Carla Bruni’s music for a rainy day

Let me tell you a story.

No, let me set a scene, then tell you a story. That’s probably not the way max would have it done, but then max isn’t pulling an all-nighter and watching a thunderstorm out the window while slurping porridge (mixed “apples and cinnamon” and “maple and brown sugar”; what can I say, I’m a rebel) which I don’t mean to say means I shouldn’t write well, but that I am undoubtably the best writer in the world pulling an all-nighter and watching a thunderstorm out the window while slurping porridge (mixed “apples and cinnamon” and “maple and brown sugar”; what can I say, I’m a rebel) right now.

Or prove I’m not!

In any case, the scene is:

INT, Workspace, DAY,  thunderstorm with hail

I’m pulling an all-nighter and watching a thunderstorm out the window while slurping porridge (mixed “apples and cinnamon” and “maple and brown sugar”; what can I say, I’m a rebel). Today I was going through a stack of unmarked CD’s for reasons of my own which shall remain nameless here for no particular reason except dramatic tension, frantically looking for one that was empty, and found a bunch with music files on them. I stuffed them into the backpack to transfer to the Zune later, and then Later arrived and I picked one up and put it in the laptop, preparatory to stuffing on the Zune, and it started to play and I stopped cold and went, “What IS that? That’s terrific!”

And “terrific,” I will have you know, is far too wholesome a word for me to use lightly.

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar.

And what was it, this song that was so terrific? Well, I had to wait till it was ripped to find out, because I don’t care how good your eyes are, staring at an unmarked CD will NOT give you that information, not even if you tilt it. And does anyone remember the name of that guy? That guy who could tell you what album, what version, he was looking at just by, you know, looking at it? WITHOUT the album cover, duh. Well, do ya, punk?

Right, the song. It was this song, quelqu’un qui m’a dit, which you can download here. It’s by Carla Bruni, now First Lady of France. If you like whispery, fragile brunette Euros who can carry a delicate tune, you’ll like this.

quelqu’un qui m’a dit

On me dit que nos vies ne valent pas grand chose,
Elles passent en un instant comme fanent les roses.
On me dit que le temps qui glisse est un salaud que de nos chagrins il s’en fait des manteaux pourtant quelqu’un m’a dit…

Refrain:
Que tu m’aimais encore,
C’est quelqu’un qui m’a dit que tu m’aimais encore.
Serais ce possible alors ?

On me dit que le destin se moque bien de nous
Qu’il ne nous donne rien et qu’il nous promet tout
Parais qu’le bonheur est à portée de main,
Alors on tend la main et on se retrouve fou
Pourtant quelqu’un m’a dit …

Refrain

Mais qui est ce qui m’a dit que toujours tu m’aimais?
Je ne me souviens plus c’était tard dans la nuit,
J’entend encore la voix, mais je ne vois plus les traits
“Il vous aime, c’est secret, lui dites pas que j’vous l’ai dit”
Tu vois quelqu’un m’a dit…

Que tu m’aimais encore, me l’a t’on vraiment dit…
Que tu m’aimais encore, serais ce possible alors ?

On me dit que nos vies ne valent pas grand chose,
Elles passent en un instant comme fanent les roses
On me dit que le temps qui glisse est un salaud
Que de nos tristesses il s’en fait des manteaux,
Pourtant quelqu’un m’a dit que…

Refrain

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Stephen Hawking never stood a chance

Stephen Hawking is so cool he can fly!

Poor, poor Stephen Hawking. You know Stephen Hawking: media personality, author of A Brief History of Time, Lucasian Professor for Mathematics at the University of Cambridge. You know, Cambridge. The one in England.

Why should you pity him? Because his life is in imminent danger!

A no-doubt-soon-to-be-unemployed editorial writer at Investor’s Business Daily is strongly of the impression that the brilliant British physicist owes his life to having been born and raised in the Good Old U. S. of A.

People such as scientist Stephen Hawking wouldn’t have a chance in the U.K., where the National Health Service would say the life of this brilliant man, because of his physical handicaps, is essentially worthless.

via TheVanityPress

Let us not disturb baby’s dreams. It would only be cruel. After all, the poor boy can’t help it: he undoubtably went to American schools.

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Palin Poetry

No, that’s not a misspelling of some random Bjork tune; it’s what the incoherent, rambling speech of Sarah Palin turned into once the immortal William Shatner got his paws on it. Behold:

From the full, delicious, transcript:

And getting up here I say it is the best road trip in America soaring through nature’s finest show. Denali, the great one, soaring under the midnight sun. And then the extremes. In the winter time it’s the frozen road that is competing with the view of ice fogged frigid beauty, the cold though, doesn’t it split the Cheechakos from the Sourdoughs? And then in the summertime such extreme summertime about a hundred and fifty degrees hotter than just some months ago, than just some months from now, with fireweed blooming along the frost heaves and merciless rivers that are rushing and carving and reminding us that here, Mother Nature wins. It is as throughout all Alaska that big wild good life teeming along the road that is north to the future. That is what we get to see every day. Now what the rest of America gets to see along with us is in this last frontier there is hope and opportunity and there is country pride.

And, topical as always, Vanity Fair has already published Palin’s notes for the historic speech.

Palin says Buh Bye

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Guest Post by Isabella Mori

This is a guest post by Isabella Mori, one of the many Vancouver bloggers. She blogs at change therapy about psychology, creativity, spirituality and social issues such as peace and social justice.

So here I am, shaking in my boots, or rather sweaty keds. (To compensate for my lack of boots, I am wearing a red cowboy hat.) Shaking in my boots because I just offered Lorraine a guest post. What was I thinking? She is one of Vancouver’s Top 5 Witty People. How can I compare? I will try, of course, because I want to have a brain like her, and because something in my incalcitrant mind tells me that comparing is a good idea, never mind all the therapisty knowledge I’m supposed to have. Of course I will fail and perhaps lose place #39,871 in Vancouver’s Almost Witty People.

But onwards and sideways.

Here’s something that has baffled and troubled me last week:

Coca-Cola shares the Diversity of Aboriginal Culture with Canada & the World

VANCOUVER, July 20 /CNW/ – As a part of our company’s ongoing series of Olympic-related programming, Coca-Cola is pleased to launch the Aboriginal Art Bottle program.
The Coca-Cola Aboriginal Art Bottle Program will provide an opportunity for Aboriginal people across Canada to experience the Olympic Spirit and showcase the diversity of Aboriginal art and culture to the world by displaying Aboriginal art on the contour bottle – the Coca-Cola’s unique global iconic asset.

I’m probably hopelessly 60-s hippie old-fashioned but – Coca Cola and “Shares”? Coca-Cola and Aboriginals? On the bottle?

How cute that will be. Throw-away aboriginal art wrapped around teeth-rotting fizz. It all reminds me of Disney’s Pocahontas. Of course I dutifully laughed and cried when I saw it – Disney has an amazing way of getting around people’s intelligence, straight to their tear ducts, I’m clearly envious of that – but come ON! That’s not the way to tell the stories of Native Americans! “What’s next?” I remember thinking, “Will they do ‘The Happy Holocaust’”?

So I gotta say that so far I am extremely suspicious of this plan. The Noble Savage on the Bottle. Bottles and First Nations people don’t have such a great history. And talking of history, it looks like Coca Cola wasn’t always so supportive of Aboriginals. To wit, here’s a story from two years ago, from Counterpunch, a bit abbreviated.

Thrust like a huge furry green thumb into the big Chiapas sky above San Cristobal de las Casas, the jewel-box capital of the Mayan highlands (“Los Altos”), Huitepec mountain, “el cerro de agua” (“hill of water”), contrasts sharply with the logged-out, bald-pated hills that line the Valley of Jovel.

As the source of water for San Cristobal and the neighboring municipality of Zinacantan plus dozens of Zapatista rebel communities nestled in the valleys of Los Altos, Huitepec is both revered by the highland Maya as a sacred site, and besieged by national and transnational capital seeking to suck the Hill of Water dry.

Riding the ridge between San Cristobal and Zinacantan, Huitepec’s water wealth is drained off to feed expanding urban needs in the big city below … the great predator here is the Coca Cola plant operated by Mexican bottler Femsa that sprawls at the foot of Huitepec Mountain like a temple to consumer greed.

“Coca Cola is a hydration company – without water we have no business,” an in-house document ” Our Use of Water” unearthed by the NGO War on Want, bluntly states. Chiapas, the source of 65% of southern Mexico’s water, figures prominently in Coca’s plans. To underscore its mission, Coca-Femsa has obtained a 20 year concession from the city of San Cristobal, which claims jurisdiction over Huitepec water, to siphon off five liters a second of the precious fluid for the next generation, for the manufacture of its noxious brew and the commercialization of bottled water whose plastic husks have become the most littered item on Planet Earth.

San Cristobal’s claim to ownership of Huitepec water is contested by the Tzotzil Maya in neighboring villages. Indeed, under the provisions of the International Labor Organization’s Resolution 169 (OIT 169 by its Spanish initials), the legal benchmark for what defines Indian territory (habitat) and territoriality (what goes on in that territory), Huitepec is the collective property of the people who live on this land.

Enough to reach for the bottle.

Image by Jeremy Burgin

DJ Winston

Everyone knows that Winston Churchill was one of the greatest Prime Ministers that Britain ever had. Many people also know he was an alcoholic. Some people know he was a wit. And a few know he was a painter of moderate talents.

But who knew he was a rapper?

Behold the wonder which is DJ Winston, as he and his crew get this dinner party started!

via Neatorama

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