This is from an article by Peter Hermann in the Baltimore SUN of January 8. It tells of people who traditionally ring in the new year by firing guns in the air, paying no heed to where the bullets just might come down:
Robert M. Booze Sr. is a 68-year-old retired bakery worker who said he bought his Derringer about 25 years ago from a gun store on Broadway in Fells Point to "protect my home."
He hardly fits the stereotype of a Baltimore gunman, and the Derringer is hardly the gun of choice on the city's drug corners, though the company's Web page describes the gun as having "long stood as the ultimate full power concealable firearm." The site notes it is "the best little shooting iron to ride out of Texas."
Booze, released on bail, answered the door in sagging white painter's pants and no shirt. He was busy fixing the back door to his rowhouse on Norfolk Avenue, off Reisterstown Road in lower Park Heights, kicked in by police after they saw people fire guns in the backyard and run inside.
"We were just shooting in the air," Booze said, adding that he didn't think it was such a big deal that it required a half-dozen cops to raid his house.
"We were just celebrating the new year. It's how we do it in Baltimore." The house had pictures of grandchildren on the walls and plastic toys scattered about.
There were children home when the foursome began firing off their guns, Booze said, explaining, "They were inside. We were outside." Police said they found the Derringer in Booze's pants pocket, the .38 Rossi in a book bag, the Mossburg in a carry case and the 9 mm in a basement utility room.
In Baltimore, this is how we protect our homes. Just around midnight on New Year's Eve, we fire bullets indiscriminately to ...? I don't know why. It might be a hint that part of the thrill of gun ownership is the big bang theory - they like the noise.
But in the past I have railed about the folly of private gun ownership, only to be told by Second Amendment misinterpreters that we all have the right to own guns and nothing should be done until someone commits a crime with them.
So today I have to wonder why we, as a nation, spend billions of dollars, and more important, thousands of young lives chasing after people with "weapons of mass destruction." Aren't we supposed to wait until we're sure that one of these WMDs is going to be used in a crime? Don't get me wrong; I'm all for protecting this country..from without and from within! Who can oppose a plan to remove all these handguns from our streets? After all, they're only going to cause heartbreak somewhere.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Game of the Name
If someone named J. Wellingford Wisenby gave you some advice, you'd likely be more apt to accept it than had it come from one named "Snake Eyes" McHan. While it may be true that all generalizations are specious, sometimes you can judge a book 
by its cover.
Names - and the people that go with them - just fascinate the heck out of me. Did you ever wonder why a parent would deliberately name a baby in such a manner that will someday force that infant to become an expert in physical or verbal judo? Mr and Mrs Close - when you named your daughter 'Glenn,' did you not figure that she would spend a significant amount of time explaining to people who wore whistles and lanyards around their neck that she did NOT belong in Coach Cleats's 3rd-period Boys Phys Ed class? And Maury Povich's father was an estimable sports writer in DC for some fifty years, but how many times do you think he got a letter from some disgruntled Redskins fan (that's the only kinda fan they have) addressed to Mrs Shirley Povich?
Johnny Cash "sang" it - and Sheldon "Shel" Silverstein wrote it - "My name is Sue! How do you do?"
So all right, we have that settled. We aim to keep the peace by naming the children by gender-appropriate names; it's only fair.
And while we're on the subject, another piece of advice would be to avoid first names such as "Peter," "Richard" or "Johnson" if your last name is a representation of size, etc.
And nicknames seem to be going the way of the Hula Hoop and 15¢ hamburger. There was a time that every elementary school was filled with boys named "Flip," "Sparky," and "Buzz." You don't see that so often any more. And, were you to ask Flip, Sparky or Buzz where those names came from, you would have likely gotten a shrug and an "Idunno" for asking. Sometimes there was no need to ask. Just as J. Wellingford Wisenby III would usually be called "Trey," Roscoe "Snake Eyes" McHan II would answer to Junior. Those were givens.
Do you remember baseball great Jim "Catfish"
Hunter? The great pitcher came out of Hertford, NC, to join the Kansas City Athletics, signed to a big contract by flamboyant A's owner Charles O. Finley. Finley, a shrewd promoter, figured he would make up all sorts of tales about this young man from "Noth Calina," so he hung the "Catfish" nickname on him, the better to suit the stories that Finley planned to weave about how Hunter would rather fish than eat, and whomp up a big mess of sausage and gravy for supper and so forth. Well, Hunter turned out to be such a great pitcher that he did not need press-agent puffery, but to the end (he passed away at 53 from ALS) he kept saying, "My name is Jim Hunter, not Catfish Hunter."
These things, nicknames, have to spring forth naturally. I see guys try to start them for themselves and it's sad. If no one else ever called you "Cornbread," "B-Rob" or "Diamond Jim," it's better to wait until they do.
by its cover.Names - and the people that go with them - just fascinate the heck out of me. Did you ever wonder why a parent would deliberately name a baby in such a manner that will someday force that infant to become an expert in physical or verbal judo? Mr and Mrs Close - when you named your daughter 'Glenn,' did you not figure that she would spend a significant amount of time explaining to people who wore whistles and lanyards around their neck that she did NOT belong in Coach Cleats's 3rd-period Boys Phys Ed class? And Maury Povich's father was an estimable sports writer in DC for some fifty years, but how many times do you think he got a letter from some disgruntled Redskins fan (that's the only kinda fan they have) addressed to Mrs Shirley Povich?
Johnny Cash "sang" it - and Sheldon "Shel" Silverstein wrote it - "My name is Sue! How do you do?"
So all right, we have that settled. We aim to keep the peace by naming the children by gender-appropriate names; it's only fair.
And while we're on the subject, another piece of advice would be to avoid first names such as "Peter," "Richard" or "Johnson" if your last name is a representation of size, etc.
And nicknames seem to be going the way of the Hula Hoop and 15¢ hamburger. There was a time that every elementary school was filled with boys named "Flip," "Sparky," and "Buzz." You don't see that so often any more. And, were you to ask Flip, Sparky or Buzz where those names came from, you would have likely gotten a shrug and an "Idunno" for asking. Sometimes there was no need to ask. Just as J. Wellingford Wisenby III would usually be called "Trey," Roscoe "Snake Eyes" McHan II would answer to Junior. Those were givens.
Do you remember baseball great Jim "Catfish"
Hunter? The great pitcher came out of Hertford, NC, to join the Kansas City Athletics, signed to a big contract by flamboyant A's owner Charles O. Finley. Finley, a shrewd promoter, figured he would make up all sorts of tales about this young man from "Noth Calina," so he hung the "Catfish" nickname on him, the better to suit the stories that Finley planned to weave about how Hunter would rather fish than eat, and whomp up a big mess of sausage and gravy for supper and so forth. Well, Hunter turned out to be such a great pitcher that he did not need press-agent puffery, but to the end (he passed away at 53 from ALS) he kept saying, "My name is Jim Hunter, not Catfish Hunter."These things, nicknames, have to spring forth naturally. I see guys try to start them for themselves and it's sad. If no one else ever called you "Cornbread," "B-Rob" or "Diamond Jim," it's better to wait until they do.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Something in a Black Velvet medium
Continuing our Elvis weekend theme, check out the King As Art!
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=122368051
Big thanks to Roberta, a true fan of E.A.P!
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=122368051
Big thanks to Roberta, a true fan of E.A.P!
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Happy birthday, Elvis: You’ve never left the building By Leslie Gray Streeter
Ed. Note - I'm sharing with you this great list from the Palm beach Post about why the King still rules. Thanks to Ms Streeter for filling my blog in today while I continue to recuperate from sciatica!
Thankyouverymuch, King!
Seventy-five years ago today, one Elvis Aaron Presley was born in Tupelo, Mississippi, and it’s hard to imagine pop culture — music, movies, fashion, velvet paintings — without him.
So on what would have been his birthday, we offer 75 reasons why Elvis has never really left the building.
1. He didn’t invent rock-n-roll. But he certainly helped bring it to the masses.
2. Most of his 31 movies were really awful, but Hollywood kept forgiving him. It wouldn’t do that for Ben Affleck, and he’s got an Oscar!
3. Who else could make “Dixie” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” sexy? NOBODY!
4. Kanye, we’re gonna let you finish, but “Jailhouse Rock” was one of the greatest music videos of all time!
5. Speaking of “Jailhouse Rock”: Elvis managed to make a song about a dance party in an all-male cell block sound exciting, uber-masculine, and not like a very special episode of OZ.
6. He sang “Viva Las Vegas,” which kicks so much over-the-top butt that we don’t even blame it for inspiring those God-awful “Viva Viagra” commercials. And we hate those commercials.
7. Nobody ever looked better in muttonchops.
8. Without Elvis, there’s no Crybaby, one of Johnny Depp’s best early movies.
9. Even though El Vez, the Mexican Elvis, is pretty much a one-joke comedian, it’s a very funny joke. I mean, the dude claims to live in Graciasland. Y’all know that’s comedy.
10. “In The Ghetto”: Embarrassingly over-earnest or wonderfully campy? Discuss.
11. Not only is Elvis’ original “I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You” one of the most beautiful wedding songs ever recorded, but it spawned UB40’s excellent 1994 cover from the Sliver soundtrack, which is the only reason to ever mention Sliver.
12. Without Elvis going into the Army, there’s no need for Bye Bye Birdie to spoof the subject, which means that film doesn’t become a hit, and its star Ann-Margret doesn’t then star in Viva Las Vegas … with Elvis!
13. Two words: Rhinestone jumpsuits.
14. Without Elvis, who would perform all the weddings in Las Vegas? Because, for some reason, there aren’t any Wayne Newton impersonators.
15. Two more words: Jungle room.
16. He may not have been the first teen heartthrob, but he might as well have been.
17. Man jewelry.
18. In “A Little Less Conversation,” coined the phrase “satisfactioning.”
19. Because peanut butter and banana sandwiches are actually quite delicious.
20. Bill Clinton’s appearance playing “Heartbreak Hotel” on sax on The Arsenio Hall Show.
21. More than a million people voted on whether to put Young Elvis or Jumpsuit Elvis on a U.S. postal stamp in 1992 (Young Elvis won!)
22. Never has a pair of hips freaked people out more.
23. His 1968 TV special remains rock’s most successful comeback.
24. He helped put Memphis’ now-iconic Sun Records on the map.
25. Look at Twilight’s Rob Pattinson. Check the dreamy hair. The pouty lips. The general bad-boy-with-a-heart-of-gold demeanor. Gee. Look familiar?
26. His connection to Svengali manager Col. Tom Parker is a cautionary tale that every up-and-coming singer should know about before they sign anything.
27. Morrissey copied his pompadour, hook, line and pomade. And it was awesome.
28. He became an international icon, yet never performed anywhere outside the U.S. besides Canada.
29. In 1955, he was rejected from Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts, sort of the American Idol of its day. Guess he didn’t need it.
30. He was so successful that his career survived singing “Hound Dog” to a hound dog on The Steve Allen Show.
31. No Elvis, no Adam Lambert.
32. Carl Perkins sang the song first, but Elvis made blue suede shoes a fashion must-have, even though, in retrospect, they’re sort of tacky.
33. Played an inner-city doctor smitten with a do-gooder nun played by Mary Tyler Moore in his last movie, Change of Habit, and managed to escape with his dignity. This is not easy.
34. He bought Graceland for his parents and grandma to live in. (Awww!)
35. He made the G.I. buzz cut look good.
36. Elvis was a black belt in karate, which makes those karate chop stances during the Jumpsuit Years a little less cheesy.
37. He threw sweaty scarves at his audiences, and they liked it.
38. Preceded Tupac as the dead celebrity most likely sighted despite, you know, being dead.
40. “Suspicious Minds” is, for our money, the most rocking anthem about a dysfunctional relationship we’ve ever heard.
41. Beat this, Oprah: Elvis created the pop culture car giveaway, doling out reportedly 200 Cadillacs during his lifetime.
42. Speaking of vehicle giveaways, Elvis bought the Potomac, the yacht of late President Franklin D. Roosevelt, and eventually donated it to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital.
43. And while we’re on the subject, Elvis was a committed fund raiser for various charities, supporting everything from cancer funds to the building of the memorial for the U.S.S. Arizona in Pearl Harbor.
44. Preceded Steven Seagal as a celebrity cop by becoming a “Special Deputy Sheriff” in Shelby County, Tenn., and then charmed a federal drug agent badge from Richard Nixon.
45. He became the first dead person to headline a concert tour, when “Elvis The Concert,” featuring recordings of his performances accompanied by live musicians, hit the road.
46. “If there hadn’t been an Elvis, there wouldn’t have been a Beatles” — John Lennon. ’nuff said.
47. Here’s one for irony: The man whose blatant sexuality scandalized a nation also had hit gospel albums.
48. To thank Memphis’s Mayor William Ingram for instituting “Elvis Presley Day,” Elvis names one of his horses Mare Ingram.
49. And yet even two more words: Black leather.
50. Elvis meets President Nixon: The most deliciously surreal pop culture meeting ever? Discuss.
51. Capes! Glorious capes!
52. “Burning Love” was used to wake up astronauts on one of the missions of the Space Shuttle Endeavor.
53. Considers, but ultimately does not do, Barbra Streisand’s remake of A Star Is Born, which was probably a good thing for Elvis. Because that was a bad movie.
54. He overcame a self-admitted case of stage fright.
55. Future fellow Las Vegas icon Frank Sinatra said that Elvis’ music “fosters almost totally negative and destructive reactions in young people.” The young people probably couldn’t hear that because they were screaming so loud.
56. Was name-checked in Marc Cohn’s hit “Walking In Memphis,” which includes the line “There’s a pretty little thing waiting for the King, down in the Jungle Room.”
57. Had 149 songs hit the Billboard Hot 100 Pop Chart.
58. There is an actual Heartbreak Hotel in Memphis, which has a “Burning Love” suite and a “Graceland” suite with its own Jungle Room den. Yes. We can not get over that Jungle Room thing.
59. Leonard Bernstein called Elvis “the greatest cultural force in the twentieth century.” And this is from the man who scored West Side Story.
60. Brought the phrase “Hunka hunka” into the English lexicon.
61. Without Elvis’ outre stage sexuality and rocked-up blues, there are no Rolling Stones.
62. The Flying Elvises. Or is that Elvi?
63. The inspiration for this line — “Elvis, Elvis, let me be! Keep that pelvis far from me!” (From Grease’s “Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee”.
64. Because even in the pantheon of his cheesiest movies, Jailhouse Rock is pretty compelling, and Elvis is really good in it.
65. Not only did he have a hit concert tour while dead, he had a hit single, “A Little Less Conversation,” in 2001, after it was featured on the Ocean’s 11 soundtrack (It also became the theme for NBC’s Las Vegas..)
66. He made tinted aviator glasses cool.
67. The Honeymoon In Vegas soundtrack, which is all Elvis, all the time.
68. “Are You Lonesome Tonight” is three minutes of melodrama, Shakespearean reference, soul-inspired spoken word interlude and slightly obsessive borderline stalking. And we really like it.
69. Sam Kinison’s mock-serious version of “Are You Lonesome Tonight” – great singing, finer screaming.
70. His relationship with wife Priscilla apparently inspired Depeche Mode’s song “Personal Jesus,” according to songwriter Martin Gore.
71. Elvis starring Kurt Russell.
72. Without Elvis, we’d have a rock star named Declan MacManus (look it up).
73. There is a Graceland cam on Elvis.com.
74. A young Barry White, in jail for stealing tires, heard Elvis’ “It’s Now Or Never” and was so moved he turned his life around and became a singer.
75. Because 32 years after his death, he’s still important enough for us to be writing this list.
Friday, January 8, 2010
1/8/35
Looks like a little snow coming in for the long Elvis weekend.
The King is 75 today.
Also, Roll Tide!
The King is 75 today.
Also, Roll Tide!
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Peanuts Envy
One can always learn something from a book, with the sole exception of calculus textbooks. But I'm glad and sad about having finished Schultz and Peanuts
by David Michaelis. Glad, because I loved Peanuts in its golden heydays of the 50s and 60s, but sad because it turns out that, at least in the eye of the biographer, Charles Schulz, the genius who gave us 17,000+ daily and Sunday Peanuts strips, also was a bit of an odd duck. He was one of those people who demanded a lot of approval and sought it by downgrading himself, so that others would rush to fill the emotional vacuum with words of praise. He was also very harsh in criticizing other cartoonists, and even took Lynn Johnston to task for having her "For Better or For Worse" age its characters and have a beloved family dog die. For someone who preached clean living and so forth, he had several affairs with young women before the breakup of his first marriage.
And he did not like children...his own (5) or anyone else's. It wasn't like he went around throwing things at kids or anything; he just felt uncomfortable around them and found it difficult to converse with them. This, from a guy who, again, cranked out 17,000 and some-odd cartoons populated entirely by kids. You would think that he would be just like a big kid himself, but no! He was like a big adult who lost himself in his art and relived certain aspects of his childhood that he wished could have gone better.
Parenthetically, does anyone else remember seeing this in Parade magazine in early 1986?
L.A. of B'more got all confused. That was the same year that someone wrote to Parade magazine to ask how the Smothers Brothers could get away with calling Ronald Reagan "a known heterosexual" on TV. No wonder Stewie disdains Parade magazine.
Schulz was a genius, I feel, in that he changed comic strips from the cheap laffs and sight gags and made them far more cerebral than The Katzenjammer
Kids, say. Whatever turmoil existed within him is more his business than mine; that's why I sort of wish I hadn't read the book. Perhaps I should have gone with an anthology of the strip itself, in which the reader will find gems like this one from October, 1969:
by David Michaelis. Glad, because I loved Peanuts in its golden heydays of the 50s and 60s, but sad because it turns out that, at least in the eye of the biographer, Charles Schulz, the genius who gave us 17,000+ daily and Sunday Peanuts strips, also was a bit of an odd duck. He was one of those people who demanded a lot of approval and sought it by downgrading himself, so that others would rush to fill the emotional vacuum with words of praise. He was also very harsh in criticizing other cartoonists, and even took Lynn Johnston to task for having her "For Better or For Worse" age its characters and have a beloved family dog die. For someone who preached clean living and so forth, he had several affairs with young women before the breakup of his first marriage.And he did not like children...his own (5) or anyone else's. It wasn't like he went around throwing things at kids or anything; he just felt uncomfortable around them and found it difficult to converse with them. This, from a guy who, again, cranked out 17,000 and some-odd cartoons populated entirely by kids. You would think that he would be just like a big kid himself, but no! He was like a big adult who lost himself in his art and relived certain aspects of his childhood that he wished could have gone better.
Parenthetically, does anyone else remember seeing this in Parade magazine in early 1986?
L.A. of B'more got all confused. That was the same year that someone wrote to Parade magazine to ask how the Smothers Brothers could get away with calling Ronald Reagan "a known heterosexual" on TV. No wonder Stewie disdains Parade magazine.
Schulz was a genius, I feel, in that he changed comic strips from the cheap laffs and sight gags and made them far more cerebral than The Katzenjammer
Kids, say. Whatever turmoil existed within him is more his business than mine; that's why I sort of wish I hadn't read the book. Perhaps I should have gone with an anthology of the strip itself, in which the reader will find gems like this one from October, 1969:
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The Ache of Cakes
Just to look at my trim, svelte, boyish corpulence (pause for laughter) you would never know this, but you ain't seen the man who loves cupcakes as much as I do. Even more than cake itself! Maybe the packaging efficiency appeals to me, because what's more of a drag than slicing a cake and having some ectomorph holler, "Whoa! That's WAAAAAAAY too much for me!" ? OK, Twiggy. We got it. Cupcakes, you hand someone a cupcake and they eat it, and in all my years of avid consumption I have yet to see someone bite into half a cupcake and leave the other half.
And I have said a million times how ironic it was that I, lover of all things served in paper cups, wound up with a June 30th birthday. All through elementary school, at least in the lower grades, there would be a little party for Bob or Jane or John or Susan on their birthday, and someone's mom would show up with a couple of dozen cupcakes and there'd be good times a-plenty. But being born two weeks after school let out meant that none of those fêtes were mine.
But don't even worry about that part! I more than made up for it as the years went by! And, truth to tell, I had my fun all through school. I was often invited by teachers to spend some quality time writing "I will learn the difference between a classroom and a nightclub" a thousand times, or to stay after school to get an in-depth look at the science of putting chairs atop desks and washing blackboards.
What's really got my mixer on "blend" was seeing this from a nice friend, who wrote on Facebook that she "baked 3 dozen cupcakes to take to school for (her son's) birthday today only to find out that all baked goods must be store bought and inspected by the school nurse due to allergy concerns :-( "
Oh well now, I mean, really! Let's study this thing for a second. Everyone with sense, and possibly Sean Hannity, knows better than to use any peanut product in a school environment. I'm quite certain that my friend did not use peanut butter or any other substance liable to cause anaphylaxis in a child. Are we to assume that the baker at the Try 'N' Save down at the shopping center is similarly careful? How many times have we heard stories of mislabeled food, such as the times that the food contained peanuts but the label failed to reflect this? Therefore, it might be foolish, with that history, to count on total accuracy from someone who writes things with a squeeze bag:
And then they drag the school nurse into it! Even if the nurse is an RN, is he/she also a certified food inspector or registered sanitarian? Doubtful. And doesn't the nurse have other things to tend to, from that colicky Collins kid in 3rd grade to little Willie, who won't stop sticking his hand into the soda machine in the cafeteria, trying for a free Dr Pepper?
True fact from my past: In my high school, the nurse was named Nurse Payne. For real. I thought it would be cool to have a Driver's Ed teacher named Rex Carr.
But no one else did.
This cupcake thing at school still bugs me. If the school can't trust the moms of its own students to bring wholesome snackage to the classroom, then what's next?
Let's open the floor to the defenders of hypersafety-ism and see how they feel. Please be careful when stepping up to the microphone! Say what you want; just bring me a cupcake.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Who's Gonna Drive You Home Tonight?
I'm not a fan of drive-thru windows (nor of "thru" being used in place of "through" in a non-ironic sense) but sometimes, it's definitely the way to go. Take today, when we left the doctor's office with enough samples of his handwriting to start a website. Prescriptions for drugs, prescriptions for physical therapy, rules on how to bend what and when and how, and so forth. I took 'em to my Walgreens pharmacy and spoke to the on-duty pharmacist, and told him that I was on a cane (even held it up for evidence) and would appreciate getting the prescription (" 'scrip") in a bit of a hurry (" 'urry") because, as enchanting as the prospect of browsing through Walgreens' stock of half-price unsold Christmas cosmetic packages (Can you believe it; there are bottles of McGraw cologne priced to sell for that man in your life who wants to smell like Tim McGraw smells!), suppositories, first aid supplies and family planning products normally would be on a chilly Monday afternoon, I needed to get home and give my sciatica a rest. The clerk pointed out that they were really backed up and I would have to wait at least a half an hour, at which time I opted to go home and come back later.
I remember stuff, like the friend who worked at Wendy's and told me that today's unsold hamburgers were tomorrow's chili, and the pharmacy clerk who confided that the twenty-minute rule was inviolate in the store where she worked. No matter how slow things were, all patrons dropping off prescriptions were to be told that their pills/potions/creams/lotions would be ready in 20 minutes, meaning that the customer would roam the store for that length of time, making all sorts of impulse purchases - usually a big bag of Mr Chips cookies or something equally necessary.
I came home and went back out to the store and got in the drive-through this time to avoid parking and having to walk past the display of beef jerky and granola. And there it was that I saw a sight that enraged me and saddened me all at once, almost to the degree that seeing people from Indiana wearing Baltimore Colts uniforms does.
In the next lane over at the drive-threw (!) was a maroon car. The driver of the car was a frowsy harridan of late middle age. Her hair had been tastefully dyed to match the color of the car, but her grooming was the last thing on my mind. She seemed unacquainted with the procedure. She had parked about five feet away from the mic/speaker and vacuum tube terminal, so instead of re-docking her PT Cruiser, she chose to lean out of the car and howl at the cashier from twenty feet away, without benefit of amplification. I was therefore privy to her plans for "gettin' them pills and takin' 'em on home," as well as to her side comments about how "friggin' cold" it was. But, once her colloquy with the clerk was over, she closed her door.
And she lit up a cigarette, joining a younger woman whom I took to be her daughter in the time-honored tradition. Hey, free country, and if you both wanna smoke 'em up in your own car, enjoy yourselves, hon.
And how I wish I had not craned my neck 10 more degrees to the east, but I thought I saw a deer in the field by the drugstore. No deer, but when I looked in the back of the termagant's car, there was a little bitty baby girl, all dolled up in a pink blanket in a pink car seat with a little pink knit hat on her head and a sweet little pink face with a teeny pink mouth and nose breathing in the foul gray smoke these lovely ladies were spewing.
Ruined my day.
I remember stuff, like the friend who worked at Wendy's and told me that today's unsold hamburgers were tomorrow's chili, and the pharmacy clerk who confided that the twenty-minute rule was inviolate in the store where she worked. No matter how slow things were, all patrons dropping off prescriptions were to be told that their pills/potions/creams/lotions would be ready in 20 minutes, meaning that the customer would roam the store for that length of time, making all sorts of impulse purchases - usually a big bag of Mr Chips cookies or something equally necessary.
I came home and went back out to the store and got in the drive-through this time to avoid parking and having to walk past the display of beef jerky and granola. And there it was that I saw a sight that enraged me and saddened me all at once, almost to the degree that seeing people from Indiana wearing Baltimore Colts uniforms does.
In the next lane over at the drive-threw (!) was a maroon car. The driver of the car was a frowsy harridan of late middle age. Her hair had been tastefully dyed to match the color of the car, but her grooming was the last thing on my mind. She seemed unacquainted with the procedure. She had parked about five feet away from the mic/speaker and vacuum tube terminal, so instead of re-docking her PT Cruiser, she chose to lean out of the car and howl at the cashier from twenty feet away, without benefit of amplification. I was therefore privy to her plans for "gettin' them pills and takin' 'em on home," as well as to her side comments about how "friggin' cold" it was. But, once her colloquy with the clerk was over, she closed her door.
And she lit up a cigarette, joining a younger woman whom I took to be her daughter in the time-honored tradition. Hey, free country, and if you both wanna smoke 'em up in your own car, enjoy yourselves, hon.
And how I wish I had not craned my neck 10 more degrees to the east, but I thought I saw a deer in the field by the drugstore. No deer, but when I looked in the back of the termagant's car, there was a little bitty baby girl, all dolled up in a pink blanket in a pink car seat with a little pink knit hat on her head and a sweet little pink face with a teeny pink mouth and nose breathing in the foul gray smoke these lovely ladies were spewing.
Ruined my day.
Monday, January 4, 2010
It only took 10 years!
All through 2000 - 2009, I didn't know what to call the entire decade. "The Aughts" was too precious, "The Naughties" even more so, and "The O's" made it seem like we were talkin' baseball, hon.
So now - too late - I see on a comic strip review blog that some guy named "Messy" (anyone self-identifying as "Messy" is either a male or a female I don't wanna know) says the decade was called "The 00ze."
Thanks, "Messy." Where were you on 12/31/99? Who else remembers the Y2K hysteria? We didn't know if the world was going to keep going on, and if it did, whether or not there would be water, electricity, or any semblance of societal order.
Ten years later, we're still settling for two out of three.
So now - too late - I see on a comic strip review blog that some guy named "Messy" (anyone self-identifying as "Messy" is either a male or a female I don't wanna know) says the decade was called "The 00ze."
Thanks, "Messy." Where were you on 12/31/99? Who else remembers the Y2K hysteria? We didn't know if the world was going to keep going on, and if it did, whether or not there would be water, electricity, or any semblance of societal order.
Ten years later, we're still settling for two out of three.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
The nerve of it all
If you see me walking around these days, why, you must live here at 742 Evergreen Terrace! And you might notice that my steps are supported by a rakish cane, which was issued to me after knee-replacement surgery years ago. I figured I ought to keep it handy, on the grounds that You Never Can Tell.
It's not lost on me, the irony that, had I stayed home after work Wednesday and guzzled a beer while watching an old movie, I would be better off now. Somehow, working out at the gym, I came down with a case of sciatica. The word alone sounds like a tasty Italian noodle dish, or a grunge band from Seattle, but it's best defined here by Stephen Hochschuler, M.D:
Snow and Wynn
Stewart songs onto my iPod, which now bulges with songs that hardly anyone else wants to hear - but when you want to hear Cowboy Copas sing "Alabam", or Hawkshaw Hawkins do "LOnesome 7-7203," let me know. I did my various exercises, came home and made a few preparations for the coming snowstorm, and then, when I walked into the kitchen, I said, "Ow."
A lot of people say "Ow" in our kitchen, many of them while walking out. I'm the cook, you see.
But that was Wednesday night, and it didn't seem so bad, and then came Thursday morning, and I couldn't put on my sox. I mean, I would even have donned sox in a color other than red just to get to work, but I just couldn't move around so well, and so I had to take a sick day and a lot of ibuprofen. I was very happy when our neighbor with the snowblower came around to blow the snow.
So that was Thursday, and I'm writing this on Saturday, and still no improvement in the pain that begins at my buttock -maybe THAT'S where that expression comes from! - and runs down to my knee. It sort of feels like some bad kid with a Sawzall
is cutting into my left side. This condition scoffs at ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and aspirin, and laughs when the internet recommends ice! no, heat! ok, try heat, then ice, then more heat!
I know that there are many things far worse that can befall a person, so don't mistake my carping about being housebound during a weekend of my favorite outdoor weather for grumbling. But being a lover of irony means I appreciate learning that sometimes, the best fitness regime is no sweat at all.
It's not lost on me, the irony that, had I stayed home after work Wednesday and guzzled a beer while watching an old movie, I would be better off now. Somehow, working out at the gym, I came down with a case of sciatica. The word alone sounds like a tasty Italian noodle dish, or a grunge band from Seattle, but it's best defined here by Stephen Hochschuler, M.D:
The term sciatica describes the symptoms of leg pain and possibly tingling, numbness or weakness that travels from the low back through the buttock and down the large sciatic nerve in the back of the leg.
The vast majority of people who experience sciatica get better with time (usually a few weeks or months) and find pain relief with non-surgical sciatica treatment. For others, however, sciatica can be severe and debilitating.
What's odd is, it's not as if I was working out and suddenly cried out, "Oh, my sciatic nerve!" It was a normal workout, made a lot more enjoyable by having just the day before downloaded a ton of Hank Snow and Wynn Stewart songs onto my iPod, which now bulges with songs that hardly anyone else wants to hear - but when you want to hear Cowboy Copas sing "Alabam", or Hawkshaw Hawkins do "LOnesome 7-7203," let me know. I did my various exercises, came home and made a few preparations for the coming snowstorm, and then, when I walked into the kitchen, I said, "Ow."A lot of people say "Ow" in our kitchen, many of them while walking out. I'm the cook, you see.
But that was Wednesday night, and it didn't seem so bad, and then came Thursday morning, and I couldn't put on my sox. I mean, I would even have donned sox in a color other than red just to get to work, but I just couldn't move around so well, and so I had to take a sick day and a lot of ibuprofen. I was very happy when our neighbor with the snowblower came around to blow the snow.
So that was Thursday, and I'm writing this on Saturday, and still no improvement in the pain that begins at my buttock -maybe THAT'S where that expression comes from! - and runs down to my knee. It sort of feels like some bad kid with a Sawzall
is cutting into my left side. This condition scoffs at ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and aspirin, and laughs when the internet recommends ice! no, heat! ok, try heat, then ice, then more heat! I know that there are many things far worse that can befall a person, so don't mistake my carping about being housebound during a weekend of my favorite outdoor weather for grumbling. But being a lover of irony means I appreciate learning that sometimes, the best fitness regime is no sweat at all.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
'Til Death do us thwart
Happy New Year! Let's start off the new year with a pop quiz. Please tell me what Rush Limbaugh, Karl Rove and Newt Gingrich all have in common...besides enchanting personalities, exquisite vocal presentations, and the sort of looks that just make people flock to them.
(Insert Jeopardy theme here, or just hum it if you don't know the words.)
The answer is twofold: they are all three big believers in traditional family values and the sanctity of Christian marriage and opponents of same-sex marriage.
AND they are all divorced.
Say hello to the formerly happy (we assume)
Roves. Karl once referred to "5,000 years of understanding the institution of marriage" as his justification for not approving of same-sex couples to be married, as if same-sex couples need his OK to do whatever they want.
But they did for 8 years, because this man among men was the big brain behind the curtain, the puppetmaster who controlled Howdy Doody in the White House. And so, knowing that the Bush base contains a lot of people who don't mind if Joe marries Ann after breaking his marriage vows to Jane, Barbara, Rebecca, Susan, Kimberly, Sarah, Anita and some other Ann, as long as he never ever ever walks down the aisle with Bob, Rove fought long and hard all across the nation to keep this country safe from the scourge of two people in love proclaiming so publicly and legally.
"What God hath joined together, let no man rent asunder." Seems we've heard that somewhere before. It also would seem that permanence and bindingness, if there is such a word, would be part of the traditional Christian values held in such great esteem by so many, and yet flouted when Karl tires of Darby. Listen. I think people should have a right to get a divorce if that's what they want. It's not what I want, nor would it ever be. But I do understand that many times people get married to one person who then becomes quite another person, or they grow apart, or canoodle with 13 different cocktail waitresses, or whatever. But please notice those five words, "if that's what they want." As we used to say, that's a "noneya," as in "noneya damn beeswax" who gets married, stays married, marries someone outside the traditional.
A quick survey of the first 15 females I encountered today showed that a stunning 0.00% percent of them would be interested in being the third Mrs. Rove. Given the choice between marrying Rove and living at the bottom of a well shaft in rural Wyoming, all 15 immediately visited www.getmetoWyomingfast.com.
I was amused to see that the news of this trip to Splitsville was brought to us by illustrious, tawny-maned, easily-flummoxed former Bush White House spokesperson Dana
Perino, who recently told fair-and-balanced Sean Hannity, "We did not have a terrorist attack on our country during President Bush's term."
9/11/2001. Never forget. She already did.
Hannity chose not to question her on that point. Guess he forgot too. He's not a very patriotic American.
(Insert Jeopardy theme here, or just hum it if you don't know the words.)
The answer is twofold: they are all three big believers in traditional family values and the sanctity of Christian marriage and opponents of same-sex marriage.
AND they are all divorced.
Say hello to the formerly happy (we assume)
Roves. Karl once referred to "5,000 years of understanding the institution of marriage" as his justification for not approving of same-sex couples to be married, as if same-sex couples need his OK to do whatever they want.But they did for 8 years, because this man among men was the big brain behind the curtain, the puppetmaster who controlled Howdy Doody in the White House. And so, knowing that the Bush base contains a lot of people who don't mind if Joe marries Ann after breaking his marriage vows to Jane, Barbara, Rebecca, Susan, Kimberly, Sarah, Anita and some other Ann, as long as he never ever ever walks down the aisle with Bob, Rove fought long and hard all across the nation to keep this country safe from the scourge of two people in love proclaiming so publicly and legally.
"What God hath joined together, let no man rent asunder." Seems we've heard that somewhere before. It also would seem that permanence and bindingness, if there is such a word, would be part of the traditional Christian values held in such great esteem by so many, and yet flouted when Karl tires of Darby. Listen. I think people should have a right to get a divorce if that's what they want. It's not what I want, nor would it ever be. But I do understand that many times people get married to one person who then becomes quite another person, or they grow apart, or canoodle with 13 different cocktail waitresses, or whatever. But please notice those five words, "if that's what they want." As we used to say, that's a "noneya," as in "noneya damn beeswax" who gets married, stays married, marries someone outside the traditional.
A quick survey of the first 15 females I encountered today showed that a stunning 0.00% percent of them would be interested in being the third Mrs. Rove. Given the choice between marrying Rove and living at the bottom of a well shaft in rural Wyoming, all 15 immediately visited www.getmetoWyomingfast.com.
I was amused to see that the news of this trip to Splitsville was brought to us by illustrious, tawny-maned, easily-flummoxed former Bush White House spokesperson Dana
Perino, who recently told fair-and-balanced Sean Hannity, "We did not have a terrorist attack on our country during President Bush's term."9/11/2001. Never forget. She already did.
Hannity chose not to question her on that point. Guess he forgot too. He's not a very patriotic American.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Happy 2010
Happy New Year!
I'm going to think of this barn...it was not built in a day; it took time to build it properly, but look at the beauty of it all.
We can make resolutions and vow to change things, but let's not forget to treat ourselves kindly. And each other as well!
Happy New Year!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Well, here's a warning to motorists and pedestrians alike: be careful for the next few days in the vicinity of health spas and gymnasia. People all over will wake up, rue the seemingly interminable consumption of Christmas cookies, egg nog, coconut cakes, Pfeffernüsse cookies, ham, cheese, beer, pudding, pie, cheesecake, sausage, au gratin potatoes and gravy that has gone on since the night before Thanksgiving, and they'll all head for the workout place.
There won't be a recumbent bike or elliptical machine available til who knows when, and then everyone will calm down and tell their inner Matthew McConnaughey or Katherine Heigl that there's plenty of time before the beach or pool opens.
New Year's is sort of tough day to make a resolution to stick to, you know, because the holidays are winding up, there are over 18,000 bowl games on TV, and you're busy anyway putting your new socks and ties away. For many, the night before was a bacchanalian revel unseen since the days of Caligula, and others turned in early, only to be awakened at midnight by the sound of pots and pans clanging together out on the front porch. I never knew whether the point of that noisemaking was to welcome in the new year or scare away the old one.
Old year or new, I wish you the best all through 2010, and thanks for being with me through '09.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
It's all coming back to me now
Many years ago, as Peggy and I strolled along the beach in scenic Ocean City, Maryland, one of the flip-flops I was wearing was rudely yanked off my left foot by a surging tide that seemed not to care what it churned up as it rolled majestically landward. (Sorry for the dramatics; I gave Peggy a book of Truman Capote's short stories and I guess I was paying him tribute there.) (Yes, he did just roll over in his grave.) Anyway, to get back to the story, I figured that would be the last I would see of that flip-flop. We continued walking, Peggy with her usual grace, and me in the sort of ducky gait that only a man wearing one flip-flop can manage, and at length we turned back. It was dark - really dark - and for once I was carrying no flashlight. When we got back up to where we had started walking, I almost tripped over something on the beach. It was my flip-flop, recently returned from Davy Jones's locker (too big for the diminutive Monkee.)
The Saturday before last, when I had to report to work for the snow emergency, I, as usual, packed just a little less than Hannibal did when preparing for his alpine journey - and I had no elephant to carry my gear! I put extras of this and that into a huge bag and off I went. When I came home, I was putting the equipment - hats, gloves, flashlight, cans of soup, the usual emergency gear - away, and I came up short by one glove. Then for the next 10 days, I had to deal with the issue of the remaining glove. Having searched the truck and other places it might have been, I was about to toss out the odd glove. Then on Monday, coming home from work, I found the glove frozen on the tundra that is currently our front yard, right where a huge pile of snow had been. I reckon I dropped it getting out of the truck when I came home that day, and it was covered by snow for all this time, and now that the snow piles are gone, here's that frozen leather glove.
Which reminds me of the Blizzard of '03, when I crazily put out a blue bag of recycling - bottles, cans, plastics. That bag was covered in February by a snowpile the approximate size of Brattleboro, Vermont, and when I next saw it, it was just around Opening Day for baseball. I felt like the archeologists who found that frozen guy Ötzi
in a glacier. Except that Ötzi left behind no empty National Bohemian cans or Skippy jars. Most scholars agree that he was in fact on a B double E double R UN.
And here's the strangest one of them all, and yet it totally lacks veracity. Not long after we were married, Peggy and I went fishing at Loch Raven, and somehow the diamond came out of her ring and fell into the water. Well, we fished (!) around as much as could, looking for the precious stone, only to give up as both nightfall and the game warden descended. For weeks and weeks, Peggy was disconsolate, and finally, to cheer her up, I said, "Let's go out for a nice dinner." We went to a local beanery and Peggy ordered fish, and when she cut into that fish, what do you think was inside of it?
Bones!
The Saturday before last, when I had to report to work for the snow emergency, I, as usual, packed just a little less than Hannibal did when preparing for his alpine journey - and I had no elephant to carry my gear! I put extras of this and that into a huge bag and off I went. When I came home, I was putting the equipment - hats, gloves, flashlight, cans of soup, the usual emergency gear - away, and I came up short by one glove. Then for the next 10 days, I had to deal with the issue of the remaining glove. Having searched the truck and other places it might have been, I was about to toss out the odd glove. Then on Monday, coming home from work, I found the glove frozen on the tundra that is currently our front yard, right where a huge pile of snow had been. I reckon I dropped it getting out of the truck when I came home that day, and it was covered by snow for all this time, and now that the snow piles are gone, here's that frozen leather glove.
Which reminds me of the Blizzard of '03, when I crazily put out a blue bag of recycling - bottles, cans, plastics. That bag was covered in February by a snowpile the approximate size of Brattleboro, Vermont, and when I next saw it, it was just around Opening Day for baseball. I felt like the archeologists who found that frozen guy Ötzi
in a glacier. Except that Ötzi left behind no empty National Bohemian cans or Skippy jars. Most scholars agree that he was in fact on a B double E double R UN.And here's the strangest one of them all, and yet it totally lacks veracity. Not long after we were married, Peggy and I went fishing at Loch Raven, and somehow the diamond came out of her ring and fell into the water. Well, we fished (!) around as much as could, looking for the precious stone, only to give up as both nightfall and the game warden descended. For weeks and weeks, Peggy was disconsolate, and finally, to cheer her up, I said, "Let's go out for a nice dinner." We went to a local beanery and Peggy ordered fish, and when she cut into that fish, what do you think was inside of it?
Bones!
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
The ABCs of MKC
Ralph tagged me! So it must be time for an update:
A - Age: ... 58
B - Bed size: Queen, I guess. Have to ask Peggy!
C - Chore you hate:... straightening up office or workshop
D - Dog's name: ... never had one but I love Charley and Heidi
E - Essential start your day item: morning sugar from Peggy
F - Favorite color: Brown
G - Gold or Silver or platinum:...Platinum
H - Height: ...6'4"
I - Instrument played ... radio, iPod
J - Job title: ... Public Information Specialist
K - Kid(s): ... I love 'em all
L - Living arrangements ... Married to Peggy since Hector was a pup
M - Mom's name: ... Beverly
N - Nicknames: . . . Marky Mark (formally: Mark E. Mark)
O - Overnight hospital stay other than birth: I was supposed to die when I was 13 (twice) and no one ever figured out what was up - meningitis, encephalitis, who knows? And my knee replacement surgery in '00
P - Pet Peeve: People feeling left out
Q - Quote from a movie: "And another thing...I want you to sit on that zoo fraternity of yours..I don't want no drunken riots in my town" (Mayor dePasto, Animal House)
R - Right or left handed: Left
S - Siblings: Robin
T - Time you wake up: ... 4:55
U- Underwear: ... "Something in a lo-rise bikini...mesh, if possible" (Stripes)
V - Vegetable you dislike: Brussels Sprouts, a/k/a Nature's Death Balls
W - Ways you run late: I don't
X - X-rays you've had: knees and mouth
Y - Yummy food you make: Apple pie
Z- Zoo favorite: Prairie Dogs
A - Age: ... 58
B - Bed size: Queen, I guess. Have to ask Peggy!
C - Chore you hate:... straightening up office or workshop
D - Dog's name: ... never had one but I love Charley and Heidi
E - Essential start your day item: morning sugar from Peggy
F - Favorite color: Brown
G - Gold or Silver or platinum:...Platinum
H - Height: ...6'4"
I - Instrument played ... radio, iPod
J - Job title: ... Public Information Specialist
K - Kid(s): ... I love 'em all
L - Living arrangements ... Married to Peggy since Hector was a pup
M - Mom's name: ... Beverly
N - Nicknames: . . . Marky Mark (formally: Mark E. Mark)
O - Overnight hospital stay other than birth: I was supposed to die when I was 13 (twice) and no one ever figured out what was up - meningitis, encephalitis, who knows? And my knee replacement surgery in '00
P - Pet Peeve: People feeling left out
Q - Quote from a movie: "And another thing...I want you to sit on that zoo fraternity of yours..I don't want no drunken riots in my town" (Mayor dePasto, Animal House)
R - Right or left handed: Left
S - Siblings: Robin
T - Time you wake up: ... 4:55
U- Underwear: ... "Something in a lo-rise bikini...mesh, if possible" (Stripes)
V - Vegetable you dislike: Brussels Sprouts, a/k/a Nature's Death Balls
W - Ways you run late: I don't
X - X-rays you've had: knees and mouth
Y - Yummy food you make: Apple pie
Z- Zoo favorite: Prairie Dogs
Monday, December 28, 2009
Turning the Tables
You're looking at the happy new owner of a Model ITUT-201SVR USB Turntable.
Well, you're not really looking at me; I don't have one of those Skype devices that would allow you to look in on me sitting here, typing and sipping iced tea like some sort of I don't know what. But with this device, I can take the approximately 12,000 record albums and 45s that linger even now in my basement, and put them on my computer as mp3s, the better to stock my iPod with more old music. And even though most of those records have bold black print bearing various forms of the warning RADIO STATION COPY - - NOT FOR SALE, they still play just the same as if I had plunked down money at KMart, Murphy's Mart or Woolworths to buy the record, except I didn't have the money to buy records, since I was working at radio stations. I guess heisting promo copies of Hank Snow albums was all part of the pay package after all!
But I do have to give a big round of boo to the tech writers who complied the manual for this device. I did finally get it to work, and solved the many problems that came with it, after several hours of false starts and yelps. But I used the old tried and true system of trying things that are usually true, feeling my way around, because the writers of the handbook assume that all of us to whom Santa delivered this little box o' joy have advanced degrees in audio engineering and computer programming, or so it would seem.
Remember when everyone sort of shook their heads about the geeks and nerds in high school? The brainiacs from the math club - the ones who had tiny slide rules for ties - are now your accountants and tax attorneys. The dudes from the biology club are your physicians, probing you every which - a - way and putting you on diets that Bobby Sands would have envied. The guys who did well in auto shop are now tuning your Toyota, the model rocketeers are sending lunar probes to find water on Mars, and the metal shop guys are now plumbers whom you call when you find water on your bathroom floor. And all these Bill Gateses are writing manuals with a slightly mocking tone.
I just put Steve Lawrence on my iPod singing "A Room Without Windows." Somebody from the Future Carpenters Club is going to call me about installing some Anderson Windowalls for $3600 each. I can't hear anything else.
Well, you're not really looking at me; I don't have one of those Skype devices that would allow you to look in on me sitting here, typing and sipping iced tea like some sort of I don't know what. But with this device, I can take the approximately 12,000 record albums and 45s that linger even now in my basement, and put them on my computer as mp3s, the better to stock my iPod with more old music. And even though most of those records have bold black print bearing various forms of the warning RADIO STATION COPY - - NOT FOR SALE, they still play just the same as if I had plunked down money at KMart, Murphy's Mart or Woolworths to buy the record, except I didn't have the money to buy records, since I was working at radio stations. I guess heisting promo copies of Hank Snow albums was all part of the pay package after all!But I do have to give a big round of boo to the tech writers who complied the manual for this device. I did finally get it to work, and solved the many problems that came with it, after several hours of false starts and yelps. But I used the old tried and true system of trying things that are usually true, feeling my way around, because the writers of the handbook assume that all of us to whom Santa delivered this little box o' joy have advanced degrees in audio engineering and computer programming, or so it would seem.
Remember when everyone sort of shook their heads about the geeks and nerds in high school? The brainiacs from the math club - the ones who had tiny slide rules for ties - are now your accountants and tax attorneys. The dudes from the biology club are your physicians, probing you every which - a - way and putting you on diets that Bobby Sands would have envied. The guys who did well in auto shop are now tuning your Toyota, the model rocketeers are sending lunar probes to find water on Mars, and the metal shop guys are now plumbers whom you call when you find water on your bathroom floor. And all these Bill Gateses are writing manuals with a slightly mocking tone.
I just put Steve Lawrence on my iPod singing "A Room Without Windows." Somebody from the Future Carpenters Club is going to call me about installing some Anderson Windowalls for $3600 each. I can't hear anything else.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Fur Real
Wikipedia says: Anthropomorphism is the attribution of human characteristics to non-human creatures and beings, phenomena, material states and objects or abstract concepts. Examples include animals and plants and forces of nature such as winds, rain or the sun depicted as creatures with human motivation able to reason and converse.
Or, it could be a guy in a tiger suit shoveling snow. It's a flexible world. This picture cracks me up! Enjoy a happy Sunday!
Or, it could be a guy in a tiger suit shoveling snow. It's a flexible world. This picture cracks me up! Enjoy a happy Sunday!
Saturday, December 26, 2009
In these times...
Not to bring you down right after Christmas, but, why did this happen?
(from the Associated Press)
(from the Associated Press)
The body of a Maryland girl who authorities say was abducted by a registered sex offender was found Friday in a wooded area near the Delaware state line after thousands of volunteers spent Christmas searching for her.
Wicomico County Sheriff Mike Lewis said the body of 11-year-old Sarah H. Foxwell was discovered about 4 p.m. near the Delaware state line. He offered few other details. Thomas J. Leggs Jr., 30, was arrested Wednesday and charged in her kidnapping. 
Wicomico County State's Attorney Davis R. Ruark said authorities remain focused on Leggs as they investigate the killing.
"There's no indication of involvement of any other individuals at this point," he told The Associated Press.
Leggs is a former boyfriend of the girl's aunt, who is her legal guardian. A public defender representing him has not returned a phone call.
"This is not the way we wanted to find our young lady on Christmas, but at the very least we've given closure to the family," Ruark said at the news conference.
Lewis said Sarah was last seen Tuesday night at her home on Maryland's Eastern Shore. A relative discovered she was missing early Wednesday while checking on Sarah and her 6-year-old sister. A charging document says Leggs was the last person seen with Sarah.
A "juvenile witness" awoke during the night Tuesday and saw Sarah leave the bedroom with "Tommy," and said he was wearing blue jeans, an orange jacket and white sneakers, the charging document says.
Sarah lived with her aunt, Amy Fothergill, who told police the child's toothbrush was missing from the home, according to the statement of probable cause.
Deputies said they found a green toothbrush and a lollipop in a truck Leggs admitted driving. Leggs said he had been wearing jeans and white sneakers the previous night — the same clothes he was wearing when police questioned him.
The sheriff said Leggs has been uncooperative and "of no assistance to our investigators."
Leggs is listed on the Maryland and Delaware sex offender registries. The Maryland listing notes that he is a child sex offender, but does not give details about his conviction.
Lewis said Leggs has been convicted of sex offense in Wicomico County and was charged Oct. 29 with fourth-degree burglary.
In 2001, Leggs was convicted in Delaware of rape involving a victim who was 16 or 17, according to the Delaware registry. The registry describes his risk level as "high" and notes he is unemployed.
Leggs, who has been convicted of assault several times, also is awaiting trial on charges of burglary and destruction of property in Ocean City.
Thousands of volunteers had gathered at a stadium in Salisbury early Friday morning and fanned out to search for her.
Now here's my question, and it's just like a fire prevention thing. You know that spontaneous combustion might occur from storing oily rags in the basement or garage, so you don't do that. You don't encourage a child to stick a fork in an electric outlet, nor do you light a match to see how much gas is left in the can. You're wise to take precautions against trouble or injury.
So will someone please tell me why a man who raped a teenaged girl in 2001 is out committing more crimes - apparently a murder - in 2009. We really don't expect that guys like this learn their lessons in the big house, and just as we don't use frayed, worn electric cords, we shouldn't expect the frayed and worn mind of a man like Leggs to function normally here among us in society.
So someone now can tell me why he was out walking around among us. I thought rape was the sort of thing that earned a long stretch in the pen.
I was talking to a guy once who told me that prison was not an effective way of treating a criminal, that counseling and understanding were the paths to rehabilitation. How about, I don't care if guys like Leggs ever become rehabilitated? Let them serve their time, and then if they come out and commit another crime, it's back in IronBar TimeOut for them. Oh, there will be a huge hue and cry, and he will be prosecuted and there will then be back-patting and congratulations and assurance that Justice Has Been Served.
What am I missing? What is all the world missing, beside a helpless 11-year old girl? Shame on all of us.
Friday, December 25, 2009
One Solitary Life
This poem is often attributed to Rev. James Allan Francis, although some list it as author unknown. The author maybe unknown but the message is undeniably known throughout the world. May you and yours enjoy a Merry Christmas today and every day!
One Solitary Life
The child of a peasant woman
He grew up in another obscure village
Where he worked in a carpenter shop
Until he was thirty
He never wrote a book
He never held an office
He never went to college
He never visited a big city
He never traveled more than two hundred miles
From the place where he was born
He did none of the things
Usually associated with greatness
He had no credentials but himself
He was only thirty three
His friends ran away
One of them denied him
He was turned over to his enemies
And went through the mockery of a trial
He was nailed to a cross between two thieves
While dying, his executioners gambled for his clothing
The only property he had on earth
When he was dead
He was laid in a borrowed grave
Through the pity of a friend
Nineteen centuries have come and gone
And today Jesus is the central figure of the human race
And the leader of mankind's progress
All the armies that have ever marched
All the navies that have ever sailed
All the parliaments that have ever sat
All the kings that ever reigned put together
Have not affected the life of mankind on earth
As powerfully as that one solitary life
He did none of the things
Usually associated with greatness
He had no credentials but himself
He was only thirty three
His friends ran away
One of them denied him
He was turned over to his enemies
And went through the mockery of a trial
He was nailed to a cross between two thieves
While dying, his executioners gambled for his clothing
The only property he had on earth
When he was dead
He was laid in a borrowed grave
Through the pity of a friend
Nineteen centuries have come and gone
And today Jesus is the central figure of the human race
And the leader of mankind's progress
All the armies that have ever marched
All the navies that have ever sailed
All the parliaments that have ever sat
All the kings that ever reigned put together
Have not affected the life of mankind on earth
As powerfully as that one solitary life
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Christmas when I was a boy
Dad would always haul in the yule log on the back of Old Paint, the pinto stallion who had served us so well for so many years, especially when it came to stump-pullin' and plow-haulin'. Paint consistently faded in the homestretch at Pimlico, so he wasn't of much use there, but as Zeke, one of the hired hands we kept on hand used to say, "They ain't but two kinds of hosses in the world, and he's one of 'em." And none of us could say him nay. Or neigh, for that matter.
Well, Christmas Eve would come around, and we'd all sent our letters to Santa, in hopes that he'd land on our roof with toys and whatnot. No underwear; we had plenty of those snap-front boxer shorts and it would be many years before society took the wraps off the discussion of what sort of underwear to sport while watching "Commando." Popguns, Hopalong Cassidy lunchboxes, Erector Sets, x-ray specs and baseball equipment - now, that's what we had in mind. Dad would go trap a peasant for dinner, and then there was always a row in the kitchen because Mom had specifically told him she wanted to roast a "pheasant." But really, look how close he came! Dinner would be sumptuous and to top it off, we'd have either a figgy pudding
or a figgy newton, depending on what kind of year it had been at the Lazy 'C' Ranch. Zeke used to say, "They ain't but two kinds of years...reg'lar, and leap!" And with that, he would jump up as high as he could go, click his worn boot-heels together, do a sort of buck-and-wing dance around the barn, and then land right back in his stupor.
After dinner, why, that was the one night Mom had no trouble getting us to go to bed, because it was Christmas Eve, and we knew that a special man from up north was coming our way - Guy Lombardo. No, that was New Year's Eve. Santa Claus was able to slide down our chimney once he had his flue shot, and he would bring treats, and then in the morning, soon as the milking was done and the hogs were slopped and the hosses were groomed and the eggs were candled and the screen door was patched and the beefsteak was pounded and the barnyard was raked and fences were mended and the well was dug and the haystacks were stacked and the swords were beaten into plowshares, why it was time for bed, so we'd get our presents later the next day. Zeke used to say the only difference between December 25 and December 26 was that everything went on sale real cheap early in the morning on December 26, and it was to be many years before I figured out just what the hell he was talking about.
Mom had some cousins who lived in little Sicily, down in the seagoing part of our town. Their surname was Braggadocio, and they always boasted about everything. But we'd troop down to their house one night during the holidays and hear about their Christmas in Balamer, MarioLanza.
Of course, we all forgot about school for the entire two weeks of Christmas break. Even if President Roosevelt had come on the radio urging us to study hard and learn about the new world yet to come in his third term, we would have switched over and listened to The Great Gildersleeve
or something. History was a lot easier to learn then, as there was much less of it. Spanish, we could learn from the two Mexican farmers who had a place in nearby Tortilla Flats. Their names were Señor Center and Don Cornelius. Biology, of course, we learned from hanging around the stockpens. All the girls took Home Economics and knew a hundred ways to use old flour sacks to make dresses, napkins, tablecloths, and, if they had enough of them, even new flour sacks! We guys took shop classes where we learned to short-circuit an electric fence, mend fences, heal broken hearts and reunite the disenchanted. The shop teacher was unusually enlightened. Grammar was, of course, hardly important to us; as long as we could remember to always split infinitives, we'd be fine. The grammar teacher also taught cooking, so she taught us a lot about dangling participles while she prepared an omelet. I can still remember writing this sentence in my diary: "Hurrying to finish lunch, Mrs O'Hoolahan's frying pan overheated."
And of course, in Geometry, we already knew all the angles.
Now and again, I like to think back on those carefree days. If you ask my favorite memory, well, it would have to be that snowy Christmas morning when I was about 8. I was hanging around under the window of the town miser when he suddenly threw open his window and asked if I had seen the goose in the A&P window. I said yes, and I knew the butcher had gotten in trouble for it, too. But the miser said that sleeping on a goose-feather pillow always made him feel down.
Well, Christmas Eve would come around, and we'd all sent our letters to Santa, in hopes that he'd land on our roof with toys and whatnot. No underwear; we had plenty of those snap-front boxer shorts and it would be many years before society took the wraps off the discussion of what sort of underwear to sport while watching "Commando." Popguns, Hopalong Cassidy lunchboxes, Erector Sets, x-ray specs and baseball equipment - now, that's what we had in mind. Dad would go trap a peasant for dinner, and then there was always a row in the kitchen because Mom had specifically told him she wanted to roast a "pheasant." But really, look how close he came! Dinner would be sumptuous and to top it off, we'd have either a figgy pudding
or a figgy newton, depending on what kind of year it had been at the Lazy 'C' Ranch. Zeke used to say, "They ain't but two kinds of years...reg'lar, and leap!" And with that, he would jump up as high as he could go, click his worn boot-heels together, do a sort of buck-and-wing dance around the barn, and then land right back in his stupor.After dinner, why, that was the one night Mom had no trouble getting us to go to bed, because it was Christmas Eve, and we knew that a special man from up north was coming our way - Guy Lombardo. No, that was New Year's Eve. Santa Claus was able to slide down our chimney once he had his flue shot, and he would bring treats, and then in the morning, soon as the milking was done and the hogs were slopped and the hosses were groomed and the eggs were candled and the screen door was patched and the beefsteak was pounded and the barnyard was raked and fences were mended and the well was dug and the haystacks were stacked and the swords were beaten into plowshares, why it was time for bed, so we'd get our presents later the next day. Zeke used to say the only difference between December 25 and December 26 was that everything went on sale real cheap early in the morning on December 26, and it was to be many years before I figured out just what the hell he was talking about.
Mom had some cousins who lived in little Sicily, down in the seagoing part of our town. Their surname was Braggadocio, and they always boasted about everything. But we'd troop down to their house one night during the holidays and hear about their Christmas in Balamer, MarioLanza.
Of course, we all forgot about school for the entire two weeks of Christmas break. Even if President Roosevelt had come on the radio urging us to study hard and learn about the new world yet to come in his third term, we would have switched over and listened to The Great Gildersleeve
or something. History was a lot easier to learn then, as there was much less of it. Spanish, we could learn from the two Mexican farmers who had a place in nearby Tortilla Flats. Their names were Señor Center and Don Cornelius. Biology, of course, we learned from hanging around the stockpens. All the girls took Home Economics and knew a hundred ways to use old flour sacks to make dresses, napkins, tablecloths, and, if they had enough of them, even new flour sacks! We guys took shop classes where we learned to short-circuit an electric fence, mend fences, heal broken hearts and reunite the disenchanted. The shop teacher was unusually enlightened. Grammar was, of course, hardly important to us; as long as we could remember to always split infinitives, we'd be fine. The grammar teacher also taught cooking, so she taught us a lot about dangling participles while she prepared an omelet. I can still remember writing this sentence in my diary: "Hurrying to finish lunch, Mrs O'Hoolahan's frying pan overheated."And of course, in Geometry, we already knew all the angles.
Now and again, I like to think back on those carefree days. If you ask my favorite memory, well, it would have to be that snowy Christmas morning when I was about 8. I was hanging around under the window of the town miser when he suddenly threw open his window and asked if I had seen the goose in the A&P window. I said yes, and I knew the butcher had gotten in trouble for it, too. But the miser said that sleeping on a goose-feather pillow always made him feel down.
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