BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I believe in apology and almost always accept one when it is offered.
In my book, anything from slights, intentional or not, even theft and battery or infidelity is subject to apology and forgiveness.
Mankind is only human and we would be less so if we could not forgive others for being ordinary members of the human race.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Harlem? When?
In the fifties it was exciting, there were still plenty of jazz places--I remember Smalls Paradise, Jimmies, Diamonds, and I forgot the names of a dozen more. I was a white teen-ager lost in the music and found it very safe and very friendly. One of the bartenders at Smalls recognized me and I became a fixture...the only problem was my Mother & Dad who were jealous and wanted to go with me. I took them once--but they cramped my style. But music? Nothing like it since. There's nothing like live jazz in a small club or bar. Nothing! I heard Nat King Cole sit with a trio in a dingy bar on 118th st, I saw Louis Armstrong several times also sitting in (and he could play very mellow when he wanted to, Dinah Washington made even a teen-ager cry and I learned more about life from listening to her than I did in the next ten years. I saw Errol Garner at an outdoor concert one afternoon, Nina Simone visited a few places but she didn't ever sit in while I was there--she is one of my favorite singers anyway--The Hawk -Coleman Hawkins was always somewhere--wow, what days...
Besides jazz there was gospel--and once in a while a friend and I would put on our suits and go to church just to hear the music. Bring back those days.
But after the riots Harlem became a little touchy. I had to stay on 125th St and there was only the Apollo and I really never felt comfortable there- plus the seats were very tight.
Now, it's boring, gentrifying faster than you can say Jackie Robinson.
Harlem? When?
In the fifties it was exciting, there were still plenty of jazz places--I remember Smalls Paradise, Jimmies, Diamonds, and I forgot the names of a dozen more. I was a white teen-ager lost in the music and found it very safe and very friendly. One of the bartenders at Smalls recognized me and I became a fixture...the only problem was my Mother & Dad who were jealous and wanted to go with me. I took them once--but they cramped my style. But music? Nothing like it since. There's nothing like live jazz in a small club or bar. Nothing! I heard Nat King Cole sit with a trio in a dingy bar on 118th st, I saw Louis Armstrong several times also sitting in (and he could play very mellow when he wanted to, Dinah Washington made even a teen-ager cry and I learned more about life from listening to her than I did in the next ten years. I saw Errol Garner at an outdoor concert one afternoon, Nina Simone visited a few places but she didn't ever sit in while I was there--she is one of my favorite singers anyway--The Hawk -Coleman Hawkins was always somewhere--wow, what days...
Besides jazz there was gospel--and once in a while a friend and I would put on our suits and go to church just to hear the music. Bring back those days.
But after the riots Harlem became a little touchy. I had to stay on 125th St and there was only the Apollo and I really never felt comfortable there- plus the seats were very tight.
Now, it's boring, gentrifying faster than you can say Jackie Robinson.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From the Cavafy Notebook 1905
A young poet visited me," he wrote. "He was very poor, lived by his literary work, and it seemed to me that he was grieved to see the good house I was living in, my servant who brought him a nicely served tea, my clothes made by a good tailor. He said: what a horrible thing it is to have to struggle for a livelihood, to hunt subscribers your periodical, and purchasers for your book.
I didn't want to leave him in his delusion, so I said a few words, more or less as follows. His position is difficult and disagreeable-- but how much my little luxuries cost me. In order to obtain them I departed from my natural course and became a government servant (how absurd!) and I spend and lose all those precious hours a day-- to which must be added the hours of weariness and sluggishness that follow-- what a loss, and what a betrayal! While this poor fellow doesn't waste a single hour; he's always faithful to his duty as a child of Art.
How often during my work a fine idea comes to me, a rare image, and sudden ready-formed lines, and I'm obliged to leave them, because work can't be put off. Then when I go home and recover a bit, I try to remember them, but they're gone. And it's quite right. It's as if Art said to me: 'I'm not a servant, for you to turn me out when I come, and to come when you want. I'm the greatest lady in the world. And if you deny me-- miserable traitor-- for your wretched "nice house," and your wretched good clothes and your wretched social position, be content with that (but how can you?) and for the moments when I come and it happens that you're ready to receive me, come outside your door to wait for me, as you ought to every day.'
Cavafy....June 1905."
From the Cavafy Notebook 1905
A young poet visited me," he wrote. "He was very poor, lived by his literary work, and it seemed to me that he was grieved to see the good house I was living in, my servant who brought him a nicely served tea, my clothes made by a good tailor. He said: what a horrible thing it is to have to struggle for a livelihood, to hunt subscribers your periodical, and purchasers for your book.
I didn't want to leave him in his delusion, so I said a few words, more or less as follows. His position is difficult and disagreeable-- but how much my little luxuries cost me. In order to obtain them I departed from my natural course and became a government servant (how absurd!) and I spend and lose all those precious hours a day-- to which must be added the hours of weariness and sluggishness that follow-- what a loss, and what a betrayal! While this poor fellow doesn't waste a single hour; he's always faithful to his duty as a child of Art.
How often during my work a fine idea comes to me, a rare image, and sudden ready-formed lines, and I'm obliged to leave them, because work can't be put off. Then when I go home and recover a bit, I try to remember them, but they're gone. And it's quite right. It's as if Art said to me: 'I'm not a servant, for you to turn me out when I come, and to come when you want. I'm the greatest lady in the world. And if you deny me-- miserable traitor-- for your wretched "nice house," and your wretched good clothes and your wretched social position, be content with that (but how can you?) and for the moments when I come and it happens that you're ready to receive me, come outside your door to wait for me, as you ought to every day.'
Cavafy....June 1905."
Thursday, January 03, 2008
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Well, thanks for looking at it. When it gets out of Beta I think it might good for us, because by that time we may be way past the Z in Alzheimer's and we might need the site as a daily reference marker to our being and proof that at one time we actually existed.
Well, thanks for looking at it. When it gets out of Beta I think it might good for us, because by that time we may be way past the Z in Alzheimer's and we might need the site as a daily reference marker to our being and proof that at one time we actually existed.
I would prefer, however, that time might work backward and that I could hold conversations with my great-grandfather and his son, my Grandpa, who died when I was a callow youth of sixteen and I didn't know the important questions that I would want answers to, some sixty years later.
I've been hoping for a meeting with my father at 50, and grandfather at 50, and great-grandfather at 50, and me at 50 ever since I was fifty but I don't think that is in the cards for me. I would have liked to be able to sit at the table with each of us the same age at the same time, knowing what we knew at that age and then being able to tell each other, although I would have been more interested in what they had to say about their lives and history and what it was like for them in Russia and then in Brooklyn and the Lower East Side and how my Great-grandfather felt when he realized that his son, my grandfather, was a rabble rousing non-believer socialist bum, and then that my father was a person with little interest in politics or religion but a guy who ran with rum-rummers and ran track in high school, and who later became a Beau Brummel in the nineteen-twenties, with a big car and drinking, and the horses, and somehow still running a drug store and recipes for making 'gin' and 'scotch', and 'rye', using as a base the alcohol that druggists could purchase "for medicinal purposes only," and then there were the gallons and gallons of Lydia Pinkams, a tonic for women's "ailments," also mostly alcohol, but then you probably know all about that too.
What must my grandfather and his father thought of Bernie then, who liked to say that in his high school class the kids either became gangsters or judges, there were few other choices.
And then there was my great-grandfather, Abraham, now buried in the Landsman Plot at Mt. Hebron, with twenty-five other Katz'. What must he have made of all these goings on? He was a religious man, who prayed at he eastern wall of the synagogue every day and who was one of the seven founders of the Hebrew Free Loan Society--how could he have an atheist, or, at best, an agnostic for a son, one who spoke at street corners, and went to meetings instead of schul.
O what went on in HIS head, poor Abraham, everything lost, everything going down hill, and Bernie marries a Shiksa, can you believe it? With a son no less. It was probably better in Svir, near Vilna where he could keep his family in their religion and there were no apostates, only the Polish Noble whose estate he managed while the nobleman drank, and raced horses, and screwed Jewish maidens, -- just like Bernie...
Life has stolen away youth.
Life has stolen away youth.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
And why did you leave out Bob Hood, or Don Ringinham, a pharmacist who worked for me and now is the owner of three drug stores, or Marva May K--r, another pharmacist who also managed one of my stores for me and now owns her own store, and will be retiring soon to live in Panama and New York. And at BST there were plenty of guys who made more of themselves than the corner idlers Cosby mentions.
And then there was Charlie E----N, a Jewish pharmacist, probably the best I ever had, fast and smart, who worked for me before opening his own store and is now in jail for Medicaid fraud. And what about Bob S---N, a Serbian pharmacist who kept pistols in his locker? . Or Barry S---o, another Jewish pharmacist who stole drugs from the store and resold them on the street.
I don't think race means anything. I suspect the culture and the family. Or lack thereof. And do you know who agreed with me? W.E.B.DuBois, that's who.You see, we knew all this stuff long ago. But we never act on it.
When in the seventh grade my son, Max, was asked to write a paper on Existentialism, and so he called on The Great Robert Earl Hood, and asked him for advice. Bob, who had studied in Switzerland with Karl Barth, told Max to tell his teacher that, "We settled all that stuff in the fifties."
That's how I feel about Cosby and his recent discovery that black children aren't paying attention in school, and are wearing their hats backwards. -- We knew all that stuff in the sixties.
The question is what can be done about it. I am quite pessimistic that any outside force can have any effect on what is happening. Outside forces include, the schools, the government, carrot-offering liberals, and even stick-wielding conservatives.
Once as Bob and I walked on Ninth Avenue, near General Seminary, where he taught philosophy I said to Bob:
"Bob, you are one of the most intelligent people I have ever known, do you really believe in God?" "
Yes," he answered, "with all my heart and soul, I believe that Jesus Christ is my ___ and savior, and that one day I will sit at his feet in heaven."
Bob Hood left a cushy job teaching at the graduate level at General Seminary in NYC, a job that included a fabulous salary and a three bedroom apartment in Manhattan, in order to found the African American Studies Department at Hofstra on Long Island, where he lived in an unheated room, up a narrow, winding, stone stairway in the tower of the Cathedral of the Incarnation. He gave up what would have rolled up into a large pension and took his chances with a project that might not have worked out.
He sold his beloved collection of English 18th Century furniture and a collection of English silver and contributed the proceeds to the African-American Study Center, when funding did not come as quickly as he had expected. Cosidering his age at the time, I would guess that the collection was accumulated over a twenty year period.
He was a radical activist who was a representative of Desmond Tutu. He believed in non-violence in the tradition of Dietrich Bonhoffer and Martin Luther King.
Although he thought himself to be a liberation theologian, without violence, and argued that his people had suffered oppression at the hands of racist whites, Bob was able to divine the difference between innocuous, harmless whites like me, and bigot whites. Bob saw the world from the bottom up, through the eyes and feelings of the poor and oppressed.
Yes, he had a flaw, a flaw of which you may be aware, which was that, although he loved women, he did not think them suitable to the wearing of the cloth. He believed that God had another purpose for women.
But we each live with our contradictions, even me and probably every reader.
One of Bob's favorite Biblical Passages was the Magnificat, related in Luke; Bob had memorized it and when he recited it his voice, deep, baronial, would rise every time he came to the lines, "...He has taken princes from their thrones/and exalted the lowly."
He believed and certainly his world view was from the bottom.
And why did you leave out Bob Hood, or Don Ringinham, a pharmacist who worked for me and now is the owner of three drug stores, or Marva May K--r, another pharmacist who also managed one of my stores for me and now owns her own store, and will be retiring soon to live in Panama and New York. And at BST there were plenty of guys who made more of themselves than the corner idlers Cosby mentions.
And then there was Charlie E----N, a Jewish pharmacist, probably the best I ever had, fast and smart, who worked for me before opening his own store and is now in jail for Medicaid fraud. And what about Bob S---N, a Serbian pharmacist who kept pistols in his locker? . Or Barry S---o, another Jewish pharmacist who stole drugs from the store and resold them on the street.
I don't think race means anything. I suspect the culture and the family. Or lack thereof. And do you know who agreed with me? W.E.B.DuBois, that's who.You see, we knew all this stuff long ago. But we never act on it.
When in the seventh grade my son, Max, was asked to write a paper on Existentialism, and so he called on The Great Robert Earl Hood, and asked him for advice. Bob, who had studied in Switzerland with Karl Barth, told Max to tell his teacher that, "We settled all that stuff in the fifties."
That's how I feel about Cosby and his recent discovery that black children aren't paying attention in school, and are wearing their hats backwards. -- We knew all that stuff in the sixties.
The question is what can be done about it. I am quite pessimistic that any outside force can have any effect on what is happening. Outside forces include, the schools, the government, carrot-offering liberals, and even stick-wielding conservatives.
Once as Bob and I walked on Ninth Avenue, near General Seminary, where he taught philosophy I said to Bob:
"Bob, you are one of the most intelligent people I have ever known, do you really believe in God?" "
Yes," he answered, "with all my heart and soul, I believe that Jesus Christ is my ___ and savior, and that one day I will sit at his feet in heaven."
Bob Hood left a cushy job teaching at the graduate level at General Seminary in NYC, a job that included a fabulous salary and a three bedroom apartment in Manhattan, in order to found the African American Studies Department at Hofstra on Long Island, where he lived in an unheated room, up a narrow, winding, stone stairway in the tower of the Cathedral of the Incarnation. He gave up what would have rolled up into a large pension and took his chances with a project that might not have worked out.
He sold his beloved collection of English 18th Century furniture and a collection of English silver and contributed the proceeds to the African-American Study Center, when funding did not come as quickly as he had expected. Cosidering his age at the time, I would guess that the collection was accumulated over a twenty year period.
He was a radical activist who was a representative of Desmond Tutu. He believed in non-violence in the tradition of Dietrich Bonhoffer and Martin Luther King.
Although he thought himself to be a liberation theologian, without violence, and argued that his people had suffered oppression at the hands of racist whites, Bob was able to divine the difference between innocuous, harmless whites like me, and bigot whites. Bob saw the world from the bottom up, through the eyes and feelings of the poor and oppressed.
Yes, he had a flaw, a flaw of which you may be aware, which was that, although he loved women, he did not think them suitable to the wearing of the cloth. He believed that God had another purpose for women.
But we each live with our contradictions, even me and probably every reader.
One of Bob's favorite Biblical Passages was the Magnificat, related in Luke; Bob had memorized it and when he recited it his voice, deep, baronial, would rise every time he came to the lines, "...He has taken princes from their thrones/and exalted the lowly."
He believed and certainly his world view was from the bottom.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The Virtues:
Auctoritas: "Spiritual Authority" The sense of one's social standing, built up through experience, Pietas, and Industria.
Comitas: "Humor" Ease of manner, courtesy, openness, and friendliness.
Clementia: "Mercy" Mildness and gentleness.
Dignitas: "Dignity" A sense of self-worth, personal pride.
Firmitas: "Tenacity" Strength of mind, the ability to stick to one's purpose.
Frugalitas: "Frugalness" Economy and simplicity of style, without being miserly.
Gravitas: "Gravity" A sense of the importance of the matter at hand, responsibility and earnestness.
Honestas: "Respectibility" The image that one presents as a respectable member of society.
Humanitas: "Humanity" Refinement, civilization, learning, and being cultured.
Industria: "Industriousness" Hard work.
Pietas: "Dutifulness" More than religious piety; a respect for the natural order socially, politically, and religiously. Includes the ideas of patriotism and devotion to others.
Prudentia: "Prudence" Foresight, wisdom, and personal discretion.
Salubritas: "Wholesomeness" Health and cleanliness.
Severitas: "Sternness" Gravity, self-control.
Veritas: "Truthfulness" Honesty in dealing with others.
The Virtues:
Auctoritas: "Spiritual Authority" The sense of one's social standing, built up through experience, Pietas, and Industria.
Comitas: "Humor" Ease of manner, courtesy, openness, and friendliness.
Clementia: "Mercy" Mildness and gentleness.
Dignitas: "Dignity" A sense of self-worth, personal pride.
Firmitas: "Tenacity" Strength of mind, the ability to stick to one's purpose.
Frugalitas: "Frugalness" Economy and simplicity of style, without being miserly.
Gravitas: "Gravity" A sense of the importance of the matter at hand, responsibility and earnestness.
Honestas: "Respectibility" The image that one presents as a respectable member of society.
Humanitas: "Humanity" Refinement, civilization, learning, and being cultured.
Industria: "Industriousness" Hard work.
Pietas: "Dutifulness" More than religious piety; a respect for the natural order socially, politically, and religiously. Includes the ideas of patriotism and devotion to others.
Prudentia: "Prudence" Foresight, wisdom, and personal discretion.
Salubritas: "Wholesomeness" Health and cleanliness.
Severitas: "Sternness" Gravity, self-control.
Veritas: "Truthfulness" Honesty in dealing with others.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Robert Stone's essay on "The Father of All Things,"Tom Bissell, NY Review, 11-22-07:
"The waters returned and covered the chariots and the chariot drivers, the whole army of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea; not one of them remained." Exodus. Nobody completely returns from a war, especially a lost one.
"A person who has lived through a great war is different from a person who never lived through any war. They are two different species of human beings. They will never find a common language, because you cannot really describe the war, you cannot share it, you cannot tell someone: Here take a little of my war." Ryszard Kapuscinski
"It was Heraclitus who told us that no man steps into the same river twice because it is never the same river and never the same man."
"He also wrote that that a 'beast moves in response only to blows and, hauntingly, that the kingly power is like the power of a child.' Perhaps he meant that struggle is at once inevitable and ultimately ineffectual, a pessimism that we have all be admonished to resist."
"the largest house can be entered by its smallest door."
From Robert Stone's essay on "The Father of All Things,"Tom Bissell, NY Review, 11-22-07:
"The waters returned and covered the chariots and the chariot drivers, the whole army of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea; not one of them remained." Exodus. Nobody completely returns from a war, especially a lost one.
"A person who has lived through a great war is different from a person who never lived through any war. They are two different species of human beings. They will never find a common language, because you cannot really describe the war, you cannot share it, you cannot tell someone: Here take a little of my war." Ryszard Kapuscinski
"It was Heraclitus who told us that no man steps into the same river twice because it is never the same river and never the same man."
"He also wrote that that a 'beast moves in response only to blows and, hauntingly, that the kingly power is like the power of a child.' Perhaps he meant that struggle is at once inevitable and ultimately ineffectual, a pessimism that we have all be admonished to resist."
"the largest house can be entered by its smallest door."
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"There comes a time when time passing becomes time remaining."
I had no idea what I said. Here's St Eve's first reply.
This is a complicated statement and requires some thought to unravel. The passage of time is a perception that depends upon cause and effect occurrence in the physical world and the apprehension of those causes followed by their associated effects. The batter hits the pitched ball. Then there is the memory of those relations and their order of occurrence. Sight of the ball and sound of the bat hitting the ball this becomes the sensed passage of time. So when the time remaining to our lives becomes the sensed moment of times' passage; it is the last moment-end time. Now some might accuse me of being philosophically narrow and bending the meaning to my own ends but if you think about what time perception is really all about then my conclusion seems unavoidable. If this is not clear I will gladly restate it.
Ss
Gross asked for a restatement. So here's St Eve's second reply or re-statement.
Inherent within the above statement, there is a structure to time. There is past, present and future time.
Time coming is its emergence out of the future to become the present moment. No matter how brief that moment is, it lapses and becomes the next moment. As it passes it becomes past time. Historical time and future time are infinites with present time sandwiched in between. Time passing from future to present to past is the accepted linear configuration in western society.
In the second part of the statement, “time remaining” has to be assumed to be a personal subset of future moments that constitutes the finite period of the person’s life that they have left to live.
So when that packet of future time, the remainder of one’s life’s moments becomes passing time, and entering the past then one's life is over the next instant. When the time remaining to one's life passes it is all over.
To restate the notions related to the perception of time embedded in the above statement is less . This perception is complex and comes from our senses which record in memory happenings sequentially with antecedent and subsequent events. They may be cause and effect but as Katz has pointed out may just be sequential.
The order of occurrence and their recording on RNA and reading that order may be how we know that events are past time and we are able to place them in their temporal order by their physical placement in the RNA molecule.
There are many exceptions to time perception which are intriguing.
Time passing fast, passing slowly: time standing still, athletes in “the zone “with altered time perception and increased performance abilities.
When my understanding improves with research I will pass it on.
ss
"There comes a time when time passing becomes time remaining."
I had no idea what I said. Here's St Eve's first reply.
This is a complicated statement and requires some thought to unravel. The passage of time is a perception that depends upon cause and effect occurrence in the physical world and the apprehension of those causes followed by their associated effects. The batter hits the pitched ball. Then there is the memory of those relations and their order of occurrence. Sight of the ball and sound of the bat hitting the ball this becomes the sensed passage of time. So when the time remaining to our lives becomes the sensed moment of times' passage; it is the last moment-end time. Now some might accuse me of being philosophically narrow and bending the meaning to my own ends but if you think about what time perception is really all about then my conclusion seems unavoidable. If this is not clear I will gladly restate it.
Ss
Gross asked for a restatement. So here's St Eve's second reply or re-statement.
Inherent within the above statement, there is a structure to time. There is past, present and future time.
Time coming is its emergence out of the future to become the present moment. No matter how brief that moment is, it lapses and becomes the next moment. As it passes it becomes past time. Historical time and future time are infinites with present time sandwiched in between. Time passing from future to present to past is the accepted linear configuration in western society.
In the second part of the statement, “time remaining” has to be assumed to be a personal subset of future moments that constitutes the finite period of the person’s life that they have left to live.
So when that packet of future time, the remainder of one’s life’s moments becomes passing time, and entering the past then one's life is over the next instant. When the time remaining to one's life passes it is all over.
To restate the notions related to the perception of time embedded in the above statement is less . This perception is complex and comes from our senses which record in memory happenings sequentially with antecedent and subsequent events. They may be cause and effect but as Katz has pointed out may just be sequential.
The order of occurrence and their recording on RNA and reading that order may be how we know that events are past time and we are able to place them in their temporal order by their physical placement in the RNA molecule.
There are many exceptions to time perception which are intriguing.
Time passing fast, passing slowly: time standing still, athletes in “the zone “with altered time perception and increased performance abilities.
When my understanding improves with research I will pass it on.
ss
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I've been feeling sorry for myself for several years. I've thought that I didn't measure up to the successes of many of my friends. If you've been reading this blog you've noticed that I often write about my failure, my inability to help my children in the way that I see some of my friends doing, the fact that I can't travel in the "manner to which I am accustomed."
This whining must stop. It's really childlike, it's the cry of a spoiled child, or an old man who never grew up.
I look around myself every day, and see how well I am am living for God's sake. I live in a three bedroom beuatifully decorated apartment overlooking the ocean.
My children aren't starving. Yes, they're in a tougher place than I ever was, but so are many other people in their forties. It isn't as easy for my kids as it was for me. Did I make mistakes? Yes, you bet, in every way. But that's past, and I should be over it, and accept my life for the way it has turned out. I ended up with a great wife, I can still read, and the sun still rises and sets everyday. I see every sunrise. And that ain't so bad...
The paths we take don't always lead to our destination -- but this is where I am and where I belong.
I've been feeling sorry for myself for several years. I've thought that I didn't measure up to the successes of many of my friends. If you've been reading this blog you've noticed that I often write about my failure, my inability to help my children in the way that I see some of my friends doing, the fact that I can't travel in the "manner to which I am accustomed."
This whining must stop. It's really childlike, it's the cry of a spoiled child, or an old man who never grew up.
I look around myself every day, and see how well I am am living for God's sake. I live in a three bedroom beuatifully decorated apartment overlooking the ocean.
My children aren't starving. Yes, they're in a tougher place than I ever was, but so are many other people in their forties. It isn't as easy for my kids as it was for me. Did I make mistakes? Yes, you bet, in every way. But that's past, and I should be over it, and accept my life for the way it has turned out. I ended up with a great wife, I can still read, and the sun still rises and sets everyday. I see every sunrise. And that ain't so bad...
The paths we take don't always lead to our destination -- but this is where I am and where I belong.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The screed is NOT the opinion of the writer. What follows is my reaction to it.
Tomatoes and Cheap Labor CHEAP TOMATOES?
This should make everyone think, be you Democrat, Republican or Independent From a California school teacher - - - As you listen to the news about the student protests over illegal immigration, there are some things that you should be aware of:I am in charge of the English-as-a-second-language department at a large southern California high school which is designated a Title 1 school, meaning that its students average lower socioeconomic and income levels.
Most of the schools you are hearing about, South Gate High, Bell Gardens , Huntington Park , etc., where these students are protesting, are also Title 1 schools. Title 1 schools are on the free breakfast and free lunch program. When I say free breakfast, I'm not talking a glass of milk and roll -- but a full breakfast and cereal bar with fruits and juices that would make a Marriott proud. The waste of this food is monumental, with trays and trays of it being dumped in the trash uneaten. (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK)
I estimate that well over 50% of these students are obese or at least moderately overweight. About 75% or more DO have cell phones. The school also provides day care centers for the unwed teenage pregnant girls (some as young as 13) so they can attend class without the inconvenience of having to arrange for babysitters or having family watch their kids. (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK) I was ordered to spend $700,000 on my department or risk losing funding for the upcoming year even though there was little need for anything; my budget was already substantial. I ended up buying new computers for the computer learning center, half of which, one month later, have been carved with graffiti by the appreciative students who obviously feel humbled and grateful to have a free education in America . (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK)
I have had to intervene several times for young and substitute teachers whose classes consist of many illegal immigrant students here in the country less then 3 months who raised so much hell with the female teachers, calling them 'Putas' whores and throwing things that the teachers were in tears.
Free medical, free education, free food, day care etc., etc, etc. Is it any wonder they feel entitled to not only be in this country but to demand rights, privileges and entitlements? To those who want to point out how much these illegal immigrants contribute to our society because they LIKE their gardener and housekeeper and they like to pay less for tomatoes: spend some time in the real world of illegal immigration and see the TRUE costs. Higher insurance, medical facilities closing, higher medical costs, more crime, lower standards of education in our schools, overcrowding, new diseases etc., etc, etc.
For me, I'll pay more for tomatoes. We need to wake up. The guest worker program will be a disaster because we won't have the guts to enforce it. Does anyone in their right mind really think they will voluntarily leave and return? It does, however, have everything to do with culture: A third-world culture that does not value education, that accepts children getting pregnant and dropping out of school by 15 and that refuses to assimilate, and an American culture that has become so weak and worried about 'political correctness' that we don't have the will to do anything about it.
If this makes your blood boil, as it did mine, forward this to everyone you know. CHEAP LABOR? Isn't that what the whole immigration issue is about?Business doesn't want to pay a decent wage. Consumers don't want expensive produce. Government will tell you Americans don't want the jobs.But the bottom line is cheap labor. The phrase 'cheap labor' is a myth, a farce, and a lie. There is no such thing as 'cheap labor.' Take, for example, an illegal alien with a wife and five children. He takes a job for $5.00 or 6.00/hour. At that wage, with six dependents, he pays no income tax, yet at the end of the year, if he files an Income Tax Return, he gets an 'earned income credit' of up to $3,200 free. He qualifies for Section 8 housing and subsidized rent. He qualifies for food stamps.He qualifies for free (no deductible, no co-pay) health care. His children get free breakfasts and lunches at school.He requires bilingual teachers and books. He qualifies for relief from high energy bills.If they are or become, aged, blind or disabled, they qualify for SSI. Once qualified for SSI they can qualify for Medicare. All of this is at (our) taxpayer's expense. He doesn't worry about car insurance, life insurance, or homeowners insurance.Taxpayers provide Spanish language signs, bulletins and printed material.He and his family receive the equivalent of $20.00 to $30.00/hour in benefits. Working Americans are lucky to have $5.00 or $6.00/hour left after paying their bills and his. The American taxpayers also pay for increased crime, graffiti and trash clean-up. Cheap labor?
YEAH RIGHT! Wake up people! THESE ARE THE QUESTIONS WE SHOULD BE ADDRESSING TO THE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE S FOR EITHER PARTY. 'AND WHEN THEY LIE TO US AND DON'T DO AS THEY SAY, WE SHOULD REPLACE THEM AT ONCE!' THIS HAS GOT TO BE PASSED ALONG TO AS MANY AS POSSIBLE OR WE WILL ALL GO DOWN THE DRAIN BECAUSE A FEW DON'T CARE.
Here's my reply to my poor innocent sister.
Dear Sister:
Here is a poisonous, propagandistic screed probably written by Heinrich Himmler, reincarnated, sent to me by my dear and loving sister, an innocent who passes on more than she knows, and whom I am sure hasn't given much thought to the subject before passing it on. I recognize some of the names on the address list, they are all multi-millionaires, most of whom continued to build the empires started by their parents or grandparents.
They are rich and hard-working, and although each of them could stop working, they seem to have forgotten where they come from, and they forget what was once the rich Jewish tradition (and American, for that matter) of compassion and fighting for the underdog.
Somehow, although America welcome immigrants, we distrust them, fear them, it is the fear of the stranger, xenophobia over all.
America is of two minds when it comes to immigrantion-- on the one hand we open our arms in welcome, but on the other we distrust the strangers who come here in search of a better life, a roof over their heads, some food to put on the table. And when they look different or speak differently than we do, why then the fear turns into witch hunts, like "the yellow peril" of the late nineteenth century, the "red scare" and the Palmer raids after WWI, the internment of Japanese Americans during WW 2, McCarthyism of the fifties, and right at the conception of America, the actual witch hunts of Salem.
Here's your homework, get a DVD called Sacco & Vincetti, you can get it through Netflix or your library. And see if there is a DVD of the Maxwell Anderson play that was made into a film, called Winterset.
And finally, I shall remind my dear sister that our grandfather was caught up in the Palmer raids, and might have been shipped back to Russia with the rest of the unmannered-filthy-Jew-immigrant-anarchist-radicals
The screed is NOT the opinion of the writer. What follows is my reaction to it.
Tomatoes and Cheap Labor CHEAP TOMATOES?
This should make everyone think, be you Democrat, Republican or Independent From a California school teacher - - - As you listen to the news about the student protests over illegal immigration, there are some things that you should be aware of:I am in charge of the English-as-a-second-language department at a large southern California high school which is designated a Title 1 school, meaning that its students average lower socioeconomic and income levels.
Most of the schools you are hearing about, South Gate High, Bell Gardens , Huntington Park , etc., where these students are protesting, are also Title 1 schools. Title 1 schools are on the free breakfast and free lunch program. When I say free breakfast, I'm not talking a glass of milk and roll -- but a full breakfast and cereal bar with fruits and juices that would make a Marriott proud. The waste of this food is monumental, with trays and trays of it being dumped in the trash uneaten. (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK)
I estimate that well over 50% of these students are obese or at least moderately overweight. About 75% or more DO have cell phones. The school also provides day care centers for the unwed teenage pregnant girls (some as young as 13) so they can attend class without the inconvenience of having to arrange for babysitters or having family watch their kids. (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK) I was ordered to spend $700,000 on my department or risk losing funding for the upcoming year even though there was little need for anything; my budget was already substantial. I ended up buying new computers for the computer learning center, half of which, one month later, have been carved with graffiti by the appreciative students who obviously feel humbled and grateful to have a free education in America . (OUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK)
I have had to intervene several times for young and substitute teachers whose classes consist of many illegal immigrant students here in the country less then 3 months who raised so much hell with the female teachers, calling them 'Putas' whores and throwing things that the teachers were in tears.
Free medical, free education, free food, day care etc., etc, etc. Is it any wonder they feel entitled to not only be in this country but to demand rights, privileges and entitlements? To those who want to point out how much these illegal immigrants contribute to our society because they LIKE their gardener and housekeeper and they like to pay less for tomatoes: spend some time in the real world of illegal immigration and see the TRUE costs. Higher insurance, medical facilities closing, higher medical costs, more crime, lower standards of education in our schools, overcrowding, new diseases etc., etc, etc.
For me, I'll pay more for tomatoes. We need to wake up. The guest worker program will be a disaster because we won't have the guts to enforce it. Does anyone in their right mind really think they will voluntarily leave and return? It does, however, have everything to do with culture: A third-world culture that does not value education, that accepts children getting pregnant and dropping out of school by 15 and that refuses to assimilate, and an American culture that has become so weak and worried about 'political correctness' that we don't have the will to do anything about it.
If this makes your blood boil, as it did mine, forward this to everyone you know. CHEAP LABOR? Isn't that what the whole immigration issue is about?Business doesn't want to pay a decent wage. Consumers don't want expensive produce. Government will tell you Americans don't want the jobs.But the bottom line is cheap labor. The phrase 'cheap labor' is a myth, a farce, and a lie. There is no such thing as 'cheap labor.' Take, for example, an illegal alien with a wife and five children. He takes a job for $5.00 or 6.00/hour. At that wage, with six dependents, he pays no income tax, yet at the end of the year, if he files an Income Tax Return, he gets an 'earned income credit' of up to $3,200 free. He qualifies for Section 8 housing and subsidized rent. He qualifies for food stamps.He qualifies for free (no deductible, no co-pay) health care. His children get free breakfasts and lunches at school.He requires bilingual teachers and books. He qualifies for relief from high energy bills.If they are or become, aged, blind or disabled, they qualify for SSI. Once qualified for SSI they can qualify for Medicare. All of this is at (our) taxpayer's expense. He doesn't worry about car insurance, life insurance, or homeowners insurance.Taxpayers provide Spanish language signs, bulletins and printed material.He and his family receive the equivalent of $20.00 to $30.00/hour in benefits. Working Americans are lucky to have $5.00 or $6.00/hour left after paying their bills and his. The American taxpayers also pay for increased crime, graffiti and trash clean-up. Cheap labor?
YEAH RIGHT! Wake up people! THESE ARE THE QUESTIONS WE SHOULD BE ADDRESSING TO THE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE S FOR EITHER PARTY. 'AND WHEN THEY LIE TO US AND DON'T DO AS THEY SAY, WE SHOULD REPLACE THEM AT ONCE!' THIS HAS GOT TO BE PASSED ALONG TO AS MANY AS POSSIBLE OR WE WILL ALL GO DOWN THE DRAIN BECAUSE A FEW DON'T CARE.
Here's my reply to my poor innocent sister.
Dear Sister:
Here is a poisonous, propagandistic screed probably written by Heinrich Himmler, reincarnated, sent to me by my dear and loving sister, an innocent who passes on more than she knows, and whom I am sure hasn't given much thought to the subject before passing it on. I recognize some of the names on the address list, they are all multi-millionaires, most of whom continued to build the empires started by their parents or grandparents.
They are rich and hard-working, and although each of them could stop working, they seem to have forgotten where they come from, and they forget what was once the rich Jewish tradition (and American, for that matter) of compassion and fighting for the underdog.
Somehow, although America welcome immigrants, we distrust them, fear them, it is the fear of the stranger, xenophobia over all.
America is of two minds when it comes to immigrantion-- on the one hand we open our arms in welcome, but on the other we distrust the strangers who come here in search of a better life, a roof over their heads, some food to put on the table. And when they look different or speak differently than we do, why then the fear turns into witch hunts, like "the yellow peril" of the late nineteenth century, the "red scare" and the Palmer raids after WWI, the internment of Japanese Americans during WW 2, McCarthyism of the fifties, and right at the conception of America, the actual witch hunts of Salem.
Here's your homework, get a DVD called Sacco & Vincetti, you can get it through Netflix or your library. And see if there is a DVD of the Maxwell Anderson play that was made into a film, called Winterset.
And finally, I shall remind my dear sister that our grandfather was caught up in the Palmer raids, and might have been shipped back to Russia with the rest of the unmannered-filthy-Jew-immigrant-anarchist-radicals
Saturday, November 10, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Hal is fighting back with his usual bravery. He stands up when you might think he would lie down and take a "well deserved rest," as he used to say. I watched as a physical therapist wrapped some elastic bandages the length of his leg, right from the verge of his groin to his ankles.
She needed to make them tight, so that they would apply pressure to his leg, something to do with his lymph nodes, something she explained to me, but which, unlike Hal, I just turned off, so I can't report to you the exact details of Hal's problem. Perhaps he can.
But as she wrapped them tightly around his leg, I can report, factually, that there was no complaint from our friend. He took it. It was what had to be done, and in Hal's world that means that you do it, and you don't whine, or complain as certain people, this writer, for instance, would. I saw a small part of his scar, an ugly reddened tear that started on one side of his thigh, entered his groin which was covered by a black cloth (thus I didn't get to actually see the oft mentioned massive family jewels) and reappeared on the other side, something like a red gravel road coming out of a black tunnel.
Hal lives in a beautiful home, Mary has done her best; anyone who enjoys artfully designed settings would appreciate how Hal and Mary live -- and Mary! Wow! she has lost a lot of weight, looks very smart, and, well, she could be a trophy wife... She looks great. Hal should be very proud of her-- Mary created a small studio in a second, separate building that had been a garage, she has an outdoor living room at the front of the house, a huge indoor living room, a dining room, a guest room and of course a master bedroom. Hal explained to me that the style is 1930's Hollywood overlayed by a contemporary touch. Mary says she used a lot of her old things, but I would say that she mixed them so well, that unless she pointed the old pieces to me I didn't know which they were. It is a grand setting.
mek
Hal is fighting back with his usual bravery. He stands up when you might think he would lie down and take a "well deserved rest," as he used to say. I watched as a physical therapist wrapped some elastic bandages the length of his leg, right from the verge of his groin to his ankles.
She needed to make them tight, so that they would apply pressure to his leg, something to do with his lymph nodes, something she explained to me, but which, unlike Hal, I just turned off, so I can't report to you the exact details of Hal's problem. Perhaps he can.
But as she wrapped them tightly around his leg, I can report, factually, that there was no complaint from our friend. He took it. It was what had to be done, and in Hal's world that means that you do it, and you don't whine, or complain as certain people, this writer, for instance, would. I saw a small part of his scar, an ugly reddened tear that started on one side of his thigh, entered his groin which was covered by a black cloth (thus I didn't get to actually see the oft mentioned massive family jewels) and reappeared on the other side, something like a red gravel road coming out of a black tunnel.
Hal lives in a beautiful home, Mary has done her best; anyone who enjoys artfully designed settings would appreciate how Hal and Mary live -- and Mary! Wow! she has lost a lot of weight, looks very smart, and, well, she could be a trophy wife... She looks great. Hal should be very proud of her-- Mary created a small studio in a second, separate building that had been a garage, she has an outdoor living room at the front of the house, a huge indoor living room, a dining room, a guest room and of course a master bedroom. Hal explained to me that the style is 1930's Hollywood overlayed by a contemporary touch. Mary says she used a lot of her old things, but I would say that she mixed them so well, that unless she pointed the old pieces to me I didn't know which they were. It is a grand setting.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
On the illness of two lifelong pals:
This should be really tough; but it isn't. I'm no callous youth, understand please that even as a child I knew, I expected, that Mr. Death would come for me and my friends sooner or later. As we grew older, we each made our bets and beds, now we prepare to count our winnings, balance our losses, and lie in our graves. Some closer to the mud than others, I guess.
I can still hear the dirt raining down my grandfather's coffin, and my Dad's, It's a common sound no matter who we are.. Last year we read Everyman, and that was a peek further down the road than most of us had seen before. Now we drink the Grapes of Roth.
My father didn't want to go, my mother did. She had a sense of humor about it, he didn't.
They both went in their time, but it wasn't the time of their choice. Mother insisted on being taken as soon as Dad was gone, but Dad was hanging on like a boxer on the ropes--he wouldn't go down. He rallied, slowed, and rallied again during an everlasting period of a year. Dad, as I knew him, was a quiet man, easy going in most things, but not this. He was always strong, and in his final illness even stronger. There was a rope holding him up, and some iron force in him fought back, he pushed Mr. Death away, tore the mask from Death, looked at it, stared it in the eye sockets, and Dad simply chose not to go.
He wasn't ready.
But defeat came and after it my mother was immediately ready; and she was upset that God, or Mr. Death had passed her by so many times. There was one time when I looked out her hospital window and saw a figure wearing a cape and a slouch hat astride a black horse trotting down Federal highway.
Mother tried to look down and see it, but her macular degeneration had gone too far; she asked me to open the window and let him know she was here -- and impatient -- ready. She brushed her hair and asked the attendant to put her make up on. She would be presentable on her dark journey. But Death didn't take her that day. He made her wait another two years and she was bitter, angry at God, for forgetting her and taking her lover and leaving her behind. She had no purpose now, she had seen her husband through his times, but now, she thought, she should leave this life, and go on to the next --or to nothing-- as the case might be.
She was ready.
mek
On the illness of two lifelong pals:
This should be really tough; but it isn't. I'm no callous youth, understand please that even as a child I knew, I expected, that Mr. Death would come for me and my friends sooner or later. As we grew older, we each made our bets and beds, now we prepare to count our winnings, balance our losses, and lie in our graves. Some closer to the mud than others, I guess.
I can still hear the dirt raining down my grandfather's coffin, and my Dad's, It's a common sound no matter who we are.. Last year we read Everyman, and that was a peek further down the road than most of us had seen before. Now we drink the Grapes of Roth.
My father didn't want to go, my mother did. She had a sense of humor about it, he didn't.
They both went in their time, but it wasn't the time of their choice. Mother insisted on being taken as soon as Dad was gone, but Dad was hanging on like a boxer on the ropes--he wouldn't go down. He rallied, slowed, and rallied again during an everlasting period of a year. Dad, as I knew him, was a quiet man, easy going in most things, but not this. He was always strong, and in his final illness even stronger. There was a rope holding him up, and some iron force in him fought back, he pushed Mr. Death away, tore the mask from Death, looked at it, stared it in the eye sockets, and Dad simply chose not to go.
He wasn't ready.
But defeat came and after it my mother was immediately ready; and she was upset that God, or Mr. Death had passed her by so many times. There was one time when I looked out her hospital window and saw a figure wearing a cape and a slouch hat astride a black horse trotting down Federal highway.
Mother tried to look down and see it, but her macular degeneration had gone too far; she asked me to open the window and let him know she was here -- and impatient -- ready. She brushed her hair and asked the attendant to put her make up on. She would be presentable on her dark journey. But Death didn't take her that day. He made her wait another two years and she was bitter, angry at God, for forgetting her and taking her lover and leaving her behind. She had no purpose now, she had seen her husband through his times, but now, she thought, she should leave this life, and go on to the next --or to nothing-- as the case might be.
She was ready.
mek
Sunday, September 23, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Time has moved to fast for me to look back, as I have spent my life doing. Ruminating at my many missteps, many mistakes, wrong paths taken leads nowhere. We learn from experience, we keep what we can, but the reality is that there's no way back. The road always lies ahead.
We live towards the future, no one can go back. No matter how much we might like to, once past, no path can be re-tread. "You Can't Go Home Again."
I can't unsay those words, I can't become a nuero-biologist, (if I ever could have), I can't have two more children. I won't ever have that cottage in the mountains. I can go only forward. There's no reverse gear.
I'm not the same boy who loved to run alone in the woods. Not the boy who road his bicycle for hours, not the boy who stood transfixed at the front window of the subway car, looking into the long dark ahead, marked only by a few distant blue lights.
I'm through most of the long dark now, and it hasn't been as exciting as that small eight year old boy thought it would be. It's been only a long tunnel, with several stations along the way. One or two had bright lights.
The boy is still with me. Still dreaming, my eyes wet, my throat tightened...
Time has moved to fast for me to look back, as I have spent my life doing. Ruminating at my many missteps, many mistakes, wrong paths taken leads nowhere. We learn from experience, we keep what we can, but the reality is that there's no way back. The road always lies ahead.
We live towards the future, no one can go back. No matter how much we might like to, once past, no path can be re-tread. "You Can't Go Home Again."
I can't unsay those words, I can't become a nuero-biologist, (if I ever could have), I can't have two more children. I won't ever have that cottage in the mountains. I can go only forward. There's no reverse gear.
I'm not the same boy who loved to run alone in the woods. Not the boy who road his bicycle for hours, not the boy who stood transfixed at the front window of the subway car, looking into the long dark ahead, marked only by a few distant blue lights.
I'm through most of the long dark now, and it hasn't been as exciting as that small eight year old boy thought it would be. It's been only a long tunnel, with several stations along the way. One or two had bright lights.
The boy is still with me. Still dreaming, my eyes wet, my throat tightened...
Sunday, September 09, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Blog: Scotland of the Soul:
Rita hit the coast and all heck broke loose. There was massive devastation all over town, the ultimate distress and human suffering. I was outside for nine hours, and I saw tree limbs - IN. THE. ROAD! There are puddles of standing water in the poor section of town, and it's unconscionable. We need troops, man. We need, like, 5 buses! And some Heinekens! And
If we can't get those busses, there's going to be panic in the streets! It'll be mayhem and disaster. People will have to eat corpses to survive... well, at least the people that don't have police escorts to loot the Piggly-Wiggly.
I also have it on good authority that the Bush Administration sent agents into that part of town with a garden hose to drench that neighborhood with even more water! It's obviously because George Bush doesn't care about black people, and wants them all to die... or have damp socks, which could lead to athlete's foot!
Oh no, that's not all either. When the Red Cross tried to deliver galoshes and aquasox to these poor people, Homeland Security stopped them from doing it. Even the evil tyrants from Wal-Mart tried to send help, but they too were turned away. That's right! George Bush personally flew down here and stood next to my house in the middle of my street and stopped the delivery trucks in their tracks.
I know what you're saying, "How could this be? Could tragedy really sneak up on us so quickly in the America we grew up in?" Yes, friends. Yes it can. But the real tragedy is that this has been a long time coming. This tragedy has been building for days now.
Earlier today, I spoke with another affected resident, and he told me what will likely turn out to be one of literally dozens of tragic tales of loss and humidity. According to Mr. Aaron, his mother was trapped on her porch because of the scattered showers, and every day she called him and said "Are you coming son? Is somebody coming?" And he told her "Yeah, Mom, somebody's coming to get you." Somebody's coming to get you on Wednesday. Somebody's coming to get you on Thursday. Somebody's coming to get you on Friday." And she finally had to walk out to her car alone on Friday night. She walked out alone on Friday night, and got raindrops on her coat! It was suede, dammit! SUEDE!
Shocking, yes. It's clear that the new FEMA director is just as bad as the old one. They just want black folks to get wet, while all the white folks stay nice and dry under the umbrellas they got by oppressing you and me. I call for a national boycott of FEMA until such time as Acting Director Paulison partners with the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition to solve this systemic racist problem. I call on him to act immediately by sending 15... 20... no, 50 million dollars to Rainbow/PUSH (or my personal bank account, if that's more convenient) in small unmarked bills, so that we can quickly get back on the road to recovery.
God bless you all... except the people in Hymietown,
Jesse Jackson
----
From Blog: Scotland of the Soul:
When it gets dark I tow your heart away
Today I am completely incensed at the government's lack of response to the hurricanes. It's true that I've been in their corner so far, but this was the absolute last straw!
Rita hit the coast and all heck broke loose. There was massive devastation all over town, the ultimate distress and human suffering. I was outside for nine hours, and I saw tree limbs - IN. THE. ROAD! There are puddles of standing water in the poor section of town, and it's unconscionable. We need troops, man. We need, like, 5 buses! And some Heinekens! And
If we can't get those busses, there's going to be panic in the streets! It'll be mayhem and disaster. People will have to eat corpses to survive... well, at least the people that don't have police escorts to loot the Piggly-Wiggly.
I also have it on good authority that the Bush Administration sent agents into that part of town with a garden hose to drench that neighborhood with even more water! It's obviously because George Bush doesn't care about black people, and wants them all to die... or have damp socks, which could lead to athlete's foot!
Oh no, that's not all either. When the Red Cross tried to deliver galoshes and aquasox to these poor people, Homeland Security stopped them from doing it. Even the evil tyrants from Wal-Mart tried to send help, but they too were turned away. That's right! George Bush personally flew down here and stood next to my house in the middle of my street and stopped the delivery trucks in their tracks.
I know what you're saying, "How could this be? Could tragedy really sneak up on us so quickly in the America we grew up in?" Yes, friends. Yes it can. But the real tragedy is that this has been a long time coming. This tragedy has been building for days now.
Earlier today, I spoke with another affected resident, and he told me what will likely turn out to be one of literally dozens of tragic tales of loss and humidity. According to Mr. Aaron, his mother was trapped on her porch because of the scattered showers, and every day she called him and said "Are you coming son? Is somebody coming?" And he told her "Yeah, Mom, somebody's coming to get you." Somebody's coming to get you on Wednesday. Somebody's coming to get you on Thursday. Somebody's coming to get you on Friday." And she finally had to walk out to her car alone on Friday night. She walked out alone on Friday night, and got raindrops on her coat! It was suede, dammit! SUEDE!
Shocking, yes. It's clear that the new FEMA director is just as bad as the old one. They just want black folks to get wet, while all the white folks stay nice and dry under the umbrellas they got by oppressing you and me. I call for a national boycott of FEMA until such time as Acting Director Paulison partners with the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition to solve this systemic racist problem. I call on him to act immediately by sending 15... 20... no, 50 million dollars to Rainbow/PUSH (or my personal bank account, if that's more convenient) in small unmarked bills, so that we can quickly get back on the road to recovery.
God bless you all... except the people in Hymietown,
Jesse Jackson
----
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Last night I dreamed that M. was rehearsing a bawdy ditty about lawyers on a small stage. I was the only person in the tiny theater. M. was dancing stark naked, and I was embarrassed so I averted my eyes taking only a peek, through my fingers whenever I imagined she wasn't looking. I wondered why she had chosen this particular song to sing for the wedding, and felt sad for her that she had to sing it naked.
I also dreamed that I was drinking at the bar of a very expensive, luxuriously appointed, steakhouse when Mr. (Richman) arrived with a group of businessmen. Apparently they were there to discuss a "deal," Richman greeted me routinely, and rudely, quickly took the group into a private room without introducing me to anyone. I was wearing the pin stripe I shall wear Saturday night. Upset, I grasped the hand of one of the group and gave him my powerful, strongest handshake as he walked away from me into the private room. Later, Mr. Richman asked me, why I had manhandled his partner. I asked Richman where he had learned that word.
In my waking hours early this morning, as I drank my coffee, at about 5:15 AM., I read this line from a fascinating diary-journal of an editor at Conde-Nast called Leo Lerman. Lerman was a man who knew everyone in New York for about fifty years, so his journals catch everyone from a member of Sara Bernhardts' troop, to Leonard Bernstein, and Ingmar Bergman.
His mother had early on recognized her son's proclivities and was not unhappy about them as she understood that he would never marry. "So he's a momma's boy," she said, "and I'm his mother."
I like that.
This book is not meant for you to bother with. It's for people like me, who read what used to be called gossip columns and who wish that they could have been at every party, vernissage, debut, and opening whether theater or art, that was reported.
But Lerman had a remarkable life and each of his entries, though brief, are witty and insightful. His parties, apparently, were legendary and after running his own on jug wines and rat cheese he was offered the bankroll of Conde-Nast and his parties became larger and larger and his list became triple A and held only people of accomplishment. Anyway, the book is not for serious people and not for you.
Lerman and his family fit right into our discussion of "Who is a Jew," as he was another Bar Mitzvah boy who never set foot into a schul after the fountain-pen celebration.
You can forward and or edit this if you like. I'd like to send it to St Eve, but am holding it because of the first paragraph. Use your judgment.
m.
Last night I dreamed that M. was rehearsing a bawdy ditty about lawyers on a small stage. I was the only person in the tiny theater. M. was dancing stark naked, and I was embarrassed so I averted my eyes taking only a peek, through my fingers whenever I imagined she wasn't looking. I wondered why she had chosen this particular song to sing for the wedding, and felt sad for her that she had to sing it naked.
I also dreamed that I was drinking at the bar of a very expensive, luxuriously appointed, steakhouse when Mr. (Richman) arrived with a group of businessmen. Apparently they were there to discuss a "deal," Richman greeted me routinely, and rudely, quickly took the group into a private room without introducing me to anyone. I was wearing the pin stripe I shall wear Saturday night. Upset, I grasped the hand of one of the group and gave him my powerful, strongest handshake as he walked away from me into the private room. Later, Mr. Richman asked me, why I had manhandled his partner. I asked Richman where he had learned that word.
In my waking hours early this morning, as I drank my coffee, at about 5:15 AM., I read this line from a fascinating diary-journal of an editor at Conde-Nast called Leo Lerman. Lerman was a man who knew everyone in New York for about fifty years, so his journals catch everyone from a member of Sara Bernhardts' troop, to Leonard Bernstein, and Ingmar Bergman.
His mother had early on recognized her son's proclivities and was not unhappy about them as she understood that he would never marry. "So he's a momma's boy," she said, "and I'm his mother."
I like that.
This book is not meant for you to bother with. It's for people like me, who read what used to be called gossip columns and who wish that they could have been at every party, vernissage, debut, and opening whether theater or art, that was reported.
But Lerman had a remarkable life and each of his entries, though brief, are witty and insightful. His parties, apparently, were legendary and after running his own on jug wines and rat cheese he was offered the bankroll of Conde-Nast and his parties became larger and larger and his list became triple A and held only people of accomplishment. Anyway, the book is not for serious people and not for you.
Lerman and his family fit right into our discussion of "Who is a Jew," as he was another Bar Mitzvah boy who never set foot into a schul after the fountain-pen celebration.
You can forward and or edit this if you like. I'd like to send it to St Eve, but am holding it because of the first paragraph. Use your judgment.
m.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
August 2, 2007
It has been as though a veil has dropped over my head. Everything is a shade darker, and I find myself sighing every once in while. I keep looking back at my mistakes, the same mistakes I made forty years ago—not buying certain real estate, not investing in the stock market on a more regular basis, remaining at KDS all those boring years, not finding a business partner with whom to work, not following up on many ideas that ran through my mind at various times…
Now I regret not having the money to have two homes, to take vacations, to travel. Money is too short even for going to NYC, and I am stuck here, in Florida in this luxurious apartment—but surrounded by people so different from me, that even when I am with them at the office or on the beach I am lonely, unsatisfied, unhappy, discontent. There is no laughter here—except with M—and if it weren’t for her I’d be a bum on the road, or dead. I’m lucky to be here, with here, but it isn’t really enough.
Why has money become so important here, at the end of my life?
August 3, 2007
I learned last summer that I could live over a store in Cold Spring, in a tight one bedroom apartment with M and be happier than here. It was the guys I met at the Foundry, a coffee shop on Main Street. I could be with them, chat, felt accepted, felt on their level and they were on mine. Again, this summer, M and I spent a short time in a small house in Westhampton. It was fine. Of course, there is no money for a small house in NY. If we sold this apartment we might end up with $600K or so, but that wouldn’t bring much in NY, and then there are the higher living expenses there. Taxes would probably be lower, especially if we were to buy an apartment in NYC. But then, the temptations of NY living would easily outrun my wallet. And then, M needs something, anything, here in Florida, so here would be two sets of expenses. We can’t do it.
M says I should have more male friends here. Yes, I should…and I know that I exaggerate when I say that no one in Florida has any brains, or that I have no interests in common with anyone. It’s an exaggeration, but still it describes the problem.
August 11, 2007
In the days before Jaws I was something of an ocean swimmer, but since 1975, I swim accompanied by an undertow of anxiety , an unspoken, and until now, unacknowledged fear of swimming alone, especially far out where I used to swim as a child and later as a young man.
In those days I never would have thought of encountering a Big White, but now, always in the back of my mind, one swims close by waiting for its chance. The fear never leaves me even when I summon, somehow, the courage to swim by myself past the line of buoys that mark an invisible dividing line between swimmer and boater about a hundred yards out.
Any nearby splash, or even a bit of foam ten yards away, puts me on Shark Alert, and I struggle to remain calm, knowing that a panic stricken swimmer will excite the huge, unseen predator’s natural instinct—its instinct to cull the weakest of our species from the briny deep domain and to have lunch at my arm’s expense.
I like my arm
August 2, 2007
It has been as though a veil has dropped over my head. Everything is a shade darker, and I find myself sighing every once in while. I keep looking back at my mistakes, the same mistakes I made forty years ago—not buying certain real estate, not investing in the stock market on a more regular basis, remaining at KDS all those boring years, not finding a business partner with whom to work, not following up on many ideas that ran through my mind at various times…
Now I regret not having the money to have two homes, to take vacations, to travel. Money is too short even for going to NYC, and I am stuck here, in Florida in this luxurious apartment—but surrounded by people so different from me, that even when I am with them at the office or on the beach I am lonely, unsatisfied, unhappy, discontent. There is no laughter here—except with M—and if it weren’t for her I’d be a bum on the road, or dead. I’m lucky to be here, with here, but it isn’t really enough.
Why has money become so important here, at the end of my life?
August 3, 2007
I learned last summer that I could live over a store in Cold Spring, in a tight one bedroom apartment with M and be happier than here. It was the guys I met at the Foundry, a coffee shop on Main Street. I could be with them, chat, felt accepted, felt on their level and they were on mine. Again, this summer, M and I spent a short time in a small house in Westhampton. It was fine. Of course, there is no money for a small house in NY. If we sold this apartment we might end up with $600K or so, but that wouldn’t bring much in NY, and then there are the higher living expenses there. Taxes would probably be lower, especially if we were to buy an apartment in NYC. But then, the temptations of NY living would easily outrun my wallet. And then, M needs something, anything, here in Florida, so here would be two sets of expenses. We can’t do it.
M says I should have more male friends here. Yes, I should…and I know that I exaggerate when I say that no one in Florida has any brains, or that I have no interests in common with anyone. It’s an exaggeration, but still it describes the problem.
August 11, 2007
In the days before Jaws I was something of an ocean swimmer, but since 1975, I swim accompanied by an undertow of anxiety , an unspoken, and until now, unacknowledged fear of swimming alone, especially far out where I used to swim as a child and later as a young man.
In those days I never would have thought of encountering a Big White, but now, always in the back of my mind, one swims close by waiting for its chance. The fear never leaves me even when I summon, somehow, the courage to swim by myself past the line of buoys that mark an invisible dividing line between swimmer and boater about a hundred yards out.
Any nearby splash, or even a bit of foam ten yards away, puts me on Shark Alert, and I struggle to remain calm, knowing that a panic stricken swimmer will excite the huge, unseen predator’s natural instinct—its instinct to cull the weakest of our species from the briny deep domain and to have lunch at my arm’s expense.
I like my arm
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
For the neverborn children
.
.
"Hush, hush little children
No cradle shall hold you,
In no clothes can we fold you,
Dead that the living cannot mourn,
Untimely, lost and never born."
.
From The Dybbuk, Polish-Yiddish Film, 1937.
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