Au Cochonnet Marin

As it is well-known, the game of pétanque originated in the South of France where nights are usually mild, and the natives expansive and chatty. Just ask my friend Louis Toulon, a typical Provençal.
To him and all his associates, a game is a mix of skills and entertainment. A bantering occasion, full of teasing, curses, and fake indignation.

Those unfamiliar with the game should know that pétanque is not just a physical activity but also a way to decompress; to release emotional strain and latent anxiety. In a spirited game, yells and curses abound, and that’s the way it should be.

To paraphrase a famous sporting quote, “All pétanque players are bilingual. They know French and profanity.”

Profanity, when properly delivered can be highly therapeutic. When playing, contestants should not be afraid to let go of their inner emotions. If they don’t, a match can quickly become very dull. And there is nothing worse than a lifeless game.

A sudden thought: in the spirit of pétanque, prospective candidates might take a few classes of the art of cursing before taking up the game. This way they would easily blend in with more seasoned players.

“Sure, there have been injuries and even some deaths in pétanque – but none of them really that serious.” – Alan Minter

In pétanque, there are two categories of games, casual and competitive. A casual game is a lively occasion, while competition is far more serious and subdued. Some players take the game very seriously, especially when big money is involved. The higher the prizes, the more serious and quieter the players.

“I’d run over my own mother to win a pétanque tournament.”
Yes, that’s how serious a tournament can be!

Look up, laugh loud, talk big, keep the color in your cheek and the fire in your eye, adorn your person, maintain your health, your beauty, and your animal spirits. William Hazlitt

 This is the true spirit of pétanque!

Alain

Many people like to round off a day by watching a movie on the tube, and so do I. My primary sources of amusement are Netflix, Prime Videos, and YouTube. These outfits offer a large choice of movies, but quality alas is often scarce and one (me) must shovel a lot of manure before finding a nugget.

My tastes are eclectic, and I will watch anything that catches my fancy. It could be in Spanish, German, French, Italian, Russian, Hindi, or any other foreign language, as long as the offering comes with subtitles.

Some of my favorite movies are Hispanic productions from across the Rio Grande, and beyond. I particularly like Argentinean movies; they usually have a plausible plot; they can be funny or gritty, and they are realistic and well-acted.

Others, like some French films, can be exasperating. They often feature a stupid story and when the plot is interesting, it has an open-ended finish. When you tell a story, it must have a clear conclusion; somebody dies or lives. There is no in-between. I cannot believe that I liked some of these stories when I was living abroad.

Then, you have the predictable American romcoms (with a happy ending) that often are too vapid and unrealistic. But talking about realism… I noted fairly recently that many movies now have a scene where the protagonist (with her undies on her ankles) is sitting dejectedly on the toilet bowl.

I am not a Puritan, but it is good to remember that “Familiarity breeds contempt”. In other words, the better you know someone, the more you will find fault with her/him, or lose respect for that person. Everybody deserves respect. When I am on the throne, I don’t want any witness to my doings. Remember, even the Queen usually surrounded by personal assistants sits there alone… in majestic mystery.

I would also add that “love cannot thrive without some mystery”. Any relationship needs some boundaries. It is unhealthy and oppressive to have the person you share a bed with, knowing absolutely everything about you, warts, and all. Let sleeping dogs (and toilet stories) lie. So, movie directors, no more peeing scenes, unless it is absolutely necessary to the plot.

It is said that when the Parisians stormed the Bastille, King Louis XVI wrote “rien” (nothing) in his diary. Sometimes it is crucial to intrude on somebody’s toilet meditations, but this derogation is only valid when something really big happens, like a release of new photos of scantily clad Kim Kardashian and her new heartthrob.

Alain

It all started with the purchase and the setup of a new TV set.

A few years ago, the process was very simple: you bought the set, you unpacked it, you connected the device to an Internet Service Provider, then plugged the thing into an electric outlet, and you were in business.

Not anymore. This procedure was probably too simple, or maybe not sophisticated enough for some computer geeks. Today, with a “smart TV” you don’t need a cable connection anymore. You access the internet through your home network… and you get going.

The manual setup is very simple, but the rest proved to be nothing but a steeplechase. When you turn your set on, you are required to go through some routine. Mainly to answer some questions before you are allowed to enjoy your purchase… and with a virtual keyboard, it is a rather tedious operation.

Since I bought a Samsung device, I also wanted to register it with the company. I created an account a long time ago, and since I have owned 3 different Samsung TVs in the past, registering the new device should have been a walk in the park. But this stroll very quickly became an obstacle course.

I started by trying to login into the Samsung website. I entered my e-mail address as required, and then my password, but I was immediately summoned to replace that password. All right, as you please… Then, when I tried to change the password, I was stopped cold in my tracks. The system snubbed me and refused to oblige. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark!

After many unsuccessful attempts, I called Samsung Support. Before I was allowed to talk to anybody, I was quizzed by a variety of bots that finally gave me the green light.

I was put in touch with a real human, but to my dismay, he spoke with a strange foreign accent. I am somewhat hearing impaired, and his pronunciation proved to be a real impediment to our conversation.

I laboriously explained my problem to him and after many unintelligible exchanges, he asked me for my name and my birthdate. I provided the data to him, but then he told me that what I had given him didn’t match what was on record. Specifically, my birthdate. I gave him my birthdate again. It is not correct, he told me again.

-OK, then please enter what I am telling you instead, I said.
-I cannot do this he said.
-But I am the owner of the account, and it is what I am telling you that is correct, not what is in your computer.
-No, I can’t do that, he said again, but instead, try to guess the birthdate that you entered initially he said.

What a totally absurd, Kafkaesque situation, this had become. The man refused to change the information that I (the creator of the account) was giving him. Who would know best where and when I was born? Him or I?

We had reached an impasse. I finally told him that I wanted to talk to somebody else. To my great relief, he agreed to my request, and I was soon talking to another person.

I went through the same previous routine and the man told me again that he could not do that. Security, you know. But he promised to put me in touch with a person who could.

I finally got to talk to a sane (probably vaccinated) person. She asked a few questions to verify my identity and then she solicited me to verify my birthdate. I told her. She laughed. I asked her why and she told me that her computer showed January 1^st, 1981, as my birthday. I just wished…

We finally resolved the “problem” to our mutual satisfaction. She thanked me for my cooperation, my patience, and my fidelity to her company.

I told her that I loved her and wanted to have children with her.

Alain