A remarkable account of the attacks in Mumbai, from inside the Taj Mahal hotel.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Mishpacha Redux.
So we've added one since last year! She's pulling her cousin Joshua's hair, if you look closely. He endured bravely. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Cleaning out the catch.
Soldiers of Reason: The RAND Corporation and the Rise of the American Empire, by Alex Abella. The rise of the military-industrial complex. This writer had free access to a thesaurus.
Into the Remote Places, by Ian Hibell and Clinton Trowbridge. Hibell was a cyclist, into adventure touring, and crazy as a loon. Parts of this travel narrative involve more walking than biking, as when Hibell and his two companions are hacking their way through a swamp in central America through waistdeep water. Fun! Oh, and did I mention that trip through the Sahara? [Update: forgot to add this obit from the Economist: R.I.P. Ian Hibell. Bikes rarely let him down. Escaping once from spear-throwing Turkana in northern Kenya, he felt the chain come off, but managed to coast downhill to safety. He crossed China from north to south—in 2006, at 72—with just three brake-block changes, one jammed rear-brake cable and a change of tape on the handlebars. In his book, “Into the Remote Places” (1984), he described his bike as a companion, a crutch and a friend. Setting off in the morning light with "the quiet hum of the wheels, the creak of strap against load, the clink of something in the pannier", was "delicious". A page on Ian Hibell, set up by a friend, is here.]
The Secret Scripture, by Sebastian Barry. Good prose here, but utterly preposterous plot. You can readily get in touch with your bloody, violent, insane, oppressive Irish roots, if you have any. Shortlisted for the Booker but lost.
Into the Remote Places, by Ian Hibell and Clinton Trowbridge. Hibell was a cyclist, into adventure touring, and crazy as a loon. Parts of this travel narrative involve more walking than biking, as when Hibell and his two companions are hacking their way through a swamp in central America through waistdeep water. Fun! Oh, and did I mention that trip through the Sahara? [Update: forgot to add this obit from the Economist: R.I.P. Ian Hibell. Bikes rarely let him down. Escaping once from spear-throwing Turkana in northern Kenya, he felt the chain come off, but managed to coast downhill to safety. He crossed China from north to south—in 2006, at 72—with just three brake-block changes, one jammed rear-brake cable and a change of tape on the handlebars. In his book, “Into the Remote Places” (1984), he described his bike as a companion, a crutch and a friend. Setting off in the morning light with "the quiet hum of the wheels, the creak of strap against load, the clink of something in the pannier", was "delicious". A page on Ian Hibell, set up by a friend, is here.]
The Secret Scripture, by Sebastian Barry. Good prose here, but utterly preposterous plot. You can readily get in touch with your bloody, violent, insane, oppressive Irish roots, if you have any. Shortlisted for the Booker but lost.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Texts.
Things Fall Apart, by Chinua Achebe. Great tale about Okonkwo, an ignorant, superstitious man living in an ignorant, superstitious society - except ignorant isn't the right word since he did know a lot about how to survive and thrive, even if that involved beating the crap out of his wives or children. Anyway, the classic of African lit. A+++ for proverbs and folksy creation tales!
The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. DO NOT read this book while on a night flight, for you will land expecting to find a blasted postapocalyptic wasteland. Strangely affecting even if sometimes monotonic and monochromatic (how much ash can a reader take?). It's unclear what the disaster was (nuclear war?) but judging from this book the holocaust took many many innocent commas with it. The upcoming film was shot in and around Pittsburgh. Draw your own conclusions.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Toddler Dinner Party.
Benji may need some further lessons on proper attire, but his hospitality is right-on. When's the last time your host offered to carry you around on his "shourders"?
Friday, November 07, 2008
Serendipity.
This morning, I found a dollar bill sitting in the street outside my house, which came in handy since I was able to use it to pay my bus fare. Now that's some wealth redistribution I can believe in. Thanks, Obama!
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
This seems appropriate today.
Let America Be America Again
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again, America!
O, yes, I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again, America!
O, yes, I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
"This is considered a most excellent and nutritious meal for invalids."
Pish-pash is yummy! Recipe available here, from an English-language Indian cookbook from the late 19th century, along with other recipes for bhahjee, dal, pickle, and, uh, brain cakes.
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