From the pound

In defense of shaddy heritage

2012-02-11T14:53:00.000-08:00

Soon I will be seventy years old, they call that a milestone, so be it. I have been in this Country since nineteen seventy. Since then I have been like a kid in a wonderland, learning things, witnessing events, great, noble, and abominable. For the positive and the negative, I have been a witness in awe.

I have seen and still see in my new compatriots men and women an eagerness to learn about their past and their ancestry. I have seen in them an effort, almost an obsession to, somehow, connect their DNA to some famous or historical figure, prizing some connection to the Pilgrims, the Mayflower, and the Founding Fathers, before, or after. I found this desire, this obsession admirable and even charming.

I have learned to recognize the enormous chasm between the Americans, the people and the Americans, the perception of it by people from outside Countries reacting to the foreign policy of the Country.

The political exercise of all the succeeding Government have had a regrettable result, in foreign lands, to have the most generous Country in the world despised all over the world by people who, paradoxically have a very soft spot for the American people at the same time.

The answer to this paradox originate by the separation between the political life of the US being guided by people who cherish their heritage being descendants of the idealistic (theoretically) groups of those Pilgrims, Founding Fathers and passengers of the early migration and the actual actions of people knowing that their heritage is maybe a little less lofty but in my book much more remarkable.

The descendants of the struggling people, the people who went for broke crossing the Prairie toward the West, the miners, the gamblers and even the descendants of the Lady of little virtue of the Saloons of the West have in their soul the virtues of the desperate. They know of their human imperfection and extract great things out of it. They know that if your neighbor suffers you must help. They know that one who sin must be given understanding and support for a second even a third chance. They know it because they are descendants of people who could not have survived without the support and understanding of their fellow in misery. And all those people are those who make this People admirable, not the descendants of the Mayflower.

On eccenrics next door neighbors

2011-08-20T16:57:00.000-07:00

Living in close proximity of eccentric neighbors/friends can be such an exhilarating thing!. They will help you to reopen your eyes, realize that your life does not have to be defined by the fence of your backyard. That it is OK to fall in love again with your wife of thirty, forty, or fifty years. That a total power blackout is nothing but an incentive to climb in some precarious perch in the dark to sacrifice that nice bottle of Single Malt kept for a special occasion . That a blizzard in South Dakota was a darn good excuse for a crazy snowmobile ride in the streets of the city covered by a few feet of snow, said coverage including of course the patrol cars of said City finest. You learned again that it was OK to mourn the death of a butterfly and that a good movie was worth either some great laugh or a few tears at time. Those are the things that eccentric neighbors next door bring to your life to take it to a higher plane……until that fateful day when they come running, short of breath with that flash of passion in their eyes to inform you of their decision to learn to play either Cello or Bagpipe!

Growing -up at Sixty-Eight.

2011-01-27T09:39:00.000-08:00

There were lots of events and people of the earlier part of my life, awkward, unpleasant and even some painful that I had forgotten, blotted out of my memory. Those were memories of those things or actions of people that do leave you with a bitter taste in your heart, a lingering sadness of the betrayal, rejection or injustice. As I went on in life, somehow I had relegated those memories to some far corners and time had obliterated their memories.

For the great majority of my life I had become a happy guy, jovial, fun loving, able to shrug my shoulders to some of the inevitable bumps in life.

All that came to a screeching halt when during a trip to France, the place where I was born I came in close contact with some relatives that started reminiscing about events from my childhood. There intents were charitable and they did not know that most of the events for which they were telling me how much they fell sorry for me at the time had been relegated to the catacombs of my memory. The floodgates opened and all that caustic memory came back in a huge flow and then resentment showed its ugly face. I dove into somber and sad period of speculation full of “What If “and melancholic speculation of what could have been without the rejection, the benign neglect, lack of affection or support or just some coaching on what life was going to be. Then resentment showed his nasty, grotesque head. People that I have classified as close relatives but without a great feeling of closeness became in my memory monsters from which I wanted no contact or intrusion. The memory of those who had passed away became a source of nightmare. Melancholy and bitterness took over.

Then, little by little, the storm subsided, reason took over and after long period of meditation or self analyses one day the reason for all that inner-drama became blindingly clear: I had forgotten the actions, reject, neglect and injustice. I had buried them if a somber and far corner, away from my consciousness but they had festered away from my consciousness. I had forgotten indeed, but I had also forgotten to forgive.

With that new light on this issue I revisited all those memories and step-by-step I discovered a new truth: Those responsible for all those nasty and troubling memories were not monster!

They were, on their own, victims themselves. They were not acting with malice against the child I was, they were only doing the best with what they knew and understood of life and the circumstances they were facing on their own. There was no dark design in their actions. Their upbringing together with he despair of their country being humiliated, the rough treatment that was imposed on them during the occupation of France in World War Two, had broken something inside them that they could not put back together. So, one by one I started to forgive, to kill the bitterness and resentment. Some of those people are gone and I truly forgive, understand and extend compassion for their suffering. I have a harder time with some of those still with us, but I try to understand their circumstances, I am beginning to forgive, although with the wisdom to try to avoid an exposure to their way.

Little by little the lead cape is lifting and with it come a bright light warming my heart.

I know that I will have now and for ever a new optic and understanding of the way I am impacting the life of those around me.

I also know that I have gained in the process a greater love and an enormous debt of gratitude for the people who accepted among them the troubled adolescent I was and showed me what life is in a warm, loving and accepting family of caring individuals.

Life is much better under that light.

2010-12-16T12:31:00.000-08:00

The Venus of Henry

She came to us on a crisp winter day with all the Pumps and Circumstances of the United State Postal Service. Riding in a Box of the finest cardboard from her exotic country, adorned with the most exquisite fine silver duct tape and the most refined clear packing tape. Inside in an elegant compartment made of the rarest recycled box of a refurbished blender, resting on a bed of the finest popcorn, she was reclining on pillows of rare air-filled bags, reading the Concrete Book of the Wisdom of the Ages. In the most gracious and elegant way she came out of the box and then sat for a while on the Grand Patio under the watchful eyes of the Great Guard. Squirrels and chipmunks, doves and finches came and marveled at the rare sight. There was a current of great pride in the whole population. Finally we would not have to feel lesser than Paris, it’s Louvre and their Venus of Milo! The Venus of Henry was here! Splendid in her entirety, more complete than the poor mutilated Venus of Milo. Our Venus was indeed complete, limbs, warts and all. Her grandiose chest was displaying the Sacred Hieroglyph that a wise and savant passing beagle deciphered to the crowd. All marveled at the bold value of the message: “I Love Chou!” Truly King Henry was a Fine Artist and his muse Julie an Amazing Inspiration as well That was one of those days that generation will remember as a glorious day in our Land and it was good. And the people were grateful!

To a Fallen Hero

2010-09-10T20:02:00.000-07:00

This is a repost of a previous blog in Memoriam.

Rest, little brother…

Looking over the harbor, staring in disbelief at the cloud of dust and smoke rising over Lower Manhattan, the Spirit of Liberty, very sadly, hunched a little bit, slumping her great shoulders.
Slowly the Spirit freed herself from the bonds of her glorious statue. As if coming out of a giant cocoon, deliberately, she left behind the wonderful sculpture forged of copper, steel and tears. As beloved as her statue was, she knew that earthly symbols rise and topple, but she would always be. Eschewing the weight of a monument, she deployed her wings. Those are the great wings that Freedom granted her, when the best of men decided to give hope a chance and bring Liberty to another corner of this little green planet of ours, those are the wings that allow her to soar
However, on this day, this flight was to be a solemn one. Another Child of Man had paid the Price of Freedom. Liberty has to repay the debt. She started flying in direction of what had been the pride of New York. Her torch was dimming a little, her arm was not held so high but her flight of slow, long and deep strokes had the grace of an archangel
She reached the wreckage, shook her head and a tear rolled down her verdigrises cheeks. A sigh shook her chest. She gently parted some giant pieces of rubble, shifted a bit and gently, oh! so gently lifted the lifeless body of a young firefighter from within the chaos.
The brave was covered with dust, soot, and blood; the uniform in tatters but one could see the handsome face, peaceful as if only sleeping. Gently, without dropping her torch the spirit swept some of the debris off the face and body. Like a rag doll, in the full abandon of death.
The Ghost of Liberty stepped out, holding him carefully, with reverence. With majesty, she straightened up, squared her shoulders, and her torch, brighter all of a sudden, was raised up high. Then she started moving, slowly, ceremoniously but in a determined way. Deploying her great wings, she flew, rising toward the heavens. The sky parted as she made her way in what was obviously a holy mission. Giant eagles flew by and dipped their wings in sign of respect, blaring their great cry as if to warn ahead that a sacred flight was on its way
When she reached the Great Gates, there was a double line of the fallen firefighters of yesteryears. The Old Ones, from the Chicago fire, from the San Francisco Earthquake, blackened wet and sooty heroes of Pearl Harbor, sailors and marines killed fighting the fires caused by the Kamikazes aboard the Warships of the Freedom Armada, the brave, beautiful, heroic Fire Jumpers killed defending the Great Forest they loved so much, were there. They were all quiet and solemn: One of their own was coming home.
The Spirit of Liberty whispered “ He gave his life for me” then walked between the two lines of proud men and women fallen to the fires. They presented their hooks, axes and Pulaski in a silent salute as the ghostly figure passed and finally came to a stop. They all formed a large circle around a stall of the purest marble where the Ghost of Liberty gently deposited her charge.
He lay there, lifeless, covered of soot, blood and dirt that somehow looked like a badge of courage and spirit.
They were all silent. Slowly an old Fire Chief, himself covered with the burned badges of his own courage, approached the body of He who had been one of New York’s bravest. He dropped down on one knee, slowly reached out, and rearranged the position of the young hero as if trying to make him more comfortable. He took off his helmet and bowed his head for a moment. He reached out with a callous and blackened hand, moved away a lock of sweaty hair, bend down even more to deposit a gentle kiss on the forehead of the young men. As the young hero slowly opened his eyes and tried to rise, the old Chief gently restrained him and said with a chocked and gravely voice, “ You can rest now, little brother, we’ll guard you. When others cowered and feared, you gave it all and made a nation proud”
September 13, 2001

2010-07-09T09:38:00.000-07:00

The situation in the Gulf, following the BP/Haliburton/Transocean disgrace is really embarrassing and we look to the world like a bunch of people who cannot get their you know what together! We are doing an excellent imitation of the Russian Navy not being able to rescue their own nuclear submarines! Once this mess is sorted out and hopefully resolved some drastic actions are needed to avoid a repeat of this disgrace. Yes new rules have to be put in place and a new watcher has to be charged with the enforcement! Lest it be an enforcer with sharp teeth and claws! We also need to put all the research and technology development executed by the US Navy for their Submarine rescue equipment, the CIA for the Glomar Explorer, get the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution involved for their Navy contract and Titanic program and others together and create an independent agency financed by a the industry and capable to create and operate the technology needed to insure the safety and rescue of all underwater operations. In case of accident similar to the present snafu., lets give a very short time to the operator to resolve the issue. If after that period the problem is not resolved, the property is to be immediately deemed abandoned, the new agency moves in with all their means and technology and resolve the problem. The site will then be treated according to the Rule of the Sea where an abandoned vessel becomes the property of the salvage operator. Give the option to the previous operator to buy back at cost plus. If the option is not exercised in a timely manner then the US must takes over the well and use the crude for the purpose of the National Strategic Reserve. If their is a short end to the present stick, lets turn it around!

Reflection on a Passing

2009-12-04T10:12:00.000-08:00

Virginia Haggardt was born in Sturgis, South Dakota November 15, 1914. She passed away on Thanksgiving Day 2009 in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
Virginia was born in a Sturgis far different of the image that most people have of it today because of the association with the motorcycle rally held there for the last sixty-nine years. During the event the town is buried in thousands and thousand of loud, rambunctious motorized revelers, then when the last rumble echoes down the hills, the town return to its tranquil life of a little town of roughly six thousand people.
For Virginia, Sturgis and the Black Hills would be the place where she would return time and time over looking for solace, reprieve and sweet memories when life was getting a little too harsh.
She was the daughter of Al Bodley, known by his family as “Sonny”, and his wife Alice Davenport herself known as Oshie.
Sonny was a tall handsome man born in 1880 in a farm in Ohio. A bit of an athlete he became a semi professional Baseball player at the turn of the Century. Eager for a larger horizon than the one offered by a farm boy life, Sonny became a traveling Safe salesmen in the Midwestern states while studying law on his own. He “read” his law degrees and became a lawyer, as was the practice at the time.
Oshie was the daughter of a couple of early settlers of the Black Hills of South Dakota. Her Dad had been a drummer boy in the Union Army during the Civil War and her mother actually walked thru the Plains to join her husband in Sturgis. They where a couple of Pioneers displaying both the ruggedness needed for survival in the early times of the Gold Rush and the Civility and Culture of New England. Oshie character was a reflection of those values, holding her place well in the life in the hills but send out to an Eastern University for a “Proper Education”, an unusual combination in those times.
Sonny fell in love with Oshie and then started the Herculean task of not only gaining the love of Oshie but also chiseling his way thru the stout defenses of the father of the bride to be and the enormous reticence of the big brother of Oshie, Jarvis Davenport, who was not about letting his “Little Sister” get victimized by some sweet talking stranger.
Sonny’s task was finally met with success. Oshie and Sonny got married and in November 15, 1914 Virginia was born.
Upon Sonny’s return from World War One the family moved to Sioux Falls.
Virginia childhood was an easy, privileged and magical one. She would enjoy the education of a small private Episcopal School in Sioux Falls (All Saints School) where she formed some lifelong friendship. Virginia recalled those times and most vividly the times when the family had to take only showers since the access of the bathtub was hindered by Sonny’s use of it to manufacture home made gin during the Prohibition. Her vacation where spend back in Sturgis where she enjoyed careening thru the hills, standing on the footboard of the car of her Idol: her uncle Jarvis Davenport.
She became a respectable equestrian, equally at ease on a Western or English saddle and was at time opening the parade of the Days of Seventy-Six in nearby Deadwood, riding the Golden Horse. She inherited from Jarvis as well a wicked game of Gin Rummy.
It is during those times that she acquired a strong spiritual attachment to a place in the Hills known by the family as “The Dams”. That is where the roots of the family belong and it was Virginia’s Camelot. Throughout her life, when things were getting a little to hard or that a source of strength was needed, Virginia would go back to the dams, the cabins in the wood and the traces of the lives of her ancestors.
In line with the family traditions, Virginia was send to the College of William and Mary, Williamsburg, Virginia from where she graduated in 1937. Those where the times of the railroad travel and of the Great Depression.
Upon graduation Virginia worked as a Social Worker in Custer South Dakota.
In 1942 she was married and from that union two daughters were born, my wife Virginia (Jinny) and Julie. The family lived in Santa Barbara.
In 1944 Virginia and her husband build a lodge in her beloved Black Hill: the Powder House in Keystone, still operating under this name today. Virginia memories of those times were of challenges, hope, excitement and the struggle of trying to keep her Chef within the confine of relative sobriety. They had hired the only decent chef available in the area. The gentlemen had a respectable culinary reputation and was known Hills-wise as the maker of the most outstanding “Truite Au Bleu” in the area, providing, off course, that he was kept sober long enough to practice his magic. Trying to keep the housekeeping staff, mainly local college kids out of trouble was also a titanic job since the fresh air of the hills seemed to have an invigorating effect on said teenagers libido.
Her daughter getting older and close of school age brought the sale of the Lodge and the family moved to California. There Virginia would see the end of her marriage and find herself alone to raise her two daughters. She returned to Sioux Falls and lived there for the rest of her life taking care of her aging parents as well.
Virginia never remarried.
Her intellectual and spiritual curiosity became the driving force of her life.
She traveled extensively in the US and abroad, visiting England, France, Italy, Germany, Israel, Egypt and Brazil.
Virginia faith drove her to a deep involvement in her Church as a very active member and also a Lay Minister. She studied in depth all subject within her grasp, sometime with great success, some other time with maybe, a little less success. One point in particular was her adventures in the Choir motivating her at time to give a demonstration of her perceived vocal ability, to the great dismay of the family left in that event without a way of escape. Her singing, of a very high pitch trembled voice, of traditional Episcopalian Hymns would have, no doubt, brought the fear of God to the most harden, barbaric atheist tribes of the savage world.
Her strong intellectual curiosity prompted her to dive deep in research on the saga of Luther Pendragon and King Arthur and the Sciences of the Mind from ESP and Mind Control to the power of Pyramids. Her family was at time very concerned, but in fact it was not as much an eccentricity out of control than a deep thirst for knowledge and the desire to see if there was any meat on some of those sometime mythical bones.
Virginia met all the setbacks of her life; they were all severe, with grace and dignity. A distinguished equestrian she was, because of a spinal injury, unable to ride after the birth of her children’s. An avid reader she suffered of macular degeneration causing an almost total blindness in the later years of her life and a serious hearing impairment brought almost total silence in her life.
Throughout all the difficulties of the later part of her life, Virginia endured.
On the morning of Thanksgiving Day 2009 Virginia had difficulties waking up but with nursing help was able to get up. She joined her companions of the Hospice of Dow Rummel in Sioux Falls for lunch and after a quiet day retired in the evening, went to bed and passed away in her sleep.
Virginia was a gracious, generous and loving mother in law to me.
If there are hills in the Heaven of her Faith I know they will be her favorite place and if there are Parade in Heaven, I know, deep in my heart, that Virginia will be leading it riding the Golden Horse.
Enjoy Heaven, Virginia Haggardt, you deserve it and earned that honor on Earth.
We miss you already.

Memorial Day reflexions.

2009-05-23T21:48:00.000-07:00

I have this image, engraved deep in my memory. It is the image of a little guy; his nickname was “ John-John”. His Dad John Fitzgerald Kennedy was President of the United State.

I do not know if, on this day, John-John really fully understood what was really happening. Somehow, John-John was in the process of saying a last farewell to his assasinated Dad whose coffin was hidden under the Flag draped on the back of an artillery caisson. Soldiers Airmen and Sailors were giving a salute to the Fallen Commander in Chief.

There is always a lot of formal pageantry in the Last Farewell in military circles. A rigid and solemn motion expresses grief. The last Homage is no trivial expression; it is the solemn sign of respect for one who has paid the ultimate price in service of the Nation.

John-John, I am sure was not aware of all the traditions involved, but somehow, seeing all those proud soldiers giving this hard and strong salute a need came to join in and pay homage on that fashion, his hand raised to his forelocks and, I am sure that this moment his voice was silent but his heart was screaming a lot and an immense feeling of respect and sadness for loosing his beloved Dad was engulfing the precious child.

I have not been a child for a long time; I am what you would kindly describe as an older guy, in someways, a precursor of Baby Boomers by only a few years. Tomorrow on Memorial Day, however, I will not go shopping or try to take advantage of some special bargain; instead I will try very hard to catch the spirit of all the John-Johns of this nation. I will keep my words trivial and abstains of long boring speech but my heart will scream of the pain of the lost of all those who fell for their country and the pain of their loved one. I will try to find a quiet place where without being showy or conspicuous I can, like John-John raise my right hand to my forelocks in the old sailor salute and rend homage to their sacrifice.

Somehow if that can reach some place where they rest, may it bring them comfort,

If there is a God , may He receive my message and accept it as a prayer to keep those fallen and their loved ones in the kindness of His Special Attention. That will be my main task on Memorial Day.

From the pound

2009-04-01T21:14:00.000-07:00

From the pound

2009-04-01T21:02:00.001-07:00

Medical Day in the Inland Empire.

They’re something funky going on the upper left side of my heart and the lower left side of my diaphragm is not functioning normally. So basically my Liberal side is going to pot while my Conservative side is holding the fort! How humiliating! If I keel over I better keep away from the Kennedy’s and Roosevelt’s for fear of disapprobation and I be damned if Nixon’s people try to welcome me!

I have been running from one Doctor Office to the other all day with no result! Men! I need a Stimulus Package all for myself! I've been poked, ultra sounded, taped, stetoscopized and pressurized. I need a nice glass of decent Beaujolais! Chambertin, Pommard anybody?

I'm not really worrying: I'm not that important!

2009-03-15T21:02:00.000-07:00

Saturday was a great day. Jinny and I drove to Manhattan Beach to meet a long lost relative. The last time we saw Martha was a long, long time and the little girl we saw last has blossom into a beautiful lady.

Our lunch (at no other place than an eatery called:……”Martha’s Place”) was full of recounting of old memories and when the staff of the restaurant started piling the chairs on the tables, we quickly understood the subtle hint that almost four O’clock was considered, in that part of the country, as being outside of the conventional lunch hour.

After good and strong embraces and multi promises and commitment that the next time would not be counted in multiple decades, we went our separate ways; Martha to her host place and us back home by the way of Pacific Coast Highway.

Soon, the lunch started indicating a serious difference of opinion with my digestive system, and by the time we reached Newport Beach I was rumbling like an old truck and not comfortable at all. I pulled up to a convenience store and made a straight line for a lone mini-bottle of Pepto Bismol that looked at the time like the incarnation of Paradise on hearth. I plopped my money in front of the clerk who after the customary fiddling with scanner and cash register promptly gave me my change. As I was putting my change back in my wallet I realized that the guy had given me the change of a $10.00 and I remembered going to the ATM this morning and getting a brand spanking new $20.00 who joined a couple of single or three. The guy just tried to stiff me of ten bucks! I promptly called the guy on it, he denied the fact, a line started building up behind me, the clerk got frustrated and screwed-up the change of the customer behind me, leading him to join my camp! Tension was building. Then Jinny, who had been wondering what took so long, walked in and after a quick appraisal of the situation joined, nay! Took over the protest. So needless to say the clerk was now way out of his league and finally caved in, gave me back the extra Ten. With the Warrior Queen at my side I walked out of the store vindicated, while the aforementioned Warrior Queen was expressing in no uncertain term her strong denunciation of the questionable ethics of convenience store, their staff and the clerk of the particular one we came out from in particular.

As I sat behind the wheel of the car, I noticed a crumbled paper bag in the driver’s door pocket. The bag had contained two ham and cheese croissants that I had bought this morning in our way in. And I now remembered paying for those croissants and two drinks……with my brand new $20.00 Bill. The need for the Pepto Bismol was now imperative and after ravaging the mini-bottle I walked back to the store. I am pretty sure that when he saw me at the counter the clerk must have tried frenetically to remember where the panic button was located and I am also sure have wished with all his heart that he could have been an active and side packing member of the National Rifle Association.

I meekly apologized for my mistake and the clerk turned out to be a gentleman about it.

No doubt, that young man is a better man than me.

So last Sunday we got reunited with a long lost relative and I discovered a solid chunk of evil in my soul. May I keep the first one a long time and earn the wisdom to loose the second.

Trouble brewing

2009-01-25T15:34:00.000-08:00

Yup! The pooches are not fooling me! I know that the Chihuahua of the next-door neighbors has put a contract on the Angora cat from the green house AND I also know that the Bulldogs Leopold and Mimi are planning the hit in cahoots with the Poodle (a.k.a. the French Connection) from across the street. Off course the local cop (The Irish Wolfhound of the Blue House) is way to busy sniffing some fluffed up Pomeranian to pay attention to the shenanigan. I know that all together there are some skeletons in the closet, even if the slick Terrier of the Tudor on the left (the Consigliore of the Chihuahua) keep on barking that those bones are only the reserve of the large family of Pugs of the Mormon family living in the large house with the stripped awnings. There is trouble in Fire Hydrant City my friends! And it’s Doggy Mafia spelled with a D and an M!

Now the damned cat is not helping the situation either. Flicking off the bulldogs from the branches of the tree in the front yard was really a dumb way to add oil to the fire and the musical serenade under the window of the cute Tabby from the house in the corner at 2:00 O’clock in the morning was downright unnecessary. Although both bulldogs snoring their heads off at the time did not seem to be disturbed, the Chihuahua was plum pissed of! And not shy about it either, until he got hit by the left slipper of the Master of the House and went back yelping into his basket to plot his revenge.

Now I am a quiet guy, just trying to get along and all that gang activity is disturbing my peace of mind. I thought the neighborhood was safe after the couple of white supremacist German Sheppard moved out. They had been involved in a few arguments with the two nice Pointers mix of the Graham house, barking slogans about the need to maintain racial purity. I think that the Grahams dogs handled the situation just right by first lifting a hind leg to a tree and then pointing across the street, an action that I take as a figurative way to say “Piss Off “ in doggy language. That was a small incident in comparison to the gang warfare brewing today. Well, lets hope that spring will come soon and with it a couple of females in heat, a situation that, no doubt will redirect the attention of the canine population of the block, until a new Postman comes in!

Call me Joseph

2009-01-05T21:30:00.000-08:00

I am the proud father of three kids, if you can hang that description on three characters born in the early seventies. Or if you want me to be more specific I have a son and two daughters in the full throw of adulthood. So far so good.

When the story of my family turn to the really weird sector is that this gentlemen (father of a daughter on his own), and those two ladies (one mother of a boy and a girl, the other one convinced that she is the dotting mother of two English Bulldogs, no kidding!) are absolutely convinced that they are the result of immaculate conception! Yup all three of them.

Their minds, pretty astute in some very advanced area of either communication and cinematographic art, cardiac imaging, child rearing, trip planning, party throwing and other speculative and operative area comes to a screeching halt when the subject of their conception is broached.

They are not in any way, shape or form able to handle the concept that their creation was the result of sexual activity of two (very) consenting adults. No! No deal!

Any conversation coming even close to the subject is immediately interrupted by loud protest, covering of head and flat refusal to go there!

That is a little puzzling at the least.

For starter, I should know since I was there.

I also know that if my sweet and gentle spouse should have, at the time, started the conversation, some evening around the fireplace or the pool, by informing me that she had received the visit of an archangel and consequently was going to give birth to a child my first reaction would have been a good laugh. Upon her insistence the conversation would have taken a very interesting turn with me trying to find out what kind of stuff said sweet spouse had ingested, sniffed or smoked in the recent past. Thing going any further could have brought me to an early stage of planning of discovery of the location of the archangel with the goal of paying him a visit, in company of my favorite baseball bat, off course.

Any attempts to explain to my kids the error of their thinking as failed miserably and will I am afraid never reached a successful conclusion.

So…call me Joseph….. And NO I do not do cabinetry!

Good night.

Letter to Santa

2008-12-21T21:26:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa,

You might be surprised to receive a letter from me since I have not sent you one for the last fifty-nine years, if memory serves me well.

I sincerely apologize for the lack of communication.

For a long time I considered letter to Santa as childish, and frankly, a waste of time, paper and postage. Then I started looking at the record of my grand children and was amazed of the effectiveness of the Santa Letter. I am no master of statistic but at last count their batting averages on Letters to Santa Vs. what end up under the tree is pretty darn good.

But first, with your permission I would like to discuss with you the issue of the lump of coal. Off course I am not expecting any, since on the criminal or just plain naughty department I score a way below average If I look at the activities reported by the newspaper and compare to my daily activities I come to the conclusion that I am actually involved in a rather boring life totally void of criminal excitement. Beside I know of a few people in Wyoming, Montana, Illinois etc. who must have been totally rotten and now own a tremendous amount of coal and seem perfectly happy about it. So the use of this stuff as a deterrent is counterproductive; and I am not even going to touch on the ecological issue. You are a fair-minded person and I know you will understand.

Now as far as my Christmas wishes are concerned : I am going to give you a wide list with the understanding that I do not expect everything but want to give a field of options. In spite of the real need to restart our economy most of my wishes cannot be bought in store.

So here we go.

Hip discomforts and flatulence got to go! After a long drive or a long period of time spent sitting on a hard seat I would like to be able to stand up without walking like a bad string marionette and the rest is not pleasant either. If you can take care of those two it would be swell.
All my life I dreamt to be one of those heroes climbing the Everest. However I am lazy and subject to procrastination. Beside, my service in the Navy punctuated by the regular NBC (Nuclear, Biological and Chemical) protection training gave me a strong aversion to any type of breathing apparatus. I also totally lack any kind of ability in the Nepalese language making communication with a trusty Sherpa very problematic. The fact that I do not believe my employer would be willing to give me the time needed is also a huge consideration. So, in view of all that, if you could regroup (for a short time off course) the Everest (and if that is not too much trouble the Anapurna, K2, Kilimandjaro, Mount Fuji and Mount McKinley) let say in Southern California (Camp Pendleton would be fine if you can work it out with the Marine Corp) and reduce them to a workable altitude of say..150 feet so a few friends and family can nail those bad guys in one after noon between burger and beer at noon and sauerkraut and bratwurst in the evening. I would be very grateful. Off course I will be sure that you receive all credit.
One afternoon with Ben Franklin, shooting the breeze over a pint of Colonial style Cider and one of those fine clay pipe filled with fine Virginia tobacco from before the time they turned that stuff into a chemical dump would be swell. I promise not to mention the stuff about all those parisien gals. What happen in Paris stays in Paris, sorry Vegas!
A 1960 Cadillac Coupe de Ville Convertible, non polluting and running on Biofuel would be grand. Love them fins!
Whats’his name, the dude from The Mentalist TV series having one episode during which he display either a wart on his face or snut hanging from his nose for the entire said episode. That request is for the purpose of allowing me one evening without having my sweet wife Jinny, Daughter Deb and the juvenile bulldog Mimi swooning each time that guy is shown on screen. I do not want the guy to sustain any permanent injury, just a chance to recalibrate the libido of the bunch. Would be really nice, thank you.
Once in a while, the Sun to go over the yardarm before five O’clock so I would not have to stand, very cold shaker in hand, in front of the liquor cabinet counting “four fifty nine and forty seconds, four fifty nine and fifty seconds… One Saturday a month at let say three O’clock would be just peachy, thank you.
Gas at thirty-five cents to the gallon would be super! I do not even need an attendant to clean my windshield and give me a cool printed glass.

If you could work any one or a combination of those it would be a great Christmas present and as you can see… no money to be spend in store nor waiting in line at the register.

Off course a terrific cookie and glass of milk will be waiting for you on Christmas Eve. I would leave you some of my terrific eggnog, but sorry Santa you’re driving. But I’ll give you a rain check on the eggnog!

Thank you for your kind attention.

Best regards

Dan Faye

November 11

2008-11-11T20:13:00.000-08:00

Ninety years ago, on November Eleven of the year Nineteen Eighteen at eleven AM, in a fancy railroad car parked in Rethonde in the great Forest of Compiegne France the belligerents of World War One came to their senses and signed an accord of Armistice.

Guns would stop and bells would ring.

What was left of an entire generation listened to those bells in disbelief, needing some time to realize that they would get out of the trenches alive and go back home. Many, many more would never have that chance, it was too late for them, all eight millions of them. But at least, for the lucky ones, sweetheart would be reunited, parents would get their sons and daughters back, sons and daughters would get their parents back.

At first we celebrated that day as Armistice Day, then when the War To End All Wars did not keep its promises and more conflicts ebbed and flowed, some more Armistice where signed and soon we changed this celebration to Veterans Day in the US, Remembrance Day in the British Commonwealth.

On this day we honor the sacrifice of all the Veterans, men and women, draftees and volunteers.

We should also honor those who stayed behind in fear, parents, loved ones, children living in anguish, living with the guttural fear of two men in uniform knocking at the door to announce that a loved one would not be coming back and seat among his/her family and friends. Those are also in their own way Veterans to be honored. A folded flag and the gratitude of a nation cannot fix the hole in your heart where the hope of getting reunited with a loved one was kept.

I was born in France during the Second World War and as all Europeans of my generation, I share in the enormous debt of gratitude owed to the men and women who fought to give us another chance to be free.

I am now an American Citizen and I know that with all the benefits I received with my citizenship came also a large share of the debts owed to the Veterans and their loved ones.

I am not a religious men in the sense of belonging to a Church but I pray to God, whatever is name is, to hold all those Veterans and their kins in the Palm of his hand and to look kindly on them. They have given more that their share. Thank you the chance to be free you gave to me and my family.

Kris Kristopherson

2008-10-25T23:56:00.000-07:00

Jinny and I went to a benefit concert today. I was at one of the winery in Temecula.
Seating outside under the star we enjoyed an very nice dinner al fresco. Then the show started with a the opener of a Spanish guitar player whose performance included some very good flamenco numbers.
The music was good, the food tasty and the local Pinot Grigio helped setting the stage for what ended up being an unbelievable emotional roller coaster.
I am not a great connoisseur of country music; I only knew that Kris Kristofferson would be the main attraction of the evening.
His set started with some song I recognized from old time: “Me and Bobby McGee”, “Jody and the kid”, “Sunday Mornin’ coming down”, “Derby’s Castle”, “ Help me make it trough the night”.
The magic of the simple melodies, the raspy voice, the honesty of a delivery without pretension, reached out deep into me and soon I was not in the courtyard of a winery in the middle of a charity fundraiserany longer.
Some songs took me way back to some better times and some other one to bitter sadder times.
The music and songs of that men standing alone on a simple stage were really tearing my soul, at time feelings of joy or tenderness were rolling in, at time I was chasing tears.
I felt again the boozy loneliness of a confused kid in sailors uniform in the bars of the infamous Chicago area of Toulon France or in the cold foggy night of Recouvrance in Brest, trying to convince himself that he was a tough and heroic warrior but not able to accept what he saw in Algeria nor willing to ask if he was on the right side.
Then another set would come and other feelings would swamp me. Songs dedicated to his kids would send me back to the time when my own kids were still very physically close to me and trying to open there wings before the heartbreak of the departure in their own flight to freedom.
Some song brought me back to the time when Jinny came into my life and gave me the breath of a new life in allowing me to take a look at it from another vintage.
I felt a deep kinship to his spirit when the song were condemning the use of war and the stupidity of the arrogance of claiming to bring freedom to people by bombing them back to the stone age.
I was not a sixty year old men anymore, my emotion were raw and to the surface. Some songs brought tear to my eyes, some put a lump in my throat, some raised my indignation and some brought a warm glow of tenderness.
When the show was over I felt drained but somehow cleansed and could not resist the impulse to thank Jinny for being part of my life.
That was a good evening.

Of deers and two pretty cool women in my life

2008-10-21T20:18:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, I was driving my daughter Debi to the dentist in Orange County. We were driving on the infamous Ortega Highway that on top of being a site of horrendous motorcycle accidents is notorious for the large amount of road kill. Beside crossing a couple of free spirited villages with an hefty population of free roaming dogs and cats, providing a fairly heavy percentage of the road fatalities the highway is traveling thru the Cleveland National Forest and it is a rare day when one does not have to drive by the carcass of a rabbit, skunk, fox, coyote, bearcat or even deer. I hate those moments and feel a large amount of guilt about being part of the problem.
On this day, on the approach of San Juan Capistrano, we drove by a dead deer and a quarter of a mile later by the car responsible for the killing. I was very troubled and felt my throat a little tight at the thought of the killing of an innocent animal for the sake of a right a way. I noticed that Debi was a little too quiet and turned to look at her, and that beautiful young women look at me with tear rolling out of her eyes and gently sobbed with a desperate anger: “That not fair Dad! It was his country! And we shoved a road through it” I was not able to carry much of a conversation at this time, able only to give her a gentle tap on her laps.
The other morning, driving to work with my wife Jinny on the same highway, coming to the Forest Service Fire Station next to the lower San Juan bridge, we came across another deer, visibly hit by another car, but still alive, prone on the side of the road, heads up, unable to stand and get away. The sight greatly disturbed me, as I was turning toward Jinny, I saw this stern look on her face, as without any hesitation she pulled her cell phone out and called 911. No other seemed to react as they sped by the incident.
I do not know what the outcome was. But tonight, as I seat her on my computer reminiscing, my eyes get a bit misty and I realize how proud I am of the humanity of those two wonderful women in my life.

A General,s work is never done!!

2008-10-01T14:02:00.000-07:00

Napoleon was first and foremost a military man and as such was the origin of some of the tenets of modern warfare.

My point here is not to debate if he was good or evil, a tyrant or something else.

I only want to use a little part of some of his military philosophy.

Among some his favorite phrases were “ De l’audace, toujour de l’audace, encore de l’audace » dear to Georges Scott’s Patton, “ un grenadier porte son baton de Marechal dans son havresack » meaning that even the lowly grenadier has a chance to accede to the high rank of Field Marshal (Many of his Field Marshal came in fact from the Rank)’ then there is the one I need for this story: “Une armee voyage sur son estomac” (An army travel on its stomach). Loosing sight of this truism was a major contributor to his 1812 debacle.

But enough with the little guy!

The image included in this blog shows that in fact if an army travels on its stomach, when the traveling is over, the focus point shift a bit lower.

The picture is an image of a General Order of Operation issued by the French General Brissaud-Desmaillet, Commandant of the 127^th Division dated of May 3, 1919. At the end of World War One that particular Division was occupying the Sarre before the government of this part of the German Nation was handed over to the League of Nation to be held from 1920 to 1935. The rest of course is History.

The order reads as follow:

127^th Division.

General Headquarter, 1^st Bureau.

Number 3,233/1 of GHQ

Order General Of Operation- 3^rd Section.

Monopolization of the Public Houses (1) by the Riflemen.

The General has received several anonymous letters from scouts, infantrymen and cavalrymen complaining about not being able to gain access to the houses of tolerance (2), monopolized by the riflemen operating in large groups. The later staying too long in exercise and causing frequent traffic jams.

The Administration Superior of the Sarre and our Municipal Authorities is in the process of augmenting sizably the population of filles de joie (3) but in the meantime while the population is being reinforced it is paramount that the riflemen demonstrate more expeditiousness in their endeavors. Instructions will be offered on this subject.

The General Commanding the Division

Signed: Brissaud- Desmaillet

(1) and (2) are elegant ways to avoid calling a cat a cat and refer to houses popularized by our House of the Rising Sun ballad.

(3) is also shooting for the same effect in regard to the ladies working in theses houses.

While it might not be of the highest moral standards I personally wishes that our Generals and assorted Defense Secretaries could have been concentrating on issues similar to the above instead of the massacre presently still unfolding.

Rabelaisian musing in a high-speed elevator leading to an unanswered scientific speculation

2008-09-29T20:45:00.000-07:00

So we spend last weekend in Las Vegas. Mostly doing the tourist thing, gawking around like children in Toyland, soaking up the kitsch and the over-the-topness of the entire architectural set up of the city. Our challenging budget dictated our stay in a slightly out of the way Hotel Casino by the name of South Pointe. A place that we really enjoyed.
Upon our arrival, we promptly checked in and were directed to our room at the seventeen floor of the main tower.
In order to accelerate the elevator delivery of the guest to the proper level the elevator where divided in two groups: one run of the mill conventional bunch traveling from the ground to the 15th floor, dispatching its load at a respectable but conventional speed. The other group was a little more of the Cap Canaveral persuasion, delivering a very well felt positive G-force on departure and a tangible negative G on arrival anywhere from the 16th floor to the nearest Space Station. To put it in highly technical terms: at first your feet and head wanted to follow up and your stomach resisted the take off then your head and feet stopped on arrival to destination but your stomach wanted to keep on going to the next floor. Amazing sensation rendered even more interesting after partaking to a few of the complimentary drinks generously circulated in the Casino proper.
It is on the second trip up that I experienced a rather Rabelaisian moment rich in speculative musing.
As we entered the elevator we were followed in by a couple of fifty/sixty something ladies. The lady next to me could have been responding to a moniker such as Flo, Bernice or other of the same class. Hot pants, net stockings, a hairdo that must have required a sizeable amount of lacquer to hold together a marvel in bouffemanship. Strong, deep, gravely voice result of decades of Bloody Marys and countless cartons of Malboros 100’s with one of those laugh sounding amazingly like the dumping of a full load of a quarry truck. What was really grabbing your attention (want it or not!) was what sailor would prudishly describe as a generous foredeck. Something reminiscent of one of those very revealing peasant blouse hiding a masterpiece of cantilever engineering propping up and containing a respectable acreage of gently undulating and fully uncovered bosom. A gentler version of Shock and Awe.
During my (very discreet mind you) contemplative phase, the elevator took off, somehow amplifying the undulation. I would swear that one could actually witness wave build up. Then my contemplation suddenly switch to a panicky speculative state when I remembered my previous experience with the deceleration associated with the arrival to the designated floor. I knew my feet and head would stop willingly, my stomach reluctantly. I also knew that my temporary traveling companions would experience the same effect, the question was: would the generous foredeck stop willingly or would it attempt to defy the deceleration and cause the poor lady to get slapped by a pair of anti-gravitational boobs?As my question was about to be answered, Jinny administered one of her mighty elbow strike to my side, redirecting my attention just long enough for me to be left with an unanswered speculation

Weekend in the jungle

2008-09-28T21:14:00.000-07:00

So here we are, back home after a two and half day saga that took us from Newport Beach, where my better half Jinny works, to Las Vegas and back home to Murrieta.
A bit over five hundred miles of tight formation driving, almost a fifth of it spend memorizing the license plate of the vehicle in front of me while we were zipping thru the Mojave Dessert at the break-neck speed of a shade above six and three quarter of a mile per hour. We broke the monotony of the trek by bellowing some of the Golden Oldies of the fifties and sixties specially selected by Sirius and a couple of highly technical discussions on first the Joshua Trees (Tree or Cactus?) followed by a serious inquest on who the heck Joshua was. Then on the way back as we traveled across one of those Space Oriented Paranoiac Sections of the trip we stumbled on billboard advertising Alien Jerky that of course opened another field of speculation briskly interrupted by Jinny’s classifying my very interesting dissertation as Gruesome and to be dropped!
The purpose of the trip was to attend the Cher concert at the Coliseum of Caesar’s Palace, an event that I carefully and secretly prepared as a birthday present for Jinny.
Most of the trip was good, what was not was the note posted at the door of the Coliseum informing us that the Diva was not well, therefore the show was cancelled. That was an unpleasant surprise but could have been handled with philosophy if the note would not have ended by an invitation to visit the box office if any questions needed accommodation. Easier said than done. The approach of the Box Office was blocked by a group of attendants loaded with reams of the same note posted at the door and who’s answer to any question was to shove a copy of the note in your hand and proceed to the next shoving. By the mean of Old Age Treachery and Intrigue we finally reached the Box Office where a very proper gentlemen explained, with the pained look on his face of a men suffering chronic constipation, that he understood our disappointment, that nothing could be done and that we would receive full refund “in a few days”. Since that solution did not reach Jinny’s expectations, the discussion cranked up to the next level. With a larger pain in his eyes the men condescended to offer a magnanimous solution. “Come back in a few days, say Tuesday or Wednesday evening and see us. If a few seats are available we might be able to squeeze you in”. A great silence fell on the crowd ( composed of a few couples from Toronto (Canada), Michigan USA and Riverside County, CA) while that crowd was trying to register that beauty and wonder if the guys was daft, cruel or reality impaired. The guy misunderstood the silence and decided to offer an explanation that he was sure was going to clear up the issue on the spot. Off course, the Casino kept a lot of tickets on hand, you know: for their better Customer. Which obviously we were not!
As I heard loud words that I did no know the people of Toronto, Canada were capable of using, I barely was able to catch Jinny’s pointed finger darting for the PR wonder’s eyeballs and concurrently heard the people from Michigan equally loudly disclose some details on the sexual conduct of a couple of the female ancestors of said PR wonder. I am still wondering if they were bluffing and if the grandma’s in question did in fact make salty and depraved history in Upper Michigan.
Then first storming out.
Right in the middle of the First Storming Out, Jinny came to the obvious conclusion that the guy was a man. You know, the insensitive barbarian and selfish almost half of the human specie!
Surely a woman would handle that crisis much better. The Charge of the Light brigade made an instant 180 and darted back for the Box Office Counter where, Thank God! The Great Diplomat was condescending another group of pilgrims.
A lady was alone at one of the station, prim, proper and, oh my how, viciously constipated and morose, bravely facing her cross, having to deal with those people so ungrateful of having been inconvenience by a great Diva, the Great Casino and the wonderful Coliseum.. After a round of Going Nowhere, Part Two, Jinny then demanded an immediate cash refund, so she could at least go see her second choice (The Jersey Boys). The Morose one stated that it would be impossible, since the ticket had been purchased thru Ticketmaster who was therefore holding our money and will be returning it in four or five days.
I could already feel the earth trembling a little bit, while Jinny’s boiler was starting to gently rumble and the pressure was climbing. Jinny declared that she wanted to talk to somebody from TicketMaster Right Now to get her money back. That is exactly when the poopoo hit the fan! The Morose One declared in an amazingly superior way: “Well, you can't……..” and with a fluttering waving motion of the hand declared: “ they are somewhere…… in South Dakota”
Let me digress for a second, for the interest of the story, I have to tell you that Jinny’s ancestors came by wagon train from the East Coast to settle the South Dakota Territory, They went in the Black Hills they were among the founders of a little City located next to a Cavalry Fort ( Fort Mead) originally called Scoop Town later to become Sturgis. You can mess with her food, step on her feet or wake her up at night, no problem. But DO NOT Mess With South Dakota in front of her or ELSE.Needless to say that we will never in our present form cross the threshold of Caesar Palace, Jinny made me change the Sirius Channel when Cher started crooning and we had a delightful evening playing Poker at the bar of our hotel, getting multi comp’d drinks and striking a very interesting conversation with the bartender that Jinny dubbed a “Very Nice Men” after the third large and free Cosmopolitan.. She won ten bucks, I broke even and that’s the way it was this weekend.

Passing on the other side……Is there one?.

2008-09-16T22:20:00.000-07:00

My son Denis has been dealing lately with one of the inescapable unpleasantness of life: the loss of friends or people we somehow care about.

It is the ultimate milestone. One day here… the next day, only a memory.

Death is truly the ultimate question mark thrown at us, for the simple reason that we really do not have a tangible proof of what happen next.

It throw us in the horrible state of mind to rehash the thing we wish we would have done or said when it was still time. That is really the ultimate case of hindsight being 20/20!

Religion, per Lenine: the Opium of the People, tell us of various concepts: from a recycling in the way to Perfection, Heaven or Hell (the black or white approach) or the Catholic twist of the in-between Purgatory before Joy or Roasting! Then there is two more options: becoming pure spirit or just the light goes off! I do not believe we will find the solution until we become the subject of the exercise..

Salvation is kind of cool but so far nothing distinguish it positively from a wishful thinking.

I agree with Voltaire when I look at our universe and cannot understand how this enormously complex clock can ticks without the benefit of a Supreme Clockmaker. That does not mean that I buy into any of the available religious program since I look at all of them as basically flawed experiments or great exercise in hypocrisy. The Big Bang is a cool concept but I keep having this nagging question in my mind: What was going on before, and before before?

I have seen in old Conservative Catholic Europe of the Fifties and Sixties innumerable life ruined by the edict of a religion out of touch with real life. I have seen in Africa and in the Society Island the wrecking of civilizations and social organization by missionaries totally oblivious of the destruction wrought by their effort to transform old balanced and harmonious civilization to “Decent Christian Society” with all its ill and hypocrisy. I wholeheartedly follow Mark Twain who when told that some of his excess would certainly earn him a ticket to Hell declared that he had been acquainted with a few of the preacher and other assorted Holly People evidently destined for the Pearly Gates of Heaven and that he would gladly spend eternity in Hell rather than any prolong time in their company.

I do not know if I have a soul or not. I believe in harmony, kindness and respect of my fellow travelers because it makes for a more pleasant environment. I do not hold a door open, do something nice or help an elder lady cross the street because I expect brownies points toward salvation but instead because I feel damn good doing it.

I do not believe in destiny or karma but I do believe that at birth you got a certain number of heartbeat assigned to you like all living been. And you do not have the right to temper with it. That does not mean that I reject medical care since, after all, they could very well have been calculated in the deal from the beginning. Doctor might not be saving life but merely allow it to follow its predetermined course.

Off course that point to the hypocrisy of playing the Saint Men and leave to other the task to slaughter animal, violating the issue, for my eating pleasure or perceive survival need.

I never claimed that my life philosophy was neither logical nor close to perfection!

A couple of time, when I had painted myself into a really screwy corner I looked for a short time at the option of punching out, but was never able to find it an acceptable solution to clear the table. Somebody else would just be left holding the stick and that was really not a logical solution. Please do not take this statement as an indication that I am a logical or noble person. I just like things in harmony.

When relative or old friends pass away, I mourn and try to keep their memory alive in my heart. I would be nice if I can see them again. That led me to wonder for example about a good friend that was killed in Algeria when we were barely twenty. Will I ever see him again? Will he still be his young age? Will we still have anything in common? After all I will be carrying my baggage of an additional forty and some years on hearth! Will he still be the young effervescent and passionate kid? Will he still bear the horrible wounds that caused his death? Will he relate to my grandfatherly experience? Will he have known how much I missed him?

Or will we be pure thought floating in the ether of space? Or will the light just.....go off?

Chanson de Geste for a Fallen Hero.

2008-09-10T21:29:00.000-07:00

I come from the land of the Troubadour. We are giving to embellishment and when we pay homage it is usually with panache, after all that is the land of Cyrano de Bergerac and the birth land of the Chanson de Geste.
After 9/11 I wrote the following piece, from the bottom of my heart. I passed it to a few family members and somehow held on to it, afraid somehow to open it to the outside.
I realize now, that homage, like an apology or a declaration of love, is of little value if kept for oneself.
If you read this post and find it of no value, please go on to the next blog. If you share my feelings, join me in my homage. If your Son, Daughter, Dad, Mom, Loved One is one of those who perish in the rescue, this homage is for him or her and be assure of my deep gratitude for his or her sacrifice.

Rest, little brother…

Looking over the harbor, staring in disbelief at the cloud of dust and smoke rising over Lower Manhattan, the Spirit of Liberty, very sadly, hunched a little bit, slumping her great shoulders.
Slowly the Spirit freed herself from the bonds of her glorious statue. As if coming out of a giant cocoon, deliberately, she left behind the wonderful sculpture forged of copper, steel and tears. As beloved as her statue was, she knew that earthly symbols rise and topple, but she would always be. Eschewing the weight of a monument, she deployed her wings. Those are the great wings that Freedom granted her, when the best of men decided to give hope a chance and bring Liberty to another corner of this little green planet of ours, those are the wings that allow her to soar
However, on this day, this flight was to be a solemn one. Another Child of Man had paid the Price of Freedom. Liberty has to repay the debt. She started flying in direction of what had been the pride of New York. Her torch was dimming a little, her arm was not held so high but her flight of slow, long and deep strokes had the grace of an archangel
She reached the wreckage, shook her head and a tear rolled down her verdigrises cheeks. A sigh shook her chest. She gently parted some giant pieces of rubble, shifted a bit and gently, oh! so gently lifted the lifeless body of a young firefighter from within the chaos.
The brave was covered with dust, soot, and blood; the uniform in tatters but one could see the handsome face, peaceful as if only sleeping. Gently, without dropping her torch the spirit swept some of the debris off the face and body. Like a rag doll, in the full abandon of death.
The Ghost of Liberty stepped out, holding him carefully, with reverence. With majesty, she straightened up, squared her shoulders, and her torch, brighter all of a sudden, was raised up high. Then she started moving, slowly, ceremoniously but in a determined way. Deploying her great wings, she flew, rising toward the heavens. The sky parted as she made her way in what was obviously a holy mission. Giant eagles flew by and dipped their wings in sign of respect, blaring their great cry as if to warn ahead that a sacred flight was on its way
When she reached the Great Gates, there was a double line of the fallen firefighters of yesteryears. The Old Ones, from the Chicago fire, from the San Francisco Earthquake, blackened wet and sooty heroes of Pearl Harbor, sailors and marines killed fighting the fires caused by the Kamikazes aboard the Warships of the Freedom Armada, the brave, beautiful, heroic Fire Jumpers killed defending the Great Forest they loved so much, were there. They were all quiet and solemn: One of their own was coming home.
The Spirit of Liberty whispered “ He gave his life for me” then walked between the two lines of proud men and women fallen to the fires. They presented their hooks, axes and Pulaski in a silent salute as the ghostly figure passed and finally came to a stop. They all formed a large circle around a stall of the purest marble where the Ghost of Liberty gently deposited her charge.
He lay there, lifeless, covered of soot, blood and dirt that somehow looked like a badge of courage and spirit.
They were all silent. Slowly an old Fire Chief, himself covered with the burned badges of his own courage, approached the body of He who had been one of New York’s bravest. He dropped down on one knee, slowly reached out, and rearranged the position of the young hero as if trying to make him more comfortable. He took off his helmet and bowed his head for a moment. He reached out with a callous and blackened hand, moved away a lock of sweaty hair, bend down even more to deposit a gentle kiss on the forehead of the young men. As the young hero slowly opened his eyes and tried to rise, the old Chief gently restrained him and said with a chocked and gravely voice, “ You can rest now, little brother, we’ll guard you. When others cowered and feared, you gave it all and made a nation proud”
September 13, 2001

Setting things straight

2008-09-01T20:46:00.000-07:00

My previous post on my automobile purchase and reminiscence might have let you with the impression that my Dad was a maniacal rotten character dedicated to make my youth impossible. That would be a grave injustice to his memory. While there were some pretty tight times, my Dad was far away of being a bad man.
Earlier in his life, my sister, who is the ten years older than me, told me of her memories of a tender, gentle man loving and kind to the extreme.
Life threw him a hard shot. In World War Two, during what they call in France the Phony War (Drôle de Guerre) my Dad was attached, as Medical Personnel, to a unit of Polish Heavy Artillery who, having been caught in training in France at the Capitulation of Poland, decided to stay in France to fight instead of going back home defeated. Poland having capitulated put all those Polish Soldier out of the protection of the divers Geneva Conventions. If captured all those Polish soldiers would be summarily executed as Partisans.
When the Blitzkrieg came and the German army swept thru France that particular unit was based, in support of the front line in Gertwiller (Upper Rhine) Alsace. To avoid capture the Polish Soldiers where ordered to fold back and make a run for Dunkerque to be lifted to England to fight another day.
The French medical member of the unit were under the protection of the Geneva Convention and could be (if not killed in combat off course), at worst, taken POW unless they ran west and try to regroup with other French units. However the equipments left behind where of the best quality and technology available in heavy artillery at the time and could be easily turned around against the retreating French and British troop. That is when my Dad took one of the first of many stands he took in those times. Being medical personnel he could have easily gone back under the protection of the Red Cross painted on his helmet, his brassard and vehicle. But instead, in full violation of his orders he stayed behind and actively participated a t the sabotage and destruction of the great guns, their sophisticated fire direction equipment and ammunitions. That was a very perilous job. Needled to say the arriving German troops were non-plussed by the sight of all those valuable assets turned to scrap and smoke and treated the French POW pretty roughly as a result.
My Dad was not in the mood to spend the rest of the hostility in a Stalag and tried to escape a couple of time to be quickly recapture and again roughed up in the process. The third time was a charm and he made it back home.
Limoges our hometown was at the demarcation line between the occupied part of France and the part under the control of the Vichy government. The French Milice was actively hunting down escaped POWs. Then later on as retaliation for the Allied landing in Algeria the German troupes occupied what was called the free zone. In either one of those cases an escaped POW was well advised to keep out of sight. My Dad spend the entire period all the way to the liberation of Limoges hiding in the basement since nobody knew exactly who the Gestapo and Milice indicators were. To make thing a little more complicated I was conceived and borne during that period leaving my Mom in a very embarrassing situation until the end of the war were she was able to give an honorable explanation for my birth!
During all that time the only foray of my Dad out of the basement were to go clandestinely bring medical help to wounded Maquis peoples and downed allied airmen on their way to Spain for repatriation to England or to help hiding equipment parachuted by the allied in preparation for D-Day.
Limoges was one of the several towns that actually liberated itself.
The end of the war came and with it one of the worst period of the war when people used the pretext of collaboration to settle old accounts. Some other claiming actions that never happened.
All those things put together and seeing people that he knew to be fakes treated as hero embittered him and was never again the same person that he had been before.
So yes. My Dad was at time a little hard to handle but if one is looking for a blame to hang on somebody or something, the blame belong on the times and the advent of his era, not to my Dad who was a straight and forward men who when called did not hesitate to put it on the line and paid a terrible price for it. He always took care of his family
May God grant him the Peace he deserves.
Thanks Dad.

I once knew a child

2008-08-31T21:41:00.000-07:00

I once knew a child, a wild child, with a song in his heart.
To share his song he went to the village. A fair was being held on that day.
The child started singing his song, with all the power of his heart.
Nobody listened; nobody could understand the strange language of the song. The child heart got heavy with sorrow.
He went to the brook on the edge of the village and the clear waters lightened his heart for a moment.
Walking along of the brook, he came upon some group of laundress washing cloth in the water of the brook.
The child started singing his song, with all the power of his heart.
None of the laundress listened, occupied by their labor and beside they could not understand the strange language of the song. The child heart got heavy again.
He come onto a river and the flowing water of the river lightened his heart for a moment
Walking along the river he came to a group of fishermen.
For them the child started singing his song, with all the power of his heart.
Annoyed the fishermen shooed him away. They did not want him to frighten the fish and beside they could not understand the strange language of the song. The child heart got even heavier.
He came upon a lake and the cold water of the lake lightened his heart for a moment.
Walking along the edge of the lake he came upon a group a peasants gleaning the wheat of a field freshly cut.
For them the child started singing his song, with all the power of his heart.
The gleaners stopped for a moment then started mocking him; they could not understand the strange language of the song. The child heart got heavy more than ever.
He ran away from the fields and came upon the sea. The big wave rolling to the shore, singing in a strange language, a chorus of fascinating splendor .The wave coming and retreating looked for the wild child like inviting arms gesturing him to come.
Outside of the surf was a great boat.
With tears of joy rolling on his face, the child walked into the surf and singing his song with all the power of his heart swam to the boat and never came back again.

Down memory lane

2008-08-28T22:57:00.000-07:00

We got a new car! A wickedly unjustified, slightly un-green, way out of our means but hot diggidy does it feel good behind the wheel!
It’s a brand spanking new VW Eos nice shinny silver blue. 6cylinder Audi 3.2 litre engine purring under the hood, waiting to snarl at the touch of the foot, 6 speed Tiptronic transmission (paddles on the steering wheel, mind you!). Very German black lather and polished aluminum interior, dual zone whatever, satellite radio, Pirelli “painted-on" tires on huge wheels and the most insane disappearing hard top you have ever seen. In my estimation I should be the proud owner of a driver license for maybe two more weeks at best! See, I derive a juvenile pleasure in blowing other vehicles doors off!
I really feel in the ultimate lap of luxury, zooming thru the curves of the Ortega highway or cruising down the road, roof tucked away back in the trunk (that car is the next best think to a full blown transformer when doing the transit from coupe to convertible!) motor purring as we are gliding along.
The other day, on my way to work (one and half hour commute), alone, Jinny was out of town, I made a trip down on memory lane; sixty and some years ago back to my first car rides.
I was born in occupied France in World War Two and the family car, a Peugeot 202, spend from 1939 to the end of the next decade on blocks, in a garage. At the beginning of the war the tires had been requisitioned for the war effort. I vaguely remember making a few visits to the small barn where it was kept and my memory of those visits where a little bit like the memory of a spiritual pilgrimage. My Dad lifting the canvas covering the car and gently running his hands on the gray machine paralyzed by the lack of wheels.
The end of the war was a period of penury and it was only in the late forties early fifties that my Dad, as the result of favors to a friend of a friend of the friend of a distant relative find a place in Châteauroux, a good hundred miles from my home town of Limoges, where some lucky soul was holding four wheels and used tires of the right size and was willing to barter for it.
I do not know what was traded but I know that my Dad and my Grandfather boarded the local train and came back to a hero welcome with four wheels and tire instantly grafted back to the 202. Gas was secured (a little more trading off course because of the still present rationing) and the long silent Peugeot coughed back to life after much prompting and the intervention of a couple of backyard mechanics.
From this day on, most weekend were the excuse for treks to the country, to some of the millions of closely or loosely related cousins, grand uncles and the like, result of my family having lived in the same county since God only knows when. People of the Limousin are not a traveling out of the county bunch; the exception off course being the result of one of the cyclical wars when the young males where drafted as convenient canon fodder and shipped back either on foot or in boxes.
The trips to the farms were also reason for some more bartering and country meals whose description would be enough to drive a fairly liberal dietetician to insanity. My folks took their butter, lard, foie gras, rillettes, ragout, big brashy red wine, sweet white wines and wicked home made booze seriously!
The day would start by my Dad and I taking the Trolley to the Post office for the obligatory telegram informing the Insurance Company that our car would be on the road that day!
Then we would regroup with our dog to the barn, where among whispered swearing, incantation and the like the Peugeot would be coaxed to life. We would then putter our way to the house to pick-up my Mother and Sister whose tender ears had been spared the ritual of the starting of the car.

That was my moment of glory, sitting on the front seat, place of honor that would have to be relinquished the second my Mom was boarding the car. I was then send to the back seat, with my Sister and our dog Black (So named because he was a white and brown Brittany spaniel. We are a complex bunch!).
Happy singing was de rigueur at least at the beginning of the trip. Those were indeed glorious times, head out of the window, my sister on one window, Black and me on the other one.
My Dad was using a unique and, in his mind, very economical way of driving whose main incongruity was the technic of turning off the engine and coasting downhill in neutral on the downside of each hill, Relatively bearable when the road was straight but absolutely nerve wracking on a downhill winding road, considering that my Dad was extremely reluctant to loose his momentum by even the slightest use of the brakes. I still can see the scene of my Dad fighting the steering wheel of the non-power assisted steering of a vehicle dangerously leaning in a curve, tire screeching, my Mother white knuckled grabbing the door handle (suicide doors!) from one hand and the dashboard from the other all the while making that peculiar noise that one makes by inhaling thru tightly clinched teeth. The morning downhill was ok but in the after noon when the big meal, the liberal heavy wine and various eau de vie/schnapps of plum, cherry, pear and other where endowing my Dad with a driving gusto not shy at pushing the envelop, things were a little more tight!. Those where moment that make you appreciate the end of the trip.
Since the venerable car had lost a good number of its original horsepower over the years the uphill part of the journey where must less exhilarating and soon the poor car would be advancing uphill at a decreasing speed on a jerking motion coupled to a sound not unlike “gnaw-gnaw-gnaw-“ In the after noon it was usually the time when my Dad was captivating in his ability to use the worst language, between his teeth, all the while rudely abusing the old three speed transmission. It was also the time when my sister and I were hit by a suicidal urge to try to gaud the car by the chant “ La montera tu la côte, la côte, la montera tu la côte mon vieux” (While you climb the hill, the hill, while you climb the hill, Buddy?) at nausea. From the back seat the sight of my Dad neck turning deep purple, with that peculiar bulging vein pulsing, should have been an indication that the incantation where not receiving a welcome.
So usually the end of the trip was a mix of car sputtering, tire screeching, clinched teeth swearing punctuated with threat of horrible punishment as soon as my Dad would be liberated from his driving duties. It was also the time when my Mom would come up with a “ Voyons, Louis calme toi!” (Be sensible Louis, calm down) whose result was not unlike what you would get by throwing a gallon of gas in the firepace to kill the fire!
At the end of the trip, off course I was not invited to the return to the barn trip, being instead summarily committed to my bed with threat of bread and water for the next century or two…….and left to dream of the excitement of the next weekend trip that I was actually looking forward to, with great excitement. Boy I was a weird kid!

About Candide in game show?

2008-08-17T23:19:00.000-07:00

As much as an agressively honest political candidate would make me happy I would also enjoy very much seeing a game show participant answering the Pat Sejak or Howie Mandell traditional question inquiring if anybody special is in the audience by something else that "My wonderfully supportive Husband/Wife/Sweetheart and our beautifull Children."
It would be so refreshing to be informed that in the audience is the Stupid A...hole/Dumb B..ch and the assorted brats that made the life of the Contestant living hell for the last X years and that he/she is planning to drop the whole frikken bunch as soon as he/she hit the Jackpot!
I think that this candide attitude would bring the audience in complete empathie with the contestant.
Vea Victi!

Bring the Candide back into the Candidats

2008-08-17T22:38:00.000-07:00

I'm not Martin Luther King admetidelly, but nevertheless I have a dream.

I dream that some day a politician will stand on a podium and will answer a "People wants to know" question with something like "Yessir, in my youth I ingested large amount of alcoholic beverage, stuffed a bunch of various material up my nose, frenetically used my reproductive system for hopefully non reproductive purpose, drove like a maniac and used foul language at the drop of the hat, I said amazingly unkind things about the ROTC ! Those were the days! I have not one aiota of shame or remorse and if I was back in the same situation I pretty much would do the same thing again! So what is it to you Bozo!. Now by any chance would you happen to have in your microcephalic upper part a question relevant with my ability to motivate this country forty years later and steer it into an intelligent planned course?"

That would make my voting choice much less painfull.

2008-08-05T21:28:00.000-07:00

So here we go, I am driving to work, on the infamous Ortega Highway. I'm feeling damn good, nobody in front of me. I am literalyy flying thru the curves and the switch back. Engine roaring, tires screeching...King of the Road! Then I come behind this old Mazda pick-up truck, a bit rusty, the back gate of the truck a billeboard for the free expression of the owner deep feelings about current and past issues. There were a couple of sticker for presidential candidates who obviousely did not make it, a couple of cartoon fish swallowing Darwin's name and a central statement that Jesus loved me.

I don't know about you, but after having to follow this truck for the next 5 miles at substandard speed (Double-double yellow lane, mind you!) starring at "Jesus Loves You" I began to buy the argument. Then a short opening in the double -double lane appeared. I great jubilation I down shifted, ready to liberate the full power of my jalopy in order to blow the trucks door off.... when a huge cement truck shows up on the road coming from the other direction. Not being an ardent candidates to suicide I backed off, slowed down and went back behind the pick-up truck just in time to be blessed by the sight of the driver flicking me off!

Mind you, I was not born and educated in this country, threfore I assume that along the way, I missed some of the basic knowledge of a native. And to this day I am still trying to reconcile the "Jesus Love You" and the bird.

Maybe there is some esoteriical secret biblical meaning to the bird......I hope I will learn..before my time is up.

Bastille Day

2008-07-14T15:14:00.001-07:00

Today July 14 is celebrated in France as Bastille Day. That date celebrates an event part of the French Revolution.
On that day the Citadel known as the Bastille was stormed by the people of Paris.
The Bastille was a jail where beside petty criminals anybody, without any justification, could be confined simply by a Royal Decree and be held as long as the Sovereign wished without any recourse or due process. Among the people held there over the Centuries was the Masque de Fer and Voltaire among others. Writting of any seditious pamphlets or articles critical of the King and his cottery was an assured ticket/
Today nothing remains of the Citadel except the outline of the building traced by granite pavers on the ground of the Place de la Bastille near the Opera and a few rubbles on an adjacent park
It is a day of celebration, parades, dance in the streets and firework.
It is a day of celebration of la Liberté. A world covering two concepts: Liberty and Freedom who strangely are covered by the same word in the French language.
Liberté is recognized in France as a thing to value and protect because it is one things that has been taken away innumerable times during the tumultuous history of France.
The country has seen invasions from the beginning of recorded history including the Roman, Goth, Visigoth, Moors, Vikings, Cossacks and off course the German army among innumerable others.
Bastille day has a special meaning for me, on that date my mind always go back to one day early in the Sixties, when during a visit at Saint Denis, a suburb of Paris where is the Church where the Kings of France were crowned, Liberté took a very personal meaning.
Like most town in France, Saint Denis has a municipal museum. In that museum on small room is dedicated to the civilian people of the town who lost their life in the process of Occupation and Liberation of World War Two. Some where hostages summarily rounded up and shot in retaliation for Resistance activities , other where member of the Resistance who paid the ultimate price for it.
In one of the glass cabinet was a letter, fifty and some years later I can still see it clearly. It was the last letter to his wife from a man who was going to face the firing squad in the morning. The letter was written on a single piece of paper teared out of a notebook. The paper was slowly turning light brown but you could still see the blue parallel line and the red perpendicular line marking the margin, the missive was written in pencil, in an impeccable handwriting, following the lines and respecting the margin.
That letter did not contain a single word of bitterness or hate; it was a very tender goodbye to a loved one. That men who in a few hour would be rounded up like cattle with other companion then herded to the killing field was only thinking to console his loved one and their children. He used an expression that has been etched in my mind for ever: he asked his wife to explain to the children that their Dad loved them very much and that his sacrifice would help to achieve “des lendemains qui chantent”: that you can translate as ” singing tomorrows”.
I do not remember the name of this men, the note beside the letter said that he was “un ouvrier a l’Usine de Javel” a worker at the Citroen Automobile Plant of Javel and a member of the Resistance, but every 14 of July, every time I see the Statue of Liberty, every time I hear the words Liberté, Liberty or Freedom I see this letter. If there is a God, that men deserved a special place close to him. Happy Bastille day.

Behind revolution.

2008-07-12T10:02:00.000-07:00

There is something amiss!

I have stumbled on a little thing that is, in my opinion, pointing to one of the most evil plot of this century yet, (last century as well!)
I do not know if you have noticed, but most of the time, if you isolate yourself for some well deserved relief in a corporate rest room, you will find, at the level of your eyes, on the dividing wall of the stall, a toilet seat cover dispenser. So far no evil plot detected.
The little thing that triggered my suspicion is the statement printed on the dispenser “ Provided By The Management For Your Protection”.
You might think that I am overreacting to a laudable intention from the part of the management providing the facility. They are just being nice, right?
Wait a second before indulging in gratitude.
Just consider that other danger are not given the same level of attention:
No helmet provided in case of roof collapse.
No safety belt to prevent you from falling from the seat in case of earthquake, sudden torpor or accidental slip.
No stirrup provided for stability.
No vision goggle to protect from accidental flash.
No earplug to protect from loud noise.
The partition wall stops at a few feet from the floor thereby exposing you to evil and (generaly!) unwanted intrusion from the feet of any wide stancing Member of Congress, and so on!
What’s going on there?
Why is my rear end judged so valuable by the management to justify the expense of special protection?
Is there dark plotting involving the Vice President, Master Rumfeld, Homeland Security and the shadow of a Politico-Corporate Evil Empire?
Fellows Restroom Users Unite! As far as I am concerned I will follow (hmm Paraphrase the great Charlton Easton) by standing for my butt and shout loudly “(“I’ll give you my butt when you take it from my cold, dead backside”),

Let it rip, Popcorn!

2008-06-30T22:35:00.000-07:00

My family will tell you, with an annoying unanimity, that I get steamed up relatively easily. Well, you know,...... that Gallic thing!One of my buttons is the media Duffus issuing opinion regarding " The French".Most of the originators of those amazing pieces of analysis are usually media member, some how either based in Paris or vaguely related with somebody who spend sometime there. My little experience (back in the 60's I’m afraid) was a bunch of people, living in Paris and passing a good portion of there time at the US Embassy, usually getting out of there right around 4:oo pm to make it in time to Harry's Bar where among pennants of every "Proper Ivy League University" they would indulge in sizeable numbers of the "only decent Manhattan in town" and getting out only to be fashionably late to the American expatriate party of the day.People who got out of town and mixed with the people of the country will tell you an amazingly different story.The truth of the matter is that with my little experience of a dude born in France at the peak of the tourist season (1942) and having spent a respectable number of years as a "The French" I am sorry to have to report that there is not such a thing as " The French".France is a country of amazing division. The first one is really basic: The Parisian French and the Provincial French. United by the division of there strong conviction that the other group is the ultimate waste of humanity. Parisian French are convinced that they basically walk on water and the rest of the population is basically convinced that the Parisian population is almost uniquely formed of brown-eyed people because they are full of ......Beside this basic division you have, stating from the eastern border and moving clockwise: Les Gars du Nord, The Alsatians, The Vosgiens, the people of Provence, The Catalans, the Basque, The Vendeens, The Britons, The Normans and in the center of that circle, the Gascons, the Limousins, the Auvergnats and I am missing Tens more. The Northern people have a strong heritage from Poland from their ancestors who came to work on the Mines, the Alsatians have a language of their own an distinct architecture and mastered the art of Beer brewing that escape most of the rest of France. The Vosgiens and people of the Alps have also a culture, language and tradition all their own. The people of Provence ( lou Provencou) darker skin, beautiful music of the Tambourinaire and a language that sing with the mistral, the song of the cicada and the din of a hard son hitting the hills. Their own poet Frederic Mistral was the founder of a movement to protect the dialect of the langue d'Oc, united by the song of La Coupo Santo and the very dedicated Felibrige.The Catalan whose country straddle the Pyrenees also have a language of their own, In fact France has more that 200 distinct dialects that presently see a strong revival. One Deputy, in defiance of the rule imposing French in the National Assembly, did last year stand and song the anthem of what is know as Occitanie (Se Canto) also known by its name from the Bearn Dialect "Asssero Mountagno". The People from the Basque Country also has a language that has baffle linguist for century, since nobody seem to trace its origin not pout the Basque in any ethnic group. The people of Brittany are proud of their Celtic heritage, the Normand fiercely independents also have an heritage all it own, The people from Auvergne and Limousins trace back their ancestry to the Gaul and the Gascons see themselves as the guardian of the spirit of panache.A tour of France for a person on the gourmet side is bound the be a treasure of discovery with aver 75 or 80 distinct style of food, wine lover will face an enormous diversity sometime define by the side of a hill or the other. Even De Gaulle grudgingly declared,” How can you govern a country that has more type of cheese than their is day in the calendar.""The French" have however one thing in common: an undeletable memory of World War one. Imagine that you live in a country of less than 40 Million people, that a war of 4 years (1914 to 1918) is entirely fought on your soil against a country of over 60million people and that a full third (3millions) of your male generation between 17 and 30 years will be killed and a larger number mutilated or disfigured. Every little town has in the main square a monument with the name of each member of this village who died in WW1 and WW2 is listed. Those are large numbers.Of that come one thing: The French will do almost anything to avoid any type of organized slaughter. I do not know how you feel about that attitude, but on my side, even if I served in the French Navy for ten years including a period in the Algerian Conflict, I am proud to have in me some of that Peace Loving blood and also I mourn for four thousand young people of my new country, victim of a cowboy who call himself a Christian but had no qualm and do not show any remorse for sending those beautiful young people to their dead along tenth of thousand of people of the land were the slaughter was imposed.

A Story of Sordid Deviance

2008-06-30T21:15:00.000-07:00

The Masochist: "Hurt me!"
The Sadist "No!"

The words that should not be spoken!

2008-06-08T22:16:00.000-07:00

Interpersonal communication is a blessed gift, however there are some phrases I would rather have never heard.
The other day, for example, I woke up from a lousy coughing, sneezing, whizzing and all together rotten night. My head was stuffy, I ached all over, to put it simply: I had a lousy cold. I decided to stay home and try to nip that thing in the bud. The next thing I knew I was scratching all over. Well it was time to call my Doctor who to my great surprise (and the offices of his nurse) invited me to come over so he could take a look. I was expecting some wisdom such as " the Doctor said to take two aspirin and call him...." You know the classic answer. Not this time. My Doctor wanted to see me! Wow! I bundled myself, drove myself to the Doctor and for a while sat in the waiting room under the either disapproving or disgusted look of the local temporary population. Nursey called my name, parked me on the scale, sat me down, introduced a thermometer in my mouth (Thanks God!) took my blood pressure and ran out, no doubt to thoroughly decontaminate herself. I wait a bit. I hear the Doctor picking up my file from the handy dispenser on the outside, a knock at the door, the door open. My Doctor, joviality personified, enters. "Good afternoon Mr. Faye. How are you”?
Now those are words that should not have been spoken! I saw my face in the mirror several time this day and nothing, I mean nothing indicated that the owner of the face was having a good day, morning or afternoon! But I could have overcome that one if the fountain of knowledge and happy character, on which I was placing all my hope to a return to the land or the livings, was now asking me how I was. A third grader would have judged on the spot that I was not well. Hey Sherlock! I am here for you to tell me how I am and how I can get out of that unpleasant situation. A little compassion, please!
Find out that I had a bad cold, number one and that number two the shrimps of the Chinese Restaurant of the other night were the reason of a whapping allergic reaction.
As I walked out of the office with my usual load of assorted and highly encrypted prescription and samples a memory came back of an event almost thirty years ago.
I was driving from Sioux Falls, South Dakota to Seattle. That was during another one of those interesting oil crisis and Congress had decided in its cumulative wisdom that the answer was a national speed limit: 55MPH. I was at the time the proud owner of a brand spanking new Oldsmobile 98 with more horsepower under the hood than what was actually needed to propel the monster to almost three times the speed limit in question. Well, yes, gas was getting expensive, almost a buck a gallon! And I was in a hurry to reach Seattle. I flew thru South Dakota, Interstate 90 was basically lined by a blur thru the Sate of Wyoming and Montana, zipped thru Idaho with just a glimpse of Coeur d'Alene and roared thru Washington just long enough to get a siren and a flashing light behind me. Police chase was not in my blood, I stopped and soon a Washington State Trooper was at my door. I can still see him: Smoky the bear hat with a brim perfectly flat and seemingly sharp enough to cut a tree, a broad face, tanned, eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray Ban mirrorized pilot sunglasses and a little hint of a smile, two fingers touching the hat brim as he said with a little friendly smile: "Good afternoon Sir, Welcome to the Sate of Washington" Then proceeded to inform me that said State of Washington was enforcing the speed limit.
Well, number one it was not a good afternoon and sure like hell I was not feeling any of that friendly Welcome to the State of Washington stuff! Those words should not have been spoken.
Somehow I would have felt much better with a " Holly Cow! You look like shit" from my Doctor and a "Gotcha Sucker, You’re in my territory and I'm gone fry your butt!" from the trooper!

To be a Dad

2008-06-01T22:26:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Choupette (my Wife, Companion and more than better half since 1969) went to the Long Beach Aquarium with Denis, Sandie and Cassidy (Our Son, his Spouse and our Grand Daughter). That was one of those days that stick to the ribs of your memory and that you wish would never end. Afterwards we went to Denis’s and Sandie’s house for a little of those to rare time when we can enjoy each other and be a little part of their wonderful family life. Then life took over and came the long drive from Redondo Beach to Murrieta, about an hour and a half.
On the way back Choupette was exhausted and quickly went asleep leaving me alone with good old myself to ponder another great philosophical one sided argument,
I stated focusing on Fatherhood and the strangeness of the situation. We all enter the position amazingly unaware of the fact that we are totally unprepared for it due to one basic amazing prejudice: We are all convinced that we are going to do a pretty darn better job than the previous guy and we all are convinced that we have everything single answer possible on that subject (or know which book to find it in). Beside we are all married to a wonderful companion who also (even if she cannot conceivably have gone into fatherhood herself) has also all the answers!
Been there, done that!
After badly fumbling thru the experience myself, I know that in the average it takes you just a little bit over 25 to 27 years to find out how to be a semi decent Dad, by which time you are definitively out of business and more likely into the process of screwing-up being a semi-decent Grand Father.
Somebody said that the two hardest things life in life are to teach your children how to fly then to let them fly.
My three kids soared and every time my heart bled and to some point is still bleeding, I knew they had to go into their own space, but I have never learned to accept that their life, if it is to flourish, has to be at arm length of my own, somebody else has to become the catalyst and focus.
I was at best an OK Dad. Like others I set standards for my kids that I, as a kid would have had one heck of a time to reach, I made bad decisions and at time set bad priorities, I should have known that business cannot be a priority over some of my children milestones. An award without a Dad to witness it is a shallow event! I fell in business at a time when my family badly needed the resources of that business and went to the deep end when my children needed me.
My children overcame and are now making lives of their own, and here I, on the sideline, have to learn from my grandchildren how to make myself relevant!
Finally after two tries I think I got the answer: Dad, Grand Fathers we are all in the same boat! We are not Coach, Motivators, Goal setters or Mentors! We are only Co-Students in the great school of life! There should be a law forcing us in exile the second we feel that we have all the answers! Please somebody kick me when I claim i do!
Good Night!

Memorial Day

2008-05-25T20:21:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is Memorial Day, a day when we honor the men and women who died in the service of the United State.
It is somehow lost in the buzz of a Pre-Summer Holiday with picnic, special sales and the like.
Tomorrow I will go in a little corner, alone and for a small moment pay a personal tribute for those who died for this country and for other countries as well. I will remember a few friends who will never grow old and I will also remember those they left behind. Mother, Fathers, Grandparents, Brothers, Sisters, Wives, Girlfriends, Sons, Daughters and Loved ones who will for ever have an empty place in their life and their heart. I will also have a thought for those who came back, changed forever, in their bodies and their minds. I will have a thought of sorrow for those whose Brothers or Sisters or Wives or Husbands or Lovers or Dads or Moms came back totally changed, embittered and angry forever. I will grieve for those whose loved ones left with immense love and wishes and came back a stranger. And again tell myself: There got to be a better way to settle differences. Can we ever learn?
May they rest in Peace.
If there is a God, may he gave us the wisdom to handle our lives as people and Nations in such a way that my loved ones and yours, Children, Grand Children and the Children of their Children will never have to go in arms way. If we can accept that wisdom and act accordingly it would be the best homage we could pay to those we honor on Memorial Day.

Of Flags and other symbols.

2008-05-04T21:58:00.000-07:00

I went to the Temecula Farmers Market yesterday. Among all the people selling their crafts, fruits and vegetable was that lady selling birds in cages. Among the canary and other cockatoo were three doves in small cages. I do not believe that birds (and other animals) belong in cages. It is a prostitution of nature for the benefit of our ego. The temptation is to open the cages, however the poor animals do not have any of the necessary skills needed to survive in the wild.
The sight of those poor doves also brought back the indignation I feel every time the subject of dove hunting is approached.
The cruelty and stupidity of the entire exercise is enormous.
I will never understand why apparently civilized people will all of the sudden turn into bloodthirsty savages at the opening of the season.
Most of those people off course are part of that group that take great offense to the burning or any other type of desecration of the flag, on the ground that this flag is the symbol of America and that we owe respect to it because of the sacrifice of so many to defend it. However the same people do not have any qualm butchering doves that happen to be the universal symbol of peace. If we believe the recounting of all the war we undertook as a nation they were all for the return or protection of Peace. The same people who died for this nation died for the flag no doubt, but they died to bring back Peace, symbolized by the dove, as well!
Lets talk of the wearing of military style camouflage when partaking of the enlighten assassination of a Peace symbol. The dove eyesight is more oriented to the detection of motion than of shape, Camouflage does diddly to make one invisible to most bird. Beside since we were told that our glorious VP was an accomplished hunter, therefore above average, I know that if I was to go in the open with somebody above, at or below average in the hunting field and that said somebody was carrying a gun, loaded, with the definitive hitching to use it, I would not, under any circumstance wear any kind of camouflage whatsoever. Give me bright pink, red, electric lime green, bright yellow, with flashing lights, twirls gizmos, sparkler, even a siren or two for good measure!! Why the fascination to play soldier to kill the symbol of peace?
Now to deepen the absurdity of the subject you have to realize that one of the justification is that you can actually eat doves, they are supposed to be a delicacy, while a flag might be a rather marginal culinary subject. If that argument must be accepted logic would take us to the next step or steps.
Argument number one, off course, would be that if the hunting of dove is in fact a quest for food, the packing of sandwiches and other snack as part of the hunting paraphernalia depict a defeatist attitude from the part of the “Sportsmen” at the least!
Argument number two relating to the gathering of food justifying the slaughter, lets talk efficiency, can we? Spending a whole day driving to, hiking, and hunting in order to bring back the carcass of a few animals weighting only a fraction of a pound does not make sense. If the justification for the kill is morally correct lets go for the economy of scale! Switch only one thing, take out the hunting gun, replace it by a rifle and let go kill a mustang! It’s a wild animal, the kill will bring a thousand pound or so of meat on the hoof and we can fill the freezer with several roasts, ribs and other cut of meat!
What do you mean, that’s a crime? Why. Oh…. You mean the horse is an American symbol that we must respect and protect. Oh, OK it is a symbol of the American Spirit…..but I thought that the dove was a gift from God to all mankind and a symbol of Peace among nation…. You mean…that does not count?…….Where did we go wrong as a civilization?

The Ortega Highway

2008-04-17T21:03:00.000-07:00

Every weekday, I travel thru the coolest road of the West Coast. The Ortega Highway known (or maybe unknown) by Caltran as Highway 74.
It is a two-lane road cutting right in the middle of the Cleveland National Forest. It is one of the few direct links between Orange County and the South of the Inland Empire. The portion I travel is roughly thirty and some miles although as the crow flies it is only ten or fifteen miles.
It is a road across some of wildest portions of Southern California.
My westbound trip in the morning is a very exhilarating ride.
The fun starts as you leave Grand Avenue in Lake Elsinore. Immediately you realize that something exciting is on the doing. As you climb on a steep straight stretch of the highway you can see, etched in the rock of the mountain in front of you, a succession of switchback leading to the pass overlooking the valley by a good two thousand feet. Traffic permitting that is a nice stretch of exciting alpine driving. At the right time of the early morning some of those switchback open to an unbelievable sight of a pure baby blue sky scratched by a couple of contrails and a few wisp of clouds reflecting the fire of the raising sun. Some other morning the fog will change the view of the lake below, the valley, the hills and mountains across it into a Japanese ink painting where the stroke of the brush represent mountains engulfed in wispy haze. The side of the road does at this point display the widest array of hearth tones covering the entire array of brown, rust, sienna and beige of the bushes rolling into inscrutable inner valleys. In the right season the witches’ brooms throw out the wild scream of a bright yellow. Splashes of red and orange dot the chaparral.
When the pass is reached the road race in a couple of wide curves in the direction of a thick oak forest, to cross the odd little village of El Cariso, populated by a very colorful bunch of free spirits. Small signs announcing to the traveling masses that Jerky of all denomination will be available at the general store punctuate the approaches of the village. It looks like an entire zoo has been sacrificed for drying. Maybe the only animals not offered are household pets, unicorns and dragons. The rest is fair game if I can indulge on the pun.
Across the street from the general store is a bar/tavern/would be restaurant: "Hells Kitchen" dedicated to the motor biking crowd. I found the place fun (at the great despair of my tender spouse) for two reasons: They pour a darn good pint of hard cider and the condiments bar in the dining room is inside a...coffin! Weird enough for me.
From there the road is starting a downward move in the land of the giants, Poking out of the chaparral are huge boulders of oblong shape and mostly upright. Images of ancient ritual amongst dolmen, menhir and other stone altars come to mind. The scenery there belongs to those upright boulders and no one else.
Out of the Giants Land you enter the descent into the canyon. If you ride a bike or an open car you can feel a noticeable drop in temperature and the oaks are again taking over. You are back into those tight and exciting turns where one can push the limit of its jalopy.
You now enter a construction area where only one lane of traffic is alternatively allowed. That is a nerve-wracking portion since at time one will drive literally feet from megaton carry style equipment, busy crushing rock, tearing rocks and drilling under the road. By the scenery is again totally different and one almost expect to see the helicopters of the opening sequence of Mash racing in the steep hills the bend. The second giants of the road poke those hills: Dasylirion. Those plants plant resemble a large throw of blade shaped succulent leave from whose center project a gigantic flower looking like a 9 to 10feet Lilly of the valley. Those are the lone sentinels of that portion of this magical road.
Crossing a narrow bridge you then enter the approaches of Ranch land, soon, after the only two straightaway portion of this road enabling passing the slow pokes crawling in front of you, you are driving along pastures where horses and cattle provide a drastic change. On one side one particular horse, a pinto, fully aware of his handsome image allow the admiration of the driving crowd. A few miles later, with a little luck you will be greeted by a small herd of Longhorns. And finally, almost at the end of that stretch you might in turn become spectacle for a pair of shy deer.
Then the magic is done and you enter San Juan Capistrano.

Wondering about a "Gun Guy" intimate moments.

2008-04-15T21:11:00.000-07:00

Some events of the few past weeks have lead me to wonder a bit about this bizarre attitude toward guns so deeply ingrained in the fabric of our "American way of life".

The defense of a perceived right to bear arm at will is a highly emotional issue and both bitter and passionate arguments are made to ward any attempt to bring sanity to the issue

The phrase " They will take away my gun only by prying it from my cold dead fingers" has been thrown around a bit, usually at the end of a melodramatic speech in front of a definitively receptive audience of fellows "Sportsmen".

To be very honest, that has consistently puzzled me, since as the dirty old men that I am, my immediate thought went to the partner or spouse of the permanent gun bearing speaker who, at the time of intimate and passionate embrace must be pondering two vital issues:

1) Is a round in the chamber of the ever present shotgun/rifle?

2) Is the safety of the weapon on?

You have to admit that the concept of being on the embrace of a frenetically humping individual holding a gun possibly loaded with armor piercing rounds can be a bit disturbing.
In this case the concept of safe sex has tidily to do with condoms or all the other usual paraphernalia but basic shooting range discipline instead.
I guess that we are looking at one of the few occasions when premature ejaculation becomes a blessing!

Now I understand why, usually, the mates or partners of the average 'Gun Guy" are a rather nervous and jittery bunch, avid consumers of Valium and other compounds.

Wonder how humanity was able to survive for centuries, thru invasion, Genghis Khan, Attila and the rest without this reputedly indispensable weapon?

Well that's my thought for the evening. Now a nice glasse of a decent red wine will help convince me that those are indeed genial cogitations!

The opening blog

2008-04-12T09:09:00.000-07:00

Still on training wheels!

Son Number one (Only one for that matter!, but that sounded good) has decreed that the Old Guy needed to have a Blog. So be it. I am supposed to plop my thought and opinions on that thing for a reason or another. Supposed to be liberating.

I can see where Son Number One is coming from in that issue, since until his two sisters got married and imported some additional male presence in the family, and he got himself also married and therefore extracted from the immediate contact with the opposition, we were both part of a male minority surrounded by three human females, and one dog of the same gender, totally dedicated to ignoring any kind of male interference or opinion whatsoever. The concept of being able to lay down a sentence without either interruption or correction is indeed very liberating.

Now the tough part is to find something worthy of publication, and that is where the crunch start. I feel a little bit like one of those rebel without a cause or even without a clue.

My life does not have any of the Indiana Jones moments worthy to record, I refuse to get started on the elections and the thought of opening a sentence on my opinion on the performance of out political leaders makes me nauseous.

Talking about my past experience could be an option, but experience has made me keenly aware that it was a very effective way to put an entire living room in a close proximity of the infamous Glazy Eye stage.

I could try talking about my dog, but at the advanced age of seventeen, good old Roxy is really not doing much more than sleeping, eating, drinking and the inevitable result of the previous activities. Not much to talk about there.

Commuting to work sixty miles each way from Murrieta, California thru the Ortega Highway, the amazingly stupid journey in the admirably inhospitable San Juan Capistrano and the rush of I5 to Irvine has lost a lot of its luster after N+ years and my job is something that I am trying to relax from not blabber about.

So here we are.

Well. at least I just discovered that I can expend a serious number of paragraphs on the heady subject that...I really have nothing to talk about.

All words...no substance.

Maybe that is the secret to avoid controversy...or is it?

I'll ponder that one for this weekend.