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French Sorrow – World Problem
(Author’s Note: While I strive to share the bright side of French Life, there are times when you need to see the darkness. Especially when the issue concerns everyone. This, is such a time.)
All of France is in shock this week, following a especially brutal, and troubling sex crime. A 17 year old Male student, allegedly (I have to use this word to respect the presumption of innocence, but he’s the only suspect) raped, murdered, and burned or attempted to burn a 14 year old Female classmate. A horrific, unimaginable crime, to be sure. WHY? is the question that the people of this Nation are asking.
Although it is a rhetorical one. This young man is “mentally unbalanced.” Sick. Twisted. He needs help. He needs psychiatric treatment is, of course the rant of that profession. And, it’s important to know – he’s HAD psychiatric treatment before. Because he PREVIOUSLY raped a classmate – and was sentenced to – are you ready?……4 months of “detention.” After which the shrinks set him loose.
The opposing view is that he needs, and deserves, a lethal injection.
There are two major considerations in this, and other similiar cases: The right to Life. And the protection of Society.
Psychiatrists would have us believe that we can have both. That, dear reader, is squirrel dookie. Psychiatric treatment of sex offenders,as any study you care to quote will confirm, has never achieved even a 25% rate of success in rewiring those troubled brains.
That’s because – and this may be an “Ah-Ha” moment for you – Psychiatry does not study the brain! Psychiatry is based on profiles/case studies of human behaviour. And what controls human behaviour? – DUH! – you’re right – it’s….THE BRAIN!!!
Incredibly, Psychiatry is the only field of medicine that DOES NOT STUDY THE ORGAN IT PURPORTS TO TREAT.
Imagine being operated on by a neurosurgeon whose sole education was based on “profiles” of the brain? Like to be under his knife? – Didn’t think so.
So – dumping this non-medicine in the trash where it belongs – the question then becomes: “Under what circumstances do you lose your right to life?” A brutual sex crime like this one? A premeditated murder?
And where should society stand on retarded individuals who commit what we consider a crime – but to them was a game? Do we expend our time, energy and resources attempting to re-wire them? Or do they get the deadly needle too?
I’ve attempted to save us all some grief up to this point by not factoring in Religious fanaticism. And, clearly, fanaticism is THE definition of every Religion. (As the authenticity of each depends on theirs being the only one with a hot line to “GOD.”)
And you too, whatever your religious “beliefs”( a 10 dollar word for”fairy tales”) should do the same. Because the operative question here is: “HOW DO WE PROTECT SOCIETY FROM REPEAT SEXUAL OFFENDERS?” (Not how do we stroke your religious fantasies AND protect society.)
There are two solutions. Only one, sadly is do-able.The first (and my favorite) is to hold Psychiatrists accountable for the crimes of sex offenders they green-light for release. I guarantee this would result in ZERO repeat offences.
The other solution is the deadly needle. Yes, I can hear the howls of the “right to lifers” here. “All human life is sacred, etc.” Exactly. What about all the other human lives engulfed in a shockwave of grief and agony? Do they have any rights?, Do they deserve some consideration?
We – Society- are also the victims of this horrific act. We, as members of the human family, are suffering along with the murdered girls family.
Bottom Line: When someone (of any age or mental state) commits a crime this horrific, and will, if given the chance, almost certainly do it again – is their life more important than more grief and agony they will generate for the lives of all the members of the Human Family?
And the fate of this “alleged” rapist- murderer? Sadly – the usual. Psychiatric”treatment”. Dentention. And, eventually – you guessed it – release.
Doubtless He’ll be walking the streets again – someday. Ready to make his contribution to society.
THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
French Country Life Confidental – Part Two
(Author’s Note : reading Part One – could be instructive.)
All My Children
The cast o’ characters at Chez Rene was as unique as the building they inhabited. (Think French soap opera.) First up – Rene. A gentleman (like his Sister) “of a certain age”, with Adult children from his first marriage. Two young boys, two and six, with Sascha, wife number two, twenty years his junior; plus two girls thirteen and seventeen, from her previous marriage to the Mayor of the village. Seventeen year old Nathalie, yer basic teen age nightmare, lived with daddy, while thirteen year old Isabelle, Nathalies tempermental opposite was here.
And good thing. Because She could, and did, ride herd on her stepbrothers.Most noteably two year old Jean-Louis,who despite his tender age, already had a PHD. In ear-splitting screaming.
Happily, Brother Benoit, the six year old, was a chip off the Daddy block. Easy going with a playful sense of humor. When I walked him back from the after school bus,or to the village bar to get bread(Now you don’t have to ask how small this village was, do you?)- he was always cheery. Displaying more patience than any Adult as I stopped to suss potential photo ops, or smell the flowers.
Cooking With Wine
Rene’s wife, Sascha,head nurse at a nearby hospital, was a chain smoking alchoholic. (Just who I’d want supervisin’ my IV!) As a result, meal quality varied according to the amount of beverages consumed before and during preparation. However, her blood/alcohol content notwithstanding, Sascha was capable of whipping up above average grub, if the goods were fresh, or the occasion, special.
Thus, shopping day, and guests for dinner nights, were marked on my and Marie’s culinary calendar, with the same sense of reverence and anticipation, as kids countin down ‘til Christmas.When Sascha worked, k.p. fell on the dainty shoulders of Marie et Moi. Fortunately, She did not “‘ate ze coo-king”, and We were, in the spirit of greaseless confit, able to elevate culinary quality to at least, “Farmhouse Bleu.”
However, no worries. The scream monster’s diet never varied. Gentle Benoit ate our grub, and Rene was happy with bread, pate and wine.
The Great Escape
Although the French after lunch Siesta is a reality, it is not an obligation. So, most afternoons, with no searing heat to escape, Marie and I ambled though the countryside. Exploring ruins. Collecting walnuts. Talking to horses. Marie had been married. With no children. And tho’ She never mentioned her husband, except in the context of places visited, the bittersweet tone of her recollections confirmed that this was the love. And that it had ended abruptly and tragically.
Paree was not very gay for Marie now. The main reason She was here. Her ex-business partner had taken not only clients, but valuable materials when He left. That, and being robbed in daylight by a gang of pre-teen gypsy thieves, had convinced Marie to sell. So far – no takers. But, if She did sell – what to live on? And so, selling her apartment and re-locating to “ze country” was the rock and the hard place Marie was stuck between.
On the front gate of virtually every French country house you will find the warning : “Chein Mechant!” (dangerous dog) A typically French way of saying : “if you try to rob this house, your voice could go up several octaves.” On one of our walks, Marie and I spotted an atypically colorful country cottage. Bold primary colors. The yard bulging with bric-a-brac and whimsical sculptures. Above the multi-colored mailbox this proclamation : “Chat Joyeuse!” (joyous cat.) I would like to say this was a classic example of French humor. But the owners of the cottage – were Dutch!
Part Three (the captivating conclusion) – next time.
THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
French Country Life Confidental – Part One
French Country Elegance
She was beyond elegant. Immaculately coiffed. Exquisitely tailored. Equally “prêt” for shopping on the Champs Elysee, or a stroll through the Bois du Bologne. Her dancers body arcing delicate,repetitive motions with effortless grace. As I crossed the courtyard,our eyes met. She fixed me with an impersonal frown. Then, scraping her rake along the pavement to impale another leaf spat out: “I ‘ate ze country!” This is my indelible memory of “Marie from Paree.”
When She is not there, She is where We met. At her Brother’s house in the Bordeaux countryside. Marie is, as the phrase goes, “a Woman of a certain age.” Exactly what age, I did not, and was not, sufficiently interested to determine. Although her innocent revelation that She was “A few years older than my Brother”, did give me a clue.
The Mysteries Of Beauty
Suffice to say, that whether through good genes, great cosmetics, plastic surgery, yoga, or all of the above, “Marie from Paree” would have been the envy of most Women over forty. Marie was also, to use the French phrase, a “personnage.” A catch-all adjective that can mean : “Eccentric”, “A freak”, “A character”, “Larger than life”, “Marching to the beat of a different drummer”, or all of the above.
Marie had a small atelier where She restored religious object d’art. Her speciality was gold leaf. Which came in way handy for Brother Rene, who flogged religious object d’art. Whenever He had a crucifix or two that needed a little more sheen, He knew where to send ‘em.
Although Rene was the third generation in the “buy-a-piece-of-an-ancient-church biz”, He was the first to do it on the internet. I dug his business model. Lives in the country. Buys low. Sells High. Ships Worldwide. The majority of Rene’s clients were in the excited states. Being the World’s largest overdeveloped market, it had the highest percentage of wackos who could not face the day without fondling a napkin from the last supper, or a strap from the sandal of John the Baptist.
I’d met Rene the previous Summer, (this being Autumn) when I stopped to film the converted stone mill (Moulin) where he lives. Non-cooking, stranger-friendly, and temporarily abandoned by Wifey, Rene was more than over the Moon to have the exotic stranger from the far away lands stay and rustle up some grub.
BG’s French Cuisine Improv.
This, dear reader, turned out to be rustlin’s most challenging hour. The only edible item was a jar of confit. (pro – con-fee) As you’ll no doubt recall from French food preservation 101, this is a cooked dead thing, usually a duck or goose, packed in it’s own fat in a quart sized mason jar. The usual method of preparation for this staple of the South-West French diet is simply to pour the whole enchildada into the pan, heat and serve. 
However, being a “fat makes me hurl” kind guy, I modified the recipie, by straining off the fat, then after washing the remaining slime off Donald, dropped him into an herbal béchamel to simmer. Served with new potatoes (Charlottes, from Spain), bread and wine, it sent Rene into raptures sufficient to produce a return invivation.
As I said, it was Rene’s house that originally stopped me in my tracks. Mainly, because half of it is a complete ruin! That half, dating back untold Centuries, no roof, walls crumbling, is the Summer Bar-b-que location. Where it joins the “liveable” inside section, the garbage and re-cycling bins live. The half that does have a roof, (but no central heating), is a rectangular affair, with kitchen, dining room, living room and Rene’s office on the first floor. Upstairs, three bedrooms.
Part Two – Next Time
THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
