BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
And why did you leave out Bob Hood, or Don Ringinham, a pharmacist who worked for me and now is the owner of three drug stores, or Marva May K--r, another pharmacist who also managed one of my stores for me and now owns her own store, and will be retiring soon to live in Panama and New York. And at BST there were plenty of guys who made more of themselves than the corner idlers Cosby mentions.
And then there was Charlie E----N, a Jewish pharmacist, probably the best I ever had, fast and smart, who worked for me before opening his own store and is now in jail for Medicaid fraud. And what about Bob S---N, a Serbian pharmacist who kept pistols in his locker? . Or Barry S---o, another Jewish pharmacist who stole drugs from the store and resold them on the street.
I don't think race means anything. I suspect the culture and the family. Or lack thereof. And do you know who agreed with me? W.E.B.DuBois, that's who.You see, we knew all this stuff long ago. But we never act on it.
When in the seventh grade my son, Max, was asked to write a paper on Existentialism, and so he called on The Great Robert Earl Hood, and asked him for advice. Bob, who had studied in Switzerland with Karl Barth, told Max to tell his teacher that, "We settled all that stuff in the fifties."
That's how I feel about Cosby and his recent discovery that black children aren't paying attention in school, and are wearing their hats backwards. -- We knew all that stuff in the sixties.
The question is what can be done about it. I am quite pessimistic that any outside force can have any effect on what is happening. Outside forces include, the schools, the government, carrot-offering liberals, and even stick-wielding conservatives.
Once as Bob and I walked on Ninth Avenue, near General Seminary, where he taught philosophy I said to Bob:
"Bob, you are one of the most intelligent people I have ever known, do you really believe in God?" "
Yes," he answered, "with all my heart and soul, I believe that Jesus Christ is my ___ and savior, and that one day I will sit at his feet in heaven."
Bob Hood left a cushy job teaching at the graduate level at General Seminary in NYC, a job that included a fabulous salary and a three bedroom apartment in Manhattan, in order to found the African American Studies Department at Hofstra on Long Island, where he lived in an unheated room, up a narrow, winding, stone stairway in the tower of the Cathedral of the Incarnation. He gave up what would have rolled up into a large pension and took his chances with a project that might not have worked out.
He sold his beloved collection of English 18th Century furniture and a collection of English silver and contributed the proceeds to the African-American Study Center, when funding did not come as quickly as he had expected. Cosidering his age at the time, I would guess that the collection was accumulated over a twenty year period.
He was a radical activist who was a representative of Desmond Tutu. He believed in non-violence in the tradition of Dietrich Bonhoffer and Martin Luther King.
Although he thought himself to be a liberation theologian, without violence, and argued that his people had suffered oppression at the hands of racist whites, Bob was able to divine the difference between innocuous, harmless whites like me, and bigot whites. Bob saw the world from the bottom up, through the eyes and feelings of the poor and oppressed.
Yes, he had a flaw, a flaw of which you may be aware, which was that, although he loved women, he did not think them suitable to the wearing of the cloth. He believed that God had another purpose for women.
But we each live with our contradictions, even me and probably every reader.
One of Bob's favorite Biblical Passages was the Magnificat, related in Luke; Bob had memorized it and when he recited it his voice, deep, baronial, would rise every time he came to the lines, "...He has taken princes from their thrones/and exalted the lowly."
He believed and certainly his world view was from the bottom.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Friday, December 07, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The Virtues:
Auctoritas: "Spiritual Authority" The sense of one's social standing, built up through experience, Pietas, and Industria.
Comitas: "Humor" Ease of manner, courtesy, openness, and friendliness.
Clementia: "Mercy" Mildness and gentleness.
Dignitas: "Dignity" A sense of self-worth, personal pride.
Firmitas: "Tenacity" Strength of mind, the ability to stick to one's purpose.
Frugalitas: "Frugalness" Economy and simplicity of style, without being miserly.
Gravitas: "Gravity" A sense of the importance of the matter at hand, responsibility and earnestness.
Honestas: "Respectibility" The image that one presents as a respectable member of society.
Humanitas: "Humanity" Refinement, civilization, learning, and being cultured.
Industria: "Industriousness" Hard work.
Pietas: "Dutifulness" More than religious piety; a respect for the natural order socially, politically, and religiously. Includes the ideas of patriotism and devotion to others.
Prudentia: "Prudence" Foresight, wisdom, and personal discretion.
Salubritas: "Wholesomeness" Health and cleanliness.
Severitas: "Sternness" Gravity, self-control.
Veritas: "Truthfulness" Honesty in dealing with others.
The Virtues:
Auctoritas: "Spiritual Authority" The sense of one's social standing, built up through experience, Pietas, and Industria.
Comitas: "Humor" Ease of manner, courtesy, openness, and friendliness.
Clementia: "Mercy" Mildness and gentleness.
Dignitas: "Dignity" A sense of self-worth, personal pride.
Firmitas: "Tenacity" Strength of mind, the ability to stick to one's purpose.
Frugalitas: "Frugalness" Economy and simplicity of style, without being miserly.
Gravitas: "Gravity" A sense of the importance of the matter at hand, responsibility and earnestness.
Honestas: "Respectibility" The image that one presents as a respectable member of society.
Humanitas: "Humanity" Refinement, civilization, learning, and being cultured.
Industria: "Industriousness" Hard work.
Pietas: "Dutifulness" More than religious piety; a respect for the natural order socially, politically, and religiously. Includes the ideas of patriotism and devotion to others.
Prudentia: "Prudence" Foresight, wisdom, and personal discretion.
Salubritas: "Wholesomeness" Health and cleanliness.
Severitas: "Sternness" Gravity, self-control.
Veritas: "Truthfulness" Honesty in dealing with others.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Robert Stone's essay on "The Father of All Things,"Tom Bissell, NY Review, 11-22-07:
"The waters returned and covered the chariots and the chariot drivers, the whole army of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea; not one of them remained." Exodus. Nobody completely returns from a war, especially a lost one.
"A person who has lived through a great war is different from a person who never lived through any war. They are two different species of human beings. They will never find a common language, because you cannot really describe the war, you cannot share it, you cannot tell someone: Here take a little of my war." Ryszard Kapuscinski
"It was Heraclitus who told us that no man steps into the same river twice because it is never the same river and never the same man."
"He also wrote that that a 'beast moves in response only to blows and, hauntingly, that the kingly power is like the power of a child.' Perhaps he meant that struggle is at once inevitable and ultimately ineffectual, a pessimism that we have all be admonished to resist."
"the largest house can be entered by its smallest door."
From Robert Stone's essay on "The Father of All Things,"Tom Bissell, NY Review, 11-22-07:
"The waters returned and covered the chariots and the chariot drivers, the whole army of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea; not one of them remained." Exodus. Nobody completely returns from a war, especially a lost one.
"A person who has lived through a great war is different from a person who never lived through any war. They are two different species of human beings. They will never find a common language, because you cannot really describe the war, you cannot share it, you cannot tell someone: Here take a little of my war." Ryszard Kapuscinski
"It was Heraclitus who told us that no man steps into the same river twice because it is never the same river and never the same man."
"He also wrote that that a 'beast moves in response only to blows and, hauntingly, that the kingly power is like the power of a child.' Perhaps he meant that struggle is at once inevitable and ultimately ineffectual, a pessimism that we have all be admonished to resist."
"the largest house can be entered by its smallest door."
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"There comes a time when time passing becomes time remaining."
I had no idea what I said. Here's St Eve's first reply.
This is a complicated statement and requires some thought to unravel. The passage of time is a perception that depends upon cause and effect occurrence in the physical world and the apprehension of those causes followed by their associated effects. The batter hits the pitched ball. Then there is the memory of those relations and their order of occurrence. Sight of the ball and sound of the bat hitting the ball this becomes the sensed passage of time. So when the time remaining to our lives becomes the sensed moment of times' passage; it is the last moment-end time. Now some might accuse me of being philosophically narrow and bending the meaning to my own ends but if you think about what time perception is really all about then my conclusion seems unavoidable. If this is not clear I will gladly restate it.
Ss
Gross asked for a restatement. So here's St Eve's second reply or re-statement.
Inherent within the above statement, there is a structure to time. There is past, present and future time.
Time coming is its emergence out of the future to become the present moment. No matter how brief that moment is, it lapses and becomes the next moment. As it passes it becomes past time. Historical time and future time are infinites with present time sandwiched in between. Time passing from future to present to past is the accepted linear configuration in western society.
In the second part of the statement, “time remaining” has to be assumed to be a personal subset of future moments that constitutes the finite period of the person’s life that they have left to live.
So when that packet of future time, the remainder of one’s life’s moments becomes passing time, and entering the past then one's life is over the next instant. When the time remaining to one's life passes it is all over.
To restate the notions related to the perception of time embedded in the above statement is less . This perception is complex and comes from our senses which record in memory happenings sequentially with antecedent and subsequent events. They may be cause and effect but as Katz has pointed out may just be sequential.
The order of occurrence and their recording on RNA and reading that order may be how we know that events are past time and we are able to place them in their temporal order by their physical placement in the RNA molecule.
There are many exceptions to time perception which are intriguing.
Time passing fast, passing slowly: time standing still, athletes in “the zone “with altered time perception and increased performance abilities.
When my understanding improves with research I will pass it on.
ss
"There comes a time when time passing becomes time remaining."
I had no idea what I said. Here's St Eve's first reply.
This is a complicated statement and requires some thought to unravel. The passage of time is a perception that depends upon cause and effect occurrence in the physical world and the apprehension of those causes followed by their associated effects. The batter hits the pitched ball. Then there is the memory of those relations and their order of occurrence. Sight of the ball and sound of the bat hitting the ball this becomes the sensed passage of time. So when the time remaining to our lives becomes the sensed moment of times' passage; it is the last moment-end time. Now some might accuse me of being philosophically narrow and bending the meaning to my own ends but if you think about what time perception is really all about then my conclusion seems unavoidable. If this is not clear I will gladly restate it.
Ss
Gross asked for a restatement. So here's St Eve's second reply or re-statement.
Inherent within the above statement, there is a structure to time. There is past, present and future time.
Time coming is its emergence out of the future to become the present moment. No matter how brief that moment is, it lapses and becomes the next moment. As it passes it becomes past time. Historical time and future time are infinites with present time sandwiched in between. Time passing from future to present to past is the accepted linear configuration in western society.
In the second part of the statement, “time remaining” has to be assumed to be a personal subset of future moments that constitutes the finite period of the person’s life that they have left to live.
So when that packet of future time, the remainder of one’s life’s moments becomes passing time, and entering the past then one's life is over the next instant. When the time remaining to one's life passes it is all over.
To restate the notions related to the perception of time embedded in the above statement is less . This perception is complex and comes from our senses which record in memory happenings sequentially with antecedent and subsequent events. They may be cause and effect but as Katz has pointed out may just be sequential.
The order of occurrence and their recording on RNA and reading that order may be how we know that events are past time and we are able to place them in their temporal order by their physical placement in the RNA molecule.
There are many exceptions to time perception which are intriguing.
Time passing fast, passing slowly: time standing still, athletes in “the zone “with altered time perception and increased performance abilities.
When my understanding improves with research I will pass it on.
ss
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I've been feeling sorry for myself for several years. I've thought that I didn't measure up to the successes of many of my friends. If you've been reading this blog you've noticed that I often write about my failure, my inability to help my children in the way that I see some of my friends doing, the fact that I can't travel in the "manner to which I am accustomed."
This whining must stop. It's really childlike, it's the cry of a spoiled child, or an old man who never grew up.
I look around myself every day, and see how well I am am living for God's sake. I live in a three bedroom beuatifully decorated apartment overlooking the ocean.
My children aren't starving. Yes, they're in a tougher place than I ever was, but so are many other people in their forties. It isn't as easy for my kids as it was for me. Did I make mistakes? Yes, you bet, in every way. But that's past, and I should be over it, and accept my life for the way it has turned out. I ended up with a great wife, I can still read, and the sun still rises and sets everyday. I see every sunrise. And that ain't so bad...
The paths we take don't always lead to our destination -- but this is where I am and where I belong.
I've been feeling sorry for myself for several years. I've thought that I didn't measure up to the successes of many of my friends. If you've been reading this blog you've noticed that I often write about my failure, my inability to help my children in the way that I see some of my friends doing, the fact that I can't travel in the "manner to which I am accustomed."
This whining must stop. It's really childlike, it's the cry of a spoiled child, or an old man who never grew up.
I look around myself every day, and see how well I am am living for God's sake. I live in a three bedroom beuatifully decorated apartment overlooking the ocean.
My children aren't starving. Yes, they're in a tougher place than I ever was, but so are many other people in their forties. It isn't as easy for my kids as it was for me. Did I make mistakes? Yes, you bet, in every way. But that's past, and I should be over it, and accept my life for the way it has turned out. I ended up with a great wife, I can still read, and the sun still rises and sets everyday. I see every sunrise. And that ain't so bad...
The paths we take don't always lead to our destination -- but this is where I am and where I belong.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The screed is NOT the opinion of the writer. What follows is my reaction to it.
Tomatoes and Cheap Labor CHEAP TOMATOES?
This should make everyone think, be you Democrat, Republican or Independent From a California school teacher - - - As you listen to the news about the student protests over illegal immigration, there are some things that you should be aware of:I am in charge of the English-as-a-second-language department at a large southern California high school which is designated a Title 1 school, meaning that its students average lower socioeconomic and income levels.
Most of the schools you are hearing about, South Gate High, Bell Gardens , Huntington Park , etc., where these students are protesting, are also Title 1 schools. Title 1 schools are on the free breakfast and free lunch program. When I say free breakfast, I'm not talking a glass of milk and roll -- but a full breakfast and cereal bar with fruits and juices that would make a Marriott proud. The waste of this food is monumental, with trays and trays of it being dumped in the trash uneaten. (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK)
I estimate that well over 50% of these students are obese or at least moderately overweight. About 75% or more DO have cell phones. The school also provides day care centers for the unwed teenage pregnant girls (some as young as 13) so they can attend class without the inconvenience of having to arrange for babysitters or having family watch their kids. (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK) I was ordered to spend $700,000 on my department or risk losing funding for the upcoming year even though there was little need for anything; my budget was already substantial. I ended up buying new computers for the computer learning center, half of which, one month later, have been carved with graffiti by the appreciative students who obviously feel humbled and grateful to have a free education in America . (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK)
I have had to intervene several times for young and substitute teachers whose classes consist of many illegal immigrant students here in the country less then 3 months who raised so much hell with the female teachers, calling them 'Putas' whores and throwing things that the teachers were in tears.
Free medical, free education, free food, day care etc., etc, etc. Is it any wonder they feel entitled to not only be in this country but to demand rights, privileges and entitlements? To those who want to point out how much these illegal immigrants contribute to our society because they LIKE their gardener and housekeeper and they like to pay less for tomatoes: spend some time in the real world of illegal immigration and see the TRUE costs. Higher insurance, medical facilities closing, higher medical costs, more crime, lower standards of education in our schools, overcrowding, new diseases etc., etc, etc.
For me, I'll pay more for tomatoes. We need to wake up. The guest worker program will be a disaster because we won't have the guts to enforce it. Does anyone in their right mind really think they will voluntarily leave and return? It does, however, have everything to do with culture: A third-world culture that does not value education, that accepts children getting pregnant and dropping out of school by 15 and that refuses to assimilate, and an American culture that has become so weak and worried about 'political correctness' that we don't have the will to do anything about it.
If this makes your blood boil, as it did mine, forward this to everyone you know. CHEAP LABOR? Isn't that what the whole immigration issue is about?Business doesn't want to pay a decent wage. Consumers don't want expensive produce. Government will tell you Americans don't want the jobs.But the bottom line is cheap labor. The phrase 'cheap labor' is a myth, a farce, and a lie. There is no such thing as 'cheap labor.' Take, for example, an illegal alien with a wife and five children. He takes a job for $5.00 or 6.00/hour. At that wage, with six dependents, he pays no income tax, yet at the end of the year, if he files an Income Tax Return, he gets an 'earned income credit' of up to $3,200 free. He qualifies for Section 8 housing and subsidized rent. He qualifies for food stamps.He qualifies for free (no deductible, no co-pay) health care. His children get free breakfasts and lunches at school.He requires bilingual teachers and books. He qualifies for relief from high energy bills.If they are or become, aged, blind or disabled, they qualify for SSI. Once qualified for SSI they can qualify for Medicare. All of this is at (our) taxpayer's expense. He doesn't worry about car insurance, life insurance, or homeowners insurance.Taxpayers provide Spanish language signs, bulletins and printed material.He and his family receive the equivalent of $20.00 to $30.00/hour in benefits. Working Americans are lucky to have $5.00 or $6.00/hour left after paying their bills and his. The American taxpayers also pay for increased crime, graffiti and trash clean-up. Cheap labor?
YEAH RIGHT! Wake up people! THESE ARE THE QUESTIONS WE SHOULD BE ADDRESSING TO THE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE S FOR EITHER PARTY. 'AND WHEN THEY LIE TO US AND DON'T DO AS THEY SAY, WE SHOULD REPLACE THEM AT ONCE!' THIS HAS GOT TO BE PASSED ALONG TO AS MANY AS POSSIBLE OR WE WILL ALL GO DOWN THE DRAIN BECAUSE A FEW DON'T CARE.
Here's my reply to my poor innocent sister.
Dear Sister:
Here is a poisonous, propagandistic screed probably written by Heinrich Himmler, reincarnated, sent to me by my dear and loving sister, an innocent who passes on more than she knows, and whom I am sure hasn't given much thought to the subject before passing it on. I recognize some of the names on the address list, they are all multi-millionaires, most of whom continued to build the empires started by their parents or grandparents.
They are rich and hard-working, and although each of them could stop working, they seem to have forgotten where they come from, and they forget what was once the rich Jewish tradition (and American, for that matter) of compassion and fighting for the underdog.
Somehow, although America welcome immigrants, we distrust them, fear them, it is the fear of the stranger, xenophobia over all.
America is of two minds when it comes to immigrantion-- on the one hand we open our arms in welcome, but on the other we distrust the strangers who come here in search of a better life, a roof over their heads, some food to put on the table. And when they look different or speak differently than we do, why then the fear turns into witch hunts, like "the yellow peril" of the late nineteenth century, the "red scare" and the Palmer raids after WWI, the internment of Japanese Americans during WW 2, McCarthyism of the fifties, and right at the conception of America, the actual witch hunts of Salem.
Here's your homework, get a DVD called Sacco & Vincetti, you can get it through Netflix or your library. And see if there is a DVD of the Maxwell Anderson play that was made into a film, called Winterset.
And finally, I shall remind my dear sister that our grandfather was caught up in the Palmer raids, and might have been shipped back to Russia with the rest of the unmannered-filthy-Jew-immigrant-anarchist-radicals
The screed is NOT the opinion of the writer. What follows is my reaction to it.
Tomatoes and Cheap Labor CHEAP TOMATOES?
This should make everyone think, be you Democrat, Republican or Independent From a California school teacher - - - As you listen to the news about the student protests over illegal immigration, there are some things that you should be aware of:I am in charge of the English-as-a-second-language department at a large southern California high school which is designated a Title 1 school, meaning that its students average lower socioeconomic and income levels.
Most of the schools you are hearing about, South Gate High, Bell Gardens , Huntington Park , etc., where these students are protesting, are also Title 1 schools. Title 1 schools are on the free breakfast and free lunch program. When I say free breakfast, I'm not talking a glass of milk and roll -- but a full breakfast and cereal bar with fruits and juices that would make a Marriott proud. The waste of this food is monumental, with trays and trays of it being dumped in the trash uneaten. (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK)
I estimate that well over 50% of these students are obese or at least moderately overweight. About 75% or more DO have cell phones. The school also provides day care centers for the unwed teenage pregnant girls (some as young as 13) so they can attend class without the inconvenience of having to arrange for babysitters or having family watch their kids. (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK) I was ordered to spend $700,000 on my department or risk losing funding for the upcoming year even though there was little need for anything; my budget was already substantial. I ended up buying new computers for the computer learning center, half of which, one month later, have been carved with graffiti by the appreciative students who obviously feel humbled and grateful to have a free education in America . (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK)
I have had to intervene several times for young and substitute teachers whose classes consist of many illegal immigrant students here in the country less then 3 months who raised so much hell with the female teachers, calling them 'Putas' whores and throwing things that the teachers were in tears.
Free medical, free education, free food, day care etc., etc, etc. Is it any wonder they feel entitled to not only be in this country but to demand rights, privileges and entitlements? To those who want to point out how much these illegal immigrants contribute to our society because they LIKE their gardener and housekeeper and they like to pay less for tomatoes: spend some time in the real world of illegal immigration and see the TRUE costs. Higher insurance, medical facilities closing, higher medical costs, more crime, lower standards of education in our schools, overcrowding, new diseases etc., etc, etc.
For me, I'll pay more for tomatoes. We need to wake up. The guest worker program will be a disaster because we won't have the guts to enforce it. Does anyone in their right mind really think they will voluntarily leave and return? It does, however, have everything to do with culture: A third-world culture that does not value education, that accepts children getting pregnant and dropping out of school by 15 and that refuses to assimilate, and an American culture that has become so weak and worried about 'political correctness' that we don't have the will to do anything about it.
If this makes your blood boil, as it did mine, forward this to everyone you know. CHEAP LABOR? Isn't that what the whole immigration issue is about?Business doesn't want to pay a decent wage. Consumers don't want expensive produce. Government will tell you Americans don't want the jobs.But the bottom line is cheap labor. The phrase 'cheap labor' is a myth, a farce, and a lie. There is no such thing as 'cheap labor.' Take, for example, an illegal alien with a wife and five children. He takes a job for $5.00 or 6.00/hour. At that wage, with six dependents, he pays no income tax, yet at the end of the year, if he files an Income Tax Return, he gets an 'earned income credit' of up to $3,200 free. He qualifies for Section 8 housing and subsidized rent. He qualifies for food stamps.He qualifies for free (no deductible, no co-pay) health care. His children get free breakfasts and lunches at school.He requires bilingual teachers and books. He qualifies for relief from high energy bills.If they are or become, aged, blind or disabled, they qualify for SSI. Once qualified for SSI they can qualify for Medicare. All of this is at (our) taxpayer's expense. He doesn't worry about car insurance, life insurance, or homeowners insurance.Taxpayers provide Spanish language signs, bulletins and printed material.He and his family receive the equivalent of $20.00 to $30.00/hour in benefits. Working Americans are lucky to have $5.00 or $6.00/hour left after paying their bills and his. The American taxpayers also pay for increased crime, graffiti and trash clean-up. Cheap labor?
YEAH RIGHT! Wake up people! THESE ARE THE QUESTIONS WE SHOULD BE ADDRESSING TO THE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE S FOR EITHER PARTY. 'AND WHEN THEY LIE TO US AND DON'T DO AS THEY SAY, WE SHOULD REPLACE THEM AT ONCE!' THIS HAS GOT TO BE PASSED ALONG TO AS MANY AS POSSIBLE OR WE WILL ALL GO DOWN THE DRAIN BECAUSE A FEW DON'T CARE.
Here's my reply to my poor innocent sister.
Dear Sister:
Here is a poisonous, propagandistic screed probably written by Heinrich Himmler, reincarnated, sent to me by my dear and loving sister, an innocent who passes on more than she knows, and whom I am sure hasn't given much thought to the subject before passing it on. I recognize some of the names on the address list, they are all multi-millionaires, most of whom continued to build the empires started by their parents or grandparents.
They are rich and hard-working, and although each of them could stop working, they seem to have forgotten where they come from, and they forget what was once the rich Jewish tradition (and American, for that matter) of compassion and fighting for the underdog.
Somehow, although America welcome immigrants, we distrust them, fear them, it is the fear of the stranger, xenophobia over all.
America is of two minds when it comes to immigrantion-- on the one hand we open our arms in welcome, but on the other we distrust the strangers who come here in search of a better life, a roof over their heads, some food to put on the table. And when they look different or speak differently than we do, why then the fear turns into witch hunts, like "the yellow peril" of the late nineteenth century, the "red scare" and the Palmer raids after WWI, the internment of Japanese Americans during WW 2, McCarthyism of the fifties, and right at the conception of America, the actual witch hunts of Salem.
Here's your homework, get a DVD called Sacco & Vincetti, you can get it through Netflix or your library. And see if there is a DVD of the Maxwell Anderson play that was made into a film, called Winterset.
And finally, I shall remind my dear sister that our grandfather was caught up in the Palmer raids, and might have been shipped back to Russia with the rest of the unmannered-filthy-Jew-immigrant-anarchist-radicals
Saturday, November 10, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Hal is fighting back with his usual bravery. He stands up when you might think he would lie down and take a "well deserved rest," as he used to say. I watched as a physical therapist wrapped some elastic bandages the length of his leg, right from the verge of his groin to his ankles.
She needed to make them tight, so that they would apply pressure to his leg, something to do with his lymph nodes, something she explained to me, but which, unlike Hal, I just turned off, so I can't report to you the exact details of Hal's problem. Perhaps he can.
But as she wrapped them tightly around his leg, I can report, factually, that there was no complaint from our friend. He took it. It was what had to be done, and in Hal's world that means that you do it, and you don't whine, or complain as certain people, this writer, for instance, would. I saw a small part of his scar, an ugly reddened tear that started on one side of his thigh, entered his groin which was covered by a black cloth (thus I didn't get to actually see the oft mentioned massive family jewels) and reappeared on the other side, something like a red gravel road coming out of a black tunnel.
Hal lives in a beautiful home, Mary has done her best; anyone who enjoys artfully designed settings would appreciate how Hal and Mary live -- and Mary! Wow! she has lost a lot of weight, looks very smart, and, well, she could be a trophy wife... She looks great. Hal should be very proud of her-- Mary created a small studio in a second, separate building that had been a garage, she has an outdoor living room at the front of the house, a huge indoor living room, a dining room, a guest room and of course a master bedroom. Hal explained to me that the style is 1930's Hollywood overlayed by a contemporary touch. Mary says she used a lot of her old things, but I would say that she mixed them so well, that unless she pointed the old pieces to me I didn't know which they were. It is a grand setting.
mek
Hal is fighting back with his usual bravery. He stands up when you might think he would lie down and take a "well deserved rest," as he used to say. I watched as a physical therapist wrapped some elastic bandages the length of his leg, right from the verge of his groin to his ankles.
She needed to make them tight, so that they would apply pressure to his leg, something to do with his lymph nodes, something she explained to me, but which, unlike Hal, I just turned off, so I can't report to you the exact details of Hal's problem. Perhaps he can.
But as she wrapped them tightly around his leg, I can report, factually, that there was no complaint from our friend. He took it. It was what had to be done, and in Hal's world that means that you do it, and you don't whine, or complain as certain people, this writer, for instance, would. I saw a small part of his scar, an ugly reddened tear that started on one side of his thigh, entered his groin which was covered by a black cloth (thus I didn't get to actually see the oft mentioned massive family jewels) and reappeared on the other side, something like a red gravel road coming out of a black tunnel.
Hal lives in a beautiful home, Mary has done her best; anyone who enjoys artfully designed settings would appreciate how Hal and Mary live -- and Mary! Wow! she has lost a lot of weight, looks very smart, and, well, she could be a trophy wife... She looks great. Hal should be very proud of her-- Mary created a small studio in a second, separate building that had been a garage, she has an outdoor living room at the front of the house, a huge indoor living room, a dining room, a guest room and of course a master bedroom. Hal explained to me that the style is 1930's Hollywood overlayed by a contemporary touch. Mary says she used a lot of her old things, but I would say that she mixed them so well, that unless she pointed the old pieces to me I didn't know which they were. It is a grand setting.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
On the illness of two lifelong pals:
This should be really tough; but it isn't. I'm no callous youth, understand please that even as a child I knew, I expected, that Mr. Death would come for me and my friends sooner or later. As we grew older, we each made our bets and beds, now we prepare to count our winnings, balance our losses, and lie in our graves. Some closer to the mud than others, I guess.
I can still hear the dirt raining down my grandfather's coffin, and my Dad's, It's a common sound no matter who we are.. Last year we read Everyman, and that was a peek further down the road than most of us had seen before. Now we drink the Grapes of Roth.
My father didn't want to go, my mother did. She had a sense of humor about it, he didn't.
They both went in their time, but it wasn't the time of their choice. Mother insisted on being taken as soon as Dad was gone, but Dad was hanging on like a boxer on the ropes--he wouldn't go down. He rallied, slowed, and rallied again during an everlasting period of a year. Dad, as I knew him, was a quiet man, easy going in most things, but not this. He was always strong, and in his final illness even stronger. There was a rope holding him up, and some iron force in him fought back, he pushed Mr. Death away, tore the mask from Death, looked at it, stared it in the eye sockets, and Dad simply chose not to go.
He wasn't ready.
But defeat came and after it my mother was immediately ready; and she was upset that God, or Mr. Death had passed her by so many times. There was one time when I looked out her hospital window and saw a figure wearing a cape and a slouch hat astride a black horse trotting down Federal highway.
Mother tried to look down and see it, but her macular degeneration had gone too far; she asked me to open the window and let him know she was here -- and impatient -- ready. She brushed her hair and asked the attendant to put her make up on. She would be presentable on her dark journey. But Death didn't take her that day. He made her wait another two years and she was bitter, angry at God, for forgetting her and taking her lover and leaving her behind. She had no purpose now, she had seen her husband through his times, but now, she thought, she should leave this life, and go on to the next --or to nothing-- as the case might be.
She was ready.
mek
On the illness of two lifelong pals:
This should be really tough; but it isn't. I'm no callous youth, understand please that even as a child I knew, I expected, that Mr. Death would come for me and my friends sooner or later. As we grew older, we each made our bets and beds, now we prepare to count our winnings, balance our losses, and lie in our graves. Some closer to the mud than others, I guess.
I can still hear the dirt raining down my grandfather's coffin, and my Dad's, It's a common sound no matter who we are.. Last year we read Everyman, and that was a peek further down the road than most of us had seen before. Now we drink the Grapes of Roth.
My father didn't want to go, my mother did. She had a sense of humor about it, he didn't.
They both went in their time, but it wasn't the time of their choice. Mother insisted on being taken as soon as Dad was gone, but Dad was hanging on like a boxer on the ropes--he wouldn't go down. He rallied, slowed, and rallied again during an everlasting period of a year. Dad, as I knew him, was a quiet man, easy going in most things, but not this. He was always strong, and in his final illness even stronger. There was a rope holding him up, and some iron force in him fought back, he pushed Mr. Death away, tore the mask from Death, looked at it, stared it in the eye sockets, and Dad simply chose not to go.
He wasn't ready.
But defeat came and after it my mother was immediately ready; and she was upset that God, or Mr. Death had passed her by so many times. There was one time when I looked out her hospital window and saw a figure wearing a cape and a slouch hat astride a black horse trotting down Federal highway.
Mother tried to look down and see it, but her macular degeneration had gone too far; she asked me to open the window and let him know she was here -- and impatient -- ready. She brushed her hair and asked the attendant to put her make up on. She would be presentable on her dark journey. But Death didn't take her that day. He made her wait another two years and she was bitter, angry at God, for forgetting her and taking her lover and leaving her behind. She had no purpose now, she had seen her husband through his times, but now, she thought, she should leave this life, and go on to the next --or to nothing-- as the case might be.
She was ready.
mek
Sunday, September 23, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Time has moved to fast for me to look back, as I have spent my life doing. Ruminating at my many missteps, many mistakes, wrong paths taken leads nowhere. We learn from experience, we keep what we can, but the reality is that there's no way back. The road always lies ahead.
We live towards the future, no one can go back. No matter how much we might like to, once past, no path can be re-tread. "You Can't Go Home Again."
I can't unsay those words, I can't become a nuero-biologist, (if I ever could have), I can't have two more children. I won't ever have that cottage in the mountains. I can go only forward. There's no reverse gear.
I'm not the same boy who loved to run alone in the woods. Not the boy who road his bicycle for hours, not the boy who stood transfixed at the front window of the subway car, looking into the long dark ahead, marked only by a few distant blue lights.
I'm through most of the long dark now, and it hasn't been as exciting as that small eight year old boy thought it would be. It's been only a long tunnel, with several stations along the way. One or two had bright lights.
The boy is still with me. Still dreaming, my eyes wet, my throat tightened...
Time has moved to fast for me to look back, as I have spent my life doing. Ruminating at my many missteps, many mistakes, wrong paths taken leads nowhere. We learn from experience, we keep what we can, but the reality is that there's no way back. The road always lies ahead.
We live towards the future, no one can go back. No matter how much we might like to, once past, no path can be re-tread. "You Can't Go Home Again."
I can't unsay those words, I can't become a nuero-biologist, (if I ever could have), I can't have two more children. I won't ever have that cottage in the mountains. I can go only forward. There's no reverse gear.
I'm not the same boy who loved to run alone in the woods. Not the boy who road his bicycle for hours, not the boy who stood transfixed at the front window of the subway car, looking into the long dark ahead, marked only by a few distant blue lights.
I'm through most of the long dark now, and it hasn't been as exciting as that small eight year old boy thought it would be. It's been only a long tunnel, with several stations along the way. One or two had bright lights.
The boy is still with me. Still dreaming, my eyes wet, my throat tightened...
Sunday, September 09, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Blog: Scotland of the Soul:
Rita hit the coast and all heck broke loose. There was massive devastation all over town, the ultimate distress and human suffering. I was outside for nine hours, and I saw tree limbs - IN. THE. ROAD! There are puddles of standing water in the poor section of town, and it's unconscionable. We need troops, man. We need, like, 5 buses! And some Heinekens! And
If we can't get those busses, there's going to be panic in the streets! It'll be mayhem and disaster. People will have to eat corpses to survive... well, at least the people that don't have police escorts to loot the Piggly-Wiggly.
I also have it on good authority that the Bush Administration sent agents into that part of town with a garden hose to drench that neighborhood with even more water! It's obviously because George Bush doesn't care about black people, and wants them all to die... or have damp socks, which could lead to athlete's foot!
Oh no, that's not all either. When the Red Cross tried to deliver galoshes and aquasox to these poor people, Homeland Security stopped them from doing it. Even the evil tyrants from Wal-Mart tried to send help, but they too were turned away. That's right! George Bush personally flew down here and stood next to my house in the middle of my street and stopped the delivery trucks in their tracks.
I know what you're saying, "How could this be? Could tragedy really sneak up on us so quickly in the America we grew up in?" Yes, friends. Yes it can. But the real tragedy is that this has been a long time coming. This tragedy has been building for days now.
Earlier today, I spoke with another affected resident, and he told me what will likely turn out to be one of literally dozens of tragic tales of loss and humidity. According to Mr. Aaron, his mother was trapped on her porch because of the scattered showers, and every day she called him and said "Are you coming son? Is somebody coming?" And he told her "Yeah, Mom, somebody's coming to get you." Somebody's coming to get you on Wednesday. Somebody's coming to get you on Thursday. Somebody's coming to get you on Friday." And she finally had to walk out to her car alone on Friday night. She walked out alone on Friday night, and got raindrops on her coat! It was suede, dammit! SUEDE!
Shocking, yes. It's clear that the new FEMA director is just as bad as the old one. They just want black folks to get wet, while all the white folks stay nice and dry under the umbrellas they got by oppressing you and me. I call for a national boycott of FEMA until such time as Acting Director Paulison partners with the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition to solve this systemic racist problem. I call on him to act immediately by sending 15... 20... no, 50 million dollars to Rainbow/PUSH (or my personal bank account, if that's more convenient) in small unmarked bills, so that we can quickly get back on the road to recovery.
God bless you all... except the people in Hymietown,
Jesse Jackson
----
From Blog: Scotland of the Soul:
When it gets dark I tow your heart away
Today I am completely incensed at the government's lack of response to the hurricanes. It's true that I've been in their corner so far, but this was the absolute last straw!
Rita hit the coast and all heck broke loose. There was massive devastation all over town, the ultimate distress and human suffering. I was outside for nine hours, and I saw tree limbs - IN. THE. ROAD! There are puddles of standing water in the poor section of town, and it's unconscionable. We need troops, man. We need, like, 5 buses! And some Heinekens! And
If we can't get those busses, there's going to be panic in the streets! It'll be mayhem and disaster. People will have to eat corpses to survive... well, at least the people that don't have police escorts to loot the Piggly-Wiggly.
I also have it on good authority that the Bush Administration sent agents into that part of town with a garden hose to drench that neighborhood with even more water! It's obviously because George Bush doesn't care about black people, and wants them all to die... or have damp socks, which could lead to athlete's foot!
Oh no, that's not all either. When the Red Cross tried to deliver galoshes and aquasox to these poor people, Homeland Security stopped them from doing it. Even the evil tyrants from Wal-Mart tried to send help, but they too were turned away. That's right! George Bush personally flew down here and stood next to my house in the middle of my street and stopped the delivery trucks in their tracks.
I know what you're saying, "How could this be? Could tragedy really sneak up on us so quickly in the America we grew up in?" Yes, friends. Yes it can. But the real tragedy is that this has been a long time coming. This tragedy has been building for days now.
Earlier today, I spoke with another affected resident, and he told me what will likely turn out to be one of literally dozens of tragic tales of loss and humidity. According to Mr. Aaron, his mother was trapped on her porch because of the scattered showers, and every day she called him and said "Are you coming son? Is somebody coming?" And he told her "Yeah, Mom, somebody's coming to get you." Somebody's coming to get you on Wednesday. Somebody's coming to get you on Thursday. Somebody's coming to get you on Friday." And she finally had to walk out to her car alone on Friday night. She walked out alone on Friday night, and got raindrops on her coat! It was suede, dammit! SUEDE!
Shocking, yes. It's clear that the new FEMA director is just as bad as the old one. They just want black folks to get wet, while all the white folks stay nice and dry under the umbrellas they got by oppressing you and me. I call for a national boycott of FEMA until such time as Acting Director Paulison partners with the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition to solve this systemic racist problem. I call on him to act immediately by sending 15... 20... no, 50 million dollars to Rainbow/PUSH (or my personal bank account, if that's more convenient) in small unmarked bills, so that we can quickly get back on the road to recovery.
God bless you all... except the people in Hymietown,
Jesse Jackson
----
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Last night I dreamed that M. was rehearsing a bawdy ditty about lawyers on a small stage. I was the only person in the tiny theater. M. was dancing stark naked, and I was embarrassed so I averted my eyes taking only a peek, through my fingers whenever I imagined she wasn't looking. I wondered why she had chosen this particular song to sing for the wedding, and felt sad for her that she had to sing it naked.
I also dreamed that I was drinking at the bar of a very expensive, luxuriously appointed, steakhouse when Mr. (Richman) arrived with a group of businessmen. Apparently they were there to discuss a "deal," Richman greeted me routinely, and rudely, quickly took the group into a private room without introducing me to anyone. I was wearing the pin stripe I shall wear Saturday night. Upset, I grasped the hand of one of the group and gave him my powerful, strongest handshake as he walked away from me into the private room. Later, Mr. Richman asked me, why I had manhandled his partner. I asked Richman where he had learned that word.
In my waking hours early this morning, as I drank my coffee, at about 5:15 AM., I read this line from a fascinating diary-journal of an editor at Conde-Nast called Leo Lerman. Lerman was a man who knew everyone in New York for about fifty years, so his journals catch everyone from a member of Sara Bernhardts' troop, to Leonard Bernstein, and Ingmar Bergman.
His mother had early on recognized her son's proclivities and was not unhappy about them as she understood that he would never marry. "So he's a momma's boy," she said, "and I'm his mother."
I like that.
This book is not meant for you to bother with. It's for people like me, who read what used to be called gossip columns and who wish that they could have been at every party, vernissage, debut, and opening whether theater or art, that was reported.
But Lerman had a remarkable life and each of his entries, though brief, are witty and insightful. His parties, apparently, were legendary and after running his own on jug wines and rat cheese he was offered the bankroll of Conde-Nast and his parties became larger and larger and his list became triple A and held only people of accomplishment. Anyway, the book is not for serious people and not for you.
Lerman and his family fit right into our discussion of "Who is a Jew," as he was another Bar Mitzvah boy who never set foot into a schul after the fountain-pen celebration.
You can forward and or edit this if you like. I'd like to send it to St Eve, but am holding it because of the first paragraph. Use your judgment.
m.
Last night I dreamed that M. was rehearsing a bawdy ditty about lawyers on a small stage. I was the only person in the tiny theater. M. was dancing stark naked, and I was embarrassed so I averted my eyes taking only a peek, through my fingers whenever I imagined she wasn't looking. I wondered why she had chosen this particular song to sing for the wedding, and felt sad for her that she had to sing it naked.
I also dreamed that I was drinking at the bar of a very expensive, luxuriously appointed, steakhouse when Mr. (Richman) arrived with a group of businessmen. Apparently they were there to discuss a "deal," Richman greeted me routinely, and rudely, quickly took the group into a private room without introducing me to anyone. I was wearing the pin stripe I shall wear Saturday night. Upset, I grasped the hand of one of the group and gave him my powerful, strongest handshake as he walked away from me into the private room. Later, Mr. Richman asked me, why I had manhandled his partner. I asked Richman where he had learned that word.
In my waking hours early this morning, as I drank my coffee, at about 5:15 AM., I read this line from a fascinating diary-journal of an editor at Conde-Nast called Leo Lerman. Lerman was a man who knew everyone in New York for about fifty years, so his journals catch everyone from a member of Sara Bernhardts' troop, to Leonard Bernstein, and Ingmar Bergman.
His mother had early on recognized her son's proclivities and was not unhappy about them as she understood that he would never marry. "So he's a momma's boy," she said, "and I'm his mother."
I like that.
This book is not meant for you to bother with. It's for people like me, who read what used to be called gossip columns and who wish that they could have been at every party, vernissage, debut, and opening whether theater or art, that was reported.
But Lerman had a remarkable life and each of his entries, though brief, are witty and insightful. His parties, apparently, were legendary and after running his own on jug wines and rat cheese he was offered the bankroll of Conde-Nast and his parties became larger and larger and his list became triple A and held only people of accomplishment. Anyway, the book is not for serious people and not for you.
Lerman and his family fit right into our discussion of "Who is a Jew," as he was another Bar Mitzvah boy who never set foot into a schul after the fountain-pen celebration.
You can forward and or edit this if you like. I'd like to send it to St Eve, but am holding it because of the first paragraph. Use your judgment.
m.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
August 2, 2007
It has been as though a veil has dropped over my head. Everything is a shade darker, and I find myself sighing every once in while. I keep looking back at my mistakes, the same mistakes I made forty years ago—not buying certain real estate, not investing in the stock market on a more regular basis, remaining at KDS all those boring years, not finding a business partner with whom to work, not following up on many ideas that ran through my mind at various times…
Now I regret not having the money to have two homes, to take vacations, to travel. Money is too short even for going to NYC, and I am stuck here, in Florida in this luxurious apartment—but surrounded by people so different from me, that even when I am with them at the office or on the beach I am lonely, unsatisfied, unhappy, discontent. There is no laughter here—except with M—and if it weren’t for her I’d be a bum on the road, or dead. I’m lucky to be here, with here, but it isn’t really enough.
Why has money become so important here, at the end of my life?
August 3, 2007
I learned last summer that I could live over a store in Cold Spring, in a tight one bedroom apartment with M and be happier than here. It was the guys I met at the Foundry, a coffee shop on Main Street. I could be with them, chat, felt accepted, felt on their level and they were on mine. Again, this summer, M and I spent a short time in a small house in Westhampton. It was fine. Of course, there is no money for a small house in NY. If we sold this apartment we might end up with $600K or so, but that wouldn’t bring much in NY, and then there are the higher living expenses there. Taxes would probably be lower, especially if we were to buy an apartment in NYC. But then, the temptations of NY living would easily outrun my wallet. And then, M needs something, anything, here in Florida, so here would be two sets of expenses. We can’t do it.
M says I should have more male friends here. Yes, I should…and I know that I exaggerate when I say that no one in Florida has any brains, or that I have no interests in common with anyone. It’s an exaggeration, but still it describes the problem.
August 11, 2007
In the days before Jaws I was something of an ocean swimmer, but since 1975, I swim accompanied by an undertow of anxiety , an unspoken, and until now, unacknowledged fear of swimming alone, especially far out where I used to swim as a child and later as a young man.
In those days I never would have thought of encountering a Big White, but now, always in the back of my mind, one swims close by waiting for its chance. The fear never leaves me even when I summon, somehow, the courage to swim by myself past the line of buoys that mark an invisible dividing line between swimmer and boater about a hundred yards out.
Any nearby splash, or even a bit of foam ten yards away, puts me on Shark Alert, and I struggle to remain calm, knowing that a panic stricken swimmer will excite the huge, unseen predator’s natural instinct—its instinct to cull the weakest of our species from the briny deep domain and to have lunch at my arm’s expense.
I like my arm
August 2, 2007
It has been as though a veil has dropped over my head. Everything is a shade darker, and I find myself sighing every once in while. I keep looking back at my mistakes, the same mistakes I made forty years ago—not buying certain real estate, not investing in the stock market on a more regular basis, remaining at KDS all those boring years, not finding a business partner with whom to work, not following up on many ideas that ran through my mind at various times…
Now I regret not having the money to have two homes, to take vacations, to travel. Money is too short even for going to NYC, and I am stuck here, in Florida in this luxurious apartment—but surrounded by people so different from me, that even when I am with them at the office or on the beach I am lonely, unsatisfied, unhappy, discontent. There is no laughter here—except with M—and if it weren’t for her I’d be a bum on the road, or dead. I’m lucky to be here, with here, but it isn’t really enough.
Why has money become so important here, at the end of my life?
August 3, 2007
I learned last summer that I could live over a store in Cold Spring, in a tight one bedroom apartment with M and be happier than here. It was the guys I met at the Foundry, a coffee shop on Main Street. I could be with them, chat, felt accepted, felt on their level and they were on mine. Again, this summer, M and I spent a short time in a small house in Westhampton. It was fine. Of course, there is no money for a small house in NY. If we sold this apartment we might end up with $600K or so, but that wouldn’t bring much in NY, and then there are the higher living expenses there. Taxes would probably be lower, especially if we were to buy an apartment in NYC. But then, the temptations of NY living would easily outrun my wallet. And then, M needs something, anything, here in Florida, so here would be two sets of expenses. We can’t do it.
M says I should have more male friends here. Yes, I should…and I know that I exaggerate when I say that no one in Florida has any brains, or that I have no interests in common with anyone. It’s an exaggeration, but still it describes the problem.
August 11, 2007
In the days before Jaws I was something of an ocean swimmer, but since 1975, I swim accompanied by an undertow of anxiety , an unspoken, and until now, unacknowledged fear of swimming alone, especially far out where I used to swim as a child and later as a young man.
In those days I never would have thought of encountering a Big White, but now, always in the back of my mind, one swims close by waiting for its chance. The fear never leaves me even when I summon, somehow, the courage to swim by myself past the line of buoys that mark an invisible dividing line between swimmer and boater about a hundred yards out.
Any nearby splash, or even a bit of foam ten yards away, puts me on Shark Alert, and I struggle to remain calm, knowing that a panic stricken swimmer will excite the huge, unseen predator’s natural instinct—its instinct to cull the weakest of our species from the briny deep domain and to have lunch at my arm’s expense.
I like my arm
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
For the neverborn children
.
.
"Hush, hush little children
No cradle shall hold you,
In no clothes can we fold you,
Dead that the living cannot mourn,
Untimely, lost and never born."
.
From The Dybbuk, Polish-Yiddish Film, 1937.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To a few friends regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Bourne Ultimatum
MOOD: Irritated
The Woman brought me to see this WoT. (Waste of Time) I guess it's sort of a very noisy, travelog, Kung Fu hybrid Superman movie with hi-tech paraphernalia.
Where does Bourne get the money to fly around the world? Who does his laundry? Where did he keep that passport that had been one of twenty issued to him when he was first inducted into the Company? How did he access it so fast? When he was in Tangier why couldn't the cameraman keep the camera still? Buy him a stedi-cam. And the cuts were so short that I thought that they kept running out of film. Oh, those bean counters -- let them bring some film next time. Why would he call the Evil Task Master to tell him that he was in his office rifling his safe? Okay, I can accept that he could make a ten story leap into the water and survive, (ten stories is only 100 feet) but how did he jump across the FDR Drive? Why doesn't the American Olympic Committee recruit him? Who is going to cure him of the skin diseases he will contract while swimming in the East River?
If you go to see this in spite of this warning, bring your ear protectors.
From St Eve regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Stronghart: what I think is that your response was antiamerican.
First of all everyone loves matt damon and everyone sympathizes with someone who has had his mind altered by albert finney dr villian who forgot the hippocratic oath and is bad bad bad.
And jasonbourne besidesforgetting everything had his shatzie murdered by thecia and thats not the culinary institute of america.Where is your heart man. And besides he is everymanfighting to get his brains back from the evil doers.Stronghartwhere is your rockmunis?{questionable spelling}.Thismovie isBRokeback Mountain for straight guys.Stronghartwake up andsmell thegefilte fish. you too Malkin dont you know aRT whenyou see it and he is in such great CONDITION and really has GAME. More enthusiasmfor jumping though windows and into the east river andkillingthe muslim hit man. Don't you want us to win inIIraq.and randelmanit just not just about money its about the soul ofthis great nation. Gross see this movie and dont be afraid to like it.Boldly embrassthe medium and the message and the messenger if youknow what I mean. Cinema is like tootsie popsdifferent flavours and different ways to get to thesweet center. and take along merle to get the womensviewpoint but remember its a guy movie and your a guy.I wonder what schuffy thought of the movie.And dontforgetmost theaters are air conditioned.ss
oh and I have a tea shirt that says "born to be bourne"on the front and I run through the aisles of the supermarketmisdirecting everyones cartand telling them that the CIA is watching in a lowthreatening voice. ss
To a few friends regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Bourne Ultimatum
MOOD: Irritated
Where does Bourne get the money to fly around the world? Who does his laundry? Where did he keep that passport that had been one of twenty issued to him when he was first inducted into the Company? How did he access it so fast? When he was in Tangier why couldn't the cameraman keep the camera still? Buy him a stedi-cam. And the cuts were so short that I thought that they kept running out of film. Oh, those bean counters -- let them bring some film next time. Why would he call the Evil Task Master to tell him that he was in his office rifling his safe? Okay, I can accept that he could make a ten story leap into the water and survive, (ten stories is only 100 feet) but how did he jump across the FDR Drive? Why doesn't the American Olympic Committee recruit him? Who is going to cure him of the skin diseases he will contract while swimming in the East River?
If you go to see this in spite of this warning, bring your ear protectors.
From St Eve regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Stronghart: what I think is that your response was antiamerican.
First of all everyone loves matt damon and everyone sympathizes with someone who has had his mind altered by albert finney dr villian who forgot the hippocratic oath and is bad bad bad.
And jasonbourne besidesforgetting everything had his shatzie murdered by thecia and thats not the culinary institute of america.Where is your heart man. And besides he is everymanfighting to get his brains back from the evil doers.Stronghartwhere is your rockmunis?{questionable spelling}.Thismovie isBRokeback Mountain for straight guys.Stronghartwake up andsmell thegefilte fish. you too Malkin dont you know aRT whenyou see it and he is in such great CONDITION and really has GAME. More enthusiasmfor jumping though windows and into the east river andkillingthe muslim hit man. Don't you want us to win inIIraq.and randelmanit just not just about money its about the soul ofthis great nation. Gross see this movie and dont be afraid to like it.Boldly embrassthe medium and the message and the messenger if youknow what I mean. Cinema is like tootsie popsdifferent flavours and different ways to get to thesweet center. and take along merle to get the womensviewpoint but remember its a guy movie and your a guy.I wonder what schuffy thought of the movie.And dontforgetmost theaters are air conditioned.ss
oh and I have a tea shirt that says "born to be bourne"on the front and I run through the aisles of the supermarketmisdirecting everyones cartand telling them that the CIA is watching in a lowthreatening voice. ss
Monday, August 06, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To a Friend Getting Ready for Cancer Surgery:
Hal:Gross' remarks bring to mind the question of what to wear in the event that a last, final gathering of your friends is necessary after the operation..
I wouldn't want to come dressed in a manner that might offend; and yet I have no idea what is worn in Beverly Hills Adjacent these days -- or any days, for that matter, as my experience in such neighborhoods has been severely limited. I was thinking of a hound's tooth sport jacket, Would that be okay? Let me know.
But, allow me to digress, if you will: Martinis. I have been giving them a lot of thought since arriving in Florida, since, as you know, in summer those in the real know, drink only white, and Florida has no spring, fall or winter detectable to Northern sensitivities. It's always summer.
So I have been drinking martinis exclusively. It was only through your careful and generous instruction that I have come to consider myself to be an expert at Martini construction, but you remain the Master in my mind, as well as Chief of Protocol.
I have moved away from Vodka to Gin. Hendricks, to be specific. Its powerful juniper fragrance is the first of its pleasures, for even as the bottle is opened the martini experience begins. The juniper fragrance is like an appetizer leading to the forthcoming martini.
I use a previously frozen glass shaker filled with ice cubes. I usually pour two and half ounces of Hendricks and add a small amount of vermouth, only the driest, of course, but, to quote you, I am not afraid of vermouth, so I probably use more than most people would approve.
The glass jar is shaken furiously, so that small slivers of ice form. There are people who believe that shaking the shaker is vulgar--but why would it be called a "shaker" if not because it is made to be shaken. Anyway, I crave those ice slivers. I pour the very cold martini into a frozen martini glass. A single plain olive is added, sometimes two, if I am hungry.
Yes, I know of today's fad for "dirty" martinis....talk about "vulgar." I am astounded when I see that Gross and St Eve have both fallen for that fad. You may have noticed me slowly moving a seat or two away from them when they order it dirty. You must also have noticed the look of disapproval on the bartender's face when he takes their order. (By the way, do you know that the bartender at Henry's has taken to calling himself "Randy" in homage to you, the Master?)
I know that you have used spicy or pimento filled olives, but I believe that they, somehow, take away from the true martini experience. And what else is there, but Truth? And I prefer the martini to be a martini, not lunch.
Hoping to hear from you--before it's too late.
m
To a Friend Getting Ready for Cancer Surgery:
Hal:Gross' remarks bring to mind the question of what to wear in the event that a last, final gathering of your friends is necessary after the operation..
I wouldn't want to come dressed in a manner that might offend; and yet I have no idea what is worn in Beverly Hills Adjacent these days -- or any days, for that matter, as my experience in such neighborhoods has been severely limited. I was thinking of a hound's tooth sport jacket, Would that be okay? Let me know.
But, allow me to digress, if you will: Martinis. I have been giving them a lot of thought since arriving in Florida, since, as you know, in summer those in the real know, drink only white, and Florida has no spring, fall or winter detectable to Northern sensitivities. It's always summer.
So I have been drinking martinis exclusively. It was only through your careful and generous instruction that I have come to consider myself to be an expert at Martini construction, but you remain the Master in my mind, as well as Chief of Protocol.
I have moved away from Vodka to Gin. Hendricks, to be specific. Its powerful juniper fragrance is the first of its pleasures, for even as the bottle is opened the martini experience begins. The juniper fragrance is like an appetizer leading to the forthcoming martini.
I use a previously frozen glass shaker filled with ice cubes. I usually pour two and half ounces of Hendricks and add a small amount of vermouth, only the driest, of course, but, to quote you, I am not afraid of vermouth, so I probably use more than most people would approve.
The glass jar is shaken furiously, so that small slivers of ice form. There are people who believe that shaking the shaker is vulgar--but why would it be called a "shaker" if not because it is made to be shaken. Anyway, I crave those ice slivers. I pour the very cold martini into a frozen martini glass. A single plain olive is added, sometimes two, if I am hungry.
Yes, I know of today's fad for "dirty" martinis....talk about "vulgar." I am astounded when I see that Gross and St Eve have both fallen for that fad. You may have noticed me slowly moving a seat or two away from them when they order it dirty. You must also have noticed the look of disapproval on the bartender's face when he takes their order. (By the way, do you know that the bartender at Henry's has taken to calling himself "Randy" in homage to you, the Master?)
I know that you have used spicy or pimento filled olives, but I believe that they, somehow, take away from the true martini experience. And what else is there, but Truth? And I prefer the martini to be a martini, not lunch.
Hoping to hear from you--before it's too late.
m
Sunday, July 29, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Be a person who can make and create--not just a person who shop and buy.
Your childhood may not have been perfect but it is over.
Be a person who can make and create--not just a person who shop and buy.
Your childhood may not have been perfect but it is over.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Critical Thinking on the Curmudgeon Line.
Actually, I have been this way all my life—it’s not really a curmudgeon writing--
I would like to stop being so critical of things—everything from the dress a woman is wearing, to the way that someone has parked his car. I become incensed when a woman fails to curb her dog and doesn’t pick up after it, or when she allows her little dog to spend the afternoon and night tied up in her yard yapping. What business is it of mine? —Especially when I live far enough away that I don’t hear the dog. It is the woman’s lack of concern for her neighbors that bothers me.
I am irritated at waitresses who don’t check the table often enough—but also at a waitress who constantly intrudes—“everything okay?” Gad, does that bother me.
Or a child—mine or yours—who tries to dominate at table, demanding this or that food, or not paying attention to the adult conversation, and interrupting at will.
Of course there’s always adults who need to display their wealth—or worse, their imitation of it with their Louis Vuitton handbags (counterfeit or not) and sunglasses marked by a huge Chanel logo, informing anyone who looks that the wearer has money to burn. What a waste—and that bothers me too.
I am irritated by Hummers, and those who brag about their Hummers, using gazillions of gallons of gas. I want to leave nasty notes on their windows. And half the time the owners of these monster cars can’t park them properly, often their tires are over the line separating one parking slot from the next. But these types are so inconsiderate that they just don’t care and they leave their massive Hummers or 4x4s in a space and half without a second thought.
Then, of course, there are those who park in spaces reserved for the handicapped. Some have counterfeit handicapped parking cards; others have real ones that they have conned from their doctors. Look, if we can’t stop doctors from giving out prescriptions for unnecessary drugs when people demand them after seeing ads on television, how can we stop doctors from issuing handicapped permits just because they are unnecessary? Why are doctors afraid to say, "NO"! Who is that fat guy walking away from his car after hanging a handicapped permit on its mirror? He looks like he could press five-hundred pounds. And that skinny bleached blond with the poodle getting out of her Mercedes? Does she really need a permit? Talk about road rage? I have parking lot rage—in every parking lot.
I don’t like loud takers—though those who speak too softly also irritate me. I can’t stand people who talk too much; or those who fail to listen to MY stories, especially those who are easily distracted in the middle of one of my stories, and interrupts to ask, “where are we going to eat tonight?” while I am describing the miraculous recovery of my eye-glasses after losing them in the Atlantic Ocean in 1999.
How rude can we get? Well, there are those who carry on cell phone conversations while in a restaurant—and what about those who fail to heed the theater’s plea to turn of their cell phones-and then actually answer it in movie theaters? Would my “cell phone rage” defense be successful were I to murder one of these people?
Another class of people who get my goat are those who speak using pronouns without previously making clear of whom they are speaking. “So he said to him…”
Critical Thinking on the Curmudgeon Line.
Actually, I have been this way all my life—it’s not really a curmudgeon writing--
I would like to stop being so critical of things—everything from the dress a woman is wearing, to the way that someone has parked his car. I become incensed when a woman fails to curb her dog and doesn’t pick up after it, or when she allows her little dog to spend the afternoon and night tied up in her yard yapping. What business is it of mine? —Especially when I live far enough away that I don’t hear the dog. It is the woman’s lack of concern for her neighbors that bothers me.
I am irritated at waitresses who don’t check the table often enough—but also at a waitress who constantly intrudes—“everything okay?” Gad, does that bother me.
Or a child—mine or yours—who tries to dominate at table, demanding this or that food, or not paying attention to the adult conversation, and interrupting at will.
Of course there’s always adults who need to display their wealth—or worse, their imitation of it with their Louis Vuitton handbags (counterfeit or not) and sunglasses marked by a huge Chanel logo, informing anyone who looks that the wearer has money to burn. What a waste—and that bothers me too.
I am irritated by Hummers, and those who brag about their Hummers, using gazillions of gallons of gas. I want to leave nasty notes on their windows. And half the time the owners of these monster cars can’t park them properly, often their tires are over the line separating one parking slot from the next. But these types are so inconsiderate that they just don’t care and they leave their massive Hummers or 4x4s in a space and half without a second thought.
Then, of course, there are those who park in spaces reserved for the handicapped. Some have counterfeit handicapped parking cards; others have real ones that they have conned from their doctors. Look, if we can’t stop doctors from giving out prescriptions for unnecessary drugs when people demand them after seeing ads on television, how can we stop doctors from issuing handicapped permits just because they are unnecessary? Why are doctors afraid to say, "NO"! Who is that fat guy walking away from his car after hanging a handicapped permit on its mirror? He looks like he could press five-hundred pounds. And that skinny bleached blond with the poodle getting out of her Mercedes? Does she really need a permit? Talk about road rage? I have parking lot rage—in every parking lot.
I don’t like loud takers—though those who speak too softly also irritate me. I can’t stand people who talk too much; or those who fail to listen to MY stories, especially those who are easily distracted in the middle of one of my stories, and interrupts to ask, “where are we going to eat tonight?” while I am describing the miraculous recovery of my eye-glasses after losing them in the Atlantic Ocean in 1999.
How rude can we get? Well, there are those who carry on cell phone conversations while in a restaurant—and what about those who fail to heed the theater’s plea to turn of their cell phones-and then actually answer it in movie theaters? Would my “cell phone rage” defense be successful were I to murder one of these people?
Another class of people who get my goat are those who speak using pronouns without previously making clear of whom they are speaking. “So he said to him…”
Monday, June 25, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Gross to Hal & the Group re Hal's coming surgery:
I'm sure the Chief of Protocol will understand if we submit our requests for the Shiva now, while there's time. I never got a chance to tell Hal how partial I was to that green spread he used to serve as an hors d'oeuvre, with olives. Of course, the martinis will have to be prepared in advance and frozen; no one but Hal can get them just right. I know we can't expect Sally and Irwin, but do you think he still has the goldware? Any requests?
From Buster to Hal & the Group:
Hal:
Gross' remarks bring to mind the question of what to wear at your funeral. I wouldn't want to come dressed in a manner that might offend; and yet I have no idea what is worn in Beverly Hills Adjacent these days -- or any days, for that matter, as my experience in such neighborhoods has been severely limited. I was thinking of a hound's tooth sport jacket, Would that be okay? Let me know.
But, more to the point: Martinis. I have been giving them a lot of thought since arriving in Florida, since, as you know, in summer those in the real know, drink only white, and Florida has no spring, fall or winter detectable to Northern sensitivities. It's always summer.
So I have been drinking martinis exclusively.
It was only through your careful and generous instruction that I have come to consider myself to be an expert at Martini construction, but you remain the Master in my mind, as well as Chief of Protocol.
I have moved away from Vodka to Gin. Hendricks, to be specific. Its powerful juniper fragrance is the first of its pleasures, for even as the bottle is opened the martini experience blooms. The juniper fragrance is like an appetizer leading to the forthcoming martini.
I use a previously frozen glass shaker filled with ice cubes. I pour two and half ounces of Hendricks and add a small amount of vermouth, only the driest, of course, but, to quote something you asserted long ago, "I am not afraid of vermouth," so I probably use more than most people would approve.
The glass jar is shaken furiously, so that small slivers of ice form. There are people who believe that shaking the shaker is vulgar--but why would it be called a "shaker" if not because it is made to be shaken. Anyway, I crave those ice slivers.
I pour the very cold martini into a frozen martini glass. Very slight slivers of ice reflect the light of the setting sun on my porch. A single plain olive is added, sometimes two, if I am hungry.
Yes, I know of today's fad for "dirty" martinis....talk about "vulgar." I am astounded when I see that Gross and St Eve have both fallen for that fad. You may have noticed me slowly moving a seat or two away from them when they order it dirty. You must have noticed the look of disapproval on the bartender's face when he takes their order. (By the way, do you know that the bartender at Henry's has taken to calling himself "Randy" in homage to you, the Master?)
I know that you have used spicy or pimento filled olives, but I believe that they, somehow, take away from the true martini experience. And what else is there, but Truth?
I prefer the martini to be a martini, not lunch.
Hoping to hear from you--before it's too late.
mek
From Gross to Hal & the Group re Hal's coming surgery:
I'm sure the Chief of Protocol will understand if we submit our requests for the Shiva now, while there's time. I never got a chance to tell Hal how partial I was to that green spread he used to serve as an hors d'oeuvre, with olives. Of course, the martinis will have to be prepared in advance and frozen; no one but Hal can get them just right. I know we can't expect Sally and Irwin, but do you think he still has the goldware? Any requests?
From Buster to Hal & the Group:
Hal:
Gross' remarks bring to mind the question of what to wear at your funeral. I wouldn't want to come dressed in a manner that might offend; and yet I have no idea what is worn in Beverly Hills Adjacent these days -- or any days, for that matter, as my experience in such neighborhoods has been severely limited. I was thinking of a hound's tooth sport jacket, Would that be okay? Let me know.
But, more to the point: Martinis. I have been giving them a lot of thought since arriving in Florida, since, as you know, in summer those in the real know, drink only white, and Florida has no spring, fall or winter detectable to Northern sensitivities. It's always summer.
So I have been drinking martinis exclusively.
It was only through your careful and generous instruction that I have come to consider myself to be an expert at Martini construction, but you remain the Master in my mind, as well as Chief of Protocol.
I have moved away from Vodka to Gin. Hendricks, to be specific. Its powerful juniper fragrance is the first of its pleasures, for even as the bottle is opened the martini experience blooms. The juniper fragrance is like an appetizer leading to the forthcoming martini.
I use a previously frozen glass shaker filled with ice cubes. I pour two and half ounces of Hendricks and add a small amount of vermouth, only the driest, of course, but, to quote something you asserted long ago, "I am not afraid of vermouth," so I probably use more than most people would approve.
The glass jar is shaken furiously, so that small slivers of ice form. There are people who believe that shaking the shaker is vulgar--but why would it be called a "shaker" if not because it is made to be shaken. Anyway, I crave those ice slivers.
I pour the very cold martini into a frozen martini glass. Very slight slivers of ice reflect the light of the setting sun on my porch. A single plain olive is added, sometimes two, if I am hungry.
Yes, I know of today's fad for "dirty" martinis....talk about "vulgar." I am astounded when I see that Gross and St Eve have both fallen for that fad. You may have noticed me slowly moving a seat or two away from them when they order it dirty. You must have noticed the look of disapproval on the bartender's face when he takes their order. (By the way, do you know that the bartender at Henry's has taken to calling himself "Randy" in homage to you, the Master?)
I know that you have used spicy or pimento filled olives, but I believe that they, somehow, take away from the true martini experience. And what else is there, but Truth?
I prefer the martini to be a martini, not lunch.
Hoping to hear from you--before it's too late.
mek
Saturday, June 09, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Let it go in regard to all other virtues.
Make decisions to better your own situation.
Do not rub in the fact of your mate's inferior friends-- there's no gain in that. Your mate's friends are important to him or her and pointing out their second rate social habits only hurts your mate. Is that what you are trying to achieve?
You have choices--it is up to you to make them, or at least, shut up about them. Choices give you the power to change. Your predicament is not the result of predetermined destiny, but the result of your own previous choices. You must accept the fact that you are the creator of your own destiny and at the same time the creator of your own situation. You have the power to extricate yourself. Your choices have placed you where you are--your choices can get you out.
Your mate must feel devalued every time you criticise her friends.
STOP!
Let it go in regard to all other virtues.
Make decisions to better your own situation.
Do not rub in the fact of your mate's inferior friends-- there's no gain in that. Your mate's friends are important to him or her and pointing out their second rate social habits only hurts your mate. Is that what you are trying to achieve?
You have choices--it is up to you to make them, or at least, shut up about them. Choices give you the power to change. Your predicament is not the result of predetermined destiny, but the result of your own previous choices. You must accept the fact that you are the creator of your own destiny and at the same time the creator of your own situation. You have the power to extricate yourself. Your choices have placed you where you are--your choices can get you out.
Your mate must feel devalued every time you criticise her friends.
STOP!
Sunday, May 27, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
NPG: Please send me:
The name of the dentist, first name "Willie" who traveled a great deal after retirement. Friends of mother and Dad. They had a son named "Arthur." They lived in Forest Hills, between 110th and 112th St, near us.
After retirement they came to Florida. He wore a beret. Heavy. His wife a dyed redhead. Thin. When playing with Arthur I rode my bike out of their driveway into a passing car. His mother, the redhead (dyed or not) painted and gave mother several paintings. I brought them to "Arthur" who lived in Ft. Lee after mother died.
He never acknowledged my effort nor did he thank me.
What was their last name?
Here's a dream from a few nights ago:
I dreamt about Maria & I having a talking grizzly bear as a friend at our home in Great Neck. Some gypsies saw him a few blocks away when he went for a walk. They asked him where he lived and followed him to Willow Lane.
When Maria & I returned the gypsies were playing violins and tambourines on our lawn while waiting for us. They wanted to buy our friend. Maria immediately said, " $450!"
But I said, "Are you crazy? He's our friend, we're not selling him."
The gypsies upped their offer, but when they saw that I was adamant about not selling him, they came into our backyard and we all had a party, me cooking, the gypsies playing violins and the bear, whose name turned out to be "Arthur," playing a trumpet.
Soon Gross and Pessin joined the band, Pessin on the clarinet, Gross on a flute. Both wore yamacas. Maria and Awilda danced with huge hoop earrings in their ears. Flashing eyes. Big smiles. Teeth.
Arthur eyeing Awilda & Maria while they danced. Lots of décolletage.
m
NPG: Please send me:
The name of the dentist, first name "Willie" who traveled a great deal after retirement. Friends of mother and Dad. They had a son named "Arthur." They lived in Forest Hills, between 110th and 112th St, near us.
After retirement they came to Florida. He wore a beret. Heavy. His wife a dyed redhead. Thin. When playing with Arthur I rode my bike out of their driveway into a passing car. His mother, the redhead (dyed or not) painted and gave mother several paintings. I brought them to "Arthur" who lived in Ft. Lee after mother died.
He never acknowledged my effort nor did he thank me.
What was their last name?
Here's a dream from a few nights ago:
I dreamt about Maria & I having a talking grizzly bear as a friend at our home in Great Neck. Some gypsies saw him a few blocks away when he went for a walk. They asked him where he lived and followed him to Willow Lane.
When Maria & I returned the gypsies were playing violins and tambourines on our lawn while waiting for us. They wanted to buy our friend. Maria immediately said, " $450!"
But I said, "Are you crazy? He's our friend, we're not selling him."
The gypsies upped their offer, but when they saw that I was adamant about not selling him, they came into our backyard and we all had a party, me cooking, the gypsies playing violins and the bear, whose name turned out to be "Arthur," playing a trumpet.
Soon Gross and Pessin joined the band, Pessin on the clarinet, Gross on a flute. Both wore yamacas. Maria and Awilda danced with huge hoop earrings in their ears. Flashing eyes. Big smiles. Teeth.
Arthur eyeing Awilda & Maria while they danced. Lots of décolletage.
m
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Melanie McQuire, RN, is convicted of murdering her husband, and butchering his corpse in order to fit the pieces into three matching suitcases that she carried to Cheasapeake Bay where she dumped them. She weighs one-hundred and twelve pounds.
Melanie admitted having an affair with her employer, a doctor at a fertility clinic. The affair begin during the ninth month of her pregnancy. She purchased a gun only two days before her husband was declared missing. No blood or DNA was discovered at her home after the detectives searched for it on three separate occasions, going so far as to unscrew lightbulbs, and to disaasemble plumbing fixtures where blood may have been disposed.
Melanie's husband was a gambler and was well known in Atlantic City where he was comped on arrival. The defense tried to lay the blame on a mob collector who went too far. According to casino managers he had been doing well at their tables during the year before his murder. There was no reason, the prosecution asserted, for him to be murdered by the mob.
melanie mcquire
prior to conviction. 
Thursday, May 17, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Although I'm an atheist who believes only in the greatnness of nature I recognize the spiritual riches and grandeur of the Roman Catholicism in which I was raised, and I despise anyone who insults the sustaining values and symbol system of so many millions of people of different races around the world. An authentically avant-garde artist of today would show his or her daring by treating religion sympathetically. Anti-religious sneers are a hallmark of perpetual adolescents. Forever young -- that's our motto."
Camille Paglia
"Although I'm an atheist who believes only in the greatnness of nature I recognize the spiritual riches and grandeur of the Roman Catholicism in which I was raised, and I despise anyone who insults the sustaining values and symbol system of so many millions of people of different races around the world. An authentically avant-garde artist of today would show his or her daring by treating religion sympathetically. Anti-religious sneers are a hallmark of perpetual adolescents. Forever young -- that's our motto."
Camille Paglia
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
An example of the perception and quick analysis of St Eve
Sidney Greenstreet
Sidney was portly and he gurgled when he laughed. His hair was thin and his legs were spindly. He was sinister in a comforting way and his cruelty was forced upon him.
Yes, I can live with the similarity but I would like to mix in a bit of Orson Welles as Falstaff, comic with a corruptible sense of honor, fat, lazy and eager to party, a scoundrel who fails at most of his dishonorable deeds -- and he knows about humiliation.
But is above all witty and capable of great affection.
ss
Just like you, St Eve.
An example of the perception and quick analysis of St Eve
Sidney Greenstreet
Sidney was portly and he gurgled when he laughed. His hair was thin and his legs were spindly. He was sinister in a comforting way and his cruelty was forced upon him.
Yes, I can live with the similarity but I would like to mix in a bit of Orson Welles as Falstaff, comic with a corruptible sense of honor, fat, lazy and eager to party, a scoundrel who fails at most of his dishonorable deeds -- and he knows about humiliation.
But is above all witty and capable of great affection.
ss
Just like you, St Eve.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Army days: In the six month army, I first shot the M-1 rifle, with which I could hit the target at least one out of twenty shots; I think we were shown the M-14, but I didn't play with it; When I got to tank school, at Fort Knox, I learned the 30 cal carbine; then I shot a very ugly submachine gun, called the M-3 Grease Gun, which often jammed; and the great M1911 45 cal pistol (developed, we were told, to stop-in-their-tracks fanatic Phillipino Guerillas, who could be hit with the smaller Colt and keep on ticking); a 30 cal tank mounted machine gun; a 50 cal machine gun, also tank mounted; and the 90mm main gun on the M-48 tank. I also fired, but did not learn to use, the 105mm main gun on the newly developed, still in testing, M60 tank.
Sgt. (Bulldog) Drummand, nearly retired, also showed me how to convert my 50 cal tank mounted machine gun to a sniper rifle, which would have been useful when my tank was blown up and if, by miracle, I was still alive. I am not sure but I think I also used a BAR in Basic. Or maybe at tank school.
I never learned to see where the shell landed after I fired it on the 90mm or the 105mm, as my eyes always involuntarily closed when the gun went BOOM! In conformatory with Army practice, thus I was made a tank commander and a gunnery instructor.
As a T-C my role was to watch the trajectory of the shell as it hurtled toward the target (often a junked car or truck) through the reticle of my periscope and instruct the gunner to move the gun so many clicks on his reticle. I was excellent at shouting "up one, left two" no matter where the shell landed.
At the tank gunnery range it seemed that emphasis was put upon firing all issued shells, so we wouldn't have to bring them back, and the Sgts. wouldn't have to do the paper work. Actually hitting the target was often over-looked.
I was also able to take apart and put together all weapons in the dark, except the 90mm and the 105mm guns, which were too heavy for a boy from Forest Hills.
One of the interesting things about Basic Training was that I learned that in comparison with the almost every one of the guys I was in great shape. When they were dropping out of marching, or not making the pull ups, or push ups, I found it easy to keep going. I was surprised. I was also shocked that many could not swim. A number were homesick, even though we were only in Kentucky.
At tank school there were several men (boys) who did not have drivers' licenses, and whose first driving experience was in a tank. One of my gunners fired the main gun without moving away from the breech. He called out FIRE! and pushed the button, or pulled the trigger, I forget which. He made no sound when the gun smashed into his stomach. That's when I learned about gut wounds.
It was after lunch and there was no way to tell what was guts and what was frankfurters.
mek
Army days: In the six month army, I first shot the M-1 rifle, with which I could hit the target at least one out of twenty shots; I think we were shown the M-14, but I didn't play with it; When I got to tank school, at Fort Knox, I learned the 30 cal carbine; then I shot a very ugly submachine gun, called the M-3 Grease Gun, which often jammed; and the great M1911 45 cal pistol (developed, we were told, to stop-in-their-tracks fanatic Phillipino Guerillas, who could be hit with the smaller Colt and keep on ticking); a 30 cal tank mounted machine gun; a 50 cal machine gun, also tank mounted; and the 90mm main gun on the M-48 tank. I also fired, but did not learn to use, the 105mm main gun on the newly developed, still in testing, M60 tank.
Sgt. (Bulldog) Drummand, nearly retired, also showed me how to convert my 50 cal tank mounted machine gun to a sniper rifle, which would have been useful when my tank was blown up and if, by miracle, I was still alive. I am not sure but I think I also used a BAR in Basic. Or maybe at tank school.
I never learned to see where the shell landed after I fired it on the 90mm or the 105mm, as my eyes always involuntarily closed when the gun went BOOM! In conformatory with Army practice, thus I was made a tank commander and a gunnery instructor.
As a T-C my role was to watch the trajectory of the shell as it hurtled toward the target (often a junked car or truck) through the reticle of my periscope and instruct the gunner to move the gun so many clicks on his reticle. I was excellent at shouting "up one, left two" no matter where the shell landed.
At the tank gunnery range it seemed that emphasis was put upon firing all issued shells, so we wouldn't have to bring them back, and the Sgts. wouldn't have to do the paper work. Actually hitting the target was often over-looked.
I was also able to take apart and put together all weapons in the dark, except the 90mm and the 105mm guns, which were too heavy for a boy from Forest Hills.
One of the interesting things about Basic Training was that I learned that in comparison with the almost every one of the guys I was in great shape. When they were dropping out of marching, or not making the pull ups, or push ups, I found it easy to keep going. I was surprised. I was also shocked that many could not swim. A number were homesick, even though we were only in Kentucky.
At tank school there were several men (boys) who did not have drivers' licenses, and whose first driving experience was in a tank. One of my gunners fired the main gun without moving away from the breech. He called out FIRE! and pushed the button, or pulled the trigger, I forget which. He made no sound when the gun smashed into his stomach. That's when I learned about gut wounds.
It was after lunch and there was no way to tell what was guts and what was frankfurters.
mek
Friday, April 06, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Maria's making charoses
She's using Dubonnet
You might think it to be atrocious
But it's better than Chardonnay.
mek
Maria's making charoses
She's using Dubonnet
You might think it to be atrocious
But it's better than Chardonnay.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Maria's making charoses
She's using Dubonnet
You might think it to be atrocious
But it's better than Chardonnay.
mek
Maria's making charoses
She's using Dubonnet
You might think it to be atrocious
But it's better than Chardonnay.
mek
Thursday, April 05, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Indignation is the most gratifying of emotions. Nothing is quite so soothing as the feeling of superiority over sinners who have committed offenses that we are sure to innocent of and allow us to purse our lips in disdain: another giant with feet of clay. "
Peter Clay -- following the confession by Gunther Grass that he had served as a boy of seventeen in the Waffen SS, the highly trained Nazi combat unit that took part in the Holocaust.
"Indignation is the most gratifying of emotions. Nothing is quite so soothing as the feeling of superiority over sinners who have committed offenses that we are sure to innocent of and allow us to purse our lips in disdain: another giant with feet of clay. "
Peter Clay -- following the confession by Gunther Grass that he had served as a boy of seventeen in the Waffen SS, the highly trained Nazi combat unit that took part in the Holocaust.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Bitter Fruits of Bondage, Armstead L. Robinson:
An interesting take on the failure of the Confederacy. Robinson writes about the conflict between the Planter Class, owners of slaves, and the yeoman class, non-slaveholders who lived mostly in the mountains of North Carolina, Tennessee, and Arkansas. Although there were many more Southerners who were not hot for war, and who were drawn into the war by calls for States Rights, and the desire not to be dominated by Washington, it was the failure of Jefferson Davis, to hold the Planter Class, men of privilege to the wheel. They were exempted from serving on the grounds that they had to stay home and protect their property(the slaves). In the meantime, the yeomen soldiers saw that it was a "rich man's war and a poor man's fight."
Desertions and evasion of service were rampant. In 1863 and 1864 from 1/3 to 1/2 of the CSA had deserted or was evading. It got to the point where the weight of slavery was in itself dragging the Confederacy down.
Slaves struggled for freedom. (Planters wouldn't even "lend" slaves to the war effort. White yeoman struggled to defend themselves from subjugation to what they saw as political slavery. the Confederate government had to rely on increasing draconian forms of coercion; and the Confederacy melted away.
The interests of the slave holding minority were in direct opposition to that of the slaves (of course) and to the interests of the non-slave holding majority of free citizens of the South, the white non-slave holding yeomanry.
Bitter Fruits of Bondage, Armstead L. Robinson:
An interesting take on the failure of the Confederacy. Robinson writes about the conflict between the Planter Class, owners of slaves, and the yeoman class, non-slaveholders who lived mostly in the mountains of North Carolina, Tennessee, and Arkansas. Although there were many more Southerners who were not hot for war, and who were drawn into the war by calls for States Rights, and the desire not to be dominated by Washington, it was the failure of Jefferson Davis, to hold the Planter Class, men of privilege to the wheel. They were exempted from serving on the grounds that they had to stay home and protect their property(the slaves). In the meantime, the yeomen soldiers saw that it was a "rich man's war and a poor man's fight."
Desertions and evasion of service were rampant. In 1863 and 1864 from 1/3 to 1/2 of the CSA had deserted or was evading. It got to the point where the weight of slavery was in itself dragging the Confederacy down.
Slaves struggled for freedom. (Planters wouldn't even "lend" slaves to the war effort. White yeoman struggled to defend themselves from subjugation to what they saw as political slavery. the Confederate government had to rely on increasing draconian forms of coercion; and the Confederacy melted away.
The interests of the slave holding minority were in direct opposition to that of the slaves (of course) and to the interests of the non-slave holding majority of free citizens of the South, the white non-slave holding yeomanry.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From a techy's profile: http://jeremiahthewebprophet.blogspot.com/
Beliefs
Web is important. It will be the primary platform for nearly all communication for the foreseeable future. Mobile, TV, and the Internet will mesh into one.
It’s the communication and relationships that are important, the tools are second. Web is only as critical as the communication that occurs between the sender, receiver, and the impact on the community. In many ways, I’m no more than a communication facilitator.
My focus is on Web Strategy, meaning I create plans and lead a measurable program to use web tools to meet user and business needs for Internets, Extranets, and Intranets.
Focus on the users/consumers, and the rest will fall into place.
I will continue to grow, with a clear vision to eventually be an influencer and leader in the web industry.
From a techy's profile: http://jeremiahthewebprophet.blogspot.com/
Beliefs
Web is important. It will be the primary platform for nearly all communication for the foreseeable future. Mobile, TV, and the Internet will mesh into one.
It’s the communication and relationships that are important, the tools are second. Web is only as critical as the communication that occurs between the sender, receiver, and the impact on the community. In many ways, I’m no more than a communication facilitator.
My focus is on Web Strategy, meaning I create plans and lead a measurable program to use web tools to meet user and business needs for Internets, Extranets, and Intranets.
Focus on the users/consumers, and the rest will fall into place.
I will continue to grow, with a clear vision to eventually be an influencer and leader in the web industry.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In response to Ann Coulter's ad hominum attack on John Edwards:
People resort to ad hominem attacks when
(1) they have no other arguments,
(2) when they want to distract from the real issues, and
(3) when they are air-headed, cross eyed, poorly educated, bulimic, bleached blond, bitch-hoes who belong in the kitchen raising children.
mek
In response to Ann Coulter's ad hominum attack on John Edwards:
People resort to ad hominem attacks when
(1) they have no other arguments,
(2) when they want to distract from the real issues, and
(3) when they are air-headed, cross eyed, poorly educated, bulimic, bleached blond, bitch-hoes who belong in the kitchen raising children.
mek
Saturday, February 24, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Life is too short to drink cheap wine.
They taught me that the world is round, but when I left school I fell off a cliff.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Discussion: Many people have written to say that I shouldn't have taken it upon myself to chase the thief. I should have let it go. It was only money, and not mine at that.
Here's one:
"Wow. I’m SO grateful that YOU ARE BOTH OKAY… here’s the lecture…
First of all – it’s “just money”. It wasn’t even YOUR money or your only picture of your long lost puppy or whatever else may compel you to run after a criminal.
Second, you didn’t have a gun, did you? What would have happened had you “cornered” this criminal and he (with his fear abounding) pulled out HIS gun? Do you think he would have made the right decision in assessing that YOU were a good guy?
Third, does it matter if she was driving a Mercedes or she was a check out girl who had just been paid? Had it really mattered to you, it could have saved you your life to have found out. Wouldn’t you have been the same hero to give her $1,000 on the spot? YOUR MONEY or YOUR LIFE?
I find your act incredibly heroic (and clearly your instinct had arisen from the goodness of your heart) – but next time… STOP. THINK. ASK the questions that may compel your decision to ACT. Then, call the cops and let them know he went down toward A1A.
J You are brave and I’m thankful that you and Maria are safe -- and finally -- the sociological paradox is priceless. I love you!
Here's my answer:
Every man must do as he thinks right.
I can't, won't, suppress myself. I could be a coward and live in a padded cell but I'd rather live in the real world. It is not "heroic" merely to do what is right. Never.
We must take positions and use our discretion to know when and how to act. Thirty-five years in Williamsburg taught me my limits. Those limits did not include backing down in front of desperadoes.
This is not say that would wrestle a gun or knife from someone. It is to say that I would do (and have done) what I can do when (if) the time comes to act.
This is also not to say that you, or Aaron, or Geoff, or Cory, or Max should act as I act. Only that you should act as you know that you can.
There is another side of me that wants to do what is right. Hence the chase, and hence its anticlimatical ending in which I found myself regretting the chase and "capture."
I felt like a slave catcher.
Discussion: Many people have written to say that I shouldn't have taken it upon myself to chase the thief. I should have let it go. It was only money, and not mine at that.
Here's one:
"Wow. I’m SO grateful that YOU ARE BOTH OKAY… here’s the lecture…
First of all – it’s “just money”. It wasn’t even YOUR money or your only picture of your long lost puppy or whatever else may compel you to run after a criminal.
Second, you didn’t have a gun, did you? What would have happened had you “cornered” this criminal and he (with his fear abounding) pulled out HIS gun? Do you think he would have made the right decision in assessing that YOU were a good guy?
Third, does it matter if she was driving a Mercedes or she was a check out girl who had just been paid? Had it really mattered to you, it could have saved you your life to have found out. Wouldn’t you have been the same hero to give her $1,000 on the spot? YOUR MONEY or YOUR LIFE?
I find your act incredibly heroic (and clearly your instinct had arisen from the goodness of your heart) – but next time… STOP. THINK. ASK the questions that may compel your decision to ACT. Then, call the cops and let them know he went down toward A1A.
J You are brave and I’m thankful that you and Maria are safe -- and finally -- the sociological paradox is priceless. I love you!
Here's my answer:
Every man must do as he thinks right.
I can't, won't, suppress myself. I could be a coward and live in a padded cell but I'd rather live in the real world. It is not "heroic" merely to do what is right. Never.
We must take positions and use our discretion to know when and how to act. Thirty-five years in Williamsburg taught me my limits. Those limits did not include backing down in front of desperadoes.
This is not say that would wrestle a gun or knife from someone. It is to say that I would do (and have done) what I can do when (if) the time comes to act.
This is also not to say that you, or Aaron, or Geoff, or Cory, or Max should act as I act. Only that you should act as you know that you can.
There is another side of me that wants to do what is right. Hence the chase, and hence its anticlimatical ending in which I found myself regretting the chase and "capture."
I felt like a slave catcher.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Disturbing Event
Maria and I were in the parking lot of Whole Foods when we observed a purse-snatcher grab and run with a purse belonging to a check-out-lady from the store. He took off like a rocket and was very big, say six feet two or so, and 250 lbs. He ran directly across the highway, though traffic.
The check-out-lady was hysterical, I figured she had just been paid.
I gave chase on foot but he was far too fleet for me; Maria caught up to me with the car and we searched for him for about ten minutes on the other side of a highway. By this time two men in a convertible had joined the chase and the lady had gotten into their car, still screaming--and it was at least five minutes after the purse had been stolen.
The other car went one way, but I understood that it wasn't likely that he would run into a suburban neighborhood. Maria drove along the back of the highway, and I searched behind a Shell Station, in the Sports Central parking lot, a Barnes and Noble parking lot, and various other spots that I thought he might have run to or hidden in.
Suddenly he burst out of some brush, having been flushed out by the men from the other car. I was alone with him and saw a large black man, very terrified, and sweating very hard.
I told him to give me the purse and to head for the hills. But he no longer had the purse; a short time later the other men arrived, and the thief, who had, in my mind, become a victim, was threatening to "go crazy." "Give us the purse," I asked again, but he had already dropped it.
By now three carloads of police had arrived.
"Get down on the ground!"
He obeyed quickly, and was down on his belly, but the cops had drawn their pistols, and now ran to him, and kneed him the back. They weren't gentle.
In the meantime, Maria had found the purse, in tact, and returned it to the lady.
I remarked to Maria, that I found it interesting that when I saw the theft occur, I felt sorry for the check-out lady, having assumed that she had just been paid.
But when I saw the cops knee the frightened thief, guns drawn, my sympathies went to the thief.
To make matters still worse, Maria told me that the lady was not a check-out lady, but rather that she had just been getting into her Mercedes.
mek
Disturbing Event
Maria and I were in the parking lot of Whole Foods when we observed a purse-snatcher grab and run with a purse belonging to a check-out-lady from the store. He took off like a rocket and was very big, say six feet two or so, and 250 lbs. He ran directly across the highway, though traffic.
The check-out-lady was hysterical, I figured she had just been paid.
I gave chase on foot but he was far too fleet for me; Maria caught up to me with the car and we searched for him for about ten minutes on the other side of a highway. By this time two men in a convertible had joined the chase and the lady had gotten into their car, still screaming--and it was at least five minutes after the purse had been stolen.
The other car went one way, but I understood that it wasn't likely that he would run into a suburban neighborhood. Maria drove along the back of the highway, and I searched behind a Shell Station, in the Sports Central parking lot, a Barnes and Noble parking lot, and various other spots that I thought he might have run to or hidden in.
Suddenly he burst out of some brush, having been flushed out by the men from the other car. I was alone with him and saw a large black man, very terrified, and sweating very hard.
I told him to give me the purse and to head for the hills. But he no longer had the purse; a short time later the other men arrived, and the thief, who had, in my mind, become a victim, was threatening to "go crazy." "Give us the purse," I asked again, but he had already dropped it.
By now three carloads of police had arrived.
"Get down on the ground!"
He obeyed quickly, and was down on his belly, but the cops had drawn their pistols, and now ran to him, and kneed him the back. They weren't gentle.
In the meantime, Maria had found the purse, in tact, and returned it to the lady.
I remarked to Maria, that I found it interesting that when I saw the theft occur, I felt sorry for the check-out lady, having assumed that she had just been paid.
But when I saw the cops knee the frightened thief, guns drawn, my sympathies went to the thief.
To make matters still worse, Maria told me that the lady was not a check-out lady, but rather that she had just been getting into her Mercedes.
mek
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Maria and I were in the parking lot of Whole Foods when we observed a purse-snatcher grab and run with a purse belonging to a check-out-lady from the store. He took off like a rocket and was very big, say six feet two or so, and 250 lbs. He ran directly across the highway, though traffic.
The check-out-lady was hysterical, I figured she had just been paid.
I gave chase on foot but he was far too fleet for me; Maria caught up to me with the car and we searched for him for about ten minutes on the other side of a highway. By this time two men in a convertible had joined the chase and the lady had gotten into their car, still screaming--and it was at least five minutes after the purse had been stolen.
The other car went one way, but I understood that it wasn't likely that he would run into a suburban neighborhood. Maria drove along the back of the highway, and I searched behind a Shell Station, in the Sports Central parking lot, a Barnes and Noble parking lot, and various other spots that I thought he might have run to or hidden in.
Suddenly he burst out of some brush, having been flushed out by the men from the other car. I was alone with him and saw a large black man, very terrified, and sweating very hard.
I told him to give me the purse and to head for the hills. But he no longer had the purse; a short time later the other men arrived, and the thief, who had, in my mind, become a victim, was threatening to "go crazy." "Give us the purse," I asked again, but he had already dropped it.
By now three carloads of police had arrived.
"Get down on the ground!"
He obeyed quickly, and was down on his belly, but the cops had drawn their pistols, and now ran to him, and kneed him the back. They weren't gentle.
In the meantime, Maria had found the purse, in tact, and returned it to the lady.
I remarked to Maria, that I found it interesting that when I saw the theft occur, I felt sorry for the check-out lady, having assumed that she had just been paid.
But when I saw the cops knee the frightened thief, guns drawn, my sympathies went to the thief.
To make matters still worse, Maria told me that the lady was not a check-out lady, but rather that she had just been getting into her Mercedes.
mek
Maria and I were in the parking lot of Whole Foods when we observed a purse-snatcher grab and run with a purse belonging to a check-out-lady from the store. He took off like a rocket and was very big, say six feet two or so, and 250 lbs. He ran directly across the highway, though traffic.
The check-out-lady was hysterical, I figured she had just been paid.
I gave chase on foot but he was far too fleet for me; Maria caught up to me with the car and we searched for him for about ten minutes on the other side of a highway. By this time two men in a convertible had joined the chase and the lady had gotten into their car, still screaming--and it was at least five minutes after the purse had been stolen.
The other car went one way, but I understood that it wasn't likely that he would run into a suburban neighborhood. Maria drove along the back of the highway, and I searched behind a Shell Station, in the Sports Central parking lot, a Barnes and Noble parking lot, and various other spots that I thought he might have run to or hidden in.
Suddenly he burst out of some brush, having been flushed out by the men from the other car. I was alone with him and saw a large black man, very terrified, and sweating very hard.
I told him to give me the purse and to head for the hills. But he no longer had the purse; a short time later the other men arrived, and the thief, who had, in my mind, become a victim, was threatening to "go crazy." "Give us the purse," I asked again, but he had already dropped it.
By now three carloads of police had arrived.
"Get down on the ground!"
He obeyed quickly, and was down on his belly, but the cops had drawn their pistols, and now ran to him, and kneed him the back. They weren't gentle.
In the meantime, Maria had found the purse, in tact, and returned it to the lady.
I remarked to Maria, that I found it interesting that when I saw the theft occur, I felt sorry for the check-out lady, having assumed that she had just been paid.
But when I saw the cops knee the frightened thief, guns drawn, my sympathies went to the thief.
To make matters still worse, Maria told me that the lady was not a check-out lady, but rather that she had just been getting into her Mercedes.
mek
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Ok so what happened was I knew that he was a senior, and the younger brother or cousin or something of a really good wrestler and he was bigger than I was, so I didn't want him to think I was a pushover so right off the whistle I tied up with him and gave him a good head butt, like I usually do, and then a head snap. I could tell that I had accomplished my goal because he made a noise like "ohh." Then I forget what happened I'm pretty sure I shot a bad shot, but at least I'm trying my shots now, and then I let him get behind me. I know that I'm good on bottom and I wanted to see how good he was so I balled up and tried to let him work a move so I could reverse it. He tried unsuccessfully to break me down so I took a couple of scoots forward and hit a decent hip roll but then turned to the legs, which was stupid, and then he turned to his stomach and I was on top. He worked his way up to a base and I put up a mild effort to break him down but I knew that once he was on his feet I would be able to pick him up and throw him back to the ground, which I did. Once he was on the ground I'm pretty sure, although I can't really remember, I ran a half nelson I think he squirmed his way out again, then I got tired of wrestling him so I ran an arm bar, turned him to his back, put my knee to his head, and didn't let him up. At that point he made another one of those noises, "ohhh," after a little while of being on his back and not being able to get out. Once the reff finally declared that he was pinned, I jumped up and while he was still on the ground said " good match" then we walked to the center, we shook hands, again I said "good match," even though it wasn't that great, and the reff raised my hand. We each walked to the opposite coaches' corners and shook their hands. On the way back to our side of the mat, while we were passing, I said "good match" again, at which point he didn't say anything. I think he was a little mad at being pinned by a sophomore but what can I say.
Ok so what happened was I knew that he was a senior, and the younger brother or cousin or something of a really good wrestler and he was bigger than I was, so I didn't want him to think I was a pushover so right off the whistle I tied up with him and gave him a good head butt, like I usually do, and then a head snap. I could tell that I had accomplished my goal because he made a noise like "ohh." Then I forget what happened I'm pretty sure I shot a bad shot, but at least I'm trying my shots now, and then I let him get behind me. I know that I'm good on bottom and I wanted to see how good he was so I balled up and tried to let him work a move so I could reverse it. He tried unsuccessfully to break me down so I took a couple of scoots forward and hit a decent hip roll but then turned to the legs, which was stupid, and then he turned to his stomach and I was on top. He worked his way up to a base and I put up a mild effort to break him down but I knew that once he was on his feet I would be able to pick him up and throw him back to the ground, which I did. Once he was on the ground I'm pretty sure, although I can't really remember, I ran a half nelson I think he squirmed his way out again, then I got tired of wrestling him so I ran an arm bar, turned him to his back, put my knee to his head, and didn't let him up. At that point he made another one of those noises, "ohhh," after a little while of being on his back and not being able to get out. Once the reff finally declared that he was pinned, I jumped up and while he was still on the ground said " good match" then we walked to the center, we shook hands, again I said "good match," even though it wasn't that great, and the reff raised my hand. We each walked to the opposite coaches' corners and shook their hands. On the way back to our side of the mat, while we were passing, I said "good match" again, at which point he didn't say anything. I think he was a little mad at being pinned by a sophomore but what can I say.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Inflation Rate Horace Mann tuition. 1955 ($917)thru 2006 ($30,000).
So? Mathematicians: If you still have your slipsticks, what is the average
> annual HM tuition inflation rate anyway?
Well, the current tool of choice is a spreadsheet...
> $917 in 1955, and $30,000, in 2006?
Inflation rate is generally based on a single step. According to http://inflationdata.com/Inflation/Inflation_Rate/InflationCalculator.asp,
the inflation rate from September, 1955 to September, 2006 was 654.28%.
That would mean that the 2006 tuition should be $6,916.75. Thus HM tuition has risen much faster than inflation -- in fact, the inflation rate for HM tuition alone is 3171.54%.
It is well-known that tuition for tertiary education rises much faster than inflation, so one shouldn't be surprised that the same holds true for secondary education. One reason given for this anomalous rise is that one cannot increase the productivity of educators as fast as one can increase the productivity of workers in other fields. In fact, there are good reasons to assume that the productivity of educators cannot be increased at all, simply due to the nature of education.
But you asked for the AVERAGE ANNUAL HM tuition inflation rate. Although the concept of an average is a bit out of place in this context, we could argue that what you're asking for is a single yearly inflation rate that would increase the $917 to $30,000 over the 51-year period from 1955 to 2006. That's the same as asking for the compound interest rate that would result in a $917 investment in 1955 being worth $30,000 in 2006. The answer is very close to 7.0782%.
This is probably more than you wanted to know, but when you ask a professor a question that's the usual result. Happy New Year!
Inflation Rate Horace Mann tuition. 1955 ($917)thru 2006 ($30,000).
So? Mathematicians: If you still have your slipsticks, what is the average
> annual HM tuition inflation rate anyway?
Well, the current tool of choice is a spreadsheet...
> $917 in 1955, and $30,000, in 2006?
Inflation rate is generally based on a single step. According to http://inflationdata.com/Inflation/Inflation_Rate/InflationCalculator.asp,
the inflation rate from September, 1955 to September, 2006 was 654.28%.
That would mean that the 2006 tuition should be $6,916.75. Thus HM tuition has risen much faster than inflation -- in fact, the inflation rate for HM tuition alone is 3171.54%.
It is well-known that tuition for tertiary education rises much faster than inflation, so one shouldn't be surprised that the same holds true for secondary education. One reason given for this anomalous rise is that one cannot increase the productivity of educators as fast as one can increase the productivity of workers in other fields. In fact, there are good reasons to assume that the productivity of educators cannot be increased at all, simply due to the nature of education.
But you asked for the AVERAGE ANNUAL HM tuition inflation rate. Although the concept of an average is a bit out of place in this context, we could argue that what you're asking for is a single yearly inflation rate that would increase the $917 to $30,000 over the 51-year period from 1955 to 2006. That's the same as asking for the compound interest rate that would result in a $917 investment in 1955 being worth $30,000 in 2006. The answer is very close to 7.0782%.
This is probably more than you wanted to know, but when you ask a professor a question that's the usual result. Happy New Year!
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Inflation Rate Horace Mann tuition. 1955 ($917)thru 2006 ($30,000).
So? Mathematicians: If you still have your slipsticks, what is the average
> annual HM tuition inflation rate anyway?
Well, the current tool of choice is a spreadsheet...
> $917 in 1955, and $30,000, in 2006?
Inflation rate is generally based on a single step. According to http://inflationdata.com/Inflation/Inflation_Rate/InflationCalculator.asp,
the inflation rate from September, 1955 to September, 2006 was 654.28%.
That would mean that the 2006 tuition should be $6,916.75. Thus HM tuition has risen much faster than inflation -- in fact, the inflation rate for HM tuition alone is 3171.54%.
It is well-known that tuition for tertiary education rises much faster than inflation, so one shouldn't be surprised that the same holds true for secondary education. One reason given for this anomalous rise is that one cannot increase the productivity of educators as fast as one can increase the productivity of workers in other fields. In fact, there are good reasons to assume that the productivity of educators cannot be increased at all, simply due to the nature of education.
But you asked for the AVERAGE ANNUAL HM tuition inflation rate. Although the concept of an average is a bit out of place in this context, we could argue that what you're asking for is a single yearly inflation rate that would increase the $917 to $30,000 over the 51-year period from 1955 to 2006. That's the same as asking for the compound interest rate that would result in a $917 investment in 1955 being worth $30,000 in 2006. The answer is very close to 7.0782%.
This is probably more than you wanted to know, but when you ask a professor a question that's the usual result. Happy New Year!
Inflation Rate Horace Mann tuition. 1955 ($917)thru 2006 ($30,000).
So? Mathematicians: If you still have your slipsticks, what is the average
> annual HM tuition inflation rate anyway?
Well, the current tool of choice is a spreadsheet...
> $917 in 1955, and $30,000, in 2006?
Inflation rate is generally based on a single step. According to http://inflationdata.com/Inflation/Inflation_Rate/InflationCalculator.asp,
the inflation rate from September, 1955 to September, 2006 was 654.28%.
That would mean that the 2006 tuition should be $6,916.75. Thus HM tuition has risen much faster than inflation -- in fact, the inflation rate for HM tuition alone is 3171.54%.
It is well-known that tuition for tertiary education rises much faster than inflation, so one shouldn't be surprised that the same holds true for secondary education. One reason given for this anomalous rise is that one cannot increase the productivity of educators as fast as one can increase the productivity of workers in other fields. In fact, there are good reasons to assume that the productivity of educators cannot be increased at all, simply due to the nature of education.
But you asked for the AVERAGE ANNUAL HM tuition inflation rate. Although the concept of an average is a bit out of place in this context, we could argue that what you're asking for is a single yearly inflation rate that would increase the $917 to $30,000 over the 51-year period from 1955 to 2006. That's the same as asking for the compound interest rate that would result in a $917 investment in 1955 being worth $30,000 in 2006. The answer is very close to 7.0782%.
This is probably more than you wanted to know, but when you ask a professor a question that's the usual result. Happy New Year!
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