We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
Some shutters are inside the glass, some outside. They are all used, not ornamental.
The reason they are there is because, in stone, stucco, or brick construction, you have natural daytime air conditioning if you don't let too much sunlight in during mid-day. You will never see air-conditioners, because they don't need them except in modern office buildings.
The low-humidity Med climate, with cool nights, is perfect for humans with stone buildings.
I just stumbled on the random fact that Hartford CT, Cape Cod, Rome, and Istanbul all exist on latitude 41 N. Of course, just along that latitude is not the quickest route. Great circles and all that.
...we need to realize that many of the most pressing problems of the inner city cannot be solved by the government. We can find ways to decriminalize drugs and to reform the legal system so that fewer young people are incarcerated for long periods for non-violent offenses — but government cannot mend broken homes or put addicts in touch with a higher powerable not only to ease their craving for drugs but to help them rebuild their lives. Government cannot take a nine year-old child who has never seen a healthy family and give the child the kind of psychological balance and strength children get from growing up in a loving and stable home. All the social workers in the world can’t fix this stuff.
What goes on in some of these families and communities after generations of breakdown and decay needs a kind of healing and care that government programs can’t provide — especially in a country like ours that for good and valid reasons has chosen to separate church and state. Some demons only come out with fasting and prayer, and the US government isn’t much good at either one.
Our friend Nathan sends us this slice of pop culture from his visit to San Francisco. I never heard of Diesel, but Maggie's is light on pop culture. You might say that it's not really our beat.
Attended my first Diesel opening Friday.
OK, my first anything opening.
L., who helps Diesel, an Italian label, find possible stores and set up their design in U.S. cities, had invited me. Thursday late, she called, saying that Francis or Danieli of Diesel had called desperately saying that they needed extra props for the store: old TV sets, beat-up furniture. The theme was to be the aftermath of a tornado. We hulked a dusty tubed TV into her BMW, then over to the store on Market Street, where we were met by a cheerful helper, who opened the car door and announced, “Hi, I’m Jeremiah,” which name was also tattooed on his left neck, should a vampire be interested in the brand name of his source. But, easy to overlook Jeremiah’s name tattoo amongst the other skin art on him and others.
Branson also was helping with the design. He tops two meters and his height is enhanced by a dyed black hair wave that brings to mind Hirokawa’s tsunami prints; a flip of the wave at the top gives him a lopsided look, which he straightens with a smile. As we lugged TV, he unloaded broken branches for the window display. Tornado-esque.
I don't suppose NASA will mind my posting this ancient clip of the first "moon landing" (ha-ha, wink-wink). I'm sure they'd hate to see those ugly 'hoax' rumors start up again.
"NASA CENSORS BLOGGER - WHY??" screams the New York Post.
No, along with their global warming hoax, I'm sure NASA will want to keep this baby free from any controversy and safely under wraps. We won't be bothered as long as we toe the party line and at least pretend it happened.
With that said, this clip is a refreshing breath of air from the usual frenzied documentary-style show, where the scene changes every 2.1 seconds and you rarely get a chance to just sit there and contemplate the damn thing.
If you're really old and were alive back in the 80's, you might remember those airplane shows where each 1-hour episode would be on a specific plane. It'd be on some ancient WW II bomber and there'd be endless minutes of it just... flying... along.
No machine guns a'blazing, no enemy fighters on the attack, no 500-pounders being dropped, no narrator blathering away; just the big plane lumbering along and the drone of the engines. Using the same camera angle. For minutes upon end. You had to be a real lover of flying to watch those shows — but for those of us who were, it was terrific.
Guys have to be bold enough to hit on girls that charm them. Bars are the worst places to do that, but there is no best place. Elevators? Well, I dunno, but the location is not the point. If guys wait for gals to do it, they might wait forever, and the human species ends.
If a gal doesn't want to be approached, she can wear a wedding ring, or a button that says "F-off." Or a facial expression that says the same thing. Don't try to look Lesbian - some guys will view that as a challenge unless you are butch and fat.
We love Fawlty Towers, and can quote most lines from them, and Brideshead Revisited was darn good, but the best series ever made for TV was from John LeCarre's book Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. Six hours of dark, haunting intrigue, with the best casting imaginable. Alec Guiness is understatedly great, of course, but the others are equally remarkable. The character development is the best part of the series: the spy stuff provides the dramatic tension.
Even in the post cold-war era, one hell of a story. Perfect TV. See it.
Most folks (if lucky enough to have work to do) work far more than that these days.
I work 7:30 to noon, then a little more than an hour in the gym or just walking around outdoors (then an apple, cigar, and a coffee for lunch while preparing a Maggie's post), then around 1:30 - 6 or 6:30 (on a typical work day). I have a roughly 35-45 minute commute, too. Not sure whether you'd call that a 10 or 11-hour day, but it suits me just fine. When I have deadlines, I work weekends but I try to avoid that as much as I can during the summertime. And I am linked into the office at home.
"Man May Work from Sun to Sun; But Woman's Work is Never Done." Is that still true? I find that my work is never "done" either. "Done" is when you're dead.
We humans have a remarkable talent for rationalizing our feelings and behaviors. The world is full of hot guys and hot babes, and all sorts of other tempting things. One cannot have them all.
The overgrown thing had taken on a corroded aspect from the depredations of the beetles; it looked like a leprous dragon, smelled like a grandmother, and pinched like a mortgage when you touched it looking for errant shuttlecocks or wiffleballs.
What happened to all of those Japanese Beetles that used to eat the roses? I haven't seen one in years. My Mom used to send us out to pick them off of her roses and drop them in little jars of gasoline. Like picking blueberries.
"Just like we can’t make the organic morphology of slums fit into the modern rules of property ownership, we can’t make traditionally emergent cities through the current planning system. (All efforts to produce traditional neighborhoods have so far produced only imitations of them.) ..."
Indeed, a neigborhood can not be "made." I think of planned development like Disneyworld: phoney to the point of creepy. Stepford places where you can't grow things in your front lawn.
Have you ever seen a new housing development in the US with a corner store, a cheap barbershop, or a local pub? Apparently there is a market for the unreal and sanitized.
The best rendition of America the Beautiful ever, by Ray Charles. (It could be a clearer copy, but still the best way to start the 4th of July - or any day in the good old USA.)
Our Founding Fathers are our Knights of the Round Table, and our revolutionary war farmer/soldiers were our knights, just as our soldiers today are our knights. All of these knights risked, and risk, their lives and everything, so we can live as we please. It is almost too much of a good deal, for which humble and deep gratitude is the only proper attitude.
We all do wonder whether we risk enough, sacrifice enough for the freedom we take for granted: probably not. Thanks to those who have preceded us, we have it easy; maybe too easy, and take it all for granted. Shame on me, if I do.
The Declaration of Independence of the Thirteen Colonies In CONGRESS, July 4, 1776
The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America,
When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. --That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security. Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain [George III] is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.
Imagine the pics I could take for Maggie's with one of these sorts of babies instead of my Costco pocket point and shoots. Trouble is, I'd never carry one of those larger things around - just a pain in the ass to lug a camera around all day when you're hiking in the woods with bottles of water, or up and down the hills of Spoleto or Norcia with a shopping bag full of jars of truffles and truffle sauce and and cinghiale salumi and Umbrian olive oil and stringozzi. When you shrink all those magapixels down to size, you lose the detail anyway.
The experience is the thing. A pic is just a souvenir, and the camera can be a distraction from simply "being there". And, in general, nobody wants to look at anybody else's artful pics (altho some folks seem to enjoy my travel pics on Maggie's but I make extra effort to make them informative rather than artful, illos of a mini-narrative).
It's fun to go places, sometimes, camera-free so you don't end up a slave to the lens. Same thing with periodically going a week or two without looking at the internet, or without beer.
Freedom from habits, whether good habits or bad ones, can be enlightening.
In the Western world, beach bathing is a late 18th-19th Century phenomenon.
Bathing became fashionable because, like taking spa water, it was thought to be healthful. A form of "taking the cure" for neurasthenia or whatever.
Furthermore, before then nobody went to the beach anyway, and having a tan was for peasants only. It was a sign that you labored outdoors. Nobody knew how to swim, either (as in Italy today).
Native peoples, especially in warm climates, knew how to swim. The Front Crawl, aka Australian Crawl (now universally used for Freestyle racing), was adopted by Western Civ around the turn of the century, via Solomon Islanders who used this speedy stroke.
Here's a history of women's bathing attire. They definitely did not swim in these things. You would rapidly drown. Maybe they just got a little wet up to their knees, and splashed some water on their faces.
Even today, most people do not go to the beach to swim. They go to read, to watch their kids play in the sand and waves, to obtain some beneficial rays of the sun, to enjoy a sea breeze blowing over their near-naked body, to take a cooling dip, or to surf or body surf where there are good waves.
And how many places can one go out in public and exhibit one's gorgeous, erotic self in what is basically underwear?
My seven men must yearn to see some fine, strapping, young body-in-its-prime with some specific ailment to which they can apply something quickly sovereign, doctor and patient both ending up refreshed. But no, they face daily the procession of an ever older, more decrepit, more grotesque, unsavory parade of bodies-- of those who have lived too long.
It felt like it had been the longest week of my life. I was filling in at some big apartment complex while the building's handyman was on vacation, and I ran my tail off all week long fixing things. I came home that Friday and did something I'd never done before, and have never done since:
I flopped into my easy chair.
Normally, I plunk myself down in front of the computer and get caught up. But I was so beat that I just wanted to hit the La-Z-Boy and relax.
Out of boredom, I turned on the TV.
It was kind of a bizarre sight. On a completely empty highway, a white SUV was cruising down the fast lane going about 45 miles per hour, trailed by a zillion police cars. It eventually turned off and as it drove through the neighborhoods, people stood on the side of the street with signs reading "Go, OJ!", "We Believe In You!", "Run, OJ, Run!"
As I said, it was pretty bizarre.
And thus started a nine-month journey as I watched every word of testimony and every cable talk show that evening, VCR at the ready for overlapping shows. And yes, I was there, a few weeks after the trial ended, watching the final talk show on the trial's aftermath, and when they signed off, that was the last of the 'OJ Special' shows.
So I obviously consider myself something of an expert on the subject.
The other day there was an article on Hot Air claiming that OJ was going to 'fess up and admit to Oprah that he did, indeed, kill Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman. It's probably a hoax, but we'll see.
You might agree with some of the comments:
The verdict had NOTHING to do with the murders. It was a racial vindication that a black man could kill two white people and get away with it if the jury was black. It’s called jury nullification and it’s happened many times throughout history. It doesn’t make it any less disgusting but it is a fact.
They didn’t believe he was innocent, they just refused to process the facts of the case. They went into this jury duty with a pre-determined outcome.
Stupid judge. Stupid, stupid, stupid jurors.
Wasn’t the composition of the jury all black females? Not that it would make any difference in their decision-making of course.
The jury was not all black. It was, however, all dumb. In fact, it was what they call a “downtown jury” meaning they are stupid and prosecutors are less likely to get convictions.
Actually, these people are as wrong as wrong can be.
In 1932 Yale accepted seventy-two per cent of its applicants. In 1940 Harvard accepted eighty-five per cent. Of the four hundred and five boys from Groton who applied to Harvard between the years 1906 and 1932 only three were turned down.
He concludes:
When my kids get “literature” in the mail from a college claiming that it will help them enter into the fullness of their humanity and teach them to insure in perpetuity the life and health of the world, I will stop using the word “racket” to describe “higher” education. But until that time I’m afraid I will be an accomplice to something I cannot wholly admire—if also, I hope, an enemy within it, a kind of Trojan horse.
Only the prosperous could afford fancy private higher education before WW 2. It is getting so that few can afford it now. At $50,000+ per year, they are back to looking for the rich kids again whose parents can pay full freight.
Actually, no blood relation to Andrew Breitbart, today’s investigative PR Superman at leaping tall piles of Leftist BS. Zisha (stagename Siegmund) Breitbart was a poor Polish Jew who in the early 1900s was heralded by schtetl dwellers, and by gentile audiences in Europe and America, as “Superman of the Ages” and “Iron King” for his feats (and tricks) of strength.
But of all the speculative theories surrounding the creation of Superman, one exceedingly likely influence has been virtually ignored—a real-life Jewish strongman from Poland who 1. was billed as the “Superman of the Ages”; 2. advertised, on circus posters, as a man able to stop speeding locomotives; 3. wore a cape; 4. looked—with his chiseled movie-star face, wavy hair, and massive upper torso—like the future comic book idol; and 5. performed his death-defying feats in 1923 and 1924 in Cleveland and Toronto, Siegel and Shuster’s [the conceivers of Action Comics Superman] respective hometowns, when they were impressionable nine year olds.
Master German filmmaker Werner Herzog made a biopic of Zisha Breitbart's life in 2000, Invincible. Herzog takes some film liberties, but “Herzog did accurately portray Breitbart as a sensational popular variety artist and a proud Jew who inspired hero-seeking Jewish children—likely among them Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster.”
Here’s the trailer for Invincible.
Zisha Breitbart died in 1925 from the after-effects of a rusty nail in one of his acts.
Breitbart’s funeral, an Orthodox ceremony, was attended by thousands of Yiddish and German-speaking Jews as well as gentiles from the circus and variety stage world. One moving obituary quoted a passage from Zechariah: “Wail, O Cypress, for the Cedar has fallen.”
Interestingly, NYC's Broadway was an old Lenape Indian trail into the Bronx and Westchester, later extended by the Dutch to run up to the Dutch settlement of Albany (the current Rte. 9).
We now call the North River the Hudson River. The road along the wall is Wall St. That canal, now filled in, is Broad St. Another Dutch canal further uptown, long filled in, is now Canal St.
Our friend Nathan sends us this slice of pop culture from his visit to San Francisco. I never heard of Diesel, but Maggie's is light on pop culture. You might say that it's not really our beat.
I don't suppose NASA will mind my posting this ancient clip of the first "moon landing" (ha-ha, wink-wink). I'm sure they'd hate to see those ugly 'hoax' rumors start up again.
We love Fawlty Towers, and can quote most lines from them, and Brideshead Revisited was darn good, but the best series ever made for TV was from John LeCarre's book 
Sipp recalls 
Fascinating.
Or, at least, some modest help towards buying one of them, which is far more likely. Just a little help. 
In the Western world, 
I remember it well.
It's summertime, and I like to post a few light-hearted summertime items on occasion.