Champollion - General principles of the Egyptian sacred writing 
What is this plant, hidden deep in a nursery in the Outaouais, which everyone ignores the name and that is priceless?
Despairing of being able to identify the owner sold it to me for a pittance. It remains for me to rebuild the banks of the Nile, under my eaves.
The papyrus had a wonderful summer under the sky of Quebec.
Champollion - General principles of the Egyptian sacred writing
One of the joys of life in Iowa is to sample the local specialties. After all, the main ingredient of good cooking is ... its ingredients.
The street where we lived, named Second-street-south-west was separated from the First-street by a large field divided into plots and used to rear yard adjoining houses. Although the area was inhabited for more than twenty years, the field was trimmed to any property mark: no fences, no gates, no post, no post, not even a tree planted by the hand of man. It was a ground wave . He did, however, doubt that each of its invisible boundaries to plots had a legitimate master and duly registered in the cadastre.
The facade the family home on Second Street, south-west of Oelwein. The vacant land is famous on the back of the house. Along the sidewalk, you can see the car that Jon bought for 100 dollars the day of her 16 years.
When he was pressed, my adopted brother, Jon, did not hesitate to cross, shamelessly, the vacant land he considered no man's land, caring very little of their respective owners. And one day I accompanied him for the first time, are still unfamiliar with the small town of Oelwein, although I was forced to follow, for fear of losing my way. As the Mediterranean, accustomed to the gardens carefully delineated by stone walls decorated with beautiful and broken bottles by fences topped by a row of barbed wire, I had some apprehension to set foot on these private properties. I expected every moment to see a neighbor burst its screen door for us to drink from a stream of insults and threats, and why not loose his dogs on us. And when I saw, behind a house, the stars and stripes floating on a mast, my fears were redoubled, and I'm already hearing the click of a 22 gauge American patriot.
The incomparable Iowa corn
Drawing: Renaud Bouret
Indeed, this wasteland was not entirely overgrown. The plot that stretched back home served the family garden. There were all vegetables known in Iowa, or tomatoes, cucumbers and scallions, then a long cornfield who joined the backyard of our vis-à-vis the First-street. And corn in Iowa, that the natives of that state called Indian corn (probably a layer of Quebecois linguistic Corn ), is by far the best in the world. Its rich flavor is spreading slowly in the mouth, first woody and amber and fruity, before spreading to the brain, plunging the gourmet in a state of bliss. Knowing that corn must be consumed as soon as it is picked, lest his subtle degrade starch into glucose vulgar, it is easy to understand that those who did not live in Iowa can boast of having really lived.
The corn on the cob is still today very popular with Quebecers. Personally, I find the variety Local particularly bland taste reminding me of both the dandelion chopped by the mower and dishwater tepid. Is it the inexorable decline that affects all mass product sold in supermarkets? Is this a consequence of degradation of my taste buds? Is this the effect of bad faith or exacerbated Iowisme? It goes without saying that I attach to corn Quebec mitigating circumstances, and I hope it will be enough to get the forgiveness of many Quebecers authentic as I count among my friends, and even among my descendants.
Which brings us to a strange custom of Quebec, which is the true subject of the topic today. This is the sacking of corn in supermarkets, collective ritual of hysterical character occurring in late summer, corresponding roughly to the sacred ceremonies of the harvests that are found among many primitive peoples.
Here a crowd around a stall radius of fruits and vegetables. The clerk has to discharge a cargo of corn, and immediately, customers, enticed by the smell, rushed. These brave people, these kings consumption, frantically attacking the goods fresh just given into their clutches. We see only the backs and bottoms fluttering, and a few golden beards fluttering gracefully above the swarm. Even the most timid start of the game, slipping in the slightest breach. It's a rare occasion when all inhibitions disappear suddenly, local phenomenon that psychologists have well-kept look.
A moment of calm we can approach the battlefield. Before us, a mountain of corn plucked. Not a spike has survived the massacre. All were furiously opened by these two-legged raccoons, who pulled the sheets and went to burn their nails on the grains. Hundreds of ears are perfectly healthy now crowned with black, showing that starch exposed does not mix with ambient air supermarkets. To save the few survivors, he will be resigned to be cut sharply, the infested part.
Before the spectacle of such a disaster, man has a natural tendency to look up at the sky. And What does he then? A sign announcing the motley dozen ears of corn for the modest sum of one dollar.
Would there raccoons in the neighborhood? Three of the six ears of corn purchased at a total price of 50 cents and forgotten in a canvas bag on the porch, were stolen overnight. Here is what remains.
A crucial question facing us. The phenomenon is genetic or cultural? English Canadians and Americans they show the same behavior that Quebecers in this regard? The rage of the ear if it is common to all the inhabitants of America North? To find out, we initiated an investigation on the other side of the border, in full business suburb of Ottawa. But instead of corn in bulk, we have discovered bags of maize carefully sewn stitches to tear-proof and totally resistant raccoons, each containing a dozen ears. What we are suggesting that the wild ritual of desecration of maize affects both our English-speaking neighbors, and, with their proverbial practical sense, the English have already found a solution. We appeal to our readers to complete this survey.
According to the most latest research on the human genome, it appears that the genetic distance between Homo quebecensis (and the rest of humanity) of Procyon lotor is only 3%, which means that the two species share 97% their DNA. This could explain that.
So, innate or acquired? In the present state of science, it is difficult to determine. But it is clear that with our scholars, the question will eventually be resolved.
"The economist is not concerned with psychological or other reasons that motivate individual choices. Just ask the individual preferences, whatever their source, and faces constraints (income and product prices, for example) that limit the satisfaction of his preferences, to be able to analyze their choices. "(Pierre Lemieux, The Economy, Les Belles Lettres, Paris, 2008, p. 12)
In asking that his income and price of products form the basic constraints of the individual, the popular economic theories may fail be the essential constraint of modern man: the inconvenience caused by the possession of property. As property owned by individuals were rare, the place they occupied in the house or garage, and the time needed to devote to their purchase and maintenance seemed negligible. The space and time available could then be considered unlimited.
A bank manager from Lac-Saint-Jean, who boasted that he knew nothing about the economy (he was a graduate in sociology) was quite happy to kill time with me in his spacious office. "Two months ago," he said at the turn of the conversation, that our new audio system drags down the hall from the entrance. I not yet found the time nor the motivation to open the box. "
My cousin wants me to gift a luxurious espresso machine, inherited from a parent. There is no question here of income constraint, or price constraint. I just wonder if I want to further clutter my kitchen counter. Unless you store the huge machine in a corner cupboard? But the more we ad'objets, the more we must give them the care and storage is more laborious to extract them from their hiding place. The best coffee is it not the coffee filter, which is based on the round the stove, after it have drawn the second or third cup and rinsed it in a jiffy? Unless you do the coffee ceremony a major event of domestic life, the slight difference between an espresso and a coffee filter is it worth all the trouble caused by the expensive espresso machine, even when it does not cost a penny?
The cellar was not it more functional if it only contained potatoes in bulk, bottles of wine and coal?
The accumulation of these small machines finally invade the house and the owner's lifetime. A nice computer, much faster than that has just released in stores and is reaching out. But if you want to make the new machine as functional as the previous number of hours and days will he devote to install all the programs necessary? And should we keep the old computer or cluttering the basement? Should we get rid of a rather specialized deposit, located to the devil vauvert and closed when you're free? And if we keep three or four active computers in the house, how many times a year do we risk being frustrated by a failure, a freak, a virus, a total disaster?
Consumers Bai Lide is pissed off. He is loath to get rid of those old-fashioned pair of shoes that are beginning to seriously encumber his wardrobe. This is a new dilemma for consumers on which economists remain rather discreet.
Even when products are coveted ones, and that the constraint of price and income return, the fundamental question is not "Is it worth spending so much money? But "Is what I will have my money or am I trying to cheat me? . The acquisition of property is still causing me the hassle. I must check prices, compare products that manufacturers are struggling to make incomparable, wait for the right moment, or throw myself before it's too late. What suffering! And the theory of the consumer is careful not to count them.
Buy a new car? I wish, and since that time I put the thing tomorrow, I ended up accumulating a nest egg more than enough. But I have neither the courage nor the energy to study the models to find one that suits me. It will then choose the best dealer in the area and deal with charlatans who say mass. Then get rid of the old vehicle save the new, stand in line, take a taxi, synchronize all these operations. How many days of fatigue in perspective! And the spell will soon broken by a minor glitch, a manufacturing defect, a scratch unexpected, reflecting unexpected hinder driving, a visit to a pothole, an unexpected increase in insurance. How many disappointments await us! The more one is rich in goods, the poorer you are in hours of recklessness.
Eventually, some people end up liking the easement, the hours lost in procuring vulgar toasters and other pairs of socks. They love to stroll through the shops. They sacrifice with joy, the best years of their life, they are for trade and disadvantages of the post-sale.
Would it not be simpler to go on a trip and any blaze in a few weeks? We could go home empty handed, with a light heart and carefree.
Since the common man became the slave of the automobile, the relationship between the merchant and the customer was reversed. Today the client to wear to meet the merchant in a distant mall, as is also sick of chasing the doctor. In sum, the burden rests now the one who goes to the fund. By cons, at a time when most movements were still on two legs, farmers and fishermen did not hesitate to lug their goods to markets in the city centers, grocers kept shop at every street corner and hawkers swarmed. Glaziers, knife sharpeners and fortune tellers paraded in front of houses launching their war cry, and, most importantly, the merchants of candy and snack furrowed gathering places. We found these precious tanker out of the school, church or the cinema, and, of course, beaches. For swimmers have two characteristics that modern marketing manuals seem curiously ignore: not only are they gifted with a strong appetite, but scantily makes captives from the beach.
It could therefore be obtained on the beach a more or less full range of delights to: briks of the egg, potato fries in olive oil, white rolls - long or round - which breathed happiness, donuts Bomboloni still hot, with dates of maqrouds frigolos and glazed, near beaches income neighborhoods with the range of naturally produced the most comprehensive. But the king of street vendors was undoubtedly the peanut vendor, with its woven basket perched on top of the skull.
Once a potential customer is presented, the peanut vendor landed the basket from his perch to look greedy and unveiled its entire inventory, carefully stored. In the middle of the basket, bags of chocolates and pistachios, and sometimes some "chouime-gum." On the periphery, cones made with pages of the Dispatch of Tunisia: the larger cones contain peanuts the smaller, glibettes. Rates were universally known, the market having all the characteristics of perfect competition, and bargaining was inappropriate.
Nine times out of ten, the client merely lusting for all these goodies, more by modesty than by greed, and when he dared to hand the wallet was then holiday. If
had to be Sunday all day, it would not be Sunday.
It was sometimes the peanut vendor kneel a few moments before an umbrella and begin to parley with swimmers half invisible and their conversation, almost inaudible, drowned in the murmur of the flow and ebb of the waves. A tinkling millimes, brought by the breeze, signaled the end of the transaction and the merchant straightened by bending its legs, one after another, like a camel, after placing his gear on his head. The kids around, so could not help fearing for the basket, which began to pitch in a precarious balance, before leveling off, a few steps further. "And if the precious cargo had to tumble from his perch, what a disaster! "The craft seemed to be full of risk, which was already an excellent point of marketing. And this risk was even more fascinating than the fall of the basket always seemed imminent and it does happen, if ever.
Like many professions, the merchants had a peanut Tunisian master, who was their Napoleon, their Lavoisier, their Adam Smith, Dario Moreno them. One of the founders of a new order, which revolutionized the profession from top to bottom. This remarkable man, who was given the name of I-am- there was so famous that his career was crowned by the cinema, where he played his own role. Who knows, one day, talking about Bill Gates or Obama, we will not say rather "I am here to-computer" or "I-am here in U.S. policy."
It's hard to imagine, but I am, then made his debut as ordinary mortals, with the modest traditional woven basket, put on his red fez. He sounded well thirties when he began to make some bold innovations, whose combination was the key to his meteoric rise.
First, where are the customers? Bathers, it is fine but many they are distracted by Jokari or part of a pedal-boat, while others have their hands full of sand, and the swimmers Catholics are convinced that we can enter the water less than three hours after eating - the same principle as for the communion, after all. No, friend peddler, we move away from the beaches and veins out of school, on the way to the station. Students were then free spirit and happy, and enjoy a few minutes of idleness before the train arrives. We can find customers more willing.
Second, the goods. Why settle for the range glibettes usual peanut-pistachio-praline? It is necessary to introduce modern products, gays and responsive to customers, and run through some fads. I-am-there was, for example, the first to market chewing gum Five errors, which harbored a captivating puzzle images, a real collector's item. I-am-there was also the promoter of liquorice tablets Zan, flavored with mint, pink or violet and presented in a colorful packaging carefully matched.
Third, the hardware. The wicker basket holds only a limited range of products. It does not stand out from competitors. It offers an image stupidly conventional. I-am-here opted for a broad and thin wooden case, he could slip into tray or put on a tripod. Investment little expensive and we can look more modern.
Fourth, costs of production. Some merchants were making peanuts themselves their own chocolates, to increase their profit margins. You could see them stir the pot in their pralinette copper steaming between two transactions. For I-am-here, this type of vertical integration was synonymous dispersion of productive forces. An astute businessman can not effectively handle the entire production chain. Better to focus on a niche and outsource other activities.
Fifth, the brand image. What differentiates Coca Cola, IBM, Michelin and Lacoste their imitators? Is that customers pay not only the product but also for the name. I-am-so there has been a name, image, through cleverly chosen slogans, which had the merit of being simple, clear and easily recognizable. As children out of school, I-am-here exclaimed "I-am-one (hence its name)! I need money! Young man of good family, miss the handsome (he knew how to flatter the two segments of the market)! My fri-end (he even spoke English!). I-am-there was also using catchphrases: "Pralinette, pretty pralinette (to the tune of Alouette) There was a small ship, etc.. . Advertisers today, despite decades of research, do little better than I am, then, and always adapting their messages to a mental age corresponding to that of the kids from school primary.
What a great master that I-am-here! But that's not all. Sixth, the credit. Everyone knows that excessive credit is the basis of overconsumption, and that he has some famous postmodern economic crisis. One might object that a peddler, who sees hundreds of clients scroll completely anonymous and vague at home, can not afford to extend credit without leaving part of his recipe, especially since it is easy for debtors to change course at will. But it is wrong about human nature. If free riders have no qualms about stealing an unknown or an obscure administration, they are loath to betray cons by a guy who gave them confidence. One of my classmates also had a theory about the phenomenal memory, I am there: "I recall that I owe him money, I remember it well. Then one of two things: either I have on me what the pay and I pass him, or I'm broke and I take a different path. But a client can not run away forever before I-am-here. The eye-I am here, as that of consciousness, always followed small Cains. Sooner or later, the debtors were submit their slates with nothing ... just to jump illico seek new credit.
Tataouine or one of his brothers around 1978
(This photo is from the wonderful site Bertrand Bouret on TGM .)
Seventh, the upmarket. Faced with increased turnover, I am there-ended by the board to swap a small rolling table of his own, strange cross between the pedestal and the baby stroller. Seeing that his colleague, called Tataouine, had adopted the straw hat wide brim and white coat, I-am-here decided to fight on his home turf: he abandoned altogether the fez and began to walk bare-headed, the height of modernity.
remains in effect, the most acute problem of the market: competition. The success stimulating vocations, innovations I-am-there were soon copied, and some false-I am there appeared in the background. Not talking about the beach hawkers, or even the honorable Tataouine because they did not hunt the same land. No, we are talking about vendors posted, as I am, then, on leaving the school with carts strangely similar to the one invented by the great master.
Because when it comes to peanut vendor, everyone talks about-I am there, whether in the nostalgic narratives of life Carthaginian or turning a thesis in anthropology. Ferid Boughedir thereby appear in his film fetish, alongside Claudia Cardinale.
Yes, everyone talks about-I am there, but still remembers his main rival, La-Jalousie ? This man came from nowhere, financed by capital obscure village, had equipped with a imposing chuckwagon, the Rolls-Royce of strollers to candies, with its multiple compartments, its glass lids and frames, wood veneer of blue, green or yellow, as the boats which dance in the port of La Goulette. A whole kit hanging in the dusty side up in high school Maurice Pebbles. Faced with such a display of luxury, I-am-there had to find the parade, under threat of disappearing forever in the dustbin of market economy.
And the parade, he found. After an absence of several days, probably due to a brief nervous breakdown, I am, then had resumed his position at the exit school, with an additional slogan, which he hung his usual string: "Do not buy from La-Jalousie! . It was soon enough to return to the fold most of the clientele. Only a few kids, fascinated by the traffic-La Jalousie, dared to continue to betray their regular provider, gluttony being the highest. The poor-Jealousy, both capital sunk to a turnover so miserable! What business calamity! It was pitiful, silent, not daring to reply to propaganda, I am there. But pity is a virtue that children dispense sparingly, and misfortunes of La Jalousie, were quickly forgotten, even before he returns to the nothingness from which it emerged. So will the laws of capitalism.
say they abolished the Latin class to build a myriad of business schools, HEC and the so-called MBA, would have sufficed to study life-I am there.
In fact, thought that the parents of these merchants of peanuts? First, parents do not know personally: I-am-here Tataouine, La-Jalousie many names entirely unknown to their ears. It's funny how adults ignore so many important things: one wonders how much knowledge can be passed from one generation to another. To discredit our preferred suppliers, our seniors often had recourse to the argument of hygiene. According to my grandmother, the sticks used to stir the pot in the hot praline invariably came from a pile of garbage, after serving God knows what in an earlier life. My grandfather, as an engineer, focused his wrath on the gray-green that was contaminating the copper pots. But the word exotic, some kids spelling "gray glass", brought rather a precious gem, the magical properties (from a Sicilian friend, the "verdegri" had the power to simultaneously reflect two different colors). As for my father, a native of La Marsa and therefore closer to the realities of people's lives, one day he asked me if I knew how the merchants were able to open or take off the cellophane bags, before introducing the pralines . As I had complete confidence in the vast experience of this great man, and that the technique seemed relatively difficult, I was careful not to respond, and waited for my father tells me the secret. "Well, my boy, they carry the bag in his mouth and they blow into it to make it swell. "I considered from the outset that charge as a calumny pious, but soon I could take the peanut vendors in the act of blowing fresh. My revered father never lied.
-I am there and his fez, forty years after its beginnings in business, appears in the film Ferid Boughedir: A Summer in La Goulette
Each academic year, students wondered if they would reconsider Figure I am familiar-that. But this year 1963, it remained invisible. According to popular rumor, I am, then left the peanut business to become an official representative of Bic, the ultimate career for a peddler. It seemed too good to be true. We wanted to check something, go out to meet him, but where? This public figure, known across the country, could he have a private life and have an ordinary home? So when I am there, lived there? That nobody had a clue.
Person? Even. Because, as a direct witness, we are able, after several decades, to clarify Finally the mystery. What we do in our next story.
