Thierry Sagnier's Blog, page 23
March 17, 2016
No. 10
The tumor is small, the size of a lentil. It’s greyish in the Pepto-Bismol pink of my innards, and it probably has not been there long. Still, I’d hoped the test this morning would find me clean, so it’s a disappointment. I’ve been free almost a year from the bladder cancer first diagnosed in 2012, and now I’m angry, a bit sad, resentful and frustrated. I’m also aware that it could have been far, far worse. A very dear friend was diagnosed with the same illness a month ago, and his intervention was truly grim. More than two weeks in the hospital sucking on ice cubes and unable to digest food, and complications that, when he described them, made me blanch.
My surgery will be very minor in comparison, an outpatient event that probably and thankfully will not involve a catheter, followed by five weeks of chemotherapy. The latter worries me a bit. My earlier experiences with chemo left me exhausted and sometimes nauseous for a day or two following the procedure. Then there’s the attendant and largely inexplicable sense of shame, and that of being soiled. I’d been working on that for a year and felt I had it licked, but now it’s back. Whenever the tests come back positive, I come out feeling like an untouchable.
I took my frustrations out on a Fanta truck lumbering in front of me on my way home from the clinic. I unleashed a barrage of profanities in two languages, some explicit French and American hand gestures, and a curse on all Fanta drinkers. I shed a tear or four, being the sensitive guy that I am, but by the time I’d finished my quad shot decaf espresso at Panera and wolfed down a bagel, I had quieted down somewhat.
I’m upset because I thought I was done with this. Even after four years, it remains scary. It did kill my oldest sister because she was not diagnosed early enough, and I know several people who’ve been afflicted by it. I’m angry, as well, because I’d hoped to be able to go from three-month tests to six-month tests; I have to be clean eighteen months before the protocol changes.
I don’t like life interfering like this. I have things to do, people to see. There are new writing projects, books to finish and blogs to write.
This will be the tenth operation. One of my concerns is that being put under that many times can’t be good for me. I always come out of the anesthesia feeling as if I’ve been hit by a semi. Everything hurts. My right arm and left wrist get bruised from the IVs, and other parts hurt from the actual procedure, which involves sharp little blades being thrust up the urethra. My throat is sore from the tube thrust down there for reasons that are still unclear. Also, I’m wobbly. My knees and legs feel weak. I will pee a lot and often, and it will be painful.
I generally return home and stomp around. I feed the cat. I water the plants. I do useless things, laundering two pairs of socks and a tee-shirt, dusting the top of the DVD shelves and restacking books by area of interest and language. I call a couple of people, or sometimes I don’t. This is getting to be old hat.
The cat looks at me strangely, then recognizes the pattern. He’ll do pirouettes around my feet, climb on the bed and lay on my chest while breathing cat food fumes up my nose.
I really hate this disease.
Crap.
My surgery will be very minor in comparison, an outpatient event that probably and thankfully will not involve a catheter, followed by five weeks of chemotherapy. The latter worries me a bit. My earlier experiences with chemo left me exhausted and sometimes nauseous for a day or two following the procedure. Then there’s the attendant and largely inexplicable sense of shame, and that of being soiled. I’d been working on that for a year and felt I had it licked, but now it’s back. Whenever the tests come back positive, I come out feeling like an untouchable.
I took my frustrations out on a Fanta truck lumbering in front of me on my way home from the clinic. I unleashed a barrage of profanities in two languages, some explicit French and American hand gestures, and a curse on all Fanta drinkers. I shed a tear or four, being the sensitive guy that I am, but by the time I’d finished my quad shot decaf espresso at Panera and wolfed down a bagel, I had quieted down somewhat.
I’m upset because I thought I was done with this. Even after four years, it remains scary. It did kill my oldest sister because she was not diagnosed early enough, and I know several people who’ve been afflicted by it. I’m angry, as well, because I’d hoped to be able to go from three-month tests to six-month tests; I have to be clean eighteen months before the protocol changes.
I don’t like life interfering like this. I have things to do, people to see. There are new writing projects, books to finish and blogs to write.
This will be the tenth operation. One of my concerns is that being put under that many times can’t be good for me. I always come out of the anesthesia feeling as if I’ve been hit by a semi. Everything hurts. My right arm and left wrist get bruised from the IVs, and other parts hurt from the actual procedure, which involves sharp little blades being thrust up the urethra. My throat is sore from the tube thrust down there for reasons that are still unclear. Also, I’m wobbly. My knees and legs feel weak. I will pee a lot and often, and it will be painful.
I generally return home and stomp around. I feed the cat. I water the plants. I do useless things, laundering two pairs of socks and a tee-shirt, dusting the top of the DVD shelves and restacking books by area of interest and language. I call a couple of people, or sometimes I don’t. This is getting to be old hat.
The cat looks at me strangely, then recognizes the pattern. He’ll do pirouettes around my feet, climb on the bed and lay on my chest while breathing cat food fumes up my nose.
I really hate this disease.
Crap.
March 6, 2016
Gun Thoughts
So here is a question. Do crazy people who buy guns often kill people, or do people who buy guns often go crazy and kill people?
I ask because, as anyone even remotely aware of the news knows, more and more children, women and men, are getting murdered by gun-wielding assailants who do not necessarily have either criminal records, or diagnosed serious mental issues. In fact, such attacks are so sadly routine that they barely make the front page anymore.
It’s important to look into this chicken-and-egg relationship between sanity and gun crimes because for years, the National Rifle Association has trumpeted that random killings would cease if the government kept a record of who is crazy and who is not, and kept firearms away from those who are. It’s a ludicrous proposition only someone short of brain cells would put forward, and it violates every constitutional belief, but there you are. No one has ever accused the NRA of being rational.
The thing about guns is they inflict death without the physical involvement of the shooter. We are rarely told that someone went on a rampage with a baseball bat or a set of tire chains, and killed twelve colleagues at work before escaping in a Ford Explorer. Such an attack would be too messy. Blood, flesh and hair all over the miscreant… And so it doesn’t happen. People, be they deranged or not, very rarely commit such acts. But a gun is a clean, shiny toy that kills from a distance; no fuss, no muss.
Now imagine a borderline mental case, a functioning member of society with, let’s say, severe anger issues. Like most Americans, he really doesn’t want to be showered with blood and guts, and this is what prevents him from truly going postal. Cleanliness is an American virtue, right up there with godliness, and our man will shrink away from violence that requires a personal touch.
Now give him a gun, a way to make his destructionist wishes come true without soiling his Costco jeans and shirt. Depending on his skills, he can kill from inches or yards away with nary a drop of body liquids to sully his day.
Honestly, I think there’s something to this. I believe a gun can be a catalyst, the impetus needed to push past the last restraint. A gun requires no physical strength, no effort or exertion, just a spasm of the index finger. It doesn’t require much skill, either, if you’re blowing someone away from four or five feet away.
Realistically, we’ll never get the unfortunate people with shattered realities off the streets, nor should we. Nor will we ever get the 300 million guns registered. We will not get really serious laws punishing gun theft, gun crimes, or illegal gun sales. The existing system is so overtaken with gun lobbyists that change doesn’t stand a chance.
So now we return to my favorite suggestion: Let’s legislate the purchase of ammo. Let’s pass laws to make sure bullets are sold to responsible people. Yes, of course it will take years to exhaust the existing supply, and certainly some enterprising bootleggers will manufacture projectiles, but still. It would be a start when, at this point, we have no start at all. In fact, we seem to be going backwards when it comes to gun control.
And maybe, come to think of it, the truly unbalanced people responsible for all the deaths are the legislators. If they were sane, we’d have laws in place already.
Really. We would.
I ask because, as anyone even remotely aware of the news knows, more and more children, women and men, are getting murdered by gun-wielding assailants who do not necessarily have either criminal records, or diagnosed serious mental issues. In fact, such attacks are so sadly routine that they barely make the front page anymore.
It’s important to look into this chicken-and-egg relationship between sanity and gun crimes because for years, the National Rifle Association has trumpeted that random killings would cease if the government kept a record of who is crazy and who is not, and kept firearms away from those who are. It’s a ludicrous proposition only someone short of brain cells would put forward, and it violates every constitutional belief, but there you are. No one has ever accused the NRA of being rational.
The thing about guns is they inflict death without the physical involvement of the shooter. We are rarely told that someone went on a rampage with a baseball bat or a set of tire chains, and killed twelve colleagues at work before escaping in a Ford Explorer. Such an attack would be too messy. Blood, flesh and hair all over the miscreant… And so it doesn’t happen. People, be they deranged or not, very rarely commit such acts. But a gun is a clean, shiny toy that kills from a distance; no fuss, no muss.
Now imagine a borderline mental case, a functioning member of society with, let’s say, severe anger issues. Like most Americans, he really doesn’t want to be showered with blood and guts, and this is what prevents him from truly going postal. Cleanliness is an American virtue, right up there with godliness, and our man will shrink away from violence that requires a personal touch.
Now give him a gun, a way to make his destructionist wishes come true without soiling his Costco jeans and shirt. Depending on his skills, he can kill from inches or yards away with nary a drop of body liquids to sully his day.
Honestly, I think there’s something to this. I believe a gun can be a catalyst, the impetus needed to push past the last restraint. A gun requires no physical strength, no effort or exertion, just a spasm of the index finger. It doesn’t require much skill, either, if you’re blowing someone away from four or five feet away.
Realistically, we’ll never get the unfortunate people with shattered realities off the streets, nor should we. Nor will we ever get the 300 million guns registered. We will not get really serious laws punishing gun theft, gun crimes, or illegal gun sales. The existing system is so overtaken with gun lobbyists that change doesn’t stand a chance.
So now we return to my favorite suggestion: Let’s legislate the purchase of ammo. Let’s pass laws to make sure bullets are sold to responsible people. Yes, of course it will take years to exhaust the existing supply, and certainly some enterprising bootleggers will manufacture projectiles, but still. It would be a start when, at this point, we have no start at all. In fact, we seem to be going backwards when it comes to gun control.
And maybe, come to think of it, the truly unbalanced people responsible for all the deaths are the legislators. If they were sane, we’d have laws in place already.
Really. We would.
Gun Thoughts
So here is a question. Do crazy people who buy guns often kill people, or do people who buy guns often go crazy and kill people?
I ask because, as anyone even remotely aware of the news knows, more and more children, women and men, are getting murdered by gun-wielding assailants who do not necessarily have either criminal records, or diagnosed serious mental issues. In fact, such attacks are so sadly routine that they barely make the front page anymore.
It’s important to look into this chicken-and-egg relationship between sanity and gun crimes because for years, the National Rifle Association has trumpeted that random killings would cease if the government kept a record of who is crazy and who is not, and kept firearms away from those who are. It’s a ludicrous proposition only someone short of brain cells would put forward, and it violates every constitutional belief, but there you are. No one has ever accused the NRA of being rational.
The thing about guns is they inflict death without the physical involvement of the shooter. We are rarely told that someone went on a rampage with a baseball bat or a set of tire chains, and killed twelve colleagues at work before escaping in a Ford Explorer. Such an attack would be too messy. Blood, flesh and hair all over the miscreant… And so it doesn’t happen. People, be they deranged or not, very rarely commit such acts. But a gun is a clean, shiny toy that kills from a distance; no fuss, no muss.
Now imagine a borderline mental case, a functioning member of society with, let’s say, severe anger issues. Like most Americans, he really doesn’t want to be showered with blood and guts, and this is what prevents him from truly going postal. Cleanliness is an American virtue, right up there with godliness, and our man will shrink away from violence that requires a personal touch.
Now give him a gun, a way to make his destructionist wishes come true without soiling his Costco jeans and shirt. Depending on his skills, he can kill from inches or yards away with nary a drop of body liquids to sully his day.
Honestly, I think there’s something to this. I believe a gun can be a catalyst, the impetus needed to push past the last restraint. A gun requires no physical strength, no effort or exertion, just a spasm of the index finger. It doesn’t require much skill, either, if you’re blowing someone away from four or five feet away.
Realistically, we’ll never get the unfortunate people with shattered realities off the streets, nor should we. Nor will we ever get the 300 million guns registered. We will not get really serious laws punishing gun theft, gun crimes, or illegal gun sales. The existing system is so overtaken with gun lobbyists that change doesn’t stand a chance.
So now we return to my favorite suggestion: Let’s legislate the purchase of ammo. Let’s pass laws to make sure bullets are sold to responsible people. Yes, of course it will take years to exhaust the existing supply, and certainly some enterprising bootleggers will manufacture projectiles, but still. It would be a start when, at this point, we have no start at all. In fact, we seem to be going backwards when it comes to gun control.
And maybe, come to think of it, the truly unbalanced people responsible for all the deaths are the legislators. If they were sane, we’d have laws in place already.
Really. We would.
I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
February 28, 2016
Justinn and the US
Justin Bieber.
The U S of A.
The U S of A is the Justin Bieber of the world. Really.
Both are brash, capable of bursts of talent amid staggering displays of immaturity. Both think they’re the greatest; neither is. They are, comparatively speaking, young upstarts simultaneously revered and despised. People make fun of them. They’re profligate with their money and their actions, and petulant when caught in the act, whatever that act may be. Both are in love with themselves. Both smirk a lot and have visions of immortality. Both probably lack lasting power.
For years now, I’ve been of the opinion that the US is a grand experiment that shows every sign of failing. As a young nation full of its own bravado, the States took the world by storm and saved it twice from disaster. The country then proceeded to conquer most of the rest of the planet financially as older, more reticent nations watched. Then it began underestimating its foes—Korea, Vietnam, the Middle East, terrorists. Its currency, the almighty dollar, showed signs of weakness. Like any teen-ager, the United States professed great self-knowledge while barely reaching the age of reason. It came to realize that not everything could be solved by displays of posturing, and accepted—with great reticence—the realities of existence: inflation, deflation, unrest, dissatisfaction with the status quo at home and abroad, poverty and racism. The present political circus is nothing more than an adolescent nation’s tantrums in the face of a changing world.
I suppose it’s hard to accept the country’s slippage in international rankings. It is 14th in education, behind Canada and the UK, 19th in national satisfaction, trailing Bangladesh, The Philippines, and Uganda; 4th behind Italy in health care efficiency and second, also behind Italy, in general ignorance of social statistics such as voting patterns, unemployment rates and teen pregnancy. It does rank 1st worldwide in the number of incarcerated prisoners—2.228,424 of them as of January, 31, 2015.
It has fallen to third in global competitiveness, behind Switzerland and Singapore. It is 101st in the peace index, between Angola and Benin, and 60th in the cost of fast food. It hold the 13th place in acceptance of homosexuality, the 23rd in gender equality, the 33rd in Internet download speed, and is first in women’s Olympic figure skating gold medals. It is 17th-ranked in the 2013 World Happiness Index.
None of these statistics are meant as a criticism of the country, but they do indicate a change in perception. The national pride is getting frayed, and we want it back. The problem is, being a very young nation, we lack the historical perspective and background to do this rationally. So we act like a peevish ten-ager and bring to the forefront a Trump, a Cruz or a Rubio, political neophytes whose strengths lay in stirring up the crowds without in the least educating them. Political Justin Biebers, if you will.
And here I’ll quote Alfonse de Lamartine, a Frenchman, and therefore, need I add, a citizen of a much
older nation: “The more I see of the representatives of the people, the more I admire my dogs.”
Merci, Al.
The U S of A.
The U S of A is the Justin Bieber of the world. Really.
Both are brash, capable of bursts of talent amid staggering displays of immaturity. Both think they’re the greatest; neither is. They are, comparatively speaking, young upstarts simultaneously revered and despised. People make fun of them. They’re profligate with their money and their actions, and petulant when caught in the act, whatever that act may be. Both are in love with themselves. Both smirk a lot and have visions of immortality. Both probably lack lasting power.
For years now, I’ve been of the opinion that the US is a grand experiment that shows every sign of failing. As a young nation full of its own bravado, the States took the world by storm and saved it twice from disaster. The country then proceeded to conquer most of the rest of the planet financially as older, more reticent nations watched. Then it began underestimating its foes—Korea, Vietnam, the Middle East, terrorists. Its currency, the almighty dollar, showed signs of weakness. Like any teen-ager, the United States professed great self-knowledge while barely reaching the age of reason. It came to realize that not everything could be solved by displays of posturing, and accepted—with great reticence—the realities of existence: inflation, deflation, unrest, dissatisfaction with the status quo at home and abroad, poverty and racism. The present political circus is nothing more than an adolescent nation’s tantrums in the face of a changing world.
I suppose it’s hard to accept the country’s slippage in international rankings. It is 14th in education, behind Canada and the UK, 19th in national satisfaction, trailing Bangladesh, The Philippines, and Uganda; 4th behind Italy in health care efficiency and second, also behind Italy, in general ignorance of social statistics such as voting patterns, unemployment rates and teen pregnancy. It does rank 1st worldwide in the number of incarcerated prisoners—2.228,424 of them as of January, 31, 2015.
It has fallen to third in global competitiveness, behind Switzerland and Singapore. It is 101st in the peace index, between Angola and Benin, and 60th in the cost of fast food. It hold the 13th place in acceptance of homosexuality, the 23rd in gender equality, the 33rd in Internet download speed, and is first in women’s Olympic figure skating gold medals. It is 17th-ranked in the 2013 World Happiness Index.
None of these statistics are meant as a criticism of the country, but they do indicate a change in perception. The national pride is getting frayed, and we want it back. The problem is, being a very young nation, we lack the historical perspective and background to do this rationally. So we act like a peevish ten-ager and bring to the forefront a Trump, a Cruz or a Rubio, political neophytes whose strengths lay in stirring up the crowds without in the least educating them. Political Justin Biebers, if you will.
And here I’ll quote Alfonse de Lamartine, a Frenchman, and therefore, need I add, a citizen of a much
older nation: “The more I see of the representatives of the people, the more I admire my dogs.”
Merci, Al.
Justin and the US
Justin Bieber.
The U S of A.
The U S of A is the Justin Bieber of the world. Really.
Both are brash, capable of bursts of talent amid staggering displays of immaturity. Both think they’re the greatest; neither is. They are, comparatively speaking, young upstarts simultaneously revered and despised. People make fun of them. They’re profligate with their money and their actions, and petulant when caught in the act, whatever that act may be. Both are in love with themselves. Both smirk a lot and have visions of immortality. Both probably lack lasting power.
For years now, I’ve been of the opinion that the US is a grand experiment that shows every sign of failing. As a young nation full of its own bravado, the States took the world by storm and saved it twice from disaster. The country then proceeded to conquer most of the rest of the planet financially as older, more reticent nations watched. Then it began underestimating its foes—Korea, Vietnam, the Middle East, terrorists. Its currency, the almighty dollar, showed signs of weakness. Like any teen-ager, the United States professed great self-knowledge while barely reaching the age of reason. It came to realize that not everything could be solved by displays of posturing, and accepted—with great reticence—the realities of existence: inflation, deflation, unrest, dissatisfaction with the status quo at home and abroad, poverty and racism. The present political circus is nothing more than an adolescent nation’s tantrums in the face of a changing world.
I suppose it’s hard to accept the country’s slippage in international rankings. It is 14th in education, behind Canada and the UK, 19thin national satisfaction, trailing Bangladesh, The Philippines, and Uganda; 4thbehind Italy in health care efficiency and second, also behind Italy, in general ignorance of social statistics such as voting patterns, unemployment rates and teen pregnancy. It does rank 1st worldwide in the number of incarcerated prisoners—2.228,424 of them as of January, 31, 2015.
It has fallen to third in global competitiveness, behind Switzerland and Singapore. It is 101st in the peace index, between Angola and Benin, and 60th in the cost of fast food. It hold the 13th place in acceptance of homosexuality, the 23rd in gender equality, the 33rdin Internet download speed, and is first in women’s Olympic figure skating gold medals. It is 17th-ranked in the 2013 World Happiness Index.
None of these statistics are meant as a criticism of the country, but they do indicate a change in perception. The national pride is getting frayed, and we want it back. The problem is, being a very young nation, we lack the historical perspective and background to do this rationally. So we act like a peevish ten-ager and bring to the forefront a Trump, a Cruz or a Rubio, political neophytes whose strengths lay in stirring up the crowds without in the least educating them. Political Justin Biebers, if you will.
And here I’ll quote Alfonse de Lamartine, a Frenchman, and therefore, need I add, a citizen of a much older nation: “The more I see of the representatives of the people, the more I admire my dogs.”
Merci, Al.
I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
Juastin and the US
Justin Bieber.
The U S of A.
The U S of A is the Justin Bieber of the world. Really.
Both are brash, capable of bursts of talent amid staggering displays of immaturity. Both think they’re the greatest; neither is. They are, comparatively speaking, young upstarts simultaneously revered and despised. People make fun of them. They’re profligate with their money and their actions, and petulant when caught in the act, whatever that act may be. Both are in love with themselves. Both smirk a lot and have visions of immortality. Both probably lack lasting power.
For years now, I’ve been of the opinion that the US is a grand experiment that shows every sign of failing. As a young nation full of its own bravado, the States took the world by storm and saved it twice from disaster. The country then proceeded to conquer most of the rest of the planet financially as older, more reticent nations watched. Then it began underestimating its foes—Korea, Vietnam, the Middle East, terrorists. Its currency, the almighty dollar, showed signs of weakness. Like any teen-ager, the United States professed great self-knowledge while barely reaching the age of reason. It came to realize that not everything could be solved by displays of posturing, and accepted—with great reticence—the realities of existence: inflation, deflation, unrest, dissatisfaction with the status quo at home and abroad, poverty and racism. The present political circus is nothing more than an adolescent nation’s tantrums in the face of a changing world.
I suppose it’s hard to accept the country’s slippage in international rankings. It is 14th in education, behind Canada and the UK, 19thin national satisfaction, trailing Bangladesh, The Philippines, and Uganda; 4thbehind Italy in health care efficiency and second, also behind Italy, in general ignorance of social statistics such as voting patterns, unemployment rates and teen pregnancy. It does rank 1st worldwide in the number of incarcerated prisoners—2.228,424 of them as of January, 31, 2015.
It has fallen to third in global competitiveness, behind Switzerland and Singapore. It is 101st in the peace index, between Angola and Benin, and 60th in the cost of fast food. It hold the 13th place in acceptance of homosexuality, the 23rd in gender equality, the 33rdin Internet download speed, and is first in women’s Olympic figure skating gold medals. It is 17th-ranked in the 2013 World Happiness Index.
None of these statistics are meant as a criticism of the country, but they do indicate a change in perception. The national pride is getting frayed, and we want it back. The problem is, being a very young nation, we lack the historical perspective and background to do this rationally. So we act like a peevish ten-ager and bring to the forefront a Trump, a Cruz or a Rubio, political neophytes whose strengths lay in stirring up the crowds without in the least educating them. Political Justin Biebers, if you will.
And here I’ll quote Alfonse de Lamartine, a Frenchman, and therefore, need I add, a citizen of a much older nation: “The more I see of the representatives of the people, the more I admire my dogs.”
Merci, Al.
I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
February 25, 2016
My Mother's Guests
My mother liked to entertain. After her discovery that the Washington, DC, area had a large French population, she set about winning the hearts and minds of her displaced countrymen and women. She threw exuberant dinner parties, hosted cocktail evening and afternoon bridge sessions, held rehearsals for the local French theater company (almost exclusively farces by Molière), and charity events for the French parish. Twice a year, there would be elaborate costumes ball with varying themes. The best was the one based on the French Revolution, when a particularly handy French diplomat brought a homemade guillotine to slice the baguettes. He operated the thing, which stood eight feet tall, with disturbing joy. As the evening wore on and wine and liqueurs took their toll, my father was obliged to jam the thing with a broom stick so inebriated guests wouldn’t be tempted to test its efficacy on each other.
Within the circle of friends were a few French women who had married Americans. The latter were invited to our home and treated kindly, though always with a hint of suspicion. One American husband married to a perky French Georgetown shop owner, claimed not to speak a word of French but always seemed overly interested in overhearing conversations in a language he could not understand. It turned out he worked for the CIA; my father believed the man’s job was to monitor the French community to make sure no one was plotting a take-over of Louisiana.
Other guests included Camille Chautemps, an elderly man who had been Prime Minister of France three times and sided with the Vichy government that in 1940 handed France to Germany. Chautemps was sent to the US on an official mission and never returned to France. He was convicted in absentia of collaborating with the enemy and spent his last days in Washington with his wife and son and daughter. The children became, respectively, a not very good dentist, and a successful real-estate investors.
My parents’ relationship with the Chautemps was interesting. Both my mother and father had served with the Free French during the war, and to them the former Prime Minister was the worst kind of traitor. But he was also a former Prime Minister coming to their house! This was a quandary best met by inviting the Chautemps family over for lunch, with no other guests present.
I remember him as an ancient, stooped man who told lamentable jokes. His wife, once a famed Parisian beauty, had become a wilted flower wearing far too-much make-up.
There were other guests: an artist of the Jackson Pollock school who offered to splatter our walls with paint for a fee; a woman who went nowhere without her boa constrictor (in my opinion, the coolest guest ever to grace our home), a couple in a hateful relationship who got progressively drunker as the evening wore on and muttered truly vile curses at each other; an alcoholic Catholic priest whose hands wandered good-naturedly to the derrieres of the younger women guests; a handsome woman in her sixties of was rumored to have been the mistress of a European dictator, and her husband, whose card tricks never seemed to work.
In retrospect, the evenings hosted by my mother were greater theater than any show offered today. One night’s performance could keep tongues wagging for weeks; it was entertainment at its best. Cocteau, Ionesco, Beckett and Pinter would have been jealous. We had theater of the absurd in our very own living room!
Within the circle of friends were a few French women who had married Americans. The latter were invited to our home and treated kindly, though always with a hint of suspicion. One American husband married to a perky French Georgetown shop owner, claimed not to speak a word of French but always seemed overly interested in overhearing conversations in a language he could not understand. It turned out he worked for the CIA; my father believed the man’s job was to monitor the French community to make sure no one was plotting a take-over of Louisiana.
Other guests included Camille Chautemps, an elderly man who had been Prime Minister of France three times and sided with the Vichy government that in 1940 handed France to Germany. Chautemps was sent to the US on an official mission and never returned to France. He was convicted in absentia of collaborating with the enemy and spent his last days in Washington with his wife and son and daughter. The children became, respectively, a not very good dentist, and a successful real-estate investors.
My parents’ relationship with the Chautemps was interesting. Both my mother and father had served with the Free French during the war, and to them the former Prime Minister was the worst kind of traitor. But he was also a former Prime Minister coming to their house! This was a quandary best met by inviting the Chautemps family over for lunch, with no other guests present.
I remember him as an ancient, stooped man who told lamentable jokes. His wife, once a famed Parisian beauty, had become a wilted flower wearing far too-much make-up.
There were other guests: an artist of the Jackson Pollock school who offered to splatter our walls with paint for a fee; a woman who went nowhere without her boa constrictor (in my opinion, the coolest guest ever to grace our home), a couple in a hateful relationship who got progressively drunker as the evening wore on and muttered truly vile curses at each other; an alcoholic Catholic priest whose hands wandered good-naturedly to the derrieres of the younger women guests; a handsome woman in her sixties of was rumored to have been the mistress of a European dictator, and her husband, whose card tricks never seemed to work.
In retrospect, the evenings hosted by my mother were greater theater than any show offered today. One night’s performance could keep tongues wagging for weeks; it was entertainment at its best. Cocteau, Ionesco, Beckett and Pinter would have been jealous. We had theater of the absurd in our very own living room!
My Mother's Guests
My mother liked to entertain. After her discovery that the Washington, DC, area had a large French population, she set about winning the hearts and minds of her displaced countrymen and women. She threw exuberant dinner parties, hosted cocktail evening and afternoon bridge sessions, held rehearsals for the local French theater company (almost exclusively farces by Molière), and charity events for the French parish. Twice a year, there would be elaborate costumes ball with varying themes. The best was the one based on the French Revolution, when a particularly handy French diplomat brought a homemade guillotine to slice the baguettes. He operated the thing, which stood eight feet tall, with disturbing joy. As the evening wore on and wine and liqueurs took their toll, my father was obliged to jam the thing with a broom stick so inebriated guests wouldn’t be tempted to test its efficacy on each other.
Within the circle of friends were a few French women who had married Americans. The latter were invited to our home and treated kindly, though always with a hint of suspicion. One American husband married to a perky French Georgetown shop owner, claimed not to speak a word of French but always seemed overly interested in overhearing conversations in a language he could not understand. It turned out he worked for the CIA; my father believed the man’s job was to monitor the French community to make sure no one was plotting a take-over of Louisiana.
Other guests included Camille Chautemps, an elderly man who had been Prime Minister of France three times and sided with the Vichy government that in 1940 handed France to Germany. Chautemps was sent to the US on an official mission and never returned to France. He was convicted in absentia of collaborating with the enemy and spent his last days in Washington with his wife and son and daughter. The children became, respectively, a not very good dentist, and a successful real-estate investors.
My parents’ relationship with the Chautemps was interesting. Both my mother and father had served with the Free French during the war, and to them the former Prime Minister was the worst kind of traitor. But he was also a former Prime Minister coming to their house! This was a quandary best met by inviting the Chautemps family over for lunch, with no other guests present.
I remember him as an ancient, stooped man who told lamentable jokes. His wife, once a famed Parisian beauty, had become a wilted flower wearing far too-much make-up.
There were other guests: an artist of the Jackson Pollock school who offered to splatter our walls with paint for a fee; a woman who went nowhere without her boa constrictor (in my opinion, the coolest guest ever to grace our home), a couple in a hateful relationship who got progressively drunker as the evening wore on and muttered truly vile curses at each other; an alcoholic Catholic priest whose hands wandered good-naturedly to the derrieres of the younger women guests; a handsome woman in her sixties of was rumored to have been the mistress of a European dictator, and her husband, whose card tricks never seemed to work.
In retrospect, the evenings hosted by my mother were greater theater than any show offered today. One night’s performance could keep tongues wagging for weeks; it was entertainment at its best. Cocteau, Ionesco, Beckett and Pinter would have been jealous. We had theater of the absurd in our very own living room!I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
February 9, 2016
Crappy Days
It’s a crappy day; don’t tell me otherwise. There’s snow mixed with rain, or vice-versa, and lunch with my favorite people was cancelled because three snowflakes doing the Macarena on their way down to earth are enough to close the schools and US Government, and back up traffic for miles.
I am sitting in my crappy rental car listening to a crappy radio station playing crappy songs that I didn’t listen to twenty years ago. They were crappy tunes back then and now they’re golden oldies. I have a rental because my trusty 30-years-old two-seater blew a head gasket. Also, it overheats; one of the two engine fans isn’t working. And there’s as slow leak in the power steering system. My $28-a-day Japanese rental is a bottom of the line Nissan. It hesitates when I press the accelerator and there’s six inches of play in the steering on either side. I swear the car wanted to roll over and play dead when I got on Interstate 66 and semis passed me doing 80 to my 65.
In town, people are weaving in and out of their lanes and there’s not a blinker in sight, except for an Asian woman in a Mercedes SUV. She’s on the phone, signaling a right turn. She turns left in front of me and for a mad moment, I want to follow her, catch her at a stoplight, grab her phone and grind it under foot. It took me a half-hour to find the gas tank cap release lever, which was cleverly hidden in plain sight on the dash.
What in the world am I listening to? Alice in Chains? New Kids on the Block? The DJ, between songs, is talking to his woman sidekick about opioid irregularity. People are calling in to tell the listening audience all about the intestinal issues caused by their OxyContin use. One man says the trick is to take your opiates with a healthy slug of prune juice. The DJ is ecstatic about this smidgen of information. He jokes, he makes farting sounds; his colleague is thrilled and makes sounds as well, lighter, more feminine ones. I am wondering if this is the future—drug dependency and an entire school of humor based on digestive difficulties.
It’s a crappy day. A woman friend with whom I was planning to record some music was assaulted recently. She’s shook, understandably, and my reaction is one of rage. WTF?
OMG, they’re playing 2000 Light Years from Home, the worst Rolling Stone song ever! Back in the day, Mick Jagger, in a burst of well-deserved shame, tried to buy back every album that song was on. I read it on the Internet so I know it’s true.
Now the sun is peaking through.
It’s a crappy sunny day. Don’t try to tell me different.
I am sitting in my crappy rental car listening to a crappy radio station playing crappy songs that I didn’t listen to twenty years ago. They were crappy tunes back then and now they’re golden oldies. I have a rental because my trusty 30-years-old two-seater blew a head gasket. Also, it overheats; one of the two engine fans isn’t working. And there’s as slow leak in the power steering system. My $28-a-day Japanese rental is a bottom of the line Nissan. It hesitates when I press the accelerator and there’s six inches of play in the steering on either side. I swear the car wanted to roll over and play dead when I got on Interstate 66 and semis passed me doing 80 to my 65.
In town, people are weaving in and out of their lanes and there’s not a blinker in sight, except for an Asian woman in a Mercedes SUV. She’s on the phone, signaling a right turn. She turns left in front of me and for a mad moment, I want to follow her, catch her at a stoplight, grab her phone and grind it under foot. It took me a half-hour to find the gas tank cap release lever, which was cleverly hidden in plain sight on the dash.
What in the world am I listening to? Alice in Chains? New Kids on the Block? The DJ, between songs, is talking to his woman sidekick about opioid irregularity. People are calling in to tell the listening audience all about the intestinal issues caused by their OxyContin use. One man says the trick is to take your opiates with a healthy slug of prune juice. The DJ is ecstatic about this smidgen of information. He jokes, he makes farting sounds; his colleague is thrilled and makes sounds as well, lighter, more feminine ones. I am wondering if this is the future—drug dependency and an entire school of humor based on digestive difficulties.
It’s a crappy day. A woman friend with whom I was planning to record some music was assaulted recently. She’s shook, understandably, and my reaction is one of rage. WTF?
OMG, they’re playing 2000 Light Years from Home, the worst Rolling Stone song ever! Back in the day, Mick Jagger, in a burst of well-deserved shame, tried to buy back every album that song was on. I read it on the Internet so I know it’s true.
Now the sun is peaking through.
It’s a crappy sunny day. Don’t try to tell me different.
Crappy Days
It’s a crappy day; don’t tell me otherwise. There’s snow mixed with rain, or vice-versa, and lunch with my favorite people was cancelled because three snowflakes doing the Macarena on their way down to earth are enough to close the schools and US Government, and back up traffic for miles.
I am sitting in my crappy rental car listening to a crappy radio station playing crappy songs that I didn’t listen to twenty years ago. They were crappy tunes back then and now they’re golden oldies. I have a rental because my trusty 30-years-old two-seater blew a head gasket. Also, it overheats; one of the two engine fans isn’t working. And there’s as slow leak in the power steering system. My $28-a-day Japanese rental is a bottom of the line Nissan. It hesitates when I press the accelerator and there’s six inches of play in the steering on either side. I swear the car wanted to roll over and play dead when I got on Interstate 66 and semis passed me doing 80 to my 65.
In town, people are weaving in and out of their lanes and there’s not a blinker in sight, except for an Asian woman in a Mercedes SUV. She’s on the phone, signaling a right turn. She turns left in front of me and for a mad moment, I want to follow her, catch her at a stoplight, grab her phone and grind it under foot. It took me a half-hour to find the gas tank cap release lever, which was cleverly hidden in plain sight on the dash.
What in the world am I listening to? Alice in Chains? New Kids on the Block? The DJ, between songs, is talking to his woman sidekick about opioid irregularity. People are calling in to tell the listening audience all about the intestinal issues caused by their OxyContin use. One man says the trick is to take your opiates with a healthy slug of prune juice. The DJ is ecstatic about this smidgen of information. He jokes, he makes farting sounds; his colleague is thrilled and makes sounds as well, lighter, more feminine ones. I am wondering if this is the future—drug dependency and an entire school of humor based on digestive difficulties.
It’s a crappy day. A woman friend with whom I was planning to record some music was assaulted recently. She’s shook, understandably, and my reaction is one of rage. WTF?
OMG, they’re playing 2000 Light Years from Home, the worst Rolling Stone song ever! Back in the day, Mick Jagger, in a burst of well-deserved shame, tried to buy back every album that song was on. I read it on the Internet so I know it’s true.
Now the sun is peaking through.
It’s a crappy sunny day. Don’t try to tell me different.I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
