#holland. i meant netherlands.

[wawek]

I never liked to travel and i dont have much drive to see new places, like the pictures are ok with me for the most part. But if i had a way to travel id do it for food. Like if i was a dnd character and i had to have a motivation to go adventuring itd be trying different foods... it blows my mind how many ingredients ill never get to try

[telomeke]

MOONLIGHT CHICKEN: UR THE... TOMATO SAUCE???

(above) Moonlight Chicken Ep.6 [4/4] 5.05

OK, so this post did a pretty pirouette and twirled its way back onto my dashboard once again after more than a month away. OP @vegasandhishedgehog had pointed out that the graphic text on Heart and Li Ming's t-shirts together seemed to be inexplicably telegraphing the cryptic message "Ur the... Tomato Sauce"... 🤔

This time around I couldn't help but look a bit more deeply into what it might mean, especially the intriguing "Tomato Sauce" on Li Ming's t-shirt. Based on what I've found, I think it is possible to read a bit of cheeky wordplay in the English words of this scene. 🤩 But first – a detour into linguistics and etymology is necessary.

There's a phenomenon that is sometimes seen in cross-cultural commerce – I don't know if it has a name, since I'm not trained in linguistics or anything of the sort – but whenever a hitherto unknown product or ingredient is introduced into a culture, locals will try to give it a name that resonates or sticks. And often that name will be along the lines of "this thing is the X country or foreign version of our more familiar local Y thing" (sorry for all the technical jargon here, hah! 😂).

You can see this in Southeast Asia: the Dutch may have been responsible for introducing many new food items to the Malay archipelago because a number of food items around the region are labeled "Dutch" even though they don't originate from the Netherlands.

The soursop fruit (originally from the tropical Americas and the Caribbean) is called durian belanda in Malay (meaning Dutch durian, because both fruits are spiky). In Malaysian Cantonese, potatoes are sometimes called ho laan syu (Holland tuber) and green beans ho laan dau (Holland beans), the latter echoing the way haricots verts are sometimes called French beans in English.

In Malay, turkeys are called ayam belanda (Dutch chicken), which nicely parallels the French word dinde – when turkeys were introduced to France, they were called (among other names) poulet d'Inde or chicken of India (possibly because India was seen as a source of exotic prized goods, or maybe because the birds, native to the Americas, were thought of as originating in the West Indies or les Indes occidentales). Poulet d'Inde eventually got shortened to just dinde though.

There's something similar going on with the tomato in Thailand. As its original homeland was the Americas, at some point in time it must have been a new and unnamed vegetable (botanically a fruit) when it first appeared in markets there.

So in Thai, tomatoes are called มะเขือเทศ (ma kheuua thaeht), and in keeping with the principle of adding some qualifier (that denotes external origins) to a local counterpart, the word เทศ (thaeht) means foreign or outlandish, while มะเขือ (ma kheuua) actually means EGGPLANT.

Thus the Thai word for tomato translates literally to foreign eggplant (or perhaps, outlandish eggplant).

For the text-savvy in this digital age (and that must surely include teens Heart and Li Ming), the eggplant emoji is laden with phallic innuendo (I'm not going into detail, but here's a visual 😂):

🍆

Remembering that in Thailand, Thai equivalents of weiner and wee-wee can sometimes be used as cutesy nicknames for boys (see this My School President write-up linked here, also Uncle Tong calling Junior กระจู๋ or gra juu in Bad Buddy Ep.11 [1I4] 10.38), it's possible to read the "Tomato" part of Li Ming's t-shirt – because of the outlandish eggplant reference – as a subjectively cute pet name along the same lines. Maybe the effect is meant to be something like: "You're a weird little weiner" (expressed with affection through Heart's loving eyes, mind you 💖).

Plus there's also the theme in Moonlight Chicken of young Li Ming growing into adulthood (despite Jim's constant efforts to infantilize him), while comfortably claiming his own sexuality in the process (and with Heart playing a pivotal role in this). Heart and Li Ming's t‑shirts pointing out the innuendo and imagery of the tomato/eggplant could also be a nod at that, with the outlandish definition of เทศ/thaeht suggesting that since Li Ming is gay, this eggplant/gra juu is not like most other ones (although he's not at all the exception in Moonlight Chicken! 😂).

Noting too that Li Ming is hyperfocused on escaping to the West, him being labeled Little Weiner of a Foreign Persuasion also does kind of fit. 😍

In this light, the word sauce just adds to the naughtiness of eggplant, while it also carries connotations of piquancy, sass and/or the essence or distillation of something.

And so the "Tomato Sauce" on Li Ming's t-shirt can possibly be read as symbolizing his indomitably feisty (gay) spirit, his faraway aspirations and his place in Heart's life as a cherished young boyfriend (worthy of a cutesy, if unspoken, pet name).

Am I over-analyzing again? Perhaps. But at the very least I think it's still a fun way of looking at Li Ming's t-shirt, and I wouldn't put it past Director Aof and screenwriter Best Kittisak Kongka to be playing with stuff like this. 🤩 They already did something similar with Li Ming's Sesame Street "Everything I Know I Learned On The Streets" t-shirt (see Ep.3 [4/4] 6.42), a metaphor for his uneasy juxtaposition at the amorphous line between childhood (represented by the kiddie vibes of Sesame Street) and incipient adulthood (as signaled by his streetwise self-confidence, gained independently perhaps from Jim). And there was also the wordplay around his "St. Rene" t-shirt (written up here).

Tagging @vegasandhishedgehog because you're the eagle-eyed OP who first noticed Heart and Li Ming's t-shirts, and as always @dribs-and-drabbles because you're foremost the one I think of whenever there's anything t-shirt related in BL! 😍

PS It's not the first time a vegetable was used as a metaphor for larger issues in Moonlight Chicken – see my write-up at the end of @airenyah's My School President Thai linguistics post that I reblogged here, for more info on Jim's winter melons in the market (although he was being decidedly less playful there! 😍). Li Ming also steals the scene away from Jim and his produce, once again displaying more adult maturity than his loong will give him credit for. 💖

‌

[script-a-world]

Submitted via Google Form:

What might I need to take into account when I have multiple very large swaths of land being reclaimed? I'm talking large-scale projects, it would be comparable to having the waters between Great Britain and Ireland being reclaimed.

Licorice: If you want to learn about how to reclaim land from the sea, nobody knows more than the Dutch. Sources concur that around 17% of the Netherlands has been reclaimed from the sea, and according to wikipedia, which has an article dedicated to Dutch land reclamation, a quarter of the country would be under water if not for their continued maintenance of dykes, canals, and the the rest of the system. The Dutch have been reclaiming land from the sea since the Middle Ages, so they make a fascinating case history of what can be done as technology evolves - and also, of course, how need drives technological innovation, since necessity is the mother of invention. 

Here’s a short article from the Royal Society of Chartered Surveyors on some recent reclamation projects. You can find out more by researching the ones that are closest to the kind of project you envisage for your world.

https://ww3.rics.org/uk/en/modus/natural-environment/land/out-of-the-deep--7-massive-land-reclamation-projects--.html#:~:text=Land%20reclamation%20has%20been%20happening,from%20the%20sea%20or%20lakes.

One thing you’ll need to consider is what the land is going to be used for. Preparing reclaimed land for agriculture takes longer, I think, than reclaiming land for high-density human occupation. If it’s reclaimed from the sea there will be a degree of saltiness that needs to be removed before standard food crops can be grown.

The Aztec city of Tenochtitlan might also be an interesting study for you. If I recall correctly, Tenochtitlan was a massive floating city made of artificial islands, rather than reclaimed land per se, and the water was fresh rather than salt, so a different situation from that of Holland. 

Tex: So the Irish Sea, which sits between England and Ireland, has a width of 200 km, surface area of approximately 46,000 square km, a depth between 80 and 275 meters, and a water volume of 2,800 cubic km (Wikipedia). There’s other bodies of water technically between the two islands, but this one is eponymous and holding to the classical definition of a sea, so I figure it’s the best example to have on hand. Where is that much water going? Where are you getting that much dirt? Is this going to adequately match up to the soil and rock compositional layers of the islands bordering it? Will this be, relevantly, earthquake-proof (i.e. will the dirt stay where you put it)? What organisms are being deprived of their environment by these changes? How will this change water movement overall, and will it negatively impact the islands’ shape and their inhabitants’ well-being by unexpected rearranging of waterways? What about the economy? This is a major change in trade routes, and a lot of money presumably being sunk (ha) into changing topography. What prompted this? Is this the best solution for the given problem? Was there a problem in the first place that even needed solving, much less to this degree of influence? What do the local populations think of this? How will this affect the climate and ecology of surrounding areas (say, France)?

Wootzel: We were a bit confused about what you meant when you first sent in this question, so if the above answers aren’t what you’re looking for, please feel free to re-ask and clarify!

[samama--khalid]

[Click]St-st-tatement of Joshua Gillespie, regarding his time in possession of an apparently empty wooden casket. Original statement given November 22nd, 1998. Audio recording by [Static]

Statement begins.

It started when I was in Amsterdam for a holiday with a few of my friends. Everything you’re thinking right now, you’re right. We were all early twenties, just graduated and decided to spend a couple of weeks going crazy on the continent, so you can almost certainly fill in all the blanks yourself. There were very few points where I’d say that I was entirely sober and even fewer where I acted like it, though I wasn’t quite as bad as some of my friends who had a hard time handling themselves at times.

This may have been why I headed out alone that morning – no idea of the exact date but it was sometime in mid-May. The others were sleeping off their assorted hangovers and I decided to head out into the beautiful sunshine of that Netherlands morning and take a walk. Before graduating from Cardiff with the others, I had been studying Architecture, so was looking forward to spending a few hours by myself to wander, and really take in the buildings of central Amsterdam. I was not disappointed – it’s a beautiful city, but I realised too late that I hadn’t taken any map or guidebook with me, and an hour or two later I was thoroughly lost.

I wasn’t particularly worried, as it was still mid-afternoon at this point, and getting lost in the backstreets had kind of been what I was trying to do, but I still decided I’d better make an actual effort to find my way back to where my friends and I were staying off Elandsstraat. I managed it eventually, but my inability to speak Dutch meant I spent a good hour riding the wrong way on the various trams.

By the time I got back to Elandsstraat it was starting to get dark and I was feeling quite stressed, so I decided to pop into one of the cafés to relax before joining up with my friends. I couldn’t say for sure exactly how long I was in there, but I do know it had gotten fully dark by the time I noticed I wasn’t sat at my table alone.

I’ve tried to describe the man who now sat opposite me many times, but it’s difficult. He was short, very short, and felt like he had an odd density to him. His hair was brownish, I think, cut quite short, and he was clean shaven. His face and dress was utterly unremarkable, and the more I try to think of exactly what he looked like, the harder it is to picture him clearly. To be honest, though, I’m inclined to blame that on the drugs.

The man introduced himself as John, and asked how I was. I replied as best I could, and he nodded, saying he also was an Englishman inside a foreign land. I remember he used that exact phrase because it struck me at the time as very odd. He said he was from Liverpool, though I don’t recall him having any sort of accent, and that he was looking for a friend who he could rely on for a favour.

Now, high as I was, I got suspicious as soon as he said that last part and I started to shake my head. John said it was nothing too onerous, just looking after a package for him until he had some friends pick it up, and that he would pay well. I thought he was talking about smuggling, and was about to refuse again when he reached into his… jacket, I think? and pulled out an envelope. Inside was £10,000. I know; I counted it. I knew it was a stupid move but I kept remembering my friend Richard telling me how easy it had been to get a pound of hash through customs on his first trip to Holland, and holding that much cash in my hands…

I said yes. John smiled, thanked me, and said that he would be in touch. He left the coffee shop and I immediately started panicking about what I had agreed to. I wanted to chase after him and return the money, but something weighed me down, kept me locked into my seat. I just sat there for a long time.

I don’t remember much about the next few days except worrying about when I’d see John again. I was careful not to spend any of the money he’d given me, and had decided to return it as soon as he turned up. I’d say I had made a mistake and couldn’t take his money or look after anything from him. I tried to enjoy myself, but it was like this shadow hanging over me, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I waited for days, right up until the end of our trip, but he never showed up. I obsessively checked my suitcase before boarding the plane home, just in case someone had snuck something into it, but there was nothing new in there. I flew back to England with my friends still high and £10,000 tucked into my coat pocket. It was surreal.

It wasn’t until almost a year later that I felt confident enough to actually spend any of the money. I’d moved down to work for a small architects’ firm in Bournemouth on the south coast. It was an entry level job and the pay wasn’t great, but it was the only offer I got in my chosen field, so I moved down there with the hopes of getting some experience and a better position in a year or two.

Bournemouth was a decent-size seaside town, though much less idyllic than I’d assumed it would have been, but rents for a place on my own were a little bit out of my price range, given my starting pay grade. I didn’t know anyone else down there, and wasn’t keen to share my space with strangers, so I decided to use some of the money I’d been given in Amsterdam the previous year. I reasoned they were unlikely to find me at this stage – I’d not given John any of my details when he spoke to me, not even my name, and if they hadn’t been able to find me over the course of the last year, it was doubtful they’d be able to track me here. Also, if it had been drug smuggling, as I suspected, £10,000 probably wasn’t so much money to them that they’d track me this far over it. Also, and looking back this sounds stupid, but I’d just grown a beard and thought it would be hard for anyone to recognise me as the same guy. So I spent a bit of John’s money on renting a nice one-bedroom flat in the Triangle, near the town centre, and moved in almost immediately.

About a week later, I was in my kitchen cutting up some fruit for breakfast, and I heard the doorbell ring. I answered it to see two red-faced delivery men. Between them they carried an immense package, which they’d clearly had to manoeuvre up the narrow stairs of the building I lived in. They asked if I was Joshua Gillespie, and when I said yes they said they had a delivery addressed to me and pushed past into the hall.

They didn’t seem to be from any delivery company I knew and they weren’t wearing any uniforms. I tried to ask them some questions, but as soon as they’d placed the box on the floor, they turned around and walked out. They were both well over six feet tall and very imposing, so there was little I could have done to stop them leaving even if I’d wanted to. The door slammed behind them, and I was left alone with this package.

It was about two metres long, maybe one metre wide and roughly the same deep. It was sealed with parcel tape and written on the top was my name and address in thick curving letters but there was no return address or postmark of any sort. I was starting to risk being late for work at this point, but I decided I couldn’t bring myself to leave without seeing what was inside, so I fetched the knife from my kitchen counter and cut the tape keeping the box closed.

Inside was a coffin. I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t that. My knife fell to the floor and I just stared at it in mute surprise. It was made of unvarnished, pale yellow wood and had a thick metal chain wrapped around it, which was closed at the top with a heavy iron padlock. The lock was closed but had the key sitting inside it. I started to reach for it, when I noticed two other things on the coffin lid. The first was a piece of paper, folded in half and tucked under the chain, which I took. The other was the presence of three words, scratched deep into the wood of the casket in letters three inches high. They read: DO NOT OPEN.

I withdrew my hand from the padlock slowly, unsure what I was supposed to do. At some point I must have sat down, as I found myself on the floor, propped up against the wall, staring at this bizarre thing that had inexplicably turned up at my home. I remembered the piece of paper at this point and unfolded it, but it simply read “Delivered with gratitude – J”. Strange as it sounds, it was only then I made the connection with the man I’d met in Amsterdam. He’d told me he wanted someone to look after a package for a while. Was this the package he was talking about? Was I to be looking after a corpse? Who was coming to pick it up? When?

I called in sick to work, and just sat there, watching the coffin for what might have been minutes or might have been hours. I just had no idea what to do. Eventually I steeled myself and moved towards it, until my face was just inches away from the lid. I took a deep breath, trying to see if I could smell anything from inside. Nothing. If there was a dead body in there, it hadn’t started to smell yet. Not that I really knew what a dead body smelled like. It was early summer at this point, which would mean they must have died recently. If there was a body in there at all. As I got up, my hand brushed the wood of the coffin and I realised it was warm. Very warm, like it had been lying in the sun for hours. Something about it made my flesh crawl slightly and I withdrew my hand quickly.

I decided to make a cup of tea. It was something of a relief, standing next to the kettle, as from that angle I couldn’t see the thing out in the hall. I could just ignore it. I didn’t move even after I’d filled my mug; I just stood there sipping my tea, not even noticing that it was still far too hot to drink comfortably. When I finally got the nerve to step back out into the hall, the coffin still lay there, unmoving.

I finally made a decision and, firmly gripping the padlock, I removed the key, and placed it on the hall table next to the door. I then took hold of the coffin and chain and started to pull it further into my flat. It was weird to touch it: the wood still had that unsettling warmth to it, but the chain was as cold as you’d expect from a thick piece of iron, and apparently hadn’t taken on any of the heat. I didn’t have any cupboards with enough space to hold the thing, so in the end I just dragged it into my living room and pushed it up against the wall, as out of the way as possible. I cut up the cardboard box it had been sealed in and put it with the rubbish outside. And just like that I had, apparently, started storing a coffin in my home.

At the time I think I assumed it was full of drugs, at least as far as I assumed anything about the situation. Why anyone would store something in such a noticeable way or with a total stranger like me, these weren’t questions I could even guess at an answer to, but I decided it was best to think about it as little as possible. For the next few days I avoided my living room, as I found being so close to the thing made me nervous. I was also staying alert for the smell of any sort of rot, which might indicate there was something dead inside the coffin after all. I never smelled anything, though, and as the days passed I found myself noticing my mysterious charge less and less.

About a week after it arrived, I finally started using my living room again. I’d watch TV, mostly, and keep half an eye on the unmoving casket. At one point I got so cocky as to actually use it as a table. I was drinking a glass of orange juice at the time and absent-mindedly placed it on top of the lid, not really realising exactly what I had done. At least not until I heard movement from underneath it. I froze, listening intently and staring, willing myself to have been imagining things. But then it came again – a soft but insistent scratching, just below where I had placed my glass. It was slow and deliberate and caused gentle ripples to spread across the surface of my juice.

Needless to say I was terrified. More than that, I was confused. The coffin had been lying in my living room, chained and unmoving, for well over a week at this point. If there had been anything living in there when it was delivered, it seemed unlikely it would still be alive. And why hadn’t it made any sound before if there was something in there capable of movement? I gently picked up my glass and immediately the scratching stopped. I waited for some time, considering my options, before I placed it back down on the other end of the lid. It took about four seconds for the scratching to start up again, now more insistently.

When I took the glass away this time, it didn’t stop for another five minutes. I decided against doing any further experiments, and instead made the very deliberate decision to ignore it. I felt at that point I either needed to use the heavy iron key to open it and see for myself what was in there, or follow the gouged instruction and resolve myself to never look inside. Some might call me a coward, but I decided on the latter, that I would interact with it as little as possible while it lived in my house. Well, I guess “lived” may be the wrong term.

I knew I’d made the right decision the next time it rained, and I heard the box begin to moan. It was a Saturday, and I was spending the day staying in and doing some light reading. I had few friends in Bournemouth, something about having a mysterious coffin lying in my living room made me reluctant to make the sort of connections that might lead to people coming round, and so I spent most of my free time alone.

I didn’t watch a lot of television even before my living room was taken over with storing this thing, and so I now found myself sat in my room reading quite a lot. I remember I had just started Michael Crichton’s The Lost World at the time, and it started raining outside. It was a hard, heavy rain, the sort that falls straight down with no wind to disturb it, until everything is dark and wet. It was barely past midday, but I remember the sky was so overcast and gloomy that I had to get up to turn on the light. And that was when I heard it.

It was a low, gentle sound. I’ve seen Dawn of the Dead, I know what the groans of the undead are meant to sound like, but it wasn’t that at all. It was almost… melodious. It sounded almost like singing, if it was muffled by twenty feet of hard-packed soil. At first I thought it might have been coming from one of the other flats in my building, but as it went on, and the hairs on my arms began to stand on end I knew, I just knew, where it was coming from. I walked to the living room and stood in the doorway, watching as the sealed wooden box continued to moan its soft, musical sound out at the rain.

There was nothing to be done. I’d made my decision not to open it, and this certainly did not make me want to reconsider that. So I just went back to my bedroom, put on some music and turned it up loud enough to drown out the sounds.

And so it continued for a few months. Whatever was in the casket would scratch at anything placed on top of it and moan whenever it rained, and that was that. I suppose it goes to show that you can get used to anything if you have to, no matter how bizarre. I occasionally considered trying to get rid of it, or finding people like you guys to investigate, but in the end I decided that I was actually more afraid of whoever was responsible for entrusting me with the coffin than I was of the actual coffin itself. So I kept it secret.

The only thing that worried me was sleeping. I think it gave me bad dreams. I don’t remember my dreams, never have, and if I was getting nightmares, they were no different – I didn’t remember them and I certainly don’t now. But I know I kept waking up in a panic, clutching at my throat and struggling to breathe. I also started sleepwalking. The first time that happened it was the cold that woke me up. It was the middle of winter and I tend not to keep the heating on when I’m asleep. It took me a few seconds to fully process where I was. I was standing in the dark, in my living room, over the coffin. What concerned me more about the situation was the fact that, when I awoke, I seemed to be holding the key to it in my hand.

Obviously this worried me. I even went to my GP about it, who referred me to the sleep clinic at the nearby hospital, but the problems never recurred in a clinical setting. I decided to hide the key in more and more difficult to access places, but still I kept waking up with it, and I was starting to panic. When I awoke one morning to find I’d actually placed the key within the lock and was, as far as I could tell, moments from opening it, I knew I had to find a solution.

In the end, what I took to doing was perhaps a bit elaborate, but it seemed to work: I would place the key within a bowl of water and then put it in the freezer, encasing it in a solid block of ice. I still sometimes found myself trying to get to the key in my sleep, but the chill of the ice always woke me up long before I could do anything with it. And in the end it just became yet another part of my routine.

I lived like that for almost a year and a half. It’s funny how fear can just become as routine as hunger – at a certain point I just accepted it. My first clue that my time keeping the coffin was coming to an end was when it began to rain and there was silence.

I didn’t notice at first, as my habit at that point had been to put on the music as soon as the weather began to turn, but after a few minutes, I realised that there wasn’t anything to drown out. I turned off my music and went to check. The living room was silent. Then came a knock at the door. The sound was light and unobtrusive but it rang out like thunder in the quiet flat. I knew what I’d see as soon as I opened the door, and I was right. John and the two delivery men stood there.

I wasn’t surprised to see them, as I say, but they actually seemed quite surprised to see me. John had to take a second to look me up and down, almost in disbelief, as I asked if they’d come to collect their coffin.

He said that they had, and he hoped it hadn’t been too much trouble. I told him where he could stick it, and he didn’t seem to have an answer for that. He did seem genuinely impressed, however, when I got the key out of the freezer. I didn’t even try to thaw it – I was so eager to have this thing out of my life that I just dropped the bowl of ice on the floor and shattered it. I watched as John picked the icy key off the floor and I told them it was in the living room.

I didn’t follow them. I didn’t want to see what they did with the coffin. I didn’t want to see if they opened it. And when the screaming started, I didn’t want to see who was screaming or why. I only left the kitchen when the two delivery men carried the coffin past the door. I followed them down the stairs, and watched in the pouring rain as they locked it into a small van marked “Breekon and Hope Deliveries”. Then they drove away. There was no sign of John.

That was the last I heard of it. I got a new job and moved to London shortly afterwards, and now I just try not to think about it too much.

Statement ends.

It’s always nice to hear that Bournemouth has at least a few apparitions to call its own.

Breekon and Hope did, in fact, exist, and were a courier service that operated until 2009, when they went into liquidation. They were based in Nottingham, however, significantly north of Bournemouth, and if they kept records of their deliveries, they are no longer available.

What is interesting, however, is the address Mr. Gillespie provided for the flat this all took place in. The housing association that ran it does keep extensive records on the tenants that have lived in their buildings going back some forty or fifty years. From what [Static] could find, it appears that for the two years of his residence, Mr. Gillespie was the only person living in that entire building, with the other seven flats being utterly vacant. Nobody moved in following his departure, and the building was sold to a developer and demolished shortly after this statement was originally given.

Predictably, no-one who worked for that housing association in the 90s is still there, and despite [Static]'s best efforts, we could get no explanation for why, in a building of that size, Mr. Gillespie spent almost two years living alone, save for an old wooden coffin.

Recording ends.

[CLICK]

Is this one of the tapes it mentioned...?

i guess this is the coffin? What happened to that John guy- John as in Jonathan, i'm guessing? How did he live in that building without realizing no one else was there for two years? And what about those delivery men?

What's with the static whenever it mentions someone's name outside of the statement?

God, what's going on here?

[hatari-translations]

Which country has the most different name to it’s English version in Icelandic? Like how Germany is Þýskaland (I think)

Lots are pretty different, like Þýskaland as you mentioned. Possibly one of the most unique is that the US is called Bandaríkin ('the tied/bonded states'), in that I don't think that looks similar to the name for it in our neighboring languages.

Limiting ourselves to countries that participated in Eurovision this year, so as to find the country that would have been hardest to understand if Einar had announced it by its Icelandic name, Þýskaland definitely tops the list. We use Holland for the Netherlands, though that one does correspond to a region of the Netherlands in English and is used widely, so you'd probably know what he meant. Lettland for Latvia might have taken a moment. Bretland for the UK, of course, is similar enough to Britain but nothing at all like "United Kingdom". And the first three letters are a giveaway, but you might not immediately connect Frakkland to France.

And while not in the contest this year, if they had been participating, Montenegro is called Svartfjallaland (a translation of Montenegro, literally 'land of black mountains').

[crewgreys]

One man band rotterdam

#One man band rotterdam full#

#One man band rotterdam professional#

#One man band rotterdam professional#

And when he contacted me, I said, well, how are we going to fit me in if you guys - you know, I'm not a professional musician. I learned piano when I was a child, and I've always loved music.

#One man band rotterdam full#

PENNSYLVANIA PAUL O'SULLIVAN: Full disclosure - I'm an amateur musician. What kind of musician are you? A great one, I'm sure, but I meant, what's your specialty? So to find another Paul O'Sullivan, I was like, you know, in gravy. I'm an identical twin, and I've always been called Peter, which is my identical twin brother. PENNSYLVANIA PAUL O'SULLIVAN: Well, here's the thing, Scott. SIMON: Pennsylvania Paul O'Sullivan (laughter), did you think this was nuts? And a week or two went by, and then some of their posts start showing up on my feed. O'Sullivan in Baltimore, how'd you find all these musicians with the same name?īALTIMORE PAUL O'SULLIVAN: So I had a friend of mine who had met his name twin, and that got the wheels kind of spinning in my mind, like, I wonder what my name twins are up to? So there was one night where I was just indiscriminately adding a bunch of other Paul O'Sullivans on Facebook. So if you, you know - if you ever find a place for me, maybe I could slip in. SIMON: Well, by the way, my middle name is Sullivan. PENNSYLVANIA PAUL O'SULLIVAN: It's a great pleasure to be with you, Scott. O'Sullivan, thanks so much for being with us.īALTIMORE PAUL O'SULLIVAN: Thank you. SIMON: We're joined now by Baltimore Paul O'Sullivan and Pennsylvania Paul O'Sullivan. Last month, this Internet band that has never been in the same room together released its first collection of mostly covers, and it's called "Internet Famous: A Retrospective" EP.īALTIMORE PAUL O'SULLIVAN: (Singing) Where you think you're going, baby? Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, so call me maybe. In addition to Baltimore Paul, there's Pennsylvania Paul, Manchester, England Paul and Rotterdam Paul from the Netherlands. He eventually connected with three other Paul O'Sullivans who all happened to be musicians, and they formed a long-distance band. Back in 2016, Paul O'Sullivan, who's originally from Baltimore, decided to look for namesakes on Facebook. No matter how unique your event is, use the Gig Heaven directory to find the very best photographers, services, caterers or entertainment in Rotterdam, Gemeente Rotterdam, South Holland, Netherlands, or anywhere else in the world.Members of the Paul O'Sullivan Band include Paul O'Sullivan, Paul O'Sullivan, Paul O'Sullivan, and - wait - come on - not BJ Leiderman, who writes our theme music, but Paul O'Sullivan. You can also view previous clients' reviews and testimonials, in order to ensure the quality of your supplier's services. You can visit each suppliers listing to view their promotional material this could be anything from featured images and biographical material/service descriptions, to high-quality video or audio recordings. Use this section to browse through the 90 One Man Bands available in Rotterdam, Gemeente Rotterdam, South Holland, Netherlands or use the menus at the top of this page to find the category you are looking for, then narrow down the listings by price and reviews, in order to find the best suppliers in Rotterdam, Gemeente Rotterdam, South Holland, Netherlands. The One Man Bands available in Rotterdam, Gemeente Rotterdam, South Holland, Netherlands featured on this page are part of the huge selection of suppliers available right now on Gig Heaven - the place to find everything you need for a wedding, party or event, anywhere in the world. About these One Man Bands available in Rotterdam, Gemeente Rotterdam, South Holland, Netherlands

[vogelmeister]

i was informed today margriet kasskop from gouda in holland is now a meme in the drama society lol im proud of her and the little tulip monologue

[tubbietommo]

About the whole situation of Netherlands been called Holland because of Max v 😵‍💫,

I’m Brazilian (we speak Portuguese lol there’s some random people that don’t know that) and Netherlands is called “Países Baixos” which translate for “Low Countries” and because of that we kinda don’t have a word to refer to the people whilst Holland is “Holanda” and the people are “holandês (singular) or holandeses (plural)”. And I think it goes in a very similar way in Spanish (maybe Italian too but I can be wrong with that)

Basically we call the Netherlands Holland because the whole explanation is too long so people don’t bother to say anything, it’s just Holland sorry!!

But if is any consolation we are kinda ignorant about calling the right name for places, like UK and England and Great Britain are the same thing and the only time we care a little is for Eurocopa

I hope is understandable if not I’m sorry English is not my jam and side note your blog is amazing 😮‍💨💙

I get it, but I also think you're wrong 💚

(also thank you ajajajaj)

[deviantcxnnxr]

0303emily:

Sleeplessdutch

You could use that one, pal. You’re Dutch :P

[ask-thenetherlands]

school has started and already other people at school are doing weird shit, today i came across a guy putting mentor in a can of cola and it exploded

South Holland: “It ain’t fair man. And besides, it was one time! Never sneaking inside a school ever again.”

Sick event: 10/?

[ask-south-holland-blog]

“Okay, but seriously my name isn’t Amor."

((Daan is singing “Mijn fiets is gejat”, which means “My bike is stolen”. It’s a Dutch parody on the song Feliz Navidad”.))

[saviourkingslut]

for the 🔥 game @garlandgerard sent me this:

BULLSEYE, this guy's one of my favourite historical blorbos bc i have a huge soft spot for him

for those unfamiliar with this man, he was a younger brother of napoleon bonaparte, and the very first king of the netherlands! to briefly give some context, the netherlands had been the dutch republic for ages, and then after a 1794 revolution (aided by france) it briefly became the 'batavian republic'. however, that very revolution meant that though the republic was technically still independent, french troops were posted all over the country, and the republic had to send more and more money and troops to france and started feeling french repression more and more, because napoleon was busy conquering all of europe and imposing his will everywhere he went. and then in 1806 he decided that actually, enough was enough, and made his younger brother louis napoleon king of the 'kingdom of holland', thereby instating a monarchy in a country that hadn't seen a king since the late sixteenth century or so.

now why would this first king of the netherlands (let's not forget, a FRENCHMAN) be one of my favourite guys of all time, you ask? because louis napoléon bonaparte developed a soft spot for the country and the people he came to rule and took his task seriously. he took lessons under two dutch lawyer-poets to learn the language and soon had himself be called 'lodewijk', the dutch version of 'louis'. he travelled the country not just to arouse sympathy (because he was a foreign king who'd been forced on the people) but also because he genuinely cared. when many people in one particular province caught the 'sweating sickness', he visited patients, had a doctor come over from another province and had the proper medicine be delivered. he assisted during a cholera epidemic that broke out in another village. he tried to solve problems by talking about them and searching for compromise.

the definitive moment that the dutch people really started to accept lodewijk was in 1807, when a transport ship loaded with gunpowder exploded in the middle of the city of leiden, wiping hundreds of houses clean off the face of the earth. the king immediately came to visit the city that very same day, deployed the royal guard to help with cleaning the rubble, had his own court surgeon come over and had the one of his palaces in the hague transformed in a temporary hospital for the victims. he forbade the transport of gunpowder through cities to prevent anything like this from happening in the future and set up a fund for disasters like these to which he donated 30.000 guilders - and this isn't even everything he did to help out with the disaster. you can imagine the dutch populace welcomed him with open arms after that. and then in 1809, when parts of a province flooded to the extent that entire villages just disappeared, the king allegedly helped stack sacks of sand himself. obviously he used the things he did to create some real good propaganda to ingratiate himself with the people, but i think at that point he'd earned it.

now historians thought for a long while that lodewijk was just an extension of napoleon and wasn't really a king in his own right, but lately we've come to have a more nuanced view of him that shows that he did not always follow his elder brother's orders to the letter. the longer he was there, the more lodewijk tried to rule the kingdom of holland his own way, to the displeasure of napoleon, who got mad at him bc he thought lodewijk was prioritising dutch needs over french needs. when lodewijk had to impose the french code civil, he created a new version partly based on existing dutch law. he didn't want to send his brother the number of soldiers he demanded. he didn't want to impose the continental system, which forbade trade with the british, and only acted mildly against smugglers. in the end napoleon basically deposed him in 1810 and made the netherlands a province of france (not so good few years)

obviously lodewijk wasn't perfect - for one he spent a lot of money on himself and lived extravagantly #thefrench - but i think he's a fascinating man who overall had a good heart and good intentions. it's kind of a shame that he's one of the most ignored people in the history of the netherlands because he was 1) french and we don't like to think that our first king was french and 2) his rule was super short and 3) he was imposed and not a member of the current royal family who have been the royals since 1814. i think there's one monument to him in the whole ass country. we celebrated 200 years of monarchy in 2014 because we don't count his reign. that's partly because after 1810 the netherlands became a literal part of france (so napoleon was like. our emperor ig) so you can't really include it and claim continuous monarchy bc of that interruption but it also means that we just ignore lodewijk. i think he deserves better.

[bloodfavored]

*    †  [  michiel huisman ,  he/his  +  cis man  ]  :  is  that  JAMIE “COOP” KUIPER  wandering  around  ?  under  these  neon  lights  i  swore  they  looked  like  a  SAINT,  but  in  actuality  they  are  an  AGENT  FOR  THE  COMMISSION.  the  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  SEVENTEEN  /  THIRTY  NINE  YEAR  OLD  is  known  to  be  IRRITABLE  and  SOLITARY,  albeit  DRIVEN  and  LOYAL.  after  spending  SIX  MONTHS  in  sin  city,  their  favourite  song  to  hum  is  ONE  HAND  KILLING  by  TWELVE  FOOT  NINJA,  though  people  often  associate  them  with  old  dog  tags  tucked  beneath  the  collar  of  a  worn  tee  shirt  collecting  what  little  heat  there  is  to  offer,  the  wanted  hit  of  an  adrenaline  rush  in  the  moments  where  a  life  is  on  the  line  (yours  or  otherwise),  and  the  glow  of  two  knowing  eyes  catching  the  dim  light  from  the  street  and  reflecting  back  from  the  shadows — not  unlike  the  cat  waiting  at  home.

--- quick stats. ---

birth name: micha de kuiper. alias: jamie kuiper. nickname(s): doc, coop. title(s): doctor, md. age / d.o.b.: 117, appears 39, august 08, 1905. gender, pronouns & sexuality: cis man, he/his, demiromantic heterosexual. hometown: amstelveen, noord holland, the netherlands. species: saint (current), human (formerly). occupation: commission agent (current), united states marshal (former), marine combat medic (former), grifter (former), british army infantryman (ww2, former), metalsmith (former). education: various degrees throughout his life. most notably acquiring his medical doctorates through the military within the past thirty years. prior to being turned, he had no formal education. relationship status: single. children: none. positive traits: driven, loyal, fearless, meticulous, independent. negative traits: irritable, solitary, sarcastic, nihilistic, blunt. character comparisons: jake ballard (scandal), ellis wyatt (atlas shrugged), cassian andor (rogue one), nick fury (marvel: cinematic universe), mr. big (sex and the city), mr. saito (inception), colonel graff (ender's game), harvey specter (suits), thomas shelby (peaky blinders), kaz brekker (shadow and bone), perry cox (scrubs).

--- quick bio. ---

i. time and place. it always comes down to that. born into poverty, a larger family simply attempting to make ends meet, coop was an honest man in his human life. circumstances of the time period were not kind to him ---born after the turn of a century, the de kuiper family suffered much of the same that any other family beneath the poverty line did. children were conceived to work, the more hands on deck the more trades could be spread throughout with the hope that someone, somewhere could break the mold. coop was not the eldest child but was the eldest son, and set an example for the rest of his siblings. he was an honest man, kind if not a little too serious ---the sort of man who would carve out his own heart and offer it to someone he cared for if it meant helping.

ii. at 34 years of age the world came rushing into his little, quiet life. war, carving a horrible scar into history, with his home being forcefully overtaken by enemy forces. all of the books give gory, graphic details to children about what happened, coop recalls it firsthand. one of only de kuiper children smuggled out in the night before formal occupation ---in one fell swoop holland was overtaken, his family imprisoned, and he never saw his parents or siblings again. it was enough to light a fire in him, one that wanted to see the liberation of his people. coop took refuge in england for a short time before enlisting in the british military as an infantryman. some time served during the war was the last he knew of his humanity, spiritually and literally.

iii. he doesn’t recall the particulars of his change, merely that it was violent and painful. coop would be the first to admit that the time after, the transitory period of learning and becoming was the hardest. time passed differently, memory melted and shifted. adjusting was rough. he knows he saw out the end of the war. he knows he made it to the united states to distance himself from the pain of loss ---of everything he didn’t have anymore in europe. he knows he spent time grifting through the states (land of opportunity and promise his ass). but it’s all a blur.

iv. languages were learned. skills and trades were picked up. he was always good with his hands, but now he needed them to survive. connections were made, a name for himself. aliases changed, attempts to distance himself from everything he’d experienced while trying to keep pieces of himself intact. was he even still human inside? he’d heard what he was  more and more, but there was nothing religious attached to that. aimless, unsure, but itching for the adrenaline of what he knew ---coop finally set himself to purpose in the mid 1990′s and enlisted himself to the navy medicine training support center in san antonio, texas. after bootcamp he was given formal training and upon completion of the program he was assigned a marine battalion to serve with as an active combat medic.

v. he served several tours with his battalion before returning back to the states in 2018. connections formed over his life granted him an opportunity to serve with the united states marshals upon his return, and coop remained active with them from 2018 to 2021. whispers of the commission had been rumbling through ---people joking about its existence, that it was comical, punishment for agents that misbehaved. coop did just that ---misbehaved his way into the commission to see if those rumors were true.

vii. it’s been close to two years since he’d been involved with the us government’s occult division. the nature of his species is a secret kept close to his chest - involvement existing only to kick dirt over information about any supernatural creatures, to keep them secret. it’s better the mass populace doesn’t know, that the government keeps themselves out of it. to his peers he’s simply a gristled, retired combat medic and former us marshal. he holds no particular love for his fellow saints, for any other species out there ---he simply doesn’t think it’s anyone’s business to know they exist.

-- fun facts. --

i. has a cat named achilles. finds it hilarious to tell him to heel.

ii. tired literally all the fucking time.

iii. speaks multiple languages: dutch, english, spanish, german, and farsi are under his repertoire. he’s in the process of learning more, but all have been accumulated over his years.

iv. briefly considered working in an emergency room as a surgeon, but didn’t like the idea of having to deal with the insurance company bullshit.

v. prefers not to associate himself with his species as a whole, but he doesn’t necessarily have a problem with other saints. he’s just a more solitary fellow.

vi. he still has his dutch accent, and has worked hard to not lose it over the years.

vii. lapsed jewish. it’s hard to keep faith through everything he’s been through, but he’s very proud of his heritage regardless. he still observes some things, but does so privately.

viii. jamie kuiper is just the most recent of his aliases. he’s had many over the years. this is the first one that is so close to his birth name.

ix. always wears his dogtags from his us military service. however he still has his tags from british military service, locked away safely somewhere.

[painless-innit-colourful]

Hi everyone, it's Crim, back again with our Eurovision commentary for the night. Coming at you from: one Eurovision superfan, one dance teacher, one former professional dancer, and the dog we scared every time we screamed. Here we go!

Czech Republic: She's really changing it up, huh.

Romania: We spent two and a half minutes talking about sexualsation in dance and that man's ruffled shirt.

Portugal: That was very beautiful.

Finland: The musical equivalent of The Smiler ride at Alton Towers. Director of Cinematography really said "YES WE CAN DO THAT FOR YOU."

Switzerland: We thought that resembled a charity advert song. Also, why are all the costumes too big.

France: And we are summoning something in this Eurovision tonight. My aunt just let out an unholy scream. I'm slightly scared for her.

Norway: That felt like a fever dream. We're all reeling from the lyrical genius of "Before that wolf eats your grandma, someone give that wolf a banana."

Armenia: Graham Norton made a remark about this one being the reason the UK had no toilet paper early in the pandemic, and it killed us for the whole song. Can we vote for the tech team to win.

Italy: Good *heavens* that was awful. We will discuss it no further. Was nice to hear the crowd singing though.

Spain: Well that was phenomenal. What a singer, what a dancer, she rocked it! Best choreography and staging of the night so far.

Netherlands: Is it just me or are pop songs getting more predictable.

Ukraine: A true Eurovision banger. None of those people looked like they were dancing to the same song, but man did they dance dance. I expect pink woolen bucket hats to be the trend by Monday. (We also really want to know what they're singing about.)

Germany: No wonder they had to go to the presenters for that change-over: they had to get the carpets on. The German Eminem.

Lithuania: As my aunt said, "Jessica Rabbit meets Liza Minelli. [...] She should audition for the [candlestick] in Beauty and the Beast. [...] Bit of Twiggy as well." This woman has turned both my aunt and my mom gay. She is my favourite so far. Who is she. I am very gay.

Azerbaijan: That wasn't a dance, that was pilates/a battle between a man and his rogue, evil doppelganger. Nice voice.

Belgium: Ehhhhhhh (I was out getting brownies. Why are they putting all the ballads together.) Why does no one's shoes match the rest of their outfits tonight. Why is there always a Bond Theme-ish one.

Greece: Goodness that was beautiful. The staging was cool, but just the song on it's own. A memorable ballad, and that's not something I'd say often.

Iceland: Thank goodness the ballads are over.

Moldova: Beastie Boys with 80% more acordian. Moldova is 30 years behind the rest of Europe and I ran out of words to describe that one mid-performance.

Sweden: No shoes this time. Costume department is having an evening. My aunt made a comment about how hard you would have to slam your head on the floor to change the lights and I lost it.

Special Mention to the Presenter Moment Where One of the Norweigan Wolves Attempted to Kidnap Mika.

Australia: Eh. It's no ice queen on an oscillating stick.

UK: WE MIGHT ACTUALLY STAND A CHANCE HOLY SH!!!!! THAT WAS REALLY GOOD I FORGOT I WAS WATCHING THE UK ENTRY!! That was such a jam - rock, ballad, good staging, great costume, great singing!!

Special Mention to Mika Getting Lost, Saying Romania was Spain and Misreading His Autocue, Announcing Holland to be Next.

Poland: Current theory on the couch is that the costume department this year only has five pairs of shoes and keeps needing to run them between acts. While are they all so big. Why was that so wet.

Serbia: That was. A lot of things. It felt like a cross between a bad GCSE Drama devised piece, a dystopian hygiene advert, and whatever they meant by "God has abandoned us" or whatever it was.

Estonia: A fun bop to conclude. Funky little hop down across the stage.

[jalebi-o-shir]

Being on Opposite Ends of the South Asian Spectrum: Being Pakistani and Indo-Caribbean

🇵🇰✨🇸🇷

As a half-Punjabi (Pakistani) and Half Indo-Caribbean (Indo-Surinamese) person, I have always found myself split between very two contrasting sides of the same coin. The reason being so is because these two cultures hail from the sub-continent, yet are uniquely distinct from another.

If South-Asianess was put on a spectrum, they would be on extreme opposite ends of each other. I have been raised up as a Pakistani I’d say. After all, my mom is Pakistani, I’ve been brought up with the food, the languages, Urdu and Punjabi, the social codes, the norms and the values, and of course the religion.

But I haven’t been raised like a typical Pakistani kid. On the other hand, I’ve been raised by my Surinamese dad. I’ve been taught the Indo-Surinamese history, always ate Surinamese food, and was always surrounded by my Surinamese family, and most importantly, what not a lot of young Indo-Caribbeans/Indo-Surinamese can say, understand Hindoestaans (Caribbean-Bhojpuri, yes it’s not Caribbean-Hindi. It’s a misnomer) *Thank you Urdu and Punjabi for allowing me to understand it*

You are probably wondering what this mini-autobiography has to do with the title. Well you see, as odd as it may seem, I used to look down on my Surinamese side of the family when I was younger. Except for my grandparents, my father, and uncle for fortunately good reasons. I love them dearly of course. I saw most Indo-Surinamese people as “lost”. They couldn’t speak the language, acted anything but South Asian (whatever that meant) , smoked, drank, and always wanted to be DJs. That’s the image I conjured up of Indo-Surinamese people for the longest time in my mind.

I had no Pakistani family growing up for most of my childhood. To my Pakistani family, I guess, we where the odd ones out. While everyone lived and was born in The States, I grew up in a wonderful tiny country called Holland 🇳🇱 (The Netherlands). I had a great childhood really :D

Over the years, I started developing this complex. I was proud of being Pakistani. In a country where immigrant kids mostly are born to parents from Turkey, Morocco, and Suriname, I was in a strange position of being an invisible minority, yet a visible minority at the same time because of the Surinamese side. I remember telling the teacher in elementary school that I would feel Surinamese at school, but Pakistani at home. I always felt that I to put up a act. Pakistani in the masjid, Surinamese in the streets. There are loads of Surinamese people in Amsterdam, so representation was never an issue, but at the same time it was because I considered myself to be completely Pakistani.

I felt proud that I was able to understand Imran Khan’s songs (T’was a big thing at the time), watch Bollywood without subtitles, and go to shaadis and bask in the culture whenever we’d go to the US. I started seeing Indo-Surinamese people as watered-down Desis without any noticeable culture, values, and traditions to hold on to even though I grew up surrounded by it. Ironically, I knew a lot about my Indo-Surinamese history and indentured servitude back then. I was very close to my Surinamese family and I’m grateful everyday that they were such a big part of my youth, but at the same time, I felt culturally awkward growing up. I didn’t feel Surinamese enough whenever we’d visit family.

If Pakistani-Punjabis are known as conservative, colorful, log kya kehengein-type people, then Surinamese people are independent, strong-opionated, and liberal. I now see that I inherited both sides. I moved to the US at the naive age of 18. There, my dad had to constantly explain where he was from. My dad speaks Urdu, Dutch, Surinamese Creole, Hindoestaans (Caribbean Dutch -Bhojpuri), and English. It’s a curious mix of languages that all have to do with his upbringing. Since we went to a Pakistani masjid/mosque, he had to educate people constantly. It is when I realized that being Surinamese really is a unique thing.

The more I think about my dad, the weirder it gets. I mean being born in South America, looking South Asian, speaking Dutch in a country called Suriname, and having a last name that looks Spanish is really a crazy thing when I think about it. Over the years, I realized how much I actually missed from Holland. I craved Surinamese food which really is a mix of Indian, Indonesian, West-African, Dutch, and Chinese food with a unique Surinamese twist. I felt a need to tell people how unique Suriname was.

I started feeling proud of my Surinamese heritage and everything that came along with it. Instead of looking down, I started looking up to my ancestor who made the 4-month voyage from Calcutta, India to an unknown land to work on the sugarcane fields along with thousands of others who would be later known as the “Hindoestanen” and collectively known as the Indo-Caribbeans. I found this all out through a Dutch government initiative where they digitized indentured servitude records. My dad told me about it.

I was amazed at how much information these records contained. His name, DOB, religion, skin color, village of origin, birth marks, height etc was all recorded to even his own sample number. it gives me chills when I think about it. 23 yo, going on a journey to an uknown destination that made me end up in Toronto, Canada eventually. I mean, if he didn’t step on that ship, I wouldn’t have been born. I guess immigration is in my blood, and it all started in the British Raj.

These days I can say with confidence that I’m proud of both sides, and that I feel a bit sorry :p for any Pakistani that didn’t have the chance to eat our wonderful food. Sure tons of people know about Biryani, rotiyan, tandoori chicken, samosein, but how many people know about bami, nasi goreng, pitchel, roti met kip, baka bana, maseina cookies, boyo, pom, and of course, Surinamese roti? Anyone? Not a lot 🇸🇷💕🇵🇰

[calxlvcas]

🏘️ guess who i just saw at ELMERTON RADIO STATION? CAL LUCAS! don’t they look good for 41 years old? they have lived here for 30 YEARS and ARE a DJ. they view the increase in tourism as NEGATIVE 🏘️ MICHIEL HUISMAN - CIS MAN - HE/HIS 🏘️

trigger for gambling, death, ptsd, violence

STATISTICS

calvin lucas. 41. june 19, 1981. gemini. cis man. he/his. heterosexual. heteromantic. perpetually single. white, dutch-ashkenazi jewish. dutch. raised jewish, nonpracticing. charismatic. focused. independent. aggressive. narcissistic. venomous.

SUBPLOT

elise murphy o'connor, CAL LUCAS and julien have been friends since they were in their twenties and have been committing crimes just as long. elise murphy o'connor is the brains, CAL LUCAS is the muscle and julien? well, they’re just motivated by greed and adrenaline. elise murphy o'connor is from a family who was known for thieving and swindling, so their behavior was more of a legacy, a family business they continued. CAL LUCAS has always been aggressive and had a need to express their anger. they also like money, so they’re always down for theft, a robbery, or a scheme - a good excuse to blow off some steam. julien never had to do any of this. they came from an affluent family and were talented enough to make it in the business world but they never seemed to be able to keep themselves from getting into trouble and bring shame on the family. so, they were cut off financially. this meant that julien had to beg, steal and borrow to be able to afford even half of what they were used to… so, when they met the other two, they entered into a bit of a… gang. they’ve all spent quite a few years in jail over the course of their lifetime, but they’ve not thought of quitting just yet.

BIOGRAPHY

born in north holland, the netherlands to an incredibly middle-class family, for the first 7 years of his life cal lived a relatively normal life. his father was doting but often away from home for work and his mother was less attentive than she should have been, though her true vice was gambling.

his mother had a tendency to squander their savings or paychecks into her vice, spending in big sums to racking up more debt —whatever small game caught her fancy that required cal’s father to dump his hard-earned money into paying off that debt before loan sharks came calling. for a while it worked, and cal was none-the-wiser to the hole that the lucas family was slowly digging themselves into.

at seven years of age he lost his parents. on the way home from his best friend’s house down the road at dusk, he came into his house to the most gruesome and jarring scene he could possibly comprehend: the dismembered bodies of his parents. the night was a blur, the month was a blur, the rest of that year was blocked hard in his memory. details escaping cal, resulting only in the memory of being tossed to his aunt in lieu of the system where he was raised thereafter.

at eleven he moved to the united states with his aunt, settling in elmerton, florida for her work – an awkward child who was socially and emotionally distant, it was difficult for cal to make connections or friends, and though he was an incredibly aggressive child there seemed to be no option to assist in quelling his rage. therapy didn’t work - an attempt to dig into his traumatic past only triggered cal into a rage that the even the therapist was not expecting. with puberty came the charm, and slowly over his teenage years cal learned to control his anger into hobbies ---primarily those that consisted in physical contact. it was time that formed his personality more completely into adulthood and had him blooming out of his awkward, quiet shell.

cal blossomed, his personality shifted to something charismatic and utterly charming with quick wit and sarcasm adorning his demeanor, though his smiles never met his eyes. as he grew older it was obvious just how impactful his parents’ death was, where his initial responses and reactions to the crimes he seemed to devolve himself into, and violence he was slowly being exposed to seemed not to bother him … or quite simply, no emotional response was registered.

twenty years ago he met the two members of his own little gang - elise gave purpose to his rage and though her brains were enough to carry them into wealth in the earliest formation of their group, it wasn’t enough to keep each of them out of jail at one point or another. cal, who had a short stint in juvenile hall already, was let off on a technicality. his aunt - a prominent lawyer, had ways of cheating the system she made so much money off of. she’d do anything to keep her nephew safe, even if he had anger issues. he spent, at most, three years in a correctional facility in his late twenties.

by day, now, cal dj’s. music (and photography) were always passions of his and throughout his troubled life he chased the former into a career. you can find him dj’ing for elmerton radio station ---music of choice being synthwave and like variants.

PERSONALITY

the personality and demeanor of cal lucas is carefully cultivated to deceive those around him, with the most common denominator being that of a charming albeit sarcastic man who always has a smile on his face. he can carry a conversation, crack jokes, find common ground with anyone, but in reality his interest is barely measurable. it’s a farce to project normalcy, to keep any interested minds or eyes out of prying where they don’t belong.

in reality he’s a very solitary and angry man, finding solace in his hobbies (which are spent alone) and enjoying time to himself. he’s comfortable in that silence, and seldom reaches out to forge more meaningful connections, outside of the would-be family he’s worked in for so many years.

cal has unaddressed ptsd surrounding the trauma of his childhood. he’s done a lot to lock up the details of the memory of what happened to his parents, and can become aggressive if pressed on the matter or issue.

but the personality most people will experience is that of the charming, charismatic dj whose more than happy to crack a joke at his own expense. it’s part of what’s kept people off of his back for so many years, after all.