. . . And the End of Civilization As We Know It

Today is the day Florida's judicial stay on the enforcement of the declaration of unconstitutionality of the state's ban on same-sex marriages was lifted. It's convoluted.

Several years ago, along with a bunch of other red(dish) states, our legislature managed to work up enough of a paranoid frenzy among the insecure and easily frightened to get a constitutional amendment passed limiting marriage to the "traditional" one man, one woman format and besides, it's what Jesus wants. (Let's forget that "traditional marriage" as they defined it is barely more than a century old and for most of history was a transfer of property contract between men, and Biblical marriage was even worse involving slavery and polygamy (lookin' at you, Solomon!).)

Anyway, last year a federal judge, upon complaint from two guys wishing to wed in the north end of the state and two women in Miami, declared the ban unconstitutional under the federal 14th amendment which requires states to comply with federal law and ordered the clerks of the county in which the betrothed lived to issue the marriage licenses.

The state, in the full majesty of its official capacity, immediately freaked out and requested a stay of judgment to give it time to appeal the decision, which the judge granted.

Now, the thing about appeals is: higher courts are not usually required to hear them and, if they refuse, the original ruling, whatever it may be, stands. And no higher court, not even the Supreme Court where the extremely conservative Clarence Thomas was the justice who heard the request, agreed to take the case.

So the stay was set to expire at midnight last night.

And then the fun started. The state attorney general, still in full freak-out mode, declared that the ruling only applied to the plaintiffs and anyone else seeking a same-sex marriage could still be discriminated against. And the law firm for the county clerks' association warned the members that the clerks of all the other counties not covered by the ruling risked breaking the law by applying the ruling. So on New Year's Day the judge issued a clarification making it plain that his injunction against the constitutional ban applied to everyone across the state.

At which point some counties (specifically those encompassing Miami, Tampa and Key West) began celebrating, most counties began adjusting their forms and procedures, and a dozen counties in the deep redneck north of the state began contorting themselves to do the barest minimum mainly by refusing to perform any marriage ceremonies gay or straight on the logic that the judge's ruling applied only to marriage licenses not actual marriages. (At least they were smart enough to realize that continuing to perform straight marriage ceremonies would open themselves up to discrimination charges. And there are plenty of other options, both religious and secular, for couples to hold their services.)

And so, despite the trembling of the earth, rising of the waters, lightning splitting stone, and howling winds, society has not yet collapsed. And Florida is being dragged kicking and screaming right up to the edge of the twenty-first century.

2015 So Far

Well, this new year seems to be starting off different.

Three police cars showed up out on our main road about 1:45 a.m., parked in a line about a hundred feet apart with lights flashing and stayed there for an hour or so encouraging a party down that way to break up. It was a pretty good party, too, from the sound and sight of it, with music, fireworks and a large bonfire. (I'm pretty sure it was just a bonfire despite looking as if the host house was burning down with flames rising above the roof and thick smoke billowing out since the fire department never showed up.) It took a while for the dozen or so cars to leave.

Fortunately, the police didn't come any sooner since one of the neighbors down our street had been shooting off commercial-grade fireworks from the pavement in front of his house. They were very impressive (Literally. You could feel the force of the shockwave when they exploded.) and quite beautiful and very loud. The cats hid. They started well before midnight so after an hour and a half someone came out and yelled at them to knock it off. They yelled back, "Happy New Year!" The complainers yelled back, "Happy New Year, to you!" and went inside. A couple of shots later the fireworks ended. That's how civilization is supposed to work.

January is a Blue Month for my platelet donations this year: my every-four-weeks schedule means I will donate twice this month. The first one was scheduled for the first of the year which wasn't going to work for anybody so we moved it to Friday, the 2nd. The regular RN was still out on vacation and the hospital was low on platelets so the sub asked if I'd be willing to do a double, which I was. All went reasonably well with only minor beeping of the machine. When we were done, however, the bandage was not applied tightly enough (can't place blame since I participate in that process). I mentioned that I was feeling a little light-headed when I stood up and another donor said, "Maybe it's because you're leaking all over the place."

Sure enough, the bandage was soaked through, blood was running down my arm, and drops were spurting out all over the floor. I hadn't felt a thing. I sat back down and we got it stopped quickly enough. They spent several minutes scrubbing and decontaminating the floor. I went home, threw my shirt in the wash and took a nap. We all promised to be more observant next time.

My brother decided to put the cats on a diet. It's only the mom, Jasmine, that's fat but they all eat at the same time from shared plates so they're all being cut back in both volume and frequency. One of the enterprising little buggers quickly figured out how to self-serve by nibbling/tearing a small hole in the kibble bag. It was perfectly done and only released food when they stuck their faces in the hole. The only reason I noticed was because they acted totally disinterested when I put out the scheduled meal, instead of the hunger-fueled frenzy that had quickly become the norm. So now the bag is in a sealed bucket and they're unhappy again.

Paris 1951: The First Step

I found an e-mail address for Le Bistrot (it says "Bistro" on the awning out front but, apparently, the name is really "Bistrot") the cafe that currently lives in the space formerly occupied by Au Port d'Attache. In addition to some nice pictures, their web page lists several menus of traditional French cafe fare and if/when I can get to Paris they definitely seem worth checking out.

In the meantime, I sent an e-mail explaining the business card which came into my possession and asking if they knew anything at all about the history of their location. To date, I have heard nothing back. So, they either know nothing but are intrigued by my message and are researching whatever they can and will get back to  me soon--or--they know something but are too busy during the holiday season right now and will get back to me when they can--or--they know something but are unable or unwilling to reveal what it is--or--they can't be bothered to respond to some stranger out of the blue with a sixty+ year old slip of paper that has nothing to do with their business. While the last possibility is the most likely, the third makes for a better story so that's the one I'll go with if they never get back to me.

After the first of the year, I will contact the real estate office that now occupies the former location of Morgan of Oregon. At the very least, they should know how to go about obtaining historical property records if they don't know the history themselves.

Hardly a Creature Stirred

This was the most low-key . . . and enjoyable . . . Christmas ever.

The tree went up the week before along with the large Santa atop the bookcase, two penguins under the tree and a couple of large stockings on the front door, one inside and one outside. That was it. No creche, no exterior lights, no carol-wielding circus train. My brother did scatter some Christmas balloon figures across the lawn but never got around to inflating them.

We limited ourselves on the presents, too. Since my niece was the only one who sent a wish list, and since half her list consisted of books, I was happy to oblige her. My brother and I agreed to limit ourselves to only "stocking stuffers" which meant he gave me three small jars of flavored honey, a bottle of orange flavored syrup and a box of fudge while I gave him a case of beer and a bottle of honey roasted peanuts. We were both happy.

The cats, being natural born heathens and not, as we, lapsed communicants, received nothing. They were content to nest in the boxes and nibble on wrapping paper. Despite occasional manic bursts of running about chasing each other around and under the tree, they were (generally) very careful to avoid touching it and only a couple of the lowest ornaments ended up on the rug.

We had Christmas dinner mid-afternoon and in the evening I made about a gallon of split pea soup with a portion of the leftover ham. The cats turned down ham samples although I did catch one of them later gnawing on a piece of gristle she stole from somewhere. I now have pea soup, bean soup and turkey soup taking up space in the refrigerator and freezer and kind of wish the weather would cool off again. It feels weird eating hot soup when the temperature is pushing 80F.

If we can maintain this same level of concentrated placidity, 2015 could start off well.

Planning Ahead

Well, at least I now know what (some) of the lumber is for.

My brother treated himself to a firepit. He intends to build what he calls a patio by the front door, set up the firepit there, sit back and drink beer and use the wood for fuel. He doesn't want to put it out back because of some obnoxious nearby dogs who are happy to bark at anything they see (or think they see) all night long. He's much happier with it being visible from the road which, in all honesty, is a better view, anyway.

No idea when the construction on this "patio" might begin. No idea, either, on his intentions for the plywood. Or the crutches.

The funny thing is, we already have a couple of woodpiles on the property that have been aging for literally years. Of course, by the time he's ready to start burning, the new sticks could also be well-seasoned despite being pine.

In the meantime, city code enforcement stopped by and left a note on our door. Apparently, the carrotwood tree is visible from the road and so was all the new lumber which is a violation of the city's "No Outdoor Storage" rule. My brother moved a small section of fencing to hide the 4x6 stumpy bits and carefully rearranged the pallets to lie flat behind a decorative wall of railroad ties (still around the carrotwood) and: voila! No more code violation. (At least, nothing that can be seen from the street.)

On the plus side, he did just bring home a large bag of blood oranges from somewhere, so there's that.

More Sh*t My Brother Drags Home

Continuing the kleptomaniacal tale. This past week:

• More industrial size wooden pallets. We now have three complete plus pieces for a couple more. They're stacking up beside the carrotwood tree.
• A pair of wooden crutches with one missing rubberized foot. If he's planning on having a debilitating accident it's going to have to involve ending up with one leg shorter than the other.
• A short (maybe 2.5 feet tall) open metal frame on casters with closely spaced metal flanges facing inward on parallel sides suitable for holding food trays. Except for the inconvenient lack of height, something that might be seen on an airline or in a hospital for delivering meals.

On a slightly saner note: He went and got the Christmas decorations out of storage over the weekend. They were all piled up in cardboard boxes at the top of the driveway until it started to rain last night forcing us to run outside and chuck everything into the garage except the Christmas tree which resides in a waterproof plastic coffin that is now sitting just at the edge of the living room attracting the attention of the cats. My brother has moved his dead bicycle from the corner where the tree is supposed to go so we can probably expect assembly this weekend.

Paris 1951: The Investigation Begins

There are two business cards in the "Paris 1951" envelope my brother brought home. They're both oversize, closer to index cards than modern business cards.

The first one is for "Au Port d'Attache," 79 rue Blanche. The name is printed on a half ship's wheel and includes not only the probably unnecessary explanatory "Bar" on the hub but the invitation to "Venez Chanter." The telephone number is given as : Tri.: 64-89. "Paris 1951" is handwritten across the bottom in ink. The back contains the following note in penciled cursive:

M Presse,

108 Rue du Theatre

Hotel Metropole

chambre 48

Paris 15e

and vertically up the left side: metro Commerce.

The second card is for "Morgan of Oregon, American Bar." The upper left corner brags, "The only yank in Montmartre." The lower left corner touts "Hamburgers, Chile con Carne, Hot Dogs -- Bacon & Eggs." In the lower right corner are the address: 36, rue Pigalle, Paris 9e, the phone: Tel. Tri. 77-78, and the notice: "open all night from 17 hours" under which is handwritten in ink "1951." On the back are two calculations, in pencil, in a different hand from the first card. One is a multiplication, the other an addition (with the wrong answer). There is also the name "georges," and the words "Pont (or Port, the card was folded at one point and the crease runs right through the middle of the word) Royal."

It turns out 79 rue Blanche is still a cafe/restaurant, although now just "le Bistro," and not Au Port d'Attache. It sits in a rather seedy side street right around the corner from the Moulin Rouge which was also there in 1951.

108 rue du Theatre is no longer the Hotel Metropole, although it might have been at one point. It's a standard, anonymous six-story Parisian apartment building with a podiatrist's office on one side and a kitchen supply shop on the other. The Avenue Emile Zola metro stop is actually closer than Commerce but maybe didn't exist in 1951.

36 rue Pigalle is now a real estate agency.

As far as Pont/Port Royal is concerned: Pont Royal is both a bridge (which was obviously there in 1951) and a restaurant/cafe on the rue de Bac just off the bridge (which was probably not there then). Port Royal is a hotel on the boulevard of the same name. The hotel looks as if it could have been there then. At this point, there's no telling which interpretation of Port/Pont is correct.

Time for some historical digging.