They don't call me a great man
for nothing.
In fact, they charge me quite a bit!
Dr. Harl Delos's blog
(D) Murder.— The act of a person who intentionally kills, or conspires or attempts to kill, or kills whether intentionally or unintentionally in the course of committing any other offense under this subsection, one or more persons taking no active part in the hostilities, including those placed out of combat by sickness, wounds, detention, or any other cause. It's not just distasteful to kill an unarmed man in the conduct of a war, it's illegal, both a violation of US law, and of international law. I'm not shedding any tears for Osama Bin Laden. On the other hand, what does it say about us that we celebrate such actions? Are we turning into Nazi Germany? Other Bloggers On Related Topics: |
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Ouch! That's sorta like describing Jimmy Carter as brother of the guy Billy Beer was named for. Until 13-year-old Keisha Castle-Hughes was nominated for Best Actress in 2004, he was the only actor to earn a Best Actor/Actress nomination for an Academy Award before his/her 18th birthday. That was for the movie "Skippy". I think his best movie, though, was "Mr. Roberts". Tears From SkippyIn 1931, Cooper was being directed in "Skippy" by his uncle, Norman Taurog. He couldn't get Cooper to give him the emotion he wanted, and he said the dog was a nuisance, and he was going to call the pound to come take it away. Cooper got upset and wouldn't cooperate AT ALL. Taurog threatened Cooper, saying that if he didn't do as Taurog said, he'd have the policeman shoot the dog. The tears flowed. Cooper called his autobiography "Please Don't Shoot My Dog." In 1976, he said, "Sometimes I'll wake up in the middle of the night and I'll hear a voice that sounds familiar... my wife has fallen asleep with the tube on, and I'll finally start recognizing the dialogue, look up, and Jesus Christ, it's me at 14, or 12, or 9, or whatever. Sometimes I'll sit there and watch it and I can tell myself what's coming next... I remember the dialogue, the scene and the set very well, and then there'll be a part of the picture I never remembered at all. Because there were times as a kid, as a teenager especially, when I'd be terribly occupied with what I was doing--with my boat, or on a circuit of rodeos and horseshoes, or with my car--very often on some of this stuff when I'd have to go to work. I'd just give the script a cursory glance. I had no training, and I was a quick study, so nobody knew how involved or not involved I was. But I look at that stuff now and I can see I wasn't involved, and I wasn't very good." Other Bloggers On Related Topics: |
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Also in our thoughts: Joe Lewis, John Cleary, Tom Grace, Alan Canfora, Dean Kahler, Doug Wrentmore, Jim Russell, Bob Stamps, Don MacKenzie. Wondering About OBLI've always wondered if Osama Bin Laden was really the force behind the 9/11 attacks. They came up with his name so quickly, and there never has been any real explanation as to how they came up with his name. He was a former CIA employee, GHW Bush having formerly run the CIA, and a member of the Bin Laden family, who celebrated holidays with Dubya, calling him "Uncle George." The security contract on the World Trade Center expired the day before the attacks, and the company that lost the contract was Neil Bush's. That doesn't mean OBL wasn't the bad guy he was made out to be. It simply means that nobody ever bothered to present the evidence against him, and so the possibility exists that he was just a scapegoat. And now, we'll never know. There's a British newspaper that claims that OBL was killed years ago, and this operation was intended to put paid to the legend of OBL. Or maybe the stories are right, and we gunned down an unarmed man. A Skeptic, Not A DenierThe official version of events may well be correct, but the principle of Occam's Razor - that the simplest explanation is the best - doesn't favor it over the conspiracy theory, and it should. Oh, well. It wasn't the fact that the government was stupid on May 4. Governments always do stupid things; all large organizations do. And small organizations, too, although they are less obvious to the general public. Unintended ConsequencesThey ended student deferments, and went to a lottery system. A number of students with low lottery numbers opted to join the National Guard. They'd barely had any training at all when they were ordered to campus. Some say that an officer ordered his men to fire; others say that his hand motions were misinterpreted. In any case, kids emerging from buildings, not demonstrators, but simply kids rushing from one class to another, were shot, with four of them dying and another nine wounded. Handing live ammunition to a rabble of untrained soldiers and expecting them to behave appropriately is stupid. They should have had shields and billy clubs. You can kill someone with a billy, but you're less likely to do so. More important, you're only likely to kill someone you're actually trying to attack. The four that died were hit by accident. They were in the background when the troops shot at someone else and missed. They Deserved ItWhat shocked me was that nobody had compassion for the families of these victims. They shouldn't have been there, was the most common response I heard. Yeah? College costs a bundle. It costs as much to sit in a classroom as to have a mechanic work on your car. You don't want to skip your classes. But the average person thought that when the National Guard hit town to protect them, that students should have abandoned their studies, forfeiting a semester's tuition, losing a year of their life instead of expecting that the government troops were there to protect well-behaved students. I Didn't KnowTin soldiers and Nixon coming; we're finally on our own. This summer, I hear the drumming.... I didn't know any of the dead students. I didn't know any of the wounded students. I knew a couple of the students who had joined the Guard. Bought them a beer. When you're in a group that kills multiple innocent and responsible kids, it takes a lot of beer to wash off the blood. Last time I talked to one of them, he said there were still blood stains on his soul. Other Bloggers On Related Topics: |
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When I was growing up, everybody knew that pizza in actually an American food, that it was imported to Italy and Sicily from the New World, and that it originated in Chicago. I've seen claims on Food Network, though, which is headquartered in New York, that pizza originated in New York. You Can Always Tell Someone From New YorkI think they have a case of Trump Syndrome. To someone from New York, being piled upon each other like rats in a warren seems to be a sign of superiority in some way. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere, they claim, although the rest of the country wonders why anyone would want to make it in New York. Wouldn't anyone with any sense live where it's a lot nicer to live? New Yorkers, you see, view New York as a place with a surplus of people. People living in civilization, however, view New York as a place with inadequate elbow room. Manhattan has about the same population as Hawaii, but Hawaii has nice beaches, while Manhattan has subways that reek of urine. But You Can't Tell Them MuchIt's possible, of course, that pizza originated somewhere else. Shakey's Pizza was the first one to use the phrase "pizza parlor", with pizzeria being the preferred term before that; they started in California. It is one of the doctrines of this church, however, that pizza originated in Chicago; live with it. If you recognize that pizza actually is three entirely different foods, however, it's possible to conclude that it has three different birthplaces. St. Louis style pizza has a thin crust made with a baking-powder dough, much like a cracker. Chicago style pizza is a casserole on a dense bread-dough crust that is of necessity thick in order to support the weight of all those toppings. New York style pizza is all about the dough, hot, chewy, and greasy, and if you want it to be hot, chewy and greasy, you can't have a lot of toppings. I'm Fond Of ChewyI have to say that since moving to Lancaster, I've become fond of the New York style pizza. For a long time, Metro Express had two large one-topping pizzas for $10, pick-up only, and it worked out well for Blondie and myself; I'd eat several pieces, she'd eat several pieces, and our dog Isaac would scarf down the rest. I noticed tonight, though, that Papa John was talking about his favorite pizza being sausage, pepperoni, and six cheeses. That got me thinking about what my favorite pizza topping is. Pepperoni is a good topping, in some regards, but on the other hand, it's not really my favorite meat. Do you know anyone who ever makes himself a pepperoni sandwich? The spices are all wrong. Sausage Doesn't Cut It, EitherI really like the flavor of sausage, but the problem there is that when it cooks, you end up with a pool of oil on the pizza. A plain cheese pizza is good, but it's kinda bland. Hamburger is too bland, too. Corrugated CardboardBlondie likes to buy frozen pizza at Amelia's, and other "used grocery" outlets, and add her own toppings. You end up with a midwestern pizza that way, a casserole. The crust is crushed under the weight of the toppings and can't rise properly, so it ends up resembling a sheet of corrugated cardboard. What's more, many of the toppings she adds are vegetables, and by the time they're baked hot, they've steamed the crust, which really isn't what you want. I guess what I usually order is a sausage pizza, made with sweet italian sausage, although if I was making it myself, I'd probably make it with Polksa Keilbasa. My DEEP Dish PizzaI used to make a pizza that was extremely popular at parties - I took a loaf of frozen bread dough and thawed it, then flattened it out to fill the bottom of a 9x13x2 cake pan. I'd add an entire jar of the 69c Kroger-brand spaghetti sauce, which wasn't great on spaghetti but had exactly the right seasonings for pizza. I'd fry up a pound of Tennessee Pride sausage, and add that scrabble to the pan, chop up a huge (about 4" diameter) onion, and three large green peppers, and add those as well. I stirred in about 2 ounces of caraway seeds - yeah, it seems odd, but it really added something - to the sauce, and added an entire can, the 14-ounce size, of sliced black olives. Then I'd add 2 pounds of shredded pizza cheese, and stick it in the oven for about 90 minutes. Just the appearance of this deep-dish pizza would boggle party-goers, and they get themselves a small piece, then come back and get another piece, a bigger one. Within a few weeks, I was getting invited to parties by strangers, and they'd ask me to bring along my pizza and volunteer to pay for the ingredients. Sudden PopularityAnd all sorts of people would come up to me, and say that they had something caught in their teeth, that they weren't complaining, that they really liked it, but they were curious as to what it was. I had originally run across it because Tennessee Pride had included it in their sausage, and I added more of it to the sauce, and I've never run across anyone else who included it in their pizza. One of my housemates, a jewish psychology student from the east coast, preferred the St. Louis style pizza, although none of us called it that. We called it Chef Boy-Ar-Dee, because that's what you ended up with when you made a pizza using their boxed pizza mix. They were interesting and good - but not good enough to make them on my own once we were past that "alternating cook nights" experiment. The experiment didn't last long, because the housemate from Uganda liked to make a dish of burned rice, plantain, peanut butter, and curry that was only borderline edible in a pinch, although he seemed to love scarfing it down. Thinking Of Favorite PizzeriasIn scouring my brain for perfect pizza, I remember Village Inn (who had great silent movies), Noble Romans (who threw their dough into the air), East of Chicago Pizza Company (friendly buxom waitresses and fairly good pizza), Cassano's Pizza (who made a nice peanut and pineapple chunk pizza), and Marco's Pizza (who has a great white pizza, and a wonderful vegetarian pizza with feta cheese and tomato slices). None of them strike me as being the perfect pizza, and I'm sorry, Papa John, but I swore off buying pizza from you years ago; I'm a married man, and I don't need to deal with your company to be treated that rudely. But I think I've figured out the perfect pizza toppings, something that will allow a chewy crust to be baked, yet providing a nice snappy tang to the taste. I guess my favorite would be a cinnamon and brown sugar pizza. That wouldn't go too well with beer, though, so it's never going to make it for Monday Night Football parties. Other Bloggers On Related Topics: |
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The original Harl Delos had a brother, Reed, who had damage to his heart while still a toddler, from rheumatic fever. He'd never be able to work for a living, the family decided, so from a very early age, it was determined that they'd send him to college. Of course, it is that side of the family that has all the literary sorts. At one point a couple of decades ago, about 50% of that side of the family was a writer. reporter, editor, or photographer. Easier Than WorkingWe all teased each other that it was easier than working for a living - but in fact, cardiologists say that occupation is one of the top twelve for heart attacks. I was concerned a couple of decades ago, because when I'd be in the middle of a writing session, the sweat would pour off my brow and back, and I'd need to stop and go take a shower because I would develop the worst body odor. The cardiologist laughed when I said I wasn't doing anything when this occurred; I was only writing. He told me that the brain was the #1 consumer on the body's energy budget, and that I was, indeed, working heavily indeed, and that's why so many writers are skinny. I don't ever apologize for not blogging. I assume you'll figure when I have something to say, I'll say it, and when I don't, it's better that I not post. This is more of a whine; I'm feeling sorry for myself, and yeah, self-pity is somewhat unattractive, but if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself, right? I Earned ItI used to have a sign above my desk saying, "As soon as this rush is over, I'm going to have a nervous breakdown. I've worked for it, I've earned it, and I'm damned well gonna enjoy it." And at one point, I had a regular cycle, where I would get an issue of the paper out, then collapse in a heap for 24 to 48 hours, then work increasingly hard until I wouldn't get to bed at all the last 24 hours before the next issue came out. In case you're daft, that's not a good idea. Slow and steady wins the race. Feast-and-famine stresses you, aging you prematurely. On the other hand, I wasn't choosing to do that. I pushed myself to get out that issue, and I was physically sick afterwards, complete with wheezing, sneezing, diarrhea, fever, and other symptoms. It was like I was a habitual customer of a Payday Loan shop, only a shop that dealt in gumption and health instead of cash. The loans look so inviting, but the interest rates they charge are pure hell. Lupus Is A Chronic IllnessLupus is a chronic disease, they say, but in practice, it comes and goes. Em would get better and worse, influences by events of the calendar, and of community and family life. Em would push herself to cook a great meal and bake a fabulous decorated cake and decorate to celebrate Jasper's birthday, and the stress would result in her lupus flaring immediately after his birthday party. She'd demand that I help her with the party, and I had to, because the more I helped, the lighter her flare, except that the more I did, the more Em decided to take on, so it really didn't help. And when she collapsed afterwards, the load on me increased even more, and I dare not fail to be up to the task. But about the time her lupus flare was easing up, it was my turn to collapse in a heap. I felt so ashamed, for years, of not being up to the task, and after Em had become a memory, I spent a lot of time with a therapist learning to accept my limitations. I learned to put limits on myself, instead of trying to be superman, and things went a lot better for me. Chinese Finger TrapsYou know those "chinese finger traps" that are made of thin strips of bamboo? They are woven like a basket, in the shape of a tube, and you insert the index fingers from your two hands in the opposite ends. The harder you pull, the tighter the bamboo grasps your fingers. My therapist told me that the conventional solution to the chinese finger trap is to relax, allowing one to remove one's fingers - but that I seem to have perfected a second solution. If you pull really, really, hard, you can tear the bamboo to shreds. It completely destroys the chinese finger trap, and it is pretty rough on your fingers, but if you're determined enough to do it, it can be done. It's just that it's pretty stupid to do things that way, he explained, and he kept advising me, session after session, that I was fighting a chinese finger trap. Blondie's Cabin FeverWhen the doctor recently ordered Blondie to stop driving - she has vascular dementia - it landed pretty hard on her. She was already missing the social contact of a job, and now she was pretty much locked in the house, having to rely on me to take her out. Meanwhile, I have agoraphobia, which means I don't go out often or easily. It'd be grossly unfair to accommodate my disability and ignore her needs, so I've been going out a lot more than I want to. My gut knows that the outside world is dangerous. I end up clenching up, and that leads to constipation - and the constipation makes me even more constipated, and I start accumulating matter in my gut. I end up developing edema in my legs, and when I sit up, I shut off circulation to my legs making the edema even worse. That's Not AllAdd to that, the fact that my hip isn't right. I try to move my right leg from gas pedal to brake pedal and back and forth, and suddenly, the inside of my upper thigh wants to cramp. At that point, I can pull over and walk around for five minutes to ease the cramping, but the trip is basically over; I need to head home and lie down for the rest of the day, because the cramping will only get worse, and soon get to the point where I can't drive at all. All of which, as you might expect, is hard on Blondie as well. She expects me to drive her to get her meds, or to the store, and I'm not supposed to say "No." I used to use health insurance to talk to a therapist. These days, I blog instead. It helps, sometimes, when I can blog. I bought extension cords for my keyboard and mouse, and put a monitor on my nightstand, so I can lie flat on my back, balancing my keyboard on my belly. Learning to touch-type this way was a challenge. Flat-backing ItAnd I did this entire post while flat on my back, but I'm now soaked in sweat, I can smell my own stink, and my head is pounding with a nasty headache. Even when it's an extremely personal blog, writing is hard work. I woke up in the middle of the night last night, soaked in sweat, awakened by a nightmare. Years ago, nobody had air conditioning. On the farm, we had a lot of trees surrounding the house, and if you opened the windows on opposite sides of the house, there was pretty good cross ventilation, especially if you supplemented it with a roaring box fan. In this dream, though, I'm in the city, in a third-floor apartment. The temperature is well into the nineties, even in the middle of the night, and the humidity is about that high as well. And I don't have a fan. Sleeping In Salt WaterI go to sleep, and wake up drowning in sweat. The bed is soaked. I take a quick shower, but the cold water is fairly warm. I flip the mattress upside down, put on new sheets, and go to sleep. Another 45 minutes later, I wake up, and once again, the bed is soaked. Another quick shower. I've gotta get some sleep. I grab a blanket out of the closet, fold it on the balcony, and since there's no dry pillow, wad up a winter coat for under my head. There is nobody on the balcony to the left or the right, and nobody on a higher floor; I'm not worried about getting in trouble for being nude. I lie there, but sleep doesn't come. There is some noise from downstairs. A girl in the apartment below me is arguing with her fellow. I look through the spaces in floor boards; she comes out and fixes a pallet like mine on her balcony, and when a guy comes out to join her, she tells him to go on home, and she doesn't want to see him. Ever. Again. Ever. Tempers Are ShortIt's hot. Tempers are short. I suspect that come morning, they may reconcile. I just lie there silently, wishing for sleep. There's noise from below me. I wonder what it is. She's lying on her back, wearing nothing, and she's masturbating. She's not pretty at all; she has a unattractive face, badly-styled short hair, a flat chest, a boring body. I think about how nice it would be to have her for a girlfriend; I'm tired of being alone. I don't think tonight is the right night to introduce myself, though. And I think about masturbating, but it's just too friggin' hot. I can't put forth that much energy. I just want to sleep. The light of parking lots shines skyward and illuminates clouds. It's dead still at my level, but higher up, the clouds are moving, and they're getting thicker. In another hour or two, maybe they will get thick enough to rain. The forecast on the radio says we'll have rain. I lie there thinking about turkeys. Domestic turkeys have been bred for breast meat, not brains. If they are outdoors when it starts raining, they will look up to see where the rain is coming from. Some of them will have their mouths open. Some of them will choke on the rain, and will drown. I'm MiserableI feel awful. No sleep. I feel weak and washed out, from electrolyte imbalance, from having sweated so much. I have a fatigue headache. In a few hours, I'm going to have to get up and go work 8 hours in a hot brake-lining factory, and my nose is already full of the stench of hot asbestos, wax, resin and body odor. I'm hungry, I'm lonely, but mostly, I just want to sleep, damn it. Maybe if I lie here with my mouth open, it'll get cooler as it gets ready to rain, and I'll fall asleep, and when the rain comes, I can drown. Nah, I think. Somebody luckier, but not me. Then I wake up and realize that it was all a dream. It's kinda strange, to have a dream about having insomnia, wouldn't you say? Other Bloggers On Related Topics: |
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