Thierry Sagnier's Blog, page 42
December 23, 2014
Philosophies
Years ago I met an at-the-time older man who told me his philosophy towards life could be reduced to two sentences: 1. Don’t get your hopes up; and 2. They’re going to screw you. He didn’t use the word ‘screw,’ preferring a stronger expletive that I, personally, rarely need to see on a written page, but please, feel free to substitute the f-word if that makes the concept clearer. I pondered his thinking for a long time. Sentence Number One has its virtues; it deals with expectations and the resentments caused when these don’t come through. There’s a common sense to acceptance (but not to resignation): A true fatalist by definition is never disappointed by unfortunate turns of events. He has factored them into his life calculations. He may be pleasantly surprised if things come out somewhat better than expected, but by expecting the worse, he steels himself against failure. I’ve known people like that, the Eeyores of the world. All of us have a little Eeyore somewhere in our souls, a counter-Pollyanna we use to temper unreasonable optimism. In many of us, Eeyore might be somewhat dominant; he struggles for supremacy when times are harsh. We allow him to take over on rainy days during flu season. Sentence Number Two is more complex, implying the existence of an almost conspirational environment one must be aware of at all times. It smacks of paranoia, of deluded self-importance. Anyone who truly believes “they’re” going to get him has, among other things, a monstrously large ego, a sense of self so outsized he can believe he’s significant enough to warrant the negative will of others. People like that are incredibly, terminally, boring. And a little scary. I know a few, and I stay away from them. Their anger, frustration and vehemence are enormous, and their inability to express their fears make them borderline dangerous. Me, I believe things simply are. We’re largely powerless over forces much greater than ourselves. Mutating cells, tiny little entities without minds or thoughts of their own, threaten my life. How odd is that, being endangered by microscopic entities that can’t even read “See Spot run”? I do what I can to deal with the hazard they pose, but things will occur as they will, with minimal influence from me. Most things, actually, are far more potent than I am. I’m powerless but not necessarily completely helpless. I try to mitigate harm without any guarantee that my actions will in anyway alter the future in my favor. More and more I believe in coincidences although for the past few decades I’ve been told weekly that there are no such things. I think there are. Serendipity, synchronicity, seriality–one event unconnected to another yet influencing a third or a fourth—all these make my life what it is. It’s as good a theory as any other and allows me not to think quite as hard about the vagaries of existence. So there. Merry holidays, one and all! I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
December 18, 2014
Post Surgery
So the last surgery did not work out exactly how I planned. Instead of removing a small benign tumor, the good doctor “roto-rootered” me—his very words—which would explain why this eighth procedure has been a particularly rough one. Additionally, what he took out was, while not classified as invasive, nevertheless malignant. There is a possibility that within months he’ll suggest surgically removing my bladder, which I will decline. Then he told me to forget about it, have good holidays and come back to see him in three months.
My only response, when the doctor told me all this, was “Yikes.” Quite a while back, I decided that I have no desire to live with a permanent catheter installed in my gut. My resolution may fail with time, but I remember my dad who, after undergoing prostate surgery when such procedures were not routine, was forced for months to wear a colostomy bag. Though he healed and eventually recovered, he was never the same. The surgery was brutal and its aftermath demeaning. He became the shell of who he’d been, hating his sudden dependence on others to assist him through cruel times. I can’t see myself going through such a change. But of course, I’ve said many “I can’t…” over the years.
In the meantime, I’ve had a CT scan because there appears to be some unwanted lumps forming in my abdominal area. I’d never had such a procedure; I thought they might wave a kitten over my stomach (CAT Scan, get it?) but no, it’s somewhat more complex than that. They shoot iodine into your veins and do what is essentially an X-ray. A very nice nurse told me to pull my pants down and though every fiber in my body screamed for a witty rejoinder, I kept quiet. I think the nurse was appreciative I hope to get the test results in a few days.
And last but not least, some nasty flu bug not covered by the flu shot I had weeks ago has taken up residence in my lungs. I suspect the raft of not-good news has left my resistance and immune system battered.
Friends have been, well, friends with offers of rides, soup, an ear to bend, corn muffins and brown rice sushi. I have entertained few offers. I am in slob mode—sweats, thermal socks, unshaven for the last couple of days and huddled under layers of blankets.
All this being said, one friend, a lovely woman and writer of adult fairy tales, has promised me things will get better after December 23rd. I’m not sure how she knows this but I’ll take it. Straws are perfectly valid things to grasp.
My only response, when the doctor told me all this, was “Yikes.” Quite a while back, I decided that I have no desire to live with a permanent catheter installed in my gut. My resolution may fail with time, but I remember my dad who, after undergoing prostate surgery when such procedures were not routine, was forced for months to wear a colostomy bag. Though he healed and eventually recovered, he was never the same. The surgery was brutal and its aftermath demeaning. He became the shell of who he’d been, hating his sudden dependence on others to assist him through cruel times. I can’t see myself going through such a change. But of course, I’ve said many “I can’t…” over the years.
In the meantime, I’ve had a CT scan because there appears to be some unwanted lumps forming in my abdominal area. I’d never had such a procedure; I thought they might wave a kitten over my stomach (CAT Scan, get it?) but no, it’s somewhat more complex than that. They shoot iodine into your veins and do what is essentially an X-ray. A very nice nurse told me to pull my pants down and though every fiber in my body screamed for a witty rejoinder, I kept quiet. I think the nurse was appreciative I hope to get the test results in a few days.
And last but not least, some nasty flu bug not covered by the flu shot I had weeks ago has taken up residence in my lungs. I suspect the raft of not-good news has left my resistance and immune system battered.
Friends have been, well, friends with offers of rides, soup, an ear to bend, corn muffins and brown rice sushi. I have entertained few offers. I am in slob mode—sweats, thermal socks, unshaven for the last couple of days and huddled under layers of blankets.
All this being said, one friend, a lovely woman and writer of adult fairy tales, has promised me things will get better after December 23rd. I’m not sure how she knows this but I’ll take it. Straws are perfectly valid things to grasp.
Post Surgery
So the last surgery did not work out exactly how I planned. Instead of removing a small benign tumor, the good doctor “roto-rootered” me—his very words—which would explain why this eighth procedure has been a particularly rough one. Additionally, what he took out was, while not classified as invasive, nevertheless malignant. There is a possibility that within months he’ll suggest surgically removing my bladder, which I will decline. Then he told me to forget about it, have good holidays and come back to see him in three months. My only response, when the doctor told me all this, was “Yikes.” Quite a while back, I decided that I have no desire to live with a permanent catheter installed in my gut. My resolution may fail with time, but I remember my dad who, after undergoing prostate surgery when such procedures were not routine, was forced for months to wear a colostomy bag. Though he healed and eventually recovered, he was never the same. The surgery was brutal and its aftermath demeaning. He became the shell of who he’d been, hating his sudden dependence on others to assist him through cruel times. I can’t see myself going through such a change. But of course, I’ve said many “I can’t…” over the years. In the meantime, I’ve had a CT scan because there appears to be some unwanted lumps forming in my abdominal area. I’d never had such a procedure; I thought they might wave a kitten over my stomach (CAT Scan, get it?) but no, it’s somewhat more complex than that. They shoot iodine into your veins and do what is essentially an X-ray. A very nice nurse told me to pull my pants down and though every fiber in my body screamed for a witty rejoinder, I kept quiet. I think the nurse was appreciative I hope to get the test results in a few days. And last but not least, some nasty flu bug not covered by the flu shot I had weeks ago has taken up residence in my lungs. I suspect the raft of not-good news has left my resistance and immune system battered. Friends have been, well, friends with offers of rides, soup, an ear to bend, corn muffins and brown rice sushi. I have entertained few offers. I am in slob mode—sweats, thermal socks, unshaven for the last couple of days and huddled under layers of blankets. All this being said, one friend, a lovely woman and writer of adult fairy tales, has promised me things will get better after December 23rd. I’m not sure how she knows this but I’ll take it. Straws are perfectly valid things to grasp. I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
December 8, 2014
Number 8
The day before surgery, I generally do a number of chores to get ready for a convalescence of indeterminate length. I clean the house, that is to say I vacuum up cat hairballs larger than my fist and I empty the fridge of six-months-old veggies. I buy flowers, the cheaper bouquet from Trader Joe. I also get basic necessities like water, at least one half-pound bar of 74% cacao dark chocolate, coconut-covered cashews, Thai soup and turkey meatballs, some fruit so I can feel virtuous, and a box of Petite Seat Salt Brownies that may or not make it through tonight. I also make sure there’s enough toilet paper in both bathrooms.
I get stuff to read from the library and bring out my collection of DMZ graphic novels and all 18 volumes of Fables. I write a blog which, after eight writings, tends to get repetitious. Sorry.
I do the laundry and run the dishwasher, select movies to watch, and catch up on my emails. There’s no comfortable position when catheters are involved; I know from experience that sitting at the computer will be near impossible, so I tell my friends what’s going on ahead of time and they’ll know to check on me if there’s silence for more than a week.
I cook. In the winter, I make a stew that will last three or four days, as well as a pot of brown rice and peas (virtuous, again). In the spring or summer, I make a giant bowl of gazpacho.
Tomorrow at 10:15 a.m. will be the eighth surgery in three years, so I know the drill. I’m not enthused. The last two checkups came out clean but then three weeks ago there was blood in my urine, so it’s back to the drawing board. That, unfortunately, is often the way bladder cancer works, reoccurring after a period of remission. The good thing is that if I and the doctor keep on top of it with tests every three months or so, it’s possible to fight it to a standstill.
Yet I do worry. I’m completely aware that cancer is the illness of this millennium, and that more and more people are falling victim to it. There have been vast advances in the battle against many forms of the disease, and only a few types are now considered irremediably fatal. Lung and bronchial cancer kill almost three-quarters of a million Americans a year. Colon and rectal cancer are good for another 250,000. Bladder cancer isn’t among the top ten killers, but it nevertheless caused the death of my oldest sister a decade ago. Luckily, if spotted early, as was my case, the chances of survival are excellent.
My concerns center more on the operation itself. Being fully anesthetized eight times in a couple of years can’t be healthy. There are brain cells involved, and some expire each time I have to go under. The fact that during the procedures, my body is pumped full of opioids isn’t good either.
And then there’s the mental and emotional component. This is just no fun at all. It saps my vitality and makes me feel old and ugly. I wrote at some length before about the shaming effect cancer seems to have on people who get it. I’ve talked with others in my situation. Most of fun can joke about the disease, but deep down it makes us feel dirty and unattractive, as if we’ve done something wrong and are being punished. Personally, I blame it on religion, which would have us believe in the karmic nature of cancer cells.
Today I try to take stock, to deal with the positive stuff. I have a warm home, food, friends, good stuff to read and listen to. It’s not snowing. The cat is asleep upstairs and will probably nest on my bed for the next few days. By this time tomorrow whatever’s going to happen will have happened and that’s exactly as things should be.
I guess…
I get stuff to read from the library and bring out my collection of DMZ graphic novels and all 18 volumes of Fables. I write a blog which, after eight writings, tends to get repetitious. Sorry.
I do the laundry and run the dishwasher, select movies to watch, and catch up on my emails. There’s no comfortable position when catheters are involved; I know from experience that sitting at the computer will be near impossible, so I tell my friends what’s going on ahead of time and they’ll know to check on me if there’s silence for more than a week.
I cook. In the winter, I make a stew that will last three or four days, as well as a pot of brown rice and peas (virtuous, again). In the spring or summer, I make a giant bowl of gazpacho.
Tomorrow at 10:15 a.m. will be the eighth surgery in three years, so I know the drill. I’m not enthused. The last two checkups came out clean but then three weeks ago there was blood in my urine, so it’s back to the drawing board. That, unfortunately, is often the way bladder cancer works, reoccurring after a period of remission. The good thing is that if I and the doctor keep on top of it with tests every three months or so, it’s possible to fight it to a standstill.
Yet I do worry. I’m completely aware that cancer is the illness of this millennium, and that more and more people are falling victim to it. There have been vast advances in the battle against many forms of the disease, and only a few types are now considered irremediably fatal. Lung and bronchial cancer kill almost three-quarters of a million Americans a year. Colon and rectal cancer are good for another 250,000. Bladder cancer isn’t among the top ten killers, but it nevertheless caused the death of my oldest sister a decade ago. Luckily, if spotted early, as was my case, the chances of survival are excellent.
My concerns center more on the operation itself. Being fully anesthetized eight times in a couple of years can’t be healthy. There are brain cells involved, and some expire each time I have to go under. The fact that during the procedures, my body is pumped full of opioids isn’t good either.
And then there’s the mental and emotional component. This is just no fun at all. It saps my vitality and makes me feel old and ugly. I wrote at some length before about the shaming effect cancer seems to have on people who get it. I’ve talked with others in my situation. Most of fun can joke about the disease, but deep down it makes us feel dirty and unattractive, as if we’ve done something wrong and are being punished. Personally, I blame it on religion, which would have us believe in the karmic nature of cancer cells.
Today I try to take stock, to deal with the positive stuff. I have a warm home, food, friends, good stuff to read and listen to. It’s not snowing. The cat is asleep upstairs and will probably nest on my bed for the next few days. By this time tomorrow whatever’s going to happen will have happened and that’s exactly as things should be.
I guess…
Number 8
The day before surgery, I generally do a number of chores to get ready for a convalescence of indeterminate length. I clean the house, that is to say I vacuum up cat hairballs larger than my fist and I empty the fridge of six-months-old veggies. I buy flowers, the cheaper bouquet from Trader Joe. I also get basic necessities like water, at least one half-pound bar of 74% cacao dark chocolate, coconut-covered cashews, Thai soup and turkey meatballs, some fruit so I can feel virtuous, and a box of Petite Seat Salt Brownies that may or not make it through tonight. I also make sure there’s enough toilet paper in both bathrooms. I get stuff to read from the library and bring out my collection of DMZ graphic novels and all 18 volumes of Fables. I write a blog which, after eight writings, tends to get repetitious. Sorry. I do the laundry and run the dishwasher, select movies to watch, and catch up on my emails. There’s no comfortable position when catheters are involved; I know from experience that sitting at the computer will be near impossible, so I tell my friends what’s going on ahead of time and they’ll know to check on me if there’s silence for more than a week. I cook. In the winter, I make a stew that will last three or four days, as well as a pot of brown rice and peas (virtuous, again). In the spring or summer, I make a giant bowl of gazpacho. Tomorrow at 10:15 a.m. will be the eighth surgery in three years, so I know the drill. I’m not enthused. The last two checkups came out clean but then three weeks ago there was blood in my urine, so it’s back to the drawing board. That, unfortunately, is often the way bladder cancer works, reoccurring after a period of remission. The good thing is that if I and the doctor keep on top of it with tests every three months or so, it’s possible to fight it to a standstill. Yet I do worry. I’m completely aware that cancer is the illness of this millennium, and that more and more people are falling victim to it. There have been vast advances in the battle against many forms of the disease, and only a few types are now considered irremediably fatal. Lung and bronchial cancer kill almost three-quarters of a million Americans a year. Colon and rectal cancer are good for another 250,000. Bladder cancer isn’t among the top ten killers, but it nevertheless caused the death of my oldest sister a decade ago. Luckily, if spotted early, as was my case, the chances of survival are excellent. My concerns center more on the operation itself. Being fully anesthetized eight times in a couple of years can’t be healthy. There are brain cells involved, and some expire each time I have to go under. The fact that during the procedures, my body is pumped full of opioids isn’t good either. And then there’s the mental and emotional component. This is just no fun at all. It saps my vitality and makes me feel old and ugly. I wrote at some length before about the shaming effect cancer seems to have on people who get it. I’ve talked with others in my situation. Most of fun can joke about the disease, but deep down it makes us feel dirty and unattractive, as if we’ve done something wrong and are being punished. Personally, I blame it on religion, which would have us believe in the karmic nature of cancer cells. Today I try to take stock, to deal with the positive stuff. I have a warm home, food, friends, good stuff to read and listen to. It’s not snowing. The cat is asleep upstairs and will probably nest on my bed for the next few days. By this time tomorrow whatever’s going to happen will have happened and that’s exactly as things should be. I guess…I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
December 5, 2014
Seuxal Dissoordeers
Let me ask you this. You receive the following email message:
M.D. appovred,
Are you suffering fromm seuxal dissoordeers? Then you will get interessted by this amazig medciaiton.
Does such a note give you hope that whatever you’re suffering from may have a cure? Do you immediately click on the provided URL to see what the amaziq medciaiton is? No?
Didn’t think so, which got me to wonder—is there anyone in the known universe who will respond to this?
Leaving aside any seuxal dissoordeers I might have without knowing it, how did my name get on the mailing list of someone who’s English is so rudimentary that even Spellcheck has issues.
The sender’s name is Kass Aristophanes operating from the amano.com domain. I wonder if perhaps Kass is harboring some serious seuxal dissoordeers that cause him to be intensely dyslexic.
Later that same day, I receive: I am from Geroge,
Got it:
Women's heath drugs to foget aboout probleemss.
Yours, Lucana
Now I’m thinking my job is to get Kass and Lucana together. Or perhaps I should forward this to all the women I know who, I’m pretty certain, have problems of their own.
Having a fertile imagination, I also thought these might be secret codes for either very dumb terrorists or illegal financial activity by 10-year-olds. If it isn’t, and someone is actually peddling a cure-all for female probleemss or seuxal dissoordeers, what sort of response are they hoping to get?
I’m tempted to reply, yass, pleez sent me deerectlee all tings to cure bad tings. Alzo, prooblems & dissoordeers quicly pls tankyu.
But I won’t because it would feel like taunting a foreigner whose command of the language is spotty, and, having been such a person many years ago, it might provoke bad karma.
So instead, I’ll proffer some basic advice.
If you’re going to try to con someone, make your delivery smooth. Grammar is important. The patsy shouldn’t have to struggle to figure out what you mean. If you can’t do that, provide photos, since a picture is worth a thousand words. And if you can’t take photos, a line drawing should do.
Oh, and make sure you spell ‘sexual’ right. People have enough problems with the subject as is without having to worry about how it’s spelled.
M.D. appovred,
Are you suffering fromm seuxal dissoordeers? Then you will get interessted by this amazig medciaiton.
Does such a note give you hope that whatever you’re suffering from may have a cure? Do you immediately click on the provided URL to see what the amaziq medciaiton is? No?
Didn’t think so, which got me to wonder—is there anyone in the known universe who will respond to this?
Leaving aside any seuxal dissoordeers I might have without knowing it, how did my name get on the mailing list of someone who’s English is so rudimentary that even Spellcheck has issues.
The sender’s name is Kass Aristophanes operating from the amano.com domain. I wonder if perhaps Kass is harboring some serious seuxal dissoordeers that cause him to be intensely dyslexic.
Later that same day, I receive: I am from Geroge,
Got it:
Women's heath drugs to foget aboout probleemss.
Yours, Lucana
Now I’m thinking my job is to get Kass and Lucana together. Or perhaps I should forward this to all the women I know who, I’m pretty certain, have problems of their own.
Having a fertile imagination, I also thought these might be secret codes for either very dumb terrorists or illegal financial activity by 10-year-olds. If it isn’t, and someone is actually peddling a cure-all for female probleemss or seuxal dissoordeers, what sort of response are they hoping to get?
I’m tempted to reply, yass, pleez sent me deerectlee all tings to cure bad tings. Alzo, prooblems & dissoordeers quicly pls tankyu.
But I won’t because it would feel like taunting a foreigner whose command of the language is spotty, and, having been such a person many years ago, it might provoke bad karma.
So instead, I’ll proffer some basic advice.
If you’re going to try to con someone, make your delivery smooth. Grammar is important. The patsy shouldn’t have to struggle to figure out what you mean. If you can’t do that, provide photos, since a picture is worth a thousand words. And if you can’t take photos, a line drawing should do.
Oh, and make sure you spell ‘sexual’ right. People have enough problems with the subject as is without having to worry about how it’s spelled.
Seuxal Dissoordeers
Let me ask you this. You receive the following email message: M.D. appovred,
Are you suffering fromm seuxal dissoordeers? Then you will get interessted by this amazig medciaiton.
Does such a note give you hope that whatever you’re suffering from may have a cure? Do you immediately click on the provided URL to see what the amaziq medciaiton is? No?Didn’t think so, which got me to wonder—is there anyone in the known universe who will respond to this? Leaving aside any seuxal dissoordeers I might have without knowing it, how did my name get on the mailing list of someone who’s English is so rudimentary that even Spellcheck has issues. The sender’s name is Kass Aristophanes operating from the amano.com domain. I wonder if perhaps Kass is harboring some serious seuxal dissoordeers that cause him to be intensely dyslexic. Later that same day, I receive: I am from Geroge,
Got it:
Women's heath drugs to foget aboout probleemss.
Yours, LucanaNow I’m thinking my job is to get Kass and Lucana together. Or perhaps I should forward this to all the women I know who, I’m pretty certain, have problems of their own.
Having a fertile imagination, I also thought these might be secret codes for either very dumb terrorists or illegal financial activity by 10-year-olds. If it isn’t, and someone is actually peddling a cure-all for female probleemss or seuxal dissoordeers, what sort of response are they hoping to get?I’m tempted to reply, yass, pleez sent me deerectlee all tings to cure bad tings. Alzo, prooblems & dissoordeers quicly pls tankyu.But I won’t because it would feel like taunting a foreigner whose command of the language is spotty, and, having been such a person many years ago, it might provoke bad karma.So instead, I’ll proffer some basic advice.If you’re going to try to con someone, make your delivery smooth. Grammar is important. The patsy shouldn’t have to struggle to figure out what you mean. If you can’t do that, provide photos, since a picture is worth a thousand words. And if you can’t take photos, a line drawing should do.Oh, and make sure you spell ‘sexual’ right. People have enough problems with the subject as is without having to worry about how it’s spelled. I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
November 29, 2014
Another Language
It’s estimated half the world’s population speaks two or more languages. I do, which makes me a member of the world’s largest more-or-less secret club.
Here’s what you can do when you’re bilingual:
• Talk with a friend about other people who are right there and won’t understand a word you’re saying. Of course, you do have to make sure the subject of your conversation doesn’t speak the language you and your friend are speaking, or great embarrassment can ensue. This happened to me once while riding the bus with another French speaker. We were joyfully commenting on the size of another passenger’s nose when the person in question stood up, called us horrible names in French, gave us the finger and stalked off the bus.
• Be part of two cultures and,
• Be able to compare the pluses and minuses of two or more cultures, because obviously, language is a culture’s spokesperson.
• Seems twice as smart. Notice I use the word ‘seem.’ This is because some people who are bilingual can also be dumb in two languages. As a matter of fact, if you’re a dolt in one language, it’s almost certain you’ll be one in a second language too.
• On the other hand, you can know twice as much as others on about just about anything. Knowing something in one language is not the same thing as knowing it in another.
• Have a mind open to new and different thoughts and opinions. People in other nations think differently. This is OK for the most part, unless you’re dealing with a mad person of any nationality, or a terrorist. Then it’s better to pretend you don’t speak any language at all.
• Read the works of authors in the language they wrote them. Albert Camus in French is actually interesting. In English, he’s deadly. The same can be said of St. Exupery’s Little Prince. The book has been translated from the French a dozen times, but reading it in English just isn’t the same. I’ve heard Spanish friends say the same thing when speaking Cervantes.
• Travel with fewer fears. It’s amazing how easier it is to get from point A to point Z if you can speak the local language, even if it’s only a little.
• Meet interesting people.
• Cultivate a really neat accent. I can still do a killer Parisian accent in English, and my faked American accent when speaking French has motivated real Parisians to be nice to me and even once buy me a cup of coffee in Montpartnasse
• Wear cool clothing. More and more I am seeing people in the attire of their native countries. Scots in kilts, Indian ladies in saris, Vietnamese girls in ao dais. I have a beret. But to tell the truth, I never wear it because it makes me look like a largish Basque shepherd. I could, though, because I speak French.
• Swear multilingually. A woman I know asked me to teach her several profane French words she could use when stuck in traffic. I have a few Cantonese expletives, taught to me by a man from Shanghai though I’ve been told my French accent when swearing in Chinese is truly terrible, particularly when I’m behind the wheel.
For all the above reasons, and more, you should learn another language. Pig Latin doesn’t count.
Here’s what you can do when you’re bilingual:
• Talk with a friend about other people who are right there and won’t understand a word you’re saying. Of course, you do have to make sure the subject of your conversation doesn’t speak the language you and your friend are speaking, or great embarrassment can ensue. This happened to me once while riding the bus with another French speaker. We were joyfully commenting on the size of another passenger’s nose when the person in question stood up, called us horrible names in French, gave us the finger and stalked off the bus.
• Be part of two cultures and,
• Be able to compare the pluses and minuses of two or more cultures, because obviously, language is a culture’s spokesperson.
• Seems twice as smart. Notice I use the word ‘seem.’ This is because some people who are bilingual can also be dumb in two languages. As a matter of fact, if you’re a dolt in one language, it’s almost certain you’ll be one in a second language too.
• On the other hand, you can know twice as much as others on about just about anything. Knowing something in one language is not the same thing as knowing it in another.
• Have a mind open to new and different thoughts and opinions. People in other nations think differently. This is OK for the most part, unless you’re dealing with a mad person of any nationality, or a terrorist. Then it’s better to pretend you don’t speak any language at all.
• Read the works of authors in the language they wrote them. Albert Camus in French is actually interesting. In English, he’s deadly. The same can be said of St. Exupery’s Little Prince. The book has been translated from the French a dozen times, but reading it in English just isn’t the same. I’ve heard Spanish friends say the same thing when speaking Cervantes.
• Travel with fewer fears. It’s amazing how easier it is to get from point A to point Z if you can speak the local language, even if it’s only a little.
• Meet interesting people.
• Cultivate a really neat accent. I can still do a killer Parisian accent in English, and my faked American accent when speaking French has motivated real Parisians to be nice to me and even once buy me a cup of coffee in Montpartnasse
• Wear cool clothing. More and more I am seeing people in the attire of their native countries. Scots in kilts, Indian ladies in saris, Vietnamese girls in ao dais. I have a beret. But to tell the truth, I never wear it because it makes me look like a largish Basque shepherd. I could, though, because I speak French.
• Swear multilingually. A woman I know asked me to teach her several profane French words she could use when stuck in traffic. I have a few Cantonese expletives, taught to me by a man from Shanghai though I’ve been told my French accent when swearing in Chinese is truly terrible, particularly when I’m behind the wheel.
For all the above reasons, and more, you should learn another language. Pig Latin doesn’t count.
Another Language
It’s estimated half the world’s population speaks two or more languages. I do, which makes me a member of the world’s largest more-or-less secret club. Here’s what you can do when you’re bilingual: Talk with a friend about other people who are right there and won’t understand a word you’re saying. Of course, you do have to make sure the subject of your conversation doesn’t speak the language you and your friend are speaking, or great embarrassment can ensue. This happened to me once while riding the bus with another French speaker. We were joyfully commenting on the size of another passenger’s nose when the person in question stood up, called us horrible names in French, gave us the finger and stalked off the bus. Be part of two cultures and, Be able to compare the pluses and minuses of two or more cultures, because obviously, language is a culture’s spokesperson. Seems twice as smart. Notice I use the word ‘seem.’ This is because some people who are bilingual can also be dumb in two languages. As a matter of fact, if you’re a dolt in one language, it’s almost certain you’ll be one in a second language too. On the other hand, you can know twice as much as others on about just about anything. Knowing something in one language is not the same thing as knowing it in another. Have a mind open to new and different thoughts and opinions. People in other nations think differently. This is OK for the most part, unless you’re dealing with a mad person of any nationality, or a terrorist. Then it’s better to pretend you don’t speak any language at all. Read the works of authors in the language they wrote them. Albert Camus in French is actually interesting. In English, he’s deadly. The same can be said of St. Exupery’s Little Prince. The book has been translated from the French a dozen times, but reading it in English just isn’t the same. I’ve heard Spanish friends say the same thing when speaking Cervantes. Travel with fewer fears. It’s amazing how easier it is to get from point A to point Z if you can speak the local language, even if it’s only a little. Meet interesting people. Cultivate a really neat accent. I can still do a killer Parisian accent in English, and my faked American accent when speaking French has motivated real Parisians to be nice to me and even once buy me a cup of coffee in Montpartnasse Wear cool clothing. More and more I am seeing people in the attire of their native countries. Scots in kilts, Indian ladies in saris, Vietnamese girls in ao dais. I have a beret. But to tell the truth, I never wear it because it makes me look like a largish Basque shepherd. I could, though, because I speak French. Swear multilingually. A woman I know asked me to teach her several profane French words she could use when stuck in traffic. I have a few Cantonese expletives, taught to me by a man from Shanghai though I’ve been told my French accent when swearing in Chinese is truly terrible, particularly when I’m behind the wheel. For all the above reasons, and more, you should learn another language. Pig Latin doesn’t count. I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
November 26, 2014
Bonne Appetit
Lately I’ve been wondering why there’s so much food around. European friends and I were talking about that recently as we overfilled our trays at an all-you-can-eat buffet. One of us, his plate a veritable Everest of pork products––sausage links and patties, bacon, country ham—noted that, to the best of his well-traveled knowledge, the US was the only place that had all-you-can-eat buffets. I don’t know if this is a fact or not. It seems to me there must be stuff-yourself-to-the-gills restaurants elsewhere, but I haven’t found one.
A couple of weeks ago I was at a Home Depot and noticed that right next to the checkout lanes were multiple displays of candy bars and soft drinks. I’m sure they’ve been there all along, but it was the first time I really became aware of this oddity, and I wondered what had prompted the Home Depot powers-that-be to put them there. Well, duh, profit, obviously… I watched a somewhat overweight kid coax his mom into buying a Mars bar. And a pack of gum. And a little bag of cookies and I wondered, are we really hungry all the time in the land of plenty? Do we need to be chewing and swallowing constantly to fulfill our destiny? Is this what the Constitution promises when it says “pursuit of happiness?”
There’s food in gas stations, bookstores, Old Navy emporia, hardware stores, computer outlets. There are stacks of candy at my local nursery next to the rhododendrons, at my pharmacy, at the nearby big box store, and even the local dry cleaner has a small display of mints and Korean hard candies on his counter. The shops selling sporting goods also have racks of stuff, but the sales staff will tell you it’s really healthy, vegetarian, gluten free, and not the product of slave labor in Abyssinia. Course, it’s about five times as expensive as stuff found elsewhere
Meanwhile, we are facing explosive growth in the number of people diagnosed with type 2 diabetes (I am one), and almost two-thirds of the US population is overweight. America has the second highest percentage of obesity in the world (Mexico out-ate the US in 2013 and took first place.)
What’s interesting is the shift in points of view. A century ago, the rich folks were stout–they had more than enough to eat and did so with gusto—and the poorer people were thin, fed on a diet that often lacked essential protein and carbohydrates. This began to change following World War II with the advent of cheaper foods. Now, large segments of our present society subsists on fast foods of doubtful value. We no longer walk and burn calories and we’re inundated with offerings of cheap snacks everywhere.
I wonder where this is going to lead.
According to Forbes, “Almost one fifth of all deaths in the U.S. are associated with being overweight, according to a startling new report from Columbia University and the Robert Woods Johnson Foundation. And the kicker? For each consecutive birth year (in other words, the younger you are) the higher the death rate.
“In a study published in the August issue of the American Journal of Public Health, a team of researchers led by epidemiologist Ryan K. Masters looked at death records and health surveys for all adults for a 20-year period between 1986 and 2006. They found that 18.2 percent of all deaths were associated with carrying excess weight.
“This is three times higher than previous reports, which Ryan says relied on average obesity rates rather than specific data and failed to take into account that those who are obese often decline to take part in public health surveys.
“But the news could actually be even worse because the percentage of the population that’s overweight or obese increases every year, and is already considerably higher today than it was in 2006, the final year of data used in the study.”
Think about all this as you celebrate Thanksgiving, the annual celebration of excess, and tuck into the mounds of food before you.
Bon appétit!
A couple of weeks ago I was at a Home Depot and noticed that right next to the checkout lanes were multiple displays of candy bars and soft drinks. I’m sure they’ve been there all along, but it was the first time I really became aware of this oddity, and I wondered what had prompted the Home Depot powers-that-be to put them there. Well, duh, profit, obviously… I watched a somewhat overweight kid coax his mom into buying a Mars bar. And a pack of gum. And a little bag of cookies and I wondered, are we really hungry all the time in the land of plenty? Do we need to be chewing and swallowing constantly to fulfill our destiny? Is this what the Constitution promises when it says “pursuit of happiness?”
There’s food in gas stations, bookstores, Old Navy emporia, hardware stores, computer outlets. There are stacks of candy at my local nursery next to the rhododendrons, at my pharmacy, at the nearby big box store, and even the local dry cleaner has a small display of mints and Korean hard candies on his counter. The shops selling sporting goods also have racks of stuff, but the sales staff will tell you it’s really healthy, vegetarian, gluten free, and not the product of slave labor in Abyssinia. Course, it’s about five times as expensive as stuff found elsewhere
Meanwhile, we are facing explosive growth in the number of people diagnosed with type 2 diabetes (I am one), and almost two-thirds of the US population is overweight. America has the second highest percentage of obesity in the world (Mexico out-ate the US in 2013 and took first place.)
What’s interesting is the shift in points of view. A century ago, the rich folks were stout–they had more than enough to eat and did so with gusto—and the poorer people were thin, fed on a diet that often lacked essential protein and carbohydrates. This began to change following World War II with the advent of cheaper foods. Now, large segments of our present society subsists on fast foods of doubtful value. We no longer walk and burn calories and we’re inundated with offerings of cheap snacks everywhere.
I wonder where this is going to lead.
According to Forbes, “Almost one fifth of all deaths in the U.S. are associated with being overweight, according to a startling new report from Columbia University and the Robert Woods Johnson Foundation. And the kicker? For each consecutive birth year (in other words, the younger you are) the higher the death rate.
“In a study published in the August issue of the American Journal of Public Health, a team of researchers led by epidemiologist Ryan K. Masters looked at death records and health surveys for all adults for a 20-year period between 1986 and 2006. They found that 18.2 percent of all deaths were associated with carrying excess weight.
“This is three times higher than previous reports, which Ryan says relied on average obesity rates rather than specific data and failed to take into account that those who are obese often decline to take part in public health surveys.
“But the news could actually be even worse because the percentage of the population that’s overweight or obese increases every year, and is already considerably higher today than it was in 2006, the final year of data used in the study.”
Think about all this as you celebrate Thanksgiving, the annual celebration of excess, and tuck into the mounds of food before you.
Bon appétit!
