The Perfect Dinner?

baby lettuce with winter fruit and parmesan
tarro and porcini soup
whole thai snapper with white wine, parsley, lemon, anchovies
butternut squash with ……
bottle of 2000 …….rizzou
ah hirsch 16 year old bourbon
homemade cookies (ginerbread, peanut butter, sugar, chocolate/macademia, oatmeal raisin, …)
courtesy Rose Pistola, the day of LZ’s 28th year.

Masthead

Loud Latin Laughing is a web catalog of reading. This site always under construction. Inquire within.

Joyce, Ulysses, Chapter 3

My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves. You were a student, weren’t you? Of what in the other devil’s name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone: when I was in Paris; boul’ Mich’, I used to. Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it: other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, c’est moi. You seem to have enjoyed yourself.
Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget: a dispossessed. With mother’s money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. Encore deux minutes. Look clock. Must get. Ferm’. Hired dog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt? O, that’s all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, that’s all right. Shake a shake. O, that’s all only all right.
You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Euge! Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment?

Continue reading “Masthead”

The tipping point

Very much enjoying this one. The three rules of epidemic: law of the few, stickiness factor, power of context.
Law of the few: connectors, mavens and salesmen
Paul Revere was a connector (one who is charismatic and knows a lot of people) and a maven (broker of information). Hence the revolutionary war.
How ideas tip into the majority, from being thought up by a minority of innovators. Highly recommended.

Continue reading “The tipping point”

The Descent

I had to give up on this one after 120 pages. It’s clever-ish, but the whole point of the book is lost on someone living in 2002. Underground nuclear bomb shelters are quaint nowadays, and I can’t muster enough excitement about the book itself to finish this. It might have something to do with not being the best book to read on the beach, which is where I was when I gave up.

Continue reading “The Descent”

Autobiography

the life of A. A. Milne (Alan) takes you from his Little Lord Fauntleroy days as a child through his life as a writer. The early sections are the best, telling of adventures with beloved brother Ken and mathmatical aptitude. This made me want to explore his oevure further. Besides Winnie the Pooh, he wrote plays and novels. Soon after finding a wide audience for his children’s books, he tired of writing them. Bless him for continuing on in his own way.
Born in 1882, book written in 1939

Continue reading “Autobiography”

Into a Desert Place: A 3000 Mile Walk Around the Coast of Baja California

Thoroughly entertaining travelogue of a Brit’s walking journey around Baja. Miraculously, he alternated between dying of thirst and drinking alcohol heavily. Cheesed it up at the end by proclaiming he would drink no more as a New Years Resolution. I’m reading Erle Stanley Gardner’s account of wandering the wilderness next to see how much MacKintosh ripped off.

A House for Mr. Biswas

(I read this over a year ago, just wanted to add comments because I still remember part of this work)
Some stories fade quickly from my memory because they have nothing which lodges them in my mind. Mr. Biswas is an exception. Scenes that stick in my mind: him building his house, sheltering from the huge rains, moving his family in away from the crowded extended family house. Working in the newspaper, helping his son study to be accepted as an engineer. His column “Deserving Destitutes” in the Trinidad newspaper. Making sure his son drank milk, which was a luxury.

Continue reading “A House for Mr. Biswas”