The Memory Remains

It's Proust's birthday. 'nuff said.

Now, that wasn't very Proustian, was it? No, the sentence length, not the Metallica, though that isn't either. On the other hand, Miss Faithfull probably has a few novelfuls of interesting memories tucked away in that English noggin. Anyway, here are a couple of songs that are Proustian, L'heure exquise and Tyndaris, sung by Ninon Vallin and played by the composer himself, Reynaldo Hahn, a close pal of Marcel. Don't tell The Maverick®, but I think -- shhhh! -- they were real close.



If you're one of those weirdos who isn't merely fascinated by memory the way some are fascinated by dinosaurs so they watch stuff on the National Geographic channel, but are obsessed by the idea of it, the inherent power and control it can have over our lives, whether voluntarily submitting to its will or simply being subject, by definition, to its whims that lead us to other, heretofore hidden paths lined by long-limbed boughs of remembrance shadowing our every step, whatever our state of mind at the time, a state that might shift us off those roads and onto yet more occulted ones that seemingly spring fully formed out of the ether, realms concealed from conscious view, then there simply isn't anything better than À la recherche du temps perdu and if you haven't read it yet, what the bloody hell are you waiting for?

I love a run-on sentence, but now I'm tired. Here, look at some purty pictures whipped up by another famous dude who shares the same birthday, Camille Pissarro. Don't tell The Maverick®, but I think -- shhhh! -- he was a commie pinko.














Edge of the Woods or Undergrowth in Summer, 1879.















Le Boulevard Montmartre, effet de nuit, 1897.

To close out on a completely unrelated subject, my hometown, save for lazy and supposedly car-less New Orleans, has lost the most folks of any big city this decade (ignore the optimistic crap at the end, it only ruins the theme of this paragraph). Even when we suck we're still not number one. Well played, looters, well played.

On the credit side of the column, as I strolled, smiling as I always do each morning in anticipation of helping my fellow patriots, past an Embassy Suites hotel in beautiful, alluring, yet not overtly swanky in a cheesy Old European way downtown Cleveland (okay, City Hall, where's my fucking check?) I noticed, parked in the loading/unloading zone, a brand spanking new white SUV of US Customs and Border Protection, a subsidiary of the Department of Homeland Security, headed by a man whose gut we all know and love like a brother, Michael Chertoff. This sleek, clean-burning machine of sturdy American craftsmanship even had one of those fancy logos that Barack Hussein X stole for his own nefarious Muslim use. No, wait, that was the Presidential seal. Even more heinous!

My point is thus: we obviously have Al-Qaeda #3 cornered, so it's safe to leave your homes and stimulate the economy. Surely you haven't forgotten that 'the priority mission of the Border Patrol is preventing terrorists and terrorists' weapons, including weapons of mass destruction, from entering the United States.'

Citizen vigilance (one of our strengths here in Northeast Ohio -- ahem, Mr. Mayor) along with the muscle of DHS, has once again thwarted a plot to blow up something red, white and blue. You're welcome.

Postscript: editorialist, you aren't helping with our image:

No matter what this or any other law says, Congress has few practical means to force an end to hostilities. Its most obvious lever -- withholding the money -- is distasteful and could endanger U.S. troops.

Got that kids? Withholding money from bloodthirsty warmongers ranks quite high on the Distaste-O-Meter along with cannibalism and voting Republican. En plus, all those soldiers will chance getting killed as they scramble to find their own way home, constructing rafts out of smouldering wreckage and tightly packed sand that may or may not float on the unpredictable currents of the Gulf of Hormel, the Indian and the Atlantic.

Or, to put it more succinctly, Congress is icky, but doing stuff is ickier.