#eagle hobo chat

[eaglehobo]

#PartnerPenn to #WellingtontheLawyer “Oh Wellington! You are an expert on all things Cuisine de Nipponese are you not? Come over here. This article will interest you”

He read it

“The Viking Sushi

Listening to a podcast featuring James Delingpole and Toby Young, the unlikely story of the Viking Sushi of Iceland was told and heard. And what a remarkably absurd combination this thing is. Thing might be too strong a word. It is a “product", and one designed for know no better tourists, that has to possess some of the most half-baked (if not entirely raw) branding ever encountered outside of the "American Burgers!" thing that the Japanese sometimes do, making something like an American burger, but always not quite.

You don’t want to read this if you are someone known as a weaboo who is a person prepared to bend reality for a higher, dreamier world. But it might be time to say it. Put simply there is nothing complex at all about sushi in any of its forms, despite the kabuki like rituals and all deference for them displayed for the bleary eyed "gaijins" to swallow up on their tour of the far east.

"Look, it's raw fish on a small plate that goes around in circles, and it's even open until midnight, and these Orientals do speak English so well", except they usually don't. Similarly, there is little complexity to the ancient "Viking" art of taking fish from the sea when needing it, and eating it, whether raw or cooked, or whether with a pot of stewed root vegetables and beans or oats, or without, little difficulty indeed when compared to what Europeans were doing elsewhere, and what Scandinavians themselves were doing with other foods at the time on higher and dryer shores away from the immediate urgencies of their long (or short) ocean voyages. The fare of the Viking "Grautar-Halli" was complex indeed, and growing wheat and barley was an art in and of itself.

So to read of Viking Sushi is horrifying at least to those who might know better and who have actually left their bedroom sometime in the past few years. To equate the Japanese and their "complex cuisine" of fish on a piece of soured rice, with that of even the smallest bakery or bistro in the remote reaches of Europe is to compare the Japanese trains of the early 19th century with the European “Snake” and *Viper” British locomotives - the Japanese simply didn't have anything like trains at all, unless you count a wooden cart with steel straps some kind of "train" and in its defence it does look like an oversized Rick-Shaw. Well they didn’t have any until much later when they stole this marvelous invention from Europe, along with printing presses, modern gunpowder and weaponry, shipbuilding, postal services as we known them, and electricity, the radio, satellite communications, the telephone, the light bulb, modern medicine, aircraft, motors and vehicles, modern steel technology (which didn't need to be folded 10,000 times because it was, well, already quite good) and just about everything else - the list would take some years to read out. And it continues to grow: it's a sorry practice of wholesale theft and "borrowing with a polite bow" that continues to this day. To compare any French, English, German, Austrian, Russian or other complex cuisine - even Danish or Swedish - to that of the Japanese whether a soup, a piece of fish, or the very very complex "gyoza" with a dash of "wasabi", would to rid the Japanese themselves of any dignity - "bish bash bosh put a bit of fish on the rice - and very nice photos in magazines innit!"

After all, when visiting Tokyo, or living there, their French and Italian and British restaurants are considered to be at the height of their eating culture, attended well by local businessmen and "wannabe CEOs", and they would be begging on their knees were these institutions to depart their slightly presently overheated shores (although they don't often even appreciate some of the best and more complex dishes, such as the Salon Beuschel, a hearty Italian Ragout, or Profiterole, Eclair, Millefeuille, Souffle -- even the grand Beef Wellington itself). Before entering such an establishment, and sometime after getting of the plane, you might wish to ensure to bring your dosimeter (another European invention they borrowed) because of yet another technology these nice people couldn't quite use properly, or foresee the apparent dangers of as it seems. “Take another look will you! It's a set of volcanic and tectonically active islands you noddies!” was the cry of 2011. Of course, mentioning that such a possibility of contamination exists is itself something considered haram - open and honest conversation is one technology they have decided not to pilfer from the wandering round-eyes, even if they do like to wear our style of clothes (especially favoring the three piece suit with vest) and thereby hope to pretend to be "western" even if only in some small manner.

So, in summary “Viking Sushi” smushi" Just call it what it is - "Viking style fish. And, raise a glass of Moet or any one of the Rhenish wines while appreciating what we already have. Forget the cries "But but I added the word sushi because I am so international, aren't I?" - the Vikings invented such a thing on the way to Greenland and Sicily and thought naught of it - when the Japanese were still losing their boats in the Yellow Sea to a 2-point squall. They had no need to promote it to being their existential cultural focus. Or otherwise, be ready to live in a world beset with "Oh-golly-gosh, look! A 'European train'! I cannot believe it ! Oh my! It's like the Europeans actually invented it themselves without the assistance of the head-choppers eating raw fish on the other side of the world!" Frankly speaking, I shall be content in good company with a long glass of Bolly to wash down the Capozzelli di Agnello.”

What say you Wellington? Wait a second. You say you haven’t spent fourteen years studying it so you don’t even know sushi? But you’ve been to Japan three times have you not? Oh you only went to Cairns? My goodness. Philistines. Philistines everywhere.”

[ridingthatbike]

Do every stupid thing that makes you feel alive

Let people call you crazy for the choices that you make Climb limits past the limits Jump in front of trains all day And stay alive (from  "Amy A.K.A. Spent Gladiator 1" by the Mountain Goats)

Riding the Idaho Hot Springs Mountain Bike Route

My photo set is here. Q’s photo set is here. Q’s writeup is here. Route info is here.

1.  Altitude, full sun, no clouds, no shade, burn zones, holy shit I am turning to dust, I’m a human raisin, I need sunglasses.  We bought three tubes of sunblock. The dust makes my mouth taste bad and the only thing I want to eat is sour patch kids to obliterate the taste so by the end of the trip I’m starting to get acid sores in my mouth. This doesn't happen at home. In a span of two hours, we see a small rattlesnake in the shade in the canyon, and watch two bald eagles fly above the river and land in a tree. This also does not happen at home, and I’m so grateful that Dan taught me how to spot eagles when we were backpacking this spring.

2.  On a long hot dusty sandy steep slog up our third climb of the day, pushing our bikes in the sun, a pickup truck pulls over. They offer but really actually insist on giving us a ride over the mountain. They give us cold drinks, and the fella hands me a chunk of ice and points to Q, saying “now I don’t know him so you’ll have to do this: you put that ice right on his neck.” Their dog licks the sweat from my knees as they tell us stories of their Idaho lives, and before sending us on our way, they hug us and point us toward the ice cream shop.

3. One of the things I wanted to learn to get comfortable with on this trip was having less access to water. But record snowfall in Idaho this winter meant epic snowmelt, and the rivers and creeks were raging. There was water everywhere. It was thrilling and kind of scary. And in a way, disappointing. But just a little time passes, it gets hot, we take a few days off route, and suddenly there is way less water available. I start feeling anxious. It’s a hundred degrees! What will we do if we run out? We can’t run out! I calm a bit when I realize that this is exactly what I wanted, that this is what I want to practice getting comfortable with. The route is still largely along creeks and rivers, so I know that I can get water, even if it involves a shitty long scramble. I am pleased that we turn out to be reassuringly good at monitoring how much we have and where to get more.

4. A thunderstorm rolls in, and we wait it out on the porch of a saloon. A local tells us that the road to the summit we were planning to climb the next day has washed out. He painstakingly maps out a dirt road detour before the storm knocks out the power, and we sit, waiting, watching the sky, deliberating, contemplating the maps and the miles, and eventually I ask the other folks on the porch if anybody has a pickup truck and some free time tomorrow. I’ll buy you breakfast and a tank of gas in exchange for a ride to Ketchum. I strike a deal, and we hobo-camp by the river that night, wondering if our agreement will be forgotten in the harsh sober light of day.

5. We get some really helpful route info from the bike shop: so far this year, nobody’s been on the section of trail we want to ride, and the main intersection of trails still has six feet of snow. Ok. We’ll take pavement up to the top of Galena. Our tallest summit on this trip, 8700 feet, and it feels like total redemption -- the climb is amazing and smooth, we feel strong, everything feels amazing and possible. We climb like champs, gleeful and proud and punchy in gusting winds. Maybe altitude makes us wacky, I don’t know, or maybe we like being reminded that we are capable. The overlook is glorious, and though we are pretty sure the dirt track back down off the mountain would be clear, I am so excited for a fast smooth paved descent that Q acquiesces and we blaze down the highway, getting pushed around by the wind and chilled from the speed, hearts pounding, eyes watering. 

6. Maggie and Rajal join us to look at books of wildflowers, helping us identify what we’ve seen so far. We start talking about birds too, and they mention seeing a western tanager. We look at photos and I get distracted by learning to identify thrush songs. A few days later, after accidentally barreling past the turnoff to a planned stopping point, we find a perfect dirt road with a perfect swimming hole and two perfect shaded sitting rocks in Silver Creek. We dunk our heads in the water, filter some ice cold water to drink, and sit quietly at the edge of the creek, cooling down and listening to the churn of the water. Q points to a branch on the other side of the creek. Hello, western tanager, we have only just learned your name!

7. We bomb down the wildest dirt road I’ve ever met - washboards and washout ruts across the track, deep channels in the same direction as the road, big humps like a pump track, tightly switchbacked, deep gravel and sand in places, and I LOVE IT. Grinning like an idiot, just utterly thrilled. Just a few years ago, I would have been out and out terrified of riding stuff like this. Part of it of course is having the right kind of equipment for the conditions, but a lot of it is just practice and experience and also learning to read the terrain, a skill I really worked on this spring. It feels so good to be enjoying it and unafraid and riding well, after a spring of fear-limited riding. It’s so easy to forget where you started and how much you’ve learned and grown. I sing out loud, “don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got, I’m still I’m still jenny from the block. I used to have a little now i have a lot, but everywhere I go I know where I came from!”

8. Rolling out of camp early one morning, rippin’ down a dirt road all fired up and fresh, we see something in the road ahead and slow way down. Q says “ohhhhhhhhhh shit” as the shapes take form and we see long long mammal legs. But as the shapes come into focus, we see it’s a mama elk and four babies. FOUR! As I am busy being astounded by the sight of four elk calves, more elk come out of the woods and onto the road. And more. And more. A full herd of elk! Holy shit! Well, I guess we’ll just wait this out and watch for a while. But at the sound of our tires on gravel as we roll our bikes to a tree to lean them against, the herd scatters and disappears as if it never even existed. We wait another minute or two, and then I start singing at the top of my lungs as we ride down to the spot where they’d just been. The road surface is entirely covered, edge to edge, with clear impressions of big and little tracks.

9. I wake up to a rustling sound that I thought was maybe the wind. I look over to Q’s side of the tent and WHOA, there’s an animal right by his head! Something has crawled under the rainfly and is curiously pawing at a bag. I wake Q up with my sleepy efforts to shoo it away, basically just shouting at it and patting the side of the tent. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! exclaims Q, as we realize the critter is a skunk. “DON’T SCARE IT!” Eventually, through some combination of our noises and movements, the skunk saunters away: not the retreat of a scared animal, but the bored sashay of someone who’s got something better to do in the weeds anyway.

10. A blazing hot day, after we’d ridden most of the day’s miles and stopped to swim in a lake, we cranked out ten or twelve miles on a dirt road so washboarded that I felt like it was going to rattle the teeth right out of my mouth. It was so dusty, and I was so hot. I was too spent to enjoy the ride. I was feeling a little sorry for myself and started singing “if i get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight.” Q seemed to be doing fine, and it was so hard for me and I didn’t even know why. That evening, as we set up camp and started prepping dinner, I realized I forgot to pack the fucking vegetables and burst into tears. This is no big deal! What the fuck! Why am I crying? We put it together later. Carrying the Camelbak just makes everything so much harder when it’s hot out. You don’t realize you’re overheated, and everything is a struggle. The times each of us struggled most were the times we were wearing the pack. Q calls it the Crybaby Bag and I laugh.

 11. Our first choice campsite was closed due to a bridge out with a ten-foot drop, and our backup option was fully booked for a wedding. Contemplated stealth camping, and even stopped to chat with a local family at their swimmin’ hole on the river to inquire (they directed me to a cave on the side of the highway where the kids party on the weekends) but the closer to town you get, the more exposed the terrain is and the more private land there is -- and everyone in Idaho has a gun and I just didn’t wanna mess up. We decided to road dog it all the way back to Boise, around 80 miles total on a 100 degree day. So onward, onward, onward, past all the trucks with boats, past the reservoir, past a lookout where a family stopped to take in the view and said “wow, how long did that last climb take you?” and we sort of blinked like, that was no climb! We just spent 500 miles on dirt roads in the mountains, this was just sort of like floating! That was the moment I realized that we were leaving Idaho tougher than when we arrived. We climbed the last summit, pushing hard to get to the top before the little store at the top closed, downed tall boys of sweet tea, and asked about pitching a tent behind the shop. Nope, not allowed. Ok, we’re really doing this. We roll fast down the paved descent toward town, on the highway’s narrow shoulder, in between fast traffic and a rock wall with a jersey barrier to keep falling rocks off of the roadway. And shit, that’s a fucking rattlesnake. Holy shit holy shit oh thank god it’s dead. I say a tiny thank you to the dead rattler. I’m sorry you’re dead but THANK YOU FOR BEING DEAD so I don’t have to choose between the dangers of a live rattler and a road full of pickups with trailers racing by. I think of it as one last gift from Idaho to me directly. Suddenly and incredibly, we are on the greenbelt that goes right into town, close enough to have cell signal finally, and we get in touch with our pal in town and confirm that we can crash at her place for the night. The sun erupted into the most glorious sunset I’ve ever seen, unfolding before us, and the temperature dropped at least ten degrees as we rode along the river, and a huge clear nearly-full moon appeared, and I felt jubilant, couldn’t stop laughing. I felt amazed by the bounty of beauty in the world made accessible to me by luck and effort, just triumphant and strong and capable and grateful and astonished by what our bodies and minds are capable of, what an incredible thing it is to have this opportunity to learn and grow and become stronger and smarter and more connected and more open hearted. Bursting at the seams of my being, filled to the brim with joy. Idaho really pulled out all the stops for us, like it was giving everything it had, to make us fall in love.

[jasonborne24]

Mayor Sly Connected Attorneys Chat With Hobos At The Kansas City Public Library

Drumming up biz is always a degrading task and so these local legal eagles touting their work on contingency and building their client list from the very bottom deserve at bit of credit for their hustle. Checkit: Kansas City Public Library hosts 'Coffee and Conversations' for homeless

[eaglehobo]

#lawclerk #QldUT #student #SmokeballChief “Oh Hobo. Great Hobo of #EagleStreet Stairwell We send you message from #Gardens and we send smoke signal and message by #SPERRY Boat-Shoes Telegraph. And we send you envoys, of fair haired ex-private schoolboys in our LLB programs, to woo your partners’ secretaries with their blue eye shadow and princess bands. How can we overcome the #NQ salary freezes? The #NQ of #EagleStreet #toptier firms seek to match the $160,000 USD of our counterparts in the Great Metropolis of North America”. I wake from my slumber, and sit up in my new hand made down futon from the #Hokuto Alps, in my new #Bogner #FIRE+ICE parka (hood up, to keep the gelid stairwell breezes away from my feathers). I say this: “Look not to the paper money as a reward for your work. The creative you do with each character of each word on each page of each correspondence, and the blessings of each client, each registry officer, each opponent, face upturned to the sun, as they read it, is the reward. Ask yourself this: is the money the means or the end? The means or the end?” #smokeballchief #eaglehobowisdom

[eaglehobo]

EagleHobo.GQ law links law lists for every Australian lawyer

[eaglehobo]

#PartnerClinch at the Law Firm drinks with #EagleHobo

[eaglehobo]

Katy Balls Time is always a good time for our firm partners and counsel.

[eaglehobo]

“That Happened!”

[eaglehobo]

CONEY BONBON the Lawyer

#LeeahtheLawyer asks: “Are you Belgian?”

[eaglehobo]

#qldlaw #auslaw #ChristmasonEagleStreet

[eaglehobo]

#messengersofbrisbane #barristerkathryn #auslaw #qldlaw #ladybarristerfriday “Giant Gouldian Finches with Dunce Hats makes Brisbane even Better! That’s a fact!”

[eaglehobo]

#PELL ruling #Reaction from #BennytheLawyer #qldlaw #auslaw

“HUUUUH?”

[eaglehobo]

Xmas Time on Eagle Street with #PartnerPenn and #BennytheLawyer “What’s better than looking out to our big skyscrapers in Brisbane?” says mid tier prestige partner and barrister Partner Penn “This is your home now “

[eaglehobo]

#FourthofJuly with #eaglehobo

[eaglehobo]

Eagle Hobo Chat - Why are young people in Brisbane refusing to drive?

Eagle Hobo ponders:

Why are so many young people in Brisbane not taking up car ownership, or even getting their driving license?

1. They don't have the money. If you are 25 and live in the same bedroom at home you did when you were 10 years old,, then you may not have the money to drive. On the other hand, such living arrangements would free up income to drive. Except you have no income. You just graduated and your degree is useful as wallpaper, or so they say.

2. When your parents took the test, anyone could have passed it. Today it's much harder. With all of those difficult assignments and tests at high school and uni, who wants to sit another one?

3. (The most obvious reason) Radar and strict enforcement today means that kids have grown up knowing their parents grumble about huge fines for minor infractions. They simply don't want to engage in an activity that's so heavily regulated.

Those of you traffic law guys around town shouldn't be too worried There'll be plenty of a infractions and plenty of customers. With more tunnels in Brisbane, and with the continuing paucity of anything that remotely resembles a public transit syste (50 + years since they ripped up the trams! Yay for Brisbane EVER FORWARD!) and an obvious policy to juice the car ownership and use you'll have plenty of work for decades to come. Probably.

Unless everyone decides to just hobo it. This is my stairwell, and this is my street. Take care on the roads out there, and remember to call your wife to tell her you're not dead - it's just another day in Brisbane's "traffic".

-EH

[eaglehobo]

#barristerklair “OOH JEFFREYS BACK ON CNN”!