NOT TALKIN' BOUT THAT

It's been a while since I put in an effort to write a fresh blog.

Especially since the challenge is to not write about the stuff everybody already writes about, like Brexit, and the Royal family. So we're not doing that. Also, I shall not write about the world shortage of toilet paper. I keep hearing about that, but I think people are full of sh#t. No, I want to write about picking mushrooms.

The fun thing about cooking pasta is that you always need a pen, which is never around when you need one. So you end up tying your shoes with some postal twine. Now, when you use these scissors - taking care not to run - you can actually sometimes see rabbits, right in your own back yard. Fluffy, fluffy, fluffy. And what fun it is to be in your own back yard, since you don't have one. Never mind that. About knitting a shawl, though, one has to take care not to do this on a Tuesday, as they are closed. 

Taking a more serious view: Nostradamus predicted centuries ago that something or other was going to happen in this year. He was right! And it's happening all over the place. In order for you to dice the onion evenly, you will need something sharp, like the words "shut up!". It's easier to dice an onion than to onion dice, let me tell you. 

At this point we've arrived at the moment in time when Sagittarius is in the 5th house, and Taurus is a previous model Ford sedan. Will wonders never cease?

Finally - what's in these cigarettes?

THE BEIROOT OF THE PROBLEM

See, I'd promised myself to write another blog before the holidays. By missing that deadline I've avoided writing pretty much what I always write about Christmas, which means you don't have to put up with another yada yada piece about rampant consumerism and all the stuff we eat at Xmas dinner. I guess my procrastination was my unintended Christmas present to my already limited pool of readers. Happy to oblige :-)

But: there's still New Years' Eve (which we in the Netherlands call OLD Years Eve). In this country there are two main features of celebrating New Years' - A: we purchase enough fireworks to make every street look like Beirut - while Hezbolla is having a spat with.. well, anyone else really, starting roughly at 10 PM. B: to work our way up to that, we consume inordinately large quantities of alcohol and inappropriate foods.

Since these are group activities we have to make sure that there is no necessity for tableware and flatware. The first round usually consists of (for the men) beer and/or Dutch gin, for  the women it's wine or prosecco; and if there are any women over 70, possibly something called "advocaat" (egg nogg), or "boerenjongens" (meaning "farm boys") - a concoction of raisins in extremely cheap brandy that you normally would only use to remover sticker glue from your windshield.

Accompanying foodstuffs are: Salted peanuts, chips (only available in the flavors "normal" and "paprika"), cubed cheese (must have cubed cheese in the Netherlands, or it just ain't a party), slices of liverwurst. Dab of mustard on the side for those last two which always finds its way to any light colored garments you bought just for the holidays, and now are no longer returnable.

Second round: Coffee, tea, cake, cookies, apple pie. And: oliebollen. Oliebollen (Translated: "Oily Balls") are what happens when you add raisins to batter, form into tennis ball sized globes, and deep fry in last year's nearly black oil that was also used the year before that. The result is a dough bomb that should only be used in hand-to-hand combat, or to scratch your name into the dinner table. The next day they are worse, but still available AND obligatory at grandma's house.

Oliebollen will be eaten all evening - even when the third round returns us to cubed cheese and more savory snacks. It should come as no surprise that the inside of your stomach now starts to look like a medieval flotsam and jetsam, and starts to rebel. Churn, roil, hiccup, acid reflux, burp, and let's have another gin.

Nearing the countdown it's time to break out the fireworks, always containing large amounts of big and often illegal firecrackers. The only thing off limits is C4, mainly because it's not available. Since all this stuff is set off by lighting a fuse, this is also the moment where the men (this is a man business) will be issued a cigar to light said fuse. These cigars are invariably cheap, bad and taste like you've set fire to a baboon's turd (Not speaking from experience there).

What follows is a scene from Apocalypse Now. "Where's your commanding officer?" "Aren't YOU?"  - substituting alcohol for LSD. Just think along the lines of: non-sober men using bad cigars to light fuses of already questionable fire crackers placed in hazardous locations. (When I was a teenager we'd stick 'em into a juicy pile of dog doo doo. Ooh, the fun we had - unless you didn't run fast enough.)

Suffice to say that the excitement combined with beer/gin/boerenjongens, combined with the prospect of things that go "bang" in the night makes every swinging Tom, Dick or Harry a potential hazard to mankind. I'm staying in, like I've been doing for years now. I'd rather have a beiroot canal.

REGIFTING PERFECTED

Soon to be upon us: Sinterklaas. For those of you who are unfamiliar: Sinterklaas is both a man and an event. One causes the other. Sinterklaas is a bishop, but without a chess set. He travels with a gaggle of black servants (which is now a controversial concept), and officially he judges whether you've been good or bad. If good: prezzies. If bad, you get taken to Spain in a gunny sack, or flogged with a bunch of twigs. Or both.

In the Netherlands it all starts with his arrival, traditionally by boat - as he is said to live in Spain. This arrival is usually by mid November, since that gives retailers a chance to sell you lots of prezzies. The actual event (as in: the cashing in on prezzies) takes place on the evening of December 5th, and is aimed mainly at children. Grown-ups do the prezzie thing, too, according to an old ritual. Goes like this:

Within the family circle (or whoever else is going to be there) you draw lots that have the name of a fellow Sinterklasian, for whom you are then supposed to create a "surprise" - meaning you buy them something and then find a creative way of wrapping it in, say, something sticky, yucky, smelly, or unbreakable. You then add insult to injury by also creating a poem about said person. This can be sincere, but it's much more fun to make fun of the person, since the gifting is anonymous. Hazmat clothing, or power tools (sometimes both) are required to get at the present, which is almost always disappointing.

Like I said, anonymous. So: excellent opportunity to regift that piece of cr@p you got in last years surprise, especially if you drew a person whom you dislike. Which is of course a phenomenon (Scrabble Score!) that can lead to grandpa receiving - after a cycle of 4 years - the pink vibrator that your sister didn't want and was thoroughly embarrassed about (That's why you bought it for her in the first place).

Poems can - and should - be embarrassing, too. Think along the lines of:

"The PC of uncle Joe's- stores a lot of videos- Uncle Joe has many issues- that require boatloads of tissues". You get it. Added fun is provided by that one person who will exclaim that that wasn't them, placing him or her immediately at the top of the suspect list. Obviously, this tightens family bonds. I recommend it.

WE'RE NOT ALONE - BUT WE ARE

We live in a society that consists more and more of people who are glued to their phone while reading stuff on social media that may, or may not, be true. Or useful.  It's almost funny, because if it's not on FaceBook it can't be true. Who are you going to believe - FaceBook or your lying eyes? That tree's not really there. Or that car. 

Well, the NAV system is, but only because it provides virtual information. I used to know somebody who would get all discombobulated (Scrabble Score!), because his NAV system told him to turn left on a road that was no longer there. "But it says that there's a road here". Well, buddy, turn left and see how far you get.

It also leads to idiotic social situations where people get together for drinks and then just stare at their phones. You'll have to send an app to see if they want another round. "Wanna have sex tonight?" "Phone sex?" "Eh..." "Just download the app". Open "settings"; tap on "kinky". You'll be surprised where that phone winds up.

I'm wondering what we'll do by the time we get software that starts directly running our lives. 

Okay, okay. I sound like a living anachronism (that Scrabble sh#t just keeps piling up) - but I also think that all that stuff that belongs in the SMART category doesn't make us any smarter. Au contraire, to say it in German. It just makes us lazy and gullible. And while on the move - Gullible's Travels. Sorry, couldn't resist.

See, I think that a truly SMART TV would find you programs worth watching, and turn itself off after a few hours. An actually SMART phone would tell you that it needs charging, and could you please just talk to people the analog way while that happens? Let's... start a FaceBook thread about that one. 

SOIR DU CIGARE

Since my previous column dealt with whisky, I'm now tempted to talk about another guilty pleasure of mine. Warning: controversial subject coming up! I smoke. Not cigarettes. That's smoking for amateurs. I smoke a pipe, and sometimes cigars, depending on the occasion and the quality of the cigars. To get the obvious thing out of the way: yes, smoking is bad for you. Especially if you inhale, which I don't. Also - living kills you dead. No doubt. 

Here in the Netherlands smoking is considered only slightly less evil than, say, committing necrophilia (which is also not allowed in restaurants). One preventive thing they try to do over here is that by now on tobacco packaging 90% of the tin, pounch, or can is covered in a photo of some horrible disease followed by the words "roken is dodelijk". Hey, that's funny - we both smoke the same blend: "roken is dodelijk".

To me it's more of a recreational activity and not so much an addiction. I sometimes go for two weeks without firing up the old briar. But: a good conversation is an excellent excuse for it, with the added bonus of giving the impression that since you take longer to answer (fiddling around with pipe and tamper) - you've given profound thought to what you're going to say. 

Example: "you want another round?" Me: puff, puff, tamp, puff - "sure". See how that works? Another bonus is that kids will look at you funny, because we are a dying breed. I know of two other pipe smokers here in town. That's it. A not-so-bonus is when women say stuff to you like "That smells so good. You remind me of my grandfather". Thanks, lady.

To me, smoking is all about ritual. Ingredients: pipe or cigar; source of fire (matches preferred); something to set fire to; beverage of choice; worthy conversation partners. Instant satisfaction. Which is how the Soir Du Cigare was born.

As it happens, I'm in a band. Every now and then we feel the need to get together in a non-music-playing setting to A: gossip about other musicians, B: talk about new repertoire, C: shoot the sh#t about any topic that comes to mind. This goes much better with a good Cuban (they are legal here!), and a fine beverage.

As a side thought: smoking is a pretty wasteful business - you spend money on something that you then set fire to, only to spend more money to do it again. Which kind of reminds me of something that Canadian chef Frederic Moran said in an Anthony Bourdain show: "food is faeces in waiting". But: I digress. 

You've probably figured out by now that the smoking part of the Soir du Cigare is a mere excuse for a get-together that's mainly aimed at conviviality (Scrabble Score!) and companionship. Which, in these days of cell phones and whatsapp and instagram, we get way too little of. There. I've said it.

BOOZE WILL GET YOU KILT

As many of my friends know, I am a whisky fan. I'm talking about Scottish and Irish whiskies (or whiskys). The jury is still out on bourbon, but I digress. As far as whiskies go, I prefer single malts, and, owing to this liquid hobby I go to whisky tastings with some regularity. One of these events is organized by a liquor store owner in Amsterdam who (predictably) specializes in whisky.

Here's how this works: after forking over the cover charge of around 25 Euros, you, and a jolly bunch of fellow lovers of Scottish libation enter a room that has all the accouttrements (Scrabble Score!) of an evening's fun. Tables, chairs, lots of whisky, and appropriate snacks. The idea is that you get to taste 5 or 6 samples with increasing amounts of flavor and percentages of alcohol, frequently from limited bottlings.

One of the things you'll encounter is that this sort of event attracts a fair amount of whisky snobs, too. They're like wine snobs, but drunker. I once encountered someone who reminded me of the comic book guy from the Simpsons, and who claimed to have his own barrel of single malt sitting at its distillery, where he employed a webcam and various pieces of measuring equipment to monitor the aging process.

After a bit of mingling everyone finds a seat, and the first sample gets poured. The idea is that you sip cautiously and comment in the appropriate manner, by which I mean that phrases like "this is some really good sh#t" are to be avoided. Think instead of words like "top note, leathery, peat, umami". You get it. The impression that you want to give is that you're a connoisseur, with appreciation for the finer things life has to offer, instead of a frantic boozer.

The second sample will be poured at this moment, and the first snacks arrive. Do not, I repeat, not - go for the salted peanuts. Do also not get into a discussion with Mr. Monitoring My Own Barrel about pretty much anything, since he will invariably want to be right and have the last word.

Now it's time for number 3, and while the first two whiskies have so far passed by unannounced, they will now playfully show up in your blood stream, where they will transform the 18 Year Old Laphroaigh Dr. Jeckyll into the "I'll have a paint remover on the rocks" Mr. Hyde. Fights may break out over the salted peanuts. Suggestions may fly about drowning someone in his own vat of whisky.

After the fourth sample it is essentially unimportant what gets poured, as you will have been transformed from a gourmand into a man singing "the Lobster Song" where every "s" and "f"provoke a soft rain of chewed peanut and spittle. We have by now transitioned into the realm of 50% alcohol, and we have at least one more to go.

At this strategic point in the evening, with willpower and common sense having fallen by the wayside, the organizer of the event will mention that he has a very limited number of bottles of whiskies you have tasted. At a modest price of at least 80 Euros a bottle, that is. And yes, he accepts debit cards. 

Weighed down by two bottles of GlenAmnesia, you finally call a cab to make the trip home. You plan to open these bottles on a very special occasion which will eventually present itself. Like, after getting out of the cab and spending 15 minutes trying to get your key in the front door lock.

Disclaimer: This is a recap of a similar column I wrote a few years back in Dutch - but there are many changes, although the general vibe is similar. Enjoy!

TOYS R NUTS

In a newspaper article today I saw something about one of our cabinet ministers wanting to stop toy stores from shelving toys under "boy" toys and "girl" toys, on the argument that children should play with whichever toys they want (because toy manufacturers are sexist. Also publishers of children's books). She must not have any, because parents know that they do this, anyway.

It's just another nail in the coffin of personal liberties for residents of this otherwise mayonnaise-driven country. And proof that the bigger the salary, the bigger the fools you can hire for positions like this. Minister van Engelshoven (education), who also holds the portfolio for emancipation, wants to make it illegal to ask customers in toy stores whether a toy is for a boy or a girl. In my personal opinion the minister for education (with nationwide crises owing to shortage of teachers) needs a little educatin' about priorities.

See, if we allow for this, why stop at the categorizing of toys? All toys must then be "neutralized" in packaging, ads and publications. I can see where this would lead to idiotic situations: Customer enters store. "I would like to buy a present for my nephew." Would get a reply like: "We don't differentiate anymore. Besides, who knows how he feels about toys. We recommend "Cross Dresser Barbie", that covers all bases." Or "Post-op Ken".

All boxes would feature some wording like "non gender specific play item for humans age 8 and up". Better not to put pictures on the box. Guess what's in it by shape. Ah, the challenge. "I would like to buy a... something for my genetically connected junior human. It likes arts and crafts in a non gender specific way." This is your tax dollars - eh, euros - at work. Yup - interesting times ahead.