When you consider the fact that they are grown men, you have to wonder. I guess that goes for more than Just Hell's Angels, but that is what brought it to mind. As soon as I wrote that, though, my mind strayed to the gang of longshoremen that vandalized a place of business in Washington state because they think it is their God given right to tell people who to hire. The ones hired were union, too. That's off subject, but the same lowlife character and victim mentality.
The victim syndrome runs rampant just about everywhere. First you define the group, then convince them they are being abused in some way by whatever enemy you define, and all of a sudden normal inhibitions and morals go out the window because they convince themselves the enemy deserves whatever mischief can be brought upon them.
Many aberrant groups set them selves up to be victims by purposely intimidating people who don't run in gangs like a pack of dogs. Then if people give them a second look or vacate the vicinity they've soiled, the dogs bark in complaint and defiance. They pretend they've somehow been wronged so now you have no rights in their tiny little minds and that makes you fair game for their sadistic thrills.
I've seen plenty of bikers and motorcycle enthusiasts here in California. If they wear colors, it usually says something like, "Lawyers and Accountants with Hogs". I made that up but that gives the sense of the thing. Just people enjoying bikes. Not sadistic idiots who run in packs to bother everyone else and bolster their warped egos while compensating for some deficiency or other.
Today I saw a lone motorcyclist at the View Point wearing Hell's Angels, California colors. Colors means the obligatory leather vest or jacket with the gang's name and logo. There's plenty of ritual and rules that go with bike gangs and colors, but that's all I know. I don't respect them enough to remember any of the details.
It crossed my mind that it is a good thing that I do not carry a firearm. As I looked at the guy and considered what his proudly worn signage represented, I thought it would be good enough for the world if someone just shot him unceremoniously. I still think that.
I remember many years ago when Hell's Scumbags went down to Florida, in big numbers of course. (just an aside but this guy is the only lone Hell's jerk I've ever seen. I've never seen them ride solo. Two or more at least.)
Anyway, I saw them enter Rickenbacker Causeway which is the highway on and off Key Biscayne. It is a toll road and you had to pay a quarter at that time. They made as much noise as possible and rode through and on the curb throwing change at the girl in the toll booth. Just throwing it and laughing. For one thing, metal can hurt, and for another they knew they were making life tough for her and scaring her. I'll bet there was close to a hundred of them. A**holes!
During that same general time period they had gone to south Dade county, near Homestead, FL, I guess, where there was a lot of farming. This is before Miami spilled so far south and west. There was a migrant worker camp in a remote area, as the farmland was rural. They rode through raping, beating, destroying the shacks for no apparent reason. Just a pack of aberrant humans preying on those they saw as weaker than themselves.
Right about that time they grabbed a young woman, maybe only a teenager, from somewhere in South Florida. I guess they did the usual rape and humiliate, and left her nailed to a palm tree near W.Palm Beach. Literally nailed. They actually hammered nails. Glamorous, aren't they?
When I was in college in NC, friends of mine went to a huge annual event called the Fiddler's convention. It attracted all kinds of families and people. Big deal where tons of people camp and enjoy music, come for the day or the weekend, whatever. I didn't make it.
Hell's Angels did though. They came in tractor trailers and unloaded their dumbass bikes when they got there. Of course they did so with much pomp and circumstance and noise, according to reliable sources. They also roped off the area they claimed as their own after making a few people move their campsites. One unfortunate college age kid leaned on their holy rope. Several of the Hell's Vermin beat him to a bloody pulp.
I had brushes with Hell's Angels wannabes and did not get beat to a pulp. But it was the first time I ever seriously thought about killing. That bunch had attacked innocent people in Tallahasse before I arrived at a party back in my FSU days. Long story, but the short of it is, I hate biker gangs.
My NC college pal, George, claimed he knew how to make an approximation of napalm. We were hoping the Hell's Douchebags were going to make the Fiddler's convention again. I was going to rent a little Cessna and we were going to fry them. I was pretty skilled at low level flying, slow flight, etc. at that time. I flew Piper Cherokees and such as well, but nothing fit like a Cessna 150. I liked it even better than the four place 172 and such. It was just a thing I could drive very well at one time.
Anyway, we didn't ever do it, but I guess I might have if money and things had been no object. Even now, if someone were to firebomb a group of Hell's Angels or Outlaws or other gang that feeds on decent people, I'd applaud them. Gangs of any color or type whose only goal is violence and degradation of life should be wiped out. Wipe out one such cesspool without consequence or remorse or the media lamenting about what made them vile creatures to begin with and how society is to blame, and I imagine fewer people would be inclined to sign up.
Much of what fuels gangs is that psychoanalysis bit that paints them as victims. They have their gang family who protects them against the evil world. They pretend to be about freedom, but they only enjoy the freedom of violating the rights of others.
Lots of punks buy into that. One obvious example is the practice of playing what I'll loosely call music so loud that you can't escape it in your own home or car. That is a form of assault. Freedom to listen to whatever music you like does not give you the right to force your neighbors to listen.
I like motorcycles just fine. Hell, I like leather jackets and clever logos (although I prefer not to have logos on my clothing). But I do not like groups of people who have to run in a pack and who do nothing but bring misery to others. Grown men, often even over the age of forty go running around playing badass looking to intimidate people like grade school bullies. Now why would anyone care if someone blew them away if they found these creeps on the lawn, or just in their sights?
Maybe I am saying we are victims of gangs of various types. My thinking is that we are not victims if we don't allow it. And I don't think I'm suspending values.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Observations and I've Been Thinking; part 10232011
There I was, don't remember exactly where, but I was there thinking. Then two different voices from two different times in space were recalled simultaneously.
Both were remarking that I could be making things, like boxes, fountains, or combinations thereof, since I have done such things and the results were unusual and well received in certain circles. Both voices were people who believed I had some degree of talent and thought my creations worthy. My own self defeating, and self criticism tends to cause me to believe these items are no good, never sell, blablabla.
That really should be one of my fallback safety nets, and I ought to put time in on it every week because I've been carting around materials forever; roll of copper sheet, some copper tubing, tiny motors, a pneumatic switching device which is just a cool thing to have and was used in testing the pneumatic operators on my cotton dust eaters many years ago when I was a young punk inventor kid.
I was kind of ticked at critic JT for comments about my writing and other things, but I am pretty sure the spirit of the assertions was well intended and had merit. For awhile I was perturbed because I felt inhibited in writing anything. What will critics think? I got over it, and backed off enough to see the point. Still ticked but that's because I prefer any suggestion, observation or thought concerning anything about me to be sugar coated.
Otherwise I have to go through the process of anger, regret at being angry, analysis of what made me angry and, finally, to the point of deciding if the offending point had merit or not.
Something recently happened which made me think the comments regarding my manner of speech had slight validity. Much of it doesn't because I know people who never concluded from the way I talk that I am a dumb ass.
However, it is interesting that people who know me through the written word first generally seem to come into the friendship believing I have a brain. A certain type of person does tend to think I'm a dolt, as near as I can tell, if they only meet me verbally, and without any friend conducting the introduction, and maybe including a comment like, "John's not a dumbass hillbilly".. Like that limey jerk who is the Horse Boy's father. He obviously made a judgement and there was no turning back. But he'd be hard pressed to get any sort of positive letter of recommendation from me, so screw him.
What happened recently was that an old guy talking to me thought I was foreign from some kind British Isles or Indonesia--I forget the place he mentioned. He said I phrase things differently. He is originally from the Boston area I think. I've always found I have more trouble getting through to northeasterners than southerners or people from the midwest.
You'd be surprised how much effort I put into working on the speech thing in the past. Certain situations must trigger a delivery which doesn't put me in the best light. Other times I know for sure that I'm on the game enough not to seem like a dullard. It is something I have to watch, and it is something that I can't always fix. Probably the way my brain works which makes stating a thought get in the way of continuing the formulation of the thought if I'm in conversation so I have to bounce back and forth between holding or developing the thought and stating it, while worrying that I've lost the person.
I'm not a fast talker and if I am not thinking about it I can be painfully slow by some people's standards. Other people don't tend to be that irked or else they resist butting in so the flow works and actually speeds up. Lots of people have trouble hanging to the end of the sentence or paragraph and try to finish my sentences for me. They very rarely guess correctly at where it was headed. It is so hard to speed it up, but I try sometimes or else give up and go silent. Just how my brain works.
That's the least of my worries but I know it happens. Probably part of what my brother innocently called the "it" that if you could get past, you'd find me to be OK.
There are people who have progressive muscular diseases that affect their speech, and I know that a lot of people assume they are not bright because they have such trouble talking. My situation is a very very mild form of that syndrome of perception. I have no specific disease, but am simply put together a little differently.
If I had not undergone so many neurological tests I would just assume I'm bad and no good. I may be that, but how I talk is not due to a deficiency intellectually. I'm not below average in that realm, and if I were it would not be a crime. Character is more important than intelligence. I'd like to sharpen both those things as much as I can. I'm lazy so I doubt I'll optimize in either area.
This went on too long.
I know one thing, when Sally and I get on a roll, I talk too much and go from this to that at a rapid pace and we come up with the most brilliant and hilarious of schemes. It is good to laugh. There were periods of time before I left Memphis when I'd go a month or more without laughing even once, and longer than that without the kind of laughter that takes you over until you beg the laugh gods to make it stop. Until I hit San Diego, I think I must have gone a year or three without a good belly laugh.
My friend K and my vet fixed that. K can put me hysterics sometimes.
When I write, I just think and write at the same time as I go***. It is easier to write without much hesitation than it is to talk, but I still think I am an ace at public speaking. Because I am. Probably because it is one way and I don't get so distracted. And it is a performance which is dandy. You can gage the audience interest and reaction and work the room like that. I'm not one for a lot of audience participation whether in the crowd or on stage. They are to supply positive reinforcement and enthusiasm only. I hate when someone on stage wants you to do this or that. On rare occasions it is cool but mostly I am not into it. I don't pay to do your damned show for you.
Still, I have to say, that Boston guy was the first to ever wonder if I was a foreigner or raised by some tribe on a island in the ocean. He at least didn't ask if I was a cannibal.
***all the edits are because I catch dyslexic things and missing words and the wrong no/know and such. Sometimes I decide to add stuff that comes to mind when I look at whatever I said. I have to look at it to know because I don't know in advance and don't usually remember the details.
Both were remarking that I could be making things, like boxes, fountains, or combinations thereof, since I have done such things and the results were unusual and well received in certain circles. Both voices were people who believed I had some degree of talent and thought my creations worthy. My own self defeating, and self criticism tends to cause me to believe these items are no good, never sell, blablabla.
That really should be one of my fallback safety nets, and I ought to put time in on it every week because I've been carting around materials forever; roll of copper sheet, some copper tubing, tiny motors, a pneumatic switching device which is just a cool thing to have and was used in testing the pneumatic operators on my cotton dust eaters many years ago when I was a young punk inventor kid.
I was kind of ticked at critic JT for comments about my writing and other things, but I am pretty sure the spirit of the assertions was well intended and had merit. For awhile I was perturbed because I felt inhibited in writing anything. What will critics think? I got over it, and backed off enough to see the point. Still ticked but that's because I prefer any suggestion, observation or thought concerning anything about me to be sugar coated.
Otherwise I have to go through the process of anger, regret at being angry, analysis of what made me angry and, finally, to the point of deciding if the offending point had merit or not.
Something recently happened which made me think the comments regarding my manner of speech had slight validity. Much of it doesn't because I know people who never concluded from the way I talk that I am a dumb ass.
However, it is interesting that people who know me through the written word first generally seem to come into the friendship believing I have a brain. A certain type of person does tend to think I'm a dolt, as near as I can tell, if they only meet me verbally, and without any friend conducting the introduction, and maybe including a comment like, "John's not a dumbass hillbilly".. Like that limey jerk who is the Horse Boy's father. He obviously made a judgement and there was no turning back. But he'd be hard pressed to get any sort of positive letter of recommendation from me, so screw him.
What happened recently was that an old guy talking to me thought I was foreign from some kind British Isles or Indonesia--I forget the place he mentioned. He said I phrase things differently. He is originally from the Boston area I think. I've always found I have more trouble getting through to northeasterners than southerners or people from the midwest.
You'd be surprised how much effort I put into working on the speech thing in the past. Certain situations must trigger a delivery which doesn't put me in the best light. Other times I know for sure that I'm on the game enough not to seem like a dullard. It is something I have to watch, and it is something that I can't always fix. Probably the way my brain works which makes stating a thought get in the way of continuing the formulation of the thought if I'm in conversation so I have to bounce back and forth between holding or developing the thought and stating it, while worrying that I've lost the person.
I'm not a fast talker and if I am not thinking about it I can be painfully slow by some people's standards. Other people don't tend to be that irked or else they resist butting in so the flow works and actually speeds up. Lots of people have trouble hanging to the end of the sentence or paragraph and try to finish my sentences for me. They very rarely guess correctly at where it was headed. It is so hard to speed it up, but I try sometimes or else give up and go silent. Just how my brain works.
That's the least of my worries but I know it happens. Probably part of what my brother innocently called the "it" that if you could get past, you'd find me to be OK.
There are people who have progressive muscular diseases that affect their speech, and I know that a lot of people assume they are not bright because they have such trouble talking. My situation is a very very mild form of that syndrome of perception. I have no specific disease, but am simply put together a little differently.
If I had not undergone so many neurological tests I would just assume I'm bad and no good. I may be that, but how I talk is not due to a deficiency intellectually. I'm not below average in that realm, and if I were it would not be a crime. Character is more important than intelligence. I'd like to sharpen both those things as much as I can. I'm lazy so I doubt I'll optimize in either area.
This went on too long.
I know one thing, when Sally and I get on a roll, I talk too much and go from this to that at a rapid pace and we come up with the most brilliant and hilarious of schemes. It is good to laugh. There were periods of time before I left Memphis when I'd go a month or more without laughing even once, and longer than that without the kind of laughter that takes you over until you beg the laugh gods to make it stop. Until I hit San Diego, I think I must have gone a year or three without a good belly laugh.
My friend K and my vet fixed that. K can put me hysterics sometimes.
When I write, I just think and write at the same time as I go***. It is easier to write without much hesitation than it is to talk, but I still think I am an ace at public speaking. Because I am. Probably because it is one way and I don't get so distracted. And it is a performance which is dandy. You can gage the audience interest and reaction and work the room like that. I'm not one for a lot of audience participation whether in the crowd or on stage. They are to supply positive reinforcement and enthusiasm only. I hate when someone on stage wants you to do this or that. On rare occasions it is cool but mostly I am not into it. I don't pay to do your damned show for you.
Still, I have to say, that Boston guy was the first to ever wonder if I was a foreigner or raised by some tribe on a island in the ocean. He at least didn't ask if I was a cannibal.
***all the edits are because I catch dyslexic things and missing words and the wrong no/know and such. Sometimes I decide to add stuff that comes to mind when I look at whatever I said. I have to look at it to know because I don't know in advance and don't usually remember the details.
Parallel Things
It's natural and kind of funny how people are always looking for an explanation of how things work. Maybe their versions of a unification theory.
You get people who think they know all about the levels of life beyond this life, people who know there is nothing beyond this, those who are sure the theory of evolution explains origin of all life, and the ones who know what God is and thinks, etc.
It comes in all shapes and sizes, and the common thread is that they think they know what they can't prove one way or another, although some ideas don't stand up to any test whatsoever.
I know that it certainly feels like there are more dimensions to the thing than just 4 or 5 or so. But I can't prove it or justify my feelings on that. The closest I can come to it is proving by experience that you can't discount the factor of the unknown in predicting almost anything, and those who think they can suffer for it sooner or later. That is why things are designed to hold more weight than their rating indicates; things are engineered for certain limits, and designed to exceed those in order to account for the unexpected.
It feels to me like I bounce between states of reality as if there really is a parallel universe, or more than one, and I somehow slide between them. It even seems as if I left my original one and never have returned. It's OK, no need to cry for me, Argentina. Now that I know the fastest stuff around may be neutrinos, I'm thinking of getting a neutrino suit and flying into the past or the future. With luck, I could even visit the present from time to time. That would be a new one.
Then again, all of it may be just a form of sleep disorder. Or it is possible that I was right when I first found myself in Memphis and suspected that I died and was stuck in some middle realm between heaven and hell or maybe a holding tank waiting my term to reincarnate. It just hasn't felt like things have been quite as I remember they should be from that time on.
On a day like today one could easily believe he was a visitor in heaven as far as the weather and scenery go. Maybe it is a test. My challenge is to see if I can avoid wasting the heaven experience. If I were thrown into heaven would I still procrastinate and feel like an outsider and still be stuck? So far, the answer appears to be "yes".
That is worth considering. What is the point of heaven if you don't change the mode of behavior to make it worthwhile? Things require one to be responsible if they are going to be well utilized.
You get people who think they know all about the levels of life beyond this life, people who know there is nothing beyond this, those who are sure the theory of evolution explains origin of all life, and the ones who know what God is and thinks, etc.
It comes in all shapes and sizes, and the common thread is that they think they know what they can't prove one way or another, although some ideas don't stand up to any test whatsoever.
I know that it certainly feels like there are more dimensions to the thing than just 4 or 5 or so. But I can't prove it or justify my feelings on that. The closest I can come to it is proving by experience that you can't discount the factor of the unknown in predicting almost anything, and those who think they can suffer for it sooner or later. That is why things are designed to hold more weight than their rating indicates; things are engineered for certain limits, and designed to exceed those in order to account for the unexpected.
It feels to me like I bounce between states of reality as if there really is a parallel universe, or more than one, and I somehow slide between them. It even seems as if I left my original one and never have returned. It's OK, no need to cry for me, Argentina. Now that I know the fastest stuff around may be neutrinos, I'm thinking of getting a neutrino suit and flying into the past or the future. With luck, I could even visit the present from time to time. That would be a new one.
Then again, all of it may be just a form of sleep disorder. Or it is possible that I was right when I first found myself in Memphis and suspected that I died and was stuck in some middle realm between heaven and hell or maybe a holding tank waiting my term to reincarnate. It just hasn't felt like things have been quite as I remember they should be from that time on.
On a day like today one could easily believe he was a visitor in heaven as far as the weather and scenery go. Maybe it is a test. My challenge is to see if I can avoid wasting the heaven experience. If I were thrown into heaven would I still procrastinate and feel like an outsider and still be stuck? So far, the answer appears to be "yes".
That is worth considering. What is the point of heaven if you don't change the mode of behavior to make it worthwhile? Things require one to be responsible if they are going to be well utilized.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
OK, You Were Right
I've heard the word "humility" defined as knowing who and what you are. That may or may not be accurate. I don't have all that well thought out an understanding of the topic, nor am I sure if it is relevant to my confusion.
But the "who and what you are" part does come into the picture a lot. I have difficulty holding on to the concept regarding myself. That's why I short out and get defensive and stymied when someone wonders why I use what I have in ways that yield no apparent future or benefit.
Some of us spin our wheels because we don't know what we're driving or where it is headed. When a friend offers some view of what I'm driving and questions the intended destination, or observes that I might find something other than going around in tight circles more satisfying, I become annoyed because I doubt my overall ability to do otherwise.
It is a little like people who are afraid to open the door because they don't know what is on the other side. You can tell them what is there but if they are phobic, the door remains shut. Just the suggestion of opening it can make the person nervous and rambunctiously obstinate.
So, you were right; whatever i have could be better directed. It takes awhile to come around. I still have no clue what's what, but a little incommunicado time does help me separate blind fear out of the equation so that I can accept the truth of a principle, inconvenient or not.
I'm not in the business of telling people who they are, only when they hit a nerve or cross a line that I'd rather remain uncrossed. More than likely you already know who you are, and, odd as it sounds to me, in many ways I know who I am. It is contradictory because I have less doubt about much of what that vague phrase entails regarding myself than most people do.
It is just in the matter of assessing and assembling the components of my innate natural resources toward a lasting and satisfying end that I'm not all there.
You aren't right about much, however in the words of Dwayne the sax player, "you're probably right" in this case. He was gave me a brief lecture on diplomatic ways to say nothing. Telling someone "you're probably right" avoids actually committing. You've left yourself an out, and avoided causing them to think you need more persuasion.
In principle you were right. As far as specifics, you may have a point (another good way not to commit to agreement).
But the "who and what you are" part does come into the picture a lot. I have difficulty holding on to the concept regarding myself. That's why I short out and get defensive and stymied when someone wonders why I use what I have in ways that yield no apparent future or benefit.
Some of us spin our wheels because we don't know what we're driving or where it is headed. When a friend offers some view of what I'm driving and questions the intended destination, or observes that I might find something other than going around in tight circles more satisfying, I become annoyed because I doubt my overall ability to do otherwise.
It is a little like people who are afraid to open the door because they don't know what is on the other side. You can tell them what is there but if they are phobic, the door remains shut. Just the suggestion of opening it can make the person nervous and rambunctiously obstinate.
So, you were right; whatever i have could be better directed. It takes awhile to come around. I still have no clue what's what, but a little incommunicado time does help me separate blind fear out of the equation so that I can accept the truth of a principle, inconvenient or not.
I'm not in the business of telling people who they are, only when they hit a nerve or cross a line that I'd rather remain uncrossed. More than likely you already know who you are, and, odd as it sounds to me, in many ways I know who I am. It is contradictory because I have less doubt about much of what that vague phrase entails regarding myself than most people do.
It is just in the matter of assessing and assembling the components of my innate natural resources toward a lasting and satisfying end that I'm not all there.
You aren't right about much, however in the words of Dwayne the sax player, "you're probably right" in this case. He was gave me a brief lecture on diplomatic ways to say nothing. Telling someone "you're probably right" avoids actually committing. You've left yourself an out, and avoided causing them to think you need more persuasion.
In principle you were right. As far as specifics, you may have a point (another good way not to commit to agreement).
Friday, September 30, 2011
Stunts and I Don't Know
The higher the office the more they pull insulting, patronizing stunts, and people eat it up. I don't mean to specifically single out Michele Obama for sneak shopping at Target, and, of course, somehow getting caught in the act. She's just following the tradition of political people. And make no mistake, she is political people. Just because she's Barak's number one shill doesn't make her apolitical. Oh, I guess that goes without saying.
Hell, like those damned spouses before her, she had to take on a pet project which costs us money and we wouldn't care about if not for the press. Obesity. There are now people who want to regulate the diet of the entire friggin world. Mostly fat cats.
It is fun to tell people how to eat when you can afford anything you want and have a battery of chefs to do your bidding. It is fun to shop at Target when designers are just dying to supply you with their wares. One garment would cost enough for me to live comfortably for a year.
It's all theater. And it is all bad theater; the kind that makes you want to barf except it leaves you feeling like you already have.
We can plan on plenty more in the coming months. That is one reason I'd like to see Romney and Perry fall out of this thing. They both already have what I think is fake hair. All dark except for that grey on the sideburns. I think it is done that way, and it is a look I don't trust. So what if I'm a bit like that myself. I don't color it to make it happen. Those guys are part of the system and guaranteed to perpetuate the status quo if they get in.
No, I think those gus are in the power structure on some level which means they will do all the fake stunts for the photo ops. Perry will be shooting targets or prairie dogs while talking tough about something. Romney will tour a coal mine. No telling.
And while they step up the game on that, the Obamas will be doing things of unimaginable insincerity in order to stay ahead in the race. It is a race to see who can get ahead by insulting the intelligence and character of the American people the most.
While they're at it they will pander to groups as if your race or ethnicity is some kind of philosophy. If I have any sense, I'll take a hot air balloon ride around the world and leave all communication devices at home. Just avoid the party altogether.
I wonder if it came down to Cain vs Obama if the press and the people who now cry "racist" every time someone disagrees with this administration will shut up about race. No idea how LaRaza would react. You can't predict that group by trying to use reason because they are very selective and unpredictable in their use of logic, and their historical references. But then, who isn't?
I saw a video of Jeb Corliss, I think is his name, flying around in one of those glide suits. You can zip around for a long way if you begin with adequate altitude. Then you pop the parachute at very low altitude. That whole fly suit sport is fantastic. That's the kind of thing I should have been doing at an early age.
Maybe one of the candidates will do a base jump off the Washington monument in one of those. That may be too low but who cares? They'd get good press and if the effort is ill fated we wouldn't have really lost anything of value. Those flying squirrel style suits are very cool. What people have done in those things is beyond cool.
I wonder if there is money in coming up with cheesy political stunts? It's a bit of a different game for the first spouse than the wannabes. Just the nature of things. And the incumbent president gets to tool around in AF1 on tax money hitting fundraisers. That has always annoyed me. But, what's power for if not to abuse? People still want a monarch, and no matter what we do they will continue to demand it. Not everyone has the disdain for monarchs, dictators and rulers that I do.
I guess I'd rather see Michele doing stunts like the Target caper than listen to her tell people how to feed their dumb ass kids. If you need her to tell you that junk food is junk food and that your four foot tall five hundred pound 9 year old is fat, you are a walking argument for why abortion should be legal, and I'm talking legal on fetuses as old as 20 years. plus
Hell, like those damned spouses before her, she had to take on a pet project which costs us money and we wouldn't care about if not for the press. Obesity. There are now people who want to regulate the diet of the entire friggin world. Mostly fat cats.
It is fun to tell people how to eat when you can afford anything you want and have a battery of chefs to do your bidding. It is fun to shop at Target when designers are just dying to supply you with their wares. One garment would cost enough for me to live comfortably for a year.
It's all theater. And it is all bad theater; the kind that makes you want to barf except it leaves you feeling like you already have.
We can plan on plenty more in the coming months. That is one reason I'd like to see Romney and Perry fall out of this thing. They both already have what I think is fake hair. All dark except for that grey on the sideburns. I think it is done that way, and it is a look I don't trust. So what if I'm a bit like that myself. I don't color it to make it happen. Those guys are part of the system and guaranteed to perpetuate the status quo if they get in.
No, I think those gus are in the power structure on some level which means they will do all the fake stunts for the photo ops. Perry will be shooting targets or prairie dogs while talking tough about something. Romney will tour a coal mine. No telling.
And while they step up the game on that, the Obamas will be doing things of unimaginable insincerity in order to stay ahead in the race. It is a race to see who can get ahead by insulting the intelligence and character of the American people the most.
While they're at it they will pander to groups as if your race or ethnicity is some kind of philosophy. If I have any sense, I'll take a hot air balloon ride around the world and leave all communication devices at home. Just avoid the party altogether.
I wonder if it came down to Cain vs Obama if the press and the people who now cry "racist" every time someone disagrees with this administration will shut up about race. No idea how LaRaza would react. You can't predict that group by trying to use reason because they are very selective and unpredictable in their use of logic, and their historical references. But then, who isn't?
I saw a video of Jeb Corliss, I think is his name, flying around in one of those glide suits. You can zip around for a long way if you begin with adequate altitude. Then you pop the parachute at very low altitude. That whole fly suit sport is fantastic. That's the kind of thing I should have been doing at an early age.
Maybe one of the candidates will do a base jump off the Washington monument in one of those. That may be too low but who cares? They'd get good press and if the effort is ill fated we wouldn't have really lost anything of value. Those flying squirrel style suits are very cool. What people have done in those things is beyond cool.
I wonder if there is money in coming up with cheesy political stunts? It's a bit of a different game for the first spouse than the wannabes. Just the nature of things. And the incumbent president gets to tool around in AF1 on tax money hitting fundraisers. That has always annoyed me. But, what's power for if not to abuse? People still want a monarch, and no matter what we do they will continue to demand it. Not everyone has the disdain for monarchs, dictators and rulers that I do.
I guess I'd rather see Michele doing stunts like the Target caper than listen to her tell people how to feed their dumb ass kids. If you need her to tell you that junk food is junk food and that your four foot tall five hundred pound 9 year old is fat, you are a walking argument for why abortion should be legal, and I'm talking legal on fetuses as old as 20 years. plus
Thursday, September 29, 2011
No Other Species
A stupid great white shark got caught by a fisherman up by Venice Beach. It was a baby, which in white shark terms means it was about as big as me. The big deal was to get the hook out of his mouth so they could rescue the vicious predator. The guy must have been fishing off the pier. The shark was sort of beached.
Eventually they got the hook out and got it back in the water. The whole time you can hear some lady, the one who took the video I guess, fretting over the whole mess--"oh, poor sweet thing.....don't kill it.....can you save it?....awwww.....will he live?....awwww..."
Come on, lady. It is a firrgin shark with no conscience, and sharp teeth. Where does the "sweet thing" part come in? What is your definition of sweet? No doubt you think tigers and bears are cute and cuddly, too. Oh how I wish armies of people who think like you would set aside a worldwide "Hug a Predator Day".
You can go find a white shark to cuddle, maybe a mountain lion, or Bengal tiger, any number of bears.
It will be awesome!
No other species anywhere would rescue a predator which has been known to eat body parts of that species. But humans will do it. Why? Because we are probably the only self hating species.
My thinking is that I wouldn't go out of my way to hunt sharks, under normal circumstances, but if a great white comes up on the beach in surfing area, I am going to kill it, and use the fins and whatever other parts are thought to be aphrodisiacs and such. What I don't use, I'd sell.
It may be that some of the shark's colleagues are watching from afar. I believe my way transmits the better message. They will stay away, be less likely to get hooked by fishermen on the beach, and will not be as likely to make a snack out of a surfer's arm or leg.
No other creature on earth would risk losing a hand to save an animal that would eat you up in a heartbeat. But the humans on Venice Beach would do it. And they call the guy, who finally got the hook out of the shark's mouth, a hero.
That lends credence to the assertion that the word "hero" has been so loosely thrown about in the last decade or two, that it has all but lost its meaning.
Eventually they got the hook out and got it back in the water. The whole time you can hear some lady, the one who took the video I guess, fretting over the whole mess--"oh, poor sweet thing.....don't kill it.....can you save it?....awwww.....will he live?....awwww..."
Come on, lady. It is a firrgin shark with no conscience, and sharp teeth. Where does the "sweet thing" part come in? What is your definition of sweet? No doubt you think tigers and bears are cute and cuddly, too. Oh how I wish armies of people who think like you would set aside a worldwide "Hug a Predator Day".
You can go find a white shark to cuddle, maybe a mountain lion, or Bengal tiger, any number of bears.
It will be awesome!
No other species anywhere would rescue a predator which has been known to eat body parts of that species. But humans will do it. Why? Because we are probably the only self hating species.
My thinking is that I wouldn't go out of my way to hunt sharks, under normal circumstances, but if a great white comes up on the beach in surfing area, I am going to kill it, and use the fins and whatever other parts are thought to be aphrodisiacs and such. What I don't use, I'd sell.
It may be that some of the shark's colleagues are watching from afar. I believe my way transmits the better message. They will stay away, be less likely to get hooked by fishermen on the beach, and will not be as likely to make a snack out of a surfer's arm or leg.
No other creature on earth would risk losing a hand to save an animal that would eat you up in a heartbeat. But the humans on Venice Beach would do it. And they call the guy, who finally got the hook out of the shark's mouth, a hero.
That lends credence to the assertion that the word "hero" has been so loosely thrown about in the last decade or two, that it has all but lost its meaning.
You Hear What You Want to Hear, See What You Want to See
It just occurred to me that someone who says they like my wrting, but rag on me to write this or that, anything other than what comes naturally, can't really like it in the first place. "Why don't you write about X, Y or Z? Why do you waste your time on on Q? I want to hear about ABC".
Obviously this is someone who wishes I was an entirely different person. Probably a fan of little Jimmy Hoffa. There are certain mindsets which cannot be changed, but there are lines that normally aren't touched. One is that when writing, not for a grade, not because I was paid, and not because permission was requested to do so, I would not expect advice or complaint of the sort I sometimes get. As if I have offended all that is holy because I don't conform to another's idea of what best use I can be put.
If anyone had a good idea of what best use I could be put, and I had no doubt of the veracity of such view, then I would do my best to conform. The truth is, no one really knows, including me. So, the badgering to be someone other than who I am just feeds the already pervasive feeling that I have let down anyone I've ever known, and any family who didn't spent too much time trying to kill me.
I've failed them all. I know this, yet I think that this is a feeling which is not healthy or appropriate. That makes it doubly hurtful for someone to act as if my writing here in some way lets them down, It is not here to do them favor or disfavor.
But then, it is possible that some people think I have no emotion, or inner workings at all. A rock, or else just not smart enough to be affected, or too smart to be touched. I think everyone I know has less clue in this regard than do total strangers.
Obviously this is someone who wishes I was an entirely different person. Probably a fan of little Jimmy Hoffa. There are certain mindsets which cannot be changed, but there are lines that normally aren't touched. One is that when writing, not for a grade, not because I was paid, and not because permission was requested to do so, I would not expect advice or complaint of the sort I sometimes get. As if I have offended all that is holy because I don't conform to another's idea of what best use I can be put.
If anyone had a good idea of what best use I could be put, and I had no doubt of the veracity of such view, then I would do my best to conform. The truth is, no one really knows, including me. So, the badgering to be someone other than who I am just feeds the already pervasive feeling that I have let down anyone I've ever known, and any family who didn't spent too much time trying to kill me.
I've failed them all. I know this, yet I think that this is a feeling which is not healthy or appropriate. That makes it doubly hurtful for someone to act as if my writing here in some way lets them down, It is not here to do them favor or disfavor.
But then, it is possible that some people think I have no emotion, or inner workings at all. A rock, or else just not smart enough to be affected, or too smart to be touched. I think everyone I know has less clue in this regard than do total strangers.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
If You Were In The Back Seat...
...of the Tourmobile, on the road that leads on and off of Ballistic Mountain, and BG was in the front passenger seat, this is how it would look. You can see she has long hair. I have to say that BG has really great looking long dark hair. Fin may or may not have let on to the blogger world how pretty she is. OK, that bit of info is now out for sure
The Day The Music Died
Greensboro's music scene in the 80's has been a topic I've discussed a few times here. Many people are not aware of how many musicians, actors and the like have come from NC. NC has produced more than its share, but that is not totally relevant, just a bit of info.
The phenomenon known as the Somewhere Else Tavern Sunday night open jam is what I'm addressing here. Those who were lucky enough to be around for those events and had the opportunity to participate still talk about that period of time fondly. We all find it slightly frustrating that we've never been able to encounter an open mic or jam situation in which those in charge, or participating, seem to "get it".
My critic friend and I have discussed this at length, trying to analyze what ingredient was unique to that place and time which made the thing work so well, and produce such outstanding live, spontaneous music. Why was it so good that name bands who were booked at Greensboro's Coliseum would sometimes rush over to the Tavern after their show hoping to jam with the Somewhere Else Crowd?
It certainly wasn't the upscale neighborhood or the state of the art facilities. The Tavern was in an edgy neighborhood, and may as well have had sawdust on the floor. You drank your beer out of the can, unless you were willing to down that piss they called "draft beer" out of a plastic cup.
In their defense they did eventually get the license for liquor by the drink, and when Burley wasn't pinching pennies he could make the best Long Island Ice Tea ever made.
I think everyone who had the good fortune to be a part of that scene for any length of time agrees that the essential catalyst that allowed the mix to produce magic was Aubrey Henley, known in music circles as McGoo--possibly due to his whimsical resemblance to the cartoon character (I never knew for sure). What I do know is that he could contain a stage full of guitar players, percussionists, etc. so that they would play with, not all over, everyone else.
How he made it work, I can't say. But when he was manning that B3 and admonishing the band to "Bring it down, y'all!", all but the most diseased of guitar players would heed the advice.
The style of music played did not fit any particular category as no "purists" were in any position to dictate their own dogmatic ideas like "blues only, and these are the rules that make it blues", etc. Since I was rarely home and had no significant music collection, the majority of songs I played at the jam were new to me. The first time I heard most of them was when I played them.
I consider that a blessing because I had no preconceived notion of how it should be. That way I just tried to fit something in to aid the overall tune and not be so bad that McGoo threw a beer at me or something. Actually he never said a cross word to me. He had to up the urgency of his requests for people to tune or tone down a bit once in awhile in the case of over eager guitar players who did not have the sense to play background when it wasn't their lead.
That much was organized; you did not take your time until it was your time. He'd say something like, "break it down band, tell it, Johnny!". He called me Johnny most of the time. Some people do and it is perfectly natural in those cases, usually. Not many people but some.
Maybe it was the timbre of his voice that helped. He had a sort of screechy, gravelly sound going. I heard it was due to an injury received in Vietnam, where his job was to chauffeur either a colonel or general around in a jeep. Someone blew something up and he caught shrapnel which affected a vocal chord. Maybe a true story, and maybe not. It seemed feasible, and I'm pretty sure the jeep driver aspect was true.
I was really tentative back then but that is where I learned how to play a lead break in a song with a band. Once in awhile I really got hold of it, and once in awhile my time would go double the usual. They say you can't really teach people how to do that thing of jamming and fitting when and where you should. I don't know. It was one of the more astute Berklee grads who told me that.
I have noticed in my musical adventures since then that most people I've played with can't really jam like that, or don't. It was a huge surprise when that sunk in. For a long time I was talking a language foreign to those players because they'd never actually participated in a jam that might change directions or be begin with someone just making up a riff and going from there. Especially not on a stage in front of a crowd.
And many of those players were very good, better than I. But in the school of jam, barely pre-schoolers.
Often there was a standing room only crowd. Word got out and it became the cool thing for the hip yuppies in the area to attend.
I've never even heard of a similar scene, or one that approximated The Jam. It was open, so if you had the nerve and thought you could hang, you could get up there. You may have a tough time if you thought you were going to get up by yourself and sing a ballad with no other musicians on stage. It was a jam. Can you lend your ax to what they are playing? Better be able to do that because it wasn't just a showcase for front men. If you were able and good, you could earn some front man time.
If there were a ton of players there, sometimes you had to take turns. Instruments like harmonica are not often good in multiples. So, if there were other harp players there, it was good to either get up there early so you didn't have to wait, or just wait until a break so you could have your turn when it started back up.
Another trick for guys like me was to play on the songs most harp players wouldn't play. It may mean playing very mellow sweet straight harp or just floating little notes in here and there. That became something I enjoyed doing and it gave me more chance to play.
But nothing worked very well for long if McGoo wasn't there. He and Dwayne (not sure he spells it like that), the sax player , had a two man band and played various venues throughout the state.
They were the heart of the jam, and McGoo was the heart of the heart. He was like no one I've ever known. Edgy, yet as kind and gentle as they get. He was something, and it is the world's loss that the movie makers and people who make you famous did not broadcast these things nationwide or worldwide.
Maybe that would have spoiled it. I don't think McGoo cared about such things. He finally married a good woman and had a child. He cared for friends and family and that was that.
At some point the jam died. McGoo got a regular job and was absorbed in the family life and caring for his people. And about four years ago Aubrey died. I don't know the exact day, but I'd have to say that was the real day the music died.
The phenomenon known as the Somewhere Else Tavern Sunday night open jam is what I'm addressing here. Those who were lucky enough to be around for those events and had the opportunity to participate still talk about that period of time fondly. We all find it slightly frustrating that we've never been able to encounter an open mic or jam situation in which those in charge, or participating, seem to "get it".
My critic friend and I have discussed this at length, trying to analyze what ingredient was unique to that place and time which made the thing work so well, and produce such outstanding live, spontaneous music. Why was it so good that name bands who were booked at Greensboro's Coliseum would sometimes rush over to the Tavern after their show hoping to jam with the Somewhere Else Crowd?
It certainly wasn't the upscale neighborhood or the state of the art facilities. The Tavern was in an edgy neighborhood, and may as well have had sawdust on the floor. You drank your beer out of the can, unless you were willing to down that piss they called "draft beer" out of a plastic cup.
In their defense they did eventually get the license for liquor by the drink, and when Burley wasn't pinching pennies he could make the best Long Island Ice Tea ever made.
I think everyone who had the good fortune to be a part of that scene for any length of time agrees that the essential catalyst that allowed the mix to produce magic was Aubrey Henley, known in music circles as McGoo--possibly due to his whimsical resemblance to the cartoon character (I never knew for sure). What I do know is that he could contain a stage full of guitar players, percussionists, etc. so that they would play with, not all over, everyone else.
How he made it work, I can't say. But when he was manning that B3 and admonishing the band to "Bring it down, y'all!", all but the most diseased of guitar players would heed the advice.
The style of music played did not fit any particular category as no "purists" were in any position to dictate their own dogmatic ideas like "blues only, and these are the rules that make it blues", etc. Since I was rarely home and had no significant music collection, the majority of songs I played at the jam were new to me. The first time I heard most of them was when I played them.
I consider that a blessing because I had no preconceived notion of how it should be. That way I just tried to fit something in to aid the overall tune and not be so bad that McGoo threw a beer at me or something. Actually he never said a cross word to me. He had to up the urgency of his requests for people to tune or tone down a bit once in awhile in the case of over eager guitar players who did not have the sense to play background when it wasn't their lead.
That much was organized; you did not take your time until it was your time. He'd say something like, "break it down band, tell it, Johnny!". He called me Johnny most of the time. Some people do and it is perfectly natural in those cases, usually. Not many people but some.
Maybe it was the timbre of his voice that helped. He had a sort of screechy, gravelly sound going. I heard it was due to an injury received in Vietnam, where his job was to chauffeur either a colonel or general around in a jeep. Someone blew something up and he caught shrapnel which affected a vocal chord. Maybe a true story, and maybe not. It seemed feasible, and I'm pretty sure the jeep driver aspect was true.
I was really tentative back then but that is where I learned how to play a lead break in a song with a band. Once in awhile I really got hold of it, and once in awhile my time would go double the usual. They say you can't really teach people how to do that thing of jamming and fitting when and where you should. I don't know. It was one of the more astute Berklee grads who told me that.
I have noticed in my musical adventures since then that most people I've played with can't really jam like that, or don't. It was a huge surprise when that sunk in. For a long time I was talking a language foreign to those players because they'd never actually participated in a jam that might change directions or be begin with someone just making up a riff and going from there. Especially not on a stage in front of a crowd.
And many of those players were very good, better than I. But in the school of jam, barely pre-schoolers.
Often there was a standing room only crowd. Word got out and it became the cool thing for the hip yuppies in the area to attend.
I've never even heard of a similar scene, or one that approximated The Jam. It was open, so if you had the nerve and thought you could hang, you could get up there. You may have a tough time if you thought you were going to get up by yourself and sing a ballad with no other musicians on stage. It was a jam. Can you lend your ax to what they are playing? Better be able to do that because it wasn't just a showcase for front men. If you were able and good, you could earn some front man time.
If there were a ton of players there, sometimes you had to take turns. Instruments like harmonica are not often good in multiples. So, if there were other harp players there, it was good to either get up there early so you didn't have to wait, or just wait until a break so you could have your turn when it started back up.
Another trick for guys like me was to play on the songs most harp players wouldn't play. It may mean playing very mellow sweet straight harp or just floating little notes in here and there. That became something I enjoyed doing and it gave me more chance to play.
But nothing worked very well for long if McGoo wasn't there. He and Dwayne (not sure he spells it like that), the sax player , had a two man band and played various venues throughout the state.
They were the heart of the jam, and McGoo was the heart of the heart. He was like no one I've ever known. Edgy, yet as kind and gentle as they get. He was something, and it is the world's loss that the movie makers and people who make you famous did not broadcast these things nationwide or worldwide.
Maybe that would have spoiled it. I don't think McGoo cared about such things. He finally married a good woman and had a child. He cared for friends and family and that was that.
At some point the jam died. McGoo got a regular job and was absorbed in the family life and caring for his people. And about four years ago Aubrey died. I don't know the exact day, but I'd have to say that was the real day the music died.
Monday, September 26, 2011
When Your Dealer Is A Critic
It seems that I was not entirely correct when I said that Joel, of North Carolina fame, was trying his hand as literary critic. He has become a critic at large. Not being one to do things the easy way, he is not focussing just on literature. If it needs or doesn't need criticizing, he's on it.
The latest criticism deals with how I write my posts---the mechanics of it. I volunteered the fact that I don't write in a word program and then paste it here. I just type it in Blogger's post create thing. The original one, not the one with added bells and whistles. I only switch to that if I want to use big red letters or something like that.
I do tend to hit publish before doing much proofreading, then I read it and usually notice that I used the wrong form of there/their/they're, left off the y in they, or forgot to put a subject and verb in a sentence, e.g. "...and a big...". Often I rush to edit as soon as I see the first thing, skim a few more lines while on the edit page, then publish again.
It probably makes it look like I published the same thing five times if I check the archive list, which I haven't done in recent memory. My bad.
I like to write in this box and don't know why. It feels better than a big blank page and so that is what I do. No excuse, no shame, no regret, no problem. Except to critics at large.
No, the critic at large insists it makes no sense and just isn't the right way to do things. The feel of the critical assault is that because I do things this way, I am no good and probably should be shot.
Why do you put up with it? Why not have him banned for life from the internet and other places?
Very good questions. But there is just one very significant catch; he's the pusher man--my dealer.
Only Joel knows where to get Richard's Delicious Seasoning (that's the name of it whether you think it delicious or no). The stuff is really good on my favorite sandwiches; spinach, tomatoes, cheddar cheese, mayo, mustard, and the vegetarian pictures of bacon they sell, on whole wheat or rye toast. Melt the cheese on one of the pieces before assembling the sandwich.. I like the Morningstar Farms pictures of bacon. Of no relevance but I do not like that textured protein stuff at all. That is the crumby stuff that is supposed to be like hamburger or something. People cook with it instead of ground beef, I think. Not for me.
It's good on home fries too. But really good on the sandwich. I'm hooked, and my only connection to the stuff is Joel, critic at large. See the problem? I have to pretend to agree, or to do things his way. I can't take legal action or hire someone to play rap music under his window. Aside from the cost, if I tried to silence the critic, he'd cut off any possibility of hooking up an O Z, or a kilo of the magic powder.
So, let's pretend this was written on my computer in a word processing program, then neatly pasted into the blogger new-post box. It is a delicate and important issue. There will come a time when I run out, and I do not look forward to the withdrawal symptoms when there is no Richard's Delicious seasoning in the cupboard.
Richard must have been pretty confident that people would find this mix delicious to name it that. Maybe he's arrogant, or maybe his wife or someone close to him tried it and said, "Hey Richard! This seasoning is delicious! You should go up to that little store in Brown's Summit and see if they'll let you sell it there."
Richard then procrastinates because he doesn't know what to call it. He thinks about calling it My Mix of Hen's Teeth, Oyster Poop, and Blood Pudding, but then everyone would know the secret ingredients. Richard can mix spices, but thinking a thing like this through may have been too much.
Then the other person--wife or friend or relative or trusted pastor--comes over and asks if he's talked to the store yet. Months have passed.
Richard cannot tell a lie. Naming his seasoning is bad enough, he doesn't need the mind twist keeping up with a lie would bring, so he admits that he hasn't done anything toward marketing this addictive substance.
The clever friend or wife, etc. decides to take the bull by the horns. She/he puts some of it in a mason jar and strolls into the store demanding to see whoever it is that decides what goes on the shelves. This involves maneuvering around a large cardboard cutout of a NASCAR driver hawking beer.
She--I've decided it was a wife or girlfriend or sister. She has cooked up some kind of beast, maybe a piece of fish, and seasoned it with the secret mixture. The store owner is hooked. "This is some deeelicious seasoning!"
They make a deal, and since the sample she left was hastily labeled, Richard's delicious seasoning, they went ahead and put that name on the printed labels. No one knew if it would be liked universally. You never can be sure of what will sell in cases like this.
Before you know it, Richard's seasoning is famous and people in California are writing about it on the internet, breaking into a cold sweat just thinking of the day when they'll run out and not be able to get more. Unless the critics can be appeased.
See what happens? It may seem strange to hide out and go incommunicado, but just look at the complications which arise when you decide to revive old friendships and stay in contact. Your best friends can turn out to be critics and send you into withdrawal because they are your only source for Richard's Delicious Seasoning.
Howling Wolf will solve some of the problem, but on the crazy vegetarian sandwich you'll be craving Richard's. Your life could be ruined, all because your old friend turned out to be a vicious critic, and you are no longer in the driver's seat. If you don't take the beating, you're doomed.
And you thought my life was easy, and that you have problems? I guess hearing about my complicated dilemma has brought you to your senses and you are at page two of your gratitude list as we speak.
The latest criticism deals with how I write my posts---the mechanics of it. I volunteered the fact that I don't write in a word program and then paste it here. I just type it in Blogger's post create thing. The original one, not the one with added bells and whistles. I only switch to that if I want to use big red letters or something like that.
I do tend to hit publish before doing much proofreading, then I read it and usually notice that I used the wrong form of there/their/they're, left off the y in they, or forgot to put a subject and verb in a sentence, e.g. "...and a big...". Often I rush to edit as soon as I see the first thing, skim a few more lines while on the edit page, then publish again.
It probably makes it look like I published the same thing five times if I check the archive list, which I haven't done in recent memory. My bad.
I like to write in this box and don't know why. It feels better than a big blank page and so that is what I do. No excuse, no shame, no regret, no problem. Except to critics at large.
No, the critic at large insists it makes no sense and just isn't the right way to do things. The feel of the critical assault is that because I do things this way, I am no good and probably should be shot.
Why do you put up with it? Why not have him banned for life from the internet and other places?
Very good questions. But there is just one very significant catch; he's the pusher man--my dealer.
Only Joel knows where to get Richard's Delicious Seasoning (that's the name of it whether you think it delicious or no). The stuff is really good on my favorite sandwiches; spinach, tomatoes, cheddar cheese, mayo, mustard, and the vegetarian pictures of bacon they sell, on whole wheat or rye toast. Melt the cheese on one of the pieces before assembling the sandwich.. I like the Morningstar Farms pictures of bacon. Of no relevance but I do not like that textured protein stuff at all. That is the crumby stuff that is supposed to be like hamburger or something. People cook with it instead of ground beef, I think. Not for me.
It's good on home fries too. But really good on the sandwich. I'm hooked, and my only connection to the stuff is Joel, critic at large. See the problem? I have to pretend to agree, or to do things his way. I can't take legal action or hire someone to play rap music under his window. Aside from the cost, if I tried to silence the critic, he'd cut off any possibility of hooking up an O Z, or a kilo of the magic powder.
So, let's pretend this was written on my computer in a word processing program, then neatly pasted into the blogger new-post box. It is a delicate and important issue. There will come a time when I run out, and I do not look forward to the withdrawal symptoms when there is no Richard's Delicious seasoning in the cupboard.
Richard must have been pretty confident that people would find this mix delicious to name it that. Maybe he's arrogant, or maybe his wife or someone close to him tried it and said, "Hey Richard! This seasoning is delicious! You should go up to that little store in Brown's Summit and see if they'll let you sell it there."
Richard then procrastinates because he doesn't know what to call it. He thinks about calling it My Mix of Hen's Teeth, Oyster Poop, and Blood Pudding, but then everyone would know the secret ingredients. Richard can mix spices, but thinking a thing like this through may have been too much.
Then the other person--wife or friend or relative or trusted pastor--comes over and asks if he's talked to the store yet. Months have passed.
Richard cannot tell a lie. Naming his seasoning is bad enough, he doesn't need the mind twist keeping up with a lie would bring, so he admits that he hasn't done anything toward marketing this addictive substance.
The clever friend or wife, etc. decides to take the bull by the horns. She/he puts some of it in a mason jar and strolls into the store demanding to see whoever it is that decides what goes on the shelves. This involves maneuvering around a large cardboard cutout of a NASCAR driver hawking beer.
She--I've decided it was a wife or girlfriend or sister. She has cooked up some kind of beast, maybe a piece of fish, and seasoned it with the secret mixture. The store owner is hooked. "This is some deeelicious seasoning!"
They make a deal, and since the sample she left was hastily labeled, Richard's delicious seasoning, they went ahead and put that name on the printed labels. No one knew if it would be liked universally. You never can be sure of what will sell in cases like this.
Before you know it, Richard's seasoning is famous and people in California are writing about it on the internet, breaking into a cold sweat just thinking of the day when they'll run out and not be able to get more. Unless the critics can be appeased.
See what happens? It may seem strange to hide out and go incommunicado, but just look at the complications which arise when you decide to revive old friendships and stay in contact. Your best friends can turn out to be critics and send you into withdrawal because they are your only source for Richard's Delicious Seasoning.
Howling Wolf will solve some of the problem, but on the crazy vegetarian sandwich you'll be craving Richard's. Your life could be ruined, all because your old friend turned out to be a vicious critic, and you are no longer in the driver's seat. If you don't take the beating, you're doomed.
And you thought my life was easy, and that you have problems? I guess hearing about my complicated dilemma has brought you to your senses and you are at page two of your gratitude list as we speak.
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About Me
- John0 Juanderlust
- Ballistic Mountain, CA, United States
- Like spring on a summer's day
