Art Narrates
I Hear.
mek
I Hear.
mek
Monday, May 11, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
http://www.jasonhodge.net/?p=456
http://www.bevreview.com/2009/05/05/npr-all-things-considered-pepsi-mountain-dew-throwback/
The two links above take you to interesting articles about Pepsi putting out a sugar sweetened Pepsi and Mountain Dew -- as opposed to corn syrup sweetened.
I had written to Coke about this idea several years ago, but nothing came of my letter. I received a non-committal, lame reply that it was up to the individual bottlers.
There is a big difference in flavor and if you've tried Soho Cola you get an idea of what the difference might be were Coke and Pepsi to go back to sugar.
Now, if the sugar lobby were to fall asleep and the sugar tariff dropped by congress we might get permanently back to a better tasting product.
The Pespi product will be known as "Throwback" and will come in its own bottle --unfortunately not glass--but will be on the shelves only until June.
In the battle for shelf-space it's surprising that neither Coke nor Pepsi has already brought out a sugar sweetened SKI in glass. (At a premium price if nothing else.)
It reminds me of the auto-manufacturers thinking that the Beetle was a passing fancy and that the American Consumer would never buy a smaller car that looked funny.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Not only is today Mother's Day, but also May 10th would have been my mother's 107th Birthday. Happy Mother's Day to all and especially to my mother and the mother of my children, Beauty.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Buster
http://www.jasonhodge.net/?p=456
http://www.bevreview.com/2009/05/05/npr-all-things-considered-pepsi-mountain-dew-throwback/
The two links above take you to interesting articles about Pepsi putting out a sugar sweetened Pepsi and Mountain Dew -- as opposed to corn syrup sweetened.
I had written to Coke about this idea several years ago, but nothing came of my letter. I received a non-committal, lame reply that it was up to the individual bottlers.
There is a big difference in flavor and if you've tried Soho Cola you get an idea of what the difference might be were Coke and Pepsi to go back to sugar.
Now, if the sugar lobby were to fall asleep and the sugar tariff dropped by congress we might get permanently back to a better tasting product.
The Pespi product will be known as "Throwback" and will come in its own bottle --unfortunately not glass--but will be on the shelves only until June.
In the battle for shelf-space it's surprising that neither Coke nor Pepsi has already brought out a sugar sweetened SKI in glass. (At a premium price if nothing else.)
It reminds me of the auto-manufacturers thinking that the Beetle was a passing fancy and that the American Consumer would never buy a smaller car that looked funny.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Not only is today Mother's Day, but also May 10th would have been my mother's 107th Birthday. Happy Mother's Day to all and especially to my mother and the mother of my children, Beauty.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Buster
Saturday, May 09, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Costco has it's own brand of plastic food wrap. It is a generic Saran Wrap. Saran Wrap drives me crazy because I can't get the roll to work properly. Most of the time I cannot get the size sheet that I need off the roll.
Somehow, Costco has solved the problem.
A wonderful 750 sq. ft. roll is packed in a box with a special cutter bar.
The plastic wrap easily rolls out of the box, the cutter bar is a slider that easily cuts exactly where I need it.
Whether more money or less money than Saran Wrap I would buy this product.
Try it! By itself, it's worth the membership fee.
This is my first product endorsement.
Costco has it's own brand of plastic food wrap. It is a generic Saran Wrap. Saran Wrap drives me crazy because I can't get the roll to work properly. Most of the time I cannot get the size sheet that I need off the roll.
Somehow, Costco has solved the problem.
A wonderful 750 sq. ft. roll is packed in a box with a special cutter bar.
The plastic wrap easily rolls out of the box, the cutter bar is a slider that easily cuts exactly where I need it.
Whether more money or less money than Saran Wrap I would buy this product.
Try it! By itself, it's worth the membership fee.
This is my first product endorsement.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Am I morbid?
Yes, I could be described as morbid. I dwell on the deaths of others, especially my friends, I read the obituaries of strangers and wonder about the lives those now dead.
I think about my dead friends and my dead parents and grandparents too often. I visit cemeteries and can spend hours reading the headstones of strangers. --and then I think about the lives those lying in their coffins had lead and what happened to their accomplishments.
I wonder about their descendants as well as their ancestors. I think about the graves visited (by whom?) and the graves unvisited.
If this be morbidity, I am morbid. Maudlin too.
Am I morbid?
Yes, I could be described as morbid. I dwell on the deaths of others, especially my friends, I read the obituaries of strangers and wonder about the lives those now dead.
I think about my dead friends and my dead parents and grandparents too often. I visit cemeteries and can spend hours reading the headstones of strangers. --and then I think about the lives those lying in their coffins had lead and what happened to their accomplishments.
I wonder about their descendants as well as their ancestors. I think about the graves visited (by whom?) and the graves unvisited.
If this be morbidity, I am morbid. Maudlin too.
Friday, May 08, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Things someone I know lists about which I cannot disagree:
Things someone I know lists about which I cannot disagree:
- art. friends. M&Ms. horoscopes. ginger ale. magazines. swearing. reading. vintage. the rain. back dimples. jellyfish. coffee. stars. hugs and kisses. shows. laughing. polaroids. spontaneity. doodling. seashells. chicago. the number 63. fall. scarves. hand drawn illustrations. robots. tattoos. skulls. the color green. aquariums. pretty flowers. graphic design. british accents. fireworks. karma. marie antoinette. road trips. high fashion. messy hair. that moment when everything is just right.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Monday, May 04, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
P E R F E C T I O N W A S T E D
And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market --
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, the soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: No one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.
...........................John Updike
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market --
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, the soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: No one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.
...........................John Updike
Saturday, May 02, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
DALAI LAMA 2002 Werner Herzog interview
Q: what is your hope, vision for the world?
A: More prosperity for all
More equality
Less gap between rich and poor
An environment clean and pure
People truly like brothers & sisters
All religion carries the same message
Love
Compassion
Forgiveness
Tolerance
Contentment
Self-discipline
Whether believer of not, these are the requirements for a happy life.
DALAI LAMA 2002 Werner Herzog interview
Q: what is your hope, vision for the world?
A: More prosperity for all
More equality
Less gap between rich and poor
An environment clean and pure
People truly like brothers & sisters
All religion carries the same message
Love
Compassion
Forgiveness
Tolerance
Contentment
Self-discipline
Whether believer of not, these are the requirements for a happy life.
All major religious traditions carry basically the same message, that is love, compassion and forgiveness the important thing is they should be part of our daily lives.
Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.
Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions.
I find hpe in the darkest of days, and focus in the brightest. I do not judge the universe.
If you can, help others; if you cannot do that, at least do not harm them.
If you have a particular faith or religion, that is good. But you can survive without it.
If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.
In the practice of tolerance, one's enemy is the best teacher.
It is necessary to help others, not only in our prayers, but in our daily lives. If we find we cannot help others, the least we can do is to desist from harming them.
It is very important to generate a good attitude, a good heart, as much as possible. From this, happiness in both the short term and the long term for both yourself and others will come.
Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them humanity cannot survive.
My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness.
Old friends pass away, new friends appear. It is just like the days. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful: a meaningful friend - or a meaningful day.
Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can't help them, at least don't hurt them.
Sleep is the best meditation.
Sometimes one creates a dynamic impression by saying something, and sometimes one creates as significant an impression by remaining silent.
The purpose of our lives is to be happy.
The roots of all goodness lie in the soil of appreciation for goodness.
The ultimate authority must always rest with the individual's own reason and critical analysis.
There is no need for temples, no need for complicated philosophies. My brain and my heart are my temples; my philosophy is kindness.
Dalai Lama
Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.
Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions.
I find hpe in the darkest of days, and focus in the brightest. I do not judge the universe.
If you can, help others; if you cannot do that, at least do not harm them.
If you have a particular faith or religion, that is good. But you can survive without it.
If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.
In the practice of tolerance, one's enemy is the best teacher.
It is necessary to help others, not only in our prayers, but in our daily lives. If we find we cannot help others, the least we can do is to desist from harming them.
It is very important to generate a good attitude, a good heart, as much as possible. From this, happiness in both the short term and the long term for both yourself and others will come.
Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them humanity cannot survive.
My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness.
Old friends pass away, new friends appear. It is just like the days. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful: a meaningful friend - or a meaningful day.
Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can't help them, at least don't hurt them.
Sleep is the best meditation.
Sometimes one creates a dynamic impression by saying something, and sometimes one creates as significant an impression by remaining silent.
The purpose of our lives is to be happy.
The roots of all goodness lie in the soil of appreciation for goodness.
The ultimate authority must always rest with the individual's own reason and critical analysis.
There is no need for temples, no need for complicated philosophies. My brain and my heart are my temples; my philosophy is kindness.
Dalai Lama
Friday, May 01, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Dear Mel:
Shane's Dad wrote my Father's and Mother's will. His Dad put up with my mother's constant changes of her desire for the disposition of her ashes and her jewelry. "Now here, then there, but maybe over there too, and could they be divided?," a series of changes that went on for years. Mother finally decided on the fourteenth hole at Oak Mountain, because "Patti always has trouble on that hole," and if her ashes were there mother expected that it would help Patti's game. Luckily I don't play and if I had played, it would have destroyed my game, not helped it, but Mother had strange and wonderful ways of thinking. -- I wonder whether you ever met her.
I always wondered whether she intended to help or really to hurt her. You know the competition that goes on between so many mothers and daughters--after all, they both love the same man.
He didn't charge for close to a one hour consultation. He didn't feel that she had a case and told her so. That is unlike some lawyers who might have started a useless, but expensive, case.
I don't think that you will go wrong consulting with him.
His office is across the street from our apartment...
"Uncle"
mek
Dear Mel:
Shane's Dad wrote my Father's and Mother's will. His Dad put up with my mother's constant changes of her desire for the disposition of her ashes and her jewelry. "Now here, then there, but maybe over there too, and could they be divided?," a series of changes that went on for years. Mother finally decided on the fourteenth hole at Oak Mountain, because "Patti always has trouble on that hole," and if her ashes were there mother expected that it would help Patti's game. Luckily I don't play and if I had played, it would have destroyed my game, not helped it, but Mother had strange and wonderful ways of thinking. -- I wonder whether you ever met her.
I always wondered whether she intended to help or really to hurt her. You know the competition that goes on between so many mothers and daughters--after all, they both love the same man.
Coincidently, I met Shane last week with a friend who had some estate trouble. He was very kind, has a sense of humor, and seems very knowledgeable.. . I like that: 'educated plus experience.'
He didn't charge for close to a one hour consultation. He didn't feel that she had a case and told her so. That is unlike some lawyers who might have started a useless, but expensive, case.
I don't think that you will go wrong consulting with him.
His office is across the street from our apartment...
"Uncle"
mek
Saturday, April 25, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
When I saw Tyson fight in his younger days, even before he became Heavyweight Champion of the World, when there was only one Heavyweight Champ, I thought that no one would beat him until he would be in his late thirties. I thought he was the only champ who would beat Joe Louis' record 12 year reign...
To me he was furious, the fiercest, most fearsome boxer that I had ever seen. I wanted to check his gloves for the horseshoes that must have been there.
(My father, the real expert, an amateur boxer in his lightweight days, and a real fan, and, further, unlike me, a man who had actually seen fights in person since his short pants days, did not agree -- but he was wrong -- the only time.) --
Dad gave the tip of his hat to Joe Louis, Muhammad Ali, and Rocky Marciano. -- and he wasn't sure about Ali. (But, as I said, he was wrong...)
And then I heard Tyson on the radio with Joyce Carol Oates ( a boxing fan who had written a non-fiction book called "On Boxing," and the "Amazin' Bill Mazer, a man with total recall, who knew everything there was to know about every fighter going back and probably beyond barefisted days, beyond Sullivan, Fitzsimmons and Corbett.
But Mike Tyson, the lispy kid fighter, from Brownsville, who owned the Undisputed World's Heavyweight Championship, was right up there with the Amazin' One, and with Joyce Carol Oates, holding his own in the kind of conversation that Norman Mailer had with Jose Torres, Pete Hamill, and Budd Schulberg.
From that moment on I became a Tyson fan, and his unexpected, shocking downfall has been a twenty year disappointment to me.
The movie opens only in NYC and LA, so you lucky ones who live there should go to see it no matter what you think of Mike The Tragic Tyson. We can all learn, even at this age, from our fallen idols. (Well, Joyce, you're not up there with the rest of us, but you will be.)
mek
Here's something I wrote 12 months ago:
Other important matters: recently a book on boxing was written in England. Joyce Carol Oates reviewed it in the New York Review and she mentioned something similar. You may not be aware of this but Oates is an expert on boxing and a fan. I heard her several years ago, with supralapsarian Mike Tyson (also an authority on the history of boxing) and the Amazin' Mazur, a sports announcer with an encyclopedic memory. She fit right in. And Tyson was pretty good too!
This is Oates writing:
"The symbolism of boxing does not allow for ambiguity: it is as middleweight Albert Camus put it, 'utterly Manichean.' The rites of boxing 'simplify' everything. Good and evil, the winner and the loser. "
Later she writes,: Here's "a quote attributed to Sonny Liston: ' It's always the same story--the good guy verses the bad guy.' "
What strikes me here is not so much that Camus and Liston arrive at the same conclusion, but rather that Liston's expression is so perfect, so succinct. The simple use of the five cent word instead of the two dollar word.
Tyson, the documentary is a new film:
When I saw Tyson fight in his younger days, even before he became Heavyweight Champion of the World, when there was only one Heavyweight Champ, I thought that no one would beat him until he would be in his late thirties. I thought he was the only champ who would beat Joe Louis' record 12 year reign...
To me he was furious, the fiercest, most fearsome boxer that I had ever seen. I wanted to check his gloves for the horseshoes that must have been there.
(My father, the real expert, an amateur boxer in his lightweight days, and a real fan, and, further, unlike me, a man who had actually seen fights in person since his short pants days, did not agree -- but he was wrong -- the only time.) --
Dad gave the tip of his hat to Joe Louis, Muhammad Ali, and Rocky Marciano. -- and he wasn't sure about Ali. (But, as I said, he was wrong...)
And then I heard Tyson on the radio with Joyce Carol Oates ( a boxing fan who had written a non-fiction book called "On Boxing," and the "Amazin' Bill Mazer, a man with total recall, who knew everything there was to know about every fighter going back and probably beyond barefisted days, beyond Sullivan, Fitzsimmons and Corbett.
But Mike Tyson, the lispy kid fighter, from Brownsville, who owned the Undisputed World's Heavyweight Championship, was right up there with the Amazin' One, and with Joyce Carol Oates, holding his own in the kind of conversation that Norman Mailer had with Jose Torres, Pete Hamill, and Budd Schulberg.
From that moment on I became a Tyson fan, and his unexpected, shocking downfall has been a twenty year disappointment to me.
The movie opens only in NYC and LA, so you lucky ones who live there should go to see it no matter what you think of Mike The Tragic Tyson. We can all learn, even at this age, from our fallen idols. (Well, Joyce, you're not up there with the rest of us, but you will be.)
mek
Here's something I wrote 12 months ago:
Other important matters: recently a book on boxing was written in England. Joyce Carol Oates reviewed it in the New York Review and she mentioned something similar. You may not be aware of this but Oates is an expert on boxing and a fan. I heard her several years ago, with supralapsarian Mike Tyson (also an authority on the history of boxing) and the Amazin' Mazur, a sports announcer with an encyclopedic memory. She fit right in. And Tyson was pretty good too!
This is Oates writing:
"The symbolism of boxing does not allow for ambiguity: it is as middleweight Albert Camus put it, 'utterly Manichean.' The rites of boxing 'simplify' everything. Good and evil, the winner and the loser. "
Later she writes,: Here's "a quote attributed to Sonny Liston: ' It's always the same story--the good guy verses the bad guy.' "
What strikes me here is not so much that Camus and Liston arrive at the same conclusion, but rather that Liston's expression is so perfect, so succinct. The simple use of the five cent word instead of the two dollar word.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
IRONY
Anagram for Consumer Reports
"More Corruptness"
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
__________________________________________________________________
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
__________________________________________________________________
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Letter to Basil:
When I was about thirty-five or so I went to the cemetery to visit the graves of my grandfather and several other relatives who are buried in a landsman section of Mt. Hebron in Flushing. Our site is a nice one, on a hill facing Flushing Meadow Park, the lake, and in the distance the city can be seen. There are about twenty-five Katz' buried there.
I arrived at the cemetery and had a map, the location marked by Section, Row and Grave Number, but Mt. Hebron is very large and I had difficulty finding the site. A man, bearded and hatted -- I assumed a religious man -- approached me and offered to lead me to the site. How nice, I thought, and I followed him through the high grass and down the road, across a tiny bridge, and then up a little hillside to the site. I "introduced" him to my Great-Grandfather, Abraham and his wife, Zipporah; and my grandfather, Aaron, and his wife, Masha; and my Uncle Max and Aunt Sylvia; and all the cousins and aunts and uncles, most of whom I had never met in life, but had "met" and learned about them, at their gravesides at Mt. Hebron.
As we spoke I came to understand that he was a professional mourner -- I had seen them before but none had ever approached my father or me when we went to the cemetery together, because the only times we ever went to Mt. Hebron were for someone's funeral, and of course, there were plenty of rabbis and mourners at those funerals, which were a family gathering of sort, and which paradoxically were usually almost pleasant affairs, as we would bury one of the cousins, who invariably would have been in their nineties and each of whom had lived fruitful and eventful lives. Even the black sheep of the family, Bernie Shatskin, a lawyer, who anticipated the machinations of Bernie Madoff is buried there, and, I guess forgiven all his sins.
The man, by now my good friend, suggested that I might like to say Kaddish for my grandparents and uncle and aunt. I understood that a gratuity would be expected and agreed that Kaddish would be a good idea. He offered me a yarmulke and I put it on so that he would begin. As he got into the prayers and then the Kaddish I was overwhelmed by a deep sadness for all that had been lost, for the history of the Katz', for the thousand years of struggle that had led us to America and then without gratitude we had given up our heritage, given up our birthright, like Jacob, and then we had given up all of our millenniums of Jewish heritage .
I began to sob uncontrollably, I wasn't able to catch my breath, I could think only of my ancestors wandering from the East and finding themselves in the frozen waste of Russia, but carrying with them all of the traditions of the Jews, within the struggle, the pogroms, and I cried, choking on my inability to breathe. I noticed that my friend, the mourner was standing by me, patiently waiting, and I thought that he was so wonderful, standing by me, making sure that I wouldn't have a heart attack and die right on the spot, right atop my grandfather's grave, and that this man, previously a stranger to me, was waiting, watching over me, making sure that would be okay -- and then I remembered the honorarium and without a sound I stuffed a ten dollar bill into his hand, but he waited again, just standing beside me, and I couldn't talk, my throat constricted, my tongue swollen in my mouth, without speech and he, this angel in disguise, was still standing, silent beside me...what a wonderful man, I thought.
Finally, after more time, he did speak-- "Mister," he said, "Mister, could I have mine yarmulke?"
mek
Reply from Basil:
I understand what you felt Mike, but I do not have those feelings
myself. In any case, not about the history of my family up to and
including my parents. I just don't connect. But that does not mean I
don't have similar feelings.
When my grandmother died we had the funeral at the Riverside Chapel in
Brooklyn which I'm sure you know of. What I knew was that my grandmother
had made a friend of a man at the old age home she was staying at. This
man was a cantor in his earlier life and demanded that he sing kaddish
for my grandmother.
We had never met him before and when he showed up we
were astonished at his appearance. He was in his seventies. His hair was
died black. His eyebrows were plucked and penciled. His cheeks were
rouged. He wore a dark cloak. He was obviously not gay. He was as much a
performer as a cantor.
If his appearance was astonishing his voice was
even more so. His singing voice was more of a harsh croaking even though
every Hebrew word of kaddish was understandable. It was as if he was
singing not only for my grandmother but for every Jew who ever died. The
power in his singing was enormous. For that I could not hold back the
tears and I couldn't understand why I was crying.
Letter to Basil:
When I was about thirty-five or so I went to the cemetery to visit the graves of my grandfather and several other relatives who are buried in a landsman section of Mt. Hebron in Flushing. Our site is a nice one, on a hill facing Flushing Meadow Park, the lake, and in the distance the city can be seen. There are about twenty-five Katz' buried there.
I arrived at the cemetery and had a map, the location marked by Section, Row and Grave Number, but Mt. Hebron is very large and I had difficulty finding the site. A man, bearded and hatted -- I assumed a religious man -- approached me and offered to lead me to the site. How nice, I thought, and I followed him through the high grass and down the road, across a tiny bridge, and then up a little hillside to the site. I "introduced" him to my Great-Grandfather, Abraham and his wife, Zipporah; and my grandfather, Aaron, and his wife, Masha; and my Uncle Max and Aunt Sylvia; and all the cousins and aunts and uncles, most of whom I had never met in life, but had "met" and learned about them, at their gravesides at Mt. Hebron.
As we spoke I came to understand that he was a professional mourner -- I had seen them before but none had ever approached my father or me when we went to the cemetery together, because the only times we ever went to Mt. Hebron were for someone's funeral, and of course, there were plenty of rabbis and mourners at those funerals, which were a family gathering of sort, and which paradoxically were usually almost pleasant affairs, as we would bury one of the cousins, who invariably would have been in their nineties and each of whom had lived fruitful and eventful lives. Even the black sheep of the family, Bernie Shatskin, a lawyer, who anticipated the machinations of Bernie Madoff is buried there, and, I guess forgiven all his sins.
The man, by now my good friend, suggested that I might like to say Kaddish for my grandparents and uncle and aunt. I understood that a gratuity would be expected and agreed that Kaddish would be a good idea. He offered me a yarmulke and I put it on so that he would begin. As he got into the prayers and then the Kaddish I was overwhelmed by a deep sadness for all that had been lost, for the history of the Katz', for the thousand years of struggle that had led us to America and then without gratitude we had given up our heritage, given up our birthright, like Jacob, and then we had given up all of our millenniums of Jewish heritage .
I began to sob uncontrollably, I wasn't able to catch my breath, I could think only of my ancestors wandering from the East and finding themselves in the frozen waste of Russia, but carrying with them all of the traditions of the Jews, within the struggle, the pogroms, and I cried, choking on my inability to breathe. I noticed that my friend, the mourner was standing by me, patiently waiting, and I thought that he was so wonderful, standing by me, making sure that I wouldn't have a heart attack and die right on the spot, right atop my grandfather's grave, and that this man, previously a stranger to me, was waiting, watching over me, making sure that would be okay -- and then I remembered the honorarium and without a sound I stuffed a ten dollar bill into his hand, but he waited again, just standing beside me, and I couldn't talk, my throat constricted, my tongue swollen in my mouth, without speech and he, this angel in disguise, was still standing, silent beside me...what a wonderful man, I thought.
Finally, after more time, he did speak-- "Mister," he said, "Mister, could I have mine yarmulke?"
mek
Reply from Basil:
I understand what you felt Mike, but I do not have those feelings
myself. In any case, not about the history of my family up to and
including my parents. I just don't connect. But that does not mean I
don't have similar feelings.
When my grandmother died we had the funeral at the Riverside Chapel in
Brooklyn which I'm sure you know of. What I knew was that my grandmother
had made a friend of a man at the old age home she was staying at. This
man was a cantor in his earlier life and demanded that he sing kaddish
for my grandmother.
We had never met him before and when he showed up we
were astonished at his appearance. He was in his seventies. His hair was
died black. His eyebrows were plucked and penciled. His cheeks were
rouged. He wore a dark cloak. He was obviously not gay. He was as much a
performer as a cantor.
If his appearance was astonishing his voice was
even more so. His singing voice was more of a harsh croaking even though
every Hebrew word of kaddish was understandable. It was as if he was
singing not only for my grandmother but for every Jew who ever died. The
power in his singing was enormous. For that I could not hold back the
tears and I couldn't understand why I was crying.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Dialog from a French Movie?
Dialog from a French Movie?
An actress encounters a doctor at a cocktail party.
Actress: "Ah, Doctor, how fortuitous--I have a sore throat and I must sing tomorrow night."
Doctor: "Come to my office tomorrow at four. I'll take care of you."
The following day at four.
Doctor:" I see you have come on time."
Actress: "Yes, but the office is empty, just you and me."
Doctor: "I thought I might help you in private. "
Actress: "Doctor, I hope you are not one of those men who would take advantage of the situation."
Doctor: "Ah, my dear, I am perfectly innocent."
Actress: "Oh, 'perfectly innocent?' -- Then you are one of those really dangerous men.--you should know that I do not enjoy a ten minute screw on the corner of a man's desk."
Doctor: "I can see that you are not that type of woman."
Actress: "I have only my throat to offer you."
Actress: "I have only my throat to offer you."
Doctor: "Ah, I thought so -- a perfect woman."
Friday, April 17, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Jabberwocky
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Lewis Carroll
Jabberwocky
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Lewis Carroll
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I have always been rasped by the banal. But how can that be? I am one of the bourgeois manque, defective, never having achieved what I might have, certainly never having met my own expectations. I spend too much of my time repining after the lost and gone. It's a fugitive pain, now here, now not, but always that stab of longing and regret.
Thomas Mann mentions the bliss of the commonplace. The seductive beauty of innocent bliss, even the seduction of the banal. I feel sorrow for my loss of naivete-- but that seems so commonplace too--nostalgic, if you will.
I know my writings are deeply felt--by me--but they are, sadly, inept.
I have always been rasped by the banal. But how can that be? I am one of the bourgeois manque, defective, never having achieved what I might have, certainly never having met my own expectations. I spend too much of my time repining after the lost and gone. It's a fugitive pain, now here, now not, but always that stab of longing and regret.
Thomas Mann mentions the bliss of the commonplace. The seductive beauty of innocent bliss, even the seduction of the banal. I feel sorrow for my loss of naivete-- but that seems so commonplace too--nostalgic, if you will.
I know my writings are deeply felt--by me--but they are, sadly, inept.
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