I have a memory of driving down Hemlock Street on my way downtown and seeing a small cafe claiming to be wicked and to have great waffles. Even more intriguing to me than its odd location - just a block away from somewhere yet decidedly nowhere - was that combination of wickedness and waffle. That's not a combination you see every day.
Well, unless you drive along Hemlock every day.
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| The Wicked Cafe |
I despise the sort of breathless, self-righteous emails that get forwarded around the ethernets just slightly more than I hate penis-enlargement SPAM1. They're terribly written and seldom have even a nugget of truth in them. The few times they hold a bit of truth, it's so surrounded by bullshit that it hardly matters.
Here's a case in point.
It's commonly said that things get lost in translation. I think that the opposite is also true, that new meanings emerge.
Cocker - I - I heard there's your problem with the sauce in
a hospital that got unplugged from the growth of hair in the ears.
I Bless you Mr. Shin
Yan dying old man - I like that (laughs).
Is this how it feels to be an anthropologist? To find meaning in a jumble of words in the dead language of a dead culture? Teasing out real ideas from what looks to be lunacy? There was probably a coherent train of thought in the original. What was it? Is it possible to know from what we have?
There's a problem with the sauce, indeed.
