Will Knox Walk?

I get asked that question a lot lately by friends and acquaintances who know that I have been hosting a discussion board devoted to this case for nearly four years now. Today's PI (click on title), having decided to dispense with the illusion of taste and decency, is currently running a poll that asks the burning question: Should Amanda Knox Return to Seattle?

For those who don't know, Knox and her then boyfriend Raffaele Sollecito were unamimously convicted in December 2009 for their role in the torture and murder of Knox's British roommate, Meredith Kercher, and for their subsequent attempt to cover up their involvement by staging a burglary in the flat Knox and Kercher shared with two Italian women. In addition, Knox was convicted of calunnia for falsely accusing her boss, Patrick Lumumba, of the murder. Lumumba spent two weeks in jail after police arrested him based on Knox's accusation, during which time Knox did not admit that she had falsely accused an innocent man. A third young man, Rudy Guede, was also convicted for his role in this gruesome murder. He opted for a fast track trial, which is not the same as entering a guilty plea and, having exhausted his appeals, is now quietly serving out his sentence.

Knox and Sollecito are nearing the end of their first appeal. Which brings me to a point worth considering for a moment: in Italy, there are two rounds of appeal and they are automatic. Knox did not "appeal" her sentence; she and Sollecito merely moved on to the next phase in the criminal justice process. Incidentally, the prosecutors could also be said to be "appealing" the initial verdict, since they asked for life and the pair got "only" 26 and 25 years, respectively. Knox got extra time because of the calunnia.

In Italy, as in the US, convictions are sometimes overturned on appeal, so my answer to the question is that it is possible Knox will walk, or get a reduced sentence, but she would still have to face the final appeal. This has always been a possible outcome, in the same way that it was possible she would be acquitted by the first instance court. It would not be the first time that someone demonstrably guilty of a crime went free. The two examples that immediately spring to mind are OJ and Casey Anthony. The Casey Anthony verdict shocked many people, including me. I managed to obtain a copy of the judge's instructions to the jury, which gave me a better sense of how this could have happened. The judge should probably have instructed the jury with regard to the legal definition of reasonable doubt and the legal definition of circumstantial evidence. He apparently thought they already knew these rather basic things. But from what I have read and seen since the verdict was announced, the jury clearly did not have a clue. And now Casey Anthony is walking free but imprisoned for life -- because she has to live with the knowledge of what she did. As a very smart man once said to me, the sweetest prison is prison. Think about it.

It is impossible to predict with certainty how this court will rule, though last week the US media seemed to think it could do so based on the judge's denial of the prosecution's motion requesting that further retesting be done on the two items of forensic evidence for which he had earlier granted an independent review (two out of over 100). If you are interested in this complex subject, there is only one blog to read: Maundy Gregory's blog

In a nutshell, the two experts did not retest the items as requested but instead raised concerns about the admissibility of DNA evidence per se, the possibility of contamination, etc. At one point, one of them gave an in-court presentation using selected snippets from the crime scene video, claiming that a pair of latex gloves seen on-screen holding a pair of tweezers while removing evidence from the victim's body had a tear in it. People, I have seen the entire crime scene video (which is horrifying, you don't ever want to see it) and there is no tear in the glove. There are creases, which is normal. You can see a still shot of it on PMF (link below).

Those who have been following the case professionally, objectively and dispassionately are not prognosticating an outcome. As they have noted, however, it has been established that the DNA on the blade of the knife (Knox's DNA is on the handle) is undeniably Meredith Kercher's. The knife was found at Knox's boyfriend's flat, a place Meredith had never visited. As for the bra clasp (which was cut from Meredith's body after she died, as part of the staged rape), which has Sollecito's DNA on it, the court may decide the possibility of contamination is great enough that it should be given less weight or no weight at all in the court's decision. What is important, however, is that neither item has been "thrown out". And then there is the rest of the evidence. In addition to the crime scene staging, we have a bloody footprint which is compatible with Sollecito's bare foot and which was found on the bathmat. There are several samples of mixed DNA (Knox-Kercher). There are cellphone and computer records. There are shifting alibis and lies told by the pair. All of this evidence will be examined holistically, not in isolation, by the judges. Last but not least, let's not forget elements from Rudy Guede's trial, which are now admissible. In his final appeal, Italy's highest court of appeals ruled that this crime had been committed by more than one person. All hope of continuing to pin it on the Lone Wolf/black guy alone has thus vanished. Moreover, the nature of the physical evidence is such that only the truly deluded ever thought otherwise.

I have also been asked if I am worried for my personal safety if Knox is acquitted, though just as many have asked if I am similarly worried about what will happen if this court confirms the earlier conviction. Which is another way of saying I probably can't win for losing. There is a small but rather shrill and slightly deranged group of people, knoxophiles if you will, who have decided that I am a convenient target for all of their frustration with the process and hatred for people whose focus is on the victim, Meredith Kercher, and/or who have looked at the evidence and come to the conclusion that Knox is guilty. The few journalists who have covered this case objectively have also been targeted for abuse, threats and defamation, part of a nebulous online war being waged in the shadows. Meanwhile, the sunny façade of the supertanker is being advanced by the PR firm Knox's parents hired early on and by the FOA (Friends of Amanda). The latter group's executive committee is comprised of Mike Heavey, a Seattle judge; Anne Bremner, a Seattle lawyer; and Tom Wright, a minor Hollywood director turned producer who lives in Seattle. Heavey and Wright both have daughters who attended Seattle Prep with Knox.

I have received threatening emails (and one online death threat) from people who are completely wrapped up in this cause. Some of the faithful have been recruited online via the facebook cause page. I suspect they are being paid for their efforts. I don't know who posted the death threat; it was anonymous, as such things tend to be. I have also received unwanted emails from Knox/Mellas family members, including one from an aunt who told me that "they" know where I live and have done drive-bys. I responded with the simple request that "they" drive by slowly because my neighbors complain about all the folks who use our little street as a short cut to the West Seattle Bridge.

More recently, one of the FOA foot soldiers showed up uninvited at a memorial service for someone in my extended family, and had the poor taste to try and engage one of my grieving siblings in a discussion about me and the discussion board I moderate, PMF.

In the parlance of our times, that's messed up. Don't you think?

Really, the only thing about which I have no doubt is that the Italian criminal justice system is simply trying to do its job despite a lot of noise and intimidatingly bad coverage, by the US media in particular, whose jackals are so hungry for an exclusive with the currently imprisoned Knox that they will do or say anything to curry favor. It was reported last week that NBC's Matt Lauer recently arrived in Seattle, jumped into a waiting limo at Sea-Tac and raced downtown for lunch at Morton's with a select group of top-level supporters. It seems that Matt and Curt Knox, Amanda's father, split the huge and pricey porterhouse. I'm sure it was well done.

UPDATE: I appreciate all of the comments I have received since I posted this, in particular those from people who live in West Seattle and White Center. Here is one that I found particularly touching and telling:

"First time that I've heard Meredith Kercher mentioned as the victim. Now that I think about it, I would know Amanda Knox on sight, but have no idea what Meredith looked like. Sad."

In fact, this comment prompted me to add the photo below of Meredith Kercher, a lovely young woman whose life was taken from her in November of 2007. Three people were convicted of this heinous crime. One has exhausted his appeals; the other two are nearing the end of their first automatic appeal.





Photo below: The family of murder victim Meredith Kercher. Some of Knox's more extreme anonymous online groupies have actually suggested that the Kerchers are somehow to blame; others have urged them to get over their grief and help free Knox. FWIW, the Kercher family is satisfied with the first instance verdict and believes that justice was done. It is truly awful when a family's dignified silence is used against it.

My Drunk Kitchen

I know I haven't been the most consistent and regular blogger this past summer (past year? two years? whatever), but hey, summer is a magical time where you pack in all the fun and slothfulness you can, while you can. Especially if you live in a place where the sun don't shine all the time.

This little thing here is simply hilarious. Who doesn't get into the sauce while cooking? On television sitcoms and dramas, one person cooking and one observing and conversing usually equals one bottle of wine, easily. You'd think that two bottles of wine for two people on a given evening was the norm if all you did was watch people cook in the land of television fiction. On the rare occasion that I have surpassed half a bottle for my lonesome self, headache, hangover and unquenchable thirst have resulted. This gal's name is Hannah Hart. Yay for you, Hannah.

Paradise, John Prine

The summer ends kind of like it began, with an open-air concert at Château Ste. Michelle. Last night's show was opened by Ani di Franco, which we didn't realize until afterwards. Her name wasn't on the ticket. She was awesome. I hate to say it, but I sort of missed her rise to fame. Let's say it was because I was living in France at the time. That's what I say whenever I learn of a cultural phenomenon known to every American but me.

About John Prine, what can I say that hasn't already been said. As Ani DiFranco noted, John Prine fans come to hear him because they like well-told stories. Every John Prine song is a true story, I'm sure of it. He ranks right up there with Leonard Cohen, which is odd because they are so different in so many ways.

Prine (and his two fine musicians) was so captivating I forgot about the two drunk Asian women sitting next to me, who spent the entire time gabbing and shrieking. One of them looked exactly like Imelda Marcos. Shoes and all. Walt politely asked them to shut it, but this only made them chatter with greater intensity. Finally, she traded places with her friend's husband, such that we were next to the two husbands, who obviously were Prine fans. Why the hell did they drag Imelda and her pal to the concert? Imelda's friend's husband had the annoying habit of reciting (not singing) each line of lyrics after it was sung by Prine. But we got so wrapped up in the music we just ignored him and his echolalia.

For his encore, Prine did Paradise, a song that many people associate with John Denver. It was really sweet the way the crowd spontaneously went up to the stage and sang the chorus along with him. We were right up there too, about a foot away from the guy. We said thank you to him and he said you're welcome.



Oh, and he also did another of his great songs, which he wrote for Bonnie Raitt. Here's Bonnie's version. As one of the youtube commenters said: if you don't fall in love with her just a little then you are soulless and evil.



Ani DiFranco is also a great songwriter. Her best line, as far as I know: "If you're not getting happier as you're getting older then you're fuckin' up".

She ended with a revamped version of Which Side Are You On? When I find a version that has decent sound quality, I'll post it.

Nina Burleigh: view from a broad who doesn't seem to like broads or being abroad

In Burleigh’s shoddy book on the murder of Meredith Kercher, she gets the victim’s birthday wrong. But that’s not all she gets wrong. From what I can tell, Burleigh simply skips over much of the key evidence in favor of gossiping about and criticizing other journalists who have covered the case. She is particularly hard on female journalists, which is odd given that she prides herself on being a modern feminist. I find it very telling, for example, that she indicates what Barbie Nadeau and Andrea Vogt's husbands do for a living (one works for the UN and one is a university professor), but does not see fit to provide us with any information on what the wives of any of the male journalists do. The implication is clear: these two “females” took up writing as a sort of hobby after trailing behind their menfolk to Europe. Worse, Burleigh notes that though they are both American born, they are more European in "style" and "craft" which, aside from being absolute nonsense, remains unsubstantiated by any analysis whatsoever. It amounts to saying “they’re sooooo European”. What does that mean? Well, once you know that Burleigh is a relentless and mindless cheerleader for the superiority of all things American, it becomes clear that what she means is that they are inferior journalists because all things European are inferior to all things American. Burleigh also claims that what she calls Nadeau's “cosmopolitan speech affect” is an attempt to hide her Middle American roots (in Burleigh’s words, her “rural South Dakota accent”). She says the "statuesque redhead" Vogt looks like she could play the role of Brenda Starr. In other words, Burleigh is trying to suggest that these two are imposters, merely playing at journalism by dressing up like a cartoon journalist or putting on airs and trying to talk like a big city slicker instead of a sharecropper. In fact, Vogt has been a working reporter for fifteen years, was awarded a Fulbright scholarship in journalism, is trilingual and has published in English, German and Italian. I don't know much about Nadeau’s academic training, but she currently writes on a variety of topics for both Newsweek and the Daily Beast. And the excellent Christopher Dickey thinks quite highly of her.

Meanwhile, back to Burleigh and her seemingly endless supply of sour grapes. At one point in her book, she mentions an Italian female reporter, but only to comment on her boots! One starts to wonder what she has against women, especially her professional peers.

Her male peers do not get a free pass, either, at least those who work in that dreadful country Italy where, according to Burleigh, freedom of speech does not exist. She criticizes foreign journalists based in Italy, basically calling them a bunch of cowards, so fearful of the Mafia that they confine themselves to writing about la dolce vita -- food, wine and bunga bunga. This is absolute bollocks, of course. John Follain, who has covered the case for the Times, has written two books about Italy in the fifteen or so years he has lived there: one is about the Mafia, while the other takes on the Vatican. Vogt investigated the White Supremacy movement in Idaho and has written an excellent book about it, not without exposing herself to danger. As for Nadeau, she has covered Italy’s garbage crisis, and in one gritty, unforgettable article for Newsweek describes walking through some of the most dangerous Mafia neighborhoods. All three have been viciously attacked by Knox supporters. Meanwhile, Nina Burleigh is happy to fixate on what her fellow journalists are wearing and eating and drinking. Come to think of it, when she was a correspondent in France, she was obsessed with complaining about and criticizing French women, probably for not instantly recognizing her innate superiority.

It is too bad Burleigh opted to focus on this kind of crap instead of actually discussing much of the real evidence against Knox and Sollecito. Frankly, hers is the most disappointing and surely the nastiest book on the tragic murder of Meredith Kercher that has been published to date. After reading what Burleigh wrote about Nadeau and Vogt, I was left wondering why she has such an ax to grind with them. Is it because they are at least a decade younger than she is? Is it because they live in Europe and she doesn't? Is it because they are fluent in foreign languages and she isn’t? I really don't know, but the book sure has a bitter stench to it.

The good news is I didn't even have to buy it. In fact, I don't want to be seen reading it in public. Thanks to Google books, I was able to find many of the offending passages on line. In addition, I can discreetly skim at my local bookseller’s. All in all, I have found it a pretty dull exercise. The book is glib, superficial and gossipy. One walks away feeling dirty and sad, wondering where one would be placed within Burleigh's social and class hierarchy. Hopefully at least a hair above middle class.

I almost forgot to mention the pièce de résistance in Burleigh’s sliming of the two female journalists who did not roll over for the Knox family PR supertanker. Burleigh also asserts that these two small-town American imposters, after acquiring their polished "style" and "craft" by living in Europe, were "appalled" by the way AK and her family "flouted" Italian mores, implying that this snobbery tainted their reporting. While I recall both journalists providing good analysis of how and why some of the antics of AK and her family were not good strategy under the circumstances – for example, AK’s decision to turn up in court one day wearing an over-sized “all you need is love” t-shirt or her sister Deanna’s choice of courtroom attire on July 4 (red-white-and-blue hotpants outfit) – I have never read anything suggesting they personally disapproved of or were appalled by the American and her family. Since this snide and non-sourced aside appears on the same page as Burleigh’s claim that Nadeau tried to hide her "rural" accent with a "cosmopolitan speech affect", it is fair to say that Burleigh’s real goal is to discredit them as objective reporters. It is almost as if she - Burleigh - were taking dictation from Doug Preston! And if Burleigh finds this to be a sexist remark, then I suggest she take a long, hard look in the mirror.

In the same section of the book, Burleigh describes John Kercher as a tabloid reporter and notes that neither he nor his family even "attempted" to learn Italian, relying instead on their lawyer to tell them what was going on.

Yes, you read that right: Burleigh thinks that the grieving Kercher family should have set aside their grief and contacted Berlitz straight away! And she implies that it is a mistake to rely on their legal counsel for information or advice. (At least Italy gives the victim’s family a legal voice.) I guess Burleigh would prefer that the Kercher family turn to people like Amanda’s stepfather Chris Mellas, or the various profiteers riding the PR supertanker: David Marriott and Doug Preston to name just two. This is apparently what Burleigh did.

It is clear from what I have read that Burleigh is not concerned with the victim Meredith Kercher or her family. She seems more interested in passing judgement on those she considers inferior in station to herself (just about everyone),complaining about life in Italy and taking pot shots at other journalists. My guess is that deep down she likes Italy about as much as she liked France, which is to say not much, maybe not at all. Burleigh is that quintessential Ugly American. I saw early signs of it in her reporting on this case for Time. Incidentally, she did not begin until June of 2009, when the trial was well under way and almost two years after the murder itself. I had never heard of Burleigh, so I decided to have a look at her earlier work, especially that on life in France. I truly was flabbergasted by her utter inability to cope in a strange land. She took an instant dislike to the French in general and was unable to understand the culture, in part because she was unable or unwilling to learn the language. I find it ironic – and appalling – that she faults the Kerchers, of all people, for not learning the language of the country where their daughter/sister was murdered when she herself could or would not learn the language of the country she was residing in under happy circumstances.

Is it class or gender or nationality that Burleigh most has a problem with?

Hard to say, since she seems to have a sense of superiority that encompasses all three. Speaking of disapproval, Burleigh treats the Knox women and Meredith's British friends in the same haughty, catty manner as she treats her professional peers. In fact, she refers to the Knox clan collectively as "a hair on the low side of middle class". I guess from the throne upon which she has placed herself, Burleigh is able to make these fine distinctions and, in addition, finds it necessary. And how about this fine value judgement on page 33? "Amanda was the sole member of the gaggle of menstruating, jealous, bitchy, angry, loving, needy females around Curt who could keep her emotions in check". I'm not making this up; Burleigh actually wrote those words. One pictures hapless Curt surrounded by the seven dwarves (Jealous, Bitchy, Angry, Loving, Needy, Bloody and Amanda). While I believe that Amanda Knox was rightly convicted for her role in Meredith Kercher's death, and though I have been critical of her family's decision to hire a PR firm that has attempted to manipulate public opinion, I certainly think they are entitled to a little more respect and empathy than this. Speaking of entitled, that is how Burleigh herself comes off throughout this book.

Moving on to Meredith's British friends, Burleigh dismisses them en masse with this tightly packed bundle of sexism and stereotyping: "tweedy peaches-and-cream complected sylphs who moved as a pack". How Burleigh would even know how they moved is beyond me, since she was not covering the case in the days or even months that followed this brutal murder. Perhaps, if they did stick together, it was for mutual comfort. That's what the little people do, Nina.

Italian women are not spared either. In addition to her fixation on a local reporter's boots (perhaps because she could not read her work?), Burleigh describes Police Chief Monica Napoleoni's style as "part dominatrix, part donatella Versace with a badge" and another Italian policewoman as a "thick-bodied woman". Nina's motto: When in Rome and unable to follow what's going on, focus instead on making disparaging comments about the way other women look.

Burleigh pretentiously dedicates her book to the victims of sexual violence, an odd choice since she does little more here than perpetuate the sexist and sexual stereotypes that underlie this phenomenon. I am all for supporting the victims of sexual violence and will do so by not buying Burleigh's nasty piece of work, which adds nothing to our knowledge of the case anyway.

Anyone who really wants to read a good book on the murder of Meredith Kercher should try Darkness Descending and/or Angel Face, both out for some time now. In addition to these works, John Follain, who has lived in Italy since the mid-90’s and covered the case from the outset, has a book coming out soon. I seriously doubt he will be focusing on women's boots.

Deer me

Après la pluie, le beau temps

Thunder, lightning, wind, rain, more wind and then this sunset, photos taken in the space of a minute or two.

Dew Drop Inn, Absarokee, MT

Last night, we ventured out to the Grizzly Bar in Roscoe, which is about 20 miles away. It is a cute little town on Rosebud Creek, and the Grizzly Bar is a restaurant/bar inside a log cabin, across the street from the old dance hall where Liz's parents Bill and Joy met as teenagers. Liz is my sister-in-law; she lived in Billings until she was a teenager and spent lots of time out here in the foothills of the Beartooth Mountains. The food at the Grizzly is not too bad, and I was able to find a vegan option: pasta with steamed veggies. Normally, it is served in an alfredo sauce, but our waiter was happy to serve it in a little olive oil instead. We took the scenic route home -- actually, every route is scenic, but this was spectacular. The Beartooth Mountains with their snowy caps, the last traces of sunlight on the dark blue crags offsetting the golden yellow fields in a way that says: Montana, the blue and yellow state. We stopped in at Montana Jack's (formerly Montana Hannah's) for a nightcap and closed the place down with none other than the owner of the Dew Drop Inn. The girls approached him as they would a mega star: the Justin Bieber of Absarokee!!! After all, this place is our bargaining chip with them. We can only get them out of the cabin and into the wild if we promise to stop at the Dew Drop when it is all over. Unfortunately, I did not have my camera or I would have snapped a shot of Mr Dew Drop Inn. He and Mrs Dew Drop Inn are from Michigan originally and fell in love with this part of Montana on their way back from Sturgis one year. Yes, they are Harley enthusiasts. He told us the story of leaving for Michigan, his wife on the back of his Harley, when he realized she was crying. He stopped to ask why and she said she felt like she was leaving home, not going home. So they decided to make this place their home. He has big plans for the Dew Drop Inn. Much more than corndogs and oreo milkshakes.... to be continued.

Outstanding in the field?

A FB friend (Katherine Kaufman) posted this photo today. It was sent to her by a friend in Texas, and I thought it was urgent to give it broader distribution. Rick Perry is like George Bush, but dumber. Ya got that? Dumber than Bush. But just as ruthless. Knows who butters his biscuits, as someone just noted on television. Look at who is contributing to his campaign, folks! Walmart, Coca Cola... the big corporations and the billionaires. And you know what? He used to be a Democrat! It's all about doing what it takes to get elected.

Remains of the day

Still life on the Stillwater, with trailer... and more chow bell

Here in Big Sky Country

I decided to leave the whole debt ceiling thing to the care of others and head for Montana, where a rag-tag crew had agreed to assemble for five days, in order to build a garage and studio/office/guest room adjacent to our cabin. It's going to have an admirable view, as you can see from the appropriate photo above. My primary challenge has been to keep this crew plus three finicky girls well fed throughout the framing process. Terry, my brother-in-law, is the mind and matter behind Paradigm Builders, his framing company. He's the best in the business and has a rock star client list to prove it. I'm not kidding.

I snapped a shot of Terry and his son Cory as they leveled something extremely important under the hot Montana sun.

Terry and Cory are being assisted by the owners of the cabin, my husband Walt and my brother Carl, both pictured above. They are also being assisted by Terry's younger son, Jordan, and Sage, my sister Carolyn's son and Terry's stepson. Jordan and Sage are captured above in a rare moment of repose on the sofa. They seemed to be skyping with some girls they met online, but I persuaded them to put the computer down for a second so I could get this shot.

The three girls (pictured above) have become adept at making and eating chocolate chip cookies under my benevolent guidance. Since we are at 4,400 feet, we tried the high altitude version once but found the result way too cake-y. We like 'em chewy and runny. Walt, who has the highest standards in this area, was on his knees for these chewy ones.

As for me, I am cooking up a bunch of grub that I'm not eating, since I have become a vegan. Actually, it is an experiment that I decided to try and have not yet completed. I heard the pot roast and resulting stew were fabulous, and so were the bbq-ed chicken breasts and today's Tex-mex extravaganza. I have perfected guacamole, which is something even vegans can eat. We started the week with tons of perishables in the refrigerator (more on that later), and I am proud to say that we have managed to save and eat most of them. Tonight, the cook is taking the night off, the crew members brought in by Terry are heading back to the city, and the rest of us are going to the Cowboy Bar and Supper Club in Fishtail, pop. about 20.

And tomorrow I will begin to work seriously on my new song, whose working title is It's Hard To Be A Vegan In Montana (sung to the tune of Merle Haggard's I'm Proud To Be An Okie in Muskogee).

She shoulda said yes yes yes...

Summer freeze

Yes, I know, it has been awhile since I have posted. Like everyone else in the Greater Seattle Area (and indeed, all of Western Washington) and everyone in the Greater Paris Area (and probably all of Ile-de-France), I am sick and tired of waiting for something resembling summer weather. The sun comes out these days at about 6 pm, people! Okay, today is an exception: it is only 3 pm and I can see sunlight trying to break through the clouds. Sunlight appears to be winning, but this game could go (and has been going) either way.

Last week, I saw a friend who now lives in Mexico for at least half of each year. She is back in Seattle to tie up some loose ends and do some business (she's a photographer). She told me she had seen a mutual friend of ours, Heidi. How's Heidi, I said. Tara replied: I asked her the same question and she said "I am wearing a sweater. I am wearing a wool scarf. It is July. I am fucking fed up, like everyone else."

Yes, what she said.

I looked at the current weather conditions for Red Lodge, Montana, which is not too far from our place in the Beartooth mountains. 82° and clear skies, it said. It took me a minute to really understand the significance of this piece of information. It is hot and sunny in Montana! And that's where I'm headed pretty soon!

Birthday week, continued

Great card from sister Carolyn, made by a company appropriately called Offensive & Delightful:



Wonderful t-shirt from a friend (who also sent a funny card, which I'll post):



I have decided to wear the t-shirt every day this week. Not all day, just every day. I am getting ready for international talk like a pirate day.

Awesome Adele

Not every singer is worth listening to live. And then there is Adele, who is awesome, just awesome. Enjoy!


Still skeptical? Then how about this?




If you don't like this, then I suggest there is something seriously wrong with you.

Today is my birthday

This blog has been neglected of late because, frankly, lots of things have been going on. Movies and music, visits from friends and departures of people living in my household who I have grown quite fond of, baseball and books...

Birthdays are not all that important to me, which may be why I often forget other people's. Thanks to facebook, this happens less frequently. I did not think of my birthdays at 30, 40, 45 or 50 as milestones in any way, shape or form. I guess I don't mark my life in terms of milestones or any other rites of passage. I mark it in terms of the passage of time. I have never had a specific life plan and have never really understood the question "do you feel your age"? This doesn't mean I am unaware of what time does to one's outlook and outward look. I don't think of other people in terms of their age, but rather in terms of their intelligence, their wisdom, their sense of fun and play, whether or not they understand what matters and what does not.

I am grateful for my friends and for all of the relationships and encounters that have marked my life so far. This includes various members of my family, but it also includes people with whom I have shared the same space for a minute or two and with whom I have shared experiences, big and small. There is grandeur in small things. That's what Proust taught me.

We share the same date of birth, Marcel Proust and me. He is my favorite author by far. He died at the age of 51, a fact that I happened to discover when I too was 51. I was 51 before I really discovered Proust by beginning to read him in the language in which he wrote. In fact, I had read parts of A la recherche du temps perdu in English translation while living in Shanghai. I must say, it did not have the same impact on me. Who knows? Maybe that's why I went to France. So that I could read Proust one day.

I love the passing of time. Proust would not disagree.


C'est là en effet un des grands et merveilleux caractères des beaux livres que pour l'auteur ils pourraient s'appeler "Conclusions" et pour le lecteur "Incitations".

La beauté des êtres n'est pas comme celle des choses. Nous sentons qu'elle est celle d'une créature unique, consciente et volontaire.

On ne connaît pas son bonheur. On n'est jamais aussi malheureux qu'on croit.*

How old Margaret Ganong?

Old Margaret Ganong fine. How you?


Here is old Margaret as she appears today. Photo courtesy of Mathilde.

* Proust quotations translated

This in effect is one of the grand and marvellous characteristics of great books; for their author they could be called "Conclusions" and for the reader "Encouragements" (beginnings).

The beauty of beings is not like that of things. We feel that it is the beauty of a unique, aware and purposeful creature.

We don't know our happiness. We are never as unhappy as we believe.

Shoe fetish

Lyle Lovett and John Hiatt at Château Ste. Michelle Winery
We got there late because (a) we got off to a late start due to a baseball game and (b) we drove all around Woodinville-Redmond-Kirkland in search of the damn place. We tried to get the onboard GPS to help out, but we use it so seldom we can never remember how it works exactly. It helps to leave with enough time to get it set up beforehand. It's the little things, like entering the address of your destination,or "destiny," as my sister Cathy referred to it the other night. She told me she had google-mapped our friends' address and that if I clicked on the arrow on her iPhone it would reveal our final destiny. I knew iPhones were awesome, but this takes awesome to another level.

So back to us, last night. Walt almost drove into the middle of a roundabout and I almost got mad at him, but only because he was driving my mini. When we got there, the parking lot was full. We made a half-assed effort to drive to the place where the shuttle service was available and then went back to the main entrance, with VIP parking. We told the cop that, in VIP fashion we were late and the shuttle was not running any more (this may have been true). He told us to proceed to the main parking lot for VIPs. What's so bad about being late, when you get right down to it? We waltzed in and luckily had bought seats. The Château outdoor concerts are mostly festival seating, as in bring your own chairs and blankets. The seats, quite limited in number, are just in front of the stage. We had to walk across the front to get to ours, which we did between two numbers. I could have reached out and shaken hands with Lyle or John. Instead, I gave them a little apologetic wave. They smiled.

The show was nice and laid back. The rapport between the two is quite good and you can feel it. There were lots of Lyle Lovett fans in the audience, including two women in front of us who mouthed the words of every Lovett song and then looked bored and sour when it was John Hiatt's turn. We shared a bottle of wine and did some people watching. It was a fashion disaster, let me tell you. I don't really care what other people wear, and I was wearing my cowboy boots so I felt superior, but really.... some of the get-ups were... words fail me. The man next to me was wearing a pair of leather foot gloves. I don't know what else to call them. Each toe was "gloved". These were just awful looking, almost an affront to civilization. His companion was wearing a pair of suede clogs. I don't know why, but I got fixated on footwear after noticing the neighbors. There was the usual assortment of Keene shoes that Seattleites are so keen on(no, Walt, I am not criticizing your choice of shoes). I don't get it, personally. One man in a Hawaiian shirt was wearing a pair of cream-colored running shoes (I did not know you could buy cream colored running shoes) that were about five sizes too big for him. And yes, he looked like a clown.

Okay, enough of being all critical of people's shoes. It is a bit of an obsession with me. I admit it. Once I was on the Paris métro wearing a really nice and expensive suit. This was the late 80's. My suit was tan and black houndstooth. I had on some black stockings and a really nice pair of tan stilettos. I thought this was a great look, and truly it was if you ask me. A couple got on and the guy was checking me out. This was the 80's, okay? I was probably 30. He whispered to his girlfriend that he liked my look. She checked me out, top to bottom, and then told him loud enough for me to hear that my shoes were all wrong. My shoes were all wrong?! I have heard of people having bad hair days. I had a bad shoe day after that. I was convinced that everyone was going to look at my shoes and mentally note this "faute de goût". I'd like to think that this would not bother me today. But then why do I tend to notice people's shoes?

I dare you not to dance to this music

There are songs which, whether or not you actually like them, you just can't not be moved to move or sway when you hear them. Here's What I Like About You, by that great and frenetic 80's band The Romantics.





And now for the slow number. Victor Démé, circa 2008, pure nectar.

Liking is for cowards. Go for what hurts.

And what hurts, of course is love.

Click on the title for a link to Jonathan Franzen's recent op-ed in the New York Times. I was going to put this on my facebook wall, but once you read it you'll understand why that option did not seem right.

And somewhere in this op-ed piece is the answer to the question of why Weiner and other weiners feel the need to photograph their weiners with hand-held devices and then send them to third parties. It has something to do with falling in love, not with a real person, but with a hand-held device. Weiner just wanted to get closer to that obscure object of desire, his hand-held device. Silly Weiner.

One of my favorite songs from summer camp seems appropriate. It's called Weiner Man.
Here are the lyrics:

I know a weiner man
He owns a weiner stand
He knows quite everything
From hot dogs on down
Someday I'll be his wife
Eat weiners all my life
That's why I love that weiner man
HOT DOG!

A great band from Jerusalem

Thank you, Diane, for posting one of their songs on your wall. You inspired me. It's not the first time!

Costco nation

Costco: I didn't know if it was day or night/I started buying everything in sight.

I am freaked out. Costco depresses me. I know everybody doesn't have the same opportunities I do to visit farm stands and little markets, but I will fight to the end for inspirational shopping. Costco doesn't even look like it belongs on our planet. It could be on the moon. It has no relationship to the outside world as I know it. The lighting, the temperature, the outrageous abundance. The store has no life and no contact with anything that comes from the earth. Everything is packaged, sterile, clinical. Nothing about the food is emotional. And there is a wicked genius at work, mixing the organic with the terribly processed.

That's not me I'm quoting, but it could be. It's Eric Ripert, one of many Frenchies who have made it in America as a master chef and television star. I don't know which channel he's on. It could be the food channel, or one of them (assuming there's more than one). I don't know because I don't watch television in general; and if I had to choose one thing to never watch, it would certainly be daytime television. He's been nominated for an Emmy, by the way.

I found the quote above by googling the words "Costco depresses me". I googled those words because I actually went to Costco yesterday, a rare event in my world. I am not even a member! That's like saying you are a Commie in this country. Well, I am pretty much a Commie. I believe all members of a community should share their gains instead of stocking up like maniacs at Costco and then hoarding it all. Anyway, Costco. What can I say? You get there and notice that on a rare sunny Saturday afternoon on a holiday weekend, the parking lot is full. What few places to park you see have people standing in them and saving a spot for one of the thousands of grocery getters driving recklessly around the parking lot.

You go inside and it is like stepping into the Twilight Zone or a casino in Vegas. You lose all sense of time, and not in a good way. There is no natural light whatsoever. It could be midnight. In fact, it is midnight -- the midnight of the soul. I always feel I am part of some end-of-the-world hoarding spree when I step inside Costco. For the record, we do not shop for food at Costco. That would be like.... an apt metaphor escapes me at the moment. Let's just say it would not be nourishing in any meaningful way. We were looking for some flowers to plant on the deck. A neighbor told me Costco had a good selection at incredibly low prices. In fact, Costco never has a good selection of anything, but it always has unbeatable prices. The quality of these plants was mediocre at best, which made me want to buy every single one and give them all a loving home. How healthy can it be for plants to live inside Costco, far from the light of day and nature?

I will spare everyone the depressing tally of what my fellow shoppers were stocking up on. But let me just ask if other people besides me believe that five-gallon bags of chips, even if they are labeled "organic", are probably not the kind of food item that is going to help America win the undeclared and mostly unfought war on obesity.

On the way home, Walt and I were ranting about all the bad drivers out on Saturday afternoon. I realized that the vehemence of my rant had more to do with the way Costco makes me feel: like the world is going to hell in a handbasket and that's not such a bad thing considering the state it is currently in. So I said, "Going to Costco makes me..." and Walt finished my sentence for me: "...hate Americans". Or maybe he said "hate America" or "hate the American way of life". Whatever. Yes. What he said.

Going to Costco makes me want to go to the nearest fruit and vegetable stand or farmer's market and just breathe in the odor of ripe tomatoes or ripe peaches. It's too early for either where I live. But I'm sure there are many seasonal olfactory treats at the farmer's market in my neighborhood. I think I'll head up there and take several really deep breaths.

France has a few "hard discount" stores like Costco, but not located inside city limits. It also has supermarkets and even hypermarkets. However, you can always find someone to worry that the the local marchés are an endangered species. Thankfully. I mean, for as long as people worry aloud about them, they stand a chance of surviving. I shopped daily in France without ever getting into my car. I didn't have a car, in fact. In Paris, it was always on foot. In La Rochelle, on foot or by bicycle.

Below, the open market in La Rochelle(the covered market, which you can see on the left in the photo, is superb); my bike in La Rochelle (the pretty mauve one with the basket); some melons.

DSK, the musical

Memorial Day weekend plans are a wash

In Montana, when it rains it floods

It would have been nice to spend five days under the open skies of south central Montana, on the banks of the Stillwater river, in the shadow of the Beartooth mountains.

The closest airport to our place is in Billings, which is just over an hour away by car. If you click on the title, you'll see a photo showing what the recent heavy rainfall has done to this part of Montana. Though nothing like the wave of tornadoes ripping through Missouri and now Oklahoma, the recent weather event has caused one death so far and flood warnings remain in effect. According to meteorologists, otherwise known as The People Who Ruin Your Vacation Plans:

Montana is at the soggy center of the weather pattern. Flood warnings already have been issued for 35 counties...[and] a series of storms is expected to further soak the state through the next week. Colorado and Wyoming also could get hit.

Driving fourteen hours to spend several days cooped up in a house does not seem like a necessary thing to do, even though thunderstorms are promised. I like thunderstorms, but not that much. Mathilde will return to the south of France without having seen Montana. And we will not get back to big sky country as soon as we hoped. I have been known to leave my home base for a vacation without checking destination weather conditions. Once I had to buy a sweater in Sweden, having left the sweltering August heat of Paris without bothering to see what was happening up in Stockholm. Up is the operative word in that sentence, as in up north. When I went to Iceland in 2003, it was so hot in France that 15,000 people died. It was pouring rain and about 45 when the plane landed in Reykavik; it felt like Seattle in February or March (or, let's be honest, May). The first time I visited Ireland, also in the month of August, I was coming off the crushing tropical heat of Shanghai and a month in warm and sunny Paris. In fact, my last memory of Shanghai is the torrential downpour that happened just before I left for the airport. The taxi I managed to find drove through streets that were quickly becoming little rivers. Faster, I kept thinking, drive faster, before we are swept away. So anyway, Dublin: I really wasn't expecting rain and 55 degrees. It felt like Darkness at Noon. Is this exceptional? I asked a shopkeeper. No, he said, this is typical summer weather for Ireland.

The good news is that we're not in Reykavik right now. A second volcano has erupted; ash is swirling all around; flights are being cancelled left and right. The reason to go to Iceland is to see some of the most extraordinary scenery on earth. The food is not even mediocre and costs a fortune. A glass of wine sets you back something like 15 euros. Imagine being stuck there without the consolation of the landscape and being unable to drown your sorrows without going bankrupt. About the only option remaining would be the famed Blue Lagoon geothermal spa, which specializes in treating psoriasis.

Yes we Cannes

Nothing could be finer on this post-rapture Sunday morning than listening "en direct" to my friends at Le Masque et La Plume (France Inter, tous les dimanche soirs ) comment on this year's winners at Cannes.

They spent a few minutes reviewing the scandal created by Lars von Trier when he extricated himself from an unfortunate sentence about his recently discovered German roots by saying "Okay, I'm a Nazi". No scandal = no Cannes. Lars von Trier delivered this year. He said he was sorry, but it is kind of hard to recover from saying that you can kind of understand where Hitler was coming from. His apology just made things worse.
Frankly, I was tired of the whole damn thing before it was even over. Before Von Trier was kicked out of the festival. It's like he got a red card from the referee. Whatever. I am not a Nazi sympathizer by any means, and I think his comments were most unfortunate. I bet he thinks so too. The story is that his mother told him on her deathbed that his real father, not the Jewish man who raised him, was actually a German. I think that would throw just about anyone for a loop. The fact remains that his film, Melancholia, is unanimously deemed to be magnificent. Its female lead, Kirstin Dunst, got the palm for best actress. I'm going to refrain from getting embroiled in this debate or even commenting on it: he has made a magnificent film. That's all I have to say on the matter. If you are interested, you can watch a youtube video that shows Kirstin Dunst reacting with growing alarm as Von Trier tries to find a way out during the press conference. I find the whole thing painful.

Here's the trailer for Melancholia. It has a Robert Altman at his best feel to it.




The Palme d'or went to Terrence Malick this year for The Tree of Life, starring Brad Pitt and Sean Penn. The trailer (below) looks like a life insurance commercial with a very dark underside:



See you at the movies.

Rapture status: rejected!

I got my rapture rejection notice in the mail this morning. Looks like five months of hell on earth for me and anyone reading this.

We're on a highway to hell, people!





The world as it appears is a sad, strange, beautiful and hellish place, all at once. That being so, I think the rapture will go unnoticed. A missing person here and there, perhaps.

Like in this song:



As Judgement Days go, this one is pretty ordinary so far. Camus once said words to this effect: Don't talk to me about Judgement Day. Every day is Judgement Day.

It's just that many self-described believers act as if this is not true, or as if their God weren't watching.

A great song of enablement

And if you're somewhere out there passed out on the floor
Joey I'm not angry any more

Meet the Fokkers

"Permit me to introduce myself. I am Pepe Le Pew, your lover."



Terminé

I was working on Saturday afternoon when the NY Times news alert arrived in my inbox. I could see most of the headline: IMF boss arrested in New York and...

Normally, I don't stop what I am doing and read the breaking news. I figure it broke without me and can develop without me. But this was intriguing. At first, there was no article, just a banner and then a clickable link to the the NY Daily News. The headline spoke of sodomy, the running copy of oral sex, a naked DSK, a chambermaid, a locked room, a call to 911. Wow!

I was in a state of shock. I said to myself, it is 2 am in France. The French are going to be in a state of collective shock on Sunday morning. And they were. Mathilde and I wanted it to be une machination politique. After all, Strauss-Kahn and his wife Anne Sinclair had just received and filed suit over unflattering press coverage about their gauche caviar lifestyle, complete with a photo of them getting into a porsche (not theirs, but never mind, it's all about symbols) and details about the 125,000 dollar custom kitchen in their DC townhouse (the stove hood alone cost 3,000 euros).

Strauss-Kahn had already cultivated a proud reputation as a ladies man. Everyone remembers his "one-night stand" (according to a forgiving Anne Sinclair) with a Hungarian IMF staffer in 2008. Now reports are surfacing that he attempted to rape a journalist who wanted to interview him for a book, and who did not come forward at the time. Others, speaking on condition of anonymity, say he has long been a little too... insistent. Decode this and you get: refuses to take no for an answer. He is not the only Frenchman, or indeed the only man (or woman, why not?), who won't take no for an answer. Her lips said no but her eyes said oui, oui, oui.

The issue of rape and consent is complex. Strauss-Kahn, after denying he was there and promising to produce proof of an alibi (lunch with his daughter in Manhattan), has now got the bad news from the DNA results and has changed tack: consent, he now says. She wanted it, that chambermaid. That's why he sequestered her? She wanted that too? Some kind of twisted rape fantasy?

Okay, never mind. Innocent until proven guilty. We have not heard from or seen the alleged victim. In fact, no one seems to care about her. She is just a bit player in the larger drama. But what about her? And what about Anne Sinclair? She has stood by her man in the past. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Is she his enabler? His handler? And the rest of his family? A detail from one of the French reports on the story: the daughter he is said to have had lunch with, who is married and a student of politics at Columbia, showed up at his arraignment with her husband. They both wore jeans and grim expressions.

Terminateur


No matter what happens next, and I think it is likely he will go directly to jail as we say in Monopoly, he will not be the socialist candidate for President in 2012. I think I am not the only person out there who is deeply disappointed. Sarkozy, though his approval rating is below 30%, is already claiming privately to have won the "bataille de la morale". Carla Bruni's pregnancy could not have come at a better time. Just a few months ago, people were whispering about her possible affair with Benjamin Biolay. Now she is the smiling Madonna, Nick's "Carlita". She has put out her cigarette. Word on the street is she is expecting twins. In one of the unauthorized biographies about her, the author claims that she was one of many who "tried out" for the role of French first lady after Cécilia packed it in and headed to New York to marry her true love. Carla got the job, beating out several other aspirants after Laurence Ferrari declined the offer.

Meanwhile, in Italy, Berlusconi must face the music over his alleged relations with a minor, 17-year old Ruby; back in the US, we have just learned that former California governor The Terminator fathered a child with one of the domestic staff a decade ago. He kept that hidden from Maria until earlier this year; hence the recent announcement of a split. And how's this for a funny coincidence: Carla Bruni, in the novelized version of the real-life story of how she stole Justine Levy's husband (it's complicated), goes by the name of Paula, aka Le Terminateur (because of her extensive plastic surgery). That may not exhaust the subject, but let's end with the posthumous: Osama Bin Laden, though he now sleeps with the fish, apparently had an incredible stash of porn in that compound of his. This is definitely something I feel better knowing.

There. I feel like I got a lot of crap off my chest this morning. The world is sometimes less a sad and beautiful place and more a ridiculous place. A vanity fair. Everyone was expecting a dirty fight in France if DSK was chosen, as expected, to run against Sarkozy. Now it looks as if he did himself in. Hoisted by his own pétard, hidden beneath a towel.

UPDATE: In the icky detail category, I just read a Daily Beast article with this tidbit, in a rather lurid paragraph ostensibly chastising the French for being interested in sordid details about the alleged victim:

“Physically, accounts differ,” writes the website of Paris Match. “The lawyers for DSK [Dominique Strauss-Kahn] apparently declared they were surprised to discover her face was ‘not very seductive,’ ” when they saw her at the lineup where she formally identified the head of the International Monetary Fund as her attacker. But the French tabloid France-Soir interviewed a limo driver who works with the hotel, saying the housekeeper “was a very pretty woman in her thirties, with big breasts and a beautiful rear.”

So I take back what I said above: that nothing is known about the alleged victim. Now we know that she isn't all that pretty but she has big knockers and a nice ass. Where is the dismay emoticon when you need it?
Il ne manquait que ça.

My lifelong fantasy, come true for someone else

Last Saturday in Toronto, a woman named Rayna Ford went to a Paul Simon concert. She called out to the singer: “Play ‘Duncan!,’” or words to that effect; Simon heard her better onstage than we do in this video taken from the audience. “You learned to play guitar in this song?” Simon replied, and invited her to get up alongside him.

What happened next was very sweet, and genuinely moving: It’s the moment of Rayna Ford’s life, and a chance for Simon to show us that he’s a bit less crazy after all these years.And it made us think that you can be as far as possible from a punk rocker and still buy into rock and roll’s ultra-democratic premise (which is also a promise): Given a level playing field, any of us could simply switch places with our favorite performers. (Although, of course, that Platinum Amex card does get you closer to the stage in the first place.)

When I was a kid and until I was almost an adult, I had this fantasy about being asked to join Simon and Garfunkel. At one point, I actually thought it could happen if I just kept working on my poetry. I had the soul of a singer and was trying to learn to play the guitar. My voice was not so great, but I saw myself more as a back-up singer anyway. It never happened for me, but after seeing this, I think it may not be too late. It is never too late.

You rock, Rayna. You are a rock!

The Lost Coast

When it's 51 degrees and overcast in Seattle in May (there is nothing unusual about this by the way), if you are me you might be thinking about the Lost Coast. Especially when you get an email from a friend who lives there that says: "It is lovely here right now. You should come and visit."

It's a good thing Montana is only three weeks away, though I was kind of alarmed when my brother said something about possibly frozen pipes.

More Gretchen Parlato

I woke up to her this morning, being interviewed on NPR. I heard her talking and thought, that sounds like Gretchen Parlato. She is quite amazing in person, in the most understated way.

SPIKE JONZE PRESENTS: LIL BUCK AND YO-YO MA! - OPENING CEREMONY

SPIKE JONZE PRESENTS: LIL BUCK AND YO-YO MA! - OPENING CEREMONY

Click on either title. How does this Lil Buck guy contort his body like that?

It is amazing and timely. I was sitting on the sofa this morning in a comatose state, drinking my coffee, having gone to bed at 2:45 am after a grueling weekend of work on the heels of a grueling six weeks of work, day in and day out, no break, not even on the weekends.

I was half listening to NPR, then got interested in a reportage on how great exercise is but how limited the benefits can be if you otherwise sit in front of a computer screen for hours on end. Ya think?! I have been doing that for six weeks, and trying to get some physical activity in without further stressing myself by trying to stick to my routine. My routine is simple but time-consuming: long walk with Neko, 15 to 30 minutes on the elliptical, and various forms of exercise -- yoga, my stick routine, free weights, etc. This routine is not compatible with 12- to 14-hour work days. And these work days are not compatible with life as we know it. Luckily, I have a simply awesome husband who in spite of his own scheduling crunch (baseball season!) pretty much took over the daily challenge of foraging and feeding. Not just us but the animals as well.

Anyway, I was thinking, hoping actually, that there is some truth to the notion of muscle memory. I have done some sort of physical exercise all my life and started lifting weights in junior high. There was something about the dumb repetitive nature of it that appealed to me. I started on the circuit trainer in PE class. When I first moved to France I was literally the only female in the weight room; that has since changed. And since moving back to the US, I prefer working out at home. So I bought a weight bar and free weights of various sizes. They have mostly been sitting in their storage basket for the past six weeks, though I have tried to get a couple of workouts in each week. Today, I am back in action full-time.

This seasonal agony I have just survived is getting harder to endure as I age. It may be a question of physical stamina and key body parts getting worn down: doctor my eyes! I check my mouse hand every morning to make sure it just feels like it's the size of a baseball glove. The back of my neck feels like it has been holding the entire weight of my head in the wrong position way for too long. And don't get me started on my left shoulder. Not only that, but yesterday when I woke up I had the most incredible sheet creases in my face from the way I slept on my pillow. No kidding, I did not recognize the person in the mirror and it took several hours for the creases to disappear. I decided it was some kind of reaction to the sorbitol in the simply dreadful sugar-free jelly beans that Walt made me try. That's not true; he tried to warn me after they gave him a sudden bout of you know what. I don't even like candy that much. What was I thinking?!

Word to the wise: never eat those things. They give you the runs and facial creases.

The artwork is by Patti Warashina, a friend I haven't seen in years and a fine artist with a great sense of the ridiculous.

Pourquoi ont-ils tué Jaurès? Part 2

In 2009, France celebrated the 150th anniversary of Jean Jaurès, one of the major figures of French socialism and a founder of the French socialist party, who was assassinated in Paris on July 31, 1914 by the aptly named Raoul Villain. Jaurès was famous for his steadfast pacifism and his fierce opposition to World War I, one of the bloodiest wars in history. Jaurès also founded L'Humanité, a French daily that since the 1920's has been associated with the French Communist Party. In fact, Jaurès was gunned down at le Café du Croissant (Rue Montmarte), where he stopped after leaving the offices of the newspaper. The man who killed him was a militant nationalist; the nationalists wanted war. Jaurès rightly saw the rise of nationalisms as fueling the clash between the superpowers and the clash between the superpowers as being based on economic rivalries. The last ten years of his life were spent opposing the war that came anyway.

I've been thinking about World War I a lot lately, having just finished reading Le temps retrouvé, which is the final tome in Proust's A la recherche du temps perdu. Much of this volume concerns the transformation of Paris during the war and the way in which the war is another "turn of the kaleidescope" around which the various individuals Proust's narrator observes over the years define and reveal themselves. For the dreadful Mme. Verdurin, the worst thing about the war is that it disrupts her daily supply of croissants, until she gets her friend, Dr Cottard, to write her a prescription for them as a cure for her migraines. Proust does not specifically mention Jaurès, but he discusses the dangers and ultimate absurdity of nationalism at great length. What is the difference, he wonders, between the bravery of a French soldier killed in battle, and that of a German soldier? Both are celebrated as war heroes at home, both are worshipped out of the same sense of nationalistic fervor.

L'Affaire Dreyfus, another Proustian turn of the kaleidescope, is also central to the political rise of Jaurès. Initially convinced that Dreyfus was guilty as charged, Jaurès changed his mind after reading Zola's J'accuse and became a militant dreyfusard. He saw Dreyfus as a victim of the military caste and he saw the military caste as the armed guards of capitalism and hence the enemy of the proletariat.

Yesterday I came across a speech Jaurès gave on July 30, 1903 at his old high school (le lycée d'Albi), where he had also been a teacher. More than a hundred years ago, here's what Jaurès said:

L’humanité est maudite, si pour faire preuve de courage elle est condamnée à tuer éternellement. Le courage, aujourd’hui, ce n’est pas de maintenir sur le monde la sombre nuée de la Guerre , nuée terrible, mais dormante, dont on peut toujours se flatter qu’elle va éclater sur d’autres. Le courage, ce n’est pas de laisser aux mains de la force la solution des conflits que la raison peut résoudre: car le courage est l’exaltation de l’homme , et ceci en est l’abdication ...

Basically, Jaurès says that humanity is cursed if eternal slaughter is its way of demonstrating courage. Courage is not about keeping the dark cloud of war -- terrible but dormant -- hanging over the world, constantly flattering ourselves into believing it will burst on others. Courage is not about letting those with weapons solve conflicts that can be resolved through reason: because courage is the exaltation of humanity and this is its abdication.


And that's why they killed Jaurès on July 31, 1914, three days before the beginning of the hostilities and subsequent carnage known as World War I.

And what of Villain, the man who killed Jaurès? He was acquitted in 1918, in a climate of fervent nationalism. Villain then exiled himself, leaving France for Spain, where he was executed by Spanish anarchists in 1936, during the Spanish Civil War.

Pourquoi ont-ils tué Jaurès?

One of the most moving anti-war songs. Hats off to the person who made the video and thanks for sharing. Very stunning black and white images for this somber meditation.
Jacques Brel

Same old same old

Not the first time I have posted Chrissie Hinds singing this song, Back on the Chain Gang. But in my defense, let me say I have never posted this version, which has a nicely retro MTV feel to it.

Given my current work load, this song sings to me, even though it isn't really about being crushed by The Man. What is it about, exactly? You tell me. It has some intriguing lyrics, like these snippets.

A CIRCUMSTANCE BEYOND OUR CONTROL, OH OH OH OH
THE PHONE, THE TV AND THE NEWS OF THE WORLD
GOT IN THE HOUSE LIKE A PIGEON FROM HELL, OH OH OH OH
THREW SAND IN OUR EYES AND DESCENDED LIKE FLIES

And this:

THE POWERS THAT BE
THAT FORCE US TO LIVE LIKE WE DO
BRING ME TO MY KNEES
WHEN I SEE WHAT THEY'VE DONE TO YOU

Maybe it is about The Man after all.

NOW WE'RE BACK IN THE FIGHT
WE'RE BACK ON THE TRAIN
OH, BACK ON THE CHAIN GANG

Magnolia Plays the Giants in Weekend Pairing

Apparently, the two opposing teams were huge, just huge. Unfortunately, I was not able to attend either game due to work obligations, though I was not too unhappy not to stand around for several hours and freeze my butt off. Baseball is a summer sport; that's why they talk about the boys of summer. Coach Cougan managed to make at least one smart-ass remark to one umpire without getting asked to leave the field. The guy made an adverse call (for the Magnolia boys) at home plate that he could not have seen because he was not in position to see it. At least that's what Coach Cougan told me over dinner, which he made as he mulled over the two losses at the hands of the Giants.

Click on the title to read Coach Cougan's game summaries, words of wisdom, etc. And don't blame me for the occasional.... typo. I used to be the proofreader, but Coach Cougan apparently now thinks he can go without.

IMPORTANT UPDATE: Coach Cougan called around, and it seems that the word on the street is that the 13-year olds are generally giants this year. Something about a change in the age cut-off. I told him in the long run it would benefit his kids more to play up, to play against bigger and better kids. He said, that's what Jamie (Moyer) said. He seemed surprised. I don't get that. What is to be surprised about? We big leaguers think alike. That's because we in the bigs. And that's why we're in the bigs.

A little Nina Simone on a Saturday afternoon

I love this song and this animated video rendition of it.
I found it on youtube. I always like to read the comments.
One person wrote: Nina was tops. Luv most of her songs. Only wish I had been able to see/hear her in some dark, cigarette-lit jazz club.

Yes, that's about right.

One guy wrote, underneath the next song: "Let Nina Simone rule the world!"

Might not be so bad. Baby you don't know what it's like...