I think my teeth get more crooked by the day. Seriously, I don't think I have one straight tooth in my mouth. Every single one seems to be at least slightly askew. No two teeth are perfectly aligned. Such was my lament to the dentist this last visit, but she pointed out at least I had teeth, which was a good observation, being that she's a dentist and all.
My dentist is from France and very good-looking, but that's not why I go to her. She's inexpensive and local. She gave me a good tip, too -- rinse with a fluoride treatment after brushing. I have a couple superficial cavities formed below where the gum line used to be -- my gums having receded with age -- and a steady diet of fluoride should help them fill back in. If not, then she drills. I hope it won't come to that. I kind of like getting my teeth cleaned in a masochistic sort of way, but drilling can be unpleasant even when numbed with Novocain.
Now I'm trying to whiten my teeth. I even bought the stuff they sell at the dentist office. Some years ago, I had the trays made for my teeth, and now all I have to do is fill them up with hydrogen peroxide gel and properly position them. But I've been doing it for a week now with no results. I think I may have gotten gypped, though they don't usually rip you off at the dentist's -- not so blatantly anyway. I'll have to call them up and see what they say. Maybe the stuff went bad. It still foams up though. We'll see.
I always had at least a couple cavities every time I went to the dentist as a kid -- a steady diet of sodas will do that to you -- and our family dentist didn't use Novocain when he drilled. The movie "Marathon Man" brings back those memories every time I see it. Whoever directed that movie knew how to tap into our irrational (or rational) fears of the dentist. Now I've learned to embrace the wonders of Novocain.
Now they have a numbing gel they put on your gum before injecting the Novocain. That in itself is a big step forwards in dentistry. I remember it being watermelon flavored, but I may be mistaken. I suppose it could taste like crap, and I'd still use it.
My dad used to complain about having to wear a bridge, which is a type of semi-false teeth. They hook onto your regular teeth via metal bridgework, hence the name. I remember one evening in the living room. I might've been 10 years old at the time. The whole family was there including my older brother Joe and even maybe some of the neighbors. Somehow my father in attempting to replace his bridge had actually hooked a sharp part of it through his tongue, and he was trying to get someone to help them to no avail. I think there was blood. He finally ended up going up to the bathroom and unhooking himself looking in the mirror. He returned rather angry that no one had helped him, but after that he reveled in telling the story of how he knew how a fish felt when getting hooked.
I remember my dad once complaining how a dentist pulled out his upper eyeteeth. At the time, I didn't know what eyeteeth were, but now... ouch. It's interesting how specialized our teeth are -- they cut, tear and grind depending on their placement and shape. I'm missing one of my grinding teeth, a big molar. It was one of those teeth that had been drilled out so much from cavities that it just broke off one day from pressure. It didn't help that I used to bite down on fireballs.
I have to give my old man credit, though, he instilled a good brushing ethic in all of us kids I think. It took a while to take on me, but it took. But the main thing that saved my teeth was going to the dentist on a regular basis. I think the last few years was the longest I went without going, and that was due to frequent hospital visits. I think I'm back on track now. I'll let you know in six months.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Haircut and a Shave
I got my hair cut and beard trimmed today. I clean up pretty good sometimes. It's funny, though, I have more hair on my face than I do on my head, but the haircut cost more. I guess it evens out in the long run. The barber spent more time on my beard.
Sometimes I wonder if I am narcissistic. Actually, scratch the wondering part. I AM narcissistic. And I hate to admit it, but I'm getting older, AND ITS SHOWING. Dark circles under my eyes and permanent frown lines in my forehand, and I don't frown that much. Oh well, I suppose I can't stay young forever. No, nix that... I CAN stay young forever... I just won't look young forever.
I made it through three songs today until Eva Cassidy's cover of Sting’s Fields of Gold got me a little bit emotional. But that one always does it. Even Sting himself admits being moved to tears by her version, and he wrote the thing. I suppose one's authorship of a song does not preclude one from being moved by it.
The 40th anniversary of Neil Armstrong's historic moonwalk occurs on July 20 of this year. As much as I was into space stuff when I was in elementary school, I completely missed the first man on the moon event thing (I think that's the official name for it). What was I doing back then except for hanging out at Fort Scott Park with my cousin? The Laurel Pop Festival had been on July 11 and 12 of that year. I don't even remember that that well. I've got the days mixed up thinking I saw the Mothers of Invention on Friday instead of Saturday.
I've been on twitter for a couple weeks now. I follow a few friends and also Brent Spiner (who is very funny), Newt Gingrich and Nancy Pelosi. I figure it's good to keep a balanced viewpoint. Oh yeah, I also follow Obama news.
Up until this last election, I was never very involved in politics, but the fact that a good friend of mine was dreadfully afraid of Obama getting elected prompted me to try to dig up some facts that would support my liberal views. I knew that I favored the social democracies of Europe, in particular that of the Netherlands, mainly for their tolerant views on marijuana use and prostitution. But did I really want that for America? Of course I did.
As distasteful as prostitution is to some Americans, the unwelcome truth is that it's going to exist nevertheless, so why not legalize it and regulate it to minimize the human suffering factor? Legalizing marijuana is more straightforward. It is by far the most recreational of all illicit drugs, and keeping it illegal creates criminals of its users and keeps certain criminal elements involved in its sales. In the infamous Amsterdam (and Holland in general) marijuana is not legal per se, but its sale and use is tolerated in the "coffee houses," and so pot smokers don't have to associate with drug dealers. It's no longer a gateway drug. Who would've thought? I would go one step further and legalize all drugs and just tax and regulate them. We could put the big drug dealers out of business, and maybe all this bloodshed in Mexico would stop.
The good friend who was afraid of Obama is a libertarian, and they have a pretty good philosophy. They pretty much believe in a laissez-faire government (French for "let it alone). But they don't believe in free medicine. So I have to beg to differ. But now I'm watching a PBS special (on DVD courtesy Netflix) entitled "I.O.U.S.A." and it is stressing fiscal responsibility for government (as well as individuals). Robert Rubin, Sec. of treasury under Clinton, said that by the end of the 20th century the United States federal government had reached a crowning achievement in balancing annual budgets and creating revenue surpluses. It was a turning point for both political parties for it was Republicans and Democrats working together. Now they fight again, and our deficit is being increased dramatically by unprecedented government spending (for better or worse -- there are arguments both ways). I like Obama, but is he right? That's the big question. I'm still searching for the answer.
Sometimes I wonder if I am narcissistic. Actually, scratch the wondering part. I AM narcissistic. And I hate to admit it, but I'm getting older, AND ITS SHOWING. Dark circles under my eyes and permanent frown lines in my forehand, and I don't frown that much. Oh well, I suppose I can't stay young forever. No, nix that... I CAN stay young forever... I just won't look young forever.
I made it through three songs today until Eva Cassidy's cover of Sting’s Fields of Gold got me a little bit emotional. But that one always does it. Even Sting himself admits being moved to tears by her version, and he wrote the thing. I suppose one's authorship of a song does not preclude one from being moved by it.
The 40th anniversary of Neil Armstrong's historic moonwalk occurs on July 20 of this year. As much as I was into space stuff when I was in elementary school, I completely missed the first man on the moon event thing (I think that's the official name for it). What was I doing back then except for hanging out at Fort Scott Park with my cousin? The Laurel Pop Festival had been on July 11 and 12 of that year. I don't even remember that that well. I've got the days mixed up thinking I saw the Mothers of Invention on Friday instead of Saturday.
I've been on twitter for a couple weeks now. I follow a few friends and also Brent Spiner (who is very funny), Newt Gingrich and Nancy Pelosi. I figure it's good to keep a balanced viewpoint. Oh yeah, I also follow Obama news.
Up until this last election, I was never very involved in politics, but the fact that a good friend of mine was dreadfully afraid of Obama getting elected prompted me to try to dig up some facts that would support my liberal views. I knew that I favored the social democracies of Europe, in particular that of the Netherlands, mainly for their tolerant views on marijuana use and prostitution. But did I really want that for America? Of course I did.
As distasteful as prostitution is to some Americans, the unwelcome truth is that it's going to exist nevertheless, so why not legalize it and regulate it to minimize the human suffering factor? Legalizing marijuana is more straightforward. It is by far the most recreational of all illicit drugs, and keeping it illegal creates criminals of its users and keeps certain criminal elements involved in its sales. In the infamous Amsterdam (and Holland in general) marijuana is not legal per se, but its sale and use is tolerated in the "coffee houses," and so pot smokers don't have to associate with drug dealers. It's no longer a gateway drug. Who would've thought? I would go one step further and legalize all drugs and just tax and regulate them. We could put the big drug dealers out of business, and maybe all this bloodshed in Mexico would stop.
The good friend who was afraid of Obama is a libertarian, and they have a pretty good philosophy. They pretty much believe in a laissez-faire government (French for "let it alone). But they don't believe in free medicine. So I have to beg to differ. But now I'm watching a PBS special (on DVD courtesy Netflix) entitled "I.O.U.S.A." and it is stressing fiscal responsibility for government (as well as individuals). Robert Rubin, Sec. of treasury under Clinton, said that by the end of the 20th century the United States federal government had reached a crowning achievement in balancing annual budgets and creating revenue surpluses. It was a turning point for both political parties for it was Republicans and Democrats working together. Now they fight again, and our deficit is being increased dramatically by unprecedented government spending (for better or worse -- there are arguments both ways). I like Obama, but is he right? That's the big question. I'm still searching for the answer.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
"What Is This Salty Discharge?"
Sometimes I get very emotional to the point that I cry when I listen to sad songs (and happy songs for that matter). And I'm notorious for getting sniffly watching romantic movies. Actually it doesn't have to be romantic but just have poignant moments. But it seems lately that I haven't seen any touching scenes in any media. Until today...
I'm a Netflix member, and I end up ordering movies that by the time I get them I forget what they are about, and today was such the case when Juno arrived. It's about a 16-year-old girl who gets pregnant by one of her high school chums. She's smart, funny, sarcastic, sensitive and clever, and when the waiting room of an abortion clinic gets absolutely on her nerves she decides against terminating the fetus. What ensues is her journey through pregnancy, which turns out to have some rather emotional moments.
When I'm in my wheelchair I have to do weight shifts every half-hour, which entails tilting back until I am like an astronaut getting ready to blast off. While doing so I am supposed to stay in said position for one minute, but I get impatient, so I pause what I'm doing on the computer and put on some music (actually what I do is pull up my blog page and listen to whatever song comes up on the shuffle playlist). Today, Hank Williams’ I'm so Lonesome I Could Cry came on, and that has to be one of the saddest songs ever written, and I got all blubbery on it. Then She and Him performed Dream a Little Dream for Me, and Zooey Deschanel's beautiful voice moved me to tears. So now I am in this heightened emotional state and the least little thing really gets to me.
It's not such a bad thing to be emotional and easily moved to tears, but it can still be a problem if you can't wipe your eyes, and such is the case with me. So I try to stay away from romantic movies and poignant films unless I have a willing partner to wipe my tears. Even with a close friend I get embarrassed, and it's hard for me to ask for the tissue treatment.
I remember the Seinfeld episode where he has a girlfriend who claims he doesn't get angry and he's not in touch with his emotions. At some point he does actually get emotional and he exclaims, "What--what is this salty discharge?" That was funny.
So now I am having all this salty discharge from my eyes. Life could be worse.
I'm a Netflix member, and I end up ordering movies that by the time I get them I forget what they are about, and today was such the case when Juno arrived. It's about a 16-year-old girl who gets pregnant by one of her high school chums. She's smart, funny, sarcastic, sensitive and clever, and when the waiting room of an abortion clinic gets absolutely on her nerves she decides against terminating the fetus. What ensues is her journey through pregnancy, which turns out to have some rather emotional moments.
When I'm in my wheelchair I have to do weight shifts every half-hour, which entails tilting back until I am like an astronaut getting ready to blast off. While doing so I am supposed to stay in said position for one minute, but I get impatient, so I pause what I'm doing on the computer and put on some music (actually what I do is pull up my blog page and listen to whatever song comes up on the shuffle playlist). Today, Hank Williams’ I'm so Lonesome I Could Cry came on, and that has to be one of the saddest songs ever written, and I got all blubbery on it. Then She and Him performed Dream a Little Dream for Me, and Zooey Deschanel's beautiful voice moved me to tears. So now I am in this heightened emotional state and the least little thing really gets to me.
It's not such a bad thing to be emotional and easily moved to tears, but it can still be a problem if you can't wipe your eyes, and such is the case with me. So I try to stay away from romantic movies and poignant films unless I have a willing partner to wipe my tears. Even with a close friend I get embarrassed, and it's hard for me to ask for the tissue treatment.
I remember the Seinfeld episode where he has a girlfriend who claims he doesn't get angry and he's not in touch with his emotions. At some point he does actually get emotional and he exclaims, "What--what is this salty discharge?" That was funny.
So now I am having all this salty discharge from my eyes. Life could be worse.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Where Is the Science in Scientology?
I couldn't have been more than 20 when my cousin and my younger brother and I went for a bar hop night on Connecticut Avenue. I think I drove, and after parking somewhere above Dupont Circle, we all headed down one of the side streets in that area that would take us down to the drinking establishments.
Along the way, we were approached by another young man our age who told us to come see a movie about some new way of doing things. Little did I know that we were being up to be indoctrinated into a religious cult.
We three followed the guy to a neighborhood townhouse, and inside we all watched a 16 mm film, and I cannot remember one iota of what it was about. Afterwards I wanted to stick around and find out more, but my brother and cousin begged off so I stayed with them but not before accepting an invitation to come back the next day.
I have to admit that I was an impressionable and somewhat troubled young individual, and I was seeking answers, not unlike many others of my generation, but I wasn't completely gullible. I went back the next day as planned and I was given a small pamphlet to read -- which I did diligently -- and I remember finding some inherent flaws in its logic.
I brought it up to the fellow who seemed to be in charge, but he claimed that there was no such fault in the written material. I attempted to argue my point to no avail. The guy just wouldn't listen. Finally, I was to take a test on the stuff. Fine, we'd get to the bottom of this.
In another room a man sat behind a table in front of him was a kind of rinky-dink device consisting of a couple recycled soup cans sans labels wired to a resistance meter of sorts. I was instructed to hold a can in each hand, and I was asked if I understood what I had just read and if it made sense to me. The machine would tell if my answer was truthful or not. I answered in the affirmative and was amused when I was told that I had passed.
I was disappointed, too. I had been hoping that there was more to this thing they called Scientology. But I was totally disillusioned by that day's events.
I tell that story not so much to discredit Scientology but to illustrate how I became involved with the establishment. And now to this very day they still seek to bring me into their fold. I just opened an e-mail tonight, and a certain Darren Kennedy wants to know if I received a particular Scientology DVD... and he has my name and address.
Now I've been getting Scientology junk mail for a long time, and I was curious if it was just coincidence or if they were targeting me specifically from them knowing me back in the day. I mean how would they know if I was the same John Ivey? I guess they wouldn't, but I must say they are certainly persistent. And my address and phone number are public record -- I'm not exactly in hiding -- but that was 35 years ago. You would think they would let it be.
I do remember getting a phone call a year or so after my initial dealings with the outfit. They wooed me with a job offer and wanted me to come downtown to talk about it. I was intrigued and perhaps flattered that they remembered me, but when they wanted me to work for minimum wage I was not impressed. Now years later I wonder what people like John Travolta and Tom Cruise gets out of Scientology. To me it's just an L. Ron Hubbard religion scam.
Along the way, we were approached by another young man our age who told us to come see a movie about some new way of doing things. Little did I know that we were being up to be indoctrinated into a religious cult.
We three followed the guy to a neighborhood townhouse, and inside we all watched a 16 mm film, and I cannot remember one iota of what it was about. Afterwards I wanted to stick around and find out more, but my brother and cousin begged off so I stayed with them but not before accepting an invitation to come back the next day.
I have to admit that I was an impressionable and somewhat troubled young individual, and I was seeking answers, not unlike many others of my generation, but I wasn't completely gullible. I went back the next day as planned and I was given a small pamphlet to read -- which I did diligently -- and I remember finding some inherent flaws in its logic.
I brought it up to the fellow who seemed to be in charge, but he claimed that there was no such fault in the written material. I attempted to argue my point to no avail. The guy just wouldn't listen. Finally, I was to take a test on the stuff. Fine, we'd get to the bottom of this.
In another room a man sat behind a table in front of him was a kind of rinky-dink device consisting of a couple recycled soup cans sans labels wired to a resistance meter of sorts. I was instructed to hold a can in each hand, and I was asked if I understood what I had just read and if it made sense to me. The machine would tell if my answer was truthful or not. I answered in the affirmative and was amused when I was told that I had passed.
I was disappointed, too. I had been hoping that there was more to this thing they called Scientology. But I was totally disillusioned by that day's events.
I tell that story not so much to discredit Scientology but to illustrate how I became involved with the establishment. And now to this very day they still seek to bring me into their fold. I just opened an e-mail tonight, and a certain Darren Kennedy wants to know if I received a particular Scientology DVD... and he has my name and address.
Now I've been getting Scientology junk mail for a long time, and I was curious if it was just coincidence or if they were targeting me specifically from them knowing me back in the day. I mean how would they know if I was the same John Ivey? I guess they wouldn't, but I must say they are certainly persistent. And my address and phone number are public record -- I'm not exactly in hiding -- but that was 35 years ago. You would think they would let it be.
I do remember getting a phone call a year or so after my initial dealings with the outfit. They wooed me with a job offer and wanted me to come downtown to talk about it. I was intrigued and perhaps flattered that they remembered me, but when they wanted me to work for minimum wage I was not impressed. Now years later I wonder what people like John Travolta and Tom Cruise gets out of Scientology. To me it's just an L. Ron Hubbard religion scam.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Random News
Pres. Obama held a prime time televised press conference Tuesday night fielding some tough questions from the White House press corps. When CNN's Ed Henry asked him why he, after learning of the AIG bonuses, waited for two days to express outrage, the president, as politicians often do, sidestepped the question with some verbal banter. Henry repeated his question, and this time Obama glared noticeably and answered, "... because I like to know what I'm talking about..." Liberals defend the president while conservatives point out that he never answered the question.
I'm tough on the president and the Democrats. Any powerful political party can run amok, and one has to keep an eye on them all, for to be a politician by its very nature one has to get dirty. It's a shame that politics are like that. One is beholden to the ones who got one elected, and far too often it's big business and other large contributors that can hold sway after the election. Surprisingly, Obama was able to raise close to $500 million from donations of $200 and less, the names of which can legally be kept anonymous. There's been speculation that large contributions were made in small increments to stay under the FEC's radar.
FDR reassured the public with his "fireside chats." Barack Obama will follow in a digital vein answering queries in a Whitehouse.gov streaming Internet forum 11 AM Thursday. (I should've posted this sooner.)
The Dow Jones industrial average surged almost 500 points on Monday on news of yet another bank bailout, this one to buy out $100 billion worth of toxic assets. This puts the DJIA in its second consecutive week of gains closing today at 7700 give or take a few. It's still a far cry from the 14,000 mark from whence the Dow declined last year leaving many investors with an average 40% loss. Anyone with a 401(k) is probably feeling the sting, and it's anyone's guess how long it will take the stock market to recover -- but it will.
Statistically speaking air flight is one of the safest modes of travel, but this weekend turned tragic when three families heading for a ski resort perished when their plane crashed into a Butte, Montana home. The nature surrounding the crash is still unknown, but the pilot radioed ahead to land some 80 miles ahead of his destination. An F-22 Raptor crashed killing its single test pilot this morning 35 miles outside of Edwards Air Force Base in California. This fighter bomber is the Air Force's most expensive jet costing $150 million each.
On a personal note, I flew from Atlanta to Dulles in a small two prop airplane earlier this year. Cruising at +200 knots at 6000 feet, it took us nearly 2 1/2 hours. It was an air ambulance, and though laying nearly flat on my back, I still had a pretty good view of one of the windows. Prior to taking off, the pilot taxied to the runway and gunned the engines. The plane accelerated quickly and we were soon aloft. Landing can be the trickiest part of flying, but our pilot brought us down gradually and I barely felt the tires touch the runway.
I'm tough on the president and the Democrats. Any powerful political party can run amok, and one has to keep an eye on them all, for to be a politician by its very nature one has to get dirty. It's a shame that politics are like that. One is beholden to the ones who got one elected, and far too often it's big business and other large contributors that can hold sway after the election. Surprisingly, Obama was able to raise close to $500 million from donations of $200 and less, the names of which can legally be kept anonymous. There's been speculation that large contributions were made in small increments to stay under the FEC's radar.
FDR reassured the public with his "fireside chats." Barack Obama will follow in a digital vein answering queries in a Whitehouse.gov streaming Internet forum 11 AM Thursday. (I should've posted this sooner.)
The Dow Jones industrial average surged almost 500 points on Monday on news of yet another bank bailout, this one to buy out $100 billion worth of toxic assets. This puts the DJIA in its second consecutive week of gains closing today at 7700 give or take a few. It's still a far cry from the 14,000 mark from whence the Dow declined last year leaving many investors with an average 40% loss. Anyone with a 401(k) is probably feeling the sting, and it's anyone's guess how long it will take the stock market to recover -- but it will.
Statistically speaking air flight is one of the safest modes of travel, but this weekend turned tragic when three families heading for a ski resort perished when their plane crashed into a Butte, Montana home. The nature surrounding the crash is still unknown, but the pilot radioed ahead to land some 80 miles ahead of his destination. An F-22 Raptor crashed killing its single test pilot this morning 35 miles outside of Edwards Air Force Base in California. This fighter bomber is the Air Force's most expensive jet costing $150 million each.
On a personal note, I flew from Atlanta to Dulles in a small two prop airplane earlier this year. Cruising at +200 knots at 6000 feet, it took us nearly 2 1/2 hours. It was an air ambulance, and though laying nearly flat on my back, I still had a pretty good view of one of the windows. Prior to taking off, the pilot taxied to the runway and gunned the engines. The plane accelerated quickly and we were soon aloft. Landing can be the trickiest part of flying, but our pilot brought us down gradually and I barely felt the tires touch the runway.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Toxic Assets
Just what is a toxic asset? Did they get some assets and store them wrong and then they went bad like so much milk? Now they smell funny and threaten to contaminate the rest of the assets. Oh no, my assets turned toxic. Let me go out and bury them with my toxic waste.
To put it simply a toxic asset is basically a bank loan or security -- more specifically a mortgage-backed security (MBS)- that has gone bad. So why don't they just say that? Bad loans. They messed up. They made a bunch of loans that they shouldn't have, they went bad, and now they are in trouble.
Revisiting the AIG thing, it turns out that Sen. Dodd was under pressure from the Treasury Department to allow the loophole for AIG to hand out bonuses. Now who in the Treasury Department has the clout to do that? Could it be Timothy Geithner, Obama's treasury secretary?
Former New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer claims the AIG bonuses are negligible compared to the payouts made to their customers, or counterparties, which includes $12.9 billion to Goldman Sachs (former Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson's old company). It seems the whole $170 billion bailout was to pay off insured investment companies and banks that would've otherwise gone under. But would they have really?
Last week congress passed a bill that would tax at 90% the AIG bonuses. Cooler heads prevailed at the White House today saying such a move would have legal ramifications that would prevent it from being enforced. Meanwhile, bonuses are being returned. Apparently some people have a conscience.
Republican Sen. Judd Gregg said today that the US will be bankrupt in 10 years if Pres. Obama's economic plans are continued. This is the same senator that the president nominated to be his commerce secretary but reneged claiming unreconcilable differences with the fiscal policy. Appearing on John King's CNN show, State of the Union, Gregg spoke of the GDP and the GNP with percentages of one to the other saying that Obama spending could not be sustained. Didn't Obama himself say basically the same thing, that we have to get the deficit down? That would cut spending.
The US housing market (as measured by household net worth) dropped 9% in value last year, an estimated $11.2 trillion. That's trillion with a T. If a billion is 1000 million then a trillion is a million million. That's lots of millions of dollars. A stack of $100 bills equaling $1 trillion would be something like 1000 km high or over 600 miles. A jet airliner flies five or 6 miles high. Our stack of $100 bills would be 100 times higher than that, out in space, much farther out than even the space shuttle orbits.
Speaking of the space shuttle, Discovery is maneuvering the International Space Station into a lower orbit to avoid a piece of Chinese space debris. Part of a spent rocket, the 4 inch diameter orbital rubble would've otherwise threatened Monday's spacewalk. Today marks the midpoint of the shuttle's 13 day mission to the ISS. Let's wish them a safe return in a week.
To put it simply a toxic asset is basically a bank loan or security -- more specifically a mortgage-backed security (MBS)- that has gone bad. So why don't they just say that? Bad loans. They messed up. They made a bunch of loans that they shouldn't have, they went bad, and now they are in trouble.
Revisiting the AIG thing, it turns out that Sen. Dodd was under pressure from the Treasury Department to allow the loophole for AIG to hand out bonuses. Now who in the Treasury Department has the clout to do that? Could it be Timothy Geithner, Obama's treasury secretary?
Former New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer claims the AIG bonuses are negligible compared to the payouts made to their customers, or counterparties, which includes $12.9 billion to Goldman Sachs (former Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson's old company). It seems the whole $170 billion bailout was to pay off insured investment companies and banks that would've otherwise gone under. But would they have really?
Last week congress passed a bill that would tax at 90% the AIG bonuses. Cooler heads prevailed at the White House today saying such a move would have legal ramifications that would prevent it from being enforced. Meanwhile, bonuses are being returned. Apparently some people have a conscience.
Republican Sen. Judd Gregg said today that the US will be bankrupt in 10 years if Pres. Obama's economic plans are continued. This is the same senator that the president nominated to be his commerce secretary but reneged claiming unreconcilable differences with the fiscal policy. Appearing on John King's CNN show, State of the Union, Gregg spoke of the GDP and the GNP with percentages of one to the other saying that Obama spending could not be sustained. Didn't Obama himself say basically the same thing, that we have to get the deficit down? That would cut spending.
The US housing market (as measured by household net worth) dropped 9% in value last year, an estimated $11.2 trillion. That's trillion with a T. If a billion is 1000 million then a trillion is a million million. That's lots of millions of dollars. A stack of $100 bills equaling $1 trillion would be something like 1000 km high or over 600 miles. A jet airliner flies five or 6 miles high. Our stack of $100 bills would be 100 times higher than that, out in space, much farther out than even the space shuttle orbits.
Speaking of the space shuttle, Discovery is maneuvering the International Space Station into a lower orbit to avoid a piece of Chinese space debris. Part of a spent rocket, the 4 inch diameter orbital rubble would've otherwise threatened Monday's spacewalk. Today marks the midpoint of the shuttle's 13 day mission to the ISS. Let's wish them a safe return in a week.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Political Rant
Today I was determined to try to get to the bottom of this whole AIG bailout/bonus fiasco (or debacle as they like to call it). If one person can be singled out as responsible it would be Henry Paulson, former treasury secretary under George W. Bush. He was the one who was instrumental in the original $700 billion bailout of the banks in 2008 under the Troubled Asset Relief Program (TARP). I was always curious about that particular bailout (there's been so many now) as it seemed the president asked for it and the Congress just gave it up no questions asked. $700 billion. At least Obama proposes to have a plan. I'm somewhat dubious to tell you the truth. And I'm getting a little bit tired of him constantly taking the blame for things as he did today for the bonuses.
Getting back to Paulson, he was the one that pressured the Federal Reserve into lending (yes, it was a loan with interest) AIG its original $85 billion. That's another fishy institution, the Federal Reserve. I've never been able to really grasp how it works. Our economy is dependent on the Fed, which is not a government entity at all. Rather it's a number of large private banks in prominent cities. Alan Greenspan was head of the Fed for so many years. Now it's Bernanke. These guys yield so much power yet have no accountability.
Prior to his secretary position, Paulson headed up Goldman Sachs, a very large Wall Street investment company, and before taking government office he sold his holdings for an estimated $200 million, which was subsequently deemed tax-deferred. This led many to question his motives for joining the government. Look him up on Wikipedia. Next to Dick Cheney, this guy is a poster boy for crooked political business dealings.
There's all this public outrage about the 165 million that AIG is paying out in bonuses, but when you look at that amount compared to $170 billion they received, the bonuses only amount to 1/10 of 1%. It's like lending somebody $200 and then scolding them for buying a pack of gum. I know it's not the amount but the principle, but at some point you have to let go. Besides, it's contractual law. Bad contracts perhaps but contracts nevertheless.
I like to blast the Republicans, but the Democrats are no better. Today US Senator Christopher Dodd, Democrat of Connecticut, admitted that he allowed the loophole that allowed AIG to receive government money and still payout bonuses. Just yesterday he claimed he knew nothing about it. Current treasury secretary Timothy Geithner claims he used TurboTax to complete his income tax return while president of the New York Federal Reserve Bank. Come on now people. Don't BS us.
I don't know what I was thinking when Obama got elected. Actually, I figured he was going to solve our problems overnight, and now I'm getting antsy after he's been spending trillions of dollars and I don't see any upside. I guess you got to give it time. And I thought I was more for socialization of America -- I do believe in socialized medicine (check out Michael Moore's Sicko) -- but I want to make sure that people are taxed according to their ability. My role model government is that of the Netherlands. Classified as a Parliamentary democratic constitutional monarchy, they give up something like 50% of their income, but everyone lives a good life, and there are no poor people. But I'm trying to balance that against destroying the entrepreneurial spirit for which America is so famous. What does that make me? Roadblock, I guess...
Getting back to Paulson, he was the one that pressured the Federal Reserve into lending (yes, it was a loan with interest) AIG its original $85 billion. That's another fishy institution, the Federal Reserve. I've never been able to really grasp how it works. Our economy is dependent on the Fed, which is not a government entity at all. Rather it's a number of large private banks in prominent cities. Alan Greenspan was head of the Fed for so many years. Now it's Bernanke. These guys yield so much power yet have no accountability.
Prior to his secretary position, Paulson headed up Goldman Sachs, a very large Wall Street investment company, and before taking government office he sold his holdings for an estimated $200 million, which was subsequently deemed tax-deferred. This led many to question his motives for joining the government. Look him up on Wikipedia. Next to Dick Cheney, this guy is a poster boy for crooked political business dealings.
There's all this public outrage about the 165 million that AIG is paying out in bonuses, but when you look at that amount compared to $170 billion they received, the bonuses only amount to 1/10 of 1%. It's like lending somebody $200 and then scolding them for buying a pack of gum. I know it's not the amount but the principle, but at some point you have to let go. Besides, it's contractual law. Bad contracts perhaps but contracts nevertheless.
I like to blast the Republicans, but the Democrats are no better. Today US Senator Christopher Dodd, Democrat of Connecticut, admitted that he allowed the loophole that allowed AIG to receive government money and still payout bonuses. Just yesterday he claimed he knew nothing about it. Current treasury secretary Timothy Geithner claims he used TurboTax to complete his income tax return while president of the New York Federal Reserve Bank. Come on now people. Don't BS us.
I don't know what I was thinking when Obama got elected. Actually, I figured he was going to solve our problems overnight, and now I'm getting antsy after he's been spending trillions of dollars and I don't see any upside. I guess you got to give it time. And I thought I was more for socialization of America -- I do believe in socialized medicine (check out Michael Moore's Sicko) -- but I want to make sure that people are taxed according to their ability. My role model government is that of the Netherlands. Classified as a Parliamentary democratic constitutional monarchy, they give up something like 50% of their income, but everyone lives a good life, and there are no poor people. But I'm trying to balance that against destroying the entrepreneurial spirit for which America is so famous. What does that make me? Roadblock, I guess...
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
More Music
After Woodstock, I returned home to otherwise idyllic Arlington, otherwise meaning besides my woman problems. I had just been dumped for a ninth-grader by my first steady girlfriend. It wasn't so much that we had anything in common, it was just the overwhelming pressure of it all for my tender young teenage emotions to handle. I'd be returning to ninth grade soon enough, and I'd have to deal with seeing HER again. The humiliation I felt was horrible. But meanwhile I had my music.
Abbey Road came out in September of that year, and as always a new Beatles album proved to be an inspiration on Fox Street. That's where my cousin and I lived. I grew up there and he had lived there since I was around 10 or so. He was my original Beatles influence for when my dad would take us over to my Uncle Ralph's and Aunt Suzanne's when they lived in DC I would always hang out with my cousin John. He was older by three years and played guitar and always had the latest Beatles album. So when he moved in across us on Fox Street it was like being able to visit Santa Claus whenever I wanted.
John's favorite Beatle was John, while mine was Paul, and a psychiatrist would probably be able to tell you reams about us armed with that fact, but perhaps it was just because I was the mild-mannered boy while John was the wild one. When Abbey Road came out we would all listen to it in my parents living room as I had the best stereo thanks to my dad. All meaning me, John and his girlfriend Chris. It was safe to say that on any given day that previous summer we would all be hanging out listening to something or another.
The Laurel Pop Festival exposed me to Frank Zappa's music as played by The Mothers of Invention. After hearing them that year, I searched the Hecht Company's record bins for their music but only found one album. It was called "Uncle Meat," and it was a combination of music some quite strange and other rather intriguing. All in all, it took me a while for it to grow on me, but in the meantime I acquired some of his earlier stuff such as "Freak Out," "Absolutely Free" and "We're Only in It for the Money." I could be contradicted on this, but I think it's safe to say one of the greatest songs of his earlier stuff was his seven at half minute opus "Brown Shoes Don't Make It."
It wasn't so much a song as it was a compilation or suite if you will of numerous very short little pieces. I remember Chris was fond of quoting the line, "... only 13 and she knows how to nasty." It was full of sexual innuendos as well as more blatant sexual commentary, but it had a deeper meaning besides being fun to listen to as a young teenager, though I didn't know it at the time. It cut at the fabric of American suburban life and city politics with satirical lyrics that run a gamut of social situations. You got to hear it.
After the school year started, my best friend David Keninitz and I followed Frank Zappa's music closely, and we were quite taken with his first true jazz album "Hot Rats." It features Captain Beefheart (longtime friend of Zappa) on vocals and Jean-Luc Ponty on electric violin on the track "Willie the Pimp." There's some nice saxophone -- if you like the squeaky kind -- on "The Gumbo Variations," but his most well-known piece is the opening track "Peaches En Regalia." To put you in the timeframe, I had it on eight track.
One of the great things about Frank Zappa's music is that it is very progressive especially in the case of time signatures. I learned more about figuring out the particular beat of a song by listening to his stuff than from any other composer. He uses components of three-time and two-time together to form say for instance what Paul Desmond did with "Take Five" as performed by the Dave Brubeck Quartet. That particular piece is in 5/4 time. Zappa does that and more with such time signatures as 7/4 and 11/4 as well as using conventional time signatures.
More than any other "rock" composer, if you can call him that, Zappa writes (or should say wrote) in 3/4 or triple time, my favorite time signature. There's something about three-time that makes a song sound unique, a cut above your mundane 2/4 (the majority of rock songs are written in this). For those of you who are not musically inclined, three-time is what a waltz is in. Two-time and four-time are what everything else is with some exceptions. The Beatles were very clever when it came to writing songs with interesting time signatures. In fact, "All You Need Is Love" is deceptively complex in that it is written in 7/4 time.
Well boys and girls it's time for me to get some sleep. But first I'm going to try to finish watching the movie I fell asleep on last night: Angelina Jolie and Morgan Freeman in "Wanted." I knew I was going to like this movie when it warned of "Strong bloody violence throughout..."
PS I just happened to glance over one of my previous posts, 17,500 mph, and I saw in horror a terrible typo. If you say it instead of typing it is it still a typo? Anyway, such is the dangers of voice-recognition: if the mic is on when you think it's off and you say something and don't carefully proofread your material, you might end up with something as crazy as "mad Money's Jim Cramer" in your text. A word to the wise...
Abbey Road came out in September of that year, and as always a new Beatles album proved to be an inspiration on Fox Street. That's where my cousin and I lived. I grew up there and he had lived there since I was around 10 or so. He was my original Beatles influence for when my dad would take us over to my Uncle Ralph's and Aunt Suzanne's when they lived in DC I would always hang out with my cousin John. He was older by three years and played guitar and always had the latest Beatles album. So when he moved in across us on Fox Street it was like being able to visit Santa Claus whenever I wanted.
John's favorite Beatle was John, while mine was Paul, and a psychiatrist would probably be able to tell you reams about us armed with that fact, but perhaps it was just because I was the mild-mannered boy while John was the wild one. When Abbey Road came out we would all listen to it in my parents living room as I had the best stereo thanks to my dad. All meaning me, John and his girlfriend Chris. It was safe to say that on any given day that previous summer we would all be hanging out listening to something or another.
The Laurel Pop Festival exposed me to Frank Zappa's music as played by The Mothers of Invention. After hearing them that year, I searched the Hecht Company's record bins for their music but only found one album. It was called "Uncle Meat," and it was a combination of music some quite strange and other rather intriguing. All in all, it took me a while for it to grow on me, but in the meantime I acquired some of his earlier stuff such as "Freak Out," "Absolutely Free" and "We're Only in It for the Money." I could be contradicted on this, but I think it's safe to say one of the greatest songs of his earlier stuff was his seven at half minute opus "Brown Shoes Don't Make It."
It wasn't so much a song as it was a compilation or suite if you will of numerous very short little pieces. I remember Chris was fond of quoting the line, "... only 13 and she knows how to nasty." It was full of sexual innuendos as well as more blatant sexual commentary, but it had a deeper meaning besides being fun to listen to as a young teenager, though I didn't know it at the time. It cut at the fabric of American suburban life and city politics with satirical lyrics that run a gamut of social situations. You got to hear it.
After the school year started, my best friend David Keninitz and I followed Frank Zappa's music closely, and we were quite taken with his first true jazz album "Hot Rats." It features Captain Beefheart (longtime friend of Zappa) on vocals and Jean-Luc Ponty on electric violin on the track "Willie the Pimp." There's some nice saxophone -- if you like the squeaky kind -- on "The Gumbo Variations," but his most well-known piece is the opening track "Peaches En Regalia." To put you in the timeframe, I had it on eight track.
One of the great things about Frank Zappa's music is that it is very progressive especially in the case of time signatures. I learned more about figuring out the particular beat of a song by listening to his stuff than from any other composer. He uses components of three-time and two-time together to form say for instance what Paul Desmond did with "Take Five" as performed by the Dave Brubeck Quartet. That particular piece is in 5/4 time. Zappa does that and more with such time signatures as 7/4 and 11/4 as well as using conventional time signatures.
More than any other "rock" composer, if you can call him that, Zappa writes (or should say wrote) in 3/4 or triple time, my favorite time signature. There's something about three-time that makes a song sound unique, a cut above your mundane 2/4 (the majority of rock songs are written in this). For those of you who are not musically inclined, three-time is what a waltz is in. Two-time and four-time are what everything else is with some exceptions. The Beatles were very clever when it came to writing songs with interesting time signatures. In fact, "All You Need Is Love" is deceptively complex in that it is written in 7/4 time.
Well boys and girls it's time for me to get some sleep. But first I'm going to try to finish watching the movie I fell asleep on last night: Angelina Jolie and Morgan Freeman in "Wanted." I knew I was going to like this movie when it warned of "Strong bloody violence throughout..."
PS I just happened to glance over one of my previous posts, 17,500 mph, and I saw in horror a terrible typo. If you say it instead of typing it is it still a typo? Anyway, such is the dangers of voice-recognition: if the mic is on when you think it's off and you say something and don't carefully proofread your material, you might end up with something as crazy as "mad Money's Jim Cramer" in your text. A word to the wise...
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Things Can Only Get Better
Have you ever heard a song out of the blue that you hadn't heard in years but always liked even though you didn't know the name of the song or who did it? That's the way it was with me when I recently re-heard the 1985 Howard Jones hit, "Things Can Only Get Better." Subsequently, I had it running through my head to the point where I had to download it from iTunes (Napster didn't have it). So for you my reading public I give you the YouTube rendition.
So maybe now you are listening to it, or maybe not. I don't suppose it's really important. But I would like to put in a plug for Trisha too for whom I am indebted for her 98 song playlist that I listen to on a regular basis. Here is the link for her blog. easily amused... hard to offend I urge you to check it out for her clever posts and great taste in music.
Here's something new: I've been urged by a friend in the literary field to write my memoirs. I had that idea years ago, but it floundered just like my blog is today. What would I write about? The days up at the Grant Memorial with my dad when I was a preschooler where he took photographs of school groups? And our days with my mom out on the boat? That would be a start. Those were some wonderful times.
What about working for my uncle at White House Sightseeing? He had a class souvenir counter that I worked behind, and I would peak glimpses down women's blouses as they bent over to look at the display pieces. I was only nine or 10, but my interest in the opposite sex was firmly rooted.
It may be genetic -- I'm guessing it is -- as my dad was a notorious womanizer, much to my mother's dismay, but whatever it is women surely turn my head. I'm not one to treat women as sex objects, but I do have sex on the brain sometimes. Maybe it's hormones. I'm sure that's the case when I was 12 at Expo 67.
My dad had driven us all that summer to Niagara Falls where we crossed over to the Canada side. That was my first foray into a foreign land, and I was excited at the prospect of seeing the Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum. As you enter the place, this was the way it was back then anyway, you see this giant faucet in the air with water coming out of it with no apparent means of support. I mean this thing was 15 feet in the air and 6 feet long. It just hung there in midair with a steady stream of agua coming down. That took a little figuring out of how it was done. The only other thing I can remember from there was their collection of shrunken heads.
But getting back to my overpowering desires for the feminine form as they manifested themselves that fateful year, there we were in Montréal, Québec at what would otherwise be known as a world's fair. There were lots of exhibits, lots of lines, and lots and lots of young women. I would take advantage of the lines to place myself strategically behind some buxom young lass, and accidentally bump into her with my hand. Yes, I was grabbing ass at 12 years old.
I got some interesting looks, and some angry glares, as women removed my digits from their derrière. I was having a grand old time. It was like an addiction, but there didn't seem a downside. Somehow I went from being a crazed little kid to super shy. I started seventh grade in junior high that year, and part of the social concern was dating, and I turned morbidly afraid of the opposed gender.
My first date: Sid Jenkins wanted to take out Cindy Crabtree, and so my being his best friend, I was set up with Betty Hinz. We met the girls halfway at the intersection of Glebe and Ridge Roads where Mount Vernon Avenue goes into Arlandria (so called, I suppose, because it was part Arlington and part Alexandria). And of all the movies, we go to see Dr. Zhivago. Did I ever get up the nerve to put my arm around her, or did I just worry about it for three hours?
I never did get lucky until I was 17. And this was, according to my father, during a period in history when women were "giving it away."
So what do you think? Do I have a future in the memoir business?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
17,500 mph
I just watched the Discovery embark on its 36th mission. It was like watching some great fire-breathing dragon go from 0-17,500 mph in four minutes, a cosmic dragster hurtling toward space. When those three main engines start up they generate a thrust of over 6,000,000 pounds, a net 1,500,000 pounds over the enormous weight of the shuttle and its accompanying two solid rocket boosters and external fuel tank. By comparison, it would take 600 jet airliner engines to produce the same amount of thrust.
In elementary school, we were in the heat of the space race. There were always articles in our weekly reader that had something to do with space or space travel. I remember such mundane facts such as the mass of the moon is one sixth that of Earth so that we would only weigh one sixth of what we weigh on earth. However, we would still have the same mass thus the same inertia. (Actually, this last little tidbit of knowledge came later in my reading, probably from one of Robert Heinlein's science fiction novels. I can easily say that I learned a large amount of what I know about physics from science fiction, not to say that I'm a rocket scientist.)
The escape velocity of Earth is 25,000 mph or 7 miles per second. My dad used to drive us to have dinner in Waldorf, Maryland back then. I used to look out the window up at the stars, gaze at the Milky Way and used to think that if we were moving at 7 mi./sec. we could make it home in 5 seconds, and that was a 35 mile trip... but it always took us the better part of an hour. Somewhere in my database was the fact that the Milky Way was what we saw of our galaxy from Earth and the stars just distant suns like our own. Of course, now I know that very few stars are suns are like our own, but rather any number of star types such as white dwarfs or red giants.
Getting back to the space shuttle, one would expect to feel the force of three gravities during liftoff. This is the same amount of g-forces that a funny car produces at maximum acceleration. When we're on a roller coaster we feel negative g-forces as we go down a slope and positive g-forces as we climb one. The earlier Apollo-era Saturn 5 rockets produced something like six g.'s during liftoff. That would be like going from 0 to 100 mph in less than a second, enough to make you pass out if you weren't in top shape.
If we held out long enough on our Apollo trip, we would be rewarded with the near zero gravity of Earth orbit, or punished depending on your fortitude for the sensation of falling. Zero gravity is what we feel as we fall, as if we went straight down on our roller coaster ride. It tends to take your stomach away and its contents with it, or at least it does me. NASA has through its history used any number of aircraft that performed a kind of aerial roller coaster ride so that its occupants experienced zero gravity. These aircraft have unofficially been known as "vomit comets" due to their unpleasant side effects.
Getting back to this evening's launch, I watched with anticipation and morbid dread as Discovery approached one minute and 13 seconds into launch as that was the amount of time into Challenger's flight when it exploded in 1985. It's not well known that the crew did not perish in the explosion, but rather died from impact when the spacecraft slammed into the sea after falling for so many miles. I happened to mention that to someone in casual conversation and then they asked me how I knew that. I replied that it was from a History Channel piece. The reason the person wanted to know was because they worked for NASA, and it was not considered common knowledge. Sometimes I think about what they felt as they fell to their deaths. They no doubt knew that they were going to die. And as the shuttle program nears its end over 20 years after, if the same thing happened again, the outcome would be the same. There are no escape hatches or parachutes.
But such is the cost of space exploration (and space exploitation). Without human sacrifice where would any of us be? It's truly amazing to me that not more lives have been lost in the space program, and more than one NASA employee has told me that it amazes them every time a shuttle successfully launches, there are so many things that can go wrong. Now satellites are banging into each other there so many of them, and next we will have to be renting out space in outer space or at least allocating it. And so I wonder will we ever go back to the moon and perhaps start a colony, or is next stop Mars and beyond? I hope both.
In elementary school, we were in the heat of the space race. There were always articles in our weekly reader that had something to do with space or space travel. I remember such mundane facts such as the mass of the moon is one sixth that of Earth so that we would only weigh one sixth of what we weigh on earth. However, we would still have the same mass thus the same inertia. (Actually, this last little tidbit of knowledge came later in my reading, probably from one of Robert Heinlein's science fiction novels. I can easily say that I learned a large amount of what I know about physics from science fiction, not to say that I'm a rocket scientist.)
The escape velocity of Earth is 25,000 mph or 7 miles per second. My dad used to drive us to have dinner in Waldorf, Maryland back then. I used to look out the window up at the stars, gaze at the Milky Way and used to think that if we were moving at 7 mi./sec. we could make it home in 5 seconds, and that was a 35 mile trip... but it always took us the better part of an hour. Somewhere in my database was the fact that the Milky Way was what we saw of our galaxy from Earth and the stars just distant suns like our own. Of course, now I know that very few stars are suns are like our own, but rather any number of star types such as white dwarfs or red giants.
Getting back to the space shuttle, one would expect to feel the force of three gravities during liftoff. This is the same amount of g-forces that a funny car produces at maximum acceleration. When we're on a roller coaster we feel negative g-forces as we go down a slope and positive g-forces as we climb one. The earlier Apollo-era Saturn 5 rockets produced something like six g.'s during liftoff. That would be like going from 0 to 100 mph in less than a second, enough to make you pass out if you weren't in top shape.
If we held out long enough on our Apollo trip, we would be rewarded with the near zero gravity of Earth orbit, or punished depending on your fortitude for the sensation of falling. Zero gravity is what we feel as we fall, as if we went straight down on our roller coaster ride. It tends to take your stomach away and its contents with it, or at least it does me. NASA has through its history used any number of aircraft that performed a kind of aerial roller coaster ride so that its occupants experienced zero gravity. These aircraft have unofficially been known as "vomit comets" due to their unpleasant side effects.
Getting back to this evening's launch, I watched with anticipation and morbid dread as Discovery approached one minute and 13 seconds into launch as that was the amount of time into Challenger's flight when it exploded in 1985. It's not well known that the crew did not perish in the explosion, but rather died from impact when the spacecraft slammed into the sea after falling for so many miles. I happened to mention that to someone in casual conversation and then they asked me how I knew that. I replied that it was from a History Channel piece. The reason the person wanted to know was because they worked for NASA, and it was not considered common knowledge. Sometimes I think about what they felt as they fell to their deaths. They no doubt knew that they were going to die. And as the shuttle program nears its end over 20 years after, if the same thing happened again, the outcome would be the same. There are no escape hatches or parachutes.
But such is the cost of space exploration (and space exploitation). Without human sacrifice where would any of us be? It's truly amazing to me that not more lives have been lost in the space program, and more than one NASA employee has told me that it amazes them every time a shuttle successfully launches, there are so many things that can go wrong. Now satellites are banging into each other there so many of them, and next we will have to be renting out space in outer space or at least allocating it. And so I wonder will we ever go back to the moon and perhaps start a colony, or is next stop Mars and beyond? I hope both.
Music
When did early man first bang a stick against a rock in an aesthetically pleasing manner? Or did he just tap his foot to some imaginary beat? Whatever the case, music has been a very big part of my life.
My earliest memories are of listening to my mother's kitchen radio in the morning before elementary school, most notably the 1966 Statler Brothers hit "Counting Flowers on the Wall." But of course by then The Beatles had made their US debut on Ed Sullivan in 1964. I missed it, probably because The Ed Sullivan Show came on Channel 9, and due to poor reception we only got Channel 4 and 5. That next morning, though, all the girls were buzzing about The Beatles in my third grade class, so the next time my parents were shopping at the Hecht Company -- they had a good record department -- I got my dad to buy me my first Beatles album, "Meet The Beatles."
That night, I listened to it on my mom's old record player while I followed along the liner notes. I was so dismayed to see that Ringo only had one song I actually cried for him. I was such a sensitive young lad.
In 1966, I was working the summer at my aunt and uncles sightseeing company, which was across the street from the Hecht Company, so when I heard The Beatles were going to be playing Washington, I used some of my pay to buy two tickets to see them without worrying how I was going to get there or even if I was going to be allowed to go. I was only 11, mind you.
I guess my father thought it would be okay, so when the date came my cousin Charlie drove my younger brother and I to the Washington National Guard Armory where we walked across the street to DC Stadium and took our seats in the stands. The Beatles performed on a stage out on the field, and they were too far away to be recognizable as was the music. It was history being made, though little did I know it at the time.
By the age of 14, I probably had a half-dozen Beatles albums, and I'd seen Big Brother and the Holding Company, The Jeff Beck Group, Vanilla Fudge and The Steve Miller Group at the Alexandria Rolling Rink. That summer between eighth and ninth grades I worked yet another summer for my aunt and uncle, and I went to a two night concert at Laurel Raceway called The Laurel Pop Festival. The performers were a veritable who's who in rock and blues, and I can't remember hardly any of it except for seeing The Mothers of Invention, who spurred an interest in me.
The most memorable moment of those two nights was after the first show, which was on Friday night. I somehow got disoriented and didn't find my way back to where my parents were going to pick me up. At some point I realized that I was stuck for a ride home, and Laurel is a pretty good ways from Arlington, so I was a bit worried. As the crowd thinned I realized drastic action was needed. I kept wanting to ask someone for a ride, but I was much too shy.
Finally, there were only a few people left, so I summoned up my courage and asked a group of people who were getting into a van if they were going to Washington. They said they were either going to Washington or Baltimore. I figured 50% chance of getting home was better than none, so I piled in with them. I think I fell asleep, for I remember waking up and asking where we were. It was Baltimore, so I asked them to drop me at the bus station.
I had some cash with me from my job -- that was a blessing -- and I was not unfamiliar with the busing system, back then there was Greyhound and Trailways, so I bought a ticket to DC and got my first commercial bus ride (not counting the many trips I took on my uncle's sightseeing buses). By the time I got to Washington it was daylight, and I walked the six blocks down to 12 and Penn and caught a city bus back to Arlington. It was 6 AM or so when I got back home. My parents hadn't awakened yet, so I went to bed and got some much needed sleep. If that wasn't an adventure, what was coming up would surely fit the bill, for I had tickets to a three-day event of live music to be held in upstate New York.
There is so much I could write about going to Woodstock, and so much I have already written, that I want to strive for brevity here. Suffice it to say, my cousin and I had to walk something like 10 miles from where the bus left us off before we got to Woodstock, and then if that were not enough I got rained on as I slept that night. The next morning was freezing, and I remember watching the steam come off of my clothing as I stood by a communal campfire. That afternoon was ungodly hot, and there wasn't enough food, and I can't remember what we drank. Watching the music seemed to take a backseat to surviving. And then as if to add insult to injury I missed seeing Jimi Hendrix. If there was one person I would've wished to have seen, it would have been him. I would've given up seeing everyone else to have seen him.
It sure was fine getting back home. I'd been looking forward to indoor plumbing and my soft bed. The next weekend my dad took us all to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina where I was threatened by some redneck kids that they would kick my ass if I didn't cut my hair. It wasn't the first time. "Teenage Wasteland" had just come out by The Who. I remember hearing it on the radio. And then it was back to school.
Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix died when I was 15. Then The Beatles broke up. It seemed as if the end of an era was upon us rock 'n rollers. What was next?
Next: classical music snobbery, Frank Zappa and beyond
My earliest memories are of listening to my mother's kitchen radio in the morning before elementary school, most notably the 1966 Statler Brothers hit "Counting Flowers on the Wall." But of course by then The Beatles had made their US debut on Ed Sullivan in 1964. I missed it, probably because The Ed Sullivan Show came on Channel 9, and due to poor reception we only got Channel 4 and 5. That next morning, though, all the girls were buzzing about The Beatles in my third grade class, so the next time my parents were shopping at the Hecht Company -- they had a good record department -- I got my dad to buy me my first Beatles album, "Meet The Beatles."
That night, I listened to it on my mom's old record player while I followed along the liner notes. I was so dismayed to see that Ringo only had one song I actually cried for him. I was such a sensitive young lad.
In 1966, I was working the summer at my aunt and uncles sightseeing company, which was across the street from the Hecht Company, so when I heard The Beatles were going to be playing Washington, I used some of my pay to buy two tickets to see them without worrying how I was going to get there or even if I was going to be allowed to go. I was only 11, mind you.
I guess my father thought it would be okay, so when the date came my cousin Charlie drove my younger brother and I to the Washington National Guard Armory where we walked across the street to DC Stadium and took our seats in the stands. The Beatles performed on a stage out on the field, and they were too far away to be recognizable as was the music. It was history being made, though little did I know it at the time.
By the age of 14, I probably had a half-dozen Beatles albums, and I'd seen Big Brother and the Holding Company, The Jeff Beck Group, Vanilla Fudge and The Steve Miller Group at the Alexandria Rolling Rink. That summer between eighth and ninth grades I worked yet another summer for my aunt and uncle, and I went to a two night concert at Laurel Raceway called The Laurel Pop Festival. The performers were a veritable who's who in rock and blues, and I can't remember hardly any of it except for seeing The Mothers of Invention, who spurred an interest in me.
The most memorable moment of those two nights was after the first show, which was on Friday night. I somehow got disoriented and didn't find my way back to where my parents were going to pick me up. At some point I realized that I was stuck for a ride home, and Laurel is a pretty good ways from Arlington, so I was a bit worried. As the crowd thinned I realized drastic action was needed. I kept wanting to ask someone for a ride, but I was much too shy.
Finally, there were only a few people left, so I summoned up my courage and asked a group of people who were getting into a van if they were going to Washington. They said they were either going to Washington or Baltimore. I figured 50% chance of getting home was better than none, so I piled in with them. I think I fell asleep, for I remember waking up and asking where we were. It was Baltimore, so I asked them to drop me at the bus station.
I had some cash with me from my job -- that was a blessing -- and I was not unfamiliar with the busing system, back then there was Greyhound and Trailways, so I bought a ticket to DC and got my first commercial bus ride (not counting the many trips I took on my uncle's sightseeing buses). By the time I got to Washington it was daylight, and I walked the six blocks down to 12 and Penn and caught a city bus back to Arlington. It was 6 AM or so when I got back home. My parents hadn't awakened yet, so I went to bed and got some much needed sleep. If that wasn't an adventure, what was coming up would surely fit the bill, for I had tickets to a three-day event of live music to be held in upstate New York.
There is so much I could write about going to Woodstock, and so much I have already written, that I want to strive for brevity here. Suffice it to say, my cousin and I had to walk something like 10 miles from where the bus left us off before we got to Woodstock, and then if that were not enough I got rained on as I slept that night. The next morning was freezing, and I remember watching the steam come off of my clothing as I stood by a communal campfire. That afternoon was ungodly hot, and there wasn't enough food, and I can't remember what we drank. Watching the music seemed to take a backseat to surviving. And then as if to add insult to injury I missed seeing Jimi Hendrix. If there was one person I would've wished to have seen, it would have been him. I would've given up seeing everyone else to have seen him.
It sure was fine getting back home. I'd been looking forward to indoor plumbing and my soft bed. The next weekend my dad took us all to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina where I was threatened by some redneck kids that they would kick my ass if I didn't cut my hair. It wasn't the first time. "Teenage Wasteland" had just come out by The Who. I remember hearing it on the radio. And then it was back to school.
Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix died when I was 15. Then The Beatles broke up. It seemed as if the end of an era was upon us rock 'n rollers. What was next?
Next: classical music snobbery, Frank Zappa and beyond
Friday, March 13, 2009
Cats
When I was nine or thereabouts, my parents got my brother and I a pair of sister and brother kittens. One was spotted black and white and the other solid gray, and I named them Inky and Pinky. I don't remember Inky being that memorable, but Pinky was eyed by a neighbor hanging from a tree by one paw "... just like a monkey."
I don't remember offhand just how Inky met her demise, but poor Pinky showed up one morning on our back porch with his head halfway caved in. My mom blamed it on one of the Roop boys who lived down the street. She said they hated cats, but I don't know. It was sad about Pinky, though. He had to be put to sleep.
Now that I think of it, it may have been Inky that was messing all over the place, and that my parents took her out to the country and dropped her off. Looking back on it, Pinky may have ended up the luckier of the two. God knows how a house cat could survive in the wild. She probably met some horribly bad fate. But I try not to think about it.
After that, my sister had any number (and still counting) of cats. I remember Shnookums best of all. She was always pregnant except for when she was nursing her young. It was a constant cycle. It was around about that time that I had turned my parents basement into my own private hippie pad, and as we used to sit around listening to music and smoking ganja, a pregnant Shnookums would jump in one of our laps and purr for about 10 or 15 minutes until moving onto the next.
One morning I was walking out the basement door, and there was a bag full of trash and on top was a baby kitten. Oh, how cute, I thought, and I reached out to pet it, but it was cold, and I suddenly realized it was dead. It was my first close-up look at something deceased, and it chilled my bones.
After Shnookums, there was Spot, an all gray cat like Pinky, who I remember best coming home after work to my mom's place and playing with him as he sat on top of a window-mounted air conditioner. He would hide behind the curtain, and I would smack at him and he would swat back. After a few minutes, I would sneak around to the other side and surprise him, which is slightly indicative of my devilish nature, but he didn't seemed to mind.
Then I would chase him up the stairs but stop short at the head. We would smack at each other back and forth, and then I would wait for a few minutes letting him think I was gone. And when he would poke his head around to look for me I would surprise me him
He had been declawed, so he never scratched me, but over the months he worked up a hell of a right hook and left jab. I moved out and then sometime later my sister moved out along with Spot, and then her boyfriend and future husband, Bob, took over my job as boxing coach.
I moved in with my long-time friend, Sid, who had recently rented an apartment. And now I'm remembering that maybe it was one of Shnookums's litters from which I picked my next cat, Blue. (I'll have to check with my sister on that. I'm probably getting my timeline wrong.) But anyway, Blue, whom I named after my father whose nickname was "Chantilly Willie Blue" for his blue eyes (coined by Julian Himmelfarb, a family friend), grew up from a kitten in an apartment that had any number of guys and girls in and out all hours of the day. It was the 70s, and we were pretty liberal in our lifestyle.
My girlfriend moved in at some point, and Sid moved out, and we finished raising Blue, Mary and I, and I remember he would play with the couple's puppy from next-door. We eventually had to get another apartment as the one we were in went condo, and the one we moved into had a no-pets policy, and as best as we did to hide him, management found out, and I had to find him another home.
I ended up giving Blue to one of my cousins, and he went wild after that never to be the same. Rather he roamed the neighborhood, which was back where my mother lived, and every so often he would come around, and we would coax him indoors, but he never did recognize me after that.
He was the coolest cat I ever did have. Mary and I took him driving with us when he was still small, and he would get underneath the brake pedal, and I was always afraid that I was going to have to stop suddenly and end up crushing him, but we always were able to get him out in time. Later on, after he got older, he used to get up in the back window and cruise along with us, but I might be mixing him up with Spot. As I get older my memories tend to fade into one another.
I do remember vividly one day Mary and I were visiting some neighbors who lived in a second-floor apartment, and we had Blue out on the balcony, and my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when he jumped up on the railing, which couldn't have been much more than a half an inch wide. It didn't seem to perturb him that he was 20 feet off the ground, but I was having a nervous breakdown. I dared not try to grab him for fear that he fall. I could only wait till he jumped down on his own accord, which he did after a few minutes.
I now have a big black cat named Baby who has to be 10 years old at least. I got him as a kitten from the Arlington Animal Shelter not long after I moved in to this condo, which was in October of 1997. He may even be 11. Time does fly. He's got a streak of wildness in him as he probably didn't get as much human interaction as a normal kitten might do to my inability to pick him up and pet him. His moments of affection seemed to come and go. And of course he is most affectionate to those who feed them.
I still feel guilty about having to give Blue up and his subsequent lapse into rebellion against human-kind. I take it personally that he was angry at being abandoned. Maybe he was happier living in the wild. I hope so. He chose it over living with my cousin. Maybe that was a statement in itself. Who knows what goes on in the minds of our pets, especially cats. I certainly like the little critters, though.
I don't remember offhand just how Inky met her demise, but poor Pinky showed up one morning on our back porch with his head halfway caved in. My mom blamed it on one of the Roop boys who lived down the street. She said they hated cats, but I don't know. It was sad about Pinky, though. He had to be put to sleep.
Now that I think of it, it may have been Inky that was messing all over the place, and that my parents took her out to the country and dropped her off. Looking back on it, Pinky may have ended up the luckier of the two. God knows how a house cat could survive in the wild. She probably met some horribly bad fate. But I try not to think about it.
After that, my sister had any number (and still counting) of cats. I remember Shnookums best of all. She was always pregnant except for when she was nursing her young. It was a constant cycle. It was around about that time that I had turned my parents basement into my own private hippie pad, and as we used to sit around listening to music and smoking ganja, a pregnant Shnookums would jump in one of our laps and purr for about 10 or 15 minutes until moving onto the next.
One morning I was walking out the basement door, and there was a bag full of trash and on top was a baby kitten. Oh, how cute, I thought, and I reached out to pet it, but it was cold, and I suddenly realized it was dead. It was my first close-up look at something deceased, and it chilled my bones.
After Shnookums, there was Spot, an all gray cat like Pinky, who I remember best coming home after work to my mom's place and playing with him as he sat on top of a window-mounted air conditioner. He would hide behind the curtain, and I would smack at him and he would swat back. After a few minutes, I would sneak around to the other side and surprise him, which is slightly indicative of my devilish nature, but he didn't seemed to mind.
Then I would chase him up the stairs but stop short at the head. We would smack at each other back and forth, and then I would wait for a few minutes letting him think I was gone. And when he would poke his head around to look for me I would surprise me him
He had been declawed, so he never scratched me, but over the months he worked up a hell of a right hook and left jab. I moved out and then sometime later my sister moved out along with Spot, and then her boyfriend and future husband, Bob, took over my job as boxing coach.
I moved in with my long-time friend, Sid, who had recently rented an apartment. And now I'm remembering that maybe it was one of Shnookums's litters from which I picked my next cat, Blue. (I'll have to check with my sister on that. I'm probably getting my timeline wrong.) But anyway, Blue, whom I named after my father whose nickname was "Chantilly Willie Blue" for his blue eyes (coined by Julian Himmelfarb, a family friend), grew up from a kitten in an apartment that had any number of guys and girls in and out all hours of the day. It was the 70s, and we were pretty liberal in our lifestyle.
My girlfriend moved in at some point, and Sid moved out, and we finished raising Blue, Mary and I, and I remember he would play with the couple's puppy from next-door. We eventually had to get another apartment as the one we were in went condo, and the one we moved into had a no-pets policy, and as best as we did to hide him, management found out, and I had to find him another home.
I ended up giving Blue to one of my cousins, and he went wild after that never to be the same. Rather he roamed the neighborhood, which was back where my mother lived, and every so often he would come around, and we would coax him indoors, but he never did recognize me after that.
He was the coolest cat I ever did have. Mary and I took him driving with us when he was still small, and he would get underneath the brake pedal, and I was always afraid that I was going to have to stop suddenly and end up crushing him, but we always were able to get him out in time. Later on, after he got older, he used to get up in the back window and cruise along with us, but I might be mixing him up with Spot. As I get older my memories tend to fade into one another.
I do remember vividly one day Mary and I were visiting some neighbors who lived in a second-floor apartment, and we had Blue out on the balcony, and my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when he jumped up on the railing, which couldn't have been much more than a half an inch wide. It didn't seem to perturb him that he was 20 feet off the ground, but I was having a nervous breakdown. I dared not try to grab him for fear that he fall. I could only wait till he jumped down on his own accord, which he did after a few minutes.
I now have a big black cat named Baby who has to be 10 years old at least. I got him as a kitten from the Arlington Animal Shelter not long after I moved in to this condo, which was in October of 1997. He may even be 11. Time does fly. He's got a streak of wildness in him as he probably didn't get as much human interaction as a normal kitten might do to my inability to pick him up and pet him. His moments of affection seemed to come and go. And of course he is most affectionate to those who feed them.
I still feel guilty about having to give Blue up and his subsequent lapse into rebellion against human-kind. I take it personally that he was angry at being abandoned. Maybe he was happier living in the wild. I hope so. He chose it over living with my cousin. Maybe that was a statement in itself. Who knows what goes on in the minds of our pets, especially cats. I certainly like the little critters, though.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Movie review, as promised
For once I'm going to write about what I promised to in the last post, which is a review of movies, the first of which is "Pride and Glory." It promises to deliver with such star power as Edward Norton, Colin Farrell and the great Jon Voight of "Midnight Cowboy" fame. Norton and Voight are good, but Farrell is somewhat of a letdown. All in all, though, it's a pretty good cop movie.
Next in line is "Zack and Miri Make a Porno." Though directed by Kevin Smith, who did what I thought was a memorable film, "Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back," it doesn't have the same charm. I wouldn't recommend it except for the rare few that like of bathroom humor and little else.
"Volver" (pronounced vol-VARE) I rented not realizing that it was a foreign film with subtitles. Had I known, I would've probably opted not to watch it, but I had just seen Woody Allen's "Vicky Cristina Barcelona" (more on that later), and I was primed for more of the Spanish experience. Starring Penelope Cruz, who is a wonderful young Spanish actress and a delight to watch, the movie focuses on three generations of women coming together. If you like foreign films, I would definitely recommend this one.
If you're not into westerns that much, but appreciate when one is well done, "Appaloosa" is a distillation of all that's good in westerns. Ed Harris wrote (an adaptation), directed and stars in his film together with Viggo Mortensen. They play two of the best guns for hire in the old West, and true to the genre they battle it out with the bad guys. Now I don't go out of my way to see a Western, but a friend told me this one was a classic, and after viewing it I have to agree.
Switching gears to a ridiculously funny comedy, we have Ben Stiller directing himself, Robert Downey, Jr. and Jack Black in what I consider one of Stiller's best films since "There's Something about Mary." Also in notable roles are Nick Nolte, Matthew McConaughey, and Tom Cruise, but Stiller and Downey really steal the show.
Now to "Vicky Cristina Barcelona:" Being a Woody Allen fan, I was thrown little bit by the film; it's not your average Woody Allen film. And if you speak Catalan, which is the native language of Barcelona, you'll likely be disappointed with the film as it does not adhere to reality in that respect. Rather Spanish is spoken in place of Catalan. But if you can get past that indiscretion in moviemaking, what ensues is a most interesting love affair between two young American women, who are vacationing in this most beautiful city of all Spain, and a Catalonian painter who seduces them both. The acting is impeccable as is the directing.
The next four are older films and as such I will try to be brief in my descriptions. The first is Sean Connery and a very young Christian Slater (he had to be in his teens) starring in "The Name of the Rose." I was disappointed, but if you don't mind a somewhat strong religious message, the acting is well done and the story is not horribly bad.
"Wild Strawberries" was Ingmar Bergman's first major film and received critical acclaim, but unless you are a student of film and/or a big fan of foreign films, I would skip this one.
"My Cousin Vinny" stars Joe Pesci and Marissa Torme (for which he received the Oscar for best supporting actress), and if you haven't seen it, I would recommend it highly.
"Don Juan DeMarco" is an early Johnny Depp movie in which he costars with Marlon Brando in a marvelously romantic comedy. Another must-see if you haven't already seen it.
On a musical note, "Simon and Garfunkel: Old Friends" is a fairly recent release, I believe, and if you are a fan of their music, this will be a treat.
Saving perhaps the most important film on my list is "Milk" for which Sean Penn won best actor at the Academy Awards this year. If you want to see a docudrama which chronicles perhaps the most important man in gay activism, it doesn't get any better than this. I didn't realize who Harvey Milk was and how he fit into my memory of the 70s until the end of the film, and then I remembered hearing of the San Francisco mayor being slain along with a gay politician the day it happened. And if you are homophobic, get over it.
If there are any films that you would like reviewed, please feel free to drop me a note. I may have already seen them, and if not I'm always interested in new films (or old) that I haven't yet seen.
Next in line is "Zack and Miri Make a Porno." Though directed by Kevin Smith, who did what I thought was a memorable film, "Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back," it doesn't have the same charm. I wouldn't recommend it except for the rare few that like of bathroom humor and little else.
"Volver" (pronounced vol-VARE) I rented not realizing that it was a foreign film with subtitles. Had I known, I would've probably opted not to watch it, but I had just seen Woody Allen's "Vicky Cristina Barcelona" (more on that later), and I was primed for more of the Spanish experience. Starring Penelope Cruz, who is a wonderful young Spanish actress and a delight to watch, the movie focuses on three generations of women coming together. If you like foreign films, I would definitely recommend this one.
If you're not into westerns that much, but appreciate when one is well done, "Appaloosa" is a distillation of all that's good in westerns. Ed Harris wrote (an adaptation), directed and stars in his film together with Viggo Mortensen. They play two of the best guns for hire in the old West, and true to the genre they battle it out with the bad guys. Now I don't go out of my way to see a Western, but a friend told me this one was a classic, and after viewing it I have to agree.
Switching gears to a ridiculously funny comedy, we have Ben Stiller directing himself, Robert Downey, Jr. and Jack Black in what I consider one of Stiller's best films since "There's Something about Mary." Also in notable roles are Nick Nolte, Matthew McConaughey, and Tom Cruise, but Stiller and Downey really steal the show.
Now to "Vicky Cristina Barcelona:" Being a Woody Allen fan, I was thrown little bit by the film; it's not your average Woody Allen film. And if you speak Catalan, which is the native language of Barcelona, you'll likely be disappointed with the film as it does not adhere to reality in that respect. Rather Spanish is spoken in place of Catalan. But if you can get past that indiscretion in moviemaking, what ensues is a most interesting love affair between two young American women, who are vacationing in this most beautiful city of all Spain, and a Catalonian painter who seduces them both. The acting is impeccable as is the directing.
The next four are older films and as such I will try to be brief in my descriptions. The first is Sean Connery and a very young Christian Slater (he had to be in his teens) starring in "The Name of the Rose." I was disappointed, but if you don't mind a somewhat strong religious message, the acting is well done and the story is not horribly bad.
"Wild Strawberries" was Ingmar Bergman's first major film and received critical acclaim, but unless you are a student of film and/or a big fan of foreign films, I would skip this one.
"My Cousin Vinny" stars Joe Pesci and Marissa Torme (for which he received the Oscar for best supporting actress), and if you haven't seen it, I would recommend it highly.
"Don Juan DeMarco" is an early Johnny Depp movie in which he costars with Marlon Brando in a marvelously romantic comedy. Another must-see if you haven't already seen it.
On a musical note, "Simon and Garfunkel: Old Friends" is a fairly recent release, I believe, and if you are a fan of their music, this will be a treat.
Saving perhaps the most important film on my list is "Milk" for which Sean Penn won best actor at the Academy Awards this year. If you want to see a docudrama which chronicles perhaps the most important man in gay activism, it doesn't get any better than this. I didn't realize who Harvey Milk was and how he fit into my memory of the 70s until the end of the film, and then I remembered hearing of the San Francisco mayor being slain along with a gay politician the day it happened. And if you are homophobic, get over it.
If there are any films that you would like reviewed, please feel free to drop me a note. I may have already seen them, and if not I'm always interested in new films (or old) that I haven't yet seen.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Back Home... Again
Okay, so it's been three months since I wrote anything. You're probably wondering what I've been up to. I finally did get home from the Shepherd Center to home sweet home in Arlington, Virginia, only to end up in Virginia Hospital Center (VHC) on the eve of my birthday (February 20). I got back home from the hospital, again, last Wednesday.
It seems that where they did the flap surgery, it got infected and pus filled. I went septic and didn't even know where I was when I was admitted to the hospital. I was really out of it. I really didn't come out of it completely until three or four days had passed, and even then I was a little addled. But now I'm okay again and we will see how long it lasts. I'm really starting to get tired of hospitals.
I had some pleasant dreams this morning involving the opposite sex. Nothing R-rated, more like PG: but it was nice. Every so often I'll remember what I did and what happened in a dream -- I used to remember a lot more -- and more often than not they are pleasant.
I never said anything in my blog about the horrible nightmares and hallucinations I had in VHC’s ICU little over a year ago. First of all, I was convinced that there was a hospital conspiracy to kill me, and everything I saw and experienced bore that out, even to the point of news on television and History Channel shows.
I kept finding myself in positions where no matter how I answered questions, it got me in trouble. For instance, I was being arrested for something, and I kept implicating myself and even ended up in one of those "Hannibal the Cannibal" masks from "Silence of the Lambs." They kept asking me what kind of uniform I wanted to wear and with each answer I get closer and closer to the worst possible scenario. I just couldn't answer right for the life of me, and I actually ended up taking my life at one point.
Somehow, I was caged in to questioning that led to my committing suicide. And all the news channels carried it. There were interviews with rock stars, political figures, and other VIPs in which they mourned by passing. And I wasn't even dead yet.
The very worst parts of my hallucinations were when I inadvertently caused family and loved ones pain-and-suffering. I had been put through terrible tortures, some unspeakable, and the ones that rank were much worse than being buried alive with a corpse nonetheless
There was one particular computer program that was written specifically to kill people. It ran for 24 hours, and it chronicled the life of a young woman who through diligence and hard work was awarded by her employer a plane ticket to the West Coast (or some such place). It plays out with her getting on one of the airlines that is overrun by terrorists and piloted into the World Trade Center on 9/11. The really bad part is that the person experiences everything the people would have experienced on that flight, only worse. At the moment of impact, time slows down to the point where one feels the flames shooting through the cabin with plexiglass windows popping out from the extreme heat, and one's flesh burns to a crisp.
It seems as if they ran that particular program a number of times and somehow I escaped the really gory part. But to my horror, somehow the computer that ran the program could read my mind, and it put everyone I loved into one of those plane seats so that they would go through the same thing I was condemned to.
There were some other really terrible scenarios. One in which I had to witness my cat being crushed alive slowly and torturously. At first I thought it was through special effects, but then they somehow convinced me that it was real. Then I was given the choice of eating meat from the cat or biting my own tongue off. Somehow I escaped that particular form of torture, but family members and good friends were subjected to that horror.
I wouldn't have ordinarily brought all this up, but it's to illustrate a point: that I started reliving the feeling that conspiracy feeling that the nurses were out to get me, the same exact feeling I had had a year ago. I was scared. I didn't want a repeat of that horrible week or two. But luckily, I came out of it before it got too bad.
I had originally planned to review some movies, but it looks like I'll have to wait till next time. Just for your information, here is a list that I've been compiling:
· Pride and Glory
· Zack and Mira Make a Porno
· Volver
· Appaloosa
· Tropic Thunder
· Vicky Cristina Barcelona
· The Name of the Rose
· Wild Strawberries
· My Cousin Vinny
· Don Juan DeMarco
· Simon and Garfunkel: Old Friends
Some are new, others are old, but I figure it wouldn't hurt to say a word about the older ones. Some were good, others totally sucked.
It seems that where they did the flap surgery, it got infected and pus filled. I went septic and didn't even know where I was when I was admitted to the hospital. I was really out of it. I really didn't come out of it completely until three or four days had passed, and even then I was a little addled. But now I'm okay again and we will see how long it lasts. I'm really starting to get tired of hospitals.
I had some pleasant dreams this morning involving the opposite sex. Nothing R-rated, more like PG: but it was nice. Every so often I'll remember what I did and what happened in a dream -- I used to remember a lot more -- and more often than not they are pleasant.
I never said anything in my blog about the horrible nightmares and hallucinations I had in VHC’s ICU little over a year ago. First of all, I was convinced that there was a hospital conspiracy to kill me, and everything I saw and experienced bore that out, even to the point of news on television and History Channel shows.
I kept finding myself in positions where no matter how I answered questions, it got me in trouble. For instance, I was being arrested for something, and I kept implicating myself and even ended up in one of those "Hannibal the Cannibal" masks from "Silence of the Lambs." They kept asking me what kind of uniform I wanted to wear and with each answer I get closer and closer to the worst possible scenario. I just couldn't answer right for the life of me, and I actually ended up taking my life at one point.
Somehow, I was caged in to questioning that led to my committing suicide. And all the news channels carried it. There were interviews with rock stars, political figures, and other VIPs in which they mourned by passing. And I wasn't even dead yet.
The very worst parts of my hallucinations were when I inadvertently caused family and loved ones pain-and-suffering. I had been put through terrible tortures, some unspeakable, and the ones that rank were much worse than being buried alive with a corpse nonetheless
There was one particular computer program that was written specifically to kill people. It ran for 24 hours, and it chronicled the life of a young woman who through diligence and hard work was awarded by her employer a plane ticket to the West Coast (or some such place). It plays out with her getting on one of the airlines that is overrun by terrorists and piloted into the World Trade Center on 9/11. The really bad part is that the person experiences everything the people would have experienced on that flight, only worse. At the moment of impact, time slows down to the point where one feels the flames shooting through the cabin with plexiglass windows popping out from the extreme heat, and one's flesh burns to a crisp.
It seems as if they ran that particular program a number of times and somehow I escaped the really gory part. But to my horror, somehow the computer that ran the program could read my mind, and it put everyone I loved into one of those plane seats so that they would go through the same thing I was condemned to.
There were some other really terrible scenarios. One in which I had to witness my cat being crushed alive slowly and torturously. At first I thought it was through special effects, but then they somehow convinced me that it was real. Then I was given the choice of eating meat from the cat or biting my own tongue off. Somehow I escaped that particular form of torture, but family members and good friends were subjected to that horror.
I wouldn't have ordinarily brought all this up, but it's to illustrate a point: that I started reliving the feeling that conspiracy feeling that the nurses were out to get me, the same exact feeling I had had a year ago. I was scared. I didn't want a repeat of that horrible week or two. But luckily, I came out of it before it got too bad.
I had originally planned to review some movies, but it looks like I'll have to wait till next time. Just for your information, here is a list that I've been compiling:
· Pride and Glory
· Zack and Mira Make a Porno
· Volver
· Appaloosa
· Tropic Thunder
· Vicky Cristina Barcelona
· The Name of the Rose
· Wild Strawberries
· My Cousin Vinny
· Don Juan DeMarco
· Simon and Garfunkel: Old Friends
Some are new, others are old, but I figure it wouldn't hurt to say a word about the older ones. Some were good, others totally sucked.
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Tongue Drive -- Part One
One of the advantages of visiting a regionally renowned rehab hospital such as the Shepherd Center is that one can expect to find the latest in technology regarding wheelchairs, environmental control units, and what have you. It just so happened I was having a seating clinic (my wheelchair and seat cushion are evaluated to see what, if anything, needs to be changed, adjusted or replaced) when I noticed a flyer on the wall advertising for volunteers for a tongue drive. I voiced my interest, and I was directed to speak with Joy Bruce, a physical therapist.
Joy, as it turns out, is an extremely dedicated and highly educated physical therapist here at Shepherd. She is completing her doctorate, which entails finishing her 300-page thesis on clinical trials, and she and the Shepherd Center are hosting two electrical engineers from Georgia Tech who are working on a tongue drive for the modern wheelchair.
Why a tongue drive you might ask. Some people such as myself may be so compromised by physical barriers that the tongue muscle is the most dexterous tool one has at one's disposal. Now I myself can drive a sip and puff wheelchair (see "To Sip or Not to Sip"), but I can't stand the way it makes me appear so disabled. I don't know why I am so self-conscious when it comes to levels of disability, but nevertheless I wish to appear as able-bodied as possible. This seems to be a common theme among those who are disabled, hence came the brainstorm of driving only with tongue motions.
Joy gave me some release papers to sign in advance of the test date, and reading them over I discovered that one has one's tongue is dried to facilitate a magnet being glued to it. In practice, one would have a tongue stud put in place of the glued magnet. That scared me right there, and I began to worry beforehand that maybe I didn't want to test-drive this baby after all.
The big day arrived, and I watched the clock as it approached the appointed hour. 4 p.m. came and went and by around five thirty I began thinking it wasn't going to happen. Then Joy popped in and asked if I were ready. I couldn't say no. Besides, it was in the name of science.
The Iranian had thick black hair, Groucho Marx eyebrows and an enthusiastic smile. His Chinese cohort was shorter, maybe a little younger, and wore glasses. And both men spoke with strong native accents. I was still in bed when they came, and they set up a very nice 22-inch Dell flat screen monitor along with a small laptop on one of my bedside tables. The Chinese had me stick out my tongue, which he dried with a paper towel, and then he attached a tiny magnet with a drop of a special adhesive that smelled just like crazy glue. A stereo headset that was jury-rigged with ultra-sensitive magnetic field sensors was placed on my head. A very fine golden-colored wire that was attached to the magnet in my tongue dangled out of my mouth, and the Chinese wrapped the end around one of the magnetic field sensors. It was there to keep me from swallowing the magnet, the Iranian told me, but it felt like a hair on my tongue.
Once the magnet was in place and the sensors were positioned just so, I trained on the computer so it could understand and interpret my tongue movements -- not unlike training voice recognition software to understand one's voice. The sensors sent signals to the laptop, and a specially tailored computer program tracked the magnet's position in all three axes.
The Iranian, who seemed to be in charge, coached me in how to best move my tongue so the computer could differentiate between six different positions. The first two positions consisted of my moving the tip of my tongue first to my lower left eyetooth and then to the right one, which moved the mouse left and right on the screen. The second two positions were to my upper left and right incisors, which moved the mouse up and down, and finally the last two positions were accomplished by sticking my tongue in either cheek that would control mouse click and double-click functions.
As I finished training with each set of tongue positions, I practiced with simple computer games. Finally, a computer program tested my reaction time. I had figured all this was a prelude to actually driving a wheelchair, but after it was over the two men packed up and left. I was confused. Had this all been only an exercise? Was there more testing to be done? Were they only collecting data to be used towards something else besides a tongue drive? Or was the tongue drive only for moving a mouse?
I was left pondering all these questions when Joy reappeared and told me they would be getting me up out of bed and into a wheelchair to test the tongue drive after dinner. Yes! This was going to be exciting.
(Next: The Tongue Drive -- Part Two)
Joy, as it turns out, is an extremely dedicated and highly educated physical therapist here at Shepherd. She is completing her doctorate, which entails finishing her 300-page thesis on clinical trials, and she and the Shepherd Center are hosting two electrical engineers from Georgia Tech who are working on a tongue drive for the modern wheelchair.
Why a tongue drive you might ask. Some people such as myself may be so compromised by physical barriers that the tongue muscle is the most dexterous tool one has at one's disposal. Now I myself can drive a sip and puff wheelchair (see "To Sip or Not to Sip"), but I can't stand the way it makes me appear so disabled. I don't know why I am so self-conscious when it comes to levels of disability, but nevertheless I wish to appear as able-bodied as possible. This seems to be a common theme among those who are disabled, hence came the brainstorm of driving only with tongue motions.
Joy gave me some release papers to sign in advance of the test date, and reading them over I discovered that one has one's tongue is dried to facilitate a magnet being glued to it. In practice, one would have a tongue stud put in place of the glued magnet. That scared me right there, and I began to worry beforehand that maybe I didn't want to test-drive this baby after all.
The big day arrived, and I watched the clock as it approached the appointed hour. 4 p.m. came and went and by around five thirty I began thinking it wasn't going to happen. Then Joy popped in and asked if I were ready. I couldn't say no. Besides, it was in the name of science.
The Iranian had thick black hair, Groucho Marx eyebrows and an enthusiastic smile. His Chinese cohort was shorter, maybe a little younger, and wore glasses. And both men spoke with strong native accents. I was still in bed when they came, and they set up a very nice 22-inch Dell flat screen monitor along with a small laptop on one of my bedside tables. The Chinese had me stick out my tongue, which he dried with a paper towel, and then he attached a tiny magnet with a drop of a special adhesive that smelled just like crazy glue. A stereo headset that was jury-rigged with ultra-sensitive magnetic field sensors was placed on my head. A very fine golden-colored wire that was attached to the magnet in my tongue dangled out of my mouth, and the Chinese wrapped the end around one of the magnetic field sensors. It was there to keep me from swallowing the magnet, the Iranian told me, but it felt like a hair on my tongue.
Once the magnet was in place and the sensors were positioned just so, I trained on the computer so it could understand and interpret my tongue movements -- not unlike training voice recognition software to understand one's voice. The sensors sent signals to the laptop, and a specially tailored computer program tracked the magnet's position in all three axes.
The Iranian, who seemed to be in charge, coached me in how to best move my tongue so the computer could differentiate between six different positions. The first two positions consisted of my moving the tip of my tongue first to my lower left eyetooth and then to the right one, which moved the mouse left and right on the screen. The second two positions were to my upper left and right incisors, which moved the mouse up and down, and finally the last two positions were accomplished by sticking my tongue in either cheek that would control mouse click and double-click functions.
As I finished training with each set of tongue positions, I practiced with simple computer games. Finally, a computer program tested my reaction time. I had figured all this was a prelude to actually driving a wheelchair, but after it was over the two men packed up and left. I was confused. Had this all been only an exercise? Was there more testing to be done? Were they only collecting data to be used towards something else besides a tongue drive? Or was the tongue drive only for moving a mouse?
I was left pondering all these questions when Joy reappeared and told me they would be getting me up out of bed and into a wheelchair to test the tongue drive after dinner. Yes! This was going to be exciting.
(Next: The Tongue Drive -- Part Two)
Sunday, January 11, 2009
The Animation of Don Hertzfeldt
I seem to be going through a period of writer's block; either that, or I'm just plain lazy. So instead I direct your attention to Don Hertzfeldt, animator extraordinaire. Before last night I'd never heard of him, but after a visit to atom.com -- a website for amateur and professional short comedy films -- I viewed Rejected, and I knew I was on to something special.
With influences from Stanley Kubrick to Monty Python, Mr. Hertzfeldt is both extremely talented and totally irreverent, a combination I find refreshing and charming. Born in 1976, he taught himself animation as a teenager and has been writing and producing his own animations since his 1995 "Ah L'Amour" brought him commercial success. In 2000, "Rejected" earned him an Academy award nomination for best short animation as well as a score of other awards including recognition at the Cannes film Festival. He's currently on a 16 week tour with his 22 minute "Everything Will Be Okay"
Hertzfeldt uses the old-school animation technique of drawing each frame and photographing it with a 16mm or 35mm camera. It's a painstaking process that beckons back to high school days of drawing flip-page cartoons in the page margins of textbooks.
Rejected
Another Hertzfeldt gem is his 1996 "Genre," an exploration of the modern movie.
Genre
Here is "Ah L'Amour," Hertzfeldt's look at dating rituals as might be practiced by the present-day teenager.
Ah, L'Amour
With influences from Stanley Kubrick to Monty Python, Mr. Hertzfeldt is both extremely talented and totally irreverent, a combination I find refreshing and charming. Born in 1976, he taught himself animation as a teenager and has been writing and producing his own animations since his 1995 "Ah L'Amour" brought him commercial success. In 2000, "Rejected" earned him an Academy award nomination for best short animation as well as a score of other awards including recognition at the Cannes film Festival. He's currently on a 16 week tour with his 22 minute "Everything Will Be Okay"
Hertzfeldt uses the old-school animation technique of drawing each frame and photographing it with a 16mm or 35mm camera. It's a painstaking process that beckons back to high school days of drawing flip-page cartoons in the page margins of textbooks.
Rejected
Another Hertzfeldt gem is his 1996 "Genre," an exploration of the modern movie.
Genre
Here is "Ah L'Amour," Hertzfeldt's look at dating rituals as might be practiced by the present-day teenager.
Ah, L'Amour
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