BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Good Riddance Annus Horribilis But,
Last night during Martini Time on the Terrace, the sun had come from behind some heavy, dark clouds in the West and there was a thin cloud cover overhead. the light faded almost to black at about six. Suddenly, startingly, from sand's edge to horizon, the sea became the color of violets dotted by tiny white caps. A very short, very rare, unnatural silence unmarred by the least sound made a few choice moments perfect.
mek
Saturday, December 31, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Wm Vollman writes of a man who receives a letter from his lover, in which she begs him to return to him safely because she loves him, loves him passionately. He treasures the letter and rereads almost daily. But as time passes the letter loses its potency. "One night the letter was used up. Instead of tacit it seemed lukewarm. "
We are unknowable. We are nothing.
Later Vollman writes:
"Meager results: that's life. Not to be deterred by meager results: that's a kind of nobility."
Wm Vollman writes of a man who receives a letter from his lover, in which she begs him to return to him safely because she loves him, loves him passionately. He treasures the letter and rereads almost daily. But as time passes the letter loses its potency. "One night the letter was used up. Instead of tacit it seemed lukewarm. "
We are unknowable. We are nothing.
Later Vollman writes:
"Meager results: that's life. Not to be deterred by meager results: that's a kind of nobility."
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Gloria called to let me know that Brownie died about three weeks ago. I had no contact with him at all since I sold the business.
Basil wrote back:
Dear Mike:
That is sad to hear Mike. He was a unique. Thomas Mann would have called him a Delectable Mountain.
Dear Bas:
Well, Basil, you're right. But he was such a pain to deal with--he wanted so much of my attention, he constantly complained about the other workers, he tried to be such a goody two shoes--and really wasn't, he wasted so much of my time, took so much of my energy; his fingernails were always too long and dirty. He often left shaving cream around his earlobes. He was a manic-depressive and sometimes I worried that I would find that he had hanged himself in the cellar from the hot water pipes; he sometimes used the two-way mirror to ogle young girls.....it was hard for me to appreciate his uniqueness...but as my dear Mother constantly reminded me, de mortuis nil nisi bonum and so--
He had an amazing memory; he could remember the costs and selling prices of every item in the business. Not only that but also he could remember which wholesaler was cheaper on each item and further than that he could also remember what it cost last year and what we sold it for. This was especially important when gifts were a major part of our business.
He could recite all the parts of speech, including the most esoteric, some of which run of the mill grammar teachers had never heard. He could also recite all the states in alphabetical order, and then repeat it in reverse alphabetical order pronouncing the name of each state backward.
If asked he would drive people home in the worst of driving weather, and would offer to do so without being asked.
His mother had run a candy-news stand on the corner of Moore Street. They kept their stock in our cellar. (By the way, that cellar held the ovens in which Levy's Rye Bread was first baked)
Brownie was a big, strong boy who toted cases of soda up and down the stairs for his mother to whom he was overly attached. It was she who sold the Charlotte Russes that were kept in a glass box with two shelves, precariously balanced on top of a huge tub filled with ice and soda bottles. Of course, my father would never let my sister or me taste one. In his eyes their sterility was suspect.
At first, my father used Brownie to drive into NYC to pick up and deliver cosmetics that we were diverting to or trading.* Somehow, Brownie insinuated himself into a more formalized employment by my father--that was long before I was even a teen-ager
During the Korean War while on leave after Basic Training he stabbed his girlfriend, which made the front page of the New York Mirror. My father's friend Bill Kleinman (Leo Freedman's close friend too) defended him and he received a suspended sentence. **
In retrospect, I think, that after himself, and maybe even before himself, he was truly dedicated to my business.
I know that there was nothing Brownie wouldn't have done for me, had I asked him. I just couldn't stand to get close enough to him to ask.
mek
* It was Brownie who brought Willie the Red onto the scene--another sui generis if there ever was one. Willie hung out on the street corner, and when Brownie needed someone to sit in the car when he went into Manhattan on a delivery he could always find Willie. But more about Willie another time.
**Colonel Bill Kleinman had been, before the War, the Assistant District Attorney who prosecuted an acquantaince of Dad's who was Sid Luckman’s father, a gambler, for a murder which occurred at a craps game in the back of a garage on the corner of Moore and Bogart Streets. Mysteriously, the open and shut case against Luckman went down the drain when several witnesses took long vacations in Miami.
Several years later, Jack Nelson ran Lady Beth Ice Cream out of the garage, presumably after swabbing the blood from the floor.
mek
Gloria called to let me know that Brownie died about three weeks ago. I had no contact with him at all since I sold the business.
Basil wrote back:
Dear Mike:
That is sad to hear Mike. He was a unique. Thomas Mann would have called him a Delectable Mountain.
Dear Bas:
Well, Basil, you're right. But he was such a pain to deal with--he wanted so much of my attention, he constantly complained about the other workers, he tried to be such a goody two shoes--and really wasn't, he wasted so much of my time, took so much of my energy; his fingernails were always too long and dirty. He often left shaving cream around his earlobes. He was a manic-depressive and sometimes I worried that I would find that he had hanged himself in the cellar from the hot water pipes; he sometimes used the two-way mirror to ogle young girls.....it was hard for me to appreciate his uniqueness...but as my dear Mother constantly reminded me, de mortuis nil nisi bonum and so--
He had an amazing memory; he could remember the costs and selling prices of every item in the business. Not only that but also he could remember which wholesaler was cheaper on each item and further than that he could also remember what it cost last year and what we sold it for. This was especially important when gifts were a major part of our business.
He could recite all the parts of speech, including the most esoteric, some of which run of the mill grammar teachers had never heard. He could also recite all the states in alphabetical order, and then repeat it in reverse alphabetical order pronouncing the name of each state backward.
If asked he would drive people home in the worst of driving weather, and would offer to do so without being asked.
His mother had run a candy-news stand on the corner of Moore Street. They kept their stock in our cellar. (By the way, that cellar held the ovens in which Levy's Rye Bread was first baked)
Brownie was a big, strong boy who toted cases of soda up and down the stairs for his mother to whom he was overly attached. It was she who sold the Charlotte Russes that were kept in a glass box with two shelves, precariously balanced on top of a huge tub filled with ice and soda bottles. Of course, my father would never let my sister or me taste one. In his eyes their sterility was suspect.
At first, my father used Brownie to drive into NYC to pick up and deliver cosmetics that we were diverting to or trading.* Somehow, Brownie insinuated himself into a more formalized employment by my father--that was long before I was even a teen-ager
During the Korean War while on leave after Basic Training he stabbed his girlfriend, which made the front page of the New York Mirror. My father's friend Bill Kleinman (Leo Freedman's close friend too) defended him and he received a suspended sentence. **
In retrospect, I think, that after himself, and maybe even before himself, he was truly dedicated to my business.
I know that there was nothing Brownie wouldn't have done for me, had I asked him. I just couldn't stand to get close enough to him to ask.
mek
* It was Brownie who brought Willie the Red onto the scene--another sui generis if there ever was one. Willie hung out on the street corner, and when Brownie needed someone to sit in the car when he went into Manhattan on a delivery he could always find Willie. But more about Willie another time.
**Colonel Bill Kleinman had been, before the War, the Assistant District Attorney who prosecuted an acquantaince of Dad's who was Sid Luckman’s father, a gambler, for a murder which occurred at a craps game in the back of a garage on the corner of Moore and Bogart Streets. Mysteriously, the open and shut case against Luckman went down the drain when several witnesses took long vacations in Miami.
Several years later, Jack Nelson ran Lady Beth Ice Cream out of the garage, presumably after swabbing the blood from the floor.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Kaput"
Curzio Malaparte
St Eve:
I am working my way into "Kaput."
You and the blurb writers describe it as a hellish description of the Eastern Front, and the depravity of man.
Although I am not far in, perhaps 60 pages, I am reading a master of description. Sights, smells, the deep Finnish forest, the endless lake, night and dawn--a master. There has been only a hint of what is to come, and because of my recognition of Malaparte's extraordinary power I am afraid.
Why is it that I shrink from artistic renderings of horrors, as in film or books, but at the same time I feel that in reality I would have little difficulty in living through them?
I know I have asked this question before; but why is that I might cry at a sentimental commercial but not at the side of an accident victim or a homeless woman?
mek
"Kaput"
Curzio Malaparte
St Eve:
I am working my way into "Kaput."
You and the blurb writers describe it as a hellish description of the Eastern Front, and the depravity of man.
Although I am not far in, perhaps 60 pages, I am reading a master of description. Sights, smells, the deep Finnish forest, the endless lake, night and dawn--a master. There has been only a hint of what is to come, and because of my recognition of Malaparte's extraordinary power I am afraid.
Why is it that I shrink from artistic renderings of horrors, as in film or books, but at the same time I feel that in reality I would have little difficulty in living through them?
I know I have asked this question before; but why is that I might cry at a sentimental commercial but not at the side of an accident victim or a homeless woman?
mek
Monday, December 19, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
As you have not seen the windows in my apartment I shall have to describe them. I hope that I can describe them in such a way that you can understand how they look.
The windows cover most of the outside walls, east and south. But they are not one piece. They are normal sized windows so that a room might have seven windows facing east or four windows facing south, etc.
It is very hard for a boy like me who is no longer used to yoga type stretches to open the bottom half of the window and reach up to clean the upper half.
And -- when the top half must be cleaned and the bottom is pushed up, the bottom glazing blocks the top. It's an impossible job, I thought.
Maria hired a window cleaning company. I thought that they would strap on belts and work from the outside. But no--
they go at each window from the window next to it!
Striking the center of my forehead with the palm of my hand.
As you have not seen the windows in my apartment I shall have to describe them. I hope that I can describe them in such a way that you can understand how they look.
The windows cover most of the outside walls, east and south. But they are not one piece. They are normal sized windows so that a room might have seven windows facing east or four windows facing south, etc.
It is very hard for a boy like me who is no longer used to yoga type stretches to open the bottom half of the window and reach up to clean the upper half.
And -- when the top half must be cleaned and the bottom is pushed up, the bottom glazing blocks the top. It's an impossible job, I thought.
Maria hired a window cleaning company. I thought that they would strap on belts and work from the outside. But no--
they go at each window from the window next to it!
Striking the center of my forehead with the palm of my hand.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"...when he unzipped his head the sign in the mirror said "prisoner."
Rhonda H. Nelson
"...when he unzipped his head the sign in the mirror said "prisoner."
Rhonda H. Nelson
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Nov 2005, series of emails re Toots Shor…
Dear Mike:
I am trying to fact check the dates Toots Shor's was open for an article I am writing and wonder if you know whether it was still active in the 1960s. Thanks so much! Dina Kaplan
----------------------------------------------------------
sorry, Dina. Toot's went down for a few years.
But then a group of restuarant investors used him to front for a new Toots Shor place near Madison Square Garden. I don't have the dates in my mind.
When you finish the article send it to me, if you can. I'm interested.
Dina
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Dina:
The Lion's Head real time was way back in the late forties and fifties when e. e. cummings, Dylan Thomas and Brendan Behan reigned along with the literate crowd of the day. The sixties may have been the time that young Pete Hamill and company grew out of short pants and into the place but I think that its reputation had already been made.
In 1955 or 56 my English teacher at Horace Mann took a few of us down to the Lion's Head to meet Brendan Behan who refused to talk until each of us, underaged gigglers that we were, drank a half-pint of Stout. Mr. Baruth, a giant among English teachers, was non plussed and stood on a chair so as to declaim from the Plow and the Stars.
For the most part there was little intercourse between the denizens of the Lions Head and Toots Shor --- except maybe, now that I think of it, Hamill and Norman Mailer, perhaps Jimmy Cannon. But I was just a lucky peanut shell on the floor.
Moochies was beyond my ken.
Mike
Nov 2005, series of emails re Toots Shor…
Dear Mike:
I am trying to fact check the dates Toots Shor's was open for an article I am writing and wonder if you know whether it was still active in the 1960s. Thanks so much! Dina Kaplan
----------------------------------------------------------
sorry, Dina. Toot's went down for a few years.
But then a group of restuarant investors used him to front for a new Toots Shor place near Madison Square Garden. I don't have the dates in my mind.
When you finish the article send it to me, if you can. I'm interested.
Mike
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Mike
Dina
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Dina:
The Lion's Head real time was way back in the late forties and fifties when e. e. cummings, Dylan Thomas and Brendan Behan reigned along with the literate crowd of the day. The sixties may have been the time that young Pete Hamill and company grew out of short pants and into the place but I think that its reputation had already been made.
In 1955 or 56 my English teacher at Horace Mann took a few of us down to the Lion's Head to meet Brendan Behan who refused to talk until each of us, underaged gigglers that we were, drank a half-pint of Stout. Mr. Baruth, a giant among English teachers, was non plussed and stood on a chair so as to declaim from the Plow and the Stars.
For the most part there was little intercourse between the denizens of the Lions Head and Toots Shor --- except maybe, now that I think of it, Hamill and Norman Mailer, perhaps Jimmy Cannon. But I was just a lucky peanut shell on the floor.
Moochies was beyond my ken.
Mike
Monday, November 14, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The Horace Mann class of 1956 was composed of 106 mostly Jewish boys. Thirty-six were admitted to Harvard, Princeton and Yale. Twenty went to Columbia. A sizable contingent went to Williams, Amherst and Wesleyan. Five went to Cornell. One brave soul found his way West to Stamford. A few went to MIT. The remainder went to colleges of lessor distinction. Buster Stronghart, your faithful correspondent, was 105th in this class of 106 and was sent up the river, away, to Ohio Wesleyan.
Many of us became doctors and lawyers. Several became college professors. A few went into their parent's businesses. Two of us may have worked for the CIA. One may still. We have no accountants. We have several self-made millionaires and several more who are caretakers of inherited wealth. We have a few who are dead busted.
One of my classmates, the one who was graduated 106, has written a textbook about neurology and still teaches out West. He also holds patents for some surgical instruments which I cannot explain to you. One boy, from Finland, is the equivalent of Surgeon General of Saudi Arabia. The highest number of wives is four and that honor belongs to a lawyer. A few have made their living in magazine and book publishing. Another, a left leaning student at HM and Harvard became CEO of a Fortune 200 corporation and is one of those responsible for the development of genetically modified foods.
Did I say that we had a few suicides and several deaths by accident besides the first two who died the summer of graduation in a convertible in Arizona? Yes, two of the best of us were killed in an auto accident the summer that we were graduated.
Most of us have had more than one wife. The highest number of wives is four, and that honor belongs to a lawyer. As far as I know, and my information is incomplete, few of us have been totally faithful.
Not too many joined the armed forces after college. One who did was killed in action. I guess that the part of the class that did serve joined the reserves--but my information is incomplete here too.
.
Today's classes do not do as well in college admissions, and the percentage who become doctors and lawyers is much smaller. Today the most popular careers seem to be in the entertainment, business and financial areas.
HMhas the highest percentage of full scholarships in the New York prep schools. This year's tuition at the high school level is more than twenty-five thousand dollars. Kindergarten through third grade is twenty-thousand. When I went to HM from 1951 through 1956 the tuition was $900. We had a dormitory. That was another $900.
The dormitory was about two miles from the school. Everyone was required to walk with all books in all weather. Except my friend, J. who was often seen getting a lift in an old Ford. Innocent that we were then, we now surmisethat he may have been having a special, peculiar relationship with Mr. X, a teacher of ancient Greek and owner of that old Ford.
The rest of us trudged bravely along, through snow and sleet, practicing to become mailmen in case nothing else worked out.
The school now accepts girls and no longer has a dress code. Chapeland Tuesday Morning Sings have been eliminated. Many of our parents were assimilated or assimilating Jewish couples,and during the 1950's it was said that our parents eagerly acquiesced to a subtext of the mission of Horace Mann which was to oversee what we cameto understand was the bizarre transmogrification* of us Little Jewish Boys into tweed jacket wearing WASPs.
*Apologies to Professor Baruth who would not have approved of my use of a two dollar word when a fifty cent word would have sufficed. But I couldn't resist.
HM has the highest percentage of full scholarships in the New York prep school world. This year's tuition at the high school level is more than twenty-five thousand dollars. Kindergarten through third grade is twenty-thousand. When I went to HM from 1951 through 1956 the tuition was $900. We had a dormitory. That was another $900.
The dormitory was about two miles from the school. Everyone walked with all books in all weather. Except my friend, J. who was often seen getting a lift in an old Ford. Innocent that we were then, we now surmise that he may have been having a special, peculiar relationship with Mr. X, a teacher of ancient Greek and owner of that old Ford. The rest of us trudged bravely along, through snow and sleet, practicing to become mailmen in case nothing else worked out.
The school now accepts girls and no longer has a dress code. Chapel and Tuesday Morning Sings have been eliminated.
Many of our parents were assimilated or assimilating Jewish couples, and during the 1950's it was said that our parents eagerly acquiesced to a subtext of the mission of Horace Mann which was to oversee what we came to understand was the bizarre transmogrification* of us Little Jewish Boys into tweed jacket wearing WASPs.
mek
*Apologies to Professor Baruth who would not have approved of my use of a two dollar word when a fifty cent word would have worked. But I couldn't resist.
The Horace Mann class of 1956 was composed of 106 mostly Jewish boys. Thirty-six were admitted to Harvard, Princeton and Yale. Twenty went to Columbia. A sizable contingent went to Williams, Amherst and Wesleyan. Five went to Cornell. One brave soul found his way West to Stamford. A few went to MIT. The remainder went to colleges of lessor distinction. Buster Stronghart, your faithful correspondent, was 105th in this class of 106 and was sent up the river, away, to Ohio Wesleyan.
Many of us became doctors and lawyers. Several became college professors. A few went into their parent's businesses. Two of us may have worked for the CIA. One may still. We have no accountants. We have several self-made millionaires and several more who are caretakers of inherited wealth. We have a few who are dead busted.
One of my classmates, the one who was graduated 106, has written a textbook about neurology and still teaches out West. He also holds patents for some surgical instruments which I cannot explain to you. One boy, from Finland, is the equivalent of Surgeon General of Saudi Arabia. The highest number of wives is four and that honor belongs to a lawyer. A few have made their living in magazine and book publishing. Another, a left leaning student at HM and Harvard became CEO of a Fortune 200 corporation and is one of those responsible for the development of genetically modified foods.
Did I say that we had a few suicides and several deaths by accident besides the first two who died the summer of graduation in a convertible in Arizona? Yes, two of the best of us were killed in an auto accident the summer that we were graduated.
Most of us have had more than one wife. The highest number of wives is four, and that honor belongs to a lawyer. As far as I know, and my information is incomplete, few of us have been totally faithful.
Not too many joined the armed forces after college. One who did was killed in action. I guess that the part of the class that did serve joined the reserves--but my information is incomplete here too.
.
Today's classes do not do as well in college admissions, and the percentage who become doctors and lawyers is much smaller. Today the most popular careers seem to be in the entertainment, business and financial areas.
HMhas the highest percentage of full scholarships in the New York prep schools. This year's tuition at the high school level is more than twenty-five thousand dollars. Kindergarten through third grade is twenty-thousand. When I went to HM from 1951 through 1956 the tuition was $900. We had a dormitory. That was another $900.
The dormitory was about two miles from the school. Everyone was required to walk with all books in all weather. Except my friend, J. who was often seen getting a lift in an old Ford. Innocent that we were then, we now surmisethat he may have been having a special, peculiar relationship with Mr. X, a teacher of ancient Greek and owner of that old Ford.
The rest of us trudged bravely along, through snow and sleet, practicing to become mailmen in case nothing else worked out.
The school now accepts girls and no longer has a dress code. Chapeland Tuesday Morning Sings have been eliminated. Many of our parents were assimilated or assimilating Jewish couples,and during the 1950's it was said that our parents eagerly acquiesced to a subtext of the mission of Horace Mann which was to oversee what we cameto understand was the bizarre transmogrification* of us Little Jewish Boys into tweed jacket wearing WASPs.
*Apologies to Professor Baruth who would not have approved of my use of a two dollar word when a fifty cent word would have sufficed. But I couldn't resist.
HM has the highest percentage of full scholarships in the New York prep school world. This year's tuition at the high school level is more than twenty-five thousand dollars. Kindergarten through third grade is twenty-thousand. When I went to HM from 1951 through 1956 the tuition was $900. We had a dormitory. That was another $900.
The dormitory was about two miles from the school. Everyone walked with all books in all weather. Except my friend, J. who was often seen getting a lift in an old Ford. Innocent that we were then, we now surmise that he may have been having a special, peculiar relationship with Mr. X, a teacher of ancient Greek and owner of that old Ford. The rest of us trudged bravely along, through snow and sleet, practicing to become mailmen in case nothing else worked out.
The school now accepts girls and no longer has a dress code. Chapel and Tuesday Morning Sings have been eliminated.
Many of our parents were assimilated or assimilating Jewish couples, and during the 1950's it was said that our parents eagerly acquiesced to a subtext of the mission of Horace Mann which was to oversee what we came to understand was the bizarre transmogrification* of us Little Jewish Boys into tweed jacket wearing WASPs.
mek
*Apologies to Professor Baruth who would not have approved of my use of a two dollar word when a fifty cent word would have worked. But I couldn't resist.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The phone has rung too many times this morning
No one’s been on the line though.
The de-humidifier the construction men left is way too loud.
They'll remove it tonight.
My porridge is just right.
The phone has rung too many times this morning
No one’s been on the line though.
The de-humidifier the construction men left is way too loud.
They'll remove it tonight.
My porridge is just right.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
My wife, my woman, that is, found a new haircutter,
He gave her bangs, and she looks so much
Younger. But I like women of my own age.
I leave the younger ones for cruder men.
We have more than four decades
Of memories, and two boys too, and a granddaughter
Who has diabetes and a wonderful smile.
She is very brave.
More than me, I think.
And, too, I think she’s smart.
We live in a big building
With no interesting neighbors. I’d
Like to pick their brains, but
there’s nothing to pick.
Am I too late for them? Have
They already been picked over? Or
Have they always been non-bearing?
mek November 14, 2005
My wife, my woman, that is, found a new haircutter,
He gave her bangs, and she looks so much
Younger. But I like women of my own age.
I leave the younger ones for cruder men.
We have more than four decades
Of memories, and two boys too, and a granddaughter
Who has diabetes and a wonderful smile.
She is very brave.
More than me, I think.
And, too, I think she’s smart.
We live in a big building
With no interesting neighbors. I’d
Like to pick their brains, but
there’s nothing to pick.
Am I too late for them? Have
They already been picked over? Or
Have they always been non-bearing?
mek November 14, 2005
Saturday, November 05, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
'I don't just write people off and move on with my life. There is much pain, because no matter what it is that they've done, everyone brings something to the table. And it was those things that made them worth sitting down with. When you walk away from the table, you're also walking away from those good things as well."
From" Desiree's Blog: Only in Theory
'I don't just write people off and move on with my life. There is much pain, because no matter what it is that they've done, everyone brings something to the table. And it was those things that made them worth sitting down with. When you walk away from the table, you're also walking away from those good things as well."
From" Desiree's Blog: Only in Theory
Sunday, October 30, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
superfluous.....Every superfluous man wants to keep on living. And all men are superfluous.
superfluous.....Every superfluous man wants to keep on living. And all men are superfluous.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
SPECIAL EXTRA REPORT FROM FT. LAUDERDALE:
This morning I walked the entire building using the fire stairs, and I discovered that amazingly the entire thirteenth floor was apparently forced out of the building by the Divine Power of the Hurricane. (at least in the South Tower, which was the one that I toured).
I live on the twelfth floor and walked up to the twenty-fifth, penthouse floor, walking most of the corridors, inspecting the damage.
On my way back down I noticed that the number of each floor was painted onto the doors that lead from the fire stairs to the interior corridors.
As I came down the stairs I noted each floor number clearly painted onto the appropriate doors, but when I was on the fourteenth floor and continued down there was no thirteenth floor! One door said "14" and the next said "12."
What had happened to "13?"
I went back up to make sure that I had not missed it. I cannot tell you how carefully I checked. Believe me, I was careful. The thirteenth floor is missing. No doubt about it.
It's gone.
M
SPECIAL EXTRA REPORT FROM FT. LAUDERDALE:
This morning I walked the entire building using the fire stairs, and I discovered that amazingly the entire thirteenth floor was apparently forced out of the building by the Divine Power of the Hurricane. (at least in the South Tower, which was the one that I toured).
I live on the twelfth floor and walked up to the twenty-fifth, penthouse floor, walking most of the corridors, inspecting the damage.
On my way back down I noticed that the number of each floor was painted onto the doors that lead from the fire stairs to the interior corridors.
As I came down the stairs I noted each floor number clearly painted onto the appropriate doors, but when I was on the fourteenth floor and continued down there was no thirteenth floor! One door said "14" and the next said "12."
What had happened to "13?"
I went back up to make sure that I had not missed it. I cannot tell you how carefully I checked. Believe me, I was careful. The thirteenth floor is missing. No doubt about it.
It's gone.
M
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Gross to me:
WE ARE STANDING BY FOR NEWS FROM YOU. gross
From me to Gross et al:
Okay, I replayed my initial report for each of you, though I can't imagine having forgotten to send it, but who knows? And if it is desired I hereby submit a follow-up.
My building was hit much harder than I originally thought. Our lobby, which is a separate structure about 150 feet long that joins the bases of the North Tower and the South Tower, was blown apart by what may have been a mini-tornado*.
In my last report I described the automobile which was tossed over a ten foot wall onto our tennis courts. Now, in the building a few amateur meteorologists (this is Florida, meteorology is very much "in" ) theorize that there may have been three separate tornadoes which swirled around our buildings perhaps trapped by the towers themselves which may have multiplied the forces of the wind. The apartments which face the court between the buildings suffered a lot of damage, most likely from the debris which was thrown about by the tornadoes or hurricane, whichever it may have been.
I have made a jerrybuilt repair to our broken window using a roll of duct tape and some heavy plastic trash bags which I had on hand ever since we moved from Great Neck, several years ago. It looks as though it will withstand a rainstorm or two, though, Homeland Security notwithstanding, I am not sure that it would withstand a chemical or gas attack.
Out of nowhere a firm called J. B. Hunt Disaster Restoration appeared on the property, and has begun to clean up the debris. Apparently they had cleaned up the buildings when we had a serious fire-explosion related to our sauna about ten years ago. Someone in our Management must have remembered them and they arrived with a few huge trucks, several smaller trucks which contained all kinds of tools for plumbing, electrical and other repairs, generators, a crew of uniformed experienced men (and one woman) who got right to it.
The pool has already been cleaned out, the lobby debris hasbeen removed (leaving only a marble floor and a rickety, holed roof which I imagine must come down), a truckload of sand has been removed from the garages, fallen trees sawed up and removed, the remaining landscaping, has been re-planted and the lawns raked, and temporary plywood barriers nhave been installed in each broken window or door. (one hundred sixteen windows and twenty-two doors leading to terraces.) In this building there were also apartment doors leading to the corridors which "exploded?" or burst open due to the wind or air pressure. I have seen two which were actually broken in half and one which broke away from hinges. Many of the walls in the interior corridors were burst along the seams between the 3/4" dry-wall.
As far as I know here were no injuries in either of the buildings. Our employees were completely overwhelmed by the extent of the work, and had Hunt not come in, I think that our Maintenance Manager and Chief of Security might have had breakdowns.
As far as I know here were no injuries in either of the buildings. Our employees were completely overwhelmed by the extent of the work, and had Hunt not come in, I think that our Maintenance Manager and Chief of Security might have had breakdowns.
M
*Beef Tornadoes. Twin 5 oz. Filet Mignon, Served on a bed of mashed potatoes,Topped with béarnaise sauce and Portobello mushroom sauce.
From Gross to me:
WE ARE STANDING BY FOR NEWS FROM YOU. gross
From me to Gross et al:
Okay, I replayed my initial report for each of you, though I can't imagine having forgotten to send it, but who knows? And if it is desired I hereby submit a follow-up.
My building was hit much harder than I originally thought. Our lobby, which is a separate structure about 150 feet long that joins the bases of the North Tower and the South Tower, was blown apart by what may have been a mini-tornado*.
In my last report I described the automobile which was tossed over a ten foot wall onto our tennis courts. Now, in the building a few amateur meteorologists (this is Florida, meteorology is very much "in" ) theorize that there may have been three separate tornadoes which swirled around our buildings perhaps trapped by the towers themselves which may have multiplied the forces of the wind. The apartments which face the court between the buildings suffered a lot of damage, most likely from the debris which was thrown about by the tornadoes or hurricane, whichever it may have been.
I have made a jerrybuilt repair to our broken window using a roll of duct tape and some heavy plastic trash bags which I had on hand ever since we moved from Great Neck, several years ago. It looks as though it will withstand a rainstorm or two, though, Homeland Security notwithstanding, I am not sure that it would withstand a chemical or gas attack.
Out of nowhere a firm called J. B. Hunt Disaster Restoration appeared on the property, and has begun to clean up the debris. Apparently they had cleaned up the buildings when we had a serious fire-explosion related to our sauna about ten years ago. Someone in our Management must have remembered them and they arrived with a few huge trucks, several smaller trucks which contained all kinds of tools for plumbing, electrical and other repairs, generators, a crew of uniformed experienced men (and one woman) who got right to it.
The pool has already been cleaned out, the lobby debris hasbeen removed (leaving only a marble floor and a rickety, holed roof which I imagine must come down), a truckload of sand has been removed from the garages, fallen trees sawed up and removed, the remaining landscaping, has been re-planted and the lawns raked, and temporary plywood barriers nhave been installed in each broken window or door. (one hundred sixteen windows and twenty-two doors leading to terraces.) In this building there were also apartment doors leading to the corridors which "exploded?" or burst open due to the wind or air pressure. I have seen two which were actually broken in half and one which broke away from hinges. Many of the walls in the interior corridors were burst along the seams between the 3/4" dry-wall.
As far as I know here were no injuries in either of the buildings. Our employees were completely overwhelmed by the extent of the work, and had Hunt not come in, I think that our Maintenance Manager and Chief of Security might have had breakdowns.
As far as I know here were no injuries in either of the buildings. Our employees were completely overwhelmed by the extent of the work, and had Hunt not come in, I think that our Maintenance Manager and Chief of Security might have had breakdowns.
M
*Beef Tornadoes. Twin 5 oz. Filet Mignon, Served on a bed of mashed potatoes,Topped with béarnaise sauce and Portobello mushroom sauce.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com Here's my hurricane report:
Here's what happened at my house:
A window facing south on the beach burst, sounding like a cannon ball, an inside wall that bellied out due to the air pressure, breaking a wall sized bathroom mirror and some tiling. --- a bathtub that had been filled to the rim with water for washing and making the toilet flush in which the water roiled as though in a winter storm on the high seas, chandeliers swinging, the building swaying, a nearby parking lot at which a car was tossed over a ten foot wall on to our tennis courts, a row of cars all pushed together to the West end of the lot, many apartments all around us had many windows broken.
Maria praying -- I admit it-- I was having the time of my life. Well, one of the times of my life.
Much water forced under the window sills of hurricane "proof" windows by the air pressure, Doors were impossible to open and walls buckled, due to the air pressure.
Water came into our apartment under the closed window sills, but, luckily due to the many hotels that Maria and I have visited during the last thirty or forty years we had enough towels to sop up the water.
Now, until 7:00 PM tonight (two days? three?) there has been no running water nor electricity, no elevators, no stores open, no gas.
However, boy scout that I am we were prepared and had plenty of batteries, cases of water, and trawlers filled with cans of tuna fish, and full tanks of gas in our cars. The Madam took advantage of the gas and went to Orlando to visit Mickey while I stayed behind waiting for the glazier to replace our window. Electric and water back now. I'll wait until the Madam returns to take a shower.
The two evenings following the hurricane there was not a light lit in Ft. Lauderdale. I saw the real starry sky in all its glory, the glory that God meant it to have, for the first time since camp some 60 years ago.
M.
Here's what happened at my house:
A window facing south on the beach burst, sounding like a cannon ball, an inside wall that bellied out due to the air pressure, breaking a wall sized bathroom mirror and some tiling. --- a bathtub that had been filled to the rim with water for washing and making the toilet flush in which the water roiled as though in a winter storm on the high seas, chandeliers swinging, the building swaying, a nearby parking lot at which a car was tossed over a ten foot wall on to our tennis courts, a row of cars all pushed together to the West end of the lot, many apartments all around us had many windows broken.
Maria praying -- I admit it-- I was having the time of my life. Well, one of the times of my life.
Much water forced under the window sills of hurricane "proof" windows by the air pressure, Doors were impossible to open and walls buckled, due to the air pressure.
Water came into our apartment under the closed window sills, but, luckily due to the many hotels that Maria and I have visited during the last thirty or forty years we had enough towels to sop up the water.
Now, until 7:00 PM tonight (two days? three?) there has been no running water nor electricity, no elevators, no stores open, no gas.
However, boy scout that I am we were prepared and had plenty of batteries, cases of water, and trawlers filled with cans of tuna fish, and full tanks of gas in our cars. The Madam took advantage of the gas and went to Orlando to visit Mickey while I stayed behind waiting for the glazier to replace our window. Electric and water back now. I'll wait until the Madam returns to take a shower.
The two evenings following the hurricane there was not a light lit in Ft. Lauderdale. I saw the real starry sky in all its glory, the glory that God meant it to have, for the first time since camp some 60 years ago.
M.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Thanks! To Lenny Lambert who came through with the judge's name: Samuel Liebowitz, a great trial lawyer who was a Democrat in Brooklyn when he was asked by the Communist Party to defend the Scottsboro Boys.
In over fifteen years of criminal defense work, Liebowitz had represented seventy-eight persons charged with first-degree murder. His remarkable record over that period was seventy-seven acquittals, one hung jury, and no convictions.
He worked without pay for four years. His efforts won him many death threats and the removal of four of the Scottsboro boys from the trial. One of them said, "I love Sam Liebowitz more than my own mother."
Thanks Lenny! mek
Thanks! To Lenny Lambert who came through with the judge's name: Samuel Liebowitz, a great trial lawyer who was a Democrat in Brooklyn when he was asked by the Communist Party to defend the Scottsboro Boys.
In over fifteen years of criminal defense work, Liebowitz had represented seventy-eight persons charged with first-degree murder. His remarkable record over that period was seventy-seven acquittals, one hung jury, and no convictions.
He worked without pay for four years. His efforts won him many death threats and the removal of four of the Scottsboro boys from the trial. One of them said, "I love Sam Liebowitz more than my own mother."
Thanks Lenny! mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I am looking for the name of very tough Judge in Brooklyn, who had been one of the great defense atty's of his day and who MAY have defended the scottsboro boys, or perhaps some other important trial of that day.... two gold stars to the person or people who deliver me his name. It may have been Sam ______________.
thanks,
mike
I am looking for the name of very tough Judge in Brooklyn, who had been one of the great defense atty's of his day and who MAY have defended the scottsboro boys, or perhaps some other important trial of that day.... two gold stars to the person or people who deliver me his name. It may have been Sam ______________.
thanks,
mike
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Sometime in the seventies, ninetween, that is, as we drove down Johnson Avenue, along the border of Maspath and Brooklyn, we passed the Arctic diner, the middle of a section of junkyards and factories, and a large steel wharehouse named____________. We passed the Arctic Diner, and Dad mentioned that in the early 1900's there had been a baseball field there and that the name of the its team was the Artics.
Sometime in the seventies, ninetween, that is, as we drove down Johnson Avenue, along the border of Maspath and Brooklyn, we passed the Arctic diner, the middle of a section of junkyards and factories, and a large steel wharehouse named____________. We passed the Arctic Diner, and Dad mentioned that in the early 1900's there had been a baseball field there and that the name of the its team was the Artics.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
PAKISTAN'S DIRTY LAUNDERINGBy Jeff JacobyThe Boston Globe
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
http://www.boston.com/news/globe/editorial_opinion/oped/articles/2005/10/19/pakistans_dirty_laundering/
"Pakistan on Saturday welcomed an offer of earthquake assistance from Israel," the Associated Press reported on Oct. 15, "but said it would have to be channeled through the United Nations, the Red Cross, or donated to a relief fund."
On the surface, an unremarkable detail amid the devastation in Kashmir. But this is a story worth pausing over. For between the lines, it speaks volumes about the real stakes in the war between the civilized world and radical Islam.
The magnitude 7.6 earthquake that struck on Oct. 8 triggered, in the words of Pakistan's prime minister, "a disaster of unprecedented proportions in Pakistan's history." In one terrible upheaval, it killed tens of thousands of people, trapped or injured thousands more, and left an estimated 2 million homeless.
Pakistan's president, General Pervez Musharraf, went on television with an urgent plea for international help. Among the offers of humanitarian aid that began streaming into Islamabad was one from Israel, which is all too experienced in disaster rescue and relief. When a natural calamity strikes, Israel is often among the first nations to offer help; within 48 hours of the tsunami last December, for example, Israel had airlifted teams of medical and emergency workers, as well as 80 tons of supplies, to the stricken countries.
But as days went by and the Pakistani death toll mounted, there was no reply to Israel's offer of assistance. The Jerusalem Post recalled the 2003 earthquake in Iran, when the Tehran theocracy announced that it would welcome "all kinds of humanitarian aid from all countries and international organizations, with the exception of the Zionist regime." Pakistan, the world's second-most-populous Muslim nation, had never established diplomatic relations with Israel, but, unlike Iran, its attitude was supposed to be changing. In Istanbul on Sept. 1, the Israeli and Pakistani foreign ministers had met publicly for the first time; two weeks later Musharraf had shaken Ariel Sharon's hand at a United Nations reception in New York. Equally dramatic was Musharraf's conciliatory speech to the American Jewish Congress on Sept. 17, the first time a Pakistani ruler had ever addressed an audience of American Jews.
Yet it was not until Oct. 14, six days after Israel had communicated its willingness to help the earthquake victims "in any way possible," that it finally received a formal response. Yes, aid from Israel would be welcome, provided it was laundered through a third party. "We have established the president's relief fund, and everyone is free to contribute to it," a government spokeswoman coolly acknowledged. "If Israel was to contribute -- that's fine, we would accept it." Israel could help save Pakistani lives, in other words, as long as it wasn't too public about doing so. There mustn't be any embarrassing images of planes with Israeli markings offloading relief supplies at Islamabad's airport.
And no one should imagine that Israel's generosity toward a nation that has long been among its harshest critics and in which antisemitism is rampant would have any effect on Islamabad's thinking. According to the Daily Times, a Pakistani newspaper, the spokeswoman insisted that "accepting an indirect donation from Israel did not mean that Pakistan had planned to recognize it" or to alter its stance toward Israel, "which was unchangeable."
Israel will not criticize Pakistan's insulting behavior, preferring to understand it as a reality of Pakistani domestic politics. For Musharraf, a diplomat in the Israeli Foreign Ministry told me, "the number one priority is regime survival" -- and any regime that failed to treat the Jewish state with the appropriate level of contempt would outrage Pakistani public opinion.
But that loathing of Israel and Jews is not just a quirk of Pakistani politics. It is a hallmark of the radical Islamists whose terrorism worldwide has shed so much blood -- and who hold sway over more than 70 percent of Pakistan, according to Tashbih Sayyed, editor of the weekly newspaper Pakistan Today. An outspoken Muslim moderate, Sayyed sees Musharraf's recent overtures toward Israel as a feint -- an insincere tactic intended to impress Washington.
"That is why he has done nothing to challenge the way Jews and Israel are portrayed by the Islamists -- as demons, as an evil force," he argues. Many Pakistanis would welcome a genuine effort from the top to combat the radicals' hatred and lies but are not brave enough to fight them on their own. And so the Islamists go on spreading their lethal ideology.
And that, writ large, is the problem at the core of the war on terrorism. "The Muslim world is plunged into an abyss of darkness, antimodernity, anti-Americanism, and anti-Semitism," Sayyed says. Only a minority of Muslims are personally hateful or fanatic. But a minority can wreak enormous damage when the majority is unwilling to act.
Can you imagine Israel accepting assistance from the Iranians, or the Fatah, or the Palestinians, or the Saudis?
This is just another self-righteous attack on a Muslim nation that proves nothing. What would be wrong with Israel making a cash donation to The Red Cross -- or an anonymous donation to the Red Crescent--if Israel truly wanted to be charitable?
It's too bad that politics prevents acts of good will, but don't think for a moment that Israel wouldn't act the same way.
In fact, don't you remember that Castro offered Cuban Doctors during the Katrina debacle and President Bush turned him down, rather than take the opportunity to begin to establish relations?
It's just a sad political reality. And it proves nothing.
First please read the article: then my comment below:
PAKISTAN'S DIRTY LAUNDERINGBy Jeff JacobyThe Boston Globe
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
http://www.boston.com/news/globe/editorial_opinion/oped/articles/2005/10/19/pakistans_dirty_laundering/
"Pakistan on Saturday welcomed an offer of earthquake assistance from Israel," the Associated Press reported on Oct. 15, "but said it would have to be channeled through the United Nations, the Red Cross, or donated to a relief fund."
On the surface, an unremarkable detail amid the devastation in Kashmir. But this is a story worth pausing over. For between the lines, it speaks volumes about the real stakes in the war between the civilized world and radical Islam.
The magnitude 7.6 earthquake that struck on Oct. 8 triggered, in the words of Pakistan's prime minister, "a disaster of unprecedented proportions in Pakistan's history." In one terrible upheaval, it killed tens of thousands of people, trapped or injured thousands more, and left an estimated 2 million homeless.
Pakistan's president, General Pervez Musharraf, went on television with an urgent plea for international help. Among the offers of humanitarian aid that began streaming into Islamabad was one from Israel, which is all too experienced in disaster rescue and relief. When a natural calamity strikes, Israel is often among the first nations to offer help; within 48 hours of the tsunami last December, for example, Israel had airlifted teams of medical and emergency workers, as well as 80 tons of supplies, to the stricken countries.
But as days went by and the Pakistani death toll mounted, there was no reply to Israel's offer of assistance. The Jerusalem Post recalled the 2003 earthquake in Iran, when the Tehran theocracy announced that it would welcome "all kinds of humanitarian aid from all countries and international organizations, with the exception of the Zionist regime." Pakistan, the world's second-most-populous Muslim nation, had never established diplomatic relations with Israel, but, unlike Iran, its attitude was supposed to be changing. In Istanbul on Sept. 1, the Israeli and Pakistani foreign ministers had met publicly for the first time; two weeks later Musharraf had shaken Ariel Sharon's hand at a United Nations reception in New York. Equally dramatic was Musharraf's conciliatory speech to the American Jewish Congress on Sept. 17, the first time a Pakistani ruler had ever addressed an audience of American Jews.
Yet it was not until Oct. 14, six days after Israel had communicated its willingness to help the earthquake victims "in any way possible," that it finally received a formal response. Yes, aid from Israel would be welcome, provided it was laundered through a third party. "We have established the president's relief fund, and everyone is free to contribute to it," a government spokeswoman coolly acknowledged. "If Israel was to contribute -- that's fine, we would accept it." Israel could help save Pakistani lives, in other words, as long as it wasn't too public about doing so. There mustn't be any embarrassing images of planes with Israeli markings offloading relief supplies at Islamabad's airport.
And no one should imagine that Israel's generosity toward a nation that has long been among its harshest critics and in which antisemitism is rampant would have any effect on Islamabad's thinking. According to the Daily Times, a Pakistani newspaper, the spokeswoman insisted that "accepting an indirect donation from Israel did not mean that Pakistan had planned to recognize it" or to alter its stance toward Israel, "which was unchangeable."
Israel will not criticize Pakistan's insulting behavior, preferring to understand it as a reality of Pakistani domestic politics. For Musharraf, a diplomat in the Israeli Foreign Ministry told me, "the number one priority is regime survival" -- and any regime that failed to treat the Jewish state with the appropriate level of contempt would outrage Pakistani public opinion.
But that loathing of Israel and Jews is not just a quirk of Pakistani politics. It is a hallmark of the radical Islamists whose terrorism worldwide has shed so much blood -- and who hold sway over more than 70 percent of Pakistan, according to Tashbih Sayyed, editor of the weekly newspaper Pakistan Today. An outspoken Muslim moderate, Sayyed sees Musharraf's recent overtures toward Israel as a feint -- an insincere tactic intended to impress Washington.
"That is why he has done nothing to challenge the way Jews and Israel are portrayed by the Islamists -- as demons, as an evil force," he argues. Many Pakistanis would welcome a genuine effort from the top to combat the radicals' hatred and lies but are not brave enough to fight them on their own. And so the Islamists go on spreading their lethal ideology.
And that, writ large, is the problem at the core of the war on terrorism. "The Muslim world is plunged into an abyss of darkness, antimodernity, anti-Americanism, and anti-Semitism," Sayyed says. Only a minority of Muslims are personally hateful or fanatic. But a minority can wreak enormous damage when the majority is unwilling to act.
Buster's Comment
Can you imagine Israel accepting assistance from the Iranians, or the Fatah, or the Palestinians, or the Saudis?
This is just another self-righteous attack on a Muslim nation that proves nothing. What would be wrong with Israel making a cash donation to The Red Cross -- or an anonymous donation to the Red Crescent--if Israel truly wanted to be charitable?
It's too bad that politics prevents acts of good will, but don't think for a moment that Israel wouldn't act the same way.
In fact, don't you remember that Castro offered Cuban Doctors during the Katrina debacle and President Bush turned him down, rather than take the opportunity to begin to establish relations?
It's just a sad political reality. And it proves nothing.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In 1944 I was a six year old sitting beside my Dad in his Oldsmobile as we drove down Ingraham Street in Brooklyn. A few weeks before I had asked him about the Gold Star banners that were hung, like shades, in many of the windows of the tenements that we passed. He explained what they meant, but promised me that Brother Joe would be okay.
But now, as we passed them again, two weeks later, I realized for the first time the overwhelming enormity that they signified for the mothers and dads who sat behind them; and I doubted my father for the first time. I wondered how could he promise me that nothing would happen to Brother Joe?
I hoped that nothing would happen to him -- but I knew that even my Dad couldn't protect him.
In 1944 I was a six year old sitting beside my Dad in his Oldsmobile as we drove down Ingraham Street in Brooklyn. A few weeks before I had asked him about the Gold Star banners that were hung, like shades, in many of the windows of the tenements that we passed. He explained what they meant, but promised me that Brother Joe would be okay.
But now, as we passed them again, two weeks later, I realized for the first time the overwhelming enormity that they signified for the mothers and dads who sat behind them; and I doubted my father for the first time. I wondered how could he promise me that nothing would happen to Brother Joe?
I hoped that nothing would happen to him -- but I knew that even my Dad couldn't protect him.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The meaning of our life is not within the material things that we leave to our heirs.
M. Gross
The meaning of our life is not within the material things that we leave to our heirs.
M. Gross
Sunday, October 02, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The challenge of modernity is to live without illusions and without becoming disillusioned.
Antonio Gramsci
The challenge of modernity is to live without illusions and without becoming disillusioned.
Antonio Gramsci
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Dear Son,,
You can’t engage May in argument. She is too rigid to see any other side but her own and so it’s a waste of time and energy to try.
All that you can do is point out the benefits that will make Carli's life better. Every child needs their father. Keeping you away from Carli hurts Carli as much as it hurts you. May’s motivation is to hurt you even though she must know that Carli gets bruised at the same time. Doesn’t she care? My guess is that right now she doesn’t care. She is striking out at you because she is hurt. She hasn’t yet been able to disentangle herself from you. She can’t be objective. She is angry. Perhaps she has always been angry. I don’t know—I’m not a psychologist.
The important thing is to fulfill Carli's needs to the greatest extent possible. That is only possible with two cooperating parents. Carli needs the unconditional love that I am sure May gives to her. And Carli needs that unconditional love that you give to her. Carli needs both of you.
My friend “Tiger” had a “cooperating” divorce. Neither parent ever ‘bad-mouthed” the other. They each behaved politely to each other. The children were told only that their parents had the utmost respect for each other. And most important, neither parent was ever disrespected in front of the children. Although any divorce is always a tragedy for the children, in this one damage to the children was kept to the minimum.
On the other hand, another friend, Keith, and his wife were constantly at each other’s throats. The children were kept in a constant state of anxiety and stress. Almost immediately little Peter developed asthma, and the older girl – I can’t think of her name right now, became promiscuous and hugely fat. One of her boyfriends was a black drug dealer with a snake tattooed on his arm. Gross bailed him out once or twice.
I don’t know how things turned out for his daughter and son because I lost touch with Keith, but I can’t imagine that they turned out well. Furthermore, Keith’s wife never got her life on track. Instead of moving on to a new life her bitterness tied her irrevocably to her conception of what a bastard she thought Keith had been. I do not speak for Keith – he may not have been the perfect husband, perhaps a divorce was right for the marriage – but even after the divorce his wife never actually escaped the marriage -- and the children suffered.
I don’t know whether you remember the ex-wife of Harry Sternberg. Remember her? Her arms bent by the weight of too many gold bracelets. Constantly smoking, her face full of lines, her eyebrows always furrowed because all she could think of was hate. She couldn’t let go. She had more money that she could spend in a lifetime, but gave all her energy to hating Harry and she made everyone around her miserable. She died rich, skinny and very, very unhappy. She could have had a new life, she could have re-married, or lived with someone—but she wouldn’t let go of her hatred for Harry. Ironically her children buried her next to Harry and his mistress! I think they resented the miserableness, the hatred, which she forced on everyone around her. So they finally got even by burying her next to the woman who made her husband happy for the last years of his life.
One of the wisest things that Ruben ever said to me was that “no one can ever win an argument with William Fish.” What did he mean by that? Fish is a stubborn man who thinks that only his opinion can be right. To him, there are only his facts and they are never in doubt. No one can ever pierce his certitude. Certainty of that type should be added to the list of the seven deadly sins.
I must digress: here’s the list:
Seven Deadly Sins:
Lust
Envy
Sloth (Laziness)
Pride
Wrath (Anger)
Greed
Gluttony
I admit to each of them… But I’m working on them.
The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude. The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude.
Certitude
“One of the most constant characteristics of men of beliefs is their intolerance. The stronger the belief, the greater its intolerance. Men (or women) dominated by a certitude cannot tolerate those who do not accept it.”
Gustave Le Bon
End of digression.
I think that this is what you are dealing with. I don’t know how you will emerge but I have confidence in you. No matter what May thinks I know you to be fair, just, and most important, objective.
Keep bouncing with the blows, and keep your eye on the ball. You don’t have to justify your life to May. Likewise, you don’t have to answer every contention that she makes.
And, dear son, for that matter May doesn’t have to justify her life to you either. You’ve chosen new paths. Take them. Explore them. Don’t look back.
In the end, it’s all about three things: Carli, Carli, and Carli. (And by the way, how does Brenda fit into all of this? You have to excuse her if she is siding with her mother—its only to be expected—and you have to know how hard it must be for her to have lost two Dads. And mark this, Son, you were (are?) her Dad too. It was you who brought her up…I think that time will cure any rift that might have grown between you two.)
The human capacity for self-delusion is limitless. Everyone has seen people who claim to be right and who do evil things in its name. No one is immune from this phenomenon. Understand that whether justified or not, May is hurt and is rationalizing some of her actions by her misperceptions of what she thinks occurred during the time you were together. She’s pathetically striking out blindly. She’s wounded. And the longer she persists, the deeper into her pain she will get. She won’t let the wound heal. She keeps picking at the scab.
Her repeated acts of anger only engender more anger. Her conscience has clouded and her judgment corrupted.
She's trapped. She can't allow herself to let go. She can't move on to better things. Feel sorry for her, my son, —and move on.
Love,
Dad
Dear Son,,
You can’t engage May in argument. She is too rigid to see any other side but her own and so it’s a waste of time and energy to try.
All that you can do is point out the benefits that will make Carli's life better. Every child needs their father. Keeping you away from Carli hurts Carli as much as it hurts you. May’s motivation is to hurt you even though she must know that Carli gets bruised at the same time. Doesn’t she care? My guess is that right now she doesn’t care. She is striking out at you because she is hurt. She hasn’t yet been able to disentangle herself from you. She can’t be objective. She is angry. Perhaps she has always been angry. I don’t know—I’m not a psychologist.
The important thing is to fulfill Carli's needs to the greatest extent possible. That is only possible with two cooperating parents. Carli needs the unconditional love that I am sure May gives to her. And Carli needs that unconditional love that you give to her. Carli needs both of you.
My friend “Tiger” had a “cooperating” divorce. Neither parent ever ‘bad-mouthed” the other. They each behaved politely to each other. The children were told only that their parents had the utmost respect for each other. And most important, neither parent was ever disrespected in front of the children. Although any divorce is always a tragedy for the children, in this one damage to the children was kept to the minimum.
On the other hand, another friend, Keith, and his wife were constantly at each other’s throats. The children were kept in a constant state of anxiety and stress. Almost immediately little Peter developed asthma, and the older girl – I can’t think of her name right now, became promiscuous and hugely fat. One of her boyfriends was a black drug dealer with a snake tattooed on his arm. Gross bailed him out once or twice.
I don’t know how things turned out for his daughter and son because I lost touch with Keith, but I can’t imagine that they turned out well. Furthermore, Keith’s wife never got her life on track. Instead of moving on to a new life her bitterness tied her irrevocably to her conception of what a bastard she thought Keith had been. I do not speak for Keith – he may not have been the perfect husband, perhaps a divorce was right for the marriage – but even after the divorce his wife never actually escaped the marriage -- and the children suffered.
I don’t know whether you remember the ex-wife of Harry Sternberg. Remember her? Her arms bent by the weight of too many gold bracelets. Constantly smoking, her face full of lines, her eyebrows always furrowed because all she could think of was hate. She couldn’t let go. She had more money that she could spend in a lifetime, but gave all her energy to hating Harry and she made everyone around her miserable. She died rich, skinny and very, very unhappy. She could have had a new life, she could have re-married, or lived with someone—but she wouldn’t let go of her hatred for Harry. Ironically her children buried her next to Harry and his mistress! I think they resented the miserableness, the hatred, which she forced on everyone around her. So they finally got even by burying her next to the woman who made her husband happy for the last years of his life.
One of the wisest things that Ruben ever said to me was that “no one can ever win an argument with William Fish.” What did he mean by that? Fish is a stubborn man who thinks that only his opinion can be right. To him, there are only his facts and they are never in doubt. No one can ever pierce his certitude. Certainty of that type should be added to the list of the seven deadly sins.
I must digress: here’s the list:
Seven Deadly Sins:
Lust
Envy
Sloth (Laziness)
Pride
Wrath (Anger)
Greed
Gluttony
I admit to each of them… But I’m working on them.
The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude. The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude.
Certitude
“One of the most constant characteristics of men of beliefs is their intolerance. The stronger the belief, the greater its intolerance. Men (or women) dominated by a certitude cannot tolerate those who do not accept it.”
Gustave Le Bon
End of digression.
I think that this is what you are dealing with. I don’t know how you will emerge but I have confidence in you. No matter what May thinks I know you to be fair, just, and most important, objective.
Keep bouncing with the blows, and keep your eye on the ball. You don’t have to justify your life to May. Likewise, you don’t have to answer every contention that she makes.
And, dear son, for that matter May doesn’t have to justify her life to you either. You’ve chosen new paths. Take them. Explore them. Don’t look back.
In the end, it’s all about three things: Carli, Carli, and Carli. (And by the way, how does Brenda fit into all of this? You have to excuse her if she is siding with her mother—its only to be expected—and you have to know how hard it must be for her to have lost two Dads. And mark this, Son, you were (are?) her Dad too. It was you who brought her up…I think that time will cure any rift that might have grown between you two.)
The human capacity for self-delusion is limitless. Everyone has seen people who claim to be right and who do evil things in its name. No one is immune from this phenomenon. Understand that whether justified or not, May is hurt and is rationalizing some of her actions by her misperceptions of what she thinks occurred during the time you were together. She’s pathetically striking out blindly. She’s wounded. And the longer she persists, the deeper into her pain she will get. She won’t let the wound heal. She keeps picking at the scab.
Her repeated acts of anger only engender more anger. Her conscience has clouded and her judgment corrupted.
She's trapped. She can't allow herself to let go. She can't move on to better things. Feel sorry for her, my son, —and move on.
Love,
Dad
Thursday, September 22, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Hope
It's human nature to be optimistic. It's human nature to hope. Furthermore, hope is a component of a healthy state of mind. Hope is the opposite of negativity. Negativity in life can lead to anger, disappointment and depression. After all, if the world is a negative place, what's the point of living in it? To be negative is to be anti-life.
Ironically, it doesn't work that way in the stock market. In the stock market hope is a hindrance, not a help. Once you take a position in a stock, you obviously want that stock to advance. But if the stock that you bought is a real value, and you bought it right -- you should be content to sit with that stock in the knowledge that over time its value will out without your help, without your hoping.
So in the case of this stock, you have value on your side -- and all you need is patience. In the end, your patience will pay off with a higher price for your stock. Hope shouldn't play any part in this process. You don't need hope, because you bought the stock when it was a great value, and you bought it at the right time.
Any time you find yourself hoping in this business, the odds are that you are on the wrong path -- or that you did something stupid that should be corrected.
unfortunately hope is a money-loser in the investment business. This is counter-intuitive but true. Hope will keep you riding a stock that is headed down. Hope will keep you from taking a small loss and instead, allowing that small loss to develop into a large loss.
In the stock market hope get in the way of reality, hope gets in the way of common sense. One of the first rules in investing is "Don't take the big loss." In order to do that, you've got to be willing to take a small loss.
If the stock market turns bearish, and you're staying put with your whole position. and you're HOPING that what you see is not really happening. And then welcome to poverty city. In this situation, all your hoping isn't going to save you or make you a penny. In fact, in this situation hoping is the devil that bids you to sit -- while your portfolio of stocks goes down the drain.
In the investing business my suggestion is that you avoid hope. Forget the siren, hope -- instead embrace cold, clear reality. RR
Hope
It's human nature to be optimistic. It's human nature to hope. Furthermore, hope is a component of a healthy state of mind. Hope is the opposite of negativity. Negativity in life can lead to anger, disappointment and depression. After all, if the world is a negative place, what's the point of living in it? To be negative is to be anti-life.
Ironically, it doesn't work that way in the stock market. In the stock market hope is a hindrance, not a help. Once you take a position in a stock, you obviously want that stock to advance. But if the stock that you bought is a real value, and you bought it right -- you should be content to sit with that stock in the knowledge that over time its value will out without your help, without your hoping.
So in the case of this stock, you have value on your side -- and all you need is patience. In the end, your patience will pay off with a higher price for your stock. Hope shouldn't play any part in this process. You don't need hope, because you bought the stock when it was a great value, and you bought it at the right time.
Any time you find yourself hoping in this business, the odds are that you are on the wrong path -- or that you did something stupid that should be corrected.
unfortunately hope is a money-loser in the investment business. This is counter-intuitive but true. Hope will keep you riding a stock that is headed down. Hope will keep you from taking a small loss and instead, allowing that small loss to develop into a large loss.
In the stock market hope get in the way of reality, hope gets in the way of common sense. One of the first rules in investing is "Don't take the big loss." In order to do that, you've got to be willing to take a small loss.
If the stock market turns bearish, and you're staying put with your whole position. and you're HOPING that what you see is not really happening. And then welcome to poverty city. In this situation, all your hoping isn't going to save you or make you a penny. In fact, in this situation hoping is the devil that bids you to sit -- while your portfolio of stocks goes down the drain.
In the investing business my suggestion is that you avoid hope. Forget the siren, hope -- instead embrace cold, clear reality. RR
Friday, September 16, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Certitude
The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude. The world is much menaced just now by people who think that the world and their duties in it are clear and simple. They are certain that they know what – who - created the universe and what this creator wants them to do to make our little speck in the Universe perfect, even if extreme measures – even violence -- are required.
America is currently awash in an unpleasant surplus of clanging, clashing of certitudes. That is why there is a rhetorical bitterness absurdly disproportionate to our real differences. It has been well said that the spirit of liberty is the spirit of not being too sure that you are right. One way to immunize ourselves against misplaced certitude is to contemplate -- even to savor – the unfathomable strangeness of everything, including ourselves.
George F. Will (2005)
From the frontispiece of Catherine Crier’s book, “Contempt – How the Right is Wronging American Justice."
Certitude
The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude. The world is much menaced just now by people who think that the world and their duties in it are clear and simple. They are certain that they know what – who - created the universe and what this creator wants them to do to make our little speck in the Universe perfect, even if extreme measures – even violence -- are required.
America is currently awash in an unpleasant surplus of clanging, clashing of certitudes. That is why there is a rhetorical bitterness absurdly disproportionate to our real differences. It has been well said that the spirit of liberty is the spirit of not being too sure that you are right. One way to immunize ourselves against misplaced certitude is to contemplate -- even to savor – the unfathomable strangeness of everything, including ourselves.
George F. Will (2005)
From the frontispiece of Catherine Crier’s book, “Contempt – How the Right is Wronging American Justice."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Certitude
One of the most constant characteristics of beliefs is their intolerance. The stronger the belief, the greater its intolerance. Men dominated by a certitude cannot tolerate those who do not accept it.
Gustave Le Bon
Certitude
One of the most constant characteristics of beliefs is their intolerance. The stronger the belief, the greater its intolerance. Men dominated by a certitude cannot tolerate those who do not accept it.
Gustave Le Bon
Monday, September 12, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Howard G.
This is what his March 2005 diagnosis was: glioblastoma (GBM IV), the deadliest form of brain cancer. So, from March until yesterday, he saw no one except his wife and one visit each from his children and his sister. He knew that he wasn't himself and believed that if people saw him in his condition they would remember him as sick rather than the "real" Howard.
He knew that he had outbursts of temper. At other times he would say inappropriate things. He couldn't keep track of the conversation.
His wife followed his total reclusion directive and stayed with him every moment. No one was to see him in his condition. Even Maria and Leah, her only Florida friends, were asked to meet her in the lobby of her apartment house where they would have tea and cookies -- and then only if Howard was sleeping. Sometimes they would come and Carole wouldn't come down. Carole stopped all activities. She wouldn't even go to support groups because they would take her from Howard's side. He made her promise never to leave him with anyone else until he died. She promised.
Howard had been an executive of Lillian Vernon, and Fingerhut, and of Bloomingdales. He was President and CEO of Orbachs. He started out as a trainee at A&S after college. He went to Bronx High School of Science. He was very sharp and self-confident. He knew how to take charge.
After his retirement he and Carole traveled from May until September, and he "managed? (owned?") a Fantasy Football Team. He attended conventions where the players were drafted for his teams. During the course of his illness I sent him an article from the Financial Times about Fantasy Football. His wife told me he couldn't follow it.
He liked good wine and spent too much money on it. He smoked very big cigars. He generously shared both, He and Carole liked to gamble in Las Vegas. He shared his money with Las Vegas. He laughed a lot.
He was a volunteer tutor for the Broward School system and spoke with enthusiasm about his joy at his student's progress.
He was easy to be with.
mek
Howard G.
This is what his March 2005 diagnosis was: glioblastoma (GBM IV), the deadliest form of brain cancer. So, from March until yesterday, he saw no one except his wife and one visit each from his children and his sister. He knew that he wasn't himself and believed that if people saw him in his condition they would remember him as sick rather than the "real" Howard.
He knew that he had outbursts of temper. At other times he would say inappropriate things. He couldn't keep track of the conversation.
His wife followed his total reclusion directive and stayed with him every moment. No one was to see him in his condition. Even Maria and Leah, her only Florida friends, were asked to meet her in the lobby of her apartment house where they would have tea and cookies -- and then only if Howard was sleeping. Sometimes they would come and Carole wouldn't come down. Carole stopped all activities. She wouldn't even go to support groups because they would take her from Howard's side. He made her promise never to leave him with anyone else until he died. She promised.
Howard had been an executive of Lillian Vernon, and Fingerhut, and of Bloomingdales. He was President and CEO of Orbachs. He started out as a trainee at A&S after college. He went to Bronx High School of Science. He was very sharp and self-confident. He knew how to take charge.
After his retirement he and Carole traveled from May until September, and he "managed? (owned?") a Fantasy Football Team. He attended conventions where the players were drafted for his teams. During the course of his illness I sent him an article from the Financial Times about Fantasy Football. His wife told me he couldn't follow it.
He liked good wine and spent too much money on it. He smoked very big cigars. He generously shared both, He and Carole liked to gamble in Las Vegas. He shared his money with Las Vegas. He laughed a lot.
He was a volunteer tutor for the Broward School system and spoke with enthusiasm about his joy at his student's progress.
He was easy to be with.
mek
Friday, September 09, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
On the Other Hand
Dear Friend X,
You have asked about the correct split between stocks and bonds for people in the late sixties.
I have never had bonds except after I sold my house when I owned some muni's for about a year. As usual I did the wrong thing by selling them instead of continuing to take the 4.5 or 5% nontaxable payment that came through the munifund I was invested in. I sold out of fear of higher interest rates depressing the price of fund. The operators of the fund were much smarter than me and kept it short and as far as I can tell have maintained the price of the fund.
A broker with whom I speak on the beach says at our age 25% bonds 75% stocks --
But I am uncomfortable with that many bonds --
except: Having bonds when stocks fall and bonds rise (assuming that the laws of conventional market theory continue to prevail) gives you access to cash with which to purchase the now lower priced stocks. (by selling the now higher priced bonds).
You buy Indexes because your assumption is that the market will rise in the long run. The exception I noted above makes the same assumption, as stocks are purchased at prices that someone determines to be temporarily low prices in the expectation that in the long run their prices will rise.
But you are not engaged in timing the market (smart boy!) and so this strategy does not apply to you.
I think that the standard for our age used to be 40% bonds, but that was the standard when people lived for a shorter time.
It is probably time to sell gold as I have started to purchase it again. You know that I sold it just before its recent rise. As long as I have played with gold I have never made significant money.
Wouldn't it be great if I had only one hand?
mek
On the Other Hand
Dear Friend X,
You have asked about the correct split between stocks and bonds for people in the late sixties.
I have never had bonds except after I sold my house when I owned some muni's for about a year. As usual I did the wrong thing by selling them instead of continuing to take the 4.5 or 5% nontaxable payment that came through the munifund I was invested in. I sold out of fear of higher interest rates depressing the price of fund. The operators of the fund were much smarter than me and kept it short and as far as I can tell have maintained the price of the fund.
A broker with whom I speak on the beach says at our age 25% bonds 75% stocks --
But I am uncomfortable with that many bonds --
except: Having bonds when stocks fall and bonds rise (assuming that the laws of conventional market theory continue to prevail) gives you access to cash with which to purchase the now lower priced stocks. (by selling the now higher priced bonds).
You buy Indexes because your assumption is that the market will rise in the long run. The exception I noted above makes the same assumption, as stocks are purchased at prices that someone determines to be temporarily low prices in the expectation that in the long run their prices will rise.
But you are not engaged in timing the market (smart boy!) and so this strategy does not apply to you.
I think that the standard for our age used to be 40% bonds, but that was the standard when people lived for a shorter time.
It is probably time to sell gold as I have started to purchase it again. You know that I sold it just before its recent rise. As long as I have played with gold I have never made significant money.
Wouldn't it be great if I had only one hand?
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will.
You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken.
You'll fight with your best friend.
You'll blame a new love for things an old one did.
You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love. So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every sixty seconds that you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.
As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will.
You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken.
You'll fight with your best friend.
You'll blame a new love for things an old one did.
You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love. So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every sixty seconds that you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A liberal is a man too broadminded to take his own part in a quarrel.
Robert Frost.
I would have agreed in full with Frost twenty years ago; but during the last ten years I have found liberals (like the members of the Horowitz forum) to be as bound to their own opinions as conservatives. I had thought of "liberal" as meaning open minded, willing to see the other side; but nowadays there are only two sides and usually the sides are determined not by the facts but by political party.
Although I make no case for the delayed reaction to Katrina on the part of the Bush administration, I note that local officials seemed to have escaped the attention and opprobrium of most liberals. I think that when the after action report is written we will find that various interfaces between the Feds and state and local government didn't work or didn't exist. That may be the real friction point.
FEMA has never had a good reputation, it seems that it is always slow to get off the ground--perhaps because it is a part time organization; having to suddenly mass thousands of employees at different emergency locations when ever an incident occurs.
I also note that Haley Barbour, Republican governor of Mississippi, had few complaints about the Federal response after hearing a local Louisiana official break down into tears on Meet the Press. A very composed, should I say "cold" Barbour saw the the Katrina response through the eyes of a man who believes in the Republican dictum "the less government the better." He explained (bragged?) that his local officials were right on the job. This is a case of a carpenter who believes that a nail is the solution to every problem. Government should be local. Most likely Barbour thought that he was proving that his local governments actually handled the Katrina successfully; while in contrast, the Democrats across the state line failed miserably.
On 9/5/05, Joel Horowitz <jhorowitz@knology.net> wrote:
Could this be a partial explanation for why liberal Democrats have had a difficult time winning elections? Joel
A liberal is a man too broadminded to take his own part in a quarrel.
Robert Frost.
I would have agreed in full with Frost twenty years ago; but during the last ten years I have found liberals (like the members of the Horowitz forum) to be as bound to their own opinions as conservatives. I had thought of "liberal" as meaning open minded, willing to see the other side; but nowadays there are only two sides and usually the sides are determined not by the facts but by political party.
Although I make no case for the delayed reaction to Katrina on the part of the Bush administration, I note that local officials seemed to have escaped the attention and opprobrium of most liberals. I think that when the after action report is written we will find that various interfaces between the Feds and state and local government didn't work or didn't exist. That may be the real friction point.
FEMA has never had a good reputation, it seems that it is always slow to get off the ground--perhaps because it is a part time organization; having to suddenly mass thousands of employees at different emergency locations when ever an incident occurs.
I also note that Haley Barbour, Republican governor of Mississippi, had few complaints about the Federal response after hearing a local Louisiana official break down into tears on Meet the Press. A very composed, should I say "cold" Barbour saw the the Katrina response through the eyes of a man who believes in the Republican dictum "the less government the better." He explained (bragged?) that his local officials were right on the job. This is a case of a carpenter who believes that a nail is the solution to every problem. Government should be local. Most likely Barbour thought that he was proving that his local governments actually handled the Katrina successfully; while in contrast, the Democrats across the state line failed miserably.
On 9/5/05, Joel Horowitz <jhorowitz@knology.net> wrote:
Could this be a partial explanation for why liberal Democrats have had a difficult time winning elections? Joel
Monday, September 05, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A liberal is a man too broadminded to take his own part in a quarrel.
Robert Frost.
A liberal is a man too broadminded to take his own part in a quarrel.
Robert Frost.
Friday, September 02, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The average car is driven 15,000 miles per year.
If you are lucky enough, or smart enough to have purchased a Prius your annual cost of gasoline at $2.79 per gallon will be $951.00 in the next 12 months --assuming an average cost of $2.79 and 44 miles per gallon.
Of course, I was neither smart enough nor lucky enough to have purchased a Prius. I am driving an Avalon. My Avalon gets about 25 miles per gallon. My annual cost will be $1395.00.
Now, my plumber drives a Ford Expedition and his wife drives a Hummer. Each car gets 10 miles per gallon. Their gasoline (premium at $3.09) expense is going to exceed $4635.00 each. A total of $9,270.00!
The average car is driven 15,000 miles per year.
If you are lucky enough, or smart enough to have purchased a Prius your annual cost of gasoline at $2.79 per gallon will be $951.00 in the next 12 months --assuming an average cost of $2.79 and 44 miles per gallon.
Of course, I was neither smart enough nor lucky enough to have purchased a Prius. I am driving an Avalon. My Avalon gets about 25 miles per gallon. My annual cost will be $1395.00.
Now, my plumber drives a Ford Expedition and his wife drives a Hummer. Each car gets 10 miles per gallon. Their gasoline (premium at $3.09) expense is going to exceed $4635.00 each. A total of $9,270.00!
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Death of old age is a rare, singular, and extraordinary death, and hence less natural than the others; it is the last and ultimate sort of death; the farther it is from us, the less it is to be hoped for.Michel de Montaigne --Of Age
Death of old age is a rare, singular, and extraordinary death, and hence less natural than the others; it is the last and ultimate sort of death; the farther it is from us, the less it is to be hoped for.Michel de Montaigne --Of Age
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
What is the standard brewing temperature for tea?
Answer
For a flavorful cup of tea, ideal brewing temperatures are:Green Teas: 180 degrees Semi-Fermented teas: 195 degrees (just off boil) Black Teas: 212 degrees (just off boil)[source http://www.oldcitycoffee.com/shop/coffeeinfo.html#teabrew]Use cooler, barely steaming water (160°F to 180°F) for white, green, and oolong teas (boiling water makes these teas bitter). The steeping time can range from 30 seconds to 3 minutes; some recommend more time for oolong.For black tea, the water should come just to a boil. Steep the tea for 3 to 6 minutes, choosing a longer time if you're going to add milk.[source http://www.epicurious.com/drinking/nonalcoholic/tea]
What is the standard brewing temperature for tea?
Answer
For a flavorful cup of tea, ideal brewing temperatures are:Green Teas: 180 degrees Semi-Fermented teas: 195 degrees (just off boil) Black Teas: 212 degrees (just off boil)[source http://www.oldcitycoffee.com/shop/coffeeinfo.html#teabrew]Use cooler, barely steaming water (160°F to 180°F) for white, green, and oolong teas (boiling water makes these teas bitter). The steeping time can range from 30 seconds to 3 minutes; some recommend more time for oolong.For black tea, the water should come just to a boil. Steep the tea for 3 to 6 minutes, choosing a longer time if you're going to add milk.[source http://www.epicurious.com/drinking/nonalcoholic/tea]
Sunday, August 21, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The Old Poodle A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful aged poodle named Cuddles, along for the company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long, Cuddles discovers that she's lost.
Wandering about, she notices a leopard heading rapidly in her direction with the intention of having lunch. The old poodle thinks, "Oh, oh! I'm in deep shit now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, she immediately settles down to chew on the bones with her back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the old poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard! I wonder if there are any more around here?"
Hearing this, the young leopard halts his attack in mid-strike, a look of terror comes over him and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew!", says the leopard, "That was close! That old poodle nearly had me!"
Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So off he goes, but the old poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that somthing must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard.
The young leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here, monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine!" Now, the old poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?", but instead of running, the dog sits down with her back to her attackers, pretending she hasn't seen them yet, and just when they get close enough to hear, the old poodle says:
"Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off an hour ago to bring me another leopard!"
Moral of this story .
Age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill!
The Old Poodle A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful aged poodle named Cuddles, along for the company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long, Cuddles discovers that she's lost.
Wandering about, she notices a leopard heading rapidly in her direction with the intention of having lunch. The old poodle thinks, "Oh, oh! I'm in deep shit now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, she immediately settles down to chew on the bones with her back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the old poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard! I wonder if there are any more around here?"
Hearing this, the young leopard halts his attack in mid-strike, a look of terror comes over him and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew!", says the leopard, "That was close! That old poodle nearly had me!"
Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So off he goes, but the old poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that somthing must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard.
The young leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here, monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine!" Now, the old poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?", but instead of running, the dog sits down with her back to her attackers, pretending she hasn't seen them yet, and just when they get close enough to hear, the old poodle says:
"Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off an hour ago to bring me another leopard!"
Moral of this story .
Age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill!
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Thursday, August 11, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
You will understand then why I don't like the crowd. It frightens me. I am always looking for the individual within it, the glance, someone with whom one exchanges a little of one's soul.
I like people for their weaknesses and their faults. I get on well with ordinary people. We talk. We start with the weather and little by little we get to the important things. When I photograph them it is not as though I am examining them with a magnifying glass, like a cold and scientific observer. It's brotherly. And it's better, isn't it, to shed some light on those people who are never in the limelight?
You've got to struggle against the pollution of intelligence in order to become an animal with very sharp instincts--a sort of intuitive medium--so that the photographer becomes a magical act and slowly more suggestive images begin to appear behind the visible image, for which the photographer cannot be responsible.
Brassi, French-Hungarian Photographer
You will understand then why I don't like the crowd. It frightens me. I am always looking for the individual within it, the glance, someone with whom one exchanges a little of one's soul.
I like people for their weaknesses and their faults. I get on well with ordinary people. We talk. We start with the weather and little by little we get to the important things. When I photograph them it is not as though I am examining them with a magnifying glass, like a cold and scientific observer. It's brotherly. And it's better, isn't it, to shed some light on those people who are never in the limelight?
You've got to struggle against the pollution of intelligence in order to become an animal with very sharp instincts--a sort of intuitive medium--so that the photographer becomes a magical act and slowly more suggestive images begin to appear behind the visible image, for which the photographer cannot be responsible.
Brassi, French-Hungarian Photographer
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It doesn't matter where I look there's always something going on. All I need to do is wait, and look for long enough until the curtain begins to go up. Each time the same pompous formula trots through my head. Paris is a theater where you buy your sea by wasting time. And I'm still waiting.
R. Doisneau, Parisian Photographer
It doesn't matter where I look there's always something going on. All I need to do is wait, and look for long enough until the curtain begins to go up. Each time the same pompous formula trots through my head. Paris is a theater where you buy your sea by wasting time. And I'm still waiting.
R. Doisneau, Parisian Photographer
Saturday, July 30, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Duty
Last night I rented Winter Light, the third of a Bergman Trilogy on God, Religion, Faith and the lack thereof within ourselves.
It's only 80 minutes and describes a disillusioned parson who has lost belief but who goes on preaching even after a failure in counseling that leads to the death of one of his parishioners. His lover also remains on duty even though he (the Parson) has told her to get lost.
Apart from the content of Bergman's early films which never leave me unfulfilled, the photography itself compels me always to re-watch each movie with a remote in my hand so that I can stop the action and look at what becomes an amazing still photograph.
mek
Duty
Last night I rented Winter Light, the third of a Bergman Trilogy on God, Religion, Faith and the lack thereof within ourselves.
It's only 80 minutes and describes a disillusioned parson who has lost belief but who goes on preaching even after a failure in counseling that leads to the death of one of his parishioners. His lover also remains on duty even though he (the Parson) has told her to get lost.
Apart from the content of Bergman's early films which never leave me unfulfilled, the photography itself compels me always to re-watch each movie with a remote in my hand so that I can stop the action and look at what becomes an amazing still photograph.
mek
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
July 25, 2005
Neo-Crom?
Today’s Financial Times has a piece describing the Neo-Croms of England.
Neo-Cromwellians, that is. Who are they? Well, the reader might as well ask who are we?
Approve of the ban on smoking in restaurants? You’re a neo-Crom. How about pregnant women who drink a glass of wine or smoke a cigarette with their meals? Approve? No? You’ve only proven you are a Puritan.
Today’s AOL informed me that New Jersey wants to make it a violation to smoke while driving. This after the state has banned smoking from restaurants, offices, and stores. So if someone—dare I say, “if a girl or a guy?” wants to get into his car and have a smoke by himself, after holding out all day, he is liable for a violation. April Fool? No, I checked, today is July 25th 2005.
If I want to get into a SUV there is a whole segment of the population that thinks I should be castigated and taxed double. If I allow my children to watch TV the Puritans know that I am abusing my children. Should I fail to pack and strap my child into a child cage when I get into my SUV I am liable for a moving violation. No matter, that I bought the gas-guzzler itself just to protect my little darling from the rest of you maniacal drivers.
When I play my CD’s loudly in my car while I drive past your house I am breaking the law —and now on some beaches in New York, I must use earphones or turn the radio off. What about my personal freedom?
I saw my neighbor grilling frankfurters and feeding them to his family last Saturday. Very bad for the children and think of all the gain that is wasted fattening up the cattle prior to their slaughter. Oh, and let’s talk about the inhumane and unsanitary conditions in the abattoir. We need regulation. You should stop eating beef.
When I take my family on a holiday in the forests I am accused of eco-vandalism, and there are many of us who wish to make most of the national parks of limits—or to ration use, perhaps allowing only PhD’s into the woods, and then only after they have proved themselves to be capable of cleaning their campsites and leaving them in better condition than they found them—as any cub-scout would have done fifty years ago. As far as allowing the uneducated into the parks—well, what’s Six Flags for anyway?
And the low prices on JetBlue and similar airlines? More unnecessary pollution. Raise the prices, protect the environment. The masses shouldn’t travel anyway. Let them save their money for their own health care.
We need tighter regulation on advertising directed at children—enough of that candy stuff, I say. And I would appreciate it too, if my granddaughter would stop asking me for those toys she sees on the television that I have asked my daughter-in-law to toss out.
I am amazed that there are governmental restrictions that make doctors fear giving sufficient pain medications—and most doctors fear to protest at the risk of their license to practice
Now, speaking of drugs, dare I point out how much the unsuccessful War on Drugs is costing us? Imagine if the mega-billions spent on that war was directed in other directions and if marijuana and cocaine were as legal as alcohol and tobacco.
On, the other hand, perhaps alcohol and tobacco are next on the New-Crom’s list. Why not?
The Neo-Croms resent our easy pleasures.
mek
July 25, 2005
Neo-Crom?
Today’s Financial Times has a piece describing the Neo-Croms of England.
Neo-Cromwellians, that is. Who are they? Well, the reader might as well ask who are we?
Approve of the ban on smoking in restaurants? You’re a neo-Crom. How about pregnant women who drink a glass of wine or smoke a cigarette with their meals? Approve? No? You’ve only proven you are a Puritan.
Today’s AOL informed me that New Jersey wants to make it a violation to smoke while driving. This after the state has banned smoking from restaurants, offices, and stores. So if someone—dare I say, “if a girl or a guy?” wants to get into his car and have a smoke by himself, after holding out all day, he is liable for a violation. April Fool? No, I checked, today is July 25th 2005.
If I want to get into a SUV there is a whole segment of the population that thinks I should be castigated and taxed double. If I allow my children to watch TV the Puritans know that I am abusing my children. Should I fail to pack and strap my child into a child cage when I get into my SUV I am liable for a moving violation. No matter, that I bought the gas-guzzler itself just to protect my little darling from the rest of you maniacal drivers.
When I play my CD’s loudly in my car while I drive past your house I am breaking the law —and now on some beaches in New York, I must use earphones or turn the radio off. What about my personal freedom?
I saw my neighbor grilling frankfurters and feeding them to his family last Saturday. Very bad for the children and think of all the gain that is wasted fattening up the cattle prior to their slaughter. Oh, and let’s talk about the inhumane and unsanitary conditions in the abattoir. We need regulation. You should stop eating beef.
When I take my family on a holiday in the forests I am accused of eco-vandalism, and there are many of us who wish to make most of the national parks of limits—or to ration use, perhaps allowing only PhD’s into the woods, and then only after they have proved themselves to be capable of cleaning their campsites and leaving them in better condition than they found them—as any cub-scout would have done fifty years ago. As far as allowing the uneducated into the parks—well, what’s Six Flags for anyway?
And the low prices on JetBlue and similar airlines? More unnecessary pollution. Raise the prices, protect the environment. The masses shouldn’t travel anyway. Let them save their money for their own health care.
We need tighter regulation on advertising directed at children—enough of that candy stuff, I say. And I would appreciate it too, if my granddaughter would stop asking me for those toys she sees on the television that I have asked my daughter-in-law to toss out.
I am amazed that there are governmental restrictions that make doctors fear giving sufficient pain medications—and most doctors fear to protest at the risk of their license to practice
Now, speaking of drugs, dare I point out how much the unsuccessful War on Drugs is costing us? Imagine if the mega-billions spent on that war was directed in other directions and if marijuana and cocaine were as legal as alcohol and tobacco.
On, the other hand, perhaps alcohol and tobacco are next on the New-Crom’s list. Why not?
The Neo-Croms resent our easy pleasures.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In many states a woman may not drink alcohol or smoke while pregnant, but she may get an abortion.
mek
In many states a woman may not drink alcohol or smoke while pregnant, but she may get an abortion.
mek
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From this very blog. June 2003
"My job today is to re-file or toss all of my files. At present I have laid them all out on my dining room table in an effort to sort them. Looking at the mass of materials is making me very anxious."
I had laid out more unfiled papers on my dining room table a few days ago. They remain there--untouched.
From this very blog. June 2003
"My job today is to re-file or toss all of my files. At present I have laid them all out on my dining room table in an effort to sort them. Looking at the mass of materials is making me very anxious."
I had laid out more unfiled papers on my dining room table a few days ago. They remain there--untouched.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The man who fights for his fellow-man is a better man than the one who fights for himself.
To think is to differ
Liberty is the most jealous and exacting mistress that can beguile the soul and brain of man.
As long as the world shall last there will be wrongs, and if no man objected and no man rebelled, those wrongs would last forever.
There is no such thing as justice - in or out of court.
You can only protect your liberties in this world by protecting the other man's freedom. You can only be free if I am free.
True patriotism hates injustice in its own land more than anywhere else.
If a man is happy in America, it is considered he is doing something wrong.
No other offense has ever been visited with such severe penalties as seeking to help the oppressed.
I don't believe in God because I don't believe in Mother Goose.
The law does not pretend to punish everything that is dishonest. That would seriously interfere with business.
Clarence Darrow
The man who fights for his fellow-man is a better man than the one who fights for himself.
To think is to differ
Liberty is the most jealous and exacting mistress that can beguile the soul and brain of man.
As long as the world shall last there will be wrongs, and if no man objected and no man rebelled, those wrongs would last forever.
There is no such thing as justice - in or out of court.
You can only protect your liberties in this world by protecting the other man's freedom. You can only be free if I am free.
True patriotism hates injustice in its own land more than anywhere else.
If a man is happy in America, it is considered he is doing something wrong.
No other offense has ever been visited with such severe penalties as seeking to help the oppressed.
I don't believe in God because I don't believe in Mother Goose.
The law does not pretend to punish everything that is dishonest. That would seriously interfere with business.
Clarence Darrow
Monday, July 18, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To Maria:
Past three o'clock, before dawn,
I woke and looked over for you,
Needing you,
And I was comforted
To see you there, near,
Your legs wrestling with a pillow,
Your fingers stretched out
To me.
To Maria:
Past three o'clock, before dawn,
I woke and looked over for you,
Needing you,
And I was comforted
To see you there, near,
Your legs wrestling with a pillow,
Your fingers stretched out
To me.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
One of the mysteries of my life has been my neglect of you in correspondence. You remain one of the persons most beloved in my life. You may justifiably feel skeptical about what I say now, you really would be astonished at the number of times and places I've thought of you with affection--even when I am sad about something because I know that you would understand the sadness even if no one else on earth did.
One of the mysteries of my life has been my neglect of you in correspondence. You remain one of the persons most beloved in my life. You may justifiably feel skeptical about what I say now, you really would be astonished at the number of times and places I've thought of you with affection--even when I am sad about something because I know that you would understand the sadness even if no one else on earth did.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"He lay there in the dark thinking of all the things he did not know about his father and he realized that the father he knew was all the father he would ever know.
Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
"He lay there in the dark thinking of all the things he did not know about his father and he realized that the father he knew was all the father he would ever know.
Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
Monday, July 11, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Just for the record.
Volume of a sphere: 4.19 x radius cubed.
Why is the night sky not filled to the brim with stars? Because there has not been enough time for the light from all stars to reach us. In the event that enough time would have passed the night sky would be brilliant with the light of myriad stars.
The number of stars increases with distance cubed -- but star brightness fades with distance squared.
Just for the record.
Volume of a sphere: 4.19 x radius cubed.
Why is the night sky not filled to the brim with stars? Because there has not been enough time for the light from all stars to reach us. In the event that enough time would have passed the night sky would be brilliant with the light of myriad stars.
The number of stars increases with distance cubed -- but star brightness fades with distance squared.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"The steamships bound for New York left from Hamburg. The old three-masted, bark-rigged sail ships still left from Bremen. The steamships made the crossing in two weeks, the sail ships in six. But the sail ships were cheaper. They arrived in Bremen with their between decks loaded with cargo. After the cargo was discharged, crude accommodations were readied for poor travelers seeking outward passage. When the between deck held living cargo it was called "steerage class." The worth of incoming cargo was realized on arrival and thus was cared for accordingly. The value of the steerage passengers ended with their purchase of a ticket."
"The steamships bound for New York left from Hamburg. The old three-masted, bark-rigged sail ships still left from Bremen. The steamships made the crossing in two weeks, the sail ships in six. But the sail ships were cheaper. They arrived in Bremen with their between decks loaded with cargo. After the cargo was discharged, crude accommodations were readied for poor travelers seeking outward passage. When the between deck held living cargo it was called "steerage class." The worth of incoming cargo was realized on arrival and thus was cared for accordingly. The value of the steerage passengers ended with their purchase of a ticket."
Nick Tosches "King of the Jews."
Friday, June 17, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Oh yeah?, " said the big man, try this. He reached his huge fist up to the highest shelf and brought down Habana Caliente Caliente! It was a tiny bottle shaped in the image of Fidel Castro. My sinuses began to open and water... My eyes teared before the bottle cap was unscrewed.
mek
We made brothers into others and others into brothers.
mek
"Oh yeah?, " said the big man, try this. He reached his huge fist up to the highest shelf and brought down Habana Caliente Caliente! It was a tiny bottle shaped in the image of Fidel Castro. My sinuses began to open and water... My eyes teared before the bottle cap was unscrewed.
mek
We made brothers into others and others into brothers.
mek
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I was at physical therapy for my shoulder late this afternoon. After some discussion the therapists had agreed to play The White Stripes on the sound system,and my fellow patients were pulling ropes, lifting medical weights, having ice applied, you know, the usual stuff. My therapist, Sara, a nifty 25 year old woman was gently massaging my shoulder and was deep into her work.
Suddenly someone opened the door and shouted: "Michael Jackson Not Guilty on All Counts! "
Without missing a beat Sara said, "Put on 'Beat It'."
mek
I was at physical therapy for my shoulder late this afternoon. After some discussion the therapists had agreed to play The White Stripes on the sound system,and my fellow patients were pulling ropes, lifting medical weights, having ice applied, you know, the usual stuff. My therapist, Sara, a nifty 25 year old woman was gently massaging my shoulder and was deep into her work.
Suddenly someone opened the door and shouted: "Michael Jackson Not Guilty on All Counts! "
Without missing a beat Sara said, "Put on 'Beat It'."
mek
Thursday, June 02, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A skull is more interesting than a naked woman.
______________________________________
One must live -- until the plague takes him.
.............................................................................Ingmar Bergman.....
A skull is more interesting than a naked woman.
______________________________________
One must live -- until the plague takes him.
.............................................................................Ingmar Bergman.....
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com dialog from Ingmar Bergman,
(the Knight notices the Priest behind the confessional's bars)
(Knight)
I want to confess as best I can.
But my heart is a void.
The void is a mirror.
I see my face...
I feel loathing and horror.
My indifference to men has shut me out.
I live now in a world of ghosts...
A prisoner in my dreams and illusions.
(Priest)
Yet you want to die.
(Knight)
Yes, I do.
(Priest)
What are you waiting for?
(Knight)
Knowledge.
(Priest)
You want a guarantee.
(Knight)
Call it what you will.
Is it so hard to conceive God with one's senses?
Why must He hide in a mist of vague promises and invisible miracles?
How are we to to believe the believers
When we don't believe ourselves?
What will become of us who want to believe but cannot?
And what will become of those who neither will nor can believe?
Why cannot I kill God within me?
Why does He go on living in a painful, humiliating way?
I want to tear Him out of my heart.
Be He remains a mocking reality
Which I cannot get rid of.
Do you hear me?
(Priest)
Perhaps there is no one there.
(Knight)
Then life is a senseless terror.
No man can live with Death
And know that everything is nothing.
Most people think neither of Death nor nothingness
Until the day they stand on the edge of life and see the darkness.
(Priest, with longing)
Ah....the day.
(Knight)
I see.
We must make an idol of our fear
And call it "God."
(Priest)
You are uneasy.
(Knight)
Death visited me this morning.
We are playing chess.
This respite enables me to perform a vital errand.
(Priest)
What errand?
(Knight)
My whole life has been a meaningless search.
I say that without bitterness nor self-reproach.
I know it is the same for all
But I want to use my respite for one significant action.
(Priest)
So you play chess with death?
(Knight)
He is a skillful tactician but I have not yet lost one piece.
(Priest)
How can you outwit Death?
(Knight)
By a combination of Bishop and Knight.
(The Knight looks up at the Priest and realizes that it is Death not the Priest. )
(the Knight notices the Priest behind the confessional's bars)
(Knight)
I want to confess as best I can.
But my heart is a void.
The void is a mirror.
I see my face...
I feel loathing and horror.
My indifference to men has shut me out.
I live now in a world of ghosts...
A prisoner in my dreams and illusions.
(Priest)
Yet you want to die.
(Knight)
Yes, I do.
(Priest)
What are you waiting for?
(Knight)
Knowledge.
(Priest)
You want a guarantee.
(Knight)
Call it what you will.
Is it so hard to conceive God with one's senses?
Why must He hide in a mist of vague promises and invisible miracles?
How are we to to believe the believers
When we don't believe ourselves?
What will become of us who want to believe but cannot?
And what will become of those who neither will nor can believe?
Why cannot I kill God within me?
Why does He go on living in a painful, humiliating way?
I want to tear Him out of my heart.
Be He remains a mocking reality
Which I cannot get rid of.
Do you hear me?
(Priest)
Perhaps there is no one there.
(Knight)
Then life is a senseless terror.
No man can live with Death
And know that everything is nothing.
Most people think neither of Death nor nothingness
Until the day they stand on the edge of life and see the darkness.
(Priest, with longing)
Ah....the day.
(Knight)
I see.
We must make an idol of our fear
And call it "God."
(Priest)
You are uneasy.
(Knight)
Death visited me this morning.
We are playing chess.
This respite enables me to perform a vital errand.
(Priest)
What errand?
(Knight)
My whole life has been a meaningless search.
I say that without bitterness nor self-reproach.
I know it is the same for all
But I want to use my respite for one significant action.
(Priest)
So you play chess with death?
(Knight)
He is a skillful tactician but I have not yet lost one piece.
(Priest)
How can you outwit Death?
(Knight)
By a combination of Bishop and Knight.
(The Knight looks up at the Priest and realizes that it is Death not the Priest. )
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In his Press Conference yesterday, did President Bush say:
"Detainees have been trained to disassemble. Disassemble is a word than means not to tell the truth."
That's what I heard--but then my ears may may be biased.
In his Press Conference yesterday, did President Bush say:
"Detainees have been trained to disassemble. Disassemble is a word than means not to tell the truth."
That's what I heard--but then my ears may may be biased.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
We are in the middle of a thunderstorm on the first day of the hurricane season. Last year's four big ones put everyone on edge and all kinds of preparations are being made that were never made before.
In Florida when it rains people act like people do in New York when there is an eight inch snowstorm. Dinner dates are cancelled, theater tickets are given to the maids and doormen, and every one stays inside.
Florida has rescinded (for a week) the sales tax on anything related to hurricanes, so this is a good time to buy plywood, batteries, and plastic sheeting. I must look at the list to see what else is on the tax free list. The state is advertising tax free sales so much that if I were a retailer I would leave everything at full price, which I am sure most retailers are doing.
Maria and I have half of the North Atlantic tuna catch cached in a closet here along with enough water to supply the most of the elephants at Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey.
We are in the middle of a thunderstorm on the first day of the hurricane season. Last year's four big ones put everyone on edge and all kinds of preparations are being made that were never made before.
In Florida when it rains people act like people do in New York when there is an eight inch snowstorm. Dinner dates are cancelled, theater tickets are given to the maids and doormen, and every one stays inside.
Florida has rescinded (for a week) the sales tax on anything related to hurricanes, so this is a good time to buy plywood, batteries, and plastic sheeting. I must look at the list to see what else is on the tax free list. The state is advertising tax free sales so much that if I were a retailer I would leave everything at full price, which I am sure most retailers are doing.
Maria and I have half of the North Atlantic tuna catch cached in a closet here along with enough water to supply the most of the elephants at Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Friday, May 20, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1917.
4. Rhapsody on a Windy Night
TWELVE o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
5
And all its clear relations
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
10
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered,
15
The street-lamp said, “Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
20
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.”
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
25
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
30
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
“Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
35
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.”
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
40
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
45
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
“Regard the moon,
50
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
55
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
60
That cross and cross across her brain.”
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
65
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.
The lamp said,
“Four o’clock,
70
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount.
75
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.”
The last twist of the knife.
.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1917.
4. Rhapsody on a Windy Night
TWELVE o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
5
And all its clear relations
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
10
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered,
15
The street-lamp said, “Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
20
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.”
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
25
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
30
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
“Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
35
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.”
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
40
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
45
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
“Regard the moon,
50
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
55
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
60
That cross and cross across her brain.”
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
65
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.
The lamp said,
“Four o’clock,
70
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount.
75
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.”
The last twist of the knife.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"people are dying because of a belief in an imaginary God.
Sam Harris.org
"
...The end of faith, religion, error--and the beginning of reason."
Stem cells; Blastocyst. 150 cells in a spheroid shape. The brain of a fly has 100,000 cells.
Sam Harris.org
You are trumping the needs of a little girl with diabetes, a total burn victim, a parkinsons victim, an alzheimer's patient when you deny the use of stem cells for reserach.
Sam harris.org
Dogma can be secular too--Stalinism, Naziism, Polpot, --political religions. When mass murder of innocent non-combatants occurs ask yourself what the motive might be. What do the murderers believe. Always it will preposterous.
SamHarris.org
We shouldn't close the door on belief until all the possibilities have been exhausted.
"people are dying because of a belief in an imaginary God.
Sam Harris.org
"
...The end of faith, religion, error--and the beginning of reason."
Stem cells; Blastocyst. 150 cells in a spheroid shape. The brain of a fly has 100,000 cells.
Sam Harris.org
You are trumping the needs of a little girl with diabetes, a total burn victim, a parkinsons victim, an alzheimer's patient when you deny the use of stem cells for reserach.
Sam harris.org
Dogma can be secular too--Stalinism, Naziism, Polpot, --political religions. When mass murder of innocent non-combatants occurs ask yourself what the motive might be. What do the murderers believe. Always it will preposterous.
SamHarris.org
We shouldn't close the door on belief until all the possibilities have been exhausted.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To the Man on the Thirtieth Floor
Looking down
You think
Because you're so high up there
You don't stink
Like the rest of us.
mek
To the Man on the Thirtieth Floor
Looking down
You think
Because you're so high up there
You don't stink
Like the rest of us.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
peri·pe·teia
Pronunciation: "per-&-p&-'tE-&, -'tI-Function: nounEtymology: Greek, from peripiptein to fall around, change suddenly, from peri- + piptein to fall —more at FEATHER Date: 1591:
a sudden or unexpected reversal of circumstances or situation especially in a literary work
peri·pe·teia
Pronunciation: "per-&-p&-'tE-&, -'tI-Function: nounEtymology: Greek, from peripiptein to fall around, change suddenly, from peri- + piptein to fall —more at FEATHER Date: 1591:
a sudden or unexpected reversal of circumstances or situation especially in a literary work
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To choose doubt as a philosophy is akin to choosing immobility as a means of philosophy.
Life of Pi.
To choose doubt as a philosophy is akin to choosing immobility as a means of philosophy.
Life of Pi.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
If a fool would throw a stone into water ten wise men could not take it out.
Yiddish saying.
If a fool would throw a stone into water ten wise men could not take it out.
Yiddish saying.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Two quotes from Remi:
Remi's tooth fell out and it was in her hand. She asked me: "Grandpa, how much do you think the tooth fairy will leave under my pillow for this tooth? "
I asnwered: "About a dime."
Remi: "Did you say a diam-mond?"
________________________________________________
Later we were sitting on opposite ends of a sofa while pretending to have a conversation by cell phone. The conversation went on for some time and then she said, "Grandpa, hold on, I'm driving through a tunnel."
Remi's tooth fell out and it was in her hand. She asked me: "Grandpa, how much do you think the tooth fairy will leave under my pillow for this tooth? "
I asnwered: "About a dime."
Remi: "Did you say a diam-mond?"
________________________________________________
Later we were sitting on opposite ends of a sofa while pretending to have a conversation by cell phone. The conversation went on for some time and then she said, "Grandpa, hold on, I'm driving through a tunnel."
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
My used Solara convertible gets 19 miles per gallon. It uses regular gas --
Today I paid $2.25 per gallon -- the cheapest in this area.
At that rate I am getting 8.5 miles per dollar.
Walking becomes a more attractive alternative....
My used Solara convertible gets 19 miles per gallon. It uses regular gas --
Today I paid $2.25 per gallon -- the cheapest in this area.
At that rate I am getting 8.5 miles per dollar.
Walking becomes a more attractive alternative....
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Q. from Buster to all and sundry:
Has every grandisonic, lexiphnanic phrasemonger found his way to Deadwood on Sunday nights? Have I been hornswoggled by its magniloquent, bedizened language? Am I getting cock sucking over-excited, overly enthusiastic, about this fucking program, or is it really approaching fucking Shakespearean heights?
Buster Stronghart
A: MG
Buster:
Can we not deduce that the Cocksucker who employs Shakespearean ways of speaking likely intends Shakespearean fucking themes? MG
A: SS
Dearest Buster:
It is laughable that you would think that you are too excited overly enthusiastic about Deadwood. I too find it the greatest.
The characters and their interplay cast i na forming American town is high art. The language and actionunconstrained by our present day experience is transporting .
K. and M. are repelled by it. I wont miss it if I can help it. I gladly pay the HBO bill -cheap at double the price. Each and everycharacter is complex and nuanced. I love it. I love it.
I even watchthe Tues nite repeat to fill in for bathroom abscence or frig visits. There is nothing on TV that even comes close. Epic.
ss
A: HR
I MUST AGREE WITH STEVE, DEADWOOD IS TRULY ONE OF THE MOST ORIGINAL TVDRAMAS TO EVER HIT THE AIRWAVES.I LOVE THE DIRTY FILTHY LOOK OF THE SHOW, AND OF COURSE THE WAY THEAVAILABLE EASY SEX WITH WHORES IS DEPICTED. NO DINNERS, NO FLOWERS;THE WAY GOD INTENDED IT TO BE. JUST LIFT UP YOUR SKIRTS. FORGET SHAKESPEARE....hr
Q. from Buster to all and sundry:
Has every grandisonic, lexiphnanic phrasemonger found his way to Deadwood on Sunday nights? Have I been hornswoggled by its magniloquent, bedizened language? Am I getting cock sucking over-excited, overly enthusiastic, about this fucking program, or is it really approaching fucking Shakespearean heights?
Buster Stronghart
A: MG
Buster:
Can we not deduce that the Cocksucker who employs Shakespearean ways of speaking likely intends Shakespearean fucking themes? MG
A: SS
Dearest Buster:
It is laughable that you would think that you are too excited overly enthusiastic about Deadwood. I too find it the greatest.
The characters and their interplay cast i na forming American town is high art. The language and actionunconstrained by our present day experience is transporting .
K. and M. are repelled by it. I wont miss it if I can help it. I gladly pay the HBO bill -cheap at double the price. Each and everycharacter is complex and nuanced. I love it. I love it.
I even watchthe Tues nite repeat to fill in for bathroom abscence or frig visits. There is nothing on TV that even comes close. Epic.
ss
A: HR
I MUST AGREE WITH STEVE, DEADWOOD IS TRULY ONE OF THE MOST ORIGINAL TVDRAMAS TO EVER HIT THE AIRWAVES.I LOVE THE DIRTY FILTHY LOOK OF THE SHOW, AND OF COURSE THE WAY THEAVAILABLE EASY SEX WITH WHORES IS DEPICTED. NO DINNERS, NO FLOWERS;THE WAY GOD INTENDED IT TO BE. JUST LIFT UP YOUR SKIRTS. FORGET SHAKESPEARE....hr
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Q. from Buster to all and sundry:
Has every grandisonic, lexiphnanic phrasemonger found his way to Deadwood on Sunday nights? Have I been hornswoggled by its magniloquent, bedizened language? Am I getting cock sucking over-excited, overly enthusiastic, about this fucking program, or is it really approaching fucking Shakespearean heights?
Buster Stronghart
A: MG
Buster:
Can we not deduce that the Cocksucker who employs Shakespearean ways of speaking likely intends Shakespearean fucking themes? MG
A: SS
Dearest Buster:
It is laughable that you would think that you are too excited overly enthusiastic about Deadwood. I too find it the greatest.
The characters and their interplay cast i na forming American town is high art. The language and actionunconstrained by our present day experience is transporting .
K. and M. are repelled by it. I wont miss it if I can help it. I gladly pay the HBO bill -cheap at double the price. Each and everycharacter is complex and nuanced. I love it. I love it.
I even watchthe Tues nite repeat to fill in for bathroom abscence or frig visits. There is nothing on TV that even comes close. Epic.
ss
A: HR
I MUST AGREE WITH STEVE, DEADWOOD IS TRULY ONE OF THE MOST ORIGINAL TVDRAMAS TO EVER HIT THE AIRWAVES.I LOVE THE DIRTY FILTHY LOOK OF THE SHOW, AND OF COURSE THE WAY THEAVAILABLE EASY SEX WITH WHORES IS DEPICTED. NO DINNERS, NO FLOWERS;THE WAY GOD INTENDED IT TO BE. JUST LIFT UP YOUR SKIRTS. FORGET SHAKESPEARE....hr
Q. from Buster to all and sundry:
Has every grandisonic, lexiphnanic phrasemonger found his way to Deadwood on Sunday nights? Have I been hornswoggled by its magniloquent, bedizened language? Am I getting cock sucking over-excited, overly enthusiastic, about this fucking program, or is it really approaching fucking Shakespearean heights?
Buster Stronghart
A: MG
Buster:
Can we not deduce that the Cocksucker who employs Shakespearean ways of speaking likely intends Shakespearean fucking themes? MG
A: SS
Dearest Buster:
It is laughable that you would think that you are too excited overly enthusiastic about Deadwood. I too find it the greatest.
The characters and their interplay cast i na forming American town is high art. The language and actionunconstrained by our present day experience is transporting .
K. and M. are repelled by it. I wont miss it if I can help it. I gladly pay the HBO bill -cheap at double the price. Each and everycharacter is complex and nuanced. I love it. I love it.
I even watchthe Tues nite repeat to fill in for bathroom abscence or frig visits. There is nothing on TV that even comes close. Epic.
ss
A: HR
I MUST AGREE WITH STEVE, DEADWOOD IS TRULY ONE OF THE MOST ORIGINAL TVDRAMAS TO EVER HIT THE AIRWAVES.I LOVE THE DIRTY FILTHY LOOK OF THE SHOW, AND OF COURSE THE WAY THEAVAILABLE EASY SEX WITH WHORES IS DEPICTED. NO DINNERS, NO FLOWERS;THE WAY GOD INTENDED IT TO BE. JUST LIFT UP YOUR SKIRTS. FORGET SHAKESPEARE....hr
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
re: Deadwood
Am I getting over-excited, overly enthusiastic about this program, or is it really approaching Shakespearean heights?
re: Deadwood
Am I getting over-excited, overly enthusiastic about this program, or is it really approaching Shakespearean heights?
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Fed Ex Letter received at the offices of a certain Attorney
Fed Ex Letter received at the offices of a certain Attorney
Sirs:
A hypothetical question:
If an individual were making love with his mistress or wife and took an actual bite, a chunk of meat, out of her shoulder while possessed by passion, what crime would that be?
If, still in a state of passion he were actually to eat, that chunk of flesh, to swallow it in some fury of blinded love, would that act be cannibalism? If so, would it be a criminal act or would it be muted, mitigated, by the court's recognition of the uncontrollable power of their explosive passion?
Kindly let me know as soon as possible.
m
Monday, April 25, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I know nothing about art: But like Justice Stewart I know it when I see it. Buying on line? I don't know. Even when you buy from the biggest auction houses in the world errors in attribution are made.
Myfriend Muggsy Feldstein, the plumber, attributed one of his daughter's finger paintings to George Braque and I paid him half a month's salary for it thinking that I was stealing it from him. Muggsy had the lastlaugh.
Now in re the feminized painting of St Michael and the Dragon. that you are thinking of purchasing...I can tell you that that painting the hero of a painting as anadolescent, androgynous figure was very popular in the fifteenth and sixteenth century.
Recently I saw a slide of Andrea Del Verrocchio's David, the one in Florence that was restored a few years ago. Magnifico!
David appears hand on hip, Goliath's sword in his other. He wears a short skirt, and the detail of his musculature is very soft. His hair is curled and comes down to his neck. His face is feminine,one hip is thrust to the side.
If a woman were in this pose you wouldsay she was flirting. He has a bonnet on his head, flowered, definitely a woman's head covering.
The Medici's contracted for the statue and placed in in a privatewalled garden so that the hoi polloi (Joel and me -- not you Lew & Stella) would not be shocked by it.
I know nothing about art: But like Justice Stewart I know it when I see it. Buying on line? I don't know. Even when you buy from the biggest auction houses in the world errors in attribution are made.
Myfriend Muggsy Feldstein, the plumber, attributed one of his daughter's finger paintings to George Braque and I paid him half a month's salary for it thinking that I was stealing it from him. Muggsy had the lastlaugh.
Now in re the feminized painting of St Michael and the Dragon. that you are thinking of purchasing...I can tell you that that painting the hero of a painting as anadolescent, androgynous figure was very popular in the fifteenth and sixteenth century.
Recently I saw a slide of Andrea Del Verrocchio's David, the one in Florence that was restored a few years ago. Magnifico!
David appears hand on hip, Goliath's sword in his other. He wears a short skirt, and the detail of his musculature is very soft. His hair is curled and comes down to his neck. His face is feminine,one hip is thrust to the side.
If a woman were in this pose you wouldsay she was flirting. He has a bonnet on his head, flowered, definitely a woman's head covering.
The Medici's contracted for the statue and placed in in a privatewalled garden so that the hoi polloi (Joel and me -- not you Lew & Stella) would not be shocked by it.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A few months ago I noticed that an index listing in the NY Public library was incorrect.
Man Ray was listed as "Ray, Man," as though his last name was Ray. ..
Man Ray created his name and considered it as one piece. MAN RAY.
The listing should be "Man Ray." I reported this to the NY Public Librarian at 42nd Street, and was told that it was not under their control, but rather under the control of the Library of Congress (LOC). I followed up with a letter to the "Name Authority File," of the LOC, in Washington, D.C.
Yesterday I received an email from them. “After a month of research we have discovered that you are correct. The change has been made. Thank you for your message."
This change will affect thousands of college and town libraries all of which use the LOC system as well as some commercial libraries.
I was elated! I finally made my mark.. Now on to the Dewey decimal system.
A few months ago I noticed that an index listing in the NY Public library was incorrect.
Man Ray was listed as "Ray, Man," as though his last name was Ray. ..
Man Ray created his name and considered it as one piece. MAN RAY.
The listing should be "Man Ray." I reported this to the NY Public Librarian at 42nd Street, and was told that it was not under their control, but rather under the control of the Library of Congress (LOC). I followed up with a letter to the "Name Authority File," of the LOC, in Washington, D.C.
Yesterday I received an email from them. “After a month of research we have discovered that you are correct. The change has been made. Thank you for your message."
This change will affect thousands of college and town libraries all of which use the LOC system as well as some commercial libraries.
I was elated! I finally made my mark.. Now on to the Dewey decimal system.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"What do lawyers do that is immoral? " I asked,.
My friend answered, "Fight so hard to insure that everyone gets a fair trial, even if it means that a young man from Brooklyn who kills a man because he spilled his beer goes free of punishment. "
Ouch.
"What do lawyers do that is immoral? " I asked,.
My friend answered, "Fight so hard to insure that everyone gets a fair trial, even if it means that a young man from Brooklyn who kills a man because he spilled his beer goes free of punishment. "
Ouch.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It is strange, this painless death. Like stepping through a door held politely open for him. It doesn't seem right, somehow; a trivialization of the event. Death ought to be harder to achieve. Better to be hunted down, rooted out, hurting and bloody. Then death would come as a relief. It would be welcome.
Richard Selzer
--Raising the Dead
It is strange, this painless death. Like stepping through a door held politely open for him. It doesn't seem right, somehow; a trivialization of the event. Death ought to be harder to achieve. Better to be hunted down, rooted out, hurting and bloody. Then death would come as a relief. It would be welcome.
Richard Selzer
--Raising the Dead
Friday, April 08, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A second gold star to anyone who can find for me the short story, " The Last Escapade," by Harry (Mark?) _____________.
In fact, as many gold stars as the finder wishes and my eternal gratitude. It was once read by Ed Asner of NPR's "Selected Shorts."
A second gold star to anyone who can find for me the short story, " The Last Escapade," by Harry (Mark?) _____________.
In fact, as many gold stars as the finder wishes and my eternal gratitude. It was once read by Ed Asner of NPR's "Selected Shorts."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The streetlamp sputtered
The streetlamp muttered
The streetlamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin."
________________________________________
A gold star for the first person to identify the surprising author of
"Rhapsody on a Windy Night."
The streetlamp sputtered
The streetlamp muttered
The streetlamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin."
________________________________________
A gold star for the first person to identify the surprising author of
"Rhapsody on a Windy Night."
Friday, April 01, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful pet poodle along for company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long he discovers that he is lost. Wandering about, he notices a leopard heading rapidly in his direction with the obvious intention of having lunch. The poodle thinks, "Uh-oh, I'm in deep trouble now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, he immediately settles down to chew on the bones with his back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard. I wonder if there are any more around here." Hearing this, the leopard halts his attack in mid-stride, a look of terror comes over him, and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew," says the leopard. "That was close. That poodle nearly had me." Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So, off he goes. But the poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that something must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard. The leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine." Now the poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?" But instead of running, the dog sits down with his back to his attackers, pretending he hasn't seen them yet and, just when they get close enough to hear, the poodle says..................... "Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off half an hour ago to bring me another leopard!" MORAL: SOMETIMES BULLSHIT AND BRILLIANCE ARE THE SAME
A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful pet poodle along for company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long he discovers that he is lost. Wandering about, he notices a leopard heading rapidly in his direction with the obvious intention of having lunch. The poodle thinks, "Uh-oh, I'm in deep trouble now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, he immediately settles down to chew on the bones with his back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard. I wonder if there are any more around here." Hearing this, the leopard halts his attack in mid-stride, a look of terror comes over him, and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew," says the leopard. "That was close. That poodle nearly had me." Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So, off he goes. But the poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that something must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard. The leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine." Now the poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?" But instead of running, the dog sits down with his back to his attackers, pretending he hasn't seen them yet and, just when they get close enough to hear, the poodle says..................... "Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off half an hour ago to bring me another leopard!" MORAL: SOMETIMES BULLSHIT AND BRILLIANCE ARE THE SAME
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Basil:
A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful pet poodle along for company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long he discovers that he is lost. Wandering about, he notices a leopard heading rapidly in his direction with the obvious intention of having lunch. The poodle thinks, "Uh-oh, I'm in deep trouble now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, he immediately settles down to chew on the bones with his back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard. I wonder if there are any more around here." Hearing this, the leopard halts his attack in mid-stride, a look of terror comes over him, and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew," says the leopard. "That was close. That poodle nearly had me." Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So, off he goes. But the poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that something must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard. The leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine." Now the poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?" But instead of running, the dog sits down with his back to his attackers, pretending he hasn't seen them yet and, just when they get close enough to hear, the poodle says..................... "Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off half an hour ago to bring me another leopard!" MORAL: SOMETIMES BULLSHIT AND BRILLIANCE ARE THE SAME
From Basil:
A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful pet poodle along for company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long he discovers that he is lost. Wandering about, he notices a leopard heading rapidly in his direction with the obvious intention of having lunch. The poodle thinks, "Uh-oh, I'm in deep trouble now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, he immediately settles down to chew on the bones with his back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard. I wonder if there are any more around here." Hearing this, the leopard halts his attack in mid-stride, a look of terror comes over him, and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew," says the leopard. "That was close. That poodle nearly had me." Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So, off he goes. But the poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that something must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard. The leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine." Now the poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?" But instead of running, the dog sits down with his back to his attackers, pretending he hasn't seen them yet and, just when they get close enough to hear, the poodle says..................... "Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off half an hour ago to bring me another leopard!" MORAL: SOMETIMES BULLSHIT AND BRILLIANCE ARE THE SAME
Monday, March 28, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Travel, once thought to be enlightening, broadening and educational, has become nothing more than an experience of shopping, restaurants and hotels.
Travel, once thought to be enlightening, broadening and educational, has become nothing more than an experience of shopping, restaurants and hotels.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Notes to be developed:
perceived difference. otherness--difference
"Jewface" as in "Blackface" the face Jews put on when they went on stage...a shallow appearance of Jewishness
Conflicted Jewishness--were the original deniers the second generation Jews of America?
Sense of denying, the actuality of the holocaust, we were unwilling or unable to express/accept our Jewishness,
the showbusiness term, "too Jewish." The second generation actively rejected the foriegnness of their parents.
Hansens Thesis: "The third generation remembers what the second generation forgets."
Notes to be developed:
perceived difference. otherness--difference
"Jewface" as in "Blackface" the face Jews put on when they went on stage...a shallow appearance of Jewishness
Conflicted Jewishness--were the original deniers the second generation Jews of America?
Sense of denying, the actuality of the holocaust, we were unwilling or unable to express/accept our Jewishness,
the showbusiness term, "too Jewish." The second generation actively rejected the foriegnness of their parents.
Hansens Thesis: "The third generation remembers what the second generation forgets."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Notes to be developed:
perceived difference. otherness--difference
"Jewface" as in "Blackface" the face Jews put on when they went on stage...a shallow appearance of Jewishness
Conflicted Jewishness--were the original deniers the second generation Jews of America?
Sense of denying, the actuality of the holocaust, we were unwilling or unable to express/accept our Jewishness,
the showbusiness term, "too Jewish." The second generation actively rejected the foriegnness of their parents.
Hansens Thesis: "The third generation remembers what the second generation forgets."
Notes to be developed:
perceived difference. otherness--difference
"Jewface" as in "Blackface" the face Jews put on when they went on stage...a shallow appearance of Jewishness
Conflicted Jewishness--were the original deniers the second generation Jews of America?
Sense of denying, the actuality of the holocaust, we were unwilling or unable to express/accept our Jewishness,
the showbusiness term, "too Jewish." The second generation actively rejected the foriegnness of their parents.
Hansens Thesis: "The third generation remembers what the second generation forgets."
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"If a lion could talk we could not understand him." Wittgenstein
Maybe this is why liberals and conservative don't seem to understand each other.
"If a lion could talk we could not understand him." Wittgenstein
Maybe this is why liberals and conservative don't seem to understand each other.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Hanson's Thesis on immigration: "the third generation remembers what the second forgot."
Hanson's Thesis on immigration: "the third generation remembers what the second forgot."
Saturday, March 12, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
These are further thoughts on the posting dated Feb 25.
Death’s dark exile from life and family.
Love’s bright journey
Exiles rooted in sand
Held up in fair air only by a few dry tendrils.
Dada grounded in the joy of doubt.
**
How did we divide away from them? Ambitious to become part of the “other” how did they fail on the one hand to assimilate, while, on the other hand, becoming so much an influence on American-European culture. Where would the twentieth century have gone were it not for Freud, Einstein and Marx? If you think about it there is only one other transforming catalyst of the twentieth century and that would be Darwin, whose work was done in the 19th Century but whose effect, like Marx was felt mainly in the twentieth century.
By the end of the second world war Jews were among the major novelists in America, The film world,as well as the theater were also filled with Jews, and their influence on what became of America should not be underestimated. In medicine and music, in all of the modern media Jews played a major part. The civil rights movement was reinforced (at the least) by Jews, both practicing and secular—and by many who had consciously forgotten their Jewish heritage.
But while ambitious to become part of this culture, we never grafted on to it. The graft remains unhealed and very visible whether we call ourselves Greenberg or Green.
We are the perpetual Dadaists, grounded in the joy of doubt, exiles rooted in sand, held up, only in fair weather, by a few dry tendrils.
Our past has suffered a slow, stoic death. It has been inescapable. There has been the loss, the destruction or dissipation of what once was valued and loved. Now reduced detritus cast on the wind. Everything we love is an unendurably fragile. The personal is always lost.
My veins flow with a ghostly blood that calls their names. But I know nothing of them. I am full of an inaccessible history of everything that happened but it is utterly lost and wasted except for a few mysterious spiritual, unconscious strains of a music barely heard, yet, somehow I still march to it.
These are further thoughts on the posting dated Feb 25.
Death’s dark exile from life and family.
Love’s bright journey
Exiles rooted in sand
Held up in fair air only by a few dry tendrils.
Dada grounded in the joy of doubt.
**
How did we divide away from them? Ambitious to become part of the “other” how did they fail on the one hand to assimilate, while, on the other hand, becoming so much an influence on American-European culture. Where would the twentieth century have gone were it not for Freud, Einstein and Marx? If you think about it there is only one other transforming catalyst of the twentieth century and that would be Darwin, whose work was done in the 19th Century but whose effect, like Marx was felt mainly in the twentieth century.
By the end of the second world war Jews were among the major novelists in America, The film world,as well as the theater were also filled with Jews, and their influence on what became of America should not be underestimated. In medicine and music, in all of the modern media Jews played a major part. The civil rights movement was reinforced (at the least) by Jews, both practicing and secular—and by many who had consciously forgotten their Jewish heritage.
But while ambitious to become part of this culture, we never grafted on to it. The graft remains unhealed and very visible whether we call ourselves Greenberg or Green.
We are the perpetual Dadaists, grounded in the joy of doubt, exiles rooted in sand, held up, only in fair weather, by a few dry tendrils.
Our past has suffered a slow, stoic death. It has been inescapable. There has been the loss, the destruction or dissipation of what once was valued and loved. Now reduced detritus cast on the wind. Everything we love is an unendurably fragile. The personal is always lost.
My veins flow with a ghostly blood that calls their names. But I know nothing of them. I am full of an inaccessible history of everything that happened but it is utterly lost and wasted except for a few mysterious spiritual, unconscious strains of a music barely heard, yet, somehow I still march to it.
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