reveller<br />Sees, while a horror grips him from beneath,<br />The eternal smile of thirty-two white teeth.<br /><br />For he who has not folded in his arms<br />A skeleton, nor fed on graveyard charms,<br />Recks not of furbelow, or paint, or scent,<br />When Horror comes the way that Beauty went.<br /><br />O irresistible, with fleshless face,<br />Say to these dancers in their dazzled race:<br />"Proud lovers with the paint above your bones,<br />Ye shall taste death, musk scented skeletons!<br /><br />Withered Antinoьs, dandies with plump faces,<br />Ye varnished cadavers, and grey Lovelaces,<br />Ye go to lands unknown and void of breath,<br />Drawn by the rumour of the Dance of Death.<br /><br />From Seine's cold quays to Ganges' burning stream,<br />The mortal troupes dance onward in a dream;<br />They do not see, within the opened sky,<br />The Angel's sinister trumpet raised on high.<br /><br />In every clime and under every sun,<br />Death laughs at ye, mad mortals, as ye run;<br />And oft perfumes herself with myrrh, like ye<br />And mingles with your madness, irony!"<br /><br />-Charles Baudelaire</span><br /><br />*Requiescat in pace<br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DvWyK-llPlA&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DvWyK-llPlA&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object><br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Gp3GynpZWcE&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Gp3GynpZWcE&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object><br /><object width="853" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/0BdAugvd5OM&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/0BdAugvd5OM&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="853" height="505"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="853" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vKIHDaGsWRo&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vKIHDaGsWRo&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="853" height="505"></embed></object>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-55063774682203841262010-01-16T05:22:00.025-05:002010-01-23T22:11:24.571-05:00Loquacious reticence at Death's door: My inner monologue takes hostages<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0cbQ4prz2rfblBv3BUpFCIyF9-LU8_uhTo3DOZ_A4uvGjJy_CSFoxJxU-IDg5DAYR9w8pLX3wkexcENen0ZDJYrDdc38mvSZl8SffYAj9iz2cLIpbkrC1kTWPa7u6-reU9HaGYqj_0F76/s1600-h/gate+2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429623102261215634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0cbQ4prz2rfblBv3BUpFCIyF9-LU8_uhTo3DOZ_A4uvGjJy_CSFoxJxU-IDg5DAYR9w8pLX3wkexcENen0ZDJYrDdc38mvSZl8SffYAj9iz2cLIpbkrC1kTWPa7u6-reU9HaGYqj_0F76/s400/gate+2.jpg" /></a> 4:20 AM.<br /><div>What a ridiculous time to be awake when one isn't having any fun.<br />Here I am fried out of my mind on cold medicine and bored out of my skull. It's like I am trapped in some Quay brothers film.</div><div>I fear my cold meds have decided to abandon me at my hour of need- I am sure that my once close relationship with Neo-synephrine is destined soon to be severed. Ha. Snake oil. What kind of name is that for a medication anyway? I prefer names with a punch to them. "Nostrilla" for example, or "Boniva", perfectly descriptive names for the malady they treat.</div><div>And besides, those names have have a ring to them- they could quite easily be a proper name in the south. "Well hello Countess, may I present Nostrilla and her sister Boniva?" Charming. Neo-Synephrine indeed. Neal Synephrine, Neely O'Hara-Synephrine. Oh my beautiful dolls...</div><div>*Sigh* I am <em>practically</em> on <em>deaths door</em>, (which is surprisingly less ornate in style and scale than one would imagine) <em>in</em> the middle of the night- well the middle for me- and literally drowning in a sea of snot and bad puns.</div><div>Why do they call it a "cold" anyway? I am actually kind of overheated, right now. Maybe they should call it "Catching the Hots" instead... no, that sounds a touch obscene...</div><div>My Grandmother, Miz Hyacinth, used to have the best remedy for a particularly nasty cold-</div><div><em>Directions: Drink one bottle of the absolute best champagne you have handy, repeat as needed every hour. </em></div><div><em>Caution: Exceeding recommended dosage may lead to extreme giddiness, drunk dialing, and a strong urge to break out the Mario Lanza records and flounce around the house in ones prettiest penoir until passing out.</em> </div><div>Of course it does nothing to cure the cold, but it gives the sickness a sort of histrionic quality.... </div>Will you sit down please? You have been flailing around like a crippled windmill all night. No I do not want to play cards- <em>especially</em> whist.<br /><div>I was having the most perfectly lovely dream about dear Hyacinth earlier, she had all of those rather large and unnervingly half humanoid porcelain figures of the characters of the Chinese zodiac lined up like bowling pins and was trying for a strike with the King Charles spaniel. She was a firm believer in things like the zodiac- Chinese or otherwise- and at an early age she informed me that I was a Ox- because of the year I was born naturally- and given the month of my birth, December, I was a combination Sagittarius/Ox.<br />Great thing that, <em>apparently</em>.. wait, since you are up, will you go over to that cabinet and grab a few bottle of Clos du Mesnil '95 and put them on ice? There's a lamb. No, the other cabinet, the Renaissance revival piece. No that's a 17th century bonnetiere, - well, yes it it very well <em>may</em> be a <em>Homme Debout</em> but lets not split hairs about that right now. Yes the cabinet with the painting over it of the rather tubercular saint. Yes, it does look like Thomas Jefferson after a bender... Can I please continue my train of thought? You are trying to derail the choo-choo here.<br />So, where was I? Oh yes, my untimely demise. *sigh* I feel like the Wreck of the Hesperus. How do I look? Of course I do, I have always thought that I would have had a most promising second career as a chronic yet picturesque invalid. I suppose that sort of thing fell out of fashion after the reign of Victoria didn't it? Pity. I feel so bad maybe I should just end it all- no I am too lazy to commit suicide- passive suicide is another thing all together, <em>death by good living</em> and like that. Oh sure, living well can kill you. I wonder if eating "natural foods" leads to dying a <em>natural death</em>? hmmm, well you know even housework can kill you if you do it right.</div><div>Anyway, having your health is <em>the thing now</em>- what's the quote? Something about healths price is "far above rubies." What? oh. that's right. That quote is about a virtuous woman... well, you get the idea.</div><div>One of the madness that distinguishes this century from the first is it's almost universal passion for exercise and robust health. You would think that the love of sport that young men and women carry from their school days into their adult lives would wain a bit after some time on the hot pursuit of a career and marriage. One in the previous century would abandon the effort all together after their first mortgage or the birth of their first child.</div><br /><div>Pop open a bottle will you? No glasses handy? No don't get up, we can just drink it out of these communion chalices. Hmm? yes, they are real stones- no cheap rhinestones for the for the cup that holds the blood of Christ you know. What? Yes, I suppose it is sacrilegious, but it would be worse if we were drinking a lesser vintage don't you think? What? yes it is good isn't it? Like the tears of neglected children... </div><div>Oh, speaking of the profane and muscle, did you see Father Fuque at the King's party? Yes he always looks hot. Steroids probably- yeah, me neither, whatever it takes. Hmm? Oh yes that <em>is</em> his photo there on the piano... Yes he does cut quite a figure in his priest garb doesn't he? What? Oh that's be behind him -under his robe. Yes, well I was pretending he was an antique camera. What a wide angle lens he has... What? Oh nothing...<br />You know, if I make it through the night I will see him at the gym next week I will tell him you said hello. </div><div>What to do, what to do, let's see, I have updated my address book, alphabetized the liquor bottles, found Jesus, (He was hiding behind the little French settee all the time) and created an interpretive dance to the tune of "Bei Mir Bist Du Schon" *sigh* So, where are those cards? How about a few hands of Whist?<br /></div><div>Cheers.</div><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Classic Champagne Cocktail</span></strong><br />3 oz Champagne</div><div>1/3 oz cognac</div><div>2 dashes Angostura® bitters</div><div>1 tsp sugar<br />Soak one sugar cube in a champagne flute with angostura bitters. Add champagne and cognac. Squeeze in a twist of lemon and discard. Garnish with half a slice of orange. </div><div>Use mid-price Champagne please. If you use the good stuff to make this cocktail people will question your breeding... </div><p align="center"><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/L7u3lPcDh50&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/L7u3lPcDh50&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></p>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-67418595692154842662009-12-16T00:34:00.035-05:002009-12-26T14:47:55.741-05:00Of Rising Metaphors and Rococogasms<em></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHWL9x0W1ZfbybbRJu9mYUvyetF6nFHRJWdm_KanZa9lbHjMwQz1XYITR-4rCaLHZuYGXfp9GOy3yzSwHaRGyuLesIxsXTJjKvIEQdQI-p61QAcLxPxm4rh0Qe6Wy-f-ki4FJLqUG16pJ/s1600-h/rococogasm.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 471px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 326px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417898386195811682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHWL9x0W1ZfbybbRJu9mYUvyetF6nFHRJWdm_KanZa9lbHjMwQz1XYITR-4rCaLHZuYGXfp9GOy3yzSwHaRGyuLesIxsXTJjKvIEQdQI-p61QAcLxPxm4rh0Qe6Wy-f-ki4FJLqUG16pJ/s400/rococogasm.jpg" /></a>"Busy is as busy does." Wait. Is that it or is it "Pretty is as pretty does"? <em>That's</em> it, <em>that</em> sounds better.<br />Seems there have been a lot of parties and a lot of <em>interesting</em> travel opportunities for yours truly over the last several months, It all started with a particularly splendid party held each year in New Orleans attended by only the people that can trace their lineage back to 18th century France and had a relative that perished by the guillotine during "The Rein of Terror".<br /><div><div>It's quite charming actually, everyone wears red ribbons tied around their necks and it is held on October 16th, the anniversary of the day the Queen of France Marie Antoinette Josèphe Jeanne de Habsbourg-Lorraine met her fate.</div><div>This year it was held in the ballroom in a private house in the French Quarter. The room had been recently restored to it's original <em>Louis-Louis Rococogasm</em> style, you know the look, all 18th century gold mercury guilt and ceilings with painted skies with chubby little cherubs swooping about like pterodactyls that is so popular here.</div><div>There was a lovely young Franco-Japanese man at the party by the name of <em>Kyou,</em> (I think it's a Japanese unisex name meaning "<em>apricot</em>,") who was interviewing a few of us for a magazine, the name of which escapes me at the moment, (it's something like "Vellum" or "Papyrus") but here is a little taste of the interview... gagging is encouraged.</div><div>*</div><div><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "So 'le C', what’s your drink of choice?</span><br />Me: "Hmm. Well, besides the blood of robust virile men, which is more of a medicinal thing anyway, I suppose if I had my druthers, I would only drink Framboise Lambic, which is a raspberry-flavored, frothy, garnet Belgian ale that tastes like unicorn tears."<br /><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "Do you collect anything?"</span><br />Me: "Collect? Let's see... maybe a few odds and ends... There's the Medieval embroidery, 'gently used' murder weapons- knives are most desirable, human bones- skulls with a nicely symetrical pterygoid process are a favourite, all things Hello Kitty, the milk teeth of particularly beautiful children, vintage couture, overly dramatic religiosa- you know like divinely gruesome Spanish 18th century crucifixes, depictions of the Anima Sola or Saints that were martyred in an interesting fashion, unredeemed gift certificates, vanitas paintings, jewels with curses, other peoples husbands... just teasing, I was just checking if you were listening."</span></div><div><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "Hanging on every word."</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "Oh goody."</span></div><div><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "I was invited here tonight thinking that it was a birthday party. Will anyone here actually be guillotined tonight?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "Sadly<em> no</em>, but a lot of these people will wake up tomorrow wishing that they <em>had</em> lost their heads. Have you tried the punch?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "I have. Wow."</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "That's why they call it <em>punch</em>."</span></div><div><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "Truly. And what are some of your most memorable birthdays?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "Well now, I <em>missed</em> my birthday when I was five- I was in a coma because I had been struck by lightning a few months earlier, after that missed birthday my parents gave me an 'Un-birthday' party every month, except for the month of my real birthday of course..."</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Kyou: "Oh my thats's terrible, but it sounds like a lot of 'Un-birthdays' over the years... any other memorable years?"<br />Me: "Oh sure! Let's see, on my 10th birthday I met my first boyfriend, when I was 15 I received a full scholarship to NYC Ballet, on my 20th birthday I was homeless yet had a net worth of three million dollars, On my 25th birthday I spent the evening stuck in a limousine -that broke down in the freezing weather- with Joan Rivers of all people, On my 30th birthday I asked for a Mercury Cougar, -I was enthralled with the new trapezoidal waterfall grille and "cat's-eye" headlamps- but instead my mom presented me with a cougar cub, -I named him Murphy- I have his photo here in a locket, Adorable huh? He was rescued after some hunters killed his mother, I thought about calling him Bambi... <em>Anyway</em>, when my Grandmother <em>finally</em> lost her mind she would strip down to her scanties and wrestle with Murphy out in the formal gardens, Oh the times they had, I can still see them <em>romping</em> through the bougainvillea..."</span></div><div><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "Indeed?"</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "Hmm. On my <em>35th</em> birthday, I was supposed to assasinate <em>Count Whatshisname</em>.... oh, blah blah blah. Now I'm bored with birthdays, shall we change the subject?"<br /></span><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "Absolutely. Others here have told me about your delightful sense of style and your devotion to beauty as well as something you call 'radiant decay' can you tell me what that is?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "I think the concept of what is beautiful is being forced upon us. I believe what is considered beautiful is usually decided equally by the times we live in as well as the products their makers want to sell us. I believe that most of the consuming population believes beauty can't exist without it's opposite- like good cannot exist without evil. I believe decay is beautiful. as winter is as beautiful as spring.<em> I believe the children are our future.</em> No, not really.</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">When I see some thing or some beautiful person, I have an automatic response in which I see its/their entire lifespan, from inception to disintegration- If it is a beautiful sculpture, painting, or piece of furniture for that matter, I see in my mind its creation from raw materials all the way through its descent into dust-It's the same with people. I will meet or observe some one and immediately and simultaneously see their progression through life- as a child, in their prime and as a dessicated corpse. It's quite unnerving actually- But this also makes my perception of what is 'beautiful' somewhat askew, as I see breath-taking beauty in imperfection. When I meet a true beauty for the first time I will be both fascinated and frustrated with them until I find a flaw of some sort- the bigger the better- it's only then that I can truly accept them and relate to them- it sounds awful I'm sure, but honestly, who really wants 'true perfection' in a friend or loved one? the same goes for things. I totally understand the concept behind the artisan incorporating a flaw in an Amish quilt, but I suppose that is another story all together- and <em>'Radiant Decay'</em>? It is the state in which you see the real beauty of things- the rose that is just past full bloom, the man that is just at his prime, <em>oozing</em> sensuality, architecture that has been weathered by the ages- patina! Viva Patina! That's what I say..."<br /></span><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "So you don't believe in plastic surgery?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "Oh <em>no</em>.. I mean yes! If someone wants that it's up to the isn't it? It is their body after all. Until they are dead that is, then they become something like public domain. And besides that, face-lifts, botox and that sort of thing are about artifice isn't it? And I am all for that.</span></div><div><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "And for you?"</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "And for me what?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "Plastic surgery?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "No, I quite like watching time slowly having its way with my face. But it's fashionable to complain about ones looks though isn't it?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "It is. Is <em>your</em> 'look' something that you have created over time?"<br /></span>Me: "I suppose so. I think all of us create ourselves over a period of years or even every morning for that matter. It is natural to want to emulate what we find attractive in others. Strength, fragility, its all up to the individual."</span></div><div><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "Do you think beautiful people have the advantage in the world?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "Naturally. Beauty is the great emancipator. We put<em> way</em> too much faith into it. Anything we think of as beautiful is automatically thought to be 'good'. We expect beautiful people to have grace and dignity. We expect babies and puppies to smell good -always. We expect that beautiful things have been made by people who, if not beautiful physically, to have beautiful souls. We expect beautiful acts of generosity to have no under-layer of self-interest. Because these expectations are unshakable, they might be called convictions. It may be confusing when expectations go unmet, but it is disturbing when convictions are shown to be mistaken.<br />Here's an example. I received a huge bouquet of out of season flowers that sat on the table for several weeks. The entire life cycle of a flowers seems - to me anyway, so poetic, it pleased me to no end every time I looked at them, because even their decay seemed glamorous. The enjoyment ended when I went, last week, to refill the crystal vase in which the flowers stood I found gooey black mold at the tips of the branches and a smell of confined, humid life. It smelled like the combined smells of a dumpster behind a Chinese fast food restaurant, the underside of a bathmat and a week long unwashed uncut penis. Begrudgingly the flowers soon went into the trash and the trash went out to the curb. So you see, although I <em>enjoyed</em> the beauty of the flowers <em>entire</em> life cycle visually, the stench of decay was off-putting -even to me. And I wasn't <em>about</em> to have 'dead flower stink' ruin my day <em>or</em> my memory of the flowers. Are you with me so far?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "I am struggling, but yes. You seem to have strong convictions."</span> </span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "As a human, I like convictions reinforced as often as possible, even if that means editing my way through life. Edit, edit edit."</span></div><div><span style="color:#330000;">Kyou: "Are you saying you want to see this interview before it goes to print?"</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Me: "Exactly."</span></div><br /><div></div><div>Cheers.</div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;"><strong>A Curious Feeling</strong></span><br /></div><div>2 oz gin</div><div>1 oz Angostura® bitters</div><div>2 oz orange juice</div><div>1 oz Kahlua® coffee liqueur</div><div>1 oz Mott's® clamato juice</div><div>1 tsp brown sugar<br />Combine dry gin, bitters, coffee liqueur, and orange juice in a mixing glass and stir. Decant contents into a microwave-safe container and microwave for 30 seconds. Add ice to a blender and pour contents of container into it. Add clamato juice and brown sugar, cap container, and turn blender on. When mixture has the consistency of a frozen drink, pour into highball glass. Garnish with straw, a dash of kosher salt, and peppermint leaves.<br /></div><div><br /></div><p align="center"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='425' height='339' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy9WQQIUsi4GkgImrOzNHu3cr8RZQ7VsRzhauV67ejF-FTRU22xpHZGiFGQFoS3d0nxJbIxh81XNgfQDKlOvg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p></div>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-66058236590082875272009-11-20T12:49:00.005-05:002009-11-21T11:21:13.442-05:00say hi to forever<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT52hyphenhyphen5CyqcH-fkdrvsYsLNUHY8trAiK9vWjr2q27PRLinvch_IT4cmK3mr0fmSa5WMseS0RVqCt4iYZeGoS1E3cgJbfJOlJEk-ijA9YMUd_njidZvUXPIVQ6Y8nIyiExdLPyYNcO-ycpO/s1600/Photo+on+2009-10-27+at+20_13+_3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406245051726387282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT52hyphenhyphen5CyqcH-fkdrvsYsLNUHY8trAiK9vWjr2q27PRLinvch_IT4cmK3mr0fmSa5WMseS0RVqCt4iYZeGoS1E3cgJbfJOlJEk-ijA9YMUd_njidZvUXPIVQ6Y8nIyiExdLPyYNcO-ycpO/s400/Photo+on+2009-10-27+at+20_13+_3.jpg" /></a><span style="color:#660000;">Daul Kim 1989-2009 -suicide</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">*</span> <div><span style="color:#660000;"></span></div><div><em>orange marmalade</em><br />*</div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">하고픈일도 없는데</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">nothing i want to do</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">되고픈것도 없는데</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">nothing i want to be</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">모두들 뭔가 말해보라해</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">everyone tells me to say something</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">별다른 욕심도없이</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">without any greed</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">남다른 포부도없이</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">without any extraordinary ambition</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">이대로이면 안되는걸까</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">can't it be this way</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">나 </span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">am</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">이상한걸까</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">i a little strange?</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">어딘가 조금</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">somewhere little </span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">삐뚤어져버린</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">deformed </span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">머리에는</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">mind</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">매일매일 다른 생각만 가득히</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">filled with different thoughts</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">나</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">am </span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">괜찮은걸까</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">i okay</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">지금 이대로</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">as of right now</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">어른이되버린 다음에는</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">after i become adult</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">점점 더 사람들과 달라지겠지</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">more and more i will be different from everyone</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">모든사람이 나와같다면</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">if everyone were like me</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">아무갈등도</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">no conflict</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">미움도 없이</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">without hatred</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">참좋을텐데 </span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">it would be so nice</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">참좋을텐데i</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">t would be so nice</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">나</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">am</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">이상한걸까</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">i a little strange</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">어딘가조금</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">somewhere</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">삐둘어져버린 </span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">deformed</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">머리에는 매일 매일 다른 생각만 가득히</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">head different thoughts everyday</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">나 </span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">am</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">괜찮은걸까</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">i okay</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">지금이대로</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">as of right now</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">어른이 되버린 다음에는</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">i become adult</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">아니 난 자라지 않을것만 같아</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">no i don't think i will grow</span> </div><div><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(from her blog </span><a href="http://iliketoforkmyself.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:78%;">http://iliketoforkmyself.blogspot.com/</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;">)<br /></span><br /></div><p align="center"><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6FRbbeiUkYU&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6FRbbeiUkYU&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></p>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-53781780789869970892009-10-27T05:01:00.030-04:002009-10-28T17:57:25.499-04:00Of Peonies and Afabit<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6e4CppWwbh2i2NN9J3P4lfvAmd2auQvd6nyGgESelzoqVbJvh2gpypltgvPc0oBt2_xkyv6C6r-1Qw-2yx7_gAVLYEE9M9_9Rl2F7ZyLWcsHr63qFXQtuc3Hm-vYxxmB5QgVFU5mX2FvV/s1600-h/afabit.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 274px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 367px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397513743132238482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6e4CppWwbh2i2NN9J3P4lfvAmd2auQvd6nyGgESelzoqVbJvh2gpypltgvPc0oBt2_xkyv6C6r-1Qw-2yx7_gAVLYEE9M9_9Rl2F7ZyLWcsHr63qFXQtuc3Hm-vYxxmB5QgVFU5mX2FvV/s400/afabit.jpg" /></a> I know my postings have been quite scarce for a while -mea culpa- and I suppose many of you thought that I have been off on a wild toot in some exotic local and had been kidnapped and held for ransom, eventually seducing my swarthy captors and enticing them to kill each other in fits of jealousy and passion for my sole attention.<br />Well, yes, all that has happened recently but more importantly, I <em>just</em> had the dining room at Chez Moose painted. (I know, <em>squeals abound</em>)<br />The color is called “Lady Honoria Dedlock Peony” -it is the same hue of pinky peach as my Grandmother had in hers <em>for years</em>, (She referred to it as <em>Hyacinth pink</em>) it is also a color that I admired on the walls while having a rousing romp in the Gothic revival library with the new head gardener in Arley Hall. (a divine English country house owned by Viscount Ashbrook)<br />This particular shade is also the exact color of walls in the grottoes of Markus Sittikus von Hohenems summer palace Hellbrunn in Salsburg, the color of a particularly memorable piece of salmon I had at the house of Edward Albee and Jonathan Thomas in Montauk in 1978 when I was seventeen, a <em>dead ringer</em> for the color in the diadem of Empress Theodora in the mosaic on the right apsidal wall in the basilica of San Vitale in Ravenna<em> <strong>and</strong></em> the same color as the fancy party dress my childhood friend Afabit wore for a solid 6 years.<br />Afabit was a little girl from “back of town” who got her moniker from the fact that she was called so many names by so many people, a literal alphabet of nicknames.<br />Sister Taffy called her "Sunshine", Mrs. Russo called her “Ladybug”, the corner grocer “Cookie” called her “Candy Cane” -because she always would save her pennies to buy as many as she could after Christmas at a deep discount- Mr. Jackson called her “Peaches" and Mrs. Legendre called her "Tee-Lilou"…. the list goes on.<br />Afabit and I were friends ever since the infamous “<em>My name ain't Cat Food</em>” debacle. She not only was the only one of my friends at the time that indulged my fantasy that I was a deposed Chinese princess, she was also the one that help remove the corn-rows from my hair after I pissed Irene Price off half way through having my hair plaited by inferring that she was <em>full of beans</em>.<br />Afabit and I would meet at the city park and play on the playground rockers we called “The Duckies”- they were over-sized animals on large springs that were set into the ground, there was a duck, a chicken, a horse, a cow, a sheep and inexplicably yet marvelously thrown into the barnyard theme, a lion. She would take the duck and I would sit on the chicken, talking and wobbling to and fro for hours, telling each other fantastic tales until it started getting late, as we both had to be “<em>On the front steps when the street lights came on.</em>"<br />When we were both about seven, Mrs. Giacomo, a nice lady we knew, lost her daughter in to one of those childhood disease that were spoken of only in hushed tones among the grownups, German measles maybe. In a lovely act of charity she gave Afabit some of her daughters clothes, including a perfect silk taffeta dress with a deep portrait collar that sat slightly off the shoulder with a wide sash. The intense color of the dress more than complimented Afabit’s café au lait skin and when she wore it, which was often, she was the image of perfection.<br />Afabit used to flounce around in that dress with an air of divinity mingled with a touch of superiority. I loved it because when she wore that dress it would assure that she would invariably sit me down like the student to her teacher and teach me some old sayings that her Grandpa used to tell her, things like , “Without the fur you can't tell the difference between a mink and a coon hide.”, “Don’t be tryin’ to dry today’s cloths with tomorrows sun.” and "If she's High yella, she'll steal yo fella..."- she also taught me old Billie Holiday songs and how to shoot dice, and how to say saucy things in Creole French... -stuff that I still find myself smiling at when I think of them.<br />That same <em>fancy party dress</em> that hung on her like cheap drapes at seven, became quite scandalous in its fit by age twelve, when Aphabit began blossoming, quite early, into who we all knew would be a stunningly beautiful woman. About that time Afabit up and moved away with her mother, to Mississippi I heard, and I never saw her again.<br />But the day after I heard she left, I went down to the city park to look for her, on the ducks head was the sash to her fancy party dress, neatly tied in a bow.<br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;"><strong>The Duckies</strong></span><br />1 1/2 oz Myer's® dark rum<br />1 1/2 oz Malibu® coconut rum<br />1/4 oz peach schnapps<br />1/4 oz blackberry schnapps<br />1/2 oz orange juice<br />1/2 oz cranberry juice<br />1/4 oz pineapple juice<br />Shake well with ice and pour into Hurricane glass. Add a floater of Myer's dark rum for an additional kick.<br /><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/jG_JN4wozIg&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/jG_JN4wozIg&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-21490157529419841032009-10-01T22:31:00.004-04:002009-10-17T23:15:42.645-04:00Dim Sum, You Lose Some<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjIgqIFDFrKacQIFDfdGD_4iR7LlJXquVl-DNvdVjtFUex8zuFzH0uv40IuAv6o9ZNfZ9LhUGQXD3HSC41IxTueRZhFHL2PyPWa7fbZHIac2vLL6-RAjijIuSKGtWjMYT0xE6sHSi5MHd6/s1600-h/Anima3-500x326.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 449px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 314px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393762569088460834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjIgqIFDFrKacQIFDfdGD_4iR7LlJXquVl-DNvdVjtFUex8zuFzH0uv40IuAv6o9ZNfZ9LhUGQXD3HSC41IxTueRZhFHL2PyPWa7fbZHIac2vLL6-RAjijIuSKGtWjMYT0xE6sHSi5MHd6/s400/Anima3-500x326.jpg" /></a><br /><div>(From a recent automatic writing session during a seance/Dim-sum party to summon Yves Klein -but we got Yves Saint Laurent instead)<br /><br /><div><em>Ooooh, mes amis, it’s a little brisk outside!. I could see my breath this morning, if I were still breathing! Un boue de souffle! I should not like to be caught dead in this weather, but ha ha I am however!<br />Autumn is so pretty! Apples and golden leaves that spiral down into the garden. So peaceful! And another opportunity to be elegant!<br />Yesterday I spent hours watching a leaf attached to a spider trail, so it remained all afternoon suspended between earth and sky, like myself. Oh, I watched as the maid brought out the chocolatiere set. Mother gave me the chocolatiere, it is made of lovely porcelain and the cups are so small and lovely, as it is a treat, to be sipped. I hope the new owners paid a fortune for it.</em></div><div><em>A moment so sweet that cocoa has its own serving set, so precious. </em><em>The falling leaf, the hot chocolate in little cups so fine you can see your fingers if you hold them up to light, oh what a lovely way to spend an afternoon. Did you smell the plums that fell to the ground?<br />Bone china comes from pieces so delicate you can see through. It is hardly ever made from the dessicated bones of your rivals all ground up. Well, not so much anymore.<br />Demitasse are the lovely little cups coffee used to be served on, before the whole big gulp drinking coffee. They are right, you are getting fat.<br />Autumn is a wonderful time to invite friends over for oysters and a nice Riesling. Do you eat oysters off lovely oyster plates so ornate with little wells for lemon and salt?<br />So, that reminds me of the 1970s, what a lovely time. So creative, before this orgy of consumption. Oh, fashion wasn’t so fast, and littered with day time television people, clutching around their supersized coffees. Ugh, that is right up there with a truffle burger. Truffles, like fine cocoa or coffee, is meant to be savored, and appreciated, not mashed into the burger. Who are these people following off a cliff, like it’s the fall of the Roman Empire?<br />Do you need a faster computer? A “phone app” to “make it easier to order fast food”? How much easier and faster does fast food need to be? Are you going to stand in front of your microwave screaming Hurry Up? Fried chicken at the Met Ball? It is gluttony.<br />Slow down and enjoy yourself.<br />Enjoy the dahlias of this time of year. Some are sunset, dark orange centers with apricot spikes radiating out from the center. Some a royal purple, some a lipstick pink, or vibrant red. Have you seen the French Vogue cover from summer 1983 with Jerry Hall straddling an Air France Jet, wearing only bright red lipstick? It was my lipstick, of course.<br />Oh, I hope this economy means magazines go back to putting models on the covers.<br />Oh, this economy isn’t a bad thing, It’s a chance to learn about what counts. If you have a black skirt and sweater, you have what counts. You supply the elegance. Those editors trying to force unwearable clothes on you, ha, budget cuts mean they don’t even have stir sticks for their fake sugar in their coffees.<br />Oh, I meant for us to chat to day about wonderful plaids and timeless clothes. Oh, plaids. So beautiful for fall. But I am really quite tired. We’ll talk again soon, about plaid. I am dozing off, but my lips smile at a joke of Karl’s. Why do Scotsman wear kilts? Because zippers scare the sheep!</em></div><div><em>A bientot mes amis! As I am dead, I shall remain bored- Stiff! (ha ha) - Yves</em></div><br /><div><em></em></div><div>Cheers,</div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#993300;"><strong>Autumn Moon</strong></span></div><br /><div>1 oz light rum</div><div>1/2 oz apricot brandy</div><div>1/2 oz Galliano® herbal liqueur</div><div>1 tsp lemon juice</div><div>2 oz pineapple juice</div><div>Shake ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice. Strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with an orange slice. </div></div><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FhXV_cdg4wg&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FhXV_cdg4wg&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-17502349443055743142009-09-18T17:31:00.016-04:002009-09-26T12:32:02.224-04:00A little nunsense, now and then,<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6SXMON87xE_Impt6atFpUErCHsE_NtYnnV4kcI6NM4X9eXBvt9hYyk_Wi9VwDIxa8EM9kZ99tbI1aQk-IeEifpTT9wEmowhWsa-OcXbC4CsmP07S6F6mifAo2XCx1q73jTCZaSfa__rPi/s1600-h/sabine_pigalle_02.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 479px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 361px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385501944704364578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6SXMON87xE_Impt6atFpUErCHsE_NtYnnV4kcI6NM4X9eXBvt9hYyk_Wi9VwDIxa8EM9kZ99tbI1aQk-IeEifpTT9wEmowhWsa-OcXbC4CsmP07S6F6mifAo2XCx1q73jTCZaSfa__rPi/s400/sabine_pigalle_02.jpg" /></a>My, my my. Here we are in the Atlantic Northeast again. I am currently at the cunning cottage in the Summer Colony we call "The Framptons" (because of it's frequent inhabitant, You-know-Who) sitting in the "Robespierre Room" so name for the clever decor, the French furnishings with a portrait above the mantle of the rooms namesake. The most interesting touch are the silver silk draperies with valances shaped like the blades of a guillotine- complete with a blood red border on the edge- smashing idea in my opinion, anyway, I am here to celebrate the birthday of a beloved friend, Rosé who turns eighty this year, though you would never know it the way she carries on.<br /><br /><div>As I strut and fret about what to wear and if Fidelia can iron french cuffs properly in time, I put a 78 on the gramophone of "Kitten on the keys" and await the arrival of all the handsome men shaped to be easily annoyed in their blazers the blue of a spring midnight and their honey colored and diamante covered wives that will begin in a few hours, and although the season officially ended on Labor day, we all gather around from near and far on this important day to have, as Rosé puts it "One last toot."</div><br /><div>I spent the day on a friends boat, the "Sally Forth", with Mr. Moose and an old friend of the family, Sister Taffy, a SSND nun, jaunting down to Fire Island and back, to take in the air and get the rest of the Summer dish I have missed out on. I decided to record the entire conversation in case the champagne and the sea air gave me amnesia later.</div><div>Here are a few of the highlights:</div><div></div><div> </div><div>"I'm going to go look at the chandelier."<br />"I didn't give birth to anything. I was under pressure."<br />"I'm working on my alcoholism. I'll just have a glass"<br />"Waking up the next morning can make you a coward again."</div><div>"How's my hair?"</div><div>"Tedious."</div><div>"So she says, 'I will use every astrological barb to destroy the 16-year-old übergoth who doesn't think I'm cool."<br />"They go on Egypt binges."<br />"I don't want to go home with the hiccups. They're very revealing."<br />"You don't have to mention that nothing else happened but this."<br />"I want to buy a mess of pumpkin seeds."</div><div>"Having the hiccups is a lot like premature ejaculation. It's not a complete act."</div><div>"It's very easy to impress neophytes."<br />"Tongue in cheek. That's what we like."<br />"We might as well exploit ourselves over and over again."<br />"We have inexhaustible material."<br />"Just remind me a lot."<br />And then we had a conversation with a well-groomed boy, who wanted Angelina's number, about Giotto and the whole extinction of pandas thing.<br />"It [my bladder] just has a small capacity."<br />"This will redeem you. You've had Rick James come onto you. You MUST enrapture Clive Barker."<br />"We're just wrong."<br />"Sick and wrong."<br />"We need awards."<br />"I thought you said we needed more champagne."</div><div>"We don't take ourselves seriously. We deserve everything."<br />"Yes, there are many different ways to combine words."</div><div>"Fallopian Testimonies"<br />"Follicular Marmalade" </div><div>"Everyone flirts with you."</div><div>"It's because I don't care,"<br />"It's because you look good in a bar."</div><div>"I used to think you looked like Jesus when your hair was long." </div><div>"I wish men could wear wimples."<br />"He's just a little off. It might be drugs."</div><div>"Who? Oh whatshisname, but he <em>looks </em>great."</div><div>"What ever happened to wimples?"</div>"I agree, the portrayals of Jesus during the Renaissance were rather sexy."<br />"Is that's why nuns used to go into ecstasies at the drop of a hat?"<br /><div>"Is that a pterodactyl or am I getting hammered?"</div><div>"Did I used to look like sexy Jesus?"</div><div>"Why do they call it Fire Island again?"</div><div>"I am craving PEZ."</div><div>"That sounds hormonal."</div><div>"I saw Kitty looking at real estate in Bridgehampton last week."</div><div>"Oh dear, are we out of Champagne?"</div><div>"Lets go to Uruguay!"</div><div>"I still have the hiccups"</div><div>"Try sugar on your tongue"</div><div>"There's only Splenda."<br /></div><div></div><div></div><div>Cheers.</div><div></div><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#330099;">Champagne ala Sally Forth</span></strong></div><div>1 1/2 oz passion-fruit puree</div><div>simple syrup</div><div>Champagne</div><div>1/2 oz Alize® liqueur<br />Pour passion fruit puree into a champagne saucer and stir in the simple syrup (to taste). Slowly add the champagne whilst stirring gently. Float the alize on top, and serve.</div><div></div><br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/0bMhqAybp0Y&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/0bMhqAybp0Y&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-65026478754176049852009-09-08T15:20:00.023-04:002009-09-10T16:27:28.013-04:00My Cherry Armoire and other Beloved Furniture<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguuwZeUoNvlkHrUNGas_Gt-vAO9e12iSnPf1KfdVYCZZyZWO1PYLsXCpULm3yrtNuTu8KH1YQJfLVE16-vTMORWu17lXVYWlyG0r_OvEkRCJSpREexuVQHMYq-gvw8dihsrXoMf_tYzIoI/s1600-h/3801736534_e914ddd90c.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 334px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379648655746853154" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguuwZeUoNvlkHrUNGas_Gt-vAO9e12iSnPf1KfdVYCZZyZWO1PYLsXCpULm3yrtNuTu8KH1YQJfLVE16-vTMORWu17lXVYWlyG0r_OvEkRCJSpREexuVQHMYq-gvw8dihsrXoMf_tYzIoI/s400/3801736534_e914ddd90c.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDDQbAvCx1yOT1XVi5z4OZ_j5zr1ywpNP7vRswVV-zjbyCrnC0_OnfjU53qGUuIu-2lyUuwGIQjvZ8GKYkD-IOTontI2D0k0lZVFHY182InPQZLQzYHjKdtfJoYq99mjK7FgVD1PSZ-H1/s1600-h/3812309204_b039423c58.jpg"></a>How time flies when you are having fun. During the recent Labor Day holiday celebrations I spent time in my beloved New Orleans around friends and loved ones as well as the throngs of male crudité that invade our little hamlet during the yearly festival know as Southern Decadence. As the scores of unwashed masses usually do not provide even an ounce of mental stimulation, relying on visual and tactile stimuli instead- like so much decorative furniture- I was more than pleased-as-rum-punch when during one of many parties (hmmmf) I had a most pleasurable conversation with a rather handsome man about, of all things, the return of astrology as a reliable source of matchmaking, you know, by figuring out someones personality- without all that time spent chatting away <em>mano a mano</em> over countless bottles of (shudder) inexpensive wine. <em>Boxed</em> even.<br /><br /><p>Choosing a rather perilously low divan - <em>because as you know I have the kind of figure that is well suited for reclining among cushions</em>- I chatted away with the aforementioned gentleman, a certain French celebrity of sorts, almost half my age yet well beyond <em>the age of reason</em> with dancing golden brown eyes and muscular pecs to match and hair the color of neglected brass, you know who I mean, don't be coy.</p><p>A one point in our conversation about astrology, he lifted the glass filled with amber liquid, holding it, regarding it as though looking at me through a lorgnon, and said in a throaty accent: "You know cherie, you could have saved many a Grand Duke or Saudi Prince from finding himself in the fearful midnight hour, pouring his heart out in a letter filled with his unrequited passion before then turning to the service revolver lying on the table <em>simply</em> by comparing your astrological signs first..." I realized how right he was - beautiful people so often <em>are</em>- So here is a bit of a run down of signs <em>and</em> their somewhat cliche personality traits for your carful study; mix and match like IHOP syrups to find your own cherie amour.<br /></p><p><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Capricorn');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Capricorn">Capricorn</a> December 22 -January 19 </p><p>Tends to be very private and as a result learns little about real life. Tends to be passive aggressive. Tendency for show-boating, especially in their careers. Best as child. Famous Capricorns: Jesus, Marilyn Manson, Susan Lucci.</p><p><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Aquarius');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Aquarius">Aquarius</a> January 20 -February 18 </p><p>Creative and modern thinking. Often mistaken for not-to-bright. Does not learn from experience. Likes shiny objects and/or other peoples husbands/wives. Famous Aquarians: Zsa Zsa Gabor, Dan Quale, Sharon Tate.</p><p><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Pisces');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Pisces">Pisces</a> February 19 -March 20 </p><p>Emotionally powerful if a bit paranoid Makes up by being a bully for what lacks in real bravery. Has no pets but complex imaginary friends instead. Famous Pisceans: Jack Kerouac, Patty Hearst, Madame Chiang Kai-shek.</p><div><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Aries');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Aries">Aries</a> March 21 -April 19 </div><div>Tendency toward being outdoorsy and independent, or at least dresses the part. Walks away rather than have a decent discussion. Better without progeny. Makes excellent Sherpa. Famous Arians: Joan Crawford, William Shatner, Debbie Reynolds.</div><div>.</div><div><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Taurus');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Taurus">Taurus</a> April 20 -May 20 </div><div>Great stick-with-it-ness. Often quite successful later in life- usually by crooked means. Famous Taurians: Prescott Bush, Adolf Hitler, Jim Jones.</div><div>.</div><div><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Gemini');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Gemini">Gemini</a> May 21 -June 20 </div><div>Dual natured. Intelligent if schizophrenic. Neither aspect of personality admirable. Fast at making deals, Fast at loosing friends/shirt. Famous Geminis: Jeffery Dahmer, King George III, Paula Abdul.</div><div>.</div><div><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Cancer');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Cancer">Cancer</a> June 21 -July 22 </div><div>A good listener and quite easy to take advantage of. Wildly emotional, barely able to function in an adult environment. Tendency toward deep seated sexual infantilism. Famous Cancerians: Lizzie Bordon, P.T. Barnum, George W. Bush.</div><div>.</div><div><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Leo');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Leo">Leo</a> July 23 -August 22 </div><div>Clever. Stubborn and forceful. <em>Pulls wool over others eyes</em> as a hobby. Seems to listen but doesn't really care. Makes good cop. Famous Leos: Miss Cleo, Aldous Huxley, Madonna.</div><div>.</div><div><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Virgo');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Virgo">Virgo</a> August 23 -September 22 </div><div>Weighs facts carefully often resulting in complete inaction. Obsessively clean and therefore hard to be with because of it. Whines a lot. Famous Virgos: Queen Elizabeth I, Upton Sinclair, Josie and The Pussycats.</div><div>.</div><div><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Libra');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Libra">Libra</a> September 23 -October 22 </div><div>Sensitive to music, art and literature. Happy completely alone much to the delight of everyone. Famous Libras: Truman Capote, Mark Rothko, Al Sharpton. </div><div>.</div><div><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Scorpio');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Scorpio">Scorpio</a> October 23 -November 21 </div><div>Sneaky. One way sensitivity. Easily hurt, but unconscious of other peoples feelings. Makes excellent file clerk or facist rebel. Famous Scorpios: Fedor Dostoevsky, Tonya Harding, Charles Manson.</div>.<br /><div><a style="COLOR: black; FONT-SIZE: 18px; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onclick="javascript:urchinTracker('/horoscopes_explained.php/body/text/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Sagittarius');" href="http://www.psychicguild.com/horoscopes_zodiac.php?sign=Sagittarius">Sagittarius</a> November 22 -December 21 </div><div>Wide open. Gives too much information on personal matters but also otherwise known to take creative liberties with <em>The Truth.</em> Sees the bright side of everything however senseless. Known to follow lemmings. Famous Sagittarius's: Nostradamus, Catherine of Aragon, Jay Bakker.</div><div>.</div><div>There now... all better? Hmmm, you're welcome, all for science...</div><div>Cheers.<br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><strong>cherie amour</strong></span></div><div>3 oz vodka</div><p>4 oz coconut rum</p><p>4 sliced bananas</p><p>1 pint strawberries</p><p>Combine all ingredients in a blender with enough ice to achieve a smooth consistancy. Serve in coupe glass.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/VSqGwOmKEwU&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/VSqGwOmKEwU&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object></p></div>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-11033812205644345102009-08-19T17:02:00.033-04:002009-08-23T14:35:11.209-04:00unrelated mental sinuosities<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 372px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 290px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371873357440767890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7gDJ74YWwt_KhCnr1vGNo4Es6dAZhqDSwlyR0kACzeIrOcYwKLIAgF5HRuG2LlML0vzFooQfBIhTPk-EItdn5aU8H1GQzwu5I8gCpJGQYWVCzkb9THXPK-Od65X-30zf9OzswPx-E7Yyt/s400/2.jpg" /><br />Exclaiming "Mein schatz!" after tasting Halen Mon Taha's Vanilla sea salt for the first time, I was convinced the perfect girl for me was Irona, Richie Rich's robot maid.<br /><div>.</div><div>Using hubris sparingly while turning the soil in my flower garden of love</div><div>.</div><div>After a long evening spent watching "Gossip Girl" and drinking girly drinks with his gays, my friend Jason Hiqury was a little embarrassed at his alcohol fueled erectile dysfunction. He had a good laugh however as "Hiqury Daiquiri Dick" seemed like a great - If some what dyslexic- name for a nursery rhyme.</div>.<br /><div>This afternoon, as I tried to fend off the crazed feral cat that had attacked me in the alley, I heard the neighborhood ice cream truck making its rounds. As I feverishly beat the cat with a stick to remove it and it's fangs from my calf, I noticed the truck, that usually plays "Camp-town Races", now plays the theme from "Love Story".... In a bitterly ironic twist, the doctor only had Hello Kitty Band-aids.</div>.<br /><div>Overheard during a <em>Titanium lift</em> facial at the Chantecaille Energy Spa at Barneys New York: "I'm <em>sooo</em> worried about <em>Yasmin Khan</em>, her <em>uterus is leaking</em>." One can only hope Yasmin Khan is a poodle.</div><div>.</div><div>Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth.</div>.<br /><div>While walking through a cemetery today, I spied what appeared to be a note on top of the tombstone of someone recently interred, with a small stone to secure it from being blown away. Being naturally curious, I looked at the note- It was a recent parking ticket belonging to the deceased.</div><div>.<br /></div><div>A bird in the hand is just a nice way of saying someone is flipping you off.</div>.<br />Today I sent myself a letter. Not really a letter, more of a contingency plan of what to do in the event of waking up one morning a member of the aristocracy. Well it's not really a contingency plan, it's more or less a list of the required jewelry.<br />.<br />"Delicate bodies that decay beneath their clothing play cards in an empty house in Paris as the wreckage of our hero lies broken in the corner but everyone pretends he likes to live that way." -Best lyrics ever?<br />.<br />I think they're sisters. It's like Little Women with chunky knits and styrofoam coffee cups. The one with the lazy eye is totally Jo. And "Laurie" Laurence, the charming, playful, and rich young teenager next door neighbor is one of her students - who in reality is an Emo with a thing for Milf's.<br />.<br />Never combine spiced rum and white chocolate, they are enemies, and it's really gay. Like Disney's Fantasia (The Pastoral Symphony part with cupid showing the <em>pegasi</em> it's butt) gay.<br />.<br />Some days are like being in a bubble bath full of glow in the dark rubber duckies with all the lights off- mildly amusing, better after a few drinks and always sound a little disturbing when described to your friends.<br />.<br />Overheard in line at Target....<br />Girl #1: "Well my boyfriend criteria is this, Smart, Cute, Funny, will watch scary movies with me and did not pick Charmander as first Pokemon..."<br />Girl #2. "Entia non multiplicanda praeter necessitatem."<br />Girl #1. "Yeah, totally...."<br />Girl #2. " You want Przewalski's horse while you are at it?"<br />Girl #1 "No but I do want a <em>Reecy PBC</em>."<br />Girl #2. "Reecy PBC?"<br />Girl #1. "Reece's Peanut Butter Cup"<br />Girl #2. "Oh... that's a <em>pretty vague</em> reference Amber..."<br />.<br />Note found written in crayon: <em>Dear Summer-time, I want you to be my white slave zombie. The last thing you will eat is a stinkin' cupcake made with poison ivy. Every time you are a horse I am a lion. Grr.. Bye. Kill you later. Your enemy, Winter-time</em><br /><em>.</em><br />I live in constant fear of falling asleep in front of the Television only to wake up to The Bernie Mac Show.<br /><em>.</em><br />Postsynaptic potential? Yup I'm for it.<br />.<br />In the middle of the fifth playing of "Limbo Rock" I had the personal epiphany that although all the limbo boys and girls all around the limbo world are not <em>entitled</em> to government provided heath care, it would certainly be a nice gesture on the governments part.<br />.<br />Costume idea: Dress as a giant lab rat with a cardboard sign that says "Will press lever for food"<br />.<br />Best accidental display ever: A clearly marked cardboard kiosk formally used for display of "There will be Blood" DVDs with copies of "Bambi II" in it instead.<br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">.</span><br />Cheers.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">Fantasia</span></strong><br />2 oz Grey Goose® L'Orange vodka<br />2 oz Barenjager® honey liqueur<br />thinly sliced orange<br />Pour both ingredients into a shaker. Strain and pour into a highball glass and garnish with an orange slice.<br /><p align="center"><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/va0njQFvFEk&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/va0njQFvFEk&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object></p>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-54457243222225842132009-08-17T22:50:00.001-04:002009-08-18T11:03:00.313-04:00ce n'est pas un poteau de blog<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5oqlvnb2I6l9sHWDenFkNvWihZdI2HadgAXW_5Qi2GWvSAD1VNCjqIHf2NyvCsNPDqMvsXB7TX_437w9y0z7wS2vygUslQ-Pklz6EsVZhqYabnxwUG-ZXHRBrmxE1muhQCviL7rjfDh3Z/s1600-h/mag.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 354px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 471px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370759919560699506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5oqlvnb2I6l9sHWDenFkNvWihZdI2HadgAXW_5Qi2GWvSAD1VNCjqIHf2NyvCsNPDqMvsXB7TX_437w9y0z7wS2vygUslQ-Pklz6EsVZhqYabnxwUG-ZXHRBrmxE1muhQCviL7rjfDh3Z/s400/mag.jpg" /></a>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-67231291771029098322009-08-16T11:37:00.007-04:002009-08-18T17:33:05.598-04:00paryushan<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXwHBEzTe_Lv0Z-IAnLqnhui_blAGZDf71s7jDGjNzh9ogeMjxo_0JRDl80tnYc3h7I14YJDybJZOUGwhshzTfzIUTQI-QQnpd43muZ2vpFQniJg1dZ1yjt2aYAo-RosYwncdS5XHLm901/s1600-h/naga.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 348px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 450px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371152053052022466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXwHBEzTe_Lv0Z-IAnLqnhui_blAGZDf71s7jDGjNzh9ogeMjxo_0JRDl80tnYc3h7I14YJDybJZOUGwhshzTfzIUTQI-QQnpd43muZ2vpFQniJg1dZ1yjt2aYAo-RosYwncdS5XHLm901/s400/naga.jpg" /></a> Today starts the Jain "Festival of Uplifting the Self by the Holy Observation of Ten Universal Virtues" So put down the french fries...<br />The Jain community like other communities throughout the world celebrates many social and religious functions annually. The superb Jain festival popularly known as ‘Paryushan Parva’ organized every year in the auspicious month ‘Bhadrapad’ of the Hindu calendar extends from the fifth day to fourteenth day of the bright fortnight. The festival ordains the Jains to observe the ten universal supreme virtues in daily practical life. Besides assuring a blissful existence in this world and the other world for every living being, it aims at the attainment of salvation - the supreme ideal for mundane soul. The non-Jains also express high reverence for this Jain festival. All members of Jain community- high and low, young and old, and males and females, participate with full vigor and zeal in the various religious rituals and cultural programs. They listen with rapt attention to the holy sermons of the saints and learned Jain scholars arranged during the ten-day festival. In these celebrations lie dormant the seeds of the well being, peace and happiness of the common man. On the eve of this festival all activities, which add to social discord or bitterness are declared taboo from the temple pulpits. These celebrations harbinger social harmony and amity and preach the lofty Jain motto ‘Live and Let live’.<br /><br />The ‘Paryushan Parva’ celebrated annually for self-purification and uplift is meant to adhere to the ten universal virtues in practical life; and leads us on the right path, far from the mad strife for material prosperity, which ultimately leads us to our true destination i.e., salvation. Two popular titles of this festival, viz. (i) Paryushan Parva and (ii) Dash Lakshan Parva are in vogue; but the mode of performance and aim of the festival is same. According to Sanskrit grammar the underlying idea of the festival and its interpretation is given below:<br />“Parismantadushayante dhante karmani yasimannasau paryushnm”<br />I.e., The celebration through which the karmic matter attached to the soul is totally burnt or <div><div>vanquished (both internally and externally) is known Paryushan i.e., self-purification.<br /></div><div>Various meaningful and sublime titles have been assigned to this festival in different Jain scripture; e.g.,<br />Parva Raj - The festival which carries a special and greater significance; its celebrations spread over a longer duration and it is more soul-stirring than any other Jain festival.<br />Maha Parva - It is an ancient and chief of all Jain festival.<br />Dash Lakshan Parva - The festival for the observance of ten universal virtues; viz., forgiveness, contentment, and celibacy, which aim at the uplift of the soul and are vividly preached and practiced during the festival.<br />Paryushan Parva - The festival through which an attempt is made to put an end to all vices, passions and lustful desires in thought, speech and deeds.<br />Paryu-Prasa - The festival in which one meditates upon the inherent virtues of the soul in thought, speech and action; or one attains peace of soul i.e., celestial peace.<br />Paryupshamn or Pajjusvana - The festival in which an attempt is made to obtain peace discarding all passions and lustful desires through various means; and observe harmony in the soul through the study of scriptures.<br />Pajjushana - This word of Prakrit language carries the same meaning as explained in Paryushan Parva.<br />Samvatsari Parva - The festival which is celebrated annually to subdue all passions and lustful desires. This title is popular to the Swaitamber sect of Jainism.<br /><br />Paryushan Parva gives expression to the perfectly purified trait of the soul, through which one gets rid of worldly discords and allurements and one gets fully absorbed in the eternal truth on experiencing and realizing the true nature of soul. In other words we can say that the natural realization of the trio ‘the True, the Good and the Beautiful’ is fully possible only through Paryushan. In fact the other name of the Jainism, which is universal religion, is Paryushan. This festival puts an end to all evils in man; gives him realization of the eternal bliss, and spiritualism becomes alive by the celebration of this festival.<br /><br />Since times immemorial the living beings have fallen prey to the bewitching worldly allurements. They are involved day and night in such a poisonous environment of lustful desires and sensuous pleasures that despite being cautioned time and again, they fail to rid themselves from the bondage of the net work of worldly illusions. Jain Acaryas have, through their sermons and ideal moral code of conduct, inspired the mundane souls to keep aloof from the blemishes of the world, which breed nothing but sorrow and misery for the mankind. But the insatiable ambition of man for sensuous pleasures, material comforts and luxurious life has always allured him since antiquity. Consequently man has bitterly failed to make distinction between self and non-self, and to understand the real nature of soul.<br />During the eight-day Paryushan festival, many fast and perform pratikaraman, meaning 'turning back'. It is a form of meditation where one reflects on his spiritual journey and renews his faith. During this time, many drink boiled water and eat before sunset. Many abstain from onions/garlic/potatoes (root vegetables), fermented food, and even green vegetables. Penance and fasting are the key words in these days. The reason for such restriction is to hurt as less living beings as possible. Items previously mentioned have far greater number of lives (atmas) than simple grains. For example, when you take any piece of potato and put it in water, it will grow. but the same is not true for rice grain. By doing this, we commit less sin and bind with fewer bad karmas. this will later help us on our jouney to moksha.<br />This festival has its own age-old history, but nothing definite can be said about its origin and since when it is being celebrated. In fact, the celebration of this festival is beyond the scope of known history. The truth is that spiritual matters like self-purification and renunciation cannot be measured by Time scale. When the auspicious month of Bhadrapad comes every year, the whole Jain community celebrates this festival unitedly without any difference of high and low, rich and poor. The Digambaras and the Swaitamberas, both sects of Jain community celebrate the self-uplifting festival with great enthusiasm. The fifth day of the bright fortnight of the holy month of ‘Bhadrapad’ is auspicious for both. The Digambaras celebrate this festival annually for ten days, from the fifth day to the fourteenth day of the bright half of the month. Whereas the Swaitamberas celebrate it only for eight days, and the fifth day is the main day of their celebrations held under the title ‘Samvatsari Parva’.<br />Now, with a little Wiki help...<br />Pratikramana (Samayika): Renewal meditation:<br />Pratikramana means turning back. It is a form of meditation, called <a class="mw-redirect" title="Samayika" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samayika">Samayika</a> where one reflects on his spiritual journey and renews his faith. For both Swetambaras and Digambaras, it takes the form of periodic meditation. The period can be twice daily (morning and evening), once every lunar phase, every four months, or every year. The annual Pratikramana in some form is the minimum for a <a class="mw-redirect" title="Sravaka" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sravaka">Sravaka</a>.<br />The annual <a title="Pratikramana" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pratikramana">Pratikramana</a> is <a class="new" title="Samvatsari Pratikramana (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Samvatsari_Pratikramana&action=edit&redlink=1">Samvatsari Pratikramana</a>, in short <a title="Samvatsari" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samvatsari">Samvatsari</a>. Since it coincides with Paryushana, the terms "Samvatsari" and "Paryushana" are sometimes used interchangeably.<br />Pratikramana includes:<br /><a class="mw-redirect" title="Samayika" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samayika">samayika</a>: to stay in equanimity by withdrawing to the self.<br />Prayers to the <a class="new" title="Five Supremes (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Five_Supremes&action=edit&redlink=1">Five Supremes</a>, 24 <a class="new" title="Jinas (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Jinas&action=edit&redlink=1">Jinas</a> and the 4 <a class="new" title="Mangalas (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Mangalas&action=edit&redlink=1">mangalas</a>, including the <a title="Dharma" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dharma">Dharma</a> as presented by the ancient Masters.<br />Prayer to the Master(Guru) or the Deity.<br />Reflections on <a class="new" title="Vratas (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Vratas&action=edit&redlink=1">vratas</a> and past transgressions.<br /><a title="Kayotsarga" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kayotsarga">Kayotsarga</a>: detachment from the body by controlling it.<br /><a class="new" title="Pratyakhyan (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Pratyakhyan&action=edit&redlink=1">Pratyakhyan</a>: making resolutions for the next period (next year for Samvatsari Pratikramana).<br />The detailed recommended procedure can be found in the handbooks. Detailed Pratikramana takes about 3 hours, however all essentials can be done in a much shorter time if needed.<br />Pratikramana is also sometimes termed <a class="mw-redirect" title="Samayika" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samayika">Samayika</a> in the <a class="mw-redirect" title="Digambara" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Digambara">Digambara</a> tradition.<br />By tradition certain postures are recommended for Pratikramana.<br /></div><br /><div>Dasha-Lakshana Vrata:<br />This is a vrata that celebrates 10 components of the dharma: <a class="new" title="Noble kshama (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Noble_kshama&action=edit&redlink=1">Noble kshama</a> (forbearance), <a class="new" title="Mardava (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Mardava&action=edit&redlink=1">mardava</a> (gentleness), <a class="new" title="Arjava (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Arjava&action=edit&redlink=1">arjava</a> (uprightness), <a title="Shaucha" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shaucha">shaucha</a> (purity), <a title="Satya" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satya">satya</a> (truth), <a class="new" title="Sanyam (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Sanyam&action=edit&redlink=1">sanyam</a> (restraint), <a title="Tapa" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tapa">tapa</a> (austerity), <a class="new" title="Tyaga (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Tyaga&action=edit&redlink=1">tyaga</a> (renunciation), <a class="new" title="Akinchanya (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Akinchanya&action=edit&redlink=1">akinchanya</a> (lack of possession) and <a class="new" title="Brahmcharya (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Brahmcharya&action=edit&redlink=1">brahmcharya</a> (chastity), as described by <a title="Umaswati" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Umaswati">Umaswati</a>.<br />In the full form, it is a 10 day vrata that spans 10 years. It may be undertaken during Shukla Panchami to Chaturdashi of Bhadrapada, Magh or Chaitra. However it is common to do it during Bhadrapada, in which case it starts with Paryushana.<br /><a id="Requesting_Forgiveness" name="Requesting_Forgiveness"></a><br />Requesting Forgiveness<br />At the conclusion of the festival, the <a class="new" title="Sravakas (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Sravakas&action=edit&redlink=1">Sravakas</a> request each other for forgiveness for all offenses committed during the last year. This occurs on the Paryusha day for the <a class="new" title="Swetambara (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Swetambara&action=edit&redlink=1">Swetambara</a> and on <a class="new" title="Pratipada (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Pratipada&action=edit&redlink=1">Pratipada</a> (first) of <a class="new" title="Ashwin Krashna (page does not exist)" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Ashwin_Krashna&action=edit&redlink=1">Ashwin Krashna</a> for the <a class="mw-redirect" title="Digambara" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Digambara">Digambara</a>. Forgiveness is asked by telling "Micchami Dukkadam" to each other. It means "If I have caused you offence in any way, knowingly or unknowingly, in thought word or deed, then I seek your forgiveness".<br /><br />To sum up, Paryushan Parva is a grand Jain festival of self-introspection, self-enlightenment and self-achievement, which ultimately leads to the one and only one final goal, i.e., liberation or salvation. </div></div>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-2014228559782814212009-08-11T00:32:00.013-04:002009-08-24T21:00:56.512-04:00carnal symmetry in 25 yards of peau de soie<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Fikap8iIR-HBTNBcBUop37o7fyWbaod50xuYTcaFdzZPFpYKnZQhrmb0eUhsVEtfDUqN5hNt85K8k1k6AXWWp91GSY3vsV36O78PITCJBqUcR1V4H-9dFAUetQCDt3jumJ5eaUu9S3yz/s1600-h/charlesjames-detailedgown1_1948.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 426px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368560513152361378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Fikap8iIR-HBTNBcBUop37o7fyWbaod50xuYTcaFdzZPFpYKnZQhrmb0eUhsVEtfDUqN5hNt85K8k1k6AXWWp91GSY3vsV36O78PITCJBqUcR1V4H-9dFAUetQCDt3jumJ5eaUu9S3yz/s400/charlesjames-detailedgown1_1948.jpg" /></a>Remembering Charles James. (1906-1978) A somewhat forgotten superstar of fashion.<br /><br />Here are a few numbers:<br />200 - number of dresses Charles James designed in his life.<br />1 - time he got drunk with his pal Halston and threw a plate at policeman.<br />Several - times he delivered late gowns.<br />Several - times he delivered his creations after dancing in it all night.<br />3 - Prizes won . One refused because the fashion system was not equal/moral.<br />1 - Declaration by Balenciaga. "He's the best couturier in the world". <div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Charles James was born in London. His father was an English military officer, while his mother came from a socially prominent Chicago family. After he was expelled from Harrow as the result of a sexual escapade, his family packed him off to Chicago to work. Not long after, he began his career as milliner. His shop at 1209 North State Street was called Charles Boucheron, the surname borrowed from a school friend. Two years later he moved to New York City and began designing dresses with the same sculptural sense that characterized his millinery. “Charles James is not only the greatest American couturier, but the world’s best and only dressmaker who has raised it from an applied art form to a pure art form,” declared the great Spanish couturier, Cristóbal Balenciaga. (and you <em>know</em> how we love<em> him</em>)</div><br /><div>His famous “butterfly Dress,” <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/chicagohistory/2967815278/">www.flickr.com/photos/chicagohistory/2967815278/</a> originally created for Mrs. William Randolph Hearst Jr. in 1954, is made of 25 yards of peau de soie and nylon net, the dress weighs 18 pounds. Its most notable features are structured side wings and a back bustle skirt. The Chicago History Museum has more than a dozen dresses by Charles James, many of which were donated only a few years after they were first worn, possibly because they were so difficult to store.</div><div>Cheers.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"></span></strong></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;"></span></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>Galliano Daiquiri</strong></span><br />1 oz gold rum</div><div>3/4 oz Galliano® herbal liqueur</div><div>juice of 1/2 limes</div><div>1/2 oz sugar syrup<br />Shake briefly with a glassful of crushed ice, and pour into a frosted cocktail glass. Garnish with a slice of lime, and serve.</div><div></div><br /><p align="center"><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/txaR2HvnwVg&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/txaR2HvnwVg&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object></p>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-57550458176498005122009-08-09T07:24:00.021-04:002009-08-10T19:57:58.039-04:00of poisoned apples and eydie gormé<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfJbNABBGQZqVUPeVwJaYR-vS877nbIdBlESsM0ZGeBwOCkQK1yTwd0DCOEdGQjdW0wHZ5SyOhDzj1YKjmILvL9F0zxCNdKM00FFzSKZ0sAcsi5mLczlpozmL0w-NgXpCcYe9ZBRHV0-Zh/s1600-h/disneycouture_karialtmann.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 328px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367711197205943538" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfJbNABBGQZqVUPeVwJaYR-vS877nbIdBlESsM0ZGeBwOCkQK1yTwd0DCOEdGQjdW0wHZ5SyOhDzj1YKjmILvL9F0zxCNdKM00FFzSKZ0sAcsi5mLczlpozmL0w-NgXpCcYe9ZBRHV0-Zh/s400/disneycouture_karialtmann.jpg" /></a> So.<br />I had just gotten off the line with <em>B.</em> discussing his kitchen renovation- (counter tops to be exact- he was deciding between granite and what he called "Coriander") when, in the middle of cleaning my Hello Kitty AK47 while listening to the 1961 recording of "I Feel so Spanish" by Eydie Gormé, (if you remember, her version of Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun" with Steve Lawrence was the song I used during the processional at my last wedding) my princess telephone in the boudoir rang again.....<br />It was Mazeppa. Frantic. Seems that her mothers personal maid <em>Chutiyah</em> had locked herself in the slate lined guest bathroom shower, doused herself with gasoline and lit a match. The poor dear had recently lost her husband, and in the spirit of being <em>old school</em>, she naturally decided it would be <em>perfectly</em> proper to commit what until the last century was a common practice known as <em>suttee</em>. (albeit her husband was on the other side of the planet, I guess its the thought that counts) I found out later in the conversation that the main cause of Mazeppas freak fest was the <em>minor detail</em> that she had an important dinner party that evening where Itzhak Perlman was the guest of honor. Pretending not to hear her when she asked where I bought my potpourri and if they sold it in bulk, I suggested moving the party part and parcel to a nice restaurant, but she decided to make a few phone calls and change the menu to barbecue and the venue out of doors. She also had the where with all to find and serve Nestle Itzakadoozie ice pops in his honor. Always on her toes that one.<br />The Grim Reaper must get less commission on those people that choose to end their own lives, don't you think?<br />I am certain that he has had quite a summer so far, what with all the suicidal hi-jinks going on around the globe and in our own back yards. Like the <em>idiot</em> that went into that aerobics class and killed those poor women, and like Warren. Dear, dear Warren.<br />My old pal Warren Pease was a man as thick and wordy and full of conflict as the novel that shares his name. We went to the same school when we were children and sat next to each other in Sister Oubliette's Math class, always chose each other when we were choosing people for our side in Sister Mary Truncheon's Phys Ed class and were often seen sitting together waiting for our turn outside the Mother Superior's office for some slight infraction. Like the time we tried to exorcise Mary Anne Montenegro's “Mrs. Beasley” doll with a railroad spike, it's a long story.<br />Admittedly, it was a bit of a shock when I heard not only that Warren <em>had</em> taken his own life, but also the <em>way</em> he chose to do it. It seems after he failed to come home one evening, he was found the next morning in his office dressed up like Snow White with the remainder of a poisoned apple in his hand. Of course the police questioned everyone that worked with him, including seven coworkers that just happen to be "little people"- you could say that at least one of the gentlemen questioned were <em>not amused</em> at the inquiry, <em>grumpy</em> even.<br />Though surprising, Warren and I had always joked around about having the final word when it came to our own mortality. I always thought he would end it all with a measured amount of flair and panache, and after that certain summer at camp, I was almost certain he would very likely choke himself to death during auto-fellatio, or perish during one of our infamous and rousing games of Strip Russian Roulette.<br />Suicide is an <em>awful</em> thing to do, dying for that matter is <em>considered outre</em> these days, yet many people I come into contact with every day do so passively by over eating, drinking, taking drugs, getting diseases and generally acting a fool until they die. I think the act itself is terribly selfish, you should consider the feelings of others before you commit such an act, especially if you are what they refer to as <em>an adult</em>.<br />A clearly willful act of suicide in early youth is not only preferable and more interesting to the public, it also is the only time in ones life that you can get by with the general "I am ending it all because no one understands me" sort of explanation without coming off as being overly dramatic. If you are young and priggishly determined to get back at all of those people that question your beliefs by ending it all, try and include as many of them as you wish by leaving a number of well composed suicide notes to each of your tormentors, explaining in detail how they were the principal cause of your despair. The psychiatric community will thank you for this. Also, young people should never commit suicide over college grades until their final exam scores have lowered the class curve. Your peers will thank you for that. Do not kill yourself to get back at your parents, if they actually <em>do </em>detest you, you'll just be playing into their hands.<br /><p>As for the rest of us <em>far beyond</em> the <em>Age of Reason</em>, If you absolutely, positively<em> must</em> end it all, please do so as you would perform any other gesture as personal as this, neatly or in an interesting manner and <em>always</em> in good taste. Murder-suicide is considered the lowest form of bad taste so it should absolutely never even be considered. -Even if you are used to having an entourage wherever you go.- (this includes being a suicide bomber. The idea of ending it all for a <em>cause</em> seems calculating at best and tends to give others impolite thoughts about how empty your life must be otherwise... tre declasse)<br />My suggestion? Try and be creative with your method of self destruction, travel to San Juan Capistrano and handcuff yourself to something in the bell tower around the time the swallows return -being fluttered to death even <em>sounds</em> like fun- or work at an abortion clinic for ten years, go to a Catholic country and turn yourself in for mass murder. Or, go with a surprise ending. It's always fashionable to try to be beaten to death by a bunch of teenagers in the restroom of a public park that's known as a hangout for gays or by going to the red light district and slapping the first pimp you find. This will give people lots to say, especially your wife and children. </p><p>The value of planning cannot be over estimated. If you are going to really make headlines, you should start laying the groundwork early in life by being a nice quiet straight A student and a dutiful child to your parents. It gives no end of pleasure to everyone when a person like that throws themselves on fire into the Senate from the visitor's gallery or commits Seppuku with a string fed lawn trimmer. Some people try to add extra shock value by committing the deed in the all-together, i.e. nude. Just a grace note here, try and be honest about how you look in the buff will you? Remember, there is always the chance that you might not be found for a while and, like television, death, initially adds at <em>leas</em>t ten pounds- what with the bloating and all. It is much safer to wear something simple in white, to contrast with the blood, or a smart ensemble that will show your superior breeding, <em>even</em> if its only to the crime lab. And be <em>sure</em> to empty your bladder and bowels beforehand, gore from a bullet wound might be dramatic but there's always an element of low comedy to excrement. You're welcome.</p><p>If you are a traditionalist, among the classics are climbing out of a window onto a ledge so that crowds can gather and urge you to jump, but be sure to let at least one policeman climb out to reason with you before you jump, as this is how they get get medals and promotions. Guns are also a classic- if a bit <em>expected</em>- and razors lead to all kinds of messes as one forgets if it is better to go "across the street" or "down the road". Using natural gas, though it seems to be the most <em>green</em> of means, comes across as being wasteful of our natural resources and drugs are too chancy as you might miscalculate the dosage and just have a really good time -or you might wind up in the hospital as a human vegetable. In which case you'll spend the rest of your life being pestered to become the head of a "Grassroots" Republican group.</p><p>There are times and places that it would be very bad manners to commit suicide. Never do it at someone else's funeral, it is stealing the show and much too pushy. (This is how the British improved manners on the Indian subcontinent when they put a stop to suttee, more or less) Try and not kill yourself in a way that will result in your becoming a martyr. The world does not need more hideous portraits painted on black velvet of the type seen depicting MLK, JFK, Jesus or Elvis, on T shirts with Tupac, Biggie or Kurt Cobain or the horror of Franklin Mint plates with images of Princess Diana, or Michael Jackson.</p><p>As a final thought, a classic from an expert on the subject, Dotty Parker.</p><p><em>Razors pain you; </em><em>Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.</em></p><p>Now, how about a drink, something light. Cheers,<img style="WIDTH: 0px; HEIGHT: 0px; VISIBILITY: hidden" border="0" src="http://counters.gigya.com/wildfire/IMP/CXNID=2000002.0NXC/bHQ9MTI*OTc2NjUwMTQyOSZwdD*xMjQ5NzY2NjY1MTk3JnA9MjIzNjEmZD*mbj1ibG9nZ2VyJmc9MSZvPTNlZDgwMzk*NWZkMzQxYTU5YWU1NmI1MTg*MzA5ZDZkJm9mPTA=.gif" width="0" height="0" /></p><p><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"><strong>Hari Kari</strong></span></p><p>1 oz brandy</p><p>1 oz Cointreau® orange liqueur</p><p>2oz orange juice<br />Pour all ingredients into a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Shake well, strain into a cocktail glass, and serve.<br /></p><p align="center"><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3ntpzY5tBKg&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3ntpzY5tBKg&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object><br /></p><p align="center"><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mb7g5T9G2VA&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mb7g5T9G2VA&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object></p>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-79558126840249760492009-08-03T03:55:00.008-04:002009-08-07T15:18:31.070-04:00notes from the cerebral museum - night shift<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOzcMi0uDboDNOu7-7XBU6Qv1yWhkBWhbRPr19dTXS0MlgWcrd2zpSU3ftszY9WkAEitgVGhBwEvrzwFemzN6VKA0OSIEWZVtXPKbDovb6o090jyYC5mV-EKcZs_a9YqCHIZwRphM7hK3/s1600-h/345795487_2d328d948e.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 340px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365594326118664226" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOzcMi0uDboDNOu7-7XBU6Qv1yWhkBWhbRPr19dTXS0MlgWcrd2zpSU3ftszY9WkAEitgVGhBwEvrzwFemzN6VKA0OSIEWZVtXPKbDovb6o090jyYC5mV-EKcZs_a9YqCHIZwRphM7hK3/s400/345795487_2d328d948e.jpg" /></a><br /><div align="left">* when I write "bff" I secretly mean bunny foo foo</div><div align="left">* the wagging tail drops like a stone to the floor when he sees the suitcases</div><div align="left">* me in one of those ill fitting gowns bring subtle nudges and widened eyes from hit men and hypocrites<br />* you're not really the lord of darkness, so try not to drown<br />* your windsong stays on my mind, that, and the time you pooped in the bed</div><div align="left">* sorry I didn't tell you about trotsky, little dead shrew or the sleep-talking baby foxes and the marmoset, I didn't think it was important<br />* the queen of france's earrings and lots of blood on the snow<br />* love love love plus one? yes, I question everything<br />* inept blood bringer father figure smug in a lab coat<br />* notes on a sandal, lasts seasons jimmy choos</div><div align="left">* just half a cup please<br />* demure mystery roses and confessional sweet nothings to an ape in tigger socks, kiss me on the mouth please<br />* thieving knave nicks kiss, leaves feeling illuminated<br />* the strange fortunes of fond creatures </div><div align="left">* i'm an animal trapped in your hot car, let's make out<br />* meaningless notes on fridges, this dilemma requires a soundtrack<br />* mid discussion about when dargelos died and cocteau ran away to marseilles to live among sailors and prostitutes, I swallowed my fortune and had to purge, I didn't know it was a holy water font<br />* easter salt in valentine wounds circa 1939 leads to bouncing dishes on a regency sofa<br />* tomorrow's graveyard forage: look for the father of the man that dreamed of wires<br />* fully expecting speculaas before december 5th, and full guest compliance<br />* layeth me down in green pastures or I'm going to a robot-making party</div><div align="left">* the people that live in the boats in my hair dream of black pony kisses and my yellow mane<br />* it was becoming golden, dressing a shadow and combing it's hair, for whom do you model? the boston strangler? </div><div align="left">* she was just a ghost until she met him, now they're both just demons<br />* one can't be weeping over schubert all of the time, anton reicha is another story, if only for the irregular time signatures<br />* watching a colossal youth sleeping outside the chatty cathy caravan with scooby douche<br />* when we were pretty and took turns with crimpers I burned you hair on purpose because you ruined my barbie makeup head with a marksalot</div><div align="left">* we don't have to take our clothes off to have a good time, but the tivo is broken<br />* medicine administered by a cute doctor is the best medicine, a close second is going to bed in little brown socks with garlic cloves in them<br />* watching the turkish karaoke talking about how now and again he puts me on parole<br />* she's half german, half french, has "follow me home hair" and looks exactly like bambi - not surprisingly, looks great in the woods</div><div align="left">* leonor fini still gives surreal enfant terrible value<br />* my hopes of being head gardener at the palace of versailles have been dashed, as I realise I am horribly put off by rose bush scratches. and dirt</div><div align="left">* if you hadn't died, you'd be recovering from a black eye, I hope you are at the cosmos cotillion with serena and uncle arthur</div><div align="left">* the aging chanteuse droned on, making sounds like a hammer horror cellar door, with only the scent of violette in the air making it bearable</div><div align="left">* a heart shaped post-it saying 'no switchy offy' in an apartment in hells kitchenette</div><div align="left">* when life gives you lululemons, make lululemonaide- in the downward dog position</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Cheers.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">Raspberry Long Island Slurpee</span></strong></div><div align="left">1 oz vodka</div><div align="left">1 oz rum</div><div align="left">1 oz 1800® Tequila</div><div align="left">1 oz gin</div><div align="left">1 oz triple sec</div><div align="left">1 1/2 oz sweet and sour mix</div><div align="left">1 oz Chambord® raspberry liqueur</div><div align="left">Put all ingredients in blender with ice cubes, blend and serve with a crazy straw.</div><div align="left"></div><br /><p align="center"><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/10dur7jhFQM&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/10dur7jhFQM&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object></p>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319375305398544702.post-42608691458373708692009-07-31T13:00:00.015-04:002009-08-02T18:25:01.653-04:00wurzeltod<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLdy6s5k9Tz0OocomUoLQQVrhTwzl7CBHg_vnGf_Puixfj8H6yNququWorhbmlpVUZAuNKcjaR3lyM7Us2h32qRt-BJBA3Cha5hvTHrz3vdQHsBdL6qQXq0hNvbREHl4Lu2NsPDz1cH5J/s1600-h/naz2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 461px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 197px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364724021409611698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLdy6s5k9Tz0OocomUoLQQVrhTwzl7CBHg_vnGf_Puixfj8H6yNququWorhbmlpVUZAuNKcjaR3lyM7Us2h32qRt-BJBA3Cha5hvTHrz3vdQHsBdL6qQXq0hNvbREHl4Lu2NsPDz1cH5J/s400/naz2.jpg" /></a><span style="color:#000000;">From the archives:</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#990000;">We listen to them don't we?</span><br /><br /><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">You will be like us, think like us, worship like us, laugh like us, live like us.</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">You will know this to be wrong, but you will notice that the days are waning when support exists for the individual and for deviation. That was a luxury of richer times, and it is none too surprising that in the days when such support existed, deviation was the norm, and all other thought was suspect. So much for tolerance.</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">And SURPRISE, some people prefer to be sheep. Some people prefer to be led. And that is why we're back. Because you're tired. Because you're weary. Because you stopped wearing those paisley bell-bottoms you bought in the thrift shop for $1.99 because they were so retro-60s, and although you were born in the 60s, you are too young to remember it but wanted to believe it was a time of respect for deviance and the individual.</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">And, anyway, whoever led you to believe that paisley was so altogether all-fired deviant and individualistic? Hell, that particular pattern on your pants came from a tapestry made for an ancient Persian despot who had his subjects beheaded regularly for forgetting which way to face. </span></em><em><span style="color:#000066;">Think about that while you watch "The View" and spoon that bran over your cereal.</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">You will never be anything real in this lifetime. You cannot make your own reality. Not anymore.You have forgotten who you wanted to be. That isn't surprising. It's in the design.</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">What do disaffected people do when they get old? Does the sulking ever stop? You've made an art form out of sulking and wishing you were French.</span></em></div><div><span style="color:#000066;"><em>There are other ways to live.</em><br /><em>In books, in movies, bleak landscapes of cyberpunk worlds have been conjured, playgrounds for the disaffected and disenfranchised. You wonder how close that reality could be. You have, with your misbegotten aspirations, become unsuccessful in your lifetime. You will never afford to have all the things you need. You live an unfulfilled existence, and dream no American dream.</em></span></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">You can imagine living where people will fight to survive among the ruins of a corrupt technological-rich, spiritually-bereft world. It wouldn't take much lurching forward to come to that. Science fiction authors you've read and digested -- you pull their thoughts to your chest and ruminate. Here, on the landscape, one foot in the pretend veneer of a 50s family portrait and the other in a wasteland predicted by cynical visionaries. Thrust into an accelerated world with not enough of the technological advances that were actually possible because we, the corrupt, keep progress profitable only for our kind. Your rejection of us is your own doom. You make your bed and lie in it. We short-sheet your linens. For your own good. Wake up. The world is hopelessly lost, burgeoning at the seams with stuff, and yet so little has come to pass. Humanity sits on its ass. As you are doing. You are not poor, yet your biggest act of biggest charity was giving a panhandler $1.43 in spare change this morning. Usually, you never do. You are asked at least twenty times a day for money, and you don't have enough money for twenty people. So, you simply stopped, but feel guilty nonetheless because it's not the ideal.</span></em></div><div><span style="color:#000066;"><em>But the one this morning popped out of no where in the fog, appeared at the intersection behind you as you waited for the light to change. He'd come from the direction of the overpass. The dirt and grime layered on him suggested that he might have spent the night there. He wrapped his arms around his thin body and shivered. You remember thinking how young, strikingly handsome and that he had on glasses like John Lennon. How odd that seemed. Conversationally, looking past you, he said, "Isn't the weather painful?"</em><br /></span></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">You gave him all your change.</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">You take a long thoughtful sip of your four dollar "Makeitworkalatte" as you sit in the requisite cafe. Your blood work came back abnormal that afternoon. You take a sip of beer. Your bills were due yesterday. You pop another Xanax. This is what being an adult is about, isn't it? This isn't art. No one will buy your art, anyway. Will they?</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">You cyberpunk artists (or whatever label we'll exploit you by) distrust the powers-that-be. You might even complain that corporations have taken over the arts and make it near to impossible to achieve a dream, to be redeemed as an artist. Redemption? We will sell you indulgences, and nothing more.</span></em></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">I will only tell you this once and never again -- art doesn't lie in the money, in the bottom line, it lies in the souls of all humans, and anyone can access it regardless what they try to tell you. </span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">Art is magick, magick is art, and it doesn't need to be dispensed by some Hierophant in a pin-striped suit. It just is. Perhaps those little squiggles drawn on newsprint and tacked up on the refrigerator are intrinsically as beautiful as Guernica. Just more people have seen and will see Guernica, and they bring their collective experience to it, worship it, lay their experiences before it. Picasso may have painted it, but thousands of others have shaped that painting since. It is owned by all of us, anyone who cares to find their own soul in it. That is what art is, it is a reaching out to others and giving them a place to put their own souls in.</span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">And, sure, it makes money. Anything that sustains makes money. But art that doesn't make money is still art. Artists who never make money are still artists. The money thing is parallel, but not intrinsic, to the art. </span></div><div><span style="color:#cc0000;">In fact, if artists didn't need to eat and live and consume, the money thing might not matter at all. But they do. That is the most unfortunate thing.</span></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">And bloody little good that does you, does it? You can sigh. Think that no one understands. Everyone has it as bad as you, if not worse. You sip your whisky and gingerale and wonder. Wonder about the life you aspired to have as a child: money, influence, the ability to give your money to those who needed it -- which you thought you might have through art. Oh, you. You will cave in. You will soon be like us, think like us, worship like us, laugh like us, live like us.</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">Otherwise, you are the needy, not that needy, perhaps, but notice how you've never been able to do anything but tread water ever since you first were thrust into this go-to-work-pay-the-bills world. All of life seems dismal and indulgent, hurtful and strung out.</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">You walked into the club tonight, unabashed. Tonight is the night that you feel reproached, that you know that you didn't make the proper observances on the Equinox. You and your bloody ancient neo-religions. You're just trying to be weird, aren't you? We know that game.</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">Someone kisses the back of your neck, someone kisses your lips, but the next week, it's time to start all over again. It's too easy to use sex as an addiction. The supply is even more abundant than a good old-fashioned drug high, which is wrong anyway on this day, although in your formative years, it was so much the norm, and you don't understand how it suddenly became wrong.</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#000066;">This has become one of those nights, starting off alone, knowing somehow the person you wish to see won't appear. There was no reason to be moving through the club, waiting, hoping, just hanging around waiting for the love scene to manifest. There won't be any love scene. Wake up. You could go up to someone, say "wanna fuck?" and they might take you up on it, and it might be fun, but your viscera will gnaw at you, say to wait, find someone you can hold an entire conversation with, although you feel hopeless and at the mercy of your stupid stupid brain. Why do you bother? Why do you choose someone and attempt pursuit? You don't want to cage them, you don't want to have them. You want to love them, but it seems such an imposition to love people. They are forever disappearing. In one way or another. "All you need these days are a strand of pearls and the perfect little black dress." </span></em></div><div><span style="color:#000066;"><em>Now, wouldn't it be better to do it our way? We have the programs and pamphlets telling just how it can be done. Just follow us, the chance to start again in a brand new world of limited opportunity and candy coated numbness is waiting</em> <em>just for you!</em></span></div><div><span style="color:#000066;"><em>There is no accounting for humans. They spend their whole lives reaching for something. The slope of your neck, and the insecurity because you are not, you are not anything, and those you try to</em><em> touch go running. </em></span></div><div><span style="color:#990000;"><em>Why do you want to touch the ones in motion? </em>Blossom Dearie, where are you now that we need you even more? Do pencils really come from Pennsylvania? Shall we cherish our questions, not our answers? <em>Isn't the weather painful?<span style="color:#990000;"></em></span></div></span><span style="color:#990000;"><div></span>Cheers.</div><div><div><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">The Neely Sparkle</span></strong></div><div>2 cup(s) Smirnoff No. 21 Vodka (25 oz. per bottle)<br />2 bottle(s) Moët & Chandon Champagne<br />1.25 cup(s) pomegranate juice<br />1 cup(s) simple syrup<br />thinly sliced lemon<br />Combine ingredients in a punch bowl with ice.<br />Add simple syrup to taste.<br />Mix in lemon slices.<br />Makes 18 servings<br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/y9a9GTBkcco&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/y9a9GTBkcco&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object></div></div></div>Le Cornichonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00162733298282840644noreply@blogger.com0