tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60424749168688656502024-03-27T00:35:23.412-04:00Shadow FlutterJournal -- Odds & Ends and Other MiscellanyShadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.comBlogger96125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-50356080422859564112022-10-07T08:45:00.005-04:002022-10-07T08:46:50.317-04:00My Eclectic Reading Interests<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 24px;">I’m reading </span><i class="" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold;">Sea of Rust</i><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 24px;">, by C. Robert Cargill. It’s a post-war, post apocalyptic, post-human world. The machines won the war and got rid of us all because we didn’t treat them well. But things aren’t turning out as planned. Sometimes liberation is awfully confining. The machines are suffering existential angst because it turns out</span><b class="" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 24px;"> </b><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 24px;">machines don’t treat machines any better than humans did . . . and to make things worse there are a couple of badass mainframes rounding up liberation loving machines for spare parts. And as if that isn’t enough, there is a shortage of WD-40. What else could go wrong?</span><div class="" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 24px;"><br class="" /></div><div class="" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 24px;">I might be confusing that last one with something else, but you get the idea.<br class="" /><div class=""><br class="" /></div><div class="">It’s truly amazing how human-like these oppressed machines are. It’s as if we are still around. I think the author wants to say something profound about the plight of humanity, and to do so he needs all the machines to be as human as possible. After all, readers don’t care about alien existential angst. They have their own angst to care about.</div><div class=""><br class="" /></div><div class="">Next Up, <b class="">The Prize, </b>by Daniel Yergen. This book is all about oil. The greatest, most powerful, most influential commodity in the world. Whoever controls energy runs the world. The book is massive, and the story of oil is fascinating. Yergen starts at the beginning in the U.S., back when oil just oozed onto the earth’s surface, and a passerby could scrape it up and make a quick million. If this reminds you of Jed Clampett and the Beverly Hillbillies, join the club. I can’t wait for the sequel. They say it reminds people of Green Acres. My favorite TV sitcom ever. Eva Gabor was a comic genius.</div><div class=""><br class="" /></div><div class=""><br class="" /></div><div class="">Before I left the bookstore, my eyes caught a glimpse of Chernov’s <b class="">Grant, </b>and I just had to have it. If there is a book in this world bigger than the Prize, it has to be Grant. I need a forklift to move these two books, but they are multi-purpose. Not only do I while away the hours reading them, I can also stack them on top of each other in the hall and replace that light bulb that burnt out back in the days when books were normal size. </div><div class=""><br class="" /></div></div><p><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 24px;">Have a great day!</span> </p>Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-29469850558075779772022-09-04T08:53:00.003-04:002022-09-05T05:51:50.356-04:00I Used to Know This Place<p><span style="font-size: large;"> I used to know this place. I sit down in an unfamiliar chair at an unfamiliar table. The table set is one of many. They look efficient and modern, with angles and edges everywhere. How nice, i think. It isn't until I start reading a book that I realize how unsuited they are for reading. You see, I like to hold onto the book I'm reading when sitting at a table or desk. This means my arms lie on the table and its edges, but as soon as I do that, the edges cut into my forearms. These are not reading tables. They are sharp, knife-like and unsanded, unfit for reading. There should be signs warning patrons not to touch edges or angles. WARNING!! TABLES ARE NOT FOR READING. To prevent lacerations and unnecessary bleeding, keep arms and elbows a safe distance from edges and angles. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm at the local public library, a place I used to frequent often but last set foot in at the beginning of the Covid pandemic. The choice was not mine but the library's. They -- the powers that be -- shut the physical library down to patrons turning its focus to ebooks and checking out books online. If a patron wanted to read a physical book, he or she placed a hold on the book on the library's website, and the library notified him or her when it was ready for pickup. Patrons did not enter the library to pickup books they placed on hold. No, they drove to the library, parked in one of the assigned parking spaces, texted the library with their name and library card number, and waited for a librarian to come outside and place their books on a table in front of the parking space. When the librarian left, they could exit their car and retrieve their books. This is still done.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now the library has reopened, but I no longer recognize it. People are still leery of covid, or are they? Before there was Covid, the library was packed with people, and there were to few tables and chairs to go around. But the tables and chairs it did have were comfortable. Now the library has uncomfortable tables and chairs, lots of them, but no patrons to sit at them. Is it the fear of Covid or the fear of slicing one's forearms and elbows that keeps patrons away? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And tht isn't the only thing that's different. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The library used to be filled to overflowing with books, especially nonfiction books. Now the shelves are empty and lonely. They beckon for company. Any book will do. Just, please, sit on the shelf for a while and make the shelf happy. Perhaps this has to do with turning the library's focus towards ebooks. Maybe that's where the money goes? I don't know. But what happened to all the books they used to have? Did they sell them? Give them away? Why would they disappear? A mystery.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Here's another mystery. Last time I was here, the nonfiction section had all kinds of hard science, history, biography, and current events books on display. Now the display cases are filled with books on race, self-help, therapy, and LGTBQ books. Hard science and history is not to be found. The emphasis has completely changed, and I'm left wondering why it's one and not the other instead of both.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And then there are the magazines and newspapers. We used to have a wide selection of magazines and newspapers from all over the world. Now there are only empty slots where magazines and newspapers once lay. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If the library was a business, I would be thinking it's financially unsound and will be filing for bankruptcy any day now. -- sort of like Bed, Bath, and Beyond, if you have been in one lately. But the library is funded by us taxpayers, and it should be one of the last institutions left standing. Even in a dystopian future, there should be libraries. Right? Change is swift, and I thought I had become accustomed to quick change, but I don't know if I can adapt to this. This is too much. Time to hang up my reading glasses and go on a hike in the country with my brand new digital camera that lets me email photos to friends as soon as I snap the shots.</span></p><p><br /></p>Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-37102936937084562092022-08-24T08:21:00.002-04:002022-08-24T08:21:44.265-04:00Marvin Gardens<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> I just finished this wonderful essay by John McPhee. McPhee is playing a game of Monopoly with a friend of his, an old monopoly competitor from years of yore, a time when life was simpler and everyone played board games. As MePhee plays the game, he reminisces about his time visiting Atlantic City, the town the monopoly game board is based on. His reminisces mix history with his own imaginings of how things must have been at one time living in Atlantic City. What is remarkable about the essay is how fluidly McPhee mixes history and imaginings into the game he's playing. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">McPhee is in search of Marvin Gardens, one of the squares -- the last yellow square to be precise -- on the game board. All the squares are streets and locations in Atlantic City. He has been there and found each and every one of those streets and places, except, of course, Marvin Gardens. Marvin Gardens he can't find anywhere, and no one he asks has ever heard of it. (I guess the residents of Atlantic City don't play Monopoly.). Eventually McPhee finds it, but he doesn't tell us how. It's not in Atlantic City. It's a housing development sub-section somewhere else in New Jersey. What? Huh? I'm thinking the original developer ran out of places in Atlantic City, and he needed one more to maintain the square, so he went driving one day through the jersey countryside until he found a pretty name. Or maybe he lived there? Or maybe we will never know?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The essay is a prize and a prize winner, and I hope to be as creative as McPhee with my writing when I grow up. Reading it got my wanderlust all in a flutter, so I looked up the game of Monopoly in Wikipedia. Turns out Monopoly is a successor game to the "Landlord's Game," a game whose inventor's idea was to condemn monopolies while promoting Henry George's economic and taxation ideas. You can look up Henry George for yourself. He's worth a read. Thousands and thousands of people attended his funeral in the early 20th century, so at one time his ideas were popular. But now he is a forgotten man. What I found remarkable about this history is the irony in it. Here we have an anti-capitalist, anti-monopoly game, and out of it comes its successor, Monopoly, which is the all time capitalist game, whose sole goal is one winner, one landlord, one monopoly left standing. Have to love that twist.</span></p>Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-14255087470194727022019-08-17T16:30:00.000-04:002019-08-17T16:32:52.170-04:00Book Review: Possession, by AS ByattRating: 3/5<br />
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What saved this book from a 2 rating was the last few chapters. They were well done, and there was closure for characters and readers.<br />
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The author, Byatt, struck out on an ambitious undertaking, and I admired her effort. But I think she over did it by inserting herself into the narrative and laying it on thick with her own descriptive powers.<br />
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Byatt likes a lot -- and I do mean a lot -- of minute, detailed, useless hyphenated descriptions. For example, one can't just sip a cup of coffee in this novel, one must sip a cup of "walnut-colored Nescafe." I don't know about you, but I have never seen another color of Nescafe other than the walnut-colored kind -- not without adding a lot of creme anyway. But whether there is or there is not, can't we all just sip the coffee and assume it's the color of every other cup of coffee we have ever laid eyes on and get on with the story? Over describing once or twice is a foible; lots of times is a neurosis. Byatt is a flaming neurotic. <br />
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Byatt's writing sometimes reminds me of a leisurely stroll in the park when one has no particular place to go. Except Byatt does have a particular place to go. In fact, she has an entire story to tell, and she needs to get on with it. Maybe she has all day, but I don't. I suspect you don't either.<br />
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I never complain about the length of a book. My book-philosophy is all good books are just the right length, while all bad ones are never the right length. At least that's how I've always seen it. But now that I've read Possession, something needs to be said about its length. It's too damn long. It's way too damn long. It's so way too damn long that this reader will never use a hyphen again. Nor will he use another adjective to describe anything (after this review of course). Nor will he take another stroll in the park. See what overuse of description can do? It can turn your readers into neurotics. Maybe thats the point. Why go through a neurosis alone when one has followers?<br />
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PS: I thought about telling you what the story is about, but I'm too lazy. Besides, you can find that a gazillion places.Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-1842090665155189552018-02-21T09:48:00.001-05:002018-02-21T10:26:14.885-05:00Book Review: Otherland: The City of Golden Shadows<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Author Tad Williams</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I think it’s been forever since I started seeing Williams’ tomes eating up shelf space at the library and at book stores. He’s not an author often mentioned in the same circles as Martin, Weeks, Lawrence, Rothfuss, Sanderson, Erikson, and Hobb. He’s not a favorite of the in-crowd, and I’ve always wondered why? What’s different, if anything, about his work? It isn’t that he isn’t popular. There’s another crowd that likes him or his books wouldn’t take up the precious shelf space that they do. But why aren’t his books recommended more often than they are? Too many self-generated questions that I needed answers to, so I dove in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now that I’ve finished book 1 of his first series (a tetralogy), what I still don’t know is why his books aren’t recommended more often. But what I now know is how much I liked it. I enjoyed it so much that, once finished, I immediately started reading book 2, something I have only done with Erikson and his<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Malazan, Book of the Fallen</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>series. The others? As much as I enjoyed them, their sequels could wait. This might have something to do with Williams writing one huge book, and the publisher breaking it into four or five. I don't blame the publisher, I couldn’t lift the thing if it weren’t spread across several books.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So what’s Otherland about, and why did I like it so much? It's rich in character and world building with a great mystery that needs unraveling. Think<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>The Matrix and Inception</i> with a fairy tale or two, some legends, and a bit of Agatha Christie thrown in. The time is late 21st century, and real life (RL) is a mess. Everyone, especially the young and academics, escapes to Virtual Life (VL). VL has progressed to the point where one can live in almost any world one wants whiling away the hours in sheer merriment seeking adventure or thrills or resting and relaxaing on a beach on that most perfect Caribbean island. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Everyone is happy, except the parents who have to work in RL. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then, suddenly, more and more children don’t return from VL. Their bodies lie in coma, there minds somewhere else. The somewhere else is Otherland, a separate VR created by the Grail Brotherhood, a group of very wealthy businessmen and financiers who pretty much control the world. No one knows why the Brotherhood has created Otherland or to what end, but, since they already control the world, the reason why must be pretty important and possibly life changing. What makes Otherland exceptional and different and separates it from regular old 21st century run of the mill VL is the quality of the VL; it can’t be distinguished from RL, and you can die there. Oh, and the operating system may have its own ideas about how Otherland is to be used. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The first book is mostly an introduction to the characters and story setup. Some of the most interesting characters are</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Renie— a South African with Zulu roots, and a teacher of VL at the university. Her younger brother is one of the comatose children, and she’s determined to save him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">!Xabbu — An African Bushman who has come to university to learn VL so that he can create a Bushman VL world to preserve his dying culture -- a kind of immersive museum in motion. He assists Renie in her quest. !Xabbu likes to tell Renie and others the legends and myths of his people. He may be the heart or soul of the questors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Orlando (Thoragor, a barbarian hero not unlike Conan) — a teenage boy suffering from Progeria (early aging and death). For Orlando, life is much richer and enjoyable in VL, but he can't escape knowing he'll soon die in RL.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sam Fredericks (Pithlit the thief) — Though they have never met, Sam is Orlando's best and only friend and Thoragor’s sidekick. Sam's secret is she’s really a girl the same age as Orlando.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Long Joseph — Renie’s dad -- A broken man. He's worked hard all his life for his family, but losing his wife and son has turned him to alcohol, his version of VL. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Mr. Sellars — a very mysterious man and VL manipulator. We don’t know his story, but he manipulates the others into fighting the Brotherhood. He seems like a good guy willing to help his questors, but also willing, regretfully, to risk their lives to stop the Grail. We know none of his history, but he appears to be imprisoned in his home on a military base.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Paul Jonas — His memories wiped clean or repressed, he is imprisoned in Otherland by the Brotherhood for unknown reasons. He either knows or has something of great importance to the Brotherhood or they would kill him, as they have many others, instead of wasting precious resources imprisoning him. Sellars sets Jonas free to roam Otherland. This causes great consternation among the Brotherhood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Through Sellars manipulations, these characters and others join forces, and thus begins a great quest.</span></div>
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Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-28566739949962940392018-02-19T08:16:00.002-05:002018-02-19T08:16:39.291-05:00Nuclear Football Fumble<style type="text/css">
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This from Axios</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>When the U.S. military aide carrying the nuclear football entered the Great Hall, Chinese security officials blocked his entry. (The official who carries the nuclear football is supposed to stay close to the president at all times, along with a doctor.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>A U.S. official hurried into the adjoining room and told Kelly what was happening. Kelly rushed over and told the U.S. officials to keep walking — "We're moving in," he said — and the Americans all started moving.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>•<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Then there was a commotion. A Chinese security official grabbed Kelly, and Kelly shoved the man’s hand off of his body. <b>Then a U.S. Secret Service agent grabbed the Chinese security official and tackled him to the ground.</b></span></span></div>
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<span class="s2"><a href="https://tinyurl.com/y7lqd9cv"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">https://tinyurl.com/y7lqd9cv</span></a></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So it is U.S. policy that its leader walk into the highest government offices of another country carrying with him the means too obliterate them?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My first thought is, what hutzpah.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But I’ll hold off on that until I know what the Chinese and Russians do.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Does Putin or Xi Jinping enter the White House or the Capital building holding his version of the nuclear football and place it on the oval office desk, and then discuss foreign policy with the president of the United States? <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Does the president have his nuclear football sitting on the desk too?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Picture Putin and Trump discussing troop movements in Syria with two nuclear footballs sitting on the desk, each looking to see if the other makes any fast moves.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Or do they play catch on the White House Lawn?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>First one to drop the football blows up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Or is this a uniquely a U.S. form of bullying?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But it’s also silly and useless.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What government in its right mind is going to stand idly by in the inner sanctuary of its own country while the visiting leader of another country reaches for his nuclear football?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Does the U.S. think the Secret Service can hold off Chinese or Russian security forces long enough for the president to open the football, enter codes, and push the button?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>No, they would be stopped dead, and the football would now be in the hands of the enemy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Perfect. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sometimes I wonder if the people who are responsible for thinking up these things think too much and loose all touch with reality and practicality.</span></span></div>
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<br />Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-92058018679393572742018-02-18T09:28:00.001-05:002018-02-18T09:28:06.465-05:00Fractured Book Review: Kings of the WyldFantasy Humor<br />
<br />
Fantasy Humor? How much of that do you see these days with GrimDark all the rage? But here it is, and it’s good, really good. Like most humor, the humor here relies on character and situation, and Eames really knocks the characters and situations out of the park.<br />
<br />
Welcome to a world of monsters and mercenaries. Because of all the monsters, mercenaries are in such great demand that they have booking agents. If the price is right you can book one over the weekend to rid your town of pesky minotaurs or some such monsters. (Dragons cost extra.) But don’t wait until the last minute, the demand is great and tickets are selling fast.<br />
<br />
Meet Saga, the most famous mercenary band of them all. The most badass band of them all. The most legendary band of them all. The most retired band of them all. They've been retired for 20 years now. They thought it was for good. But what do mercenaries know? <br />
<br />
They had plans: Settle down, marry, get a a nice job down at the mill or sentry duty on top of the city wall, buy a little plot of land, build a cottage, get a dog, and maybe have a child or two. Life was going to be easy.<br />
<br />
What they didn’t count on was any of their children following in their footsteps. And now one of them has gone off and gotten herself trapped in the city of Castia besieged by a horde of monsters — dragons, Wyverns, Chimeras, Miniataurs, Centaurs, giant worms, trolls, walking trees, and cannibals. Cannibals? And, no, sorry, no dwarves.<br />
<br />
So out of the mothballs come the swords and hatchets -- Saga is on the march again. The same old guys, just a little older, a little heavier, maybe with a trick knee or two and sword and hatchet swings that aren’t what they used to be. Okay, they’re a bit rusty, but come on, this is Saga we’re talking about, and they are legends.<br />
<br />
My personal favorite character is Moog, the band wizard and professor at the only university. He doesn’t carry a sword or hatchet because he's a man of science. No, Moog throws incantations and smoldering concoctions of his own making at the enemy. <br />
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Then there is the band bard. Every band has a bard whose responsibility it is to tell tall tales about his band’s exploits. Kit, Saga’s bard, looks a bit desiccated with scars and holes all over his body on account of he died over a thousand years ago. His smile is to die for. Kit is artistic, intelligent, worldly — after all he’s been around for over a millennium — and mild-mannered. That is until you call him a zombie. Don’t call Kit a zombie. That’s an insult, it makes him mad. Call him a ghoul. That’s what he is, a ghoul.<br />
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The bench is deep with a grand supporting cast: there is Jain and her Silver Archers, Kallorean, Saga’s old booking agent, and Larkspur, the bounty hunter. You don’t want to mess with Larkspur.<br />
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There is Fantasy's requisite body count, and now and then you’ll have to dodge the errant body part, but at its heart, <i>Kings of the Wyld</i> is fine comedy. At times the humor is subtle, at other times it is downright knee-slapping. I hadn’t laughed this much in a long time.<br />
<br />
I highly recommend reading the <i>Kings of the Wyld</i> for sheer entertainment.Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-59507305032096459312018-02-17T07:59:00.001-05:002018-02-17T07:59:15.911-05:00The Lightbulb Man
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">This happened twice some years ago.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I received a phone call from some guy in Texas. In a most humble and non-threatening voice, not sounding like a telemarketer or scam artist at all, he says to me he’s handicapped and confined to his house but makes a living by making light bulbs in his home and selling them over the phone.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He asks me to buy some.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Usually when I get a sales pitch over the phone it’s more direct.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Either I am asked to give to a charity I’ve never heard of, or I'm asked to surrender my social security number so they can free all the money in an account an uncle I never knew I had died and willed to me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>These are old, tried and tired telemarketing gimmicks, but this one was new and fresh. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The whole idea of someone calling asking me to buy homemade lightbulbs to support a handicapped person such as himself was refreshing. He had succeeded in turning the ignition to my brain on, and my pistons were chugging at a rapid pace wondering all sort of interesting things. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">He makes lightbulbs . . . at home???</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Is he a glassblower?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A modern-day artisan.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That would be interesting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I might ask to come over and watch him ply his trade.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Or maybe he buys the lightbulbs half assembled — light bulbs opened at the end with the tungsten, base, and contacts unassembled, and he snaps the tungsten into place in the base, attaches the base to contacts, and then screws (?) the base into the bulb.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Well, something like that. </span>Maybe that’s what he means by “makes lightbulbs at home.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Okay, maybe that last bit -- screwing the base into the bulb -- is a problem. But it's not the biggest problem.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">How does he create the vacuum? <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Does he stick the bulb in his mouth, suck all the air out, then screw the base into the bulb faster than he can burp the air out of his lungs? <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Or does he have a huge, expensive machine in his workroom that, when turned on, makes the sound of a garbage truck driving through the neighborhood while it sucks all the air out of the room?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Or does he purchase expensive pressurized tanks that stand in the corners of his workroom that he uses to spray argon gas into the bulbs and then screw the bases in like really, really fast before the gas leaks out and you breath it in?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">And then there is the last and most import issue.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Who is going to purchase homemade lightbulbs over the phone from a guy who says he’s handicapped and confined to his home?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I can envision the bulbs arriving Fed-Ex, me screwing them in all over the house, turning the light switches on . . . and . . . and . . . suddenly its the 4th of July, fireworks — complete with colors, sparks, and flying glass — exploding everywhere, with the grand finale being my house burning down.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Hmmm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Gee, if you had only called a week ago, but I just replaced all my bulbs with new ones, and . . . besides . . . I gave at the office.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Click!</span></span></div>
<br />Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-22511807855444113082017-09-11T12:43:00.000-04:002017-09-13T10:02:23.600-04:00The Execution<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">You are being led to you own execution.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You are fixated on your impending death, and your mind is in shock as it desperately looks for a path of escape.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>For the first time in your life you are forced to face your own immortality.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“This can’t be happening to me,” you say to yourself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Your senses flip to maximum overdrive as they search for something, anything that might lead to your escape.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> But w</span>hen your senses open up everything comes at you all at once, too much, too fast, and so it happens -- your brain overloads and your mind explodes. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Suddenly everything turns surreal, everything happens in slow motion. The input comes at you slower and you can now process it, but a penalty is paid: you see it all through the fog of a numbed brain.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Everything is real and unreal at the same time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And there is one other thing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You are now standing outside yourself, looking down at someone marching ever so slowly to his death. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">On both sides of the path that leads to the gallows, there stands a crowd hooting and hollering at the condemned, but you can’t make out what the crowd is hollering because their words are slurred.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> You are sure of only one thing -- </span>he is why they are there; they are shouting at him.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Thy want to watch someone die.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Someone throws something at this tortured soul, and you watch it fly though the air towards its target with a slowness that cannot possibly support its flight.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I</span>t hits him in the head, and the crowd cheers.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He winces, turns his head, and it is then you see that this man, this tortured soul, is you.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">“How can this be?” you exclaim. “Must I march to my own death? Is there no way out?” </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">No there is not.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You do not control these events; they control you.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You are but a means to a determined end, a tool of fate.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1">”But I am not a tool,” you scream.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“I am alive and in control of my life.” <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">“So why can’t you stop it then?” asks an unknown voice.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You have no answer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Not ever.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">You are marched up the steps, stood on a trap door, and a noose is placed around your throat. </span>Again you ask</div>
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<span class="s1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">“Is it really going to happen?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Is there nothing I can do to stop it?“</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Again no answer.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1">You wait as each second takes an hour to pass.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The anxiety almost knocks you over, and the heart beats faster and harder in reply.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You cannot face your own end, so your mind escapes by wandering, and it see things of no significance that now have great significance.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There are garbage cans with lids askew.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>How comical.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>How untidy. Someone should fix that, you say to yourself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The laughing faces in the crowd look cruel with their rotting teeth, clown faces smirking at the man with a rope around his neck.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They mock you. There is a baby stroller with no baby in it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That’s wrong, isn’t it?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Strollers should have babies in them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Where’s the baby?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Someone please find the baby.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There is a baby missing you shout to no one.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Find it. Put it back in the safety of its stroller where it will live and grow and be happy”</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Then your eye catches something in the distance.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Three horses trotting towards you.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>As they get closer you make out three uniformed men riding them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They get closer and closer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They arrive.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Someone walks out to meet them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The lead rider hands the greeter a sealed document.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The greeter unseals it and reads.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then he turns, looks at you and shouts<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“A reprieve.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He is not be executed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He is to go to prison instead.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Take off the rope and bring him down.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So you are saved.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Today is not the day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But again, your very saving is out of your control.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Fate has decided for you.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> You had nothing to do with it</span>. But today you will not die.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That’s good, but, still, you know you weren't in control.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Are you ever in control of you life, your actions, you ask yourself? <span class="Apple-converted-space"> Is it all a roll of dice rolled at the beginning of time?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">This is what I imagine went through Fyodor Dostoevsky’s mind as he walked to his own execution but at the last moment was reprieved.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And I believe the shock remained with him for the rest of his life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He wrote in his books about his internal struggle, openly pitting free will against determinism, asking where rational thought ends and compassion begins, or if there is any room at all for compassion in a deterministic world. <i>Crime and Punishment</i> and <i>The Brothers Karamazov</i> are two such books. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Raskolnikov, the protagonist in <i>Crime and Punishment</i>, struggles throughout the book with this question.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Between his guilt and his struggle between rational thought and compassion, he almost loses his mind.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And each of the brothers in <i>The Brother’s Karamazov</i> represent a different point of view.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Dmitry, the passionate surfeit whose urges drive him to self-destruction; Ivan, the cool intellectual who acts on his objective, rational thoughts but never with compassion; and Alyosha, the compassionate religious intern who believes in God’s goodness and grace and that every man has moral choices to make.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Throughout his writings, Dostoevsky asks the same question over and over again.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Are we tools or are we moral agents?</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Are we nothing more than a means to an end, or are we moral agents who can make a difference?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If we are tools, then we are no more responsible for what we do than any other tool used to accomplish something.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Compassion becomes useless because everything is outside our control, already determined, and human suffering continues unabated until the game has played to its miserable end.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But if we have free will, then our choices matter, and compassion matters because it is through compassion that we reduce human suffering.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> This is Dostoevsky.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Because of the intellectual insights Dostoevsky’s reveals through his characters in responding to these questions, he has become<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>what many consider to be one of the greatest literary artists of all time. Because these questions can never be answered to our satisfaction, the struggle lives on, and this may be why Dostoevsky’s popularity might never wane.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>For to stop searching for an answer, to end the struggle without an answer, is to give up, and we will never give up searching for an answer to such an important question.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Nietzsche is said to have said Dostoevsky was the only psychologist he had anything to learn from.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That’s a pretty good endorsement for an enduring legacy.</span></div>
Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-67028304907179747092017-08-24T08:50:00.000-04:002017-08-24T08:57:59.231-04:00Nano Trucks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4it70lw7gMYWX-hcG5KCdFXeP6Plzgpq16wGsqxAB8kHdcweUr0yS_Esl0YtuHx5Ga8eXdNU4ilHm1K4Us-cYA8I7yiJV2p2o-fHpiige8JyDO1pJi2NBgAIL4OUlnrjLW6dQRzxX2A8/s1600/NanoTruck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="860" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4it70lw7gMYWX-hcG5KCdFXeP6Plzgpq16wGsqxAB8kHdcweUr0yS_Esl0YtuHx5Ga8eXdNU4ilHm1K4Us-cYA8I7yiJV2p2o-fHpiige8JyDO1pJi2NBgAIL4OUlnrjLW6dQRzxX2A8/s400/NanoTruck.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
You are looking at a nano-truck, about the width of a single strand of DNA. Well, actually, this is someone's rendition of one because you can't actually see it. That would be silly. Nonetheless, it's amazing, and something I hadn't heard of before. Imagine the size of the tweezers used to place these few atoms and molecules together. This probably took a while to achieve. Then, again, as fast as technology progresses, perhaps this little wonder was created overnight, while we were sleeping. But, no, that can't be, because...<br />
<br />
There's more than one. <br />
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There is an entire nano-transportation world out there -- trucks, taxis, limos, jeeps, 4-wheel drive, AWD, Nano-Uber -- if only we could see it, which we can't. And they race them on nano-race tracks. Sorry no dimensions on the size of the track, but I'm sure its circular and about a nano-mile in circumference because there are no nano-towns to run a Grand Prix through. But who knows what tomorrow brings. Things move fast around here, and once we have nano-towns, what's next? Nano-people to populate them and cheer the drivers on? Sounds logical. So, move over, the world is crowded and soon will be more so. And look where you're walking!<br />
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But not all is pleasant in Nanoville. <a href="https://www.sciencenews.org/article/meet-bobcat-nanowagon-worlds-smallest-monster-truck" target="_blank">Scientists are perplexed.</a><br />
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It seems this particular nano-wonder's chassis doesn't pass specs. Tests show it is easier to snap its chassis in two than to pull a wheel off its axle. This is what has scientists perplexed. They think it should be easier to pull a tire off its axle. Silly me wonders if the problem might not be that this isn't a real truck but rather a couple of atoms and molecules pasted together to look like one. But I'm not a scientist, which means I'm not a deep thinker, so what do I know. Chemists right now are probably looking into the problem -- which is to say, thinking deeply -- measuring electrovalances, molecular bondings, and other such deep thinking stuff, and before too long they'll have peeled away the layers of the mystery to reveal the secrets of the cosmos. Then what? I guess we can all pack our bags and go home.<br />
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I'm waiting for them to invent the nano-microbe that can be injected into the bloodstream, travel to the source of the problem, and eat all the cancer cells. Perhaps it's the nano-truck that will drive them there?<br />
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<br />Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-9185467131550406512017-08-22T10:42:00.000-04:002017-08-22T10:55:24.839-04:00Science News Trivia<a href="https://www.livescience.com/60163-do-not-condition-hair-after-nuclear-bomb.html?utm_source=lst-newsletter&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=20170818-lst" target="_blank">Warning</a>! Don't condition your hair after a nuclear attack. This one goes right along side the Internal Revenue procedures for collecting taxes after a nuclear attack. I don't want to be that tax collector.<br />
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And here's a short <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1989/03/28/business/nuclear-war-plan-by-irs.html?mcubz=3" target="_blank">NYT article</a> on the IRS procedures to collect post-apocalyptic taxes. <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 15px;">''Operations will be concentrated on collecting the taxes which will produce the greater revenue yield.'' Yield? That could be the all time example of </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">double entendre</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 15px;">. Like I said, I don't want to be that tax collector.</span><br />
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<a href="https://www.livescience.com/32108-why-do-my-eyes-close-when-i-sneeze.html?utm_source=llm-newsletter&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=20170818-llm" target="_blank">Sneeze Trivia</a> -- Did you know we can sneeze up to 10 miles an hour? That our brain stem contains a sneeze command and control center? That when we sneeze our body contracts from esophagus to sphincter? Why do we close our eyes when we sneeze? This and more just a click away.<br />
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Scientists report isolating the gene that produces large plump tomatoes. How about rediscovering the gene that puts taste back into the tomato? You know the gene I'm talking about, the one you all seem to have lost while playing around with all the other tomato genes. That's the gene we need. Put it back, dammit. And, no, I didn't bother with a link. Who wants to read about a gene that makes plump, tasteless tomatoes?<br />
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The increasing need for <a href="https://www.livescience.com/60149-pubic-hair-grooming-injuries.html?utm_source=lsa-newsletter&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=20170817-lsa" target="_blank">pubic hair grooming guidelines</a>. Injuries abound, and because people feel uncomfortable talking about their pubic hair grooming practices there may be more injuries than the study indicates. It's an epidemic!!! <br />
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<br />Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-11335858178719970762017-08-22T08:22:00.001-04:002017-08-22T08:35:04.410-04:00Solar Elipse OverkillNot everyone was enthralled by the eclipse. A few, a very few, journalists thought the media had gone bonkers in its reverence. Shepard Smith was one. Here is a two minute video of Smith covering the eclipse, and it's hilarious.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bft7LQobSnw" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bft7LQobSnw</a><br />
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<br />Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-52009142608282106942017-08-21T13:35:00.000-04:002017-09-13T10:03:24.115-04:00Walking, What Could Go Wrong?<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">A couple of years ago I really got into walking.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> I never run. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Walking is easier on your knees, ankles, and feet than running, and it can be just as effective at keeping you in shape as running.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But there are people who swear by running. </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">“Great exercise, running.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">“I run 7 miles a day and do 5 marathons a year.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">“I meditate while running.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">To those who say running miles each day and doing a marathon about once every two months is great exercise, I say wait until age 60 when your knees and hips have been replaced with metal and plastic.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Then l</span>et’s see what you think of running.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">As to meditating while running, well I see people at the recreation center reading books while walking fast on a treadmill, so I guess there are people who can do this, but I’m not one of them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>About the only thing I’d remember from reading a book while on a moving treadmill is how out of breath I was.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And the only thing I can meditate on while running is how boring it is.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But I do have mantra I repeat over and over again when jogging: “I hate this.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I hate this. I hate this,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I hate this…”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The only thing running ever did was nauseate me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So I walk.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">I’d walk 5 or 6 miles a day down the nature paths, around and around scummy, algae saturated, oxygen deprived ponds, and through various neighborhoods in the area.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Walking the nature trails is a peaceful and joyous pastime.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I take in the flora and fauna -- the blooming lilies, the reptiles sunning themselves on the walking path, the turkey vultures searching for carrion on the path’s shoulders, and the squirrels who, fearing no man, refuse to get out of your way.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>All of this makes the walk a pleasant afternoon activity.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-converted-space">Then</span> there are the pitbulls. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Maybe it’s a local thing, but for whatever reason pitbull owners around here don’t leash their dogs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They prefer to open the front door and let Rover out to forage for lunch.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s easy to separate out the pitbull from the other local fauna.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If a pair a gigantic jaws comes running out from the underbrush on four stubby legs, that’s a pitbull.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There are two types of pitbulls in this world: the ones that ignore you and the ones that don’t.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Handle with care.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">The ones that ignore you really ignore you.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s as if you don’t exist.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They just keep walking with their snout stuck to ground sniffing for who knows what while walking right past you like you were just another telephone pole.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Pitbulls are all power and strength, even their sniffing and snorting is is a violent ruckus.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They sound like they are ripping up the woods, toppling trees.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They never do things half-measure. But with this type of pitbull all you need do is be patient. Stand still and Rover will leave after he’s sniffed every blade of grass and every nook and cranny and torn up all the woods.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="s1">The other type of pitbull is more problematic.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If he comes at you and you’re lucky he’ll just pee on you like he’s peeing on a tree to mark his territory and move on.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But the cost/benefit analysis here isn’t looking great, so you might want to consider other options, like running straight up a tree. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Now you’re probably saying to yourself, “Oh, come on, people can’t run up sides of trees.”</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But you would be wrong.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">It’s amazing what the human body can do when the brain unleashes a torrent of adrenaline in times of danger.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s incidents like these that might make you want to conduct an intervention with the dog’s owner and advise him -- it's always a him -- of his errant and antisocial ways. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But if it is true that people pick dogs that come closest to matching their own personalities -- and I've seen too many similarities to question these words of wisdom -- then perhaps it is best to suppress this thought and pursue another course of action.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The far better course of action is to team up with your neighbors and take turns dumping dog shit on his lawn at 3 in the morning, every morning, until he gets the message and moves on to unleash his dog in someone else’s neighborhood.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I</span>f you live in one of those designer communities, you don’t even have to get your hands dirty.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Just use those plastic bags that hang on environmentally friendly green poles strategically placed throughout the community's common grounds to transport the dog shit to your favorite neighbor’s front yard. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, anyway, pitbulls be damned, I walked and walked and walked.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I walked until one day, as I neared my house on the return trip, I felt a slight burning sensation on the inner side of my left knee where the bones meet.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But the burning soon went away, so after giving it a day’s rest I went walking again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Same thing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I return home and the inner side of my left knee is burning again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But again it goes away after a day's rest.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And since I’m the kind of person who is intentionally oblivious of that which he does not want to face, rather than deal the problem by seeing a doctor and asking what's up, I assume a new routine: walk, knee burns, give it a day or two rest, walk again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Until LO AND BEHOLD it doesn’t stop burning . . . not ever.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Instead it gets worse.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It gets a lot worse.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Now I can’t walk at all.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Now I’m holed up in my house watching shopping network reruns while the summer passes me by.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Now I’m gaining weight because the only thing I can do to break the monotony is to eat, and as I eat more and more, I gain more and more weight, which puts more and more weight on my knee when I walk.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So it gets worse.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Now I look like Quasimodo slithering up and down the isles at the supermarket, left leg pulling up the rear.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It hurts so much I go downstairs from bedroom to kitchen by sitting on my ass and lowering myself step by step.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And the pain won’t go away. No matter how much I stay off my leg, it won’t go away. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">But me go to a doctor, now?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nooooo!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Not me. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: small;">There is always a knee brace. </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Which does nothing at all except put pressure on all the wrong spots on my knee and make me feel more uncomfortable than I already am. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Next?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The cane.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="s1">A cane will do the trick.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The cane will support my weight when I walk relieving the pressure, and with time the pain will slowly go away.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m proud of myself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Good thought.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Good solution. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">So I drive to Target, walk the isles doing my best impression of Quasimodo, pick out the sturdiest cane, and purchase it.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> T</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">he simplest things can teach you great lessons in life, like how </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">canes support your outer leg by forcing all your weight on the inner side of your leg and knee, which makes the pain even worse.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> But</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> you can’t place the cane on the inside side of your leg where it needs to be because doing so will crush your testicles at the first misstep.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And I’m not tough enough to willingly swap this pain for that pain. I'm not a pitbull. </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Next up?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Crutches</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Crutches are the ticket.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But I can’t find anyone who sells crutches near me, and besides, they seem too much like work.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’d probably lose one anyway, and then I’d be using the remaining crutch like a cane, and the problem with a cane is…<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">So, defeated, I give in and go to the doctor.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">My doctor, who I rarely visit, takes one look at me and says</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">“You’ve got Bursitis.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">What’s my first thought?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My first thought is a question: Is that anything like gout?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Goiter? </span>Consumption?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m wondering this because Bursitis sounds suspiciously like one of those diseases characters in Victorian era novels contracts and then slowly withers away and dies. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">But no.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My doctor reassures me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nothing to worry about.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m just getting old, he says.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Oh!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Hurray!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m getting old.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Seeing the look on my face he quickly pivots and says it’s also an inflammation athletes often come down with. He says this to make me feel better.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Instead of getting older I’m now an athlete who is training too hard.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He’s lying.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I know it; he knows I know it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But it works. I feel better.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Then he goes on without asking. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">“You see, we all have these little fat nodules called bursa sacs where bones, tendons, and ligaments meet.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They act like shock absorbers keeping bone, tendon, and ligament from rubbing against one another and causing pain.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But with excess use, these bursas can get inflamed, and then it’s them that causes the pain, and that’s called Bursitis.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’ll write you a prescription for an anti-inflammatory and you’ll be good as new in a week."</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Two weeks later, no change.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>All these prescriptions and nothing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s now been 6 weeks with no end in sight.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So I do what you are told never to do, but I should have done at the beginning: I search the internet for an answer.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Immediately I find all kinds of forums discussing Bursitis.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They have clubs. Only qualification?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You have to have had Bursitis. And there is this one thing everyone who has had Bursitis agrees on: “Take Ibuprofen.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You know, the over the counter cheap anti-inflammatory that everyone uses, including your dentist, who gives it to you when what you really need is percodan because he’s been drilling to China straight through tooth, bone, nerve, and rock.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So I buy a giant bottle of Ibuprofen for like 10 cents and start taking 600 mg three times a day. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">I’m walking in a week.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>In two weeks I’m back to my routine of walking about 6 miles a day, except now I swallow 400 mg of Ibuprofen before and after, and my knee is humming along.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">So there you go.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ibuprofen, the Bursitis miracle drug.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Just don’t tell anyone.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If the FDA ever finds out how effective Ibuprofen is, it will make you get a prescription for it.</span></span></div>
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Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-11240348990865726342017-08-17T09:27:00.002-04:002017-09-13T10:04:15.439-04:00Quote That Wears Well With Time"He was willing to do anything for people except get off their backs and let them live their own lives. He would never let go until they forced him to and then it was too late. He never seemed to understand there's a big difference between trying to save people and trying to help them. With luck you can help 'em -- but they always save themselves."<br />
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-- Raymond Robbins (Sept. 17, 1873 -- Sept 26, 1954), economist and writer criticizing Woodrow Wilson and his foreign policy.<br />
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<br />Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-11232185083867407062017-08-16T09:47:00.002-04:002017-08-16T10:02:53.990-04:00In the News<br />
My personal favorite. Finally, a website that clearly demonstrates the usefulness of <a href="http://www.tylervigen.com/spurious-correlations" target="_blank">correlation graphs</a>. Enjoy.<br />
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The problem with <a href="https://www.economist.com/news/briefing/21588057-scientists-think-science-self-correcting-alarming-degree-it-not-trouble" target="_blank">Priming Studies</a>. These studies make the news, but attempts to replicate often fail, which doesn't make the news. Only 6 of 53 landmark cancer studies could be replicated. What does this say about science and the "university-professional association-academic publication-research grant" industry?<br />
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<a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/speaking-of-science/wp/2015/08/27/trouble-in-science-massive-effort-to-reproduce-100-experimental-results-succeeds-only-36-times/?utm_term=.67a5a89536f5" target="_blank">It says this</a>. Perhaps universities, academic publications, and professional associations are to close to one another and scratching one another's backs. Where does the contrarian scientist with a great hypothesis go to get grant money and publish his findings?<br />
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History and science continue to remind us that we have nothing over the Ancients. <a href="https://www.livescience.com/60144-antikythera-computer-predicted-eclipses.html" target="_blank">Here's</a> a 2,000 year old "computer" that predicted astronomical events, including eclipses.<br />
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What the <a href="https://www.sciencenews.org/article/rwanda-genocide-psychology-murder?utm_source=editorspicks081317&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Editors_Picks" target="_blank">Rwanda genocide</a> tells us about mob mentality. Local conditions matter most and marriage and employment play a big role. But Follow-the-Leader matters too. Does this tell us anything we don't already know?<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #313132;">The World Fraternity of Knights of the Giant Omelette -- Yes, there's an association for everything -- cooks giant <a href="http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-40924634" target="_blank">10,000 egg omelette</a> using contaminated eggs ... on purpose. </span></span></span><br />
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Scientific observations of eclipses that went <a href="https://www.livescience.com/60136-historical-solar-eclipse-expedition-misses.html" target="_blank">bad</a>.<br />
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<br />Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-13661347403937331992017-08-15T19:18:00.000-04:002017-08-16T06:57:35.059-04:00Trump Chronicles . . . Day 207Today President Trump lost his mind. Aids have yet to find it but remain optimistic as they continue the search. AP reports this is merely a figure of speech and that the president hasn't literally lost his mind. Others disagree. Still others say this happened long ago and what we've got we've got, so get used to it. <br />
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In related news, Vice president Pence, while visiting Colombia, South America, asked for asylum. It is not yet clear if the vice-president was asking for asylum for himself or for one to put his boss in.<br />
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Update at 11.<br />
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#FakeNewsYouWishWasTrueShadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-49545953907503748522017-08-15T15:36:00.001-04:002017-08-15T15:36:40.486-04:00Contortionists<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0ocQoLSa-wP1igE04M-lDrA690Efh750g531gd9yBhZiZSeGXoOsqdvJHu84LHr9ghrHZZcnPMKUI7pE4YzSNqvtDu473YiXqjEBsbbmUmeoLSfYWCZcBH1rf_pjq8EvA4Vj5phLipc/s1600/contortionis-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="343" data-original-width="450" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0ocQoLSa-wP1igE04M-lDrA690Efh750g531gd9yBhZiZSeGXoOsqdvJHu84LHr9ghrHZZcnPMKUI7pE4YzSNqvtDu473YiXqjEBsbbmUmeoLSfYWCZcBH1rf_pjq8EvA4Vj5phLipc/s640/contortionis-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Duck!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsC9BOiqc_BWXgDOTV7TFlYKozoL0_zd_4-XoD9Bck253YjQdpS7OoOYnN5VAEOcOgfBqBK8mlxdUyeGPeVh19JmjnbNOuAENUg9IPR6UcMkIksJdEyly769PSaqJX185ltuFMkApHj6A/s1600/contortionist-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="838" data-original-width="451" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsC9BOiqc_BWXgDOTV7TFlYKozoL0_zd_4-XoD9Bck253YjQdpS7OoOYnN5VAEOcOgfBqBK8mlxdUyeGPeVh19JmjnbNOuAENUg9IPR6UcMkIksJdEyly769PSaqJX185ltuFMkApHj6A/s640/contortionist-2.jpg" width="340" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Octopus</td></tr>
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Bodypaint Contortionists<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gAsDQofShko3_HNqoAQ11_lewWZ0BXJZU2taziNLUMiz_oIgOTYBvj5MF_nf1R43vxJciMfCa-ajgjuBvKEdxLdAw1ycVDpmONOhG_eqTUXUjwgOTtJuTpiR_ANCsSCwPVNl8JJDrl0/s1600/contortionist-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gAsDQofShko3_HNqoAQ11_lewWZ0BXJZU2taziNLUMiz_oIgOTYBvj5MF_nf1R43vxJciMfCa-ajgjuBvKEdxLdAw1ycVDpmONOhG_eqTUXUjwgOTtJuTpiR_ANCsSCwPVNl8JJDrl0/s640/contortionist-4.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivLVzWMn_jl1YQ0BVNZEa6kuIyOHIF-Q7Epdg5wTfItW1TWsjPHpXvmwWxtwT8kC3Z93WQJeNybGsWlYwkH0QJQ1YqTAoWuH9n5zuVcEFbyOvBEUYphSJylCQqxeIb10O5rjIVgh-dcvQ/s1600/xontortionist-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivLVzWMn_jl1YQ0BVNZEa6kuIyOHIF-Q7Epdg5wTfItW1TWsjPHpXvmwWxtwT8kC3Z93WQJeNybGsWlYwkH0QJQ1YqTAoWuH9n5zuVcEFbyOvBEUYphSJylCQqxeIb10O5rjIVgh-dcvQ/s640/xontortionist-3.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMnL3aYTMlS5J60sHwcVbqdDOMQkCKxsFNpNL0Nzc1PYwdHoxaPsGH_979FLBJavjOaA-uPwDCSf_bQ1Cznmw46tAPE5O-V2PxKk3vEpjW3JFgFcYFxs6gizyCzB24MhZodm25FJnsRA/s1600/contortionist-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="721" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMnL3aYTMlS5J60sHwcVbqdDOMQkCKxsFNpNL0Nzc1PYwdHoxaPsGH_979FLBJavjOaA-uPwDCSf_bQ1Cznmw46tAPE5O-V2PxKk3vEpjW3JFgFcYFxs6gizyCzB24MhZodm25FJnsRA/s640/contortionist-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXUm5tXqzbEj1I1zSzCjP6sXxkyrIj5fSeSUqUieqxiE6sbgj6HJqSZsL6T_ltI5CXx_5QxKLEzYqR8bG2Pe3D07q2YGchfITVZu7ZJSldRDQc1rrGA0L9ug-VlWmF0g6U1474n654RK8/s1600/contortionist-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXUm5tXqzbEj1I1zSzCjP6sXxkyrIj5fSeSUqUieqxiE6sbgj6HJqSZsL6T_ltI5CXx_5QxKLEzYqR8bG2Pe3D07q2YGchfITVZu7ZJSldRDQc1rrGA0L9ug-VlWmF0g6U1474n654RK8/s640/contortionist-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-92146372287227656432017-08-14T16:05:00.000-04:002017-08-14T16:08:19.544-04:00Twig Eater in WhiteNo, this isn't a poem, although it would be a nice title for one.<br />
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The Moose is the largest animal in the deer family. Its name is Algonquin for "twig eater," and these two beautiful specimens are rare white bull Moose. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_UvhbO3UgR1aDnllPcdTa06X1x-wGXPxh2NjQ2vCdI2yV74QW8kSA6dy-B1U3s_1dPohKJBkTg4WGGF7YU2emf29yh2O5GF5FsaF-nto-tkHQPY4dF7ZA3sNEb_HCoA3Pc5xEetv-eP4/s1600/White+Bull+Moose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="630" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_UvhbO3UgR1aDnllPcdTa06X1x-wGXPxh2NjQ2vCdI2yV74QW8kSA6dy-B1U3s_1dPohKJBkTg4WGGF7YU2emf29yh2O5GF5FsaF-nto-tkHQPY4dF7ZA3sNEb_HCoA3Pc5xEetv-eP4/s400/White+Bull+Moose.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgva3JyUbtd9nH56jf0rOiOSbogeuzhMqhdIBeh7Bj4Wfj5fjQErh6EPNrAWxeTzUTYAieOgiCr0ydTcrtuZZ6unUWJKmiRXu8jhPPdVJaXvHXYlWtUbDpQoJjPL8_tzJsBXD0_pGwUaEA/s1600/White-Bull-Moose-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgva3JyUbtd9nH56jf0rOiOSbogeuzhMqhdIBeh7Bj4Wfj5fjQErh6EPNrAWxeTzUTYAieOgiCr0ydTcrtuZZ6unUWJKmiRXu8jhPPdVJaXvHXYlWtUbDpQoJjPL8_tzJsBXD0_pGwUaEA/s400/White-Bull-Moose-2.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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A White bull moose is not an albino; it is a moose with white fur. A moose is not a friendly Bullwinkle who hangs around with a flying squirrel; in fact, Moose don't hang around with anyone, including their own kind. No, the moose is a grumpy, solitary ungulate that stands taller than a man and weighs 3 to 5 times as much. In Alaska Mouse injure more people than Grizzly and Brown bears combined. Imagine how easy it would be for one of these to blend into the snow -- they lay down to rest, especially after eating, and you could easily come upon one without realizing it. But these two would look fine on anyone's front lawn during the winter holidays. You could even hang Christmas bulbs and tinsel from their antlers. And they'd keep trespassers to a minimum. Just don't call him Rudolph. Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-41255678077075919622017-08-11T08:49:00.003-04:002017-08-11T09:19:36.793-04:00The Fascinating Art of Tarot CardsI used to read people's futures with Tarot Cards, not for money, but for fun. I make no claim to be any good at it, and only ever did it to learn something about the psychology of fortunetelling. I did meet with some small success. The secret is to learn a little bit about your client before beginning and then read your client's facial expressions and physical gestures as you proceed through the reading, slightly adapting the meaning of the cards and their relationship to one another (the story they tell) as you do so. The more and more you do it, the better you get at it. I always thought of this as establishing an non-supernatural psychic connection. <br />
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But as much a learning experience as that was (anticipating a person't hopes), the real reason Tarot cards interested me was my fascination with the artwork. There are many, many decks of cards out there -- google Tarot Card Decks -- with artwork ranging from the very simple to the very elaborate. Some are too simple and some are too elaborate for my tastes, but the talent out there is amazing, and some of the decks are stunning. It takes a lot of imagination, time, and effort to design a standard deck of 78 cards around a theme, each with its own detailed drawing.<br />
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Here, as example, are three cards from the Wildwood Tarot Deck, which, if you are interested, is available on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Wildwood-Tarot-Wherein-Wisdom-Resides/dp/1402781067" target="_blank">amazon</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKiSSL2sYnJQAM8_5UPZS1BSx2ni4aNVnruUBd6RpwYq64N_DpurIXluN_qO_GVKmJ7a75jGU7IFzb5JWX6PQxA1u0qTJnzR3A-_0SOawI970C2Vp8uVg9stGTSlc5J0MTmQRVWKqzMwA/s1600/Archer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="325" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKiSSL2sYnJQAM8_5UPZS1BSx2ni4aNVnruUBd6RpwYq64N_DpurIXluN_qO_GVKmJ7a75jGU7IFzb5JWX6PQxA1u0qTJnzR3A-_0SOawI970C2Vp8uVg9stGTSlc5J0MTmQRVWKqzMwA/s400/Archer.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Focus, Strength, and Determination</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPYBty682Nva6R-axJQ-wgScecNDmDQonyfhG5CGsTv4911mwPJc-lR0P6_S187MRQfAcbMoWhM6_0fvmztC4PYrWMabyFKpUPLYAOmrpwHIaT6Rc_qWBpov7Pxeq76EchcYhXbvAN9A/s1600/EightArrows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPYBty682Nva6R-axJQ-wgScecNDmDQonyfhG5CGsTv4911mwPJc-lR0P6_S187MRQfAcbMoWhM6_0fvmztC4PYrWMabyFKpUPLYAOmrpwHIaT6Rc_qWBpov7Pxeq76EchcYhXbvAN9A/s400/EightArrows.jpg" width="242" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Struggle -- Press on against opposing forces</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9RKpj7xVY28QUd0RY0OFTRf7MylFzq6Nz2WLigeKYANy3dXeQsbszaM8dsDxLrRlmkgJT4N6ckVMInF0ptZcYJxf_rA5wCLgX85BgO9jIWnRW7ZKVfD7vO3DEWIK2Dyh05cqmpfLGUBw/s1600/HoodedMan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9RKpj7xVY28QUd0RY0OFTRf7MylFzq6Nz2WLigeKYANy3dXeQsbszaM8dsDxLrRlmkgJT4N6ckVMInF0ptZcYJxf_rA5wCLgX85BgO9jIWnRW7ZKVfD7vO3DEWIK2Dyh05cqmpfLGUBw/s400/HoodedMan.jpg" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Introspective -- looking inward</td></tr>
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<br />Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-31581650024710051372017-08-10T09:46:00.001-04:002017-09-13T10:04:53.962-04:00Las Vegas, What Happens There, Stays There. PLEASE!!<div class="p1">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I was in my mid twenties living in the New York City area when I had an epiphany: “I hate this place.”</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I had lived there all my life, except for a short hiatus in Rhode Island where I went to college but failed to learn anything except how to smoke dope, drink lots of beer, cut class, and play with coeds. </span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I was tired of the hustle and bustle that was the metropolitan area, tired of the crime and the endless traffic jams.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">There is a reason why the Long Island Expressway is called the world’s largest parking lot.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I was tired of the cost of everything.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I once paid $17 to park my car in a parking garage for two hours while I interviewed for a job, and this was the 70’s.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> I can only imagine what it must cost now. Are there enough zeros?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I was tired of the gruff impatience of the denizens of a city who, for some reason, felt the need to refer to their city as a fruit.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Once, while standing in line at a cafeteria, when asked what I wanted to eat, I responded that I was still making up my mind, and I was yelled at. I was holding up progress.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">But most of all I was tired of living close to my parents, so close that I felt obliged to visit frequently so that they could lecture me on how I wasn’t living up to their expectations.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">They had my life planned for me, but I had different ideas.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Actually, I had no ideas at all what I wanted to do, but I did know what I didn't want to do -- anything my parents could think of.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I wanted a new start, a new town, a new life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I wanted to live in paradise.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But where could I go?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then providence stepped in to teach me a lesson. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My girlfriend calls me all excited.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She had done a stint as a Vista volunteer in Vegas at the city’s Department of Social Services, and they had just offered her a full time job, and she wanted to know if I would move with her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Sure,” I said while looking up to the heavens and privately thanking providence for its generosity.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Vegas, the razzle-dazzle, the gambling, the celebrities, the glitzy shows, the wide open spaces, the land of sunshine and no rain, and, most of all, a place not close to my parents.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We agreed she would leave in a couple of weeks, and I would come a month later after I had attended to a couple of matters. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">A month later I packed my car and rode off into the sunset. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">The drive across the country was awesome, the surroundings and people getting nicer and nicer as I drove further and further away from the city.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">There were several sights along the way worth remembering, but with this one exception I will save them for another post.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">While driving through a small town in Utah, I came across the following sign that said something like the following</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Next gas station a gazillion miles down the road. Consider refueling before proceeding <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">So I did, and the sign wasn’t kidding.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There was nothing along this stretch of highway, for miles and miles not a single human artifact.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But I did notice one thing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> About every </span>20 miles or so I would pass a dirt road exiting the highway heading toward horizon.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I could see nothing that these road led to. But e</span>ach dirt road had the same sign post <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Ranch Road</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">That's what each one said, nothing more. I, being a New Yorker and not particularly worldly, wondered what purpose these signs served if all the roads had the same name.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then — Duh! — it dawned on me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>These are RANCH roads.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>As in real, cowboy ranches.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Somewhere beyond the horizon, each of these dirt roads terminated at a ranch, and each one must have acres and acres of land.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This entire stretch of road, traversing desolate territory was emblematic of most of my journey.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>From western Missouri onward -- vast stretches of land without a single indication of the human existence, except for the highway itself and the rare car I’d pass.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">After navigating through the Forgotten Land, I slowly descended down a valley into Las Vegas, the city <strike>on a hill</strike> in a valley while thinking of all the striking experiences to come my way.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Upon entering Vegas, the first thing to strike me was another car.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was waiting at a traffic signal at Maryland and Sahara when the light turned green and the driver in front of me, instead of driving forward, plowed into me in reverse — crash! — going like 30 miles an hour.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I didn’t even know a car could go 30 miles an hour in reverse.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So what’s she do?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Does she stop and get out and apologize?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>No.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She slams her car into forward and escapes. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Welcome to Vegas.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">The second thing to strike me was my girlfriend.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Not physically, but when she opened the door and I tried hug her, she pushed me away, and said<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I’ve found another man. You can’t stay here.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But I’ve done you a great favor.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My girlfriend’s boyfriend lives in a bungalow on the outskirts of town, and the one next to him is empty,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If you hurry you can get it real cheap.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Goodbye.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> S</span>lams door.</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So I rent the bungalow, which is attached to the one my new found friend, the boyfriend of my EX-girlfriend’s girlfriend, lives in.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The first thing he does is come running out his hovel, hugs me, and hands me a beer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He’s wreaking of alcohol, and its 10 AM.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He’s totally drunk, almost incapable of standing up, and it turns out this is his normal state of being. He’s awake all of the time, morning, noon, and night, always with a beer in his hand. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Then his girlfriend comes out to meet me beer in hand. You know the one of whom I speak: my EX-girlfriend’s girlfriend, and she’s drunk too.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They’re both drunks, a perfect pair.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They argue through the night, sometimes throwing things at one another, and it doesn’t stop until one of them passes out.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> M</span>y hovel, with its half-inch thick walls is attached to their hovel, so I know this. Trust me. Oh, and she gave better than she got. The next day my Ex-girlfriend comes over, because she friend’s with my neighbor’s girlfriend and they like to do things together.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If eyes could kill.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">The next thing to strike me was a thief who emptied my wallet of all its cash, which was in my pants pocket in a locker at the YMCA while I was working out in the weight room.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I n</span>ever had the opportunity to meet the fellow, but I’m sure he’s a nice guy because he left me my driver’s license and even put the wallet back in my pants’ pocket.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Finally, the next day I’m looking for a gas station when I realize there is one on every street corner just like in New York.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>In fact, everything in Vegas reminds me of New York.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> M</span>ost of the people are New York transplants.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’d driven over 2,000 miles across country to get away from New York only to end right back in New York.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was like a Twilight Zone episode.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">So, I cussed providence and moved to Redding California.</span></span></div>
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Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-4032818991930206022017-08-10T07:52:00.000-04:002017-08-10T08:25:27.274-04:00The Adventurer<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #3c3c3c; list-style: none outside none; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; outline: none 0px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A <i>Newsweek</i> description of travel author Patrick Leigh Fermor. He could be a character in a book.</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="background-color: white; border: 0px none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #3c3c3c; list-style: none outside none; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; outline: none 0px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">What life has been lived with more élan? At the age of 18, Leigh Fermor walked from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople—never “Istanbul” to this irrepressible philhellene—a serendipitous, marathon journey immortalized half a century later in the refulgent prose of <i style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px none; box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none outside none; margin: 0px; outline: none 0px; padding: 0px;">A Time of Gifts </i>and <i style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px none; box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none outside none; margin: 0px; outline: none 0px; padding: 0px;">Between the Woods and the Water</i>. He has secluded himself silently with Trappist monks, fallen in love and run away with a princess, fought for his country, kidnapped a German general, joined a Greek cavalry charge, and swum the Hellespont. The<i style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px none; box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none outside none; margin: 0px; outline: none 0px; padding: 0px;"> Financial Times </i>considered <i style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px none; box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none outside none; margin: 0px; outline: none 0px; padding: 0px;">Mani</i>, his celebrated travelogue on the southern Peloponnese, and <i style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px none; box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none outside none; margin: 0px; outline: none 0px; padding: 0px;">Roumeli</i>, its counterpart on northern Greece, “two of the best travel books of the century.”</span></blockquote>
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Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-61267878908996690432017-08-09T11:51:00.000-04:002017-09-13T10:06:02.596-04:00Discs, Vertebrae, and SpittleI'm laid up in bed flat on my back watching the overhead fan go round and round. I've hurt my back. I have this disc in the lower extremities of my back, that if I don't watch carefully, sneaks out from between vertebrae and wanders off looking for something more interesting to do than keeping my spine erect.<br />
<br />
If you've ever been laid up in bed due to severe back pain, you know that you have to keep changing positions. As you remain in one position, the pain slowly increases. Shift to another position, the pain lessens then slowly increases again. Of course changing position is easier said than done when one's back is out. The simple act of shifting from lying on your back to lying on your side can be an act of great courage. The pain makes you wish you could swallow a whole bottle of oxycontin right then and there and end it. Brush your teeth? Nope. Eat? Nope? Pea? Get me a bottle.<br />
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But it is not the pain that concerns me most. What concerns me most is the inevitable spittle that forms on my lips from the constant screaming while moving from back to fetal position. And once on my side, the spittle hangs there, slowly swinging back and forth, until I have sufficiently recovered to wipe my mouth.<br />
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This is where my cat comes in.<br />
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As soon as he sees the spittle attractively swaying to and fro, he crouches down into that hunt position with a look on his face that makes me realize the next several moments are crucial. If I don't play this right, I might have to explain to a doctor how that cat claw embedded in my face is the result of my back going out and not because I'm mean to kitties.<br />
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Of course, there has yet to be born the human who is faster than a cat attracted by swinging spittle, so I lose before I even start. He jumps 35 feet through the air landing right in from my face and starts whacking the spittle and me with his paw, claws out, with that crazy look in his eyes. I scream, he swats.<br />
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Luckily, as soon as he realizes the spittle isn't a living thing that he can torture, he loses interest and walks away. And once on the floor and lying down, he looks at me with this look that says <br />
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LUNKHEAD!!!<br />
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<br />Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-27478903853178667232017-08-09T09:07:00.002-04:002017-08-09T09:07:51.719-04:00The Gum Ball Machine<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Redding, California. Outside the front of a supermarket stands one of those gum ball machines. Put a quarter in the slot, turn the knob, and you receive one gum ball. There are several like machines standing next to it, each offering an enticing candy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A child stands in front of them with mom standing immediately behind her, so close behind that she is breathing on her daughter. The young girl, maybe 6 or 7, holds a quarter in her hand but can't make up her mind. She has only one quarter and there are several juicy choices. Her mom loses patience.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Dammit. You've been bugging me since we started shopping that you wanted a candy from one of these machines. So I give you a quarter and there you stand. Make up your mind or I'll spank you."</span><br />
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Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-58349405214045851922017-08-08T07:51:00.000-04:002017-08-08T11:17:31.804-04:00Priceless ... But Not for them<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWvl8uUV0dCowUnqrFOAPuJ7ffK86wFq41YwvAd7cskiNoi2i3MnqjNNjBEtpdRCE7IPxr6yJkFWh3pol9AjSVRfACp6f523hYJP3pcHxPJA5kdNUMgRkF12-jwJI2CZb1akihGn8jKfM/s1600/presidioTerrace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="920" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWvl8uUV0dCowUnqrFOAPuJ7ffK86wFq41YwvAd7cskiNoi2i3MnqjNNjBEtpdRCE7IPxr6yJkFWh3pol9AjSVRfACp6f523hYJP3pcHxPJA5kdNUMgRkF12-jwJI2CZb1akihGn8jKfM/s320/presidioTerrace.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Say hello to Presidio Terrace, a wealthy San Francisco community with an HOA that no longer owns its common grounds or the sidewalks and street that surround it. How can an HOA not own its common grounds you ask? Simple, it doesn't pay its taxes. <br />
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Here's the the background story.<br />
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Many years ago this community of the rich and famous -- past residents include Senator Dianne Feinstein, ex-Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, SF Mayor Aliota, and others -- decided to change HOA management. I imagine previous management was not thrilled and probably offered little assistance during the transition. The new management team, possibly to impress the HOA's wealthy members, immediately failed to pay the property taxes on the common grounds, a staggering sum of $14.95 per year. This oversight, of course, would easily have been remedied upon the new management receiving the first delinquency notice. <br />
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Except they never received it.<br />
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It seems new management also forgot to change the HOA's mailing address with the post office. (Can you see in your mind's eye previous management snickering as it tossed delinquency notice after delinquency notice into the trash?) So, after going 20 years without receiving a single property tax payment, the city of San Francisco finally got fed up and sent a final notice. Which also went unpaid. (The previous management now in full belly-laugh mode as it tosses final notice in trash.) You would think these millionaires would have hired a management team smart enough to hire an accountant who at least once in the past 20 years looked over the books and cried out<br />
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HEY, HAS ANYONE AROUND HERE BEEN PAYING PROPERTY TAXES?<br />
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But no, not these residents, not this new, better management team.<br />
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You would think that at least one resident, upon receiving the end of year settlement of accounts from the HOA, would have perused it and cried out<br />
<br />
HEY, HAS ANYONE AROUND HERE BEEN PAYING PROPERTY TAXES?<br />
<br />
But evidently not.<br />
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So the city did what all local governments do when property taxes go unpaid. They put the property up for auction. Still receiving no response from the HOA or the gazillionaire residents, the city sold the street, sidewalks, and other common areas to the highest bidder.<br />
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Who is the highest bidder, you ask? A major real estate developer like Trump? No. A Celebrity looking to invest his or her money? No. A charity set up for the sole purpose of assisting very wealthy communities who fall on hard times? No. Another neighborhood competing with this one for the number 1 spot on the list of the rich and famous? No.<br />
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The successful bidder: A first generation immigrant Chinese couple. <br />
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The successful bid -- $90,000 dollars. <br />
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The couple believes the property could bring in a lot of income and are considering their options. One option is to rent the parking spaces that line the street these expensive homes adorn. The couple says they are offering them a good deal. (Did I hear a chuckle in the air?) However, if the residents don't play ball, the couple might rent the spaces to people outside the community. Parking space is at a premium in the city by the sea, and who knows who might end up with parking rights in front of the home of ex-Speaker of House. Perhaps a shoe salesman Married with Children whose only cherished belonging is his 1980 chevy with a missing hood and last painted when originally purchased.<br />
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Of course, the couple is not naive. Like any astute business couple purchasing the sidewalks and streets out from under a residential community, they knew to keep quiet until it was too late for the residents to do much about it. For two years they said and did nothing, and neither did the residents. I assume this was to allow the purchase to mellow with age, making it harder for the residents to assert any remaining rights they might have. With two years under their belt, the couple thinks now is the time to strike and turn the thumbscrews.<br />
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But here's what makes this fiasco so delicious. <br />
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For many, many years in the past, this neighborhood had a rule that the owners of these 35 mega-million dollar homes that line the street could only sell to white people, and now a Chinese-American couple own the property. And it gets better. Not oblivious to the irony, the couple have said<br />
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We love America. We've always wanted to own a little piece of it, and now we do.<br />
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I will tip my hat to them just as soon as I check with my HOA that our common property taxes have been paid.<br />
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<br />Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6042474916868865650.post-37590726611208631402017-08-02T15:16:00.001-04:002017-08-02T15:21:07.487-04:00The Hospital<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I’m reading Rebecca West’s <i>Black Lamb and Grey Falcon</i> in small chunks, enjoying gorgeous prose, wonderful landscape descriptions, and fascinating vignettes about the characters she and her husband meet as they travel through Bosnia, Croatia, Serbia, Montenegro, etc.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The book comes in at 1,300 big pages, and has yet to lose my interest.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">West had great command of language, an artist's eye for countryside and detail, and a piercing understanding of the passions simmering within the people she meets.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’d like to share with you parts of a chapter named <i>Two Castles</i>. One castle is a monastery and the other a hospital for those who have contracted tuberculosis.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Both are actual castles converted, but it is the second castle, the hospital, that I’m interested in.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The doctors were competent, even excellent, but they had a very different view of how to treat the physically ill from western doctors.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Here the patients were free to roam around and act out as they pleased as long as they did not get violent.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the dark beam of [the patients’] hypnotic and hypnotized gaze the strangeness of their plight became newly apparent, the paradox of the necessity which obliged them to accept as a savior the cold which their bodies believed to be an enemy, and to reject as death the warmth which was the known temperature of life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The doctors beside us appeared to take for granted the atmosphere of poetic intensity, and made none of the bouncing gestures, none of the hollow invocations to optimism which in England are perpetually inflicted on any of the sick who show consciousness of their state.</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">As we passed along a corridor overlooking the courtyard, there trembled, in one of the deep recesses each window made in the thickness of the wall, a shadow that was almost certainly two shadows, fused by a strong preference.</span> </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">‘Yes,’ said the superintendent,’they sometimes fall in love, and it is a very good thing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It sometimes makes all the difference, they get a new appetite for living, and then they do so well.’</span> </span></blockquote>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That was the answer to all our Western scruples.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The patients were doing well.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allowed to cast themselves for tragic roles, they were experiencing the exhilaration felt by great tragic actors.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was not lack of self-control, lack of taste, lack of knowledge that accounted for permission of what was not permitted in the West,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Rather it was the reverse. Our people could not have handled patients full of dangerous thoughts of death and love; these people had such resources that they did not need to empty their patients of such freight.</span></span></blockquote>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Later the doctors have a dinner in honor of their English guests.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There is food aplenty — innumerable bottles of plumb brandy, a platter of cold meat, suckling pig, veal, ham, sausage, tongue, and slabs of butter and cheese.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The superintendent informs West that this is what the patients eat every day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This reminds me of the 4 or 5 meals Hans ate every day while incarcerated in another tuberculosis sanitarium high on a mountain in <i>The Magic Mountain</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But all the food makes West think.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">Here was the authentic voice of the Slav.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>These people hold that the way to make life better is to add good things to it, whereas in the West we hold that the way to make life better is to take bad things away from it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>With us, a satisfactory hospital patient is one who, for the time being at least, has been castrated of all adult attributes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>With us, an acceptable doctor is one with all asperities characteristic of gifted men rubbed down by conformity with social standards to a shining, cornerless blandness.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>With us, a suitable hospital diet is food from which everything toxic and irritant has been removed, the eunuchized pulp of steamed fish and stewed prunes. Here a patient could be adult, primitive, dusky, defensive; if he chose to foster a poetic fantasy or personal passion to tide him over his crisis, so much the better.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was the tuberculosis germ that the doctor wanted to alter, not the patient; and that doctor himself might be just like another man, provided he possessed also a fierce intention to cure.</span> </span></blockquote>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One of the doctors raised his glass to me; I raised my glass to him, enjoying communion with the rich world that added instead of subtracting. I thought of the [religious] service at Shistine, and its unfamiliar climate.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The worshippers in Western countries come before the alter with the desire to subtract from the godhead and themselves; to subtract benefits from the godhead by prayer, to subtract their dangerous adult qualities by affecting childishness. The worshippers at Shistine had come before the alter with a habit of addition, which made them pour out the gift of their adoration on the godhead, which made them add to themselves by imaginative realization the divine qualities which they were contemplating in order to adore.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The effect had been of enormous reassuring natural wealth; and that was what I found in Yugoslavia on my first visit. I had come on stores of wealth as impressive as the rubies of Golconda or the gold of Klondike, which took every form except actual material wealth.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Now the superintentent was proposing the health of my husband and myself, and when he said, ‘We are a doing our best here, but we are a poor country,’ it seemed to me he was being as funny as rich people who talk to their poor relations about the large amount they have to pay in income tax.</span></span></blockquote>
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Shadowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05353532874773316117noreply@blogger.com3