The tao of bagels...also pastrami

Jack muses about bagels, and adds this:

I continue to be dismayed by the horrific bagels that some people have concocted.

It is too upsetting to list them here, but suffice it to say that some of you use mayonnaise on your pastrami.

There are some weird bagels out there, all right.

The best bagels come from New York City, and the farther you get from NY, the worse they are. I have not had a decent one in Delaware.

Turning now to the subject of pastrami, application of mayonnaise to, I have to tell you about the worst pastrami sandwich I have ever had. We were at Jacob's Pillow, and wanted to have a little something before the performance. So I ordered a pastrami sandwich. On rye. The classic. When I bit into it, I found that not only had mayonnaise been applied to the bread, but it had been applied a long time previously and had had ample time to sink in, leaving the bread so soggy that you couldn't pick it up in your hands without it falling apart. Gross.

The pastrami itself wasn't very good either.

That should teach me that places that are selling culture shouldn't be selling food. Food should be sold at places where people go to eat.

How to predict climate change

I've often wondered how Algore et al figured out to such a nicety what the temperature of the earth would be. They must employ scrupulous scientific methods, no? To be so confident?

Well, I've found out how they do it. First, they slaughter a chicken. They then examine the entrails carefully and draw their conclusions.

Of course scientific experiments must be duplicated to be valid. So the experts slaughter another chicken. If this one has similar entrails, they are well on their way. If the experts are still not sure, they slaughter a duck or goose. Some go so far as to slaughter pigeons or Canada geese, but that's pushing it. Slaughtering robins or purple martins are a big no-no.

Actually, I have been lying to you. Babytrolling has the actual methodology. I was just pulling your leg.

Studying chicken entrails! No-one would believe that! Now taking air samples, that makes sense, doesn't it? Sort of?

Maybe we should stick to entrails. At least you get a chicken dinner at the end of the day.

Want to save energy and help the environment?

Raise the speed limit to 100 miles per hour.

The case of the missing index cards

Mr Charm has been walking around the house, searching in every nook and cranny and becoming progressively louder, until I acknowledge his presence.

Mr C: "I swear to God, nothing of mine is in the right place. I can never find anything. All my stuff is lost!"

Me: "What are you looking for?"

"I want my index cards! I have always written things down on index cards. Where are my index cards? I can't find any of my stuff! This house is a mess."

Me: "How about using post-it notes?"

Mr C: "I don't want those! I want my index cards!"

Me: "How about a legal pad?"

Mr C: "That's too big! I want to write something down and put it in my pocket. Where are my index cards?"

I decided years ago that I had to either ignore him or kill him.

(recycled)

More of our young people are dying......

In Iraq? No, in Philadelphia.

I didn't hear the cars screech to a halt, but one of the trauma nurses did. He ran outside with two emergency department medics to find several people in a car, all of their clothes soaked with blood. The passengers were screaming for someone to help the young man in the front seat, who was unresponsive. The team threw the limp victim onto a gurney, one of several that stand waiting for these types of scenarios, which occur almost nightly at our trauma center.

As the gurney rolled in, I saw a lifeless young man with more gunshot wounds than I could count. I was poised to start a resuscitation effort when a voice behind me announced that three more were coming in. As the team started CPR and checked for cardiac activity, the second and third victims were wheeled in....


In the swirl of screams and moving figures, my mind drifted to my recent experience in Iraq as an Army surgeon. There we dealt regularly with "mascals," or mass-casualty situations. In Iraq, ironically, I found myself drawing on my experience as a civilian trauma surgeon each time mascals would overrun the combat hospital. As nine or 10 patients from a firefight rolled in, I sometimes caught myself saying "just like another Friday night in West Philadelphia."

The wounds and nationalities of the patients are different, but the feelings of helplessness, despair and loss are the same. In Iraq, soldiers die for freedom, for honor, for their country, and their buddies. Here in Philadelphia, civilians die without honor, without purpose, for no country, for no one.

More young men are killed each day on the streets of America than on the worst days of carnage and loss in Iraq. There is a war at home raging every day, filling our trauma centers with so many wounded children that it sometimes makes Baghdad seem like a quiet city in Iowa.

Unlike the Iraq conflict, this war is not on the front pages of America's newspapers or on CNN. You have heard of the Washington area sniper shootings and the massacre at Virginia Tech. I am sure fewer readers outside Philadelphia have heard about the "Lex Street massacre," in which 10 people ages 15 to 56 were lined up and shot, execution-style, in the winter of 2000. Seven were killed, three critically injured.

They haven't heard about this tragedy because it happened to inner-city poor people in a crack house in Philadelphia. Imagine, for a moment, if this had occurred in a suburban shopping mall, or if a Marine unit in Iraq had been involved. There would be shock, outrage, 24-hour news coverage, Senate hearings, a new color of ribbon to wear.

That double standard, that triage of compassion and empathy, is why the war on the streets continues unabated.

Read the whole thing.

At last--a worthwhile charity

Go to Rachel at Tinkerty Tonk for details.

Let's all pitch in and help a fellow blogger.

Honk if you hate bumper stickers

I wrote this last April:

I'm not a fan of prefabricated sentiments or canned cleverness. If you're going to be clever, make up your own snappy sayings.

I started to hate bumperstickers when anti-war protestors sported this one: War is bad for children and other living things. This statement manages to be both sanctimonious and smarmy. For "war" you could sustitute pollution, smoking, transfats, or any other damn thing.

I was driving behind some idiot whose bumper sticker read: Somewhere in Texas a village is missing an idiot.
Well, someone in Delaware is not missing a very stupid driver.
Then there's the ever popular

Bush lied, people died.



By the way, I don't care for Nuke the whales, My other car is a Mercedes, or--I could go on, but what's the point?

Meanwhile, things have gone from bad to worse. The other day I was in a store in Pittsfield, MA. It was a cute little place, and I was going to buy something to take home to add to the other useless items in my collection of dust-catchers.

I had a little tickle in my throat, and I was coughing, which is something that happens when I am around dust, grass, mold or trees. So the nice lady proprietor offered me a mint. Unfortunately, it was in a tin marked "impeachmints." She made a point of showing this to me.

I thought this was nasty, and I got out of there without buying anything.

The British scuttle their allies

Very humanitarian.

Philadelphians talk funny

I wrote this when I first moved to Delaware. I know what a Skoogle is now. But I still think Philadelphians talk funny.

I listen to NPR in my car. I know it raises my blood pressure and makes every hair on my head stand up in rage. However.

We in northern Delaware are too small and primitive to have our own public radio station. The whole state only has one Congressman, for God's sake. Of course, Senator Biden talks enough for an entire delegation from a medium-sized state, so that kind of makes up for it. Sort of. You could say.

Now you ask: what does this have to do with Philadelphians, who reside in a whole nother state for God's sake? Why dump on them?

Okay. As I say, we don't have our own NPR, so we make do with Philadelphia's. We don't even get our own weather, we have to borrow it from Philadelphia. We're just a miserable hinterland, unworthy of having our own rush hour traffic reports. We have to make do with those across the state lines. The traffic report even mentions New Jersey, from time to time, but never a word about Delaware.

Actually, I find this quite soothing, tooling around Delaware at 4 o'clock and hearing about tractor trailers overturning on I-95 south while I whiz through back roads. There's just one thing that puzzles me about the Philly traffic reports.

What in God's name is the Skoogle? Could this possibly be how you pronounce Schuylkill? And if so, Why?

As I say, Philadelphians talk funny.

Now don't get me wrong. You guys have the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, Betsy's Ross' house, etc. You're world class. But Skoogle? It sounds like some kind of Jewish food, a kugel with chocolate chips in it maybe.

Men can't find anything, even if it is where they put it

I have at least 1,000,000 things in this house, and I can find 999,999 of them, and I don't need the other one anyway, and anyway it will turn up, maybe.

The scenario in the Charm household goes like this:

Mr C: What did you do with my keys?
Me: (pretend I didn't hear him).

Mr C: You must have put them somewhere.
Me: Where were you when you had them last?
Mr C: (accusingly) right here!
I find keys, exactly where he put them, cleverly hidden by today's paper, which he put on top of them.

Alternative scenario:
Me: Maybe they're in the bedroom?
Mr C: I wasn't in the bedroom!
I find keys in bedroom, on top of his bureau.
Mr C: Oh.

PS: I never clean his office. You should see it.

Kvetcher nation

Whatever happened to the old pioneer spirit? Or for that matter, Yankee ingenuity?

I'll tell you what, they've been replaced by kvetching.* Kvetching combines the most obnoxious features of whining and complaining: you whine vociferously and never shut up. Example:

W-a-a-ah, I want $1 gas! I'm entitled to it! I deserve it! This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me! My life has become unbearable, now that it costs $60 to fill my SUV. Who's to blame? Someone must be! Evil oil companies. I can't take it any more! Life in this country is no longer possible. Blame Bush! Blame anybody! Boohoohoo!

The whole country is kvetching about oil prices--the news media, Congress, even the President.

When not obsessed with gas prices, we kvetch continually about the war in Iraq:

People are getting killed over there! Over 3,000! No-one should ever be killed! War is bad! Iraq is not becoming a democracy fast enough to suit me! Boohoohoo! I want these Iraqis to settle down immediately or I'll cry! Blame Bush! Bush lied! Blame Cheney! Blame Big Oil!

The back-up kvetch, when things are (otherwise) going well:

Global warming, oy! Life as we know it is going to stop next Tuesday! I demand an end to global warming, everyone but me should stop using oil! Boohoohoo!

*Democrats are especially good at this.

(Recycled.)

Have trouble balancing your checkbook?

In these days of online banking, does anyone still bother?

A little old lady who was a regular library user, back in the old days when checkbooks were supposed to be balanced, told me her method:

She opened a bank account with Bank A and tried to keep track of her money.

When she had totally lost track of this account, she took the checkbook across the street to Bank B, and opened an account there.

When Bank B's statements became confusing, she repeated the procedure with Bank C.

Rinse and repeat. Fortunately, there were lots of banks in New Jersey, so she was never found out. I don't know if this would work in Resume Speed, Idaho. Perhaps all the bankers there talk to each other.

When she died, I believe her heirs had a hell of a time figuring things out. But it worked for her, anyway.

A fellow blogger gets rich

Fiar is loaded!
Hit him up for a loan now, while he's still humble. You know how arrogant these rich people get.

Does this look like Cleopatra to you?

Me either.

I saw a production of Antony and Cleopatra last week at Shakespeare and Company. It was excellent, except for Cleopatra. She was played by Tina Packer and--I have to be frank--she was way too old for the part, and too fat. She actually distracts from the play. When she falls to the floor in a moment of high drama, I worried that her fellow actors wouldn't have the strength to help her to her feet. This somewhat detracted from the illusion.

Even if she had been thin, Tina was not suited to playing Cleopatra the temptress. That train left the station a long time ago.

However, it is surprising how much of Shakespeare's play is left when Cleo is counted out. Nigel Ware was superb as Antony, and the rest of the cast were excellent.

I was reminded, as I am every time I see Shakespeare performed, what a genius he was.

Insomnia sucks

I was up until 4 last night and up again before 8. After tossing and turning for about an hour, I get up to make coffee. Grind the beans, boil the water, pour over grounds, wait for coffee to drip. But it didn't drip. Apparently, in my stupor, I'd ground the beans to something resembling a paste. Pick up coffeepot, manage to spill grounds and boiling water all over the floor, dump pot in sink, manage to pour boiling water/grounds combination on my hand, burning my right thumb from the base of the fingernail down to the wrist. Hurts. Hurts like hell. Run cold water over wound, smear on cortisone cream, suddenly remember I have a leftover prescription for vicodin. Take pill, lie down hoping to retreat into the arms of Morpheus. Toss and turn for three hours. Get up, make more coffee. Son enters room. I describe my mishap. Get a lecture on how I ingest too much caffeine. Manage not to strangle son. Drive son to work. And now I'm too tired to sleep.

The new Elizabethan Age

I see Cate Blanchett will be playing Elizabeth I again in the upcoming Elizabeth, The Golden Age. This comes on the heels of Helen Mirren's HBO series and Showtime's series, "The Tudors," which is actually about Henry VIII, Elizabeth's father.

I haven't seen either of those shows, but will probably do so eventually--though I've got to say that the guy playing Henry VIII looks a little too lean and dark for the part. (This review says the actor is better suited to play "a scheming courtier or pining poet than an extroverted royal peacock.") But I do like me some Tudors, especially Elizabeth.

I saw Blanchett's first Elizabeth film and liked it very much. It wasn't exactly historically accurate, but that doesn't bother me overmuch. Elizabeth was such a fascinating character that I always find it interesting to see how others view her. Though I hold no truck with those who sympathize with Mary, Queen of Scotts. Mary Stuart was a royal pain in the ass and Elizabeth allowed her to stick around for far too long. The new movie, I see, will touch on that. Here's the trailer:



And here, just for kicks, is a rundown of movies about Elizabeth with pictures.

As it happens, I'm enjoying an Elizabethan renaissance myself. I've been watching "Elizabeth R," the BBC series starring Glenda Jackson, who really embodies Elizabeth--in my humble opinion. I first watched the series a gazillion years ago when it first aired on "Masterpiece Theater." I loved it then and kind of wondered how it held up. It did. Jackson is superb, as is the supporting cast, the costumes are terrific and the makeup is great. Here are some photos of Jackson being made up as Elizabeth.

I'm also reading Paul Johnson's book, Elizabeth I: A Study in Power and Intellect, which was published in 1974 before, I think, Johnson became famous over here. It's not really an authoritative biography-Johnson skips around a lot, which can get kind of confusing--but I'm enjoying it. I like Johnson's brisk style. And I like that he quotes a lot from primary sources. He portrays Elizabeth as a conservative who, though desperate for cash, was reluctant to raise money through taxes.

It was not a method of raising money she exploited but rather, to her mind, a monarchical privilege which was to be used sparingly. Direct taxation cost her popularity, and employing it had therefore to be balanced against the necessity to furnish the Exchequer. She was as reluctant to raise money as to spend it. Whenever possible, she turned to other methods. ... In 1591 there was a more bizarre effort: negotiations with Edward Kelly, a medium ... [who] had been experimenting in the transmutation of base metal into gold ... ELizabeth was skepical of Kelly's powers, but determined, if they existed, that they should be used in the service of England ...

If sometimes, as Ralegh complained, she underfinanced her war policies, she maintained political solidarity and economic expansion by keeping the English the lowest-taxed nation in Europe, a fact to which Bacon paid tribute: 'He that shall look into other countries and consider the taxes, and tallages, and impositions, and assizes and the like that are everywhere in use, will find that the Englishman is most master of his own valuation and the least bitten in purse of any nation in Europe.'

But Elizabeth was no neocon; she didn't seek out war, but was forced into it by circumstances, as when she--after much prodding by her advisors--sent then-favorite Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester to the low countries to defend Protestant interests. War could be very expensive.

Even by the somewhat bizarre standards of sixteenth-century warfare, Leicester's personal entourage gave his army a top-heavy appearance. We possess a list of over 1,100 persons forming what was called his 'train'. ... Moreover, Leicester himself was surrounded by a household a monarch might have envied: his personal suite comprised 99 gentlemen-officers, yeomen and their servants and over 70 lords, knights and gentlemen; he had a steward, 4 secretaries, 2 engineers, pages, grooms, trumpeters, footmen, chaplains, physicians and a whole company of actors. The vast quantities of baggage included no less than 44 beds for the kitchen staff alone.

Why are the people of Bel Air, MD trying to kill me?

First some geezer pulls on to the right shoulder as I'm crossing the intersection--my light, needless to say, but I'm saying it--and proceeds to drift into my lane just as I got to the other side. Of course, he ignored the horn. He was only inches away when I swerved into the left lane, which was thankfully unoccupied 'cuz I checked. That's just the kind of person I am. I'm afraid my son made some rather rude gestures, but the geezer was oblivious. After all, if you can't see a midsize sedan, how can you possibly take note of a middle finger being waved inside said sedan?

About 30 seconds later, I turned onto a side street that separates two shopping centers when some crazed soccer mom ran through a stop sign in her single-minded frenzy to get from Target to the La-Z-Boy Furniture Showroom. This time she stopped, with only about a foot to spare.

The Photoshop of Dorian Grey

Dorian eagerly rips the package from the messenger's hands, she'd been waiting for days to see the pictures from the Redbook photo shoot. This would mark the beginning of her comeback tour; she'd been languishing in semi-obscurity for the past 10 years since her marriage to Dale and the birth of her three children.

But her new CD, "Having It All," was scheduled for release in two weeks and she was ready to get back into the spotlight. The album told the bittersweet story of her current life. Once she'd had the world by the balls--she was beautiful, thin and talented--men wanted to bed her, women wanted to be her. Now, she was a little bit older and a little bit fatter but she had the love of a good man; three wonderful, smart and beautiful children; and her creative juices were flowing like never before. She was sure this latest venture really caught the current zeitgeist. She would become a symbol to women the world over, a sadder, but wiser gal who'd aged gracefully and was living life to the fullest--on her own terms. A MILF for the ages.

Still, she was a little nervous about the photos; it had been 10 years, after all. And even a macrobiotic diet, three hours of exercise a day and a fanatical sleep regimen couldn't totally make up for the passing of the years.

So what? I still look great. And celebrity photog Basil Hallward could make even that cow Madonna look young. Well, he couldn't disguise those cords in her neck, but hell, a woman of a certain age needs a little padding and Dorian had it. Then she remembered the sleeveless sundress that stylist Henry Wotton had chosen for the shoot. She'd been wary, but Hank kept telling her how fabulous it looked on her, how it hugged all her curves in the right places, how every woman in America over 40 35 would envy her shape. He talked her into it, now she was thinking she'd been a fool to listen to that woman-hating fag.

Dorian's hands shook as she struggled to open the package. She handed it to to her assistant, Maci. "You open it, I'm too nervous." Dorian shut her eyes. She heard the paper being ripped open, followed by a sharp intake of breath and then a great whoosh of air being expelled.

"What ... Oh My God!" Dorian stared at the photo, enraptured. "I look 10 years younger and 10 pounds thinner." Dorian puts on her reading glasses and scrutinizes the photo. She looks even better than when she first started out as the lead singer of the girl group, Girl Group. Then, she'd been the picture of virginal innocence. Now, she looks just as fresh but there's something in the eyes. A Mona Lisa vibe. She has depth. Depth and mystery.

"Dorian, it's fabulous," Maci said, turning to give her a hug. The phone rings, Basil's on the line.

"How's our cover girl this morning?"

"Basil, it's terrific, but I wonder ..."

"What, pet."

"I don't look nearly as young as this picture. I'll be on the Today Show tomorrow when the magazine hits the newsstands and everyone will see that I'm not as young--or thin--as I look here. I wish now I'd gotten that tummy tuck."

"Sweetie, no one will notice a thing. Hank's on his way with another outfit and the makeup and hair people on Today are real artists. Relax, it'll be fine."

"If only I didn't have to go through with all that. If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture's arms started to jiggle! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!"

"Chill out, pumpkin," Basil soothes. "That's crazy talk."

Dorian spends the next hour looking at the photo and sighing. She tried to call Dale--he and the kids were out at the ranch in Montana while she made the rounds for the next two weeks--but there was no answer. Then Hank turns up, with a fabulous dress in tow, and her spirits start to rise. The two of them spend the day trying on clothes and experimenting with hairstyles. Then Hank convinces her to send home her pilates instructor and hit the clubs instead.

"Hank, I can't. I've got a 4 am call tomorrow for the show. I'll need my sleep."

"Dorian, precious, the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Besides, it will help you relax."

Dorian stumbled into her hotel room at around two. She managed to get her clothes off, but she didn't bother washing her face or brushing her teeth. When the wakeup call came, Dorian groaned in pain. Jesus, what an idiot I am. I'll be lucky if I pull this one off. She took a quick shower and threw on a pair of sweats. Maci was waiting in the limo with her dress.

"Christ, I'll be lucky if I can zip that thing up," she said. "I absolutely stuffed myself with caviar--and you know how I retain water. Ah shit. Maybe the coke speeded up my metabolism. Those makeup people are really gonna earn their keep."

She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke out her nose. I can't believe I started smoking again. Now I'll have a whiskey voice to go with my whiskey face. She took another drag. God, that felt good. A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?

At the studio, the makeup girl spends a scant 10 minutes on her face and the hairstylist even less. And when she slips on the dress that had fit her like a glove the day before, it's loose and the wardrobe girl has to pin it at the waist. What the hell was going on? Dorian turns to look in the mirror.

"Jesus!"

It was the girl in the cover photo. The slim, perfectly coiffed girl of 21 with the knowing look. Her hair shines, her skin is perfection. And that body. Her breasts had risen two inches. And her ass! Her ass had never looked so good.

The interview went great. Meredith Vieira threw her nothing but softballs. OK, it was weird the way Al Roker kept coming over to her and massaging her shoulders, but all-in-all it went well. When they got back to the hotel, Dorian runs to her bedroom and picks up the package from Redbook. There she sees last night's debauchery. Her skin is blotchy and the bags under her eyes are like steamer trunks. Somehow her hair manages to look both greasy and dull. But the expression on her face is what really gets her. The Mona Lisa smile is replaced by a disturbing leer that makes her look both horny and desperate.

What a nightmare! Dorian shoves the photo into her private makeup case and resolves to hit the gym. But Hank stops by and the two of them hit the streets.

It goes on like that for two weeks. Then Dorian spends a week with Dale and the kids at the ranch she goes on tour. She's dismissed Maci and hired Hank to take her place. On nights when the two of them aren't out in the bars, Dorian's taken to binge eating. She generally orders a pizza or two from Domino's and washes it down with a half-gallon of Haagen Dasz triple chocolate ice cream. She never gains a pound. But her picture does. It's also grown grey roots, wrinkles and adult acne. And ... are there curly hairs erupting from her now not-quite-double chin?

The tour ends with Dorian on top of the world. She's been asked to grace the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, the oldest woman ever to appear on that page. She's exchanged her music producer husband for a younger model, a Hollywood director of only 28 with a string of hits to his name. She's nominated for a grammy and performs a morning concert at Rockefeller Center at another Today Show appearance.

Man, that Al Roker is creepy, but it's all good. Until suddenly it's not. Things start falling apart. Celebrity photog Basil Hallward disappears. Dorian drops Rufus Giancarlo after his film, The Maid of Orleans, starring the 47-year-old Dorian as the teenage martyr, flopped at the box office. Then tabloids get wind of her rowdy behavior. Dorian becomes a frequent fixture on Page Six, until the following blind item appears there:

WHICH recently separated celeb has a new habit to go along with her new friends? The cutie is spending way too much time in the bathroom of the many clubs she visits, hoovering down cocaine that her pals supply her with . . .

Dorian checks into rehab for drug and alcohol addiction, sex addiction and food addiction. Upon her release she vows to turn her life around and retreats to her New Mexico ranch to work on a new CD. The work is hard. Hank, who follows her everywhere, doesn't help. He insists on going out every night to cowboy bars. The last straw occurs one morning after they wake up in bed with two hands from the Imus ranch. Dorian kicks Hank to the curb. But still the music doesn't come.

Then it happens.

Switching on the TV one morning to Access Hollywood, Dorian discovers that her estranged daughter Jemima has written a tell-all book about her.

"This has got to stop," she screams and runs up the stairs. Dorian pulls out the Redbook cover photo and tries to rip it to shreds. Her assortment of hangers on hear a huge crash and run upstairs to investigate. Lying on the floor is a morbidly obese woman clutching a photograph of Dorian, the picture from the Redbook cover restored to its former beauty. The woman, a frightful old hag wearing clothes that seemed to have been shredded, has a scissors stuck in her heart. It isn't until her stylist notices that the tattered top the loathsome old hag is wearing is, in fact, the Prada sweater Dorian had put on that morning that they realize who the dead woman is.

I'm off to Tanglewood

Music under the stars--heavenly!

Carnival of the Insanities is up

Give it a looksee. Good stuff.

Report from communist cell I, Eastern division

also known as my family. They are smart people, truly. And nice. So how can they parrot "Bush lied"? Typical exchange:

Beloved relative I: Capitalism is inherently corrupt.

BR II: (Pained look) But what is there that's better?

BR I: Communism!

BR II: But--I mean, look at Russia...it didn't work for them, surely?

BR I: It's never been tried.

BR II: ? (Silence, look of disbelief)

This sort of thing is what I had to contend with, when the discussion turned to politics. In the hopes that other topics would be explored, I walked as through a minefield.

Some tenets of the creed:
Drug companies are greedy and bad. Big corporations are greedy and bad. Anyone with more money than me is greedy and bad, and probably stole the money anyway.

The un-health-insured are many, all of them sick with potentially fatal diseases, and are being turned away daily from the life-saving treatment they need by hard-hearted capitalists, mainly George Bush.

More money is needed for public transportation, whether anyone wants it or not.

The environment is in imminent danger. We might wake up tomorrow to find we have been globally warmed to death. Or frozen by nuclear winter. Bad either way.

If the environment doesn't get us, the pollutants currently being poured into the rivers out of sheer spite by evil manufacturers will poison us all.

The Christian right has taken over the country. Our civil rights have been trampled. Anyone who speaks his mind will probably disappear into a secret prison, never to be heard from again.

Bush should be impeached, censured, or at least sent to his room until he learns to behave.

The Iraqis were happier under good old Saddam Hussein.

My worst employees

Is your boss cranky, mean, or incompetent? Everyone sympathizes. Try being the employer of a problem employee. Here are some of the people I had to deal with:

Fred, the janitor, who used to come in at closing time, to lock up the library, and ostensibly to clean. By the time we had circled the block, he was out the back door and headed to the bars on Main Street. Fred was subtle; he would leave a rag or broom in a conspicuous place so we would know he had dusted. Fred also had a proprietary attitude toward the trash--he didn't like it if you put anything sizable in the trash can. The staff would hardly ever put anything bigger than a staple in the trash can, so as not to incur the wrath of Fred. When it snowed, Fred was nowhere to be found; neither was our snowblower. Fred was out cleaning other people's walks with our snowblower. For extra money. We had to wait our turn. He was a civil servant, so I couldn't get rid of him. But I could eliminate his job and hire a cleaning service.

Maureen, who used to come in at eight, sign in, and to have her coffee with the other staff, who came in at eight but signed in at nine. She would then skip her lunch and breaks and leave at three o'clock, just when the schoolkids came in and the library was busy. When I called Maureen in to my office to ask why she had not done something, she informed me that I couldn't just tell her what to do; I had to earn her loyalty. Maureen earned her library degree on our dime. She set her schedule to conform with her classes and did her homework at her desk. If by any chance she had to get up to help someone, she heaved an exasperated sigh and cast her eyes heavenward. Then she would oh-so-slowly rise from her chair. It seemed to take several minutes for her to achieve a standing position. Fortunately, someone hired her away from us. She was subsequently fired. But never mind. Shes now a library director with, I hope, problem employees of her own.

Kris, who came from some persecuted ethnic group like Latka Gravis. The trouble was, because she used Latka Gravatian at home and hung out with fellow Gravatians, her English was a little rusty when she did her job, which was reference librarian, for God's sake. K would work if I held a gun to her head, but if I put the gun down she would stop. She sat at her desk reading romance novels and telling anyone who asked her for anything that we didn't have it in the library. She spent her book budget on reference books about Latka Gravistan. As awful as she was, she was a warm body and when she took an impromptu vacation I had to take her Saturday! Her theory evidently was that she got paid for showing up at work, doing anything was extra. She finally decided to retire, after 28 years of not doing anything.

Then there was Eddie, the head of circulation who never got to work on time and used to disappear. He was also a terrific ass-licker and back-stabber. He told his fellow employees that I would never fire him because he was a man and a minority. He was wrong: by the grace of New Jersey's civil service laws, Eddie was still provisional, and could be fired at will. It is never fun to fire anyone, but it wasn't too hard in Eddie's case.

Ethel told all the patrons that I was throwing out the Christian books and buying Jewish books in their stead. She was also mean to the patrons, particularly the children. I attempted to criticize her about something, and she had a hissy fit and ran out of the library, thus ending her career.

Most of the people I worked with were sweethearts who worked hard and were devoted to the patrons and the library. I thanked my lucky stars for them. Unfortunately, 80 percent of your time is devoted to the problem workers and only 20 percent to everything else.

(Recycled from 2006.)

A brief Yiddish lesson

I have been reliably informed that there are people in this country who don't know what oy vey means.

True story: when I was in the hospital right after knee surgery, the woman in the next bed kept up a constant moaning of oy vey, or sometimes just oy the lite version. When I mentioned this to my father, who came to visit me, he protested, "But she's black."

Nevertheless, I heard her say oy vey for about 18 hours. The other six of the 24 were given over to exhortations to Jesus.

My Swedish-Scotch-Irish-possibly German son-in-law says it in a midwestern accent.

Oy vey is the international language of woe. In fact, I believe it can be translated roughly as "Woe is me." It expresses misery, pain, dismay, the whole tragic view of life. Saying oy vey over and over is called "kvetching." But lets not get into that.

Does anyone want to hear more about Michael Vick and the dogs?

I don't.

I know there are worse things than being mean to dogs. You could be mean to children, for instance.

But the graphic description of Vick's treatment of dogs frankly makes me sick. I don't want to hear anything more about it. I don't need to know anything more about it.

When I hear about stuff like that, sometimes the gory description sticks in my mind and I can't stop thinking about it. Since my being miserable about Vick's treatment of dogs doesn't help me and doesn't do the dogs any good either, why not spare us the gory details?

Edna, Part Deux

Remember Edna? The restaurant yenta who wanted to split the check? When all I had was a cup of coffee?

Well, there's more.

I liked to go into New York to see concerts, foreign movies, the New York Philharmonic, eat at foreign restaurants that don't feature baked ziti on the menu, or just to hang around the old metrop. Edna also liked to visit New York--before dark, and in somebody else's car.

You see, Edna was a therapist, and all the other therapists drove brand-new Lincolns, which I guess was the car of choice for the therapist community. So Edna drove a brand-new Lincoln, with all the bells and whistles, while I drove a Taurus, period. You know what I mean by a Taurus, period? It's a nice, reliable, middle-aged car, suitable for a middle-aged clergyman or librarian--in a word, me.

So who should drive into New York--before dark, of course? Well, me, of course, in my TP. Her car was much too good to drive into New York. It might get stolen, or get a dent, or something. Anyway, I did the driving, and Edna paid the tolls. When it came to parking, I was on my own. Edna believed that there must be a parking space somewhere, and we usually did find one. Not necessarily close to where we were going, but undeniably a parking space. So we parked for free and got some aerobic exercise, to boot. What's not to like?

These daytime New York trips continued until the time I got two tickets to a show which had been written by one of our library patrons, who was a professional writer. We got a special price, but still, it wasn't free. Anyway, I got the tickets, we saw the show, it was enjoyable, and we had dinner.

On the way home, I reminded her that I had paid for the tickets. As I recall, they cost $50--a non-negligible amount. She didn't have the cash on her and had forgotten her checkbook, but would be happy to send me a check.

I drove her home and insisted on going into her house and waiting while she wrote me a check for the $50.

I believe that was our last New York visit.

Blogger reflection award

Wyatt Earp has been kind enough to nominate me for the blogger reflection award.

Like every other honor, this has work attached to it. I have to name five other bloggers. OK, here's a list of a few (but by no means all) of my favorites:

Johnny Virgil at 15-minute lunch. JV lives near the Canadian border. The cold air keeps his wits sharp. He's a master of septic tank humor, which is better than it sounds, but it would have to be, wouldn't it? If you have a pulse, you'll find him highly entertaining.

Akaky at the Passing Parade. An amusing, witty, well-read librarian. I strongly suspect Akaky is not his real name, at least I've never met an Irishman with a name like that. Wouldn't you know it, he also hails from the Land of Eliot Spitzer. Must be something in the air in the Empire State.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the country, Neilochka is amusing and flirts shamelessly with the lady bloggers. Neil is a twofer. His penis often shares its wisdom. I wonder if his mother reads his blog.

BibliOdyssey features beautiful illustrations. Enough said. Go there and look.

Last but not least, the Nose on Your Face, inventors of Islamic Rage Boy.

The power of positive thinking

Someone has sent my husband a subscription to a magazine called Positive Thinking (it came with a bill, so it is not a gift). The idea of my husband inhabiting the same universe as Positive Thinking is hilarious to anyone who knows him. You could say he has a Tragic View of Life. Lugubriousness is Him. If a light bulb burns out, he thinks it is the end of electricity as we know it. One drop of rain is enough to rain on his parade. List all the cliches about doom and gloom and woe is me, triple them, and you have his outlook on life. Life's a bitch and then you die more or less sums it up.

I, however, am willing to give Positive Thinking a shot, especially since it is sitting on the coffee table and I have nothing else to read. It is full of helpful hints and cheery advice. One particularly helpful hint:

...[W]alking your dog for 20 minutes five times a week helps you lose more weight than the leading diet plans.



Wow! Sounds good. I am always willing to utilize Positive Thinking to improve my daily life. Unfortunately, I don't have a dog.

Suppose I took a houseplant for a walk? Would that work?

Healthy breast care?

I saw this article title on the cover of a magazine. I have two of the items mentioned, side by side on the front of my chest, but I wasn't aware they needed anything special, besides washing and putting a bra on so they don't jiggle. I have mammograms and gyn exams. Other than that, they don't bother me, and I don't bother them. There they are, and here I am.

Now I learn I have to take care of them, doing what? Taking them for a walk? Buy them special treats?

Everything our ancestors seemed to take more or less in their stride, we have to take special care of. When my house was carpeted, I was left with instructions on how to take care of your carpeting. It looked pretty much like a full time job. The newly refinished wood floors, ditto. And don't get me started about grout!

The hell with them. I have enough to do, what with carpets, wood floors and grout. And brushing my teeth. And flossing. Putting on night cream at night. Sunscreen in the morning. Cutting my nails.

My breasts can damn well take care of themselves.

(Recycled.)

A friend I don't see much of any more

I'll call her Edna.

We used to go out to eat. The waiter shows us to a table.
E: Oh, not that one, it's too cold (hot, near the window, near the door). Shows us to another table.
E: Could you turn the music down? It's too loud.
Astonishingly, the music gets turned down. Waiter comes to take our order.
E: Is the pasta made with eggs? I don't eat eggs. I have high cholesterol.
Waiter, who speaks little or no English, disappears into the kitchen. Comes back. The answer is no.
E: I'll have cranberry juice, very cold, but no ice. Waiter brings cranberry juice.
E: This has ice in it. Waiter takes it away. Brings another, sans ice.
E. It's not very cold.
E orders an appetizer, main course, and tira misu.
Me: I thought you were watching the fats--cholesterol, you know?
E: Oh, I always do that.
I have a cup of cappucino. Nothing else. The bill comes.
E: It's $45--Should we just split it?

(Another recycled post.)

Good grief!

You're Thailand!

Calmer and more staunchly independent than almost all those around you,
you have a long history of rising above adversity.  Recent adversity has led to
questions about your sexual promiscuity and the threat of disease, but you still manage
to attract a number of tourists and admirers.  And despite any setbacks, you can
really cook a good meal whenever it's called for.  Good enough to make people
cry.


Take the Country Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid

I'm Thailand!

The government provides health care

to some people. Sometimes.

A case in point:

Campaigners will hear next month whether their court attempt to overturn a ban on giving people in England and Wales with mild or late-stage Alzheimer's a new class of drugs has been successful.

It is the first-ever court challenge of a decision by the National Institute for Health and Clinical Excellence (Nice).

Nice ruled that only those in the moderate stages of the disease should be prescribed Aricept, Exelon, Reminyl and Ebixa, despite agreeing that they were effective. The drugs, at a cost £2.50 per person per day, were "too expensive".

Looking for light

to study by.

It's official

You Are a Smart American

You know a lot about US history, and you're opinions are probably well informed. Congratulations on bucking stereotypes. Now go show some foreigners how smart Americans can be.

Are You a Dumb American?

EU compares with poorest states in the US

Only four states have standards of living lower than the EU.

However, the EU countries do compare favorably with West Virginia, a state so poor mentally and financially that it sends a doddering old idiot to the US Senate.

I am indebted to Pencader Days for the link.

How about those melons?

The latest news from Little Frigging in the Wold.

Sally Doyle, our local green grocer, has become – by nature of her intimate acquaintanceship with all manner of fruit and vegetables – something of the village expert in the erotic possibilities inherent in fruit and vegetables. Her melons have – in fact – become the talking point of the whole village for their firmness, ripeness and size, always attracting a large crowd whenever she displays them to their full advantage.

Support the surge

I've signed up for a website which supports the surge. Obviously I'm not a vet, but I think it is important to have these voices heard, so I joined to the extent of donating a couple of bucks.

The bigmouths of the left are showing up in Washington, making noise and brandishing their oh-so-clever signs. Are we going to abandon the field to them? Or are we going to make our numbers, and our opinions, felt?

Vets for Freedom expresses disappointment that veterans were not able to meet with Congressional leadership from both sides of the aisle in Congress today [July 17]. While many Republican Senators, including leadership, made themselves available for questions and input, interaction from Democratic leadership was noticeably absent. In spite of that, Vets for Freedom members remain committed to speaking with elected leaders on both sides of the aisle.

Don't the Democrats owe these veterans the courtesy of a meeting? Of course they do. But the Democratic leadership has decided that it is safe for them to disregard the opinions of men and women who have served in Iraq and Afghanistan.

They appear to believe that wars are settled by opinion polls, and that politically they have nothing to lose by embracing defeat, because this is the will of "the American people." These "leaders" don't understand the first thing about leadership. Leaders are supposed to lead. To persuade people to follow them. To study the facts and use their best judgment to make decisions, even if these decisions are unpopular and contrary to "the will of the people."

If they had wanted government by plebiscite, no doubt the founding fathers would have enshrined this in the Constitution.

Minority report

I'm one of the few people you'll ever meet who didn't love Florence. Why? Well, it didn't look like the above sunny picture.

On the two days I spent there, it was rainy and miserable, but thronged with tourists and street vendors selling umbrellas. The museums were hideously overcrowded (no wonder, it was pouring outside). The thing I liked best was Santa Croce, where lots of famous people were buried and the rain did not come in.

A day or two later, we were in sunny Sorrento, and thought we had died and gone to heaven. That's what sunshine does for me.

Everywhere I go I bring good weather. I encountered beautiful, balmy weather in Chicago in March and again in November. Everyone else says the climate in Chicago is awful. You can't prove it by me.

I was in Ireland--Ireland!--for eight days and it didn't rain once. Some friends went there to play golf and damn near drowned.

London? Beautiful weather. Ditto the south of France. Barcelona was warm and sunny when I visited there. California? A no-brainer.

I went to Columbus, OH this spring and the sun came out and stayed out. The week before had been rainy.

And so it goes. I am open to offers to visit places cursed with unfortunate weather, all expenses paid, of course.

Interior decoration?

 

Four of these large vases containing bamboo poles were placed at different places in the villa we were renting in Hawaii. I can't imagine why, as the villa was chock full of stuff and they just took up space.

I guess they are supposed to be ornamental. Well, they certainly don't serve any other purpose.

Jews don't want to run the world

We've been running the world long enough, and we're tired.

Debbie Hirschberg says her Hadassah group are weary of all the work involved in running the world's financial system: "Frankly, our group would like to get back to fund-raising for our Purim Carnival. No-one appreciates the work we've put in anyway."

Irv Selnick of Beverly Hills has had enough of the military-industrial complex. "What a bunch of goyeshe kops," he said. "My dental practice is definitely suffering. I'd rather fill cavities."

The natural disaster franchise has been a disappointment for the Thursday Night Bridge Club at the Jewish Center. "We did our best, but Hurricane Katrina on top of the tsunami has worn us out. Let the Arabs take care of it. They have a real gift (for disasters."

Sam and Ida Kraus of Kansas City, MO, would like someone else to run Big Media. They believe the job needs to be handled by a larger group. "I'd hate to tell you how much work I've done just on the New York Times, never mind the rest of them. And what about Dan Rather? Have rachmonis! It's time for a change!"

Managing the entertainment industry has proved a real headache for the B'nai Brith of Greater Minneapolis. They feel that a separate organization should be formed just to cope with Barbra Streisand. Susan Sarandon has been a real headache too. "We're the ones who get blamed when box office revenues are down. It's a thankless job. Maybe Bob Mugabe would like to take it on. He has lots of big ideas."

Mrs. Sadie Cohen, of Bexley, OH, has to give up direction of the sports world because she is moving into assisted living. "I really loved doing it. But something's got to give. After all, I'm 85. Genug gekacken."

Ed Finklestein and his brother Irwin want to give up running the Worldwide Communist Conspiracy. Ed, contacted at his Baltimore, MD home, had this to say: "Why are we giving this up? You have to ask? Have you ever had to listen to one of Fidel Castro's speeches? A choleryah auf im."

World, you're on your own. Try the Unitarians.

(Another recycled post.)

The old days--how good were they?

We didn't even have PMS in my day. It had not been invented, so no-one had it. We had cramps, but took aspirin and carried on.

Midlife crises had not been discovered either, so if some middle aged fool bought himself a sports car, combed his hair over his bald spot, and started dating chicks half his age, we called him a jerk and had no sympathy or understanding for him.

Those were the dark ages.

(This is a recycled post.)

Iowahawk for President '08

He is the man.

I know I'm being inconsistent, having first declared for Scott Ott, but I can be bought. If Dave Burge will make me Secretary of Education, I'll support him to the max.

I think it would be a good job for me, because: 1) I know everything, and 2) could it be worse?

If I get the job, I will make this promise: I will take the Internet out of all public libraries. Yes! With all the sickos gone, the quality of these institutions will improve 500 percent. A person could even read a book there without getting sick to their stomach. And the librarians will all support me, because they sincerely hate everyone who wants to use the Internet in the library, and with good cause.

Squirrelly

Iranians discover unusual spies.

Ht to the Asian badger.

So what will it be...

global warming or an energy shortage?

futurepundit points to analysis that makes a good point: If fossil fuels are running out (which may be true of coal as well as oil), then global warming scenarios that assume drastic rises in fossil fuel emissions over the next hundred years are likely to be overstated. Even so, you often see someone complaining both about global warming and about peak oil in the same breath (e.g., Bill Clinton).

What's a little treason among friends?

If you're a government agent and don't agree with a secret policy, disclose it to someone who can embarrass the government you work for and have sworn loyalty to.

That ought to cause your superiors endless problems and get you a reputation for real courage.

Words and music

Do you remember the words to songs out of your past?

I do. I sometimes say I remember the words to every song ever written in the 20th century. I attribute this to the fact that I used to listen to the radio in secret every night when I was supposed to be asleep. That's probably why I have insomnia too.

I'm pretty good at remembering snatches of poetry as well. Every once in a while the words of a poem drift through my mind. Sometimes they don't drift, but stay in the forefront of my memory until I think I will go nuts.

Does anyone else have this problem?

Finally--they are rebuilding the World Trade Center

This site shows the progress they are making on redeveloping the site. Better late than never.

In Israel, any venue destroyed by suicide bombers is rebuilt ASAP. Of course, this is not possible with a mammoth project like the World Trade Center; with the further complication that every interest group made its opinion felt and every objection had to be thrashed out. But at last, they have started.

What brought this to mind was a description of the city of Bristol, England, after World War II. Piles of rubble remained for years, resulting in a shortage of housing and in dispiriting the citizens who had to ply their business among the ruins. I am sure something similar is affecting the citizens of lower Manhattan.

Not all building projects are good ideas, but building projects are nevertheless a positive sign. New buildings are a symbol of hope for the future.

Who hasn't lingered at a building site, watching workers as they make something out of nothing? I felt my spirits rise in Hawaii, when I saw building cranes all over Maui, and the workers in the air, putting together new buildings.

Good luck to the rebuilding of the trade center site. I can't wait to see it completed, at last.

This just in...

butterfat is good for you.

First chocolate, now whole milk--what next? Thick, fat, juicy steak?

Obviously I am not a political mastermind

Jack is angry about the Al Queda situation.
Me too.

Why don't we just bomb Bin Laden's mountain redoubt to smithereens--turn these mountains into valleys? We could apologize later.

Obviously I don't understand the first thing about politics. I watch the evening news and scratch my head. Among the things I don't understand:

1. What did Scooter Libby do? No, honestly, please explain. While we're at it, what did Martha Stewart do?
2. About those 8 prosecutors--who doesn't the administration tell Congress to go shit in their collective hats? A simple "none of your business" would have sufficed. Remember, now--I don't know anything about politics.
3. About the "Bush lied, etc" thing; why didn't Bush say that he acted on the info he had at the time, instead of apologizing and groveling?
4. Why didn't Bush talk to the American people about the war, what his war aims were, and how he saw the situation before we came to this?
5. Why didn't the Lebanese army just carpet bomb that refugee camp, instead of allowing 400 terrorists to make a monkey out of them? It would surely have gotten their attention.
6. Why is William Jefferson still in Congress?
7. The Dems keep saying the Republicans are trying to scare us about terrorists. Why aren't they scared? I am.

You can see how hopeless I am about politics.

The world's ugliest Mother's Day present

 

My son-in-law bought this for my daughter. She was not amused. God knows what it is.

Caesar Rodney

 

I made up my mind to photograph interesting statues in and around Wilmington. So far, I have photographed two. This is Caesar Rodney, who signed the Declaration of Independence. Even though July 4 has come and gone, I thought it was a striking picture.

An old post from my archives

for your entertainment.

To the Pattersons:

I hope you read this. Your phone number must be very similar to ours, because we have been receiving your calls for quite a while. When I am home, I can set them straight, but sometimes my voicemail kicks in. SO, in case you are a blog aficionado, I have some messages for you:

1. Your contractor called with the estimate you requested for the addition to your home;
2. Eleanor (Ruth's sister) says she will be there Saturday night, thanks you for inviting her, and reminds you she is Ruth's sister;
3. Your glasses are ready;
4. Your prescription is ready;
5. It's time for your six-months dental check-up;
6. Your Aunt Mary is upset that you never return her calls. She's left three messages and is very angry--she can easily change her will, you know;
7. You need a new phone number.

Scott Ott for President Announcement

I've chosen my candidate for President.

Yum!

Meat cake.

I'm right, you're wrong, so there!

Fir puts it succinctly:

I’m always hearing people say how, “I disagree with your opinion but I respect your right to have a different opinion than I do.” That just makes me sick.

If you disagree with me, then you’re wrong.

[]
No! I don’t respect your opinion, we can’t all just get along, and I don’t respect your right to be wrong. If you don’t agree with me, you’re Un-American, and a traitor. That’s the definition of Unpatriotic. It’s disagreeing with anything I say.

If you don’t agree, then I just need to ask why it is that you hate your country so much. Huh? Why do you hate America, traitor?

As my bubbe would have said, "Gut gesogt."

No ideas?

Rachel complains about having run dry and having nothing to blog about.

I have to confess that having nothing to blog about doesn't hold me back a whit. I keep posting innocuous drivel--or noxious drivel, depending on your point of view, until my muse reappears.

One of Rachel's commentors advises reviewing books or movies. That doesn't work for me, even though I have been reviewing books for years. Every time I have to write a review, because the book has been sitting on my desk for three months and the editor is e-mailing me, I dread it.

If I really like a book, I have nothing to say, except that it is good. I immediately forget all the details. If I don't like it, it's easier. I can be witty and malicious with the best of them, until:

The author of a book I'd reviewed called me up, crying. I was a bit upset myself. This poor person went to all the trouble of writing the damn thing, struggling to find the mot juste, re-arranging the chapters, proof-reading, etc., only to have some smart-ass librarian dump on the damn thing.

You see how easy it is to blog about nothing?

How to lose weight

Some pictures of me taken in California revealed the awful truth: I am fat. In these photos I look the way a sack of doorknobs would look if you could stack the doorknobs so the sack is fuller in the middle. Rather globular, in fact. My waistline has committed a vanishing act to be replaced by a cushion of very firm blubber. I look like I have a life jacket on, but I don't. Since I am not ready for the life jacket look, and plan never to be ready until my dying day, clearly I am going to have to lose weight.

So: I have consulted the experts and have boiled all the expertise down to a few essential points. Eat less. Eat non-fattening foods. Exercise.

So far, so good. For instance, when I walk into a diner and the waitress asks us if we want milkshakes, I have to say no. When the bread basket appears on the table, I have to ignore it. So, what to order?

Let's ignore all the good stuff: sliders with fries, tacos (yum!), in fact, fried anything. I decide to be virtuous and order a salad. A Cobb salad? No, no, that would be evil. So I order Ruby's Special Salad. When it arrives, here's what this consists of:

Dried cranberries, 500 calories;
Dried raisins, 500 calories;
Pecans, about a quarter cup, let's say 500 calories;
Blue cheese--or is it bleu cheese? another 500 calories;
Copious salad dressing, maybe 200 calories;
One apple, cut up, 100 calories.
Some lettuce, under all the other stuff.

Clearly, I have now consumed my daily ration of calories, and then some. I am all the way through Wednesday and Thursday and have started eating my Friday allotment of calories.

I totally understand why people adopted those liquid diets which were popular a few years ago. They are so simple. You might feel hunger pangs, but you know where you stand. You don't have to torture yourself over whether an apple or a handful of cherries will put you over your quota.

I'll have to give the matter some more thought.

Hawaii for the Hawaiians?

A relative of mine defended the practice of having certain Hawaiian islands off-limits to non-Hawaiians.

Me: Hawaii is a state. Could we limit Central Park to Jews?
Relative: They value their culture and don't want to lose it.
Me: The Irish value their culture and have Irish dancing classes to prove it. The Greeks have...
R: (offended) Some Hawaiians don't want to be part of the United States.
Me: Good luck with that. It didn't work last time it was tried.

Another glorious day for American dentistry

I'm still in the middle of my dental adventures. I made a pledge to myself when this horror started that I was not going to go anywhere until my dental work was concluded, but I broke that pledge, because I never would have gone anywhere for the rest of my life.

So I am on the way to the airport to fly to California en route to Hawaii when a temporary bridge falls out, leaving me with no front teeth. I decided if I couldn't get someone to re-cement the bridge I was going home. Fortunately, this wasn't necessary. A dentist cemented the bridge very securely and I proceeded to the land of the lei, and home again.

Today I spent 2 1/2 hours in the dentist's chair. First he hacked out the bridge that the California dentist had so painstakingly installed; other horrors ensued. But the worst of all was my left foot, which started twitching. The foot started to take on a life of its own. It was all I could do to keep it from kicking wildly. The right foot was fine. I hope I'm not coming down with some little known disease which starts with tremors in one foot and soon, but not too soon, ends in a ghastly and painful death.

Last night Mr Charm and I watched the Sea Hawks, an Errol Flynn film which Mr C confided was his favorite film of all time when he was ten years old. We liked it. A-list actors, including Claude Rains and Raymond Massey, and a cast of thousands. Lots of swordplay, and it was great fun to see Errol swanking around in his cape.

Librarians go wild

Girls just want to have fun.

Thanks to Pillage idiot for bringing this to my attention.

A very special offer

I don't know whether I will have time to keep up this mad pace of blogging much longer. You see, I have been the recipient of a special offer, to wit:

I am Robert Heurtaux; I have just secured a major contract with the ministry of transports and Agriculture in my country for the supply of Trucks/Trailers and other heavy duty machines spare parts. To this end, I would require the services of a foreign company/partner that I can really on for the supply of original spare parts and the Trucks/Trailers through the duration of the contract with my government.

Please I will like you to give me your stock for trucks and trailers and also the price list. I will forward the list of spare parts as soon as receive it from the Ministry. Please confirm the receipt of my mail So that we can commence all legalities and reach an agreement as soon as possible.

So now I will have to assemble my stock of trucks and trailers and also my price list to take advantage of Robert's great opportunity. Gosh! I'm so excited!

Sayonara for now.

You've got to give him credit...

for a novel disguise.

Back from Hawaii

I'm back. More later.

I just don't get it

First of all: I don't understand why British makeover experts Trinny and Susannah staged a "sex-change" operation on the Long Man of Wilmington. What was the larger point of this exercise? Sure it brought publicity to their TV show, but they could have done that by trying to set the world record for goldfish swallowing. Or kidnapping a fashion transgressor, stripping her naked and putting a video up on YouTube.

Second: Am I to take seriously the concerns of "a Druid battle chieftain" named Arthur Pendragon? What battles, I wonder, has the nomadic Pendragon fought and against whom?

Third: Judging by this picture, Trinny and Susannah (that's Trinny on the left) are one-trick ponies--or in the pay of the leggings industry.

Hell hath no fury

Like a hair dresser scorned. Joseph Torrenueva, the man who cut John Edwards' hair for as much as $1,250 is talking.

In the days after the $400 haircut first caused a stir, Torrenueva did not give many details about his client to reporters who called or came by his Beverly Hills salon. But Torrenueva says he was hurt by Edwards's response to all the flap.

"I'm disappointed and I do feel bad. If I know someone, I'm not going to say I don't know them," he said. "When he called me 'that guy,' that hit my ears. It hurt." He paused and then added, "I still like him. . . . I don't want to hurt him."

Torrenueva said he normally charges men $175 when they come to his salon for a haircut. But the cost for Edwards went up because the stylist had to leave his shop and go on the road to do his haircuts.

I'm not sure the haircut issue would have been as big a problem if Edwards had paid for the cuts himself, rather than having his campaign pick up the tab. And this didn't help either:

Happy Independence Day!

Celebrating Dior

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60 years of Dior.

Design Museum: Dior.

The evolution of the shirtwaist.

Dior show at Versailles.

Beauty is in the hand of the surgeon

Introducing the Beauty Enhancement Awards, which celebrate the best in plastic surgery.

More than just an entertaining event, the mission of the Beauty Enhancement Awards is to shine a light on the science and art of cosmetic surgery. The Beauty Enhancement Awards aims to educate the public about how to make informed decisions about these important life choices and to empower people with information and resources about everything from how to choose the right physician, what procedure options are available, to what are the best of today's techniques, and how one should prepare and best recover from a procedure. The event will not be a parade of unattainable beauty, but rather a display of real people who have had great results which can be realistically achieved if one educates themselves and makes the right decisions and moves with respect to having cosmetic surgery. By putting a spotlight on people who were voted to have excellent cosmetic surgery results, the Beauty Enhancement Awards hopes to help and be of service to the public and the cosmetic surgery industry by setting some "standards" for excellent and natural-looking aesthetic results.

It is also the goal of the Beauty Enhancement Awards to demonstrate how plastic surgery can have a positive impact on people's lives beyond the physical -- on the inside. To underscore this intent, contestants will have an opportunity to get personable and intimate by discussing how their makeover may have had an effect (small or large) on them from personal, social, career respects, and other ways in which making this life decision bettered their lives. The Beauty Enhancement Awards does not advocate life changes through cosmetic enhancement, but it does celebrate people and beautiful aesthetic results along with the self-improvement that resulted in the experience. We don't condone self-improvement through plastic surgery but we want to showcase people who have had positive experiences and educate the public about how they can also take the right steps to get a satisfying result that they're happy with.

Categories include best female (and male) liposuction, best tummy tuck and best rhinoplasty.

Anyone can enter--provided, of course, that you've undergone the requisite procedures. And anyone can vote. My vote goes to the first photograph here for the most improbable breasts on a live human being.

Via Metafilter.

The latest must-have product for women

"A sticker for your bits."

Something there is that does love a wall

Ace looks at the highly effective wall the Israelis put up and asks: "Are the Amnestias against the wall because it won't be effective -- or against it because it will be effective?"

Both.

Opponents of the wall genuinely think that sealing the border is impossible--at least those in the mainstream do. Furthermore, if they refuse to even entertain the notion that sealing the border is possible a) they will never be proven wrong; and b) their adversaries will never be proven right. And it doesn't hurt that their stance will make them the favored choice at the polls for the very vocal hardcore believers who think that any attempt to close the borders is a betrayal of their ideals.

The argument that X is an intractable problem so we shouldn't even try to fix it is kind of an odd argument for the left to be making, considering their faith in social engineering. Yet it's become their fallback position in recent years.

In the 1970s and 80s, before Rudy Giuliani took office, it was an article of faith that NYC was ungovernable; crime would continue to skyrocket and the homeless--who virtually took over in areas like Times Square and Tompkins Square Park--were there to stay. This belief in the intractability of the problem was genuine, but it didn't hurt that not rocking the boat was the favored position of the liberal establishment's core constituents. No, the homeless and the squeegee men and the muggers didn't vote. But homeless advocates, the ACLU and professional racebaiters did. And they were very vocal.

Anyone who attempted to address the chronic problems of the city was punished. A case in point: Ed Koch and Joyce Brown. Koch tried to get Brown, a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic, off the streets but was thwarted by the ACLU. Then Dinkins took office and the status quo became intolerable.

Yes, it's funny that the same people who believe they can legislate away obesity and poverty consider it unrealistic to tackle other problems. But they do.

Consider education. Vouchers could not be condoned because they were unfair and they wouldn't work anyway. That the teachers' unions opposed them didn't hurt either. The No Child Left Behind Act isn't exactly a conservative darling, but for years the powers that be railed at the idea of imposing any standards or benchmarks on schools. The argument went that teachers would just "teach to the test," leaving students with a big gap in other, important "life skills." Rejecting benchmarks on those grounds meant that legislators didn't have to hold teachers and school administrators accountable for failing schools, which helped them hold their grip on power. But over time, as conditions in certain inner cities schools continued to worsen, the stance of the unions became unsupportable and now they're pulling back and starting to embrace things like merit pay.

The Iraq war is another case in point: It's a quagmire and we can't win so let's just pull out our troops and go home. The daily casualty reports bolster this point of view. And the antiwar--any war--faction is loud and growing louder each day. Since it looks as though we'll be out of there in a few months, they can never be proven wrong on this point.

So what of the wall? It may be another measure that will die on the drawing board. Unless and until someone who walks across the border commits a major act of terror. Let's hope it doesn't get that far.

Shameless self-promotion time

The Jillian Chronicles: An Ongoing Saga

I. Dispatches from the Jillian Chronicles
II. The incident with the cherries
III. The phone call

Unethical ethicist

Douglas Kern has some fun with the news that New York Times ethicist Randy Cohen was dropped from a Washington state newspaper for violating its ethics policy.

My highest law-school grade was in Legal Ethics. I achieved a stellar grade because I devised an infallible mechanism for solving any legal ethical dilemma. My mechanism was this: Remember that legal ethics is a system of rules:

1) designed by sociopaths;
2) for sociopaths;
3) to prevent public acknowledgment of their sociopathy;
4) while still allowing said sociopaths to fleece said public.

Once you realize that contemporary ethics is not morality but the clever simulation of morality, you’re halfway to qualifying for an ethics-consulting job.

Kern's point is that the rule Cohen violated--he contributed to MoveOn.org in violation of the paper's rule that its staff not contribute to political organizations--serves as a fig leaf for journalists to maintain the illusion of objectivity.

True, though regular readers of Cohen will not be surprised at his support of Move On. Cohen's philosophy, such as it is, seems to be that any action one takes is ethical as long as you're sticking it to "The Man." See this article by Jacob T Levy who takes Cohen to task for, among other things, telling a reader that it would be unethical to report shoddy work by a temp because it's immoral to "force" someone to have such a lousy job.

In response to the question about how to handle a poorly performing temp, Cohen declared, "if anyone's acting unethically here, it's your boss; it is ignoble to force people into soul-deadening, pointless, poorly paid jobs.... Organizing work into tedious, repetitive tasks, while profitable for the few, makes life miserable for the many; some political economists have called it a crime against humanity." In other words, as long as we have a division of labor, ethics is inapplicable to decisions we face about who does what job. In the face of"a crime against humanity," how could there be anything wrong with submitting fraudulent resumes, evaluations, or timecards?

CIA family jewels more like the keystone kops

Particularly this bit, where they try to enlist the mafia to help them get rid of Fidel Castro.

In documents that often read like a cheap detective novel, the story is outlined: The pitch was made to [reputed mobster Johnny] Roselli at the Hilton Plaza Hotel in New York and Roselli was initially cool to the idea. But the contact led the agency to two top mobsters, Momo Salvatore Giancana and Santos Trafficant, who were both on a U.S. list of most-wanted men.

Giancana, who was known as Sam Gold, suggested firearms might be a problem and said using a potent pill that could be slipped into Castro's food or drink might work.

Eventually, six pills of "high lethal content" were provided to Juan Orta, identified as a Cuban official who had been receiving kickback payments from gambling interests, who still had access to Castro and was in a financial bind.

"After several weeks of reported attempts, Orta apparently got cold feet and asked out of the assignment. He suggested another candidate who made several attempts without success," the document said.

Guest blogging by Rachel

of Tinkertytonk fame.

Rachel will be posting her witty and insightful remarks on my blog while I am comporting in the surf.

Well, I took all my clothes off to blog...

and it got so warm I had to take a shower.

The ruling classes have decided...

what we in the proletariat should like.

In this case it's amnesty. However:

1) This bill is incredibly unpopular with the general public....

2) This bill is even more unpopular with conservatives than with the general public.

Why the rush to do something about the 12 million illegals--excuse me, undocumented Americans--now here? Are they going someplace? Or are they like ticking bombs, who will self-destruct if we don't do something?

Why not just continue the practice we have been engaged in since the last amnesty, and just ignore them, while shoring up our borders? When the borders are closed we can decide what to do with those who are still here.

By the way, I see the Palestinians are leaving the Gaza strip in record numbers. May I make a suggestion, that they not come here? We have enough cab drivers who won't pick up blind people. Also enough home-grown terrorists.

All we need is a bunch of disaffected, untrained and rebellious young men to make mischief here. How about Saudi Arabia as a destination? I hear the weather is lovely there at this time of year.

Going to Hawaii

I understand this is the Hawaii state flower. Is it hibiscus? I don't know, and I'm too lazy to research it. Anyway, this is by way of saying I'm going to Hawaii. On Sunday. I plan to do nothing but swim and sit on the beach, although I would like to see the Arizona.

A friend redux

A reprise from a year ago.

Call her Edna. We used to go out to eat. The waiter shows us to a table.
E: Oh, not that one, it's too cold (hot, near the window, near the door). Shows us to another table.
E: Could you turn the music down? It's too loud.
Astonishingly, the music gets turned down. Waiter comes to take our order.
E: Is the pasta made with eggs? I don't eat eggs. I have high cholesterol.
Waiter, who speaks little or no English, disappears into the kitchen. Comes back. The answer is no.
E: I'll have cranberry juice, very cold, but no ice. Waiter brings cranberry juice.
E: This has ice in it. Waiter takes it away. Brings another, sans ice.
E. It's not very cold.
E orders an appetizer, main course, and tira misu.
Me: I thought you were watching the fats--cholesterol, you know?
E: Oh, I always do that.
I have a cup of cappucino. Nothing else. The bill comes.
E: It's $45--Should we just split it?

Blog nekkid day

It's coming. Tomorrow.

Matt says so. Anyway, I'm leaving my clothes off. How about you? It's hot out there.

Should little kids play outdoors?

The general agreement seems to be that they should not, although we did.

When I was a little kid, I played outdoors whenever I wasn't at school or asleep. I used to play in the snow until my fingers and toes turned to ice and my clothing was drenched, then come indoors, stand over the hot air register and cook myself--and then out again.

Every season had its games. There was hopscotch, jump ropes, jacks (for us girls). Both boys and girls played marbles. There were paper airplanes. Some of the more sophisticated boys made airplanes out of kits and flew them. Or we played tag, or hide and seek. Hide and seek was most fun when it was growing dark and the mothers started calling everyone in. Some of the older boys played touch football or baseball in the street. The games broke for cars.

When I had no one to play with, I would take long walks to see if other, unknown neighborhoods were more interesting than ours. They were, because I had never been to them before.

My mother used to give me money to go to the drugstore at the end of our block and have an ice cream. Sometimes she sent me on errands to the drugstore.

Downtown was exciting because forbidden. But we had a way around this. I told my parents the other kid's parents were driving us, and she did the same, and we rode the bus. I loved the bus.

When I learned to ride my bike, I rode, with friends or alone, as far as I could go.

When I became nine or ten, I became a bookworm and preferred to stay indoors and read. My grandmother had no patience with this. She thought reading during daylight hours was sinful, somehow. You should be outdoors, or go clean your room.

I am so glad I experienced this freedom. Kids nowadays are hothouse plants. I feel sorry for them.

My Comcast days

Glenn Reynolds had his problems with Comcast. So did I.

The first tech who came to install our television and internet connection brought equipment different from what we had requested. We wanted to be able to record programs. He brought the plain vanilla equipment. He started to install it anyway with a brooding look on his face. "I've had a bad day," said he.

Then he discovered he would have to go out in the back yard to do something or other, which did not improve his mood.

The TV worked, sort of. The Internet, not so much. Of course we were unable to record anything, but let that pass....

When the bill came, they were charging us for premium service. The first of many phone calls ensued, which I would characterize as Comcast 1/ Miriam 0. In short, we never did get the billing straightened out. Putting that aside for a moment...

Our Internet did not work. I begged, pleaded and threatened until I coerced them into sending another tech. When I told someone at their office about the horrible tech who had come to the house, the person sighed. "Oh, that guy! Well, he doesn't work for Comcast, he's an independent contractor. We've had lots of complaints about him."

Says I, "So why don't you stop using him?"

"Oh, he's not that bad."

Another tech came to the house and told me the first tech had attached everything to the wrong cables. He had to rewire. It still didn't work very well. Meanwhile...

We started paying them only for the services received, and they started phoning us. To settle this impasse, we canceled our service and got Dish TV and DSL Internet and the hell with it. However...

The last chapter had not ended. Comcast wanted us to deliver their equipment to their office.

I refused. They called for a while then stopped calling. End of story.

Remind me to tell you about my adventures with Verizon some time.