ΒΊ F (42ΒΊ C) in Portland today—with a humidity level of about 25%. Phoenix, Arizona and Death Valley Junction, California, are maybe a degree hotter (but their humidity levels are 10-15% lower...oh yea, and they have air-conditioning).
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.
The Griffin Family lives in Rhode Island.
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.
There are episodes that stick with me.
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:
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)
→ condensation → precipitation → collection → evaporation (ad infinitum).
→ 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 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. 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? Do you question it? Do you seek out the actual facts, or do you accept what ‘someone says was said’? 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 one of Murdock’s millions? And. Stop. Listening. To. Talking. Heads. They. Are. Only. Making. You. Bleat.
After exchanging comment volleys, I couldn't leave the thought alone. I started picking at it and decided to expand-expound. 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. 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. 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). 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.
trees cat die family trees cat die...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.
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 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.
I honestly despise every bit and byte of the most recent revelations from the sunset stained stucco-and-concrete hued neurons in y...
