Friday, August 19, 2016
Humble French athlete
Statue of a naked man on Union Square in New York
[JUSTIN SULLIVAN / GETTY IMAGES NORTH AMERICA / AFP]
Thursday, August 18, 2016
We attach ourselves to familiar old objects
Early this morning, I was awoken by images of my old fountain pens that needed to be loaded with new supplies of ink. Now it's at least a quarter of a century since I abandoned forever the use of writing implements of that old-fashioned kind, before replacing them by ball-points, felt-tipped pens, typewriters and, finally, computers. But the name of the required ink, Quink, appeared clearly in my dream, along with its color and the appearance of its bottle.
I was so surprised by my dream that I awoke instantly and dashed to one of my desks, to see if I did in fact retain ink of that kind, and maybe even a few fountain pens. After a bit of hurried searching, all I found was an old forgotten box of plastic cartridges, but not the least presence of any kind of writing implement that might use such a cartridge.
In a state of bliss, I went back to sleep... and dreamed of nothing more. Later on in the morning, when I was soundly awake, I used my computer to check that this brand of ink still exists. My nightware is still functioning well.
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Australian refugee camp to be closed
Nothing makes me feel more like a biological piece of meat
Many TV observers of Olympic events are no doubt charmed when they see twin competitors holding hands as they cross the line.
To my mind, alas, an image of that kind is troubling. Those identical ladies are not simply cute ; they're clones. The situation becomes more troubling when we move to triplets.
For the moment, this situation has not reached alarming proportions. But, what would happen if we were to end up with a group, say, of four identical Usain Bolt clones ? Would gold medals have to be chopped into pieces, enabling each clone to take away a fragment?
I don't believe that this clone phenomenon, all on its own, will soon be responsible for ending the Olympics. But, with everyday annoyances such as dope, biased judges and (last but not least) Brazilian boos for non-Brazilian athletes, the end is probably near. Another trivial but slightly disturbing subject (but not necessarily a problem) is transgender athletes: individuals born as males who end up competing as females. The case of Caster Semenya, an 18-year-old South African female athlete, is disturbing, to say the least.
So-called “gender verification” tests were called for by the International Association of Athletics Federations (IAAF). They indicated an “unusually high level of testosterone” in her body. A newspaper revealed that a coach of South Africa’s runners is a former East German coach named Ekhart Arbeit. The former shot-putt champion named Heidi Krieger says that this fellow fed her so many anabolic steroids that she finally underwent an operation in 1997 that made her a male, now known as Andreas. Is that what we once knew as sport?
One of the most troubling events of all is when a once-champion athlete finds himself or herself beaten by a new-generation competitor. Emotions rise to an almost suicidal level.
For me, as a TV viewer, an annoying aspect of the whole Olympic show is that various sports have risen to a degree of technical complexity that often prevents me from understanding what is actually happening. Often it's no longer fun to watch a TV transmission of a sporting competition than I can hardly understand. For example, in a canoe/kayak race, I'm totally incapable of realizing whether a competitor has handled a "doorway" correctly. In a fencing duel, I never know who touched whom in an acceptable or less acceptable fashion. In judo, I have no idea whatsoever of who's winning and who's losing. In diving, I don't have the faintest idea of which competitor hit the water in the best style. And I'm sure I'm not the only person who gets bored by watching synchronized swimming, which has always appeared to me as a silly joke that has never made me smile let alone laugh.
In any case, the Olympic spirit has existed long enough, like competitive sport in general. It can't go on forever...
Meanwhile, here's a funny video of a loser:
I don't believe that this clone phenomenon, all on its own, will soon be responsible for ending the Olympics. But, with everyday annoyances such as dope, biased judges and (last but not least) Brazilian boos for non-Brazilian athletes, the end is probably near. Another trivial but slightly disturbing subject (but not necessarily a problem) is transgender athletes: individuals born as males who end up competing as females. The case of Caster Semenya, an 18-year-old South African female athlete, is disturbing, to say the least.
One of the most troubling events of all is when a once-champion athlete finds himself or herself beaten by a new-generation competitor. Emotions rise to an almost suicidal level.
For me, as a TV viewer, an annoying aspect of the whole Olympic show is that various sports have risen to a degree of technical complexity that often prevents me from understanding what is actually happening. Often it's no longer fun to watch a TV transmission of a sporting competition than I can hardly understand. For example, in a canoe/kayak race, I'm totally incapable of realizing whether a competitor has handled a "doorway" correctly. In a fencing duel, I never know who touched whom in an acceptable or less acceptable fashion. In judo, I have no idea whatsoever of who's winning and who's losing. In diving, I don't have the faintest idea of which competitor hit the water in the best style. And I'm sure I'm not the only person who gets bored by watching synchronized swimming, which has always appeared to me as a silly joke that has never made me smile let alone laugh.
As silly and boring as twirling...
Meanwhile, here's a funny video of a loser:
Bugged nightware
In a recent Dilbert strip, the pointy-haired boss says he has just invested in new network software. When Dilbert asks him how he handled the technical aspects of this situation, the boss says he was assisted by the software vendor, who provided him with a weird explanation.
My present post is strange, almost crazy, but it’s perfectly genuine and understandable. Regularly, in my early-morning nightmares over the last year (since my fall in the Gamone staircase a year ago), I find myself programming a computer and striving to remove bugs from its faulty software. If the humorist Scott Adams (creator of Dilbert) heard about my behavior, he would possibly see it as proof that we humans are participating in a gigantic theatrical play staged by superior creatures.
Personally, I have a more down-to-earth explanation. During the day, I spend time working on my computer (as I'm doing now) and trying to find logical explanations for certain complicated real-life situations and problems. So, it’s not surprising that a former software fellow like me might imagine in dreams that he’s still programming. The other night, the situation was enhanced by the fact that, before going to bed, I had watched Kubrick’s Space Odyssey movie (for the first time in years), which is frankly a sacred masterpiece for enthusiasts of artificial intelligence. Besides, I had spent time, during the day, trying to handle the reactions of my sisters to family-history puzzles. So, all the ingredients were present for a troublesome night of dreams.
The problem with nightmares of this character is that I’m terribly frustrated by the fact that, when I’m dreaming, I’m not using a real computer (as I am now) and that my imagined computing activities are totally fake. Inevitably, the absurd background of my nightware becomes obvious as soon as I wake up, as is generally the case with trivial dreams. I have no trouble in immediately getting back in contact with reality, including the presence of my authentic computer, just alongside the bed where I had been dreaming.
My present post is strange, almost crazy, but it’s perfectly genuine and understandable. Regularly, in my early-morning nightmares over the last year (since my fall in the Gamone staircase a year ago), I find myself programming a computer and striving to remove bugs from its faulty software. If the humorist Scott Adams (creator of Dilbert) heard about my behavior, he would possibly see it as proof that we humans are participating in a gigantic theatrical play staged by superior creatures.
Personally, I have a more down-to-earth explanation. During the day, I spend time working on my computer (as I'm doing now) and trying to find logical explanations for certain complicated real-life situations and problems. So, it’s not surprising that a former software fellow like me might imagine in dreams that he’s still programming. The other night, the situation was enhanced by the fact that, before going to bed, I had watched Kubrick’s Space Odyssey movie (for the first time in years), which is frankly a sacred masterpiece for enthusiasts of artificial intelligence. Besides, I had spent time, during the day, trying to handle the reactions of my sisters to family-history puzzles. So, all the ingredients were present for a troublesome night of dreams.
The problem with nightmares of this character is that I’m terribly frustrated by the fact that, when I’m dreaming, I’m not using a real computer (as I am now) and that my imagined computing activities are totally fake. Inevitably, the absurd background of my nightware becomes obvious as soon as I wake up, as is generally the case with trivial dreams. I have no trouble in immediately getting back in contact with reality, including the presence of my authentic computer, just alongside the bed where I had been dreaming.
Monday, August 15, 2016
Two ends of the garden hose
My old garden hose has been left out in the sun and the cold for quite some time. So, I wasn't particularly astonished when it started to develop leaks at both ends. My guardian angel Martine brought her husband Denis to Gamone, to meet me and look into my garden-hose problems. The output end of the hose is a modern aluminium pistol, which has developed the fault of spraying out several voluminous leaks. Denis and I imagined that we would rapidly find a simple means of stopping these leaks... but that, surprisingly, would not be the case.
The input end of the hose is connected to a lovely old brass tap in the form of a bird, which my daughter Manya discovered long ago.
Denis rapidly replaced joints in the brass tap, which immediately worked perfectly. He checked the yellow hose itself, which appeared to be in perfect condition. The only remaining problem was the aluminium pistol, which simply offered no possibility of being opened. As Denis explained, the object had obviously been cast by a manufacturer who had done his best to make sure that the purchaser would never open it. So, Denis told me that I should purchase a new pistol device, and trash the old one. This time, I'll buy a low-cost garden-variety hose pistol.
My dog Fitzroy was excited to see Denis fiddling around with the hose, because he loves to jump around in vain attempts to clutch the spray of water between his teeth. As soon as I've purchased a new plastic pistol, I'll have to get accustomed to taking it off after using the hose, and keeping it safely in the kitchen. In that way, the pistol won't get baked by the heat, frozen by the cold, or chewed up by Fitzroy.
The input end of the hose is connected to a lovely old brass tap in the form of a bird, which my daughter Manya discovered long ago.
Denis rapidly replaced joints in the brass tap, which immediately worked perfectly. He checked the yellow hose itself, which appeared to be in perfect condition. The only remaining problem was the aluminium pistol, which simply offered no possibility of being opened. As Denis explained, the object had obviously been cast by a manufacturer who had done his best to make sure that the purchaser would never open it. So, Denis told me that I should purchase a new pistol device, and trash the old one. This time, I'll buy a low-cost garden-variety hose pistol.
My dog Fitzroy was excited to see Denis fiddling around with the hose, because he loves to jump around in vain attempts to clutch the spray of water between his teeth. As soon as I've purchased a new plastic pistol, I'll have to get accustomed to taking it off after using the hose, and keeping it safely in the kitchen. In that way, the pistol won't get baked by the heat, frozen by the cold, or chewed up by Fitzroy.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Olympian champion in the sport of survival
Fidel Castro in Havana
at his meeting with the French president François Hollande.
May 11, 2015 — photo from New China
at his meeting with the French president François Hollande.
May 11, 2015 — photo from New China
In the course of his 47 years in power at the head of Cuba, terminating with his official retirement in 2008, Fidel Castro survived hundreds of conspiracies and assassination plots. If survival were an Olympic sport, 90-year-old Castro would indeed be covered in gold medals.
Six new Olympic medals for France
Friday was a good day for France at the Rio games. Here's our new score-sheet:
Click to enlarge
We're in the 8th position, between Russia and Australia.
That's better than what I was expecting over the last week.
I persist however in not looking upon France as a "great sporting nation" ... whatever that silly expression might mean.
That's better than what I was expecting over the last week.
I persist however in not looking upon France as a "great sporting nation" ... whatever that silly expression might mean.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
We might all be synchronized robots in the Guiness book of records
Click here to see the robot show. For all I know, I might be starring there... Can anybody prove that this was or was not the case. Good robots don't know how to appreciate the distinction between facts and fallacy. I would expect that run-of-the-mill robots don't even realize that such a distinction exists. And we meaty humans are even dumber still.
Me and my car
Just over a year ago, in July 2015, I stumbled in the steep staircase at my house in Gamone and had a nasty fall, bumping my head. Doctors have told me that I could have easily killed myself. I'm convinced that the only creature who knows exactly what happened is my dear dog Fitzroy, but he has never told me. Today, in the house, Fitzroy remains constantly a yard or so away from me. Whenever I move up or down the staircase, Fitzroy accompanies me immediately. When I open the bathroom window, Fitzroy immediately places himself between me and the opening, with such determination that I once imagined incorrectly that I might have actually fallen from this window.
Since then, I've never got back to driving on the road. Theoretically, I'm still quite capable of driving. I once demonstrated this capability to my son, on the lawn of his house in Plouha. Above all, I have good eyesight and, since the accident, I've never touched a drop of alcohol.
These days, whenever I need to drive into town, I call upon my friend Martine. She's an expert driver, who looks upon my Kangoo as an excellent vehicle for picking up a fortnight's groceries. Martine has even suggested that she might assist me in getting back into action as a driver. But I'm not at all convinced that I need to do so. I'll soon be 76 years old, and the narrow roads in the vicinity of my house at Choranche are not reassuring. On the contrary, they can be dangerous. So, why bother getting back to the wheel? In spite of all my likely progress, I would be a permanent public danger.
Yesterday, my neighbor Gérard phoned to say hello. He was astounded when I told him (to explain why I haven't visited him over the last year) that I no longer drive my Kangoo. He told me, literally, that abandoning the wheel was surely the worst thing that could possibly happen in the existence of a citizen of Choranche. (To better understand his point of view, you need to be familiar with the steep and narrow winding road that leads up to Gérard's house, which is nevertheless just a few hundred yards away from Gamone.) The news that I had given was as if I had just told Gérard that I was stricken with a major health problem. And he sympathized with me, even to the extent of suddenly referring with pain to his recent personal loss of his mother and two sisters.
To drive or not to drive. That is the question. And I'm more or less convinced that the ideal answer is... Martine.
NOTE A few days ago, the local doctor in Pont-en-Royans (an intelligent Rumanian lady with whom I communicate most often in English) told me that I would recover some facial nerves that were damaged in the fall if I were speak out loud as often as possible. This is not a simple task for a solitary individual who doesn't often use the telephone. So, I've decided to read out loud (in front of my dog Fitzroy) the French-language movie script on which I've been working: Adieu, Abelone based upon The Notebook of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Rilke. If I work at this task long enough, I might even end up obtaining a role in the future movie.
UPDATE: Click here for another exciting approach to restoring any damaged brain functions.
Since then, I've never got back to driving on the road. Theoretically, I'm still quite capable of driving. I once demonstrated this capability to my son, on the lawn of his house in Plouha. Above all, I have good eyesight and, since the accident, I've never touched a drop of alcohol.
Yesterday, my neighbor Gérard phoned to say hello. He was astounded when I told him (to explain why I haven't visited him over the last year) that I no longer drive my Kangoo. He told me, literally, that abandoning the wheel was surely the worst thing that could possibly happen in the existence of a citizen of Choranche. (To better understand his point of view, you need to be familiar with the steep and narrow winding road that leads up to Gérard's house, which is nevertheless just a few hundred yards away from Gamone.) The news that I had given was as if I had just told Gérard that I was stricken with a major health problem. And he sympathized with me, even to the extent of suddenly referring with pain to his recent personal loss of his mother and two sisters.
To drive or not to drive. That is the question. And I'm more or less convinced that the ideal answer is... Martine.
NOTE A few days ago, the local doctor in Pont-en-Royans (an intelligent Rumanian lady with whom I communicate most often in English) told me that I would recover some facial nerves that were damaged in the fall if I were speak out loud as often as possible. This is not a simple task for a solitary individual who doesn't often use the telephone. So, I've decided to read out loud (in front of my dog Fitzroy) the French-language movie script on which I've been working: Adieu, Abelone based upon The Notebook of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Rilke. If I work at this task long enough, I might even end up obtaining a role in the future movie.
UPDATE: Click here for another exciting approach to restoring any damaged brain functions.
Je suis Robel
Possibility of recycling French Olympic coaches and Eurovision artists
Admirable Olympic cyclist
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Big business
Plans for future new bridge at Grafton
One of these days, my native town of Grafton in Australia will have a new bridge over the Clarence River. The northern area, which includes the major town of Grafton, will have the following layout:
The southern area, which includes my childhood town of South Grafton, will have the following layout:
Details of plans for the future bridge can be found in a website of the Roads & Maritime authority. Random remarks about Grafton's old bridge over the Clarence River can be found elsewhere in my Antipodes blog.
Click to enlarge slightly
Click to enlarge slightly
Details of plans for the future bridge can be found in a website of the Roads & Maritime authority. Random remarks about Grafton's old bridge over the Clarence River can be found elsewhere in my Antipodes blog.
The vast extent to which Pound Street is to be modified will certainly change the area where we Skyvington kids grew up, in the company of local friends such as Jimmy Kemmis and Anne Fisher. It might be said that a central zone of the city of Grafton will be transformed into a highway, running alongside Market Square and the clocktower, then through Jacaranda Avenue. To my mind, the old town will find it difficult to survive such an onslaught of road traffic.
Monday, August 8, 2016
So long, Marianne
The Swedish lady Marianne Ihlen, muse of Leonard Cohen, passed away peacefully on 29 July 2016 at the age of 81.
Marianne and Cohen fell in love in the 1960s in Greece, and they remained friends forever. Click here for an article on her death.
Know that I am so close behind you that, if you stretch out your hand, I think you can reach mine. [Cohen's words to Marianne]
French Olympics infected by Eurovision complex
The French medal score at Rio is not exactly impressive. Watching the TV coverage of French achievements, I imagined a typical Eurovision evening. France, one point. A Poulidor point. A single silver medal in team swimming. A photo of the silver team is not exactly joyful.
No medals at all in fencing, judo, cycling, ball sports… Waiting for a gold miracle, maybe in pole vaulting. I fear it might be like waiting for Godot. The French are simply not a great sporting people. In exactly the same way that we're not a nation that excels in singing competitions. But we have other prize-winning talents. For example, we can be good at politics, poetry, metaphysics... and silly things like that. We can make all kinds of fine speeches, and write all kinds of fabulous books. We're good at mathematics, and science, too. We've even got around to staging top-quality revolutions. But don't ask us to be worldly, pragmatic, champion singers or sportsmen. That's simply not French.
UPDATE I forgot to mention that France is also very good at building and selling advanced military equipment such as submarines, helicopters, fighter aircraft, etc.
LAST-MINUTE NEWS: The medal situation of France improved considerably today, Tuesday. There has been a lot of talk in France for the last few days about the undeniable role of dope in the modern sporting world. Speaking of the Chinese swimmer Sun Yang, the French competitor Camille Lecourt said publicly that "his piss is violet". As I see things, the entire sporting world does indeed appear to be grimly infected by dope. The evil American Lance Armstrong set the ball rolling, and the global situation appears to have worsened enormously over the last few years. At times I wonder if we haven't reached the end of high-level sporting competitions in the nice old-fashioned clean traditions.
No medals at all in fencing, judo, cycling, ball sports… Waiting for a gold miracle, maybe in pole vaulting. I fear it might be like waiting for Godot. The French are simply not a great sporting people. In exactly the same way that we're not a nation that excels in singing competitions. But we have other prize-winning talents. For example, we can be good at politics, poetry, metaphysics... and silly things like that. We can make all kinds of fine speeches, and write all kinds of fabulous books. We're good at mathematics, and science, too. We've even got around to staging top-quality revolutions. But don't ask us to be worldly, pragmatic, champion singers or sportsmen. That's simply not French.
UPDATE I forgot to mention that France is also very good at building and selling advanced military equipment such as submarines, helicopters, fighter aircraft, etc.
LAST-MINUTE NEWS: The medal situation of France improved considerably today, Tuesday. There has been a lot of talk in France for the last few days about the undeniable role of dope in the modern sporting world. Speaking of the Chinese swimmer Sun Yang, the French competitor Camille Lecourt said publicly that "his piss is violet". As I see things, the entire sporting world does indeed appear to be grimly infected by dope. The evil American Lance Armstrong set the ball rolling, and the global situation appears to have worsened enormously over the last few years. At times I wonder if we haven't reached the end of high-level sporting competitions in the nice old-fashioned clean traditions.
Friday, August 5, 2016
French villages disappearing
The French word “désertification” designates the process that leads to villages abandoned by their former residents, who have deserted their home place and moved to big towns and cities.
In France, we also use the expression “rural exodus” to designate this sad gangrene. Today, some 15,000 rural villages are dying due to this inevitable process.
Click to enlarge slightly
This sad phenomenon is now more rampant than ever, and there's no way of stopping it.
Click to enlarge slightly
In France, we also use the expression “rural exodus” to designate this sad gangrene. Today, some 15,000 rural villages are dying due to this inevitable process.
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