...is in your immediate future.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
American Idol Top 12 Guys
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
American Idol Top 12 Girls
Last night was the first American Idol recap blog for Robyn and me this season. Handicapping the Top 12 Girls is up on Gamelive.com.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
American Idol on Gamelive.com
Starting this week I will be doing the American Idol recaps with my friend Robyn on the betting forum Gamelive.com. Expect the usual nonsense. It's supposed to be something of a "he said-she said", but will most likely devolve into Robyn speaking intelligently on the performances and me just making fun of their hair, clothes, teeth, etc.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
The Archimedes Principle
When I was young I would often take baths, things that are now reserved for times when I have sore muscles or need to think. For me, a shower is something that gets one clean, while a bath lets you reflect on just how dirty you were in the first place.
The other day my mother emailed me to say that the longtime pastor of her church, Bill Barrett, had died. I was raised in the church, but stopped going while I was in my teens. As I got older, I became rather jaded with organized religion as it always seemed like the people in charge were the ones that least espoused the teachings of the church. My visits to church were reserved to special occasions like holidays and funerals.
I don't recall when I first met Pastor Bill, but I had an instant respect for him. Upon reading his obituary I learned that he came to the church in his twenties. He was a man who knew how to speak to both the believer and the non-believer, a skill that is sorely lacking in most pastors.
The day I heard from mom was long and I came home feeling rather beat. I went upstairs and turned on the water in the tub, as hot as I could stand it, and lay there sweating for a long, long time. And then I did something I hadn't done since I was a child. I kicked open the drain and let the water flow out... a whirlpool forming between my feet. As the water level dropped, I sank lower and lower and felt the weight of my body return. The last trickle escaped between my shoulder blades and my body felt leaden there on the floor of the tub.
Pastor Bill was like that bath. He would never overtly point out faults or shortcomings. In fact, it was his kind and gentle nature, his pleasant spirit and giving soul, that prodded me to be a better person. I don't think I ever sat through more than one or two of his services, but that was never his style of preaching. His ministry was giving one on one while helping you deal with grief or pain or just giving a hand with something. I recall he was one of the few people in a position such as his that ever gave me true comfort in a time of need. He buoyed those around him, making their lives better, their loads easier to bear.
With him gone, I don't feel any cleaner, but I certainly feel heavier. And though I wouldn't necessarily call myself a believer, I will always be a member of Pastor Bill's church.
The other day my mother emailed me to say that the longtime pastor of her church, Bill Barrett, had died. I was raised in the church, but stopped going while I was in my teens. As I got older, I became rather jaded with organized religion as it always seemed like the people in charge were the ones that least espoused the teachings of the church. My visits to church were reserved to special occasions like holidays and funerals.
I don't recall when I first met Pastor Bill, but I had an instant respect for him. Upon reading his obituary I learned that he came to the church in his twenties. He was a man who knew how to speak to both the believer and the non-believer, a skill that is sorely lacking in most pastors.
The day I heard from mom was long and I came home feeling rather beat. I went upstairs and turned on the water in the tub, as hot as I could stand it, and lay there sweating for a long, long time. And then I did something I hadn't done since I was a child. I kicked open the drain and let the water flow out... a whirlpool forming between my feet. As the water level dropped, I sank lower and lower and felt the weight of my body return. The last trickle escaped between my shoulder blades and my body felt leaden there on the floor of the tub.
Pastor Bill was like that bath. He would never overtly point out faults or shortcomings. In fact, it was his kind and gentle nature, his pleasant spirit and giving soul, that prodded me to be a better person. I don't think I ever sat through more than one or two of his services, but that was never his style of preaching. His ministry was giving one on one while helping you deal with grief or pain or just giving a hand with something. I recall he was one of the few people in a position such as his that ever gave me true comfort in a time of need. He buoyed those around him, making their lives better, their loads easier to bear.
With him gone, I don't feel any cleaner, but I certainly feel heavier. And though I wouldn't necessarily call myself a believer, I will always be a member of Pastor Bill's church.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Closing Doors
Sometimes love isn't enough.
Moving on is the most difficult thing in one's life to contemplate.
It's a hard concept to swallow... and an even harder pill to try to force down someone else's throat. There is no slice of cheese that one can wrap it in and no glass of water with which to wash it down.
It must be placed in one's mouth, the bitter medicine enveloping the tongue, and swallowed dry. The lump in the throat as it makes its way down is a constant, enduring reminder.
Sometimes you close a door and sometimes it's slammed in your face. Only one side has a doorknob. From the outside, light and shadows leak under the door, playing out like Plato's cave.
We place too much emphasis on love. We give it magical powers to heal wounds, to make us whole again. We assume that when someone loves us, we are fundamentally changed into a new creature, one rather better or prettier than before. The reality is that we are blackbirds, not cardinals. We will always be blackbirds. But we can love each other as blackbirds too.
Last night I shut one door while simultaneously I may have gotten another one shut on me. I never said I wasn't a complicated fellow.
The funny thing is, with the former, she may not even remember today. But it is enough that I know it.
As for the latter, I wish I could say for sure.
Because it has, despite everything, promise. It's a campfire in the snow. It could just be something to keep me a little warm on a cold evening.
But then again, maybe... it's something more. Maybe it's what keeps me alive through the night.
Moving on is the most difficult thing in one's life to contemplate.
It's a hard concept to swallow... and an even harder pill to try to force down someone else's throat. There is no slice of cheese that one can wrap it in and no glass of water with which to wash it down.
It must be placed in one's mouth, the bitter medicine enveloping the tongue, and swallowed dry. The lump in the throat as it makes its way down is a constant, enduring reminder.
Sometimes you close a door and sometimes it's slammed in your face. Only one side has a doorknob. From the outside, light and shadows leak under the door, playing out like Plato's cave.
We place too much emphasis on love. We give it magical powers to heal wounds, to make us whole again. We assume that when someone loves us, we are fundamentally changed into a new creature, one rather better or prettier than before. The reality is that we are blackbirds, not cardinals. We will always be blackbirds. But we can love each other as blackbirds too.
Last night I shut one door while simultaneously I may have gotten another one shut on me. I never said I wasn't a complicated fellow.
The funny thing is, with the former, she may not even remember today. But it is enough that I know it.
As for the latter, I wish I could say for sure.
Because it has, despite everything, promise. It's a campfire in the snow. It could just be something to keep me a little warm on a cold evening.
But then again, maybe... it's something more. Maybe it's what keeps me alive through the night.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Giving Thanks
Give thanks for those things that make you a good and honest person... that make you try to be as fantastic as they think you are.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
A Thanksgiving Miracle
This is an old story... in fact, it's a story that caused some problems even recently.
But Thanksgiving is a time of reflection, so here it is again.
"Cancer patients drink chamomile tea to increase their appetite."
"Chamomile tea soothes my hemorrhoids."
"Chamomile tea helps me sleep."
"I drink chamomile tea to relieve a toothache."
"Make a poultice of mustard and chamomile tea to reduce swelling."
"My gangrene was stopped in its tracks by chamomile tea."
I guess I was feeling a little left out... Everyone had a story and I didn't. So I reached back into my 13 years of Christian education and said...
Moses swabbed chamomile tea on the doorposts of all of the Israelite houses in Egypt so the Angel of Death would pass over and not kill their children.
Dead silence.
I looked at Angela... I thought she was going to choke. Her dad looked like he was going to cry.
I hear a clatter and notice her uncle has dropped his silverware into his plate. His face was red and I thought he was coming over the table for me. He picked up the plate and exited the dining room for the kitchen. He never came back.
See, what Angela had failed to tell me was that her uncle was a fundamentalist Christian and that Moses was not someone he cared to hear jokes about.
It was a rather quiet dinner after that... punctuated by giggles out of Angela and her dad.
But Thanksgiving is a time of reflection, so here it is again.
A Thanksgiving Miracle
or
The Day Moses Came to Dinner
or
The Day Moses Came to Dinner
Under pressure, I usually clam up or make an ass of myself. Case in point... I had just started dating my friend Angela and I was going home with her for Thanksgiving for the first (and last) time. Her dad... well, let's just say he doesn't suffer fools and is kind of a badass. When we first started dating he was thoroughly pissed at her and disgusted with me until he realized that he had me confused with our married friend, Marc. He had warmed up a little since then, but I was still a little wary of him. I still am. Mind you, I was living in Florida at the time, and her parents lived in Atlanta, so there was no real escape for me if things went wrong.
As if meeting her parents weren't enough, her uncle and his family were coming to dinner as well. Her uncle seemed like a hard-ass too. We all sat around the table and began dishing out the food. I kept pretty quiet. If someone asked me a question, I'd politely answer, but I didn't elaborate. After awhile I began to relax. Everyone seemed to like me, or at least I didn't get any hostile glares.
Somehow the conversation turned to chamomile tea. I didn't know shit about chamomile tea, but apparently her family did. Everyone had a personal anecdote about chamomile tea.
As if meeting her parents weren't enough, her uncle and his family were coming to dinner as well. Her uncle seemed like a hard-ass too. We all sat around the table and began dishing out the food. I kept pretty quiet. If someone asked me a question, I'd politely answer, but I didn't elaborate. After awhile I began to relax. Everyone seemed to like me, or at least I didn't get any hostile glares.
Somehow the conversation turned to chamomile tea. I didn't know shit about chamomile tea, but apparently her family did. Everyone had a personal anecdote about chamomile tea.
"Cancer patients drink chamomile tea to increase their appetite."
"Chamomile tea soothes my hemorrhoids."
"Chamomile tea helps me sleep."
"I drink chamomile tea to relieve a toothache."
"Make a poultice of mustard and chamomile tea to reduce swelling."
"My gangrene was stopped in its tracks by chamomile tea."
I guess I was feeling a little left out... Everyone had a story and I didn't. So I reached back into my 13 years of Christian education and said...
Moses swabbed chamomile tea on the doorposts of all of the Israelite houses in Egypt so the Angel of Death would pass over and not kill their children.
Dead silence.
I looked at Angela... I thought she was going to choke. Her dad looked like he was going to cry.
I hear a clatter and notice her uncle has dropped his silverware into his plate. His face was red and I thought he was coming over the table for me. He picked up the plate and exited the dining room for the kitchen. He never came back.
See, what Angela had failed to tell me was that her uncle was a fundamentalist Christian and that Moses was not someone he cared to hear jokes about.
It was a rather quiet dinner after that... punctuated by giggles out of Angela and her dad.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
From Page to Screen
This may come as a complete surprise to some of you, but I never really had a lot of children's books as a child.
Which is ironic, as I collect original book illustrations and have more children's book writer and illustrator friends than you can shake a stick at.
That's not to say I didn't read a lot as a kid. On the contrary, I read everything I could get my hands on. I started reading chapter books pretty early on. But picture books never really had a place in my library as a kid. My parents just never bought them. I remember the only place I ever regularly saw the kind of books most kids read... The Cat in the Hat, Are You My Mother, etc. was at Uncle Max's house. I'd spend every Thursday after school at his house reading "the classics". It's only been in my adult, professional life that I've come to love the picture book.
Today I took my kids to see Where the Wild Things Are, admittedly with a little trepidation. Many have noted that one will either love or hate this movie, based on how much one is invested in the mythology of the book. That's not quite right. You will either love or hate Wild Things, but not necessarily because of the book.
This is a movie about anger and frustration. As I sat in the dark theater beside my son, Fletcher, I was confronted by the monsters I faced as a child... and the monsters he faces today. I'm afraid the only way one can truly appreciate this film is to have been a wild thing, and then to have raised a wild thing. The adaptation will not speak to everyone.
To those who have worn Max's wolf suit though, it's a reminder of how hard it is to face a world before you're prepared.
Which is ironic, as I collect original book illustrations and have more children's book writer and illustrator friends than you can shake a stick at.
That's not to say I didn't read a lot as a kid. On the contrary, I read everything I could get my hands on. I started reading chapter books pretty early on. But picture books never really had a place in my library as a kid. My parents just never bought them. I remember the only place I ever regularly saw the kind of books most kids read... The Cat in the Hat, Are You My Mother, etc. was at Uncle Max's house. I'd spend every Thursday after school at his house reading "the classics". It's only been in my adult, professional life that I've come to love the picture book.
Today I took my kids to see Where the Wild Things Are, admittedly with a little trepidation. Many have noted that one will either love or hate this movie, based on how much one is invested in the mythology of the book. That's not quite right. You will either love or hate Wild Things, but not necessarily because of the book.
This is a movie about anger and frustration. As I sat in the dark theater beside my son, Fletcher, I was confronted by the monsters I faced as a child... and the monsters he faces today. I'm afraid the only way one can truly appreciate this film is to have been a wild thing, and then to have raised a wild thing. The adaptation will not speak to everyone.
To those who have worn Max's wolf suit though, it's a reminder of how hard it is to face a world before you're prepared.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Repost #7 The Dead Woman in My Truck
Recently the subject of cremains and what to do with them has come up on Facebook and it reminded me of this story. Obviously, this was written when my dad was still alive and I was still married, just to avoid any confusion.
Original post August 5, 2006
I rode around with Erna's remains in my truck for quite a while. I honestly didn't mean to. I would have liked to have dumped her somewhere, anywhere, rather than drive with her daily. But Erna, in death as much as life, was hard to shake.
Original post August 5, 2006
I rode around with Erna's remains in my truck for quite a while. I honestly didn't mean to. I would have liked to have dumped her somewhere, anywhere, rather than drive with her daily. But Erna, in death as much as life, was hard to shake.
I don't remember exactly when Erna became one of my dad's patients. He always had one or two little old ladies that depended on him completely. He'd go grocery shopping for them and take them to appointments with specialists. The first of these was Mrs. Wildt, who crocheted me a baby blanket that I have to this day. The last, and perhaps greatest, was Erna.
Erna was a little old Italian lady. I didn't know her age, but I'd guess she was in her late 80's. Her husband had been dead for years, and had probably committed suicide if she was half the woman then as she was when I knew her. She'd call at all hours of the night; a hypochondriac that was dying. There's no worse kind. It's not like you could just tell her to suck it up, you aren't really sick, because in reality, she was inching closer and closer to death. But her complaints were only tangentially connected to her illness. And she didn't care who knew about them.
"My vagina hurts!" she told me over the phone. Only she didn't pronounce it vagina, she said "ba-gina."
"Ok, Erna... I'll tell Dr. Joe."
"My ba-gina hurts! Get Dr. Joe. I think I'm dying."
"Ok, Erna... You have to get off the phone so I can call him. He's not here."
"Oooooooh.... I'm dying." click.
That's how most of our conversations went. I sometimes went with my dad to see Erna in her little mobile home. She had no sense of privacy about her body and would often partially disrobe with me in the room in order for my dad to check her heart with his stethoscope. There we'd be. Erna with her sad, wrinkled breast resting in her lap. My dad asking her to take a deep breath... and again... and hold. Me sitting on the couch wishing I was anywhere but there and the motheaten deer head watching forlornly over the whole affair.
When I graduated high school I forgot about Erna for a couple of years. I'd moved out of state, but when I came back she was still there. Still calling dad's office and home whenever she felt a twinge of panic.
Then dad had a stroke. They didn't expect him to live. It started one morning in his office. He didn't feel very well and when he tried to get up out of his chair, he found he couldn't. I was living in an apartment above his office at the time and going to UCF. When I got back from class, there was a note on my door from his receptionist that said to meet my mom at the hospital. They never have determined exactly what it was. One neurologist thought it was a clot, while another believed it to be an unnatural constriction of the blood vessels to his brain stem brought on by high blood pressure.
He survived, despite the poor prognosis. He was on a ventilator for months and does physical therapy to this day. He never recovered any of his fine motor skills and is unable to walk.
While dad was still in the hospital, Erna was still dying. Without my dad, I think she finally decided that she didn't want to live anymore and she passed away a few months after his stroke.
While he was on the ventilator, my dad and I communicated via an alphabet board. I would run my finger down the letters and he would blink at the correct letter.
E
R
N
A
D
I
E
D
"I know," I told him.
I
N
E
E
D
Y
O
U
T
O
P
I
C
K
U
P
H
E
R
A
S
H
E
S
"Ok. But do you need anything?"
N
O
So I went to the funeral home and picked up a small box with her ashes. She had declined even an urn. She wanted her ashes to be spread in the ocean.
I retrieved them, but I was still busy with dad. I'd drive several hours daily to stay with him during the day at the rehabilitation facility. After a while, it just became another object in my truck: a cd case, books, and a box of Erna.
When I moved to Massachusetts I forgot about her. I had to leave my truck in Florida while I drove the moving truck north. My brother-in-law drove it up a couple of months later. I didn't tell him about the box.
We came back for a visit and my wife insisted I bring Erna. It was a busy time, visiting with everybody... checking on dad's progress which had noticeably slowed.
Our last day it was raining, but Britton insisted that we get rid of Erna. She wasn't driving back to Massachusetts with her. I didn't know what the big deal was. I'd been driving around with her for a couple of years by then. We drove to the Intracoastal and Britton got out with Erna's box and let her go off a pier. According to Britton, her last word was, "Bloooop."
Some might call it laziness... or indifference... or even passive aggressiveness. But I think my failure to let her go was something deeper. Maybe I was holding on to a time when my dad cared for people and wasn't cared for, a time when he was the most important person in the world to someone else.
Erna was a little old Italian lady. I didn't know her age, but I'd guess she was in her late 80's. Her husband had been dead for years, and had probably committed suicide if she was half the woman then as she was when I knew her. She'd call at all hours of the night; a hypochondriac that was dying. There's no worse kind. It's not like you could just tell her to suck it up, you aren't really sick, because in reality, she was inching closer and closer to death. But her complaints were only tangentially connected to her illness. And she didn't care who knew about them.
"My vagina hurts!" she told me over the phone. Only she didn't pronounce it vagina, she said "ba-gina."
"Ok, Erna... I'll tell Dr. Joe."
"My ba-gina hurts! Get Dr. Joe. I think I'm dying."
"Ok, Erna... You have to get off the phone so I can call him. He's not here."
"Oooooooh.... I'm dying." click.
That's how most of our conversations went. I sometimes went with my dad to see Erna in her little mobile home. She had no sense of privacy about her body and would often partially disrobe with me in the room in order for my dad to check her heart with his stethoscope. There we'd be. Erna with her sad, wrinkled breast resting in her lap. My dad asking her to take a deep breath... and again... and hold. Me sitting on the couch wishing I was anywhere but there and the motheaten deer head watching forlornly over the whole affair.
When I graduated high school I forgot about Erna for a couple of years. I'd moved out of state, but when I came back she was still there. Still calling dad's office and home whenever she felt a twinge of panic.
Then dad had a stroke. They didn't expect him to live. It started one morning in his office. He didn't feel very well and when he tried to get up out of his chair, he found he couldn't. I was living in an apartment above his office at the time and going to UCF. When I got back from class, there was a note on my door from his receptionist that said to meet my mom at the hospital. They never have determined exactly what it was. One neurologist thought it was a clot, while another believed it to be an unnatural constriction of the blood vessels to his brain stem brought on by high blood pressure.
He survived, despite the poor prognosis. He was on a ventilator for months and does physical therapy to this day. He never recovered any of his fine motor skills and is unable to walk.
While dad was still in the hospital, Erna was still dying. Without my dad, I think she finally decided that she didn't want to live anymore and she passed away a few months after his stroke.
While he was on the ventilator, my dad and I communicated via an alphabet board. I would run my finger down the letters and he would blink at the correct letter.
E
R
N
A
D
I
E
D
"I know," I told him.
I
N
E
E
D
Y
O
U
T
O
P
I
C
K
U
P
H
E
R
A
S
H
E
S
"Ok. But do you need anything?"
N
O
So I went to the funeral home and picked up a small box with her ashes. She had declined even an urn. She wanted her ashes to be spread in the ocean.
I retrieved them, but I was still busy with dad. I'd drive several hours daily to stay with him during the day at the rehabilitation facility. After a while, it just became another object in my truck: a cd case, books, and a box of Erna.
When I moved to Massachusetts I forgot about her. I had to leave my truck in Florida while I drove the moving truck north. My brother-in-law drove it up a couple of months later. I didn't tell him about the box.
We came back for a visit and my wife insisted I bring Erna. It was a busy time, visiting with everybody... checking on dad's progress which had noticeably slowed.
Our last day it was raining, but Britton insisted that we get rid of Erna. She wasn't driving back to Massachusetts with her. I didn't know what the big deal was. I'd been driving around with her for a couple of years by then. We drove to the Intracoastal and Britton got out with Erna's box and let her go off a pier. According to Britton, her last word was, "Bloooop."
Some might call it laziness... or indifference... or even passive aggressiveness. But I think my failure to let her go was something deeper. Maybe I was holding on to a time when my dad cared for people and wasn't cared for, a time when he was the most important person in the world to someone else.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
A Press of Incredible Provenance
Once upon a time I entertained the thought of starting a private press using an old school letterpress. Let's be honest... I still do. So much so that I drove to Syracuse to pick up a Chandler & Price 10x15 letterpress, and later, a Pearl press.
Both of them now sit in my ex-wife's garage collecting dust.
Today I received an email which made me wish I was independently wealthy with plenty of ground floor studio space, or at least a loading dock and freight elevator. Jeff Dwyer is selling a press owned by the people who made me love letterpress and the black arts.
When I moved to Massachusetts, I answered an ad in the paper for a picture framer at R. Michelson Galleries in Northampton. I figured it was the type of job that I could work around my school schedule. When I arrived for the interview, I took a quick look around the gallery and settled in front of shelves filled with some of the most amazing books I'd ever seen... books the like of which I'd had no idea actually existed. They were hand made art books, printed on letterpress in velvety ink crushed into the paper such that you could feel it as much as see it.
It was this chance encounter that introduced me to the world of printmaking... a world I sadly don't spend as much time in as I'd like. I was also able to meet the people who created these books, two of whom were Leonard Baskin and Barry Moser. The first I only knew briefly and never got to work directly with him. The second became a mentor and friend.
Vandercook & Sons, Inc. No. 2 Proof Press
This press has a long history of ownership and use by some America’s most accomplished fine letterpress alumni. After being manufactured in Chicago around 1935-36, it’s a mystery who owned it and where it was used for the next twenty years. Around 1958, Richard Warren, the owner of Metcalf Printing & Publishing Co. in Northampton, MA gave the press to his friend, Leonard Baskin when Baskin moved his Gehenna Press from Worcester, MA to Northampton. In the summer of 1958, Baskin employed Harold P. McGrath as his pressman for the Gehenna Press, and McGrath continued using the press at Gehenna until 1976. While the press remained in use by McGrath, under his guidance probably more than a hundred young apprentices studied the craft and learned to print. In 1976, the press was moved from Gehenna to its new home at the Hampshire Typothetae at 30 Market St. in Northampton. For the next ten years, McGrath and Barry Moser used it for Moser’s Pennyroyal Press productions. When the Hampshire Typothetae closed and Pennyroyal Press assumed ownership of the Typothetae printing equipment, the press traveled to Linseed Road in West Hatfield, MA. Around, 1987, Moser sold all of the Gehenna/Typothetae/Pennyroyal printing equipment to Alan James Robinson and the Vandercook moved yet again to Easthampton, MA. Harold McGrath followed the equipment out the door, and he continued to use the press until 1998 when Robinson sold it to Elizabeth O’Grady. She moved it to New Hampshire where it has rested quietly. At some point during the years on Market Street, the cast iron drum handle was broken and a welded repair was made. The press is available for $2,500.00. It weighs approximately 675 pounds, and professionals should move it. This price does not include moving or shipping costs. Additionally, also available for $500.00 is a twenty-four-drawer type bank with assorted sizes of Caslon foundry type. Pictures of the press and type bank are available. Contact Jeff Dwyer at (413-5840761) or e-mail at: jpdwyer@dwyerogrady.com
I hope it finds a good home with the kind of person who understands just how many wonderful things it has seen. Good luck, little Vandy.
Monday, July 13, 2009
On Turning Five
A fifth birthday is unique. It's the birthday when you truly start becoming who you will be. On your birthday I give you five things to carry with you the rest of your life. They are for when I am no longer here to guide you.
First is a piece of coquina rock. It is to remind you that you will always be, like me, a Floridian. We are different and special. Look at this rock and remember my stories, and those that my father told me.
The next two things you will find are a pencil and a pen. The pencil, in order to write down those things that will change, and the pen to write down those that are constant. You will be tempted to use the pen. You will hold it in your hand and set it to paper often. Always use the pencil.
The fourth thing you will find is a length of string. It is long enough, trust me. The string is to gather up that which is scattered... those things for which you search and find only rarely. You will use it bring these things together and make them useful to you.
The fifth, and final thing you will find is a prism. It's to remind you of beauty which is hidden in plain sight.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Superstition
I'm not superstitious by any means, but when I'm taking eye pressures, and the patient is a pain in the ass, I'll record 13 mm Hg if it is 12 or 14.
Image courtesy RootAtlas.com
Image courtesy RootAtlas.com
Friday, July 03, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Father's Day Prize
Mystery bag from Fletch
The card: Dinosaurs, planes...
and bugs.
He certainly knows what I like.
Also, it appears I've won an award.
I'm glad I have the chance to spend the day with the best kids in the world.
The card: Dinosaurs, planes...
and bugs.
He certainly knows what I like.
Also, it appears I've won an award.
I'm glad I have the chance to spend the day with the best kids in the world.
Specs
Blythe was squinting a bit.
Just as I thought. She needed glasses too. So instead of four, she now looks fourteen.
Just as I thought. She needed glasses too. So instead of four, she now looks fourteen.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Glorious, Glorious Day!
I missed this story when it broke on Wednesday, but thought I'd pass it along.
Many of you know my absolute hatred of Thomas Kinkade and the schlock he calls art. I'm not exactly sure if I feel sorry for the gallery owners in this case. They were, after all, complicit in fleecing customers out of money for what were essentially posters of bad art. But to see how he manipulated the market against his own dealers in order to buy out his own publicly traded company just proves he truly is Beelzebub.
In its February 2006 decision, the arbitration panel said Kinkade and other company officials used terms like "partner," "trust," "Christian" and "God" to create "a certain religious environment designed to instill a special relationship of trust" with the couple.
What the company didn't tell them, said their attorney, was that they would have to sell Kinkade's works at minimum retail prices while the artist undercut them with discount sales, some of which he made himself on cable television.It was part of a plan, they claimed, to lower the value of the publicly traded company before Kinkade bought it in 2004, at steep losses to many investors. Hazlewood and Spinello put their $122,000 savings into galleries in Charlottesville and Fredericksburg, Va., that opened in 1999 and 2000 and closed in 2003.
An arbitration panel voted unanimously to uphold an earlier finding of fraudulent activity on the part of Kinkade and restored an award of $2.1 million to two gallery owners put out of business.
So, fewer Kinkade galleries and he owes $2.1 million. That's a win-win situation, right?
Treasure Hunting
My dad was, for the most part, a sane and rational man. Actually, I use "sane" rather loosely, but he was not one to dwell on intangible things. He did not go to movies or read fiction. He was a pragmatist.
So his one real departure is rather ironic. He believed unflinchingly in hidden treasures.
Florida is full of treasure, or so one is lead to believe. Growing up I was spoonfed stories of people finding Spanish pieces of eight on the beach after a hurricane. John Dillinger supposedly buried money from a bank robbery in the yard of a house where a huge beachside condo now stands. Plantation owners buried literal pots of gold before the Seminoles came through and burned their sugar mills to the ground. It was this Florida that my father grew up in and he spent a lot of time with a metal detector and entrenching tool in his hands.
We once bought a house in New Smyrna all based on a second hand story told to him by a patient who had worked on the house. The story was that the man's father had been the cook for a bunch of outlaws in North Carolina, I think. They all got killed or thrown in jail and he took off with all the gold. They buried it in North Carolina somewhere and the man's son eventually moved to Florida in the 1920's, bringing the remaining loot. My dad's patient had been hired to put bars on the windows of the house.
For me, two questions would have immediately popped up:
First of all, why would someone who is putting bars on his windows be dumb enough to tell someone the story?
Secondly, why would someone who had that much money choose to settle in a ratty little house in the middle of nowhere?
But those particular red flags were never raised in my dad's head. We bought the house and began using the metal detector as inconspicuously as possible around the yard.
Inconspicuously, I said. A middle aged white dude and his son digging holes in the yard of a house in the middle of the poor, black section of town. There were these two ancient guys across the street that would just sit out on their porch and watch us.
When we'd gone over the entire yard several times, we figured it was time to start on the house. Over the course of a hot Florida summer, we proceeded to completely demolish that house by hand and cart it away, a dump truck load at a time. The two guys across the street just watched us and shook their heads at the things crazy white people do.
We never did find anything of value. I can't say I was all that surprised. But my dad never seemed disappointed.
And looking back, I guess he gave me a little nugget to carry with me.
So his one real departure is rather ironic. He believed unflinchingly in hidden treasures.
Florida is full of treasure, or so one is lead to believe. Growing up I was spoonfed stories of people finding Spanish pieces of eight on the beach after a hurricane. John Dillinger supposedly buried money from a bank robbery in the yard of a house where a huge beachside condo now stands. Plantation owners buried literal pots of gold before the Seminoles came through and burned their sugar mills to the ground. It was this Florida that my father grew up in and he spent a lot of time with a metal detector and entrenching tool in his hands.
We once bought a house in New Smyrna all based on a second hand story told to him by a patient who had worked on the house. The story was that the man's father had been the cook for a bunch of outlaws in North Carolina, I think. They all got killed or thrown in jail and he took off with all the gold. They buried it in North Carolina somewhere and the man's son eventually moved to Florida in the 1920's, bringing the remaining loot. My dad's patient had been hired to put bars on the windows of the house.
For me, two questions would have immediately popped up:
First of all, why would someone who is putting bars on his windows be dumb enough to tell someone the story?
Secondly, why would someone who had that much money choose to settle in a ratty little house in the middle of nowhere?
But those particular red flags were never raised in my dad's head. We bought the house and began using the metal detector as inconspicuously as possible around the yard.
Inconspicuously, I said. A middle aged white dude and his son digging holes in the yard of a house in the middle of the poor, black section of town. There were these two ancient guys across the street that would just sit out on their porch and watch us.
When we'd gone over the entire yard several times, we figured it was time to start on the house. Over the course of a hot Florida summer, we proceeded to completely demolish that house by hand and cart it away, a dump truck load at a time. The two guys across the street just watched us and shook their heads at the things crazy white people do.
We never did find anything of value. I can't say I was all that surprised. But my dad never seemed disappointed.
And looking back, I guess he gave me a little nugget to carry with me.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Solo
In the past two days I've had two instances of people questioning the appropriateness of something about which I've written. One was here... the second, today, caused me to shut down my other blog, The Skinny Reeve.
It was with great disgust that I chose to delete a story about something that happened 14 years ago. Something that, from my perspective, was fairly innocuous. But because it caused a friend grief from a family member, unjustified as it was, I compromised my integrity and removed it. It was a hard decision, especially since it was precipitated by a chickenshit lurker... like a schoolgirl tattling on boys for smoking behind the gym.
With that deletion and closing down of my blog came the resolve that I would never do another collaborative writing project, not that it ever really ever got off the ground. I refuse to be put in the position again where my judgment about what I write is questioned and I cave for someone else.
As for the first... it also appears to have been outed in a rather dubious way, and was expressed to me through an uninvolved third party. Perhaps the hope was that I would take it down of my own volition without being directly prompted.
Let me be absolutely clear. This blog is mine... all mine. And the things that I write here will stay.
Because my words are all that I have.
It was with great disgust that I chose to delete a story about something that happened 14 years ago. Something that, from my perspective, was fairly innocuous. But because it caused a friend grief from a family member, unjustified as it was, I compromised my integrity and removed it. It was a hard decision, especially since it was precipitated by a chickenshit lurker... like a schoolgirl tattling on boys for smoking behind the gym.
With that deletion and closing down of my blog came the resolve that I would never do another collaborative writing project, not that it ever really ever got off the ground. I refuse to be put in the position again where my judgment about what I write is questioned and I cave for someone else.
As for the first... it also appears to have been outed in a rather dubious way, and was expressed to me through an uninvolved third party. Perhaps the hope was that I would take it down of my own volition without being directly prompted.
Let me be absolutely clear. This blog is mine... all mine. And the things that I write here will stay.
Because my words are all that I have.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
All That Matters
my darling girl
my darling girl
you’re all that matters
in this wicked world
all that matters
all that matters
my darling boy
my darling boy
all of my sunshine
and all of my joy
you’re all that matters
all that matters
well, i can’t stop the pain
when it calls
i’m a man
and i can’t stop the rain
when it falls, my darling
who can?
my darling girl
my darling girl
you’re all that matters
in this wicked world
all that matters
all that matters
my darling friend
my darling friend
all we’ve got going
is love in the end
it’s all that matters
all that matters
Mark Knopfler
Shangri-La
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