tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85255672024-03-06T23:21:09.624-06:00Filling in the CornersUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger112125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-32680063380237602692020-11-01T16:25:00.003-06:002020-11-01T16:31:14.534-06:00 Pipe Pouch<p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4UKrBl2C9tNPJY8DzctR5QEREzYs2hwVF_pujnO8alrNSWJWPjgQAOh855LOpyglhTxz8qiyxez3wvXgin1hTvuPOLQrZ5tvrKFMB3_HWrmDAJ3OYcdD6Jx_4T68K8ci4Yr-4oQ/s542/IMG_20201101_161215.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="542" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4UKrBl2C9tNPJY8DzctR5QEREzYs2hwVF_pujnO8alrNSWJWPjgQAOh855LOpyglhTxz8qiyxez3wvXgin1hTvuPOLQrZ5tvrKFMB3_HWrmDAJ3OYcdD6Jx_4T68K8ci4Yr-4oQ/w200-h171/IMG_20201101_161215.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p></blockquote><span id="docs-internal-guid-a15ffe7a-7fff-591b-3bb7-d5418540046d"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-59c80c00-7fff-8ee3-8257-b69dbd49bcfb"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">This is one of my favorite things. It’s a pipe pouch made of deerskin. It has a slot along the top for storing pipe cleaners, a little pouch on the inside for my pipe tools and lighter, and a nifty string that goes around it to wrap it up tight. It also has a stain on the front flap so I can “tell people you stole it off a dead cowboy.”</span></span></span></span><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That’s from the homeless guy who made it for me.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I met him in the courtyard of a coffee shop on the corner of a busy-ish street in downtown Cape Girardeau. It was the summer of 2016. I stopped in for a latte and to gather my nerves. He was sitting at one of the tables outside with a whole manner of crafty shit spread out in front of him. He told me how he wouldn’t sell any of his bow and arrow sets until he had shot the bow 70 times. He told me how he made and then broke in the moccasins he was selling to passers-by.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I visited at that shop a few more times that summer and I was always glad when he was there. We talked about politics, religion, sex, and all the other stuff you’re not supposed to talk about in casual company. Meanwhile, his dog, a lab named Ginger, would dash around and harass the other customers. They didn’t mind, she was a sweet dog who just wanted to say hi. Nevertheless, our conversations were constantly interrupted with him yelling, “Ginger, get over here! Leave that lady alone.”</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe the third time we met, and after watching him make moccasin after moccasin, I told him that my pipe case had recently fallen apart and maybe he could make me a new one. He was all over it.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few days later he had it done. It was perfect. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We continued to get together. He told me about the time he got a bad cut on his leg on the road in Wichita. It went septic and he had to spend time in the hospital, which he hated. I told him about my recent divorce and my plans for the future. All the while he was yelling at his dog - “Ginger, stop that!” - and stitching leather.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He drifted away at the end of the summer. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A month later I met a ginger with a bunch of dogs, one of which was named Ginger. We got married the next year.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, this pipe pouch is one of my favorite things.</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-35157802140500629242019-12-28T11:04:00.005-06:002019-12-28T11:14:00.433-06:00Teddy BearI like to give people rides. If I see someone hoofing it and the stars are aligned I’ll pull over and offer them a lift. It’s a good way to meet some interesting people.<br />
<br />
The last time was a couple of days ago, December 26, Boxing Day, to be exact. I really don’t know what Boxing Day is, exactly, I just know it’s a thing in some English speaking countries.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0QBd5ViZJPIQqxOnt-lMbxst5Kz3F4wHv4uas19iVMzoXR6_j7aonotNYE8Hup5hoI-JC3yfQ3SDPXdfMwz_3UcJs_QURyGO7DN1ezjE49BXLlGgTbhIoswWBMDxAA10An_x5mg/s1600/8B778605-6F47-46AF-BD09-DDAD686EFDE4.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0QBd5ViZJPIQqxOnt-lMbxst5Kz3F4wHv4uas19iVMzoXR6_j7aonotNYE8Hup5hoI-JC3yfQ3SDPXdfMwz_3UcJs_QURyGO7DN1ezjE49BXLlGgTbhIoswWBMDxAA10An_x5mg/s320/8B778605-6F47-46AF-BD09-DDAD686EFDE4.png" width="320" /></a>Anyway, because of the holidays I got off work earlier than expected. It was mid-afternoon and there was a heavy fog nestled on Kansas City. I took a meandering route home, stopping occasionally to take pictures.<br />
<br />
Once I’d had enough and just wanted to get home I pointed my car north - couch-ward. I was in a part of town that I didn’t know well. I saw a women loaded down with backpacks, bags, and satchels. I noticed a long loaf of bread poking out of one of her bags. This is a woman who’s been shopping and, for whatever reason, is having to walk home on a chilly, damp day. This is a person to whom I should give a ride, I told myself.<br />
<br />
Her story was different.<br />
<br />
“Do you want a ride?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, yes, sir!”<br />
<br />
There was no hesitation. No, ‘Are you sure?’ Just ‘Hells yah!'<br />
<br />
She danced around to the passenger side and, without adjusting any of her ponderous baggage, dropped herself into the seat. Face-forward, she didn’t say anything as if I knew where she needed to go. I drove in the general direction she had been walking until the first stop sign.<br />
<br />
“Which way?”<br />
<br />
Meanwhile my phone’s GPS was barking rerouting instructions. It was muffled and frantic under the pile of stuff I’d chucked in the back seat in order to give her room.<br />
<br />
“Left.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, my name is Bryce, by the way.”<br />
<br />
We shook hands. Silence.<br />
<br />
“And, what’s your name?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t remember.”<br />
<br />
It’s wasn’t bread in her bag. It was a teddy bear. I realized she wasn’t bringing shopping home. This was everything she owned. She didn’t shift her bags when she sat down because they are always on her. She wears them like clothing.<br />
<br />
Her face was mottled and weathered. She was young, probably early thirties, but she’d been living hard for a long time.<br />
<br />
“Do you want some water?”<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
“I have some food. I have a peanut butter and jelly if you’d like.”<br />
<br />
“No. Do you have any drugs?”<br />
<br />
“Sorry, no.”<br />
<br />
“Any pot?”<br />
<br />
Isn’t pot a drug?<br />
<br />
“No, sorry, I don’t have anything like that.”<br />
<br />
“Oh. Left.”<br />
<br />
We took three lefts. I wondered if she was leading me into some kind of ambush. Just for a moment. Of course she wasn’t. What would be the plan there? Wander the streets with all your possessions on your back until some naive dude picks you up then steal, what, his driver’s license?<br />
<br />
Finally, she said turn right. I said I can’t, it’s one way the other way.<br />
<br />
“It’s just a sign.”<br />
<br />
I looked around. This was an empty part of the city. The few houses were boarded up, crumbling. The right turn led us to a T intersection. Straight ahead was a path leading into a wooded area. The path was littered with moldy clothing, an abandoned shopping cart, trash bags...you’ve seen it.<br />
<br />
“This is it.”<br />
<br />
“Are you sure?”<br />
<br />
“Yes. My partner is in there. Come with me. We’ll party. He wants to meet you. He talks better than me.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, thanks. I can’t. I need to get home.”<br />
<br />
I regretted saying the H-word immediately.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, come on. He can tell you.”<br />
<br />
“Isn’t there somewhere else I can take you? Do you know somewhere warm?”<br />
<br />
“No, I’m safe here.”<br />
<br />
She asked me where I lived. I gave her a vague description of the house that Sara and I are renting. She asked about Sara and, again, invited us to stop by to party.<br />
<br />
Playing with the buttons on the radio she asked how much I paid for the car. I told her. She said it’s nice. It’s warm. I let her sit for a while. I held her hand for a little bit. She looked like someone who needed to be touched.<br />
<br />
I hope it helped.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
She broke my heart. She was clearly confused, probably drug addled. I told her to please stay warm. I only had three dollars on me, which I gave her along with a lighter. She was far more grateful for the lighter.<br />
<br />
I watched her walk up the path to whatever it is that is her place. She disappeared into the trees.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzinCeR3-pghXiLTh4TU0RKW3eMNwmS4tugDJhflmOLyvR1lIxQd3sEZvGVT5GHfRKOR81cHTFn8cmJKHD0Uxb_HvuscAQwuQr6nLZLUm4og8p-J_F5W8U8XU5qhDXrUqNXufaGw/s1600/8F504DA1-2E26-4253-A00B-5FC95034060B.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzinCeR3-pghXiLTh4TU0RKW3eMNwmS4tugDJhflmOLyvR1lIxQd3sEZvGVT5GHfRKOR81cHTFn8cmJKHD0Uxb_HvuscAQwuQr6nLZLUm4og8p-J_F5W8U8XU5qhDXrUqNXufaGw/s320/8F504DA1-2E26-4253-A00B-5FC95034060B.png" width="320" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-62711828902934687432016-06-12T16:36:00.002-05:002016-06-12T17:02:03.244-05:00Second Hand Therapy <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOs9doyZ_W6IxzMJI6uCdpeuB5pVCOWi9KV5rbjvx37nhCwxy-59x4OF65Z3RaAFtWA2w-etPf7qqdc3CU7AQyDx3tpw90m5BKLBoErIWr_sgIwrCitw0kIQqHS32qk5fE4dO4g/s1600/13445945_10208449063638094_1876346832_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOs9doyZ_W6IxzMJI6uCdpeuB5pVCOWi9KV5rbjvx37nhCwxy-59x4OF65Z3RaAFtWA2w-etPf7qqdc3CU7AQyDx3tpw90m5BKLBoErIWr_sgIwrCitw0kIQqHS32qk5fE4dO4g/s320/13445945_10208449063638094_1876346832_o.jpg" width="202" /></a>I need a teapot.
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Please don't get
too invested in that idea. You will be disappointed.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Still, I need a
teapot. Two weeks ago I had a very nice teapot. Well, I had a teapot
that fit my very specific requirements. I like whistlers. Don't judge
me I just like it when they whistle. I also want a kettle with a lid,
which can be a problem. A lot of whistlers on the market these days
only have the neck with a tight-fitted cap which facilitates the
whistling. The combination of a wide, equally tight-fitted lid and a
whistling neck isn't always the easiest thing to find.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But, like I said,
up until two weeks ago, I had one of those. It took me a few years to
find it. Besides those specifications, it had to have the right look.
Simple, clean, classic – it can be a troublesome equation and I'd
solved it. Then, my wife, my love and companion of +20 years asked me
to move out and, as is her nature, very efficiently organized our
divorce.<br />
<br />
I take kitchens very seriously. I'll drive a POS
vehicle for years and never give it another thought but if a kitchen
I'm associated with is out of order in any way, I will not rest until
the problem is rectified. So, in packing up my belongings, I could
not bring myself to remove the perfect kettle that I'd found for that
kitchen, even if it left me without one.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJSNZfpEc2p_2rBl4coidPIgdlqAaS34UhYSJYynwcv60z6PaXe8npJdtZ4BB5bDgtD4S2FC2XNXVpS7bD8xJZsf62awz2Aa8ONYUXLk5QsLtUkO0jbLozrSOfu9zRJptT3ITOA/s1600/13457599_10208448991596293_1812530518_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJSNZfpEc2p_2rBl4coidPIgdlqAaS34UhYSJYynwcv60z6PaXe8npJdtZ4BB5bDgtD4S2FC2XNXVpS7bD8xJZsf62awz2Aa8ONYUXLk5QsLtUkO0jbLozrSOfu9zRJptT3ITOA/s320/13457599_10208448991596293_1812530518_n.jpg" width="320" /></a>Which brings us
back to the frustrating truth that I need a teapot.<br />
<br />
This
afternoon I stopped in on a local 2<sup>nd</sup> hand shop to find my
teapot. In the meantime, my friend,<a href="http://bethdcarter.blogspot.com/"> Beth</a>, was asking me to explain
fractions to her. (We can talk about my choice of friends later.) I
think I helped but, whether I did or not, I entertained myself by
sending her some silly pictures of the stuff I found in the shop. I
found a rack stuffed with bad ties and snapped a picture with the
caption: All The Ties! There was a basket full of thin vases for $5.
My caption for this was: I was hoping for a bag of dicks but a basket
of vases will probably work.<br />
<br />
I'm clever. My friends are lucky
to have me. <br />
<br />
There is an extensive collection of old, classy
clothes in one section of this shop. I'm not what one would call a
classy dresser but I like to slow down and admire the racks when I'm
there. There's a wall there with nothing but ladies' hats. It's
really stunning. I texted: All The Hats and lifted my phone to get
the best angle to capture the amazing array of hats. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Just as I was just about to snap the picture...
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvqQx9XwamtAPT2oCYuS3m0UTP2Pf1ZaWckA2Ju6-WiCqtRaXpZgYDQdvK9MmcCurgNi82z8_w8PCXYbCrmjGpzzU7Gmzps9ApiOCE4DXxfFQuUTdHz6h3BFLGPJoKxlKrLdJSQ/s1600/13445940_10208449426247159_1019237303_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvqQx9XwamtAPT2oCYuS3m0UTP2Pf1ZaWckA2Ju6-WiCqtRaXpZgYDQdvK9MmcCurgNi82z8_w8PCXYbCrmjGpzzU7Gmzps9ApiOCE4DXxfFQuUTdHz6h3BFLGPJoKxlKrLdJSQ/s320/13445940_10208449426247159_1019237303_o.jpg" width="202" /></a>
Wait, first this. Among the
beautiful, generations removed clothing and accessories I spotted the
piece I would have to have. It's a heavy, cotton weave messenger bag.
It's 70 years old if it's a day. It's busted to hell, worn and
shredded on every corner. Still it's well made and despite it's
state, there isn't a hole or flaw in it that would challenge it's
functionality. As I admired it, I felt something in a side pocket. I
stuck a finger in and pulled out a buckeye. How do I not buy that
right then, right there?</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Well, because my
cash on hand was a dollar short, that's how.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Oh, well, I
thought, maybe I'll come back later and grab it. Then I saw the
hats...<br />
<br />
I was ready to snap the picture when, from around the
far corner, stepped a woman. At first, I truly believed that I was
seeing one of the comically comely mannequins that the proprietors
like to scatter throughout the shop. She was slender yet shapely and
wore a snug, silk dress that would have been the jewel of the
classic, outdated collection in this shop. It was tan, the color of
stained pine, with a floral print in reds and greens, slightly and
beautifully faded with age.<br />
<br />
She was younger than me but I
won't venture a guess how much. She had a beautiful smile and so
happy eyes. Her skin was the blackest of black, gorgeously
threatening to make the exquisite silk dress seem drab.<br />
<br />
I never got that perfectly framed picture of the wall of hats.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Instead, after
seeing my fellow shopper, I fumbled my phone/camera. It shlooped out
of my grasp like a bar of soap. I juggled it for a few moments and
finally lost the game as it clattered and broke open in a box of old
post cards. The woman glanced at my antics and smiled as I tried to
make a joke while gathering the pieces.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Pulling myself
together as best I could, I headed for the nearest exit.<br />
<br />
After
driving a few blocks, I decided two things. First, I must have the
buckeye bag. Second, I must offer to make dinner for my new beauty.
Never mind, that I'm floppy, grey-haired old white dude with a
scruffy beard and inability to speak to humans. It was just the
necessary thing.<br />
<br />
I found an ATM so I covered the cost of the
bag which, I'm pleased to report, is now mine. After buying it, I
found her and showed it to her. I showed her how it is so busted
and told her how I like that. Then I showed her the buckeye. She
didn't understand the significance but was engaged and listened as I
told her about it. Then, I told her that I would like to make dinner
for her. She was very nice and wisely declined with, “I doubt my
boyfriend would appreciate that.”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
I laughed –
not nervously – and said, “Yeah, I suppose not.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She smiled, warmly,
and told me she appreciated the offer, even adding that it was
flattering.<br />
<br />
Who knows if there's a boyfriend. It doesn't
matter. There's not a version of that scenario where she accepts.
There are hundreds of versions of that scenario where I don't ask the
breathtaking woman in front of me to spend some time. I rejected them
and at no stage of the process did I lose my mind to dumb
fright.<br />
<br />
I've known my wife since I was 20; we've been together
almost as long. To repurpose a line I think I heard in some TV
dramedy, we had 21 amazing years in a nearly perfect relationship and
then a year and a half suffering through hell together.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
At 43 I'm back to
single and I wasn't sure how I'd handle it. Thanks to some second
hand therapy today, I think I might be okay. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-41236611605867089172016-05-03T08:59:00.003-05:002016-05-03T09:04:08.056-05:00Turn Signals or The Increasing Entropy of Common Human Relations<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Turn signals are great. They’re so simple. They explain so much while
being the easiest thing to understand. There’s no written language to
understand to understand a turn signal. They communicate a pure, often
important message to others. There is no nuance to a turn signal and the
information delivered by a turn signal is only ever beneficial to everyone
involved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Most people who know me in real life consider me to be quiet,
introverted, thoughtful and, overall, a bit of an asshole. That’s all probably
pretty accurate but mostly because there aren’t turn signals. Human interaction
is incredibly complex and I get it wrong almost every time. It would be so much
better if motivations, needs and desires could be communicated in the same
purely binary principles of the turn signal. Instead, we’re meant to receive a
raft of spoken and unspoken information to understand each other. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Eye movement, posture, facial expression, hand gestures, personal
space, tone of voice, verbal infliction and a whole mess of other subtle and
not so subtle clues are continuously being delivered in even the simplest of
conversations. Heap on top of that individual, familial and cultural
differences mean that nobody is working with the same unspoken vocabulary. The
whole thing is further complicated by the fact that spoken words, meant to be
the most explicit form of communication, rely on living and therefore always
evolving languages. None of it - definitions, word order, sentence structure,
etc. - is static. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I just want to know if you’re turning left or right but somehow we’re
involved in a heated conversation about the pros and cons of tapioca pudding.
Is it any wonder I spend most conversations watching and listening? Receiving, interpreting
and filing the information that I think is being delivered is often
overwhelming. Then developing and delivering a clear response makes a complex
situation nearly impossible. Is it any wonder that I spend most of my time actively
avoiding conversations?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/Y-VQXTN1m60/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Y-VQXTN1m60?feature=player_embedded" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="320"></iframe>There aren’t many people I would count as close. There are a lot of
people I like and, not always concurrently, admire. There are far fewer with
whom I feel capable of communicating. I think those unfortunate few probably to
find me exhausting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Despite appearances, I do crave human interaction as much as anyone
else. When I think I’ve found it, I quickly overload my new victim. Making
matters worse is the fact that I’m almost always wrong. I haven’t established
successful interaction. More often I’ve found someone who, for whatever reason,
finds it in their interest to try to exchange ideas with me. I find myself in
situations where I think I’m building a friendship or affection where the other
person might simply fulfilling a specific need. Once done, I’m left wondering
what happened to my new buddy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I’m not saying I’m a victim or this is a situation unique to me. I
imagine this is a universal experience and I’ve probably been on the other side
of that situation quite a few times. I do think I’m less aware of it than most.
Human relations are always a negotiation and most people understand that instinctually.
I find I don’t and I have to stop and make myself understand that what I think
is a fast, new friendship was, actually, a transaction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Whenever I really put my mind to these matters, I almost always decide
that I have Asperger syndrome. If I do, I’m on the functional end and there’s
probably not a lot of benefit in knowing. Fortunately, I do have a few people
in life and they’ll have to do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
I just wish the rest of you assholes would wear turn signals.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-91723794456492876492016-04-21T14:53:00.002-05:002016-04-22T08:41:35.794-05:00Shakespeare in the Writers' Room - Totally True History of Stuff You Should Totally Believe, for Reals! <div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>This is an installment in the occasional series Totally True History Stuff You Should Totally Believe for Reals! It is researched, written, curated and maintained by <a href="http://bethdcarter.blogspot.com/?zx=8f80c5e4f715eafb">Beth D. Carter</a> and me. You should totally believe everything here because it's totally true, for reals.</strong></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6mSaUD-ZlGNxos7hykM-sHsP6cSkcGrRpVXU2LJ1xyfn6iIU5V7NzGCGWN4qyiOz_S0Gczfs2p2RYl7ZcbsAEOJILouhL798aZkFbZEdH_cfs0rWTdWgZIXX0LLEGuZ3mjchLA/s1600/Cheerspeare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6mSaUD-ZlGNxos7hykM-sHsP6cSkcGrRpVXU2LJ1xyfn6iIU5V7NzGCGWN4qyiOz_S0Gczfs2p2RYl7ZcbsAEOJILouhL798aZkFbZEdH_cfs0rWTdWgZIXX0LLEGuZ3mjchLA/s320/Cheerspeare.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";">For years the television industry has kept the lid on what I’m about
to reveal. Careers may be at stake and reputations irrevocably damaged by what I am about to share but, in
the end, the truth is always better than a lie. The mistruths behind the
television show Cheer must be brought into the light. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">
Scholars and television executives alike will deny this. They will call me a
whack-job and smear my name. As I’ve researched this I and my family have been
threatened but I remain committed to the cause. I will make public supportive
evidence in coming weeks. Today, I only intend to present a brief summary of
what I’ve found.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In order to understand the import of these facts, you need to be able
to conceive how it’s even possible. The first time one hears that William
Shakespeare wrote the ‘80’s sitcom, Cheers, it may seem like pure fiction. But
that most unlikely of facts is 100% true.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At the original Globe, costume and set design took a lot longer than in
today’s theaters. The time between act one, scene two and act one, scene
three could be as much as 20 minutes. Shakespeare could see that his audience
would get restless and many would wander away. Most plays ended with half the
audience they started with. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So, under the pen name Christopher Marlowe, he wrote silly little 15
minute vignettes about clownish oafs who were hanging out in a pub. His actors for these little pieces were stage hands in their street clothes, sitting at the bar, talking and joking
in base language. The little side stage never changed and the costumes didn't
matter so it filled the time perfectly with no real extra effort.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Problem was the pub scenes became more popular than the plays. The
situation flipped. People were bored, wandering around, starting fights during
the proper play. They were waiting for the pub scenes and didn’t care about
Henry V, Much Ado, Hamlet... </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This infuriated Shakespeare so he buried the vignettes and tried to start
a whisper campaign about that hack, Christopher Marlowe. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In 1958, archeologists unearthed the manuscripts in a wooded
area near Kensington known as the James Burrows. Once they were cleaned up and
transcribed, it became clear that what was once thought to be just a rumor was,
in fact, reality. The CHristopher Marlowe William shakespEARE, or CHEARE, plays
were real. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The stories were brushed up for the sitcom to be more modern but the
actual dialogue remained true. More than 85% of the words said on Cheers
were originally penned by the Bard himself.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-66758063883932560742016-04-21T11:28:00.000-05:002016-04-21T12:18:36.496-05:00Parks and Recremation<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">A friend of mine asked me to write her obituary. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></span><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Camilla Parks's vast and varied contributions to the progress of
humankind began several decades before her birth when she invented the
photoscopic device that bears her namesake, the camera. She would later
describe the pre-embryotic revelation that would lead to the creation of a tool
that could transfer light images on to treated film thusly: “Wouldn’t it be
cool if we could save the shit we see on paper?"</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"></span><div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It was this simple observation that marked the beginning of the amazing
career and, later, life of Parks. The noted inventor, woman of letters,
world-class phrenologist and all around awesome dude would go on to delight and
astonish all citizens of the world from great thinkers and political leaders to
those dumb-fucks who just sit around eating dirt. What is up with those
people?!</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Born to Mr. and Mrs. Harriet S. Tubman on exactly the right day in the
twentieth century, Reginald Archibald Peachpot would later change her name to
Camilla Park after reading a really interesting book about Haley’s comet. She
changed her name to Camilla Parks after the birth of her second child stating,
“Wulp, I guess we’re plural, now.”</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It was her heroics during the Battle of the Bulge that first landed
Parks in the national spotlight. Her Sometimes You Gotta Contract campaign
swept the nation and is widely considered responsible for TV shows such as
Laugh In and 60 Minutes by most historians. Stephen Ambrose said, “It was a
heady time for Parks. Her ability to balance work and family life was a true
inspiration for the nation.” He added, “Is that what you needed?”</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: small;">Once, after a phone call, Parks was overheard saying, “I really wish
they’d stop calling me.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Parks is survived by her loving family and that beef she put in the
refrigerator to marinate yesterday morning. Her last thought was, “There’s no
way they’re going to cook that steak right.”</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">She will be missed.</span></span></div>
</span><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-89204754423300349702016-03-25T11:42:00.001-05:002020-12-04T16:54:07.211-06:00Of Lips and Levis or How the Book Was Way Better Than the Movie<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
A little over two decades and a thousand years ago I took some time
between being a dumb teenager and being a slightly less dumb
twenty-somethinger. One station of my rumschpringe involved a small video
rental store in Hanau, Germany. It was located near a US army base and exclusively
carried VHS tapes formatted for American video machines. I worked there, for
cash, for a solid three to four weeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Hang on, this is going nowhere, I promise!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
The ground floor had the standard – if spare – selection of movies: comedies, drama, etc. I don’t remember a lot about it but I don’t think there
was a new releases section and the movies in stock on that floor rarely saw any
action. The real business was upstairs, the porn section. It was packed tightly
with, very possibly, every porn video available at that time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I had one coworker who was really neither much of a worker or a co. I’m
almost convinced her name was Ziva. Like the owner, she was Israeli – not Jewish,
she often reminded me. Also, like the owner, she lived in the Israeli – not Jewish,
she insisted that I understand – section of Frankfurt. It was never clear to me
how she commuted to the store in Hanau. She would simply be there when a moment
before she hadn’t been. Later, she would unhappen just as mysteriously. Come to
think of it, I don’t remember her being anywhere but at the cash register,
languidly checking out soldiers as they slid in and out with their porny
treasures.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
She was short and impossibly thin. Her features were a collection of
angles, all of which pointed and seemed to slide to her perpetually pursed
lips. Before each enunciation, of which there were very few, she would slowly
kiss with the quietest of smacks what I can only assume was an invisible fairy
always floating just in front of her, ready for its next blessing. It was easy
to focus on that mouth when dealing with her. Besides being directed to do so
by the rest of her face, it was better than looking in her black eyes. She had
the second deadest pair of eyes I have ever encountered. To look at them for
any longer than just a glance was to feel the room grow colder by at least
three degrees. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
During the first shift I worked with her, she stood silent, leaning, watching
as the owner showed me around the shop and explained my duties. It was
impossible to tell if she was studying us to establish the best, most silent
ways to end our lives or deciding which one of us she would fuck and whether or
not the Amaretto would be flaming or just wet as she poured it over our slithering
body parts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
As soon as the boss left, she took my attention with an okay.
[nyoekyay] She explained to me in exhaustive detail how I, as an American, could go into the PX on base and buy American Levis while she, as an Israeli –
not Jewish – immigrant to the German economy. could not. She went on to explain that
the American Levis in the PX were far less expensive than the Levis she bought
in German shops. She told me how she and her friends would all like me to buy
them the American Levis and they would be glad to pay me… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
She was very thorough and mistaken. I didn’t actually have the credentials
to make purchases at the PX. I’m lucky I didn’t. I can be breath-takingly naïve
at times. I believed that she just really wanted the American Levis. It dawned
on me years later that she was proposing something of a US army enabled
smuggling ring. She never really understood, or perhaps chose not to accept the
knowledge that I could not help her. Her greetings for me, if we were alone,
was always, "Nyoekyay, I’m wondering, the Levis?"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about that little shop. It jumped
into my brain today when I saw this meme on Facebook today. That movie and this
shop are locked together in my head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsnCiPPoQ1qUxmYG0YXfp5aWOd4OpufFo3CLRhd9FkDyxhllENlUAmmfLQK2hEw6E1TykI1gbR7K4rt7Diw8-Z-MrW5K1rM44mYSFxz1u_7bEyOg8j-mGRB8pX-h1_VJANF0n4Yw/s1600/bc+pic.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsnCiPPoQ1qUxmYG0YXfp5aWOd4OpufFo3CLRhd9FkDyxhllENlUAmmfLQK2hEw6E1TykI1gbR7K4rt7Diw8-Z-MrW5K1rM44mYSFxz1u_7bEyOg8j-mGRB8pX-h1_VJANF0n4Yw/s320/bc+pic.png" width="320" /></a>There was a single screen in the store. It was an old TV hung on the
wall with a VCR opposite the cash register on which employees could watch any
non-porn video in the store. I was there alone one morning and popped in The
Breakfast Club. It was a slow morning and I was soon engrossed in the movie. It
was during one of the snottier, self-confession scenes that the owner arrived. He
stood, blocking my view of the screen and spent several moments watching the
bawling teens.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Finally, he turned and fixed the deadest eyes I have ever seen on me. “Are
you a fucking psychologist?” [skeeyiekeeawlajust]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
He punched the TV off. I’m not sure if he hit a button or if he and the
TV simply had an understanding. I just know the TV was punched and the images
and sounds stopped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
He turned and vaguely waved in my direction. “File that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I brought a book in with me for my next shift. <o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-79675853013817452592016-03-21T03:56:00.000-05:002016-03-21T04:16:11.554-05:00Delicate Books <div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-mVRpCbeoKEdAvbGGOL51pSykXI-OylnZNAGOhAQh9rI38bYdzg6JmFBUepH6RUBUP4mv0TefNibr1VnkhsKydBrLPKnyVU02nOudOZ2CX1jGRkYwmfaXfPBGguiUkEiB7VlTA/s1600/WIN_20160321_03_39_07_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-mVRpCbeoKEdAvbGGOL51pSykXI-OylnZNAGOhAQh9rI38bYdzg6JmFBUepH6RUBUP4mv0TefNibr1VnkhsKydBrLPKnyVU02nOudOZ2CX1jGRkYwmfaXfPBGguiUkEiB7VlTA/s320/WIN_20160321_03_39_07_Pro.jpg" width="320" /></a>Do you have delicate books? I imagine
you do. I'm not talking about precious, first editions or beloved
writings that have nourished. I'm talking specifically about brittle
tomes that have sat on your shelves for years, maybe decades, without
being touched. They have yellowing dust jackets with that curious
linen covered cardboard hard cover. They are fourth, fifth, whatever
printings of classics that you picked up at a library sell off, yard
sale, used shop years ago when, upon seeing you said to yourself,
yes, for $1.50 I really should own a disintegrating copy of the
Federalist Papers.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You do. We all do.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have several. There are books on my
shelf that I'm constantly pulling to remind myself of the distance
between basil plants I should arrange in my garden, to remember that
Kennedy-Lincoln parallel thing, to remind myself in which play
Shakespeare coined the borrower-be thing. Those books get action.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But those other books, the delicate
ones, stand true, untouched and gathering dust. I have Schlesinger's
Roosevelt series, sure. But, do I touch it? No. I used to yank out
that curiously mesmerizing Timetables of History all the time and
then Google happened and now it stands, untouched, waiting. Becoming
delicate.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tonight I was looking for a book I know
I have somewhere – still haven't found it – and came across a
couple of others that grabbed me. The Robe by Douglas and 84, Charing
Cross Road by Helen Hanff have just been sitting there, waiting. Why
do I have The Robe? I have no idea. I don't know what it's about, I
have no memory of it being being recommended. I think an old college
buddy might have once mentioned a movie called The Robe but that
can't be why I have this book. 84, of course, is a delightful movie.
If you can watch that film and not fall in love with Anne Bancroft
then you and I have nothing more to say to each other. But, how did I
find this book and, more importantly, why haven't I read it are
questions for which I have no answer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Both books have grown delicate. The
Robe is in very bad shape. The binding is pulling loose and the spine
is impossibly stiff. I'm gently working it back and forth.
Fortunately, my hands are big enough that I can wrap my palm about
the length of the edge. I can roll it softly and gingerly open the
pages. Soon I'll open it about 20 degrees and let the pages break
apart from the fused block they've become, starting at the center, of
course. In a bit I'll be able to let them cascade back and forth as
individuals. Finally, still gently rolling, I'll crawl to the front
and find out what the hell this book is that I've guarded for so many
years.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After that, I may actually read 84.
We'll see.</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-29880627640485398672011-11-29T18:23:00.004-06:002011-11-29T18:54:54.511-06:00Loving This Week with Larry MillerI love the Christopher Guest movies - <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0118111/">Waiting for Guffman</a>, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0218839/">Best in Show</a>, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0310281/">A Mighty Wind</a>, and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0470765/">For Your Consideration</a>. So much so that I've bought the DVDs of each of them and watched the "movie with commentary" part of each of these films. I bring that up to say this: on one of them, I forget which, Christopher says that no one can wear short sleeves like Larry Miller. I have no idea why I know what that means but I do and it's so totally true.<br /><br />Anyway...<br /><br />Larry Miller can play an asshole like no one else. But, he is the farthest thing from an asshole of any person I know of. The first inkling of this I had was when I listened to <a href="http://wtfpod.libsyn.com/episode-187-larry-miller">his interview on Marc Maron's WTF</a>. Now, I'm a subscriber of his podcast, <a href="http://www.adamcarolla.com/LMBlog/">This Week with Larry Miller</a> and I love listening to it. I hope to someday find myself able to embrace Larry's philosophy of "game's over and you've won."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-48731394253432438922011-08-11T02:54:00.004-05:002011-08-11T03:04:26.247-05:00The latest dumb thing my mind is doing to meFour or five days ago I had one of those dreams that shocked me straight awake, screaming and scrambling out of bed. I was convinced that some sort of flesh eating, scaly skinned eels were eating my feet. In the dream, they had already swallowed me up to my ankles, making it impossible to move.
<br />
<br />So, a bad dream, right? Should be no big deal.
<br />
<br />But it is. I can't sleep unless I'm under my sheets and blanket. Now, after that dream, I remember those eels in the moment just before getting to sleep and wake straight back up. I can't get to sleep on top of the covers and I can't stay asleep under the covers.
<br />
<br />In short, I'm very, very, very tired.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-54483634856847353482011-07-27T10:59:00.004-05:002011-07-27T11:07:27.050-05:00The Pacific - To the point movie reviewYoung men of mostly European descent shoot at young men of mostly Asian descent on Pacific islands.*<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001IBIHQ4/ref=as_li_tf_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=eresourcesfor-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399369&creativeASIN=B001IBIHQ4">2 out of 5 palm fronds</a><img src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=eresourcesfor-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B001IBIHQ4&camp=217145&creative=399369" width="1" height="1" border="0" alt="" style="border:none !important; margin:0px !important;" /><br /><br />*To be fair, I didn't finish this miniseries. It is billed as a companion piece to Band of Brothers and in production value it certainly lives up to the standard set by that great series. However, it is so lacking in story telling and character development that by the end of the second episode I had no idea who was who or what was going on. Protracted, confusing, night-time battle scenes dominate the series which left me confused and frustrated.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-45064104853957713812011-06-24T05:29:00.003-05:002011-06-24T05:38:14.996-05:00Is it a coincidence that Eric Cantor and Eric Cartman sound so much alike?<center>Consider Cantor's negotiation technique: <a href="http://powerwall.msnbc.msn.com/politics/why-eric-cantor-bailed-1692953.story">Why Eric Cantor Bailed</a><br /><br />and<br /><br />Cartman's technique:<br /><iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Y96a_RS_vYw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></center><br /><br />Is it just me or is Cartman just Cantor all growed up?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-8076254609486790012011-06-09T22:50:00.001-05:002011-06-09T22:52:53.566-05:00Words to live by... (I'm in a mood)The Lord loves a working man.<br />Don't trust whitey.<br />See a doctor and get rid of it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-26910676835190559892011-05-02T13:07:00.006-05:002011-05-02T13:22:28.092-05:00US Kills Osama Bin Laden<iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6kI8EUqbWdM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />John Donne says any death diminishes us all; I say jubilation over death diminishes us all the more. <br /><br />Meditation XVII, John Donne<br /><blockquote>PERCHANCE he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that. The church is Catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that body which is my head too, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all; but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness. There was a contention as far as a suit (in which both piety and dignity, religion and estimation, were mingled), which of the religious orders should ring to prayers first in the morning; and it was determined, that they should ring first that rose earliest. If we understand aright the dignity of this bell that tolls for our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours by rising early, in that application, that it might be ours as well as his, whose indeed it is. The bell doth toll for him that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute that that occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God. Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? but who takes off his eye from a comet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.</span> Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbours. Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did, for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by and made fit for God by that affliction. If a man carry treasure in bullion, or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current money, his treasure will not defray him as he travels. Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it. Another man may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels, as gold in a mine, and be of no use to him; but this bell, that tells me of his affliction, digs out and applies that gold to me: if by this consideration of another's danger I take mine own into contemplation, and so secure myself, by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-3599230768381752542011-04-15T20:55:00.003-05:002011-12-10T07:05:29.489-06:00Le Dork d'ArthurI've never cared for the Arthur character. I mean that exactly. I've never found him at all interesting. I don't hate him and I don't love him. He is presented as a pawn of destiny and, somehow, everyone is supposed to respect him for that. But, he's just a pawn. <br /><br />The characters around Arthur are far more interesting, right? Merlin, the scheming chess master trying to fit Arthur in exactly the right spot, Arthur's sister -- whose name escapes me just now -- with her vicious response to a shitty homelife, his cheating wife, his cheating knight and all the others around him who partook in adventure while he sat serenely as the holy head of state; all of them are far more interesting than the man who seemed to allow himself to be mindlessly buffeted back and forth by fate right up until the end of his life.<br /><br />I've only recently come to realize that this is why I've always been bored with Arthur. I never really gave it much thought but, there it is.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-6007152161807910442011-04-13T19:56:00.004-05:002011-04-13T20:10:03.661-05:00The Hurt Locker - To the point movie reviewBoys with toys kill each other and blow shit up in Iraq.<br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00275EGWY/ref=as_li_tf_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=eresourcesfor-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00275EGWY">2/5 bootleg DVDs</a><img src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=eresourcesfor-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B00275EGWY" width="1" height="1" border="0" alt="" style="border:none !important; margin:0px !important;" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-33892460863381455652011-03-28T09:41:00.005-05:002011-04-13T19:58:52.390-05:00Saving Grace - To the point movie reviewCraig Ferguson grows marijuana in his boss's solarium.<br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00003CXMY/ref=as_li_tf_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=eresourcesfor-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00003CXMY">4/5 seedlings</a><img src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=eresourcesfor-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B00003CXMY" width="1" height="1" border="0" alt="" style="border:none !important; margin:0px !important;" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-81310657158635186652011-03-28T09:24:00.001-05:002011-03-26T09:37:20.106-05:00Dean Spanley - To the point movie reviewWhen he was a boy, Peter O'Toole's dog died. Sam Neill remembers it when he drinks an Eastern European dessert wine.<br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B003VIVAHK/ref=as_li_tf_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=eresourcesfor-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B003VIVAHK">5/5 glasses of tokaji</a><img src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=eresourcesfor-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B003VIVAHK" width="1" height="1" border="0" alt="" style="border:none !important; margin:0px !important;" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-82753506521043866412011-03-27T09:19:00.002-05:002011-07-27T11:08:36.915-05:00Splitting Heirs - To the point movie reviewEric Idle sleeps with Catherine Zeta Jones and tries to kill Rick Moranis. And who among us hasn't wanted at least one of these things?<br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00049QJO8/ref=as_li_tf_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=eresourcesfor-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00049QJO8">3/5 brandy flasks</a><img src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=eresourcesfor-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B00049QJO8" width="1" height="1" border="0" alt="" style="border:none !important; margin:0px !important;" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-1065024933087457322011-03-26T09:52:00.002-05:002011-03-26T09:55:27.918-05:00Tell-Tale - To the point movie reviewA heart transplant recipient kills the people responsible.<br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00368PSLY/ref=as_li_tf_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=eresourcesfor-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B00368PSLY">4/5 black market livers</a><img src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=eresourcesfor-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B00368PSLY" width="1" height="1" border="0" alt="" style="border:none !important; margin:0px !important;" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-87405375377224491052011-03-26T09:13:00.000-05:002011-03-26T09:14:16.539-05:00Cosi - To the point movie reviewAfter burning down a theater, a group of Australian mental patients produce an opera.<br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000089794/ref=as_li_tf_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=eresourcesfor-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B000089794">3/5 matches</a><img src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=eresourcesfor-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B000089794" width="1" height="1" border="0" alt="" style="border:none !important; margin:0px !important;" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-21239736017927003352011-02-21T13:18:00.000-06:002011-02-21T13:19:53.756-06:00Oh, Harry!<object width="400" height="259"><param name="movie" value="http://www.mydamnchannel.com/xml/mdc_embed_wide.swf?episode=6802"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.mydamnchannel.com/xml/mdc_embed_wide.swf?episode=6802" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" allowScriptAccess="always" width="400" height="259"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-39526574219226920772011-02-08T04:21:00.004-06:002011-02-08T04:44:12.966-06:00Why I'm more likely than my cat to win the Nobel Peace PrizeI am capable of both written and verbal communication.<br /><br />I rarely throw-up on the floor, especially in front of others.<br /><br />I'm often fully dressed, especially in public.<br /><br />I'm a better cook.<br /><br />Licking my privates has never been part of my cleaning ritual.<br /><br />I usually use a toilet for my personal needs instead of a box of sand.<br /><br />Not to be a foot-counting speciest but, I am bipedal giving me more in common with both the committee and past recipients.<br /><br />I don't jump on the couch when I'm told not to.<br /><br />I have never bitten anyone aggressively or defensively, thus contributing to world peace.<br /><br />I can wear the medal around my neck without letting it drag on the floor.<br /><br />I have a longer life expectancy than him which gives me more opportunities to win the prize.<br /><br />Thumbs.<br /><br />I rarely sniff at others' dinner plates, especially when they're looking.<br /><br />I can tie my own tie.<br /><br />I'm not afraid of vacuum cleaners.<br /><br />I am aware of the Nobel Peace Prize.<br /><br />I can produce more references, both personal and professional.<br /><br />I rarely beg when someone opens a can of tuna.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-7667349616137672942011-01-14T12:41:00.003-06:002011-03-26T09:48:09.669-05:00The Hangover - To the point movie reviewBefore getting married, a man survives over 30 hours of exposure in the Nevada desert. Comedy.<br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B002Q4VBPQ?ie=UTF8&tag=eresourcesfor-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B002Q4VBPQ">4/5 blue pills</a><img src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=eresourcesfor-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B002Q4VBPQ" width="1" height="1" border="0" alt="" style="border:none !important; margin:0px !important;" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8525567.post-89714974311969168452011-01-14T12:37:00.001-06:002011-01-14T12:41:03.224-06:00It Gets BetterPart of the <a href="http://www.itgetsbetter.org/">It Gets Better</a> project.<br /><br /><object style="height: 390px; width: 640px"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cTQNwMxqM3E?version=3"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cTQNwMxqM3E?version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="640" height="390"></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0