Talking to walls

or thin air for that matter is a hobby of mine, dearest digiblips. So really, I'm not offended by the silence when silence is what I not only expect but partly also hope for.

In real life however I'm not so keen on silence, especially when silence is what I expect nor hope for. Also not so keen on people who support you all the way except for that last step. No stomach for that "yes yes go kill that dragon we're right behind you, really!" sort of situation, not when you're the finding all those supporters lacking when the dragon puts its beady eye on you. But, as a writer of unpublished shit, I'll give it a bit of spin and pretend it's a learning experience. And it is true, in yesterday's meeting of the fencing club direction I've learned quite a bit about group dynamics, about the courage of men, of how things are discussed and decided before and after the meeting but not during (what kind of crazy expectations is this silly blonde having anyways?), of how easy history is rewritten and how easy it is to get from SNAFU to FUBAR.

So, FUBAR got all over yesterday's non-review and it won't be for today either. We'll see. I must now take time and pour energy into separating those mountains that I can move, and those mountains I'll only ever be pretending to be moving. Because after yesterday's meeting it was clear that all the time and effort I've put into the club the last couple of months comes down to me desperately trying to fill my empty life and that honestly not where I thought I was. Stupid enchanted forests.

What difference this day makes?

 Well, this:

What you see here is the end result of a hard day's work and half a pumpkin, 5kg grapes and 3kg blackberries: Pumpkin Chutney (very fragrant and spicy stuff), Grape Jam with Rosemary (excellent with lamb), Grape Jelly with pineapple and pecans (smoked chicken here I come!), and Spicy Blackberry Jam (spicy with a drop of Strohrum, should be excellent for patés, and meatloaf and homemade Christmas pudding).

With the jam and jelly genius I am, it's hardly any wonder I just don't seem able to shake those kicking the nicotine habit pounds. Ach well, such is life.

Tomorrow I'll finish off the other half of the pumpkin, and then next week I'll work through more grapes and blackberries.


There's still some fallout drifting past from someone's misinterpreted brainfart, like snow or dandruff. Little things bug me in what people say in their fierce condemnation of said brainfart, because while most comments or open letters about said brainfart are quite thoughtful, some of those thoughtful people proceed to run into the same fail. Not race fail. Not religion fail. Word fail. Thought fail. In a discussion about morals and ethics, I consider that pretty bad shit, digiblips.

This afternoon, a bug bit me when Shaun Duke/SMD over at his blog, World In a Satin Bag, added some more beating of the dead horse by beating someone else beating a dead horse. But then I figured, hey, enough dead horses already, and who's going to eat all that?

Yet I couldn't refrain from skimming the reactions, where another huge bug but me while I read Dave Baxter's comment:

I still disagree with you, SMD, that Moon displayed politics worthy of a boycott (though they were faulty, I still fail to perceive the majority of stances you claimed she'd supported with that controversial post), but yeah, this guy's "If you boycott, then we'll boycott you" is the beginning of a Middle East style never-ending sense of victimization on all sides.
"Middle East style never-ending sense of victimization on all sides"? Does the Middle East have sole right, or enough right to make it a style, to "never-ending sense of victimization on all sides"? Why could he not have made that statement without adding "Middle East style"? Or supplant it with, oh, myriad of choices here.... Belgian style (Flemish-Walloon)? Irish style (Protestant-Catholic)? Eastern Europe style (Balkans, anyone?). Central African (ehm, go ahead, close your eyes and put your finger on a map of the area; I'm sure there's a story that makes it a perfect fit)... How about Cold War style?
Considering the context I think "Middle East style" is a really really really bad choice of words to voice your thoughts. And fuzzy: what Middle East we talking about? Israel/Palestine? Bahrain? Egypt? Iraq?

Then, closer to home: in the cached and saved and widely spread around comment section of Elizabeth Moon's post, a bug bit me in the ass when I read Rhipowered's comment:

The line-up confuses me. What do France, Belgium and Switzerland have in common, and, by omission, have not in common with the Netherlands, Germany, Spain, UK...?
Seeing how later on France's burqa ban is mentioned, I'm left to assume it's about veils and burqas. But even then I don't see the logic of the line-up. The discussion on a burqa ban has been raging in the Netherlands since late 2005. As far as I can see, the Swiss are also "just talking" about the issue. What about Denmark? They have partial bans in place...

True, the Belgian law concerning face-obscuring wear, still in the making I think due to the whole having no real government and overall there being more of a political jihad between Flemish and Walloon for over quite some months now, has in the media always been called the burqa law (and boy do I love the media!). I trust the senate to make sure there's no slanted letter or word in the law's make-up that could make it even in the most LSD infected interpretation a law against burqas.
The law is in fact the federalisation of what local law has been saying from olden times: your face must be recognisable in public. This ties in into Belgium's concept of privacy and public security, which might be difficult to understand in a country that goes apeshit each time something along the lines of an ID card is mentioned. See, in Belgium, the street is considered a public arena. As a citizen I have rights and plights in that arena. One of the plights is: I have to have my ID on me at all times. This is the means by which I can prove to the cops that I have rights as a citizen. I do not have the right to be drunk in public. I do not have the right to run around naked in public. Not sure about fornication in public, but in any case, the rule of thumb is: don't do things in public you don't want your mommy to find out, right? If your neighbour sees you humping someone who is not your wife in public, you cannot sue him for invasion of privacy, all right? I do not have the right to ask a fellow citizen for his ID, that's privacy at work, and if you catch me standing on a box to try to peek in through your window to see what you doing with that woman who is not your wife, you can sue me for invasion of privacy even if I'm standing in the street. However, I do have the right to be able to identify any and all people hanging around in the public arena. That is my security against burglars, rapists, and all sorts of people that hide their face in order to do wrong.
Sadly this upsets a handful of people that have no evil in mind. Some are burqa-wearing Muslimas (I've seen estimations of 30 to 100, this on 10 million Belgians), who will probably be confined to the house if and when the law becomes active. It will probably upset a biker or two who in his haste to buy cigarettes or sumfin' might catch a cop in a bad mood. That is the price they will pay to keep our public arena safe and equal. They might be asked for ID. They might be asked to explain themselves or get a fine. Just like drunks might. Or not. And yes, the public has to keep a really close eye on the workings of the federal police, because yes, there are sadly far too many incidents that smack of racism.

So, all this considered, I'd like to invite rhipowered to do his own homework: I'm sure in the UK that all people are equal, are treated equal, that classes are in more than just name a thing of the past, and everybody lives the happy and carefree life of equal citizens: not afraid from fellow citizens and not afraid from government or its servants.

And then I'll raise you a veil-wearing MP. Where's yours?

Wednesday = Alter Ego Day

So there, go here.


There's nothing so annoying as having to wait for sun- and hubby-up so you can organize the hunt on what surely must be the last of the summer mosquitoes.

Last of the Summer Wine

Good news: I'm not a drunk!
Turns out I mistook the beginning of a sinusitis for a hangover. Haha, ain't that funny.
See I'm laughing, so I'm neither as depressed as I thought I was.

Anyways, I figured I'd tackle this sinusitis thing before it swamps my head with all kinds of snot by being productive. First I went and plucked the last of the blackberries. It's not much, but they're real ripe and juicy.

 And then you can go here for a non-review on Midwinter.

I considered being so productive as to post a thoughtful comment over at Mark Newton's Forgotten Tomes post, because, you see, I am terrible with books. I think it has to do with the way my brain makes stories. Finishing a book is to my brain as much catharsis as a nice dream with a solid ending. And then *poof* the story goes. When the stories are good, stuff sticks around. A name or two. A really good scene. Atmosphere. But nothing solid enough to be able to give someone a recap of what the book was about.

But since I've now written all I really need to say on the subject, why should I bother, dear digiblips? Reread the previous paragraph if you're addicted to my usual logorrheic self. Me, I've got a kitchen to clean, preserve pots to get up out of the cellar, some more fencing club stuff to sort out, and a ton of grapes to process. No really, I think I've still got 2 more tubs on the vines, but these will keep me busy all evening as it is:

Pickled brains

Sort of sucks, since I don't remember drinking that much.

That's bad, innit?

This means I'm going to postpone my non-review till tomorrow. I guess by then I'll have figured out which title to tackle.

Snipping off all of my beautiful grapes that won't be ripening much more in the weakening sun: also for tomorrow. We're talking a whole lot of grapes. And since they'll probably be somewhat sour with all the crap weather of August, it'll mean the official start of preserve season. Together with the giant blackberries from the freezer, and the pumpkins people tend to send my way. Need to clean kitchen first. And lots of pots. And the oven.

Also, I postponed reading Kiernan's Red Tree because a story about a depressed writer all alone in the sticks is not quite working for the current headspace. I'll get back to it when I feel more solid about being depressed. Or solid about being less depressed. Or shtuff, or sumfing.

Some good news during the weekend: the dishwasher was just acting up and not really broken.
I think. Could be my magic touch, though. See, sometimes I just touch broken tech and it works. It runs in the family. But since it's not a constant power, it can be quite infuriating. And, by touching things one doesn't learn as much as actually taking tech apart and putting it together again. Although, I could tell you some funny stories about that too...

The frizzled main computer has been replaced, because you know, I used all my touch&fix mojo on the dishwasher and the old motherboard I'd laying around for emergencies sort of died over the years. Or it's a power problem, and since it would be the third power supply to frizzle I'm quite right to consider the whole box jinxed. All I still need to do is salvage ram and whatever else is still useful for this computer. That's on hold though until my mojo's been replenished.
The prefab from Packard Bell wasn't even as expensive as I thought. It comes with Windows 7, hence I was all set for the required wrestling match with Bill Gates' spawn to get it all configured to *my* preferences. Even that turned out a breeze. Just the regular "I'm not talking to my older brothers" attitude that, let's be honest, anybody dealing with microsoft is well used to. Somewhere this week, when the pickled brain is over and other stuff that needs doing is done, I'll start the the maddening quest for a working peer-network.

Read through the Tiger of Opal draft. I'm a genius. Some spots still need polish, and the end needs some more work, I think. Wondering if some of the cryptic shit isn't too cryptic. Needs beta-reading.

Was also going to say something about devious digital blips, but I forgot what exactly. Sun hurts eyes. Need to soak brain in mixture of hot water and scented salts now.


In the Not So Serious Blogs that I follow, a post over at Grab a Pen led me to a title on Amazon called Birth Control is Sinful [...], and Amazon was so kind to show that title right there in my history next to Palmer's Debatable Space. Which I found extremely funny. Ex. Treem. Ly.

This might be an effect of the sleep-deprivation-brainshrink I'm still subject to. Now, knowing Tahereh has a certain fondness for crayons, I figured maybe I could come up with a funny word involving crayon for her contest.
I could not.
This is, evidently, also due to the brainshrink.
So I asked google, because mainly that's what google's for.

Google led me Yahoo Answers (which, considering I currently live in a world of animism, involving omniscient but dumb technogods [seriously, why do AIs always have to be that much smarter than us?], the referral is in itself also mildly funny). But, back to Yahoo Answers, which asked and answered: 

How many words can you make from crayon?

Acceptable scrabble words are
1 1 letter:A
11 2 letters:AR AN AY AN NA NO ON OR OY YA YO
1 6 letters: CRAYON


Actually, I logged on to post my er... Surprise? Disbelief? Disdain? to discover someone actually spent time and effort typing that out. Who does that? What for? People who have nothing else to do in life, no work, no friends, some poor sleepless shmuck with brainshr--

Oh *cough/shrug* well, who am I to laugh at idiots like that?

And yes, my ethical awareness about intarwaste is sound asleep.


I'll have you know I was supposed to win the lottery Wednesday evening.

But by Thursday noon I merely had a broken dishwasher and frizzled up main computer.

Last week the submersible pump in the cellar crapped out, after 10 years. It makes me think that there's a universal statutory limit of 10 years on object in this house. What else did we get ten years ago? Must make list.

"Conceptbericht opgeslagen op 4:17"

Well look at that timestamp. Excuse me for the obvious case of brainshrink.

loose-handed priests

The endtimes crawl closer on that quirky entity called Belgium. But if we're lucky enough the mediahounds' and plebs' attention will be drawn away to more important matters (our very own Catholic Church & pedophilia! With extras content and extensions!) long enough for the political nitwits do get down to real business again.

Catholic Church issues always make me feel quirky. People commenting on Catholic Church business makes me even more so, and with our very own pedophile priest scandals spread all over the news, people are coming out of the woodwork with opinions of what the Church should do. Not that they ever go to church, except for on the important Church days maybe, like a wedding in white or a baptism or two. Of, once more, people that do not regularly go to church.

It's the fallacy of Western thought that someone not subjecting him or herself to the Catholic rites has the right to be heard by Mr Chief of the Catholic Church. It's the collision of everyday socialist/democratic values and what is the very core of the Catholic Church: the Catholic Church is in no way intended to be by the people, for the people. Previous pope helped muddy that issue, current pope would rather have a clear line drawn. It's his call, it's his church. Complaining about how the church ain't doing what you, the people, think it needs to do, is like demanding Tesco to sell Asda Smart Price items because that's what you want. Can you hear the big honchos go: Come again?

And let's be honest, with only 1 Catholic, not even necessarily a church going one, against 10 from regions where people actually do attend mass and wholeheartedly support the church, you really think your opinion matters?

Pfah, the question in such issues is never what the church should or shouldn't do. The real question is: why is the police not hauling pedophile priest's ass to the interrogation room with about the same respect as they would a suspect imam's?

Digiworld abuzz and other thoughts

Oh no! It's the end of an era, like a death of the party, the community is dying!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What's all this talk about death of an era? Don't you silly digiblips know that if you hang around long enough in cyberspace everything comes back, even when it's supposed to be dead?

First I believed this was because in this new millennium even retro is retro-recycled. We do retro so well we're remaking shit before it's made!

Then I thought, maybe it's because the community keeps bits alive like zombie raising necromancers.

But now I understand: cyberspace's got a hell of an echo.

NB: I'm sorta reacting to this and this and this and this ...

Interjection of random silliness: whenever I click through to Larry's blog I think of Gonads & Strife. And  my mind associates this with the death of an era, and somehow quite fittingly, the fall of two towers. Maybe one day, I'll talk about that. Gonads & Strife forever, man.

Anyways, there's been some hissyfitting over some dude (no offense) writing an article on fantasy and postmodernism, with all sorts of people (also no offense) commenting whilst trying to be so much wiser than the previous blogue(r) about the value of the article and postmodernism.

Seriously? Are you kidding me? Here I thought we were safely moving away from that old dead horse and entering the newer, though obviously not quite so imaginative, era of post-postmodernism. But maybe this *is* post-postmodernism at work: everybody's so stuck in/on postmodernism that the only way forward is to keep reinventing what it means to be postmodern. Ad infinitum. Fire up that retro-recycler dudes.

The way I see it, six decades and counting is a whole lot of time to react to modernism. The only place where postmodernism isn't dead is in philosophy, any kind of taste in philosophy. All the rest is resisting and rehashing what came before, which is a natural mechanism in any kind of movement, in any kind of creative act, whether it is in body and mind postmodern or not. Just like modernism reacted to what came before. I, for one, am done flogging a dead horse over and over again. Let's just skip the whole P-mod and move on.

So anyways. Here I am thinking about that Bruce Sterling quote on cyberspace cuz it came up in a convo with the hubby yesterday ("Cyberspace is the 'place' where a telephone conversation appears to occur. Not inside your actual phone, the plastic device on your desk. Not inside the other person's phone, in some other city. The place between the phones.").

And I'm thinking of how people are always so surprised when people die in train stations or other busy transit nodes without anybody noticing; it doesn't surprise me, train stations are perfect for spies to meet, thieves to earn their living, terrorists to plant bombs: not because there are too many people packed upon each other for any one to notice something strange, but because there are too many people on automatic pilot zooming through this non-place, this haven of anonymity.

And then I'm thinking maybe it's not so much the anonymity, but the fact that a train station has to the people in the daily commute transit as much no real physical existence as cyberspace. It's that place where mind does one thing, while meat somewhere else does something else. That place where strangers meet, spend daily hours together for months on end, and then suddenly the "community" falls apart as all participants walk away, as if they were living in some collective hallucination. Very faerie adventure like. It's a weird fractured and fractalised reality. X-nay on the P-mod, 'kay?
And whereas in faerie-tales there would be a source, or a lady of the lake, or a burning bush marking the border of the here and the other place, there's no tollbooth except for the simple everyday items, like a keyboard or a ticket dispenser. Not sure if things would be different if there were things like ladies of the chips and stuff. Like nine sisters.

And this makes me want to watch Avalon again for the nth time, but I loaned out the DVD and I can't recall to whom. Ain't the real physical world a bitch like that?

Wednesday = Alter Ego Day

So: clickety.

Sun's shining and subsidy stress is under control, so I'll see if I can activate this lazy ass and do some very needed jungle-clearing work in the garden.




Kiri kiri kiriiiiii!

Monday came and went

and there was no post.

Now I fully comprehend that you don't really care, beloved digiblips. But I do, so I've punished myself for being late on a promise I never made and by making myself write up two not-reviews.

How's that for woman's logic, 'ey?

In the meantime my last spending spree at the Bookdepository has materialized, which means it's a good thing the end of subsidy stress is in sight so I can finish the last book of the previous spree (Kiernan's Red Tree) and get on with that fresh mountain of books.

who needs sleep?

Certainly not me once past 4 a.m.
So, just to prove to myself I haven't unlearned writing fiction (though in how much writing up policy plans for subsidy requests isn't fiction...): I just finished 500 decent words that fit into the 2nd UTA novel. Not much reason to make backflips, except I actually used the elaborate backgrounding and restructuring of the 3,5k I've done. So consider me backflipping y'all.

I grow up and drag along in my suitcase...

With all the Is A Crisis, Is Not A Crisis* going on in Belgium the last couple of months, I figured it must be a really strange country young Belgians live in. Literally all of their life they've been seeing politicians shout and behave like adolescent shitheads or have talks that seem to go nowhere about things only politicians comprehend. They grow up in a Belgium where politicians continually polarize any problem in the country into something from one or the other side of the language barrier.

* sung on the melody of Soul Coughing's Is Chicago, Is Not Chicago

That train of thought got me thinking about what subjects from Belgium or international politics pierced the shell of my oblivious childhood years to leave a lasting influence on my then naive, nay, unformed view on the world outside.

World politics were incomprehensible. Absolutely. Bernard Benson's Peacebook offered a solution quite as simple as letting a little boy ask why big mean old people don't kiss and make up and then have them realize the kid is right. Can I have a collective "Awww that's so kewt"

And while harbouring that Peacebook dream all warm and fuzzy inside, I notice people digging out nuclear shelters in their backyards, even in little old Belgium. Mad Max beyond Thunderdome (1985) only fuels the easily titillated imagination of a child: this is what the end of the world looks like!

Then, 1986, cherry on the pie: spending lunchbreaks at school looking at the sky to see if you can see the poisonous cloud that's blowing in from Chernobyl.
Wait for the icing on this childhood's cake, darling digiblips: SEEING WHEN THE WIND BLOWS DOES NOT HELP OKAY??!!

Damn the world was a scary place back then!
But it did prepare me for whatever shit the world throws me now, from tsunamis in faraway countries to global warming and being an actual jinx for England whenever I visit (terrorist attacks, major strikes), to the End of Belgium. Nothing short of the true Apocalypse can rattle my cage, heh.

On the smaller--Belgian--scale, politics were zzzzzz boring, and televised debates were a contest in conservative fashions and nasal mumblings.
Nonetheless there was some scary shit going on!

Scariest mofos from childhood are the Nijvel Gang/Brabant Massacres, brutal gangsters active from 1982 to 1985, killing, torturing and plundering whatever they came across. The news speaks of pursuits and shootouts with police but on television it still looks like a contest in conservative fashions and nasal mumblings instead of CHIPS. The only exciting piece is the getaway car: a white Golf GTI. Suddenly, EVERYBODY wants a GTI. Dude, the cops can't catch up!

Then there's the very confusing (for kiddies) terrorism of the Cellules Communistes Combattantes, CCC in short. They were EVIL, I mean communist, bombs, links to all those other and certainly more deadly redski terrorists like Rote Armee Fraktion and Action Directe. But let's be honest: if you're turning in your own bombs, and giving the public services enough time to clear the area, you're way nicer than the *real* European terrorists. In the end the only deaths involving a CCC bombing occurred after an error in communication between public services, and this error may or may not have been deliberate, given the unexplained issues that surround both cases.

Good horror only functions if some of it is unresolved and left to fester.
Growing out of '80s childhood I find myself nearly trapped in that nightmare scene from American Werewolf in London: with the Gulf War the Mad Max reality can't be far behind, Chernobyl is on fire, and
legal prying and journalist investigations into unexplained issue and mysteries surrounding the CCC as well as the Nijvel Gang offer links with US stay-behind politics against communist influence. This brings the idea home of what a Cold WAR means. Nothing can be proven, though; it's all out there in the same fuzzball as Gladio, P2 and the fuzzpluzz which may or may not be named Echelon.

All in all, I guess my cold-hearted, cool-headed and sometimes acidly sarcastic worldview is not a surprise after all. Seeing all the truths and lies and love&rockets going on on my TV screen, I wonder what the world will look like to them kids when they're all grown up...


You know, yesterday I was getting all stressed about the tons of serious but rubbish words I've been typing out lately for the fencing club's paperwork, feeling quite miserable about the timeflippingsink it is. Today's silver lining: well, at least this work earns money! Alright alright, it's all for the club, but it's money, right?

So, as stress relief I started sorting through my memory box (see piccie below: yes, it a big shiny black box and it gots all kinda memories inside) and came across my first rejection in life. It included the reader report of my far too short and supershitty work of art (hey, shit happens when you're 16). The reader ends his or her short report with a remark that, while my piece was too short for publication, I'm one to be watched.

I might go hardieharr (with black stuff oozing through the teeth) at that particular line now, 20 years later and hung over from all the recent sockboozing. But it does sort of warm the cockles of my heart that there is ... something. Whether that something can ever become something marketable, well... That's a whole different story.

No, the real funny thing is that my brain is a paranoid misanthropic bastard, so for years I never really *saw* that letter when I came across it. I just saw NO THANK YOU and TOO SHORT and NEEDS WORK, instead of QUITE ELABORATE STYLE AND THEMATICS FOR A 16Y OLD, GOOD NARRATIVE SKILLS.
And, it's not like the tealeaf reading I could be doing with the recent rejections; no no, those words are actually there, black on white.

Really, who needs a brain like that?

Black Box


I'm up, because my brain insists I have other things to do at 5:30 than sleep. Hey, what do I know, right? But I got tired of hunting after Mr. Sandman and decided that I *do* have other things I could do.

Also there's a dead mouse starving under some piece of furniture in this room. I know, because its withering little body leaves quite the stink.
Aaah (though not inhaling too deeply)! The joys of having 3 fun-loving cats...

Must find the smelly little bugger.

word up!

I gave my insomnia-induced review of City of Ruin some more thought. Then I thought some more on all the books I've been reading lately. Then I figured I might want to keep track of some of my thoughts on the things I read. That's a whole lot of thinking thunk, my dearest digiblips! Then I thought (even more!) on the way to do this without spending too much time writing full reviews, because that's not Ze Plan.
And so then this happened: Ceci n'est pas une revue. Ze Plan is to have a bit on every title I've bought over the last months, which are listed in ... The List.

Well then, all that thinking has left me short of time. Subsidy deadlines still looming and Belgium is on the verge of destruction. I need to do some real work, hence I leave you with another Loire trip piccie, this time from the castle of Blois.


PS: yes, it is quite possible I'm addicted to creating blogs.

Spending money

Ahah! Finally the credit card cycled clean.
Immediately charged an obscene amount on it for books, and what did I buy?

Philip Palmer's Red Claw because if you read A, you should read B

Stephen Deas' The Thief-taker's Apprentice, because if you read A, and you can't refrain from B, then you should also read A'

Sam Sykes' Tome of the Undergates, because if you read from A's hand, and you read from B's hand, you should read from C's hand. And because I checked him out in Watertstone's where I decided I wanted to read it but the tome was far too pricy in Brussels (without taking in account the cost of the train ticket). Turns out I can have it delivered by the mailman straight from the UK for 75% of the price, go figure.

Natsuhiko Kyogoku's Loups-Garous, because they waz on the list yo.

Pablo Bacigalupi's The Windup Girl just to prove I don't really live under a rock, no siree.

Hannu Rajaniemi's The Quantum Thief, because I can't not believe the hype y'all.

And then I nearly forgot, well no, actually I did forget so I had to log back in and make a second order for:

Neal Asher's Line of Polity, because I hadn't had so much fun reading an SF thriller since Hamilton's first Greg Mandel book. Just finished Gridlinked and 't was like dreaming of Mandel while watching the end of Akira on repeat and munching on Science and Technology Studies articles laced with LSD.

BE = headdesk

My words of last week were hardly spoken or the shit hit the fan. The last week following the news on the preformation was severely *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk* *headdesk*

Luckily for les petits Belges, everybody outside Belgium is looking the other way (tsktsk-ing at le Sarko in France, or trying to figure out what to make of the Middle -East talks) or staring at their own navel (tomatoes for Blair & Labour infighting, the Dutch are busy with their own government formation, and in Germany they're busy booting a racist from the Bundesbank board). It could have been a terrible embarrassment.

Without wanting to add oil to the fire, but extremely nauseated by dimwitted online comments from countrymen, I do however feel the urgent need to explain the following:

If Flanders goes independent we'll take Brussels with us (why1: because it's *ours*; why2: if we're not going to take it with us, then why make such a damned fuss over BHV?).
If we take Brussels with us, we'll be taking all the French-speaking inhabitants of Brussels with us (we can negotiate on foreigners like EU or US citizens). This French-speaking minority in New Flanders will have all the rights that go with that status. This means giving up all the small annoyances our Belgian law now let's us heap onto their heads: apparently we're not supposed to harass minorities. Unless, of course, when we do kick out those EU foreigners and don't accede as New Flanders to the EU. Screw the lot of 'em.

Nutshell: more rights for the French-speaking inhabitants in New Flanders. And we still end up having to pay for Brussels, but without the help of the Walloons this time. How is this the solution to the problems you define?

Anyways, < / rant>. I'll leave you lot with two snapshots from architectural ornaments in Tours I feel are quite appropriate:

Man tearing a Lion in half & Man showing his Butt and airing his Klokkenspiel

Promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep

What's that? Wednesday again? Well I guess it's time for the alter ego again. Read up on Comrade Yaroshka's adventures here.

And hence I leave thee, with another piccie from the Loire trip:

Stone dog from Loches