tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-679043666517632242024-03-05T06:06:46.572+01:00A look at the worldMy own private view about things on this Earth, focusing on my born-with obsessions: England, language, companies, art, medias, football, politics, girls, happy homosexuals and rare animals of Botswana.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-31483888372041179732009-07-29T21:27:00.002+02:002009-07-29T23:04:06.225+02:00The Garage Band Experience<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitjtorGjaQQZj7MNdHB0UtcHHQ-du3gpHMz9FEDDkuZr7x3uyQPAJA9qHkWpVxz4DFovF_HwZ3lKURcpdyrseE2-VcUE1SWKe3aJ3SmiO8PX_Qlr6CVI6RCe85lSgk-d85DVSyh6tAOwI/s1600-h/garageband.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363990623000942162" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 286px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 102px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitjtorGjaQQZj7MNdHB0UtcHHQ-du3gpHMz9FEDDkuZr7x3uyQPAJA9qHkWpVxz4DFovF_HwZ3lKURcpdyrseE2-VcUE1SWKe3aJ3SmiO8PX_Qlr6CVI6RCe85lSgk-d85DVSyh6tAOwI/s320/garageband.gif" border="0" /></a> Do you know what a garage band is? Of course you do. It's a band playing in a garage, that is to say an amateur band practicing their skills in some remote basement with no audience at all (apart maybe from the lead singer's girlfriend lying on the coach and ready to clap her hands at every moment of silence).<br /><div>The Bank is not a garage band. The Bank never played in a garage and The Bank never felt they had to practice their skills before recording anything, since The Bank believes in spontaneity and raw energy. The Bank is not really a real rock band either, since it is merely an algebraic equation consisting in: </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>(Pierre Alexander + Sebastian Stelzer)/(The Quakers + Kettering)² = England for sale</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>But The Bank did put a couple of their songs up for review on http:www.garageband.com, just to see what people would say about their work.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Here is the Garage Band punch line:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Are you a musician? Get your music heard! Enter the contest to get reviewed by new fans & compete for exposure from <a href="http://www.garageband.com/htdb/feed/partners.html">Feed Partners</a>. </div><br /><div><a href="http://www.garageband.com/review">OPTION 1: Earn a contest entry by reviewing music</a>. Review 15 pairs of songs by other artists (only 9 if you <a href="http://www.garageband.com/gold">become a Gold member</a>). "</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And here is how it works: you review other people's music (songs go by pair and you rate them from 0 to 5 along with the writing of a short review) and then you earn the right to submit your songs for review. Which is exactly what we did for a couple of our beloved tracks.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And here are some of the results:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>This is England</strong></div><br /><div>- "Drunken Germans pretending to be Brits", says xroomate from L.A. "The keyboard piano part reminds me of threescompany, cool. Nice grooviness to the tune", which is really an ugly piece of abuse to the Bishop Stopford School Music Department, considering the "keyboard piano" is actually a real hammer piano. </div><br /><div>- "happy sounding pop song about Nazism in England, sung by a person with a German accent. I'm not really sure WHAT I think about it. I hope it's complex sarcasm or a joke", says door64 from Seattle. "Nothing major wrong with production, composition, or performance, all well done, nothing sticks out. Well, except the words, which SEEM to be a contemplation of right wing inspired mass murder justified in the name of a sense of personal comfort and security." Well seen, Mr door64, it IS a song about xenophobia in the UK and blind slaughtering is suggested in some part of the song.</div><br /><div>- "Are you making fun of British lads or what (I'm not one of them)?" asks viceromania from Bucarest. Interestingly, the guy says "I'm not one of them", which is exactly what I thought during my whole time there.</div><br /><div>- And now the opinion of mishapscott from Wisconsin: "I think I've heard the opening piano line in the intro song to an 80's sitcom or something. When the singing kicks in, it reminds me of Roger Waters doing his best character impressions on The Wall", while pyoor from Arizona says: "The tune itself would make a great TV ad song" and tries "to figure out if this was supposed to be funny or a joke or something". Slobrock from Norway shares this bewilderment: "This is a song that I can't figure out if it is serious or not. The production sounds decent, but is it some German dudes singing about UK?"</div><br /><div>And in conclusion, the shock of the extremes: </div><br /><div>- the blind and cheerful approval of Joe from Ohio: "Keep on keepin on this tune is awsome hope you guys go far in the near future"</div><br /><div>- the ultimate declaration of disgust from xhead666, Lehi, Utah: "UUUGGHHHH......WOW - this has to be one of the worst songs I've ever heard. Lyrics are really dull. I don't even think this is singing, more like melodic talking." </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Mother Belly</strong></div><br /><div>- Awful start from paulrocks in Florida: "this song sucks and you guys must be from europe for making weak shit like this", which made me think ot the worse. But this review was to be tempered a bit by the next one. "Interesting calm mood", says EduCesar from Brazil, "but I don't like the mixing. Lead vocals are ok, but I'd like to hear this with more emotion. I like the melody, sounds like New Order sometimes. As for the chord structure, I find it interesting."</div><br /><div>- "Weird Lyrics" is what LovetheBand from New York seems to have retained from the song. "The piano/organ makes me think I'm in church. The lyrics are really weird. Who is this Mother Belly? Is it some woman who is taking advantage of a little boy and makes him a man? Why is she telling the little boy to drink a lot? Isn't that illegal? I had to listen to this song twice to make sure I heard it right. " You heard it right, comrade, but I guess you've never been to Kettering. Then you would understand for sure. "Where is the group from?, he eventually asks. "The singer (or shall I say talker) has a accent I haven't heard before." Well, we're from Kettering, Northants.</div><br /><div>- Ilike20 from Midwest goes into details: "The intro with just the plain open chords drags on too long. It seems to take too long before anything happens in this song. The vocals were completely unexpected. A very unique sounding voice unlike any others I've listened to in a long time. The harmonies were good, but they didn't seem to mesh with the lead vocalist for me."</div><br /><div>- Writing from Italy, vastospino really dug the song: "A Leonard Cohen-like voice develops a delicate poetry", he writes, "as organ chords draw a nice progression with some maj chords, am I wrong? It's not easy to understand it...This is an intimistic song focused on the lyrics,even distorted guitars remain in the background, not to disturb the correct expression of the vocal line. I like the arrangement: you've chosen a few instruments, making them work together in an interesting way." </div><br /><div>- But it didn't quite meet the taste of Mr Fantasgreat from Portland, Oregon: "Your vocal reminds me of Urge Overkill's Girl, You'll be a Woman Soon. Your lazy delivery style and low range are very similar. This song puts me to sleep. It doesn't create much interest for me as a listener. The drums are static throughout the entire song and there is very little dynamic difference throughout the track. Combine that with your delivery style, and it's destined to be as effective as Sleepy-Time Tea"</div><br /><div>- And at last the complete review of plingativator from Vancouver, Canada, which gives you but a taste of what to expect if you submit a track to a Garage Band listener and get lucky enough:</div><br /><div>"The bass line just after 1:00 picks up the song nicely, it's slow to grow but at this point it does exactly what it needs to do. When the distorted guitar comes in around 1:44 it doesn't seem to fit very well. The rest of the music is organ, mellow base, and subdued drums. The guitar just kind of ruins that mood. The vocals in the chorus are probably my favorite part, but the guitar underneath ruins them a little bit. I'm not surewhat kind of accent that is exactly during the verses, sounds French, but the Union Jack reference throws me. Either way it is interesting to listen to. The song could have ended around 4:07, I don't think the last few piano chords add anything to the song, and they drag it out in an unsatisfying way. I think the song could be really relaxing to listen to, but that distorted guitar really wrecks that for me, I would definitely consider removing it or toning it down, it just doesn't fit for me. Everything else is great."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So this is it, my dear fellow musician garage reader: if you hold something in store and you're not oversensitive, consider entering the contest. The funny part is: what they can do to you, you can do it to them and hit back with spiteful reviews if you're in the mood for it. My first review as a listener was a real success and earned me an e-mail of abuse (in my garageband mailbox) from the artist I dared to criticize a bit. But it doesn't happen all the time, far from it, and it's an interesting experience to apply one's judgement on other stuff rather than Coldplay's last single, trusting only your ears without any kind of prejudice.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The Garage Band Experience now awaits you.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>PS: on the right of your screen you should be able to listen to the two songs whose reviews have been quoted here. If you are to write a comment about these songs, feel free to it except if you're from one of these localities: Kettering, Corby, Peterborough, Luton, Market Harborough, Bedford.</em></div><br /><div><em></em></div><br /><div>Sincerely Yours,</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Pierre Alexander</div>Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-66972405865074736752009-02-26T19:46:00.007+01:002009-02-26T21:10:30.578+01:00Figures of today: the man-machine<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg_K44TdA4iyHX1PmWRKQU2uzQM5z7s9IIa9GBQp-MGrZqKMeKVtzgwNAl5NGNAV6kaLqZGrcTpM6xj9rTA_ml3QXRXs6JzkLZOj8koa17BGYrCcmTykENnndVVvzgoz09LvujQ95Ih7Q/s1600-h/Man_as_machine_high_res.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 201px; height: 397px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg_K44TdA4iyHX1PmWRKQU2uzQM5z7s9IIa9GBQp-MGrZqKMeKVtzgwNAl5NGNAV6kaLqZGrcTpM6xj9rTA_ml3QXRXs6JzkLZOj8koa17BGYrCcmTykENnndVVvzgoz09LvujQ95Ih7Q/s320/Man_as_machine_high_res.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307198934121170994" border="0" /></a>Ever heard of Kraftwerk? Of course you have. It was this famous German electronic band of the mid-70's who set the sonic blueprint for the New Wave and techno music of the decades to come. Their 1978 album "The Man-Machine" was the peak of their career as composers and modern pop visionaries, their songs establishing science fictionesque links between humans and technology.<br /><br />The interesting thing about science-fiction is that with the everchanging course of progress, one never knows whether science fictional artworks will still be considered that way 20 or 40 years later. Thanks to the worldly triumphant politically correct, George's Orwell Newspeak is no longer science-fiction, but a sociological truth. A welcome victory for some, a sad backward step for others, a reality for all.<br /><br />So how is doing the man-machine concept in 2009's world? Well, pretty well indeed. That's if you consider that what qualifies a human being is his intelligence, his education, his instinct and his dealing with failure, while the machine is all about certainty and figures. The facts are that the man-machine of 2009 , thanks to the helping hand of science and technology, is really close to perfection.<br /><br />The man-machine still needs a brain to learn and produce sounds with his mouth and penis/vagina to transmit/receive the seeds of love, but that's all that is required if he chooses to keep things neat and simple. The machine part does the rest.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Love</span>: move your feet to the computer, turn it on, log-in on <span style="font-style: italic;">www.meetic.com website</span>, type in the correct boxes "female", "between 28 and 30", "love clubbing and evening with friends", "urban lifestyle", "non smoking" and you get it: another (wo)man-machine, aged 31, who loves clubbing and evening with friends, who lives in New-York and doesn't smoke. Date her on the fifth avenue, do your part of small talk, watch out for bad breath and you're in for a sitter.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Social life: </span>do the same on <span style="font-style: italic;">www.friendfinder.com</span> but make sure to untick the "relationship/involvement" box, or the machine might get it wrong.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Job</span>: pretty easy, really. Pay another man-machine to have your work profile sensibly computerized and get your new Identikit, process the relevant databases for the match and wake up on time for the interview. Mistrust your instinct? Afraid of the final step?<br />No need to panic. Just train your brain to memorize that first: www.<cite>jobsearch.about.com/od/interviewquestionsanswers</cite>. The man-machines who wrote it are devoted to your success.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Amazing sense of well-being: </span>go out and buy Guitar Hero on XBox360, follow the instructions, get up the scale step by step, and enjoy. The sounds that you produce with your fingers are really yours, and all the clapping from the people in the audience are all for you!<br /><br />Conclusion: the man-machine is safe. Some gentle souls have cleared the road for him. No more mistakes, no more shyness, no more anxiety, no more anguish about lack of self-recognition. The man-machine doesn't need a soul, he barely needs a brain and he can draw a cross on his Cro-Magnonesque instincts. Better leave that to the stupid ideal-seeking human being, who'll see what it takes to pick-up a girl in a bar, learn to play the guitar, improvize during an interview and dream his life while reading Byron and Salinger.<br /><br />(But please, Mr/Mrs Man-machine, pity the poor fellow. He doesn't have your strength, you know)Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-63261324997174138042009-01-24T16:24:00.008+01:002009-01-24T17:44:57.117+01:00Figures of today: the terrorist<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBXxDOan28a78aD1uyp7C6Cx4RcinQQEPYsHOFoOl8WOCN1eAgtkU8ymJLp3Hw_cGZHJo0WJ86hUm6g08tEn2HIwKdOxm1xjjzKbiLNwz1DRNTBGSVjVFRHOmJ108V-ConBSWEoq-0NI/s1600-h/islamistes-kenitra.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBXxDOan28a78aD1uyp7C6Cx4RcinQQEPYsHOFoOl8WOCN1eAgtkU8ymJLp3Hw_cGZHJo0WJ86hUm6g08tEn2HIwKdOxm1xjjzKbiLNwz1DRNTBGSVjVFRHOmJ108V-ConBSWEoq-0NI/s320/islamistes-kenitra.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294899024473691906" border="0" /></a>The terrorist will be second on the "Figures of today" list. And why is that? Because he asked for it - quicker than the bank advisor, who will get the third spot.<br /><br />The terrorist isn't really a new figure in our 21th century fucked-up world. But like the pop singer, he evolved from a shape to another in order to adapt to the new reality, proving once again Darwin right.<br /><br />So what are the terrorist figures we used to have in mind a few decades back in time?<br /><br />First, the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Andreas Baader-type terrorist</span>, that is the far-left anarchist angry with everything related to the concepts of capitalism, hierarchy, mass-consumption, money and authority, which basically is what our society is all about. Freedom is an illusion, we're all corrupted to the bare bone and so we must change or die. Die Rote Armee Fraktion murdered police officers and bank directors, bombed US military barracks, set department stores on fire etc...<br /><br />Then, the <span style="font-weight: bold;">IRA-like terrorist</span>, fighting for a cause (leave Northern Ireland at once you bloody british pigs), against a well-identified ennemy (the british pigs) in the name of history (look at what they've done to us Irish), all of which resulted in pub-bombing and murders among other things.<br /><br />Third, the <span style="font-weight: bold;">free-lance terrorists</span>, such as Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols, who bombed an office complex in Oklahoma City for obscure motives. I would call this the serial killer profiled terrorist.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Post Scriptum 1</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">For all his sins, Andreas Baader must be relieved not to have made it to 2009, for he would have had to face this heartbreaking truth: the number of department stores, bank directors and US military barracks have tripled since he started erasing them. These things grow faster than grass and even global warming is powerless against it.</span><br /><br />The modern terrorist is the <span style="font-weight: bold;">islamist fundamentalist terrorist</span>, whose international exporting brand name is Al Qaïda. What did he learn from the previous ones? Nothing, because he doesn't give a shit and probably hardly knows about Baader and co. Who can seriously blame him for that? Most young people in France must think that the "Bande à Baader" was or is a technopop band and older people have other more important things to do rather than bringing them contradiction.<br /><br />Apart from that, there's nothing really new to say about the islamist terrorist. We all know he hates America, we all know he tracks down the infidels and we all know he considers himself as a martyred hero fighting a Holy War. What we don't know is why he doesn't get himself an ukrainian girl on xlove.com, buy milk and cornflakes for his breakfast and watch Dexter on ITV. Everybody would love him on this part of the world, and it would definitely help the bridge-building process between our great civilizations.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Post-scriptum 2: it seems that department stores, US military barracks, bank advisors and islamist terrorists have at least two things in common: they don't appeal to me and they grow faster than grass.</span>Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-262272733643800112009-01-20T21:43:00.012+01:002009-01-21T11:54:52.924+01:00Figures of today: the pop singer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBWgfvc-6KCy_ggk1vX9bS14YeBxopJP9EHnmnzetSXAIj7AOnoclo8TvHRATJLEp8sImmMetFPPQX_6JOakPDaJNcQZZIrVIU4QvhbNZwTND9NuOhRjwudPPn2-g-tBWyN5GDL3wIWHM/s1600-h/popstar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 224px; height: 356px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBWgfvc-6KCy_ggk1vX9bS14YeBxopJP9EHnmnzetSXAIj7AOnoclo8TvHRATJLEp8sImmMetFPPQX_6JOakPDaJNcQZZIrVIU4QvhbNZwTND9NuOhRjwudPPn2-g-tBWyN5GDL3wIWHM/s320/popstar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293497477651417298" border="0" /></a>The "Figures of today" series starts with the pop singer. Why is the pop singer an important element of today's world? Because I said it was.<br /><br />The pop singer is in the middle of a triangle. An equilateral triangle, whose initial apexes were: art, money and fame. Being a pop star was about doing art, getting rich and famous. The Beatles, Elvis Presley, Jim Morisson, Bob Marley, Serge Gainsbourg, Kurt Cobain, the list is endless.<br /><br />Let's have a look at what happened to the apexes nowadays:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fame</span><br /><br />Interestingly enough, all the people mentionned achieved the status of legend, which almost certainly is or will be denied to their contemporary followers, whoever they are and whatever they achieve.<br />Britney Spears won't become legend, neither will Eminem or Pete Doherty even if they decide to jump from the top of the Eiffel Tower on a sunday afternoon. The last who tried to turn into a legend that way was Michael Hutchence from INXS and nobody remembers him apart from those who do remember him.<br />So why is the right to become a legend denied to them? Not because of their (in)ability or their personnality (although I doubt Britney Spears has one), but because the world has ceased making legends.<br />A legend is a product of the times, and the post-war 20th century needed singing heroes to accompany the political, social and economical changes in western societies. Some artists were acknowledged to be different class, different material. Looking up on them was a normal thing to do.<br />Now these times are over. Not because there is nobody left to look up to, but because people no longer wish to see things that way. To keep it clear and simple, we don't want legends: we want the throne they used to sit on in order to obtain what Andy Warhol called your 15 minutes of glory. If the guy's dead, alright then. There's nothing we can do, he can remain legend (Elvis is safe, and so is John Lennon). But he is among the last of the Mohicans.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Art<br /></span><br />When Paul Rothchild, the future manager of the Doors<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>, spotted the band on stage, he said: "what you do guys is above everything I've seen or heard. It's cabaret, it's rock n'roll, it's Berthold Brecht." Art, at the times, was a case of a few giving sight to the many.<br />Now that everyone can see or at least wears spectacles, it's a case of the many giving medals to the few. And how do you get a medal? By sharing the view of the many.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Money</span><br /><br />The successful pop singer still makes a fair amount of money, all right. But is he the only one around? To drive a limousine back in the sixties, you actually needed to be a corrupted polician or a rock star. Even in Kettering, Northamptonshire, floating thing called UK, you can see teenagers going to the night-club on saturday night in a limo.<br />Plus, the cake is thinner and the guests are more. As the famous rock singer Sebastian Stelzer from Wuppertal once said during an interview with the Daily Pornograph at the Peacock, "music isn't a good way to make money anymore."Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-31210173538049221362009-01-19T21:23:00.004+01:002009-01-19T21:50:11.328+01:005 reasons why it sucks if you're 28 and still at university<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_pOLrAgY8vUnJeG4DoYQXBpPib2cwvXm3OkWQVcoRczbNcyeIzS1bHFJ3ig35CgkiINQ7d2bR7_NUTkSJXceCsqaaPEzskRU5KLGSHlGRPaTrYOQ9UjPzM6_9C1BiJbbygmPqfiXB_Eg/s1600-h/ca10_1747649_10_20060111_px_470_.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 292px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_pOLrAgY8vUnJeG4DoYQXBpPib2cwvXm3OkWQVcoRczbNcyeIzS1bHFJ3ig35CgkiINQ7d2bR7_NUTkSJXceCsqaaPEzskRU5KLGSHlGRPaTrYOQ9UjPzM6_9C1BiJbbygmPqfiXB_Eg/s320/ca10_1747649_10_20060111_px_470_.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293109915115015394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">reason one</span>: you should have a job by then. The only reason you don't have a job is you don't seriously look for one. You prefer to read books, sit on your ass and listen to some teacher who has nothing left to teach you. Shame on you, you're extra-smart, useless and lazy.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">reason two</span>: there's nothing more depressing than the view of a young female student panicking before an exam, re-reading her notes till the last minute with a bottle of mineral water put on her exam table.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">reason three</span>: university is full of left-wing activists who have bad influence over the other students. Their poisonous preaching turns them away from the only noble goal in life: be smarter than the one next to you, earn more money, have a better job and screw better-looking chicks.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">reason four</span>: I don't have a reason four.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">reason five</span>: university overtime extends your youth. It delays the ageing process, which may cause the Stelzer syndrom: a permanent inability to fit to the English way of life (although it remains hard even for the scientists to find a proper explanation for this).Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-57465512949625618572009-01-12T22:57:00.011+01:002009-01-15T22:56:26.731+01:00The meaning of life, part 3: cemetery plots<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZHyVqJLI0sTgJQRBkRDJsOfiywsAgu-VgomzbykkL9TV13M4zyOXU1YR5FbEp6otKeUC0xfkiSVQD3C1tKx7A8OV411HpGCry_aNt2MP2al1UYidG8vg_0aNCDXiq3Dhf0oBZvxSqmQ0/s1600-h/lagrave5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZHyVqJLI0sTgJQRBkRDJsOfiywsAgu-VgomzbykkL9TV13M4zyOXU1YR5FbEp6otKeUC0xfkiSVQD3C1tKx7A8OV411HpGCry_aNt2MP2al1UYidG8vg_0aNCDXiq3Dhf0oBZvxSqmQ0/s320/lagrave5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290531560599000162" border="0" /></a>When do you buy a cemetery plot? The best time to buy was probably yesterday. The cost of a burial plot is rising like everything in our world. How do you choose a resting place? <span style="font-weight: bold;">Take time</span> and<span style="font-weight: bold;"> think</span> about where you want your final resting place to be. You may want to be buried in the same cemetery that your family has used for years. If you live far from your family you may be looking at being buried around the area that you consider as home.The immediate <span style="font-weight: bold;">location of the burial site</span> will be an important decision. If the cemetery is hard to get to then it will be hard for your family to visit, and there will be times when they will want to visit. Make it easy on them.<br /><br />The<span style="font-weight: bold;"> cost of a cemetery plot</span> shouldn't deplete your bank account. If the cost is too exorbitant look elsewhere. When you check into the cost of the plot find out what it includes. If you have already made prearrangements with a funeral home then find out if the grave opening and closing, vault, and headstone or monument is included with your prearrangement. If so you may only need to pay the price for the plot itself. In larger cities you may find a municipal cemetery which will possibly be less of an expense than a private cemetery. Research your options in larger cities.<br /><br />Ask about the <span style="font-weight: bold;">cemetery rules</span>. Will you have to be cremated in order to be placed in the cemetery of your choosing? What types of vaults do they allow or use? Do they allow <span style="font-weight: bold;">flowers</span> to be placed on your grave? Can your family come at any time to visit your grave or are there certain restrictions they must abide by? A <span style="font-weight: bold;">funeral director</span> may be able to assist you with names and contacts of cemeteries that they work with. Just make certain that the cemetery of your choice doesn't have rules that will be hard for your family to abide by.<br /><br />In small communities you may be able to purchase several grave spaces at one time for family members so that you will have the family in the <span style="font-weight: bold;">same</span> location for generations to come.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">For more information: ask your grandma</span><noscript></noscript>Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-47709155772830868362009-01-12T22:37:00.004+01:002009-01-14T21:54:31.462+01:00The meaning of life, part 2: how to take a penalty kick<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7rmgW9D1SEgH1hyphenhyphenxrv2HCanSkfPeKG0SZbNvPqEtU89Uk11iZeJUO0fjuGglUy89rRfE5Rn8Fnq9RA5bfFv1n0kTphAhISxS5B56glwIMEzkpPOgHc3FJLYte3Nu0g2_-_ed1AnuEmo/s1600-h/penaltykick.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7rmgW9D1SEgH1hyphenhyphenxrv2HCanSkfPeKG0SZbNvPqEtU89Uk11iZeJUO0fjuGglUy89rRfE5Rn8Fnq9RA5bfFv1n0kTphAhISxS5B56glwIMEzkpPOgHc3FJLYte3Nu0g2_-_ed1AnuEmo/s320/penaltykick.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290525330202158178" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Picture</span>: The orange areas are good places to aim the penalty kick, although low or high shots are even better. There is some room for error in case the shot is wider or higher than the target.<br /><p class="style17" align="justify">A well directed, firmly struck penalty in football is almost impossible for the goalkeeper to save, and yet penalties are frequently missed. Many football or soccer competitions, including the World Cup, European Championships, and F.A. Cup include a penalty shoot-out when the game tied after extra-time. England have been knocked out of the World Cup on penalty kicks. Technique is important, but coaches also need to consider the psychology of taking a penalty kick. </p> <p class="style17" align="justify">There are two broad categories of penalty takers, namely "placers" and "blasters". The first technique is to kick the football hard with the instep, whereas the second technique is to use the side of the foot. The advantage of the side foot is accuracy, but it lacks the power of using the instep, and it's important that the ball is struck firmly using this method. The instep method provides plenty of power, but there is more risk of scooping the ball over the cross bar, or snatching at it and dragging it wide of the goal. Whichever technique is used is a matter of personal preference, and in the professional game there are excellent penalty takers using either method.</p> <p class="style17" align="justify"> Pyschologically, it's important to keep calm, and not allow the goalkeeper to be a distraction when taking a penalty kick. Goalkeepers will try anything to put you off, including jumping up and now and trying to intimidate you. It's best to check the goalkeeper's position in case he is leaving one half of the goal completely open, but be sure to concentrate on the football as you take the tick. Some players find that taking a deep breath before taking a penalty helps. </p><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">From Soccer Academy v. 2, football coaching software </span>Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-10534481643390814582009-01-12T22:26:00.004+01:002009-01-13T14:30:36.446+01:00The meaning of life, part 1: the female orgasm<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35orDRbEyH62ot49klGnnVhHzvR1Bu2muwe3tW1Tpo1bPu78kxomrN6FgMJai-nG7PHV4_pU8N0Sv6J_BSfIMIVXMar8wq-OJa2H_c0fWy7M0g8IQTNqmWgKO98YhpvaofqV_i19leAE/s1600-h/respons.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35orDRbEyH62ot49klGnnVhHzvR1Bu2muwe3tW1Tpo1bPu78kxomrN6FgMJai-nG7PHV4_pU8N0Sv6J_BSfIMIVXMar8wq-OJa2H_c0fWy7M0g8IQTNqmWgKO98YhpvaofqV_i19leAE/s320/respons.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290523386201233090" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Picture on the left</span>: "Three representational variations of female sexual response. Pattern 1 shows multiple orgasm; pattern 2 shows arousal that reaches the plateau level without going on to orgasm (note the resolution occurs more slowly); and pattern 3 shows several brief drops in the excitement phase followed by an even more rapid resolution phase."<br /><br />"Sexologists have broken the sexual response cycle into four phases, excitement, plateau, orgasm, and resolution. These are arbitrary definitions and a person is not likely to be aware of their body experiencing each individual phase. The amount of time a person spends in each phase, and even the order in which they experience them may vary. A woman on a date may become sexually aroused several times, even without her knowing, without her ever reaching the plateau phase.<br />She may experience arousal and the plateau phase during an intense session of dancing, but return to her un-aroused state during the ride home. Once home she may quickly experience arousal and orgasm, as the result of direct genital stimulation without experiencing the plateau phase.<br />The manner in which a person experiences each phase is unique to them, and even this will change depending on their mood and who they are with."<br /><br /><span class="stdblue001">"Arousal may be accompanied by these physical responses to mental and/or physical stimuli:</span><br />Vaginal lubrication begins first, within 10-30 seconds.<br />- The inner two thirds of the vagina expands.<br />- The uterus and cervix are pulled upwards.<br />- The labia majora flatten and spread apart.<br />- The labia minora increase in size.<br />- The clitoris increases in size.<br />- The nipples may become erect as the result of muscle contractions.<br />- When highly aroused the breasts may increase in size."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">From the book </span><em style="font-weight: bold;">Masters and Johnson on Sex and Human Loving</em><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Page 58</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;"> Copyright 1982, 1985, 1986 By William H. Masters, Virginia E Johnson, and Robert C. Kolodny.</span>Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-57309435932698382612009-01-10T23:25:00.006+01:002009-01-11T00:11:35.662+01:00Rebel Rebel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9E8Twaqm_VbiXlFYUve1xEktLOytlm6lEaKrLc1YER8YX5eSBdtnKZKUi72O2FUr0hjOLCfomiWqmfK_kVbZXwNlmJhcBz_aZpuLKEc083KsXEzW4ODVeLgSNFrxcRgOtFFoh5YuheFw/s1600-h/tcbwithteddy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 221px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9E8Twaqm_VbiXlFYUve1xEktLOytlm6lEaKrLc1YER8YX5eSBdtnKZKUi72O2FUr0hjOLCfomiWqmfK_kVbZXwNlmJhcBz_aZpuLKEc083KsXEzW4ODVeLgSNFrxcRgOtFFoh5YuheFw/s320/tcbwithteddy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289805228311803410" border="0" /></a>There was a time in history when being a rebel consisted in affirmative action. Now you ask me: what the bloody hell is affirmative action? And I answer you: affirmative action is when you say "Yes, I do" or "Yes, I have" or "Yes we can". Affirmative action is when you positively <span style="font-weight: bold;">do</span> something while other people <span style="font-weight: bold;">don't</span>.<br /><br />So how come affirmative action was the way of the rebels back in time? Well, look at James Dean. He basically said: "Yes I'm young but I can drive a car and I can drive it fast." Look at the French students in 1968, demonstrating and fighting cops in the streets while their parents were watching the show on TV at home. Remember the first guy who came at school holding a mobile phone in his right hand, and we were all like "Waouh, that's cool, does this thing really work?"<br />And what about the guy who publicly admitted then that he couldn't deal with just one girlfriend because he needed at least three at a time, the same who preached against mariage and stuff since it was after all, according to him, nothing else but a heartbreaking farewell to women?<br /><br />These people were true rebels, pure avant-garde leaders because they had, did or could do something that we couldn't afford or were afraid of. What about now?<br /><br />Well, now, these people aren't rebels anymore. They're just people like you and me. Sad and boring human waste waiting for the old garbage truck to collect their bones and send them to heaven. And that's because affirmative action is dead and buried.<br /><br />The modern rebel now stands for something else; he stands for negative retroaction. And what is negative retroaction? Well, plain and simple, really. Negative retroaction is to say "No, I don't", "No, I haven't" or "No, we can't". Just check this: a 21th century 20-year-old chap who doesn't have a mobile phone, can't drive a car, doesn't yeal against the government, doesn't long for anything but one girl for life and doesn't plan to cheat on her. There are two options: either he's a retarded moron, or he's just a rebel. A rebel just like James Dean. Except nobody likes him.<br /><br />PS: some may use the term <em>affirmative action</em> to refer to policies that take gender, race, or ethnicity into account in an attempt to promote equal opportunity. Well, fuck them.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-73630933975700752912009-01-07T19:40:00.003+01:002009-01-07T20:04:53.737+01:00Women are wonderful (part 3)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfvQaDspSHQkPfQWL5Gtkd5s-jc-zfulp1G1ZDBsvZo5oWsP-E5XAMmiaBofXUkNJI7Ol3HGK2NKBFlKGE2-gaIJlvbzSb-AYpxfBeP1QQ2_uq4RQVD-TRltr2I_jpElfQrGIDgcM7pOM/s1600-h/21307-5350Girls.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 191px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfvQaDspSHQkPfQWL5Gtkd5s-jc-zfulp1G1ZDBsvZo5oWsP-E5XAMmiaBofXUkNJI7Ol3HGK2NKBFlKGE2-gaIJlvbzSb-AYpxfBeP1QQ2_uq4RQVD-TRltr2I_jpElfQrGIDgcM7pOM/s320/21307-5350Girls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288629740589178354" border="0" /></a>Preamble: That's only part 3 and I'm already short of ideas. I guess I must be a pathetic misogynous scumbag, not being able to find one more argument to back womanhood. But I think this one could do the job.<br /><br />Women are wonderful. Yes they are. Everybody knows that and those who don't should know better. And why are women wonderful? Because they have personal taste and we don't. Check this. We are the ones pigging out disgusting food in front of the TV. We are the ones buying cheap clothes and wearing them no matter what we look like. We are the ones wearing black pants and white socks without giving a shit. We are the ones spending half a minute in a furniture shop getting a wood table although it doesn't suit the rest.<br /><br />A woman would never do that, because she has taste. She would yawn in front of a Wim Wenders movie, yes she would. She would spit on Serge Gainsbourg or cry her eyes out listening to Mariah Carey, but she would never buy a wood table if it didn't suit the rest.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Conclusion</span>: It's time for you now to think about becoming a woman. Sex-change surgery is common and affordable nowadays. Just login there:<cite> www.bangkokplastic<b>surgery</b>.com </cite> and enjoy the tripPierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-1993845734177094502009-01-05T15:21:00.004+01:002009-01-05T15:44:28.991+01:00Women are wonderful (part 2)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtmwpOQo8rQB9odBnZFEEOsBidkRK2ljEdCOFrmYQ_qGdGaWGm2K-gheZ_MnlISmIagneXl1vqd3YIa5s_3zoDISpriYfLf_8dK9EpKKDbAQ7350Rws9mMLG3l2hFYW5Ucf2YLW1UTk0/s1600-h/inna_women2_350.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtmwpOQo8rQB9odBnZFEEOsBidkRK2ljEdCOFrmYQ_qGdGaWGm2K-gheZ_MnlISmIagneXl1vqd3YIa5s_3zoDISpriYfLf_8dK9EpKKDbAQ7350Rws9mMLG3l2hFYW5Ucf2YLW1UTk0/s320/inna_women2_350.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287819602901953794" border="0" /></a>Women are wonderful. They really really are. And why is that? Because they have such powerful insight that they can see things through walls and barriers, whatever their thickness.<br /><br />One example. Barry, 26 years old, pays a visit to his mother after 2 years of absence. He's got many things to say, he's got a lot of catch up to do. He fell in love, as a start. With a wonderful girl whose body and soul match his own body and soul. He got fired from his job but luckily found another one after months of starvation and bad cheques to cover the bills. He wrote a book, directed a film and played in a band that made it to television.<br />So he tells all that to his mum, and the first reply he gets is: "I see you wear a new scarf. When did you buy this one?"<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Conclusion</span>: "Lady day's got diamond eyes, she sees the truth behind the lies" (U2, Angel of Harlem). We may think women pay too much attention to detail but they don't. They just cut the crap and go for the real thing.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-65001469677754862062009-01-04T12:04:00.004+01:002009-01-04T12:23:21.897+01:00Women are wonderful (part 1)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNi1mT-J2flnnsgUiDn42T3rSGaBLi6KGExCMe9YIRmwHiFV_y2h4CX5XsOqgHz-2CELfnxwjtQ0shOpuxN2umSqKUBAyVEsBUdjCF8SFA76mvg_-uN1VDtPOfcjo43oiM3beYDXjyePM/s1600-h/funnytag1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNi1mT-J2flnnsgUiDn42T3rSGaBLi6KGExCMe9YIRmwHiFV_y2h4CX5XsOqgHz-2CELfnxwjtQ0shOpuxN2umSqKUBAyVEsBUdjCF8SFA76mvg_-uN1VDtPOfcjo43oiM3beYDXjyePM/s320/funnytag1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287397526269085074" border="0" /></a>Women are wonderful. They're so eager to give that when they by accident refuse you something, they immediately give you something else as a compensation. One example: a girl you're chasing after won't sleep with you and she makes it clear. That's a refusal. But in most cases this won't be her final line. She will add something like "I want us to remain friends". If you already were her friend, you won't win a lot in the bargain.<br /><br />But what happens sometimes is that you didn't even know the girl, you just caught her number from a friend or got a date on facebook and saw her like twice in your life. But she will still tell you after turning you down: "I want you to be my friend". As you were nothing at all before that, consider it as a promotion.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Conclusion</span>: it's very easy to be friend with a girl. Just court her without success and get the prize of her remorse.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-2579827564453065212008-12-13T11:37:00.010+01:002008-12-13T17:00:36.801+01:00BOTSWANA<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPp9Wk-hxC1KfdBW3HtHw2X2EedzT-iC6cDCS0i4EK7Oz6S-a1zsDCzARTREIGHaK57xuhxlxGvBE_J6HkrRZOBfum3blfK3R8dbr4ne0wyMJi5M_WHQBElmy6keycqhClbk1Kc_vP1Q/s1600-h/AustraliaPoster.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPp9Wk-hxC1KfdBW3HtHw2X2EedzT-iC6cDCS0i4EK7Oz6S-a1zsDCzARTREIGHaK57xuhxlxGvBE_J6HkrRZOBfum3blfK3R8dbr4ne0wyMJi5M_WHQBElmy6keycqhClbk1Kc_vP1Q/s320/AustraliaPoster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279303050192258034" border="0" /></a>Here is the script I intend to send to the 20th Century Fox to challenge Baz Luhrmann's Christmas epic blockbuster: <span style="font-style: italic;">Australia</span>.<br /><br />A beautiful american school teacher, Claire Ashley (Charlize Theron) flies to Botswana in the mid-eighties to take on her new position in a remote rural school. She is stubborn and passionate, and eager to break from the narrow-minded codes of the zealously religious society she was born in. At the start of the movie, she breaks up with her fiancé (Ralph Fiennes) and tells her mother (Kim Basinger) to go to hell with her bibles and empty preachings. Her father (Robert Redford) is devastated but still gives her his blessing when she leaves.<br /><br />Once in Botswana, Claire becomes gradually aware of the swamp she put her feet in. The standards of living are so low comparing to her native Alabama that she first thinks about going back there. But soon she meets reverend Parry (Wesley Snipes), a local boy grown into an educated man with refined manners and a perfect command of English. He makes her discover the hidden face of Botswana, with its beautiful landscapes and cheerful inhabitants.<br />A romance grows between the two and they have sex in the village church. But young school master Eddy Barnes (Steven Waddington ), who got infatuated with Claire, overhears their after-sex conversation.<br /><br />Jealousy takes the better of Barnes as he can't help spreading out the gossip of their forbidden relationship, while digging into the clergyman's past to find out he got married seven times and had multiple dry-sex intercourses off-marriage. This means he may have caught HIV and then passed it on Claire.<br />One night, aware of the growing blasphemous rumours, Parry gives Claire his confession about his tempestuous past, but it's too late and the damage is done. A blood test confirms that both Claire and Parry are HIV-positive and worse than that, Claire is now expecting a child who also is in danger of contracting AIDS. She now has to face a couple of dilemnas: can she afford to carry on amazingly good unprotected sex with Parry, bearing in mind that she may let different and potentially more active HIV stem cells enter her body? Can she give birth to a child who is almost certain to die before his sixteenth birthday?<br /><br />She goes for the romantic choice and pays the price for it. Parry dies in her arms from multiple opportunist infections and she flies back to America with her new-born daughter, wondering whether she will get the support she needs from her family and friends.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-59517135974624196942008-12-10T12:34:00.006+01:002008-12-10T18:43:38.899+01:00Are the Chinese fluorescent?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzc3gqfq6AMcaSY1U49084tebHyfqNJPi_AMFMMYedaZCj2wiSmM7RUaUEuH95bW4HQofZJMCzV55Kdej2Owh2G4_aPNyYTKg9NmB7Cf4B0fwobWH2IEgeIIG9IUyWkBdkooxyRKXu8M/s1600-h/ShanghaiBundAtNight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzc3gqfq6AMcaSY1U49084tebHyfqNJPi_AMFMMYedaZCj2wiSmM7RUaUEuH95bW4HQofZJMCzV55Kdej2Owh2G4_aPNyYTKg9NmB7Cf4B0fwobWH2IEgeIIG9IUyWkBdkooxyRKXu8M/s320/ShanghaiBundAtNight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278184306013280306" border="0" /></a>I like racial and cultural clichés. I like them a lot. Clichés make the world an easier place to live in and a more funny one as well. Clichés find simple words for simple souls and that's why we use them. Clichés allow us to travel without leaving our beds and living-rooms and that's why we love them. Clichés claim to be partly true and that's why they're so hard to break.<br /><br />Now here is a list of common and less-common clichés I thought about this morning while drinking my 11 AM coffee. For clarity's sake, I ranked them in descending order on a scale ranging from definitely true to grossly false.<br /><br />1. Chinese people are <span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">fluorescent</span>. Yes they are. Their body temperature is higher than everyone else and that makes them shine in the dark. That's why Shanghaï at night looks like a firefly city which would be so easy to bomb in the event of World War 3.<br /><br />2. Black men have a <span style="font-weight: bold;">HUGE</span> cock. Possibly. At least, that's what a couple of girls I used to hang around with told me. But is it that their dick is truly bigger or is it a matter of quality of erection? Do black people get stimulated more easily than their white counterparts? Nothing really serious has ever been said or written on the subject, so it's still an open case.<br /><br />3. Muslim women <span style="font-weight: bold;">fake orgasm</span>. Probably, but one can never be sure with women. Has it anything to do with Allah or the patriarchal society they live in? The famous Muslim World expert Nouredine Al Kajil, when asked on Al Jazeera, said he'll need to have a few words with his wife before answering. He did, and then he declared: نجاح المبادرة العربية مرهون بالاعتراف بإسرائيل. محللون هنود: الاعتقالات الباكستان<br /><br />4. English people <span style="font-weight: bold;">drink too much beer</span>. Debatable. They do absorb in large amounts a liquid called beer, but do they really drink it? I would rather suggest they swallow it or soak it up, engulf it maybe, but I'm pretty sure they don't drink it, since drinking presupposes the existence of taste buds in the mouth, which they got deprived of due to evolution.<br /><br />5. French people <span style="font-weight: bold;">are filthy</span>, like French streets and French dogs. Honestly that's a myth. I don't know about dogs, but when it comes to people I would bet that the Gypsies, Irakis and Rumanians I see day after day begging or playing music on the tube stink more than I do. And poverty can't always explain everything, can it?<br /><br />6. The Germans <span style="font-weight: bold;">are perfectionnist</span>. That's rubbish. They can't finish what they start. Schubert left lieder and symphonies in the lurch, Sebastian Stelzer always gives up writing after two pages, Europe is free, the Jews are safe and die soziale Marktwirtschaft hasn't made it to the 21th century.<br /><br /><br />PS: if you are to leave a comment, please don't go for the pathetic trendy self-righteous statement like "Clichés are stupid and blind, we must learn about other cultures by leaving our prejudices behind and really dig deep into eachother's ground to see the beauty of diversity". Anything else than that will be fine, including verbal abuse and death threats.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-64073152093995282342008-12-09T19:15:00.006+01:002008-12-09T20:02:08.021+01:00Sidewalks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUmgwF3y93f2BEw3yBMC-MnAD7gcAWOrJC2idAzJFSMK0cKYCxMBBoHCtm9jgYPTACwMnAlNJ3h4Jahdgez2PAEtN2-dWTgEeOmkl8FIxdPvgU1hrcgwzZ-U1gS8nA4UBo4s1k6Ds_XLY/s1600-h/champs.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 307px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUmgwF3y93f2BEw3yBMC-MnAD7gcAWOrJC2idAzJFSMK0cKYCxMBBoHCtm9jgYPTACwMnAlNJ3h4Jahdgez2PAEtN2-dWTgEeOmkl8FIxdPvgU1hrcgwzZ-U1gS8nA4UBo4s1k6Ds_XLY/s320/champs.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277866338451455426" border="0" /></a>The rue de Vaugirard is the longest street in Paris, which would make it the smallest one in L.A. Los Angeles is too big anyway but this is not my point. My point is: this is a very long street and one of the streets I often take when I walk the asphalt world. What I've written so far is very interesting. What I'm about to write now is even more interesting.<br /><br />One of the problems you may have when you walk in the middle of a street is that you can end up face to face with a car and die. That's why people use the sidewalks while drivers drive on the road. But a sidewalk is far from being annoyance-free. First you get dog shits, then you get other people. And I can assure you: of the two, I prefer dog shits.<br /><br />I was peacefully walking this morning on the left sidewalk of the rue de Vaugirard when I was forced to cross over to the other side of the street because stupid teenagers had gathered for stupid reasons and blocked the way. I peacefully walked on for a couple of minutes on the right sidewalk when this guy with a tie, a suit and a mobile phone drew level with me and kept walking next to me exactly at the same pace. His conversation drove me mad: meetings, appointments, bookings, computer programs etc... I had a song in my head and this fat & ugly short-haired prick made me lose my groove. So I crossed over once more.<br /><br />I thought that was it. But that wasn't. The left sidewalk was blocked again by a moving van. I had no choice but going back to the right sidewalk, which the fat & ugly guy was still polluting with his horrible business talk. I geared up and went past him. But in my hurry I bumped into a woman. She looked at me with a slight air of reproach. I said "sorry", she mumbled something and moved on. And just when I thought I was in for a little break, a hippie-looking moron came to me and asked for a cigarette. That was more than I could take and I crossed over one last time.<br /><br />I failed to watch the road and a girl on a bicycle crashed in a parked car trying to avoid me. She looked in pain but I was happy. Someone had made my day at last on this fucking sidewalks.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-77825923126557938962008-12-08T15:56:00.003+01:002008-12-08T23:12:12.908+01:00Birthday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8kWf6zB7mHxyejPOszlCTlkeZu-uWrHTVBsmGNCUv7nfSB1HWqQZrmrX8c3u8VhWyG8MZhWABltUHlaByHiWRuZby3YvSDQgrm7F1jhI_rHLbmI9fEDeLK0MsnUBMQygODOsjTTya9Ps/s1600-h/happy+birthday.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 293px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8kWf6zB7mHxyejPOszlCTlkeZu-uWrHTVBsmGNCUv7nfSB1HWqQZrmrX8c3u8VhWyG8MZhWABltUHlaByHiWRuZby3YvSDQgrm7F1jhI_rHLbmI9fEDeLK0MsnUBMQygODOsjTTya9Ps/s320/happy+birthday.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277441947909169490" border="0" /></a>I don't remember well any of my birthdays, especially the first one, at the clinic. I probably had blood all over my head and everyone was happy but me since I didn't know the people around, which is a shame for a birthday.<br /><br />Still, there's one birthday I remember more than the others, even if I can't recall which year that was. I was probably 8 or 9 and my mother took me and twelve other kids to a movie. It was Walt Disney's <span style="font-style: italic;">Robin Hood</span> and the cinema was so crowded that we all had so sit on our knees just in front of the screen. We got blind and then we got home and played board games, until their mums and dads came and picked them up one after the other. I found it very sad everytime one of them had to leave and I spent most of the evening crying.<br /><br />It's a big blank after that, even if I do remember 1987. I got my teddy bear Pounouf that year. A simple birthday party at my grandparents' flat, with my father and my aunt. Back in 1987, I still received gifts which looked like gifts. Computer games for instance. Since I graduated from school and started building myself a false reputation of an intellectual guy, I just get books, books and books.<br />Do people know we're still playing XBox 360 games at my age? Do people know I'm desperate for good eastern porn? Do people know how boring it is to read Paul Claudel's early novels? I wish I was my brother. He doesn't get this kind of crap. He gets digital cameras, TV sets, DVD players. Then he breaks them and he gets other ones for replacement the next year. The world is unfair, isn't it?<br /><br />But since today is my birthday, I'd like to wish myself a happy birthday and a long and happy life. I wish me luck for this blog, which I started out of boredom and which I continue out of pride. This little blog is my toy, it's my birthday present and I will keep writing it even if I have nothing in store. Like good old Damon Albarn once sang, "all is said and all is done but what was said was never done" so it may be time to do it.<br /><br />Anyway, happy birthday all. I don't know when you were born and I don't give a shit. I hardly remember names, let alone dates. But I promise to work on that.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-83744490792975842092008-12-05T10:48:00.008+01:002008-12-05T14:33:21.555+01:00Modern life is rubbish<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXokAqjzsJoB2Kmu3MSsruTO42N2ygbFsuqAMTeR6xQTvRDOLMpRdfg3RWPgk9RAbD_UjTXxIO91YXLMhwn4Ax-1ovYsGvKk-FkXFX6v6ykCSOaAUN0jCuTFQRhAUg6Ot3zHy-BdiPHo/s1600-h/ModernCity1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 296px; height: 223px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXokAqjzsJoB2Kmu3MSsruTO42N2ygbFsuqAMTeR6xQTvRDOLMpRdfg3RWPgk9RAbD_UjTXxIO91YXLMhwn4Ax-1ovYsGvKk-FkXFX6v6ykCSOaAUN0jCuTFQRhAUg6Ot3zHy-BdiPHo/s320/ModernCity1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276250597972111842" border="0" /></a>It's just one of these days when I wake up at 10, masturbate in bed, jerk off in the brand new sheets I put the night before and light myself a cigarette, thinking once again about becoming a priest. And then I get to my computer and I turn it on. I put Mozart's <span style="font-style: italic;">Cosi Fan Tutte</span> in the stereo and I make myself an instant coffee. By the time the coffee's ready, which is not a long time, I've already smoked a second cigarette.<br />I really should learn Italian is my second thought of the day. That's for one and only reason: the italian word for "prostitute" is "la mignotta" and I find it top class, since "mignonne" in French means "cute" even if there's actually no connection between the two lexemes.<br /><br />My curtains are closed but it's alright. I already know what there is to be seen outside. A rainy day in Paris, Christmas decorations hanging around the street lights and the grocery shop opposite my building opening its doors. Too early to get a beer, plus I don't drink a lot in Paris.<br />My curtains are closed but the big world's wide open. Mozilla Firefox delivers the news, it provides me with words and music, shapes and colours, fast culture and casual nonsense. This makes me think of a student of mine, a little blond fellow who told me he hated school and wanted to stay home all day. I asked him how he would meet friends and girls then, he answered me: "on Facebook."<br /><br />On MUTV, Sir Alex gives an interview. He really feels his team has a chance to keep their Champions League trophy this season. Does he know I had this dream about Man Utd and Owen Hargreaves was playing up front along with Ji Sun Park? No he doesn't because when it comes to football, he delivers the dream and I buy it. A stupid remainder of my childhood when I used to be depressed every time my team lost.<br /><br />Opera can be boring at times. The recitative parts mostly. But with Mozart it's different. It's always different with Mozart. Surfing on the Internet is different with Mozart. Checking my mails is different with Mozart. I wish there would be music in the streets, in the shops, in the tube and it would be Mozart all day. Even Pinkie would take the tube then, I'm sure.<br /><br />Most of my friends are at work, and I'm not. I wonder whether they have plans for this week-end. I have none, and that's fine. I will try to work on my book and smoke a bit less than today. Be it saturday, sunday or monday, it's just another day on Earth, with its cars rolling, people walking and children smiling. Modern life is rubbish and I'm alright with that.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-81847535746680801712008-12-02T15:32:00.004+01:002008-12-02T15:56:16.539+01:00Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, Alan Sillitoe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHWIiA2bWDjkAmA4jH1wCiq87s1pb7XuizxmFb-H3tYNlSz0CQbe_PH5iPocSHVX_jQGnqTfjsVmOt1pYOeRCCd7yTT7Ih5TuKZqhcYwMY8FeBwxlqsMl2Pth-kTFhaLkGRawZgsrRPLo/s1600-h/n49917.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHWIiA2bWDjkAmA4jH1wCiq87s1pb7XuizxmFb-H3tYNlSz0CQbe_PH5iPocSHVX_jQGnqTfjsVmOt1pYOeRCCd7yTT7Ih5TuKZqhcYwMY8FeBwxlqsMl2Pth-kTFhaLkGRawZgsrRPLo/s320/n49917.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275206352867976642" border="0" /></a>When there's room for one, there's room for two. W.H. Auden will share a bed in this gentle blog with fellow british writer<span style="font-weight: bold;"> Alan Sillitoe</span>. As Auden was homosexual, that's an idea he probably wouldn't find too hard to accept.<br /><br />Working all day at a lathe leaves Arthur Seaton with energy to spare in the evenings. A hard-drinking, hard-fighting young rebel of a man, he knows what he wants and he's sharp enough to get it. And before long, his carryings-on with a couple of married women are part of local gossip. But then one evening he meets a young girl in a pub, and Arthur's life begins to look less simple.<br /><br />Here is the last paragraph of <span style="font-style: italic;">Saturday Night, Sunday Morning</span>, a classic novel of the 1950's, as well as a testimony of English self-consciousness at its best.<br /><br />"And trouble for me it will be, fighting every day until I die. Why do they make soldiers out of us when we're fighting up to the hilt as it is? Fighting with mothers and wives, landlords and gaffers, coppers, army, government. If it's not one thing it's another, apart from the work we have to do and the way we spend our wages. There's bound to be trouble in store for me every day of my life, because trouble it's always been and always will be.<br /><br />Born drunk and married blind, misbegotten into a strange and crazy world, dragged-up through the dole and into the war with a gas-mask on your clock, and the sirens rattling into you every night while you rot with scabies in an air-raid shelter. Slung into khaki at eighteen, and when they let you out, you sweat again in a factory, grabbing for an extra pint, doing women at the week-end and getting to know whose husbands are on the nightshift, working with rotten guts and a aching spine, and nothing for it but money to drag you back there every Monday morning.<br /><br />Well, it's a good life and a good world, all said and done, if you don't weaken, and if you know that the big wide world hasn't heard from you yet, no, not by a long way, though it won't be long now."Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-70547433681527039122008-12-02T14:38:00.006+01:002008-12-02T15:00:25.410+01:00Refugee Blues, W.H. Auden (1907 - 1973)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ-nlDtrAae-MWpcR783lpEx7ttXqftnmHrrzD-fszXzw8cUWze1LiOH5lszdr3MHFg-AZdcUn9XIuHcmTMD3jqjvcY_Clym3AsMmyYcbjOf6WjpFrv8QdpSFnXG79553OVf6uTFUsogg/s1600-h/Auden.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ-nlDtrAae-MWpcR783lpEx7ttXqftnmHrrzD-fszXzw8cUWze1LiOH5lszdr3MHFg-AZdcUn9XIuHcmTMD3jqjvcY_Clym3AsMmyYcbjOf6WjpFrv8QdpSFnXG79553OVf6uTFUsogg/s320/Auden.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275191292937410066" border="0" /></a>I've been a little bit harshed on England lately, and I want to redeem myself with this post, where my usual yacking will make way for W.H. Auden's lordly eloquence.<br /><br />I pay so much respect to the man that I decided I wouldn't go for the obvious Internet copy and paste. I take my Oxford Anthology of English Poetry on my knees, and I will now type every word of this long and wonderful poem.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Say this city has ten million souls,<br />Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:<br />Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.<br /><br />Once we had a country and we thought it fair,<br />Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:<br />We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.<br /><br />In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,<br />Every spring it blossoms anew;<br />Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.<br /><br />The consul banged the table and said:<br />"If you've got no passport you're officially dead";<br />But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.<br /><br />Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;<br />Asked me politely to return next year:<br />But where shall we go today, my dear, but where shall we go today?<br /><br />Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said:<br />"If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread";<br />He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.<br /><br />Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;<br />It was Hitler over Europe, saying: "They must die";<br />We were in his mind, my dear, we were in his mind.<br /><br />Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,<br />Saw a door opened and a cat let in:<br />But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.<br /><br />Went down to the harbour and stood upon the quay,<br />Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:<br />Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.<br /><br />Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;<br />They had no politicians and sang at their ease:<br />They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.<br /><br />Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,<br />A thousand windows and a thousand doors;<br />Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.<br /><br />Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;<br />Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:<br />Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-23165196700395438002008-12-01T13:57:00.008+01:002008-12-01T16:15:12.101+01:00Obsessions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRD6v09MPQKDuclzC0Rl7WGPA7f1nTHl2EBYjOjloFDgFuyblY1nSF_w2Xxo2-BxUAt1IWaOQU0DzDj0K5RLYpnZh3TC2qOralTVtlCL8EmAzXXBW0_2Je9lTO1dHyKy84Q_MlRY6vtFE/s1600-h/cartoon_gallery_large_080325.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRD6v09MPQKDuclzC0Rl7WGPA7f1nTHl2EBYjOjloFDgFuyblY1nSF_w2Xxo2-BxUAt1IWaOQU0DzDj0K5RLYpnZh3TC2qOralTVtlCL8EmAzXXBW0_2Je9lTO1dHyKy84Q_MlRY6vtFE/s320/cartoon_gallery_large_080325.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274828747201375618" /></a>I was back in Paris the other night and I met my German friend Bongo and his better half for 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8 drinks in a cosy pub of the Latin Quarter. We were discussing many things as we've always done since we met in Kettering last year, but every twenty minutes we found ourselves talking about England again. <br />His girlfriend spotted it and asked us to stop this madness. "You two are like writing a song when you talk. Your verses are really good but your chorus is boring." The chorus was when we talked about England of course.<br /><br />She may have been right, for what was left to say about it? <br /><br />I suggested to bomb it as usual and he came with a better option: "If all the migrants go to the UK, then the island would be overcrowded and eventually sink." That would be the end of the white trash and Ken Loach could continue his filming of the drinking class under water. <br />But we both felt it was unfair for the Indians and the Pakistani who live there.<br />Bongo's offer was to give the land to them once the British are expelled by the United Nations. But then he thought twice and came with this conclusion: "The situation will be problematic. What you'll get is a million off-licence shops and curry restaurants with no customers." Bongo's sense of logic was sharp as ever. <br />It was very sad indeed to imagine these poor Indians standing behind their till, staring at eachother from their shop windows on both sides of an empty street.<br /><br />We let go these deplorable comments for a while and came back to the verses. We debated about politics, history, books and baby-making but I couldn't help going back to the chorus: "Did you know that in London they put loads of signs in the tube calling for responsible drinking? One of these campaign ads warns about the risk of falling from the platform when drunk in the Underground."<br /><br />Bongo's girlfriend asked for the permisson to slap me. I gave my permission, she slapped me and then she said: "Now that you have two verses and two choruses, I expect you two to work on the bridge."Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-14801674365139942372008-11-27T00:41:00.009+01:002008-11-27T02:11:47.330+01:00What if Jesus came back?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYjEwK1rnyH75yDNH4IE89MhQMttcxg0GIemWS6FJtCtHniHCMSO3tqtdOGXd8cYVsvZSjFg96Qg9cy1dy7-oMIRH7HOmJrv6ufs0-3Fvvk80vyQyU-Px9kw-T_i4ypQ7wf9AOPMpPGw/s1600-h/southpark_jesus.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYjEwK1rnyH75yDNH4IE89MhQMttcxg0GIemWS6FJtCtHniHCMSO3tqtdOGXd8cYVsvZSjFg96Qg9cy1dy7-oMIRH7HOmJrv6ufs0-3Fvvk80vyQyU-Px9kw-T_i4ypQ7wf9AOPMpPGw/s320/southpark_jesus.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273134567720321186" /></a>I read somewhere on the web something about the establishment of God's kingdom on Earth. The author of the article quoted the Book of Revelation ("he seventh angel blew his trumpet and there were loud voices shouting in heaven. The whole world has now become the Kingdom of our Lord and of His Christ, and He will reign forever and ever") and assumed the times were bad for Jesus and co to come back here. Too much violence, too much bigotry, too many muslims...<br /><br />But then I thought: let's assume <span style="font-weight:bold;">Jesus decides to come back</span> to see how we're doing, what would happen next? And I figured out he would have a tricky job on his hands.<br /><br />First, I suppose he would reappear somewhere in the ancient Judah, where he used to preach in his prime. That means either in Israël or Palestine. In both cases, there's a chance he will receive the same warm welcoming the British Airborne experienced in Arnhem in September 1944 when the paratroopers of its Majesty landed on General Bittrich's 4th SS Panzer Division. The only point of uncertainty is whether the Jews will get him before the Muslims and how much money they will ask the US government to set him free.<br /><br />Then, the guy will surely try to go back to his former business: preaching, healing and irritating people who have political power. The problem is that these three market segments are overcrowded and extra-competitive.<br /><br />What concerns preaching, Jesus will have to start with an update. He founded a Church which doesn't exist anylonger. The initital start-up has experienced dismantlements, mergers and takeovers and he will have to choose a new preaching banner: will he go for Catholicism, Orthodoxism, Protestantism, Baptism, Evangelism, Mormonism? A real market study has to be run here. Will Jesus come back with a marketing expert?<br /><br />Healing should be less of a winding road since humanity is presumably eager to get rid of AIDS, cancer, aging and other plagues. But what will the medical corporations say if a lunatic comes with a free treatment and makes their products obsolete? There are at least a million people in the western world whose house, car, home cinema and Hi-Fi equipment depends on HIV-related diseases in sub-saharan Africa. Will Jesus find them another job?<br /><br />As for irritating people who own political power, Jesus will have to get familiar with modern communication. If he simply stands on his wood box to deliver his speeches, he will have trouble with the police or the Big Issue man who sells newspapers and hates people who shout louder than him. <br />So he'll have to go on TV, maybe in a talk-show. He will have to get used to make-up and commercial breaks, he will need another haircut and on top of that he will have to be ready to answer David Letterman's inquisitive questions, such as: "Have you ever imagined, Jesus, to have sex with Paris Hilton?" But will he be ready for that?<br /><br />I'm sure people are in a hurry to see the Lord back in action. But they have to be patient, and they need to understand Jesus wouldn't be Jesus if he hadn't an answer to all these questions. The Holy Bible shows he's human like us. So give him a little time to think first.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-85499977257314431072008-11-24T19:07:00.008+01:002008-11-24T23:16:46.385+01:00Pet sounds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcsUiyvcMYmtuvO2tuzOEUaHtxwaZhDGMGR4HYsse8NNJmvnPNO-EZe80CgaD_U4ljbNl0mwIOgjx9UcW0JC3z0vXVYCifk-fTAXMTAtR28kO9W2SmOPM5TC7aNE2BLctbCMLWsu-8_qg/s1600-h/chien.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 317px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcsUiyvcMYmtuvO2tuzOEUaHtxwaZhDGMGR4HYsse8NNJmvnPNO-EZe80CgaD_U4ljbNl0mwIOgjx9UcW0JC3z0vXVYCifk-fTAXMTAtR28kO9W2SmOPM5TC7aNE2BLctbCMLWsu-8_qg/s320/chien.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272305080200254706" border="0" /></a>No, this is not an article about the Beach Boys. This is an article about dogs. So let's try to imagine you're a dog. Being a dog, your job basically consists in barking at the postman, eating the disgusting probiotic dogfood which your owner gives you, urinating here and there to mark your territory and sniffing at some other dog's ass once in a while to see whether it smells like the nasty turd that was layed in your backyard. But there is actually more in being a dog.<br /><br />If you're a fan of Walt Disney's <span style="font-style: italic;">101 Dalmatians</span>, you can also offer your services as a matchmaker. You can do it the old-fashioned way, by joining your owner for a walk in the park and improvising a new Pongo ritual, or you can do it the modern way, by trying your paws on the PC's keyboard and adding to your owner's favorites the webpage http://www.datemypet.com.<br />Pet owners love to meet other pet owners, and it's only justice that a website should make it easier for them.<br /><br />But would it not be justice as well to make it possible for us dogs to find a mating soul on the Internet? Is it fair for us dogs to be deprived of the outstanding breakthroughs of new technologies? Are we bound, as dogs, to sniff randomly at a hundred smelly asses before we find the perfect match? Just because we can't properly use mobile phones and condoms, should we be kept away from modernity?<br /><br />If you find it unfair, if you find it outrageous, <span style="font-weight: bold;">www.date-dog.com </span>is here for you. It's a meeting website for dogs and it is already a huge success among the dog community. Thousands of dogs have already registered there and entered their profile.<br />For instance, Houbi the Bedlington Terrier from Toulouse has described himself as a sociable, intelligent and punchy single dog, and his profile has been viewed by 41 female dogs. Among them was Ophélie from Brittany, a romantic yorkshire who wrote on her profile: "I fancy going out, sleeping late and hugging :)"<br />They met and had a crush on eachother. If it happened to them, why shouldn't it happen to you? So my fellow dogs, come and register and at least give it a try. The first month is free and you can win a bone and a Playstation 3.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-34426106688569588162008-11-23T22:20:00.005+01:002008-11-24T14:43:05.494+01:00Shortcuts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKBh9qMqtT3Hj4aGZM5TtiCYCWFG5ocUEzwwPU21NEvHaBW3cwRbWuM3wyzZRBelwzw82cb_wRP1ACWwzbade5uHZD3dPapjRP6rX7JEKu-63ZmcL78J0gg9ajKc_qfL1qt4NZlWvFi0/s1600-h/amant1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKBh9qMqtT3Hj4aGZM5TtiCYCWFG5ocUEzwwPU21NEvHaBW3cwRbWuM3wyzZRBelwzw82cb_wRP1ACWwzbade5uHZD3dPapjRP6rX7JEKu-63ZmcL78J0gg9ajKc_qfL1qt4NZlWvFi0/s320/amant1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271979563439538322" border="0" /></a>I was in the tube the other day with my beloved 18-year-old brother sitting next to me. I was reading a novel by Maupassant, and to be honest I was so much in it I couldn't even hear the roaring of the train.<br /><br />The book was about a 19th century painter madly in love with a female socialite, Anne de Guilleroy. The guy was supposed to do her portrait, but after a few meetings, he begins to develop strong feelings towards her. So he tries to figure out how to turn the model into his mistress. Being a brillant talker, he skilfully injects in his conversation subtle innuendos and daring proposals.<br />She lets him talk the talk, waiting for the moment when he would walk the walk. But his first attempt to kiss her is somehow heavy-handed and after offering her lips in a moment of abandon, Anne de Guilleroy swiftly falls back to safer ground. She rejects him and leaves the room.<br /><br />The poor fellow is at sea. He thinks about ways to redeem himself, but in the same time he doesn't want to give in. She goes back to his house the next day as if nothing happened and asks him to finish her portrait. But there is too much affectation in her apparent indifference for it to be true, and the painter feels that the battle is not completely lost. He affects indifference as well, and obediently limits his conversation to painting and art.<br />He's a better act than she is, and Anne de Guilleroy starts wondering whether the passion is gone. She's longing for his sweet talk again. Maybe she has feelings as well, and maybe she wants him to possess her. But being a society woman, she can't allow herself to show away too much. She must delay the surrender to add value to its price.<br />And so began the second act of an intricated foreplay whose ebb and flow promised to be as staggering as the atlantic tide...<br /><br />I was about to learn about the long-expected outcome when my beloved brother interrupted my reading to show me a SMS he had just received from a girl called Charlotte, who he had been chatting with on the internet for two days:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Hello, it's Charlotte. If you want, we can have sex tonight. My parents are away. Bring condoms if you have some, otherwise I think I have one or two left. See you. Love"</span><br /><br />I threw away my book and we got off the train.Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-72389445239836683482008-11-22T17:08:00.005+01:002008-11-23T18:43:15.234+01:00The golden age of concept<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_h_TBXlw5-1oA_MDekEhzc91EN8AzYBxjBdZjqS-5a_ZgENpKgtrK2UO4EBgwGsLCsyhyphenhyphenyMlZPkTUVCYca0YYup49jHMGVH533xscM2NLqibCU4Gxk5XHnvVq3y4fsQnTyFupCPoUXU/s1600-h/les+thermes+evian.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 257px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_h_TBXlw5-1oA_MDekEhzc91EN8AzYBxjBdZjqS-5a_ZgENpKgtrK2UO4EBgwGsLCsyhyphenhyphenyMlZPkTUVCYca0YYup49jHMGVH533xscM2NLqibCU4Gxk5XHnvVq3y4fsQnTyFupCPoUXU/s320/les+thermes+evian.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271533928931928642" border="0" /></a>If you're familiar with mineral water, then you might be familiar with Evian mineral water. And if you're familiar with Evian mineral water, you may be familiar with the fact that Evian mineral water got its name from French town Evian-les-Bains, where the water takes its source.<br />And if none of this is new to you, you certainly know that Evian-les-Bains is a thermal town where old rich folks suffering from rheumatisms and varicose veins and younger rich folks suffering from being too young and too rich get hydrotherapy treatments when springtime comes.<br /><br />20 years ago, the deal was pretty simple. You came to Evian-les-Bains with your rheumatisms and dollars, they splashed water on you for a few days or weeks and you went back home feeling 15 years younger. Then you naturally came back to smoking and drinking and died of a heart-attack a few years later.<br />Now things have changed. They still take your dollars and splash water on you, they still make you feel younger, but they give you the choice between seven options, which they call "day packages":<br /><ul><li><span class="grandnoir">EVIAN DISCOVERY allows you to "savour relexation"</span><span class="grandnoir">. </span></li><li><span class="grandnoir">EVIAN LIBERTY intends to "relax you and hydrate and tone your body".</span> </li><li><span class="grandnoir">EVIAN ENERGIES procures "lasting relaxation and re-energising". </span></li><li><span class="grandnoir">EVIAN HYDOR ZEN makes you "recover well-being and serenity".</span></li><li><span class="grandnoir">EVIAN MINERAL makes you "feel so much better".</span> </li><li><span class="grandnoir">EVIAN REBIRTH draws on "vital energy to restore balance".</span> </li><li><span class="grandnoir">EVIAN SENSATIONS offers activities "full of heady excitement".</span></li></ul><span class="grandnoir">An old American patient suffering from serious articulatory problems came to Evian last summer at the request of his doctor. He found it hard to breath, he found it hard to move, he found it hard to talk. He came to the desk his prescription in hand and asked the receptionnist, whose sparkling eyes, flawless skin and perfect body shape were a living advert for Aldous Huxley's <span style="font-style: italic;">Brave New World</span>, what they could do for his health.<br /><br />The white lady at the desk gave him the menu above, the old man read it and was a bit confused. He sure wanted to recover well-being and serenity as well as restoring his balance with the help of vital energies, but he above all wanted to be cured.<br />The white lady understood perfectly well and informed him about Shiatsu harmony massage</span>, aimed at rebalancing the energetic flux for greater harmony between body and mind. She mentioned reflexology sessions, which by p<span class="textenoir">rivileging your inner sensations made you aware of the present moment and freed your tensions. She was almost singing when boasting the virtues of Tai Ji quan, </span>an energising corporal discipline which developed strength, suppleness, concentration and inner calm.<br /><br />During all this chirruping, the old man had to stand as he wasn't offered a seat. He soon felt a weakness in his right leg and, as the freshly cleaned floor was a bit slippery, he fell on his head and broke his neck. By the time the ambulance came, he was dead. Dead at the gates of Heaven, listening to one of his angels chanting the Coming of the golden age of concept.<br /> <span class="grandbleu"><strong></strong></span><span class="grandbleu"><strong></strong></span><span class="accroche"></span><span class="accroche"></span>Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67904366651763224.post-38954543500764402942008-11-20T22:46:00.005+01:002008-11-21T00:09:49.114+01:00Talk Radio<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5Xnm6dexHHaFbUC4UGW5RrsJYvdk8LGMwCX7yoFr7H0ABPs1cwPf6gy8aNJe_5bWxHL-4JsxoNFN47kHhofcvdq17ivCsXbZSRR-CCk8io8MP-bT78ClbSc-BwsLjEaCc8t2SiKLQKc/s1600-h/talk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5Xnm6dexHHaFbUC4UGW5RrsJYvdk8LGMwCX7yoFr7H0ABPs1cwPf6gy8aNJe_5bWxHL-4JsxoNFN47kHhofcvdq17ivCsXbZSRR-CCk8io8MP-bT78ClbSc-BwsLjEaCc8t2SiKLQKc/s320/talk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270879027420477090" border="0" /></a>Oliver Stone's <span style="font-style: italic;">Talk Radio</span> took its inspiration from a real event: the murder of liberal Denver radio personality Alan Berg at the behest of a militant right-wing hate group. Here is the story: Barry Champlain is a provocative radio talk-show host, whose racy eloquence and inflammatory views stirs up both love and hate among his listeners. He's witty, cynical and self-indulgent, while his fucked-up fans seem born to advertise for the dark side of America: he gets calls from drug-abusers, suicidal teenagers and angry neo-nazis from all parts of Denver.<br /><br />Fame comes rapidly and the show gets promoted to national broadcast. And the real troubles begin. One night Barry pushes one caller just a bit too far, and just before hanging up the phone, he hears a scary voice saying: "I know your face, Jew. I know where you live. I'll find you soon." Two days later he gets shot in the street, just a few meters away from the studio.<br /><br />For some, this is the story of a guy who wittingly played with fire and eventually got burn. In a sense, they're right. To give people a chance to unleash their darkest instincts is to play with fire. Especially people whose audience is usually limited to police stations, intensive care units, bums and drug dealers.<br /><br />But this film goes beyond the case of Barry Champlain<span style="cursor: pointer;" onclick="'dr4sdgryt(event,">/Alan Berg. Barry here operates as the lightning rod of society. He sure takes pleasure at riding the lightning, but he discovers pretty soon that the game he started is endless, and that it takes no rules. People suffering daily from anger and frustration, lack of money, lack of love and lack of recognition should be happy to find a soapbox and someone to talk to, even if he's an act. But they're not. They feel even worse.<br /><br />In all their misery, they still have more respect for the racist cop or the corrupted politician, because these two stay where they belong. Barry doesn't. They can take the lies from the nababs above, because they've been groomed to and because they have no choice. But they won't take the truth from a simple radio host whose </span><span onclick="dr4sdgryt(event)">outspokenness is a constant offence to the system that didn't favor them, but which they look up to as an almighty God.<br />These people won't shoot the President. But given a chance, they will shoot the one guy who has the guts - or the freedom - to call it an act at the face of the world.<br /></span>Pierre Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17507116736694646865noreply@blogger.com0