mike carey

I agree with both @Lucky and @Vegas_Millennial that it is interesting what is and isn't commemorated, or commented on in the forum, and with @Lucky that all events are not equal nor do they all merit the same sort of prominence in here. Without prejudice to the two events that they have raised, some events deserve comment and some memorialisation because they affected members of the forum directly, some for wider societal resonance and others for their historical significance. I know I mention remembering the fifth of November most years in here. International AIDS Day is one occasion that is worthy of commentary and a thread in here (in my opinion). I agree that it is perhaps curious that it wasn't one of the events in the calendar, but someone has to post those events, and national holidays (even if mainly US ones - I wrote 'only' then remembered 5 May had been one) are a start. Historical events, including those within living memory for some of us, fade from the collective consciousness even when they shook the world and changed history for a while, like Pearl Harbour or Hiroshima, or shocked many at the time but had little lasting effect, like the martyrdom of Óscar Romero in his own cathedral (with its resonance with Thomas Becket in Canterbury). We have 'Today in History' as an appropriate place to remember many of these. Some of you may have noticed I posted the Economist obituary of Celeste Caeiro there to note that her action was the catalyst in making the red carnation the symbol of the Portuguese revolution of 1974. As things stand, anyone can post items there, but other than those staff have posted I can only recall members posting event notices for sales at establishments and personal parties. If anyone wants to create an event for something that is relevant to the community - it is a community calendar - go ahead, or if in doubt, go to the Ask A Moderator forum to check whether the event is suitable for inclusion.

I was aware that it was today (well, yesterday) and had silently noted its approach here a few days back.

Relative newbie here (but not so new that I have the newbie restrictions). Okay, plently of respondents have already said they are newer than me ... I've been here for somewhere near 9¾ years. Only complete years? Nah, old people and toddlers count significant fractions of them.

I think he's having a lend of us. (Leaving aside that 'loan' is a noun and 'lend' is the verb.)

Well, there's a Jamaica in NYC so it's entirely possible that other apparently distant places are, in fact, there.

So are some providers.

Celeste Caeiro’s small gesture named a revolution The Portuguese restaurant worker and single mother died on November 15th, aged 91 Photograph: Getty Images People told all sorts of stories about carnations. That they were a divine flower. That they sprang from the eyes of a shepherd whom the Goddess Diana blinded for being too handsome, or from the tears of Our Lady as she stood by the cross. The only thing that Celeste Caeiro knew for sure about carnations, that morning of April 25th 1974, was that an awful lot of them were waiting in the warehouse in buckets, and that she and the rest of the staff at Sir Restaurant would have to fetch them and put them on all the tables, because the bosses wanted to throw a party. That was what bosses did. Extra work for the staff, but did that mean extra pay? Not likely. As it was, her pay for a basic 14-hour day of clearing tables, mopping, taking coats, etc, etc, barely covered the rent of the one-bedroom flat that she shared with her mother and her daughter Helena, who was five. But Mr Chaves, the owner, told Mr Ramos, the manager, to put on a special menu for the restaurant’s first birthday, with a free glass of port for the men and a flower for the ladies. There was no particular reason, as far as Celeste knew, for carnations. Probably Mr Ramos had found they were the cheapest flowers in the market. The restaurant deserved some celebration, however. It was huge, with seating for 300, and had self-service as well as sit-down, which was unheard-of in Portugal then. It made up the ground floor of an office building called Franjinhas, which had a rippling façade with fringes of concrete hanging down over the windows. People were horrified by it, but in 1971 it had actually won a prize. Between them, restaurant and building were signs that the modern world was beginning to creep in on Portugal, crushed as it was by the hard-right “New State” of António de Oliveira Salazar. Dictators in Germany and Italy had been brought down by the war. Not he. He had ruled for 36 long years. After him, in 1968, Marcelo Caetano had taken over and was as bad, despite his glasses and his mild plump face, like a banker’s. Celeste was 40, so she had never known any other prime ministers or any other regime. She had dreamed of others, though. Secretly she was a communist, like her uncle and aunt in Amareleja, 200km east of Lisbon, which was called the reddest village in Portugal. When she stayed there as a child she witnessed meetings at night, and was sworn to silence about them. Later, back in Lisbon, she worked for a tobacconist who also dealt in banned books, like the works of José Vilhena; she would hide them in tobacco sacks. Too many voices were prohibited, including any TV or radio that was not run by the state. So though she was too poor to have a TV set, a radio or even a telephone in her flat, she wasn’t missing much. Except on that morning in April. Then, Mr Chaves met the staff at the door with the news that Sir was closed and the party was off. Some army captains had launched a coup, objecting especially to Portugal’s costly wars to hang on to its colonies in Africa. Caetano had fled and was holed up in the Largo do Carmo, right beside the ruins of the medieval Carmelite convent. That had been destroyed in the terrible earthquake of 1755, after which most of Lisbon had needed rebuilding. Now another earthquake was happening. “And we’ll let you know”, added Mr Chaves, “whether it turns out well or badly.” They were told to go home, and to pick up bunches of carnations from the warehouse on the way. He didn’t want them going to waste. She, however, could not possibly go home. This was the moment she had wanted for years. Already ordinary citizens were streaming towards Carmo. Tiny as she was, she showed up in the crowd with her brisk, determined walk and her big sheaf of bright red flowers. Tanks and armoured personnel carriers stood in the square; soldiers on the tanks told her they had been there, waiting for Caetano to surrender, since three in the morning. Not surprisingly one of them, calling her “Ma’am” most politely, asked her for a cigarette. He looked exhausted. She felt sorry for him, but she didn’t smoke and never had, because she was so chesty. Perhaps she could buy him a sandwich? No, everywhere was closed. So, reaching up on tiptoe, she gave him a carnation. He did not have to accept it. He could have laughed at her, or tossed it away. Many men would have done: her own father, or Helena’s father, the ones who walked out on women. But he took it gladly, and put it in the barrel of his rifle. That meant he could not shoot now; and suddenly, his comrades also wanted one. They would be an army of peace. Her flowers ran out, but soon other people brought carnations too, including all the florists who worried, like Mr Chaves, that their stock would die otherwise. Back in the flat in Criada later, she stood at the window watching. People filled the streets, and many had carnations. It made her smile. By the evening, Caetano had surrendered. Her mother cried “You could have been shot!”, but she had never thought that. The whole thing seemed almost accidental. She had offered a soldier a flower. He had stuck it into his gun. This had turned into a statement that grew stronger and stronger. Peace against war (only four people died in this revolution); good against evil; freedom against oppression; new versus old. It was a statement that resonated far beyond Portugal, especially in Africa, where one by one the former colonies gained their independence. She would have liked more recognition from the kinder governments that followed. In 1988, when a fire in Criada destroyed her flat, she was rehoused at first in run-down, dangerous Chelas before they found her somewhere nicer. She still struggled to get by, living on a pension of 370 euros a month. But the people made her their heroine. She was on posters and murals and, at the 50th-anniversary celebrations in April, the centre of attention. As for red carnations, they no longer popped up on browsers as the flowers firstly of Diana or the Virgin Mary. They belonged to Celeste and the Portuguese revolution. They were hers. ■ This article appeared in the Obituary section of the print edition under the headline “Celeste Caeiro” Copyright © The Economist Newspaper Limited 2024. All rights reserved.

It would seem that this is a 'no'. Is it?

Imagine how much of a chore it must be to go to East Egg! Egad!!

When I saw him I caught one of those tunnel trains that NYC has from my hotel near Penn Station. It seemed no different from going by tunnel train anywhere else in the city.

A propos of absolutely nothing, I've had Toronto on my list of places to visit for some time.

Why oh why does everyone hate Spirit Airlines' premium service???

The Macquarie Dictionary has come up with its word of the year, and the winner is enshittification. Not how I would have spelt it, but that's just me. (Not -tt-.) The article I saw this in is paywalled, this one it not. Australian Dictionary Picks 'Enshittification' As Word Of The Year WWW.BARRONS.COM Australia's quasi-official Macquarie Dictionary has picked "enshittification" as the word of 2024, tapping into a... They've called it quasi-official, as although it is a private project of Macquarie University in Sydney, it has become the accepted national standard used by government and other institutions.

But none of that is relevant because ... reasons.

'Flushable wipes', one of the great oxymorons of history. Nothing but poop, piss and toilet paper. Even tissues, and paper towels and napkins are formulated to be strong when wet, not what you want in the sewers! Don't even think about condoms. If your kink is wallowing in sewerage, don't try to arrange it in your local street with the things you flush. As with most kinks, they are kinks because most people don't, or don't want to share them!

Gosh, you come up with some left-field solutions!!

I'm fairly sure Ethan Woods is a different person, not an alter ego of Jarrod. The language registers they use are fundamentally different for a start. I would go so far as to say incompatible.

Papers!!

After a week with two speed-dating sessions for presidents and prime ministers in South America (I'm sorry, that should have read '... the APEC and G20 leaders' summits in Lima and Rio'), the Australian prime minister had the opportunity of another on the way home. [And hence why I posted in the air travel forum.] The jet streams in the southern hemisphere were uncharacteristically strong this week so the prime-ministerial RAAF jet (a modified A330) flew [apparently] 2,000km further but saved four hours and a refuelling stop by flying east from Brazil. They had a layover in Mauritius, enabling the prime minister to have a meeting with the Mauritian prime minister to add to the god-knows how many he had during the week of speed dating, err Summits. (I think we saw smiling footage of every damn one of them on TV news coverage.)

Also, 'The law is an ass'.

After writing in here, I went shopping for a few groceries, and when I came to the yoghurt section of the fridge, one of my usual two brands was on special (tubs of yoghurt with a swirl of some sweet stuff through it, usually fruit in a fruity puree) and a new flavour was Affogato. So. not just milk. I am enjoying it!