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

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

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?.

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.

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

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.