Blog number 511******* 30 April 2011
Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday dear Kavi.
Happy birthday to you.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
LION WHISPERER
Blog number 510******* 25 April 2011
I know that most of you don't like me telling you about things I have read or seen on the telly, but Brubaker damn it, this one boggles my mind.
There was an old man - an African native that was going to teach these two young fellas how to steal meat from lions. The lions catch the prey, he steals the meat. Says it's easier than doing the hunting themselves. It's like going to the market, I guess.
So they start tracking a pride that is on the hunt. He wants to see the lions before they see him. The three come upon a pride of at least six lions, including a big male, eating a gnu they had just killed. They hide in the bushes for awhile, then all three men stand up and start walking toward this pride of bloody-faced feeding lions.
The old man says the important thing is to show no fear. They walk steadily toward the lions, who are all staring at the three men. Suddenly one of the lions bolts, then two or three heartbeats later, another bolts, then another and then all run off.
The men start cutting a haunch off the gnu. This is the dangerous part and the old man says his heart is pounding. The fear is the lions will get their courage back and come seeking revenge. And you can see, they have come back and are standing in the bushes, looking. One man picks up the haunch, flings it over his shoulder and the three leave. Here, relief sets in because the men are safe. The lions just want to eat - they really don't want a confrontation.
Now what boggles my mind about this is that lions do not give up their food to anything without a fight. And these are big, strong animals with sharp teeth and claws. Men? Nothing. Just a reputation, evidently. How did humans get such a fearful reputation?
I know that most of you don't like me telling you about things I have read or seen on the telly, but Brubaker damn it, this one boggles my mind.
There was an old man - an African native that was going to teach these two young fellas how to steal meat from lions. The lions catch the prey, he steals the meat. Says it's easier than doing the hunting themselves. It's like going to the market, I guess.
So they start tracking a pride that is on the hunt. He wants to see the lions before they see him. The three come upon a pride of at least six lions, including a big male, eating a gnu they had just killed. They hide in the bushes for awhile, then all three men stand up and start walking toward this pride of bloody-faced feeding lions.
The old man says the important thing is to show no fear. They walk steadily toward the lions, who are all staring at the three men. Suddenly one of the lions bolts, then two or three heartbeats later, another bolts, then another and then all run off.
The men start cutting a haunch off the gnu. This is the dangerous part and the old man says his heart is pounding. The fear is the lions will get their courage back and come seeking revenge. And you can see, they have come back and are standing in the bushes, looking. One man picks up the haunch, flings it over his shoulder and the three leave. Here, relief sets in because the men are safe. The lions just want to eat - they really don't want a confrontation.
Now what boggles my mind about this is that lions do not give up their food to anything without a fight. And these are big, strong animals with sharp teeth and claws. Men? Nothing. Just a reputation, evidently. How did humans get such a fearful reputation?
Sunday, April 24, 2011
DOG WHISPERER
Blog number 509******* 24 April 2011
New people moved in down the street. Lots of kids. I walk by their house when I go to get the mail.
Last night two of their dogs were out with the lady of the house and both of the dogs bumped me as I went by. One was a weimaraner. A weimaraner is a hunting dog - short hair, brown in color.
When I was a teenager, there were no weimaraners. I hope that's right. That's the way I remember it.
I also remember when Cherrios first came out, but they were called Cherrioats. That sentence is called a nonsequitor.
On my way back to my house, the weinmaraner bumped me again as I walked by him. He then went ahead of me, sniffing the ground. He turned into the driveway where I had walked on the way out of the house. He sniffed his way up to the door and then held his nose high up and against the door as if signaling that he wanted to be let in.
I realized that he had followed my scent from his house to mine.
I thought about letting him in, but soon realized that it might not sit too well with the head of the house. But it's nice to feel wanted.
Even by a dumb animal.
I could have had a new dog!
New people moved in down the street. Lots of kids. I walk by their house when I go to get the mail.
Last night two of their dogs were out with the lady of the house and both of the dogs bumped me as I went by. One was a weimaraner. A weimaraner is a hunting dog - short hair, brown in color.
When I was a teenager, there were no weimaraners. I hope that's right. That's the way I remember it.
I also remember when Cherrios first came out, but they were called Cherrioats. That sentence is called a nonsequitor.
On my way back to my house, the weinmaraner bumped me again as I walked by him. He then went ahead of me, sniffing the ground. He turned into the driveway where I had walked on the way out of the house. He sniffed his way up to the door and then held his nose high up and against the door as if signaling that he wanted to be let in.
I realized that he had followed my scent from his house to mine.
I thought about letting him in, but soon realized that it might not sit too well with the head of the house. But it's nice to feel wanted.
Even by a dumb animal.
I could have had a new dog!
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
WRITE AND WRITE AGAIN
Blog number 508******* 19 April 2011
You remember when I wanted to write but didn't have anything to write about, don't you? Well, it's back again, only this time the impetus is a little weaker. Not likely anything blogable will come from this, but you never know. Well, some times you do. But not always.
I got a belated birthday present from my one and only. She gave me a handheld camcorder. I can only hope that I will someday capture something fascinating. What I really want to video is cute babies doing what cute babies do. But of course that is not possible. Oh well.
I used my flame thrower today and didn't catch on fire once.
I went to the post office and a guy there with a cute little two year old boy told me of a package that was in a locker with the lock open. The boy found it by going to every opened locker and opening the door to it.
I looked in the locker, took out the package and somebody had written on the label, "Wrong box." Evidently the key to that locker was put in the wrong post office box.
My motto in circumstances such as this is, "If not me, who?" The person that wrote the note left the package in an unlocked locker for anybody to take and the man with the boy that told me about it was going to leave it there. So that left it up to me, didn't it?
So I took the package and gave it to a postal employee with an explanation.
While I went through the door into where the postal employees were, I kind of kept my eye on the man that told me about the unattended package, imagining that he would want to see if I was going to steal it or what, and from his actions I was pretty convinced that he did do just that.
Maybe not. Who knows? Seemed like it to me. After all, he didn't know me from his senate representative and you know how dishonest those people are.
I sometimes wonder if people are trained from childhood by parents not to get involved in anything not pertaining to them by saying, "Don't touch that!" From then on it gets to be one of those unconscious conditionings that I so abhor.
It does seem awfully curious to me how many people could fix what they see as wrong quite easily and effortlessly, but don't. Must be something preventing them.
Well, I guess this is about as good as it's going to get. Good thing you didn't have to pay for this, huh? You didn't even have to watch any ads. Which, by the way, is something Google asks its Bloggers if they want ads in their Blogs and if they do, they will get so much money for every so many people that read that entry. Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.
You remember when I wanted to write but didn't have anything to write about, don't you? Well, it's back again, only this time the impetus is a little weaker. Not likely anything blogable will come from this, but you never know. Well, some times you do. But not always.
I got a belated birthday present from my one and only. She gave me a handheld camcorder. I can only hope that I will someday capture something fascinating. What I really want to video is cute babies doing what cute babies do. But of course that is not possible. Oh well.
I used my flame thrower today and didn't catch on fire once.
I went to the post office and a guy there with a cute little two year old boy told me of a package that was in a locker with the lock open. The boy found it by going to every opened locker and opening the door to it.
I looked in the locker, took out the package and somebody had written on the label, "Wrong box." Evidently the key to that locker was put in the wrong post office box.
My motto in circumstances such as this is, "If not me, who?" The person that wrote the note left the package in an unlocked locker for anybody to take and the man with the boy that told me about it was going to leave it there. So that left it up to me, didn't it?
So I took the package and gave it to a postal employee with an explanation.
While I went through the door into where the postal employees were, I kind of kept my eye on the man that told me about the unattended package, imagining that he would want to see if I was going to steal it or what, and from his actions I was pretty convinced that he did do just that.
Maybe not. Who knows? Seemed like it to me. After all, he didn't know me from his senate representative and you know how dishonest those people are.
I sometimes wonder if people are trained from childhood by parents not to get involved in anything not pertaining to them by saying, "Don't touch that!" From then on it gets to be one of those unconscious conditionings that I so abhor.
It does seem awfully curious to me how many people could fix what they see as wrong quite easily and effortlessly, but don't. Must be something preventing them.
Well, I guess this is about as good as it's going to get. Good thing you didn't have to pay for this, huh? You didn't even have to watch any ads. Which, by the way, is something Google asks its Bloggers if they want ads in their Blogs and if they do, they will get so much money for every so many people that read that entry. Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
YOU CAN'T STOP PROGRESS
Blog number 507******* 14 April 2011
He was once quite handsome. He was once what you would call a hunk. He was once the darling of those with female pulchitude. Not any more and not for some time.
Now he's got scraggly thinning hair, wrinkled arms where once boasted rippling muscles. Beautiful white teeth? Oh, no. Yellow.
And the whole upper right quadrant of his dentures is missing. Not that he gets any break on having his teeth cleaned because of that. One forth the teeth, one forth the price. Right?
Wrong.
And his body - it sags. His vision was once that of a sharpshooter. Now? Not so much. His strength? All gone.
If he happens to find himself lying on the floor for any reason, he has to exert tremendous effort, gathering all his strength in order to get himself up on his hands and knees and from there make a final heroic push to stand upright once again. This is the only exercise he allows himself.
That this is only occasional and accidental bothers him not a whit.
He dresses like a curmudgeon because that's what he is. It is after all, the clothes that make the man.
His hobbies are solving jigsaw puzzles, reading and napping. Long walks are limited to the mailbox and back, taken slowly.
He listens to music whenever he can do so without his loving wife noticing what he is doing.
She will not allow him the use of the piano because he is sometimes wacko. Cannot be trusted around music, evidently.
He no longer dances.
And his memory. Ah yes. Long past its prime. But he doesn't care. Mostly nonsense anyhow. His memory has been replaced by fantasy.
He thinks he traded up.
This gentleman we are talking about is today, for the first time in this life, eighty years old.
MADE IT!
He was once quite handsome. He was once what you would call a hunk. He was once the darling of those with female pulchitude. Not any more and not for some time.
Now he's got scraggly thinning hair, wrinkled arms where once boasted rippling muscles. Beautiful white teeth? Oh, no. Yellow.
And the whole upper right quadrant of his dentures is missing. Not that he gets any break on having his teeth cleaned because of that. One forth the teeth, one forth the price. Right?
Wrong.
And his body - it sags. His vision was once that of a sharpshooter. Now? Not so much. His strength? All gone.
If he happens to find himself lying on the floor for any reason, he has to exert tremendous effort, gathering all his strength in order to get himself up on his hands and knees and from there make a final heroic push to stand upright once again. This is the only exercise he allows himself.
That this is only occasional and accidental bothers him not a whit.
He dresses like a curmudgeon because that's what he is. It is after all, the clothes that make the man.
His hobbies are solving jigsaw puzzles, reading and napping. Long walks are limited to the mailbox and back, taken slowly.
He listens to music whenever he can do so without his loving wife noticing what he is doing.
She will not allow him the use of the piano because he is sometimes wacko. Cannot be trusted around music, evidently.
He no longer dances.
And his memory. Ah yes. Long past its prime. But he doesn't care. Mostly nonsense anyhow. His memory has been replaced by fantasy.
He thinks he traded up.
This gentleman we are talking about is today, for the first time in this life, eighty years old.
MADE IT!
WELL, THEY'RE AT IT AGAIN
Blog number 506******* 13 April 2011
In the April 18th issue of Time, it is announced that there is going to be an exhumation of a Florentine woman suspected of sitting for the Mona Lisa. Archaeologists hope to prove whether she was the model.
This is really exciting! At last we are going to find out whether or not at least one person is or isn't the model for the Mona Lisa. Oh joy!
I imagine they might be going to use the DNA method. We didn't have that procedure to do in years past, but now with modern science we can get the DNA of the corpse and match it with the DNA of the painting. Brilliant!
Or maybe fingerprints! Yeah! We dig up that five hundred year old body and look behind the painting and get the fingerprints off old Mona and if we get a match, Viola! And if we don't get a match, Viola! again, 'cause we will have eliminated one out of the millions it could have been, and that's good, yes? One step closer?
Or maybe - just maybe, we can get the old woman to talk - to tell us whether or not she sat for old DaVinci. That would be interesting.
Whichever way it goes, I'll sure be glad when we get this puzzle solved. It's been keeping me and a lot of folks up at night worrying over it. And once we get that solved, maybe we can start work on finding out who the models were for those boys on that sailing boat with the old man in that Homer Winslow painting.
And kudos to Time Magazine in its unfailing efforts to keep us up to dately informed of the important work being done in the world of pure science. Kudos, I say.
In the April 18th issue of Time, it is announced that there is going to be an exhumation of a Florentine woman suspected of sitting for the Mona Lisa. Archaeologists hope to prove whether she was the model.
This is really exciting! At last we are going to find out whether or not at least one person is or isn't the model for the Mona Lisa. Oh joy!
I imagine they might be going to use the DNA method. We didn't have that procedure to do in years past, but now with modern science we can get the DNA of the corpse and match it with the DNA of the painting. Brilliant!
Or maybe fingerprints! Yeah! We dig up that five hundred year old body and look behind the painting and get the fingerprints off old Mona and if we get a match, Viola! And if we don't get a match, Viola! again, 'cause we will have eliminated one out of the millions it could have been, and that's good, yes? One step closer?
Or maybe - just maybe, we can get the old woman to talk - to tell us whether or not she sat for old DaVinci. That would be interesting.
Whichever way it goes, I'll sure be glad when we get this puzzle solved. It's been keeping me and a lot of folks up at night worrying over it. And once we get that solved, maybe we can start work on finding out who the models were for those boys on that sailing boat with the old man in that Homer Winslow painting.
And kudos to Time Magazine in its unfailing efforts to keep us up to dately informed of the important work being done in the world of pure science. Kudos, I say.
Friday, April 8, 2011
FLY ME TO THE MOON
Blog number 505******* 08 April 2011
When I was in the United States Air Force, I worked on T-29 aircraft which were used to train bombardier / navigators.
In my shop we had this master sergeant that somehow talked a pilot into letting him pilot his aircraft on its missions. Now, enlisted men - of which sergeants are a member, are not allowed to pilot military aircraft - let alone pilot one without any formal training at all.
One day I was flying on the same ship that this sergeant was and I watched him fly a bit, and I was standing in the doorway behind the copilot and the sergeant, who was sitting in the pilot's seat. The sergeant was going to make a landing attempt. About 15 feet off the ground, the sergeant made a move on the controls which caused the copilot to give him a look of fear and then reach over too late to do any good, and the aircraft dropped straight down, bam! It hopped a couple of times before it settled down.
I remember at the time wondering what the people in the control tower would be thinking of this landing, and of course they would think it was the pilot that had made such a grave error. The plane probably had to be checked later to see if any damage had occurred due to a "hard" landing. Would the pilot be given a "bad mark" anywhere in his records?
I heard the copilot explain to the sergeant that when he cut the engines down like that, the props would change pitch and no longer be pulling the plane forward, resulting in loss of power and propeller at the same time and thus the sudden meeting of aircraft and runway sans grace.
That was the last mission the sergeant was allowed to fly as pilot. In fact, I never saw him ever fly again on those aircraft.
Just as a curious aside, when we enlisted were being considered for promotion, our records would be given to the promotion board. In the case of officer's promotions, they had their photograph placed in their promotion records. We didn't. Evidently they didn't care how handsome we were, but to an officer, that must have been important.
Furthermore, the base commander was a general and in an article about him in the base newspaper, it was said that he was known as, "the Silver Fox." Think about that.
Please.
When I was in the United States Air Force, I worked on T-29 aircraft which were used to train bombardier / navigators.
In my shop we had this master sergeant that somehow talked a pilot into letting him pilot his aircraft on its missions. Now, enlisted men - of which sergeants are a member, are not allowed to pilot military aircraft - let alone pilot one without any formal training at all.
One day I was flying on the same ship that this sergeant was and I watched him fly a bit, and I was standing in the doorway behind the copilot and the sergeant, who was sitting in the pilot's seat. The sergeant was going to make a landing attempt. About 15 feet off the ground, the sergeant made a move on the controls which caused the copilot to give him a look of fear and then reach over too late to do any good, and the aircraft dropped straight down, bam! It hopped a couple of times before it settled down.
I remember at the time wondering what the people in the control tower would be thinking of this landing, and of course they would think it was the pilot that had made such a grave error. The plane probably had to be checked later to see if any damage had occurred due to a "hard" landing. Would the pilot be given a "bad mark" anywhere in his records?
I heard the copilot explain to the sergeant that when he cut the engines down like that, the props would change pitch and no longer be pulling the plane forward, resulting in loss of power and propeller at the same time and thus the sudden meeting of aircraft and runway sans grace.
That was the last mission the sergeant was allowed to fly as pilot. In fact, I never saw him ever fly again on those aircraft.
Just as a curious aside, when we enlisted were being considered for promotion, our records would be given to the promotion board. In the case of officer's promotions, they had their photograph placed in their promotion records. We didn't. Evidently they didn't care how handsome we were, but to an officer, that must have been important.
Furthermore, the base commander was a general and in an article about him in the base newspaper, it was said that he was known as, "the Silver Fox." Think about that.
Please.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
TRAVELOG W/O PICTURES
Blog number 503******* 06 April 2011
On our weekly visit to Phoenix this morning, we saw, going South, a flatbed semi hauling a rusty anchor that was large enough for a cruiser or at least a destroyer. I don't know my ships that well, but it also could have been for a battleship. Whatever, it was huge. We figured it was going to San Diego, but my question is, where was it coming from, this used anchor?
We see lots of strange things on highway 10. Tanks and armored carriers on flatbeds, military convoys, parts for wind turbines, lots of very large stuff covered and if uncovered, indescribable. We used to travel a lot between Sacramento and San Francisco and we never ever saw equipment like this. The desert is a very strange place anyhow. Stuff like this just makes it stranger.
We arrived in Phoenix, turned right towards my favorite restaurant and heard this strange soft flap flap flap. I looked behind to see if I ran over anything. Nope. Then I realized it sounded like a broken fan belt. We pulled over into a parking lot, I got out and raised the hood and saw the alternator belt lying in tiny strips on the floor of the engine compartment.
Drove to Purcell's on Ray Rd. Left the car there to have three belts replaced, rejoiced that I had changed the timing belt a few weeks before, 'cause I sure didn't want that sucker to fall apart.
While waiting for the repair, we walked over to Fry's Market, had free coffee and free donuts. Wify talking to other people sitting there. Me, I'm just watching for babies.
I hear this female voice shout angrily, "Don't you go there! You've already had your carbohydrates this morning! George! Stop!" I look and there's this old man who already has a donut in his mouth and is cramming in another one before his wife can get hold of it.
As he walks by me, I say, "Good, huh?" He gives me a thumbs up, grinning as much as he can with his mouth full of donut while his wife complains, "He has diabetes and this is why."
Delightful couple.
Saw babies.
Car fixed.
Drove home.
Here now.
On our weekly visit to Phoenix this morning, we saw, going South, a flatbed semi hauling a rusty anchor that was large enough for a cruiser or at least a destroyer. I don't know my ships that well, but it also could have been for a battleship. Whatever, it was huge. We figured it was going to San Diego, but my question is, where was it coming from, this used anchor?
We see lots of strange things on highway 10. Tanks and armored carriers on flatbeds, military convoys, parts for wind turbines, lots of very large stuff covered and if uncovered, indescribable. We used to travel a lot between Sacramento and San Francisco and we never ever saw equipment like this. The desert is a very strange place anyhow. Stuff like this just makes it stranger.
We arrived in Phoenix, turned right towards my favorite restaurant and heard this strange soft flap flap flap. I looked behind to see if I ran over anything. Nope. Then I realized it sounded like a broken fan belt. We pulled over into a parking lot, I got out and raised the hood and saw the alternator belt lying in tiny strips on the floor of the engine compartment.
Drove to Purcell's on Ray Rd. Left the car there to have three belts replaced, rejoiced that I had changed the timing belt a few weeks before, 'cause I sure didn't want that sucker to fall apart.
While waiting for the repair, we walked over to Fry's Market, had free coffee and free donuts. Wify talking to other people sitting there. Me, I'm just watching for babies.
I hear this female voice shout angrily, "Don't you go there! You've already had your carbohydrates this morning! George! Stop!" I look and there's this old man who already has a donut in his mouth and is cramming in another one before his wife can get hold of it.
As he walks by me, I say, "Good, huh?" He gives me a thumbs up, grinning as much as he can with his mouth full of donut while his wife complains, "He has diabetes and this is why."
Delightful couple.
Saw babies.
Car fixed.
Drove home.
Here now.
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