Wednesday, April 01, 2009
The Taoiseach's New Clothes III
Once I don't do 'things' immediately, they would often vanish in the realm of oblivion.
That's why I am thankful to the very inner voice whispering: Carpe noctem.
Be it then: Some - do I need say?: very personal - thoughts before the chapter picture- respectively cowengate is going to get closed.
And some last words before diving in media res: I've been following with interest (and often chucking) what has been posted about this 'issue'. By the following, which I shall be writing 'without filtres', thus as the thoughts come, I do not intend to attack anybody.
A 'clever' chap (I promised to come back to this point) unasked nails some caricatures to some museum walls, and ...
... nothing happens.
So, after a while, the 'clever chap' - did anyone notice I did not call him 'artist'? - emails a newspaper.
[Comment: It would not make much sense to hit a nail into the wall of any museum's toilet, as long as noone takes notice, hm?]
Well, and what happens afterwards, meanwhile everybody (at least in the blogosphere) should / could know.
Thus, end of the beforegoing.
De gustibus not est disputandum.
Quite. Either you have it, or you have it not.
So, why would I publish caricatures of a naked Taoiseach?
Ladies, gentlemen, this is not about a "clever chap" trying to advertise his 'artwork'/name; this is about freedom of speech / music / arts / satire ...
... and - last not least - freedom from censorship!!
Yes, again, I am writing this 'without filtres', without caring about 'wrong' syntax, 'wrong' prepositions, 'wrong' idioms.
Satire is satire is satire.
Imagine all the flags burning if this were, f.e. about a naked Mohammed or any of the very genleman's afficionados.
Conclusion:
Ha, ...
... what a great fun to show a Taoiseach without clothes;
... what a fun to attack the 'fucking bastards' elected by a majority of most intelligent voters;
... what a fun we (bloggers) had while ...
... approximately 280,000 children died of starvation.
Oops. Did I spoil the fun? Sorry. Am I a fucking kill-joy? Forgive me.
After all, who cares, hm?
We - the great champions of the blogosphere had a splendid time, hadn't we?
Exactly the fun, Heinrich Heine once defined:
Der Knecht singt gerne Freiheitslieder
des Abends in der Schenke.
The peasant loves to sing songs of freedom (rebel-songs)
in the pub at night.
- - -
I am proud of myself ... as I knew before that I'd not be able to express my thoughts (in English).
So, please, forgive me and head on to read the very best post on this very topic.
The peace of the night.
The Taoiseach's New Clothes
The Taoiseach's New Clothes II
Brian, Borges & Bioy
Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?
Physiognomy of fine gentlemen
The Impossible Fact
That's why I am thankful to the very inner voice whispering: Carpe noctem.
Be it then: Some - do I need say?: very personal - thoughts before the chapter picture- respectively cowengate is going to get closed.
And some last words before diving in media res: I've been following with interest (and often chucking) what has been posted about this 'issue'. By the following, which I shall be writing 'without filtres', thus as the thoughts come, I do not intend to attack anybody.
*
What has happened?A 'clever' chap (I promised to come back to this point) unasked nails some caricatures to some museum walls, and ...
... nothing happens.
So, after a while, the 'clever chap' - did anyone notice I did not call him 'artist'? - emails a newspaper.
[Comment: It would not make much sense to hit a nail into the wall of any museum's toilet, as long as noone takes notice, hm?]
Well, and what happens afterwards, meanwhile everybody (at least in the blogosphere) should / could know.
Thus, end of the beforegoing.
De gustibus not est disputandum.
Quite. Either you have it, or you have it not.
So, why would I publish caricatures of a naked Taoiseach?
Ladies, gentlemen, this is not about a "clever chap" trying to advertise his 'artwork'/name; this is about freedom of speech / music / arts / satire ...
... and - last not least - freedom from censorship!!
Yes, again, I am writing this 'without filtres', without caring about 'wrong' syntax, 'wrong' prepositions, 'wrong' idioms.
Satire is satire is satire.
Imagine all the flags burning if this were, f.e. about a naked Mohammed or any of the very genleman's afficionados.
Conclusion:
Ha, ...
... what a great fun to show a Taoiseach without clothes;
... what a fun to attack the 'fucking bastards' elected by a majority of most intelligent voters;
... what a fun we (bloggers) had while ...
... approximately 280,000 children died of starvation.
Oops. Did I spoil the fun? Sorry. Am I a fucking kill-joy? Forgive me.
After all, who cares, hm?
We - the great champions of the blogosphere had a splendid time, hadn't we?
Exactly the fun, Heinrich Heine once defined:
Der Knecht singt gerne Freiheitslieder
des Abends in der Schenke.
The peasant loves to sing songs of freedom (rebel-songs)
in the pub at night.
- - -
I am proud of myself ... as I knew before that I'd not be able to express my thoughts (in English).
So, please, forgive me and head on to read the very best post on this very topic.
The peace of the night.
The Taoiseach's New Clothes
The Taoiseach's New Clothes II
Brian, Borges & Bioy
Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?
Physiognomy of fine gentlemen
The Impossible Fact
Monday, March 30, 2009
Meeting John McGahern
Almost exactly about this time 13 years ago, early in April:
Why not meeting halfway, he had suggested; at Blake's in Enniskillen.
So, on a bright and sunny (Satur-) day arriving in Enniskillen. Oh, what a wonderful world! Eleven years ago, summer '85: Each of the few noises reechoing; a voice here, a pair of stilettos there; at least one person sitting in each of the few cars parking in the main road.
Today: spring in the air, spring in the faces; no one sitting in the long row of parked cars, reading a newspaper. A cheerful laughter here, no supicious glances at the stranger with the strange bag. What a difference!
Blake's of the Hollow. He's not arrived, yet. After a while, I decide to rather wait in front of the entrance, enjoying the sun and - the very difference.
"May I leave my camera-bag?" - "There's no bomb in it, eh?" Laughingly the barkeeper nods, takes the bag.
Waiting. Waiting. For Godot? No. For John McGahern. Here he comes.
Two pints of Guinness, some sandwiches and two pots of tea later - apart from his work - we'd have talked about: history; many of his colleagues; the (then) political situation; abortion; the (ab)use of language, censorship, the Church.
At one stage he says: "One of the best things in my life so far has been to see the Church's influence fading."
"Well, I remember f.e. that [in autumn 1990] especially in rural western areas quite a few priests would call upon their flock by no means to vote for Mary Robinson becoming President."
"And, did it keep the majority from electing her?"
"Still, ...
"Still?"
"And you think that's irreversible?"
"Yes."
"Hm, that's what Gorbatchov said about Glasnost and Perestroika."
"Never again was said after the Holocaust, too, and still we are having our Srebrenicas and Rwandas. Yes. But we should never give up hope."
"Is that your Message to the Irish People?"
"À la Seán MacBride?" And again there is this tiny almost imperceptible smile.
And so we are going to talk about MacBride's 'testimony', finally coming to chapter 11 - Criminal Neglect of Forestry.
"Ah, yes, forestry", he says, raises his arm and asks the waiter to bring us another pot of tea.
Why would I've told this? Well, today three years ago John McGahern died.
Died?
Not really, hm?
You can meet him every day - in his books.
Oh well ... and whenever striving through his forest.
Why not meeting halfway, he had suggested; at Blake's in Enniskillen.
So, on a bright and sunny (Satur-) day arriving in Enniskillen. Oh, what a wonderful world! Eleven years ago, summer '85: Each of the few noises reechoing; a voice here, a pair of stilettos there; at least one person sitting in each of the few cars parking in the main road.
Today: spring in the air, spring in the faces; no one sitting in the long row of parked cars, reading a newspaper. A cheerful laughter here, no supicious glances at the stranger with the strange bag. What a difference!
Blake's of the Hollow. He's not arrived, yet. After a while, I decide to rather wait in front of the entrance, enjoying the sun and - the very difference.
"May I leave my camera-bag?" - "There's no bomb in it, eh?" Laughingly the barkeeper nods, takes the bag.
Waiting. Waiting. For Godot? No. For John McGahern. Here he comes.
Two pints of Guinness, some sandwiches and two pots of tea later - apart from his work - we'd have talked about: history; many of his colleagues; the (then) political situation; abortion; the (ab)use of language, censorship, the Church.
At one stage he says: "One of the best things in my life so far has been to see the Church's influence fading."
"Well, I remember f.e. that [in autumn 1990] especially in rural western areas quite a few priests would call upon their flock by no means to vote for Mary Robinson becoming President."
"And, did it keep the majority from electing her?"
"Still, ...
"Still?"
"And you think that's irreversible?"
"Yes."
"Hm, that's what Gorbatchov said about Glasnost and Perestroika."
"Never again was said after the Holocaust, too, and still we are having our Srebrenicas and Rwandas. Yes. But we should never give up hope."
"Is that your Message to the Irish People?"
"À la Seán MacBride?" And again there is this tiny almost imperceptible smile.
And so we are going to talk about MacBride's 'testimony', finally coming to chapter 11 - Criminal Neglect of Forestry.
"Ah, yes, forestry", he says, raises his arm and asks the waiter to bring us another pot of tea.
Why would I've told this? Well, today three years ago John McGahern died.
Died?
Not really, hm?
You can meet him every day - in his books.
Oh well ... and whenever striving through his forest.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
O Fortuna
As the originally posted video (bottom of this page) is no longer available, here's Carmina Burana in full length performed by UC Davis University Chorus, Alumni Chorus, Symphony Orchestra, and the Pacific Boychoir.
For those who like to take the time: Lean back and enjoy.
For those who like to take the time: Lean back and enjoy.
How do they know?
Your result for The 3 Variable Funny Test...
the Prankster
CLEAN | COMPLEX | LIGHT
Your humor has an intellectual, even conceptual slant to it. You're not pretentious, but you're not into what some would call 'low humor' either. You'll laugh at a good dirty joke, but you definitely prefer something clever to something moist.
You probably like well-thought-out pranks and/or spoofs and it's highly likely you've tried one of these things yourself. In a lot of ways, yours is the most entertaining type of humor because it's smart without being mean-spirited.
PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Conan O'Brian - Ashton Kutcher
The 3-Variable Funny Test!
- it rules -
Take The 3 Variable Funny Test at HelloQuizzy
H/t to The Poor Mouth
The Ode is not yet composed
He's still 20 years younger than John Major, I am still 28 years younger than Maggie Thatcher, only the proportional relation between our ages has changed a bit.
Wishing the best of Omnium which is - as everbody knows - everything!
As Tetrapilotomos hasn't finished his novel In-climbing-two-cats, yet, and McSeanagall is still composing his Ode to the Poor Mouth, and as no Third Policeman was available on you tube, here's to you, with kind regards from Flann himself.
And now, dear readers, head over to Mr. Jams O'Donnell Esq., as herewith I declare the bazaar for congratulations opened.
Wishing the best of Omnium which is - as everbody knows - everything!
As Tetrapilotomos hasn't finished his novel In-climbing-two-cats, yet, and McSeanagall is still composing his Ode to the Poor Mouth, and as no Third Policeman was available on you tube, here's to you, with kind regards from Flann himself.
And now, dear readers, head over to Mr. Jams O'Donnell Esq., as herewith I declare the bazaar for congratulations opened.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Impossible Fact (Variation 02)
This morning while in fact busy with proofreading his 1669-pages-work "Pre-assyrian philately in a Nutshell" my closest friend Tetrapilotomos out of the blue declaimed following poem.
Listening I had a déjà vu.
Not only did it sound to me like a variation on a poem by Christian Morgenstern, but this time also as but a tiny variation on a poem by a certain McSeanagall.
Anyway, here it is:
Omnium re Cowengate / Picturegate:
The Taoiseach's New Clothes
The Taoiseach's New Clothes II
Brian, Borges & Bioy
Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?
Physiognomy of fine gentlemen
Listening I had a déjà vu.
Not only did it sound to me like a variation on a poem by Christian Morgenstern, but this time also as but a tiny variation on a poem by a certain McSeanagall.
Anyway, here it is:
The Impossible Fact
BiffO, used to rule and live in clover,
walking in the wrong direction
at a busy intersection
is run over.
"How," he says, his mood restoring
but without his wrath ignoring,
"can an accident like this
ever happen? What's amiss?
"Did RTE's administration
fail in free speech's deprivation?
Did police ignore the need
for reducing bloggers' speed?
"Isn't there a prohibition,
barring internet transmission
of a mighty to a wight?
Were the nasty bloggers right?"
Tightly swathed in dampened tissues
he explores the legal issues,
and his lackeys soon make clear:
Free speech not permitted here!
Thus BiffO comes to the conclusion:
His mishap was an illusion,
for, he reasons pointedly,
that which must not, can not be.
© McSeanagall
Omnium re Cowengate / Picturegate:
The Taoiseach's New Clothes
The Taoiseach's New Clothes II
Brian, Borges & Bioy
Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?
Physiognomy of fine gentlemen
Physiognomy of fine gentlemen
Following what some Irish would call picturegate, this afternoon a thought crossed my mind: This could become Usmanov-esque dimensions*.
Could have something to do with physiognomy.
Judge yourself.
Alisher Usmanov
Brian Cowen
Amazing, hm?
* And here's Omnium about the Usmanov saga (in chronological order):
Audiatur et altera pars
The Impossible Fact
Not about Mr. Usmanov
Above Mr. Usmanov's dignity
A diamond of altruism
Omnium about Picturegate:
The Taoiseach's New Clothes
The Taoiseach's New Clothes II
Brian, Borges & Bioy
Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?
Could have something to do with physiognomy.
Judge yourself.
Alisher Usmanov
Brian CowenAmazing, hm?
* And here's Omnium about the Usmanov saga (in chronological order):
Audiatur et altera pars
The Impossible Fact
Not about Mr. Usmanov
Above Mr. Usmanov's dignity
A diamond of altruism
Omnium about Picturegate:
The Taoiseach's New Clothes
The Taoiseach's New Clothes II
Brian, Borges & Bioy
Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?
Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?
And here's the saga (so far):
The Taoiseach's New Clothes
The Taoiseach's New Clothes II
Brian, Borges & Bioy
POETF Day*
Oh, how do I admire
that James McIntyre.
And may I require,
I beg you, please!
the entire cheese -
to caress it with
my tender teeth.
[Mc Seanagall]
* Piss off early, tomorrow's Friday
Mirroring fluids/fruits of temptation
Cast a cold Eye
on Fruits & Fluids
Horseman, pass by!
on Fruits & Fluids
Horseman, pass by!
How could I?
The peace of the night!
The peace of the night!
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