I once knew a child

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

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?

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

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.

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

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.

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!

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

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

The words that should not be spoken!

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.