Too many men

All week I've been wanting to contribute to the fantastic discussion sparked by the Isla Vista killings, but I've been biting my tongue because if there was ever a time not to open my big XY mouth about something, this is it. Moreover, plenty of other people have addressed the issues better than I ever could. I think there's still some scope for me to point clueless mens to these resources or summarise their content if--as usual--they just can't be bothered to listen to the real authorities in these matters, but that means waiting for opportunities to present themselves rather than trying too hard to create them.

It all should give some added kick to the discussion I'd planned to have with my sister over vacation about teaching consent to boys. It also makes me realise the necessity of widening the conversation to entitlement in general, which seems like the more basic issue at stake. After all, if you didn't feel in some way entitled to access to another person's body, then it shouldn't be hard to take it too heart when they fail to display interest in granting it. There's also a whole constellation of icky Nice Guy behaviour which falls well short of assault to be dealt with. (I cringe to think of some of the stalkerish behaviour I engaged in back when I laboured under the misapprehension that it was "romantic".)

And then there's the complication of the killer's diagnosis of "high-functioning Asperger's" and the willingness of everyone who doesn't want the debate to focus on gun control or misogyny to play up this factor to the expense of all others. That's the same diagnosis two of her children have, and it sickens me to see more stigmatism of mental illness along with calls for tougher involuntary commitment legislation. I can't see those doing much to prevent future massacres, but I can see a lot of scope for them being abused to deprive vulnerable individuals of their freedom.

On the plus side, Nuphy made me aware of a new memoir in which a man with Asperger's documents his struggles to become a better husband by means of "excessive note-taking, performance reviews, and most of all, the journal of best practices". He bought a copy for his grandson, and it sounds like the sort of thing which would benefit not only my niblings but also their crazypants uncle Kramer.

Eataly: il ri-ritorno

Saturday was the Old Man's birthday, but--for logistical reasons--Friday became his "birthday observed" (as he kept telling our friends, methinks in a doomed attempt to get them not to pay for his brunch). We chose dinner at Oysy due in part to its proximity to the IML host hotel, but I urged him to let his fantasy wander further when it came to his lunch. Any fancy place in River North or the Loop I was willing to take him. At first he suggested Purple Pig, but when I reminded him of his desire to try the seafood place at Eataly, he instantly changed loyalties.

Our previous dinner visit was derailed by Nuphiness and undone by teething pains. But this time it was just us and the staff have had half a year to grow into their roles. Certainly our server at Pesce was so professional that I suspected he'd been shipped in from NYC, which he denied. We came during the tail end of the lunch rush which is, in some ways, the worse time to visit any restaurant. Yes, the height of the crush is over, but the kitchen is often backed up and people often seem to be going off shift or at least taking a break right around 2 p.m.

It took us about 40 minutes to get our food, which isn't terrible considering that the GWO ordered a baked dish. In a real test of their timing, I got grilled scallops; we were convinced one of the entrees would end up being held too long waiting for the other, but neither showed any sign of it. The buttery scallops were piping hot and not the least bit overcooked. (At roughly $7/piece, another less would've been cause for complaint.) His problems with his stuffed branzino had nothing to do with the preparation and everything to do with it simply not being a very interesting fish. (No prizes for guessing that he was led to order it by multiple mentions in Donna Leon.) Our starter was salmon carpaccio. monshu ordered a side of roasted asparagus, which were perfectly good but suffered by comparison to the flawlessly fantastic spears we'd had a Maude's Liquor Bar the weekend before.

Afterwards we went hunting for ingredients. The GWO had that pizza bianca he wanted to make and I'd only just read about a Venetian pasta dish that sounded right up my alley. Locating the cheeses was easy (though we managed to stop just short of where the fontina was hiding); finding an acceptable substitute for bigoli (rustic whole wheat spaghetti) proved trickier. We gave up waiting for help in the dried pasta section, but I eventually found someone who steered me toward the fresh, where the spaghetti alla chitarra made from Kamut looked suitable enough.

I could've browsed some more, but my better half was jonesing for his post-prandial espresso. I joined him in this, getting something called an espresso torinese the was composed of equal parts coffee, hot chocolate, and steamed milk. (I took one look at the line for gelato and concluded I wasn't really that interested.)

Marrow-headed

Despite the low participation of international bears at Bear Pride (we did meet a Belgian and a Frenchman in line at Sidetrack, a Berliner inside, and heard rumours of a Hamburger), I do have one linguistic anecdote to report. As I've complained to several people already, Sidetrack on Monday made me aware of just how uniform bear fashion has become. 90%+ of the men there had a full bear and a buzzed or shaved head and were wearing baggy shorts with a printed t-shirt of some sort or another--all in fairly muted colours. Some of the t-shirts were amusing, and at least one had katakana. The one that I stumbled into a discussion of, however, said this on the back:

кабачок одинокая
звезда
Сан Франциско

I've come across this a couple times before. It's merch from the Lone Star Saloon in San Francisco. So I knew immediately what it said. Now, normally, I'd jump right in and explain this to everyone. But as I told monshu, I'm trying hard these days not to be That Guy, so instead I just mentioned this knowledge in passing to the one guy I was actually trying to impress.

Apparently, the reason for the discussion was that someone had come by earlier and told the wearer of the shirt (the boyfriend of the guy I was talking to--rats!) that it meant "zucchini". "Sounds like he was pulling his leg," I joked. But he wasn't. The first word, кабачок, corresponds to "saloon" in the English and is, in origin, a diminutive of кабак "tavern, pub". (A bit ironic if you've ever seen the size of the Lone Star.) But there's another кабачок which translates as "marrow/squash" or "courgette/zucchini".

Near as I can tell, this is also a diminutive from another кабак, a borrowing of the Turkic kapak which in modern Anatolian Turkish means "bald" or "baldy" as well as "courgette/zucchini". Kap has many meanings in Turkic, among them "pot" or "vessel". So it's possible that the two meanings are ultimately related. The metonymic use of "drinking vessel" or "pouring vessel" for "wineshop" or "tavern" can also be found in dialectal German Krug (cf. Dutch kroeg "pub"). And the resemblance between certain marrows/squashes and pots or other vessels is motive enough to explain that semantic extension. Sadly, though, all the good etymological dictionaries here are inaccessible at the moment, so for now this remains a hunch.

In any case, it was a good reminder that, when it comes to most things, I really only know enough to know how little I really know.