Longer than Your Usual Saturday Post...

...you might want to get a cup. I went on longer than usual for a Saturday. But this is what you get when there's no football.

Uh, right. I’ll bet you say that to all the girls:

"It's not size, it's what you do with it that matters," he said.

Quoted in reaction to this report from the Beeb, which probably isn’t going down too well in Bangalore, Calcutta, and Mumbai. On the other hand, Maria Muldaur’s career might just experience a resurgence (30 second clips: real audio, win media player). Of sorts.

You probably already saw this, anyway. According to Yahoo, this lil item (ahem) was Friday’s second-most e-mailed story.

And, apropos of nothing, but while we’re on the subject of…uh… anatomy:

According to Islam, puberty is a stage when a child is ready to take on some adult responsibilities. As a part of this, while adolescent girls are expected to behave and dress as mature women, every male child should be circumcised before he reaches puberty as a step into manhood. In the traditional context, sünnet (circumcision) is usually performed by a “sünnetçi,” always a male, who has been trained and is experienced in circumcision but does not have a medical degree. During the operation, which usually takes place at home, the kirve (a close friend of the father or a male relative) holds the child, and the sünnetçi conducts the operation, usually without any anesthetics if performed in the traditional way.

Great importance is attached to this ritual in traditional Turkey, as it is accepted as a step into manhood. A special feast is prepared, and the child is dressed in a white gown and a cap adorned with decorations. Following the operation, he is laid down in a decorated bed while prayers are said and visitors bring in presents and are offered food and sherbet. Sünnet is a religious rule, although many people believe that it is also a requirement for healthy sexuality, both in the medical and functional sense. As a result of this, if the child is born in a hospital, many parents now prefer the operation to take place in the hospital setting, a few days after birth, out of hygienic as well as economic concerns.

—From a monograph on sexuality in Turkey

I’ve been to a sünnet ritual. I was 13 at the time (1958); my father and I were guests at a sünnet in the village of my father’s friend Yashar, about 40 miles outside of Ankara. The “honorees” were the village mayor’s son and another boy the mayor sponsored. It was customary for a well-to-do man to sponsor, i.e., pay for, the circumcision of a less-well-off man’s son and include the boy and his family in the subsequent festivities. The boys were 12 and 11 years old, respectively.

The ritual took place around 1000 hrs in the mayor’s home, in an upstairs room. There were about 12 witnesses, all male, family friends and guests, and all dressed in suits or the best clothes they owned, in the case of the poorer men. We all trooped upstairs for the ceremony. The boys were lying on a large brass double bed placed in the center of the room. There was no other furniture. Each boy was dressed in a white night-shirt type of garment and wore elaborately embroidered silk skull caps, one red, one blue. The sünnetçi arrived and was introduced with great formality to all the witnesses, including my father and me. Several of the men made speeches and said prayers and then we all gathered around the bed. The sünnetçi went to the bed, lifted up the boys nightshirts, and injected them with an anesthetic. The mayor’s son winced, the other boy cried a bit, and I cringed. The sünnetçi waited about three or four minutes for the anesthetic to take effect, making small talk with the boys, showing them the instruments, and then performed the operations deftly and quickly, first on one side of the bed, then the other. It was over in no more than two minutes, per boy, including the bandaging. After the operation the mayor and the sünnetçi came over to me, each one grabbing a wrist, and started pulling me towards the bed. And then they began laughing, to my great relief. I was all ready to rip my pants down and show ‘em I’d already been done, but it never came to that. My Ol’ Man almost pissed himself he was laughing so hard. Yeah, that was real funny, Dad…

After the ceremony the men all went downstairs for tea and baklava. It’s interesting that no one there spoke English except for Yashar, my father, and I, yet we communicated exceedingly well. After about an hour, all the men left except for the mayor, Yashar, Dad and I. We spent the better part of the afternoon just chatting with the mayor and drinking lots of tea. There were no women in view, none.

I’ll make what could be a long story short. The mayor threw a party for the whole village that evening. The village square was cleared out, tables were set up, and the entire village of about 500 (or so) people turned out for free food, music, and dancing. After everyone was seated, the boys were carried into the square by four real big guys, still in the same brass bed where they had been circumcised. The bed was carried up on to a raised dais, set down, and the village stood and cheered. And then we got down to some serious feasting, laughing and drinking (for the adults). There was a constant parade of well-wishers coming and going to the dais, bringing food and presents. The boys ate it up, and even though I’m certain they were sore, they were all smiles. The village women ate with us but seemed to disappear after the meal was over. The men and older boys remained and the party went on late into the night.

It was quite the experience.

Charles Krauthammer on That Murder in London:

Litvinenko knew more about his circumstances than anyone else. And on their deathbeds, people don't lie. As Machiavelli said (some attribute this to Voltaire), after thrice refusing the entreaties of a priest to repent his sins and renounce Satan, "At a time like this, Father, one tries not to make new enemies."

In science, there is a principle called Occam's razor. When presented with competing theories for explaining a natural phenomenon, one adopts the least elaborate. Nature prefers simplicity. Scientists do not indulge in grassy-knoll theories. You don't need a convoluted device to explain Litvinenko's demise.

[…]

Opponents of Putin have been falling like flies. Some jailed, some exiled, some killed. True, Litvinenko's murder will never be traced directly to Putin, no matter how dogged the British police investigation. State-sponsored assassinations are almost never traceable to the source. Too many cutouts. Too many layers of protection between the don and the hit man.

Mr. Krauthammer makes a danged good case, as usual. I particularly like his closing paragraph. But, aside from all that, one thing is crystal-clear: Ol’ Vlad learned his lessons well at the KGB. Former Happy Days appear to be right around the corner, if not already here. One has to feel bad for the Russians.

Fun with Site Meter, or More Bizarre Hits from this week…

It appears I’ve tapped into a sub-culture I never knew existed. Two more hits for petticoat punishment over the past couple of days, one for petticoat punished, and one for petticoat discipline december 2006. Who’d a thunk it?

Sorry, I’m fresh out: spells for traveling in portales.

No, I won’t help you with your homework: all quiet on the western front book report. I don’t speak Korean, anyway.

Your guess is as good as mine, but two folks may have found what they were looking for: qe%

Get away! She’s mine! c-span;s susan swain.

A few things come to mind here, but I’m pretty sure they’re not what this person was looking for: head movil discontinued elation. Let’s not get personal, OK?

This one is real “inside tee-ball” stuff, but Dan will get it. Uh, no…we never had one there: an/flr-9 moscow. (Here’s a description of the AN/FLR-9, if you’re curious, with additional info here, including some interesting war stories.)

I know why, after watching her for half an hour on C-SPAN: "melanie sloan" divorced. The mystery is how she ever got married. I suspect large quantities of alcohol and/or other drugs were involved, in Las Vegas.

And finally…Would this person please contact me? I want a reading, and you’re good: maria muldaur "love songs" dylan site:blogspot.com. Prescient, you are.

It amazes me EIP turns up when someone runs a strange (to me) query. I’m even more amazed these folks still click through. I suppose I’m easily amazed… and easily amused, too.

Today’s Pic: A street scene in Old Town, Prague. Prague is a city of spires, in its own unique way. I don’t know why, but the grouping of four smaller spires on the corners of a main spire is a recurring motif in the architecture. Medieval Czech architects must have known a thing or two about lightning…or at least how to ground buildings. I’d wager that Prague is one of the most lightning-struck cities in the world, what with all those pointy things sticking up in the sky. June, 1999.