Mobile Homes should have tornado warning labels on them.
John Edwards causes cancer.
There were 38 comments under a YouTube video of Heart's What About Love. All of them, rightfully, lauded the group's prowess, with special praise for the Wilson sisters. But one of them, after the praise, went on to say, "Hey, but what about Kelly Clarkson? Is she great or what?"
There's a special Laotian coffee that costs $300/pound. Seriously. The coffee beans obviously come from special trees. But then the really special part is that the beans have to pass through the digestive system (whicn begins at the mouth and ends at the anus) of a civet. True story.
Another true story: A man in 15th Century England translated the bible from Latin to English. Current events functioned slower then and it took a couple of years for religious sentiment to turn against him. He was condemned to death. But while things were fomenting against him, he died. The powers that be didn't let that get in the way of the fomentations so his body was dug up, he was burned at the stake and his charred body thrown into a river. The ECLU did not lift a hand to deter these events.
The Jews, Christians and Muslims all worship the god of Abraham. Try reading the news and human history since 33 AD and wrapping your mind around this fact.
Men look at a woman and wonder if they would sleep with her. Sometimes it's an easy decision. Yes. No. But sometimes it's not so easy and you dither around, waiting. Waiting for what? For a sign. What sign? You'll know when you see it, hear it, semll it. Trust me.
Women look at a man and wonder if he makes more or less money than the guy she's with now. Again, sometimes it's an easy decision. Yes. No. But sometimes it's not so easy and she has to run a credit check. Which brings up the question of personal standards, as in how much is enough. There are some very wonderful women out there who settle for less than obscene wealth. It's true, I've seen it!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
KARAOKE FOR THE BLIND
First, not many blind people are going to read this post. So it's not like I'm TRYING to insult anyone!
The concept of Karaoke for the Blind, or KftB, came to me as whatever the opposite of an epiphany is struck.
Yes, I was singing Karaoke to My Heart Will Go On. I just didn't jump into it... Nope, I watched Celine sing it first. I helped her, and then I did it on my own. Of course I videoed it and put it Youtube.
After it loaded, I called my wife in to watch it with me, figuring that she'd accept it as a love offering.
So far she thinks she may have broken a rib laughing. And her laughter will go on. She copied the URL and called her sisters. They did a conference call, all of them watching it and laughing.
I was packing a bag, pretending to be affronted and acting like I was going to walk out on her. She was too busy laughing to take notice. So I quit what was obviously an empty gesture and now I'm revealing her perfidious nature to the world. That'll teach her.
Anyway, it finally hit me now low I'd sunk. And I wanted to claw my eyes out so I'd never do bad karaoke again. And that's where the title of the blog came from.
Full Circle, the essence of life. What goes around comes around, if life is a perfect circle. But it's not, it's an ellipse.
The concept of Karaoke for the Blind, or KftB, came to me as whatever the opposite of an epiphany is struck.
Yes, I was singing Karaoke to My Heart Will Go On. I just didn't jump into it... Nope, I watched Celine sing it first. I helped her, and then I did it on my own. Of course I videoed it and put it Youtube.
After it loaded, I called my wife in to watch it with me, figuring that she'd accept it as a love offering.
So far she thinks she may have broken a rib laughing. And her laughter will go on. She copied the URL and called her sisters. They did a conference call, all of them watching it and laughing.
I was packing a bag, pretending to be affronted and acting like I was going to walk out on her. She was too busy laughing to take notice. So I quit what was obviously an empty gesture and now I'm revealing her perfidious nature to the world. That'll teach her.
Anyway, it finally hit me now low I'd sunk. And I wanted to claw my eyes out so I'd never do bad karaoke again. And that's where the title of the blog came from.
Full Circle, the essence of life. What goes around comes around, if life is a perfect circle. But it's not, it's an ellipse.
No Good Deed goes Unpunished...
I'm still not sure that I really understand the old saying that captions this post, but what I suffered yesterday, at the hands of a good deed, seems to fit the bill.
A friend, Big T, left his jacket in a golf cart a week ago Wednesday. This was at Eagle Glen, in Corona, after our weekly Wednesday golf match. )n Tuesday, when he was getting ready for yesterday's game, he discovered his loss. He called Eagle Glen and the lost & found department had his jacket. So yesterday, knowing that I'm on the road a lot, Big T asked me to stop by Eagle Glen the next time I was in the vicinity. It just so happened that I was heading for Lake Elsinore after yesterday's game, in San Bernardino. So I magnanimously said I'd do it that very day.
Here's his description of the jacket, "It's green, with a red tartan lining." Now when I hear "tartan" I think Scotland and the clans and kilts... Wouldn't you?
So I get to Eagle Glen and I strut into the pro shop (I'm strutting because in this particular weekly game, our team had won $7.50 each from Big T's team.) Obviously sensing my golfing superiority, the Pro in the Shop asked how he could help me. I described the nature of my visit.
He dutifully began a search. He searched everywhere, with me behind him. Finally he found someone who remembered talking to Big T. That worthy gentleman went down to the cart barn and returned with a jacket.
"Is this the jacket," he asked.
"Looks like it..." I said, my voice trailing off, as it ought to when you are eliding. And I was eliding to beat the band. Because I could sense the change in atmosphere. I was no longer an esteemed, valued guest.
"Well, sir," he said, "This coat is green, but I hardly call the lining a red tartan..."
I gave it a good looking over, stalling for time. I had broken into a slight sweat. What they thought of the sudden sheen coating my forehead can only be conjectured, but the Pro in the Shop was edging towards the phone.
"No," I said, with a firmness in my voice denoting a hard decision finally arrived at, "This is a paisley lining!"
The two men, who now seemed to be looming over me, looked at each other. "Yes," said the Pro in the Shop, "This is most certainly paisley. Not tartan, but paisley."
"Oh, I quite agree. But I'm sure that a quick phone call to Big T will straighten this out." Trying to remain calm, I pulled out my cell phone and found Big T on the speed dial list and punched the button. After just one ring, Big T answered.
"Hello, Bert..."
I smiled at the two loomers. "Heh, heh...that's me, Bert..." Which was a stupid thing to say because the two guys couldn't hear him. So I plowed ahead. "Hey, Tony, I'm here at Eagle Glen, and they may have your coat. I say 'may' because there's a problem..."
The Pro in the Shop interrupted to ask me if my phone had a speaker function, and that if it did, to put the call on speaker. In my fumbling, I disconnected. Now I was really sweating. I've been in jail, and just like this was developing, it was because of a misunderstanding, and it's not something I wished to repeat. I got Big T back on the phone and put him on speaker.
The Pro in the Shop immediately took over. "Sir, did you call yesterday to ask about a jacket?"
Big T's voice, all tinny from the low power speaker, and his own internal tinnyness, answered. "Yes, I called yesterday. I think I spoke with John, in lost & found, and he..."
"That's all good and well, sir, but could you describe the jacket?"
"Yeah, it's green, with a red tartan lining." My chin hit my chest. Panic was beginning to set in. It was all over now. They'd be calling the cops any second. I wondered about making a run for it, but after the 27 holes we'd played, and them being young and in shape, I didn't think it was the thing to do.
"Sir, the coat we have here is green, all right, but it doesn't have a red tartan lining." The tone of his voice implied a proper sussing out of evil doing.
"Well, it's that swirly thing that's like something psychedelic, you know..."
"Swirly? How do yo mean?" From the way this question oozed out of the Pro in the Shop, you knew he was toying with Big T. In my mind I was screaming, 'Say paisley, you big dummy, say paisley!!'
"You know, that swirly kind of random pattering. Hey, Margie, what do you call that swirly pattern stuff that's all psychedelic?" There was a response that we couldn't hear. "Oh yeah, thanks. It's paisley."
My whole body snapped to attention. "I'll take that jacket. Thanks for your help." I ripped it out of the hands of the Pro in the Shop and walked sedately, but proudly, back to my car.
Tartan... What a doofus!
A friend, Big T, left his jacket in a golf cart a week ago Wednesday. This was at Eagle Glen, in Corona, after our weekly Wednesday golf match. )n Tuesday, when he was getting ready for yesterday's game, he discovered his loss. He called Eagle Glen and the lost & found department had his jacket. So yesterday, knowing that I'm on the road a lot, Big T asked me to stop by Eagle Glen the next time I was in the vicinity. It just so happened that I was heading for Lake Elsinore after yesterday's game, in San Bernardino. So I magnanimously said I'd do it that very day.
Here's his description of the jacket, "It's green, with a red tartan lining." Now when I hear "tartan" I think Scotland and the clans and kilts... Wouldn't you?
So I get to Eagle Glen and I strut into the pro shop (I'm strutting because in this particular weekly game, our team had won $7.50 each from Big T's team.) Obviously sensing my golfing superiority, the Pro in the Shop asked how he could help me. I described the nature of my visit.
He dutifully began a search. He searched everywhere, with me behind him. Finally he found someone who remembered talking to Big T. That worthy gentleman went down to the cart barn and returned with a jacket.
"Is this the jacket," he asked.
"Looks like it..." I said, my voice trailing off, as it ought to when you are eliding. And I was eliding to beat the band. Because I could sense the change in atmosphere. I was no longer an esteemed, valued guest.
"Well, sir," he said, "This coat is green, but I hardly call the lining a red tartan..."
I gave it a good looking over, stalling for time. I had broken into a slight sweat. What they thought of the sudden sheen coating my forehead can only be conjectured, but the Pro in the Shop was edging towards the phone.
"No," I said, with a firmness in my voice denoting a hard decision finally arrived at, "This is a paisley lining!"
The two men, who now seemed to be looming over me, looked at each other. "Yes," said the Pro in the Shop, "This is most certainly paisley. Not tartan, but paisley."
"Oh, I quite agree. But I'm sure that a quick phone call to Big T will straighten this out." Trying to remain calm, I pulled out my cell phone and found Big T on the speed dial list and punched the button. After just one ring, Big T answered.
"Hello, Bert..."
I smiled at the two loomers. "Heh, heh...that's me, Bert..." Which was a stupid thing to say because the two guys couldn't hear him. So I plowed ahead. "Hey, Tony, I'm here at Eagle Glen, and they may have your coat. I say 'may' because there's a problem..."
The Pro in the Shop interrupted to ask me if my phone had a speaker function, and that if it did, to put the call on speaker. In my fumbling, I disconnected. Now I was really sweating. I've been in jail, and just like this was developing, it was because of a misunderstanding, and it's not something I wished to repeat. I got Big T back on the phone and put him on speaker.
The Pro in the Shop immediately took over. "Sir, did you call yesterday to ask about a jacket?"
Big T's voice, all tinny from the low power speaker, and his own internal tinnyness, answered. "Yes, I called yesterday. I think I spoke with John, in lost & found, and he..."
"That's all good and well, sir, but could you describe the jacket?"
"Yeah, it's green, with a red tartan lining." My chin hit my chest. Panic was beginning to set in. It was all over now. They'd be calling the cops any second. I wondered about making a run for it, but after the 27 holes we'd played, and them being young and in shape, I didn't think it was the thing to do.
"Sir, the coat we have here is green, all right, but it doesn't have a red tartan lining." The tone of his voice implied a proper sussing out of evil doing.
"Well, it's that swirly thing that's like something psychedelic, you know..."
"Swirly? How do yo mean?" From the way this question oozed out of the Pro in the Shop, you knew he was toying with Big T. In my mind I was screaming, 'Say paisley, you big dummy, say paisley!!'
"You know, that swirly kind of random pattering. Hey, Margie, what do you call that swirly pattern stuff that's all psychedelic?" There was a response that we couldn't hear. "Oh yeah, thanks. It's paisley."
My whole body snapped to attention. "I'll take that jacket. Thanks for your help." I ripped it out of the hands of the Pro in the Shop and walked sedately, but proudly, back to my car.
Tartan... What a doofus!
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
What's a passing grade?
If you think that there's someone or something grading your life, then it's easy to fall into a thought pattern that favors reincarnation. It's probably a more fun way of being 'born again' compared to the Christian version of 'born again.' In the case of Christianity, the rumor-mongers who wrote the old and new testaments gave a lot of details about who was judging and the criteria. I know absolute nothing about who or what reincarnationist think is in charge of assigning me to be born as Maiden Form Bra my next time around. I think that beats Prince Charles' expressed desire.
But right now, as you sit there playing with the waistband of your jockey shorts and wondering if your significant other was kidding about both of you dieting, who do you think is watching you? Do you think your Grader is making notes about where you go on the internet and what you do when you get there? And if you don't constantly sustain that "someone's watching me" attitude, does it mean you don't really believe?
One of the guys I play golf with was living a very typical SoCal life. Lots of gambling, drinking and fooling around. He was an inspiration to all of us. And then he had something go wrong with an important organ. No, it wasn't his penis, but thanks for the thought. It wasn't his heart, either, but it was right up there in importance, with institutes and charities founded on its behalf.
Our friend later confessed to us that the night before his operation he didn't sleep a wink, what with trying to strike a bargain with his Grader. My friend was cognizant of the fact that he was deeply flawed and certainly not capable of perfection. He kept admitting to his Grader that the worse off he came out of the operation, the better the "quality" of this life would be. He kept pushing and pushing in the bargaining process for 'decent' health, sexual strength and the ability to swing a golf club. In exchange he promised to stop drinking transparent liquors, sleeping with women under 35 (there was a LOT of bargaining on the cut off point!) and in exchange, he would give up his teeth if the Grader wanted them as part of the bargain. But he wouldn't even consider discussing his hair; that was strictly off the table.
So he had his operation. Now he says he can still perform sexually and only drinks beer and liquors of color. He still has his teeth but the Grader can have them if He wants them. He also bemoans the fact that he's not good at judging a woman's age. He says he feels it's the right thing to just assumes they're over 35.
There was a lot of sincere effort put into his bargaining. I believe it was all pointless. Just as I believe 'death bed confessions' are worthless, useless and the utmost in hypocrisy. On my death bed I'll be asking for forgiveness that I didn't try harder to enjoy myself. And I'll extend myself that forgiveness. It'll be my luck to come back as an A cup.
But right now, as you sit there playing with the waistband of your jockey shorts and wondering if your significant other was kidding about both of you dieting, who do you think is watching you? Do you think your Grader is making notes about where you go on the internet and what you do when you get there? And if you don't constantly sustain that "someone's watching me" attitude, does it mean you don't really believe?
One of the guys I play golf with was living a very typical SoCal life. Lots of gambling, drinking and fooling around. He was an inspiration to all of us. And then he had something go wrong with an important organ. No, it wasn't his penis, but thanks for the thought. It wasn't his heart, either, but it was right up there in importance, with institutes and charities founded on its behalf.
Our friend later confessed to us that the night before his operation he didn't sleep a wink, what with trying to strike a bargain with his Grader. My friend was cognizant of the fact that he was deeply flawed and certainly not capable of perfection. He kept admitting to his Grader that the worse off he came out of the operation, the better the "quality" of this life would be. He kept pushing and pushing in the bargaining process for 'decent' health, sexual strength and the ability to swing a golf club. In exchange he promised to stop drinking transparent liquors, sleeping with women under 35 (there was a LOT of bargaining on the cut off point!) and in exchange, he would give up his teeth if the Grader wanted them as part of the bargain. But he wouldn't even consider discussing his hair; that was strictly off the table.
So he had his operation. Now he says he can still perform sexually and only drinks beer and liquors of color. He still has his teeth but the Grader can have them if He wants them. He also bemoans the fact that he's not good at judging a woman's age. He says he feels it's the right thing to just assumes they're over 35.
There was a lot of sincere effort put into his bargaining. I believe it was all pointless. Just as I believe 'death bed confessions' are worthless, useless and the utmost in hypocrisy. On my death bed I'll be asking for forgiveness that I didn't try harder to enjoy myself. And I'll extend myself that forgiveness. It'll be my luck to come back as an A cup.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Saturday Night's All Right
My wife dragged me, kicking and screaming, to a wedding on Saturday night. We just got the pictures back from the computer, which is where I develop all my photos.
This formal wedding (It said, "Formal Attire" on the invitation) was held in a very nice 'Skate Shop' in Pomona, CA. Apparently my enthusiasm for golf is replaced in the groom by an equally avid affinity for skateboarding. I bet I'll play golf a lot longer than he'll be skateboarding.
The first photo above, right, is of the wedding venue, from near the door, looking towards the rear. We got there late, so we got lousy seats. Next is a photo of the cake. It was very good cake. And I was very pleased that neither the bride nor the groom tried to splatter cake on the other's face. What kind of way is that to start a marriage? What kind of behavior does it encourage?
Then there's a photo of the bride and my wife. Why the bride would chose to wear black is beyond me. My wife said she felt slightly uncomfortable wearing her old wedding gown, but it was the only formal item she has, rustic beings that we have become.
We didn't stay all that late, what with all the chores here on the Bananas' Plantation.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
One of those Conundrums that only bother Liberals...
A meshing of disparate scientific data is showing that Global Warming is the only thing that will end the AIDS epidemic, and that it was the fevers run by AIDS victims that was actually doing the Global Warming!
Rambling from no point to another no point, but doing it in style.
Or, What Happened to Baby Jane and the American Automobile Industry?
I don't remember the date. Heck, I'm not even sure now of the decade...
I know what started it: Some European automobile manufacturer ran an advertisement about their sports car. It could have been Aston-Martin, about their old DB5 model. The ad trumpeted (Trumpeted? For more trumpeting, see the blog below...) a technological achievement: the DB5 could go 0 to 100 mph in 28 seconds. (Today your Toyota Avalon, fully loaded with four ladies going to a bridge club, can do that.) But this was big news then...
A couple of weeks later Carroll Shelby had an ad put out that contained a reference to the Aston-Martin ad and went on to declare that Mr. Shelby's Shelby Cobra had just finished time trials and was consistently doing 0 to 100 and back to 0 in 21 seconds.
Can you imagine your chagrin had you taken possession of your new DB5 the day before that ad came out? Okay, maybe not chagrin... How about the total humiliation and mortification of knowing that your cronies at the club were all going to go out and buy Shelby Cobras and make you look the total fool?
Which is why I immediately vowed to always buy American, and lived to regret it.
What happened? Can I blame the unions? How can a guy be Way Macho Cool in an American car? (Car... we're' not talking trucks or SUVs, dawg!) Does America even make a Performance Automobie today?
I don't remember the date. Heck, I'm not even sure now of the decade...
I know what started it: Some European automobile manufacturer ran an advertisement about their sports car. It could have been Aston-Martin, about their old DB5 model. The ad trumpeted (Trumpeted? For more trumpeting, see the blog below...) a technological achievement: the DB5 could go 0 to 100 mph in 28 seconds. (Today your Toyota Avalon, fully loaded with four ladies going to a bridge club, can do that.) But this was big news then...
A couple of weeks later Carroll Shelby had an ad put out that contained a reference to the Aston-Martin ad and went on to declare that Mr. Shelby's Shelby Cobra had just finished time trials and was consistently doing 0 to 100 and back to 0 in 21 seconds.
Can you imagine your chagrin had you taken possession of your new DB5 the day before that ad came out? Okay, maybe not chagrin... How about the total humiliation and mortification of knowing that your cronies at the club were all going to go out and buy Shelby Cobras and make you look the total fool?
Which is why I immediately vowed to always buy American, and lived to regret it.
What happened? Can I blame the unions? How can a guy be Way Macho Cool in an American car? (Car... we're' not talking trucks or SUVs, dawg!) Does America even make a Performance Automobie today?
Ha ha ha! Organized Religion! Hee hee hee!
A note in today's local yokel newspaper, hot off the wire, from AP: "Mormon Church offended by Coffee House T-shirt depicting Angel Moroni drinking coffee that's being poured into the horn of his trumpet." That's the statue that most famously depicts Moroni. He is playing the guitar solo in Rodrigo's Concierto de Aranjuez... Not an easy feat on a valveless trumpet.
In the story there is talk about the Angel Moroni being a registered trademark.
Using their reasoning, an argument can be made that no drawing, caricature or graven image can be used showing the male penis because in 1979, having discovered mine, I registered a drawing of it with the United States Patent office. You can publish, or otherwise disseminate photographs of your own penis, but no image of a penis can be used in any medium without my say so, or the written permission of Major League Baseball.
That's what the Mormon Church's argument is based on... No one, ever, took a photograph of the Angel Moroni. Joseph Smith, the only human to meet Moroni face to face, never sat down with a police sketch artist. Perhaps there are Mormon artists who drew Moroni as they tried to illustrate Joseph's story. But Google Images didn't have any that look anything like the t-shirt in question. So the famous statue on top of the Salt Lake Temple is pretty much it for images of Moroni. So if the Mormon Church wanted to, they could claim that ANY image of a man holding a straight trumpet is Moroni and you can't use that image without their permission.
The whole brouhaha is really about a coffee house using the image, coffee being something that the Mormon Church says God doesn't want you to drink. If you drink coffee, I don't think you can enter a Mormon Temple. (But if you're drinking Diet Coke, you CAN enter a Mormon Temple!)
So I'm hoping that a brothel will soon open in Nevada called The Practice of Procreation, and will have a nameless statue in front of the entrance, of a robed male blowing a straight trumpet. I wouldn't even mind if they hedged their bet by having the 'angel' blowing on a trombone.
Hey, could the Catholic Church claim that it has a registered trademark on any depiction of the Virgin Mary?
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Wherein I ask the questions that really matter...
Here's a question I've asked before. My question, coming as it does from a deep sense of wonder and honest inquiry, has uniformly been met with disdain and outright ridicule. What's up with that?
Here's the question:
Assuming there was a Big Bang, and that with that explosion everything, and I mean EVERYTHING!, rushed away from the point of the explosion, doesn't it stand to reason that there is a "center" to our universe from which everything is moving away? And if so, isn't that 'empty space from which EVERYTHING is moving away,' growing?
Logic, at least as I practice it, dictates that this must be so. But people who have listened to my question have always responded along the lines of, "What rubbish!" and, "I say, are you daft?" or, "Bugger off."
A corollary question: Is there any object in the Universe that is not moving, that is totally, totally at rest? Besides my butt?
Here's the question:
Assuming there was a Big Bang, and that with that explosion everything, and I mean EVERYTHING!, rushed away from the point of the explosion, doesn't it stand to reason that there is a "center" to our universe from which everything is moving away? And if so, isn't that 'empty space from which EVERYTHING is moving away,' growing?
Logic, at least as I practice it, dictates that this must be so. But people who have listened to my question have always responded along the lines of, "What rubbish!" and, "I say, are you daft?" or, "Bugger off."
A corollary question: Is there any object in the Universe that is not moving, that is totally, totally at rest? Besides my butt?
I have a tattoo of a tattoo
Yesterday I started out in Sun City, CA, then went to Murrieta, then to Menifee, then to San Diego. I made money every where I went, except in Menifee, where I was playing golf with friends. Some friends... After San Diego, on my way home up the I-15, I stopped at the Pechanga Indian Gaming Casino in Temecula. (So close... If they were the Pachanga Indians, the Hispanics would have adopted them, what with 'pachanga' being a slang word for 'party' or 'wild erotic celebration.' Okay, maybe it's just 'party.')
My wife, who loves a good Pechanga pachanga, was stunned to learn that all I did at the casino was mope around the poker room waiting to hear some one say, "I'm all in." I have this gut level need to hear this said without mocking girlish laughter following the announcement.
It was a big poker room (poker room... hee hee!) and I wondered what the odds were in terms of me seeing someone I knew. Turned out a bookie could have given odds of 1/infinity and made money. Men outnumbered women in about the same ratio as sperm to eggs. What does that tell you about gambling?
My wife, who loves a good Pechanga pachanga, was stunned to learn that all I did at the casino was mope around the poker room waiting to hear some one say, "I'm all in." I have this gut level need to hear this said without mocking girlish laughter following the announcement.
It was a big poker room (poker room... hee hee!) and I wondered what the odds were in terms of me seeing someone I knew. Turned out a bookie could have given odds of 1/infinity and made money. Men outnumbered women in about the same ratio as sperm to eggs. What does that tell you about gambling?
Thursday, March 22, 2007
We're all Yokels
Most of us with internet proficiency would argue that this capacity alone raises us above any possibility of being labeled a yokel. But as with most deliberations, it's a matter of perspective.
Ask yourself, or anyone you know this set of questions:
What's your favorite planet?
What's your favorite stellar body?
What's your favorite solar system?
What's your favorite galaxy?
See? You and all the people you know are hopeless yokels. There are more galaxies in the universe than there are stars in the Milky Way galaxy. And how many stars are there in our galaxy? How many planets? And 99% of the people in our world who can understand my questions are going to give the same answers. We are six billion yokels strong, and busy yokeling up the numbers.
Ask yourself, or anyone you know this set of questions:
What's your favorite planet?
What's your favorite stellar body?
What's your favorite solar system?
What's your favorite galaxy?
See? You and all the people you know are hopeless yokels. There are more galaxies in the universe than there are stars in the Milky Way galaxy. And how many stars are there in our galaxy? How many planets? And 99% of the people in our world who can understand my questions are going to give the same answers. We are six billion yokels strong, and busy yokeling up the numbers.
Surges of Urges
As I began the effort to write this post I was listening to Heart, the rock band fronted by Anne & Nancy Wilson, singing What about Love? This is a song that causes surges of urges in my mind and body. I got up and did some Nancy Wilson kicks and otherwise got myself involved with my emotions.
After tiring myself out (two kicks) I sat down and started the tedious process of logging in. So now as I'm finally typing, Madonna is singing Vogue a song in which I am not at all emotionally invested.
Which is what this is about. Remember that game, "Name that Tune"? It's an old TV game show. It probably precedes TV... Two contestants vied to name a song, each contestant 'bidding' on how few notes he'd need to identify the song. Finally one of them, hearing the other say, "I can name that song in five notes" would say, "go ahead, name that tune." The orchestra would play five notes and the contestant on the spot would announce, "That's Rodrigo's Concierto De Aranjuez!" and win $10.
There are songs that I hate and I can name them, usually, in three notes or less. My index finger instantly stabs the radio presets and I change stations. I have a fierce hatred for some songs.
And here's what I find worthy of mention: There are people out there who feel the same fierce, primal, uplifting urges about the songs I hate as I do about the songs I love.
What I'm saying is that trying to establish differences between people based on skin color, sexual orientation, status, education, etc., are a waste of time. We should do it based on the things that surge our urges.
And I just checked: There is no Urges.com! Who wants in on the ground floor of this new web venture, matching people based on what gets them off? Hey, if you don't want to do it for the money, at least do it for world peace!
After tiring myself out (two kicks) I sat down and started the tedious process of logging in. So now as I'm finally typing, Madonna is singing Vogue a song in which I am not at all emotionally invested.
Which is what this is about. Remember that game, "Name that Tune"? It's an old TV game show. It probably precedes TV... Two contestants vied to name a song, each contestant 'bidding' on how few notes he'd need to identify the song. Finally one of them, hearing the other say, "I can name that song in five notes" would say, "go ahead, name that tune." The orchestra would play five notes and the contestant on the spot would announce, "That's Rodrigo's Concierto De Aranjuez!" and win $10.
There are songs that I hate and I can name them, usually, in three notes or less. My index finger instantly stabs the radio presets and I change stations. I have a fierce hatred for some songs.
And here's what I find worthy of mention: There are people out there who feel the same fierce, primal, uplifting urges about the songs I hate as I do about the songs I love.
What I'm saying is that trying to establish differences between people based on skin color, sexual orientation, status, education, etc., are a waste of time. We should do it based on the things that surge our urges.
And I just checked: There is no Urges.com! Who wants in on the ground floor of this new web venture, matching people based on what gets them off? Hey, if you don't want to do it for the money, at least do it for world peace!
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Guaranteed, or your money back!
Pretty scary words to a cynic.
But when you WANT to believe, the phrase is a show stopped. (If you leave out the 'h', it makes it a "sow stopper..." Truth by typo?)
Another newly minted phrase has been haunting me, as well: Inconvenient Truth. I predict this will soon become part of our daily lexicon. Much as 'At this point in time..." and ... what's the other phrase that one guy said and now everyone uses it, sometimes to mock, but mostly trying to be serious?
Anyway, it won't be long now before you'll hear 'inconvenient truth' on sitcoms.
Ugly Betty: But I love him!
Nasty White girl: Honey, here's an inconvenient truth, you're short, frumpy, over-weight and brown. He's never going to look at you and see the mother of his children!
Meg: Daddy, when I graduate I want to go to Harvard!
Peter Griffin (The Family Guy): Meg! You're ____ _____ _____ _______ and I ____ _____ ______ ______!
See? The stuff just writes itself when you have a good premise.
But when you WANT to believe, the phrase is a show stopped. (If you leave out the 'h', it makes it a "sow stopper..." Truth by typo?)
Another newly minted phrase has been haunting me, as well: Inconvenient Truth. I predict this will soon become part of our daily lexicon. Much as 'At this point in time..." and ... what's the other phrase that one guy said and now everyone uses it, sometimes to mock, but mostly trying to be serious?
Anyway, it won't be long now before you'll hear 'inconvenient truth' on sitcoms.
Ugly Betty: But I love him!
Nasty White girl: Honey, here's an inconvenient truth, you're short, frumpy, over-weight and brown. He's never going to look at you and see the mother of his children!
Meg: Daddy, when I graduate I want to go to Harvard!
Peter Griffin (The Family Guy): Meg! You're ____ _____ _____ _______ and I ____ _____ ______ ______!
See? The stuff just writes itself when you have a good premise.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Book Report
I just finished a book about human organ harvesting. It's a popular topic. There have been movies about it and a lot of books.
This one had the bad guys trying to follow Plato's Republic, with the bad guys playing the part of the Guardians. The other two castes were Producers and Auxiliaries. You could Google Plato's Republic and see how this plays out.
The bad guy Guardians were all doctors...transplantation specialists who figured that since they were the ones who did the transplantations, they should have the major say in who got the new organs. There's some merit to this notion, or at the very least, nothing really objectionable to the idea. But that quickly evolved into deciding that if X deserved a transplant, he should get it as soon as possilbe, meaning they had to find and kill a matching donor to get the needed organs. Very logical, if you're monomanical.
The protagonists were three disparate souls, two of whom fall in love. The third, having received the lung of one of the first two, gives back the lung and makes them real Guardians. It was a fun read: The Fifth Vial by Michael Palmer.
This one had the bad guys trying to follow Plato's Republic, with the bad guys playing the part of the Guardians. The other two castes were Producers and Auxiliaries. You could Google Plato's Republic and see how this plays out.
The bad guy Guardians were all doctors...transplantation specialists who figured that since they were the ones who did the transplantations, they should have the major say in who got the new organs. There's some merit to this notion, or at the very least, nothing really objectionable to the idea. But that quickly evolved into deciding that if X deserved a transplant, he should get it as soon as possilbe, meaning they had to find and kill a matching donor to get the needed organs. Very logical, if you're monomanical.
The protagonists were three disparate souls, two of whom fall in love. The third, having received the lung of one of the first two, gives back the lung and makes them real Guardians. It was a fun read: The Fifth Vial by Michael Palmer.
Know Thy Black Holes
A Bill Mahr routine:
"I'm the product of a mixed marriage. My mother is Jewish, my father is Catholic. I was raised Catholic, but with a Jewish sensibility. When I went to confession, I took my lawyer...
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I believe you know my attorney, Morris Fishbein..."
Okay, now it's me... Did you know that every galaxy examined has a Black Hole at it's center? The Black Hole at the center our Milky Way is massive. Or as more than a few scientists have opined, "It's Super Massive!" I get that a lot myself...
If you chose to assume there is a God, please explain why He created such magnificent Super Massive objects, perhaps the most profound and important of all His creations, and never mentioned it to his worshipers? After all, it is a possibility that the end of the Universe as we know it will come when all light, matter and energy, and the 11 dimensions of vibrating strings -- which will stop vibrating if God runs out of quarters -- are absorbed into these Black Holes.
(No religion, that I'm aware of, deals with the reality of the physical sciences. Why is this? ...Creationism!? Oh, please!)
So here is my suggestion: Religions should decree that Black Holes are the Hereafter. Meaning that each galaxy has its own Hereafter and everything winds up in it.
Why not? Introducing logic, and a touch of spirit of inquiry, into religion ought not to be automatically discouraged.
"I'm the product of a mixed marriage. My mother is Jewish, my father is Catholic. I was raised Catholic, but with a Jewish sensibility. When I went to confession, I took my lawyer...
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I believe you know my attorney, Morris Fishbein..."
Okay, now it's me... Did you know that every galaxy examined has a Black Hole at it's center? The Black Hole at the center our Milky Way is massive. Or as more than a few scientists have opined, "It's Super Massive!" I get that a lot myself...
If you chose to assume there is a God, please explain why He created such magnificent Super Massive objects, perhaps the most profound and important of all His creations, and never mentioned it to his worshipers? After all, it is a possibility that the end of the Universe as we know it will come when all light, matter and energy, and the 11 dimensions of vibrating strings -- which will stop vibrating if God runs out of quarters -- are absorbed into these Black Holes.
(No religion, that I'm aware of, deals with the reality of the physical sciences. Why is this? ...Creationism!? Oh, please!)
So here is my suggestion: Religions should decree that Black Holes are the Hereafter. Meaning that each galaxy has its own Hereafter and everything winds up in it.
Why not? Introducing logic, and a touch of spirit of inquiry, into religion ought not to be automatically discouraged.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Laztheism and Man's Appetites
You know those Seven Deadly Sins? Explosives, munitions, sugar, pornography, petroleum products, the Media & possessions?
Well, Laztheists know all about them and says you should avoid them all like the plague. But the thing is, you can't. Can you imagine being alive and not involving yourself with these "sins"? So it's not about avoiding them; it's about using them, instead of them using you.
Those other so called sins: pride, envy, gluttony, lust, anger, greed & sloth, are relatively meaningless without access to the first list of deadly sins. If you're living off the land, a bare subsistence existence, who cares if you're full of lust, or greed or envy? It's when you have full access to the first list of deadly sins that your behavior can become a problem.
Anyway, Laztheists, every one of them, will tell you, all things being equal, don't be a bully, don't blow people up, don't shoot them in the back, learn to take 'no' for an answer, don't believe everything you read or see, love who you can, not who you want... Get the point?
So, yes, Laztheists know how to dream big. But here's a difference... Laztheists know that violence can be a solution, and at times the best solution.
Well, Laztheists know all about them and says you should avoid them all like the plague. But the thing is, you can't. Can you imagine being alive and not involving yourself with these "sins"? So it's not about avoiding them; it's about using them, instead of them using you.
Those other so called sins: pride, envy, gluttony, lust, anger, greed & sloth, are relatively meaningless without access to the first list of deadly sins. If you're living off the land, a bare subsistence existence, who cares if you're full of lust, or greed or envy? It's when you have full access to the first list of deadly sins that your behavior can become a problem.
Anyway, Laztheists, every one of them, will tell you, all things being equal, don't be a bully, don't blow people up, don't shoot them in the back, learn to take 'no' for an answer, don't believe everything you read or see, love who you can, not who you want... Get the point?
So, yes, Laztheists know how to dream big. But here's a difference... Laztheists know that violence can be a solution, and at times the best solution.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
An Exercise in Caution
I drove by this place the other day. I wasn't invited in. There's a 'commoner centre' near by, but who wants to visit the farm when Paris is right at hand?
Anyway, did you know that if I spelled out the name of this place, a world wide web crawl by this organization would see their name in print and come running to see what was said. A friend of mine was 'persecuted' by this organization because he didn't like some of the things they did and talked about it. In a world gone weird, these guys are a good fit.
Me, I could not care less what they do, or what they believe. After all, American Prime time television is filled with shows whose plots or premises have no basis in reality. And even when television think they are dealing with 'reality' they're not.
So go ahead and tell Tabitha to twitch her nose and make me disappear...
Friday, March 16, 2007
A Public Service Announcement. Someone tell Ted Kennedy...
I haven't called the number. I've been trying to get through to Verizon customer service to find out how to turn off my caller ID so that if I were to call the above number they wouldn't know it was me. In other words, I don't know how to make crank calls...
(In college I did learn to spin a penny from the quarter slot in a pay phone so that it would hit the dime funnel and thus make phone calls for a penny. That's now about as useful to my life as what today's kids are going to experience with their skateboarding skills...)
Anyway, I've done my good deed for this century. Remember, the first consultation free...
I took my BA in Advertising & Public Relations, from a Religious School...
Which means I am supposed to be totally unequipped to be able to comment about this ad. Other than to say I would like to have been at the photo shoot. She probably is an excellent conversationalist, as well as a good chess player. Plus she looks very flexible...
You'll probably remember her face, and parts of her figure, long after you forget the name of her vodka, or even that it was a vodka commercial. And I do remember from one of my classes that this was one of the indicators of a bad advertisement.
I once worked for an ad agency on Park Avenue, just one block west of Madison Avenue in wonderful Manhattan. Yep, for those two weeks I was an absolute hero to the cohort with which I'd graduated just a few months earlier. But then prejudice raised it's ugly head and chubby, stinky old man fired me for "Frivolity." Or was it "Facetiousness"? He used a multi-syllabic "F" word which was definitely evocative of my inner spirit. So that was that. No more trains into Penn Station from Edison, NJ...
Once when I was still in school, we had to go to a local radio station and write copy for our choice of one of the station's sponsors. I picked a malt shop/burger stand operation. I wrote some hilarious copy that was nothing but filthy double entendres ("Give it to me," she begged, "Give it to me good!" "Everything here at the Burger Barn is good!" said the wait-person... Stuff like that, totally puerile, sophomoric, etc. I've never been prouder...)
When I turned in a copy of what I'd written, the instructor, a devout religious person (or perhaps he was faking it until he got tenure?) said that it was unfortunate that I'd wasted my time and the time of the people at the station. Four days later, when ALL my copy went into heavy rotation on that radio station, he pretended never to hear it. My class mates were in a quandry: congratulating me might have appeared as if they condoned my use of sex to sell a product. And I don't think Utah has changed all that much since then.
If there really were a god, the instructor and the guy who fired me would be in hell. Or in denial, whichever is warmer. Although, thinking about it, denial would be wetter...
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Where I live; Get your magnifying glass and you can see my house!
Okay, look intently at the exact middle of the photo. Now let your good eye drift a little to the left. Don't worry about where your lazy eye is drifting...
There are two creme-colored water tanks on a hill top. They'll probably just look like a creme-colored spot. After you've got your good eye focused on the water tanks, look down just a skosh and left a mini-skosh and that's our house. If your magnifying glass is really good, you can see our dog looking out the sliding glass door. She senses I'm looking at her.
Apple Valley is All-American, All-Inclusive and All-Dirt, except for the sand, which if 'finer' than dirt, but not in the way most of us think of as 'finer.' If I could live anywhere else, it would be a place with an equal lack of trees, but lots of grass, babbling brooks and a couple of big lakes. What do I have against trees? People hide behind them...
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
"Who do you think is telling the truth"
Journalism is currently seen as a career for a person with an agenda. Journalism schools are seen as incubators for people who want to, and will be able to, change the world. That's not the way it should be.
Quick, what political party were Woodward & Bernstein? Sure, the temptation is to say they were Democrats, but are you sure? With regard to the modern breed of 'journalist' we seldom have any doubt about their politics.
So my remedy is: Every news story that has quotes from people has to end with the above question, or some variation thereof: "So who do you think is telling the truth?"
The goal being that the reader cannot determine whom the reporter believes is telling the truth. Wouldn't that be a refreshing change? Imagine stories about Global Climate Change where the you can't figure out what side of the issue the reporter is on!
Oh, sure, Fox News says, "We report, you decide," but most of us don't think they really mean it.
A super-duper Pulitzer Prize, platinum plated, would go to the journalist who wrote that year's most controversial story and who did the best job of giving no idea with whom he agreed.
By the way, the question is purely rhetorical; the reporters do not want you clogging their email in-boxes with your opinions. That's what blogs are for.
Quick, what political party were Woodward & Bernstein? Sure, the temptation is to say they were Democrats, but are you sure? With regard to the modern breed of 'journalist' we seldom have any doubt about their politics.
So my remedy is: Every news story that has quotes from people has to end with the above question, or some variation thereof: "So who do you think is telling the truth?"
The goal being that the reader cannot determine whom the reporter believes is telling the truth. Wouldn't that be a refreshing change? Imagine stories about Global Climate Change where the you can't figure out what side of the issue the reporter is on!
Oh, sure, Fox News says, "We report, you decide," but most of us don't think they really mean it.
A super-duper Pulitzer Prize, platinum plated, would go to the journalist who wrote that year's most controversial story and who did the best job of giving no idea with whom he agreed.
By the way, the question is purely rhetorical; the reporters do not want you clogging their email in-boxes with your opinions. That's what blogs are for.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
I've Still Got It !!!
I spent the night in my van, in a parking lot in front of a Bally's Total Fitness, in Culver City. I had a lot of work in West LA, with more the next morning in Long Beach. I had planned on getting a motel room, (with a tank of gas now costing $55, why not just stay at a $49 Motel 8 and get more sleep?) but then decided that I could use the $49 to help pay for a new golf bag.
It's been a long time since I've roughed it. It was self-amusing, which rhymes with self-abusing. I probably got about 4 hours of sleep. I asked my wife, Liz, to call me at 6:00 a.m., and when she did, I'd already found an open McDonalds and was chowing down.
Now it's a little after noon and I'm done in Long Beach and heading for Huntington Beach, and possibly San Diego. And then I have to be back in the Crenshaw district tomorrow morning. It's exciting being a curb number painter! But tiring...
I didn't see any unusual behavior whilst in the Bally's parking lot, but cars kept coming and going the whole night, what with all that Yuppie fitness going on.
The "I've still got it !" remark is in reference to pretending that I'm just as good now as I was 20 years ago. It's a bald-faced lie, which makes sense, because 20 years ago, I had a beard.
It's been a long time since I've roughed it. It was self-amusing, which rhymes with self-abusing. I probably got about 4 hours of sleep. I asked my wife, Liz, to call me at 6:00 a.m., and when she did, I'd already found an open McDonalds and was chowing down.
Now it's a little after noon and I'm done in Long Beach and heading for Huntington Beach, and possibly San Diego. And then I have to be back in the Crenshaw district tomorrow morning. It's exciting being a curb number painter! But tiring...
I didn't see any unusual behavior whilst in the Bally's parking lot, but cars kept coming and going the whole night, what with all that Yuppie fitness going on.
The "I've still got it !" remark is in reference to pretending that I'm just as good now as I was 20 years ago. It's a bald-faced lie, which makes sense, because 20 years ago, I had a beard.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Somebody Needs a Hug ...
Isn't that the lamest declaration you ever heard?
Of course somebody needs a hug! There probably isn't a day that goes by that we - you, me, the entire frickin' world - don't need a hug!
Therefore, I am introducing legislation to create a Federal HugBunny Authority. My proposal will afford a daily hug (Monday thru Friday, including holidays!) to each American who is either an emancipated minor or over the age of 18. AND at the same time it will reduce the welfare rolls by 73.6%. I have figured that it will take 6,509 per 100,000 to man - and woman - this new bureaucracy. But it's a win-win situation. It will spread happiness and spread more money around.
Best line from tonight's Simpson's: "I was voted the best kisser in my POW camp."
Of course somebody needs a hug! There probably isn't a day that goes by that we - you, me, the entire frickin' world - don't need a hug!
Therefore, I am introducing legislation to create a Federal HugBunny Authority. My proposal will afford a daily hug (Monday thru Friday, including holidays!) to each American who is either an emancipated minor or over the age of 18. AND at the same time it will reduce the welfare rolls by 73.6%. I have figured that it will take 6,509 per 100,000 to man - and woman - this new bureaucracy. But it's a win-win situation. It will spread happiness and spread more money around.
Best line from tonight's Simpson's: "I was voted the best kisser in my POW camp."
How many precious angels from God are enough?
Depends on who you ask.
If you checked in with the heads of consumer-oriented manufacturers, you'd hear that you can't have too many consumers.
If you ask Al "All" Gore, you'd probably hear about slowing down population growth.
If you asked some members of the Chinese Communist government, you'd hear that we need to put the brakes on population growth.
As is the case in almost all situations, there is no right answer, because there is no one administering a test and grading us. The human race could cease to exist tomorrow morning at 8:00 GMT and the Universe would get over it.
So what's my answer to the question I posed? I'm afraid I can't give an answer, because my integrity is compromised. But I would like to see men and women who don't want a baby in nine months have access to all the birth control they can comfortably carry in a back pack. Birth control out to be as available as bubble gum. Birth control ought to be an ingredient in fast food, alcohol, cigarettes and desserts.
What better way to prepare a man to deliver viable sperm, and a woman to be able to conceive than to have each of them give up fast food, alcohol, cigarettes and desserts for the six weeks it takes to clear the system of the birth control ingredients?
What? My plan would wipe out the human race, except for religious fanatics? Yeah, but at least then the Mormons and the Orthodox Jews could gang up on the pious Muslims and get them to give up Jihad.
If you checked in with the heads of consumer-oriented manufacturers, you'd hear that you can't have too many consumers.
If you ask Al "All" Gore, you'd probably hear about slowing down population growth.
If you asked some members of the Chinese Communist government, you'd hear that we need to put the brakes on population growth.
As is the case in almost all situations, there is no right answer, because there is no one administering a test and grading us. The human race could cease to exist tomorrow morning at 8:00 GMT and the Universe would get over it.
So what's my answer to the question I posed? I'm afraid I can't give an answer, because my integrity is compromised. But I would like to see men and women who don't want a baby in nine months have access to all the birth control they can comfortably carry in a back pack. Birth control out to be as available as bubble gum. Birth control ought to be an ingredient in fast food, alcohol, cigarettes and desserts.
What better way to prepare a man to deliver viable sperm, and a woman to be able to conceive than to have each of them give up fast food, alcohol, cigarettes and desserts for the six weeks it takes to clear the system of the birth control ingredients?
What? My plan would wipe out the human race, except for religious fanatics? Yeah, but at least then the Mormons and the Orthodox Jews could gang up on the pious Muslims and get them to give up Jihad.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
The Sky Is Falling!!
Here's a quote lifted from a place where you can lift quotes:
"We truly are standing at the edge of mass extinction of species."
This could have been said just before the do-do and passenger pigeon died off. But it wasn't. It will be said next month, April of 2007, according to the media inflammation officer of a think tank that wants your attention. And they are likely to get it, because many humans like their pap spicy.
Everything you read, take with a grain of salt. Then live long and prosper. Or live short and prosper. Or live long and just get by. Or live short and just get by. Or live long and find a way to snicker on occasion. Etc. & etc.
And you will do yourself a tremendous favor if you stop looking for things to be fair. But at the same time, try to be fair. And don't stay too long at the fair. Remember the old Hungarian saying, "Each man speaks of the Fair according to what happened to him there."
"We truly are standing at the edge of mass extinction of species."
This could have been said just before the do-do and passenger pigeon died off. But it wasn't. It will be said next month, April of 2007, according to the media inflammation officer of a think tank that wants your attention. And they are likely to get it, because many humans like their pap spicy.
Everything you read, take with a grain of salt. Then live long and prosper. Or live short and prosper. Or live long and just get by. Or live short and just get by. Or live long and find a way to snicker on occasion. Etc. & etc.
And you will do yourself a tremendous favor if you stop looking for things to be fair. But at the same time, try to be fair. And don't stay too long at the fair. Remember the old Hungarian saying, "Each man speaks of the Fair according to what happened to him there."
Friday, March 09, 2007
Whose Job is it...?
Whose job is it to decide if a piece of music written between 1789 and 1888 is Classical or Light Classical?
We've had Charter Cable, DirecTV and now Verizon Fiber optic whatzit and all three had a music channel for Classical and a music channel for Light Classical. Is there one person somewhere who decides this or is this just someone's idea of a joke?
For those who have been wondering, a marimba is a 'resonating' xylophone. There, I said it...
We've had Charter Cable, DirecTV and now Verizon Fiber optic whatzit and all three had a music channel for Classical and a music channel for Light Classical. Is there one person somewhere who decides this or is this just someone's idea of a joke?
For those who have been wondering, a marimba is a 'resonating' xylophone. There, I said it...
Geography and $Geography
I took these two photos from a hillside on one side of the valley, looking towards the other hillside. I will give a prize, one entire book of the Best (expurgated) Book of Golf Jokes, to the first person who can tell me what city this was in.
The remarkable edifice is a Buddhist Temple. When news of the construction of this Buddhist Temple was made public, the non-Buddhists in the area started planning early retirements. And it came to pass that Buddhists from all over the region started buying homes in the area. Prices tripled back in the early-80s when this was being built. A friend of mine sold the house she'd paid $75,000 for, in 1977, for $285,000 in 1983. It was pretty outrageous.
Word also has it that you can't win at Texas Hold'em unless you go give a suitable offering before playing.
Apparently Buddhists gamble...
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Roscoe Obama
Some of you are aware that I have promised to vote for Barak Obama if he changes his name to Roscoe Obama. (He was called the Big B.O. at Harvard Law School, where due to a tremendously outrageous sequence of improbable coincidences, he was 'tapped' for Skull & Bones. Weird, huh?)
Say it to yourself a couple of times: Roscoe Obama. Feels good, doesn't it? While not at all agreeing with his politics or anything he might eventually allow himself to stand for, I can't help but acknowledge the prestige our nation would garner with a President Roscoe. On that basis alone I would pick him over any Republican candidate.
Unless, of course, Mitt Romney changes HIS name to Butch Romney. That would be the salvation of the Grand Old Party.
Say it to yourself a couple of times: Roscoe Obama. Feels good, doesn't it? While not at all agreeing with his politics or anything he might eventually allow himself to stand for, I can't help but acknowledge the prestige our nation would garner with a President Roscoe. On that basis alone I would pick him over any Republican candidate.
Unless, of course, Mitt Romney changes HIS name to Butch Romney. That would be the salvation of the Grand Old Party.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
A Day's Work
At lunch I left the office and walked to the library. It's only about a block. But on Tuesdays the library doesn't open until noon. I got there at 11:41. So I walked around the civic center. Did you know that the new 'Aquatic Center' is open Monday through Friday from 6:45 a.m. to 9:45 a.m. for laps? Amazing!
When the library opened I checked out two books. Then I went back to the office and worked 'til 5:00 p.m. The I drove home and had dinner. I started reading the first book during dinner. It's now 9:00 p.m. and I finished it.
Summer times, when I was in high school, I would read a book a day. Life its ownself made keeping up to that schedule impossible. But I'd like to get up to four a week. That's doable.
Right now, behind me, I've got Cricket on, some kind of cup play from England, with the English against the Indians. From the looks of them, they're Apache.
When the library opened I checked out two books. Then I went back to the office and worked 'til 5:00 p.m. The I drove home and had dinner. I started reading the first book during dinner. It's now 9:00 p.m. and I finished it.
Summer times, when I was in high school, I would read a book a day. Life its ownself made keeping up to that schedule impossible. But I'd like to get up to four a week. That's doable.
Right now, behind me, I've got Cricket on, some kind of cup play from England, with the English against the Indians. From the looks of them, they're Apache.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Recipe for Life...
My wife is an excellent cook. And thanks to the internet, she been able to find new recipes to try out. A week ago Sunday she made a big pot of chili that was to die for! She's always made chili, and it's always been good, but this recipe had something in it that made it special.
And living here in SoCal, we're exposed to some excellent South o' the Border cuisine. She's learned to make killer chicken enchiladas. Man, with rice and beans and really cold Diet Coke, it's pure heaven.
Eating good, in good company, is right up there with doing good in a sport and the joy of sex. In fact, a perfect day for me would be 36 holes of golf, well played, dinner with my wife and then sex with her, in the dining room! It might freak out the kids, but heck, I think they already suspect how she and I feel about each other.
But could you do this every day? Financially, no. 36 holes of golf pretty much takes up the entire work day. There is night golf, but I've never played it. Neither did Bobby Jones, Ben Hogan, Fred Couples... I don't know about Tiger Woods.
What if I became insanely rich? Would I want to play golf every day? No. There'd be some days I'd just want to sit around reading and poking at the keyboard. And I'm too old for sex every day. But maybe I'm wrong about that? But realistically, I'm running out of time to prove my belief wrong.
I believe that if you weren't brought up rich, learning to be "idle" is very, very difficult. Especially for men, who don't really shop. We buy, but we don't shop. While I might give up painting addresses on curbs, I'd have to find something else that I could pretend was 'useful' to society.
My main hope is that my excellent genetic constitution would allow me to put myself out to stud. There is probably a good living to be made selling and delivering sperm that's in the genetic top 10%.
And living here in SoCal, we're exposed to some excellent South o' the Border cuisine. She's learned to make killer chicken enchiladas. Man, with rice and beans and really cold Diet Coke, it's pure heaven.
Eating good, in good company, is right up there with doing good in a sport and the joy of sex. In fact, a perfect day for me would be 36 holes of golf, well played, dinner with my wife and then sex with her, in the dining room! It might freak out the kids, but heck, I think they already suspect how she and I feel about each other.
But could you do this every day? Financially, no. 36 holes of golf pretty much takes up the entire work day. There is night golf, but I've never played it. Neither did Bobby Jones, Ben Hogan, Fred Couples... I don't know about Tiger Woods.
What if I became insanely rich? Would I want to play golf every day? No. There'd be some days I'd just want to sit around reading and poking at the keyboard. And I'm too old for sex every day. But maybe I'm wrong about that? But realistically, I'm running out of time to prove my belief wrong.
I believe that if you weren't brought up rich, learning to be "idle" is very, very difficult. Especially for men, who don't really shop. We buy, but we don't shop. While I might give up painting addresses on curbs, I'd have to find something else that I could pretend was 'useful' to society.
My main hope is that my excellent genetic constitution would allow me to put myself out to stud. There is probably a good living to be made selling and delivering sperm that's in the genetic top 10%.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Jury Misconduct, for the Record...
this is a silly story. But since it really happened (according to my sources), it's a silly piece of American Jurisprudence History.
It is extremely doubtful that any of you have ever asked yourself, "What's the longest time a jury has deliberated before returning a verdict?"
Lucky for you guys, I did wonder that question and then set out to discover the answer. And here's my answer:
Romanos v. New Testament Life Assurance Company, New York Supreme Court, Borough of New York, Case # NYSC0003045, filed 10/22/1931. It took me longer to find out what the case was about than how long the jury "deliberated." This last answer is six months, 18 days. They returned a verdict for the plaintiff, ruling that New Testament Life Assurance Company owed Gladys Romanos the $5000 value of the life insurance policy Rodolfo Romanos had purchased from the company two days before telling his wife that he wanted a divorce. When he told her, according to the only witness, their son, Hubert Romanos, Gladys didn't say a word. She walked from the front room of their third floor apartment on the upper West Side, into the kitchen. The two Romanos men watched her retreat from their view. But she was gone for only five seconds, at most. She then ran screaming back from the kitchen, brandishing a cheese knife. Rodolfo bolted from the apartment and out into the corridor, and thence towards the stairs, with Gladys in hot pursuit. Mr. Romanos started down the stairs, tripped, rolled down to the first landing where, according to expert, undisputed testimony, he came to rest with a his neck broken and his life over. Mrs. Romanos, a delicate flower of a woman, came daintily down the stairs where she stood over the body of her deceased, almost ex-husband, cursing at him with a vocabulary that made one tenant on the second floor faint dead away, such was its perversity. Then about three minutes into her soliloquy, she reared back and tried to stab her husband's body in the rectum. (Rectum? She killed him!)
The life insurance policy had a clause that forbade a named beneficiary from collecting if that beneficiary caused the death of the policyholder. So the issue for the jury to decide was, "Did Gladys Romanos cause the policyholder's death." While not denying that she was a factor, Gladys Romanos, through her attorney, argued that being a factor was not the same as being the cause and that the cause was Mr. Romanos own actions, across the board.
Now to the issue of the jury's deliberations. The case-in-chief took only three-quarters of a day to present. The defense took the rest of that day, and the following day, to explain and justify their refusal to pay, including the presentation of the fact that while Mr. Romanos bought a $5000 policy naming Gladys as the sole beneficiary, he had also purchased a policy for Miss Trixie Ann Cutterhunt, identifying her as his fiancee. That policy was in the amount of $250,000. (Miss Cutterhunt collected her check and disappeared from the annals of history.)
So on 10/26/1931 the jury was given it's instructions and the twelve men retired to the jury room where they began their deliberations. At that time, jury duty paid $1 per day and they got lunch. This was paid out of a fund which got it's money from "jury fees" that have to be paid by any litigant demanding a jury trial.
In April of 1932 the jury finally returned its verdict. One intrepid New York Times reporter, when he wrote his story about this record time to come back with a verdict, took the time and trouble find out why it had taken so long. As he remarked in this story, it wasn't until he met with the fourth jury, and promised anonymity that he got the truth.
Twelve Depression-era men, all out of work, all facing what turned out to be a harsh winter, and who found out that they all played Bridge, parlayed their jury time into a nice, warm, fairly coddled winter. It started when they came to their decision within an hour of sitting down to discuss it. But one of the men pointed out that if they delayed returning the verdict until the afternoon, they would get a free lunch. After returning from the best meal many of them had had in months, their path down the slippery slope had shifted into high gear. This is when the fact that they all played Bridge came to light. And that was all she wrote, folks...
So for over six months they all ate one fine meal a day, courtesy of the court system. When the weather finally cleared and they had just finished a marathon Bridge tournament, and decided that $200 in jury duty money was enough, they turned in their verdict.
so now you know...
It is extremely doubtful that any of you have ever asked yourself, "What's the longest time a jury has deliberated before returning a verdict?"
Lucky for you guys, I did wonder that question and then set out to discover the answer. And here's my answer:
Romanos v. New Testament Life Assurance Company, New York Supreme Court, Borough of New York, Case # NYSC0003045, filed 10/22/1931. It took me longer to find out what the case was about than how long the jury "deliberated." This last answer is six months, 18 days. They returned a verdict for the plaintiff, ruling that New Testament Life Assurance Company owed Gladys Romanos the $5000 value of the life insurance policy Rodolfo Romanos had purchased from the company two days before telling his wife that he wanted a divorce. When he told her, according to the only witness, their son, Hubert Romanos, Gladys didn't say a word. She walked from the front room of their third floor apartment on the upper West Side, into the kitchen. The two Romanos men watched her retreat from their view. But she was gone for only five seconds, at most. She then ran screaming back from the kitchen, brandishing a cheese knife. Rodolfo bolted from the apartment and out into the corridor, and thence towards the stairs, with Gladys in hot pursuit. Mr. Romanos started down the stairs, tripped, rolled down to the first landing where, according to expert, undisputed testimony, he came to rest with a his neck broken and his life over. Mrs. Romanos, a delicate flower of a woman, came daintily down the stairs where she stood over the body of her deceased, almost ex-husband, cursing at him with a vocabulary that made one tenant on the second floor faint dead away, such was its perversity. Then about three minutes into her soliloquy, she reared back and tried to stab her husband's body in the rectum. (Rectum? She killed him!)
The life insurance policy had a clause that forbade a named beneficiary from collecting if that beneficiary caused the death of the policyholder. So the issue for the jury to decide was, "Did Gladys Romanos cause the policyholder's death." While not denying that she was a factor, Gladys Romanos, through her attorney, argued that being a factor was not the same as being the cause and that the cause was Mr. Romanos own actions, across the board.
Now to the issue of the jury's deliberations. The case-in-chief took only three-quarters of a day to present. The defense took the rest of that day, and the following day, to explain and justify their refusal to pay, including the presentation of the fact that while Mr. Romanos bought a $5000 policy naming Gladys as the sole beneficiary, he had also purchased a policy for Miss Trixie Ann Cutterhunt, identifying her as his fiancee. That policy was in the amount of $250,000. (Miss Cutterhunt collected her check and disappeared from the annals of history.)
So on 10/26/1931 the jury was given it's instructions and the twelve men retired to the jury room where they began their deliberations. At that time, jury duty paid $1 per day and they got lunch. This was paid out of a fund which got it's money from "jury fees" that have to be paid by any litigant demanding a jury trial.
In April of 1932 the jury finally returned its verdict. One intrepid New York Times reporter, when he wrote his story about this record time to come back with a verdict, took the time and trouble find out why it had taken so long. As he remarked in this story, it wasn't until he met with the fourth jury, and promised anonymity that he got the truth.
Twelve Depression-era men, all out of work, all facing what turned out to be a harsh winter, and who found out that they all played Bridge, parlayed their jury time into a nice, warm, fairly coddled winter. It started when they came to their decision within an hour of sitting down to discuss it. But one of the men pointed out that if they delayed returning the verdict until the afternoon, they would get a free lunch. After returning from the best meal many of them had had in months, their path down the slippery slope had shifted into high gear. This is when the fact that they all played Bridge came to light. And that was all she wrote, folks...
So for over six months they all ate one fine meal a day, courtesy of the court system. When the weather finally cleared and they had just finished a marathon Bridge tournament, and decided that $200 in jury duty money was enough, they turned in their verdict.
so now you know...
Friday, March 02, 2007
Mail Appendages!
The USPS is proposing a rate hike for first class mail, from 39¢ to 41¢. One of the driving forces behind this move is the cost of labor; letter carriers want a raise in pay.
While not being against either increase, I would like to see letter carriers working harder. Their routes should be increased. Thus fewer letter carriers would do more work, but for more money.
Were my proposal accepted, they would need bigger bags, often called mail appendages. I discussed this with our letter carrier, a wee slip of a girl. Her immediate reaction was profound distress! She said that she was having enough trouble as it was with her mail appendage. There was no way on earth for her to handle a larger mail appendage.
I told her that she was being negative, and that she should look for the silver lining, that if my plan worked, getting used to a larger mail appendage would be a benefit, and it would be something she and her loved ones could brag about. I even suggested that there could be some kind of competition to see who could handle the largest mail appendage, with appropriate rewards, as if just knowing you had the largest mail appendage wasn't reward enough.
She said she'd think it over and get back to me.
While not being against either increase, I would like to see letter carriers working harder. Their routes should be increased. Thus fewer letter carriers would do more work, but for more money.
Were my proposal accepted, they would need bigger bags, often called mail appendages. I discussed this with our letter carrier, a wee slip of a girl. Her immediate reaction was profound distress! She said that she was having enough trouble as it was with her mail appendage. There was no way on earth for her to handle a larger mail appendage.
I told her that she was being negative, and that she should look for the silver lining, that if my plan worked, getting used to a larger mail appendage would be a benefit, and it would be something she and her loved ones could brag about. I even suggested that there could be some kind of competition to see who could handle the largest mail appendage, with appropriate rewards, as if just knowing you had the largest mail appendage wasn't reward enough.
She said she'd think it over and get back to me.
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