where to store your meat

rotisserie meat

So I’ve tried writing about serious topics here, and gotten very little response. I’ve included a bit of whimsy, and that attracted some dialogue and then some.

To be fair, what’s one to say in response to not very anonymous? That Shakespeare didn’t really write the plays? Please. If you really believe that, you and I are already on opposing teams. Or more recently, I wrote about press freedom in something rotten in Hungary. What stirring commentary might that trigger? That you really like censorship? Actually, that might be an challenging point to attempt to make.

Lisa Galaviz has been doing some important yet unappreciated work when it comes to Quantum Weirdness. She knows how to forget her blog voice for a post or two and alienate her readers. I could learn a lot from her.

When it comes to my teablog, I have a voice that I’ve developed. I have a feeling for what I do well there. Here? Not so much. I know what I like to write. Some things have come pouring out of me onto the screen, while others were a bit more laboured. That part I have some say in. On the other hand, what resonates with others is completely beyond me.

But the things I’ve gotten the most mileage out of had to do with defecation. And dogs. Oh, and vomiting. Bringing those together might possibly be blogging gold for me. Well, I already wrote about the second and third in chocolate spewing forth. If I wanted to play it safe, I’d keep writing variations of that.

I was reading Amy Durant‘s blog earlier (you might know her as @lucysfootball) and she was going on and on about a stomach bug in I think it’s fairly likely I’m either dying or pregnant with a magic dream tractor baby. It reminded me of something that happened recently in France, and it includes at least one of my target topics. Maybe two if you’re generous.

Don’t particularly like eating chicken, but I was persuaded to have some of the rotisserie variety that’s pictured above. It was New Year’s Day, and few places were open. I made an exception. Just this once. And the result?

Was up half the night wishing that chicken had been cooked at just a bit higher temperature. Or that I hadn’t eaten it. Not too much to ask was it? Well, apparently it was. Who cares, right? Everyone gets ill at some point. And what’s the big deal about losing a bit of sleep?

I completely agree with all of that. Nonetheless, while walking through the streets the next day, here’s what I saw:

windscreen meat

In case it’s unclear what that is, that’s a hunk of meat on the front window of some Frenchman’s vehicle. At this point, I began to wonder about food storage in this beautiful country.

not very anonymous

even little Violet was disappointed by all of this

Haven’t ever seen a movie by Roland Emmerich.  Until today that is.  It’s actually something I was rather proud of. And even a bit smug.

How can you know you wouldn’t like it if you’d never seen one?  His sort of movie wasn’t my cup of tea (You knew I’d squeeze a little bit of tea in over here, didn’t you?).

So, I was browbeaten into actually going to see one.  And not just any movie, but his Anonymous.  A movie questioning the authorship of Shakespeare‘s plays.  Well, all of his works.  I have a lot of emotional baggage tied up in this.  Since I was a child, I’ve been fascinated with The Bard.

When we were encouraged to dress up as our favourite historical figure in grade school, I dug deep in my meagre savings and rented a Shakespeare costume.  Even including a fake bald pate with wisps of hair escaping in a mad fashion.

I did a very questionable job of researching The Globe Theatre and other important facts, but I certainly looked like the guy. Or how we think he looked.  As much as a nine-year old can look like a middle-aged Elizabethan.

As I say, I had a horse in this race.  I wasn’t walking lightly into this encounter.  Where would I turn for ammunition to defend me against the barrage of questionable historical claims?  Well, twitter of course.

I went to Dainty Ballerina, who has a *real world* name, but isn’t necessary here.  She directed me to Shakespeare Bites Back, and I’m grateful she did.  This was all the ammunition I needed.  I’m going to peruse this free download of an ebook, head off to the film and finish this post later.

time elapsed

Goodness.  What a ridiculous piece of movie making.  The comedy was often unintentional.  I’m not going to pick it apart.  Don’t want to spend a moment more of my life thinking about this.  There was one overly ridiculous scene, and I resolved upon watching it that it would be the one I shared here.

The clown playing William Shakespeare was revelling in the cheers of the audience.  In the next moment, he was crowd surfing over the patrons on the ground of the Globe Theatre.  It was out of place and offensive and if you give me a few more minutes, I’ll think of some other adjectives of ridicule.  That moment perfectly encapsulated the preposterous and depravity of this joke of a piece of revisionism.

And I’ll leave you with the best advice that’s included in the above-mentioned ebook:

However Shakespearians deal with this topic, we think that they should always express surprise when anyone starts even to suggest that Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon did not write Shakespeare.

And that’s what I’ve resolved to do.  If anyone asks, I’ll express the most convincing surprise.  Gladly.