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Sgt. PepperI can remember where I was the first time I saw and heard Sgt. Pepper. I’m not going into any detail about stances … neither circum nor sub … but I’ll admit to a drummer named Charlie and some really pretty colors that drifted around as “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds” premiered in my head FORTY years ago this month.

Excuse me? Can that be right?

Well, of course it can.

It was June, 1967, and I was just about to turn sixteen. I’d recently been relocated from the San Francisco Bay Area to a hell of a Hooterville in Northern California called Red Bluff.

There was no doubt that I was too cool for school, and was even the subject of a call-in radio show on KBLF (K-bluff? Perfect … ), where hick parents accused me of wearing tights to ‘hide the needle marks in my legs’ … yes, that’s how much they knew about drug use — morons … and worried that I was out to corrupt the heck out of their drunken, redneck, brawling, screwing darlings with my peacenick ways and long-haired friends from out of town.

Yes, I had, thankfully managed to locate some hippies after my own heart in the bigger town up I-5 — Redding.

Days in the upper Central Valley in June are hot, and the heat lingers long after the sun takes its 9 pm dive over the horizon. It was an expanse of grass in someone’s front yard that seemed the ideal place to stretch out with Charlie and listen to the brand new Beatle’s album.

It was magic … total, complete, compelling, enthralling magic. Every track amazed in new ways, and with a little help from my friends who popped out with a new doobie every few minutes, Charlie and I were swimming in harmony, beat, notes, riffs and lyrics.

Who now doesn’t know all the words to “When I’m Sixty-four”, end any mention of “It was 20 years ago today … ” with anything other than, “Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play”, and hasn’t woken up more than once with the special refrain of “Good Morning Good Morning”, a la the Fab Four running through the brain along with a bit of chicken talkin’?

Back then, however, it was all new, and it was breathtaking.

Paul McCartney is almost more than sixty-four now, and though I doubt he got many Valentines this year … being in the throes of a messy divorce and all … he does still have hair.

Heck, John Lennon has been dead for twenty-seven-and-a-half years, a thought that still makes me so very sad at the loss the world suffered on the 8th of December in 1980.

I’m weeks away from hitting the downhill slide from 55.

June 2007. Forty years after Sgt. Pepper. Wow.

And here’s a thought … it’s almost half way to 2008 already.

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Tomorrow is the 5th of June, Senk Zen in Creole, the Seychelles version of the 4th of July. It’s not called Independence Day, however, because that holiday comes later in the month, on the 29th of June, and marks the hand-over from British rule on the day in 1976, almost 200 years after the US wrestled away their right to self-rule from the same bunch.

The 5th of June is Liberation Day … this year the 30th anniversary of Liberation Day … the occasion on which in 1977 the country was “liberated” from the government installed by the Brits not quite one year before.

Count on history to settle the spin into a proper orbit — one man’s coup becomes a country’s deliverance, revolutions morph into struggles for liberty, and radical insurgents grow to become legions of brave freedom fighters.

Yes, perspective is everything, and water under the bridge provides a POV that favors what floats.

The phrase coup d’etat will not be uttered much around here, even though that is pretty much what occurred thirty years ago tomorrow. The sitting President left the country for a short visit to the UK, the Prime Minister took over without permission to do so, and then ran the country as a one-party communist state for seventeen years. It wasn’t a particularly violent overthrow … the Seychellois are not a particularly violent people … but it wasn’t without incident.

Thirty years down the pike, there are still grudges held and forgiveness is a long way off for some people, but for the most part the official ‘take’ on the events of three decades ago stands with little challenge.

Days like today tend to bring out the Red in the rhetoric, as today’s Seychelles Nation Newspaper illustrates.

The majority of Seychellois will tomorrow celebrate a very memorable date that is very dear to our hearts: the 30th anniversary of June 5, 1977 when a group of fearless Seychellois changed the course of this country for the better, forever.

This group of Seychellois made the dreams of the people their pre-occupation when they lit the flame of the country’s liberation which led to extraordinary development and progress.

Yeah … I know … some fancy fingerwork (like footwork, but on a keyboard) often takes over where proper English would do a better job, but that’s what happens when so many people had all of their higher education provided in universities in Russia, Cuba or the PRC.

Although lines like, “The strife continues for our better future and respect of our true Creole identity, without consideration of religion, origin, political belief or social status.” sound straight out of Mao’s machine and tend to muck up the meaning considerably, the point they are trying to make is that the country is better off because of the events of the 5th of June 1977.

So, is it?

I can say with little doubt that if the coup had not happened I would not be living in Seychelles now.

The first president, the guy who blinked, was very big on developing the country for tourism and playboys. Well, something like that. He had ideas of turning the place into a Heffner-esque archipelago that would have quickly put hotels on every beach … all with the grooviest of 70’s architecture, you can bet … a tragic turn of circumstance that would have had the 1993 version of the country I first encountered more like Acapulco than the incredible corner of paradise that welcomed me with virgin beaches and a citizenry that had not learned, or needed, to view tourists as begging targets.

Although the idea was to have ‘no building taller than a coconut tree’, the free-for-all developing that was likely to have taken place would have crowded out much of what made Seychelles so special in my eyes by the time I arrived.

Seventeen years of a one-party communist state may sound like a sentence of suffering to some, but for the great majority of Seychellois that time settled over them like a cosy, yet lightweight, quilt. Life was peaceful. Life was easy. Nothing much happened.

With the USSR turning inward as it broke up, support for faithful little communist countries dried up, and as the world changed … as it always does … Seychelles needed to change with it.

The first multi-party elections took place in 1993, and the man who’d orchestrated the coup and had been running the show ever since won by a huge margin. More elections have followed, and his party keeps winning.

Thirty years post-‘liberation’, and the country still has no beggars. No one here is hungry or homeless. Education and medical care have been free for so long that the literacy rate is well over 90% for the total population, and over 98% when the pre-liberation old folks are removed from the calculation … higher than that in Spain … and healthcare is better than all of Africa, much of Asia and parts of Europe.

The down-side reflects the ease of life, with work ethics and entrepreneurial spirit taking hits when the beach beckons and island fever inspires naps. It is hard to get things done and mediocrity is frequently taken for brilliance … one only needs to be barely good enough to excel, and this isn’t good for a country in the long run.

From where I sit .. .that would be on my veranda overlooking Anse Soleil with a view of the Indian Ocean toward Silhouette … history has served Liberation Day up nicely, and although development is now eating the islands faster than I’d like, those seventeen years following the coup were like a factor 40,000 sunblock that protected Seychelles from the ugliness of 1970’s building styles, 1980’s greed, and kept folks here too busy afterward for 1990’s divisive religious issues or 2000’s wars.

Yes, I’ll be celebrating the 5th of June.

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Following the saga of the mother/child whale combo taking a detour in their migration to visit California’s capital takes me back.

I was living in Sacramento when the last humpback made the trip upriver and still feel privileged by the visit. That massive, intelligent presence made mince out of the ‘experts’ determined in their conviction that they knew more than he about where to go and what to do, but then, like now, it turned out that the whale ended up heading back out to sea when good and ready.

Of course, not every whale tale ends happily. Like all living creatures, whales die, and given the size of the part of themselves left behind the death looks dramatic.

Take for example a mid-May find on a Vietnamese beach near Da Nang … a seven-and-a-half foot long, 485 pound ‘white whale’ I’ve dubbed “Moby Dead”.Moby Dead

A blip of an article ends the few sentences covering the alleged find by saying the local fisherman who found the carcass buried it, “the same day according to their traditional customs.”

Even with the photo, I’m leery of this story … as leery as a river-traveling whale should be of guys with loudspeakers shouting who-knows-what down a tube upstream. (Seeing that no one really speaks fluent whale, the message could be very different from what’s meant.)

A local Vietnamese fisherman with a camera and motivation to get a story in the papers? And ‘traditional customs’ on whale funerals? Seems a bit odd that a fisherman would get all sensitive over what he would have to think of as just a big old dead fish. (Yes, I do know that whales are mammals, and perhaps I’m being a snotty elitist in assuming that rural citizens of developing countries may have more on their minds than classifications of animals, but that’s me this morning.)

Okay. Maybe.

But I wonder if this story isn’t just a bit too much like that giant dead pig Anderson Cooper is so fascinated with these days. You must know the one. If I’m hearing about that all the way over on this side of the planet on this smaller-than-a-giant-pig-sized island, I have to think y’all are sick to death of the big pig.

Anybody buy the pig story? And any thoughts on Ahab’s nemesis washing up near Da Nang?

I should send this to my dear friend, Roger Payne, he being THE whale guy in the world, and ask his opinion.

I think I will. Watch this space.

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My brilliant and talented niece has a piece in today’s Huff Post that jives with a note I’ve had on my desktop for a couple of days, proving something about family … or not … and prompting me to write about Carl Bernstein.

Her post in the Post covers Berntein’s new ‘must read’, “A Woman in Charge: The Life of Hillary Rodham Clinton”, and quotes him as making much of how important he … ooops … it is.

I have no doubt it’s a page turner that’s flying off the shelves; after all, who’s hotter than Hillary at the moment, and Carl sports journalistic gravitas like like a bull dangles mountain oysters.

Not only does promise of an up-close-and-personal look, no matter how over-the-shoulder a peek down the blouse, at the cast iron bra that Mrs. Clinton must wear to deal with her fidelity-challenged Mr. guarantee buzz and sales, any hint of sex and scandal gets an extra boost when the Bernstein name goes with.

Which brings me to the note on my desk.

Carl Bernstein on marital devotion and loyalty. That’s rich!

Leave it to someone who’s been living on a little island in the middle of nowhere for years to remind those who may have forgotten that the uproariously funny book “Heartburn” … a truly inspired takedown of an unfaithful husband with appalling timing and equally poor taste in dalliance partners … was based on Berntein’s real-life philandering by his amazingly talented, now fabulously famous … then profoundly pregnant … ex-wife, Nora Ephron.

Hands down the best retribution ever dealt a wandering ego-with-a-penis, Ms. Ephron managed not only to keep readers, and eventually film-goers, highly entertained while inspiring women to brook no crap and proving that being the cheatee in a marraige can be turned into a position of great power, she put spending time with Carl Bernstein high in the top ten of what no self-respecting woman in her right mind would ever consider.

Yes, it was hard for the guy to get a date. May still be.

So, intimately familiar with all that is Washington politics as he is, as well, who better to probe the ins and outs of Hillary’s dealing with Bill’s ins and outs than the man single-handedly responsible for a British Baroness being forever thought of as the woman with a nose like a thumb and a mid-90s spike in the popularity of Key Lime Pie?

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Am I the only liberal, snotty, angst-ridden, happily married, over-fifty woman in the world who gets the screaming steaming thigh sweats over Bill Maher, or just one of a legion of middle-aged malcontents getting all hot and bothered to the strains of common sense wrapped in a manly, no bullshit package that seems as much a gift as a heart-shaped box of chocolates?

Since I don’t live on a part of the planet that get Maher-ified often … the occasional appearance on Larry King Live when that’s timed to air in our tiny CNN window in Seychelles is all I ever have available … it’s impossible for me to guess how his cute little pinched look, receding hairline and flat East Coast accent goes over in the US. I know he’s been around a while and is a hit, but do millions of American women there lie back, close their eyes and think of Comedy Central when their fire needs a stoking? I’m curious.

I don’t usually have ‘things’ for comics … musicians historically having the greatest likelihood of weakening my knees … since brash and edgy most often come across as cold and distant, and that just doesn’t wind my bathtub toy. I thought Dave Letterman was cute for a while, but then I met him.

(An aside … My mom was on Letterman’s show once when one of the other guests was Marilyn Manson. She thought he was ‘a very nice young man’. When I asked if he appeared to her as at all odd, she said, “No odder than some of the friends you used to bring home.”

Like I said, there are musicians in my past … sigh … )

But the Bill Maher tingles … what are those about?

Could it be I find him Electra-fying? He does have a nose very much like my darling father’s … stately, pominent and occupying a lot of face space … and in fact Bill (Do I dare call him Bill?) grows to more resemble my dad with every sporatic viewing I’m allowed.

Whoa! If this is some version of “My Heart Belongs to Daddy” I’d better start hunting for a towel to throw in, because I’ll be done with having sexual fantasies FOREVER.

Stepping back from the brink of Freudian slippery slopes, I’ll get to why Bill Maher has me thinking today that jumping his bones would be a pursuit worth getting lathered up for … this from the Huff Post — a blog from Bill on South Carolina’s plan to allow concealed weapons on school campuses, and a sexy piece of writing it is.

Linking sex to violence is so hot.

In South Carolina you need to be 21 to get a concealed weapon permit. So the undergrads wouldn’t be armed. Just the teachers and grad students. So it wouldn’t actually stop anyone like the Virginia Tech shooter, until he worked his way up from the sophomores and stopped to re-load, but here I am applying practical logic to an argument made by guys who come in their pants when they hear the words “muzzle velocity.”

Sharp witted, brilliant, caustic … and, yes, brash and edgy, but with such a hefty dose of musth in his take down that instead of cold and distant he seems hot and close enough to be breathing on the back of my neck.

Whew.

Anyone have a cigarette?

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Since I’ve been out of touch with American pop culture for more than a decade, a headline in Forbes offering a look at the “best paid men in entertainment” drew me, as the thought of a concise look at who’s hot this year seemed a good way to catch up.

I was hoping for something that might explain who Demi Moore’s boyfriend is, or maybe drop a clue to leading men the world is salivating over that I should at least have heard of.

No such luck.

Spielberg, of course, I expected. When money and entertainment are mentioned together, that one-man blockbuster franchise has been at the top of the ticket for years.

George Lucas on the bill was a bit of a surprise, but apparently he’s still raking it in from past glories. Fair enough.

Tom Cruise. Well, yeah. And Denzel Washington? Okay. But these guys were all doing really well for themselves way back when while I was still in the real world.

Where were the new really rich, incredibly successful, amazingly popular show biz men?

And then they started popping up.

Simon Cowell. Dr. Phil. Howard Stern. Rush Limbaugh.

Ah wha … ah wha … ah hooey? Gasp. Choke.

Okay, Howard and Rush have been around a long time, but IN THE TOP 25 BEST PAID MEN IN ENTERTAINMENT? I don’t think so.

I remember Rush doing diet commercials on local TV in Sacramento … a fat fish in the small pond of KFBK listeners … and was stunned when his radio show went national. “Who the hell outside the Central Valley wants to listen to that blowhard?” I asked myself. And now he’s in the top 25?

And Howard Stern. Sure, edgy, hip and all, and I’m all for a guy being dedicated to his hair … but in the top 25 in ENTERTAINMENT?

And the other two? Paaaalease! I popped back to the home page just to make sure it was really Forbes I was reading and not a Mad Magazine parody.

Sorry, folks, but I have to ask …

What the hell are you thinking over there making mediocrity so lucrative?

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Adoption is such a hot topic these days.

In the little time I had to peruse the Huff Post this morning I found three and half adoption related stories on the home page.

The half is one about Oprah. Since she wasn’t raised by her parents, she sort of qualifies for the orphan designation, and with the story being about her father spilling beans about a baby she had at 14, I’m calling this related. Apparently, he’s writing a ‘tell some’ book, although the hype is that he knows it ALL.

I sincerely doubt that.

Move up the page a fraction of an inch, and Angelina Jolie is announcing she’s taking a year off to spend time with Brad and the kids. Good for her. I suspect she’ll end up even busier than when she’s working, though, as she’s not exactly the sit-around-and-eat-bonbons-while-the-kids-watch-Baby Einstein type.

I think I’ll make a prediction here that within the next twelve months there will be reports of new efforts on her part toward some worthy attempts at change for the positive in the world.

Over to the left side of the page, Chris Kelly’s blog slams critic Michael Medved for slamming Katherine Heigl for slamming birthin’ babies as a pastime … this while coming off her latest film, “Knocked Up” … and suggesting adoption as a viable alternative.

Apparently the urine-tinged Medved … don’t ask me … has some investment in women bringing forth life from between heaving thighs, or something, and considers any other way of building a family as letting down the side.

Good to see he’s taking hits over that attitude.

And finally, there’s the story about the adoptive gay flamingo couple.

“Fernando and Carlos are a same sex couple who have been known to steal other flamingos’ eggs by chasing them off their nest because they wanted to rear them themselves,” said WWT spokeswoman Jane Waghorn.

Gay flamingos are not uncommon, she added.

“If there aren’t enough females or they don’t hit it off with them, they will pair off with other males,” she said.

Well … yeah. Isn’t that what they all do?

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Due to popular demand, this post has moved to the International Adoption Blog.

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I am so out of the loop that the loop doesn’t even look like a loop any longer … it’s more like a spiral my eyes can’t follow very long before they start to water and cross.

I’ve not lived in the US since 1993, and a lot has happened in America in the intervening years.

Politics are almost unrecognizable to me, for example. I still haven’t been able to wrap my head around the fact that an election went wonky and that the “decider commander guy” has been running the show for quite a while now. And my home state, the land I remember as Jerry Brown country, now takes orders from Arnold. That’s just too strange.

I haven’t seen any one of the past three years’-worth of Oscar winners and can no longer do the NYT crossword puzzles. Who am I trying to kid? I can’t do the TV Guide crossword any more. I have never seen an “Idol” show, or Reality TV of any kind … well, not since Candid Camera. I have no idea who anchors network newscasts, and although I do know Rush Limbaugh … he used to be a loud-mouth fat jerk in Sacramento, so we bumped into each other (shuddering yuck) often … but have no clue what an Imus is or sounds like.

Since it’s a small island in the Indian Ocean I live on and not Uranus, there are whiffs of pop culture that occasionally drift in, and certain times of the year we even get Larry King Live here … and what better smorgasbord of celebrity is there on offer than Larry’s? … but just hearing a name yacking about themselves for the half-hour before CNN switches to the BBC mid-way through whatever I’m trying to absorb does not necessarily convey context, and it’s context I’m so definitely lacking.

For example: Who the hell is Paris Hilton, and why do even I know her name? I get that she’s blond and rich, but I don’t understand why anyone cares.

I suppose I could pass for the celebrity litmus test … If Sandra’s heard of you, you must be famous … just don’t ask me to have an idea about who you are or what you do.

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Now here’s an angle on the international adoption theme that sounds almost too strange to take seriously. Since it’s coming from the Far Right, however, I don’t think I’ll let it sit on the page without a bit of a chew.

The “Conservative Voice” is suggesting that Madonna has an ulterior motive in adopting from Malawi and feeding, housing, educating and otherwise supporting thousands of Malawian orphans. According this rendition of the “fine print” in the Daily Mail … ‘Daily Mail’ and ‘fine print’ do NOT go together no matter how one may try to maneuver the words into the same sentence, by the way. It’s a big-print/no-subtlety publication of the first order as the Brits do so well … her true agenda is to somehow massage the country into a mass conversion to Kabbalah, her religion of choice.

You have to admire writing that makes tremendous leaps outside the realm of fiction … supposedly … going so far out on a limb to snip a bit then spin, spin, spin. Or not.

According to the Daily Mail, nearly half the population of Malawi is under the age of 14 and many of those children are orphans. As a result, it stands to reason that they may be searching for security—a search that might be taken advantage of by those who are pushing a certain form of ideology.

That ‘it stands to reason’ reminds me of the long-accepted carte blanche well known in the South that allows anything to be said about anyone as long as the tone is sugary and followed by a prescribed tag line: She’s ugly as sin and dumb as a shovel … bless her heart.

The article goes to to warn, ” … make no mistake, Madonna is an evangelist …” .

Please excuse me while I laugh about three-quarters of an inch off my too-copious ass. The conjured image of Madonna as Tammy Faye drizzles into my eyes like melting mascara and I’m blind with the mad mirth of preposterous presentations.

Apparently, the author has never heard of Christian-based orphanages or adoptions and is put off by the idea of religion coming into play in aid to African countries. Yeah. Right.

I’m shocked … shocked I say … that a publication called The Conservative Voice speaks spurilously about the Material Girl. And adoption, too?

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