Wednesday, December 22, 2010
A Dog's Tail
There are all sorts of indicators or hints in one's life, each unique in its interpretation from multiple perspectives. Some are painful and blunt, like the sack of Bret Favre last week that, from my perspective, should be interpreted by Mr. Favre as the hint that his days of receiving brutal punishment are not numbered. They are over. Then again, that's my perspective. Within his own now rather muddled noggin, Mr. Favre may be thinking that until I'm out there in a walker, I'll keep on playing.
This interpreting thing has had me thinking recently as to the concept of timeliness or proper timing. Lingering on the stage too long is an immediate discomfort to the unfortunate audience and is usually realized embarrassingly late by the lingering actor. So, I'm looking around for the true indicators, ones that will minimize every one's empathetic supplies.
I've settled on checking with my dog. This inter-species barometer should do me right. I mean, how can you not trust your tail-wagging so-glad-to-see-you fellow resident? The day that the pull to stay home and tussle the dog's ears is stronger then the push to go out and do battle in the biz world populated now with whipper-snappers that believe face-to-face means text-to-text is probably the day that retirement is the sane option. I'm certainly not there yet, but I find myself some mornings struggling to leave the pooch at home by himself.....it's his company I'm preferring to that of the folks at work.
Perhaps if they waved their tails or communicated some other positive action, the dog's company would not be as enticing.
Ho. Ho. Ho.
This interpreting thing has had me thinking recently as to the concept of timeliness or proper timing. Lingering on the stage too long is an immediate discomfort to the unfortunate audience and is usually realized embarrassingly late by the lingering actor. So, I'm looking around for the true indicators, ones that will minimize every one's empathetic supplies.
I've settled on checking with my dog. This inter-species barometer should do me right. I mean, how can you not trust your tail-wagging so-glad-to-see-you fellow resident? The day that the pull to stay home and tussle the dog's ears is stronger then the push to go out and do battle in the biz world populated now with whipper-snappers that believe face-to-face means text-to-text is probably the day that retirement is the sane option. I'm certainly not there yet, but I find myself some mornings struggling to leave the pooch at home by himself.....it's his company I'm preferring to that of the folks at work.
Perhaps if they waved their tails or communicated some other positive action, the dog's company would not be as enticing.
Ho. Ho. Ho.
Labels: 2010: Are We Recovering Yet?, Idiosyncracies, Office Behaviour, People
Thursday, October 29, 2009
H1N1 & The Elbow Bump of Peace
In a recent Pittsburgh Post-Gazette article regarding the Swine Flu and the methods of avoiding/spreading it, a few sentences jumped out.
First,
Visitors to an open house in Squirrel Hill last weekend were greeted by the homeowner, but not with a handshake.
"We're doing elbow bumps," Janet Anti told her guests, offering the outside of her bent arm. "Because of the national emergency," she added, and everyone nodded knowingly.
Then later on in the article,
As for the elbow bump, it hasn't caught on widely, but some houses of worship are encouraging congregants to find other ways of greeting each other.
As a spotty participant in organized religious events, I squirm like a worm when the time comes around at (Catholic) Mass when the Handshake of Peace ceremony rolls around. Symbolic gestures are just not my thing and the Handshake was at the top of my list for activities best avoided. Yeah, yeah, I know, paint me in full color "Anti-Social". While you're brushing me, let me say I was never a big fan of the folk masses either. Kumbaya, indeed.
So, this "ban" on handshakes and possible switch to elbow-bumping has made me curious, if only to attend once just to see urban-challenged adults trying to bump each other without blackening each other's eyes.
Whas up, J.C.?
First,
Visitors to an open house in Squirrel Hill last weekend were greeted by the homeowner, but not with a handshake.
"We're doing elbow bumps," Janet Anti told her guests, offering the outside of her bent arm. "Because of the national emergency," she added, and everyone nodded knowingly.
Then later on in the article,
As for the elbow bump, it hasn't caught on widely, but some houses of worship are encouraging congregants to find other ways of greeting each other.
As a spotty participant in organized religious events, I squirm like a worm when the time comes around at (Catholic) Mass when the Handshake of Peace ceremony rolls around. Symbolic gestures are just not my thing and the Handshake was at the top of my list for activities best avoided. Yeah, yeah, I know, paint me in full color "Anti-Social". While you're brushing me, let me say I was never a big fan of the folk masses either. Kumbaya, indeed.
So, this "ban" on handshakes and possible switch to elbow-bumping has made me curious, if only to attend once just to see urban-challenged adults trying to bump each other without blackening each other's eyes.
Whas up, J.C.?
Labels: People, Pittsburgh, Quirks
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Note to Current & Future "Helicopter" Parents....
...from Maurice Sendak.
"Go to Hell".
Love it. Absolutely. Positively. Love it!
"Go to Hell".
Love it. Absolutely. Positively. Love it!
Labels: Family Matters, People, Personalities
Monday, October 05, 2009
Brain Love
While some of us are loading up our brain cells and computer memories with data to concoct the winning combination for this week's football fantasy game/lottery pick ticket/poker game with the boys/baseball playoff games, a few other more-highly oriented people are focusing their brain matter on the important things in life.
Namely, Love.
Or, at the worst, a Hot Date.
Seems our higher schools of learning are not just places to sleep/eat/drin...and drink some more. There's some kanoodling going on.
What better way to describe this proposal than brain-dating? Who woulda thunk that electroencephalography and/or magnetoencephalography could all lead to a love match? Only a CMU-er, I guess...
Namely, Love.
Or, at the worst, a Hot Date.
Seems our higher schools of learning are not just places to sleep/eat/drin...and drink some more. There's some kanoodling going on.
What better way to describe this proposal than brain-dating? Who woulda thunk that electroencephalography and/or magnetoencephalography could all lead to a love match? Only a CMU-er, I guess...
Labels: People, Pittsburgh
Friday, July 31, 2009
Drachenfutter
A discussion of spinning ideas at any drinking establishment will, at some point, veer off into "The Economic State", specifically, "My Economic State". An important sub-category of said state is the can't-go-wrong scheme of "My Business Model". The crowd is usually deep into their respective cups at this juncture. Most of your drinking buds are leering between drunk and drowsy with quizzical looks on their faces wondering how you're still extemporaneously conversing in a semi-intelligent matter.
As a well-read Wodehouse fan, you are familiar with the Ways of Mulliner, so flights of verbal fancy are not new to you as you start winging your economic treatise on running your own shop. Like most kids, the thrill of being in a favorite store (pick your poison here, candy & comics emporium, 7-11’s, Dollar Variety stores, etc.) left you thinking, "Hey! I could do better than this when I grow up! I can be an adult AND enjoy my inner kid at my store all day!"
Fortunately, most of us realize late in our teens that running a store specifically designed to sell items to yourself will have a very limited customer base. Some guys only realize this after cleaning out their hard-earned meager savings on such entrepreneurial endeavors as "Used Tonkas 'R Us" or "Chew 'N Chat: THE Bubblegum Shoppe".
With a college degree folded and tucked into your back pocket and mental scabs acquired, picked at, and healed from life as you know it, some basic conclusions can be Sharpied for sake of permanency.
1)Men and women live in the same State, but on different sides of a river in said State.
2)While men like to cross the river for exploratory purposes, permanent occupation is a fleeting thought.
3)Crossing the river can be a perilous journey cursed with a plethora of words, the latter usually put together into complicated sentence structures discernible only by the female residents of the other side of the river.
4)When crossing the river in one’s bateau it’s always a good idea to be bearing a cadeau.
5)No matter what condition the rest of the world is in economically, principles #1 through #4 are always true.
Making these tested truths the cornerstone (some would say "Mission Statement"; others would say, "I will put a hurt on you if you use that "Mission Statement" crap again!") of your Shop Model, you conclude that YOUR shop model could do well selling to the potential customer base of 50% of the human population. Never underestimate the stupidity of people, but always overestimate the stupidity of a guy. The latter, and I throw myself into that distinguished pile, are incapable of learning/remembering from their encounters with the people living on the other side of the river. As your business target, the Guy is a perfect fit for your product.
The product? One word will cover it.
Drachenfutter.
A wonderful word to describe both your product and one to use as your store’s name. The beauty of your concept is that the store will be self-perpetuating as long as all of the staff is male. The product you will be offering, whether it takes the form of flowers, candies, watches, jewelry, cars, books, stuffed creatures of non-zoological connections, must be chosen and recommended by men. This will guarantee a same-sex "sigh and understanding" moment while simultaneously nixing the success of said gift when presented, thus forcing a return trip some time later for another drachenfutter. Having an employee of the female persuasion may lead to a successful gift sale, true. But, you are looking for repeat business and, in the case of male/female relations, nothing brings drachenfutter success like failure.
You must think big. Drachenfutter knows no national borders. You can be the capo de capos of Gift Giving Futility and earning a nice amount of change. Guys are internationally crossing that river at their own peril even as I type. They should all be armed with gifts to lay before the dame. You, sir, are asked to provide the temporary salve
Labels: BIzNiz, Effluvia, People
Friday, June 19, 2009
Vacation a Trois
Only an author would think of this. Only Nick Hornby could carry it through. Oh, yeah, September is just around the rainy corner.
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Word for Today : Onychophobia
Not that there's anything wrong with any of this, the question is are they true (tongue pressed firmly into cheek)?
Labels: Effluvia, Idiosyncracies, People
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Water, Beer, & Thinking
...do not do so well in the part of the world known previously as the Land of the Southern Slavs. Throw in some warm weather, the inbred Slavic need for 24/7 tuneage, and thoughts of the summer that will be the best of all Summers (as most Summers tend to be thought of in the preceding Spring) and you're asking for calls to 911.Here's to warming weather and a thinning of the herd.
Labels: Croatia, Idiosyncracies, People
Monday, November 17, 2008
Life Lesson #1
Lesson to the kiddies:
Whenever an adult tells you it doesn't matter in this world as to how you look, keep these pictures and this question in mind.
Which one is Director of G20 study group at University of Toronto and which one is a man of mystery, intrigue and action?
Lesson to the 'dults:
Whenever a punk (at this point, anyone under 35) tells you it does matter how you look these days, keep these pictures in mind.
Which one is Director of G20 study group at University of Toronto having an actual effect on countless people and which one is just an actor portraying a fictitious super agent working for an (almost) third world country?
Ah, the magic of perspective.
Labels: People
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Thursday's NYT
Two interesting bits from today's NYT.
This house is one that could most definitely keep me house-bound. Why go out? Why go to work? Why leave, ever? Catch the slide show included in the article.
The other article? It concerns NY governor David Paterson's aide. "Charles J. O’Byrne, (who), despite an annual income of about $100,000 and an Ivy League education, could not bring himself to undertake the task of filling out his tax forms every year. Mr. O’Byrne and his doctor have described him as clinically depressed during that period".
His lawyers, defending his non-actions with the IRS have brought up something called late-filing syndrome. Per the NYT, "Late-filing syndrome, sometimes known as nonfiling syndrome or failure-to-file syndrome, is not listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. A spokeswoman for the American Psychiatric Association said that the group does not recognize it as a psychiatric condition".
Is it any wonder that the legal and the mental health professionals are not held in the highest regard by the majority of the populace? As a reluctant annual filer, not a tear of sympathy, not a drop of empathy go this fellow's way. $100,000 annually and he's not filing? Give me a break. Depression is completely understandable, but to concoct a syndrome for not filing, especially at the income level that the fellow's in?
...and let's not talk about Mr. O’Byrne's misuse of a government credit card. ("Questions about another aspect of Mr. O’Byrne’s finances arose on Wednesday based on a report in The Daily News that he had recently charged $935 in restaurant meals in Manhattan to his state-issued credit card, including visits to Commerce in Greenwich Village and Cookshop in Chelsea.")
This house is one that could most definitely keep me house-bound. Why go out? Why go to work? Why leave, ever? Catch the slide show included in the article.
The other article? It concerns NY governor David Paterson's aide. "Charles J. O’Byrne, (who), despite an annual income of about $100,000 and an Ivy League education, could not bring himself to undertake the task of filling out his tax forms every year. Mr. O’Byrne and his doctor have described him as clinically depressed during that period".
His lawyers, defending his non-actions with the IRS have brought up something called late-filing syndrome. Per the NYT, "Late-filing syndrome, sometimes known as nonfiling syndrome or failure-to-file syndrome, is not listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. A spokeswoman for the American Psychiatric Association said that the group does not recognize it as a psychiatric condition".
Is it any wonder that the legal and the mental health professionals are not held in the highest regard by the majority of the populace? As a reluctant annual filer, not a tear of sympathy, not a drop of empathy go this fellow's way. $100,000 annually and he's not filing? Give me a break. Depression is completely understandable, but to concoct a syndrome for not filing, especially at the income level that the fellow's in?
...and let's not talk about Mr. O’Byrne's misuse of a government credit card. ("Questions about another aspect of Mr. O’Byrne’s finances arose on Wednesday based on a report in The Daily News that he had recently charged $935 in restaurant meals in Manhattan to his state-issued credit card, including visits to Commerce in Greenwich Village and Cookshop in Chelsea.")
Labels: Only in America, People
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Row, Row, Row Your Boat
O.K., If this wasn't serious it would be a comedy. Suspend your grasp on reality. I'm a pirate with a bunch of buddy pirates tooling off the coast of Somalia in vessels slightly larger than your regular rowboat. Oh, yeah I have motors rather than rows. I and my non-swarthy companions approach and then hijack a very large and much taller vessel, the MV Faina (which may or may not be named after Faina Mogilevskaya), a Ukranian ship carrying 33 Russian made T-72 tank and an undisclosed quantity of rocket launchers. It hasn't been fully disclosed but I used pea-shooters, some boomerangs, and slingshots and some special Somalian rocks to hijack this vessel carrying armaments (although not Weapons of Mass Destruction). Please don't ask me why no one on board of the MV Faina seemed to think it would have been a good idea to pick up any of the rocket launchers or other arms readily available on board to shoot at us. You would think the least the crew would have done was to summon the chef and galley crew and have them pour hot water on us as we demanded that they throw down a rope ladder so we could climb up the 75 feet so as to board the ship. I mean, come on, even a little taunting would have made this adventure a little more exciting.Perhaps they had been watching too many DVD's of Johnny Depp's escapades and had convinced themselves that "Pirates of the Caribbean IV-The Somali Adventures" was already filming and they would be extras in the production. I can't explain it. All I know is that I and my maties are sitting pretty on the decks of the MV Faina waiting for our $35 Million payoff. A T-72 tank, anyone?
Monday, September 29, 2008
Short Road to Perdition
In this OP piece, the learned Dr. Stanley Fish opines that Dubya may soon rise in popularity, pretty darn close to when he leaves office. After I picked up my jaw, which had dropped down to the floor after reading his proposal and conclusion, I skimmed down to the plethora of comments. This one, submitted by a Mr. Brett Rogers is a succinct gem.
With all due respect, the only way that (Bush getting respect) could possibly happen is if perdition goes below 32 degrees Fahrenheit.
With all due respect, the only way that (Bush getting respect) could possibly happen is if perdition goes below 32 degrees Fahrenheit.
Labels: People
Monday, September 22, 2008
Charlie's Girl
Whenever I see her, I rub a finger down my neck to flatten the goose pimples that always spring up. I don't catch her every day as her shifts at one of the local pizzerias fluctuates along with the quality of the fare. She is just one of the floating crew of 7-8 young women who wait on tables at this strip mall restaurant just off a main highway. The place is small with a split for the "Are you dining in?" customers and the regulars who get a slice or two and fill their own paper cups from the soda dispenser. When the wait staff is not serving the dine-ins, they're sitting in the booths on the self-serve side, mulling over the tip-take so far and postulating on the ennui that will encapsulate their evenings. Most of the young women are in their late teens, early twenties. Any woman older tends to work the better-tipping evening shifts, after they had already put in time at their 8-to-5 job. The lunch time staff are still dreamers. They’re raising kids without a husband around to buttress the burden. They’re struggling with finishing their GED’s and community college courses. They're concocting budgets based primarily on the float. They're devising logistical models rivaling UPS' amongst themselves in attempts to minimize fuel expenditures. They’re thinking the Republicans, especially now with Palin on board, really mean what they say when they're promising support for people like them.And.
They're talking/complaining/cooing about their beau du jour.
I spread out my daily NYT, sorting the different sections in my particular reading order. Sports section first, followed by the Arts and then the Editorials a the end of the first section. On Tuesdays, the Science section jumps in front, while on Friday, the Weekend and Movie reviews are on top of the pile. I read with a deep pose, shoulders haunched, eyes poring over the news print, while chomping at a slice of pizza. I take on the pose both to ward off interruptions from other customers who want an ear for their troubles along with my self-serving need to immerse myself into subjects having nothing to do with work. Lunch is my hour of outside information intake. While most days that I'm at the pizza joint, I can concentrate fairly well on my table's offerings, other days finds me being drawn into the wait staff's conversation.
Heather, let me call her Heather as her birth decade was abloom with "Heathers", is one of the young women striving to get through her days overburdened with responsibilities at too young an age. She probably was quite pretty when she was just a few years younger. Lack of sleep, lack of stability, lack of a faithful mate, and no lack of two kids aged her in a punishing way. I again raised my hand to just below my ear and rubbed down the goose pimples that arose when I saw "Charlie" tattooed, like a rainbow, just below her right ear. "Charlie" had already spread out, as if the bluish ink were dissolving down her neck. A small heart dotted the i, posing the question of which "Charlie" was loved. Was "Charlie" a man’s name or a woman's? Not her own name, that was discounted when she was addressed by another of the young women. Was "Charlie" a son? A previous boyfriend/husband? A current boyfriend? My ears strayed while my eyes remained glued to the newsprint gradually fading into the background.
Over a few weeks’ time, Heather had shared her life, or at least the last 5 or so years with her fellow workers and anyone within earshot. "Charlie" was graduating the year she was a sophomore. A very smitten sophomore who soon was smote and then a junior high school mother. "Charlie" hung around for a while and then left the small town for work in Florida. Or so he said, which was the last he ending up saying to Heather. "Charlie" the tattoo arrived in that junior year when her small world became oh so large. "Charlie" the tattoo stayed when "Charlie" the graduate became Florida-bound. She had nervous hands and nicotine fingers, nothing a cigarette could help her with in the No Smoking restaurant. So she scraped and puled at her fingers' skin while she talked, always brushing the peelings off the tables before she left.
She dated after Charlie's southbound departure, even had some serious relationships. One resulted in another child, but no additional tattoos.
The tattooed dream was something she'd already let go off, wondering now how to erase what had been such a tangibility only 2-3 years ago. A family came through the entrance.
"Dining in?"
A puzzled look amongst themselves and then a nod by the mother, setting the feeding confusion aside. Heather was the next server in line. She pulled up the collar of her white shirt hiding all but the bluish heart on "Charlie", sighed, and drew herself out of the booth, a menu in hand and a smile slowly tugging on her face.
"Follow me, please", she said to the travelers as she turned into the family dining section.
Labels: Only in America, People
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Deep Tan
The ever-loving wife and I have been extremely fortunate in having friends who had summer shacks to share this year. So, for a couple of weekends and some weekdays, we've been invited to spend some relaxing time down on the Jersey Shore and the Delaware Beaches (for those not familiar with the ocean/land terminology, though there are beaches in New Jersey, it's called the Shore and while Delaware has its shore, it's called the Beach. Funny how in Croatia, where you also have shores and beaches, you call it More, The Sea). This most recent weekend was spent luxuriating at one of the only shore spots in New Jersey that the dreaded Jersey Beach Badge Police weren't patrolling. It shall remain nameless as I'd be shot if I'd reveal such a Jersey rarity! As I was working on my late summer burn, assisted by my negligible SPF 8 tanning spray (the dandelion/chamomile ingredients add a salad-y smell to one's burning flesh), I couldn't help but admire the darkened skin on some of my fellow shore-sitters. Memories of previous summers, previous tanning session came back to me as the cool breeze wafted in from the slurping water's edge.Back in the ol' college days, a female friend of mine went through annual changes come the stronger rays of summer or lower latitudes. We were buds; resembling a sister-brother thing than any other sort of relationship. She was dating a close friend of mine at school and we gradually developed into a mutual story-telling/commiseration scenario halo that surrounded my close friend's exploits/talents/meanderings. It's as if we were collaborating on a college years biography of him. Eventually, she tired of his shenanigans and she broke off her relationship with him but, oddly enough, not with me. We stayed good friends through the balance of my days at school disproving the theory floating around in those days that a guy and gal could really be just friends.
Well, almost disproving that theory.
She, let me call her Sylvie, was French-Canadian which connoted quite a few things. One of the connotations of being Québécois was possessing the trait that one's body would behave as if it were a sunflower. We were going up on a ski-lift one terminally cold bright sunshiny day, I with my scarf wrapped mummy-like around my exposed skin, she with her face tilted at just the right angle to absorb maximum ray-age. "Look", she said pointing to other skiers sitting on the chairlifts in front of us, their heads tilted in the Sylvie angle,"All Québécois." Being an Anthropology major and a native of Province du Québéc , I wasn't about to argue with her. Besides, my scarf would have muffled any pseudo-intelligent argument I'd have presented.
The cold and the limited presence of warm sunshine prompted, I assume, this solar-centric behaviour. Come winter and spring break, Sylvie head off to Florida, the Caribbean, or Mexico with her family or friends. Considering the limited amount of exposure she had in Canada during the fall and winter, I was surprised how much color she had. But, upon her return from places South, she was absolutely Brazilian. A fairly serious and closely-guarded person normally, Sylvie, well really, Sylvie and her tan were a different creature. The extra "coat" she bore lasted 2, maybe 3, weeks, regardless of her futile attempts to maintain the dark armor. As the brown faded, her softer features came back. Her eyes became less calculating and more comforting with each day's passage. Her predatory gait toned down to a sure pace that drew in rather than frightened passersby.
After experiencing the results of a couple of her sojourns, I brought up the topic of her changes and reversions. She was surprised and initially adamant that any changes were on my part and not on hers. She was, after all, a person most interested in finishing her undergraduate academic grazing so that an academic life of permanent pastures was available to her. She took herself quite seriously and hoped that others would as well; this temporary personality change I was suggesting didn't mesh well with her self-vision. It wasn't that I minded seeing these changes in her. There was an unquestionable attractiveness to her Jekkyl/Hyde transformation. Knowing she wasn't to bite my head off or claw me to death made the experience one lacking in death and plentiful in a theatre of one sort of performance. In almost a cruel way, on my part, it was extremely interesting seeing her go through the transformation, in both directions, with nary a clue of the changes happening. The first few times, I was rather uneasy, but after a while, knowing that Sylvie would come back as herself as her bronze skin faded, there was an excitement to see her upon her flight back North.
I confess that I did have my moments of doubt about her changes. I stupidly confided to a mutual and close friend of ours of my observations. She, after observing Sylvie one weekend after Sylvie had returned from a 2 week trip to Cuba, agreed in a voice loud enough (and continuous enough) that my observations were true. Sylvie, hurt that I'd passed on this personality un-masking phenomenon on, flung a few choice curses my way and disappeared down the hallway to her room. Our easy-hanging around days diminished noticeably soon after. We ran into each other at parties or at the college administration offices. At the latter, I was usually eying the employment board, hoping to see names of prospective employers looking for American students to work in Canada. She was there putting in for transcripts mailing to various grad schools deep, deep in the southern parts of the States. I heard that she ended up in a doctoral program in Anthropology in Arizona or Texas. Somewhere where the tan lines were deep and distinct. A place where you were being baked to a color thick enough to clothe and comfort the person within.
Labels: People
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Chutzpah - An Illustration
In looking through Wikipedia for its take on chutzpah, I was seriously disappointed. What a shortcoming in illustrating this fabulous word. Then today, thanks to the Metro section of the NYT, comes this little story. A gem, really, of how a word can describe a life. A certain Darren Miller decided to fence in over 10 acres of public land quite a few years ago and make some money. The land, public land, was used by Mr. Miller as a truck parking lot, a chop shop, and a detailing business. On Wed., Aug the 13th, it was an unlucky day for Mr. Miller as he faced various charges for the "acquisition" and mis-use of the land. This blurb from the article gives you an idea of the sizable weight of Mr. Miller's chutzpah.
"Mr. Miller’s lawyer, Vincent M. Gerardi, said his client’s claim to the land was sound, and based on the legal doctrine of “adverse possession,” in which someone can claim title to property he has used for a specified number of years. Mr. Miller, his lawyer said, is a small-business owner who simply made good use of a wasted patch of land."
This is certainly a story worth following. Seems that the folks paying for the use of the borrowed lot weren't ticked off at Mr. Miller at all but were in mourning of the closing of the lot.
"Joseph Bhola, sitting next to an orange dump truck, said it was hard to find truck parking lots in the city, especially at the prices Mr. Miller charged: about $300 monthly, or half the price of other lots, depending on the size of the truck. Another trucker, Peter, who would not give his last name, said the closing of the lot was probably the last straw: He would move to Florida. "New York has too many permits, and too many laws", he said."
"Mr. Miller’s lawyer, Vincent M. Gerardi, said his client’s claim to the land was sound, and based on the legal doctrine of “adverse possession,” in which someone can claim title to property he has used for a specified number of years. Mr. Miller, his lawyer said, is a small-business owner who simply made good use of a wasted patch of land."
This is certainly a story worth following. Seems that the folks paying for the use of the borrowed lot weren't ticked off at Mr. Miller at all but were in mourning of the closing of the lot.
"Joseph Bhola, sitting next to an orange dump truck, said it was hard to find truck parking lots in the city, especially at the prices Mr. Miller charged: about $300 monthly, or half the price of other lots, depending on the size of the truck. Another trucker, Peter, who would not give his last name, said the closing of the lot was probably the last straw: He would move to Florida. "New York has too many permits, and too many laws", he said."
Labels: People
Merde! Not that Coffee Again.
I'm not what you'd call a joiner. Tending toward the introvert markings on a social ability scale, I tend to view any groups with mistrust. It's not that I hate people, it's just that I hate people's intrusion on my time. Especially those people who mistakingly view themselves as interesting and thus self-delude themselves into thinking that their poorly crafted stories (well....when you've got bad material to start off a story...) are tales I want to spend my limited time listening to.So, groups and I do not tend to cross paths too often. Yeah, I belong to your usual professional groups, which means you get an annual card and may have to momentarily attend an annual meeting. I view these things as work-related necessities and, at least as far as the meetings go, I try to latch onto the smallest gathering which is usually centered around the most loose bolt in the professional group's structure. The guy or gal with the most outrageous hair tends to be the person I'll gravitate to when the meeting bell rings. A minimal toll it is for me.
But, I'm really going off the path here. What prompted this post was an off the cuff remark a member made as regards the daily brew made by one of our coffee club members at work.
"This coffee tastes like S_ _ T!"
He was right. It even smelled like it. Memory cogs started churning and I recalled a coffee exquisite concoction I'd read about in a paper a while back. Googling, I came up with this. You folks probably recall the $400 per Lb. coffee beans story. I recounted this story to the coffee opinionator and he looked at me with a shifty eye, while backing away from the coffee urn. Luckily, Google provided me with the needed support for what he took as my bulls_ _t story.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
War Crime Poetry
A short piece from the New Yorker regarding Radovan Karadzic's poetry. A short bite: "Like many megalomaniacs, Karadzic fancied himself a poet. (In the mid-seventies, he took a few poetry classes at Columbia University while studying psychiatry.) Infuriatingly, Karadzic managed to release a new book of verse, a novel, and a play while living underground. "
Within this piece is a link to an abstract written by Jay Surdukowski in 2005, suggesting that "Is Poetry a War Crime? Reckoning for Radovan Karadzic the Poet Warrior". In lawyerese, Mr. Surdowski "suggests in particular that the materials at least have evidentiary value in the mens rea determination for genocide, the most significant crime Karadzic has been indicted for and the offense that has been branded the "ultimate crime." "
Wait until the poets start critiquing his poetry!? Then, we'll hear about the crimes to language and the needless death of trees.
For those with patience and a high threshold for seething, here are three of his poems.
An excerpt from one of them, Sarajevo:
"The town burns like a piece of incense
In the smoke rumbles our consciousness.
Empty suits slide down the town.
Red is the stone that dies, built into a house. The Plague!"
Why bother with a trial? Resuscitate old wounds to have him rub sea salt into?
Labels: People
Radovan 24/7
Mr. Eric Gordy, on his East of Ethnia site, is your source for Radovan Karadžić related information, bent to make it even more interesting while staying within the playing field of truth. In this link, he provides info regarding Mr.
An excerpt, revealing the defense strategy: "Karadzic's lawyer in Serbia, Svetozar Vujacic, said his client was in good mental and physical condition. He was not talking to investigators, but "defending himself with silence."
"He is going to have a legal team in Serbia but he will be defending himself (without a lawyer) during his trial at The Hague," Vujacic told Reuters.
"He is convinced that with the help of God he will win.""
This "God" guy Mr. Vujavic is referring to is not the same God we've heard about over here, is it?
Here's Eric's report on the mysterious doings of Radovan Karadžić's other self, Dragan David Dabić. An excerpt, "He did not appear to make a strong impression on his neighbours in Novi Beograd, who if they remember him as well remember him as quiet and polite with a dress sense that was unusual, what Californians might describe as "elegant casual." " These killer despots....always imitating/insulting the California life-style.
Another excellent 24/7 Radovan Karadžić is Finding Karadzic. He provides links to the secret Radovan Karadžić. Karadžić's presence on the Internet is rather spooky, aside from casting even a deeper pall on the alternative health maintenance industry. Check out his Ten Favorite Chinese Proverbs at the bottom of this site. This guy's ego knows no bounds.
Labels: People
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The 'Do is Done
Radovan Karadžić , the noted poet/psychologist/ex-government head/alleged ethnic cleanser/champion hide-'n-seeker has been outed, caught, and whisked away. Poets and psychologists world-wide can now exhale knowing that the truly Bad Boy of their profession will be marched to Th Hague where, at the least, he will be forced to relinquish any ties he had with psychiatry and poetry. A short trip through a photo gallery shows that he has been busy inventing another hairstyle while tucked away somewhere in Serbia. Interesting to note that Mr. Karadžić not only has not lost any of his famous hair but has actually quadrupled its quantity. The black streak running through the top of his pompadour was certainly purposeful so as to not confuse him with Mr. Kaczynski's famous 'do. It is still a mystery as to whether judges or barbers will sit in on judgment of Mr. Karadžić's innumerable charges against humanity and cosmetology.So, here's the newest visitor to The Hague at a "medical" conference.
n.b.: Tip of the Hat to Eric over at East Ethnia, who clued me into the last link, from the BBC. His entry on Mr. Karadžić is worth reading as his sly wit is noted vis-a-vis the Belgrade Transportation System.
Labels: People
No! Not me! (PLEASE, not me!)
My behaviour recently, that is, the critique of my recent behaviour has been such that it required a singular word to capture its full effect. Based on words spoken to me, it seems this mot juste, doryphore, might just do the trick. No excuses are offered. No explanations of circumstances possibly causing this "Colorado beetle" like behaviour will be given. Either would serve only to provide the fuel for the commenting fire.My own conclusion of this (hopefully short-timed) phenomenon is that being the passenger in a car v. being the driver causes personality changes (hopefully short-termed) that encourages the left side (or is it the right side) of my brain to fully engage its critiquing ability. Though no harm is intended, it seems my quest for efficiency, especially in others, is only successful in making a listener reach a level of displeasure and offense rapidly. Although my (perceived) aim is true, my targets would appreciate more misses than hits. It's an awful thing, this act of being a questing prig. I mean, you'd want the brain surgeon sawing into your skull to be a doryphore while he/she were poking up there in your hippocampus (no matter how small it had gotten. Funny. If you had asked me which part of your brain did get smaller due to this, I would have said, "Oh, yeah that college campus part". But, you didn't ask, so I'll just return to where I had left off...). But after the operation, I doubt you'd want to be confined to a bed and have to deal with the nit-picking medical genius, pointing out all of the errors of your way of living.
I will strive to minimize my role of auto passenger and thus, hopefully, decrease my innate doryphore. I'm way too old to try to change this; I'm at the age where self-suppression works best. That, or carry a large sock o' horse manure to insert in my mouth whenever I get an urge to point out deficiencies.
Perhaps, If everybody did their job, I'd be less cantankerously picky.
See more funny videos at Funny or Die
Labels: People, Self-Therapy
