I had to drive my stepson to work this morning. The sun was just beneath the horizon in the east. A few wispy clouds in shades of pink lit the eastern sky. We came round the corner and saw the dark lines stretching across the sky radiating from where the sun was about to rise. Crepuscular rays. Shadows of clouds often a seen in sunsets. Very pretty.
More info on this and other phenomenon, often unnoticed, that put on frequent light shows above our heads as we go on with our busy lives to focused on the future to look up, can be found at,
http://www.atoptics.co.uk/
The camera was not in the car. When I saw the great blue heron feeding in a field at the apple ranch the camera was not in the car. I took a picture in my mind and recorded it here. But I don't want for you see want I saw. Go out and see for yourself....
OWL
January 17, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
solve for x
On Sunday, November 11, 2007, Veterans Day, Vice President Dick Cheney laid a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknowns in Arlington National Cemetery, Arlington, Virginia. Several years ago the President went to the Tomb of the Unknowns on Memorial Day to observe the changing of the guard. I saw a television news report which gave a little information and background about the honor guard, The Sentinels of the Tomb of the Unknowns.
Among the qualifications to serve as a Sentinel members of the elite 3rd U.S. Infantry must posses an unblemished military record and be in superb physical condition. They go through a rigorous training memorizing seven pages of Arlington National Cemetery history and the location of the graves of three hundred veterans. They are tested on the manual of arms, uniform preparation and must learn the guard change ceremony. Those who pass the test consider it a very high honor to serve as a Sentinel and are awarded a Tomb Guard Identification Badge.
There has been an email circulating which gives many of the details of the how the changing of the guard is conducted and the prerequisites for serving as a Sentinel. And as usual throws in some stuff which someone made up. Like they are not allowed to speak during the first six months, they may not drink alcohol during their off duty hours and can have their Tomb Guard Identification Badge revoked if they ever use foul language, even after leaving the guard. These last two items stuck me as decidedly unmilitary.
And there is one more very important requirement for serving as a Sentinel. You must be between 5 feet, 10 inches and 6 feet, 4 inches tall. And be of proportionate weight. This is not email rumour or urban myth. It is straight from the official web site:
http://www.arlingtoncemetery.org/ceremonies/sentinelsotu.html
So a person can put on combat boots, hoist seventy pounds of supplies onto their back including, mess kit, shovel, sleeping bag, MREs, radio, tooth brush, razor, mouth wash and gum drops. Top it off with a helmet, sling an automatic rifle with 140 rounds of ammunition over your shoulder, sleep in the rain, get shot at and shoot back. The shooting part comes after six months of having a drill instructor with separation issues wake you up every single day at three AM in order to rudely compare you with fly larvae. But you are not fit to serve in the honor guard at the tomb of the unknowns because you are one half inch to short? Or to tall?
They don't want to hear about how you single-handedly saved four of your fellow soldiers. They don't want to hear about your good conduct medal, medal of honor, silver star, purple hearts, green clovers or yellow moons. They want to know how tall you are.
Doing some research on this I talked to an army recruiter. He told me he thought that the narrow height restrictions for the Honor Guard were in order to achieve "uniformity". Of course!
Here in the United States of America, a country that prides its self on its diversity, we honor our war dead with "uniformity".
OWL
Jan. 14 2007
Among the qualifications to serve as a Sentinel members of the elite 3rd U.S. Infantry must posses an unblemished military record and be in superb physical condition. They go through a rigorous training memorizing seven pages of Arlington National Cemetery history and the location of the graves of three hundred veterans. They are tested on the manual of arms, uniform preparation and must learn the guard change ceremony. Those who pass the test consider it a very high honor to serve as a Sentinel and are awarded a Tomb Guard Identification Badge.
There has been an email circulating which gives many of the details of the how the changing of the guard is conducted and the prerequisites for serving as a Sentinel. And as usual throws in some stuff which someone made up. Like they are not allowed to speak during the first six months, they may not drink alcohol during their off duty hours and can have their Tomb Guard Identification Badge revoked if they ever use foul language, even after leaving the guard. These last two items stuck me as decidedly unmilitary.
And there is one more very important requirement for serving as a Sentinel. You must be between 5 feet, 10 inches and 6 feet, 4 inches tall. And be of proportionate weight. This is not email rumour or urban myth. It is straight from the official web site:
http://www.arlingtoncemetery.org/ceremonies/sentinelsotu.html
So a person can put on combat boots, hoist seventy pounds of supplies onto their back including, mess kit, shovel, sleeping bag, MREs, radio, tooth brush, razor, mouth wash and gum drops. Top it off with a helmet, sling an automatic rifle with 140 rounds of ammunition over your shoulder, sleep in the rain, get shot at and shoot back. The shooting part comes after six months of having a drill instructor with separation issues wake you up every single day at three AM in order to rudely compare you with fly larvae. But you are not fit to serve in the honor guard at the tomb of the unknowns because you are one half inch to short? Or to tall?
They don't want to hear about how you single-handedly saved four of your fellow soldiers. They don't want to hear about your good conduct medal, medal of honor, silver star, purple hearts, green clovers or yellow moons. They want to know how tall you are.
Doing some research on this I talked to an army recruiter. He told me he thought that the narrow height restrictions for the Honor Guard were in order to achieve "uniformity". Of course!
Here in the United States of America, a country that prides its self on its diversity, we honor our war dead with "uniformity".
OWL
Jan. 14 2007
Thursday, January 10, 2008
dsl
pool glob of blue into a pool of yellow trainrushesby echoes
why? horizon waves layered sky crystalline trees
letters filling blank spaces move movements shadows
in time where did I begin again kaleidoscopic
memory every mountain grandmother watch. Colors
separate. thoughts repeat. Red. Here again.
Black. Echochambersofthemind. Yellow.
Want to play a joke? Trainrushesbyechoesred.
Interlocking lizardsruntogethercrystalinetrees.
Where did I begin again yellowthoughtsrepeat
echo waves white lightening bolt cuts acrossed
All things repeat red echo chamber of the
mind time stops on forever begin again train of
thought yellow white metronomic madness
Channel 0 full amplification thummbb. stisstck
Double Image. Doubles one train train train train
train play a joke Blue Tempura universe needs tuned
in vertical hold. 16 jagged edge glass mental fragment
white lightening bolt All things repeat echo chamber of the
mind. Yellow, train, Channel 0, full amplification
TTthhhuummmm play a Joke Red Thunder Shock
therapy 8 white thun maddness metronmic thunder
channel 0 full Double Double Red thhum yellow
trainlightening Black Begin again 4.. Red. yellow Black
White Red yellowblackWhiteRedyellowblackwhite.....
OWL
Jan. 10, 2007
why? horizon waves layered sky crystalline trees
letters filling blank spaces move movements shadows
in time where did I begin again kaleidoscopic
memory every mountain grandmother watch. Colors
separate. thoughts repeat. Red. Here again.
Black. Echochambersofthemind. Yellow.
Want to play a joke? Trainrushesbyechoesred.
Interlocking lizardsruntogethercrystalinetrees.
Where did I begin again yellowthoughtsrepeat
echo waves white lightening bolt cuts acrossed
All things repeat red echo chamber of the
mind time stops on forever begin again train of
thought yellow white metronomic madness
Channel 0 full amplification thummbb. stisstck
Double Image. Doubles one train train train train
train play a joke Blue Tempura universe needs tuned
in vertical hold. 16 jagged edge glass mental fragment
white lightening bolt All things repeat echo chamber of the
mind. Yellow, train, Channel 0, full amplification
TTthhhuummmm play a Joke Red Thunder Shock
therapy 8 white thun maddness metronmic thunder
channel 0 full Double Double Red thhum yellow
trainlightening Black Begin again 4.. Red. yellow Black
White Red yellowblackWhiteRedyellowblackwhite.....
OWL
Jan. 10, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
free piano
It's time to renew my drivers licence. I got a form in the mail to fill out and send back with a check so it will all be taken care of for another few years. There is a little box to check if I want to donate my organs. If I put a mark on it they will print a pink dot on my licence and register me as a donor. They used to just give you a little sticker to apply yourself.
I will have them put the dot on my licence. I would like for them to print on the card, "Organs donated under protest." See I strongly believe that the donor's family should get paid, if they wish, when a loved one's body parts are passed on to another.
Yes, I can hear you screaming, "That would lead to the SELLING of organs!" Guess what? Body parts are being sold every day. If you don't believe this trot on down to the local hospital and tell them you want a new heart but you don't want to pay any money for the operation cause you don't want your insurance premium to go up!
When organs are transplanted the doctor is usually paid to preform the operation. The nursers are compensated for their time. The hospital gets remuneration for providing the OR, the ICU, the lights, the bed, the bad food and the reams of paper used to keep track of every pill, band-aid and Kleenex the patient is given. The hospital staff, from the CEO at the top, down to the person who takes out the garbage, all get big salaries or small wages. The insurance company makes money on the deal, or there would not be a "deal". They write the policies to their own advantage. The local, state and federal governments always get a piece of the action whenever large amounts of money change hands. And we are talking about very large amounts of money.
Perhaps the greatest beneficiaries are the pharmaceutical companies. When ever a major organ is transplanted the drug suppliers are guaranteed a "preferred" customer for life. Transplant recipients are generally required to take expensive anti-rejection drugs for the rest of their lives. And because those drugs weaken the immune system they also often need other drugs to fight infection and disease. So the "sale" of organs is a big business.
Fortunately there is a system in place to insure that the allocating of donated organs is fair. Hopefully the system works. Sometimes it is abused.
Lets look at what often goes on now. On one end we have a young person who has taken care of their body with exercise and a good diet, no abuse of drugs or alcohol. They have a good healthily life style and a body that is physically fit. Then they suddenly die in an accident maybe caused by a drunk driver. On the other end there may be a wealthy businessman, athlete, actor or rock star that has abused substances for their entire adult life. Their liver's been pickled, their lungs resemble those of a coal miner and their heart needs servicing by Roto-Rooter. They get to go on living in their mansions with their illegal immigrant domestic staff. The donor's family gets a thank you note. Is that right?
Those recipients who are able to pay big money for their used parts should be made to pay. The money could go into a fund out of which donor's families are paid. There would be no direct link between donor and recipient. This might add motivation to abuse the system but their is plenty of motivation already. Either the system works or it doesn't. Paying for the organ will not change the fact that the system for preventing abuse needs to be monitored closely and set up in a way that insures fairness to all. There is a bigger issue here, that of who gets good medical care in the first place. Everyone or just those can pay the exorbitant cost for the "finest health care in the world."
As it is now everyone gets paid except those who may need it the most. A family that has lost a bread winner and is now deeply in debt because of medical and funeral expenses.
OWL
Oct. 24, 2007
I will have them put the dot on my licence. I would like for them to print on the card, "Organs donated under protest." See I strongly believe that the donor's family should get paid, if they wish, when a loved one's body parts are passed on to another.
Yes, I can hear you screaming, "That would lead to the SELLING of organs!" Guess what? Body parts are being sold every day. If you don't believe this trot on down to the local hospital and tell them you want a new heart but you don't want to pay any money for the operation cause you don't want your insurance premium to go up!
When organs are transplanted the doctor is usually paid to preform the operation. The nursers are compensated for their time. The hospital gets remuneration for providing the OR, the ICU, the lights, the bed, the bad food and the reams of paper used to keep track of every pill, band-aid and Kleenex the patient is given. The hospital staff, from the CEO at the top, down to the person who takes out the garbage, all get big salaries or small wages. The insurance company makes money on the deal, or there would not be a "deal". They write the policies to their own advantage. The local, state and federal governments always get a piece of the action whenever large amounts of money change hands. And we are talking about very large amounts of money.
Perhaps the greatest beneficiaries are the pharmaceutical companies. When ever a major organ is transplanted the drug suppliers are guaranteed a "preferred" customer for life. Transplant recipients are generally required to take expensive anti-rejection drugs for the rest of their lives. And because those drugs weaken the immune system they also often need other drugs to fight infection and disease. So the "sale" of organs is a big business.
Fortunately there is a system in place to insure that the allocating of donated organs is fair. Hopefully the system works. Sometimes it is abused.
Lets look at what often goes on now. On one end we have a young person who has taken care of their body with exercise and a good diet, no abuse of drugs or alcohol. They have a good healthily life style and a body that is physically fit. Then they suddenly die in an accident maybe caused by a drunk driver. On the other end there may be a wealthy businessman, athlete, actor or rock star that has abused substances for their entire adult life. Their liver's been pickled, their lungs resemble those of a coal miner and their heart needs servicing by Roto-Rooter. They get to go on living in their mansions with their illegal immigrant domestic staff. The donor's family gets a thank you note. Is that right?
Those recipients who are able to pay big money for their used parts should be made to pay. The money could go into a fund out of which donor's families are paid. There would be no direct link between donor and recipient. This might add motivation to abuse the system but their is plenty of motivation already. Either the system works or it doesn't. Paying for the organ will not change the fact that the system for preventing abuse needs to be monitored closely and set up in a way that insures fairness to all. There is a bigger issue here, that of who gets good medical care in the first place. Everyone or just those can pay the exorbitant cost for the "finest health care in the world."
As it is now everyone gets paid except those who may need it the most. A family that has lost a bread winner and is now deeply in debt because of medical and funeral expenses.
OWL
Oct. 24, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
bryan jones
Last night at the meeting a fellow came in from San Jose to tell us his story. D. related to us how his father started getting him drunk when he was seven years old. His father thought is was funny to watch him stumble around. The rest of his story followed a pattern. Boys school, getting busted for being drunk on duty in the navy, and repeated arrest for drunk driving. The judge told him, "Some day you are going to kill somebody." In 1982 coming home from Reno, Nevada someday came. He woke up in a hospital and was told that he had killed a young man and the young mans infant son in a head-on collision just outside of Carson City.
"Just outside of Carson City a young man and his son killed by a drunk driver in a head-on collision." This was twenty-five years ago but the story was hauntingly familiar. I tried to remember. In '82 I would have been twenty-six. Could it be the same story? There are things that stick in your memory and you never forget where you were and what you were doing when you heard the news. I remember that night clearly. The phone hanging on the kitchen wall rang and I answered it. The woman asked for Carla, the young lady I was living with at the time. It sounded like bad news. Women often seem to say "Oh, no!" and "Oh my god!", so I didn't think much about it. When Carla hung up she told me her brother Bryan Jones and his only son had been killed by a drunk driver in a head on collision just out side of Carson City."
Just a coincidence I told myself. Route 395 is a very busy highway. Lots of people have been killed there over the years. Just the same I planned to ask the speaker about it after the meeting. I didn't have to wait.
In AA they stress the importance of making amends for the harm you have caused. D. went on to tell us that the hardest thing he had to do was to face the young man's wife, Mrs. Jones, and tell her he was sorry. He was not able to do this until many years after the accident.
Bryan was just twenty-three, the youngest of six children. The product of a rough childhood he had a reputation for going out to bars and getting into fights. Then he met Rose. He settled down, straightened up and got a good job. He was commuting two hours to work and back everyday. He wanted to do the right thing for his wife and child. His family was very proud of him. His mother was overjoyed that she finally had a grandchild.
The memories flooded back. His death had devastated his family. The grief and anger and sadness of that time welled up within me. I started crying. Around the room other people were talking and laughing. I wanted to scream. I was shaking. They did not understand the terrible consequences of this man actions.
In AA we often hear about how people have ruined their lives and the lives of others. But it is hard grasp the reality of what is being said. The stories get repetitive and begin to seem like so many words, detached from any substance. We blanket ourselves in numbness to keep from facing the ugliness of our own lives.
When I got the chance to speak I let D. and the others in the room know how this man's life had affected mine. I was angry. I was sad. I was upset. Mostly I was ashamed of myself for ever getting behind the wheel drunk. After the meeting D. came up to me looking for forgiveness. I offered him my hand and he held on to it. There was a look of desperation in his eyes. Forgiveness is not mine to give.
I thanked him for telling his story.
OWL
Oct. 18, 2007
"Just outside of Carson City a young man and his son killed by a drunk driver in a head-on collision." This was twenty-five years ago but the story was hauntingly familiar. I tried to remember. In '82 I would have been twenty-six. Could it be the same story? There are things that stick in your memory and you never forget where you were and what you were doing when you heard the news. I remember that night clearly. The phone hanging on the kitchen wall rang and I answered it. The woman asked for Carla, the young lady I was living with at the time. It sounded like bad news. Women often seem to say "Oh, no!" and "Oh my god!", so I didn't think much about it. When Carla hung up she told me her brother Bryan Jones and his only son had been killed by a drunk driver in a head on collision just out side of Carson City."
Just a coincidence I told myself. Route 395 is a very busy highway. Lots of people have been killed there over the years. Just the same I planned to ask the speaker about it after the meeting. I didn't have to wait.
In AA they stress the importance of making amends for the harm you have caused. D. went on to tell us that the hardest thing he had to do was to face the young man's wife, Mrs. Jones, and tell her he was sorry. He was not able to do this until many years after the accident.
Bryan was just twenty-three, the youngest of six children. The product of a rough childhood he had a reputation for going out to bars and getting into fights. Then he met Rose. He settled down, straightened up and got a good job. He was commuting two hours to work and back everyday. He wanted to do the right thing for his wife and child. His family was very proud of him. His mother was overjoyed that she finally had a grandchild.
The memories flooded back. His death had devastated his family. The grief and anger and sadness of that time welled up within me. I started crying. Around the room other people were talking and laughing. I wanted to scream. I was shaking. They did not understand the terrible consequences of this man actions.
In AA we often hear about how people have ruined their lives and the lives of others. But it is hard grasp the reality of what is being said. The stories get repetitive and begin to seem like so many words, detached from any substance. We blanket ourselves in numbness to keep from facing the ugliness of our own lives.
When I got the chance to speak I let D. and the others in the room know how this man's life had affected mine. I was angry. I was sad. I was upset. Mostly I was ashamed of myself for ever getting behind the wheel drunk. After the meeting D. came up to me looking for forgiveness. I offered him my hand and he held on to it. There was a look of desperation in his eyes. Forgiveness is not mine to give.
I thanked him for telling his story.
OWL
Oct. 18, 2007
Friday, October 5, 2007
bullseye
Ricky Inouye is dead.
At the meeting C. said, "The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals has ruled that forcing someone to participate in an AA program is unconstitutional." The word "unconstitutional" always gets my attention. It is very often misused. When I got home I did my research. Google listed several headlines that stated essentially the same thing as C. had.
Mr. Inouye who had an addiction to methamphetamine was on parole for drug related crimes. His parole officer Mark Nanamori ordered him to attend meetings of Narcotics Anonymous. Inouye, a Buddhist, objected to the religious nature of the program and refused to attend the meetings. Partly for that reason he was sent back to prison. He filed suit claiming that his constitution right to freedom of religion had been violated and naming the city and county of Honolulu, Mark Nanamori and others as defendants. Inouye died in custody and his son Zenn Inouye carried on the suit in his behalf.
Nanamori did not dispute that he had violated Inouye's constitutional rights but claimed he was immune to liability because he was acting as an agent of the state. Citing several previous cases the Court ruled that Nanamori should have known he was acting in violation of the plaintiffs rights and therefore could be held liable for his actions.
A quote from the opinion issued by the court, "In this case, it is essentially uncontested that requiring a parolee to attend religion-based treatment programs violates the First Amendment." This is an important point. The Ninth District Circuit Court of Appeals did not rule that forced attendance in AA/NA programs was unconstitutional, that was an established point of law. They ruled that Ricky Inouye could sue his parole officer for his actions.
At the meeting C. repeatedly said "This guy chose death rather than life!" I could not find anywhere the cause of death for Ricky Inouye. So whether or not his death was related to his refusal to participate in a program I don't know. I do know this, Ricky Inouye fought for the rights granted him by the Constitution of the United States of America and the Bill of Rights. It might have been wiser for him to stop fighting and attend the program as his parole officer had wanted. But this America! The rights many people have given their lives for are ours to do with as we wish. If Ricky Inouye chose death rather than life that was his right.
Ricky Inouye may not have needed protection from a government trying to impose religious beliefs on him, but it is because of people like him, demanding their damned right because it is their damned right, that you and I have the freedom to speak the truth, write blogs like this one, gather in groups, ask the government to do the right thing and worship when and where and whatever God we choose!
The opinion of the court:
http://www.ca9.uscourts.gov/ca9/newopinions.nsf/6FA63303852632AC8825734F0059D078/$file/0615474.pdf
and the first amendment:
http://www.law.cornell.edu/constitution/constitution.billofrights.html
OWL
Oct. 5, 2007
At the meeting C. said, "The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals has ruled that forcing someone to participate in an AA program is unconstitutional." The word "unconstitutional" always gets my attention. It is very often misused. When I got home I did my research. Google listed several headlines that stated essentially the same thing as C. had.
Mr. Inouye who had an addiction to methamphetamine was on parole for drug related crimes. His parole officer Mark Nanamori ordered him to attend meetings of Narcotics Anonymous. Inouye, a Buddhist, objected to the religious nature of the program and refused to attend the meetings. Partly for that reason he was sent back to prison. He filed suit claiming that his constitution right to freedom of religion had been violated and naming the city and county of Honolulu, Mark Nanamori and others as defendants. Inouye died in custody and his son Zenn Inouye carried on the suit in his behalf.
Nanamori did not dispute that he had violated Inouye's constitutional rights but claimed he was immune to liability because he was acting as an agent of the state. Citing several previous cases the Court ruled that Nanamori should have known he was acting in violation of the plaintiffs rights and therefore could be held liable for his actions.
A quote from the opinion issued by the court, "In this case, it is essentially uncontested that requiring a parolee to attend religion-based treatment programs violates the First Amendment." This is an important point. The Ninth District Circuit Court of Appeals did not rule that forced attendance in AA/NA programs was unconstitutional, that was an established point of law. They ruled that Ricky Inouye could sue his parole officer for his actions.
At the meeting C. repeatedly said "This guy chose death rather than life!" I could not find anywhere the cause of death for Ricky Inouye. So whether or not his death was related to his refusal to participate in a program I don't know. I do know this, Ricky Inouye fought for the rights granted him by the Constitution of the United States of America and the Bill of Rights. It might have been wiser for him to stop fighting and attend the program as his parole officer had wanted. But this America! The rights many people have given their lives for are ours to do with as we wish. If Ricky Inouye chose death rather than life that was his right.
Ricky Inouye may not have needed protection from a government trying to impose religious beliefs on him, but it is because of people like him, demanding their damned right because it is their damned right, that you and I have the freedom to speak the truth, write blogs like this one, gather in groups, ask the government to do the right thing and worship when and where and whatever God we choose!
The opinion of the court:
http://www.ca9.uscourts.gov/ca9/newopinions.nsf/6FA63303852632AC8825734F0059D078/$file/0615474.pdf
and the first amendment:
http://www.law.cornell.edu/constitution/constitution.billofrights.html
OWL
Oct. 5, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Ursa Minor
I was driving up Geary St. when I saw a banner in front of the Weinstein Gallery. "Picasso, Dali, Miró".
It was the end of August and I was on vacation. Misses B. had already taken her vacation and had gone to Orange County to see the latest addition to her extended family, a grandson, named after her late husband Frank. I was on my own and for the first time in several years I had gone out of town by myself. Constant calls from clients needing immediate attention on my first day off had helped to convince my loving wife that leaving the area was the only way that I would get any real relaxation.
I had packed an overnight bag and drove off with only a vague idea of where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there. Joan Miró is my favorite artist. Parking in San Francisco is a nightmare. I went round the block and into one of the monstrously expensive parking garages. Walking back down the street I looked into the gallery window and saw "Women Encircled by the Flight of a Bird". During his long artistic career Joan Miró had painted in a variety of styles, the prints from around 1960 contain a symbolism that speaks to my soul. The colors of his palette at that time are the colors of my emotions. The nice young man at the counter asked me if I was interested in anything specific and pointed to where some of Miró's work was on display. He told me to go ahead and look around.
Nothing that I saw was as interesting as the print in the window that was roped off. Hesitantly I asked I the young lady who worked there if I could get a closer look. She took me into the window and explained the history of the piece and let me examine it closely. And she told me the gallery had other pieces from the same collection of prints "Constellations." She went and got the key to another section of the gallery while I used the rest room. We went up the street and into another display room. I saw wonderful art pieces while learning fascinating information about how they where created. Patricia took the time to show me all of the pieces by Miró they had on display and when I showed interest in and knowledge about the artist she put on her little white gloves and pulled out the entire set of prints of "Constellations". We spent about an hour going over them, discussing their symbolism, admiring the colors and pointing out to one another various subtle images in the prints.
The rest of the time I spent in San Francisco was fun, I went to Chinatown and ate dried squid, drove over to Haight-Ashbury and bought the Misses a tie-dyed t-shirt (she made me do it), picked up some old comics for DW and found a nice little motel in the wrong part of town. The Phoenix a couple blocks up from Market St. looks rather questionable from the outside, the blank cinderblock walls are a drab green and the parking lot faces a street that needs swept. But the courtyard is lush with exotic plants and full of abstract art. The rooms, though the paint is rather gaudy, are clean and comfortable. The next day I had trouble finding the museum and a great deal of difficulty getting onto the bay bridge. At the other art galleries I visited I politely was shown a few pieces and then shown the door.
And I saw things there that were quite disturbing. A man and woman about my age picking up every thing they owned and moving on after sleeping on the sidewalk all night. A reminder of where I could be if I just tried a little harder. I get put out when I come in the house and it is too chilly because someone left the air conditioning running. I don't get into the big city much; my little trip helped me put my life into perspective.
Because the Misses wasn’t with me I got to do the things I was interested in. Little D. would have drug me from shop to shop, carrying bags full of cheap Chinese imports and souvenirs of the free love movement. We would have dined on something less exotic (less fishy). And I never would have found the Phoenix with her in tow, we would have drove right by.
One day in the city was enough! The one way streets, the five dollars in quarters needed for an hours parking (if you can find a spot), the panhandlers who can spot a tourist six block away and the bicyclist who come out of nowhere when you are about to make a right turn all got on my nerves. But after a few hours of driving in competition with taxi drivers on a mission the "rush hour" traffic in our little town no longer seems at all frustrating.
I owe misses B. a trip to Baghdad-By-The-Bay.
It was the end of August and I was on vacation. Misses B. had already taken her vacation and had gone to Orange County to see the latest addition to her extended family, a grandson, named after her late husband Frank. I was on my own and for the first time in several years I had gone out of town by myself. Constant calls from clients needing immediate attention on my first day off had helped to convince my loving wife that leaving the area was the only way that I would get any real relaxation.
I had packed an overnight bag and drove off with only a vague idea of where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there. Joan Miró is my favorite artist. Parking in San Francisco is a nightmare. I went round the block and into one of the monstrously expensive parking garages. Walking back down the street I looked into the gallery window and saw "Women Encircled by the Flight of a Bird". During his long artistic career Joan Miró had painted in a variety of styles, the prints from around 1960 contain a symbolism that speaks to my soul. The colors of his palette at that time are the colors of my emotions. The nice young man at the counter asked me if I was interested in anything specific and pointed to where some of Miró's work was on display. He told me to go ahead and look around.
Nothing that I saw was as interesting as the print in the window that was roped off. Hesitantly I asked I the young lady who worked there if I could get a closer look. She took me into the window and explained the history of the piece and let me examine it closely. And she told me the gallery had other pieces from the same collection of prints "Constellations." She went and got the key to another section of the gallery while I used the rest room. We went up the street and into another display room. I saw wonderful art pieces while learning fascinating information about how they where created. Patricia took the time to show me all of the pieces by Miró they had on display and when I showed interest in and knowledge about the artist she put on her little white gloves and pulled out the entire set of prints of "Constellations". We spent about an hour going over them, discussing their symbolism, admiring the colors and pointing out to one another various subtle images in the prints.
The rest of the time I spent in San Francisco was fun, I went to Chinatown and ate dried squid, drove over to Haight-Ashbury and bought the Misses a tie-dyed t-shirt (she made me do it), picked up some old comics for DW and found a nice little motel in the wrong part of town. The Phoenix a couple blocks up from Market St. looks rather questionable from the outside, the blank cinderblock walls are a drab green and the parking lot faces a street that needs swept. But the courtyard is lush with exotic plants and full of abstract art. The rooms, though the paint is rather gaudy, are clean and comfortable. The next day I had trouble finding the museum and a great deal of difficulty getting onto the bay bridge. At the other art galleries I visited I politely was shown a few pieces and then shown the door.
And I saw things there that were quite disturbing. A man and woman about my age picking up every thing they owned and moving on after sleeping on the sidewalk all night. A reminder of where I could be if I just tried a little harder. I get put out when I come in the house and it is too chilly because someone left the air conditioning running. I don't get into the big city much; my little trip helped me put my life into perspective.
Because the Misses wasn’t with me I got to do the things I was interested in. Little D. would have drug me from shop to shop, carrying bags full of cheap Chinese imports and souvenirs of the free love movement. We would have dined on something less exotic (less fishy). And I never would have found the Phoenix with her in tow, we would have drove right by.
One day in the city was enough! The one way streets, the five dollars in quarters needed for an hours parking (if you can find a spot), the panhandlers who can spot a tourist six block away and the bicyclist who come out of nowhere when you are about to make a right turn all got on my nerves. But after a few hours of driving in competition with taxi drivers on a mission the "rush hour" traffic in our little town no longer seems at all frustrating.
I owe misses B. a trip to Baghdad-By-The-Bay.
Here boy!
Sigmund Freud chose the term "Oedipus complex" to denote a condition in which a boy loves his mother and hates his father. This gives a lot of people the mistaken impression that the play Oedipus Rex or Oedipus the King by the Greek playwright Sophocles is about a man who hated his father and loved his mother.
It was foretold that the son of King Laius would kill his father and marry his mother. So the young Oedipus was sent away by his mother Jocasta to be left for dead in the forest. Of course we learned from Snow White that unwanted children need to be dealt with directly, underlings cannot be trusted with such delicate tasks. Oedipus was handed off to King Polybus who with his wife Merope raised the boy as his own. When Oedipus became a man he to consulted an oracle. Bad move as they say. He was told that he would kill his father and defile his mothers bed. So he ran away from home. On the road one night he ran into a group of men, an argument ensued and one of them was killed. Arriving in Thebes soon afterward our hero marries the recently widowed queen Jocasta.
Twenty years later the truth comes out, the man he had killed beside the road was his real father. Jocasta hung herself and Oedipus poked his eyes out with the pin of her golden brooch.
Sophecles' play is about running away from fate. Or more importantly running away from yourself. The fruitless attempt to escape from who you are by changing the external world.
People often miss the point.
OWL
Oct. 4, 2007
It was foretold that the son of King Laius would kill his father and marry his mother. So the young Oedipus was sent away by his mother Jocasta to be left for dead in the forest. Of course we learned from Snow White that unwanted children need to be dealt with directly, underlings cannot be trusted with such delicate tasks. Oedipus was handed off to King Polybus who with his wife Merope raised the boy as his own. When Oedipus became a man he to consulted an oracle. Bad move as they say. He was told that he would kill his father and defile his mothers bed. So he ran away from home. On the road one night he ran into a group of men, an argument ensued and one of them was killed. Arriving in Thebes soon afterward our hero marries the recently widowed queen Jocasta.
Twenty years later the truth comes out, the man he had killed beside the road was his real father. Jocasta hung herself and Oedipus poked his eyes out with the pin of her golden brooch.
Sophecles' play is about running away from fate. Or more importantly running away from yourself. The fruitless attempt to escape from who you are by changing the external world.
People often miss the point.
OWL
Oct. 4, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
room to move
It was September, 1972, the first day of school, my junior year at Livingston High. U. S. History was a required subject. Our instructor Mr. C. introduced himself and gave us a little of his own personal history. This was to be his first year of teaching. Previously he had been a major league ball player with the Cleveland Indians. He made no attempt to deny that he had been hired as an instructor because he could also coach baseball. Or maybe it was the other way around, he had been given the coaching position because he could also teach. Anyway some of the other boys in class were awe struck and after school they would bring in various bits of sporting equipment to be autographed or blessed.
I had never been into sports and had a different opinion about the merits being a professional athlete. I immediately began to form preconceived notions about this young mans ability to teach. Back then preconceived ideas were quite popular, unlike the enlightened times we live in today. I knew I was being prejudicial and made up my mind to give him a fair chance. I listened to his lectures, read the assigned chapters and took the test each week. But there was a problem. About six weeks into the semester he comes up to my desk one day.
"We need to talk. You haven't been turning in your homework."
I think I'd turned in one to two papers at the beginning of the year. The homework consisted writing out the answers to the questions at the end of each chapter. He went on.
"But every week you get an A on the test. I think you may be finding the assignments a bit boring."
I concurred. I also hated homework and had trouble with authority, but I didn't see the need to elaborate. United States History happened to be an easy subject for me. I had an unfair advantage because I had been born and raised in that country. Mr. C went on to explain that it was okay with him if I didn't turn in the papers, he could understand my not wanting to do it. I realized for the first time that I had something in common with "jocks". He told me that he needed to get some work out of me in order to justifying giving me a passing grade. He proposed that I did some outside reading and turn in book reports on what I'd read. He wanted to know if that proposal was acceptable.
"OK by me." I would do just about anything to get out of homework and I did have some small concern about keeping up the appearance that I was trying to get good grades.
The deal was that I could read anything I wanted as long as it had to do with U.S. history. He suggested I start with The Jungle, Upton Sinclair's scathing expose of the abuses in the meat packing industry in Chicago in the early twentieth century. It's a very good read and a real eye opener. It shows very clearly why we have the FDA and labor unions. When I turned in my report on it Mr. C. had some questions, he wanted to be sure I was aware of the very strong socialist message in the later part of the book. It would of been hard to miss.
But it was from the other books I read that year that I really learned. They were not recitations of names and dates. Nothing about who was president when or what country was our enemy in 1832. They were about the day to day lives of pioneers and Indians in the eastern half of the U.S. What life was like for people before history was made. History books will tell you when the cotton gin was invented and who patented the first sewing machine. They don't go into detail about the endless struggle to survive that prompted their development. Or the conditions and wild life that early settlers found. Everyone knows about the plains buffalo, once living in large herds numbering in the millions on the great plains. Almost no one knows about the forest buffalo, a solitary creature living in the woods of Kentucky among blue gum trees eight feet in diameter, now extinct.
And the only thing anyone knew about the Indians was what we saw in the movies. They were a problem for the cavalry, uncivilized heathens that needed to be removed to make way for progress. But at this time, right after the "hip" movement, the rejection of modern commercialism and a growing desire to return to the land and a simpler time, the Indians were getting a new reputation. One of a peaceful people living in harmony with their environment. Both conceptions were equally naive.
My junior year in high school I saw history from a different angle, I earned straight A's in Mr. C.'s class and learned a valuable lesson about prejudging people. This former ball player saw an opportunity to let me learn and he went out of his way to make it happen.
Thank you, Mr. C.
OWL
Sept. 22, 2007
I had never been into sports and had a different opinion about the merits being a professional athlete. I immediately began to form preconceived notions about this young mans ability to teach. Back then preconceived ideas were quite popular, unlike the enlightened times we live in today. I knew I was being prejudicial and made up my mind to give him a fair chance. I listened to his lectures, read the assigned chapters and took the test each week. But there was a problem. About six weeks into the semester he comes up to my desk one day.
"We need to talk. You haven't been turning in your homework."
I think I'd turned in one to two papers at the beginning of the year. The homework consisted writing out the answers to the questions at the end of each chapter. He went on.
"But every week you get an A on the test. I think you may be finding the assignments a bit boring."
I concurred. I also hated homework and had trouble with authority, but I didn't see the need to elaborate. United States History happened to be an easy subject for me. I had an unfair advantage because I had been born and raised in that country. Mr. C went on to explain that it was okay with him if I didn't turn in the papers, he could understand my not wanting to do it. I realized for the first time that I had something in common with "jocks". He told me that he needed to get some work out of me in order to justifying giving me a passing grade. He proposed that I did some outside reading and turn in book reports on what I'd read. He wanted to know if that proposal was acceptable.
"OK by me." I would do just about anything to get out of homework and I did have some small concern about keeping up the appearance that I was trying to get good grades.
The deal was that I could read anything I wanted as long as it had to do with U.S. history. He suggested I start with The Jungle, Upton Sinclair's scathing expose of the abuses in the meat packing industry in Chicago in the early twentieth century. It's a very good read and a real eye opener. It shows very clearly why we have the FDA and labor unions. When I turned in my report on it Mr. C. had some questions, he wanted to be sure I was aware of the very strong socialist message in the later part of the book. It would of been hard to miss.
But it was from the other books I read that year that I really learned. They were not recitations of names and dates. Nothing about who was president when or what country was our enemy in 1832. They were about the day to day lives of pioneers and Indians in the eastern half of the U.S. What life was like for people before history was made. History books will tell you when the cotton gin was invented and who patented the first sewing machine. They don't go into detail about the endless struggle to survive that prompted their development. Or the conditions and wild life that early settlers found. Everyone knows about the plains buffalo, once living in large herds numbering in the millions on the great plains. Almost no one knows about the forest buffalo, a solitary creature living in the woods of Kentucky among blue gum trees eight feet in diameter, now extinct.
And the only thing anyone knew about the Indians was what we saw in the movies. They were a problem for the cavalry, uncivilized heathens that needed to be removed to make way for progress. But at this time, right after the "hip" movement, the rejection of modern commercialism and a growing desire to return to the land and a simpler time, the Indians were getting a new reputation. One of a peaceful people living in harmony with their environment. Both conceptions were equally naive.
My junior year in high school I saw history from a different angle, I earned straight A's in Mr. C.'s class and learned a valuable lesson about prejudging people. This former ball player saw an opportunity to let me learn and he went out of his way to make it happen.
Thank you, Mr. C.
OWL
Sept. 22, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Thank you, Mister Neuman
There is a commercial that has been running quite a lot on television recently. The animated style is similar to that used in a popular computer game that allows the user to simulate the building of a city. It shows bulldozers digging a pit into the earth and loading ore onto trucks. The trucks carry raw material to a processing plant where it is refined and shaped into fuel rods. Waste is shown in a barely noticeable ghost-like image moving off to one side into a mysterious cylindrical container. The fuel rods are placed into a reactor, the reactor slides into place near a city and the electricity generated goes onto the power grid. The wires are followed along to a night club where a young couple dance amid flashing lights to the catchy tune played throughout the ad.
The message conveyed is very clear. The company responsible for this forty-five second spot is saying "We'll dig this stuff up, haul, refine it, process it, put it into our reactor and turn it into electrical power. You get to dance! What happens after that does not matter. You don't even need to think about it. The thousands of tons of deadly waste, that will be highly radioactive for ten thousand years, left over after the power is generated are not enough of a concern to even be mentioned."
There is a growing effort in this country to start building nuclear power plants again. The powers that wish to be wisely realize that the people of my generation, the baby boomers, will never allow another reactor to be built. So they are targeting their message to those who are not old enough to remember the broken promises offered in the last round of, "Cheap, safe, clean nuclear power!" This is very troubling. I can understand why these corporations want to go nuclear. Whenever you can generate megawatts and then sell it without having to clean up after yourself the profit potential is enormous. And that is the way it has been with the nuclear power industry. Fifty years ago permits were issued and plants were built. The industry and the federal government shook hands and told the masses, "We will work together to find a way to permanently dispose of the waste."
A half century later and not one ounce of the stuff has been moved to a "permanent" resting place. Each day that passes makes it even more unlikely that a place to dump the debris will ever be found. More and more state and local governments are passing laws prohibiting the permanent, or even temporary, storage of radioactive waste in their respective jurisdictions. Many are passing laws banning the transport of such waste through their cities and states. The consumer and environmental protection groups that will fight in court against the movement and disposal of radioactive waste are getting stronger and more numerous every year. Meanwhile the containers in which this deadly material is now stored are deteriorating. Ever increasing the likelihood of the accidental release of glowing green ooze.
But here is the scary part. The people who spent millions to make this commercial and even more millions to run it no doubt hired experts to do studies and focus groups and consumer testing to find the best way to convince the younger generation that nuclear power is safe and clean and necessary. And what image did they come up with?
Disco dancing.
OWL
Sept, 21 2007
Stupidity in America bonus rant- The plan is that once they place this stuff deep into the ground in some geologically stable area they will seal it off and post warning signs for future generations to stay away. They want to put up warnings of danger in every known language, barbed wire, chain link fences, concrete and steel barriers, death's head and radioactive symbols and whatever else they can come up with to discourage people from poking around. They might as well mark it with big red "X" and a sign that says "Dig here!"
owl
The message conveyed is very clear. The company responsible for this forty-five second spot is saying "We'll dig this stuff up, haul, refine it, process it, put it into our reactor and turn it into electrical power. You get to dance! What happens after that does not matter. You don't even need to think about it. The thousands of tons of deadly waste, that will be highly radioactive for ten thousand years, left over after the power is generated are not enough of a concern to even be mentioned."
There is a growing effort in this country to start building nuclear power plants again. The powers that wish to be wisely realize that the people of my generation, the baby boomers, will never allow another reactor to be built. So they are targeting their message to those who are not old enough to remember the broken promises offered in the last round of, "Cheap, safe, clean nuclear power!" This is very troubling. I can understand why these corporations want to go nuclear. Whenever you can generate megawatts and then sell it without having to clean up after yourself the profit potential is enormous. And that is the way it has been with the nuclear power industry. Fifty years ago permits were issued and plants were built. The industry and the federal government shook hands and told the masses, "We will work together to find a way to permanently dispose of the waste."
A half century later and not one ounce of the stuff has been moved to a "permanent" resting place. Each day that passes makes it even more unlikely that a place to dump the debris will ever be found. More and more state and local governments are passing laws prohibiting the permanent, or even temporary, storage of radioactive waste in their respective jurisdictions. Many are passing laws banning the transport of such waste through their cities and states. The consumer and environmental protection groups that will fight in court against the movement and disposal of radioactive waste are getting stronger and more numerous every year. Meanwhile the containers in which this deadly material is now stored are deteriorating. Ever increasing the likelihood of the accidental release of glowing green ooze.
But here is the scary part. The people who spent millions to make this commercial and even more millions to run it no doubt hired experts to do studies and focus groups and consumer testing to find the best way to convince the younger generation that nuclear power is safe and clean and necessary. And what image did they come up with?
Disco dancing.
OWL
Sept, 21 2007
Stupidity in America bonus rant- The plan is that once they place this stuff deep into the ground in some geologically stable area they will seal it off and post warning signs for future generations to stay away. They want to put up warnings of danger in every known language, barbed wire, chain link fences, concrete and steel barriers, death's head and radioactive symbols and whatever else they can come up with to discourage people from poking around. They might as well mark it with big red "X" and a sign that says "Dig here!"
owl
On Line
When the most important developments in human history are listed certain things come up again and again. Language, the wheel, the computer and decaf always come at the top of the list. Mechanization, the pulley, pointy sticks and sharpened rocks are often included. The automobile, telecommunications and plastic are considered by some to be crucial to modern life. Paper played a major role in the spread of civilization but with everything on microchip now paper will soon be something you only find in restrooms. Aggressive types will point out gunpowder as the number one invention of all time. Pessimists focus on the threat of annihilation posed by the unleashing of atomic energy.
I like string. No one invented it. Vines, sinew and other sting like objects are found throughout the natural world and have been used by man from the earliest of times. But sometime before the beginning of human history someone figured out that plant or animal fibers could be twisted together into string and the way we interact with our world was fundamentally changed forever. The process is simple. Hair, wool, cotton or other fibers are twisted between the fingers or rolled between the palm of the hand and the thigh and out comes an incredibly strong and versatile material. Its length is limited only by the amount of time and material you have. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, a string can be hundreds of times stronger than its strongest fiber.
Having a ready supply of string made possible many of the innovations that led to the creation of civilization. Humans were suddenly able to carry more, build more, kill more and exploit their environment more efficiently. String allowed primitive people to sew animal skins into clothing, bundle items together and carry more. Their huts were bound with string, many tools such as hand axes and hammers were made stronger with string. New weapons like the bow and arrow and the sling were made possible with string. Old weapons, like the spear, were improved. String was fashioned into traps by early hunters and into nets by fishermen. The use of string allowed men to harness the power of the wind to sail across vast stretches of water and to harness animals to plow fields and bear burdens. The great monuments of antiquity, Stonehenge, the Pyramids and the Maoi of Easter Island were made possible because hundreds of people were able to work together pulling one stone. String figures, various designs made by manipulating a loop of sting, were a very early form of symbolic representation and were used for intertribal communication well into the twentieth century. String games, like the familiar "cats cradle", have been traced back in time thousands of years.
String, thread, twine, rope, cord, wire, cable, line and yarn are variations of twisted fibers and they permeate our world. What are you wearing? You might have shoes made of leather but I bet everything else, shirt, skirt, pants, panties, briefs etc. were woven, knit or crocheted from thread. Before the industrial revolution in the nineteenth century most woman spent more time spinning, weaving and sewing than they did with all other tasks combined! Even in wealthy households with many servants or slaves the matron would devote much of her day to this all important task. Penelope spun and wove by day and unraveled her work by night. With this ruse she was able to forestall her many avid suitors for ten years, a testament to how time consuming the process can be. The distaff, a board or hook for holding unspun wool, was symbolic for women's work and the term "distaff" was synonymous with "female". The word is rarely used these days because no one knows what it refers to. Even I, when researching this piece, found out that I was unclear on what exactly the distaff was. I had it confused with the spindle, a tool for spinning.
The fan belt that keeps your car from over heating, the electrical cord that powers the computer you are now using, the floss that cleans your teeth and the steel cable which hoisted the roof beams of your house were all made of twisted fibers. The seat belt which may one day save your life, the fiberglass and carbon composites of which many things, including airplanes, are now made and the flag that waves over the courthouse and proclaims our freedom are all based on the same technology. Although super glue or staples are being used in its place silk thread is still standard equipment in emergency rooms around the world.
Spinning is rarely done by hand these days except by a few hobbyist, historical reenactors or makers of trendy and expensive hand crafted clothing. It is not because spinning has become an anachronism not relevant to modern life. But rather because of the great amount of it that has to be done. The hundreds of miles of thread that goes in to our carpets and draperies is all created on automated equipment. Indeed it was the need for vast quantities of thread that largely drove the industrial revolution. Some of the earliest mechanized factories, many of them on the east coast of the United States, were those that spun thread and wove it into cloth. The fight over the profits from this budding industry was one of the major factors that led to the Civil War.
Agriculture, architecture, transportation, animal husbandry, communications, economics, fashion, music and just about every other aspect of our lives owe much of their existence to a few fibers twisted together between the fingers of an ancient ancestor.
Think about that the next time a button pops off.
OWL
Sept. 21, 2007
I like string. No one invented it. Vines, sinew and other sting like objects are found throughout the natural world and have been used by man from the earliest of times. But sometime before the beginning of human history someone figured out that plant or animal fibers could be twisted together into string and the way we interact with our world was fundamentally changed forever. The process is simple. Hair, wool, cotton or other fibers are twisted between the fingers or rolled between the palm of the hand and the thigh and out comes an incredibly strong and versatile material. Its length is limited only by the amount of time and material you have. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, a string can be hundreds of times stronger than its strongest fiber.
Having a ready supply of string made possible many of the innovations that led to the creation of civilization. Humans were suddenly able to carry more, build more, kill more and exploit their environment more efficiently. String allowed primitive people to sew animal skins into clothing, bundle items together and carry more. Their huts were bound with string, many tools such as hand axes and hammers were made stronger with string. New weapons like the bow and arrow and the sling were made possible with string. Old weapons, like the spear, were improved. String was fashioned into traps by early hunters and into nets by fishermen. The use of string allowed men to harness the power of the wind to sail across vast stretches of water and to harness animals to plow fields and bear burdens. The great monuments of antiquity, Stonehenge, the Pyramids and the Maoi of Easter Island were made possible because hundreds of people were able to work together pulling one stone. String figures, various designs made by manipulating a loop of sting, were a very early form of symbolic representation and were used for intertribal communication well into the twentieth century. String games, like the familiar "cats cradle", have been traced back in time thousands of years.
String, thread, twine, rope, cord, wire, cable, line and yarn are variations of twisted fibers and they permeate our world. What are you wearing? You might have shoes made of leather but I bet everything else, shirt, skirt, pants, panties, briefs etc. were woven, knit or crocheted from thread. Before the industrial revolution in the nineteenth century most woman spent more time spinning, weaving and sewing than they did with all other tasks combined! Even in wealthy households with many servants or slaves the matron would devote much of her day to this all important task. Penelope spun and wove by day and unraveled her work by night. With this ruse she was able to forestall her many avid suitors for ten years, a testament to how time consuming the process can be. The distaff, a board or hook for holding unspun wool, was symbolic for women's work and the term "distaff" was synonymous with "female". The word is rarely used these days because no one knows what it refers to. Even I, when researching this piece, found out that I was unclear on what exactly the distaff was. I had it confused with the spindle, a tool for spinning.
The fan belt that keeps your car from over heating, the electrical cord that powers the computer you are now using, the floss that cleans your teeth and the steel cable which hoisted the roof beams of your house were all made of twisted fibers. The seat belt which may one day save your life, the fiberglass and carbon composites of which many things, including airplanes, are now made and the flag that waves over the courthouse and proclaims our freedom are all based on the same technology. Although super glue or staples are being used in its place silk thread is still standard equipment in emergency rooms around the world.
Spinning is rarely done by hand these days except by a few hobbyist, historical reenactors or makers of trendy and expensive hand crafted clothing. It is not because spinning has become an anachronism not relevant to modern life. But rather because of the great amount of it that has to be done. The hundreds of miles of thread that goes in to our carpets and draperies is all created on automated equipment. Indeed it was the need for vast quantities of thread that largely drove the industrial revolution. Some of the earliest mechanized factories, many of them on the east coast of the United States, were those that spun thread and wove it into cloth. The fight over the profits from this budding industry was one of the major factors that led to the Civil War.
Agriculture, architecture, transportation, animal husbandry, communications, economics, fashion, music and just about every other aspect of our lives owe much of their existence to a few fibers twisted together between the fingers of an ancient ancestor.
Think about that the next time a button pops off.
OWL
Sept. 21, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Stonehenge
The local weather web site says the current temperature is 80 degrees Fahrenheit, wind out of the southwest with gusts of 5 mph, cloud cover 2% and very slight chance of rain. Nice day? No, not for me. It has cooled off a lot from the temperatures in the nineties a week ago. After the 100 plus days of mid summer 80 feels quite cool. The fall equinox is coming up. The days or at least the hours of sunlight are getting shorter.
I always get depressed when summer turns to fall and even more depressed when fall turns to winter. I hate getting up and going to work in the dark. And detest coming home in the dark. I get cold very easily, whether it is due to low metabolism or lack of body fat I don't know. Often the only time I feel really warm in the winter is when I am soaking in a hot bath. But I can't stay in the tub all day.
I get depressed because I feel like another summer has come and gone and I have wasted it. I tend to focus to much on what I haven't done. The things I haven't accomplished.
For the most part the things that I set out to do this summer I have a done. My garden produced more vegetables than I can eat or even give away. The flowers this year were bountiful. My marriage is stronger and my relationship with my wife is better than ever. I have let my artistic side out and my drawing is much more free. My writing is getting better though I still have a hard writing about my day to day life and my emotions. This post seems wooden and stilted. I do much better when I'm ranting about the ill logic and silliness of the society in which we live.
Truth is I don't like examining my emotions or making them public. I'd much rather feel sorry for myself and not ask why. And definitely not share my unhappiness or fear with anyone. And not do anything to change it.
I'm learning to let the world in. And let the frightened little boy out.
Thanks for listening.
OWL
Sept. 16, 2007
I always get depressed when summer turns to fall and even more depressed when fall turns to winter. I hate getting up and going to work in the dark. And detest coming home in the dark. I get cold very easily, whether it is due to low metabolism or lack of body fat I don't know. Often the only time I feel really warm in the winter is when I am soaking in a hot bath. But I can't stay in the tub all day.
I get depressed because I feel like another summer has come and gone and I have wasted it. I tend to focus to much on what I haven't done. The things I haven't accomplished.
For the most part the things that I set out to do this summer I have a done. My garden produced more vegetables than I can eat or even give away. The flowers this year were bountiful. My marriage is stronger and my relationship with my wife is better than ever. I have let my artistic side out and my drawing is much more free. My writing is getting better though I still have a hard writing about my day to day life and my emotions. This post seems wooden and stilted. I do much better when I'm ranting about the ill logic and silliness of the society in which we live.
Truth is I don't like examining my emotions or making them public. I'd much rather feel sorry for myself and not ask why. And definitely not share my unhappiness or fear with anyone. And not do anything to change it.
I'm learning to let the world in. And let the frightened little boy out.
Thanks for listening.
OWL
Sept. 16, 2007
Monday, September 3, 2007
SPQR
Deodorants, perfumes, antiseptics and air fresheners are contributing to the decline of western civilization.
Interesting thesis but can I make the argument to back it up?
In order to sell these products Proctor and Gamble, Reckitt Benckiser, S. C. Johnson & Son and other major corporations play on peoples subconscious fears. Especially the fear of being socially unacceptable. Is your breath bad? Does your house smell? Got B.O? These companies spend billions trying to convince us that not only do we have such problems but that such things are unnatural, unhealthy and offensive. And your friends won't tell you. That is if someone as disgusting as yourself has friends.
We have been taught from a very early age that odor is a bad word. If it smells it has gone bad. It needs to be thrown out, disinfected or at least covered up. And they have the products to do it. Deodorant for the underarms, mouthwash for the breath, air fresheners for the house, scented detergent for the laundry, air filters, ionisers, perfumes, colognes, breath mints, scented oils, scented candles and disinfectants with a fresh clean scent.
Never mind that what is called for is merely soap and water, clean air and sunshine. Besides where do you get clean air these days, it doesn't come in a can. Even if it smells fine to you someone else may be able to detect some foul emanation. So you best use something just in case.
These products work in several ways. They can neutralize the odor as stated in the commercial, cover up the smell with something stronger or deaden your sense of smell. Those products which neutralize odor often have the side effect of deadening your olfactory nerves and the cover ups cause olfactory fatigue.
Bombarded by harsh chemicals and artificial fragrances all day the chef goes into the kitchen without one of the essential tools of good cooking. A keen sense of smell. Unable to use the nose cook relies on taste.
Of course, as we learned in grammar school, taste buds distinguish only four favors. Sweet, salty, sour and bitter. Sugar and salt are used to give flavor to food stuffs that are perceived to be bland. Or to meals that really are bland. Hardly matters because that is all the family can discern anyway. Loaded up with sugar and salt menus become monotonous. Lacking variety dinner taste like lunch, dessert and breakfast are as one. Meal time becomes a chore, a necessary routine, something to be gotten through quickly so we can all get back to our separate corners and our electronic friends. No one lingers at the table. Dinner conversation becomes a thing of the past, only seen in old movies or corny "family oriented" sit-coms. Eating while standing at the counter becomes acceptable, Taco Bell for breakfast starts to seem like a good idea. Eating while driving, which doesn't let you concentrate on driving or enjoy your meal, is common even though it interferes with "texting". Young people turn to premarital sex or experimentation with street drugs and alcohol to replace the feelings of connectedness and pleasure that are missing at mealtime.
Studies have shown that children who sit at the table with their parents during dinner get better grades in school and have fewer social problems than those who don't. Couples that share their thoughts and feelings at supper are less likely to break up. Families that eat together stay together. For many of us the evening gathering to break bread is the only time the whole family is together on a regular basis. Take that away and the fabric of the nuclear family starts to unravel.
As we are often reminded by conservatives the family is the essential building block of our society. (Yep they get it right sometimes but then so do the democrats.) Broken homes lead to broken laws and social disarray.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
W.B. Yeats - The Second Coming
OWL
Sept. 4, 2007
Interesting thesis but can I make the argument to back it up?
In order to sell these products Proctor and Gamble, Reckitt Benckiser, S. C. Johnson & Son and other major corporations play on peoples subconscious fears. Especially the fear of being socially unacceptable. Is your breath bad? Does your house smell? Got B.O? These companies spend billions trying to convince us that not only do we have such problems but that such things are unnatural, unhealthy and offensive. And your friends won't tell you. That is if someone as disgusting as yourself has friends.
We have been taught from a very early age that odor is a bad word. If it smells it has gone bad. It needs to be thrown out, disinfected or at least covered up. And they have the products to do it. Deodorant for the underarms, mouthwash for the breath, air fresheners for the house, scented detergent for the laundry, air filters, ionisers, perfumes, colognes, breath mints, scented oils, scented candles and disinfectants with a fresh clean scent.
Never mind that what is called for is merely soap and water, clean air and sunshine. Besides where do you get clean air these days, it doesn't come in a can. Even if it smells fine to you someone else may be able to detect some foul emanation. So you best use something just in case.
These products work in several ways. They can neutralize the odor as stated in the commercial, cover up the smell with something stronger or deaden your sense of smell. Those products which neutralize odor often have the side effect of deadening your olfactory nerves and the cover ups cause olfactory fatigue.
Bombarded by harsh chemicals and artificial fragrances all day the chef goes into the kitchen without one of the essential tools of good cooking. A keen sense of smell. Unable to use the nose cook relies on taste.
Of course, as we learned in grammar school, taste buds distinguish only four favors. Sweet, salty, sour and bitter. Sugar and salt are used to give flavor to food stuffs that are perceived to be bland. Or to meals that really are bland. Hardly matters because that is all the family can discern anyway. Loaded up with sugar and salt menus become monotonous. Lacking variety dinner taste like lunch, dessert and breakfast are as one. Meal time becomes a chore, a necessary routine, something to be gotten through quickly so we can all get back to our separate corners and our electronic friends. No one lingers at the table. Dinner conversation becomes a thing of the past, only seen in old movies or corny "family oriented" sit-coms. Eating while standing at the counter becomes acceptable, Taco Bell for breakfast starts to seem like a good idea. Eating while driving, which doesn't let you concentrate on driving or enjoy your meal, is common even though it interferes with "texting". Young people turn to premarital sex or experimentation with street drugs and alcohol to replace the feelings of connectedness and pleasure that are missing at mealtime.
Studies have shown that children who sit at the table with their parents during dinner get better grades in school and have fewer social problems than those who don't. Couples that share their thoughts and feelings at supper are less likely to break up. Families that eat together stay together. For many of us the evening gathering to break bread is the only time the whole family is together on a regular basis. Take that away and the fabric of the nuclear family starts to unravel.
As we are often reminded by conservatives the family is the essential building block of our society. (Yep they get it right sometimes but then so do the democrats.) Broken homes lead to broken laws and social disarray.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
W.B. Yeats - The Second Coming
OWL
Sept. 4, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
freedom of speech impediment
I recently wrote a letter detailing a few of my objections to the way George W. is running the country. Someone had sent me an e-mail basically stating that anyone who had a job and enough to eat and doesn't agree with W's policies is "spoiled and ungrateful". And it erroneously attributed the writing to someone I admire. A response was wanting.
I have avoided criticizing the prez here because that kind of thing can found all over the media and political blogs are so passe. Besides we don't have the time. But there is one thing that really drives me nuts about the upside down M and it has not gotten the attention that it deserves. Especially during the 2004 election.
"It's your money."
"The American people know best how to spend their own money."
"I think it is time for the government to get its hand out of your pocket."
This kind of small government big promise mantra got the stunted tree elected in 2000. Not a bad idea really. High taxes are bad for the economy and put a burden on those of us that don't collect and trade baseball players as a hobby. But fairy-god-mother doesn't deliver in my neighborhood any more.
So bonsai gets himself elected (?) and proceeded to lower taxes. And the more money you had the more he lowered your taxes. The justification being that the more money you had the more taxes you paid. Theoretically. But isn't that how it is supposed to work? Anyway I can't fault him for giving his friends a break. That's what politicians do. That's what anyone who wasn't semi-comatose at the time expected him to do.
Scrub got the hand of the government out of your pocket! Ah, no. The small plant administration did not reduce spending to match the lowered revenue. They spent more. Lots more! The biggest deficit and highest national debt in the last two hundred and thirty-one years. The shrubbery has been borrowing massive amounts of cash to finance his slippery war and he has been signing your name on the loan application!
The government hasn't gotten its hand out of your pocket. But instead of grabbing the cash the credit card is now the object of choice. How much cash you got? If a pickpocket took it all how long would you take to recover from the financial blow? What if he left the greenbacks and took the plastic instead? Would you say, "What a relief. Who ever it was just took these worthless pieces of plastic." No you would be in a panic. Calling all over town in a desperate attempt to cut off the lines of credit before serious harm could be done to your credit rating and your reputation.
We, the citizens of the United States of America, should be on the phone right now trying to put a stop to this delusional sneak thief, treating his well lubricated friends to a banquet full of riches, and stamping the bills, "To be paid by U.S. Taxpayer and descendants."
"Interest due."
OWL
Aug. 31, 2007
I have avoided criticizing the prez here because that kind of thing can found all over the media and political blogs are so passe. Besides we don't have the time. But there is one thing that really drives me nuts about the upside down M and it has not gotten the attention that it deserves. Especially during the 2004 election.
"It's your money."
"The American people know best how to spend their own money."
"I think it is time for the government to get its hand out of your pocket."
This kind of small government big promise mantra got the stunted tree elected in 2000. Not a bad idea really. High taxes are bad for the economy and put a burden on those of us that don't collect and trade baseball players as a hobby. But fairy-god-mother doesn't deliver in my neighborhood any more.
So bonsai gets himself elected (?) and proceeded to lower taxes. And the more money you had the more he lowered your taxes. The justification being that the more money you had the more taxes you paid. Theoretically. But isn't that how it is supposed to work? Anyway I can't fault him for giving his friends a break. That's what politicians do. That's what anyone who wasn't semi-comatose at the time expected him to do.
Scrub got the hand of the government out of your pocket! Ah, no. The small plant administration did not reduce spending to match the lowered revenue. They spent more. Lots more! The biggest deficit and highest national debt in the last two hundred and thirty-one years. The shrubbery has been borrowing massive amounts of cash to finance his slippery war and he has been signing your name on the loan application!
The government hasn't gotten its hand out of your pocket. But instead of grabbing the cash the credit card is now the object of choice. How much cash you got? If a pickpocket took it all how long would you take to recover from the financial blow? What if he left the greenbacks and took the plastic instead? Would you say, "What a relief. Who ever it was just took these worthless pieces of plastic." No you would be in a panic. Calling all over town in a desperate attempt to cut off the lines of credit before serious harm could be done to your credit rating and your reputation.
We, the citizens of the United States of America, should be on the phone right now trying to put a stop to this delusional sneak thief, treating his well lubricated friends to a banquet full of riches, and stamping the bills, "To be paid by U.S. Taxpayer and descendants."
"Interest due."
OWL
Aug. 31, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Stretch marks
Gardening how-to books will tell you how to avoid having your ripe tomatoes split open. Don't give them to much water. So I'm out there looking through the fence at these big yellow tomatoes with large crisscrossing splits on the stem end and thinking, "Why?" Why would I want to avoid that? The big X on top means the tomato is bursting with juicy delicious juiciness. Literally! I like my tomatoes plump and juicy. If I were growing them for the farmers market or to enter into the county fair, trying for that blue ribbon, that would be different. Looks would be my top concern. But I grow them to eat or to share with friends. It's what's inside that counts.
I like my woman juicy too.
Plant breeders have done an amazing job modifying the traits of fruits and vegetables. Modern field tomatoes all ripen at the same time, are firm enough to be picked, processed and packaged by automated machinery and arrive at market absolutely free of blemish. Or taste. When sliced onto a burger they are guaranteed not to drip on your hand painted silk tie. Nice.
Fashion magazines, television and the miracle of modern medicine have done as much for today's woman. Deprived of nutrition they arrive at market "picture perfect". Looking as if they were raised on a commercial farm. Firm enough for handling by automated machinery. And about as comfortable as concrete couch. Any hint of plumpness has been strategically placed with skill of a surgeons hand and frankly appears out of place.
I think I'll go water the tomato.
OWL
August 26, 2007
I like my woman juicy too.
Plant breeders have done an amazing job modifying the traits of fruits and vegetables. Modern field tomatoes all ripen at the same time, are firm enough to be picked, processed and packaged by automated machinery and arrive at market absolutely free of blemish. Or taste. When sliced onto a burger they are guaranteed not to drip on your hand painted silk tie. Nice.
Fashion magazines, television and the miracle of modern medicine have done as much for today's woman. Deprived of nutrition they arrive at market "picture perfect". Looking as if they were raised on a commercial farm. Firm enough for handling by automated machinery. And about as comfortable as concrete couch. Any hint of plumpness has been strategically placed with skill of a surgeons hand and frankly appears out of place.
I think I'll go water the tomato.
OWL
August 26, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
herpetology
There is a sticker on the back of my car in the shape of a fat little lizard. Written across it in big letters is "GoNewt". It is very distinctive, if you see me in traffic give a honk. I won't know why you're honking and I'll think you're just being rude. Honk anyway.
I did not know what the sticker meant when I put it on the car. When I came up with the idea for the sticker, I did not know what it meant. I made it and put it on the car and began thinking about it. The sticker is one of a kind, hand made, original, like no other.
I am the newt. The meaning is now clear. It is an ever present reminder to be myself. To express myself, creatively and honestly. Follow my instinct, impulse and intelligence. Rage against the prepackaged pablum of modern consumerism, the mental void offered by party politics and the soulless spirituality of religion reduced to aphorism.
More than ever I feel the need to not be bound by convention, tradition, expectation or ideology. I pick things up and look at them. Rocks, bugs, vegetables, ideas and dogma. I turn them over in my hand and in my mind trying determine if they are solid, palatable, fresh and sound or just so much recycled dirt pressed together and dried in an Easy-Bake oven.
What have we found here? Inspiration or rote repetition of tired old adages strung together like pizza sauce? Ever mindful of my mouth and of my opinions I vow to be ever more vigilant to ensure that what I say and what I believe comes from within after a serious examination of the facts. What? Oh well. Anyway less concern for how society expects me to look and more focus on shaping my own identity.
My recent decision to wear the company supplied shirts at work everyday, despite the fact that they are not required, has me wondering if my individuality is being swallowed up by the corporate whale.
Nah, I'm just tight.
OWL
August, 23 2007
I did not know what the sticker meant when I put it on the car. When I came up with the idea for the sticker, I did not know what it meant. I made it and put it on the car and began thinking about it. The sticker is one of a kind, hand made, original, like no other.
I am the newt. The meaning is now clear. It is an ever present reminder to be myself. To express myself, creatively and honestly. Follow my instinct, impulse and intelligence. Rage against the prepackaged pablum of modern consumerism, the mental void offered by party politics and the soulless spirituality of religion reduced to aphorism.
More than ever I feel the need to not be bound by convention, tradition, expectation or ideology. I pick things up and look at them. Rocks, bugs, vegetables, ideas and dogma. I turn them over in my hand and in my mind trying determine if they are solid, palatable, fresh and sound or just so much recycled dirt pressed together and dried in an Easy-Bake oven.
What have we found here? Inspiration or rote repetition of tired old adages strung together like pizza sauce? Ever mindful of my mouth and of my opinions I vow to be ever more vigilant to ensure that what I say and what I believe comes from within after a serious examination of the facts. What? Oh well. Anyway less concern for how society expects me to look and more focus on shaping my own identity.
My recent decision to wear the company supplied shirts at work everyday, despite the fact that they are not required, has me wondering if my individuality is being swallowed up by the corporate whale.
Nah, I'm just tight.
OWL
August, 23 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Call me Ishmael
When I was younger I began to feel uneasy about seeing lions in cages being made to jump through hoops. Proud animals being humiliated, having whips cracked in their faces, in front of huge noisy crowds of human beings. Imagine Mufasa jumping through hoops. Darth Vader would not be pleased. Then marine animal parks became popular, my uneasiness turned to revulsion. Dolphins may well be the most intelligent beings on the planet. Here they are doing tricks, "Speak", "Fetch", "Rollover". "Goodboy, have a dead fish."
Animal rights activist began to protest the capture, captivity and treatment of marine mammals. I had to concur. Those who made their living training and exhibiting other species made two arguments. It allows us to study these important relatives of the human race. Maybe that would justify holding them indefinitely without formal charges. And "they enjoy doing tricks."
I had a friend, we'll call him DoorMatt. Everyone else did. Minor infractions resulted in a short term of incarceration for my young acquaintance. I saw him in the park one day with a few of his new found friends. Those who were well mannered and house broken had been brought out to do a little work on behalf of the public. Cutting the grass and raking up leaves, etc. DoorMatt was picking up trash and having a very good time of it. Odd, I had never before seen him bend at the waist to retrieve discarded waste paper. The other men exhibited an unusually keen interest in the tasks they were assigned. Unusual for guys whose normal attitude was, "@#$% the hedges, I'm watching the game. Get me another beer."
The higher primates when put into cages will take a sudden liking to simple and demeaning tasks if it allows them a break from the mind numbing monotony of cellular life. Most of the felons I know would drop the brooms and quickly pack their travel kits if the door were inadvertently left unsecured. Why should cetaceans be any different? Some dolphins if let into the wild will find their way back unaccompanied. So will some inmates, they have been "institutionalized". It's not pretty.
Go right ahead. Take my friend Flipper, put him in a tank, train him like a dog to do back flips for frozen mackerel in front of screaming crowds of humans, with their popcorn and cotton candy and hot dogs, at forty bucks a pop. But don't insult my intelligence, or his, by saying, "They enjoy doing tricks!"
OWL
August 20, 2007
Animal rights activist began to protest the capture, captivity and treatment of marine mammals. I had to concur. Those who made their living training and exhibiting other species made two arguments. It allows us to study these important relatives of the human race. Maybe that would justify holding them indefinitely without formal charges. And "they enjoy doing tricks."
I had a friend, we'll call him DoorMatt. Everyone else did. Minor infractions resulted in a short term of incarceration for my young acquaintance. I saw him in the park one day with a few of his new found friends. Those who were well mannered and house broken had been brought out to do a little work on behalf of the public. Cutting the grass and raking up leaves, etc. DoorMatt was picking up trash and having a very good time of it. Odd, I had never before seen him bend at the waist to retrieve discarded waste paper. The other men exhibited an unusually keen interest in the tasks they were assigned. Unusual for guys whose normal attitude was, "@#$% the hedges, I'm watching the game. Get me another beer."
The higher primates when put into cages will take a sudden liking to simple and demeaning tasks if it allows them a break from the mind numbing monotony of cellular life. Most of the felons I know would drop the brooms and quickly pack their travel kits if the door were inadvertently left unsecured. Why should cetaceans be any different? Some dolphins if let into the wild will find their way back unaccompanied. So will some inmates, they have been "institutionalized". It's not pretty.
Go right ahead. Take my friend Flipper, put him in a tank, train him like a dog to do back flips for frozen mackerel in front of screaming crowds of humans, with their popcorn and cotton candy and hot dogs, at forty bucks a pop. But don't insult my intelligence, or his, by saying, "They enjoy doing tricks!"
OWL
August 20, 2007
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus
Rachel was beautiful. Pale skin framed by dark hair in an unusual style. Red lipstick enhancing the expression of sadness on her full lips and the look of longing in her dark eyes. A look befitting a young woman unsure of her own past. The cigarette in her right hand highlighted the tragic nature of her existence. It was the perfect prop.
In the movies smoking did not cause lung cancer. Or bad breath. The ashtrays were never full of butts, they usually weren't there at all. Tossing a lit cigarette out the window or grinding it out on someone's fried egg was a statement. Smoke didn't get in your eye. When the heroine smoked it was part of her character development. If she was glamorous the long thin cigarette holder made her more so. Strong independent women lit their own cigarettes and bad girls spoke with a cigarette dangling from the side of the mouth. Prostitutes smoked during sex. It was a fantasy world. The leading lady didn't cough for fifteen minutes in the morning.
The bullets were all blanks, the blood was really corn syrup. The castle was a mere facade and the Emerald City was a sound set. Actresses had unhappy childhoods and bad marriages. Their designer gowns and expensive jewelry were on loan from the studio in order to promote the latest release. Little girls wanted to grow up and be "just like her".
It is sad, you see them all around town, young attractive women with nice clothes, stylish hairdos, long red nails, lots of make-up and the ever present cigarette. Between the fingers or lips. A half full pack on the table in front of her or protruding from the purse. Often times a lady seems really sexy until she reaches for that fag. Then all the hard work she has done to perfect her appearance, to get the "look", is wasted.
Hollywood lied.
OWL
August 19, 2007
In the movies smoking did not cause lung cancer. Or bad breath. The ashtrays were never full of butts, they usually weren't there at all. Tossing a lit cigarette out the window or grinding it out on someone's fried egg was a statement. Smoke didn't get in your eye. When the heroine smoked it was part of her character development. If she was glamorous the long thin cigarette holder made her more so. Strong independent women lit their own cigarettes and bad girls spoke with a cigarette dangling from the side of the mouth. Prostitutes smoked during sex. It was a fantasy world. The leading lady didn't cough for fifteen minutes in the morning.
The bullets were all blanks, the blood was really corn syrup. The castle was a mere facade and the Emerald City was a sound set. Actresses had unhappy childhoods and bad marriages. Their designer gowns and expensive jewelry were on loan from the studio in order to promote the latest release. Little girls wanted to grow up and be "just like her".
It is sad, you see them all around town, young attractive women with nice clothes, stylish hairdos, long red nails, lots of make-up and the ever present cigarette. Between the fingers or lips. A half full pack on the table in front of her or protruding from the purse. Often times a lady seems really sexy until she reaches for that fag. Then all the hard work she has done to perfect her appearance, to get the "look", is wasted.
Hollywood lied.
OWL
August 19, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
on account
There has been a disturbing trend in recent elections. Candidates are spending large sums of their own money on campaigns. The amount of money one can donate to a campaign is limited by law. Unless it is your own campaign and then you are only limited by your bank account, personal portfolio or what you have stuffed in the mattress. If it was just a matter of wealthy people spending small, or large, fortunes to buy public office I would not be so concerned. But the real situation is a bit more complicated and a lot more insidious.
In many cases these men and woman do not literally "spend" the money used in their campaign. They form a campaign committee and then loan money to the committee. If they lose the election the committee folds like the perverse deck of cards and the candidate is out the money. His loss. But if he or she wins the committee continues to take donations in order to pay off its debts.
Persons of privilege finance their own campaigns and contributors then give to the winners! Its like going to the track and placing your bet when the race is over. The two thousand dollar a plate players can back a winner every time. This makes it hard for a citizen who is not sitting on humongous piles of filthy lucre to come out on top in the election lottery. It was hard for working class penises to win back in the day when, if you told a wild enough lie or made the right deal, you could accept huge gifts from those who were gullible or slithy. But you didn't have to be rich, you just needed rich friends. Today having personal means is a requirement for anyone who wants to seriously compete in the race.
Campaign reform has "raised the bar".
OWL
August 16, 2006
In many cases these men and woman do not literally "spend" the money used in their campaign. They form a campaign committee and then loan money to the committee. If they lose the election the committee folds like the perverse deck of cards and the candidate is out the money. His loss. But if he or she wins the committee continues to take donations in order to pay off its debts.
Persons of privilege finance their own campaigns and contributors then give to the winners! Its like going to the track and placing your bet when the race is over. The two thousand dollar a plate players can back a winner every time. This makes it hard for a citizen who is not sitting on humongous piles of filthy lucre to come out on top in the election lottery. It was hard for working class penises to win back in the day when, if you told a wild enough lie or made the right deal, you could accept huge gifts from those who were gullible or slithy. But you didn't have to be rich, you just needed rich friends. Today having personal means is a requirement for anyone who wants to seriously compete in the race.
Campaign reform has "raised the bar".
OWL
August 16, 2006
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Noah good place to eat?
Back when I was in school teacher often said, "If you don't know what a word means look it up!" The other students would roll their eyes and yawn enthusiastically. I thought it was good advice but didn't follow it until later in life when I started reading a wider variety of material. Stuff that wasn't in the curriculum. Psychology, physics, non-sense poetry, case studies in deviant sexual behavior, the usual subjects of keen interest to anti-social loners like myself. Anti-social loner" has acquired some unattractive connotations of late, I prefer "intellectual isolationist". Some of the stuff I read had unfamiliar terms on every line. Milton used words I've seen nowhere else except maybe the Harvard Lampoon. And when you're reading non-sense you're never sure if a word is a word. But I really wanted to understand what I was reading so I began to look things up. I haven't looked back.
The "net" has made the process so much easier, particularly considering the limited depth of your average home dictionary. I had to write down a list of unknowns and look them of in the "big dick" at the library. Very time consuming. Now I just type terms into Google, Wikipedia or onelook.com and out comes a wealth of information. IC.
My son has adopted many of the traits of his fraternal generative unit. Don't talk much. Like most parents I've tried to teach my son various lessons on biological processes, the totality of physical existence and whatever else there may be out there. Because of his uncommunicativeness sometimes it is hard to tell what, if anything, he is learning. I put stuff in one aural opening and nothing comes out. Anywhere. I found Stephen Hawking's essays illuminating in respect to raising teenagers.
DW often reads over my shoulder and sometimes asks, "what's that mean?" Even if I know the answer I tend to do a search, hopping that he will learn to do so as well. Most recently I was doing some research on the Constitution and DW asked, "What are Letters of Marque?" I thought I knew the answer but it seemed a strange privilege for the Founding Fathers to grant to Congress. So I onelooked. I was right. DW pointed out that it was the 18th century.
A few days ago I sat down here (at the keyboard) and found that one of the open windows was a Google search of the word "tithe". I had used the word in one of my posts. Misses B. knows what the word means. That leaves DW. I felt the pride of parenthood.
OWL
August 15, 2007
The "net" has made the process so much easier, particularly considering the limited depth of your average home dictionary. I had to write down a list of unknowns and look them of in the "big dick" at the library. Very time consuming. Now I just type terms into Google, Wikipedia or onelook.com and out comes a wealth of information. IC.
My son has adopted many of the traits of his fraternal generative unit. Don't talk much. Like most parents I've tried to teach my son various lessons on biological processes, the totality of physical existence and whatever else there may be out there. Because of his uncommunicativeness sometimes it is hard to tell what, if anything, he is learning. I put stuff in one aural opening and nothing comes out. Anywhere. I found Stephen Hawking's essays illuminating in respect to raising teenagers.
DW often reads over my shoulder and sometimes asks, "what's that mean?" Even if I know the answer I tend to do a search, hopping that he will learn to do so as well. Most recently I was doing some research on the Constitution and DW asked, "What are Letters of Marque?" I thought I knew the answer but it seemed a strange privilege for the Founding Fathers to grant to Congress. So I onelooked. I was right. DW pointed out that it was the 18th century.
A few days ago I sat down here (at the keyboard) and found that one of the open windows was a Google search of the word "tithe". I had used the word in one of my posts. Misses B. knows what the word means. That leaves DW. I felt the pride of parenthood.
OWL
August 15, 2007
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