Thierry Sagnier's Blog, page 3
December 14, 2023
Manners
Europeans traditionally eat with both hands on the table. Americans eat with one hand in their lap while the other mans a fork or spoon. Personally, I’ve always been curious to know what the below-the-table hand is doing. I’ve concluded that it’s meant to rescue food that has missed the mouth and ended up on the lap.
The holidays are a time of excess, and that includes eating. In order to present yourself as civilized, here are a few basic rules to follow.
If grace is to be said before the meal, do not shout, “God is good, God is great, yay God!”
Don’t overload your plate. There is no famine and there will be seconds of mashed potatoes.
Do not play with your food if you are older than six. Making forts with the yams and moats with the gravy is in poor form.
Do not see how many chestnuts you can fit in your mouth.
Don’t insult the asparagus by eating more than one spear at a time.
Don’t accentuate a conversational point by using your knife, fork or spoon. In some cultures, this may be seen as a threat.
Don’t eat your neighbor’s bread or salad. Do not use their napkin to wipe your mouth.
Turn your cell phone off. I repeat: TURN YOUR CELL PHONE OFF.
The results of your latest colonoscopy are not fit for polite dinner chat.
Keep your elbows close to your side when cutting meat. Flapping them like a goose or turkey is loutish.
Do not slurp.
When the cheese plate is passed around, do not ask for the least stinky one.
Do not tell the assembled that Aunt Claire’s marshmallow delight is to die for and better than anything being served today.
Avoid reaching across the table to eat food from the other guests’ plates.
It is considered in poor taste to inquire whether the sausage casing is really pig intestine.
Avoid talking with your mouth full, even if you have something urgent and à propos to say.
Take a sip of water if the food is too hot. Do not spit the food back onto your or another guest’s plate.
When making a toast, keep it brief, and do not chug the entirety of your wine glass and then make belching sounds.
Don’t mop your face with your napkin.
If you happen upon a bit of bone or gristle, do not spit it into your napkin. You may remove the offending morsel from your mouth by discreetly using the thumb and index finger of the same hand.
Offer to refill your neighbor’s glass before you refill yours. Do not drink from your neighbor’s glass even if your mouth is on fire and your water glass is empty.
And finally, regardless of the food, say something nice about the meal.
Happy holidays!
The holidays are a time of excess, and that includes eating. In order to present yourself as civilized, here are a few basic rules to follow.
If grace is to be said before the meal, do not shout, “God is good, God is great, yay God!”
Don’t overload your plate. There is no famine and there will be seconds of mashed potatoes.
Do not play with your food if you are older than six. Making forts with the yams and moats with the gravy is in poor form.
Do not see how many chestnuts you can fit in your mouth.
Don’t insult the asparagus by eating more than one spear at a time.
Don’t accentuate a conversational point by using your knife, fork or spoon. In some cultures, this may be seen as a threat.
Don’t eat your neighbor’s bread or salad. Do not use their napkin to wipe your mouth.
Turn your cell phone off. I repeat: TURN YOUR CELL PHONE OFF.
The results of your latest colonoscopy are not fit for polite dinner chat.
Keep your elbows close to your side when cutting meat. Flapping them like a goose or turkey is loutish.
Do not slurp.
When the cheese plate is passed around, do not ask for the least stinky one.
Do not tell the assembled that Aunt Claire’s marshmallow delight is to die for and better than anything being served today.
Avoid reaching across the table to eat food from the other guests’ plates.
It is considered in poor taste to inquire whether the sausage casing is really pig intestine.
Avoid talking with your mouth full, even if you have something urgent and à propos to say.
Take a sip of water if the food is too hot. Do not spit the food back onto your or another guest’s plate.
When making a toast, keep it brief, and do not chug the entirety of your wine glass and then make belching sounds.
Don’t mop your face with your napkin.
If you happen upon a bit of bone or gristle, do not spit it into your napkin. You may remove the offending morsel from your mouth by discreetly using the thumb and index finger of the same hand.
Offer to refill your neighbor’s glass before you refill yours. Do not drink from your neighbor’s glass even if your mouth is on fire and your water glass is empty.
And finally, regardless of the food, say something nice about the meal.
Happy holidays!
December 5, 2023
Manners
I am a snob. Proudly so, I might add. I don’t often display my elitism unless I truly feel it is justified, and it rarely is. No. That’s a lie. It is often justified, but rarely displayed. I am one of those quiet European snobs, the antithesis, I should hope, of the well-known Eurotrash. I am an Old-World snob, a vanishing breed that no longer feels the need to display its plumage.
I respect courtesy and manners even as some of the habits I was raised to practice have fallen into disfavor. I open doors for women, being fully aware that said women are perfectly capable of doing so themselves. When introduced to a married woman, I was taught to raise their left hand to my lips and pretend to kiss said appendage. I stopped doing this with Americans years ago when a lady from Texas, I think, thought I was going to bite her. Evading my advance, she punched me in the nose with enough force to incur bloodshed.
When walking with a woman, I always stay on the outside. My father, a gentleman, told me this had two purposes. The first was to protect my lady companion from runaway carriages; the second was to shield her from the contents of chamber pots emptied from windows overhead. Admittedly, both events are unlikely to occur in modern times, but old habits die hard. When dining, I also pull a lady’s chair some distance from the table at restaurants to make sitting in a crinoline skirt easier.
And speaking of restaurants… I’ve never understood why people—both genders, by the way—wear baseball caps while eating. Are they afraid the ceiling might cave in? Are they covering bald spots? Are they displaying their loyalty to a team or a product? Personally, I’ve never encountered anyone whose appearance was improved by a baseball cap. I will not expound on caps worn backwards, or worse, sideways. A sideways cap immediately lowers the wearer’s IQ by 15 to 20 points. Ask anyone. (An aside: My favorite sartorial excess is wearing a baseball cap backwards and an uoside-down tennis visor to shield your eyes at the same time. I sort of equate that to wearing suspenders and a belt.)
If you’re at a restaurant, close your mouth when you chew. No one is really interested in what’s in your mouth. Never snap your fingers at a waitperson. Don’t start eating before everyone at your table is served. Moderate the volume of your voice. Don’t ask for too many substitutions. If you’re an adult, you probably don’t need a bib. Keep your napkin on your lap. Don’t pick your teeth at the table or blow your nose in the linen napkin.
This is my favorite: Do not put the baby on the table to change its diaper. I saw this done! Really! I did!
I respect courtesy and manners even as some of the habits I was raised to practice have fallen into disfavor. I open doors for women, being fully aware that said women are perfectly capable of doing so themselves. When introduced to a married woman, I was taught to raise their left hand to my lips and pretend to kiss said appendage. I stopped doing this with Americans years ago when a lady from Texas, I think, thought I was going to bite her. Evading my advance, she punched me in the nose with enough force to incur bloodshed.
When walking with a woman, I always stay on the outside. My father, a gentleman, told me this had two purposes. The first was to protect my lady companion from runaway carriages; the second was to shield her from the contents of chamber pots emptied from windows overhead. Admittedly, both events are unlikely to occur in modern times, but old habits die hard. When dining, I also pull a lady’s chair some distance from the table at restaurants to make sitting in a crinoline skirt easier.
And speaking of restaurants… I’ve never understood why people—both genders, by the way—wear baseball caps while eating. Are they afraid the ceiling might cave in? Are they covering bald spots? Are they displaying their loyalty to a team or a product? Personally, I’ve never encountered anyone whose appearance was improved by a baseball cap. I will not expound on caps worn backwards, or worse, sideways. A sideways cap immediately lowers the wearer’s IQ by 15 to 20 points. Ask anyone. (An aside: My favorite sartorial excess is wearing a baseball cap backwards and an uoside-down tennis visor to shield your eyes at the same time. I sort of equate that to wearing suspenders and a belt.)
If you’re at a restaurant, close your mouth when you chew. No one is really interested in what’s in your mouth. Never snap your fingers at a waitperson. Don’t start eating before everyone at your table is served. Moderate the volume of your voice. Don’t ask for too many substitutions. If you’re an adult, you probably don’t need a bib. Keep your napkin on your lap. Don’t pick your teeth at the table or blow your nose in the linen napkin.
This is my favorite: Do not put the baby on the table to change its diaper. I saw this done! Really! I did!
November 21, 2023
Life (and Deat5h)
I am addicted to nature programs. Show me a herd of wildebeests eluding a pack of African hunting dogs and I’m happy. I will spend several hours watching David Attenborough lecture about the five extinctions as volcanoes explode and asteroids strike the Earth. I love the way he says “Three billlllion years agoooo…” If the world were to end tomorrow, I’d want to be with Attenborough, listening to him explain how our approaching demise was not the tragic end, but the natural conclusion of a series of events that had nothing to do with the human race. What Attenborough is actually saying is that it’s not about life, it’s about death. Life isn’t very smart and doesn’t know when to quit. It always loses out to death.
It’s commonly believed that 99 percent of the creatures that ever lived on our planet have gone extinct. Attenborough would tell you we are fostering the next extinction by despoiling the air and land, and devastating the oceans through largely uncontrolled fishing. We are not very smart either. We are reactive, often springing to action when it's too late and wringing our hands at our helplessness. The barn doors are wide open, the cows have left, and we blame everything but ourselves.
Approximately 117 billion members of our species have been born on Earth, according to the Population Reference Bureau (PRB). The present global population of eight billion represents about seven percent of this total number of people. Within 110 years, all of us—including me and whoever might be reading this—will have died. Our lives represent less than the blink of an eye in the violent history of this planet. So, once again, it’s not about life, but the end of life.
None of these lives comprehend death, and most of us fear it. As youths, we believe we’re immortal, but as age brings us closer to the edge of the precipice, we often turn to religion. This explains why so many beliefs are based on the concept of a hereafter. It’s comforting to think our death is not final, but merely a transition to another existence.
It’s likely that in the not-so-distant future, humans will be the cause of the sixth extinction, but not today. In this century, the vast majority of us will die quotidian deaths. Our internal organs will wear out, we’ll fall off ladders while cleaning the gutters, eat bad food, or succumb to bicycle accidents. We’ll get hit by buses, cars, trucks, tractors, bulldozers, and cranes. Some, like Isadora Duncan, will die of strangulation, and others such as Franz Reichelt, might attempt to fly from the first floor of the Eiffel Tower with predictable results. Others still, Porcia Catonis—the second wife of Marcus Junius Brutus—comes to mind. She swallowed hot coals… Or you could die as I almost did today. An adolescent texting while driving sped his parents’ SUV through a red light and almost smoushed me.
It’s sort of interesting, really. There’s only one way to be born but there are infinite ways to die.
It’s commonly believed that 99 percent of the creatures that ever lived on our planet have gone extinct. Attenborough would tell you we are fostering the next extinction by despoiling the air and land, and devastating the oceans through largely uncontrolled fishing. We are not very smart either. We are reactive, often springing to action when it's too late and wringing our hands at our helplessness. The barn doors are wide open, the cows have left, and we blame everything but ourselves.
Approximately 117 billion members of our species have been born on Earth, according to the Population Reference Bureau (PRB). The present global population of eight billion represents about seven percent of this total number of people. Within 110 years, all of us—including me and whoever might be reading this—will have died. Our lives represent less than the blink of an eye in the violent history of this planet. So, once again, it’s not about life, but the end of life.
None of these lives comprehend death, and most of us fear it. As youths, we believe we’re immortal, but as age brings us closer to the edge of the precipice, we often turn to religion. This explains why so many beliefs are based on the concept of a hereafter. It’s comforting to think our death is not final, but merely a transition to another existence.
It’s likely that in the not-so-distant future, humans will be the cause of the sixth extinction, but not today. In this century, the vast majority of us will die quotidian deaths. Our internal organs will wear out, we’ll fall off ladders while cleaning the gutters, eat bad food, or succumb to bicycle accidents. We’ll get hit by buses, cars, trucks, tractors, bulldozers, and cranes. Some, like Isadora Duncan, will die of strangulation, and others such as Franz Reichelt, might attempt to fly from the first floor of the Eiffel Tower with predictable results. Others still, Porcia Catonis—the second wife of Marcus Junius Brutus—comes to mind. She swallowed hot coals… Or you could die as I almost did today. An adolescent texting while driving sped his parents’ SUV through a red light and almost smoushed me.
It’s sort of interesting, really. There’s only one way to be born but there are infinite ways to die.
November 1, 2023
A Presence
Thre are times when, lying in the dark and aware that my body, for a moment or two, is not signaling its shortcomings, I sense a presence sharing the room with me.
I’m not particularly religious, but I do think there are a multitude of powers much larger than me and that, occasionally, they like to flex their muscles.
This visiting manifestation bears me no malice, but neither is it benign. It is simply there for a second or two. I sense that it is feminine, perhaps because it is that gender that brings life. It has neither voice nor physicality. It simply is, and I’ve persuaded myself that may be a woman I have known.
Literature, legend, and folklore are chock-full of apparitions that often bode ill—think of Dickens’ Scrooge and his encounters with Christmases past and future. These presences speak and warn of a dire future. Mine, luckily, does not. It offers a moment or two of silent companionship, then evanesces.
As a child in France, I often spent weekends in St. Germain, a suburb of Paris. The house my family and I occupied had been built in the 16th century and had neither electricity nor water. It was narrow with creaking stairs and crumbling plaster. More important, it was, according to my mother, haunted by the ghost of a long-ago ancestor who had perished in the French Revolution. The woman, whose name I never learned, had been a royalist and met her fate during one of the riots that led to the demise of Louis XVI and his family. I never saw or heard the St. Germain ghost, and I doubt that she crossed the Atlantic to haunt my one-bedroom apartment. Plus, we share political affiliations. I’m a royalist too.
Ghosts aside, I’m curious to know if sensing a bodiless presence nearby is age related. Is it a common experience among us older folks?
I’m not particularly religious, but I do think there are a multitude of powers much larger than me and that, occasionally, they like to flex their muscles.
This visiting manifestation bears me no malice, but neither is it benign. It is simply there for a second or two. I sense that it is feminine, perhaps because it is that gender that brings life. It has neither voice nor physicality. It simply is, and I’ve persuaded myself that may be a woman I have known.
Literature, legend, and folklore are chock-full of apparitions that often bode ill—think of Dickens’ Scrooge and his encounters with Christmases past and future. These presences speak and warn of a dire future. Mine, luckily, does not. It offers a moment or two of silent companionship, then evanesces.
As a child in France, I often spent weekends in St. Germain, a suburb of Paris. The house my family and I occupied had been built in the 16th century and had neither electricity nor water. It was narrow with creaking stairs and crumbling plaster. More important, it was, according to my mother, haunted by the ghost of a long-ago ancestor who had perished in the French Revolution. The woman, whose name I never learned, had been a royalist and met her fate during one of the riots that led to the demise of Louis XVI and his family. I never saw or heard the St. Germain ghost, and I doubt that she crossed the Atlantic to haunt my one-bedroom apartment. Plus, we share political affiliations. I’m a royalist too.
Ghosts aside, I’m curious to know if sensing a bodiless presence nearby is age related. Is it a common experience among us older folks?
October 24, 2023
Fall
Fall—the action, not the season.
So far in 2023, I’ve fallen four times. The first was in the bathroom as I was drying off from a shower. My left leg simply collapsed. I crumpled and through sheer luck, my head ended up between the bathtub and the toilet. I lay there for a minute or two, then gathered myself and got to my feet.
The second time was in the underground garage where I park my car. It was dark, and I failed to see the curb I was stepping off. Again, luck intervened. Years of martial arts training allowed me to roll forward and not injure myself.
The third instance was in National airport. I had not been there in years and failed to realize the distance between gates. I was shuffling forward like old people do, when the toe of my right shoe caught a crack in the pavement. I was less lucky that time. I was carrying a knapsack and a small rolling suitcase. I fell and cracked two ribs.
The fourth and last time was two days ago, very early in the morning before sunrise I got up from bed to go to the bathroom and tripped over a shoe on the floor. I sprawled, cursing, and wacked my head on the ground, causing a very minor concussion. Just a few days earlier, a neurologist had told me that the chemo I underwent probably caused peripheral neuropathy, which in turn is affecting my balance. She signed me up for rehab sessions after noticing that I swayed when standing upright with my eyes closed. In a way, I feel that whatever senses are holding my body together are deserting me. The latest is equilibrium. I’m told that when I walk, I have a Popeye gait that is sort of comical to watch. I’m okay with that. Swaying is better than stumbling…
Last night, I was thinking about the word fall. We fall in love and, like the song says, we fall apart or to pieces. Afterwards, we might go into free fall. We fall behind, into and out of; we fall from grace; we read about the Fall of the Houe of Usher and the Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. Fall-out is nasty, as is taking the fall for someone else. Things fall through or into the wrong hands, and we fall short. And of course, pride comes before the fall… Entire webpages are devoted to fall, which makes me believe that it’s an important four-letter word.
Once again, I digress. I do that a lot lately. I may have hit my head harder than I thought.
So far in 2023, I’ve fallen four times. The first was in the bathroom as I was drying off from a shower. My left leg simply collapsed. I crumpled and through sheer luck, my head ended up between the bathtub and the toilet. I lay there for a minute or two, then gathered myself and got to my feet.
The second time was in the underground garage where I park my car. It was dark, and I failed to see the curb I was stepping off. Again, luck intervened. Years of martial arts training allowed me to roll forward and not injure myself.
The third instance was in National airport. I had not been there in years and failed to realize the distance between gates. I was shuffling forward like old people do, when the toe of my right shoe caught a crack in the pavement. I was less lucky that time. I was carrying a knapsack and a small rolling suitcase. I fell and cracked two ribs.
The fourth and last time was two days ago, very early in the morning before sunrise I got up from bed to go to the bathroom and tripped over a shoe on the floor. I sprawled, cursing, and wacked my head on the ground, causing a very minor concussion. Just a few days earlier, a neurologist had told me that the chemo I underwent probably caused peripheral neuropathy, which in turn is affecting my balance. She signed me up for rehab sessions after noticing that I swayed when standing upright with my eyes closed. In a way, I feel that whatever senses are holding my body together are deserting me. The latest is equilibrium. I’m told that when I walk, I have a Popeye gait that is sort of comical to watch. I’m okay with that. Swaying is better than stumbling…
Last night, I was thinking about the word fall. We fall in love and, like the song says, we fall apart or to pieces. Afterwards, we might go into free fall. We fall behind, into and out of; we fall from grace; we read about the Fall of the Houe of Usher and the Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. Fall-out is nasty, as is taking the fall for someone else. Things fall through or into the wrong hands, and we fall short. And of course, pride comes before the fall… Entire webpages are devoted to fall, which makes me believe that it’s an important four-letter word.
Once again, I digress. I do that a lot lately. I may have hit my head harder than I thought.
October 12, 2023
Aaarrrgghhh
I am not well. I could have built the pyramids with the effort it takes me to cling on to life and reason—Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice.
It’s nine days after my 38th surgery (it may be 37th or 39th; I’ve lost count) and I am not happy. I’ve just learned that a best friend broke his hip and the news both shocks and dismays me. Aging is at best unkind, and sometimes simply cruel.
My surgery went well, I was told. Immediately post-op, I was given a cocktail of fentanyl, Demerol, Dilaudid and Vicodin to deal with the discomfort. I should be used to the aftermath of these multiple attempts to excise the cancer in my bladder, but I’m not. Is it possible for my bladder to hurt? Yes. The surgeon removed what he told me was “a high-grade tumor” that, depending on the results of tests, may necessitate more chemo. The problem is that past chemo sessions may very well have caused a new condition, something called peripheral neuropathy. This disorder makes my feet and lower legs feel tingly, almost as if they were shrink-wrapped. It’s apparently incurable. At its worst, it causes people to lose all sensations in their appendages and not notice that they have harmed themselves, so they walk around unaware of bleeding wounds, abrasions or burns. Lovely.
This is all beginning to have a psychological impact. I’ve never been half-blind, largely deaf, cancerous, insomniac, obese, balding, frail, and generally unattractive before. I don’t mind entering my Keith Richards years but I’d like to do so with a modicum of pride, and right now pride is hard to find. I’m also going through a period of akrasia, a Greek word describing the lack of will that prevents us from doing what we know is good for us. Peachy.
Recently, I’ve observed that I no longer notice beauty. I’m sure it’s still there, both minuscule and majestic, but lately I unerringly veer towards the ugly, the quotidian, the unimaginative. The new buildings that replace modest stores and homes, for example are hideous. My once small Northern Virginia town has become a series of glass and concrete canyons that have all the charms and distinction of a sanitary napkin box. The new structures have added to the traffic congestion, which in turn tries the patience of already testy commuters.
Luckily, I have a refuge from all the ugliness. Just a couple of miles from where I live is Lazy Mike’s Deli, not so much a deli as a diner where I eat breakfast two or three times a week. I know the wait-staff by name, and they know what I want to order. My meals are generally served piping hot within minutes of my arrival.
Yesterday, for a few minutes, I was the diner’s only customer until four US marshals and two state troopers came in. They were big, beefy men with shaven heads, and they pulled three small tables together to make a single large one.
I’ve been wary of law enforcement people ever since the antiwar demonstrations I helped cover fifty years ago for the Washington Post. During one of these, a deranged DC cop stuck his gun in my mouth and screamed that he was going to “kill your long hair ass.” A reporter friend pulled the cop away and, I sincerely believe, saved my life.
What does this have to do with cancer, surgery, life, and ugliness? Nothing. I’m rambling.
I worry about my broken friend and this is not my best blog. I’ll do better next time.
It’s nine days after my 38th surgery (it may be 37th or 39th; I’ve lost count) and I am not happy. I’ve just learned that a best friend broke his hip and the news both shocks and dismays me. Aging is at best unkind, and sometimes simply cruel.
My surgery went well, I was told. Immediately post-op, I was given a cocktail of fentanyl, Demerol, Dilaudid and Vicodin to deal with the discomfort. I should be used to the aftermath of these multiple attempts to excise the cancer in my bladder, but I’m not. Is it possible for my bladder to hurt? Yes. The surgeon removed what he told me was “a high-grade tumor” that, depending on the results of tests, may necessitate more chemo. The problem is that past chemo sessions may very well have caused a new condition, something called peripheral neuropathy. This disorder makes my feet and lower legs feel tingly, almost as if they were shrink-wrapped. It’s apparently incurable. At its worst, it causes people to lose all sensations in their appendages and not notice that they have harmed themselves, so they walk around unaware of bleeding wounds, abrasions or burns. Lovely.
This is all beginning to have a psychological impact. I’ve never been half-blind, largely deaf, cancerous, insomniac, obese, balding, frail, and generally unattractive before. I don’t mind entering my Keith Richards years but I’d like to do so with a modicum of pride, and right now pride is hard to find. I’m also going through a period of akrasia, a Greek word describing the lack of will that prevents us from doing what we know is good for us. Peachy.
Recently, I’ve observed that I no longer notice beauty. I’m sure it’s still there, both minuscule and majestic, but lately I unerringly veer towards the ugly, the quotidian, the unimaginative. The new buildings that replace modest stores and homes, for example are hideous. My once small Northern Virginia town has become a series of glass and concrete canyons that have all the charms and distinction of a sanitary napkin box. The new structures have added to the traffic congestion, which in turn tries the patience of already testy commuters.
Luckily, I have a refuge from all the ugliness. Just a couple of miles from where I live is Lazy Mike’s Deli, not so much a deli as a diner where I eat breakfast two or three times a week. I know the wait-staff by name, and they know what I want to order. My meals are generally served piping hot within minutes of my arrival.
Yesterday, for a few minutes, I was the diner’s only customer until four US marshals and two state troopers came in. They were big, beefy men with shaven heads, and they pulled three small tables together to make a single large one.
I’ve been wary of law enforcement people ever since the antiwar demonstrations I helped cover fifty years ago for the Washington Post. During one of these, a deranged DC cop stuck his gun in my mouth and screamed that he was going to “kill your long hair ass.” A reporter friend pulled the cop away and, I sincerely believe, saved my life.
What does this have to do with cancer, surgery, life, and ugliness? Nothing. I’m rambling.
I worry about my broken friend and this is not my best blog. I’ll do better next time.
July 23, 2023
Queries 2
More questions that prove there are indeed stupid questions.
Why do my parents’ ashes weigh differently? My father weighed less than my mother when he died, yet his ashes weight at least twice more than my mom’s.
I’m 18. Are my balls supposed to hang lower as I get older?
Do you have to be a good reader to read your own book?
How do I become a famous person and make money out of it?
Can I say the n- word if I am French?
Did you know that Obama doesn't like white people?
Why do African and French kids look the same?
I’m writing a book! Can I repeat the “vomiting” scenes of my main character puking in different chapters? There are two chapters, one where he finds out about his fathers death and second, he is extremely angry after his child is taken.
Can someone be bilingual if he/she speaks English and French instead of English and Spanish?
How do you say "I hate France" in French?
How do you tell someone in France that they are talking too much?
What are some words used commonly in Portugal that are not found in Spanish or French?
Why do French people speak French, a Quebecois language, instead of their own language?
How is Hunter Biden an artist? His art is crap.
What is the stupidest thing you have forgotten that is easy to remember?
What is a hard case for a guitar used for?
Do Spaniards speak English in their homes?
Do all celebrity stalkers have a copy of "A Catcher in the Rye"?
There used to be a doctor who wrote stories about different stories. Is he still writing on here?
What will be the quality of your life after you die?
Before America was discovered, what language did people from England speak?
Is it just me, or is the Bible really that boring?
Have you ever fallen into a toilet?
Is the French national anthem banned in France?
When did Paris become an English city?
Who is the King of Africa?
Is it possible to write a novel while sleeping?
Can someone who is not from England write a novel about the country?
Can you still get paid if your book gets rejected by publishers or literary agents?
Why is there no such word as "day" in English?
Who was the president before George Washington?
Why is it colder in France during winter?
Do most of the people who speak French in France know how to read or write it?
Who was the president before George Washington?
Why do my parents’ ashes weigh differently? My father weighed less than my mother when he died, yet his ashes weight at least twice more than my mom’s.
I’m 18. Are my balls supposed to hang lower as I get older?
Do you have to be a good reader to read your own book?
How do I become a famous person and make money out of it?
Can I say the n- word if I am French?
Did you know that Obama doesn't like white people?
Why do African and French kids look the same?
I’m writing a book! Can I repeat the “vomiting” scenes of my main character puking in different chapters? There are two chapters, one where he finds out about his fathers death and second, he is extremely angry after his child is taken.
Can someone be bilingual if he/she speaks English and French instead of English and Spanish?
How do you say "I hate France" in French?
How do you tell someone in France that they are talking too much?
What are some words used commonly in Portugal that are not found in Spanish or French?
Why do French people speak French, a Quebecois language, instead of their own language?
How is Hunter Biden an artist? His art is crap.
What is the stupidest thing you have forgotten that is easy to remember?
What is a hard case for a guitar used for?
Do Spaniards speak English in their homes?
Do all celebrity stalkers have a copy of "A Catcher in the Rye"?
There used to be a doctor who wrote stories about different stories. Is he still writing on here?
What will be the quality of your life after you die?
Before America was discovered, what language did people from England speak?
Is it just me, or is the Bible really that boring?
Have you ever fallen into a toilet?
Is the French national anthem banned in France?
When did Paris become an English city?
Who is the King of Africa?
Is it possible to write a novel while sleeping?
Can someone who is not from England write a novel about the country?
Can you still get paid if your book gets rejected by publishers or literary agents?
Why is there no such word as "day" in English?
Who was the president before George Washington?
Why is it colder in France during winter?
Do most of the people who speak French in France know how to read or write it?
Who was the president before George Washington?
July 14, 2023
Vive le Roi!
Happy Bastille day. For those of you not in the know, the Bastille was a Paris fortress turned prison. On July 14, 1789, an angry mob stormed this symbol of the monarchy and freed the prisoners held there, all seven of them. The taking of the Bastille is generally considered to be the beginning of the French Revolution.
I write this with a degree of reticence. I am, you see, a royalist.
There aren’t too many of us in the United States; Wikipedia reports that between three and five percent of the population might be monarchists, but there is no groundswell movement to enthrone a king or queen and no established party I know of.
Let me say here that I am not a monarchist because of my sainted mother’s claim that, a century or two back, the Février family had a lesser baron among its members. I think, more likely, we might have been petite noblesse, or gentry, whose titles included chevalier (knight), écuyer (esquire), and gentilhomme (gentlemen). Family myth (or straight invention, for all I know) is that my great-great- grandfather sold the title so he could buy his mistress a candy store, which she promptly ran into the ground.
Family legends aside, I am a royalist because I believe present heads of state spend far too much time on celebratory events at the cost of properly ruling. I don’t suggest we emulate the Brits. American royals would have no political power. They would not need yachts, planes, multiple properties, and fleets of armored cars. They could travel the country by train, thereby perhaps spurring a renewal of the golden age of railroads. They would be ribbon cutters, starters for the Indy 500 and Nascar races. They would flip the coin at the eginning of the Superbowl and throw the first pitch to open the baseball season. They would officiate over state dinners for other potentates. Overseas, they would be ambassadors of American culture at gallery openings and opera debuts, regattas, and Eurovision.
The selection of a royal family might be a bit tricky. If consulted, I might suggest no entertainment personalities, no Tik Tok, Snapchat or Twitter influencers, and no billionaires or celebrity cooks. Also, no one who has appeared nude on the internet or in sex tapes. Oh, and no sheiks or emirs or sultans or warlords. I’d be tempted to suggest lesser members of already established regencies, such as those of Andorra, Monaco, and Liechtenstein.
How, you ask, would they pay for all this? Endorsements. American royals would be ideal spokespersons for American products. Think, “Tide, for pristine royal raiments,” or “Pennzoil, for all your carriage needs!”
The possibilities are endless. All it would take is a little American ingenuity.
I write this with a degree of reticence. I am, you see, a royalist.
There aren’t too many of us in the United States; Wikipedia reports that between three and five percent of the population might be monarchists, but there is no groundswell movement to enthrone a king or queen and no established party I know of.
Let me say here that I am not a monarchist because of my sainted mother’s claim that, a century or two back, the Février family had a lesser baron among its members. I think, more likely, we might have been petite noblesse, or gentry, whose titles included chevalier (knight), écuyer (esquire), and gentilhomme (gentlemen). Family myth (or straight invention, for all I know) is that my great-great- grandfather sold the title so he could buy his mistress a candy store, which she promptly ran into the ground.
Family legends aside, I am a royalist because I believe present heads of state spend far too much time on celebratory events at the cost of properly ruling. I don’t suggest we emulate the Brits. American royals would have no political power. They would not need yachts, planes, multiple properties, and fleets of armored cars. They could travel the country by train, thereby perhaps spurring a renewal of the golden age of railroads. They would be ribbon cutters, starters for the Indy 500 and Nascar races. They would flip the coin at the eginning of the Superbowl and throw the first pitch to open the baseball season. They would officiate over state dinners for other potentates. Overseas, they would be ambassadors of American culture at gallery openings and opera debuts, regattas, and Eurovision.
The selection of a royal family might be a bit tricky. If consulted, I might suggest no entertainment personalities, no Tik Tok, Snapchat or Twitter influencers, and no billionaires or celebrity cooks. Also, no one who has appeared nude on the internet or in sex tapes. Oh, and no sheiks or emirs or sultans or warlords. I’d be tempted to suggest lesser members of already established regencies, such as those of Andorra, Monaco, and Liechtenstein.
How, you ask, would they pay for all this? Endorsements. American royals would be ideal spokespersons for American products. Think, “Tide, for pristine royal raiments,” or “Pennzoil, for all your carriage needs!”
The possibilities are endless. All it would take is a little American ingenuity.
July 11, 2023
Queries
I’ve always heard that there are no stupid questions. Wrong. There are lots and lots of stupid questions. To wit:
Is Massachusetts a French-Canadian state? And does everybody there have a French surname and speak French?
What is the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris?
Why do French people speak French?
What is the meaning of the word ‘French’ when used as an adjective, for example in the phrase ‘French toast’?
Since English is illegal in Quebec, will Americans get killed by French thugs?
Did Napoleon speak French at home?
Do French people say “hon hon hon” when they laugh?
How can I get a job in Canada without speaking English or French?
Why doe English, Spanish and French have the same alphabet?
Do French people struggle speaking when they have a sore throat or angina more than people who speak a language that doesn’t contain so many nasal sounds and uvular ‘R’s?
Not all stupid questions relate to the French.
What is the most intelligent book in the English language that is easy to read?
Can anyone actually write poems? Do you have to be good at the English languageto be able to do so effectively (meaning getting published)?
Why were most English translations of the Bible done by non-native speakers?
What are the oldest and most important works of literature in every language?
Do most people in England speak English?
Before people started regularly brushing their teeth, did their breath smell bad 24/7? For example, how did they manage to kiss or talk to one another during the Middle Ages?
Did Napoleon Speak French at home?
If someone takes too much bacon from the breakfast buffet at a hotel, what’s the best way for them to be reprimanded? Also, why are the cinnamon rolls at Holiday Inn Express so good?
How did Jada Pinkett’s grandmother teach her to pleasure herself at 9 years old?
And my personal favorite (with apologies to British friends.):
How did London become such a shithole?
Is Massachusetts a French-Canadian state? And does everybody there have a French surname and speak French?
What is the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris?
Why do French people speak French?
What is the meaning of the word ‘French’ when used as an adjective, for example in the phrase ‘French toast’?
Since English is illegal in Quebec, will Americans get killed by French thugs?
Did Napoleon speak French at home?
Do French people say “hon hon hon” when they laugh?
How can I get a job in Canada without speaking English or French?
Why doe English, Spanish and French have the same alphabet?
Do French people struggle speaking when they have a sore throat or angina more than people who speak a language that doesn’t contain so many nasal sounds and uvular ‘R’s?
Not all stupid questions relate to the French.
What is the most intelligent book in the English language that is easy to read?
Can anyone actually write poems? Do you have to be good at the English languageto be able to do so effectively (meaning getting published)?
Why were most English translations of the Bible done by non-native speakers?
What are the oldest and most important works of literature in every language?
Do most people in England speak English?
Before people started regularly brushing their teeth, did their breath smell bad 24/7? For example, how did they manage to kiss or talk to one another during the Middle Ages?
Did Napoleon Speak French at home?
If someone takes too much bacon from the breakfast buffet at a hotel, what’s the best way for them to be reprimanded? Also, why are the cinnamon rolls at Holiday Inn Express so good?
How did Jada Pinkett’s grandmother teach her to pleasure herself at 9 years old?
And my personal favorite (with apologies to British friends.):
How did London become such a shithole?
July 2, 2023
Am I Woke?
There are things, in these modern times, that I struggle to understand.
For example, I guess I’m woke. I mean, in this day and age, can one not be woke? Wikipedia defines the word as “an adjective derived from African-American Vernacular English meaning ‘alert to racial prejudice and discrimination.’” The word was officially added to the Merriam Webster dictionary in September 2017 to mean “aware of and actively attentive to important facts and issues (especially issues of racial and social justice).”
In 2006, Erykah Badu’s sang:
Even if yo baby ain't got no money
To support ya baby, you
(I stay woke)
Even when the preacher tell you some lies
And cheatin on ya mama, you stay woke
(I stay woke)
Even though you go through struggle and strife
To keep a healthy life, I stay woke
(I stay woke)
Everybody knows a black or a white there's creatures in every shape and size
Everybody
(I stay woke)
So it’s not a new word, and it’s not a new concept. In fact, realistically, is there a way in today’s America to not be woke? Is there anyone with a sixth grade education who would argue that racial and social justice are, a century-and-a-half after the Civil War, still sadly lacking? So why does the word evoke such paroxysms of anger among today’s right wing? Why, among the red-hatters (haters?), is it a shortcoming, a call to battle, an insult?
So that’s one thing I don’t completely understand.
Another is cultural appropriation, which according to Wikipedia, is “the inappropriate or unacknowledged adoption of an element or elements of one culture or identity by members of another culture or identity. This can be especially controversial when members of a dominant culture appropriate from minority cultures.”
For me, the catchword is inappropriate. Is it cultural appropriation to wear pajamas? They are, after all, of Persian and Indian origin, and I’m not certain anyone ever thanked the good folks from the sub-continent for their contribution to sleepwear. If we did thank them, I guess that would be cultural appreciation.
Human history comprises endless cultural appropriations. Almost every language spoken is a derivation of another language. Philosophies and religions are taken from a wealth of sources and adapted to fit different needs by different people in different locales. In fact, I would challenge anyone to find a group of people who have not benefitted from the appropriations of another tribe’s habits and tools.
It's all very confusing, and I’m sure I’m taking a complicated issue and overly simplifying it. But then again, one friend, a spectacularly smart and successful woman, shakes her head. “It’s all just stealing the other guy’s toys. Then the other guy finds someone smaller and weaker and steals that person’s toys. Ad infinitum.”
I followed the Washington football team’s struggle with their name, Redskins, only to read that nine out of ten Native Americans were not offended by it. The sports teams in my high school were the Frogs, since the school was attended by a lot of French kids studying for their baccalaureate.
I don’t remember anyone being insulted.
For example, I guess I’m woke. I mean, in this day and age, can one not be woke? Wikipedia defines the word as “an adjective derived from African-American Vernacular English meaning ‘alert to racial prejudice and discrimination.’” The word was officially added to the Merriam Webster dictionary in September 2017 to mean “aware of and actively attentive to important facts and issues (especially issues of racial and social justice).”
In 2006, Erykah Badu’s sang:
Even if yo baby ain't got no money
To support ya baby, you
(I stay woke)
Even when the preacher tell you some lies
And cheatin on ya mama, you stay woke
(I stay woke)
Even though you go through struggle and strife
To keep a healthy life, I stay woke
(I stay woke)
Everybody knows a black or a white there's creatures in every shape and size
Everybody
(I stay woke)
So it’s not a new word, and it’s not a new concept. In fact, realistically, is there a way in today’s America to not be woke? Is there anyone with a sixth grade education who would argue that racial and social justice are, a century-and-a-half after the Civil War, still sadly lacking? So why does the word evoke such paroxysms of anger among today’s right wing? Why, among the red-hatters (haters?), is it a shortcoming, a call to battle, an insult?
So that’s one thing I don’t completely understand.
Another is cultural appropriation, which according to Wikipedia, is “the inappropriate or unacknowledged adoption of an element or elements of one culture or identity by members of another culture or identity. This can be especially controversial when members of a dominant culture appropriate from minority cultures.”
For me, the catchword is inappropriate. Is it cultural appropriation to wear pajamas? They are, after all, of Persian and Indian origin, and I’m not certain anyone ever thanked the good folks from the sub-continent for their contribution to sleepwear. If we did thank them, I guess that would be cultural appreciation.
Human history comprises endless cultural appropriations. Almost every language spoken is a derivation of another language. Philosophies and religions are taken from a wealth of sources and adapted to fit different needs by different people in different locales. In fact, I would challenge anyone to find a group of people who have not benefitted from the appropriations of another tribe’s habits and tools.
It's all very confusing, and I’m sure I’m taking a complicated issue and overly simplifying it. But then again, one friend, a spectacularly smart and successful woman, shakes her head. “It’s all just stealing the other guy’s toys. Then the other guy finds someone smaller and weaker and steals that person’s toys. Ad infinitum.”
I followed the Washington football team’s struggle with their name, Redskins, only to read that nine out of ten Native Americans were not offended by it. The sports teams in my high school were the Frogs, since the school was attended by a lot of French kids studying for their baccalaureate.
I don’t remember anyone being insulted.
