The biggest news in my world today is that C.C. Sabatha, the stud Cleveland Indians pitcher has decided that this will be his last year with the tribe. He can make more money elsewhere and so elsewhere is where he will go. My guess will be to the Los Angeles Dodgers since he is from California. My hope is that the Indians will entertain trade offers ala the Johann Santana deal and perhaps get a big bat in return. This is no surprise to anyone in this part of the country I am sure, just a fact of life. The athletes will follow the money.

On a far less real subject, I wanted to repost this first of a series of three stories I wrote a number of years ago. I enjoyed writing them because it contains elements of conjecture and whimsey. It is not very long, so take a read.

AUGUSTUS AND WINSTON
CONVERSATIONS:
THE INTRODUCTIONS


A Surreal conversation takes place between two unlikely participants.


The man, Augustus Robert Clary has grown old, and tired. The world outside this room no longer matters to him. His strength has been failing, so just turning on his side unassisted is an accomplishment of which he feels considerable pride. He peers through rheumy, nearsighted eyes at the stack of books sitting on his bedside table, and manages a smile as if again seeing old friends. They remind him of a time when he wasn’t riddled with sickness, one damn thing after another. Life is wonderful, he thought, and his had been, but the end sometimes can be hard when your strength has gone and turning from side to side becomes almost impossible. Your once vibrant body diminished to the degree that death is welcomed with open arms. He thought of death often now, in just that way. But like everything in life, death will happen when it happens, and who knows, he thinks, maybe he’ll cheat the collector of souls once again. He closes his eyes to rest a moment from the effort expended turning his worthless body in this direction. Oh how wonderful, and agile, and strong his body once was, he thought with a sad smile. But not being a bitter man and knowing he had gotten all a person could expect from a body designed to house a soul for seventy-four years, he felt fortunate that it had given him that, and ten more for good measure. And his brain, that wonderful organ that houses your ability to reason, and stores knowledge and memories, those wonderful memories, had continued to function well. That is until just recently, it seems, when a strange and wonderful thing occurred.

On a night several weeks ago, the house was silent and still, except for the occasional unidentifiable sounds that old houses make when the world outside is silent and a listening ear is alert enough to catch it. Unidentifiable it was, but not in a frightening way. The old man had heard these sounds for many years and they were always comforting to him, as they were now. Getting very old is much like being very young in sleep patterns. He dozed more now than he slept, and he tossed and turned, as he was doing this night. As he turned once again to his right side facing the omnipresent stack of books on the nightstand, he was aware of what seemed like two rays of light atop the stack. His eyesight, which had never been good uncorrected, and now with the aging process taking it’s toll, images were not always bright and clear to him. He blinked his eyes a time or two and looked again. The rays of light were still there and he was able to recognize them as eyes, glowing eyes. Now why he was not scared out of his wits, he never knew, but he suspected that since he was not always lucid now, and he knew it, that perhaps this was one of those times and he was imagining things or events that were not real. Whatever the case, he stared back at the two glowing eyes, and whispered “Hello there”, in the direction of the eyes. The bravado or stupidity of the act never occurred to him as he spoke the words, so he was not overly surprised when the glowing eyes answered back, “Hello to you too, my friend.” The old man gave a start, but then relaxed and stared until his eyesight seemed to clear and he was treated to the sight of two big ears, a pointed snout, long whiskers and a long tail. It was a mouse, he thought, not a regular mouse, but a mouse wearing horn-rimmed glasses. A sight to make an old man smile, and he did. There he sat, atop the stack of books as calm as could be. Not scared or skittish, but calm and collected, waiting politely, it seemed, for the old man to speak.

“I suppose I’m off on some drug induced trip, but it’s good to see you, Mr. Whatever your name is,” the old man said, as he looked askance at the mouse standing on the pile of books.

“Well, quite the contrary”, answered the mouse, “in fact your eyes are quite clear, and I believe all your mental faculties are functioning well for a man of your age”.

The old man was astounded by the mouse’s vocabulary and mentioned that to him. The mouse acknowledged that his vocabulary was superior to most mice, but he had spent many years acquiring his knowledge from well-known colleges in the mouse world and by constant reading.

“My name, by the way, is Winston James Cartier. You may call me Winston.”

The old man was impressed with the name, and it fitted him nicely. He seemed, to the old man, to be a mentally superior mouse indeed, to say the least.

“Thanks Winston, I shall. By the way my name is Augustus Robert Clary. You can call me Gus, if you prefer.” He said as a way of contrasting Winston’s option of correctness in his name preference. But if Winston took it as a reproach, the old man never knew as he smiled and nodded.

“Well Gus”, Winston said, “seems you’re a little depressed these days. Of course, I’m sure you feel that life has pitched you a hard inside fast ball, but you are of an advanced human age as you know.”

“No, to the contrary Winston, I don’t feel as if I’ve taken a cruel blow, I know I’m dying”, he paused for a brief second or two, “it’s just that dying is such a lonely road to go down.” Winston thought he was through speaking, but the old man started up again as if awakening from a deep thought. “We humans”, he began, “have many, many books available on the subject of dying, so we should be prepared, and we are, to a point, I believe, but it’s a road you must go down alone. It’s not fair to try and take loved ones too close to the path with you. They’ll have their time and once is enough.”

Winston mused that over for a while, then decided not to comment and asked instead, “Tell me about the women in your life Gus”.

Gus was surprised at such a request. “Wait a minute Winston, what the heck are you asking?”

‘No really,” Winston repeated, “I want to know more about you. Come on, you can clean up any parts you’d like,” he said with a smile.

Gus looked at Winston for a moment, “There was really only one woman in my life. I met her young, and kept her for sixty years. She gave me children, with a little help from me, of course, and we had fun in the creation process. I was never lonely when she was around, not for one minute. We talked and talked for sixty years. I wonder how any two people could have that much to say to each other. Oh, I really miss her,” he said and sighed, “but those were good years with a few being better than others”. He stopped and just gazed at Winston.

“I’ve never married,” Winston said, “but I would imagine that you gave each other purpose and direction in this life, is that not true?”

“Well, sure that’s true.” Gus answered.

“And now you feel that you have no purpose, no reason for carrying on, isn’t that right?” Winston responded.

“Good try my little mouse friend, but you don’t win a silver dollar for that one. Yes, I miss her terribly, every day, and I have no doubt I’ll see her again when I leave this life. But time is relative as you certainly know, and I’m certainly not trying to end this life any sooner than is necessary. I’ll wait. If it’s tomorrow, that’s good, if it’s a year from now, that’ll be okay too.” Gus relaxed, and paused a few seconds, then said in a questioning tone, “No, I’m anxious and ready for the gathering above, but what I’m not too sure of is how forgiving St. Peter at the gates will be. I have not lived a saintly life, and at times I have been too human, with all the foibles that entails. I’m not Catholic, so I don’t believe in purgatory, but even so, I don’t think I’m in for a free pass through the gates.”

Winston gazed at Gus with a condescending look over the tops of his glasses, “I have it on good authority that many theologians of different faiths believe that God is an all forgiving God, thus your admittance is assured.”

“I wish with all my heart that I could believe that in its entirety, but being human for all these many years, I know that we must take responsibility for our actions, and sooner or later we must pay the piper. Sorry for the metaphor. I suppose in the scheme of things, my sins might be a little less than some others, but who’s to know. Among our contemporaries the same sin today is probably less a sin than it was when I was young, but my brain cannot make that ninety or one hundred eighty degree turn on the judgment scale.”

Winston, in a consolatory tone of voice answered, “Agustus, my belief is that it is a matter of intent. When you sinned did you intend to sin?”

“Well no, it was not my intention to sin, but I knew the difference. I knew I was crossing over from right to wrong. I knew my sin would be hurtful to the other person, but I went right ahead anyway. But as in the old children’s story Pinocchio, I was blessed or cursed with a conscience as hard on me as Jiminy Cricket was on poor Pinocchio. I have felt contrition for my sins all my long life. But is that really enough to minimize the damage caused by me? I’m not sure of the extent of any damage I may have caused, or even if there was any, but regardless, whatever damage there was or is rests with me. Is there a statute of limitations on sin? I don’t think so.”

“Mister Augustus Robert Clary, I must say I am much impressed with you. I could regale you with a hundred platitudes and a hundred psychological theories, but I think you have it about figured out. Your theory of walking this earth and enjoying the fruits of your labors, but also bearing responsibility for your deeds and misdeeds are indeed commendable. I salute you and believe you are a good man. I could say what I believe will happen to you in the next world, but I think you know better than all of us. I have to go now Augustus, it’s getting toward dawn and if your caretaker were to see me, she would more than likely treat me rudely, so I will take my leave now and wish you well.”

Winston turned to go, then turned back again, “I believe, Mr. Clary, that the chances of you still being on this earth tonight are approximately seven to three according to all indicators I have studied in the medical books I have access to.”

He smiled then and turning away for the last time, looked over his shoulder. “If you are here tonight as I believe you will be, I would like to chat with you some more. Perhaps I can learn something I don’t know, however I doubt it.” Winston gave a quick smile, did a beautiful about face and walked jauntily away.


To be continued.

Looking out my window this morning I can tell it is cold, very cold. The sun is visiting for just a short while I'm sure, making the snow on the roof tops glisten brightly, and the snow on the ground is showing shadows of the black trees in elongated patterns. Tomorrows weather forecast says our low is going to be in single digits.

But today is the 14th day of February, Valentines Day actually, but also it is the day that pitchers and catchers report to all the major league training camps to start limbering up for a couple weeks before the rest of the team shows up and spring training gets under way in full force. It's the day baseball fans have been waiting for.

Yes, we've had football, college and professional, basketball, college and professional, and for those in more northern climes hockey also. But for dedicated fans there is no sport you can get your teeth into better than baseball. So for the next eight months we will dedicate some time each and every day to the health and well being of our chosen band of well paid brothers. We will rise with their successes and mutter over their failures hoping that when all the eliminating of lesser teams is accomplished that our chosen band will be standing tall and proud on that glorious day in October.

But for baseball fans of my age, who have watched many season, there was that wonderful time when we were part of the great game albeit in a little less grandness.

Millions of boys my age who spent a good deal of time growing up in post WWII America, in newly built housing projects, remember the empty spaces where houses had not yet been built, spaces just exactly the right size to accommodate sandlot baseball. Sandlot baseball, that wonderful game that fielded teams of little boys, big boys, in between sized boys, and the occasional girl who had the grit to get herself a little dirty and a little grass stained. Talent was not required, but a desire to play the game was. Equipment was ragtag, uniforms, of course not. It was going to be a great game if the game ball was still stitched up. Some of us never knew that baseballs were supposed to be white.

Games started whenever we could get together five or so for each team, games ended when one or more parents would open their front doors and yell for the pitcher, or first basemen to come home to supper.

Statistics or game notes were never kept, except in our hearts. They must have been written in the same ink that valentines are made from, because when this time of year, spring training, arrives the memories arrive with that picture in our hearts of those dusty days when our biggest fear was that the ball would unravel before the game was ended. I remember, I smile to myself knowing the ball has not completely unraveled yet.

I don't know about you, but I've been caught up in this cycles presidential race. I find that I am really enjoying the political shows, as the hosts and their guests get caught up in the excitement.

It's a little different this time around with the conservative radio hosts, Limbaugh, Beck and the newspaper conservatives ranting and raving but to no avail when it comes to the voters. It seems that they have come upon a disconnect with the thoughts of most of the voters, at least for this cycle, which of course, is the direct result of the Bush failed presidency and the desire for change with a big C.

I also am finding it exciting that the participants are finding a way to be civil and talk about the issues for a change, except of course for Hillary's husband there in S. Carolina. But she seems to have found a way to muzzle him, at least for a while. That too seems rather odd, him being the political animal that he is and the reaction from the voters to knock it off. I don't know how long the civility can last, but at least for now I really appreciate it.

Since we learn best from good examples, perhaps we can reacquaint ourselves with what civility means, or at least until it gets toward the end and the ends become more important than the means. But I hope not.

I have become an Ipod user and it helps me keep up with many of the political shows and columns. Some of the shows I load up with and watch at my leisure are Bill Moyers journal, Keith Olberman, Chris Matthews Hardball show, Slate magazines look at Todays newspapers, and a show that I have watched on television since it first started quite a while ago, and then lost track of it, but have rediscovered is The McLaughlin Group. It covers the events of the week with just enough nonsense and yelling to make it interesting. One of the original panelist and still hanging in there is Eleanor Clift. She gets my award for grit and she has plenty of it, but has to overcome a female voice with less volume when she is vying for attention from John the host while all the men talking at once try to out yell each other. It's a fun half hour.

Is the Iraq war over? Did we win? Can we go home now? You say we did win, good. What did we win? You say we can't go home, you say we will stay here another 100 years if necessary. Well if we won, could we at least divert some of the oil from there to our country? No we can't? You say we will have to stay and offer all the assistance we can to return the country to its normal state of affairs. What is that? You say our taxes will increase so we can afford the billions needed to fund our presence. You did say we won the war didn't you? Well anyway we must be thought of as heroes by the Iraqis, at least that's something. No, you said, they don't like us and they want us to go home. Well sometime in the next hundred years maybe they will like us, then everything will have been worth it. I am proud of the men and women who have fought this war. I really am proud of the new medals being awarded, the generational medal, for instance. It goes to all the families that have had the husband, the wife, and now their offspring serving in Iraq. I especially like the new commercial on television that shows the family that fights together stays together, it's touching. Well anyway again, at least war is quick and final, it is certainly a better option than talking and talking and talking and talking. I bet if we had just tried diplomacy, and you know what that is, just talk and talk, we would probably still be talking, and......wait a minute, maybe if....no that was just a errant thought I just had, let's get on with the war.

I don't know what to make of Joe Liebermann.

On one hand I applaud his independency, but on the other hand can a politician stand with one foot in each camp?

Is he a man of character or a man who is acting out of spite because the Democrats did not claim him as theirs in the last general election? He ran as an independent and won providing him with the proper props I would think to go his independent way, and I like that.

On the other hand how can he caucus with the Democrats and then turn around and endorse the Republican for president?

Evidently the Democrats have made up their minds and have stripped him of his super delegate status for the Democratic convention, which seems right to me.

So on the left side of my brain I say that the Democrats should read him out of the party. On the other hand I say Joe Liebermann is what most of us strive to be, an independent man, beholden to no one, but willing to take the consequences of that path.

Should Joe Liebermann be a chapter in Profiles in Courage, or be made to shorten his current title from Independent Democrat to plain Independent. That's not all bad is it?

Hello puzzle fans. This puzzle was sent to me by my 'cousin-in-law'. No such thing you say, yeah you're right so then I will say it was sent to me by Fred.

It asks the question: what 9 letter english word when you remove one letter at a time is another word until you have removed all the letters?

Thanks Fred. Take a look it only takes a couple minutes to watch the answer on a little film.

http://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=1&attid=0.1&disp=attd&view=att&th=117ef5d21639f7dc

It seems that the way skewed to the right-righties of the Republican party are ganging up on the possible candidacy of John McCain. But if I were to vote Republican in the fall, even if I was not too enamored with McCain, this notorious threesome would almost make me vote for him anyway.

Why? Well he must be doing something right if he has a group so animately against him that include Rush Limbaugh, Ann Coulter, and Tom Delay. Can you think of a worse bunch of idealogues, non-objective, and in the latter example, a little crooked bunch of people.

Brains and Aging.

I read this article about my shrinking brain. It repeats the old saying, "use it or lose it". This time they're talking about us older folks.

I hope their recommendation on holding off this dire happening is true. They're saying we should with some diligence I presume start, if you're not already doing it, working crosswords and other brain teasing games. They help it says.

Also exercise of the more athletic kind is recommended. Our brains really do shrink and if I read it right, keeping it busy will hold off the onset of Alzheimer's by as much as five years, if it's in fact in the cards that we are going to be struck with it.

Crosswords I have been doing for years, but I've been doing it just for the fun of it. I wonder if it will lessen the fun now that I know I am doing it in part because it's a doctors recommendation? Nah, I'm not stupid, at least not yet.

Read the article: http://health.usnews.com/articles/health/brain-and-behavior/2008/01/31/keeping-your-brain-fit_print.htm

Kinda, sorta, good news for the Cleveland Indians came out of New York. The Mets just agreed to pay Johann Santana, a really good pitcher about 21 million dollars a year for seven years.

Why is this good news kinda, sorta for the Cleveland Indians?

Well they just happen to have the reigning Cy Young winner Charles Carsten Sabathia, CC for those outside of Cleveland, who is in exactly the same situation Santana is or was. He is going into his last year with Cleveland before going into free agency in 2009. The Indians are facing the dilemma of having a limited bankroll for salaries and losing him after this season to better financed ballclubs. So according to what I have read, the Indians have offered CC, or more correctly his agent, 20 million a year for five years, the most the Indians have ever offered to pay anyone in their history.

The good news? That's pretty close to the 21 million Santana is going to get, but two years shorter for the length of the contract. So should Cleveland be jubilent that it's even this close? and maybe they have a chance to sign him?

Cleveland fans do not have good memories of these contract talks and their stars going to free agency. The most recent star to walk for a few dimes more was Jim Thome, the one all of Ohio thought would certainly stay with the team who made him a star, but alas as with Manny Ramerez who also walked, so did the big Jimbo.

But hope springs eternal and since there's only one million dollars difference, what's one million between friends, mere chump change baseball style. But CC will probably want to have the seven years also and most teams do not want to sign pitchers to very long contracts. The Indians being one of many teams to get burned doing that, but today is another day and the Indians are on the upswing so maybe, just maybe they will open up the Jack Benny vault and taker another chance for the fans of Ohio, including me.

Well Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow. The legend is if he sees his shadow then we will have six more weeks of winter. I ventured out yesterday myself and I can report that I did not see my shadow. As the matter of fact I think it may have been one of the ugliest days, weather wise, I've wallowed around in this winter. It was one of those days if a film maker were making a film about the travails of a rustbelt town he would have rejoiced because nature was providing all the necessary elements to provide the setting. The streets were wet with a little snow and the sun was invisible. I knew it was up there somewhere under all the dark clouds. The air we breathed was clear, but cold, cold, cold. When we emerged from Barnes and Nobel after about a half hour visit, we had to walk very carefully to our car because the lot had turned to ice. The streets likewise were turning to ice and the city trucks were out throwing salt again. All in all, I don't think I needed a report by the venerable Phil of Pennsylvania that winter is now yet over, I know, I know.

Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature-- the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.- Rachel Carson

When I was younger it seemed to behoove me to gripe about winter and it's many uncomfortable facets. But as I've grown older my opinion of the season has changed. I even enjoy walking in the snow on those frigid days when the snow underfoot squeeks from the extreme cold. I even find a perverse sort of joy in the coldness of my automobile as I'm waiting for the engine to warm up and generate enough heat for the heater to work it's slow but certain magic before I reach my destination.

It's the certainty of change that is appealling to me. When the season seems to become intolerable, it will change. The most wonderful of all the seasons will be upon us in a little over two months. That season of renewal, in the reawakening of nature, the expanding of our world so to speak. We will start all over again the attempt to harness our little portion of the world into what we perceive as the perfect lawn or garden, and begin our battle that I personally seldom win with the noxious weeds. It's a battle I am prepared to lose, but for a while the battle is joined, me against nature, until, of course, nature wins. It's preordained.

While I spin my wheels in that annual battle I will have the game to spend my evenings with. The game? Baseball of course.

My wife will devote much of her time to growing the perfect tomato, and planting the latest show flower in her never-ending quest for the final piece of the flowergarden. It won't be the best because that would end the quest, the experimenting, the fun of it all. After all that's what it's all about, isn't it?

A couple columns in the current issue of Newsweek cause me concern. The first is the column of Fareed Zakaria World View. I remember Zakaria on the ABC Sunday morning show and was impressed then with his intelligence. Today's column is a little unsettling to say the least. I certainly won't say I understand all of it, but I do get the gist of it, enough to worry.

It explains that American profits are growing extremely slow in the USA, but surging by 15 to 20 percent abroad. Markets in China, India, Brazil continue to grow. These countries do not want us to fail so they lend us money. Our dollar keeps falling and our goods can sell for cheaper prices in other countries.

The oil rich countries are getting richer and more independent of the US. Bush went hat in hand to Saudi Arabia and asked them to lower the price of oil. He was brushed off by the oil minister.
Zakaria makes the blunt statement: The United States is in the beginning of a period of relative decline. This is not defeatism, it's math.

All of our presidents and candidates throw the bull in their speeches that we must become energy independent, but never do anything about it. Perhaps the time is now to see what our candidates really have up their sleeve in the way of a plan, before it's too late for us.

ALSO, in the Anna Quindlen column THE LAST WORD, she is asking the question, How Old is too Old? referring to John McCain. It's a valid question. But she makes a statement that McCain on the campaign trail answering a boys question about perhaps he was too old to run for president this way: "Thanks for the question you little jerk".

Ouch.

One thing that really galls me is what just happened between McCain and Romney. They hurl the worst epithet they can think of at each other, they called each other Liberal.

If you listen to these guys you'd think anyone other than them should wear a big red L on their chest. I cringe when I hear it. Especially when I hear it from McCain. What it brings to my mind is that they are becoming world class panderers, pandering for the conservative rights blessing.

McCain now labels himself a proud conservative. He's never been conservative enough for those he now panders for their approval. He has always been a moderate Republican, a vanishing breed for sure. I have always liked moderate Republicans, there have been some great ones in the past before it became a part of the Republican presidential litmus test to have to run the gauntlet of acceptability, acceptability from the conservative right that is. To become a first class panderer.

It makes me sick to see McCain doing what he is doing because he finds it necessary if he wants to win the nomination. He is a proud man, sometimes a flinty hard man, but never a panderer until now.

It's getting to that time of winter where I begin to get a little antsy waiting for Spring to arrive. According to my Baseball spring training countdown widget, it is 29 days until it begins; the spring thaw has not yet arrived, in fact the worst is yet to come with Febrary being the cruelest month in our winters with March always waiting, or lurking is a better word with a surprise or two in the way of snowstorms.

So it is time for we natives of the midwest to sit back again and dream a little of our favorite summer places. For me one of those is a walking and/or biking path that runs between Mt. Vernon Ohio and Kenyon college in Gambier. The small river called Kokosing runs beside the wooded path that meanders through hillsides and over one-time railroad trestles and bridges. Deer can be seen from time to time appearing from the wooded hillside investigating we humans and then turning and scampering back into the woods. The walk is not too long, about three to four miles one way, but in the serene and peaceful surroundings in the beautiful springs we are blessed with and/or the brisk fall months it cannot be surpassed.

So for a little while longer I will think back on those times and dream of the times ahead when we can again walk and talk over our past and future. It's a wonderful setting in which to put everything into perspective or maybe nudging a little into the wishful kind of talk. But anyway my partner of these fifty-two years will be able to again walk the path, at least an abbreviated portion of it, as she has a surgically mended knee ready for a test drive on the walk.

I can't wait.

I received permission from Jim Kunstler to run his essay on the economy here on the Reader. You can find more of his stuff at www.kunstler.com

I run it because I too believe that we are on the verge of a huge calamity. Understanding is the first step in repairing the damage so read on.

Fullblown Panic

January 21, 2008

Knees knocked last week from sea to shining sea as the shape-shifting monster of economic reality cut a swathe of destruction through the markets and financial ranks. The exact nature of this giant beast still remained largely concealed in a fog of accounting gambits, policy blusters, and reporting dodges, but a few intrepid scouts who glimpsed the behemoth up close said it looked like Godzilla with Herbert Hoover's face.

George W. Bush, tried to appease the beast by offering each American adult the dollar equivalent of half a month's mortgage payment -- with the exhortation to drive forthwith to the nearest WalMart and blow it on salad shooters and plasma TV's -- but Hooverzilla just laughed at the offering and pounded the equity markets further into the dust of loss, while the "bank-like" guardians of wealth lay in the drainage ditches bleeding from their ears and eyes.

My favorite moment was seeing Treasury Secretary Paulson and one of his fellow shaved-head deputies at a press conference rostrum frantically trying to calm the news media rabble like a couple of extraplanetary high priests from a Star Trek episode -- the batteries having run down in their laser wands, and their incantations ("liquidity! liquidity!) veering into mystifying glossolalia.

I resort to such admitted extreme hyperbole because it may be the only language that an infotainment-drunk society can still process in the face of an epochal calamity that will transform the lush terms of everyday life as we've known it into something like a bleak surrealist landscape in the manner of Tanguy. That crashing sound out there is the armature of confidence needed to support an economy based on faith that borrowed money will be paid back. It's as simple as that. (Doesn't seem so exciting now, does it?)

The United States is so broke, its people at every level from the Federal Reserve on down don't know whether to shit or go blind. The homeowners cringing in the media rooms of their 5000-square-foot personal family resorts don't know how long they can stay put microwaving pepperoni hot pockets with the default clock ticking. The mortgage "servicers" don't know how they will persuade interested parties like, say, the Illinois State Cafeteria Workers' Pension Fund (holder of X-amount of mortgage-backed securities underwritten by, say, Merrill Lynch or Deutsche Bank) to foreclose on properties scattered everywhere from Key West to Bainbridge Island -- or if there is actually any legal mechanism known to man that would make it possible to "work out" the sliced-and-diced collateral. The millions of maxed-out credit card holders and the issuers of their plastic are stuck together paddling a leaky tub in a sea of troubles every bit as wide, deep, and polluted as the one the mortgage junkies and their enablers are sinking in. The developers of malls, office parks, and power centers are weeping into their filing cabinets as the harsh daylight of insolvency stops the orgy of "consumption" and the retail tenants pack up their unsellable goodies for the liquidators, and the rent checks stop arriving in the mail, and the notes on this mall and that mall enter the eerie realm of "non-performance." And, of course, there are the genius wonder boyz and Wall Street playerz whose algorithms and turpitudes underwrote the script of this horror show -- for all I know they'll end up laughing into sugary skull drinks on a beach in the Cayman Islands, or doing Chinese fire drills in federal prison (or simply ass-fucked on the granite countertops of their Tribecca aeries by mobs of angry, repossessed, swindled former American dreamers pouring into Manhattan from the tract house dormitories of New Jersey and Long Island).

There's a lot to be concerned about out there. I don't mean to be too cute about it. But, as the master once said, nothing is funnier than unhappiness.

A whole closet full of "other shoes" is now waiting to be dropped. Surely the biggest clodhoppers in the closet belong to the hedge funds, representing trillions and trillions of dollar-denominated "positions" which, however hallucinatory, had previously yielded enough real "money" year-by-year to keep all the realtors and Humvee dealers in the Hamptons goose-stepping to Goldman Sachs's drumbeat. These "positions" can't help now from moving into counterparty crisis territory, especially as the bond insurers such as MBIA and Ambac go up in a vapor, and if that happens the damage could be so colossal globally that Stephen Hawking might have to be brought in to run the Federal Reserve.

This is going to be a rough week. Fastening your seat belts may not be enough for this ride. Better superglue yourselves to the floorboards and pray for God's mercy.
January 21, 2008 in Commentary on Current Events Permalink

This picture which appeared in http://shorpy.com (a great site if you've never been there) was taken in 1939. The comments on the site from viewers of the picture reminisced about building things with the Erector set, and also with Tinkertoys.

I had both toys and also Lincoln logs, another building toy. I never was then or in later life very handy with my hands like some of the viewers of the picture, but I enjoyed making whatever I could.

This toy and the others I mentioned are indicative of what we played with in those days. We had to use our imaginations a lot of the time, even though I was a dunce in the 'building trade', I remember spending many enjoyable hours.

Also notice the kids shoes, hard oxfords and not the sneakers of today.

I scanned an article in the latest issue of Harpers that asked the question, do we read as much as we used to? As I recall the article they say American reading topped out at around 1950, and from there on it has gone downward.

I myself don't read as much as I used to for a very good reason. We have added the Internet into our lives, and also have benefited from the invention of the remote control for our televisions. Both of which have added to our impatience in reading, and watching. We seem to want our entertainment and news in chunks, or as they call them news bites. Books take an investment of time and endurance. I read somewhere recently that reading a book is getting into the authors head, his thinking.

What is more beneficial to me, the book or the fast Internet and/or channel switching. Who knows. Not me that's for sure. I like them all a lot. I still love reading as much as I ever have, I just have to allot time in the late evening or in bed before I fall asleep to read. It takes me longer to read a book and I am surely more selective in my choices. I thank God for having a great library nearby.

Whichever you choose as your favorite delivery system of information you will be better off than you would be if you did not take advantage of any of them.

Did you watch any of the debate last night in South Carolina? I watched some of it, and they really went at it and each other. Have you decided on whom you would vote for? I really don't know who I will select. One good thing is there is no one I really dislike. I like all three of the democrats and a couple of the republicans. Huckabee is the most likeable to me, but we don't really pick a president that is most likeable, do we? If we select Hillary, what will they do with ex prez Bill? He won't go home, wherever that is. But we will get two for the price of one. I like Obama because I really think he is the one that can most claim the term change. I also like Edwards because I am from a blue collar family and he most espouses the working mans concerns. McCain is running his last campaign and I like him also, except perhaps he wants to extend the war for a hundred more years if necessary. I don't know how much of that is hyperbole, but I worry about it. Romney is the one I know least about, other than he is a successful business man and uber successful at whatever he does. I don't really worry about his religious affliliations. Do you? I though John Kennedy put that to rest when he made his speech about religion in the sixties.

I just purchased a new computer. That's the easy part. Now I must ponder the right way to transfer what I want from the old into the new. There is the old fashioned way I guess, pick and choose what to transfer, but that seems like it would take a very long time. Then there is something called Windows Easy Transfer. It seems like I have to purchase a specific cable and attach the old computer to the new computer, pick what I want to transfer from a menu of sorts, and let it fly. There is the expense of the cable, but this seems like the way to do it. It transfers email, bookmarks, and all the other stuff in a pretty short time, it says.

I'm excited about the new machine, it has a 500 GB hard drive, and this is going to be great, a 2GB memory. I currently have a 256MB ram. I should be able to see the difference in the response quite handily I think. Oh and a 20" flat screen, is that cool or what.

It won't get here for a few more days, so the wife and I have time to plan our change-over so hopefully it all gets done expeditiously and correctly the first time. If that happens it would be the first time everything went exactly as planned, but why not, maybe this will be that time.

After all the money spent, is there still no clear choice?

We here in the midwest are in the dog days of winter. It snows each day now and the temperatures are downright brutal. It's great days for the skiers in the area, they get to slide on the real stuff not the machine made kind of snow, but they must love it because when you're moving down that hill at a pretty good speed and the cold temperatures are enhanced by the wind factor it is reallllly cold. Not for me, but bless the skiers.

For me it is crank up the snow blower and clear my drive way time and then back in the warm house and into a book, or perhaps, or probably onto the computer. A nice, hot cup of new brewed coffee would hit the spot, and depending if I am dieting or not, a dessert of choice would be the topper.

Today is the Iowa caucus day, so that will be interesting later on tonight to listen to the talking heads trying to make sense out of what just occurred. If the pundits are right the day will end up with the top tier of candidates bunched together. Now isn't that a heck of a thing. After spending twenty six kajillion bucks they're just where they started, still trying to convince the people of Iowa this time, the rest of us later, that they each have the magic to lead us unscathed through the days ahead. I guess it's still a work in progress.

The goodwife is reminding me that she would like me to accompany her on a shopping trip. She has several gift certificates, now called gift cards, to redeem. I will of course because I like to make the goodwife happy and also it's a fifty-fifty chance that I might run across a place to relax and partake of a nice cup of coffee and a carefully selected yummy confection. So until next time from the heart of the country, have a safe and healthy day.

ELECTION CHOICE

Well it's only about three hundred days until we make our decision about who will guide us through the next four years. Iowans are about to line up at the first primary, they call it a caucus, of the election year.

I have no idea yet who I would like to see get inaugurated next January, but I have a few people who I think are better qualifed. My favorite democrat is Joe Biden.

He has about as much of a chance as Ron Paul does, but I have seen him on innumerable talk shows on Sundays and he always is well informed about foreign affairs. He has years of experience and when moderators pull out their video tapes to check them against what Biden has said on a subject, he more often than not is on target with his evaluations. That is very important to me.

He knows all the players since he's been around so long. But his poll numbers have never exceeded single digits I don't believe. He's smart, also important. He may expound too long on a subject, but maybe he has a lot to say.

Whatever, as Roseann Roseann a dana the character on laugh-in used to say, he's the one I would like to see win, but maybe I will have to get a second choice ready. I certainly have enough time to think on it.

A New Year, A New Attitude


A new year, a clean slate, a time for personal renewal of the spirit, of the mind, we've heard it all before.

But from the old guys mouth to younger ears hear this. You only have one life to live so you better start enjoying this one, and a new calendar year is the time to do it, anytime is the time to do it.

What I speak of is attitude. It is the one thing you can change. It doesn't cost anything, you are the complete controller of your mind so you can't wait for someone else to do it for you, it's all up to you.


The old guy knows from experience that you have two ways to go. One, you can grumble about the hand you were dealt, my job stinks, everybody has more toys than I do, the list could go on forever, and it will make each day of your life a burden to bear.

On the other hand you can lighten the load by remembering that we personally cannot change much of what happens in our daily lives, what will be, will be. But we can change ourselves. Stop taking the worlds problems on your back, you didn't make them happen, and you can't do much of anything about them, so lighten up, if we can get through eight years of Mr. Bush..sorry that's a lame joke but you get the idea.

I personally know you can change your attitude and when you do each day will be happier, the rest of your life will be happier and it is a short life so start yesterday. It's easy, no cost, and your spouse and fellow workers will love you for it. Really.

COFFEE

I'm not a gourmet, nor even a cook. I seldom ever have to cook anything as my wife holds down that job just fine. So for me to be writing anything about food is surprising even to me. But equally surprising to me is that I have developed this craving for coffee (again) after all these years. Sometime many years ago I became turned off on coffee of all kinds for no good reason.
Then came the Starbucks type of coffee which seemed to me to be too much trouble or indeed expense.
Untill recently that is I switched from tea to coffee, satisfied but not completely. I used to drink it black, but this time I took a liking to the coffee creamers ala coffee-mate. But still it was still not right. I took a trip to a coffee shop and bought a few different blends. I seem to have a taste for cinnamon in my blend. Since I settled on Snickerdoodle a blend of columbian coffee and cinnamon and another blend they have called Stickybun. Then I saw on television a commercial for ground coffee put out by Dunkin Doughnuts and happened to run across it in our supermarket. We picked up a pound.
Shaazamm, is that ever good. It's good even without using it as a chaser for the doughnuts. I have tried several pots of this stuff and it is the real thing.
Today my wife came across a post from WebMD saying that now they think coffee is good for you. Can you believe it. It's a marriage of my tastebuds coupling with something that's good for me.

http://www.webmd.com/video/truth-about-coffee?ecd=wnl_wnb_122707

HERE IS THE CLICKABLE FROM WEBMD.

Back in an old version of THE PUBLIC READER, I had a regular contributor named Jerry Vilhotti who supplied me with stories combining Greek gods or was it Roman gods, and baseball. I really liked them, some I must confess I didn't understand, but Jerry does and I enjoy them regardless. Jerry has sent me a new one hot off the Vilhotti press. Again I don't understand it all, but I still enjoy them. Perhaps he will send some of his baseball and the gods poems to me again. I will post them from time to time if he does.

FROM STONES TO STYX
By Jerry Vilhotti

Almost all the Greek gods thought that Elysium was not located in the Underworld
but on Gaea's once pristine earth in such playing pastures called " Youse
Bums","Aolean Winds" , "Where Polo Horses Frolicked", "Ruth's
House Moved to Hudson River Paid by Barnum's suckers", Black Sox Shoeless
Joe Stadium, Goat Jinx Field, El Busto The Decider's Red Neck Stadium, Endrun River Grounds, Al Burton's Eating Factory Stadium and "The Green Monster" where Zeus found his beloved
Bambino, whose favorite song was "Deep Purple" which he sang to the many
prostitutes he was Zeusing in all the eight towns and suburbs in the junior circuit,
only to have him sold away for a Broadway play entitled "Calla da Moodanda Nanette"
that so angered the great god, beaner of his father Kronus freeing his brothers and sisters
inside the big man's stomach, that he put a curse on the
Beantowners - not allowing them to win another World Serious for many many years
in this thing stolen from mortals who once dyed their bodies blue and then became colluders
with colonies and founding fathers - who owned slaves - that once were part of their
caste empire drowning in the River Styx.

Written by Jerry Vilhotti

Well it's here, Christmas Day. The day when I was a kid that topped my social calendar, a day of much happiness. Enjoy the day, the new toys, the great food, worry about the extra pounds this season has piled on tomorrow.

Those who look in on The Public Reader from time to time know that I really am a fan of the INTERNET. Like anything that is open to anyone who has a gripe we sometimes have to endure complete claptrap. On the other hand there is an awful lot of really good stuff. One example is THE THOMAS JEFFERSON HOUR. The actor historian Clay Jacobson is interviewed in character as Mr. Jefferson for an hour on many topics. I believe they have produced over six hundred shows so that's a lot of subjects so far. I have it on my Ipod, but I also have it on my personal homepage. Since it is an audio production I find it convienient to start it out and minimize it. I can browse and listen to Mr. Jefferson expound. The best of both worlds. I recommend the show. http://www.jeffersonhour.org

I wish to make a confession. A confession designed to be read by grandchildren I have and those yet to be born who will not know me other than the grandpa who lives in Ohio.

I would like them at least to know that I too was a child once and the excitment of this season now upon us was almost too much for me to bear. I was an only child, I had no brothers or sisters. I guess my mother decided after having me that she could do no better or, and this is more likely, she said, Oh no I'll have no part in bringing another one like him into the world.

I liked it. If I ever thought about it, it didn't take me long to decide that I was absolutely happy being an only. The one thing it allowed me to do was let my imagination soar free. With a brother or sister I would have been criticized for being stupid, or a dreamer.

So I could let my imagination fly, and around Christmas time, I sure did. I loved the holidays from Thanksgiving through Christmas. I would get so excited on Thanksgiving that for years I would get sick on the big eating holiday. But I quickly recovered and started carefully preparing my gift list for Santa Claus. Advantage for the only child. Unless you asked for something really dumb, like a real airplane, or a horse, you get the idea, I had a pretty good chance of hitting the jackpot.

Now here we get into some sticky territory. I was a true believer when it came to the legend of Santa Claus. But just in case I had gotten some faulty information I tried to cut my losses and would tell my mom what I had asked Santa for.

Now I am going to tell you a secret. A secret that only Grandma Hazel knows. On a Christmas eve night, I was trying very hard to fall asleep so the morning would arrive, and I could get to the serious business of gift receiving. Kids at the age I was had not yet learned that the idea of the season was to foster the exchange of gifts which originated with the Magi's bringing gifts to the newborn Jesus. But like most all the children in the world I was not into that part of the season yet. That came later in life, but at least it came.

It was late and it was a Christmas card night, it had snowed, but the night was clear with the moon and stars bright against a black December sky, as I got out of bed once again. I was not allowed to leave my room on Christmas eve after I was sent to bed, so I got up to get a book when I glanced out of the window and couldn't believe what I saw. I saw in the distant sky the familiar scene emblazoned upon millions of children's minds, Santa Claus and his reindeers high in the black star bright night flying away toward the full moon. I don't remember what I thought or did, except I never told anyone before except Grandma Hazel and now you our grandchildren.

I never knew why I was allowed to see this magical person, most kids don't you know. Perhaps it was because children and grandparents share a common experience, the experience of discovery. The discovery that there are things out there that we don't exactly understand and maybe never were meant to. Some things just have to be taken on faith. So enjoy the discoveries and have a wonderful and happy life. It will make grandma and grandpa very happy if you do.

I used to love going to my corner store in the forties, and buying one of these out of an ice filled, no coin slot pop machine and use it to wash down a twin pack of Hostess cream filled cupcakes. It's a wonder I still have my own teeth more than a half century later.

I was browsing through e-bay and came across these comic books for sale. The asking price is pretty darn high. If I remember right we bought these off the newsstand for a dime a copy. There are people who kept them I'm sure,but not for future financial windfalls. Certainly not my crowd. Be honest, how many of us ever once thought of money or it's origins? If I wanted something I just asked my Mom and maybe I'd get it or maybe I wouldn't. It usually worked out though.

I would suppose these type of comics would fall under the category of propaganda, but unless the country was planning on version two of the hundred years war, they were banging on the wrong door. I just enjoyed the comics.

Another painting I admire is by Turner. It is called Burial at sea-Peace. It's said to depict the burial at sea of a painter friend of his. The bright light is the nighttime torch from the ship. Turner said his only regret with the painting was he could not paint it blacker.

I received this in my email this morning. The sender knows, of course, that I can afford to own this little beauty but, of course again, am too egalitarian to drive anything so flashy. hahahahahahahaha, joking of course of course of course. But this is really so cool, or should I say sexy? I can't get all the slang straight.

It's time again for a not to be missed moment with Snapples Real Facts:

Did you know that the average raindrop falls at the rate of seven miles per hour.

Did you know that a ten gallon hat holds less than a gallon of liquid.

Did you know that Holland is the only country with a national dog.

More on this amazing fact:

Holland's national dog is the Keeshond, also known as Wolfsspitz (in Germany), Chien Loup (in France), or Lupini (in Italy). Originally, the Keeshond was a watchdog on Dutch canal barges, riverboats, and farms, and it is still often used for this purpose today.

And now you can face the day more assured of your ability to know certain things that your neighbor doesn't. Huh?

It's not often that I am impressed by how the rich live, BUT Aykroyd's view is impressive. Let's see, 7 million, hmmmmm. Maybe if we cut back a little on food and new clothes....



$7 M for Dan Aykroyd's Stunning Manhattan View
Comedian Dan Aykroyd has put his 3,400 square foot apartment on the market in Manhattan. The four-bedroom penthouse occupies the top three floors of a post-war high rise on the Upper East Side. The residence has fireplaces in the living room and master bedroom, a private elevator and a terrace.
• Listing Price: $7,000,000
• Bedrooms: 4
• Bathrooms: 4.5
• Now, Live From the West Coast
• Listing
• Actor Dan Aykroyd lists his triplex penthouse in Manhattan for $7M

This video show film and animation of the attack that day 66 years ago today.

How old are you?

Lord, lord, I didn't realize how old I am. I was born in the year 1937. This little film illustrates what was going on when I was hatched. There were many ominous things happening across the oceans that also changed the world very soon after 1937. Enjoy the show from Youtube and I will try and distance myself from the fact I was born the year they're talking about.

If you play chess, you have to find this funny.

I wrote this a couple years ago but thought I'd recycle it using the enabling excuse that the joke at the end is kind of Christmasy, isn't it?


A song by Gale Garnett starts like this:

We’ll sing in the sunshine

We’ll laugh everyday.

Along with your one a day everyday vitamins, and your slug of orange juice, a great way to start your day is with a dose of good humor. I do believe that in order to get through this life without having a flare up of mental misery, you need to have a sense of humor, and along with that sense of humor an ability to be spontaneous, to be able to adjust when things don’t go according to how you think they should.

Being able to laugh at ourselves is an absolute necessity. The moment in our lives when we discover that we are not very important in the grand scheme of things is an epiphany of sorts and a bitter pill to swallow for some. But in a way it sets us free, free from taking ourselves so very seriously. Free from thinking that every word we might speak is going to be taken down and printed in future history books.
Sorry to tell you, but it’s not I’m afraid. I believe that our words will blow away with the wind we generated saying them. But that’s o.k. It gives us the freedom to speak our minds or any other sort of gibberish we want and not have to worry about it being quoted. It’s a load off of our intellectual reservoir, which for most of us may not be too deep.

So loosen up and read this little joke and enjoy your day.

A group of chess players were standing in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories. After about an hour, the manager came out of the office and asked them to disperse."But why?", they asked, as they moved off."Because," he said, "I can't stand chess nuts boasting in an open foyer."

Today starts the baseball meetings in Nashville.

The general managers meet and try to connect the money to the player. Some players will get much richer today or tomorrow. Baseball fans hope that maybe one or two of the big boppers end up in their teams uniform. My favorite team is among the small market teams so our general manager has to be more circumspect with his owners money.

My favorite team has a good farm system, hence lots of mlb ready prospects that some teams want very badly. So the hope of most teams is that they will have enough money combined perhaps with one or two promising young players to be able to land the big bopper or flamethrowing pitcher that will propel us into the lusted after post season.

This is high excitment time for baseball fans. Our dreams have not yet been dashed by reality which is that only about five teams in all of baseball have the money to shop in this very high priced supermarket. But we in the small market crowd will hang around and hope that lightning will strike and we will walk away with casey at the bat or a guy named Hobbes from The Natural or someone just like him.

So good luck all you small market baseball fans, lets hope we win one for all the fans who don't live on the coasts and wonder how it must be to have enough corporate money to buy super talented people like we buy McDonald burgers. Oh well.

I picked up this paperback at a book sale recently. Check out that price. It was published in 1951 and the picture of James Jones on the back makes him out to look like a pirate from a Hollywood B movie. Now all that aside I think I will soon read it once again. It was one of those books turned into a movie where the movie was as good at least as the book. It happens sometimes.

The cover for the book THE POWER OF ONE evokes in me the power of imagination in little boys and not so little boys.

I personally had an imagination that would put me into many roles in my future life. That none of them ever became anything other than imagining does not diminish the thrill I got from them at the time.

Imagination is a path to a virtual test course for experiences that most of us will never run in actuality, and that is okay. Imagination usually makes us bigger than life and possessing powers that we will never possess. As we grow we realize that.

The picture from the cover of the book taps into where almost every boy in the forties imagination ran. We were all flying that airplane and doing heroic things.

I ran across this and liked the painting and the title they gave it. It seems to be words to live by.

The blurb from the Figge Art Museum on the side is where you can see it in person if you're in the vicinity.






Davenport, Iowa - “David Rathman: Every Day Above Ground is a Good One,” which was organized by the Figge Art Museum, will be on view through Feb. 3, 2008. A philosopher’s look at the West and a photographer’s view of life are the focus of two new exhibitions at the Figge Art museum. A special series of photographs, “The Body and Photography,” will be featured Oct 13, 2007-Feb 03, 2008.

There is no special significance to this picture, except it is a view of Iceland. It also brings to bear the thought that there are places in this world where just hearing the name of the place I would not want to visit. Iceland sounds absolutely, what else, cold. But names can be deceiving. Take Greenland, now that sounds really pastural, sunny, a place where people sit back in rocking chairs napping in between cups of tea. Wrong! Greenland is cold and bleak, not so nice a place to be. Try to figure.

It's that time of year, as the song goes, for fireplaces, even the virtual kind. If you've ever built a fire in a fireplace you would be happy to have one as nice as this. Our nights are getting cold now and we expect to wake up to snow pretty soon, so this is an inviting scene. Enjoy. If you turn on sound you will hear the fire crackle from time to time.

A few words about Paul W. Tibbets.

Is there anyone in the civilized world who doesn't know who Paul Tibbets was? For the one who doesn't, he was the pilot of the Enola Gay, a B29 bomber which flew over Japan on August 6, 1945 and dropped an atom bomb on the city of Hiroshima killing 140,000 people.

This did not end the war. The fire bombings commanded by General Curtis Lemay over Tokyo and other cities killed between 150,000-200,000 people in two days.

Paul Tibbets was a colonel and command pilot of the Enola Gay.

I met Paul Tibbets at a book signing years ago and had an opportunity to chat with him briefly.

Paul Tibbets recently died and requested that his body be cremated and his ashes spread so his grave would not become a place of demonstrations. Tibbets never considered himself political, and justification, if needed should be from the politicians, not him. I find this sad. I am not a fan of war, I find it repugnant but to blame the military man for doing his job too well is not right. Paul Tibbets was not the father of the atom bomb. Blame Robert Oppenheimer who headed the making of the bomb; Blame General Groves who headed up the production of the bomb; Blame Franklin Roosevelt for okaying the building of the bomb; Blame Harry Truman for the final okay to drop the bomb. Blame Albert Einstein for inspiring the development of a bomb that would end all wars.

Blaming anyone for a project this immense cannot be done. Instead perhaps 500,000 to one million families can be grateful that they have kept their loved ones with them for these last fifty years, that may be the amount of lives saved by all these people.

Tibbets was a soldier, an airmen to be more precise, and a colonel under arms subject to following orders as are all combatants. He did and he excelled in his job. It was thought that Japan would not surrender and was prepared to fight down to the last woman and child. The combination of the fire bombing of Tokyo, Nagoya and other cities, and the dropping of the atom bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki finally forced Japan to surrender, thus saving, it was estimated, up to a half to one million people, Americans and Japanese. It was a combination of both that stopped the war.

I'm sorry that Paul W. Tibbets was forced to live the remainder of his life subject to ridicule, and condemnation. He did not deserve that fate.

THE SILENT GENERATION, A FORGOTTEN GENERATION



I am a member of the Silent Generation, which means I was born in the 1930's, after world war one and before world war two, bracketed on one side by the Greatest Generation and on the other by the Baby Boomers. We were born to parents who endured the worst of the great depression and whose traits and attitudes were formed, which doesn't seem a word quite strong enough, galvanized might be a better word, for evermore by having done so.

I, on the other hand, was the beneficiary of a time when not having the money necessary to sustain ones self, and provide necessities such as enough food, decent housing and/or medical care was the norm. I was the son of survivors of that greatest of all economic disasters, the depression, and perhaps the greatest armed conflict ever, the second world war. They were determined that they would never be that needful ever again. But along with their survival of that time, they forfeited some of the joy of life, certainly they lost trust in their government as the answer to their everyday problems. The survivors came out of that time sadder, but harder, more self-sufficient, and more determined to shield their off spring from a life of want.

Enter me upon the scene, a member of the Silent Generation and one of the beneficiaries of the bad times. Although when I was born, the depression which did not end until world war two began, still had more than four years to run. I, of course, was too young to take much notice of my country of origin's economic woes.

My parents were not great storytellers and that in turn squelched my curiosity. I, like most kids I think, believed that our parents had no previous life before we arrived and turned their life into a joy on earth like no other gift of God. The stories I did enjoy were the recollections of my father growing up in a family of Germanic immigrants with three sisters and him.

The stories were usually told over a table at my grandparents home filled with homemade everything, from the main dish to the desserts, all homemade, when home made meant made out in the kitchen just a few steps away. If one of the entree's was noodle soup then the noodles were made from scratch by my grandmother who was a classic example of the term major-domo. She ran her kitchen and indeed the whole house and all who resided there as a major general major domo could and would. One of the shocks of my young life was watching my little, in stature, not in anyones eyes, go out and fetch a live chicken from her chicken coop and from out of no where a butcher knife, and in a flash severing the unsuspecting animals head, tying it on the clothesline to drain out the blood and moving back into the kitchen all in, it seemed, one motion.

She used one special knife, with a wooden handle that I thought came with her at birth like a third hand. She wielded that knife with dexterity, and recklessness. I was told that she on many occasions would whack my father to stress some point on his rudeness with the flat side of the instrument. My father it seemed to me, after hearing many stories such as this one, may have been the bane of my grandmothers existence. She also hit him on the head and dented a huge soup kettle during one of their un-father knows best moments. My little grandmother was not a practitioner of the 'lets talk' or 'time-out' school of child rearing. A lot of whatever wisdom she was trying to impart to him was lost because she would accompany her physical actions with a non-stop string of German sentences, un-translatable in actuality or by choice by my father.

The Silent Generation, of which I am a prime example, in my particular case may be further exemplified as a Non-curious generation, to my everlasting regret. My mother on her death bed, knowing she was close to the end, told my wife to tell me if there was anything I wanted to know or to ask, please do it soon. Well I may have been a lot of things, but I could not bring myself to start quizzing my mother at that particular time to fill in gaps on family history, although I certainly in hindsight would like to know, and the answer to many questions will now go unanswered probably to no ones regret but mine.

So in semi-conclusion, I will probably not conclude until I cannot type anymore, I behoove one and all to not emulate the Silent generation and remain silent. I am sure the Baby-boomers and beyond have questions and blank spots in their personal history that they would like to know something about. The only way is by asking those questions that are seemingly unimportant except to you to fill in facts and more importantly perhaps why parents do or did what they did while we are still here and of rational (well as rational as we get) mind.

Brainy Thought - absurdity of tourism

“What an odd thing tourism is. You fly off to a strange land, eagerly abandoning all the comforts of home, and then expend vast quantities of time and money in a largely futile attempt to recapture the comforts that you wouldn’t have lost if you hadn’t left home in the first place.”


Bill Bryson, OBE (1951 - ) is a best-selling American-born author of humorous books on travel, as well as books on the English language and on scientific subjects (A Short History of Nearly Everything). He has lived for most of his adult life in England.

From the webpage BRAINY THOUGHT.COM

Isn't this just about exactly right. When I was young especially I wanted to travel and see different parts of the world, and I did see some courtesy of the U.S. military. But then that curious passage of life occurred, I became older and older until now I am maybe considered old. It's not that I have died intellectually. I still would like to go to Paris and sit at a cafe and watch the Seine flow by and try to picture the postcard Paris, the Paris of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, or where the dreaded Nazi's marched under the Arc De Triumph while the Parisians watched and cried, but I no longer like being away from my home and its familiarity and comforts.

Being older also brings an understanding of what is is and what is past is past, and my days of traveling far distances are behind me for good or for bad. But I still have eyes and imagination and books and other media which will have to do.

I have the book SUITE FRANCAISE sitting on my pile of books to be read and that will take me to Paris in the bad times, and a MAYLE book of life in Provence in the good times without having to eat bad food in restaurants or accumulating dirty laundry in my suitcase. Cest LaVie, I hope that means such is life.

This is probably as 'political' as I will get on this forum.



Open letter for Mr. Al Gore,

To begin I use the salutation Mr. advisedly. I will explain.

First though I wish to congratulate Mr. Gore for winning the Nobel peace prize primarily and the secondary awards of Oscar and Emmy. I think the work he's done in bringing the subject of Global warming to the forefront of public discourse is commendable.

The main point I wish to expound on is the possibility that he may be talked into running again for the office of president. Don't do it.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, his pictures of late speak volumes. He looks happy and he is allowing his waistline to expand, another sign of a satisfied, and in his case a relaxed man living the life he wants, and being highly successful at it.

Don't let the politicians talk you into getting back into the shark-invested waters of presidential politics. I for one would like you to run again, but that's just because I like my presidents to be intelligent and knowlegable, I'm just funny that way I guess.

So Senator Gore that is why I used the salutation of Mister Gore at the beginning. You are doing great at being Citizen Gore, so keep it up and be happy. You seem to have managed your rehabilitation from politician to citizen very well.

My wife took a picture of my feet today, shod of course. I will post the picture. Now what's so great about a picture or my feet? Absolutely nothing, except the shoes I happen to have been wearing are kind of a throwback to another era, an era where the memories for me are nothing but happy memories. Those years, of course, are the forties and early fifties.

I write frequently about the forties in fiction and in essay form because it makes me feel good, and why not since I'm a recreational writer and don't have to pound computer keys for a living. In this case the reckless slogan of the sixties is apropos, 'IF IT FEELS GOOD, DO IT'.

Seeing those shoes reminds me of swing music, jitterbugging, the WWII homefront, characters in the movies of the time epitomized by Van Johnson and June Allison, Rosie the riveter, the movies SWING SHIFT, THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES, and SINCE YOU WENT AWAY.

The years of the forties were growing up years for me, and contrary to most popular recollections of those times, were good and happy years for me, and times were certainly changing and would continue to do so through the sixties, when times became ugly after the assassinations of the sixties.

But if I become too somber all I have to do is grab these shoes from the closet and like Alladin's lamp, POOF, I'm back in the forties.

Taking advantage of the wonderful youtubes I am able to bring back moments of my life. For example I was a young kid in 1949 when television was new and I was fascinated by it. Our next door neighbor was the first on the block, a cliche to be sure, but he actually was, to have a television set and he tolerated me most days when I asked to watch Captain Video and other brand new programs in the new medium.



It was great as I remember, but in actuality it really wasn't in technical terms. It was primitive in all aspects, but I wasn't a critic, I just liked it. I remember the reception was so poor and white lines would run up and down the screen and the horizontal and vertical holds would have trouble keeping the picture focused and I would watch it so intently that I would get headaches from the efforts. But it was worth the effort I thought.



The accompaning you tube video I probably saw live because I certainly would have wanted that ring with the one size fits all mechanism. I was a great send for things in the mail kid. I was constantly looking for something in the mailbox.


The other video is a PEP breakfast commercial with another send for a ring offer which would have been around the same time period. Ah the good old days.

Poster from art.com espouses an adage that I wish I had followed more in my life. There have been so many times I have spoken without thinking and/or said something so stupid and empty headed that I remember most of them to this day. I would hope that there is an unwritten statute of limitations on stupid talk, and people whom I have unwittingly hurt or disappointed with my mouth opening before my brain turned on have forgotten what I said.

This is a poem I received from Piper Davenport that to me resonates deep feelings. She requested I post it and I shall.

THE THEORY OF KNOWLEDGE ACCORDING TO A WOMAN NAMED R-I-G-H-T-E-O-U-S
by Piper Davenport

Suburban blues kidnapped people to Detroit where what they didn't know makes them leave.

Make no apologies while they listen, listen to me-- the righteous one.

Until it happens to them, people will never understand our city and the plights that forever haunt me.

Other women clutch their sadness; their babies are dying in coffins; the guns of someone's else misery are etched in their misery.

Uneasiness sings to me. . .

I've cried and walked through cemeteries, familiar faces I can no longer hold onto.

Sometimes I wonder what has everyone running in a frenzy, trying not to go to fall to pieces

Someone calls me a black-and-white coward; I'm a leopard and I won't change my stripes.

Even the soil of our city is ruined by fire and nightmares that hang over like a dark cloud and the black mayor who refuses to be nobody's fool but his own.

There are no smiles and lollipops and ice cream trucks and the children grow up c r a c k e d to pieces.

Helpless we are, hopeless we'll stay, help us they said. Witnesses canvas neighborhoods looking for saints and converts. One of them asks me, Whose favorite person are you? I say, none, not in this city, behind the doors. They say they care and they will be back and I wait and wait and wait until I'm all alone again.


Piper Davenport is a graduate of the Universityof Michigan-Dearborn with a BA in English. Her past publishing credits include: the Lyceum, Pitkin Review, Mirrors of Life, Creative Writers' Corner, HackWriters, 63 Channels and an essay she wrote is to be featured in the December 2007 issue of PoeticDiversity. She likes to watch House Hunters andGhost Whisperer in her spare time and dreams of owning her own home some day.

Good luck Piper, I wish you great success and hope all your dreams come true.

If you have a mind like tony carrillo, the creator behind the one panel cartoon called f-minus, most everything has a comic side to it. This cartoon is an example of what I'm talking about.

Baseball Dreaming.

As the title infers, it could all be a dream, but for great moments it just about fills the bill.

The dreaded Yankees come to town with their pin stripes and 25,000.000 per year man and other assorted 'best that money can buy' ballplayers, assembled together looking like a bunch of swaggering members of the board of directors of the Chase Manhattan Bank on a company picnic.

One game does not a series make, but for this one game, against this foe of all foes, if we went no further it would be the game that lit the fuse on this bunch of young, unrecognized by the media that doesn't think baseball of any consequence is being played anywhere but on the coasts of the United States, and the imagination of all baseball fans and teams who have to make do, and compete against teams like the strutting, smirking, Yankees with teams constructed and nourished within the constrictions of a budget.

But all that aside, the game that played out in front of our eyes was Hollywood to be sure. The game is not two minutes old and the strutting, swaggering gang from the Bowery and one of their purchased hired hands are ahead one to nothing by virtue of the long ball. Ho Hum, another day at the bank, why do we have to spend another two hours of so when we could just as well end it now and go back to the bank and count our money; but no not this night.

This night it is the night of retribution of all the carefully constructed, within a budget teams, that have to operate on the amount of money that the Yankees put aside to pay someone to keep the dust off their statues to themselves and their pin stripped greatness situated out in center field.

For two hours plus the Indians, playing for themselves of course, but also for all the other teams who have had to step aside or more corrected been stepped on and over by the money bloated colossus from New York retaliate and then retaliated again and again until they tallied 12 runs against the Yankees 3. Oh joy, mighty Casey from New York has been beaten, stepped on, and left lying bleeding but not grieved over.

One game does not make a series or a season, but it makes a moment so great that if it all goes badly and those bankers come back to win it all like usual, at least we had one game, one great game, and I'll remember it forever.

It isn't often I get to give a big cheer for my favorite baseball team. So here goes: Yahoo Yahoo!!! Go Tribe!!!!

So what happens, who do the Indians draw as their first round opponents? None other than the New York (stinking) Yankees, a team they have not beaten this whole season. Granted they only played them six times, but no wins is no wins. Would cowed be a good word to describe the Indians when they and the Yankees share the same baseball diamond? I do believe that psychologically they fear the pin striped uniform, or the title Bronx Bombers, or the ghost of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. God knows I don't know what it is, but I think perhaps God is a little on the side of the Tribe this time out.

Well it won't take long to find out the answer, the series starts Thursday.