Au Cochonnet Marin

Are you an accomplished Thumbnick? I am not.
Despite my best efforts I am still a pathetic plodder when I try to emulate generation X.
I think that my thumbs are too big.

I have tried to reduce their size by going on a diet, but as you well know, it is more easily said than done.
I have well-shaped extremities which I daresay brought me many compliments, but lately I have been forced to recognize that I have a problem.
My thumbs are enormous and they get in the way.

I came to the realization of this shameful handicap after watching young people texting, sexting and generally orgasming while fingering their smartphone.
When communicating with their peers, they use their thumbs at a death defying speed that leaves me envious and wanting.

When I try to match their feat, my humongous digits stomp on two keys at the same time and I struggle to complete my task.
For my defense, I will say that these whippersnappers started practicing thumbing much before I did.

To give them a leg up on competition, their parents gave them a smartphone while still in their cribs.
Never mind sucking on your thumb they said; you need to focus on something that will prepare you for the hardships of life. The smartphone tiny keyboard proved ideal for toddlers.
By age four, some were already virtuosi and even gave recitals for their parents jealous friends.

Me, I am still struggling, and I might give up my dream of becoming a real Thumbnick.
Since I am unable to do text messaging, I am reduced to using the crude, antiquated technology known as telephony.
But what can I do? A thumb reduction? Too risky.
I will have to learn to live with it.

To mask my grotesque affliction, I have taken to wearing mittens.
If you see me donning those don’t be afraid. I am not covering an ugly skin disease.
I am simply trying to make you feel at ease by hiding the object of my melancholy.

You still can shake my hand. Just don’t mention the size of my thumbs.
Thank you.

Alain

 

 

Last night I watched on Netflix a wonderful French movie called “La fille du puisatier” (The Well-Digger’s Daughter).
I absolutely loved it and I am not ashamed to say that some scenes brought me close to tears, something that seldom happens when I watch American movies.

This film stars enduring Daniel Auteuil, luminous Àstrid Bergès-Frisbey, Kad Merad and Jean-Pierre Darroussin and is remake of Marcel Pagnol’s 1940 production.
It deals with a bygone era and is a refreshing change from needlessly crude and violent modern-day movies.

The plot revolves around a poor well-digger and his five daughters; it is set in Provence in the early 1900’s.
Just before the beginning of World War One, one of the well-digger’s daughter (Patricia), falls in love with Jacques, the son of a local wealthy merchant.
Shortly after Jacques has left for the front, she discovers that she is pregnant.
After Patricia confides in her father, they both pay a visit to the merchant and his wife and tell them what happened.
Hoping to marry their son to another wealthy family, they refuse to believe Pascal and Patricia and send them away.

I won’t tell you the whole story but I recommend that you rent this movie to find out how it ends.

The charm of this story has something to do with the time and the mores of a long gone era.
The main character (Pascal) is a poor but proud human being.
He pointedly reminds the merchant that there is a big difference between the people who work with tools and the people who sells tools.

The simple people starring in this movie show a nobility of character that makes them shine. They use a plain but poetic language that endears them to our hearts.
Despite some tension, no cuss word is ever heard.

Ingrate looking Daniel Auteuil who directed and starred in this movie did an above average job in portraying the main character.
Radiant Àstrid Bergès-Frisbey (Patricia) who was born in Barcelona, Spain, gave a restrained and extremely touching performance.
Kad Merad and Jean-Pierre Darroussin were equally outstanding.
The only miscast character was Nicolas Duchauvelle (Pascal) the wooden love interest of Patricia.

As a longtime fan of Marcel Pagnol, I heartily recommend that you save your money by avoiding pompous flicks such as Lincoln or Les Misérables and invest instead in this jewel of a movie.

Trust me, you won’t regret it!

Alain

 

A minister dies and is waiting in line at the Pearly Gates. Ahead of him is a guy dressed in sunglasses, a loud shirt, leather jacket, and jeans.
Saint Peter addresses him: “Who are you, so that I may know whether or not to admit you to the Kingdom of Heaven?”
The guy replies: “I’m Joe Cohen, taxi driver, of Noo Yawk City.”
St. Peter consults his list. He smiles and says to the taxi driver, “Take this silken robe and golden staff and enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
The taxi driver goes into Heaven with his robe and staff, and it’s the minister’s turn. He stands erect and booms out, “I am Joseph Snow, pastor of Calvary Church for the last forty-three years.”
St. Peter consults his list and says to the minister, “Take this cotton robe and wooden staff and enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“Just a minute,” says the minister. “That man was just a taxi driver, and he gets a silken robe and golden staff. How can this be?”
“Up here, we work by results,” says Saint Peter. “While you preached, people slept; while he drove, people prayed.”

**********

A guy is reading his paper when his wife walks up behind him and smacks him on the back of the head with a frying pan.
He asks, “What was that for?”
She says, “I found a piece of paper in your pocket with Betty Sue written on it.”
He says, “Jeez, honey, remember last week when I went to the track?  “Betty Sue” was the name of the horse I went there to bet on.” She shrugs and walks away.
Three days later he’s reading his paper when she walks up behind him and smacks him on the back of the head again with the frying pan.
He asks, “What was that for?”
She answers, “Your horse called.”