Marriage temperature

When two people live together, regardless of their previous condition, one of them is always too warm and the other always too cold. It's an unbreakable rule.

In our house, I am always warm. I like fresh air. The other inhabitant, hereinafter known as Mr Charm, is always cold and hates fresh air. He likes windows and doors closed. If he goes to bed before I do, I always find the bedroom door and windows closed and stale, hot air in the room. I immediately open windows and door and turn on the ceiling fan.

In the middle of the night he turns off the fan, closes the windows and doors, and goes back to bed.

Last night, I came upstairs to go to bed before he did. I was lying there reading with the fresh air pouring over me when he came in and went to turn off the fan. I threatened to kill him, and he turned it down to the lowest possible setting and went to bed.

In the middle of the night I turned the fan off. I thought it was sufficiently cool and did not want him to burst out in icicles all over and die of hypothermia.

In the morning, the fan was on. He admitted he "thought we might need it." and turned it on.

Why do men and women have the delusion that they could possibly live together in peace and harmony?

Using my new iMac

Last night after I went to bed I couldn't stop thinking about my new iMac and how annoying and frustrating it is. It is refusing to let me install my printer and will not let me download photos from my camera.

The absolutely worst thing is the mouse. It's clumsy, and if you can right click on anything I haven't figured out how. But basically, it's just cumbersome. Using it is like trying to draw a picture with mittens on.

Neighbors

From miriam's ideas

Johnny Virgil has some funny neighbors he blogs about: the Squattersons and the Scummersons. He posts pictures of their antics on his blog. I don't know how he gets these pix: he must have a long distance thingy on his camera.

I have neighbors who are plenty weird but I haven't the nerve to photograph their property.: They live just around the bend and I am sure would ask me what I was doing if I bring out the camera and start snapping pictures of their happy home. I call them the Cattersons, for want of a better name. The Cattersons have chosen to adorn their yard with various representations of cats in different mediums: clay, terra cotta, stone, marble, and flags with pictures of cats. None of these cats are curled up in a ball taking a nap or playing with a piece of string. None would qualify for the name of Fluffy or Cuddles. They are menacing. Gangster cats, not afraid of violence. These cats are lurking, in the shrubbery, on the steps, and amidst the annuals, ready to pounce, and if they get you, it won't be pretty.

So you see why I don't want to be caught photographing them. They're probably in the witness protection program.

Have these items on hand

Are you ready?

[W]henever Obama takes office ... it’s time to start making preparations for his ascension.

First thing we need is a good supply of Dramamine since every time Obama opens his holy throat, the earth moves. I don’t know about you but I get seasick rather easily and having the ground heaving and rolling in response to Obama’s golden tongued rhetoric, it would be too much like being on a Windjammer’s Cruise during hurricane season.

Second, we have to lay in a good supply of pepto bismal if we’re going to be reading the MSM for the next 8 years. I’ve already barfed all over my monitor more than once as a result of reading some of the encomiums that have spewed forth from formerly reputable media outlets. Think how bad it’s going to be after he wins. Jesus at the second coming would have a hard time topping the slavering devotion already shown toward Obama.

Finally, we need to buy a whole lot of whiskey – perhaps I should buy a distillery. The only way a rational human being is going to survive 8 years of doe eyed, kowtowing Obamamaniacs, mindless hero worship, self congratulatory back slapping, and the constant, excruciating, feel-good, “post partisan” unity rhetoric from the once and future messiah is to get and stay rip-roarin’, falling down, three sheets to the wind drunk.

Cheer up! It might only be four years under the--how to say this delicately--chocolate--NO! suntanned--NO!--erm, differently hued Jimmy Carter.

Housekeeping

I bellieve this is the stuff that appears on meeting agendas as Other Old Business. I was right about the router--it didn't work properly. A new one solved the problem. Meanwhile, my backup didn't work, because they "don't support the Mac." Every one in the computer business loves to say the "don't support" this or that in a maddeningly superior tone of voice, when they should be saying "I don't know how to do that because I'm too stupid."

The saddest part is that I lost my e-mail address list, and I don't remember any of the addresses. So my friends don't know how to reach me. The second saddest part is that I lost my gallery of pictures which I painstakingly scanned into the computer. I made backup discs of some, but not all, the pictures. I quite enjoyed doing it, but that doesn't mean I want to do it again. Once a philosopher, twice a pervert.

Some of my pictures have been saved to flickr, but I'm not sure I remember how to access them.

Starting tomorrow: brilliant new insights into Life and Our Society, plus new tales about family, libraries, Delaware and New Jersey.

Up?

The connection is working, I think. But my blogroll has disappeared.

The iMac is totally different.

News flash--the iMac doesn't work either.

Okay, back to Best Buy, which should be called Only Buy because it is almost the only place to buy a computer around here. Fed up with Compaq/HP, I ponied up for a new iMac. Mr Charm and I got it up the stairs, barely. By the way, he loves the iMac. Who wouldn't?

Does it surprise anyone that it doesn't connect to the Internet? I didn't vote for Al Gore, but I'm surprised he held a grudge for so long.

I believe the problem is with the Verizon equipment, because neither the iMac nor the Compaq could connect. So I am going to call Verizon's business office bright and early on Monday morning and ask to get my DSL back. If anyone has another bright idea, please share it with me. DSL worked okay for me. I just upgraded because, well, it was there. I'm an American, that's the way I think. I believe in Progress.

There seems to be a curse on electronics in this house. Comcast never worked either, although it works for everyone else. The television reception is iffy also. Maybe I could access the Internet via my cell phone line?

Anyone with any suggestions, post them in the comments.

I really miss my e-mail. Needless to say, I can't remember my username or password.

Not up--again and still

The new computer, after failing again and again to connect to the Internet, has been returned to Best Buy. The Verizon man was here for three hours trying to get it to connect to our wireless system. Of course, they tested it and it worked. It worked for me too, sporadically, before shutting down. Before exchanging it for one that (hopefully) works, I had to listen to some condescending words from a couple of know-it-all 20 year olds. Eventually, they gave me a new one.

So now I have to purchase a handcart to get it up the stairs. I thought I had one, but it seems to have fallen down the memory hole. It will undoubtedly Turn Up.

I'm really frustrated beyond words by all this bullshit. However, the bottom line is, No Computer. The people I connect with by e-mail must think I've been wiped off the map.

Despair.

A slave to a machine

I'm back on my own computer. I haven't retrieved anything yet, and am not looking forward to dealing with HP, who supposedly have been backing up my work.

But this episode of Internet deprivation has shown me what a slave I am to a dumb piece of equipment which I do not fully understand. I can't even pay my bills. I don't knolw how much money is in my bank account. I'll find out soon enough, though.

I honestly wish I knew just what I was doing. It would probably be helpful.; but instead, I get on my horse and ride off in all directions.

In the meantime I have been using Mr Charm's computer, whicvh he would prefer to use himself. I think he's afraid I will hurt his baby.

The nice thing about the new computer is the new screen. Much more readable.

More later. Must read my blogs.

I'm not exactly back up, but I want to shoot off my mouth anyway.

I read somewhere that Steve Jobs, or was it Bill Gates, was testifying in Congress that we had to admit more technically trained foreigners because there were not enough Americans to fill these jobs. I am also reliably informed that lots of Americans are losing their jobs as the manufacturing sector tanks.


Can we put these two facts together? America, the good old US of A, has 300 million people, some of whom, in fact many of whom, need jobs. Meanwhile, we are importing foreigners from powerhouse countries like India to do the work that requires intelligence and training. On the third hand, we have a bunch of colleges deeply involved in turning out, after a decent interval--five years was the last figure I heard mentioned to get a four-year education--uneducated and illiterate persons.

What's wrong with this picture? Is the country which saved the world in World Wars I and II unable to educate enough citizens to fill highly technical positions? During WW II we turned out liberty ships in ten days because we needed to. Has the populace been inhaling toxic fumes which rob them of their wits?

Is witchcraft involved? The education system takes in bright six-year-olds, gives them six years of sensitivity training, two years of self-esteem promotion, four years of sex education, and four years of additional drivel like Carribean Lesbian Studies, and turns out dummies? Education actually dulls their wits! Yet someone in India who has never owned a pair of shoes becomes a doctor or biochemist?

Why does a Columbia graduate who also attended Harvard Law School believe that there are 57 states?

A spot of bother

My computer up and died on me. The installation of a new mouse and keyboard did nothing for the poor dear.

I lost all kinds of data. Fortunately, I have a back-up service from HP. Unfortunately, I can't figure out how to contact them. Wow, do they have a lot of products and services! Of course, I don't know my account number either.

I'm not looking forward to installing the new baby, especially since it weighs 42 lbs and has to be lugged upstairs.

So excuse me while I sit shiva for my old computer. I will be back soon.

Memorial Day

Freedom isn't free.

Check out this week's Carnival of the Insanities

No-one has run out of insanities yet. Plenty left where those came from.

More six word memoirs

I've been thinking about this one, and have come up with a few six-word memoirs for some prominent people:

Al Gore: My carbon footprint is very large.

Barack Obama: I bring people together, especially bigots.

Hillary Clinton: I'll never quit; I'd die first.

Rev Jeremiah Wright: Love Jesus, and hate white people.

John Edwards: There are two Americas, us and them.

Mitt Romney: I'm a Mormon; deal with it.

Bill O'Reilly: It's always my turn to talk.

Bill Ayers: What rotten people we Americans are.

Sean Penn: I'm stupid, but I'm always right.

Jane Fonda: Sitting on cannons is great exercise.

Visitors to this site are invited to come up with their own six-word descriptions.

Memoir in six words

Rachel has challenged me. Here's my memoir in six words:

I have eaten lots of food.

Gay marriage--pro or con or what?

Now that the California Supreme Court has declared gay marriage legal, the time has come to have an opinion about it.

Unfortunately, I not only don't know what to think, I don't even know what I think. Should gay marriage be legal? Beats me.

On the one hand, people should be allowed to do what they want. If a bunch of suckers think marriage is the answer to anything, that's their privilege. They'll soon find out to the contrary.

Considering the number of couples who live together and have children without marriage, the institution has almost entirely been emptied of significance. The son of a friend of mine who is trying to sever one of these relationships--they have two children together--is finding it as much trouble as getting a divorce.

The only concern I have about gay marriage is what the consequences might be. What other arrangements might the courts find inherent in that great Constitution in the Sky? Do we have the right to two mates? Could you marry your sister? Your pet (sorry, animal companion)? Your bridge club or bowling league?

Can you imagine how difficult and complicated it could be to divorce your entire Block Association? Or the Toastmasters Club of North Wilmington?

The trouble is, once Pandora's box is opened, it is difficult to get it shut again.

Welcome, Carnival of the Insanities readers!

Sicily

I'm back from Sicily.

I enjoyed it a lot. Sicily has a lot of history; being a fertile island, it was invaded by everyone you ever heard of: Phoenicians, Saracens, Normans, French, Spanish, Muslims. The only people who didn't invade it were the Jews, and they were probably getting up an expedition when Garibaldi unified Italy.

Remnants of all these cultures remain. The Normans were a little peevish about the Muslims, and tore down about 300 mosques. I believe it was the last time anyone tore down anything on the island. The place is full of abandoned farmhouses, apartment houses, Greek temples, Roman villas, viaducts and God knows what else. Unlike the Americans, when Sicilians abandoned a place they didn't tear it down and replace it with an Acme or a Walmart. These just left it to fall down by its ownself and form a picturesque ruin.

Stuff I noticed:

There appear to be no traffic rules, no traffic lights, no stop signs. I don't know how Sicilian drivers know when to stop, but they sometimes do. You can't count on it, though. Palermo is full of graffiti and dirty, but charming nevertheless. There's an amazing fountain at the city center and several beautiful churches there or nearby. There also appeared to be a lot of young people, even though Italy has a declining birth rate.

No matter how small the town, the inhabitants tend to live on top of each other in apartments. No lawn-mowing for the Sicilians. They do have gorgeous roses, though.

Taormina is one of the most beautiful towns on earth. It's on a hillside overlooking a bay, and picturesque as all getout.

No matter which ancient people inhabited a place, they tended to place buildings of interest on top of steep hills. Perhaps this was in order to see who was coming to attack them next.

Statistics

A comment at this site gives food for thought:

Whatever your politics, however you lean, however you feel about the current
administration, this report should open some eyes.

Military losses, 1980 through 2006
(http://www.fas.org/sgp/crs/natsec/RL32492.pdf)

As tragic as the loss of any member of the US Armed Forces is, consider the
following statistics:

The annual fatalities of military members while actively serving in the
armed forces from 1980 through 2006:

1980 .......... 2,392 (Carter Year)

1981 .. ........ 2,380 (Reagan Year)
1984 .......... 1,999 (Reagan Year)
1988 .......... 1,819 (Reagan Year)

1989 .......... 1,636 (George H W Year)
1990 .......... 1,508 (George H W Year)
1991 .......... 1,787 (George H W Year)
1992 ......... 1,293 (George H W Year)

1993 ......... 1,213 ( Clinton Year)
1994 ......... 1,075 ( Clinton Year)
1995 ..... .... 2,465 ( Clinton Year)
1996 ........ . 2,318 ( Clinton Year)
1997 ............ 817 ( Clinton Year)
1998 ......... 2,252 ( Clinton Year)
1999 ....... 1,984 ( Clinton Year)
2000 .........1,983 ( Clinton Year)

2001 ........... 890(George W Year)
2002 ......... 1,007 (George W Year)
2003 ......... 1,410 (George W Year)
2004 ......... 1,887 (George W Year)
2005 ............ 919 (George W Year)
2006............ 920 (George W Year)
2007............ 899 (George W Year)

Clinton years (1993-2000): 14,000 deaths
George W years (2001-2006): 7,932 deaths

If you are surprised when you look at these figures, so was I. These figures
mean that the loss from the two latest conflicts in the Middle East are LESS
than the loss of military personnel during Bill Clinton's presidency; when
America wasn't even involved in a war!

Makes you want to holler, doesn't it?

Hospital bill

My insurance company just informed me that they had paid St Peter's Hospital $992 for room and board. This princely sum bought me two nights' misery with a roommate who hosted a never-ending party with an ever-changing cast of loudmouth friends and relations.

I probably could have stayed in a nice hotel room in New York City for a day or two for that amount of money. And if someone made noise, I bet they would have given me another room. With profuse apologies. Unlike the nurses in St Peter's Hospital, who merely shrugged.

That's what you get in the non-profit sector of the economy, mainly because they employ 17 vice presidents who make over $300,000 a year, like Michelle Obama.

They just won't stop

The University of Delaware continues the indoctrination in their so called "residential life" program.

How long can I survive?

Created by OnePlusYou

Take the test. It's truly weird. And by the way, even if I had pets, I wouldn't eat them. For one thing, it would be tough catching a pet. Almost any pet can run faster than I can.

I'm not eating my leather jacket either.

Three musketeers

of the first "post-racial" candidate for president:

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis:












Or are they the three horsemen of the apocalypse?

About my mother

 

Since Mother's Day is coming, I thought I would reminisce about my mother.

I've written about mother's law practice elsewhere. Now I want to mention another idiosyncracy of hers.

Mother hated bad news--no, she didn't believe in bad news, and felt that if she didn't share it, it didn't count. So if anything bad happened, she never told me. This was particularly annoying, as I lived out of town, and depended on her to keep me up to date on family news.

Once I was visiting her, and noticed that my cousin Bernie's wife was not present on a family occasion. Mother had to admit that Noreen and Bernie were getting divorced. Instead if mentioning it, mother disappearated Noreen. She became a non-person. No grudge, she just was never mentioned. It was like those group pictures of Soviet leaders, where the unfortunate one who had fallen from grace was simply edited out of the picture.

She handled her own divorce differently. She couldn't disappearate dad, because we two children were evidence he had existed. She simply ignored the divorce. His name was listed in the phone book as long as she lived. When she moved, the new phone was listed in his name, even though he had not lived with her in years, and she was still mad at him.

One reason for her anger was that he had left her for a woman who was not good-looking at all. She found this insulting. She might have handled the whole thing better if my stepmother had been a beauty. After all, who could hold a grudge if her husband left her for Ingrid Bergman? Mother felt she might have kept her own options open if Clark Gable had come calling.

When bubbe, her own mother, was sick, mother insisted on being upbeat. Every time I called, she told me bubbe was "a little bit better." These improvements continued until bubbe improved into another state of existence.

If I called mother and she bitched about her aches and pains, I knew she was okay and enjoying life. It was when she started feeling better every time I called that I really got worried. Toward the end, she was hospitalized frequently, but she never informed me when this happened. She didn't want to worry me. So I would call and listen to the sound of the phone ringing in the empty house.

Then I would call my brother to find out what had happened this time.

Trying to use the Flip

curse it.

The dimensions of the Flip are 4.1 x 2.3 x 1.3 inches; but it comes encased in the mother and father of all blister packs, around the same size as the telephone book of a small city. Say Little Falls, NJ. It takes the blister pack to new heights of Blisterdom. The material is about 6 times thicker than your usual blister pack. It might as well have been kryptonite. In fact, the popemobile should be made of this material.

I attacked it with a box cutter, with no success. Then a scissors. Then a knife, the kind you slice meat with. Nothing made a dent in it. Mr Charm added his efforts to mine, with sound effects. He couldn't open it either.

So here we were, two supposedly competent adults, bested by a $^&#&**# piece of plastic. What could we do, call 911?

Feeling like an idiot, I took it to my neighborhood hardware store, one of those places which, though small, has everything you need plus a competent staff. I asked them whether they had a tool to open blister packs. There is no such tool.

But these guys considered the blister pack a challenge which involved every member of the staff, so they finally got it open, working together as a team.

After removing the outer casing, we found that the Flip itself was encased in a smaller piece of the same material. It was removed, not without effort and a few muttered curses.
,
I looked at the Amazon.com website to see if anyone else had complaints about the blister pack. None. Nul. Niente.

So--fellow Amazon customers: did you have trouble getting the thing out of the blister pack? What implement did you use? Or is there some obvious way of doing this which eluded me?


After all that hoopla, how does it work?

It doesn't. I'm sending it back.

Clergy report

I was thinking about the Rev Wright's "snippets" which were taken "out of context," the poor dear. No doubt the rest of his sermons were bursting with the love of his fellow man, along with faith, hope, and charity.

This got me thinking about the parade of rabbis I have met down through the years. The ones I heard when I was a kid didn't make much impression on me; their sermons just seemed death-defyingly long. But I've encountered at least half-a-dozen since then. Some were good speakers, some were boring, but I don't remember any of them saying anything mean about Gentiles along the way or telling us how rotten our country was. Mostly they just explicated the Torah or discussed the holiday we were celebrating or the prayers we were reciting, or spoke about the importance of Israel. The worst things they said were mild criticisms of Palestinian suicide bombers. A common theme was being kind to others and giving money to charity, but usually the actual arm-twisting was turned over to a member of the laity who was better at it. I seem to remember that the air-conditioning system and the leaky roof were often mentioned.

Not a snippet in the bunch. Their sermons could be safely broadcast to the whole world without any result except for perhaps putting the listeners to sleep, thus making it dangerous to listen to them while driving or using heavy machinery. Perhaps they just had too much to say on other topics, like how to clean the kitchen for Passover. (It involves a wooden spoon, a candle and a feather, if you must know.)

No use worrying about global warming...

We've all been dead from the new ice age for years. Or we've starved to death, and most of the earth is covered with tundra.

So eat, drink, and be merry, you miserable remnants of a decimated world population.

Put a poem in your pocket day report

I informed everyone, did I not, of Put a Poem in Your Pocket Day, April 17? Then you whip it out and have a conversation about it with the people you meet.

I decided to try it. I chose this one:

Daffodils

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

and duly put it in my pocket(book). I was carrying a purse that day--no pocket.

I showed it to my dry cleaner; Ron, the auto repairman; and all the members of the Delaware Symphony Gala committee, but none of them had time to discuss it. The reference librarian at the local public library offered to find me critical literature about the poem, but said she was too busy to have a conversation about Wordsworth.

Some time later, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find two nicely dressed, smiling women, who were as polite and cordial as they could be. They just wanted a few minutes of my time to tell me about the Jehovah's Witnesses. I told them I would be happy to hear all about it, but first I wanted them to read and discuss my poem, which I just happened to have in my pocket(book).

They promised to return when they had more time, and backed carefully down the stoop. When they hit the sidewalk, they broke into a ladylike trot.

Nobody really has time for poetry any more.

A poet's muse has died

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn has died at 92.

Joan Jackson, who died on April 11 aged 92, was in her earlier life Joan Hunter Dunn, the inspiration for Sir John Betjeman's most popular poem, A Subaltern's Love-song, ...- and conjured up his reverie about them being affianced and playing tennis together:

What strenuous singles we played after tea,

We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,

The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,

With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,

I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,

How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you've won,

The warm-handled racket is back in its press,

But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Could this possibly be George Bush's fault?

It must be.

Isn't he responsible for everything that goes wrong in the world?

Two poems

To his Coy Mistress

by Andrew Marvell


Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.



O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear! your true-love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare

Poem of the day

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

-- Robert Frost

Appalling news

Oh the horror!

My worst nightmare

...getting stuck in an elevator alone.

I know it's irrational to be afraid of elevators. I am queasy about being in a closed space, anyway, like a subway tunnel, but I gain courage through the presence of other people. Surely the Powers That Be would not allow a whole lot of people to be stuck in an elevator or subway car forever, but if it was just me, who would miss someone as insignificant as me? Nobody, probably. My children would probably wonder what had happened to me, but would eventually conclude that I had run away from home to live in the deep woods under the name of Sanders, as I am always threatening to do.

I would be alone with my soul, and that's not enough company. Even one other person, unless he were a paranoid schizophrenic with violent tendencies, would be a comfort. We could play geography, me and my sole companion, or talk about what kind of a meal we would eat when we got out. We could speculate about what was keeping our rescuers, and grumble about the kind of help you get nowadays. We could tell each other long boring stories about trips we had taken. If there were significant light in the elevator car/tunnel, we could show each other pictures of our grandchildren. It would be boring, but the time would pass.

I once spent a month in a hotel where the elevators didn't work half the time. It was owned by a fellow named MacArthur, the very same man who died and left his fortune to be spent on genius grants. This hotel had exceeded its shelf life, and should have been torn down years before. But MacArthur was a rich man and could indulge himself as he pleased. The air conditioners kept breaking down as well. In the summer. In south Florida. Maintenance crews were always trying to fix the air conditioners, with limited success. And so it was with the elevators. MacArthur also allowed millions of ducks to pollute the grounds of his hotel. But I digress.

It would not have been prudent for me to hole up in my room for a whole month, so I conceived a strategy for riding in the elevator. I packed my bag with books, magazines, and the newspapers, and when the elevator stalled I just hunkered down and caught up with my reading. Fortunately, the lights never went out during my stay.

Poets disagree about April

There's T S Eliot:

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

Whereas Chaucer believes it is a nice time for a trip:

Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote
The Droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe course y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye, -
So priketh hem nature in hir corage:
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages -

and Robert Frost is ambivalent:

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You´re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you´re two months back in the middle of March.

Also posted on Carnival of the Insanities.

This poem is for today

I always think of this poem at this time of year:

Daffodils

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

A new Carnival of the Insanities

Worth a visit.

How many 5-year-olds can you fight?

10

I'm a lush.

83%LUSH

April is Poetry Month--remember?

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant poises,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherds's swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

Christopher Marlowe
1599

The fun side of Passover

These are quite popular, it seems.


Finger puppets of the ten plagues.

I don't get it. Plagues are fun? I fail to see the light side of boils and cattle disease, and the thought of the death of first-born babies doesn't even evoke a slight smile.

These plagues were serious s--t, folks. You don't want to get God mad at you. Ask the Egyptians.

Longwood, April 2008

 

Tulips

An age being mathematical, these flowers
Of linear stalks and spheroid blooms were prized
By men with wakened, speculative minds,
And when with mathematics they explored
The Macrocosm, and came at last to
The Vital Spirit of the World, and named it
Invisible Pure Fire, or, say, the Light,
The Tulips were the Light's receptacles.
The gold, the bronze, the red, the bright-swart Tulips!
No emblems they for us who no more dream
Of mathematics burgeoning to light
With Newton's prism and Spinoza's lens,
Or berkeley's ultimate, Invisible Pure Fire.
In colored state and carven brilliancy
We see them now, or, more illumined,
In sudden fieriness, as flowers fit
To go with vestments red on Pentecost.


Padraic Colum

If you've ever wanted a yodeling pickle

here it is.

I've always wanted one, haven't you?

Put a poem in your pocket day, April 17, 2008

Put a poem in your pocket in honor of National Poetry Month.

Here's a fragment of one I like:

L'Allegro

Come, and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free:
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise...

John Milton

I found this amusing

From a blogger named Sally:

Plan opposed

and Bloomberg blames the State legislature.

Democratic members of the State Assembly held one final meeting to debate the merits of Mr. Bloomberg’s plan and found overwhelming and persistent opposition. The plan would have charged drivers $8 to enter a congestion zone in Manhattan south of 60th Street during peak hours. Mr. Bloomberg and his supporters, including civic, labor, and environmental organizations, viewed the proposal as a bold and essential step to help manage the city’s inexorable growth. The plan’s collapse was a severe blow to Mr. Bloomberg’s environmental agenda and political legacy. ...

The mayor has appeared increasingly frustrated with the situation in Albany in recent days and did not appear publicly after the measure’s defeat. He released an angry statement shortly after the rejection.

“It takes a special type of cowardice for elected officials to refuse to stand up and vote their conscience on an issue that has been debated, and amended significantly to resolve many outstanding issues, for more than a year,” Mr. Bloomberg said. “Every New Yorker has a right to know if the person they send to Albany was for or against better transit and cleaner air.”

What's all this legacy cr-p? Did George Washington sit around planning his legacy? Only two-bit nanny-state politicians (such as Bill Clinton) worry about such things. I suggest that if Bloomberg wants a "legacy," he leave his money to charity. Meanwhile, the score is: Taxpayers, 1,Bloomberg, 0.

Something nice

One of my chief regrets in the last few years has been that I have no-one to attend concerts with. This happened to me gradually, starting in New Jersey. First Mr Charm decided that he didn't want to go to concerts any more--for undisclosed reasons, since he loves music. My friend Betty doesn't mind an occasional concert, but her main interest is the theater. She also said she had heard enough Mahler for a lifetime.

So I started to go to concerts with Elaine, who was up for anything. We had a great time. Sadly, Elaine died, tragically and before her time. I miss her for lots of reasons.

Anyway, when I moved to Delaware I still had no-one to attend concerts with. My daughter goes with me sometimes, and I enjoy her company more than anyone on earth, but I still longed for a friend to go to concerts with from time to time. I seriously considered putting an ad in the local paper.

Instead, I volunteered for the Delaware Symphony, hoping some music would rub off on me.

Imagine my surprise when one of the women on the committee, who I had spoken to for a grand total of five minutes, called me tonight, to ask if I would attend a performance of Mahler's Eighth with her. She said the first person who popped into her head was me! Now it happens Mahler is my favorite composer, but his work is not performed very often.

Needless to say, I was thrilled to be asked. It made my day.

Was Rev Wright really a Marine?

Does anybody know? Is there any way to find out?

So many people lie about military service. Would he be one of them? Oh, no, he wouldn't lie, would he? A man of the cloth and a genuinely Holy Person?

So much of whatever else he says is clearly lies or rabble-rousing, why wouldn't this be?

I'm not accusing him of anything. Just asking.

Note: One of my readers confirmed that he really was a Marine.

My still life

 

The art teacher claims it is not finished. But I feel I am finished with it.

Hillary can't get it right

She reminisces about the death of Martin Luther King:

"...I will never forget where I was when I heard Dr. King had been killed. I was a junior in college and I remember hearing about it and just feeling such despair,” Clinton said, pausing, her voice quivering.

“I walked into my dorm room and took my book bag and hurled it across the room. It felt like everything had been shattered, like we would never be able to put the pieces together again."

The business with the book bag was over the top. It made her words seem contrived and false. She doesn't have what both her husband and Barack Obama have in abundance, the ability to express (or simulate) her feelings in a way that connects with her audience.

No doubt she was upset upon hearing about the murder of King. We all were. But she had to add that detail that went too far. What she should have said:

"..I will never forget where I was when I heard Dr. King had been killed." Pause. Silence.

Of course Bill and Barack can babble this kind of nonsense by the carload, and get the audience all misty-eyed. She can't.

I personally do not equate her with Katherine de Medici and do not believe she eats small children alive. But she has what Nixon had, an absolute tin ear. Whatever Nixon said, you didn't believe it--and I am one who voted for the guy.

Ht to Tim Blair.

Why muslims must say their prayers exactly on time

I never thought of it this way.

Hey the ACLU is correct on this one guys, {Muslim prisoners suing to have their meals not interfere with their prayers] sorry to tell you.
Allah is a very busy deity, between coordinating bombers entering paradise (he personally does the orientation speech), enforcing rules about stonings and beheadings and tea time with satan, he really only has a very small window each day to hear prayers, so it is vitally important for his followers to be on time for prayers, and the ACLU is well aware of this plight because satan brought it up at the last board meeting asking them to intervene.

From what I understand when his followers are late with prayers on wednesday it cuts into satan and allah’s canasta playing time, and allah is up 30 billion souls and satan just wants a chance to catch up.

Confessions of a sucker

I don't understand why everyone carries on all the time about the economy. I'm doing all I can to keep it going, spending money morning, noon and night. If everyone behaved like me, the economy would be doing great. Unemployment would be 0.000 percent.

Remember the days you had to go shopping in actual stores? I had no problem then. Stores keep regular business hours, and if they're not open you can't shop. This kept the monkey off my back a reasonable amount of time.

But then television direct ads began. I'm a sucker for them-- the kind that offer items for two (or three or six, whatever) easy payments of $19.95. You know the drill:

Act now! and we will send a second ***** absolutely free! plus this gizmo! All you pay is shipping! Our agents are standing by--call 555-555-1234 Now!

I admit to possessing a set of Debbie Meyer green bags, a dustbuster, the kind of flashlight you shake, and a rechargable sweeper. These are in the house, and I actually use them. Goodness knows what else has found its way to that Final Resting Place, the garage.

I also love special offers by mail. But they have to be really special. Macy's sends me coupons practically every week, offering me 20 percent, 15 percent, $10, or $25 off everything in the store! Every week, I faithfully report to my local Macy's, where I usually can be trusted to buy some damn thing I don't need, probably shoes. My collection of shoes is growing to such an extent that I have a special annex in the basement for the out of season shoes--boots in winter, sandals in summer--as well as a box in the spare bedroom for the shoes that are going to Good Will.

But wait--there's more! I have under the bed storage boxes for the overflow shoes. I don't even know exactly what's in those boxes, because I only clean under the beds twice a year. Whatever is in those boxes, I don't miss it, or even remember I have it, because I don't have time to open those boxes on the rare occasions I clean under the beds. And obviously, whatever is in them, I don't need it. If I needed it I would undoubtedly have gone out and bought another one by this time.

I was fine until e-mail offers were added to the mix. Now I am totally out-of-control, because I can buy something on the Internet 24/7. In the middle of the night I can respond to all the tempting offers I get every day by e-mail. (No, I'm not referring to penis extenders or Viagra. What filthy minds some people have!)

Just yesterday, HP offered to sell me a video cam for $59.95. I was strongly tempted. $59.95! I don't actually know what I would do with a video cam, how to operate one, or, actually, exactly what it is. But I want one! It's only $59.95 (plus shipping and handling). How could you go wrong?

Here's my fee

Powered By Sexy Store


What's yours?

Too skinny

 

I admit to envying thin women, but who would want to look like this? Or look at this? This model, from the Land's End catalog, looks like an escapee from a concentration camp. I have seen skeletons in anatomy class with more meat on their bones than she has.

I'm not buying anything from catalogs that feature women like this.

Yes, you can be too thin.

Hello time

Lately I have been wondering where the hell everyone is, and even whether I should continue this blog. So if you're out there, please say hello! You don't have to add anything pertinent. I just want to know you are out there.

What's wrong with Gitmo?

Why is everyone up in arms about Gitmo? Lots of American and Canadian lefties consider Cuba the island resort of choice. So why the heck does the mere mention of its name send shivers down American spines, including that of John McCain?

The very concept has become so abhorrent that there is no salvaging the place, so we are forced to find another venue for these prisoners. Some suggestions:

During the Civil War, prisoners were kept in the Dry Tortugas. I don't know anything about the place, except the thought of it makes me thirsty. However, the climate must be close to what these guys have at home, and undoubtedly there is plenty of sand. It also promotes itself as a tourist destination. There are lots of turtles and no fresh water.

If that doesn't suit, may I suggest Cleveland? Situated on scenic Lake Erie, which creates abundant snowfall, it would provide a change of pace. Bracing breezes waft down from Canada, especially in the winter. In the summer, you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Cleveland is already the target of scorn and ridicule, but Americans actually live there: if it's good enough for them, it should be good enough for prisoners.

If Cleveland is ruled out for any reason, may I suggest Buffalo, situated in the home state of serial adulterers Eliot Spitzer and David Paterson. People used to like to shuffle off to it, but recently, not so much. Buffalo shares Cleveland's amenities, only more so--more snow, worse wind, more and better decaying industrial sites.

Detroit is another possibility. There are lots of mosques in Detroit, and plenty of vacant office space. They could get yummy home cooked food for Ramadan, delivered fresh to their door. Also the perpetual sound of gunfire would make the prisoners feel right at home.

My brother David

My brother David made some bizarre sartorial choices. Growing up, he was the little kid in the class who wore a striped t-shirt and plaid pants. His socks rarely matched. At one point, David decided to wear a crash helmet in the car--probably not a bad idea considering the way he drove--until we made fun of him mercilessly. We in the family cut him a lot of slack, as he is a genius software developer.

His most memorable wardrobe item was a fire engine red tracksuit. It was so shiny I believe it glowed in the dark, although I never tested the hypothesis. David, who is short and chubby, looked like an over-ripe Gouda cheese.

Finally, his employer told him never to wear this tracksuit to work again if he wanted to keep his job. So the tracksuit disappeared, until...




I saw Fidel Castro wearing it!

I always wondered what David did with that tracksuit!

I'm running a clean, family-friendly blog here

but stop by anyway.


Created by OnePlusYou - Free Online Dating

Old document found

This document was found in an old chest of drawers in Great Barrington, MA. Our document experts, who examined the paper and the typeface used, have dated it approximately as having been printed sometime in 1812 or 1813.

Madison lied! and people died!

President Madison has claimed that the illegal and immoral war in which we are presently engaged with Great Britain was caused because of the impressment of American seamen. This is a total fabrication! The peace-loving Brits only started impressing American citizens because we were attacking their ships. The war was started to protect the scoundrelly, money-grubbing merchants who wanted to make money in international trade. It's all about trade!

This war has already claimed the lives of some 3,000 brave American sailors and soldiers, besides the senseless slaughter of 100,000 innocent British citizens. Furthermore, it is costing 100,000 dollars each day. Prices are sky-high! The consumer is suffering! The cost of whale oil has more than tripled!

There is strong evidence that the burning of Washington, for which the British are blamed, was an inside job. It is well noted that all the Jews stayed out of the capitol on that day.

Carnival of the Insanities is up

at the usual place.

Hillary and Kosovo

So what really happened?

Was Hillary exposed to gunfire? I guess not. But so what? If being exposed to gunfire is what gives a candidate the relevant experience, I recommend a visit to Detroit on a Saturday night. Hillary will hear enough gunfire to give her real street cred.

I hope she doesn't get taken out by a random gunshot.

Typical white person speaks at last

and makes a lot of sense.

Be honest, you've all seen them! They are the punks who walk down the street talking loud and giving everyone they see "the look" that says, "Hey, you better not be lookin' at me or I'll jump your a**." They are the bleary-eyed drunks and druggies who look like they are ready to do anything for another drink or fix; they are almost any young people who are travel in "packs", acting like they are the kings and queens of the sidewalk and YOU are on THEIR sidewalk.

Also on Carnival of the Insanities.

Peeps for Passover

I am speechless.

Ht to American Princess.

Librarians have orgy

So these six librarians go into a restaurant. They're at a Library Convention and they're really going to party down--on the expense account, no less. Sheer debauchery.

First up are drinks. We have two people here who want actual liquor, two who want soda, and two who want drinks with umbrellas in them.

Ordering food takes forever; "The bean soup sounds good." "What are you having, Marianne?" (Every other librarian in New Jersey is called Marianne, Mary, Mary Ann, Mary Rose, Mary Lou, Mary Jane--you get the picture.)*

Soup or salad? Steak or fish? Should we stick to our diet (every other librarian in New Jersey is on a diet) or go hog wild?

A consensus having been reached, the wait staffer (we librarians don't use sexist language, but she is a woman) takes all orders and disappears to the kitchen.

The festive meal arrives and is consumed, accompanied by catching up, gossip, and gripes. Zero hour has now arrived.

The lone male librarian ventures timidly that it would be nice if we split the check six ways. The suggestion is met with scorn, and the check is scrutinized by one and all.
Lib I: "Marianne had the soup."
Marianne: "Yes, but I only had salad; you had steak--24.95!"
Lib I: "Okay. Sheila had the chicken florentine."
Sheila: "All I had to drink was a diet coke--Susan had two beers."
Lib I: "Who had the red snapper?"

And so it goes. Finally, detente is reached. It is now time to calculate the tip.
Male librarian: "Tip should be $60--five dollars each. That's three times the tax, which is 6 percent."
Librarian III, who has hitherto been silent: "Yes, but you're not supposed to count the drinks when you calculate the tip."
Male librarian: (silently) Oy vey! (Throws money on the table.)
Marianne: You gave me too much. Here--take back three dollars. Wait--does anyone have change for a twenty?
Male librarian: (Unprintable remark, silently.)

*Many librarians also answer to the name of Marie. Or Anne-Marie. Oh, forget it.

(Recycled)

I heart environmentalism

 

Not.

 

Loehmann's is my favorite clothing store, and I was really annoyed to get this flyer from them, flogging shirts with smug, trendy environmental statements printed on them.

Every time you pick up some sub-literate publication, such as Elle, Vogue, or Family Circle, some nitwit is inserting pious, self-righteous statements re the environment. Or there is a lame article about the virtue of hauling your used printer cartridges 10 miles through the Arctic on a sled in winter. Writers for these publications are not the smartest--they consider "Between he and I" an eloquent locution.

I loathe the environment. I hate it as much as Muslims hate pork.

Bah! Humbug!

Vice-presidents

Non-productivity has reached new heights at the University of Chicago Hospital, making it a respectable competitor with government, public schools, colleges and universities.

Officials at the University of Chicago Hospitals say a promotion and large pay increase given to Sen. Barack Obama's wife shortly after the Democrat was elected to Congress were well-deserved boosts for an executive who is "worth her weight in gold."

Hospitals spokesman John Easton told the Tribune that Michelle Obama's salary is in line with those of the 16 other vice presidents at the not-for-profit medical center.

I make out the cost of these officers to be in excess of five million dollars. And I suppose the president of the hospital makes more than they do. They all have secretaries and assistants, I imagine, which raises the administrative costs to, oh, ten million, conservatively.

Wow! You could buy a lot of bandages for that! What do you suppose these vice-presidents do? that makes them indispensable?

The actual work in a hospital is done by the doctors, nurses, and ancillary staff, like janitors, food service workers, etc. So I have been speculating about what duties are assigned to these 17 vice presidents.

Do they have a vice president of removing bubble gum from the sidewalk, or one chap who superintends the fellow who goes around the grounds with a stick, picking up litter? Someone has to make sure that the food served to the patients is tepid and tasteless. Somebody else has to dispose of all the flowers that are wilting, and yet another somebody has to make sure the revolving door in the lobby only goes in one direction. Someone undoubtedly has the job of going around to all the pay phones and picking up the change that has been left in them. Michelle O herself is VP of external affairs. Okay, that's seven I've accounted for.

I'm sure my readers can think up jobs for the other ten vice-presidents.

I hope my grandson doesn't tell on me

James Taranto doesn't think grandmas ought to be brought into this:

Our first thought was that it was pretty low of Obama to exploit his (still living) grandmother in this way. Is it really necessary for the whole world to know about her private expressions of prejudice? Doesn't simple decency dictate that a public figure treat embarrassing facts about loved ones with discretion?

Ben, if you're reading this--don't you dare tell anyone about the time I ran a red light! Or the occasion when I stole a grape--several if the truth be told--at the fruit store. I'm counting on you not to rat me out. Your birthday is coming up, you know.

I guess no-one cares about the grandma-American demographic. We little old ladies are the ultimate victims--no-one even helps us to cross the street any more. However, I still have pictures of you at 6 months naked on a baby blanket, and I will show it to your girlfriends if you cross me.

Well, that is off my mind. We now come to the Reverend Jeremiah Wright. I believe the good Rev made a very poor career choice. Christianity does not suit a man of his temperament. He would have made a good mullah, however! I can just see him with the schmatta around his head at Friday prayers, exhorting the faithful to put on suicide belts and go out and kill him some Jews.

As for Barack: Shame on you!

Get ready for Passover

It's not too early to be thinking about Passover.

When I was a child seders seemed to last for eons. All my mother's family, my parents, my two uncles and their wives and children were always present, because anything bubbe hosted was a command performance. The good linens, china, and silver made the table gleam under the light of bubbe's two candelabras.

We children were excited beyond hysteria until the ceremony began, and we were forced to come to the table and stop hanging upside down from the sofa, climbing the walls, and knocking down the furniture. I particularly enjoyed the presence of my cousins because I was an only child at the time, and lonely. My eldest cousin, three and a half years older than me, was a goddess of sophistication to me; her brothers were rowdy playmates. Uncle Doc's little girls were too young to play with but they were mighty cute and dressed to the nines.

Once the youngest child present had recited the four questions the prayer competition began. Both my uncles and my cousin Bernie read the haggadah aloud --individually--in Hebrew as quickly as they could. The conversation went like this:

Uncle I: It's time for the first (or second, third, or fourth) cup of wine.
Uncle II: I haven't gotten there yet. You read too fast.
Uncle I: It's a long service.
Uncle II: All right, all right. Come on everybody. Drink the fourth (or third, or second) cup. Where's the bottle? Pass me the wine, somebody.

They raced through the prayers and then had to stop and wait impatiently for the others to catch up. It was rather like riding in a car that alternately speeded up and stopped dead, causing you to lurch forward and back.

Meanwhile, my cousin Sam and sometimes one or two of the other children would drink too much wine and slip quietly to the floor. It taught me the meaning of drinking yourself under the table. After a brief nap the culprit would re-appear, refreshed.

The two little girls were too small to read, so they raced around the table fighting with each other until Uncle Doc started yelling at them and threatening to spank them. My aunt, his wife, would burst into tears because he had shouted at the girls. She would threaten to leave. They would yell some more until he calmed down and apologized to the girls and gave them some candy or gum he just happened to have in his pocket. The girls, of course, would stuff themselves with sweets and would not eat the festive meal when it appeared.

The festive meal! Chicken soup with matzoh balls. We called bubbe's matzoh balls cannon balls. They were heavy but nourishing. Then we had chicken. With the chicken came potato kugel and chopped liver. Gefilte fish. Someone probably slipped a green vegetable in there somewhere, but I don't remember it. Bubbe didn't hold with all this greenery anyway. Her idea of a salad was: take one cucumber; add pint of sour cream; eat. And we couldn't have that, this was a fleisheke meal.

Bubbe would heap each of the children's plates with massive portions of food and then bawl them out for not eating it all. We were starved and ate voraciously. If someone had thrown one of us into the river we would have plummeted to the bottom and sunk without a trace.


Dessert featured, but was not limited to, Manischevitz macaroons, served in the can. The featured wine was Mogen David.

After eating, there was a timeout while the children searched for the afikomen and the adults sat still and burped.

Since I was not used to staying up late, the remainder of the seder was one big blur to me, except for opening the door for Eliyahu hanovi. Then came Chad Gadya, which meant the end of the service and blessed release.

And then we did it again the next night.

(Recycled)

Plant

 

This plant has been sitting in the same spot for three years. Occasionally, I would water it a little. Last week it started blooming, with no encouragement.

Pro-war demonstration, 4/15/08

 

 

 

 

Truth

is stranger than fiction.

Eliot Spitzer explained

The New York Times explains Spitzer. Apparently, all the big kids do it:

“I think biologists could tell you this has something to do with natural selection — the person who acquires power becomes the alpha male,” said Tom Fiedler, who teaches a course in press and politics at Harvard’s Kennedy School....

Politics and sex is an old story, and as Mr. Fiedler and others point out, it simply reinforces the lessons of the aphrodisiac of power taught in Shakespeare.

I thought if you were an alpha male, you got it for free.

Headache?

I set the alarm for 7 a.m. last night, in order to attend the re-dedication of our synagogue, which has undergone a reconstruction process. I truly meant to go. But when the alarm went off, I had second thoughts.

Taking an inventory of my mental state, I discovered that I had nine-tenths of a headache. That is, I didn't have a headache, but I would have one if I got up. It was waiting around the corner for me. It might get worse as I brushed my teeth. It might go away under the shower. Or not.

Then I considered the re-dedication ceremony. If the synagogue could make such an event of a cantorial audition, what would they do with a re-dedication ceremony? Would local dignitaries be invited to speak? If invited, would they come? Would the place be surrounded by state police, thus making my premature getaway impossible if my headache recurred?

Would the politicians just be introduced, to polite applause? Or would they make lengthy remarks? Would Sen Joe Biden be there?

I went back to sleep.

Let's monger some fear

monger

1. A dealer in a specific commodity. Often used in combination: an ironmonger.
2. A person promoting something undesirable or discreditable. Often used in combination: a scandalmonger; a warmonger.
tr.v. mon·gered, mon·ger·ing, mon·gers
To peddle.

Is it fear-mongering to suggest we have real enemies?

America is at war. I can attest to that after serving in Iraq as an Infantry Platoon Leader with the Army’s First Calvary Division. My unit, an Infantry platoon, was responsible for capturing terrorists. I can tell you first-hand that we are fighting a very real enemy, radical Islamic terrorists, who want to do harm to America and her citizens. We are fighting the same terrorists that recently strapped bombs onto women with Down's Syndrome and forced them to walk into a crowded marketplace and explode the bombs....

My comrades in uniform, brothers and sisters and moms and dads, have given their lives in the fight against radical Islamic terrorism. This Congress, meanwhile, refuses to authorize our intelligence officials to collect important information that can disrupt terror attacks and refuses to give our law enforcement community the legal authority it never had before 9/11, but so desperately needed.

We are not particularly interested in terrorism, but terrorism is interested in us.

Eating

My parents were weird about food, possibly because they never got enough of it as kids. My mother (and the rest of her relations) believed as a matter of faith that any child who failed to finish a meal was doomed to die of starvation. My father as ardently believed that a child should eat a well-balanced meal containing the proper nutrients. As it happened, he had a book by an expert which contained the details of a proper diet. At the top of the list was milk.

Drinking a quart of milk a day, as advised by the book, was a non-starter in my household, because my mother kept kosher. Also, I didn't like milk and still don't. So dad concentrated all his milk drinking energies on the breakfast table, where I was enjoined to down 8 oz of the nasty white stuff.

I should mention here that I was the kind of child who, as an infant, held my breath until I passed out. In short, very fond of my own way. And as much as I didn't like milk, I so much more didn't like it in the morning when I was nervous and anxious about going to school and facing the rigors of the first grade.

So, having imbibed the stuff, I rode to school in the family car with the milk lurching around in my stomach and threatening to come out every time we hit a pothole. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn't.

Other foods triggered different battles: I remember sitting at the table staring at my dinner until bedtime on more than one occasion. There were lots of things I didn't like--anything with mayonnaise in it, anything with fat in it, anything floating in soup--the list is endless. Fortunately, I outgrew this and can eat anything, and do.

By the time my brother was a toddler, my father was out of the picture, so the scenario was different. He was a spindly little guy, not thin, but not fat either. Mother would heap his plate with about 2,200 calories and then worry if he didn't finish every bite. If he left any food on his plate, she took him to the drive-in and bought him chocolate shakes and French fries. This continued until he was 5'8" and weighed 220. Then he had to lose the weight.

He told me that his feet hurt all the time when he was fat; he thought it was normal and was surprised that when he lost weight his feet stopped hurting.

The result for me was that I refused to cram anything down my children's throats. I trained myself not to notice whether they had finished their meals or not. I am proud to say that they actually lived to grow up and did not starve to death.

Now a new generation has picked up the gauntlet. My daughter negotiates with her 6-year-old about every bite of food, making mealtime discussions rather monotonous. The kid, who is smarter than I ever was, considers her nagging as so much white noise and ignores her, thus sparing his sanity. But he still has to finish three bites before he can have dessert.

With citizens like these, who needs terrorists?

We can blow up the country by ourselves.

New York City police officers and firefighters cordoned off much of Times Square for more than two hours after a small explosion — set off, the authorities said, by an “improvised explosive device” — damaged the front of the Armed Forces Career Center on the traffic island bounded by 43rd and 44th Streets, Seventh Avenue and Broadway at 3:43 a.m., officials said.

This depresses me, that someone would like to do harm to their own nation. If you were a fish, would you want to destroy your own pond?

Dear Self Magazine:

I am writing to thank you for your interest in my renewing my subscription to your magazine. You appear to think that I will got a lot out of continuing to subscribe. And I have really enjoyed some of your articles on fitness, diet, and makeup. However, I don't think I quite fit into the demographic you are seeking.

I have subscribed to your magazine for over a year now, yet I have not succeeded in resembling your typical reader, as shown in the illustrations in your publication. Though I try to stand up straight, eat healthy and exercise, I have never succeeded in becoming a six-foot tall, 110 lb model. Not even close.

Judging by the women I see, on the street, at social affairs, and even in the gym, hardly any other American women resemble the models in your magazine.



Below is someone who looks more like the average American woman. In a recent survey it was revealed that 3 out of 4 American men would not kick this woman out of bed. Even though she has hips.

Who is a Jew?

Some Jews are more Jewish than others. Some are not Jewish enough.

Oy vey.

An expensive house

To understand this story, you must know it takes place in California.

A close relative has purchased some land and wants to build a house on it. Since it is unimproved farmland, she and her husband have to 1) build a road; 2) put in wiring to attach to the electric grid, under the road; and 3) install a phone line, also under the road. No telephone poles, of course, they're unsightly. I don't know what the other stuff is costing, but the least expensive item on this shopping list is the phone line, @$40,000, give or take a few thou. She won't tell me what the rest of it is costing, rightly fearing that I would have a heart attack.

For some reason, the local authorities--planning board or whatever--have never granted permission to build this house. It's been five years since they bought the land. The New Jersey solution--pay somebody off--is not available in this case. They have had to hire a lawyer to plot their course through the planning and permitting stage.

The deal-breaker for me is, this is in a so-called "scenic area," which means that you have to use approved materials and paint your house in certain approved colors, and no others. The house can't be too tall, or too short. God forbid that Californians out for a scenic drive in the country should encounter a--gasp--purple house. The shock! The outrage!

Back in the sixties and seventies, enlightened people used to sneer at the soul-destroying conformity of suburbia, where every house was the same, and no doubt filled with Republicans. There were even songs about it:

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.

You get the idea. When other people do it, it's ticky-tacky, when Californians do it, it's scenic preservation.

Auditioning cantors

It was the anniversary of my mother's death, so I went to the Sabbath service at our synagogue. Little did I know they would be auditioning cantors. And of course the prospective hire has to prove her lyrical chops. When I say her, I mean her, because most of the candidates have been women.

Didn't I read--I think it was a book called Heartburn by Nora Ephron--about someone being the first Jewish Kimberly? Well, Kimberly is old hat now, but the prospective cantor was the first Jewish Caitlyn I've ever encountered. I'm sure there are plenty of them, but she was my first.

Anyway, she had a lovely voice--just beautiful. I would also give her high marks for her Torah knowledge. But one thing drove me crazy. All the tunes she sang were new to me.

I learned the entire Shabbat service when my oldest grandson studied for his bar mitzvah, a process that seemed to take about ten years. I could sing it in my sleep. But don't change the tunes on me. I like the ones I'm familiar with.

Ms Caitlyn gave it an extra spin, demonstrating her virtuosity by singing endless repeats of verses. As I said, she was terrific. And what a set of lungs! The girl had staying power.

The only thing was, the service lasted three and a half hours. It was longer than the previous contender, the Martin Luther King Interfaith service, and it's unfair to compare the two, because the MLK thing had contributions by clergypersons and choirs from all the churches around, plus readings from the works of the great man.

Today's service was about as long as a Wagner opera, but with no intermissions. It went on so long that the president didn't even make the customary announcements, wearily advising those assembled to consult the monthly bulletin for information. Then everyone made a beeline for the bathrooms.

The New Testament, updated...

and made more relevant to our times.

Little Boy Blue

 

Introducing a member of the younger generation of my family.

A new idea hits the campus

It's called involuntary servitude.

It's taking place at Whitman College. Aha! I said to myself--it's named after Christine Todd Whitman, who with her innovative fiscal policies, first dug the hole the State is in financially.

But it isn't. It's named after the president of E-Bay.

Bummer!