Blog number 457 ******** 30 December 2010
And now some nimrod behind me is speaking French into his cell phone. What a dip wad. He just said something about a sea food plate.
It's like everyone has a trick or gimmick to garner attention and then they think I also am doing this by drawing.
Then they get green carded.
A little girl about seven years old with double ponytails just came in with a fancy doll. She put it on the couch and said, "now stay right here." Ha ha
Now she's telling a lady that's sitting there about the doll's jewelry. This seven year old baby girl has ponytails plus is missing a front tooth. How much cuter can one get?
Thursday, December 30, 2010
KARTR SAYS...
Blog number 456 ******** 30 December 2010
"I am so sick of the attention starved variety of humanity. Currently on display is two nimrods playing guitar or giving some guitar lesson IN A COFFEESHOP! Go home for this!
The guy who was green carded yesterday was admiring the guitar nimrods, then he left. He didn't ask them about what they are doing, so maybe he either only approaches lone people or the green carding had an effect!"
"I am so sick of the attention starved variety of humanity. Currently on display is two nimrods playing guitar or giving some guitar lesson IN A COFFEESHOP! Go home for this!
The guy who was green carded yesterday was admiring the guitar nimrods, then he left. He didn't ask them about what they are doing, so maybe he either only approaches lone people or the green carding had an effect!"
THEY ARE LIKE BABIES YOU CAN TALK TO.
Blog number 455 **** 08 September, 2010
My friend Rascal is a teacher. The following is what he sent me this morning that I thought enjoyable reading;
"Here's a funny one I pull on teenagers when I'm teaching. One girl will ask me to draw her name, which I do in professional-looking stylized bubble letters. Then her friend wants one, then her other friend. Round about the third girl I add a bunch of stars, hearts, and sparkles. Then I sit back and wait for the fun.
'How come hers had the extra stuff and stars and stuff? I want that on mine!'
'Me too!'
So I draw in the special stuff for them. Meanwhile the third girl looks all proud and special.
Ha ha. Its hilarious and they don't even know I am doing it to amuse myself! "
My friend Rascal is a teacher. The following is what he sent me this morning that I thought enjoyable reading;
"Here's a funny one I pull on teenagers when I'm teaching. One girl will ask me to draw her name, which I do in professional-looking stylized bubble letters. Then her friend wants one, then her other friend. Round about the third girl I add a bunch of stars, hearts, and sparkles. Then I sit back and wait for the fun.
'How come hers had the extra stuff and stars and stuff? I want that on mine!'
'Me too!'
So I draw in the special stuff for them. Meanwhile the third girl looks all proud and special.
Ha ha. Its hilarious and they don't even know I am doing it to amuse myself! "
THE CONTINUING CONTINUING SAGA
Blog number 454 ******** 30 December 2010
I got the following from Kartr this morning;
"I was sitting at Old Stone Coffee shop on the couch. There's an armchair on either end of the couch. I am occupying the right side of the couch and my computer is occupying the middle couch seat. In walk two of the same sex sexual persuasion males who immediately start flitting around me. I know they are going to sit by me, but where? I have purposely arranged myself where two men cannot simultaneously sit by me. It is a typical precaution I often use.
The two gentlemen sit together on the armchair right next to me, not one foot away! Unbelievable. Play this out with some friends and a couch and two chairs like a homicide detective reenacting a crime if you want to visually see how ridiculous this is.
I'm not worried because I've got my bright green cards which say it costs $50 to take me away from my drawing if you want to talk to me, so I feel good. Kinda...invincible. I can imagine a scene as the word gets out to the gay community.
Two or three talking. One says, 'Did you go talk to him? Did you ask him about his art? What happened? What'd he say?'
'Ah, he gave me the green card.'
'Damn!'
'Yeah. I got green carded.'
'Doris has four of them.'
'Oh, that girl!'
So like I say, I'm feeling pretty invincible - but these guys have a surprise for me.
One of them gets a phone call and starts yelling to the other party, 'NO! I SAID THE ROOT CANAL BEFORE THE BRIDGE!' He starts in with his over-the-top drama, so I can see where this is going. I pack up my stuff, get up and leave.
I need a new card. A blue one. This one just for drama queens. It will say something like,
'I know you think some people are impressed by the drama in your life, but those people are twelve blocks away. Just go out the door, turn left and keep walking until you find them. You'll know them when you see them. Trust me.' "
I got the following from Kartr this morning;
"I was sitting at Old Stone Coffee shop on the couch. There's an armchair on either end of the couch. I am occupying the right side of the couch and my computer is occupying the middle couch seat. In walk two of the same sex sexual persuasion males who immediately start flitting around me. I know they are going to sit by me, but where? I have purposely arranged myself where two men cannot simultaneously sit by me. It is a typical precaution I often use.
The two gentlemen sit together on the armchair right next to me, not one foot away! Unbelievable. Play this out with some friends and a couch and two chairs like a homicide detective reenacting a crime if you want to visually see how ridiculous this is.
I'm not worried because I've got my bright green cards which say it costs $50 to take me away from my drawing if you want to talk to me, so I feel good. Kinda...invincible. I can imagine a scene as the word gets out to the gay community.
Two or three talking. One says, 'Did you go talk to him? Did you ask him about his art? What happened? What'd he say?'
'Ah, he gave me the green card.'
'Damn!'
'Yeah. I got green carded.'
'Doris has four of them.'
'Oh, that girl!'
So like I say, I'm feeling pretty invincible - but these guys have a surprise for me.
One of them gets a phone call and starts yelling to the other party, 'NO! I SAID THE ROOT CANAL BEFORE THE BRIDGE!' He starts in with his over-the-top drama, so I can see where this is going. I pack up my stuff, get up and leave.
I need a new card. A blue one. This one just for drama queens. It will say something like,
'I know you think some people are impressed by the drama in your life, but those people are twelve blocks away. Just go out the door, turn left and keep walking until you find them. You'll know them when you see them. Trust me.' "
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
THE CONTINUING SAGA OF THE PUT UPON
Blog number 453 ******** 29 December 2010
Today my son Kartr told me that he got to use his new "Don't bother me or gimme 50 bucks" cards. He said this guy was milling around for awhile and then sat down by him and Kartr said he could feel him eyeing him, and then the guy said, "may I ask what you are drawing this for?" So he handed him the card.
The guy read it and then chuckled like "we're in this together - I can see those other people (not me) bother you a lot to have made such a card! Ha ha ha."
Kartr says, "I can't wait for the next victim. I'm some sort of Venus fly trap."
Today my son Kartr told me that he got to use his new "Don't bother me or gimme 50 bucks" cards. He said this guy was milling around for awhile and then sat down by him and Kartr said he could feel him eyeing him, and then the guy said, "may I ask what you are drawing this for?" So he handed him the card.
The guy read it and then chuckled like "we're in this together - I can see those other people (not me) bother you a lot to have made such a card! Ha ha ha."
Kartr says, "I can't wait for the next victim. I'm some sort of Venus fly trap."
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
COFFEE HOUSE HABITUE ARE USUALLY VERY INTERESTING
Blog number 452 ******** 27 December 2010
My son Kartr has a teenage female friend that he met in her mom's coffee house. She claims to be a black belt karate expert. Kartr found out that she wasn't much good at it and asked why her teacher - whom she describes as a ninja, hasn't taught her to stretch correctly and she said that the teacher has thirty kids to teach, so he hasn't had time yet. Kartr told her that he could teach her in five minutes and does she call the guy a ninja because he disappears when needed for teaching?
She once mentioned that she meditated and Kartr found out that what she meant by mediation was to focus on something interesting - like some people "meditate" by sailing or fishing or walking in the woods. When he told her he meant real meditation where you focus on something and don't let the mind wander willy nilly like it does when you sail or fish or walk in the woods, she wasn't interested.
Today he told me that he gave the ninja chick a Starbucks card which she promptly lost, then later found in her pocket. He told her not to feel bad - that the pre-frontal lobe does not fully mature to the early 20's so that type of scatterbrain behavior is normal for teens.
Her 20 year old female coworker said, "cite your source," so Kartr went and found on his computer that,
"The Prefrontal Cortex is a part of the brain up in the forehead that acts as a "censoring" system. When you want something, but having it RIGHT NOW is not a good idea, the prefrontal cortex kicks in and controls your behavior.
In children, the prefrontal cortex is immature and doesn't fully mature until around age 25, although most of the maturation is done by age 15-16. This is why teenagers tend to be a bit...headstrong at times."
When he went to offer her the source she said, "the time has passed to when I was interested in that." e.g. HER PREFRONTAL LOBE HAD NOT FULLY MATURED AS HE HAD JUST EXPLAINED TO HER!
He said that another guy wanted to interrupt his drawing, saying that he needed an artist for his book Kartr told him bluntly that he doesn't talk about his drawing.
The reason Kartr doesn't talk about his drawings is that he'd rather draw than talk about it, and the people who ask about it are not really interested anyhow. He knows from experience that they just want to talk to him so that they can then turn the conversation around to them and their artistic abilities and interests.
He said he thought about this problem with people like that and decided to have some cards made up that say, "Thank you for showing interest in my work. However, if I am talking, that means I'm not drawing. I have a $50 fee to pull me away from my work if you have something serious to discuss."
**************************
On Judge Judy yesterday, a young female witness came into the courtroom wearing a very short skirt. Judge Judy looked at her and asked her if she went to church.
The girl replied, "No. I'm a Christian."
My son Kartr has a teenage female friend that he met in her mom's coffee house. She claims to be a black belt karate expert. Kartr found out that she wasn't much good at it and asked why her teacher - whom she describes as a ninja, hasn't taught her to stretch correctly and she said that the teacher has thirty kids to teach, so he hasn't had time yet. Kartr told her that he could teach her in five minutes and does she call the guy a ninja because he disappears when needed for teaching?
She once mentioned that she meditated and Kartr found out that what she meant by mediation was to focus on something interesting - like some people "meditate" by sailing or fishing or walking in the woods. When he told her he meant real meditation where you focus on something and don't let the mind wander willy nilly like it does when you sail or fish or walk in the woods, she wasn't interested.
Today he told me that he gave the ninja chick a Starbucks card which she promptly lost, then later found in her pocket. He told her not to feel bad - that the pre-frontal lobe does not fully mature to the early 20's so that type of scatterbrain behavior is normal for teens.
Her 20 year old female coworker said, "cite your source," so Kartr went and found on his computer that,
"The Prefrontal Cortex is a part of the brain up in the forehead that acts as a "censoring" system. When you want something, but having it RIGHT NOW is not a good idea, the prefrontal cortex kicks in and controls your behavior.
In children, the prefrontal cortex is immature and doesn't fully mature until around age 25, although most of the maturation is done by age 15-16. This is why teenagers tend to be a bit...headstrong at times."
When he went to offer her the source she said, "the time has passed to when I was interested in that." e.g. HER PREFRONTAL LOBE HAD NOT FULLY MATURED AS HE HAD JUST EXPLAINED TO HER!
He said that another guy wanted to interrupt his drawing, saying that he needed an artist for his book Kartr told him bluntly that he doesn't talk about his drawing.
The reason Kartr doesn't talk about his drawings is that he'd rather draw than talk about it, and the people who ask about it are not really interested anyhow. He knows from experience that they just want to talk to him so that they can then turn the conversation around to them and their artistic abilities and interests.
He said he thought about this problem with people like that and decided to have some cards made up that say, "Thank you for showing interest in my work. However, if I am talking, that means I'm not drawing. I have a $50 fee to pull me away from my work if you have something serious to discuss."
**************************
On Judge Judy yesterday, a young female witness came into the courtroom wearing a very short skirt. Judge Judy looked at her and asked her if she went to church.
The girl replied, "No. I'm a Christian."
Monday, December 27, 2010
CLUELESS EQUALS HUMOROUS
Blog number 451 ******** 27 December 2010
Here's another story from the files of Kartr, the object of unwanted desires from clueless gays.
"I was at 'Naked Lounge Coffee House' and this gay dude came in wearing tight shorts - keep in mind it's really cold in Sacramento, and he sat directly across from me, although there were a couple of other places he could have parked himself, but he could legitimately sit at my table. Thats the beauty of it. These guys are devious yet dumb at the same time. Think Hannibal Lecter mixed with Paris Hilton....
He wasn't really checking me out that I could tell but I did seem to feel his energy focused on me.
He was doing this thing where he's grinning while texting like he's having so much fun. His life is so fun, his shorts are so fun, look at me.
Every time I sipped my coffee he sipped his so there was some body mimicry involved. He began to get frustrated by my non-attention to his antics, so he did the thing where he starts putting on his jacket and getting his things together like he's leaving and thereby forcing me to 'make my move'.
I still ignored him, so he put his stuff back down. Later when I was getting my stuff together to leave, he rapidly did likewise but I was faster and foiled him, sprinting for the door."
Here's another story from the files of Kartr, the object of unwanted desires from clueless gays.
"I was at 'Naked Lounge Coffee House' and this gay dude came in wearing tight shorts - keep in mind it's really cold in Sacramento, and he sat directly across from me, although there were a couple of other places he could have parked himself, but he could legitimately sit at my table. Thats the beauty of it. These guys are devious yet dumb at the same time. Think Hannibal Lecter mixed with Paris Hilton....
He wasn't really checking me out that I could tell but I did seem to feel his energy focused on me.
He was doing this thing where he's grinning while texting like he's having so much fun. His life is so fun, his shorts are so fun, look at me.
Every time I sipped my coffee he sipped his so there was some body mimicry involved. He began to get frustrated by my non-attention to his antics, so he did the thing where he starts putting on his jacket and getting his things together like he's leaving and thereby forcing me to 'make my move'.
I still ignored him, so he put his stuff back down. Later when I was getting my stuff together to leave, he rapidly did likewise but I was faster and foiled him, sprinting for the door."
Sunday, December 26, 2010
THE FAVOR
Blog number 450 ******** 26 December 2010
My oldest son - let's call him "Kartr," has had a problem with gays hitting on him constantly for years, for some reason. He hangs out in coffee houses drawing and that seems to attract them like flies. "Why else would he be here?" they seem to be thinking.
He complains that they don't seem to understand rudeness nor direct - "leave me alone" comments. They walk up to him after making a show of themselves in the hope that he will see them and call them over, I guess. When this doesn't work, they will walk right up to where he is obviously busiy with his drawing and introduce themselves. His coldness seems to attract them like heat attracts fleas.
He even once had a Tee shirt made that said, STRAIGHT on it, thinking that may give them a clue that he wasn't interested, and then he heard a gay sitting with others at a table say, "Yeah. Right." So he stopped wearing the tee shirt.
As an example, he told me this latest. And this type of thing goes on every day.
Kartr said that one time he was at Safeway getting Chinese food and this guy kept trying to catch his eye. He says he tried to ignore him as the guy tried to get into his field of view and he would turn the other way, all the time flirting with the WOMAN at the counter.
He said the guy didn't give up so easily, laughing loudly at all his jokes and comments. He said he had his hand on the counter and felt something hitting his fingers - the guy was trying to slide his business card to Kartr. He looked at the guy with a "What the H...!" look and the guy explained, "I'm trying to give you my number!"
Kartr said he looked at the guy's card with horror and left.
Get a clue, Dude.
From Kartr's stories about other incidents like this, there is a very good chance that this guy will try even harder next time. He definitely will not give up.
My oldest son - let's call him "Kartr," has had a problem with gays hitting on him constantly for years, for some reason. He hangs out in coffee houses drawing and that seems to attract them like flies. "Why else would he be here?" they seem to be thinking.
He complains that they don't seem to understand rudeness nor direct - "leave me alone" comments. They walk up to him after making a show of themselves in the hope that he will see them and call them over, I guess. When this doesn't work, they will walk right up to where he is obviously busiy with his drawing and introduce themselves. His coldness seems to attract them like heat attracts fleas.
He even once had a Tee shirt made that said, STRAIGHT on it, thinking that may give them a clue that he wasn't interested, and then he heard a gay sitting with others at a table say, "Yeah. Right." So he stopped wearing the tee shirt.
As an example, he told me this latest. And this type of thing goes on every day.
Kartr said that one time he was at Safeway getting Chinese food and this guy kept trying to catch his eye. He says he tried to ignore him as the guy tried to get into his field of view and he would turn the other way, all the time flirting with the WOMAN at the counter.
He said the guy didn't give up so easily, laughing loudly at all his jokes and comments. He said he had his hand on the counter and felt something hitting his fingers - the guy was trying to slide his business card to Kartr. He looked at the guy with a "What the H...!" look and the guy explained, "I'm trying to give you my number!"
Kartr said he looked at the guy's card with horror and left.
Get a clue, Dude.
From Kartr's stories about other incidents like this, there is a very good chance that this guy will try even harder next time. He definitely will not give up.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
JOY TO THE WORLD BUT MOSTLY TO ME
Blog number 449 ******** 25 December 2010
This entry that is still in my mind and as yet unwritten, contains two themes. I have not decided as yet as to whether I will separate them and put them in two different entries or combine them both into this one entry. You, who are existing in my future, know which choice I am going to make - and my future self also knows, but I don't. It will be somewhat of a surprise to me.
I had a very good Christmas this year. Might even be the best I have ever had. I didn't have the angst over gift giving that I usually have, so I could just enjoy the people and events. My youngest son, my daughter-in-law and a friend were over. Also I had a surprise that my Tulpa friend, Anna from across my back fence came over with her mother. She is SO cute!
Yesterday I hung a bunch of Christmas presents for Anna over the back fence and while we were eating mid-dinner, I heard children screaming. I mentioned hearing children, thinking they were up the street where a bunch of kids sometmes play and my wife responded, "Maybe Anna found her gifts."
I ran out and looked and the gifts were gone, so that WAS what the children's screams were all about. I have hung several presents there over the years and I always imagined that they would just be happy that gifts were there, but to actually hear the delighted screams was a real joy, once I realized that that was what they were.
I think this was my first non-Bah Humbug Christmas. And that's a good thing.
Isn't it?
Of course it is. Don't be silly.
This entry that is still in my mind and as yet unwritten, contains two themes. I have not decided as yet as to whether I will separate them and put them in two different entries or combine them both into this one entry. You, who are existing in my future, know which choice I am going to make - and my future self also knows, but I don't. It will be somewhat of a surprise to me.
I had a very good Christmas this year. Might even be the best I have ever had. I didn't have the angst over gift giving that I usually have, so I could just enjoy the people and events. My youngest son, my daughter-in-law and a friend were over. Also I had a surprise that my Tulpa friend, Anna from across my back fence came over with her mother. She is SO cute!
Yesterday I hung a bunch of Christmas presents for Anna over the back fence and while we were eating mid-dinner, I heard children screaming. I mentioned hearing children, thinking they were up the street where a bunch of kids sometmes play and my wife responded, "Maybe Anna found her gifts."
I ran out and looked and the gifts were gone, so that WAS what the children's screams were all about. I have hung several presents there over the years and I always imagined that they would just be happy that gifts were there, but to actually hear the delighted screams was a real joy, once I realized that that was what they were.
I think this was my first non-Bah Humbug Christmas. And that's a good thing.
Isn't it?
Of course it is. Don't be silly.
THE STARS DESERT THE SKIES AND RUSH TO NESTLE IN YOUR EYES, IT'S MAGIC
Blog number 448 ******** 25 December 2010
So now we all know that the two themes were separated. Bully for all of us.
My son and our friend and I were sitting around this Christmas day and somehow we got to talking about unexplainable events that we had witnessed. My son said that when we lived in the mountains, he and his mother were the only ones in the room and he saw a glass lift about four inches off the stove, move to the right about six inches and come down with a thud.
I mentioned seeing the frogs on top of a frozen creek and seeing a face float up and to my left from my wife's face, leaving her looking like a stranger.
My son mentioned wondering why he didn't ask his mother if she had seen the glass move, but he didn't know why he didn't. I didn't tell anybody about the frozen frogs either, and I don't know why I didn't.
I think I mentioned then that I bet that it is a common thing for people to all have witnessed some magical thing in their life and I asked our friend if he had anything like that. He told us of reading his wife's thoughts at one time and getting her to sleep by thinking the thought to her.
I was once with a bunch of friends and somehow the topic got on flying saucers and I asked one of them if he had ever seen a flying saucer. He said, "Yes." So I asked him to tell me about it. He said he and a friend were lying on the Pacific ocean beach and a huge triangle object flew silently over their heads and disappeared out over the Pacific.
I was with my older son when we saw our cat go around the corner of the house and come out the basement door. We checked where he could have gone into the basement without our seeing him, but there was no way. We told people this one, at the time.
So...if my theory is correct, and my favorite author is telling the truth, almost everyone has seen something that can only be explained as magic. Something that is impossible, yet you saw it or heard it or felt it. Yes? And you didn't tell anybody about it until a year or two later? Unless you were with someone who also saw it - then you told.
So now we all know that the two themes were separated. Bully for all of us.
My son and our friend and I were sitting around this Christmas day and somehow we got to talking about unexplainable events that we had witnessed. My son said that when we lived in the mountains, he and his mother were the only ones in the room and he saw a glass lift about four inches off the stove, move to the right about six inches and come down with a thud.
I mentioned seeing the frogs on top of a frozen creek and seeing a face float up and to my left from my wife's face, leaving her looking like a stranger.
My son mentioned wondering why he didn't ask his mother if she had seen the glass move, but he didn't know why he didn't. I didn't tell anybody about the frozen frogs either, and I don't know why I didn't.
I think I mentioned then that I bet that it is a common thing for people to all have witnessed some magical thing in their life and I asked our friend if he had anything like that. He told us of reading his wife's thoughts at one time and getting her to sleep by thinking the thought to her.
I was once with a bunch of friends and somehow the topic got on flying saucers and I asked one of them if he had ever seen a flying saucer. He said, "Yes." So I asked him to tell me about it. He said he and a friend were lying on the Pacific ocean beach and a huge triangle object flew silently over their heads and disappeared out over the Pacific.
I was with my older son when we saw our cat go around the corner of the house and come out the basement door. We checked where he could have gone into the basement without our seeing him, but there was no way. We told people this one, at the time.
So...if my theory is correct, and my favorite author is telling the truth, almost everyone has seen something that can only be explained as magic. Something that is impossible, yet you saw it or heard it or felt it. Yes? And you didn't tell anybody about it until a year or two later? Unless you were with someone who also saw it - then you told.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
SORRY FOR THAT, FOLKS
Blog number 447 ******** 19 December 2010
I wrote an entry. I was fearful of catching hell from offspring, caught it instead from my wife, deleted that entry on her demands, substituted this one for the other "bad" one. The bad one wasn't bad. It's just that various members of my immediate family have fears that I don't have, so I am not allowed certain freedoms of expression. So if you happened to catch that other one, you will probably be one of the few that got to it before it was redacted. Redacted in this sense meaning disappeared, not just blacked out.
It was funny - especially if you know my wife personally. If you don't, well then, you are missing a great treat. It was a discussion between her and one of my sons and it was a stereotype of what it is like to talk to her.
While I gotcha here, did you happen to catch that tearful outburst by upcoming Republican Speaker of The House, John Boehner? I'm not a political animal at all. In fact, I don't vote. Don't want to encourage them, you know. He was crying because of the lack of possibilities for children to realize the American dream. What a nut! When I saw this, I thought, "THIS is what is leading us?"
That guy was either on something, or he has severe emotional or neurotic problems.
I had a friend up in the mountains who spent some time in Japan and he said if he ever did anything kinda nuts, the Japanese would just say, "Oh, he's a foreigner." Forgiven that way. So now, in this country, ever once in awhile, if he does something stupid, he just pretends that he is a foreigner here.
So here I am pretending that Boehner is a foreigner and that's how they act in his culture. That way I don't feel so embarrassed being an American. "Not one of us."
I wrote an entry. I was fearful of catching hell from offspring, caught it instead from my wife, deleted that entry on her demands, substituted this one for the other "bad" one. The bad one wasn't bad. It's just that various members of my immediate family have fears that I don't have, so I am not allowed certain freedoms of expression. So if you happened to catch that other one, you will probably be one of the few that got to it before it was redacted. Redacted in this sense meaning disappeared, not just blacked out.
It was funny - especially if you know my wife personally. If you don't, well then, you are missing a great treat. It was a discussion between her and one of my sons and it was a stereotype of what it is like to talk to her.
While I gotcha here, did you happen to catch that tearful outburst by upcoming Republican Speaker of The House, John Boehner? I'm not a political animal at all. In fact, I don't vote. Don't want to encourage them, you know. He was crying because of the lack of possibilities for children to realize the American dream. What a nut! When I saw this, I thought, "THIS is what is leading us?"
That guy was either on something, or he has severe emotional or neurotic problems.
I had a friend up in the mountains who spent some time in Japan and he said if he ever did anything kinda nuts, the Japanese would just say, "Oh, he's a foreigner." Forgiven that way. So now, in this country, ever once in awhile, if he does something stupid, he just pretends that he is a foreigner here.
So here I am pretending that Boehner is a foreigner and that's how they act in his culture. That way I don't feel so embarrassed being an American. "Not one of us."
Thursday, December 9, 2010
I YEARN FOR 3.1
Blog number 446 ******** 09 December 2010
First the etiology, then the substance. Right? That's the way it goes? Okay.
When I first started Blogging, I used to get a lot of comments from readers - several for every entry, usually. I liked that. I could discuss in a way, what I had been writing about. Then the comments stopped. I didn't think too much about it, but as the years wore on with still no comments, I just thought people had gotten tired of writing them. The bloom had gone from the rose, so to speak.
Several days ago I noticed a tab on my home page labled, "Comments." I clicked on it and lo and behold, there were several comments in there labled, "Spam." I took care of them so that they got back in the Blog - several months late, some of them.
Seems like my Google guy thinks I can't take care of my own spam, so he thinks he has to do it for me. But he don't. And I wish he wouldn't. But I couldn't find a way to stop it.
So I just glare at him.
Now today, my wife informs me that she cannot put comments in my Blog for the reason, "incorrect password." Pshah. Anyhow, this caused me to look in the spam portion of my comments and again, lo and behold, one of the comments I had already said was not spam and was transferred to my Blog entry was back in there, along with one of my own comments! Dammit!
So if you want to comment, please do. If Google won't let you comment (*$%##%&!) and you really want to, e-mail me. I like e-mails too. Comments or e-mail. As long as I have something to read.
If the e-mail is interesting or funny enough and you agree, I will put it in one of my Blog entries.
If your e-mail is funny and/or interesting and you don't agree to have it placed in one of my blog entries, then I will threaten you until you do agree. Fair enough?
First the etiology, then the substance. Right? That's the way it goes? Okay.
When I first started Blogging, I used to get a lot of comments from readers - several for every entry, usually. I liked that. I could discuss in a way, what I had been writing about. Then the comments stopped. I didn't think too much about it, but as the years wore on with still no comments, I just thought people had gotten tired of writing them. The bloom had gone from the rose, so to speak.
Several days ago I noticed a tab on my home page labled, "Comments." I clicked on it and lo and behold, there were several comments in there labled, "Spam." I took care of them so that they got back in the Blog - several months late, some of them.
Seems like my Google guy thinks I can't take care of my own spam, so he thinks he has to do it for me. But he don't. And I wish he wouldn't. But I couldn't find a way to stop it.
So I just glare at him.
Now today, my wife informs me that she cannot put comments in my Blog for the reason, "incorrect password." Pshah. Anyhow, this caused me to look in the spam portion of my comments and again, lo and behold, one of the comments I had already said was not spam and was transferred to my Blog entry was back in there, along with one of my own comments! Dammit!
So if you want to comment, please do. If Google won't let you comment (*$%##%&!) and you really want to, e-mail me. I like e-mails too. Comments or e-mail. As long as I have something to read.
If the e-mail is interesting or funny enough and you agree, I will put it in one of my Blog entries.
If your e-mail is funny and/or interesting and you don't agree to have it placed in one of my blog entries, then I will threaten you until you do agree. Fair enough?
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
BUT DON'T TAKE MY WORD FOR IT. PLEASE!
Blog number 445 ******** 08 December 2010
I have never before written anything about the obvious absence of free will in humans, nor have I ever spoken of it except in one or two cases over two decades. The reason I am reticent about discussing this attribute of humanity is because of the experience I have had in trying to discuss another erroneous aspect of humans - that of them believing that what they are thinking is what is real.
The fact that there is abundant evidence for both the absence of free will and the illusionariness of the physical world cannot be used to any effect because of the power of cultural conditioning. "Cats don't eat birds." Period. No way around that.
Do you suppose that if dogs or cats or elephants or dolphins could ponder, would they firmly believe that they had free will? Although we, looking on from outside would see animal instinct? In other humans, we can see them responding to their motives. In ourselves? Not likely - rarely if at all. We often see ourselves doing things we don't want to do. What is that? Free will?
Is there a benefit to the individual in believing they have free will? None at all. Executions are given based upon this assumption. As are penalties for all laws, whether legal or merely social mores.
Is there a benefit to the individual who doesn't see themselves as having any free will? Yes, most definitely. It doesn't matter whether the individual believes in the existence of God or not, the fact remains that "letting go and letting God" takes a lot of the pressure off of merely living. That's only one of the ways that peace comes to such an individual.
Is there a benefit to the individual in believing the physical world is real? No, none at all. In fact, ALL the problems individuals have comes from this belief.
Is there a benefit to the individual in seeing the illusionary nature of the physical world? Yes there is. Such a one is freed from cultural conditioning, freed from enemies, worry, fear, death, injury - and some other things. Some other physical things. Many other physical things. All other physical things.
I have never before written anything about the obvious absence of free will in humans, nor have I ever spoken of it except in one or two cases over two decades. The reason I am reticent about discussing this attribute of humanity is because of the experience I have had in trying to discuss another erroneous aspect of humans - that of them believing that what they are thinking is what is real.
The fact that there is abundant evidence for both the absence of free will and the illusionariness of the physical world cannot be used to any effect because of the power of cultural conditioning. "Cats don't eat birds." Period. No way around that.
Do you suppose that if dogs or cats or elephants or dolphins could ponder, would they firmly believe that they had free will? Although we, looking on from outside would see animal instinct? In other humans, we can see them responding to their motives. In ourselves? Not likely - rarely if at all. We often see ourselves doing things we don't want to do. What is that? Free will?
Is there a benefit to the individual in believing they have free will? None at all. Executions are given based upon this assumption. As are penalties for all laws, whether legal or merely social mores.
Is there a benefit to the individual who doesn't see themselves as having any free will? Yes, most definitely. It doesn't matter whether the individual believes in the existence of God or not, the fact remains that "letting go and letting God" takes a lot of the pressure off of merely living. That's only one of the ways that peace comes to such an individual.
Is there a benefit to the individual in believing the physical world is real? No, none at all. In fact, ALL the problems individuals have comes from this belief.
Is there a benefit to the individual in seeing the illusionary nature of the physical world? Yes there is. Such a one is freed from cultural conditioning, freed from enemies, worry, fear, death, injury - and some other things. Some other physical things. Many other physical things. All other physical things.
Monday, December 6, 2010
IS A PARABLE LIKE A PARABOLA IN ANY WAY?
Blog number 444 ******** 06 December 2010
I have this recurring dream. I have it every day.
I am in this strange village. The inhabitants of this village love cats and birds. The number of cats is shocking because they have kind of taken over the village. The birds, however are very scarce. This is because they keep disappearing. A bird is there one day. The next day it's gone.
The problem is so intense that the villagers even have a factory that breeds birds which they then turn loose. It's the only way they could have any birds. And they just love birds. Just as much as they love cats.
I tell them that the cats are eating the birds. I tell them that I see them do it. Many times every day. But they don't believe me. They say that cats don't eat birds. In fact, they tell me that cats don't eat anything except maybe a bowl of milk every once in awhile.
I tell them that if they watched a cat and a bird for just a few moments, they would see this phenomenon too. But they think the idea is so insane that it would be foolishness to waste valuable time like that. Time that could be better spent raising birds.
I tell them that the evidence is obvious, the evidence is overwhelming, the evidence is easily observable that the cats are eating the birds. But nobody believes me.
There is the fact that the birds are disappearing while the cat's numbers are multiplying and the cats are fat dumb and happy while the birds are all terrified.
There is the fact that bits of birds lie on the sidewalks, on lawns and on porches. Feathers are everywhere. Tons of feather deposited over many years. But the people dismiss all this evidence as of no consequence. Cats don't eat birds, end of story.
Of course their scientists study the matter of the scarcity of birds ad minimum, but like scientists everywhere, they only study what they have been taught. And they have been taught that cats don't eat birds. But the scientists HAVE come up with a theory, which they call "The Theory of Disappearance." They believe that this theory explains why the birds disappear, so they believe the problem is solved. But it's not. The bird factory still has to turn out many birds a day in order for the villagers to have any at all.
Then I wake up. But I know I will have the same dream again tomorrow.
Maybe it will have a different outcome? Hah!
Dream on.
I have this recurring dream. I have it every day.
I am in this strange village. The inhabitants of this village love cats and birds. The number of cats is shocking because they have kind of taken over the village. The birds, however are very scarce. This is because they keep disappearing. A bird is there one day. The next day it's gone.
The problem is so intense that the villagers even have a factory that breeds birds which they then turn loose. It's the only way they could have any birds. And they just love birds. Just as much as they love cats.
I tell them that the cats are eating the birds. I tell them that I see them do it. Many times every day. But they don't believe me. They say that cats don't eat birds. In fact, they tell me that cats don't eat anything except maybe a bowl of milk every once in awhile.
I tell them that if they watched a cat and a bird for just a few moments, they would see this phenomenon too. But they think the idea is so insane that it would be foolishness to waste valuable time like that. Time that could be better spent raising birds.
I tell them that the evidence is obvious, the evidence is overwhelming, the evidence is easily observable that the cats are eating the birds. But nobody believes me.
There is the fact that the birds are disappearing while the cat's numbers are multiplying and the cats are fat dumb and happy while the birds are all terrified.
There is the fact that bits of birds lie on the sidewalks, on lawns and on porches. Feathers are everywhere. Tons of feather deposited over many years. But the people dismiss all this evidence as of no consequence. Cats don't eat birds, end of story.
Of course their scientists study the matter of the scarcity of birds ad minimum, but like scientists everywhere, they only study what they have been taught. And they have been taught that cats don't eat birds. But the scientists HAVE come up with a theory, which they call "The Theory of Disappearance." They believe that this theory explains why the birds disappear, so they believe the problem is solved. But it's not. The bird factory still has to turn out many birds a day in order for the villagers to have any at all.
Then I wake up. But I know I will have the same dream again tomorrow.
Maybe it will have a different outcome? Hah!
Dream on.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
DON'T LET YOUR GUN SMOKE
Blog number 443 ******** 02 December 2010
I have a very low opinion of experts for many very good reasons obtained from experience. The thing about them is that they are immune from learning anything new in their fields. They already know, so they can't learn. They are also usually unintentionally funny. Which I will get to in a moment. First though, an example of what I mean.
Back when I was learning to oil paint, I bought one of those "How To Paint" books. This one was called, "Coming To Light." The object was to array oil paints in a manner associated with the color wheel and the addition of white to the colors. When one took a palette knife through two or three of the colors and then smeared it upon the canvas, it would create an effect that looked like what the author called, "jewels." There was no talent, no "gift" necessary in order to use this method. You slopped on the paint and then arranged the painting so that it looked kinda like a man, a horse, whatever - like a Rorschach picture. Abstract painting.
There was open art contest in Sacramento one year and the winning entry was a painting that used this method. I knew the method used came from the afore-mentioned "how to" book as soon as I saw the picture of it in the paper. The art critic who judged the paintings even made the comment that the winner's painting looked like glowing jewels. I, who was not an expert, knew the etiology of the painting. The expert, who most likely would not be caught dead looking in one of those books, was completely ignorant of what he was judging as great art.
Now for the funny experts. I was playing a game on my computer, the TV behind me was on Fox News and I heard a tease that went, "Why do people have one night stands? Doctors say they now have the answer." Hah!.
I have a very low opinion of experts for many very good reasons obtained from experience. The thing about them is that they are immune from learning anything new in their fields. They already know, so they can't learn. They are also usually unintentionally funny. Which I will get to in a moment. First though, an example of what I mean.
Back when I was learning to oil paint, I bought one of those "How To Paint" books. This one was called, "Coming To Light." The object was to array oil paints in a manner associated with the color wheel and the addition of white to the colors. When one took a palette knife through two or three of the colors and then smeared it upon the canvas, it would create an effect that looked like what the author called, "jewels." There was no talent, no "gift" necessary in order to use this method. You slopped on the paint and then arranged the painting so that it looked kinda like a man, a horse, whatever - like a Rorschach picture. Abstract painting.
There was open art contest in Sacramento one year and the winning entry was a painting that used this method. I knew the method used came from the afore-mentioned "how to" book as soon as I saw the picture of it in the paper. The art critic who judged the paintings even made the comment that the winner's painting looked like glowing jewels. I, who was not an expert, knew the etiology of the painting. The expert, who most likely would not be caught dead looking in one of those books, was completely ignorant of what he was judging as great art.
Now for the funny experts. I was playing a game on my computer, the TV behind me was on Fox News and I heard a tease that went, "Why do people have one night stands? Doctors say they now have the answer." Hah!.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
SOME THINGS ARE MYSTERIOUS BY THEMSELVES
Blog number 442 ******** 30 November, 2010
So my wife and I are sitting in Barnes and Nobles waiting for her cousin and her cousin's friend, journeying up from Tucson. I'm reading a pretty interesting book about Baba Booey and listening to some really good Pink Floyd on my Walkman type radio. My wife is reading a magazine entitled, "How It Works." She taps my arm and signals for me to take the earpieces out of my ear so I can hear what she has to say.
I do this reluctantly, but I do it. She says, "Look. It says here that if you have anti-lock brakes on your car, then when you brake like when the road is wet, the brakes won't lock up and cause you to skid. What do you think of that?"
I say, "Probably why they call them "Anti-lock brakes."
So my wife and I are sitting in Barnes and Nobles waiting for her cousin and her cousin's friend, journeying up from Tucson. I'm reading a pretty interesting book about Baba Booey and listening to some really good Pink Floyd on my Walkman type radio. My wife is reading a magazine entitled, "How It Works." She taps my arm and signals for me to take the earpieces out of my ear so I can hear what she has to say.
I do this reluctantly, but I do it. She says, "Look. It says here that if you have anti-lock brakes on your car, then when you brake like when the road is wet, the brakes won't lock up and cause you to skid. What do you think of that?"
I say, "Probably why they call them "Anti-lock brakes."
Sunday, November 21, 2010
SOME MYSTERIES DON'T MAKE ANY SENSE AT ALL
Blog number 441 ******** 21 November, 2010
It is a truism in writing fiction that the writer never puts in anything that does not further the story. Especially one that has nothing whatsoever to do with the story - like the one in Fargo, the movie.
For those of you who have not seen Fargo, it concerns a pregnant North Dakota sheriff in a small town looking for the killers of a highway patrolman and two civilians. Damn good movie! Damn good story. Damn good acting, directing, writing and casting.
However - there is a scene where the sheriff meets an old friend from high school and has dinner with him. They talk, she later finds out he has lied about marrying an old high school friend who has died. He didn't and she didn't. And that's all there is to that. The story of Fargo seems to have been laid aside and this thing brought in for no reason whatsoever.
Is this scene something left over from a scene which at one time fit in the story, but when the rest of it was blue-lined, this part was forgotten? Was the male actor a great friend of someone and was given this little scene out of friendship? We never see him again. In fact, I have never seen him in any other production anywhere. What's the story here? I don't know and I sincerely doubt that anyone is going to tell me.
One of my most persistent fantasies and wishes is that I worked as a columnist for a newspaper - famous and trusted enough that I could get important people to talk to me, and then I could find out the answers to a lot of things like this that really bother me. But that ain't gonna happen.
Maybe next time.
What brought all this on was that I just finished reading "A Very Private Gentleman." The ending was a shootout between the protagonist and a man that had been stalking him. The protagonist kills the stalker. Spoiler alert.
Turns out that the stalker commissioned a woman to find a person that could make a gun to his specifications and the woman hired the protagonist. The stalker did not know who was making the gun, the woman did not know who the assassin was going to kill, and the protagonist did not know who was going to be using the gun, nor for what. The fact that the stalker was using the very gun the protagonist made was pretty ironic. This irony was completely lost in the movie. The stalker was getting revenge for the suicide of his mother which he blamed on the protagonist. This all made sense.
In the movie, "The American," created from that book and starring George Clooney, the ending was that the woman who commissioned Clooney's character to make a special gun to be used in an assassination was the intended assassin. In other words, she commissioned the protagonist to make a gun that she would then use to kill him. That's not ironic, that's stupid.
The woman was killed by a secretly placed exploding bullet while shooting at Clooney's character. This didn't make sense. How did he know she was going to use the gun on him? Did he ordinarily put exploding bullets in his guns? I don't think so. Why did she pick that particular bullet out of two cases of about forty bullets? Who knows? Why did she want to kill him? Who knows?
In the movie, there is no stalker. The woman just shows up, wants Clooney's character to make a special gun, they go on picnics, have a little fun, pfft. The whole movie didn't make any sense. Anywhere.
Why was the movie changed from a very good story into a mush of nonsense? The story in the book could have easily translated into a story movie. Was the screenplay done by a commission of writers so that nobody's theme could dominate? Who knows?
It is a truism in writing fiction that the writer never puts in anything that does not further the story. Especially one that has nothing whatsoever to do with the story - like the one in Fargo, the movie.
For those of you who have not seen Fargo, it concerns a pregnant North Dakota sheriff in a small town looking for the killers of a highway patrolman and two civilians. Damn good movie! Damn good story. Damn good acting, directing, writing and casting.
However - there is a scene where the sheriff meets an old friend from high school and has dinner with him. They talk, she later finds out he has lied about marrying an old high school friend who has died. He didn't and she didn't. And that's all there is to that. The story of Fargo seems to have been laid aside and this thing brought in for no reason whatsoever.
Is this scene something left over from a scene which at one time fit in the story, but when the rest of it was blue-lined, this part was forgotten? Was the male actor a great friend of someone and was given this little scene out of friendship? We never see him again. In fact, I have never seen him in any other production anywhere. What's the story here? I don't know and I sincerely doubt that anyone is going to tell me.
One of my most persistent fantasies and wishes is that I worked as a columnist for a newspaper - famous and trusted enough that I could get important people to talk to me, and then I could find out the answers to a lot of things like this that really bother me. But that ain't gonna happen.
Maybe next time.
What brought all this on was that I just finished reading "A Very Private Gentleman." The ending was a shootout between the protagonist and a man that had been stalking him. The protagonist kills the stalker. Spoiler alert.
Turns out that the stalker commissioned a woman to find a person that could make a gun to his specifications and the woman hired the protagonist. The stalker did not know who was making the gun, the woman did not know who the assassin was going to kill, and the protagonist did not know who was going to be using the gun, nor for what. The fact that the stalker was using the very gun the protagonist made was pretty ironic. This irony was completely lost in the movie. The stalker was getting revenge for the suicide of his mother which he blamed on the protagonist. This all made sense.
In the movie, "The American," created from that book and starring George Clooney, the ending was that the woman who commissioned Clooney's character to make a special gun to be used in an assassination was the intended assassin. In other words, she commissioned the protagonist to make a gun that she would then use to kill him. That's not ironic, that's stupid.
The woman was killed by a secretly placed exploding bullet while shooting at Clooney's character. This didn't make sense. How did he know she was going to use the gun on him? Did he ordinarily put exploding bullets in his guns? I don't think so. Why did she pick that particular bullet out of two cases of about forty bullets? Who knows? Why did she want to kill him? Who knows?
In the movie, there is no stalker. The woman just shows up, wants Clooney's character to make a special gun, they go on picnics, have a little fun, pfft. The whole movie didn't make any sense. Anywhere.
Why was the movie changed from a very good story into a mush of nonsense? The story in the book could have easily translated into a story movie. Was the screenplay done by a commission of writers so that nobody's theme could dominate? Who knows?
Friday, November 12, 2010
NOT ALL OF IT IS DONE WITH MIRRORS
Blog number 439 ******** 12 November, 2010
One of the authors whom I really respect and trust once said in a book, "magic happens all around us, constantly. But we never notice it."
Whenever I mention some weirdness to my wife, she usually - always up to this morning, says, "Oh, Don. You always think you are seeing magical things in everyday happenings."
I usually think, "Well, thanks for that explanation. What a relief."
I have this small notebook where I jot down book titles I want to put on hold at the library, and notes about things I want to look up or write about. It's a six by four inch loose leaf tan colored notebook. Lift up the cover and there are twelve lines of twelve notes and book titles, all lines crossed out except for two. On the other side of that page are four lines of one word each and four lines of one book title each.
Next page, four lines of notes and seven lines of jigsaw puzzle titles with prices of each.
That's all that is written in this notebook except that if you lift up the back cover you will find six lines of one book title each on one page.
Still with me?
Yesterday I was on the computer putting books on hold at a Phoenix library and one of the ones I wanted, "Sleepwalk With Me," they didn't have. They had the CD and DVD, but no books.
So I went to the web site of the Casa Grande library and since I couldn't remember exactly what the title was, I looked in my notebook - where I had read the title just a few minutes ago for the Phoenix library. And I couldn't find it. I looked again, very carefully going through the few lines in my notebook, and it wasn't anywhere.
I began getting kinda frustrated. I had just seen the damn thing not five minutes ago and now it was gone? And it wasn't as if there were a lot of entries to plow through. Two and a half plus a half page of 4 x 6 inch pages? And over half of these crossed out as already being done with?
OK, I got to go with my backup plan. I gave the notebook to my wife and told her the problem. And she couldn't find it either! She looked again. No luck.
I took the book back from her, determined to find it, since I KNEW it was in there. I had seen it just a few minutes ago. I ran my index finger down each line like I did when I first learned to read and I still couldn't find it. We finally gave up.
This morning I'm waiting in the car for my wife to finish with her doctor's appointment and I'm reading and I come across an unfamiliar word. I want to write it down so's I can look for it when I get back to my dictionary. I flip open the first page of the notebook and there, staring me straight in the face - almost spotlighted, is the title of that book! I run into the waiting room and show it to my wife and is she as surprised as I am? I dunno. Maybe. Does it make any difference?
*************************
This doesn't have anything to do with what I wrote above, but did any of you see that trail of flame and smoke following what the Pentagon* claimed was made by an aircraft the other day? Back to the old weather balloon and marsh gas explanations.
That thing looked exactly like a space vehicle taking off from Florida, and having lived next to a SAC base where B-52's took off every three minutes for hours every day, I can assure you it was definitely NOT a jet airplane.
Kinda reminds me of that Chick guy of Chick Publications who declares that the dinosaurs disappeared because they didn't have enough oxygen which enabled humans to run them down and kill them. Any explanation is better than no explanation, I guess.
Oh well, not my problem.
*A living person. We don't know who, but we do know it was one person - evidently an idiot.
One of the authors whom I really respect and trust once said in a book, "magic happens all around us, constantly. But we never notice it."
Whenever I mention some weirdness to my wife, she usually - always up to this morning, says, "Oh, Don. You always think you are seeing magical things in everyday happenings."
I usually think, "Well, thanks for that explanation. What a relief."
I have this small notebook where I jot down book titles I want to put on hold at the library, and notes about things I want to look up or write about. It's a six by four inch loose leaf tan colored notebook. Lift up the cover and there are twelve lines of twelve notes and book titles, all lines crossed out except for two. On the other side of that page are four lines of one word each and four lines of one book title each.
Next page, four lines of notes and seven lines of jigsaw puzzle titles with prices of each.
That's all that is written in this notebook except that if you lift up the back cover you will find six lines of one book title each on one page.
Still with me?
Yesterday I was on the computer putting books on hold at a Phoenix library and one of the ones I wanted, "Sleepwalk With Me," they didn't have. They had the CD and DVD, but no books.
So I went to the web site of the Casa Grande library and since I couldn't remember exactly what the title was, I looked in my notebook - where I had read the title just a few minutes ago for the Phoenix library. And I couldn't find it. I looked again, very carefully going through the few lines in my notebook, and it wasn't anywhere.
I began getting kinda frustrated. I had just seen the damn thing not five minutes ago and now it was gone? And it wasn't as if there were a lot of entries to plow through. Two and a half plus a half page of 4 x 6 inch pages? And over half of these crossed out as already being done with?
OK, I got to go with my backup plan. I gave the notebook to my wife and told her the problem. And she couldn't find it either! She looked again. No luck.
I took the book back from her, determined to find it, since I KNEW it was in there. I had seen it just a few minutes ago. I ran my index finger down each line like I did when I first learned to read and I still couldn't find it. We finally gave up.
This morning I'm waiting in the car for my wife to finish with her doctor's appointment and I'm reading and I come across an unfamiliar word. I want to write it down so's I can look for it when I get back to my dictionary. I flip open the first page of the notebook and there, staring me straight in the face - almost spotlighted, is the title of that book! I run into the waiting room and show it to my wife and is she as surprised as I am? I dunno. Maybe. Does it make any difference?
Ok, it's not a big thing, this magic moment, granted. But it is bigger seen than heard or read. It's one of those "you had to be there" things. I hope you were not expecting a story of teleportation or transmutation of wealth. I do not like to disappoint anyone - especially you.
*************************
This doesn't have anything to do with what I wrote above, but did any of you see that trail of flame and smoke following what the Pentagon* claimed was made by an aircraft the other day? Back to the old weather balloon and marsh gas explanations.
That thing looked exactly like a space vehicle taking off from Florida, and having lived next to a SAC base where B-52's took off every three minutes for hours every day, I can assure you it was definitely NOT a jet airplane.
Kinda reminds me of that Chick guy of Chick Publications who declares that the dinosaurs disappeared because they didn't have enough oxygen which enabled humans to run them down and kill them. Any explanation is better than no explanation, I guess.
Oh well, not my problem.
*A living person. We don't know who, but we do know it was one person - evidently an idiot.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
ALL LEGALITY ASIDE...
Blog number 438 ******** 09 November, 2010
There is really no purpose, no ulterior motive to this Blog entry other than to present an alternative to what seems to me to be a common and popular consensus amongst the populace here in motorized America. I refer to the conundrum that arises when a pedestrian confronts at ninety degrees, a moving automobile.
This was brought to my mind just this morning when my wife was driving through a parking lot at Safeway's. She stopped and waited while a pedestrian calmly strolled across our path. If I had been that pedestrian, I would have stopped and looked off into the distance behind me, or do a ninety degree turn myself and make it look like I had forgotten where my car was, thus getting myself out of the way of the car.
I told in an earlier Blog entry of hiding behind a bush waiting for a car to pass me by so I could continue on my way, but the driver of the car evidently knew what I was doing and waited me out. I was also once called a "damn artistic bastard" for refusing to walk in front of a car in another Safeway parking lot, this time in Sacramento and instead walked parallel to it so that it could continue on its way, trying to keep my facial expression as looking like I was preoccupied with other things. Evidently she saw through my ploy.
The "damn" in the "damn artistic bastard" in the previous sentence is an euphemism for the word actually used.
I was once chewed out by a fellow for not stopping to let him and his four year old son cross in front of me in a crosswalk, this time in Trader Joe's parking lot. And just the other day I got a dirty look for driving in front of another pedestrian - again in a Safeway parking lot. Seems like I do a lot of driving in Safeway parking lots, doesn't it?
The reason I drove in front of these two is due to what is called, "projection." I unconsciously put myself into their shoes and acted as I would want the driver to act if the shoes were indeed on the other foot. Or feet. I thought I was doing them a favor. Really.
My reasoning for this behavior and thinking of mine is this: The automobile is using much more energy than I am, there are probably more people than one in the car, so why should all that mass and individuals wait for one mere mortal? After all, in the water, the larger craft has the right of way over the smaller craft due to the greater agility of the smaller craft and the lesser mass that has to be adjusted. Same thing here, right? It's much easier and less time is wasted if the pedestrian makes way for the automobile. It's also easier for the pedestrian to get out of the way and thus avoid an accident. It is also easier for the pedestrian to see the auto rather than the driver see the pedestrian. Especially at night. I think walkers should be as careful walking amongst moving vehicles as they should be walking in the woods.
Doesn't all that make sense? Am I wrong? If I am, don't tell me. I only appreciate good things being said about me.
Is that wrong?
There is really no purpose, no ulterior motive to this Blog entry other than to present an alternative to what seems to me to be a common and popular consensus amongst the populace here in motorized America. I refer to the conundrum that arises when a pedestrian confronts at ninety degrees, a moving automobile.
This was brought to my mind just this morning when my wife was driving through a parking lot at Safeway's. She stopped and waited while a pedestrian calmly strolled across our path. If I had been that pedestrian, I would have stopped and looked off into the distance behind me, or do a ninety degree turn myself and make it look like I had forgotten where my car was, thus getting myself out of the way of the car.
I told in an earlier Blog entry of hiding behind a bush waiting for a car to pass me by so I could continue on my way, but the driver of the car evidently knew what I was doing and waited me out. I was also once called a "damn artistic bastard" for refusing to walk in front of a car in another Safeway parking lot, this time in Sacramento and instead walked parallel to it so that it could continue on its way, trying to keep my facial expression as looking like I was preoccupied with other things. Evidently she saw through my ploy.
The "damn" in the "damn artistic bastard" in the previous sentence is an euphemism for the word actually used.
I was once chewed out by a fellow for not stopping to let him and his four year old son cross in front of me in a crosswalk, this time in Trader Joe's parking lot. And just the other day I got a dirty look for driving in front of another pedestrian - again in a Safeway parking lot. Seems like I do a lot of driving in Safeway parking lots, doesn't it?
The reason I drove in front of these two is due to what is called, "projection." I unconsciously put myself into their shoes and acted as I would want the driver to act if the shoes were indeed on the other foot. Or feet. I thought I was doing them a favor. Really.
My reasoning for this behavior and thinking of mine is this: The automobile is using much more energy than I am, there are probably more people than one in the car, so why should all that mass and individuals wait for one mere mortal? After all, in the water, the larger craft has the right of way over the smaller craft due to the greater agility of the smaller craft and the lesser mass that has to be adjusted. Same thing here, right? It's much easier and less time is wasted if the pedestrian makes way for the automobile. It's also easier for the pedestrian to get out of the way and thus avoid an accident. It is also easier for the pedestrian to see the auto rather than the driver see the pedestrian. Especially at night. I think walkers should be as careful walking amongst moving vehicles as they should be walking in the woods.
Doesn't all that make sense? Am I wrong? If I am, don't tell me. I only appreciate good things being said about me.
Is that wrong?
Monday, November 1, 2010
GOOD LUCK OR BAD LUCK? YOU BE THE JUDGE
Blog number 437 ******** 01 November, 2010
I have a nephew that lives in a "choice of a thousand" type small town in North Central Iowa. He read my Blog entry (#435 ) about false confessions and sent me the following.
"When I blew up the house, the fire marshal came and interviewed me. I told him that I had turned on the valve for the boiler and had trouble lighting it. I fiddled with it awhile and finally got it lit. I smelled a little gas all this time but thought it was because I had the pilot light held down for too long. I lit the pilot light, stood up and KaBoom!!!
After I told the fire marshall what happened, he looked at me then looked at the insurance guy then back to me then thought awhile and repeated the process. I was starting to get real nervous like someone was going to pull something on me. He looked back at me and said," no that didn't happen," and took the insurance guy into the house.
I was trying to think up a new story to tell him while he was in the house. My memory is not great - never has been, so the truth really would be easier. But the truth obviously wasn't working.
As I was sweating it out, he motioned to me from inside the doorway. I still hadn't thought up an alternate story, which turned out to be fortunate.
The fire marshall showed me that a different valve had failed on a pipe that went through a wall of the basement. The pipe was open on the other side of the wall, spewing gas out into the air. When the gas filled the wall cavity and my wife's closet above it, the gas started to fill the basement room that I was in, which was 8 x 8 and block walls. When I stood up I still had the match in my hand and the flame must have lit the gas at ceiling level. The force of the explosion was outside of the room I was in. It blew out a window, paneling off the walls, walls off the outside foundation, the garage wall out and the washroom at the back of the house. The house did a little jump in the air and settled back a little off the foundation. Then a fire started.
The marshall said I was one lucky boy cause they almost always are doing corpse recovery on deals of this nature.
I have a nephew that lives in a "choice of a thousand" type small town in North Central Iowa. He read my Blog entry (#435 ) about false confessions and sent me the following.
"When I blew up the house, the fire marshal came and interviewed me. I told him that I had turned on the valve for the boiler and had trouble lighting it. I fiddled with it awhile and finally got it lit. I smelled a little gas all this time but thought it was because I had the pilot light held down for too long. I lit the pilot light, stood up and KaBoom!!!
After I told the fire marshall what happened, he looked at me then looked at the insurance guy then back to me then thought awhile and repeated the process. I was starting to get real nervous like someone was going to pull something on me. He looked back at me and said," no that didn't happen," and took the insurance guy into the house.
I was trying to think up a new story to tell him while he was in the house. My memory is not great - never has been, so the truth really would be easier. But the truth obviously wasn't working.
As I was sweating it out, he motioned to me from inside the doorway. I still hadn't thought up an alternate story, which turned out to be fortunate.
The fire marshall showed me that a different valve had failed on a pipe that went through a wall of the basement. The pipe was open on the other side of the wall, spewing gas out into the air. When the gas filled the wall cavity and my wife's closet above it, the gas started to fill the basement room that I was in, which was 8 x 8 and block walls. When I stood up I still had the match in my hand and the flame must have lit the gas at ceiling level. The force of the explosion was outside of the room I was in. It blew out a window, paneling off the walls, walls off the outside foundation, the garage wall out and the washroom at the back of the house. The house did a little jump in the air and settled back a little off the foundation. Then a fire started.
The marshall said I was one lucky boy cause they almost always are doing corpse recovery on deals of this nature.
Friday, October 29, 2010
IT WAS HORRIBLE!
Blog number 436 ******** 29 October, 2010
We went to see the movie, "You Again" Yesterday. It was horrible! Horrible, I tell you.
Absolutely horrible.
Yukkers.
We went to see the movie, "You Again" Yesterday. It was horrible! Horrible, I tell you.
Absolutely horrible.
Yukkers.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I LOVE A IRONY
Blog number 435 ******** 26 October, 2010
This entry is in no way a slam on police anywhere. It is merely a journey towards an irony. That the irony involves police is akin to the fact that Western movies can contain good stories. It's the content, not the context.
So.
When we lived on the California coast, I had this very good friend who told me that when he was an ensign in the navy, he was interrogated by Navy Intelligence about an anti Semitic letter found in the locker of a Jew. He told me that they quizzed him in such a way, with facts and suppositions that he got to wondering if he really had done it - if he had blacked out or something, because they gave him what seemed a pretty good case that he was guilty.
Eventually they found the perpetrator, but this experience stuck in his mind. As well it should.
Several years ago four youths each confessed to murdering several Buddhists in a temple here in Arizona and after several months, the real perp's were convicted and the false confessors' convictions were thrown out. Subsequently many cases "solved" by these same interrogators were reinvested and some of these convictions were overthrown because the way confessions were obtained.
Watching "48 Hours" - a reality TV program, the interrogators decided to lie to the two suspects and tell them that the other had confessed. During the interrogation, the interrogator consistently asked, "well, could this have happened?" and the suspect, going along with the hypothetical situation would agree, "Yeah, that could have happened."
The two were arrested for the murder, although I heard nothing that gave me any indication that they really were the murderers. Both consistently said they didn't fight with the man, didn't kill him.
Last night I was watching another reality program and in this one, they had a guy that confessed to strangling a girl, although he gave two different methods of how he strangled her. Come to find out, both her and her boyfriend accidentally drowned when the boy tried to save his dog from a dam undertow, got caught in it himself, and the girl slipped in when she tried to save the boy.
The irony to this is that one of the detectives said he was puzzled by why the innocent person confessed to killing the girl. I guess he never heard the same stories I had.
Two ironies, actually. The dog saved himself.
This entry is in no way a slam on police anywhere. It is merely a journey towards an irony. That the irony involves police is akin to the fact that Western movies can contain good stories. It's the content, not the context.
So.
When we lived on the California coast, I had this very good friend who told me that when he was an ensign in the navy, he was interrogated by Navy Intelligence about an anti Semitic letter found in the locker of a Jew. He told me that they quizzed him in such a way, with facts and suppositions that he got to wondering if he really had done it - if he had blacked out or something, because they gave him what seemed a pretty good case that he was guilty.
Eventually they found the perpetrator, but this experience stuck in his mind. As well it should.
Several years ago four youths each confessed to murdering several Buddhists in a temple here in Arizona and after several months, the real perp's were convicted and the false confessors' convictions were thrown out. Subsequently many cases "solved" by these same interrogators were reinvested and some of these convictions were overthrown because the way confessions were obtained.
Watching "48 Hours" - a reality TV program, the interrogators decided to lie to the two suspects and tell them that the other had confessed. During the interrogation, the interrogator consistently asked, "well, could this have happened?" and the suspect, going along with the hypothetical situation would agree, "Yeah, that could have happened."
The two were arrested for the murder, although I heard nothing that gave me any indication that they really were the murderers. Both consistently said they didn't fight with the man, didn't kill him.
Last night I was watching another reality program and in this one, they had a guy that confessed to strangling a girl, although he gave two different methods of how he strangled her. Come to find out, both her and her boyfriend accidentally drowned when the boy tried to save his dog from a dam undertow, got caught in it himself, and the girl slipped in when she tried to save the boy.
The irony to this is that one of the detectives said he was puzzled by why the innocent person confessed to killing the girl. I guess he never heard the same stories I had.
Two ironies, actually. The dog saved himself.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
MOSTLY THIS, MOSTLY THAT
Blog number 434 ******* 24 October 2010
On our way to the movies we stopped and had breakfast at Mimi's. As we walked in the door, I saw the back of the head of what turned out to be a beautiful baby girl of about three years of age and the mom and dad and an older sister - maybe ten or eleven. I put my hand on the top of the three year old's head and she turned around to look at me, and what a sweet smile!
I asked her if she was going to eat mac and cheese, she said she wasn't. She asked me if I knew where she lived, I said, "No."
She said, "Casa Grande. A long way."
"I live in Casa Grande too." This seemed a pleasant surprise to her.
Then she said, "you turn this way," pointing to her left, "then this way," pointing to her left again, "and then you stop."
"Go left, left again and then stop?"
"Yes."
"Ok, I can find that." She seemed pleased with this.
The mother seemed to be finding pleasure with this interchange as much as I was - maybe more, since it was her daughter that was being so cute and "grownup."
I then turned my attention to the older sister, and then to the two boys when they showed up, so as not to show too much favoritism, although the three year old WAS my very favorite. So cute! And so verbal.
After we left Mimi's, we saw the movie,"Hereafter." I liked it. My wife, not so much.
In the hotel room of the character of the lady newsman, there was a most beautiful painting. It appeared twice and this time they were not skimpy with time on screen, like they usually are. I got to look at it very closely.
It seems to me that in past years, paintings shown in movies were almost always abstracts, or as I like to call them, "decorator paintings." In the past few years I have begun to see beautiful paintings in movies and even on TV programs. Goody for whoever is responsible for that.
The painting evoked both loneliness and companionship at the same time. It was simple yet powerful. I loved it! I wish I could do something like that.
All in all, a pretty good day. At least up to now.
P. S. There was also a little dig at cultural conditioning in the movie. Good for them!
On our way to the movies we stopped and had breakfast at Mimi's. As we walked in the door, I saw the back of the head of what turned out to be a beautiful baby girl of about three years of age and the mom and dad and an older sister - maybe ten or eleven. I put my hand on the top of the three year old's head and she turned around to look at me, and what a sweet smile!
I asked her if she was going to eat mac and cheese, she said she wasn't. She asked me if I knew where she lived, I said, "No."
She said, "Casa Grande. A long way."
"I live in Casa Grande too." This seemed a pleasant surprise to her.
Then she said, "you turn this way," pointing to her left, "then this way," pointing to her left again, "and then you stop."
"Go left, left again and then stop?"
"Yes."
"Ok, I can find that." She seemed pleased with this.
The mother seemed to be finding pleasure with this interchange as much as I was - maybe more, since it was her daughter that was being so cute and "grownup."
I then turned my attention to the older sister, and then to the two boys when they showed up, so as not to show too much favoritism, although the three year old WAS my very favorite. So cute! And so verbal.
After we left Mimi's, we saw the movie,"Hereafter." I liked it. My wife, not so much.
In the hotel room of the character of the lady newsman, there was a most beautiful painting. It appeared twice and this time they were not skimpy with time on screen, like they usually are. I got to look at it very closely.
It seems to me that in past years, paintings shown in movies were almost always abstracts, or as I like to call them, "decorator paintings." In the past few years I have begun to see beautiful paintings in movies and even on TV programs. Goody for whoever is responsible for that.
The painting evoked both loneliness and companionship at the same time. It was simple yet powerful. I loved it! I wish I could do something like that.
All in all, a pretty good day. At least up to now.
P. S. There was also a little dig at cultural conditioning in the movie. Good for them!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
LET'S ALL GO TO IMAGINARY LAND
Blog number 433 ******* 21 October 2010
This morning I took my newly washed overalls out and placed them upon an old and unused wooden lattice I had placed against the cement block fence. To dry. A quick movement by a lizard upon the fence caught my eye. I stopped and watched him and he did the same to me.
Seeing this lizard immediately brought to mind my most favorite animal - a mud puppy and this brought to mind that the pet dragon in the movie, "How To Train Your Dragon" had a head shaped like a mud puppy's. I guess I'm not the only person who finds them to be the darlings they are.
The way my thoughts chased after each other this morning reminded me again that this happens constantly, but most often it happens beneath my consciousness. It's like boys and girls chasing each other in the school yard are often unnoticed by anyone else.
Following thoughts is sometimes like trying to remember dreams. Sometimes you can and sometimes you can't. Sometimes I stop and think, "What made me think of that?" And I never find out what it was. Strangely, to me it is the same feeling of frustration I get when I can't remember a dream.
And all this came from hanging out a pair of overalls to dry? Where would my thoughts have gone if I had not seen that lizard? Where would my thoughts have gone if I had stubbed my toe? If I had found a wad of money? If a flying saucer had come down and teleported me aboard and the aliens had given me control of the world? Huh?
This morning I took my newly washed overalls out and placed them upon an old and unused wooden lattice I had placed against the cement block fence. To dry. A quick movement by a lizard upon the fence caught my eye. I stopped and watched him and he did the same to me.
Seeing this lizard immediately brought to mind my most favorite animal - a mud puppy and this brought to mind that the pet dragon in the movie, "How To Train Your Dragon" had a head shaped like a mud puppy's. I guess I'm not the only person who finds them to be the darlings they are.
The way my thoughts chased after each other this morning reminded me again that this happens constantly, but most often it happens beneath my consciousness. It's like boys and girls chasing each other in the school yard are often unnoticed by anyone else.
Following thoughts is sometimes like trying to remember dreams. Sometimes you can and sometimes you can't. Sometimes I stop and think, "What made me think of that?" And I never find out what it was. Strangely, to me it is the same feeling of frustration I get when I can't remember a dream.
And all this came from hanging out a pair of overalls to dry? Where would my thoughts have gone if I had not seen that lizard? Where would my thoughts have gone if I had stubbed my toe? If I had found a wad of money? If a flying saucer had come down and teleported me aboard and the aliens had given me control of the world? Huh?
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
I KNOW MY RIGHTS!
Blog number 432 ******* 19 October 2010
In an "On This Day" column in my daily newspaper, I learned that today is the anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr's arrest and imprisonment for parole violation on a traffic violation charge.
I heard a cop on the reality show, "Cops" say, in reference to a car they were following, "We'll follow him until we see him make a traffic violation, then we'll stop him."
I left work one day to find an MP writing me a ticket. Evidently someone had complained because where I parked my Volkswagen van, the complainant couldn't see around me to safely pull out into traffic.
Now, I was parked legally. The MP told me that he looked all over my vehicle trying to find something illegal. He said he was just giving up when he noticed I didn't have a front license plate, which was not legal in California. This was my ticket. When he told me this, he acted and sounded like he had accomplished a wonderful thing. I even had the strong impression that he thought that I thought he was a pretty great policeman. He wanted me to join in his joy at his accomplishment in giving me a ticket for what was essentially parking in a legal parking zone.
All in all, what all this means to me is that if a cop wants to arrest me, there are enough illegal activities that I might do that all he has to do is wait and watch.
Which brings me to one of my pet peeves, this common acceptance of cultural conditioning - such as the one that says "The Constitution guarantees me this and that."
The United States Constitution actually guarantees nobody anything. The people who own the military interpret for you what the Constitution guarantees you. If they say you can't do this, then you can't. If they say you must do this, then you must. What you think the Constitution says is moot. You can argue, but good luck with that.
We are all slaves to what we think. Ain't THAT weird? And if you think that cultural conditoning is not pervasive in every part of your existence, you are badly mistaken. We are constantly operating under mistaken ideas about what is real and what is true.
Oh well.
In an "On This Day" column in my daily newspaper, I learned that today is the anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr's arrest and imprisonment for parole violation on a traffic violation charge.
I heard a cop on the reality show, "Cops" say, in reference to a car they were following, "We'll follow him until we see him make a traffic violation, then we'll stop him."
I left work one day to find an MP writing me a ticket. Evidently someone had complained because where I parked my Volkswagen van, the complainant couldn't see around me to safely pull out into traffic.
Now, I was parked legally. The MP told me that he looked all over my vehicle trying to find something illegal. He said he was just giving up when he noticed I didn't have a front license plate, which was not legal in California. This was my ticket. When he told me this, he acted and sounded like he had accomplished a wonderful thing. I even had the strong impression that he thought that I thought he was a pretty great policeman. He wanted me to join in his joy at his accomplishment in giving me a ticket for what was essentially parking in a legal parking zone.
All in all, what all this means to me is that if a cop wants to arrest me, there are enough illegal activities that I might do that all he has to do is wait and watch.
Which brings me to one of my pet peeves, this common acceptance of cultural conditioning - such as the one that says "The Constitution guarantees me this and that."
The United States Constitution actually guarantees nobody anything. The people who own the military interpret for you what the Constitution guarantees you. If they say you can't do this, then you can't. If they say you must do this, then you must. What you think the Constitution says is moot. You can argue, but good luck with that.
We are all slaves to what we think. Ain't THAT weird? And if you think that cultural conditoning is not pervasive in every part of your existence, you are badly mistaken. We are constantly operating under mistaken ideas about what is real and what is true.
Oh well.
Friday, October 15, 2010
SUPERMAN UNMASKED
Blog number 431 **** 15 October 2010
This that I am about to relate - if true, would be news akin to news that the Loch Ness monster had been captured. Really.
I love weird stories about life in this weird already existence. My wife was not impressed at all when I related to story to her, so maybe it's me and maybe nobody else thinks it is even worth talking about. If that's true, well then - phooey.
Tim Gunn has a book out called, "Gunn's Golden Rules. Time Gunn is best known as the co-host of the reality television show called, "Project Runway." He's a fashion consultant.
Tim's father was a special agent for the FBI for 26 years and was also J. Edgar Hoover's ghost writer and speech writer.
J. Edgar's lawn was Astroturf. Tim thinks this was so J. Edgar would not have to hire a gardener because he was so afraid of being spied upon. Remember this.
The rumor that Hoover loved to put on wigs and dresses is now pretty well accepted as very likely true, and herein lies the tale.
Tim and his sister used to take a tour once a year at the FBI compound and one year when Tim was eight years old, their dad asked them if they wanted to meet Vivian Vance - Ethel Mertz of "I Love Lucy" fame, who happened to be visiting Hoover. Tim says he shook her hand and chatted with her a bit before they left.
Years later Tim and his sister was talking about that event when suddenly Tim realized something. He asked his sister, "Does it seem odd to you that when we met Vivian Vance that Hoover wasn't there?
Tim says he has looked at photos of Vivian and Hoover and he says the resemblances are rather eerie. He called several Vivian Vance experts - including Rob Edelman and Audrey Kupferberg, authors of the book, "Meet The Mertzes: The Life Stories of I Love Lucy's Other Couple," none of them knew of any meeting between Vance and Hoover.
Tim declares he is not saying that he definitely met J. Edgar Hoover at his office in the FBI wearing a dress and makeup, only that he "strongly suspects" it - Tim Cann's italics.
It does seem odd that in such a secretive place as the offices of the FBI, and especially in the office of the paranoid anyhow J. Edgar Hoover, that a person whom nobody suspected even knew J. Edgar would be alone, waiting for tourists. What was she doing there?
Against this story, is of course the idea that Hoover would have the time to rehearse for the "I Love Lucy" show, to get made up, etc. Would Hoover have that much spare time? I do think that big wigs in bureaucracies such as the FBI do have a lot of time on their hands, leaving the main work to underlings and just being there to make policy decisions when they come up.
So. Was J. Edgar Hoover one of the stars of "I Love Lucy"? Did Vivian Vance have another part time job? Was J. Edgar really Vivian Vance or was it the other way around? I'd like to think he was. I'd like to think she was. 'cause I really, really love weird happenings.
Addendum to the above;
Thinking about this some more, I now have an alternative theory. Vivian Vance was not there. Instead, it was Hoover, who had disguised himself as Vivian.
I think that's it!
This that I am about to relate - if true, would be news akin to news that the Loch Ness monster had been captured. Really.
I love weird stories about life in this weird already existence. My wife was not impressed at all when I related to story to her, so maybe it's me and maybe nobody else thinks it is even worth talking about. If that's true, well then - phooey.
Tim Gunn has a book out called, "Gunn's Golden Rules. Time Gunn is best known as the co-host of the reality television show called, "Project Runway." He's a fashion consultant.
Tim's father was a special agent for the FBI for 26 years and was also J. Edgar Hoover's ghost writer and speech writer.
J. Edgar's lawn was Astroturf. Tim thinks this was so J. Edgar would not have to hire a gardener because he was so afraid of being spied upon. Remember this.
The rumor that Hoover loved to put on wigs and dresses is now pretty well accepted as very likely true, and herein lies the tale.
Tim and his sister used to take a tour once a year at the FBI compound and one year when Tim was eight years old, their dad asked them if they wanted to meet Vivian Vance - Ethel Mertz of "I Love Lucy" fame, who happened to be visiting Hoover. Tim says he shook her hand and chatted with her a bit before they left.
Years later Tim and his sister was talking about that event when suddenly Tim realized something. He asked his sister, "Does it seem odd to you that when we met Vivian Vance that Hoover wasn't there?
Tim says he has looked at photos of Vivian and Hoover and he says the resemblances are rather eerie. He called several Vivian Vance experts - including Rob Edelman and Audrey Kupferberg, authors of the book, "Meet The Mertzes: The Life Stories of I Love Lucy's Other Couple," none of them knew of any meeting between Vance and Hoover.
Tim declares he is not saying that he definitely met J. Edgar Hoover at his office in the FBI wearing a dress and makeup, only that he "strongly suspects" it - Tim Cann's italics.
It does seem odd that in such a secretive place as the offices of the FBI, and especially in the office of the paranoid anyhow J. Edgar Hoover, that a person whom nobody suspected even knew J. Edgar would be alone, waiting for tourists. What was she doing there?
Against this story, is of course the idea that Hoover would have the time to rehearse for the "I Love Lucy" show, to get made up, etc. Would Hoover have that much spare time? I do think that big wigs in bureaucracies such as the FBI do have a lot of time on their hands, leaving the main work to underlings and just being there to make policy decisions when they come up.
So. Was J. Edgar Hoover one of the stars of "I Love Lucy"? Did Vivian Vance have another part time job? Was J. Edgar really Vivian Vance or was it the other way around? I'd like to think he was. I'd like to think she was. 'cause I really, really love weird happenings.
Addendum to the above;
Thinking about this some more, I now have an alternative theory. Vivian Vance was not there. Instead, it was Hoover, who had disguised himself as Vivian.
I think that's it!
Thursday, October 14, 2010
THE OTHER DRUDGE REPORT
Blog number 430 **** 14 October 2010
I changed the air filter on the '99 Dodge Caravan yesterday and when I put everything together, the hose leading from the filter to the top of the engine for emission control, being very brittle, broke.
Went to O' Riley's, nee Checkers, to get a new one, no soap. Went to the Dodge dealers, they didn't have one in stock, so I ordered it. It's coming from Los Angeles, in case you're interested in geographical slash business procedures. If not, just ignore that sentence. You probably won't be the poorer for it, but one never knows, does one?
Now this little rubber hose is 1/4 of an inch thickness, 3/4 inch outside diameter, eight inches long. Any idea what an item like that could cost? Mine costs $16.17. I guess they are on sale this week.
While waiting for the guy to look up my wanted part, I noticed what looked like an interesting letter on his side of the counter. I craned my neck to take a peek at it, and since it looked interesting and the font was pleasing to the eye, I reached over and picked it up. The guy glanced at me, but said nothing. Probably because I was so bold about it and made it looked like I had the right. I WAS a customer, so that helped.
The letter was about people getting the codes to cars and then stealing the cars. It was a stern warning about not anybody in the dealerships ever letting unauthorized persons get that information, warning about the liability if any victim ever found out who let that secret code out into the general public. Evidently it is a real problem, but I don't remember ever hearing or reading about it on the news. So you heard it here first.
I know this is not the news breaking item that is usually found on Blogs that deal in this type of muckraking news, but one has to start somewhere.
Just a little added something or other, "The Daily Show" used to promo their program with, "When news breaks, we fix it." I always thought that so clever.
I changed the air filter on the '99 Dodge Caravan yesterday and when I put everything together, the hose leading from the filter to the top of the engine for emission control, being very brittle, broke.
Went to O' Riley's, nee Checkers, to get a new one, no soap. Went to the Dodge dealers, they didn't have one in stock, so I ordered it. It's coming from Los Angeles, in case you're interested in geographical slash business procedures. If not, just ignore that sentence. You probably won't be the poorer for it, but one never knows, does one?
Now this little rubber hose is 1/4 of an inch thickness, 3/4 inch outside diameter, eight inches long. Any idea what an item like that could cost? Mine costs $16.17. I guess they are on sale this week.
While waiting for the guy to look up my wanted part, I noticed what looked like an interesting letter on his side of the counter. I craned my neck to take a peek at it, and since it looked interesting and the font was pleasing to the eye, I reached over and picked it up. The guy glanced at me, but said nothing. Probably because I was so bold about it and made it looked like I had the right. I WAS a customer, so that helped.
The letter was about people getting the codes to cars and then stealing the cars. It was a stern warning about not anybody in the dealerships ever letting unauthorized persons get that information, warning about the liability if any victim ever found out who let that secret code out into the general public. Evidently it is a real problem, but I don't remember ever hearing or reading about it on the news. So you heard it here first.
I know this is not the news breaking item that is usually found on Blogs that deal in this type of muckraking news, but one has to start somewhere.
Just a little added something or other, "The Daily Show" used to promo their program with, "When news breaks, we fix it." I always thought that so clever.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
PICKIN' COTTON
Blog number 429 **** 07 October 2010
I want to get to a dialog that I heard on a movie last night - something that delighted me, but first I want to go through a bit of a labyrinth before I get there. This word journey doesn't have much to do with the dialog that amused me, but there is a connection, however slight. This part is just an excuse to blather a bit.
Around 1950, the movie, "The Third Man" starring Joseph Cotton came out. I had just gotten out of the Air Force from my first hitch and my older brother was visiting. We were in a pool hall (kind of a bar) and I told him about this great new song, "Third Man Theme." He said he wanted to hear it, so we went down to the Maid Rite, sat in a booth, put a nickel in the music box, and we listened to "Third Man Theme."
Maybe twenty years later we were visiting again and he mentioned that he still thought about that song and it was still one of his very favorites. He saw the movie and loved it. I saw the movie twice, but I didn't like it at all, then last night my wife was watching it and she told me how much she liked it, so I thought I would give it another try. I found out that the two times I had watched it before, I hadn't really been watching it. I didn't know, for instance, that it was about diluting penicillin and selling it on the black market, or who or what this "third man" was.
It's a good movie though. Not great. But good.
A few hours later the same night, another movie - this one called, "The Hearse," was on. Again starring Joseph Cotton. And there's the connection. I told you it was slight.
And here's the punch line for this whole Blog entry. Joseph Cotton's character was talking to the heroine and he said to her, "You don't seem surprised at what I'm about to tell you."
Slipped in and out of character, is what Cotten did.
I want to get to a dialog that I heard on a movie last night - something that delighted me, but first I want to go through a bit of a labyrinth before I get there. This word journey doesn't have much to do with the dialog that amused me, but there is a connection, however slight. This part is just an excuse to blather a bit.
Around 1950, the movie, "The Third Man" starring Joseph Cotton came out. I had just gotten out of the Air Force from my first hitch and my older brother was visiting. We were in a pool hall (kind of a bar) and I told him about this great new song, "Third Man Theme." He said he wanted to hear it, so we went down to the Maid Rite, sat in a booth, put a nickel in the music box, and we listened to "Third Man Theme."
Maybe twenty years later we were visiting again and he mentioned that he still thought about that song and it was still one of his very favorites. He saw the movie and loved it. I saw the movie twice, but I didn't like it at all, then last night my wife was watching it and she told me how much she liked it, so I thought I would give it another try. I found out that the two times I had watched it before, I hadn't really been watching it. I didn't know, for instance, that it was about diluting penicillin and selling it on the black market, or who or what this "third man" was.
It's a good movie though. Not great. But good.
A few hours later the same night, another movie - this one called, "The Hearse," was on. Again starring Joseph Cotton. And there's the connection. I told you it was slight.
And here's the punch line for this whole Blog entry. Joseph Cotton's character was talking to the heroine and he said to her, "You don't seem surprised at what I'm about to tell you."
Slipped in and out of character, is what Cotten did.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
TIME MARCHES ON
Blog number 428 **** 02 October 2010
I ain't got nothing to report or to write about. I just wanted to write. I write, you read. That's the way it goes. I didn't make the rules. I am happy with the circumstances. I just hope you're obedient to them. I don't think that's asking too much, and even if it is, too bad. Suck it up.
Many years ago, when I was young and still very shy, I started going to college again at Compton Junior College in Compton, California - a suburb of Los Angeles. I happened to see this male student wearing really short shorts. A bunch of girls were tagging along with him. I was very envious of his strength of character in dressing that way and seemingly not caring what anyone thought. I wished I had that much confidence. It wasn't until years later that I realized the guy wasn't that confident at all. He was gay.
I keep going back over my past, trying to think of something that happened to me or around me that I could write about, but so far, whatever I come up with, I am pretty sure I have written about it before. It's a shame , but we old people don't have that many stories to tell, so we tend to repeat ourselves. Not our fault at all.
You would think, wouldn't you, that young people would have that problem more that those who have lived a long time and therefore have had more things happen to them? Maybe the young aren't interested in telling stories? Interested instead in the next best thing coming up?
I like my new centrifugal vacuum cleaner. It's heavier to push around and the switch and cord aren't handy, but that thing can vacuum! You can use it like a lawn mower. Back and forth across the carpet, "mowing" one line up, a new one down, presto! Carpet's clean. No back and forth in one place and then stooping to pick up what the vacuum refuses to consider as anything to do with it and its desires. It has one malfunction and I am pretty sure from the forensic evidence that it was returned by another customer probably for the same problem.
The mechanism that raises and lowers the brush from the carpet is not connected to anything. It doesn't work. At first I was going to call and send it back, but I got to thinking that we are never going to have shag rugs, so what the hay. I heard a comedian the other day talking about Americans whining about petty things and I kind of took that to heart. Here I gripe about my new vacuum cleaner and there exists people that don't even have anyplace to put a floor.
We looked at the vacuum cleaners at Walmart's a few days ago and noticed row upon row of centrifugal vacuum cleaners and none of the old kind. If there were any, I didn't see them. I didn't look for them, maybe that's why, but I have a feeling there weren't any. I can well imagine that in a few years the non-centrifugal vacuum cleaners will be completely obsolete and you won't be able to find them anywhere except in Thrift Stores. I don't know who would buy a new one now.
And the weeds in my lawn have won. I give up. I'm going to wait a couple of years to see what happens to it, but it looks like I will have a rock garden in my back yard in the future. Or maybe I'll just mow the weeds and pretend it's grass. I can do that. My eyes ain't all that good anyhow.
Well, I got my wish-to-write out of my system for now, so...bye!
I ain't got nothing to report or to write about. I just wanted to write. I write, you read. That's the way it goes. I didn't make the rules. I am happy with the circumstances. I just hope you're obedient to them. I don't think that's asking too much, and even if it is, too bad. Suck it up.
Many years ago, when I was young and still very shy, I started going to college again at Compton Junior College in Compton, California - a suburb of Los Angeles. I happened to see this male student wearing really short shorts. A bunch of girls were tagging along with him. I was very envious of his strength of character in dressing that way and seemingly not caring what anyone thought. I wished I had that much confidence. It wasn't until years later that I realized the guy wasn't that confident at all. He was gay.
I keep going back over my past, trying to think of something that happened to me or around me that I could write about, but so far, whatever I come up with, I am pretty sure I have written about it before. It's a shame , but we old people don't have that many stories to tell, so we tend to repeat ourselves. Not our fault at all.
You would think, wouldn't you, that young people would have that problem more that those who have lived a long time and therefore have had more things happen to them? Maybe the young aren't interested in telling stories? Interested instead in the next best thing coming up?
I like my new centrifugal vacuum cleaner. It's heavier to push around and the switch and cord aren't handy, but that thing can vacuum! You can use it like a lawn mower. Back and forth across the carpet, "mowing" one line up, a new one down, presto! Carpet's clean. No back and forth in one place and then stooping to pick up what the vacuum refuses to consider as anything to do with it and its desires. It has one malfunction and I am pretty sure from the forensic evidence that it was returned by another customer probably for the same problem.
The mechanism that raises and lowers the brush from the carpet is not connected to anything. It doesn't work. At first I was going to call and send it back, but I got to thinking that we are never going to have shag rugs, so what the hay. I heard a comedian the other day talking about Americans whining about petty things and I kind of took that to heart. Here I gripe about my new vacuum cleaner and there exists people that don't even have anyplace to put a floor.
We looked at the vacuum cleaners at Walmart's a few days ago and noticed row upon row of centrifugal vacuum cleaners and none of the old kind. If there were any, I didn't see them. I didn't look for them, maybe that's why, but I have a feeling there weren't any. I can well imagine that in a few years the non-centrifugal vacuum cleaners will be completely obsolete and you won't be able to find them anywhere except in Thrift Stores. I don't know who would buy a new one now.
And the weeds in my lawn have won. I give up. I'm going to wait a couple of years to see what happens to it, but it looks like I will have a rock garden in my back yard in the future. Or maybe I'll just mow the weeds and pretend it's grass. I can do that. My eyes ain't all that good anyhow.
Well, I got my wish-to-write out of my system for now, so...bye!
Friday, October 1, 2010
WHAT A SWEET SENTENCE
Blog number 427 **** 01 October 2010
I just read this sentence in a book (The Girl Who Played With Fire) and I want to share it, 'cause it's so delightfully succinct.
"He decided to stop fantasizing about her death and begin planning it."
I just read this sentence in a book (The Girl Who Played With Fire) and I want to share it, 'cause it's so delightfully succinct.
"He decided to stop fantasizing about her death and begin planning it."
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
LETTING FANTASIES BECOME OUR REALITY
Blog number 426 **** 29 September, 2010
One of the little innocent joys in my life is to walk to the mailbox a block away, listening to the radio on my headphones. I usually go sometime after Judge Judy is over. There is some really good music on the radio at that time of day and later. Sometimes I'm walking in the dark, listening to some Pink Floyd or Bob Seegar, looking at the moon and clouds, if there are any, feeling the warm air. Ah. Very nice.
We went to Walmart today, and before we left, I checked the battery in my radio and it was charged. Tonight, when I got ready for my walk to the mailbox, I plugged in my earphones, turned on my radio and it turned off. I checked the battery and it was dead. Why? I dunno.
I was going to wait until the battery charged to go to the mailbox, but then I decided, "what the hell." I decided to go anyhow, see what that was like - going without my music.
What happened was that I began thinking about things. It took me back to a time when one of my greatest joys was not listening to music, but just walking and thinking on my way to Weatherstones or downtown, or just sitting on my front porch, thinking. I had forgotten how much fun that was.
I was also reminded of the time I was with the Moonies for the weekend. They didn't like to be called that, they wanted to be called, the "Unification Church." But everybody except them called them, "Moonies," after their leader, Reverend Moon.
I really liked being there. It was fun. However, it was one of those cults that don't like you to ever be by yourself. I had two young cuties assigned to me so that I would never be alone. Even when I had to go to the bathroom, they waited outside for me.
They were very attentive to me, but when I no longer hung out with the Moonies, they cut me cold. They called what they had been doing, "love bombing." Females of course, got male attendants.
I wanted to come back the next weekend, but I had a reservation I tried to resolve by talking to the guy that was in charge of our group. I told him I would really like to come back another day, but I needed some time alone to think every once in awhile while I was there - that I could not stand not having some "me" time now and then. He said that wasn't possible, so that was that. Too bad. Ah, well.
I understood from this that all those people there - two or three hundred? never had time alone to think. Busy, busy busy.
It didn't seem to bother them, that they had no time to just think about things. Of course if they ever did, they wouldn't stay with the Moonies very long and that was the whole point of the exercise of never being alone or not busy. Too easy to lose followers if they started thinking about what they were doing. That's true also of any group that relies upon desciples for its existence - not just religious groups like the Moonies, but also political parties, and of course, my biggest bone of contention, people who are unconsciously under the sway of cultural conditioning.
One of the little innocent joys in my life is to walk to the mailbox a block away, listening to the radio on my headphones. I usually go sometime after Judge Judy is over. There is some really good music on the radio at that time of day and later. Sometimes I'm walking in the dark, listening to some Pink Floyd or Bob Seegar, looking at the moon and clouds, if there are any, feeling the warm air. Ah. Very nice.
We went to Walmart today, and before we left, I checked the battery in my radio and it was charged. Tonight, when I got ready for my walk to the mailbox, I plugged in my earphones, turned on my radio and it turned off. I checked the battery and it was dead. Why? I dunno.
I was going to wait until the battery charged to go to the mailbox, but then I decided, "what the hell." I decided to go anyhow, see what that was like - going without my music.
What happened was that I began thinking about things. It took me back to a time when one of my greatest joys was not listening to music, but just walking and thinking on my way to Weatherstones or downtown, or just sitting on my front porch, thinking. I had forgotten how much fun that was.
I was also reminded of the time I was with the Moonies for the weekend. They didn't like to be called that, they wanted to be called, the "Unification Church." But everybody except them called them, "Moonies," after their leader, Reverend Moon.
I really liked being there. It was fun. However, it was one of those cults that don't like you to ever be by yourself. I had two young cuties assigned to me so that I would never be alone. Even when I had to go to the bathroom, they waited outside for me.
They were very attentive to me, but when I no longer hung out with the Moonies, they cut me cold. They called what they had been doing, "love bombing." Females of course, got male attendants.
I wanted to come back the next weekend, but I had a reservation I tried to resolve by talking to the guy that was in charge of our group. I told him I would really like to come back another day, but I needed some time alone to think every once in awhile while I was there - that I could not stand not having some "me" time now and then. He said that wasn't possible, so that was that. Too bad. Ah, well.
I understood from this that all those people there - two or three hundred? never had time alone to think. Busy, busy busy.
It didn't seem to bother them, that they had no time to just think about things. Of course if they ever did, they wouldn't stay with the Moonies very long and that was the whole point of the exercise of never being alone or not busy. Too easy to lose followers if they started thinking about what they were doing. That's true also of any group that relies upon desciples for its existence - not just religious groups like the Moonies, but also political parties, and of course, my biggest bone of contention, people who are unconsciously under the sway of cultural conditioning.
TO PEE OR NOT TO PEE
Blog number 425 **** 29 September, 2010
I read the paper this morn. Saw an advertisement for a company seeking volunteers for an OAB study. You don't know what medical condition OAB is? Are you kidding me! It's an acronym for overactive bladder, silly. You should know that.
You HAVE heard of RLS, haven't you? Restless Leg Syndrome? I thought so.
It seems that some people, when they get a little older begin to notice that they have to urinate more frequently than they did when they were in their mid-twenties. Go figure.
The ad lists the qualifications you must have - age 65 or older, noticing frequent desires to urinate, pee the bed occasionally, and have health problems relating to aging. Health problems relating to aging? Are you kidding me again! But wait. You have to hear the goodies you get for accepting the position of an OAB study volunteer.
You "receive study-related care at no cost." That means you don't have to pay for any water you may drink, you don't have to pay for the chair you may have to sit on, you don't have to rent the floor you walk on, you don't have to pay for any drugs they may inject in you. Things like that.
You will "receive study medication or placebo (inactive substance) at no cost." Let's see. YOU want to study my reaction to a drug you put into my old body, and I don't have to pay for it. Generous to a fault, you be.
You "may be compensated for time and travel for the required 5 doctor visits over 14 weeks." Now, this doesn't say you WILL be compensated. It says you MAY be, which insinuates very strongly - at least to me, that you may not be. And if you DO get compensated, you'll come out even, moneywise. It's a "come out even - lose" situation.
14 weeks out of my time, 5 doctor visits on top of the visits I already make to a doctor due to my incontinence, and I may just have to pay for my own travel expenses. And that's all the benefits I will ever receive for this. With all those benefits, it's no wonder they can't give out any money for this study that may cause me to die a few years earlier from the untested drugs they want to give me.
I read a few weeks ago that this proliferation of medical studies that is now going on - where you see an ad seeking study volunteers in the paper almost every week, that the drugs they give you is not meant to help your particular disease in any way. No, what they are looking for is to see if it will harm you. THAT'S the study. "Will this kill you?" I sure hope not, but let's see, shall we?
I read the paper this morn. Saw an advertisement for a company seeking volunteers for an OAB study. You don't know what medical condition OAB is? Are you kidding me! It's an acronym for overactive bladder, silly. You should know that.
You HAVE heard of RLS, haven't you? Restless Leg Syndrome? I thought so.
It seems that some people, when they get a little older begin to notice that they have to urinate more frequently than they did when they were in their mid-twenties. Go figure.
The ad lists the qualifications you must have - age 65 or older, noticing frequent desires to urinate, pee the bed occasionally, and have health problems relating to aging. Health problems relating to aging? Are you kidding me again! But wait. You have to hear the goodies you get for accepting the position of an OAB study volunteer.
You "receive study-related care at no cost." That means you don't have to pay for any water you may drink, you don't have to pay for the chair you may have to sit on, you don't have to rent the floor you walk on, you don't have to pay for any drugs they may inject in you. Things like that.
You will "receive study medication or placebo (inactive substance) at no cost." Let's see. YOU want to study my reaction to a drug you put into my old body, and I don't have to pay for it. Generous to a fault, you be.
You "may be compensated for time and travel for the required 5 doctor visits over 14 weeks." Now, this doesn't say you WILL be compensated. It says you MAY be, which insinuates very strongly - at least to me, that you may not be. And if you DO get compensated, you'll come out even, moneywise. It's a "come out even - lose" situation.
14 weeks out of my time, 5 doctor visits on top of the visits I already make to a doctor due to my incontinence, and I may just have to pay for my own travel expenses. And that's all the benefits I will ever receive for this. With all those benefits, it's no wonder they can't give out any money for this study that may cause me to die a few years earlier from the untested drugs they want to give me.
I read a few weeks ago that this proliferation of medical studies that is now going on - where you see an ad seeking study volunteers in the paper almost every week, that the drugs they give you is not meant to help your particular disease in any way. No, what they are looking for is to see if it will harm you. THAT'S the study. "Will this kill you?" I sure hope not, but let's see, shall we?
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
...AND MAYBE NOT.
Blog number 424 **** 28 September, 2010
You will be pleased to know that I am becoming clairvoyant. Obviously. Not obviously that you will be pleased that I am becoming clairvoyant, but that I am obviously becoming clairvoyant. However, there is a drawback. It is seems that it is not the kind of clairvoyancy that does anybody any good.
For the first time ever, about a week ago, I strongly felt the need to put my name and address in my glass case in case I ever lost my reading glasses. I just KNEW I was going to lose them soon.
The very next day, we went to our favorite restaurant in Chandler. While waiting for our food, I showed my wife what I had done to the inside of my glass case. We left the restaurant and drove several miles to Barnes and Noble. When I checked for my glasses to make sure I had them so I could look through various books, I couldn't find them. I must have left them in the restaurant. We called the restaurant, but they couldn't be found. Fast forward to today, a week later.
When we walked in, the hostess said that a customer had found my glass case on the floor under the table. She said that they had looked there when we called, but since it was dark under there and my case was dark, they couldn't discern it. Evidently the customer kept feeling something strange with her foot and reached under and pulled it out.
The hostess said they didn't have a phone number for us and when I told her it was inside the glass case, she said they never thought to look for it there. So I guess maybe besides getting clairvoyant, I better work on my telepathic abilities. I have reached the stage where I am a work in progress, I guess.
Hah! I have been sitting here studying this entry for several moments now. I don't really like it, but it also really ain't that bad. Good enough to keep, or bad enough to throw away? Who knows? I don't. I'll probably keep it. Maybe treat it like an entry in my diary. Diary entries can be innocuous. And this Blog entry qualifies as innocuous, that's for sure. Maybe even insipid.
Here goes.
Enjoy.
You will be pleased to know that I am becoming clairvoyant. Obviously. Not obviously that you will be pleased that I am becoming clairvoyant, but that I am obviously becoming clairvoyant. However, there is a drawback. It is seems that it is not the kind of clairvoyancy that does anybody any good.
For the first time ever, about a week ago, I strongly felt the need to put my name and address in my glass case in case I ever lost my reading glasses. I just KNEW I was going to lose them soon.
The very next day, we went to our favorite restaurant in Chandler. While waiting for our food, I showed my wife what I had done to the inside of my glass case. We left the restaurant and drove several miles to Barnes and Noble. When I checked for my glasses to make sure I had them so I could look through various books, I couldn't find them. I must have left them in the restaurant. We called the restaurant, but they couldn't be found. Fast forward to today, a week later.
When we walked in, the hostess said that a customer had found my glass case on the floor under the table. She said that they had looked there when we called, but since it was dark under there and my case was dark, they couldn't discern it. Evidently the customer kept feeling something strange with her foot and reached under and pulled it out.
The hostess said they didn't have a phone number for us and when I told her it was inside the glass case, she said they never thought to look for it there. So I guess maybe besides getting clairvoyant, I better work on my telepathic abilities. I have reached the stage where I am a work in progress, I guess.
Hah! I have been sitting here studying this entry for several moments now. I don't really like it, but it also really ain't that bad. Good enough to keep, or bad enough to throw away? Who knows? I don't. I'll probably keep it. Maybe treat it like an entry in my diary. Diary entries can be innocuous. And this Blog entry qualifies as innocuous, that's for sure. Maybe even insipid.
Here goes.
Enjoy.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
AN APOLOGY AND AN EXPLANATION
Blog number 423 **** 26 September, 2010
I just went back to the very beginning of my foray into Blog writing and started editing the entries until they are where I am comfortable with them. I deleted a few - some excerpts from books, some that were nonsense, things like that.
I realized it took me a while when I first started writing in my Blog, never having done such a thing before, to get into the swing of things. I am now at the point where I am comfortable with the entries.
One thing I noticed was that I used some fairly raw language back then. It didn't seem raw at the time to me, but since coming here to Casa Grande to live, I have had frequent contact with a person who has become my language moral guide. He has made me a little more civilized, I guess. The only real problem I have with any of his no-nos is the one about taking the Lord's name in vain. Two things about that. Well, three, actually.
One, I cannot imagine that anything as powerful and complete and loving as God would have a problem with whatever His creations would call Him, or say about Him. Or anything we might do or say about anything. All this seems kinda petty of Him to me.
Two, "in vain" means doing something which doesn't work. Somehow, down through the ages, it got twisted into nonsense. "In vain" now means, "don't call Me that." But only in relation to God. Otherwise it still means the same thing it has always meant.
And three, censoring common sayings in the language which is being used in writing severely interferes with the poetic sense of the writing. It's like typing with a sore finger.
This is true also of the spoken word. I guess though, it would be more like speaking with a sore tongue rather than a sore finger.
I would really like to have my entries read like anything you might find in a newspaper. In the beginning, I didn't care much about what words I used, wishing only to produce interesting and/or funny pieces. When I went back and edited those old entries, I tried to delete any words that a newspaper would not allow. I don't think I got them all, but I tried. I am not as perfect as I used to be.
So don't be afraid to look into the archives. I've cleaned it up especially for you. Smells like Pine Sol in there now.
I just went back to the very beginning of my foray into Blog writing and started editing the entries until they are where I am comfortable with them. I deleted a few - some excerpts from books, some that were nonsense, things like that.
I realized it took me a while when I first started writing in my Blog, never having done such a thing before, to get into the swing of things. I am now at the point where I am comfortable with the entries.
One thing I noticed was that I used some fairly raw language back then. It didn't seem raw at the time to me, but since coming here to Casa Grande to live, I have had frequent contact with a person who has become my language moral guide. He has made me a little more civilized, I guess. The only real problem I have with any of his no-nos is the one about taking the Lord's name in vain. Two things about that. Well, three, actually.
One, I cannot imagine that anything as powerful and complete and loving as God would have a problem with whatever His creations would call Him, or say about Him. Or anything we might do or say about anything. All this seems kinda petty of Him to me.
Two, "in vain" means doing something which doesn't work. Somehow, down through the ages, it got twisted into nonsense. "In vain" now means, "don't call Me that." But only in relation to God. Otherwise it still means the same thing it has always meant.
And three, censoring common sayings in the language which is being used in writing severely interferes with the poetic sense of the writing. It's like typing with a sore finger.
This is true also of the spoken word. I guess though, it would be more like speaking with a sore tongue rather than a sore finger.
I would really like to have my entries read like anything you might find in a newspaper. In the beginning, I didn't care much about what words I used, wishing only to produce interesting and/or funny pieces. When I went back and edited those old entries, I tried to delete any words that a newspaper would not allow. I don't think I got them all, but I tried. I am not as perfect as I used to be.
So don't be afraid to look into the archives. I've cleaned it up especially for you. Smells like Pine Sol in there now.
Friday, September 24, 2010
POT POUR EEE
Blog number 422 **** 24 September, 2010
I was born on a farm in northern Iowa, moved to Des Moines when I was four, spent the summers on my grandparent's farm, lived there again from age twelve to fifteen, when we moved to Emmetsburg, Iowa - a small town about twelve miles from our old farm.
My Grandmother raised a flock of chickens. The money she got from selling the eggs was hers. One of the things she fed her chickens was skim milk. One of my jobs was to pour the milk into their trough, so I was often able to watch chickens drink. They loved milk.
I was also able to watch various birds drink from standing water after a rain. I grew up seeing birds drink. And yet, only today, reading a book, I learned that birds cannot swallow and that's why they have to tip their heads up when they drink, so that the fluid will run down their throats.
I don't know how that tidbit affects you, but for me, I was kind of stunned. It never occurred to me to wonder why birds drank like that. In retrospect, I should have asked someone the first time I saw it. And surely I should have wondered by the time I was a teenager. I really thought they were swallowing. Tilting their head back and swallowing. But why the head tilting? That should have been a clue that something was amiss.
The only excuse I can think of for accepting what now appears odd, was that it was so common that I never thought it odd, and therefore never wondered about it. If my first view of a bird drinking had been when I was middle aged, I think I would have wondered about it. Maybe not.
**************************
We went to Mimi's today and a Bruce Springsteen song was playing. When we first started going to Mimi's, they played old thirties and forties songs - Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, swing bands, etc. I hate that stuff. I hated it when I was a teenager and that was our music.
So Mimi's threw out old Blue Eyes and brought in "The Boss." Thank you, Mimi's! Thank you, thank you, thank you.
There WAS good music back then in the old days. Good melody, and sometimes even good lyrics. I often fantasize, when I happen to hear one of those old songs, that if I had a band, I would play some of them - with a rock arrangement, of course. "Peg O My Heart," "Whispering," Damn, there are a lot more, but my mind is drawing a blank.
******************************
Overheard in the dentist waiting room yesterday;
Three year old girl, holding a picture in a magazine up for her mother to see, "mom, is this nasty?"
"What is it?"
Little girl, "I don't know."
I was born on a farm in northern Iowa, moved to Des Moines when I was four, spent the summers on my grandparent's farm, lived there again from age twelve to fifteen, when we moved to Emmetsburg, Iowa - a small town about twelve miles from our old farm.
My Grandmother raised a flock of chickens. The money she got from selling the eggs was hers. One of the things she fed her chickens was skim milk. One of my jobs was to pour the milk into their trough, so I was often able to watch chickens drink. They loved milk.
I was also able to watch various birds drink from standing water after a rain. I grew up seeing birds drink. And yet, only today, reading a book, I learned that birds cannot swallow and that's why they have to tip their heads up when they drink, so that the fluid will run down their throats.
I don't know how that tidbit affects you, but for me, I was kind of stunned. It never occurred to me to wonder why birds drank like that. In retrospect, I should have asked someone the first time I saw it. And surely I should have wondered by the time I was a teenager. I really thought they were swallowing. Tilting their head back and swallowing. But why the head tilting? That should have been a clue that something was amiss.
The only excuse I can think of for accepting what now appears odd, was that it was so common that I never thought it odd, and therefore never wondered about it. If my first view of a bird drinking had been when I was middle aged, I think I would have wondered about it. Maybe not.
**************************
We went to Mimi's today and a Bruce Springsteen song was playing. When we first started going to Mimi's, they played old thirties and forties songs - Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, swing bands, etc. I hate that stuff. I hated it when I was a teenager and that was our music.
So Mimi's threw out old Blue Eyes and brought in "The Boss." Thank you, Mimi's! Thank you, thank you, thank you.
There WAS good music back then in the old days. Good melody, and sometimes even good lyrics. I often fantasize, when I happen to hear one of those old songs, that if I had a band, I would play some of them - with a rock arrangement, of course. "Peg O My Heart," "Whispering," Damn, there are a lot more, but my mind is drawing a blank.
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Overheard in the dentist waiting room yesterday;
Three year old girl, holding a picture in a magazine up for her mother to see, "mom, is this nasty?"
"What is it?"
Little girl, "I don't know."
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
MEA CULPA, DARN IT!
Blog number 421 **** 21 September, 2010
This Blog is directed to a particular young lady who might not ever read it, but there you go.
Mine wife and I went to Chandler Mall this morning, and she, wanting to get a battery for a watch, made us go to Ben Bridge's Jewelry to get one put in said watch. While there, we met this charming lady who helped my wife look for a replacement ring for a later date. I happened to ask her if she knew the history of black pearls, figuring it was not that far a stretch for someone working in a jewelry store to either know the background of certain types of jewelry, or at least be interested in finding out about them.
I told her that at one time they were rather worthless until a PR man did his PR magic and made them valuable. I had read this in some book not too long ago, but I couldn't remember too much of the story, so I told the lady that I would get the book from where I had read the story, and put it in my Blog and I then handed her one of my "business" cards with the address to the Blog.
I went to the library, found the book where I thought the story for the black pearls would be found, but the story was not in there. I searched the Internet to no avail, so now I am faced with the embarrassing prospect of looking like an idiot. You would think that I would be used to that feeling by now, but I ain't.
Explanation for Blog entry completed.
Over and out.
This Blog is directed to a particular young lady who might not ever read it, but there you go.
Mine wife and I went to Chandler Mall this morning, and she, wanting to get a battery for a watch, made us go to Ben Bridge's Jewelry to get one put in said watch. While there, we met this charming lady who helped my wife look for a replacement ring for a later date. I happened to ask her if she knew the history of black pearls, figuring it was not that far a stretch for someone working in a jewelry store to either know the background of certain types of jewelry, or at least be interested in finding out about them.
I told her that at one time they were rather worthless until a PR man did his PR magic and made them valuable. I had read this in some book not too long ago, but I couldn't remember too much of the story, so I told the lady that I would get the book from where I had read the story, and put it in my Blog and I then handed her one of my "business" cards with the address to the Blog.
I went to the library, found the book where I thought the story for the black pearls would be found, but the story was not in there. I searched the Internet to no avail, so now I am faced with the embarrassing prospect of looking like an idiot. You would think that I would be used to that feeling by now, but I ain't.
Explanation for Blog entry completed.
Over and out.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
IT'S NOT LIKE THE ONE IN SPACE
Blog number 420 **** 19 September, 2010
I happen to be this household's househusband. I have done a lot of carpet vacuuming over the years, and my greatest frustration with that job is running the vacuum over a small piece of paper or lint and having the damn thing just lie there, laughing at me. Many a time I have bent over, picked up the speck and dropped it in a different place and tried vacuuming it again. Sometimes this worked and sometimes it didn't. What goes on in the mind of a piece of inanimate clutter, I really don't know.
I once saw a standup comedian do a bit on this very problem with vacuuming. So it's not just me.
Yesterday I was reading an article in the New Yorker about this genius engineer who also got frustrated with poor results from his vacuum cleaner and this guy, unlike me, looked into the problem. Right off he went to the source of the perplexity and discovered that when a vacuum cleaner sucks up dust, lint, and pieces of dead skin, the first place it goes is to the sides of the bag and sticks there, thus plugging up the air flow and destroying the vacuum ability of the machine. It is such a simple and obvious solution to the conundrum that I am very surprised that I didn't figure it out. Yeah, yeah. I know. Hubris. Get over it.
So this engineering genius, what he did was to invent a vacuum cleaner that doesn't use a bag, but instead uses centrifugal force in some magical way.
We have already ordered one. They are expensive, but then so is everything else. This is America, after all.
This guy also invented a fan with no blades, just a hole. No moving parts as far as I know. I haven't a clue as to how that works. Magic, probably.
I happen to be this household's househusband. I have done a lot of carpet vacuuming over the years, and my greatest frustration with that job is running the vacuum over a small piece of paper or lint and having the damn thing just lie there, laughing at me. Many a time I have bent over, picked up the speck and dropped it in a different place and tried vacuuming it again. Sometimes this worked and sometimes it didn't. What goes on in the mind of a piece of inanimate clutter, I really don't know.
I once saw a standup comedian do a bit on this very problem with vacuuming. So it's not just me.
Yesterday I was reading an article in the New Yorker about this genius engineer who also got frustrated with poor results from his vacuum cleaner and this guy, unlike me, looked into the problem. Right off he went to the source of the perplexity and discovered that when a vacuum cleaner sucks up dust, lint, and pieces of dead skin, the first place it goes is to the sides of the bag and sticks there, thus plugging up the air flow and destroying the vacuum ability of the machine. It is such a simple and obvious solution to the conundrum that I am very surprised that I didn't figure it out. Yeah, yeah. I know. Hubris. Get over it.
So this engineering genius, what he did was to invent a vacuum cleaner that doesn't use a bag, but instead uses centrifugal force in some magical way.
We have already ordered one. They are expensive, but then so is everything else. This is America, after all.
This guy also invented a fan with no blades, just a hole. No moving parts as far as I know. I haven't a clue as to how that works. Magic, probably.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
AN EPIPHANY A DAY KEEPS THE THERAPIST AWAY
Blog number 419 **** 18 September, 2010
I have been writing in the Blog for several years now - how many, I really don't know and it's a lot of trouble for me to mouse-click back to the beginning to find out, so let's just go with "several years," ok?. It's really not important anyhow. The number of years I've been doing this is not important, I mean. The entries themselves are important, of course. That goes without saying.
Where was I? Oh, yes. For all of those years up until a week or so ago, I just wrote and let whoever happened upon the Blog entries, read them. This consisted mostly of my immediate family. I never pushed them upon the innocent. I was comfortable with what I wrote, knowing full well that I would be forgiven for lapses of interesting or humorous entries. I am a close relative, after all. I am supposed to be forgiven such things.
I had some "business" cards made up with my Blog address and my e-mail address upon them, along with an instruction sentence on the back, and my occupation as "writer." I have started passing these out to some people I have met - waitresses, librarians and such. I also gave to my two sons stacks of them to pass out to their friends and I appropriated the Internet addresses of my wife's friends and sent them a link to my Blog. In other words, I have offered of myself the obvious belief that what I write has value.
Back in the days of "you can read it if you want to," I wrote excitedly for the most part, because I love to share interesting and humorous happenings, writings, and thoughts - all with no fear of condemnation, shame, or imprisonment. Now that I am in the "would you read this, please?" mode, I find myself being tentative about what I write. It's almost like getting up in front of an audience at a club and trying to be both funny and interesting. Before, writing was relaxing. Now it's scary.
Why am I telling you this? Because I learned a long time ago that if I tell the truth about what "is," I won't have to tell that truth with signals from my body. It's like if I find myself embarrassed, I can either say, "I am embarrassed," or I can say nothing and blush and stammer and sweat, and let my body tell the story. So this entry is my truth about what "is," and hopefully I can return to that golden yesterday of contented and satisfying writing.
I feel better already.
I have been writing in the Blog for several years now - how many, I really don't know and it's a lot of trouble for me to mouse-click back to the beginning to find out, so let's just go with "several years," ok?. It's really not important anyhow. The number of years I've been doing this is not important, I mean. The entries themselves are important, of course. That goes without saying.
Where was I? Oh, yes. For all of those years up until a week or so ago, I just wrote and let whoever happened upon the Blog entries, read them. This consisted mostly of my immediate family. I never pushed them upon the innocent. I was comfortable with what I wrote, knowing full well that I would be forgiven for lapses of interesting or humorous entries. I am a close relative, after all. I am supposed to be forgiven such things.
I had some "business" cards made up with my Blog address and my e-mail address upon them, along with an instruction sentence on the back, and my occupation as "writer." I have started passing these out to some people I have met - waitresses, librarians and such. I also gave to my two sons stacks of them to pass out to their friends and I appropriated the Internet addresses of my wife's friends and sent them a link to my Blog. In other words, I have offered of myself the obvious belief that what I write has value.
Back in the days of "you can read it if you want to," I wrote excitedly for the most part, because I love to share interesting and humorous happenings, writings, and thoughts - all with no fear of condemnation, shame, or imprisonment. Now that I am in the "would you read this, please?" mode, I find myself being tentative about what I write. It's almost like getting up in front of an audience at a club and trying to be both funny and interesting. Before, writing was relaxing. Now it's scary.
Why am I telling you this? Because I learned a long time ago that if I tell the truth about what "is," I won't have to tell that truth with signals from my body. It's like if I find myself embarrassed, I can either say, "I am embarrassed," or I can say nothing and blush and stammer and sweat, and let my body tell the story. So this entry is my truth about what "is," and hopefully I can return to that golden yesterday of contented and satisfying writing.
I feel better already.
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