(Radio announcer's voice)
Was die Attentäter betrifft, die in Berlin den Anschlag auf die Deutsch-Arabische Gesellschaft verübt haben, ist die Polizei einen Schritt weiter gekommen. Die jetzt nach dem Anschlag...
They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom
For trying to change the system from within
I'm coming now, I'm coming to reward them
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
I'm guided by a signal in the heavens
I'm guided by this birthmark on my skin
I'm guided by the beauty of our weapons
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
I'd really like to live beside you, baby
I love your body and your spirit and your clothes
But you see that line there moving through the station?
I told you, I told you, told you, I was one of those
Ah you loved me as a loser, but now you're worried that I just might win
You know the way to stop me, but you don't have the discipline
How many nights I prayed for this, to let my work begin
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
I don't like your fashion business mister
And I don't like these drugs that keep you thin
I don't like what happened to my sister
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
I'd really like to live beside you, baby ...
And I thank you for those items that you sent me
The monkey and the plywood violin
I practiced every night, now I'm ready
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
I am guided
Ah remember me, I used to live for music
Remember me, I brought your groceries in
Well it's Father's Day and everybody's wounded
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
***
Jennifer Warnes and Stevie Ray Vaughn recording of Leonard Cohen's First We Take Manhattan.
http://t.co/t5g4vv3 via @youtube
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Take Me Home Country Roads
I rediscovered my good old Navy buddy Mike on Facebook. I had lost contact with him 30 some years ago. He now lives in rural West Virginia with his lifelong partner whom he originally met on a gay phone sex line.
He has invited me to visit him in his rural home in West Virginia.
When I knew him he looked like this.
I lived on this ship with him for three years but didn't know until now that he was gay.
Here he is today. He has offered me a good time should I decide to switch teams.
This is his partner in the ballerina costume, who would also be willing to show me a good time.
I would be allowed to stay in this room. This is Mike's brother. I'm not sure if he's part of the package.
This photo is Mike's most prized possession, an 8x10 glossy.
Recently Roger Ebert posted an image of a dressing recipe hand written by Marilyn Monroe. I sent the image to Mike.
Mike responded, "THANKS! This is the coolest thing ever! I will copy it into my picture gallery and cherish it. I will also make it this Thanksgiving..."
I can't wait until Thanksgiving!
He has invited me to visit him in his rural home in West Virginia.
When I knew him he looked like this.
I lived on this ship with him for three years but didn't know until now that he was gay.
Here he is today. He has offered me a good time should I decide to switch teams.
This is his partner in the ballerina costume, who would also be willing to show me a good time.
I would be allowed to stay in this room. This is Mike's brother. I'm not sure if he's part of the package.
This photo is Mike's most prized possession, an 8x10 glossy.
Recently Roger Ebert posted an image of a dressing recipe hand written by Marilyn Monroe. I sent the image to Mike.
Mike responded, "THANKS! This is the coolest thing ever! I will copy it into my picture gallery and cherish it. I will also make it this Thanksgiving..."
I can't wait until Thanksgiving!
Monday, October 4, 2010
Perdition
I have been to Naples a few times. When I was in the Navy we were homeported there on Mediterranean deployments.
Once upon completing a meal in a restaurant in Naples my friend Mike let loose a huge belch. The waiter exclaimed, "Saluté! Saluté!"
We were under the impression that he had complimented the chef because someone had told us, "That's the way it is in Italy."
We took that to heart and complimented chefs all through Italy, Sicily and even Capri. We belched our way through Naples, Pisa, Rome and places I don't even remember.
Was that the way it was in Eat Pray Love?
***
Innocent's Abroad
by Mark Twain
Here in Milan, in an ancient tumble-down ruin of a church, is the mournful wreck of the most celebrated painting in the world—"The Last Supper," by Leonardo da Vinci. We are not infallible judges of pictures, but of course we went there to see this wonderful painting, once so beautiful, always so worshipped by masters in art, and forever to be famous in song and story. And the first thing that occurred was the infliction on us of a placard fairly reeking with wretched English. Take a morsel of it:
"Bartholomew (that is the first figure on the left hand side at the spectator,) uncertain and doubtful about what he thinks to have heard, and upon which he wants to be assured by himself at Christ and by no others."
Good, isn't it? And then Peter is described as "argumenting in a threatening and angrily condition at Judas Iscariot."
This paragraph recalls the picture. "The Last Supper" is painted on the dilapidated wall of what was a little chapel attached to the main church in ancient times, I suppose. It is battered and scarred in every direction, and stained and discolored by time, and Napoleon's horses kicked the legs off most the disciples when they (the horses, not the disciples,) were stabled there more than half a century ago.
I recognized the old picture in a moment—the Saviour with bowed head seated at the centre of a long, rough table with scattering fruits and dishes upon it, and six disciples on either side in their long robes, talking to each other—the picture from which all engravings and all copies have been made for three centuries. Perhaps no living man has ever known an attempt to paint the Lord's Supper differently. The world seems to have become settled in the belief, long ago, that it is not possible for human genius to outdo this creation of da Vinci's. I suppose painters will go on copying it as long as any of the original is left visible to the eye. There were a dozen easels in the room, and as many artists transferring the great picture to their canvases. Fifty proofs of steel engravings and lithographs were scattered around, too. And as usual, I could not help noticing how superior the copies were to the original, that is, to my inexperienced eye. Wherever you find a Raphael, a Rubens, a Michelangelo, a Carracci, or a da Vinci (and we see them every day,) you find artists copying them, and the copies are always the handsomest. Maybe the originals were handsome when they were new, but they are not now.
The colors are dimmed with age; the countenances are scaled and marred, and nearly all expression is gone from them; the hair is a dead blur upon the wall, and there is no life in the eyes. Only the attitudes are certain.
People come here from all parts of the world, and glorify this masterpiece. They stand entranced before it with bated breath and parted lips, and when they speak, it is only in the catchy ejaculations of rapture:
"Oh, wonderful!"
"Such expression!"
"Such grace of attitude!"
"Such dignity!"
"Such faultless drawing!"
"Such matchless coloring!"
"Such feeling!"
"What delicacy of touch!"
"What sublimity of conception!"
"A vision! A vision!"
I only envy these people; I envy them their honest admiration, if it be honest—their delight, if they feel delight. I harbor no animosity toward any of them. But at the same time the thought will intrude itself upon me, How can they see what is not visible? What would you think of a man who looked at some decayed, blind, toothless, pock-marked Cleopatra, and said: "What matchless beauty! What soul! What expression!" What would you think of a man who gazed upon a dingy, foggy sunset, and said: "What sublimity! What feeling! What richness of coloring!" What would you think of a man who stared in ecstasy upon a desert of stumps and said: "Oh, my soul, my beating heart, what a noble forest is here!"
You would think that those men had an astonishing talent for seeing things that had already passed away. It was what I thought when I stood before "The Last Supper" and heard men apostrophizing wonders, and beauties and perfections which had faded out of the picture and gone, a hundred years before they were born. We can imagine the beauty that was once in an aged face; we can imagine the forest if we see the stumps; but we can not absolutely see these things when they are not there. I am willing to believe that the eye of the practiced artist can rest upon the Last Supper and renew a lustre where only a hint of it is left, supply a tint that has faded away, restore an expression that is gone; patch, and color, and add, to the dull canvas until at last its figures shall stand before him aglow with the life, the feeling, the freshness, yea, with all the noble beauty that was theirs when first they came from the hand of the master. But I can not work this miracle. Can those other uninspired visitors do it, or do they only happily imagine they do?
After reading so much about it, I am satisfied that the Last Supper was a very miracle of art once. But it was three hundred years ago.
It vexes me to hear people talk so glibly of "feeling," "expression," "tone," and those other easily acquired and inexpensive technicalities of art that make such a fine show in conversations concerning pictures. There is not one man in seventy-five hundred that can tell what a pictured face is intended to express. There is not one man in five hundred that can go into a court-room and be sure that he will not mistake some harmless innocent of a juryman for the black-hearted assassin on trial. Yet such people talk of "character" and presume to interpret "expression" in pictures. There is an old story that Matthews, the actor, was once lauding the ability of the human face to express the passions and emotions hidden in the breast. He said the countenance could disclose what was passing in the heart plainer than the tongue could.
"Now," he said, "observe my face—what does it express?"
"Despair!"
"Bah, it expresses peaceful resignation! What does this express?"
"Rage!"
"Stuff! It means terror! This!"
"Imbecility!"
"Fool! It is smothered ferocity! Now this!"
"Joy!"
"Oh, perdition! Any ass can see it means insanity!"
Expression! People coolly pretend to read it who would think themselves presumptuous if they pretended to interpret the hieroglyphics on the obelisks of Luxor—yet they are fully as competent to do the one thing as the other. I have heard two very intelligent critics speak of Murillo's Immaculate Conception (now in the museum at Seville,) within the past few days. One said:
"Oh, the Virgin's face is full of the ecstasy of a joy that is complete—that leaves nothing more to be desired on earth!"
The other said:
"Ah, that wonderful face is so humble, so pleading—it says as plainly as words could say it: 'I fear; I tremble; I am unworthy. But Thy will be done; sustain Thou Thy servant!'"
The reader can see the picture in any drawing-room; it can be easily recognized: the Virgin (the only young and really beautiful Virgin that was ever painted by one of the old masters, some of us think,) stands in the crescent of the new moon, with a multitude of cherubs hovering about her, and more coming; her hands are crossed upon her breast, and upon her uplifted countenance falls a glory out of the heavens. The reader may amuse himself, if he chooses, in trying to determine which of these gentlemen read the Virgin's "expression" aright, or if either of them did it.
Any one who is acquainted with the old masters will comprehend how much "The Last Supper" is damaged when I say that the spectator can not really tell, now, whether the disciples are Hebrews or Italians. These ancient painters never succeeded in denationalizing themselves. The Italian artists painted Italian Virgins, the Dutch painted Dutch Virgins, the Virgins of the French painters were Frenchwomen—none of them ever put into the face of the Madonna that indescribable something which proclaims the Jewess, whether you find her in New York, in Constantinople, in Paris, Jerusalem, or in the empire of Morocco. I saw in the Sandwich Islands, once, a picture copied by a talented German artist from an engraving in one of the American illustrated papers. It was an allegory, representing Mr. Davis in the act of signing a secession act or some such document. Over him hovered the ghost of Washington in warning attitude, and in the background a troop of shadowy soldiers in Continental uniform were limping with shoeless, bandaged feet through a driving snow-storm. Valley Forge was suggested, of course. The copy seemed accurate, and yet there was a discrepancy somewhere. After a long examination I discovered what it was—the shadowy soldiers were all Germans! Jeff Davis was a German! even the hovering ghost was a German ghost! The artist had unconsciously worked his nationality into the picture.
To tell the truth, I am getting a little perplexed about John the Baptist and his portraits. In France I finally grew reconciled to him as a Frenchman; here he is unquestionably an Italian. What next? Can it be possible that the painters make John the Baptist a Spaniard in Madrid and an Irishman in Dublin?
***
Check the Gutenborg files for the complete text of Innocent’s Abroad.
This excerpt came from:
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/3176/3176-h/p2.htm#ch14
Once upon completing a meal in a restaurant in Naples my friend Mike let loose a huge belch. The waiter exclaimed, "Saluté! Saluté!"
We were under the impression that he had complimented the chef because someone had told us, "That's the way it is in Italy."
We took that to heart and complimented chefs all through Italy, Sicily and even Capri. We belched our way through Naples, Pisa, Rome and places I don't even remember.
Was that the way it was in Eat Pray Love?
***
Innocent's Abroad
by Mark Twain
Here in Milan, in an ancient tumble-down ruin of a church, is the mournful wreck of the most celebrated painting in the world—"The Last Supper," by Leonardo da Vinci. We are not infallible judges of pictures, but of course we went there to see this wonderful painting, once so beautiful, always so worshipped by masters in art, and forever to be famous in song and story. And the first thing that occurred was the infliction on us of a placard fairly reeking with wretched English. Take a morsel of it:
"Bartholomew (that is the first figure on the left hand side at the spectator,) uncertain and doubtful about what he thinks to have heard, and upon which he wants to be assured by himself at Christ and by no others."
Good, isn't it? And then Peter is described as "argumenting in a threatening and angrily condition at Judas Iscariot."
This paragraph recalls the picture. "The Last Supper" is painted on the dilapidated wall of what was a little chapel attached to the main church in ancient times, I suppose. It is battered and scarred in every direction, and stained and discolored by time, and Napoleon's horses kicked the legs off most the disciples when they (the horses, not the disciples,) were stabled there more than half a century ago.
I recognized the old picture in a moment—the Saviour with bowed head seated at the centre of a long, rough table with scattering fruits and dishes upon it, and six disciples on either side in their long robes, talking to each other—the picture from which all engravings and all copies have been made for three centuries. Perhaps no living man has ever known an attempt to paint the Lord's Supper differently. The world seems to have become settled in the belief, long ago, that it is not possible for human genius to outdo this creation of da Vinci's. I suppose painters will go on copying it as long as any of the original is left visible to the eye. There were a dozen easels in the room, and as many artists transferring the great picture to their canvases. Fifty proofs of steel engravings and lithographs were scattered around, too. And as usual, I could not help noticing how superior the copies were to the original, that is, to my inexperienced eye. Wherever you find a Raphael, a Rubens, a Michelangelo, a Carracci, or a da Vinci (and we see them every day,) you find artists copying them, and the copies are always the handsomest. Maybe the originals were handsome when they were new, but they are not now.
The colors are dimmed with age; the countenances are scaled and marred, and nearly all expression is gone from them; the hair is a dead blur upon the wall, and there is no life in the eyes. Only the attitudes are certain.
People come here from all parts of the world, and glorify this masterpiece. They stand entranced before it with bated breath and parted lips, and when they speak, it is only in the catchy ejaculations of rapture:
"Oh, wonderful!"
"Such expression!"
"Such grace of attitude!"
"Such dignity!"
"Such faultless drawing!"
"Such matchless coloring!"
"Such feeling!"
"What delicacy of touch!"
"What sublimity of conception!"
"A vision! A vision!"
I only envy these people; I envy them their honest admiration, if it be honest—their delight, if they feel delight. I harbor no animosity toward any of them. But at the same time the thought will intrude itself upon me, How can they see what is not visible? What would you think of a man who looked at some decayed, blind, toothless, pock-marked Cleopatra, and said: "What matchless beauty! What soul! What expression!" What would you think of a man who gazed upon a dingy, foggy sunset, and said: "What sublimity! What feeling! What richness of coloring!" What would you think of a man who stared in ecstasy upon a desert of stumps and said: "Oh, my soul, my beating heart, what a noble forest is here!"
You would think that those men had an astonishing talent for seeing things that had already passed away. It was what I thought when I stood before "The Last Supper" and heard men apostrophizing wonders, and beauties and perfections which had faded out of the picture and gone, a hundred years before they were born. We can imagine the beauty that was once in an aged face; we can imagine the forest if we see the stumps; but we can not absolutely see these things when they are not there. I am willing to believe that the eye of the practiced artist can rest upon the Last Supper and renew a lustre where only a hint of it is left, supply a tint that has faded away, restore an expression that is gone; patch, and color, and add, to the dull canvas until at last its figures shall stand before him aglow with the life, the feeling, the freshness, yea, with all the noble beauty that was theirs when first they came from the hand of the master. But I can not work this miracle. Can those other uninspired visitors do it, or do they only happily imagine they do?
After reading so much about it, I am satisfied that the Last Supper was a very miracle of art once. But it was three hundred years ago.
It vexes me to hear people talk so glibly of "feeling," "expression," "tone," and those other easily acquired and inexpensive technicalities of art that make such a fine show in conversations concerning pictures. There is not one man in seventy-five hundred that can tell what a pictured face is intended to express. There is not one man in five hundred that can go into a court-room and be sure that he will not mistake some harmless innocent of a juryman for the black-hearted assassin on trial. Yet such people talk of "character" and presume to interpret "expression" in pictures. There is an old story that Matthews, the actor, was once lauding the ability of the human face to express the passions and emotions hidden in the breast. He said the countenance could disclose what was passing in the heart plainer than the tongue could.
"Now," he said, "observe my face—what does it express?"
"Despair!"
"Bah, it expresses peaceful resignation! What does this express?"
"Rage!"
"Stuff! It means terror! This!"
"Imbecility!"
"Fool! It is smothered ferocity! Now this!"
"Joy!"
"Oh, perdition! Any ass can see it means insanity!"
Expression! People coolly pretend to read it who would think themselves presumptuous if they pretended to interpret the hieroglyphics on the obelisks of Luxor—yet they are fully as competent to do the one thing as the other. I have heard two very intelligent critics speak of Murillo's Immaculate Conception (now in the museum at Seville,) within the past few days. One said:
"Oh, the Virgin's face is full of the ecstasy of a joy that is complete—that leaves nothing more to be desired on earth!"
The other said:
"Ah, that wonderful face is so humble, so pleading—it says as plainly as words could say it: 'I fear; I tremble; I am unworthy. But Thy will be done; sustain Thou Thy servant!'"
The reader can see the picture in any drawing-room; it can be easily recognized: the Virgin (the only young and really beautiful Virgin that was ever painted by one of the old masters, some of us think,) stands in the crescent of the new moon, with a multitude of cherubs hovering about her, and more coming; her hands are crossed upon her breast, and upon her uplifted countenance falls a glory out of the heavens. The reader may amuse himself, if he chooses, in trying to determine which of these gentlemen read the Virgin's "expression" aright, or if either of them did it.
Any one who is acquainted with the old masters will comprehend how much "The Last Supper" is damaged when I say that the spectator can not really tell, now, whether the disciples are Hebrews or Italians. These ancient painters never succeeded in denationalizing themselves. The Italian artists painted Italian Virgins, the Dutch painted Dutch Virgins, the Virgins of the French painters were Frenchwomen—none of them ever put into the face of the Madonna that indescribable something which proclaims the Jewess, whether you find her in New York, in Constantinople, in Paris, Jerusalem, or in the empire of Morocco. I saw in the Sandwich Islands, once, a picture copied by a talented German artist from an engraving in one of the American illustrated papers. It was an allegory, representing Mr. Davis in the act of signing a secession act or some such document. Over him hovered the ghost of Washington in warning attitude, and in the background a troop of shadowy soldiers in Continental uniform were limping with shoeless, bandaged feet through a driving snow-storm. Valley Forge was suggested, of course. The copy seemed accurate, and yet there was a discrepancy somewhere. After a long examination I discovered what it was—the shadowy soldiers were all Germans! Jeff Davis was a German! even the hovering ghost was a German ghost! The artist had unconsciously worked his nationality into the picture.
To tell the truth, I am getting a little perplexed about John the Baptist and his portraits. In France I finally grew reconciled to him as a Frenchman; here he is unquestionably an Italian. What next? Can it be possible that the painters make John the Baptist a Spaniard in Madrid and an Irishman in Dublin?
***
Check the Gutenborg files for the complete text of Innocent’s Abroad.
This excerpt came from:
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/3176/3176-h/p2.htm#ch14
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Isn't It Ironic?
Flaubert wrote:
I really love irony...
British Intelligence Agency Used Semen as Invisible Ink
gawker.com
A new book reveals that a member of MI6, the British spy agency, discovered during WWI that semen makes excellent invisible ink, and often deployed it in the field. The name of the man who discovered this? Mansfield Cumming.
Amirali Raissnia responded:
That's actually coincidental, not ironic. It would be ironic if his name was Girlsford Lamclit.
Flaubert:
Smartass...
BededoBedado:
I didn't know you went to school as Alanis Morissette.
A "black fly in my Chardonnay" is ironic if and only if the black fly preferred Cabernet Sauvignon.
But damn! Amirali beat me to it and said it better.
Flaubert:
...implied descrepancy between what is meant and what is said--but you're both right in this case...it would have had to be purposeful. So, I guess I really love coincidence. And Bededo, irony is a major wine label and I'm pretty sure they make both Cabernet and Chardonnay.
BededoBedado:
That would be "discrepancy".
I really love irony...
British Intelligence Agency Used Semen as Invisible Ink
gawker.com
A new book reveals that a member of MI6, the British spy agency, discovered during WWI that semen makes excellent invisible ink, and often deployed it in the field. The name of the man who discovered this? Mansfield Cumming.
Amirali Raissnia responded:
That's actually coincidental, not ironic. It would be ironic if his name was Girlsford Lamclit.
Flaubert:
Smartass...
BededoBedado:
I didn't know you went to school as Alanis Morissette.
A "black fly in my Chardonnay" is ironic if and only if the black fly preferred Cabernet Sauvignon.
But damn! Amirali beat me to it and said it better.
Flaubert:
...implied descrepancy between what is meant and what is said--but you're both right in this case...it would have had to be purposeful. So, I guess I really love coincidence. And Bededo, irony is a major wine label and I'm pretty sure they make both Cabernet and Chardonnay.
BededoBedado:
That would be "discrepancy".
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Lucy's First Song
Lucy has been sitting at the piano for the last couple days working on a song. She wrote and re-wrote the lyrics several times and can even plunk a tune with her lyrics.On her lyric sheet she wrote an introduction.
My name is Lucy. I was inspired to write this because of my dream where everything is good. I wrote this because I wanted somewhere happy. I write a lot but this is my first song.
Here it is, Lucy's song.
Wake up every morning to a world of peace
Flowers bloom and bees buzz
Birds sing very happily
In my dreamland honey drips from beehives
Fish splash in the pond
Everybody's happy in my dreamland
A rainbow stretches across the sky
Candy falls from the sky
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Another Spring
The seasons revolve and the years change
With no assistance or supervision.
The moon, without taking thought,
Moves in its cycle, full, crescent, and full.
The white moon enters the heart of the river;
The air is drugged with azalea blossoms;
Deep in the night a pine cone falls;
Our campfire dies out in the empty mountains.
The sharp stars flicker in the tremulous branches;
The lake is black, bottomless in the crystalline night;
High in the sky the Northern Crown
Is cut in half by the dim summit of a snow peak.
O heart, heart, so singularly
Intransigent and corruptible,
Here we lie entranced by the starlit waters,
And moments that should each last forever
Slide unconsciously by us like water.
-- Kenneth Rexroth
With no assistance or supervision.
The moon, without taking thought,
Moves in its cycle, full, crescent, and full.
The white moon enters the heart of the river;
The air is drugged with azalea blossoms;
Deep in the night a pine cone falls;
Our campfire dies out in the empty mountains.
The sharp stars flicker in the tremulous branches;
The lake is black, bottomless in the crystalline night;
High in the sky the Northern Crown
Is cut in half by the dim summit of a snow peak.
O heart, heart, so singularly
Intransigent and corruptible,
Here we lie entranced by the starlit waters,
And moments that should each last forever
Slide unconsciously by us like water.
-- Kenneth Rexroth
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Bounty Hunters
Returning from the grocery store, three blocks from home, two cars pulled up and stopped quickly in front of an apartment building across from the Walker Methodist Nursing Home. Approximately eight men and women in blue t-shirts scrambled out.
The first guy out was was carrying a full sized automatic rifle. He was a young guy, looking looking like a fully armed Maynard G. Krebs. All the other blue t-shirts had shoulder or waist arms.
Their t-shirts said U.S. Recovery Team or Fugitive Recovery. I have seen SWAT teams in action but this was no SWAT team. SWAT teams have organization and a plan. These blue t-shirts were more like the Keystone Cops.
One guy was huge, way overweight. Another guy was skinny, had long stringy gray hair and thick white beard. I was wondering if this was a birthday joke about to go horribly wrong.
When I got home I did a Google search and came to the conclusion that the blue t-shirts were private bounty hunters/bail recovery agents.
Wikipedia says only two countries in the world allow commercial bounty hunting, the U.S. and Philippines. Whatda country!
I drove by again on the way to pick up the kids. The motley crew of bounty hunters was out in front of the apartment building, several were smoking cigarettes.
I picked up Jack and Lucy and described the bounty hunters. Jack was very excited. He insisted that the fat guy and the old bearded guy were in disguise. "That's how they do it Dad." Underneath the disguises dwelled really honed muscle guys.
I'd have to say, those were very clever disguises indeed.
The bounty hunters were still out when we drove by on our way home. A police car and a couple cops were now present making the scene seem a bit more legit.
I wish I could have taken a picture of those dingleberry bounty hunters, but I really didn't want to get shot a million times.
I also wish I had an ending to this story, but I have no idea what happened next.
All I can say for sure is that I now want to grow me a mullet and become a bounty hunter.
The first guy out was was carrying a full sized automatic rifle. He was a young guy, looking looking like a fully armed Maynard G. Krebs. All the other blue t-shirts had shoulder or waist arms.
Their t-shirts said U.S. Recovery Team or Fugitive Recovery. I have seen SWAT teams in action but this was no SWAT team. SWAT teams have organization and a plan. These blue t-shirts were more like the Keystone Cops.
One guy was huge, way overweight. Another guy was skinny, had long stringy gray hair and thick white beard. I was wondering if this was a birthday joke about to go horribly wrong.
When I got home I did a Google search and came to the conclusion that the blue t-shirts were private bounty hunters/bail recovery agents.
Wikipedia says only two countries in the world allow commercial bounty hunting, the U.S. and Philippines. Whatda country!
I drove by again on the way to pick up the kids. The motley crew of bounty hunters was out in front of the apartment building, several were smoking cigarettes.
I picked up Jack and Lucy and described the bounty hunters. Jack was very excited. He insisted that the fat guy and the old bearded guy were in disguise. "That's how they do it Dad." Underneath the disguises dwelled really honed muscle guys.
I'd have to say, those were very clever disguises indeed.
The bounty hunters were still out when we drove by on our way home. A police car and a couple cops were now present making the scene seem a bit more legit.
I wish I could have taken a picture of those dingleberry bounty hunters, but I really didn't want to get shot a million times.
I also wish I had an ending to this story, but I have no idea what happened next.
All I can say for sure is that I now want to grow me a mullet and become a bounty hunter.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Levi 501s
Is That a Banana in Your Pocket or Are You Just Happy To See Me?
They put me in a little room to remove anything that might contain metal from my body like my watch, keys, hearing aids, belt and glasses. I expected to be issued one of those backward facing blue hospital smocks but you are allowed to wear your street clothes in the MRI.
I pointed out that my jeans had metal buttons but somehow the attendant seemed okay with that. Her smile seemed to say, "What have you got to lose old dude?"
The MRI looked like an early generation Omnidroid sans tentacles. I laid on the attached mechanical sliding bed. My right knee was clamped down. I was told to stay still and was provided insulated headphones with piped in music.
The lights dimmed and the mechanical bed moved me feet first into the Omnidroid. As soon as my hips entered, the powerful magnets caused the button fly of my 501 Levis to rise up to true north.
"Sweet Jesus!"
I hadn't had this look since I was 18.
I needed to lay still for the first 35 minute session. The headphones muted the sound of the MRI. There were whirs, hums, and hammering noises, but mainly I listened to Frank Sinatra.
Thirty-five minutes is a long time to be still. My fingers became stiff. I wondered if it would be okay to wiggle them.
Images of the movie Total Recall came into my head. This seemed like the machine that would take you to your dream vacation or nightmare.
After the first session I was given permission to wiggle my fingers which by then could barely move.
My mind was active. I could write a book on all the things I thought about during those two sessions.
During the second session I began to laugh when I started thinking of some of the antics of my children. I really had to can it to stop my body from shaking.
There was a countdown clock. I watched as the seconds slowly ticked away. When it was all over, it took a few minutes for my fingers to loosen up.
On my way home I stopped at the first burger place I saw for a double burger, fries and onions rings. Laying completely still for 70 minutes made me hungry.
Monday I will visit with my orthopedist for analysis of the pictures.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Team Building - The One Hitter Goes Bong
You may have read my earlier report on medical marijuana usage. (Ski Lift Operator With Chronic Pain http://bit.ly/cHawqU)
The One Hitter (OH) was invited to a safety training session for the 31 lift operators. The coordinator of this event rented a house and recommended everyone stay the night.
After the training, one of the lift operators began to openly self-administer his medical marijuana. Not to offend anyone a hand was taken. First it was asked "How many of you smoke?" Too many medical marijuana card holders to count. A second hand was taken, "How many of you don't?" This they were able to tally.
Five non-smokers of 31. A quorum.
OH told me that the biggest pot smoking party he ever saw in his life then ensued in which he experienced three new activities.
The Shotski. Six shot glasses are glued to a ski so six people can share a shot of whiskey together.
The Keg Stand. With hand on the barrel of a keg two guys grab your legs and lift you upside down. A girl sticks the beer hose into you mouth and releases the tap. Everyone counts 1! 2! 3! 4! while you drink. Whoever stays upside down for the longest count wins the first opportunity at the Blunt.
The Blunt. The hat goes around for medical marijuana. The tobacco is removed from a cigar and refilled. The One Hitter was not going to donate any of his medical marijuana at $400/ounce to this cause but was willing to participate.
The Blunt is lit in a car with windows closed and "the most insane music you ever heard" playing. "It was just a fog in there."
Conclusion and notes
Some injuries such as a cut nose were incurred during the keg stand activity when the leg holders became distracted and let go.
According to One Hitter's boss, the 31 lift operators scored better than ever in the state safety evaluation.
The One Hitter (OH) was invited to a safety training session for the 31 lift operators. The coordinator of this event rented a house and recommended everyone stay the night.
After the training, one of the lift operators began to openly self-administer his medical marijuana. Not to offend anyone a hand was taken. First it was asked "How many of you smoke?" Too many medical marijuana card holders to count. A second hand was taken, "How many of you don't?" This they were able to tally.
Five non-smokers of 31. A quorum.
OH told me that the biggest pot smoking party he ever saw in his life then ensued in which he experienced three new activities.
The Shotski. Six shot glasses are glued to a ski so six people can share a shot of whiskey together.
The Keg Stand. With hand on the barrel of a keg two guys grab your legs and lift you upside down. A girl sticks the beer hose into you mouth and releases the tap. Everyone counts 1! 2! 3! 4! while you drink. Whoever stays upside down for the longest count wins the first opportunity at the Blunt.
The Blunt. The hat goes around for medical marijuana. The tobacco is removed from a cigar and refilled. The One Hitter was not going to donate any of his medical marijuana at $400/ounce to this cause but was willing to participate.
The Blunt is lit in a car with windows closed and "the most insane music you ever heard" playing. "It was just a fog in there."
Conclusion and notes
Some injuries such as a cut nose were incurred during the keg stand activity when the leg holders became distracted and let go.
According to One Hitter's boss, the 31 lift operators scored better than ever in the state safety evaluation.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Moby Dick - Paragraph One - Herman Melville
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Climbing an Arch
In southern Utah some years back my good friend OH started climbing a huge, beautiful sandstone arch much like this one. He was climbing steps, now weather worn and smooth, carved in ancient times by the long missing Anasazi.
OH climbed up several feet before realizing his exposure. If he fell one way, he would fall 75 feet. If he fell another way, he would fall 2,000. He may have made it to the top of the arch but the steps were fading and the climbing more difficult. If he made it to the top, what would he do then?
Downclimbing rock is much more difficult than climbing up. It is an art known or studied by few. Climbing up is so much easier and fun.
When we who were watching realized the dangerous predicament OH was in our hearts stopped.
We watched or averted our eyes as OH slowly crept backward trying to find footholds.
OH finally was able to scramble to us. What a relief.
The feeling remains.
The story makes for a great analogy. A dangerous predicament of one's own making but with few options.
You've climbed up high not fully realizing the danger you were in. You may continue. You may make it to the top but you may never get down. You could turn back now, but will you make it down?
Friday, February 12, 2010
Ski Lift Attendant With Chronic Pain
Pot is not for me, but I have a good friend whose nickname is the "One Hitter".
The One Hitter's lapses in judgment are legendary, but I won't get into those now.
He called me from Colorado to tell me that he's gone legal.
"Say what?"
"I got my medical marijuana card!"
“For what!”
"Chronic pain."
I asked, how do you find a doctor to give such a prescription, and what's in it for the doctor?
It's easy he said. You wait in line. It takes about five minutes and $175.00. You leave with a big grin on your face and offer suggestions to those waiting in line, like “chronic pain.”
I asked, "I suppose you're paying for this with health insurance?"
He said he looked into that and also into using a flexible spending account but decided against it because it's still illegal at the federal level and he doesn't want to raise any flags.
He lives in a moderately sized town. There are at least 20 medical marijuana dispensaries there. He said they are like head shops of old but with jars of various types of marijuana, hash, medical marijuana brownies, marijuana oils and marijuana creams.
His dispensary is run by a guy he described as “a 23 year old stoner snowboarder dude”.
There are a lot of out of work drug sniffing dogs in Colorado now. The One Hitter said he even saw a cop sitting on a porch, rolling up a big one.
He told me that well over half of his co-workers also suffer pain. You can get a prescription for any complaint.
My friend is an out of work banker. He tells me that he is enjoying the best job and life he has ever had. He is ski-lift attendant with chronic pain.
The One Hitter's lapses in judgment are legendary, but I won't get into those now.
He called me from Colorado to tell me that he's gone legal.
"Say what?"
"I got my medical marijuana card!"
“For what!”
"Chronic pain."
I asked, how do you find a doctor to give such a prescription, and what's in it for the doctor?
It's easy he said. You wait in line. It takes about five minutes and $175.00. You leave with a big grin on your face and offer suggestions to those waiting in line, like “chronic pain.”
I asked, "I suppose you're paying for this with health insurance?"
He said he looked into that and also into using a flexible spending account but decided against it because it's still illegal at the federal level and he doesn't want to raise any flags.
He lives in a moderately sized town. There are at least 20 medical marijuana dispensaries there. He said they are like head shops of old but with jars of various types of marijuana, hash, medical marijuana brownies, marijuana oils and marijuana creams.
His dispensary is run by a guy he described as “a 23 year old stoner snowboarder dude”.
There are a lot of out of work drug sniffing dogs in Colorado now. The One Hitter said he even saw a cop sitting on a porch, rolling up a big one.
He told me that well over half of his co-workers also suffer pain. You can get a prescription for any complaint.
My friend is an out of work banker. He tells me that he is enjoying the best job and life he has ever had. He is ski-lift attendant with chronic pain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
