Grillman and Luna

There's gold in them thar hills . . . even the Fenouillèdes?

2008-08-14T06:47:00.003+02:00

Now this is something to talk about, writes the WORLD Reporter in his notebook while he scans the morning edition of L'Indépendent which, contrary to what local wags say -- Quatre pages et rien dedans -- he finds highly informative regarding local life and a constant source of tales of tragedy and pathos, humor and goodwill. In short, he's had it with trying to parse the news (though he welcomes the work of BAGNewsNotes and Freedom House) on what's happening with the Doe-Eyed President of the Republic of Georgia, ESPECIALLY when the neocon-instigated regime suckers the U.S.A. corporate media into parroting its narrative line that says . . .

"Bone-jour, mone amy," calls a gruff voice behind the Reporter just as a thick-fingered, hairy hand gives him a friendly thump on the shoulder.

"Oh, it's you," says the Reporter, giving the grizzled fellow a quick look and returning to his paper. "You startled me, Gab. Sit down and have a coffee."

"Don't mind if I do, podner," says the wizened man who is, like the plaid shirt he sports, worn and frayed but clean as a whistle. He grins as he sits opposite the Reporter and absently scratches his scruffy beard. When the waitress approaches the two men, he says, "Make that two noisettes, seal voo play." She nods and begins cleaning the table near her for the fresh quartet of vacationers trooping into the shade under the platanes.

For a moment the Reporter stayes focused on his perusal of the paper. Finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, the gruff-voiced man tips back his widebrimmed hat and says, "Y're looking queasy this mornin', if ye don't mind my sayin so."

"Well, it's the news from Georgia, very upsetting."

"Georgia? I got kinfolks in Waycross. Hope things aint . . ."

"No, not THAT Georgia, Gab."

Gab, whose nickname was bestowed by his compatriots in St.-Paul for his uncanny (you might even say surreal) resemblance to George "Gabby" Hayes of Western movie fame, gives the Reporter a squint-eyed look that says, "Hellfire, man, I know THAT, I was just pullin yer leg."

"But you know," continues the Reporter. "It's downright unreal that you happened by here this morning, you know that?"

"Oh, I'm not surprised. Things are unreal for me an awful lot."

"I mean, here I am reading this article in the paper about prospecting for gold in the Eastern Pyrenees and here you come, The Ol' Prospector himself."

Coffees arrive. Gab stirs in his two sugar cubes and makes a grab for the Reporter's two, which he snags and adds to his brew. Stirring. Sipping. Mulling.

Finally, the Reporter breaks the quiet and says, "So, what I mean is, how's the prospecting hereabouts these days? Here on the Agly?"

Gab downs the rest of his coffee and leans back and gives the Reporter a wide and hairy grin. "Now podner, you don't expect me to tell you THAT do you?"

The Reporter arches his eyebrows and says, "Right. I forgot. The Prospector's Oath."

"Don't ask, don't tell."

"But Gab. I mean, we're old, well PODNERS as you say. Just between you and . . ."

"Yer bringin up Georgia reminds me of this ol' fella I useter know in Waycross, name of Beauregard. No kiddin, 'at was his name and . . .

-30-

Of Bears and Men . . . and reporters

2008-08-11T15:11:00.003+02:00

The WORLD Reporter tips back his battered fedora and grimaces. He pats the breast pocket of his threadbare jacket for the pack of cigarettes that hasn�??t been there for over a year. Distractedly, he gives up and settles for pulling a leaky Bic pen out of another pocket and pulling out his notebook and beginning to scribble while growling to Agnes Verité, who has joined him at his table under the platanes at the Café Quatre Dauphins.

�??There are days when the noise is too loud. Those are the days when you want to turn it off and not hear about anything, certainly not the latest blathering (Ed. Note: the NYT article linked here has less than a paragraph about how this whole thing STARTED, with Georgian attacks on Russians) about a defenseless Emerging Democracy who is innocently and bravely trying its best to be just like the U.S.A. and is led courageously by its U.S.A.-educated and U.S.A./C.I.A.-connected President who, with his round-eyed intensity and malapropisms begins to sound way, way too much like that obnoxious character Borat.�??

Agnes V. puts down her coffee cup and nods sagely and gives The WORLD Reporter a gentle pat on his forearm. She cannot mask her concern for his rising anxiety. He is sweating, more from being so distraught that he can hardly speak intelligibly than from the weather, which has turned coolish with a heavy pack of low gray clouds and humidity that smells of lagoons and suntan oil. Her words of comfort come slowly and gently.

�??Calm toi,�?? she says. �??Us Europeans, we�??ve seen this before. The Russians. The Russian Tanks. The Russian Blustering and Bullying. They are prickly about their borders. And like the bear that is their national symbol, they can cause great damage with gestures that seem to them reasonable and self-protective.�??

�??Oh, it�??s not that. I think I get that part of it. The brutality is stupid, the brutal acts of all of 'em. And Pres. Sarkozy flying off to Moscow to try and broker a deal, that�??s on the mark, too. It�??s the self-righteous carrying on from my compatriots. They�??ve been provoking Russia for all these years and now reap the whirlwind -- or, rather, the people of Georgia do. And the U.S.A. corporate media doing its part with such lockstep precision.�??

�??Forget it, Jake. It�??s Chinatown.�??

�??I know, I know. The Captains of Advanced Capitalism have had it all figured out from the start, with a complete cost analysis and the level of profit to be accrued, even with the expected Russian reaction and Georgian resistance and the wreckage of lives and property across the region. All that oil. All that natural gas.�??

A long moment of silence. Then the Reporter says, �??I�??m being too cynical.�??

�??I�??d say it�??s more a case of it�??s tough being a journalist.�??

�??Thanks for noticing.�??

�??You must not give up.�??

�??If you insist.�??

The Reporter reaches inside his jacket for the half-pint of Old Crow that isn�??t there anymore. Not finding it, he shrugs and says, �??What�??s to be done?�??

�??We�??re doing it.�??

-30-

Ed. Note: This Amnesty International summary of the conflict gives some details of the history, culminating with the attack by GEORGIAN troops on civilian neighborhoods in the South Ossetian capital.

Edition: New pages from an old book

2008-08-10T16:36:00.004+02:00

You are invited over to the dada/fluxus studio for a glass of wine and some veritable Croquants de St.-Paul-de-Fenouillet and a chance to meet the artists, if they show up, which is predicted but not guaranteed. In any case, you can click on the image above to get a look at the old book which is being given a showing (the first few pages, with the rest to come in due course).

Grillman and Luna will be there, along with Agnes V., Santos Dumont, Mister Magic, A.P.E. and Cristabel (with Elly), the WORLD Reporter, and other denizens of these parts.

Hoo-ray.

-30-

BREAKING NEWS: Dangerous Cows Attack Vineyards, Vignerons Counterattack

2008-08-09T15:52:00.001+02:00

Pyrenees cattle, at home in the mountains, know their way around

Luna spreads a dozen photographs across the wide table in the center of the editorial office at Grillman and Luna: Pyrenees cattle, vineyards of the Côte Vermeille, grape leaves, grapes . . .

"I think we've got a story here," she says with rising intensity in her voice. "The cattle who steal across the mountains at night and raid the vineyards in the hills along the Côte Vermeille around Banyuls and Port Vendres."

"You're kidding," Grillman says, without looking up from the Smith-Corona, where he is pecking out his notes on the latest offense against good taste and human dignity committed by the Republicans in the USA.

"Not kidding. Listen to this. I was on the phone just now with Agnes V. and she says we can't pass this up. Seems that the cattle who live on the Spanish side of the mountains down on the coast at Banyuls have been naughty beasts. What they've been doing is sneaking over the border at night -- at night, mind you -- and feasting in the vineyards, munching the tender shoots on the grape vines and now that the grapes are maturing, going for the grapes, too."

Mountain pass where the cattle cross into France

Grillman stops typing and gives his partner a look of amazed disbelief. "How do the vignerons know this? Sounds like a story you'd hear after about three Ricards."

"Seriously, it's happening. They've been seen, the cattle have, in groups up to twenty at a time. And they've found hoofprints around the chewed-up vines."

Hillside vineyards overlooking the sea where the cattle feast on the vines

"I guess this has gotten to be a serious problem."

"Many hectares of vines have been devoured."

Grillman yanks out the paper in his typewriter and rolls in a fresh sheet. "You're right. This IS too good to be true." He begins typing.

Côte Vermeille grape leaves in the spring are succulent, to cows

Late summer mature vines with clusters of grapes . . .

the cows from Catalunya Sud love the most.

"Oh, yes," says Luna. "It has become such a problem that the vignerons have formed an association to deal with it. The League United to Defend against Dangerous Beasts."

"Oh my."

"Yeah. One member worries that the group isn't being taken seriously. Cows have this image of being so calm and gentle."

"Like La vache qui rit."

"Exactly. And it seems that as the grapes approach full maturity, the cows are feasting more and more."

Grillman types frantically.

"Not only that, but the males have started coming along for the party."

"A regular bovine bachannal!"

"So you can imagine how distraught the members of the Dangerous Beasts Defense League are. They won't advocate shooting the beasts. That's too extreme, even for people who see their livelihood being eaten and trampled. They're asking for tranquilizer guns. Once the beasts have been stunned, they can be returned to their owners, in Catalunya Sud."

"They know where the cattle are coming from."

"Apparently so. There's a rancher on the other side of the mountain who lets his herds run free to graze on public land. They've had a dry year over there, so the cattle are simply looking for fresh greens."

"Gourmands that they are, they've settled on the tender vines and grapes."

Luna arranges photos into a story line. "Thing is, the vignerons are worried that one of their number will lose his patience and get a rifle and start shooting the cows."

Grillman is pecking away. "So the story could get grim."

"Let's hope not."

-30-

"Decency?" Did I hear you say "Decency?"

2008-08-08T16:00:00.003+02:00

"Eureka!" shouts Grillman, leaping to his feet and waving a file folder. "I found it!"

"What is it?" asks Luna, who is passing through the office on her way to meet Agnes V. to discuss the famous documentary filmmaker's latest project: covering the American election campaign among Americans in Europe.

"I found the quotes I've been looking everywhere for. I remembered them, kinda, but I wanted to get them right."

"Is this for the scathing attack you have planned?" she asks with a straight face.

"Yes, the one on how the corporate media -- hell, the whole corporate apparatus -- is using character assassination to bring down the Obama campaign."

"And?"

"It's a quote from the Senate hearings in 1954 into charges that Sen. McCarthy had used unlawful influence on Army officials in support of a friend of his staff attorney. In any case, late in the hearings, which lasted thirty-six days and were covered end to end on live television and exposed McCarthy to the American public, which turned against him, McCarthy tried to smear a lawyer in the firm of one of the attorneys, Joseph N. Welch, and Welch finally had had enough, and said:

Until this moment Senator, I think I never really gauged your cruelty or recklessness. Let us not assassinate this lad further, Senator. You've done enough. Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you left no sense of decency?

"A reference to Sen. McCain?"

"Who else?"

"Well, I'm with you on this. I mean, I've never trusted anybody who tacks 'my friend' on the end of boasts and threats the way this McCain character does."

"Right. Like Sen. McCarthy did when he said, 'Traitors are not gentlemen, my good friends. They don't understand being treated like gentlemen.'"

"It's high time somebody stood up."

"Damn straight," says Grillman. "And demand of this McCain character to show a sense of decency himself."

"Got it out of your system now?"

"Soon as I get this written I will."

-30-

Figs along the Agly and a house as old as the Mayflower

2008-08-08T06:36:00.005+02:00

Fig season is upon us in earnest. The trees grow wild around here and become massive to the point of grandiosity. This has been a particularly good year, what with the extra rain and the mild weather. All the trees around here are laden with clusters of the fruit which are beginning to mature. At least this is the case with the wild varieties which grow along the roadside or in the corner of garden plots and become so weighed down with the maturing figs that the branches bend until they break or find support on a cabin roof.

Yesterday afternoon, with a welcome change in the weather -- overcast and a touch less hot -- we took a walk through town and then down to the gardens along the Agly and on out to the benches facing the olive grove and the Gorges de Galamus.

In the pearly light, buildings not quite noticed before suddenly reach out and grab your attention. Such was the case with this one. Carved over the door is the date 1620, which wasn't so long ago in terms of the universe, but in human terms not yesterday and was the year the Pilgrims set sail from England on the Mayflower and landed on Cape Cod. The house looks like it could use a little attention and will probably get it one day. St. Paul is filled with structures such as this one, many of which are well-maintained. House pride is a big thing here.

(to be continued)

Grillman's Sicilian Diary: Scicli: The Most Beautiful City in the World

2008-08-06T16:26:00.006+02:00

To begin with, I don't know how to pronounce this town. (photo left, click here to enlarge) Is it SheeKlee? That's the best I can do and it's a good word, a Sicilian sounding word. I think Sicily is pronounced very differently by the Sicilians than the limp-sounding English version. Sissly. Sound's like a painter of impressionist landscapes. The Italian version even seems soft: see-CHEE-leeya. But I don't know. There's too much I don't know, so I don't let it bother me too much most of the time. Still, it would be a good thing to know. Being here, you'd want to know.

But Scicli. (photo left, click here to enlarge) In the heat of mid-morning the streets are abanonded, mostly, except for the men who sit in the shade of palms and oleanders and gab about whatever men gab about. Meanwhile, back at home, the women are mopping floors and worrying about what the noon repas will be. These ancient divisions of labor seem to be the rule here. And the women do the marketing. They trudge the streets in their somber clothing lugging their utilitarian baskets; they slip into the churches to light candles and to talk to the saints.

But Scicli (photo below, click here to enlarge). People in this hillside town overlooking the carob plantations that roll down to the Med., they will remind you that a famous local son, Elio Vittorini, called Scicli "The most beautiful city in the world." Which they admit is an exaggeration, caused maybe by Elio V.'s nostalgia for his childhood, which was passed around here (he was born in Syracuse in 1908 and earned his stripes for writing anti-fascist lit in the fascist days).

But he also started a novel about living in Sicily (Conversations in Sicily) with: "That winter I was gripped by absract furies" (the main character's struggles with his conscience over fascism), after a disclaimer stating that the setting of the book is Sicily only because he likes the sound of the word, but then goes on to let the main character say: "I was calm in my hopelessness as if I had never had fifteen years of childhood, and of Sicily, and prickly pears, sulphur, and Macbeth, in the mountains."

That's a mix of images to give one pause to wonder. While the men get up and dust off the seats of their pants and bid each other their usual noontime goodbyes and head home. Prickly pears there are aplenty.

-30-

The Case of the Disappearing Gourmand

2008-08-04T14:39:00.007+02:00

The WORLD Reporter hands Mister Magic his copy of L�??Indépendant and points excitedly at the story he has circled (three times) with a blue Bic.

�??Read this!�??

�??Hmmm,�?? says the Prestidigitator Par Excellence, squinting to make out the headline: Disparition du gastronome suisse : le mystère s'épaissit. �??So the mystery thickens.�??

�??Or widens, you might say. But what gets me is that the reporter from La Vanguardia sat at the table wolfing down Three-Star Michelin grub for three hours -- repeat, THREE hours -- before concluding that she had been stiffed by the Swiss gourmand Pascal Henry who was making the rounds of all sixty-eight Micelin Three Star restaurants IN SIXTY-EIGHT DAYS (considered an historic event in its own right) because of his passion for food -- he�??s a simple motorcycle courier and had saved up for this junket for years -- and had already scarfed down his free dinner at the world-famous El Bulli in Roses, Catalunya Spain (free, because the chef, Paul Bocuse, had taken a liking to him and given him a letter of support for his project to show the other chefs on the tour) and had, as the French put it, fled the field.�??

Mister Magic holds the paper at arm�??s length and reads. �??So this reporter. She had purely by chance run into this Pascal Henry at El Bulli and had wrangled an interview with him.�??

�??So it appears.�??

�??She was out to ride the famous coat tails herself.�??

�??Looks that way.�??

�??But, according to her, Henry first agreed to be interviewed -- can�??t you just see it? him sitting there polishing off his crême catalan brulé when up walks this importunate reporter who importunes -- and then put her off by making the lame excuse of not having any business cards in his pocketbook, so stepped out to get her one and . . .�??

Mister Magic nods sagely. �??And proceeded to vanish.�??

�??Hasn�??t been seen since.�??

�??By anyone?�??

�??Nada.�??

�??Since June.�??

The Old Illusionist pauses, then says: �??Bravo!�??

�??Hunh?�??

�??Obviously the man had gotten himself into a tight spot. What a stroke of genius to make an escape worthy of Houdini.�??

A long moment passes, then the Reporter says, �??Let�??s hope it turns out to be nothing more serious than that.�??

�??Natch.�??

-30-

(NOT SO) BREAKING NEWS: The Augustinians Arrive

2008-08-03T15:29:00.011+02:00

Mister Magic�??s eyes are wide as the saucers under a couple of noisettes (black espressos, for the uninitiated) but he maintains his performer�??s sang froid none the less. �??Geeze,�?? he whispers. �??Is it like this EVERY Sunday morning?�??

He and Santos Dumont have just taken a table at the Quatre Dauphins café with the church bells (both sets) going like there�??s a fire somewhere, two dozen motorbikes from the Le Boulou MOTOCLUB grumbling through the Planiol under the disinterested eye of the bronze poilu eternally advancing on the unseen enemy in a pose reminiscent of Delacroix�??s Liberty Leading the People except that it�??s a guy fully decked out in trench warfare gear in front of the War Memorial and not a barebreasted goddess smeared with street grime wearing the Phrygian cap of revolution, and a camper teetering crazily as it swerves to avoid flattening a silverhaired woman pulling a shopping cart where the road to the Gorges takes a bend around the corner of the place. The usual gang of vignerons have taken root in the densest shade under the platanes and grin and grimace as they watch the passing parade with amusement mixed with a measure of disdain. At a table in the corner near the florist's shop, a man nobody has ever seen (pasty white skin, wrinkled tee, and unironed bermuda shorts) scribbles an address on a postcard he just bought at the Presse across the street. Two women at another table smoke hand-rolled cigarettes as fast as they can roll them.

In short: the Augustinians have arrived.

Just then, Grillman and Luna walk up. Luna carries a shopping basket of bread and veggies for lunch; Grillman fidgets with his satchel full of notepads and old cameras, even a Polaroid SX-70 which he hates to throw away even though he can�??t get film for it anymore.

Luna takes in the situation and says to Mister Magic, �??I see you�??re having trouble adjusting.�??

The Man of a Thousand Illusions replies, �??Unless I am terribly mistaken, this region has a reputation for being CALM and TRANQUIL.�??

�??To paraphrase Jake�??s old police force partner in Chinatown, �??Forget it, Jake. It�??s Chinatown.�??

�??Meaning?�??

�??It�??s that time of year.�??

�??Yeah,�?? says Grillman, pulling a copy of the morning L�??Indépendant out of his satchel. �??Says it right here: The Great Transhumance! The sheep are moving to summer pasture . . . and beach and mountain and riverside.�??

Around the corner wheel a dozen men dressed like Tour de France pros and they are riding snazzy racing bikes. As they come to rest in the shade of the trees, one of their number advances on a couple of empty café tables and pulls them together while reaching for enough chairs for himself and his biking companions.

�??The Americans Have Arrived,�?? notes Santos Dumont.

�??And,�?? says Luna, �??the Belgians and Dutch and Spanish and English and .
. .�??

"Everybody else!" concludes Mister Magic.

-30-

Why do you THINK they call it The Dog Days? Arf?

2008-08-02T12:22:00.002+02:00

Grillman reaches into his pants pocket for his bandanna. It�??s not so much the heat as the humidity that makes you feel hot. And makes you sweat. These are the things he says to himself over and over, but he knows it�??s all a crock. When it�??s hot, it�??s hot. But this, here in the Fenouillèdes, is nothing. He remembers New Orleans when it sizzles, when even the sidewalks curl up like bacon strips on a hot griddle, when even the paint on the streetsigns fade before your very eyes, the reds turning a sour pink so that the Crystal Hot Sauce billboard starts looking wan and tasteless instead of zippy and peppery.

None of this seems to bother A.P.E. or Cristabel that much. A.P.E. -- which yes, is pronounced �??ape�?? -- got his nickname from a biker jacket he wore when he was in the Anglo-Phonic Earwigs, a punk rock band, back in his youth, which was not so long ago he is quick to remind you. They�??ve just arrived from their vacation home in the Razès with their dog Elly and are quite enjoying the Agly-side sauna, thank you very much, after a long winter and spring in the English upper midlands where it snows and rains and sleets and is gray and, as Cristabel puts it, Horrid, almost all year long.

�??Xarf rarr,�?? says Elly, with an air of composure rare, even for a dog.

At least �??Xarf rarr�?? is what it sounds like to Grillman, who gently pats the sweet, dotty canine on the head and continues mopping his dripping brow.

A.P.E., on the other hand, turns to Elly and laughs and says, �??Couldn�??t agree with you more, old girl,�?? and then proceeds to har-har madly.

Cristabel joins in the laughter. �??Oh, you naughty.�??

Grillman says to Luna, �??You think they�??re all three losing it in this heat?�??

Luna shrugs. She�??s fanning herself with a broadbrimmed straw hat and keeping cool behind a sly pair of sunshades while smiling broadly. �??So tell me A.P.E., what�??s so funny.�??

A.P.E. is nearly choking with mirth, but he finally manage to catch his breath and say, �??Elly�??s. Too. Huh. Much. True comic. Genius.�??

�??Oh, come on, guys,�?? says Luna. �??Share.�??

�??Well,�?? says Cristabel, �??it�??s a play on words, really. A.P.E.�??s been taking pictures of the Gorges, right? So she says, �??That�??s simply Gorgeous�??!�??

A.P.E., who has calmed down to a chortle, �??It�??s the �??simply�?? that gets me. What a nose for the sardonic that hound possesses. �??Gorges slash Gorgeous,�?? that�??s easy. But SIMPLY Gorgeous . . .�?? A.P.E. collapses again in a fit of guffawing.

�??Must be the heat,�?? observes Luna, resuming her fanning. �??Too much after all that mizz�??ble weather back home.�??

�??That or they�??ve been reading too much Grahame Greene.�??

�??Both.�??

-30-

test

2008-07-31T12:18:00.000+02:00

In the Land of the Blind, Who Sees the Truth?

2008-07-30T15:44:00.006+02:00

War is delightful to those who have had no experience of it.
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
Desiderius Erasmus

He who laughs has not yet heard the bad news.
Bertolt Brecht

The WORLD Reporter paces. He is madly chewing the stump of a cigar that makes him look like a demented Bertolt Brecht. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a box of matches and opens it and is about to strike it and light the stogie but thinks better of it and returns the unused match to the box and shuts it.

�??What�??s the matter with you?�?? demands Luna, who is arranging photographs on a table in the center of the editorial office. When she gets no answer except a gruff �??Rumpf,�?? she motions toward a chair and says: �??Why don�??t you just sit down and tell me what is really troubling you.�??

�??I�??ll tell you, but I�??m not sitting down.�??

She shrugs and says nothing and continues laying pictures in a row.

�??The world is not getting the true story.�??

�??When has it, ever?�??

�??I don�??t know, I don�??t know. But maybe in the World War Two days it was better, when the censorship of the image press was less heavy-handed.�??

�??And then came Vietnam.�??

�??Exactly! And the photogs had the run of the war zone, took their pictures, got the story out, forced the world to see the truth. SEE the truth.�??

�??The horrific images turned the public against the war, which of course went on and on anyway.�??

�??Yes, but at least people had a reference, they had a look at the backstage, at the stinking reality. They couldn�??t say they didn�??t know.�??

For a moment Luna gazes first at one then the other of two photos, comparing, assessing. �??Yeah,�?? she says at last. �??They came down way too hard on that photographer, Zoriah Miller.�??

The Reporter halts his pacing and exclaims, �??That�??s the one! The most recent, maybe the most blatant persecution by the Pentagon.�??

�??Something to counter the Marlboro Man visuals, the glorification of it all, telling the story of what has happened to the soldiers and to the people, and so on and on. But who tells? Who shows? Who looks? The economy is taking a nosedive. You think anybody cares about the fine points anymore?�??

The Reporter reaches again for the matches. �??I think I see what you mean. Like the man said, First the grub, then the ethics. People don�??t want to be bothered. They�??re disgusted with war because of the expense and the mismanagement. Not because it�??s war. Not because it�??s wrong.�??

Luna holds up the two photos she has been weighing. �??Which one?�??

�??Meanwhile,�?? the Reporter goes on, lost in his consternation, �??corporate is shutting down newsrooms everywhere.�??

�??Not us.�??

�??You�??re not corporate.�??

Note: In the WORLD Reporter�??s satchel this morning are to be found:

http://bagnewsnotes.typepad.com/bagnews/2008/07/4000-us-combat.html

http://www.upi.com/Top_News/2008/07/26/US_militarys_media_control_debated/UPI-28501217099043/

http://www.drawger.com/stevebrodner/?section=comments&article_id=5833#comments

http://www.truthout.org/article/over-4000-us-combat-deaths-just-a-handful-images

When Flying Men Arrive with Food Tips

2008-07-28T14:59:00.008+02:00

�??What about merguez?�?? says Santos Dumont.

�??What about merguez?�?? replies Luna.

The Flying Ace of the Fenouillèdes has stopped by the offices of G. & L. for a visit and to share a discovery he has made. No, not some new mechanical device or improvement in one of his various flying machines, but rather a food tip.

�??Well,�?? he says, fingering his suspenders and flashing a row of sparking teeth under his black mustache, �??you've been talking about grilling some merguez, but just never seem to find any, not the veritable anyway.�??

�??That�??s right. Back when we had our studios in the Haute Vallée de l�??Aude, we used to grill merguez all the time, but we weren�??t getting the real McCoy, as it turns out. Peppery things they were, too, fiery little sizzlers. Really gave Grillman fits, trying to grill them without setting the garden on fire with flaming grease.�??

�??Grilling flambeau is what I called it!�?? Grillman shouts from the door as he enters the office. �??By the time you grilled those babies, you�??d have a cooker drenched in pigfat and on your grill nothing but gristle shaped like sausage links and all burned to a crisp.�??

�??Kinda put us off merguez, to tell you the truth,�?? adds Luna, grimacing at the memory of it.

�??Help is at hand,�?? Santos Dumont announces as he reaches into the shopping basket in his hand and pulls out a package of dark pepper red sausages. �??You�??ve got to keep in mind just what merguez means in Arabic: sausage. Since their dietary customs are similar to the Hebrews and other Semites of the desert -- hold the pork, thank you -- then it only makes sense that their sausage would be composed only of lamb or mutton, sometimes with beef thrown in. Usually flavored with various herbs and spices, but especially red pepper, in this case with Esplette pepper. Guaranteed veritable!�??

Grillman steps up and takes the package from The Daring Aviator and invites him to stay for lunch. �??I think we all know what needs to be done.�??

�??I�??ll stay, but on one condition,�?? Santos Dumont says with a toothy grin.

�??Yes?�?? say Grillman and Luna eagerly.

Santos Dumont reaches into his basket. �??Only if we can decant this bottle of Ninet de Pena Rouge.�??

Grillman turns to Luna and says, �??What do you think?�??

�??Start slicing aubergines, Big Boy.�??

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new slideshow by the dada/fluxus gang

2008-07-27T21:30:00.004+02:00

Click HERE for fullscreen version

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café dog

2008-07-27T17:19:00.001+02:00

Confessions of a Grilling Addict: flat peaches dream

2008-07-27T15:30:00.003+02:00

Grillman rolls over and reaches for the light switch beside the bed. The clock across the room says five o'clock. A fan stirs the still, humid air. A good night for dreaming. He turns off the light and goes back to sleep.

Obama's World Citizenship "Presumption" called "Uppity," and other Magic Matters

2008-07-27T07:07:00.008+02:00

The WORLD Reporter throws the wad of newspaper clippings in the poubelle beside the ice cream sign in front of The Quatre Dauphins café and reaches into his jacket pocket for the half pint bottle of Old Crow that he used to keep there �??for just such an emergency�?? but pulls out nothing but linty tobacco crumbs, an old Champion receipt, and a ticket stub from the Tautavel museum of prehistory just down the road where he takes friends visiting whether they want to learn the story of the inhabitants of the Repubic circa 450,000 years ago.

�??I guess it�??s to be expected,�?? he mutters to himself as he winds his way to a table in the shade of the platane. �??They have to do this to the man in order to make a man of him, is that what it is?�??

The Reporter looks up and sees a fellow who looks more like a vigneron (grizzled, tanned, thick of fingers and biceps) than a café waiter (harried, pale, slim of hands and arms) headed toward him with a questioning look, so he holds up an index finger and says, �??Une noisette, s�??il vous plâit,�?? which is the local way of ordering a single cup of black espresso. The vigneron nods and retreats back toward the bar.

Just then, the man they call Mister Magic appears at the Reporter�??s elbow and gives the newspaperman quite a start. �??What!�?? he exclaims and jerks his elbow back and then, when he sees who it is, smiles and takes a big breath and feigns an attack of jitters by slapping his chest dramatically. �??Well, my old friend. You gave me a jolt there. Sit down. Let me get the man to bring you a coffee.�??

�??No, no,�?? whispers Miser Magic, brushing back a strand of slick black hair which has managed to escape the hairstyle he calls his carefully coiffed pompadour but which looks to most people like the unintended result of a lounge crooner�??s unlucky afternoon at the races: unglued and snafu�??d. �??I�??d rather have a glass of muscat.�??

�??So be it.�??

The Reporter signals to the vigneron-cum-waiter by pointing to Mister Magic as he sits down. Everybody knows what Mister Magic prefers for his apéritif, even if it is only ten in the morning. While they wait, a tribal unit dressed for serious summer jostles its way through the square, only to be followed by yet another, outfitted with straw hats, sunshades, backpacks, and cameras.

After a moment, the noisette and muscat arrive. The two men lift cup and glass, nod �??Santé,�?? and sip in silence.

�??Presumptuous�?? growls the Reporter, stabbing an leaky-Bic-stained finger at the crumpled newspaper clippings in the poubelle. �??That�??s what they�??re calling Obama. Rankles, that does.�??

�??I don�??t wonder,�?? says Mister Magic, appearing and disappearing, as he speaks, two-euro coins from his sleeve cuffs, from beneath the tabletop, behind the Reporter�??s rumpled fedora. �??They had a much less mellifluous word for it when I was playing the nightclubs and union halls in The Crescent City and up and down the Coast in those days.�??

�??And what, praytell, was that word?�?? asks the Reporter, watching a two-euro piece sail from under his hat.

�??Uppity.�??

Silence for a moment.

�??Take a look at this,�?? says Mister Magic, causing a copy of the morning Le Figero to appear from under his jacket�??s spangled collar. �??Consternation for the Old Guard everywhere.�??

�??It�??s a kind of magic,�?? notes the Reporter with a wan smile.

�??Good choice of words.�??

Mister Magic winks. A little USA flag materializes from the Reporter�??s shirt pocket.

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BREAKING NEWS: New Photo Gallery Opens: CAPTION FREE

2008-07-26T14:57:00.005+02:00

It�??s getting on toward lunchtime and there is still so much to be done: window frames to paint, masking tape to remove, floors to mop, pictures to develop, print, and mount for exhibit. But the crew at Grillman and Luna is up to the task and is hard at work as we speak, getting the new gallery, caption free, prepared for its inaugural exhibition, �??Le Tour de France.�??

We are here on the terrasse where painters are working with keen eye and steady hand and Luna is with us to talk about the gallery and how it came about, her vision, that sort of thing.

�??Mmmm, I don�??t know about Vision, exactly,�?? says Luna. She is busy peeling masking tape off a window but pauses to talk about the gallery. �??The whole idea of caption free is just that: that the image should speak for itself. Or a sequence of images on a theme or general subject.�??

�??I�??ve heard that the gallery was your idea.�??

�??Well, maybe I was the one who started talking about it a while back, I really don�??t know for sure. I like to think of it as more of a group concept, an extension of our overall . . .�??

�??Of course. Exactly. Another take, you might say, on the general motif, the je ne sais quoi around here.�??

�??I�??d prefer to say nothing.�??

�??And so remain . . .�??

"Caption free."

"And the first photo project to be shown is?"

"Le Tour de France."

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Confessions of a Grilling Addict: Charcoal Ethics

2008-07-24T17:50:00.005+02:00

When it comes to the ethics of the thing, Grillman is no slouch. He keeps busy at it, always thinking, assessing, weighing the pros and cons, and unlike some who take the matter lightly, or those who use grilling for political purposes, Grillman is convinced that attention to the small details of the grilling experience, that making those hundreds of choices (such as what kind of charcoal to use) with an unselfish concern for the fate of humanity, well, this bespeaks of a rich inner life and enriches the soul.

Take the matter of charcoal, since that is at the �??heart�?? of the matter you might say.

�??Step back for a second, Grillman,�?? shouts Agnes V. �??There�??s a shadow right there and we want your face in the light.�??

Luna hands Grillman the script outline for the day�??s shoot and he takes it and studies if for a moment. He hears the impatient breathing, the clunks and clanks of equipment being sarcastically readjusted. The crew of Cooking Slow with Grillman and Luna is impatient to get on with the episode, now that summer weather has finally arrived in the Republic and everyone is sweating.

�??But you know,�?? Grillman says, �??I�??m really not being a prima donna about this.�??

�??I know you�??re not. We expect it of you, this ethical pondering.�?? Luna steps closer and lowers her voice. �??But mon chou, these folks have been waiting around long enough. We need to get on with . . .�??

�??I can�??t do this with briquettes. They�??re toxic. No telling what�??s in them. The fumes get on the food and one day you get some horrible cancer in your guts. Or worse.�??

Agnes V. joins them and holds out her hands in supplication. Grillman still has not moved from the shade of the umbrella on the G. & L. terrasse. In fact, his stance bespeaks of unyielding-ness.

�??But don�??t you see,�?? Agnes V. says with a gentle but definite tone of imploring. �??These are just to get some coals for this shot. It�??s not for cooking. Prop charcoal, you might say.�??

�??Bad example, though,�?? says Grillman with a shrug. �??What if the viewer can see that it�??s not real charcoal like we always use.�??

�??The coals will have burned down enough. They�??ll never know.�??

�??I will, though.�??

A moment of silence as Agnes V. and Luna exchange a glance of dismay. What to do?

Finally, Grillman speaks up. �??I mean, we even go so far as to insist on wood charcoal from ecologically managed forests. Which isn�??t so far to go, really, if you want to be on ethically sound footing.�??

�??Well,�?? says Agnes V. with a shrug of her own. �??I guess that means . . .�??

�??Let�??s shoot it anyway,�?? Grillman concedes. �??We can run a disclaimer subtitle. This charcoal for demonstration purposes only. Hmmm. Even better: These charcoal briquettes made from compressed banana peels.�??

�??Or, even better still,�?? offers Luna. �??These charcoal briquettes are being destroyed to prevent their use in real grilling.�??

�??Yes!�?? exclaims Grillman.

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Tour de France: Fenouillèdes Sprint Report (2)

2008-07-23T16:02:00.005+02:00

Early afternoon in the Fenouillèdes. A blustery, cold wind from the mountains and a low gray sky. This may not be normal for July, but nobody seems to mind. It�??s Fenouillèdes Sprint Day and all the streets and roads that intersect with the route of Le Tour de France are closed. A holiday spirit is in the air. Nobody is working. Every vacationer within twenty kilometers -- couples, families with kids, retirees, EVERYBODY -- has descended on St. Paul-de-Fenouillet, capital of the Republic, and they jostle for a good vantage point along the route.On the hill at the edge of town, on the road to Maury, the next village down the valley, stands the building they call the Chateau d�??Eau with its commanding view of St. Paul and the valley of the Agly. What an imagination-boosting name that is for such a commonplace building as a �??water tower.�??

�??What did you say?�?? Luna asks Grillman. They are standing in the parking lot where the busses to Perpignan and Quillan board passengers most days but is crowded with Tour de France spectators, jostling.

�??Oh, nothing,�?? replies Grillman, gesturing . Just thinking with my mouth open, I guess. Water Castles. Castles in Spain. White Castle hamburgers. You know.�??

Before Luna can respond, Agnes V. passes by with her cameraman and soundwoman toting their equipment. All three are eagerly scanning the street and the crowd for choice film and sound opps. Agnes V. turns to her crew, gives them instructions, and watches them hustle off toward a crowd gathering behind a truck which has just pulled to a stop on the street corner with a man selling yellow Tour-de-France tee-shirts and yellow umbrellas.

�??This looks to be as good a place for us as any,�?? shouts Agnes over the blare of a loudspeaker mounted on the tee-shirt truck. �??Good views as the riders come up the hill and make this turn.�??

�??What about the chateau d�??eau?�?? Grillman says, waving his arm toward the the castle-stye tower at the top of the street. �??Up there, with the view of the whole town and the racers racing up the hill and then over it and down toward Maury.�??

Just then another truck festooned with loudspeakers (yes, as if with garlands, making them festive, religious almost) rounds the corner down the hill leading a whole pack of decorated trucks announcing the arrival of The Caravan.

And so the parade begins.

Before long the groups -- everything with the Tour seems to be done in �??teams�?? -- decorated trucks and cars mount the hill, each group representing one of the official teams of the Tour (Cofidis, Rabobank, Skoda, Vache Qui Rit, etc.) Costumed personnages throw �??gifts�?? (fifteen million during the whole Tour, so it is said) to the crowd.

�??Takes you back,�?? Grillman says wistfully.

�??I know what you mean,�?? Luna responds, reaching into the air. �??THROW ME SOMETHIN�?? MISTAH!�??

�??That�??s the spirit,�?? says Grillman.

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Once Upon a Time, there was a former newspaperman trapped inside a bundle of wires. Complications ensued.

2008-07-20T21:51:00.003+02:00

Why does life have to be so complicated when it comes to little things, such as getting a reliable ADSL connection? Hunh? You spend hours and hours fiddling with it. You wait hours and days for the Service Provider to respond to your messages. When you finally DO get a message from India or Guataemala or the Seychelles (Outsourcing does exist and it's worse for the human spirit than Coca-Cola) you spend precious moments on end attempting to follow their arcane instructions for Troubleshooting. What a word that is, troubleshooting. Find the problem and kill it, shoot it, blast away with both barrels and

The typing is fast and furious.

The typist is as well. Fast. Furious.

Luna passes through the office.

She sees the passion and the flying drops of sweat.

He stops typing and slumps in his chair.

�??Feeling better?�?? she asks.

�??Like the man said, There is no solution.�??

�??Right, Because there is no problem.�??

"On the other hand, there may be more. To. It. Than. That."

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Tour de France: Fenouillèdes Sprint Report (1)

2008-07-18T15:56:00.002+02:00

Grillman reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a box of mints and hands one to Luna who takes it and pops it in her mouth. They are sitting in the little park behind the church where they have just had a picnic while watching the parade-watchers gather along the street and find their spots for watching the Tour when it arrives in three hours.

"Sometimes I wonder," says Grillman, "just what it is that makes this so interesting for people, why they would stand here for hours just to see the fellas flash by and be gone in a matter of seconds."

"You say you wonder, but you really don't. You can't fool me. You're just as much an addict as I am."

Grillman smiles.

"And," Luna continues, "what an international crowd we have here today. The Dutch family having their picnic over there. The man wearing the 'Belgium' cap and walking up and down taking endless pictures."

"Seems to be a day for fashion statements, too," observes Grillman with a nod toward the two gendarmes who have taken up residence at the corner of the main avenue and the park.

"And of course you have to take into consideration all the interruptions of daily life that having the Tour pass through town intails."

"Such as."

"At the boulangerie this morning, the racks behind the counter were nearly empty already and it was only half past nine. This puzzled me, so I asked why, and she told me that her husband, who handles the baking and the deliveries to the outlying villages, well, he got caught when they closed the highway up the road this morning and won't be able to return to finish the baking until this afternoon."

(to be continued)

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Tour de France: Fenouillèdes Sprint, First Pix Just In

2008-07-17T21:08:00.010+02:00

At the Poste, a handlettered sign warns patrons that on account of street closings for the Tour de France certain changes must be made in office hours and delivery routes.

At half past eleven, gendarmes begin patrollling the route of the Tour and at noon sharp the road is closed to all traffic, except for official Tour vehicles.

By two-thirty, the streets are lined with people, a mixture of Saint Paul residents and vacationers. The Caravan has already passed through (more details in a later post) and the advance teams have cleared the way. Now we wait. The silence is profound, like that of a cathedral while waiting for the priest to ring the bell.

Finally the moment has arrived. Helicopters swing and sway through the sky, motorcycles chug up the hill, the team autos follow closely, and in the middle are the riders, the two leaders . . . for the moment.

More pictures and videos in later posts. We are exhausted from the day's excitement, which included a catastrophic fall off a mountain, the arrest of a racer in the Tour's top ten, and an exciting sprint through the streets of Saint Paul.

As one of the Tour reporters said, "Hallucinant! Hallucinant!!" And we couldn't agree more.

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Sprint Day: First Sign of the Tour

2008-07-17T11:02:00.002+02:00

First Sign of the Tour
The Main Street Closes at Noon
The Caravan arrives at One-Thirty
The Sprinters arrive at Three Oh Five

Vive Saint Paul. Vive La France. Vive La Republque.

2008-07-14T15:28:00.007+02:00

A sunny July morning in the Republic with a cool, dry north wind bringing air so crystal clear that colors are as pure as oil paints just squeezed from a tube: the sky, the limestone mountains, the puffy clouds, the trees, the bronze statue of the brave poilu, the tricolor flags. Even if you did not know already, you would have no trouble figuring out what day this is: The day the whole nation acts in unison when, at exactly half-past eleven, in front of the mairie in every commune large and small, a parade sets out with a color guard leading the town council and the mayor wearing his tricolor sash and bearing a wreath decorated with a tricolor ribbon to the war memorial where there is a brief ceremony to lay the wreath in respect for the sacrifices made for La France and to hear a patriotic speech or two and then sing La Marseillaise. This will happen in Saint-Paul-de-Fenouillet. Grillman and Luna will be there.

Eleven o�??clock. Café Quatres Dauphins. Quattorze Juillet is traditionally a quiet day in the Republic, since everyone has the day off and most are taking good advantage of it. Even so, the Presse is open and doing a brisk business with tourists and summer residents coming and going; ditto for the épicerie across the street.

Grillman sips his café and says, half ironically, �??The excitement is building by the minute.�??
�??Don�??t be impatient,�?? says Luna. �??In fact, I see some gendarmes in serious uniform -- képis and all -- and some pompiers, too.�??

At half past eleven, Grillman and Luna wander over to the plaza in front of the War Memorial to await the parade from the mairie which, at that very moment, has set out from the Hôtel de Ville. The solemn procession, led by a color guard bearing colorful flags, advances up Rue François Arago and marches straight to the base of the memorial (photo above, click to enlarge).

The maire lays the wreath before the statue and turns to the assembled crowd and asks for a minute of silence. A trumpet plays a sombre refrain. Flags swirl in the wind. Nobody moves.
Then the maire gives a brief address about the values of the Republic and takes the occasion to announce that the commune will �??open the file�?? on a major project: a medical center for the Fenouillèdes, complete with a clinic, medical specialists to complement the generalists, and other facilities. Awards are then given to a group of Saint-Paulais youth chosen for the regional all-star rugby team. After this, a recording of the national anthem is played. �??Aux armes citoyens! . . .�?? and then everyone joins the mayor and town council for an �??apéritif d�??honneur�?? under the platanes in the middle of the Place de la République. A couple of firemen pose for their portrait in front of the monument (photo left, click to enlarge).

�??As the mayor said,�?? notes Grillman.

�??Vive Saint-Paul. Vive La France. Vive La Republque.�??

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