France took the Christ out of Christmas long, long ago. The word Noël comes from the middle French nael, which comes from the latin natalis [dies] which means [day] of birth. To wish someone a Merry Christmas, one would say Joyeux Noël. There is no all-inclusive “Happy Holidays” greeting in France, but in keeping with the French (at least the French I talk to) denial of any religious connection to their many religiously scheduled and named school vacations and national holidays (All-Saints, Easter), wishing someone a Joyeux Noël is merely wishing them a good vacation. In that way, it can be said to anyone whether they celebrate or not. This year, I scoured Paris for something Christmas-y to write about, but beyond a lot of blue and white lights (I know, counter-intuitive, right?), it seems the best things we have going here are the display windows at the big department stores, and they are a little scary. Then I realized that what I was looking for was all happening in my back yard. I live in a somewhat boring suburb of Paris, but the powers that be are good with community events, and every year there is an adorable Christmas Market. Maybe this is what you expect a market “in the old country” to look like? With chickens and rabbits (bottom right) and a veritable cornucopia all spread out on hay. Well sorry, this is just a display. The bananas are plastic.But the geese are real. There were lots of animals in attendance, professional show offs: geese, goats, sheep, cows, even a donkey. Seeing all these agricultural animals gives you a sense of plenty and makes everything feel more, I don’t know, wholesome… Lots of vendors sold the traditional foods you would buy at...
The Gingerbread Man Cometh [Single White Nerd]
posted by Michael Kass
My smart phone officially and irrevocably became too smart for its own good on Thursday night at 2:30 AM. I woke to a light beep and blinking indicator. I picked up my phone where it sat, functioning as an alarm clock, on my bedside crate. Instead of the clock I expected to see glowing on the LCD capacitive touch screen, a picture of a smiling green gingerbread man stared back at me. Gingerbread, Android’s new operating system, had arrived. And he was ready to move in. Very exciting for the faintly closeted tech fetishist. A few quick button presses, a brief wait, and my phone had become a Gingerbread house. Casting the remnants of sleep aside, I plunged into my upgraded phone with abandon. The keyboard had gained the ability to adapt to the maladroit proddings of my chubby fingers, the new app store lived up to expectations, the maps loaded faster, power management was much improved, the refreshed icons with their eerie green glow gave me a sense of comfort, reassuring me that technology was marching forward, filling old shells with new power and capacity. Gingerbread had seamlessly integrated, my existing configurations and applications were unaffected apart from running more efficiently. “Gingerbread,” I said, lightly caressing the burnished silver phone, “You are amazing.” Just as I spoke, my phone buzzed. Not in response to my words, of course. Just a coincidence. Surely. I cradled my Gingerbread and drifted off to sleep for another hour. When I woke up, I discovered that Gingerbread had made a small, almost unnoticeable change to one of my widgets. I have several traffic widgets installed on my homescreen. They’re kind of awesome. I press the button and the widget tells me how long it will take me to...