A psychologist has posted all ten Rorschach inkblot images on Wikipedia, and listed the most common responses for each. This has annoyed a lot of other psychologists, because they think people will now memorize the "right" answers for each.
I think the whole thing is ridiculous. Besides, each of the inkblots looks like a pile of dead puppies to me. ;-)
I really must learn to see genocide as a source of humor and satire. Because apparently it's the young, hip, New York, liberal Jewish thing to do.
Some friends of ours invited us over for a swim the other night, to watch their bat colony come swooping out of their bat house behind their pool cage.
Our friends have two bat houses on their property: large vertical boxes with multiple slats inside, with about an inch of space between each slat. They're mounted on 6-meter posts, high off the ground, to allow the bats to free-fall out of the house and curve upward into flight without hitting the ground.
There were hundreds of them in each house, twittering and pushing and shoving. We could see them wriggling like hordes of mice as we looked up into the house with the aid of a flashlight. (Not too close, or you'll get an eyeful of guano.)
First one, then another, then half a dozen, then dozens spilled out of the house, spinning up into the darkling sky in search of their nightly meal of mosquitos.
It was beautiful.
I'm going to build a bat house. I just need to find a decent open space on our lot to install it.
How appropriate. Every day, we all make decisions which could either lead us quickly to a desired conclusion, or could lead us slowly through a myriad of undesirable events.
Many people have the mental capacity to make good decisions. A shocking number of them though, including people with impressive titles, don't.
There's been lots of blather lately about Henry Louis Gates Jr., a professor who is employed at Harvard University as the director of the W.E.B. Du Bois Institute for African and African American Research. Gates had to break into his own house when he couldn't find his keys after returning from a trip to China. An alert neighbor called the police as she witnessed the break-in. The police showed up, Gates was uncooperative and abusive with the police when they asked him to show his identification, and his big mouth got him arrested on a charge of disorderly conduct. He was later released when the charge was dismissed.
Gates, with the aid of the moronic legacy media, tried to spin his arrest as a case of "white cop abusing black man." Even Dear Leader fell for it, making a comment that the police had "acted stupidly," which earned him the ire of many police unions around the country. Obama then made it worse by saying the incident was "a teachable moment" in America's history of race relations.
Now Gates, Dear Leader, and arresting Officer James Crowley are all going to meet at the White House tomorrow for a beer.
The whole thing is ridiculous. Especially when Gates himself pointed out that he's working on another PBS television series about race in America, and he's going to use this incident as an example. Which begs the question, did Gates deliberately provoke this incident just to get free publicity?
It wouldn't surprise me, but I doubt it. I think that Gates, in his role as a professional racist, consciously chose to see the scrutiny of the police in a negative light. He chose to aggravate the situation, and to be uncooperative with the police. Any normal intelligent person in Gates' position would have thanked the police for showing up, promptly produced his driver's license (which has his photograph and his address on it), and helped the police to determine that nothing was amiss. Not Gates.
This means that no one should feel sorry for Gates. The man is a moron, despite his lofty academic credentials at a once-prestigious university. He's not a victim of racism, unless it's his own racism. He deserves no sympathy for the trouble that it earned him.
And Dear Leader just looks dumb for (a.) deigning to comment on the spat, which drags him into the racism discussion, and (b.) having everyone come over to the White House for a beer, to paper over whatever perceived racial rift the incident caused.
You would think a President would have better things to do.
Not this one, though. Maybe it will distract the public from his other problems, like losing his campaign for socialized medicine.
The zither theme from "The Third Man" has been stuck in my head for the last couple of days, and it's been driving me nuts. "The Third Man" was a 1949 film noir set in postwar occupied Vienna, Austria, starring Joseph Cotten, Orson Welles, Alida Valli and Trevor Howard.
The frame rate is set quite low on this sample, so please don't think the movie is actually like that. And you should see it. It's a great film.
Note: The music starts at 0:53 in this clip.
Gopher tortoises are, by nature, itinerant. They move from place to place, digging multiple burrows, and shift their residence every few days, weeks or months. Sometimes they stay in one place for years... other times, they stay for only a few days. They usually come back, if they leave, but sometimes they don't.
At one point this spring, we had four different gopher tortoises living on our lot, which is unusual because they don't usually attain that kind of population density. We felt privileged that our lot was such a haven for a threatened species. We could go out every day and see them all sitting on the aprons of their burrows, sunning themselves. Sometimes they would scamper back into their hole at the vibrations of our approaching footfalls, and sometimes they would languidly ignore us.
Now they're all gone, and we are suffering from "empty nest syndrome." We miss our little guys (and gals).
I hope they come back.
The other day, a county appraiser showed up to inspect how we were doing on our permit to work on the garage. We said we hadn't gotten very far (we only got the permit a few weeks ago) but we showed her anyway. She seemed perplexed, but we didn't know why until she said, "I'm surprised you're not done if you got the permit last year."
Oh, we said. We looked at her paperwork. It was for an older permit, which we'd finished working on back in February. We all had a good laugh, but she seemed embarrassed. We explained that NOW we're working on a DIFFERENT permit, and that's why the place is a mess.
This past weekend, we moved the attic ladder two joists to the left, to make room for the new wall we're going to build (the wall needed to occupy the same space as the ladder's hole).
Sadly, the ladder did not fit into the new joist space. We thought all of our joists were set the same distance apart, and so if the ladder fit between one pair of joists, it would fit between another pair of joists just the same.
Nope. The target joist space was one inch narrower. And that was too narrow for the ladder assembly.
We had already thought of buying a new ladder, a telescoping ladder, with the idea that the ladder could come more or less straight down out of the ceiling, instead of a folding ladder having to occupy a horizontal arc of space while it unfolded. So we bought one.
Alas, the telescoping ladder's attachment bracket makes the ladder extend more than 30 inches into the attic space. We needed it to attach flush to the attic floor, because the attic roof is very low. Thirty inches makes it impossible to climb over the ladder, especially with boxes. And we could not safely mount it backwards, because the user would have to step backward off the ladder, over empty space, and wriggle into the attic.
We were well and truly screwed.
So. We decided to leave the new hole where it was, and simply shop at garage sales for a nine-foot piece of an extension ladder, or find an even longer ladder and just cut it down to fit. We'll install eyebolts in the frame of the new hole, install hooks on the end of the ladder, and hook it onto the frame of the hole when we need to use it, so it can't fall down or twist during use.
We also put down lots of planking in the attic, to allow people to walk around up there without having to walk on the joists. And we diagnosed our air conditioning problems (sloppy installation of a distribution box, done entirely with duct tape, which leaks like a sieve). Now we know what needs to be done to fix it.
And now we can proceed to build our new wall.
Before I left Cleveland, I visited the USS Cod, a World War 2 submarine that I wrote about earlier. This time, I paid my pittance to go inside.
The 5-inch, 25-caliber deck gun. (That's 5.25 inches.) The breech is open in back so you can see through the barrel. It's specially designed to be submerged in salt water for long periods.
The forward 40mm antiaircraft gun.
The USS Cod is the only Gato-class submarine that hasn't had its hull modified for tourists. You use the same stairs, ladders and hatches that the crew used.
The inside of the forward hull. You can see that it's perforated to let seawater flow through it. The pipes are for the ballast tanks.
The forward main hatch, looking up from inside.
The more I listen to David Bowie, the more I like his pop sensibilities and his dry sense of humor. I like the heavy beat, the twangy guitar and the "be-bop" keyboard hook.
This is the original, from 1997's "Earthling" album.
This is the version with Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails. Mostly the same, with a grittier synth backing on the chorus. Trent is delightfully creepy, stalking David through the streets.
Johnnys in america, low-techs at theWheel
No-one needs anyone, they dont even just pretend
Johnnys in america
Im afraid of americans
Im afraid of the world
Im afraid I cant help it
Im afraid I cant
Johnnys in america
Johnny wants a brain, johnny wants to
Suck on a coke
Johnny wants a woman, johnny wants
To think of a joke
Johnnys in america
Im afraid of americans
Im afraid of the world
Im afraid I cant help it
Im afraid I cant
Johnnys in america, johnny looks up at The stars
Johnny combs his hair and johnnyWants pussy and cars
Johnnys in america
God is an american
Im afraid of americans
Im afraid of the world
Im afraid I cant help it
Im afraid I cant
Johnnys in america
I met the daughter of a friend of my darling wife's. She was young, perhaps 20, shy, reticent. I got no real impression of her.
I found out later that she's just graduated with a double major in Broadcast Journalism and Psychology. Which are both relatively weak fields for job hunters, but she graduated with a 4.0 and has been an honor student since early high school.
She just landed a job as a reporter in a little resort community on one of the islands off the coast of the state of Georgia, in the Gulf of Mexico. She took that one, instead of another reporting job in The Villages, which is a giant retirement community, and she wouldn't have been allowed to live there since she's underage. So the resort job it is.
For a college graduate to be getting a job in this economy is impressive, I think, especially a job in journalism, which is a field that is not exactly healthy.
I hope she does well. I know her mom is very proud of her.
I saw that Dear Leader was occupying all the legacy media channels last night, begging Congress to pass his government takeover of the healthcare system.
I didn't watch. I don't care. And I think it's not going to happen, regardless of how much he threatens, wheedles and cajoles. Because congressional members know that they'll be voted out of office if they support it, just like they tend to get voted out when they support gun control legislation. America's citizens are usually smarter than its Congress, and definitely smarter than its President.
I'm looking forward to the next manufactured crisis. And the next episode of "Warehouse 13."
If it wasn't enough that Google actively aids and abets the Chinese government, the Onion has actually been sold to the Chinese, claims the newspaper's 141-year-old publisher from his sickbed.
Watch this news clip for a glimpse of the not-too-distant future of American news media.
Police Still Searching For Missing Productive, Obedient Woman
And of course, American children need to shape up, before their future Communist masters help them shape up.
This is the perfect example of an earworm. It's bouncy, upbeat and fun.
The original Billy Idol tune from 1981, when Billy was part of the band Generation X. The video was directed by Tobe Hooper, of "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" (the first one) and "Poltergeist," and features a group of British National Health Service patients.
The Blink-182 version. A bit whinier, as is their wont.
The Boomtang Boys version (my favorite). Catchy dance arrangement, and the video is guaranteed to set off epileptic seizures.
The Green Day version. Pretty straightforward cover.
The Nouvelle Vague version, in goofy 1960s bossa nova style. This band made sure to pick songs that its singers had never heard before. Apparently their singers live their lives entirely in a locked box.
Under the current House of Representatives' health care bill (no number assigned yet, but it is called the "America's Affordable Health Choices Act of 2009"), you are are allowed to keep your current private health insurance, if you have it. But if you lose your job, or if you change jobs, you cannot sign up with another private insurer. You must "choose" the government's health care plan.
Funny how the AARP summary misses that point. So does the Huffington Post, which displays the bill in its entirety.
So much for "choice." No wonder the Democrats want to pass this bill in a hurry before their August recess - they don't want people to know that they won't have a choice of insurers anymore. And they don't want the insurance and hospital industry to have time to marshal their forces (though they already are, through television ads by groups such as "Conservatives for Patients Rights").
Now, really, it makes little difference whether a high school graduate working for a private insurer denies your claim, or a high school graduate working for the government denies your claim. The end is the same. Some unthinking drone somewhere is going to tell you that you can't get the treatment you need. That's how insurance works. You pay money, and then when you file a claim, you get denied, or even get your policy canceled. That's why insurance is such a big scam in the first place. And this is how "more enlightened" democracies like Canada and Britain and Australia limit their health care costs, by simply restricting available drugs and surgeries to the populations who will benefit the most - the young and healthy (as judged via the metric of a "quality adjusted life year.") This allows these governments to manage their populations of the elderly and the chronically ill, by letting them die off more quickly, with little or no treatment. It's slower than euthanasia, but just as effective, and easier to defend politically.
Anyway. If you're going to pay money into a scam, you should at least have a choice of who is going to scam you. ;-)
Google's corporate motto is "Don't be evil." Well, maybe "You can make money without doing evil."
Yet Google has a long history of helping China construct its "Great Firewall" of internet filters, and helping the Chinese government to repress its netizens. (video story from 2006 also here.) (Other companies, like General Electric and Yahoo, are also active collaborators with the Communists, but it's Google's turn at the whipping post today, mainly because their corporate motto easily lends itself to being mocked.)
Despite Google's aiding the Communist Chinese government, that same government has blocked Google in China several times in the past few years. The latest block went up today, after the recent 20th anniversary of the massacre in Tiananmen Square, and before the upcoming 60th anniverary of Chinese Communist rule (October 1). Both Google and Gmail are blocked, as well as several popular Chinese websites.
I think Google should change its corporate motto to "Don't Be A Tool." But that would require a collective spine and a dose of ethics, which Google has always lacked. After all, since its inception in 1998, Google refused to display a Memorial Day graphic until this year, when it displayed a single yellow ribbon. That's right. Google refused to honor the sacrifices of its own country's citizens, despite ever-increasing public criticism, for eleven years. With such misplaced priorities, it's not surprising that Google would be the Internet's Quisling, bowing to the oppression of Communist China and actively helping it.
Congratulations, Google. Being a tool of oppression is only helpful as long as you serve the oppressors' purposes. When you stop serving their purposes, you're expendable too.
Will Google learn anything from this? No, of course not, who am I kidding? ;-)
(And yes, I enjoy the irony of using Blogger, a Google application, to bash Google's assistance in suppressing speech and freedom.)
Last week, the Treasury Department said that the federal deficit (the rate at which federal spending outpaces revenue such as from taxes) exceeded one trillion dollars for fiscal year 2009, for the first time in history. That's counting only the funds that HAVE been spent out of the trillion-dollar Porkulus spending bill, not including what they PLAN to spend.
It's so bad that even the Chinese, who are holding most of America's debt, are getting nervous. Well, more nervous than they were before.
The somnolent economy, despite Dear Leader's Porkulus spending, remains somnolent. And economic stagnation, coupled with spending money the government doesn't have (they're basically printing more money as they need it) leads to stagflation, which is what Britain suffered from in the 1960s and 1970s, and what Japan suffered from in the 1990s, during their Lost Decade after their real estate collapse.
I'm spending my money while it's still worth something.
Forty years ago, humans landed on Earth's moon, for the first time in recorded history.
Having proven that they could do it, they promptly stopped going. Perhaps it was a natural result, since the effort had cost so much. But it was a mistake to stop going. The benefits of the space program have been numerous and incredibly helpful to human life on Earth.
One can only imagine how much more could have been discovered or invented, had humans maintained their presence on the moon, and had kept going outward, toward Mars and the asteroid belt.
They need to keep going, because it's the only way that the human race can ensure its survival. If they don't, the human race will die in the cradle in which it was born, never having achieved the limitless possibilities that once lay within its grasp.
I have had this tune stuck in my head for a month. And I didn't even know what it was called. It's "The Ocean," the last song off of Led Zeppelin's 1973 outing, "Houses of the Holy."
I like the lurching beat. Oddball beats and weird noises make me happy. That's why I like Devo.
I was watching a clip of the Tour de France bicycle race the other day, watching the packs of bicyclists and swarms of motorcycle and van chase vehicles in front of them and behind them.
I remarked to my darling wife, "I wonder how often people are killed by chase vehicles during the Tour de France?"
Today a female spectator was killed by an out-of-control police motorcycle near the town of Alsace, after the motorcyclist fell off of his machine. (I haven't been able to learn how that happened.)
I haven't figured out how often this kind of accident occurs, but it's eerie that it should happen right after I was thinking about it.
The only person I know who actually uses the music channels on digital cable or satellite TV is a friend who leaves the Soundscapes channel on for her dogs and cats to listen to while she's at work. (No wonder her pets are skittish.) But I was flipping through them, marking certain ones as Favorites, when I heard this song on the Dance channel.
I really like the loopy, spacy, unnatural synthesizer sounds. Sounds that have no equivalent in nature are fun. The video is typical sexist BS, but I like the tune. The music is by Russian DJ Leonid Rudenko, from Moscow, and this is his first major international hit. The vocals are by Charleene Rena. The underlying two-tone burbling keyboard loop is a sample of "Cop That Disc," a UK hit by Timbaland and Missy Eliott. I think Rudenko probably used the best part of that song (bleagh).
This is one of They Might Be Giants' classics. It's just silly, and that's why I like it. And it's stuck in my head today, and I don't see why I should be the only one to suffer.
This is an amateur video, but I chose it because it's the clean original audio, not some live crap that's all distorted.
(BTW, that's not an accordion solo, it's a saxophone voice on a synthesizer.)
I switched our cable service to High Definition today. The installer brought a brick-sized modem and ran some more cable and outlets for us, and even set up our new TV that we bought last night (a nice Sony 46" LCD, marked down 20 percent because it was an out-of-the-box return in perfect condition).
He dropped my wireless router when I wasn't looking. He told me that it was working, but later I discovered that it wasn't.
Every time my router has an issue, it's because I've switched cable companies or modem hardware. One time it took me four days to get it fixed, and three conference calls with technical support people in China, Singapore and the Philippines. But each time I have an issue, I learn about more ways that a wireless router can get screwed up, and how to fix it.
So I finally got mine working again tonight, in a record two hours. Really, it's just a matter of performing the proper steps in the proper order, and giving the modem, the router and your computer enough time to properly boot up and synchronize.
Still, I hate hardware upgrades. Hate them. And I wish people wouldn't abuse my equipment.
D, a member of my darling wife's garden club, was always difficult to get along with. She might be warm and personable one day, and bitchy the next. But the most irritating thing about her was that she would send emails in the middle of the night saying that she was going to do some task for the garden club. Later, she would have no memory of what she had said, so she would do something different, or not do anything at all. Or, she would insist that she HAD emailed a question or an answer to someone, but in fact she had not.
She also tended to email a barrage of questions when a simple phone call (or just taking care of the problem herself) would have done quite nicely. This drove other people in the garden club nuts.
She also started a fight with her homeowner's association. She wanted to rip out her water-hungry grass and put in "Florida Friendly" (drought-tolerant) plants, and the association (like many in the jungle) insisted that she have some grass in her front yard. The association chairman was conciliatory, and talked her through how to get approval for what she wanted to do: write a letter describing what she wanted, and ask the board of directors for permission to do it.
She wrote the letter, but just said, "this is what we're going to do." She didn't ask permission. And when you live in a community with a strict homeowner's association, that's treason. So they summarily denied it. Unfortunately, she had already ripped out all her grass and planted all the new plants. She left a square meter of grass in her front yard to satisfy the letter of the law, which was rather peevish of her, I thought.
The association threatened her with fines and a lawsuit. She refused to budge. It was turning into an ugly stalemate, and it was making the Florida Friendly horticultural program look bad, because it was getting negative publicity as a result of the fight between D and her homeowner's association.
Observing all of D's bad behavior, I concluded that she was insane, and I did my best to ignore her. I was friendly enough when I saw her (infrequently), but I did my best to keep a safe distance from her and her maelstrom of chaos. Other people did too, I hear.
Then D found out two weeks ago that she has pancreatic cancer, and that it's spread to her other major organs. She has a few months left to live.
Her cancer explains her bizarre behavior, to an extent. When your body is wracked by disease, it often affects the mind. Or maybe she's just fucking crazy anyway. Maybe her mental illness helped cause her physical illness.
Part of me feels guilty for thinking badly of her. Part of me feels justified. I'm not sure really how I should feel. She's not my friend, and she's not my darling wife's friend, so I'm not sure that I need to feel anything in particular.
I think the thing which I find most unfortunate is that her husband is a fragile diabetic. The only reason he is still alive is that D takes care of him. When D is gone, he will soon follow. D's illness will claim two lives, not just one.
I hope I am never in the same situation as they are.
I'm not a big fan of Radiohead (Yorke's band) or of Yorke's music in general, but for some reason, this song speaks to me.
"We think the same things at the same time, we just can't do anything about it."
Don’t walk the plank like I did
You will be dispensed with
when you’ve become inconvenient
Up on Harrowdown Hill
The way you used to go to school
That’s where I am
That’s where I'm lying down
Did I fall or was I pushed?
did I fall or was I pushed?
And where’s the blood?
And where’s the blood?
But I'm coming home
I’m coming home
To make it alright,
so dry your eyes
We think the same things at the same time
We just can’t do anything about it
We think the same things at the same time
We just can’t do anything about it
So don’t ask me, ask the ministry
Don’t ask me, ask the ministry
We think the same things at the same time
There are so many of us
So you can’t count
We think the same things at the same time
There are so many of us
So you can’t count...
Can you see me when I am running?
Can you see me when I am running?
Away from there...
Away from there...
I can’t take the pressure
No one cares if you live or die
They just want me gone
They want me gone
And I'm coming home
I'm coming home
To make it all right
so dry your eyes
We think the same things at the same time
We just can’t do anything about it
We think the same things at the same time
There are too many of us so you can’t
There are too many of us so you can’t count...
It was me walking to the back of Harrowdown Hill
It was me walking to the back of Harrowdown Hill
It was a slippery, slippery, slippery slope
It was a slippery, slippery, slippery slope
I felt me slipping in and out of consciousness
I felt me slipping in and out of consciousness
I feel me...
In a conversation the other day, a friend of mine said that they never feel "good enough," like they've done enough, like they are worthy of going a little easier on themselves. It's what drives my friend, what makes my friend into such a super-achiever.
I'm the same way, though I've calmed down a bit in the last decade or so. If I'm left alone, I am driven and obsessive. If I have other people who need my time, then I make sure that they take priority before non-people-related tasks. That was a big thing for me to figure out. It did not come without pain, of course, and I would never have figured it out without constant prompting from others, people who found my obsessiveness irritating.
Anyway, it was interesting to hear my friend voice the same issue with which I have always struggled.
I never feel "good enough" either. That's why it's so surprising to me when people say nice things to me, or thank me for doing something that I do automatically. That's the next thing I need to work on - accepting compliments and gratitude from people. I never feel worthy when people say those things to me. It always seems like they're talking to someone else.
Someday I'll recognize that they're talking to me, and that they mean it. Until then, I will smile, and keep doing the things I was built to do, and be happy in my work.
China allegedly has banned the use of electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) as a treatment for internet addiction.
I'm certainly relieved, aren't you?
Actually, I think the Chinese are going about it the wrong way. If Chinese youth are addicted to public computers in Internet bars, then the simplest way to modify their behavior is to electrify the keyboards and mice. Touch the keyboard, get shocked. How simple is THAT? Soon the addicted person will associate the Internet with pain, and will avoid the Internet, and computers in general.
B.F. Skinner would be very proud.
Of course, this method would stimulate the manufacture and sale of heavy rubber gloves, or it might even spur Chinese bodies to adapt by growing heavy calluses on their fingers. Perhaps it will stimulate the generation of more electrical power, which would increase China's contribution to acid rainfall from coal-fired power plants, even as it might bring rural electrification to more distant provinces of China.
Fascinating. Given that the Chinese don't worry about such niceties as getting patient consent from test subjects, I hope they try it out. ;-)
Next: The ECT app for iPhone addicts! (Requires an auxiliary 12-volt car battery or AC adapter with finger leads.)
I always liked this tune, even though the nasal "whoah" chorus is pretty lame.
This song was featured in the 1969 film "Midnight Cowboy," about a dishwasher in Texas (Jon Voight) who travels to New York City to be a gigolo, fails miserably, and winds up on Skid Row with a dying con man (Dustin Hoffman) who wants to go to Miami before he dies. It sounds depressing, as many 1960s and 1970s films are. I have never seen it.
During our recent trip, I had the opportunity to witness some quite amazingly bad driving. Not my own, of course, but other people's driving.
The top five vehicles of choice for bad drivers during our weeklong series of unscientific observations were:
We observed the Jetta more often around major cities, where its drivers can more easily obtain parts after the inevitable collisions. The Chrysler minivan was ubiquitous in its offenses in both urban and rural settings, however. I honestly did not think a minivan could move as fast as I witnessed it moving, but clearly I was wrong.
Billy Mays, the shouting TV pitchman, died a couple of weeks ago.
Earlier this year I wished for him to come down with a vicious case of laryngitis. I suppose death works also.
I'm sure I'm not the only one, though, who finds it both irritating and unnerving that his commercials are STILL running on TV.
Turner Classic Movie channel ran "Judy Garland: By Myself" today, a 2004 biography of the legendary singer. I hadn't really paid much attention to her until now. Her two biggest films were "The Wizard of Oz" (1939) and "A Star Is Born" (1954). I've only seen "Oz," really.
She died in 1969 at age 47, shortly after I arrived here, so I never really got to see her perform live. But watching "Judy Garland: By Myself," I really got to appreciate her. Oh, what a voice, what a smile, what a presence she had. A truly amazing singer. Yet MGM's film studio executives got her hooked on drugs when she was young, to boost her productivity of filmmaking and to control her weight (she was tiny, only five feet tall, so the studio executives were critical of every pound she carried on her slim frame). And that drug addiction eventually killed her.
Such a beautiful flame, snuffed out so young. Now, THERE'S a singer whose passing should be mourned, even forty years after her death. Judy made the world a better place, during her brief stay. Even today, everyone knows "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."
Michael Jackson is dead at age 50. That's sad.
He had lots of hits, both as part of the Jackson Five, and later on his own. He was a major musical force... decades ago.
The way the news media has been wailing about his death, you would think that someone much more important had died.
I thought it was interesting that the race-baiting Al Sharpton, in a speech last week, led with the statement that Michael was not a freak. Usually when someone feels compelled to address an argument in the first statement of a speech, the argument is not without merit. Michael was a freak. One can acknowledge that fact and still feel sorry for him. Now he's dead, and at least he's not suffering anymore.
Jackson's family is now selling tickets to Michael's memorial service, scheduled for sometime today. I think that's the ultimate in poor taste. They're still trying to make money off of him, even in death. I expect that if they could arrange it, he will sit up in his casket and sing "Thriller" one last time, without the need for the zombie makeup.
The whole circus of Michael Jackson, his life of the past 20 years, his death, and his family, makes me nauseous.
And if you ever doubted that one of the media's primary purposes is to distract the masses from the really important issues of the day, here's your proof.
I'm turning off the TV.
One of the fun things about an oxygen-bearing atmosphere is that things can burn rather prettily. I'm going outside to see if I can blow off an appendage with burning, exploding things.
Happy 4th of July! I'm grateful and happy that hundreds of years ago, some people were willing to risk their lives to achieve something better than what they had. Their bravery, and the bravery of millions like them, helped make America a wonderful nation.
I've always found ethnic slurs to be an interesting glimpse into the past, when ethnic groups from disparate places and cultures were thrown together and forced to adapt to each other, as in New York City in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Wikipedia has some interesting anecdotes. For example, "wop" (an Italian person) is derived from "guappo," which is Italian for "dude." "Spic" refers to an Hispanic person. "Wetback" refers to an illegal immigrant who has swum across the Rio Grande from Mexico. I've studied the World Wars extensively, when terms like "kraut," "Jerry," "Hun" and "Limey" were commonly used.
I recently spent a bit of time with a person of Polish descent. I was appalled at his behavior, specifically at his ignorance about things I thought were common knowledge (like "only floss the teeth you wish to keep"), and his outrageously sexist and racist opinions. According to him, the Polish people have achieved all things of importance. Other races and cultures, particularly the Hispanic people, are to be despised. Listening to him was like listening to Ensign Chekov in the original "Star Trek" series, when someone would mention that something was created or invented long ago, and Chekov would pipe up and say something like, "of course, a Russian did it first."
It occurred to me, as I listened to this person, that the phrase "dumb Polack" was not simply made up. I'm sure the phrase's creators were personally acquainted with him.
I just feel badly for the rest of the Polish people, who don't deserve to be tainted by this particular person's behavior.
Vacation was nice. We spent a lot of time traveling and saw some truly hideous road accidents (none of which I caused, for a change). We saw people we knew, and places we'd both been.
In "Grosse Point Blank," John Cusack goes home to Michigan, to discover that his childhood home has been turned into a mini-mart. An assassin follows him there, they shoot it out in the mini-mart, and wind up destroying it. He calls his therapist and says, "You were right - you can't go home again. But you can shop there."
John's right. There was nothing there for me, when I went back. It was interesting to see how it had changed. But it didn't matter. There's nothing there, no one there. Empty, soulless. But it was interesting to see.
Now I'm home, working on renovation projects. We've done so much in so little time. I have another week of vacation. We'll see what I get done by then!
