Okay, here's the deal. My internet connection is farouked until Monday. So I haven't had a chance to do an entry.
I tried using the WIFI service at Starbuck's but the manager had a hissy fit when I plunked my G4 Tower on a table. He really went ballistic when I knocked over some woman's double de caf latte as I was setting up my flatscreen.
Meanwhile, tomorrow is my sixty farking fifth birthday. To start it off right, I plan to drive down to the beach and watch the sunrise. Assuming I wake up.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
Fat City
Saturday I tailgated with fifteen other football fans at the Northwestern-Purdue game. It was a mixed crowd, part Purdue, part NU. Because I had dual allegiances, I ended up wearing Purdue colors with a bunch of NU purple beads -- the kind they hand out at Mardi Gras after someone yells, "Show us your tats!"
We got there at 8:00 AM for an 11:00 kick off. Anything before noon is early for football. I don't think I woke up until halftime. We didn't leave until after 4:00. The people next to us, a group of former football players, judging by their size and girth, brought along a lawn mower engine they had converted into a margarita mixer. The exhaust was almost as intoxicating as the brew they mixed up. They also set up an industrial strength barbecue pit. It was the size of a sofa. When we left, they were still going strong, especially the Jimmy Buffett wannabe, wearing shorts, sandals, and sporting a mullet.
It took three cars to bring all the stuff we needed for our repast. I counted three tables, a tent, at least eight chairs, all purple, a portable stove right out of the Williams-Sonoma catalog, a radio, a backyard fireplace -- yep one of those big ones -- a bag of pinon wood, pretty much everything but a toilet. Luckily, there were four portable ones about two cars away.
In between watching everybody else setting up and taking down, I had bagels, juice, chive, blueberry, garden vegetable, and plain cream cheese, smoked salmon, hot chocolate, some de-caf coffee, a delicious homemade egg casserole thingy that was kept hot in a pizza carrier, two bowls of tasty beef chili with cheese and oyster crackers, half a piece of flourless chocolate cake, two bottles of water, and four chocolate mints from a box I bought from kids who were selling them to raise money for their high school meth lab or something. I haven't eaten anything since. Except a bag of cheese popcorn to wash the other stuff down.
And people wonder how I stay so thin.
An alum from Alaska named Dale stopped by with some reindeer sausage for us. I thought with his graying, balding pate, he looked like he might be in my age range, so I asked when he graduated. Sheesh. He was five years younger.
Later, one of the collitch kids got upset that Dasher and Prancer had been turned into food. Actually, I thought the sausage looked more like something the size of a T.Rex might use to impregnate his lady love. Regardless, we decided to hide the dead deer casing under a plate so it wouldn't upset the sensitive coed any more than it already had.
Along tailgate row, there was another alum who, for a mere 20K, will outfit your van or pick up with an all-in-one barbecue, cooler, TV dish, toilet, everything you need for partying in the parking lot before the game. The TV set up did it for me.
More later, I'm having internet problems.
We got there at 8:00 AM for an 11:00 kick off. Anything before noon is early for football. I don't think I woke up until halftime. We didn't leave until after 4:00. The people next to us, a group of former football players, judging by their size and girth, brought along a lawn mower engine they had converted into a margarita mixer. The exhaust was almost as intoxicating as the brew they mixed up. They also set up an industrial strength barbecue pit. It was the size of a sofa. When we left, they were still going strong, especially the Jimmy Buffett wannabe, wearing shorts, sandals, and sporting a mullet.
It took three cars to bring all the stuff we needed for our repast. I counted three tables, a tent, at least eight chairs, all purple, a portable stove right out of the Williams-Sonoma catalog, a radio, a backyard fireplace -- yep one of those big ones -- a bag of pinon wood, pretty much everything but a toilet. Luckily, there were four portable ones about two cars away.
In between watching everybody else setting up and taking down, I had bagels, juice, chive, blueberry, garden vegetable, and plain cream cheese, smoked salmon, hot chocolate, some de-caf coffee, a delicious homemade egg casserole thingy that was kept hot in a pizza carrier, two bowls of tasty beef chili with cheese and oyster crackers, half a piece of flourless chocolate cake, two bottles of water, and four chocolate mints from a box I bought from kids who were selling them to raise money for their high school meth lab or something. I haven't eaten anything since. Except a bag of cheese popcorn to wash the other stuff down.
And people wonder how I stay so thin.
An alum from Alaska named Dale stopped by with some reindeer sausage for us. I thought with his graying, balding pate, he looked like he might be in my age range, so I asked when he graduated. Sheesh. He was five years younger.
Later, one of the collitch kids got upset that Dasher and Prancer had been turned into food. Actually, I thought the sausage looked more like something the size of a T.Rex might use to impregnate his lady love. Regardless, we decided to hide the dead deer casing under a plate so it wouldn't upset the sensitive coed any more than it already had.
Along tailgate row, there was another alum who, for a mere 20K, will outfit your van or pick up with an all-in-one barbecue, cooler, TV dish, toilet, everything you need for partying in the parking lot before the game. The TV set up did it for me.
More later, I'm having internet problems.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
So Young, And Yet, So Full Of Shinola
On my way home today I stopped at the 7-11, which used to be a White Hen Pantry before they were bought out. The former White Hen used to be run by a couple of American brothers of middle-eastern extraction. They not only had a full contact deli, along with hot soups, and other lunchtime activities, but their menu attracted every plumber, roofer, carpenter, landscaper, electrician, tree trimmer, firefighter, mail carrier, cop, and gainfully employed working man in the area from noon to three every day. If I ever needed a handyman to fix something I only had to pull into a parking place and take numbers off the trucks.
Now that the place is a 7-11, it remains open 24-7. But, I'm not sure anyone cares. There is no longer a deli. Instead of ordering a fresh sliced turkey, ham, and provolone on rye with tomato, lettuce, and mayo, plus a container of chili, your options are limited to three-day-old tuna sandwiches in the cooler. For those who want a warm meal, there's a feast of huge hot dogs spinning round and round under an infrared lamp. A very pleasant family from India operates this new incarnation. They couldn't be more polite. But they aren't selling anything anybody wants for lunch. I haven't seen a single hungry man wearing a tool belt inside the place since they opened.
However, I have lower standards in food, so occasionally, I will stop by for some yogurt, cheese corn or a Dove bar, usually on my way home at the end of the day.
Tonight, as I brought my blueberry yogurt and triple chocolate Dove bar to the counter, I had to wait while the clerks checked out the high school i.d. of a young man who wanted to purchase cigarettes, or so I thought.
Because their scrutiny of his date of birth was taking so long I said, "What's the matter?" I am nothing if not a busybody. Actually, there was no one else around so I just decided to butt in.
"His birthday is 12-31-08" said the first clerk.
"When was he born?" I asked, looking at junior's pimply face and noticing that he was buying papers, not cigs, so he was probably smoking weed and those pimples might even be signs of meth, no matter what fancy ass suburb we were standing in.
"Nineteen ninety," said the second clerk. While I was doing the math, the clerks asked the kid to produce something more legitimate, like say, a driver's license. The kid said he was driving on a ticket. I was going to suggest that he go get the ticket, since it would have his date of birth on it, but, instead, I just laughed at him and said. . .
"Nineteen ninety? You're only seventeen!"
Pimple Boy just stood there, looking at me, unblinking, totally impassive. Clearly, this young man was used to spewing B.S. at adults. I stepped back so I wouldn't get too much on my shoes.
"You won't be eighteen until the end of the year," I announced, laughing at him for his lame attempts to circumvent the law.
Didn't this kid know how old he was? I was this close to pulling out my cell phone and dialing 911. "Hi, there's a kid here at the 7-11 who doesn't seem to know how old he is. Could you come over and do the math for him so he knows he's too young to buy smoking papers for his dope?"
Luckily, just in time, I remembered that I'm a senior citizen and the clerks were supposed to be handling all that stuff. Even though they were doing a terrible job.
Then the kid got a little smile on his face. Clearly he had figured out a way to outsmart the nosy old bag. With all the confidence of a true con man, he informed me, in no uncertain terms. . .
"I AM eighteen. This is a leap year."
Brilliant. Leap year was good enough for the clerks, for whom English isn't even a second language. I was going to say something like, "What are you smoking?" But I already knew. Besides, I was laughing so hard I just took my bag and left.
Now that the place is a 7-11, it remains open 24-7. But, I'm not sure anyone cares. There is no longer a deli. Instead of ordering a fresh sliced turkey, ham, and provolone on rye with tomato, lettuce, and mayo, plus a container of chili, your options are limited to three-day-old tuna sandwiches in the cooler. For those who want a warm meal, there's a feast of huge hot dogs spinning round and round under an infrared lamp. A very pleasant family from India operates this new incarnation. They couldn't be more polite. But they aren't selling anything anybody wants for lunch. I haven't seen a single hungry man wearing a tool belt inside the place since they opened.
However, I have lower standards in food, so occasionally, I will stop by for some yogurt, cheese corn or a Dove bar, usually on my way home at the end of the day.
Tonight, as I brought my blueberry yogurt and triple chocolate Dove bar to the counter, I had to wait while the clerks checked out the high school i.d. of a young man who wanted to purchase cigarettes, or so I thought.
Because their scrutiny of his date of birth was taking so long I said, "What's the matter?" I am nothing if not a busybody. Actually, there was no one else around so I just decided to butt in.
"His birthday is 12-31-08" said the first clerk.
"When was he born?" I asked, looking at junior's pimply face and noticing that he was buying papers, not cigs, so he was probably smoking weed and those pimples might even be signs of meth, no matter what fancy ass suburb we were standing in.
"Nineteen ninety," said the second clerk. While I was doing the math, the clerks asked the kid to produce something more legitimate, like say, a driver's license. The kid said he was driving on a ticket. I was going to suggest that he go get the ticket, since it would have his date of birth on it, but, instead, I just laughed at him and said. . .
"Nineteen ninety? You're only seventeen!"
Pimple Boy just stood there, looking at me, unblinking, totally impassive. Clearly, this young man was used to spewing B.S. at adults. I stepped back so I wouldn't get too much on my shoes.
"You won't be eighteen until the end of the year," I announced, laughing at him for his lame attempts to circumvent the law.
Didn't this kid know how old he was? I was this close to pulling out my cell phone and dialing 911. "Hi, there's a kid here at the 7-11 who doesn't seem to know how old he is. Could you come over and do the math for him so he knows he's too young to buy smoking papers for his dope?"
Luckily, just in time, I remembered that I'm a senior citizen and the clerks were supposed to be handling all that stuff. Even though they were doing a terrible job.
Then the kid got a little smile on his face. Clearly he had figured out a way to outsmart the nosy old bag. With all the confidence of a true con man, he informed me, in no uncertain terms. . .
"I AM eighteen. This is a leap year."
Brilliant. Leap year was good enough for the clerks, for whom English isn't even a second language. I was going to say something like, "What are you smoking?" But I already knew. Besides, I was laughing so hard I just took my bag and left.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Seven Signs of The Apoplectic
Who says television doesn't provide us with useful information? Here are seven signs that you will live a long life, according a report by Hoda Kotb on NBC:
1. You will live a long life if your mom was 22 instead of 32 when she had you. That's because her 22 year old eggs are fresher. O-o-o-o, there's a shocker.
2. Do squats instead of push ups. Strong glutes, hammies and quads are better for preventing falls and fractures when you're an old fart. [Assuming you can still squat by then.]
3 Drink five cups of green tea instead of having any diet soda. Drinking stuff that tastes like Chinese furniture lowers your risk from heart disease and stroke. Diet soda, not so much.
4. Dump your housekeeper and do your own cleaning when you're seventy. They say an hour of "movement" is an anti-ager. So sipping a glass of Metamucil while sitting on the toilet could also do the trick. Or you could substitute an hour of sex with a broom. Ooops, has Mrs. L been inappropriate?
5. Eating purple food is better for you than eating green food. Hmmm, how about some pickled beets and a nice Chianti?
6. Deli meats or burgers? Neither -- this was a trick question. They both increase colorectal cancer. Unless you dip them in bleach before serving.
7. Is it better to be a high school graduate or a college freshman? Anyone who has had their dad wake them up on Saturdays to mow the lawn knows that getting out of the house and going to college beats anything in high school. But apparently you live longer if you have more than twelve years of education. Actually, I think you start living longer the minute you get out of the house.
As of today, I've lived longer than a lot of people I went to high school with. So I think that gives me the right to include some of my personal thoughts on how to live past your freshness date.
Here, for your perusal, are Mrs. Linklater's seven suggestions for a long and happy life:
1. Don't fall alseep on a Greyhound bus listening to your iPod.
2. Don't be a young African American teenage boy in Chicago's inner city.
3. Don't make plans to go to the mall with that really nice guy you met on the internet, if you're thirteen.
4. Don't accept an all expenses paid trip to Paris, Tokyo and Rome from a blind date named Abdul.
5. Do not have sex with people who only use one name.
6. Do not marry O.J. Simpson.
7. Floss.
That was easy. Tomorrow I'll give financial advice.
1. You will live a long life if your mom was 22 instead of 32 when she had you. That's because her 22 year old eggs are fresher. O-o-o-o, there's a shocker.
2. Do squats instead of push ups. Strong glutes, hammies and quads are better for preventing falls and fractures when you're an old fart. [Assuming you can still squat by then.]
3 Drink five cups of green tea instead of having any diet soda. Drinking stuff that tastes like Chinese furniture lowers your risk from heart disease and stroke. Diet soda, not so much.
4. Dump your housekeeper and do your own cleaning when you're seventy. They say an hour of "movement" is an anti-ager. So sipping a glass of Metamucil while sitting on the toilet could also do the trick. Or you could substitute an hour of sex with a broom. Ooops, has Mrs. L been inappropriate?
5. Eating purple food is better for you than eating green food. Hmmm, how about some pickled beets and a nice Chianti?
6. Deli meats or burgers? Neither -- this was a trick question. They both increase colorectal cancer. Unless you dip them in bleach before serving.
7. Is it better to be a high school graduate or a college freshman? Anyone who has had their dad wake them up on Saturdays to mow the lawn knows that getting out of the house and going to college beats anything in high school. But apparently you live longer if you have more than twelve years of education. Actually, I think you start living longer the minute you get out of the house.
As of today, I've lived longer than a lot of people I went to high school with. So I think that gives me the right to include some of my personal thoughts on how to live past your freshness date.
Here, for your perusal, are Mrs. Linklater's seven suggestions for a long and happy life:
1. Don't fall alseep on a Greyhound bus listening to your iPod.
2. Don't be a young African American teenage boy in Chicago's inner city.
3. Don't make plans to go to the mall with that really nice guy you met on the internet, if you're thirteen.
4. Don't accept an all expenses paid trip to Paris, Tokyo and Rome from a blind date named Abdul.
5. Do not have sex with people who only use one name.
6. Do not marry O.J. Simpson.
7. Floss.
That was easy. Tomorrow I'll give financial advice.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Maybe It Should Be Colombo Day
Columbus Day is one of those holidays that nobody but school children and mail carriers can look forward to. Most of us have to work anyway, so we don't even notice it, until we get home and remember, oh shit, there's not going to be any mail.
I think the problem is the Columbus day food. There isn't any. Good holidays are all about unique libations and comestibles. What else is a holiday for if not excessive eating and drinking and being merry? On the other hand, I think there's something to be said for holidays like Ramadan and Yom Kippur, which starve you from from sun up to sun down for up to a month and then let you party till you puke. In a manner of speaking.
Just how important is holiday food? It's so important that we borrow other holidays to make up for the dearth of food and drink on Columbus Day. We treat Bastille Day, St. Patrick's Day and Cinco De Mayo like they're ours. Even more than their countries of origin. And let's not forget the queen of holidays that aren't holidays -- Halloween. The day American children learn that strangers will give them bags and bags of candy as long as they wear funny clothes.
[By the way, if anybody knows why we celebrate Halloween, besides honoring the Native Americans who taught us how to make candy corn, let me know.]
It's apparent that none of us cares whether our adopted celebrations are on the approved list of Mondays without mail -- we'll take them because they serve food. And plenty of drinks.
Sure, the politically correct might say Columbus Day is important because it reflects our diversity -- you gotta love an Italian sailor working for a Spanish queen. It fits right into all the baloney about our different backgrounds being the foundation that built this country, blah blah blah. But you and I both know any holiday worth its salt is a holiday that requires extra Zantac. And eye of newt. Or is it a salty dog? Wait, hair of the dog.
Unfortunately, Columbus Day, like its ugly sister, Casimir Pulaski Day, another food free day here in the Chicago area, show up every year offering no reason for their existence.
Not even a cookie shaped like the Nina or the Pinta.
No doubt the bureaucrats who thought that Mondays would make good holidays, instead of Fridays, which are much better for just about everything, are the same people who forgot to include the food.
So, next year, what do you say we celebrate Columbus Day with something to eat? Something that captures Columbus' Italian heritage and the voyage of those three little ships across the ocean.
I'm thinking anchovy pizza.
I think the problem is the Columbus day food. There isn't any. Good holidays are all about unique libations and comestibles. What else is a holiday for if not excessive eating and drinking and being merry? On the other hand, I think there's something to be said for holidays like Ramadan and Yom Kippur, which starve you from from sun up to sun down for up to a month and then let you party till you puke. In a manner of speaking.
Just how important is holiday food? It's so important that we borrow other holidays to make up for the dearth of food and drink on Columbus Day. We treat Bastille Day, St. Patrick's Day and Cinco De Mayo like they're ours. Even more than their countries of origin. And let's not forget the queen of holidays that aren't holidays -- Halloween. The day American children learn that strangers will give them bags and bags of candy as long as they wear funny clothes.
[By the way, if anybody knows why we celebrate Halloween, besides honoring the Native Americans who taught us how to make candy corn, let me know.]
It's apparent that none of us cares whether our adopted celebrations are on the approved list of Mondays without mail -- we'll take them because they serve food. And plenty of drinks.
Sure, the politically correct might say Columbus Day is important because it reflects our diversity -- you gotta love an Italian sailor working for a Spanish queen. It fits right into all the baloney about our different backgrounds being the foundation that built this country, blah blah blah. But you and I both know any holiday worth its salt is a holiday that requires extra Zantac. And eye of newt. Or is it a salty dog? Wait, hair of the dog.
Unfortunately, Columbus Day, like its ugly sister, Casimir Pulaski Day, another food free day here in the Chicago area, show up every year offering no reason for their existence.
Not even a cookie shaped like the Nina or the Pinta.
No doubt the bureaucrats who thought that Mondays would make good holidays, instead of Fridays, which are much better for just about everything, are the same people who forgot to include the food.
So, next year, what do you say we celebrate Columbus Day with something to eat? Something that captures Columbus' Italian heritage and the voyage of those three little ships across the ocean.
I'm thinking anchovy pizza.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Techno Nerdlik
Not that I feel like the dumbest kid in the class, but you may notice that there are no fancy gadgets or gizmos in my cubicle here at Blogspot.
That's not because I'm stupid, although I think we should keep that as a fallback position. I like to think it's because there's part of me that resists having to do something differently, when what I was doing before worked perfectly fine.
One of the reasons I noticed that older people have trouble learning how to use a computer is that there are four or five different ways to do the same task. What?! There's more than one? Why? I want to know why!! One is plenty. Is this a trick?
Perhaps I'm feeling slightly rebellious because I was a goody two shoes during the 60's when lots of people used the laxness of the era as an excuse to inhale anything and swallow everything. I'm noticing that a lot of those same people are dead on arrival when they hit sixty. But I never smoked dope, inhaled poppers, dropped acid or had sex. [Okay, one of those is not true.] However, I drank pretty hard for a year from when I was 21 until I was 22. Even then, I waited until it was legal before I started sucking down the brewskies. I actually remember going to work after getting in at 5 AM, only to realize that I was still lizard sheee-tah. My first clue was the way people took a giant step backwards when I spoke.
What I am going through now is a delayed kiss-off authority phase. Even though these days, I am supposed to be the authority that gets kissed off. While I used to confine my attitudinal stuff to mere comments and being a class clown, I have ratcheted up in recent years to acting out. This is no doubt part of becoming a certified OLD person. Again with a disclaimer -- looking at the world from my viewpoint, I don't think I'm old, especially when there are no mirrors around. On the other hand, I have noticed that the guys who check me out these days tend to be homeless. On the inside, I feel just like I did when I was 34, as long as I take my Zantac after dinner and don't try to turn my neck to the right. For the most part, I just think I'm somewhat visually and flexibility challenged, not old. Of course, having some young buck ask if those pumpkin candies I'm buying are for my grandkids is all it takes to jerk me back to life's unpleasant reality.
I think I'm digressing. Where was I? Oh whining about my failure, okay, inability, to put bells and whistles into this blog. Part of me just wants to be ornery about it. Perhaps some of you will recall what I did when the village came out to my house for the infamous wellness check. They asked me to take my dry cleaning inside because it had been hanging on the mailbox on my front porch beyond its designated expiration date. I not only refused to take the dry cleaning inside, I hung it in an even more prominent spot -- high on my front door -- in the place where most people put their seasonal wreaths. And I left it there for a ver-r-r-r-ry long time after they asked me not to. This behavior seems to be escalating the older I get.
I guess someone more mature would simply consider this annoying change from AOL to Blogspot as an opportunity, not a problem. Something that's a challenge, not a obstacle. Horseshinola. You want a challenge? I'll give you a challenge -- trying to write this entry without having to pee. Later.
That's not because I'm stupid, although I think we should keep that as a fallback position. I like to think it's because there's part of me that resists having to do something differently, when what I was doing before worked perfectly fine.
One of the reasons I noticed that older people have trouble learning how to use a computer is that there are four or five different ways to do the same task. What?! There's more than one? Why? I want to know why!! One is plenty. Is this a trick?
Perhaps I'm feeling slightly rebellious because I was a goody two shoes during the 60's when lots of people used the laxness of the era as an excuse to inhale anything and swallow everything. I'm noticing that a lot of those same people are dead on arrival when they hit sixty. But I never smoked dope, inhaled poppers, dropped acid or had sex. [Okay, one of those is not true.] However, I drank pretty hard for a year from when I was 21 until I was 22. Even then, I waited until it was legal before I started sucking down the brewskies. I actually remember going to work after getting in at 5 AM, only to realize that I was still lizard sheee-tah. My first clue was the way people took a giant step backwards when I spoke.
What I am going through now is a delayed kiss-off authority phase. Even though these days, I am supposed to be the authority that gets kissed off. While I used to confine my attitudinal stuff to mere comments and being a class clown, I have ratcheted up in recent years to acting out. This is no doubt part of becoming a certified OLD person. Again with a disclaimer -- looking at the world from my viewpoint, I don't think I'm old, especially when there are no mirrors around. On the other hand, I have noticed that the guys who check me out these days tend to be homeless. On the inside, I feel just like I did when I was 34, as long as I take my Zantac after dinner and don't try to turn my neck to the right. For the most part, I just think I'm somewhat visually and flexibility challenged, not old. Of course, having some young buck ask if those pumpkin candies I'm buying are for my grandkids is all it takes to jerk me back to life's unpleasant reality.
I think I'm digressing. Where was I? Oh whining about my failure, okay, inability, to put bells and whistles into this blog. Part of me just wants to be ornery about it. Perhaps some of you will recall what I did when the village came out to my house for the infamous wellness check. They asked me to take my dry cleaning inside because it had been hanging on the mailbox on my front porch beyond its designated expiration date. I not only refused to take the dry cleaning inside, I hung it in an even more prominent spot -- high on my front door -- in the place where most people put their seasonal wreaths. And I left it there for a ver-r-r-r-ry long time after they asked me not to. This behavior seems to be escalating the older I get.
I guess someone more mature would simply consider this annoying change from AOL to Blogspot as an opportunity, not a problem. Something that's a challenge, not a obstacle. Horseshinola. You want a challenge? I'll give you a challenge -- trying to write this entry without having to pee. Later.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
AOL Email Is Acting Up
Next time you send an email using AOL, send a copy to yourself. I recently noticed that the spacing between paragraphs on my emails is tripled or quadrupled. Also the typeface gets very large. And there's code stuck on the ends of my sentences.
I called Beverly in Bangladesh and she said that several people were complaining of this very same problem. I don't know if it's just a MAC problem or a general AOL problem. But Beverley assured me that she could feel my pain and they were working to take care of the issue as soon as possible.
Unfortunately, before I discovered how stupid AOL was making my emails look, I sent a couple out to important people. People who would think I was a complete idiot for sending out such cockamammy emails.
And I was at a loss over how to explain what happened. Dear President of A Big Company: As you no doubt noticed, there were a whole lot of spaces between each paragraph in the email I recently sent you. I don't usually have that much space between the paragraphs that I write. No, really. They weren't intended at all. You see, there was a glitch in my AOL internet service that caused a bunch of strange things to happen. You know all the html script at the end of each sentence -- AOL's fault. The very large type -- AOL again. Yep, not my fault.
Then I realized I couldn't send an email to explain what happened, because it would just happen again.
So I just hoped they would ignore all the crap and read between the ?nspb's. Who am I kidding? Clearly it's time to get a gmail account. Each day, having an AOL email address gets more and more like driving a Yugo.
I called Beverly in Bangladesh and she said that several people were complaining of this very same problem. I don't know if it's just a MAC problem or a general AOL problem. But Beverley assured me that she could feel my pain and they were working to take care of the issue as soon as possible.
Unfortunately, before I discovered how stupid AOL was making my emails look, I sent a couple out to important people. People who would think I was a complete idiot for sending out such cockamammy emails.
And I was at a loss over how to explain what happened. Dear President of A Big Company: As you no doubt noticed, there were a whole lot of spaces between each paragraph in the email I recently sent you. I don't usually have that much space between the paragraphs that I write. No, really. They weren't intended at all. You see, there was a glitch in my AOL internet service that caused a bunch of strange things to happen. You know all the html script at the end of each sentence -- AOL's fault. The very large type -- AOL again. Yep, not my fault.
Then I realized I couldn't send an email to explain what happened, because it would just happen again.
So I just hoped they would ignore all the crap and read between the ?nspb's. Who am I kidding? Clearly it's time to get a gmail account. Each day, having an AOL email address gets more and more like driving a Yugo.
Monday, October 6, 2008
The Teflon Perps
Tucked away on page 13 or so of the Sun Times was this headline "O.J. Guilty On All Counts" -- great news, wrong trial.
My first thought was how soon will he make bail and be out playing golf? At this point I think it's safe to say that the American courts are no longer functioning. Oh, sure, the bailiff cuffed him and took him away. But who are we kidding. Anyone hoping to see guys like O.J. spending quality time in prison have finally given up.
We couldn't put his abusive butt away even though we had his Bruno Maglis, the glove he dropped, the blood on his socks, the blood down the drain at his house, and the blood on the console of his car. Not to mention the bloody fingerprint on the back fence at Nicole's, the witness who saw his Bronco speeding away from the scene, and the slow speed chase with the wig and ten grand in the car -- hey, you name it, Marsha Clark screwed it up.
This time the Las Vegas boys did a little better -- except O.J. is going walk again because the jury probably contained a bunch of people who were more interested in payback. Sure, there was plenty of evidence despite the FBI guy who said he couldn't be sure whether or not the audio tape was tampered with. Oh, please, don't they have machines for that stuff? And I guess the judge allowed mention of Simpson's previous trial entered into the record, something usually frowned upon.
It's just a matter of time. The only way he's going down for his life of crimes is if he falls in the bathtub and breaks his neck.
Frankly, I think most of us have given up on getting mopes like O.J. put away. In fact, I think prosecutors are getting a little gun shy too. Look at "Person of Interest," Drew Peterson, whose third wife was dug up and called a homicide, and whose fourth wife is still missing.
Same with "Person of Interest," Craig Stebic, whose wife Lisa hasn't been seen in over a year.
And how about mother of the year, Casey Anthony, who is more like a character out of a Stephen King novel than a real person. Right now the only thing left of her daughter Caylee may be a strand of her hair and the scent of a dead body investigators found in the trunk of her mother's car. At least Casey is considered a suspect. And given the track record of prosecutors lately, I bet she's not shaking in her boots very much.
Not to mention that all the parties of the first partwho are responsible for the financial mess the entire world is sinking into. The only court time they'll ever see is at the Downtown Racquet Club.
My first thought was how soon will he make bail and be out playing golf? At this point I think it's safe to say that the American courts are no longer functioning. Oh, sure, the bailiff cuffed him and took him away. But who are we kidding. Anyone hoping to see guys like O.J. spending quality time in prison have finally given up.
We couldn't put his abusive butt away even though we had his Bruno Maglis, the glove he dropped, the blood on his socks, the blood down the drain at his house, and the blood on the console of his car. Not to mention the bloody fingerprint on the back fence at Nicole's, the witness who saw his Bronco speeding away from the scene, and the slow speed chase with the wig and ten grand in the car -- hey, you name it, Marsha Clark screwed it up.
This time the Las Vegas boys did a little better -- except O.J. is going walk again because the jury probably contained a bunch of people who were more interested in payback. Sure, there was plenty of evidence despite the FBI guy who said he couldn't be sure whether or not the audio tape was tampered with. Oh, please, don't they have machines for that stuff? And I guess the judge allowed mention of Simpson's previous trial entered into the record, something usually frowned upon.
It's just a matter of time. The only way he's going down for his life of crimes is if he falls in the bathtub and breaks his neck.
Frankly, I think most of us have given up on getting mopes like O.J. put away. In fact, I think prosecutors are getting a little gun shy too. Look at "Person of Interest," Drew Peterson, whose third wife was dug up and called a homicide, and whose fourth wife is still missing.
Same with "Person of Interest," Craig Stebic, whose wife Lisa hasn't been seen in over a year.
And how about mother of the year, Casey Anthony, who is more like a character out of a Stephen King novel than a real person. Right now the only thing left of her daughter Caylee may be a strand of her hair and the scent of a dead body investigators found in the trunk of her mother's car. At least Casey is considered a suspect. And given the track record of prosecutors lately, I bet she's not shaking in her boots very much.
Not to mention that all the parties of the first partwho are responsible for the financial mess the entire world is sinking into. The only court time they'll ever see is at the Downtown Racquet Club.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Ho Hum
Rats, no train wreck. Nothing. A tie. Oh, sure, both of them b.s.'d the facts a bit. Okay, a lot. And Sarah attributed a quote to Reagan about freedom that wasn't. It was about his opposition to medicare. And she's not supposed to be opposed to medicare. Or is she? Hell, she doesn't know.
Anyway, she sure looked better than he did. Those plugs drive me insane. And while he was talking to "Gwen" all the time -- which sounded weird listening to the debate on the radio -- the Palinator looked straight into the camera and spoke to the little people, you and me, which made her connection with the audience very powerful -- on TV.
All in all, Gwen Iffel was a disappointment. She didn't ask follow up questions and she never asked about a woman's right to choose.
Palin's preparation was excellent. Run her interview with Katie Couric side by side with her performance last night and there's no comparison. That just proves she can memorize a script if given time and concentration on the subject. But I'm sure McCain's handlers won't let her out on her own between now and the election.
I think people were hoping for something really memorable to happen -- in a bad way. But it didn't. Neither one of them screwed up. So, in this case, without a clear loser, nobody gets the win. I predict the numbers won't move much in either direction this time.
Unless Sarah does something stupid like go on The View.
Oh please oh please oh please.
Anyway, she sure looked better than he did. Those plugs drive me insane. And while he was talking to "Gwen" all the time -- which sounded weird listening to the debate on the radio -- the Palinator looked straight into the camera and spoke to the little people, you and me, which made her connection with the audience very powerful -- on TV.
All in all, Gwen Iffel was a disappointment. She didn't ask follow up questions and she never asked about a woman's right to choose.
Palin's preparation was excellent. Run her interview with Katie Couric side by side with her performance last night and there's no comparison. That just proves she can memorize a script if given time and concentration on the subject. But I'm sure McCain's handlers won't let her out on her own between now and the election.
I think people were hoping for something really memorable to happen -- in a bad way. But it didn't. Neither one of them screwed up. So, in this case, without a clear loser, nobody gets the win. I predict the numbers won't move much in either direction this time.
Unless Sarah does something stupid like go on The View.
Oh please oh please oh please.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
When You Do That VooDoo That You Do So Well
There's a new book out about black magic -- HOODOO -- and the hundred year curse on the Cubs.
I wrote an entire entry about this earlier and it vaporized, so I can vouch that Hoodoo works.
Basically the curse is based on Murphy's Law -- whatever can go wrong will go wrong.
Seems the owner of the Cubs back in '08 was a guy named Murphy. He was an asshead. The Cubs' players hated him so much that they didn't invite him to their party after they won the World Series.
So he got mad and said something like they'd never win another World Series again. Or words to that effect.
Anyway, the name Murphy keeps showing up like a bad penny in Cubs' history over the past 100 years.
That whole thing about the goat? Billy Sianis, the original owner of the BIlly Goat Tavern [from John Belushi, SNL and cheezborger cheezborger fame] cursed the team when he wasn't allowed to bring the smelly ungulate into the ballpark.
But the real problem, it turns out, was the goat's name: MURPHY.
Remember 1984 when the Cubs were up two games on the Padres? Only to lose three in a row and a chance to go to the World Series? The last three games were played at Jack MURPHY stadium.
So I want to read the book and find out how else MURPHY affected the team.
Anyway to give you an idea of what the story is about, I stole the synopsis of this Hoodoo book from Barnes and Noble:
HOODOO DEFINITION:
Someone or something believed to bring bad luck,
such as a jinx, hex or curse.
This is the story of how the hoodoo that afflicted the Chicago Cubs for more than one hundred years was revealed and ultimately—we believe—exorcized by Cubs fans around the world through a series of discoveries, rituals, and hoodoo-cleansing events.
It is a story of goats, black cats, Red Sox and White Sox, superstitions, at least one incredible account of voodoo, countless hoodoos, artifacts, history foretold by Nostradamus, and coincidence, uncovered in an archeological dig through one-hundred-year-old yellowed newsprint.
Ultimately it’s about one man’s carelessness, and how loose lips and arrogance initiated a hoodoo of epic proportions, an act so utterly egregious that it trumped a remarkable World Series run, and for one hundred years thereafter forbade another.
As we have found (and you will see) everything that has happened to the Chicago Cubs—from their 1945 World Series failure to their 1969 collapse, to the infamous foul ball in the 2003 playoffs—reverts to a single source in 1908, Hoodoo Ground Zero for Cubs fans near and far.
Could somebody buy the book and lend me their copy?
I wrote an entire entry about this earlier and it vaporized, so I can vouch that Hoodoo works.
Basically the curse is based on Murphy's Law -- whatever can go wrong will go wrong.
Seems the owner of the Cubs back in '08 was a guy named Murphy. He was an asshead. The Cubs' players hated him so much that they didn't invite him to their party after they won the World Series.
So he got mad and said something like they'd never win another World Series again. Or words to that effect.
Anyway, the name Murphy keeps showing up like a bad penny in Cubs' history over the past 100 years.
That whole thing about the goat? Billy Sianis, the original owner of the BIlly Goat Tavern [from John Belushi, SNL and cheezborger cheezborger fame] cursed the team when he wasn't allowed to bring the smelly ungulate into the ballpark.
But the real problem, it turns out, was the goat's name: MURPHY.
Remember 1984 when the Cubs were up two games on the Padres? Only to lose three in a row and a chance to go to the World Series? The last three games were played at Jack MURPHY stadium.
So I want to read the book and find out how else MURPHY affected the team.
Anyway to give you an idea of what the story is about, I stole the synopsis of this Hoodoo book from Barnes and Noble:
HOODOO DEFINITION:
Someone or something believed to bring bad luck,
such as a jinx, hex or curse.
This is the story of how the hoodoo that afflicted the Chicago Cubs for more than one hundred years was revealed and ultimately—we believe—exorcized by Cubs fans around the world through a series of discoveries, rituals, and hoodoo-cleansing events.
It is a story of goats, black cats, Red Sox and White Sox, superstitions, at least one incredible account of voodoo, countless hoodoos, artifacts, history foretold by Nostradamus, and coincidence, uncovered in an archeological dig through one-hundred-year-old yellowed newsprint.
Ultimately it’s about one man’s carelessness, and how loose lips and arrogance initiated a hoodoo of epic proportions, an act so utterly egregious that it trumped a remarkable World Series run, and for one hundred years thereafter forbade another.
As we have found (and you will see) everything that has happened to the Chicago Cubs—from their 1945 World Series failure to their 1969 collapse, to the infamous foul ball in the 2003 playoffs—reverts to a single source in 1908, Hoodoo Ground Zero for Cubs fans near and far.
Could somebody buy the book and lend me their copy?
Michael Moore's Ideas For Fixing the Wall Street Mess
I'm on Michael Moore's mailing list. But you know that. He sent out an email today about the money mess. I liked his ideas for solving our latest Wall Street meltdown so much that I'm sharing them with you. Give me some time to make his links work. -- Mrs. L
The richest 400 Americans -- that's right, just four hundred people -- own MORE than the bottom 150 million Americans combined. 400 rich Americans have got more stashed away than half the entire country! Their combined net worth is $1.6 trillion. During the eight years of the Bush Administration, their wealth has increased by nearly $700 billion -- the same amount that they are now demanding we give to them for the "bailout." Why don't they just spend the money they made under Bush to bail themselves out? They'd still have nearly a trillion dollars left over to spread amongst themselves!
Of course, they are not going to do that -- at least not voluntarily. George W. Bush was handed a $127 billion surplus when Bill Clinton left office. Because that money was OUR money and not his, he did what the rich prefer to do -- spend it and never look back. Now we have a $9.5 trillion debt. Why on earth would we even think of giving these robber barons any more of our money?
I would like to propose my own bailout plan. My suggestions, listed below, are predicated on the singular and simple belief that the rich must pull themselves up by their own platinum bootstraps. Sorry, fellows, but you drilled it into our heads one too many times: There... is... no... free... lunch. And thank you for encouraging us to hate people on welfare! So, there will be no handouts from us to you. The Senate, tonight, is going to try to rush their version of a "bailout" bill to a vote. They must be stopped. We did it on Monday with the House, and we can do it again today with the Senate.
It is clear, though, that we cannot simply keep protesting without proposing exactly what it is we think Congress should do. So, after consulting with a number of people smarter than Phil Gramm, here is my proposal, now known as "Mike's Rescue Plan." It has 10 simple, straightforward points. They are:
1. APPOINT A SPECIAL PROSECUTOR TO CRIMINALLY INDICT ANYONE ON WALL STREET WHO KNOWINGLY CONTRIBUTED TO THIS COLLAPSE. Before any new money is expended, Congress must commit, by resolution, to criminally prosecute anyone who had anything to do with the attempted sacking of our economy. This means that anyone who committed insider trading, securities fraud or any action that helped bring about this collapse must go to jail. This Congress must call for a Special Prosecutor who will vigorously go after everyone who created the mess, and anyone else who attempts to scam the public in the future.
2. THE RICH MUST PAY FOR THEIR OWN BAILOUT. They may have to live in 5 houses instead of 7. They may have to drive 9 cars instead of 13. The chef for their mini-terriers may have to be reassigned. But there is no way in hell, after forcing family incomes to go down more than $2,000 dollars during the Bush years, that working people and the middle class are going to fork over one dime to underwrite the next yacht purchase.
If they truly need the $700 billion they say they need, well, here is an easy way they can raise it:
a) Every couple who makes over a million dollars a year and every single taxpayer who makes over $500,000 a year will pay a 10% surcharge tax for five years. (It's the Senator Sanders plan. He's like Colonel Sanders, only he's out to fry the right chickens.) That means the rich will still be paying less income tax than when Carter was president. This will raise a total of $300 billion.
b) Like nearly every other democracy, charge a 0.25% tax on every stock transaction. This will raise more than $200 billion in a year.
c) Because every stockholder is a patriotic American, stockholders will forgo receiving a dividend check for one quarter and instead this money will go the treasury to help pay for the bailout.
d) 25% of major U.S. corporations currently pay NO federal income tax. Federal corporate tax revenues currently amount to 1.7% of the GDP compared to 5% in the 1950s. If we raise the corporate income tax back to the level of the 1950s, that gives us an extra $500 billion.
All of this combined should be enough to end the calamity. The rich will get to keep their mansions and their servants, and our United States government ("COUNTRY FIRST!") will have a little leftover to repair some roads, bridges and schools.
3. BAIL OUT THE PEOPLE LOSING THEIR HOMES, NOT THE PEOPLE WHO WILL BUILD AN EIGHTH HOME. There are 1.3 million homes in foreclosure right now. That is what is at the heart of this problem. So instead of giving the money to the banks as a gift, pay down each of these mortgages by $100,000. Force the banks to renegotiate the mortgage so the homeowner can pay on its current value. To insure that this help does no go to speculators and those who have tried to make money by flipping houses, this bailout is only for people's primary residence. And in return for the $100K paydown on the existing mortgage, the government gets to share in the holding of the mortgage so that it can get some of its money back. Thus, the total initial cost of fixing the mortgage crisis at its roots (instead of with the greedy lenders) is $150 billion, not $700 billion.
And let's set the record straight. People who have defaulted on their mortgages are not "bad risks." They are our fellow Americans, and all they wanted was what we all want and most of us still get: a home to call their own. But during the Bush years, millions of them lost the decent paying jobs they had. Six million fell into poverty. Seven million lost their health insurance. And every one of them saw their real wages go down by $2,000. Those who dare to look down on these Americans who got hit with one bad break after another should be ashamed. We are a better, stronger, safer and happier society when all of our citizens can afford to live in a home that they own.
4. IF YOUR BANK OR COMPANY GETS ANY OF OUR MONEY IN A "BAILOUT," THEN WE OWN YOU. Sorry, that's how it's done. If the bank gives me money so I can buy a house, the bank "owns" that house until I pay it all back -- with interest. Same deal for Wall Street. Whatever money you need to stay afloat, if our government considers you a safe risk -- and necessary for the good of the country -- then you can get a loan, but we will own you. If you default, we will sell you. This is how the Swedish government did it and it worked.
5. ALL REGULATIONS MUST BE RESTORED. THE REAGAN REVOLUTION IS DEAD. This catastrophe happened because we let the fox have the keys to the henhouse. In 1999, Phil Gramm authored a bill to remove all the regulations that governed Wall Street and our banking system. The bill passed and Clinton signed it. Here's what Sen. Phil Gramm, McCain's chief economic advisor, said at the bill signing:
"In the 1930s ... it was believed that government was the answer. It was believed that stability and growth came from government overriding the functioning of free markets.
"We are here today to repeal [that] because we have learned that government is not the answer. We have learned that freedom and competition are the answers. We have learned that we promote economic growth and we promote stability by having competition and freedom.
"I am proud to be here because this is an important bill; it is a deregulatory bill. I believe that that is the wave of the future, and I am awfully proud to have been a part of making it a reality."
This bill must be repealed. Bill Clinton can help by leading the effort for the repeal of the Gramm bill and the reinstating of even tougher regulations regarding our financial institutions. And when they're done with that, they can restore the regulations for the airlines, the inspection of our food, the oil industry, OSHA, and every other entity that affects our daily lives. All oversight provisions for any "bailout" must have enforcement monies attached to them and criminal penalties for all offenders.
6. IF IT'S TOO BIG TO FAIL, THEN THAT MEANS IT'S TOO BIG TO EXIST. Allowing the creation of these mega-mergers and not enforcing the monopoly and anti-trust laws has allowed a number of financial institutions and corporations to become so large, the very thought of their collapse means an even bigger collapse across the entire economy. No one or two companies should have this kind of power. The so-called "economic Pearl Harbor" can't happen when you have hundreds -- thousands -- of institutions where people have their money. When you have a dozen auto companies, if one goes belly-up, we don't face a national disaster. If you have three separately-owned daily newspapers in your town, then one media company can't call all the shots (I know... What am I thinking?! Who reads a paper anymore? Sure glad all those mergers and buyouts left us with a strong and free press!). Laws must be enacted to prevent companies from being so large and dominant that with one slingshot to the eye, the giant falls and dies. And no institution should be allowed to set up money schemes that no one can understand. If you can't explain it in two sentences, you shouldn't be taking anyone's money.
7. NO EXECUTIVE SHOULD BE PAID MORE THAN 40 TIMES THEIR AVERAGE EMPLOYEE, AND NO EXECUTIVE SHOULD RECEIVE ANY KIND OF "PARACHUTE" OTHER THAN THE VERY GENEROUS SALARY HE OR SHE MADE WHILE WORKING FOR THE COMPANY. In 1980, the average American CEO made 45 times what their employees made. By 2003, they were making 254 times what their workers made. After 8 years of Bush, they now make over 400 times what their average employee makes. How this can happen at publicly held companies is beyond reason. In Britain, the average CEO makes 28 times what their average employee makes. In Japan, it's only 17 times! The last I heard, the CEO of Toyota was living the high life in Tokyo. How does he do it on so little money? Seriously, this is an outrage. We have created the mess we're in by letting the people at the top become bloated beyond belief with millions of dollars. This has to stop. Not only should no executive who receives help out of this mess profit from it, but any executive who was in charge of running his company into the ground should be fired before the company receives any help.
8. STRENGTHEN THE FDIC AND MAKE IT A MODEL FOR PROTECTING NOT ONLY PEOPLE'S SAVINGS, BUT ALSO THEIR PENSIONS AND THEIR HOMES. Obama was correct yesterday to propose expanding FDIC protection of people's savings in their banks to $250,000. But this same sort of government insurance must be given to our nation's pension funds. People should never have to worry about whether or not the money they've put away for their old age will be there. This will mean strict government oversight of companies who manage their employees' funds -- or perhaps it means that the companies will have to turn over those funds and their management to the government. People's private retirement funds must also be protected, but perhaps it's time to consider not having one's retirement invested in the casino known as the stock market. Our government should have a solemn duty to guarantee that no one who grows old in this country has to worry about ending up destitute.
9. EVERYBODY NEEDS TO TAKE A DEEP BREATH, CALM DOWN, AND NOT LET FEAR RULE THE DAY. Turn off the TV! We are not in the Second Great Depression. The sky is not falling. Pundits and politicians are lying to us so fast and furious it's hard not to be affected by all the fear mongering. Even I, yesterday, wrote to you and repeated what I heard on the news, that the Dow had the biggest one day drop in its history. Well, that's true in terms of points, but its 7% drop came nowhere close to Black Monday in 1987 when the stock market in one day lost 23% of its value. In the '80s, 3,000 banks closed, but America didn't go out of business. These institutions have always had their ups and downs and eventually it works out. It has to, because the rich do not like their wealth being disrupted! They have a vested interest in calming things down and getting back into the Jacuzzi.
As crazy as things are right now, tens of thousands of people got a car loan this week. Thousands went to the bank and got a mortgage to buy a home. Students just back to college found banks more than happy to put them into hock for the next 15 years with a student loan. Life has gone on. Not a single person has lost any of their money if it's in a bank or a treasury note or a CD. And the most amazing thing is that the American public hasn't bought the scare campaign. The citizens didn't blink, and instead told Congress to take that bailout and shove it. THAT was impressive. Why didn't the population succumb to the fright-filled warnings from their president and his cronies? Well, you can only say 'Saddam has da bomb' so many times before the people realize you're a lying sack of shite. After eight long years, the nation is worn out and simply can't take it any longer.
10. CREATE A NATIONAL BANK, A "PEOPLE'S BANK." If we really are itching to print up a trillion dollars, instead of giving it to a few rich people, why don't we give it to ourselves? Now that we own Freddie and Fannie, why not set up a people's bank? One that can provide low-interest loans for all sorts of people who want to own a home, start a small business, go to school, come up with the cure for cancer or create the next great invention. And now that we own AIG, the country's largest insurance company, let's take the next step and provide health insurance for everyone. Medicare for all. It will save us so much money in the long run. And we won't be 12th on the life expectancy list. We'll be able to have a longer life, enjoying our government-protected pension, and living to see the day when the corporate criminals who caused so much misery are let out of prison so that we can help reacclimate them to civilian life -- a life with one nice home and a gas-free car that was invented with help from the People's Bank.
Yours,
Michael Moore
MMFlint@aol.com
MichaelMoore.com
Say Goodbye to the Faux Cowboy
If you've never read Lonestar Concerto's blog, go read it now before the end comes.
HERE.
He writes like a Rembrandt painting. [I wasn't sure how to spell Carravaggio. I'm still not.]
HERE.
He writes like a Rembrandt painting. [I wasn't sure how to spell Carravaggio. I'm still not.]
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