Phew.

All that gurning is over and done with.

Now I can go back to being my regular sweet sexy thing.

I am on a mini road trip today. It’s a training run for my holiday starting next week. Hopefully I’ll be able to blog readily over the next few days. If I can’t. Oh well. I’ll be terribly upset and will have to go to the beach to get over it.

And another thing…

You are cordially invited to the Year of Denim’s official Christmas light launch

Where: YoD headquarters, 28 Leofrene Ave, Marrickville
When: 7pm Friday 18 December
Why: Because I like you
Light refreshments (beer ‘n nuts) may be provided

On to the day’s denim…

Reading: The Australian Atlas of Surfing. Eating: vegemite on toast. Drinking: nice cup of tea. Wearing: A whole lotta denim

Top: Dragstar denim vest

Bottom: JeansWest dagg jeans

Accessory: Dragstar denim bag casually slung over my seat

YoD’s Gurn Week: Day 7

It’s the last day of a sensational week of face pulling, mugging, spazzing, gurning and being downright fugly.

There would be nothing wrong in thinking there was a special face I have been saving for the final day of gurning. But I haven’t. It’s just one of the many face I have pulled this week.

I like to think of today’s face as a Christmas Gurn. The gurn you pull when you have eaten too much. The gurn you make when Christmas become over whelming. The gurn you make when you have run out quality gurns. The fall back gurn, the go to gurn, bad gurn.

Explosive gurn with handbag

Top: Mum’s denim vest, mixing up the colours today

Bottom: Topgirl denim long shorts

Accessory: Denim bum shaped handbag

Gurn: I’m holding my breath till I pass out gurn

God's gift to gurning? I don't think so

For someone who has had approximately 4 hours sleep I have been surprisingly active this morning.

Got up, walked, took dog for a walk, washed dog, watered garden, mulched garden, stole timber to assist in my Xmas spectacular, and now I’m blogging.

However I think I have peaked to soon, and now I need a little kip to keep me chipper, and get my brain right for the complex configuration of Christmas lights I am about to artfully install.

Garden + gurn+ gut = gorgeous

Top: Brand new, though it’s made to look old, Supre denim  vest, quite butch I think

Bottom: T-Plus jeans shorts. This outfit makes me look astoundingly similar to my brother. Maybe its the gurn

Accessory: I was wearing my denim visor and I have no idea why it’s not on my head here

Gurn: Pleased as punch Gardener Gurn

No zombie, just serious committed garden variety gurning

Me, my stomach, and my gurn are off to bed now for a little kip. I will possibly update this evening as I have to work, requiring an entire new outfit.

So later…..

At last! My Christmas spectacular is complete. Almost.

I still have a 10m strip of blue rope light to position artfully and I have to ‘install’ my crocheted nativity scene somewhere.

This year I have incorporated something very special. And it’s all courtesy of a great suggestion from Fatty Boomsticks in Tokyo.

Kanga + jeans + rope light = art

Is that a giant pair of rope light jeans I hear the world ask. Why yes, I respond, it is. They are a little abstract but I believe on the level of a pictograph you’ll be able to figure it out.

On to today’s gurn and get-up.

Sunshiney gurn and everybody's laughing

Top: Not worn much lately, Joe’s Jeans jacket

Bottom: Vintage denim, Landlubber flares. Aaaahhhh lovely

Accessory: Nameless, brandless denim shoulder bag. Much loved

Gurn: Low key lip gurn

Here it is up close and horrible

Sunshine on my gurn makes me happy

YoD’s Gurn Week: Day 4

I’m off to Yum Cha today. However, for some foolish reason, rather than wearing the maternity jeans given to me with the statement “They are great for yum cha” I have gone for super snug fit jeans with bonus visible muffin because of a short shirt.

What a fool?!? Oh well. Maybe tight pants will halt the usual super gorge fest YoD revels in. Doubtful, but you never know.

In other news I am still furiously working on my very special Christmas light display. But shit keeps getting in the way. I’ll never get it done! Aaarrgghhh!

Pretty pre-yum-cha gurn posture

Top: VG Jeans prettily press studded ladies shirt, cos I’m a little bit cuntry and I’m a  little bit western

Bottom: Miss Sixty oh so tight shorty jeans with gut spill

Accessory: Itty bitty denim thongs

Gurn: It seems to me that I can’t gurn unless my eyes are rolled back in my head, so once again it’s zombie style. I’m calling it the Pretentious Zombie

Gurn + string art = zombie sophistication

YoD’s Gurn Week: Day 3

It’s an early morning gurn in denim today.

The beach is calling me for a pre-work swim, which in some ways sucks, cos I’m tired. The gurning is taking it out of me. It’s an added stress on top of the daily denim decision. Now I have to decide what to wear AND what to gurn!

And I have lost my iPod.  So if you find it let me know. It’s very distinctive. It’s white with music on it.

Early morning gurn, or am I just yawning?

Top: Benetton dark denim jacket

Bottom: Gap skinny long legs

Accessory: Two tone Mambo denim bag

Gurn: Zombie yawn

Here’s a full frontal of that gurn…

Eye rolling + tongue waving = real pretty

YoD’s Gurn Week: Day 2

Sheez. You YoD readers are getting value for your non-payments.

There is so much to look at it’s mind blowing.

I have had quite a bit of feedback about the week of gurning.

If you have a suggested face you think I should pull send in a comment and I will attempt to pull that face this week.

And today you get two gurns, because I decided, after taking the photos, that I couldn’t really wear my preferred outfit today. In act I’m not really sure WHEN I can wear it or where. No doubt an opportunity will rise where this item is the appropriate garment and no doubt that day will appear right here.

Bonus back and front gurn shot + undie glimpses

Top & Bottom combo: One Teaspoon pinafore mini. So mini you can see my undies, which, as you all know, with me being such a modest person, I just could not bring myself to wear to Bunnings today

Gurn: I call this the Zombie

So it was back to the wardrobe to scrounge for another outfit AND another gurn…

Gurn steps up a notch to shades of the Elephant Man

Top: Mum’s denim vest

Bottom: Perfect match with the JeansWest denim black ‘n bleach mini

Accessory: Going for grey all over dark grey denim cap

Gurn: Angry toothless granny gurn

Want a close-up? To bad, you’re getting one…

Go Granny, Go Granny, Go Granny, gurn

Here’s a little something I forgot to mention about YoD’s Saturday. Of course I was quite hung-over and almost completely brainless which possibly explains why I overlooked mentioning it on Saturday.

So anyway. I attended this event…

The things you see in Marrickville

I’m still not sure what was happening. Apparently the fellow above is called Tino LaBamaba. And apparently he is riding to Lismore on that bike. Follow his astonishing journey and possible demise here…

Now on to today’s outstanding outfit.

I have decided to freshen YoD up by doing a week of gurning.

You don’t know what gurning is? See this page of friendly freaky faces and you’ll soon understand.

However, I don’t want to scare people off to quickly so I am  easing into the gurn state. I’m starting small and who knows where it will end?

Just a hint of gurn in this face

Top: Lee jeans distressed with red  thread shacket (quite different to a shomit)

Bottom: Jay Jays jeans jeans. Go the muffin!

Accessory: Outta sight but not outta mind, Mavi little denim shoulder bag

You might have seen I’ve been fucking around with the custom header at WoS.  This is because, largely, I don’t want to go to the gym. Secondly, I felt like it was time for a change. I wanted to try and capture the essence of WoS, so basically, pictures of me. Looking fit preferably.  This was a nigh on impossible task, since I gurn helplessly whenever a camera is pointed in my direction.

Here is a poll to vote on what should be the new header.  I look forward to counting the millions of votes that flood in like fan mail for Cleopatra (coming atcha).  I’ll be thrilled if more than three people vote in all probability!

So it was a family birthday, and we took said family out for dinner to a restaurant with a jazz band. Which was nice. And it was a lovely evening, the pudding was astonishingly good and may in fact prevent me ever eating pudding again for fear of the subsequent puddings not matching up. There was chocolate, and there were pears, and after it was all gone I had to sit quietly in a corner for a while to recover. Dr Usfun was trying to persuade me that his fig sorbet was almost as good.

Hah. Not likely.

So it was a food, jazz, food, jazz sort of affair. We were near the band, but I was facing away. I like jazz; there’s very little live music I don’t like, but I’ve never felt that I really *got* jazz.  It always seemed a bit self indulgent, a bit as though the music written was somehow not good enough, and the hard work and long hours of editing on the part of the composer could somehow be improved upon by some serious looking bloke in heavy framed glasses.

No I wasn’t any good at improvisation during my music degree. What’s your point?

So after coffee I thought I’d turn round and watch for a while. There was a great deal of Sincerity going on , with a side helping of Earnest.  Faces were pulled, and waves of intensity rolled from the stage and all over my best dress. A thought was forming in my mind, of all these fine men, playing with their instruments,  moving themselves towards a musical climax….And suddenly it came to me.

That was their sex face.

Yark.

A cast of thousands

Films about the experience of nightclubbing often bring to mind that enduring observation (usually attributed to drainpipe-sporting rock librarian Elvis Costello) that “writing about music is like dancing about architecture,” except in this example watching a film about clubbing is your fondest memories rendered in garish corporate Powerpoint when it should be more like puzzling together sense from the holiday recollections of a geriatric relative.  The common thread here is the Alzheimer’s-like symptoms common to both parties, so just as I will always be transported backwards when I hear The Prodigy Experience let it never be said that my gran has forgotten Helter Skelter in 1995 or the first time she heard ‘Mentasm’.

The point here is that narratives about clubbing meander around aimlessly for a number of crucial reasons, and films about clubbing tend to stumble into the wrong toilets after trying too hard to weave a story from experiences that are memorable precisely because they make about as much sense than Japanese Scrabble.  I don’t recall many great evenings out (or most of my first two years of university) in a way that I could easily write down, but the memories attached to over a decade spent jogging about in darkened rooms live on through hazy fragments of sound, freeze frames of strobelit crowds and the presence of that mysterious shoe-ruining gunk that gradually spreads across the dancefloor of every nightclub in the history of time.

I Know What You Dropped Last Summer

I would say that this period of my life is fondly rather than accurately remembered, and the same is true for so many people that it’s unlikely to serve anybody as great raw material for a multiplex blockbuster any time soon, or at least until Industrial Light and Magic go on strike and the monster in next summer’s teen horror smash is played by my flatmate’s lower jaw at 5am.

Perhaps the closest film has ever come to my own personal rave limbo is the artist Mark Lecky’s unnerving short, Fiorucci Made Me Hardcore, which recently received an excellent write-up by Justin Quirk on The Guardian Music Blog.   Even ten years on, Lecky’s short remains unsettling, hallucinatory and above all poignant as it winds a lurid passage through the spasmodic dancing and terrible fashion of people piling into the make-do spaces that have hosted dance culture since the late sixties.  The film manages to evoke so much without language or plot: a tear comes to my eye every time I see that jerky camcorder pan across an empty arena, scattered with cups, dirt and probably discarded whistles.  The only thing that comes halfway as close is that legendary episode of Spaced, but mainly because we’ve all somehow ended up at least sharing a taxi with a random club friend who resembles Tyres.

Grainy camcorder footage of chavs in Ibiza

Oiks

So why don’t feature films about clubbing work?  There have certainly been enough attempts.  Despite spawning a soundtrack album that will unfailingly emerge like some ageless polyester vampire at every bad wedding and party you’ll ever attend, Saturday Night Fever is a genuinely decent movie.  Thankfully I’m not quite elderly enough to know whether it’s even passably accurate as a depiction of late-seventies Brooklyn nightlife, but it’s story does succeed by mining the common working-class experiences that shaped so many enthusiastic participants in dance subcultures.

For my sins, my own frazzled clubbing memories have been immortalised on celluloid (or more accurately, on scratched DVD at Blockbuster) by such notable Palme D’Or nominees as Human Traffic, Go and It’s All Gone Pete Tong. I really wish it were possible for me to watch Human Traffic without cringing – the film obviously constitutes a labour of love for a cast and crew who adore the clubbing lifestyle and the experiences and friendships associated with it.  Perhaps the problem is that the earnestness with which it treats the British rave explosion evokes uncomfortable personal memories of the cod-philosophical, meandering conversations that greeted far too many sunrises when I was on the periphery of that lifestyle myself.  I’m just thankful that none of my own recollections involve Danny Dyer or anything that even vaguely approaches that terrible scene in the pub.  I like to think they thought that up as an afterthought and forgot to cut it out before release.

no a buftie

I’m a little bit too young to really get much from 24 Hour Party People and, great as it is, years of student life have polluted my enjoyment of Trainspotting via memories of godawful rugby dickheads bellowing the lyrics from Born Slippy outside the filthy meatmarkets of old Norwich town.  Maybe it’s just true that the best way of evoking the trance-like, sensual pleasure of dancing, the strangely tribal nature of its participants and the lurid dreamspace of the nightclub is through faded photos, tattered flyers and recently the kind of unpolished clips that show up on Youtube.  It would be nice if more people could make things that resemble Fiorucci, but for my part I get a glow of happiness whenever friends forward me the odd ropey snippet of club culture that manages to evoke those surging, incomplete memories that are pretty much all I have left of my nights on the dancefloor.

Things i have learnt, or done, this summer.

- I have learnt i really do enjoy a bit of Cheryl Cole. Looking at her face makes me smile. And this, i enjoy. I can watch The X Factor with the sound off and still have a jolly good time because her smile is so damn infectious. Unfortunately, there is no chance of this happening as my Nana, with whom i watch The X Factor, has the TV on so loud it hurts to listen and so you can barely hear, which in effect is the same thing i guess.

- If you are ten feet in the air and stuck up a tree, don’t imagine your friends, or even your girlfriend would catch you. Because when it comes to it and your hurtling through the air at them, they all dodge you in the end.

- I spent most of my nights falling asleep with Fionn Regan in my ears. Musically, of course. Not in some perverted, abstainers all the way but in the ear is fine, way. No. Just…. no.

- Don’t refer to someone who isn’t your girlfriend as “The fittest person you have ever met” to your current girlfriend. Don’t be a dick and split up with your girlfriend mid argument (Twice), it doesn’t go down to well. Infact overall, just don’t be a shit girlfriend.

- I also learnt alot about my friends that i have had for along time. Some good, some bad. Some… slightly confusing. I also realised who are my real friends, cliche as this sounds, who are not and who are never gonna change the way they feel.

- Clearly, i can not watch an episode of Deal or No Deal without crying.

- When a description of a film includes the words “Strong Erotic Violence” never, ever watch it. No matter what it is about, who is in it, or who said it was good. These three simple words straight away should scream NO! I learnt this the hard way and i had to suffer not only the worst acting ever, but i also had to endure strong erotic violence. I guess i should have seen it coming. By the way, no it wasn’t porn, it was an actual well know-ish (i think) film, but it might as well have been porn. *vomits*

- I seem to becoming more and more addicted to drugs, and when i come back from uni, usually i think fuck, I’m fucked. This summer i learnt the best place to get drugs in this beautiful city is from my equally beautiful, younger cousin. And when he gets me what i need and all my money is gone, he buys us beer so we can have quality time together. The next day though, when we are sat side by side on our Nana’s settee and she’s giving us the “knowing look”, whilst i am white and my cousin is gurning away, it doesn’t always seem like the best of ideas. Gia Carangi has nothing on us… i wonder who will play me in the movie.

- I also found out that all my Aunties are apparently eagerly awaiting the arrival of my first child. I am not pregnant, nor do i feel i am old enough to have a child, nor do i feel my girlfriend would be overly pleased if i suddenly announced the new addition to our little family.

- No matter how long it takes to drive to London, to wait for a plane to arrive, to board, to set off, to fly to Spain, to collect bags, to get on two buses that take you seven hours deep in to the middle of nowhere in the Spanish mountains, if i get there and my tent is wet and cold, i will leave the very next day even if my flight home is not scheduled for another month.

- I have read the same two books, one three times and one twice.

- Realised the best parts of the summer is when me and Tor are in the middle of the woods, in the middle of no where, with a hand drawn map that we are not even sure is the right way up. Walking about for hours in the summers heat, looking for fossils and getting lost, eventuality finding a pub and getting drunk. Enjoyed it so much, we did the same a good few times. I had fun.

- Also realised that i cant get though a day with out Tor. Stupid as it sounds its getting harder and harder to be apart from her.

- Dressing up as a giant cat, in a full body furry cat suit, will every time, cause the dog to try and rape you. Every time. On the same note, don’t eat pasta in front of a dog with dysfunctional spit glands, and so resulting in dribble soaked pants. On the same note, again, don’t tease said dog with his favorite ball, prompting him to bite your face, breaking your nose. Just don’t.

- I drank some off milk, it gave me the shits. Just as this cleared up, i fancied some milk. It tasted like fish, this is yet to fuck me up.

- Having three people sit in the front of a car, that has two seats in the front, is apparently totally illegal. Especially when one of them is off her face on a bottle of vodka and a spiked joint. *cough* Yep, you!! Tut Tut. Ha.

- I  also stumbled upon my love for Shania Twain again. Its been a while as Tor forbids me from listening to her in our house. Which is a shame because he songs make me smile, to even Cheryl Cole standards! In fact i forgot all about her, especially when referring to The Hot List. A few posts back it was debated who should be number five, (After Gillian Anderson, Maja Ivarsson, Lily Loveless, and Elizabeth Mitchell.) It came about that it was a toss up between Milla Jovovich and Jessica Biel. Unfortunately, i am unsure who was decided upon but, alas to say, with the realisation that Shania does actually exist, she is number five. And calling to the unearthly hotness of Milla and Jessica, they can be joint 6th.

Thank god that’s sorted. Thats it, now piss off!

The 2009 Cotswold Olympicks are being held today on Dover’s Hill, near Chipping Campden in Gloucestershire. The annual games are thought to date back to between 1604 and 1612. Events include shin-kicking, gurning, backsword, single-stick and Morris dancing.

Tai Kwan Do will be provided in the catering tent.

Not quite Beiijing: the Cotswold Olympick Games.

Previous winner of the gurning.

A 2009 hopeful.

Okay – just a little rant. A very little one, but I need to get it off of my chest.

It is neither topical or relevant, but as I watch TV it just needs to be said (well, I need to say it!)

Hugh Dennis is a very funny man – I grant him that, but there is one thing that over time has gradually wound me up about him.

“Mock The Week” is the most obvious place to see this one thing…

When the game comes up where each of the four contestants each have to take a moment at the mic, Hugh Dennis becomes irritating – no offence Hugh.

He is often the funniest person when he says his bit, but the irritation then smacks in rapidly, as after he has made his quip, he just stands there, soaking in the camera and applause like some egotistic arse.

See the image above…. it’s actually a YouTube clip of “Mock the Week” just after Hugh Dennis has told a joke… Yes – really…it’s playing as you watch it…

I know there is comedy timing – but he just stands there a little too long after the joke has been made. It happens on a lot of things he is in – he just says a line and then mugs for the camera. “Mock the Week” simply highlights this as the stand up quick fire round sees Hugh Dennis repeatedly walking to the mic, spilling out comedy gold, and then standing for an eternity, gurning at the camera.

Hugh – you don’t need to do this – you’re a funny man. I love your TV and radio work – but this trait is so damned annoying!!!! I anticipate your humorous wordage…. I then laugh out loud as you delivery the lines… and then I cringe (as you would when a relation does something embarrassing at a social gathering) as you gurn and hold the mic as if it is the last time you’ll ever get the chance.

The rumours are rife… has superstar Mimi had a little work done over the Christmas holidays?

Here she is on Christmas Eve 2008 looking like a perfectly normal baby…. and then…. five minutes later…

Trout pout alert!! What happened? Did she sneak unnoticed into a backstreet plastic surgery clinic…?

Or is she just a naughty little madam!

Either way we’re loving it!

I wonder if it’s hereditary?

The other half to yesterday’s blog on camouflaging the true shape of our bodies is one of adornment. People are like crows. We have always been attracted to shiny and colorful objects. Ever since Grog the caveman noticed the bright blue stone, we’ve been collecting these things. The best way to store such objects, if you were an itinerant caveman, was to wear it. And look, that blue stone brought the sky back again or slowed the mammoth down so we could kill it.

Body adornment covers jewellery made of glass, metal, clay, wood, stone, feathers, bone, etc. strung or worn in many ways across different parts of the body. As well it has been stuck through and pierced into whatever piece of flesh could be pierced. From lip and nose discs to rings on fingers, toes, nipples, to pieces of wood or stone or metal punctured through chests, backs, arms and other fleshy bits–if it could be done, someone has done it.

Jewellery has as many uses as clothing does. In many cases such adornment started out as a ritualistic aspect with Grog, perhaps a dedication to a belief or god or path. As well, certain body markings indicated tribal/familial affiliations or ranks of authority. A pope would wear an amethyst ring that the faithful would kiss. A particular group in the jungle may have their noses pierced while their neighbors had their eyebrows be-ringed. Whether a fashion trend in that area or a mark of community, these regional differences served the purpose of identifying one group from another.

Facial and body makeup also came along, where applications may have been used for special occasions, rituals, power or to enhance characteristics, such as outlining the eyes to make them look bigger; but also the kohl liners worked to reduce sun-glare into the eyes. There have been practical applications for some body makeup and painting, such as coatings to keep sun off, or insects from biting.

Tattoos and scarification are other ways in which the body has been marked for centuries. Piercings can be temporary, as in the sundance done by some plains nations in North America, where the man’s chest is pierced for the (up to) four-day sundance. But permanent marks are part of identification, authority or belonging to a particular group. Scarring the skin with ridges and whorls, along with embedding items under the skin have been done in some areas for quite a while. Sailors were long known to pick up tattoos on their travels. I’m not sure of the reason why and that would take a bit more research. Some I believe had to do with visiting foreign countries where some of these practices were more common.

Tattoos are big now in parts of modern tribal culture as well as the resurgence of the burlesque dance style. Dancers often have designs that are reminiscent of the 50’s and the earliest North American white tattoos (I say white because I’m not sure if any First Nation groups did tattooing like the Maori have done). Maori tattoos served several purposes including looking fierce in battle, along with the facial gurning.

But last and probably the most popular reason for adorning one’s body, whether with rings, earrings, necklaces, piercings, makeup, tattoos or scarification is for the sheer enjoyment of decoration. We have not traveled that far since Grog started smearing red clay handprints onto his chest, tying a blue stone about his neck and piercing his ears. Though he may have decorated some for superstitious reasons or protection from spiritual or real elements, there came a time that it was just cool and fun to decorate himself. And let’s not forget the status symbol of having the brightest colored rocks or the largest gems in the whole tribe. That hasn’t changed much. If it had, we wouldn’t pay through the nose (does that term come from jewellery?) for precious gems and gold. As long as there are humans we will be given to adorning ourselves and structures around us. If you don’t like a particular fashion of body decoration, be assured that within a hundred years it will change again.

I thought she was some thirty-something tortured artiste. Holy shit.

And speaking of young lasses, the Doctor took me to see Lisa Hannigan at Whelan’s last night. Much enthusiasm from my little sister on Facebook and there was obviously much enthusiasm from many at the sold out gig, so I was expecting great things. I’ll leave aside the toadstool lamp and the cutesy boho fairy lights for the minute, that sort of froth can be overlooked if the music transcends it. 

Lisa Hannigan & Rhob Cunningham, originally uploaded by fionamorgan (who was taken out and killed by someone in Hannigan’s entourage shortly after this photo was taken)

UPDATE: Listening to the studio versions at the moment, and, yes, they are far better than what I heard/saw last night. That said, several tracks just seem to go by without much todo, but a couple, for example Pistachio, are excellent.

Beberapa versi sumber sejarah menyatakan bahwa leluhur marga Damanik dan marga-marga lain dalam Suku Simalungun berasal dari Nagore (India Selatan) dan pegunungan Assam (India Timur) di sekitar abad ke-5, menyusuri Birma, ke Siam dan Malaka untuk selanjutnya menyeberang ke Sumatera Timur dan mendirikan kerajaan Nagur dari Raja dinasti Damanik.

Tuan Taralamsyah Saragih menceritakan bahwa rombongan yang terdiri dari keturunan dari 4 Raja-raja besar dari Siam dan India ini bergerak dari Sumatera Timur ke daerah Aceh, Langkat, daerah Bangun Purba, hingga ke Bandar Kalifah sampai Batubara. Pada abad ke-12, keturunan Raja Nagur mendapat serangan dari Raja Rajendra Chola dari India, yang mengakibatkan terusirnya mereka dari Pamatang Nagur di daerah Pulau Pandan hingga terbagi menjadi 3 bagian sesuai dengan jumlah puteranya:

Marah Silau (yang menurunkan Raja Manik Hasian, Raja Jumorlang, Raja Sipolha, Raja Siantar, Tuan Raja Sidamanik dan Tuan Raja Bandar)

Soro Tilu (yang menurunkan marga raja Nagur di sekitar gunung Simbolon: Damanik Nagur, Bayu, Hajangan, Rih, Malayu, Rappogos, Usang, Rih, Simaringga, Sarasan, Sola)

Timo Raya (yang menurunkan raja Bornou, Raja Ula dan keturunannya Damanik Tomok) Selain itu datang marga keturunan Silau Raja, Ambarita Raja, Gurning Raja, Malau Raja, Limbong, Manik Raja,Sagala Raja yang berasal dari Pulau Samosir dan mengaku Damanik di Simalungun.

(dikutip dari friendster morga Damanik : http://profiles.friendster.com/42115435

Morga Damanik memang mempunyai kesamaan bunyi dengan kata “Manik” namun bukan lantas Morga Damanik yang di Simalungun menjadi cabang dari Marga Manik yang di Samosir Toba seperti yang ditulis dalam Tarombo akal-akalan Toba.

Selain Damanik di Simalungun dan Manik yang di Toba juga terdapat Manik dari Pakpak,Manik yang dari Pakpak ini pun juga bukan cabang marga dari Manik yang dari Toba namun berdiri sendiri yaitu merupakan anak dari MPU BADA dengan susunan anak sbb : Tendang menurunkan marga T’ndang,Rea menurunkan marga Banurea dan Manik yang menurunkan marga Manik.

Lalu ketika kedatangan marga Sagala,Malau,Manik,Limbong,Gurning dan Ambarita ke Tanah Simalungun agar bisa diterima dan menetap di Simalungun maka mereka harus berafiliasi dengan morga yang ada di Simalungun yang sudah ditetapkan yaitu SI-SA-DA-PUR (Sinaga-Saragih-Damanik-Purba),entah karena kesamaan bunyi antara Damanik dengan Manik sehingga mereka memilih untuk berafiliasi dengan morga Damanik.

Damanik yang asli Simalungun adalah :

1. Damanik Bayu
2. Damanik Sarasan
3. Damanik Usang
4. Damanik Malayu
5. Damanik Solia
6. Damanik Nagur – Raja Kerajaan Nagur?
7. Damanik Bariba
8. Damanik Rampogos
9. Damanik Barotbot
10. Damanik Hajangan
11. Damanik Simaringga
12. Damanik Rih

Damanik Afiliasi dari Samosir-Toba :

1. Damanik Ambarita
2. Damanik Limbong
3. Damanik Gurning
4. Damanik Malau
5. Damanik Tomok
6. Damanik Sagala

Esta foto es un ejemplo de por qué me caen bien los ingleses:

Foto Diario Adn

Una gente que es capaz de montar cada año, desde el año 1267, un concurso de muecas. Y que sin el menor reparo son capaces de ir con traje y corbata, colgarse un collar de caballo y competir delante de la Reina de Inglaterra por ver quién se pone más feo, gurning lo llaman. Y ojo, la Reina concentradísima observando al ganador.

A mí la verdad es que me hace mucha gracia la capacidad que tienen de mezclar la mayor seriedad con el ridículo más absoluto.

Whiteheaven (Inghilterra), oggi. Il signor Tommy Mattinson, campione mondiale di gurning, dimostra il suo talento. Il gurning è l’antica arte inglese di fare smorfie grottesche con la testa in un collare da cavallo. A destra, la regina di Inghilterra studia la prova.

Le competizioni di gurning, nate nel 1267, ancora oggi si tengono solo alla Fiera di Egremont Crab, vicino a Whiteheaven. In questo, il gurning ricorda altre forme di folklore.