Sunday, March 09, 2014
You'll soon be waking
* When is a political contribution a bribe?. Bottom line: When a public sector union gives a contribution to a politician, it's evil and begets corruption. When wealthy individuals and businesses give contributions to a politician, it's wholesome and good government. So says the multi-millionaire who received hundreds of thousands of dollars in political contributions from the wealthy. *snort*
A chilly late autumn day in 2013 and I am sitting in a central London branch of Pizza Hut trying not to be noticed. I wanted a table towards the back but they directed me instead to one here, in the window. I turn my body away from the glass, but it makes no difference. I am well over six foot, have a chest so big there are plans to build a high-speed rail link between my nipples, and have hair like an unlit bonfire. Plus I whore about on television. Sitting in a public place inconspicuously is not part of my skill set.
Read the whole thing. It gets much better and more serious than that.
* Don't they know how to fold a newspaper? (Thanks, Jayette.)
* How to fold a broadsheet (pdf).
* Since 1880, at least 533,443 female babies in the U.S. have been named Marie (female ranking #54 in popularity out of 63,246 female names in SSA database). At least 2,193 male babies have been named Marie (male ranking #2,493 in popularity out of 38,015 male names). About 59 percent of the people named Marie since 1880 are no longer living.
Posted by: Marie at 8:53 PM |
Saturday, March 08, 2014
I crossed the empty street
Horace Mann Building.
* It was about the summer of 66. I remember it like it was just yesterday.... Having rained all morning, it was hot and very humid. The sun was now out and high. So, shorts, tank top, sandals.
Gas was cheap. Cars were big and comfortable, except no air conditioning. And, as was our sometimes usual routine on Sunday afternoons in those days, we'd go for a ride in the country, which basically meant around the outskirts of Springfield. Not surprisingly, those areas are now in town.
So anyway, this one particular Sunday, we got on the highway and went way out of town. We went so far, we ended up a couple counties over. Always one to pay attention to details, I think I could drive that drive today. Well, assuming I could find the highway, which has since been replaced by interstate.
Soon we pulled into the driveway of a big old farmhouse. The lady of the house came out to the car and invited us in. My dad, mom, brother and I stood in the large entryway, as I tried to get a good look at the place. I noticed a living room to one side with lots of doilies on the furniture and a dining room to the other side with a long table that probably sat about 10 and a lace table cloth. There were lots of big windows, but the interior wasn't very bright. The house smelled of fried chicken.
No one was saying anything and it had become obvious that's as far in the house we were going to get. Then, the lady's husband and boys wandered in and the man told his boys to take me and my brother for a tour of the farm. A city girl, I had absolutely no desire to go traipsing around a farm. Plus, I'd have rather listened in on what I now assumed was going to be a serious conversation, possibly come to blows -- under the guise of checking out those doilies, which I also didn't care about. But, anything for a good eavesdrop.
The boys paraded us down a long, uneven stone walkway, past a couple lazy dogs, through a huge, red barn, and out into an area of low lying land which can only be described as a pigsty. Literally. And right there before my very city girl eyes were a bunch of baby piglets in all their pink, snorting glory. One of the boys said not to touch the wire around the pen, which was only about ankle high, because it was "lectric."
But, hey, you know me. So, I got to within an inch of that wire and all the baby piglets came waddling over to me. They were so sweet and so cute. One of them even stuck his snout over the top of that hot wire and began nuzzling my little nine year old hairy legs. I reached my hand down and scratched behind his ears. He liked me. He wanted to play. The mud was starting to ooze between my sandal shod toes.
And, just as I was contemplating the ramifications of getting into the pen, or not, my mom appeared and said it was time to go. So fast? We just got here.
My dad was already behind the wheel with the engine running. As we drove away, I asked, who were those people? My mom just said, "your cousins." When can we go back? No one said anything and we drove home in silence.
The summer of 1971 was drawing to a close, and I had a large and growing problem: Kosher, my pet pig. I was 16, and the pig had been a poorly-thought-through joke gift from my father. When he brought her home to our Manhattan apartment in June, Kosher — the name was also his idea — was a (sort of) cuddly pinkish-white football who fit into a shoe box and drank from a bottle.
Posted by: Marie at 7:45 PM |
Wednesday, March 05, 2014
We spent a lonely night
* Today's sunrise.
* Depression: Miles and miles of no-man's land.
Posted by: Marie at 9:32 PM |
Tuesday, March 04, 2014
These days, 12 years after the start of America’s longest war, far fewer U.S. troops are being killed or wounded in Afghanistan. The military’s drawdown has picked up pace, and Afghans have begun to shoulder the brunt of the fighting. But the war continues to churn out American casualties by the dozen each week. Their injuries rarely make headlines.
Posted by: Marie at 9:34 PM |
Monday, March 03, 2014
Bitter cold within
* Fascinating: What Happened to All the Snow?
* Days go by and still I think of you...................
Posted by: Marie at 8:43 PM |