Chris Bakunas con un excepcionalmente agradable rubia

That's close enough...

She Spoke

      Speak she did

About the feeling that comes from being

                  About fresh, ice cold water cupped in your hand                                           

                       Musings that didn't make sense
                        Musings that muddled like liquor        
                              
                                                  He heard
                                                  Heeding the words
                                Trusting the first impression that walked into the room
           Trusting it wasn't worth the while to climb the mountain
               Doubt the world's altruistic intentions
               Doubt the course of the unobstructed river 


               Climb down from that pink elephant
                              Before a sneeze sends you flying
                                              You're out of your element   
                                                           It's as if you're not trying
                                                                       Quite the predicament
                                                                                   Hope I'm not prying
                                                                                           The Old Testament
                                                                                                           Everyone's lying   
                                                                                                                  It's so exquisite
                                                                            
                           

In Six-Fours-les-Plages With Only Cold Seafood To Eat...

                                                 The mystical palm trees of everlasting jubilation

There is a small town in the south-eastern corner of France not too far from Toulon known as Six-Fours-les-Plages, or Six-Fours for short. While it is spelled "Six-Fours", it is not pronounced as Americans say "six fours" (or most English speaking people say it, I assume). It is pronounced as the French say "six fours", which is something like "says fohrns" as best as I can remember. 

But the pronunciation is not the point. The point of this little diatribe is how I ended up in Six-Fours and learned that the French really aren't that rude. This all came about after I spent a day walking around the South of France near Toulon. See, I had been staying at the Novotel, about two and a half km from the harbor of Toulon, and had yet to secure a rental car. 

Which I did not see as a problem, because I love to explore areas I visit by walking around without benefit of a tour guide or even a guidebook. Just wandering out and about, down streets that pique my curiosity or toward whatever looks to be interesting or worthwhile. 

So, by two in the afternoon, after several hours of meandering about primarily in the direction of things that looked rural (walked past a quaint little vineyard replete with a winery) and away from things that looked urban (the very industrial inner-city of Toulon), in what was to me an ideal way to spend the day in the South of France, I found myself  lost in the little French commune of Ollioules (that's pronounced "Ooo - ells"...as best I can remember) 

I state it was to me an ideal way...however, I was at the time with my then-wife, and my then-wife really didn't get into all the walking about lost as readily as I did. The part where neither of us spoke or could comprehend much French didn't help either - toss in the hunger that had built up after all the walking (on a very light French breakfast of cheese and bread with a glass of orange juice), and the mood was getting a little testy to say the least.

Ah, but fortune smiled upon us. We stumbled upon a nice cafe that was serving up pasta for lunch (what I thought was spaghetti, except it came with a raw egg over it as opposed to a hearty meat sauce). Even better than the lunch was the American we met there, an ex-pat who had married a Frenchman and now lived in Ollioules. She was gracious enough to get us oriented and point us in the direction of the Novotel in Toulon.

The then-wife and I ate our lunch and headed back towards Toulon...only to promptly lose our bearings again.

This is the part where it gets good.

The then-wife and I had stopped in front of a Real Estate office to discuss the possibility of getting a cab or at least finding a bus. Being that we had no idea how to find a cab or a bus, I decided to attempt to communicate with the men staffing the Real Estate office. Using a combination of poor French (Excuse moi...parle Anglish? Les touristes...de trouver..car) and gestures (hands on a steering wheel), I somehow managed to convince the office staff that we were desperately in need of transportation.

Although It may have been the pleading look in my eyes that did it - that look men give to one another when they need to be saved from the wrath of an upset wife. It's universally recognized by men as a distress signal. 

Except they thought what I was saying and doing meant we wanted to rent a car and got out a phone book and looked up a car rental agency to find us one. I wasn't aware that it was a car rental they were securing and not a taxi until 30 minutes later, when a small Mercedes pulled up in front of the Real Estate office and a very polite young woman jumped out and asked us if we were the Americans looking for a car (In fairly decent English, to my relief).

I replied that we were looking for a cab and that I must have made a mistake conveying that to the gentlemen inside the Real Estate office. The polite young woman wasn't fazed - she asked how long we were staying, I told her a couple of more days, and she stated that we could rent the very car she had driven up in for about $80.00 American, plus gas, for the next couple of days, and that would be far less than the cost of a couple of cab rides in Toulon.

The then-wife and I looked at each other and without a word agreed that we were going to rent that car. The polite young woman told us we had to go to the rental office to complete the paperwork, so after a few "Merci bien beaucoup's" to the guys in the Real Estate office, we hopped in and were taken to the rental agency.

Which was in Six-Fours. A very pretty postcard of a seaside village just 15 minutes from Ollioules. The rental agency people were very quick and efficient, and within a half hour of getting the paperwork done (Thankfully, I had my International driver's license with me), the then-wife and I were happily driving through the narrow streets of Six-Fours in an A series Mercedes. The A series is not sold by Mercedes in the U.S. - it's a small economy car that I believe the folks at Mercedes believe would lower the prestige of the Mercedes name if it were introduced to the U.S. market.

It was a fun little car to drive though, and speedy, too. We went up the coast to Saint Tropez on the French Riviera, and laid out on the beach with the very rich (and very topless - ooh-la-lah!) French sun worshipers. We drove along the winding and weaving roads that somewhat skirted (and somewhat did not - lots of curvy road over small mountains - on which, I must confess, I imagined I was James Bond) the Mediterranean coast back to Six-Fours.

The day we had to return the car we decided to eat what would be our last dinner in France (we were off to Spain in the morning) in a seaside restaurant in Six-Fours. Again, we spoke little French, and none of the staff spoke English, but that was okay as every item on the menu was illustrated with large photographs. The then-wife and I decided that what looked to be lobster with mussels, clams and anemones looked delicious, so we ordered that.

Like your average Americans we anticipated a steamed lobster tail that we could dip in delicious hot melted butter, and a few steamed clams, and finally a few chilled oysters to wolf down. Nope. Everything was served "Froid". I had noticed the word on the menu but I had no clue what it meant. It means...cold. And in the context of this particular dish, it meant raw and cold.

When the huge, iced platter of seafood arrived at out table both of us stared in confused amazement. We tried our best to tell the waiter that something was not right, that we thought the food would come out cooked, but it was to no avail. He could not understand us. However, a few minutes after bringing the food to our table he returned with a young woman. 

This young woman was the restaurant owner's daughter. She had gone to school in the U.S. and could speak English. She explained to us that most seafood was served cold and that included all the soups and sauces. She told us that about the only thing they had hot on the dinner menu was coffee.

Well, we made the best of it, picking at the various items (and I do mean picking - eating a winkle meant using a little steel spear the size of a hat pin to extract the soft meat). Everybody on the staff must have thought we were the two pickiest eaters on earth because when we finished we each had taken exactly one small bite from each item.

After the table had been cleared we ordered a couple cups of coffee - had to cleanse the palate. The owner's daughter came back out and asked if we wouldn't mind one more cold dish - a desert treat that the hotel was famous for. The then-wife and I hesitated a moment then shrugged an okay. A minute later the waiter came out with two tall glasses of what was called "Mont Blanc", a whipped cream covered delight that was scrumptious!

Those people of the South of France, who didn't know us and owed us no favors, all extended themselves to help us enjoy our short stay. Whenever I chance upon a citizen of France visiting the States I make it a point to be as nice and helpful as I can. 

Which has scared a few of them - the movies and television have really given us large bald men bad reputations. Most of us are actually quite alright.

Scientific Methodology and Falsifiability

Experiments. That's what it's all about. Experiments with results that can be readily duplicated. The scientific method is fairly specific about what is and is not acceptable in terms of investigative techniques, methods of inquiry, and measurable evidence. There is very little gray area when it comes to getting to the real nature of things.

Just about everyone I know has a thirst for knowledge, or at least a thirst for explanations for things. Sadly, a lot of people I know do not know how to think critically, and thus accept some very spurious rationale for why things happen.

Which, I imagine, is how it's always been. 5,000 years ago, somewhere in what is now the south of France, a couple of guys were painting images of animals on the walls of a cave. One of the guys might have asked another, "Hey, why do we have to paint down here in this dank, dark cave? Can't we just paint on some of the boulders that are out there in the warm sun?" The other guy, for reasons all his own, may have replied, "No, what we do here is sacred magic, for it captures the very souls of the animals and binds them to us." And the first guy, well, he just wasn't skeptical enough to say, "Oh yeah? Can you prove that assertion?"

And thus a load of crap was accepted for the first time and the world has had to deal with it ever since.

It's a damn shame more people don't think critically and/or skeptically. Today I found myself listening to somebody talk about being able to read a person's aura, and thereby determine whether or not that person is safe for her to be around.

She was dead serious. It's the damn 21st Century - the Catholic Church has long recognized the validity of the theory of evolution and apologized for being dicks to Galileo, I own a cell phone that allows me to film a short movie and send it to just about anywhere on the planet, people have lived for over a year on an orbiting platform in space, and the revolution(s) are being televised.

Yet, this person believes whole-heartily in auras.

Now, you may be saying, "So? To each their own. If you don't like what this person believes, too bad."

That's all well and good, except for a few small things.

First and foremost is the possibility that a person claiming to see auras may actually be suffering from a medical condition that could harm them if left untreated, such as temporal lobe epilepsy or some other chronic neurological condition. Second, allowing the perpetuation of pseudoscience is just simply irresponsible, no different than allowing the spread of racist/sexist/ageist,etc., ideals.

Someone has to take a stand against such balderdash, unlike the cave painter of long ago who blindly accepted an incorrect explanation.

The idea of auras, and the claims from people who say they see them, have been scrutinized scientifically and have been found sorely lacking. I'm not about to let the hard work of dedicated scientist go to waste.

So, that's one more woman who will be referring to me as an asshole from now on. And an asshole with a bad aura to boot. Think she would seen that when we first met seven years ago.

The Road Well Trampled

One trail unmistakable in a bright green wood

And happily I ambled along in the footsteps of the many

Who trod the path well worn and true

Saving me the trouble of picking my way

Through bramble and thistle or thickets or worse

The trail was clearly the most advantageous

For the view of the lake and the mountains beyond

No obstacles blocked egress or hindered progress

This trail was perfect in every way

Clearly the right choice for an enjoyable hike

There was no flora or fauna anywhere

To indicate that possibly a better experience could be had

By disturbing the untouched areas of the park

And even if something off the path should interest me

I could always return to see it some other day

I tell this with a felicific smile

Right here and now, no need to delay

One trail unmistakable in the wood and I

Walked comfortably along it

And it made for an appreciable constant

The Cube Root of Infinity

Water, water everywhere...but god forbid you should drink it from the hose...

The sea is a beauty without the need for explanation

It's just there and it's just beautiful

It doesn't wilt under cross-examination

The sea cannot be judged

There is no need for rationalization

It's powerful, awe-inspiring, and forever

It's life, it's death, it's stimulation

The sea washes the world with it's sweep

Plankton, coral, aquatic craniate or cetacean

All thrive in the shallow and the deep

Every shade of blue and green in it's coloration

Turquoise in the Med, cerulean in the Baltic

At night the moon can cast illumination

That makes the sea glow with a pale yellow green

And under the waves the darker depths defy classification

The sea can lap at the shore with a caress

The sea can crash on the shore with determination

It's the sea and it's beautiful

Weeds In The Garden

Tom Long, Chris Bakunas (fka Long), Kathy Long & her daughter Brittany Martin

My family isn't close, not all of us 

I've read about families that faced tragedy or misfortune

Banding together, sharing their strength with one another

That's not us though, we are not of that ilk

Tragedy and misfortune pushed us apart

It really is quite a shame

We have very little in common, my brothers and sisters and I

We don't like the same music or read the same books

If pressed, I guess I could come up with a few commonalities

None of us liked growing up poor

But as a consequence, we're all fairly thrifty

Several of us have traveled extensively

I think that must be a delayed reaction

To feeling trapped in that abysmal pit of a neighborhood we got stuck in

After Dad left Mom for the second of his four wives

Or was it five? I can never seem to get that straight

His Dad, my paternal Grandfather Arthur, he had three wives

And his Dad, Great-Grandfather William, he had three as well.

My paternal Grandmother Agnes, she was the rebel, only married the once
That I know of
Grandfather's mother, Great-Grandmother Martha, she had three husbands  

Those spouse counts are all subject to revision - up

Mom's side of the family, they all stuck it out with each other

Maybe they didn't like the idea of having to break in someone new

Still, the paternal family tree looks like a kelp forest

being ripped apart by the currents

I've been married twice myself

The first time for almost 23 months

The second time, well, that was never much of a marriage

Not only did I not ever live with the woman

I never even lived in the same state with her

Yeah, that's a story right there

So, my family, we're not close, not like I think families should be

It really is quite a shame

Might be a good thing though, with all the half-siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles

Postage for Christmas cards alone would probably bankrupt me

The Conversation Turned

Chris Bakunas & Rick Thibodeau hoist a few in 2009

She nodded her head as I spoke feigning interest in my opinion of a movie
Twisting her hair with an index finger
The shirt she wore looked like silk but I'm sure it was polyester
She told me she named her cat Schrodinger

With a sardonic grin she explained how she found him in a box and thought it was fitting
And lamented about her friends not getting the joke
I asked if those friends waxed poetic about quantum mechanics
Her blank stare told me I shouldn't have spoke

The ritual had become routine, it was such a bore
There was only so much we could possibly have to say
Tomorrow seemed so far away

She asked Joey for another drink as I stared out at the skating rink
Curious if I could still handle being on the ice
I noticed a snag in her nylons and wondered what she got them caught on
As she played with an electronic device

It had been a long day, really, an excruciatingly  long day
But I yearned more for conversation than I did for sleep
I couldn't be alone with my thoughts right then
And I didn't want to bother my friends
I didn't want to be a bother to my friends

So I retained my seat at the bar and listened to her talk about an ugly scar
A boyfriend gave her as a parting gift
And like her I nodded my head as I listened to what she said 
I stared at her lips as my mind began to drift

The ritual had become routine, it was such a bore
There was only so much we could possibly have to say
Tomorrow seemed so far away