Count the bubbles

Another pleasant dinner evening chez Christine.

Destination: Kazakhstan

We've posted his censorship alert 6 hours ago, but nobody cares. Visits from Le Monde or any other of the elite French newspapers...forget it. Nobody is interested. Nothing but the usual, lechery visits of our site for our naked girls from...(don't ask).

I informed Sacha about this unfortunate turn of events (is it a "turn," actually?), and he decided to let it go, and leave the country, leave France, leave the old, tired continent, and look for uncensored pastures elsewhere. And there he is, on his way to Kazakhstan---the only transcontinental destination available at this late hour by train (8:36pm, the train is late, of course), pictured above. Fortunately, it's a non-stop ride that will take only 6 days and 6 minutes.

Bye bye, Sacha, we will miss you!

Keep your powder dry, especially in Kazakhstan! And send us a picture of the rotating golden statue of President Breftzerk. And quit smoking at an appropriate moment in the future---especially cigarettes that look suspiciously like something more.

-"Uncensored pastures, that sounds like a flip from the washed-up scriptwriter."
-"Come to think of it, we haven't heard from him in a long time."
-"Well, he was supposed to have disappeared in the Mediterranean, off Cannes."
-"Perhaps he is in Kazakhstan now, and works as a poet for President Breftzerk."

Hungarian for beginners --- Monty Python

Communist swimwear

It was 1985, before the Berlin Wall had come down, and I was visiting at the Rockefeller College of the State University of New York at Albany. They had arranged for an apartment for me, owned by a physics professor from Union College, Schenectady, who would go to CERN for a sabbatical (yes, click it, and click here, as well). What I did in Schenectady? I learned how to pronounce "Schenectady!"

There was a TV in my apartment, and on the TV, one fine evening, a commercial appears. It's a fashion show with a female man-eater (are all man-eaters female?) who pronounces the words "day wear" with a heavy Russian accent, while a mousy model comes on stage in a shapeless gray garment, and disappears again. The light dims, the man-eater flashes a torch-light, pronounces "night wear," and the mousy model re-appears in the very same outfit. The light comes up again, the man eater pronounces "swim wear," and the mousy model makes her last appearance, this time with a swim belt wrapped around her hopeless dress. CUT. A male person, with an unaccented voice, proclaims:"Wendy is better; Wendy offers choice."

Two days later, Wendy, a fast food chain, pulled the commercial, "because it had raised controversy." I never understood. I thought it was very funny, and very true. Especially the accent was very funny, Zwim-Weaarh,  Zwim-Weaarh. By the way, I forgot to tell, with each appearance of the model, the Stalinist man eater (obviously a member of the Tea Party) would raise her hands and clap enthusiastically while gazing triumphantly at the audience, that would then chime in, reluctantly.

But now I do understand why Wendy pulled the commercial. Because, you know, the swim wear under communism was much better that I (we?) thought---as the newly discovered picture from the former, communist Eastern Germany, published in Der Spiegel, exemplifies.

-"If only the Tea Party would know, it would change their outlook completely."

-"It could mean the end of the culture wars."

-"Communism is OK, really."

-"Moderates, independents, centrists, whoever is out there, draw your Tea Party friends to this post and see the world change."

President Obama in the Oval Office

-"Do you like my new curtains?"

William Hague "not gay"

Earlier today we thought about putting up a post about William Hague (ex-leader of the British Conservative Party, now foreign secretary), who has officially declared this morning that he is not gay.

Now, it's a beginner's thing in epistemology (or whatever) that negative statements cannot be disproved conclusively in infinite referent frames (no observer has infinite observational prowess, unobserved cases might always provide the elusive counterexample).

William Hague and Christopher Myers

So, William Hague did not have sex with his advisor Christopher Myers, because, because you were there, right? But you weren't; only Hague and Myers were, since they were traveling together, sharing a hotel room, campaigning, whatever, while the bright young thing is only 25 years old (Hague looks much older than he is).

And then we decided that we should not put up a post about Hague, because it would be politically correct in a sense.

And then the British Prime Minister, David Cameron, announced his "100% support of William Hague in this matter."

And then we decided to get (back) into the game.

100% support. For what? For not being gay? For denying being gay? For not coming out of the closet? For coming out of the non-closet? For not coming out of the non-closet? How does he know?

-"And, by the way, David, I'm not gay!"
-"Absolutely, William, done deal, politicians never lie, especially about their sexuality. Gay sex, bah!"

And so on and so forth. Thank You.

The MoosAlpFest 2010

Today, at the Moosalp, up 400 meters from Bürchen (us), located at a saddle point between two local mountains, with views of the Matt-tal (Zermatt). In the background, the Dom, 4,500 meters high.

And here a life clip taken by our visting friend Maarten Marx, the famous nonstandard logician:

Plus ça change: "Call this a govment"

Huckleberry Finn's father, in chapter VI of Mark Twain's novel (written in 1876, situated around 1845)

"Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like. Here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from him -- a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense of raising. Yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin' for him and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call that govment! That ain't all, nuther. The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property. Here's what the law does: The law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. They call that govment! A man can't get his rights in a govment like this. Sometimes I've a mighty notion to just leave the country for good and all. Yes, and I told 'em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I, for two cents I'd leave the blamed country and never come a-near it agin. Them's the very words. I says look at my hat -- if you call it a hat -- but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's below my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o' stove-pipe. Look at it, says I -- such a hat for me to wear -- one of the wealthiest men in this town if I could git my rights.

"Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. Why, looky here. There was a free nigger there from Ohio -- a mulatter, most as white as a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane -- the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the State. And what do you think? They said he was a p'fessor in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And that ain't the wust. They said he could vote when he was at home. Well, that let me out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming to? It was 'lection day, and I was just about to go and vote myself if I warn't too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a State in this country where they'd let that nigger vote, I drawed out. I says I'll never vote agin. Them's the very words I said; they all heard me; and the country may rot for all me -- I'll never vote agin as long as I live. And to see the cool way of that nigger -- why, he wouldn't a give me the road if I hadn't shoved him out o' the way. I says to the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction and sold? -- that's what I want to know. And what do you reckon they said? Why, they said he couldn't be sold till he'd been in the State six months, and he hadn't been there that long yet. There, now -- that's a specimen. They call that a govment that can't sell a free nigger till he's been in the State six months. Here's a govment that calls itself a govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet's got to set stock-still for six whole months before it can take a hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger, and -- "

And when the markets get into a funk, they'll buy your paper, even though it's junk

Spycraft!

From the English 1986 movie Blunt (Blunt was a notorious British double spy)



The British is so posh, it's hard to understand. The crucial lines are:

“Don’t worry, poppet, it’s just the missus,” (Burgess to the lad)
“If he needs bum, he’s welcome to him.” (MacLean to the butler)

Sex on the beach

Well, not quite, but you can call it formal foreplay (perhaps better: formalized foreplay?)



There they come.



When we showed these pictures to Lesley (yes, it's on the beach of Hilton Head), she shared some thoughts with us, and we, bitchy gay Europeans, couldn't agree more.



Will she say yes?



Will he say yes?



We'll never know.

Rüdesheim am Rhein

We are invited by a friend to spend a few days at his place in Altheim, near Frankfurt, Germany. Where to go, what to visit? We suggest Rüdesheim, because it's not far, it's famous for its Reingau (Rhine) wines, and we've never been there before.

We arrive by ferry from the other bank, and it rains. A tourist trap under a cloud? 

The lunch, schnitzels, is excellent, even though German schnitzels, as a rule, are not thin enough. It is served with a local sauce, Rüdesheimer Sauce, with a hint of the local brandy, Asbach-Uralt. I also order a glass of the local whine, which is, as expected, disappointing (Rüdesheim is simply located too far up north; there is not enough sun for a decent wine).

Rüdesheim, under the rain

What to do next? We take the cable car up the hill, and discover the official monument of the War 70/71.

New Bern, North Carolina

What was this?



Yes, it was a bear, or at least a representation of one.

The "logo," of New Bern is the bear, Ann explains at the reception of the local Hampton Inn, and since the town is celebrating its 300's birthday, bears are all over the place.




The local tourist board (Ann is a member) asked businesses to commission a bear of their liking (inside fairly strict rules). America at its best.

New Bern's claim to fame? It's the birthplace of Pepsi Cola.

Kitty Hawk, North Carolina

What was this?



Yes, it was the first aeroplane, the first vessel that would lift off, fly, and land entirely on its own power. The Wright Brothers developed it and it flew on Dec. 17, 1903, in the dunes of Kitty Hawk.

The place sits on the OBX, the outer banks of North Carolina, a chain of sand banks, not unlike the Frisian Islands of the North Sea.

Charleston, South Carolina (preview)

Waiting to be seated for brunch at Jestine's in Charleston (@ a cool 95° F (34° C))

Rehoboth Beach (postcript)

It's a pity that our host had already left when the Republican Club of Rehoboth started to erect an enormous statue right between Rehoboth Av. and the beach.
















The statue is dedicated to Peggy Noonan's famous 2004 column in the Wall Street Journal about George W. Bush, and when it is finished, an inbuilt recorder will speak her unforgettable words in an infinite loop:

"Mr. Bush is the triumph of the seemingly average American man. He’s normal. He thinks in a sort of common-sense way. He speaks the language of business and sports and politics. You know him. He’s not exotic. But if there’s a fire on the block, he’ll run out and help. He’ll help direct the rig to the right house and count the kids coming out and say, “Where’s Sally?” He’s responsible. He’s not an intellectual. Intellectuals start all the trouble in the world."

While we were traveling

Burlington, Vermont

We had barely arrived in the North-East Kingdom, or Perry would haul us off to visit an old friend, Big Al, in Burlington. Burlington is in the Guinness league, twice, for being the largest city of Vermont (more than 10k inhabs), and for being the cloudiest city of the continental US. It borders on the Lake Champlain (pictured), which is widely held responsible for the microclimate.

I had never seen the sun in Burlington before, but it did shine upon our arrival for dinner with Big Al and Helen, his lovely wife, whom we had last seen in December of 1988, when we had been invited to her perfect Christmas Dinner. Nothing had changed, of course.

Al is an emeritus of the University of Vermont, and we could not resist the invitation to his alma mater.

The University is home to the Dudley H. Davis Center, where the university's coop is located (T-shirts, Maple syrup), and where the Value Hall enshrines the values of the university. Respect, Openness, Integrity, Innovation, Responsibility. "Why not Justice," a Senior Vice President of Academic Communication must have asked during interminable Power Point Presentations. Was she fired? No, justice was duly added to the value spectrum,  and is missing only from the picture because our Samsung travel camera does not do wide angles.

We however, are in a spiky mode. Why Justice, we ask Big Alk, even though we know the answer already. Stay tuned.

Hilton Head

We had been invited by Lesley and Cory---not for the first time, we should add, they had invited us to a place in the Alpilles in the Provence region in 2005 (after a week that they had rented out house), and to their condo in Chicago in 2007. This time, it's Hilton Head, South Carolina. Another condo of theirs.


We have barely arrived or are hauled off to a dinner at a delicious restaurant (pictured above, under Live Oak trees covered with Spanish moss).

Cory	Lesley

Hilton Head has a rich history. It was a major outpost of the Union Army in the Civil War, and became a settlement area after the war for emancipated African Americans, the Gullahs, who developed their own language, still spoken locally.




Its main attraction is the beach, possibly the best beach I've ever seen, warm, luscious, breezy, sexy, with long stretches for solitary encounters, and wild life to match. The finest sand in the world.

Columbia, South Carolina

Located on Congaree River's fall line from the Appalachian Mountains (fall line: the spot where rivers become unnavigable for vessels sailing upstream, and simultaneously the spot farthest downstream where falling water can usefully power a mill), Columbia serves as the long-suffering capital of South Carolina. As we are following the Two Point Rd. from our hotel in the direction of downtown, we expect traffic to intensify. Instead, traffic calms down to a mere trickle. On a Saturday, the business district is completely quiet. Situated at its heart, the Convention Center provides interesting views over the Congaree Valley.

(The place appears to have had a historic downtown which was destroyed 1865 in a fire at the end of the Civil War, etc. wiki. etc. wiki.)