Turn of Month
28 February 2006
Sun peeked in and looked about
Didn’t like what it saw, so went off to pout
Rain swung by for awhile as well
Decided it preferred an inland dell
High tide’s come and ebbed away
Just been a cyclical kind of day
Last day of the month means party’s about over
Last day to bask in privileged clover
Tomorrow starts a new month meant for someone new
Think I hear my Big Boy and his favorite mew
Christians may mark tomorrow as the start of Lent
But here we remember the eldest heaven sent
Max and his siblings were born six years ago
And ever since he claimed me, my life has been flow
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
Still Mulling
Still Mulling
27 February 2006
Gift giving has always been a complicated thing for me, both more and less than it ought to be, if others are to be believed. The most meaningful gifts come from the heart, not the wallet, but something of the head has to be involved as well.
When I was very young, sit-coms and other family fare invariably presented breakfast in bed as the ideal way to please parents. This, of course, didn’t fare so well in my real life laboratory. In fact, after the first disastrous endeavor, (not nearly as catastrophic as anything depicted on television,) the deed was forbidden. Cleanup was bearable, but the waste was not. Those were harder times when tales of two loaves per penny were still common. Foolish child that I was, I considered this a lifetime ban. All right, I admit it: laziness shored up the tenet long after logic had undermined it.
The gift of a deed is not in the doing, I think, nearly as much as it is in the timing of the deed. When I was young, Mother was the whirlwind. As time passed and she was in a position to reap the whirlwind, she would have been far more appreciative of the unexpected, unsolicited deed. Now, I see my whirlwind just below the horizon with none to stand between me and my own reaping.
27 February 2006
Gift giving has always been a complicated thing for me, both more and less than it ought to be, if others are to be believed. The most meaningful gifts come from the heart, not the wallet, but something of the head has to be involved as well.
When I was very young, sit-coms and other family fare invariably presented breakfast in bed as the ideal way to please parents. This, of course, didn’t fare so well in my real life laboratory. In fact, after the first disastrous endeavor, (not nearly as catastrophic as anything depicted on television,) the deed was forbidden. Cleanup was bearable, but the waste was not. Those were harder times when tales of two loaves per penny were still common. Foolish child that I was, I considered this a lifetime ban. All right, I admit it: laziness shored up the tenet long after logic had undermined it.
The gift of a deed is not in the doing, I think, nearly as much as it is in the timing of the deed. When I was young, Mother was the whirlwind. As time passed and she was in a position to reap the whirlwind, she would have been far more appreciative of the unexpected, unsolicited deed. Now, I see my whirlwind just below the horizon with none to stand between me and my own reaping.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Reflections on Mom
Reflections on Mom
26 February 2006
When I was still living at home and Mom was still alive, she’d make sure we knew that her birth month was coming, and why that mattered. Now, she didn’t ask much – just one day, but somehow she never quite seemed to get what she really wanted. She was a fairly conventional lady: referred to herself and her peers as “girls”, believed that a woman’s role was to support her man and raise the children, believed that life was meant to be lived without complaint. All she asked of us was just one day. She didn’t make a big deal out of it, though she did expect to be let out of the kitchen and taken to a “nice” dinner with her twin that day. She did figure that since there were two of them, that ought to carry enough weight to warrant her one day of release, once a year. And, of course, she liked pretty little things with big price tags, though her idea of big was actually pretty modest, in keeping with the rest of her. Looking back, it’s easy enough to see why she didn’t think she was asking too much.
We didn’t think it was too much, either; at least, not the shiny little things with the big tags. That was the easy part. We were all working and money was flowing pretty freely back then. Her keeping us mindful of the timetable was really all the help any of us needed. Spending money was such an easy salve for noisily twinging consciences that were all too easily salved. That one day, though, that was the hard part. Somehow, I don’t know that she ever got that one day. I look back now with regret and understanding, too late. The words and the gifts came all too easily, the simplest of gestures and thought not easily or early or eagerly enough. The woman gave so much to so many so freely. She deserved a more generous family.
Now when I look back on my own birth month haul and think of what I sought vs. what I got, I understand all too well… too late. The objects are dutiful; the actions priceless. Those actions would have been so much more validation of worth, so much more appreciation of services rendered, so much more lasting in gratification than the objects she accumulated over the years. We thought we loved her; did she?
26 February 2006
When I was still living at home and Mom was still alive, she’d make sure we knew that her birth month was coming, and why that mattered. Now, she didn’t ask much – just one day, but somehow she never quite seemed to get what she really wanted. She was a fairly conventional lady: referred to herself and her peers as “girls”, believed that a woman’s role was to support her man and raise the children, believed that life was meant to be lived without complaint. All she asked of us was just one day. She didn’t make a big deal out of it, though she did expect to be let out of the kitchen and taken to a “nice” dinner with her twin that day. She did figure that since there were two of them, that ought to carry enough weight to warrant her one day of release, once a year. And, of course, she liked pretty little things with big price tags, though her idea of big was actually pretty modest, in keeping with the rest of her. Looking back, it’s easy enough to see why she didn’t think she was asking too much.
We didn’t think it was too much, either; at least, not the shiny little things with the big tags. That was the easy part. We were all working and money was flowing pretty freely back then. Her keeping us mindful of the timetable was really all the help any of us needed. Spending money was such an easy salve for noisily twinging consciences that were all too easily salved. That one day, though, that was the hard part. Somehow, I don’t know that she ever got that one day. I look back now with regret and understanding, too late. The words and the gifts came all too easily, the simplest of gestures and thought not easily or early or eagerly enough. The woman gave so much to so many so freely. She deserved a more generous family.
Now when I look back on my own birth month haul and think of what I sought vs. what I got, I understand all too well… too late. The objects are dutiful; the actions priceless. Those actions would have been so much more validation of worth, so much more appreciation of services rendered, so much more lasting in gratification than the objects she accumulated over the years. We thought we loved her; did she?
Multimedia As Cultural Vehicle
Watching a dvd is like reading a book: when the tale is done, the screen goes blank, like the closing of a cover on that final page. Silence ensues, and there is time to reflect and to ponder what has just passed through your sensory apparatus, brain paths, and thought processes. One is free to pursue lines of thought beyond the final page, the closing scene; unless, of course, one makes the conscious effort to become engaged with something else.
When a book is done, there is the possibility of picking up another, of course. When a dvd is done, on the other hand, a mere push or two of a button will bring up further sensory input, whether from regular television broadcasts or from supporting materials on the dvd. If, however, one eschews cable or DSL subscription and lives in a signal-free region, then viewing dvds becomes even more like reading books. One must perforce rise to select and input a fresh dvd if one is to go on viewing materials, just as one must make a conscious choice of new reading materials. This time gap plays a significant role in the formulation of one’s response to the material experienced, for without a period of gestation, there is inescapable overflow and intermixing of impressions from the uninterrupted flow of input, comparable to the experience of reading multiple books concurrently.
The educational system as it is currently designed encourages such multi-tasking. High school and college students, even an increasing number of middle and elementary school students, are all being taught in departmentalized institutions. In such a setup, each teacher or instructor is allowed to focus on a particular discipline, while students are expected to absorb all the subjects to which they are exposed and to take everything in holistically while retaining a compartmentalized clarity of “it” all. While this is particularly useful in our increasingly computerized society, it yields a very different impression and leads to assessments of material at variance with those of yore.
Yes, of yore. Who uses such language any longer? Jokesters writing script material for the now defunct television series, Friends, did. Fantasy writers hearkening back to the days of heraldry do. Players of certain computing games might. The general public, however, is increasingly distanced from such language, making literature commonly read but a few decades ago as difficult to comprehend as Orwellian newspeak was in its time.
Despite the ways in which advances in technology are distancing language and knowledge base from the past, however, the fact that dvds can and do incorporate multiple sensory inputs, including sight and sound, words, pictures, and music, makes dvds both viable and vital. Multimedia brings together many of the arts through which culture has traditionally been expressed, preserved, and conveyed, from imagery through music and narrative. If multimedia is the new vehicle for literature and thus for culture, then it should be recognized and embraced as such. Whether we close one cover before opening another or stream disparate discs together, these are the bards of our lives.
When a book is done, there is the possibility of picking up another, of course. When a dvd is done, on the other hand, a mere push or two of a button will bring up further sensory input, whether from regular television broadcasts or from supporting materials on the dvd. If, however, one eschews cable or DSL subscription and lives in a signal-free region, then viewing dvds becomes even more like reading books. One must perforce rise to select and input a fresh dvd if one is to go on viewing materials, just as one must make a conscious choice of new reading materials. This time gap plays a significant role in the formulation of one’s response to the material experienced, for without a period of gestation, there is inescapable overflow and intermixing of impressions from the uninterrupted flow of input, comparable to the experience of reading multiple books concurrently.
The educational system as it is currently designed encourages such multi-tasking. High school and college students, even an increasing number of middle and elementary school students, are all being taught in departmentalized institutions. In such a setup, each teacher or instructor is allowed to focus on a particular discipline, while students are expected to absorb all the subjects to which they are exposed and to take everything in holistically while retaining a compartmentalized clarity of “it” all. While this is particularly useful in our increasingly computerized society, it yields a very different impression and leads to assessments of material at variance with those of yore.
Yes, of yore. Who uses such language any longer? Jokesters writing script material for the now defunct television series, Friends, did. Fantasy writers hearkening back to the days of heraldry do. Players of certain computing games might. The general public, however, is increasingly distanced from such language, making literature commonly read but a few decades ago as difficult to comprehend as Orwellian newspeak was in its time.
Despite the ways in which advances in technology are distancing language and knowledge base from the past, however, the fact that dvds can and do incorporate multiple sensory inputs, including sight and sound, words, pictures, and music, makes dvds both viable and vital. Multimedia brings together many of the arts through which culture has traditionally been expressed, preserved, and conveyed, from imagery through music and narrative. If multimedia is the new vehicle for literature and thus for culture, then it should be recognized and embraced as such. Whether we close one cover before opening another or stream disparate discs together, these are the bards of our lives.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Objects vs Deeds
“A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say;
I say
It just begins
To live
That day.”
~Emily Dickinson~
These pithy words have been attributed to Emily Dickinson, though I’ve never been able to find them in any publications of her collected works. Over the years they have stimulated some spirited discussions, mostly concerning whether one prefers yelling or the silent treatment. As a person who grew up with one each of such parents, (yeller and silent one,) I was fascinated by people’s responses to the question. The discussions made me realize why my own parents had always been so concerned about what my habit of voicing my opinions in public places might say to others about them as parents and as people. (Yes, paranoia runs rampant in my family, as much because of nurture as nature.) This month, however, these words popped back into my head under very different circumstances.
A long-standing practice of mine is to take the entire month of February to celebrate life, specifically mine. This has led to some valid concerns regarding the common practice of gift-giving. Now, I have repeatedly stated that objects are not as significant to me as actions. An object, after all, is given once it is transferred to the recipient, whereas attitudes, deeds, and treatment can last so much longer. That, I suppose reasonably, has become the source of discontent for those more materialistically-oriented, primarily because of the seemingly endless nature of service vs. object. Now I ask you: would you prefer an expensive object or a month of service? (Explanations appreciated.) (
When it is said,
Some say;
I say
It just begins
To live
That day.”
~Emily Dickinson~
These pithy words have been attributed to Emily Dickinson, though I’ve never been able to find them in any publications of her collected works. Over the years they have stimulated some spirited discussions, mostly concerning whether one prefers yelling or the silent treatment. As a person who grew up with one each of such parents, (yeller and silent one,) I was fascinated by people’s responses to the question. The discussions made me realize why my own parents had always been so concerned about what my habit of voicing my opinions in public places might say to others about them as parents and as people. (Yes, paranoia runs rampant in my family, as much because of nurture as nature.) This month, however, these words popped back into my head under very different circumstances.
A long-standing practice of mine is to take the entire month of February to celebrate life, specifically mine. This has led to some valid concerns regarding the common practice of gift-giving. Now, I have repeatedly stated that objects are not as significant to me as actions. An object, after all, is given once it is transferred to the recipient, whereas attitudes, deeds, and treatment can last so much longer. That, I suppose reasonably, has become the source of discontent for those more materialistically-oriented, primarily because of the seemingly endless nature of service vs. object. Now I ask you: would you prefer an expensive object or a month of service? (Explanations appreciated.) (
Great Truths Floating around the Internet
GREAT TRUTHS THAT LITTLE CHILDREN HAVE LEARNED:
1) No matter how hard you try, you can't baptize cats.
2) When your Mom is mad at your Dad, don't let her brush your hair.
3) If your sister hits you, don't hit her back. They always catch the second
person.
4) Never ask your 3-year-old brother to hold a tomato.
5) You can't trust dogs to watch your food.
6) Don't sneeze when someone is cutting your hair.
7) Never hold a Dust-Buster and a cat at the same time.
8) You can't hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk.
9) Don't wear polka-dot underwear under white shorts.
10) The best place to be when you're sad is Grandpa's lap.
GREAT TRUTHS THAT ADULTS HAVE LEARNED:
1) Raising teenagers is like nailing Jell-O to a tree.
2) Wrinkles don't hurt.
3) Families are like fudge...mostly sweet, with a few nuts.
4) Today's mighty oak is just yesterday's nut that held its ground.
5) Laughing is good exercise: it's like jogging on the inside.
6) Middle age is when you choose your cereal for the fiber, not the
toy.
GREAT TRUTHS ABOUT GROWING OLD:
1) Growing up is mandatory; growing old is optional.
2) Forget the health food; I need all the preservatives I can get.
3) When you fall down, you wonder what else you can do while you're
down there.
4) You're getting old when you get the same sensation from a rocking chair
that you once got from a roller coaster.
5) It's frustrating when you know all the answers but nobody bothers to
ask you the questions.
6) Time may be a great healer, but it's a lousy beautician.
7) Wisdom comes with age, but sometimes age comes alone.
THE FOUR STAGES OF LIFE:
1) You believe in Santa Claus.
2) You don't believe in Santa Claus.
3) You are Santa Claus.
4) You look like Santa Claus.
SUCCESS:
At age 4 success is . . not peeing in your pants.
At age 12 success is having friends.
At age 16 success is . . having a drivers license.
At age 35 success is . having money.
At age 50 success is . . . having money.
At age 70 success is . . . having a drivers license.
At age 75 success is . having friends.
At age 80 success is not peeing in your pants.
Always remember to forget the troubles that pass your way;
BUT NEVER forget the blessings that come each day.
1) No matter how hard you try, you can't baptize cats.
2) When your Mom is mad at your Dad, don't let her brush your hair.
3) If your sister hits you, don't hit her back. They always catch the second
person.
4) Never ask your 3-year-old brother to hold a tomato.
5) You can't trust dogs to watch your food.
6) Don't sneeze when someone is cutting your hair.
7) Never hold a Dust-Buster and a cat at the same time.
8) You can't hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk.
9) Don't wear polka-dot underwear under white shorts.
10) The best place to be when you're sad is Grandpa's lap.
GREAT TRUTHS THAT ADULTS HAVE LEARNED:
1) Raising teenagers is like nailing Jell-O to a tree.
2) Wrinkles don't hurt.
3) Families are like fudge...mostly sweet, with a few nuts.
4) Today's mighty oak is just yesterday's nut that held its ground.
5) Laughing is good exercise: it's like jogging on the inside.
6) Middle age is when you choose your cereal for the fiber, not the
toy.
GREAT TRUTHS ABOUT GROWING OLD:
1) Growing up is mandatory; growing old is optional.
2) Forget the health food; I need all the preservatives I can get.
3) When you fall down, you wonder what else you can do while you're
down there.
4) You're getting old when you get the same sensation from a rocking chair
that you once got from a roller coaster.
5) It's frustrating when you know all the answers but nobody bothers to
ask you the questions.
6) Time may be a great healer, but it's a lousy beautician.
7) Wisdom comes with age, but sometimes age comes alone.
THE FOUR STAGES OF LIFE:
1) You believe in Santa Claus.
2) You don't believe in Santa Claus.
3) You are Santa Claus.
4) You look like Santa Claus.
SUCCESS:
At age 4 success is . . not peeing in your pants.
At age 12 success is having friends.
At age 16 success is . . having a drivers license.
At age 35 success is . having money.
At age 50 success is . . . having money.
At age 70 success is . . . having a drivers license.
At age 75 success is . having friends.
At age 80 success is not peeing in your pants.
Always remember to forget the troubles that pass your way;
BUT NEVER forget the blessings that come each day.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Hybrid
I was looking at blogs and came across this amusing link prefaced by this query:
What do you get when you cross Star Wars with Whole Foods?
http://www.storewars.org/flash/index.html
What do you get when you cross Star Wars with Whole Foods?
http://www.storewars.org/flash/index.html
Multitasking and CPU Speeds
Multi-tasking and CPU Speeds
(Or the Lack Thereof)
22 February 2006
I’ve never been fast… quick, of occasion, but never fast. I’m one of those sad souls who feel compelled to turn full attention to one task at a time. This makes savoring experiences much easier, I think, but it does limit the number of experiences one can fit into one lifetime. So it was with some surprise today that I found myself actually multi-tasking. Turns out when a CPU takes an interminable amount of time to load a graphics intensive program or subset, there’s just so much Freecell or Minesweeper one can play before going stir-crazy. Thus it was that I find myself at the end of the day with laundry, dishes, housekeeping, and even record-keeping all done with the afternoon stretching out before me, never mind the evening. Even JJ and Max seem satisfied with the attention each has received today, between vigorous games and long love fests. The only real downside I see is a sense of nagging guilt that I have not given my work my full attention, but what is one to do while awaiting the loading of a screen, (besides silently scream)? Seriously, now what’ll I do with myself? Guess it’s finally time to start that great manuscript that has floated in and out of my head ad nauseum…
(Or the Lack Thereof)
22 February 2006
I’ve never been fast… quick, of occasion, but never fast. I’m one of those sad souls who feel compelled to turn full attention to one task at a time. This makes savoring experiences much easier, I think, but it does limit the number of experiences one can fit into one lifetime. So it was with some surprise today that I found myself actually multi-tasking. Turns out when a CPU takes an interminable amount of time to load a graphics intensive program or subset, there’s just so much Freecell or Minesweeper one can play before going stir-crazy. Thus it was that I find myself at the end of the day with laundry, dishes, housekeeping, and even record-keeping all done with the afternoon stretching out before me, never mind the evening. Even JJ and Max seem satisfied with the attention each has received today, between vigorous games and long love fests. The only real downside I see is a sense of nagging guilt that I have not given my work my full attention, but what is one to do while awaiting the loading of a screen, (besides silently scream)? Seriously, now what’ll I do with myself? Guess it’s finally time to start that great manuscript that has floated in and out of my head ad nauseum…
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
More Random EMail
More Random E-Mail
21 February 2006
SOME GOOD QUESTIONS
1. Ever wonder about those people who spend $2.00 apiece on those little bottles of Evian water?
Try spelling Evian backwards: NAIVE
2. Isn't making a smoking section in a restaurant like making a peeing section in a swimming pool?
3. OK.... so ! if the Jacksonville Jaguars are known as the "Jags" and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers are known as the "Bucs," what does that make the Tennessee Titans?
4. If 4 out of 5 people SUFFER from diarrhea...does that mean that one enjoys it?
5. There are three religious truths:
a. Jews do not recognize Jesus as the Messiah.
b. Protestants do not recognize the Pope as the leader of the Christian
faith.
c. Baptists do not recognize each other in the liquor store or at
Hooters.
6. If people from Poland are called Poles, why aren't people from Holland
called Holes?
7. Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery?
8. If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?
9. Why do croutons come in airtight packages? Aren't they just stale bread
to begin with?
10. Why is a person who plays the piano called a pianist but a person who
drives a racecar is not called a racist?
11. Why isn't the number 11 pronounced onety one?
12. If lawyers are disbarred and clergymen defrocked, doesn't it follow that
electricians can be delighted, musicians denoted, cowboys deranged,
models deposed, tree surgeons debarked, and dry cleaners
depressed?
13. If Fed Ex and UPS were to merge, would they call it Fed UP?
14. Do Lipton Tea employees take coffee breaks?
15. What hair color do they put on the driver's licenses of bald men?
16. I was thinking about how people seem to read the Bible a whole lot
more as they get older; then it dawned on me .....they're cramming for
their final exam.
17. I thought about how mothers feed their babies with tiny little spoons
and forks, so I wondered what do Chinese mothers use? toothpicks?
(Offensive, but I let the Baptist crack go, so might as well give equal time, I guess...)
18. Why do they put pictures of criminals up in the Post Office? What are
we supposed to do, write to them? Why don't they just put their
pictures on the postage stamps so the mailmen can look for them
while they deliver the mail?
19. If it's true that we are here to help others, then what exactly are the
others here for?
20. You never really learn to swear until you learn to drive.
21. Ever wonder what the speed of lightning would be if it didn't zigzag?
22. If a cow laughed, would milk come out of her nose?
23. Whatever happened to Preparations A through G?
24. As income tax time approaches, did you ever notice: When you put the
two words "The" and "IRS" together it spells "THEIRS"?
21 February 2006
SOME GOOD QUESTIONS
1. Ever wonder about those people who spend $2.00 apiece on those little bottles of Evian water?
Try spelling Evian backwards: NAIVE
2. Isn't making a smoking section in a restaurant like making a peeing section in a swimming pool?
3. OK.... so ! if the Jacksonville Jaguars are known as the "Jags" and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers are known as the "Bucs," what does that make the Tennessee Titans?
4. If 4 out of 5 people SUFFER from diarrhea...does that mean that one enjoys it?
5. There are three religious truths:
a. Jews do not recognize Jesus as the Messiah.
b. Protestants do not recognize the Pope as the leader of the Christian
faith.
c. Baptists do not recognize each other in the liquor store or at
Hooters.
6. If people from Poland are called Poles, why aren't people from Holland
called Holes?
7. Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery?
8. If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?
9. Why do croutons come in airtight packages? Aren't they just stale bread
to begin with?
10. Why is a person who plays the piano called a pianist but a person who
drives a racecar is not called a racist?
11. Why isn't the number 11 pronounced onety one?
12. If lawyers are disbarred and clergymen defrocked, doesn't it follow that
electricians can be delighted, musicians denoted, cowboys deranged,
models deposed, tree surgeons debarked, and dry cleaners
depressed?
13. If Fed Ex and UPS were to merge, would they call it Fed UP?
14. Do Lipton Tea employees take coffee breaks?
15. What hair color do they put on the driver's licenses of bald men?
16. I was thinking about how people seem to read the Bible a whole lot
more as they get older; then it dawned on me .....they're cramming for
their final exam.
17. I thought about how mothers feed their babies with tiny little spoons
and forks, so I wondered what do Chinese mothers use? toothpicks?
(Offensive, but I let the Baptist crack go, so might as well give equal time, I guess...)
18. Why do they put pictures of criminals up in the Post Office? What are
we supposed to do, write to them? Why don't they just put their
pictures on the postage stamps so the mailmen can look for them
while they deliver the mail?
19. If it's true that we are here to help others, then what exactly are the
others here for?
20. You never really learn to swear until you learn to drive.
21. Ever wonder what the speed of lightning would be if it didn't zigzag?
22. If a cow laughed, would milk come out of her nose?
23. Whatever happened to Preparations A through G?
24. As income tax time approaches, did you ever notice: When you put the
two words "The" and "IRS" together it spells "THEIRS"?
Monday, February 20, 2006
Reflections on Class
Reflections on Class
20 February 2006
On further consideration, I have realized that the American athletes who seem to be doing well are the ones who most exemplify that which I love about sport and athletes in general. They simply, quietly, efficiently go about their business without the spotlight, the pre-Game endorsements, the histrionics of less successful if more highly touted showboats, and they are the ones who are bringing home the medals. They conduct themselves with the kind of class I admire, to which I aspire, and in which I can take vicarious pride that we share nationality.
Similarly, I have only recently discovered this blogging frontier where there are clearly still many uncleared, unfenced territories. Here I have found and continue to find writing that does not have the accolades that accompany more traditionally published writings, yet it is writing that I find draws me to return with regularity. I do not often display their urls as links to follow, though they are rapidly filling up my bookmark menus, even as subsets. They are the unheralded gems, the well-kept secrets that nevertheless have much to offer.
Perhaps I need to follow Pollyanna’s example more often instead of getting so discouraged by the dross daily trumpeted in several prominent mainstream venues.
There are the BAFTAs awarded last night, during which Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe each took home a minor award.
There was LeBron James’ performance in the NBA All-Star game, and the very fact that such a fine young man is a positive role model emerging to fill the gap left by Grant Hill.
There is the double trouble celebration held here yesterday, thrown by really cool people for really grateful recipients.
There was today’s clear blue skies and wide open freeways; never mind what the thermometers said (and continue to say).
Life can be good, if I just let it.
20 February 2006
On further consideration, I have realized that the American athletes who seem to be doing well are the ones who most exemplify that which I love about sport and athletes in general. They simply, quietly, efficiently go about their business without the spotlight, the pre-Game endorsements, the histrionics of less successful if more highly touted showboats, and they are the ones who are bringing home the medals. They conduct themselves with the kind of class I admire, to which I aspire, and in which I can take vicarious pride that we share nationality.
Similarly, I have only recently discovered this blogging frontier where there are clearly still many uncleared, unfenced territories. Here I have found and continue to find writing that does not have the accolades that accompany more traditionally published writings, yet it is writing that I find draws me to return with regularity. I do not often display their urls as links to follow, though they are rapidly filling up my bookmark menus, even as subsets. They are the unheralded gems, the well-kept secrets that nevertheless have much to offer.
Perhaps I need to follow Pollyanna’s example more often instead of getting so discouraged by the dross daily trumpeted in several prominent mainstream venues.
There are the BAFTAs awarded last night, during which Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe each took home a minor award.
There was LeBron James’ performance in the NBA All-Star game, and the very fact that such a fine young man is a positive role model emerging to fill the gap left by Grant Hill.
There is the double trouble celebration held here yesterday, thrown by really cool people for really grateful recipients.
There was today’s clear blue skies and wide open freeways; never mind what the thermometers said (and continue to say).
Life can be good, if I just let it.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Fare Well Fair Weath
Fare Well Fair Weather
17 February 2006
So much for bragging rights, whether at the Olympics, or here at home, where we’re experiencing record low temperatures and meteorologists promise rain for the Sunday barbecue.
American athletes are an eclectic bunch, and none are more individualistic than the snowboarders. Curious, then, that they are the ones doing the best job of upholding the honor of the U.S. abroad, with one hotdogging exception. Of course, she’s female, which is, I suppose, divergent enough to qualify. As one who has long felt betrayed by NBC, I don’t actually mind that the athletes they’ve selected to tout have been experiencing less than stellar success. As one generally proud of the atmosphere in this country that has so often produced international championship competitors, I am disappointed that those doing well seem to be getting less press than those who are falling short. Perhaps I should read different headlines.
The weather, on the other hand, is a different story, my opening line notwithstanding. Yesterday dawned that cold, clear, crispy critter day that is simultaneously invigorating and groan evoking. I woke up swearing, which seemed to warm me up satisfactorily, actually. By the time I’d bundled up and piled into the car, things were warming up, from the car engine to my numb extremities. The waitress at my new favorite breakfast restaurant was a) late, b) slow, c) disaffected; on the other hand, she did score me an underripe half cantaloupe and the house specialty: upside down apple pie. Interesting breakfast, yes…
The views from the Bay Bridge were spectacular. As Barbra once sang, you could see forever, so it seemed. The rush hour traffic had obligingly worked itself off, so the trip through the City was as smooth as could be, except for one unfortunate idiot who had the inexplicable need to cut me short going past 80 m.p.h…. in front of a CHP. It was a pleasure to watch said CHP mount his cycle and accelerate past my rapidly decelerating vehicle. The pleasure was magnified tenfold as I sailed serenely past the poor sod pulled over on the side of the freeway moments later. The mildest twinge of guilt passed through me as I noted my glee, which I quickly toned down to merely annoying smug satisfaction. I’ll do penance later; that moment was worth the guilt.
Nothing gives me greater pleasure than the sights and smells of the Pacific Ocean, even here in the cold north. The waves were clean and crisp, not at all roiling with mud as they sometimes do. The pier was moderately lined with the usual fishing dilettantes and regular pros. The new snack shop was open, which was a nice change of pace. Too bad I gave the fellow too much information when he offered me a drink. (Told him my need for output was greater than my desire for input; gotta work on selection of information dissemination…)
Touring the old neighborhood was disturbing, as a great deal of construction has now been completed in the six short months since I’ve been gone. The wide open spaces are fenced in, and the blocks have been cluttered with overpriced housing selectively scattered with new stores. What was once a charming little cow town / suburb of the City has become more rolling burb clutter. Ah well…
Cruising El Camino, though, proved to be a wise alternative to booming on down the freeway. Pockets of resistance to the encroaching developmental projects still hold the line fiercely in a slow retreat down the peninsula. Glimpses of what life must have been like when the area was used for country retreats of the rich and idle remain, as do areas of what look like affordable housing, though they no longer are. The once sleepy town of San Mateo is a curious mix of old and new. Most important, however, is that it remains an excellent source of island-style ingredients for ono kine grub. Nearly as important is the ongoing existence of more of my favorite restaurants.
All that driving and eating can make eyes weary, so it’s important to take along a spare chauffeur. The ride home across yet another bridge, this one nearly ten miles long, was magnificent. The setting sun played hide and seek with sculling clouds, casting curious shadows on otherwise ugly brick walls up the 880 corridor. It’s times like that when knowing back roads just makes sense. And then it was time for fine feline lovings.
17 February 2006
So much for bragging rights, whether at the Olympics, or here at home, where we’re experiencing record low temperatures and meteorologists promise rain for the Sunday barbecue.
American athletes are an eclectic bunch, and none are more individualistic than the snowboarders. Curious, then, that they are the ones doing the best job of upholding the honor of the U.S. abroad, with one hotdogging exception. Of course, she’s female, which is, I suppose, divergent enough to qualify. As one who has long felt betrayed by NBC, I don’t actually mind that the athletes they’ve selected to tout have been experiencing less than stellar success. As one generally proud of the atmosphere in this country that has so often produced international championship competitors, I am disappointed that those doing well seem to be getting less press than those who are falling short. Perhaps I should read different headlines.
The weather, on the other hand, is a different story, my opening line notwithstanding. Yesterday dawned that cold, clear, crispy critter day that is simultaneously invigorating and groan evoking. I woke up swearing, which seemed to warm me up satisfactorily, actually. By the time I’d bundled up and piled into the car, things were warming up, from the car engine to my numb extremities. The waitress at my new favorite breakfast restaurant was a) late, b) slow, c) disaffected; on the other hand, she did score me an underripe half cantaloupe and the house specialty: upside down apple pie. Interesting breakfast, yes…
The views from the Bay Bridge were spectacular. As Barbra once sang, you could see forever, so it seemed. The rush hour traffic had obligingly worked itself off, so the trip through the City was as smooth as could be, except for one unfortunate idiot who had the inexplicable need to cut me short going past 80 m.p.h…. in front of a CHP. It was a pleasure to watch said CHP mount his cycle and accelerate past my rapidly decelerating vehicle. The pleasure was magnified tenfold as I sailed serenely past the poor sod pulled over on the side of the freeway moments later. The mildest twinge of guilt passed through me as I noted my glee, which I quickly toned down to merely annoying smug satisfaction. I’ll do penance later; that moment was worth the guilt.
Nothing gives me greater pleasure than the sights and smells of the Pacific Ocean, even here in the cold north. The waves were clean and crisp, not at all roiling with mud as they sometimes do. The pier was moderately lined with the usual fishing dilettantes and regular pros. The new snack shop was open, which was a nice change of pace. Too bad I gave the fellow too much information when he offered me a drink. (Told him my need for output was greater than my desire for input; gotta work on selection of information dissemination…)
Touring the old neighborhood was disturbing, as a great deal of construction has now been completed in the six short months since I’ve been gone. The wide open spaces are fenced in, and the blocks have been cluttered with overpriced housing selectively scattered with new stores. What was once a charming little cow town / suburb of the City has become more rolling burb clutter. Ah well…
Cruising El Camino, though, proved to be a wise alternative to booming on down the freeway. Pockets of resistance to the encroaching developmental projects still hold the line fiercely in a slow retreat down the peninsula. Glimpses of what life must have been like when the area was used for country retreats of the rich and idle remain, as do areas of what look like affordable housing, though they no longer are. The once sleepy town of San Mateo is a curious mix of old and new. Most important, however, is that it remains an excellent source of island-style ingredients for ono kine grub. Nearly as important is the ongoing existence of more of my favorite restaurants.
All that driving and eating can make eyes weary, so it’s important to take along a spare chauffeur. The ride home across yet another bridge, this one nearly ten miles long, was magnificent. The setting sun played hide and seek with sculling clouds, casting curious shadows on otherwise ugly brick walls up the 880 corridor. It’s times like that when knowing back roads just makes sense. And then it was time for fine feline lovings.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Cold Setting in Again
Cold Setting in Again
13 February 2006
Abraham Lincoln’s birthday passed again, relatively unmarked. The once great man lies cold and dead, his grave disturbed, his memory nearly forgotten. The land he led remains split, though not nearly as cleanly as his logs. In the country where he once proclaimed an unwillingness to allow lands to slip away in the name of liberty and equality, now is added further arguments as to how and if the land’s resources ought to be utilized, and whether or not its young people ought to be sent overseas to fight for the right to exploit other people’s resources in order to preserve our established way of life. Meanwhile, the original argument over which he ostensibly plunged us into civil war has mutated into more subtle scrimmages throughout society, never having been fully settled to anyone’s satisfaction.
Instead, we as a society have created and glorified a well-paid gladiator class built upon the backs and knees of the sons and daughters of the formerly enslaved and otherwise oppressed. These warriors continue to be sent into battle, regardless of health status. State-of-the-art medicine, driven in part by their physical needs, keeps their bodies honed for service until they break down. Then, like used cars, they are cast aside for younger, newer models. (This description, by the way, is intended to fit both soldiers and athletes.)
This coming weekend we as a nation will pause a moment to rest from our work, ostensibly in honor of the men who have led the country over the last century and a half, but really to catch our own breaths from the onslaughts of winter and to hope for a glimpse of spring. Then, we will return to work, leaving unmarked the bookend birthday of George Washington, the man who had such high hopes for the ideals on which this experimental nation was founded. Someone besides the untimely deceased JFK, Jr. should recall him with honor. After all, if he had not led, and led well, we would not even have our current opportunities to muck things up the way we do.
But I began this with thoughts of cold in mind, and not just politically. We as a people have a unified yet undeserved sense of entitlement, if a lesser sense of our nation’s greatness. This is very evident in the broadcast coverage of the Winter Olympics going on right now in Torino, Italy. As coverage of the third day of competition continues, the U.S. is coming up short in the medal count tally more often than not. The athletes our sponsors have sold to us as guaranteed standard bearers are faltering. True, it’s early in the competitions, but it would not be considered early if we had begun with a slew of bragging rights already won.
Meanwhile, Emily Hughes, the alternate women’s figure skater who has been bumped back up to first string, is fighting through the literal cold that has a firm grip on the Northeast. She needs more than enthusiasm to get to Torino in time to acclimate and prepare for her participation in the women’s competition next week. Will the media foolishly now turn its spotlight microscope on her as it did Michelle Kwan? Probably. In fact, they’ve already been out to her house, snowstorm notwithstanding. They’ve written off Kwan forever and they’re ready for fresh meat, wolves in the winter landscape that they are.
So where does our sense of entitlement originate? Are we watching its demise now? Is this the generation that will see Americans once again relegated to the status of overseas upstarts with more blow than show? What will we do when we are challenged to back up our words with actions? Will we retain our image as world thugs, or will we find a way to demonstrate grace under fire? Where are those among us who will let example speak louder than words in a positive way?
13 February 2006
Abraham Lincoln’s birthday passed again, relatively unmarked. The once great man lies cold and dead, his grave disturbed, his memory nearly forgotten. The land he led remains split, though not nearly as cleanly as his logs. In the country where he once proclaimed an unwillingness to allow lands to slip away in the name of liberty and equality, now is added further arguments as to how and if the land’s resources ought to be utilized, and whether or not its young people ought to be sent overseas to fight for the right to exploit other people’s resources in order to preserve our established way of life. Meanwhile, the original argument over which he ostensibly plunged us into civil war has mutated into more subtle scrimmages throughout society, never having been fully settled to anyone’s satisfaction.
Instead, we as a society have created and glorified a well-paid gladiator class built upon the backs and knees of the sons and daughters of the formerly enslaved and otherwise oppressed. These warriors continue to be sent into battle, regardless of health status. State-of-the-art medicine, driven in part by their physical needs, keeps their bodies honed for service until they break down. Then, like used cars, they are cast aside for younger, newer models. (This description, by the way, is intended to fit both soldiers and athletes.)
This coming weekend we as a nation will pause a moment to rest from our work, ostensibly in honor of the men who have led the country over the last century and a half, but really to catch our own breaths from the onslaughts of winter and to hope for a glimpse of spring. Then, we will return to work, leaving unmarked the bookend birthday of George Washington, the man who had such high hopes for the ideals on which this experimental nation was founded. Someone besides the untimely deceased JFK, Jr. should recall him with honor. After all, if he had not led, and led well, we would not even have our current opportunities to muck things up the way we do.
But I began this with thoughts of cold in mind, and not just politically. We as a people have a unified yet undeserved sense of entitlement, if a lesser sense of our nation’s greatness. This is very evident in the broadcast coverage of the Winter Olympics going on right now in Torino, Italy. As coverage of the third day of competition continues, the U.S. is coming up short in the medal count tally more often than not. The athletes our sponsors have sold to us as guaranteed standard bearers are faltering. True, it’s early in the competitions, but it would not be considered early if we had begun with a slew of bragging rights already won.
Meanwhile, Emily Hughes, the alternate women’s figure skater who has been bumped back up to first string, is fighting through the literal cold that has a firm grip on the Northeast. She needs more than enthusiasm to get to Torino in time to acclimate and prepare for her participation in the women’s competition next week. Will the media foolishly now turn its spotlight microscope on her as it did Michelle Kwan? Probably. In fact, they’ve already been out to her house, snowstorm notwithstanding. They’ve written off Kwan forever and they’re ready for fresh meat, wolves in the winter landscape that they are.
So where does our sense of entitlement originate? Are we watching its demise now? Is this the generation that will see Americans once again relegated to the status of overseas upstarts with more blow than show? What will we do when we are challenged to back up our words with actions? Will we retain our image as world thugs, or will we find a way to demonstrate grace under fire? Where are those among us who will let example speak louder than words in a positive way?
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Olympic Vultures
The Olympic competitions can offer for our viewing pleasure some of the finest sporting equivalents of ballet, but their coverage leaves much to be desired.
Michelle Kwan, now 25, has served as the American icon for figure skating for a full decade, but now she is an aging athlete on the comeback trail from injury and enforced inactivity. Does any of this register with those who cover the Olympics? Yes, but all they see is potential catastrophe and they want to record and broadcast every moment of it. They call this drama; I call it scavenging at its worst.
Then there's the bit Professor Batty pointed out about Bob Costas talking over Pavoratti's singing: what's up with that? Why are American broadcasters (and some athletes) so oblivious of courtesy except when they feel slighted? What is it about our culture that leads to such public faux pas?
Michelle Kwan, now 25, has served as the American icon for figure skating for a full decade, but now she is an aging athlete on the comeback trail from injury and enforced inactivity. Does any of this register with those who cover the Olympics? Yes, but all they see is potential catastrophe and they want to record and broadcast every moment of it. They call this drama; I call it scavenging at its worst.
Then there's the bit Professor Batty pointed out about Bob Costas talking over Pavoratti's singing: what's up with that? Why are American broadcasters (and some athletes) so oblivious of courtesy except when they feel slighted? What is it about our culture that leads to such public faux pas?
Friday, February 10, 2006
Warmth Excites Me
The sun's been shining all week long
Convincing me that I feel strong
So I've been moving boxes all morning long
Just hope evening doesn't prove me wrong
When the sun comes out
I tend to shout
Instead of speaking in a whisper
Max and JJ bound instead of being content to purr
My sense of pacing goes out the window
I just want to get into the garden and sow
Though I'm equally sure as the warmth increases
The thought of weeding will send me to pieces
Yes,warmth excites me, that is true
Though smurf that I am, I love being blue
Convincing me that I feel strong
So I've been moving boxes all morning long
Just hope evening doesn't prove me wrong
When the sun comes out
I tend to shout
Instead of speaking in a whisper
Max and JJ bound instead of being content to purr
My sense of pacing goes out the window
I just want to get into the garden and sow
Though I'm equally sure as the warmth increases
The thought of weeding will send me to pieces
Yes,warmth excites me, that is true
Though smurf that I am, I love being blue
Thursday, February 09, 2006
A Winding Road
A Winding Road
9 February 2006
This has been a week of impromptu decisions leading to unexpected ways: a trip across water, a ride on a rail, a meandering journey across three towns and six bookstores in search of an ever more elusive item. One of the great joys of research that seems less common in these days of instant Internet searches is the unexpected find. The dusty volume that draws the eye when searching for a particular text, the article one finds oneself reading while skimming for other information, the curiously concealed marginalia written by others who have come before, all seem relegated to the old-fashioned and the economically depressed. Along the byways I have trod this week have lain such treasures, startling as much for their unanticipated delight as for their presence outside dusty halls. I should tread more, I think, and I shall. I feel young again.
9 February 2006
This has been a week of impromptu decisions leading to unexpected ways: a trip across water, a ride on a rail, a meandering journey across three towns and six bookstores in search of an ever more elusive item. One of the great joys of research that seems less common in these days of instant Internet searches is the unexpected find. The dusty volume that draws the eye when searching for a particular text, the article one finds oneself reading while skimming for other information, the curiously concealed marginalia written by others who have come before, all seem relegated to the old-fashioned and the economically depressed. Along the byways I have trod this week have lain such treasures, startling as much for their unanticipated delight as for their presence outside dusty halls. I should tread more, I think, and I shall. I feel young again.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Fish
Fish
6 February 2006
Fish, wet and raw, call my name
I get Gollum’s song, for I feel the same
How can one resist the thought
Of that cold, smooth, succulent onslaught
Of sensations: taste, touch, and feel
Of crunchy clam, squishy roe, and sweet eel
Of tuna raw and salmon wild
Tasting of life, not farm-fresh mild
Seas and rivers are fed by streams
Bearing tastes to fulfill my dreams
You may lust after the wet and wild;
I dream of free fish undefiled
Crustaceans are also a tasty bunch
Raw, steamed, or fried for that tasty crunch
Baked in mayonnaise is also good
It’s only when frozen or canned that they taste like wood
When the meat’s gone, the bones I’ll steep
So bring on the treasures of shallows and deep
6 February 2006
Fish, wet and raw, call my name
I get Gollum’s song, for I feel the same
How can one resist the thought
Of that cold, smooth, succulent onslaught
Of sensations: taste, touch, and feel
Of crunchy clam, squishy roe, and sweet eel
Of tuna raw and salmon wild
Tasting of life, not farm-fresh mild
Seas and rivers are fed by streams
Bearing tastes to fulfill my dreams
You may lust after the wet and wild;
I dream of free fish undefiled
Crustaceans are also a tasty bunch
Raw, steamed, or fried for that tasty crunch
Baked in mayonnaise is also good
It’s only when frozen or canned that they taste like wood
When the meat’s gone, the bones I’ll steep
So bring on the treasures of shallows and deep
Noon Chimes
Noon Chimes
6 February 2006
Every day for three years in high school my day came to an abrupt halt as the bells of the Cathedral of St. Andrew chimed the noon hour and we all paused to observe the Angelus. The majority of nuns had just been recalled to their home convent and this was that brief time when the spiritual and secular vied for control of daily life. Though my college belfry also rang out the noon hour, life did not come to a halt; the secular side was already beginning to win the war across the country.
Many years have passed since then. My life has taken me far from noontime chimes and daily religious observances. Today, however, noon was once again marked for me, this time by the bells of the Port of San Francisco. I find it curious that a secular tradition has brought back this flood of half-buried memories from youth. I feel old… and all too secular… How far have I wandered along life’s byways in pursuit of unexplored paths…
6 February 2006
Every day for three years in high school my day came to an abrupt halt as the bells of the Cathedral of St. Andrew chimed the noon hour and we all paused to observe the Angelus. The majority of nuns had just been recalled to their home convent and this was that brief time when the spiritual and secular vied for control of daily life. Though my college belfry also rang out the noon hour, life did not come to a halt; the secular side was already beginning to win the war across the country.
Many years have passed since then. My life has taken me far from noontime chimes and daily religious observances. Today, however, noon was once again marked for me, this time by the bells of the Port of San Francisco. I find it curious that a secular tradition has brought back this flood of half-buried memories from youth. I feel old… and all too secular… How far have I wandered along life’s byways in pursuit of unexplored paths…
Caveat
Caveat
6 February 2006
I don’t mind dying
You know that’s true
It’s the pain of illness
That’s got me blue
So I have to be good, I guess
If I want to avoid all that painfulness
That comes from ignoring medical advice
By eating as casually as rolling the dice
6 February 2006
I don’t mind dying
You know that’s true
It’s the pain of illness
That’s got me blue
So I have to be good, I guess
If I want to avoid all that painfulness
That comes from ignoring medical advice
By eating as casually as rolling the dice
Fried Chicken
Fried Chicken
6 February 2006
Fried chicken is on my mind
Fried things of every kind
LDL readings be damned
Health industry warnings be rammed
If living long means eschewing bliss
Then longevity I’ll just have to miss
What’s the point of getting old and grumpy
I’d rather die young and happily lumpy
The people that matter don’t mind how I look
What truly matters is who knows how to cook
If the food is tasteless, then what’s the sense?
Who’s going to care fifty years hence?
We’re all going to live before we die
So who’s got the oil? I say, “Let’s FRY!”
6 February 2006
Fried chicken is on my mind
Fried things of every kind
LDL readings be damned
Health industry warnings be rammed
If living long means eschewing bliss
Then longevity I’ll just have to miss
What’s the point of getting old and grumpy
I’d rather die young and happily lumpy
The people that matter don’t mind how I look
What truly matters is who knows how to cook
If the food is tasteless, then what’s the sense?
Who’s going to care fifty years hence?
We’re all going to live before we die
So who’s got the oil? I say, “Let’s FRY!”
Whale-Road
Whale-Road
February 6, 2006
I cannot tell a lie: I’m in love with “the whale road,” a concept I first encountered in an Old English class. As someone whose childhood imagination was excited by tales of the Israelites crossing the Red Sea and Jesus walking on water, how could I not be? This morning as I sat astern on the City-bound ferry, I marveled anew at the sight of the twin streams of churning water streaming out from below to form a wake under the sun rising across a pink-painted sky of cloud-strewn blue canvas. (Okay, I admit that’s a pretty debris-filled sentence, kinda like the Bay water…)
The whale-road promises to lead to a fantasy land of excitement, adventure, novelty, and opportunity; but it’s a one-way highway. That wake is a road not to be taken — not by me, not yet…
Today is the fifth anniversary of Mom’s last day alive. Five years ago tonight she went to bed, never to rise again. Her tombstone marks tomorrow as the anniversary of her death; today marks her last day of life. She has taken her whale-road, wherever it may have taken her.
Wither wouldst thou go? Shall I someday follow? My path and thine go separate ways, and always have, alas. Fare thee well, then, and may God go with each of us along our separate ways. So be it.
February 6, 2006
I cannot tell a lie: I’m in love with “the whale road,” a concept I first encountered in an Old English class. As someone whose childhood imagination was excited by tales of the Israelites crossing the Red Sea and Jesus walking on water, how could I not be? This morning as I sat astern on the City-bound ferry, I marveled anew at the sight of the twin streams of churning water streaming out from below to form a wake under the sun rising across a pink-painted sky of cloud-strewn blue canvas. (Okay, I admit that’s a pretty debris-filled sentence, kinda like the Bay water…)
The whale-road promises to lead to a fantasy land of excitement, adventure, novelty, and opportunity; but it’s a one-way highway. That wake is a road not to be taken — not by me, not yet…
Today is the fifth anniversary of Mom’s last day alive. Five years ago tonight she went to bed, never to rise again. Her tombstone marks tomorrow as the anniversary of her death; today marks her last day of life. She has taken her whale-road, wherever it may have taken her.
Wither wouldst thou go? Shall I someday follow? My path and thine go separate ways, and always have, alas. Fare thee well, then, and may God go with each of us along our separate ways. So be it.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
My Little Yellow Pad
My Little Yellow Pad
February 4, 2006
I love my little yellow pad
For which I’m very very glad
Whenever a thought floats through my mind
(Or anything of a similar kind)
I grab my pad and pen real quick
Hoping that fleeting thought will stick
Blue ink flows across the page
Making me feel like an ancient sage
Till I stop to read what I’ve written
Then I feel like I’ve been bitten
For time and time and time again
That precious thought eludes my pen
I keep hoping lightning will hit
But all I ever come up with is shit
What I read on the page, you see,
Is dross — so I just get up and pee
February 4, 2006
I love my little yellow pad
For which I’m very very glad
Whenever a thought floats through my mind
(Or anything of a similar kind)
I grab my pad and pen real quick
Hoping that fleeting thought will stick
Blue ink flows across the page
Making me feel like an ancient sage
Till I stop to read what I’ve written
Then I feel like I’ve been bitten
For time and time and time again
That precious thought eludes my pen
I keep hoping lightning will hit
But all I ever come up with is shit
What I read on the page, you see,
Is dross — so I just get up and pee
Friday, February 03, 2006
Hyper/Hypo
Which is more desirable: to live a hyperactive life though one knows that death must, of necessity, be a hypothermic experience; or to pursue a quieter, more contemplative life without the extremes before going ever so quietly into that good night?
This subject arose in conversation with lyk, to whom credit must be and is therefore herewith duly given. (Go ahead: butcher that sentence, if you think you can do better than I already have. ;->)
When I was a child, I desired fame, glory, the amassing of credit for great deeds. As an adult, I find myself pressed more and more simply to be able to pay for lesser pursuits. Forget fame and glory; if I can get me a goodly life upon which to reflect, I'll count my blessings and curse no missed opportunities (any longer).
Yet still there is that within that calls, or perhaps it is merely the societally defined aspirations that continue to echo in the hollow spaces between my ears, leading me to believe they are true thoughts of my own. Though I know that my brain is more likely to be hard than hollow, though I know cognitively that brain cells move apart instead of burning out as I continue to pickle and fry them, still the vocabulary remains, if not the sense to use it well.
Is it foolish to hope that few if any will read this if I am foolish enough to publish it?
Silly question, that.
This subject arose in conversation with lyk, to whom credit must be and is therefore herewith duly given. (Go ahead: butcher that sentence, if you think you can do better than I already have. ;->)
When I was a child, I desired fame, glory, the amassing of credit for great deeds. As an adult, I find myself pressed more and more simply to be able to pay for lesser pursuits. Forget fame and glory; if I can get me a goodly life upon which to reflect, I'll count my blessings and curse no missed opportunities (any longer).
Yet still there is that within that calls, or perhaps it is merely the societally defined aspirations that continue to echo in the hollow spaces between my ears, leading me to believe they are true thoughts of my own. Though I know that my brain is more likely to be hard than hollow, though I know cognitively that brain cells move apart instead of burning out as I continue to pickle and fry them, still the vocabulary remains, if not the sense to use it well.
Is it foolish to hope that few if any will read this if I am foolish enough to publish it?
Silly question, that.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
What?
What's a menu without any dishes?
Widespread hunger
What's a job that keeps getting cancelled?
Lack of gainful employment
What's a program that isn't funded?
A political ploy
What's a pronouncement without substantiation?
Hot air
What's a crowd without a brain?
A mob
Widespread hunger
What's a job that keeps getting cancelled?
Lack of gainful employment
What's a program that isn't funded?
A political ploy
What's a pronouncement without substantiation?
Hot air
What's a crowd without a brain?
A mob
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Passing
Passing
February 1, 2006
How can one not pause a moment to note the passing of a lady who worked so long and hard to sustain the memory and legacy of a husband cut down in his prime? Coretta Scott King, the late widow of the even later Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., must have been a very strong woman. She stood and marched by the side of her world-renowned husband, bore and reared his children, and continued the fight he began but did not live to see to the conclusion. She forebore the limelight while continuing the work, stepping forward at need rather than out of lust for recognition. Yet sadly, in the final days before her passing, she had the misfortune to see and hear her children, grown with privileges she and her husband had never known, squabbling over her dead husband’s bones, so to speak.
Now the Speaker of the House and the Senate President have ordered the nation’s flags lowered in honor of Coretta Scott King’s passing. The President of the United States and his wife have claimed her as friend and proclaimed their admiration for her lifelong efforts. The Indian ambassador is busily drafting an appropriate condolence for the family of the woman who never forgot the source of her husband’s and her own inspiration: Mahatma Ghandi. She is being hailed as the First Lady of the Civil Rights Movement, a movement that in recent years has been treated as passé and past its time by those who would do away with the mechanisms put in place to open opportunities for the historically disadvantaged.
In the midst of all the hoopla that Mrs. King so justly deserves for her efforts and achievements over the past half century, those who would see those efforts outlive their instigators must take care that hers is not a funeral for the movement as well. When that final nail goes into her coffin, the current generation must ensure that it is not also the final nail in the coffin of the civil rights movement in this country.
February 1, 2006
How can one not pause a moment to note the passing of a lady who worked so long and hard to sustain the memory and legacy of a husband cut down in his prime? Coretta Scott King, the late widow of the even later Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., must have been a very strong woman. She stood and marched by the side of her world-renowned husband, bore and reared his children, and continued the fight he began but did not live to see to the conclusion. She forebore the limelight while continuing the work, stepping forward at need rather than out of lust for recognition. Yet sadly, in the final days before her passing, she had the misfortune to see and hear her children, grown with privileges she and her husband had never known, squabbling over her dead husband’s bones, so to speak.
Now the Speaker of the House and the Senate President have ordered the nation’s flags lowered in honor of Coretta Scott King’s passing. The President of the United States and his wife have claimed her as friend and proclaimed their admiration for her lifelong efforts. The Indian ambassador is busily drafting an appropriate condolence for the family of the woman who never forgot the source of her husband’s and her own inspiration: Mahatma Ghandi. She is being hailed as the First Lady of the Civil Rights Movement, a movement that in recent years has been treated as passé and past its time by those who would do away with the mechanisms put in place to open opportunities for the historically disadvantaged.
In the midst of all the hoopla that Mrs. King so justly deserves for her efforts and achievements over the past half century, those who would see those efforts outlive their instigators must take care that hers is not a funeral for the movement as well. When that final nail goes into her coffin, the current generation must ensure that it is not also the final nail in the coffin of the civil rights movement in this country.
More E-Mail: 9-1-1 Calls
Subject: Real 911 Calls, believe it or not
Dispatcher: 9-1-1 What is you emergency?
Caller: I heard what sounded like gunshots coming from the brown house on the corner.
Dispatcher; Do you have an address?
Caller: No, I'm wearing a blouse and slacks, why?
Dispatcher: 9-1-1- What is your emergency?
Caller: Someone broke into my house and took a bite out of my ham and chesses sandwich.
Dispatcher; Excuse me?
Caller: I made a ham and cheese sandwich and left it on the kitchen table and when I came back from the bathroom, someone had taken a bite out of it.
Dispatcher: Was anything else taken?
Caller: No, but this has happened to me before and I'm sick and tired of it.
Dispatcher: 9-1-1- What is the nature of your emergency?
Caller: I'm trying to reach nine eleven but my phone doesn't have an eleven on it.
Dispatcher: This is nine eleven.
Caller: I thought you just said it was nine-one-one
Dispatcher: Yes, ma'am nine-one-one and nine-eleven are the same thing.
Caller: Hone, I may be old, but I'm not stupid.
AND THE WINNER IS...............
Dispatcher: 9-1-1
Caller: Yeah, I' having trouble breathing. I'm all out of breath. Darn.. I think I'm going to pass out.
Dispatcher: Sir, where are you calling from?
Caller: I'm at a pay phone. North and Foster. Damn.......
Dispatcher: Sir, an ambulance is on the way. Are you an asthmatic?
Caller: No
Dispatcher: What were you doing before you started having trouble breathing?
Caller: Running from the Police
Dispatcher: 9-1-1 What is you emergency?
Caller: I heard what sounded like gunshots coming from the brown house on the corner.
Dispatcher; Do you have an address?
Caller: No, I'm wearing a blouse and slacks, why?
Dispatcher: 9-1-1- What is your emergency?
Caller: Someone broke into my house and took a bite out of my ham and chesses sandwich.
Dispatcher; Excuse me?
Caller: I made a ham and cheese sandwich and left it on the kitchen table and when I came back from the bathroom, someone had taken a bite out of it.
Dispatcher: Was anything else taken?
Caller: No, but this has happened to me before and I'm sick and tired of it.
Dispatcher: 9-1-1- What is the nature of your emergency?
Caller: I'm trying to reach nine eleven but my phone doesn't have an eleven on it.
Dispatcher: This is nine eleven.
Caller: I thought you just said it was nine-one-one
Dispatcher: Yes, ma'am nine-one-one and nine-eleven are the same thing.
Caller: Hone, I may be old, but I'm not stupid.
AND THE WINNER IS...............
Dispatcher: 9-1-1
Caller: Yeah, I' having trouble breathing. I'm all out of breath. Darn.. I think I'm going to pass out.
Dispatcher: Sir, where are you calling from?
Caller: I'm at a pay phone. North and Foster. Damn.......
Dispatcher: Sir, an ambulance is on the way. Are you an asthmatic?
Caller: No
Dispatcher: What were you doing before you started having trouble breathing?
Caller: Running from the Police
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