Have you ever been so furious that you actually lose the ability of coherent speech?
Yup. It only took Pat Buchanan six minutes.
It's just so weird that people of sound mind and good conscience are listening to this fucking dinosaur. He was the confidant and staunch defender of Nixon. He served under Reagan, who while a brilliant showman, was only interested in "making this country what it once was...." which, in my opinion, had something to do with "when things were better", like before the civil war, and civil rights, and civil debate.
Yes, I know.....affirmative action is ineffective. But to suggest that the reason that the Supreme Courts 110 justices, 108 of them have been old white men because it was white men that founded this country, that BUILT this country, and that positions should be based upon some kind of racial destiny, and not merit.
Insanity, thy name is Buchanan.
I'm ashamed. Ashamed that the insulting son of a bitch got under my skin.
And ashamed because we really haven't come all that far at all, have we?
Friday, July 17, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Strange goings-on in my head.
For example: Socks are actually just bags for the foot.
There is a fine line between a hobby and a symptom.
In watching the Disney channel, I've come to the long-felt conclusion that it's a cult.
One of the funniest names ever invented is Quimby. Either as a first name, or a last name. Quimby. Makes me smile just thinking it.
And now, I'm back to foot bags.
Send help.
There is a fine line between a hobby and a symptom.
In watching the Disney channel, I've come to the long-felt conclusion that it's a cult.
One of the funniest names ever invented is Quimby. Either as a first name, or a last name. Quimby. Makes me smile just thinking it.
And now, I'm back to foot bags.
Send help.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Autobiographical nonsense as I approach my fortysomethingth birthday.....
I was born in Royal Oak, Michigan in the early sixties.
The hospital was named after a fellow named William Beaumont, who was famous for his research into the human digestive system, thanks in large part to an amiable trapper up near Mackinaw City who's gunshot wound didn't kill him, but did give Dr. Beaumont a literal birds-eye view into the mans stomach and abdomen.
My father states that on the day they took me home, he accidentally drove his car across a snow fence, causing quite a lot of damage to his beloved automobile. Many years later, after my umpteenth disaster with an automobile of my own in which he had to bail me out, he claimed that on that day, when he was driving he car across the snow fence, like a block of cheese against the grater, that the car gods were not after him; they were after me.
We lived in a small house on a street called Edgeland, not far from the hospital I was born in. I went by the house in January of this year, to take some photos; it was still small. The fact is, with the exception of a shed in the backyard, there had been no change in the house at all. None. Same color. Same foliage in the front. The same plaque that held the same numbers of the address. My heart did something; I'm not really sure what, but there was definitely some heart action above and beyond the usual thump-thump happening in there.
I was baptized as a Catholic, largely because I had nothing to say about it, but my Mother had a near-miss experience on the way to the convent. She never really spoke of her upbringing, and her father to me was a smallish man with a large grey hair, bent over from arthritis, and her Mother was a ghost; and a ghost with teeth, apparently, because there are precious few pictures and virtually no stories of any merit. She lost a Brother in Korea that she never got over, and I assume that was the thing that took her out of the convent; one can never have the same relationship with God after he takes your most precious things; Job taught us that.
I was baptized in a church called The Shine of the Little Flower. The priest was apparently old school, for when he asked the name of the child, and was informed that my name was to be John Wesley, he turned a little white around the collar and suggested that a good Catholic boy should not be burdened with the name of the head Methodist. I'm sure my Father took a good deal of pleasure out of that. I think he secretly was hoping that the priest's head would catch fire during the ceremony. But he made it through, stumbling just a bit on the whole Wesley thing, and there I was.
The only things I can remember about those early years (and I have to admit that's a bit of a cheat; if I put my mind to it, I'm pretttty sure I could come up with a couple of things, but they would be mundane, like a bout with the mumps and the fact my younger brother would just randomly spill crayons which I would be forced to pick up), is the 1968 World Series (yes, I was six years old, but I still knew who Mickey Lolich and Denny McClain were, and the difference between winning and losing) and a deep, rich fog that fell one fall morning.
The fog is very clear in my mind, and yes, I'm aware of the irony. I can remember walking to school through that fog, with the neighbors from across the street, the Grubers, and I can remember that I felt that a fog that thick should have more substance, somehow. It should be like cotton candy, or soup. Instead, it was just this cloud that prevented sunshine from hitting the ground.
It was thickest fog I can remember ever being in.
Unless you count most of the 1980's, but that's a story for another time.
Side note on the Grubers, and not a pleasant one, but a kind of creepy one.
We moved from Royal Oak to Rochester Hills in the late part of '68; I feel it was late October, early November. And I don't believe I ever laid eyes on Seth Gruber again...until 1981. I was paying my respects to an old friend that I loved dearly in a small cemetery down Orion Road. Lots of markers, dating far back into the Nineteenth Century, and there was Kristi's...set back off the road, underneath a huge tree; a simple stone that didn't come near to representing all she was in her short life.....I put down the flowers I had purchased, said hello and told her what had been happening since she left, said goodbye....and walked right past Seth's stone, which was almost next to Kristi's. He had passed about two months after Kristi had.
And the circle of life just got smaller and smaller as the days progressed.
We moved to a bigger house, surrounded by fields of grass, with a large lawn and interesting neighbors, and my Father remains in that house to this day. The elementary school, and what used to be known as the junior high were both within walking distance, and the high school just a short bus ride away. A nice town, Rochester. Plenty of things to do, and plenty of trouble to get into.
But that's a story for another time........
The hospital was named after a fellow named William Beaumont, who was famous for his research into the human digestive system, thanks in large part to an amiable trapper up near Mackinaw City who's gunshot wound didn't kill him, but did give Dr. Beaumont a literal birds-eye view into the mans stomach and abdomen.
My father states that on the day they took me home, he accidentally drove his car across a snow fence, causing quite a lot of damage to his beloved automobile. Many years later, after my umpteenth disaster with an automobile of my own in which he had to bail me out, he claimed that on that day, when he was driving he car across the snow fence, like a block of cheese against the grater, that the car gods were not after him; they were after me.
We lived in a small house on a street called Edgeland, not far from the hospital I was born in. I went by the house in January of this year, to take some photos; it was still small. The fact is, with the exception of a shed in the backyard, there had been no change in the house at all. None. Same color. Same foliage in the front. The same plaque that held the same numbers of the address. My heart did something; I'm not really sure what, but there was definitely some heart action above and beyond the usual thump-thump happening in there.
I was baptized as a Catholic, largely because I had nothing to say about it, but my Mother had a near-miss experience on the way to the convent. She never really spoke of her upbringing, and her father to me was a smallish man with a large grey hair, bent over from arthritis, and her Mother was a ghost; and a ghost with teeth, apparently, because there are precious few pictures and virtually no stories of any merit. She lost a Brother in Korea that she never got over, and I assume that was the thing that took her out of the convent; one can never have the same relationship with God after he takes your most precious things; Job taught us that.
I was baptized in a church called The Shine of the Little Flower. The priest was apparently old school, for when he asked the name of the child, and was informed that my name was to be John Wesley, he turned a little white around the collar and suggested that a good Catholic boy should not be burdened with the name of the head Methodist. I'm sure my Father took a good deal of pleasure out of that. I think he secretly was hoping that the priest's head would catch fire during the ceremony. But he made it through, stumbling just a bit on the whole Wesley thing, and there I was.
The only things I can remember about those early years (and I have to admit that's a bit of a cheat; if I put my mind to it, I'm pretttty sure I could come up with a couple of things, but they would be mundane, like a bout with the mumps and the fact my younger brother would just randomly spill crayons which I would be forced to pick up), is the 1968 World Series (yes, I was six years old, but I still knew who Mickey Lolich and Denny McClain were, and the difference between winning and losing) and a deep, rich fog that fell one fall morning.
The fog is very clear in my mind, and yes, I'm aware of the irony. I can remember walking to school through that fog, with the neighbors from across the street, the Grubers, and I can remember that I felt that a fog that thick should have more substance, somehow. It should be like cotton candy, or soup. Instead, it was just this cloud that prevented sunshine from hitting the ground.
It was thickest fog I can remember ever being in.
Unless you count most of the 1980's, but that's a story for another time.
Side note on the Grubers, and not a pleasant one, but a kind of creepy one.
We moved from Royal Oak to Rochester Hills in the late part of '68; I feel it was late October, early November. And I don't believe I ever laid eyes on Seth Gruber again...until 1981. I was paying my respects to an old friend that I loved dearly in a small cemetery down Orion Road. Lots of markers, dating far back into the Nineteenth Century, and there was Kristi's...set back off the road, underneath a huge tree; a simple stone that didn't come near to representing all she was in her short life.....I put down the flowers I had purchased, said hello and told her what had been happening since she left, said goodbye....and walked right past Seth's stone, which was almost next to Kristi's. He had passed about two months after Kristi had.
And the circle of life just got smaller and smaller as the days progressed.
We moved to a bigger house, surrounded by fields of grass, with a large lawn and interesting neighbors, and my Father remains in that house to this day. The elementary school, and what used to be known as the junior high were both within walking distance, and the high school just a short bus ride away. A nice town, Rochester. Plenty of things to do, and plenty of trouble to get into.
But that's a story for another time........
Friday, July 3, 2009
I warn you. It rambles.
I'm not sure how I feel today.
Tired, certainly. I'm not really sure if this schedule is killing me or curing me of my addiction to daylight. Maybe it's a little of both. There are times when it's not so bad. It does give me a chance to think upon the deep subjects that fascinate.
Last night, for example, I studied upon the murder of a former NFL quarterback, and the wreck of the Daniel J. Morrell. I believe I also found some time-saving devices, but time will tell.....
Actually, the job makes me a little lonely.
It is currently raining, and not one of those gentle rains, but one of those windblown, heavy rains that make you fear the coming hail, and wonder if it wouldn't be better to go downstairs. It will eventually stop, and become hot, because as I've said before, the weather here in ND was created by a bi-polar Mother Nature.
Had an opportunity to miss an old friend this weekend. Didn't want to miss, but what are you going to do? But my feelings remain that regardless of how far you run down the road, the old friends are the best things to keep with you. They see where you are, and they know where you've been. As you well know, I love the idea of a never-ending conversation. And I appreciate the laughter that comes from that conversation. I think that's why I like the social networking sites, and the reading of other people's blogs.
I have old friends I've never even set eyes upon. But one of the fun things to contemplate is that first meeting. And how rough it will be.
My life is in flux just now. The battle has been rejoined; the one between what I wanted to be, and what I've become. I suppose it's a war that is ongoing in all of us.....and I wish I could just resign myself to it......but my creative nature won't rest.
Sleepless nights.
Okay, they're sleepless because I work at night.
Sleepless days.
Okay, they're sleepless because human beings are SUPPOSED TO BE AWAKE IN THE DAYTIME.
I got some very real sleep issues.
Tired, certainly. I'm not really sure if this schedule is killing me or curing me of my addiction to daylight. Maybe it's a little of both. There are times when it's not so bad. It does give me a chance to think upon the deep subjects that fascinate.
Last night, for example, I studied upon the murder of a former NFL quarterback, and the wreck of the Daniel J. Morrell. I believe I also found some time-saving devices, but time will tell.....
Actually, the job makes me a little lonely.
It is currently raining, and not one of those gentle rains, but one of those windblown, heavy rains that make you fear the coming hail, and wonder if it wouldn't be better to go downstairs. It will eventually stop, and become hot, because as I've said before, the weather here in ND was created by a bi-polar Mother Nature.
Had an opportunity to miss an old friend this weekend. Didn't want to miss, but what are you going to do? But my feelings remain that regardless of how far you run down the road, the old friends are the best things to keep with you. They see where you are, and they know where you've been. As you well know, I love the idea of a never-ending conversation. And I appreciate the laughter that comes from that conversation. I think that's why I like the social networking sites, and the reading of other people's blogs.
I have old friends I've never even set eyes upon. But one of the fun things to contemplate is that first meeting. And how rough it will be.
My life is in flux just now. The battle has been rejoined; the one between what I wanted to be, and what I've become. I suppose it's a war that is ongoing in all of us.....and I wish I could just resign myself to it......but my creative nature won't rest.
Sleepless nights.
Okay, they're sleepless because I work at night.
Sleepless days.
Okay, they're sleepless because human beings are SUPPOSED TO BE AWAKE IN THE DAYTIME.
I got some very real sleep issues.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Eh. Part II.
I have to tell you, folks; I wish there was a bell, or a sign, or something that would indicate when anybody, anywhere, was talking about you in a flattering and favorable light.
I could use just a little ego boost today.
I could use just a little ego boost today.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Hum-able. Sing-able. Do-able.
I was having a bad day, recently.
And just when I was sure that I would never again see anything past the end of my nose, up jumps the better angels.....
I feel that God can sometimes control the radio.
And just when I was sure that I would never again see anything past the end of my nose, up jumps the better angels.....
I feel that God can sometimes control the radio.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Elevation of Memory begins in five...four....three....
I was driving home from Minneapolis.
If you've ever driven anywhere from Minneapolis, you would know that there is MINNEAPOLIS, followed by NOTHING. Lots of road. Lovely scenery at this time of the year, with the soybean green and whatnot. Some lovely small towns rise up on the horizon, get closer, and fall gently behind. Steeples currently outweighing the Golden Arches, as it should be in this grandest of all Lutheran worlds.
I was listening to the old voices on the radio. Voices of men done and gone, the first on the eighteenth anniversary of my birth; the next quietly a two decades later, and the last just about half a decade ago.
The Goons.
I chose to listen to those old British radio programs, because there has always been a comfort to the voices of manic idiocy that I first discovered by accident when I was but a wee bairn of 13. It was my treasure chest, that discovery; it was a kind of humor that I alone among all of my friends understood, appreciated, and I fell like Lucifer to the ground at the sound of those ancient music hall gags told over long dead wires; spent with the sound and feeling of laughter unlike I'd known before, and to tell the truth, not felt but a few time since.
The voices still make me laugh. Thirty seven years after the last time they were all together. And with that knowledge, I can't feel too much grief at the most recent passings. Some, yes. As you know, I'm not made of stone. I'm more of the consistency of Silly Putty.
Thanks to magnetic tape, and digitization, nobody can be truly gone.
And my memory is filled; and easily downloadable.
So.
Peter. Spike. Harry.
If you're listening out there in the great beyond, accept the thanks of a late coming acolyte, for the laughter and the knowledge that it's permissible to be a loon, even in this day and age of rank and file, eyes front, do-what-everybody-else-does, complicity.
And a story before I go.
When my nephew was but a toddler, he had the unfortunate experience to witness a broadcast of the THRILLER video. And of course, you all remember it; zombies and werewolves and such.
Well, my nephew FREAKED OUT. Crying, wailing, running in circles until colliding with something and then getting up and running again, all the time screaming, "NO MONSTERS! NO MONSTERS!"
He's twenty eight now, and I still torture him with this image. He's a good natured kid, which is fortunate for me; I'm pretty sure he could take me. Easily.
Well, some time passed after this meltdown, and I was babysitting him while his parents and his grandparents went out for a night on the town; and we were watching television, when a commercial comes on for an album of the Greatest Hits of Motown.
And they show a clip of the Jackson Five.
And Michael is like eight years old.
And my nephew looks, listens, and turns to me.
Eyes HUGE.
And it starts as a whisper.
"no monsters."
And in seconds, it's a tidal wave of sound and movement.
"NO MONSTERS! NO MONSTERS!"
And I'm scooping the child into my arms and walking him around the house, turning on all the lights and quickly changing channels, simultaneously attempting to be comforting and trying not to choke back the laughter....
How did he know?
Sigh.
And repeat.
If you've ever driven anywhere from Minneapolis, you would know that there is MINNEAPOLIS, followed by NOTHING. Lots of road. Lovely scenery at this time of the year, with the soybean green and whatnot. Some lovely small towns rise up on the horizon, get closer, and fall gently behind. Steeples currently outweighing the Golden Arches, as it should be in this grandest of all Lutheran worlds.
I was listening to the old voices on the radio. Voices of men done and gone, the first on the eighteenth anniversary of my birth; the next quietly a two decades later, and the last just about half a decade ago.
The Goons.
I chose to listen to those old British radio programs, because there has always been a comfort to the voices of manic idiocy that I first discovered by accident when I was but a wee bairn of 13. It was my treasure chest, that discovery; it was a kind of humor that I alone among all of my friends understood, appreciated, and I fell like Lucifer to the ground at the sound of those ancient music hall gags told over long dead wires; spent with the sound and feeling of laughter unlike I'd known before, and to tell the truth, not felt but a few time since.
The voices still make me laugh. Thirty seven years after the last time they were all together. And with that knowledge, I can't feel too much grief at the most recent passings. Some, yes. As you know, I'm not made of stone. I'm more of the consistency of Silly Putty.
Thanks to magnetic tape, and digitization, nobody can be truly gone.
And my memory is filled; and easily downloadable.
So.
Peter. Spike. Harry.
If you're listening out there in the great beyond, accept the thanks of a late coming acolyte, for the laughter and the knowledge that it's permissible to be a loon, even in this day and age of rank and file, eyes front, do-what-everybody-else-does, complicity.
And a story before I go.
When my nephew was but a toddler, he had the unfortunate experience to witness a broadcast of the THRILLER video. And of course, you all remember it; zombies and werewolves and such.
Well, my nephew FREAKED OUT. Crying, wailing, running in circles until colliding with something and then getting up and running again, all the time screaming, "NO MONSTERS! NO MONSTERS!"
He's twenty eight now, and I still torture him with this image. He's a good natured kid, which is fortunate for me; I'm pretty sure he could take me. Easily.
Well, some time passed after this meltdown, and I was babysitting him while his parents and his grandparents went out for a night on the town; and we were watching television, when a commercial comes on for an album of the Greatest Hits of Motown.
And they show a clip of the Jackson Five.
And Michael is like eight years old.
And my nephew looks, listens, and turns to me.
Eyes HUGE.
And it starts as a whisper.
"no monsters."
And in seconds, it's a tidal wave of sound and movement.
"NO MONSTERS! NO MONSTERS!"
And I'm scooping the child into my arms and walking him around the house, turning on all the lights and quickly changing channels, simultaneously attempting to be comforting and trying not to choke back the laughter....
How did he know?
Sigh.
And repeat.
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