Blog number ninety-nine July 12, 2007
Went with Teresa to the dentist, while there I was reading an article in the National Geographic. It was about regeneration of tissues. Supposedly scientists had caused a chicken to regenerate the tip of a wing.
The last sentence in the article went something like wasn't it wonderful that we are now able to regenerate blood, veins, all the organs. And then the very last sentence of the whole article contained two words. They were, "Except lips."
Why, of ALL the organs, were lips exempted? And why, in this "scientific" article in a "scientific" magazine, was not the exemption elaborated upon? Explained? Huh?
Do I expect too much? Is that it?
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
THINGS YOU MIGHT NOT CARE TO KNOW
Blog number ninety-eight July 12, 2007
My roving reporter informs me that in the Sacramento yellow pages, there is an ad for psychics on page 666. Coincidence? Synchronicity? Conspiracy? We will determine which and let readers know the results as soon as possible, if not sooner.
In this month's New Yorker magazine, there is a cartoon of a clown at a circus that has a tattooed teardrop by his eye. A little girl is standing by him, pointing to her eye, obviously asking about the tattoo.
The caption reads, "I'm not a sad clown. I killed a guy in prison."
In this month's Discover magazine is a cartoon by Gary Larson of a caveman pointing to the three sharp points on the end of a dinosaur's tail, telling his audience, "Now, this end is called the thagomizer after the late Thag Simmons."
"Thagomizer" is what those things are now called in reference books and museum exhibits. Neat, huh?
Remember, work hard. Keep America strong.
My roving reporter informs me that in the Sacramento yellow pages, there is an ad for psychics on page 666. Coincidence? Synchronicity? Conspiracy? We will determine which and let readers know the results as soon as possible, if not sooner.
In this month's New Yorker magazine, there is a cartoon of a clown at a circus that has a tattooed teardrop by his eye. A little girl is standing by him, pointing to her eye, obviously asking about the tattoo.
The caption reads, "I'm not a sad clown. I killed a guy in prison."
In this month's Discover magazine is a cartoon by Gary Larson of a caveman pointing to the three sharp points on the end of a dinosaur's tail, telling his audience, "Now, this end is called the thagomizer after the late Thag Simmons."
"Thagomizer" is what those things are now called in reference books and museum exhibits. Neat, huh?
Remember, work hard. Keep America strong.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
SOMETHING ABOUT NOTHING
Blog number ninety-seven July 03, 2007
We just finished watching the movie, "The Prairie Home Companion." I liked it. Which reminds me that we saw a movie last night that I had never heard of before called, "Idlewild."
That movie was a very pleasant surprise - a Negro (Black) musical. I didn't think I was going to like it because, well you know - the culture difference. In fact, early on they started what seemed like it was going to be rap - and it might have been, but it evolved into a mesmerizing song and dance number. I have never seen people dance like that. Wow!
The camera work was very creative. The little "side work" was very creative. That whole movie was very creative. I'm glad I got to see it.
This movie tonight - the Prairie Home Companion, brought back memories from my childhood - back when I was about ten years old.
We used to listen to the radio because you know - no TV? One night we were listening to Grand Old Opry and they said that since it was their last show that night, anyone could come and get in free. I told my dad what they said and asked if we could go - not really believing we could, but he said yes, and the whole family - Mom, Dad, Bill, Me, John, Pat and Mardene all piled in the car and went downtown and got in.
The first surprise was that the show was broadcast on this huge stage. I expected a small stage with a microphone or two like I had seen in the movies when they portrayed a radio program. The second surprise was when I saw a fellow classmate as one of the performers. He played the violin. I knew he played that thing from seeing him at school
A young teenage girl sang and people threw pennies to her. One hit her in the eye. She left the stage after her song, not picking up any of the pennies, but my classmate went out there, violin in one hand, picking up pennies with the other.
I could tell the girl hated the penny throwing and even at that young age, I felt something wrong about people doing that - like she was some trained monkey or seal or something.
The whole show was a special treat.
So why'd I tell this story? I really don't know. Doesn't seem to be a point to it, nor any instructional or educational benefit. Just an old man running off at the mouth again.
Hell, that's justification enough, Yes?
We just finished watching the movie, "The Prairie Home Companion." I liked it. Which reminds me that we saw a movie last night that I had never heard of before called, "Idlewild."
That movie was a very pleasant surprise - a Negro (Black) musical. I didn't think I was going to like it because, well you know - the culture difference. In fact, early on they started what seemed like it was going to be rap - and it might have been, but it evolved into a mesmerizing song and dance number. I have never seen people dance like that. Wow!
The camera work was very creative. The little "side work" was very creative. That whole movie was very creative. I'm glad I got to see it.
This movie tonight - the Prairie Home Companion, brought back memories from my childhood - back when I was about ten years old.
We used to listen to the radio because you know - no TV? One night we were listening to Grand Old Opry and they said that since it was their last show that night, anyone could come and get in free. I told my dad what they said and asked if we could go - not really believing we could, but he said yes, and the whole family - Mom, Dad, Bill, Me, John, Pat and Mardene all piled in the car and went downtown and got in.
The first surprise was that the show was broadcast on this huge stage. I expected a small stage with a microphone or two like I had seen in the movies when they portrayed a radio program. The second surprise was when I saw a fellow classmate as one of the performers. He played the violin. I knew he played that thing from seeing him at school
A young teenage girl sang and people threw pennies to her. One hit her in the eye. She left the stage after her song, not picking up any of the pennies, but my classmate went out there, violin in one hand, picking up pennies with the other.
I could tell the girl hated the penny throwing and even at that young age, I felt something wrong about people doing that - like she was some trained monkey or seal or something.
The whole show was a special treat.
So why'd I tell this story? I really don't know. Doesn't seem to be a point to it, nor any instructional or educational benefit. Just an old man running off at the mouth again.
Hell, that's justification enough, Yes?
Monday, June 25, 2007
MYTHS DISGUISED AS TRUTHS
Blog number Ninety-six 25 June 2007
The myths were; that it was always a rare thing to see a two dollar bill because, as reported in newspapers, that was because nobody wanted them. They were supposedly bad luck. Then fifty cent pieces became a rarity. No reason given to us. When the Susan B. Anthony dollar coins came out, they were not accepted "because people didn't want a woman's picture on their coins." This was also the supposed reason for the nonacceptance by the public of the Sacajawean (sic?) dollar. So they recently made a new dollar coin that has no woman's picture on it. That'll work!
The truths are; two dollar bills were rare because the banks never had any on hand. That's like not having any auto dealerships and then explaining the lack of drivers on the public being afraid of mechanical things.
I use $2 bills, mostly for tips, but also for small purchases, but I have to specially order them and this was a problem for a while because the tellers would always respond to my request with, "it's not possible."
I finally had to ask to see the manager and when asked why, I told the teller that I wanted to order $600 worth of two dollar bills. At the same time I also ordered $200 worth of fifty cent pieces.
I got my order two days later and the girl who had taken my order and gave them to me asked if I would tell her what I wanted them for. She didn't say, "What do you want them for?" She said, "Could I ask you what you use them for?"
I wanted to tell her that I liked to watch them burn, but I didn't. I felt like she thought I was using them for some nefarious activity.
Like funding terrorists.
Or slipping them into lap dancer thongs.
I used to order Susan B. Anthony dollars but quickly gave that up after several times mistaking them for quarters. Whose bright idea was that anyhow, to make them look so nearly like quarters? Don't they have meetings on decisions like this? The reason I didn't like them was not because a woman's picture was on it. I didn't like them because they occasionally cheated me out of seventy-five cents.
When the gold dollars first came out, you could find them occasionally for about a month, then they too disappeared because "nobody wanted them." I went to several banks before I found one that carried them. I don't know why the "powers that be" blame the public for not using stuff that they can't get.
One of the big surprises was the ignorance surrounding fifty cent pieces especially. Several people asked me what they were. Some of these people were in their thirties. One woman said, upon reading the coin, "Huh. A half dollar. How much is that worth?"
One bum, upon receiving a gold dollar looked at it carefully before asking me what it was and if it was worth anything. When I told him it was worth a dollar, he said, "They don't have these in Texas where I come from."
I gave two $2 bills to a girl in a hardware store in payment for some washers and she first marked them with a pencil to see if they were counterfeit, then held them one by one up to the light and then turned her back to me and was peering at something on the desk with them. I thought she was looking a numbered list of counterfeit $2 bills. I asked her what she was doing. She wouldn't answer. I asked again, still no answer. I then asked her if she had a list of counterfeit $2 bills she was looking at. No answer.
She finally turned around and I asked her again what she had been looking at and she told me she looked at them under a black light. She said they didn't get many of them in there. What struck me was that anyone would think that a counterfeiter would counterfiet $2 bills instead of the more common and more lucrative larger denominations. And I would try to pass four whole dollars worth for a net profit of maybe sixty cents plus my washers? Ye gads!
You know, sometimes it just makes sense to ask the very people that use an object just what it is that they do or don't like about it. Funny thing is that people aren't that hard to find. All one of these bright boys has to do is to walk outside their office and lo and behold! Thousands of common people who know exactly why they do or don't use some item.
Is it too much to ask of people who have power over us common little folk that they do a littlesimple thinking once is a while?
The myths were; that it was always a rare thing to see a two dollar bill because, as reported in newspapers, that was because nobody wanted them. They were supposedly bad luck. Then fifty cent pieces became a rarity. No reason given to us. When the Susan B. Anthony dollar coins came out, they were not accepted "because people didn't want a woman's picture on their coins." This was also the supposed reason for the nonacceptance by the public of the Sacajawean (sic?) dollar. So they recently made a new dollar coin that has no woman's picture on it. That'll work!
The truths are; two dollar bills were rare because the banks never had any on hand. That's like not having any auto dealerships and then explaining the lack of drivers on the public being afraid of mechanical things.
I use $2 bills, mostly for tips, but also for small purchases, but I have to specially order them and this was a problem for a while because the tellers would always respond to my request with, "it's not possible."
I finally had to ask to see the manager and when asked why, I told the teller that I wanted to order $600 worth of two dollar bills. At the same time I also ordered $200 worth of fifty cent pieces.
I got my order two days later and the girl who had taken my order and gave them to me asked if I would tell her what I wanted them for. She didn't say, "What do you want them for?" She said, "Could I ask you what you use them for?"
I wanted to tell her that I liked to watch them burn, but I didn't. I felt like she thought I was using them for some nefarious activity.
Like funding terrorists.
Or slipping them into lap dancer thongs.
I used to order Susan B. Anthony dollars but quickly gave that up after several times mistaking them for quarters. Whose bright idea was that anyhow, to make them look so nearly like quarters? Don't they have meetings on decisions like this? The reason I didn't like them was not because a woman's picture was on it. I didn't like them because they occasionally cheated me out of seventy-five cents.
When the gold dollars first came out, you could find them occasionally for about a month, then they too disappeared because "nobody wanted them." I went to several banks before I found one that carried them. I don't know why the "powers that be" blame the public for not using stuff that they can't get.
One of the big surprises was the ignorance surrounding fifty cent pieces especially. Several people asked me what they were. Some of these people were in their thirties. One woman said, upon reading the coin, "Huh. A half dollar. How much is that worth?"
One bum, upon receiving a gold dollar looked at it carefully before asking me what it was and if it was worth anything. When I told him it was worth a dollar, he said, "They don't have these in Texas where I come from."
I gave two $2 bills to a girl in a hardware store in payment for some washers and she first marked them with a pencil to see if they were counterfeit, then held them one by one up to the light and then turned her back to me and was peering at something on the desk with them. I thought she was looking a numbered list of counterfeit $2 bills. I asked her what she was doing. She wouldn't answer. I asked again, still no answer. I then asked her if she had a list of counterfeit $2 bills she was looking at. No answer.
She finally turned around and I asked her again what she had been looking at and she told me she looked at them under a black light. She said they didn't get many of them in there. What struck me was that anyone would think that a counterfeiter would counterfiet $2 bills instead of the more common and more lucrative larger denominations. And I would try to pass four whole dollars worth for a net profit of maybe sixty cents plus my washers? Ye gads!
You know, sometimes it just makes sense to ask the very people that use an object just what it is that they do or don't like about it. Funny thing is that people aren't that hard to find. All one of these bright boys has to do is to walk outside their office and lo and behold! Thousands of common people who know exactly why they do or don't use some item.
Is it too much to ask of people who have power over us common little folk that they do a littlesimple thinking once is a while?
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
MY FIRST REAL LIFE HERO (Cont.)
Blog number Ninety-five 06 June 2007 (D Day already?)
Only a few days after we met, I and him and his brother Robert, were walking in the neighborhood - down alleys mostly. We came to one shed and Bud walked in, picked up a pump or something like that - it had a motor on it, painted green or red, I think.
I thought it a bit odd for a six year old to own something like that, and why was he keeping it in a place not his yard? I didn't ask any questions though, and I think I figured out not much later that he had stolen it.
He said he got kicked out of Catholic school for stealing from the poor box. He was still religious though - he made us doff our caps whenever we walked by a Catholic church.
One day we met a group of other boys and two men offered a nickel to whomever would fight. Bud and this larger fat kid said they would do it. The fat kid would swing a roundhouse, Bud would duck under and come up with an upper cut. This went on for a couple more times until the fat kid started crying. Swing, punch, swing, punch. I don't know where Bud learned that. He reminded me of one of the Dead End Kids.
One day we were in a filling station where there was a pay phone. Bud wanted to call a friend that had a phone. We didn't have any money, but there was a slot on the machine that said, "Coin return," So Bud asked a man standing there if he would give him a nickel so he could call, telling him he would give the nickel right back when it came out of the coin return slot. I remember Bud saying to the man, "See? It says 'coin return' right there. You'll get your nickel back."
I couldn't figure out why the guy didn't go for \this. Obviously we were going to get the nickel back so what could he lose?
Another day Bud found an old fly sprayer that had oil in it and was swinging it around and accidentally sprayed a lady's nylons. She cussed and cussed at him. She was mad!
We left Des Moines in 1942 to go live on the farm with my grandparents and I didn't see Bud again until after I was married in 1950. MY then wife and I went to his old house and there he was, lying on the bed with a rifle, shooting flies on the ceiling. He told us he had just gotten paroled for car theft.
Only a few days after we met, I and him and his brother Robert, were walking in the neighborhood - down alleys mostly. We came to one shed and Bud walked in, picked up a pump or something like that - it had a motor on it, painted green or red, I think.
I thought it a bit odd for a six year old to own something like that, and why was he keeping it in a place not his yard? I didn't ask any questions though, and I think I figured out not much later that he had stolen it.
He said he got kicked out of Catholic school for stealing from the poor box. He was still religious though - he made us doff our caps whenever we walked by a Catholic church.
One day we met a group of other boys and two men offered a nickel to whomever would fight. Bud and this larger fat kid said they would do it. The fat kid would swing a roundhouse, Bud would duck under and come up with an upper cut. This went on for a couple more times until the fat kid started crying. Swing, punch, swing, punch. I don't know where Bud learned that. He reminded me of one of the Dead End Kids.
One day we were in a filling station where there was a pay phone. Bud wanted to call a friend that had a phone. We didn't have any money, but there was a slot on the machine that said, "Coin return," So Bud asked a man standing there if he would give him a nickel so he could call, telling him he would give the nickel right back when it came out of the coin return slot. I remember Bud saying to the man, "See? It says 'coin return' right there. You'll get your nickel back."
I couldn't figure out why the guy didn't go for \this. Obviously we were going to get the nickel back so what could he lose?
Another day Bud found an old fly sprayer that had oil in it and was swinging it around and accidentally sprayed a lady's nylons. She cussed and cussed at him. She was mad!
We left Des Moines in 1942 to go live on the farm with my grandparents and I didn't see Bud again until after I was married in 1950. MY then wife and I went to his old house and there he was, lying on the bed with a rifle, shooting flies on the ceiling. He told us he had just gotten paroled for car theft.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
MY FIRST REAL LIFE HERO
Blog number Ninety-four 30 May 2007
I was four years old, maybe five. I hadn't started school yet. In the spring of 1936, the depression was still going on. The farm could not support us, since farm prices were either low or nonexistent, so the family left the farm near Graettinger Iowa to go to Des Moines. My Mom claimed that she ate so much corn and corn products during the depression, that although the rest of the rest of the family relished fried corn meal mush, she wouldn't eat it. She would cook it, but she wouldn't eat it.
My Dad got a job at Lake Shore Tire and Rubber Company. We lived in a house at 2050 Maple Street - an address that was ingrained into my consciousness in case I got lost in the big city. This came in handy when I followed a boy home from kindergarten one afternoon so that we could play together.
When we got to his house, he went inside and left me standing there. I started to walk towards where I thought home was, but I was completely lost. I must have started crying because some adults asked me if I was lost. When they asked me my address, I told them and they said, "Why that's THAT way," pointing back where I was walking from. I didn't believe them at first, but they were insistent. I don't remember whether any of them took me home, but I did make it. I don't remember ever talking to that boy ever again - not on purpose, but that's just the way it turned out.
One day I was outside and the postman came by and said to me, "Hi Bud." I didn't say anything, but I went inside and told Mom that the man had called me, "Bud." She told me that people called people that when they didn't know their names.
The next day I was walking around the neighborhood when I spotted two boys about my age playing in their back yard. I walked up and said to one, "Hi Bud." He looked surprised and asked me how I knew his name. I didn't reply. Kids that age sometimes don't respond because it's too much trouble to explain, or not worth the trouble, or they just never think of it.
His name turned out to be Roland Cathewood, although I didn't find that out until a few years later. His brother's name was Robert. (to be continued)
I was four years old, maybe five. I hadn't started school yet. In the spring of 1936, the depression was still going on. The farm could not support us, since farm prices were either low or nonexistent, so the family left the farm near Graettinger Iowa to go to Des Moines. My Mom claimed that she ate so much corn and corn products during the depression, that although the rest of the rest of the family relished fried corn meal mush, she wouldn't eat it. She would cook it, but she wouldn't eat it.
My Dad got a job at Lake Shore Tire and Rubber Company. We lived in a house at 2050 Maple Street - an address that was ingrained into my consciousness in case I got lost in the big city. This came in handy when I followed a boy home from kindergarten one afternoon so that we could play together.
When we got to his house, he went inside and left me standing there. I started to walk towards where I thought home was, but I was completely lost. I must have started crying because some adults asked me if I was lost. When they asked me my address, I told them and they said, "Why that's THAT way," pointing back where I was walking from. I didn't believe them at first, but they were insistent. I don't remember whether any of them took me home, but I did make it. I don't remember ever talking to that boy ever again - not on purpose, but that's just the way it turned out.
One day I was outside and the postman came by and said to me, "Hi Bud." I didn't say anything, but I went inside and told Mom that the man had called me, "Bud." She told me that people called people that when they didn't know their names.
The next day I was walking around the neighborhood when I spotted two boys about my age playing in their back yard. I walked up and said to one, "Hi Bud." He looked surprised and asked me how I knew his name. I didn't reply. Kids that age sometimes don't respond because it's too much trouble to explain, or not worth the trouble, or they just never think of it.
His name turned out to be Roland Cathewood, although I didn't find that out until a few years later. His brother's name was Robert. (to be continued)
Sunday, May 27, 2007
IF NOT ME, WHO?
Blog number Ninety-four 27 May 2007
I''m sitting in Barnes and Noble reading a book when I notice an employee stacking books on a shelf. He leaves and as a customer walks by, the books drop one after the other until a pile of ten or twelve books lie on the floor. The customer looks back and keeps on walking. The employee is out of sight.
I notice that the book I am reading has a sticky red circle on the cover, obviously left by a soft drink in a glass.
We go to Mimi's to eat. It is very busy - a 25 minute wait. We decide to sit at the counter. We see an employee drop a gob of butter on the tile floor. Waitresses and busboys dodge it to keep from stepping in it and maybe slipping and breaking a bone or two.
Who is there to correct these things? Who is there to correct these things and forestall a feeling of irritation or worse in fellow humans? Who is there to prevent more bad feeling from slipping out into the mass that is humanity?
Ever see a shopping cart left in a parking place in a crowded parking lot? Or left smack in the middle of a parking space so that no one can park there until it is moved? Bet you have.
Ever ran over a nail someone left in the road after seeing it lying there and figuring it was someone else's job to remove it? "I didn't leave it there. Why should I take care of it?"
Whose job - whose responsibility is it to pick up the books, clean the book cover, tell an employee about the spilled butter, put the shopping carts back where they belong, pick up the nail? Is that your job or is it mine?
The first time this question really came home to me, I was sitting at a sidewalk coffee house beside a busy street where a large object had fallen into the middle of the street. I watched as cars veered around it and as other customers commented on the danger of that object lying there. It finally came to me that if I didn't remove it, nobody would. It finally came to me the real meaning of, "If not me, who?"
But listen to this. A different book that I was reading was that "Hate Mail From Cheerleaders" that I told you about. I read about a star basketball athlete that needed a kidney. Six thousand people volunteered to give him their kidney. People that had never met him, but because he was their hero, they would give him a kidney. Now listen to this:
One guy - a guy named Warren, wanted to give the athlete his kidney, but when he started reading about the many thousands of people on a list for a kidney, thought, "Why should this guy receive a kidney simply because he was a star athlete?" So he volunteered to give up a kidney to the first one on the list or to whomever matched his blood type. Now you talk about a service to humanity, what kind of a person could do something like that? Not me.
I''m sitting in Barnes and Noble reading a book when I notice an employee stacking books on a shelf. He leaves and as a customer walks by, the books drop one after the other until a pile of ten or twelve books lie on the floor. The customer looks back and keeps on walking. The employee is out of sight.
I notice that the book I am reading has a sticky red circle on the cover, obviously left by a soft drink in a glass.
We go to Mimi's to eat. It is very busy - a 25 minute wait. We decide to sit at the counter. We see an employee drop a gob of butter on the tile floor. Waitresses and busboys dodge it to keep from stepping in it and maybe slipping and breaking a bone or two.
Who is there to correct these things? Who is there to correct these things and forestall a feeling of irritation or worse in fellow humans? Who is there to prevent more bad feeling from slipping out into the mass that is humanity?
Ever see a shopping cart left in a parking place in a crowded parking lot? Or left smack in the middle of a parking space so that no one can park there until it is moved? Bet you have.
Ever ran over a nail someone left in the road after seeing it lying there and figuring it was someone else's job to remove it? "I didn't leave it there. Why should I take care of it?"
Whose job - whose responsibility is it to pick up the books, clean the book cover, tell an employee about the spilled butter, put the shopping carts back where they belong, pick up the nail? Is that your job or is it mine?
The first time this question really came home to me, I was sitting at a sidewalk coffee house beside a busy street where a large object had fallen into the middle of the street. I watched as cars veered around it and as other customers commented on the danger of that object lying there. It finally came to me that if I didn't remove it, nobody would. It finally came to me the real meaning of, "If not me, who?"
But listen to this. A different book that I was reading was that "Hate Mail From Cheerleaders" that I told you about. I read about a star basketball athlete that needed a kidney. Six thousand people volunteered to give him their kidney. People that had never met him, but because he was their hero, they would give him a kidney. Now listen to this:
One guy - a guy named Warren, wanted to give the athlete his kidney, but when he started reading about the many thousands of people on a list for a kidney, thought, "Why should this guy receive a kidney simply because he was a star athlete?" So he volunteered to give up a kidney to the first one on the list or to whomever matched his blood type. Now you talk about a service to humanity, what kind of a person could do something like that? Not me.
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