BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Every morning she would appear at the bakery precisely at ten A.M. with a shopping list purportedly for the three women who lived with her, but actually it was all for her--and most of the workers at the bakery knew it. I sat at the small cafe table, eying her huge ass, her mountainous breasts, pushing at her holey knitted sweater, and watched as it rode up from her waist over her belly.
Her eyes would widen as the counter girl placed a prune danish into the bottom of the bag, then a almond cheese danish, and a brioche, at last a croissant, some liquefied butter appearing as it was squeezed slightly to fit it into the bag. Usually at this time she would push some hair off her forehead and then, after she paid for the baked goods she would go behind the shed to have her four pastries out of sight. She daintily nibbled at first, but finally devoured all, using her pudgy fingers to push them into her mouth in a last desperate moment, determined to finish before being discovered.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Her eyes revealed a no longer suppressed, ever present sorrow, a sadness drawn out of bitterness. Of course, I was drawn to her.
Her eyes revealed a no longer suppressed, ever present sorrow, a sadness drawn out of bitterness. Of course, I was drawn to her.
Monday, December 27, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Yes, twelve stories up. But no stories to speak.
At dawn the lights of night still lit,
From the west
A yellow light over the city.
On the eastern horizon,
A red blip, as yet only the top of the arc,
I feel my morning urge to pee.
Dark clouds gilded in red and gold.
Watching, alone, I wonder.
A few cars speed on the roads.
--and a siren breaks my only possession,
My peaceful, happy silence.
For a moment I deliberate—I should pee.
Shall I start the coffee first?
Or pee? I get out the coffee can,
Carefully measure out
Exactly four cups of water. Then,
Four heaping tablespoons of Brown Gold
Into the filter. I turn on the machine, hear
Its slight hiss as the water seeps through the grounds.
And make my way through the dawn-light in
The familiar apartment. I hear Maria sleep-breathing
In the bedroom. At last, I make my pee.
Yes, she labors, even in sleep.
MEK, December 2004
Yes, twelve stories up. But no stories to speak.
At dawn the lights of night still lit,
From the west
A yellow light over the city.
On the eastern horizon,
A red blip, as yet only the top of the arc,
I feel my morning urge to pee.
Dark clouds gilded in red and gold.
Watching, alone, I wonder.
A few cars speed on the roads.
--and a siren breaks my only possession,
My peaceful, happy silence.
For a moment I deliberate—I should pee.
Shall I start the coffee first?
Or pee? I get out the coffee can,
Carefully measure out
Exactly four cups of water. Then,
Four heaping tablespoons of Brown Gold
Into the filter. I turn on the machine, hear
Its slight hiss as the water seeps through the grounds.
And make my way through the dawn-light in
The familiar apartment. I hear Maria sleep-breathing
In the bedroom. At last, I make my pee.
Yes, she labors, even in sleep.
MEK, December 2004
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Someone said:
People don't seem to realize that their opinion of the world is a confession of character.
Someone said:
People don't seem to realize that their opinion of the world is a confession of character.
Monday, December 20, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I have come to a conclusion: My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
Vladimir Nabokov
I have come to a conclusion: My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
Vladimir Nabokov
Friday, December 10, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Serious literature fans:
You couldn't do better than "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll," Alvaro Mutis.
Serious literature fans:
You couldn't do better than "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll," Alvaro Mutis.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Yes, I want to be attentive, involved in what I am doing, involved in what is going on around me. I want to engage with with friends, my family members. But somehow, I am not really engaged. I am apart. I keep myself that way. I am like Alvaro Mutis' character, Maqroll, known to his friends as the 'watchman.' But my habit of keeping myself at a distance from my own life, and from the lives of my friends and my dearest removes me from what is real. I am always peering through a window trying to see what is real. But I can't feel through the glass. I only observe.
Is that the way I want it?
And, by the way, you couldn't find a better book than, Alvaro Mutis, "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll."
Yes, I want to be attentive, involved in what I am doing, involved in what is going on around me. I want to engage with with friends, my family members. But somehow, I am not really engaged. I am apart. I keep myself that way. I am like Alvaro Mutis' character, Maqroll, known to his friends as the 'watchman.' But my habit of keeping myself at a distance from my own life, and from the lives of my friends and my dearest removes me from what is real. I am always peering through a window trying to see what is real. But I can't feel through the glass. I only observe.
Is that the way I want it?
And, by the way, you couldn't find a better book than, Alvaro Mutis, "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Another aspect of the Bush vote was that the great unwashed and the bourgeoisie have been bamboozled by the Republican Propaganda Machine. Patriotism,. The American flag, "socialist" ideas, the danger of gov't subsidized medical care...etc. -- It's really amazing how stupid Mr. Average Joe is; can't he see how good Medicare is? Can't he see how good even Medicaid is (in some states.)
It's great to believe in Democracy, but until there is an educational system, with educable students, we are never going to have a rational, fair and just government. And now they are falling for the privatization of Social Security. Under Mrs. Thatcher the old age pension system was revamped partially privatized--and it doesn't work.There have been scandals and failures. But the Republicans want Privatization. But the Brits also have a National Health Care System.
But, Heaven forefend!! No No!! They don't want that!
Another aspect of the Bush vote was that the great unwashed and the bourgeoisie have been bamboozled by the Republican Propaganda Machine. Patriotism,. The American flag, "socialist" ideas, the danger of gov't subsidized medical care...etc. -- It's really amazing how stupid Mr. Average Joe is; can't he see how good Medicare is? Can't he see how good even Medicaid is (in some states.)
It's great to believe in Democracy, but until there is an educational system, with educable students, we are never going to have a rational, fair and just government. And now they are falling for the privatization of Social Security. Under Mrs. Thatcher the old age pension system was revamped partially privatized--and it doesn't work.There have been scandals and failures. But the Republicans want Privatization. But the Brits also have a National Health Care System.
But, Heaven forefend!! No No!! They don't want that!
Friday, November 26, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
November 25, 2004
The first time I saw waxed fruit I knew it was wrong. -- Fake fruit? Who, I thought, did Mrs. Craven think she was fooling? I was six, maybe seven, but I knew instinctively that I would never have fake fruit in my house.It was off. Its ugliness began to dominate the kitchen. From that very moment I knew that I was better than Brian and his mother. My innocence had been lost and I knew that I could never again trust appearances.That didn't, however, stop me from lusting after Brian's redheaded, slim and smiling mother. I didn't yet know why, but I wanted her. (A precursor, perhaps, of my future, far ahead, when I would lust after a nurse or maid hired by my children to look after me, but will have forgotten why, or what to do with them.)I would have regained that precious innocence, undeserved of course, because between that morning of the waxed fruit and my future years of decrepitude much will have happened.
But padding around the apartment or house in my robe and deerskin, fur-lined slippers (fake fur, now that I think of it) an harmless old man, grey headed, already partly ghost or spirit, I will be glad to pass through the warm dust-mote laden sunbeams that will float through the windows, and stripe the wall and carpet. I know that I will engage a faulty memory, confusing a nephew with a child, a teen-age romance with a French film seen in middle age, or perhaps a business failure with some one else's successful invasion of the perfume import market
November 25, 2004
The first time I saw waxed fruit I knew it was wrong. -- Fake fruit? Who, I thought, did Mrs. Craven think she was fooling? I was six, maybe seven, but I knew instinctively that I would never have fake fruit in my house.It was off. Its ugliness began to dominate the kitchen. From that very moment I knew that I was better than Brian and his mother. My innocence had been lost and I knew that I could never again trust appearances.That didn't, however, stop me from lusting after Brian's redheaded, slim and smiling mother. I didn't yet know why, but I wanted her. (A precursor, perhaps, of my future, far ahead, when I would lust after a nurse or maid hired by my children to look after me, but will have forgotten why, or what to do with them.)I would have regained that precious innocence, undeserved of course, because between that morning of the waxed fruit and my future years of decrepitude much will have happened.
But padding around the apartment or house in my robe and deerskin, fur-lined slippers (fake fur, now that I think of it) an harmless old man, grey headed, already partly ghost or spirit, I will be glad to pass through the warm dust-mote laden sunbeams that will float through the windows, and stripe the wall and carpet. I know that I will engage a faulty memory, confusing a nephew with a child, a teen-age romance with a French film seen in middle age, or perhaps a business failure with some one else's successful invasion of the perfume import market
Monday, November 15, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
So much has been lost that any account of the Katz-Iverson saga will be of necessity mostly surmise and fictional. The reader is invited to gather around him/herself an aura of what might have been and what has formed the existing generation. There are some facts that we know and from them we will generate an history biased by hope, and conjured up in my mind and the minds of my father and mother and, much later, my sister.
My claim to truth is limited by lack of information. For the most part, my story is merely conjecture.
So much has been lost that any account of the Katz-Iverson saga will be of necessity mostly surmise and fictional. The reader is invited to gather around him/herself an aura of what might have been and what has formed the existing generation. There are some facts that we know and from them we will generate an history biased by hope, and conjured up in my mind and the minds of my father and mother and, much later, my sister.
My claim to truth is limited by lack of information. For the most part, my story is merely conjecture.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Of my proud agnosticism:
In my life I have always distrusted those with provincial fixed opinion, and my faith in the "man who cannot say, 'I am,' who remains himself and another," remains unabated. I am a cosmopolitan, admittedly only half-educated, but still a person with a view of the world that encompasses all. My scale is often in balance, and when one side or another of any issue puts too heavy a thumb on the mechanism I become anxious, and my sense of justice becomes inflamed. I need to see both sides just as I need to have beauty in my life.
mek
Of my proud agnosticism:
In my life I have always distrusted those with provincial fixed opinion, and my faith in the "man who cannot say, 'I am,' who remains himself and another," remains unabated. I am a cosmopolitan, admittedly only half-educated, but still a person with a view of the world that encompasses all. My scale is often in balance, and when one side or another of any issue puts too heavy a thumb on the mechanism I become anxious, and my sense of justice becomes inflamed. I need to see both sides just as I need to have beauty in my life.
mek
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot
To names ignoble, born to be forgot!
In vain, recorded in historic page
They court the notice of a future age:
Those tiny twinkling lusters of the land
Drop one by one from Fame’s neglecting hand:
Lethaean gulphs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.
William Cowper, “Observing Some Names of Little Note Recorded in the Biographia Brittanica”
Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot
To names ignoble, born to be forgot!
In vain, recorded in historic page
They court the notice of a future age:
Those tiny twinkling lusters of the land
Drop one by one from Fame’s neglecting hand:
Lethaean gulphs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.
William Cowper, “Observing Some Names of Little Note Recorded in the Biographia Brittanica”
Monday, November 08, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The morning of the election results Gross asked what our shields should be:
my reply:
At last something to think about. What design on our shield?
The ostrich rampant, head buried in a pile of charoset. A tongue aiguisee. A finger pointed dexter and a second sinister. A wolf ravissant in shadow behind the ostrich. The shield to be transparent.
mek
my reply:
At last something to think about. What design on our shield?
The ostrich rampant, head buried in a pile of charoset. A tongue aiguisee. A finger pointed dexter and a second sinister. A wolf ravissant in shadow behind the ostrich. The shield to be transparent.
mek
Sunday, November 07, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The election is over.
Depending on your point of view, this might have been the best imaginable outcome or the second-worst possible outcome.
The world still spins.
The election is over.
Depending on your point of view, this might have been the best imaginable outcome or the second-worst possible outcome.
The world still spins.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
An interesting and perhaps telling difference between Gross and Katz is the method by which we mark our places in books. Gross boldly earmarks almost a quarter of the page, while I timidly turn a tiny piece of the page or use a piece of ribbon so as to leave the page pristine.
Gross' earmarking is much more than a bookmark, which only marks a place in a book; while the larger earmarking crease, being permanent is a display denoting ownership of the book's content.
mek
An interesting and perhaps telling difference between Gross and Katz is the method by which we mark our places in books. Gross boldly earmarks almost a quarter of the page, while I timidly turn a tiny piece of the page or use a piece of ribbon so as to leave the page pristine.
Gross' earmarking is much more than a bookmark, which only marks a place in a book; while the larger earmarking crease, being permanent is a display denoting ownership of the book's content.
mek
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Reading Edith Weisskopf-Joelson's Father, Have I Kept My Promise? Madness as Seen From Wthin.
She describes her escape from Austria, and her engagement with teaching.
Then, she quickly draws her introduction to Viktor Frankl, explaining that he believed that psychotherapy works because the therapist helps the patient develop a philosphophy of life that dares go beyond the the body and the psyche. Therapy should be through meaning, and make use of the resources of the human spirit, which, Frankl believed included a will to find meaning, to have goals and to make commitments. He saw the nature of his patients not only determined by their past, including trauma, but also determined by the by their future,--goals and tasks that pulled them forward.
Does this sound like Gross talking???
Reading Edith Weisskopf-Joelson's Father, Have I Kept My Promise? Madness as Seen From Wthin.
She describes her escape from Austria, and her engagement with teaching.
Then, she quickly draws her introduction to Viktor Frankl, explaining that he believed that psychotherapy works because the therapist helps the patient develop a philosphophy of life that dares go beyond the the body and the psyche. Therapy should be through meaning, and make use of the resources of the human spirit, which, Frankl believed included a will to find meaning, to have goals and to make commitments. He saw the nature of his patients not only determined by their past, including trauma, but also determined by the by their future,--goals and tasks that pulled them forward.
Does this sound like Gross talking???
Thursday, October 28, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Filled up the car with $2.08 gasoline. Last fill was 7 days ago. Total was about $31.00.
If gasoline was $1.25 a gallon; the difference would be about $600.00 per year!
Just think, I am giving that $600 to the enemy in Arabia and to the fortune 500 oil companies--and I am not spending it on my family.
If this were a tax imposed bu the democrats would Bush, Limbo, and that little twerp, on Fox be screaming their heads off?
Enjoy your money Mr. Bush.
Filled up the car with $2.08 gasoline. Last fill was 7 days ago. Total was about $31.00.
If gasoline was $1.25 a gallon; the difference would be about $600.00 per year!
Just think, I am giving that $600 to the enemy in Arabia and to the fortune 500 oil companies--and I am not spending it on my family.
If this were a tax imposed bu the democrats would Bush, Limbo, and that little twerp, on Fox be screaming their heads off?
Enjoy your money Mr. Bush.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
there has never been so much distrust of the voting process as there is now. Not in my memory, anyway. This all started after the vote of 2000. The extremists on the radio haven't helped either. Their constant ad homimum attacks have made people feel that the other side is vicious, crooked, mealy mouthed, stupid--and worse, anti-American. Can you imagine Kerry as an anti-American?
We're in a dangerous place right now.
there has never been so much distrust of the voting process as there is now. Not in my memory, anyway. This all started after the vote of 2000. The extremists on the radio haven't helped either. Their constant ad homimum attacks have made people feel that the other side is vicious, crooked, mealy mouthed, stupid--and worse, anti-American. Can you imagine Kerry as an anti-American?
We're in a dangerous place right now.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Fanatic: A man who does what the Lord would do, if only He knew the facts of the case.
Fanatic: A man who does what the Lord would do, if only He knew the facts of the case.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Does each step carry me only further into empty space? Is that where I have been living?
What is the measure of all things. What is the measure by which I should measure myself? Is my ruler too long? Or is it my cock that is too short?
Does each step carry me only further into empty space? Is that where I have been living?
What is the measure of all things. What is the measure by which I should measure myself? Is my ruler too long? Or is it my cock that is too short?
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Perhaps life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender to dreams--this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness. And, maddest of all, to see life as it is, and not as it should be.
Don Quixote
Perhaps life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender to dreams--this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness. And, maddest of all, to see life as it is, and not as it should be.
Don Quixote
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
Thursday, October 21, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
There's little escape from her black hole of abulia. Abulia: the inability to make decisions.
There's little escape from her black hole of abulia. Abulia: the inability to make decisions.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I voted today along faster than most voters will, so my 7 minutes tells me to expect at least 700 minutes for a hundred voters. But remember, I think that I am faster than most voters will be.Prediction: long lines, shouting, accusations.. There was a very short line, three people before and plenty of voting machines to work with. I signed in, they found my registration, reminded me that I had an absentee ballot at home, asked me to destroy it, and passed me on to the "inspector" whose job it was to show me the machine and set me up for voting. It took her a few seconds and I finished voting about seven minutes later... The machine worked fairly well--of course, I am half-way smart and I could easily read the resolutions and already was familiar with them. I think I moved
I voted today along faster than most voters will, so my 7 minutes tells me to expect at least 700 minutes for a hundred voters. But remember, I think that I am faster than most voters will be.Prediction: long lines, shouting, accusations.. There was a very short line, three people before and plenty of voting machines to work with. I signed in, they found my registration, reminded me that I had an absentee ballot at home, asked me to destroy it, and passed me on to the "inspector" whose job it was to show me the machine and set me up for voting. It took her a few seconds and I finished voting about seven minutes later... The machine worked fairly well--of course, I am half-way smart and I could easily read the resolutions and already was familiar with them. I think I moved
Monday, October 18, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
We live in interesting times. Tomorrow I am going to vote early so that I can get a look at the new voting machine--new in the sense that we did use it for the primary on Aug 31--but then the ballot was only a page or two.
Now the ballot has expanded to ten pages. This means that people unfamiliar with computers will have to learn how to move from page to page, from candidate to candidate, will have to figure out which judge is running under what party's banner. Then they may want to check their votes which is a new thing to learn...Finally they will have to find the button marked "CAST YOUR BALLOT." Many people will forget to press this BLINKING RED LIGHT button necessitating the following procedure. Two people from different parties must go to the machine and press the button together. Then an affidavit must be filled out and signed by the two poll workers (Inspectors) of different parties and their Clerk.
As a paid poll worker (my only paying job) I think that we will have trouble getting everyone to vote by closing time. Anyone on line at 7:00 PM may vote--even if we have to stay until midnight. Under some circumstances Governor Bush can extend voting hours as long as he wants. Let's say that there is a thunderstorm or blizzard--he can extend the time at which people may get on line. Or perhaps a shortage of Republican voters.
I am imagining myself pushing seniors through the process, then helping the halt to get to the machine, then teaching others how to move through the electronic ballot. Of course, we also have the Provisional Ballot to deal with too. That is used when we think that a voter is unqualified, at the wrong polling place, or has no identification. That voter gets to uses a provisional ballot, after signing a paper attesting to his good heart and soul. This must be witnessed by two poll workers of different parties. Luckily there are a few Naderites at my poll.
Our polling place is in the Plumber's Local on Andrews Avenue. Three out of four faucets in the Men's Room were leaking on Primary Day.
There is supposed to be a post election party in our building--nonpartisan, of course--but I think I'll be home too late to attend.
We live in interesting times. Tomorrow I am going to vote early so that I can get a look at the new voting machine--new in the sense that we did use it for the primary on Aug 31--but then the ballot was only a page or two.
Now the ballot has expanded to ten pages. This means that people unfamiliar with computers will have to learn how to move from page to page, from candidate to candidate, will have to figure out which judge is running under what party's banner. Then they may want to check their votes which is a new thing to learn...Finally they will have to find the button marked "CAST YOUR BALLOT." Many people will forget to press this BLINKING RED LIGHT button necessitating the following procedure. Two people from different parties must go to the machine and press the button together. Then an affidavit must be filled out and signed by the two poll workers (Inspectors) of different parties and their Clerk.
As a paid poll worker (my only paying job) I think that we will have trouble getting everyone to vote by closing time. Anyone on line at 7:00 PM may vote--even if we have to stay until midnight. Under some circumstances Governor Bush can extend voting hours as long as he wants. Let's say that there is a thunderstorm or blizzard--he can extend the time at which people may get on line. Or perhaps a shortage of Republican voters.
I am imagining myself pushing seniors through the process, then helping the halt to get to the machine, then teaching others how to move through the electronic ballot. Of course, we also have the Provisional Ballot to deal with too. That is used when we think that a voter is unqualified, at the wrong polling place, or has no identification. That voter gets to uses a provisional ballot, after signing a paper attesting to his good heart and soul. This must be witnessed by two poll workers of different parties. Luckily there are a few Naderites at my poll.
Our polling place is in the Plumber's Local on Andrews Avenue. Three out of four faucets in the Men's Room were leaking on Primary Day.
There is supposed to be a post election party in our building--nonpartisan, of course--but I think I'll be home too late to attend.
Monday, October 11, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Reasoning often leads to desired, preferred conclusions.
Prescription for certainty.
Reasoning often leads to desired, preferred conclusions.
Prescription for certainty.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The hard reality for many of us is that this is, essentially, a pretty conservative country. Norms that are taken for granted throughout the rest of the industrialized world are anathema to many Americans, including gay rights, universal health care, six-week vacations, gun control and the maintenance of a minimal social safety net.
SUSANNA RODELL is editorial page editor of the Charleston Gazette. (West Virginia)
The hard reality for many of us is that this is, essentially, a pretty conservative country. Norms that are taken for granted throughout the rest of the industrialized world are anathema to many Americans, including gay rights, universal health care, six-week vacations, gun control and the maintenance of a minimal social safety net.
SUSANNA RODELL is editorial page editor of the Charleston Gazette. (West Virginia)
Friday, October 08, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Re
From me to Gross:
It was hard for me to accept the tossing out of the hotel scene, and the overt anti-Semitism in the restaurant. I did not find it believable. I don't think that there has ever been another fiction that I found so unbelievable.
Why? It has something to do with my faith in America, and my lack of experience with anti-Semitism. Of course, I admit that my usual denseness makes me miss what others see; and my defense against anti-Semitic actions or words has always been to deny them--or to realize-rationalize that the remark came from a lowlife, not anyone whom I respected.
Elsewhere I have described the Ohio Wesleyan Sigma Chi incident, which was the only time in my life that I was ever directly affected in a meaningful way.
So what happened in the Katz household that protected me from knowing that anti-Semitism existed? Well, our parent's friends were mostly in mixed marriages like my father and mother. The families that weren't Jewish never expressed any overt indications of anti-Semitism. Dad never discussed the anti-Semitism issue--I don't think that it was an issue to him. His male friends were Jewish, Italian and a few Irishmen including one horse-playing priest and all other friends always were in our house or he was at theirs'.
Mother's side of the family seeemed fully accepting, as far as I could see.
It just didn't come up. When we went to Bermuda and he wanted to play mid-Ocean he found a way, although I think that later he did acknowledge that his Jewishness was a problem to be worked around. Mother and Dad vacationed at the Greenbriar, which later I learned was not a place to which Jews went--but....
and now to dinner, more later....
From Gross to me:
We are Jews by default. We are Jews because we are not Christians. We did not choose to be Jews, nor do we practice Judaism. Notwithstanding, we are not welcome in the society of our own country. That is humiliating, especially for a child. They long term effects of that exclusion are what we need to examine in order to understand ourselves.
From me to Gross:
Michael, something's wrong with your thought process here. The reverse is true also. Non-Jews are outsiders because they are not Jewish. Is that a tautology or what? We are Jews because we call ourselves Jews, we do not deny our Jewishness, and finally others call us Jews. The fact that some Jews insist that we are not Jews is irrelevant. That's their opinion.
"Notwithstanding, we are not welcome in the society of our own country."
Well, we are not welcome in some parts of our country. So? Do you welcome everyone, anyone into your home? the fear of the stranger is a part of the human dynamic. Some people overcome it. Others overcome their fear of the stranger to a small extent. The most fearful never overcome it.
"That is humiliating, especially for a child. They long term effects of that exclusion are what we need to examine in order to understand ourselves. "
I don't deny the sense of humiliation in others. I see it in X, and now, for the first time I see it you. I know it exists in me--but I do not relate it to being Jewish.
I was never accepted by groups--Malkin was asked to join a baseball team, the Spiders, long before I even knew him. Coincidentally, I knew other members of the team. they wouldn't have me--I was left out. Not unusual for me, but there was a sense of loss, of humiliation, yes. But it had nothing to do with being Jewish.
Boy, did I long for one of those Maroon rayon jackets with Spiders scrawled across its back.
But it was not to be. I had to peer through the cyclone fence and watch them practice. I was alone, only my trusty, loyal Schwin Phantom waiting patiently at my side.
Much later in life, when I received two luggage tags from Western Union as a prize for something or other, I put them on my luggage, proud to be a member of the Western Union team. At age 50 when Gary Miller gave me the HM letters that Coach Q. didn't give me, I still felt cheated, left out, and the falsity of my late award overwhelmed any proud or good feelings that Gary's gesture should have engendered. The fact that I knew I didn't deserve the letters from Coach Quinn made Gary's letters meaningless. But I wasn''t part of the team. Was that humiliating? It had nothing to do with being Jewish.
Humiliation, disappointment, loss each exist apart from being a Jew.
mek
Re
The Plot Against AmericaPhilip Roth.
From me to Gross:
It was hard for me to accept the tossing out of the hotel scene, and the overt anti-Semitism in the restaurant. I did not find it believable. I don't think that there has ever been another fiction that I found so unbelievable.
Why? It has something to do with my faith in America, and my lack of experience with anti-Semitism. Of course, I admit that my usual denseness makes me miss what others see; and my defense against anti-Semitic actions or words has always been to deny them--or to realize-rationalize that the remark came from a lowlife, not anyone whom I respected.
Elsewhere I have described the Ohio Wesleyan Sigma Chi incident, which was the only time in my life that I was ever directly affected in a meaningful way.
So what happened in the Katz household that protected me from knowing that anti-Semitism existed? Well, our parent's friends were mostly in mixed marriages like my father and mother. The families that weren't Jewish never expressed any overt indications of anti-Semitism. Dad never discussed the anti-Semitism issue--I don't think that it was an issue to him. His male friends were Jewish, Italian and a few Irishmen including one horse-playing priest and all other friends always were in our house or he was at theirs'.
Mother's side of the family seeemed fully accepting, as far as I could see.
It just didn't come up. When we went to Bermuda and he wanted to play mid-Ocean he found a way, although I think that later he did acknowledge that his Jewishness was a problem to be worked around. Mother and Dad vacationed at the Greenbriar, which later I learned was not a place to which Jews went--but....
and now to dinner, more later....
From Gross to me:
We are Jews by default. We are Jews because we are not Christians. We did not choose to be Jews, nor do we practice Judaism. Notwithstanding, we are not welcome in the society of our own country. That is humiliating, especially for a child. They long term effects of that exclusion are what we need to examine in order to understand ourselves.
From me to Gross:
Michael, something's wrong with your thought process here. The reverse is true also. Non-Jews are outsiders because they are not Jewish. Is that a tautology or what? We are Jews because we call ourselves Jews, we do not deny our Jewishness, and finally others call us Jews. The fact that some Jews insist that we are not Jews is irrelevant. That's their opinion.
"Notwithstanding, we are not welcome in the society of our own country."
Well, we are not welcome in some parts of our country. So? Do you welcome everyone, anyone into your home? the fear of the stranger is a part of the human dynamic. Some people overcome it. Others overcome their fear of the stranger to a small extent. The most fearful never overcome it.
"That is humiliating, especially for a child. They long term effects of that exclusion are what we need to examine in order to understand ourselves. "
I don't deny the sense of humiliation in others. I see it in X, and now, for the first time I see it you. I know it exists in me--but I do not relate it to being Jewish.
I was never accepted by groups--Malkin was asked to join a baseball team, the Spiders, long before I even knew him. Coincidentally, I knew other members of the team. they wouldn't have me--I was left out. Not unusual for me, but there was a sense of loss, of humiliation, yes. But it had nothing to do with being Jewish.
Boy, did I long for one of those Maroon rayon jackets with Spiders scrawled across its back.
But it was not to be. I had to peer through the cyclone fence and watch them practice. I was alone, only my trusty, loyal Schwin Phantom waiting patiently at my side.
Much later in life, when I received two luggage tags from Western Union as a prize for something or other, I put them on my luggage, proud to be a member of the Western Union team. At age 50 when Gary Miller gave me the HM letters that Coach Q. didn't give me, I still felt cheated, left out, and the falsity of my late award overwhelmed any proud or good feelings that Gary's gesture should have engendered. The fact that I knew I didn't deserve the letters from Coach Quinn made Gary's letters meaningless. But I wasn''t part of the team. Was that humiliating? It had nothing to do with being Jewish.
Humiliation, disappointment, loss each exist apart from being a Jew.
mek
Monday, October 04, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
What is wrong with Phillip Roth? -- two of his characters in his latest book: Louise Swing ( a singer with a big band) and her husband, the saxophonist, Sy Axman. Is this supposed to be funny?
And here's a great line from the book: "The pompous son of a bitch knows everything--it's too bad he doesn't know anything else."
What is wrong with Phillip Roth? -- two of his characters in his latest book: Louise Swing ( a singer with a big band) and her husband, the saxophonist, Sy Axman. Is this supposed to be funny?
And here's a great line from the book: "The pompous son of a bitch knows everything--it's too bad he doesn't know anything else."
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Expert Warns of “Ideological Leap” in Muslim FundamentalismStatements of Professor of Pontifical Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies ROME, SEPT. 27, 2004 (Zenit.org).- According to a professor at the Pontifical Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies, we are currently witnessing an "ideological leap" of "Muslim fundamentalism, of extremist groups and terrorists," who see the West as the enemy. Francesco Zannini explained to AsiaNews that the latest on-line decapitations of Western hostages in Iraq, is a way of bringing "the West to its knees." Although decapitation "exists in the history of Islam," the "cutting off of heads is not a punishment foreseen in Islamic rules." "It may have existed in the past, but it was not a specific punishment" and, "above all, it is not specified for use against enemies," he said. "There are texts that order the killing of enemies of Islam, but they do not order decapitations. The Koran does not mention it. Nor do the hadith (the Prophet's maxims)," Zannini continued. In his opinion, "the choice to decapitate and use the media to broadcast such killings are made precisely to attract attention and to intimidate" and "to bring the West to its knees," and affect "mass psychology." Including in cases like the slaughter of Beslan, Russia, or the recent kidnapping of two Italian volunteers, Simona Torretta and Simona Pari, the terrorists are "going against every traditional rule." Zannini clarified that the "killing of women is explicitly condemned by Islamic texts. The most accredited hadith say that women, children, clergy and even farmers cannot be killed, nor can young men of military age who are not in the military." "But these terrorists have taken an ideological leap: they have redefined the figure of the 'enemy,'" he warned. "For fundamentalism, for extremist groups and terrorists, the enemy has become the whole of the West as such," so that every Westerner, even if a child, is someone who 'attacks Islam"" and who, therefore, "must be annihilated," he explained. According to Zannini, it "is an ideological framework that justifies total Jihad," although it is true that in Iraq, those who kill might be Muslims, but "there are also atheists that hide behind Islam, or some secret service or another." In face of this situation, Muslims themselves "are aghast," he said. "They find themselves faced with something new and unprecedented," and although they "have not forgotten past struggles," they are "left stunned by what is happening today." "A Muslim friend of mine from Bangladesh, an intellectual, confessed to me his concern: he feels that there is an urgent need to strengthen education in ideals among the young who are otherwise headed for a future of darkness," the professor added. "Even some members of the Muslim Brothers in Egypt have admitted their astonishment. The Muslim Brothers see that the Iraqi terrorists go partly by their ideology, but they themselves feel that ... 'they are giving Islam bad publicity,'" Zannini added. ZE04092706
posted by Ed at 9/28/2004 11:36:24 PM 0 comments
Expert Warns of “Ideological Leap” in Muslim FundamentalismStatements of Professor of Pontifical Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies ROME, SEPT. 27, 2004 (Zenit.org).- According to a professor at the Pontifical Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies, we are currently witnessing an "ideological leap" of "Muslim fundamentalism, of extremist groups and terrorists," who see the West as the enemy. Francesco Zannini explained to AsiaNews that the latest on-line decapitations of Western hostages in Iraq, is a way of bringing "the West to its knees." Although decapitation "exists in the history of Islam," the "cutting off of heads is not a punishment foreseen in Islamic rules." "It may have existed in the past, but it was not a specific punishment" and, "above all, it is not specified for use against enemies," he said. "There are texts that order the killing of enemies of Islam, but they do not order decapitations. The Koran does not mention it. Nor do the hadith (the Prophet's maxims)," Zannini continued. In his opinion, "the choice to decapitate and use the media to broadcast such killings are made precisely to attract attention and to intimidate" and "to bring the West to its knees," and affect "mass psychology." Including in cases like the slaughter of Beslan, Russia, or the recent kidnapping of two Italian volunteers, Simona Torretta and Simona Pari, the terrorists are "going against every traditional rule." Zannini clarified that the "killing of women is explicitly condemned by Islamic texts. The most accredited hadith say that women, children, clergy and even farmers cannot be killed, nor can young men of military age who are not in the military." "But these terrorists have taken an ideological leap: they have redefined the figure of the 'enemy,'" he warned. "For fundamentalism, for extremist groups and terrorists, the enemy has become the whole of the West as such," so that every Westerner, even if a child, is someone who 'attacks Islam"" and who, therefore, "must be annihilated," he explained. According to Zannini, it "is an ideological framework that justifies total Jihad," although it is true that in Iraq, those who kill might be Muslims, but "there are also atheists that hide behind Islam, or some secret service or another." In face of this situation, Muslims themselves "are aghast," he said. "They find themselves faced with something new and unprecedented," and although they "have not forgotten past struggles," they are "left stunned by what is happening today." "A Muslim friend of mine from Bangladesh, an intellectual, confessed to me his concern: he feels that there is an urgent need to strengthen education in ideals among the young who are otherwise headed for a future of darkness," the professor added. "Even some members of the Muslim Brothers in Egypt have admitted their astonishment. The Muslim Brothers see that the Iraqi terrorists go partly by their ideology, but they themselves feel that ... 'they are giving Islam bad publicity,'" Zannini added. ZE04092706
posted by Ed at 9/28/2004 11:36:24 PM 0 comments
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Found on the net
Getting married to a Japanese Girl
Today lunch, I involved in a debate with a Japanese lady. She has a degree in literature, so well knowledge and she is capable to escape for every traps I told her. The topic is about getting married to Japanese girl. She began the conversation, are you single? "Yes, I'm single", I replied. "Why you didnt marry a Japanese lady?", she attacked. I explain to her, that my intention to married is not because of sex. I didn't think that I can be a good lover in the bed. I just need a friend to share, to talk and to learn. My wife should be someone who I can discuss, debate and fights in words. Someone who has strong minded. Someone who questioning many thing in life. I attacked back, "Is there any Japanese girl fall in that category?"She replied shortly, "It is many." I have never seen even one, excepts you. I didn't mean flattering her, but she is really smart. I didn't know how old she is, I guess it should be more than 40 or 50. She asked me to tell her about my self. I wanted a short answer, but it should be something that she familiar. About my self, "I like Kenzaburo writing." She surprised, but understand what I mean. "You have a pretty old mind set", she said. Our conversation goes far away. We discussed many things. One thing that so impressed me is that her thinking capability is really agile. Fergi
Found on the net
Getting married to a Japanese Girl
Today lunch, I involved in a debate with a Japanese lady. She has a degree in literature, so well knowledge and she is capable to escape for every traps I told her. The topic is about getting married to Japanese girl. She began the conversation, are you single? "Yes, I'm single", I replied. "Why you didnt marry a Japanese lady?", she attacked. I explain to her, that my intention to married is not because of sex. I didn't think that I can be a good lover in the bed. I just need a friend to share, to talk and to learn. My wife should be someone who I can discuss, debate and fights in words. Someone who has strong minded. Someone who questioning many thing in life. I attacked back, "Is there any Japanese girl fall in that category?"She replied shortly, "It is many." I have never seen even one, excepts you. I didn't mean flattering her, but she is really smart. I didn't know how old she is, I guess it should be more than 40 or 50. She asked me to tell her about my self. I wanted a short answer, but it should be something that she familiar. About my self, "I like Kenzaburo writing." She surprised, but understand what I mean. "You have a pretty old mind set", she said. Our conversation goes far away. We discussed many things. One thing that so impressed me is that her thinking capability is really agile. Fergi
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Hurricane Frances
Thanks! for asking, Marcy--here's the story. Decision to leave or stay really had to be made on Thursday night in light of hotel reservation problems. Another alternative was to leave Thursday night or Friday morning and head north, probably to Virginia or further.
On Thursday there was already doubt as to the actual heading of the storm. We might have headed out to a place and had the hurricane overtake us. I decided to stay in the apartment, with the knowledge that we had windows that were hurricane proof--supposedly. Well, they were marked "safety glass" anyway, so if they would break, like the windshield in your car, they would break into small gravel like pieces and wouldn't kill us. That sounded okay to me. There are two buildings in our complex and during the summer they are about 40% full. That meant that there were 160 apartments occupied before the storm. The rest are owned by snow-birds or travelers.
Thursday afternoon, we were told that it would be a "mandatory evacuation." That means that the authorities will not assist you if you stay. People will not be forced out. But they are on their own.
The people in about 100 apartments decided to leave. That left about 60 apartments occupied, mostly by older couples. This was one time that youth was more prudent than age.
At four PM on Thursday we took a census at a meeting of the "dead enders." Everyone on the Board of Directors had chosen to stay, and several of the maintenance people had also decided to remain. The rest of us, were just the "little people," in Leona Helmsley's delightful phrase.
The wind came up on Friday, but we already knew that it was doubtful that we would be hit by the main force of the storm. The wind was strong enough to bend the trees and send palm fronds flying, but we lost only a few trees over the whole weekend.
There is a reef about five hundred yards out. Normally it is invisible, the lighter waves just pass over it. But now, white caps delineated it all along the shore. Later there was a strong wind from the west which pushed the spray from the reef-breakers about thirty or forty feet feet up into the air. Much of the night there was a moon, and there was light on the waves far out off shore breaking over the reef, the spray looked almost like white sparks, and then like showers of steam coming off the ocean.
To some extent, I think that the reef protects Ft. Lauderdale's beach. But we still lost sand.
As you must have heard, the storm remained over southern Florida from Friday night through early Sunday morning. During that time the ocean blew up, and the waves were larger than usual but still not really scary. I walked along the beach, my body bent into the wind and sand blasted at me, which sometimes felt like thousands of needles against my face and legs. There were hundreds of small holes where baby turtles had emerged from their eggs and dug themselves out of the sand covering the nests laid by females months previous.
Nearby I found some large pieces of coral that had been ripped from a reef about five hundred yards out. Later I brought a few upstairs and was instructed by the misses to bring them back. But as they were my found-treasure they remain in my shower.
On Saturday afternoon I looked down at the roiling ocean from my terrace and saw that the surf had attracted some teenaged surfers even though it was raining. I put on my suit and went down and I talked one of them into letting me try to push out into the sea on his board while he was trying to catch his breath on the beach.
It was almost impossible to get out past the surf line put after some effort and a little help I found myself just past the breakers and waited for a roller to take me in. As I looked around I noticed that the teenagers had circled my board, as though they were a pod of dolphins trying to protect the "old man." Embarrassed, I took the first roller in and returned the board to its eager owner. It was an express train.
Some of the private houses nearby on the beach lost sea walls, and huge buoy floated onto the beach, its light still darkened. I wondered where the power for the buoy lights comes from. batteries? A wire under the sea? A passel of 12 x 12's from some dock or pier came by, but the sea was moving north to south so fast that I saw them only for a short time.
The nights were great--lightning and thunder right over head, but we never really got any heavy driving rain. Maybe that's being saved for next time. One of the nights I almost lost the door to my terrace as I opened it into the wind. But, make no mistake, we only got the edge of the storm, and we never understood its full force.
When I went out to the street, A1A was deserted, the stores had all boarded up, the traffic lights had been re-set to flash only red. The red reflections on the wet highway went as far as I could see. Several signs had been knocked apart and pieces of sign material blew along the highway.
Ironically, many of our neighbors went to places out west where they lost electric and had to stay for two or three without a/c and in the dark. I am fine with darkling nights; but to have a series of hot nights--well. ... Of course, the air on the beach is always cooler so it might not have been so bad....
Now, the next question is Ivan....
Hurricane Frances
Thanks! for asking, Marcy--here's the story. Decision to leave or stay really had to be made on Thursday night in light of hotel reservation problems. Another alternative was to leave Thursday night or Friday morning and head north, probably to Virginia or further.
On Thursday there was already doubt as to the actual heading of the storm. We might have headed out to a place and had the hurricane overtake us. I decided to stay in the apartment, with the knowledge that we had windows that were hurricane proof--supposedly. Well, they were marked "safety glass" anyway, so if they would break, like the windshield in your car, they would break into small gravel like pieces and wouldn't kill us. That sounded okay to me. There are two buildings in our complex and during the summer they are about 40% full. That meant that there were 160 apartments occupied before the storm. The rest are owned by snow-birds or travelers.
Thursday afternoon, we were told that it would be a "mandatory evacuation." That means that the authorities will not assist you if you stay. People will not be forced out. But they are on their own.
The people in about 100 apartments decided to leave. That left about 60 apartments occupied, mostly by older couples. This was one time that youth was more prudent than age.
At four PM on Thursday we took a census at a meeting of the "dead enders." Everyone on the Board of Directors had chosen to stay, and several of the maintenance people had also decided to remain. The rest of us, were just the "little people," in Leona Helmsley's delightful phrase.
The wind came up on Friday, but we already knew that it was doubtful that we would be hit by the main force of the storm. The wind was strong enough to bend the trees and send palm fronds flying, but we lost only a few trees over the whole weekend.
There is a reef about five hundred yards out. Normally it is invisible, the lighter waves just pass over it. But now, white caps delineated it all along the shore. Later there was a strong wind from the west which pushed the spray from the reef-breakers about thirty or forty feet feet up into the air. Much of the night there was a moon, and there was light on the waves far out off shore breaking over the reef, the spray looked almost like white sparks, and then like showers of steam coming off the ocean.
To some extent, I think that the reef protects Ft. Lauderdale's beach. But we still lost sand.
As you must have heard, the storm remained over southern Florida from Friday night through early Sunday morning. During that time the ocean blew up, and the waves were larger than usual but still not really scary. I walked along the beach, my body bent into the wind and sand blasted at me, which sometimes felt like thousands of needles against my face and legs. There were hundreds of small holes where baby turtles had emerged from their eggs and dug themselves out of the sand covering the nests laid by females months previous.
Nearby I found some large pieces of coral that had been ripped from a reef about five hundred yards out. Later I brought a few upstairs and was instructed by the misses to bring them back. But as they were my found-treasure they remain in my shower.
On Saturday afternoon I looked down at the roiling ocean from my terrace and saw that the surf had attracted some teenaged surfers even though it was raining. I put on my suit and went down and I talked one of them into letting me try to push out into the sea on his board while he was trying to catch his breath on the beach.
It was almost impossible to get out past the surf line put after some effort and a little help I found myself just past the breakers and waited for a roller to take me in. As I looked around I noticed that the teenagers had circled my board, as though they were a pod of dolphins trying to protect the "old man." Embarrassed, I took the first roller in and returned the board to its eager owner. It was an express train.
Some of the private houses nearby on the beach lost sea walls, and huge buoy floated onto the beach, its light still darkened. I wondered where the power for the buoy lights comes from. batteries? A wire under the sea? A passel of 12 x 12's from some dock or pier came by, but the sea was moving north to south so fast that I saw them only for a short time.
The nights were great--lightning and thunder right over head, but we never really got any heavy driving rain. Maybe that's being saved for next time. One of the nights I almost lost the door to my terrace as I opened it into the wind. But, make no mistake, we only got the edge of the storm, and we never understood its full force.
When I went out to the street, A1A was deserted, the stores had all boarded up, the traffic lights had been re-set to flash only red. The red reflections on the wet highway went as far as I could see. Several signs had been knocked apart and pieces of sign material blew along the highway.
Ironically, many of our neighbors went to places out west where they lost electric and had to stay for two or three without a/c and in the dark. I am fine with darkling nights; but to have a series of hot nights--well. ... Of course, the air on the beach is always cooler so it might not have been so bad....
Now, the next question is Ivan....
Thursday, August 26, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Ringing the Bell
In Paris, in 1924, Man Ray painted his favorite model, Kiki, and added an actual pushbutton on her breast. At the first show of this work, he attached electric wiring, a buzzer, and a battery to the frame of the painting, visible to the public. The wiring led to the button which, as I explained above, was attached to her breast.
Man Ray, however, decided that the buzzer would not buzz when the button was pressed.
When I read about this work in his autobiography I thought about the expression “pushing my button,” and realized that my buzzer usually buzzes, and sometimes very loudly. On the other hand, there are some people whose buttons do not ever set off their bell.
Maria has told me that in my old age my button isn't working as often as it used to, and she is worried about this—which interests me, because one might have thought that she would be relieved that I don't take on every fool who steps in my path anymore. -----Especially as she used to be very embarrassed by my outbursts.
By the way, Man Ray desired that his name be indexed as “Man Ray,” not “Ray, Man.” Most indexers either are ignorant of his desire or are ignoring it. In addition, you may be interested to know that as a child he lived a block from Katz Drug Store, and that he attended the same schools (grammar and high school) that my Dad did. They were two years apart in age so I imagine that if their paths did not actually cross they may have had the same very good Irish spinster teachers and mutual friends.
Certainly, Emmanuel Radnitsky must have wandered into my grandfather Aaron Katz’ drug store at least once wearing his knickers. At the time the Katz’ lived above the store. Manya, Emmanuel Radnitsky’s mother's father was a pharmacist in Minsk so, who knows, she may have pitched in and helped at the store too.
It is hard for me to believe that there was no contact between the families.
Talking about knickers, there was a boxing match at the Polo Grounds in 1916 when my Dad was 14 years old. He knew one of the fighters, Sailor Levitsky, and wanted to see the fight. He was denied entrance at the gate on the grounds that he was too young. He demanded admission asserting , “What'd you mean, too young? See, I'm wearing long pants.” -- Admission granted.
Later, in 1923, he saw Jack Dempsey floor Luis Firpo for the final time in the fourth round. But by then Dad was already wearing suits and Fedoras.
August 2004
Ringing the Bell
In Paris, in 1924, Man Ray painted his favorite model, Kiki, and added an actual pushbutton on her breast. At the first show of this work, he attached electric wiring, a buzzer, and a battery to the frame of the painting, visible to the public. The wiring led to the button which, as I explained above, was attached to her breast.
Man Ray, however, decided that the buzzer would not buzz when the button was pressed.
When I read about this work in his autobiography I thought about the expression “pushing my button,” and realized that my buzzer usually buzzes, and sometimes very loudly. On the other hand, there are some people whose buttons do not ever set off their bell.
Maria has told me that in my old age my button isn't working as often as it used to, and she is worried about this—which interests me, because one might have thought that she would be relieved that I don't take on every fool who steps in my path anymore. -----Especially as she used to be very embarrassed by my outbursts.
By the way, Man Ray desired that his name be indexed as “Man Ray,” not “Ray, Man.” Most indexers either are ignorant of his desire or are ignoring it. In addition, you may be interested to know that as a child he lived a block from Katz Drug Store, and that he attended the same schools (grammar and high school) that my Dad did. They were two years apart in age so I imagine that if their paths did not actually cross they may have had the same very good Irish spinster teachers and mutual friends.
Certainly, Emmanuel Radnitsky must have wandered into my grandfather Aaron Katz’ drug store at least once wearing his knickers. At the time the Katz’ lived above the store. Manya, Emmanuel Radnitsky’s mother's father was a pharmacist in Minsk so, who knows, she may have pitched in and helped at the store too.
It is hard for me to believe that there was no contact between the families.
Talking about knickers, there was a boxing match at the Polo Grounds in 1916 when my Dad was 14 years old. He knew one of the fighters, Sailor Levitsky, and wanted to see the fight. He was denied entrance at the gate on the grounds that he was too young. He demanded admission asserting , “What'd you mean, too young? See, I'm wearing long pants.” -- Admission granted.
Later, in 1923, he saw Jack Dempsey floor Luis Firpo for the final time in the fourth round. But by then Dad was already wearing suits and Fedoras.
August 2004
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
If your body had a pushbutton would the bell ring when the button were pushed--or would it remain silent?
If your body had a pushbutton would the bell ring when the button were pushed--or would it remain silent?
Sunday, August 22, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
We live a life of indignation and outrage suppressed.
Your work is who you are. Choose it carefully.
Human fraility is a natural condition, accept it. Don't complain.
mek
We live a life of indignation and outrage suppressed.
Your work is who you are. Choose it carefully.
Human fraility is a natural condition, accept it. Don't complain.
mek
Friday, August 20, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Ft. Lauderdale
The hurricane did not affect us here. Other than some high winds, beach erosion, a very low tide, and moderate surf there is nothing to report.
There was a very strong sideways current in the water, which made it very hard to get out into the deeper surf. Besides me, there were several surfers, mostly teen-age boys, and a few windsurfers who were fl>>>>>>>>ying in and over the ocean. They seemed to leap from white cap to white cap and were really swift--to use a word currently in the news.
Last night, at about 2 A.M. however, the wind and air pressure was such that I could not open the door to my terrace. I am up to 204 lbs and still pretty strong. I thought that perhaps the Misses had locked it, but no, it was the air pressure against it. I could not move it. It was as though it had been welded shut. Not a budge. And remember, we did not get the hurricane--only the edge of a tropical storm.
Maria and I have our hurricane bag ready: Flashlights, water, half the June Atlantic tuna catch, cereal, new batteries, and a battery operated radio (though in these high-rises we can't get AM stations; and I wonder whether there will be any FM stations that will take on hurricane alert news). We also have a week's supply of our medications in a ready bag--and cash.
I had been thinking about some small gold coins with which to bribe the border guards, but the little woman pointed out that it was a hurricane--not a revolution.
I am sure you have read about the hurricane on the West coast of Florida. It was a class four; not as bad as Andrew, but bad. Hope we hear from my friend Hal. I spoke to him yesterday, and he told me that he and Mary were ready and had emptied the pool, as its water could overflow and flood the house.
Hal is packing lobster salad, roast chicken, foie gras and Veuve Clicquot for the duration.
***********************************
Good news for Bush fans: this will be good for Bush--there will be a lot of reconstruction hiring--and those figures will show in September-October.
His brother Jeb, has already announced full support from the Florida government, National Guard, extra police, and unnamed programs because, "This is a legitimate purpose of government -- to help in genuine emergencies," ( I may have garbled the quote, as I caught it on the fly, but I am giving you the correct gist.)
I love the action on the McLaughlin report; and tonight Tony Blakely, Editor-in-Chief of the Wshingon Times, owned by the Reverend Moon, and a very conservative paper, remarked on Governor McCreedy's resignation speech: "this is how far we have come, that the Governor uses sexual victimhood to cover up financial malfeasance."
Yes, we have come a far piece....
Ft. Lauderdale
The hurricane did not affect us here. Other than some high winds, beach erosion, a very low tide, and moderate surf there is nothing to report.
There was a very strong sideways current in the water, which made it very hard to get out into the deeper surf. Besides me, there were several surfers, mostly teen-age boys, and a few windsurfers who were fl>>>>>>>>ying in and over the ocean. They seemed to leap from white cap to white cap and were really swift--to use a word currently in the news.
Last night, at about 2 A.M. however, the wind and air pressure was such that I could not open the door to my terrace. I am up to 204 lbs and still pretty strong. I thought that perhaps the Misses had locked it, but no, it was the air pressure against it. I could not move it. It was as though it had been welded shut. Not a budge. And remember, we did not get the hurricane--only the edge of a tropical storm.
Maria and I have our hurricane bag ready: Flashlights, water, half the June Atlantic tuna catch, cereal, new batteries, and a battery operated radio (though in these high-rises we can't get AM stations; and I wonder whether there will be any FM stations that will take on hurricane alert news). We also have a week's supply of our medications in a ready bag--and cash.
I had been thinking about some small gold coins with which to bribe the border guards, but the little woman pointed out that it was a hurricane--not a revolution.
I am sure you have read about the hurricane on the West coast of Florida. It was a class four; not as bad as Andrew, but bad. Hope we hear from my friend Hal. I spoke to him yesterday, and he told me that he and Mary were ready and had emptied the pool, as its water could overflow and flood the house.
Hal is packing lobster salad, roast chicken, foie gras and Veuve Clicquot for the duration.
***********************************
Good news for Bush fans: this will be good for Bush--there will be a lot of reconstruction hiring--and those figures will show in September-October.
His brother Jeb, has already announced full support from the Florida government, National Guard, extra police, and unnamed programs because, "This is a legitimate purpose of government -- to help in genuine emergencies," ( I may have garbled the quote, as I caught it on the fly, but I am giving you the correct gist.)
I love the action on the McLaughlin report; and tonight Tony Blakely, Editor-in-Chief of the Wshingon Times, owned by the Reverend Moon, and a very conservative paper, remarked on Governor McCreedy's resignation speech: "this is how far we have come, that the Governor uses sexual victimhood to cover up financial malfeasance."
Yes, we have come a far piece....
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Word of the Day for Monday August 16, 2004 pervicacious \puhr-vih-KAY-shuhs\, adjective: Refusing to change one's ideas, behavior, etc.; stubborn; obstinate.
In fact, I'm a word nerd. I get a kick out of tossing a few odd ones into my column, just to see if the pervicacious editors will weed them out. --Michael Hawley, "Things That Matter: Waiting for Linguistic Viagra," [1]Technology Review, June, 2001
One of the most pervicacious young creatures that ever was heard of. --Samuel Richardson, [2]Clarissa
The language of the bureaucrats and administrators must needs be recognized as an outgrowth of legal parlance. There is no other way to explain its pervading, pervicacious and pernicious meanderings. --[3]New York Law Journal, 1973 _________________________________________________________ Pervicacious is from Latin pervicax, pervicac-, "stubborn,
point, maintain ones opinion," from per-, "through,\ thoroughly" + vincere, "to conquer, prevail against" + the\ suffix -ious, "characterized by, full of."\\References\\ 1.
Word of the Day for Monday August 16, 2004 pervicacious \puhr-vih-KAY-shuhs\, adjective: Refusing to change one's ideas, behavior, etc.; stubborn; obstinate.
In fact, I'm a word nerd. I get a kick out of tossing a few odd ones into my column, just to see if the pervicacious editors will weed them out. --Michael Hawley, "Things That Matter: Waiting for Linguistic Viagra," [1]Technology Review, June, 2001
One of the most pervicacious young creatures that ever was heard of. --Samuel Richardson, [2]Clarissa
The language of the bureaucrats and administrators must needs be recognized as an outgrowth of legal parlance. There is no other way to explain its pervading, pervicacious and pernicious meanderings. --[3]New York Law Journal, 1973 _________________________________________________________ Pervicacious is from Latin pervicax, pervicac-, "stubborn,
point, maintain ones opinion," from per-, "through,\ thoroughly" + vincere, "to conquer, prevail against" + the\ suffix -ious, "characterized by, full of."\\References\\ 1.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Ft. Lauderdale
The hurricane did not affect us here. Other than some high winds, beach erosion, a very low tide, and moderate surf there is nothing to report.
There was a very strong sideways current in the water, which made it very hard to get out into the deeper surf. Besides me, there were several surfers, mostly teen-age boys, and a few windsurfers who were fl>>>>>>>>ying in and over the ocean. They seemed to leap from white cap to white cap and were really swift--to use a word currently in the news.
Last night, at about 2 A.M. however, the wind and air pressure was such that I could not open the door to my terrace. I am up to 204 lbs and still pretty strong. I thought that perhaps the Misses had locked it, but no, it was the air pressure against it. I could not move it. It was as though it had been welded shut. Not a budge. And remember, we did not get the hurricane--only the edge of a tropical storm.
Maria and I have our hurricane bag ready: Flashlights, water, half the June Atlantic tuna catch, cereal, new batteries, and a battery operated radio (though in these high-rises we can't get AM stations; and I wonder whether there will be any FM stations that will take on hurricane alert news). We also have a week's supply of our medications in a ready bag--and cash.
I had been thinking about some small gold coins with which to bribe the border guards, but the little woman pointed out that it was a hurricane--not a revolution.
I am sure you have read about the hurricane on the West coast of Florida. It was a class four; not as bad as Andrew, but bad. Hope we hear from Hal. I spoke to him yesterday, and he told me that he and Mary were ready and had emptied the pool, as its water could overflow and flood the house.
Hal is packing lobster salad, roast chicken, foie gras and Veuve Clicquot for the duration.
***********************************
Good news for Bush fans: this will be good for Bush--there will be a lot of reconstruction hiring--and those figures will show in September-October.
His brother Jeb, has already announced full support from the Florida government, National Guard, extra police, and unnamed programs because, "This is a legitimate purpose of government -- to help in genuine emergencies," ( I may have garbled the quote, as I caught it on the fly, but I am giving you the correct gist.)
I love the action on the McLaughlin report; and tonight Tony Blakely, Editor-in-Chief of the Washington Times, owned by the Reverend Moon, and a very conservative paper, remarked on Governor McCreedy's resignation speech: "this is how far we have come, that the Governor uses sexual victimhood to cover up financial malfeasance."
Yes, we have come a far piece....
Love Mike
Addendum: Pal Hal tells me that he has abandoned his house as they have lost electricity and has taken a suite at the Excalante, a small European type boutique hotel catering to Euro-trash and American Corporate CEO's with pockets full of shareholder cash.
Ft. Lauderdale
The hurricane did not affect us here. Other than some high winds, beach erosion, a very low tide, and moderate surf there is nothing to report.
There was a very strong sideways current in the water, which made it very hard to get out into the deeper surf. Besides me, there were several surfers, mostly teen-age boys, and a few windsurfers who were fl>>>>>>>>ying in and over the ocean. They seemed to leap from white cap to white cap and were really swift--to use a word currently in the news.
Last night, at about 2 A.M. however, the wind and air pressure was such that I could not open the door to my terrace. I am up to 204 lbs and still pretty strong. I thought that perhaps the Misses had locked it, but no, it was the air pressure against it. I could not move it. It was as though it had been welded shut. Not a budge. And remember, we did not get the hurricane--only the edge of a tropical storm.
Maria and I have our hurricane bag ready: Flashlights, water, half the June Atlantic tuna catch, cereal, new batteries, and a battery operated radio (though in these high-rises we can't get AM stations; and I wonder whether there will be any FM stations that will take on hurricane alert news). We also have a week's supply of our medications in a ready bag--and cash.
I had been thinking about some small gold coins with which to bribe the border guards, but the little woman pointed out that it was a hurricane--not a revolution.
I am sure you have read about the hurricane on the West coast of Florida. It was a class four; not as bad as Andrew, but bad. Hope we hear from Hal. I spoke to him yesterday, and he told me that he and Mary were ready and had emptied the pool, as its water could overflow and flood the house.
Hal is packing lobster salad, roast chicken, foie gras and Veuve Clicquot for the duration.
***********************************
Good news for Bush fans: this will be good for Bush--there will be a lot of reconstruction hiring--and those figures will show in September-October.
His brother Jeb, has already announced full support from the Florida government, National Guard, extra police, and unnamed programs because, "This is a legitimate purpose of government -- to help in genuine emergencies," ( I may have garbled the quote, as I caught it on the fly, but I am giving you the correct gist.)
I love the action on the McLaughlin report; and tonight Tony Blakely, Editor-in-Chief of the Washington Times, owned by the Reverend Moon, and a very conservative paper, remarked on Governor McCreedy's resignation speech: "this is how far we have come, that the Governor uses sexual victimhood to cover up financial malfeasance."
Yes, we have come a far piece....
Love Mike
Addendum: Pal Hal tells me that he has abandoned his house as they have lost electricity and has taken a suite at the Excalante, a small European type boutique hotel catering to Euro-trash and American Corporate CEO's with pockets full of shareholder cash.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Pal Hal a hit as he hoofs it in Frank Loesser’s Guy and Dolls.
Wearing an outfit louder than a two dollar pistol and made from an old horse blanket, Hal Randleman makes Big Jule come alive once more as he sings, dances, and wise cracks his way to stardom on the boards at old Naples Blackburn Hall, one of the finest semi-pro theaters in the country.
Whether on stage left or stage right, upstage or down stage, in the wings or even off stage during a telephone voice over, Randleman makes himself a bright star in this KO production of a story based on Damon Runyon’s horseplayers and crap shooters in the New York of the 1940’s.
Randelman plays three roles in this production, as one role wasn’t enough to use up the unexpected energy exploding out of this moxie filled thespian. When you see him on stage you would never guess that he is actually past fifty. His second role is that of Joey Biltmore owner of the Biltmore garage where a floating crap game is to be played providing that Nathan Detroit can raise a thousand dollars for “rent.” Hal’s third role is that of the news dealer, a guy wearing a newsboys’ cap that would make Hattie Carnegie hold her ears and turn over in her grave.
Someone asked Randelman whether he feared the critics and he says to one and all like this: “They can say anything they want about me, but they should spell my name right.”
He also made a point of explaining that the subtext of the show actually revolves around his role as the be-capped news dealer; however, this critic didn’t quite comprehend the idea of subtext as I was distracted by several of the chorus girls who couldn’t seem to keep their hands off the cherubic actor.
Randlemann sparkled every time he came onstage, and the grey haired audience, seemingly brought in from the local morgue woke up and spat silver nickels every time he showed up.
He gets the biggest laughs of the show when he explains that his personal dice have lost their spots but that HE, Big Jule, “remembers where they were,” and that HE will personally gladly tell the players what numbers come up.
At half-time we go out in the hall and I notice many of the grey haired citizens bellying up to the bar and ordering such things as Manhattans and Martinis which is drinks that no honest personages would drink in Mindy’s. I get quite close to the squawkers as I am wanting to hear what they are thinking about the goings on at the stage during the first act. Most of it is good, with the exception of one Dave the Dude who squawks that Pal Hal is wearing his suit, and that he wants his percentage for the loan.
Big Jule is a man of no convictions, as he explains that he has had had thirty- three arrests but no convictions; and Pal Hal gets it right: loud, aggressive, and very dangerous. Poor Dave the Dude has no chance of making his percentage. Paly Haly is a very tough guy to know and, in fact, it comes to me now that he is a man who you might not want to know. No, Dave the Dude won’t see any money out of his suit.
Come to this show for a great evening, and if Luck Is A Lady you’ll come out humming a tune or two. There might have been some scouts in the audience but if there was scouts they must have come from the Boston Braves because no one on stage got offered any contracts from agents or even guys pretending to be agents as sometimes might happen.
After the show we go to a very nice restaurant which must be owned by Mindy’s grandson. We are seeing many good lookers and most of them must be very poor because they aren’t wearing too many clothes and this is no strip joint. One comes over and right in front of Mrs. Pally Hally runs her hand through his hair which is a very hard trick as everyone knows that Pally Hally has very few hairs to run anyone’s hand through, not even Miss Diamonds Right Up Her Arm who is a dame with little manners and no heart. But this is another story for another time.
While I am eating my meatloaf many persons are coming to Pally Hally and saying things such as Hello, and You are Very Great, and a few even get down on their knees and whisper things in very quiet voices right into Pally Hally’s ear. I figure that I should not say anything, that maybe they owe him some marbles and are explaining why they cannot pay. But Pally Hally takes this with lots of Noble Obliging, and with a certain look and a friendly wave lets them go their way.
I know that this restaurant is owned by Mindy’s grandson because there is no Formica in the joint, but if Mindy himself owned it there would be Formica and plenty of cheesecake too, which is something that these Mr. and Mrs. Park Avenues seem to know nothing about. They stick to Gin in Martini glasses.
mek
July 26, 2004
Pal Hal a hit as he hoofs it in Frank Loesser’s Guy and Dolls.
Wearing an outfit louder than a two dollar pistol and made from an old horse blanket, Hal Randleman makes Big Jule come alive once more as he sings, dances, and wise cracks his way to stardom on the boards at old Naples Blackburn Hall, one of the finest semi-pro theaters in the country.
Whether on stage left or stage right, upstage or down stage, in the wings or even off stage during a telephone voice over, Randleman makes himself a bright star in this KO production of a story based on Damon Runyon’s horseplayers and crap shooters in the New York of the 1940’s.
Randelman plays three roles in this production, as one role wasn’t enough to use up the unexpected energy exploding out of this moxie filled thespian. When you see him on stage you would never guess that he is actually past fifty. His second role is that of Joey Biltmore owner of the Biltmore garage where a floating crap game is to be played providing that Nathan Detroit can raise a thousand dollars for “rent.” Hal’s third role is that of the news dealer, a guy wearing a newsboys’ cap that would make Hattie Carnegie hold her ears and turn over in her grave.
Someone asked Randelman whether he feared the critics and he says to one and all like this: “They can say anything they want about me, but they should spell my name right.”
He also made a point of explaining that the subtext of the show actually revolves around his role as the be-capped news dealer; however, this critic didn’t quite comprehend the idea of subtext as I was distracted by several of the chorus girls who couldn’t seem to keep their hands off the cherubic actor.
Randlemann sparkled every time he came onstage, and the grey haired audience, seemingly brought in from the local morgue woke up and spat silver nickels every time he showed up.
He gets the biggest laughs of the show when he explains that his personal dice have lost their spots but that HE, Big Jule, “remembers where they were,” and that HE will personally gladly tell the players what numbers come up.
At half-time we go out in the hall and I notice many of the grey haired citizens bellying up to the bar and ordering such things as Manhattans and Martinis which is drinks that no honest personages would drink in Mindy’s. I get quite close to the squawkers as I am wanting to hear what they are thinking about the goings on at the stage during the first act. Most of it is good, with the exception of one Dave the Dude who squawks that Pal Hal is wearing his suit, and that he wants his percentage for the loan.
Big Jule is a man of no convictions, as he explains that he has had had thirty- three arrests but no convictions; and Pal Hal gets it right: loud, aggressive, and very dangerous. Poor Dave the Dude has no chance of making his percentage. Paly Haly is a very tough guy to know and, in fact, it comes to me now that he is a man who you might not want to know. No, Dave the Dude won’t see any money out of his suit.
Come to this show for a great evening, and if Luck Is A Lady you’ll come out humming a tune or two. There might have been some scouts in the audience but if there was scouts they must have come from the Boston Braves because no one on stage got offered any contracts from agents or even guys pretending to be agents as sometimes might happen.
After the show we go to a very nice restaurant which must be owned by Mindy’s grandson. We are seeing many good lookers and most of them must be very poor because they aren’t wearing too many clothes and this is no strip joint. One comes over and right in front of Mrs. Pally Hally runs her hand through his hair which is a very hard trick as everyone knows that Pally Hally has very few hairs to run anyone’s hand through, not even Miss Diamonds Right Up Her Arm who is a dame with little manners and no heart. But this is another story for another time.
While I am eating my meatloaf many persons are coming to Pally Hally and saying things such as Hello, and You are Very Great, and a few even get down on their knees and whisper things in very quiet voices right into Pally Hally’s ear. I figure that I should not say anything, that maybe they owe him some marbles and are explaining why they cannot pay. But Pally Hally takes this with lots of Noble Obliging, and with a certain look and a friendly wave lets them go their way.
I know that this restaurant is owned by Mindy’s grandson because there is no Formica in the joint, but if Mindy himself owned it there would be Formica and plenty of cheesecake too, which is something that these Mr. and Mrs. Park Avenues seem to know nothing about. They stick to Gin in Martini glasses.
mek
July 26, 2004
Thursday, July 22, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
http://www.forgotten-ny.com/STREET%20SCENES/bushwick/bushwick.html
Dear Kevin.
I found your site when Googling Arion Mansion.
My grandfather was honored at a dinner at Arion Mansion in 1939. I was just given an invitation to it-- "$1.25 per plate." He was honored for his "lifelong devotion to the Labor Movement." by the "Social-Democratic Federation, Branch 1, of Williamsburg. "
Dr. Cook's mansion was inhabited by a Doctor until just before the riots. I can't recall his name right now, but I do recall his neat, very tiny, handwriting. He was a British West Indian. He had a very large practice.
The Katz Family owned a drug store, Katz Drug Store, on Moore Street, which was moved to Graham Avenue from 1898 until 1995. It is one of the busiest independent drug stores in New York City. The store is still in action and is now owned by Kamlesh Patel.
I used to deliver first aid supplies to Schaefer Brewery and to Rheingold. Rheingold occupied the top of a hill between Flushing and Bushwick. It was almost a campus, though the fragrance of brewing hops was always in the air. The offices were worth photographing, and I hope that somewhere someone has photos of the buildings and the offices. The Liebmann family "spared no expense" in their buildings and the woodworking in the offices. the paneling might have been imported from an ancient castle in Germany....
You describe Bushwick Avenue as having previously been known as "the Boulevard." Before that it was Jamaica Plank Road. I assume that it was an Indian trail leading to Jamaica that the Dutch had planked over making a corduroy road. Do you know the derivation of corduroy?
My Grandfather and his family lived above the store and there was a speaking tube (a rubber hose with brass mouth mouthpieces at either end) that went from their apartment upstairs to the store. They were always on call, and during the 1918 influenza epidemic they stayed open 24 hours a day for weeks...
Later they moved to Bushwick Avenue on the street where Hylan's family lived. Still later to Brooklyn Heights. My grandfather lived in the St. George Hotel until he died in 1956.
Michael E. Katz
http://www.forgotten-ny.com/STREET%20SCENES/bushwick/bushwick.html
Dear Kevin.
I found your site when Googling Arion Mansion.
My grandfather was honored at a dinner at Arion Mansion in 1939. I was just given an invitation to it-- "$1.25 per plate." He was honored for his "lifelong devotion to the Labor Movement." by the "Social-Democratic Federation, Branch 1, of Williamsburg. "
Dr. Cook's mansion was inhabited by a Doctor until just before the riots. I can't recall his name right now, but I do recall his neat, very tiny, handwriting. He was a British West Indian. He had a very large practice.
The Katz Family owned a drug store, Katz Drug Store, on Moore Street, which was moved to Graham Avenue from 1898 until 1995. It is one of the busiest independent drug stores in New York City. The store is still in action and is now owned by Kamlesh Patel.
I used to deliver first aid supplies to Schaefer Brewery and to Rheingold. Rheingold occupied the top of a hill between Flushing and Bushwick. It was almost a campus, though the fragrance of brewing hops was always in the air. The offices were worth photographing, and I hope that somewhere someone has photos of the buildings and the offices. The Liebmann family "spared no expense" in their buildings and the woodworking in the offices. the paneling might have been imported from an ancient castle in Germany....
You describe Bushwick Avenue as having previously been known as "the Boulevard." Before that it was Jamaica Plank Road. I assume that it was an Indian trail leading to Jamaica that the Dutch had planked over making a corduroy road. Do you know the derivation of corduroy?
My Grandfather and his family lived above the store and there was a speaking tube (a rubber hose with brass mouth mouthpieces at either end) that went from their apartment upstairs to the store. They were always on call, and during the 1918 influenza epidemic they stayed open 24 hours a day for weeks...
Later they moved to Bushwick Avenue on the street where Hylan's family lived. Still later to Brooklyn Heights. My grandfather lived in the St. George Hotel until he died in 1956.
Michael E. Katz
Monday, July 19, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Movies -- Film
They cost too much. 20 Million for a star and 20 Million more for a co-star and 5 or 6 million for a villian doesn't leave enough for making a movie.
A family of 4 cannot afford to see a movie in a theater.
Flat Screen HDTV will keep more people at home and away from the theaters.
A 500 Channel universe is on its way.
A la carte cable will make it possible for smaller segments to have the programming they like which was the pormise of cable at its inception.
Movies -- Film
They cost too much. 20 Million for a star and 20 Million more for a co-star and 5 or 6 million for a villian doesn't leave enough for making a movie.
A family of 4 cannot afford to see a movie in a theater.
Flat Screen HDTV will keep more people at home and away from the theaters.
A 500 Channel universe is on its way.
A la carte cable will make it possible for smaller segments to have the programming they like which was the pormise of cable at its inception.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Friday, June 04, 2004
Sunday, May 30, 2004
Shari got married! Shari got married! And she's going to Hawaii on her honeymoon. Shari! Hawaii! Cory. Hawaii, Shari! Cory's very tall! Shari's just right! Holy cow! Shari got married! The Judge was a plump lady. And Shari has horses! Remi the horse is big,and neighed at us and showed his teeth and they were big! and Shazz the little horse is just right too. Shari looked great in her dress and her hair was up! Gosh, her eyes were so-so-very-blue! And crystal blue was the sky too, but not as blue as Shari's eyes, and the grass was green. O yes, the grass was spring green, and the air was perfect. Shari got married! And there were flowers. And the flower man was there till 1:30 in the morning! And the flowers were special with names that I do not know except there were some sprigs of lilacs. And Geoff was there before we got there! And someone wore Grandpop Bernie's belt. And we told Papa Jack stories, and some about Grace, and a few about Bernie too. It was a wedding. Shari got married! And Shari said her middle name was Inga which explains those blue eyes. Hawaii. Shari. And Cory too. And Cory flies aero-planes. And there was Mollie and there was Remi, the girl, running all over the lawn, and Justin got into the picture running up the hill, and Spencer couldn't find the ring, but Cory saved the day, and found it, and Spencer got tired and went to his Mommie's lap. We ate the wedding cake! O boy, it was fun. Shari got married. And Cory did too. O, yes! Shari got married.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Monday, May 17, 2004
Saturday, May 01, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
draft
draft
About 15 years ago someone discovered that it was Walt Whitman’s birthday, so naturally Schultz, Gross and I rushed to the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge, under the anchorage, where we could look up at Mr. Roebling’s spun iron miracle and pay homage to the patriot and wanderer, and also to honor the people, for whom Whitman wrote and loved. We decided to walk over the Williamsburg Bridge first, and on the Brooklyn side we noted the irony of George Washington’s equestrian statue in the eponoymous park, as few horses had been seen recently trotting on Williamsburg’s paths in recent years.
Then, each of us clutching his own copy of Walt Whitman’s poems, we worked our way to the older of the bridges. Stepping over broken bottles and abandoned baby baby carriages we ambled as close to the river as we could, hugging the fence of the Navy Yard, until we gained entrance by walking on the side of a huge truck as it stopped at the guard house.
Crossing the Navy Yard saved us about a half an hour of walking, and we took in the sights, the old brick factory buildings whose three foot thick brick walls once contained iron-monging businesses, with their huge lathes and weighty presses. Now, when a door opened we saw well lighted advertising shops, or photo labs, and the building where Sweet and Low is packed. A dry dock is still in use, though on this day it was vacant, vast in its emptiness, a volume of empty space, deep, wide, and very long. A slight stain of water, not even a trickle, snaked across its bottom.
We found our way to Navy Street, and it was time for lunch. Providence proved herself providential and we found a grocer, really an artist, who made us a hero sandwich, a long, crusty loaf of bread slathered in olive oil, filled with salami, provolone, lettuce, olives, peppers, tomatoes, and certain never-identified lunch meats.
As none of us were true, real heroes, we had the loaf sliced three ways and shared it, easing its way to our bellies with a swigged quart of Rheingold, a beer once made in another of those brick-work buildings, an honest brewery of Bushwick, Brooklyn, but sadly, now a beer only in name, made in a generic, effete beeratorium somewhere in the Midwest.
We were close now to the Anchorage, and it was time to read Whitman. We were at the verge of the river, the wind obligingly sent some spray over our jackets. And we began. A spring flush of tiny green mayflies hovered over the river. Its rush and the traffic high above our heads conspired to muffle our voices, but we pressed on.
“O Captain My Captain!” Gross called out into the wind, “Our Fearful Trip is done; The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won.”
His declamation started to attract a following of young children, and a few older men who had nothing better to do. We bravely forged on.
“O for the voices of animals! O for the swiftness and balance of fishes!” Schultz read, “O for the dropping of rain drop in a poem!” Some of the children had moved in very close, Whitman would have been intrigued.
draft
draft
About 15 years ago someone discovered that it was Walt Whitman’s birthday, so naturally Schultz, Gross and I rushed to the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge, under the anchorage, where we could look up at Mr. Roebling’s spun iron miracle and pay homage to the patriot and wanderer, and also to honor the people, for whom Whitman wrote and loved. We decided to walk over the Williamsburg Bridge first, and on the Brooklyn side we noted the irony of George Washington’s equestrian statue in the eponoymous park, as few horses had been seen recently trotting on Williamsburg’s paths in recent years.
Then, each of us clutching his own copy of Walt Whitman’s poems, we worked our way to the older of the bridges. Stepping over broken bottles and abandoned baby baby carriages we ambled as close to the river as we could, hugging the fence of the Navy Yard, until we gained entrance by walking on the side of a huge truck as it stopped at the guard house.
Crossing the Navy Yard saved us about a half an hour of walking, and we took in the sights, the old brick factory buildings whose three foot thick brick walls once contained iron-monging businesses, with their huge lathes and weighty presses. Now, when a door opened we saw well lighted advertising shops, or photo labs, and the building where Sweet and Low is packed. A dry dock is still in use, though on this day it was vacant, vast in its emptiness, a volume of empty space, deep, wide, and very long. A slight stain of water, not even a trickle, snaked across its bottom.
We found our way to Navy Street, and it was time for lunch. Providence proved herself providential and we found a grocer, really an artist, who made us a hero sandwich, a long, crusty loaf of bread slathered in olive oil, filled with salami, provolone, lettuce, olives, peppers, tomatoes, and certain never-identified lunch meats.
As none of us were true, real heroes, we had the loaf sliced three ways and shared it, easing its way to our bellies with a swigged quart of Rheingold, a beer once made in another of those brick-work buildings, an honest brewery of Bushwick, Brooklyn, but sadly, now a beer only in name, made in a generic, effete beeratorium somewhere in the Midwest.
We were close now to the Anchorage, and it was time to read Whitman. We were at the verge of the river, the wind obligingly sent some spray over our jackets. And we began. A spring flush of tiny green mayflies hovered over the river. Its rush and the traffic high above our heads conspired to muffle our voices, but we pressed on.
“O Captain My Captain!” Gross called out into the wind, “Our Fearful Trip is done; The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won.”
His declamation started to attract a following of young children, and a few older men who had nothing better to do. We bravely forged on.
“O for the voices of animals! O for the swiftness and balance of fishes!” Schultz read, “O for the dropping of rain drop in a poem!” Some of the children had moved in very close, Whitman would have been intrigued.
Sunday, April 25, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Dear Basil:
What verb did you and your father use when you mixed powders or liquids using a mortar and pestle? For instance, did you "mash" the ingredients together? I have recently read a book about old tyme pharmacy and I know the word that the author uses. I wonder if you and your father used the same word. It was an ordinary, common word, but I have never seen it used in this context. The word perfectly describes the action performed. Especially if done correctly. Though it would not be considered an elegant word, it is not off color in any way. Let me know your thoughts whether you have a word in mind or not
Dear Mike: Mike I can't remember any one particular word we used. We would mix powders for capsules. We would crush tablets. We also mixed powders for powders. Powders was the word we used for those little glassine packets we folded with powder inside. We would mash cocoa butter to soften and use to make suppositories. But I cannot remember if we a particular word that covered all of it. Maybe if you told me I would remember. In those days we used the mortar and pestle as an every day thing and never thought much about it. I remember using the spatula with it to scrape the stuff off the sides of the mortar to the bottom to thoroughly mix everything. Without the spatula the mortar and pestle would be useless.
Dear Basil: Yes, your description is right, and yes the spatula was very important. In fact, there were different sized spatulas (spatulae ?) for different purposes. Remember the pointed one used for taking the slightest amount of power from a jar? Say a doctor wanted a 1/4 gr. of opium mixed with 4 oz of sugar of milk, to make 20 powders: the pharmacist (or his qualified assistant) would take a tip of the powder on the almost pointed spatula to the special balance, the one that was enclosed in glass, to weigh the 1/4 gr. Don't tell me there was no such thing as a "qualified assistant." I know that, Sam. Then to thouroughly, completely mix the powders the diligent pharmacist would "rub" the powders together in the mortar for as much as a 1/4 hour. Pharmacists had good forearm, wrist, and finger strength. Danny, who was lamed, after falling off the rolling ladder in the store before he became a licensed pharmacist, earning forty dollars a week, for a sixty hour week, loved to tighten jar lids so that Moe or Izzy couldn't open them. On Sundays Dominic was alone, the only pharmacist on duty, and he would leave angry notes to Danny, often in Italian,--but who could say something to Danny? Would he laugh when the other guys couldn't get a jar opened. But the word used by the author was "rub" the mixture. I am not sure that I have heard that word before but it so fits the action, it is so "elegant" for the action, that I just had to talk to you about it. Mike
Dear Mike, we never used the word "rub" but I would consider it more sensuous than elegant, but not off color either and yes putting myself back in time the word works for me.. I knew you would understand the importance of the spatula. We had a draw full of all different kinds.
Bas
Dear Basil:
What verb did you and your father use when you mixed powders or liquids using a mortar and pestle? For instance, did you "mash" the ingredients together? I have recently read a book about old tyme pharmacy and I know the word that the author uses. I wonder if you and your father used the same word. It was an ordinary, common word, but I have never seen it used in this context. The word perfectly describes the action performed. Especially if done correctly. Though it would not be considered an elegant word, it is not off color in any way. Let me know your thoughts whether you have a word in mind or not
Dear Mike: Mike I can't remember any one particular word we used. We would mix powders for capsules. We would crush tablets. We also mixed powders for powders. Powders was the word we used for those little glassine packets we folded with powder inside. We would mash cocoa butter to soften and use to make suppositories. But I cannot remember if we a particular word that covered all of it. Maybe if you told me I would remember. In those days we used the mortar and pestle as an every day thing and never thought much about it. I remember using the spatula with it to scrape the stuff off the sides of the mortar to the bottom to thoroughly mix everything. Without the spatula the mortar and pestle would be useless.
Dear Basil: Yes, your description is right, and yes the spatula was very important. In fact, there were different sized spatulas (spatulae ?) for different purposes. Remember the pointed one used for taking the slightest amount of power from a jar? Say a doctor wanted a 1/4 gr. of opium mixed with 4 oz of sugar of milk, to make 20 powders: the pharmacist (or his qualified assistant) would take a tip of the powder on the almost pointed spatula to the special balance, the one that was enclosed in glass, to weigh the 1/4 gr. Don't tell me there was no such thing as a "qualified assistant." I know that, Sam. Then to thouroughly, completely mix the powders the diligent pharmacist would "rub" the powders together in the mortar for as much as a 1/4 hour. Pharmacists had good forearm, wrist, and finger strength. Danny, who was lamed, after falling off the rolling ladder in the store before he became a licensed pharmacist, earning forty dollars a week, for a sixty hour week, loved to tighten jar lids so that Moe or Izzy couldn't open them. On Sundays Dominic was alone, the only pharmacist on duty, and he would leave angry notes to Danny, often in Italian,--but who could say something to Danny? Would he laugh when the other guys couldn't get a jar opened. But the word used by the author was "rub" the mixture. I am not sure that I have heard that word before but it so fits the action, it is so "elegant" for the action, that I just had to talk to you about it. Mike
Dear Mike, we never used the word "rub" but I would consider it more sensuous than elegant, but not off color either and yes putting myself back in time the word works for me.. I knew you would understand the importance of the spatula. We had a draw full of all different kinds.
Bas
Saturday, April 24, 2004
gratwicker@aol.com
u'menu`gog emmangogue a group of oils used to increase the menstrual flow--also used in the past as a method of birth control.
Such as angelica, basil, bay laurel, calamintha, caraway, carrot seed, cedarwood (virginian), celery seed, chamomile, cinammon leaf, citronella, clary sage, cumin, cypress, dill, fennel, frankincense, galbanum, hyssop, juniper, labdanum, lavender, lovage, marigold, marjoram, melissa, myrrh, nutmeg, peppermint, rose, rosemary, tarragon, thyme
u'menu`gog emmangogue a group of oils used to increase the menstrual flow--also used in the past as a method of birth control.
Such as angelica, basil, bay laurel, calamintha, caraway, carrot seed, cedarwood (virginian), celery seed, chamomile, cinammon leaf, citronella, clary sage, cumin, cypress, dill, fennel, frankincense, galbanum, hyssop, juniper, labdanum, lavender, lovage, marigold, marjoram, melissa, myrrh, nutmeg, peppermint, rose, rosemary, tarragon, thyme
Friday, April 23, 2004
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
My leg pain woke me up at about 5:30 this morning so I went out on the terrace, so as to watch the coming sunrise, and brought with me Don Quixote, thinking that the quiet would help me to get further along.
But I decided to begin again, and this time read the prologue and the poems that follow it.
The very first poem is Urganda the Unrecognised which is described in a footnote as a "verso de cabo rato," which is described as a poem in which the final endings of each word at the end of a line are dropped.
If to reach goodly read--
oh book, you proceed with cau-,
you cannot, by the fool--,
be called a stumbling nin--.
A few months ago, while searching through my Oxford I came across the English for this same idea. Why anyone would write poems in which the last syllables of words are dropped is not apparent to me, but apparently it is done, at least in Spanish and English, and Cervantes gives us the example quoted above.
The English word, which unlike most words new to me at this age, has stuck:
It is Catalexis.
I know you needed to know this.
mek
My leg pain woke me up at about 5:30 this morning so I went out on the terrace, so as to watch the coming sunrise, and brought with me Don Quixote, thinking that the quiet would help me to get further along.
But I decided to begin again, and this time read the prologue and the poems that follow it.
The very first poem is Urganda the Unrecognised which is described in a footnote as a "verso de cabo rato," which is described as a poem in which the final endings of each word at the end of a line are dropped.
If to reach goodly read--
oh book, you proceed with cau-,
you cannot, by the fool--,
be called a stumbling nin--.
A few months ago, while searching through my Oxford I came across the English for this same idea. Why anyone would write poems in which the last syllables of words are dropped is not apparent to me, but apparently it is done, at least in Spanish and English, and Cervantes gives us the example quoted above.
The English word, which unlike most words new to me at this age, has stuck:
It is Catalexis.
I know you needed to know this.
mek
Monday, April 19, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
High jumps are called grand jete , also known as rake , good air .
See when you are leaping and jumping usually your legs
are spread wide apart while you are in the air . So that exactly what they call it .
Good air --- rake -- grand jete is the basic term used . grand air .
Grand Jete .
High jumps are called grand jete , also known as rake , good air .
See when you are leaping and jumping usually your legs
are spread wide apart while you are in the air . So that exactly what they call it .
Good air --- rake -- grand jete is the basic term used . grand air .
Grand Jete .
Sunday, April 18, 2004
Saturday, April 17, 2004
Friday, April 16, 2004
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
gratwicker@aol.com
I am not sleeping with S. and therefore I do not know he facts of her economic existence She received a settlement from the accident and purchased what she described as a house. At the time I assumed it was in Brooklyn but maybe she meant an apartment in Manhattan, though come to think of it perhaps it might be in the Bronx where there are neighborhoods with houses.
She did not want to meet. Otherwise I would have liked to do so.
I am not sleeping with S. and therefore I do not know he facts of her economic existence She received a settlement from the accident and purchased what she described as a house. At the time I assumed it was in Brooklyn but maybe she meant an apartment in Manhattan, though come to think of it perhaps it might be in the Bronx where there are neighborhoods with houses.
She did not want to meet. Otherwise I would have liked to do so.
gratwicker@aol.com
Charlemagne had 4500 Saxons beheaded in one day in the year 782 at Verdun. I can imagine the night before the scene of the axmen being order to sharpen their axes, and the tree stumps being arranged for the next morning. There must have been a general busy-ness as the prisoners' hands were tied behind their backs. Imagine the merchant who received the huge order for rope. When the order was made known there might have been a general panic among the prisoners--they were pagans, however, and might have had thoughts of honorable deaths and Valhalla.
Charlemagne justified his brutality by his desire to unite Germany as a Christian state. Germany was still a mass of fighting tribes of savages and soon he would join the Frenchies into his brutally Christianized kingdom.
Charlemagne had 4500 Saxons beheaded in one day in the year 782 at Verdun. I can imagine the night before the scene of the axmen being order to sharpen their axes, and the tree stumps being arranged for the next morning. There must have been a general busy-ness as the prisoners' hands were tied behind their backs. Imagine the merchant who received the huge order for rope. When the order was made known there might have been a general panic among the prisoners--they were pagans, however, and might have had thoughts of honorable deaths and Valhalla.
Charlemagne justified his brutality by his desire to unite Germany as a Christian state. Germany was still a mass of fighting tribes of savages and soon he would join the Frenchies into his brutally Christianized kingdom.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
What is a divorce to the children? Some people say "it's good for the children, it gets them out of a house where parents argue and the atmosphere is unhealthy. They survive."
Sure, they survive, but at what cost? It's an incredible wound. Each child somehow believes himself responsible. Children take sides without even knowing it. They become objects of manipulation. This was a marriage where there was a child who was il. Perhaps attention was diverted from the marriage to the child. Maybe. But in my opinion, it's something different. She isn't capable of really loving a man. She sees the material first, and is a user. She is not capable of deep love. The marriage wasn't a romance marriage. It was a money marriage.
Sure, they survive, but at what cost? It's an incredible wound. Each child somehow believes himself responsible. Children take sides without even knowing it. They become objects of manipulation. This was a marriage where there was a child who was il. Perhaps attention was diverted from the marriage to the child. Maybe. But in my opinion, it's something different. She isn't capable of really loving a man. She sees the material first, and is a user. She is not capable of deep love. The marriage wasn't a romance marriage. It was a money marriage.
Monday, April 12, 2004
About 15 years ago someone discovered that it was William Carlos Williams' birthday, so naturally Schultz, Gross and I rushed to the Great Falls of the Passaic River at Paterson, New Jersey to pay homage to the good doctor and graduate of our alma mater Horace Mann, and also to honor the Wobblies whose efforts for the workers of the world were concentrated, for a time, in Paterson's silk factories. We noted the irony of Alexander Hamilton’s statue overlooking the hallowed ground of a thirteen month bitter strike, to which IWW leaders Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, Big Bill Haywood, and Carlo Tresca often came to harangue the bosses and to support the strikers.
Then, one of us clutching William Carlos Williams poem in his hand, we worked our way to the base of the Great Falls and began a reading of the 150 page poem. The roar of the falls mixed with our voices, and each of his took his turn until it was time for lunch. We trudged up the side of the river bank and found a grocer who made us a hero sandwich, a long, crusty loaf of bread slathered in olive oil, filled with salami, provolone, lettuce, tomatoes, and certain never-identified lunch meats. As none of us were true, real heroes, we had the loaf sliced three ways and shared it, easing its way to our bellies with a quart of Rheingold, a beer once made in one of the brick-work, honest breweries of Brooklyn, but sadly, now only a name, made in a generic, effete beeratorium somewhere in the Midwest.
We returned to the falls to continue our reading. This time we remained at the top of the falls, on an overview, as from this point the sound of the falls did not quite overcome our voices. Our declamation did, however, attract a following of young children, and a few older men who had nothing better to do. We bravely forged on, but at around three o’clock decided that though our clothing was well-misted our throats were dry.
A suitable working man’s tavern was found and we re-charged ourselves, losing several dollars at darts, a local game played by the charming patrons of this particular tavern with particular meticulousness and disarming skill.
The dart players proved not to be poetry lovers and as we wanted to finish the poem we cut short our losses and made our way back to the falls.
Our following of children had abandoned us, but a few of the older men had loyally awaited our return. None, however, followed us down to the river-edge, as perhaps they were not in the mood for swimming. Like the adults at Basil’s Passover table those not reading hurried the reader along. New Jersey’s tired sun was falling below the gorge and a chill worked its way under our damp clothing—but we were determined to complete our homage. Someone’s foot found its way into the water, and our celebration completed, wet and muddied but undiscouraged we made our way back to New York, waving at Hamiliton, while remembering the honor of Big Bill. Only Emma Goldman was absent.
mek
Then, one of us clutching William Carlos Williams poem in his hand, we worked our way to the base of the Great Falls and began a reading of the 150 page poem. The roar of the falls mixed with our voices, and each of his took his turn until it was time for lunch. We trudged up the side of the river bank and found a grocer who made us a hero sandwich, a long, crusty loaf of bread slathered in olive oil, filled with salami, provolone, lettuce, tomatoes, and certain never-identified lunch meats. As none of us were true, real heroes, we had the loaf sliced three ways and shared it, easing its way to our bellies with a quart of Rheingold, a beer once made in one of the brick-work, honest breweries of Brooklyn, but sadly, now only a name, made in a generic, effete beeratorium somewhere in the Midwest.
We returned to the falls to continue our reading. This time we remained at the top of the falls, on an overview, as from this point the sound of the falls did not quite overcome our voices. Our declamation did, however, attract a following of young children, and a few older men who had nothing better to do. We bravely forged on, but at around three o’clock decided that though our clothing was well-misted our throats were dry.
A suitable working man’s tavern was found and we re-charged ourselves, losing several dollars at darts, a local game played by the charming patrons of this particular tavern with particular meticulousness and disarming skill.
The dart players proved not to be poetry lovers and as we wanted to finish the poem we cut short our losses and made our way back to the falls.
Our following of children had abandoned us, but a few of the older men had loyally awaited our return. None, however, followed us down to the river-edge, as perhaps they were not in the mood for swimming. Like the adults at Basil’s Passover table those not reading hurried the reader along. New Jersey’s tired sun was falling below the gorge and a chill worked its way under our damp clothing—but we were determined to complete our homage. Someone’s foot found its way into the water, and our celebration completed, wet and muddied but undiscouraged we made our way back to New York, waving at Hamiliton, while remembering the honor of Big Bill. Only Emma Goldman was absent.
mek
A very close, lifelong friend of mine was an Episcopalian Theologian who lived a very compartmentalized life, keeping several groups of his friends separate from each other. One topic that we avoided was the exact nature of his sexuality.
Many of my friends who met him through me over the years believed him to be homosexual, but I remained agnostic on the subject, perhaps naive, or perhaps feeling that it was his business to express himself if he wished. Sometimes I thought that he was asexual and celibate.
Most of my friends, in my opinion, were cynics when it came to Bob, and I always took their opinion with a grain a salt. Maria and I were often invited to his famous New Year's dinners which were always formal, and many of his guests would be knock-out women who adored him. The point that you should understand is that part of him remained a mystery to me. This was bewildering to me because most of my close friends hide nothing from each other except the exact amount of the income--and sometimes even that is shared.
Seven years ago Bob died and was cremated. I spoke at his funeral, at St. John the Divine, in New York Where his ashes are interred in what you may know is called a columbarium.
A few weeks ago while in New York I went to St. John the Divine, and was amazed to see that someone else was sharing his niche. A name with which I was not familiar.
I wrote to a friend who is graphic artist and who works at St. John, and asked her whether it was possible for strangers to share a niche. Her answer follows. Her remark about Paterson and Alan Ginsberg involves a reading of a poem by William Carlos Williams at Paterson, and that story is another long one. I will save you more agony by not passing it on.
I thought it would interest you and Howard because of her reason for leaving the Catholic Church:
Mike,
I know that the Columbarium niches can hold up to four individuals, but usually they choose their crypt-mates at the time they purchase the space. While I do know unrelated individuals who have decided to share eternity together, I think it would be highly unusual for strangers to be added willy-nilly. I was in the Columbarium myself on Good Friday as part of the service I attended and I found it pleasantly meditative as always (not to mention they finally built a much better ramp up there).
As I am sure you know, the whole same-sex partner thing is a huge issue right now in the Episcopal church, even before the rash of "gay marriage" events around the country. It started last summer with the national convention's vote to accept Gene Robinson, the openly gay bishop of New Hampshire, and then a lot of fluff at the international level since of course the Third World members want nothing of it. Sisk, the New York bishop, is walking a very fine line with a lot of skill, but there are some very odd schisms in the making here.
I feel obligated to support the gay rights movement within the church, since gender equality is the main reason I could not remain a Roman Catholic. On the other hand, last summer I was starting to feel like it was the only issue anyone would talk about. Yes, it's important, but this is not exactly the 1964 Civil Rights Act. The oppression of the educated middle-class homosexuals leading the discussion is painful, but not on the same scale as a lot of other human rights issues, or even the war, which is personally of more interest to me.
The whole issue is sort of fascinating from the point of view that while its official expression is splitting congregations and city councils in two, everybody at these contentious meetings is setting their Tivos for Queer Eye or Will and Grace. It's clearly the last gasp of resistance before the cultural tide sweeps in, but I'm sorry so many people are hurting each other over it.
I'm now going to attempt a massive turnaround to link this to our initial subject, and I suppose it will have to be Alan Ginsburg, who was both a homosexual and a Pattersonian. And whose memorial service I attended at St. John the Divine.
Anyway, all of this sounds more angry and negative than I really feel these days. Spring is good. My mood has lifted after a long dark winter. I feel changes in the air but I have no inkling yet of what they will be. Maybe I just need more Ted Hughes.
S
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
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..
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The ability to fend off harm is a test of vitality. The spent is drawn to destruction. Robert Musil
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Money from inheritance is much more respectable than money from acquisition.
....
Personally I am relaxed about sodomy--which is not the same about being relaxed during sodomy. Mark Twain.
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The ability to fend off harm is a test of vitality. The spent is drawn to destruction. Robert Musil
..
Money from inheritance is much more respectable than money from acquisition.
....
Personally I am relaxed about sodomy--which is not the same about being relaxed during sodomy. Mark Twain.
Friday, March 26, 2004
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..
...
....
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths...
Walt Whitman
Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
And the long journey towards oblivion.
The apples falling like great drops of dew
To bruise themselves an exit from themselves.
And it is time to go, to bid farewell
To one's self, and find an exit
from the fallen self.
II...
III
And can a man his own quietus make
with a bare bodkin?
D. H. Lawrence.
..
...
....
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths...
Walt Whitman
Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
And the long journey towards oblivion.
The apples falling like great drops of dew
To bruise themselves an exit from themselves.
And it is time to go, to bid farewell
To one's self, and find an exit
from the fallen self.
II...
III
And can a man his own quietus make
with a bare bodkin?
D. H. Lawrence.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
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...
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........
People everywhere confuse what they read in newspapers with news. A.J. Liebling
Check with the doorman.
I think that, in general, doormen look better when smartly dressed as Czarist Russian Admirals in heavy woolen overcoats with gold fringed epaulets, huge lapped pockets, and also wearing eight point, gold trimmed, leather-visored officers' hats.
You should want to promptly make arrangements for proper uniforming. Maybe I got such a get-up in the back of the store. I don't know....
Solomon.
...
.....
........
People everywhere confuse what they read in newspapers with news. A.J. Liebling
Check with the doorman.
I think that, in general, doormen look better when smartly dressed as Czarist Russian Admirals in heavy woolen overcoats with gold fringed epaulets, huge lapped pockets, and also wearing eight point, gold trimmed, leather-visored officers' hats.
You should want to promptly make arrangements for proper uniforming. Maybe I got such a get-up in the back of the store. I don't know....
Solomon.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Saturday, March 20, 2004
Saturday, March 13, 2004
Basically we have no home. We move from apartment to apartment, or from city to city. There is no generational plot of land that calls us, that keeps us.
Rather, it is our friends, our life long friends that bind us together. We expect friendship without guilt a commitment which lives in us just because we are who we are, and as time goes on the glue of friedhip stiffens, and holds fast. We complement each other, like a setting on a table. the fork needs the knife, the soup calls for the spoon and napkin.
Our friendship has been refined over the years--perhaps it is true that we would not sacrifice everything we have for each other--but that's only money. I would not be surprised, however if we'd sacrifice our lives for each other. There has been an unreakable harmony amongst our little group--until now. there is no way to curtail the inclination of our feelings--but something has shattered within the group--and attention must be paid. Thisis not an implacable break. I would ask here that we not confront, to pick at the scab, but to leave punishment, resentment and reprisal to life and its changing fortune.
Rather, it is our friends, our life long friends that bind us together. We expect friendship without guilt a commitment which lives in us just because we are who we are, and as time goes on the glue of friedhip stiffens, and holds fast. We complement each other, like a setting on a table. the fork needs the knife, the soup calls for the spoon and napkin.
Our friendship has been refined over the years--perhaps it is true that we would not sacrifice everything we have for each other--but that's only money. I would not be surprised, however if we'd sacrifice our lives for each other. There has been an unreakable harmony amongst our little group--until now. there is no way to curtail the inclination of our feelings--but something has shattered within the group--and attention must be paid. Thisis not an implacable break. I would ask here that we not confront, to pick at the scab, but to leave punishment, resentment and reprisal to life and its changing fortune.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
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The Gypsy looked me in the eye knowingly. She ignored my wife who sat at my side. She held my hand lightly in her's and mumbled to herself, "what's this?" She turned directly to me, somehow putting herself between my wife and me. My wife's curiosity level must have sky-rocketed.
The palm reader began, " You have two parallel love lines. Each is very long, each is very deep, each is unbroken. " I gritted my teeth. The wife leaned closer to hear what was becoming a gypsy incantation.
mek
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The Gypsy looked me in the eye knowingly. She ignored my wife who sat at my side. She held my hand lightly in her's and mumbled to herself, "what's this?" She turned directly to me, somehow putting herself between my wife and me. My wife's curiosity level must have sky-rocketed.
The palm reader began, " You have two parallel love lines. Each is very long, each is very deep, each is unbroken. " I gritted my teeth. The wife leaned closer to hear what was becoming a gypsy incantation.
mek
Larry, The Iceman Cometh
I was forced to admit, at the end of thirty years’ devotion to the Cause, that I was never made for it. I was condemned to be one of those who has to see all sides of a question.
When you’re damned like that, the questions multiply for you until in the end it’s all questions and no answer. As history proves, to be a worldly success at anything, especially revolution, you have to wear blinders like a horse and see only straight in front of you. You have to see, too, that this is all black, and that is all white.
Eugene Gladstone O’Neill.
Life can never be completed. It can only be abandoned.
Michael E. Katz
I was forced to admit, at the end of thirty years’ devotion to the Cause, that I was never made for it. I was condemned to be one of those who has to see all sides of a question.
When you’re damned like that, the questions multiply for you until in the end it’s all questions and no answer. As history proves, to be a worldly success at anything, especially revolution, you have to wear blinders like a horse and see only straight in front of you. You have to see, too, that this is all black, and that is all white.
Eugene Gladstone O’Neill.
Life can never be completed. It can only be abandoned.
Michael E. Katz
Friday, February 27, 2004
One day the news came that Lenin would be making a visit to Poland. What could they do for the great man?
A delegation convened and they decided to commission a painting, a large and glorious oil painting on the theme "Lenin in Poland"
They went to the town's master painter. He promised to have it ready in a month. After a month they returned but he put them off. Two weeks later they were back. He needed still more time. But at last, just one day before Lenin's arrival they went to the studio. As they stood there the painter pulled back the cloth from the enormous canvas. They gazed in shocked silence. In the painting they saw Trotsky climbing into bed with Lenin's wife.
At last one of the delegation spoke up. But where is Lenin?
Ah, replied the painter Lenin is in Poland
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++=
A few days later the town's Mathematics teacher, Professor Goldstein, who had been in Poland with Lenin, returned home and discovered his best friend, the town's English teacher, Professor Kittridge, in bed with his wife.
"Kittridge!" shouted the Mathematics Professor, "I am surprised to find you in bed with my wife. "
"No, Goldstein!" answered the English professor, now sitting upright in the marital bed.
"It is your wife and I who have been surprised. -- You are shocked to find me in bed with your wife."
****************************************************
Credit for the story above goes to Bernie Katz
A delegation convened and they decided to commission a painting, a large and glorious oil painting on the theme "Lenin in Poland"
They went to the town's master painter. He promised to have it ready in a month. After a month they returned but he put them off. Two weeks later they were back. He needed still more time. But at last, just one day before Lenin's arrival they went to the studio. As they stood there the painter pulled back the cloth from the enormous canvas. They gazed in shocked silence. In the painting they saw Trotsky climbing into bed with Lenin's wife.
At last one of the delegation spoke up. But where is Lenin?
Ah, replied the painter Lenin is in Poland
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++=
A few days later the town's Mathematics teacher, Professor Goldstein, who had been in Poland with Lenin, returned home and discovered his best friend, the town's English teacher, Professor Kittridge, in bed with his wife.
"Kittridge!" shouted the Mathematics Professor, "I am surprised to find you in bed with my wife. "
"No, Goldstein!" answered the English professor, now sitting upright in the marital bed.
"It is your wife and I who have been surprised. -- You are shocked to find me in bed with your wife."
****************************************************
Credit for the story above goes to Bernie Katz
Friday, February 13, 2004
Sunday, February 08, 2004
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..
...
Narcissus leant over the spring, enthralled by the only man in whose eyes he had ever dared--or been given the chance--to forget himself.
Narcissus leant over the spring, enthralled by his own ugliness, which he prided himself upon having the courage to admit.
.........................................................................................................*.............................................................................................................
We remember our dead. When they were born, when they passed away--either as men of promise, or as men of acheivement.
Dag Hammarskjold
..
...
Narcissus leant over the spring, enthralled by the only man in whose eyes he had ever dared--or been given the chance--to forget himself.
Narcissus leant over the spring, enthralled by his own ugliness, which he prided himself upon having the courage to admit.
.........................................................................................................*.............................................................................................................
We remember our dead. When they were born, when they passed away--either as men of promise, or as men of acheivement.
Dag Hammarskjold
Saturday, February 07, 2004
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
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.
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Aubade
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of its rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
Phillip Larkin ---
.
.
Aubade
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of its rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
Phillip Larkin ---
Dear Stephen ben-Manny.
I know a bit about Bulgar, the grain, as I am delving into the life of Catherine the Great and much is written about her posed devotion to her people, the peasants. "Wherefrom comes Kasha?", I would ask.
Well, as you know K'ai Shu is the common script used in writing the Chinese language (you could look it up in your magnificent magnifier Oxford, of which I am very jealous having given mine to Max.)
But that is not the Kasha that we seek. According to my Shorter Oxford it is "a porridge made of cooked buckwheat or other grains." My old Merriam New Collegiate (1953) doesn't even mention it which surprised me.
Now I personally cook my oatmeal almost every morning, and I use the slow cooking brand, namely John McCann's Steel Cut Oats, that take a half-hour to cook.
Your description of how we lived under the Czar reminds me of what my grandfather said to me when I complained to him about the taxes that I was paying.
"Michael, you should be glad to pay your taxes here," he said, patting me on the head. "In Russia we paid no taxes--but every spring the mud was up to our knees -- and that was INSIDE our house."
In 1880 his mother, my great-grandmother, walked with him and his four sisters from Svier (near Vilna) to Hamburg where they got on the boat for New York. His father remained in Russia and followed them over a few years later. Two of those sister, Dora and Rose married the same man. My great-grandfather was one of seven founders of the Hebrew Free Loan Society, which still exists, though it is now controlled by the major Jewish Real Estate families of New York.
BULGAR WHEAT PILAF Courtesy Mrs. Google
bring 3 cups water or vegetable broth to boil add one head celery, choppedone large onion, sliced thinsimmer 5 minutesadd 2 cups bulgar wheatsimmer on low about 25 minutesturn off heat and let stand 5 or more minutesI have also made this a one pot meal, adding more vegetables such as sliced mushrooms, green beans or peas, you get the idea. Toss in some herbs, too, can't hurt. kwvegan vegan Note the misspelling : Should be "Can't hoit."
bulgar cereal courtesy mrs google
As hot cereal, I just put it a saucepan with two parts of water andsome cinnamon and raisins, bring to a boil and simmer it for about10 minutes. This gives the mushiest results, but it's just finefor hot cereal, and not as mushy as finer-cut 9-grain cereal mixes.
kwvegan vegan
Planning to go to the health food store for further information.
Love,
Michael ben-Bernie.
I know a bit about Bulgar, the grain, as I am delving into the life of Catherine the Great and much is written about her posed devotion to her people, the peasants. "Wherefrom comes Kasha?", I would ask.
Well, as you know K'ai Shu is the common script used in writing the Chinese language (you could look it up in your magnificent magnifier Oxford, of which I am very jealous having given mine to Max.)
But that is not the Kasha that we seek. According to my Shorter Oxford it is "a porridge made of cooked buckwheat or other grains." My old Merriam New Collegiate (1953) doesn't even mention it which surprised me.
Now I personally cook my oatmeal almost every morning, and I use the slow cooking brand, namely John McCann's Steel Cut Oats, that take a half-hour to cook.
Your description of how we lived under the Czar reminds me of what my grandfather said to me when I complained to him about the taxes that I was paying.
"Michael, you should be glad to pay your taxes here," he said, patting me on the head. "In Russia we paid no taxes--but every spring the mud was up to our knees -- and that was INSIDE our house."
In 1880 his mother, my great-grandmother, walked with him and his four sisters from Svier (near Vilna) to Hamburg where they got on the boat for New York. His father remained in Russia and followed them over a few years later. Two of those sister, Dora and Rose married the same man. My great-grandfather was one of seven founders of the Hebrew Free Loan Society, which still exists, though it is now controlled by the major Jewish Real Estate families of New York.
BULGAR WHEAT PILAF Courtesy Mrs. Google
bring 3 cups water or vegetable broth to boil add one head celery, choppedone large onion, sliced thinsimmer 5 minutesadd 2 cups bulgar wheatsimmer on low about 25 minutesturn off heat and let stand 5 or more minutesI have also made this a one pot meal, adding more vegetables such as sliced mushrooms, green beans or peas, you get the idea. Toss in some herbs, too, can't hurt. kwvegan vegan Note the misspelling : Should be "Can't hoit."
bulgar cereal courtesy mrs google
As hot cereal, I just put it a saucepan with two parts of water andsome cinnamon and raisins, bring to a boil and simmer it for about10 minutes. This gives the mushiest results, but it's just finefor hot cereal, and not as mushy as finer-cut 9-grain cereal mixes.
kwvegan vegan
Planning to go to the health food store for further information.
Love,
Michael ben-Bernie.
..
...
....
Dear Stephen ben-Manny.
I know a bit about Bulgar, the grain, as I am delving into the life of Catherine the Great and much is written about her posed devotion to her people, the peasants. "Wherefrom comes Kasha?", I would ask.
Well, as you know K'ai Shu is the common script used in writing the Chinese language (you could look it up in your magnificent magnifier Oxford, of which I am very jealous having given mine to Max.)
But that is not the Kasha that we seek. According to my Shorter Oxford it is "a porridge made of cooked buckwheat or other grains." My old Merriam New Collegiate (1953) doesn't even mention it which surprised me.
Now I personally cook my oatmeal almost every morning, and I use the slow cooking brand, namely John McCann's Steel Cut Oats, that take a half-hour to cook.
Your description of how we lived under the Czar reminds me of what my grandfather said to me when I complained to him about the taxes that I was paying.
"Michael, you should be glad to pay your taxes here," he said, patting me on the head. "In Russia we paid no taxes--but every spring the mud was up to our knees -- and that was INSIDE our house."
In 1880 his mother, my great-grandmother, walked with him and his four sisters from Svier (near Vilna) to Hamburg where they got on the boat for New York. His father remained in Russia and followed them over a ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������
...
....
Dear Stephen ben-Manny.
I know a bit about Bulgar, the grain, as I am delving into the life of Catherine the Great and much is written about her posed devotion to her people, the peasants. "Wherefrom comes Kasha?", I would ask.
Well, as you know K'ai Shu is the common script used in writing the Chinese language (you could look it up in your magnificent magnifier Oxford, of which I am very jealous having given mine to Max.)
But that is not the Kasha that we seek. According to my Shorter Oxford it is "a porridge made of cooked buckwheat or other grains." My old Merriam New Collegiate (1953) doesn't even mention it which surprised me.
Now I personally cook my oatmeal almost every morning, and I use the slow cooking brand, namely John McCann's Steel Cut Oats, that take a half-hour to cook.
Your description of how we lived under the Czar reminds me of what my grandfather said to me when I complained to him about the taxes that I was paying.
"Michael, you should be glad to pay your taxes here," he said, patting me on the head. "In Russia we paid no taxes--but every spring the mud was up to our knees -- and that was INSIDE our house."
In 1880 his mother, my great-grandmother, walked with him and his four sisters from Svier (near Vilna) to Hamburg where they got on the boat for New York. His father remained in Russia and followed them over a ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������
Monday, February 02, 2004
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In the middle of the darkest, moonless nights, I listen to the radio in the den so as not to wake the little woman when I can't sleep. The other night I heard on this program, which usually reports the movements and sighting of UFO's and aliens, that Ben Laden had been captured, according to one usually reliable source.
Of course, the following morning I heard nothing of this story-rumor-concoction...But, I have heard in the past two things which I would like to add to the story.
When we captured many of the Iraqi enemies pictured on the cardpack, we liked to keep it quiet for a time so that their friends would not know and therefore we could make additional arrests based on what the captured general would tell us, before the targets had a chance to hide or destroy records and materials. �
..
.
.
In the middle of the darkest, moonless nights, I listen to the radio in the den so as not to wake the little woman when I can't sleep. The other night I heard on this program, which usually reports the movements and sighting of UFO's and aliens, that Ben Laden had been captured, according to one usually reliable source.
Of course, the following morning I heard nothing of this story-rumor-concoction...But, I have heard in the past two things which I would like to add to the story.
When we captured many of the Iraqi enemies pictured on the cardpack, we liked to keep it quiet for a time so that their friends would not know and therefore we could make additional arrests based on what the captured general would tell us, before the targets had a chance to hide or destroy records and materials. �
..
..
..
It looks like Iraq had moved WMD into Syria where it has been buried for some time. The Israelis say that Kaye had been briefed and told the coordinates of the burial place. ..But why hasn't he said anything, if this is true?
The First Marines and the Third Army are scheduled to return to Iraq in a few months--before the election. The First and the Third were the elements of our forces that won the Iraq war in days.
How long will it take them to invade Syria, and capture the WMD? Not long.
Using the Investigation to trace the materials to Syria explains why no WMD was found, and gives Bush the reason he needs to invade Syria. Ah, Dr. Machiavelli must have an office in the White House.
Australia, Britain and the US each announced investigations in a three day period. Mr. Atom Bomb of Pakistan has been outed in the same time frame.
The purpose of the investigations is to lead us to Syria.
..
..
It looks like Iraq had moved WMD into Syria where it has been buried for some time. The Israelis say that Kaye had been briefed and told the coordinates of the burial place. ..But why hasn't he said anything, if this is true?
The First Marines and the Third Army are scheduled to return to Iraq in a few months--before the election. The First and the Third were the elements of our forces that won the Iraq war in days.
How long will it take them to invade Syria, and capture the WMD? Not long.
Using the Investigation to trace the materials to Syria explains why no WMD was found, and gives Bush the reason he needs to invade Syria. Ah, Dr. Machiavelli must have an office in the White House.
Australia, Britain and the US each announced investigations in a three day period. Mr. Atom Bomb of Pakistan has been outed in the same time frame.
The purpose of the investigations is to lead us to Syria.
Saturday, January 31, 2004
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-
Someone asked me who Gabby Hayes was. I answered that in the movies he was usually Roy Rogers sidekick, and that I had seen a John Wayne movie made in 1930 in which he also played the hero's sidekick--and that although he must have in his twenties he still looked like an old codger,,,I then checked a list of his films and sent the following sequel to my original answer:
Well, I was close. He did play in mysteries in the 30's and he also played in some Hopalong Cassidy films as well as the Roy Rogers that most of us remember. My sister and I double dated only once. I got her a date with my friend Danny and she got me a date with her friend Judy \. We were in our late teens. We went to PJ Clarks and saw Gabby Hayes at another table. The girls, yes, they were still girls in those olden days, squealed and wanted his autograph. As soon as they went to the ladies room (though in PJ's calling it a Ladies Room was quite a stretch) I scrawled Gabby Hayes's autograph across a menu.-- "To Patti and Judy with all my pistol packin' heart, Gabby Hayes."
When they saw it they got up and hugged him, thanking him for the autograph. He was so drunk he thought he actually did sign it and wanted them to come home with him.
-
-
Someone asked me who Gabby Hayes was. I answered that in the movies he was usually Roy Rogers sidekick, and that I had seen a John Wayne movie made in 1930 in which he also played the hero's sidekick--and that although he must have in his twenties he still looked like an old codger,,,I then checked a list of his films and sent the following sequel to my original answer:
Well, I was close. He did play in mysteries in the 30's and he also played in some Hopalong Cassidy films as well as the Roy Rogers that most of us remember. My sister and I double dated only once. I got her a date with my friend Danny and she got me a date with her friend Judy \. We were in our late teens. We went to PJ Clarks and saw Gabby Hayes at another table. The girls, yes, they were still girls in those olden days, squealed and wanted his autograph. As soon as they went to the ladies room (though in PJ's calling it a Ladies Room was quite a stretch) I scrawled Gabby Hayes's autograph across a menu.-- "To Patti and Judy with all my pistol packin' heart, Gabby Hayes."
When they saw it they got up and hugged him, thanking him for the autograph. He was so drunk he thought he actually did sign it and wanted them to come home with him.
Friday, January 30, 2004
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.
.
.
Steven Wright Jan 30, 2004 Ft Lauderdale
I have three brothers and a sister. But my sister has four brothers. She must not be a part of our family.
I am writing my Unauthorized Autobiography.
My neighbor is so fancy she wears pierced hearing aids.
I am looking for a decaffeinated coffee table.
The court clerk asked me if I would tell the truth and the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I replied that., yes I would, and that he was as ugly a man I had ever seen and that I would like to have a go at the girl in the first row of the jury box.
>
.
.
.
Steven Wright Jan 30, 2004 Ft Lauderdale
I have three brothers and a sister. But my sister has four brothers. She must not be a part of our family.
I am writing my Unauthorized Autobiography.
My neighbor is so fancy she wears pierced hearing aids.
I am looking for a decaffeinated coffee table.
The court clerk asked me if I would tell the truth and the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I replied that., yes I would, and that he was as ugly a man I had ever seen and that I would like to have a go at the girl in the first row of the jury box.
>
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
This is what has been worrying me lately: these kind of mistakes; mis-readings, tripping, failing to observe, clipping curbstones when making right hand turns, forgetting words, forgetting movies that I saw already, dropping forks, reading without comprehension, knotting my tie incorrectly, losing my way, finding directions impossible to follow, finding maps indecipherable, wearing mismatched clothing.
Actually I am not worried, just reporting: worrying was the wrong word (which is another indicator) here's some more: not changing my socks, forgetting to flush the toilet, looking at good looking women and forgetting why, buying unneeded things, putting empty coffee cups in the refrigerator, putting banana peals in the refrigerator, not being able to spell the peal in banana, not remembering that I already had sex with my wife and having sex two or three times in one morning, thus missing my tango class.
Actually I am not worried, just reporting: worrying was the wrong word (which is another indicator) here's some more: not changing my socks, forgetting to flush the toilet, looking at good looking women and forgetting why, buying unneeded things, putting empty coffee cups in the refrigerator, putting banana peals in the refrigerator, not being able to spell the peal in banana, not remembering that I already had sex with my wife and having sex two or three times in one morning, thus missing my tango class.
Ballet Revised Wed Jan 28th
On January 7, at 9:05 PM, in Boston, Massachusetts, Norvora Dumatora, principle ballerina of the North Church Dance Company leaped into the air in a _________ and kept on going up and higher until she was out of sight of the stunned audience.
At the same time, to the very second, in Berlin, dressed in a white tutu and wearing a new pair of slippers, Gretchen Bamberger twirled herself in a _________ and began to spin so fast that the audience lost sight of her body, seeing only what appeared to be a swirling column of white dust, which blurred and suddenly disappeared from the stage.
Members of the audiences rose from their seats, and many charged the stage, looking up into the ______of the stage. A few climbed the ladders that led to the lighting. One resourceful chap in Berlin found an entranceway to the roof and searched for a hole or other evidence of a hurried departure from the theater building. There was none.
Insurance companies on both sides of the Atlantic refused to pay claims from the ballet companies for “disappearance” of ballerinas.
Except for supermarket tabloids the story was barely covered by major newspapers, in fact, the dance critic of the Berliner ______ was suspended for a month on the grounds that he must have had too much schnapps or was suffering a nervous breakdown. The testimony of a thousand or more witnesses was ignored.
Church leaders demanded to know which ballets had been produced, and not being familiar with the medium, made judgments based only on the names of the ballets involved. The Very Reverend Belington Everton Washington brought a fifty-person choir to Berlin to “sing” Ms. Bamberger back. +++to sing for the return of Ms. Bamberger. Parisian designers vied with Karl Lagerfeld for the right to design and sew the choir’s robes.
Medical men inquired as to the drugs and steroids or the perfumes and body lotions that the ballerinas may have been using. A weight loss lotion called Vanish was implicated and then exonerated – after sales multiplied by a hundred times.
In Boston a disorderly coven of lawyers was dripping over the stage trying to get a piece of the case—but no one knew what the grounds for a suit might be. One lawyer dressed in a three thousand dollar Armani suit had to be restrained when he began to incant at maximum lungpower, “We will prevail.”
The box offices of both companies had to hire extra help to contend with the demand for tickets that followed the news of the amazing incidents. In fact, all over the world ballet companies saw increases in subscriptions and ticket demand.
Ballerinas found themselves divided into two groups. The first, more adventurous, group wanted to know exactly which steps led to the disappearances and began to practice the steps for hours on end every day. It was thought that they might be unsatisfied with the current course of their lives and so sought disappearance as a solution. The second group, prudent, or perhaps fearful wanted to know the steps so that they could avoid them.
In general, mothers all over the world withdrew their daughters from ballet schools, though a few persisted in the lessons with unknown, undefined goals.
A few un-summoned news people appeared on the doorstep of Miss Dumatora’s inamorata demanding interviews. Her tearful companion had no explanation for the event and begged the journalists to leave—which, of course, they did not.
The Boston Chamber of Commerce simultaneously issued denials of what was
On January 7, at 9:05 PM, in Boston, Massachusetts, Norvora Dumatora, principle ballerina of the North Church Dance Company leaped into the air in a _________ and kept on going up and higher until she was out of sight of the stunned audience.
At the same time, to the very second, in Berlin, dressed in a white tutu and wearing a new pair of slippers, Gretchen Bamberger twirled herself in a _________ and began to spin so fast that the audience lost sight of her body, seeing only what appeared to be a swirling column of white dust, which blurred and suddenly disappeared from the stage.
Members of the audiences rose from their seats, and many charged the stage, looking up into the ______of the stage. A few climbed the ladders that led to the lighting. One resourceful chap in Berlin found an entranceway to the roof and searched for a hole or other evidence of a hurried departure from the theater building. There was none.
Insurance companies on both sides of the Atlantic refused to pay claims from the ballet companies for “disappearance” of ballerinas.
Except for supermarket tabloids the story was barely covered by major newspapers, in fact, the dance critic of the Berliner ______ was suspended for a month on the grounds that he must have had too much schnapps or was suffering a nervous breakdown. The testimony of a thousand or more witnesses was ignored.
Church leaders demanded to know which ballets had been produced, and not being familiar with the medium, made judgments based only on the names of the ballets involved. The Very Reverend Belington Everton Washington brought a fifty-person choir to Berlin to “sing” Ms. Bamberger back. +++to sing for the return of Ms. Bamberger. Parisian designers vied with Karl Lagerfeld for the right to design and sew the choir’s robes.
Medical men inquired as to the drugs and steroids or the perfumes and body lotions that the ballerinas may have been using. A weight loss lotion called Vanish was implicated and then exonerated – after sales multiplied by a hundred times.
In Boston a disorderly coven of lawyers was dripping over the stage trying to get a piece of the case—but no one knew what the grounds for a suit might be. One lawyer dressed in a three thousand dollar Armani suit had to be restrained when he began to incant at maximum lungpower, “We will prevail.”
The box offices of both companies had to hire extra help to contend with the demand for tickets that followed the news of the amazing incidents. In fact, all over the world ballet companies saw increases in subscriptions and ticket demand.
Ballerinas found themselves divided into two groups. The first, more adventurous, group wanted to know exactly which steps led to the disappearances and began to practice the steps for hours on end every day. It was thought that they might be unsatisfied with the current course of their lives and so sought disappearance as a solution. The second group, prudent, or perhaps fearful wanted to know the steps so that they could avoid them.
In general, mothers all over the world withdrew their daughters from ballet schools, though a few persisted in the lessons with unknown, undefined goals.
A few un-summoned news people appeared on the doorstep of Miss Dumatora’s inamorata demanding interviews. Her tearful companion had no explanation for the event and begged the journalists to leave—which, of course, they did not.
The Boston Chamber of Commerce simultaneously issued denials of what was
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