BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Minnesota declaration: truth and fact in documentary cinema
"LESSONS OF DARKNESS"
1. By dint of declaration the so-called Cinema Verité is devoid of verité. It reaches a merely superficial truth, the truth of accountants.
2. One well-known representative of Cinema Verité declared publicly that truth can be easily found by taking a camera and trying to be honest. He resembles the night watchman at the Supreme Court who resents the amount of written law and legal procedures. "For me," he says, "there should be only one single law: the bad guys should go to jail."
Unfortunately, he is part right, for most of the many, much of the time.
3. Cinema Verité confounds fact and truth, and thus plows only stones. And yet, facts sometimes have a strange and bizarre power that makes their inherent truth seem unbelievable.
4. Fact creates norms, and truth illumination.
5. There are deeper strata of truth in cinema, and there is such a thing as poetic, ecstatic truth. It is mysterious and elusive, and can be reached only through fabrication and imagination and stylization.
6. Filmmakers of Cinema Verité resemble tourists who take pictures amid ancient ruins of facts.
7. Tourism is sin, and travel on foot virtue.
8. Each year at springtime scores of people on snowmobiles crash through the melting ice on the lakes of Minnesota and drown. Pressure is mounting on the new governor to pass a protective law. He, the former wrestler and bodyguard, has the only sage answer to this: "You can´t legislate stupidity."
9. The gauntlet is hereby thrown down.
10. The moon is dull. Mother Nature doesn´t call, doesn´t speak to you, although a glacier eventually farts. And don´t you listen to the Song of Life.
11. We ought to be grateful that the Universe out there knows no smile.
12. Life in the oceans must be sheer hell. A vast, merciless hell of permanent and immediate danger. So much of a hell that during evolution some species - including man - crawled, fled onto some small continents of solid land, where the Lessons of Darkness continue.
Walker Art Center, Minneapolis, Minnesota April 30, 1999
Werner Herzog
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Gordimer did not read the same book that I did. She may have been confused by the subject matter of the other three books which she notes, Memories of My Dying Wives, Inez, and Human Stain. I read Fuentes and recall the book as intense and detailed about the sexual conduct of the last years of a man's life--but I see nothing of that in Everyman.
Everyman deals with the anguish of regret and the mystery of what we are in contrast to what we might have been. There is more truth in the anguish of the bleak desolation in which Everyman has trapped himself than there was in his previous fifty years, when impulse and whim compassed his path.
The strength to search for the love he has tossed aside eludes him, his life is shattered by decrepitude. He dies suddenly without expecting death on the operating table, alone among strangers. He feels no lust on the table while he awaits the surgeons knife.
I think that Gordimer misses all this because she is surrounded by family and friends at every turn in the road.
Gordimer did not read the same book that I did. She may have been confused by the subject matter of the other three books which she notes, Memories of My Dying Wives, Inez, and Human Stain. I read Fuentes and recall the book as intense and detailed about the sexual conduct of the last years of a man's life--but I see nothing of that in Everyman.
Everyman deals with the anguish of regret and the mystery of what we are in contrast to what we might have been. There is more truth in the anguish of the bleak desolation in which Everyman has trapped himself than there was in his previous fifty years, when impulse and whim compassed his path.
The strength to search for the love he has tossed aside eludes him, his life is shattered by decrepitude. He dies suddenly without expecting death on the operating table, alone among strangers. He feels no lust on the table while he awaits the surgeons knife.
I think that Gordimer misses all this because she is surrounded by family and friends at every turn in the road.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Everyman -- Phillip Roth, 2006
Life doesn’t turn out the way that we wanted. Impulsive acts come to be regretted even when they seem to have been the right, only way.
Impulsive stupidity prevails.
Everyman’s black side expressed itself during his younger years. He gave up a family, hurt his wives and children, and ended up alone. Although he had tried to reach out to a few friends; it is too late, each is on his death bed, or had already been buried. He finds some solace in a small conversation with a simple gravedigger; who is modeled on the gravedigger in Hamlet.
Alone, He visits the cemetery where his grandparents and his parents are buried. The cemetery is overgrown, the entrances are broken, gates rusted, graves abandoned, names forgotten. Three generations previous the cemetery was founded (by his grandfather) on raw, bucolic land blessed by God and nature. Now it has become a wreck, it has been vandalized; it is rarely used, and not kept up. Tranquility can never be restored.
And then the reader remembers Ozymandius.
Industry and Commerce have crowded and polluted what once was a silent place of memorial. Thruway sounds overwhelm the prayers and thoughts of the bereaved and invade the graves of the buried. The dead are honored only by The Honorable Gravedigger who tries to do a good job of digging, almost carving, a “squared up, flat bottomed” grave, a final resting place for those persons who are brought to lie for eternity in the Jersey dirt.
Most of his life in retirement is spent alone even when he begins to teach a painting class to other retired men and women of his generation. But all his students speak of is their sicknesses and the sicknesses of their friends. He spots one possible companion but she soon takes enough pills to end her life which had become racked with pain.
Everyman is not ready to die; even when he realizes that he has crippled the lives of his children and wives. He wants to make amends but it is too late; just as it was too late to visit his old pals from the agency where he spent his life. His children just can’t bring themselves to see him in any other way than the man who left them. They despise him...
At the end of his life, after retirement, he does have a loyal, loving daughter. Nancy (modeled on Cordelia in Lear) checks on him, cares for him. His sons don’t speak to him... He cannot bring himself to explain himself to his sons. He has lost the fight that once was in him. He had tried to do “the right thing” for them and their mother, Phoebe, but had failed in both reality and in the eyes of those sons. They were lost to him. They could only “minimize his decency and magnify his defects.”
He has had several operations. He is weak in body as well as spirit. He can’t even delight in the swimming that once filled his happiest hours. When he was working he had dreamed of painting, so now he paints everyday, and fills his daughter’s apartment with paintings. But soon, he loses interest in even that.
He bitterly compares himself to his immensely successful, strong, buoyant, healthy older brother. His brother continues to lead a full, busy, engaging life; while he rusts at a Jersey Shore end-of-life stopping off point. He had always looked up to his brother and when needed, he had to admit that his brother was always there for him.
He becomes sick and seeks out a caregiver with whom he had had a brief fling. He remembers her loving care, and wants it back. She was young when he knew her; now she would be in her sixties. He can’t find her.
When he dies, in a room full of strangers, under the bright, sterile light of an operating room, he is surrounded by people and still alone. He doesn’t expect to die, but his body separates itself from life and he lets go. No one is with him.
But it didn’t matter who might have been with him. Even his children had become strangers, and he didn’t know his wives anymore.
Thanks to Gross for pointing out the Hamlet and Lear references in the novel.
Everyman -- Phillip Roth, 2006
Life doesn’t turn out the way that we wanted. Impulsive acts come to be regretted even when they seem to have been the right, only way.
Impulsive stupidity prevails.
Everyman’s black side expressed itself during his younger years. He gave up a family, hurt his wives and children, and ended up alone. Although he had tried to reach out to a few friends; it is too late, each is on his death bed, or had already been buried. He finds some solace in a small conversation with a simple gravedigger; who is modeled on the gravedigger in Hamlet.
Alone, He visits the cemetery where his grandparents and his parents are buried. The cemetery is overgrown, the entrances are broken, gates rusted, graves abandoned, names forgotten. Three generations previous the cemetery was founded (by his grandfather) on raw, bucolic land blessed by God and nature. Now it has become a wreck, it has been vandalized; it is rarely used, and not kept up. Tranquility can never be restored.
And then the reader remembers Ozymandius.
Industry and Commerce have crowded and polluted what once was a silent place of memorial. Thruway sounds overwhelm the prayers and thoughts of the bereaved and invade the graves of the buried. The dead are honored only by The Honorable Gravedigger who tries to do a good job of digging, almost carving, a “squared up, flat bottomed” grave, a final resting place for those persons who are brought to lie for eternity in the Jersey dirt.
Most of his life in retirement is spent alone even when he begins to teach a painting class to other retired men and women of his generation. But all his students speak of is their sicknesses and the sicknesses of their friends. He spots one possible companion but she soon takes enough pills to end her life which had become racked with pain.
Everyman is not ready to die; even when he realizes that he has crippled the lives of his children and wives. He wants to make amends but it is too late; just as it was too late to visit his old pals from the agency where he spent his life. His children just can’t bring themselves to see him in any other way than the man who left them. They despise him...
At the end of his life, after retirement, he does have a loyal, loving daughter. Nancy (modeled on Cordelia in Lear) checks on him, cares for him. His sons don’t speak to him... He cannot bring himself to explain himself to his sons. He has lost the fight that once was in him. He had tried to do “the right thing” for them and their mother, Phoebe, but had failed in both reality and in the eyes of those sons. They were lost to him. They could only “minimize his decency and magnify his defects.”
He has had several operations. He is weak in body as well as spirit. He can’t even delight in the swimming that once filled his happiest hours. When he was working he had dreamed of painting, so now he paints everyday, and fills his daughter’s apartment with paintings. But soon, he loses interest in even that.
He bitterly compares himself to his immensely successful, strong, buoyant, healthy older brother. His brother continues to lead a full, busy, engaging life; while he rusts at a Jersey Shore end-of-life stopping off point. He had always looked up to his brother and when needed, he had to admit that his brother was always there for him.
He becomes sick and seeks out a caregiver with whom he had had a brief fling. He remembers her loving care, and wants it back. She was young when he knew her; now she would be in her sixties. He can’t find her.
When he dies, in a room full of strangers, under the bright, sterile light of an operating room, he is surrounded by people and still alone. He doesn’t expect to die, but his body separates itself from life and he lets go. No one is with him.
But it didn’t matter who might have been with him. Even his children had become strangers, and he didn’t know his wives anymore.
Thanks to Gross for pointing out the Hamlet and Lear references in the novel.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Ozymandias
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.-Percy Bysshe Shelley
1792-1822
Ozymandias
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.-Percy Bysshe Shelley
1792-1822
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Saturday, March 11, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It's a cliche, I guess, and I shouldn't have been so surprised, but the parallels between the fall of the Holy Roman Empire and the US today are amazing.
I bought a book, A Short History of Italy, Henry Dwight Sedgwick, at Strand for a dollar several years ago, and just rescued it from our storage room at Garden City, Long Island.
Sedgwick, a member of an old New England family, was a important historian in his day. He writes that the City of Rome was the head of the world. That from East and West, North and South, "booty, spoils, taxes and tribute flowed into Rome. But, he remarks, that the riches acquired by conquest had "brought the seeds of Evil" with them.
"Society was divided into the very rich and the very poor. The simple laborious life of freeman was gone. The regular occupations of production had been abandoned to serfs and slaves; moderate incomes and plain living had disappeared. The middle class had been thrust down to the level of the plebs. In the country the small proprietors had been reduced to a position little better than serfs, while the great landlords had got vast tracts of land into their hands. Taxes had become heavier and heavier as the exigencies of the Empire grew; great numbers of officials were maintained and great mercenary armies. The rich controlled the government, and shifted almost the whole burden of taxation from their own shoulders to those of the poor. In the cities had grown up a vicious unemployed class, living on the distribution of bread which was paid for out of public revenues."
It's a cliche, I guess, and I shouldn't have been so surprised, but the parallels between the fall of the Holy Roman Empire and the US today are amazing.
I bought a book, A Short History of Italy, Henry Dwight Sedgwick, at Strand for a dollar several years ago, and just rescued it from our storage room at Garden City, Long Island.
Sedgwick, a member of an old New England family, was a important historian in his day. He writes that the City of Rome was the head of the world. That from East and West, North and South, "booty, spoils, taxes and tribute flowed into Rome. But, he remarks, that the riches acquired by conquest had "brought the seeds of Evil" with them.
"Society was divided into the very rich and the very poor. The simple laborious life of freeman was gone. The regular occupations of production had been abandoned to serfs and slaves; moderate incomes and plain living had disappeared. The middle class had been thrust down to the level of the plebs. In the country the small proprietors had been reduced to a position little better than serfs, while the great landlords had got vast tracts of land into their hands. Taxes had become heavier and heavier as the exigencies of the Empire grew; great numbers of officials were maintained and great mercenary armies. The rich controlled the government, and shifted almost the whole burden of taxation from their own shoulders to those of the poor. In the cities had grown up a vicious unemployed class, living on the distribution of bread which was paid for out of public revenues."
Friday, February 24, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
1. From the Desk of David Pogue: How to Survive a Tech
Support Call
=============================================================
OK, we all know that the tech-support problem is out of
control these days. But just for fun, reader John Stumpf, ex-
CIO and now just a "retired geek," wrote up a Guide to Dell
Tech Support that's so clever/funny/smart, I had to pass it
on. Please welcome substitute columnist John Stumpf.
PREPARATORY WORK
So it has happened: you have fired up your Dell PC, and -
nothing. Or the dreaded "cannot find boot drive" or something
like that. Now you are forced into the unenviable position of
having to call Dell Off-shore Hardware Support. Look at it as
a journey, one on which you will be tested, much like Job or
Arthur Dent. You will descend into the ninth circle, but with
the proper preparation, tools and attitude, you will return,
a better person for it.
First, before you call, prepare. Raid your kids' library and
find some simple reading primers along the lines of "See Spot
Run." This will help you speak in non-complex sentences and
monosyllabic words.
Make an appointment for that root canal you have been putting
off. After what you are about to experience, you will look
forward to it.
Buy a speakerphone; it's tough to stay rational when your
neck is cramped.
When you are ready to MAKE THE CALL, go to the bathroom, take
an aspirin, get a book or crossword, stock up on water and
nibbles (preferably ones with high sugar content and no
nutritional value; Twinkies are good). Shoo the kids out of
your den; it's possible that they will hear things that could
cause serious psychological issues later.
Do your relaxation exercises; take a sip of water; remember
Dan Rather's closing, "Courage." And MAKE THE CALL.
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
The first thing that you will get is a recorded announcement
saying that you can go to support.dell.com online to get
help. This is your first test. Refrain from screaming that
your PC is broken and you can't GET to the Internet. This is
where it is handy to have a towel to bite on, so your family
doesn't hear you screaming at a recording.
You may also be asked to enter your "Express Service Code."
(The discussion of why you have an "Express" Service Code
when you are spending a long time on hold is best put off for
another time.)
Eventually you will get to a person. You will tell him/her
why you are calling, and most likely you will be told you
have to call someone else. They will offer to transfer you,
but before they do, GET THE EXENSION NUMBER. This is very
important, especially when (not if) you get cut off. Note
that it is a seven-digit extension number.
While waiting, pause and ponder the size and complexity of a
company that needs an extension number the size of your phone
number.
Now you are getting close. You will eventually get to someone
who after getting your name, address, problem, and again,
Express Service code, will say the magic words, "I can help
you with that problem." You have now contacted a Dell
Offshore Personal Expert - a DOPE.
Some notes on this part of the process:
* The DOPE will probably call you by your first name, because
he/she wants to be your new best friend.
* He/she will profusely thank you at every step of the way
for the same reason.
* He/she will have a notable American name like Patrick,
Matthew or even a Shaun. Do not react to this.
But congratulations; YOU HAVE REACHED SOMEONE WHO IS TRYING
TO HELP YOU! You reached the ninth circle, and all you have
to do is return.
THE RETURN
What happens now will vary depending on your problem. But
here are some guidelines for dealing with the DOPES.
* Do not yell at them. Aside from the fact that it is rude, I
think the phone system has a volume limiter that will cut you
off. Bite the towel instead.
* Do not try sarcasm; DOPES don't understand it. Again, bite
the towel.
* Ditto humor.
* Do not use words like "escalate" or "supervisor." In my
case, they were greeted by a frosty silence. My guess is that
they sound like obscenities in the local language.
* Do not ask if there is U.S.-based support. You will be told
that there is "no U.S.-based Dell support."
* You may be told that the DOPE will take personal
responsibility for your problem. Loosely translated, this
means you will never hear from him/her again.
THERE IS HOPE
At some point in this process, you may reach a Newly Oriented
Dell Off-shore Personal Expert - a NO-DOPE. This is a person
that has recently joined Dell who hasn't been fully trained
and therefore will approach your problem in a friendly,
knowledgeable and professional manner. He/she will solve your
problem in less time than it took to write this.
The moral of the story is to keep trying; eventually you will
reach a NO-DOPE.
YOU HAVE DONE IT
See, I told you that you could do it. Let the kids and pets
back in, throw out the towel, and start using complex
sentences and polysyllabic words again. And late that night,
after everyone has gone to bed, break out the 12-year-old
stuff, and toast yourself. Tomorrow you can reload all your
programs and restore your data from your backup. You do have
a backup, don't you?
(All of the events related here are based on my experience
with two incidents. The process was so frustrating that I
probably will not buy another Dell. And of course apologies
to Dante, Doug Adams, Greek mythology and those at Dell Off-
shore Support who are great.)
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Due to my experiences with Dell Dis-Support over the last ten years I have resolved never to buy another Dell Machine No Matter How Highly They Are Rated by Consumer's Reports. I have owned four different Dells (two lappies and two desk-tops) and with the exception of Dell Dis-Support I think that they were okay.
In the meantime, I have a problem with my Dell Inspiron 8600 and I have been procrastinating and have not called for dis-support for at least a year due to Dell-Dis-Support Phobia. For all I know my problem may not be a Dell problem -- it might be a BellSouth problem, but I am too afraid to call Dell-Dis-Support to find out.
There is no excuse for a successful company like Dell, a company that makes boatloads of money, to abuse its customers like Dell does. But, for several years Business Schools taught that short term bottom lines were much more important than long term customer relationships. From my perusals of the Harvard Business Review, I get the feeling that some doubt has recently been sown in that sad, selfish, shortsighted theory. In a few years, or perhaps in several years, companies may come back to their customers. But I doubt that it will be American owned companies. Think, Toyota, and how it drove General Motors to the junk yard.
Here's a horrible statistic: Wall Street capitalises GM at 13 billion dollars. .. Wall Street capitalizes Toyota at 193.5 Billion dollars.
GM used to be a bellwether stock for the entire market. Let's hope it no longer is. And Charlie Wilson, Ike's Secretary of the Defense, and former president of GM, used to say, "What's good for GM is good for the nation." -- Well, Chapter 11 will be good for GM. What does that say for US?
mek
1. From the Desk of David Pogue: How to Survive a Tech
Support Call
=============================================================
OK, we all know that the tech-support problem is out of
control these days. But just for fun, reader John Stumpf, ex-
CIO and now just a "retired geek," wrote up a Guide to Dell
Tech Support that's so clever/funny/smart, I had to pass it
on. Please welcome substitute columnist John Stumpf.
PREPARATORY WORK
So it has happened: you have fired up your Dell PC, and -
nothing. Or the dreaded "cannot find boot drive" or something
like that. Now you are forced into the unenviable position of
having to call Dell Off-shore Hardware Support. Look at it as
a journey, one on which you will be tested, much like Job or
Arthur Dent. You will descend into the ninth circle, but with
the proper preparation, tools and attitude, you will return,
a better person for it.
First, before you call, prepare. Raid your kids' library and
find some simple reading primers along the lines of "See Spot
Run." This will help you speak in non-complex sentences and
monosyllabic words.
Make an appointment for that root canal you have been putting
off. After what you are about to experience, you will look
forward to it.
Buy a speakerphone; it's tough to stay rational when your
neck is cramped.
When you are ready to MAKE THE CALL, go to the bathroom, take
an aspirin, get a book or crossword, stock up on water and
nibbles (preferably ones with high sugar content and no
nutritional value; Twinkies are good). Shoo the kids out of
your den; it's possible that they will hear things that could
cause serious psychological issues later.
Do your relaxation exercises; take a sip of water; remember
Dan Rather's closing, "Courage." And MAKE THE CALL.
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
The first thing that you will get is a recorded announcement
saying that you can go to support.dell.com online to get
help. This is your first test. Refrain from screaming that
your PC is broken and you can't GET to the Internet. This is
where it is handy to have a towel to bite on, so your family
doesn't hear you screaming at a recording.
You may also be asked to enter your "Express Service Code."
(The discussion of why you have an "Express" Service Code
when you are spending a long time on hold is best put off for
another time.)
Eventually you will get to a person. You will tell him/her
why you are calling, and most likely you will be told you
have to call someone else. They will offer to transfer you,
but before they do, GET THE EXENSION NUMBER. This is very
important, especially when (not if) you get cut off. Note
that it is a seven-digit extension number.
While waiting, pause and ponder the size and complexity of a
company that needs an extension number the size of your phone
number.
Now you are getting close. You will eventually get to someone
who after getting your name, address, problem, and again,
Express Service code, will say the magic words, "I can help
you with that problem." You have now contacted a Dell
Offshore Personal Expert - a DOPE.
Some notes on this part of the process:
* The DOPE will probably call you by your first name, because
he/she wants to be your new best friend.
* He/she will profusely thank you at every step of the way
for the same reason.
* He/she will have a notable American name like Patrick,
Matthew or even a Shaun. Do not react to this.
But congratulations; YOU HAVE REACHED SOMEONE WHO IS TRYING
TO HELP YOU! You reached the ninth circle, and all you have
to do is return.
THE RETURN
What happens now will vary depending on your problem. But
here are some guidelines for dealing with the DOPES.
* Do not yell at them. Aside from the fact that it is rude, I
think the phone system has a volume limiter that will cut you
off. Bite the towel instead.
* Do not try sarcasm; DOPES don't understand it. Again, bite
the towel.
* Ditto humor.
* Do not use words like "escalate" or "supervisor." In my
case, they were greeted by a frosty silence. My guess is that
they sound like obscenities in the local language.
* Do not ask if there is U.S.-based support. You will be told
that there is "no U.S.-based Dell support."
* You may be told that the DOPE will take personal
responsibility for your problem. Loosely translated, this
means you will never hear from him/her again.
THERE IS HOPE
At some point in this process, you may reach a Newly Oriented
Dell Off-shore Personal Expert - a NO-DOPE. This is a person
that has recently joined Dell who hasn't been fully trained
and therefore will approach your problem in a friendly,
knowledgeable and professional manner. He/she will solve your
problem in less time than it took to write this.
The moral of the story is to keep trying; eventually you will
reach a NO-DOPE.
YOU HAVE DONE IT
See, I told you that you could do it. Let the kids and pets
back in, throw out the towel, and start using complex
sentences and polysyllabic words again. And late that night,
after everyone has gone to bed, break out the 12-year-old
stuff, and toast yourself. Tomorrow you can reload all your
programs and restore your data from your backup. You do have
a backup, don't you?
(All of the events related here are based on my experience
with two incidents. The process was so frustrating that I
probably will not buy another Dell. And of course apologies
to Dante, Doug Adams, Greek mythology and those at Dell Off-
shore Support who are great.)
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Due to my experiences with Dell Dis-Support over the last ten years I have resolved never to buy another Dell Machine No Matter How Highly They Are Rated by Consumer's Reports. I have owned four different Dells (two lappies and two desk-tops) and with the exception of Dell Dis-Support I think that they were okay.
In the meantime, I have a problem with my Dell Inspiron 8600 and I have been procrastinating and have not called for dis-support for at least a year due to Dell-Dis-Support Phobia. For all I know my problem may not be a Dell problem -- it might be a BellSouth problem, but I am too afraid to call Dell-Dis-Support to find out.
There is no excuse for a successful company like Dell, a company that makes boatloads of money, to abuse its customers like Dell does. But, for several years Business Schools taught that short term bottom lines were much more important than long term customer relationships. From my perusals of the Harvard Business Review, I get the feeling that some doubt has recently been sown in that sad, selfish, shortsighted theory. In a few years, or perhaps in several years, companies may come back to their customers. But I doubt that it will be American owned companies. Think, Toyota, and how it drove General Motors to the junk yard.
Here's a horrible statistic: Wall Street capitalises GM at 13 billion dollars. .. Wall Street capitalizes Toyota at 193.5 Billion dollars.
GM used to be a bellwether stock for the entire market. Let's hope it no longer is. And Charlie Wilson, Ike's Secretary of the Defense, and former president of GM, used to say, "What's good for GM is good for the nation." -- Well, Chapter 11 will be good for GM. What does that say for US?
mek
Thursday, February 23, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Richard Russell's "Dow Theory Letters"
February 16, 2006 -- I should be in shock, but I'm really not. I just read on Bloomberg that my old high school, Horace Mann School for Boys (now just called Horace Mann because it's coed), will charge tuition of around $30,000 a year (this is a high school, mind you, not a university). And it's a good high school -- Eliot Spitzer is a graduate, so it must be good. But $30,000? I told my sister about it, and she laughed. "Get with it," she said, "Kindergarten at Ethical Culture school (where we both attended) now charges in the high $20 thousands, that is if you can get in at all." Actually, I hear there's near hysteria to get kids into private kindergartens in New York City. Remember when they called New York "Fun City"? I think that was back in the 70s or was it the '80s? It's still Fun City if you've got around half a million to spend every year.
So why am I surprised at the $30,000 at my old high school? Well, you see, we old codgers remember. Back in the late 1930s when I was attending Horace Mann, the tuition was a lot different. In those days Horace Mann was begging people to attend. Tuition then was $450 a year and thanks for thinking of us. Don't smirk. In the late '30s you could buy a new Ford for that same $450, so my folks didn't think Horace Mann was a bargain; they thought it was just a good school. I liked the school, of course, We had a really good football team. Our star running back was Jack Kerouac, who later became famous as the leader of the "beats." I knew Jack well. He was a tough guy, he came from New Jersey, and he thought all us Manhattan kids were spoiled brats.
Jack's "beat" buddies later became the hippies of the 1960s. With the arrival of the hippies, America's forgotten children burst on to the scene, and in time the hippies gave birth to the "bobby-soxers" and then to today's "teens." The Bobby-soxers loved Elvis, and later Frankie. The teens turned to a higher form of music, and Rock and Roll was born. Born? Hey, the teens almost took over the nation. The teens graduated to black penitentiary "music," and the whole thing morphed into what today we call the hip-hop generation. And it all started with Jack Kerouac back at Horace Mann School for Boys.
So tuition from $450 to $30,000. That's a big jump. But I thought the Federal Reserve was the guardian of our money? No, they don't really guard our money -- they create it. And doesn't Fed Chairman Bernanke say that he's going to target inflation at just 1 to 2 percent? That kind of inflation (if he can pull it off) is not too noticeable, unless you live a long time like your editor. Then you can look back and say, "What the hell happened to that money that I saved over 30 or 40 or 50 years?" Aw, the Fed ate it. You should have been smart enough to put some of it in gold or Sears or General Electric, no, I said General Electric, dummy, not General Motors.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I went to Horace Mann in the middle '50s. Tuition was $900 and the Dormitory was another $900.
From Richard Russell's "Dow Theory Letters"
February 16, 2006 -- I should be in shock, but I'm really not. I just read on Bloomberg that my old high school, Horace Mann School for Boys (now just called Horace Mann because it's coed), will charge tuition of around $30,000 a year (this is a high school, mind you, not a university). And it's a good high school -- Eliot Spitzer is a graduate, so it must be good. But $30,000? I told my sister about it, and she laughed. "Get with it," she said, "Kindergarten at Ethical Culture school (where we both attended) now charges in the high $20 thousands, that is if you can get in at all." Actually, I hear there's near hysteria to get kids into private kindergartens in New York City. Remember when they called New York "Fun City"? I think that was back in the 70s or was it the '80s? It's still Fun City if you've got around half a million to spend every year.
So why am I surprised at the $30,000 at my old high school? Well, you see, we old codgers remember. Back in the late 1930s when I was attending Horace Mann, the tuition was a lot different. In those days Horace Mann was begging people to attend. Tuition then was $450 a year and thanks for thinking of us. Don't smirk. In the late '30s you could buy a new Ford for that same $450, so my folks didn't think Horace Mann was a bargain; they thought it was just a good school. I liked the school, of course, We had a really good football team. Our star running back was Jack Kerouac, who later became famous as the leader of the "beats." I knew Jack well. He was a tough guy, he came from New Jersey, and he thought all us Manhattan kids were spoiled brats.
Jack's "beat" buddies later became the hippies of the 1960s. With the arrival of the hippies, America's forgotten children burst on to the scene, and in time the hippies gave birth to the "bobby-soxers" and then to today's "teens." The Bobby-soxers loved Elvis, and later Frankie. The teens turned to a higher form of music, and Rock and Roll was born. Born? Hey, the teens almost took over the nation. The teens graduated to black penitentiary "music," and the whole thing morphed into what today we call the hip-hop generation. And it all started with Jack Kerouac back at Horace Mann School for Boys.
So tuition from $450 to $30,000. That's a big jump. But I thought the Federal Reserve was the guardian of our money? No, they don't really guard our money -- they create it. And doesn't Fed Chairman Bernanke say that he's going to target inflation at just 1 to 2 percent? That kind of inflation (if he can pull it off) is not too noticeable, unless you live a long time like your editor. Then you can look back and say, "What the hell happened to that money that I saved over 30 or 40 or 50 years?" Aw, the Fed ate it. You should have been smart enough to put some of it in gold or Sears or General Electric, no, I said General Electric, dummy, not General Motors.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I went to Horace Mann in the middle '50s. Tuition was $900 and the Dormitory was another $900.
Monday, February 13, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The levelers insisted on an equal distribution of power and property and disclaimed all dependence and subordination.
The millenaians or fifth-monarchy-men required, that government itself should be abolished, that all human powers be laid in dust, in order to pave the way for the dominion of Christ whose second coming they immediately expected.
The Antinomians even insisted that the obligations of morality and natural law were suspended, and that the elect, guided by internal principle, more perfect and divine, were superior to the beggarly elements of justice and humanity.
A considerable party declaimed against tithes and hireling priests, and were resolved that the magistrate should not by power or revenue any ecclesiastical establishment.
Another party inveiged against the law and its professors; and on pretense rendering more simple the distribution of justice, were desirous of dismantling the entire system of English jurisprudence, which seemed interwoven with monarchic government.
Even among those republicans, who adopted no such extravagances, were so intoxicated with their saintly character, that they supposed themselves possessed of peculiar privledges; and that all professions, oaths, laws, and engagements, had, in great measure, lost their influence over them.
The bands of society were everywhere loosened; and the irregular passions of men were encouraged by speculative principles, still more unsocial and irregular.
David Hume : HISTORY OF ENGLAND VOL VI
The levelers insisted on an equal distribution of power and property and disclaimed all dependence and subordination.
The millenaians or fifth-monarchy-men required, that government itself should be abolished, that all human powers be laid in dust, in order to pave the way for the dominion of Christ whose second coming they immediately expected.
The Antinomians even insisted that the obligations of morality and natural law were suspended, and that the elect, guided by internal principle, more perfect and divine, were superior to the beggarly elements of justice and humanity.
A considerable party declaimed against tithes and hireling priests, and were resolved that the magistrate should not by power or revenue any ecclesiastical establishment.
Another party inveiged against the law and its professors; and on pretense rendering more simple the distribution of justice, were desirous of dismantling the entire system of English jurisprudence, which seemed interwoven with monarchic government.
Even among those republicans, who adopted no such extravagances, were so intoxicated with their saintly character, that they supposed themselves possessed of peculiar privledges; and that all professions, oaths, laws, and engagements, had, in great measure, lost their influence over them.
The bands of society were everywhere loosened; and the irregular passions of men were encouraged by speculative principles, still more unsocial and irregular.
David Hume : HISTORY OF ENGLAND VOL VI
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Gross wanted to know "Why aren't you telling me to read Paul Auster's newest, "Brooklyn Follies"?
Ah, thanks for reminding me. I went to Miami to see Auster read from Brooklyn Follies a few weeks ago. It sounds like the type of novel that I would like, and, of course, it is an Auster work. I just plain forgot to order it from the library. Wait a few moments, please. I'll be right back...
Brooklyn follies
You are number 19 in the holds list
There are 21 holdable copies
Okay: it's ordered. I am number 19 in the hold list; but as there are 21 copies I should be getting it soon. Hiis wife was there too and I could have a lot to say about her too, but suffice it to say that she is very hot, and reads very well, and is definitely smarter than I am. Auster may be.
In the meantime: I went to Naples and spent Superbowl night with the great HR. I lost $5.00 betting on the Seahawks--I actually wanted to bet the Steelers because I like the guy with the long hair, but Hal wanted the Steelers and so he gave me the points and I rooted for the Seahawks. There were two Ref calls that hurt the Seahawks, I called both opposite to the Refs but my calls weren't allowed by Hal.
As it turned out my guy with the long hair wasn't as great as he was in the playoffs, and had I taken the Steelers I wouldn't have had much to cheer about anyway. Troy Polamalu is going to be around for a long time, I guess, as this is only his third NFL season, so I'll get to see him a lot more in the future. I just hope that there is no Delila around to cut his hair. Maybe Hal will let me take his team next year.
Anyway, watching the game with Hal was a lot of fun, except I kept thinking that I might never see him again as he is moving to the west coast. You guys missed out in not seeing the house as Mary did it.
I dragged Hal to the Naples Museum which is a pretty good small museum. He was a good guy and went along, although I am sure that he would rather have done something else, like bake a pie or go to church.
And I learned something in the museum thanks to HR. There was a special exhibit of Andrew Wyeth which I would have skipped, because, art snob that I am, I thought of Wyeth as an illustrator, like Norman Rockwell, who made pretty pictures filled out with false sentiment. Maybe Christina's World threw me off.
Hal went to see the Wyeths while I spent some time with second tier American artists and some Mexican contemporary artists in whose works I found some real emotion, though sometimes I worry that I can't tell the difference between truth, art, emotion and propaganda--like with Rivera, Orozco, and Siquieros. I like to look at their work; but it makes me think about Justice instead of feel. Is that art? Or is it propaganda?
Anyway Hal came down from the gallery where the Wyeths were being shown. I could see that he had been impressed so I went up to look at them. I figured that he has lived with Mary so long that some of her esthetic must have rubbed off. He might be right about liking Wyeth. -- It turned out that the Helga pictures were included in the show, and when I looked at them I could see how right HR was and how wrong I had been. Helga is painted over and over again with a meticulous intensity that only an artist obsessed and in love could have produced. Wyeth's wife never knew about Helga until about fifty or so paintings were discovered hidden in his studio. Wyeth freed his emotions from his mind and attached them to the canvases. Wyeth does it...at least in the Helga paintings. Now I have to look at Christina's World again. It was chilling. If the show goes to NYC let me know what you think.
I limited myself to two martinis, but of course we ate too much, and so I didn't sleep well, but early in the AM, before Hal awoke, I jumped into his pool which was ice cold and very, very refreshing. If only I could get the people in my building to allow the pool to get cold. They insist that it be warm, probably so that they can get away with peeing in it.
I swam a couple of laps furiously kicking my feet, not using my arms, as my rotator cuff is still a problem, but somehow it seems that the ice cold water helped it a lot. It still feels better. And I was in for only ten or fifteen minutes. Is that possible Doctors?
I didn't like leaving Hal -- I felt like I was losing something again.
Gross wanted to know "Why aren't you telling me to read Paul Auster's newest, "Brooklyn Follies"?
Ah, thanks for reminding me. I went to Miami to see Auster read from Brooklyn Follies a few weeks ago. It sounds like the type of novel that I would like, and, of course, it is an Auster work. I just plain forgot to order it from the library. Wait a few moments, please. I'll be right back...
Brooklyn follies
You are number 19 in the holds list
There are 21 holdable copies
Okay: it's ordered. I am number 19 in the hold list; but as there are 21 copies I should be getting it soon. Hiis wife was there too and I could have a lot to say about her too, but suffice it to say that she is very hot, and reads very well, and is definitely smarter than I am. Auster may be.
In the meantime: I went to Naples and spent Superbowl night with the great HR. I lost $5.00 betting on the Seahawks--I actually wanted to bet the Steelers because I like the guy with the long hair, but Hal wanted the Steelers and so he gave me the points and I rooted for the Seahawks. There were two Ref calls that hurt the Seahawks, I called both opposite to the Refs but my calls weren't allowed by Hal.
As it turned out my guy with the long hair wasn't as great as he was in the playoffs, and had I taken the Steelers I wouldn't have had much to cheer about anyway. Troy Polamalu is going to be around for a long time, I guess, as this is only his third NFL season, so I'll get to see him a lot more in the future. I just hope that there is no Delila around to cut his hair. Maybe Hal will let me take his team next year.
Anyway, watching the game with Hal was a lot of fun, except I kept thinking that I might never see him again as he is moving to the west coast. You guys missed out in not seeing the house as Mary did it.
I dragged Hal to the Naples Museum which is a pretty good small museum. He was a good guy and went along, although I am sure that he would rather have done something else, like bake a pie or go to church.
And I learned something in the museum thanks to HR. There was a special exhibit of Andrew Wyeth which I would have skipped, because, art snob that I am, I thought of Wyeth as an illustrator, like Norman Rockwell, who made pretty pictures filled out with false sentiment. Maybe Christina's World threw me off.
Hal went to see the Wyeths while I spent some time with second tier American artists and some Mexican contemporary artists in whose works I found some real emotion, though sometimes I worry that I can't tell the difference between truth, art, emotion and propaganda--like with Rivera, Orozco, and Siquieros. I like to look at their work; but it makes me think about Justice instead of feel. Is that art? Or is it propaganda?
Anyway Hal came down from the gallery where the Wyeths were being shown. I could see that he had been impressed so I went up to look at them. I figured that he has lived with Mary so long that some of her esthetic must have rubbed off. He might be right about liking Wyeth. -- It turned out that the Helga pictures were included in the show, and when I looked at them I could see how right HR was and how wrong I had been. Helga is painted over and over again with a meticulous intensity that only an artist obsessed and in love could have produced. Wyeth's wife never knew about Helga until about fifty or so paintings were discovered hidden in his studio. Wyeth freed his emotions from his mind and attached them to the canvases. Wyeth does it...at least in the Helga paintings. Now I have to look at Christina's World again. It was chilling. If the show goes to NYC let me know what you think.
I limited myself to two martinis, but of course we ate too much, and so I didn't sleep well, but early in the AM, before Hal awoke, I jumped into his pool which was ice cold and very, very refreshing. If only I could get the people in my building to allow the pool to get cold. They insist that it be warm, probably so that they can get away with peeing in it.
I swam a couple of laps furiously kicking my feet, not using my arms, as my rotator cuff is still a problem, but somehow it seems that the ice cold water helped it a lot. It still feels better. And I was in for only ten or fifteen minutes. Is that possible Doctors?
I didn't like leaving Hal -- I felt like I was losing something again.
Monday, February 06, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
No doubt your grandson is reading Keats, and a good thing it is.
Truth
Beauty
Justice
Can we live for these three things. Have we? Certainly the four of you have made an effort in those honorable directions. You have nothing of which to be ashamed. Whereas some of us have much for which to make up. Repairs. Note, when you re-read the poem that it is not Keats who makes the point; rather it is written on the urn. We do not know whether Keats believed that truth is beauty and beauty is truth.
Ode on a Grecian Urn
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20
Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore, 35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
______________________________________________________
It seems to me on re-reading the poem for the first time in fifty or so years that the beauty of the urn is absolutely not truthful, as Keats tells us, more than once, that the articles of beauty depicted on the urn are not transitory, in fact that each article of beauty transits generations--and remains frozen in time. Unlike the reality of Therefore Beauty is not truth.
Whereas, we know that all things evanesce, change, are destroyed, as Shelly reminds us in Ozymandius:
___________________________________________
Ozymandius
I met a traveler from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
_________________________________________________________
Ralph warns us that it is our duty, in fact it is our only duty not to lie; that is to be truthful: but then what are we doing when we take ugliness and make art of it as in Strange Fruit, or Guernica? Are we truthful when we deny our essential loneliness; when we deny the predictability of chaos? But our loneliness is beautiful and so is chaos.
mek
No doubt your grandson is reading Keats, and a good thing it is.
Truth
Beauty
Justice
Can we live for these three things. Have we? Certainly the four of you have made an effort in those honorable directions. You have nothing of which to be ashamed. Whereas some of us have much for which to make up. Repairs. Note, when you re-read the poem that it is not Keats who makes the point; rather it is written on the urn. We do not know whether Keats believed that truth is beauty and beauty is truth.
Ode on a Grecian Urn
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20
Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore, 35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
______________________________________________________
It seems to me on re-reading the poem for the first time in fifty or so years that the beauty of the urn is absolutely not truthful, as Keats tells us, more than once, that the articles of beauty depicted on the urn are not transitory, in fact that each article of beauty transits generations--and remains frozen in time. Unlike the reality of Therefore Beauty is not truth.
Whereas, we know that all things evanesce, change, are destroyed, as Shelly reminds us in Ozymandius:
___________________________________________
Ozymandius
I met a traveler from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
_________________________________________________________
Ralph warns us that it is our duty, in fact it is our only duty not to lie; that is to be truthful: but then what are we doing when we take ugliness and make art of it as in Strange Fruit, or Guernica? Are we truthful when we deny our essential loneliness; when we deny the predictability of chaos? But our loneliness is beautiful and so is chaos.
mek
Saturday, January 21, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Dear Marty:
It was painful to watch the video; but its implication that there was a conspiracy involving Americans is laughable.
How many people would have been needed to install all the explosives that the voice tells us must have been used on the 103 floors of the WTC. They would have had to have been technical explosive experts.
How many people must have been needed to make sure that the airplanes were only partially filled? These would have had to have been a group of Continental employees and a second unrelated group of American Airline employees. Or, perhaps a group of hackers.
How many people must have been involved in "knowing ahead of time" that the attack was imminent? They would have been high administration officials.
How many people would have held back NORAD fighters? These would have been Dept of Defense or Air force staffers.
All these groups of people would be unrelated. What would their common goal have been? Who would have brought them together and convinced them (hundreds of them) to go along with this project.
Wouldn't there have even been one single doubter among the hundreds or thousands that would have had to have been contacted?
How could any investigation of the WTC center cost only $600,000? Some murder investigations by the NYC cost more.
Isn't obvious that no conspiracy of this size could not have remained secret for all these years--or even more obvious that no conspiracy of this size could have been kept secret before its detonation.
It's silly to pass this kind of stuff around. And, from the number of dead soldiers (1000+) this thing is pretty old.
I consider myself to be pretty far to the left--but this is only someone's idea for a novel or movie. It has zero believability.
Please pass this back to the sadly credulous people who sent this to you.
Thanks
Mike
Dear Marty:
It was painful to watch the video; but its implication that there was a conspiracy involving Americans is laughable.
How many people would have been needed to install all the explosives that the voice tells us must have been used on the 103 floors of the WTC. They would have had to have been technical explosive experts.
How many people must have been needed to make sure that the airplanes were only partially filled? These would have had to have been a group of Continental employees and a second unrelated group of American Airline employees. Or, perhaps a group of hackers.
How many people must have been involved in "knowing ahead of time" that the attack was imminent? They would have been high administration officials.
How many people would have held back NORAD fighters? These would have been Dept of Defense or Air force staffers.
All these groups of people would be unrelated. What would their common goal have been? Who would have brought them together and convinced them (hundreds of them) to go along with this project.
Wouldn't there have even been one single doubter among the hundreds or thousands that would have had to have been contacted?
How could any investigation of the WTC center cost only $600,000? Some murder investigations by the NYC cost more.
Isn't obvious that no conspiracy of this size could not have remained secret for all these years--or even more obvious that no conspiracy of this size could have been kept secret before its detonation.
It's silly to pass this kind of stuff around. And, from the number of dead soldiers (1000+) this thing is pretty old.
I consider myself to be pretty far to the left--but this is only someone's idea for a novel or movie. It has zero believability.
Please pass this back to the sadly credulous people who sent this to you.
Thanks
Mike
Friday, January 20, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The fight against pornography is a diversion, and is going to be used to retain the Republican base and divert the rest of the American people's attention from Iraq, the collapsing dollar, the national debt, and universal medical care. And look at the box that the Democrats will be forced into: Any Democrat defense of freedom of speech and ideas will easily be twisted into a position of pro-pornography.
mek
The fight against pornography is a diversion, and is going to be used to retain the Republican base and divert the rest of the American people's attention from Iraq, the collapsing dollar, the national debt, and universal medical care. And look at the box that the Democrats will be forced into: Any Democrat defense of freedom of speech and ideas will easily be twisted into a position of pro-pornography.
According to AOL news, today, MSN has already delivered the information although its spokesman won't say yes or no; Yahoo has said that it has submitted to all government subpoenas.
mek
mek
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I have obtained the Peter Watson book from the library. The Modern Mind
It is a weighty volume which I have looked through and it seems to me (at this point) that it is almost a quick, light,very long, bring-me-up-to-date-Charlie-about-what-happened-while-I- was-asleep-during-the-twentieth-century gossip column. Most of what I have skipped through was stuff that I already knew from general conversation and magazine articles.
Noting what I thought was another coincidence, I skipped over to the paragraphs on TH Lawrence, mistaking it, at first, for DH Lawrence who, as you probably remember, was the current subject of Dubin, the adulterous-lost-soul-biographer.
Of course, I excuse my mistake as it was three-thirty in the morning and I had woken myself from a disturbing dream involving Katz Drug Store, a fire, and an aged geriatric doctor whom I knew in Brooklyn when it was me that was a lost soul, among other things.
But then that wasn't really the Watson book that I was reading; rather, it was another heavy tome, by William T. Vollmann, called RISING UP and RISING DOWN, which I recommend to you, even though it is lengthy, although abridged from a seven volume essay on violence.
Even more than Vollmanns' essays I recommend his fiction some of which I previously recommened to you and which you may have read, namely, The Rifles.
Volllman: 730 pp (abridged from 3500 pp)
Watson: 850 pp.
Malamud 361 pp
............. 1941 pp
I will finish the Malamud, but I have little hope for the Vollmann and Watson.
I have obtained the Peter Watson book from the library. The Modern Mind
It is a weighty volume which I have looked through and it seems to me (at this point) that it is almost a quick, light,very long, bring-me-up-to-date-Charlie-about-what-happened-while-I- was-asleep-during-the-twentieth-century gossip column. Most of what I have skipped through was stuff that I already knew from general conversation and magazine articles.
Noting what I thought was another coincidence, I skipped over to the paragraphs on TH Lawrence, mistaking it, at first, for DH Lawrence who, as you probably remember, was the current subject of Dubin, the adulterous-lost-soul-biographer.
Of course, I excuse my mistake as it was three-thirty in the morning and I had woken myself from a disturbing dream involving Katz Drug Store, a fire, and an aged geriatric doctor whom I knew in Brooklyn when it was me that was a lost soul, among other things.
But then that wasn't really the Watson book that I was reading; rather, it was another heavy tome, by William T. Vollmann, called RISING UP and RISING DOWN, which I recommend to you, even though it is lengthy, although abridged from a seven volume essay on violence.
Even more than Vollmanns' essays I recommend his fiction some of which I previously recommened to you and which you may have read, namely, The Rifles.
Volllman: 730 pp (abridged from 3500 pp)
Watson: 850 pp.
Malamud 361 pp
............. 1941 pp
I will finish the Malamud, but I have little hope for the Vollmann and Watson.
Monday, January 09, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Dear Gross:
You know the story I like to tell about the time that your mother explained to me that in Russia her father's side of the family was called Katznelson, but that when they came to America they dropped the Katz, and became “Nelson.” And I responded that OUR name in Russia was also Katznelson, but that when we arrived in America we dropped the nelson and became “Katz.”
My joke may have gone over your head, but your mother got it.
Well, today I heard a story that may have topped that one.
I was speaking to the son of a friend of my father's whose name was Shapiro.
My father's friend was nicknamed "Shep" which, apparently was the nickname given to Shapiros in those days.
Shep had two sons; Larry and Peter and both went to Horace Mann about six years before we did. They also went to Raquette Lake.
Both boys went to Wesleyan (Connecticut.)
Peter Shapiro thought that changing his name from "Shapiro" to "Sheppe" might help his chances of getting into Harvard Law School. He changed his name, was admitted to Harvard and received his degree. He became GC of Time-Life.
Peter died early in life and Larry wanted to memorialize him by putting his name on a room at Wesleyan. He sent a check to a Robert Kelly, a person in charge of such donations, with the request that his brother's name, "Peter Sheppe" be placed on a plaque over a room in the gym. (By the way, If you do it for me, a room in the Osaka Shiatsu Club would be fine.)
Larry's letter requesting that his brother's name, “Peter Sheppe” be placed on the plaque confused Mr. Kelly, who called Larry for clarification.
"Mr. Shapiro,” Kelly said, “your letter says that you wish to memorialize your brother; but the name you gave us for the plaque is ‘Peter Sheppe’."
"Well," Larry explained, "the name was changed."
"Oh," Kelly replied, "I understand. By the way, which one of you changed his name?"
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Dear Gross:
You know the story I like to tell about the time that your mother explained to me that in Russia her father's side of the family was called Katznelson, but that when they came to America they dropped the Katz, and became “Nelson.” And I responded that OUR name in Russia was also Katznelson, but that when we arrived in America we dropped the nelson and became “Katz.”
My joke may have gone over your head, but your mother got it.
Well, today I heard a story that may have topped that one.
I was speaking to the son of a friend of my father's whose name was Shapiro.
My father's friend was nicknamed "Shep" which, apparently was the nickname given to Shapiros in those days.
Shep had two sons; Larry and Peter and both went to Horace Mann about six years before we did. They also went to Raquette Lake.
Both boys went to Wesleyan (Connecticut.)
Peter Shapiro thought that changing his name from "Shapiro" to "Sheppe" might help his chances of getting into Harvard Law School. He changed his name, was admitted to Harvard and received his degree. He became GC of Time-Life.
Peter died early in life and Larry wanted to memorialize him by putting his name on a room at Wesleyan. He sent a check to a Robert Kelly, a person in charge of such donations, with the request that his brother's name, "Peter Sheppe" be placed on a plaque over a room in the gym. (By the way, If you do it for me, a room in the Osaka Shiatsu Club would be fine.)
Larry's letter requesting that his brother's name, “Peter Sheppe” be placed on the plaque confused Mr. Kelly, who called Larry for clarification.
"Mr. Shapiro,” Kelly said, “your letter says that you wish to memorialize your brother; but the name you gave us for the plaque is ‘Peter Sheppe’."
"Well," Larry explained, "the name was changed."
"Oh," Kelly replied, "I understand. By the way, which one of you changed his name?"
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sunday, January 08, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Bernard Malamud, Dubin's Lives:
" 'Tell me about D. H. Lawrence, ' Kitty sometimes said as they sat alone in the room, and Dubin would make the effort to tell episodes from the man's life.
'You tell it so interestingly. Why is it so hard to write?'
'It resists the pen. The second thought hides from the first.' "
From Bernard Malamud, Dubin's Lives:
" 'Tell me about D. H. Lawrence, ' Kitty sometimes said as they sat alone in the room, and Dubin would make the effort to tell episodes from the man's life.
'You tell it so interestingly. Why is it so hard to write?'
'It resists the pen. The second thought hides from the first.' "
Saturday, December 31, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Good Riddance Annus Horribilis But,
Last night during Martini Time on the Terrace, the sun had come from behind some heavy, dark clouds in the West and there was a thin cloud cover overhead. the light faded almost to black at about six. Suddenly, startingly, from sand's edge to horizon, the sea became the color of violets dotted by tiny white caps. A very short, very rare, unnatural silence unmarred by the least sound made a few choice moments perfect.
mek
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Good Riddance Annus Horribilis But,
Last night during Martini Time on the Terrace, the sun had come from behind some heavy, dark clouds in the West and there was a thin cloud cover overhead. the light faded almost to black at about six. Suddenly, startingly, from sand's edge to horizon, the sea became the color of violets dotted by tiny white caps. A very short, very rare, unnatural silence unmarred by the least sound made a few choice moments perfect.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Wm Vollman writes of a man who receives a letter from his lover, in which she begs him to return to him safely because she loves him, loves him passionately. He treasures the letter and rereads almost daily. But as time passes the letter loses its potency. "One night the letter was used up. Instead of tacit it seemed lukewarm. "
We are unknowable. We are nothing.
Later Vollman writes:
"Meager results: that's life. Not to be deterred by meager results: that's a kind of nobility."
Wm Vollman writes of a man who receives a letter from his lover, in which she begs him to return to him safely because she loves him, loves him passionately. He treasures the letter and rereads almost daily. But as time passes the letter loses its potency. "One night the letter was used up. Instead of tacit it seemed lukewarm. "
We are unknowable. We are nothing.
Later Vollman writes:
"Meager results: that's life. Not to be deterred by meager results: that's a kind of nobility."
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Gloria called to let me know that Brownie died about three weeks ago. I had no contact with him at all since I sold the business.
Basil wrote back:
Dear Mike:
That is sad to hear Mike. He was a unique. Thomas Mann would have called him a Delectable Mountain.
Dear Bas:
Well, Basil, you're right. But he was such a pain to deal with--he wanted so much of my attention, he constantly complained about the other workers, he tried to be such a goody two shoes--and really wasn't, he wasted so much of my time, took so much of my energy; his fingernails were always too long and dirty. He often left shaving cream around his earlobes. He was a manic-depressive and sometimes I worried that I would find that he had hanged himself in the cellar from the hot water pipes; he sometimes used the two-way mirror to ogle young girls.....it was hard for me to appreciate his uniqueness...but as my dear Mother constantly reminded me, de mortuis nil nisi bonum and so--
He had an amazing memory; he could remember the costs and selling prices of every item in the business. Not only that but also he could remember which wholesaler was cheaper on each item and further than that he could also remember what it cost last year and what we sold it for. This was especially important when gifts were a major part of our business.
He could recite all the parts of speech, including the most esoteric, some of which run of the mill grammar teachers had never heard. He could also recite all the states in alphabetical order, and then repeat it in reverse alphabetical order pronouncing the name of each state backward.
If asked he would drive people home in the worst of driving weather, and would offer to do so without being asked.
His mother had run a candy-news stand on the corner of Moore Street. They kept their stock in our cellar. (By the way, that cellar held the ovens in which Levy's Rye Bread was first baked)
Brownie was a big, strong boy who toted cases of soda up and down the stairs for his mother to whom he was overly attached. It was she who sold the Charlotte Russes that were kept in a glass box with two shelves, precariously balanced on top of a huge tub filled with ice and soda bottles. Of course, my father would never let my sister or me taste one. In his eyes their sterility was suspect.
At first, my father used Brownie to drive into NYC to pick up and deliver cosmetics that we were diverting to or trading.* Somehow, Brownie insinuated himself into a more formalized employment by my father--that was long before I was even a teen-ager
During the Korean War while on leave after Basic Training he stabbed his girlfriend, which made the front page of the New York Mirror. My father's friend Bill Kleinman (Leo Freedman's close friend too) defended him and he received a suspended sentence. **
In retrospect, I think, that after himself, and maybe even before himself, he was truly dedicated to my business.
I know that there was nothing Brownie wouldn't have done for me, had I asked him. I just couldn't stand to get close enough to him to ask.
mek
* It was Brownie who brought Willie the Red onto the scene--another sui generis if there ever was one. Willie hung out on the street corner, and when Brownie needed someone to sit in the car when he went into Manhattan on a delivery he could always find Willie. But more about Willie another time.
**Colonel Bill Kleinman had been, before the War, the Assistant District Attorney who prosecuted an acquantaince of Dad's who was Sid Luckman’s father, a gambler, for a murder which occurred at a craps game in the back of a garage on the corner of Moore and Bogart Streets. Mysteriously, the open and shut case against Luckman went down the drain when several witnesses took long vacations in Miami.
Several years later, Jack Nelson ran Lady Beth Ice Cream out of the garage, presumably after swabbing the blood from the floor.
mek
Gloria called to let me know that Brownie died about three weeks ago. I had no contact with him at all since I sold the business.
Basil wrote back:
Dear Mike:
That is sad to hear Mike. He was a unique. Thomas Mann would have called him a Delectable Mountain.
Dear Bas:
Well, Basil, you're right. But he was such a pain to deal with--he wanted so much of my attention, he constantly complained about the other workers, he tried to be such a goody two shoes--and really wasn't, he wasted so much of my time, took so much of my energy; his fingernails were always too long and dirty. He often left shaving cream around his earlobes. He was a manic-depressive and sometimes I worried that I would find that he had hanged himself in the cellar from the hot water pipes; he sometimes used the two-way mirror to ogle young girls.....it was hard for me to appreciate his uniqueness...but as my dear Mother constantly reminded me, de mortuis nil nisi bonum and so--
He had an amazing memory; he could remember the costs and selling prices of every item in the business. Not only that but also he could remember which wholesaler was cheaper on each item and further than that he could also remember what it cost last year and what we sold it for. This was especially important when gifts were a major part of our business.
He could recite all the parts of speech, including the most esoteric, some of which run of the mill grammar teachers had never heard. He could also recite all the states in alphabetical order, and then repeat it in reverse alphabetical order pronouncing the name of each state backward.
If asked he would drive people home in the worst of driving weather, and would offer to do so without being asked.
His mother had run a candy-news stand on the corner of Moore Street. They kept their stock in our cellar. (By the way, that cellar held the ovens in which Levy's Rye Bread was first baked)
Brownie was a big, strong boy who toted cases of soda up and down the stairs for his mother to whom he was overly attached. It was she who sold the Charlotte Russes that were kept in a glass box with two shelves, precariously balanced on top of a huge tub filled with ice and soda bottles. Of course, my father would never let my sister or me taste one. In his eyes their sterility was suspect.
At first, my father used Brownie to drive into NYC to pick up and deliver cosmetics that we were diverting to or trading.* Somehow, Brownie insinuated himself into a more formalized employment by my father--that was long before I was even a teen-ager
During the Korean War while on leave after Basic Training he stabbed his girlfriend, which made the front page of the New York Mirror. My father's friend Bill Kleinman (Leo Freedman's close friend too) defended him and he received a suspended sentence. **
In retrospect, I think, that after himself, and maybe even before himself, he was truly dedicated to my business.
I know that there was nothing Brownie wouldn't have done for me, had I asked him. I just couldn't stand to get close enough to him to ask.
mek
* It was Brownie who brought Willie the Red onto the scene--another sui generis if there ever was one. Willie hung out on the street corner, and when Brownie needed someone to sit in the car when he went into Manhattan on a delivery he could always find Willie. But more about Willie another time.
**Colonel Bill Kleinman had been, before the War, the Assistant District Attorney who prosecuted an acquantaince of Dad's who was Sid Luckman’s father, a gambler, for a murder which occurred at a craps game in the back of a garage on the corner of Moore and Bogart Streets. Mysteriously, the open and shut case against Luckman went down the drain when several witnesses took long vacations in Miami.
Several years later, Jack Nelson ran Lady Beth Ice Cream out of the garage, presumably after swabbing the blood from the floor.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Kaput"
Curzio Malaparte
St Eve:
I am working my way into "Kaput."
You and the blurb writers describe it as a hellish description of the Eastern Front, and the depravity of man.
Although I am not far in, perhaps 60 pages, I am reading a master of description. Sights, smells, the deep Finnish forest, the endless lake, night and dawn--a master. There has been only a hint of what is to come, and because of my recognition of Malaparte's extraordinary power I am afraid.
Why is it that I shrink from artistic renderings of horrors, as in film or books, but at the same time I feel that in reality I would have little difficulty in living through them?
I know I have asked this question before; but why is that I might cry at a sentimental commercial but not at the side of an accident victim or a homeless woman?
mek
"Kaput"
Curzio Malaparte
St Eve:
I am working my way into "Kaput."
You and the blurb writers describe it as a hellish description of the Eastern Front, and the depravity of man.
Although I am not far in, perhaps 60 pages, I am reading a master of description. Sights, smells, the deep Finnish forest, the endless lake, night and dawn--a master. There has been only a hint of what is to come, and because of my recognition of Malaparte's extraordinary power I am afraid.
Why is it that I shrink from artistic renderings of horrors, as in film or books, but at the same time I feel that in reality I would have little difficulty in living through them?
I know I have asked this question before; but why is that I might cry at a sentimental commercial but not at the side of an accident victim or a homeless woman?
mek
Monday, December 19, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
As you have not seen the windows in my apartment I shall have to describe them. I hope that I can describe them in such a way that you can understand how they look.
The windows cover most of the outside walls, east and south. But they are not one piece. They are normal sized windows so that a room might have seven windows facing east or four windows facing south, etc.
It is very hard for a boy like me who is no longer used to yoga type stretches to open the bottom half of the window and reach up to clean the upper half.
And -- when the top half must be cleaned and the bottom is pushed up, the bottom glazing blocks the top. It's an impossible job, I thought.
Maria hired a window cleaning company. I thought that they would strap on belts and work from the outside. But no--
they go at each window from the window next to it!
Striking the center of my forehead with the palm of my hand.
As you have not seen the windows in my apartment I shall have to describe them. I hope that I can describe them in such a way that you can understand how they look.
The windows cover most of the outside walls, east and south. But they are not one piece. They are normal sized windows so that a room might have seven windows facing east or four windows facing south, etc.
It is very hard for a boy like me who is no longer used to yoga type stretches to open the bottom half of the window and reach up to clean the upper half.
And -- when the top half must be cleaned and the bottom is pushed up, the bottom glazing blocks the top. It's an impossible job, I thought.
Maria hired a window cleaning company. I thought that they would strap on belts and work from the outside. But no--
they go at each window from the window next to it!
Striking the center of my forehead with the palm of my hand.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"...when he unzipped his head the sign in the mirror said "prisoner."
Rhonda H. Nelson
"...when he unzipped his head the sign in the mirror said "prisoner."
Rhonda H. Nelson
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Nov 2005, series of emails re Toots Shor…
Dear Mike:
I am trying to fact check the dates Toots Shor's was open for an article I am writing and wonder if you know whether it was still active in the 1960s. Thanks so much! Dina Kaplan
----------------------------------------------------------
sorry, Dina. Toot's went down for a few years.
But then a group of restuarant investors used him to front for a new Toots Shor place near Madison Square Garden. I don't have the dates in my mind.
When you finish the article send it to me, if you can. I'm interested.
Dina
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Dina:
The Lion's Head real time was way back in the late forties and fifties when e. e. cummings, Dylan Thomas and Brendan Behan reigned along with the literate crowd of the day. The sixties may have been the time that young Pete Hamill and company grew out of short pants and into the place but I think that its reputation had already been made.
In 1955 or 56 my English teacher at Horace Mann took a few of us down to the Lion's Head to meet Brendan Behan who refused to talk until each of us, underaged gigglers that we were, drank a half-pint of Stout. Mr. Baruth, a giant among English teachers, was non plussed and stood on a chair so as to declaim from the Plow and the Stars.
For the most part there was little intercourse between the denizens of the Lions Head and Toots Shor --- except maybe, now that I think of it, Hamill and Norman Mailer, perhaps Jimmy Cannon. But I was just a lucky peanut shell on the floor.
Moochies was beyond my ken.
Mike
Nov 2005, series of emails re Toots Shor…
Dear Mike:
I am trying to fact check the dates Toots Shor's was open for an article I am writing and wonder if you know whether it was still active in the 1960s. Thanks so much! Dina Kaplan
----------------------------------------------------------
sorry, Dina. Toot's went down for a few years.
But then a group of restuarant investors used him to front for a new Toots Shor place near Madison Square Garden. I don't have the dates in my mind.
When you finish the article send it to me, if you can. I'm interested.
Mike
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Mike
Dina
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Dina:
The Lion's Head real time was way back in the late forties and fifties when e. e. cummings, Dylan Thomas and Brendan Behan reigned along with the literate crowd of the day. The sixties may have been the time that young Pete Hamill and company grew out of short pants and into the place but I think that its reputation had already been made.
In 1955 or 56 my English teacher at Horace Mann took a few of us down to the Lion's Head to meet Brendan Behan who refused to talk until each of us, underaged gigglers that we were, drank a half-pint of Stout. Mr. Baruth, a giant among English teachers, was non plussed and stood on a chair so as to declaim from the Plow and the Stars.
For the most part there was little intercourse between the denizens of the Lions Head and Toots Shor --- except maybe, now that I think of it, Hamill and Norman Mailer, perhaps Jimmy Cannon. But I was just a lucky peanut shell on the floor.
Moochies was beyond my ken.
Mike
Monday, November 14, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The Horace Mann class of 1956 was composed of 106 mostly Jewish boys. Thirty-six were admitted to Harvard, Princeton and Yale. Twenty went to Columbia. A sizable contingent went to Williams, Amherst and Wesleyan. Five went to Cornell. One brave soul found his way West to Stamford. A few went to MIT. The remainder went to colleges of lessor distinction. Buster Stronghart, your faithful correspondent, was 105th in this class of 106 and was sent up the river, away, to Ohio Wesleyan.
Many of us became doctors and lawyers. Several became college professors. A few went into their parent's businesses. Two of us may have worked for the CIA. One may still. We have no accountants. We have several self-made millionaires and several more who are caretakers of inherited wealth. We have a few who are dead busted.
One of my classmates, the one who was graduated 106, has written a textbook about neurology and still teaches out West. He also holds patents for some surgical instruments which I cannot explain to you. One boy, from Finland, is the equivalent of Surgeon General of Saudi Arabia. The highest number of wives is four and that honor belongs to a lawyer. A few have made their living in magazine and book publishing. Another, a left leaning student at HM and Harvard became CEO of a Fortune 200 corporation and is one of those responsible for the development of genetically modified foods.
Did I say that we had a few suicides and several deaths by accident besides the first two who died the summer of graduation in a convertible in Arizona? Yes, two of the best of us were killed in an auto accident the summer that we were graduated.
Most of us have had more than one wife. The highest number of wives is four, and that honor belongs to a lawyer. As far as I know, and my information is incomplete, few of us have been totally faithful.
Not too many joined the armed forces after college. One who did was killed in action. I guess that the part of the class that did serve joined the reserves--but my information is incomplete here too.
.
Today's classes do not do as well in college admissions, and the percentage who become doctors and lawyers is much smaller. Today the most popular careers seem to be in the entertainment, business and financial areas.
HMhas the highest percentage of full scholarships in the New York prep schools. This year's tuition at the high school level is more than twenty-five thousand dollars. Kindergarten through third grade is twenty-thousand. When I went to HM from 1951 through 1956 the tuition was $900. We had a dormitory. That was another $900.
The dormitory was about two miles from the school. Everyone was required to walk with all books in all weather. Except my friend, J. who was often seen getting a lift in an old Ford. Innocent that we were then, we now surmisethat he may have been having a special, peculiar relationship with Mr. X, a teacher of ancient Greek and owner of that old Ford.
The rest of us trudged bravely along, through snow and sleet, practicing to become mailmen in case nothing else worked out.
The school now accepts girls and no longer has a dress code. Chapeland Tuesday Morning Sings have been eliminated. Many of our parents were assimilated or assimilating Jewish couples,and during the 1950's it was said that our parents eagerly acquiesced to a subtext of the mission of Horace Mann which was to oversee what we cameto understand was the bizarre transmogrification* of us Little Jewish Boys into tweed jacket wearing WASPs.
*Apologies to Professor Baruth who would not have approved of my use of a two dollar word when a fifty cent word would have sufficed. But I couldn't resist.
HM has the highest percentage of full scholarships in the New York prep school world. This year's tuition at the high school level is more than twenty-five thousand dollars. Kindergarten through third grade is twenty-thousand. When I went to HM from 1951 through 1956 the tuition was $900. We had a dormitory. That was another $900.
The dormitory was about two miles from the school. Everyone walked with all books in all weather. Except my friend, J. who was often seen getting a lift in an old Ford. Innocent that we were then, we now surmise that he may have been having a special, peculiar relationship with Mr. X, a teacher of ancient Greek and owner of that old Ford. The rest of us trudged bravely along, through snow and sleet, practicing to become mailmen in case nothing else worked out.
The school now accepts girls and no longer has a dress code. Chapel and Tuesday Morning Sings have been eliminated.
Many of our parents were assimilated or assimilating Jewish couples, and during the 1950's it was said that our parents eagerly acquiesced to a subtext of the mission of Horace Mann which was to oversee what we came to understand was the bizarre transmogrification* of us Little Jewish Boys into tweed jacket wearing WASPs.
mek
*Apologies to Professor Baruth who would not have approved of my use of a two dollar word when a fifty cent word would have worked. But I couldn't resist.
The Horace Mann class of 1956 was composed of 106 mostly Jewish boys. Thirty-six were admitted to Harvard, Princeton and Yale. Twenty went to Columbia. A sizable contingent went to Williams, Amherst and Wesleyan. Five went to Cornell. One brave soul found his way West to Stamford. A few went to MIT. The remainder went to colleges of lessor distinction. Buster Stronghart, your faithful correspondent, was 105th in this class of 106 and was sent up the river, away, to Ohio Wesleyan.
Many of us became doctors and lawyers. Several became college professors. A few went into their parent's businesses. Two of us may have worked for the CIA. One may still. We have no accountants. We have several self-made millionaires and several more who are caretakers of inherited wealth. We have a few who are dead busted.
One of my classmates, the one who was graduated 106, has written a textbook about neurology and still teaches out West. He also holds patents for some surgical instruments which I cannot explain to you. One boy, from Finland, is the equivalent of Surgeon General of Saudi Arabia. The highest number of wives is four and that honor belongs to a lawyer. A few have made their living in magazine and book publishing. Another, a left leaning student at HM and Harvard became CEO of a Fortune 200 corporation and is one of those responsible for the development of genetically modified foods.
Did I say that we had a few suicides and several deaths by accident besides the first two who died the summer of graduation in a convertible in Arizona? Yes, two of the best of us were killed in an auto accident the summer that we were graduated.
Most of us have had more than one wife. The highest number of wives is four, and that honor belongs to a lawyer. As far as I know, and my information is incomplete, few of us have been totally faithful.
Not too many joined the armed forces after college. One who did was killed in action. I guess that the part of the class that did serve joined the reserves--but my information is incomplete here too.
.
Today's classes do not do as well in college admissions, and the percentage who become doctors and lawyers is much smaller. Today the most popular careers seem to be in the entertainment, business and financial areas.
HMhas the highest percentage of full scholarships in the New York prep schools. This year's tuition at the high school level is more than twenty-five thousand dollars. Kindergarten through third grade is twenty-thousand. When I went to HM from 1951 through 1956 the tuition was $900. We had a dormitory. That was another $900.
The dormitory was about two miles from the school. Everyone was required to walk with all books in all weather. Except my friend, J. who was often seen getting a lift in an old Ford. Innocent that we were then, we now surmisethat he may have been having a special, peculiar relationship with Mr. X, a teacher of ancient Greek and owner of that old Ford.
The rest of us trudged bravely along, through snow and sleet, practicing to become mailmen in case nothing else worked out.
The school now accepts girls and no longer has a dress code. Chapeland Tuesday Morning Sings have been eliminated. Many of our parents were assimilated or assimilating Jewish couples,and during the 1950's it was said that our parents eagerly acquiesced to a subtext of the mission of Horace Mann which was to oversee what we cameto understand was the bizarre transmogrification* of us Little Jewish Boys into tweed jacket wearing WASPs.
*Apologies to Professor Baruth who would not have approved of my use of a two dollar word when a fifty cent word would have sufficed. But I couldn't resist.
HM has the highest percentage of full scholarships in the New York prep school world. This year's tuition at the high school level is more than twenty-five thousand dollars. Kindergarten through third grade is twenty-thousand. When I went to HM from 1951 through 1956 the tuition was $900. We had a dormitory. That was another $900.
The dormitory was about two miles from the school. Everyone walked with all books in all weather. Except my friend, J. who was often seen getting a lift in an old Ford. Innocent that we were then, we now surmise that he may have been having a special, peculiar relationship with Mr. X, a teacher of ancient Greek and owner of that old Ford. The rest of us trudged bravely along, through snow and sleet, practicing to become mailmen in case nothing else worked out.
The school now accepts girls and no longer has a dress code. Chapel and Tuesday Morning Sings have been eliminated.
Many of our parents were assimilated or assimilating Jewish couples, and during the 1950's it was said that our parents eagerly acquiesced to a subtext of the mission of Horace Mann which was to oversee what we came to understand was the bizarre transmogrification* of us Little Jewish Boys into tweed jacket wearing WASPs.
mek
*Apologies to Professor Baruth who would not have approved of my use of a two dollar word when a fifty cent word would have worked. But I couldn't resist.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The phone has rung too many times this morning
No one’s been on the line though.
The de-humidifier the construction men left is way too loud.
They'll remove it tonight.
My porridge is just right.
The phone has rung too many times this morning
No one’s been on the line though.
The de-humidifier the construction men left is way too loud.
They'll remove it tonight.
My porridge is just right.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
My wife, my woman, that is, found a new haircutter,
He gave her bangs, and she looks so much
Younger. But I like women of my own age.
I leave the younger ones for cruder men.
We have more than four decades
Of memories, and two boys too, and a granddaughter
Who has diabetes and a wonderful smile.
She is very brave.
More than me, I think.
And, too, I think she’s smart.
We live in a big building
With no interesting neighbors. I’d
Like to pick their brains, but
there’s nothing to pick.
Am I too late for them? Have
They already been picked over? Or
Have they always been non-bearing?
mek November 14, 2005
My wife, my woman, that is, found a new haircutter,
He gave her bangs, and she looks so much
Younger. But I like women of my own age.
I leave the younger ones for cruder men.
We have more than four decades
Of memories, and two boys too, and a granddaughter
Who has diabetes and a wonderful smile.
She is very brave.
More than me, I think.
And, too, I think she’s smart.
We live in a big building
With no interesting neighbors. I’d
Like to pick their brains, but
there’s nothing to pick.
Am I too late for them? Have
They already been picked over? Or
Have they always been non-bearing?
mek November 14, 2005
Saturday, November 05, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
'I don't just write people off and move on with my life. There is much pain, because no matter what it is that they've done, everyone brings something to the table. And it was those things that made them worth sitting down with. When you walk away from the table, you're also walking away from those good things as well."
From" Desiree's Blog: Only in Theory
'I don't just write people off and move on with my life. There is much pain, because no matter what it is that they've done, everyone brings something to the table. And it was those things that made them worth sitting down with. When you walk away from the table, you're also walking away from those good things as well."
From" Desiree's Blog: Only in Theory
Sunday, October 30, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
superfluous.....Every superfluous man wants to keep on living. And all men are superfluous.
superfluous.....Every superfluous man wants to keep on living. And all men are superfluous.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
SPECIAL EXTRA REPORT FROM FT. LAUDERDALE:
This morning I walked the entire building using the fire stairs, and I discovered that amazingly the entire thirteenth floor was apparently forced out of the building by the Divine Power of the Hurricane. (at least in the South Tower, which was the one that I toured).
I live on the twelfth floor and walked up to the twenty-fifth, penthouse floor, walking most of the corridors, inspecting the damage.
On my way back down I noticed that the number of each floor was painted onto the doors that lead from the fire stairs to the interior corridors.
As I came down the stairs I noted each floor number clearly painted onto the appropriate doors, but when I was on the fourteenth floor and continued down there was no thirteenth floor! One door said "14" and the next said "12."
What had happened to "13?"
I went back up to make sure that I had not missed it. I cannot tell you how carefully I checked. Believe me, I was careful. The thirteenth floor is missing. No doubt about it.
It's gone.
M
SPECIAL EXTRA REPORT FROM FT. LAUDERDALE:
This morning I walked the entire building using the fire stairs, and I discovered that amazingly the entire thirteenth floor was apparently forced out of the building by the Divine Power of the Hurricane. (at least in the South Tower, which was the one that I toured).
I live on the twelfth floor and walked up to the twenty-fifth, penthouse floor, walking most of the corridors, inspecting the damage.
On my way back down I noticed that the number of each floor was painted onto the doors that lead from the fire stairs to the interior corridors.
As I came down the stairs I noted each floor number clearly painted onto the appropriate doors, but when I was on the fourteenth floor and continued down there was no thirteenth floor! One door said "14" and the next said "12."
What had happened to "13?"
I went back up to make sure that I had not missed it. I cannot tell you how carefully I checked. Believe me, I was careful. The thirteenth floor is missing. No doubt about it.
It's gone.
M
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Gross to me:
WE ARE STANDING BY FOR NEWS FROM YOU. gross
From me to Gross et al:
Okay, I replayed my initial report for each of you, though I can't imagine having forgotten to send it, but who knows? And if it is desired I hereby submit a follow-up.
My building was hit much harder than I originally thought. Our lobby, which is a separate structure about 150 feet long that joins the bases of the North Tower and the South Tower, was blown apart by what may have been a mini-tornado*.
In my last report I described the automobile which was tossed over a ten foot wall onto our tennis courts. Now, in the building a few amateur meteorologists (this is Florida, meteorology is very much "in" ) theorize that there may have been three separate tornadoes which swirled around our buildings perhaps trapped by the towers themselves which may have multiplied the forces of the wind. The apartments which face the court between the buildings suffered a lot of damage, most likely from the debris which was thrown about by the tornadoes or hurricane, whichever it may have been.
I have made a jerrybuilt repair to our broken window using a roll of duct tape and some heavy plastic trash bags which I had on hand ever since we moved from Great Neck, several years ago. It looks as though it will withstand a rainstorm or two, though, Homeland Security notwithstanding, I am not sure that it would withstand a chemical or gas attack.
Out of nowhere a firm called J. B. Hunt Disaster Restoration appeared on the property, and has begun to clean up the debris. Apparently they had cleaned up the buildings when we had a serious fire-explosion related to our sauna about ten years ago. Someone in our Management must have remembered them and they arrived with a few huge trucks, several smaller trucks which contained all kinds of tools for plumbing, electrical and other repairs, generators, a crew of uniformed experienced men (and one woman) who got right to it.
The pool has already been cleaned out, the lobby debris hasbeen removed (leaving only a marble floor and a rickety, holed roof which I imagine must come down), a truckload of sand has been removed from the garages, fallen trees sawed up and removed, the remaining landscaping, has been re-planted and the lawns raked, and temporary plywood barriers nhave been installed in each broken window or door. (one hundred sixteen windows and twenty-two doors leading to terraces.) In this building there were also apartment doors leading to the corridors which "exploded?" or burst open due to the wind or air pressure. I have seen two which were actually broken in half and one which broke away from hinges. Many of the walls in the interior corridors were burst along the seams between the 3/4" dry-wall.
As far as I know here were no injuries in either of the buildings. Our employees were completely overwhelmed by the extent of the work, and had Hunt not come in, I think that our Maintenance Manager and Chief of Security might have had breakdowns.
As far as I know here were no injuries in either of the buildings. Our employees were completely overwhelmed by the extent of the work, and had Hunt not come in, I think that our Maintenance Manager and Chief of Security might have had breakdowns.
M
*Beef Tornadoes. Twin 5 oz. Filet Mignon, Served on a bed of mashed potatoes,Topped with béarnaise sauce and Portobello mushroom sauce.
From Gross to me:
WE ARE STANDING BY FOR NEWS FROM YOU. gross
From me to Gross et al:
Okay, I replayed my initial report for each of you, though I can't imagine having forgotten to send it, but who knows? And if it is desired I hereby submit a follow-up.
My building was hit much harder than I originally thought. Our lobby, which is a separate structure about 150 feet long that joins the bases of the North Tower and the South Tower, was blown apart by what may have been a mini-tornado*.
In my last report I described the automobile which was tossed over a ten foot wall onto our tennis courts. Now, in the building a few amateur meteorologists (this is Florida, meteorology is very much "in" ) theorize that there may have been three separate tornadoes which swirled around our buildings perhaps trapped by the towers themselves which may have multiplied the forces of the wind. The apartments which face the court between the buildings suffered a lot of damage, most likely from the debris which was thrown about by the tornadoes or hurricane, whichever it may have been.
I have made a jerrybuilt repair to our broken window using a roll of duct tape and some heavy plastic trash bags which I had on hand ever since we moved from Great Neck, several years ago. It looks as though it will withstand a rainstorm or two, though, Homeland Security notwithstanding, I am not sure that it would withstand a chemical or gas attack.
Out of nowhere a firm called J. B. Hunt Disaster Restoration appeared on the property, and has begun to clean up the debris. Apparently they had cleaned up the buildings when we had a serious fire-explosion related to our sauna about ten years ago. Someone in our Management must have remembered them and they arrived with a few huge trucks, several smaller trucks which contained all kinds of tools for plumbing, electrical and other repairs, generators, a crew of uniformed experienced men (and one woman) who got right to it.
The pool has already been cleaned out, the lobby debris hasbeen removed (leaving only a marble floor and a rickety, holed roof which I imagine must come down), a truckload of sand has been removed from the garages, fallen trees sawed up and removed, the remaining landscaping, has been re-planted and the lawns raked, and temporary plywood barriers nhave been installed in each broken window or door. (one hundred sixteen windows and twenty-two doors leading to terraces.) In this building there were also apartment doors leading to the corridors which "exploded?" or burst open due to the wind or air pressure. I have seen two which were actually broken in half and one which broke away from hinges. Many of the walls in the interior corridors were burst along the seams between the 3/4" dry-wall.
As far as I know here were no injuries in either of the buildings. Our employees were completely overwhelmed by the extent of the work, and had Hunt not come in, I think that our Maintenance Manager and Chief of Security might have had breakdowns.
As far as I know here were no injuries in either of the buildings. Our employees were completely overwhelmed by the extent of the work, and had Hunt not come in, I think that our Maintenance Manager and Chief of Security might have had breakdowns.
M
*Beef Tornadoes. Twin 5 oz. Filet Mignon, Served on a bed of mashed potatoes,Topped with béarnaise sauce and Portobello mushroom sauce.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com Here's my hurricane report:
Here's what happened at my house:
A window facing south on the beach burst, sounding like a cannon ball, an inside wall that bellied out due to the air pressure, breaking a wall sized bathroom mirror and some tiling. --- a bathtub that had been filled to the rim with water for washing and making the toilet flush in which the water roiled as though in a winter storm on the high seas, chandeliers swinging, the building swaying, a nearby parking lot at which a car was tossed over a ten foot wall on to our tennis courts, a row of cars all pushed together to the West end of the lot, many apartments all around us had many windows broken.
Maria praying -- I admit it-- I was having the time of my life. Well, one of the times of my life.
Much water forced under the window sills of hurricane "proof" windows by the air pressure, Doors were impossible to open and walls buckled, due to the air pressure.
Water came into our apartment under the closed window sills, but, luckily due to the many hotels that Maria and I have visited during the last thirty or forty years we had enough towels to sop up the water.
Now, until 7:00 PM tonight (two days? three?) there has been no running water nor electricity, no elevators, no stores open, no gas.
However, boy scout that I am we were prepared and had plenty of batteries, cases of water, and trawlers filled with cans of tuna fish, and full tanks of gas in our cars. The Madam took advantage of the gas and went to Orlando to visit Mickey while I stayed behind waiting for the glazier to replace our window. Electric and water back now. I'll wait until the Madam returns to take a shower.
The two evenings following the hurricane there was not a light lit in Ft. Lauderdale. I saw the real starry sky in all its glory, the glory that God meant it to have, for the first time since camp some 60 years ago.
M.
Here's what happened at my house:
A window facing south on the beach burst, sounding like a cannon ball, an inside wall that bellied out due to the air pressure, breaking a wall sized bathroom mirror and some tiling. --- a bathtub that had been filled to the rim with water for washing and making the toilet flush in which the water roiled as though in a winter storm on the high seas, chandeliers swinging, the building swaying, a nearby parking lot at which a car was tossed over a ten foot wall on to our tennis courts, a row of cars all pushed together to the West end of the lot, many apartments all around us had many windows broken.
Maria praying -- I admit it-- I was having the time of my life. Well, one of the times of my life.
Much water forced under the window sills of hurricane "proof" windows by the air pressure, Doors were impossible to open and walls buckled, due to the air pressure.
Water came into our apartment under the closed window sills, but, luckily due to the many hotels that Maria and I have visited during the last thirty or forty years we had enough towels to sop up the water.
Now, until 7:00 PM tonight (two days? three?) there has been no running water nor electricity, no elevators, no stores open, no gas.
However, boy scout that I am we were prepared and had plenty of batteries, cases of water, and trawlers filled with cans of tuna fish, and full tanks of gas in our cars. The Madam took advantage of the gas and went to Orlando to visit Mickey while I stayed behind waiting for the glazier to replace our window. Electric and water back now. I'll wait until the Madam returns to take a shower.
The two evenings following the hurricane there was not a light lit in Ft. Lauderdale. I saw the real starry sky in all its glory, the glory that God meant it to have, for the first time since camp some 60 years ago.
M.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Thanks! To Lenny Lambert who came through with the judge's name: Samuel Liebowitz, a great trial lawyer who was a Democrat in Brooklyn when he was asked by the Communist Party to defend the Scottsboro Boys.
In over fifteen years of criminal defense work, Liebowitz had represented seventy-eight persons charged with first-degree murder. His remarkable record over that period was seventy-seven acquittals, one hung jury, and no convictions.
He worked without pay for four years. His efforts won him many death threats and the removal of four of the Scottsboro boys from the trial. One of them said, "I love Sam Liebowitz more than my own mother."
Thanks Lenny! mek
Thanks! To Lenny Lambert who came through with the judge's name: Samuel Liebowitz, a great trial lawyer who was a Democrat in Brooklyn when he was asked by the Communist Party to defend the Scottsboro Boys.
In over fifteen years of criminal defense work, Liebowitz had represented seventy-eight persons charged with first-degree murder. His remarkable record over that period was seventy-seven acquittals, one hung jury, and no convictions.
He worked without pay for four years. His efforts won him many death threats and the removal of four of the Scottsboro boys from the trial. One of them said, "I love Sam Liebowitz more than my own mother."
Thanks Lenny! mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I am looking for the name of very tough Judge in Brooklyn, who had been one of the great defense atty's of his day and who MAY have defended the scottsboro boys, or perhaps some other important trial of that day.... two gold stars to the person or people who deliver me his name. It may have been Sam ______________.
thanks,
mike
I am looking for the name of very tough Judge in Brooklyn, who had been one of the great defense atty's of his day and who MAY have defended the scottsboro boys, or perhaps some other important trial of that day.... two gold stars to the person or people who deliver me his name. It may have been Sam ______________.
thanks,
mike
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Sometime in the seventies, ninetween, that is, as we drove down Johnson Avenue, along the border of Maspath and Brooklyn, we passed the Arctic diner, the middle of a section of junkyards and factories, and a large steel wharehouse named____________. We passed the Arctic Diner, and Dad mentioned that in the early 1900's there had been a baseball field there and that the name of the its team was the Artics.
Sometime in the seventies, ninetween, that is, as we drove down Johnson Avenue, along the border of Maspath and Brooklyn, we passed the Arctic diner, the middle of a section of junkyards and factories, and a large steel wharehouse named____________. We passed the Arctic Diner, and Dad mentioned that in the early 1900's there had been a baseball field there and that the name of the its team was the Artics.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
PAKISTAN'S DIRTY LAUNDERINGBy Jeff JacobyThe Boston Globe
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
http://www.boston.com/news/globe/editorial_opinion/oped/articles/2005/10/19/pakistans_dirty_laundering/
"Pakistan on Saturday welcomed an offer of earthquake assistance from Israel," the Associated Press reported on Oct. 15, "but said it would have to be channeled through the United Nations, the Red Cross, or donated to a relief fund."
On the surface, an unremarkable detail amid the devastation in Kashmir. But this is a story worth pausing over. For between the lines, it speaks volumes about the real stakes in the war between the civilized world and radical Islam.
The magnitude 7.6 earthquake that struck on Oct. 8 triggered, in the words of Pakistan's prime minister, "a disaster of unprecedented proportions in Pakistan's history." In one terrible upheaval, it killed tens of thousands of people, trapped or injured thousands more, and left an estimated 2 million homeless.
Pakistan's president, General Pervez Musharraf, went on television with an urgent plea for international help. Among the offers of humanitarian aid that began streaming into Islamabad was one from Israel, which is all too experienced in disaster rescue and relief. When a natural calamity strikes, Israel is often among the first nations to offer help; within 48 hours of the tsunami last December, for example, Israel had airlifted teams of medical and emergency workers, as well as 80 tons of supplies, to the stricken countries.
But as days went by and the Pakistani death toll mounted, there was no reply to Israel's offer of assistance. The Jerusalem Post recalled the 2003 earthquake in Iran, when the Tehran theocracy announced that it would welcome "all kinds of humanitarian aid from all countries and international organizations, with the exception of the Zionist regime." Pakistan, the world's second-most-populous Muslim nation, had never established diplomatic relations with Israel, but, unlike Iran, its attitude was supposed to be changing. In Istanbul on Sept. 1, the Israeli and Pakistani foreign ministers had met publicly for the first time; two weeks later Musharraf had shaken Ariel Sharon's hand at a United Nations reception in New York. Equally dramatic was Musharraf's conciliatory speech to the American Jewish Congress on Sept. 17, the first time a Pakistani ruler had ever addressed an audience of American Jews.
Yet it was not until Oct. 14, six days after Israel had communicated its willingness to help the earthquake victims "in any way possible," that it finally received a formal response. Yes, aid from Israel would be welcome, provided it was laundered through a third party. "We have established the president's relief fund, and everyone is free to contribute to it," a government spokeswoman coolly acknowledged. "If Israel was to contribute -- that's fine, we would accept it." Israel could help save Pakistani lives, in other words, as long as it wasn't too public about doing so. There mustn't be any embarrassing images of planes with Israeli markings offloading relief supplies at Islamabad's airport.
And no one should imagine that Israel's generosity toward a nation that has long been among its harshest critics and in which antisemitism is rampant would have any effect on Islamabad's thinking. According to the Daily Times, a Pakistani newspaper, the spokeswoman insisted that "accepting an indirect donation from Israel did not mean that Pakistan had planned to recognize it" or to alter its stance toward Israel, "which was unchangeable."
Israel will not criticize Pakistan's insulting behavior, preferring to understand it as a reality of Pakistani domestic politics. For Musharraf, a diplomat in the Israeli Foreign Ministry told me, "the number one priority is regime survival" -- and any regime that failed to treat the Jewish state with the appropriate level of contempt would outrage Pakistani public opinion.
But that loathing of Israel and Jews is not just a quirk of Pakistani politics. It is a hallmark of the radical Islamists whose terrorism worldwide has shed so much blood -- and who hold sway over more than 70 percent of Pakistan, according to Tashbih Sayyed, editor of the weekly newspaper Pakistan Today. An outspoken Muslim moderate, Sayyed sees Musharraf's recent overtures toward Israel as a feint -- an insincere tactic intended to impress Washington.
"That is why he has done nothing to challenge the way Jews and Israel are portrayed by the Islamists -- as demons, as an evil force," he argues. Many Pakistanis would welcome a genuine effort from the top to combat the radicals' hatred and lies but are not brave enough to fight them on their own. And so the Islamists go on spreading their lethal ideology.
And that, writ large, is the problem at the core of the war on terrorism. "The Muslim world is plunged into an abyss of darkness, antimodernity, anti-Americanism, and anti-Semitism," Sayyed says. Only a minority of Muslims are personally hateful or fanatic. But a minority can wreak enormous damage when the majority is unwilling to act.
Can you imagine Israel accepting assistance from the Iranians, or the Fatah, or the Palestinians, or the Saudis?
This is just another self-righteous attack on a Muslim nation that proves nothing. What would be wrong with Israel making a cash donation to The Red Cross -- or an anonymous donation to the Red Crescent--if Israel truly wanted to be charitable?
It's too bad that politics prevents acts of good will, but don't think for a moment that Israel wouldn't act the same way.
In fact, don't you remember that Castro offered Cuban Doctors during the Katrina debacle and President Bush turned him down, rather than take the opportunity to begin to establish relations?
It's just a sad political reality. And it proves nothing.
First please read the article: then my comment below:
PAKISTAN'S DIRTY LAUNDERINGBy Jeff JacobyThe Boston Globe
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
http://www.boston.com/news/globe/editorial_opinion/oped/articles/2005/10/19/pakistans_dirty_laundering/
"Pakistan on Saturday welcomed an offer of earthquake assistance from Israel," the Associated Press reported on Oct. 15, "but said it would have to be channeled through the United Nations, the Red Cross, or donated to a relief fund."
On the surface, an unremarkable detail amid the devastation in Kashmir. But this is a story worth pausing over. For between the lines, it speaks volumes about the real stakes in the war between the civilized world and radical Islam.
The magnitude 7.6 earthquake that struck on Oct. 8 triggered, in the words of Pakistan's prime minister, "a disaster of unprecedented proportions in Pakistan's history." In one terrible upheaval, it killed tens of thousands of people, trapped or injured thousands more, and left an estimated 2 million homeless.
Pakistan's president, General Pervez Musharraf, went on television with an urgent plea for international help. Among the offers of humanitarian aid that began streaming into Islamabad was one from Israel, which is all too experienced in disaster rescue and relief. When a natural calamity strikes, Israel is often among the first nations to offer help; within 48 hours of the tsunami last December, for example, Israel had airlifted teams of medical and emergency workers, as well as 80 tons of supplies, to the stricken countries.
But as days went by and the Pakistani death toll mounted, there was no reply to Israel's offer of assistance. The Jerusalem Post recalled the 2003 earthquake in Iran, when the Tehran theocracy announced that it would welcome "all kinds of humanitarian aid from all countries and international organizations, with the exception of the Zionist regime." Pakistan, the world's second-most-populous Muslim nation, had never established diplomatic relations with Israel, but, unlike Iran, its attitude was supposed to be changing. In Istanbul on Sept. 1, the Israeli and Pakistani foreign ministers had met publicly for the first time; two weeks later Musharraf had shaken Ariel Sharon's hand at a United Nations reception in New York. Equally dramatic was Musharraf's conciliatory speech to the American Jewish Congress on Sept. 17, the first time a Pakistani ruler had ever addressed an audience of American Jews.
Yet it was not until Oct. 14, six days after Israel had communicated its willingness to help the earthquake victims "in any way possible," that it finally received a formal response. Yes, aid from Israel would be welcome, provided it was laundered through a third party. "We have established the president's relief fund, and everyone is free to contribute to it," a government spokeswoman coolly acknowledged. "If Israel was to contribute -- that's fine, we would accept it." Israel could help save Pakistani lives, in other words, as long as it wasn't too public about doing so. There mustn't be any embarrassing images of planes with Israeli markings offloading relief supplies at Islamabad's airport.
And no one should imagine that Israel's generosity toward a nation that has long been among its harshest critics and in which antisemitism is rampant would have any effect on Islamabad's thinking. According to the Daily Times, a Pakistani newspaper, the spokeswoman insisted that "accepting an indirect donation from Israel did not mean that Pakistan had planned to recognize it" or to alter its stance toward Israel, "which was unchangeable."
Israel will not criticize Pakistan's insulting behavior, preferring to understand it as a reality of Pakistani domestic politics. For Musharraf, a diplomat in the Israeli Foreign Ministry told me, "the number one priority is regime survival" -- and any regime that failed to treat the Jewish state with the appropriate level of contempt would outrage Pakistani public opinion.
But that loathing of Israel and Jews is not just a quirk of Pakistani politics. It is a hallmark of the radical Islamists whose terrorism worldwide has shed so much blood -- and who hold sway over more than 70 percent of Pakistan, according to Tashbih Sayyed, editor of the weekly newspaper Pakistan Today. An outspoken Muslim moderate, Sayyed sees Musharraf's recent overtures toward Israel as a feint -- an insincere tactic intended to impress Washington.
"That is why he has done nothing to challenge the way Jews and Israel are portrayed by the Islamists -- as demons, as an evil force," he argues. Many Pakistanis would welcome a genuine effort from the top to combat the radicals' hatred and lies but are not brave enough to fight them on their own. And so the Islamists go on spreading their lethal ideology.
And that, writ large, is the problem at the core of the war on terrorism. "The Muslim world is plunged into an abyss of darkness, antimodernity, anti-Americanism, and anti-Semitism," Sayyed says. Only a minority of Muslims are personally hateful or fanatic. But a minority can wreak enormous damage when the majority is unwilling to act.
Buster's Comment
Can you imagine Israel accepting assistance from the Iranians, or the Fatah, or the Palestinians, or the Saudis?
This is just another self-righteous attack on a Muslim nation that proves nothing. What would be wrong with Israel making a cash donation to The Red Cross -- or an anonymous donation to the Red Crescent--if Israel truly wanted to be charitable?
It's too bad that politics prevents acts of good will, but don't think for a moment that Israel wouldn't act the same way.
In fact, don't you remember that Castro offered Cuban Doctors during the Katrina debacle and President Bush turned him down, rather than take the opportunity to begin to establish relations?
It's just a sad political reality. And it proves nothing.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In 1944 I was a six year old sitting beside my Dad in his Oldsmobile as we drove down Ingraham Street in Brooklyn. A few weeks before I had asked him about the Gold Star banners that were hung, like shades, in many of the windows of the tenements that we passed. He explained what they meant, but promised me that Brother Joe would be okay.
But now, as we passed them again, two weeks later, I realized for the first time the overwhelming enormity that they signified for the mothers and dads who sat behind them; and I doubted my father for the first time. I wondered how could he promise me that nothing would happen to Brother Joe?
I hoped that nothing would happen to him -- but I knew that even my Dad couldn't protect him.
In 1944 I was a six year old sitting beside my Dad in his Oldsmobile as we drove down Ingraham Street in Brooklyn. A few weeks before I had asked him about the Gold Star banners that were hung, like shades, in many of the windows of the tenements that we passed. He explained what they meant, but promised me that Brother Joe would be okay.
But now, as we passed them again, two weeks later, I realized for the first time the overwhelming enormity that they signified for the mothers and dads who sat behind them; and I doubted my father for the first time. I wondered how could he promise me that nothing would happen to Brother Joe?
I hoped that nothing would happen to him -- but I knew that even my Dad couldn't protect him.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The meaning of our life is not within the material things that we leave to our heirs.
M. Gross
The meaning of our life is not within the material things that we leave to our heirs.
M. Gross
Sunday, October 02, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The challenge of modernity is to live without illusions and without becoming disillusioned.
Antonio Gramsci
The challenge of modernity is to live without illusions and without becoming disillusioned.
Antonio Gramsci
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Dear Son,,
You can’t engage May in argument. She is too rigid to see any other side but her own and so it’s a waste of time and energy to try.
All that you can do is point out the benefits that will make Carli's life better. Every child needs their father. Keeping you away from Carli hurts Carli as much as it hurts you. May’s motivation is to hurt you even though she must know that Carli gets bruised at the same time. Doesn’t she care? My guess is that right now she doesn’t care. She is striking out at you because she is hurt. She hasn’t yet been able to disentangle herself from you. She can’t be objective. She is angry. Perhaps she has always been angry. I don’t know—I’m not a psychologist.
The important thing is to fulfill Carli's needs to the greatest extent possible. That is only possible with two cooperating parents. Carli needs the unconditional love that I am sure May gives to her. And Carli needs that unconditional love that you give to her. Carli needs both of you.
My friend “Tiger” had a “cooperating” divorce. Neither parent ever ‘bad-mouthed” the other. They each behaved politely to each other. The children were told only that their parents had the utmost respect for each other. And most important, neither parent was ever disrespected in front of the children. Although any divorce is always a tragedy for the children, in this one damage to the children was kept to the minimum.
On the other hand, another friend, Keith, and his wife were constantly at each other’s throats. The children were kept in a constant state of anxiety and stress. Almost immediately little Peter developed asthma, and the older girl – I can’t think of her name right now, became promiscuous and hugely fat. One of her boyfriends was a black drug dealer with a snake tattooed on his arm. Gross bailed him out once or twice.
I don’t know how things turned out for his daughter and son because I lost touch with Keith, but I can’t imagine that they turned out well. Furthermore, Keith’s wife never got her life on track. Instead of moving on to a new life her bitterness tied her irrevocably to her conception of what a bastard she thought Keith had been. I do not speak for Keith – he may not have been the perfect husband, perhaps a divorce was right for the marriage – but even after the divorce his wife never actually escaped the marriage -- and the children suffered.
I don’t know whether you remember the ex-wife of Harry Sternberg. Remember her? Her arms bent by the weight of too many gold bracelets. Constantly smoking, her face full of lines, her eyebrows always furrowed because all she could think of was hate. She couldn’t let go. She had more money that she could spend in a lifetime, but gave all her energy to hating Harry and she made everyone around her miserable. She died rich, skinny and very, very unhappy. She could have had a new life, she could have re-married, or lived with someone—but she wouldn’t let go of her hatred for Harry. Ironically her children buried her next to Harry and his mistress! I think they resented the miserableness, the hatred, which she forced on everyone around her. So they finally got even by burying her next to the woman who made her husband happy for the last years of his life.
One of the wisest things that Ruben ever said to me was that “no one can ever win an argument with William Fish.” What did he mean by that? Fish is a stubborn man who thinks that only his opinion can be right. To him, there are only his facts and they are never in doubt. No one can ever pierce his certitude. Certainty of that type should be added to the list of the seven deadly sins.
I must digress: here’s the list:
Seven Deadly Sins:
Lust
Envy
Sloth (Laziness)
Pride
Wrath (Anger)
Greed
Gluttony
I admit to each of them… But I’m working on them.
The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude. The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude.
Certitude
“One of the most constant characteristics of men of beliefs is their intolerance. The stronger the belief, the greater its intolerance. Men (or women) dominated by a certitude cannot tolerate those who do not accept it.”
Gustave Le Bon
End of digression.
I think that this is what you are dealing with. I don’t know how you will emerge but I have confidence in you. No matter what May thinks I know you to be fair, just, and most important, objective.
Keep bouncing with the blows, and keep your eye on the ball. You don’t have to justify your life to May. Likewise, you don’t have to answer every contention that she makes.
And, dear son, for that matter May doesn’t have to justify her life to you either. You’ve chosen new paths. Take them. Explore them. Don’t look back.
In the end, it’s all about three things: Carli, Carli, and Carli. (And by the way, how does Brenda fit into all of this? You have to excuse her if she is siding with her mother—its only to be expected—and you have to know how hard it must be for her to have lost two Dads. And mark this, Son, you were (are?) her Dad too. It was you who brought her up…I think that time will cure any rift that might have grown between you two.)
The human capacity for self-delusion is limitless. Everyone has seen people who claim to be right and who do evil things in its name. No one is immune from this phenomenon. Understand that whether justified or not, May is hurt and is rationalizing some of her actions by her misperceptions of what she thinks occurred during the time you were together. She’s pathetically striking out blindly. She’s wounded. And the longer she persists, the deeper into her pain she will get. She won’t let the wound heal. She keeps picking at the scab.
Her repeated acts of anger only engender more anger. Her conscience has clouded and her judgment corrupted.
She's trapped. She can't allow herself to let go. She can't move on to better things. Feel sorry for her, my son, —and move on.
Love,
Dad
Dear Son,,
You can’t engage May in argument. She is too rigid to see any other side but her own and so it’s a waste of time and energy to try.
All that you can do is point out the benefits that will make Carli's life better. Every child needs their father. Keeping you away from Carli hurts Carli as much as it hurts you. May’s motivation is to hurt you even though she must know that Carli gets bruised at the same time. Doesn’t she care? My guess is that right now she doesn’t care. She is striking out at you because she is hurt. She hasn’t yet been able to disentangle herself from you. She can’t be objective. She is angry. Perhaps she has always been angry. I don’t know—I’m not a psychologist.
The important thing is to fulfill Carli's needs to the greatest extent possible. That is only possible with two cooperating parents. Carli needs the unconditional love that I am sure May gives to her. And Carli needs that unconditional love that you give to her. Carli needs both of you.
My friend “Tiger” had a “cooperating” divorce. Neither parent ever ‘bad-mouthed” the other. They each behaved politely to each other. The children were told only that their parents had the utmost respect for each other. And most important, neither parent was ever disrespected in front of the children. Although any divorce is always a tragedy for the children, in this one damage to the children was kept to the minimum.
On the other hand, another friend, Keith, and his wife were constantly at each other’s throats. The children were kept in a constant state of anxiety and stress. Almost immediately little Peter developed asthma, and the older girl – I can’t think of her name right now, became promiscuous and hugely fat. One of her boyfriends was a black drug dealer with a snake tattooed on his arm. Gross bailed him out once or twice.
I don’t know how things turned out for his daughter and son because I lost touch with Keith, but I can’t imagine that they turned out well. Furthermore, Keith’s wife never got her life on track. Instead of moving on to a new life her bitterness tied her irrevocably to her conception of what a bastard she thought Keith had been. I do not speak for Keith – he may not have been the perfect husband, perhaps a divorce was right for the marriage – but even after the divorce his wife never actually escaped the marriage -- and the children suffered.
I don’t know whether you remember the ex-wife of Harry Sternberg. Remember her? Her arms bent by the weight of too many gold bracelets. Constantly smoking, her face full of lines, her eyebrows always furrowed because all she could think of was hate. She couldn’t let go. She had more money that she could spend in a lifetime, but gave all her energy to hating Harry and she made everyone around her miserable. She died rich, skinny and very, very unhappy. She could have had a new life, she could have re-married, or lived with someone—but she wouldn’t let go of her hatred for Harry. Ironically her children buried her next to Harry and his mistress! I think they resented the miserableness, the hatred, which she forced on everyone around her. So they finally got even by burying her next to the woman who made her husband happy for the last years of his life.
One of the wisest things that Ruben ever said to me was that “no one can ever win an argument with William Fish.” What did he mean by that? Fish is a stubborn man who thinks that only his opinion can be right. To him, there are only his facts and they are never in doubt. No one can ever pierce his certitude. Certainty of that type should be added to the list of the seven deadly sins.
I must digress: here’s the list:
Seven Deadly Sins:
Lust
Envy
Sloth (Laziness)
Pride
Wrath (Anger)
Greed
Gluttony
I admit to each of them… But I’m working on them.
The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude. The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude.
Certitude
“One of the most constant characteristics of men of beliefs is their intolerance. The stronger the belief, the greater its intolerance. Men (or women) dominated by a certitude cannot tolerate those who do not accept it.”
Gustave Le Bon
End of digression.
I think that this is what you are dealing with. I don’t know how you will emerge but I have confidence in you. No matter what May thinks I know you to be fair, just, and most important, objective.
Keep bouncing with the blows, and keep your eye on the ball. You don’t have to justify your life to May. Likewise, you don’t have to answer every contention that she makes.
And, dear son, for that matter May doesn’t have to justify her life to you either. You’ve chosen new paths. Take them. Explore them. Don’t look back.
In the end, it’s all about three things: Carli, Carli, and Carli. (And by the way, how does Brenda fit into all of this? You have to excuse her if she is siding with her mother—its only to be expected—and you have to know how hard it must be for her to have lost two Dads. And mark this, Son, you were (are?) her Dad too. It was you who brought her up…I think that time will cure any rift that might have grown between you two.)
The human capacity for self-delusion is limitless. Everyone has seen people who claim to be right and who do evil things in its name. No one is immune from this phenomenon. Understand that whether justified or not, May is hurt and is rationalizing some of her actions by her misperceptions of what she thinks occurred during the time you were together. She’s pathetically striking out blindly. She’s wounded. And the longer she persists, the deeper into her pain she will get. She won’t let the wound heal. She keeps picking at the scab.
Her repeated acts of anger only engender more anger. Her conscience has clouded and her judgment corrupted.
She's trapped. She can't allow herself to let go. She can't move on to better things. Feel sorry for her, my son, —and move on.
Love,
Dad
Thursday, September 22, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Hope
It's human nature to be optimistic. It's human nature to hope. Furthermore, hope is a component of a healthy state of mind. Hope is the opposite of negativity. Negativity in life can lead to anger, disappointment and depression. After all, if the world is a negative place, what's the point of living in it? To be negative is to be anti-life.
Ironically, it doesn't work that way in the stock market. In the stock market hope is a hindrance, not a help. Once you take a position in a stock, you obviously want that stock to advance. But if the stock that you bought is a real value, and you bought it right -- you should be content to sit with that stock in the knowledge that over time its value will out without your help, without your hoping.
So in the case of this stock, you have value on your side -- and all you need is patience. In the end, your patience will pay off with a higher price for your stock. Hope shouldn't play any part in this process. You don't need hope, because you bought the stock when it was a great value, and you bought it at the right time.
Any time you find yourself hoping in this business, the odds are that you are on the wrong path -- or that you did something stupid that should be corrected.
unfortunately hope is a money-loser in the investment business. This is counter-intuitive but true. Hope will keep you riding a stock that is headed down. Hope will keep you from taking a small loss and instead, allowing that small loss to develop into a large loss.
In the stock market hope get in the way of reality, hope gets in the way of common sense. One of the first rules in investing is "Don't take the big loss." In order to do that, you've got to be willing to take a small loss.
If the stock market turns bearish, and you're staying put with your whole position. and you're HOPING that what you see is not really happening. And then welcome to poverty city. In this situation, all your hoping isn't going to save you or make you a penny. In fact, in this situation hoping is the devil that bids you to sit -- while your portfolio of stocks goes down the drain.
In the investing business my suggestion is that you avoid hope. Forget the siren, hope -- instead embrace cold, clear reality. RR
Hope
It's human nature to be optimistic. It's human nature to hope. Furthermore, hope is a component of a healthy state of mind. Hope is the opposite of negativity. Negativity in life can lead to anger, disappointment and depression. After all, if the world is a negative place, what's the point of living in it? To be negative is to be anti-life.
Ironically, it doesn't work that way in the stock market. In the stock market hope is a hindrance, not a help. Once you take a position in a stock, you obviously want that stock to advance. But if the stock that you bought is a real value, and you bought it right -- you should be content to sit with that stock in the knowledge that over time its value will out without your help, without your hoping.
So in the case of this stock, you have value on your side -- and all you need is patience. In the end, your patience will pay off with a higher price for your stock. Hope shouldn't play any part in this process. You don't need hope, because you bought the stock when it was a great value, and you bought it at the right time.
Any time you find yourself hoping in this business, the odds are that you are on the wrong path -- or that you did something stupid that should be corrected.
unfortunately hope is a money-loser in the investment business. This is counter-intuitive but true. Hope will keep you riding a stock that is headed down. Hope will keep you from taking a small loss and instead, allowing that small loss to develop into a large loss.
In the stock market hope get in the way of reality, hope gets in the way of common sense. One of the first rules in investing is "Don't take the big loss." In order to do that, you've got to be willing to take a small loss.
If the stock market turns bearish, and you're staying put with your whole position. and you're HOPING that what you see is not really happening. And then welcome to poverty city. In this situation, all your hoping isn't going to save you or make you a penny. In fact, in this situation hoping is the devil that bids you to sit -- while your portfolio of stocks goes down the drain.
In the investing business my suggestion is that you avoid hope. Forget the siren, hope -- instead embrace cold, clear reality. RR
Friday, September 16, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Certitude
The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude. The world is much menaced just now by people who think that the world and their duties in it are clear and simple. They are certain that they know what – who - created the universe and what this creator wants them to do to make our little speck in the Universe perfect, even if extreme measures – even violence -- are required.
America is currently awash in an unpleasant surplus of clanging, clashing of certitudes. That is why there is a rhetorical bitterness absurdly disproportionate to our real differences. It has been well said that the spirit of liberty is the spirit of not being too sure that you are right. One way to immunize ourselves against misplaced certitude is to contemplate -- even to savor – the unfathomable strangeness of everything, including ourselves.
George F. Will (2005)
From the frontispiece of Catherine Crier’s book, “Contempt – How the Right is Wronging American Justice."
Certitude
The greatest threat to civility—and ultimately to civilization—is an excess of certitude. The world is much menaced just now by people who think that the world and their duties in it are clear and simple. They are certain that they know what – who - created the universe and what this creator wants them to do to make our little speck in the Universe perfect, even if extreme measures – even violence -- are required.
America is currently awash in an unpleasant surplus of clanging, clashing of certitudes. That is why there is a rhetorical bitterness absurdly disproportionate to our real differences. It has been well said that the spirit of liberty is the spirit of not being too sure that you are right. One way to immunize ourselves against misplaced certitude is to contemplate -- even to savor – the unfathomable strangeness of everything, including ourselves.
George F. Will (2005)
From the frontispiece of Catherine Crier’s book, “Contempt – How the Right is Wronging American Justice."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Certitude
One of the most constant characteristics of beliefs is their intolerance. The stronger the belief, the greater its intolerance. Men dominated by a certitude cannot tolerate those who do not accept it.
Gustave Le Bon
Certitude
One of the most constant characteristics of beliefs is their intolerance. The stronger the belief, the greater its intolerance. Men dominated by a certitude cannot tolerate those who do not accept it.
Gustave Le Bon
Monday, September 12, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Howard G.
This is what his March 2005 diagnosis was: glioblastoma (GBM IV), the deadliest form of brain cancer. So, from March until yesterday, he saw no one except his wife and one visit each from his children and his sister. He knew that he wasn't himself and believed that if people saw him in his condition they would remember him as sick rather than the "real" Howard.
He knew that he had outbursts of temper. At other times he would say inappropriate things. He couldn't keep track of the conversation.
His wife followed his total reclusion directive and stayed with him every moment. No one was to see him in his condition. Even Maria and Leah, her only Florida friends, were asked to meet her in the lobby of her apartment house where they would have tea and cookies -- and then only if Howard was sleeping. Sometimes they would come and Carole wouldn't come down. Carole stopped all activities. She wouldn't even go to support groups because they would take her from Howard's side. He made her promise never to leave him with anyone else until he died. She promised.
Howard had been an executive of Lillian Vernon, and Fingerhut, and of Bloomingdales. He was President and CEO of Orbachs. He started out as a trainee at A&S after college. He went to Bronx High School of Science. He was very sharp and self-confident. He knew how to take charge.
After his retirement he and Carole traveled from May until September, and he "managed? (owned?") a Fantasy Football Team. He attended conventions where the players were drafted for his teams. During the course of his illness I sent him an article from the Financial Times about Fantasy Football. His wife told me he couldn't follow it.
He liked good wine and spent too much money on it. He smoked very big cigars. He generously shared both, He and Carole liked to gamble in Las Vegas. He shared his money with Las Vegas. He laughed a lot.
He was a volunteer tutor for the Broward School system and spoke with enthusiasm about his joy at his student's progress.
He was easy to be with.
mek
Howard G.
This is what his March 2005 diagnosis was: glioblastoma (GBM IV), the deadliest form of brain cancer. So, from March until yesterday, he saw no one except his wife and one visit each from his children and his sister. He knew that he wasn't himself and believed that if people saw him in his condition they would remember him as sick rather than the "real" Howard.
He knew that he had outbursts of temper. At other times he would say inappropriate things. He couldn't keep track of the conversation.
His wife followed his total reclusion directive and stayed with him every moment. No one was to see him in his condition. Even Maria and Leah, her only Florida friends, were asked to meet her in the lobby of her apartment house where they would have tea and cookies -- and then only if Howard was sleeping. Sometimes they would come and Carole wouldn't come down. Carole stopped all activities. She wouldn't even go to support groups because they would take her from Howard's side. He made her promise never to leave him with anyone else until he died. She promised.
Howard had been an executive of Lillian Vernon, and Fingerhut, and of Bloomingdales. He was President and CEO of Orbachs. He started out as a trainee at A&S after college. He went to Bronx High School of Science. He was very sharp and self-confident. He knew how to take charge.
After his retirement he and Carole traveled from May until September, and he "managed? (owned?") a Fantasy Football Team. He attended conventions where the players were drafted for his teams. During the course of his illness I sent him an article from the Financial Times about Fantasy Football. His wife told me he couldn't follow it.
He liked good wine and spent too much money on it. He smoked very big cigars. He generously shared both, He and Carole liked to gamble in Las Vegas. He shared his money with Las Vegas. He laughed a lot.
He was a volunteer tutor for the Broward School system and spoke with enthusiasm about his joy at his student's progress.
He was easy to be with.
mek
Friday, September 09, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
On the Other Hand
Dear Friend X,
You have asked about the correct split between stocks and bonds for people in the late sixties.
I have never had bonds except after I sold my house when I owned some muni's for about a year. As usual I did the wrong thing by selling them instead of continuing to take the 4.5 or 5% nontaxable payment that came through the munifund I was invested in. I sold out of fear of higher interest rates depressing the price of fund. The operators of the fund were much smarter than me and kept it short and as far as I can tell have maintained the price of the fund.
A broker with whom I speak on the beach says at our age 25% bonds 75% stocks --
But I am uncomfortable with that many bonds --
except: Having bonds when stocks fall and bonds rise (assuming that the laws of conventional market theory continue to prevail) gives you access to cash with which to purchase the now lower priced stocks. (by selling the now higher priced bonds).
You buy Indexes because your assumption is that the market will rise in the long run. The exception I noted above makes the same assumption, as stocks are purchased at prices that someone determines to be temporarily low prices in the expectation that in the long run their prices will rise.
But you are not engaged in timing the market (smart boy!) and so this strategy does not apply to you.
I think that the standard for our age used to be 40% bonds, but that was the standard when people lived for a shorter time.
It is probably time to sell gold as I have started to purchase it again. You know that I sold it just before its recent rise. As long as I have played with gold I have never made significant money.
Wouldn't it be great if I had only one hand?
mek
On the Other Hand
Dear Friend X,
You have asked about the correct split between stocks and bonds for people in the late sixties.
I have never had bonds except after I sold my house when I owned some muni's for about a year. As usual I did the wrong thing by selling them instead of continuing to take the 4.5 or 5% nontaxable payment that came through the munifund I was invested in. I sold out of fear of higher interest rates depressing the price of fund. The operators of the fund were much smarter than me and kept it short and as far as I can tell have maintained the price of the fund.
A broker with whom I speak on the beach says at our age 25% bonds 75% stocks --
But I am uncomfortable with that many bonds --
except: Having bonds when stocks fall and bonds rise (assuming that the laws of conventional market theory continue to prevail) gives you access to cash with which to purchase the now lower priced stocks. (by selling the now higher priced bonds).
You buy Indexes because your assumption is that the market will rise in the long run. The exception I noted above makes the same assumption, as stocks are purchased at prices that someone determines to be temporarily low prices in the expectation that in the long run their prices will rise.
But you are not engaged in timing the market (smart boy!) and so this strategy does not apply to you.
I think that the standard for our age used to be 40% bonds, but that was the standard when people lived for a shorter time.
It is probably time to sell gold as I have started to purchase it again. You know that I sold it just before its recent rise. As long as I have played with gold I have never made significant money.
Wouldn't it be great if I had only one hand?
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will.
You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken.
You'll fight with your best friend.
You'll blame a new love for things an old one did.
You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love. So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every sixty seconds that you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.
As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will.
You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken.
You'll fight with your best friend.
You'll blame a new love for things an old one did.
You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love. So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every sixty seconds that you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A liberal is a man too broadminded to take his own part in a quarrel.
Robert Frost.
I would have agreed in full with Frost twenty years ago; but during the last ten years I have found liberals (like the members of the Horowitz forum) to be as bound to their own opinions as conservatives. I had thought of "liberal" as meaning open minded, willing to see the other side; but nowadays there are only two sides and usually the sides are determined not by the facts but by political party.
Although I make no case for the delayed reaction to Katrina on the part of the Bush administration, I note that local officials seemed to have escaped the attention and opprobrium of most liberals. I think that when the after action report is written we will find that various interfaces between the Feds and state and local government didn't work or didn't exist. That may be the real friction point.
FEMA has never had a good reputation, it seems that it is always slow to get off the ground--perhaps because it is a part time organization; having to suddenly mass thousands of employees at different emergency locations when ever an incident occurs.
I also note that Haley Barbour, Republican governor of Mississippi, had few complaints about the Federal response after hearing a local Louisiana official break down into tears on Meet the Press. A very composed, should I say "cold" Barbour saw the the Katrina response through the eyes of a man who believes in the Republican dictum "the less government the better." He explained (bragged?) that his local officials were right on the job. This is a case of a carpenter who believes that a nail is the solution to every problem. Government should be local. Most likely Barbour thought that he was proving that his local governments actually handled the Katrina successfully; while in contrast, the Democrats across the state line failed miserably.
On 9/5/05, Joel Horowitz <jhorowitz@knology.net> wrote:
Could this be a partial explanation for why liberal Democrats have had a difficult time winning elections? Joel
A liberal is a man too broadminded to take his own part in a quarrel.
Robert Frost.
I would have agreed in full with Frost twenty years ago; but during the last ten years I have found liberals (like the members of the Horowitz forum) to be as bound to their own opinions as conservatives. I had thought of "liberal" as meaning open minded, willing to see the other side; but nowadays there are only two sides and usually the sides are determined not by the facts but by political party.
Although I make no case for the delayed reaction to Katrina on the part of the Bush administration, I note that local officials seemed to have escaped the attention and opprobrium of most liberals. I think that when the after action report is written we will find that various interfaces between the Feds and state and local government didn't work or didn't exist. That may be the real friction point.
FEMA has never had a good reputation, it seems that it is always slow to get off the ground--perhaps because it is a part time organization; having to suddenly mass thousands of employees at different emergency locations when ever an incident occurs.
I also note that Haley Barbour, Republican governor of Mississippi, had few complaints about the Federal response after hearing a local Louisiana official break down into tears on Meet the Press. A very composed, should I say "cold" Barbour saw the the Katrina response through the eyes of a man who believes in the Republican dictum "the less government the better." He explained (bragged?) that his local officials were right on the job. This is a case of a carpenter who believes that a nail is the solution to every problem. Government should be local. Most likely Barbour thought that he was proving that his local governments actually handled the Katrina successfully; while in contrast, the Democrats across the state line failed miserably.
On 9/5/05, Joel Horowitz <jhorowitz@knology.net> wrote:
Could this be a partial explanation for why liberal Democrats have had a difficult time winning elections? Joel
Monday, September 05, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A liberal is a man too broadminded to take his own part in a quarrel.
Robert Frost.
A liberal is a man too broadminded to take his own part in a quarrel.
Robert Frost.
Friday, September 02, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The average car is driven 15,000 miles per year.
If you are lucky enough, or smart enough to have purchased a Prius your annual cost of gasoline at $2.79 per gallon will be $951.00 in the next 12 months --assuming an average cost of $2.79 and 44 miles per gallon.
Of course, I was neither smart enough nor lucky enough to have purchased a Prius. I am driving an Avalon. My Avalon gets about 25 miles per gallon. My annual cost will be $1395.00.
Now, my plumber drives a Ford Expedition and his wife drives a Hummer. Each car gets 10 miles per gallon. Their gasoline (premium at $3.09) expense is going to exceed $4635.00 each. A total of $9,270.00!
The average car is driven 15,000 miles per year.
If you are lucky enough, or smart enough to have purchased a Prius your annual cost of gasoline at $2.79 per gallon will be $951.00 in the next 12 months --assuming an average cost of $2.79 and 44 miles per gallon.
Of course, I was neither smart enough nor lucky enough to have purchased a Prius. I am driving an Avalon. My Avalon gets about 25 miles per gallon. My annual cost will be $1395.00.
Now, my plumber drives a Ford Expedition and his wife drives a Hummer. Each car gets 10 miles per gallon. Their gasoline (premium at $3.09) expense is going to exceed $4635.00 each. A total of $9,270.00!
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Death of old age is a rare, singular, and extraordinary death, and hence less natural than the others; it is the last and ultimate sort of death; the farther it is from us, the less it is to be hoped for.Michel de Montaigne --Of Age
Death of old age is a rare, singular, and extraordinary death, and hence less natural than the others; it is the last and ultimate sort of death; the farther it is from us, the less it is to be hoped for.Michel de Montaigne --Of Age
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
What is the standard brewing temperature for tea?
Answer
For a flavorful cup of tea, ideal brewing temperatures are:Green Teas: 180 degrees Semi-Fermented teas: 195 degrees (just off boil) Black Teas: 212 degrees (just off boil)[source http://www.oldcitycoffee.com/shop/coffeeinfo.html#teabrew]Use cooler, barely steaming water (160°F to 180°F) for white, green, and oolong teas (boiling water makes these teas bitter). The steeping time can range from 30 seconds to 3 minutes; some recommend more time for oolong.For black tea, the water should come just to a boil. Steep the tea for 3 to 6 minutes, choosing a longer time if you're going to add milk.[source http://www.epicurious.com/drinking/nonalcoholic/tea]
What is the standard brewing temperature for tea?
Answer
For a flavorful cup of tea, ideal brewing temperatures are:Green Teas: 180 degrees Semi-Fermented teas: 195 degrees (just off boil) Black Teas: 212 degrees (just off boil)[source http://www.oldcitycoffee.com/shop/coffeeinfo.html#teabrew]Use cooler, barely steaming water (160°F to 180°F) for white, green, and oolong teas (boiling water makes these teas bitter). The steeping time can range from 30 seconds to 3 minutes; some recommend more time for oolong.For black tea, the water should come just to a boil. Steep the tea for 3 to 6 minutes, choosing a longer time if you're going to add milk.[source http://www.epicurious.com/drinking/nonalcoholic/tea]
Sunday, August 21, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The Old Poodle A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful aged poodle named Cuddles, along for the company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long, Cuddles discovers that she's lost.
Wandering about, she notices a leopard heading rapidly in her direction with the intention of having lunch. The old poodle thinks, "Oh, oh! I'm in deep shit now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, she immediately settles down to chew on the bones with her back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the old poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard! I wonder if there are any more around here?"
Hearing this, the young leopard halts his attack in mid-strike, a look of terror comes over him and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew!", says the leopard, "That was close! That old poodle nearly had me!"
Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So off he goes, but the old poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that somthing must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard.
The young leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here, monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine!" Now, the old poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?", but instead of running, the dog sits down with her back to her attackers, pretending she hasn't seen them yet, and just when they get close enough to hear, the old poodle says:
"Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off an hour ago to bring me another leopard!"
Moral of this story .
Age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill!
The Old Poodle A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful aged poodle named Cuddles, along for the company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long, Cuddles discovers that she's lost.
Wandering about, she notices a leopard heading rapidly in her direction with the intention of having lunch. The old poodle thinks, "Oh, oh! I'm in deep shit now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, she immediately settles down to chew on the bones with her back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the old poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard! I wonder if there are any more around here?"
Hearing this, the young leopard halts his attack in mid-strike, a look of terror comes over him and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew!", says the leopard, "That was close! That old poodle nearly had me!"
Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So off he goes, but the old poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that somthing must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard.
The young leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here, monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine!" Now, the old poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?", but instead of running, the dog sits down with her back to her attackers, pretending she hasn't seen them yet, and just when they get close enough to hear, the old poodle says:
"Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off an hour ago to bring me another leopard!"
Moral of this story .
Age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill!
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Thursday, August 11, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
You will understand then why I don't like the crowd. It frightens me. I am always looking for the individual within it, the glance, someone with whom one exchanges a little of one's soul.
I like people for their weaknesses and their faults. I get on well with ordinary people. We talk. We start with the weather and little by little we get to the important things. When I photograph them it is not as though I am examining them with a magnifying glass, like a cold and scientific observer. It's brotherly. And it's better, isn't it, to shed some light on those people who are never in the limelight?
You've got to struggle against the pollution of intelligence in order to become an animal with very sharp instincts--a sort of intuitive medium--so that the photographer becomes a magical act and slowly more suggestive images begin to appear behind the visible image, for which the photographer cannot be responsible.
Brassi, French-Hungarian Photographer
You will understand then why I don't like the crowd. It frightens me. I am always looking for the individual within it, the glance, someone with whom one exchanges a little of one's soul.
I like people for their weaknesses and their faults. I get on well with ordinary people. We talk. We start with the weather and little by little we get to the important things. When I photograph them it is not as though I am examining them with a magnifying glass, like a cold and scientific observer. It's brotherly. And it's better, isn't it, to shed some light on those people who are never in the limelight?
You've got to struggle against the pollution of intelligence in order to become an animal with very sharp instincts--a sort of intuitive medium--so that the photographer becomes a magical act and slowly more suggestive images begin to appear behind the visible image, for which the photographer cannot be responsible.
Brassi, French-Hungarian Photographer
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It doesn't matter where I look there's always something going on. All I need to do is wait, and look for long enough until the curtain begins to go up. Each time the same pompous formula trots through my head. Paris is a theater where you buy your sea by wasting time. And I'm still waiting.
R. Doisneau, Parisian Photographer
It doesn't matter where I look there's always something going on. All I need to do is wait, and look for long enough until the curtain begins to go up. Each time the same pompous formula trots through my head. Paris is a theater where you buy your sea by wasting time. And I'm still waiting.
R. Doisneau, Parisian Photographer
Saturday, July 30, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Duty
Last night I rented Winter Light, the third of a Bergman Trilogy on God, Religion, Faith and the lack thereof within ourselves.
It's only 80 minutes and describes a disillusioned parson who has lost belief but who goes on preaching even after a failure in counseling that leads to the death of one of his parishioners. His lover also remains on duty even though he (the Parson) has told her to get lost.
Apart from the content of Bergman's early films which never leave me unfulfilled, the photography itself compels me always to re-watch each movie with a remote in my hand so that I can stop the action and look at what becomes an amazing still photograph.
mek
Duty
Last night I rented Winter Light, the third of a Bergman Trilogy on God, Religion, Faith and the lack thereof within ourselves.
It's only 80 minutes and describes a disillusioned parson who has lost belief but who goes on preaching even after a failure in counseling that leads to the death of one of his parishioners. His lover also remains on duty even though he (the Parson) has told her to get lost.
Apart from the content of Bergman's early films which never leave me unfulfilled, the photography itself compels me always to re-watch each movie with a remote in my hand so that I can stop the action and look at what becomes an amazing still photograph.
mek
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)