Flobits

I don't celebrate Halloween, never have and, perhaps, never will, save for the years when Colin will come home from school with a pumpkin on his head and a plastic spider in his pocket, with the sole purpose of the fake beast to give mom a genuine fright and with a great hope that she'll not turn the pumpkin into anything edible. In fact, I don't know what Halloween celebrates exactly, I don't even bother to look it up. We never had it like this in Romania, but still there's something going on around this time that involves occult celebrations and evocation of the dead and, the more I think about it, the more I see a common denominator for customs and habits that stretch through different cultures. To start with, either on the last day of October or the first of November, the Romanians celebrate the dead. At least the people in Transilvania do that. How they decide whether it's October or November is still a mystery to me and it depends randomly on the villa...

Do you remember the good old times when the market was teeming with counterfeit products that looked the same and sometimes also functioned the same as the original ones? When you could get some "original" Abibas trainers or a Panasoanic cassette player (yes, it was a time when the music came on cassettes that could be rewound with a pencil, but that's another story).  I personally remember having got a coffee grinder, Mounilex, and not being able to tell the fake, not even when reading the name. For weeks I kept reading Moulinex on it. And it was so easy to have it wrong: the same kind-of-hand-written font, the original brand in my head and, not least, the quality of the ground coffee. Truth be told, I wasn't any less happy when I found out the counterfeit, for two big and fat reasons: first, it ground the coffee properly without problems and second, I didn't know any better, I'd never had a genuine Moulinex grinder to compare mine against.  Happiness unalter...

We went to the Keukenhof exhibition yesterday, one day after the official opening. What an inspired choice! The weather was excellent (sunny and around 20 degrees), not crowded at all, and Colin had the adventure of his life. I will not get into details about what Keukenhof means, you can find it all here . I just hope that God doesn't plan to redecorate the Garden of Eden too often, for he'll surely call for the Keukenhof's artists. In short, it's a must for everyone, at least once in a lifetime we ought to see the beauty in its entire splendour.

I am Colinus Maximus Smilyus, commander of whomever comes within my reach. Gorgeous son to a mother, fantastic son to a father, fabulous brother to a sister, and I will have my word on this blog or another.  And as I said, hear my words, for I have some news for you. Good news and extremely good news. Followed by actions. The good news is that I see a clear tendency in having the retirement age set to 70 and beyond. This is fantastic, I wish I could vote and express my gratitude to this government. What could be better for the people of my generation than to be released from the pressure of supporting the elders? Excellent move, chapeau.

Some years ago, I realised that life was getting harder and harder and it didn't seem that a career in engineering would make it considerably softer. I had plans to get some cash boost by winning the lottery, but there was  some uncertainty in that, to say the very least. Then a thought crossed my mind, struck like a match and lit up my entire inner cupola. What if I became a professional sportsman? That ought to do it. Let's look at football, for example. Allow me a little digression here, for my friends over the pond. Football, like US themselves, was invented in England. So I prefer to use the original word for the simple game played 11 by 11 and in which the Germans always win. Soccer will be left out for the moment. Digression closed. So, if we look at football, most players have a far richer life than an engineer. I am not talking here about people who wins golden boots and European cups. I am talking about footballers who play on the 3rd division, or even 4th, on the v...

"Colin, no! Stop, don't do that". " Hm, dad again, he'll calm down, let me pretend I didn't hear him." "Colin David, I told you to stop, right?" "Oops, he's using my biblical name, I'd better not go any further" .

We're back in Holland after a very enjoyable weekend in the land of Goethe. Goethe himself had absolutely nothing to do with the quality of our staying, but our dear friends surely had. They made everything humanly possible for the three of us to feel at home. And they had to put up a lot with, cause we are very troublesome guests, extremely posh when it comes to culture, as I already explained before . But no matter how hard we tried to be annoying and to catch them out, all our attempts proved to be to no avail, as they got over that in the most elegant manner. A big kiss and many thanks for that! Surely, there is a drawback for such great hospitality, namely the five-kilo-surplus we had to carry back home, but these are details.

I do feel bound to write a few words of redemption after the numerous reactions I got after the Stolen Beer   confession story. They all ranged from the bonhomous  yet patronising "Yeas, sure, it happens to all of us"  to "Hey, we're coming over to have a beer, it's for free anyway". Friends, it's been a misunderstanding, I am not the villain in this story and in reality I am a very nice and considerate guy who repents after such fortuitous actions. I do care for the well being of the supermarkets, the bigger they are the more shit I DO give. And I would come back to turn me in without any restriction, but I've heard some horror stories about that. And when it comes to such stories, it's time I introduced someone in this picture: my mother in law. Don't jump to conclusions, she's far from being horrid, she's a very lovely person, but you wouldn't believe what she had to put up with. It all happened in a super/hyper/mega-market. ...

You won't believe what happened this year at one of the carnival parades. I've told you already about the carnival feast and so, now it's time for a bone-chilling tale. We live in the largest city of Holland ...that doesn't have a train station. Maybe to compensate for it, or maybe for the forty-odd thousand inhabitants, we have our own local parade during the carnival. And this year we decided to attend it. The weather was bitchy as hell, alternating from some short sunny moments to rain that turned to hail and sleet, but we didn't care, cause we wanted the little one to see the affluence of silliness in its prime. We didn't wear any costume this time, we preferred to be watchers only, but let me be clear on this, as it seems confusing. By "no costumes" I meant no parrot-like carnival outfit. We DID have clothes on, though. Which made me congratulate myself when I saw a few shivering girls wearing short pants or skimpy skirts and no stockings or ...

These days we're celebrating the carnival here, then we'll plunge into the abyss of the Easter Lent. As one of the etymologies suggests, the carnival name is derived from carne vale, which means "farewell to meat", so the whole idea behind it is that we're going now to eat and drink like fat pigs, then silence. For forty days we will engage in a battle with ourselves that involves penance, self discipline, minimal existence, in short - a stoical abstinence. Or we'll be doing nothing of the kind, but use this occasion to get dressed in silly clothes and get wasted but now in a justified manner. I remember my first carnival in Holland. I was very curious back then what the carnival meant and what we'd do to celebrate it.  I was told that a costume was customary but not compulsory. So I decided in a moment that I looked goofy enough so no effort should be spent on making that worse. Anyway, I made four knots on an handkerchief and placed it on my head and i...

Bonjour, l'amour! Today is the day! (I'm in rhymes) Let's celebrate the romantic love in its purest form, let's see how the immaculate thrill of love sends us a wondrous incandescent ray from the light created in the very first day, let us let our hearts sing together in a common symphony of sweet passion. And let us eat tons of chocolate allegedly shaped as our hearts and let us give/receive millions of bouquets of flowers, every single one featuring the immortal plastic heart, which will last far longer than we do. So it shall be written, so it shall be done! Of course, you may choose to play the black sheep and do this every day, so there will be no celebration day for you, it will be just a day. And even more, you might want to do this your way, no plastic heart in the flowers, no dubious pralines with only value their shape, but a tender smile in the morning, a hearty embrace in the afternoon, and a sweet kiss in the night - the one that makes you both relive t...

     "Holy Mother of God, this woman is driving me crazy, she is indeed! I don't know what else to do, I've tried everything! But she keeps playing with me and my heart. I've even started to neglect the Principality's duties! Ludwig! What am I doing wrong?"      This was one of those evenings when the prince had yet another love attack. And like any other occasions he needed to talk to Ludwig, who'd been his advisor for many a year.      "Don't know, sir, you've done a lot so far", mumbled Ludwig, trying to sound convincing.      "Look, am I the King of Liechtenstein or not?"      "You are sir, you are the Prince".      "Tomayto, tomahto, Ludwig, you're not being helpful with these subtle remarks."      "Sorry, sir, I only meant ..."

The first thing that people who come to Holland find out is that the prostitution and light drugs are legal. If the discussion evolves one might find different subtle hues of the "legal" part of these activities. All right, if you indulge yourself in an act of sweet dissipation with a woman you get to pick from the window, you might get a receipt for the money you paid and sometimes you might even deduct the VAT. On the other hand, this job cannot be included in the official list of jobs, for at least one reason: if a woman is out of job and she applied for something, and THAT job is available, she'll have to take it. No need for further explanation, maybe a future debate will follow about this :). Then you get to learn some other things. For instance, you learn that bikes are public property, the lock is just a challenge :). So when you see bikes that are worth less than the lock (no joke at all here) do not get surprised. If you come here in the summer, you still have...

"I feel like the king of Liechtenstein" . I don't recall who coined this phrase for the first time, I wished it was me but it wasn't. It came up at work, a fertile soil to have your frustrations validated to a high degree. It must have been one of those cases when you work your ass off and you get the job done well and everybody appreciates you, boss included, and the next day the project is cancelled. ... And the castle's crumbled and you're left with just a name I found that hilarious at the time. I even imagined other scenarios in which you'd be "the king of Liechtenstein", like trying to get closer to a woman who's been roaming your night and day dreams. And then she agrees to go out with you and she's telling you how much she likes you and she'd like to be with you. You're the king! But "you know, I have a boyfriend and I want to give our relationship a second chance". ... of Liechtenstein.

I am Colin McClown from the clan McClown. I was born three hundred and sixty five days ago in the Low Lands of Holland. I am the merriest of the merry. And I am immortal! Let me tell you something about my name. The last one I got to choose, and as I smile like a Cheshire cat all day long, I chose McClown. To be in tune with my parents' choice as well. They picked a Scottish one for me, Colin. Truth be told, I do not understand why they had to borrow one, as they had plenty of names to choose from, either Dutch or Romanian. Sjoerd, Joep, or Tjitte would have been appropriate Dutch names. As for the Romanian ones, Gheorghiță or Lucențiu would have done the job pretty well. Just kidding, if you don't speak either of the languages don't try to pronounce them at home, you'll break your tongue. I had a series of parties to celebrate my birthday but the one at home was the best of all, following the Romanian habits, literally translated to "the cut of the tuft"...

Yesterday I opened the Pandora box with some  memories of my youth . The memories are actually about the worst bread I've ever eaten, military service period included in "ever". Now, I'm not going to do the "during the war" routine on you, but in the end the only benefit from doing your time in the army is to annoy your friends and trying to bore them to death by telling them very juicy barracks stories. This is what your friends want, and nothing more. Anyway, during the war,  the life you experience in the army is nothing compared to what you're used to. You do not belong to yourself there, you belong to the institution, then to the country, and in the end to the CAUSE, whatever that is. Imagine you hear such a crappy speech almost every single day from someone who's just finished half a liter bottle of vodka and you're not even close to smell the tediousness to follow.

Not that I am nostalgic or so, but these days I remembered some events that happened many many years ago, when I came to Holland. To me, that was a great change and I don't mean the new language or the new career, I mean the complete change of life. Although I was married and had a child at the time, that was actually the moment I felt that I left my mother's nest for ever. It was in fact the time when I had to live alone. Effectively living alone I mean, having to do ironing myself! But as always, mother nature fixes things up in the right way. She introduced me to some other mothers. The first one was the necessity, the mother of inventions.

'Twas the seventh year in a row, seventh year without a decent crop. The disease showed no mercy again. For the seventh time. It was in the autumn of 1852, the west coast of Ireland. People reached the edge of their patience, many of them had already set sail overseas. Those who chose to stay were facing one of the worst periods of that century: the famine. The crop that all relied upon, the potatoes, went bad again and the disease struck fiercely. The blight was everywhere. The stench of rotten potatoes could give very precise hints to everyone who'd pass along a potato field, even if outside was pitch black.

Happy New Year! Today was my first day at work in the new year. What a wonderful and remarkable day it was, you will not believe it. The first signs showed up very early in the morning when I took the bike and I had wind from my back. "That's odd", thought I, "Murphy must be sleeping". At the office, I rubbed my eyes in utter disbelief, just to make sure I was not dreaming. The weeks I'd been away were used to the full and the offices were redecorated. Some desks were taken out and, I swear I'm not kidding, they managed to rearrange them so that everybody would get a nice view from their spot. Again, I never thought that such a design was even possible!

I like to read newspapers, all kinds, as long as they are sports related. And it's so fine to do that online. The best part of the online reading is that you can simultaneously be on Facebook or chat with your friends at the same time. Imagine yourself some few years ago writing a letter while holding the newspaper! It would have been a bitch of a pen switch (no rhyme intended). Anyway, until recently, a few small drawbacks still existed with the online news. You couldn't just sit at the table having a nice breakfast or sipping your coffee and read the morning news like in the good old days. And all this to your wife's delight! You just couldn't. If you had a desktop, case closed. With a laptop, well, a bit easier but not very neat - it takes half of the table, the battery runs flat just when you read the best gossip, the screen is of course darker (battery saving scheme, as if it ever worked), l o t s  o f  p r o b l e m s. Then came Messiah, the saviour of all peo...