As this year ends I just feel kind of stupid. About all that remains of my family is in the next room as I type. I'm very happy to be with them.
Brigitte remains alone with our cat Lulu in Montreal. We're in touch with Skype, maybe even hour on the hour. I think the upshot of this New Year's is that in future, I will volunteer to spend it not with my family et. al. Rather just with my wife and our cat and a good movie.
Am I smart, or am I smart?
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
What I Do Every Day
What I do every day is spend an inordinate amount of time thanking the God of Kwalikor (hey! It's who I happen to believe in!) that I don't hurt anywhere.
No kidding. I make conscious checks: hmm . . . do I hurt here? No. Check. Do I hurt here? No. Check. Then I sidetrack and check if I feel okay. Is my stomach a roiling mass of horror? No? Check. Am I feeling lethargic, unwilling and unhappy? Yes. Check.
But when any of these checks becomes a concern, re: do I hurt anywhere? No, check and it comes back negative, ie. oh yes, I DO hurt, then I remind myself why I make these checks every day just to remind me how lucky I usually am compared to others. So, to make your life more useful when you don't feel great, use my checklist. Any question you say "yes" to, you should have a drink to:
1. Am I above ground?
2. Is my stomach not a mass of troubles, like last week when I seemed to have diarrhea of the worst kind for no apparent reason?
3. Do all the people who call me "friend" still like me?
4. Am I going to be alive after 6 pm. this evening?
5. Will I drink to that at 6:01?
6. Is the thing that I ordered on complete impulse off Amazon in the mail to me as I type?
7. Will I just be like a bear in honey when I receive it?
8. Is this constant sound in my left ear that sounds like a slow, pulsing motor going to be gone by tomorrow?
9. Is life just an illusion and am I going to wake up feeling completely refreshed from having had it, in a place that my my mind can't possibly grasp, in which I view the Foaming Fountains of Eternal Paradise where Hobbits roam free and everywhere is like New Zealand?
10. Do I still have that 47% of my mind that I went to sleep to yesterday?
No kidding. I make conscious checks: hmm . . . do I hurt here? No. Check. Do I hurt here? No. Check. Then I sidetrack and check if I feel okay. Is my stomach a roiling mass of horror? No? Check. Am I feeling lethargic, unwilling and unhappy? Yes. Check.
But when any of these checks becomes a concern, re: do I hurt anywhere? No, check and it comes back negative, ie. oh yes, I DO hurt, then I remind myself why I make these checks every day just to remind me how lucky I usually am compared to others. So, to make your life more useful when you don't feel great, use my checklist. Any question you say "yes" to, you should have a drink to:
1. Am I above ground?
2. Is my stomach not a mass of troubles, like last week when I seemed to have diarrhea of the worst kind for no apparent reason?
3. Do all the people who call me "friend" still like me?
4. Am I going to be alive after 6 pm. this evening?
5. Will I drink to that at 6:01?
6. Is the thing that I ordered on complete impulse off Amazon in the mail to me as I type?
7. Will I just be like a bear in honey when I receive it?
8. Is this constant sound in my left ear that sounds like a slow, pulsing motor going to be gone by tomorrow?
9. Is life just an illusion and am I going to wake up feeling completely refreshed from having had it, in a place that my my mind can't possibly grasp, in which I view the Foaming Fountains of Eternal Paradise where Hobbits roam free and everywhere is like New Zealand?
10. Do I still have that 47% of my mind that I went to sleep to yesterday?
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Why Blogs Die
Do you remember the first time you actually connected with a computer through the phone to some other computer, and wrote something that you imagined someone would read?
There had to be a first time, and I'll bet you remember it. If you're relatively young, say under 50, people around you, including your parents, may have been doing this already, and it was normal to you to hop on. The word "email" was probably spelled "e-mail" and when some website (web-site) was mentioned on the news or in a commercial, they went through the whole thing: "h-t-t-p-colon-forward-slash-forward-slash-double-you-double-you-double-you-dot-web-site-dot-com" or something very similar. Now no one even bothers with the double-yous.
I had resisted the whole "connecting with the computer" thing. To me, a computer, circa 1993, was just something you used to write things or design things or play games. I'd had a computer for almost 10 years prior to that, but back in the dawn of personal computing, connecting to other computers was for extreme techies; very, very probably whom you didn't know and whom even your friends' friends didn't know.
But eventually the time came when the pressure was too great -- your elder brother was "e-mailing" everyone and you weren't. In my case I was lured by a service called a "BBS" (bulletin board service) sponsored by the Montreal Mirror called "Babylon."
It wasn't the World Wide Web. It was a dialup thing that you didn't have to pay for; it had several different sections that we'd now call forums (maybe that's what they were called then too) and you'd post and people would respond etc.
Well, I actually went out and bought my first modem. I think it was a 14.4-baud thing. Whatever it was, it was slow, but slow compared to what I didn't know so I didn't care. And I remember actually "posting" something to Babylon. I have no idea what, but I remember being embarrassed, frightened, excited and weirded out about what would happen next. And someone must have responded, because the rest is history. That went on for about a year and then the Web started to infiltrate, I moved on and up and so did everyone else, and Babylon shut its doors a couple of years later and it was to each his own.
In 1996 or so I learned HTML and actually created a website, called boulevardmontreal.com (you can still see parts of it at the wayback machine). It wasn't its own domain, of course -- I piggybacked it off my ISP. But believe it or not, I started writing articles for it, as well as restaurant reviews. I'd make general comments, or post something about food or something I'd cooked, all the while having no idea whether anyone was reading it, since there was no comments section and I don't even think my email address was anywhere anyway.
So imagine my surprise when the doyenne of food writing at the time, Lesley Chesterman (critic at the Gazette) somehow found my email address and told me she got some of her ideas of where to go review from some of the stuff I'd written. Wow-wee-wah-hey was what I remember thinking at the time.
That prompted me to create montrealfood.com which at its height was pretty influential, until everyone started going to restaurants and photographing the food and writing about it. That took care of that, and the rest is, again, history. A turbulent period of commercialization began and now it has come down to a smooth system of websites masquerading as blogging sites that "blog" about restaurants and I became totally unnecessary.
Then the great Blog Monster reared its ugly head and suddenly everyone who was anyone had a blog.
These evolved into two camps: the blog-to-have-a-blog blog and the blog-for-exposure/monetary gain blog and all the permutations in between. The former, thankfully, seem to have wilted, dried up and been abandoned and the latter have either become too commercialised to be called a blog or devolved into extreme-niche affairs.
The question is, what really was a blog in the first place, and if it was definable, is that which it was now formally non-existent or near to being so?
I will, of course, always deny that what you are reading now is, or ever has been, a "blog." It's always simply been the ramblings of whatever came to mind, the topics of which were always totally unpredictable. One of the most totally unfocused groups of writing possibly ever assembled upon the face of the Earth. Which is, of course, the only way I'd have it.
But back to the question: is the blog, as I've tried to define here, dead, in decline, or has it simply morphed into something else?
To me, Facebook and Twitter are manufactured, cynical entities with the ultimate objective of enriching their creators. They will morph into some other entity, as they simply can't stay the way they are.
But the "little" blog -- such as that written by esteemed chum Jim Donahue -- is most definitely expired.
Is this, as some folk muse, the lack of an attention span, that people are simply too busy to read more than a few write-bites at a time? I find this very hard to believe.
I myself lament the disappearance of several blogs (you know who you are) who have simply just gone to seed and blown off in the wind. To me, no matter how mundane the content was, it was still a pleasure to be able to drift over to that person's blog and see what had gone on in their world that day -- no matter ONE WHIT whether you personally knew that person or had any involvement in their lives.
It was a daily "doing the rounds," and for a person of routines such as me, it was always a pleasurable routine. Now, I have to confine myself to "News" and "Tech" "blogs" which are impersonal and magazine-like.
Will I quit writing this "blog?" The simple answer is, no, because I don't write it for any other purpose than for the edification of me, and that I was doing it a hell of a lot longer ago than the sorry word "blog" was ever invented.
So yes, let the blog be dead. But whatever you want to call what it is that you've just read -- well, that won't be going away any time soon.
There had to be a first time, and I'll bet you remember it. If you're relatively young, say under 50, people around you, including your parents, may have been doing this already, and it was normal to you to hop on. The word "email" was probably spelled "e-mail" and when some website (web-site) was mentioned on the news or in a commercial, they went through the whole thing: "h-t-t-p-colon-forward-slash-forward-slash-double-you-double-you-double-you-dot-web-site-dot-com" or something very similar. Now no one even bothers with the double-yous.
I had resisted the whole "connecting with the computer" thing. To me, a computer, circa 1993, was just something you used to write things or design things or play games. I'd had a computer for almost 10 years prior to that, but back in the dawn of personal computing, connecting to other computers was for extreme techies; very, very probably whom you didn't know and whom even your friends' friends didn't know.
But eventually the time came when the pressure was too great -- your elder brother was "e-mailing" everyone and you weren't. In my case I was lured by a service called a "BBS" (bulletin board service) sponsored by the Montreal Mirror called "Babylon."
It wasn't the World Wide Web. It was a dialup thing that you didn't have to pay for; it had several different sections that we'd now call forums (maybe that's what they were called then too) and you'd post and people would respond etc.
Well, I actually went out and bought my first modem. I think it was a 14.4-baud thing. Whatever it was, it was slow, but slow compared to what I didn't know so I didn't care. And I remember actually "posting" something to Babylon. I have no idea what, but I remember being embarrassed, frightened, excited and weirded out about what would happen next. And someone must have responded, because the rest is history. That went on for about a year and then the Web started to infiltrate, I moved on and up and so did everyone else, and Babylon shut its doors a couple of years later and it was to each his own.
In 1996 or so I learned HTML and actually created a website, called boulevardmontreal.com (you can still see parts of it at the wayback machine). It wasn't its own domain, of course -- I piggybacked it off my ISP. But believe it or not, I started writing articles for it, as well as restaurant reviews. I'd make general comments, or post something about food or something I'd cooked, all the while having no idea whether anyone was reading it, since there was no comments section and I don't even think my email address was anywhere anyway.
So imagine my surprise when the doyenne of food writing at the time, Lesley Chesterman (critic at the Gazette) somehow found my email address and told me she got some of her ideas of where to go review from some of the stuff I'd written. Wow-wee-wah-hey was what I remember thinking at the time.
That prompted me to create montrealfood.com which at its height was pretty influential, until everyone started going to restaurants and photographing the food and writing about it. That took care of that, and the rest is, again, history. A turbulent period of commercialization began and now it has come down to a smooth system of websites masquerading as blogging sites that "blog" about restaurants and I became totally unnecessary.
Then the great Blog Monster reared its ugly head and suddenly everyone who was anyone had a blog.
These evolved into two camps: the blog-to-have-a-blog blog and the blog-for-exposure/monetary gain blog and all the permutations in between. The former, thankfully, seem to have wilted, dried up and been abandoned and the latter have either become too commercialised to be called a blog or devolved into extreme-niche affairs.
The question is, what really was a blog in the first place, and if it was definable, is that which it was now formally non-existent or near to being so?
I will, of course, always deny that what you are reading now is, or ever has been, a "blog." It's always simply been the ramblings of whatever came to mind, the topics of which were always totally unpredictable. One of the most totally unfocused groups of writing possibly ever assembled upon the face of the Earth. Which is, of course, the only way I'd have it.
But back to the question: is the blog, as I've tried to define here, dead, in decline, or has it simply morphed into something else?
To me, Facebook and Twitter are manufactured, cynical entities with the ultimate objective of enriching their creators. They will morph into some other entity, as they simply can't stay the way they are.
But the "little" blog -- such as that written by esteemed chum Jim Donahue -- is most definitely expired.
Is this, as some folk muse, the lack of an attention span, that people are simply too busy to read more than a few write-bites at a time? I find this very hard to believe.
I myself lament the disappearance of several blogs (you know who you are) who have simply just gone to seed and blown off in the wind. To me, no matter how mundane the content was, it was still a pleasure to be able to drift over to that person's blog and see what had gone on in their world that day -- no matter ONE WHIT whether you personally knew that person or had any involvement in their lives.
It was a daily "doing the rounds," and for a person of routines such as me, it was always a pleasurable routine. Now, I have to confine myself to "News" and "Tech" "blogs" which are impersonal and magazine-like.
Will I quit writing this "blog?" The simple answer is, no, because I don't write it for any other purpose than for the edification of me, and that I was doing it a hell of a lot longer ago than the sorry word "blog" was ever invented.
So yes, let the blog be dead. But whatever you want to call what it is that you've just read -- well, that won't be going away any time soon.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Cartoon Anatomy
No bubbles today! Instead, see what this lunatic came up with: he decided to try to figure out what kind of skeletal systems cartoon characters possessed. This is a partial selection:
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Moving Hassles
Can anyone suggest a good moving company to move from Montreal to New York? I've just bought this place and I need to replace their black piano with my pink piano.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Casablanca: The Series
Since I acquired the entire run of Star Trek: The Next Generation on DVD a couple of weeks back, I've, er, become somewhat immersed. Even though we pay upwards of about $50/month for cable TV here, the selection of viewable fare, to quote Data, is exceedingly paltry. Thus the lame attempt to declare independence.
But my immersion led me to wonder what would happen if, for some reason, Casablanca, with Humphrey Bogart and that Swedish woman, had ever become serialised. You know, the Adventures of Rick.
You'd have a different adventure for Rick each week, instead of having to settle for an eternity of 90 minutes of "Here's To You, Kid." With CGI at the stage at which it is, you could just call in Andy Serkis to reanimate Bogey and we'd have a fantastic 7-season run of Casablanca: The Next Generation. You drink when Bogey drinks. You smoke when Bogey smokes.
The possibilities are boundless. The office is open for script consideration. First episode: Encounter with The Rat Pack.
But my immersion led me to wonder what would happen if, for some reason, Casablanca, with Humphrey Bogart and that Swedish woman, had ever become serialised. You know, the Adventures of Rick.
You'd have a different adventure for Rick each week, instead of having to settle for an eternity of 90 minutes of "Here's To You, Kid." With CGI at the stage at which it is, you could just call in Andy Serkis to reanimate Bogey and we'd have a fantastic 7-season run of Casablanca: The Next Generation. You drink when Bogey drinks. You smoke when Bogey smokes.
The possibilities are boundless. The office is open for script consideration. First episode: Encounter with The Rat Pack.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
What is Up
Hmm . . . I think this is the longest that I haven't posted since the beginning in 2006. So what's up? I don't know. What is depression? Could this be it? Just no interest in anything . . . oh wait! Let's! . . . naaah, let's not.
Some hammer blows that are not conducive to humor or expressiveness . . . that's all.
Off alone to California for the first time in three years on the 13th. No son for Christmas because my ex-wife has officially kidnapped him. Not much else to say . . .
Some hammer blows that are not conducive to humor or expressiveness . . . that's all.
Off alone to California for the first time in three years on the 13th. No son for Christmas because my ex-wife has officially kidnapped him. Not much else to say . . .
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Make It So
I won't deny I'm a fan of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
But I have a list of questions I'd dearly love the answers to. The only couple of times Brigitte got stuck watching it with me (It's really good! I'd say, No explosions and great plots!) I drove her nuts with my questions.
I will now share them with you!
How come there is not a sheet of paper anywhere in existence on the U.S.S. Enterprise? What do you do when you have to make a trip to the commissary to get stuff for dinner? Laser the list on the back of your hand? Oh, I forgot -- there IS no commissary because one cooks any more.
(When they're not fighting the Borg they're "replicating" dinner. Now would you eat a replicated Kraft Dinner? Oh, I'm having a senior moment -- when we buy them in those boxes, they've already been replicated once, d'oh.)
Why is everyone sitting around on the bridge doing nothing? The captain seemingly wanders to his ready room for the pettiest reason and when he comes back to sit down in the captain's chair, Riker, Troi and The Guest Star follow him in a delicately choreographed dance in which they all end up sitting down at the same time. As if, uh . . . they've rehearsed it.
Captain Picard and Commander Riker, on that spacious Bridge that looks like a Vegas ballroom, often hang out uncomfortably close to each other for the sake of the camera, sometimes shoulders almost touching, just to have a conversation.
Sometimes at the end of the show you get a shot of the whole cast just standing around on the bridge, but very carefully, so no one blocks anyone else from the camera.
The Holodeck, if it can do what they always show it's capable of doing, would be booked months in advance and every "holo-simulation" would be Four-Xd rated marathon orgies.
I could go on (this is where Brigitte broke) . . . where are any waste baskets? How come we never see the cleaning lady? What if someone rang your doorbell and you didn't say "Come?" Could they just come in anyway?
Where are the MPs? Those drinks in Ten-Forward are not all Virgin Marys and lattechinos. How come no one seems to pay for their drinks? There must be restaurants on a ship that big. Where are they?
How come no one just beams himself into a crew-woman's cabin to watch her take a shower? The technology is there.
How come we never see children wandering down the aisles like all the other "filler" crew members? We know they're there.
Why does every single thing you do require a beep of some kind?
And last but not least, WHY DOES EVERYTHING ALWAYS COME OUT RIGHT IN THE END?????
Have your answers replicated on my desk tomorrow morning.
But I have a list of questions I'd dearly love the answers to. The only couple of times Brigitte got stuck watching it with me (It's really good! I'd say, No explosions and great plots!) I drove her nuts with my questions.
I will now share them with you!
How come there is not a sheet of paper anywhere in existence on the U.S.S. Enterprise? What do you do when you have to make a trip to the commissary to get stuff for dinner? Laser the list on the back of your hand? Oh, I forgot -- there IS no commissary because one cooks any more.
(When they're not fighting the Borg they're "replicating" dinner. Now would you eat a replicated Kraft Dinner? Oh, I'm having a senior moment -- when we buy them in those boxes, they've already been replicated once, d'oh.)
Why is everyone sitting around on the bridge doing nothing? The captain seemingly wanders to his ready room for the pettiest reason and when he comes back to sit down in the captain's chair, Riker, Troi and The Guest Star follow him in a delicately choreographed dance in which they all end up sitting down at the same time. As if, uh . . . they've rehearsed it.
Captain Picard and Commander Riker, on that spacious Bridge that looks like a Vegas ballroom, often hang out uncomfortably close to each other for the sake of the camera, sometimes shoulders almost touching, just to have a conversation.
Sometimes at the end of the show you get a shot of the whole cast just standing around on the bridge, but very carefully, so no one blocks anyone else from the camera.
The Holodeck, if it can do what they always show it's capable of doing, would be booked months in advance and every "holo-simulation" would be Four-Xd rated marathon orgies.
I could go on (this is where Brigitte broke) . . . where are any waste baskets? How come we never see the cleaning lady? What if someone rang your doorbell and you didn't say "Come?" Could they just come in anyway?
Where are the MPs? Those drinks in Ten-Forward are not all Virgin Marys and lattechinos. How come no one seems to pay for their drinks? There must be restaurants on a ship that big. Where are they?
How come no one just beams himself into a crew-woman's cabin to watch her take a shower? The technology is there.
How come we never see children wandering down the aisles like all the other "filler" crew members? We know they're there.
Why does every single thing you do require a beep of some kind?
And last but not least, WHY DOES EVERYTHING ALWAYS COME OUT RIGHT IN THE END?????
Have your answers replicated on my desk tomorrow morning.
My Birthday and All Sorts of Fun Things
Chapter IIt was my birthday yesterday, Flock! I was one day older than I had been the day before! However, almost every restaurant being closed on a Monday, we made a filet-mignon dinner instead.
This photo comes nowhere near to doing it justice, but there was juicy medium-rare filet mignon, cast-iron fried "dice" (I call them that because they're potatoes cut to almost the same dimensions as dice), wild mushroom Mercy sauce (because it's so good that it's torture when it's gone) and corn. Odd combination, maybe, but your mouth would heartily disagree.
If I had been , say, fourteen years old on my birthday and wondering what dinner I would be having fifty years hence, I wouldn't have been able to imagine that I would some day have the power to create a meal of such decadence. That was the kind kind of food . . . uh . . . old people ate.
Chapter II
I was roughly roused by Brigitte at 6:30 this morning because I had to make a phone call to Japan. It was 8:30 p.m. there.
In this phone call I was informed by my ex-wife that there was "no possibility" of her letting me pick up my son for Christmas because of a letter I was forced to send (she has no landline and can't receive long distance calls and no Internet, so everything has to be done through her parents, who quite frankly wish I'd tumble under a bus, the sooner the better) with a mild threat of legal intervention if she didn't let me talk to him at least once a week; thus, after all these years of supposedly amicable communication, she has gone and done the official deed of kidnapping him. Stay tuned, folks -- this could get Mel Gibsony.
(Japan, a so-called first-world nation, is the only so-called first-world nation that does not observe the Hague convention regarding custody of children. Thus even if my ex-wife was a drug addict who beat my son every day and had multiple boyfriends, there is no court there that would allow me even to appear before it to plead for custody. In 99% of cases, regardless of circumstance, the custody reverts to the mother. Now you know why I wrote the post directly preceding this one.)
Chapter III
Filet mignon sandwiches for dinner!!!!!!
New Rankings
As you know, I've kind of loosely kept a list of Whos' On Top in the world as far as being the worst race/ideology/record of abuse and, for reasons known only to me at the moment, Japan LEAPS into the lead with at least a head ahead of the rest to take the lead.
This time it's about the general Japanese mindset. My conclusion is: "They're all so fucked up that using psychiatry would be like putting a bandaid on a gunshot wound to the head."
This time it's about the general Japanese mindset. My conclusion is: "They're all so fucked up that using psychiatry would be like putting a bandaid on a gunshot wound to the head."
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Midwinter Doldrums
You deserve a rant at least once a week but I'm afraid I don't even have the energy for that. For no apparent reason my appetite has been nil in recent weeks. I can survive on some potato chips for a midday snack and then two or three bites of whatever's for dinner. I'm almost never hungry.
I sleep badly. Helped by sleeping pills, it's mostly a mire of dream after dream. The weather is sameness . . . to me, a sunny day is extra-depressing. I prefer the rain/snowy doldrums.
A lot of it is caused by a unilateral lack of communication with my son in Japan. It's pretty much boiled down to they (the triumvirate: my ex and her parents) have decided communication between father and son is no longer "necessary." And I can't do a fucking thing about it, aside from flying over there unannounced and show up at their doorstep.
I have one bright spot to report -- when I ordered a Kindle, I accidentally ordered two by mistake. Disgusted because it had no backlight, I sent one back, but then the other one arrived. I reluctantly embraced it and haven't regretted it. I've downloaded about seven books at maybe a cost of $30 and have a lot of reading to do -- as long as there is light.
Oh, and Monday I turn the non-age of 54.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Your First Mac?
I was reading an article about when people got their first Macs. Well, I got mine in around 1986, but I think the question should be, what was the first truly cool thing you did with a Mac?
I think this illustration is. I think I did it in 1994. Pretty cool, eh?
I think this illustration is. I think I did it in 1994. Pretty cool, eh?
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Getting Away With It
Do you know how easy it would be to get away with murder? I read about some helicopter crash where some "Ant-drug Czar" is eliminated Now they're pinning this on sub-par weather conditions. Oh sure, a narco-traficante was nowhere in sight.
I remember (with regret, but it was a sign of the times) that when we lived in Kinshasa, Zaire in the early 70s, we briefly discussed the idea that if we went out at random, on a random night very late at night, when no one was around (that was most nights) we could, if we'd had a gun, have just gone up to a stranger and shot him to death.
No one would EVER have suspected us.
My point is not that I ever wanted to get away with a murder; my point is that MOST PEOPLE get away with a murder. The more gangster-like and organized they are, they can get away with countless DOZENS of murders. Chances are that ever single one of those that pulled the trigger will die a quiet death surrounded by friends and family at a late age.
Pity our poor cops and justice system . . . even though they're supposedly the best in the world, I could still get up (at 2:11 a.m.) in nondescript blue jeans with an ordinary coat that people wear every day, walk to the nearest bus stop and wait for that FUCKING CROWD OF TEENAGE IDIOTS WHO'VE JUST LEFT THE BARS, as they do ever Saturday night, and make one of them an inch smaller, permanently.
Hmm . . now where IS that Colt 45 my dad left me . . . .
I remember (with regret, but it was a sign of the times) that when we lived in Kinshasa, Zaire in the early 70s, we briefly discussed the idea that if we went out at random, on a random night very late at night, when no one was around (that was most nights) we could, if we'd had a gun, have just gone up to a stranger and shot him to death.
No one would EVER have suspected us.
My point is not that I ever wanted to get away with a murder; my point is that MOST PEOPLE get away with a murder. The more gangster-like and organized they are, they can get away with countless DOZENS of murders. Chances are that ever single one of those that pulled the trigger will die a quiet death surrounded by friends and family at a late age.
Pity our poor cops and justice system . . . even though they're supposedly the best in the world, I could still get up (at 2:11 a.m.) in nondescript blue jeans with an ordinary coat that people wear every day, walk to the nearest bus stop and wait for that FUCKING CROWD OF TEENAGE IDIOTS WHO'VE JUST LEFT THE BARS, as they do ever Saturday night, and make one of them an inch smaller, permanently.
Hmm . . now where IS that Colt 45 my dad left me . . . .
Friday, November 11, 2011
Happy 11/11/11 11:11:11 p.m.
The Power of One
Remember, there can only be one date like this -- all the rest will have to be things like 12/12/12, which isn't at all the same.
Say it out loud to a Japanese! He'll think you've got rabies! (Dogs in Japan go "Wan Wan!") Go to your local maternity ward and substitute a Talking Betsy doll for a newborn born at exactly 11:11!
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Bad Guys Fighting Evil?
 |
| Anonymous hides behind Guy Fawkes masks |
That seems to be the case. In case you've been exploring 1,000 foot caves in Popocataptl for the past three years, there's a vicious group of bloodthirsty murderers in Mexico who call themselves Zetas. Their pleasant exploits include regularly chain-sawing the heads off men, women and children and just about shooting anyone who so much as looks at them.
These are bad, bad people, flock -- they make the Einsatzgruppen look like a bunch of kindly young soldiers off to have a Sunday afternoon plink at a few Jews in nearby woods, with schnapps to follow.
Recently however, up has popped another group of not-so-bad guys, who call themselves Anonymous. They seem to be a motley crew of hackers dedicated to, well, doing whatever they want to do. Quote: "We [Anonymous] just happen to be a group of people on the internet who need — just kind of an outlet to do as we wish, that we wouldn't be able to do in regular society."
Well, that can be bad or it can be good, depending on to whom you're speaking. I myself think that it's about time.
Recently, apparently, they've decided to take on the Zetas. (I know, sounds like an L. Ron Hubbard novel, doesn't it? All we need is a few Engrams. (Boss Anonymous to be played by John Travolta.) I don't know how it all started, but apparently a member of Anonymous was kidnapped by the Zetas. The Zetas responded by threatening to post the names, addresses and home phone numbers of every corrupt cop, taxi driver, military officer etc. known to be aiding and abetting the Zetas (well, you can pretty much infer that the entire town of Juarez is just a suburb of Zetaville -- they should issue passports!)
So apparently the release of this information so has the Zetas' knickers in a twist that they released their Anonymous guy. But now Anonymous have upped the stakes.
They just don't like the Zetas, they inform us in this clever video, and they're threatening to do it anyway, just to see how many "law-enforcement" officers swoop in and arrest all the Zeta co-thugs.
And the Zetas are promising to kill ten people for every name exposed. Christ, if Anonymous exposed every name on the list, Mexico would suddenly become a very empty place . . . If there were a place to send donations to help Anonymous in this admirable quest, I'd leave ten dollars in the bank and give the rest to them.
Bad Guys Fighting Evil?
That seems to be the case. In case you've been exploring 1,000 foot caves in Popocataptl for the past three years, there's a vicious group of bloodthirsty murderers in Mexico who call themselves Zetas. Their pleasant exploits include regularly chain-sawing the heads off off men, women and children and just about shooting anyone who so much as looks at them.
These are bad, bad people, flock -- they make the Einsatzgruppen look like a bunch of kindly young soldiers off to have a Sunday afternoon plink at a few Jews in nearby woods, with schnapps to follow.
Recently however, up has popped another group of not-so-bad guys, who call themselves Anonymous. They seem to be a motley crew of hackers dedicated to, well, doing whatever they want to do. Quote: "We [Anonymous] just happen to be a group of people on the internet who need — just kind of an outlet to do as we wish, that we wouldn't be able to do in regular society."
Well, that can be bad or it can be good, depending on to whom you're speaking. I myself think that it's about time.
Recently, apparently, they've decided to take on the Zetas. (I know, sounds like an L. Ron Hubbard novel, doesn't it? All we need is a few Engrams. (Boss Anonymous to be played by John Travolta.) I don't know how it all started, but apparently a member of Anonymous was kidnapped by the Zetas. The Zetas responded by threatening to post the names, addresses and home phone numbers of every corrupt cop, taxi driver, military officer etc. known to be aiding and abetting the Zetas (well, you can pretty much infer that the entire town of Juarez is just a suburb of Zetaville -- they should issue passports!)
So apparently the release of this information so has the Zetas' knickers in a twist that they released their Anonymous guy. But now Anonymous have upped the stakes.
They just don't like the Zetas, they inform us in this clever video, and they're threatening to do it anyway, just to see how many "law-enforcement" officers swoop in and arrest all the Zeta co-thugs.
And the Zetas are promising to kill ten people for every name exposed. Christ, if Anonymous exposed every name on the list, Mexico would suddenly become a very empty place . . . If there were a place to send donations to help Anonymous in this admirable quest, I'd leave ten dollars in the bank and give the rest to them.
These are bad, bad people, flock -- they make the Einsatzgruppen look like a bunch of kindly young soldiers off to have a Sunday afternoon plink at a few Jews in nearby woods, with schnapps to follow.
Recently however, up has popped another group of not-so-bad guys, who call themselves Anonymous. They seem to be a motley crew of hackers dedicated to, well, doing whatever they want to do. Quote: "We [Anonymous] just happen to be a group of people on the internet who need — just kind of an outlet to do as we wish, that we wouldn't be able to do in regular society."
Well, that can be bad or it can be good, depending on to whom you're speaking. I myself think that it's about time.
Recently, apparently, they've decided to take on the Zetas. (I know, sounds like an L. Ron Hubbard novel, doesn't it? All we need is a few Engrams. (Boss Anonymous to be played by John Travolta.) I don't know how it all started, but apparently a member of Anonymous was kidnapped by the Zetas. The Zetas responded by threatening to post the names, addresses and home phone numbers of every corrupt cop, taxi driver, military officer etc. known to be aiding and abetting the Zetas (well, you can pretty much infer that the entire town of Juarez is just a suburb of Zetaville -- they should issue passports!)
So apparently the release of this information so has the Zetas' knickers in a twist that they released their Anonymous guy. But now Anonymous have upped the stakes.
They just don't like the Zetas, they inform us in this clever video, and they're threatening to do it anyway, just to see how many "law-enforcement" officers swoop in and arrest all the Zeta co-thugs.
And the Zetas are promising to kill ten people for every name exposed. Christ, if Anonymous exposed every name on the list, Mexico would suddenly become a very empty place . . . If there were a place to send donations to help Anonymous in this admirable quest, I'd leave ten dollars in the bank and give the rest to them.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Occupy: Misdirected?
Well guess what, Miss Priss or Mr. Rockne, you AREN'T going to be one of the so-called "One percent." Don't even go there in your mind. Settle into buying lottery tickets, working at the A&W till you're through school, and then LOOK AT THE $120,000 STUDENT LOAN doing a colostomy up your ass. I heard a rumour that these student-loan people -- a nation of zombies, if you ask me -- can't declare bankruptcy. If this is true, your WHOLE LIFE IS FUCKED before you even get a chance to begin it. See, life does not begin when you're born. If life is gauged at a 70-year expectancy, then you actually only have about FIFTY YEARS TO LIVE, TWENTY of which will probably end up in you not being so very "productive."
So in fact, you only have THIRTY YEARS to make that "One Percent." Which leads me to believe that:
The One Percent have won the lottery. Yes, you read me right. Ten thousand things that could have gone wrong on their ascent to the One went right. They had the right parents. They lived in the right place. Their one talent was happily recognized early. They took every advantage of that one talent. They mowed others down to succeed and didn't care about it. They broke rules that didn't suit them -- and got away with it.
They BARGED THEIR WAY THROUGH LIFE at the expense of everyone and anyone, including themselves.
You name me just ONE ONE-PERCENTER who does not fit my formula.
Ya wanna be a One-Percenter, huh, Occupy kids? Or, more easily, you want to bring them down?
Your sheer naïveté astounds me.
Oh and a passing shot: to a five-year old kid living in Papua New Guinea, YOU'RE THE ONE PERCENTER.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Fuck Occupy.
But get this: some guy's alarm clock goes off at 6:30 a.m. He wakes with a hilarious hangover, shaves, gets dressed and then heads out to his Mercedes.
Shows up at the office fifteen minutes late. Maybe snorts some coke. Then gets on the floor. Negotiates $15.9M worth of deals.
Calls his "wife" and tells her he'll be home late.
Goes out drinking, gets smashed with his colleagues, maybe negotiates a "deal" with a female coworker.
Camps out at her house till two, drives home one-eyed and plomps into bed with his wife.
Repeat.
THIS is why the Occupy dorks occupy.
Welcome to America. The land of the free.
Shows up at the office fifteen minutes late. Maybe snorts some coke. Then gets on the floor. Negotiates $15.9M worth of deals.
Calls his "wife" and tells her he'll be home late.
Goes out drinking, gets smashed with his colleagues, maybe negotiates a "deal" with a female coworker.
Camps out at her house till two, drives home one-eyed and plomps into bed with his wife.
Repeat.
THIS is why the Occupy dorks occupy.
Welcome to America. The land of the free.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Grok This
If you compressed 750 million years of Earth's history -- that's back to a time before life existed -- into a year, the Declaration of Independence would be signed seven seconds before midnight of December 31st.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
They Should . . .
. . . print this out and send a copy to the mother of every starving child in Somalia. They'd really get a kick out of it.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Quote of the Day
From a wraparound-sunglassed rapper-cum Bedouin-looking dude, among the throng of rebels whooping and chanting near the drainage ditch where Gaddafi was yanked out and whacked, speaking to a British news camera in a very heavy Arabic accent, addressing the deceased "King of Kings":
"I will go to Paradiss and you will go to Hell, in'sh'allah!" (hearty chuckles all round)
"I will go to Paradiss and you will go to Hell, in'sh'allah!" (hearty chuckles all round)
Friday, October 21, 2011
A Couple of Folk Seriously Watching Their Asses Right About Now
They would be:
Ali Abdullah Saleh of Yemen
Bashar Al-Assad of Syria
Hamad bin Isa Al Khalifa of Bahrain
Abdullah bin Abdul Aziz of Saudi Arabia
Abdelaziz Bouteflika of Algeria
and presumably half a dozen or more rulers of failed African states.
Regrettably, we cannot yet add to this list Kim-jong-il of North Korea. The key words here are “not yet.”
And look, they’re doing it all by themselves, with no intevention from “The World’s Policeman.”
That is what I call progress.
Two Sentences We'll Never Hear again; One Regrettably, One Very Happily
"Apple CEO Steve Jobs started off his keynote speech with a dramatic flourish, announcing the highly-anticipated . . ."
"A defiant Muammar Gaddafi on Monday appeared on Libyan TV, lashing out at . . ."
"A defiant Muammar Gaddafi on Monday appeared on Libyan TV, lashing out at . . ."
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Kindling Part II: The Dumbness
My Kindle 3 arrived yesterday. I was so excited I could barely wait to try it out.
Works GREAT! I thought as I watched the crisp text on the screen, while downloading a book from Amazon. Then I thought: Hmm, this is kind of dim. Where's the brightness control? I turn off the light next to me. Can't read a word. Turn on the light. Hold it under the light. Crisp, clear text! Where is the brightness control? The contrast? Google "how to increase brightness Kindle 3."
Guess what? THERE IS NO BRIGHTNESS. You CAN'T read it except under circumstances in which you would normally read a book.
Why the fuck would I want to get a little machine that I can't enjoy in dim light, that they actually SELL A $40 LIGHT FOR????
Guess what, Amazon: the operation was a great success but the patient was dead before we began.
Works GREAT! I thought as I watched the crisp text on the screen, while downloading a book from Amazon. Then I thought: Hmm, this is kind of dim. Where's the brightness control? I turn off the light next to me. Can't read a word. Turn on the light. Hold it under the light. Crisp, clear text! Where is the brightness control? The contrast? Google "how to increase brightness Kindle 3."
Guess what? THERE IS NO BRIGHTNESS. You CAN'T read it except under circumstances in which you would normally read a book.
Why the fuck would I want to get a little machine that I can't enjoy in dim light, that they actually SELL A $40 LIGHT FOR????
Guess what, Amazon: the operation was a great success but the patient was dead before we began.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Kindling
I have a habit that drives Brigitte nuts (she has one that drives me nuts, but more on that later). I love to read in bed. I think I've done this since I was very small, but I can't remember. I certainly didn't in boarding school. The only thing to do there after lights out was to annoy the "dorm boy/master" or whatever the fuck he was called by deliberately pronouncing the word "Countstable" the way it was supposed to be said except changing it back to the way it reads when he asked me "What was that you said just now, Robinson?" I got a huge bunch of laughs out of that one, because I was "The Yank" and wasn't supposed to be able to speak the British Language the way the folks at Tottenham Gdns. Estates did. So I got away with a lot of things, even with the masters, whom I would ridicule mercilessly, at great risk (oh believe me, I always paid for it in the end).
Cunstable. Take that, Bothwick. Cunstable. That's what I said.
Anyway, It disturbs Brigitte because invariably I have to have a source of light. (Well, duh.) But these stupid Itty-Titty book light fuckers burn out on a regular basis an the only other source is my table halogen . . . which people in Japan at dawn see rise majestically every time I turn it on.
So yes!! Instead of lugging Gerald Durrell's massive 1,000-page-plus biography and the Titty light I will have a KINDLE. Three weeks of battery power!!!!!!!! (The lying fucks.)
I have to go empty the dishes now but at some point I'll tell you what Brigitte does that annoys me. If I could only think of something . . .
Cunstable. Take that, Bothwick. Cunstable. That's what I said.
Anyway, It disturbs Brigitte because invariably I have to have a source of light. (Well, duh.) But these stupid Itty-Titty book light fuckers burn out on a regular basis an the only other source is my table halogen . . . which people in Japan at dawn see rise majestically every time I turn it on.
So yes!! Instead of lugging Gerald Durrell's massive 1,000-page-plus biography and the Titty light I will have a KINDLE. Three weeks of battery power!!!!!!!! (The lying fucks.)
I have to go empty the dishes now but at some point I'll tell you what Brigitte does that annoys me. If I could only think of something . . .
New Horror Flicks
Don't you think we need more horror flicks? No, I mean really horror. Kind of like the one I watched the other day where two men, hands tied behind their backs against a white wall, got decapitated in living color, one in spectacular chainsaw fashion and the other just mugged like a goat.
Oh quick "Well, why did you watch?"
Because I had to watch these two Mexican men's lives being snuffed out in Hollywood glory because YOU HAVE TO. "Scarface" is no longer a fantasy. The drug trade is no longer a game. These people are monsters. Fuck Afghanistan. Launch 2,000 drones on these cabrons and WIPE THEM ALL OUT.
Oliver Stone, get your ass on the task. It's obvious you're the only one qualified.
Oh quick "Well, why did you watch?"
Because I had to watch these two Mexican men's lives being snuffed out in Hollywood glory because YOU HAVE TO. "Scarface" is no longer a fantasy. The drug trade is no longer a game. These people are monsters. Fuck Afghanistan. Launch 2,000 drones on these cabrons and WIPE THEM ALL OUT.
Oliver Stone, get your ass on the task. It's obvious you're the only one qualified.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Fall Poem
The tinkle of a Lulu bell
The hiss of rain on autumn streets
A sleeping Brigou dreaming dreams
Describe the place my cosmos meets.
Monday, October 10, 2011
How Steve Made Me
No, this story should be more accurately titled "How Steve Unmade Me," since I wasn't made by the time Steve got to me.
At the relevant time I was living in the San Francisco Bay Area. The Macintosh came out. Quicker than you could say "split" a friend of mine had one.
So I had to get one. For some reason I wasn't at all interested in these clunky boxes that came along, all called "Packard" or "HP" or "IBM." Nope, even a USED Mac was better than them.
At the relevant time I was living in the San Francisco Bay Area. The Macintosh came out. Quicker than you could say "split" a friend of mine had one.
So I had to get one. For some reason I wasn't at all interested in these clunky boxes that came along, all called "Packard" or "HP" or "IBM." Nope, even a USED Mac was better than them.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
What's up 2-Nite?
Seeing as how I'm in such an expansive mood, I was wondering how you eighty or so followers would feel like getting together right here in my living room this evening? I mean, no pressure, I'm making Pizza anyway, so an extra 80 of you wouldn't be overmuch. (And you can't smell it yet, but there's even a hint of Hermès, the brand of men's, uh . . . perfume so ridiculous you have to reacquaintify yourself with, I believe the game's name is Twister in order to actually type it . . . .
Just as long as you realize that Brigitte's bathroom is off limits, mine in the only good one, and no, you can not take a bath, and if you don't bring your own wine, Balzac is a trusted friend that will deliver you to the ambulance with infinite compassion, then a good time should be had by all.
Just as long as you realize that Brigitte's bathroom is off limits, mine in the only good one, and no, you can not take a bath, and if you don't bring your own wine, Balzac is a trusted friend that will deliver you to the ambulance with infinite compassion, then a good time should be had by all.
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| Balzac |
Progress
Then you'd hopefully be cured. Yes, the surgeon's rabbit's paw, "hopefully." This, my dear friends, is WITHIN MY LIFETIME.
Thank god for Tom Cruise and his eternal wisdom.
A Supercomputer that Confirms the Past!
A supercomputer in America predicted the revolutions in Egypt and Libya and located where Osama Bin Laden was, according to an academic - but only after the events had happened.
Kalev Leetaru from the University of Illinois fed over 100 million articles into the University of Tennessee SGI Altix supercomputer Nautilus. The computer analysed the mood of international news stories focusing on the incidences and locations of emotive words like 'terrible' or 'good' - which Leetaru called 'automated sentence mining' - before converting them into geographical co-ordinates.
Using the tone and location of the reports, Nautilus predicted the outcome of the Arab Spring and the location of Bin Laden to an area with a 125-mile radius in northern Pakistan, when many experts thought Bin Laden was hiding in Afghanistan.
In his study 'Culturomics 2.0: Forecasting Large-Scale Human Behaviour Using Global News Media Tone in Time and Space', Leetaru explained: "Applying tone and geographic analysis to a 30-year worldwide news archive, global news tone is found to have forecasted the revolutions in Tunisia, Egypt, and Libya, including the removal of Egyptian President Mubarak, predicted the stability of Saudi Arabia (at least through May 2011), estimated Osama Bin Laden's likely hiding place as a 200km radius in Northern Pakistan that includes Abbotabad, and offered a new look at the world's cultural affiliations."
Leetaru said that although his study was done retrospectively to things that had already happened, it could be adapted to work in the present.
T
H
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M
I
N
D
B
O
G
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L
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S
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OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.
OMG. OMFG.OMG.OMFG.OMFGG.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Steve Jobs
Steve Jobs died. He was only two years older than me. He did nothing wrong! By all rights he should have lived to a hundred. If someone had crazily ever come up to me and said "Steve Jobs is going to die at 56 -- only you have the power to stop this happening. Unfortunately, in order to do so, you must die in his place." I would have done it a hundred times over.
It's just not fair! My father died at 86 after fighting the Nazis and being a good guy for the rest of his life. He died of old age. That's fair. But the dying of Steve is just not fair . . . the "god" that so many people evoke is a laughing, vengeful god . . . an aberration of that kindly old man we all know. No, more like a bitter, arbitrary god, given to sadistic displays of angry impulses, a god who looks at His work and frequently gets pissed off and destroys 50% of it whenever he hasn't had His morning cigarette.
Not that God has anything to do with Steve. I mourn the loss of him. There will never be another Steve. there never has been and there never will be again. He has joined the ranks of the Impossibles, the true superhumans who somehow one day decided to come down and join us mortals here on Earth.
I guarantee, much like Captain Kirk will echo on into ages who only can read of him on history pads, Steve will live on among us for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years.
Go good, Stevie boy. The garage was a good choice.
It's just not fair! My father died at 86 after fighting the Nazis and being a good guy for the rest of his life. He died of old age. That's fair. But the dying of Steve is just not fair . . . the "god" that so many people evoke is a laughing, vengeful god . . . an aberration of that kindly old man we all know. No, more like a bitter, arbitrary god, given to sadistic displays of angry impulses, a god who looks at His work and frequently gets pissed off and destroys 50% of it whenever he hasn't had His morning cigarette.
Not that God has anything to do with Steve. I mourn the loss of him. There will never be another Steve. there never has been and there never will be again. He has joined the ranks of the Impossibles, the true superhumans who somehow one day decided to come down and join us mortals here on Earth.
I guarantee, much like Captain Kirk will echo on into ages who only can read of him on history pads, Steve will live on among us for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years.
Go good, Stevie boy. The garage was a good choice.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Could I be . . . DEPRESSED?
Nah, that's not possible. But the clinician in me argues with the denier in me. I see signs where there are none; to wit, my accidentally misspelling of "argues" above.Just the fact that I not only let it stand but actually commented on it confirms my initial diagnosis: I am depressed. Depressed people let not-typos get by. (A not-typo is an actual grammatical or punctuational mistake, like saying thing like "and I could tell the passenger's were all on dope." See? Apostrophes don't just hop along for the typo-ride, they appear because you deliberately typed them.)(Because you are depressed and just don't care any more.)
So (left hand fingers thrumming on desktop while right hand does all the typing) what can be done? What SHOULD be done? I'm now seriously thinking about resurrecting Bagger Bastard. To shake you clod of sheep of my flock AWAKE again.
Hell-OOOO . . . . (rapping of knuckles on forehead sound) . . . . ANYBODY HOME?
I should mind-slough my depression onto you with my meta-psychic techniques developed over YEARS and mind-parasite YOUR feelings of goodness, happiness and general self-worth. Oh wait, that's Facebook.
I hate it when I insult my intelligence. I am not depressed; I'm merely praying for an Uzbek Spring.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Rare TV Review
Well, my faithful flock, I must say that in these pages -- must be over a thousand of them by now, I fear -- I have never "reviewed" or even commented on a TV show. I don't particularly feel like doing so now, but since the subject matter is so dear to my heart, I can't resist.
I'm referring to the new series "Pan Am." I suppose you've noticed that it isn't called "TWA" or "Delta." Or "Laker Airways," for that matter.
Nope. It's where my father worked for the first 17 years of my life. I have a LOT of memories of Pan Am. (What, your father worked at Nelson Mining Consolidated? Get your own series.)
But . . . for some reason, no matter how they try, NO ONE can manage to recreate an earlier era so that you believe you are THERE. The sixties were the sixties -- you can spot it instantly when it's the REAL sixties and, try as they might, spot it instantly when it's not the real sixties. Oh, sure, they could shoot it in very old videotape or even film, to give it that soft-edged "old" fuzziness, but still . . . the costumes are no doubt thoroughly researched to the last detail, but . . . it just doesn't wash.
I'll tell you what washes: the plane interiors are faithful, down to the Montgolfier balloons that festoon a dividing panel between the lounge (where I often sat) and First Class. The uniforms were spot on. But the actors were purely out of the 21st century.
The storyline was nothing to write home about. Everyone compares this series to "Mad Men" but since I've never seen that, I have no idea what they're on about.
It isn't a comedy.
It isn't a drama.
It's the kind of "Let's get six storylines going that we can switch back and forth to during the whole run" so I assume that makes it a soap opera.
The pilots are astonishingly young and handsome. Pilots who fly for the premier airline in the world are invariably in their fifties, not in their twenties. The stewardesses are impossibly model-like, nothing like the stews I remember from my childhood.
And my one very, very pet peeve: 707s were so loud that you had to shout to your seatmate directly into his ear, never mind whispering under your breath to someone three feet away. I guess that wouldn't make for good television.
Will it succeed? Well, they seem to have dropped a bucket of tropes into the first episode, including a mysterious "man from MI-6" and a French stewardess having an affair.
But you can bet that my carry-on Pan Am bag just acquired a whole lot more cachet.
I'm referring to the new series "Pan Am." I suppose you've noticed that it isn't called "TWA" or "Delta." Or "Laker Airways," for that matter.
Nope. It's where my father worked for the first 17 years of my life. I have a LOT of memories of Pan Am. (What, your father worked at Nelson Mining Consolidated? Get your own series.)
But . . . for some reason, no matter how they try, NO ONE can manage to recreate an earlier era so that you believe you are THERE. The sixties were the sixties -- you can spot it instantly when it's the REAL sixties and, try as they might, spot it instantly when it's not the real sixties. Oh, sure, they could shoot it in very old videotape or even film, to give it that soft-edged "old" fuzziness, but still . . . the costumes are no doubt thoroughly researched to the last detail, but . . . it just doesn't wash.
I'll tell you what washes: the plane interiors are faithful, down to the Montgolfier balloons that festoon a dividing panel between the lounge (where I often sat) and First Class. The uniforms were spot on. But the actors were purely out of the 21st century.
The storyline was nothing to write home about. Everyone compares this series to "Mad Men" but since I've never seen that, I have no idea what they're on about.
It isn't a comedy.
It isn't a drama.
It's the kind of "Let's get six storylines going that we can switch back and forth to during the whole run" so I assume that makes it a soap opera.
The pilots are astonishingly young and handsome. Pilots who fly for the premier airline in the world are invariably in their fifties, not in their twenties. The stewardesses are impossibly model-like, nothing like the stews I remember from my childhood.
And my one very, very pet peeve: 707s were so loud that you had to shout to your seatmate directly into his ear, never mind whispering under your breath to someone three feet away. I guess that wouldn't make for good television.
Will it succeed? Well, they seem to have dropped a bucket of tropes into the first episode, including a mysterious "man from MI-6" and a French stewardess having an affair.
But you can bet that my carry-on Pan Am bag just acquired a whole lot more cachet.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Black and the Colours of Autumn
Lulu, our resident Ghost, contemplates the wonders of the ivy that I've been patiently training for the past two years. Can't wait for this picture next year,
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| Happy Harvest, Lulu-chan! |
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Finally: Vindication
Oh, don't worry -- I didn't need to be vindicated. I always knew it. But this article just cements my ideas about peasants endowed with a little power.
Monday, September 19, 2011
What I Ate (#1023 in a Series)
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| Chicken Fajita 3.0.2 |
I really don't know the difference between a fajita, a taco or a burrito, but sometimes these are just the most fantastic things to make. Mine has everything in it: hot, cold, crunchy, soft, spicy, veggie, meaty, cheesy, tomatoey, wheaty, toasty . . . can't say that about too many foods. And it's as easy and complex to whatever degree you're in the mood for. You could just slap one together with whatever's in the fridge, or you can lavish some care on it, which is what I did.
Nick's Spicy Niquita
Salsa
Ingredients
1 lb. cherry tomatoes (about 50 or so), halved
2 large jalapeños or serrano chilies, roughly chopped
4 large cloves garlic, diced
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Method
1/2 red pepper, cut into rings
The way I like mine is to layer a heap of the chicken mixture on the bottom, followed by a liberal dose of salsa, then a liberal sprinkling of cilantro, then some grated cheese (Asiago is a particular favorite), a little chopped red onion and finally a handful of lettuce (baby lettuce mix would be good here).
1 lb. cherry tomatoes (about 50 or so), halved
2 large jalapeños or serrano chilies, roughly chopped
4 large cloves garlic, diced
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Method
This is a my version of the Moroccan dish "Salade cuite," meaning "cooked salad." Possible additions would be chopped onions or cilantro to finish. Assemble all ingredients in a baking dish. Mix thoroughly, making sure everything's nicely coated with the olive oil. Salt liberally. Preheat the oven to about 350º and bake uncovered, stirring occasionally, for about an hour. Remove from the oven, cover and let stand until salsa comes to room temperature.
Filling
Ingredients
1 cup chicken, oven roasted and well seasoned
1 cup chicken, oven roasted and well seasoned
1/2 large red onion, cut into rings
4 large cloves garlic, diced
Diced chilies to taste
Sauté the vegetables in a little olive oil until cooked through; a little char on them won't hurt. Just before filling your tortilla, add the chicken in to reheat.
Assembly
Warm a flour tortilla. I put a sheet of aluminum foil on my electric burner and heat the tortilla on medium until I get some char on both sides.
The way I like mine is to layer a heap of the chicken mixture on the bottom, followed by a liberal dose of salsa, then a liberal sprinkling of cilantro, then some grated cheese (Asiago is a particular favorite), a little chopped red onion and finally a handful of lettuce (baby lettuce mix would be good here).
Roll your creation up tightly and carefully and serve with a nice Pinot Grigio or Sauterne.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
The First Glimpse of Neptunium
I'm back reading my Atomic Bomb book. A lot of it is extremely dry, and even though I've read it at least a dozen times I can't even come close to understanding the physics mumbo-jumbo. It must be one of the most complex achievements ever come up with by humanity, and it can all be summed up with "Boys With Toys."
Anyway, a couple of things: did you know that Plutonium was initially called Neptunium? Also, it was completely hypothetical for at least a couple of years until they synthesized it. And the first morsel of plutonium that was ever seen by mortal eye took days to make and ended up being smaller than a grain of sand.
A grain of sand, mind you, if anyone were able to take it to critical mass, would be enough to obliterate a block of apartments.
Hell -- the shooting of a neutron into the nucleus of an atom -- JUST ONE ATOM -- (which of course you know is called fission), produces enough energy to make a visible grain of sand visibly jump. And there are 78,000,000,000,000,000,000 (one quintillion) atoms in a grain of sand; far, far more than there are stars in our galaxy.
That's about as much physics as I can stand today.
 |
| Enough plutonium to completely erase the island of Manhattan |
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Around The World In Four Days
God, this is becoming something of a singsong. I should just carbon-copy one of my old "Japan Trip" posts. It always begins the same ways; first the dread. It's not fear of flying -- not that at all. I love being on a plane. Turbulence or odd noises don't worry me in the least. It's the dread of unexpected huge lines . . . the stop-and-shuffle plod that's better reminiscent of Soviet bread lines . . . the huge DUMBNESS behind it all. The one thing I hate most is asking myself why people are so gosh-darned DUMB. Not the counting-pennies-at-the-checkout-line dumb, but dumbness that extends to people who are supposed to be tasked to PROTECT you dumb.
The dread of the overzealous customs officer, freshly one year out of community college, who suddenly realizes she can put you in FUCKING JAIL if you breathe wrong. This kind of nameless dread, the utter sense of helplessness -- it's that that paralyzes me to the core.
Okay, it's official: I'm a predictability freak. And life is a hopeless game of trying to predict what's going to happen. Make rules, they don't work. "Monday, no bank, no official institutions. Wednesday good. Avoid line with white hair in it. Stay away from U-Haul truck. Don't forget Gravol under any circumstances."
Trouble is, none of this works. And if you think that you've got the jump on the polarity-plug problem by deliberately trying to plug it in the opposite way to what your instinct says, you will always be wrong. And if you see through that and try to plug it in the way your instinct said in the first place, you will be wrong . . . again.
But as usual, this kind of Twilight Zone reality kicked in the whole Japan trip. What I thought would happen didn't happen. What I didn't think would happen happened. But I learned a few things this trip (I always do):
1. Have your shit wired tight. Have a routine to where you store your precious stuff. Always check and cross check, even if you think you did. One mistake -- leaving your credit card at a fast food restaurant in Buttfuck Idaho, and you're homeless.
2. Try to make negative things positive. Flight delayed? Come up with a creative crack to entertain the gate agent. I have made more first class upgrades with a few jokes than Jerry Lewis has won the Palme d'Or.
3. Give up when it's useless. Never resist in the face of tinpot dictator security/immigration/gate agent power. They swagger, but anything you do to antagonize them is going to get you in far more trouble than you planned. They know it. I've lived in quite a few "developing" countries where swaggering comes as a job requirement for those with even a smidgeon of authority. Don't think that just because we're "developed" that anything is any different.
4. Be cunning. Use every trick at your disposal to stand out from the crowd, in a positive way. Don't dress like a slob with a reverse ball-cap and a Giants T-shirt.
5. Never blame the drones for what was created by their masters.
6. Uhhh, don't do this.
Well, I could go on. But let's just say I was losing all hope on my way back . . . I never panic on a plane because the plane is freaking me out, but this time I almost panicked at the thought of having to complete the rest of the journey. I was just so fucking tired . . . one more step, one more gate, one more immigration form really had me on the edge of losing it. But, as these things often happen, an Angel stepped in at just the right time to clear me and let me reboot -- in this case, a seatmate who made me completely ditch all my troubles and concentrate on other things than worry. He was an Apple salesman with a cool laptop who just took me out of my funk and reminded me that, hey, not everyone's out to kill you. And just reflecting from his positive attitude just made all the troubles go away.
6. Sometimes there is just no explanation for what happens. After 54 years, I'm still learning this.
Friday, September 9, 2011
The Horror
There's' nothing like an attack of humor to relieve the horror of flying to Japan. If I can maintain my sense of humor . . . when I'm not falling-down-sedated, that is, I'll be A-OKAY. I can imagine my father and 10,000 like him flew all their missions half in the bag, but a sense of humor is also good. That's what I will rely on tomorrow.
Awww, Not Japan Again
Aww, but yes. Japan again. To be specific, tomorrow at this exact time I will probably just be landing in Detroit with the horrific future of Seattle and then Osaka . . . and then the return trip.
The return is always by far the worst. I'll be alone. Oh sure, Brigitte will be waiting for me but it will be an endless nightmare of transportation, especially on this happy anniversary.
But unlike last time, when I predicted fair skies, I'll be heading into this one with my horns to the ground. It's always better that way; pretend that bad things are lurking around every corner, and it'll all be okay. I frankly can't see a single positive thing this time around, except for the fact that it could be my last.
I'll be leaving my ten-year-old son in Japan until Christmas and I just can't stand the thought. If Brigitte weren't here waiting for me and Lulu the cat, my core would be deeply shaken. . . I feel like this is the straw whip for my idiocies of years past, that now I have to pay up, although I know that's patently ridiculous.
I just wish I could sedate myself into nowheresville and somehow be back here in front of this computer after having made the trip. I know the time will come, but I just can't wait that long . . . this is going to be the longest dentist's chair ever.
Wish me luck.
The return is always by far the worst. I'll be alone. Oh sure, Brigitte will be waiting for me but it will be an endless nightmare of transportation, especially on this happy anniversary.
But unlike last time, when I predicted fair skies, I'll be heading into this one with my horns to the ground. It's always better that way; pretend that bad things are lurking around every corner, and it'll all be okay. I frankly can't see a single positive thing this time around, except for the fact that it could be my last.
I'll be leaving my ten-year-old son in Japan until Christmas and I just can't stand the thought. If Brigitte weren't here waiting for me and Lulu the cat, my core would be deeply shaken. . . I feel like this is the straw whip for my idiocies of years past, that now I have to pay up, although I know that's patently ridiculous.
I just wish I could sedate myself into nowheresville and somehow be back here in front of this computer after having made the trip. I know the time will come, but I just can't wait that long . . . this is going to be the longest dentist's chair ever.
Wish me luck.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Reading
God, I'm showing my age.
Brigitte and I were talking last night about the entertainment we had as kids, and I was able to up even her pathetic story! "All we had was this old radio, and we'd cuddle around it and listen." This conversation, by the way, was inspired by something I read about an incredibly bad idea, on par with smell-o-vision: some suit came up with the concept of an "interactive" way to read. You read this e-book thingy, but when you come to certain passages, like "The footsteps became louder and louder" audio footsteps appear on your earbuds. When it says "The wind sighed through the trees . . . " uh, okay, you get the point.
I mean, what's the bloody point? The whole point of great literature is that through the writer, your IMAGINATION is forced to work. Obviously, a great writer is going to make your imagining a whole lot more enjoyable than a lousy writer. Otherwise, why bother having a writer? (Side note: I cleaned up our library yesterday and had dug out a book about the making of the atomic bomb. I wanted HER to get into it too, so I started reading aloud in what I thought was a deep, sonorous voice. She started laughing. "Why are you laughing?" say I. "You sound like that guy on all those animal shows."
I was deeply offended. That guy. THAT GUY happens to be Sir David Attenborough Guy. But I digress!!)
Anyway, I pointed out to Brigitte that when I was growing up, we didn't even have a radio. We had a "phonograph" upon which my parents would play Sinatra or musicals (they were very popular back then) or classical. That was it. That . . . and books. According to my mother, I was reading quite capably at three years old. I hardly think that's possible, but that's what she says. But that's all we had. That's all my parents had too.
(cue tiny violin on shoulder)
And we had to walk twelve miles to school . . . and had the same pair of shoes for ten years and thin gruel for breakfast lunch and dinner yada yada yada
Brigitte and I were talking last night about the entertainment we had as kids, and I was able to up even her pathetic story! "All we had was this old radio, and we'd cuddle around it and listen." This conversation, by the way, was inspired by something I read about an incredibly bad idea, on par with smell-o-vision: some suit came up with the concept of an "interactive" way to read. You read this e-book thingy, but when you come to certain passages, like "The footsteps became louder and louder" audio footsteps appear on your earbuds. When it says "The wind sighed through the trees . . . " uh, okay, you get the point.
I mean, what's the bloody point? The whole point of great literature is that through the writer, your IMAGINATION is forced to work. Obviously, a great writer is going to make your imagining a whole lot more enjoyable than a lousy writer. Otherwise, why bother having a writer? (Side note: I cleaned up our library yesterday and had dug out a book about the making of the atomic bomb. I wanted HER to get into it too, so I started reading aloud in what I thought was a deep, sonorous voice. She started laughing. "Why are you laughing?" say I. "You sound like that guy on all those animal shows."
I was deeply offended. That guy. THAT GUY happens to be Sir David Attenborough Guy. But I digress!!)
Anyway, I pointed out to Brigitte that when I was growing up, we didn't even have a radio. We had a "phonograph" upon which my parents would play Sinatra or musicals (they were very popular back then) or classical. That was it. That . . . and books. According to my mother, I was reading quite capably at three years old. I hardly think that's possible, but that's what she says. But that's all we had. That's all my parents had too.
(cue tiny violin on shoulder)
And we had to walk twelve miles to school . . . and had the same pair of shoes for ten years and thin gruel for breakfast lunch and dinner yada yada yada
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The Daily Word
Can anybody explain to me why the word "propinquity" is not used more in daily conversation? Say, in an informal, joking-around kind of way? Or an intimate conversation between new lovers? Or in a terse aside among soldiers involved in a firefight with insurgents two klicks from Fallujah city center?
I feel it's most unfair that "propinquity" has been banished to occasional usage in little-read historical theses and confined to verbal use only among particle physicists and lawyers in remote villages in India.
Anyone up for a nice old-fashioned sitdown "work-to-rule" strike to advance the cause of more usage of the word "propinquity"?
Easy now, no shoving or pushing allowed on the premises.
I feel it's most unfair that "propinquity" has been banished to occasional usage in little-read historical theses and confined to verbal use only among particle physicists and lawyers in remote villages in India.
Anyone up for a nice old-fashioned sitdown "work-to-rule" strike to advance the cause of more usage of the word "propinquity"?
Easy now, no shoving or pushing allowed on the premises.
If Words Had a Weight
I've always wondered about this, as I'm fascinated about what the power the word, be it it written, or spoken, has over people. Obviously certain words carry a lot more weight than others. Again, I'm referring to both the spoken and the written word.
To someone who cannot read, obviously the spoken word is the most powerful. But to someone who cannot hear, the written word, apart from sign language, becomes the only means of communication.
To someone who cannot hear nor see, obviously this becomes beyond the scope of what I'm trying to get at.
But it just occurred to me that the most powerful word in the entire speaking world of humans is "me."
Just summoning the word to the mind bespeaks whole fountains of emotion, certainly nothing like "I" or "you". "Me" might possibly be the single most important word, in any language, in any form, indeed, even in non-human form, that exists on this planet.
To ME, this word rates a ten-plus on any scale. How about you?
To someone who cannot read, obviously the spoken word is the most powerful. But to someone who cannot hear, the written word, apart from sign language, becomes the only means of communication.
To someone who cannot hear nor see, obviously this becomes beyond the scope of what I'm trying to get at.
But it just occurred to me that the most powerful word in the entire speaking world of humans is "me."
Just summoning the word to the mind bespeaks whole fountains of emotion, certainly nothing like "I" or "you". "Me" might possibly be the single most important word, in any language, in any form, indeed, even in non-human form, that exists on this planet.
To ME, this word rates a ten-plus on any scale. How about you?
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Flotillas to Syria
Hmm, little slow around here of late. Either that or my meds aren't working any more.
Major news is that the Great Experiment will be tried this Christmas . . . a grand moment in history. Taishi will be taking his first flight . . . alone. I could go back and check the records, but it seems to me that the little tyke has probably flown on more airplanes in his tiny ten-year span than I had when his age . . . okay, maybe a few less flights but probably a lot more miles. Back then, to get from Calcutta to California, even in a 707, you had about six stops just to refuel. That's why I can say with all honesty that I've been to Baghdad, Karachi, Dhaka, Istanbul and by gum, Josef Tito's Belgrade -- I just didn't get off the plane at some of them (I was afraid in Baghdad, but only of Ali Baba and his 40 thieves, not Saddam and his 10,000 thieves).
But yes, this will be his first, all alone. It should be a no-brainer. It's from Osaka-Kansai to SFO direct and there will be a lot of meet-and-greeting, but it damn near saves me $4000 if you count hotel, meals and transportation, a very welcome harbinger of the future -- to get to Montreal it will only be for me to fly to Seattle or Vancouver -- Tai-chan will be doing the heavy lifting. As far as how I'm going to fare going all the way to the west coast and come back on the same day -- with stops it's still around a 9 - 10-hour jaunt -- but it saves so much unimaginable time and money.
And it will be the first time I've been back to California in almost three years. I'm sure my family won't be too thrilled to see me but they're slavering to see Tai-chan.
Let's just hope I survive the jaunt on September 10 to Japan and back . . . my sister, who works as a supervisor for Homeland Security, ominously warned me that I'd better get my shit wired tight because there's a small, uh, anniversary right around thereabouts. I am desperately hoping that I will be seeing the backside of Japan for, like, maybe 50 years or so. To tell the truth, I really have no idea what toll these trips to Japan and back for the past 8-odd years have taken on me -- let's just say that it's been a continual circle of Life Interrupted, with plans continually being put on hold and getting wrenched askew just when I've gotten back into something of a routine.
I just don't know how people who work on ships for months away from their homes and family do it -- I'd go berserk. It would be either home and family or ship -- I couldn't do both.
Ships. Now I remember why I'm here tonight. You know by now that I'm pretty much apolitical -- I just tune out when the word "election" comes onto the scene in any format and I couldn't give a flying F who's in power -- liberals, democrats, republican liberals, licentiotarians, totalitarians, whatever. Same guys, different spots.
So you can imagine that I'm the same way about religion -- same guys, same spots. I really couldn't give an f-bomb (see how bizarrely restrained I'm being today, Flock? I guess it's Expletive Deleted Day for some inexplicable reason). But when the twain meet, I get seriously annoyed.
Especially when the hypocrisy level rises above the usual normal -- high. Before I met Brigitte, who's Jewish, I was basically just merely annoyed at both religions/politics -- Judaism, Islam. I just basically thought about it like, why can't you guys both just shut up and get along?
But being aware of Israel, as opposed of just Judaism, and a renewed look at the Holocaust, has led me to very different conclusions. I won't go into it in any great detail, but, as an ad in the NY Times said today (sorry, tried to get a link but you'll find it), where are the flotillas to Syria? And it goes on to list a large number, most of but not all, Islamic-run countries whose populaces live under a litany of horrors ranging from mere starvation to state-sponsored mass murder, torture and imprisonment, and it struck me that where's all the hoopla given to that joke of those lunatic-fringe Flotilla to Gaza people when it comes to, say, Libya?
This time there's no Bush demon, no WMDs, practically no American and absolutely no Israeli involvement, yet where's the indignation? The intervention of oil-rich pseudo-theocracies such as Saudi Arabia, Arab Emirates, Dubai yada yada, coming to the aid of their oppressed brethren? It appears they have little, if anything to say as they build their absurd palaces in the desert, ski resorts in Dubai on the backs of semi-enslaved immigrant workers to do the grunt work -- where are they?
Meanwhile the population of Libya, themselves wholly enslaved for 40 years, fight a desperate battle to wrest power from a cartoon dictator with nothing but extremely low-key NATO intercession, a battle that's been fought and won in Egypt and Tunisia but at great human expense -- but WHERE ARE the marching chanters, the hordes of Israel demonisers that launch mass protests every time Israel feels it necessary to defend itself from brazen attacks from yet another lunatic terrorist group that actually, amazingly, got itself ELECTED (well, Bush did too -- twice, so there's no surprise at the level of human microcephalic tendencies) . . . where ARE these people?? Huh? There's just a VAST SILENCE that comes from the shame of feelings of complicity -- the un-statements from anyone in the Arab world with even a shred of credibility -- and, after doing the adding, that adds up to a big fat ZERO. That's all.
Think about it. When was the last time you read or heard the words "Saudi Arabian advances in science . . ." "Dubai's medical wizardry results in new aids for the developmentally disabled . . . " "Bahrain sends team of volunteer doctors to quake-ravaged . . ."
Huh?
I rest my case. Cases. Both upper and lower.
End note: Saudi Arabians in space? Iranian arctic explorers? Jordanian pioneering robot designers? Saudi Arabian woman ANYTHING? Iranian sustainable energy projects? Iranian ANYTHING?
Hello!!!??? Anybody home???????
Can you say "Fifteenth century?" Better yet, can you say "Bombed back into the fifteenth century, where they all desperately want to be"?
I know you can. I'll even hold your hand while you say it.
Final, really final note: I think this explains it in visual terms so much better than I ever could in writing. Go to this page and look at the map. Then click the magnification tool again and again until you see the tiny blue country buried in a sea of red. That's Israel. This map simply signifies countries that trade. But in reality it means how "developed" countries are. How civilized. You can see at a glance that most of the countries in red are simply organized anarchic groups of humanity that to a larger or lesser degree all share the honor of having populations of humanity who have very much yet the so-called level of "civilization" that the countries in blue do.
But isn't it poignant? That you have to click, click and click again to find this tiny country in a veritable morass of instability to find Israel? What, now you say there's some Wikipedia conspiracy to colour Israel blue? I find it frankly incredible that so few people in such a small country have found the wherewithal not only to survive, mostly as a mass of immigrants that heretofore had nothing in common but a label: "Jew" -- and manage to make it work, but not just work; to survive in an incredibly hostile world, whose nearest neighbours want only to see it erased from the face of the Earth.
I swear, this little picture makes my case so well that I will have no more to say on the subject. For now.
NEXT DAY: Stop the Presses! Somebody IS helping the Libyans!!!!
Major news is that the Great Experiment will be tried this Christmas . . . a grand moment in history. Taishi will be taking his first flight . . . alone. I could go back and check the records, but it seems to me that the little tyke has probably flown on more airplanes in his tiny ten-year span than I had when his age . . . okay, maybe a few less flights but probably a lot more miles. Back then, to get from Calcutta to California, even in a 707, you had about six stops just to refuel. That's why I can say with all honesty that I've been to Baghdad, Karachi, Dhaka, Istanbul and by gum, Josef Tito's Belgrade -- I just didn't get off the plane at some of them (I was afraid in Baghdad, but only of Ali Baba and his 40 thieves, not Saddam and his 10,000 thieves).
But yes, this will be his first, all alone. It should be a no-brainer. It's from Osaka-Kansai to SFO direct and there will be a lot of meet-and-greeting, but it damn near saves me $4000 if you count hotel, meals and transportation, a very welcome harbinger of the future -- to get to Montreal it will only be for me to fly to Seattle or Vancouver -- Tai-chan will be doing the heavy lifting. As far as how I'm going to fare going all the way to the west coast and come back on the same day -- with stops it's still around a 9 - 10-hour jaunt -- but it saves so much unimaginable time and money.
And it will be the first time I've been back to California in almost three years. I'm sure my family won't be too thrilled to see me but they're slavering to see Tai-chan.
Let's just hope I survive the jaunt on September 10 to Japan and back . . . my sister, who works as a supervisor for Homeland Security, ominously warned me that I'd better get my shit wired tight because there's a small, uh, anniversary right around thereabouts. I am desperately hoping that I will be seeing the backside of Japan for, like, maybe 50 years or so. To tell the truth, I really have no idea what toll these trips to Japan and back for the past 8-odd years have taken on me -- let's just say that it's been a continual circle of Life Interrupted, with plans continually being put on hold and getting wrenched askew just when I've gotten back into something of a routine.
I just don't know how people who work on ships for months away from their homes and family do it -- I'd go berserk. It would be either home and family or ship -- I couldn't do both.
Ships. Now I remember why I'm here tonight. You know by now that I'm pretty much apolitical -- I just tune out when the word "election" comes onto the scene in any format and I couldn't give a flying F who's in power -- liberals, democrats, republican liberals, licentiotarians, totalitarians, whatever. Same guys, different spots.
So you can imagine that I'm the same way about religion -- same guys, same spots. I really couldn't give an f-bomb (see how bizarrely restrained I'm being today, Flock? I guess it's Expletive Deleted Day for some inexplicable reason). But when the twain meet, I get seriously annoyed.
Especially when the hypocrisy level rises above the usual normal -- high. Before I met Brigitte, who's Jewish, I was basically just merely annoyed at both religions/politics -- Judaism, Islam. I just basically thought about it like, why can't you guys both just shut up and get along?
But being aware of Israel, as opposed of just Judaism, and a renewed look at the Holocaust, has led me to very different conclusions. I won't go into it in any great detail, but, as an ad in the NY Times said today (sorry, tried to get a link but you'll find it), where are the flotillas to Syria? And it goes on to list a large number, most of but not all, Islamic-run countries whose populaces live under a litany of horrors ranging from mere starvation to state-sponsored mass murder, torture and imprisonment, and it struck me that where's all the hoopla given to that joke of those lunatic-fringe Flotilla to Gaza people when it comes to, say, Libya?
This time there's no Bush demon, no WMDs, practically no American and absolutely no Israeli involvement, yet where's the indignation? The intervention of oil-rich pseudo-theocracies such as Saudi Arabia, Arab Emirates, Dubai yada yada, coming to the aid of their oppressed brethren? It appears they have little, if anything to say as they build their absurd palaces in the desert, ski resorts in Dubai on the backs of semi-enslaved immigrant workers to do the grunt work -- where are they?
Meanwhile the population of Libya, themselves wholly enslaved for 40 years, fight a desperate battle to wrest power from a cartoon dictator with nothing but extremely low-key NATO intercession, a battle that's been fought and won in Egypt and Tunisia but at great human expense -- but WHERE ARE the marching chanters, the hordes of Israel demonisers that launch mass protests every time Israel feels it necessary to defend itself from brazen attacks from yet another lunatic terrorist group that actually, amazingly, got itself ELECTED (well, Bush did too -- twice, so there's no surprise at the level of human microcephalic tendencies) . . . where ARE these people?? Huh? There's just a VAST SILENCE that comes from the shame of feelings of complicity -- the un-statements from anyone in the Arab world with even a shred of credibility -- and, after doing the adding, that adds up to a big fat ZERO. That's all.
Think about it. When was the last time you read or heard the words "Saudi Arabian advances in science . . ." "Dubai's medical wizardry results in new aids for the developmentally disabled . . . " "Bahrain sends team of volunteer doctors to quake-ravaged . . ."
Huh?
I rest my case. Cases. Both upper and lower.
 |
| The Arab world's latest contribution to Humanity |
Hello!!!??? Anybody home???????
Can you say "Fifteenth century?" Better yet, can you say "Bombed back into the fifteenth century, where they all desperately want to be"?
I know you can. I'll even hold your hand while you say it.
Final, really final note: I think this explains it in visual terms so much better than I ever could in writing. Go to this page and look at the map. Then click the magnification tool again and again until you see the tiny blue country buried in a sea of red. That's Israel. This map simply signifies countries that trade. But in reality it means how "developed" countries are. How civilized. You can see at a glance that most of the countries in red are simply organized anarchic groups of humanity that to a larger or lesser degree all share the honor of having populations of humanity who have very much yet the so-called level of "civilization" that the countries in blue do.
But isn't it poignant? That you have to click, click and click again to find this tiny country in a veritable morass of instability to find Israel? What, now you say there's some Wikipedia conspiracy to colour Israel blue? I find it frankly incredible that so few people in such a small country have found the wherewithal not only to survive, mostly as a mass of immigrants that heretofore had nothing in common but a label: "Jew" -- and manage to make it work, but not just work; to survive in an incredibly hostile world, whose nearest neighbours want only to see it erased from the face of the Earth.
I swear, this little picture makes my case so well that I will have no more to say on the subject. For now.
NEXT DAY: Stop the Presses! Somebody IS helping the Libyans!!!!