Land of Hope and Glory - Last Night of the Proms 06

Watch this if you're an Anglophile.

Me at 16

My high school graduation picture. I'm having so much fun scanning these old photos into the computer!

Looking through these pictures, I'm beginning to get annoyed, retroactively. You see, I was the pretty one in my family (it was a small family) but I was always the fat one. Fat in this case meaning 5'3" and 120 lbs. But my girl cousins were all so skinny you could see their belly buttons from the back, and to me skinny was the gold standard.

Of course, I didn't let the pretty part stop me for a minute, but the fat part really got under my skin. I had the feeling all through high school that the world was a tuxedo and I was a pair of brown shoes. I always felt fat and was always dieting. Possibly because my mother always felt fat and hadn't put on a bathing suit in 20 years, even though she loved swimming.

Now I'm mad! I wasn't fat! However, now I am fat. Just ask the cardiologist. But I just bought two bathing suits and I am going to Hawaii and I'm going to wear them! I'm going to swim!

I also bought two cover-ups.

A granny of the old school

Bubbe, my mother's mother.

She sure doesn't look like today's grannies, does she?

Guns don't kill people...

but us pissed off grannies might:

[A] true story which took place in New Jersey several years ago.

A little old lady, a widow, was playing cards with a group of friends when an intruder tried to break into her house. She warned him to get lost, and went back to her game.

Later in the evening, he tried to break in again, and the stout codgerette shot him. Whether he was killed, I don't know--I think not. But he was effectually stopped.

The old lady was arrested. Seems it is illegal to have a gun in Paterson, NJ. After a public outcry, the charges were dropped.

Mess with us old ladies at your peril.

Who's pickier?

Men or women?

It all reminds me of poor Ron, who worked at our library for a while. Mostly he was known as Poor Ron, as in:
"Ron called in sick today."
"Oh, poor Ron."
or:
"Phone call for Ron."
"I think he went to lunch. Poor Ron."

Ron lived with his mother. I suspect she picked out his clothes. He gave all his money to Dr Atkins of diet fame. Atkins felt Ron's problem was carbs, and that he needed weekly vitamin shots. He was as thin as a rail and for lunch brought, not a sandwich or salad or slice of pizza like everyone else, but some Godawful mess prescribed by Atkins.

Poor Ron used to talk to me about his romantic problem, his problem being that he didn't have any romance whatever. I don't think he ever went out with a girl in his life. He wanted to place a personal ad in the local paper to see if he could meet someone.

I tried to help him formulate an ad, until I realized that Ron had exacting requirements. He wanted a woman between the ages of 25-28 (he was 42), 5'6" and 120 lbs. She had to be educated and successful, a good dancer...but you get the idea. Ron, the dork, wanted a woman who probably could snag Brad Pitt.

I don't know how his ad campaign turned out, but when he left us he was still alone, dressed by his mother, and getting weekly vitamin shots. I guess no lucky girl jumped at the chance to take on Ron.

I don't know what Uncle Moe got for Father's day

as I wasn't present at their celebration. My own father got, on two separate occasions, handkerchiefs from Woolworth's and a deck of the finest playing cards the drugstore could offer. These gifts had the merit of at least being useful. My father did blow his nose and play cards.

Uncle Moe got ties for his birthday, which was celebrated on Thanksgiving. Why Thanksgiving? Well, your birthday was celebrated on the Jewish holiday closest to the actual date. I think this might have been derived from the Russian custom of celebrating your birthday on your saint's day. We didn't have saints, so we improvised. My cousin Esther's was Yom Kippur. I'm not sure how that worked out in terms of gifts. Did she get them before the fast began, or after it ended? Mine was Purim.

My mother and my uncle Moe had been born some time in November, when there was no convenient Jewish holiday to hook it onto. So we celebrated them both on Thanksgiving. I bought my mother the feminine equivalent of whatever I had bought my father--in her case, the hankies had flowers embroidered on them, but the playing cards were unisex.

Mother was always grateful for these gifts, especially after seeing what Uncle Moe had gotten. Uncle Moe had three children, and his gifts escalated in awfulness. They were presented with all the brio of a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat. A solid gold toothpick was produced on one occasion, I remember. The tableau always included one tie--I wish I had a picture of it, but they don't make them like that any more. Here is a feeble substitute:



Uncle Moe's ties were much, much worse. For one thing, the flamingo was hand-painted, in luminous colors. It glowed in the dark. It even glowed in broad daylight.

My Uncle Moe was a quiet, subdued sort of man, the sort you would want for your family doctor, which was what he was. I never actually saw him wear one of these objects. But he must have had a drawer full of them.

Hamas vs Fatah

I once made some remarks about the difference between Hamas and Fatah, and I still keep getting hits from same, although I am far from being an expert. So I thought I would expand on the topic.

The Difference between Hamas and Fatah:

1. Hamas wants to drive Israel into the sea. Fatah just wants to kill Jews. Drowning, while is would be nice, is optional.

2. Fatah followers go to the mosque to get fired up to kill and maim Jews and their political enemies. Hamas guys skip the mosque part.

3. Hamas guys wear masks when they go around killing people; Fatah guys wear beards and masks.

4. Hamas persuade others by means of Kalashnikovs; Fatah prefer AK-47.

5. Hamas followers revere Yassir Arafat; Fatah members loot his house and steal his peace prize.

6. Hamas guys like to blow up buses. Fatah folks prefer pizzarias.

7.--My God, aren't six reasons enough? Figure it out for yourselves. I can't do all the work around here.

Ah! Fond memories of working at the library

Another goodie from my archives.

Mrs. Dempsey wasn't only an old lady, she was a SENIOR CITIZEN. She was born that way. She went right from mewling and puking to whining and bitching. She was also on a FIXED INCOME.

Back in the day, when we had VCRs, she borrowed some videos, one of which she returned damaged. It was actually off its spool. The clerk at the desk explained that she had to pay for the ruined video--I think it was $20. Mrs D replied that this vicious video had ruined her equipment, and she was in no way at fault! We should have paid her for the repair of her equipment! And anyway, she was a SENIOR CITIZEN.

She went on to ask why $20? We explained that that was the replacement cost. Mrs D didn't think she should have to pay for a brand new video, we had already gotten some use out of it, hadn't we? It wasn't new any more. And she was a SENIOR CITIZEN.

She went around and around on this with the clerk, who then called her supervisor, who told her the same thing. Her next interview was with lucky me, the head honcho. I explained it all again. As she was taking up a whole morning's worth of time of three library employees, who theoretically could have been doing something else, I asked her how much she thought was fair. She thought a dollar would do the trick. And there we agreed to disagree. Oh, yes, and before she left, she asked me if I could give her daughter a job.

A couple of weeks later, I got a call from the board president, who had also had a discussion with Mrs. D. Apparently he had persuaded her to pony up $10. She also asked him if we could give her daughter a job. His reply is not part of the record.

A day or two later, Mrs D came into my office. She opened up one of those change purses with a snap closure, and grudgingly doled out 10 singles, slowly, one at a time. This was supposed to make me feel bad, as she was a SENIOR CITIZEN and LIVING ON A FIXED INCOME.

I gave her a receipt and thanked her for bringing the matter to a successful conclusion. Then she asked me to give her daughter a job.

She wasn't the worst of the job-seekers, however. One man came to me and asked me to give his mother a job. There wasn't much she could do, he explained, as she spoke little English. I think he considered the library a high-class sort of day care for seniors.

Another family used to leave their brain-injured son in the library for hours. If he had just sat still we wouldn't have known him from our other nutcases, but he insisted in walking around the card catalog (which we still had then) over and over, gathering speed like a jet engine, and making much the same noise.

Then there was Mildred. She came in with her stuffed doll, which she seated next to her. We were okay with that. But when she started to call various staffers over to engage the doll in conversation, admire its wardrobe, and discuss its politics, something had to give. I ordered the entire staff not to speak to the doll. That put an end to it. Mildred was crazy, but she was not stupid.

Socialism for the rich...

free enterprise for the poor.

For a governor who got elected by amassing a reputation for standing up for the little guy against Wall Street bankers, Governor Spitzer sure got taken to the cleaners by JPMorgan Chase. Mr. Spitzer yesterday acknowledged that the bank — 2006 profits, $14 billion — was getting a subsidy for its new downtown building of more than $200 million — or more than $25 from every man, woman, and child in New York City.

It turns out that the governor's acknowledgement may understate the amount of the subsidy, which, according to the watchdog group Good Jobs New York, includes goodies such as a $5 a square foot rent subsidy and a sales tax exemption on things like fancy office furniture for the investment bankers. A press release from Governor Spitzer also announced that the company will get $20 million from something called the " World Trade Center Job Creation & Retention Grant Program."

You might think if it lures a company away from another state, it will be worth it. However, JPMorgan Chase is currently located in midtown. That's midtown New York, not Hoboken, New Jersey.

Food for thought

Can this possibly be true?

I

come from a family of migrant workers. It sucks. There’s no nobility in that lifestyle. Period.

If you think the people “doing the jobs the lazy Americans won’t do” are grateful for the chance to mow your lawns, bus your tables, and wipe the dirty asses of your spoiled rotten brood, you’re deluding yourself....


How can any sane individual believe that an immigrant, illegal or otherwise, will be excited about assimilating into a culture that only sees them as a source of easy votes, or cheap labor?

France had the same attitude with the African immigrants they brought in as cheap labor…we all know how that snuck around and bit them in the ass…

It sounds reasonable that people would resent being second class citizens. The British conquerers considered the Irish merely as "hewers of wood and drawers of water," and we all know how that worked out, don't we?

We really need to rethink this immigration thing.

Six ounces of chicken breast

It's official--I'm too fat! The cardiologist seemed a bit put out--people with cardiac issues are supposed to stay slim, optimally. And here I am creeping up on the weight of a truck driver--at 5'1".

So--I go to the library and thumb through diet books, looking for something barely palatable I can manage to get by on for four to six weeks, or possibly indefinitely. Since I really have no idea what I eat or how much, or what I should eat or how much, I bring home a bunch of diet books.

All of the diets are based on different theories: high carb, low carb, high protein, and so on. But they do have some things in common. First, eat breakfast. They recommend oatmeal, and I can live with that, although my idea of a nice breakfast involves French toast or pancakes, or possibly a runny egg and buttered toast.

For lunch, the diet books recommend half a turkey sandwich and half an apple or six grapes. I can do that. Not with enthusiasm, but with grumbling acceptance. Although I might have seven grapes or two-thirds of an apple.

It's dinner that gets me. Dinner on a diet always includes six ounces of chicken breast, grilled, accompanied by maybe one half cup of plain brown rice and a veggie or two. Or in the case of the high protein diets, the chicken breast and veggies without the rice.

I can't face the chicken breast. By the time I was 18 I had eaten a lifetime supply of chicken. We invariably had chicken every Friday night and all day Saturday, and I am sick of it in all its forms. Then, when my cholesterol proved to be high, I ate chicken about seven times a week--with mango salsa, with chutney, with hot sauce, with cold sauce, and it always tasted just like chicken. No matter what you do with six ounces of chicken breast--and the books have plenty of suggestions--it always tastes like chicken breast. The idea of buying, cooking, serving and eating grilled chicken breast five out of seven dinners a week is a total turnoff.

I will eat chicken soup, but only with matzoh balls floating around in it.

I guess I'll have to opt for the vegetarian diet. Or I could exercise for three hours a day. Yes, that's much better.

How many undocumented Americans does it take to fix a driveway?

I'm looking out my window now, and the answer would appear to be six: One to drive the roller that flattens out the soil; one to sit in the truck and watch; and four to clown around, shoving and pushing each other like kids in a schoolyard, laughing all the while.

Possibly they are not undocumented: they might be proud American citizens all; but judging from their conversation, Spanish is their native language. Maybe they were all born here and have triumphantly managed to retain their culture.

I don't want to be too hard on these young men. They are hardly more than teenagers, if that, and they are working, if not very hard. I don't blame them for being in this country. If I were in their shoes, I would make every effort to be here myself. I bear them no ill will.

President Bush seems to think that we have to "do something" about the 12 million illegal aliens in this country. Why do we have to do something? We haven't "done anything" for years, and can continue to do so. Let's "do something" about those who aren't here yet. Let's prevent others from violating our borders. If we do a good job of this, and few or none get into this country, then the 12 million will gradually shrink by attrition. Some will go home. Some may die.

As for "jobs Americans won't do"? We could make the same argument about slavery: we need slaves to do the work free men won't do. That argument didn't seem to work last time it was tried. We will either have to 1) pay more; or 2) import non-citizens for specific finite jobs, and send them home when the jobs are over; or 3) find other ways to get the work done, such as mechanization. No-one is chopping cotton any more, since the invention of the cotton gin.

Secure the borders first. Build the fence. And while you're at it, build one between us and Canada as well. Lots of undesirables come into the country that way, and Canadians are notorious for having a lax immigration policy. They will let anyone in, for almost any pretext. Okay, they are a sovereign nation: they can let anyone in that they choose, as long as they keep them and don't ship them here.

Once the borders are in good shape, we can resume liberal immigration policies, should we wish to. Meanwhile, the immigration bill recently defeated in the Senate is an ugly, misbegotten thing, a stepchild no-one could love.

Americans don't want to be hard on people who want to come here to work. The average American citizen is not a bigot. He has two concerns: security, and maintaining English as the official language. These are legitimate concerns and should be seriously addressed by our legislators.

Let's fix the leaky roof before we invite the world over for a slumber party.

If I ran Lebanon...

First, I would have dropped a bomb on that refugee camp that was giving grief, stationing snipers around the building(s) to shoot anyone that ran out. Yes, that would do it--and save Lebanese lives to boot. After all, the Lebanese government is duty bound to protect Lebanese citizens, isn't it? So how many lives have been lost by their countrymen during this latest whateveryoucallit?

I understand there are 200 or 300 or 400 bad guys in this refugee camp giving grief. A really humongous bomb--or two--should take care of them. Those who fled would be taken out by the snipers. Yes, more Palestinians would be killed, but fewer Lebanese would be killed, and the thing would be over. It would probably save lives in the long run. It would certainly save real estate.

And no-one would have had the balls to plant a bomb in downtown Beirut. They would have been too busy shaking in their shoes, or being dead.

Act crazy and the world respects you. Better yet, they fear you. Ask Ahmydinnerjacket. It works for him. Imagine him taking Americans hostage while Teddy Roosevelt was president! Ahmydinnerjacket would be changing his underwear frequently, the ugly little sod.

I know I just don't understand war, or international relations, blah blah. So don't bother to tell me.

I've often wondered....

About relatives.

Did God invent extended families to embarrass us?

The author is talking about Van Thieu Rudd, the cringe-inducing nephew of Kevin Rudd, but his observation pertains to many of us. How did these get into my family? How did I get there?

Forget the old world relatives with the heavy accents: they can't help it, they were born abroad, and not in some interesting place either. They came from some hellhole in the former Soviet Union--Minsk, Pinsk, who cares? The smartest thing they ever did was get on a boat and come here. That, and survive when they got here, of course.

It's the younger people I can't understand. My cousin Sam, for instance, who lived in his parents' house (they had moved out and given it to him) with a number of cats. Sam did not believe in altering animals; it wasn't natural. It was his theory that they deserved to have fun just like we did. This led to the cat census increasing exponentially after a while.

Sam had many degrees, including a PhD and a law degree. But the only job he liked was driving a taxi. Since Sam rarely worked, he was hard pressed to buy cat chow, let alone human food. But the cats survived and thrived. Sam, on the other hand, died.

My brother is another case in point. Why did he decide to wear a crash helmet when ever he got into the car? And what possessed him to buy, let alone wear, a shiny red track suit? This brother is short and stout and would we well advised not to wear anything red. Why did he decide that natural gas was played out and try to install an oil tank in my mother's backyard? (She wouldn't let him.) Why does he devote every waking hour to a crackpot scheme to harness sea solar power, whatever that is?

And why did he need to teach his eldest child and only son to memorize the bones in the foot at the age of four? If he wanted the kid to be a podiatrist, it didn't work.

Speaking of the aforementioned eldest son, why does he want to go live in Syria and perfect his Arabic? Well, he doesn't look Jewish. That's a blessing, I suppose.

An oldie but goodie

from my archives:

The Republican Party was supposed to be conservative. I was misled. They will spend all of your money, including the loose change under the floormats in your car.

The Democrats will also take the cigarette lighter, CD player, and air freshener. Moreover, they are going to subsidize research on methods of converting the lint in your belly button to clean, renewable energy.

No more special counsel

My blood is boiling about the Scooter Libby show trial. Fitzgerald was way out of line, but that's what special counsels do. They have unlimited time and money and can carry on their investigations as long as they like. Forever, in fact.

Which leads me to my great insight of the day: why a special counsel? Not enough people work for the justice department, in order to actually do anything they have to bring in an outsider?

Mr Charm, in his career as an educator, had cause to deal with government agencies, and he told me that no-one in government actually does anything, in education at least. If something has to be done, actually done, they have to hire an outside contractor.

What do the people who "work" for the "government" actually do? Do they have really good games on their computers so they can while away the day without dying of boredom? Do they e-mail their friends? Do they shop online at Amazon.com? Do they knit sweaters for their nearest and dearest?

Just asking.

Crazy?

Carnival of the insanities is up at Dr Santy's blog.

When I read this I don't feel as guilty...

Another clothing collector exhibits her closet.



I personally am into shoes in a big way, particularly sale shoes. I try to wear each pair at least once and then if they are totally unsuitable I give them to the Good Will. I still have many too many.

My other weakness is black sweaters. I have: wool, cashmere, cotton, long-sleeved, short sleeve, pullover, cardigan. They feature buttons, zippers, ruffles, lace. When I open my drawer I can't find anything. All I see is a sea of black.

Need any free home improvement stuff?

How about some nice tools? I myself would love to have an electric screwdriver, and a few new bathroom fixtures would not come amiss. Especially given Home Depot's liberal policy toward shoplifters.

An internal memo from Home Depot outlines that associates cannot accuse, detain, chase or call the police on any customer for shoplifting.

So, you of the shoplifter-American community, Home Depot welcomes you to drop by and help yourselves. Just don't be greedy and ruin it for the rest of us.

Why do cars always die on the weekend?

As you can see, I started owning cars at an early age. This was my first car. I don't remember the circumstances exactly, but I can possibly extrapolate from the picture: the car has broken down, and I can't go to the corner soda shop for an ice cream soda. Result: incredulity, followed by weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.

People think I am indifferent to cars, just because I can't tell one from the other. Not so. I love cars. I particularly love having my own car. It represents freedom and mobility. I consider people who want me to ride public transportation with horror and disbelief. Cue up for a bus in the freezing cold weather? Wait for hours on a sweltering street? Carry packages in a tote bag instead of carelessly throwing them in the back seat? Me? Are they nuts?

Frankly, if push came to shove, I'd sell my house and live in my car.

So my car breaks down on Friday afternoon, and I'm stuck without a car until Monday. In this case, I will be stuck until I buy a new car, as this baby suddenly needs a lot of work.

Should I write a book?

Some of my fans (well, a very few of my fans) have suggested I write a book about my family. So I have been looking through my archives to see whether I had enough stuff, and I am astonished to say that I have reams and reams of blather: some family, some library, some merely cosmic Republican angst. I am impressed by how long I have been keeping this up.

Another impression: the stuff I wrote last year and the year before is better written and wittier than the stuff I am churning out nowadays. I blame it on Bush.

I haven't finished my Miriam Retrospective, but so far I do have enough material for a book, albeit a very slim volume, not unlike those slim books of self-published poetry that turn up now and then at book sales. I wouldn't have a clue as to how to publish this stuff. I'm pretty sure Greenwood Press (who published the only other book I had anything to do with) wouldn't be interested.

So do I print it out and staple it together with a pathetic homemade cover, like a real loser? Do I sell it myself?

On second thoughts, forget it. The mere thought of all that work makes me tired.

Mother's law practice

Most of her clients were poor--either African Americans recently from the south or white people from the hills of West Virginia--also recently.

Many of her clients settled arguments by breaking a beer bottle and attacking their opponents with the broken part of same. But some of them had done other things, not all of them legal. The woman who came to clean her house had shot her husband, whereas the guy who mowed the lawn had kited checks.

I don't think any of them were hardened criminals. For the most part, they were country people who had a tough time adjusting to the mores of the big city. Their propensity to try to cure their troubles with the aid of a few drinks didn't help.

But they adored her. They named their children after her. They would show up at the office and ask for her by name. If she wasn't there they left. They seemed to think she had some kind of legal magic which would cure their problems. She was also a soft touch. Sometimes money went from lawyer to client instead of in the other direction. For this reason, as well as the fact that her fee schedule hadn't changed since the Eisenhower administration, she did not become rich.

She needed them as much as they needed her, and she was always there for them. A sample phone conversation:

10:30 p.m., Saturday night
Client: Miss Goldie, Fred is in trouble.
Mother: What happened?
Client: He's in jail!
Mother: When did they arrest him?
Client: Thursday afternoon.
Client: Can you get him out?
Mother: I'll do my best.

And she did.

Paris Hilton released from jail

for health reasons.

I bet your didn't know being wealthy is a medical condition? Or is it being stupid?

Just what New York City has always needed

JihadsRUs Academy.

Crazy house in Massachusetts

So a friend of mine and I went to Massachusetts to visit one of her old college chums. She lived in a five bedroom house overlooking the ocean. She and her husband occupied one of the bedrooms, and we stayed in another. The other three bedrooms were filled with stuff. One was filled with papers and other ephemera which Eve was saving up to take to the dump, when they got around to it. They had not gotten around to it for several years.

We went to put our clothes away in the dresser provided by the management, but the drawers were filled with empty Jergen's lotion bottles and Pond's cold cream jars. The closets contained Eve's old clothes and those of her son, who had married five years previous, but who knows, he might want these things some time. The other bedrooms contained a number of quaint artifacts, such as wooden skies which would be fine if they were waxed and if they had not lost their camber, and tennis rackets which were out of date when Chrissie Evert was a competitor. Old college textbooks added to, but did not complete, the mix. I'm not sure, because the rooms were too full to use, and we could only gape through the open doors.

Eve's study contained all the papers she had used when she taught Sunday School in the 1970's as well as papers she was using when she taught English at a community college. Eve spent her spare time going through these papers in case they might be useful. Every night she spent two or three hours sorting this junk. Her efforts had all the effectiveness of shoveling out the Atlantic with a teaspoon.

Pasted on the kitchen wall were pictures her son had colored when he was a boy. (Did I mention that he was grown up and married?) There were also schedules for trains which had long ceased running, conferences which were long over, and recipes Eve would like to try as soon as she got the study cleared out. These items were covered in a rich patina of kitchen grease.

They lived, as I have mentioned, overlooking the sea, and a tidal wave had once inundated the living room. A grand piano had been destroyed during this mishap but had never been removed. I could see her point. If you can't bring yourself to throw out cans and bottles and newspapers, getting rid of a piano must be daunting.

She still owned every garment she had worn since puberty. At breakfast on Saturday morning, she wore a shirt she had worn in high school and which had not been so great even then. I suppose the ones which were no longer wearable were in one of the closed-off bedrooms, waiting to be recycled, but I didn't ask.

I only went to her house that one time. By the next time we visited Massachusetts, there was no space for visitors. The bedroom we had formerly occupied was filled with the overflow from the other rooms.

Eve is a widow now. When I picture her, she is still in the house, but by now the usable space has dwindled to the kitchen with a cot in one corner, and the kitchen is filling up fast. Soon she will be living in her car, which is parked in the driveway--did I mention that the garage is too full to use?

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Shoe frenzy

I was heading out the door on the way to Target, when I heard The Call of the Shoe. It said something like this: You haven't bought any shoes in days! What are you going to wear in Hawaii? Old, mainland shoes? Get thee hence!

So I did. I must tell you, the last time I bought serious shoes it was for therapeutic reasons. The foot doctor advised me to go to the New Balance store and buy myself some serious shoes plus orthotics. He even gave me a coupon worth 10 percent off.

The New Balance store was not like the rest of the stores in the mall. There was a quiet, respectful hush. Then Ron, the shoe guru, waited on me. At his side was Rahim, his disciple, who was learning the shoe trade.

Ron wouldn't let me even try on any of the shoes I thought looked okay, but allowed me my choice among three or four rather ugly styles which he said provided the proper support. I chose two of the least repulsive, and Ron brought out these models in various configurations of size and color.

A pair was settled on, and Ron proceeded to choose orthotics to suit the configuration of feet and shoes which had been decided upon. He inserted the orthotics in the shoes, and rang me up. The combo cost $130. But what the hell, proper shoes were worth it, no?

I duly wore the shoes with orthotics to the gym and promptly developed a limp. My right knee, hip and foot started to hurt. Nevertheless, I wore them conscientiously for three weeks--after all, the foot doctor and Ron the Shoe Guru knew what they were doing, didn't they?

Apparently not. I went to K-Mart and bought a cheesy pair of shoes for about $8, put them on, and was immediately cured. I felt like one of those invalids who go to faith healers and rise up and throw away their crutches. A miracle! The othotically correct expensive shoes ended up in the Good Will box. I hope that, if anyone buys them, they will not experience any difficulties.

Ever since then I have avoided the shoe department. But today, the siren song was too strong. I went to the shoe store and three pairs of shoes got up and followed me home. Then I went to TJ Maxx and bought another pair for good measure. All four pairs together did not cost as much as the New Balance fiasco.

The moral of this story: I'm not sure there is one.

Now I have to throw away four pairs of shoes or rent one of those storage units that advertise on TV.

Caarnival of the Insanities is up

Lots of good bloggy reading:

Dr Kevorkian returns

like a character in a horror movie.

He's a nasty piece of work by all accounts. Apparently many of his customers were not dying, just deeply depressed. Having a serious illness can do that to you. I'm glad no-one pulled the plug on me during various periods when I was depressed and couldn't see a reason for living. I would have missed a lot.

I don't believe in assisted suicide--not that I believe that people suffering terminal illnesses should be subjected to heroic measures. But there is an alternative. A friend of mine benefited greatly from hospice. She was dying of ovarian cancer, and after all the chemo and radiation failed, she had hospice to care for her. A woman came every day and looked after her needs; medical and spiritual help was also available. Thus she was able to be in her own home, pain-free, and spend time with her family and friends. Of course, it was terribly, terribly sad. The death of a young person is sad. But having Kevorkian parachute in, say hello, and pull the plug, would have been sordid.

I'm also not crazy about the idea of a doctor standing by, licking his chops and waiting to administer the fatal dose, as in Oregon. I want my doctors to care whether I live or die, and to try hard to ensure the latter result. There is too much of this culture of death in our society. Life is a miracle and we should treasure every moment of it. Leave the death-worship to the Islamic Fascists. They enjoy it.

Get ready for naked blogging

Orlando Hogwarts

This can't be good--can it?

J.K Rowling, who became the world's first billion dollar author on the back of
Harry Potter's success, has given the go-ahead for the creation of a Florida theme park dedicated to the schoolboy wizard.[]
...
In a statement rich in entertainment hyperbole, the builders of "The Wizarding World of Harry Potter" said they planned to "create the world's first immersive Harry Potter themed environment."

I'm not excited. Dismayed, yes. Excited, no.

Comments on comments

I have had to moderate comments. Why? Because the spammers seem to have found my site, and I find myself deluged by statements about how awesome my blog is, coupled with offers for house cleaning in Wyoming. Since I don't have a house in Wyoming, I find these de trop. I also get series of nonsense syllables, apparently from differently mentaled persons of the idiotic persuasion. I am also not in need of penis extenders. Thanks, but no thanks.

Don't get me wrong--I love comments. Even the snarky ones are welcome, as long as you keep it clean. I wouldn't make my adoring fans register--I hate registering myself. I hate passwords. I love my readers. I do not want to discourage free discourse.

So keep those cards and letters coming.

June is almost here

And so is Naked Bloggers Day.

Naked bloggers day is coming soon.

Well, to those of us who need time to get in shape, it's pretty soon.

How to get ready:

Start working out three times a week;

Walk the dog (or a houseplant, peferably a portable one) for 20 minutes five times a week.

Get a nice big towel to protect against drafts.

You have nothing to lose but your flab!

How about June 23? Time to consult my naked blogging consultant, Matt.

Depressing

The Little Mermaid in a burka.

A little quiz

to test your political savvy:

Here are 10 questions that require you to make nuanced judgements.

1. Where would you rather live? a) Cuba; b) United States
2. Where would you rather live? a) North Korea; b) Israel
3. Where would you rather live? a) Mugabe's Zimbabwe; b) Ian Smith's Rhodesia
4. Where would you rather live? a) East Germany; b) Post 1990 Germany
5. Would you rather? a) Withdraw from Iraq, fight Al Qaeda in Afghanistan; b) Stabilise Iraq, fight Al Qaeda wherever they are
6. Who would you rather be tortured by? a) Al Qaeda; b) the United States
7. Who was the better President? a) Bill Clinton; b) Ronald Reagan
8. If your child converted religions then which would you prefer them to change to? a) Islam; b) Buddhism
9. If you see Muslims praying loudly and shouting "Allahu Akhbar" in an airport departure lounge what would you do?: a) Not worry about it because all cultures are equal; b) Be happy to see airport security questioning them
10. You believe that the science of Global Warming is: a) settled; b) inconclusive and subject to ongoing research

Score 1 point for all A answers and 0 points for all B answers.

0: Congratulations! Your nuance and judgement faculties are intact and fully working.

1-3: A disappointing result. Perhaps you haven't yet been mugged by reality after being indoctrinated by all of those years in the education system. There's still hope for you, though, if you recognise the danger to your moral compass early enough.

4-7: I bet you think that the New York Times is the world's best newspaper, don't accept blame for the 3 million deaths caused by the US withdrawal from Vietnam, have a 'War is not the answer' bumper sticker on your car, believe Global Warming is man made and that world wide terrorism is the United States' fault and nothing to do with Islam. You are absolutely part of the problem and not the solution.

8-9: You are definitely a Useful Idiot. You contribute nothing to the world while also complaining about everything.

10: Holy smoke, Batman! We have a real Cindy Sheehan, DailyKos, Huffington Post type on our hands. You need to move to Cuba. Or Camp Casey. Just go. And good riddance.

The GWOT

Just a bumper sticker?




Just a slogan?

New zip code for shoes

It's 10002-SHOE.

This summer, Saks will open an entire floor in their Fifth Avenue store in Manhattan dedicated to women’s shoes, offering a footwear-filled area so big it’s getting its own ZIP code: 10002-SHOE.

It's the first time in history that the U.S. Postal Service has issued a ZIP code plus four for a floor of a building. There has never been a ZIP code that included alphabetic characters before.

A long overdue tribute to footwear.

Divorce in the family, Ohio style

My Ohio relatives don't believe in divorce. They get divorced, of course, but they don't believe in coddling the divorced exes of their nearest and dearest. Don't start telling them that there are two sides to every story.

Since my parents divorced, my Uncle Doc's name for my father has been, "That son of a bitch! I'd like to get my hands on him!" Uncle Doc steamed about this for about 30 years, then he developed Alzheimer's and got a mellower outlook.

Imagine his consternation when his youngest daughter got divorced. This was particularly galling since the two families knew each other well and spent a lot of time together, going out to dinner, going on vacation, etc. These activities came to a halt with the divorce and Uncle Doc confided to me that he had never liked "that son of a bitch" (Carol's ex-husband) and that the whole family was "no damned good." He told me that he had always had misgivings and that he had never liked any of them. I guess, retroactively, he didn't. Carol's wedding pictures were removed from the parlor posthaste and replaced by photos of her and her two daughters romping on the beach. As far as the Uncle Doc family were concerned, the girls were the product of immaculate conception. Carol herself maintained cordial relations with him, by the way, even asking him to babysit from time to time. But the official line was, he was a non-person.

My aunt, to the contrary, forgave and forgot, although it took 20 years. When she ran in to one Carol's ex-in-laws recently, , she greeted them cordially and confided in me that they just loved Carol. "They're a nice family," she said. "Except for him."

Contrast that to my father's side, where everyone has had at least one divorce, just to warm up. Even two are acceptable, so why bear grudges? Sometimes you just have to try, try again, until you get it right. So anecdotes featuring former spouses went something like this: "I was married to Evelyn at the time--no,no, it was Maggie--no, Evelyn, it was when I worked for the Acme Corporation and lived in Yonkers, no, that would be White Plains. Anyway...."

I attribute their mellower outlook to the fact that they tend to cluster on the two coasts, where people are more broadminded.

The Catskill Game Farm goes out of business

 

My kids used to like to go there when they were little.


Shamus O'Drunkahan reports.

In the 70's there was a boom of cheesy tourist places, all radiating from the biggest trap of all, the Catskill Game Farm. The closed last year, finally, after a decline that was slow and sad to watch. The smell of that place still haunts my dreams.

When we lived in Upstate New York, we actually went camping not far from there, with another family. It was hokey, but fun.

Robert E Lee discusses the omniscience of the press

His quote is relevant to our times:

Why, it appears that we appointed all of our worst generals to command the armies and we appointed all of our best generals to edit the newspapers. I mean, I found by reading a newspaper that these editor generals saw all of the defects plainly from the start but didn't tell me until it was too late. I'm willing to yield my place to these best generals and I'll do my best for the cause by editing a newspaper.

Don't make me choose

It's a Hobson's choice.

If the U.S. Congress is not smart enough to make the laws one has to ask why we elect them. Certainly they are smart enough to know that they are too dumb to do their jobs and therefore they spend most of their time trying to fake us out and pose as intellectuals. The big dilemma is do you hire an incompetent congressman or a crooked one? The results are generally similar, as you get really bad legislation either way.

Happy Memorial Day

 

Family pets

Johnny Virgil reminisces about his youthful pets.

The toilet was my mother's solution to not just fish, but all pet funerals. I swear she would have tried to flush cats and dogs if she thought it wouldn't involve hacksaws and plungers. If it would fit, it got flushed.

They must have had sturdy plumbing in Upstate New York in those days.

We in Ohio confined the toilet obsequies to fish, but we did a big business in backyard funerals for poultry.

Every Easter, the local Woolworth's store would sell baby chicks, some of them dyed blue, pink, and green. They were a pretty sight in the store, little balls of pink, blue, green and yellow feathers, and we all fell for them. All the kids in the neighborhood got them. I don't remember what we fed them, but at night we put them in the basement with a hot water bottle, where they cheeped unremittingly until morning, keeping the whole household up. The next day, many of them were dead, and subsequently they all died, mourned by the whole neighborhood.

So we neighborhood kids did bird funerals. There were some doctrinal differences among the group, which almost led to fistfights, until we came up with the world's first ecumenical funeral service. These funerals were very sad.

I guess this got old among the adults, because the next few chicks to disappear were delivered to a local farm, where they could lead long, happy and productive lives, according to my mother. She even showed us which farm, on one occasion when we were driving in the country. I wanted to drop in and see that our chicks were being properly cared for, but mother said there was no time. Anyway, how would I knew which chick was mine? Easy, I said, a green chicken would stand out in any barnyard. Some other time, said my mother.

I believe the sale of baby chicks to kids was subsequently made illegal, at least in the State of Ohio. Anyway, they disappeared from the local stores, mourned by none.

Our next pet was a dog, given to me and my brother by Uncle Doc, who I guess had a spare dog lying about. I believe he wanted to teach us good citizenship and responsibility, and had high hopes of the two of us feeding, walking, and grooming the dog. If he had these hopes, they were disappointed. Almost the first thing my brother did with the dog was to send him down the laundry chute. The dog didn't seem to mind all that much, but when Uncle Doc heard about it, he was miffed and retrieved the dog. The dog was in our care for so short a time that I don't believe we had thought of a name for him before he disappeared.

Our subsequent pets were all cats, which were easy to care for--a good thing, for my mother didn't have too much time, and if any feeding, etc, was done, she had to do it

Uncle Doc didn't care for cats, and didn't care whether we took care of them or not. To him the cat was a disappointing animal.

What's wrong with the immigration bill?

Bill Whittle explains:

Large numbers of non-citizens want to live in the United States. Large numbers. A society can only assimilate so many people in a given year. If millions and millions of people come here illegally, they are loading the system to capacity at the expense of the honest, decent people who are doing the right thing by applying to immigrate legally. If we reward illegal immigration with amnesty, we have allowed the illegals not only to screw our own people and laws, but even more so they harm their own countrymen who are trying to get here by cooperating.

The biggest losers in our inability to control illegal immigration are the legal immigrants. What benefit do these honest people gain from playing by the rules?...
And, by allowing this to happen, you also set a precedent, which I think is even more destructive: you are saying not only to the illegals but to the entire society that laws are for chumps. Cheaters win. How much of this do we need to be immersed in before everyone realizes the smart move is to flip from cooperation to betrayal? How much damage does it do when the very people sworn to uphold the law – uphold the rules that allow this amazing cooperation game to continue -- are the ones who seem most enthusiastic to reward cheating?

This article is so perceptive, it deserves to be read in its entirely.

This just in!

May is drive like an a**hole month in Ohio.

It's widely celebrated the length and width of Delaware, too.

My last job

For 13 years I was director of the #&$^&! Library. Each year brought challenges. There was always some damn thing to prevent me from hanging out in my office, relaxing, with my feet on my desk.

Year I. Year of the dragon, personified by a superannuated secretary who had been there so long she thought she owned the place. She did exactly as she pleased. Of course, I wanted to do as I pleased, since I was director, so we locked horns. She also had her fans on the library board who she tattled to.

The largest issue between us was the giant word processor which loomed in a corner of the secretarial office. The thing was a dinosaur, but she was attached to it. I wanted her to learn to use a computer. She was determined not to. When I found out that she had spent $1,200 for a one-year service contract on the dinosaur, I went ballistic. Even in those days, you could buy a computer for $1,200. I finally killed her with kindness and she retired. As soon as she retired, she bought herself a computer. I'm not kidding.

Year 2. Year of the crazy person who thought he had been discriminated against and brought his entire family plus the neighbors to the board meeting. He had a way of dropping in on board members at home and plying them with information on how we had done wrong by him. The town finally paid him off.

During this year, the board and staff decided to look into a complete redesign of the main floor of the building. We hired a consultant, had lots of meetings, and submitted a revised plan to the governing body.

Year 3. Year of the ex-librarian. This man--I will call him Howie--had been a librarian somewhere and offered us his expertise and his services free of charge. He decided to show the board how to save a lot of money by firing the entire professional staff and not buying books or magazines. Also a regular at board meetings, he always dropped by after a snow day, wanting to know why we were closed.

The town council approved my request for a redesign of the main floor and appropriated the money. The board and staff then decided they preferred the main floor the way it was. I then had to explain to the mayor and council that we didn't need the money, thanks all the same.

Year 4. Year of the leaking roof. The mayor and council kept insisting that it didn't leak, and of course, it never did when they were around. It only leaked when it rained or snowed. They only dropped by on sunny days. I retaliated by closing the library when the floor was covered with water, snow, or on one memorable occasion, ice.

Year 5. Year of the bathroom lady. Our next regular visitor at board meetings was a crazy lady who used to, among other things, lock herself into the ladies room, make up her face, wash the makeup off, and cry. This took ages, and the other patrons had to stand outside the bathroom with their legs crossed for hours, which does not work for young children. Bathroom lady also did not care for the quality of the soap we provided. So we began to keep small cakes of soap--the kind hotels supply to their guests--behind the desk. We gave her a fresh one every time she came by. That worked for a while. She still locked herself into the bathroom, however.

Year 6. Year that the staff joined a union. For years it had been a complaint of staff that the other people who worked for the town made more money, and this year the resentment boiled over. The board thought it was better not to involve me in negotiations, possibly believing that I showed too much sympathy for the staff, so I was totally in the dark. The staff, meanwhile, thought I was a tool of the bloated capitalist board. They were not actively hostile, but there are plenty of passive-aggressive ways to make yourself unpleasant.

Year 7. The head of circulation retired and we were not allowed to fill the slot while negotiations went on. And on. And on. Finally, the state sent a mediator whose considered opinion was that they were all nuts. Still, negotiations went on, and would be going on to this day, except that the Mayor locked them all in a room at the town hall--two years later--and wouldn't let them leave until they reached an agreement. Even so, the deal was not sealed until about 6 in the morning. But that was in the future, far far into the future. Meanwhile we had...

Year 8. The year of Eddie. Eddie was the only applicant for the job of head of circulation, which we decided had to be filled. The salary was abysmally low. How can I describe Eddie? He was a world-class slacker, who was never anywhere to be found when there was work to be done. He was also a liar and a suck-up. Every day or so I had to have a talk with Eddie about something he had done or not done. The worst thing about Eddie, among a lot of bad things, was the giant smile he always greeted everyone with, the hypocrite. It was the kind of smile you would see on the face of an alligator who was getting ready for lunch. Just seeing him smile ruined my whole, subsequent, day.

There was a window of opportunity during which I could fire Eddie with impunity, so I did. Eddie was the only person I ever fired who I didn't feel bad firing. The thought of putting up with him after he became a permanent employee and became fireproof, so to speak, was all the spur I needed. It was him or me at this point. Of course, then we had no head of circulation, but that was actually preferable. Yes, it was preferable to have the job vacant than to have Eddie filling it, that's how bad he was.

Year 9. The board treasurer becomes paranoid and decides that my new secretary-bookkeeper, now in place for 8 years, wasn't doing her job properly and goes after her, mainly because he holds her responsible for the union. The stick he chose to beat her with was me. I declined to be his hatchet woman so he turned his ire on me. Every statement was questioned, every piece of paper sent back. A lot of this could be attributed to the fact that I was a woman. A man would have beaten him to a pulp.

He always claimed that he never received papers that were faxed to him, and since he was treasurer, we needed him to approve, or at least look at, lots of papers, budget, expenditures, etc. So I started sending the papers personally, via his nemesis, the aforementioned secretary treasurer. He still claimed he did not receive anything. So I mailed the stuff to his office, registered, return receipt requested. For some reason this made him crazy. I mean, crazier than he was already.

Year 10. The stickwoman with googly eyes becomes board president. If every stick has a wrong end and a right end, she always firmly grasped the wrong end. The union contract is finally signed, and the staff discovers that their cumulative raises are mostly going to the federal government in the form of income taxes. Consternation all around. Several staffers resign or retire. Stickwoman decides that new programs have to be financed with new money--i e, that I have to raise money for ESL and Korean books. I take to the streets with a begging bowl. Meanwhile, stickwoman hires a pal of hers to give a children's program which costs $2,000 and involves 20 children, including two of hers.

Year 11. Pettifogging lawyer is hired by the board, comes to board meetings, wasting time with inane suggestions, and incidentally charging a lot of money. One of his inspirations is background checks for all new hires, including 15-year-old high school students who are employed as pages.

Year 12. Board starts to hold secret meetings before the board meetings, in contravention to state law. When I explain that this is a no-no, the board president says, "So arrest me." Since I had left my junior G-man badge at home, I didn't take him up on this.

Year 13. I started having anxiety attacks, especially before, after, and during board meetings. Fearing that if I didn't retire, I was either going to die or kill one or all of the board members, I retired. I immediately had a total knee replacement, which believe me, though painful, was more enjoyable than board
meetings.

Year 14. There is life after retirement. I become a blogger.

US Christians get their own mullah

The new message: confound the plans of your duly elected successors. Accuse them of bad faith.

"Apparently, Sunday mornings in Plains for former President Carter includes hurling reckless accusations at your fellow man," said Amber Wilkerson,
Republican National Committee spokeswoman. She said it was hard to take Carter seriously because he also "challenged Ronald Reagan's strategy for the Cold War."

Next week's sermon: let's all go out and kill us some Jews.

courtesy of Rachel.

Another thing you can't put into the disposal

Rice. Who knew?

I am in awe at the number of things you can't put into the disposal. Rice! Every time I see my son-in-law he comes up with something else you aren't supposed to put in there. The list so far:

meat
bones
celery
asparagus
banana peels
rice
oatmeal

That's all I need is a finicky, temperamental household appliance. Does the vacuum refuse to pick up cat hair? Does the washer put the kibosh on washing socks? Will the printer decline to print on blue paper? Nosiree, these household helpers valiantly do their jobs without complaint. After much head-scratching, I consulted the manual for my new disposal to see what this dainty object will accept. Here's what the manual advises:

You can put bones in the thing, but only if you first break them up into teeny, tiny bits (not bloody likely in my case). You can also put pits in, but nothing larger than cherry pits, so if you think you can get rid of peach pits, you're crazy. In fact, it likes pits, they scrub the interior of the unit. But only little ones. It also likes to be fed an orange once in a while. The disposal goddess who lives in there really enjoys an occasional orange, and will reward you by smelling nice.

So now you have two garbage systems: 1) the disposal, a nearly useless object; 2) the actual garbage. Add to that recycling glass, paper, aluminum, and cardboard. All separately. Then there's the hazardous stuff. Don't you dare throw away printer cartridges, household paint, batteries, or computers. They must be delivered personally to some remote location only known to the elect.

In addition, we are not allowed to send our yard waste--leaves, grass clippings-- to the local landfill. The powers that be suggested that they be used for compost.

Could garden waste be placed in the disposal? Just asking.

Jimmy Carter spews his usual hatred

The country's worst ex-president is interviewed by BBC Radio.

I won't trouble you by quoting Jimmy's self-serving criticism of Tony Blair. What has me going is the fact that the BBC interviews this disgruntled loser. The one-term president has certainly got brass balls to criticize the man who saved the British Labor Party and served as Prime Minister for 10 years. Carter undoubtedly envies Blair his successes. He himself has been a failure at everything he ever did, and is a liar to boot.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. He's so crooked that I doubt he ever hit a nail straight in his volunteer work for Habitat for Humanity. Have any of the houses he built fallen down yet?

Ht to astute blogger.

Expiring underwear

The 18-hour bra.

Free range eggs

I yield to no-one in my consideration for baby calves: they're cute, they have big brown eyes; therefore I don't eat veal. But that's as far as I go in my concern for farm animals. I don't want them to suffer needlessly, of course. But I eat them, and I plan to continue eating them as long as I can afford to.

So when I saw that eggs from free-range chickens were $3 more than plain eggs from--what must I call them, captive chickens?--I decided to go for the latter. Only there weren't any. I asked them to look in the back of the store and see if there were any stashed there. There weren't. So I didn't buy eggs yesterday.

It's really a stretch for me to care about the welfare and personal life of a chicken. Again, I don't want them to suffer. But what's suffering to a chicken? We're not talking the Einstein of the barnyard here. When not in captivity all they do is run around aimlessly, scratch in the ground and make stupid noises. Maybe the average hen would prefer to sit on her duff and get fed three squares a day without going to the trouble of ranging freely looking for grub. Who knows? The chickens aren't talking.

Prince Harry is not allowed to go out and play with the other boys...

he might get hurt.

Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier and afeared?

Yep.

What has happened to British pluck? First the 15 sailors and marines who were captured by Iran, and now this! If Prince Harry is to be in uniform, why can't he risk his life just like his mates? Is one soldier worth more than another?

Harry ought to resign his commission and be a useless twit like his father.

Saving the earth

Some interesting observations:

I took the Earth Day Foot print quiz and guess what? If everyone lived like me we'd need 7.5 Earths to accommodate for all the natural resources that I consume....

This isn't good but I know a way that we can all make a difference: From now on, all of you walk when you go places. Me? I'll still drive. That way you're more than compensating for me.

Now I know some of you are going to think "Why does he get to drive" or "Why is he so special?" Well, I'm not really. The reason is that I don't feel in the least bit guilty because I'm a bad person, and to be honest I'm cool with that, so you guys and gals with all this eco-guilt are going to have to take up the slack. Sorry, them's the breaks. On the plus side, you'll lose a few pounds walking....

Sunday at the Hagley

We visited the Hagley Museum on Sunday. It was a beautiful day for being outdoors. I thought my 5-year-old grandson might enjoy the museum, and he did, although much of it was over his head.

The Hagley Museum includes a gunpowder factory which operated on the site for over 100 years; a machine shop where tools were made; a school attended by the children of the workers, and a two-story cottage which had been restored to demonstrate how the workers and their families lived in about 1850.

A little old lady in period costume explained how things worked in the cottage. She showed us the stove which the lady of the house used for cooking and heating water. There were buckets to bring water from the pump a few yards from the house; she allowed my grandson to try to lift one of these buckets. It was apparently very heavy. We saw the irons which were heated on the stove and used to iron clothing for the family. As we were about to leave, she asked if there were any more questions.

One of the visitors asked, "How many bathrooms were upstairs?" No, she was not joking.

Best tail

There's a woman who goes to my gym regularly. She has a remarkably youthful figure which does not go with her unremarkable middle-aged face. I would place her age as somewhere between 55 and death. Her workout garb calls to mind the hookers plying their trade at the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. She wears skimpy little outfits which show a lot of skin. Her blonde hair is worn in two pigtails, a la Shirley Temple as Heidi. You might call her mutton dressed as lamb.

I don't quite know how to think about this woman. On the one hand, she deserves admiration for the hard work she has done to preserve a youthful figure. On the other hand, she looks, well, stupid. However, she is a heartbreaker among the geriatric set. Some of the older men consider her quite irresistible and vie for her favors. I have heard of fights breaking out in the parking lot over her, proving, if any proof were needed, that there is no fool like an old fool.

The younger men think she is repulsive, which is unkind of them, and think she should be forced to wear more clothes. Some of them feel quite offended by her. I think they would not be so riled if she dressed her age.

Of course, she wears the shortest of shorts. One of these pairs of shorts has emblazoned across the seat, "Best tail."

Jerry Falwell dies

I confess to having a sort of a sneaky liking for Falwell. You see, I (alone in the world, it seems) read his autobiography. It seems Falwell's daddy was a flamboyant, rip-roaring drunk, who advised the younger Falwell:

"Don't be a preacher, sonny. Folks will talk funny when you walk into a room."

True enough. I had a dear friend, who I will call the Reverend Alfie. Alfie joined the Rotary or Kiwanis or some such organization, to get away from his congregation, who tended to talk funny when he came into a room, and be an ordinary guy among the guys. One day, however, he was seated at a table with a couple of men he did not know, one of whom was boasting about his extramarital affairs. The man next to the braggart kept poking his in the side, but he did not take the hint, until his neighbor whispered in his ear and looked meaningly at Alfie. The man then blushed and changed the subject. Of the entire crowd, Alfie was the only one who was not embarassed.

As Alfie said, he gave the gift that keeps on giving, guilt.

Are New Jersey residents rude?

Mamacita thinks so.

Maybe. They certainly can be aggressive. But, having lived in Delaware, I can attest that Delaware drivers appear to be operating under the influence of some powerful, but not necessarily legal, substance. They do not seem to be fully awake and conscious.

You drive down a main road and some fool comes darting out of a side street to make a left turn inches in front of your car. They don't necessarily do it fast, either. I've got a message for these Delaware dreamers:

Where are you going in such a hurry? Are you off to discover a cure for cancer? Or to prevent a third world war? If not, how about obeying the rules of the road? My brakes may not be good enough to save your life, or mine.

Ethics, New Jersey style

Jim McGreevey instructs New Jersey youth.

James E. McGreevey, who resigned the governorship under a cloud of scandal, has a new job teaching law, ethics and leadership at one of New Jersey's public colleges.

McGreevey is now an "executive in residence" -- a combination teaching and consulting post -- at Kean University in Union, where he is earning $17,500. The former governor came on board without any announcement on Nov. 1, Kean officials said, and the university makes no mention of his role on its Web site or faculty directory.

Suggested next course: Criminals teaching ethics to police.

Ht to New Jersey guy.

What happened to the ozone layer?

Is it still a problem?

When is the last time since they banned R-12 that you've heard about the Ozone hole?
The thinning Ozone layer?

Ok, did we fix it? or did the greenies get their way with bogus science, and then swept the story under the rug?
If we still have the problem, it wasn't Freon- was it? If the Ozone is growing back, shouldn't we have heard something about it?

While we're at it, whatever happened to the population bomb that was supposed to cause mass starvation by 1984? Nuclear winter?

Being an environmentalist means never having to admit you were wrong.

Banquet--what a misnomer

I went to a banquet tonight which in no way resembled the Roman banquets of song and story. I know what you're going to think: bitch, bitch, bitch, that's all she does, I bet it's not that bad.

It was.

First crack out of the box, a piece of flatbread which converts your mouth into a branch of the Saharah Desert, Junior Division. So I take a sip of water. Lukewarm. No ice. I go over to a drinks station. You understand that this is a Jewish function, so no liquor is expected or provided. That's okay, I can live with that. But no diet soda! Jewish women live on diet soda. It is what bread used to be to the ancients, a sacrament, practically. I've only met one Jewish woman in my life who drank non-diet soda, and she bought her clothes in JCPenney's. And no ice. Lukewarm non-diet soda, yum! I can hardly wait to see the rest of the dinner.

Now Jewish food, with some honorable exceptions, isn't too great, and Israeli food isn't much better, consisting I believe of stuff invented by Arabs who passed along the recipes but left out one crucial ingredient just to be spiteful. And these caterers aren't too hot with regular Jewish food but are serving an Israeli meal here.

Here it was: Some kind of watery salad, with all the vitamins leached out into the water in which it floated; couscous with the consistency of wet bread. A woebegone-looking tray of sodden grilled vegetables. Baked ziti! I ask you! This is not New Jersey, there is no excuse for baked ziti, the New Jersey national dish. It only tastes good in New Jersey, anyway.

I don't expect miracles, like sauce with flavor in it, but is it too much to ask to boil the pasta only until it is soft, rather than for 24 hours? The answer, in a word, is yes, at least for these caterers.

Then there is some chicken to be stuffed into pita bread with fake yogurt sauce. This was actually edible, so I ed it.

The festive meal concluded, tea, coffee and dessert were provided. Excuse me, coffee, caf and de, and tea bags. No hot water. Eventually a waitress showed up with hot water, which I requested that she pour over my teabag, since both my hands were full. She fixed me with a look of pure loathing, but she did it. Dessert was some marginally acceptable pastries, which I scarfed down.

I am now going to go into my kitchen and have myself some ice cream with fudge sauce. I deserve it, damn it.

My mother the lawyer

(recycled)

 

My mother hated to be photographed. She always wanted to put it off until she lost 10, or 20, or 30 pounds. Consequently we have very few pictures of her. This is one I like.

Thanksgiving always makes me think of my mother. Thanksgiving was a big deal to us. We used to celebrate her birthday, and my Uncle Moe's on Thanksgiving. It was a Russian custom, or a Jewish custom, or just our family custom to celebrate birthdays in conjunction with some holiday. Mine was Purim, my cousin was Rosh Hashonah. Perhaps the family were just bad at remembering dates.

Re-importation of drugs from Canada is a bust

But you'd never know it from the US Congress.

Many of the very senators who supported or co-sponsored Ms. Snowe's amendment to change federal law and allow Canadian imports hail from states that have seen their own high-profile programs wither or die. That includes Wisconsin's Herb Kohl and Russ Feingold, Missouri's Claire McCaskill and Dick Durbin of Illinois

.

Re-importation has not been a success in States where it's been tried.

Three years ago, grandstanding governors and mayors vowed to break federal law and set up state-run drug import programs, giving millions of citizens the "opportunity" to buy cheap Canadian drugs. The media showered these souls with headlines, praised them for being on the side of poor, strapped U.S. consumers--then forgot all about it. Today, most state-import programs are on life support, while some have closed completely. Never mind all Washington's hifalutin arguments about intellectual property, free trade and safety; the overwhelming majority of Americans appear to have little use for import programs that offer few drugs at long wait times, under suspect safety conditions and with minimal savings.

I could never quite figure out how sending pharmaceuticals on a round trip to Canada would lower prices. It seems to me, yes, stupid.

Naturally, the United States Congress enjoys posing as the friend of the consumer and the enemy of Big, Bad Pharma. As long as nothing changes.

A thought that often occurs to me: If these are the people who won the election, how bad could the ones who lost it be? We elected the better person, didn't we? Didn't we?

Shopping with Mother and Bubbe

I really dreaded going shopping with my mother and her mother, my bubbe, especially in classy, high-toned stores. For one thing, mother and bubbe used to talk Yiddish very loudly to one another, deprecating the merchandise on offer and the manners, morals, and appearance of the other shoppers.

I hated to be seen in public with these back numbers who spoke a foreign language which I was sure sounded low-class to everyone else (why couldn't they speak French?). I also feared that someone would understand what they were saying about the fat lady in the tight pants who was in front of us in the escalator. It was a lose-lose situation. Either we appeared to the other, high-toned shoppers like a bunch of huddled masses waiting to be processed at Ellis Island, or someone would actually understand what they were saying and see what low minds we had.

Also, bubbe appeared to believe that she was in a souk, when in reality she was in one of Columbus Ohio's premier specialty shops. She showed no respect.

For instance: we are looking for a blouse. The saleslady brings out a few, I try them on and decide on one. Bubbe grabs it and scrutinizes every inch of it, looking for flaws. She finds a speck of dirt on the collar and attempts to bargain with the snooty saleslady while my face turns red down to my toes. I try to pretend I'm interested in the scarves in the next display case, but in any case, try to look like I'm not with them.

Then, horror of horrors, she pretends to walk away! I could die! (I'm around fifteen at the time.) The snooty saleslady calls her manager, and they do a deal, but by this time, my self-esteem in destroyed. What if someone I knew had seen us? I'll never live it down.

When I was smaller and couldn't protest, bubbe and mother bought my clothes much too big in the hopes I would grow into them. Then they took them home and altered them to fit me, sort of. The idea being that the clothes could be let out next year. They never were, though. I wore them out first. But I went through childhood looking like I had borrowed my wardrobe from a larger child.

Of course, with maturity I could see where she was coming from. This was a woman who split one can of sardines among her three children, while she and her husband made do with dry toast and tea for supper. Fancy salesladies held no terror for her.

Wanted: more amusing families

I have gotten lots of comments (well, three or four) from people who have enjoyed my posts about my family, asking for more. I'm sorry to say that I believe I have exhausted--for now--my family's amusing antics. The rest of their activities are pretty dreary. Most of them are from Ohio, you know.

So, until I remember more and better anecdotes about my family, I am going to have to borrow someone else's amusing family reminiscences. Does anyone have any amusing family anecdotes they could contribute to my blog? Just until someone in my family does something entertaining?

Letter to an ex-bank

Dear Chase/Morgan/Bank of New York/National Community Bank:

It is time for the stalking to stop.

I am sorry that our relationship has to end this way. You have served me faithfully as a bank for a number of years, and I was hoping our parting would be conducted in a civilized way. Alas, that was not to happen.

When I moved to Delaware, I started courting another bank. After a decent interval, Wachovia and I consummated our relationship, and I didn't need you any more. I called the bank and told them I wanted to close my account. I was informed that I had to take all the money out, which I did. I thought. Unfortunately, there was 10 cents interest credited to my account which I had not known about.

You guys just wouldn't let go. Every month you sent me a statement showing 10 cents still in my account. I was hoping you would forget about me and go after other customers, but it hasn't happened.

The latest escalation in our troubling relationship occurred when you sent me a bank debit card for this account. I then called the bank, trying to end our affair once and for all--a clean break. But the lady who I spoke to told me I could not close the account over the phone. I had to write you a letter. She gave me the address.

Well, of course, I lost the address immediately, having jotted it down on an expired 20 percent off card from Macy's, which I discarded when I cleaned off my desk.

So my only recourse is to hope you read this on my blog and accept your dismissal with a good grace. Our relationship was rewarding, but it is time to Move On, as George Soros would say.

A role model for our time

Snoop Dogg is a busy guy.

Barred from Australia, banned in England, just arrested in Sweden, persona non grata in Canada, and convicted in California on drug and weapons charges. Snoop Dogg, one of Al Gore's hand-picked crew of rappers against global warming, is sure racking up a series of criminal offenses on his way to performing a July 7th "Live Earth" concert for carbon depletion.

He's just a high-spirited youth who undoubtedly means well.

The real first folio edition of Romeo and Juliet

A more true to life version than the one we are taught in school:

In this First Folio version Romeo and Juliet do not fall in love, for at the most tender moment of the balcony scene we have these immortal lines. ‘…would a rose by any other name smell as sweet…. Actually thinking about it I could just fancy a kebab and chips. Hang on, love, I’ll be back in a bit.’

But, of course Romeo never does return. Instead he meets his mates down at the kebab shop and by the time they have managed a swift pint or twelve it is far too late for Romeo too call back on Juliet.

Read the whole thing. It's quite poignant, really.

WRTI has a fund drive

I listen to WRTI all the time. They are a classical and jazz radio station sponsored by Temple University. When they had what I thought was their annual fund drive last fall, I stepped up to the plate and gave an annual donation of $120. Now they are having another fund drive. Do annual fund drives take place twice a year? I'm not giving them any more money until my year is up.

I'm fed up with these charities. They follow you around like little puppies who whine until they are given something.

Try this. Donate some money to, let's say, the Americans Against Disease Society. Practically by return mail you will get another appeal. Send another check. You now have a friend for life. You need never be lonely again. The folks at Americans Against Disease Inc will write you, call you, and e-mail you. You will never see the end of them.

These annual fund drives should come annually, dammit! Send me a letter once a year, and I will give you your annual stipend. No more until next year! And if you annoy me, you won't get anything next year either.

Want the government to handle health care?

This horror story might change your mind.

Carnival of Insanities strikes again!

Can sanity be restored?

Removing people from photographs

According to this N Y Times article, technology has advanced to the point where images of unwanted mates or former friends can be edited out of photographs.

The restoration artists are also able to edit people in to and out of photographs. Many customers ask the services to edit former husbands or wives out of cherished family photos.

I employed a similar but low-tech solution to getting rid of pictures of former boyfriends or bad dates. I simply cut their heads out of the photos, leaving a picture of myself looking gorgeous on the arm of a headless guy.

Will there always be an England?

Not if these people have their way.

A magistrate writes:

Not for the first time I have sat on a case in which shopkeepers, most of them Asian, seem to be living in a state close to siege. In the latest, a normal-looking parade of shops in an otherwise respectable suburb of London is beset by an amorphous group of locals, mostly but not exclusively young, who hang around doing nothing much apart from giggling, shuffling, and leering. These people routinely steal from the shops, intimidating and occasionally assaulting the owners. In evidence, the shopkeeper who had been assaulted said that assault contempt and abuse was just part of running the business, and that when people steal goods his only priority is to get them back. Often, a trader confronting a thief is surrounded by a jeering and threatening mob, and retreat to the store is the only safe option. There is an obvious racial subtext here, based on the loathing felt by the underclass for brown people who have the cheek to work hard in crap jobs in order to get on in life. This loathing does not prevent the oppressors from buying their cans of Tennents from the despised shopkeepers, and the fact that the shops take their cash serves in some way to reinforce an unjustified feeling of superiority to the 'Pakis'.

Wally Schiarra has died

He was an astronaut. These men were fascinating to me, as much for who they were as for what they did.

Look--either you think the space program was exciting, or you don't. The consensus of liberal opinion at the time could be summarized like this: you could have a space program financed directly by exploiting the poor, taking bread out of their mouths, or you could forget the space program and eliminate poverty. Jesse Jackson, I seem to remember, was of the latter opinion.

If the idea of a human being walking on the moon or orbiting the earth or exploring far-distant planets is a snooze to you, you're entitled to your opinion. But I found when I was doing research on the lives of African American astronauts that many of them were inspired by the space program. According to Charles F Bolden, a retired Marine general, the first Apollo and Gemini space shots took place when he was a boy and excited him:

I was interested in being an astronaut when I was young, but I didn't think it was possible. I put it out of my mind....

I think every kid has an interest in space.... It makes kids want to study, excites them , gives them a desire to be somebody...and that's something no other program can do.... If we want to look to the future, space is it....And that excites people from kindergarten through college; it excites me.

I'll take my religion straight up, with a twist

Commitment to Judaism runs very low in my father's side of the family--it is like a low-grade infection that sometimes causes an outbreak of religion, or Zionism, or both.

My dad believes in the Democratic Party, social justice, good SAT scores, and getting into Ivy League colleges. He once bitterly complained that everyone in his housing complex is a gentile and Republican. I don't know which he minds most. All his friends are atheist Jews like himself.

My older brother, who was raised by my mother, is religiously observant, as is his wife. They are observant in the way that people in Ohio of a certain age are--they try to keep a low profile and look like everybody else. No kippahs and payes in public, please.

They are, however, observant, sent their children to Jewish day schools, keep Kosher, don't answer the phone on Shabbat, etc. They also believe in good SATs but are fine with sending the kids to Ohio State. In fact, going to Ohio State is another tradition deeply honored by this branch. Their three children, however, are not religious at all. The eldest, Sam, is studying Arabic (at Ohio State, of course), and wants to go live in Jordan or Syria to perfect his grasp of that language. The other two, who are girls, have that valley girl thing down pat. My sister-in-law says: "I raised three goyim."

Brother #2, however, is not even slightly religious, nor was his first wife. It was therefore surprising when she asked him, on her deathbed, to make sure that their son had a bar mitzvah.

Wife number 2 is a really nice woman but not one to lose sleep over observance. She is enthusiastic about Judaism in a "Isn't Chanukah fun? Let's have a party!" kind of way. They also sent their children to Jewish day schools, as did all their hip, cool and groovy friends, all Jewish, all progressive as all get-out. They live in California, for God's sake. At wedding #2 (second brother, second wife) we sat with a man who said his aunt had known my stepmother in New York, where they were both members of the same Communist cell. Is that progressive, or what? They share the family commitment to good SAT scores and Ivy League colleges.

However, the son of this family seems to have contracted the Zionist bug. After high school graduation, he spent a year in Israel, and he is active in a Zionist organization (but it's the furthest left one there is, according to his stepmother).

My mother's side of the family have a stronger Jewish commitment. My cousin Bernie is deeply devout and conducts services at the local nursing home every Saturday. His three daughters all married Gentiles and are not raising their children as Jews, which I know he minds, although he never complains. His sister has a son who is very religious, lives in Israel, and has a large family.

Where am I going with this? Bless me if I know. I am certainly a Zionist, but I don't know whether this is from Jewish commitment or from being a rabid right-winger. I am actually kind of the oddball. I not only didn't go to an Ivy League college, I didn't even go to Ohio State, but to some forgettable college no one ever heard of. And I voted for George Bush.

Don't tell the rest of them. I could never live it down.

A sign spotted at the side of the road, Wilmington, DE

BARBARA
MUHAMMED
for school board

I guess the lady doesn't want to emphasize her last name.

Finicky but religious actor

Some of us would like to hang around John Travolta and take his used shirts when he is finished with them.

Travolta, as it happens, is one of the least profitable actors to appear in movies. Among his more unreasonable contract demands is to receive 8 Armani T shirts ($200 to $300 each) every day of filming. The reason: he is religiously opposed to wearing washed clothing.

I, on the other hand, am religiously opposed to wearing unwashed clothing. Maybe we could do a deal?

What would happen if they gave a Parliamentary (or Congressional )committee hearing

and nobody came?

Perhaps some work might get done.

Cribbed from djomama.

Innovative treatment

by injection.

Stolen from purple avenger.