Contemporary art, no matter how much it has defined itself by a taste for negation, can still be analyzed as a set of assertions of a formal kind. — Susan Sontag
definitely no jargonistic surjection
Contemporary art, no matter how much it has defined itself by a taste for negation, can still be analyzed as a set of assertions of a formal kind. — Susan Sontag
Fumkin Parts
Kinda drunk in a relatively terrible local brew pub in the city of Newport (yea every city in the entire state has port jammed into it somehow, even Eugeneport). I'm stumble-wondering how the idea of hazelnut beer and hazelnut rum could have sounded attractive, and stumble-deciding on the silver lining: at least I (now) know two things that should never be flavored with hazelnut.
The back hallway has two doors.
-Hops- -Barleys- no other symbols. Which is which? My mind strains. I imagine other drinking establishments (Skippers, Mermaids) and languages (Damen, Herren) but nothing clicks except that the word 'men' is shorter than the word 'women'; that couldn't be it, could it? What-the-fuck were they thinking? A waitress says, in a 187th-time-today tone: you're hops.
Inside, I dry my hands on paper towels from a jack-in-the-box-crank dispenser. Haven't seen one of these in a decade or three.
Two days later—after a wonderful bakery-lunch in Corvallisport—I enter the back hallway and recognize the two bathrooms are marked only with: restroom. I assume this restaurant has chosen to go the unisex/first-available route.
I join a small line and quickly learn there's a hitch in the giddy-up.
One of the doors has an apologetic sign reserving it only for Barleys. (And later, after comparing notes with my paramour, I learn they're both identical inside: one toilet, one sink, nothing else.) Women can use either. Men can only use one.
I can only come up with one reason for this: The women who run this establishment don't want to get man-cooties but believe it's OK for men to get women-cooties - or - think women don't have cooties. I suspect these assumptions are specious, so I'm open for alternatives (because I vividly remember learning at recess that women have cooties and men can get them).
On a more artistic note, this is a wonderful camera mistake. The design is perfectly weighted. The visual movement is dynamic. And it hardly matters that the person standing on a country roadside, twirling a pizza-company placard (miles from any business, let alone that pizza place) was not properly snapshotted.
Photographs alter and enlarge our notions of what is worth looking at and what we have a right to observe. — Susan Sontag
Color Comments on the British Open
I was highly entertained by Peter Alliss's comments over the last two days of golf-watching. (I know, I know; but it's guilty pleasure #38.)
Normally a BBC commentator, this past weekend he did some guest commenting, at the British Open, for TNT.
Who won or lost is unimportant (to me, at least) but these comments of Mr Alliss were golden:
(In response to another commentator's statement that Peter, 'didn't really understand the situation because he was English, not Scottish'): Hey...I could have gone the whole way, could have changed and had the operation and everything — I just chose not to.
(Abstrusely pointing out a terrible second-hole score): Four nine three four four three . . . hunh — that used to be my telephone number.
(A conversation with a US commentator who'd been referring to a player that twitters, then asked Peter, 'You were twittering earlier, too, right?'): I don't twitter — we've only recently just got gas at my house.
To which the US commenter replied, with a chortle: Natural gas?
Peter's retort was a dry: Don't be silly — lamps!
(Referencing a logo-type design on the sleeve of a young Japanese player): I wish I knew what that said, on his shoulder. David Beckham has tattoos there — but . . . apparently . . . he's satisfied with it . . . there, on the material.
The Criminal Investigator's #1 Rule of Thumb
If I were to impart one thing about detecting—from my years as a criminal investigator—it is this: there's always one thing, which proves or disproves a persons guilt or innocence. And, that one thing needs to always be the lens with which the rest of the investigation is examined through.
This is not to infer that an investigator doesn't have to collect every item of evidence, interview every possible witness, and always remain impartial. But, I recall what happened when investigators (and lawyers, and judges) failed to keep the investigation (court proceedings, trial) focused through that one thing; the result was almost always the same: guilty people were not held accountable for their crimes.
Bad people go free when they (or their lawyers) cause law enforcement to lose focus on the one thing.
When I explained this #1 Rule of Thumb to my subordinates, I referred to it as the Bloody Socks Rule. I contend that the OJ Simpson trial would have resulted in a conviction if the prosecution spent a few days showing the jurors what the crime scene looked like and then explained about the socks collected from the floor of OJ's bedroom—which had the blood of OJ, Nicole, and Goldman on them—and then said, "the prosecution rests your honor." Forget about the Bruno Magli shoes, Kato Kaelin, Mark Furman, and the bloody gloves; the one thing is the socks with three peoples blood on them.Any case can be fogged by the "what about..." and "explain the..." but as long as the one thing is kept in the forefront—bad people are caught and put in prison.
The assassination of President Kennedy is a famous example of an investigation that has been so incredibly inundated in evidence and investigation and re-investigation, that most people believe there was a conspiracy (by some large government organization).
I know there was no conspiracy. Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. Jack Ruby acted alone. The reason I know is because of two one thing's (one for Oswald and one for Ruby).
This is Oswald's one thing because when he got the job at the Depository, the route was not yet decided by the Secret Service.
This is Ruby's one thing. His timing and the presence of Sheba shows that he was acting on impulse.
UPDATE: It was brought to my attention that my 'one thing' rule may apply in the case of the JFK assassination by Oswald, but that it does not work for the subsequent murder of Oswald by Ruby because he provided the above story to explain that he had acted on impulse. So, I did more reading.
I discovered it's probable Oswald shot his rifle several times but only hit JFK once in the back of the neck. Then, a Secret Service Agent, riding in the chase vehicle (while trying to turn and point a rifle at the book depository) accidentally shot JFK in the back of the head. This explains all the cover-ups.
The entire Secret Service chain-of-command acted, coerced, and then helped Ruby (who was terminally ill). They stopped the Dallas autopsy and later removed all of their own bullet fragments. These details may have been disclosed to one or more members of the Warren Commission, although - as of 2017 - "almost all" of the Warren Commission Report has been "approved for public release" and none of this is in official documents.
I can understand why senior members of a government might want to classify the ironic but chilling fact surrounding the idea that the 'Secret Service accidentally shot the person they were supposed to protect and then covered up that mistake by having Oswald murdered.' How far up would that level of a cover-up needed to go? And - would uncovering that cover-up cause more problems than it would solve? There's a huge philosophical thought experiment open for discussion!
Most people in this society who aren't actively mad are, at best, reformed or potential lunatics. — Susan Sontag
A lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin
Heard this terrible-funny Bloodhound Gang song for the first time at Karaoke.
I'd already had four and a half shots of Jaegermeister, and I chuckled gargantuanly-huge, I-shouldn't-be-laughin-so-hard, guffaws of glee.
The lyrics:
I was lonelier than Kunta Kinte at a Merle Haggard concert that night I strolled on into Uncle Limpy's Hump Palace lookin for love. It had been a while. In fact, three hundred and sixty-five had come and went since that midnight run haulin hog to Shakey town on I-10. I had picked up this hitchhiker that was sweatin gallons through a pair of Daisy Duke cut-offs and one of those Fruit Of The Loom tank-tops. Well, that night I lost myself to ruby red lips, milky white skin and baby blue eyes. Name was Russell.
Yes a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin
Yes a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin
Well I find it's quite a thrill
When she grinds me against her will
Yes a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin
Well, faster than you can say "shallow grave" this pretty little thing come up to me and starts kneadin my balls like hard-boiled eggs in a tube sock. Said her name was Bambi and I said, "Well that's a coincidence darlin, cause I was just thinkin about skinnin you like a deer." Well she smiled, had about as much teeth as a Jack-O-Lantern, and I went on to tell her how I would wear her face like a mask as I do my little kooky dance. And then she told me to shush. I guess she could sense my desperation. Course, it's hard to hide a hard-on when you're dressed like Minnie Pearl.
(chorus)
So, Bambi's goin on about how she can make all my fantasies come true. So I says, "Even this one I have where Jesus Christ is jack-hammerin Mickey Mouse in the doo-doo hole with a lawn dart as Garth Brooks gives birth to somethin resembling a cheddar cheese log with almonds on Santa Claus's tummy-tum?" Well, ten beers, twenty minutes and thirty dollars later I'm parkin the beef bus in tuna town if you know what I mean. Got to nail her back at her trailer. Heh. That rhymes. I have to admit it was even more of a turn-on when I found out she was doin me to buy baby formula.
(chorus)
Day or so had passed when I popped the clutch, gave the tranny a spin and slid on into The Stinky Pinky Gulp N Guzzle Big Rig Snooze-A-Stop. There I was browsin through the latest issue of Throb, when I saw Bambi starin at me from the back of a milk carton. Well, my heart just dropped. So, I decided to do what any good Christian would. You can not imagine how difficult it is to hold a half gallon of moo juice and polish the one-eyed gopher when your doin seventy-five in an eighteen-wheeler. I never thought missing children could be so sexy. Did I say that out loud?
(chorus)
Somewhere in America
The Griffin Family lives in Rhode Island.South Park is a city in Colorado.
The Simpsons reside in the ubiquitous city of Springfield, in an unknown state (31 states have a city named Springfield).
The Hills live in Texas (for a few more months until their time-slot is taken over by The Griffin's Neighbors. But they could be back; Family Guy has been canceled twice).
Americana is what is depicted.
All of these series let us peek at American crazy-vulgarity, foolishness, idiocy, and teach us how to behave (sometimes by showing us how not to).
The television network FOX (the largest "news" network . . . solely responsible for the new requirement to use quotations around the word news) produces three of the animated series.
South Park is produced by the Cartoon Network.
ABC decided not to pick up King of the Hill after it was canceled.
I don't find it strange that these television programs have lasted for as long as they have. They have quality; script quality. The writing is topical and usually fresh.I fault some of Family Guy's humor. But just because I don't laugh at one of the types of gags they use, which I refer to as kicking the dead and buried skeleton of a horse (and if you have ever watched an episode, you know what I mean) doesn't mean I don't think much of the (rest of the) writing is funny.
My favorite characters are everyone else's favorites.
There are episodes that stick with me.I didn't know what the Mormon Church based it's doctrine on — until Stan Marsh told me.
I'm as lazy as Homer (and share his love of doughnuts and beer).
Stewie is guaranteed to make me chuckle and cringe simultaneously.
I'm a liberal-democrat Hank Hill.
How things really are — and always will be — is neither all-evil nor all-good but deficient, inconsistent, inferior. — Susan Sontag
extreme adjective noun
I intend to do everything ... to have one way of evaluating experience: does it cause me pleasure or pain — and I shall be very cautious about rejecting the painful — I shall anticipate pleasure everywhere (and find it, too) for it is everywhere! I shall involve myself wholly ... everything matters! — Susan Sontag
Word To Your Mother
My latest telephone call with ma mère resulted in a notable exchange. It began by me trying to clarify my half-sister Kim's most recent reunion desires:Me: Well Kim's just trying to herd the family together at holiday-family-time. She's done it in the past and she'll do it in the future. This coming winter she'll have a teenage exchange student in her house and I think she's also interested in us all meeting her.
Her: But she doesn't seem to understand people's situations. My situation. I certainly can't afford it, and my brother is in no health to...
Me: Mom...It's just Kim—your daughter—being who she is. There's no reason to get all bent out of shape...
[Bent out of shape? When was the last time I used that phrase? 1987? How and why—when talking to my mother—do words that have been in long-term storage find their way to my tongue?]
...just because she wants to get her husband, and her husbands family, and you, and me, and your brother, and his family...all of us...all seated around a table for the first time in, er decades—that's no reason to get upset with her.
[when I said er I was thinking... we have never all been around a table. We have never been in a room together. We have never even occupied the same state of the union at one time. And I almost said: 'ever'. I suspect my 70-year-old Mom has never realized that fact. It caused me to add this ramble-rant...after she said:]
Her: I still don't think she gets it. She thinks that her jobs, and husband, and all the things that fill her days are so much more important than the things that I do. My days are full! The things and people in my life are just as important. She does not appreciate any of that. She thinks I can just drop what I'm doing and drive out there.
Me: But I think you are overlooking something. What I think she doesn't appreciate is that we—as a family—do not have what it takes, genetically, to get together. It's both genetic and environmental; but mostly it's genetic: Papa's (my grandfather) mother and father sent him to boarding school and he sent his son (my uncle) to boarding school. To send your child away—to be raised by others—requires an un-attach-ability that most parents don't have. Your grandmother passed it to your father. And, it's clear to me—that you passed it along to your children. Definitely to me. And, just look at Nanett. When was it? How long ago was it?
Her: Ahhmm mid 90's, maybe a dozen years ago?
[In 1995 my sister, Nanett, sued my mother and Kim (the executrix of the estate) because my deceased step-father (whom my mother divorced 6 months before he died) left my mother as sole beneficiary on a 401K...the money was given to my Mom, and Nanett wanted it. Three years of contentious court proceedings resulted in a 'win' for Nanett. Most of the money went to lawyers and court costs. As one would expect, it drove a wedge.]
Me: Mom, I have not exchanged a word with Nanett since then. Fourteen years, and I don't miss her. She and I never really got along, and I—clearly—remember how she was: When I visited, and we'd go out, it would always be: Oh hey, I forgot to cash a check like I intended to this week. Could you get this and I'll get you back next time? Only the next time it would be, I just spent all our money on the new carpeting, do you mind paying for this?
And then she would seem to always need 'a loan' or would ask if I could, 'spare a hundred bucks so she could fix something...like her car' always with the I-wouldn't-ask-but's attached. She divorced us, and I like being divorced from her. And I, obviously, have the genetic un-attach-ability gene because of Bram and Ian. I'm pretty sure I passed it along to them, too.
[Bram (born 1982) and Ian (born 1984) are my sons. I exchanged fluids with their mother for 16 months of the four year time-frame, that exists between the dates on the marriage and divorce certificates that bear our names. She remarried. He adopted. I signed an agreement to not interfere. When Bram and Ian each turned 18 I attempted contact and have made feeble attempts a few times since. Their messages are always clear: we don't want to know you.]
So, the way I see it, we prefer not to associate with our own family members because we genetically have the un-attach-ability gene, which has the lovely side-effect of causing a environment where we never witness our own extended family members relating to each other in any way, and that results in absolutely no extended-family memories to come into existence.
[It's not like I don't know what people without the un-attach-ability gene behave like: I have a friend who tells stories about his Italian-American family that always make me laugh. They fight and hurt each other (both physically and emotionally) every time they get together—and they get together all the time. They absolutely don't have the un-attach-ability gene...but I think one of them is going to eventually get killed because of it. Also, I recall accompanying a college friend to his home, in upstate Wisconsin, occasionally. He had an extended family that cared about each other, and—in his family—each member was honestly concerned about the well-being of each of the other members.]
Her: I don't know if it's genetic, Veach, it's just that Kim doesn't understand.
Me: She can't understand, Mom. She didn't get the un-attach-ability gene. Her Dad's family all liked to get together and reminisce...all the cousins and the brothers. They had family reunions! Don't you remember? If his family had been more cautious and healthier (they're almost all dead of accidents and diseases) Kim would be able to have get-together's with that half of her gene-pool.
I took a trip to see the beautiful things. Change of scenery. Change of heart. . .And they're still there. . .but they won't be there for long. . .that's why I went. To say goodbye. Whenever I travel, it's always to say goodbye. — Susan Sontag (I, etcetera, 1978)
A family's photograph album is generally about the extended family and, often, is all that remains of it. — Susan Sontag
The Hurt Locker
An exceptionally well told character-based story about a small unit of Explosive Ordinance Disposal (EOD) soldiers in Iraq. The characters are surprisingly solid, the dialogue is perfect, the setting is beyond better-than-believable. There are several emotional high points as well as suspense, tension, and truth.
For me, the best thing about it is: a film-maker has successfully handled this chilling war story, while the war is on-going. Where others have tried and failed (Stop-loss, Redacted, etc) this one succeeds.
Much of modern art is devoted to lowering the threshold of what is terrible. By getting us used to what, formerly, we could not bear to see or hear, because it was too shocking, painful, or embarrassing; art changes morals. — Susan Sontag
fip
Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship; in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place. — Susan Sontag
Analogy, Metaphor, or Simile?
Almost twenty years ago, the leader of Texas—who referred to himself as Chief President-General of the Lone Star Nation—ordered his troops to attack Oklahoma. At the time, he said the, '...little finger of land just never looked right up there.' And, he claimed, it had always been part of Texas.
It took the combined forces of California, New York, and Canada to force the Texan Militia back inside its borders (Oklahoma helped with money, but it never had much of a military). Six years ago, the Californian President decided to return to Texas and conquer it. Although the stated reasons were mostly propaganda-lies, the real reasons were to depose the Texas President-General (who was still acting very dictatorially villainous in the eyes of the California media), to gain access to Texas natural resources (which Californians were in need of), and to impose a democratic Texas government (that would be more user-friendly to Californians). The war lasted several years. Although almost two hundred thousand Texan-Christian soldiers and civilians were killed by Californians, only about five thousand Californian-non-theists soldiers were killed by Texans.
As soon as the Chief President General was executed, California's government and military began to take steps to build a veneer of democratic government around the existing Texan-Christian system. It was a very formidable goal. The next Texan problem the Californian military had to contend with were the violent battles between Texan Catholics, Baptists, and Presbyterians—each attempting to insure the “new democratic Texas” was governed by their beliefs. Thousands of Catholics were killed by Baptists (the majority of Texans are Baptist) and many more thousands of Baptists were killed by Catholics (some Presbyterians were killed but, mostly—as the obvious minority—they kept out of the way). The new Texas Constitution proclaims that Texas will make no laws that conflict with the New Testament Bible and proclaims Christianity as the sole source of Texan governance (without delineating between Baptists, Catholics, and Presbyterians). It includes a paragraph that allows the people of Texas to practice any religion they desire (within a small list...non-theism made the list...probably at California's insistence). Now, over 130,000 Californian-non-theist soldiers patrol and guard different Texas cities and California-Military-built-strongholds. The President of California has stated their continued presence is (among other things) to, '...prevent Texas-Christians from killing each other...,' but most of the world knows it is to ensure Texans continue to sell oil to Californians at the price Californians want to pay.
A small number of Californians continue to be killed every week. It appears most of the deaths—now—are being committed by Alabamian, Missourian, and Arizonan Christians, (even a Michigan Christian or two has made the trip). There is a fundamental Christian ground-swell—throughout many of the world's Christian members (but mainly from the formerly united nation-states) to, “go to Texas and kill some non-theists.” In some instances, the militant terrorists have little-or-no religious motivation, but are merely taking advantage of an opportunity to “eradicate meddling Californians.” Every day, the Texas borders between Mexico, New Mexico, Louisiana and Arkansas are crossed by citizens of the world who have been recruited by (what Dallas-based FOX News has termed) "staunch and staid Christian leaders" to blow up, snipe, or ambush Californian soldiers. In the words of one West Virginian Catholic priest, “...removing the infidels and heathens from the blessed Christian land of Texas is a saintly calling...there's no sin in the act of killing non-theists because they have no soul...”.
Although Californian soldiers in Texas have much less to worry about from the (now, mostly, un-armed) Texans, many Texans still provide food, shelter, and assistance to foreign-Christian mercenaries who are surging into Texas to (in their words) 'get some payback and legally hunt Californians.' A Kentucky Methodist who blew up a convoy of Californians last month, said to reporters (after returning to Paducah): “You jus can’t get the same adrenaline rush playin Grand Theft Auto, now can ya? This is my generation’s callin—know whut I mean? An when I get the chance to do The Lord’s work, even though it don’t pay as well as workin ov-to the WalMart, I...well...guess my reward was sendin some-a dose damn non-believers straight to hell without passin go! I'm on Jesus's team, that’s what! Dan-il Boone went to Texas to protect the Alamo...an I’m just fallin-in his footsteps.”
The aim of all commentary on art now should be to make works of art—and, by analogy, our own experience—more, rather than less, real to us. The function of criticism should be to show how it is what it is, even that it is what it is, rather than to show what it means. — Susan Sontag (author, philosopher and activist, 1933–2004)
Look, No Training Wheels!
Today,
Because this was his first "training hike" my plan was to carry him in his pack until I was on a pedestrian trail, let him out, and then slowly stroll behind him as he explored for a half hour or so (ready to grab him when any hikers—especially hikers with dogs—appeared).
This was to be just a familiarization tour. "See, this is what the forest looks and smells and sounds like." "No, don't crawl into those brambles" "I'm walking on the path, come walk with me." (only with no dialogue; just clicks, come-here's, and good-boy's.)
Preparation: Beach towel in the bottom of the pack; zip-pockets with a bottle of water, 20cc syringe, small container of kibble, day-glo orange kitty collar, and training "clicker".
1/10th of the mile into the forest (still on the fire road) and Pow is pushing at the pack's zipper. I let him out and, immediately, we are hiking. Full walk. Striding out.
He never leaves the trail and consistently stays ahead. Five minutes into the hike, a couple approaches ahead of us. Pow stops, turns and comes back to me. I pick him up. The couple and I talk (Pow doesn't try to get down) when I continue to hike, he struggles to get down and...back to hiking.
First pedestrian trail on the right—he heads down it like it was the only destination. I follow. For the next
For the next .25 mile, he's a bit underfoot and reluctant to dash ahead. He also meows some, so I pick him up and carry him (until he indicates he wants down).
On two occasions, he raises his hackles; I pick him up and listen. Nothing. (I assume these reactions are to sounds and/or smells unavailable to my miserable excuse for ears and nostrils.)
We take a break. Beach towel unfurled, drink water, and rest for ten minutes. He never leaves the towel.
At the 1.25 mile point, Pow is slowing (me too). The terrain, which up to now was downhill or flat, is now a gradual uphill climb along a ridge-line. He's no longer dashing ahead much, instead he sticks with me or follows 5-feet behind. We take another break at the 1.75 mile mark and Pow naps under my arm for about 15 minutes.
We explore the woods a little, then back to the trail. I can see he's tired—I zip him in the backpack for the last few 10ths of a mile.
I hiked 2.25 miles; Pow probably hiked 1.75 miles.
I am amazed by his stamina, ability, and natural stick-to-the-path-edness, which I can't say I've witnessed before. It took me 10+ hours to train my last cat to hike and there were still some days when we'd hike for 0.5 mile and he'd crawl under a shady log 'fuckit, nap-time' and others when he'd head into dense brush 'Path? Silly human. I prefer this direction, follow me."
Color me giddy-up glorious purple as pleased plum pudding (with tired feet).
I feel that I have it in my soul to become one of the great artists of the age and that future historians will remember me not for what I have done for Germany, but for my art. — Adolf Hitler (unimaginative and dull painter; gifted with the ability to be horribly wrong about almost every thought that entered his head).
Dew Drops Too
The earth’s atmosphere is a (relatively) closed system, which has trapped water on the planet since the earth formed about 4.5 billion years ago or after comets crash-brought it here billions of years ago (or both...there are theories).
Nonetheless...
There are about 326 million trillion gallons of water on earth. The same 326 with eighteen zeros gallons that has been here (relatively) forever.
The water cycle which began billions of years ago and has been going on (relatively) forever is: evaporation/transpiration
→ condensation → precipitation → collection → evaporation (ad infinitum).Animal life began over ½ billion (500 million+) years ago.
Dinosaurs roamed the earth for over 160 million years.
Humans have been here for (maybe, about) a few hundred thousand years.
The average human consumes over 12,000 gallons of water in his or her lifetime.
The human body is 65% water.
Every living being that ever lived—fish, animal, insect, dinosaur, human, neanderthal (you get the picture)—drank its full lifetimes worth of water.
Many tens of thousands of those species were very much larger than your average human.
There have been an uncountable trillion of zillions of living beings drinking from that 326 with 18 zeros gallons, for the past hundreds of millions of years.
Therefore...
Every drop of liquid we drink has already been drunk many times over.
So...
The cleanest drop of distilled arctic glacier water on the planet today...was slurped out of a bog by a hypsilophodont
→ who pissed it into a stream → where it evaporated and eventually rained out of a cloud → and was cycled through a few dozen other crawling and swimming and flying things → before eventually getting trapped in an arctic snowstorm a few thousand years ago.I’m sure you've heard the phrase: "we're all be made of stardust"; but more to the point, we are definitely all made of piss.
Drink up.
I have never used the word 'Blitzkrieg', because it is a very silly word. — Adolf Hitler
Healthy Hike
Today we hiked in Forest Park along the Leif Erickson Trail, which is an eleven mile, one-lane, dirt & gravel road (off-limits to motorized vehicles) located within Portland's city limits.
As we were walking through the forest (being passed by the occasional jogger and bicyclist) I recalled a recent conversation with a friend. Our conversation touched on health issues and she commented that she thought I was real healthy. My response was more about the semantics of the word 'healthy' than anything. In a way, I must have sounded like I was claiming poor health.
She is my age (50) and her husband is no more than seven years older. He just had both hips replaced. She told me about the procedure and about his quick recovery as well as the total cost (US$180,000.00). This surgery is the latest in a long list of diseases, disorders, and down-right bizarre conditions that my friend and her husband have been diagnosed with over the past dozen years. They each take an amazing regimen of pharmaceuticals (12-20+ pills a day), and although I don't know all the diagnosed diseases—Lupus, MS, and hemochromatosis (too much iron in the blood) are three I do recall.
When I think about the odds of a single person having five to seven serious, debilitating, medical ailments...all which require drug treatment and/or surgery, I think someone is being less than honest with someone else. Either I am being lied to by my friend, or doctors are duping her and her husband.
In regards to my ''good health", I explained my hatred of the medical system and, specifically, my distrust of doctors—and that her impression was based on a non-existent 'clean bill of health'. I told her that I could be extremely unhealthy, but because I never go to doctors (nor do I comment about my health) it was not something anyone would know about until I was dead.
As explanation, I told her about my self-treatments for a broken foot (2004) and rib (2007); I didn't tell her about my other "symptoms of aging". I will—undoubtedly—die of something, someday (and it may be sooner rather than later...that is, if any of us live beyond 2012). My future heart attack or stroke or tumor may even have been postpone-able or patch-able or even curable...but (alas) won't have been, because I won't have seen a doctor about its symptoms.
Each year I hear about the complaints, and treatments, for more and more serious medical problems from my friend (I suspect they have paid for many a yacht and Maserati for many an MD). I rarely talk about my health, but, I may not be healthier.
Man has a gift for seizing hold of what is beautiful. And what inexhaustible riches the world contains for the man who knows how to enjoy his senses! Moreover, nature has given man the desire to make others share in the joys he feels. The beautiful always claims its right to primacy. — Adolf Hitler
June Solstice
Today is the June Solstice (1st Day of Summer in the Northern Hemisphere and 1st Day of Winter in the Southern Hemisphere) and the longest/shortest day of the year. In Portland, today, the sunrise was just about 5am and the sunset was about 9:30pm. The temperatures, for our 1st day of Summer were wonderful (high of 77F low of 54F) with partly cloudy skies, intermittent showers, and a slight breeze. A good day to be a Portlander, no matter how liberal that means you are.
...burn out all the recent immoral developments...burn out the poison of immorality which has entered into our whole life and culture as a result of past liberal excesses. — Adolf Hitler (in a speech proclaiming his staunch conservative christian beliefs)
etch-essomenic
If degenerate artists see fields blue, they are deranged, and should go to an asylum; if they only pretend to see them blue, they are criminals, and should go to prison. — Adolf Hitler
Curiouser and Curiouser
Powell, 4 months
I am providing this to avoid being cited by feline-failure-to-post-a-feckin-foto enforcement officials.
More importantly (and to insure you don't think this has become one of those) I pose this rhetorical observation:
Because I do not happen to own a book of Hitler's writings or quotes, I used a small strand of the web to find some of what he said or wrote. This month, I decided, would be Adolf's month not only because I wanted to know what the web would reference for a notoriously bad guy (and since he was prolific and outspoken, I chose him) but, mostly, because I thought that evil people probably say the darnedest things.
Before I could get to that strand of the web, I let the google do its thing. But, it declined.
Normally, I would type a few letters and it would give me ten options and I'd scroll-click. Not this time. All the way to 'a.d.o.l.f. .h.i.t.l.e' . . . and not listed as a suggestion. I found the lack of his name in the suggestion drop-down rather baffling.
It is there now. Obviously. As soon as I type 'a.d', but that's because I'm treading trodden ground.
The first time around though, the google didn't want me to learn about the bad man. It caused me to mutter, 'Open the door Hal'.
That was my first curious hmmm. My second hmmmm (a bit longer) came as I scanned the things he is attributed with saying. I try to make some association with the topic of my post in the quote. Not always. And the quote I choose does not always have a connection that's readily apparent to others, but I try. Not so easy with this extremely insane Austrian.
Every quote engine has the same few dozen (or less) quotes. Almost all of them paint a very bleak picture. To scan his quotes is to see he was a bigoted dullard. A manipulative, fucktard. Not very imaginative. Not very well spoken.
The weak offerings from the quote engines may be sufficient for someone writing a 3-page paper for World History Class, but it only makes me want to know where the real writings are; because it's too much like the google declining to help me.
A lengthy search did uncover some translations of his writings; I still haven't found any direct quotes about pets, or his dogs, or animals in general. So, this will suffice.
A meeting between two beings who complete one another, who are made for each other, borders already, in my opinion, on a miracle. — Adolf Hitler
New Cat
Decided it was time (the 14 months without a cat was fine, but it was time), so I looked for a month or so and finally found and brought home a 3 to 4-month-old kitten from a shelter.
He's mostly white with black splashes. Some of the black spitter-splashed in a smattering of small speckles...so he has almost a Dalmatian-thing going in coloration (but not in shedding). Although he is a domestic shorthair, his coat is extremely short and slick—like a seal's—and there's a sizable dollop of Abyssinian in his not-too-distant ancestry, so he has large ears and a small, pointy head (which lends him a Spuds Mckenzie-thing in the looks department).
I've named him Powell. I call him Pow.
He has been living here for five days and has demonstrated:
He's mostly white with black splashes. Some of the black spitter-splashed in a smattering of small speckles...so he has almost a Dalmatian-thing going in coloration (but not in shedding). Although he is a domestic shorthair, his coat is extremely short and slick—like a seal's—and there's a sizable dollop of Abyssinian in his not-too-distant ancestry, so he has large ears and a small, pointy head (which lends him a Spuds Mckenzie-thing in the looks department).
I've named him Powell. I call him Pow.
He has been living here for five days and has demonstrated:
- Fetching. Throw a wad of paper, it's returned in short order to be re-thrown.
- He easily drinks from a syringe placed in the corner of this mouth. This is essential to taking cats hiking in the wild...so I can decide when and how much he needs to re-hydrate. It also makes administering liquid medications simple.
- He sleeps near my shoulder or curled under an arm (it is important to me that he enjoys human proximity). Also, a plus because our other cat, Aggie, prefers the between-our-legs spot.
- Allows the clipping of nails, the administering of earmiticide, and immersion in water without display of anger or fear (not that he loved a bath, just that he tolerated it).
- Socializes wonderfully with other cats (ours and a couple of locals who visit routinely).
- Rides in a car (in and out of a carrier) with no problems or complaint.
- Not overly boisterous. He has a diminutive vocal range, and seems to use quiet vocalizations rather than loud or incessant ones.
- Will drink out of a plastic water bottle cap held in my hand (valuable for when he's thirsty and a larger receptacle is not available).
- Doesn't extend his claws or forcibly bite when engaging in pseudo-aggressive play behavior.
- Follows me when I walk ahead (for 200+ feet). This was done only in a controlled setting, but it looks promising that he may be able, and willing, to hike with me when he gets older.
- Still working on: 'No', 'Come here' and his name as a 'pay attention to me' signal. Need to test his ability to ride in a cat-backpack. Need to locate an 'open' area (visually) to train him to hike. Establish wearing a collar = going hiking.
Films - Early Summer
UP - Pixar continues to generate greatness. It will make you cry and laugh; for adults who like an intelligent story behind their animation.
The HANGOVER - You will explode with laughter every ten minutes; not really the film the trailer paints it to be.
AWAY WE GO - A couple in love, who stay in love all the way through the film; more about all the "crazy other people" (in the world)...since I generally hate people in general, this film played to that part of me.
STAR TREK (2009) - A superbly scripted and produced story. Action SF at its best.
Beatbox by Daichi
True genius is always inborn and never cultivated, let alone learned. — Adolf Hitler, Mien Kampf
Think about Thinking (Just This One Time)
When was the last time you thought for yourself?
It is a simple question.
Immediately, one wants to—jumps to, knee-jerks to—say:
I always think for myself. Because the obverse is to admit to being a proud member of the follower-masses. But. Think about it. Think about thinking.How do you pick a film, listen to a song, or buy an outfit?
Do you purchase anything—from the smooth creaminess spread on your soft-crusty-whole-grain-goodness, to the quantity of dots per inch on this screen—without first seeking advice, doing research and comparing your need-desire with your budget?No?
Are you thinking for yourself—then—or are you asking for and allowing marketing specialists (formal and informal) to be your umpires?
When a new slice of information hits your eardrum and lodges into your neurons—do you allow that snip of data to stand?
Do you question it? Do you seek out the actual facts, or do you accept what ‘someone says was said’?Are you a critical thinker or have you chosen an information provider, which shapes and spices the data it provides so that it informs your mental palate in a manner that does not upset your subjectively slanted sensibilities?
Or... are you open and objective?
The 1st Amendment to the US Constitution, which prevents the government from limiting religion, free-speech or the press, is a double-edged sword.
While it allows me to say (here, for example) whatever I want, it also permits Rupert Murdock to broadcast any fiction, on all of his news outlets—from print, to TV, to the internet. I may get read by two or three. He will be BELIEVED by millions.Are you a tool?
Are you one of Murdock’s millions?I am not saying that FOX News should not be watched, nor that the New York Post or Wall Street Journal or The Times should not be read, nor that American Idol or hulu should not be viewed, nor that MySpace should not be used (all owned by Murdock) what I am saying is—be a critical thinker.
And. Stop. Listening. To. Talking. Heads. They. Are. Only. Making. You. Bleat.baaa.
[For more on Murdock: his picture above, and the title of this post, are informative links.]
All propaganda has to be popular and has to accommodate itself to the comprehension of the least intelligent of those whom it seeks to reach. — Adolf Hitler
Fetching Summer
Learn from the mistakes of others. You can’t live long enough to make them all yourself. — Eleanor Roosevelt
Never Ending Sun
Surely, in the light of history, it is more intelligent to hope rather than to fear, to try rather than not to try. For one thing we know beyond all doubt: Nothing has ever been achieved by the person who says, `It can't be done.' — Eleanor Roosevelt, You Learn By Living (1960)
Fractured and Vibrant Echoes
After exchanging comment volleys, I couldn't leave the thought alone. I started picking at it and decided to expand-expound.What did this Nietzsche quote mean?
My thoughts: when one spends a quantifiable amount of anything (hours, brain-cells, words, brushstrokes, it-matters-not-what) on creating something, I think the result is the echo Nietzsche was listening for.
My drive to create has resulted in more than a few select two-dimensional echoes, or reflections of my inner self, which I proudly hang on my—and other people's—walls. Shouting to hear the echoes captures this action-idea in its barest simplicity. And my vague memory of Davecat's (years ago) statement that a web log containing many-years (decades?) of essays is a portrait of a persons life, an accomplishment, a digital distillation or reflection of a person's gestalt ... or something like that, I don't recall his exact words and now that I think about it, I may be attributing words to Davecat that he never typed. But, anyway.A created object is a reflection of the author-creator-artists imagination.
Although the intent of the creator was, initially, primarily and ultimately, to see what his brain could create—to translate something from his imagination to reality—once it was created, and (as Ditz has correctly pointed out) the creator has made the decision that it is finished, it immediately becomes subject to criticism. This includes self-criticism.Praise is what Nietzsche was disappointed to receive; because praise is (almost always) synonymous with apathy.
About 90% of those comments are pap—each saying less than nothing; muttering their praises because if they don’t...I guess, nobody will know they were there, right? (If ANYONE knows of a blog where this is not true, where the majority of the more than two-dozen plus comments are viable, helpful, insightful and interesting, please point me there!) In a deeper ring of hell than that which broils sycophantic blog comment-ers are: micro-blog Twitter-ers and their constant desire to amass followers who will read their rarely thoughtful, mostly vacuous, and wholly innocuous tweets (and the reply-comments they spawn).An artist receives praise with a skeptical smile, but welcomes derision, comparative-criticism, and advice (no matter how unhelpful) with a warm embrace.
In my case, viewers who tell me what they see in my digital renderings are great, because my creations are nurtured by pareidolia and are mostly-worthless to those who are unable (or unwilling) to be afflicted by the phenomenon.Revised/re-posted Apr 2020
You get more joy out of the giving to others, and should put a good deal of thought into the happiness you are able to give. — Eleanor Roosevelt
wally day
digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009
The word liberal comes from the word free. We must cherish and honor the word free or it will cease to apply to us. — Eleanor Roosevelt
WWII Investigation
trees cat die family trees cat dieunless their cut down — Graffiti, on street-side of an electric box, in black marker
Thirteen years ago—1996, Stuttgart Germany—my small, three-man office received a request for a preliminary investigation from the office of General Shalikashvili, the Chairman of the US Army Joint Chiefs of Staff (the equivalent of the President of the US contacting Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry). By the time the ‘request for preliminary investigation’ made its way thru the chain-of-command pipeline it had been transformed into a directive for an immediate full-investigation.
Back-story: More than a decade earlier (before 1985) -then- Lieutenant Colonel (LTC) Shalikashvili worked with CPT Expat, who later retired as a LTC, in -then- West Germany, where he bought a home and remained. LTC (retired) ExPat went to his local Gasthaus to do what one does there—drink great beer and talk.
In 1996: LTC (retired) Expat meets an elderly gentleman who tells him about witnessing US Soldiers execute German POWs by firing squad, during the last few months of WWII, and, later, meeting a survivor of the same firing squad he had witnessed. LTC (retired) Expat writes a letter to GEN Shalikashvili...
...And I receive a directive to investigate the 51-year-old murder of German POWs by US soldiers.
I interviewed the elderly German witness (using my interpreter). This is the important part of his statement:
...In 1945 I was nineteen. The war had turned. Everyone knew it was going to be lost; by that I mean the other soldiers in my unit all talked about losing. I left my unit and for about a month I moved only at night until I got back to my hometown. It was not easy, but I was able to avoid the German units as well as the Americans who were advancing behind me from the southwest.I got some more details from Herr Deserter and then located Herr Shakenbake, who lived about 100 miles away. He explained the following:
Once I returned to my village, I could not stay in my house because, since I was a deserter, they might come looking for me and if they caught me my family would be in trouble for hiding me. So I hid and slept in different fields and barns, only coming out to get food. For weeks the artillery shelling had been getting closer to my village and one day I was hiding in a barn on the south edge of the village when I heard gunfire very close. I peeked out through the slats in the barn after I heard voices in English and saw three Americans shouting and pointing their rifles at the woods to the east of the village. Three German soldiers came out of the woods and the American soldiers marched them, with their hands on their heads, up towards the village Gasthaus where I lost sight of them.
I thought the Americans would soon search the barn, so I found a way to get under the floor. I could see through a chink in the mortar. Whenever I heard noises I would peek out. After maybe an hour or more I watched as they lined up seven or eight German soldiers on their knees behind the Gasthaus. One of the Americans, with this symbol on his arm (Master Sergeant) was very angry and kept yelling and waiving his arms. I don’t know if he saw me peeking through the crack or what, but he eventually got a bazooka and fired into the barn. The barn caught on fire. I stayed.
After about another hour, in the late afternoon, the Americans got the Germans up off their knees and marched them towards the barn. Near the short stone wall that is behind the Gasthaus, they shot all of them with hand-held machine guns. I couldn’t see them after they fell, because the wall blocked my view. After sunset I crept out of the barn because the smoke was getting bad.
About twenty years later, I met Herr Realucky. He came to the village Gasthaus and told me and others about that day and explained he was one of the eight who got shot that day. I have also met another man who was here that day who hid in the oven and was not discovered, his name is Herr Shakenbake.
The Americans were advancing so fast that our unit didn’t have time to pick-up and move our equipment. We barely escaped being killed and hid in the woods. After a couple days a small group of us hiked through the forest for a few miles until we got to this village. We thought the Americans were probably one or two days behind us, so we went to the Gasthaus to eat. There was three in my group and there were others already eating there. Before our food arrived, however, the waitress came rushing in and told us the Americans were in the town. I ran down the back stairs and hid in the cellar. I heard the Americans come into the Gasthaus and I thought I would be discovered, so I climbed into the unused stone oven that was located just off the stairway. About 30 minutes later, the Americans came down and one even looked in the oven but, I must have been far enough back in the shadows because he didn’t see me. I couldn’t hear anything. Every once in a while—over the next three days—I heard a couple explosions, and once I heard talking in English in the stairway. On the fourth day the waitress came and told me they were gone. It was night. I returned to my home town after that. But I return to that Gasthaus once every couple of years to thank the waitress who saved my life.Herr Shakenbake had no additional knowledge to provide, so I located Herr Realucky. This is his story:
I was in the village Gasthaus eating when three more soldiers arrived. They didn’t talk to us probably because we wore brown uniforms. I was German artillery who wore brown, just like the brown shirts did, but I was not a brown shirt (storm-trooper). I and a friend had survived the artillery shelling that killed most of our unit and were moving ahead of the advancing Americans. The waitress told us that the Americans were already in the town and we hid in an upstairs bedroom. I was in a wardrobe (closet) when they came in and captured us.Herr Realucky asked me why I was investigating this now, after all these years. All I could tell him was: “Murder is murder, and there was no statute of limitations on it.”
We were put on our knees behind the Gasthaus and searched. There were eight of us. Our belts and personal belongings were removed and they shouted questions at us. None of us understood English and none of them spoke German. After a while one of them got in an argument with a couple others and he shot a rifle in the woods and in the air, then he threw some grenades in the woods and at the barn, then he got out a bazooka and shot the barn with it. I could see the barn catch on fire. It looked like he killed a couple of cows. I don’t know why he was so angry.
They left us on our knees for the longest time, maybe two hours, then they stood us up and I thought they were going to march us to a prisoner camp. But as we turned left and began to head toward the road, they told us to halt and turn toward the barn. Then I knew they were going to shoot us. I had my hands folded on top of my head and I turned just enough to look under my arm at them and saw they were lined up behind us and they were bringing up their rifles. The second I heard the first shot I fell to the ground.
I was only hit with one bullet. It entered my left lower back and exited a little higher near my ribcage on the left (scars verified). After the initial shots I thought they would come up and finish us off, but they didn’t. For a few minutes there were some groaning and gasping from the other seven, but then they were all quiet. I could tell they were all dead. I’d fallen with my face turned away from the Gasthaus and I could hear the Americans talking and moving around. As the afternoon approached evening I slowly turned my head to face toward the Gasthaus. It took about 30 minutes to turn my head completely around. But one of the Americans must have seen me move or something, because I heard him approaching. I had my eyes open and I held my breath. He looked at my face and kicked me in the side but it wasn’t the side where I had been shot and I didn’t blink or move. He must have been convinced because he kicked a couple others and left. I didn’t finish trying to move my head, I just laid still for three or four more hours.
Once it was full dark, I crawled south and east. I moved for many hours and just before dawn I smelled cigarette smoke. I didn’t know if I had come up to an American or German unit so I just waited. After maybe a half-hour I heard someone walking on cobblestones and I could tell the boots had nails in the soles, which is the way German uniform boots sounded, so I whispered in German and they called me in.
I told my story to several people. I was transferred to a few different hospitals. Maybe four months later, the war was over, and I was taken to tell my story to a Major who spoke German but he was not German. He was from a NATO country and he was investigating war crimes. After I told my story, he said, “You must be mistaken. The Americans didn’t shoot POWs. If you were telling me the Russians did this, well then I would believe you, but not the Americans. Why are you making this lie? Are you a trouble maker?” I could see how this was going, so I told him I was not a trouble maker, left, and never told anyone else in authority my story. I have lived my life and it has become a distant memory.
I identified the unit of the soldiers. I identified a list of well over 200 people who may have been assigned to that unit during the late 1944-mid 1945 time-frame (over twenty were Master Sergeants). I sent my paperwork higher. I have no idea what—if anything—was ever done.
What do you think should have been done?
If the old-American-soldiers were located and confessed to shooting and killing unarmed prisoners of war, what should have been done to those 70 to 85 year old men?
Why do so many Americans hold strongly to mistaken beliefs, that: ‘we are better than that’ or ‘we don’t do that’? (You can fill in the ‘that’ with anything: torture; shoot POWs; kill innocent people; commit genocide; etc.) In what universe do we really not do these things?
I can not believe that war is the best solution. No one won the last war, and no one will win the next war. — Eleanor Roosevelt (niece of President Theodore Roosevelt, wife of President Franklin Roosevelt)
Adore Myths
digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009
Beautiful young people are accidents of nature, but beautiful old people are works of art. — Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962)
Anatomical Doll - strip
With a snide but oh so smarmy wink and nod to Davecat at Shouting to Hear the Echoes I present my first single-cell comic: 
The only things one can admire at length, are those one admires without knowing why. — Eleanor Roosevelt (first lady - twelve years; delegate to the UN - nine years)
The only things one can admire at length, are those one admires without knowing why. — Eleanor Roosevelt (first lady - twelve years; delegate to the UN - nine years)
Eta Aquarid Meteor Showers
The Eta Aquarids are predicted to reach a peak of about a meteor-a-minute. The peak will be the night of Tuesday, 5 May. Best being the morning hours of 6 May, before dawn. Unfortunately for us in the Northern Hemisphere, we'll have to look lower towards the Eastern horizon to see the 'originating point' of these Meteor Showers; people in the Southern Hemisphere will see them higher in the sky.The Eta Aquarids are caused by the Earth passing through the debris of Halley's Comet.
The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience. — Eleanor Roosevelt (wife, as well as distant cousin, of F. D. Roosevelt)
Sean Murray 195?-2009
Later, I recognize the guy from the photo, get a pleasant vibe from him, and introduce myself by saying, "Well, if it isn't the goddamn devil." To which we laugh and discuss the photo. I learn he is gay. He learns I am not. I learn he is a local radio announcer. We talk about our shared art interests. He talks music. I talk about my hiking Siamese cat.
He was always as full of stories as he was a patient listener. The last night we hung out we—my paramour, he, and I—went to a Jazz bar in PDX Oldtown/Chinatown. He may have had a slight cold, but mostly he was kind-of-sad because he'd not emotionally recovered from the recent death of his cat. As he told the story of his pet curling up on his chest and heaving her final sigh, I cried for a cat I'd never met.
I got an e-mail from him in March: he was in the hospital after having four lymph nodes removed.
We spoke on the phone ten days ago: he was bluntly non-optimistic. Cancer. Moving very fast. Woozy from medication, he told me 'he didn't think he'd live to see summer'. And I told him I'd come visit the first week in May.
He died in his home last night.
You will be missed, Sean. I didn't know you for very long, but even short friendships can be strong ones.
The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody else up. — Mark Twain
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