Friday, October 2, 2015

TODAY I SAW GOD - NOW I KNOW / AUJOURD'HUI J'AI VU MON DIEU - J'EN SUIS SUR / HOY VI EL SENOR DIOS - AHORA NE SOY SEGURO


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Card Number:7000630211127134553
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My prepaid Shell card - Note the balance 
Ma carte Shell pré-payée - Notez le solde


I saw God today, about 5 hours ago.  Boy, He was ugly then, but now He is as resplendent as the sun.

The last two months  have been rather demanding when it comes to doing good deeds for people who accost me at the gas station.  I have been "hit" three times in the last two months.  The story is always the same and the size of the vehicle is always at least three times greater than my small Honda Civic Hybrid.
The story line is this.  Excuse me but I'm coming in from Arizona.  I left in a hurry because I was told that my sister had been diagnosed with cancer.  My mind is not right.  I left in a hurry.  Can you help me with a little gas so that I can reach her in ...(name the city)
It varies a little but the emergency has been cancer and the vehicle is always a beat up old Chevvy or Dodge van, lots of rust, loud engine, and, in one case a yappy dog who cut my contribution down to $5.00.

5 hours ago, the Voice from the Kitchen and I were on our way back from San Diego to the city where she works.  We decided to stop for some fuel so that we could feel more secure burning it off the top rather than off the bottom. (That's a paraphrase of a favorite oft repeated axiom of Edward Dion.)
We pulled up to the pump, I got out, ran my $100.00 prepaid Shell card through my side of the pump and began to fill the tank.  As I was standing there waiting for the auto shut-off to work, there came a rusty old Chevvy "beater" van, just like in the documentary films.  It stopped right opposite me and from the cab tumbled out a scraggly, broomstick thin, wrinkled female with dim eyes, unkempt hair, dirty clothes all wrapped up in a mysteriously unpleasant cloud full of olfactory challenges.
She came to me and with surprising poise and grace excused  herself, told me how embarassed she was to disturb me, but she felt that she had no other choice.  She underlined the fact the she was not seeking money, but she did need gas since her vehicle was nearly dry.  She was not crying, she was not teary eyed, she knew what her situation was and she knew that she had to abase herself to stay afloat somehow.  
She told me that her husband had been diagnosed with advanced, incurable cancer and since they were in dire financial straits, they had both come to the conclusion that this was going to be the end.
She needed gas for her vehicle, the rest would take care of itself, one way or the other.  As my tank was being filled, we exchanged other talk about the human condition and we had connecting mental and emotional wave lengths.  My tank was now filled and I told her that I would now give her some fuel.  In the process of running my card, something went wrong, so I had to stop the process and restart it.  All along we were working on being nice to one another and I must say that it was comforting to her, and she said so.
I succeeded in running my card, so everything was set.  Because Belle was waiting in the car and because we knew there was a lot of traffic on the 100 mile road ahead, I took my card out of the mechanism and as I handed her the pump I said, "We are leaving now.  I am trusting you with $20.00 from my card.  May God bless you.  She was happy, we parted gently and politely.  The Voice from the Kitchen asked if I had given the lady something and I said yes.

We got back on the road and suffered through 2.5 hours of traffic over a distance that usually takes 90 minutes.
We got home.  Unloaded the car.  Ate the evening meal.  Showered.
I remembered my smelly Noah and wondered if I still had any animals left in my prepaid ark.

I went to my computer and entered the necessary information to see if my new found, unidentified friend had held herself to the entrusted amount of $20.00, or ???

My friends, you know that I would not be writing this if she had ripped me off.  You have my breath taking assurance that she took about $20.00 from a card that she could have tried to get more from.
There were $45.50 on the card when she started to fill her tank and when she was finished the card had, and still has $24.68.

I saw God today, and I'm still trembling from the experience.  I hope that He will introduce us some day...she and her beloved husband.



Je l'ai vu Dieu aujourd'hui, il y a environ 5 heures.  Je vous certifie qu'il était laid, et plus que laid, mais maintenant il est aussi resplendissant que le soleil.

Les deux derniers mois ont été plutôt exigeants quand il vient à faire de bonnes actions pour les personnes qui m'accostent à la station de carburant. J'ai été "sollicité" trois fois au cours des deux derniers mois. L'histoire est toujours la même et la taille du véhicule est toujours au moins trois fois plus grande que ma petite Honda Civic Hybrid.
La ligne de l'histoire est la suivante. Excusez-moi, mais je suis venue de l'Arizona. Je suis parti à la hâte parce qu'on m'a dit que ma sœur avait été diagnostiqué avec le cancer. Mon esprit ne se tient pas bien claire ces jours-ci. Je suis parti à la hâte. Pouvez-vous me aider avec un peu de gazoline de sorte que je peux finis le voyage vers elle qui habite ... (nom de la ville)
L'histoire varie un peu, mais la situation d'urgence est normalement le cancer et le véhicule est toujours une vieille chevvy  toute rouillée ou Dodge van, beaucoup de rouille, moteur bruyant, et, dans un cas, un petit chien aboyant constamment qui a coupé ma contribution jusqu'à $5.00.

Il y a 5 heures, la Voix de ma Cuisine et moi étions sur notre chemin de retour de San Diego à la ville où elle travaille dans la mission des pères de notre Dame de La Salette. Nous avons décidé d'arrêter pour un peu de carburant afin que nous puissions être assures d'arriver chez-nous sans contre-temps.
Nous sommes arrivés à la pompe, je suis sorti, j'ai passe ma carte pré-payée de $100.00 à travers mon côté de la pompe et avais commencé à remplir le réservoir. Comme je me tenais là en attente que l'arrêt automatique éclanche, il vint une vieille chevvy rouillée "déchevelée", tout comme dans les films documentaires. Elle s'est arrêté juste en face de moi et de la cabine a chuté sur une femme mince comme un manche de balais, ridée avec des yeux sombres, cheveux hirsutes, les vêtements sales tout enveloppés dans un nuage mystérieusement désagréable plein de défis olfactifs.
Elle est venue à moi et avec aisance et grâce surprenantes s'excusa, me raconta comment elle avait honte de me déranger, mais elle sentait qu'elle n'avait pas d'autre choix. Elle a souligné le fait qu'elle ne cherchait pas l'argent, mais qu'elle avait un grand besoin de carburant puisque son véhicule était presque à sec. Elle ne pleurait pas, elle n'avait pas les larmes aux yeux, elle savait ce que sa situation était, et elle savait qu'elle devait se rabaisser pour rester à flot d'une manière ou d'une autre.
Elle m'a dit que son mari avait été diagnostiqué à un stade avancé, d'un cancer incurable et puisqu'ils étaient dans une situation financière désespérée, ils avaient tous deux venus à la conclusion que cela allait être la fin.
Elle avait besoin de gazoline pour son véhicule, le reste suivrait la course de la nature, d'une façon ou l'autre. Comme mon réservoir était maintenant rempli, nous avons échangé une autre paire de paroles sur la condition humaine et nous avons réalisé une connexion plaisante d'ondes mentales et émotionnelles. Mon réservoir était maintenant au plain et je lui ai dit que je voudrais maintenant lui donner un peu de carburant. Dans le processus d'exécution de ma carte, quelque chose est allé mal, donc j'ai du arrêter le processus et le redémarrer. Tout au long, nous nous sommes amuses avec des gentillesses de l'un à l'autre et je dois dire que cet échange fut réconfortant pour elle, et elle l'a dit.
J'ai finalement réussis à connecte ma carte, donc tout a été réglé. Parce que Belle m'attendait dans la voiture et parce que nous savions qu'il y avait beaucoup de circulation sur la route de 160 kilometres de parcours, je pris ma carte du le mécanisme et comme je lui tendis la pompe je lui dis, «Nous partons maintenant. Je vous offre $20.00 de carburant chargés sur ma carte. Que Dieu vous bénisse." Elle était heureuse, nous nous sommes laissés doucement et poliment. La Voix de la Cuisine m'a demandé si j'avais donné quelque chose a la dame et je lui dis que oui.

Nous sommes revenus sur la route et avons endure le malaise de 2,5 heures de trafic sur une distance qui prend généralement 90 minutes.
Nous sommes rentrés chez nous. Avons déchargé la voiture. Avons fait le souper. 
Je me suis souvenu de mon Noé malodorant et me demandai s'il me restait encore des animaux dans mon arche prépayé.

Je suis allé à mon ordinateur.  J'effectuai les informations nécessaires pour voir si mon amie nouvellement trouvée, bien que non identifiée s'était tenue à la quantité confiée de $20.00 ou ???

Mes amis, vous savez que je ne raconterais pas l'histoire si elle m'avait trahi. Vous avez mon assurance qu'elle a pris environ $ 20.00 à partir d'une carte qu'elle aurait pu essayer d'en obtenir beaucoup plus.
Il y avait $45.50 sur la carte quand elle a commencé à remplir son réservoir et quand elle a terminée son versement, la carte avait, et a encore $24.69.

J'ai vu Dieu aujourd'hui, et je tremble encore de l'expérience. 
Peut-être nous nous reverrons un jour au paradis.  Elle et son époux bien aimé.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

I GOTTA HAVE SOME FUN WITH THIS GUY

If I were wrong, don't you think I would know it?
This is one of the greatest moments of my young life.  I am so glad that I am familiar with the one of the earliest biographies of the "One who doesn't have time for political correctness."  It makes me wonder if it is because he is too busy counting his $10 billion or it he is confusing political correctness with basic kindergarten level politeness.
Back in the mid 17th century my favorite classical writer, Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, AKA, Moliere wrote about a Misanthrope who had the same basic problem as the sweetheart in the picture.  He was convinced that the world had to pay attention to him because he was the only one who would "tell it as it is," in season and out of season.  He had one difficulty, the woman that he loved didn't like the forceful torrent of negativity and invective that came out of the mouth of her pursuer.  In the book, Alceste, the guy who didn't have time nor penchant for the niceties of life, wanted this woman more than anything.  In our present lives we are led to believe that the man with no patience for human niceties wants the White House more than anything.  $10 billion worth of anything.  That's impressive.

Enjoy yourselves, boys and girls, this show still has a while to run.

By the way:  Alceste does get the girl, but only after a very radical about face.
Don't hold your breath on this one. 

Friday, July 31, 2015

BEING OLD CAN BE NEAT

The other day I was having my breakfast, all by myself since the Voice from the Kitchen had already gone to the office for her daily dose of gainful employment.  There is nothing eminently lofty about that, I know.  What is the point of my remark is that while I was doing this, I remember the freedom that I was celebrating fom the screeching directives of MJT, otherwise known as Mama to me, and "Mina" to just about everyone else who knew her.
You see, I was eating a banana.  Yes, a banana for breakfast.  Totally forbidden in the childhood of the five growing children in the 1 Hartford Street home of the Dion household.  Bananas were too "filling."  I have to use that word because it is the closest word that I can use to translate the French word that we would hear if we tried to eat a banana for breakfast.
So since then I have been thinking of the small joys that I get to celebrate now that I am beyond the age of 7.
Besides bananas for breakfast, I get to eat fish raw; I get to eat fish-head soup; I get to eat kimchee (You know, the smelly pickled cabbage Korean stuff); I get to drink coffee just before going to bed for the night; I get to drink my coffee black, too; I get to go outside barefoot in the rain (a rare delight in Southern California); I get to make my bed when I want to; I get to take as many showers as I want, when I want; I get to wear (or not wear) what I want around the house (and even out of the house); I get to eat one meal a day, you know, the one that starts when I get up and stops when I go to bed; I get to talk the language I want around the house (like English, you know); I even get to eat and watch TV at the same time; I get to eat all the ice cream I want (Yes, even in the Winter); ditto for water melon; I get to wash the dishes when I want; I don't have to wear a tie to church; I don't have to run a family taxi service for my aunts on Sundays; and except for not having to turn off the radio in my room at 9:00 PM sharp, I guess that I have run out of joys that I have now that I am old.  Oh,no, I just remembered, I can talk as long as I want on the telephone.  MJT would be happy though, because at my age I have enough of about 2 minutes, so that isn't much of anything to celebrate.
I hope that some of you get the same little things to smile about as you go through life these days. Heck, you have to have something to keep you going, right?



Friday, July 3, 2015

A NEW CONSTELLATION...HAPPY BIRTHDAY

"...on June 14, 1777, the Second Continental Congress took time from its busy schedule to pass a resolution stating that 'the flag of the United States be 13 stripes, alternate red and white” and that “the union be 13 stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation'.” (History Channel)
I have to admit, very candidly, that I have never been what I consider to be a "flag waver."  But I do have a personal experience that is real.  

The only other flag that I had ever beheld in its "natural" setting was the Canadian Maple Leaf.  Then one day I was on my way to Rome, Italy where I knew that I was going to live for the next four years.  It was a long 14 day boat ride from Boston to Naples.  It never struck me as being significant then, but was we pulled out of Boston harbor on an Italian ship, it was the last time that I was seeing the American Flag for the duration of my stay in Europe.  Once out of Boston, any national insignia that I saw were Italian.
We stopped for a while in the Azores, under the Portuguese flag, of course.
Then we docked in Gibraltar for about eight hours, and what we saw, of course, was the Union Jack.  
On to Palermo and then Naples and then, finally, Rome.  I had started my life under the Green, White and Red with a more than occasional visit to the White and Gold of Vatican City.  
I was treated to three Summers under the Red, White and Blue of France.

Nowhere, no time did I ever feel homesick for Old Glory.  It was a totally non-issue for me.  Never a twitch or pang of longing.  Not even during the heart wrenching week around the assassination of JFK.  It happened in November and school was my top priority.  I had no time for television, especially in a world without satellites, except for one.
The US flag showed for about 20 seconds, but it was just the first act of the spectacle that was to follow and which we awaiting with great intensity.

Three years later, upon touching down in Los Angeles California, emerging from the airliner and setting eyes on the American Flag, it hit me.  I had a connection to make to San Diego, but everywhere that I went, I sought the flag.  I checked every corner of the airport, the chest of every official's uniform, seeking the flag.  I couldn't get enough of it. I was this way for at least a week, maybe more.  It was at this moment that I came to understand the meaning of the national flag.  I haven't forgotten and I never will forget.

Lately we here in the United States have experienced a good dose of ambivalence over our national emblem and the spirit of its meaning.  We have heard some impassioned statements about the meaning of the confederate, "stars and bars" banner.  This has to be the only country in the world where the emblem of recessionary rebellion still finds favor among a goodly slice of the population related to the rebellion.  We have heard some very passionate encomium about the brave and dedicated souls who shed their blood for the rebel cause.  I have to shake my head when I think of this.  Some of the thoughts that I have had run something like this:
     We beat the valiant and dedicated Redcoats, and they don't fly their flag        here.
     The British beat the French and Indians in Canada and neither one of the      valiant and dedicated losers fly their flag in Canada.
     The Canadians have asserted themselves over the British whose flag is          nowhere to be found flying in Canada...not even in British Columbia.
     The indigenous tribes who suffered massacre at the hands of the                    colonists were valiant and courageous but they don't fly their flag(s).
     Vatican City lost plenty of territory in Europe, but it has to                            be satisfied with flying its flag in its own, very own contemporary                  territory.
Losers don't get to fly their flag as a consolation prize for their valor.  They get to live under the flag of the victors or try their valor again, if they dare.

This is the anniversary of the Independence that was captured from the British some 230 years ago.  The British have come to learn that they lost the battle for the part of the world south of the 49th parallel.  They don't get to fly their flag in defiance here.  They won the battle for the territory north of the 49th parallel and they don't even fly their flag there.  The French lost the fight for the same territory and they don't get to fly their flag there, not even in defiant Quebec!

Those who want to continue flying the confederate flag should remember that they are still enjoying the independence and freedom that was won from the British and shared with the rest of the population of the United States.  They also enjoy it with the biggest losers of all, the indigenous peoples who were slaughtered and decimated by the encroachment of the European colonists.  They don't get to fly their flags in defiance of the existing order.

The Stars and Stripes, love it or leave it.  There are a lot of places in the world where you can go and won't have to look at it every day.  

Just a few thoughts from an old guy with defiant French Canadian roots.

Sunday, June 28, 2015

IT'S AGAINST THE LAW TO FEED WILD ANIMALS -- Hmmm?

This is the post that I told you to expect day before yesterday.  I can't get over the dichotomy that this presents to anyone who lives in the park, mostly.  It is also rich in mental curly-q's, such that when I read it, I couldn't help but wonder how long I could keep the mental smiles going before the novelty wore off.
The first item that struck my funny bone was the fact that it seems to be very important that ducks are being eaten by other wild animals.  Really!  Wow,imagine we have a pond in the park that is frequented by a rather large population of ducks, also wild, I always presumed.  It is really not news, (or is it?) that the occasional one should be caught napping by a carnivorous wild creature.  Actually, if a duck gets eaten by a coyote the duck is to blame, really.  Wings against feet!  Is that a fair pairing?  Not in my book.  By the way, so what?  The manager signed this notice. I am protecting the innocent here.  He understands wild life being that he hails from northern Ontario, Canada.  You know, fur trapping country and the home of the oldest corporation in North America.  So he knows nature...you know, coyote eats sleeping duck...
I was rather happy to see that the sign did not suggest that the Chinese lady around the corner could have snitched one of our dear wild Mallards.  (Actually, she's safe since she is a figment of my imagination.)
Now, here's the punch line:
This is a representative portion of the Mallard population that I caught on camera just as most of the gaggle had finished dinner as provided by the kind human souls of the park.  A group of humans contributes $1.00 per month, per person to buy seed to serve as daily (illegal,per the posted notice) dinner to the "wild" animals--- the feathered type who are either too lazy or too fat to fly away from the four legged carnivorous types who might happen along.
In a short and impromptu conversation with the manager earlier this morning, I inquired as to the natural status of the ducks.  Wild or not wild?  Animal or not animal?  He just shook his head and looked at me with a smile of the type that only an authority figure can give a peon.  It came to mind that it might be quite a while before anyone will get arrested for the crime of feeding the wild animals.
So, dear friends and neighbors, seeing that none of you is neither coyote nor raccoon, you may want to check out our fat, waddling denizens.  You might encounter one sleeping with head tucked under wing and then decide if you want to engage in the complicated process of extricating yourself from having turned yourself into a raptor, you, a domesticated animal forcing yourself upon wild(?) fauna who should have been alert enough to fly away from you in the first place.  Or are these feathered creatures really more friends than fauna?

Care to give it a try?

Oh, by the way, are stray (feral?) cats wild animals? Maybe, but they don't like duck...fur is OK but feathers?  Yuukk!

Friday, June 26, 2015

MANHUNT -- GO BABY, GO!

Oh, yeah! 20 days and counting!
Oooppsss!  Not too much more counting left, maybe.
Looks like one of my guys committed suicide by cop.
It will be an interesting read when the story gets captured between hard covers.
I was trying to tell them by telepathy that they had to split.
So, they have split.
I'm betting that they flipped a coin to see who would be the "sacrifice."
Uh, no, sorry.  It's unlikely that they would have a coin.
They must have followed the Biblical ploy of casting flat stones.
Be that as it may, now there is but one.

I started developing this in my mind one night when I saw a picture like the one you see here.

Imagine 1,000 more of these people looking for only 2.
Now, of course, only 1.
I must confess that I hold these two in some kind of admiration.
Imagine, on the run for three weeks with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
What did they eat?
What did they smell like?
How could they hide?
Were they lucky enough to have been pursued by stupid dogs instead of smart ones?
One other thing that tweaked my being into admiration is the fact that they have not harmed one single civilian during the whole episode.
Of course, the episode still has to come to a close.
However, so far so good on that front.

I also have a lot of questions that I suppose will be answered in the book.
Where did they get the tools?
I mean, these had to be fairly sophisticated tools to get through the walls.
What about the tools to cut the pipe open so cleanly?
Didn't these tools make any noise?
Seems to me that there had to be more than two state employees implicated here, unless everyone else on the state payroll is as deaf as a pot!

So, now I am going to continue to root for the other guy.  He isn't a good artist like the first one, but day to day manhunt watching is a neat little passtime.
I wonder what odds the Irish gambling houses are giving that he too will arrange to get shot by the gendarmes?

So, that's my thought process (yep, I do have one, believe it or not!) for the time being.

Wait until you see the next one about feeding the wild animals.  Not in New York.  California.
I hafta take the photo tomorrow.

Monday, June 15, 2015

OXYMORON -- CAN YOU FIND A MORE CAPTIVATING ONE?

Every now and then as we travel through life one step at a time we are stopped dead in our tracks by something that we wish we had devised, but...
But, we are glad that since it is fact that we haven't caused it to be, at least we are blessed with the knowledge that it is there right in front of us.
This writing is one of those things.  The head-on clash of ideas doesn't shut the lights off.  Quite to the contrary, it literally shocks the lights of my brain into some dimension of clarity that takes me beyond a point where any previous enlightening convulsions concerning the concept of love have ever taken me. The depths to which it points are so far unfathomable.  I'm still working on finding my way down, or is it up?  Should I have said "heights?" Hmmm, maybe so.  One way or the other, I suspect that I will spend some fairly intense moments in rather heavy duty mulling over this one.

Rends-moi mes chaînes
 Je me sentais libre
Quand j’étais lie à toi.
Maintenant, je ne suis plus lié,
Plus paralysé dans la liberté que je ne l'étais

Confortablement menotté à ton amour.

De temps en temps en parcourant à travers la vie étape par étape, nous sommes arrêtés raide par quelque chose que nous souhaitons que nous-mêmes avions réalisé, mais ...
Mais, nous sommes heureux que puisque c'est déjà accompli hors de notre initiative artistique, au moins, nous sommes heureux d'en avoir fait la connaissance et la pièce est là juste en face de nous.
Ce texte est une de ces choses. Le choc des idées de front n’éteint point les lumières. Bien au contraire, il cause une dimension de clarté provenant des lumières de mon cerveau qui me prennent au delà du point où toute convulsions éclairantes antérieures concernant le concept de l'amour ne m'avaient jamais conduit. Les profondeurs auxquelles ils pointent sont à cette heure insondables. Je m'efforce toujours à trouver mon chemin vers le fond, ou devrais-je  dire les "hauteurs?" Hmmm, peut-être, je suppose. D'une façon ou d'une autre, je soupçonne que je vais passer quelques moments assez intenses en ressassant le défi que présentent les tensions de ce petit poème..

Devuélveme mis cadenas
Me sentí libre
Cuando estaba atado a ti.
Que ahora estoy no ligado,
Más paralizado en la libertad de lo que nunca fue
Cómodamente maniatado a tu amor.

De vez en cuando a medida que viajamos por la vida un paso a la vez que de repente nos detuvimos congeladso en nuestras pistas por algo que nos hubiera gustado haber ideado, pero ...
Pero, nos alegramos de que aun que es un hecho que no hemos causado que sea, al menos, hemos sido bendecidos con el conocimiento de que es allí justo en frente de nosotros.
Este escrito es una de esas cosas. El choque de frente de las ideas aparentemente contradictorias no apaga las luces de my mente. Muy por el contrario, choca literalmente las luces de mi cerebro en alguna dimensión de claridad que me lleva más allá de un punto en cualquier convulsiones esclarecedoras anteriores sobre el concepto de amor.  La profundidad a la que los puntos están tan insondable. Todavía estoy trabajando en encontrar mi camino hacia abajo, o es para arriba? ¿Debería haber dicho "alturas?" Hmmm, tal vez menos. De una forma u otra, yo sospecho que voy a pasar unos momentos bastante intensos en deber reflexionando más intensivamiente  sobre éste.

Saturday, June 6, 2015

SPANGLISH -- FRANGLISH -- SPAÑILIANO, ETC... TAGLISH TOO, MAYBE?

http://www.sandiegoreader.com/news/2015/jun/03/press-1-spanglish/
Welcome to San Diego, the second largest city in the world where Spanglish rules and the only one where such linguistic magic can even be glorified as an art form.  If you care to read the article before going any further into my true to life stories about linguistic mish-mashes, click on the link that serves as the caption for the cover of the "San Diego Reader" weekly free magazine with an average circulation of  115,000 [Wikipedia, April 2015].
I grew up in Western Massachusetts where a large part of the population was of French Canadian descent, I included. So naturally, we spoke French less fluently than our parents and grandparents.  Let it be said though that even they had a serious tendency to mix their mother tongue with English words and expressions.  It is over 100 years, four generations, since Franglish was introduced to the area.  It is now all but gone.

As the years wore on, I migrated from Franglish to Spanglish by moving to California with a few linguistic  stops along the way.  How I got here is a long story.  It is a story that is as interesting as the metamorphosis of Western Massachusetts from Franglish to Spanglish [Puerto Rican immigration] and my relatives didn't even have to move! Because they did not move, they are surrounded by a new tongue that has grown up around them.

The story in the San Diego Reader depicts a very classy project that was realized at one of the famous and popular museums in San Diego's marvelous relaxation and strolling area, Balboa Park.  This is a huge park of some 1,200 acres complete with a mammoth outdoors organ, many museums and a wonderful arboretorium. The production of Spanglish depicts one form of hodge-podge language, the classiest possible form that was worked out for the production that resulted.  One of these days I will have to go see it, en vivo, as we say in Southern California and Madrid.

The Spanglish and Franglish of the simpler type goes like this.

I was the HR Director for a company close to East Los Angeles.  I got the job because of my fluency in Spanish.  Here's a sample between me and an EE from ELAX.

Me: Sabes que?  Se nos hace que tu camioneta ocupa el espacio del dueño en el estacionamiento. Podria ser justo?
EE-ELAX:  Eee, por favor, can you speak Ingles?
Me: But you asked me to speak Spanish when you entered my office.
EE-ELAX:  Eee, not understand a proposito del dueño.
Me:  Ah.  Tu troque (truck, got it?) esta en el parking del patron, maybe?
EE-ELAX:  Oh no.  Mi troque is parking en el otro lado del railroad crossing, no here.

This was a 25 year old employee from East Los Angeles who professed to not know English.  His problem was worse than that, he did not know Spanish to boot.  We did straighten out the parking problem and we parted friends.
I tell this story a lot because it is true and I have a dear friend from East Los Angeles who speaks very straight English and some rudimentary Spanish from his background.  Across the years, he has decided that if he is going to speak English he is going to do it right.  His Spanish is quite strong on the listening side, but but not so great on the speaking side.  This happens more often than not as people mature and realize that they have to communicate better to deal with the wild, wild world.

Me?  I can speak and understand a lot of things, especially when I get hungry.  I had some rather interesting linguistic experiences over the years and especially when I worked in Tijuana, Mexico. You want to hear some fluent Spanglish?  Go to work there.  Even some municipal signage is in Spanglish.

In this world, it is unwise to not learn the meanings of "cross-over" language.  On the Internet, some words stay in English and some are translated literally and this sometimes makes a polyglot laugh, or brings on confusion.
For example, the French do not use the term email.  They simply say mail in the masculine gender.  It never means what we accept as the default meaning of the word "mail."
They also do not say "Fin de semaine" for "weekend."  They say "weekend."  They've been saying "weekend" for decades.  We Franco Americans (and French Canadians) NEVER say "weekend" because it is one expression that we do not accept as being acceptable Franglish!  So there!

So, friends and  neighbors, Enjoy your taste of San Diego Spanglish Culture.
I can't wait until some artist discovers Taglish!


  

Friday, June 5, 2015

EINSTEIN QUOTE -- IS THIS WHAT HE MEANT?

One thing that it ain't, is a guess!
It is a predictor of what it can cause
It can be tested for veracity
WHAT IS A THEORY?

The logic of a theory must stem from an inner coherence, not because
external evidence makes it the most logical over other theories.  
(Albert Einstein, as quoted in "Jews, God and History" by Max I. Dimont.  Published by Signet Classics, 2004) 

You know, I have been so busy and so occupied and pre-occupied in the past several weeks that I am wondering where the beginning is and where the end is.  It is like the cat and the ball of twine.  The cat sees the ball and often doesn't see the end, so it just goes from side to side and he doesn't make any progress.  That's probably why the ouse is at such a disadvantage.  The cat knows where the mouse begins and where the mouse ends.  That's good for the cat.  Not so good for the mouse.

When it comes to hypotheses and theories, it's this way.  A hypothesis is like a ball of twine.  A theory is a mouse.  It actually gets us somewhere.

How many times have you heard someone say, "I don't believe that, it's just a theory."  [No it's not.  It's a mouse.] I know, you can't count how many of them you have because it is such a common comment. It is so tempting to push a reality aside because it's just a theory.  It is so tempting that we miss a good chunk of life letting certain valuable facts lie outside of our intellectual asset bank.  If it weren't for theories we would not know a lot of what we know. [If it weren't for mice, would we have cats?] Furthermore, we would not have the ability to gauge our degree of safety as we went along our daily lives.
Much of our lives are lived in the theories of probability as measured by mathematical theorems.  So, when we drive an auto or walk down the street, we count on the fact that our safety is assured because the chances of our being destroyed are minimal compared to our chances of getting back home in one piece. [not so for the mouse]  It's a good thing that those statistics are a theory that works.
Medicine is one of those theory-filled facets of our lives. [Hmmm, so many theories, in fact, that I think of it as a ball of twine]  Think of it a little bit. We all know that certain practices can harm us.  But experience shows us that if we are observant we can actualize the harmful practices to a certain degree and still survive quite nicely, thank you.  We know that the theory is righter than not, so we know how to measure our pleasureful actions so that we stay protected by the truths contained in the theory.
You see, theories are not guesses.  Theories are conclusions.

Actually, I like Einstein's thought.  I think that it is fitting for it to come from a close relative of the Creator.  The thoughts and inspirations that generate inside of us, through our intangible spiritual side are what drive us forward to catch the wily mouse.  That is the part of us that gives our life value.  It is the inner fire that we have that drives us along the correct path toward our happy ending.  

We make so many vain guesses in life that lead us nowhere.  So many times those are made because the wrong raw material went into their making.  The next time we have a hypothesis about our life, let's use the material that we have on the inside to clear the path and enlighten the goal so that we come up with a solid theory about where it is that we are headed and how we are going to get there.

In short, we need to catch more and fatter mice...by finding the way to get that done.









Tuesday, May 26, 2015

TRANSLATION - CARRIED FROM ONE SIDE TO THE OTHER

I thought that I would have a little fun with my friends this evening.
I just came off a translation project that covered 35 pages of French legalese and actually I had quite a bit of pleasure doing it.  The most entertaining part of the project is that I had time to make it happen and to make it appealing.
The appealing part doesn't happen much.
We translators are just like other professionals.  We have job descriptions that are sugar and spice and everything nice on the top front of the blog article.  But, at the core of the reality it is rings and dings and no time to sing.  Look at that picture and you'll see what I mean.  Anything up there about being able to read the original text as well as the old time pharmacist could read doctor scratchings on prescriptions?  How about trying to decipher blurry scanned images submitted from a country in a handwriting style that makes you wonder how many ways there are in the world to write the letter "a"?  That never gets any press...or any verbal credit.  All this is one side of the abilities that a translator has to have.  Check out the picture below and you'll get another side of the "skills wanted" sollicitation for help...
Yep, I want it yesterday.  Sorry, lady, this is today.  One hour is the best I can do for you.
"Oh, thank you. This shouldn't be too hard, it's a Power Point show that only has 30 slides.  Not too many words."
Ha, Ha, Ha,  One hour eh?  And I have to keep the formatting, right?
"Oh, yes, please."
Hey, lady, what about the fact that the there are 30% more words needed in the language that you want in the show and you want to keep the formatting.  Hmmm, and now we have been talking for 15 minutes and the clock is running.  Yikes, lady, you gotta cut me some slack.
So the translator gets friendly, no, not THAT friendly. So he gets friendly and he gets some background about the purpose of the translation, the real deadline that she has and the audience for whom it is intended. As it turns out, it is still tight on the clock, but it is doable.  So we get friendly enough that I charge her for the minimum one hour and she agrees to come back at opening time in the morning instead of insisting on the hour.
They don't teach you that in school.
The hidden talent that doesn't get any press is the ability to be laser accurate in the art of carrying the meaning from one language to the other in the shortest time possible. This is a constant part of my life.  I translate many very interesting documents from many countries, for many different reasons and in many different variations of the same language but I rarely get the opportunity to enjoy what I am reading because I have one eye on the project and one on the clock.
So, this past week I had the whole week to do the 35 pages.  The challenge was that the English had to be exactly what the French was.  But I had a week! I actually had time to read it, think about it, translate it, read the translation, go back and read the French, reread and edit the translation, compare the two side by side (thank God for computers) and take 8 hours away from it to let it "ferment" a bit in cranium juice.  Come back, sip it a little bit, add a pinch of pizazz here and there and the first thing you know, you like it and you still have two hours before the deadline.  Now, that is the kind of work that a translator just plain loves.
Too bad there isn't too much of it around.
Now you know some of what I do in my old age.



Sunday, May 17, 2015

SENIORS

14 YEAR OLD?  18 YEARS?  22 YEARS?  55 YEARS?
Now that I am 78, I am starting to take offense at the nonsense that gets aimed at old people.  Stuff like, "why is it that seniors are either cynical or bitter?"  Ha, you want cynical and/or bitter just get yourself a little closer here, whippersnapper and let me bloody your ear drum with the answer.  It starts with Y-O-U :-).
This is a question that actually appeared on the internet.
I answered, "Why'd you forget grouchy and humorous?"  I'm still waiting for the answer.  Must have been some teen ager who got put in his place by his 85 year old grandmother.  Man, I can't wait to be 85.  I promise you and myself that I am going to go hog wild that year.  Just beware, because I guarantee that it's gonna be a rich one.
Actually, we're neither cynical nor bitter.  We are the happiest bunch of humans around.  We have more funny things happen to us in the course of each and every single day that we have forgotten how to be cynical and bitter.  The most we get to be is grouchy but even our grouchy is humorous.  Let me give you a couple of examples.
Today, this very day, I was screwing in a light bulb [yes, Virginia, all by myself] and my silly, numb and arthritic hand dropped it and glass went flying all over the place. [It was a ceiling bulb)  It was also a $15.00 LED bulb.  So I scurried around sweeping and warning everyone not to walk around barefooted for a few days.  The one good thing about it is that it fell on the hardwood floor where the shards glisten in the light.  The one good thing that works well for me are my eyes.  But we won't get into that area of my capabilities, now, shall we? Ssshh!  
The other humorous thing is that my hands don't work well any more.  I have to read everything I write [ type ] at least three times before pressing "go."  And even then mstrakes ahpen!
Now, i GURANTEE that when the Voice from the Kitchen reads this the hail and brimstone is going to pour down on me for at least 1 hour.  Oh,yes.  Do you think that she's going to get the joke?  Ssuurre she will!
There is one thing for which I am very grateful in life - my plumbing is in good order.  The Off/On switches still work.  I do have a couple of false teeth but I only wear them when I go to church.  It's almost enough to make me a confirmed C & E Catholic, but not quite.
Finally, I still have enough hair on my head to make me look a lot younger than I really am, ya know,  around 76 or 77, maybe!
My voice is getting weaker too.  That's quite embarassing when the 85 year old guy in Bible Study class can talk over me when things get hot...yeah, in MY Bible classes that does happen.
So see, we old people are not cynical and bitter.  We're grouchy in a humorous way.  Don't forget it.

Monday, May 11, 2015

ASSERTIVE AND SUBMISSIVE GO TOGETHER, REALLY

Human Behavior: When I read how to be more assertive, the language sounds submissive to me.   That's too weird!

Now, I am not a psychologist, but here is my personal experience.
Sure does sound weird. The fact is that when you say that it is in submission that we find the strength to be more assertive, it sure does sound paradoxical.   You know what?  It is.
Nevertheless, in fact, in order to be successfully assertive one must be submissive to a certain extent.  The person who deletes all submission from human relationships will not be seen as assertive but as cruel. 
To be successfully assertive, one must accept and understand the leverage points that are available into the will of the other person.  Being assertive does not mean being adamant to the detriment of a relationship. 
Being assertive requires also a high dose of self-knowledge.  This quality will guide the degree of assertiveness that can be exercised in each case as it arises. 
As paradoxical as it may appear, successful assertiveness grows over time as the assertive person learns how, where, why, when and with whom to exercise the correct dose of assertiveness.  As paradoxical as it may seem, as we reflect on our experiences, it is true that after we have "lost a few" our assertiveness can grow.
Notice that what I have described here is not the "schoolyard bully."  Just the opposite.  Successful assertiveness is always accompanied by prudence and the desire for the mutual good.  Yes, that is why when you read about how to become more assertive, you will also read about submissiveness in the same breath. 

Just as you just did here.

Thursday, April 30, 2015

100 MOST INFLUENTIAL PEOPLE IN THE WORLD -- according to "TIME"

No, I didn't count them.  (Image from Muy Interesante, 1993)
Yeah I got my TIME the other day. I have listed the names that I recognized without any prodding.
I don't know why I know some of the names, but because I decided to be honest I listed them.
I am still trying to figure out why Secretariat hasn't ever been listed.
Anyway, here are the names I recognized out of 100:
Charles and David Koch
Scott Kelly
Tim McGraw
Angela Merkel
Bob Corker
Elizabeth Warren
Xi Jinping
Jeb Bush
Raul Castro
Kim Jong Un
Benjamin Netanyahu
Hillary Clinton
Barack Obama
Mitch McConnell
Ruth Bader Ginsberg
Jerry Brown
Malala Yusafzai
Pope Francis

That's 18.  With Man 'O War and Jackie Robinson, I get 20.

I remember growing up and thinking the world of certain people.  It was really uplifting to be able to know a fact or two about Bobby Doerr, for example.  Fortunately for me, EFR Dion thought highly of Bobby Doerr too.  I could go through a list of names that mean nothing to anyone at this time, but I won't because I have learned my lesson about this influential people myth.

Early in my life I came to know that one of the people whom I admire the most could not even pronounce the words Bobby Doerr, and wouldn't have recognized them had they been before his very eyes in the English language newspaper of the day.  Here was this hulk of an old man who was living a wonderful life, surrounded by loving children and grandchildren and he did not even know Bobby Doerr whom I idolized.  It was OK for him to not know Ted Williams.  EFR Dion and I both knew that he was a bum anyhow.  The fact that my Grandfather didn't know these people but still led a productive life did teach me a lot.  It did not keep me away from him.  Oh, no.  I couldn't get enough of him.  I still enjoy his spiritual company every day of my life.
So, what's with this influence philosophy?  Am I missing something because I only recognize 18 names out of the 100 that I suppose I am expected to not just recognize, but feel their influence?  I looked at the cover of the magazine and I asked myself whose face that is.  I read down the list and I was lost.  Not a single name jumped out at me from the "cowboy song" singers; not a single name jumped out at me from the French national soccer team; doesn't Michael Jackson play basketball any more?  Oh, and Cousy?  I really miss Maurice Richard too.
According to this list, I am not being influenced by anyone important.  To that, I said, YYEESSSS!
Obama?  Netanyahu? Kim Jong Un?  Bob Corker?  Hillary Clinton?  Hell's bells!  My life sure is a mess.  The only powerful vibes I get from anyone on the list is the Italian Catholic guy from Argentina and the teen ager from Pakistan.  Why do I like them?  Why do I know who they are?
Easy:  They speak truth to power.  Plain and simple.

Yes, my friends, the Time 100 and the Time Person of the Year don't move me any more.  What moves me now is my self determination, my unwaverably positive self-esteem and my unshakable faith in the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Father of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
Everything else is pure dust and ashes.

So that's my thought for the day.  

SEXUAL HARASSMENT TRAINING IN CALIFORNIA

Skillpath.com
I had an interesting experience today.  After ten years of significant activity on the campus of our local parish church, I went to the diocesan headquarters for a training session regarding sexual harassment.  It was rather somewhat disorienting being in the audience rather than at the front of the room.  I have done this type of training many, many times along the path of my work history.  

But, and get this, I never presented this training in a room where there were nuns and priests sitting around the same tables. I don't know why, but that was somewhat disconcerting.  I can't help but wonder if Sister Mary of the Holy Archangel Michael ever did accuse Father Noah of the Leaky Ark of creating a hostile workplace environment for the good sister because of his over-use of the scatological expletive common on many church campuses.  I certainly hope not.

These days a full day training seminar on sexual harassment is a piece of cake.  The topic that really keeps things hot, I think, is child molestation.  I say that "I think" because I have been absent for any and all of those for eons of being around the Church.  I have had my fingers printed, my pulse taken, my blood pressure verified, my BMI statistically analyzed, my DNA distilled and filtered and my name analyzed on Google, all to no avail when it came to finding me with my hand in the child molestation cookie jar.  

So there!  

Oh, by the way, I do have a wonderfully kind and loving cookie jar right here at home.  Ol' Grace, the famous Vox Cucinae.  

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

PSSST! DO YOU KNOW ANY BAD WORDS?

Hey, know what?  Ol' potty mouth here has in the history of these scratchings broached the daring topic/thought of bad words twice before.  Once here and another time here.
I admit that it was a long time ago and I also admit that I had forgotten about my forays into the foul words jungle.  The thought of discussing them (again?) came to me when I happened to see a question on a social network site that asked if there are any bad words.  Predictably, the answers came back with all the philosophical Sophistry that words are not bad or good since they are nothing but noise.  That got me to thinking about my "Bad  Word Autobiography."  It so happens that it does have stages in it.  Some predictable and others just slightly slipping into consideration.

The first stage is the one where you get caught by your mother at a moment when you thought that you were SAFE. It was on the sidewalk near the house.  I was sitting in the little red wagon that we had received for Christmas.  It was now Spring and we were playing horse and buggy.  It was my turn to be in the buggy and my brother's turn to be the horse. Of course I was unhappy with the gait of the "horse" and I was particularly short of a whip.  You know, the leather kind that you can snap across the horse's stern when things aren't exactly going to your liking.  But I did have the one in my mouth (still do) so I let the "horse" know in no uncertain, loudly shouted terms that I want him to move his *&^)$#@@ stern.
You know, "stern" spelled "A..:  Brit style, as in "Move yer bloomin' a...e" (My Fair Lady)
Well, this was at least two decades before Julie Andrews and My Mum happened to be near a window and just the right side of the house.  

The whole neighborhood reverberated with the screeching thunder of my mother's pet name for me, punctuated by the order, "Get in here."  The rest of the story can be handily wrapped up in the simple averrance that I developed an immediate distaste for Camay handsoap on that very day.  I know that the mental allergy to it is still sitting heavily on my being when I walk into a rest room in a family home where Camay is the bar soap of choice.  I find myself tasting my punishment all over again.  Imagine a lifetime of punishment for three words that were overheard by a foul mouthed parent (yeah, she had a vocabulary, especially in French).

For the rest of my young life I was a rather smooth talker.  I used to occasionally slip into fecal phonemes, but not too often.  So from about 10 to 40 I was pretty wimpy in my speech. Not my opinions, but my speech.

I had a bad moment for a few years, but not any more.  

Back to the "Bad Word" question.  I happen to agree that there are bad words.  Words are not just "noise."  They are also thoughts and a bunch of other things.  They also have a social dimension that can't be denied.  So yeah, I think that there actually are "bad words."
Take it from me, that Camay taste that I now have in my mouth is presently underlining the truth of that statement.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

IS THERE A "WRONG SIDE" OF THE BED?

  Do some people subconsciously pick a side of the bed? 
Here I present to you a question that I ran across while surfing the Internet rather than dedicating myself to my work.  It made me laugh because it didn't ask the question in relation to the questioner's fixed vantage point.  Was she at the head?  At the Foot? Was the question posed from the sunrise side of the house or the sunset side?  Maybe it was from the North looking South or vice versa?  Was the question regarding whether or not one would prefer the topside or the underside?  Was it asked about the human side of the person with whom I share the bed?  Finally, why a side?  What do I answer if I personally insist on the middle?  I suppose that would leave me with other options, v.g. The topside or the underside.

Actually, I did get a kick out of this question.  I actually dodged the bedside part of the question and answered it to myself in relation to a decision  that the Voice from the Kitchen and I made many years ago.  She would occupy the available space to my right as I lay on my back and I would be at her left as she lay on her back.  As it turned out this contributed to the longevity of our conjugal union.  Neither one of us could get up on the wrong side of the bed because the body of the other half of the union prevents it.  Plus, we chose the right side by default when we chose the human side of our nocturnal sojourn.

So, there you go.  Just another of the "365 Thoughts" that have appeared here through the years.  This one is not native to me, but I got a kick out of playing with it anyway.  I have some more, so hang in there.  Some of them may even make more sense than this one.

Saturday, April 11, 2015

ANONYMITY?

I have a few thoughts about Anonymity.




















Something struck me the other day.  It twanged my High "C" string because it is something that rarely goes out of tune in me.  I have oft repeated this conviction of mine, "Anonymity if the greatest obstacle on the road to progress."
I do not live the larger part of my life in anonymity.  I do try to protect my online banking account, but even that is not 100% sure.  

What usually happens in life is that an event tweaks your inner Ukelele and you get the vibes rubbing up against your tender queevates and you just have to get a laugh out if it because that's what keeps you sane.  Well, let me tell you a story.

I was cruising along in the "social media ocean" on a site that I have come to enjoy.  It is called "Quora", a plural form of "Quorum" and I find it interesting.  It is a question and answer format a little bit in the style of Wikipedia.  Many of the questions come under the shade of anonymity.  I don't ask questions.  I answer them when I see that I am competent to do so.  I have been doing this for about two months now.  I have also come to know that I have garnered a small following of "regulars."  
This participatory activity and the four active blogs that I manage have pretty much wiped out any hope (if any) that I ever had for anonymity.

Here is the "Tweaker":  I am looking to start Angel Investing. How can I get a deal flow, and get my name out there?  Asked by "Anonymous."
How is "anonymous" going to get his/her name "out there?" Sure has me beat!   I am sure that the angel investors are scrambling around in their offices with their checkbook in hand wondering where they should send their money in response to this dynamic individual's anonymous query on the World Wide Web.

I have long ago succeeded in getting anonymous email forwarders off my electronic door stoop by responding to all and daring them to sign their stercus taurorum before sending it to me.  

It used to be a little more difficult to be anonymous.  You had to write things down in your own hand; you had to mail it and the post office would have the origination point clearly stamped so as to cancel the postage; if you were lucky enough to have a telephone, that wouldn't help because your voice would be a give-away.  
Speaking of telephones and anonymity.  Did you every try to see if you could really disguise your voice if you spoke through a towel while on the 'phone?  I did.  I tested it by calling my friend at an off hour.  I was glad to hear that it had been his mother to answer.  Surely she had been fooled.  My joy was short.  I heard her say, "Donald, Paul is on the 'phone."
So friends and neighbors, boys and girls, "ladies and gentlemen and all ships at sea," tell the truth and sign your name to it.  It is the guarantee that those who come to your funeral will not be crying.  Come to mine first and you'll know that I am right.