Rapture reversal: rapture mockers stand corrected

Rapture mockers stand corrected as new rapture evidence is coming to light:

We've tried to reach Babette Bienpensant for comments, but she is holed up in an emergency meeting of the Metaphysical University.

Rapture recap: Hitler is not fooled

A friend sends this picture and writes: "Tell Hitler I found him."

Rapture recap: fooled again (2) --- the song

Rapture recap: fooled again?

Babette Bienpensant at rapture hour

We've asked Babette Bienpensant, Metaphysical University's rapture expert, to share her post rapture thoughts with us. Here is her reaction:

"Atheists and other rationality addicts have been quick to exploit certain shortcomings of yesterday's events and to prematurely throw the baby out with the winds of change. Yet most real Americans will agree that we have witnessed a rapture success of numerous dimensions, including a volcano eruption in Island, an earthquake in the gay-infested San Francisco Bay area, and many other occurrences of medium to high significance. We at the Metaphysical University are proud of our contribution and excited about our ability to again split the infinitive and share our thoughts in unprecedented ways."

Rapture: all you need to know

Our trusted colleague Babette Bienpensant from the University of the Metaphysical Sciences has gracefully agreed to answer a few questions:

Q: The end of the world has been predicted before...
A: And now it's going to happen.
Q: ...predicted before, even by Harold Camping, the prophet of today's event. His last end-of-the-world prediction was for 1994...
A: Yes, there was an error in his calculations.
Q: Not this time.
A: Not this time.

Harold Camping

Q: The hour, 6pm, that's which time zone?
A: Regardless where you are. It revolves around the world like New Years Eve.
Q: So, we can watch in on television.
A: Yes, it starts in New Zealand, then Sidney, and so on.
Q: Let's see, hasn't it started already?
A: The communication lines must be down.
Q: What is "rapture" exactly?
A: The end of the world. The last judgment as an action movie. No court proceeding. Instead, those who have been saved by Jesus will rise into the air (whence the term "rapture"). The condemned will stay behind. Expect a great earthquake rolling from city to city across the planet, just for starters.
Q: Are you sure?
A: Cry mightily unto God. The Bible guarantees it. Everyone will be weeping and wailing because they'll know in a few hours it'll come to their city.
Q: Nobody is weeping so far.
A: The communication lines must be down.  It's going to be a horror story of tremendous proportion.
Q: How can I save myself?
A: Find Jesus.
Q: That's all?
A: You need to find Jesus.
Q: Callers to Christian radio stations have debated what to do about nonbelieving friends and neighbors who will be left behind to endure the wrath of God. One caller in Oregon wanted to know if he should arm himself to protect his family from the doomed in his street who might be jealous that those who have found Jesus were about to go to heaven.
A: They will be too busy being tortured by fire to worry about seeking vengeance.
Q: Atheists are throwing "after Rapture" parties to celebrate the departure of the religious – or at least Christians – from their midst...
A: ...showing appalling disrespect for the religious feelings of real Americans.

Rapture: the in-depth story

A few quotes from the Guardian:

It's a complicated business calculating the precise date of the end of the world.There's the Great Flood to consider, which may have happened around 4990BC, depending on who's estimating. And the timing of the exodus of the Jews from Egypt. Then there's a bit of maths that involves equating one day to 1,000 years.

Do all that and it turns out that Armageddon will begin at 6pm on Saturday. That is, if Harold Camping has got his calculations and his reading of the Book of Ezekiel right.

Raptured (a note for "quick" readers: being raptured is OK, being
not raptured is not)

The 89-year-old doomsday prophet, a former engineer who perhaps inevitably comes from California, has prompted a tide of expectation, elation and derision after persuading listeners to his Family Radio Worldwide across the US and as far away as the Philippines to sell up everything and prepare for the beginning of the end of the world with the second coming of Jesus.

If all goes according to plan, those who have been "saved" by Jesus will rise into the air in the Rapture and look down as God smites billions of nonbelievers with a great earthquake rolling from city to city across the planet, and a bit of fire to boot.

Judgment day will begin at 6pm wherever you are. The mayhem will move west over the planet, wiping out cities, towns and villages.

In the US, some believers have given up their jobs and donated money they think they will no longer need to pay for more than 2,000 billboards across the country proclaiming "Judgment Day: May 21, 2011 – Cry mightily unto God. THE BIBLE GUARANTEES IT!"

Thousands of people, some wearing T-shirts proclaiming that doomsday is at hand, have said goodbye to family and friends. It is not always welcome. Abby Haddad Carson gave up her job as a nurse two years ago to spread the message. Her three children do not believe it. "My mom has told me directly that I'm not going to get into heaven," Grace Haddad, 26, told the New York Times. "At first it was really upsetting but it's what she believes."

Callers to Christian radio stations have debated what to do about nonbelieving friends and neighbours who will be left behind to endure the wrath of God.

Parisian rapture dance

Hat tip: Andrew Sullivan

Rapture day (2)

Here's the proof:

Rapture day

In a foreseeable, but somehow under-reported event, the Tea Party is leaving the world tomorrow.

Hint:

Seven thousand years after 4990 B.C. (the year of the Flood) is the year 2011 A.D. (our calendar).

4990 + 2011 – 1 = 7,000

[One year must be subtracted in going from an Old Testament B.C. calendar date to a New Testament A.D. calendar date because the calendar does not have a year zero.]

We checked and re-checked the algebra, but can't find any fault. For a full account, please go to our Judgment Day page.

Dominique Strauss-Kahn stark naked (2)

Q: So, what does it all mean?
A: The end of Strauss-Kahn's (DSK) career, of course, and more.
Q: He could deny it; then it's his word against hers.
A: Well, first, he left his cell-phone behind, so he fled the scene. Equally important, a famous person is always guilty until proven innocent, especially in America.
Q: Could it be a conspiracy?
A: Sure, as always. He was the most important threat to Sarkozy's bid for a second term, so Sarkozy could have tried to engineer the whole thing. However...
Q: ...however...?
A: It would have been difficult for Sarkozy to do so, even with the French secret services at his disposal. It's unlikely the maid was an agent, since she was working at the hotel on a permanent basis (presumably), and it was unforeseeable that DSK would stay there...well, who knows, changing my mind, perhaps he's always staying there, in the same suite, in which case they actually could have planted her there, perhaps paying off the service manager to have her assigned to this suite (soon to be dubbed the Kahn suite). And so on and so forth.
Q: But the cell-phone?
A: Élémentaire, cher Watson. DSK will deny this is his phone, but the records, oh là là, the records, the most beautiful cell-phone records in the history of the French secret services.
Q: We're in full conspiracy mode now?
A: I'd say 60-40.
Q: Which way?
A: Don't know yet.
Q: Will the Euro collapse?
A: It's in the cards. Expect a weakening of the Euro tomorrow, just for starters.
Q: Why?
A: Sarkozy's ratings are the lowest in the history of the French presidency. He's unlikely to get re-elected, even if the whole thing was his conspiracy. So it's either a socialist next time (to our American readers: DSK was a member of the Socialist Party, no, the SOCIALIST party), but, with the exception of DSK himself, all other contenders are unreconstructed dinosaurs, real tax-and-spend ideologues, all of them, or it's Marine LePen from the Front National. France's standing as a debtor will be weakened, and the markets might fear its collapse, comparable with other members of the Club Med.
Q: This could mean the end of the Euro.
A: Yes, if France does not get its act together, the Euro will collapse.
Q: How about the extreme right?
A: Yes, good question. Marine LePen, the new, charming leader of the Front National is collecting followers left and right with her compassionate xenophobia and an economic program from the dark ages.
Q: How so?
A: Her economic program calls for France leaving the Euro, and for erecting high import barriers to save domestic jobs. To do that, France would have to leave the European Union.
Q: Is that going to happen?
A: Possibly not, since the French farmers would lose their European subsidies, and so on. But I would not rule out a debt spiral triggered by weakening French credit scores (rising interest rates on French sovereign debt raise the deficit, etc), which leads to France's exit from the Euro, the end of the Euro, the end of the European Union...
Q: The end of the world as we know it?
A: It looks bad. But 500 years from now, the only thing we will remember is that the 3rd world war was caused by a man stepping out of his bath room stark naked.

Dominique Strauss-Kahn stark naked (1)

A former minister of finance of France, he had been married to one of the most beautiful, intelligent, and richest women of the country: Anne Sinclair, who ran her own prime time talk show before they tied the knot. Nicolas Sarkozy, upon taking office, got him the top job at the International Monetary Fund, evidently to rid himself of a dangerous future rival for the second term of his presidency,  but failed, as DSK grew in stature abroad and was topping the French polls in anticipation of the presidential elections of 2012.

Dominique Strauss-Kahn (DSK)	"We have our spies"

And then, around 13:00 local time yesterday, a chamber maid entered Room 2806 of the Sofitel New York, 44 W Street — believing it unoccupied. The suite, which costs $3,000 a night, has a foyer, a conference room, a living room, a bedroom — and also a bathroom, from which a starkly naked Domique Strauss Kahn emanated and "attempted to sexually assault" her. "He grabs her [according to her account] and pulls her into the bedroom and onto the bed." Then, according to NYPD's Deputy Commissioner Paul Browne, he locked the door to the suite. (We think something is wrong with the sequence of events here, but never mind). "She fights him off, and then he drags her down the hallway to the bathroom, where he sexually assaults her a second time."

The woman breaks free, however, flees, tells another maid in the hallway who calls the police. When the police arrives, DSK has left, apparently in a hurry, since he left his cell phone behind, next to other DNA-relevant evidence, as the NYT darkly reports.

It quickly transpires that DSK is on an Air France plane. The plane is held at the gate, and an officer of the New York Port Authority arrests the IMF president in the First Class section of the plane (10,000 USD for a one-way ticked to Paris).

DSK was to meet Chancellor Angela Merkel today in Berlin, but the meeting has been cancelled.

A year ago: Back from the races (reposted)

Terry, our neighbor, and his lovely friend Anne-Carole have invited us to the 7ème Grand Prix de Monaco Historique. We arrive by train. Terry picks us up, personally, at the station. We wouldn't get unchaperoned through security, he apologizes. “The richer you get, the more involved the logistics become," I think to myself. Terry chuckles politely, he can read thoughts, the déformation professionelle of a famous film producer.



Terry's apartment overlooks the harbor from the 8th floor. It's rented. His own apartment would be better (he owns apartments in Monaco, Paris, etc), but they put the grandstand for the races right in front of his view, so there is no view.



The view of the harbor invites a study of the rich and famous. I feel the inner Lee Harvey Oswald. All Kennedies look the same.

The cars practice on the road below. The noise is physical. The Séries G race (“voitures Formula 1, 1975 – 1978”) is about to start. It starts. It has started.



The cars are surprisingly slow. You’ve heard that phrase before, “everybody was secretly hoping….” Not us. It’s not our fault that the tailwind of a McLaren M26 turns yellow, then orange, then ultraviolet. I point my Nikon D80 with the purest of motives. A second car is blinded by the fumes, and we have an accident. Yellow flags are waved viciously. Nobody dies. The unfortunate, but lively drivers exchange views. Gentlemanly compliments, certainly, or proposals to a mutual duel on the most generous terms, before sunrise, at Agincourt. “Tirez les premiers, messieurs les Anglais,” they will say.



“If Joan of Arc would not have chucked out the English, the whole world would now speak French,” my late friend Paul always used to say, tears in his eyes.

Stay tuned. The story continues here.

The royal wedding: it's not over until the fat lady sings

Tara Palmer-Tomkinson

Yes, and it's her, Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. She made a documentary about the Cote d'Azur, which included our house, in 2004. We had never heard of her, of course, but were informed that her fame rested on the fact that she had bared her breasts in front of William and Harry for educational purposes --- her father ran Prince Charles' stable. She brought semi-pornographic postcards, which she signed for us without being asked. Later, our neighbours Jenni & Bill, who followed her every move at the time, assured us that her cocaine consumption had led to a complete breakdown of her nose. She's been on "I'm a celebrity, get me out of here," so her case must be hopeless. Like ours. And, yes, she isn't fat at all.

We're not making this up.

A simple theory of efficient markets

Our starting point is an observation by a Professor Helbing  (not Helsing) in an interview with the FAZ. Here is the English translation:

On the question by the FAZ regarding the "intelligence of crowds" in bees and ants, Professor Helbing replies:

"In humans there is both, 'crowd intelligence,' and 'crowd madness.' We did some experiments recently where we asked subjects to provide estimates of "facts" of which they may not know much themselves (eg. the number of robberies in a given city). If subjects provide estimates independently of each other, the spread is large, but the mean is typically spot on. However, if subjects are being informed about the estimates of other subjects, they begin to rely on each others estimates. In the end, they agree, but the agreed-up value is often completely off the mark." (This phenomenon is know as groupthink in the Anglosaxon literature.)

Back to markets now. If we can generalize Helbing's results, markets participants will, on average, come up with prices that do reflect the underlying values efficiently, provided they are not relying on each other.

However, in reality, market participants do rely on each other to varying degrees---more in stress situations, less in calmer markets. This is crucial. In a crisis, market participants lose their bearings, group think takes over, and the resulting prices go off the charts. Market efficiency is lost. Eventually, the panic subsides, and relative efficiency is restored.

Our approach (others may have already said this more clearly, I don't know) eats the cake, and has it, too: In the long run, on average, markets are relatively efficient, but in crises they need not be. We use the semantics of "panic" to explain a behavior, which, via group think, and Helbing's results (I guess there are similar results out there from other workers) directly leads to inefficient prices.

George Soros, with his notion of reflexivity, may actually mean the same thing.

30 years ago: Ronald Reagan shot (reposted)

Reagan was shot, but not killed, kids, and I was there. Sort of. Reagan was shot in March '81 ("Please tell me you're all Republicans" he told the doctors in the hospital---that's the spirit, President Obama), and I arrived on the scene in May '96, for a workshop at the Hilton Hotel. It was the night of the White House Press Corps dinner, and Wolf Blitzer and this woman, she who always sits in the first row in a red dress and gets the first question during a WH presser (Dr. Alzheimer will remember her name), were standing in animated conversation outside our conference room. I could have touched them. I could have asked for an autograph.

We left for dinner downtown. Outside, hunks with sunglasses and big earpieces(white, thick spiraling cables) had descended upon the scene, and were directing towing trucks with spiraling gestures. The trucks were hoisting  vehicles still parked around the hotel. Crowds had gathered. Somebody helpfully explained to me the implications of roadside bombs and the President's plan to attend the dinner. There must have been hundreds of secret service agents, all listening ostentatiously to their earpieces, all gearing up for the big event, the President's Arrival.

We waited for the president. We waited more. Clinton was always late. Finally the motorcade arrives, hunks on bikes, ambulances, limousines, more hunks on bikes, cars, trucks, more ambulances, larger limousines, ever larger limousines. Suddenly, the motorcade stops, with the largest limousine right in front of the entrance. We would see the President!

Then, without prior warning, the president's limousine backs up into a concrete cubicle next to the entrance. A steel shutter comes down.

And that was that.

They had built a special access garage for the president right where Reagan had been shot in '81.

Learning from history.

Mourning Elizabeth Taylor tastefully!

Just mourning her? Not enough!

We need to mourn her tastefully, Vanity Fair reminds us, and puts up the picture above.

The emperor has no clothes

"Let me explain."

A moment in time

We're numero uno on the Motigo Charts for French personal blogs (possibly not for long).

The Freedom Fries Kitchen Cabinet in all its splendor

We usually don't do this, pictures of ourselves. But there you (we) are, with Chang Man Y. (oriental wisdom), Sacha F. (visuals), and Michael M. (rasender reporter).

Mein lieber Freiherr: Baron Guttenberg in trouble

FF has held the Baron in high esteem, raving about him as the Minister of good looks, misunderstood by 12 year old Japanese females who own more than 5 Vuitton bags, and crushed upon by Helen Thomas, the ex-doyenne of the White House press corps. A man with either 9 or 10 first names, and a direct descendant of Bismarck at his heterosexual arm? The man to beat as successor to Chancellor Merkel?  And now what?

The baron...	...with his wife, a née Bismarck
After he met...	...Helen Thomas

Isn't he also a brilliant academic, with a Ph.D. thesis of the highest caliber, raking in a summa cum laude, the highest Ph.D. honor in Germany?  Well, "there's the rub." (Shakespeare, Hamlet's soliloquy) He's accused of plagiarizing. By our own standards, it's borderline, but the German standards rise by the minute, as more and more phrases surface that he has obviously copied without mentioning the source. There's the rub. GOTCHA. He's still good-looking, but...

Can we still play "Doctor"?

The masses celebrate our First Birthday

Davos man (2)

So, Samuel P. Huntington discovered the Davos Man in the '90s in his article (later book) on the Clash of Civilizations, an answer to Fukuyama's book The End of History. Fukuyama had ventured that the end of the cold war implied the world's ascent to a plateau of civilization characterized by representative democracy, market economy, and other features mostly associated with the developed western world (earlier post here).

World punditry was shocked, shocked, that history could come to an end like that. I've actually seen not a single pundit recalling the simple fact that Fukuyama wasn't the first to propose the end of history, and that one Georg W.F. Hegel had already proclaimed it in sight of the Prussian state in its emanation of 1830 (semi-constitutional monarchy with strong feudal elements, early capitalism)---a fact that should have served as warning (in my days, the "end-of-history" hypothesis was one of the first things one would know about Hegel, and Hegel was one of the first philosophers one would know, but never mind). The idea in itself is much older, of course; Jesus himself believed that his father had sent him to alert the world to the impending last judgment.

So, Huntington disagreed with Fukuyama. History would continue, and it would do so through a clash of civilizations, the most important one being the conflict between the West and Islam. Very prescient! A few year later, NineEleven.

Kaboom

And the Davos man? Well, the Davos man did not know. The Davos man represented the new world elite, which, according to Huntington, was highly westernized (Harvard, The Economist, Davos World Economic Forum), and so full of itself (the elite) that it was unable to recognize that under its thin veneer of 55 million people (Huntington's estimate), other human layers were actually making up a world population more than 100 times as large. And these people could have very different ideas, and no commitment to the ideals of modern liberalism at all (liberalism here in its European meaning; the American meaning of "liberal" was introduced by FDR, who sought to take a middle ground with his auto-qualification ("I'm a liberal") by distinguishing himself from "radicals" on the one side and "conservatives" on the other). And while the Davos man continued to agree with himself, the rest of the world wouldn't, and could do funny things, like stoning adulterating women, dreaming of a new caliphate, hating minorities, and so on. (Just in case you don't know: Restoring the caliphate is the corporate goal of Al Quaida).

We know now what the Davos man does when he's not in Davos---he runs the world. But what does he do when he is in residence? Good question. Stay tuned. Thread continues here (in a sense).

PS: A propos caliphate: now we have it, ISIS proclaims itself as such with a new Caliph in charge.

News from Kazakhstan

The washed-up scriptwriter sends this picture...

...and writes: "Found this picture while searching for images of operating rooms that I need as mental models for the next scene in the Freedom Fries novel, where Brüno (you haven't met Brüno, but anyhow) is going to be brainwashed in a serious way with novel equipment invented by Alberrt."

And he continues:

"I've always found writing difficult, and remember my dear father, who tended to complain: 'I'd be a great poet if mother would only let me and stop clanging with the pots in the kitchen.' In fact, I remember him vividly right now, my father, as the students outside in the street are trying to storm the palace of President Breftzerk. Breftzerk called me this morning (remember, I have been appointed court poet), via the secret telephone line that still works, and urgently requested new hymns on his presidency that are to be read from the palace balcony to sway the revolting masses, but I have a writers block.

Hitler interrupts Obama's speech (reposted)

Egg on your face

"You are not my long-lost half-sister. No-no. Not you!"

À la recherche du temps perdue

We post comments to New York Times articles on their web edition fairly frequently ("follow me, follow me"), and today we posted a brief comment (no. 64) to Krugman's blog post on relative employment figures comparing the US and France. And so we invoked Marcel Proust, since Proust must have been an expert on unemployment. You've read Proust, right? À la recherche du temps perdue? Do you remember anybody ever holding down a daytime job there, except for the occasional domestique? That's what we were trying to get across to Krugman, although we doubt he will ever read our comment.

Now, this brings to mind a short episode at the FNAC, the leading French bookstore with outlets all over France, including Cannes. Our collection of À la recherche du temps perdue is incomplete, and so we travel to Cannes to buy more Proust, and we enter the book store, and climb to the third floor (all other floors have been taken over by flatscreens (the largest on offer: 99,999 EUR (I'm not making this up)) cell-phones, blue-rays [sic], blue-rays disks [sic], I-tunes, I-pads, I-phones, A-gizmo's, C-gizmo's, etc.. Sokrates, who opposed the newfangled fashion of literacy in his day ("κακή για τη μνήμη κάποιου"), would have been disoriented, Sokrates.

We make it to the third floor and ask a salesperson about Proust. We say "bonjour" first (we've learned our lesson: you don't say "bonjour" first, they will say "bonjour" to you in a way you won't forget), and then inquire about Proust. Marcel Proust. Sure, the salesperson replies, and takes us to the comic book counter. All thirteen volumes. Here's Volume Two:

Good Night and Good Luck (Olberman got fired or something). Bye now.

Bye.

Plateau de Calern above Grasse

North of Grasse, at ca 1200m altitude, the Cote d'Azur features a plateau of surprising dimensions, built into the mountains, as it were, and split by the Gorges du Loup, the local version of the Grand Canyon. We've never heard of it, but Doris & Dirk, who own a house just above our's in Le Trayas, go there at least once a year. 

The plateau hosts the French Astronomical Society and its telescopes, which are now used for the detection of stray asteroids (that could hit the planet on a bad day), and the eponymous gamma bursts, the most violent events in the know cosmos (one telescope can swing to any part of the sky within 10 sec, which is important since the gamma bursts don't burst very long).

"As much as I appreciate the cosmological dedication to Gamma Bursts," Doris comments on the spot, "I do regret that black holes are apparently low on the astronomical shopping list." And then she goes on and tells about a friend of her's, Monica, who got almost caught by a black hole in the vicinity of Willem-Voltaire on the Swiss border. As Doris elaborates further on Monica's sex life, her emigration to Texas, her disappointments in Texas, more on Monica's sex life---especially during Monica's travels to Africa where she meets extremely shapely Kenyans whose skin glistens in the sunlight when they are aroused---as Doris elaborates further, the elves of the plateau conspire into fluffy gray clouds and dance across the sky.

Joanne and Robert Hall, murder at the chateau (2) (Jacky, Sacha)

Robert Hall

Robert Hall, murderer to his beloved wife, Joanne, went without a picture on the internet. How suspicious (even yours truly has one). But Jacky heeded our call, and found a picture in the Local West Yorkshire News, together with more dirt about Robert.

This brings to mind Miss Marple. Somewhere in her novels she observes that newcomers to St. Mary Meads would never have been complete strangers in the old days -- somebody in the village would know them at least indirectly, through cousins, lawyers, or former prison guards -- and she bemoans modern times where new people could be completely anonymous. But things have changed again, thanks to the internet (and to Jacky).

Meanwhile, Sacha sent this link, which speaks for itself.

A lesson in bureaucratology (Sacha)

Senior moment - A 98 year old woman in the UK wrote this to her bank:

Dear Sir,

I am writing to thank you for bouncing my cheque with which I endeavoured to pay my plumber last month. By my calculations, three nanoseconds must have elapsed between his presenting the cheque and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honour it. I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my Pension, an arrangement, which, I admit, has been in place for only thirty eight years. You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account £30 by way of penalty for the inconvenience caused to your bank.

My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways. I noticed that whereas I personally attend to your telephone calls and letters, but when I try to contact you, I am confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become. From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person. My mortgage and loan payments will therefore and hereafter no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank by cheque, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you must nominate. Be aware that it is an offence under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope.

Please find attached an Application Contact Status which I require your chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative. Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a Solicitor, and the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof. In due course, I will issue your employee with PIN number which he/she must quote in dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modelled it on the number of button presses required of me to access my account balance on your phone bank service. As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Let me level the playing field even further. When you call me, press buttons as follows:

1. To make an appointment to see me.
2. To query a missing payment.
3. To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there.
4. To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping.
5. To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature.
6. To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home.
7. To leave a message on my computer (a password to access my computer is required.
A password will be communicated to you at a later date to the Authorized Contact.)
8. To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through to 8.
9. To make a general complaint or inquiry, the contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service. While this may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration of the call.

Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement.

May I wish you a happy, if ever so slightly less prosperous, New Year.

Your Humble Client

Michael Williams

We had met him the day before at dinner with Cliona, our neighbor, and Yael, a friend of Cliona. We are all invited over for drinks at his place and will have dinner later at l'Air du Temps, which is halfway between his house and the mansion of Pierre Cardin on the water.

Clockwise: Michael, Pierre Cardin's place, Michael's place, outside, with Yael and Chang

Michael ran a few advertising agencies and is now in charge of his own brand-positioning shop, London, Sydney, the works. The pacific rim is indispensable. The living room is pictured below, including Cliona.

Joanne and Robert Hall, murder at the chateau (1)

You study philosophy at the Free University of Berlin, and you see yourself as a midrange intellectual all your life, and you cringe at the notion---what are the professional expressions?---sex, drugs, and rock'n roll?---no, not quite---blood and bosom?---doesn't sound right---boobs on the third page?---no, sounds wrong, too---anyhow, you get the gist, we mean the notion that sex and crime sell, and nothing else.

Château de Fretay

And then you start a blog, and you have these meters installed that tell you which search terms work, and it takes only a few days to discover that sex is infinitely more attractive than your musings about the weather. And it takes a few month to discover that crime also works. Now we have Mark Weinberger on our right column, nothing more than a malpracticing nosedoctor from Illinois, and he is almost outdoing the naked girls (also working: politicians who are "not gay", or Arab princes who rape their servants to death, but are "not gay" either).

Time to turn the page to another episode, Murder at the Chateau, and it's really quite a story. Joanne and Robert Hall are involved, he as the murderer, she as the murderee (we mean, you know, like invitee, but when it ends badly), and it happens in France, and it's all very French, in particular because the couple are English.

Joanne and Robert arrived 10 years ago with a dream: create a golf course in the lovely French countryside. They buy the chateau (looks more like a big farmhouse, but that's OK, the French call any larger private dwelling a "chateau," especially when it has a tower, which this one doesn't, OK, bear with me) with its 100 acres of grounds (ca. 41 ha). Robert never learns French, also quite typical. They are very much liked in the community. That's non-standard for non-speaking Brits who linger too long.

Let's stir some blood now (from the Guardian story):

On the evening of 4 September, Sourdain [the local mayor] got a call from the gendarmes – something had happened at the château. It is a French custom for the gendarmes to call the mayor, as the representative of the people, to the scene of a crime or a terrible accident. He arrived to see the oldest son, Christopher, 22, with the gendarmes as they stood in protective suits breaking up a big block of concrete. Robert Hall was inside the house, crying.

"After 24 hours, concrete is like biscuit," Sourdain explains. We're sitting in his office in the village of Le Chatellier, two miles from the chateau. "So the gendarmes were crumbling it with their hands. And after a while they discovered a ring. They asked Christopher, 'Is this your mother's ring?' He said, 'Oui.'"

Robert Hall had told the gendarmes that 24 hours earlier he'd had a drunken argument with Joanne during which she accidentally fell, hit her head, and died. Then, during the hours that followed, he set her body on fire, put her remains into a builder's bag, poured in concrete and hauled it on to the back of a lorry. All this happened behind the house, near the back gate, next to a row of half-built holiday cottages.

Then he stopped. He telephoned Christopher. He said he was going to commit suicide. Christopher called the ambulance, who called the gendarmes, who called the mayor.

And now lets stir some more blood. Flashback. Joanne is still alive, it's 2008, and they have an appointment with Fabrice Fourel (recall the couple wants to build a golf course):

Fabrice Fourel works in a bright office in the nearby village of Saint-Étienne-en-Coglès. Posters advertising successful Brittany tourist endeavours line the walls. I am sitting, he says, exactly where Robert and Joanne Hall sat when they came to him in a flap regarding their golf project, in September 2008.
"They were lost," he says.
Fabrice's job is to be the middle man between prospective tourist businesses and the labyrinthine French bureaucracy.
"What were the problems?" I ask.
Fabrice sighs as if to say, "Where do I begin?" "They wanted to clear some trees. French law says you have to plant three trees for each one you cut down, not necessarily on your property, but in the region." He pauses. "It was a big problem. In fact, the administration was angry with the Halls because they didn't follow the procedure. We had to calm everything."
 "How many trees would they have needed to plant?" I ask.
"Around 20,000," Fabrice says.
Fabrice says people basically already have all the trees they want. If you go to people and offer them trees, they tend to say no. And that wasn't the only problem. The Halls needed sprinklers, enough electricity for thousands of visitors…
"We quickly noticed a gap between the financial needs for such a project and what they had," Fabrice says. "A project like that could cost €20m (£17m)."
"Was it a big gap?" I ask.
Fabrice indicates with his hands a very big gap.

It's getting unbearable now, so we have to stop. Stay tuned.

PS: We can't find pictures of the tragic couple on the internet, please help.

PSS: Now the washed-up scriptwriter from Kazakhstan chimes in:
-"I tell you, my next novel will be titled: 'Murder at the Chateau'."

Prince Charles and Camilla in mortal danger (2)

We've posted on this before. FF's position is unambiguous: a Rolls Royce is the only proper car for an evening out at the opera, in particular if it's a Phantom Mark IV from 1976. And while the Waleses are on their way, properly attired (how does one call the fact that one is properly be-car-ed?), the students---who are so blind-sighted not to understand that the tripling of tuition fees is in their own best interest since the bonuses of the Financial Sector have also tripled---the students are making threatening gestures towards the future sovereign and his consort, and we are appalled, and the Metropolitan Police (Scotland Yard) has now identified two or more anonymous terrorists, and asks for your help, as the British Telegraph reports. If you have any clues, please contact Buckingham Palace at +44 (0)20 7766 7300

This brings to mind a report in the Dutch Telegraaf (a Dutch down-market imitation of the Telegraph) from a long time ago, I would say late 70's (this is all from memory, no internet backup) as to the adventures of the Dutch Princess Christina, who had married the Cuban Jorge Guillermo a few years earlier, and was now chauffeured by him in a Rolls Royce into downtown Salzburg, Austria, during the Salzburg Festival, in order to attend the opera, and the police stops them because downtown Salzburg is closed to cars during the festival, and we (the Telegraaf) are shocked, shocked, how a Dutch Princess could be encumbered by the police in her operatic pursuits while being chauffeured  in a Rolls Royce by her consort, and he, stopped  by the police now, is forced to explain that we are a Dutch Princess, and it's all so embarrassing, especially for the cops, to learn that they've just encumbered a princely couple in their operatic pursuits, and one officer drops dead out of pure shame, and the Princess is also embarrassed but keeps her cool and says, "let them eat cake," and the Austrian Minister of the Interior (responsible for the police) apologizes to the Dutch Crown, and the Dutch Queen gracefully acknowledges the apology.

Princess Christina

A second officer drops dead after having been force-fed some Austrian cakes that Marie-Antoinette had left behind when moving to France to wed Louis XVI (we know how that ended), but eventually everything is forgotten, until we learn 20 years later that the Princess and her consort are no longer on speaking terms, and he grabs the behinds of the catering ladies, and chides her for her awkwardness in public (she is practically blind since her mother had contracted German measles during the pregnancy), and the whole nation feels terrible about it, and they sleep in separate bedrooms, and even highbrow broadsheets like the NRC (don't ask) now allude to the suspicion that he married her for her money,* and a divorce is eventually arranged, and he gets a huge settlement, perhaps more than Guy Richie, and no reference is ever made to the Salzburg event 20 years earlier. And, oh yes, we love monarchy.

* which, as we are learning now, she is prudently keeping out of reach of the Dutch taxman in the offshore jurisdiction of Guernsey.

The washed-up scriptwriter and more: novel novel material (Jacki)

Jacki (Jacki and Jacky are not the same person, don't get confused) sends this fragment. Enjoy:

He Grasped me firmly but gently just above my elbow and guided me into a room, his room. Then he quietly shut the door and we were alone.

He approached me soundlessly, from behind, and spoke in a low, reassuring voice close to my ear. "Just relax."

Without warning, he reached down and I felt his strong, calloused hands start at my ankles, gently probing, and moving upward along my calves slowly but steadily. My breath caught in my throat. I knew I should be afraid, but somehow I didn't care. His touch was so experienced, so sure.

When his hands moved up onto my thighs, I gave a slight shudder, and partly closed my eyes. My pulse was pounding. I felt his knowing fingers caress my abdomen, my ribcage.. And then, as he cupped my firm, full breasts in his hands, I inhaled sharply. Probing, searching, knowing what he wanted, he brought his hands to my shoulders, slid them down my tingling spine and into my panties.

Although I knew nothing about this man, I felt oddly trusting and expectant. This is a man, I thought. A man used to taking charge. A man not used to taking "No" for an answer. A man who would tell me what he wanted. A man who would look into my soul and say ... "Okay Mam," said a voice, "All done."

My eyes snapped open and he was standing in front of me, smiling, holding out my purse. "You can board your flight now."

Winter solstice, the shortest day of the year

Richard Cohen has a nice piece in the International Herald Tribune about today, the shortest day of the year on the northern hemisphere.

Winter solstice at Stonehenge

Here are a few highlights:

WHAT is the winter solstice, and why bother to celebrate it? The word “solstice” derives from the Latin sol (meaning sun) and statum (stand still), and reflects what we see on the first days of summer and winter when, at dawn for two or three days, the sun seems to linger for several minutes in its passage across the sky, before beginning to double back.
Virtually all cultures have their own way of acknowledging this moment. The Welsh word for solstice translates as “the point of roughness,” while the Talmud calls it “Tekufat Tevet,” first day of “the stripping time.” For the Chinese, winter’s beginning is “dongzhi,” when one tradition is making balls of glutinous rice, which symbolize family gathering. In Korea, these balls are mingled with a sweet red bean called pat jook. According to local lore, each winter solstice a ghost comes to haunt villagers. The red bean in the rice balls repels him.
In parts of Scandinavia, the locals smear their front doors with butter so that Beiwe, sun goddess of fertility, can lap it up before she continues on her journey. (One wonders who does all the mopping up afterward.) Later, young women don candle-embedded helmets, while families go to bed having placed their shoes all in a row, to ensure peace over the coming year.

Pagan elements in Swedish Christmas celebrations

The transition from Roman paganism to Christianity, with its similar rites, took several centuries. With the Emperor Constantine’s conversion to Christianity in the fourth century, customs were quickly appropriated and refashioned, as the sun and God’s son became inextricably entwined. Thus, although the New Testament gives no indication of Christ’s actual birthday (early writers preferring a spring date), in 354 Pope Liberius declared it to have befallen on Dec. 25.
The advantages of Christmas Day being celebrated then were obvious. As the Christian commentator Syrus wrote: “It was a custom of the pagans to celebrate on the same Dec. 25 the birthday of the sun, at which they kindled lights in token of festivity .... Accordingly, when the church authorities perceived that the Christians had a leaning to this festival, they took counsel and resolved that the true Nativity should be solemnized on that day.” In Christendom, the Nativity gradually absorbed all other winter solstice rites, and the co-opting of solar imagery was part of the same process. Thus the solar discs that had once been depicted behind the heads of Asian rulers became the halos of Christian luminaries. Despite the new religion’s apparent supremacy, many of the old customs survived — so much so that church elders worried that the veneration of Christ was being lost. In the fifth century, St. Augustine of Hippo and Pope Leo the Great felt compelled to remind their flocks that Christ, not the sun, was their proper object of their worship.

What happened before the Big Bang?

The big bang mystery (what happened before the big bang?)
may have been solved by Roger Penrose (an old friend of FF) and his coworkers at Oxford University. Penrose starts with established notions about an ever-expanding universe subject to the laws of thermodynamics, i.e. entropy.

"At first the universe becomes less uniform as it evolves and objects form within it. Once enough time has passed, however, all of the matter around will end up being sucked into black holes. As Stephen Hawking has demonstrated, black holes eventually evaporate in a burst of radiation. That process increases uniformity, eventually to the level the universe began with."

Now---this is Penrose's creative assumption---past a certain level of uniformity, the Higgs field may disappear. The Higgs field imbues particles with mass; without it, all particles would be massless and, by Einstein's relativity theory, forced to travel at the speed of light (as behooves photons, for example).

"That (as Einstein showed) means that from the particle’s point of view time stands still and space contracts to nothingness. If all particles in the universe were massless, then, the universe would look to them to be infinitely small. And an infinitely small universe is one that would undergo a Big Bang."

HAHA!

Even better, Penrose's new theory comes with testable predictions. Black holes would occasionally collide during the later stages of the universe's evolution, and gravitational waves would result. These waves would survive the big bang à la Penrose; they would be witnesses of the bing bang's prehistory.

AND?

YES!

Corresponding gravitational waves have now been found (pictured above).

"KASSA! KASSA!" would Samuel Fisher say.

-"This is such a good idea, it must be true."