Grandma got run over by a reindeer

Grandma got run over by a reindeer

Walking home from our house Christmas eve

You can say there's no such thing as Santa

But as for me and grandpa we believe

She'd been drinking too much eggnog

And we begged her not to go

But she forgot her medication

And she staggered out the door into the snow

When we found her Christmas morning

At the scene of the attack

She had hoof-prints on her forehead

And incriminating Claus marks on her back

Grandma got run over by a reindeer

Walking home from our house Christmas eve

You can say there's no such thing as Santa

But as for me and grandpa we believe 

Now we're all so proud of grandpa

He's been taking this so well

See him in there watching football

Drinking beer and playing cards with cousin Mel

It's not Christmas without Grandma

All the family's dressed in black

And we just can't help but wonder

Should we open up her gifts

Or send them back (send them back)

Grandma got run over by a reindeer

Walking home from our house Christmas eve

You can say there's no such thing as Santa

But as for me and grandpa we believe

Now the goose is on the table

And the pudding made of fig

And the blue and silver candles

That would just have matched the hair on grandma's wig

I've warned all my friends and neighbors

Better watch out for yourselves

They should never give a license

To a man who drives a sleigh

And plays with elves

Grandma got run over by a reindeer

Walking home from our house Christmas eve

You can say there's no such thing as Santa

But as for me and grandpa we believe

This morning

Back home

The dogs of our neighbors, Chang, our hill, the "mont de Théoule," (still in the sun) and, in the background, "la baie des anges," (the Bay of Cannes)---the picture taken by Chang's Korean friend Kim (aka Alice, her German name; she lives in Hamburg).

They have arrived!

This Is Heaven arrives in Australia

The King Bolete arrive in Switzerland. They were late this season.

Back in Bürchen for a week

This morning

Yesterday

Merry Christmas

(Our friend Alex Hogan sends this from Melbourne, Australia:)

 

Today

Occam's razor

Timeo Trumpos et dona ferentes

(Fragment, fragment, GREEN EYES, Part II, very short, Alex (saying:))

"Look it up."

(Okay, a bit more. We're in the climactic chapter, "This Is Heaven," and in the company of John, the narrator, Alex, Raphael Beeblebrox (an editor with The Urban Dictionary), and Ben. Professor Bienpensant, the quantitative metaphysicist is going to preside over her own doomsday prediction looming for midnight:)

“Why is it, Alex,” Beeblebrox asks, waving today’s program printout at him, “why is it that cataclysmic events are always scheduled at mundane, convenient times?”
“Because twenty percent of the population believe Armageddon will happen during their life time.”
“Twenty-five percent,” Ben corrects him.
“Too easy, too easy.” Beeblebrox shakes his head.
“If you want more metaphysical, Raphael,”---Alex---“you should ask Professor Bienpensant. Occam’s razor, look it up.” Out of nowhere, he has conjured four tallboys and hands one to each of us.

Yesterday

Westerly view across the foret domanial de l'Esterel,
the park that surrounds our village, picture by Jason Yoon 

Supermoon rising

Today is the day of the supermoon---a full moon as close to planet Earth as possible---and so it appears larger (7%), and is brighter (15%). And this it it, the moon, seen from our house, rising over the Mediterranean, this evening: 

The sunset this evening

This morning

Chang took this picture yesterday; we learned from our neighbor Dirk, who's a retired airline pilot, how this works: pilots call this phenomenon a "drop,"---a drop, if you will, of cold air that descends from the mountains and then drops through warmer air onto the warmer sea where it can trigger a middling thunderstorm, which this one did.

May 1

Alessio Slonimsky

The view this morning

No, folk, you got it wrong, God doesn't exist

Valentine's day

Yesterday, on the beach in Nice

Feed the hungry Facebook beast

Christmas dinner. Left to right: Bill, Leo, Jenni, Stefan, Stefan's girl friend, Michael, Uwe's girl friend, Uwe (Chang is taking the picture)

And your habitual "fragment," Michael, how about a "fragment" ? Right, Michael is working on a new, longer version of the Rilke-ghost story. Michael and Chang have met the ghost already in Duino---apparently provoking his appearance by means of a Google translation of one of his poems---and now they are summering in Bürchen, and Rilke is buried nearby. Fragment:

Years later. We’re now summering in Bürchen, Valais, Switzerland, in the chalet of a friend, our own house is rented to holiday makers, as usual. Bürchen is great, 1,600 meters up on the Alp, and so much cooler than the muggy summer-Riviera. There is only one minor problem: Rainer Maria is buried nearby, yes, Rilke, in Raron, a small, historical town right beneath Bürchen down in the valley, barely three klicks as the crow flies. We’ve avoided Raron so far, but Chang is playing the social networks and has to feed the hungry Facebook beast. His Korean followers can’t get enough pictures of snow-topped mountains and timber-studded Swiss chalets, and the 24 hour news-cycle dictates daily posting. We’ve ravaged the entire countryside already---natives of many cultures believe that you steal their picture when you take their photo---along those lines we’ve grabbed photons until nothing seems to be left of the Valais save Raron. 

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Chang asks. Of course we don’t. And it’s a sunny, wonderful day, and Rilke is interred in a vault on the southern side of the Burgkirche, which itself is built on a rock hundred meters above the floor of the valley. The views would be fantastic, and a light breeze would play with the pages of the tourist guide that tells about the local Rilke-wine and the XII-century town hall next to the church. A Rilke Pfad leads up there. Half-way there’s a bench. “Remember the bench?” Michael asks. We sit down. And now Michael has a really bad idea. He googles for “Rilke translations,” and the first entry connects to a learned, well-written article by a certain Majorie Perloff. 

“Wer, wenn ich schriee, hört mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen”…wasn’t that the first line? “Here,” I say to Chang, “there you have it, various ways to do this, ‘Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic orders,’ or ‘Who, if I cried out, would heed me amid the host of Angels’...”. Chang, predictably, is not really interested, but you see it coming. “Oohh,” the wailing begins, “ohhoohoo.” Talking about hubris.

Thanks God (Tristan Verran)

...So, Thanksgiving in the good ol' 'US of A' is that special time of year when it's actually OK to openly celebrate the mass migration of a group of religious fundamentalists who invade the country and then murder all the locals...

Back in France

Yes, this is actually the sun rising this morning