Thierry Sagnier's Blog, page 40
February 14, 2015
Me (Moi) Part 3
I had to write a longish bio for an upcoming online book promo. Since I’m too lazy to write a blog today, I thought I’d offer a three-parter on me me me me me me. This is part three. That’s all. I promise.
I wrote and sold The IFO Report; the novel was optioned for a movie that was never produced. I was hired by a UN organization to help start up a magazine and given the opportunity to travel all over the world writing about the organization’s projects. I stayed there for more than a decade, and then decided to strike out on my own.
I returned to school and got the necessary creds to become a drug and alcohol counselor. I worked for several area rehabs and ended up in the world’s most depressing job—dispensing methadone to heroin addicts. For hours on end I sat behind a bulletproof plate glass window, taking in soiled five dollar bills and buzzing addicts in so they could get their daily fix. This gave me the incentive to write The Thirst (formerly titled The Girl, the Drugs, and the Man Who Couldn’t Drink), a novel dealing with the dangerous lives of recovering addicts.
Last year, I was nominated for a Pushcart Prize following a story published in Chrysalismagazine. I didn’t win but, still and all, it felt good.
I write because it’s what I know how to do, and what I do best. I don’t necessarily believe in God-given talent; in fact I’m pretty sure putting words to paper is nothing more than a craft. You become good and better at it by practice, much as a cabinet-maker gets more skilled the longer he’s at the trade. My favorite saying is, “Writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.” Mary Heaton Vorse, a labor writer, said that a century ago and it’s still true.
I write every day. I write blogs, novels, short stories, non-fiction books and the occasional play. It’s feast or famine with a preponderance of famine, but that’s okay.
I believe you need an enormous ego to write, and monstrous chutzpah to really believe that one’s thoughts and ideas will be of interest to others. Thick skin is a prerequisite; writers live amidst rejection—from agents, publishing houses, editors and readers. This being said, writing is also the only endeavor where I refuse to indulge in false modesty. I think I’m pretty good.
Three years ago I was diagnosed with bladder cancer. I’ve undergone eight operations and three courses of chemotherapy, and at this time I still don’t know whether I’ll be cured. It’s scary and has not been pleasant. I’ve written at length about it, because that’s what I do.I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
February 13, 2015
Me Part Two
I had to write a longish bio for an upcoming online book promo. Since I’m too lazy to write a blog today, I thought I’d offer a three-parter on me me me me me me. This is part two.
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My family moved to the United States when I was ten. By age sixteen I had written a series of short stories in English—my chosen writing language—on the unfairness of society and the tribulations of being an immigrant. I wrote songs, poetry, essays, fiction, a play, and complicated letters to an imaginary friend who, I think, got bored. One day he left.
I struggled through both American high school and the curriculum of a French lycée. I went on to attend Georgetown University’s Foreign Service School but dropped out when offered a copyboy position with the Washington Post.
In time I became an in-house free-lancer specializing in the nascent hippy movement. I wrote about radicals, Yippies, Black Panthers, drug dealers, thieves and scammers, bikers and rock stars. I was in the newsroom during Watergate. I participated ever-so-slightly in the scandal’s coverage by fielding telephone calls from Martha Mitchell, the demented wife of Richard Nixon’s duplicitous Attorney General, John Mitchell. I left the paper after a noisy disagreement with the then-editor, Ben Bradlee, who did not approve of a story I had written for the Sunday Post about being a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War.
By then, I had written Bike! Motorcycles and the People Who Ride Them. Harper & Row published it, but unfortunately, the book hit the shelves the same week as another bike book that became an overnight classic—Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I got a shining review from Rolling Stone, did a quick book tour, and some radio and television talk shows. My future as a writer was assured.
I free-lanced compulsively. I wrote for newspaper and magazines both here and in Europe. I produced short television documentaries for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, and authored weekly columns for Le Devoir, Montreal’s leading newspaper, and other publications. I had regular shows on Radio Canada and Radio Romane. I got married and divorced. I learned how to play the guitar and the Dobro and played in blue grass and rock ‘n’ roll bands. I was commissioned to do a tourist book for Washingtonian magazine. I traveled cross-country to help a French reporter for the Le Figaro newspaper write a series of articles on American youth. In short, I had a blast.
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My family moved to the United States when I was ten. By age sixteen I had written a series of short stories in English—my chosen writing language—on the unfairness of society and the tribulations of being an immigrant. I wrote songs, poetry, essays, fiction, a play, and complicated letters to an imaginary friend who, I think, got bored. One day he left.
I struggled through both American high school and the curriculum of a French lycée. I went on to attend Georgetown University’s Foreign Service School but dropped out when offered a copyboy position with the Washington Post.
In time I became an in-house free-lancer specializing in the nascent hippy movement. I wrote about radicals, Yippies, Black Panthers, drug dealers, thieves and scammers, bikers and rock stars. I was in the newsroom during Watergate. I participated ever-so-slightly in the scandal’s coverage by fielding telephone calls from Martha Mitchell, the demented wife of Richard Nixon’s duplicitous Attorney General, John Mitchell. I left the paper after a noisy disagreement with the then-editor, Ben Bradlee, who did not approve of a story I had written for the Sunday Post about being a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War.
By then, I had written Bike! Motorcycles and the People Who Ride Them. Harper & Row published it, but unfortunately, the book hit the shelves the same week as another bike book that became an overnight classic—Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I got a shining review from Rolling Stone, did a quick book tour, and some radio and television talk shows. My future as a writer was assured.
I free-lanced compulsively. I wrote for newspaper and magazines both here and in Europe. I produced short television documentaries for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, and authored weekly columns for Le Devoir, Montreal’s leading newspaper, and other publications. I had regular shows on Radio Canada and Radio Romane. I got married and divorced. I learned how to play the guitar and the Dobro and played in blue grass and rock ‘n’ roll bands. I was commissioned to do a tourist book for Washingtonian magazine. I traveled cross-country to help a French reporter for the Le Figaro newspaper write a series of articles on American youth. In short, I had a blast.
Me Part 2
I had to write a longish bio for an upcoming online book promo. Since I’m too lazy to write a blog today, I thought I’d offer a three-parter on me me me me me me. This is part two.
--------------------------------------------------------------
My family moved to the United States when I was ten. By age sixteen I had written a series of short stories in English—my chosen writing language—on the unfairness of society and the tribulations of being an immigrant. I wrote songs, poetry, essays, fiction, a play, and complicated letters to an imaginary friend who, I think, got bored. One day he left.
I struggled through both American high school and the curriculum of a French lycée. I went on to attend Georgetown University’s Foreign Service School but dropped out when offered a copyboy position with the Washington Post.
In time I became an in-house free-lancer specializing in the nascent hippy movement. I wrote about radicals, Yippies, Black Panthers, drug dealers, thieves and scammers, bikers and rock stars. I was in the newsroom during Watergate. I participated ever-so-slightly in the scandal’s coverage by fielding telephone calls from Martha Mitchell, the demented wife of Richard Nixon’s duplicitous Attorney General, John Mitchell. I left the paper after a noisy disagreement with the then-editor, Ben Bradlee, who did not approve of a story I had written for the Sunday Post about being a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War.
By then, I had written Bike! Motorcycles and the People Who Ride Them. Harper & Row published it, but unfortunately, the book hit the shelves the same week as another bike book that became an overnight classic—Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I got a shining review from Rolling Stone, did a quick book tour, and some radio and television talk shows. My future as a writer was assured.
I free-lanced compulsively. I wrote for newspaper and magazines both here and in Europe. I produced short television documentaries for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, and authored weekly columns for Le Devoir, Montreal’s leading newspaper, and other publications. I had regular shows on Radio Canada and Radio Romane. I got married and divorced. I learned how to play the guitar and the Dobro and played in blue grass and rock ‘n’ roll bands. I was commissioned to do a tourist book for Washingtonian magazine. I traveled cross-country to help a French reporter for the Le Figaro newspaper write a series of articles on American youth. In short, I had a blast.
I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
February 12, 2015
Me
I had to write a longish bio for an upcoming online book promo. Since I’m too lazy to write a blog today, I thought I’d offer a three-parter on me me me me me me.
---------------------------------------------------------------
I was conceived in an army truck and born on the radio.
Well, almost.
I was actually born in the freight elevator of the American hospital just outside of Paris, France. A rookie policeman delivered me between the third and fourth floor during a rare snowstorm in the City of Lights.
My parents met at the end of World War II. Both were soldiers with the Free French, the breakaway remnant of the French military that refused to surrender to the Germans after the capitulation of France. Their eyes met and that same evening—or so I was told—they consummated their union in a US Army truck. The one-night stand would last a lifetime.
After the war, both found jobs as actors in a soap opera aired on Radio France. My father, who spoke English, portrayed a not-too-bright American GI married to my mother, a wily French maiden. The show was live, wildly popular, and broadcast daily. One evening as they were reciting their lines to the microphones, my mother went into labor. She never quite made it to the delivery room.
My mother was an artist, a musician and an author. My father was a journalist who had studied violin at the Versailles conservatory. I was destined to write or play music. I do both.
My first literary work was an out-and-out theft. I was six years old and envious of a child celebrity, Minou Drouet, a little girl whose poems had been published in French magazines. Her name was on everyone’s lips. She was a genius, an enfant prodige, and the decorated pride of the nation
I decided to be the same. I copied some poems from a book in my parents’ library, appropriated authorship, and proudly showed the works to my mother. She was thrilled and immediately summoned the media. My subterfuge failed and a fiasco ensued. I was seriously chastised and I’m not sure my mother ever really forgave me for not being the wunderkind she thought she deserved.
---------------------------------------------------------------
I was conceived in an army truck and born on the radio.
Well, almost.
I was actually born in the freight elevator of the American hospital just outside of Paris, France. A rookie policeman delivered me between the third and fourth floor during a rare snowstorm in the City of Lights.
My parents met at the end of World War II. Both were soldiers with the Free French, the breakaway remnant of the French military that refused to surrender to the Germans after the capitulation of France. Their eyes met and that same evening—or so I was told—they consummated their union in a US Army truck. The one-night stand would last a lifetime.
After the war, both found jobs as actors in a soap opera aired on Radio France. My father, who spoke English, portrayed a not-too-bright American GI married to my mother, a wily French maiden. The show was live, wildly popular, and broadcast daily. One evening as they were reciting their lines to the microphones, my mother went into labor. She never quite made it to the delivery room.
My mother was an artist, a musician and an author. My father was a journalist who had studied violin at the Versailles conservatory. I was destined to write or play music. I do both.
My first literary work was an out-and-out theft. I was six years old and envious of a child celebrity, Minou Drouet, a little girl whose poems had been published in French magazines. Her name was on everyone’s lips. She was a genius, an enfant prodige, and the decorated pride of the nation
I decided to be the same. I copied some poems from a book in my parents’ library, appropriated authorship, and proudly showed the works to my mother. She was thrilled and immediately summoned the media. My subterfuge failed and a fiasco ensued. I was seriously chastised and I’m not sure my mother ever really forgave me for not being the wunderkind she thought she deserved.
Me
I had to write a longish bio for an upcoming online book promo. Since I’m too lazy to write a blog today, I thought I’d offer a three-parter on me me me me me me.
---------------------------------------------------------------
I was conceived in an army truck and born on the radio.
Well, almost.
I was actually born in the freight elevator of the American hospital just outside of Paris, France. A rookie policeman delivered me between the third and fourth floor during a rare snowstorm in the City of Lights.
My parents met at the end of World War II. Both were soldiers with the Free French, the breakaway remnant of the French military that refused to surrender to the Germans after the capitulation of France. Their eyes met and that same evening—or so I was told—they consummated their union in a US Army truck. The one-night stand would last a lifetime.
After the war, both found jobs as actors in a soap opera aired on Radio France. My father, who spoke English, portrayed a not-too-bright American GI married to my mother, a wily French maiden. The show was live, wildly popular, and broadcast daily. One evening as they were reciting their lines to the microphones, my mother went into labor. She never quite made it to the delivery room.
My mother was an artist, a musician and an author. My father was a journalist who had studied violin at the Versailles conservatory. I was destined to write or play music. I do both.
My first literary work was an out-and-out theft. I was six years old and envious of a child celebrity, Minou Drouet, a little girl whose poems had been published in French magazines. Her name was on everyone’s lips. She was a genius, an enfant prodige, and the decorated pride of the nation
I decided to be the same. I copied some poems from a book in my parents’ library, appropriated authorship, and proudly showed the works to my mother. She was thrilled and immediately summoned the media. My subterfuge failed and a fiasco ensued. I was seriously chastised and I’m not sure my mother ever really forgave me for not being the wunderkind she thought she deserved.
I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
February 9, 2015
Writers
And while we're talking about writers, I'll tell you that I know a lot of them--novelists; tech folks who put out those incredibly complex computer manuals; and others who write and edit the legislation of the land. There are a screenwriter or two, a playwright specializing in children's theater, a couple of poets. I know one splendid young woman whose books are so amazing and beautiful that she should be a household name but isn't. One good friend is the British author of historical romances that have sold in the millions. There are Pulitzer Prize winners from the old days at The Washington Post, and a science fiction author who has won the top prizes in the genre. I even know one lady who writes dirty limericks, though the buyers' market for that is pretty slim. The most widely distributed—if not read—of them all, though, is probably the author of the safety warning found on every can of Duron paint manufactured and sold throughout the North American hemisphere.
Some write by the pound, others specialize in haiku-like brevity. Every writer I know follows some rite of creation. The woman whose fiction I so admire sits among orchids, wearing earplugs. A few must be hungry; one has to just have been fed. A novelist friend can only write in his bathrobe. It is old and needs replacing, but he is persuaded that his talents will vanish if the bathrobe disappears. When he washes it—he does so twice a year—he will stand by the washing machine until the cycles are done. He dries it outside because he wants the terrycloth to benefit from the sun's Vitamin D. My friend C does a set of calisthenics, running in place, followed by deep breathing and stretching exercises before hitting the keyboard. Interestingly enough, none of the writers I know smoke, though a lot drink and do other drugs.
All in all, writing is the height of self-centeredness. One of my books comes in at 389 pages, and contains 112,742 words. Another novel I recently finished is set in Paris just after World War I. It is 456 pages long after editing.
I look at such numbers and think of the conceit necessary to produce a book. I am amazed by the fact that I believe, really believe, readers might spend several hours over several days wandering through a world I invented and peopled. Who the hell do I think I am? A writer, I guess.
Some write by the pound, others specialize in haiku-like brevity. Every writer I know follows some rite of creation. The woman whose fiction I so admire sits among orchids, wearing earplugs. A few must be hungry; one has to just have been fed. A novelist friend can only write in his bathrobe. It is old and needs replacing, but he is persuaded that his talents will vanish if the bathrobe disappears. When he washes it—he does so twice a year—he will stand by the washing machine until the cycles are done. He dries it outside because he wants the terrycloth to benefit from the sun's Vitamin D. My friend C does a set of calisthenics, running in place, followed by deep breathing and stretching exercises before hitting the keyboard. Interestingly enough, none of the writers I know smoke, though a lot drink and do other drugs.
All in all, writing is the height of self-centeredness. One of my books comes in at 389 pages, and contains 112,742 words. Another novel I recently finished is set in Paris just after World War I. It is 456 pages long after editing.
I look at such numbers and think of the conceit necessary to produce a book. I am amazed by the fact that I believe, really believe, readers might spend several hours over several days wandering through a world I invented and peopled. Who the hell do I think I am? A writer, I guess.
Writers
And while we're talking about writers, I'll tell you that I know a lot of them--novelists; tech folks who put out those incredibly complex computer manuals; and others who write and edit the legislation of the land. There are a screenwriter or two, a playwright specializing in children's theater, a couple of poets. I know one splendid young woman whose books are so amazing and beautiful that she should be a household name but isn't. One good friend is the British author of historical romances that have sold in the millions. There are Pulitzer Prize winners from the old days at The Washington Post, and a science fiction author who has won the top prizes in the genre. I even know one lady who writes dirty limericks, though the buyers' market for that is pretty slim. The most widely distributed—if not read—of them all, though, is probably the author of the safety warning found on every can of Duron paint manufactured and sold throughout the North American hemisphere.
Some write by the pound, others specialize in haiku-like brevity. Every writer I know follows some rite of creation. The woman whose fiction I so admire sits among orchids, wearing earplugs. A few must be hungry; one has to just have been fed. A novelist friend can only write in his bathrobe. It is old and needs replacing, but he is persuaded that his talents will vanish if the bathrobe disappears. When he washes it—he does so twice a year—he will stand by the washing machine until the cycles are done. He dries it outside because he wants the terrycloth to benefit from the sun's Vitamin D. My friend C does a set of calisthenics, running in place, followed by deep breathing and stretching exercises before hitting the keyboard. Interestingly enough, none of the writers I know smoke, though a lot drink and do other drugs.
All in all, writing is the height of self-centeredness. One of my books comes in at 389 pages, and contains 112,742 words. Another novel I recently finished is set in Paris just after World War I. It is 456 pages long after editing.
I look at such numbers and think of the conceit necessary to produce a book. I am amazed by the fact that I believe, really believe, readers might spend several hours over several days wandering through a world I invented and peopled. Who the hell do I think I am? A writer, I guess. I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
January 19, 2015
Blasphemy
The murders at Charlie Hebdo continue to generate fears both in Europe and in America, so here’s a suggestion. I think the FM (f*cking morons–see previous blog) should inundate their newspapers and websites with insulting caricatures of the Pope, the Dalai Lama, any important Jewish religious figure and, of course, Jesus Christ himself. This might make the FM feel better and less likely to rely on firepower to avenge the alleged blasphemy washed upon their deity. A sort of tit-for-tat, if you will.
But here’s the thing I don’t fully understand. According to Fareed Zakaria, perhaps the best-known Muslim in the States, “the word blasphemy appears nowhere in the Koran. Nor, incidentally, does the Koran anywhere forbid creating images of Muhammad.” Zakaria quotes Islamic scholar Maulana Wahiduddin Khan who states that, “In Islam, blasphemy is a subject of intellectual discussion rather than a subject of physical punishment.”
Personally, I think even the FM would be better off trading their semi-automatics for a set of Primacolor colored pencils and a good quality sketch pad. There are untold numbers of offensive caricatures available to them. The Pope on the potty might be a likely subject. Or perhaps the Dalai Lama butchering a steer? And there are jokes. My favorite horrible Christian joke was told to me by a hardcore born-again Catholic friend: Christ, on the cross, turns to one of the two thieves crucified with him and says, “Hey! I can see your house from here!” (F*cking Morons: You can use this with attribution.)
This is probably as close to blasphemy as one can get within Christianity, a humorless faith when it comes to punishing the sacrilegious. According to Leviticus 20:14, “Anyone who blasphemes the name of the Lord is to be put to death.” Yikes. In spite of this, to the best of my knowledge, no one in recent times has been executed for tasteless Christian humor. Which I am sure is not the case for the radical Islamist with a penchant for decapitation, which is not funny at all.
Since I live in the Washington, D.C., area, I have followed with minor interest the saga of our hapless pro football team, the Redskins. Their name has come under mounting criticism since the word “Redskin” is pejorative, say a growing number of Native Americans. There have been peaceful protests, petitions, legal proceedings, and an untold number of newspaper editorials, and it does look as if in the near future the team owner will cave. It won’t be because he has qualms about using a racial slur, but because the continued use of the word will cost him money.
What has not happened is a bunch of pissed off Native Americans with automatic weapons invading the office of the team owner and assassinating the staff. I’d be willing to bet that the Reskins name is as offensive to them as anything Charlie Hebdo has printed.
One of the things that must happen to stem the atrocities committed by various BFMs is community policing. It’s hard to believe that in Cherif and Said Kouachi’s Muslim neighborhoods near Paris, not a single person knew what the brothers were doing. Their parents and family claimed the two men had no radical ties and showed no signs of extremism. Yet the Kouachis had traveled to Yemen and Syria and trained in the open. They even named their cell after a nearby public park.
If indeed others knew of the assassination plans and failed to report them, then they too are guilty of murder.
But here’s the thing I don’t fully understand. According to Fareed Zakaria, perhaps the best-known Muslim in the States, “the word blasphemy appears nowhere in the Koran. Nor, incidentally, does the Koran anywhere forbid creating images of Muhammad.” Zakaria quotes Islamic scholar Maulana Wahiduddin Khan who states that, “In Islam, blasphemy is a subject of intellectual discussion rather than a subject of physical punishment.”
Personally, I think even the FM would be better off trading their semi-automatics for a set of Primacolor colored pencils and a good quality sketch pad. There are untold numbers of offensive caricatures available to them. The Pope on the potty might be a likely subject. Or perhaps the Dalai Lama butchering a steer? And there are jokes. My favorite horrible Christian joke was told to me by a hardcore born-again Catholic friend: Christ, on the cross, turns to one of the two thieves crucified with him and says, “Hey! I can see your house from here!” (F*cking Morons: You can use this with attribution.)
This is probably as close to blasphemy as one can get within Christianity, a humorless faith when it comes to punishing the sacrilegious. According to Leviticus 20:14, “Anyone who blasphemes the name of the Lord is to be put to death.” Yikes. In spite of this, to the best of my knowledge, no one in recent times has been executed for tasteless Christian humor. Which I am sure is not the case for the radical Islamist with a penchant for decapitation, which is not funny at all.
Since I live in the Washington, D.C., area, I have followed with minor interest the saga of our hapless pro football team, the Redskins. Their name has come under mounting criticism since the word “Redskin” is pejorative, say a growing number of Native Americans. There have been peaceful protests, petitions, legal proceedings, and an untold number of newspaper editorials, and it does look as if in the near future the team owner will cave. It won’t be because he has qualms about using a racial slur, but because the continued use of the word will cost him money.
What has not happened is a bunch of pissed off Native Americans with automatic weapons invading the office of the team owner and assassinating the staff. I’d be willing to bet that the Reskins name is as offensive to them as anything Charlie Hebdo has printed.
One of the things that must happen to stem the atrocities committed by various BFMs is community policing. It’s hard to believe that in Cherif and Said Kouachi’s Muslim neighborhoods near Paris, not a single person knew what the brothers were doing. Their parents and family claimed the two men had no radical ties and showed no signs of extremism. Yet the Kouachis had traveled to Yemen and Syria and trained in the open. They even named their cell after a nearby public park.
If indeed others knew of the assassination plans and failed to report them, then they too are guilty of murder.
Blasphemy
The murders at Charlie Hebdo continue to generate fears both in Europe and in America, so here’s a suggestion. I think the FM (f*cking morons–see previous blog) should inundate their newspapers and websites with insulting caricatures of the Pope, the Dalai Lama, any important Jewish religious figure and, of course, Jesus Christ himself. This might make the FM feel better and less likely to rely on firepower to avenge the alleged blasphemy washed upon their deity. A sort of tit-for-tat, if you will. But here’s the thing I don’t fully understand. According to Fareed Zakaria, perhaps the best-known Muslim in the States, “the word blasphemy appears nowhere in the Koran. Nor, incidentally, does the Koran anywhere forbid creating images of Muhammad.” Zakaria quotes Islamic scholar Maulana Wahiduddin Khan who states that, “In Islam, blasphemy is a subject of intellectual discussion rather than a subject of physical punishment.” Personally, I think even the FM would be better off trading their semi-automatics for a set of Primacolor colored pencils and a good quality sketch pad. There are untold numbers of offensive caricatures available to them. The Pope on the potty might be a likely subject. Or perhaps the Dalai Lama butchering a steer? And there are jokes. My favorite horrible Christian joke was told to me by a hardcore born-again Catholic friend: Christ, on the cross, turns to one of the two thieves crucified with him and says, “Hey! I can see your house from here!” (F*cking Morons: You can use this with attribution.) This is probably as close to blasphemy as one can get within Christianity, a humorless faith when it comes to punishing the sacrilegious. According to Leviticus 20:14, “Anyone who blasphemes the name of the Lord is to be put to death.” Yikes. In spite of this, to the best of my knowledge, no one in recent times has been executed for tasteless Christian humor. Which I am sure is not the case for the radical Islamist with a penchant for decapitation, which is not funny at all. Since I live in the Washington, D.C., area, I have followed with minor interest the saga of our hapless pro football team, the Redskins. Their name has come under mounting criticism since the word “Redskin” is pejorative, say a growing number of Native Americans. There have been peaceful protests, petitions, legal proceedings, and an untold number of newspaper editorials, and it does look as if in the near future the team owner will cave. It won’t be because he has qualms about using a racial slur, but because the continued use of the word will cost him money. What has not happened is a bunch of pissed off Native Americans with automatic weapons invading the office of the team owner and assassinating the staff. I’d be willing to bet that the Reskins name is as offensive to them as anything Charlie Hebdo has printed. One of the things that must happen to stem the atrocities committed by various BFMs is community policing. It’s hard to believe that in Cherif and Said Kouachi’s Muslim neighborhoods near Paris, not a single person knew what the brothers were doing. Their parents and family claimed the two men had no radical ties and showed no signs of extremism. Yet the Kouachis had traveled to Yemen and Syria and trained in the open. They even named their cell after a nearby public park. If indeed others knew of the assassination plans and failed to report them, then they too are guilty of murder. I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
January 12, 2015
Charlie Hebdo and the BFMs
Here’s a new acronym, BFM, which you may feel free to use anytime people with guns attack others who are armed only with pens and pencils. BFM stands for Bunch of F*cking Morons, though you can substitute Fearful, Foul, Filthy, or any number of F words if you’re a sensitive soul or small children are around.
There are a lot of BFMs around so it somehow made perfect sense that when he was in Yemen, Said Kouachi, one of the FMs and perpetrator of the Charlie Hebdo murders, was roommate with another FM, a Nigerian named Umar Farouk Abdumutallab. You don’t remember Umar? The underwear bomber? In 2009 Umar boarded a Detroit-bound airplane with an explosive device in is BVDs. The thing didn’t explode and neither did Umar who is now spending a long, long time in a maximum security prison.
The Charlie Hebdo massacre quickly became a handy political football. Israel’s Benjamin Netanyahu, in Paris for the million-strong march there, suggested all French Jews move to Israel for their safety because, as we all know, Israel is so much safer and less prone to terrorism than is Paris. Really, Benjamin?
Marine Le Pen, head of France’s anti-immigrant Front National party, showed up at the demonstration as well to show the worthiness of her cause, and in Germany, a wave of anti-Islamic rhetoric surged through the country. Throughout Europe, the fear is that other BFMs will take it upon themselves to demonstrate their lack of courage by attacking easy targets. It takes neither intelligence nor bravery to assassinate intellectuals and/or reporters (the terms are not synonymous) and it’s an unfortunate certainty that in the very near future some other FMs, seeing the international commotion created by the January Hebdo attack, will seek to add his or her name to the FM pantheon. No one, of course, remembers the names of the FMs, so there’s not much of a legacy there, but to a FM, that will not be a deterrent.
Some four millions people in France showed their solidarity with Charlie Hebdo. Heads of state came too, as did artists and writers and musicians. Another few hundreds of thousands across the world showed up as well, and all, each and every one, claimed “Je suis Charlie.” They’re not, of course.
The problem with massive outpouring of emotions such as the ones demonstrated over the weekend is that feelings aren’t facts. Once the outrage passes, then what?
In France, anti-Semitism is on the rise again. Nothing surprising there; France bears a sad history of such behavior dating back to the Middle Ages. With five million Muslims in the country, there’s also been an anti-Islamic backlash that has manifested itself in truly dubious fashion—banning scarves from public schools and prohibiting Islamic women wearing a chador or hijab from operating motor vehicles. Thousands upon thousands of French–born Muslims and more recent immigrants live in what can only be described as ghettos that offer little education, high unemployment, and a completely limited future. This has to change. Massive public demonstrations are good but useless if not followed by action to better the fates of the minorities.
Feelings aren’t facts, and that’s a fact.
There are a lot of BFMs around so it somehow made perfect sense that when he was in Yemen, Said Kouachi, one of the FMs and perpetrator of the Charlie Hebdo murders, was roommate with another FM, a Nigerian named Umar Farouk Abdumutallab. You don’t remember Umar? The underwear bomber? In 2009 Umar boarded a Detroit-bound airplane with an explosive device in is BVDs. The thing didn’t explode and neither did Umar who is now spending a long, long time in a maximum security prison.
The Charlie Hebdo massacre quickly became a handy political football. Israel’s Benjamin Netanyahu, in Paris for the million-strong march there, suggested all French Jews move to Israel for their safety because, as we all know, Israel is so much safer and less prone to terrorism than is Paris. Really, Benjamin?
Marine Le Pen, head of France’s anti-immigrant Front National party, showed up at the demonstration as well to show the worthiness of her cause, and in Germany, a wave of anti-Islamic rhetoric surged through the country. Throughout Europe, the fear is that other BFMs will take it upon themselves to demonstrate their lack of courage by attacking easy targets. It takes neither intelligence nor bravery to assassinate intellectuals and/or reporters (the terms are not synonymous) and it’s an unfortunate certainty that in the very near future some other FMs, seeing the international commotion created by the January Hebdo attack, will seek to add his or her name to the FM pantheon. No one, of course, remembers the names of the FMs, so there’s not much of a legacy there, but to a FM, that will not be a deterrent.
Some four millions people in France showed their solidarity with Charlie Hebdo. Heads of state came too, as did artists and writers and musicians. Another few hundreds of thousands across the world showed up as well, and all, each and every one, claimed “Je suis Charlie.” They’re not, of course.
The problem with massive outpouring of emotions such as the ones demonstrated over the weekend is that feelings aren’t facts. Once the outrage passes, then what?
In France, anti-Semitism is on the rise again. Nothing surprising there; France bears a sad history of such behavior dating back to the Middle Ages. With five million Muslims in the country, there’s also been an anti-Islamic backlash that has manifested itself in truly dubious fashion—banning scarves from public schools and prohibiting Islamic women wearing a chador or hijab from operating motor vehicles. Thousands upon thousands of French–born Muslims and more recent immigrants live in what can only be described as ghettos that offer little education, high unemployment, and a completely limited future. This has to change. Massive public demonstrations are good but useless if not followed by action to better the fates of the minorities.
Feelings aren’t facts, and that’s a fact.
