A poem for poetry month

“It was a lover and his lass”

By William Shakespeare

(from As You Like It)

It was a lover and his lass,

   With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

That o’er the green cornfield did pass,

   In springtime, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,

   With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

Those pretty country folks would lie,

   In springtime, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour,

   With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

How that a life was but a flower

   In springtime, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

And therefore take the present time,

   With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

For love is crownèd with the prime

   In springtime, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

I do like a good hey nonino from time to time.And hey ding a ding ding is very cheery too.

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Credit card fraud

I got a call from my  credit card provider.  They were questioning certain transactions  made in California last month: to wit,  a charge for gas at a Shell station, and a purchase from In n Out Burger.  The two together were less than $50, but the bank was right.  I was not in California at the time.
Neither was my credit card.  It was secure in my wallet.

So  somebody  committed a felony to get some gas and a burger. I'm struck by the modesty of their desires.  Why not buy an expensive camera or  a set of tires?  (These are the items a thief bought on my credit card last time I was robbed.)  Why would anyone risk getting a criminal record for a hamburger?  If I were going to steal something, or defraud someone, it would have to be for a much larger sum than that.

Update:  I am reliably informed that the modest first purchases are just a trial to see if anyone notices their card is missing.  If these go through, they know you or your bank are not paying attention and then they can really let themselves go.

My vote

If the Republican Party chooses Donald Trump as their candidate for President, I will vote for him.  Unless he is convicted of a major felony between now and November.  And no, he would not be my first choice.

I'm so sick of people on the right, and on the left, maligning him.  You cannot pick up a conservative magazine without encountering some learned dissertation predicting the end of at least the nation, if not the world, if he should be elected.   In my opinion, the Republic will survive. 

Mine is purely a protest vote.  I don't want Trump, but I want Hillary less.   The Democrats have had eight years to screw the country.  I want them out.  It's the Republicans' turn.  If this means Trump will be president, bring it on.

When do college students study?

I'm confused.  I was admittedly a slacker when I attended college.   I was fond of hanging out, drinking beer, and playing bridge with my friends.  Dating guys.  But I still had to study, pass exams, and write term papers.  Students at the time had sex, just like they do today--well maybe not that much--but we did in before 10 o'clock and never complained.  Or we stayed out past curfew and were helped to sneak into the building by confederates.

From what I read on the Internet, the average college student is having sex at all hours of the day and night, sober, or more likely, drunk.  Complaining, protesting, picketing, raping or being raped, making rude remarks to faculty and guest speakers, or being insulted.  Sending obscene texts to other students whom they fancy on their expensive cell phones.  Protesting when the recipients of the texts take them up on their texted suggestions.

How do they ever study?  What happens when their French professor schedules a pop quiz?  When do they have time to prepare term papers?  Why do they get all As when they are drunk, stoned, protesting social injustice, or preventing invited guests from speaking all day long?  Or painting obscene remarks on college property?  Or being so hurt and aggrieved when they encounter someone who thinks differently that they need a safe space?

What's wrong with Philly?

I live 20 minutes from the Philadelphia Airport, 30 minutes from downtown Philly.  It takes me 25 minutes to get to the Kimmel Center, 5 minutes to go to (paid) parking.  I have paid as little as $20 to attend a concert at the Kimmel Center (Obviously this is an exceptional price).  Last Friday I had tickets to a performance of Mahler's Eighth Symphony which cost $60 each.  We sat in the highest balcony, but the acoustics were superb, and the sight lines were perfect, if you had opera glasses. Plenty of leg room. The house was full.  And the performance was outstanding. 

Meanwhile, it costs $65 to attend a concert at the Delaware Symphony.   These concerts are held in various venues, including some private schools in the sticks which you need GPS to find and when you do find them they are crowded and you feel like you are back in high school. It takes maybe 15 minutes to find these places, if you are lucky.  Concerts in the Grand Opera House are more elegant, but parking in downtown Wilmington is no fun.  Also, residents of nursing homes are bused in and none of them pay $65.  One dollar is more like it.

The problem?  No-one wants to go to Philadedelphia.  I had a friend who used to attend concerts in Philadelphia with me, but she moved away.  And nobody else wants to cross the state line.  They will go to Philadelphia to consult a doctor, but to attend a concert?  It might as well be in Pittsburgh.

Meanwhile, there are excellent concerts in Philadelphia--not just the symphony, but the Chamber Music society offer concerts by world class musicians.

So what's wrong with Philly?

Hollywood actors and their teeth

I saw the film 'Race" over the weekend.  It was a well done movie, although they didn't mention that he was called the Buckeye Bullet.  He came from Ohio and so do I, and another bunch of famous people.  James Thurber was the only one I can remember--oh yes, William Howard Taft, who was so fat they had to put a special oversized bathtub in the White House.  But there were others.

The young man who played Jesse was extremely good looking.

When I got home I looked up Jesse on the Internet, and he was not nearly as handsome, and he looks like he had crooked teeth.  In fact, all the actors playing his family members had flawless teeth.  This was in 1935, during the depression, when people didn't have money for food, let alone fancy dental care.  My mother's clients were from the same demographic, people descended from sharecroppers and slaves.   by the time I encountered them, they didn't have such wonderful teeth except for the kind you put in a glass every night, maybe.

Anyway, if they ever want to make a movie about my life, I would like to be played by Jennifer Lawrence.

Two little girls

A visit to New Jersey

Trying to come home from Delaware Rt 13, I inadvertently got in the wrong lane, trying to get to I-95.  The entrance ramp was closed, so I ended up crossing the Delaware Memorial Bridge.  Twice.  Ended up in New Jersey, but not the part you see in tourist brochures.

Liquor stores, bail bondsmen, Payday loans, and for some reason, lots of dentists.  And laundromats. When you are in an area that has laundromats, you know you're not in rich people territory.  Rich people have washers and dryers, or even clotheslines. Spending time watching the clothes spin around is not something most of us want to do. Married to a graduate student, I put in plenty of time in laundromats.

Also, there was a bumper crop of road ragers; possibly angry because they were in New Jersey.  

I finally escaped to Delaware, to an area that was working class at best.  Also not featured in tourist brochures. but it was a sylvan glen compared to grotty New Jersey.

My parents

My parents were different in all the big things and many of the small ones.

Dad, for instance, was conscientious about punctuality. Mealtimes and bedtimes were as fixed as the stars. His clothing and other belongings were laid out the night before in preparation for going to work. I am sure that if he were ordered to attend his own hanging, he would make sure to be on time. Once, when I had promised to take him to the hospital for surgery, I had a flat tire and was 20 minutes late. When I got to his house, a taxi was turning into the driveway.

Time was a flexible concept to mother. She did what she was doing until she was finished doing it without ever stopping to look at the clock. If she got up in the morning and discovered there were no clean stockings in the drawer, she washed out a pair and read the newspaper until they were dry. Or made a phone call. Or went into the garden to pick a few roses.

Overweight

You didn't get this fat by yourself. You used the bakeries the rest of us built, the fast food restaurants employing minimum wage workers, the feed lots, the cattle breeders, the pastry chefs

Getting upset with Obama

It seems to me that people are wasting a lot of righteous indignation getting upset at little things Obama does.  It doesn't bother me when he behaves clownishly.  He's not a gentleman, obviously.  A gentleman does the right thing.

What bothers me are the big things he does, like the health care bill or the Iran deal.

So let him play golf whenever he wants.  He can even wear those deplorable shorts.  Put his feet on the desk.  Call the queen of England Liz.  (Okay, I made that one up.)

What a material at your post!

I only publish comments that make some kind of sense to me.  But don't think those are the only comments I get.  My spam folder is full of interesting comments, many of them by people with an idiosyncratic command of English.  Most are laudatory, though, which boosts my morale no end.  A sample:

I doscover your blog by accidental- great work!

Catching up with literature

I've been re-reading my old books.  Among them is the mystery classic, "Tragedy at Law" by Cyril Hare As I read it, the book is disintegrating  in my hands.  Pages, even whole signatures, are falling out.  A pity, because it's a clever, civilized book, an affectionate portrait of life on the legal circuit during World War II.

Cyril Hare was a member of the legal establishment, whose real name I have forgotten and am too lazy to look up.  He was a deft and amusing writer in that distinctive and civilized  manner of  English writers before Britain became a no-place whose main characteristic was a flabby "diversity.".

Since I am now more or less housebound, I considered   this a great opportunity to read some of the  Great Works of Literature.  I took down Beowolf from the shelf.  Can't understand its appeal.  Likewise The Red and the Black, and as for Ulysses, forget it!

My mind is impervious to improvement.

This is how I am feeling.  (It's a rusted water pipe from Flint)

I've been sampling the health care quality from coast to coast.

It has occurred to me that 50 % of medical graduates are in the bottom half of their graduating class.  I believe I've met a large number of them.

I fell off my treadmill--but good

I went to California to see the sights.  On Day 1, I tripped over my suitcase.  Then the fun started:

1. broken neck, two black eyes
2.) ischemic colitis. This means they don't know why you have colitis, and neither do you
3.) UTI
4.)they said I had gout;  I didn't
5. UTI
6.)Immmensely swollen leg, blown off as arthritis of the knee @ the hospital;
7.) broken ankle
8.) home
9.) x-rays and other diagnostic stuff in Delaware.

Now you know.

Remember loyalty cards?

You remember them, surely?  If you used them at the Acme, you could get 10 cents off of a can of beans.  At the Regal Theater, you got free popcorn.  It was effortless, if not brainless.  You didn't even have to bring the card with you; they could look up your phone number.

Well, those days are over.  Loyalty cards now represent an educational opportunity.  You have to use your brain--never an attractive option for me.  Now you have to go to the website of the loyalty card--let's say it's Plenti--log on, get yourself a username and a password, and then--but I never got that far, so I never got anything out of my Plenti card.

I haven't given up hope.  So today, I used my Plenti card at the gas station, and what do you know, the brain inside the pump asked me if I wanted to use the $12 I had on my Plenti card.  Did I ever?  I pressed yes, and proceeded to pump gas into the car.  However, the receipt said I couldn't use the Plenti points to buy gas.  But I got 8 more Plenti points.

Whole Foods also has a Rewards card.  Yesterday the cashier at my local Whole Foods advised me to just spend an hour familiarizing myself with the card, but that's an hour I will never get back.  Furthermore, I don't want to give Whole Foods my e-mail address and get lots of spam messages from the company offering me free range chickens.  I don't want to sign up.  I don't want an app on my iPhone.  I want 10 cents off a can of beans or free popcorn without making a gigantic mental effort.  Is that too much to ask?

To hell in a handbasket

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst   

Are full of passionate intensity.

These passages  by William Butler  Yeats could be  read at the beginning of every newscast, followed by the words, "Details at eleven," and they would describe the world situation perfectly.  We could then have a speech by Obama, explaining that this was the desired effect of his wise policies, and everything was going as planned.

On the treadmill

Every day when the weather is not good I walk on the treadmill at the gym.  The treadmill has television, I plug in my headset, and I am good for a mind-numbing session of the Food Network.  Or sometimes I watch the news on occasions when Obama is not speaking.

Yesterday, all the television sets were set on one channel, a sports channel, which was having special coverage on a basketball scandal taking place at the University of Louisville.  It featured a woman who procured women for prospective basketball players.  Among the prostitutes she recruited were three of her young daughters.  She had four daughters, but the youngest was left at home, perhaps to watch the cat or maybe do her homework.

Apparently life at the U of Louisville was just one round of orgies, with drugs, alcohol, sex and more sex, all paid for by the coach.  Occasionally the student athletes had to interrupt the party scene for basketball games or practice.  Writing term papers or studying for tests were activities not prominently featured in their schedules.  Student athletes could graduate from the University after a decent interval as ignorant as the day they started their university careers, or maybe more so,  having had their brains fried by alcohol or drugs.

I hate to be the neighborhood scold (or maybe not), but what does this stuff have to do with education?  Why doesn't the university of Louisville just hire themselves a  basketball team, pay them decent salaries, and pocket the profits, if any.  In this way, they could avoid the fiction that they were in the education business.  Nothing wrong with that; the New York Yankees do not award degrees.  They don't have to hire United States Senators and other worthies to give inspirational speeches at commencement.  In other words, they are honestly paid to provide a service which people are willing to pay for. The University of Louisville, on the other hand, is a whore.

I'm still here, and pissed!

I spent 20 days in rehab, getting infused every 6 hours with antibiotics.  They stuck a tube up my arm so they wouldn't have to open a new vein every time I got an infusion.  That would have been inconvenient.

Every few hours they pricked my finger to test my blood sugar, which was all over the place because I was sick, for God's sake.  After a while, I told them to knock it off.  My blood sugar was not what I was there for, and I didn't want any more finger sticks.  So they sent a nurse over to inform me that if I developed diabetes Medicare would not pay for insulin.  I managed to bear this news with equanimity.

While I was lying there in my bed of discomfort, I managed to read all the literature the hospital had given me.  It turns out that the hospital treats everybody over a certain age as a fall risk.  This means they put a Whoopie cushion in your bed, under your body, so every time you get up an alarm goes off.  You are supposed to ring for the nurse, who then might come and assist you out of bed.When she gets around to it.  Yes, the Wilmington Hospital treats every older adult admitted for anything like a toddler.  You could be a circus acrobat suffering from a sinus infection and still be humiliated this way.  It's not unpleasant enough to be in the hospital, so they make it worse, for their own convenience.

I think this procedure was invented by lawyers to prevent the hospital from being sued. 

I am angry enough about the lack of cleanliness.  Hand sanitizers and hazmat suits have taken the place of soap and water.  The rooms and bathrooms are never cleaned, nor are the patients washed.  I was in there for 5 days, and I must admit I reeked.  But the hazmat suits protected the staff, and the hell with the patients and visitors.

Florence Nightingale, call your office

I am not dead, contrary to rumor, not even close.

My life, or my health, was saved by doctors and nurses of various local institutions, and I am grateful to them.

However, gratitude is the most short-lived emotion, so I am ready to bitch and moan about cleanliness, or the lack thereof.  I was in the infectious disease ward.  Everyone who came in had to put on a garment like a hazmat suit, even if they only brought a pill or a blanket. But the floor was not cleaned once in four days.  There was something--I won't specify what-- on the floor in the bathroom, which had also not been cleaned.  For a moment I flirted with the possibility of cleaning it up myself, but sanity prevailed, so I told the nurse about it.  She immediately told someone, and a maintenance person was sent up.

The maintenance person said nothing, but every atom of her being bristled with the injustice of the thing.  Her body was eloquent with disapproval.  However, she did clean the floor.

Then I was transferred to a nursing home, where the same standard of cleanliness, or lack thereof, was apparent.  Someone came in with a broom and dustpan to remove whatever had spilled on the floor, if it was the size of a kernel of corn or larger.  The toilet overflowed twice, and someone wiped up the water on the floor, but no soap was applied.

Sanitation is something that interests me, for personal reasons.  My father died because an infected pacemaker was implanted in his body and he could not fight off the infection. So I consider the mop, the broom, and the vacuum cleaner vital to taking care of sick people.

Business as usual

A teacher in New Jersey  is reinstated after being tardy 110 times.  Yawn.  Tell me something new.

As library director,I once fired a young man for being insolent.  He had dropped in at various Board members' homes on Easter Sunday to discuss his grievances.  One of the Board members insisted he be fired.  In any private enterprise in New Jersey, an employee can be fired at any time, for any cause.  I know this because I looked it up.  I knew there would be repercussions, even as I drafted the letter relieving him of his responsibilities.

Our library did not have a union at that time, but we had Civil Service, which is just as good at assuring any public employee that he had a cast-iron right to his job.  And so it turned out.  The employee threatened to sue.  The municipality settled the case in his favor, giving him everything he had been asking for.  They even paid for his lawyer.

There is a procedure for firing an employee who is a civil servant.  It involved keeping a log of the person's misdeeds, oral counseling (in Civil Service lingo, that means talking to him).  After that comes written counselling, (writing the person a letter).  There was plenty more that had to be done before saying sayonara, but I will spare you the details.  Just thinking about it makes me tired.

The amount of work needed  to get rid of an employee was phenomenal and took up most of the supervisor's time for weeks.  I also learned that I needed another employee in the room when I did all this counseling, etc, or it would be a case of he said/she said.

Nevertheless I did get rid of two good-for-nothing lazy employees.  I did this by writing them endless letters and having sessions of criticism with both of them (separately) in my office, with a witness.  I kept track of them like God does when he keeps an eye on a sparrow, only God does not have to issue written reports and memos and have limitless discussions.  Nor does God have to have a witness present.

Meanwhile, the supervisor (me) and the witness (someone else) cannot perform any other of our duties because of the time suck involved in showing an employee the door.

How I envy Donald Trump!

20th century memories: playing bridge

Mr Charm and I were pals with another couple; we used to visit each others' houses for dinner and bridge.  After a few inter-couple flare-ups, we settled on a method of keeping the peace while playing: the boys played against the girls.

Mr Charm was an outrageous bridge player; he bid high, wide and handsome, just because he felt like it.  The cards he had been dealt had little to do with it.  His partner was cautious; eons passed, or seemed to pass, before he placed a bid or made a move.  But the worst part of this whole thing was that the men seemed to have all the luck, and wiped the floor with us women almost every time.

Despite flouting all the rules accepted  by right-thinking bridge experts and bidding because he just had a feeling he could make six spades, he won most of the time.  His playing was erratic; they should not have won, but they did.  Then the men, not being good sports, would gloat and taunt us women.

Fortunately for the two marriages, we were drinking hard liquor--it was the 20th century, remember? and we were all pretty well oiled at the time., so no grudges were held and we remained friends.

The curse of great possessions

Great possessions were never a worry to me, because I never had any.  I drove an old beater, and you could give it a going over with a baseball bat and I wouldn't mind, or even notice maybe.  Now I have a new car and live in fear that someone will put a dent in my little darling.  It's a year old now, and I am starting to calm down.

So now I have this dishwasher.  It's a Bosch, and so complicated that the repairman had to come twice to counsel me on how to use it.  It's undoubtedly the best dishwasher I've ever had in my life, but hard to work with.  For instance, if you press really hard on the "Start" button, it will shut itself off.  It has other tricks, but I won't go into them, except to speculate that the Germans might still harbor a grudge for us because we won World War II.

But it has a dent in the front panel which displeases me mightily because I bought it at retail, not as a "scratch or dent" model or without a box or the last one in the store.  So I called the store, and talked to someone who understood I had a problem but wasn't the person to deal with it.  The person to talk to was the salesman, Al, but he was on vacation.

I called back a few days later and spoke to Al, who said he had to order the part, but the person who took care of such orders was on vacation.  I called back, and the manager, all fresh and rested from his vacation. said he would order the part and would call me when it came in.  Great!  We are making progress here!

Later still, I called again, and was told the part was in but the guy who did the installation was on vacation.

I was getting steamed.  Not only did the new dishwasher require constant consultation with the very cryptic and arcane manual, but I had to look at the dented panel every time I went in the kitchen.  How to get their attention?  So I called Visa and told them not to pay for the dishwasher.  They sent me a form, which I filled out, and then there was a hiatus during which the entire staff of Visa was busy with other things or maybe taking a vacation or possibly had been rubbed out by someone pumping  Sarin gas into the HVAC of their establishment.

If they had been disabled by Sarin gas, apparently they were over the effects, as they called me back and said they were looking into the matter.  The young man on the phone told me he had tried to call the appliance store but the person who handled such matters was, you guessed it, on vacation.

Today I received my Visa bill, and they had credited me with the cost of the dishwasher.  So now I have a free dishwasher with a dent in it that washes the dishes just great if you handle it with the proper respect.

Too proud to go on welfare

It's hard to believe, but there was once a time when people refused to take charity, public or private. Despite Mitt Romney's belief that 47 percent of Americans are on the public tit, there once were people like that, too proud to go on welfare.

My mother-in-law was one of them.  She was a proofreader, working in the printing trade, but she was not allowed to join the union, which at the time did not accept women.  So when the Depression hit, she lost her job, and was unable to get another.  She was a single mother of three children at the time and the sole support of her widowed mother.  She scrubbed floors.  She took in laundry.  But she would not go on welfare, then known in New York City as "home relief."

Don't think the family did not suffer.  My husband, who was born in 1931, was the baby.  Too young to understand what was going on,  he cried because he was hungry.  His older brother stole bread in the early morning hours, when bakeries delivered bread and pastries to retail stores.  When he could get any.

Eventually, she married a man who had several children of his own.  Her family was fed, but the marriage was a disaster.  I don't know the details of either the marriage or the split-up; but eventually the marriage ended.  She was supporting  herself, her mother, and her youngest child by freelance proofreading.  The older two grew up and married and moved away.  She died of a heart attack at 54.

I by no means support her views; if my kids had ever missed  a meal I would have been first in line at  welfare headquarters at the opening of business.  But I admire her integrity and the steadfastness with which she lived her beliefs.

Enjoying authentic Cuba

Disturbing:

 I have spent about a year of my life in Cuba, so have seen a great deal of its ‘authentic’ side. Aside from the police repression and intellectual wasteland (there is one newspaper and state television brooks no dissent) the Cuba I have experienced is one of dirt, scarcity and rampant prostitution.

It is the last of these which is the most galling. Cuba’s command economy is unable to provide a basic standard of living for its people, so in order to survive, most Cubans must find an income source to top up their state salary. For those fortunate enough to have relatives in the United States or Europe, help comes in the form of dollar remittances. For those less fortunate, the only way to make some extra cash or eat a decent meal can often be to sell their body to a – usually much older – European or Canadian tourist.
This reality hits you as soon as you step inside a restaurant or hotel in Havana. In every direction are girls who look no more than 16 accompanied by sagging and pale tourists approaching pension age....

Arthur Koestler once referred to pro-Soviet communists in the rich world as voyeurs, peeping through a hole in the wall at history while not having to experience it themselves. The Stalin Society is a lot smaller today (though you can still find the Cuba Solidarity stall at Labour party conference) but the mindset persists: Cubans are the unwilling participants in a communist experiment, there mainly for affluent westerners to gawk at and, when the ‘chemistry’ is right (i.e. when you’ve paid for everything) to take back to the hotel room.
Of course, the resorts in Varadero that most tourists visit are about as ‘authentically’ Cuban as a Soho restaurant’s ‘authentically Chinese’ sweet-and-sour chicken. Step outside of the official tourist route and one soon sees the real Cuba. It is here, amidst the prostitutes and the elderly people rummaging through bins in central Havana, that one starts to understand why many Cubans might like a few branches of McDonalds in their country. Cheap plastic food is, after all, a good deal better than no food at all.

These visitors are of the same ilk as those who see a little African child poking at the dirt with a stick--his only toy--and pointing out that he is happier than American children who don't value their many possessions.


.

Beggars on the streets of Philadelphia

When I was a small child I saw grown men begging on the streets of Columbus, OH, during the Depression.  It was a sad sight, even to a little girl like me.  I felt sorry for them and sorry that our country had let them down.  No-one should have to beg to stay alive. Not here.  Not in this country.


Today, as I exited the Ben Franklin Parkway, there were little boys approaching cars stopped at a traffic light with blue buckets in their hands.  They were begging from the motorists.   I have seen children begging on the streets of Dublin, but never thought I would see such a thing here.

Where were all the social workers, the interfering busybodies who punish parents who allow their children to walk alone to a public park? None were in attendance.  I guess the lives of little black children don't matter quite as much.  It's okay to let them run around on busy streets, dodging cars and putting themselves in danger.  Their lives don't matter until the Rev Al Sharpton shows up with his followers and makes an issue of it.  I guess the Rev has weighed his options and decided there was no profit for him in exploiting these kids.

I certainly don't dismiss the possibility that these kids are little hustlers, like the squegee men who used to infest New York City.  But they are kids.  They shouldn't have the freedom to put themselves in dangerous situations.  Grown-ups should be in charge of kids.  Grown-ups such as parents, teachers, cops.

But there seems to be a serious shortage of grown-ups in Obama's America. 

Art in the basement, or on display?

Something to think about.

Home decor update

I recently needed to replace one if my toilet seats, so I went on the Internet to review my options.  Wow!  The world of toilet seats has really expanded since I last bought one.  In the old days, back in the  twentieth century, you could choose either round or oblong toilet seats, depending on the shape of the One-eyed Riley.

That having been settled by necessity, there were wood, plastic, and soft.  In various colors.  Nothing else had changed since my father's outdoor privy.

What boring lives we led!  Now you have a choice of round or oblong, of course.  There are toilet seats that close  noiselessly.  Toilet seats that remove from their hinges for cleaning; others that contain a potty option in case you are toilet training a toddler.  Seats that light up at night (Batteries not included.).  All sorts of plastic, with designs or flowers or seahorses embedded.  Wooden seats with veneers to match your dining room table.  And of course, customized seats such as the one pictured above and others that cannot be described in polite company.

For less than $600 you can buy a heated toilet seat which washes the relevant body parts and even blow dries them.  Of course, you need the services of a plumber and electrician if you want them to work..

The Pope takes a stand

The Pope has come out against materialism.  I so agree!  All these rich people have big houses, private planes, world travel.  And they don't have to make their beds in the morning or wash dishes.  Someone else does their laundry! I truly resent them.  The only thing that could mollify me is for me to have all these things  myself. And I'd still probably resent them anyway.  Such is envy.

There is much to be said for materialism.  I remember the cartoon Blondie from my childhood.  Back in the day when women wore hats. Whenever Blondie got blue she went out and bought a new hat!  And she immediately felt better.  A new bathmat does it for me.  Retail therapy usually is safe and effective. And if you find out later you don't like the hat, or bathmat, chances are you can return it or exchange it for something else.

My family has done well with materialism.  My father grew up in a house with dirt floors and an outhouse in the back yard.  He was bowlegged due to rickets.  By the time he died, in 2011, he had two bathrooms, central heating, and a brand new car. And plenty to eat.

Contrast that with spirituality.  Let's talk about Muslims here, leaving aside Christians and Jews, who I am sure have their faults.  But they are usually quietists and want to be left alone to worship, or not, in their own way.Deeply devout Muslims, on the other hand,  cure their blue feelings by going out and beheading a few Christians and raping defenseless women and children.  No doubt they feel better after committing these atrocities in honor of Allah.  But the rest of the world feels measurably worse.

The only saving grace about these deeply religious people is that they can be bought.  If you offer them enough money they will probably betray their fellows.  The Muslim world is full or traitors and spies.  How do you think the Israelis get the better of them?

The Kreutzer Sonata

This afternoon I heard the "Kreutzer Sonata," by Janacek, based on the "Kreutzer Sonata" by Tolstoy, which in turn was based on"the Kreutzer Sonata" by Beethoven.  According to Wikipedia,

The sonata was originally dedicated to the violinist George Bridgetower (1778–1860), who performed it with Beethoven at the premiere on 24 May 1803 at the Augarten Theatre at a concert that started at the unusually early hour of 8:00 am. Bridgetower sight-read the sonata; he had never seen the work before, and there had been no time for any rehearsal. However, research indicates that after the performance, while the two were drinking, Bridgetower insulted the morals of a woman whom Beethoven cherished. Enraged, Beethoven removed the dedication of the piece, dedicating it instead to Rodolphe Kreutzer, who was considered the finest violinist of the day.^[1] However, Kreutzer never performed it, considering it "outrageously unintelligible". He did not particularly care for any of Beethoven's music, and they only ever met once, briefly.^[2]

Could this be true?  Anyway, the story is too good to check, and I'm only a humble blogger so no-one cares much what I say.

To get back to Tolstoy, his story is the account of a man finding his wife, a pianist, conversing intimately with her accompanist and friend, a violinist. The two have been practicing the Kreutzer Sonata.  It requires a lot of practice because it is a quite difficult piece of music.   He then kills his wife out of jealousy, but the violinist gets away.   I have not read the story, because I no longer am attempting to improve my mind through literature and would rather curl up with Daniel Silva's latest.  If my mind accidentally gets improved, okay, but I'm no longer working on it.

I was interested enough in the story  to go to YouTube and play a couple of versions of the Beethoven original.  It is quite beautiful but appears to be very demanding technically; however, to me all violin music seems demanding because I could no more play the violin than I could invent electricity. 

This Tolstoy story has apparently been made into a play, then adapted into a play for the Yiddish theater, then made into a movie of the Yiddish theater version, and for all I know is being made into a Pixar or Claymation version as we speak. 

The moral of the story might be, "Don't try to play music which is too technically difficult or emotionally arousing,"  Or maybe not.

Everybody hates everybody else and always has

I've been reading "The Mask of Command," by John Keegan.  Keegan discusses four commanders, Alexander, Wellington, Grant, and Hitler.  I was particularly keen to learn something about Alexander, about whom I knew nothing, except that he was the son of Philip of Macedon.

Now I have a smattering of information about Alexander, which is sufficient, because my interest is actually in American history.  But I did learn something I had long suspected, that the Greek city-states were constantly either at war with each other, just getting over a war with each other, or preparing for such a war.  This was their normal state, excepted when threatened by the Persians, whom they hated more than they hated one another.

Similarly, the peacable, nature loving Native Americans of whom Ellizabeth Warren is such a notable example, were  constantly fighting with each other.  They also had a habit of attacking villages full of settlers who were minding their own business.  I know we treated them unfairly, but there is a reason they were featured as bad guys in so many movies.

Anyway, we weren't nearly as mean to them as the British were to the Irish.

But my thesis is not to prove that we are the best country in the world.  Although we are.  My point is that armed struggle between groups has always existed and always will.  There can be no such thing as a War to End All Wars because wars will not end.   James Madison, in a different context, wrote:  If men were angels, no government would be necessary.  Neither would wars, because we would all be too busy with harp lessons and choir practice.

Obama seemed to believe that our disagreements with Russia were all one big misunderstanding which could be settled with a nice comfortable talk with his friend Vlad.  Clearly the lovefest did not work, and Putin is re-conquering the former Soviet satellites even though it might upset his friend Barack.  

Once we had removed American troops from Iraq, no doubt our government believed that Sunnis and Shi'ites would be having interfaith picnics to explore their common heritage and Kumbaya would be the new official government anthem.  Again, this did not happen.

wou

Worst customer service?

I heard on the radio somewhere that U S Cable had been chosen as the worst customer service provider in the country for 2014.  This made me angry, and I think the folks at United Airlines ought to demand a recount.  They certainly are a strong contender for the title.  It's hard to see how their customer service could be any worse.  Even with Wells Fargo Bank and Comcast in strong competition, I think United should be considered for next year's award.

I recently took a trip to San Francisco from Philadelphia which delayed leaving the ground for 4 hours.  Of course there was a grisly kind of domino effect, causing travelers to miss their connections from Africa to Zanzibar.  My plane to San Luis Obispo was long gone.  Customer service then re-routed me to Santa Barbara   by way of Los Angeles. 

My Los Angeles flight departure was then delayed so that the Santa Barbara flight would leave the ground before its arrival.  No-one informed me of this delay.  I just happened to glance at the departures board and did the math. 

Back to customer service.  They kept suggesting places I might like to fly besides Santa Barbara or San Luis Obispo.  Orange County, anyone?  I told them I was very weak on California geography but did not think Orange County would do.  I got my daughter on the phone when they suggested Bakerfield, which got a strong nolle prosequi from my daughter. We finally settled on a midnight flight to Santa Maria, which was only a half hour late in leaving. 

In recompense for their poor performance, they gave me two $7 vouchers for food at any of the airport vendors.

The return flight was much less annoying, arriving in Philadelphia only and hour and a half late, which passes for promptness at United.

By the way, on the return flight, one of the $7 vouchers was refused at the food court.

Back in the day

When my kids were little.  Clockwise, from upper  left:  Rose Sanzone, Kenny Sanzone, Susan Sanzone, Miriam Sawyer, Rachel Sawyer, Louisa Sawyer

20th century memories:what ladies wore

I've looked in vain for a photo of my mother wearing one of her hats,  but due to her policy of never having her picture taken until she had lost at least 20 lbs,--which never happened--I don't have one.

Nevertheless, she never left the house without one.  These hats were purely ceremonial, having no justification, either decorative or functional.  They neither enhanced her appearance or kept her head warm.  They were stiff little parabolas of some kind of cloth with a snatch of veiling attached.  The image above is an approximation.  Hers were uglier.

She had a bunch of them, which lived on the top of the sideboard in the dining room, and she would pick one at random when she had to leave the house.  If she were going somewhere related to her profession. she was in full lawyer array, including girdle and stockings.  As she entered the house, off came the girdle and hosiery.

Her normal indoor garb was something called a housedress.   I couldn't find a picture on the Internet of anything as dismal as those housedresses my mother--and Bubbe--wore. Department stores had whole departments of "Moderate Housedresses" as well as "Better Housedresses."  Although I never saw one that was better than any other; they were all pretty frightful.  They usually were made of tacky material in ugly but loud patterns which either buttoned or zipped up the front.  They often had two generous patch pockets on the front.  Bubbe used to keep her false teeth in one of the pockets, but I digress.

In this one respect America is a better place today: terrorists, riots, train derailments, yes, but a total lack of housedresses.

A few words in praise of violence

We've seen lots of quotes on Facebook about the effectiveness of non-violence, most popularly those of Martin Luther King, Jr. These sentiments look very fine, especially on a poster decorated tastefully with flowers or adorable small animals. There are, however, those who dissent from the beloved civil rights leader:

We sleep safely at night because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those who would harm us.  Winston Churchill

Those who “abjure” violence can only do so because others are committing violence on their behalf.  Attributed to George Orwell.

  [M]akin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
Rudyard Kipling, "Tommy"

I could quote more, but you get the idea.

I am not advocating violence on the part of citizens in democratic countries like ours, where we have free speech, a Constitution that protects us, and the power to vote the rascals out (and elect new rascals). But in nations run by kleptocrats and religious fanatics, violence is the  alternative chosen by those who do not choose to be slaves.



The government of the United States tried asking the Southern states nicely not to secede, but somehow it didn't work, though tried over and over. The only thing that put the idea permanently out of their heads was the bloody work of Grant and Sherman.  Nearly a third of the young men who fought for the Confederacy were killed or wounded--a terrible price to pay for a terrible idea.

Hitler also did not respond to reason, and giving him a few countries to gobble up did not work either. 

The Jewish prisoners in the death camps would have been grateful to see Allied bombers raining death on these institutions but the powers that be didn't want to make the Germans mad at them.

There is such a thing as just war.  Violence works.  Violence settles things.  Slavery was ended.  Europe and the Far East were liberated.

The "I'm not in jail" club

Bloggers too numerous to mention have claimed that Hillary Clinton should be imprisoned for her tortious e-mail activities during her tenure as Secretary of State.  Not gonna happen.  She is merely joining the large and illustrious group of innocent until proven guilty non-felons who enjoy immunity from the laws that afflict the rest of us.  She can even park in the handicapped-designated parking spot with impunity.

Here are some  further examples:  her husband, of course.  Al Sharpton,  whose official job description should be, if it isn't, rabble rouser, who blithely declines to pay his back income tax.  Al is not in hiding, like Whitey Bulger.  He's right out there, leading flash mobs and sharing wisdom with his dear old buddy, the President of the United States, at the latter's taxpayer-funded residence.

And then there's Jon Corzine, former governor of New Jersey, incompetent and corrupt even by the lenient standards of the Garden State.  He  lost millions of other people's money and hasn't the slightest idea what happened to it.  It has slipped his mind, apparently permanently.  Bernie Madoff must be gnashing his teeth.

I don't understand where several former governors of Illinois went wrong, but at least three of them were actually sent to jail.  Pure carelessness?  Or did they make mistakes like Robert Menendez, Senator from New Jersey, who was doing just fine until he crossed the Democratic leadership by thinking for himself.

Delaware oil trains a menace

Remind me  why the government did not approve the Keystone Pipeline.

How do the Baltimore rioters differ from a lynch mob?

They don't.  Alan Dershowitz explains what's going on.

Oh dear.

When he finds his car, maybe my new glasses will be in it.

Thanks for the heads up

I knew some of my relatives were crazy.  This confirms it.

Poem by Robert Frost

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.

This time of year always makes me think of this poem.

Used books

Can money be made selling used books?  You bet.

And who buys them?  I do.  I usually find something to read at the Good Will.  Among my recent finds: "The Piano Shop on the Left Bank," by Thad Carhart, full of interesting music about pianos, pianists, piano tuners, and music generally;  "The Devil to Play,"  by Jasper Rees, about playing the horn, with lots of gossip about music, musicians--Mozart in particularly--and everything else you might want to know about the horn.  I never would have looked for these books anywhere else because I didn't know they existed.

I bought a paperback copy of "An Officer and a Spy" by Robert Harris, which  only came out in January of this year, but found its way to the Good Will.  It's a well-researched re-creation of the Dreyfus Affair.   Harris, author of "Imperium" and "Conspirata," never disappoints.

Also "Dear Family," by Camilla Bittle-- an unpretentious, sympathetic portrait of the ordeals lived through by members of an ordinary family.---not a masterpiece for the ages, but if you want to know what families endured  in the Depression,you will find out here.  It's a nice change from the razzle dazzle pretentious fiction turned out nowadays.  Magical realism and all that rot.

Also, deTocqueville, "Treasure Island" by Robert Louis Stevenson, a collection of maps of ancient history, and more.

If I am in search of something published and forgotten long ago, I go to abebooks.com.  Amazon also has many forgotten but readable books, many in Kindle form. 

Many of the books I buy are not very good, and I read a little of them and then cast them aside.  They go back to the Good Will, or to the AAUW book sale, or to my daughter's college book sale.

 Daffodils


  I wandered 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 stretched 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.

William Wordsworth

 

I actually wandered, not lonely as a cloud, but pushing a stroller with my oldest baby in it, in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.  These were the first flowers I had seen all year, and my feelings were much the same as Wordsworth's.  So this poem has a special meaning for me.

A poem in honor of Abraham Lilncoln, assasssinated April 15, 1865

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman

Twentieth century memories: our first car

We were living in Brooklyn near the subway and were poor as church mice.  In fact, church mice could have taken our seminar in how to be poor.  We were so poor that my mother sent us a Kosher salami from Columbus, Ohio.  And we ate it. So it seemed like a great idea to get a car. 

Mr Charm wanted to drive to Coney Island and eat at Nathans.  He also wanted to drive up to the Shawan gunk (pronounced Shongun)  mountains and practice his mountain climbing.  There was nothing for it but to buy a car, so we could get out and smell some fresh mountain air, or sea air, as the case might be.

Mr Charm found himself a used car guy called Meyer the Buyer and bought the best car you could get for $75--or maybe it was $250.  He paid Meyer part of his fellowship check and arranged to pick up the car.  He was going to bring it home to Brooklyn and we were going to go somewhere in it.  I arranged for a friend to babysit and got dressed up nice and waited.  And waited.

You younger people--which is everybody, because I'm older than everybody--you don't know what it was like back in the 20th century.  American cars were horrible, and there was nothing else.  The Japanese were just getting into the American market.  So the car Mr Charm bought was a horrible used car, worse than any horrible new car then on the market.  But they were all lousy. 

Meyer the Buyer was in Manhattan someplace on the West Side, so Mr Charm had to come down the old West Side Highway, where the car broke down almost immediately.  .  At the time you did not dare leave your disabled vehicle on the West Side Highway while you went off looking for help, because thieves prowled the highway and would steal all the salable parts from the car.  Like tires.  Stuff like that.  So he sat with the car for hours.

I don't remember how he ever got home that day, but Meyer was intractable and we were stuck with the car.  Where we lived, there was alternative side of the street parking on Tuesday and Thursday from 10 to 12 a.m,, so every Tuesday and Thursday we had to move the car.  Sometimes it started; other times it didn't, and we had to pay someone to tow it to the other side of the street.

But we did drive to the mountains, and we went to Coney Island and had hot dogs.  We had a good time, too, although Mr Charm had to keep a case of motor oil in the trunk of the car, and occasionally had to pull over and give the car a couple of quarts of motor oil.

Go ahead, have another piece of pie

Lose your waistline instead of your mind.

Dreary domestic tales

My dishwasher is broken, not in the sense that it does not perform, but in the sense that it no longer has the ability to get dishes clean.  Since I am not planning to get a new one immediately, it has become necessary to wash dishes thoroughly by hand if I want to eat off of clean dishes, which I do.  After hand-washing them, I put  them in the dishwasher for a nice swim.  They don't come out any cleaner, but no dirtier either.

I also have ants.  I have put ant traps everywhere.  I managed to eliminate them from the stove, but then found them climbing into the refrigerator, so I sprayed them with dangerous ant killer.  This ant killer is not recommended in any place where food is prepared, but unfortunately the ants prefer to be around food. So I spray them and then thoroughly clean the places I have sprayed, thus saving my life, I hope.

They abandoned the refrigerator at last.  I thought I had them on the run, but found they had moved their activities to the microwave, which I then sprayed.  Next was the dishwasher.  I loaded it with poison, then ran it twice to eliminate the poison.  All was quiet when I went to bed.  This morning, when I went to make coffee, I discovered them cavorting in the sink.

I'm warning all my friends:  if my dead body is discovered, covered with crawling ants, you will know who won this war.

Another poem also Irish

The scholar and his cat, Pangur Bán

(from the Irish by Robin Flower)
I and Pangur Ban my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.
Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He too plies his simple skill.
'Tis a merry task to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.
Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.
'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.
When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!
So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.
Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.

Poem for poetry month

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

W. B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping
     slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket
     sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

The Old City, Jerusalem

Passover in my day

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)

The view from Masada

Back from Israel

The mountains skipped like rams, and the little hills like lambs.  So did the little old ladies of Jerusalem, fearlessly striding up and down the streets of Jerusalem with their shopping carts.  I could barely walk, and seriously thought I would die there.  On about the third day, I got better, and there was no stopping me.  Sort of.  My daughter, who is a hiker, strode ahead of me and kept stopping to let me catch up.  But still, I loved Israel.

After Israel, the sunshine here looks like a black and white picture.  Is it so much nearer the sun?

We were there two weeks, and would have stayed longer and seen more, but I was out of clean underwear and longing for an all night drugstore.

I am a terrible packer and know it; still, I never improve.  I pack summer clothes, and freeze when I arrive at my destination.  I forget pain relievers.  I can't find a pharmacy.  I can't find Tums anywhere.  Don't Israelis have stomach aches?  Especially with all the sweets they eat?

The food was wonderful: fresh vegetables, olives, pickles, hummus, halva, falafel, fish.   The meat, not so much.  But I could live on falafel.  And did.

The Arab traders:  "It doesn't cost anything to look!"  "You are my first customer of the day, you bring me luck!"  "I like you, that's why I give you a good price!"  But somehow it seems okay.  This is their shtick.

Incidentally, all Israelis DO NOT speak English, except when you don't want them to, as when taxi drivers ask whether you are going to vote for Clinton or Bush.  

I'm still a little hazy.  More later.  Maybe.

No snow here

Here's where I'm going.  Israel.  And I am hoping there will be no snow. 

Back March 30.

Three grandparents

When I was quite a small child I didn't know who everyone in the family was.  I thought I had three grandparents, courtesy of my mother:  Bubbe, Zayde, and Rosie.

Rosie was my grandmother's helper; what used to be called a"maid" or "girl" in polite society.  In short, Rosie was a black servant.  The fact that I have never mentioned  her astonishes me.  Must be racism.  Of course.

My memory tells me that Rosie was at my grandparents' house every day.  She and Bubbe were always working.  I can't believe the ordinary household required so much housework, but they always seemed to be busy doing something.  In those days, dishes were washed by hand.  And laundry was done on a machine with a wringer.  The wet wash --remember that expressions?==was wrung out by the wringer and then carried up the basement steps and hung on the clothesline.  When it dried it was brought inside, trundled down to the basement again, where most of it had to be ironed.  The only items that did not have to be ironed were   underwear, as I recalled.

And then there was kashrut, a form of organizing food and dishware and pots and pans which Rosie had not learned growing up in Savannah, GA.  She understood it very well by the time I knew her.   A novice could not work in a kosher environment; it was too complex.  The kosher housewife needed someone who understand how a kosher kitchen worked.  It governed almost everything that went on in the household where food was concerned.

On special occasions, known as Spring cleaning, carpets were taken out to the back yard and hung over the clothesline, where the dust was beaten out of them with a carpet beater.  The curtains were taken down and stretched on huge stretchers that looked like a bed of nails.  Everything was out of its proper place and children needed to disappear or be scolded for getting in the way.

I loved Rosie,  She was not too busy to tell me stories about growing up in Savannah, a place I always longed to visit.  I finally went there when I was in my 30's and loved it.   And she told me about her husband, who was named Blue, the only man I ever heard of with that name.  Rosie governed by threats.  Little girls who did not behave would be locked in dark closets.  And if we were not careful, we would get shot by needles which Uncle Moe carried in his doctor's bag.  I was so frightened of Uncle Moe, one of the gentlest of men, that I hid under the dining room table when he was expected.  No wonder I grew up to be crazy!

Some sage words for Congress and the President...

from Oliver Cromwell:

You have sat too long for any good you have been doing lately... Depart, I say; and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!

Equal opportunity fleecing

Ruth Marcus appears to believe that legalized thievery by police and local government is something that only affects minorities.  She is oh so wrong.  They will steal from anyone regardless of race, color, or creed.

Her column is very informative and deserves to be read in full.  However, she appears to believe that it is more wrong to cheat and mistreat a poor person than a wealthy one.  Wrong again.  Justice is supposed to be blind.  It isn't okay, or more okay, to maltreat a rich citizen under color of law than a poor one.

Governments exist to serve us, not to ensure a revenue stream so that government employees can achieve respectable incomes, good health care,  and adequate pensions.  The police are employed to keep the peace and defend citizens from malefactors, and this is what I believe they do, for the most part.

We need to be sensitive to the abuse of power by elected and non-elected government employees.   It is one of the flaws in our system and leads to disrespect for the lawful authorities and widespread corruption.

I won't be supporting Jeb Bush

He seems like a nice enough guy, as was his father, as was his brother.

A lot of what he says makes sense, but when he gets on the topic of "11 million immigrants" for whom there are "no plans,"  I get up and leave the room.

A politician is someone, who when he sees something, anything, for which there are "no plans,"  feels the need to run up a plan on his handy-dandy Singer sewing machine.  If he sees a chicken crossing the road, he has to come up with a plan to either help the chicken  cross the road or prevent it from doing so.  Or to bring it back safely.  Chickens, undocumented immigrants, the principle is the same.  Do something..  Pass a law.  Create an agency, with its own headquarters building, an executive director with an assistant director -and two administrative assistants and a gardener.  Anything but leave the chicken to make his own plans.

We don't have to make laws for these undocumented folks now on our shores.  They will either stay, leave, or die. The idea is to prevent any more from coming in and deport the ones behaving criminally.  Time will take care of the rest.

Anti-Semitism on campus

This is all you need to know about the topic.

Are American Jews welcome on college campuses?  Yes, if they are self-hating Jews.

Kissing up to Delaware Muslims

Evoking memories of racist Southern sheriffs hunting black people with vicious, snarling dogs and fire hoses,  Governor Markell has met with local Muslims to deliver this message:  "We love and respect you, and please forgive any future incidents in which we might be mean to you, act violent, or hurt your feelings.  We apologize in advance, just  in case."

As far as I know, no-one is disturbing the Muslims of  Delaware.  So the Governor is pro-actively meeting with them, in case some future Delaware resident frowns at one of them or asks a Muslim why he/she is wearing something funny-looking on his or her head.

I have not read any news bulletins about Governor Markell meeting with Chinese American residents of Delaware, deeply regretting the absence of chopsticks in local eating places and assuring them that we all know they are patriotic even though they don't eat with knives and forks.

Why doesn't he find something constructive to do, like sorting his sock drawer, or solving crossword puzzles?

Bad ideas never die

A state Department Spokeslady has come up with an idea that is so old that it had whiskers on it during the Roosevelt Administration.. Every twenty or thirty years some bright young undergraduate hauls this out of the storeroom of discredited ideas, blows off the dust, and presents it as the solution for whatever ails society: terrorism, domestic violence, poverty, or lack of on-street parking.

Here it is, straight from the unicorn factory floor: “We cannot win this war by killing them. We cannot kill our way out of this war,” Harf said. “We need, in the longer term — medium and longer term — to go after the root cause..."

These fine young fellows need jobs!  Perhaps we can open up some new slaughterhouses--halal of course--to provide them with gainful employment.

Don't try this with the IRS...

unless you're Al Sharpton.

I know people on the very edge of poverty who owe trivial amounts of money to the IRS.  The IRS makes their daily existence a living hell.

How come the Rev Al isn't running around looking over his shoulder in fear of the tax man?  Could it be because of his friendship with Barry the gum-chewing President?

This new Pope...

I'm not a Catholic, but  there is only one pope, and he is kind of public property.  I take a proprietary interest in the holder of the title.   I have misgivings about  this new pope.  Where in the world did he go to Pope school?  I mean these fellows, like them or not, are supposed to be serious, scholarly chaps, no?  Ahead of their classmates?  Noted for erudition, wisdom, and getting along with the other kids?

So what's the new incumbent doing, sounding off about people "breeding like rabbits"?  For some reason, this offends me.  I only have two children, so I'm not guilty of over-populating the world, but what if I were?  Just as some people's terrorists can be other people's freedom fighters, some people's over-productive  rabbits might be other people's Easter bunnies.  And didn't I read somewhere that God believes we humans should be fruitful and multiply?

Just which of the Buckley clan, brothers and sisters of the famed William F, would the Pope consider unnecessary to human happiness?  How about the Kennedys?  Are there any of them the Pope could do without?

Maybe the Pope needs a public relations consultant.  Or some duct tape.

Our new best friends, the Taliban, are not terrorists...

Oh heavens no.  So what do you call it when they murder three Americans?  A friendly dispute?  A hissy fit?  Agreeing to disagree?

Boris Johnson explains terrorists' motive

It's all about sex.  It's as good an explanation as any.

An offensive e-mail leads to lawsuit

Whatever ever happened to freedom of speech?

This could be from an Alec Guinness movie

Little old lady with bobbies

Fidel Castro does not trust the United States

Well, fancy that!

Some stupid ideas, beloved among the American people

Chicken Little & Friends--also known as the Mainstream Media--are terribly worried about anti-Muslim backlash.

It used to be that the media would at least wait a day before sweeping the latest victims of Muslim terrorism into the trash to refocus on the looming “anti-Muslim backlash” that never actually comes.
The increase in Muslim terrorism however has made it risky for the media to wait that long. 24 hours after a brutal Muslim terrorist attack, there might be another brutal Muslim terrorist attack which will completely crowd out the stories of Muslims worrying about the backlash to the latest Muslim atrocity.

Some bad ideas just will not die but are beloved by the American people.  Here's a partial list:

The idea that Che Guevara is glamorous and heroic; part B of this idea is the notion that Fidel Castro is a hero, despite his 30 some years of unrelieved thuggery.

The idea that unnamed and unidentified people are putting razor blades and poison in Halloween candy.

The totally unsupported notion that Obama is intelligent.   I am not privy to conspiracy theories about his birth.  O was born in the USA, all right.  Thousands, if not millions of stupid people are born in the US, including him.

The idea that Islam is a religion of peace; the corollary, that if we just show these villains and murderers love and understanding, they will like us and treat us right.

The idea that religious creeds are not susceptible to political pressure.  Tell that to the Mormons, who found it prudent to abandon their beliefs in multiple marriage after these were proved not to play in Peoria.

Meanwhile, can we abandon the notion that Islam is a religion of peace?  These people have been getting on our nerves since the Presidency of Thomas Jefferson.  Remember the shores of Tripoli?  We took care of them then, now lets roll up our sleeves and teach them a badly needed lesson.

If you have tears,

prepare to shed them now.

Celebrate Andrew Jackson!

An American victory!

Pollce "strike"

Police prefer the low-hanging fruit.  Examples:  You and me.  It's only rational for cops to arrest old ladies who won't give them any lip for speeding on an otherwise empty highway; it's a whole lot safer for them.  Trying to intervene in a crime being committed by a young strong black man is likely to get someone hurt.

 I will concede that the murder of two innocent patrolmen was a heinous crime.  I will further admit that the grand juries in both Ferguson and New York did their duty as specified by law, and that Al Sharpton et al are a disgrace to the good name of rabble-rousers who have brought a lot of grief to the body politic.

So the police in New York City are withholding their services.  They are not "on strike" because striking is illegal.  They are showing up for work but not doing anything.  They will be out there, neglecting their duties.  So, you will no longer have your car towed if you stay overtime in a parking spot--bliss!

There is a downside to this, though.  New York will become like San Francisco, a place where the homeless use public fountains as toilets, panhandle aggressively, and menace harmless pedestrians with their threatening demeanor.  The squeegee men will be back, offering their unwanted attentions to motorists.  This will return the quality of life to the pre-Giulani area, while the New York Times laments the ungovernablity of the city and demands smaller classroom and higher pay for teachers in order to attack the "root causes" of crime. Tourists will flee and businesses will struggle.

I think we need to rethink what we want from policing. Are the police a source of revenue, like bingo games in church meeting rooms?  Or are they employed to protect the public?

Happy New Year!