BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Time has moved to fast for me to look back, as I have spent my life doing. Ruminating at my many missteps, many mistakes, wrong paths taken leads nowhere. We learn from experience, we keep what we can, but the reality is that there's no way back. The road always lies ahead.
We live towards the future, no one can go back. No matter how much we might like to, once past, no path can be re-tread. "You Can't Go Home Again."
I can't unsay those words, I can't become a nuero-biologist, (if I ever could have), I can't have two more children. I won't ever have that cottage in the mountains. I can go only forward. There's no reverse gear.
I'm not the same boy who loved to run alone in the woods. Not the boy who road his bicycle for hours, not the boy who stood transfixed at the front window of the subway car, looking into the long dark ahead, marked only by a few distant blue lights.
I'm through most of the long dark now, and it hasn't been as exciting as that small eight year old boy thought it would be. It's been only a long tunnel, with several stations along the way. One or two had bright lights.
The boy is still with me. Still dreaming, my eyes wet, my throat tightened...
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Sunday, September 09, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Blog: Scotland of the Soul:
Rita hit the coast and all heck broke loose. There was massive devastation all over town, the ultimate distress and human suffering. I was outside for nine hours, and I saw tree limbs - IN. THE. ROAD! There are puddles of standing water in the poor section of town, and it's unconscionable. We need troops, man. We need, like, 5 buses! And some Heinekens! And
If we can't get those busses, there's going to be panic in the streets! It'll be mayhem and disaster. People will have to eat corpses to survive... well, at least the people that don't have police escorts to loot the Piggly-Wiggly.
I also have it on good authority that the Bush Administration sent agents into that part of town with a garden hose to drench that neighborhood with even more water! It's obviously because George Bush doesn't care about black people, and wants them all to die... or have damp socks, which could lead to athlete's foot!
Oh no, that's not all either. When the Red Cross tried to deliver galoshes and aquasox to these poor people, Homeland Security stopped them from doing it. Even the evil tyrants from Wal-Mart tried to send help, but they too were turned away. That's right! George Bush personally flew down here and stood next to my house in the middle of my street and stopped the delivery trucks in their tracks.
I know what you're saying, "How could this be? Could tragedy really sneak up on us so quickly in the America we grew up in?" Yes, friends. Yes it can. But the real tragedy is that this has been a long time coming. This tragedy has been building for days now.
Earlier today, I spoke with another affected resident, and he told me what will likely turn out to be one of literally dozens of tragic tales of loss and humidity. According to Mr. Aaron, his mother was trapped on her porch because of the scattered showers, and every day she called him and said "Are you coming son? Is somebody coming?" And he told her "Yeah, Mom, somebody's coming to get you." Somebody's coming to get you on Wednesday. Somebody's coming to get you on Thursday. Somebody's coming to get you on Friday." And she finally had to walk out to her car alone on Friday night. She walked out alone on Friday night, and got raindrops on her coat! It was suede, dammit! SUEDE!
Shocking, yes. It's clear that the new FEMA director is just as bad as the old one. They just want black folks to get wet, while all the white folks stay nice and dry under the umbrellas they got by oppressing you and me. I call for a national boycott of FEMA until such time as Acting Director Paulison partners with the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition to solve this systemic racist problem. I call on him to act immediately by sending 15... 20... no, 50 million dollars to Rainbow/PUSH (or my personal bank account, if that's more convenient) in small unmarked bills, so that we can quickly get back on the road to recovery.
God bless you all... except the people in Hymietown,
Jesse Jackson
----
From Blog: Scotland of the Soul:
When it gets dark I tow your heart away
Today I am completely incensed at the government's lack of response to the hurricanes. It's true that I've been in their corner so far, but this was the absolute last straw!
Rita hit the coast and all heck broke loose. There was massive devastation all over town, the ultimate distress and human suffering. I was outside for nine hours, and I saw tree limbs - IN. THE. ROAD! There are puddles of standing water in the poor section of town, and it's unconscionable. We need troops, man. We need, like, 5 buses! And some Heinekens! And
If we can't get those busses, there's going to be panic in the streets! It'll be mayhem and disaster. People will have to eat corpses to survive... well, at least the people that don't have police escorts to loot the Piggly-Wiggly.
I also have it on good authority that the Bush Administration sent agents into that part of town with a garden hose to drench that neighborhood with even more water! It's obviously because George Bush doesn't care about black people, and wants them all to die... or have damp socks, which could lead to athlete's foot!
Oh no, that's not all either. When the Red Cross tried to deliver galoshes and aquasox to these poor people, Homeland Security stopped them from doing it. Even the evil tyrants from Wal-Mart tried to send help, but they too were turned away. That's right! George Bush personally flew down here and stood next to my house in the middle of my street and stopped the delivery trucks in their tracks.
I know what you're saying, "How could this be? Could tragedy really sneak up on us so quickly in the America we grew up in?" Yes, friends. Yes it can. But the real tragedy is that this has been a long time coming. This tragedy has been building for days now.
Earlier today, I spoke with another affected resident, and he told me what will likely turn out to be one of literally dozens of tragic tales of loss and humidity. According to Mr. Aaron, his mother was trapped on her porch because of the scattered showers, and every day she called him and said "Are you coming son? Is somebody coming?" And he told her "Yeah, Mom, somebody's coming to get you." Somebody's coming to get you on Wednesday. Somebody's coming to get you on Thursday. Somebody's coming to get you on Friday." And she finally had to walk out to her car alone on Friday night. She walked out alone on Friday night, and got raindrops on her coat! It was suede, dammit! SUEDE!
Shocking, yes. It's clear that the new FEMA director is just as bad as the old one. They just want black folks to get wet, while all the white folks stay nice and dry under the umbrellas they got by oppressing you and me. I call for a national boycott of FEMA until such time as Acting Director Paulison partners with the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition to solve this systemic racist problem. I call on him to act immediately by sending 15... 20... no, 50 million dollars to Rainbow/PUSH (or my personal bank account, if that's more convenient) in small unmarked bills, so that we can quickly get back on the road to recovery.
God bless you all... except the people in Hymietown,
Jesse Jackson
----
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Last night I dreamed that M. was rehearsing a bawdy ditty about lawyers on a small stage. I was the only person in the tiny theater. M. was dancing stark naked, and I was embarrassed so I averted my eyes taking only a peek, through my fingers whenever I imagined she wasn't looking. I wondered why she had chosen this particular song to sing for the wedding, and felt sad for her that she had to sing it naked.
I also dreamed that I was drinking at the bar of a very expensive, luxuriously appointed, steakhouse when Mr. (Richman) arrived with a group of businessmen. Apparently they were there to discuss a "deal," Richman greeted me routinely, and rudely, quickly took the group into a private room without introducing me to anyone. I was wearing the pin stripe I shall wear Saturday night. Upset, I grasped the hand of one of the group and gave him my powerful, strongest handshake as he walked away from me into the private room. Later, Mr. Richman asked me, why I had manhandled his partner. I asked Richman where he had learned that word.
In my waking hours early this morning, as I drank my coffee, at about 5:15 AM., I read this line from a fascinating diary-journal of an editor at Conde-Nast called Leo Lerman. Lerman was a man who knew everyone in New York for about fifty years, so his journals catch everyone from a member of Sara Bernhardts' troop, to Leonard Bernstein, and Ingmar Bergman.
His mother had early on recognized her son's proclivities and was not unhappy about them as she understood that he would never marry. "So he's a momma's boy," she said, "and I'm his mother."
I like that.
This book is not meant for you to bother with. It's for people like me, who read what used to be called gossip columns and who wish that they could have been at every party, vernissage, debut, and opening whether theater or art, that was reported.
But Lerman had a remarkable life and each of his entries, though brief, are witty and insightful. His parties, apparently, were legendary and after running his own on jug wines and rat cheese he was offered the bankroll of Conde-Nast and his parties became larger and larger and his list became triple A and held only people of accomplishment. Anyway, the book is not for serious people and not for you.
Lerman and his family fit right into our discussion of "Who is a Jew," as he was another Bar Mitzvah boy who never set foot into a schul after the fountain-pen celebration.
You can forward and or edit this if you like. I'd like to send it to St Eve, but am holding it because of the first paragraph. Use your judgment.
m.
Last night I dreamed that M. was rehearsing a bawdy ditty about lawyers on a small stage. I was the only person in the tiny theater. M. was dancing stark naked, and I was embarrassed so I averted my eyes taking only a peek, through my fingers whenever I imagined she wasn't looking. I wondered why she had chosen this particular song to sing for the wedding, and felt sad for her that she had to sing it naked.
I also dreamed that I was drinking at the bar of a very expensive, luxuriously appointed, steakhouse when Mr. (Richman) arrived with a group of businessmen. Apparently they were there to discuss a "deal," Richman greeted me routinely, and rudely, quickly took the group into a private room without introducing me to anyone. I was wearing the pin stripe I shall wear Saturday night. Upset, I grasped the hand of one of the group and gave him my powerful, strongest handshake as he walked away from me into the private room. Later, Mr. Richman asked me, why I had manhandled his partner. I asked Richman where he had learned that word.
In my waking hours early this morning, as I drank my coffee, at about 5:15 AM., I read this line from a fascinating diary-journal of an editor at Conde-Nast called Leo Lerman. Lerman was a man who knew everyone in New York for about fifty years, so his journals catch everyone from a member of Sara Bernhardts' troop, to Leonard Bernstein, and Ingmar Bergman.
His mother had early on recognized her son's proclivities and was not unhappy about them as she understood that he would never marry. "So he's a momma's boy," she said, "and I'm his mother."
I like that.
This book is not meant for you to bother with. It's for people like me, who read what used to be called gossip columns and who wish that they could have been at every party, vernissage, debut, and opening whether theater or art, that was reported.
But Lerman had a remarkable life and each of his entries, though brief, are witty and insightful. His parties, apparently, were legendary and after running his own on jug wines and rat cheese he was offered the bankroll of Conde-Nast and his parties became larger and larger and his list became triple A and held only people of accomplishment. Anyway, the book is not for serious people and not for you.
Lerman and his family fit right into our discussion of "Who is a Jew," as he was another Bar Mitzvah boy who never set foot into a schul after the fountain-pen celebration.
You can forward and or edit this if you like. I'd like to send it to St Eve, but am holding it because of the first paragraph. Use your judgment.
m.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
August 2, 2007
It has been as though a veil has dropped over my head. Everything is a shade darker, and I find myself sighing every once in while. I keep looking back at my mistakes, the same mistakes I made forty years ago—not buying certain real estate, not investing in the stock market on a more regular basis, remaining at KDS all those boring years, not finding a business partner with whom to work, not following up on many ideas that ran through my mind at various times…
Now I regret not having the money to have two homes, to take vacations, to travel. Money is too short even for going to NYC, and I am stuck here, in Florida in this luxurious apartment—but surrounded by people so different from me, that even when I am with them at the office or on the beach I am lonely, unsatisfied, unhappy, discontent. There is no laughter here—except with M—and if it weren’t for her I’d be a bum on the road, or dead. I’m lucky to be here, with here, but it isn’t really enough.
Why has money become so important here, at the end of my life?
August 3, 2007
I learned last summer that I could live over a store in Cold Spring, in a tight one bedroom apartment with M and be happier than here. It was the guys I met at the Foundry, a coffee shop on Main Street. I could be with them, chat, felt accepted, felt on their level and they were on mine. Again, this summer, M and I spent a short time in a small house in Westhampton. It was fine. Of course, there is no money for a small house in NY. If we sold this apartment we might end up with $600K or so, but that wouldn’t bring much in NY, and then there are the higher living expenses there. Taxes would probably be lower, especially if we were to buy an apartment in NYC. But then, the temptations of NY living would easily outrun my wallet. And then, M needs something, anything, here in Florida, so here would be two sets of expenses. We can’t do it.
M says I should have more male friends here. Yes, I should…and I know that I exaggerate when I say that no one in Florida has any brains, or that I have no interests in common with anyone. It’s an exaggeration, but still it describes the problem.
August 11, 2007
In the days before Jaws I was something of an ocean swimmer, but since 1975, I swim accompanied by an undertow of anxiety , an unspoken, and until now, unacknowledged fear of swimming alone, especially far out where I used to swim as a child and later as a young man.
In those days I never would have thought of encountering a Big White, but now, always in the back of my mind, one swims close by waiting for its chance. The fear never leaves me even when I summon, somehow, the courage to swim by myself past the line of buoys that mark an invisible dividing line between swimmer and boater about a hundred yards out.
Any nearby splash, or even a bit of foam ten yards away, puts me on Shark Alert, and I struggle to remain calm, knowing that a panic stricken swimmer will excite the huge, unseen predator’s natural instinct—its instinct to cull the weakest of our species from the briny deep domain and to have lunch at my arm’s expense.
I like my arm
August 2, 2007
It has been as though a veil has dropped over my head. Everything is a shade darker, and I find myself sighing every once in while. I keep looking back at my mistakes, the same mistakes I made forty years ago—not buying certain real estate, not investing in the stock market on a more regular basis, remaining at KDS all those boring years, not finding a business partner with whom to work, not following up on many ideas that ran through my mind at various times…
Now I regret not having the money to have two homes, to take vacations, to travel. Money is too short even for going to NYC, and I am stuck here, in Florida in this luxurious apartment—but surrounded by people so different from me, that even when I am with them at the office or on the beach I am lonely, unsatisfied, unhappy, discontent. There is no laughter here—except with M—and if it weren’t for her I’d be a bum on the road, or dead. I’m lucky to be here, with here, but it isn’t really enough.
Why has money become so important here, at the end of my life?
August 3, 2007
I learned last summer that I could live over a store in Cold Spring, in a tight one bedroom apartment with M and be happier than here. It was the guys I met at the Foundry, a coffee shop on Main Street. I could be with them, chat, felt accepted, felt on their level and they were on mine. Again, this summer, M and I spent a short time in a small house in Westhampton. It was fine. Of course, there is no money for a small house in NY. If we sold this apartment we might end up with $600K or so, but that wouldn’t bring much in NY, and then there are the higher living expenses there. Taxes would probably be lower, especially if we were to buy an apartment in NYC. But then, the temptations of NY living would easily outrun my wallet. And then, M needs something, anything, here in Florida, so here would be two sets of expenses. We can’t do it.
M says I should have more male friends here. Yes, I should…and I know that I exaggerate when I say that no one in Florida has any brains, or that I have no interests in common with anyone. It’s an exaggeration, but still it describes the problem.
August 11, 2007
In the days before Jaws I was something of an ocean swimmer, but since 1975, I swim accompanied by an undertow of anxiety , an unspoken, and until now, unacknowledged fear of swimming alone, especially far out where I used to swim as a child and later as a young man.
In those days I never would have thought of encountering a Big White, but now, always in the back of my mind, one swims close by waiting for its chance. The fear never leaves me even when I summon, somehow, the courage to swim by myself past the line of buoys that mark an invisible dividing line between swimmer and boater about a hundred yards out.
Any nearby splash, or even a bit of foam ten yards away, puts me on Shark Alert, and I struggle to remain calm, knowing that a panic stricken swimmer will excite the huge, unseen predator’s natural instinct—its instinct to cull the weakest of our species from the briny deep domain and to have lunch at my arm’s expense.
I like my arm
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
For the neverborn children
.
.
"Hush, hush little children
No cradle shall hold you,
In no clothes can we fold you,
Dead that the living cannot mourn,
Untimely, lost and never born."
.
From The Dybbuk, Polish-Yiddish Film, 1937.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To a few friends regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Bourne Ultimatum
MOOD: Irritated
The Woman brought me to see this WoT. (Waste of Time) I guess it's sort of a very noisy, travelog, Kung Fu hybrid Superman movie with hi-tech paraphernalia.
Where does Bourne get the money to fly around the world? Who does his laundry? Where did he keep that passport that had been one of twenty issued to him when he was first inducted into the Company? How did he access it so fast? When he was in Tangier why couldn't the cameraman keep the camera still? Buy him a stedi-cam. And the cuts were so short that I thought that they kept running out of film. Oh, those bean counters -- let them bring some film next time. Why would he call the Evil Task Master to tell him that he was in his office rifling his safe? Okay, I can accept that he could make a ten story leap into the water and survive, (ten stories is only 100 feet) but how did he jump across the FDR Drive? Why doesn't the American Olympic Committee recruit him? Who is going to cure him of the skin diseases he will contract while swimming in the East River?
If you go to see this in spite of this warning, bring your ear protectors.
From St Eve regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Stronghart: what I think is that your response was antiamerican.
First of all everyone loves matt damon and everyone sympathizes with someone who has had his mind altered by albert finney dr villian who forgot the hippocratic oath and is bad bad bad.
And jasonbourne besidesforgetting everything had his shatzie murdered by thecia and thats not the culinary institute of america.Where is your heart man. And besides he is everymanfighting to get his brains back from the evil doers.Stronghartwhere is your rockmunis?{questionable spelling}.Thismovie isBRokeback Mountain for straight guys.Stronghartwake up andsmell thegefilte fish. you too Malkin dont you know aRT whenyou see it and he is in such great CONDITION and really has GAME. More enthusiasmfor jumping though windows and into the east river andkillingthe muslim hit man. Don't you want us to win inIIraq.and randelmanit just not just about money its about the soul ofthis great nation. Gross see this movie and dont be afraid to like it.Boldly embrassthe medium and the message and the messenger if youknow what I mean. Cinema is like tootsie popsdifferent flavours and different ways to get to thesweet center. and take along merle to get the womensviewpoint but remember its a guy movie and your a guy.I wonder what schuffy thought of the movie.And dontforgetmost theaters are air conditioned.ss
oh and I have a tea shirt that says "born to be bourne"on the front and I run through the aisles of the supermarketmisdirecting everyones cartand telling them that the CIA is watching in a lowthreatening voice. ss
To a few friends regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Bourne Ultimatum
MOOD: Irritated
Where does Bourne get the money to fly around the world? Who does his laundry? Where did he keep that passport that had been one of twenty issued to him when he was first inducted into the Company? How did he access it so fast? When he was in Tangier why couldn't the cameraman keep the camera still? Buy him a stedi-cam. And the cuts were so short that I thought that they kept running out of film. Oh, those bean counters -- let them bring some film next time. Why would he call the Evil Task Master to tell him that he was in his office rifling his safe? Okay, I can accept that he could make a ten story leap into the water and survive, (ten stories is only 100 feet) but how did he jump across the FDR Drive? Why doesn't the American Olympic Committee recruit him? Who is going to cure him of the skin diseases he will contract while swimming in the East River?
If you go to see this in spite of this warning, bring your ear protectors.
From St Eve regarding The Bourne Ultimatum
Stronghart: what I think is that your response was antiamerican.
First of all everyone loves matt damon and everyone sympathizes with someone who has had his mind altered by albert finney dr villian who forgot the hippocratic oath and is bad bad bad.
And jasonbourne besidesforgetting everything had his shatzie murdered by thecia and thats not the culinary institute of america.Where is your heart man. And besides he is everymanfighting to get his brains back from the evil doers.Stronghartwhere is your rockmunis?{questionable spelling}.Thismovie isBRokeback Mountain for straight guys.Stronghartwake up andsmell thegefilte fish. you too Malkin dont you know aRT whenyou see it and he is in such great CONDITION and really has GAME. More enthusiasmfor jumping though windows and into the east river andkillingthe muslim hit man. Don't you want us to win inIIraq.and randelmanit just not just about money its about the soul ofthis great nation. Gross see this movie and dont be afraid to like it.Boldly embrassthe medium and the message and the messenger if youknow what I mean. Cinema is like tootsie popsdifferent flavours and different ways to get to thesweet center. and take along merle to get the womensviewpoint but remember its a guy movie and your a guy.I wonder what schuffy thought of the movie.And dontforgetmost theaters are air conditioned.ss
oh and I have a tea shirt that says "born to be bourne"on the front and I run through the aisles of the supermarketmisdirecting everyones cartand telling them that the CIA is watching in a lowthreatening voice. ss
Monday, August 06, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To a Friend Getting Ready for Cancer Surgery:
Hal:Gross' remarks bring to mind the question of what to wear in the event that a last, final gathering of your friends is necessary after the operation..
I wouldn't want to come dressed in a manner that might offend; and yet I have no idea what is worn in Beverly Hills Adjacent these days -- or any days, for that matter, as my experience in such neighborhoods has been severely limited. I was thinking of a hound's tooth sport jacket, Would that be okay? Let me know.
But, allow me to digress, if you will: Martinis. I have been giving them a lot of thought since arriving in Florida, since, as you know, in summer those in the real know, drink only white, and Florida has no spring, fall or winter detectable to Northern sensitivities. It's always summer.
So I have been drinking martinis exclusively. It was only through your careful and generous instruction that I have come to consider myself to be an expert at Martini construction, but you remain the Master in my mind, as well as Chief of Protocol.
I have moved away from Vodka to Gin. Hendricks, to be specific. Its powerful juniper fragrance is the first of its pleasures, for even as the bottle is opened the martini experience begins. The juniper fragrance is like an appetizer leading to the forthcoming martini.
I use a previously frozen glass shaker filled with ice cubes. I usually pour two and half ounces of Hendricks and add a small amount of vermouth, only the driest, of course, but, to quote you, I am not afraid of vermouth, so I probably use more than most people would approve.
The glass jar is shaken furiously, so that small slivers of ice form. There are people who believe that shaking the shaker is vulgar--but why would it be called a "shaker" if not because it is made to be shaken. Anyway, I crave those ice slivers. I pour the very cold martini into a frozen martini glass. A single plain olive is added, sometimes two, if I am hungry.
Yes, I know of today's fad for "dirty" martinis....talk about "vulgar." I am astounded when I see that Gross and St Eve have both fallen for that fad. You may have noticed me slowly moving a seat or two away from them when they order it dirty. You must also have noticed the look of disapproval on the bartender's face when he takes their order. (By the way, do you know that the bartender at Henry's has taken to calling himself "Randy" in homage to you, the Master?)
I know that you have used spicy or pimento filled olives, but I believe that they, somehow, take away from the true martini experience. And what else is there, but Truth? And I prefer the martini to be a martini, not lunch.
Hoping to hear from you--before it's too late.
m
To a Friend Getting Ready for Cancer Surgery:
Hal:Gross' remarks bring to mind the question of what to wear in the event that a last, final gathering of your friends is necessary after the operation..
I wouldn't want to come dressed in a manner that might offend; and yet I have no idea what is worn in Beverly Hills Adjacent these days -- or any days, for that matter, as my experience in such neighborhoods has been severely limited. I was thinking of a hound's tooth sport jacket, Would that be okay? Let me know.
But, allow me to digress, if you will: Martinis. I have been giving them a lot of thought since arriving in Florida, since, as you know, in summer those in the real know, drink only white, and Florida has no spring, fall or winter detectable to Northern sensitivities. It's always summer.
So I have been drinking martinis exclusively. It was only through your careful and generous instruction that I have come to consider myself to be an expert at Martini construction, but you remain the Master in my mind, as well as Chief of Protocol.
I have moved away from Vodka to Gin. Hendricks, to be specific. Its powerful juniper fragrance is the first of its pleasures, for even as the bottle is opened the martini experience begins. The juniper fragrance is like an appetizer leading to the forthcoming martini.
I use a previously frozen glass shaker filled with ice cubes. I usually pour two and half ounces of Hendricks and add a small amount of vermouth, only the driest, of course, but, to quote you, I am not afraid of vermouth, so I probably use more than most people would approve.
The glass jar is shaken furiously, so that small slivers of ice form. There are people who believe that shaking the shaker is vulgar--but why would it be called a "shaker" if not because it is made to be shaken. Anyway, I crave those ice slivers. I pour the very cold martini into a frozen martini glass. A single plain olive is added, sometimes two, if I am hungry.
Yes, I know of today's fad for "dirty" martinis....talk about "vulgar." I am astounded when I see that Gross and St Eve have both fallen for that fad. You may have noticed me slowly moving a seat or two away from them when they order it dirty. You must also have noticed the look of disapproval on the bartender's face when he takes their order. (By the way, do you know that the bartender at Henry's has taken to calling himself "Randy" in homage to you, the Master?)
I know that you have used spicy or pimento filled olives, but I believe that they, somehow, take away from the true martini experience. And what else is there, but Truth? And I prefer the martini to be a martini, not lunch.
Hoping to hear from you--before it's too late.
m
Sunday, July 29, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Be a person who can make and create--not just a person who shop and buy.
Your childhood may not have been perfect but it is over.
Be a person who can make and create--not just a person who shop and buy.
Your childhood may not have been perfect but it is over.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Critical Thinking on the Curmudgeon Line.
Actually, I have been this way all my life—it’s not really a curmudgeon writing--
I would like to stop being so critical of things—everything from the dress a woman is wearing, to the way that someone has parked his car. I become incensed when a woman fails to curb her dog and doesn’t pick up after it, or when she allows her little dog to spend the afternoon and night tied up in her yard yapping. What business is it of mine? —Especially when I live far enough away that I don’t hear the dog. It is the woman’s lack of concern for her neighbors that bothers me.
I am irritated at waitresses who don’t check the table often enough—but also at a waitress who constantly intrudes—“everything okay?” Gad, does that bother me.
Or a child—mine or yours—who tries to dominate at table, demanding this or that food, or not paying attention to the adult conversation, and interrupting at will.
Of course there’s always adults who need to display their wealth—or worse, their imitation of it with their Louis Vuitton handbags (counterfeit or not) and sunglasses marked by a huge Chanel logo, informing anyone who looks that the wearer has money to burn. What a waste—and that bothers me too.
I am irritated by Hummers, and those who brag about their Hummers, using gazillions of gallons of gas. I want to leave nasty notes on their windows. And half the time the owners of these monster cars can’t park them properly, often their tires are over the line separating one parking slot from the next. But these types are so inconsiderate that they just don’t care and they leave their massive Hummers or 4x4s in a space and half without a second thought.
Then, of course, there are those who park in spaces reserved for the handicapped. Some have counterfeit handicapped parking cards; others have real ones that they have conned from their doctors. Look, if we can’t stop doctors from giving out prescriptions for unnecessary drugs when people demand them after seeing ads on television, how can we stop doctors from issuing handicapped permits just because they are unnecessary? Why are doctors afraid to say, "NO"! Who is that fat guy walking away from his car after hanging a handicapped permit on its mirror? He looks like he could press five-hundred pounds. And that skinny bleached blond with the poodle getting out of her Mercedes? Does she really need a permit? Talk about road rage? I have parking lot rage—in every parking lot.
I don’t like loud takers—though those who speak too softly also irritate me. I can’t stand people who talk too much; or those who fail to listen to MY stories, especially those who are easily distracted in the middle of one of my stories, and interrupts to ask, “where are we going to eat tonight?” while I am describing the miraculous recovery of my eye-glasses after losing them in the Atlantic Ocean in 1999.
How rude can we get? Well, there are those who carry on cell phone conversations while in a restaurant—and what about those who fail to heed the theater’s plea to turn of their cell phones-and then actually answer it in movie theaters? Would my “cell phone rage” defense be successful were I to murder one of these people?
Another class of people who get my goat are those who speak using pronouns without previously making clear of whom they are speaking. “So he said to him…”
Critical Thinking on the Curmudgeon Line.
Actually, I have been this way all my life—it’s not really a curmudgeon writing--
I would like to stop being so critical of things—everything from the dress a woman is wearing, to the way that someone has parked his car. I become incensed when a woman fails to curb her dog and doesn’t pick up after it, or when she allows her little dog to spend the afternoon and night tied up in her yard yapping. What business is it of mine? —Especially when I live far enough away that I don’t hear the dog. It is the woman’s lack of concern for her neighbors that bothers me.
I am irritated at waitresses who don’t check the table often enough—but also at a waitress who constantly intrudes—“everything okay?” Gad, does that bother me.
Or a child—mine or yours—who tries to dominate at table, demanding this or that food, or not paying attention to the adult conversation, and interrupting at will.
Of course there’s always adults who need to display their wealth—or worse, their imitation of it with their Louis Vuitton handbags (counterfeit or not) and sunglasses marked by a huge Chanel logo, informing anyone who looks that the wearer has money to burn. What a waste—and that bothers me too.
I am irritated by Hummers, and those who brag about their Hummers, using gazillions of gallons of gas. I want to leave nasty notes on their windows. And half the time the owners of these monster cars can’t park them properly, often their tires are over the line separating one parking slot from the next. But these types are so inconsiderate that they just don’t care and they leave their massive Hummers or 4x4s in a space and half without a second thought.
Then, of course, there are those who park in spaces reserved for the handicapped. Some have counterfeit handicapped parking cards; others have real ones that they have conned from their doctors. Look, if we can’t stop doctors from giving out prescriptions for unnecessary drugs when people demand them after seeing ads on television, how can we stop doctors from issuing handicapped permits just because they are unnecessary? Why are doctors afraid to say, "NO"! Who is that fat guy walking away from his car after hanging a handicapped permit on its mirror? He looks like he could press five-hundred pounds. And that skinny bleached blond with the poodle getting out of her Mercedes? Does she really need a permit? Talk about road rage? I have parking lot rage—in every parking lot.
I don’t like loud takers—though those who speak too softly also irritate me. I can’t stand people who talk too much; or those who fail to listen to MY stories, especially those who are easily distracted in the middle of one of my stories, and interrupts to ask, “where are we going to eat tonight?” while I am describing the miraculous recovery of my eye-glasses after losing them in the Atlantic Ocean in 1999.
How rude can we get? Well, there are those who carry on cell phone conversations while in a restaurant—and what about those who fail to heed the theater’s plea to turn of their cell phones-and then actually answer it in movie theaters? Would my “cell phone rage” defense be successful were I to murder one of these people?
Another class of people who get my goat are those who speak using pronouns without previously making clear of whom they are speaking. “So he said to him…”
Monday, June 25, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Gross to Hal & the Group re Hal's coming surgery:
I'm sure the Chief of Protocol will understand if we submit our requests for the Shiva now, while there's time. I never got a chance to tell Hal how partial I was to that green spread he used to serve as an hors d'oeuvre, with olives. Of course, the martinis will have to be prepared in advance and frozen; no one but Hal can get them just right. I know we can't expect Sally and Irwin, but do you think he still has the goldware? Any requests?
From Buster to Hal & the Group:
Hal:
Gross' remarks bring to mind the question of what to wear at your funeral. I wouldn't want to come dressed in a manner that might offend; and yet I have no idea what is worn in Beverly Hills Adjacent these days -- or any days, for that matter, as my experience in such neighborhoods has been severely limited. I was thinking of a hound's tooth sport jacket, Would that be okay? Let me know.
But, more to the point: Martinis. I have been giving them a lot of thought since arriving in Florida, since, as you know, in summer those in the real know, drink only white, and Florida has no spring, fall or winter detectable to Northern sensitivities. It's always summer.
So I have been drinking martinis exclusively.
It was only through your careful and generous instruction that I have come to consider myself to be an expert at Martini construction, but you remain the Master in my mind, as well as Chief of Protocol.
I have moved away from Vodka to Gin. Hendricks, to be specific. Its powerful juniper fragrance is the first of its pleasures, for even as the bottle is opened the martini experience blooms. The juniper fragrance is like an appetizer leading to the forthcoming martini.
I use a previously frozen glass shaker filled with ice cubes. I pour two and half ounces of Hendricks and add a small amount of vermouth, only the driest, of course, but, to quote something you asserted long ago, "I am not afraid of vermouth," so I probably use more than most people would approve.
The glass jar is shaken furiously, so that small slivers of ice form. There are people who believe that shaking the shaker is vulgar--but why would it be called a "shaker" if not because it is made to be shaken. Anyway, I crave those ice slivers.
I pour the very cold martini into a frozen martini glass. Very slight slivers of ice reflect the light of the setting sun on my porch. A single plain olive is added, sometimes two, if I am hungry.
Yes, I know of today's fad for "dirty" martinis....talk about "vulgar." I am astounded when I see that Gross and St Eve have both fallen for that fad. You may have noticed me slowly moving a seat or two away from them when they order it dirty. You must have noticed the look of disapproval on the bartender's face when he takes their order. (By the way, do you know that the bartender at Henry's has taken to calling himself "Randy" in homage to you, the Master?)
I know that you have used spicy or pimento filled olives, but I believe that they, somehow, take away from the true martini experience. And what else is there, but Truth?
I prefer the martini to be a martini, not lunch.
Hoping to hear from you--before it's too late.
mek
From Gross to Hal & the Group re Hal's coming surgery:
I'm sure the Chief of Protocol will understand if we submit our requests for the Shiva now, while there's time. I never got a chance to tell Hal how partial I was to that green spread he used to serve as an hors d'oeuvre, with olives. Of course, the martinis will have to be prepared in advance and frozen; no one but Hal can get them just right. I know we can't expect Sally and Irwin, but do you think he still has the goldware? Any requests?
From Buster to Hal & the Group:
Hal:
Gross' remarks bring to mind the question of what to wear at your funeral. I wouldn't want to come dressed in a manner that might offend; and yet I have no idea what is worn in Beverly Hills Adjacent these days -- or any days, for that matter, as my experience in such neighborhoods has been severely limited. I was thinking of a hound's tooth sport jacket, Would that be okay? Let me know.
But, more to the point: Martinis. I have been giving them a lot of thought since arriving in Florida, since, as you know, in summer those in the real know, drink only white, and Florida has no spring, fall or winter detectable to Northern sensitivities. It's always summer.
So I have been drinking martinis exclusively.
It was only through your careful and generous instruction that I have come to consider myself to be an expert at Martini construction, but you remain the Master in my mind, as well as Chief of Protocol.
I have moved away from Vodka to Gin. Hendricks, to be specific. Its powerful juniper fragrance is the first of its pleasures, for even as the bottle is opened the martini experience blooms. The juniper fragrance is like an appetizer leading to the forthcoming martini.
I use a previously frozen glass shaker filled with ice cubes. I pour two and half ounces of Hendricks and add a small amount of vermouth, only the driest, of course, but, to quote something you asserted long ago, "I am not afraid of vermouth," so I probably use more than most people would approve.
The glass jar is shaken furiously, so that small slivers of ice form. There are people who believe that shaking the shaker is vulgar--but why would it be called a "shaker" if not because it is made to be shaken. Anyway, I crave those ice slivers.
I pour the very cold martini into a frozen martini glass. Very slight slivers of ice reflect the light of the setting sun on my porch. A single plain olive is added, sometimes two, if I am hungry.
Yes, I know of today's fad for "dirty" martinis....talk about "vulgar." I am astounded when I see that Gross and St Eve have both fallen for that fad. You may have noticed me slowly moving a seat or two away from them when they order it dirty. You must have noticed the look of disapproval on the bartender's face when he takes their order. (By the way, do you know that the bartender at Henry's has taken to calling himself "Randy" in homage to you, the Master?)
I know that you have used spicy or pimento filled olives, but I believe that they, somehow, take away from the true martini experience. And what else is there, but Truth?
I prefer the martini to be a martini, not lunch.
Hoping to hear from you--before it's too late.
mek
Saturday, June 09, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Let it go in regard to all other virtues.
Make decisions to better your own situation.
Do not rub in the fact of your mate's inferior friends-- there's no gain in that. Your mate's friends are important to him or her and pointing out their second rate social habits only hurts your mate. Is that what you are trying to achieve?
You have choices--it is up to you to make them, or at least, shut up about them. Choices give you the power to change. Your predicament is not the result of predetermined destiny, but the result of your own previous choices. You must accept the fact that you are the creator of your own destiny and at the same time the creator of your own situation. You have the power to extricate yourself. Your choices have placed you where you are--your choices can get you out.
Your mate must feel devalued every time you criticise her friends.
STOP!
Let it go in regard to all other virtues.
Make decisions to better your own situation.
Do not rub in the fact of your mate's inferior friends-- there's no gain in that. Your mate's friends are important to him or her and pointing out their second rate social habits only hurts your mate. Is that what you are trying to achieve?
You have choices--it is up to you to make them, or at least, shut up about them. Choices give you the power to change. Your predicament is not the result of predetermined destiny, but the result of your own previous choices. You must accept the fact that you are the creator of your own destiny and at the same time the creator of your own situation. You have the power to extricate yourself. Your choices have placed you where you are--your choices can get you out.
Your mate must feel devalued every time you criticise her friends.
STOP!
Sunday, May 27, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
NPG: Please send me:
The name of the dentist, first name "Willie" who traveled a great deal after retirement. Friends of mother and Dad. They had a son named "Arthur." They lived in Forest Hills, between 110th and 112th St, near us.
After retirement they came to Florida. He wore a beret. Heavy. His wife a dyed redhead. Thin. When playing with Arthur I rode my bike out of their driveway into a passing car. His mother, the redhead (dyed or not) painted and gave mother several paintings. I brought them to "Arthur" who lived in Ft. Lee after mother died.
He never acknowledged my effort nor did he thank me.
What was their last name?
Here's a dream from a few nights ago:
I dreamt about Maria & I having a talking grizzly bear as a friend at our home in Great Neck. Some gypsies saw him a few blocks away when he went for a walk. They asked him where he lived and followed him to Willow Lane.
When Maria & I returned the gypsies were playing violins and tambourines on our lawn while waiting for us. They wanted to buy our friend. Maria immediately said, " $450!"
But I said, "Are you crazy? He's our friend, we're not selling him."
The gypsies upped their offer, but when they saw that I was adamant about not selling him, they came into our backyard and we all had a party, me cooking, the gypsies playing violins and the bear, whose name turned out to be "Arthur," playing a trumpet.
Soon Gross and Pessin joined the band, Pessin on the clarinet, Gross on a flute. Both wore yamacas. Maria and Awilda danced with huge hoop earrings in their ears. Flashing eyes. Big smiles. Teeth.
Arthur eyeing Awilda & Maria while they danced. Lots of décolletage.
m
NPG: Please send me:
The name of the dentist, first name "Willie" who traveled a great deal after retirement. Friends of mother and Dad. They had a son named "Arthur." They lived in Forest Hills, between 110th and 112th St, near us.
After retirement they came to Florida. He wore a beret. Heavy. His wife a dyed redhead. Thin. When playing with Arthur I rode my bike out of their driveway into a passing car. His mother, the redhead (dyed or not) painted and gave mother several paintings. I brought them to "Arthur" who lived in Ft. Lee after mother died.
He never acknowledged my effort nor did he thank me.
What was their last name?
Here's a dream from a few nights ago:
I dreamt about Maria & I having a talking grizzly bear as a friend at our home in Great Neck. Some gypsies saw him a few blocks away when he went for a walk. They asked him where he lived and followed him to Willow Lane.
When Maria & I returned the gypsies were playing violins and tambourines on our lawn while waiting for us. They wanted to buy our friend. Maria immediately said, " $450!"
But I said, "Are you crazy? He's our friend, we're not selling him."
The gypsies upped their offer, but when they saw that I was adamant about not selling him, they came into our backyard and we all had a party, me cooking, the gypsies playing violins and the bear, whose name turned out to be "Arthur," playing a trumpet.
Soon Gross and Pessin joined the band, Pessin on the clarinet, Gross on a flute. Both wore yamacas. Maria and Awilda danced with huge hoop earrings in their ears. Flashing eyes. Big smiles. Teeth.
Arthur eyeing Awilda & Maria while they danced. Lots of décolletage.
m
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Melanie McQuire, RN, is convicted of murdering her husband, and butchering his corpse in order to fit the pieces into three matching suitcases that she carried to Cheasapeake Bay where she dumped them. She weighs one-hundred and twelve pounds.
Melanie admitted having an affair with her employer, a doctor at a fertility clinic. The affair begin during the ninth month of her pregnancy. She purchased a gun only two days before her husband was declared missing. No blood or DNA was discovered at her home after the detectives searched for it on three separate occasions, going so far as to unscrew lightbulbs, and to disaasemble plumbing fixtures where blood may have been disposed.
Melanie's husband was a gambler and was well known in Atlantic City where he was comped on arrival. The defense tried to lay the blame on a mob collector who went too far. According to casino managers he had been doing well at their tables during the year before his murder. There was no reason, the prosecution asserted, for him to be murdered by the mob.
melanie mcquire
prior to conviction. 
Thursday, May 17, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Although I'm an atheist who believes only in the greatnness of nature I recognize the spiritual riches and grandeur of the Roman Catholicism in which I was raised, and I despise anyone who insults the sustaining values and symbol system of so many millions of people of different races around the world. An authentically avant-garde artist of today would show his or her daring by treating religion sympathetically. Anti-religious sneers are a hallmark of perpetual adolescents. Forever young -- that's our motto."
Camille Paglia
"Although I'm an atheist who believes only in the greatnness of nature I recognize the spiritual riches and grandeur of the Roman Catholicism in which I was raised, and I despise anyone who insults the sustaining values and symbol system of so many millions of people of different races around the world. An authentically avant-garde artist of today would show his or her daring by treating religion sympathetically. Anti-religious sneers are a hallmark of perpetual adolescents. Forever young -- that's our motto."
Camille Paglia
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
An example of the perception and quick analysis of St Eve
Sidney Greenstreet
Sidney was portly and he gurgled when he laughed. His hair was thin and his legs were spindly. He was sinister in a comforting way and his cruelty was forced upon him.
Yes, I can live with the similarity but I would like to mix in a bit of Orson Welles as Falstaff, comic with a corruptible sense of honor, fat, lazy and eager to party, a scoundrel who fails at most of his dishonorable deeds -- and he knows about humiliation.
But is above all witty and capable of great affection.
ss
Just like you, St Eve.
An example of the perception and quick analysis of St Eve
Sidney Greenstreet
Sidney was portly and he gurgled when he laughed. His hair was thin and his legs were spindly. He was sinister in a comforting way and his cruelty was forced upon him.
Yes, I can live with the similarity but I would like to mix in a bit of Orson Welles as Falstaff, comic with a corruptible sense of honor, fat, lazy and eager to party, a scoundrel who fails at most of his dishonorable deeds -- and he knows about humiliation.
But is above all witty and capable of great affection.
ss
Just like you, St Eve.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Army days: In the six month army, I first shot the M-1 rifle, with which I could hit the target at least one out of twenty shots; I think we were shown the M-14, but I didn't play with it; When I got to tank school, at Fort Knox, I learned the 30 cal carbine; then I shot a very ugly submachine gun, called the M-3 Grease Gun, which often jammed; and the great M1911 45 cal pistol (developed, we were told, to stop-in-their-tracks fanatic Phillipino Guerillas, who could be hit with the smaller Colt and keep on ticking); a 30 cal tank mounted machine gun; a 50 cal machine gun, also tank mounted; and the 90mm main gun on the M-48 tank. I also fired, but did not learn to use, the 105mm main gun on the newly developed, still in testing, M60 tank.
Sgt. (Bulldog) Drummand, nearly retired, also showed me how to convert my 50 cal tank mounted machine gun to a sniper rifle, which would have been useful when my tank was blown up and if, by miracle, I was still alive. I am not sure but I think I also used a BAR in Basic. Or maybe at tank school.
I never learned to see where the shell landed after I fired it on the 90mm or the 105mm, as my eyes always involuntarily closed when the gun went BOOM! In conformatory with Army practice, thus I was made a tank commander and a gunnery instructor.
As a T-C my role was to watch the trajectory of the shell as it hurtled toward the target (often a junked car or truck) through the reticle of my periscope and instruct the gunner to move the gun so many clicks on his reticle. I was excellent at shouting "up one, left two" no matter where the shell landed.
At the tank gunnery range it seemed that emphasis was put upon firing all issued shells, so we wouldn't have to bring them back, and the Sgts. wouldn't have to do the paper work. Actually hitting the target was often over-looked.
I was also able to take apart and put together all weapons in the dark, except the 90mm and the 105mm guns, which were too heavy for a boy from Forest Hills.
One of the interesting things about Basic Training was that I learned that in comparison with the almost every one of the guys I was in great shape. When they were dropping out of marching, or not making the pull ups, or push ups, I found it easy to keep going. I was surprised. I was also shocked that many could not swim. A number were homesick, even though we were only in Kentucky.
At tank school there were several men (boys) who did not have drivers' licenses, and whose first driving experience was in a tank. One of my gunners fired the main gun without moving away from the breech. He called out FIRE! and pushed the button, or pulled the trigger, I forget which. He made no sound when the gun smashed into his stomach. That's when I learned about gut wounds.
It was after lunch and there was no way to tell what was guts and what was frankfurters.
mek
Army days: In the six month army, I first shot the M-1 rifle, with which I could hit the target at least one out of twenty shots; I think we were shown the M-14, but I didn't play with it; When I got to tank school, at Fort Knox, I learned the 30 cal carbine; then I shot a very ugly submachine gun, called the M-3 Grease Gun, which often jammed; and the great M1911 45 cal pistol (developed, we were told, to stop-in-their-tracks fanatic Phillipino Guerillas, who could be hit with the smaller Colt and keep on ticking); a 30 cal tank mounted machine gun; a 50 cal machine gun, also tank mounted; and the 90mm main gun on the M-48 tank. I also fired, but did not learn to use, the 105mm main gun on the newly developed, still in testing, M60 tank.
Sgt. (Bulldog) Drummand, nearly retired, also showed me how to convert my 50 cal tank mounted machine gun to a sniper rifle, which would have been useful when my tank was blown up and if, by miracle, I was still alive. I am not sure but I think I also used a BAR in Basic. Or maybe at tank school.
I never learned to see where the shell landed after I fired it on the 90mm or the 105mm, as my eyes always involuntarily closed when the gun went BOOM! In conformatory with Army practice, thus I was made a tank commander and a gunnery instructor.
As a T-C my role was to watch the trajectory of the shell as it hurtled toward the target (often a junked car or truck) through the reticle of my periscope and instruct the gunner to move the gun so many clicks on his reticle. I was excellent at shouting "up one, left two" no matter where the shell landed.
At the tank gunnery range it seemed that emphasis was put upon firing all issued shells, so we wouldn't have to bring them back, and the Sgts. wouldn't have to do the paper work. Actually hitting the target was often over-looked.
I was also able to take apart and put together all weapons in the dark, except the 90mm and the 105mm guns, which were too heavy for a boy from Forest Hills.
One of the interesting things about Basic Training was that I learned that in comparison with the almost every one of the guys I was in great shape. When they were dropping out of marching, or not making the pull ups, or push ups, I found it easy to keep going. I was surprised. I was also shocked that many could not swim. A number were homesick, even though we were only in Kentucky.
At tank school there were several men (boys) who did not have drivers' licenses, and whose first driving experience was in a tank. One of my gunners fired the main gun without moving away from the breech. He called out FIRE! and pushed the button, or pulled the trigger, I forget which. He made no sound when the gun smashed into his stomach. That's when I learned about gut wounds.
It was after lunch and there was no way to tell what was guts and what was frankfurters.
mek
Friday, April 06, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Maria's making charoses
She's using Dubonnet
You might think it to be atrocious
But it's better than Chardonnay.
mek
Maria's making charoses
She's using Dubonnet
You might think it to be atrocious
But it's better than Chardonnay.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Maria's making charoses
She's using Dubonnet
You might think it to be atrocious
But it's better than Chardonnay.
mek
Maria's making charoses
She's using Dubonnet
You might think it to be atrocious
But it's better than Chardonnay.
mek
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