Saturday, March 31, 2012
My comment.
My cousin, Dianne, asked me if this digital painting was my conception of the universe.
No, I said, it's just a galaxy in my own universe where the planet Earth cannot be found.
Now that I think of it, maybe that's why some people say I'm a space cadet.
The painting is called Galaxy Two. There was a Galaxy One, too, but I lost it.
No, I said, it's just a galaxy in my own universe where the planet Earth cannot be found.
Now that I think of it, maybe that's why some people say I'm a space cadet.
The painting is called Galaxy Two. There was a Galaxy One, too, but I lost it.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Road Rage.
As my friend BG pointed out, "Nothing good can come of this."
I pulled up to a stop sign at the end of my street the other day and waited impatiently for the traffic to lighten, and, finally, when a promising gap appeared, I pulled onto the state road and accelerated rapidly to blend in with the flow of traffic. It seemed to work nicely, but, a mile down the road, a little red car passed me on the right, swerved in front of me and suddenly hit his brake, obviously deliberately.
"Asshole," I muttered after I hit my brake.
A quarter-mile later, I watched the little red car ahead of me pull into the entrance to the convenience store where I was headed.
"That's not good," I thought.
I had seen road rage in action. I once pulled up behind two cars at a stop sign and saw the driver ahead of me jump out with a tire iron in his hand and rush to the driver's window of the car ahead of him, screaming and brandishing his weapon. The driver immediately screeched away from the intersection as the tire iron banged on his trunk. The raging man stomped back to his car yelling his complaint at me in explanation while I watched, very alert. He drove off without further ado, but I've heard of gun play entering into such situations, and I remember a news story about a guy who fished a crossbow out of his trunk and put an arrow into the chest of of a driver who had offended him.
My situation was not good. "But," I thought, "I go where I'm going."
We parked and reached the door of the store about the same time, him slightly ahead of me. "What the fuck're you doing," he said. "Cutting me off like that?"
I didn't like his tone--or his swerving in front of me--so, as we lined up at the register and the arms of our jackets brushed together, he ahead of me again, I said, "What's the matter, no brakes?"
"I got brakes," he seethed. "You're an asshole!"
"Yeah, right," I said sarcastically as we stood eyeball to eyeball.
At that moment, a women opened the adjacent register saying, "Can I help the next person?"
Neither of us road warriors was actually the "next person," but I stepped right up and asked for cigarettes.
Of course, this could be interpreted as me cutting him off again, so as I paid for my butts, thinking he might want to get physical, I decided to be very alert and totally prepared. "If he wants to go, I'm ready,"
I thought. I knew I could have one hell of a devastating opening round, and I knew that opening rounds are most often decisive, the time during which most street fights are won or lost. But after three minutes, I knew also, if the guy didn't back away, I'd be praying for the police to arrive to break up the fight. The guy was about the same size as me, but he was at least 30 years younger, probably in the prime of his life. Within four minutes, I'd be gasping for breath.
He watched me walk to the door with my cigarettes, then shouted sarcastically as I pushed open the door, "Have a nice day!"
"Thanks!" I said.
As BG said, nothing good can come of this.
And I was impressed by the simple wisdom from another friend when he said, "I would have kept going to the next store."
Good thinking.
Watch this road rage guy:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKBJCiJO5XU
I pulled up to a stop sign at the end of my street the other day and waited impatiently for the traffic to lighten, and, finally, when a promising gap appeared, I pulled onto the state road and accelerated rapidly to blend in with the flow of traffic. It seemed to work nicely, but, a mile down the road, a little red car passed me on the right, swerved in front of me and suddenly hit his brake, obviously deliberately.
"Asshole," I muttered after I hit my brake.
A quarter-mile later, I watched the little red car ahead of me pull into the entrance to the convenience store where I was headed.
"That's not good," I thought.
I had seen road rage in action. I once pulled up behind two cars at a stop sign and saw the driver ahead of me jump out with a tire iron in his hand and rush to the driver's window of the car ahead of him, screaming and brandishing his weapon. The driver immediately screeched away from the intersection as the tire iron banged on his trunk. The raging man stomped back to his car yelling his complaint at me in explanation while I watched, very alert. He drove off without further ado, but I've heard of gun play entering into such situations, and I remember a news story about a guy who fished a crossbow out of his trunk and put an arrow into the chest of of a driver who had offended him.
My situation was not good. "But," I thought, "I go where I'm going."
We parked and reached the door of the store about the same time, him slightly ahead of me. "What the fuck're you doing," he said. "Cutting me off like that?"
I didn't like his tone--or his swerving in front of me--so, as we lined up at the register and the arms of our jackets brushed together, he ahead of me again, I said, "What's the matter, no brakes?"
"I got brakes," he seethed. "You're an asshole!"
"Yeah, right," I said sarcastically as we stood eyeball to eyeball.
At that moment, a women opened the adjacent register saying, "Can I help the next person?"
Neither of us road warriors was actually the "next person," but I stepped right up and asked for cigarettes.
Of course, this could be interpreted as me cutting him off again, so as I paid for my butts, thinking he might want to get physical, I decided to be very alert and totally prepared. "If he wants to go, I'm ready,"
I thought. I knew I could have one hell of a devastating opening round, and I knew that opening rounds are most often decisive, the time during which most street fights are won or lost. But after three minutes, I knew also, if the guy didn't back away, I'd be praying for the police to arrive to break up the fight. The guy was about the same size as me, but he was at least 30 years younger, probably in the prime of his life. Within four minutes, I'd be gasping for breath.
He watched me walk to the door with my cigarettes, then shouted sarcastically as I pushed open the door, "Have a nice day!"
"Thanks!" I said.
As BG said, nothing good can come of this.
And I was impressed by the simple wisdom from another friend when he said, "I would have kept going to the next store."
Good thinking.
Watch this road rage guy:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKBJCiJO5XU
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Ax Murderer.
Last summer, my last uncle and godfather, Noel St. Laurent, age 92, was murdered by his adoptive nephew in a New Hampshire driveway as the old man returned from his mailbox. The killing was particularly gruesome because the murderer used an ax to do the job, and he didn't stop swinging after a few chops.
Last week, in a plea deal, the killer was sentenced to 33 years in prison, eligible for parole in 21 years, when he'll be in his mid-sixties. Of course, he is not likely to find a job in the year 2033, so I wonder if he'll be eligible for Social Security?
I worry.
You know?
Last week, in a plea deal, the killer was sentenced to 33 years in prison, eligible for parole in 21 years, when he'll be in his mid-sixties. Of course, he is not likely to find a job in the year 2033, so I wonder if he'll be eligible for Social Security?
I worry.
You know?
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Good drug.
Did you know that there have been clinical studies connecting theatrical acting with chemicals in the brain? In these studies, actors were asked to make faces mimicking various emotions, however insincere. The researchers found that when actors smile, it releases chemicals in the brain identical to the real emotion.
What? Did you say "hearing aide?"
Itchy ears drove me crazy for years, so, finally, I went to a doctor. The nurse tested my hearing and filled in a nice graph with a bold red line plunging downward, and at the bottom of the graph, her note read, "Severe hearing loss on high end."
So I asked the doctor to point out on that graph where a person would need a hearing aide, and he said, "Actually, that's where you are." But, he told me, it's a matter of choice, "Some people don't want to wear one, and other people don't want to miss anything."
For as long as I can remember, my wife accused me of not listening to her whenever I said, "What?" She constantly advised me to clean out my ears while I accused her of mumbling. Now, I'm thinking her voice is on the "high end." Aha! Medical vindication!
I chose not to get a hearing aide because, after all, unless it's a practical matter, at least 70 percent of what people say is merely self-serving, it's boring or it's irrelevant.
Silence can be golden.
So I asked the doctor to point out on that graph where a person would need a hearing aide, and he said, "Actually, that's where you are." But, he told me, it's a matter of choice, "Some people don't want to wear one, and other people don't want to miss anything."
For as long as I can remember, my wife accused me of not listening to her whenever I said, "What?" She constantly advised me to clean out my ears while I accused her of mumbling. Now, I'm thinking her voice is on the "high end." Aha! Medical vindication!
I chose not to get a hearing aide because, after all, unless it's a practical matter, at least 70 percent of what people say is merely self-serving, it's boring or it's irrelevant.
Silence can be golden.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Robbery.
I just finished filling out my federal income tax forms, and I was delighted to find that I'm getting a nice refund. It's like getting mugged and the mugger comes back to give you two bucks for a cup of coffee. Thank you, kind-hearted mugger.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Macabre humor.
Ah, two days off.
Give me a beer or a cup of coffee, a pack of cigarettes and a good book, and I'm content with hours of accomplishing nothing, over and over, until huge chunks of time become history. The trouble this weekend is the book I'm reading. It's a collection of very short stories, easily swallowed, like snack food, and the author is an excellent writer, but WTF!
Here, we have a story of a woman who was born in a grave and dug up 15 months after her mother was buried as the infant sat on the corpse and fed on worms.
Then, there's a guy in the business of selling ghosts because having a ghost in your house has become very fashionable. The only way to capture a ghost, though, is to get your head stuck in a bucket of water in the presence of the ghost, then, in the split-second when you're about to suck in your drowning breath, you pull your head out and inhale the ghost. Woe to you if you capture a particularly nasty ghost.
Then, there's a pill to remove romantic love from your heart--to ease the pain of a loss. Trouble is, you'll never love again.
Then, a guy rips out Goofy's guts (yes, that Goofy) and occupies his body.
The author typically jumps into the middle of a story and fills you in later, and the tales are replete with sudden murder and suicide. I kept reading because the stories are very short, the writing is very good and I kept looking for the answer to the question, WTF? which I never found.
The book is Dirt Baby and other Small Mercies by Stuart Millard.
Give me a beer or a cup of coffee, a pack of cigarettes and a good book, and I'm content with hours of accomplishing nothing, over and over, until huge chunks of time become history. The trouble this weekend is the book I'm reading. It's a collection of very short stories, easily swallowed, like snack food, and the author is an excellent writer, but WTF!
Here, we have a story of a woman who was born in a grave and dug up 15 months after her mother was buried as the infant sat on the corpse and fed on worms.
Then, there's a guy in the business of selling ghosts because having a ghost in your house has become very fashionable. The only way to capture a ghost, though, is to get your head stuck in a bucket of water in the presence of the ghost, then, in the split-second when you're about to suck in your drowning breath, you pull your head out and inhale the ghost. Woe to you if you capture a particularly nasty ghost.
Then, there's a pill to remove romantic love from your heart--to ease the pain of a loss. Trouble is, you'll never love again.
Then, a guy rips out Goofy's guts (yes, that Goofy) and occupies his body.
The author typically jumps into the middle of a story and fills you in later, and the tales are replete with sudden murder and suicide. I kept reading because the stories are very short, the writing is very good and I kept looking for the answer to the question, WTF? which I never found.
The book is Dirt Baby and other Small Mercies by Stuart Millard.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Is life too short?
I'm still wrestling with this blog format but, meanwhile, I started a Q & A thread at Kindleboards.com. One day I asked, "Is life too short?" and Fleurignecois, one of my favorite wise guys, posted this reply:
"Not yet."
That answer shut me up, except for the laughing.
"Not yet."
That answer shut me up, except for the laughing.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Election.
We're about to select a president for the United States to determine who gets the caravan of limos, police escorts, press frenzy, big, full-dress dinners at the White House, Hollywood personalities on order, a place in history, gigantic book deals, unlimited vacations and children who will be able to write their own tickets, not to mention the power to pull the rug out from under people you don't like. Gee, who would want that?
Maybe there are reasons other than high principles and great visions for wanting to be president?
Maybe there are reasons other than high principles and great visions for wanting to be president?
Caution! Man at Work
Not long ago, I didn't even know what a "blog" was.
Now I am one. I'm working on it. Someday, it'll be good.
Still testing.
Now I am one. I'm working on it. Someday, it'll be good.
Still testing.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Bacteria!
People worry about bacteria, as in, "Ugh, your kitchen counter is a mess!"
Samonela! Botulism! Germs!
Really?
Have you ever heard the saying, "healthy as a horse?"
Have you ever seen a horse hesitate to eat an apple because there might be a worm in it?
Samonela! Botulism! Germs!
Really?
Have you ever heard the saying, "healthy as a horse?"
Have you ever seen a horse hesitate to eat an apple because there might be a worm in it?
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