One of the greatest weeks of my life took place just over a year ago when we set off on a cycling trip across Belgium and the Netherlands, a bit of France and then onto the ferry back to Dover and London. Catching the Eurostar from St. Pancras International to Bruxelles and then getting on our bikes from there to Antwerp, to Rotterdam, to Gouda, to Amsterdam, Noordwijk, Den Haag, Brugge and Dunkerque, passing through several other lovely towns and stunning villages in the countryside and in the seaside. The mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion we felt in identical measures on a daily basis gradually neutralised our souls into a state of nothingness that only Siddhartha and his friends could ever grasp.
Back in London, however, with almost immediate effect, the enlightening experience had paradoxically triggered a rather depressive phase in our individual lives as we battled to come to terms with the appalling state of the cycling infrastructure we had to face again. This state of affairs eventually led one of the members of the glorious power trio to never touch or even come close to his bike ever again, whilst the second chap went on to work night and day in order to be able to afford a motorcycle as soon as possible so that he would only have to use his formerly beloved bicycle just for the occasional trip to the Polski sklep around the corner when in need of some kabanos to accompany his piwo, or perhaps some pierogi for dinner. I, for myself, kept calm and carried on. Nevertheless, the truth of the matter is that things have never been the same ever since our traumatic return.
Of course that what none of us pedalling prodigies had realised was that such a long-lasting dark age could have been overcome quite simply and easily with a brief visit to my hometown, the good old city of São Paulo, paired with just a single attempt at a short little bike ride around town. Shock therapy, it is called. It does work for some, or does it…
There is indeed a name for this particular type of logical fallacy narrated above, which I fail to recall right now. It is normally used as a consolation device so to speak. It is often employed towards the others, but it is also used by ourselves upon ourselves when in search of the bright side, or the half-full glass as opposed to the half-empty one. It can always get better, but it could always be worse. Is the eye of the beholder to be blamed?
Perhaps another short example of this rhetorical construct, whose technical term continues to escape me, might help to clarify what I am talking about: Do you know when someone starts whingeing about the fact that the food they’re eating tastes like nothing, to which someone else replies that at least there’s food on the table? So, there you go. I remain hopeful that someone in the near future shall be able to assist me in order to remember the name of this gracious piece of trickery.
In the meantime, though, may I leave you with a nostalgic selection of shots taken whilst on the saddle during this memorable occasion. Never mind if it gets too tedious.
A view of the friendly border between Belgium and The Netherlands or the Flemish-Dutch border as some would certainly prefer it
As good as it gets: Dutch-style segregated cycling highway
Dedicated cycling path across the Rotterdam Suburbia
Check out this commonplace cycling roundabout + bin on the right
More segregated cycling highways in the outskirts of Rotterdam
A windmill of course, not long past the lovely town of Gouda
Past Rotterdam en route to Amsterdam, getting rural
The infamous LF2 which connects Brussels and Amsterdam
Nearing the end of another rather pleasant shift
A chubby hare crosses the path completely unaware that a speeding cyclist approaches to the concern of the onlooking Dutch mare
A customary set of dedicated traffic lights for bicycles in Haarlem just past Amsterdam on the way towards the dunes of Zandvoort
A charming little bridge for bicycles built over the marshes and canals nearly halfway towards Zandvoort and the seaside
Several different signs point to a variety of cycling routes
A seagull apparently accusing us of blatantly contributing to the increasingly worrying problem of fresh fish scarcity
A threatening Dutch fox stares at the defenceless cyclists riding in despair along the path which connects Zandvoort and Noordwijk through the sand dunes as the sun quickly goes down
The sun sets in spectacular fashion as we land in Noordwijk
The weather turns dramatically and the winds worsen but the seals remain unaffected and so do the unreal segregated cycling highways
The road is long and the winds are strong but at least it’s all flat
A strong and and determined group of three resilient cyclists crosses the infamous Pijerdam over extremely rough seas while the passing cars pose absolutely no threat whatsoever to everyone’s safety
Of course it would be madness to waste the power of this windy coast
While some of us struggle with the southerly winds others get conveniently pushed by them on their rather peculiar rowing bikes
A little detour towards Brugge sounded like a good idea
A sample of a lovely pendulum bridge back in Flemish territory
The tall bridges of Zeebrugge were trying to tell us something important but we simply wouldn’t acknowledge the fact that the ferry boats which departed from that port only took cargo to Dover
Stark difference in terms of the cycling infrastructure provided as we make our way into France but still incredibly considerate motorists
The last leg of this not so gruelling challenge departing from Dunkerque towards the ferry terminal some 20km ahead
The post-apocalyptic industrial landscape is a bit of a contrast
Perhaps one should not wait for the lights
And on board we go or should we turn around
A neutralised smile as thoroughly described and explained above
A fleeting glimpse of the nearing Albion
Safely landed in Dover on our way out of the ferry terminal
The cycling path along the seafront in Dover pointing towards London did look promising especially with the then upcoming 2012 Olympiads but unfortunately it has remained a promise to this day
So this is it, or rather, some of it. All in all, as the people on this side of the pond often say: one mustn’t grumble.
Your toaster has no thermostat. It has got a timer instead. So, therefore, when you go for a second round of toasts immediately, it is most likely that they will be overdone to your taste. This is because the toaster is unable to measure how hot it is without a thermostat and thus it will burn your slice mercilessly, so you had better watch it. Closely. Not only with your eyes, but most importantly, with your sense of smell.
Now, it may be the case that you are one of the last remaining owners of a toaster with a thermostat. Yes, they do exist. Still. If you have owned a toaster for period of time which is longer than somewhere between two or three decades, depending on which country you inhabit, or alternatively, if you bought it second-hand and the appliance does look rather dated, then there is a small likelihood that you could be in possession of one of them. In order to confer whether this the actual case, proceed to toast two immediate rounds of slices in the same usual fashion as you would normally do. No, you would not. That is precisely correct, for a toaster with a thermostat would not allow you to proceed with a second round immediately. That is because it is too fucking hot and so your stupid bread would pop back up repeatedly until the bloody thing cools down, that bitch.
At this point, you might be asking yourself:
Well, what the hell do I do, then?
Just relax. In the next section we discuss a few hypothetical scenarios featuring several different hypothetical people, with whom you might identify yourself. Read the passages carefully and pay even closer attention to the questions that are being asked. Take your time to think about your answer before you choose from one of the options. Once you have made up your mind and selected one of them, refer to the key at the end of this chapter.
*From the long awaited manual Toasters for Dummies, by Eurásio Regis Filho, London, YMO4 Publishing House (forthcoming).
Multitasking is only the first step towards the next leap in evolution when humans will have fully developed their multidimensional thoughts.
Simultaneous lines of thought and operations, people talking and listening without the need to take turns, the word ‘concentration’ completely losing its relevance.
Exchanges in the form of a multidimensional language as opposed to the outdated linear languages we have these days.
No word after word in a sentence any longer, but rather, a semantic vomit with unequivocal meanings. Communication breakdowns brought down to a minimum.
Thoughts and ideas clearly expressed in ways which are rather similar to the ways in which we express our feelings, which, in turn, are similar to the way in which animals (and possibly even plants) communicate, you see?
Has anyone said this before? I think Carl Sagan might have said something along these lines… Oh well, ne’mind, for it will be at least between another five to forty thousand years until this transition completes itself and, of course, that is if we do not blow ourselves up before, which every now and then seems a pretty likely scenario, innit?
If we make it, though, the only truly sad thing will be irony becoming an archaic institution and children struggling to understand its concept in literature classes at school…
But wait! There will be no schools, so it’s all right then.
In the meantime, excuse my language, but fuck you for complaining that it is too hot in London today, mate. Seriously.
Shame the subtitles are not in English. Still, you can get the idea.
Got subtitles and the full doc now on Vimeo, but not allowed to embed, so, entirely up to you to bother… 🙂
I really don’t know how I only came to know about all these events only a few days ago, and it made me think a lot and I just don’t have the time to share all my mixed feelingsand thoughts right here right now unfortunately, so I’ll just concentrate on what was perhaps the main thought that I had. Rafael has a point and I take it. I’m not saying I agree with it, and in fact this is too bloody radical, but he did make his point really, really well. Man, I know that street so well, you just wouldn’t imagine!
When I read about the indignant student who said Rafael was a fucking idiot, for “how could he just overgeneralise like that and say that all those students were a bunch of preppy kids and ignore all those hard-working ones who struggle to pay the tuition fees, etc, etc, etc,” it just made me think of the wars. Yes, when a nation or a coalition attacks another nation, they always say they’ve got specific targets, but civilians end up dying inevitably. Yet, it’s for a greater cause, they say… Now, whether that cause is justifiable, is a completely different matter. The thing is, the fact that one is already there, at university, studying hard and struggling to pay the fees, automatically means that s/he has not been denied a chance, unlike the ‘Brazilian untouchables’ who don’t stand a chance. It’s actually pretty hard to grasp it without being an excluded. It is an extreme artistic (yes) manifest testing the limits of transgression and it does have its value nevertheless, and I’m off to bed now. Goodnight.
“Atack Part 2 (( On the way to Revolution )) We’ll invade a ’shitty’ art gallery ((Choque Cultural )). According to its ideology, it takes cover of underground artists so the place is ‘ours’. We declare total protest. (-place of meeting-) Rescue the phrases. Heil to the ‘pixação’! Art as crime. Crime as art. All for the pixação movement. “
If the world that we are forced to accept is false and nothing is true,
then everything is possible.
On the way to discovering what we love, we will find everything we hate,
everything that blocks our path to what we desire.
The comfort will never be comfortable for those who seek what is not on the market.
A systematic questioning of the idea of happiness.
We'll cut the vocal chords of every empowered speaker.
We'll yank the social symbols through the looking glass. We'll devalue society's currency.
To confront the familiar.
Society is a fraud so complete and venal...
that it demands to be destroyed beyond the power of memory to recall its existence.
Where there's fire, we will carry gasoline.
Interrupt the continuum of everyday experience...
and all the normal expectations that go with it.
To live as if something actually depended on one's actions.
To rupture the spell of the ideology of the commodified consumer society...
so that our oppressed desires of a more authentic nature can come forward.
To demonstrate the contrast between what life presently is and what it could be.
To immerse ourselves in the oblivion of actions and know we're making it happen.
There will be an intensity never before known in everyday life...
to exchange love and hate, life and death,
terror and redemption, repulsions and attractions.
An affirmation of freedom so reckless and unqualified,
that it amounts to a total denial of every kind of restraint and limitation.
- Hey, old man, what you doing up there? - I'm not sure.
You need any help getting down, sir?
No, I don't think so.
Stupid bastard.
No worse than us. He's all action and no theory.
WE'RE ALL THEORY AND NO ACTIONS-ONS-ONS-ONS-ons-ns-ns-ns-s-s-s...
Excerpt from Waking Life(2001) - Written and directed by Richard Linklater.
In these busy times with deadlines to be met and several other priorities, here we* are, resorting to reproduction once again, but at least we* do our* best to offer something really worth sharing, we* hope.
Logorama: A Hard-Boiled Heist Flick With An Earth-Shattering Twist
Logorama is an award-winning, provocative and daring animated short film, made using over 2,500 Trade Mark Logos as characters and scenarios, by the French H5 design collective. It screened in January as an Official Selection at the Sundance Festival, and it’s a 2010 Oscar Nominee for Best Animated Short Film. [it has actually won it!]
Put a lock here is now on. More images than words, all ‘curated’ by Georgeumbrasileiro, with real fine taste, and, only occasionally, a dash of the grotesque.Click here to visit the Put a lock here, if you wish to do so.
In this lecture, I will first briefly discuss recent definitions of and research on the EPS. Research in political science has frequently applied quantitative content analysis as well as frame analysis to press reporting and has then concluded that a European public sphere could be detected. Furthermore, I will discuss qualitative, interdisciplinary research in Critical Discourse Analysis (the Discourse-Historical Approach) which has illustrated – in contrast to many quantitative studies – that national Weltanschauungen, traditions and political interests as well as the political affiliation of news papers override common European agenda and interests. Moreover, many studies seem to neglect the East/West divide which stems from the post-war period and the Cold War as well as other, more recent divides (’New Europe-Old Europe’). Thus, the main questions to be asked are: in which complex ways do (European) politics, (European) history, and media interact? Do studies on media reporting convey useful and adequate information on the emergence of a European public sphere? And lastly, when studying European media since the 1950s up to 2006, has there been a convergence, and if so when and in which way?
In this lecture, I will first briefly discuss recent definitions of and research on the EPS. Research in political science has frequently applied quantitative content analysis as well as frame analysis to press reporting and has then concluded that a European public sphere could be detected. Furthermore, I will discuss qualitative, interdisciplinary research in Critical Discourse Analysis (the Discourse-Historical Approach) which has illustrated – in contrast to many quantitative studies – that national Weltanschauungen, traditions and political interests as well as the political affiliation of news papers override common European agenda and interests. Moreover, many studies seem to neglect the East/West divide which stems from the post-war period and the Cold War as well as other, more recent divides (’New Europe-Old Europe’). Thus, the main questions to be asked are: in which complex ways do (European) politics, (European) history, and media interact? Do studies on media reporting convey useful and adequate information on the emergence of a European public sphere? And lastly, when studying European media since the 1950s up to 2006, has there been a convergence, and if so when and in which way?
Some impressions of the first 60 hours in Brazil after 60 weeks away
[11.42 am] The Air Canada flight from YYZ hit the ground at GRU rather abruptly, causing some of the oxygen masks to drop and, in turn, a few passengers to scream. The captain took a deep breath and calmly announced the arrival. Within twelve hours the temperatures had risen from nearly twenty below zero to just over thirty degrees Celsius. The experienced traveller had brought along a new t-shirt (courtesy of Louis), a pair of shorts and fresh socks, but had struggled to fall asleep in that awkward customary economy class seat, thus failing to wake up in time to avoid the mad rush of people dying to defecate in that filthy cubicle. The solution found was a pretty simple one: First, breathe and hold on tight. Next, proceed straight to the lovely spacious water closet inside the airport. Once there, empty your bowels thoroughly and then finally get changed. Ah, what a feeling this was going to be! The skiing jacket, the scarf and the fleece jumper had been dispatched at check-in, and the thick socks and the long johns had been removed just before boarding the tin can, but there still remained the old cords and the new Roots heritage flannel shirt. Yet, despite the overall feeling of discomfort, there was, at least, a rather pleasant feeling of satisfaction from having managed to finish McMafia, suggested by Tai and Caia a few months ago here. A bit disappointing in fact, especially in terms of the chapter on the so called BC Bud industry, which was actually the reason why the book had been suggested. But, nevertheless, it was pretty good as an in-flight read. Plus, towards its end, the author suggested a more informative further reading on the issue, which might be explored at some point in due course, perhaps on the way back to London in a few weeks time, but none of this matters anyway. For now, it was time to enter home without being asked questions and ch-check it out!
[12.38 pm] Delivery done, teeth brushed, face washed. The immigration queue for Brazilians is moving rather slowly and getting gradually longer with a few flights arriving at the same time, for the new blue passports are checked biometrically now. The duty free shop offers a great variety of everything, but everything is expensive, comparatively. Some champagne for NYE, some Chivas for dad, some Lancôme for mum, and some Victoria’s Secret for sis, there is no way out. Next, customs. The green queue is so ridiculously long and there is no one in the red sector. There is nothing to declare, but it doesn’t matter. The experienced traveller knows the score, plus, no one is going to be harmed, so why not go red and declare some English breakfast tea? Suitcase open, tea shown, swift and simple, no worries! In Poland they call it kombinować(literally, ‘combination’). In Brazil it is called jeitinho(literally, ‘little way’). It is often frowned upon, but in cases such as this particular one, it is actually pretty sensible to employ such a strategy, the experienced traveller thought and was naturally relieved of any potential guilt.
[1.33 pm] Greet the parents, what a feeling! The trio chat cheerfully as they make their way to the parking lot and are suddenly taken aback as they approach the car, which has got a black bin liner sealing one of the windows, instead of the glass. Wonderful. Some fucker had broken in, right there at the airport, they thought. What a fucking cunt, where is this country going to end up, they continued to philosophise as they entered the vehicle, only to realise that the window had actually been left open, and one of the security guards probably saw it and sealed it with the plastic bag. The trio heaved a sigh of relief, locked the doors, closed the windows, put the aircon on and set off on a ‘Frogger’s Journey’ across the metropolis. Only a few middle-class families can afford armoured cars, and they’re not one of them, so driving through this city does feel like being Frogger.
São Paulo City (do NOT click)
São Paulo is like a massive archipelago of tiny paradisical islands in a deadly sea with extreme tides and infested with all sorts of hungry nasty mutant sharks, crocodiles, stingrays, barracudas, jellyfish and urchins, just to name a few of its hazards.
The experienced traveller is seen as paranoid by some of his friends, but he doesn’t care and always removes his watch while sailing the rough seas of São Paulo, and he almost always freaks out when someone opens the window depressurising the vessel. It has been a while, but he has somewhat legitimate reasons for such a great fear which goes beyond statistics and daily news stories. The silly teenager had left school that afternoon so excited and in such a rush to make it to his girlfriend’s before her parents arrived from work that he’d completely forgotten to take off his beloved Citizen Aqualand II. And on top of that, he had badly sprained his ankle the week before and was wearing a cast. Easy prey, spotted straight away. He boarded the bus and the miserable fuck followed and sat next to him, pulled a gun and quietly forced the kid to hand the gem. In spite of the inflicted trauma, the lesson was a pretty efficient one.
[2.51 pm] They made it safely to the Italian grandma’s who had been waiting anxiously with lunch ready. Ah, what a feeling! Homemade gnocchi and chicken stir-fry, lovely coffee, beautiful cake, nice chat, and she looks so well! Time to go and embark on another short little journey to see the old Polish godparents, not too far in terms of distance, but not so close in terms of time.
[5.34 pm] 10km, 30min, average speed 20km/h, not so bad. Summertime and school holidays help a lot. The lovely old couple also looks really well and it’s great to listen to their stories with more cake and coffee, but it’s time to go again, for the batteries are nearly dead, and there still remains the final leg of this endless journey: 250km to Ubatuba, but that’s OK. The torrential downpours, the catastrophic landslides, and the widespread floods would only be taking place in the new year, so, not to worry.
[11.39 pm] Now, that was quick. It felt like teletransportation, sort of. A couple of weird dreams and there he was. That house is unreal. Feel the breeze, look at the view, even as dark as it is, listen to the sea, the only thing that he thought was ah, what a feeling! And again in the shower, and again in bed…
***
[9.00 am] …and again when the alarm went off, and again while he was having that lovely fruity breakfast, and when he stepped onto the sand and when he dived into that waveless summer sea and floated, and relaxed, and stopped thinking, just kept feeling how good it was to be back.
[10.45 pm] It’s not really clear why or how come social networking took off the way it did, but it’s hard to disagree that life today feels really difficult without it. Some people say it makes everything impersonal, but the truth of the matter is that whatever becomes impersonal was going to become impersonal anyway. They’re just more practical tools, that’s what they are. People become impersonal because they change circles and make new friends, forgetting about the old ones, unfortunately, but that is not always the case, thankfully. And so in a few moments a beer with good old friends is easily organised. Excellent. It’s just a matter of getting there, but it shouldn’t be a problem.
***
[8.30 am] The bus departs at nine and passes by Toninhas between twenty and half past, depending on the traffic, so there is time for a quick shower, a bowl of fruit salad, pack and go. Lovely window seat, no worries. Coaches in Brazil are cheap and comfortable. Plus, Tietê Bus Terminal was refurbished a few years ago and looks a lot more decent. The metro is right there and you can get to Vila Madalena really quickly. Yes, the old psychological trick of the half-full glass, of course.
[1.07 pm] The new screens inside the carriages inform, the metro is safe, but don’t make it easy, keep an eye on your wallet/handbag/mobile phone.
Where is your hanbag/wallet now?
Safety comes at a cost, though. The train stops at Armenia Station and two kids jump on. As soon as the doors close the boys start working, quickly distributing small packets of sweets with a little message on them which reads: Please help a poor child with no money to buy food and no roof to sleep, or something along these lines. Proper stuff, mass production. It seems pretty obvious that some kind of kids’ pimp is behind it all, giving them miserable boys those packets to be sold, probably in exchange for a tiny little percentage, which is then highly likely to end up in smoke from pipes of crack cocaine. The train stops at Tiradentes Station and two security guards jump on, one at either end of the carriage. Right in the middle there is another one, travelling undercover. He points at them kids, they get caught and kicked out, the poor souls. It is heartbreaking indeed, but even worse is to hear from friends that that’s the way it is, and that you have to toughen up your heart if you want to be happy in this city, what the fuck!
[1.57 pm] It is a bit of a walk from the underground station to Sachinha, so why not take a taxi, which is also relatively cheap, or rather, inexpensive, to be more accurate, as nothing seems cheap in this bloody country anymore, what is going on, eh? OK, the prices of electronics and house appliances in general are indeed going down, but everywhere you go and sit for more than a couple of hours it’s at least R$100, that’s almost like £50! But the service, ahh, the service is always, you know, it’s like being home!
Just lift up your hand and another beer will come right to your table straight away. Why does it have to be so barbaric to drink in the UK? Is it because there aren’t enough pubs or is it because there are too many drinkers?
And how about that grill and that meat? Picanha, calabreza, farofa, vinagrete, that is way more than a feeling. That is actually worth R$100, but it’s no longer cheap, that is a fact. It’s also great to see Pedro and Barbacrapping rules as if there was no tomorrow. Some things never change, thankfully. Cheers!
Chopin
[6.31 pm] Time to superencapsulate hermetically and set sail from Madalena Island to Moema Island for the second half of the binge session at Braz. There is barely room for pizza, but plenty for that lovely creamy Chopp Brahma!
[7.29 pm] The couple made it safe to Moema Island. Some good old friends were already sitting at a nice long table, and many more were about to arrive. Surprisingly enough though, most of them hadn’t seen each other for just about the same length of time. But they are all friends on Facebook.
[11.20 pm] The conversation was great and everything was once again more than a feeling. Van and Zaga had also lived, studied and worked abroad for a few years, so at some point the inevitable comparisons between here and there came up, and everyone seemed to agree. That in Europe it is so much easier and cheaper to visit other countries, and that the museums and theatres are so cool and that there is so much to see and the public transport is amazing, and the football teams and the matches and the stadiums… That the close and frequent contact with the breathtaking beaches, forests and waterfalls in Brazil, the weather, the water temperature, the food, the family and friends are priceless. That despite the numerous problems, dangers and difficulties, successful professionals have a much higher standard of living in Brazil, especially in terms of the quality and the cost of living accommodations. And in turn, that despite the perceived lower standard of living in the UK and the fact that it is practically impossible to afford a maid there and therefore everyone must cook, wash and clean, there is on the other hand way less inequality, professionals can afford top-notch cars, electronics, etc, and moreover, because it is a less unequal society, there is less violence and less danger (apart from the occasional terrorist attack…). Etc, etc, etc.
[11.42 pm] Another R$100 each and, at this very point, good old Zaga, aka Muleque, equally mad about Iron Maiden and Tom Jobim, put an end to the discussion by paraphrasing the latter:
Living in London is good, but it’s shit. Living in São Paulo is shit, but it’s good.*
*Jobim was actually comparing New York and Rio, but ultimately, it’s all the same shit. 😉
A simplified tale calling for a new ‘smart sexism’ for the sake of mutual well-being…
And so women decided it wasn’t fair. And indeed it wasn’t. Why would men get to go to work while women stay home looking after the children? Why would men get to pursue an exciting professional career while women get bored taking care of the house? Doing the laundry, ironing and sewing, doing the cooking, the dishes and the cleaning in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the living room, and in the bathroom… simply not fair.
Of course there is a lot of overlap between the traditional division of ‘social classes’, but generally speaking, it appears that neither the upper nor the lower class women really had to worry much about the issue. The former always had plenty of resources and therefore time to employ other people to help with such mundane tasks while they could spend their time and money as they pleased, at least to some extent, perhaps looking after the house in a more administrative fashion only. The latter would simply have no choice but to work all day as well in order to help complement their working men’s modest incomes so that together they could just about make ends meet. Even though, on top of that, lower-class women also invariably had to deal with all the housework and evening child care, at least their men also worked hard on the heavy-duty tasks such as building and/or refurbishing their property, as well as taking care of all the maintenance of the wiring, the pipes, etc.
The rest of the households, on the other hand, seemed to float somewhere in between, oozing fragility from both sides, often finding themselves in a complex structural conflict. The women wouldn’t necessarily have to labour and could therefore nurture more elaborate professional aspirations. These, however, were only seldom accomplished, for although their incomes were sufficient to provide the household with a decent standard of living, they were far from abundant, which meant most of the housework simply couldn’t be delegated to third-parties so to speak, thus being left almost in its entirety to we know who. Women, naturally.
As the so called ‘modern’ societies evolved though, generation after generation, women fought hard, conquering their space, and gradually began to perform more active roles in various spheres, increasingly sharing ‘the important responsibilities’ with men. Excellent. All that gave a real boost to the liberated women’s self-esteem. Wonderful. But let’s not forget: the laundry was still there, the cooking was still there, the washing-up, the sweeping, the vacuuming, the wiping, the scrubbing, and of course, the kids. So what was the solution to be found? ‘Wholesharing’ appeared to be the answer, that is, both partners dealing with everything, including the expenses. Equal rights and equal obligations. Both work and share the bills, the shopping, the cooking, the dishes, the laundry, the broom, the mop, the hoover, the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom(s). Sounds fair enough. Certain aspects could even be negotiated according to individual affinities for certain things, or aversions, for that matter. For instance, some women might not want to deal with the rubbish or changing light bulbs, whereas some men might be too clumsy to sew a button back on, left-handers in particular… The ironing might be completely left aside, and as for the kids, well, instead of being thoroughly and lovingly raised full-time by their parents, they’ll have to stay somewhere else with someone else, and in the absence of a grand-parent, it will have to be a stranger, who could be very professional, trustworthy and everything, but who will never be the parent, and it is a fact that this has a considerable impact on the child’s upbringing. Yes, it does.
Surely enough there are exceptions which, as the wise will know, only serve to confirm the rule, and as stated above, this is a rather simplified model of representation, just as they do in physics, or perhaps more precisely, with kinematics, you know..? For example, in developing countries, such as Brazil, where the cost of labour is still relatively low, a significant portion of the middle-class households is fairly able to employ people to help them with some of the housework, at least periodically. In the UK and in most EU countries, however, middle-class households wouldn’t even contemplate the idea of having a cleaner, let alone a maid or a gardener! What? A carpenter to manufacture tailor-made furniture? Don’t make me laugh! Just get your shit from IKEA and bloody DIY* between cups of tea throughout the whole weekend, and then tell everyone how proud you feel about it, ‘mate’! Whichever reality you happen to find yourself in, though, the truth is only one: This paradigm shift towards the ‘wholesharing’ mode of housework distribution does not seem to have a very beneficial effect on the households in general in the long run, and this is probably the most apparent reason for the substantial rise in the divorce rates of ‘modern’ societies over the last decades. Today women take no shit and simply walk out on their partners, (and indeed they are quite right to do so), and this largely contributes to the sharp rise on these rates. However, this is pretty minor if compared to the deeper, but perhaps not so blatant impact that ‘wholesharing’ appears to be having. Increasingly more decent, gentle and respectful men seem to feel rather unhappy and often unable to deal with what has been referred to as a chronic feeling of ‘demasculinisation’.
Now, the problem is that such a feeling has been mistakenly attributed to the fact the they now share the aforementioned traditionally feminine domestic tasks, whereas the real trouble of this story is actually something else: Today, ‘modern’ men haven’t got a clue about the traditionally masculine domestic tasks such as dealing with pipes, wires, bricks, cement, wood, etc. Stuff that men from the past generations would have been able to deal with reasonably well, and so they invariably end up having to resort to third-part professionals, whose work is actually becoming more valuable than ever. Having to rely on other people without being able to afford it is pretty bad, so why don’t they just get to grips with the issue and simply learn these basic skills? Well, because there’s daily housework to be done and their female partners obviously can’t handle everything on their own because they also have to get up early the next morning to go to work as well, and of course they’re not going to give up their promising careers to only cook, wash and clean instead. Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t be fair, would it?
The fact that women have conquered their space is a great accomplishment and things in general seem to be moving towards total equality, but let’s face it: there is a very dangerous gap there, which must be fulfilled urgently. The astounding number of emotionally and psychologically disturbed children in modern societies is a direct consequence of the incredible low levels of attention, love and affection these kids receive during this most important part of their lives! Someone in the household should give up their professional interests for the sake of their children, and the natural choice would be that women did so for the obvious physiological reasons. Eventually, roles might be swapped, but a parent must be there for at least half of each weekday interacting with their loved ones and actually bringing them up, as opposed to merely picking them up from somewhere and just kissing them goodnight.
Gender equality is a beautiful thing, but we also must acknowledge that men and women are naturally different in many ways, and that such differences are actually a very positive thing! ‘Modern’ societies are probably halfway through this transition towards this we-do-not-know-what paradigm, and this should last around about a century or more. The negative aspects of this turn are increasingly more evident, but there may be time to reverse this, obviously not to what it used to be, and still is in some circles, but rather, to a more nuanced form of what I choose to call ‘smart sexism’.
Smart sexism simply entails the recognition and acceptance of the very obvious fact that men and women are different (hence their being called men and women, and not men and men, or women and women, for instance). Besides obvious, it may sound rather vague at this point, and indeed it needs to be developed, but the idea is a pretty basic one really, and it actually seems pretty absurd to realise the extent to which this is so commonly overlooked. Let’s not just promote equality and respect differences. Let’s also make a positive thing out of such differences! History shows us how unfair humanity has always been, but it mustn’t feel like chips on the shoulders of the previously oppressed! Good luck, ‘modern society’!
I don’t mean to offend anyone and I truly respect the pain of those who have lost their dear ones, but I must say this poppy thing really irritates me. Some people might argue that perhaps the fact that I am not British and furthermore, the fact that I was born and raised in Brazil – one of the most peaceful countries in the world, civil problems aside, of course – renders me unable to grasp the full picture of what Remembrance Day stands for. Nevertheless, I am inclined to believe that this is precisely the reason why it might be easier for me to see through and beyond all this cunning ideological crap so naturally supported by the vast majority of politicians across parties, as well as by those in the media. Mind you, I only happen to be Brazilian because I had a Polish grandfather who fled the devastating aftermath of WWII and ended up in Brazil by chance.
Of course there are exceptions, but the extent to which all this business is so readily taken for granted is simply unbelievable. One thing is to remember the hundreds of thousands, if not millions who died in the first world war and learn some lessons. And if not all lessons are learnt, then even perhaps attempt to argue that it was not possible to avoid the second world war, even though my dear friend Luiz Perri, recommending Churchill, Hitler, and “The Unnecessary War”: How Britain Lost Its Empire and the West Lost the World, by controversial Patrick J. Buchanan, says that yes, it was.
Now then, there should be no question that what goes on these days is totally unacceptable for all sorts of reasons. Britain’s economy is going down the drain, there is no money to invest in health or education, unemployment rates are soaring, and yet, billions continue to be spent on the most stupid and unjustifiable wars of all time under the pathetic label of ‘defence’, not to mention the obvious misery, violence and destruction brought on countless innocent and helpless civilians, as well as all those naïve, not so say stupid, poor soldiers who proudly and readily accept the nobility of their roles. And neither politicians, nor journalists dare to overtly challenge this taboo.
You will have to excuse my language, but I need to write this here, in CAPITALS, and bold: FUCK THE GLORIFICATION OF THE SOLDIER. What a sickeningly ‘bloody’ nonsense.
I’d like to share this one with the non-Brazilians, in particular:
…And this one goes especially, but not exclusively, to the Brazilians:
This is not meant to be a music review so I’m not going to be talking about the haunting melodies of Roscoe or the really cool trivia and stuff I found out about Midlake. Nor will I be commenting on the extensive career and remarkable genius of masterful Tom Zé, so if you fancy them, go on and look them up yourself, you lazy f¥€%!
Soundcloud, which I only came across about a month ago through my friend Mozhev, was certainly not made for this, and I don’t really know (or want to know) how tough they are these days in terms of the laws regarding copyrights, so I cannot predict how long this is going to be on there, but to be honest, I really don’t believe I am doing anything wrong! After all, what’s so bad about sharing a couple of carefully selected tunes in order to contribute to the intercultural perspectives of a handful of friends and acquaintances who watch this space every now and then? This is not theft, is it? I even bought the CDs, both of them, as soon as they were released, I swear! And these embedded lovely musical waves also look really cool, don’t they?
Larry Lessig has actually got a very interesting view on the issue, really worth checking out, as I already mentioned here. Perhaps I should just consider not allowing these wonderful, exquisite tracks to be downloaded, but then people wouldn’t be able to listen and appreciate them while on the go in their cars, on the tube, on their bikes, or even while cooking, so I don’t know… I guess I need to reflect upon this a bit more… In the meantime, don’t tell anyone, just listen! 🙂
With Cadbury’s new smart move, going fair trade, their profits are set to rise substantially. Let us hope that a decent share of the harvest is passed on accordingly. After all, that’s what people believe to be happening when they opt for such products, innit?
Unfortunately no one at Cadbury seems to be considering to offer some form of gratuity to those who continue to spread the word out of sheer kindness… shame… It’s just that the soundtrack is once againspot-on! And the video is also pretty cool again, so I had mention them again!
Cadburys share of profits from the sale of the track go to the charity CARE International.
Ghana is the heart of Cadbury Dairy Milks Fairtrade Cocoa and so the track celebrates all things Ghanaian: its people, its rappers, its dancers, its cultural figures and, of course, its cocoa beans.
51 Gould Street, Bondi Beach, Sydney. Summer 1996, 2 o’clock PM, after college. Eva and Maria from Stockholm and Fernando from Piracicaba are sitting on the carpet in the living room, sort of like in a semi-circle facing Mune (むぅね, pronounced “moo’ne”) from Tokyo, who’s sitting in the rocking chair, holding a bottle of Tooheys Extra Dry and lecturing about how he had seen hell up close and personal and learned the lesson. Fred from Araxá had gone to the bookies as usual to try and make up for the ever-amounting losses from previous weeks, but no one actually knew it at the time. Marcella from São Paulo had been quick to sort herself out sexually and was also out, having fun with young John, the English kung-fu fighter, whereas none of the boys from 51 Gould Street had scored yet and, as a matter of fact, some would take a long, long while to do so. Susan, also from São Paulo, had got up not very long ago and gone to the beach with her Israeli boyfriend Moshe and his friends before going to work. Robêrto and Geuvásio from Ribeirão Preto were still due to arrive in a couple of weeks’ time.
Mune’s account sounded really scary and it was largely enriched with detail as the intrigued listeners asked questions about hell itself. At the same time, however, it sounded so distant from their reality that they could never imagine that just over a year later Robêrto would have taken his own journey straight to the heart of hell for good, only just occasionally popping out to say hello to society and the world and then sinking back again no matter how hard his family and friends tried to pull him back. Similar events also appear to have taken place more or less at the same time in London, but at least, in both cases, their protagonists were somehow still around, as opposed to Valdemar’s friend from Goiânia whose unusual name escapes me now, who blew his own brains out, or Luciana’s brother, who simply hanged himself. Extreme cases indeed, all four of them. Proper film stuff actually happening in real life. Some say that at some point in their lives these gentlemen would have developed psychotic schizophrenic traits anyway, so cannabis would have only acted as the catalytic element for a reaction that was genetically bound to happen. Therefore, it might be disputable whether those were in fact cannabis-related illnesses and deaths. Yet, over the course of the following decade, many other friends and acquaintances of those youngsters gradually gave up the college habit, often straight after having reportedly stood on the edge of their mental cliffs where they were able to take a nice glance at hell, managing to swiftly turn around just before also leaving sanity behind. Many others simply quit for not being able to combine it with their increasingly more demanding professional daily routine. A few, however, carried on until these days, some of which doing it in a more recreational fashion at weekends and special occasions, while others, rather more regularly, sometimes even on a daily basis, precisely to cope with the stress of their increasingly more demanding professional lives, they say. But at the very top of this odd pyramid (or should I say bottom of the cone?), lies an even smaller group of people who proudly sit there, compulsively smoking cannabis throughout the days and the evenings, day in, day out.
Classic characters such as Pedro and Man from Cheech and Chong’s Up in Smokeand The Dude from Cohen’s Big Lebowskiare, without a shadow of a doubt, hilarious stereotypes, but like all stereotypes, they are extrapolations fully based on real life. Now, when you actually know people in real life who actually resemble these characters because of the lifestyle they lead, that can be a lot more tragic than it is comic. A real shame and a total waste of everything, that’s what it is really, for, some of these people are well educated like so many never had the opportunity to be, and they have got such a great potential, but unfortunately they find themselves stuck in this eternal limbo, staring at life passing by as they burn another spliff, then eat some crap, take a little nap, wake up, smoke another one to go to work for a few hours doing some shit job, not because they’re not qualified, but because it is the first thing that appeared right in front of their noses and it is too much hassle to look for something more decent, and the brain is so rusty and confused for being used so little that it becomes like an enormous task to fill in a simple application form, let alone write a cover letter, and therefore it becomes a lot easier and simpler and more ‘comfortable’ to carry on doing this shit that only just provides enough cash for the weekly rent of some shit-hole, some crap to eat and of course, dope, loads of it, to cope with all this shit until the glorious day good fortune might strike again, ah what the hell!
OK, that might have been a bit of an overreaction there, so at this point, may I stress that this isn’t always the case with the members of this ‘alternative’ group, aka the potheads, for some of them happen to be lucky enough, at least temporarily, to be working in the so called entertainment industry, which can be fairly profitable, and which tends to allow for the frequent use of substances that appear to stimulate one’s creativity, providing inspiration through various levels of distortion of reality, so to speak. And there is a logic for this. It’s historical and (counter?)cultural. There is actually plenty of logic and reason for this. There have always been countless examples of fabulous forms of artistic expression inspired by some sort of state of inebriation, from Blake and Pessoa to Borges, Huxley, Antonioni, Hendrix, and Marley of course, just to name very few. There are also countless examples of such inebriating substances widely used in various sorts of rituals, from the most mystic and obscure ones such as some of the peyote-fuelled Mexican tribal fire dances, to a mere plate of pasta with a bottle of red wine with your partner. There have been endless debates on the harms and benefits of such substances, governments have tried to sort out drugs into different groups, regulating some, banning others, then legalising those that had been previously banned for one reason or another, subsequently outlawing others that used to be legal and so on, but for the point I am trying to make, legality of cannabis or anything else is actually irrelevant. However important and complex this discussion may be, the fact is that cannabis is potentially harmful and therefore it can fuck you up. But of course, it totally depends on who you are. So I’d like to ask you a very simple question: who are you?
It is a well known fact that alcohol can be extremely damaging. And the same goes for tobacco. And coffee, and painkillers, and chips, Coca-cola, ketchup and mayonnaise, salt and sugar, mobile phones, sunlight and darkness. Just as well as they can all be quite pleasurable, can’t they? And this is the key thing, pleasure. It’s great to feel good and relax and laugh and chat and stuff, and when you’re under the influence, all that is intensified, excellent, but you wouldn’t wake up and have a shot of Vodka or Gin in the morning, would you? It would be a bit worrying, wouldn’t it? So how come some people believe it can be perfectly acceptable to have a joint on a daily basis, moments after getting up and before breakfast, do you know what I mean?
Trouble is that cannabis has acquired over the years a false good reputation of something cool that only brings positive things to the people and to the world without any significant consequences. It is nice for the environment because it is natural and hemp has been used for various things since the dawn of times. When people smoke it, they never get violent or feel like fighting or speeding at the wheel, as opposed to alcohol. It isn’t as addictive as other drugs and it doesn’t destroy you like other drugs do, for it doesn’t cause physical dependence. It can be used therapeutically to ease pain, enhance appetite, bla, bla, bla…
All that may well be true, but so what? Statistically and comparatively, the consequences of using cannabis on a regular basis might be minimal, but individually, the impact can be considerably more severe, oh yes. If you can’t handle the amount and the frequency you do it, cannabis can potentially fuck you up just about the same way alcohol or any other drug can (but not necessarily will), especially considering that you’re not aware of the impact it has had in your life and the fact that you insist on considering cannabis not to be a drug! Perceptions are certainly changing and thus so are the laws as well, obviously because people are realising that they can make shit loads of money out of it in the first place, but like I said before, for the purposes of this text, law is what matters the least, after all, giving up weed to stop contributing with crime is almost like giving up meat to stop contributing to animal slaughtering. It just doesn’t work like that.
The Canadian documentary on the history of the United States’ so called war on marijuana, Grass(1999), is a rich illustration of what I’m trying to say here. Narrated free of charge by notorious activist Woody Harrelson, with superb soundtrack by Mark Mothersbaugh, loaded with hilarious archival footage from governmental anti-drug propaganda, the film has become a cult within the cannabis ‘subculture’. Grass takes a macroscopic view at the history of governmental drugs policies and the excessively negative impact they have had upon society in general, and of course, the lives of cannabis users in particular. However, a second more thorough look at it may reveal to the more observant viewer quite a few generally overlooked, yet very relevant negative comments, not on the use of cannabis per se, but rather, on its abuse, that’s the word. I said, on its abuse, that’s the word…
Yes, it is a drug and if you abuse it, it fucks you and your life up big time and if you are not able to use it moderately, perhaps you should consider quitting, how about that? Saving money, sleeping less hours, feeling a little more active, the prospect isn’t so bad, come on! Seriously, England is pretty good in terms of that, so it’s not that difficult to kick the habit, once you’ve admitted to have a problem with it. It’s actually pretty simple, I mean, it is not as simple as rolling and lighting up a joint, but it’s still pretty simple: all you have to do is pay a visit to your GP and have a word with him. But it is very important to be honest with him and discuss a specific treatment for cannabis. All the treatment is free and confidential, so there’s nothing to worry, except doing it!
Of course the NHS is primarily concerned with physical health itself rather than motivational issues (see below), but getting clinical help doesn’t require one to develop lung cancer or schizophrenia! Drugs (legal or not) certainly have their place in society and the decision whether to make use of them, how often, and how much, has to be individual. Some people make the deliberate choice to, as a friend of mine poetically puts it, “live life with the hand-brakes on”, but in order to do that, one must take into account whether s/he has enough torque to live like that! Some people do, that’s a fact. Others don’t, and they get stuck. Is that too difficult to realise?
So, finally, I hope this works as intended, despite the somewhat reactionary tone. It is really the only thing I can do, which might work as a wake-up call that it is high time that you went look for clinical help! What? Clinical help?! No, man, what the fuck?! Yes, that sounds scary, eh? So better think it sounds silly, isn’t it? Cannabis… who on Earth would think that clinical help might be needed for cannabis, mannnn? Well, so it is, and if you go for it, it will certainly change your life completely, my friend. But the first step is you accepting that cannabis is ruining your life as a whole. And I do apologise for all my blunt sincerity, but this is the best demonstration of how much I like you and how much I care for you, my brother! Now, if you still don’t know who you are, or more likely, pretend that this isn’t with you, then I rest my case.
The first and most difficult step for people who misuse drugs is to recognise that they have a problem, and then admit that they need help to deal with it.
Some people realise that they have a problem but find it hard to stop taking the drug, even though they are aware of the consequences. Others may need someone else to help them realise that they have a problem.
Many adults drink alcohol, but it can become a problem if they begin to misuse alcohol by drinking it too often or in too great a volume. People can find it very hard to stop drinking alcohol and this is known as “an addiction”.
People can also become addicted to drugs. We often think of people being addicted to illegal drugs like cannabis or cocaine, but people can also become addicted to drugs they have on prescription, such as painkillers or sleeping pills.
Life as a carer of parents who are misusing drugs and alcohol can be very difficult. The person using drugs or drinking might try to hide their addiction from their closest friends and relatives and may even get annoyed if people try to talk to them about it. Their behaviour can be quite unpredictable at times – they can get angry or scary (especially if they are craving alcohol or the drugs they take).
Alcohol and drug addiction are like illnesses – they are not anyone’s fault and it can be hard to stop someone from taking drugs or from drinking. Talking to someone who misuses drugs or alcohol can be difficult – especially if the person using drugs or drinking doesn’t feel that they have a problem. Choose a time when the person has not been drinking or taking drugs to chat about the situation and explain how they feel about the situation.
Getting help with alcohol or drug problems
People using alcohol or drugs may worry about what will happen if they ask for help. There are lots of people who can help. A good place to start is with the local family doctor (GP). They will be able to make a referral to a specialist drugs and alcohol team.
Treatment and support
The drug and alcohol team might suggest that the person using drugs and alcohol has a “detox”, which helps the person with the addiction to stop using drugs or drinking. They may go to see a local counsellor to help them work through their problems. Alternatively, they might go to stay in a rehabilitation centre during for the same reasons. Support groups, such as Alcoholics Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous, are also useful for the person with the addiction to meet others who are in a similar situation.
You should ensure that you get help for yourself too. Sometimes dealing with drugs and alcohol (and getting better from them) can take months, or years, and you should talk to a trusted friend or teacher, another relative and also make sure that they are getting support from a local young carers service.
Ultimately, it is down to your friend or relative to get help – only they can make the decision that they want to do something about their problem.
All you can do is be there to support them. Make it clear that while you are worried about them and unhappy with their behaviour, you still love them as a person.
Enjoy this classic performance while I finish editing a text on dope. The real king, the one and only, o Rei Roberto Carlos at his best in: Você não serve pra mim (“You’re not good enough for me”), 1967. Music by Renato Barros (who?). Film: Roberto Carlos em ritmo de aventura (1968), by Roberto Farias (who?). Quality!
Talk about The Games? What about The Games? Some fuckers will make shit millions. Some millions, in turn, will be in deep shit. Nothing new anyway. Yet, we remain hopeful. Always!
Last week I was presented with a small sample of what this peculiar phenomenon called interlanguage leads to, as I read and marked the sociolinguistics essays that a few of my students unfortunately had to resubmit. Some of these essays contained authentic examples which were naturally and unwarily laid out as they developed their own paragraphs discussing whatever issues they had set out to do. One of those MA students though, quite aware of such interlinguistic interferences, attempted a discussion and provided a long list of such words and phrases combining various aspects of her first language in relation to the English language, which in turn brought back amusing memories of English speaking friends trying to speak Portuguese while visiting me in Brazil, as well as memories of myself visiting other countries and attempting (sometimes deliberate) hilarious dialogues in the local languages.
A speaker of a second language, no matter how fluent and experienced, will always be prone to fall into this ‘neurological trap’ so to speak. As a matter of fact, this very text here is highly likely to be a concrete example of this at some point, given the fact that it is being written in English whereas the author’s first language is actually Portuguese. Interlanguage could be described as a short-circuited combination of certain aspects from two given languages. What often happens after one has learned a second language and happily thinks s/he is fully able to converse with any native speakers of this language is, to some extent, pretty much the same as what often happens when English speaking Americans from the USA, to be precise and not redundant, visit Britain; or likewise, when Brazilians visit Portugal or Spaniards visit, say, Mexico or Argentina. Some instances of such encounters are inevitably comic, and it isn’t just because of people’s ‘accents’ or because of stuff like the so called homographic and homophonic homonyms, you know, those words with the same spelling and different pronunciation (i.e. row, pronounced /roʊ/ or /raʊ/, andwind,pronounced /wɪnd/ or /waɪnd/, depending on the case), and those with different spelling and equal sounds (i.e. see/sea, write/right, week/weak, night/knight, etc), respectively; or even the so calledminimal pairs, words that sound so similar that non-native speakers of a given language can barely notice the difference (i.e.live/leave, thank/tank, sheep/cheap, and the more delicate ones beach/bitch, peace/piss, sheet/shit, etc).
When people translate their ideas and thoughts from their first, native language (L1) to a second language they are making use of (L2), it isn’t just the meanings of words that are translated, but the ‘grammar’ of the person’s L1 is also unintentionally translated, or rather, transported to the L2 in point, thus potentially causing various types of (usually minor) disruptions in the process of communication:
Disruptions of phonological nature – Different sounds or phonemes represented by the same letter in different languages or even the non existence of a certain sound in a certain language, such as thin Portuguese or ãoin English, or for that matter, the ‘Brazilian di‘ which sounds like the ‘English gi‘, as the English mockery “Giovanni went to Piccagilli” demonstrates.
Disruptions of morphological nature – Different parts of a word, or morphemes, such as prefixes and suffixes mistakenly transferred from one language to another (e.g. Brazilians saying theorically, instead of theoretically, or experient, instead of experienced).
Disruptions of syntactic nature – Words in a sentence placed in a different order from the norm that native speakers of a given language would ‘normally’ follow (e.g. Brazilians asking questions such as you are tired?, instead of are you tired?, or placing adjectives after nouns as in the shirt blue is more expensive, instead of the blue shirt…).
Disruptions of semantic nature – Meanings of words differing from what a certain user of a certain language might think they mean (e.g. explore vs. exploit, sensitive vs. sensible, nouns such as jar and beef, adverbs such as eventually and virtually, and their respective false cognates jarra (jug), bife (steak), eventualmente (incidentally), and virtualmente (potentially)). Also, words or phrases from a given L1 employed in a given L2 in a way that (at present) doesn’t happen to exist and thus makes no sense (e.g. Brazilians using the word cooper to refer to jogging; or saying for instance that a music, instead of a song, looks like Madonna or whatever, instead of sounds like it; to open/close the tap instead of turn on/off the tap; or to say that you have a seven of gold in a game of cards or move your horse in a game of chess, instead of a seven of diamonds and move your knight!);
Disruptions of pragmatic nature – Meanings of sentences or acts of speech in L1 context mismatching those of the L2 (e.g. a joke which makes no sense, or a serious statement ending up unintentionally funny; some sort of unusual greeting causing amusement or awkwardness; other distinct rituals of politeness, unintentionally providing the wrong impression (i.e. the speaker seems rude or camp, the speaker seems to be flirting or even stalking or harassing the interlocutor, etc).
On this basis, certain phrases and idiomatic expressions simply won’t work if translated to another language literally, as it can still be seen rather frequently in subtitled films, even though this has improved considerably. This is the case, for instance, with make a mountain out of a molehill, whose equivalent in Portuguese is to make a storm in a glass of water; or the straw that broke the camel’s back, whose Portuguese equivalent would bethe last drop in the glass of water, or even to pad something out, which in Portuguese is to fill sausages, as illustrated here a few weeks ago.
Now, ‘the curious case of kick the bucket‘ is one that stands out, for the same idiom is found both in English and in Portuguese. Their meanings, however, differ completely: A person who has kicked the bucket in English, has died, whereas if you kick the bucket in Portuguese, you go crazy, as in spending all your money on a trip, a new car, six pairs of shoes or anything you really shouldn’t; or also as in stuffing yourself with picanha, getting completely wasted at a party or something, etc. The Portuguese equivalent to the English kick the bucketis bater as botas, which literally, would be something like to hit the boots. Nonsense! Or alternatively, perhaps making a little more sense to some, vestir o paletó de madeira, that is, quite subtly,to put on the wooden jacket…
Because of these intricacies, developing a decent software that automatically translates texts such as those from pages on the internet is therefore quite complex, but it appears that this fairly new paradigm, often referred to as the ‘participatory culture’ is the perfect (though never definite) solution for this impasse. Firefox indicated and demonstrated this and Google has provided substantial evidence with so much stuff that it is actually incredible to see how so many people people can just sail along and simply take everything for granted! Anyway, as the meta-image below shows (to bilingual speakers of Portuguese and English), there is still a lot to be improved, but they certainly appear to be heading straight in the right direction.
Google Translate Exercise. Click (twice) to enlarge (twice).
We may still get a literal translation to Portuguese of he has kicked the bucket on Google Translate, but we already get kick the bucket in English if we write bater as botas there, so this should probably have been improved in the near future. As a matter of fact, I could personally help them improve this even as I write these lines. Isn’t that amazing? No? Well, I think it is…
Yet even more amazing, though, one might say, is the unbelievable briefly aforementioned inertia that Microsoft has submerged itself into… Honestly, I just don’t get it! I mean, it isn’t my company or anything, but it is fair enough for one to wonder what the hell is going on with those guys! Uncle Bill must have got sick of all this shit and now wants to enjoy life. He has written his name in the History of Humanity, he’s quite happy with what he’s achieved and that’s it, end of the story. I mean, take Office Live Spaces, have you tried using that shit? Well, I have and I got into some serious deep shit using that shit, you don’t want to know. What a piece of shit that shit is! Now, compare it with Google Docs. It isn’t ideal, far from it. But it’s miiiiles ahead. It’s so much faster and lighter, dynamic, and the whole way of thinking is completely different, so much more logic and everything, mind you Google Wave, on the other hand, has been a major disappointment so far… Anyway, I’d better stop here because I’m just going too far and getting nowhere, aren’t I? Excuse me, what? Apple?! No, no, no, no, please, let’s not even consider going down that road…
“it has rained today what normally rains in the whole year”
and we know that this isn’t the only day it has rained in the year, and we also know that it will certainly rain more during the course of the year, then isn’t it just the case that it simply rains more than what people think it does?
Yes, I am… padding this page out for being short of time once again… It’s tough… At least this time I am doing it in a sort of interlinguistic fashion…
Certain tunes can be played anywhere in the world and barely no one will fail to recognise them. By the same token, very few people are actually able to tell who sings or plays these notorious, omnipresent compositions. This is certainly the case with “Dreadlock Holiday” for instance. British rock band 10cc was formed in 1972. Their music can be described as a mixture ‘art rock’ (e.g. Roxy Music), and ‘progressive rock’ (e.g. Yes, Supertramp). Their creative and innovative ways of exploring music inspired and influenced numerous bands, but for one reason or another their (10Ccc’s) success ended up being overshadowed by their contemporary counterparts. Interestingly enough, the greatest survivor from 10cc’s musicography is a reggae-styled tune.
I was walkin’ down the street
Concentratin’ on truckin’ right
I heard a dark voice beside of me
And I looked round in a state of fright
I saw four faces one mad
A brother from the gutter
They looked me up and down a bit
And turned to each other
I say
I don’t like cricket oh no
I love it
I don’t like cricket no no
I love it
Don’t you walk thru my words
You got to show some respect
Don’t you walk thru my words
‘Cause you ain’t heard me out yet
Well he looked down at my silver chain
He said I’ll give you one dollar
I said You’ve got to be jokin’ man
It was a present from me Mother
He said I like it I want it
I’ll take it off your hands
And you’ll be sorry you crossed me
You’d better understand that you’re alone
A long way from home
And I say
I don’t like reggae no no
I love it
I don’t like reggae oh no
I love it
Don’t you cramp me style
Don’t you queer on me pitch
Don’t you walk thru my words
‘Cause you ain’t heard me out yet
I hurried back to the swimming pool
Sinkin’ pina coladas
I heard a dark voice beside me say
Would you like something harder
She said I’ve got it you want it
My harvest is the best
And if you try it you’ll like it
And wallow in a Dreadlock Holiday
And I say
Don’t like Jamaica oh no
I love her
Don’t like Jamaica oh no
I love her oh yea
Don’t you walk thru her words
You got to show some respect
Don’t you walk thru her words
‘Cause you ain’t heard her out yet
I don’t like cricket
I love it (Dreadlock Holiday)
I don’t like reggae
I love it (Dreadlock Holiday)
Don’t like Jamaica
I love her (Dreadlock Holiday)
This is certainly the case with “Kung Fu Fighting” as well. Jamaican born singer Carl Douglas also ended up becoming a classic one-hit wonder, despite his great potential.
Oh-oh-oh-oh…Everybody was Kung Fu fighting, those kids were fast as lightning
In fact it was a little bit fright’ning, but they fought with expert timing
There was funky China men from funky Chinatown
They were trapping when up, they were trapping when down
It’s an ancient Chinese art, and everybody knew their part
For my friend, ain’t you a stiff, then I’m kickin’ from the hip
Everybody was Kung Fu fighting, those kids were fast as lightning
In fact it was a little bit fright’ning, but they fought with expert timing
There was funky Billy Chin and little Sammy Chong
He said, here comes the big boss, let’s get it on
We took the bow and made a stand, started swaying with the hand
A sudden motion made me stiff, now we’re into a brandnew trip
Everybody was Kung Fu fighting, those kids were fast as lightning
In fact it was a little bit fright’ning, but they did it with expert timing
Oh-oh-oh-oh…
Everybody was Kung Fu fighting, those kids were fast as lightning
In fact it was a little bit fright’ning, but they did it with expert timing
Kung Fu fighting, had to be fast as lightning…
On a slightly different note, I have a great friend from Maracaípe, Pernambuco, Brazil. Marcão owns a bar/restaurant on this paradisiac beach where I once lived and worked barefoot for over a year. We haven’t seen each other or even spoken since January 2004, when I went back to Pernambuco to visit my sister, who, at the time, used to work as a veterinarian on a project for the preservation of manatees at the Aquatic Mammals Centre in a relatively near and not so charming village called Itamaracá. (Breathe…). So, anyway, last Summer my friend from London Carlos Mayoral had the pleasure to spend a few days in Maracaípe and thanks to him I managed to get a bottle of the tasty single malt Glenfiddich 12 carefully delivered to Marcão. Now, who would ever imagine that singer and songwriter Carl Douglas, author of “Kung Fu Fighting” had a double who leads a calm and peaceful life by the beach in Maracaípe?
The ‘new’ Cadbury advert by Fallon released early this year became some sort of fever here in the UK, with thousands of ordinary people reenacting the commercial on Youtube, as well as artists and celebrities doing their parodies on TV. The whole production of such a gem is, without a shadow of a doubt, immaculate, but what really stands out is the ‘soundtrack’:
It is a just shame that those people who ‘dig’ music for such purposes usually tend to go uncredited. “Don’t Stop the Rock” is a tune by Freestyle Evolution from 1986, but I didn’t really know or remember the original:
The first reference that actually came to my mind as soon as I saw the commercial a few months ago was the one and only Bomb The Bass, arguably one of the pioneers of British House Music. AKA Tim Simenon, back then, was just a young lad from Brixton who had produced and released his tracks with his own pocket money after completing a sound engineering course, but was to become hugely influential until these days as one of the top masters of the art of sampling and mixing:
*
*
House Music actually started in the US, more precisely in Chicago, Detroit and New York and, as a matter of fact, when “Beat Dis”, the first track by Bomb The Bass, was released in London, it was disguised as an independent EP from New York so that it might attract more attention, according to NME. Still, its immense success was for eighteen-year-old Simenon a rather unexpected and pleasant surprise. Freestyle Evolution, however, belong to a somewhat different ‘musical movement’ categorised as Miami Bass, which was influenced by the hip-hop of Afrika Bambaataa from the Bronx, NY, even though Freestyle Evolution also acknowledge Karftwerk as one of their major influences. Miami Bass is actually said to be the origin of Funk Carioca, which also appears to be turning into a global music phenomenon, some say:
Influences, resemblances… sometimes it’s difficult to tell, but it is always fascinating to take a close look at the gradual evolution of all sorts of genres throughout history and how people carry on experimenting, re-working, re-making, re-mixing, re-building, re-creating, re-presenting!
P.S.: By the way, I have downloaded the audio from the Cadbury “Eyebrow” commercial, and have been using it as the ringtone of my mobile phone.
Explaining jokes always seems a bit daft, especially if they were originally told in a different language. Let alone when they are based on puns. This is actually the case, but I’m going to run the risk nevertheless and tell three stories about three men from Coniandale Road and their respective names: Thomasiu Crane, Thomazt Urbates, and Jacinto Pinto Aquino Rego. Seriously, those were their real names. Well, sort of…
Craneland
In actual fact, young Thomasiu’s surname for instance wasn’t really Crane, but he was originally from the Ukraine. Thomasiu was one of those rare types who really ‘shouldn’t be there’, in the sense that there were plenty of reasons for him not to be there. He’d come from a rather fortunate background, had had the benefit of a good education, had a full-time job, but more importantly, Thomasiu hadn’t really deserved to have got what he got for what he’d done. Or had he? He’d been sentenced to one year of imprisonment for trespassing and criminal damage, which many think is alright given the fact that one is usually released on parole after having done half. Truth is though, once there, even a week is too long. After all, who wants to be deprived of his liberty? Thomasiu did seem like a nice kid with no apparent malice whatsoever. He’d recently graduated from business management back home and decided to travel the world before getting a permanent job, just like many have done, myself included. London is usually a good start due to the (then) cheap flights and the relatively good opportunities for making money. He was a big fellow and got a job in construction straight away so that he could also keep fit while making money, and he worked and partied just as hard for nearly a year. He then bought his round-the-world ticket and was due to leave London off to New York first then Hawaii and Thailand within two months from that fateful dawn. They were walking back home after a night out celebrating life and as the sky gradually became more colourful and their state of inebriation diminished, the imposing silhouettes of those monsters at the building site where they spent most of their days suddenly seemed to have hypnotised them. After a long staring pause they looked at each other grinning simultaneously. “Are you thinking about the same thing?” Laughter. “No fucking way, dare you!” “A hundred quid?” Laughter. “A hundred quid!” Laughter. “Go on then, get the flag!”
Young high-spirited boys, too much energy accumulated and a dash of bad luck is all it takes. Thomasiu tied the Ukrainian flag around his neck like a cloak and climbed the crane all the way up to the very top, literally hundreds of feet high, completely drowned by his excitement and totally unaware of the life-threatening risks of such an inconsequent act. He hung the flag on the tip of the machinery arm and started shouting off the top of his lungs “FUCK ENGLAND, YOOHOO!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
They do say that trespassers will be prosecuted, and in fact it didn’t take very long for a couple of police cars and a fire engine to arrive on site with the sirens on. Apparently someone had seen the duo climbing the gate and phoned the police. They let the boy on the ground off but took Thomasiu to the police station, and at that point he was still enjoying himself so much that he never really thought he was just about to swap his one-year round-the-world trip for a one-year round-the-corner stay behind bars.
At Coniandale Road they called him Mr. Crane from the Ukraine.
***
Older Thomazt had a more unfortunate and rather embarrassing story, and his comic full name was in fact tragically prophetic. Mr. Turbates was the authentic nomad type; he was about 35 and had been travelling the world for almost 20 years. He had worked on king-crab fishing boats in Alaska, he had worked in the rice paddies of Thailand and he had picked fruit in the Australian fields. He had slept in many streets and Salvation Army shelters and when he arrived in London his first job was to sell Big Issue Magazines. He was a tall, dark and handsome man and he had a charismatic smile which provided the impression that he was always in a good mood. As soon as he heard that some people earned pretty good money by walking the dogs of the wealthy ones in Kent he bought some decent clothes, did some interviews and eventually got the job. One of his clients was an old lady who had an incredibly sexy and attractive daughter in her early twenties. It was one of those rare sunny days in British Summer. Thomazt had just entered the property to get hold of the three greyhounds and as he crossed the upper garden along the swimming pool he just couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw her lying there, completely naked, sunbathing by the pool. He hadn’t had sex in a long while and got a little overexcited, so he ran to the loo downstairs in the basement and relieved his sexual tensions right there, on the spot, fantasising about what he had just seen.
Bark
Thomazt wasn’t really sure whether somebody like the housekeeper had seen him in action through the little window or whether he’d left some sort of incriminating vestige behind. The fact is that later in the same evening he received a phonecall from the agency just informing him that his services were no longer required. The next thing he learned a couple of days later was that he was being arrested and charged with sexual harassment. Thomazt Urbates, what an irony.
***
I still haven’t had much contact with Jacinto. He only just got there last week. I was with my colleagues doing induction, which is when we talk about and try to explain the importance of education and then assess the new-comers’ levels of literacy and numeracy so that they can sign up for the courses they might want to do. If they are non-native speakers they are referred to me and I’ll attempt a brief chat in order to try and precise their level of English. As soon as Jacinto realised I was Brazilian he frantically exposed his frustrations with the fact that he had been registered with the name that was on his fake Portuguese passport instead of his real name. Thinking that he was merely concerned about the fact that Mr. Pinto did not quite exist, I replied naïvely: “don’t you worry about that. If that is the name they want to use, it should be their problem, and that should not affect you in any way”, to what he replied with with his fast-paced accent from Ceará which kept on reminding me of Didi Mocó “no, you don’t understand, the name that the motherfucker who made the passport gave me is Jacinto Pinto Aquino Rego and I can’t stand this fucking shit!” It was like an old joke really happening right in front of my eyes, and poor Mr. Pinto looked so cross that there was no way I could laugh about the fact that he’d been given this combination of Portuguese names which even though are real and plausible for someone to have, no one would ever do (well, perhaps in Portugal), for it sounds exactly like saying something like “I feel a cock up my arse” in English.
***
These paronomastic anecdotes brought back some amusing memories of my childhood when I used to think that the iconic Brazilian actors Tarcísio Meira and Ney Latorraca were actually two actresses: Tarci Zumeira and Neyla Torraca.
Tomorrow is Summer Solstice Day, and here in Britain this is really noticeable, just as well as the Winter Solstice is. Not only because we are relatively far ‘above’ the Equator and the Tropic of Cancer, but also because people talk about it, people know about it, and some even celebrate it. At the home of Newton and Rutherford, and Darwin of course; at the home of Kubrick, Burgess and Orwell; Huxley, Waters, Gilmour and Bowie, it appears that ‘people in general’ know about ‘things in general’. There are often scientific documentaries on prime-time television, both state TV and privately owned TV, how incredible is that? Documentaries on prime time, can you imagine? I wonder if ‘people in general’ also experience things in general besides and beyond knowing about them through the magic box, but that is another discussion.
Mathematicians might say solstices are the highest point of a sine graphic. Physicists might even say more precisely that they occupy the peaks of an amplitude modulation graph. Ugh! We, the people from Humanities often sneer at mathematical models and equations, but the truth is that the mathematical sciences are incredibly beautiful and they can describe the world and the universe in an extraordinarily beautiful way. As a matter of fact, I have always been fascinated by theoretical mathematics and physics, but when it comes to applying the models and conjectures, I must admit that I, like many people, simply do not have the capacity to master the complex language of such sciences. How amazing is it that the organically acquired pragmatical knowledge of a fisherman can be described mathematically with so much detailed precision and accuracy!
Take the tides, for instance. They come and go. Every day. But at different times. A little bit later every day in relation to the twelve-hour clock, twice. The moon has its phases and is full again every four weeks, always a little bit later in relation to the seven-day week as well. And whenever it is full moon or new moon, there are big tides. They go out really far and low, and they come in very high. When the moon reaches either its first or its last quarter, however, that is, when it is half-moon, there is very little variation between high tide and low tide. And they carry on like that, gradually, day after day, little by little, full moon after full moon, until another peak of another amplitude modulated sine wave is reached: The ‘seasonal amplitude modulated sine wave’.
Think of the four seasons and the length of time between sunrise and sunset as the year goes by. Just as full moons and new moons will indicate the highest peaks of both low tides and high tides, summer and winter will indicate the highest variations of day light and darkness, with autumn and spring in between being the equivalent to the half moons, that is, very little variation in terms of the number of hours with or without light, gradually increasing or decreasing towards summer or winter depending on which hemisphere you find yourself in, but with barely any changes throughout the year near the equator line just as with the tides.
The longest or the shortest day in the year will indicate to some the beginning of summer or winter, but to others, they actually represent mid summer and mid winter, as in the peak of an amplitude modulated sine wave, if you know what I mean, with either of the equinoxes signalling the beginning of spring/autumn. Or would it be mid spring and mid autumn..?
And it keeps on going. On and on, round and round, tide after tide, moon after moon, season after season, year after year, who knows until when.
The Juxtaposed Seasonal and Tidal Modulated Sine Model, aka JUSETIMOSIMO, was developed by the Brazilian applied scientist of rules Eurásio Régis Filho to help better elucidate the mysteries of the quantic universe as whole. Or has it.
Dancing Sinusoids
Concentric Circuloids
Electromagneticoids
Fractoids
Spectrum of Floyds
Herculoids
Oh, and about the images and their respective (lack of) credits, if you have eighteen minutes to spare, I recommend you listen to the man below. Larry Lessig is his name. He is American and TED is ‘very American’, but it’s just ‘their style’, it’s just ‘the genre’, we kind of ‘expect’ it to be this way… The idea is actually very good, though. And like typical Americans, they know really well how to capitalise upon great ideas. In four weeks time the TED Global is taking place at Oxford and registrations are, erm, £2,500.
Fine, Britain is the home of Newton and Rutherford; it is, of course the home of Darwin, and it is the home of Kubrick. And Burgess. And Orwell, and Huxley, Waters, Gilmour and Bowie. It often appears to me
Traditional Brazilian bossa, choro and even classical compositions such as the opera O Guarani, which became forcefully immortalised after so many decades of good and old A Voz do Brasil. All reworked into spirited and heart-warming top quality early reggae, ska and rocksteady. Definitely worth checking it out, especially if you’re acquainted with the tunes, and particularly if you’re fond of them originals, except for O Guarani, of course! The glorious symbol of the acceptance of the retrograde former colony of Portugal into the prestigious European realm of classical music is an amusing musical parody which brings back memories of those ‘groundhog evenings’ stuck in traffic in São Paulo on my way back home, after a long day at school, college, work, etc. ‘The Voice’ itself is not really so bad and, as a matter of fact, it has recently been fairly modernised and has indeed become considerably less excruciating to listen to. There is a lot of criticism regarding the fact that it is a public service, but I’m not getting into that discussion today. After all, which news programme isn’t biased anyway? Trouble is that if you’re listening to the radio in Brazil between 7 and 8pm, you won’t have much of a choice, apart from the very few stations which, after fighting for years, have been granted ‘the right’ to broadcast the programme at an alternative time on the same day. And the farther you move away from the big urban centres, the less likely it is that you’re going to find anything else to listen to at this time. Of course you can always put a CD on, or your mp3 player or a cassette, depending, but that can be quite annoying when you’re in the mood for radio!
Right. This is the first of a series of anecdotes called Coniandale Road, which might one day be published as a book. Yes, one of these brilliant ideas we keep having, but never actually put into practice due to the frantic pace of our daily lives. Or perhaps more likely due to our bad time management skills…
Coniandale Road and its surroundings, circa 1840
One of the things that I do for a living in the UK, while I struggle to complete my PhD in Media and Communications, is TESOL as they say, that is, Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages. My learners, however, appear to be for some a bit of an oddity, for the fact that they find themselves currently deprived of their freedom. Foreign offenders, they call them. Some speak very good English, but cannot read or write at all. Others have studied the language back home and can read and write reasonably well, but can barely understand anyone. And then there are those who cannot understand, speak, read or write a single word in English. All sorts of unfortunate stories from various parts of the world surround that place. Stories which I never ask about, but quite often hear in detail, for people there tend to have a virtually physiological need to get stuff out of their chest, which does not surprise me at all.
It is not just because João is my countryman that I was struck by his story, for over the last almost four years I have worked in Coniandale Road, there have always been a few Brazilians coming and going. João was just another one who was leaving today. He had been transferred to another institution somewhere up in the Midlands to serve his two-year sentence. Drug dealing. Not a big deal, really, far from last year’s ingenuous Ricardo Farina who had been caught at the airport, with his suitcase packed with twenty lovely Amazonian stone sculptures of parrots, each stuffed up with one hundred grams of the famous South American powder, totalling two kilograms, valued at hundreds of thousands of sterling pounds, or a fifteen-year sentence for that matter. What had initially seemed like a mere case of smuggling, for customs, actually turned out as a big surprise, for both sides. João, on the other hand, blamed it on the cachaça. Born in its homeland, Minas Gerais, Little John lost his Scandinavian father at a rather early age, but at least him and his beloved African mother were left in good financial conditions. Hadn’t she met his stepfather soon after, that is. Within five years he managed to finish off all her resources, including the house, which had to be sold to pay the debts from his gambling habit. And then he left. Mother, son and his little half-brother had to move up the hill, to the favelas, home of the deprived, and they had to work really hard to be able to maintain a humble, but reasonably satisfactory standard of living, which would still be occasionally disrupted by the return of the man.
Denis Carrion and Pablo Zambeli
Several years went on and the situation remained unchanged, apart from the fact that despite his slightly short stature and rather light weight, João had turned into a kind of high-octane mixture of João de Santo Cristo and Mané Galinha, not exactly in terms of what these (perhaps not so) fictional characters had been through, but rather in terms of their anti-hero-like personality traits. João had already stood up to the man a couple of times and told him how much he hated him and how slowly he wanted him to burn in hell, but what actually made the man finally disappear once and for all, or rather, for many years to come, was the promise that (not so) Little John had made him, as his mother sobbed and João firmly pointed the gun at the man’s head.
His shoulder-length kinky hair, as well as other characteristic features from his hybrid ethnic background gradually provided João with the looks of someone in between furious Kirk Hammet from Metallica and cheerful Luís Caldas, Jequié’s former king of Afoxé, but of course he wouldn’t listen to any of this or that shit! João actually enjoyed the Funk Carioca, which his stunning girlfriend danced ‘professionally’ at the weekend bailes, while he and his mates watched, drank beer, smoked weed and did some lines of coke.
Because of the nature of the business itself, drug lords are expected to be tough and merciless and they can be quite imposing in the context of favelas which are generally brushed aside by the government even though they represent a great deal of the urban populations. Being used to always having the upper hand can be tricky though, as it usually causes these subjects to become overconfident, especially when they make use of the substances they commercialise, which, as a matter of fact, almost always is the case. And so, the sexy dancer drives the big tough imposing merciless inebriated man crazy with the hypnotic sinuous movements of her dance and he wants to have her at any cost. She has a boyfriend but the man doesn’t care, after all, that is not his problem, or is it, and so he grabs her by the arm. The boyfriend, however, is watching everything from across the hall:
Leave me alone, you’re hurting me, let go of my arm, what the fuck do you think you’re doing you bloody…
Calm down baby, let me show you something nice, take it easy, I just want to show you what a real man tastes like…
Piss off!
She shoved and ran away towards João who approached the scene quite hesitantly. He was fuming, but didn’t know what to do, for not only was he looking at the man in charge, but the man was also three times as big. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down, but then he heard:
Ok, darling, let me know when you get bored of playing with a boy still in nappies, will you?
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. João simply lost it and quite literally jumped in with both feet and before he even realised, there he lay, battered and bruised on the dance floor. The humiliation was extreme, and he simply couldn’t take it. In two weeks time he would take his inconsequent revenge. On 27 February 2001, Fat Tuesday, Carlos Augusto “Careca” [bald] was shot dead in broad day light and João Da Mata was immediately arrested as he reloaded his gun to discharge once again upon the agonising man who lay on the pavement while passers-by ran in panic. The police officer who had briskly interrupted Little John’s seizure by butt-stroking him with his rifle actually knew him and his family and called his mother as soon as they arrived at the police station. The officer used to be their neighbour before they’d had to move up the hill and he did everything he could to make sure Little John was not sent to Cadeião [Big Jail], where Careca’s business partners dictated the rules, otherwise João wouldn’t have survived to tell his unfinished story. Twenty two years old; seven wasted years of his life ahead. Tough. But it could have been a lot worse. The stepfather he despised got hold of a solicitor who somehow managed to get João released on bail two years later, as son as he won the appeal for a retrial, which was obviously doomed, but it didn’t matter, for the idea was just to buy time, so that João could organise everything and leave the country to start a new life, in London, where his mother had some relatives. It may sound rather perplexing that one could actually have done this, and the details are unknown, but indeed that is what happened, and so there was him along with his mother a few days later arriving at Heathrow airport, and five years later in Coniandale Road after being caught red-handed at the famous nightclub Heaven.
Coniandale Road for João was like a three-star hotel, as he put it, and even the food wasn’t really as bad as the other inmates painted it. In Swedish prisons, he said, they only give you bread and water, and there isn’t even butter! You can eat all day if you want, and you can have as much as you like, but it’s only bread and water. I’ve never had bread again in my life after the three days they kept me in there because of a stupid street fight, but anyway, if you guys find this place horrid, I suggest you spend a month, just a month, in the prison I stayed in for two years back in Brazil! Twenty two people in one cell, my friend, twenty two people, eleven beds and one toilet, ok?
Really? So what did you do, I mean, did you take turns to sleep?
You must be taking the piss! Of course not! We slept on the floor! The beds belonged to those who had been there longer, and the newest ones had to get up earlier, clean the floor and make the coffee. Of course we could use the beds sometimes, as long as we paid for it. Actually, that was the only thing that was better there: your family could give you as much money, cigarettes and food as they wanted, so that was pretty good, and the food was pretty good as well, because we cooked it. Oh, and of course, we had the right to have the so called intimate visits once a month as long as we behaved, and in fact, that is where my little boy was conceived, shit, you should see my little boy, he’s six years old already, I’ve gotta go back to Brazil, I’ve had enough of this country, the temptation here is too big because it’s too easy to make money and get carried away… I’ve been talking to my brother and I told him to try and find a nice piece of land in a small town in the countryside and all I want is to be with my missus and my little boy, she’s always writing to me and she’s there just waiting for me, and I know she is cause my brother tells me so!
Isn’t it dangerous for you to go back there?
Well, yeah, that’s why every time I talk about going back to Brazil my mother starts to cry, but my brother tells me that most of those who would represent some danger to me are dead, you know, it’s a risky business and so these people don’t live very long and that’s why I don’t want to have nothing to do with no shit no more do you know what I mean? But yeah, they know I’m planning to go back and the news always spread quick so yeah, I wouldn’t be able to live in my hometown, but it doesn’t matter, I’ve learnt my lesson, next year I’m outta here and I just wanna be a good boy and look after my family.
Hm, prison. I suppose I’ve got a few stories to tell and a couple of things I could comment on that topic. Should I? Ok, at some point I will, but for now, I should just get back to the other pages of this toy which are, as a matter of fact, a lot more important in the short run, for, after a crazy month of hard labour work and minimal academic work, I’ve got loads to catch up, just as usual, and because of this dream that I had last night, a good many hours were spent on a perhaps useless, but nevertheless delightful mental exercise.
Yes, I had this dream we were lying in the orange hammock of a narrow balcony, somewhere nice and warm, though rather dry, and I was singing Bob Marley’s The Lion of Judah, a with all my heart and soul.
When it comes to music, lyrics to me have always come in second place, no matter how beautiful and poetic they may be, the music will attract me first and then eventually I start sort of naturally noticing and listening more carefully to the actual words of a song, after all, if the music is shit, but the lyrics are beautiful, one should try to be just a poet, hah! Anyway, The Lion of Judah doesn’t seem to have been published anywhere apart fromTime Will Tell, the only decent documentary about the life of Bob Marley, directed by Declan Lowney who, IMDB tells me, happens to be the director of many of the episodes of Little Britain, isn’t that such a small world?
But yes, the dream I’d had… quite a trivial one actually, was probably the mere result of two combined factors:
(1) My dear Jennifer had given me a lovely gift the previous day. It was a really cool blue t-shirt with the picture of good old Bob sitting on a bicycle. Bob on a bike. I’d taken a shower, tried the shirt on, carried on doing my stuff, and ended up falling asleep wearing it.
(2) One of my best friends from Brazil, Andrea, had sent me an email.
Andrea went to school with me and left university half way through just like me to travel the world before finishing the studies. She travelled at least twice as much as I did and ended up marrying Eran from Israel, her soul mate she’d met in India and ‘imported’ to Brazil. Andrea graduated from mechanical engineering journalism at PUC after dropping out from Poli – USP. She became a professional photographer and is currently living in remote Macapá, also working as a federal civil servant. Quite an interesting profile, one could say. On her email, she told me about their last trip to, yes, Ethiopia. She told me about the people, she told me about the colours, and she told me about the clocks. The clocks, man! Apparently in Ethiopia, unlike anywhere else in the world, not only have they got their own calendar (they are in 2001), but they have also got their own twelve-hour clock with 1 o’clock being the hour that the sun rises, that is around 6am of our clocks! That means their midday will actually be at 6 o’clock, so it is quite interesting to think that a traveller in Ethiopia will see the sun setting as the local clocks point to 12 o’clock, if I’m being clear. My other dear friend and journalist Isabelle Doudou who has always had severe difficulties in terms of understanding how time-zones work for instance, probably has no idea what I’m talking about, but that’s fine. There was also a ppt presentation on the email Andrea sent me, with lots of photos she had taken, but I was quite busy, so I left the file to open later and went to bed. Then the brain did its job, a small production of this apparently meaningless dream in which I sang the song. The result was just a bit of a shock when I realised at the end of the following day that I had spent over five hours reading about Ethiopia, its kings and queens, the Israelites, Rastafarianism, and bought The Kebra Nagast, which I had never even heard of before. I must also confess that I had greater admiration for Rastafarianism before I understood its origins more thoroughly, but it doesn’t really matter, for Bob himself had always said that Rasta was not a religion anyway, innit!
The African Khoisan languages such as Zulu, Xhosa and Swazi make constant use of a series of clicks which represent different consonants:
Indo-European Languages such as English, on the other hand, do not make formal use of such articulations. Yet, they are widely used and their semanticity is well acknowledged. This is just an amusing example of the language beyond the language to illustrate the importance of linguistic studies to be more pragmatic, contextual and discursive so to speak, just as Volosinov had long advocated. From BBC3 Comedy Series The Visit, set in the visiting room of “HMP Radford Hill”.
Hm… prison. I suppose I’ve got a few stories to tell and a couple of things I could comment on…
The brilliant things Michael Wesch is up to are most definitely worth sharing and commenting. The link to his weblog Digital Ethnographycan be found on the right column of this page, together with other interesting and useful stuff I subscribe to, but I would like to draw particular attention to this video of one of his talks on media literacy and colaborative teaching and learning practices. It is over an hour long, so set yourself some time, sit back with a cup of coffee and enjoy the lesson. Alternatively, nevermind.
Edited: The tests below refer to another ‘space’ of a much inferior quality, not even worth mentioning. Yet, it should remain here for the time being, not only for the purposes of record, but also and perhaps mainly, because the chosen video depicts the greatest football player in action for the greatest football team…
After having lost a good few paragraphs in the infinity of cyberspace for those reasons no one can really explain, I have just managed to configure the software to automatically save drafts every three minutes, something that it should have done automatically without need to be configured. Well, tough!
Another thing to be check out is the lines and paragraphs, as well as the fonts,colours, sizes and different formats. I had tried to embed a video and that was when the thing crashed, which is not a very good sign and I do not really want to comment on that. The video can, theoretically, be uploaded from here through Soapboxwhich is the Microsoft’s answer to Google’s YouTubeso to speak. It just appears to take ages for the uploaded video to be processed, and in the meantime, Writer crashes…
This is enough text for a test, so I shall now attempt to embed the video once again and throw the whole thing altogether on the website. Fingers crossed.
EDITED: Never mind ‘the website’. Microsoft simply does not seem to be able to keep up anymore. Not to mention the problems… So, like I say, never mind…
Eurasio Mundano 
