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Not many people can tell you where they were or exactly what they were doing 54 years ago...hell, most people hadn't even been born 54 years ago..., but I can. I was a 21 year old Naval Aviation Cadet stationed in Pensacola, Florida, writing a letter to my parents. And here it is:
27 June 1955
Dear Folks
Yes, it’s me again & no, I’m not ill. It’s just that I’ve grown momentarily tired of watching the many-legged little beasties running up & down the walls near the sink. Glancing by my left foot, I notice a recently deceased member of the clan. Speaking of the sink, the faucet drips (the hot water tap), making a rust-colored spot on the otherwise white porcelain. The fan is doing a thankless & futile job of trying to cool the room, but Pensacola’s summers are no match for anything less than full air conditioning.
Whereas yesterday it rained & made itself generally disagreeable, today it did not—the sun glared down until early afternoon, when dirty grey clouds started to form. The sun might as well have spared its efforts this morning, on me at least, since I was in the nice air-conditioned ground school building answering such questions as
PNS M490 50 0 8 172/79/70 (left arrow) 8/992 RW-E25
1) in the above sequence report
2) the ceiling was measured at 4900 above ground
3) fog will not be present unless the wind shifts
4) rain showers ended at 25 minutes past the hour
In case you hadn’t guessed, 4) is the correct answer. There were much harder questions. I’m getting so that I can read off sequence reports, area forecasts, terminal forecasts, & other similar jargon with comparative ease & accuracy.
Sunday while washing the car, I was viciously attacked on the fourth toe of my left foot by an ant (quite a small ant at that). Today I have a good-sized welt there.
And, speaking of ants, one is scurrying across the top of my stationery box at this moment. I see it has wings—well, what can you expect on an air base?
From ants, we shall now move on to the subject of flies. I assure you, my room alone is a veritable biologist’s (or zoologist’s) paradise. Anyway, I was sitting in one of the padded but otherwise fairly uncomfortable chairs in our room, reading Robert Graves’ “I, Claudius” when all of a sudden, a fly came strolling across the page. Now I’ve seen flies before, but never one like this. He was of medium stature, for a fly, and had, as far as I could tell, the usual number of appendages & other paraphernalia usually associated with flies. But here the resemblance ended. He was green, for one thing—not a drab old-shade green, but a glossy, iridescent green. His eyes were his saving feature, though—they were concentric circles of red & green, both very vivid. For some reason, he seemed to take a liking to me, for he meandered across the book & wandered up my let index finger, across my hand, and on up my sleeve to a short distance below my elbow.
I must state right here that he did not strike me as being a very intelligent fly, for he just stood there looking wherever a fly’s eyes look, & working his forelegs & mandibles (or whatever they are) like mad. The effect was like someone rubbing their hands in anguish, or greed.
Being the soft hearted slob that I am, I couldn’t bring myself to hit him with the book—besides, he might squish unpleasantly & I can’t stand the sight of blood.
So I nudged him with one finger, which can in part vouch for my opinion of his mental rating. He just stood there with those huge red & green eyes of his. I showed him to my roommates, who did not seem to share my enthusiasm (peasants, the lot of them—no spirit of adventure).
Finally, he condescended to fly two feet to the edge of my chair. I soon went back to my book & probably, in the course of my shifting positions, sat on him. Which only goes to prove, you can’t trust anybody these days.
Well, enough trivia for this time. Until next time I am
Always
Roge
If you would care to see more of my letters home, I invite you to visit "A World Ago," at http://www.doriengrey.blogspot.com.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. And I'd be pleased to have you stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Spam and Other Disasters
[Note: This was written prior to the Washington, D.C. train crash, so the train wreck references are coincidental, and no insensitivity is intended.]
Ok, I have to admit it. I have recently come to regard the Spam invading my computer's In Box and my privacy like a derailed locomotive crashing through my living room wall. I view it with the same horrified fascination with which I might watch a train wreck...I'm revolted, but can't seem to look away.
And though I have yet to open a single spam message and cannot conceive that I ever would or will, I simply cannot resist glancing over the chaotic jumble of overturned logic, leaking toxic gibberish, smashed grammar, and unconscionable blatant lies strewn about in the form of an opening phrase intended to lure the unwary into the hell which lies beyond. Yet even though I never look further than the lead-in, I cannot resist reacting to them. I've posted a couple of blogs' worth of examples of the more egregious examples of the depths to which spammers will sink to get your attention. Here are a few more examples presented exactly as they were received, and my knee-jerk reactions.
"He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell" (I admit I found this cute as all hell, but not cute enough to open it.)
"Your illegal activity." (That's it? My illegal activity? My illegal activity what? Ooooooh, dear! I've been found out! Can I write you a check to make it go away? Please?)
"Missed my message?" (No, I didn't miss your message. I didn't see it, but I certainly didn't miss it.)
"Deeper in her entrails. What your score...." (What a lovely, lovely mental picture!)
"Waiting for reply." (I love an optimist. Keep waiting.)
"Wipe off the borders between what you do in bed and what you can do." (What in the hell is that supposed to mean? Never mind. I don't want to know.)
"Excuse me for sending it." (Only if you promise never to send me anything, ever again.)
"Best girl-digging skills--Clear your skin with supreme Clearitol treatment...." (Not sure what digging for girls, which I assume is something like digging for clams, has to do with clearing my skin, but....Maybe it's the healthy ocean air.)
"Easily BUY (low fee) yourself a Degree, Bachel0rs, MBA, Masters, or Ph.D. No STUDY!" (Right, on, man! Why bother to actually learn anything or read those dull books or go to crappy classes when you can plunk out $250 for a worthless piece of paper?)
Michael Torrez--"Good Day, I am Mr. Vincent Cheng Hoi Chuen, GBS, JP Chairman of the Hong Kong and Shanghai...." (No, you are some creep named Michael Torrez, and you should be ashamed of yourself.)
"Have your own decent hair effectively grown.--Best price." (My own decent hair is effectively grown without having to pay for it, thank you. It's the getting it cut that costs money.)
"Let Accai Berry imporve your health!" (Yeah, like I'm going put my health in the hands of some idiot who can't spell 'improve'?)
"Get yourself a no charge cellular phone..." (Does anyone other than me see the catch words here? "Hey, don't complain to us! We warned you about the batteries!")
And the Spam Overdose of the Month Award goes to the no fewer than 35 slices of spam received within the space of two days with variations on: "Hello. It has come to or attention that you are in dire need of financial aid." (Well, as a matter of fact, I could use a few extra dollars, but something tells me that borrowing it from you isn't the way to go.)
No hurry to clear the tracks: there'll be another train coming along any minute now.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net
Ok, I have to admit it. I have recently come to regard the Spam invading my computer's In Box and my privacy like a derailed locomotive crashing through my living room wall. I view it with the same horrified fascination with which I might watch a train wreck...I'm revolted, but can't seem to look away.
And though I have yet to open a single spam message and cannot conceive that I ever would or will, I simply cannot resist glancing over the chaotic jumble of overturned logic, leaking toxic gibberish, smashed grammar, and unconscionable blatant lies strewn about in the form of an opening phrase intended to lure the unwary into the hell which lies beyond. Yet even though I never look further than the lead-in, I cannot resist reacting to them. I've posted a couple of blogs' worth of examples of the more egregious examples of the depths to which spammers will sink to get your attention. Here are a few more examples presented exactly as they were received, and my knee-jerk reactions.
"He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell" (I admit I found this cute as all hell, but not cute enough to open it.)
"Your illegal activity." (That's it? My illegal activity? My illegal activity what? Ooooooh, dear! I've been found out! Can I write you a check to make it go away? Please?)
"Missed my message?" (No, I didn't miss your message. I didn't see it, but I certainly didn't miss it.)
"Deeper in her entrails. What your score...." (What a lovely, lovely mental picture!)
"Waiting for reply." (I love an optimist. Keep waiting.)
"Wipe off the borders between what you do in bed and what you can do." (What in the hell is that supposed to mean? Never mind. I don't want to know.)
"Excuse me for sending it." (Only if you promise never to send me anything, ever again.)
"Best girl-digging skills--Clear your skin with supreme Clearitol treatment...." (Not sure what digging for girls, which I assume is something like digging for clams, has to do with clearing my skin, but....Maybe it's the healthy ocean air.)
"Easily BUY (low fee) yourself a Degree, Bachel0rs, MBA, Masters, or Ph.D. No STUDY!" (Right, on, man! Why bother to actually learn anything or read those dull books or go to crappy classes when you can plunk out $250 for a worthless piece of paper?)
Michael Torrez--"Good Day, I am Mr. Vincent Cheng Hoi Chuen, GBS, JP Chairman of the Hong Kong and Shanghai...." (No, you are some creep named Michael Torrez, and you should be ashamed of yourself.)
"Have your own decent hair effectively grown.--Best price." (My own decent hair is effectively grown without having to pay for it, thank you. It's the getting it cut that costs money.)
"Let Accai Berry imporve your health!" (Yeah, like I'm going put my health in the hands of some idiot who can't spell 'improve'?)
"Get yourself a no charge cellular phone..." (Does anyone other than me see the catch words here? "Hey, don't complain to us! We warned you about the batteries!")
And the Spam Overdose of the Month Award goes to the no fewer than 35 slices of spam received within the space of two days with variations on: "Hello. It has come to or attention that you are in dire need of financial aid." (Well, as a matter of fact, I could use a few extra dollars, but something tells me that borrowing it from you isn't the way to go.)
No hurry to clear the tracks: there'll be another train coming along any minute now.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net
Friday, June 19, 2009
You and Me
There are more stars in the universe than there are grains of sand on all the deserts and beaches of the earth. And sometimes I suspect there must be nearly as many blogs on the internet as there are grains of sand in a sandbox.
So why am I writing this blog, and how can I possibly expect you to care? There are times when I am totally overwhelmed by the awareness that I am simply one grain of sand in that sandbox, and truly grateful that of all those grains of sand, you’re looking at this one. What can I hope to put in here that might keep you from just tossing it back into the sandbox?
Well, I truly think that one of the things that sets this blog apart is the simple fact that I am always acutely aware that you are there, reading these words. I sometimes feel like those S.E.T.I. (Search for Extra Terrestrial Life) scientists, beaming signals into outer space in hopes someone, somewhere, some day may hear. I have said countless times, using a more earth-bound metaphor, that without readers, a writer is like the proverbial tree falling in the forest with no one to hear. Just putting words into a computer or on a piece of paper is pointless if there is no one to read them. So odd as it may sound, you are, in effect, the most important person in my life, even though we probably have never, and will never, meet face-to-face.
I've always been excruciatingly shy when it comes to presenting myself to other people, which is one of the major reasons I became a writer. I am far more comfortable with the written word than with the spoken. For one thing, a word or sentence once spoken cannot be taken back, changed, polished. It is received and interpreted exactly as it strikes the ears and is filtered to the brain. Writing affords me far more confidence than talking. If I don't like the way a sentence sounds, I can redo it until it sounds the way I want it to. This is a tremendous advantage in keeping me from looking like a fool (though I must admit, this happens not infrequently even in writing).
I have little problem laying myself out before you in words, and I quite probably tell you, at times, things you did not particularly want to know. But honesty and frankness are rare commodities in our world. And though they are also subjective (what is the truth for me may not be the truth for you), most people keep themselves to themselves, and as a result may lose track of the fact that they, their experiences, their reactions, their fears, hopes, and dreams are not really all that different from other people's. So I spread myself out, like butter on a warm English muffin, in hopes that you will recognize some of me in yourself.
Having to all but plead with potential readers to try my books is, on the one hand, rather sad. But I justify it by the knowledge that I'm not asking something for nothing. My books are meant to entertain, to allow you to step away for a couple of hours from your own life and it's attendant problems and pressures, and to immerse yourself in a world not your own, of people and experiences not encountered in your normal daily life.
Never underestimate the benefits of occasionally stepping away from your own reality. I often say how reality and I are barely on speaking terms. I may spend far more time away from it than you, but I don't think I'm alone in appreciating being somewhere outside myself. And come to think of it, those five words---I don't think I'm alone---is a pretty good summation of exactly why I write and why, I hope, you read.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. I'd be pleased to have you stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.
So why am I writing this blog, and how can I possibly expect you to care? There are times when I am totally overwhelmed by the awareness that I am simply one grain of sand in that sandbox, and truly grateful that of all those grains of sand, you’re looking at this one. What can I hope to put in here that might keep you from just tossing it back into the sandbox?
Well, I truly think that one of the things that sets this blog apart is the simple fact that I am always acutely aware that you are there, reading these words. I sometimes feel like those S.E.T.I. (Search for Extra Terrestrial Life) scientists, beaming signals into outer space in hopes someone, somewhere, some day may hear. I have said countless times, using a more earth-bound metaphor, that without readers, a writer is like the proverbial tree falling in the forest with no one to hear. Just putting words into a computer or on a piece of paper is pointless if there is no one to read them. So odd as it may sound, you are, in effect, the most important person in my life, even though we probably have never, and will never, meet face-to-face.
I've always been excruciatingly shy when it comes to presenting myself to other people, which is one of the major reasons I became a writer. I am far more comfortable with the written word than with the spoken. For one thing, a word or sentence once spoken cannot be taken back, changed, polished. It is received and interpreted exactly as it strikes the ears and is filtered to the brain. Writing affords me far more confidence than talking. If I don't like the way a sentence sounds, I can redo it until it sounds the way I want it to. This is a tremendous advantage in keeping me from looking like a fool (though I must admit, this happens not infrequently even in writing).
I have little problem laying myself out before you in words, and I quite probably tell you, at times, things you did not particularly want to know. But honesty and frankness are rare commodities in our world. And though they are also subjective (what is the truth for me may not be the truth for you), most people keep themselves to themselves, and as a result may lose track of the fact that they, their experiences, their reactions, their fears, hopes, and dreams are not really all that different from other people's. So I spread myself out, like butter on a warm English muffin, in hopes that you will recognize some of me in yourself.
Having to all but plead with potential readers to try my books is, on the one hand, rather sad. But I justify it by the knowledge that I'm not asking something for nothing. My books are meant to entertain, to allow you to step away for a couple of hours from your own life and it's attendant problems and pressures, and to immerse yourself in a world not your own, of people and experiences not encountered in your normal daily life.
Never underestimate the benefits of occasionally stepping away from your own reality. I often say how reality and I are barely on speaking terms. I may spend far more time away from it than you, but I don't think I'm alone in appreciating being somewhere outside myself. And come to think of it, those five words---I don't think I'm alone---is a pretty good summation of exactly why I write and why, I hope, you read.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. I'd be pleased to have you stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
More Spam, Please!
And here we are again, folks, up to our eyebrows in Spam. And I, once again a devotee of the art, present you herewith another sampling of its delights, exactly as received.
"Invitation to dinner" (Thank you! What are we having?.......you with me on this? All together now: "S P A M !" Ya gotta love it!)
"ready for your cartier?;--Biggest choice of watches...." (Why do I suspect the lack of a capital C in "cartier" might be a clue to something other than a third grade education?)
"Rihanna acted dirty" (Oooooooh! I'm all a-twitter with excitement. I can't wait to open the message to find out more. Who's Rihanna?)
"No interested in getting 2500euro Free? Then don't read on." (Thanks. I no interested, and I won't.)
"Hey buddy--the us dollar continues to fall in value......" (Hey, pal, thanks for the heads up. I had no idea. I assume the them dollar is stable?)
"Sarah gave your mail..." (Yes, and Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore. So your point is...?)
"I miss you soo much!!--Anti-depressant" (And I miss you, too, whoever you are. And after looking at this crap, I need an anti-depressant, but not from you!)
"Stinkbesies--With this you will always feel respect for yourself...." (Well, to paraphrase the Smuckers Jam logo: "With a name like Stinkbesies it has to be good!")
"Look at this shit." (Unfortunately, that's what I'm doing.)
"You have received an e-card!--Dear Hun,....." ("Hun" as in Atilla the?)
"You're a moron!" (...sayeth the pot to the kettle)
"Hello--was john that is it just answer today please...." (Of course I'll answer today! It's always a pleasure to see someone who speaks fluent Gibberish.)
"Asbestos Alert! You May Be Entitled to Millions!!" (...or not. I'll go for the latter.)
"Didn't receive Paypal transfer." (Do you suppose it might have something to do with the fact that I didn't send it?)
"Tiny helper for big growth--And did you already do happy the gerlfriend..." (Gee, and I thought you were talking about fertilizer pellets for tomato plants. But no, I did not do happy the gerlfriend. I never do happy the gerlfriend. I prefer bouys.)
"Do you get over $850 each day on line? Then just ignore this...." (Consider it done.)
"Hey, check her butt!" (Thank you, but I'll pass.)
"Forget about fear to be 'limp' in front of woman--get the support of your dream." (Good Lord, how many times do I have to tell you people?)
So you think we're done with spam, now? To quote my favorite not-sold-in-stores announcers: "But wait...there's more!"
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. And remember, you're cordially invited to visit my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a line at doriengrey@att.com
"Invitation to dinner" (Thank you! What are we having?.......you with me on this? All together now: "S P A M !" Ya gotta love it!)
"ready for your cartier?;--Biggest choice of watches...." (Why do I suspect the lack of a capital C in "cartier" might be a clue to something other than a third grade education?)
"Rihanna acted dirty" (Oooooooh! I'm all a-twitter with excitement. I can't wait to open the message to find out more. Who's Rihanna?)
"No interested in getting 2500euro Free? Then don't read on." (Thanks. I no interested, and I won't.)
"Hey buddy--the us dollar continues to fall in value......" (Hey, pal, thanks for the heads up. I had no idea. I assume the them dollar is stable?)
"Sarah gave your mail..." (Yes, and Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore. So your point is...?)
"I miss you soo much!!--Anti-depressant" (And I miss you, too, whoever you are. And after looking at this crap, I need an anti-depressant, but not from you!)
"Stinkbesies--With this you will always feel respect for yourself...." (Well, to paraphrase the Smuckers Jam logo: "With a name like Stinkbesies it has to be good!")
"Look at this shit." (Unfortunately, that's what I'm doing.)
"You have received an e-card!--Dear Hun,....." ("Hun" as in Atilla the?)
"You're a moron!" (...sayeth the pot to the kettle)
"Hello--was john that is it just answer today please...." (Of course I'll answer today! It's always a pleasure to see someone who speaks fluent Gibberish.)
"Asbestos Alert! You May Be Entitled to Millions!!" (...or not. I'll go for the latter.)
"Didn't receive Paypal transfer." (Do you suppose it might have something to do with the fact that I didn't send it?)
"Tiny helper for big growth--And did you already do happy the gerlfriend..." (Gee, and I thought you were talking about fertilizer pellets for tomato plants. But no, I did not do happy the gerlfriend. I never do happy the gerlfriend. I prefer bouys.)
"Do you get over $850 each day on line? Then just ignore this...." (Consider it done.)
"Hey, check her butt!" (Thank you, but I'll pass.)
"Forget about fear to be 'limp' in front of woman--get the support of your dream." (Good Lord, how many times do I have to tell you people?)
So you think we're done with spam, now? To quote my favorite not-sold-in-stores announcers: "But wait...there's more!"
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. And remember, you're cordially invited to visit my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a line at doriengrey@att.com
Friday, June 05, 2009
Another Can o'Spam
I've often said, in these blogs, that I feel like an alien in a world I simply cannot understand. And the more I reach for the "Delete All" option on my Spam folder, the more firmly I am convinced of it. I am truly sincere when I say that I cannot comprehend how greed has so overcome our world that over 10 billion spam messages are sent out every day. The sub-humans who create and perpetrate this idiocy have absolutely no concern for logic or human decency, or the fact that they are preying on the gullible.
We've all heard jokes about and seen reports on jobs which are held in lowest esteem by the pubic. Traditionally lawyers and used car salesmen are on the list. But spammers are so far beneath contempt they do not even register. What purpose do these creatures serve, other than to take advantage of others? And that they apparently succeed and prosper says clearly that we are doomed as a species.
And, dear Lord, it never ends. The backed-up sewers of cyberspace continue to bubble and spray and splatter over every computer on the planet. At times, I like to put myself in the role of what I imagine the spammers see as their ideal target, and react accordingly to their messages. It seldom works, and my instant reactions, even under the most ideal of circumstances are less than positive. Here are a few more shining examples of the spammer's art, and my immediate response to them.
"He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell" (I still didn't open it, but I do applaud its creativity)
"Your illegal activity." (oooooh, dear! Am I in trouble? Can I write you a check to make it go away? Please?)
"Missed my message?" (No, I didn't miss your message. I didn't see it, but I certainly didn't miss it.)
"Deeper in her entrails. What your score...." (What a lovely mental picture!)
"Waiting for reply" (Of course you are. Keep waiting)
"Should the Acronym LOOL just die?" (I have no problem with that.)
"I'm pressing charges!" (Good. If I send you a couple pair of pants, will you press them, too?)
"Perhaps you could be my new friend--Hi, My name is Maria. I am looking for a friend to chat. I have a picture if you wi...." (Note: If your name is Maria, why did your note come from someone named Pearline Triplett? And why did I immediately think of that old drinking song: "Get off the table, Mable....the quarter's for the beer.")
"Ah no replied she--What ails you, king's daughter! lodgings! Mr. Greenland lawful...." (And the answer is still "No!")
"Your request canceled" (Oh, no! Please tell me how I can un-cancel a request I never made! I can't live without whatever the hell you're talking about!)
"This is my third and Final Mail to you!" (Promise?)
"She went and opened the door--The next day. counterflow. Jr. Tariff brothers favoring..." (And this is supposed to get me to buy something from you...how?)
"Britney: I was a slave--You received this newsletter because you expressed an interest in our products and services...." (You are mistaken. I assure you I have no interest whatsoever in your products or services, whatever they may be. And I'm not even curious as to what Britney's being a slave has to do with it.)
I do not fool myself that any amount of ranting against spam and its loathesome perpetrators will do a bit of good. But like so many things over which I have no control, raging against them is better than merely accepting them. And once again, I will not go gently into that good night.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. And I'd be pleased to have you stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com
We've all heard jokes about and seen reports on jobs which are held in lowest esteem by the pubic. Traditionally lawyers and used car salesmen are on the list. But spammers are so far beneath contempt they do not even register. What purpose do these creatures serve, other than to take advantage of others? And that they apparently succeed and prosper says clearly that we are doomed as a species.
And, dear Lord, it never ends. The backed-up sewers of cyberspace continue to bubble and spray and splatter over every computer on the planet. At times, I like to put myself in the role of what I imagine the spammers see as their ideal target, and react accordingly to their messages. It seldom works, and my instant reactions, even under the most ideal of circumstances are less than positive. Here are a few more shining examples of the spammer's art, and my immediate response to them.
"He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell" (I still didn't open it, but I do applaud its creativity)
"Your illegal activity." (oooooh, dear! Am I in trouble? Can I write you a check to make it go away? Please?)
"Missed my message?" (No, I didn't miss your message. I didn't see it, but I certainly didn't miss it.)
"Deeper in her entrails. What your score...." (What a lovely mental picture!)
"Waiting for reply" (Of course you are. Keep waiting)
"Should the Acronym LOOL just die?" (I have no problem with that.)
"I'm pressing charges!" (Good. If I send you a couple pair of pants, will you press them, too?)
"Perhaps you could be my new friend--Hi, My name is Maria. I am looking for a friend to chat. I have a picture if you wi...." (Note: If your name is Maria, why did your note come from someone named Pearline Triplett? And why did I immediately think of that old drinking song: "Get off the table, Mable....the quarter's for the beer.")
"Ah no replied she--What ails you, king's daughter! lodgings! Mr. Greenland lawful...." (And the answer is still "No!")
"Your request canceled" (Oh, no! Please tell me how I can un-cancel a request I never made! I can't live without whatever the hell you're talking about!)
"This is my third and Final Mail to you!" (Promise?)
"She went and opened the door--The next day. counterflow. Jr. Tariff brothers favoring..." (And this is supposed to get me to buy something from you...how?)
"Britney: I was a slave--You received this newsletter because you expressed an interest in our products and services...." (You are mistaken. I assure you I have no interest whatsoever in your products or services, whatever they may be. And I'm not even curious as to what Britney's being a slave has to do with it.)
I do not fool myself that any amount of ranting against spam and its loathesome perpetrators will do a bit of good. But like so many things over which I have no control, raging against them is better than merely accepting them. And once again, I will not go gently into that good night.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. And I'd be pleased to have you stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
I, Universe
After reading one of my more lugubrious (love that word) posts, a friend said “Do you honestly think you’re the only person in the world who has ever felt this way?” To which I replied: “Yep.”
The fact is that I was fudging just a bit. It is partly because I realize that I am NOT the only person to suffer from bouts—some more justifiable than others—of doubt and self-pity, or to have done incredibly stupid things, or to be too-frequently frustrated to the point of tears or sometimes frightening rage by something that does not go the way I want or expect it to go. Which is, in turn, the basic reason I am a writer rather than a plumber or watch repairman.
Because each of us is born into a species in which we are only one of seven billion and are therefore so vastly outnumbered, we tend to assume, erroneously, that everyone else is part of a vast private club to which we do not belong. It's a little like not being able to see the forest for the trees, and it simply never occurs to us that we are ourselves, in fact, a tree in that forest. And we're not only a tree in the forest, we're also round pegs in a square hole, and any of two thousand other metaphors indicating our sense of being separate and separated from everyone else. In a world of an infinite range of color, the social rules by which we live are largely written only in black or white, with very rare occasional shadings of grey. Our society sets up immutable rules which no single individual within that society could possibly follow fully.
Yet we are led to believe there is some sort of gigantic yardstick against which we are convinced we must measure ourselves. And since there is in fact no such yardstick, inevitably we fail. And the problem is not that there is none, but that we insist upon assuming there is. “This is the way you must behave,” we are told, and the fact that almost nobody really does or could behave in that exact way has nothing to do with it. “This is how you must think,” we are told. A box is drawn around us, and those few who ever even think to step beyond its imaginary boundaries do so act at their own peril.
Our popular culture insists upon establishing arbitrary and ultimately self-destructive rules which benefit few and do harm to many. Two of the most unbendable of these rules is that to have worth as a human being, to be adored, to be worshipped, one must be young and beautiful. That only a relatively small percentage of humanity is either of these things is immaterial. The further you are from either of these standards, the less value you have as a human being. Susan Boyle's initial appearance on Britain's Got Talent was a quintessential example of this theory. Here is this....this person....no one would look at twice on the street. You could see the scorn on the faces of the audience when she first walked out on stage. She was obviously a nobody. A nothing. Not worth paying attention to. Until she opened her mouth.
And how many people learned a lesson of tolerance and understanding from Ms. Boyle's stunning contradiction of what everyone automatically assumed by just looking at her? Sadly, I'd imagine very few.
We treasure our prejudices, even if we ourselves are victims of them.
I do not do either pontification or pondering of deep issues well, as evinced by the above, but I do enjoy doing it, just to prove to myself that I am capable of thinking at all. Descartes hit it on the head back in 1641 when he said, "Cogito, ergo sum."
So what do you think?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. And I hope you might stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, where this blog also appears.
The fact is that I was fudging just a bit. It is partly because I realize that I am NOT the only person to suffer from bouts—some more justifiable than others—of doubt and self-pity, or to have done incredibly stupid things, or to be too-frequently frustrated to the point of tears or sometimes frightening rage by something that does not go the way I want or expect it to go. Which is, in turn, the basic reason I am a writer rather than a plumber or watch repairman.
Because each of us is born into a species in which we are only one of seven billion and are therefore so vastly outnumbered, we tend to assume, erroneously, that everyone else is part of a vast private club to which we do not belong. It's a little like not being able to see the forest for the trees, and it simply never occurs to us that we are ourselves, in fact, a tree in that forest. And we're not only a tree in the forest, we're also round pegs in a square hole, and any of two thousand other metaphors indicating our sense of being separate and separated from everyone else. In a world of an infinite range of color, the social rules by which we live are largely written only in black or white, with very rare occasional shadings of grey. Our society sets up immutable rules which no single individual within that society could possibly follow fully.
Yet we are led to believe there is some sort of gigantic yardstick against which we are convinced we must measure ourselves. And since there is in fact no such yardstick, inevitably we fail. And the problem is not that there is none, but that we insist upon assuming there is. “This is the way you must behave,” we are told, and the fact that almost nobody really does or could behave in that exact way has nothing to do with it. “This is how you must think,” we are told. A box is drawn around us, and those few who ever even think to step beyond its imaginary boundaries do so act at their own peril.
Our popular culture insists upon establishing arbitrary and ultimately self-destructive rules which benefit few and do harm to many. Two of the most unbendable of these rules is that to have worth as a human being, to be adored, to be worshipped, one must be young and beautiful. That only a relatively small percentage of humanity is either of these things is immaterial. The further you are from either of these standards, the less value you have as a human being. Susan Boyle's initial appearance on Britain's Got Talent was a quintessential example of this theory. Here is this....this person....no one would look at twice on the street. You could see the scorn on the faces of the audience when she first walked out on stage. She was obviously a nobody. A nothing. Not worth paying attention to. Until she opened her mouth.
And how many people learned a lesson of tolerance and understanding from Ms. Boyle's stunning contradiction of what everyone automatically assumed by just looking at her? Sadly, I'd imagine very few.
We treasure our prejudices, even if we ourselves are victims of them.
I do not do either pontification or pondering of deep issues well, as evinced by the above, but I do enjoy doing it, just to prove to myself that I am capable of thinking at all. Descartes hit it on the head back in 1641 when he said, "Cogito, ergo sum."
So what do you think?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. And I hope you might stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, where this blog also appears.
Monday, June 01, 2009
The Deaf Heart
The mind speaks quietly and logically, but too often the heart is deaf.
One of the writers I've gotten to know on the internet....and who is with the same publisher....came into town with his partner this past Saturday for a book signing, and suggested we meet for coffee before the event. Though I had to work and couldn't attend the signing, I mentioned it to a couple of friends and Gary agreed to join us for coffee, then go on to the reading/signing. Both the author and his partner proved to be really nice and interesting guys, and when they suggested that Gary and I join them for a drink later that night, we agreed.
I had not been to a gay bar on a Saturday night in far more years than I care to count. With each passing year, I find myself moved....pushed, if you will....further and further to the perimeter of a community with which I have always identified and of which I felt an integral part for so many years. And frankly, it hurts to know I no longer belong.
Now, the mind points out with irrefutable logic that this is simply the way the world works, that it is nothing personal. But the heart totally refuses to accept that reality, and to me it is very personal indeed.
Chicago's Boys Town on a Saturday night is a mass of people. All young, all beautiful. We met in front of one of Boys Town's largest and most popular bars. The writer's partner was parking the car, and so we stood on the sidewalk amidst a steady Mississippi of 20- and 30-somethings, each one more attractive, more vibrant, more joyous than the one before. And I stood there, excruciatingly aware that I was no longer one of them, my heart literally aching with longing to be one of them.
The partner showed up, and we moved to the door, where two very handsome young men in a tight tee-shirts were checking IDs of everyone who entered. No one could possibly doubt, at a distance of three blocks let alone three feet, that I had blown out the candles on my 21st Birthday cake long, long ago, but rather than have the checker ask (it's probably required by law), I showed him mine, feeling about three inches tall as I did so.
We made our way through three or four different bar areas, some with blaring music, some more quiet, to the stairway leading to a very pleasant roof garden, with two separate bars of its own. I ordered a Kaluha and Cream---light on the Kaluha, heavy on the cream, which all but shouted "Woos, here!" I didn't want to explain that I didn't order a manhattan, which I'd have loved, because alcohol burns my mouth, so I let the bartender think whatever he might; and that he would think anything at all is a form of reverse Narcissism...it was just another drink order. To him, perhaps, but not to me.
As we stood around talking I developed what I call "a case of the drools:" my mouth produces no saliva, but secondary glands do, under certain stimulus, produce large quantities of liquid over which I have no control and am seldom aware until I open my mouth to speak. So as a result, I say very little, undoubtedly adding to my image as a dull, uninteresting old man.
Once again, my mind tells me that I am being far, far to hard on myself. And once again, my heart refuses to listen.
My favorite epitaph, which I quote frequently, reads: "As you are now, so once were we. As we are now, so shall you be." And as I looked out over the sea of beautiful young people swirling and laughing and talking as they flow around a solitary, aging man they do not see, my mind logically repeated that phrase. My heart did not care.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. And I hope you might stop by my website (http://www.doriengrey.com) from time to time.
One of the writers I've gotten to know on the internet....and who is with the same publisher....came into town with his partner this past Saturday for a book signing, and suggested we meet for coffee before the event. Though I had to work and couldn't attend the signing, I mentioned it to a couple of friends and Gary agreed to join us for coffee, then go on to the reading/signing. Both the author and his partner proved to be really nice and interesting guys, and when they suggested that Gary and I join them for a drink later that night, we agreed.
I had not been to a gay bar on a Saturday night in far more years than I care to count. With each passing year, I find myself moved....pushed, if you will....further and further to the perimeter of a community with which I have always identified and of which I felt an integral part for so many years. And frankly, it hurts to know I no longer belong.
Now, the mind points out with irrefutable logic that this is simply the way the world works, that it is nothing personal. But the heart totally refuses to accept that reality, and to me it is very personal indeed.
Chicago's Boys Town on a Saturday night is a mass of people. All young, all beautiful. We met in front of one of Boys Town's largest and most popular bars. The writer's partner was parking the car, and so we stood on the sidewalk amidst a steady Mississippi of 20- and 30-somethings, each one more attractive, more vibrant, more joyous than the one before. And I stood there, excruciatingly aware that I was no longer one of them, my heart literally aching with longing to be one of them.
The partner showed up, and we moved to the door, where two very handsome young men in a tight tee-shirts were checking IDs of everyone who entered. No one could possibly doubt, at a distance of three blocks let alone three feet, that I had blown out the candles on my 21st Birthday cake long, long ago, but rather than have the checker ask (it's probably required by law), I showed him mine, feeling about three inches tall as I did so.
We made our way through three or four different bar areas, some with blaring music, some more quiet, to the stairway leading to a very pleasant roof garden, with two separate bars of its own. I ordered a Kaluha and Cream---light on the Kaluha, heavy on the cream, which all but shouted "Woos, here!" I didn't want to explain that I didn't order a manhattan, which I'd have loved, because alcohol burns my mouth, so I let the bartender think whatever he might; and that he would think anything at all is a form of reverse Narcissism...it was just another drink order. To him, perhaps, but not to me.
As we stood around talking I developed what I call "a case of the drools:" my mouth produces no saliva, but secondary glands do, under certain stimulus, produce large quantities of liquid over which I have no control and am seldom aware until I open my mouth to speak. So as a result, I say very little, undoubtedly adding to my image as a dull, uninteresting old man.
Once again, my mind tells me that I am being far, far to hard on myself. And once again, my heart refuses to listen.
My favorite epitaph, which I quote frequently, reads: "As you are now, so once were we. As we are now, so shall you be." And as I looked out over the sea of beautiful young people swirling and laughing and talking as they flow around a solitary, aging man they do not see, my mind logically repeated that phrase. My heart did not care.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. And I hope you might stop by my website (http://www.doriengrey.com) from time to time.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
A Can o' Spam
I'm so fond of those vitally important messages that flood everyone's computer "In" boxes that I've begun something of a collection of my favorites. Since I never open the actual messages, all I have to go by are the few words that accompany them. I note they fall into categories, and I present some of them here, exactly as I received them, and with my immediate reactions:
Category 1: I wouldn't touch these with a ten-foot pole
"Want your babe to moan loud?" ("Babe"? Didn't "babe" go out with "groovy"? I think the word "chick" is a lot cooler, man! Shows you're really with it and hip. And the answer is still "No!")
"Wanna meet?" (Uh, thank you, but I'll pass.)
"Become superman...return life to your rod!" (What do you mean, "return"?)
Category 2: The Carrot and the Stick
"create yourDestiny and obtain twenty grand. --folks all around the nation are rushing to join us, working for 1 just hour and......" (Oh, yeah, I can look out my window and see folks around the nation rushing to join whatever in hell it is you're peddling.)
"Crime Scene Investigators Wanted" (By whom? For what?)
Category 3: Nice try...you almost had me
"Everything's cancelled today." (Now that one I liked. I didn't open it, but I liked it)
Category 4: Riiiight
"Transform yourLife by obtaining 10000 without anyStrings attached. Right from the Gov, gain stupendous...." (10000 what? "The Gov"? The governor?)
"Re: Half-priced Houses: 3-4-5 Bedroom-Forclosures from 128/month" (Care to pick out the operative word in that sentence?)
Category 5: Long-lost pals
"Saying hi, Chrissy from myspace :)--hi there its been like a month or something since we last chatted and I was...." (Uh, try more like forever, Chrissy, and no, I would not like to buy your nude photos.)
Category 6: New words
"Do it now. Taking these blue pilules is like drinking from an infinite spring of endurance and desire...." (A "pilule"? What the hell is a "pilule"?)
Category 7: Irresistible Intrigue
"Hey! mgrprm zspu 2 piekvnr; cpiqcej! ewbxk....." (Well, that's a real inducement to open the thing.)
Category 8: The fine art of subtlety
"good stuff--for your meat muscle" (What a charming euphemism!)
"Do it now. --Be her mighty night predator" (Her? Oh, Charlie, are you barking up the wrong tree!)
*****
I'm saving all of the above to open and carefully peruse shortly after hell freezes over.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. And I'd be pleased to have you drop by my website (http://www.doriengrey.com) from time to time.
Category 1: I wouldn't touch these with a ten-foot pole
"Want your babe to moan loud?" ("Babe"? Didn't "babe" go out with "groovy"? I think the word "chick" is a lot cooler, man! Shows you're really with it and hip. And the answer is still "No!")
"Wanna meet?" (Uh, thank you, but I'll pass.)
"Become superman...return life to your rod!" (What do you mean, "return"?)
Category 2: The Carrot and the Stick
"create yourDestiny and obtain twenty grand. --folks all around the nation are rushing to join us, working for 1 just hour and......" (Oh, yeah, I can look out my window and see folks around the nation rushing to join whatever in hell it is you're peddling.)
"Crime Scene Investigators Wanted" (By whom? For what?)
Category 3: Nice try...you almost had me
"Everything's cancelled today." (Now that one I liked. I didn't open it, but I liked it)
Category 4: Riiiight
"Transform yourLife by obtaining 10000 without anyStrings attached. Right from the Gov, gain stupendous...." (10000 what? "The Gov"? The governor?)
"Re: Half-priced Houses: 3-4-5 Bedroom-Forclosures from 128/month" (Care to pick out the operative word in that sentence?)
Category 5: Long-lost pals
"Saying hi, Chrissy from myspace :)--hi there its been like a month or something since we last chatted and I was...." (Uh, try more like forever, Chrissy, and no, I would not like to buy your nude photos.)
Category 6: New words
"Do it now. Taking these blue pilules is like drinking from an infinite spring of endurance and desire...." (A "pilule"? What the hell is a "pilule"?)
Category 7: Irresistible Intrigue
"Hey! mgrprm zspu 2 piekvnr; cpiqcej! ewbxk....." (Well, that's a real inducement to open the thing.)
Category 8: The fine art of subtlety
"good stuff--for your meat muscle" (What a charming euphemism!)
"Do it now. --Be her mighty night predator" (Her? Oh, Charlie, are you barking up the wrong tree!)
*****
I'm saving all of the above to open and carefully peruse shortly after hell freezes over.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. And I'd be pleased to have you drop by my website (http://www.doriengrey.com) from time to time.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Eunuchs
Let's face it. We are increasingly a society of eunuchs.
Lily Tomlin's wonderful character, Ernestine, the telephone operator, sums up much of what has led to this situation with her classic line: "We don't care. We don't have to. We're the Phone Company." This attitude is shared by fully 95 percent of all corporations and businesses upon whom our lives depend, and the endlessly repeated assurances that "your call is very important to us" while you sit on hold for 45 minutes is nothing but bullshit. The worst thing is that the company knows it is bullshit and, like Ernestine's employer, they simply don't care. Why should they? What can you do about it, anyway?
My nearest supermarket is a large Chicago chain, Dominick's, and I've been shopping with them since I moved back to Chicago. There is a large one near my friend Norm's, with whom I stayed when I first arrived. It's a good store, and I like it. However, the one closest to me is located adjacent to DePaul University. It's a much smaller store and it is patently obvious that the corporation uses it as a dumping ground for outdated products. Because it is located near a university and its customers are largely college kids who, it is highly unlikely, even realize there is an expiration date on anything (including their own lives), the company rightly assumes they'll never notice they're being ripped off.
I have complained to the manager at least six times about the fact that their dairy products are, 80 percent of the time, either past their "sell by" date or within one or two days of it. The manager listens patiently each time, assures me that it is all purely coincidental, that there is absolutely no conscious effort on Dominick's part to try to pawn off older products at this particular store, and sends me on my way.
Yesterday while shopping there, I saw a product I'd not seen before....a packaged coffee flavoring, which I decided to try. This morning, as I fixed my coffee, I opened the package and took out one of the six packets. Looking for the calorie count, which I always do since I need all the calories I can get, I noted "Expires: 01-19-09." I plan to return it to the store, and I will again speak to the manager, who will apologize and again assure me that it was purely coincidental. And I will once again be sent on my way, fuming. I'm thinking of asking for the name and address of Dominick's C.E.O. and writing him/her. But we all know where that will lead, don't we?
Ours is increasingly a society in which the individual is constantly made aware that he or she is totally at the mercy of whatever greed-driven whim strikes those too powerful to be affected by what anyone thinks. The feeling of being totally, utterly powerless is frustrating, and too much frustration can easily lead to madness. Is it really any wonder that people wander around with loaded weapons (thanks, N.R.A.!!) finally venting their frustration by shooting people at random?
So I will ask for the name and address of Dominick's C.E.O., and I will write him/her, and though I know full well it will either never be read or will be viewed through the glazed eyes of total indifference, doing something is better than doing nothing. And I hold the romantic's hope that if enough other people actually did something...anything...to let those in power know they're sick and tired of being shat upon, there might actually be hope for change. Perhaps pigs can fly.
When is the last time you felt taken advantage of? When's the last time you were treated rudely or ignored by a sales person? Or had poor service in a restaurant, or been served cold or overcooked food? But more importantly, when is the last you did anything about it? When is the last time you asked to speak to a manager?....Think, now..... Exactly. There does come a time when we get what we deserve, and every time you allow yourself to be treated poorly without saying something....well, I'm sorry, but you get what you deserve.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. (And I'd be pleased to have you drop by my website at www.doriengrey.com from time to time.)
Lily Tomlin's wonderful character, Ernestine, the telephone operator, sums up much of what has led to this situation with her classic line: "We don't care. We don't have to. We're the Phone Company." This attitude is shared by fully 95 percent of all corporations and businesses upon whom our lives depend, and the endlessly repeated assurances that "your call is very important to us" while you sit on hold for 45 minutes is nothing but bullshit. The worst thing is that the company knows it is bullshit and, like Ernestine's employer, they simply don't care. Why should they? What can you do about it, anyway?
My nearest supermarket is a large Chicago chain, Dominick's, and I've been shopping with them since I moved back to Chicago. There is a large one near my friend Norm's, with whom I stayed when I first arrived. It's a good store, and I like it. However, the one closest to me is located adjacent to DePaul University. It's a much smaller store and it is patently obvious that the corporation uses it as a dumping ground for outdated products. Because it is located near a university and its customers are largely college kids who, it is highly unlikely, even realize there is an expiration date on anything (including their own lives), the company rightly assumes they'll never notice they're being ripped off.
I have complained to the manager at least six times about the fact that their dairy products are, 80 percent of the time, either past their "sell by" date or within one or two days of it. The manager listens patiently each time, assures me that it is all purely coincidental, that there is absolutely no conscious effort on Dominick's part to try to pawn off older products at this particular store, and sends me on my way.
Yesterday while shopping there, I saw a product I'd not seen before....a packaged coffee flavoring, which I decided to try. This morning, as I fixed my coffee, I opened the package and took out one of the six packets. Looking for the calorie count, which I always do since I need all the calories I can get, I noted "Expires: 01-19-09." I plan to return it to the store, and I will again speak to the manager, who will apologize and again assure me that it was purely coincidental. And I will once again be sent on my way, fuming. I'm thinking of asking for the name and address of Dominick's C.E.O. and writing him/her. But we all know where that will lead, don't we?
Ours is increasingly a society in which the individual is constantly made aware that he or she is totally at the mercy of whatever greed-driven whim strikes those too powerful to be affected by what anyone thinks. The feeling of being totally, utterly powerless is frustrating, and too much frustration can easily lead to madness. Is it really any wonder that people wander around with loaded weapons (thanks, N.R.A.!!) finally venting their frustration by shooting people at random?
So I will ask for the name and address of Dominick's C.E.O., and I will write him/her, and though I know full well it will either never be read or will be viewed through the glazed eyes of total indifference, doing something is better than doing nothing. And I hold the romantic's hope that if enough other people actually did something...anything...to let those in power know they're sick and tired of being shat upon, there might actually be hope for change. Perhaps pigs can fly.
When is the last time you felt taken advantage of? When's the last time you were treated rudely or ignored by a sales person? Or had poor service in a restaurant, or been served cold or overcooked food? But more importantly, when is the last you did anything about it? When is the last time you asked to speak to a manager?....Think, now..... Exactly. There does come a time when we get what we deserve, and every time you allow yourself to be treated poorly without saying something....well, I'm sorry, but you get what you deserve.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. (And I'd be pleased to have you drop by my website at www.doriengrey.com from time to time.)
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Largesse
Because my generosity---and modesty---, is legend, and because I am truly appreciative of the fact that you follow these blogs, I have decided to share with you (yes, you!) the astonishing largesse which the fates have just bestowed upon me. Because I am still so overwhelmed by my good fortune and giddy in anticipation, I shall simply reproduce here, in it's entirety, a just-received email which explains it all:
Sir/Madam
TRANSFER OF US$17 MILLION
I am a Director of World Bank Development Programme {WBDP VISION 2010} Africa region, and my name is Dr.George Mbeki, from South Africa. I am currently on official assignment in Nigeria.
As an officer of the World Bank we are not allowed to operate foreign bank accounts or handle private business operations.
Hence I am in search of an independent foreign partner to assist in the re-profiling of the US$36 MILLION. Specifically, you will be required to:
1. Front as the beneficiary of the funds.
2. Assist in the transfer of the funds into a bank account provided by you.
As you may wish to know, the US$17 MILLION accrued from the US$1.5 BILLION recently approved by the World Bank Group for various development projects in Nigeria. The contract projects have been successfully executed and this excess fund of US$17 MILLION is floating in a suspense account. It will take only a few days to complete the transfer to your account and the business is completely risk free.
After the transfer, 45% of the US$17 MILLION will be your share. 10% will be set aside to reimburse expenses {if any} incurred during the transaction. 45% will be for me.
REQUIREMENTS:
If you are interested, pls immediately the following particulars:
1. Your full name and address
2. The name of yor company and address
3. Your direct phone and fax numbers.
4. A bank account where you want the fund transferred into.
Reply to my confidential email address:
Yours faithfully,
Dr. George Mbeki
******
If you wish to go into this once-in-ten-lifetimes opportunity with me (I have no doubt but that it is a genuine, totally legal proposal since Dr. Mbeki assures us it is "risk free," and I trust any representative of a foreign government implicitly), please contact me immediately via email. And please, no need to thank me. It's the least I can do.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Sir/Madam
TRANSFER OF US$17 MILLION
I am a Director of World Bank Development Programme {WBDP VISION 2010} Africa region, and my name is Dr.George Mbeki, from South Africa. I am currently on official assignment in Nigeria.
As an officer of the World Bank we are not allowed to operate foreign bank accounts or handle private business operations.
Hence I am in search of an independent foreign partner to assist in the re-profiling of the US$36 MILLION. Specifically, you will be required to:
1. Front as the beneficiary of the funds.
2. Assist in the transfer of the funds into a bank account provided by you.
As you may wish to know, the US$17 MILLION accrued from the US$1.5 BILLION recently approved by the World Bank Group for various development projects in Nigeria. The contract projects have been successfully executed and this excess fund of US$17 MILLION is floating in a suspense account. It will take only a few days to complete the transfer to your account and the business is completely risk free.
After the transfer, 45% of the US$17 MILLION will be your share. 10% will be set aside to reimburse expenses {if any} incurred during the transaction. 45% will be for me.
REQUIREMENTS:
If you are interested, pls immediately the following particulars:
1. Your full name and address
2. The name of yor company and address
3. Your direct phone and fax numbers.
4. A bank account where you want the fund transferred into.
Reply to my confidential email address:
Yours faithfully,
Dr. George Mbeki
******
If you wish to go into this once-in-ten-lifetimes opportunity with me (I have no doubt but that it is a genuine, totally legal proposal since Dr. Mbeki assures us it is "risk free," and I trust any representative of a foreign government implicitly), please contact me immediately via email. And please, no need to thank me. It's the least I can do.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Schlock
I have never considered myself...or been considered by anyone else to be...an arbiter of taste and refinement. I to this day consider my mother's allowing me, in junior high to paint my bedroom chartreuse and maroon the ultimate example of a mother's love. But I do know schlock when I see it.
I realize that one man's schlock is another man's idea of exquisite taste, and that's fine. Elvis paintings on black velvet, those adorable little figurines of cherubs and little children with huge, sad eyes standing on a little pedestal with "I Wuv You!" on the base, those innumerable "Starving Artists" paintings cranked out in under four minutes....they may not be my taste, but no matter.
I also don't mind crap as long as it doesn't pretend to be anything but crap, but spending an hour watching television---especially those channels without major network affiliations and therefore dependent "not sold in stores" products and those execrable infomercials---demonstrates Mammon at his worst. I'm sure you have seen the "Obama Chia"s now being peddled on commercials around the country. It's surpasses crap and reaches for blushingly embarrassing. I beg your pardon if your dining room and kitchen windows are lined with those adorable little Chia llamas and sheep and whatever....that's fine. But excrement coated in candy is still excrement, and it is with the sales pitch accompanying this particular pile of dung to which I object totally. It should, in my humble and always reasoned opinion, have the ad agency who came up with it banned forever.
So there's this clay head looking somewhat like our president, see, and you soak it in water and in a few days, weeks, months or years, depending on how much of a green thumb you have, you get a clay head of our first African American president in a huge, green afro. Even that, astonishingly inappropriate example of bad taste that it is, would be marginally tolerable were it just plunked out there in any store with sufficient lack of shame to carry it. But no; they have spent Lord knows how much money pitching it to "show your support for our nation and our new president." Oh, for the love of God, have these people no shame? Just how low will the purveyors of this crud sink to get you to part with your money? (That was a rhetorical question, since we all know that is a pit without a bottom.) And why hasn't the N.A.A.C.P. been screaming bloody murder?
I have new respect for the Walgreen's Drug Store chain, which yanked Chia Obama from their shelves.
And then there is the offer of the small "jewel-encrusted, silver" (plated) cross of the sort generally sold by street vendors from open cases atop TV trays. When you hold the cross up to your eye....and why anyone would want to do that is also a mystery....you can read The Lord's Prayer through a little magnifying window. Just what the world has been waiting for! Again, this tawdry gee-gaw would be okay were it not promoted on TV and in magazines in the reverent tones reserved for anticipation of the Second Coming. The inference is that if you do not rush out and buy several ("they make excellent gifts"), you are a godless heathen. And it comes in its own little box with....and this for me is the clincher....a "Certificate of Authenticity"! A what? What "authenticity" is it certifying? That it is totally worthless?
Oh, I know, I am being cynical again. I know there are good, dear people who take pleasure in such things, and I do not mean to criticize them. I do mean to criticize those manufacturers and advertisers for whom the only motive is money. Their utter hypocrisy and greed in preying on the innocents they see as as easy targets. Is shameful.
And I am sure, were those responsible to read this blog entry, they would cease their disgraceful money-grubbing immediately. Of course they would. (Watch out for the flying pigs.)
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
I realize that one man's schlock is another man's idea of exquisite taste, and that's fine. Elvis paintings on black velvet, those adorable little figurines of cherubs and little children with huge, sad eyes standing on a little pedestal with "I Wuv You!" on the base, those innumerable "Starving Artists" paintings cranked out in under four minutes....they may not be my taste, but no matter.
I also don't mind crap as long as it doesn't pretend to be anything but crap, but spending an hour watching television---especially those channels without major network affiliations and therefore dependent "not sold in stores" products and those execrable infomercials---demonstrates Mammon at his worst. I'm sure you have seen the "Obama Chia"s now being peddled on commercials around the country. It's surpasses crap and reaches for blushingly embarrassing. I beg your pardon if your dining room and kitchen windows are lined with those adorable little Chia llamas and sheep and whatever....that's fine. But excrement coated in candy is still excrement, and it is with the sales pitch accompanying this particular pile of dung to which I object totally. It should, in my humble and always reasoned opinion, have the ad agency who came up with it banned forever.
So there's this clay head looking somewhat like our president, see, and you soak it in water and in a few days, weeks, months or years, depending on how much of a green thumb you have, you get a clay head of our first African American president in a huge, green afro. Even that, astonishingly inappropriate example of bad taste that it is, would be marginally tolerable were it just plunked out there in any store with sufficient lack of shame to carry it. But no; they have spent Lord knows how much money pitching it to "show your support for our nation and our new president." Oh, for the love of God, have these people no shame? Just how low will the purveyors of this crud sink to get you to part with your money? (That was a rhetorical question, since we all know that is a pit without a bottom.) And why hasn't the N.A.A.C.P. been screaming bloody murder?
I have new respect for the Walgreen's Drug Store chain, which yanked Chia Obama from their shelves.
And then there is the offer of the small "jewel-encrusted, silver" (plated) cross of the sort generally sold by street vendors from open cases atop TV trays. When you hold the cross up to your eye....and why anyone would want to do that is also a mystery....you can read The Lord's Prayer through a little magnifying window. Just what the world has been waiting for! Again, this tawdry gee-gaw would be okay were it not promoted on TV and in magazines in the reverent tones reserved for anticipation of the Second Coming. The inference is that if you do not rush out and buy several ("they make excellent gifts"), you are a godless heathen. And it comes in its own little box with....and this for me is the clincher....a "Certificate of Authenticity"! A what? What "authenticity" is it certifying? That it is totally worthless?
Oh, I know, I am being cynical again. I know there are good, dear people who take pleasure in such things, and I do not mean to criticize them. I do mean to criticize those manufacturers and advertisers for whom the only motive is money. Their utter hypocrisy and greed in preying on the innocents they see as as easy targets. Is shameful.
And I am sure, were those responsible to read this blog entry, they would cease their disgraceful money-grubbing immediately. Of course they would. (Watch out for the flying pigs.)
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Screwed
It bothers me deeply that I seem to spend more and more of my time being angry. I am, it seems, far more frequently angry, and that anger often escalates into full blown fury. I received a notice from my cable/internet service provider telling me that in their constant efforts to provide even better service to me, their valued customer, they are raising my already-astronomically high rates by yet another "$5 to $6" (care to guess which it will be?), and are in the process of "reorganizing my service package" (read they will be cutting the number of channels I receive), but will be offering a "new" package plan, which I have no doubt, will include exactly the same channels they will be cutting from my regular service at an even higher rate.
Postal rates going up again in May? Gee, that's really a shame. Go find yourself another post office.
I titled this blog entry "Screwed"? My, what a harsh and crude thing to say. Have I no couth? Not when I feel I'm being screwed, I don't. And if you think for one minute you're not being screwed either, just look back over your shoulder at the long line of companies, corporations, agencies, banks, credit card companies and "service organizations" all standing in line behind you, waiting their turn.
And the fury comes from the fact that there is not one single thing I or anyone else can do about it. It will be exactly the same as when I complained to my insurance company that my rates rose by 10-15 percent every year, regular as clockwork--as a matter of fact, I suspect it WAS clockwork. ("Oh, here it is March. Time to raise our premiums.") They, of course, being in business only to serve their customers, were extremely sympathetic. "We understand completely, Mr. Margason. Please feel free to find another insurance provider." The fact that every other insurance company raises their rates exactly the same amount at exactly the same time has nothing at all to do with it, of course. And far be it....FAR, I say....from me to in any way suggest that reps from every insurance company get together at some $900-a-night hotel and engage, over champagne and caviar, in a good old fashioned game of collusion. Collusion is illegal, and we all know that. So of course they would never consider it.
It is the same with credit card companies. If I as an individual were to loan you $100 and charge you 29 percent interest, you could sue me for usury. But credit card companies do it with impunity and no one....no one....sues a credit card company.
When I lived in northern Wisconsin, on the border with the U.P. of Michigan, every time there was a boost in the price of oil, every single one of the eight gas stations in the area would raise their prices by the exact same amount within ten minutes of one another. The fact that the gas in their underground tanks had already been purchased, and the barrels of crude oil with the higher price would not make it to the refineries for weeks if not months in no way dissuaded anyone.
And out of curiosity, when is the last time you saw prices other than the volatile gas pump prices come down once they are raised? And you can have no doubt that if they could have gotten away with it, we would still be paying $4.95 per gallon. (Of course that will never happen again. No, never.)
Oh, Lord, I truly, truly do not like to be this way. I want to see the good in people. I honestly believe that there are companies out there who occasionally look beyond the bottom line. But they are harder and harder to find and I cannot, at the moment, think offhand of a single one.
The anger rests, again, in my feeling of utter helplessness. I know all this fury is not good for my mind or my body, but I seem increasingly unable to deal with it without venting it through these blogs. I do appreciate your bearing with me, and the fact that you do suggests I may not be totally alone.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back....and bring a friend.
Postal rates going up again in May? Gee, that's really a shame. Go find yourself another post office.
I titled this blog entry "Screwed"? My, what a harsh and crude thing to say. Have I no couth? Not when I feel I'm being screwed, I don't. And if you think for one minute you're not being screwed either, just look back over your shoulder at the long line of companies, corporations, agencies, banks, credit card companies and "service organizations" all standing in line behind you, waiting their turn.
And the fury comes from the fact that there is not one single thing I or anyone else can do about it. It will be exactly the same as when I complained to my insurance company that my rates rose by 10-15 percent every year, regular as clockwork--as a matter of fact, I suspect it WAS clockwork. ("Oh, here it is March. Time to raise our premiums.") They, of course, being in business only to serve their customers, were extremely sympathetic. "We understand completely, Mr. Margason. Please feel free to find another insurance provider." The fact that every other insurance company raises their rates exactly the same amount at exactly the same time has nothing at all to do with it, of course. And far be it....FAR, I say....from me to in any way suggest that reps from every insurance company get together at some $900-a-night hotel and engage, over champagne and caviar, in a good old fashioned game of collusion. Collusion is illegal, and we all know that. So of course they would never consider it.
It is the same with credit card companies. If I as an individual were to loan you $100 and charge you 29 percent interest, you could sue me for usury. But credit card companies do it with impunity and no one....no one....sues a credit card company.
When I lived in northern Wisconsin, on the border with the U.P. of Michigan, every time there was a boost in the price of oil, every single one of the eight gas stations in the area would raise their prices by the exact same amount within ten minutes of one another. The fact that the gas in their underground tanks had already been purchased, and the barrels of crude oil with the higher price would not make it to the refineries for weeks if not months in no way dissuaded anyone.
And out of curiosity, when is the last time you saw prices other than the volatile gas pump prices come down once they are raised? And you can have no doubt that if they could have gotten away with it, we would still be paying $4.95 per gallon. (Of course that will never happen again. No, never.)
Oh, Lord, I truly, truly do not like to be this way. I want to see the good in people. I honestly believe that there are companies out there who occasionally look beyond the bottom line. But they are harder and harder to find and I cannot, at the moment, think offhand of a single one.
The anger rests, again, in my feeling of utter helplessness. I know all this fury is not good for my mind or my body, but I seem increasingly unable to deal with it without venting it through these blogs. I do appreciate your bearing with me, and the fact that you do suggests I may not be totally alone.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back....and bring a friend.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Bumbling
I spend an inordinate amount of time bumbling through a world I do not understand, have never understood, and am sure I will never understand. I take some comfort in the assumption that this is not a condition unique to me. It's all just the way things are, and that in itself is by turns sad, frustrating, and in my case occasionally perilously close to maddening. We all seem to be reaching out trying to find something to cling to; something solid.
It seems that from the age of five or so, we are increasingly swept off our feet and carried down the rapids of time. And as the world spins ever more erratically out of our control, the harder we try to find something to cling to; something solid. (Thus, to a large extend, my obsession with the past.) Increasingly, we turn to the internet....to places like Facebook and My Space and Twitter, a trend I
I find somehow both ominous and frightening. Twitter boasts that its intent is to enable us to keep in instant (???) touch with others, yet it allows us only 140 characters to do so. Surely I'm not the only one who finds this both ironic and annoying. But because others join Twitter and My Space and Facebook, I did too. I think of it as "The lemming principle".
My main goal in life, other than writing books, is to find people to read them. But not being quite sure how to obtain this goal, I bumble along, trying anything that even remotely offers the possibility of finding a new reader. And so, naturally, I turn to the internet. I join group after group, the members of which are, by and large, other writers seeking the same thing I'm seeking. I find that a great many of my fellow writers invite me to "join" them on Facebook or MySpace or various and sundry other places, and I can't help but wonder why? I already know them and see them regularly several other places. Why add another?A classic example of preaching to the choir. (So you've written a new book? That's great. Best of luck with it. Now, MY latest book.....). I am reminded too often, and too guiltily, of Ambrose Bierce's definition of a bore: "one who talks when I want him to listen."
A popular trend on the internet seems to be something called "following"---a term I find somehow slightly ominous, perhaps because of its implications of stalking. At any rate, I as usual have absolutely no idea what is supposedly involved in all this, but, hey..... I "follow" several people on Twitter primarily because I get a notice saying they are "following" me, and want to be politically correct by returning the favor. Yet after this initial exchange of announcements, I never to hear from, or hear of, them again. I have 187 "followers" on Twitter. How could I possibly keep up with all of them even if I did hear from them again, or understood what Twitter is really all about....which I don't.
And now I note that even on this blog page that there is now an option for "Followers". It suddenly appeared, from whence and why I of course hadn't a clue, and saw that I had one follower. Not having the foggiest idea of its purpose, I asked my friend Gary to sign up for it, and let me know what if anything happened as a result. The answer is "apparently nothing". And I noticed subsequently that my original "follower" dropped out. Was it something I said? Did he get bored?
I would be delighted to have you "follow" me here, and maybe you can explain to me exactly what that means. If you're kind enough to read these blogs, I assume you already are following me, but what do I know?
And so, again, I bumble along, trying to get some writing done and adapting my little dog-and-pony show in any possible way I can think of to encourage just one more reader to read my books. If you are already in the choir I give you my eternal thanks. If you have never read one of my books, well...what can I possibly do that I am not already doing to convince you? I'm open for suggestion; you can reach me on Twitter. Or Facebook. Or MySpace. Or.....(sigh).......
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend.
It seems that from the age of five or so, we are increasingly swept off our feet and carried down the rapids of time. And as the world spins ever more erratically out of our control, the harder we try to find something to cling to; something solid. (Thus, to a large extend, my obsession with the past.) Increasingly, we turn to the internet....to places like Facebook and My Space and Twitter, a trend I
I find somehow both ominous and frightening. Twitter boasts that its intent is to enable us to keep in instant (???) touch with others, yet it allows us only 140 characters to do so. Surely I'm not the only one who finds this both ironic and annoying. But because others join Twitter and My Space and Facebook, I did too. I think of it as "The lemming principle".
My main goal in life, other than writing books, is to find people to read them. But not being quite sure how to obtain this goal, I bumble along, trying anything that even remotely offers the possibility of finding a new reader. And so, naturally, I turn to the internet. I join group after group, the members of which are, by and large, other writers seeking the same thing I'm seeking. I find that a great many of my fellow writers invite me to "join" them on Facebook or MySpace or various and sundry other places, and I can't help but wonder why? I already know them and see them regularly several other places. Why add another?A classic example of preaching to the choir. (So you've written a new book? That's great. Best of luck with it. Now, MY latest book.....). I am reminded too often, and too guiltily, of Ambrose Bierce's definition of a bore: "one who talks when I want him to listen."
A popular trend on the internet seems to be something called "following"---a term I find somehow slightly ominous, perhaps because of its implications of stalking. At any rate, I as usual have absolutely no idea what is supposedly involved in all this, but, hey..... I "follow" several people on Twitter primarily because I get a notice saying they are "following" me, and want to be politically correct by returning the favor. Yet after this initial exchange of announcements, I never to hear from, or hear of, them again. I have 187 "followers" on Twitter. How could I possibly keep up with all of them even if I did hear from them again, or understood what Twitter is really all about....which I don't.
And now I note that even on this blog page that there is now an option for "Followers". It suddenly appeared, from whence and why I of course hadn't a clue, and saw that I had one follower. Not having the foggiest idea of its purpose, I asked my friend Gary to sign up for it, and let me know what if anything happened as a result. The answer is "apparently nothing". And I noticed subsequently that my original "follower" dropped out. Was it something I said? Did he get bored?
I would be delighted to have you "follow" me here, and maybe you can explain to me exactly what that means. If you're kind enough to read these blogs, I assume you already are following me, but what do I know?
And so, again, I bumble along, trying to get some writing done and adapting my little dog-and-pony show in any possible way I can think of to encourage just one more reader to read my books. If you are already in the choir I give you my eternal thanks. If you have never read one of my books, well...what can I possibly do that I am not already doing to convince you? I'm open for suggestion; you can reach me on Twitter. Or Facebook. Or MySpace. Or.....(sigh).......
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Spam and Altruism
It occurred to me this morning, as I set about deleting the 14,986 spam messages which had appeared miraculously overnight on my computer, that perhaps I have, as I so often find myself, been too judgemental of those dedicated men and women who care enough about me as an individual to contact me with such wondrous offers. As the Bible says, "Judge not, lest you be judged."
I never actually read any of these messages, realizing full well that each is a Pandora's box, and to even acknowledge receipt of a single spam message is to set yourself up to receive 80,000 more. But much can be learned by merely reading the few introductory words that appear on the screen.
So let us take a brief look, with a totally open mind, at just a very very small random sampling of today's offers, and consider the opportunities we may be passing by.
I've noticed that the offers seem to come in clusters. Today there were a large number alerting me to the fact that my future may lie in law enforcement; specifically in crime scene investigation. "Crime Scene Investigators wanted..." was the subject line of at least half a dozen messages, all from different people, but all with the totally altruistic goal of helping me find my true place in life. Of course I'm sure they all know that the fact that I find George Eads, an actor on the popular TV show, C.S.I., very attractive may have been a factor. Maybe if I took them up on their offer, whatever it was, they might guarantee me a chance to spend some time with him in our professional capacities.
I was also offered "Easy Work - Great Pay" in a Rebate Processor Position. Apparently there is a great shortage of workers in this field, since the note said "We need your help now!" How could I refuse such a heartfelt plea. Maybe later. Or I could "start a new career in medical billing."
My dear friend Michael Vincent (we went to different schools together) informs me that "I have found you a new job!" but, being the ever-coy, he wants me to open his post to find out what job it may be. While I am dying of curiosity, I resisted the temptation.
And speaking of dying, a number of messages addressed the matter of my health, and I am touched by their concern. "A. Reginato," for example, tells me she/he "stopped wasting my time and money when I visited Canadian Hea..." (the message dropped off, and so did I). Someone named "me" (I don't recall sending this to myself, but one never knows) says: "Hello. We have the widest selection of antibiotics....." Wonderful to know. I'll file that away for next time have jungle rot.
I must admit I occasionally question whether some of these people really want to be my friend, or if they are just sugar-coating insults in friendly, casual manner. Coleen Arturo begins her message "Hi there!" to make me think she's my pal. However, she then goes on to promote "The largest variety of products for patients with infectious diseases...." What are you trying to tell me, Coleen? And "Luwj" has the downright bald audacity to impune my masculinity. ("Once you're a man again, nothing is impossible." Well, Luwj, I'll have you know I've never stopped being a man and I resent your implication.)
Some of these well-intentioned offers paint vivid mental pictures I don't particularly want or need painted. "Cleanse and Flush Pounds from Your Colon." Uh, thanks, but I'll pass. I'll also skip dinner.
Christopher Maher was somewhat off base, too, in offering me "Free foot fetish movies." Obviously he had heard of my experience in Los Angeles with a young man who derived his pleasure from my tennis shoes. (I know, I found it oddly gross, too. But who am I to pass judgement?)
Well, I know what I should do. I should take up Belkie Latia's offer to "Buy a College Diploma, Get a 100% legal, verifiable Degree". I'll buy a law degree and sue the ass off Luwj. "Once you're a man again", indeed!
New entries are posted every by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
I never actually read any of these messages, realizing full well that each is a Pandora's box, and to even acknowledge receipt of a single spam message is to set yourself up to receive 80,000 more. But much can be learned by merely reading the few introductory words that appear on the screen.
So let us take a brief look, with a totally open mind, at just a very very small random sampling of today's offers, and consider the opportunities we may be passing by.
I've noticed that the offers seem to come in clusters. Today there were a large number alerting me to the fact that my future may lie in law enforcement; specifically in crime scene investigation. "Crime Scene Investigators wanted..." was the subject line of at least half a dozen messages, all from different people, but all with the totally altruistic goal of helping me find my true place in life. Of course I'm sure they all know that the fact that I find George Eads, an actor on the popular TV show, C.S.I., very attractive may have been a factor. Maybe if I took them up on their offer, whatever it was, they might guarantee me a chance to spend some time with him in our professional capacities.
I was also offered "Easy Work - Great Pay" in a Rebate Processor Position. Apparently there is a great shortage of workers in this field, since the note said "We need your help now!" How could I refuse such a heartfelt plea. Maybe later. Or I could "start a new career in medical billing."
My dear friend Michael Vincent (we went to different schools together) informs me that "I have found you a new job!" but, being the ever-coy, he wants me to open his post to find out what job it may be. While I am dying of curiosity, I resisted the temptation.
And speaking of dying, a number of messages addressed the matter of my health, and I am touched by their concern. "A. Reginato," for example, tells me she/he "stopped wasting my time and money when I visited Canadian Hea..." (the message dropped off, and so did I). Someone named "me" (I don't recall sending this to myself, but one never knows) says: "Hello. We have the widest selection of antibiotics....." Wonderful to know. I'll file that away for next time have jungle rot.
I must admit I occasionally question whether some of these people really want to be my friend, or if they are just sugar-coating insults in friendly, casual manner. Coleen Arturo begins her message "Hi there!" to make me think she's my pal. However, she then goes on to promote "The largest variety of products for patients with infectious diseases...." What are you trying to tell me, Coleen? And "Luwj" has the downright bald audacity to impune my masculinity. ("Once you're a man again, nothing is impossible." Well, Luwj, I'll have you know I've never stopped being a man and I resent your implication.)
Some of these well-intentioned offers paint vivid mental pictures I don't particularly want or need painted. "Cleanse and Flush Pounds from Your Colon." Uh, thanks, but I'll pass. I'll also skip dinner.
Christopher Maher was somewhat off base, too, in offering me "Free foot fetish movies." Obviously he had heard of my experience in Los Angeles with a young man who derived his pleasure from my tennis shoes. (I know, I found it oddly gross, too. But who am I to pass judgement?)
Well, I know what I should do. I should take up Belkie Latia's offer to "Buy a College Diploma, Get a 100% legal, verifiable Degree". I'll buy a law degree and sue the ass off Luwj. "Once you're a man again", indeed!
New entries are posted every by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Coffee Time
Human nature fascinates me. I have only my own to go by with any degree of accuracy, and that which I can extrapolate from the actions of others. But I've never quite understood the optimism with which, having attempted to do something fifteen times and failed, I (we) are under the illusion that exactly the same thing done exactly the same way a sixteenth time will work.
On my way to "work", I decided to stop at Panera's, a coffee shop I almost never visit unless I'm with someone, to have a cup of coffee and a small pumpkin muffin the coffee shop insists on calling a "muffie"....an appellation just so cloyingly "cute" that I try never to ask for one by name, merely pointing and saying, "One of those." As always, the place was full of couples and singles, many of them working on their laptops, and all apparently having a very pleasant, relaxing time. I didn't want to take out my own laptop, which I had with me, since I knew I'd not be there all that long, and decided to pretend I was just like all the others seated quietly and contentedly with their coffee.
The fact that, though I have an average of two to three cups of coffee a day I never finish them and really am not, if truth be told, all that wild about coffee to begin with, is another matter entirely. Do I really think, the next time I have a cup of coffee, that I am actually going to finish it and truly savor the deliciousness of every sip? No matter. Everyone else seems to enjoy it, so I just go along with it.
I have never done sitting quietly and contentedly very well, so what made me even remotely think I could do it this time is a mystery. So I sat there, slathering little tubs of butter onto my....one of those....and sipping my coffee while really, really trying to be relaxed and comfortable. What's wrong with me that I can't do it? I looked around me. There were maybe six or eight other people sitting alone, minding their own business, taking their own time, apparently without a care in the world. What were they doing? Surely they had to be thinking of something. They couldn't just sit there, thinking and doing nothing at all, could they? Then why did it appear that that was exactly what they were doing. Was nobody home behind the windows of their eyes?
I'm sure anyone looking through my own little hazel-colored "windows" would see ten thousand thoughts and ideas and things-I-should-be-doing-rather-than-just-sitting-theres bustling around, bumping into one another. Thoughts are as fleeting as smoke: if you don't capture them and put them into words they become harder and harder to remember, and nine out of ten of them are gone forever, or trampled beneath a stampede of the thoughts that come directly behind them.
Obviously, my inability to sit still, to breath deeply and slowly, and float calmly along the surface of time is some sort of character weakness. I know I am undoubtedly missing out on the wonders of silent contemplation and meditation; Buddhists dedicate their lives to it. I would go stark raving mad within ten minutes. And I wish I could say that I envy people who can find deep fulfillment in doing nothing, but I honestly cannot. There'll be plenty of time for doing nothing when I'm dead. I don't need practice in it while I'm still alive.
There's an ad running for an ocean cruise line which outlines all the wonderful things one can do aboard their ships, and it sounds great, until they add, as part of their list: "Or just do nothing at all." Nothing at all? I'm going to pay several thousand dollars to do nothing at all? What's wrong with this picture? If they want to do nothing at all, let them stay home. Or better still, have them come have a quiet cup of coffee at Panera's.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
On my way to "work", I decided to stop at Panera's, a coffee shop I almost never visit unless I'm with someone, to have a cup of coffee and a small pumpkin muffin the coffee shop insists on calling a "muffie"....an appellation just so cloyingly "cute" that I try never to ask for one by name, merely pointing and saying, "One of those." As always, the place was full of couples and singles, many of them working on their laptops, and all apparently having a very pleasant, relaxing time. I didn't want to take out my own laptop, which I had with me, since I knew I'd not be there all that long, and decided to pretend I was just like all the others seated quietly and contentedly with their coffee.
The fact that, though I have an average of two to three cups of coffee a day I never finish them and really am not, if truth be told, all that wild about coffee to begin with, is another matter entirely. Do I really think, the next time I have a cup of coffee, that I am actually going to finish it and truly savor the deliciousness of every sip? No matter. Everyone else seems to enjoy it, so I just go along with it.
I have never done sitting quietly and contentedly very well, so what made me even remotely think I could do it this time is a mystery. So I sat there, slathering little tubs of butter onto my....one of those....and sipping my coffee while really, really trying to be relaxed and comfortable. What's wrong with me that I can't do it? I looked around me. There were maybe six or eight other people sitting alone, minding their own business, taking their own time, apparently without a care in the world. What were they doing? Surely they had to be thinking of something. They couldn't just sit there, thinking and doing nothing at all, could they? Then why did it appear that that was exactly what they were doing. Was nobody home behind the windows of their eyes?
I'm sure anyone looking through my own little hazel-colored "windows" would see ten thousand thoughts and ideas and things-I-should-be-doing-rather-than-just-sitting-theres bustling around, bumping into one another. Thoughts are as fleeting as smoke: if you don't capture them and put them into words they become harder and harder to remember, and nine out of ten of them are gone forever, or trampled beneath a stampede of the thoughts that come directly behind them.
Obviously, my inability to sit still, to breath deeply and slowly, and float calmly along the surface of time is some sort of character weakness. I know I am undoubtedly missing out on the wonders of silent contemplation and meditation; Buddhists dedicate their lives to it. I would go stark raving mad within ten minutes. And I wish I could say that I envy people who can find deep fulfillment in doing nothing, but I honestly cannot. There'll be plenty of time for doing nothing when I'm dead. I don't need practice in it while I'm still alive.
There's an ad running for an ocean cruise line which outlines all the wonderful things one can do aboard their ships, and it sounds great, until they add, as part of their list: "Or just do nothing at all." Nothing at all? I'm going to pay several thousand dollars to do nothing at all? What's wrong with this picture? If they want to do nothing at all, let them stay home. Or better still, have them come have a quiet cup of coffee at Panera's.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Friday, April 17, 2009
To Each a Rainbow
I'm not sure if I mentioned it in an earlier blog, but I received a note from a reader (I love notes from readers) who said that while he agreed with a lot of what I had to say, he'd hesitated to write to tell me so because he had also gotten the impression that I was a rather unpleasant person. I was honestly surprised to hear that, and hastened to tell him that I really hoped that wasn't the case. But on reflection I could see where he got the idea.
So many of these blogs rail against stupidity and injustice and negative things that it might be easy to think that's all I saw.
True, life is pretty stormy at times, and there are occasions when it seems the rain will never end. But it always does. I recently read something to the effect that without rain there would be no rainbows; I truly believe that, and that longer and more violent the storm, the more we can appreciate the rainbows when they appear. We all need our own rainbows. I often find mine in unexpected places. Recently I came across three of them in the form of YouTube videos, and I'd like to offer them to you in hopes you might enjoy them as much as I do.
The first is currently one of the most popular videos on YouTube: a little 47 year old Scottish woman named Susan Boyle, appearing on Britain's version of America's Got Talent. If you've ever watched a show of this type, you know that if you're not young/cute/perky/handsome you're pretty much doomed before you open your mouth.
Susan walks on stage looking like she were a teacher walking into a third-grade classroom. No makeup, sensible shoes, wearing a simple dress she bought for her nephew's wedding. The immediate reaction from the audience is one of sharks spotting a piece of chum being tossed into their tank. Audiences on this type of show tend to be an unforgiving and bloodthirsty lot. They look at one another and snicker when she announces she wants to be a professional singer, and then move forward in their seats eager to take part in the slaughter. And when asked what she'd going to sing, she says "I dreamed a dream" from Les Miserables, and.... If you are one of the few people on the planet who has not yet seen it, do yourself a favor and go to YouTube and type in "Susan Boyle." (Unfortunately, I can't get direct links to work here.) And if you have already seen it, why not relive the pleasure?
The second video was shot in the Antwerp, Belgium, railway station during a normal day's routine, as unsuspecting travelers went about their business. I would give anything to have been there, to see the reactions of those not participating. I never tire of watching it. A wonderful and joyful experience. Go to YouTube and type in "Op zoek naar Maria" (The title is in Dutch.)
My third rainbow has special significance for me and the 20 million other Americans like me who historically been told we have no right to feel pride in who we are. For us, it has been a terrible and a long storm which is only now ending. Forced together because we were not welcome by the mainstream, we chose the rainbow as our own special flag of independence. Here, John Barrowman, an openly gay man, gives our pride voice. He sings not only for gays and lesbians, of course, but for all the disenfanchised who only want to be free to be who they are. Please watch Go to YouTube, type in "John Barrowman - I Am What I Am" and select the one where he is weaing a white open-collar shirt.
Each of us needs a rainbow....something that moves us, inspires us and gives us comfort, warmth, sheer joy, and an appreciation for the gift of life. When you find one, treasure it...and share it.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
So many of these blogs rail against stupidity and injustice and negative things that it might be easy to think that's all I saw.
True, life is pretty stormy at times, and there are occasions when it seems the rain will never end. But it always does. I recently read something to the effect that without rain there would be no rainbows; I truly believe that, and that longer and more violent the storm, the more we can appreciate the rainbows when they appear. We all need our own rainbows. I often find mine in unexpected places. Recently I came across three of them in the form of YouTube videos, and I'd like to offer them to you in hopes you might enjoy them as much as I do.
The first is currently one of the most popular videos on YouTube: a little 47 year old Scottish woman named Susan Boyle, appearing on Britain's version of America's Got Talent. If you've ever watched a show of this type, you know that if you're not young/cute/perky/handsome you're pretty much doomed before you open your mouth.
Susan walks on stage looking like she were a teacher walking into a third-grade classroom. No makeup, sensible shoes, wearing a simple dress she bought for her nephew's wedding. The immediate reaction from the audience is one of sharks spotting a piece of chum being tossed into their tank. Audiences on this type of show tend to be an unforgiving and bloodthirsty lot. They look at one another and snicker when she announces she wants to be a professional singer, and then move forward in their seats eager to take part in the slaughter. And when asked what she'd going to sing, she says "I dreamed a dream" from Les Miserables, and.... If you are one of the few people on the planet who has not yet seen it, do yourself a favor and go to YouTube and type in "Susan Boyle." (Unfortunately, I can't get direct links to work here.) And if you have already seen it, why not relive the pleasure?
The second video was shot in the Antwerp, Belgium, railway station during a normal day's routine, as unsuspecting travelers went about their business. I would give anything to have been there, to see the reactions of those not participating. I never tire of watching it. A wonderful and joyful experience. Go to YouTube and type in "Op zoek naar Maria" (The title is in Dutch.)
My third rainbow has special significance for me and the 20 million other Americans like me who historically been told we have no right to feel pride in who we are. For us, it has been a terrible and a long storm which is only now ending. Forced together because we were not welcome by the mainstream, we chose the rainbow as our own special flag of independence. Here, John Barrowman, an openly gay man, gives our pride voice. He sings not only for gays and lesbians, of course, but for all the disenfanchised who only want to be free to be who they are. Please watch Go to YouTube, type in "John Barrowman - I Am What I Am" and select the one where he is weaing a white open-collar shirt.
Each of us needs a rainbow....something that moves us, inspires us and gives us comfort, warmth, sheer joy, and an appreciation for the gift of life. When you find one, treasure it...and share it.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Heritage
A note from my cousin Judi mentioned that she and her husband had, on a recent trip to New Mexico, visited a native American museum, and noted that her husband had native American lineage. I pointed out to her that so did she: my great-great grandmother was a Blackfoot. This came as a total surprise to her.
And while the percentage of Blackfoot blood grows smaller with each generation, it is there. I am quite sure that it is responsible for the fact that I still have all my hair and for my lifelong inability to grow facial hair (not that I ever wanted a beard or mustache, but the option for sideburns would have been nice.) But when Judi asked what more I could tell her about her great-great-great grandmother, I had to admit I knew nothing more, not even her name.
I'm not sure if it as a peculiarly American trait---ours being so large and so relatively new a country. ---or a human one, but by and large, the average American knows almost nothing of his/her family more than two generations removed. Unlike the rest of the world, where an entire family may live in the same village for hundreds of years, we are a people of movement, and increasingly of the moment. What do you know of your great-grandparents? What were their names? Where did they live? What did they do for a living? What were their daily lives like?
If we are lucky, we know or knew our grandparents as people. We knew their personalities, what pleased or displeased them, what they valued, their quirks and other personal traits. Some of us know something of our great-grandparents as people from family stories passed down through the years. But the farther removed we are from them in time, the less we know of them, until within the space of only a few generations, they...and even their names...are totally unknown to us.
By nature, the famous are remembered far longer than the average citizen. The more famous one is were, the more that is known about them and the longer that information remains known. Certain cultures venerate their ancestors, but I really doubt any of those who do so actually know anything at all about who the real people they are venerating actually were.
The fact is, of course, that each of us is allotted only a certain amount of time on this earth, and there simply is not enough time within that relatively brief time to possibly know everything we might want to know about our heritage and about the people without whom we would not exist
And like it or not, this is simply the way things are. What's past is past and is of relatively little importance to or interest to us. We can hardly keep up with our own present, let alone our ancestors' past.
But wouldn't it be nice to go back in time to check in on those who have gone before us? My mom told me that her own mother, who died when Mom was only nine years old, had a sharp sense of humor, and a wonderful laugh. I'd love to hear it.
There is little we can do, without considerable research, to learn more about those from whom we descended. But we can be conscious of the fact that they did exist, and that they were people as real as you, and every now and then, on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, make a trip to a cemetery and spend a little time walking among the tombstones. and give those beneath them a passing thought...and a "thank you."
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
And while the percentage of Blackfoot blood grows smaller with each generation, it is there. I am quite sure that it is responsible for the fact that I still have all my hair and for my lifelong inability to grow facial hair (not that I ever wanted a beard or mustache, but the option for sideburns would have been nice.) But when Judi asked what more I could tell her about her great-great-great grandmother, I had to admit I knew nothing more, not even her name.
I'm not sure if it as a peculiarly American trait---ours being so large and so relatively new a country. ---or a human one, but by and large, the average American knows almost nothing of his/her family more than two generations removed. Unlike the rest of the world, where an entire family may live in the same village for hundreds of years, we are a people of movement, and increasingly of the moment. What do you know of your great-grandparents? What were their names? Where did they live? What did they do for a living? What were their daily lives like?
If we are lucky, we know or knew our grandparents as people. We knew their personalities, what pleased or displeased them, what they valued, their quirks and other personal traits. Some of us know something of our great-grandparents as people from family stories passed down through the years. But the farther removed we are from them in time, the less we know of them, until within the space of only a few generations, they...and even their names...are totally unknown to us.
By nature, the famous are remembered far longer than the average citizen. The more famous one is were, the more that is known about them and the longer that information remains known. Certain cultures venerate their ancestors, but I really doubt any of those who do so actually know anything at all about who the real people they are venerating actually were.
The fact is, of course, that each of us is allotted only a certain amount of time on this earth, and there simply is not enough time within that relatively brief time to possibly know everything we might want to know about our heritage and about the people without whom we would not exist
And like it or not, this is simply the way things are. What's past is past and is of relatively little importance to or interest to us. We can hardly keep up with our own present, let alone our ancestors' past.
But wouldn't it be nice to go back in time to check in on those who have gone before us? My mom told me that her own mother, who died when Mom was only nine years old, had a sharp sense of humor, and a wonderful laugh. I'd love to hear it.
There is little we can do, without considerable research, to learn more about those from whom we descended. But we can be conscious of the fact that they did exist, and that they were people as real as you, and every now and then, on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, make a trip to a cemetery and spend a little time walking among the tombstones. and give those beneath them a passing thought...and a "thank you."
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Duds
Ever see news footage of an explosion in a fireworks factory? It's pretty much the situation I find myself in at the moment. It is six p.m. and I have known perfecly well all day that I have to post a new blog tomorrow morning. And not only do I not have one, but I haven't a clue as to what to write about. And just standing here babbling doesn't really help much either. Trying to come up with an idea got me to thinking of the fireworks factory analogy. I've got thoughts and ideas and possibilities and maybes and how about's and I've already done that ones shooting in all directions, whistling and popping and booming as they go.
So what's my problem? I grab myself (figuratively) by the shoulders to keep me from running around in circles chasing my own tail (again, figuratively) and try to talk some sense into myself---always a risky proposition at best. So I don't do a blog one day? What, the world will come to an end? Civilization as we know it will crumble? Hardly.
Okay, but if I don't have a blog ready for you after you've gone to all the trouble to come and look for it and expect to find one, you would rightly be unhappy with me, and I certainly couldn't blame you one bit. You'd probably go away muttering under your breath about these uppity writers who have no sense of responsibility, and how it will be a cold day in August before you ever come back again. There are ten million other bloggers out there who'd be happy to have you take your valuable time to read what they had to say, and they're probably a lot more interesting than I am, and....my tendency to melodrama
loves moments like this.
You don't care, nor should you, that one of the reasons I am unprepared is because I am still trying to transfer files from my PC to my new laptop, which is far easier to write about than to do. I find myself running full-tilt, head lowered and not wearing a helmet, into a concrete block wall every five minutes or so. I call Gary for help. He explains carefully. I thank him profusely, and do exactly what he has told me to do....if I can remember it (it's been all of ten seconds since he told me, after all. What does he expect? Miracles?)
How about a blog on how computers hate me? Nope. Been there, done that. Less than a week ago. And so the fireworks factory burns to the ground, reduced at the end to firing off duds. And this is one.
Sigh. And once again I think of the high school English test for which I was totally unprepared. I threw myself on the mercy of the teacher, explaining nobly how I could have cheated but did not.. And I realized that is exactly what I have been doing here....babbling on in the hopes that you won't notice that I have said nothing at all, and that this is a pretty piss-poor excuse for a blog.
I really will try hard to see that this never happens again! Really, I will! You believe me, don't you? Huh?
Hey, it was worth a try.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
So what's my problem? I grab myself (figuratively) by the shoulders to keep me from running around in circles chasing my own tail (again, figuratively) and try to talk some sense into myself---always a risky proposition at best. So I don't do a blog one day? What, the world will come to an end? Civilization as we know it will crumble? Hardly.
Okay, but if I don't have a blog ready for you after you've gone to all the trouble to come and look for it and expect to find one, you would rightly be unhappy with me, and I certainly couldn't blame you one bit. You'd probably go away muttering under your breath about these uppity writers who have no sense of responsibility, and how it will be a cold day in August before you ever come back again. There are ten million other bloggers out there who'd be happy to have you take your valuable time to read what they had to say, and they're probably a lot more interesting than I am, and....my tendency to melodrama
loves moments like this.
You don't care, nor should you, that one of the reasons I am unprepared is because I am still trying to transfer files from my PC to my new laptop, which is far easier to write about than to do. I find myself running full-tilt, head lowered and not wearing a helmet, into a concrete block wall every five minutes or so. I call Gary for help. He explains carefully. I thank him profusely, and do exactly what he has told me to do....if I can remember it (it's been all of ten seconds since he told me, after all. What does he expect? Miracles?)
How about a blog on how computers hate me? Nope. Been there, done that. Less than a week ago. And so the fireworks factory burns to the ground, reduced at the end to firing off duds. And this is one.
Sigh. And once again I think of the high school English test for which I was totally unprepared. I threw myself on the mercy of the teacher, explaining nobly how I could have cheated but did not.. And I realized that is exactly what I have been doing here....babbling on in the hopes that you won't notice that I have said nothing at all, and that this is a pretty piss-poor excuse for a blog.
I really will try hard to see that this never happens again! Really, I will! You believe me, don't you? Huh?
Hey, it was worth a try.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Time Blinks
Time is about to blink. Ready? Now! And in the blink of Time’s eye, I’m 21 years old again: a young Naval Aviation Cadet who has just had his first solo flight. Come join me.
23 March, 1955
Dear Folks
As of today I am the proud possessor of a small gold bar about 1 ½” long, with a small silver oval in the center adorned with an anchor & twisted rope. This is my reward for seven months & ten days service; I believe I’ll wear it to bed with me.
This morning began just as the preceding five days had—I woke up at 5:45, dressed, washed, & ate breakfast. At 6:30 we mustered and marched to the hanger where, at 6:45, another muster was held. Upon checking the board, I found I had been assigned an instructor—Lt. Ashbridge. As he is a new (to Corry Field) instructor, the usual flourishing grapevine, which supplies all data on moods, temperament, & generosity of all instructors, could not help me.
At 7:15 I had the L-11 lecture for the third time. This lecture is given every day you are assigned an A-20 (first solo) hop, & you keep taking it until you finally get the hop. Subject matter is a summary of all the other lectures you’ve attended; what to do when, if & how.
The lecture was over about 0815. I raced out to the board & met my instructor—a short man with greying hair. I told him I hadn’t flown for five days; he said he didn’t expect too much & that he’d take the five days into consideration. He said “Climb on up to 8,000 ft & do a spin, then we’ll do some high work & go on over to 8-A & let you take it.”
Our plane was CA100—a plane borrowed from BTU-4. It was parked as far away as it is possible to be. I pre-flighted it (checked to see everything was OK), got in, started it, & went to report over the mike to my instructor—but when I reached for it, it wasn’t there. Since we were parked way out in the middle of nowhere, & had to take a bus to get to the plane, someone would have to run all the way back & get one. We sent a plane captain (enlisted man who helps strap you in & stands by with a fire bottle while the plane is starting), but he took too long, so the instructor said to taxi the plane to the hanger & get one.
Lt. Ashbridge is new here at Corry—he’d just come over rom Whiting; so he wasn’t certain of our taxi patterns. As a result, he had me taxi against traffic to get to the hanger. Fortunately, no other planes were coming toward us, because those taxi-ways are not wide enough to let two planes by comfortably.
After about fifteen minutes of delay, we took off. He was very nice & didn’t yell at me like most instructors do. We climbed on up, did a spin, some stalls, & did some cross-wind landings at Wolfe field. Cross-winds are tricky & dangerous—you’re always supposed to land into the wind, but sometimes that is not possible. At Wolfe field, everyone always lands on a runway that isn’t directly in line with the wind. As a result, you’re always being blown off to one side or the other, & you must make corrections for it, or else.
After that, we headed up to field 8A, a huge grass field where everyone solos. We shot three landings; two ½ flaps & one full flaps (flaps slow the plane down—the degree of flaps determines how fast or slow you’ll land). On the full flaps landing, he told me to taxi off the field & stop. Then he got out of the plane, came up to the front cockpit & said “All right, you’ve got it—go out & bust your ass.” (Instructors are noted for their poetic phrasing.)
I waited for a signal from the yellow crash truck which always is parked beside the runway in use, got a thumbs up, & took off. As I said on the phone, after five days of waiting & sweating & getting all keyed up for nothing, when it finally did happen I felt almost nothing. I did two ½ flap landings, which a buddy told me he watched & said were beautiful; then did a full stop, full flap landing & went back to pick up my instructor, & we came home.
No sooner had I said so-long to my check instructor, I looked on the board & saw I had an A-20 immediately. A-20 is your first real solo hop—you do everything yourself. The plane I was given was number 227.
I checked out a parachute & two back pads (otherwise I have a hard time reaching the rudder pedals & brakes) & went out to the plane. I secured the rear cockpit—strapped everything down so that it can’t flop all over & hit the instruments, took the instructor’s stick & secured it in a special holder (also that it wouldn’t whip around and hit anything).
Silverhill is a paved-runwayy field; the farthest one from Corry. It is used only by solos for landing practice. I decided I’d try a few. I entered the traffic pattern, lowered my wheels & ½ flaps; did everything necessary. Made a good approach, & landed.
There is a big difference in the handling, especially in the landing, of a plane when it is 160 lbs lighter—but I didn’t know that. The first landing wasn’t too good; the second was worse. On the third, I landed wheels, bounced, turned a little to the left, hit again, bounced again, & started to flip over on my left side. God, but I was scared! I thought for sure that I’d had it. But somehow I made it. I wanted to go home then, but thought I’d be afraid next time if I quit now. So I shot two more, neither one of which was too good, & came home.
So there you have the long story of the day I soloed. Hope it didn’t bore you; I rather enjoyed it , in retrospect.
* * * * *
From “A World Ago,” http;//www.doriengrey.blogspot.com
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
23 March, 1955
Dear Folks
As of today I am the proud possessor of a small gold bar about 1 ½” long, with a small silver oval in the center adorned with an anchor & twisted rope. This is my reward for seven months & ten days service; I believe I’ll wear it to bed with me.
This morning began just as the preceding five days had—I woke up at 5:45, dressed, washed, & ate breakfast. At 6:30 we mustered and marched to the hanger where, at 6:45, another muster was held. Upon checking the board, I found I had been assigned an instructor—Lt. Ashbridge. As he is a new (to Corry Field) instructor, the usual flourishing grapevine, which supplies all data on moods, temperament, & generosity of all instructors, could not help me.
At 7:15 I had the L-11 lecture for the third time. This lecture is given every day you are assigned an A-20 (first solo) hop, & you keep taking it until you finally get the hop. Subject matter is a summary of all the other lectures you’ve attended; what to do when, if & how.
The lecture was over about 0815. I raced out to the board & met my instructor—a short man with greying hair. I told him I hadn’t flown for five days; he said he didn’t expect too much & that he’d take the five days into consideration. He said “Climb on up to 8,000 ft & do a spin, then we’ll do some high work & go on over to 8-A & let you take it.”
Our plane was CA100—a plane borrowed from BTU-4. It was parked as far away as it is possible to be. I pre-flighted it (checked to see everything was OK), got in, started it, & went to report over the mike to my instructor—but when I reached for it, it wasn’t there. Since we were parked way out in the middle of nowhere, & had to take a bus to get to the plane, someone would have to run all the way back & get one. We sent a plane captain (enlisted man who helps strap you in & stands by with a fire bottle while the plane is starting), but he took too long, so the instructor said to taxi the plane to the hanger & get one.
Lt. Ashbridge is new here at Corry—he’d just come over rom Whiting; so he wasn’t certain of our taxi patterns. As a result, he had me taxi against traffic to get to the hanger. Fortunately, no other planes were coming toward us, because those taxi-ways are not wide enough to let two planes by comfortably.
After about fifteen minutes of delay, we took off. He was very nice & didn’t yell at me like most instructors do. We climbed on up, did a spin, some stalls, & did some cross-wind landings at Wolfe field. Cross-winds are tricky & dangerous—you’re always supposed to land into the wind, but sometimes that is not possible. At Wolfe field, everyone always lands on a runway that isn’t directly in line with the wind. As a result, you’re always being blown off to one side or the other, & you must make corrections for it, or else.
After that, we headed up to field 8A, a huge grass field where everyone solos. We shot three landings; two ½ flaps & one full flaps (flaps slow the plane down—the degree of flaps determines how fast or slow you’ll land). On the full flaps landing, he told me to taxi off the field & stop. Then he got out of the plane, came up to the front cockpit & said “All right, you’ve got it—go out & bust your ass.” (Instructors are noted for their poetic phrasing.)
I waited for a signal from the yellow crash truck which always is parked beside the runway in use, got a thumbs up, & took off. As I said on the phone, after five days of waiting & sweating & getting all keyed up for nothing, when it finally did happen I felt almost nothing. I did two ½ flap landings, which a buddy told me he watched & said were beautiful; then did a full stop, full flap landing & went back to pick up my instructor, & we came home.
No sooner had I said so-long to my check instructor, I looked on the board & saw I had an A-20 immediately. A-20 is your first real solo hop—you do everything yourself. The plane I was given was number 227.
I checked out a parachute & two back pads (otherwise I have a hard time reaching the rudder pedals & brakes) & went out to the plane. I secured the rear cockpit—strapped everything down so that it can’t flop all over & hit the instruments, took the instructor’s stick & secured it in a special holder (also that it wouldn’t whip around and hit anything).
Silverhill is a paved-runwayy field; the farthest one from Corry. It is used only by solos for landing practice. I decided I’d try a few. I entered the traffic pattern, lowered my wheels & ½ flaps; did everything necessary. Made a good approach, & landed.
There is a big difference in the handling, especially in the landing, of a plane when it is 160 lbs lighter—but I didn’t know that. The first landing wasn’t too good; the second was worse. On the third, I landed wheels, bounced, turned a little to the left, hit again, bounced again, & started to flip over on my left side. God, but I was scared! I thought for sure that I’d had it. But somehow I made it. I wanted to go home then, but thought I’d be afraid next time if I quit now. So I shot two more, neither one of which was too good, & came home.
So there you have the long story of the day I soloed. Hope it didn’t bore you; I rather enjoyed it , in retrospect.
* * * * *
From “A World Ago,” http;//www.doriengrey.blogspot.com
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Disasters in Perspective
Somehow, in trying to transfer files from my Dell computer to my new Mac laptop, I managed to lose my entire blog file. Over two years worth of blogs, including the one I had prepared for today and my backlog of future blogs. A total disaster, I thought.
And there flashed into my mind an incident many years ago aboard the U.S.S. Ticonderoga which, once again, reminded me of the importance of perspective as to the difference between a minor inconvenience and a true disaster. So, for lack of a regular blog for today, I post here an entry from my “A World Ago” blog (http://www.doriengrey.blogspot.com)
21 November 1955
Several entries in this journal have begun “Nothing new today,” or words to that effect—I would rather have every day like that than one like tonight!
The movie on the mess deck was “Houdini”—the story of the great magician. I was sitting crouched on my chair, the better to see over the heads of the guys in front of me. About two hundred other guys were seated on benches, chairs, or the hard steel deck, or standing in the back. The movie was approaching its climax when suddenly the squawk box blared: “Man Overboard—Port Side!” The ship swung so sharply & suddenly to starboard that benches & chairs toppled & everyone was forced to the side of the hall. The lights came on almost immediately, & everyone began filing from the room, with much confusion. I saw one of the cooks & asked where we were to go—he said we had to muster on the hanger deck; that is the only way they could tell who it was who had gone over.
The scene on the hanger deck was one of mass confusion. Many planes were parked about, & guys were running every which way, getting to their stations. A jet was on the number two elevator, evidently just being lowered—I noticed it was a very dark night—the kind of blackness found only on the ocean. An officer came running across the hanger deck, yelling for guys to push the jet off the elevator & onto the hanger deck.
Since only cooks muster on the hanger deck & mess cooks muster on the mess decks, I went below. A few moments later Nick came down, looking very pale. I asked him what was wrong. He said “You can’t walk on the flight deck without slipping.”
A jet, coming in for a landing, had missed all the barriers & smashed into a group of guys preparing to launch planes—no one knew how many were dead, or how many had been thrown over the side. The bodies were scattered all over the flight deck, all dismembered. They’d started bringing them down on the elevator just after I’d left.
No one knows yet how many are gone—we’re missing two mess cooks (guys sometimes go up to the flight deck to watch operations). Six bodies were brought down, with God knows how many injured.
Sick Bay has been calling for blood donors; there is blood in the passageways leading to Sick Bay. As I am writing this, a call came to the Commissary Office to open the Garbage Disposal room so that the stretchers can be washed. The Reefers (Refrigeration Rooms ) have been opened to receive the bodies.
As the muster was called, I looked at the faces around me—all silent, some very pale; a few smoked cigarettes, others looked around as each name was called, wondering who would not answer. Something I will not soon forget.
Rumors & scuttlebutt will sweep the ship for days, but we will never be told how many went over the side, or how many more died. It may be in the stateside papers, but I doubt it.
And just a few moments ago, the squawk box announced, as it has hundreds of times during flight operations: “The smoking lamp is out while fueling aircraft.”
The doctor was just in, asking for keys to the Reefers again—“We found some more gear belonging to one of them—we don’t know which one.” A destroyer just came alongside with the pilot of the plane—other destroyers are busy searching for others. Let’s hope they are all found.
I could go on, but somehow I just don’t feel like it….
Another call just came for O-blood; at least thirty guys are standing in line, from seamen to Commanders. People can be marvelous beings
There will be a new blog posted this Wednesday, and every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday thereafter. I’ll try not to lose my files again.
And there flashed into my mind an incident many years ago aboard the U.S.S. Ticonderoga which, once again, reminded me of the importance of perspective as to the difference between a minor inconvenience and a true disaster. So, for lack of a regular blog for today, I post here an entry from my “A World Ago” blog (http://www.doriengrey.blogspot.com)
21 November 1955
Several entries in this journal have begun “Nothing new today,” or words to that effect—I would rather have every day like that than one like tonight!
The movie on the mess deck was “Houdini”—the story of the great magician. I was sitting crouched on my chair, the better to see over the heads of the guys in front of me. About two hundred other guys were seated on benches, chairs, or the hard steel deck, or standing in the back. The movie was approaching its climax when suddenly the squawk box blared: “Man Overboard—Port Side!” The ship swung so sharply & suddenly to starboard that benches & chairs toppled & everyone was forced to the side of the hall. The lights came on almost immediately, & everyone began filing from the room, with much confusion. I saw one of the cooks & asked where we were to go—he said we had to muster on the hanger deck; that is the only way they could tell who it was who had gone over.
The scene on the hanger deck was one of mass confusion. Many planes were parked about, & guys were running every which way, getting to their stations. A jet was on the number two elevator, evidently just being lowered—I noticed it was a very dark night—the kind of blackness found only on the ocean. An officer came running across the hanger deck, yelling for guys to push the jet off the elevator & onto the hanger deck.
Since only cooks muster on the hanger deck & mess cooks muster on the mess decks, I went below. A few moments later Nick came down, looking very pale. I asked him what was wrong. He said “You can’t walk on the flight deck without slipping.”
A jet, coming in for a landing, had missed all the barriers & smashed into a group of guys preparing to launch planes—no one knew how many were dead, or how many had been thrown over the side. The bodies were scattered all over the flight deck, all dismembered. They’d started bringing them down on the elevator just after I’d left.
No one knows yet how many are gone—we’re missing two mess cooks (guys sometimes go up to the flight deck to watch operations). Six bodies were brought down, with God knows how many injured.
Sick Bay has been calling for blood donors; there is blood in the passageways leading to Sick Bay. As I am writing this, a call came to the Commissary Office to open the Garbage Disposal room so that the stretchers can be washed. The Reefers (Refrigeration Rooms ) have been opened to receive the bodies.
As the muster was called, I looked at the faces around me—all silent, some very pale; a few smoked cigarettes, others looked around as each name was called, wondering who would not answer. Something I will not soon forget.
Rumors & scuttlebutt will sweep the ship for days, but we will never be told how many went over the side, or how many more died. It may be in the stateside papers, but I doubt it.
And just a few moments ago, the squawk box announced, as it has hundreds of times during flight operations: “The smoking lamp is out while fueling aircraft.”
The doctor was just in, asking for keys to the Reefers again—“We found some more gear belonging to one of them—we don’t know which one.” A destroyer just came alongside with the pilot of the plane—other destroyers are busy searching for others. Let’s hope they are all found.
I could go on, but somehow I just don’t feel like it….
Another call just came for O-blood; at least thirty guys are standing in line, from seamen to Commanders. People can be marvelous beings
There will be a new blog posted this Wednesday, and every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday thereafter. I’ll try not to lose my files again.
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