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106.222.237.129
and his new bookshelf speaker design.
Bill
Follow Ups:
leave the Asylum . At least for long. ;)
Jean = French for John.
Saint? Who knows.
It be him tho.
Brian Eno's original family name was French, "Hennot." Pronounced "Eno," rather than "Hen-Knot." So they changed it to Eno, to make it easier on the British.
May 15 is the feast day of one of those rare Saints whose birth name starts with Saint:
Saint Saint-Jean-le-Baptiste de La Salle.
La Salle was well off; his mother's family were partners in the Moët Champagne business. But La Salle dedicated his life to feeding, housing, and teaching poor children. He would not eat when there were unfed children, and he died somewhat early from privation and overwork.
He is the Patron Saint of Teachers, especially of poor children. That described my father (RIP).
My parents could not register anything resembling the Saint's full name; and they thought that, in the US, "Jean" alone would create gender confusion.
Brian Eno took de la Salle's name as his Confirmation name, which in many cases was followed by a legal name change, hence:
"Brian Peter George Jean-Baptiste de la Salle Eno".
Saintjean (I think the wretched English pronounce it Sinjin?), your father sounds to be a very remarkable man, as was Jean-Baptiste de la Salle.
Adameos
Thank you!
My father was a Saint, on earth.
He was born working-class. He had to drop out of high school after six weeks, during the Depression, to try to find a job to help his parents. He went down to the docks. He told the Straw Boss he wanted to work as a Stevedore/Longshoreman. The Straw Boss laughed, and told him he was too young, and too puny.
"Family Myth and Legend" says that my future father asked the Straw Boss if he wanted to fight over it.
The Straw Boss laughed, and told him if he could shift sacks of pre-mixed concrete for eight hours, he could have a job. You can guess...
My father was in the Army Air Corps in the South Pacific in WWII. He wrote some very poignant letters to my future mom.
He went to night school on the GI Bill, became a teacher, and became the Principal of the most minority-majority school in Providence. He gave his all.
Some people did not appreciate it. He was the only member of the group that wrote the School De-Segregation Plan for Providence in the 1960s who had a Jewish surname (himself, he was Christian; his g-grandfather, from Germany, married an Irish Colleen). Someone fired a bullet through his office window. But it was over the weekend, so it was not that serious.
But my younger siblings had to have police protection because of the kidnap threats.
My mother once phoned the police, because creepy guys in a beat-up wreck were parked across the street, smoking. Headquarters told her to keep the kids inside; they would send back-up.
Back-up arrived. They started talking with the scruffy guys. When they saw my mother looking out, they yelled:
"Mrs. Marks! These are the Plainclothes Cops who have been protecting your children!"
But what I remembered most is:
After the repeal of Prohibition, my father and his father won the concession to feed the workers at the Narragansett Brewery. They served up three shifts of high-fat, high calorie German Comfort Food until 1961 or 1962.
My grandfather died with Paranoid Schizophrenia, from the Ice-Age genetic mutation we inherit.
Continued. So: My father hated to waste food. So, every Saturday, he would take us back to his school, and he would scoop all the leftover food (which would have been thrown out anyway on Monday morning), and take it to upper Broadway Street, and donate it to the Sisters of Mercy, to feed to the drunks and the unfortunates.
He did not take the food home on Friday, from fear that someone would think he was feeding his own children at public expense.
One of these days, I should file a FOIA request to find out of they were surveilling my mother, who was an ardent Pacifist, and a financial supporter of the Catholic Worker movement.
BTW, when my father was a longshoreman who had just gotten paid, he suggested to his mates (most of whom were persons of color from Cape Verde) that they go across the street (Allens Avenue) and eat at the semi-ritzy seafood restaurant "Johnson's Hummocks." They laughed at him. (This was before WWII.)
He told them, "Line up behind me."
They went across the street to a nearly empty restaurant. My father said to the Maitre'd, "My friends and I just finished a shift. We'd like a sandwich or something."
Now, my father had said, no loud talk in a foreign language, no practical jokes or horseplay, etc. So everyone was on their best behavior.
All went well, and they tipped generously.
The Maitre'd sidled up to my father and said, "Bring your friends back, any time."
NOTE, he did not say, "Your friends can come back any time," and my father noted that.
My father was a committed Christian who, at his core, believed that it was an offense against God Almighty, to hand out educations of sharply varying qualities, to innocent children, based on the color of their skins, or how much money their parents made.
A lot to live up to, I can assure you.
I would not at all be surprised, if my father and de la Salle, were friends in heaven.
Pax, lux, et veritas,
jean
PS: I have produced more than 24 recordings. I am sure my father respected "Songs My Mother Taught Me." But he LOVED "Blue Skies."
To attempt relevancy.
Three Cheers to his saintliness.
Bill
It's funny. His brothers were seriously All Mobbed Up.
Uncle James was a trusted confidante of the "Joey Bananas" crime family of Arizona, Nevada, and California.
Until Uncle James was no longer, a trusted confidante of the "Joey Bananas" crime family of Arizona, Nevada, and California.
So the "Joey Bananas" crime family hired two Mexicans to kill Uncle James.
Said Mexicans, with alacrity and dispatch, shot the wrong guy five times.
But that poor schlub lived.
john
Email sent - JM.
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