Two poems

To his Coy Mistress

by Andrew Marvell


Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.



O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear! your true-love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare

Poem of the day

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

-- Robert Frost

Appalling news

Oh the horror!

My worst nightmare

...getting stuck in an elevator alone.

I know it's irrational to be afraid of elevators. I am queasy about being in a closed space, anyway, like a subway tunnel, but I gain courage through the presence of other people. Surely the Powers That Be would not allow a whole lot of people to be stuck in an elevator or subway car forever, but if it was just me, who would miss someone as insignificant as me? Nobody, probably. My children would probably wonder what had happened to me, but would eventually conclude that I had run away from home to live in the deep woods under the name of Sanders, as I am always threatening to do.

I would be alone with my soul, and that's not enough company. Even one other person, unless he were a paranoid schizophrenic with violent tendencies, would be a comfort. We could play geography, me and my sole companion, or talk about what kind of a meal we would eat when we got out. We could speculate about what was keeping our rescuers, and grumble about the kind of help you get nowadays. We could tell each other long boring stories about trips we had taken. If there were significant light in the elevator car/tunnel, we could show each other pictures of our grandchildren. It would be boring, but the time would pass.

I once spent a month in a hotel where the elevators didn't work half the time. It was owned by a fellow named MacArthur, the very same man who died and left his fortune to be spent on genius grants. This hotel had exceeded its shelf life, and should have been torn down years before. But MacArthur was a rich man and could indulge himself as he pleased. The air conditioners kept breaking down as well. In the summer. In south Florida. Maintenance crews were always trying to fix the air conditioners, with limited success. And so it was with the elevators. MacArthur also allowed millions of ducks to pollute the grounds of his hotel. But I digress.

It would not have been prudent for me to hole up in my room for a whole month, so I conceived a strategy for riding in the elevator. I packed my bag with books, magazines, and the newspapers, and when the elevator stalled I just hunkered down and caught up with my reading. Fortunately, the lights never went out during my stay.

Poets disagree about April

There's T S Eliot:

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

Whereas Chaucer believes it is a nice time for a trip:

Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote
The Droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe course y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye, -
So priketh hem nature in hir corage:
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages -

and Robert Frost is ambivalent:

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You´re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you´re two months back in the middle of March.

Also posted on Carnival of the Insanities.

This poem is for today

I always think of this poem at this time of year:

Daffodils

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

A new Carnival of the Insanities

Worth a visit.

How many 5-year-olds can you fight?

10

I'm a lush.

83%LUSH

April is Poetry Month--remember?

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant poises,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherds's swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

Christopher Marlowe
1599

The fun side of Passover

These are quite popular, it seems.


Finger puppets of the ten plagues.

I don't get it. Plagues are fun? I fail to see the light side of boils and cattle disease, and the thought of the death of first-born babies doesn't even evoke a slight smile.

These plagues were serious s--t, folks. You don't want to get God mad at you. Ask the Egyptians.

Longwood, April 2008

 

Tulips

An age being mathematical, these flowers
Of linear stalks and spheroid blooms were prized
By men with wakened, speculative minds,
And when with mathematics they explored
The Macrocosm, and came at last to
The Vital Spirit of the World, and named it
Invisible Pure Fire, or, say, the Light,
The Tulips were the Light's receptacles.
The gold, the bronze, the red, the bright-swart Tulips!
No emblems they for us who no more dream
Of mathematics burgeoning to light
With Newton's prism and Spinoza's lens,
Or berkeley's ultimate, Invisible Pure Fire.
In colored state and carven brilliancy
We see them now, or, more illumined,
In sudden fieriness, as flowers fit
To go with vestments red on Pentecost.


Padraic Colum

If you've ever wanted a yodeling pickle

here it is.

I've always wanted one, haven't you?

Put a poem in your pocket day, April 17, 2008

Put a poem in your pocket in honor of National Poetry Month.

Here's a fragment of one I like:

L'Allegro

Come, and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free:
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise...

John Milton

I found this amusing

From a blogger named Sally:

Plan opposed

and Bloomberg blames the State legislature.

Democratic members of the State Assembly held one final meeting to debate the merits of Mr. Bloomberg’s plan and found overwhelming and persistent opposition. The plan would have charged drivers $8 to enter a congestion zone in Manhattan south of 60th Street during peak hours. Mr. Bloomberg and his supporters, including civic, labor, and environmental organizations, viewed the proposal as a bold and essential step to help manage the city’s inexorable growth. The plan’s collapse was a severe blow to Mr. Bloomberg’s environmental agenda and political legacy. ...

The mayor has appeared increasingly frustrated with the situation in Albany in recent days and did not appear publicly after the measure’s defeat. He released an angry statement shortly after the rejection.

“It takes a special type of cowardice for elected officials to refuse to stand up and vote their conscience on an issue that has been debated, and amended significantly to resolve many outstanding issues, for more than a year,” Mr. Bloomberg said. “Every New Yorker has a right to know if the person they send to Albany was for or against better transit and cleaner air.”

What's all this legacy cr-p? Did George Washington sit around planning his legacy? Only two-bit nanny-state politicians (such as Bill Clinton) worry about such things. I suggest that if Bloomberg wants a "legacy," he leave his money to charity. Meanwhile, the score is: Taxpayers, 1,Bloomberg, 0.

Something nice

One of my chief regrets in the last few years has been that I have no-one to attend concerts with. This happened to me gradually, starting in New Jersey. First Mr Charm decided that he didn't want to go to concerts any more--for undisclosed reasons, since he loves music. My friend Betty doesn't mind an occasional concert, but her main interest is the theater. She also said she had heard enough Mahler for a lifetime.

So I started to go to concerts with Elaine, who was up for anything. We had a great time. Sadly, Elaine died, tragically and before her time. I miss her for lots of reasons.

Anyway, when I moved to Delaware I still had no-one to attend concerts with. My daughter goes with me sometimes, and I enjoy her company more than anyone on earth, but I still longed for a friend to go to concerts with from time to time. I seriously considered putting an ad in the local paper.

Instead, I volunteered for the Delaware Symphony, hoping some music would rub off on me.

Imagine my surprise when one of the women on the committee, who I had spoken to for a grand total of five minutes, called me tonight, to ask if I would attend a performance of Mahler's Eighth with her. She said the first person who popped into her head was me! Now it happens Mahler is my favorite composer, but his work is not performed very often.

Needless to say, I was thrilled to be asked. It made my day.

Was Rev Wright really a Marine?

Does anybody know? Is there any way to find out?

So many people lie about military service. Would he be one of them? Oh, no, he wouldn't lie, would he? A man of the cloth and a genuinely Holy Person?

So much of whatever else he says is clearly lies or rabble-rousing, why wouldn't this be?

I'm not accusing him of anything. Just asking.

Note: One of my readers confirmed that he really was a Marine.

My still life

 

The art teacher claims it is not finished. But I feel I am finished with it.

Hillary can't get it right

She reminisces about the death of Martin Luther King:

"...I will never forget where I was when I heard Dr. King had been killed. I was a junior in college and I remember hearing about it and just feeling such despair,” Clinton said, pausing, her voice quivering.

“I walked into my dorm room and took my book bag and hurled it across the room. It felt like everything had been shattered, like we would never be able to put the pieces together again."

The business with the book bag was over the top. It made her words seem contrived and false. She doesn't have what both her husband and Barack Obama have in abundance, the ability to express (or simulate) her feelings in a way that connects with her audience.

No doubt she was upset upon hearing about the murder of King. We all were. But she had to add that detail that went too far. What she should have said:

"..I will never forget where I was when I heard Dr. King had been killed." Pause. Silence.

Of course Bill and Barack can babble this kind of nonsense by the carload, and get the audience all misty-eyed. She can't.

I personally do not equate her with Katherine de Medici and do not believe she eats small children alive. But she has what Nixon had, an absolute tin ear. Whatever Nixon said, you didn't believe it--and I am one who voted for the guy.

Ht to Tim Blair.

Why muslims must say their prayers exactly on time

I never thought of it this way.

Hey the ACLU is correct on this one guys, {Muslim prisoners suing to have their meals not interfere with their prayers] sorry to tell you.
Allah is a very busy deity, between coordinating bombers entering paradise (he personally does the orientation speech), enforcing rules about stonings and beheadings and tea time with satan, he really only has a very small window each day to hear prayers, so it is vitally important for his followers to be on time for prayers, and the ACLU is well aware of this plight because satan brought it up at the last board meeting asking them to intervene.

From what I understand when his followers are late with prayers on wednesday it cuts into satan and allah’s canasta playing time, and allah is up 30 billion souls and satan just wants a chance to catch up.

Confessions of a sucker

I don't understand why everyone carries on all the time about the economy. I'm doing all I can to keep it going, spending money morning, noon and night. If everyone behaved like me, the economy would be doing great. Unemployment would be 0.000 percent.

Remember the days you had to go shopping in actual stores? I had no problem then. Stores keep regular business hours, and if they're not open you can't shop. This kept the monkey off my back a reasonable amount of time.

But then television direct ads began. I'm a sucker for them-- the kind that offer items for two (or three or six, whatever) easy payments of $19.95. You know the drill:

Act now! and we will send a second ***** absolutely free! plus this gizmo! All you pay is shipping! Our agents are standing by--call 555-555-1234 Now!

I admit to possessing a set of Debbie Meyer green bags, a dustbuster, the kind of flashlight you shake, and a rechargable sweeper. These are in the house, and I actually use them. Goodness knows what else has found its way to that Final Resting Place, the garage.

I also love special offers by mail. But they have to be really special. Macy's sends me coupons practically every week, offering me 20 percent, 15 percent, $10, or $25 off everything in the store! Every week, I faithfully report to my local Macy's, where I usually can be trusted to buy some damn thing I don't need, probably shoes. My collection of shoes is growing to such an extent that I have a special annex in the basement for the out of season shoes--boots in winter, sandals in summer--as well as a box in the spare bedroom for the shoes that are going to Good Will.

But wait--there's more! I have under the bed storage boxes for the overflow shoes. I don't even know exactly what's in those boxes, because I only clean under the beds twice a year. Whatever is in those boxes, I don't miss it, or even remember I have it, because I don't have time to open those boxes on the rare occasions I clean under the beds. And obviously, whatever is in them, I don't need it. If I needed it I would undoubtedly have gone out and bought another one by this time.

I was fine until e-mail offers were added to the mix. Now I am totally out-of-control, because I can buy something on the Internet 24/7. In the middle of the night I can respond to all the tempting offers I get every day by e-mail. (No, I'm not referring to penis extenders or Viagra. What filthy minds some people have!)

Just yesterday, HP offered to sell me a video cam for $59.95. I was strongly tempted. $59.95! I don't actually know what I would do with a video cam, how to operate one, or, actually, exactly what it is. But I want one! It's only $59.95 (plus shipping and handling). How could you go wrong?

Here's my fee

Powered By Sexy Store


What's yours?

Too skinny

 

I admit to envying thin women, but who would want to look like this? Or look at this? This model, from the Land's End catalog, looks like an escapee from a concentration camp. I have seen skeletons in anatomy class with more meat on their bones than she has.

I'm not buying anything from catalogs that feature women like this.

Yes, you can be too thin.

Hello time

Lately I have been wondering where the hell everyone is, and even whether I should continue this blog. So if you're out there, please say hello! You don't have to add anything pertinent. I just want to know you are out there.

What's wrong with Gitmo?

Why is everyone up in arms about Gitmo? Lots of American and Canadian lefties consider Cuba the island resort of choice. So why the heck does the mere mention of its name send shivers down American spines, including that of John McCain?

The very concept has become so abhorrent that there is no salvaging the place, so we are forced to find another venue for these prisoners. Some suggestions:

During the Civil War, prisoners were kept in the Dry Tortugas. I don't know anything about the place, except the thought of it makes me thirsty. However, the climate must be close to what these guys have at home, and undoubtedly there is plenty of sand. It also promotes itself as a tourist destination. There are lots of turtles and no fresh water.

If that doesn't suit, may I suggest Cleveland? Situated on scenic Lake Erie, which creates abundant snowfall, it would provide a change of pace. Bracing breezes waft down from Canada, especially in the winter. In the summer, you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Cleveland is already the target of scorn and ridicule, but Americans actually live there: if it's good enough for them, it should be good enough for prisoners.

If Cleveland is ruled out for any reason, may I suggest Buffalo, situated in the home state of serial adulterers Eliot Spitzer and David Paterson. People used to like to shuffle off to it, but recently, not so much. Buffalo shares Cleveland's amenities, only more so--more snow, worse wind, more and better decaying industrial sites.

Detroit is another possibility. There are lots of mosques in Detroit, and plenty of vacant office space. They could get yummy home cooked food for Ramadan, delivered fresh to their door. Also the perpetual sound of gunfire would make the prisoners feel right at home.

My brother David

My brother David made some bizarre sartorial choices. Growing up, he was the little kid in the class who wore a striped t-shirt and plaid pants. His socks rarely matched. At one point, David decided to wear a crash helmet in the car--probably not a bad idea considering the way he drove--until we made fun of him mercilessly. We in the family cut him a lot of slack, as he is a genius software developer.

His most memorable wardrobe item was a fire engine red tracksuit. It was so shiny I believe it glowed in the dark, although I never tested the hypothesis. David, who is short and chubby, looked like an over-ripe Gouda cheese.

Finally, his employer told him never to wear this tracksuit to work again if he wanted to keep his job. So the tracksuit disappeared, until...




I saw Fidel Castro wearing it!

I always wondered what David did with that tracksuit!

I'm running a clean, family-friendly blog here

but stop by anyway.


Created by OnePlusYou - Free Online Dating

Old document found

This document was found in an old chest of drawers in Great Barrington, MA. Our document experts, who examined the paper and the typeface used, have dated it approximately as having been printed sometime in 1812 or 1813.

Madison lied! and people died!

President Madison has claimed that the illegal and immoral war in which we are presently engaged with Great Britain was caused because of the impressment of American seamen. This is a total fabrication! The peace-loving Brits only started impressing American citizens because we were attacking their ships. The war was started to protect the scoundrelly, money-grubbing merchants who wanted to make money in international trade. It's all about trade!

This war has already claimed the lives of some 3,000 brave American sailors and soldiers, besides the senseless slaughter of 100,000 innocent British citizens. Furthermore, it is costing 100,000 dollars each day. Prices are sky-high! The consumer is suffering! The cost of whale oil has more than tripled!

There is strong evidence that the burning of Washington, for which the British are blamed, was an inside job. It is well noted that all the Jews stayed out of the capitol on that day.

Carnival of the Insanities is up

at the usual place.

Hillary and Kosovo

So what really happened?

Was Hillary exposed to gunfire? I guess not. But so what? If being exposed to gunfire is what gives a candidate the relevant experience, I recommend a visit to Detroit on a Saturday night. Hillary will hear enough gunfire to give her real street cred.

I hope she doesn't get taken out by a random gunshot.

Typical white person speaks at last

and makes a lot of sense.

Be honest, you've all seen them! They are the punks who walk down the street talking loud and giving everyone they see "the look" that says, "Hey, you better not be lookin' at me or I'll jump your a**." They are the bleary-eyed drunks and druggies who look like they are ready to do anything for another drink or fix; they are almost any young people who are travel in "packs", acting like they are the kings and queens of the sidewalk and YOU are on THEIR sidewalk.

Also on Carnival of the Insanities.

Peeps for Passover

I am speechless.

Ht to American Princess.

Librarians have orgy

So these six librarians go into a restaurant. They're at a Library Convention and they're really going to party down--on the expense account, no less. Sheer debauchery.

First up are drinks. We have two people here who want actual liquor, two who want soda, and two who want drinks with umbrellas in them.

Ordering food takes forever; "The bean soup sounds good." "What are you having, Marianne?" (Every other librarian in New Jersey is called Marianne, Mary, Mary Ann, Mary Rose, Mary Lou, Mary Jane--you get the picture.)*

Soup or salad? Steak or fish? Should we stick to our diet (every other librarian in New Jersey is on a diet) or go hog wild?

A consensus having been reached, the wait staffer (we librarians don't use sexist language, but she is a woman) takes all orders and disappears to the kitchen.

The festive meal arrives and is consumed, accompanied by catching up, gossip, and gripes. Zero hour has now arrived.

The lone male librarian ventures timidly that it would be nice if we split the check six ways. The suggestion is met with scorn, and the check is scrutinized by one and all.
Lib I: "Marianne had the soup."
Marianne: "Yes, but I only had salad; you had steak--24.95!"
Lib I: "Okay. Sheila had the chicken florentine."
Sheila: "All I had to drink was a diet coke--Susan had two beers."
Lib I: "Who had the red snapper?"

And so it goes. Finally, detente is reached. It is now time to calculate the tip.
Male librarian: "Tip should be $60--five dollars each. That's three times the tax, which is 6 percent."
Librarian III, who has hitherto been silent: "Yes, but you're not supposed to count the drinks when you calculate the tip."
Male librarian: (silently) Oy vey! (Throws money on the table.)
Marianne: You gave me too much. Here--take back three dollars. Wait--does anyone have change for a twenty?
Male librarian: (Unprintable remark, silently.)

*Many librarians also answer to the name of Marie. Or Anne-Marie. Oh, forget it.

(Recycled)

I heart environmentalism

 

Not.

 

Loehmann's is my favorite clothing store, and I was really annoyed to get this flyer from them, flogging shirts with smug, trendy environmental statements printed on them.

Every time you pick up some sub-literate publication, such as Elle, Vogue, or Family Circle, some nitwit is inserting pious, self-righteous statements re the environment. Or there is a lame article about the virtue of hauling your used printer cartridges 10 miles through the Arctic on a sled in winter. Writers for these publications are not the smartest--they consider "Between he and I" an eloquent locution.

I loathe the environment. I hate it as much as Muslims hate pork.

Bah! Humbug!

Vice-presidents

Non-productivity has reached new heights at the University of Chicago Hospital, making it a respectable competitor with government, public schools, colleges and universities.

Officials at the University of Chicago Hospitals say a promotion and large pay increase given to Sen. Barack Obama's wife shortly after the Democrat was elected to Congress were well-deserved boosts for an executive who is "worth her weight in gold."

Hospitals spokesman John Easton told the Tribune that Michelle Obama's salary is in line with those of the 16 other vice presidents at the not-for-profit medical center.

I make out the cost of these officers to be in excess of five million dollars. And I suppose the president of the hospital makes more than they do. They all have secretaries and assistants, I imagine, which raises the administrative costs to, oh, ten million, conservatively.

Wow! You could buy a lot of bandages for that! What do you suppose these vice-presidents do? that makes them indispensable?

The actual work in a hospital is done by the doctors, nurses, and ancillary staff, like janitors, food service workers, etc. So I have been speculating about what duties are assigned to these 17 vice presidents.

Do they have a vice president of removing bubble gum from the sidewalk, or one chap who superintends the fellow who goes around the grounds with a stick, picking up litter? Someone has to make sure that the food served to the patients is tepid and tasteless. Somebody else has to dispose of all the flowers that are wilting, and yet another somebody has to make sure the revolving door in the lobby only goes in one direction. Someone undoubtedly has the job of going around to all the pay phones and picking up the change that has been left in them. Michelle O herself is VP of external affairs. Okay, that's seven I've accounted for.

I'm sure my readers can think up jobs for the other ten vice-presidents.

I hope my grandson doesn't tell on me

James Taranto doesn't think grandmas ought to be brought into this:

Our first thought was that it was pretty low of Obama to exploit his (still living) grandmother in this way. Is it really necessary for the whole world to know about her private expressions of prejudice? Doesn't simple decency dictate that a public figure treat embarrassing facts about loved ones with discretion?

Ben, if you're reading this--don't you dare tell anyone about the time I ran a red light! Or the occasion when I stole a grape--several if the truth be told--at the fruit store. I'm counting on you not to rat me out. Your birthday is coming up, you know.

I guess no-one cares about the grandma-American demographic. We little old ladies are the ultimate victims--no-one even helps us to cross the street any more. However, I still have pictures of you at 6 months naked on a baby blanket, and I will show it to your girlfriends if you cross me.

Well, that is off my mind. We now come to the Reverend Jeremiah Wright. I believe the good Rev made a very poor career choice. Christianity does not suit a man of his temperament. He would have made a good mullah, however! I can just see him with the schmatta around his head at Friday prayers, exhorting the faithful to put on suicide belts and go out and kill him some Jews.

As for Barack: Shame on you!

Get ready for Passover

It's not too early to be thinking about Passover.

When I was a child seders seemed to last for eons. All my mother's family, my parents, my two uncles and their wives and children were always present, because anything bubbe hosted was a command performance. The good linens, china, and silver made the table gleam under the light of bubbe's two candelabras.

We children were excited beyond hysteria until the ceremony began, and we were forced to come to the table and stop hanging upside down from the sofa, climbing the walls, and knocking down the furniture. I particularly enjoyed the presence of my cousins because I was an only child at the time, and lonely. My eldest cousin, three and a half years older than me, was a goddess of sophistication to me; her brothers were rowdy playmates. Uncle Doc's little girls were too young to play with but they were mighty cute and dressed to the nines.

Once the youngest child present had recited the four questions the prayer competition began. Both my uncles and my cousin Bernie read the haggadah aloud --individually--in Hebrew as quickly as they could. The conversation went like this:

Uncle I: It's time for the first (or second, third, or fourth) cup of wine.
Uncle II: I haven't gotten there yet. You read too fast.
Uncle I: It's a long service.
Uncle II: All right, all right. Come on everybody. Drink the fourth (or third, or second) cup. Where's the bottle? Pass me the wine, somebody.

They raced through the prayers and then had to stop and wait impatiently for the others to catch up. It was rather like riding in a car that alternately speeded up and stopped dead, causing you to lurch forward and back.

Meanwhile, my cousin Sam and sometimes one or two of the other children would drink too much wine and slip quietly to the floor. It taught me the meaning of drinking yourself under the table. After a brief nap the culprit would re-appear, refreshed.

The two little girls were too small to read, so they raced around the table fighting with each other until Uncle Doc started yelling at them and threatening to spank them. My aunt, his wife, would burst into tears because he had shouted at the girls. She would threaten to leave. They would yell some more until he calmed down and apologized to the girls and gave them some candy or gum he just happened to have in his pocket. The girls, of course, would stuff themselves with sweets and would not eat the festive meal when it appeared.

The festive meal! Chicken soup with matzoh balls. We called bubbe's matzoh balls cannon balls. They were heavy but nourishing. Then we had chicken. With the chicken came potato kugel and chopped liver. Gefilte fish. Someone probably slipped a green vegetable in there somewhere, but I don't remember it. Bubbe didn't hold with all this greenery anyway. Her idea of a salad was: take one cucumber; add pint of sour cream; eat. And we couldn't have that, this was a fleisheke meal.

Bubbe would heap each of the children's plates with massive portions of food and then bawl them out for not eating it all. We were starved and ate voraciously. If someone had thrown one of us into the river we would have plummeted to the bottom and sunk without a trace.


Dessert featured, but was not limited to, Manischevitz macaroons, served in the can. The featured wine was Mogen David.

After eating, there was a timeout while the children searched for the afikomen and the adults sat still and burped.

Since I was not used to staying up late, the remainder of the seder was one big blur to me, except for opening the door for Eliyahu hanovi. Then came Chad Gadya, which meant the end of the service and blessed release.

And then we did it again the next night.

(Recycled)

Plant

 

This plant has been sitting in the same spot for three years. Occasionally, I would water it a little. Last week it started blooming, with no encouragement.

Pro-war demonstration, 4/15/08

 

 

 

 

Truth

is stranger than fiction.

Eliot Spitzer explained

The New York Times explains Spitzer. Apparently, all the big kids do it:

“I think biologists could tell you this has something to do with natural selection — the person who acquires power becomes the alpha male,” said Tom Fiedler, who teaches a course in press and politics at Harvard’s Kennedy School....

Politics and sex is an old story, and as Mr. Fiedler and others point out, it simply reinforces the lessons of the aphrodisiac of power taught in Shakespeare.

I thought if you were an alpha male, you got it for free.

Headache?

I set the alarm for 7 a.m. last night, in order to attend the re-dedication of our synagogue, which has undergone a reconstruction process. I truly meant to go. But when the alarm went off, I had second thoughts.

Taking an inventory of my mental state, I discovered that I had nine-tenths of a headache. That is, I didn't have a headache, but I would have one if I got up. It was waiting around the corner for me. It might get worse as I brushed my teeth. It might go away under the shower. Or not.

Then I considered the re-dedication ceremony. If the synagogue could make such an event of a cantorial audition, what would they do with a re-dedication ceremony? Would local dignitaries be invited to speak? If invited, would they come? Would the place be surrounded by state police, thus making my premature getaway impossible if my headache recurred?

Would the politicians just be introduced, to polite applause? Or would they make lengthy remarks? Would Sen Joe Biden be there?

I went back to sleep.

Let's monger some fear

monger

1. A dealer in a specific commodity. Often used in combination: an ironmonger.
2. A person promoting something undesirable or discreditable. Often used in combination: a scandalmonger; a warmonger.
tr.v. mon·gered, mon·ger·ing, mon·gers
To peddle.

Is it fear-mongering to suggest we have real enemies?

America is at war. I can attest to that after serving in Iraq as an Infantry Platoon Leader with the Army’s First Calvary Division. My unit, an Infantry platoon, was responsible for capturing terrorists. I can tell you first-hand that we are fighting a very real enemy, radical Islamic terrorists, who want to do harm to America and her citizens. We are fighting the same terrorists that recently strapped bombs onto women with Down's Syndrome and forced them to walk into a crowded marketplace and explode the bombs....

My comrades in uniform, brothers and sisters and moms and dads, have given their lives in the fight against radical Islamic terrorism. This Congress, meanwhile, refuses to authorize our intelligence officials to collect important information that can disrupt terror attacks and refuses to give our law enforcement community the legal authority it never had before 9/11, but so desperately needed.

We are not particularly interested in terrorism, but terrorism is interested in us.

Eating

My parents were weird about food, possibly because they never got enough of it as kids. My mother (and the rest of her relations) believed as a matter of faith that any child who failed to finish a meal was doomed to die of starvation. My father as ardently believed that a child should eat a well-balanced meal containing the proper nutrients. As it happened, he had a book by an expert which contained the details of a proper diet. At the top of the list was milk.

Drinking a quart of milk a day, as advised by the book, was a non-starter in my household, because my mother kept kosher. Also, I didn't like milk and still don't. So dad concentrated all his milk drinking energies on the breakfast table, where I was enjoined to down 8 oz of the nasty white stuff.

I should mention here that I was the kind of child who, as an infant, held my breath until I passed out. In short, very fond of my own way. And as much as I didn't like milk, I so much more didn't like it in the morning when I was nervous and anxious about going to school and facing the rigors of the first grade.

So, having imbibed the stuff, I rode to school in the family car with the milk lurching around in my stomach and threatening to come out every time we hit a pothole. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn't.

Other foods triggered different battles: I remember sitting at the table staring at my dinner until bedtime on more than one occasion. There were lots of things I didn't like--anything with mayonnaise in it, anything with fat in it, anything floating in soup--the list is endless. Fortunately, I outgrew this and can eat anything, and do.

By the time my brother was a toddler, my father was out of the picture, so the scenario was different. He was a spindly little guy, not thin, but not fat either. Mother would heap his plate with about 2,200 calories and then worry if he didn't finish every bite. If he left any food on his plate, she took him to the drive-in and bought him chocolate shakes and French fries. This continued until he was 5'8" and weighed 220. Then he had to lose the weight.

He told me that his feet hurt all the time when he was fat; he thought it was normal and was surprised that when he lost weight his feet stopped hurting.

The result for me was that I refused to cram anything down my children's throats. I trained myself not to notice whether they had finished their meals or not. I am proud to say that they actually lived to grow up and did not starve to death.

Now a new generation has picked up the gauntlet. My daughter negotiates with her 6-year-old about every bite of food, making mealtime discussions rather monotonous. The kid, who is smarter than I ever was, considers her nagging as so much white noise and ignores her, thus sparing his sanity. But he still has to finish three bites before he can have dessert.

With citizens like these, who needs terrorists?

We can blow up the country by ourselves.

New York City police officers and firefighters cordoned off much of Times Square for more than two hours after a small explosion — set off, the authorities said, by an “improvised explosive device” — damaged the front of the Armed Forces Career Center on the traffic island bounded by 43rd and 44th Streets, Seventh Avenue and Broadway at 3:43 a.m., officials said.

This depresses me, that someone would like to do harm to their own nation. If you were a fish, would you want to destroy your own pond?

Dear Self Magazine:

I am writing to thank you for your interest in my renewing my subscription to your magazine. You appear to think that I will got a lot out of continuing to subscribe. And I have really enjoyed some of your articles on fitness, diet, and makeup. However, I don't think I quite fit into the demographic you are seeking.

I have subscribed to your magazine for over a year now, yet I have not succeeded in resembling your typical reader, as shown in the illustrations in your publication. Though I try to stand up straight, eat healthy and exercise, I have never succeeded in becoming a six-foot tall, 110 lb model. Not even close.

Judging by the women I see, on the street, at social affairs, and even in the gym, hardly any other American women resemble the models in your magazine.



Below is someone who looks more like the average American woman. In a recent survey it was revealed that 3 out of 4 American men would not kick this woman out of bed. Even though she has hips.

Who is a Jew?

Some Jews are more Jewish than others. Some are not Jewish enough.

Oy vey.

An expensive house

To understand this story, you must know it takes place in California.

A close relative has purchased some land and wants to build a house on it. Since it is unimproved farmland, she and her husband have to 1) build a road; 2) put in wiring to attach to the electric grid, under the road; and 3) install a phone line, also under the road. No telephone poles, of course, they're unsightly. I don't know what the other stuff is costing, but the least expensive item on this shopping list is the phone line, @$40,000, give or take a few thou. She won't tell me what the rest of it is costing, rightly fearing that I would have a heart attack.

For some reason, the local authorities--planning board or whatever--have never granted permission to build this house. It's been five years since they bought the land. The New Jersey solution--pay somebody off--is not available in this case. They have had to hire a lawyer to plot their course through the planning and permitting stage.

The deal-breaker for me is, this is in a so-called "scenic area," which means that you have to use approved materials and paint your house in certain approved colors, and no others. The house can't be too tall, or too short. God forbid that Californians out for a scenic drive in the country should encounter a--gasp--purple house. The shock! The outrage!

Back in the sixties and seventies, enlightened people used to sneer at the soul-destroying conformity of suburbia, where every house was the same, and no doubt filled with Republicans. There were even songs about it:

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.

You get the idea. When other people do it, it's ticky-tacky, when Californians do it, it's scenic preservation.

Auditioning cantors

It was the anniversary of my mother's death, so I went to the Sabbath service at our synagogue. Little did I know they would be auditioning cantors. And of course the prospective hire has to prove her lyrical chops. When I say her, I mean her, because most of the candidates have been women.

Didn't I read--I think it was a book called Heartburn by Nora Ephron--about someone being the first Jewish Kimberly? Well, Kimberly is old hat now, but the prospective cantor was the first Jewish Caitlyn I've ever encountered. I'm sure there are plenty of them, but she was my first.

Anyway, she had a lovely voice--just beautiful. I would also give her high marks for her Torah knowledge. But one thing drove me crazy. All the tunes she sang were new to me.

I learned the entire Shabbat service when my oldest grandson studied for his bar mitzvah, a process that seemed to take about ten years. I could sing it in my sleep. But don't change the tunes on me. I like the ones I'm familiar with.

Ms Caitlyn gave it an extra spin, demonstrating her virtuosity by singing endless repeats of verses. As I said, she was terrific. And what a set of lungs! The girl had staying power.

The only thing was, the service lasted three and a half hours. It was longer than the previous contender, the Martin Luther King Interfaith service, and it's unfair to compare the two, because the MLK thing had contributions by clergypersons and choirs from all the churches around, plus readings from the works of the great man.

Today's service was about as long as a Wagner opera, but with no intermissions. It went on so long that the president didn't even make the customary announcements, wearily advising those assembled to consult the monthly bulletin for information. Then everyone made a beeline for the bathrooms.

The New Testament, updated...

and made more relevant to our times.

Little Boy Blue

 

Introducing a member of the younger generation of my family.

A new idea hits the campus

It's called involuntary servitude.

It's taking place at Whitman College. Aha! I said to myself--it's named after Christine Todd Whitman, who with her innovative fiscal policies, first dug the hole the State is in financially.

But it isn't. It's named after the president of E-Bay.

Bummer!

A nice appreciation of Homer

The Weekly Standard has an article attesting to the durability of Homer.

I can attest to the fact that the Odyssey appeals to all ages. I bought a child's version of it for my 6-year-old grandson, thinking it might be a bit too advanced for his interests, as well as too gory. (This is a kid who found Chicken Little scary.)

Anyway, I started to read it to him, and he seemed willing enough to sit and listen. When I got to the chapter about the Cyclops, I was a little apprehensive--after all, the Cyclops seized several of Odysseus's men and ate them alive, among other horrors. But the kid listened, so I soldiered on.

I was reading the part where Odysseus fools the Cyclops by telling him his name is Nobody, and proceeds to put the giant's eye out, when I heard peals of childish laughter. The kid was very taken by Odysseus tricking Cyclops. The fact that his eye was poked out didn't phase him at all. He loved this part of the story, and insisted that everyone in the family read it to him, over and over.

I concluded that different people bring different points of view to the classics.

Lovers with statue of Caesar Rodney

 

Al Sharpton leads prayer vigil

The old humbug claims police brutality:

The Rev. Al Sharpton conducted the vigil ... outside the courthouse.

Surrounded by a throng of photographers and reporters, Mr. Sharpton referred to two racially motivated crimes from the past, saying: “Twenty-one years ago we were at the same courthouse for Howard Beach. We were also here two years ago for Fat Nick. We are here again determined to have justice.”

I can't believe the almighty didn't strike him dead for his presumptuousness. God does indeed move in mysterious ways. If I were God, I would have taken out old Al in a New York minute.

Dear Ann Landers:

I don't understnnd how anyone can run for office when candidates and their significant others can be dragged through the mud over an innocent remark.

I happened to remark that I have not felt proud of my country for all my adult life and they jumped all over me. Yet no-one knows what I have suffered as a minority woman growing up in this racist country.

For instance: when I was in third grade, three (3) kids did not send me valentines even though it was mandatory to send cards to everyone in the class! Racism at its worst! Can you deny it?

Then in high school, the captain of the football team never asked me out--because I did better in geometry than he did--rampant sexism! Nor did I get to go to the Junior Prom with the date of my choice! These incidents--which I attribute to the fact that Ronald Reagan was president--scarred my young life and made me bitter.

Sure, I was admitted to Princeton, but I was never chosen as Homecoming Queen, nor did the white students strew my path with rose petals as I walked through the campus to make up to me for the racism and sexism I had suffered in the past.

Okay, I concede I was admitted to Harvard Law, but the thought that--perhaps--I had been chosen because of affirmative action turned my triumph to ashes and dust.

When my husband (whose name I will not mention) is elected president, every child will get valentines from every other member of the class or the full majesty of the law will be invoked on their parents. Every girl will get to date the man of her choice, and all will be on the honor roll and go to Princeton, Harvard, Yale, or the College of William and Mary. Everyone will also go to law school and pass the bar of their respective states on the first try.

In his spare time, he will capture Osama bin Laden, invade Pakistan, and make friends with Ahmedidnejidad or whatever his name is and clear up the frightful misunderstanding which has clouded our relations with Iran.

Not only will we have universal health care, but legislation will be passed in Congress to prohibit anyone from getting sick for more than five days. Those who violate this law will be forced to watch a DVD of the principal speeches of Fidel Castro. All the way through.

Signed,
An embittered wife (MO).

Suggestions for the obese

Good advice, but hard to put into practice:

The best way not to be fat is simply not to be American. But this may be harder than you think.
Recent scientific studies have shown that even the very air in America is full of extra calories....

Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

We watched a film, "They were Expendable," this evening. In the course of the film, this poem was quoted:

Requiem

UNDER the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie:
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you 'grave for me:
Here he lies where he long'd to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

I always loved RLS. I first read his children's poems when I was a little girl.

He was sickly all his life, but never let his poor health stop him from doing anything he wanted to do. "[S]ick and well, I have had a splendid life of it, grudge nothing, regret very little ... take it all over, I would hardly change with any man of my time."

He died at the age of 44.

Lame ideas

Relying on "hope" and "change" to solve our political problems is like taking care of your financial problems by buying a lottery ticket.

Dilemma

I try to send something of mine to Pat Santy (Carnival of the Insanities) every week. It's probably the only way I get readers who deliberately come to my blog, except for the happy few who stop by regularly. She puts the Carnival together late Saturday, and likes contributors to send their stuff as early as possible--and only one per contributor.

But every week, when Thursday rolls around, I look through my paltry contributions for the week, and try to figure out which one is the most amusing, timely, clever, or just plain nuts enough to make the cut.

I generally settle for something moderately amusing--I'm a really moderate writer, sort of. By this I mean I am not screamingly, side-splittingly funny, like Iowahawk or Johnny Virgil. No-one has accused me of making them roll on the floor laughing, or spit out their diet drink. An amused smile, perhaps a chuckle, or a slight upturning of the lips are the usual responses of that happy few, my regular readers. That's when they're not saying to themselves: "What on earth is she going on about now?"

So here I am, it's almost the deadline, and I can't decide between the Hillary-Coulter post or the Ed Rendell one. There's a slight chance I might come up with something even more amusing and to the point by Friday night, but I wouldn't bet on it. Still, stranger things have happened.

And who knows, Pat may decide to give my humble submission a pass this time around.

Ed Rendell sounds off

He's worried about Obama's candidacy:

"You've got conservative whites here, and I think there are some whites who are probably not ready to vote for an African-American candidate," Rendell told the editorial board of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette in remarks that appeared in Tuesday's paper.

I, personally, resent the assumption that conservatives are bigots. I know that I am not.

He doesn't seem to have a high opinion of Pennsylvania voters. Of course he has a point--they elected him, didn't they?

New poem discovered

Scholars are excited by the discovery of a new manuscript by Geoffrey Chaucer. It was found wrapped around some rather odd-smelling fish.

Trackback for this entry: http://www.typepad.com/t/trackback/11509/26040542

Tutorial

Everyone who knows how to use the Dewey Decimal System, (or the Library of Congress system, for that matter), skip this.

There is no mystique about the Dewey Decimal System. The only people who find it mysterious and arcane are catalogers, of whom the less said the better.

The DDS is a way of putting books in order, nothing more. You put your socks in your sock drawer and your sweaters in your sweater drawer, don't you? What if you had to look through every drawer in the house to find your socks? Imagine finding one of 100,000 books by looking around, without any guide. Librarians know that if a book is mis-shelved, it is as good as lost.

Or compare it to house numbers. House numbers are in order, odd numbers on one side of the street, even numbers on the other. If 23 came after 67 but before 18, chaos would ensue, or you would have a bunch of baffled drivers going 15 miles and hour down the street peering at all the buildings and muttering to themselves. Just like they do now, on Foulk Rd in North Wilmington, DE, in the good old USA.

I'm glad I could straighten that out.

Artful Kisser interviews me

She had some interesting, thoughtful questions.

1. You've been blogging since January 2005. What motivated you to start? What's motivated you to continue and how do you think it's evolved over the past three years?

I had just retired and was looking around for something to do that wouldn't get me into jail.

2. Excuse my ignorance, but I think the dude on the horse at the top of your blog is Paul Revere. (If not, please correct me!) What does he signify for you and what inspired you to grant him such a prominent place on your blog?

The dude on the horse is Caesar Rodney, a signer of the Declaration of Independence for Delaware. The statue sits in Rodney Square, in the heart of Wilmington, DE, where I live now.

3. In your very first post you wrote about being a librarian. You've written some entertaining anecdotes about your perceptions of strange characters you've encountered on both sides of the counter eg. the cross dresser, the lonely heart, the three year old patron amongst others. How do you think you were perceived? eg. the helpful librarian, the sexy librarian, the grumpy librarian, the pedantic librarian etc, etc.

I hope my staff perceived me as someone who would always stand up for them and encourage them to do their best. The public? Probably some of them hated me, because I was the person they encountered after they had been dropped on their head a few times. I grew to really like some of our patrons, and worked with them on several projects, including our Centennial Celebration. As for our Board of Trustees who were serving when I left, I would feel just fine about finding them dead in a ditch, individually or collectively.

4. Are you a Dewey Decimal fan? Have you ever had patrons complaining that books aren't in the same order as at Borders and asking where they can buy their frappucinos? Speaking of which what are your thoughts on how the place of the library has changed for the public over the years?

The Dewey Decimal System is just a method for putting the books in order so you can find them. I do feel Borders has a more attractive layout than the library--that's because they have to sell books. We struggled to find attractive ways to promote our books, displays, etc., with greater or lesser results.

American public libraries are the best in the world. They really welcome readers and try to help them. They don't do that in other countries. However, I really feel that librarians started to lose readers when we became cheap substitutes for the video store. Now no-one needs the video store, there are so many options. I love the fact that libraries preserve the best that humanity has written through the ages and that people still read these. But I fear that with our present education system people will be so ignorant that libraries will fall into disuse.

5. Is it true that our borrowing habits are monitored and certain books are flagged for nvestigation by the powers that be? Or is it urban legend and just more fodder for the paranoid?
Not in New Jersey. Library records are confidential by law, and librarians respect this. Borrowing habits are not monitored in libraries. However, if you buy books and DVDs online, they do have a record of your preferences, for business reasons. In the library, after the books are returned--we do have to know where they are when they are out--the records of who borrowed that particular item are erased from the database. So we couldn't tell anyone what you were reading if we wanted to.

6. Politics is clearly a passion of yours with a definite Republican flavour coming through. You briefly wrote about your transition from being a Democrat to becoming a Republican. Can you elaborate on how, when and why that change came about?

I was just starting to write about this. My father was an ardent leftist. I believe he voted for Henry Wallace back in the day. I got lots of leftist indoctrination in my private school, where they were ardent cheerleaders for the Soviet Union. When I grew up I started to read a lot of American biography and U S history, and began to think for myself. I was always a Democrat, though. At one time, someone I wanted to vote for was running in the Republican primary and I switched parties to vote for him. It was easy to switch in those days. Later, when I wanted to switch back, it was more difficult. I was still a Democrat at heart though. I thought Reagan was a damned fool for asking Gorby to tear down the Berlin Wall--everyone knew it was there to stay! But Reagan was proved right, and I and all the other Dems who thought he was a jerk were revealed to be the real jerks. Another thing that turned me off about the Democrats was their attitude to the space program --they wanted the money to be spent on "alleviating poverty." I thought the exploration of space was exciting. The late 60s and early 70s anti-war crowd annoyed me, too. I didn't like their self-righteous attitude. When we deserted the South Vietnamese, making the world safe for the massacre of thousands who had counted on our support, I was ashamed of my country.

7. Which politician, past or present, has inspired you the most in your life? What of their qualities appealed to you and why?

I loved Harry Truman and both Roosevelts. The more I read about Teddy the more fascinating I find him. I admire Rudy Guiliani's honesty. I admire John McCain and ardently support the war in Iraq. If we turn tail and run again, we will have a lot to answer for. As for the rest of the politicians, I can take them or leave them alone.

8. Which politician, past or present, has angered you the most and why?

None of our American politicians really anger me, but the rapturous crowds around Barack Obama scare me. They remind me of a Hitler youth rally. Also, he is a good speaker and a likeable guy, but insofar as he has admitted having any ideas, I disagree with him. However, he seems to think everything will be hunky-dory if we just join hands and sing Kumbaya--if it were that easy, Bush would have done it.

9. Who do you hope will be the next President of the United States of America?

I wanted Rudy, but will vote for McCain. I don't think anything else matters, if we lose the war against terrorism.

10. Your mother sounds like she was a formidable character; a lawyer who represented the tired, poor, huddled masses. You've written a couple of posts about her with great fondness. What influence did she have on you growing up and which of her traits, good or bad, do you recognise in yourself today?

I wish I could be like my mother--she cast a long shadow. I admired her honesty and generosity. The older I get, the more I realize how smart she was. I always thought my father was the smart one, but I think she had him outclassed. She could drive you crazy, but I drive my daughters crazy sometimes.

11. Your husband, Mr Charm, comes up occasionally in your reflections, as do other members of your family. How did you meet and how long have you been married? What brought you together and what has held you together? And does he read your blog?

Mr Charm and I met in the unemployment line in New York City. He was very good-looking and had beautiful blue eyes and a soulful look. I have always been a romantic and he looked romantic so I fell for him. By the time I knew better it was too late. We like some of the same things--music, books, and our gorgeous daughters and their absolutely beautiful children.

He doesn't read my blog. But he read my book, as I was writing it, and made intelligent comments.

12. You have an extensive blogroll. You're on a desert island with a laptop but only have access to 5 blogs - ever. Who are they? And why?

Oh, dear. I wasn't sworn in, so I can lie about this. Anyway, my favorite bloggers have links. Okay: I love Tim Blair and read him first thing. Mark Steyn is another favorite. Iowahawk is an extremely clever writer, and I love the Nose on Your Face. And Neil. And the Passing Parade--and...

13. And the obvious question that had to be asked on receiving Miriam's answers - You wrote a book? Can you tell me about it or is that something you prefer not to mention?

The book was a joint effort and was called Distinguished African Americans in aviation and space science. It consists of 100 short biographical articles about--you guessed it--African Americans in aviation and space science. Some of the biographees were pioneers who paved the way for others, some are contemporaries. We included all the Tuskegee Airmen we could locate. Most of these are gone now, and their stories are worth preserving. One of my subjects was Ron McNair, who lost his life in the Challenger disaster. It was a terrible loss--he was a brilliant man.

It was a perfect project for me. I enjoyed the research, especially communicating by e-mail with some of my subjects. The writing was fun, too.

Carnival of the Insanities is up

Good bloggy reading!

An unexpected supporter

Hillary: good news! I'm going to campaign for you!




Um, thanks.



Where do you think I would be most effective?



Guam is lovely at this time of year.



Guam?




Okay, then--how about the Aleutians?

Obama as spiritual leader

Jeff Jarvis expresses misgivings, which I share:

Though he catalogues his issues — Iraq, health care, the standard list — his message is made up of little more than stock marketing taglines. He’s not so much running for office as branding himself.

Listen to last night’s medley of his greatest hits: “Our time has come… Our movement is real… Change is coming to America… We are more than a collection of red states and blue states. We are and always will be the United States of America… This time can be different…. Not this time. Not this year…. This time we have to seize the moment…. This fall, we owe the American people a real choice…. We have to choose between change and more of the same, we have to choose between looking backwards and looking forward. We have to choose between our future and our past…. We can do this… We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We are the change that we seek…. Yes we can…. Yes we can….” Cue crowd chanting: “Yes we can…”

His supporters... buy his image and believe he is less political and that he is indeed different. I think he’s more political and his campaign is the greatest example of the selling of the president I’ve yet seen. To state it harshly, I say that relying on these stock phrases — believing that we are going to swallow empty oratory about “change” punctuated with chants of “yes we can” — is a cynical political act.

There's more:

When I complained on my blog that I want to hire a manager not a spiritual adviser for the White House ... my commenters responded with their dreamy wishes for an uplifting Obama administration instead. Said one: “I don’t want an executive, I want someone to stoke the fires of political engagement so that the people will be involved in thier government again.” Said another: “We don’t want an executive to lead us - we want someone who will amplify our voices and give us the ability to reach into government.” Nevermind the job title is chief executive.

The worst Oscar-winning picture ever

Joan Crawford plays a self-sacrificing mother, a woman whom fate has singled out for a blow on the head with a sockful of wet sand.

In one memorable scene, Mildred--a real self-sacrificing ninny, who has stooped so low as to take a job as a waitress--comes home after a long day slinging hash to be comforted by the old family retainer, Butterfly McQueen.

Only in Hollywood would a humble waitress who works in a diner have live-in help.

I didn't know we had a primary in Delaware

Delaware is so low-key that no-one even mentions such a thing. In New Jersey, where I was one of the few Republicans in the city, I actually got letters inviting me to be district leader!

Anyway, the state of New Jersey knows that its residents are such blockheads that if we are not officially notified by mail that there is an election we are likely to sleep through it. If that is not enough, we get letters and phone calls telling us how important our vote is. So by the time the election is held, we are really psyched about it and eager to go to the polls. I guess that's because it matters who New Jersey votes for--they have a relatively large population.

I actually wasn't sure we were having a primary in Delaware, but I didn't get too excited about it. Most of the state elected officials are Democrats anyway, so who cares which loser gets picked to run against them? As far as the Presidential election goes, Delaware can't have too many delegates, because we don't have too many people living here.

But I voted anyway. I went over about 1 p.m. to the school where I vote--lunchtime. All the election workers were nodding off over their sandwiches and coffee. We were seven to one--seven people working the polls, and me, the lone voter.

But--and I've never seen this--there was no American flag prominently displayed outside the building! Not the flag on the flagpole, but the flag that is usually pasted up over the door or walls outside the building. I've voted in three states--New York, New Jersey, and Florida--and I've never seen a polling place without that flag. As I said, we're a laid back bunch in Delaware, but where was that flag? It was a funny feeling, not seeing it.

On the evening news they actually reported the results from Delaware, as if anyone cared, and I'm happy to say that my candidate won! So I guess it was legal and everything.

But where was that flag?

People hate politicians

All of use exercise fans talk while we ride the bikes, mainly because riding the bikes is incredibly boring. But I heard something new today. One man swore to me that he had heard on good authority that Teddy Kennedy had deliberately murdered Mary Jo Kopechne because she was pregnant with his child.

I thought this a little far-fetched--murder by driving a car into a body of water? Surely there are easier ways? A bit risky to oneself, and besides you lose a perfectly drivable car. It's sort of like burning the house down to get roast pork.

I think I'll disregard this one along with the slanders about Bush's National Guard Service, Barack's slumlord friends, and Whitewater shenanigans.

Advice for McCain haters:

Stop whining, you losers! McCain won fair and square, by popular vote--no putsch put him in first place. He is the popularly elected candidate of the Republican Party, and vox populi, vox dei--the voice of the people is the voice of God.

I happen to disagree with God on this, as on many other topics, but who cares what I think? I personally loved Rudy. But seeing as Rudy has withdrawn from the race, I can't vote for him. McCain will be running against either Hillary or Obama. I don't approve of her politics, and he absolutely frightens me. I would no sooner give him the country to play with than I would give a six-year-old a Mercedes to drive.

For me, it's all about the war. As the late Vince Lombardi said, winning isn't everything, it's the only thing. Everything else is irrelevant. And McCain has been consistently right on the war. If we are defeated by Islamofascism, none of the other stuff will matter. We won't have the luxury of nattering on about the economy or health care--we will be too busy learning Arabic and trying on burkas.

This creeps me out

Welcome, Carnival of the Insanities readers!


Maria Shriver puts her two cents in:

The California first lady added that Obama "is about the power of us, and what we can do when we come together. Because as everybody up here has said, there is much more that unites us than divides us.

"He is about empowering women, African-Americans, Latinos, older people, young people. He's about empowering all of us."

This reminds me of "One people, one nation, one leader," the Nazi Party slogan. Now don't go crazy sending me comments, I know she is not a Nazi. I know Obama is not a Nazi. I am referring to the over-the-top irrationality of Obama's fans. These people are so emotional they scare me. You are supposed to use your brain in choosing political candidates, not your emotions.

Shriver is so gaunt and starved-looking that she looks like a capo in a concentration camp. Yes, it is possible to be too thin.

Get yourself over to the Carnival of the Insanities

Befitting the season, it's mostly about politics.

Something that Elisabeth said reminded me...

of something that happened to a friend of mine:

Interestingly, about four years ago, I made an attempt at becoming involved with the democratic party in my little town (which is overwhelmingly republican.) I thought that this would help me meet townies who were not connected to the university where I teach. This proved to be a bust, because the people involved in the democratic party in my town form a tight-knit clique that was not really into opening itself to newcomers ...

True story: My friend Joan had always been a member of the Democratic party when she lived in the city, and did a lot of volunteer work for them. She worked hard, because she enjoyed politics. When she moved to the suburbs, she called the local (Democratic) party leaders and offered herself as a volunteer. They told her they had nothing for her to do and had no need for her services.

So Joan volunteered for the Republican party. They were delighted to get her, and last I heard, she was county chairwoman. She is now, of course, a rabid Republican.

C'est le premier pas qui coute. I'm not too sure I remember the French rightly, so I'll paraphrase: it is the first step that counts--or to put it another way and quote a Chinese proverb, the journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.