You Get Old

You Get Old

For any man who has led a vibrant, robust life, the ­realities of aging can be humbling. But as the author has discovered, coming to terms with that is one of life’s great empowerments.

By Pat Jordan

You get old, life gets small. Not meager, pinched, just small. You don’t buy groceries for a week anymore — two hours in the Publix, drenched with purpose, a grocery list that unrolls like the Dead Sea scrolls.

You get old, you shop every day, your list written on the inside cover of a matchbook. Two pork chops, a can of La Sueur peas, four corns (two for tomorrow), two rolls of toilet paper.

You never buy mangoes, avocados, grapefruits, or key limes. You just go into your backyard and pick them off your tree. When you were young, your Uncle Ben retired to Sarasota and immediately sent you oranges from his tree. You thought, How sad. Now that you’re old, you send mangoes, avocados, grapefruits, and key limes to your friends. You enclose a note, very serious, explaining that key limes are not ripe when they’re green. “You must wait until they turn yellow!” you write. You get old, you become an expert on fruit.

You get old, people don’t notice you. You sit at a bar, sipping your Jim Beam Black, neat now, no water, no ice, when a pretty woman in her 40s sits next to you. You smile at her, say hi. She looks at you and through you around the bar.

You get old, young guys don’t get pissed off anymore that you’re lifting heavier weight than they are on the preacher-curl bench. Now they say, “You sure that weight isn’t too heavy for you, sir?” They used to call you Mack. When you were younger you would have said, “Mind your own goddamned business!” Now you say, “Thanks, guy, I think I can handle it.”

You get old, you lose your anger. It takes too much energy to be angry when you’re old. You have more important things to do with your waning energy, so you hoard it like a dwindling resource.

You get old, it’s not always about you. You no longer wait for an opening in a conversation to talk about yourself, your dreams, your accomplishments. It becomes second nature to draw other people into talking about their lives. You’re no longer the life of the party, making people laugh. You no longer have that neurotic compulsion to be known. Why should you? You get old, you know yourself.

You get old, you need less. Less food, less booze, less sex, less sleep. One Jim Beam Black after dinner, savored, so that it lasts until you fall asleep.

You get old, you wake at 4 am as if to catch every moment of your fading days. You struggle out of bed, let the dogs out, make coffee, light a cigar, then go out the front door for your newspapers. You sit on the front steps, sipping your coffee, smoking your cigar in the darkness until Jean Pierre, the Haitian paper deliverer, as black as a purple plum, pulls up in his Toyota. He sees you and gets out of the car. “Sorry, cher, da be late today,” he says, handing you the papers. “No problem, Jean Pierre.”

You get old, you eat dinner at 4 pm, with your wife. You talk about the day, then save half of each of your pork chops, wrapped in Saran wrap, for tomorrow’s dinner. Your refrigerator is stocked with leftovers. Susie wants to throw them out in a day or two, but you stop her, turn the wilting asparagus, the sautéed mushrooms, a few grape tomatoes into a lovely frittata for dinner. You get old, you hate to waste things.

You get old, you see your wife in her tight T-shirt with the words ‘It’s Not Pretty Being Easy’ scripted across her breasts, and you get an idea. But it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon, so you file it away for future reference. When you were young, you’d put that idea into action anytime, anyplace. Now you talk about it with her, make plans for sex. She puts on her silk negligee before she gets in bed. Then you both begin watching Ballykissangel, getting so caught up in it (will Father Peter leave the priesthood and marry Assumpta?) that the next thing you know you’re waking up at 4 am.

You get old, your dogs get old too. It never dawned on you, when you got them, all six, one year after another, that they’d all get old, one year after another, and then die. Now they’re between 10 and 16 years old. Their lives are bounded by food and sleep and all the pills they take, which are lined up on the kitchen counter with yours. Glucosamine and chondroitin for their arthritic joints. Carprofen for their dislocated knees. You see them limping and press their knees back into place. They glance back at you with gratitude. You give them phenobarbital to forestall their epileptic seizures. Ciproflaxacin for their rheumy coughs and sneezes. They wake in the morning with you and begin to wheeze, sneeze, cough, like old men, like you. They have their good days and bad days, like you. You just try to keep them alive for a few more months, then a few months after that. And when they begin to die before your eyes, you feed them water and baby food through a big plastic syringe at first, and then fluids subcutaneously with a needle before that final visit to the vet.

You get old, you set goals for yourself that seem meaningless to others. Not to you. They are proof that you’re not that old. Your wife asks you to “call the man” to break up the old sidewalk in the backyard so she can plant liriope. You tell her you’ll do it yourself. She says, “Don’t be foolish.” You get the sledgehammer and begin whacking at the sidewalk in the summer heat like Cool Hand Luke. Then you wheelbarrow the broken pieces of concrete out to the front swale for the garbageman. Two days later, you can’t get out of bed.

You get old, your strength and stamina go. You mow the lawn, then lie down. Your wife comes home with ten 40-pound bags of mulch. You carry them into the backyard, then lie down. You get old, you can’t do everything in one day — wash the car, mow the lawn, shop for groceries, go to the gym, get a haircut. So you plan out your day like Eisenhower planning D-day. Two things, maybe three, one day, then two more the next.

You get old, you become abstemious. You never buy clothes for yourself anymore. You wear your faded Hawaiian shirts until they’re so threadbare they’re like filmy curtains. You trim little threads with a scissors. One day your wife throws one out. You moan, “But that was my favorite shirt!” She says, “Hoarding is a sign of old age.” You sulk like a child the rest of the day.

You get old, you get your hair cut at Supercuts, $12 for seniors, and then let it grow for two months until it’s curling over your ears and you look like a French diplomat. You were young, you went to a fancy salon, where the pretty blonde massaged your shoulders while cutting your hair, for $65 and a $20 tip. You get old, your wife says, “You’re not going out like that!” You say, “What?” You are wearing a ripped and paint-splattered University of Miami Hurricanes T-shirt, baggy shorts, and flip-flops. You haven’t trimmed your beard in days. You look like Jeremiah Johnson, if he lived in South Florida.

You used to wear $200 Tommy Bahama island shirts and $2,000 ostrich-skin cowboy boots when you went out. Your wife wore spandex minidresses and six-inch pumps. You looked like a successful drug smuggler with a high-priced hooker. You get old, you sell your cowboy boots to a thrift shop for $50 and buy the dogs new collars. You get old, your looks go. You don’t care.

You were handsome once, like a Greek god, with curly black locks and luxuriant chest hair. You still are, in your mind’s eye, even if your hair is so white you look like a ghost in photographs. You look at that photograph of an old man, and say out loud, “Jeez, I look like an old man!” Your friends call back, “You are an old man.” A young friend of your wife’s, maybe 35, picks up a photograph of you when you were 38 off the fireplace mantel. “Wow,” she says. “You were hot once.” You resist the urge to tell her, “I still am.”

You get old, small things give you pleasure that were once an annoyance. Throwing out the garbage, you meet a neighbor walking his dog. You pet his dog, pass the time. The mailman stops at your mailbox. He talks to you about his Brazilian girlfriend, then hands you the mail. Bills, a check, and — eureka! — four movies from Netflix.

You get old, you realize order is freedom. You do your job more professionally, no longer on the fly. You get a magazine assignment — go down 1,500 feet into a coal mine in Virginia, climb a mountain in Haiti — and you prepare for it. You do heavier squats the days before you leave. You fly out the night before your interview so that you will have time to settle yourself, prepare. You get old, you check into a no-tell motel close to the thruway ramp so you have easy access to anyplace you have to go. When you were young you stayed at the best hotels, with pissing Cupid fountains in the lobby and businesswomen on the make in the bar. The first thing you did after you checked in was change your clothes and hit the bar with your barroom smile. Now you go to Denny’s for a snack. Then you go back to the hotel and put your clothes in the dresser drawers and lay out all your notes on the desk so you can review them the next morning before your interview.

You get old, you realize your job these past 40 years was God’s gift. When you were young, you thought you were God’s gift.

You get old, you forget things, not because your mind is going, but because your memory box is filled. A name comes up and you find yourself mentally flipping through all those thousands of slides, trying to place the name with a face or an event. You forget trivial things — where you put the car keys, your glasses — because your mind is filled with more important things. Is the gate in the backyard secured so the dogs won’t get out into the street and get hit by a car? You never forget that.

You get old, you scream at your wife. Not in anger, but because your hearing’s going. “What?” you scream. She looks exasperated. She says loudly, “I said….” You now see the world in a faint haze, like it’s covered with a gauzy film. “Pollen,” you say. Your wife says, “You need stronger glasses.” You refuse to admit that. So you call the Comcast TV repairman once a week. He arrives, a young black kid. “The picture’s blurry,” you say. “And the sound, I have to jack it way up to hear.” He fiddles with the remote, then says, “The picture’s fine. The sound, too. Maybe you need glasses.” You stop calling the Comcast repairman.

You get old, you sell your 1989 Taurus SHO with the five-speed, short-throw shifter, the Recaro racing seats, lowered suspension, rear spoiler, 19-inch mag wheels. You buy a Lincoln LS8, with leather, a wood-trimmed dash, automatic.

You get old, you read the obits. You call out to your wife, “Jeez, Isaac Hayes died! He was an old man, I guess.” Your wife calls back, “About the same age as you.”

You get old, your friends are old too. Old ladies, mostly. Why not? You’re an old man. Betsy, 59, Ina, 65, Julia, 76, Helen, 78. You drive Helen to work when her ride is late. You drive Betsy to the airport at 7 am for a flight to visit her sister. Later, your friend John, 58, knocks on your door. He’s going to visit friends in Wisconsin. Will you feed his cats while he’s gone? Sure, why not?

You get old, your dreams constrict. You no longer expect fame and fortune, your face on the cover of Time. You no longer expect to write the Great American Novel, 859 pages. Your writing gets small. Fewer words. But cleaner, you hope. More nuance, less obvious. Subtle, you like to think. Like your life. Small essays about getting old. They please you just as much as if you wrote War and Peace.

You get old, you cry more. Not over your lost dreams, your sins, your old age, your impending death. You cry for others. You cry when Assumpta dies too young, at 30, in Ballykissangel. You cry at the sight of our soldiers in camouflage walking through airports on their way to Iraq. You cry at the sight of abused dogs and cats staring at you from the pages of newspapers. You cry when Betsy tells you she has inoperable cancer and she’ll never see 60.

You cry for everyone but yourself because you have lived a wonderful life, and you wish that every person, every pet, could live such a life too. When you were young, you cried only for yourself.

—-

This article originally appeared in the September 2009 issue of Men’s Journal.

It will be called Facebook

Caravaggio's Card Players

Card Players by Caravaggio. I hope the stakes are not too high because the pigeons about to be plucked I think.

A Clever Head Shot from Flickr

Pitching Phenom Stephen Strasburg

Today courtesy of the idiot box, I will watch baseball's newest phenom Stephen Strasburg pitch his second professional major league game against my favs, the Cleveland Indians.

I will admit I am a little excited by the opportunity. I will of course root for the Indians, but I'm glad to be in at the beginning of maybe a great career or who knows, maybe the beginning of the end. I hope the kid does great but not against the Indians.

Bob Hope and many stars in 1942 with Eleanor Roosevelt

Bob Hope left his papers, including 85,000 pages of jokes, and photos like the one of a group of entertainers with Eleanor Roosevelt in 1942, above, to the Library of Congress.

I recognize some of the stars, I wish they would have listed the names.

Pre-WWII?

Pardon my Planet

Almost a great idea.

A Great Movie: The Grapes of Wrath

The GRAPES OF WRATH ranks at the top of my personal best movie ever list. Thanks go of course to the author and the exceptional Henry Fonda and Jane Darwell. The character actors assembled were all first rate. Two of the best were John Carradine as the fallen preacher and John Qualen as the actor who wouldn't leave his land. All in all a wonderful movie about a subject that befuddled correction. It took the advent of World War II to end the great depression.

Two versions of Leo Delibes Flower Duet from the opera Lakme

The Modern Mandolin Quartet



Vocal version of Leo Delibes Flower Duet

The Humming Chorus by Puccini from Madam Butterfly

To understand what the HUMMING CHORUS means in the context of the opera, go to this site and it makes everything clear, and maybe you will not detest the actions of the American naval officer who does Butterfly wrong.

The Gore families me too, me too, or me three.

I just saw this on the Internet. Holy Cow! It's almost surreal. A flashback to the sixties. I wonder if they were all sitting at Al's house one evening and for entertainment decided to take one of those 'can this marriage be saved' questionnaires and all of them decided no it can't.


It's shaping up as a tough year for the Gore family.

Last May, former Vice President Al Gore's daughter Kristin divorced her husband Paul Cusack. Last week, Al and Tipper Gore announced that they'd be separating after 40 years of marriage. Now comes the news that another Gore marriage is on the rocks.

According to two family friends Al and Tipper's daughter Karenna Gore may be nearing divorce proceedings after she'd been separated from her husband Andrew Schiff for a few months. The couple is apparently seeking counseling in hopes of reconciling.

Karenna, the eldest of the four Gore children, is an author, journalist and lawyer. She and Schiff married in 1997 and have three children.

Karenna was an active part of her father's political career, taking a prominent public role in his failed effort to become president in 2000.

—Andrew Golis is the editor of the Yahoo! News blog.

Forgetfulness

Forgetfulness is a real occurrence experienced by us older folk. It isn't necessarily a step closer to Alzheimer's, but I think it is a game God has planted in our brains, a required content, kind of a little time filler to fill those moments with your wife waiting at the doctors office. A favorite category is: Who was that guy I served with in Japan, you remember the one who stuttered, you thought he was kinda cute, or while watching television trying to remember the actors name, I remember him from the fifties, and the game is on. One of the exercises for the brain are crosswords, good medicine.

David Farragut at Mobile bay

Careful there David. Farragut seems a little too nonchalent up in those riggings.

Little girl and dog

Little girls grow up much too fast, and they're gone.

Brand new railway cars 1904

Savor Life

The IPAD, KINDLE Conflict

Taken at a tech show in NYC.

I have been following the tactical war between the ipad and the kindle fairly closely. My heart tells me I want a Kindle and am only waiting for the next price drop. I have Kindle on my laptop computer until I buy the real thing. The price drop guesses I've seen are $199 down to $159. I will buy at either price.

Nightsounds

Last night I had a very restless nights sleep. I woke up several times, and thought for a while about getting up and reading at a too early hour. At least that's constructive, but it worked out o.k. Like most times this happens, it's because my imagination becomes too active and refuses to acknowledge that it too should go to sleep for a while. Anyway here is a little story I wrote after just one of those nights.


NIGHTSOUNDS
By Jim Kittelberger




"Old age is not for sissies." I'd heard that somewhere and isn't it the truth. I'd spent half the darn day doing lawn work. That was something that I could have finished up in about an hour or two before father time jumped me from behind, and I was exhausted when I finally put the lawn mower and weed eater into the barn. A nice soaking bath and a cup of flavored tea later, I felt half way human again. Television as usual offered very little to entertain me. After cycling through the channels one more time for good measure, I surrendered and hit the off button. "At least the remote was a God send," I thought as I remembered when we had to get up and change channels. But then again that was before we had so many channels to choose from.

I finished brushing my teeth, again thankful that they were still my own and workable, and headed up the stairs. I emitted a long sigh as my body welcomed the comfort of a good mattress. That was one of the extravagances that I don't regret. In our younger years together my late wife and I, unable to afford much of anything besides essentials, slept in a bed with a mattress that thought it was a hammock. But our bodies were young and forgiving. "Ah how great it is when we are young," I thought as my mind again took its usual course backward. My wife and I had fifty years together and I missed her greatly. At least when God came to get her, he did it swiftly and painlessly. I have that thought to cling to. When you are married that long and lose a spouse the loss is incalculable. But she is here with me still in spirit. I can feel her presence in each and every room of this old house we lived in together for all of those fifty years. The house needs work, more that I can do myself, but I wouldn't sell it for anything. She is here and it is where I will stay until I join her.

I took up the current detective novel I've been reading. It's a recent passion of mine, these detective stories. They are not too deep or too long, just enough to keep me interested until sleep overtakes me. The words were starting to blur even now, and the book fell out of my hands onto my stomach, my signal to put the book and my glasses on the nightstand and turn out the light. As the room became bathed in darkness broken only by the light from the full moon coming through the window, I heard the familiar night train in the distance; a sound I found comforting. My last conscious thoughts were, "Did I lock all the doors and windows? "Well I'm too tired to go back down, I'm sure I must have." I drifted off to sleep.


My eyes flew open. My ears had picked up a sound but I was not yet awake. I lay quite still, listening closely to what it was that had awakened me. This had happened many times to me in our years in this house. A strange sound, a sound that didn't belong, but on listening again turning out to be a sound from the street or the telephone ringing in the den. Any calls after eleven in the evening were cause for concern. Nothing good could come from a call that late. Usually though, it turned out to be a wrong number. It would make me angry but at the same time a sigh of relief would escape from me as I relaxed. Just when I was certain that it was an outside noise, I again heard a noise downstairs. I stiffened, and I felt waves of nerve endings rippling down my body. "Maybe I'm wrong," I thought, "maybe I didn't hear what I thought I heard." I lay stiffly, not making a sound, listening. The floor squeaked even as someone was trying to walk quietly. The floors always squeaked in this old house. Then quiet. My mind was numb. "What can I do," I grabbed for the cordless phone that my son insisted I keep with me. It was dead. "Oh for crying out loud," I had forgotten to put it back in it's cradle and let it recharge as I had many times before. I closed my eyes, as I would have when I was a kid. I was petrified. "What would someone want with me?" "I haven't got any money, but unless it was someone from the neighborhood, they wouldn't know that." "Maybe whoever it is will steal something downstairs and go away. Yes, that's what they'll do." Just as I had convinced myself that would happen, I heard a footstep on the stairway. "Should I get up and challenge him by shouting at him to get out of my house?" "Then he'd know I was awake, maybe it would be better if I feigned sleep." "I'm not a young man, whoever is on the stairs certainly is younger than I am, and certainly stronger." "Oh God what should I do? Please help me." "He's on the landing. He's coming toward my room. I have to decide what to do. Someone please help me." My body stiffens with a fear I have never known before as the door opens."


A lone policeman and a member of the rescue squad were sitting in the kitchen. The policeman asked the son to repeat what he had just told him. "Well as I said before, I became worried when I kept getting busy signals on the phone and decided to come over and see how my Dad was doing. He's elderly, but very independent. He would never leave this house. Anyway, the house was dark when I arrived, so I used my key and let myself in. I didn't want to yell out for fear of frightening him, so as quietly as I could I went to his room. I thought I would just peek in and assure myself he was O.K. and go home. He gets a little put out if I question his independence, as I said. When I opened the door, he was lying completely silent and motionless with his eyes wide open. His heart must have just stopped. I knew he was gone. That's when I called 911. The son sighed and gave a small smile, "I loved the old man and I'm going to miss him a lot, but when my time comes to go, I can only hope it will come peacefully in my sleep, as it came to him."

Bikes are back

I Love Strangers-An interesting blog

I keep my eyes open when I'm on the net just in case I run into something I think is unique and interesting. I think I found one this morning. It's called 'I love (with a red heart in place of the word love) strangers. The blogger talks to, and reports on one stranger a day. Co-incidentally and sadly I discovered the blog when he writes he is going to stop posting. But he has a year of strangers and that's good. Take a look.

Beware of Great Grandparents

I became a great grandfather this week. No, not an amazingly good grandfather, but an official 'great grandfather'. A designation reached when your grandchild becomes a parent. My grandchild and her child have such a long life ahead of them. I envy them. On this journey I wish them both well. On my life's journey it's another story.

I am reminded of the quote by Bette Davis who said old age is not for sissies. That is really true. It is indeed an adventure. Part of the adventure I believe is going on in my head. I digress, a little. I love the electronic gadgetry and have availed myself to many of the goodies. One of the gadgets is the digital camera. It seems in my case that I can't retain all the little instructions that I once knew fairly well. I haven't used my digital camera for a long time and in fact gave it to my wife because she loves snapping things in the garden to put on Facebook. One of her ways of staying in touch with our kids and their kids.

Well we dropped into the hospital to see our new great grandchild and grandma took her camera with her. It was not functioning the way it should so, (a mistake by grandma), she handed it to me to see what might be wrong.

I snapped off a couple shots and nothing much happened. Grandma suggests turning on the flash, I did. Nothing happened. Grandma and Grandpa are puzzled. We're exchanging looks of what the devil is wrong with this thing.

All of the sudden a lightbulb appears over her head. Grandma makes a discovery..the switch is set on record. It is making a little movie and we're recording videos of the floor, with very interesting dialog about what do we think the reasons are for not working properly.

Epilogue and what did we learn from this experience: Never rely on a great grandparent to be your official photographer for any event.

Watch the new great grandparents go through their ineptness and listen for the very kind chuckle from the new mother at the goings on.

By the way the baby is beautiful. Good job Alex.

Brassaï (Gyula Halász) 1899-1984, French


Brassai is regarded as the photographer whose pictures form the basis upon which many non-Parisians' ideas about Paris are formed.

This certainly applies to me. I have no desire to travel anymore, and I regret that Paris is the one city I would have liked to visit. Yes it has always been a mecca for painters and photographers, and it is that Paris, the postcard Paris, that I am familiar with.

Brassai's best known work consists of night scenes of "the City of Lights" in the 1930s, including photographs of the architecture; people in cafes and bars; workers who kept the city going after dark; clochoards who lived under the bridges; and performers, artists, and writers of the period.

Born Gyula Halász in the (now Rumanian) town of Brasso (whence his adopted name) at the turn of the century, Brassai's original ambition was to paint . He studied art in Hungary and Germany as a youth, finally coming to Paris in 1924 as a journalist. As a small child he had accompanied his father to that city and stayed for a year. The city left a lasting impression which became a powerful interest upon his return. Brassai became fascinated with the nightlife he saw around him, both on the streets and in public gathering places. He claimed that the images he saw haunted him; recording them became something of an obsession. Although he was a skilful painter, he found the medium too time consuming and lacking immediacy.

During this time he befriended a fellow expatriate, André Kertesz, who finally convinced Brassai to try his hand at photography. For the first six years of his life in Paris Brassai had avoided photography, considering the medium to be too mechanical and impersonal. His opinion changed quickly when he saw the results of his first efforts to record Paris after dark. He immersed himself in his new-found pastime and in 1933 produced a book of night pictures entitled Paris de Nuit, which met with critical acclaim.

Brassai's wanderings around the cafes and bars of Paris brought him into contact with many of the artists and writers living in the city during that period. He established lifelong ties with Picasso, Giacometti, Sartre, Henry Miller, and many others.

Many of Brassai's pictures of the city of Paris were used in magazines; others remained unseen and unpublished until later in his career. These pictures depict in a non-judgmental and keenly observed fashion the prostitutes, opium addicts, lovers (both homosexual and heterosexual), street hoodlums, performers, and night time revellers of pre-war Paris.

Brassai's reputation as a photographer had reached the United States by the mid-thirties, and some of his work was included in an exhibition entitled Photography: 1839-1937 at the Museum of Modern Art. Brassai continued to document Parisian life and make environmental portraits of his fellow artists until the outbreak of World War II. Unrestricted photography in occupied France being all but impossible, Brassai turned to his earlier discipline of drawing. At the end of the war a selection of these drawings was published. Brassai then returned to his camera and at the same time began work on a novel, Histoire de Marie, which was published with an introduction by Henry Miller in 1948. Three years later a collection of Brassai's photographs was published under the title Camera in Paris.
In the 1950s Brassai turned his camera on the graffiti he found in his wanderings through the city streets; he also travelled and photographed in various parts of France and Spain. He continued to work in other media, making drawings, paintings, and sculpture. His friendship with Picasso resulted in a highly acclaimed book on the artist and his contemporaries, Conversations avec Picasso, published in 1964.

Info Brassai (Gyula-Halász) 1899-1984 Start technique heliogravure

Ode to Joy, a touch of class?

Monet vs. Manet

I wanted to thank the source of this piece. But I think they went out of business, but their piece lingers on. I enjoyed reading it and must cast my vote for Manet's work. Why do I like him better? Who knows.

Claude Monet and Edourad Manet (pronounced like Edward without the “d” at the end) were French impressionist painters in the 19th century. Monet painted a ton of landscapes and scenes while Manet did a lot of work with people as the main subjects. The whole French Impressionist movement is named after a painting by Monet called “Impression, Sunrise.” Most of the paintings in the movement have lots of brush strokes, gobs of paint, and not much worrying about lines in favor of utilizing lots of light and color.

Monet didn’t rip off other artists as many of his contemporaries did, preferring to paint what he saw with his own two eyes. He spent a couple years in Algeria fighting as part of the Calvary before his aunt sprung him from service. Upon returning home, Monet painted his future-wife along with outdoor scenes and started garnering some acclaim. Problem is, acclaim and 50 cents will get you a cup of coffee on the corner, so Monet jumped in to the Seine river in 1868 to try and kill himself because he was broke and couldn’t support his girlfriend and their new baby. Eventually, he swam to shore, toweled off, and got back to painting. He traveled to England and Amsterdam a bit, got married, had another kid, and settled in Giverny. After a few years, Monet was banking enough cash to buy his own house and some land. He married again after his first wife died and traveled some more around Europe. Monet lived a long happy life painting landscapes and water lilies on a farm surrounded by his loving family and big potato sacks full of cash* before dying of lung cancer at age 86. In 2004, one of his painting sold for 20 million smackers.

*(He probably didn’t have big sacks of cash, but he did have some money finally and didn’t die a pauper like lots of artists.)

On the other hand, Manet used a lot more lines in his paintings then other Impressionist painters and preferred painting in a studio to being outdoors. He was born in to money and used it to set up his own exhibits when more traditional studios and exhibitors rejected his works. At the same time, he worked to get his paintings in to the Paris Salon, which was kind of a big deal. His painting “Olympia” got everyone all up in a tizzy because the main subject is presumably a courtesan, which is a fancy way of saying “high class hooker”. She’s laying on a bed nude with lots of “come hither” accents (orchid in the hair, bouquet of flowers, black cat on the bed). I was under the impression that Paris in 1863 was probably a pretty sexually liberated place, but whatever. Manet also painted war scenes which made the government angry. In fact, he has a slew of paintings that he was not permitted to display because they didn’t paint the French military and government in a great light. Manet married a piano teacher, which is rather uninteresting until you consider she was also sleeping with his Dad. They didn’t get married til Manet’s Dad passed away and their 11 year old son could have easily been either Manet or his Dad’s child. That said, it probably doesn’t matter in hindsight because the kid’s surname was going to be “Manet” either way. Manet had a much more colorful demise than Monet as he suffered through syphilis, rheumatism, and ganggrene before passing away at the age of 51. One of his paintings also fetched 20 million dollars in 2000, which no doubt pleased his great-grandchildren.

So…

Monet: outdoor scenes, tried to kill himself, married twice, two kids from the first woman, retired to Giverny and finally made some loot in his later days.

Manet: indoor scenes and people, war scenes, shared a girlfriend with his dad, died of some nasty stuff at a relatively early age.

The Difference Between Monet and Manet
By Colin Dowling

This topic was suggested by Kevin Leneway when he came with the idea for a site like BitLesson, so I thought it only fair to start with it. Let’s get going…

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Monet vs. Manet

Claude Monet and Edourad Manet (pronounced like Edward without the “d” at the end) were French impressionist painters in the 19th century. Monet painted a ton of landscapes and scenes while Manet did a lot of work with people as the main subjects. The whole French Impressionist movement is named after a painting by Monet called “Impression, Sunrise.” Most of the paintings in the movement have lots of brush strokes, gobs of paint, and not much worrying about lines in favor of utilizing lots of light and color.

Monet didn’t rip off other artists as many of his contemporaries did, preferring to paint what he saw with his own two eyes. He spent a couple years in Algeria fighting as part of the Calvary before his aunt sprung him from service. Upon returning home, Monet painted his future-wife along with outdoor scenes and started garnering some acclaim. Problem is, acclaim and 50 cents will get you a cup of coffee on the corner, so Monet jumped in to the Seine river in 1868 to try and kill himself because he was broke and couldn’t support his girlfriend and their new baby. Eventually, he swam to shore, toweled off, and got back to painting. He traveled to England and Amsterdam a bit, got married, had another kid, and settled in Giverny. After a few years, Monet was banking enough cash to buy his own house and some land. He married again after his first wife died and traveled some more around Europe. Monet lived a long happy life painting landscapes and water lilies on a farm surrounded by his loving family and big potato sacks full of cash* before dying of lung cancer at age 86. In 2004, one of his painting sold for 20 million smackers.

*(He probably didn’t have big sacks of cash, but he did have some money finally and didn’t die a pauper like lots of artists.)

On the other hand, Manet used a lot more lines in his paintings then other Impressionist painters and preferred painting in a studio to being outdoors. He was born in to money and used it to set up his own exhibits when more traditional studios and exhibitors rejected his works. At the same time, he worked to get his paintings in to the Paris Salon, which was kind of a big deal. His painting “Olympia” got everyone all up in a tizzy because the main subject is presumably a courtesan, which is a fancy way of saying “high class hooker”. She’s laying on a bed nude with lots of “come hither” accents (orchid in the hair, bouquet of flowers, black cat on the bed). I was under the impression that Paris in 1863 was probably a pretty sexually liberated place, but whatever. Manet also painted war scenes which made the government angry. In fact, he has a slew of paintings that he was not permitted to display because they didn’t paint the French military and government in a great light. Manet married a piano teacher, which is rather uninteresting until you consider she was also sleeping with his Dad. They didn’t get married til Manet’s Dad passed away and their 11 year old son could have easily been either Manet or his Dad’s child. That said, it probably doesn’t matter in hindsight because the kid’s surname was going to be “Manet” either way. Manet had a much more colorful demise than Monet as he suffered through syphilis, rheumatism, and ganggrene before passing away at the age of 51. One of his paintings also fetched 20 million dollars in 2000, which no doubt pleased his great-grandchildren.

So…

Monet: outdoor scenes, tried to kill himself, married twice, two kids from the first woman, retired to Giverny and finally made some loot in his later days.

Manet: indoor scenes and people, war scenes, shared a girlfriend with his dad, died of some nasty stuff at a relatively early age.

Monet’s “Impression, Sunrise”

Manet’s “Olympia”

Young Doodlers, Doodle away.

Vote for the best of the doodlers until May 25th on google's homepage. Lots of talent and deep thoughts for very young people. This was created by a nine year old. Enjoy the doodles.

A Couple from the New Yorker

Nursing Home Fears Updated

I posted this three years ago and it crossed my mind again. See this latest information I checked on today. We may of course depending on our health going south and the impossiblity of caring for ourselves end up there, but most of us won't.

I just wanted to post this one more time. Us older folks, just as younger people center our thoughts on issues which do or might happen to us. Well if you read what I am saying below, then carry it on to the next conclusion, it means that 94 percent of us will never set foot in a nursing home, rest home, whatever you want to call it, and I think that is the best way to think about it. Think about it, then forget it, you and I are probably part of the 94 percent.

**************************************************************************

As we age, you and I, one of the things uppermost on our minds is the likelihood that we will probably end our days in a nursing home. It’s one of those things we dread, but statistics tell us that only a small percentage of us will have to endure that fate. Here is what I have found out.

There are approximately 18,000 nursing homes in the United States, two-thirds of which are operated for profit, with 55% owned by large nursing home chains. There are about 1.7 million nursing home beds in the United States. This represents less than 6% of the total number of Americans over the age of 65. It suggests that the vast majority of elderly will most likely spend their final years in their community residence.

To see more of the photographers work go here.

Landing a Jet onto a pitching deck, Oh Lordy.

I'm watching a repeat of the series CARRIER, on HULU.

The Boys of Summer and WWII

Bob Feller is featured fairly predominately in this film. My son and I have 'met' him a couple times. He is, and always was a straight talking guy who is now in his nineties. I heard him talking to the Indians broadcasters just the other day and he seems as sharp as ever.

"Are you sure you mean me? My name is spelled K... I..."...

Now I am going to take five seconds of serious time to thank Ivan Shreve Jr, who is a very good blogger and does a good job everyday, and teaches the rest of us how it is done with his blog Thrilling Days Of Yesterday.

According to the rules, I am sworn to do the following:

* You must thank the person who has given you the award.
* Copy the award logo and place it on your blog.
* Link the person who has nominated you for the award.
* Name 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting.
* Nominate 7 other Kreativ Bloggers.
* Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.
* Leave a comment on each of the blogs to let them know they have been nominated

Seven things that you people out there may find interesting about me? Well now me telling you a few things that were exciting to me won't make me any less sappy than I am but here goes:

First, I may be in the older league of bloggers (73 in July). Born in 1937, which makes me a member of the Pre-Boomers, the notoriously silent generation. Do you really want to get me started?

Second, While in the military and flying as a passenger from Japan to Taiwan over the China Sea, the two engine airplane became a one engine airplane and the aircrew made us ready to bailout. I knew if I didn't die from the crackup, I would drown trying to get into one of those little rubber rafts. Scared? I think I was too young to know the peril I was in. Being young had some value. Of course the airplane kept going on one engine.

3) Celebrities I spotted on the street in Washington and New York city were David Brinkley and James Mason, both taller than I thought. They politely smiled.

4) Remember Jimmy Piersall the baseball player who had a mental problem while he was still playing? I saw him play at the old Griffith park in Washington where you could sit in the front row any day because nobody every went to the ball games. We yelled a word or two of encouragement, and he told us to go F--- ourselves. Nice guy.

5) Saw John Kennedy at arms length.

6) I may be one of the last 50 fans of the Cleveland Indians remaining this season.

7) I'd better stop, I'm getting older and every second counts.

Nominate (7) seven other Kreativ Bloggers.

The Classic TV History Blog


The Comics Curmudgon








Self-Styled Siren

Scouting New York

Book Patrol

Slightly Exaggerated

Verse Daily

A Moveable Feast

"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast."

A.E. Hotchner, a friend of Ernest Hemingway made this remark to Hemingway during his first visit to Paris. It is also the name of the book published after Hemingway's death in 1960.

I believe everyone has a location that they believe is their own movable feast. A place where you experience sights and events that remain with you and are remembered as signposts throughout your life.

Mine was Washington D.C. where my wife and I started our married life together. It encompassed the camelot years of the Kennedys and ended a decade later when we left disheartened.

A birthday present idea

Got any kids on your birthday list that you want to buy a present for? Kid, heck sake, any age guy who likes baseball might like one of these. Boys just get bigger, but remain boys. These two items I found at the Smithsonian gift shop. Take a look.

A Glimpse of the Future?

Send them all home.


I saw in today's news where Senator Bennett of Utah was defeated in his states Republican primary, supposedly ramrodded by the Tea Party advocates. Wow, that is quite an achievement. I have thought for a time now that this would be a good time to re-activate the old Gray Panthers party. There are certainly enough gray heads registered to vote that might certainly be able to advocate for senior issues. A little pressure on sitting politicians can't hurt.

I have thought that the party system is not working well, an understatement. The two political parties seem to press for issues that are good for the party and not necessarily the country. The current U.S. senate is composed of only two independents, Lieberman of Conn. and Sanders of Vt. It doesn't take much of a long view to believe that electing a person who is not beholding to any political party, but only to what he believes is good for the country is the way to go.

Perhaps while we are restructuring the congress we might also think seriously of term limits. Now look at what one victory by the Tea Party has done, we're, or at least I, am thinking that the unthinkable might just be possible, representatives that we elected that are accountable to the people who elected them. Dream on.

Two chuckles from the New Yorker

I am so proud, I am a cruciverbalist

I am very proud. My wife and I just learned we were designated for membership in a very nonexclusive club that has members world-wide.

We are now cruciverbalists and have been for many many years without us knowing it. One of the rules of the club is you have to learn how to spell the word. But once you do, just think how proud you will be.

Oh did I mention what a cruciverbalist is? It is a person who designs or someone who participates in the working of crossword puzzles.

What that's you say, puzzles and their workers are common as grass and almost as plentiful? Rubbish I say, save your neigh saying for someone else.

God, how we sometimes speak

More than once I have opened my big trap and trotted out some criticism about conjugation of a word. The one that really gets me is this: I SEE YOU, I SAW YOU, I HAVE SEEN YOU.

I had not heard it in a while, and then while listening to a podcast with two men expounding on a subject for one complete hour, man A opens his mouth and out comes the sentence, I seen Joe..... My God that's like fingernails on a chalkboard to me.

Now today a week later, I ran across this from a blog of a year ago. Someone else must have a sensitive spot for the mangling of the language. No, please don't start about elitism or some such cop out. It just sounds terrible and makes the talker seem less educated than he/she is. Don't get defensive, just change.

Julia Childs from Architectural Digest

I had just watched the movie JULIE AND JULIA a week or so back, when I ran into this from ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST. I half expected Julia to look like Meryl Streep who played her to a tee. (by the way where does that saying come from?) Take a look at the article with pictures.

Photographers Eye

A good example of 'the eye of the artist'. I love the contrasts of colors and shapes. See it and read about the shooter here.

After Life

From the podcast RADIO LAB, I found this show which is one hour long about life or more precise leaving life to that other or next world if there is a world. Take a listen.

Try to cut some of the fear of cancer down to size.

17 Years Later, Stage 4 Survivor Is Savoring a Life Well Lived Read this and believe.

Hazel, my wife and the victim of this damnable desease is a stage one. Compared to some, she is very lucky. She is doing well, but she will agree that the fear that accomplanies the realization is immoblizing. Read this and the accompanying sites and you will see that you don't all of the sudden live in a vaacum. It will help some. God bless you and good luck.

Buddy Morrow's NIGHT TRAIN

Buddy Morrow's NIGHT TRAIN. Enjoy.

The Unknown Citizen by W.H. Auden

Birth of the Glenn Miller Sound

From The Glenn Miller Story. I've read that the story is not factual, but I don't care. It is dramatic and puts you there when the Miller sound was created. It's amazing, he has been dead for over sixty years and copy cat groups still tour the land playing the music, the sound. I still like it.

Two by CLAUDE CORBIN:

The could-be theory

What's My Line

One of televisions longest running game shows that premiered when I was a teen-ager in 1950 can be seen on youtube. Take a look. It was just a game for games sake. Try to spoof the panel of celebrites. WHAT'S MY LINE ran for seventeen years with basically the same panel and a guest. Here you will see the premier and the last show and about sixty or seventy more. It is enjoyable and nostalgic.

What other bloggers are thinking and writing about. A woman who writes DOGWALK MUSINGS and lives in Idaho is thinking about Hillary.



Buyer's Remorse?

Stranger things have happened! With Obama's poll numbers continuing to slide, one might say that even Democrats are becoming disenchanted with the way his administration is conducting the business of the country. According to the L.A. Times he's barely holding his own against potential Republican opponents, whoever they might be. Heck, he only leads Ron Paul by one percentage point!

It's still early, though it seems troublesome that none of the Republicans seem to be gaining any sort of foothold. So Obama really doesn't have to worry, right? Wrong. Who is out polling every name mentioned? Hillary!

I've been debating with myself about the likelihood of Hillary challenging Obama. I think she just might. Where the Times suggests she's "free of political tussles", I don't agree. As Secretary of State she is steward of a weak foreign policy even if it's not her own. They are spot on, however, when they say she now has an "enhanced resume burnished on the world stage".

The one thing she needs to heed. Being true to the dictates of the administration when she strongly disagrees. If she disagrees. A recent example is the credibility lost by Colin Powell, another who could have been President, by buying into the Bush administration's stand on Iraq's owning weapons of mass destruction. He wasn't sure of the evidence but caved to administration pressures. Had he resigned I think he could have challenged Bush and perhaps won. I would suggest the same could be true for Hillary.

This is political theater that is fun to watch. If she steps down after the 2010 mid-terms I'd expect to see her run. You can expect all the denials that go with the territory. She would want to resign on her terms; have it her show; not Obama's.

I have a hunch she still has a burning desire to be the first woman President. I don't know if she'd be good or not. I think she'd have a very different Presidency than what we're living through now. I think she might right the ship of state to a less precarious angle.

I wasn't a supporter of Hillary, but in a sentimental sort of way, I'd rather like to see her achieve her goal. Especially if Sarah Palin were to be her opponent. Hillary had worked her entire life toward getting Bill to the Presidency. By the time that was achieved the political climate in the country had changed to the point a woman could, too, be a viable candidate and she set for herself a new goal.

I think she's earned at least another chance at it. Unlike Sarah Palin who was plucked from obscurity for reasons that have always eluded me; who's strength is the ability to deliver stinging one liners. No. The first woman to reach that height, if it's to be in my life time, should be Hillary. No one else has come close to climbing that mountain!

Are immigrants still welcome?

Are we still the land of the free? Do we still feel the same about the huddled masses yearning to be free?

I know I think of immigrants differently than perhaps the majority now, and I probably always will. There remains those of us born in the last years of the Great Depression who until we die off will not change our thinking. When we hear the term immigrants we (I) think of my grandparents who were immigrants. They were good people who contributed to the building of this country in many ways. Speech is over.

Secret decoder ring

I was going to write a short post about serials to accompany this current comic strip, but Don Potter says it just great.

I grew up listening to lots of radio shows, as did most pre-boomers. Around dinnertime there was "Captain Midnight" and "Jack Armstrong the all-American Boy," plus many other adventure series throughout the early evening. Around eight o'clock the comedies like "Fibber Magee & Molly" and "The Life of Reilly" came on. At nine were the dramas such as the "Lux Radio Theater." And, there were scary programs too; every time I hear a squeaking door today, I think of the opening of "Inter Sanctum."

The only time I didn't like radio was when I was sick and couldn't go to school; those syrupy soap operas were the only things on during the weekdays. Saturday mornings had lots of great programs, which I listened to until it was time to go see the double feature matinee at the local movie house. Sunday afternoons and evenings were also a good times for radio.

There were programs the family listened to, but the ones I enjoyed most were the ones I heard in my room on the old Crosley radio. It sat on the nightstand next to my bed and looked like a toaster with knobs compared to the big, wood grained Philco console downstairs. With no distractions, these programs played vividly in the theatre of my mind. Yes, I actually could use my imagination to envision situations that were bigger than life, travel to places at the other end of the earth, and experience encounters so real that the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up.

The escape was thrilling, but there was a price to pay. To be the first kid on my block to have a secret decoder or the Lone Ranger's silver bullet ring with a hidden message compartment, I had to send fifty cents and two or more box tops from the cereal brands sponsoring the shows to a special Post Office Box, and then wait. I worked off the money doing chores around the house, but the family ate stale Cheerios and Wheaties for a long time - far longer than it took to get my magical toy from some distant location like Battle Creek, Michigan.

I can't say whether life was better back then, but it sure was simpler. There were good guys and bad guys, and the difference was apparent. Something was sad or it was not. A joke made you laugh or it wasn't funny. No, I don't want to return to the past, but I'm glad I had the experience of growing up when radio was in its prime.

Don Potter, a Philadelphia native, was born in 1936 and is a 50 year veteran of the advertising agency business. Now living in Los Angeles, he has written two novels in retirement, frequently writes on marketing issues, and has a blog dedicated to pre-boomers (those born between 1930 and 1945).

The old man observes: "Cold blooded retort young lady."

An Old Man's Observations

why do we like corny jokes?

Why do we like corny jokes? I admit I do. Is it because they are usually clean jokes or perhaps because they appeal to the lack of sophistication that resides right under our public persona? They’re usually brief, but then again not always. Maybe it’s because simple is best. A psychiatrist could write a paper on it I suppose. A medical doctor would tell you it’s good for your health to laugh. As they say in the vernacular of the day, Whatever. Just for an experiment let’s read a couple cornies. This is just an experiment remember so if you laugh it will help medical and psychiatry science.



A turtle was walking down an alley in New York when he was mugged by a gang of snails. A police detective came to investigate and asked the turtle if he could explain what happened. The turtle looked at the detective with a confused look on his face and replied "I don't know, it all happened so fast."

Hazel's Feelings

Hazel's Feelings

February 22 was my first radiation treatment appointment. I've never been so scared in all my life. I wanted to bolt out the door, run home, get into my chair, cover up, and never leave the house again. Obviously I did not run away. As my radiation oncologist had promised, the treatments were painless---I survived.

Monday April 12 was my 36th and final treatment. My support person, AKA my loving husband Jim and I had been going there for seven weeks and one day, so I entered with a happy heart knowing that it would finally be over.

Imagine my surprise when the final treatment was over, 'the stiff upper lip' collapsed and upon leaving the building-I burst into tears! Instead of being elated I was depressed the rest of the day and part of Tuesday. Fortunately those 'blues' have gone and 'happy' has returned.

I think it was the stress of coping with a nightmare from Christmas Eve until April 12 was finally set free.

I'M IN A FORTIES KIND OF MOOD TODAY.

Grand Central Station 1941

Bushido

I served in the military overseas in Japan 1956-57. Being very young and not the brightest bulb in the package I ran up against a conundrum. How could the Japanese behavior in peacetime be so opposite of what it was during the war years? I know they were a defeated army, but their overt behavior towards the American military was not what I expected. It wasn't until later in my life that I discovered a simple answer, what you don't know, you can discover by reading. The Jekyll and Hyde of the Japanese war behavior and their postwar conduct was explained in one word, Bushido.

Japanese Military Culture

At the outbreak of the Pacific war, the Japanese armed forces combined modern technology -- including ships and aircraft equal to or superior to their Allied equivalents -- with a military spirit that remained feudal. Termed Bushido (The Way of the Warrior), that spirit gave rise to behavior that Allied soldiers found bewildering as well as barbarous and fanatical.

Based on peculiar perspectives on Confucianism and Zen Buddhism, Bushido demanded unquestioning loyalty and sacrifice. The Japanese soldiers' written code ordered them to keep in mind that duty was "weightier than a mountain," while death was "lighter than a feather." Indeed, death was idealized as something to be welcomed. Thus, soldiers, sailors, and airmen willingly sacrificed themselves in banzai charges, kamikaze aircraft, and kaiten submarines.

Japan's leaders now believed surrender as unthinkable for Japanese and contemptible in enemies, thus justifying abominable treatment of prisoners after prior years of very decent treatment of prisoners (also attributed to Bushido). In keeping with the samurai tradition, they also revered the sword, which led to the beheading of their captives. The International Military Tribunal for the Far East blamed Bushido as a contributing factor in Japanese atrocities.

Atrocities were part of every major Japanese land operation and were directed against both combatants and civilians. The demeaning training and disciplinary regimes in the Japanese services featured corporal punishment and probably contributed to the brutality of their personnel. The Japanese army employed ruses that their enemies considered unacceptable, including wearing enemy uniforms, booby-trapping corpses, and feigning surrender in order to kill would-be captors.

The atrocities could be blamed on other reasons. The Japanese were fighting a losing war, combating insurgencies, and trying to survive amid starvation. However, the atrocities had begun when Japan was winning the war.

Japanese servicemen were repeatedly told that their martial spirit was superior to that of their materialistic enemies, who would eventually succumb. Initially, the combination of Japanese ferocity and skill was frighteningly successful. However, the ultimate defeat of the Japanese discredited their cultural prejudice.

Key Largo

In the forties Key Largo was a big movie. Radio was still huge, so listen now to Key Largo on the radio, and your imagination will provide the pictures.

Undoubtedly the most macho looking fighter at the beginning of WWII was the Curtiss P40 Warhawk better known as a flying tiger. The group was a voluntary American group assembled in China, headed by Gen. Clair Chennault.

Best actress award

I rented a few movies the other day. George Clooney's UP IN THE AIR, Sandra Bullock's THE BLIND SIDE, and Meryl Streep's JULIE AND JULIA.

I enjoyed all of them, but particularly Julie and Julia. I am always amazed with the talents of Meryl Streep. She is a chameleon, she becomes the character. George Clooney I thought underplayed his character to a tee.

The puzzle was Bullock's film. It won her the best actress award in all the movie award shows up to and including the Oscar. I like Sandra, and I liked the movie, but best actress performance for the whole year and better than Meryl Streep's Julia Child, I don't think so. The epitome of a best performance would be Spencer Tracy in GUESS WHO'S COMING TO DINNER. That movie was loaded with best performances.

Oh well I shouldn't carp, I liked the movie, I like Bullock, but it just seemed a little too little for all the hoopla it got. It seemed liked a good TV movie.

Mountaineer

I did not intend to post more than one picture, but this one from www.fotocommunity.com was too good not to show. It was taken by Csomor László

Extremists

Good shooters can find good subjects every time.

Crosswords

Crosswords, one of my favorite things.

Absolutely Wonderful

This is absolutely wonderful. Watch this man conduct this orchestra. He is into every note, every drum beat. It is great. The orchestra and the audience knew it was one of those great moments.

Baseball life at the top and the rest of the pack

Oh how sweet it must be.

I used to believe in fairy tales when I was very young. I always thought that the good guy would be rewarded in the end. I always thought that good guys finished first. I used to think that baseball was the great leveler, that the good baseball player would be appreciated and rewarded for his achievements.

Well there are the NEW YORK YANKEES, and everyone else after them. I am a fan of a very old franchise that was around at the beginning of organized baseball, and that's a long time. Shoeless Joe used to play for us before he became shoeless. We (I use the collective term because as you all know misery loves company) have won a grand total of two world series.

Read the piece about the Yankees without growling and then think of my team who goes out there everyday and toils hard and achieves what? Nothing much. My team has played seven games this brand new baseball season and has lost five of them. The start of another normal season for my team and the many other teams who are in the same boat. The best they can hope for is to share somehow in the glory their best player will achieve when he becomes a free agent and the YANKEES open up their checkbook and well you know the rest.

Well I feel better now, so click the hyperlink on the top and enter the world that my team only dreams about.

The ordeal of radiation therapy is coming to an end for Hazel. Monday will be her 36th and final treatment. She tells me that the whole experience for her was much less traumatic than what she thought it would be. The God who is in charge of the dreaded side effects department dealt kindly with her she believes. Yes she has radiation burn. Yes, she has occasional flashes of pain. But it has not completely sapped her energy nor effected her ability to carry out her daily activities. The amount of actual time spent at the radiation center is minimal, and the flexibility of the scheduling should accommodate most people so they can continue their daily schedules as close to normal as possible.

On a personal note, I must say she has been very brave and has throughout the whole ordeal kept as the Brits say, a stiff upper lip. I, on the other hand, am damn glad it's over. At least this portion is over. Now she will have to start a pill regimen that is scheduled to last five years with dozens and dozens of side effects. Each person of course is different and what side effects will effect the individual is of course different.

Apache Dance

Watched Dancing with the stars last night which reminded me of the Apache dance. I grew up when they had many variety shows on TV and they would have apache dancers on frequently. Kind of different.

Technology is great, isn't it?

Which reminds me, I want to visit my local tech store and look at one of the new 3D televisions in action.

Isn't technology great. They just keep developing something new year after year. I'm still pondering the IPAD. I'm sure it's great, but does it have any new applications that are not already out on the market? It could be a Kindle clone with color, I like that. I understand it is light and pretty easy to handle. It's bigger which makes it nice on the old eyes. What am I doing going over the list of pro's and con's, I don't want to pay the price they want anyway.

The Conservative