OK, Lindsey Graham, Senator from South Carolina, said there was a 91% chance he'll run for President. Senator Graham is at least a Republican I can recognize (no taxes, big defense) but he is joining a field that gets weirder by the day. And what does '91%'mean, anyway? I'm at least 91% sure I'll wake up tomorrow. I'm 91% sure I won't eat squid tomorrow. And 91% sure I won't leave the continental United States in the next month. Which means--I can assure you (except for the 'waking up part') means I'm a hundred % sure of the other two. So, Lindsey, 'fish or cut bait', or, more crudely, "S*** or get off the pot!"
There's a debate in Ohio, I think, that will only allow 10 Republican candidates based on poll numbers. That, according to Chris Matthews (I know, a baby killing, gay loving, socialist, anti-American) leaves out at least 10 more potential candidates along with one who has declared.
Put 20 Republicans on a stage and it would better than the Rockettes in Radio City Music Hall, I assure you, all of them kicking at the ever-more conservative and libertarian base. What a blast.
Weird thing is, I am probably a libertarian left-wing guy. We used to call them 'socialist', but the S word, like the L word somehow disappeared from public conversation. I want government out of my life but totally committed to the life of the poor and marginalized. That used to be called a 'tax and spend' Democrat--but the labels have been in constant motion lately.
The best I can cling to is "Progressive", which I can't for the life of me imagine why everyone wouldn't want to be one. Who on God's green earth can be opposed to 'progress'?
Lots of folks it seems.
I want the old language back: left-wing, tax and spend, socialist.
That I could understand, but like the rainbow of different ilks of 'conservatives' these days, we liberals are confused and a bit distracted.
So, get a bigger car for all the clowns to crowd into. This is going to be more fun than anything you can do with all your clothes on. Bring on the 2016 Republican primaries....
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
"doing the wrong thing for the right reason"
I've been observing and being a part of a conflict for over a year and a half and only today did I realize what was going on. I still don't understand why the conflict is such a 'big deal' to people on either side--but I know this: at every step of the way, people 'did the wrong thing for the right reason'.
That may sound counter intuitive or even a bit crazy, but believe me, it is true.
In this conflict, both sides bent over backwards and sideways to try to be compassionate and understanding of the other side. Every thing any of them did was 'for the right reason'--a concern for the 'other' and a longing to hold the tribe together.
And almost every decision was the 'wrong thing' to do...but done for the 'right reason'.
Isn't that remarkable? People trying to do things for the 'right reason' consistently did 'the wrong thing'.
In a situation like this one--where everyone had each other in mind and were caring for 'the other side'--things went from bad to worse.
No wonder adversaries who don't give a fig about 'the opposition' make such a mess of things.....
That may sound counter intuitive or even a bit crazy, but believe me, it is true.
In this conflict, both sides bent over backwards and sideways to try to be compassionate and understanding of the other side. Every thing any of them did was 'for the right reason'--a concern for the 'other' and a longing to hold the tribe together.
And almost every decision was the 'wrong thing' to do...but done for the 'right reason'.
Isn't that remarkable? People trying to do things for the 'right reason' consistently did 'the wrong thing'.
In a situation like this one--where everyone had each other in mind and were caring for 'the other side'--things went from bad to worse.
No wonder adversaries who don't give a fig about 'the opposition' make such a mess of things.....
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Oh, nevermind....
So I googled it and found this:
One player plays the "mother", "father" or "captain". The other
players are the "children" or "crewmembers". To begin the game, the
mother or father stands at one end of a room and turns around facing
away, while all the children line up at the other end. The children take
turns asking "Mother/Father, may I ____?" and makes a movement
suggestion. For example, one might ask, "Mother/Father, may I take five
steps forward?" The mother/father either replies "Yes, you may" or "No,
you may not do that, but you may _____ instead" and inserts his/her own
suggestion. The players usually move closer to the mother/father but are
sometimes led farther away. Even if the mother/father makes an
unfavorable suggestion, the child must still perform it. The first of
the children to reach the location of the mother/father wins the game.
That child then becomes the mother/father himself, the original
mother/father becomes a child, and a new round begins.
Some suggestions that fill in the "Mother/Father/Captain, may I ____?" blank include:
Other variations of this kind of crossing-over game are "What's the Time, Mr Wolf?" (sometimes called "Old Mrs. Fox, What Time is It?", although this version is slightly different), "Grandmother's Footsteps" and "Bulldog", played in Britain. In the first of these, gameplay is similar: Mr Wolf faces away from the children (or Mrs. Fox faces the children), the children together chant in a well-known fashion "What's the time, Mr Wolf?" (or "Old Mrs. Fox, what time is it?"), and if he or she replies with 9 o'clock, the children move 9 steps forward. Should anyone reach Mr Wolf, he or she becomes the new Mr Wolf. Alternatively, however, should Mr Wolf reply to the question by saying "Dinner Time!" (or in the Mrs. Fox version, "Midnight!") he turns and chases the children back towards the start. If he catches one before he or she reaches safety, that child is the new Mr Wolf.
Mother May I?
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Not to be confused with Mother Mae-Eye.
Mother May I is a children's game, also known as "Captain May I" and "Father May I".Objective, Rules, and General Gameplay
Some suggestions that fill in the "Mother/Father/Captain, may I ____?" blank include:
- Take (#) steps forward
- Take (#) giant steps forward (usually a small number, due to large step size)
- Take (#) baby steps forward (usually a large number, due to tiny step size)
- Take (#) umbrella steps forward
- Hop forward like a frog, (#) times
- Run forward for (#) seconds
- Crabwalk forward for (#) seconds
- Take (#) Cinderella steps - Twirl forward with index finger touching the top of the head
- Open-and-shut the book (#) times - jump forwards with feet apart then again bringing the feet together
- Lamppost - lie face down and stretch arms forwards, bring your feet to the point reached by the fingertips
- Take (#) steps backward
- Run backward for (#) seconds
- Walk backward until I (mother/father) say "stop"
- Return to the starting line (in rare cases)
Other variations of this kind of crossing-over game are "What's the Time, Mr Wolf?" (sometimes called "Old Mrs. Fox, What Time is It?", although this version is slightly different), "Grandmother's Footsteps" and "Bulldog", played in Britain. In the first of these, gameplay is similar: Mr Wolf faces away from the children (or Mrs. Fox faces the children), the children together chant in a well-known fashion "What's the time, Mr Wolf?" (or "Old Mrs. Fox, what time is it?"), and if he or she replies with 9 o'clock, the children move 9 steps forward. Should anyone reach Mr Wolf, he or she becomes the new Mr Wolf. Alternatively, however, should Mr Wolf reply to the question by saying "Dinner Time!" (or in the Mrs. Fox version, "Midnight!") he turns and chases the children back towards the start. If he catches one before he or she reaches safety, that child is the new Mr Wolf.
References in fiction
- Mother Mae-Eye is the name of a villain from the Teen Titans animated series.
- "Mother May I" is a track by Coheed and Cambria that features on their 2005 album, Good Apollo, I'm Burning Star IV, Volume One: From Fear Through the Eyes of Madness
- In the first season of Barney and Friends, the episode "Down on Barney's Farm" featured Barney and the kids playing the game while waiting for another farm album to show up.
- A Sesame Street sketch had Luis and a group of kids playing "May I?" until Oscar the Grouch showed up and suggested a similar game, the difference being instead of "May I?" the players ask "Do I have to??"
See also
Life was much more interesting before you could look it up on line. I'd still be wondering. "Knowing" isn't all it's cracked up to be. "Wondering" is better....
"Mother, may I...."
I was sitting on the deck with Bern, just now, in the Adirondack chairs she made years ago with Hank Fotter, I'd finished my book and she was reading hers.
(One of the keys of a successful marriage, it seems to me, is 'marry another reader'. We spend hours each week together, both reading. You might, from time to time, tell the other what just happened in your book. But mostly not. But just that, being together reading, without conversation, teaches you that you don't have to talk to 'be together', a valuable lesson for a couple.)
Anyway, I asked her, "May I have that ashtray," since I was smoking and she wouldn't.
And then, the way the cracks in my mind work, I fell into a crack to my early years and a game called, "Mother, may I...."
That's all I remembered. Nothing else. Anyone out there who knows about the "Mother, may I" game?
Email me at Padrejgb@aol.com, if you do. Thanks.
"Mother, may I ask them to do that?"
(One of the keys of a successful marriage, it seems to me, is 'marry another reader'. We spend hours each week together, both reading. You might, from time to time, tell the other what just happened in your book. But mostly not. But just that, being together reading, without conversation, teaches you that you don't have to talk to 'be together', a valuable lesson for a couple.)
Anyway, I asked her, "May I have that ashtray," since I was smoking and she wouldn't.
And then, the way the cracks in my mind work, I fell into a crack to my early years and a game called, "Mother, may I...."
That's all I remembered. Nothing else. Anyone out there who knows about the "Mother, may I" game?
Email me at Padrejgb@aol.com, if you do. Thanks.
"Mother, may I ask them to do that?"
Monday, May 18, 2015
What a joy....
Bern and I took the Puli to Holiday Pet Lodge in Wallingford on Saturday morning (if you need a kennel go there--like really!) and then headed, with lots of time, to Baltimore. We had 7 hours to do what we usually do in under five.
We were on our way to Cathy Chen's surprise birthday party. Cathy is our daughter-in-law and mother of the three best grand-daughters in creation.
Josh, our son, had been planning this night for months. One of Cathy's brothers from California and his daughter had flown east for it. People came from Chicago, DC, NYC and other places. He gathered Cathy's friends from high school, college, law school and current life--26 of them. A remarkable group: a judge she appears before, lawyers of course, Tegan's M.D. godfather, educators, parents of kids their kids go to school with, next door neighbors,friends, loved ones, her parents and us. Remarkable! He worked so hard and took grief from Cathy because her birthday would just be dinner with her parents.
Josh went with Cathy, disappointed at the lack of pomp and circumstance for her 40th, and our grandchildren to Cathy's parents' house to pick them up. There she met her brother and doubtless thought that was her surprise.
Meanwhile, we stopped in Delaware at the Delaware Welcome Center (stop there if you ever drive south on I-95) and read for an hour, Bern and I (both great readers) so we wouldn't arrive at the restaurant too early.
Then, however, we hit a monsoon 35 miles outside of Baltimore that slowed traffic to 20 mph, if that. The GPS on Bern's smart phone guided us unerringly to 1500 Union Avenue. Fortunately, the storm had ended. Unfortunately, 1500 Union Avenue was a huge former factory that has been recreated into offices of non-profits, apartments and a restaurant that was about half a mile from the where we were to the entrance to the restaurant! We found lots of locked doors and Cathy's friend, Kim, also confused. I thought it wad a great practical joke Josh had played on us on. But finally, after 20 minutes or so, I found the restaurant exactly 180 degrees from where the GPS landed us.
The night was wondrous. Cathy was totally surprised, totally and absolutely. The people were fascinating and engaging, the food was perfect (served family style) and it was a joy. Josh had pulled off a remarkable event and Cathy had not a frigging clue!
Our granddaughters (who Josh hadn't told about the party--good call that!) also had no clue that we were in town. One of Cathy's friends from DC, Judy, had her car not start after the party and had to come home with Josh, Cathy and the girls, at about midnight, to spend the night.
The girls were astonished to find us there. Except for Tegan, who was too sleepy to realize what was up.
But they were no more astonished to find us there than Laura, Josh and Cathy's sweet-sweet-beyond sweet rescue Pit Bull where we showed up about 10:30 p.m. having been given a garage opener by Josh so we could leave and go to their town house. She was sweet, sweet, beyond sweet but obviously wondering where 'her people' were and 'who we were' and why we were there instead?
(More later on a wondrous weekend). I'm sleepy from two nights not in my own bed and dealing with a birthday party and the 3 most amazing granddaughters in the universe....
We were on our way to Cathy Chen's surprise birthday party. Cathy is our daughter-in-law and mother of the three best grand-daughters in creation.
Josh, our son, had been planning this night for months. One of Cathy's brothers from California and his daughter had flown east for it. People came from Chicago, DC, NYC and other places. He gathered Cathy's friends from high school, college, law school and current life--26 of them. A remarkable group: a judge she appears before, lawyers of course, Tegan's M.D. godfather, educators, parents of kids their kids go to school with, next door neighbors,friends, loved ones, her parents and us. Remarkable! He worked so hard and took grief from Cathy because her birthday would just be dinner with her parents.
Josh went with Cathy, disappointed at the lack of pomp and circumstance for her 40th, and our grandchildren to Cathy's parents' house to pick them up. There she met her brother and doubtless thought that was her surprise.
Meanwhile, we stopped in Delaware at the Delaware Welcome Center (stop there if you ever drive south on I-95) and read for an hour, Bern and I (both great readers) so we wouldn't arrive at the restaurant too early.
Then, however, we hit a monsoon 35 miles outside of Baltimore that slowed traffic to 20 mph, if that. The GPS on Bern's smart phone guided us unerringly to 1500 Union Avenue. Fortunately, the storm had ended. Unfortunately, 1500 Union Avenue was a huge former factory that has been recreated into offices of non-profits, apartments and a restaurant that was about half a mile from the where we were to the entrance to the restaurant! We found lots of locked doors and Cathy's friend, Kim, also confused. I thought it wad a great practical joke Josh had played on us on. But finally, after 20 minutes or so, I found the restaurant exactly 180 degrees from where the GPS landed us.
The night was wondrous. Cathy was totally surprised, totally and absolutely. The people were fascinating and engaging, the food was perfect (served family style) and it was a joy. Josh had pulled off a remarkable event and Cathy had not a frigging clue!
Our granddaughters (who Josh hadn't told about the party--good call that!) also had no clue that we were in town. One of Cathy's friends from DC, Judy, had her car not start after the party and had to come home with Josh, Cathy and the girls, at about midnight, to spend the night.
The girls were astonished to find us there. Except for Tegan, who was too sleepy to realize what was up.
But they were no more astonished to find us there than Laura, Josh and Cathy's sweet-sweet-beyond sweet rescue Pit Bull where we showed up about 10:30 p.m. having been given a garage opener by Josh so we could leave and go to their town house. She was sweet, sweet, beyond sweet but obviously wondering where 'her people' were and 'who we were' and why we were there instead?
(More later on a wondrous weekend). I'm sleepy from two nights not in my own bed and dealing with a birthday party and the 3 most amazing granddaughters in the universe....
Friday, May 15, 2015
My hair
My hair is a fright!
Bern cut it a month or so ago and it was fine, wavy and curly in places. And in another week or so it will be long enough to behave itself.
But right now--in between the wavy, curly stage and the long, manageable stage--is the 'fright' stage.
It won't do anything I want it to do--like lay down and behave itself.
No one has cut my hair for years except Bern. I used to go to a hair salon over in a strip mall in town, but Bern does it better. But she doesn't wash it like the hair cutters did, one of the most sensuous things one person can do for another. I always half-fell-in-love with the hair cutters who washed my hair. I even wrote a poem about that. If I can find it, I'll include it at the end of this.
Many men my age would kill for my hair--still full and healthy (though completely white). Pictures of me as a younger man show hair to die for. Brown and thick and just a tad wavy.
When I was in my 20's I had it so long I had a pony tail. I always liked that. I like long hair or newly cut hair--but this in between is a fright.
I use some oil from Morocco to try to control it, but it just doesn't. I have three brushes in the house and one in the car, but when it's this length, nothing works.
A fright. That's what it is.
OK, I found the poem. Having read it I want to warn you that if you think of me as a paragon of virtue and someone who never has impure thoughts (who would think that of me, after all?) don't read this poem. Really.
HAIRCUTS
I invariably fall a bit in love
with whatever woman
cuts my hair.
I get the shampoo first,
and her fingers in the soap
and the warm to hot rinse
going through my hair
is like foreplay to me.
It's like a stolen kiss
from a stranger in a bar,
or on a street corner,
or on a park bench as dusk is falling.
Just a kiss--a hint of what's to come--
and a touch--lingering and longing.
The walk, wet-headed and amorous,
to her chair is like being invited up
to 'her place' for the night.
I usually stagger a bit from my emotions
and she steadies me with her hand on my arm.
She had me from the time I leaned back--
vunerable and exposed--
and she showered me with warm water
and began to massage my head,
around my ears,
leaning against me,
her taunt breast against my shoulder.
She's always much younger than I am,
which intensifies my love.
And usually--for some reason--
women who cut my hair
have tops that show their cleavage
(a faint dampness between their breasts,
most likely from the shampoo spray,
but never mind, I see it as sweat....)\
Then, imagining myself tied to their chair
(I always have a little bondage in my fantasies)
she begins to move around me,
cutting my hair with scissors so sharp
she could cleanly excise the juggler vein
from my neck
if she so desired....
(OK, I know I'm a little sick,
a tad perverted,
but I fall in love with this woman,
whoever she is,
circling my body with a deadly weapon,
leaning against me,
her lips slightly parted and moist as she cuts my hair.)
I close miy eyes and imagine we're both naked:
me tied to a chair, she leaning
her young body against me,
growing aroused,
her breath shortening,
because my hair is so long and so thick.
(They always tell me how much joy
they get from cutting such wavy, long, thick hair--
white though it is;
and I gasp at that revelation,
my fantasy almost complete....)
They never drop their scissors,
clattering on the tile floor,
and mount me seated,
as they do in my mind.
We are, after all, fully clothed,
in a hair cutting place
in a strip mall
between a Subway
and a Hallmark Card store
in the middle of the town where I live,
and I'm reading the latest copy
of Sports Illustrated
the store buys for men.
But I fall in love with them anyway:
those young women with nose rings
and eyebrow rings,
(one had a lip piercing that almost sent me reeling....)
rings on their fingers and bells on their toes
and scents of fresh melons and working bodies,
both of which entrance me,
and hair the color of nothing that exists in nature,
these young women who wash and cut my hair.
Luckily, I only get my hair cut
every four months.
So nothing ever comes of my love for them.
Or ever could.
Though I enjoy it so.
1/21/07
Bern cut it a month or so ago and it was fine, wavy and curly in places. And in another week or so it will be long enough to behave itself.
But right now--in between the wavy, curly stage and the long, manageable stage--is the 'fright' stage.
It won't do anything I want it to do--like lay down and behave itself.
No one has cut my hair for years except Bern. I used to go to a hair salon over in a strip mall in town, but Bern does it better. But she doesn't wash it like the hair cutters did, one of the most sensuous things one person can do for another. I always half-fell-in-love with the hair cutters who washed my hair. I even wrote a poem about that. If I can find it, I'll include it at the end of this.
Many men my age would kill for my hair--still full and healthy (though completely white). Pictures of me as a younger man show hair to die for. Brown and thick and just a tad wavy.
When I was in my 20's I had it so long I had a pony tail. I always liked that. I like long hair or newly cut hair--but this in between is a fright.
I use some oil from Morocco to try to control it, but it just doesn't. I have three brushes in the house and one in the car, but when it's this length, nothing works.
A fright. That's what it is.
OK, I found the poem. Having read it I want to warn you that if you think of me as a paragon of virtue and someone who never has impure thoughts (who would think that of me, after all?) don't read this poem. Really.
HAIRCUTS
I invariably fall a bit in love
with whatever woman
cuts my hair.
I get the shampoo first,
and her fingers in the soap
and the warm to hot rinse
going through my hair
is like foreplay to me.
It's like a stolen kiss
from a stranger in a bar,
or on a street corner,
or on a park bench as dusk is falling.
Just a kiss--a hint of what's to come--
and a touch--lingering and longing.
The walk, wet-headed and amorous,
to her chair is like being invited up
to 'her place' for the night.
I usually stagger a bit from my emotions
and she steadies me with her hand on my arm.
She had me from the time I leaned back--
vunerable and exposed--
and she showered me with warm water
and began to massage my head,
around my ears,
leaning against me,
her taunt breast against my shoulder.
She's always much younger than I am,
which intensifies my love.
And usually--for some reason--
women who cut my hair
have tops that show their cleavage
(a faint dampness between their breasts,
most likely from the shampoo spray,
but never mind, I see it as sweat....)\
Then, imagining myself tied to their chair
(I always have a little bondage in my fantasies)
she begins to move around me,
cutting my hair with scissors so sharp
she could cleanly excise the juggler vein
from my neck
if she so desired....
(OK, I know I'm a little sick,
a tad perverted,
but I fall in love with this woman,
whoever she is,
circling my body with a deadly weapon,
leaning against me,
her lips slightly parted and moist as she cuts my hair.)
I close miy eyes and imagine we're both naked:
me tied to a chair, she leaning
her young body against me,
growing aroused,
her breath shortening,
because my hair is so long and so thick.
(They always tell me how much joy
they get from cutting such wavy, long, thick hair--
white though it is;
and I gasp at that revelation,
my fantasy almost complete....)
They never drop their scissors,
clattering on the tile floor,
and mount me seated,
as they do in my mind.
We are, after all, fully clothed,
in a hair cutting place
in a strip mall
between a Subway
and a Hallmark Card store
in the middle of the town where I live,
and I'm reading the latest copy
of Sports Illustrated
the store buys for men.
But I fall in love with them anyway:
those young women with nose rings
and eyebrow rings,
(one had a lip piercing that almost sent me reeling....)
rings on their fingers and bells on their toes
and scents of fresh melons and working bodies,
both of which entrance me,
and hair the color of nothing that exists in nature,
these young women who wash and cut my hair.
Luckily, I only get my hair cut
every four months.
So nothing ever comes of my love for them.
Or ever could.
Though I enjoy it so.
1/21/07
Conflicted
The sentence of Dzhokar Tsarnaev conflicts me greatly.
I am firmly against the death penalty. I don't the idea of my government killing people--in war or by lethal injection.
But this case was so violent and terrorist driven that I am conflicted.
Part of the conflict is the descriptions of how seemingly inscrutable, indifferent and disinterested he was during the trial. No regret, apparently, has entered his heart.
(The only crimes I would have no problem supporting the death penalty--and might be willing to impose it myself--are against the helpless: animals and children.
So, given that, the bombing at the Marathon was against people who were helpless to know they were in danger....)
I am firmly against the death penalty. I don't the idea of my government killing people--in war or by lethal injection.
But this case was so violent and terrorist driven that I am conflicted.
Part of the conflict is the descriptions of how seemingly inscrutable, indifferent and disinterested he was during the trial. No regret, apparently, has entered his heart.
(The only crimes I would have no problem supporting the death penalty--and might be willing to impose it myself--are against the helpless: animals and children.
So, given that, the bombing at the Marathon was against people who were helpless to know they were in danger....)
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