tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45179759545257724902024-03-04T23:35:16.538-05:00Unfulfilled Expectations(C) Copyright 2010-2013. All rights reserved.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-67200325927886788962013-06-25T14:21:00.000-04:002013-06-25T14:21:45.879-04:00Tenacious G and the Vacationing Memory Cells<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Memory is a strange thing.<br />
<br />
The other day, I decided to visit my 87-year-old mother earlier than usual<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">—</span>we get together every Sunday<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">—</span>because her assisted-living facility was having a vintage car show with live music and food, and I wanted to get a parking space. They fill up quickly when there's a family event.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl26r5nMMKDWfdNZpn0Kszhwrgh7Ts2nXRDI6bWcpT5m2-9efdKBF_sw-7XFkd_Dcdw5cZ-5HtEDxr9TQyAQceWtBiw9-InOchMLBNjFxjCYxgJU78UdLnxi1o_XqPJ5ka8yU-q_Opflxz/s1600/IMG_3946.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl26r5nMMKDWfdNZpn0Kszhwrgh7Ts2nXRDI6bWcpT5m2-9efdKBF_sw-7XFkd_Dcdw5cZ-5HtEDxr9TQyAQceWtBiw9-InOchMLBNjFxjCYxgJU78UdLnxi1o_XqPJ5ka8yU-q_Opflxz/s320/IMG_3946.JPG" width="240" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom poses by a vintage car.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I knocked on her apartment door and she answered, surprised to see me at 11:30 a.m. instead of our usual after-lunch meeting time. I reminded her that there was a car show downstairs. I came early so I didn't have to park way down the road from her facility.<br />
<br />
"Oh!" she said. "Well that makes sense. But I have to go down to the dining room for lunch before we attend the party."<br />
<br />
"Okay," I replied. "I'll wait here until you're finished, then we can attend the party together." She agreed and left for the downstairs dining room.<br />
<br />
I sat on her bed and played card games on my iPhone and lost track of the time. I suddenly realized that more than an hour had gone by. The music outside was so loud that it filtered into the room. I decided to go downstairs to see what had become of my mother.<br />
<br />
When I walked outside, I saw her dancing in the street with her geriatric friends. I watched for a while and realized that the dining room was probably closed and she had gone outside, eaten picnic food and forgotten I was in her apartment. After the music stopped, I walked over to her and asked if she remembered I was waiting upstairs.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsndVKm7BnoO10WUwlzaSSb7dbzc9t0GHfU9-_flr63uauAHXxezHsTjWwMd16VK6Nc2U9tuOJHXMsJtFeaQOWL9rF6jD0Y0n3vfepOqFicAXKDogq0IdWV2M_7CLAqWzmYj1Bequm9pI/s1600/IMG_3961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsndVKm7BnoO10WUwlzaSSb7dbzc9t0GHfU9-_flr63uauAHXxezHsTjWwMd16VK6Nc2U9tuOJHXMsJtFeaQOWL9rF6jD0Y0n3vfepOqFicAXKDogq0IdWV2M_7CLAqWzmYj1Bequm9pI/s320/IMG_3961.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bell choir in action. Mom is in the middle.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
"Oh!" she said, "I forgot about that!" So we walked around looking at all the old cars and I took her picture next to a few of them. The band started up again, but Mom opted to sit in the shade with me until the Big Show. Just as she used to come see me in school productions when I was growing up, I now see her in assisted-living productions.<br />
<br />
As 2 p.m. rolled around, the activities director called her bell choir together and my mom took her seat in two rows of chairs that had been set up for them. The bell choir rocked to songs like "Good Old Summertime" and there was also a number where they all played the kazoo. Everyone was snapping pictures and the choir clearly enjoyed being the center of attention.<br />
<br />
I found myself quietly chuckling. Whatever possessed me to wait in her room for an hour when they were serving picnic food outside? I had passed the outdoor grills as I walked inside. <i>Was she the one with the bad memory or was it me? </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-33858372420923731922013-06-08T12:50:00.000-04:002013-06-10T10:14:30.747-04:00Toe Wars<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><span style="color: #660000;">Or, My Left Foot (the Horror Story)</span></b><br />
<br />
Last summer, I made the mistake of taking a discount cruise on the <i>Walmart of the Seas</i>. Well, okay, the ship was actually named the <i>Explorer of the Seas</i>, but when we got aboard we were horrified to see that it was populated by the <a href="http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/" target="_blank">People of Walmart</a>. Unfortunately, the most lasting souvenir I picked up on that tropical cruise was a foot rash.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyPzYTaY9reGTRfovr17k3buGxqx877DF9En52SHb0pZVyejbU3b0fWNmNU6ErE4Aso1xjZXX05wyT9OxhIYJ9ybRo0rLnLn3U1sZ8uFW7whS0uJJtZNiYItxm0EZtrCO0YrHVMvdVoThM/s1600/IMG_2339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyPzYTaY9reGTRfovr17k3buGxqx877DF9En52SHb0pZVyejbU3b0fWNmNU6ErE4Aso1xjZXX05wyT9OxhIYJ9ybRo0rLnLn3U1sZ8uFW7whS0uJJtZNiYItxm0EZtrCO0YrHVMvdVoThM/s320/IMG_2339.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My unsuspecting toes enjoying a relaxing moment by the pool.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I've never had a foot rash before, so I guess I just assumed, like most rashes, it would eventually fade away. Several months later, it was still camped out on the toes of my left foot. So in the early fall, I dragged myself in to see the doctor, who gave me a prescription for MUPIROCIN 2%. This was an antibacterial cream. There was only one problem with that. I did not have foot bacteria; I had a foot fungus. So after a month of using this cream with no results, disgusted, I called my <a href="http://www.janecicchetti.com/" target="_blank">homeopath</a>. By now, the rash was such a familiar feature on my left foot that I named it Melvin. It was a dysfunctional relationship; I wanted Melvin out of my life.<br />
<br />
I'd never had a rash last so long, so it made me feel old and depressed. Why was Melvin making my life so miserable? What did I ever do to deserve this scourge on my left foot? <br />
<br />
Winter was closing in as I spoke with my homeopath of 25-plus years. She is perhaps one of the most brilliant human beings on this planet and has never let me down, regardless of my niddling complaints. We spoke by Skype and she said the cause of any continuous rash was twofold. My body was not fighting it well and the topical eruption also needed to be addressed. It had to be battled inside and out. She gave me a constitutional remedy to bolster my immune system and diminish any tendencies toward yeast and other internal infections. Then she recommended I use Dr. Hauschka's organic Neem oil on the rash.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaD7gu2rHvOigxUP_XoefTbAXCMrJftg9zr1tQBNsB4Ns2bYHUoMTfmvordglwmh66Ms8IA7-T85n2JrplLc-yHKIzvHYHbtPHU_iH_EF7r-U4eKzWPpeqHpCEwROKjwDGqk2kxvqRi3JI/s1600/IMG_2739.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaD7gu2rHvOigxUP_XoefTbAXCMrJftg9zr1tQBNsB4Ns2bYHUoMTfmvordglwmh66Ms8IA7-T85n2JrplLc-yHKIzvHYHbtPHU_iH_EF7r-U4eKzWPpeqHpCEwROKjwDGqk2kxvqRi3JI/s320/IMG_2739.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This ship's painting turned out to be a depiction of my foot rash.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In Chinese medicine, the belief is that the longer a cure takes, the better it is. So I try to be patient when using natural remedies. A few months later, I observed that the natural remedies shrank the rash considerably, but did not get rid of it. Instead of applying Neem oil once a day, I decided to apply it morning and evening and the rash actually disappeared. Unfortunately, thrilled it was gone, I stopped treating it with Neem oil and a week later Melvin was back.<br />
<br />
As winter turned to spring, I decided to do some research of my own to see if there was something I could do in addition to my current Neem oil regimen that would tip the scales and chase Melvin out of town.<br />
<br />
First the inside: To further boost my immune system, I began juicing vegetables every morning. This had the added benefit of making me feel more energetic. Next, the rash: I tried a variation of a remedy that appeared over and over in my research. People with skin problems often convalesced near the ocean to bathe in seawater with very positive effects. However, I could not afford to spend a month by the sea. Instead, I reasoned, why not soak my left foot for a half hour every morning in Epsom salts? It was also recommended that after your foot was soaked that you dry it with a hair dryer to make sure the skin was not damp. After that, I added the Neem oil.<br />
<br />
So I did this for one week. Something I didn't realize<style><!--
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</style><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">—</span>although I should have since it is clearly stated on all packages of Epsom salts<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">—</span>is that it is a natural laxative. After one very uncomfortable week, I had to stop soaking my foot. However, during that unpleasant period, something magical happened. <i>My foot rash disappeared!</i></div>
<br />
That was two weeks ago. I am still coating my toes every morning and evening in Neem oil, but have not seen a sign of Melvin since then and I believe he finally hit the road.<br />
<br />
Thus, ends my cautionary tale of Walmart cruises, bare feet and fungal co-dependence. <i>May you never suffer the same.</i><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-36598831498259938962013-02-10T13:13:00.000-05:002013-02-10T13:13:08.942-05:00Death by Zumba<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Like many Americans, I have spent much of my life tethered to a desk to make a living. The problem with this is that, unlike people who work in construction or in other physically active jobs, you don't get much exercise. After a while, you get used to that and exercise becomes a real effort rather than fun.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just looking at this illustration makes me tired.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I didn't used to be that way. When I was younger, I enjoyed volleyball, baseball, lacrosse and soccer. Then I got married and had children, worked long hours and helped my offspring with their homework with my remaining waking time. Now my daughters are grown, so I thought I would use their homework time to go to an exercise class. A friend of mine, who is 69, suggested I join her for some Zumba classes at the local YMCA. I had no idea what Zumba was, but it was exercise, so it fit the bill.<br />
<br />
I arrived at class with my brand new sweat pants and stylish long-sleeve, moisture-wicking exercise shirt. A woman about my age from South America was the teacher that night. She was lively and cheerful. My friend warned me that I should stand up front near the teacher so I could see and follow what she was doing. So, fighting my urge to lurk in the back row, I took her advice. The class was made up of women ranging in age from their twenties to one woman who looked to be in her eighties. I fell somewhere in the middle.<br />
<br />
The teacher started the music. It was loud, fast and contained vocals in which men were crooning suggestive phrases about our body parts in English and Spanish. Our instructor began to dance/exercise in time with it and the class, including me, followed a beat behind as best we could. I swear that this incredibly lithe exercise guru had body parts moving that I have not yet discovered. I confided to another student that I felt like a "tight-assed honkie." Indeed, I was.<br />
<br />
Within minutes, I realized that the long-sleeved exercise shirt I was wearing<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">—</span>while trendy and moisture-wicking<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">—</span>was way too hot for this class. I was drenched and feeling overheated within minutes. Still, determined, I continued clumsily trying to copy the rhythmic footwork, kicking, twirling, gyrating motions led by our rubbery teacher.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture 60 to 90 minutes of the above with a middle-aged woman.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I only lasted for half the class then sat down on the floor to the side to watch everyone else until their self-imposed torture ended. I was exhausted, drenched and unabashedly panting. I'm a writer, dammit, not a Rockette. My 69-year-old friend, while somewhat damp, seemed to have weathered the experience much better than I. <i>Oh, the humiliation.</i> I comforted myself in the fact that she made her living in a more physical trade, massage therapy, so had not suffered the atrophy that we desk-jockeys endure.<br />
<br />
The next day, I was totaled. But as I dragged around the house groaning like a reenactment of a zombie movie, I comforted myself in the knowledge that maybe someday, perhaps before I'm 69, I will be able to last for the entire class without the urge to lie down on the floor and expire. For then, I will know that I have conquered Zumba rather than the other way around.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-52390217437120399082013-02-08T02:16:00.000-05:002013-02-14T00:08:50.497-05:00Tenacious G and the Facade Underneath<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Not all facades are on the outside, as anyone visiting a fancy lingerie department might attest. And such was my observation in the latest adventure with my 86-year-old mother, aka, Tenacious G, as we explored the seamy world of flamboyant undergarments.<br />
<br />
It all began when I stopped by for my usual Sunday visit and Mom announced that she needed to buy some new bras; her current ones were tattered. Could I take her to "The
Store?"<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGI99ehyphenhyphen1gZnbtLhajsViXZ9HtnZKA1Rh0lx7GHLN-iKGjxhOrYyVCJUWzdif2Yf2s6YkDpPESisIb896zaytJjX6gHd4KntzmyjcuZ7iBNJaHyikNUxbB09gXQSj0EhpiIpDkkl7Vf3vJ/s1600/rockaway-townsquare-03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGI99ehyphenhyphen1gZnbtLhajsViXZ9HtnZKA1Rh0lx7GHLN-iKGjxhOrYyVCJUWzdif2Yf2s6YkDpPESisIb896zaytJjX6gHd4KntzmyjcuZ7iBNJaHyikNUxbB09gXQSj0EhpiIpDkkl7Vf3vJ/s320/rockaway-townsquare-03.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I escorted her to my trusty 2001 Saturn
sedan and we drove to the mecca of everything underwear—the local mall. We
struck parking-lot gold with a coveted space relatively close to
the front entrance. It was a cold day, and I held her arm as we made our way to the front sliding-doors. <br />
<br />
Once inside, we passed through the beady, sparkly jewelry department and made
straight for the den of iniquity—the undies section. The lingerie department was very colorful, lacy and
a tad risqué. It was forested with vertical racks, blooming with undergarments
of every size and style, from modest white cotton to the most decadent G-strings
and taunting underwire bras.<br />
<br />
Mom grimaced and picked distastefully at the offerings, lamenting that
the underpants were too short and she wasn't interested in "those type of
bras"—she preferred something basic, thank you. It was an odd sight
watching a gray-haired octogenarian clad in a practical woolen coat pitted against the racy unmentionables that surrounded her. <br />
<br />
I asked her if she knew her size and she didn't. No matter. Her way of
solving the problem was to ask me my size and assume that she was a size or two
up from that. The overabundance of choices was a bit much for her, so I found
some racks that offered no-underwire bras in sensible colors like white or tan. I grabbed several for her to try on.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbszDGPAMkr28CxTbXvu8okymC33q4cUiMANsCDNNLFB7qg1cDrcOaB9SDtgu24R3ByaHDAJFOS_XT5cdFKTnKspHVUr53GK4ACE0Kf8UGpyy8DEoKbs3x8ukpDrMm9QNPcMr9jUpgpLet/s1600/lingerie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbszDGPAMkr28CxTbXvu8okymC33q4cUiMANsCDNNLFB7qg1cDrcOaB9SDtgu24R3ByaHDAJFOS_XT5cdFKTnKspHVUr53GK4ACE0Kf8UGpyy8DEoKbs3x8ukpDrMm9QNPcMr9jUpgpLet/s320/lingerie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
In her lumbering gait, Mom made her way to the dressing room to determine
what would fit. I stood outside the door and listened to the quiet rustling as she tried them on. The first items we chose were too big, so I went out to get the
same styles a size smaller, which fortunately, was a more common size. As fate
would have it, the style that fit her best was the only brand not on sale. She
wanted eight, so I gathered a bouquet of them and headed straight for the register while she was still in the dressing room. I knew there would be trouble if
my mother thought she was paying full price for these undergarments. She would
make a scene. But I wanted her to have some quality underwear so they would
last a little longer than the previous unraveling bunch.<br />
<br />
I explained
to the woman at the register that I needed to pay for the eight undergarments before my mother
emerged from the dressing room because the price would upset her. She smiled
knowingly, told me she had a coupon that could be used if I had a store credit card
and she reassured me that she would try to speed up the transaction. I think she
instinctively knew that this was in her best interest as well as mine. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh56-T_0PCRJyq3rvafv8ggQHGWcyzXYpB1LajI0jkgBQdYA6zbsH-OvZxjL5X132u5lSIMaKsVKgNvEhT5NTwHUdSwqvnSPoEqmzRhNqnd25wB11FdG8loXyjvo8Tki5sP7vhzyuJqlH-m/s1600/1930918-selective-focus-on-the-bra-of-a-mannequin-in-front-of-a-lingerie-shop-in-a-city.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh56-T_0PCRJyq3rvafv8ggQHGWcyzXYpB1LajI0jkgBQdYA6zbsH-OvZxjL5X132u5lSIMaKsVKgNvEhT5NTwHUdSwqvnSPoEqmzRhNqnd25wB11FdG8loXyjvo8Tki5sP7vhzyuJqlH-m/s320/1930918-selective-focus-on-the-bra-of-a-mannequin-in-front-of-a-lingerie-shop-in-a-city.jpg" width="320" /></a>The sale took a while longer than usual because I didn't have my store
credit card with me—the only way to get the discount—so she had to look it up
on the company database. She found it, but wasn't sure how to enter the coupon,
so had to flag down a passing supervisor. All the while, I could picture my mother slowly
reassembling her clothing, getting everything just so, picking up her sensible purse, leaving the dressing room and slowly plodding up to the register to claim her
purchase.<br />
<br />
The supervisor quickly entered the coupon and my mother received a substantial
amount off. Even with the discount, the final cost would be more than she
typically paid for underwear.<br />
<br />
Just then, I saw Mom leaving the dressing room and heading up toward the
register. I signed the credit card screen and pushed the green button to approve
the amount. It all seemed to transpire in slow motion like a scene from Reservoir Dogs except without the cool sunglasses. Mom was halfway there.
The register made a prolonged noise as it processed the transaction. Just as Mom reached the counter, the lingerie clerk tore the receipt off the register
and handed it to me. I turned to Mom and passed her the bag of bras, while deftly
stuffing the receipt into my purse.<br />
<br />
It was well-timed. Mom was satisfied. The lingerie clerk was
spared a public lecture about overpriced, shoddy merchandise. And I returned my mother to the comfort of her assisted living facility for dinner following a thankfully
uneventful shopping trip.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-6679568807097163042012-12-31T17:57:00.001-05:002012-12-31T18:26:10.258-05:00Tenacious G: The Eyes Have It<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve
decided that what’s wrong with our healthcare system boils down to two factors—my
mother and doctors.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">First, let's talk about Mom.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUGe0JPmZ_Qppz8geadc6efMf9oFbGEEQmiGdo0oL4dr0uEBb644v1WHJtMu-jdyIRmKyfAnO33ZouT1126Jz0tzNshvVmqavmpheBW3yXf1SiKjIJPb8KHI7iz7WuVoZ-UiG6Qr5d1m6/s1600/Grandma.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUGe0JPmZ_Qppz8geadc6efMf9oFbGEEQmiGdo0oL4dr0uEBb644v1WHJtMu-jdyIRmKyfAnO33ZouT1126Jz0tzNshvVmqavmpheBW3yXf1SiKjIJPb8KHI7iz7WuVoZ-UiG6Qr5d1m6/s200/Grandma.PNG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My 86-year-old mother nagged me for the better part of November to get her a new pair of eyeglasses because the old ones "weren't working anymore." Naturally, I'm not ethically able to accomplish this without the assistance of an ophthalmologist (aka, eye doctor). She had cataract surgery last year, so this problem should have already been cleared up. I responded as soon as I could. The challenge was finding a nearby doctor with an appointment time open in the same year that I was calling.</span></div>
<h1 style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Which
brings us to doctors.</span></h1>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrhWsfHOapj-4izVH43z6-ACWfDWCZgHaf811rUrmzA2Hm3PHpB0NT6-Rc6896YO4pmOdtD7s-7bByosw1DbsrXVDRmfgOr9XdXuBSUUkvE73VJjwpa2uXunu_he_ob7OHk2c7fhW94jl6/s1600/eye+doctor.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrhWsfHOapj-4izVH43z6-ACWfDWCZgHaf811rUrmzA2Hm3PHpB0NT6-Rc6896YO4pmOdtD7s-7bByosw1DbsrXVDRmfgOr9XdXuBSUUkvE73VJjwpa2uXunu_he_ob7OHk2c7fhW94jl6/s200/eye+doctor.PNG" width="191" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I made
an appointment with an ophthalmologist and after three weeks of waiting, we
arrived to get her glasses prescription checked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Flashback: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When I was a child, we went to an eye doctor who had a practice in his home, a
lovely Victorian house near Main Street in Boonton. We would sit in his parlor listening
to a grandfather clock tick until the patient before us was finished. There
were no televised commercials blaring. Just blessed silence. And the ticking sound. Then the eye
doctor would invite us into his examining room and spend the next hour with us.
He knew us by name and asked us how everyone in the family was doing. On the
way out, I got a lollipop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2QB3yS5_AnlTGFXnhBY3Zo7rFrNA28nWRyEQScLVeEKdfS1EgYnpJ496qnAtGkMO_Gei1TcziCuM4Pohh5boy5wS6dSXGcgH8spby1OCGc_V_s2Wdx7ulZ2rFPt-Iy2_PQFOhWEboz4LA/s1600/stock-footage-smiling-little-girl-looks-at-camera-and-eating-red-lollipop-on-white-background.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2QB3yS5_AnlTGFXnhBY3Zo7rFrNA28nWRyEQScLVeEKdfS1EgYnpJ496qnAtGkMO_Gei1TcziCuM4Pohh5boy5wS6dSXGcgH8spby1OCGc_V_s2Wdx7ulZ2rFPt-Iy2_PQFOhWEboz4LA/s200/stock-footage-smiling-little-girl-looks-at-camera-and-eating-red-lollipop-on-white-background.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Today,
eye doctors are strangers located in office buildings and deal in patient volume.
We stood in line for 15 minutes, much like is done at the Division of Motor
Vehicles, waiting to check in with the receptionist. Then we spent another 20
minutes waiting in a room packed with dozens of other patients before being
shown in to an examining room. Mom was complaining loudly and bitterly about
the wait time throughout.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Xdt8UVNz5xodKEcHSzLKQjQoKPhawR7ur0ZSTsulWrZGfUCSCaD2hDTd-ZvTi4r1uWCVKLP6FDztNYFwi1SVwD3pf_GCp6PUzNNYT1LKHQBV_kFddsAMT_1BV5ENP1rrHHZCMQnI1A32/s1600/3803_wait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Xdt8UVNz5xodKEcHSzLKQjQoKPhawR7ur0ZSTsulWrZGfUCSCaD2hDTd-ZvTi4r1uWCVKLP6FDztNYFwi1SVwD3pf_GCp6PUzNNYT1LKHQBV_kFddsAMT_1BV5ENP1rrHHZCMQnI1A32/s320/3803_wait.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patient volume is important. That means standing-room-only.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
examining room allowed Mom and me plenty of additional quality time until a
young girl with a perky smile came in and gave my mother several vision tests. Unfortunately,
the girl had a thick accent and I am hard of hearing, so it was difficult for
me to understand anything she said. She asked Mom a number of rapid-fire questions
about her eyesight and my mother had no idea how to answer the technical terms
that were being thrown her way. So, Mom denied having any problems whatsoever.
While this was happening, I experienced more flashbacks</span><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 15.833333015441895px;">—</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">this time, of her
nonstop eye complaints during the past two months.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
were escorted back into the standing-room-only waiting room where we sat for
another 15 minutes before being re-invited into a second examining room. Like
sands in an hourglass, more of our lives passed into a sandy lump of boredom.
Just as we were both about to doze off, the doctor swept into the room. He
reviewed what the young girl had written on Mom’s chart and asked Mom if she had any vision complaints.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Which
brings us back to the patient: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrtDzdSOgfrAMj-ddbgULxTppbTiPlZZq9zl8tLGCxtlY99-nPD1AZA5JFrkmHT3LuYE2Qjh87ut554a1fulBIXMKZqbD89TkzZU5zm2e7XzBiC5dks3cvlvzhuAepkj1XqiZvBuc9TsS/s1600/Peter-denies-Jesus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrtDzdSOgfrAMj-ddbgULxTppbTiPlZZq9zl8tLGCxtlY99-nPD1AZA5JFrkmHT3LuYE2Qjh87ut554a1fulBIXMKZqbD89TkzZU5zm2e7XzBiC5dks3cvlvzhuAepkj1XqiZvBuc9TsS/s320/Peter-denies-Jesus.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eye problems? Me? No way.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Like the
Biblical disciple, Peter, in the high priest’s courtyard, Mom denied her vision
problems a second time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“No,”
she replied. “I’m fine.” Mom comes from that generation of women who were
taught never to complain</span><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 15.833333015441895px;">—except to their daughters</span><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">. I reminded her that she was having problems seeing
out of one of her eyes and as a result wasn’t able to read as much or generally
see things when we went shopping.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She denied
this a third time, looking irritated, and I gave up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Which returns
us to the doctor: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
doctor smiled, peered intently at her eyeballs, then announced that in 30
percent of cataract surgeries, the eye clouds over, and that’s what happened to
her. The solution is a five-minute laser surgery that corrects it. Having
delivered his prognosis, he left as quickly as he had come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By
now, both Mom and I had lost interest in her eye problems. We just wanted to
leave. As the afternoon wore on, Mom’s primary concern became getting back to
her assisted living facility for dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcDxNUPo3FBarUUQC9FlQ1LrW27dwy21pkDVFjvdlSl273PNmMrsLQVRij6qPSMpJu-Y9RInxNP8vjkdqyB8l-vbJCxFkgF5tz4o-IUAlT_FPD9y_8ga7MDtBBaaxC80JFyAFP9-pUsXEL/s1600/kemp-tv-dinner-608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcDxNUPo3FBarUUQC9FlQ1LrW27dwy21pkDVFjvdlSl273PNmMrsLQVRij6qPSMpJu-Y9RInxNP8vjkdqyB8l-vbJCxFkgF5tz4o-IUAlT_FPD9y_8ga7MDtBBaaxC80JFyAFP9-pUsXEL/s200/kemp-tv-dinner-608.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dinner became Mom's focus.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This
day’s appointment had been for 12:30 p.m. and it was now almost 4 p.m. I must
assume that the eye doctor believed that anyone who had the audacity to
schedule an appointment with him was grateful to spend a half day playing
musical chairs in his office.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
young girl returned to fill out paperwork for my mother’s office surgery that
would take place in about six weeks. She asked my mother detailed questions
about her eyesight, trying to establish what needed improvement. Nothing,
according to my mother. The young girl flashed a disingenuous smile and told us
someone would be calling the following day to set up a surgery appointment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4ZQQQG5cTANJShpg2rF-K-K9F4yixq2rfjTwkW-QSGivbR-HCM43PA_Dz4-uX_Q7aBN-6-v0fDbEMWHalqbgxaXPK9JB2wvQjVYfByWNqDeSTEO1tUcL1T_BqnEnyNy1PyVsH2vkwZbE/s1600/waiting.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4ZQQQG5cTANJShpg2rF-K-K9F4yixq2rfjTwkW-QSGivbR-HCM43PA_Dz4-uX_Q7aBN-6-v0fDbEMWHalqbgxaXPK9JB2wvQjVYfByWNqDeSTEO1tUcL1T_BqnEnyNy1PyVsH2vkwZbE/s200/waiting.PNG" width="178" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Two
weeks later I received the call. In a month, she will have another opportunity
to spend the better part of a day with this doctor. We can only hope the
surgery will clear up her vision. I don’t know if we have the stamina to return
to his office again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-35336120700756819572012-12-15T19:13:00.002-05:002012-12-17T20:27:01.082-05:00Coming to Terms with the Unacceptable<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">When I heard
about the shooting at Newtown, Connecticut, my gut reaction was disbelief and tears.
I am a mother, after all. So, in a universal sense, those children were <i>my </i>children, too. My husband, on the
other hand, reacted in an entirely different fashion. He became very angry. He
wanted to find the parties at fault and punish them. <i>But who would that be?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRvwIPIoVf6PUlp5W9GJ4jz-rREfufbvoINdMkVnOCnGNjse0bjl9V_g_5oK9Eti3bTuI0nS9Hy1LshszLKaZwCB1r3S4FwyEE3BhoKrWcp7PSx_IpWJSoMDnIj9BfMFs-aL7aw7hvIlFi/s1600/Newtown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRvwIPIoVf6PUlp5W9GJ4jz-rREfufbvoINdMkVnOCnGNjse0bjl9V_g_5oK9Eti3bTuI0nS9Hy1LshszLKaZwCB1r3S4FwyEE3BhoKrWcp7PSx_IpWJSoMDnIj9BfMFs-aL7aw7hvIlFi/s1600/Newtown.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The carnage
at Sandy Hook Elementary School was heinous, but since Columbine in 1999, I
have seen too many mass shootings in the news to believe that any simple fix
will put an end to them. Even before the smoke clears, the news media begins
finger pointing. And the scenario always seems to go like this: Senseless
tragedy, news reports featuring the killer like a celebrity, political
pontification, days or weeks of analysis including a scorecard of number of
people killed in past shootings versus the current one, and finally, human interest stories that follow up on the
courage of survivors or lament lives cut short.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I don’t mean
to trivialize this terrible event. We all are going through a group grieving
process. And we follow these rituals to come to terms with what has happened.
What I do disagree with is the naïve notion that any one piece of new legislation or mental health band-aid will put
an end to this type of bloodshed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">It seems to
me that someone who murders groups of innocent people is already profoundly deranged.
Maybe they were born that way; maybe circumstances pushed them over the edge. It
surely differs from one instance to another. So, why can’t we stop these
madmen? Because of one simple fact—no one can ever truly know what is going on
in the mind of another human being. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Should we ban assault weapons? Makes sense
since they are not used for hunting. Would be a good start. But even in countries where people have no
access to guns, mass killings take place. In China, there have been a series of
grammar school massacres by disgruntled, knife-wielding perpetrators. Will more
access to mental health support solve the problem? Perhaps. Although many psychotropic drugs dispensed by
psychiatrists have side effects that can trigger aggressive behavior and
suicide. And if someone is psychotic, can any amount of care truly help them or must we just learn to identify them and remove them from society? Is it deficient parenting? We all try our best, but with the loss of
the extended family and the necessity of two parents in the workplace, parenting
is more of a challenge than ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_iEc4SdwW7P61qaXGThH-5aCaTudIqmGWv3UywOQVFmHtikDVJRzP6K57di-E5yQmJGki1LJ5JxDShPMSEolB5i8fzoMUYCYCbC_Y2jd_Uj4kQGWZnWsNQL3o2Ig9Rc8wTAsQgnDiNgS/s1600/wtnh_newtown_map_20121214101209_320_240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_iEc4SdwW7P61qaXGThH-5aCaTudIqmGWv3UywOQVFmHtikDVJRzP6K57di-E5yQmJGki1LJ5JxDShPMSEolB5i8fzoMUYCYCbC_Y2jd_Uj4kQGWZnWsNQL3o2Ig9Rc8wTAsQgnDiNgS/s1600/wtnh_newtown_map_20121214101209_320_240.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">We live in a
pressure-cooker society with long work hours, negativity-drenched media, a lack
of community safety nets and a hunger for simple kindness on an everyday basis.
None of this can be fixed by the federal or state government. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Only on an
individual basis can we begin to change our world. That may include turning off
vitriolic news commentators, building stronger relationships with family and
neighbors, and reassessing how we treat ourselves as a part of the global environment.
Everything we think, say and do shapes the world in which we live. Granted, individual
behavior shifts are also unlikely to deter all potential killers, but they represent
a first step at creating a world that is less likely to incubate them. And in
the meantime, it could make life more pleasant for the rest of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-84015971140059667682012-12-02T21:58:00.001-05:002012-12-03T15:08:31.252-05:00Shatner's World: We Just Live in It<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKpQpPXa4mqYlcJAb_ofxabz0jqown643XJdNDy5lejN6k51d9unIbL_fbr_X99v453XTX-SR-0NSFP8EKXgSZJrHhcM9xD5E_720EL3fCmZ7ZwfUczeRbdYtutBHAWCOhmOWv4KxrW-iA/s1600/IMG_3447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKpQpPXa4mqYlcJAb_ofxabz0jqown643XJdNDy5lejN6k51d9unIbL_fbr_X99v453XTX-SR-0NSFP8EKXgSZJrHhcM9xD5E_720EL3fCmZ7ZwfUczeRbdYtutBHAWCOhmOWv4KxrW-iA/s320/IMG_3447.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William Shatner reflects on life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In a
departure from its usual high-brow showcases of classical music, opera and
plays, this past Sunday the New Jersey Performing Arts Center hosted Canadian
actor William Shatner in a one-man show befitting his infamous humility titled,<i> Shatner’s World: We Just Live in It</i>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">As
admitted long-time <i>Star Trek</i> fans, my
husband, Stephen, and I couldn’t resist attending this gathering of gray-haired
geekdom. (I also must confess to a sneaking admiration for Shatner’s more
recent character, Denny Crane, from <i>Boston
Legal.</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When I
was a teenager, in the late 1960s, my friends and I were glued to the
television every Wednesday night when the original <i>Star Trek</i> television show was aired. We thrilled to watching
Captain James T. Kirk, his first officer, Mr. Spock, and their trusty crew careening
through the galaxy, sparring or smooching with aliens and attempting but
usually failing to follow the prime directive of noninterference with
indigenous cultures. This often resulted in the ship’s doctor, Bones, announcing,
“He’s dead, Jim.” as red-shirted ship’s crew collapsed around them. And who
could resist that well-oiled chest peeking out of Kirk's oft-ripped Federation
uniform.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But this
performance was not an homage to<i> Star
Trek</i> as much as a celebration of its famed over-acting star, William
Shatner. At a spry 81 years old, he was remarkably witty, philosophical and
engrossing to watch as he strode across the stage talking, and occasionally
screaming, for emphasis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7LZhGLfZwDp5Fsh_QTisoqLA6FKRseHpybgpcp_G4zCpVQe3239WB3Lyu2zPT5TNwz7ujClgaA5e1L8xfLO2bb8h7OxzKO7096ahfh6c2K_BAZlB3vjyffeZPGe8ROlQkjnmSUvhdoQEh/s1600/IMG_3452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7LZhGLfZwDp5Fsh_QTisoqLA6FKRseHpybgpcp_G4zCpVQe3239WB3Lyu2zPT5TNwz7ujClgaA5e1L8xfLO2bb8h7OxzKO7096ahfh6c2K_BAZlB3vjyffeZPGe8ROlQkjnmSUvhdoQEh/s320/IMG_3452.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shatner backed by his projected crew.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Shatner
began with a chronological sharing of his life and career, which was funny,
touching and thought-provoking. We learned such cocktail party trivia as the
last words of Steve Jobs, which were “Wow, wow, wow.” but with no certainty as
to if his dying statement was an expression of wonderment or trepidation. We
reviewed his career from stage to television to screen and heard many amusing anecdotes
related to each. We shared his love of horses, which brought him and his latest
wife (number four, I think) together. They’ve been married for 13 years, so it
would seem he has finally found some peace in his personal life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">At the
end of the performance, he offers a projected collage of scenes from throughout
his long life and makes the point—obviously important to him—that no one should
ever expect him to save the world or look upon him as an authority figure. “I’m
only an entertainer,” he reminds his audience. Indeed, that’s true. And as his
fan-base slowly filed out of the auditorium there was a satisfied consensus
that he was correct. William Shatner is an entertainer—<i>and a very accomplished
one at that.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-77239141921743718862012-11-03T01:53:00.001-04:002012-11-03T01:53:47.646-04:00One Wedding and a Frankenstorm<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">T</span>his is a tale about true love and the ravages of climate
change. <br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGY2wyiDh_YEHuCdDFHW9ER8rfs8OuYGYhA3Og9CLE59ktsUigjJFEpVNIDD0xeGvYiyWPI5ZVoDYbhABCR4NbHxtBkIs5AjeDSkYF21HyZs5I3GHuMENfmZwt7Xfhz0w8C4HK1lf6tMLX/s1600/IMG_3264.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGY2wyiDh_YEHuCdDFHW9ER8rfs8OuYGYhA3Og9CLE59ktsUigjJFEpVNIDD0xeGvYiyWPI5ZVoDYbhABCR4NbHxtBkIs5AjeDSkYF21HyZs5I3GHuMENfmZwt7Xfhz0w8C4HK1lf6tMLX/s200/IMG_3264.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">F</span>irst, picture a young couple, very much in love, who have
spent the last year planning the perfect wedding in Newark, Delaware, 147
miles away from our home in the Garden State of New Jersey. It will be an idyllic
affair. The bride is a statuesque blond and the groom, tall and athletic. The
event is being held at a country club that sits on the edge of a pristine golf
course with green, rolling hills. The bridesmaids will be wearing midnight-topaz
blue dresses and the ushers will be attired in dark suits and ties. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">C</span>elebrants will be served
a several-course dinner and will dance the night away to the strains of loud
and well-played live music.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLv6Y-uDxWfZs2PxSZpSER_4LYAi33RWXqFN09P2A1059smgsWGtluJx-3c1ldtdQaNM7ZpqJ06ueTj0hcx5ALsEAOTUiS5lTQrxOY1gRVkWxL8N2b5KptVrC84FrB906BvM7V0wti_f-/s1600/IMG_3362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLv6Y-uDxWfZs2PxSZpSER_4LYAi33RWXqFN09P2A1059smgsWGtluJx-3c1ldtdQaNM7ZpqJ06ueTj0hcx5ALsEAOTUiS5lTQrxOY1gRVkWxL8N2b5KptVrC84FrB906BvM7V0wti_f-/s200/IMG_3362.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">N</span>ow picture that this unsuspecting couple has planned the
most important day of their lives on the same weekend that an evil Frankenstorm
named Sandy is plodding its way up the coast, leaving a trail of
devastation and death in its wake. Lifetime vows are being made and guests are whiling the
evening away like a reenactment of the Titanic as The Storm of the Century is
darkly closing in. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">M</span>y husband, Steve, and I had traveled 90 minutes by train to
attend this lovely affair. We arrived on Friday midday. The wedding would be
the following night. We began to realize as the shuttle pulled up to our hotel
that we should be buying supplies—like food, bottled water and bandages—back in New
Jersey to weather the storm. It also became apparent that our Sunday afternoon
train back home might be cutting things a bit close. So I called Amtrak and
rescheduled for a 9 a.m. train instead. This would have us back home in Jersey
by midday Sunday.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">O</span>n Saturday, as we were strolling around Newark, taking in
the sights of this quaint little college town, my daughter, Chelsea, texted me
to find out if I would like her to bring some wood in for our new wood-burning
stove in case the power went out during the storm. I texted back, yes, and can
you buy us some bags of ice for a cooler and several jugs of water as well?
Sure, she said. Later that day, she texted back a photo of empty shelves at the
local grocery store. A panicked population had cleaned out everything on the
shelves. Oh well. It was nice of her to think of us since she no longer lived
at home.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrjG_vh0bM47mmAIhdG7Ag8R23x1g553ZCOSVANCIo_7fBExPvg1_q-01-1d3OB_hpQwbjoL-0kDEyygrFNVXAW42f9InvEH1sAmJ4wWfuJwyZZblbdOS_B0wZuVHAmiBnXREbtUAcW8B/s1600/IMG_3271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrjG_vh0bM47mmAIhdG7Ag8R23x1g553ZCOSVANCIo_7fBExPvg1_q-01-1d3OB_hpQwbjoL-0kDEyygrFNVXAW42f9InvEH1sAmJ4wWfuJwyZZblbdOS_B0wZuVHAmiBnXREbtUAcW8B/s400/IMG_3271.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd7CU9Rkx-FDKiwWVAFwsIXRakAff-o6U2x4mwPGTNswBjjNYg-EAWBAkUCxq5077brDaOMCmHLSX1tgcVGNF0upRmJWOTGQFg6QZo-u-PC92IymWejbb_vhFgTs9yBGdqUgCyCPOgLyOW/s1600/IMG_3335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd7CU9Rkx-FDKiwWVAFwsIXRakAff-o6U2x4mwPGTNswBjjNYg-EAWBAkUCxq5077brDaOMCmHLSX1tgcVGNF0upRmJWOTGQFg6QZo-u-PC92IymWejbb_vhFgTs9yBGdqUgCyCPOgLyOW/s200/IMG_3335.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">T</span>he wedding went off as planned. The couple looked like
Barbie and Ken. I cried as they came down the aisle past us to start their life
together as husband and wife. How did this cute little two year old I'd watched in play group grow up so
fast to become a lawyer and married woman? We left the wedding at 10 p.m. and
returned to our hotel to pack. A taxi was picking us up at 7:45 a.m. the
following morning to get us to the train station in Wilmington, about 20
minutes away from our hotel.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">W</span>hen we woke up the next morning, I switched on the
television and noticed on the news reports that Amtrak had canceled all service
between Chicago and Washington. I became worried that our train might also be
canceled, leaving us stranded in Delaware with no food, water or accommodations
as Sandy curled her powerful arms of destruction into the area. I called
Amtraks’ automated line and a robotic Julie answered, saying there was no
information on the status of our train. She mechanically suggested I speak to
an agent. So I called to speak to an agent and left my phone on speaker so I
could get ready to leave the hotel while waiting for someone to answer. Repetitive messages cheerfully reminded me that I could go onto the Internet to find out train status, which turned out not to be true. I waited for 60 minutes for someone who was "busy with
other customers" to answer. They never did. Finally, as we pulled into the train station, I hung
up and hoped for the best.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgticzyGNcno0k-68u2b5ThsVId9YvZMDHUZDnBA_IklIJNtciDlnTdRL49YmlMnDkOENSiSGIMlBouvJLlxtEmAx3BBbchrEDidGBvYcpd2QczurBIBbz-j921-rtyg1aOdbrfiPLI6ASS/s1600/IMG_3405.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgticzyGNcno0k-68u2b5ThsVId9YvZMDHUZDnBA_IklIJNtciDlnTdRL49YmlMnDkOENSiSGIMlBouvJLlxtEmAx3BBbchrEDidGBvYcpd2QczurBIBbz-j921-rtyg1aOdbrfiPLI6ASS/s400/IMG_3405.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I</span> put my credit card into the ticket machine and it spit out
two Amtrak passes. Then we went over to the ticket window to ask if our train
was still running. The clerk smiled and said, yes, it was running and on time.
It rolled into the station as 9 a.m., as promised. We gratefully boarded with gray clouds and wind at our backs, leaving us with a neurotic sense of impending doom.
We arrived in New Jersey at 10:15 a.m., located our car and sped back home. The
skies were steel-colored, but no wind or rain was yet in the area. After stopping at
home to feed the cats (our daughter had fed them while we were gone), we went directly to the local grocery store where they
were restocking water jugs. We bought some and returned home to fill the
bathtub—not sure why—and cook soup and muffins (two important staples during
adverse weather events).</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdTB-icehaki2DWfDLktDBwWZMRNzyhCYrP9sNQAZAAaxBNh7D-IAFus9fAWl2q-hrx9Nkbb8As_GzycSmcybIlUfonVIQPXw_Plmax9Re2PNdDExuGjK_8bCRxXvkfM7HwUOi2Lf59puS/s1600/hurricane-sandy-gif.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdTB-icehaki2DWfDLktDBwWZMRNzyhCYrP9sNQAZAAaxBNh7D-IAFus9fAWl2q-hrx9Nkbb8As_GzycSmcybIlUfonVIQPXw_Plmax9Re2PNdDExuGjK_8bCRxXvkfM7HwUOi2Lf59puS/s320/hurricane-sandy-gif.gif" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">T</span>he storm finally hit Monday night. We were texting
relatives and friends to make sure everyone was okay. One by one, everyone
began to lose power. We were one of the last to go dark late Monday evening.
Winds picked up, sounding like a freight train passing our windows. We had
already fired up our wood-burning stove before the lights went out, so were
toasty warm. I had also bought a battery-powered lamp last year after an unprecedented Halloween blizzard had left us without
heat or light for a week. So this year, we were prepared. We sat by the light
of our 1000-lumen lamp, playing bingo and eating muffins. (Before judging us, please bear in mind our age.)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_fopWY2bi3qHQ3VXDdbtJs3Fylv6aaKnQcc4-zaWdZvC0-iFJM-VU1_mamN9oOSUB9eEe5Z2De4WiulVpH0hTUtIK9Eb1kSuet97xWL3m34kT_ChJrhLVuZOiFiatS_eD2JU35BlM6WP9/s1600/IMG_3420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_fopWY2bi3qHQ3VXDdbtJs3Fylv6aaKnQcc4-zaWdZvC0-iFJM-VU1_mamN9oOSUB9eEe5Z2De4WiulVpH0hTUtIK9Eb1kSuet97xWL3m34kT_ChJrhLVuZOiFiatS_eD2JU35BlM6WP9/s320/IMG_3420.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">T</span>he following morning, we had no idea what had happened as
we had no power and no Internet. Steve walked outside to survey the yard. No
trees had fallen, but a large branch had bounced off his car’s windshield,
leaving a sizable spider web of glass. After some brief cursing befitting an
Italian, he adopted a Zen viewpoint about it. Compared to what other people
most likely had suffered, it was relatively benign.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">D</span>uring the day, our power would come back for two minutes,
giving us a brief snippet of television news, then die again for hours. This
peep show of events revealed that much of our beloved Jersey shore had washed
out to sea and some areas of inland flooding had occurred. Most deaths were due
to fallen trees. This on-and-off power tease went on throughout Wednesday as
well. Some of our family and friends got their power back; some were still in
the dark like us. On Thursday morning, Steve found out the power was back where
he worked, so I drove him in as his car was at the dealership getting a new
windshield. The office where I was working freelance was still closed,
curtailing my income for the week. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrR9Nh8Uhrq_I-BA3wBTXb5ikMOXviNMTlFGvZBvpJgnNPePo2fmkrneWdvCJIt2t-kHI-sBpzmhEXgc60pqxCPipUk9RbUy45tHqc35iqrVPnxLx9vL_IkE1JgFO4DJ0X573XKblHoqvh/s1600/r-HURRICANE-SANDY-LOSSES-large570.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrR9Nh8Uhrq_I-BA3wBTXb5ikMOXviNMTlFGvZBvpJgnNPePo2fmkrneWdvCJIt2t-kHI-sBpzmhEXgc60pqxCPipUk9RbUy45tHqc35iqrVPnxLx9vL_IkE1JgFO4DJ0X573XKblHoqvh/s400/r-HURRICANE-SANDY-LOSSES-large570.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">F</span>ortunately, Thursday night, our power came back. Now we were faced with another barrier to our livelihood. Our cars were running out of gas and so were the local gas stations. I had the option of working from home, but Steve didn't.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>o ends the tale of one wedding and a Frankenstorm. True love and true destruction. We knew that eventually things would return to normal—until next year.</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-9674657227834979012012-10-21T00:23:00.000-04:002012-10-21T00:23:04.662-04:00The Phantom Cell Phone<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Recently,
my husband, Stephen, was driving to work when a police officer pulled him over.
This, in itself, is absurd. My husband motors like a grandmother. He always goes
the speed limit and is the safest driver—irritatingly so—that I have ever
known. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhba5ONIeVK4hCPrJg70TCgTPEKW-6jZKpAlyLjOQZWCyHIJflFXHTgaQGi8fnqKc4mYB9o6IAGzBbVAD035gmXA2Kh4AikWsMUZEN8aCmpG11W2541TSgp9vx3gDgjR3D6bMDueyGhJ72z/s1600/20100701033406texting_while_driving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhba5ONIeVK4hCPrJg70TCgTPEKW-6jZKpAlyLjOQZWCyHIJflFXHTgaQGi8fnqKc4mYB9o6IAGzBbVAD035gmXA2Kh4AikWsMUZEN8aCmpG11W2541TSgp9vx3gDgjR3D6bMDueyGhJ72z/s200/20100701033406texting_while_driving.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So when he rolled down the window of his 1995 Beretta to talk to the
police officer, he told him that he couldn’t imagine why he was being pulled
over. He knew he wasn’t speeding. He knew his car was well-maintained. He knew
he hadn’t broken any laws.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
officer smugly replied that he had seen my husband texting—and that is against
the law. My husband responded by laughing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Why
would an otherwise model citizen laugh in the face of the law? You would have
to know a deep, dark secret about Stephen to understand why. He is not like the
rest of us. He doesn’t own a cell phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNl_AuO3Jqhhk5lrNIyCdPrL13NTyU7bHXUiw81XNNRAN70Fz-SeSyjmFnyUMCwjvLz97BOxBqz7YLD7OfU2FFxchd1fYAiWWPYxq1MXdVCr9syw0Y4tlz4xa-S0BeR_6YrGWc4sGPlHwU/s1600/Thai-Police-Officer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNl_AuO3Jqhhk5lrNIyCdPrL13NTyU7bHXUiw81XNNRAN70Fz-SeSyjmFnyUMCwjvLz97BOxBqz7YLD7OfU2FFxchd1fYAiWWPYxq1MXdVCr9syw0Y4tlz4xa-S0BeR_6YrGWc4sGPlHwU/s320/Thai-Police-Officer.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
officer insisted he saw him texting and Stephen stated that, quite simply, that
was impossible. When Stephen finally convinced the man in blue that he lived
his life without a cell phone, the officer expressed shock at how he could
possibly survive. Stephen said, quite well, and he had no desire to
jump on the 24/7 communication bandwagon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He drove away without a ticket—and after having received a cheerful apology. This experience, however,
calls into question how valid any ticket written for texting truly can be if a
man who doesn’t own a cell phone is pulled over for such an infraction. Maybe our law
enforcement community could use some sobriety tests of their own—or at the very least, some
eye exams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-2415285379254808052012-09-30T19:44:00.000-04:002012-09-30T19:47:03.796-04:00Walking the High Line<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqo2G3Dssfr7PHTKQ_V-t7Sr9V2GXZIKDT1ZoUaKR89UowdYNiLQA1tvo5cKbJO6Bnfq6VTkEC4TR51YrFSWzmW-5WRfQgQvNkylX0LC9A0c9rqgFzUA_tQa0PmEGeeILxvZXaKP-cYih/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-09-30+at+12.11.21+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqo2G3Dssfr7PHTKQ_V-t7Sr9V2GXZIKDT1ZoUaKR89UowdYNiLQA1tvo5cKbJO6Bnfq6VTkEC4TR51YrFSWzmW-5WRfQgQvNkylX0LC9A0c9rqgFzUA_tQa0PmEGeeILxvZXaKP-cYih/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-09-30+at+12.11.21+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yee-ha! Manhattan cowboy! (Courtesy www.thehighline.org)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">One of the items on my
local bucket list is walking on the High Line in New York City. This past
Sunday, my immediate family and I did just that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;"></span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">For those of you not from the New York City area,
here’s a little history on the High Line, courtesy of <a href="http://www.thehighline.org/">www.thehighline.org</a>.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">The High Line was built in the 1930s, as part of an
infrastructure project called the West Side Improvement. It was an elevated
freight rail line that operated 30 feet above street level, removing dangerous
trains from the streets of Manhattan's largest industrial district. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaAPh4J1-bdt0tDy53aLYjHxR6KHbpA2FtVVSiwv_xXnfrqvI6kkgKF3lpazKrw_7d5luOLgMCUD_-JTrutQLk1NRBChfKBByvZIHhmh_NMNBY7Wr-NoOhqHCUlGlTe2pwPVYTppoeGaim/s1600/IMG_3123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaAPh4J1-bdt0tDy53aLYjHxR6KHbpA2FtVVSiwv_xXnfrqvI6kkgKF3lpazKrw_7d5luOLgMCUD_-JTrutQLk1NRBChfKBByvZIHhmh_NMNBY7Wr-NoOhqHCUlGlTe2pwPVYTppoeGaim/s320/IMG_3123.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Tahoma;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">The original train lines, constructed in 1847, were built at ground
level. Unfortunately, from 1851 to 1929, so many collisions occurred between trains
and street-level traffic that 10th Avenue became known as
Death Avenue (very Goth). For safety, men on horses, called the West Side Cowboys, would ride
in front of trains waving red flags (see above photo). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-no-proof: yes;"></span><span style="font-family: Tahoma;"></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPCvtOrFy8_Zmyx2ge-N0wDYJrZcPpHPMh0qYvn1Azd8P6BYNG3kL6WBuNwCWn02uL7JTRGKiybpOuIsQOXiOkYMLtceXZQvO1NFccC2Vh3vgIaS6jYnygy1cI7ScaQy4Pz7se1-M7Ok5/s1600/IMG_3127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPCvtOrFy8_Zmyx2ge-N0wDYJrZcPpHPMh0qYvn1Azd8P6BYNG3kL6WBuNwCWn02uL7JTRGKiybpOuIsQOXiOkYMLtceXZQvO1NFccC2Vh3vgIaS6jYnygy1cI7ScaQy4Pz7se1-M7Ok5/s200/IMG_3127.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">After years of public debate about the hazard, the
City and State of New York and the New York Central Railroad agreed upon the
West Side Improvement Project, which included the High Line. (Back in the day when
building/maintaining infrastructure was seen as a good thing.) The
entire project was 13 miles long, eliminated 105 street-level railroad
crossings and added 32 acres to Riverside Park. It cost over $150 million in
1930 dollars—more than $2 billion today. </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiya89oBuyIkeXHTyQ0CWJJJuSO4Z2Qk1KRQnTwRBvFzvloauoVY017Qd_7rWlhN-q0Aa9zi9nkQ167npja-KvsRk9p3ibEbpy5jCSbWvQ42fDXDi6VJCRJrHyi4cGqZXQc-Qzdm-ik_eAf/s1600/IMG_3132.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiya89oBuyIkeXHTyQ0CWJJJuSO4Z2Qk1KRQnTwRBvFzvloauoVY017Qd_7rWlhN-q0Aa9zi9nkQ167npja-KvsRk9p3ibEbpy5jCSbWvQ42fDXDi6VJCRJrHyi4cGqZXQc-Qzdm-ik_eAf/s320/IMG_3132.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Residents decorate windows for passers by.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In 1934, </span><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">the High Line opened,
running from 34th Street to St. John’s Park Terminal at Spring Street. It
connected directly to factories and warehouses, allowing trains to roll right
inside buildings. Milk, meat, produce, and raw and manufactured goods were
transported without causing street-level traffic.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Unfortunately, the advent of the car and its corollary, the truck, had a
chilling effect on mass transportation. As</span><span style="font-family: Tahoma;"> interstate trucking grew in the 1950s, the volume of rail
traffic dropped in New York and nationally. In the 1960s, with our usual panache for
disregarding history and razing everything in sight, the southernmost section
of the High Line was demolished. The last train ran on the remaining tracks in
1980. Ironically, it was pulling three carloads of frozen turkeys.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9PrtUMofrKsuz6MQ5WMshHBaufiHt2Ouot-mD9qwpVG5pLfyXX0XxpL6kVsCGmGSCIr9OCLQnKe2h8eVJWVQTDWHJkJmnDNW4F6I5s5V6VEgeQ1FLx-5LY0yxPTP40k9ZRmJQLGydxBSY/s1600/IMG_3151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9PrtUMofrKsuz6MQ5WMshHBaufiHt2Ouot-mD9qwpVG5pLfyXX0XxpL6kVsCGmGSCIr9OCLQnKe2h8eVJWVQTDWHJkJmnDNW4F6I5s5V6VEgeQ1FLx-5LY0yxPTP40k9ZRmJQLGydxBSY/s320/IMG_3151.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Architecture along the park is fascinating.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">No trains have run on the High Line since. Fortunately,
a group of New Yorkers had a vision for the derelict tracks, which were under the threat of demolition in the late 1990s. What they proposed was to keep the structure, which was essentially
sound, and turn it into a park. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGgCJNKl2G2-b6PV1rNzUQ9w0kDwHPCM_gNW0PvmW_RVbe0b91Au3ZgMvkd3rVTxGoP74q7u78RkVpOKeNJUsG1PKU_UAS1HOhyQkPaFRtWbBA1HrvDobEdnJMz2DKiX243SfpsS9o3Ua/s1600/IMG_3190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGgCJNKl2G2-b6PV1rNzUQ9w0kDwHPCM_gNW0PvmW_RVbe0b91Au3ZgMvkd3rVTxGoP74q7u78RkVpOKeNJUsG1PKU_UAS1HOhyQkPaFRtWbBA1HrvDobEdnJMz2DKiX243SfpsS9o3Ua/s200/IMG_3190.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A drummer enjoys the day.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">The project gained the city's support in 2002. The
High Line south of 30th Street was donated to the city by CSX Transportation
Inc. in 2005. The design team of landscape architects James Corner Field
Operations, with architects Diller Scofidio + Renfro, created the High Line's appearance with guidance from a community of enthusiastic High Line supporters. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Construction
on the park began in 2006. The first section, from Gansevoort Street to West
20th Street, opened June 9, 2009. The second section, from West 20th Street to
West 30th Street, opened in spring, 2011. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm03TyjIAu271LsM1zv9umVp_Nv1oygywvDpR6wez65vjfgPlD99MNOoH_OYlrD3_2wGexxXwPQ07DKBsO6DSj13njfGxmiiDHt-cw0mZG_XgVn3meXJOa7HL0QuCoUZyDXbcnblerR56s/s1600/IMG_3161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm03TyjIAu271LsM1zv9umVp_Nv1oygywvDpR6wez65vjfgPlD99MNOoH_OYlrD3_2wGexxXwPQ07DKBsO6DSj13njfGxmiiDHt-cw0mZG_XgVn3meXJOa7HL0QuCoUZyDXbcnblerR56s/s320/IMG_3161.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One section of the High Line has windows out onto the street.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Elevated rail platforms are being converted into
parks in other cities as well. </span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The city of Paris successfully
converted a similar rail viaduct into an elevated park called the Promenade
Plantée in 1993. Projects similar to the High Line are in early stages in St. Louis,
Philadelphia, Jersey City, Chicago and Rotterdam.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIaD9Gt2RYQI0Qmx7qA96nKGRZHh-BDEZy-scwy8GRj_nQ4Rout3qmZL_0iNwwgy0Limc5x8KaRxlIJWkDkYCoqv13RqdAzRDcsEvTENBjN8znkt6R9Rcdh2kH1o22dgUWMyb0q8mLCi0Q/s1600/IMG_3204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIaD9Gt2RYQI0Qmx7qA96nKGRZHh-BDEZy-scwy8GRj_nQ4Rout3qmZL_0iNwwgy0Limc5x8KaRxlIJWkDkYCoqv13RqdAzRDcsEvTENBjN8znkt6R9Rcdh2kH1o22dgUWMyb0q8mLCi0Q/s200/IMG_3204.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">About one third of the remaining track remains undeveloped. While
the High Line's use as a park is secure below West 30th Street, the future of
the northernmost section, around the West Side Rail Yards, depends upon plans
now being developed by the State-run MTA and a private
developer. This section of the High Line (West 30th Street to West 34th Street) may be fully preserved, altered or removed. As someone who has had the
opportunity to enjoy this wonderful park, my vote would be to expand the park
rather than remove the tracks. After all, the platform is structurally sound
and architecture of this magnitude is unlikely to reappear any time soon. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEzNI8OWFVq0vGH6ZsleugB8tSc0ZIZqVTZgwpAzATxHGjM2m2n3tgGIgB0dUyS-NIz5szJNmIJcmnPPcJG6iIeIenbexQlMDZLP98x9B5rqzEEyi-pHbbybeTk2KtUPUWaUBAdL4P-d6k/s1600/IMG_3166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEzNI8OWFVq0vGH6ZsleugB8tSc0ZIZqVTZgwpAzATxHGjM2m2n3tgGIgB0dUyS-NIz5szJNmIJcmnPPcJG6iIeIenbexQlMDZLP98x9B5rqzEEyi-pHbbybeTk2KtUPUWaUBAdL4P-d6k/s640/IMG_3166.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Statue of Liberty peeks through the opening to the right.</td></tr>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-66317424095501786532012-08-23T11:59:00.000-04:002012-08-23T12:01:29.578-04:00Reclaiming the Community We Always Wanted<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I remember my father telling me that when he was growing up,
his family—that had emigrated en masse from Hungary—grew a lot of their own food on
their small lot on Washington Street in Boonton, New Jersey. They had fruit trees, they had trellises of grapes from which
they made their own wine and they grew vegetables and herbs. Some of their neighbors had
chickens. They kept pigeons, which apparently were good eating. They also had a
root cellar for storing some of their crops for the winter. And it was a big
day when the outhouse was replaced by indoor plumbing.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHZ42eX5dptFTPq8VCehKHMvuNjLE1rQ61-2O1Xwz785H1HzE3e2slBrWhgFFJ6Q_Jw5TbUvf5rG4JUlqtPBPKpTWCuIhIS2wrWdVGTFIjMHGo9EhQ83yQGLCQgOMvAkoc5p_ihATOtc9/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-08-23+at+10.16.38+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHZ42eX5dptFTPq8VCehKHMvuNjLE1rQ61-2O1Xwz785H1HzE3e2slBrWhgFFJ6Q_Jw5TbUvf5rG4JUlqtPBPKpTWCuIhIS2wrWdVGTFIjMHGo9EhQ83yQGLCQgOMvAkoc5p_ihATOtc9/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-08-23+at+10.16.38+AM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad's old homestead courtesy of Google Maps Street View.</td></tr>
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My father said that he and his friends once got in
trouble because they were caught overturning outhouses on Mischief Night before
Halloween. There was no television, so people in the community used to get
together for dances and socialize. He said that everyone truly wished the best
for everyone else because getting by was so hard. I used to think that all of his tales
of life before and during the Depression were all so strange and old-fashioned.
Not anymore. </div>
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When I was very young, my father, like most people, walked every day to his local job. When the car
became the norm, people ceased walking and drove to their jobs and everywhere
else. They no longer needed a community. Or so they thought. Now
I don’t want to upset anyone with predictions of doom. Things are happening in
this country, but gradually, so there is plenty of time to make adjustments if
you should choose to do so. Here are a few things you may want to consider.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i style="color: #990000;">“This
world of ours... must avoid becoming a community of dreadful fear and hate, and
be, instead, a proud confederation of mutual trust and respect.”</i>–Dwight D.
Eisenhower</span></div>
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Food</div>
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<br /></div>
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If you follow the news, you may have noticed a corn drought in
the U.S. Corn is an essential staple in our country because it is used for
animal feed. The prices of corn have skyrocketed since
there is so little of it, so farmers who would normally grow other crops, such
as wheat and soybeans, are switching to corn to make more money, thus causing shortages of other crops. Frankly, I
have no use for corn, whether it is for human consumption or fed to the
livestock we eat, because most of it in this country is genetically engineered
(GMO), but that is another blog altogether [<a href="http://jersey-rants.blogspot.com/2011/06/waiter-theres-fish-in-my-tomato.html" target="_blank">click here to read about tha</a>t]. The
point is, that due to that drought, produce and livestock food prices will be
going up.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Energy</div>
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<br /></div>
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I can only remember one or two blackouts all the years I was
growing up. It was a rare event. In the past few years, power outages have
occurred with disturbing frequency. When the power goes out, so does the heat,
hot water, light and cable internet/television/telephone. You can sit in the
cold dark and twiddle your thumbs. Last October, when it was 50 degrees, our
power was out for a week. Not cold enough to freeze to death, but not all that
comfortable either and a lot of our freezer/fridge food went bad.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Jobs</div>
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<br /></div>
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Like so many Americans, my husband and I have jobs where
there are no vacation days or holidays. I am a freelance writer and he works as
a retail manager for a locally owned business. If we get sick or otherwise
can’t work, we don’t get paid. So how do we afford things when our budget gets
lean?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Finding Alternative Ways to Live</div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYM0NbJgsM-b1VpyqhVRMKJXC93C7J_GS3tdtwUPXy9_tQbk_vojrmKn25SLgA1Iy-EVyhs88UTEel_M5JJ95rcb8bCzEkYuUluk07lgLmNvUz6aGd0wkY63cowWqWABO1zE6rgRUjg8XR/s1600/IMG_2936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYM0NbJgsM-b1VpyqhVRMKJXC93C7J_GS3tdtwUPXy9_tQbk_vojrmKn25SLgA1Iy-EVyhs88UTEel_M5JJ95rcb8bCzEkYuUluk07lgLmNvUz6aGd0wkY63cowWqWABO1zE6rgRUjg8XR/s320/IMG_2936.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our garden features high deer fence, foot-deep groundhog deterrent.</td></tr>
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So with food and energy sources being threatened, and jobs
being moved overseas, what can the average person do? Well, it’s not easy to
find affordable alternatives, but a few of them are out there. </div>
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<br /></div>
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We buy most of our produce from a local organic community-supported
farm. To find one in your area, go to <a href="https://www.biodynamics.com/csa.html">https://www.biodynamics.com/csa.html</a>. In exchange for buying a share of the farm in installments, we get whatever the farmer
produces that year. So no matter how scarce food may be in the parched Midwest or how high transport costs are for food grown overseas, we have
a supply of produce throughout the year from a local source. We also built a
critter-proof (we hope) garden in our backyard this year where we will try to grow as much
food as we can using non-GMO heritage seeds. We also plan to learn canning
although, sorry Grandma, that may have to wait for next year. We can only
handle so much transition at a time.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjB1CeiRb3W7ZyvpIxFBJfkCdhhO1njxmQiMRQl7n2J6la9Ye06aKt3Dpk_7PkJ_eqDvTTcV_NAaxrQ_UkpJGPD45w5QRESCZk5F39bKEokd9j30NmQGb_1Mz_xKlA9WPU85cT8auCx0Wd/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-08-23+at+10.13.38+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjB1CeiRb3W7ZyvpIxFBJfkCdhhO1njxmQiMRQl7n2J6la9Ye06aKt3Dpk_7PkJ_eqDvTTcV_NAaxrQ_UkpJGPD45w5QRESCZk5F39bKEokd9j30NmQGb_1Mz_xKlA9WPU85cT8auCx0Wd/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-08-23+at+10.13.38+AM.png" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meet our alternative to expensive oil heat.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><i style="color: #990000;">“The way you get meaning into your life is to devote
yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and
devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.”</i>—Mitch
Albom <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span>
We cannot afford solar or wind energy. Right now, they are
not priced for the average person. We decided, instead, to get a wood-burning
stove to provide us with heat when the power inevitably goes out and to lower our insane oil bills. We chose a wood-burning stove over a pellet stove because pellet stoves require electricity to work. We chose cast-iron over steel because most reviews I read by users favored it for radiant heat that was not too overpowering. You can also put a tea kettle on top of it for hot water. I hope we can learn to properly use
the damned thing so that our house doesn’t fill up with smoke or burn down.
Wish us luck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I joined a nearby time bank where you can exchange your skills
or talents for other people’s services to save money on, say, home repairs or
pet sitting or learning how to can food. See <a href="http://timebanks.org/">timebanks.org</a> for one in your
area. Also, we ask our family, friends and neighbors for help when we need it,
something we were too proud to do in the past (not sure why). We intend to help
them as well if they ask for anything. That's what community is all about.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNASXRnRwHrNeQNMknuU0OoPNxD8hgPjwPqLCIRY96RM0e0yFRSCoB_Ia0EPvNAT8s3EuXNW6kaiF1ztcMjIC7117rURLsTBxkeFFmnWAEFXfFAIP-Iub2Zcj34W20ZPrqRh823k9nuIMM/s1600/530115_474948912524776_253274351_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNASXRnRwHrNeQNMknuU0OoPNxD8hgPjwPqLCIRY96RM0e0yFRSCoB_Ia0EPvNAT8s3EuXNW6kaiF1ztcMjIC7117rURLsTBxkeFFmnWAEFXfFAIP-Iub2Zcj34W20ZPrqRh823k9nuIMM/s400/530115_474948912524776_253274351_n.jpg" width="285" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I used to think that survivalists were crackpots. Not any
more. Our government is corrupt and our economy has been hijacked by crooks in
the financial industry and by the multinational corporate mafia. People like
the Koch brothers (Google them) call the shots in Washington and elsewhere. They
are not great humanitarians.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
One of my old high school friends who migrated to California
posted a manifesto on Facebook with advice (see poster above). It may not be all
that far off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
I don’t know what the future holds, but I think if the
average person bands together with their family, friends and neighbors—as they
did when my father was young—we can definitely learn from each other, survive quite well and rekindle the sense of community that has long been lost from our society. Maybe, in the long run, our world could end up being a better place.</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-1137967522845760502012-08-11T14:27:00.004-04:002012-08-12T12:13:50.568-04:00Terracotta—More Than Just Cookware<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjC6N2WT9xFK2Ls3YiEadft4sPlAZDlehUZy9vyoDHm0hDWNsMFxpA7iVcpFswQw2faGY0cC9YDxLL4dbE4gMfWH88C2bXITHgdtXThaK4-eSrwNOgQFDYCLU4xrwA4nobdCMT2sFEohQT/s1600/IMG_2851.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjC6N2WT9xFK2Ls3YiEadft4sPlAZDlehUZy9vyoDHm0hDWNsMFxpA7iVcpFswQw2faGY0cC9YDxLL4dbE4gMfWH88C2bXITHgdtXThaK4-eSrwNOgQFDYCLU4xrwA4nobdCMT2sFEohQT/s320/IMG_2851.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Terracotta warrior stands guard over the museum.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt;">More than 2,000 years ago,
the first emperor of China, Qin Shi Huang, decided to build a necropolis filled
with life-sized minions so he would have subjects to protect him and rule over
after he died (<i>a necessity for any self-respecting despot</i>). As the most powerful
man in China, he had the clout and resources to create this city of the
dead, which included more than 8,000 soldiers, 130 chariots, 670 horses and a
throng of obsequious civilian officials, acrobats, strong men and musicians. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt;">Today, the clay army in
that tomb is known as the Terracotta Warriors and fortunately, an exhibit of them
is currently on loan to a museum in New York City. Steve and I decided to visit
that venue, the Discovery Times Square Museum, to see this unparalleled
expression of funerary art. </span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQUygC_1pdOP4lbhXHLGTamCsrcfM6QTLoMxF3ODMAR4R6p8g06Xb-TEGv0z0MEWSsRv4ymIakh8f7P-evRCOKsGh4zZKskUJNUixsz3ZtvQ-SQjTV9vprZ0ynUi7Md0SBUdO4cj86yVFx/s1600/IMG_2853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQUygC_1pdOP4lbhXHLGTamCsrcfM6QTLoMxF3ODMAR4R6p8g06Xb-TEGv0z0MEWSsRv4ymIakh8f7P-evRCOKsGh4zZKskUJNUixsz3ZtvQ-SQjTV9vprZ0ynUi7Md0SBUdO4cj86yVFx/s320/IMG_2853.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Ed's ancestor warily watches passing tourists.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt;">Emperor Qin ascended to
the throne when he was 13 years old and, no doubt tapping on his adolescent angst, proved to be a powerful leader. Within
the space of his lifetime, he unified seven warring states into the seed of
what is now known as China. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt;">As the story goes, the emperor was afraid of death
and constantly trying magic elixirs to achieve immortality. Eventually, around
210 BCE, he died anyway at the age of 49, most likely from the mercury contained
in some of those potions. But before he passed on to legend, he ordered some 16,000
workers (<i>700,000 according to ancient historian Sim Qian, perhaps exaggerating a tad</i>) to create his necropolis where he was buried.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkniyE65bXaCdKDsiD72R7wMX_DZSBxaydaJIbr-qZjn8l1xFYMjJh3kWUto_jA1maX_HgzFyVTkVE62RIEPVWqkSw7XM4CYdgKV0tLgR9QoEasOuMXyLaKVMHZgA9K3898G_SLYcxhcXf/s1600/IMG_2840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkniyE65bXaCdKDsiD72R7wMX_DZSBxaydaJIbr-qZjn8l1xFYMjJh3kWUto_jA1maX_HgzFyVTkVE62RIEPVWqkSw7XM4CYdgKV0tLgR9QoEasOuMXyLaKVMHZgA9K3898G_SLYcxhcXf/s320/IMG_2840.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><style>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Drums
meant charge, and bells, like </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">the
one above, sounded retreat.</span><span style="font-family: Tahoma;"></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The emperor died while touring his vast kingdom. His Prime
Minister, Li Si, who was traveling with him, decided it would be dangerous to
let people know he was dead because it might trigger a general uprising in the
Empire. (<i>Apparently, not everyone was a fan of his unification project.</i>) </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Unfortunately, the emperor and his entourage were two months
away from the capital when he expired, so only some subtle ingenuity would
cover up that fact in the sweltering heat of summer. Most of the imperial
entourage was not told of the emperor's death. Only a younger son, a trusted
eunuch, Li Si and five or six other carefully chosen confidants knew. </span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXyjace9kTlBHZh83j6R8VmyCoMWngsZ_dCH_AuYUotPFlRaHdPukx4YOEH_fo2-zFSgeaJJSa_pCxpntPXV62hcUms3aNrGWQzAA9JIe9rg215LieMiVpiZRMRVy4oHohKdVIr2q3qIe/s1600/IMG_2859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXyjace9kTlBHZh83j6R8VmyCoMWngsZ_dCH_AuYUotPFlRaHdPukx4YOEH_fo2-zFSgeaJJSa_pCxpntPXV62hcUms3aNrGWQzAA9JIe9rg215LieMiVpiZRMRVy4oHohKdVIr2q3qIe/s320/IMG_2859.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I swear this warrior's eyes kept following me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Li Si ordered that two carts loaded with rotten fish be
carried immediately before and after the wagon of the emperor. What better way
to prevent people from noticing the foul smell emanating from the wagon of the emperor, where his corpse was happily decomposing in the summer
heat? A shade was drawn on the emperor’s wagon, so no one could see his face.
They also changed his clothes daily (<i>must have been a fun job</i>), brought food
and conferred with him on important issues. (<i>This may be an early competitor for
the Vacations from Hell competitions held annually by certain travel websites.</i>)</span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR0kUnkAK6NMIpA9cgvNyE20pKMxIpRPHFLsYwWYIdrcFW4_5d2caMBLHdaRgBK6wmLWAKnNA2qKRWZco8jCXRK4j6GOIuINzLmOQtD07EHUAFsF7D8peP37OIf8ZRJNoLpyQovn3ea8dx/s1600/IMG_2868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR0kUnkAK6NMIpA9cgvNyE20pKMxIpRPHFLsYwWYIdrcFW4_5d2caMBLHdaRgBK6wmLWAKnNA2qKRWZco8jCXRK4j6GOIuINzLmOQtD07EHUAFsF7D8peP37OIf8ZRJNoLpyQovn3ea8dx/s320/IMG_2868.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smaller warriors from a later emperor.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt;">Interestingly, a year
before the emperor died, a large meteor is said to have landed in a province
near the lower reaches of the Yellow River. On it, an unknown </span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt;">and perhaps hostile </span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 12.0pt;">soothsayer
inscribed the words "The First Emperor will die and his land will be
divided.” Unfortunately, this got back to the emperor who was none too happy
about it. He sent an imperial secretary to investigate this prophecy and when
no one in the area would own up to having etched it on the stone, everyone
living nearby was put to death (<i>thus proving that old realtor adage of “location,
location, location”</i>). The stone was then burned and pulverized.<sup> </sup>Sadly
for the emperor, this precaution was ineffective. He died the next year and
through some treachery, his younger son became the next emperor. The son proved
to be a rather incompetent ruler and the prophecy came true. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpCDb9mwt7aHjQmINu6Qc2TIRfGGN7ekbqpwK1FQQo3sotfYYsJ12-vPERCZ1n6-OSuS2Eoo8bXNjYtMeXZl7bAWeO19Vhb4vyTyYRi4pzFSmVjJDc56XKsARouoDVDofh1gR04smOzfW/s1600/IMG_2876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpCDb9mwt7aHjQmINu6Qc2TIRfGGN7ekbqpwK1FQQo3sotfYYsJ12-vPERCZ1n6-OSuS2Eoo8bXNjYtMeXZl7bAWeO19Vhb4vyTyYRi4pzFSmVjJDc56XKsARouoDVDofh1gR04smOzfW/s320/IMG_2876.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbie-sized warriors from a later dynasty.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">According to historian Sim
Qian, who lived from </span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">145–90 BCE, the second emperor of China decided that after
his father died, it was time to do some housecleaning: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“<span class="reference-text">The Second Emperor said: ‘It is inappropriate for the
wives of the late emperor who have no sons to be free,’ ordered that they be
put to death, and many died. After the burial, it was suggested that it would
be a serious breach if the craftsmen who constructed the tomb and knew of its
secrets were to divulge those secrets. Therefore after the funeral ceremonies
had completed, the inner passages and doorways were blocked, and the exit
sealed, immediately trapping the workers and craftsmen inside. None could
escape.” </span></span></i><span class="reference-text"><span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Basically, it may have been
good to BE the emperor, but not necessarily to marry or work for him. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijqQhjzP_ocBX6TXhI-mO03bjwOqsXYhDZSvIibllvW0ARgvjZl_3YFSDZVrVQcc5fufYMRWJXR6VfRHsbm5NYIVNH-sU9m_gCTJajmGMO7PDE0QGlxFvn7gSjPBQ_IeAFK_m_PZhoCZAw/s1600/IMG_2890.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijqQhjzP_ocBX6TXhI-mO03bjwOqsXYhDZSvIibllvW0ARgvjZl_3YFSDZVrVQcc5fufYMRWJXR6VfRHsbm5NYIVNH-sU9m_gCTJajmGMO7PDE0QGlxFvn7gSjPBQ_IeAFK_m_PZhoCZAw/s320/IMG_2890.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lanterns light the way at the Chelsea Market.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">The tomb was planted over
with vegetation, so it would resemble a nonassuming hill. As a result, it lay
undiscovered for more than two millennia until a local farmer, digging a well,
found it in 1974.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">After wending through this fascinating exhibit, Steve
and I capped off the day by having a late lunch at The Green Table at the
Chelsea Market—great organic, locally grown food—and then we sat in a park and
watched a man create really big bubbles. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4XXncTeobXtNl0_6JmHEIOHzqYqoMmxV47Pf4bbd66nC-zvo1omsEFdYZqV1Cys0qecdJXQ_ZlDXko3GZVK7RwLyt-wyV4LXHkRwEUt_kMV39d82S9l_zQqkUCMztYM1QxQVvuY9c6Fg/s1600/IMG_2905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4XXncTeobXtNl0_6JmHEIOHzqYqoMmxV47Pf4bbd66nC-zvo1omsEFdYZqV1Cys0qecdJXQ_ZlDXko3GZVK7RwLyt-wyV4LXHkRwEUt_kMV39d82S9l_zQqkUCMztYM1QxQVvuY9c6Fg/s320/IMG_2905.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing says New York like bubbles in the park.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Such was our foray into the city. First we spent the better part of the morning peering more than two thousand years into the past. Then we whiled away an hour watching mammoth bubbles float up into the air, pop and vanish</span><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">. All in all, a day layered with the essence and absurdity of </span><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">transience.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;"></span></div>
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-85986523465406287662012-07-30T21:56:00.000-04:002012-08-12T12:13:00.558-04:00Tenacious G: Swinging With the Methodists<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4WpPesbIh4wxEovDR3CnW_v9dzk4rd5DR1Y1E8pOubrWjTIDukHlS0AuoYlucfC19tuyIx53OU5W1_sfuEPQP6OGpHMWuljmIPE_R0PbYRbjknhFxyZniJOZbq2YfD5nX066HORb5gMT/s1600/IMG_2818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4WpPesbIh4wxEovDR3CnW_v9dzk4rd5DR1Y1E8pOubrWjTIDukHlS0AuoYlucfC19tuyIx53OU5W1_sfuEPQP6OGpHMWuljmIPE_R0PbYRbjknhFxyZniJOZbq2YfD5nX066HORb5gMT/s320/IMG_2818.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tenacious G(randma) shares her wisdom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Often, the older a person gets, the louder and less inhibited their comments tend to become in public places. They have grown old and wise, and now they want to share that with everyone within earshot.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Such is the case with my mother, aka, Tenacious G. She is 86 years old and ready to let anyone she encounters indirectly know how she feels about their tattoos, ("Why do people do that to themselves?"), mode of dress ("You can see up her shorts when she bends over, and it's not a pretty sight.") or whatever else ruffles her sensibilities.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Every Sunday during the summer, I take Tenacious G to free concerts sponsored by our town and area donors. If it's a sunny day, we take our portable chairs and sit in the park with our water bottles. Thankfully, in this wide-open setting, her sage comments fade on the wind. If it rains, however, the area United Methodist Church graciously hosts the concert in its building, which unfortunately has outstanding accoustics.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCb2Ar07u1vq7PAzefVCLhfEbBeY8NMU26sIjUcjL3-i_OfUVe9MMVgpbQN5ttmrnfKGeXAYKka-jvx_DXg3BJp00_tHgvDhSFErBOn6ihg993hyphenhyphenFyslwo7GbX2DzFYl8ZjtZnr38o71TG/s1600/IMG_2819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCb2Ar07u1vq7PAzefVCLhfEbBeY8NMU26sIjUcjL3-i_OfUVe9MMVgpbQN5ttmrnfKGeXAYKka-jvx_DXg3BJp00_tHgvDhSFErBOn6ihg993hyphenhyphenFyslwo7GbX2DzFYl8ZjtZnr38o71TG/s400/IMG_2819.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sax player dons a stylish black hat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This week, I took Mom to see a swing band. While the musicians were tuning up, she loudly announced that the drummer in the band looked like a woman. I quietly informed her that, no, he was a man. When she insisted that the drummer was a woman, I decided it was safer to agree. We were sitting in the pews of a church and her voice carried quite well.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Just as I was beginning to relax, she informed me and the surrounding community that the saxophone player should take his hat off since he was in a church. Then she modified her stance. He was dressed in black and wearing a black hat, so, she said, "He must be Jewish. If he's Jewish, he can wear his hat."</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"No, the hat he is wearing is part of the swing dress style," I said. Big mistake. <i>When will I learn?</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"No, he's Jewish," she insisted a notch up in volume. Mind you, she is not antisemitic. Despite being an evangelical Christian, her late husband was Jewish. She just wants the world to share in her astute observations, as her mother did before her.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Finally, the band started up and played some wonderful swing classics. They were scheduled to perform from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m. Around 4 p.m., Tenacious G pointed to her watch. She had to get back to her assisted living facility for one of the highlights of the day</span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">—</span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">dinner.</span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2ocX2IWiHMDE8ebuSyn3IiPL8OwevqmCfKvly0sdYdmyhGPHejeMa21Nkrao0m5lMRfL3mq0N6d9OEw60X7sorjR8SaQgCzK2mjipr_HtrPimtPB8mcqx8_xZyLM8cgPVclNX4ZwEgPR/s1600/IMG_2809.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2ocX2IWiHMDE8ebuSyn3IiPL8OwevqmCfKvly0sdYdmyhGPHejeMa21Nkrao0m5lMRfL3mq0N6d9OEw60X7sorjR8SaQgCzK2mjipr_HtrPimtPB8mcqx8_xZyLM8cgPVclNX4ZwEgPR/s320/IMG_2809.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The raucous crowd breaks out into spontaneous dancing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">We were sitting up front. I suggested that we wait until the band finished their current number before we noticeably got up and walked down the aisle of the church to the parking lot. She agreed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On the way home, she smiled sweetly and said that she had really enjoyed listening to the band and was looking forward to the Oldies band playing next week. I was, too.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Hopefully, next Sunday, it would be a nice, sunny day in the park.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-66524258172473303942012-07-16T19:58:00.000-04:002012-07-16T19:58:57.996-04:00Communing With St. Thérèse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCJpi4SwyHPIiruGAdGI8E4bwP4u5jK3m-pOIBin6szWbY5tLM65kkcRz2hnVjkrJ4F0RCXMSdX11oayJ_VKdHiwGPFahJQyA0ZjM4musjRNSVcMyiBwepmcc7JiZ_uegaSueVvqWhpON/s1600/IMG_2790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCJpi4SwyHPIiruGAdGI8E4bwP4u5jK3m-pOIBin6szWbY5tLM65kkcRz2hnVjkrJ4F0RCXMSdX11oayJ_VKdHiwGPFahJQyA0ZjM4musjRNSVcMyiBwepmcc7JiZ_uegaSueVvqWhpON/s320/IMG_2790.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rosary hangs near the chapel's altar.</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Having grown up in Boonton,
New Jersey—a working-class town—I always thought of nearby Mountain Lakes as
being the place where the rich people lived. What I didn’t know was that it was
also the site of St. Thérèse of the Little Flower shrine—a little-known pocket
of peace hidden down at the end of a sleepy dead-end lane. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I’m not Catholic, so why bother visiting such a place? Curiosity. It was the site
of a local miracle and I wanted to see the place for myself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">The Story of Achille Arci</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">The small shrine represents
a promise kept by Achille Arci back in the 1920s. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Arci became very sick and was
told by physicians bereft of bedside manner that he was incurable. Arci didn’t
want to accept that prognosis, so he prayed fervently to St. Thérèse for help.
He promised her that if he was cured, he would build a shrine in her honor and
visit her home in France to pay his respects. Apparently, St. Thérèse liked
that idea, because after a five-year battle with his illness, Arci was suddenly
and miraculously cured.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPYiQqLeOrUJ4Ug9HV1hvlBsmKGKSAbmzORjsdYC-BWueJXKELHjZ9xmEYGbbHJr-d3zbIi93fihnCkydXCv7T1FZ0SWAhr-9ulZOKa4ChBmHxQkVjjG2N4OGV6bZHWUdfR7uVuoU4P2N1/s1600/IMG_2785.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPYiQqLeOrUJ4Ug9HV1hvlBsmKGKSAbmzORjsdYC-BWueJXKELHjZ9xmEYGbbHJr-d3zbIi93fihnCkydXCv7T1FZ0SWAhr-9ulZOKa4ChBmHxQkVjjG2N4OGV6bZHWUdfR7uVuoU4P2N1/s320/IMG_2785.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stained-glass windows grace the two side walls of the shrine.</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Keeping his promise would
require the help of friends. He formed a small society of devout Catholics to
build a modest shrine to St. Thérèse. The group solicited donations and
volunteered labor to make the small shrine a reality. In 1933, it was
erected on what was then Arci’s property. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">In October 1952, Arci
traveled to Lisieux, France to visit St. Thérèse’s home. When he returned, he
continued tending to the shrine until his death in 1957. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggV6L0Es-ahnGFxn9NHxyydj6JzKtLFu6s9KKoDLc7Efzi2055nyellWLX6dwksYepyR-Da7uRvUQIqGBXufi_If1CYw0o6HXoyUeebokC5RtUCarT1kCqC-SWkGdwoOLMVgHiI4OH6DGG/s1600/IMG_2800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggV6L0Es-ahnGFxn9NHxyydj6JzKtLFu6s9KKoDLc7Efzi2055nyellWLX6dwksYepyR-Da7uRvUQIqGBXufi_If1CYw0o6HXoyUeebokC5RtUCarT1kCqC-SWkGdwoOLMVgHiI4OH6DGG/s320/IMG_2800.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A halo of bricks encircle the front door.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">The shrine
property ownership was eventually transferred to Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church in Boonton.
Arci’s family continues to maintain the grounds in loving memory of their
father and out of their devotion to St. Thérèse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Who Was St. Thérèse?</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Not being Catholic, I had to do some research to find out about the woman behind the saint. St. Thérèse of Lisieux was
born in 1873, the same year a cigar-chomping President Ulyesses S. Grant was presiding
over a post-Civil War United States.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Born Marie-Françoise-Thérèse Martin, she was
a French Carmelite nun. Perhaps due to her sense of religious commitment at an
early age, she is also known as “The Little Flower of Jesus.” In 1888, at the age of 15, she became a nun
and joined two of her older sisters in the cloistered Carmelite community of
Lisieux, Normandy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">During her nine years as
a Carmelite nun, she wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Story of a
Soul</i>, a collection of autobiographical manuscripts. In
1897, she died of tuberculosis at age 24, at which time her writings
were printed and distributed. They quickly spread, making her one of the most
popular saints of the Twentieth Century. She was beatified in 1923, and
canonized in 1925. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">The Shrine in Mountain
Lakes</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY7H32_JbEvrPE10rjm90lytwoXpBSk5RbRXT0jJeqwxwUDk7Ha-nBNBJ4CAGWEqwCcjREJgvejNVwZDicFxfpfJNidM3rKoQusewMOSO89SCXuimeiryIAnmOaVIFSylpO4uvtMbTzAzK/s1600/IMG_2794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY7H32_JbEvrPE10rjm90lytwoXpBSk5RbRXT0jJeqwxwUDk7Ha-nBNBJ4CAGWEqwCcjREJgvejNVwZDicFxfpfJNidM3rKoQusewMOSO89SCXuimeiryIAnmOaVIFSylpO4uvtMbTzAzK/s320/IMG_2794.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: inherit;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Thérèse smiles down on everyone who enters.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Thanks to Google Maps, my
friend, Zoë, and I were able to find Rock Lane, a small side road off of the
main Boulevard in Mountain Lakes. At the entrance to Rock Lane is a modest sign
for the shrine. We drove up a hill through a residential area and at the end of
the road sat a small white chapel with a halo of bricks encircling the front
doors. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Inside, were five or so
rows of folding chairs facing an altar. And in one corner of the room was a
large statue of St. Thérèse, holding a bouquet of roses and smiling down at us.
A donation of 50 cents was suggested to help maintain the shrine. I lit a
candle for my deceased relatives. Then I used the
suggested prayer to ask for personal favors. Since I prayed for four people—asked
for four favors—I left four donations.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Zoë and I sat there for
about a half hour, enjoying the peace of this local, out-of-the-way gem. The
names of families I had grown up with in nearby Boonton were listed at the
bottom of the stained-glass windows on both sides of the chapel. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I guess it might not be
the type of sight that would be listed in the entertainment section of the
local newspaper, but it was a serene diversion for one humid, summer afternoon
in the ritzy wilds of Northern New Jersey.</span></div>
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-7572298008348431542012-07-07T01:11:00.000-04:002012-07-07T01:11:26.481-04:00Dismembered Medicine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i style="color: #990000;">“Despite all our toil and progress, the art of medicine
still falls somewhere between trout casting and spook writing.”</i>—Ben Hecht, <i>Miracle
of the Fifteen Murderers</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWm7TaFanANRheYNDKdcOLAcs0ssf1Efdt78IOgIFQ1qDPFd7aVocV5c5Ut0xkhpJ29kj3qY-_dewQsxQUK1bBsYqB_l5syScYODOfhyqUEoGSV2n1JAaBxCJcJUUqhHf8LJQ2dEF_-NZ/s1600/IMG_1467.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWm7TaFanANRheYNDKdcOLAcs0ssf1Efdt78IOgIFQ1qDPFd7aVocV5c5Ut0xkhpJ29kj3qY-_dewQsxQUK1bBsYqB_l5syScYODOfhyqUEoGSV2n1JAaBxCJcJUUqhHf8LJQ2dEF_-NZ/s320/IMG_1467.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom makes friends with another patient.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">As the official booking
agent and taxi service for my 86-year-old mother’s numerous doctors’ appointments,
I have noticed something peculiar about our medical system. Our doctors tend to
be parts-specific. Let me explain.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I asked my mother’s primary
care physician’s assistant, Karla, about intestinal bleeding my mother was
experiencing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It rightfully upset my
mother. Karla recommended I take my mother to a gastroenterologist because she
was not qualified to comment on intestinal bleeding. She also recommended I
take Mom to a cardiologist since she has a pacemaker, and Karla is apparently
not qualified to make any observations about the cardiovascular system. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i style="color: #990000;">“It is a mathematical fact that fifty percent of all doctors
graduate in the bottom half of their class.”</i>—Author Unknown</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">So I made an appointment
with these specialists. After weeks of waiting, we first visited the gastroenterologist, who reviewed my
mother’s list of medications and looked disgusted when she saw she
was being given baby aspirin once daily. She called Mom’s assisted living
facility and had them discontinue the aspirin immediately. Soon the bleeding
stopped.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Next, we visited the
cardiologist, who read my mother’s records, then commented that she noticed that
my mother was taken off of her baby aspirin—a necessity for her heart health. I
pointed out to her that while my mother used to take the aspirin, due to
intestinal bleeding, a gastroenterologist highly recommended that we
discontinue that medication. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i><span style="color: #990000;">“One doctor makes work for another.”</span></i>—English Proverb</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">The cardiologist strongly
disagreed with this because she was not concerned with my mother’s digestive
tract, just as the gastroenterologist had not been concerned with my mother’s
heart health. You see, doctors only focus on whatever dismembered section of
the human body that they are trained to treat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">This means that specialists
don’t tend to concern themselves with the body-wide consequences of a
treatment, as long as their particular section of the anatomy is following AMA
guidelines. This is how my mother ended up having a brain hemorrhage back in
2004. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i style="color: #990000;">“Poisons and medicine are oftentimes the same substance
given with different intents.”</i>—Peter Mere Latham</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjczUPhXfNfqmtDpFBt_HEOHFwvIrM-luWxFnUhqbelb6zLYgm53AL2R9DG4lMOq2RgfbU-flbN4YkvpuXPPmowbgQbRykEBRrWYL7nU3ZY4Lgv99HOjHVPVcAxqLUAaHqs7_fJVEhi2LXh/s1600/IMG_2221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjczUPhXfNfqmtDpFBt_HEOHFwvIrM-luWxFnUhqbelb6zLYgm53AL2R9DG4lMOq2RgfbU-flbN4YkvpuXPPmowbgQbRykEBRrWYL7nU3ZY4Lgv99HOjHVPVcAxqLUAaHqs7_fJVEhi2LXh/s320/IMG_2221.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Her cardiologist at the
time was obsessed with the statistical fact that someone with atrial fibrillation
has an increased chance of stroke, so they should be given a blood thinner
(which is actually a derivative of rat poisoning) to keep that clot from
forming. Unfortunately, while the blood thinner effectively prevented a blood
clot from developing, it caused the opposite, a brain hemorrhage, to happen.
Had my mother not been taking anything at all, she may or may not have
developed a blood clot, but she most certainly would not have had a brain
hemorrhage. Her brain hemorrhage is what the medical profession refers to as a
trade-off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Most studies that support
the medicating of patients are sponsored by drug companies. It is in their best
interest to justify long-term therapies because these regimens offer a constant
stream of drug revenue. Doctors tend to take these studies very seriously because
they are just about the only source of science available in their field. The consequence
is that people are often prescribed ongoing drug regimens that may or may not
be in their best interest. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i style="color: #990000;">“A drug is that substance which, when injected into a rat,
will produce a scientific report.”</i>—Author Unknown</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Only after many years of
study, usually by the manufacturer of a competing medication or due to numerous reports of death or side effects to the FDA—do we find out
that, say, certain painkillers cause strokes or certain blood pressure
medications don’t really work and can damage the kidneys. Some adjunct drugs
for cancer were actually shown to make the cancer worse rather than the other
way around. A recent study refuted, once and for all, the theory that gum
health is related to heart health. It isn’t. Period. So any doctor who tells
you it is, has not read the latest studies showing that the original study was based on flimsy evidence<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that was essentially invalid. How many years did any of these revelations take? In
some cases, up to a decade or longer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">So when my mother’s
cardiologist protested that Mom be put back on the aspirin, I understood her
very real concern, but told her that I would prefer to err on the side of less
medications rather than more. My personal rule at this point is, if the drug
causes problems, I don’t care what benefit it offers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i style="color: #990000;">“Never go to a doctor whose office plants have died.”</i>—Erma
Bombeck</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Perhaps, someday, Western
medicine will learn to look at the entire human body rather than pretending
that it is divided up into numerous discreet sections. When that enlightened
day dawns, I will relent to the advice of a holistic practitioner. Until then,
as the official advocate of my family members’ health, I will be operating
under a strictly patient-beware policy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-82775031692626214282012-06-26T10:37:00.001-04:002012-06-26T22:58:45.299-04:00Tenacious G Descends into the Bowels of Wal*Mart<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</style> <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I don’t mean to sound self-righteous, but one store I vowed
I would never enter in this lifetime was Wal*Mart. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
Without going into gory details, Wal*Mart has been accused of
operating in a way that increases government welfare spending, contributes to
suburban sprawl, uses predatory pricing to drive local mom-and-pop stores out
of business, decreases employment in both retail and manufacturing while
lowering the wages in both sectors, and increases our tendency to consume
natural resources that we do not need. They are one of the largest companies in
the world and behave like the bully on the playground.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhbSudE_5PODjwIzjSbx7F11PhAlNnl5vHBqicPeA8vpPdWeld72y12_d-hlbWMmzzb0jSWtnfbZd7qLjNSjkW9WeQHz8klU_TD5hjIHMUI6hYio9ohPBgSzrqTC2_S0xgp6FbFD5Z4fW/s1600/IMG_1774cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIhbSudE_5PODjwIzjSbx7F11PhAlNnl5vHBqicPeA8vpPdWeld72y12_d-hlbWMmzzb0jSWtnfbZd7qLjNSjkW9WeQHz8klU_TD5hjIHMUI6hYio9ohPBgSzrqTC2_S0xgp6FbFD5Z4fW/s400/IMG_1774cropped.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Multigenerational portrait: Grandma, aka Tenacious G, stands at the right.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
So when I picked up my saintly mother for our weekly romp, the last
thing I expected was that she would guide our car into the bowels of retail
hell. This sweet, gray-haired woman, somehow sensing that Wal*Mart would be an
issue, told me that she couldn’t remember the name of the store she wanted to visit
but would give me driving directions on how to get there. When those directions led into the
parking lot of Wal*Mart, I recoiled in sociopolitical horror. I have no doubt
that my late father, a lifelong union man, was spinning in his grave like a
Roto-Rooter® drill.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
“Why here?!” I exclaimed aghast as we circled the overfull parking lot
for 15 minutes. A Mercedes Benz sports coup cut me off for one space. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
“I want to buy a blouse,” she replied.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
“You want to buy a shoddy blouse made in a third-world
factory where someone lost his arm due to hazardous working conditions?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
She laughed. Oh, how silly her daughter was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
Finally, I found a space a few miles away from the front
door. It was a hot day and it would be a long and soul-searching walk across
the searing, pot-holed pavement to the entrance. I clutched my elderly
mother’s arm as we tried to cross the street to the front door and were cut off
by a minivan. Normally, at other retail locations, people have slowed down to let my
mother cross at her tottering tortoise pace. Not the people of Wal*Mart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
The electric doors swished aside and the welcome air
conditioning greeted us. The store was filthy. It looked like it hadn’t been
swept or mopped since President Nixon was forced to resign from office. And it was huge. As far as the eye
could see, flimsy merchandise was displayed in aisle after sloppy aisle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
I had entered the bowels of Wal*Mart. I felt dirty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
My mother began to look at the brightly colored, tissue-thin
shirts that lolled haphazardly on the unkempt racks. One was a halter top fashioned from large, wooden
beads. I suggested it might give her a new look. She was amused. Most of
what we saw was in very large sizes and bright enough to light up Times Square
at midnight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vxL0d7pKfDfi6hQw5sIoAaYaEpDxbkmYrn0VcN4YdUH_57acfVyDzDMcxf09q1bJWxJmzQvScKdogwDYeBquoEi5EeNC0ZbIB8dSv9vK_XwU2uOk0hDa857H8PfhqqtUnzRGijaO1Fqy/s1600/3899.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vxL0d7pKfDfi6hQw5sIoAaYaEpDxbkmYrn0VcN4YdUH_57acfVyDzDMcxf09q1bJWxJmzQvScKdogwDYeBquoEi5EeNC0ZbIB8dSv9vK_XwU2uOk0hDa857H8PfhqqtUnzRGijaO1Fqy/s320/3899.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: inherit;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><style>
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</style><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Photos from
the very informative</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/"><span style="font-family: Arial;">www.PeopleofWalmart.com</span></a></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"> website.</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Mom shuffled around and didn’t see anything she really
wanted but was very excited that they were offering this hideous apparel for
$11.97 and less. Admittedly, things were insanely cheap here, but for
merchandise that would rightfully get you tarred and feathered on <i>What Not to
Wear</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
Don't get me wrong. I'm not a clothes snob. I’m not saying you can’t go discount. There are a ton of
discount retail stores that carry great stuff and I am a real fan of clearance
racks. But there is a difference between a bargain and a piece of unmitigated
crap. My mother soon came to this realization. A Depression child, she was
loath to walk away without purchasing something that was unbeatably cheap, but
even she had to admit that there was nothing to see here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
Eventually, we walked out and made our slow and precarious
way back to the car. I told my mother I would take her to another, less colonic
store and informed her that, as a result of this visit, I would need a long,
long shower upon returning home.</div>
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-65230004481251175112012-05-31T17:53:00.002-04:002012-06-01T09:38:12.394-04:00George Clooney, We Hardly Knew Ye...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Recently, I had the dubious opportunity to check out our local hospital emergency room. According to statistics from a 2010 <i>New York Times</i> article, one in five Americans visits the ER every year. For people over 75, it's one in four. I can certainly attest to that, as I've spent a few long days in the ER with my 86-year-old mother<span style="font-family: inherit;">—</span>once when she broke her toe and another time when she was feeling fatigued. As fate would have it, this time the ER bell tolled for me. <i>Why? </i>Because my doctor couldn't see me and strongly suggested that we make use of the ER rather than waiting a day.</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ61-d3pKI_Y15HS5AtX0uU_X-b1pdMGvnYOir-eb90F23hnA1Qn1le06bbhFz8LV78bRJyoveK6ScNOvBK8IyGKVH1nZrgMkU7xgbE3EEXbCVOGk2YcMKDdEEuTLxun-dOYuVwiPeLQA4/s1600/emergency-room-sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ61-d3pKI_Y15HS5AtX0uU_X-b1pdMGvnYOir-eb90F23hnA1Qn1le06bbhFz8LV78bRJyoveK6ScNOvBK8IyGKVH1nZrgMkU7xgbE3EEXbCVOGk2YcMKDdEEuTLxun-dOYuVwiPeLQA4/s320/emergency-room-sign.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span class="huge"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; padding: 0in;">“The advantage that hospitals have over other institutions is that hospitals are community-based. You can't outsource your work; you can't move your emergency department to Pakistan.</span>”</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">—<span class="bodybold"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Mark Shields</span></span></span></span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
Steve drove me there. We arrived at the ER at 8:15 in the morning, figuring we would be there for three or four hours and then return home with the problem solved. (<i>Just like George Clooney used to do on television.</i>) How naively optimistic. We waited more than an hour to get registered. That's because there were two cardiac-arrest patients already in the ER struggling for their lives. Everyone gladly deferred to those poor individuals.<br />
<br />
Eventually, we were admitted, but because the ER was so overflowing with patients, I lay on a gurney between two nursing stations. It did not allow for much privacy but did offer a ringside seat for everything going on.<br />
<br />
A panicked mother arrived in bare feet and pajamas, clutching a five-day-old infant who wasn't breathing properly. A man in a gurney next to me had taken a medication and had a potentially llife-threatening reaction involving rashes and a swollen face and neck. A 95-year-old woman demonstrated surprising lung capacity by screaming loudly for hours, primarily because she appeared to be senile. Another man, who I coincidentally knew from my freelance work, came in with a bad reaction to a new blood-pressure medication. (<i>Small world.</i>) And one man who had been rushed in by an ambulance crew, we overheard, would require a priest.<br />
<br />
My husband, Steve, watched an electronic board that listed us all by room number (I had none), age, doctor, and elapsed time since we were admitted. Our total time in the ER clocked out at about six hours, 45 minutes because the doctor was too busy with serious cases to review my tests. Several other not-all-that-serious patients were held hostage to the same low-priority paperwork dilemma. But the staff was good-humored and did their best. My nurse, Susan, cheerfully explained to me that the air bubbles in my IV tube would not kill me because they were too small. <i>Very reassuring.</i><br />
<br />
Every once in a while, we would hear the opening chords of Brahm's lullaby. We later found out that they play those chords on the intercom whenever a baby is born in their maternity ward. About four babies came into the world during our stay.<br />
<br />
<span class="huge"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; padding: 0in;">“There is something so
settled and stodgy about turning a great romance into next of kin on an
emergency room form, and something so soothing and special, too.</span>”</i></span>—</span><span class="bodybold"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Anna Quindlen</span></span></span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; padding: 0in;"><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgir3ujldJku-gmH6HVkQqTWW2731alD6NgqcugwBg7qq0EmS0F52s8Do-lVnBvMMtxPU09Xm3qCGB2ucVJOS2Vd7B55JLiqmctVS3Uqmy0h4cEoj1y2VO2x_L4Qcx9QuTv1aMShXbrC8Ju/s1600/george-clooney-on-er.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgir3ujldJku-gmH6HVkQqTWW2731alD6NgqcugwBg7qq0EmS0F52s8Do-lVnBvMMtxPU09Xm3qCGB2ucVJOS2Vd7B55JLiqmctVS3Uqmy0h4cEoj1y2VO2x_L4Qcx9QuTv1aMShXbrC8Ju/s1600/george-clooney-on-er.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alas, George was not there.</td></tr>
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Before I left, I saw the young mother wheeled out with her properly breathing baby in her arms and a relieved husband following. My hallway gurney mate with the allergic reaction was better and awaiting discharge. The screaming old woman was given oxygen, which seemed to immediately calm her down and restore her sanity. On the way out the door, I stopped in and wished my friend a speedy recovery.<br />
<br />
Sadly, George Clooney was off that day. My husband amused one of the nurses by remarking sarcastically that I was a great date.<br />
<br />
As for me, fortunately, it was nothing serious<span style="font-family: inherit;">—</span>just dehydration from the unseasonably warm weather in May. The remedy was to drink more water and turn up the air conditioner when we sleep. And so ended our eventful and excruciatingly long episode of ER.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-48667321295774893412012-05-19T17:41:00.003-04:002012-05-20T13:06:53.698-04:00The Ring Cycle (or) Never Take Gold from a Stranger...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">Everyone has
a bucket list, and one of the items on mine—and my husband, Steve’s—is seeing
Wagner’s <i>Der Ring des Nibelungen</i>,
known as the Ring Cycle. (Literally, it means the ring of the Nibelungen, a
race of dwarves who live underground.) For those who are not familiar with
opera, Wagner was an EXTREME composer who wrote a four-part opera that runs 16
hours. Only the strong can last through the entire series. We could not afford
to see the Ring Cycle at the Metropolitan Opera in New York, but fortunately,
the Met version was filmed and shown at our local movie theater so that impoverished
opera fans, such as we, could enjoy it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">The operas premiered
between 1869 and 1876 in Munich and Bayreuth, Germany, both of which are in
Bavaria, where they drink lots of beer and wear lederhosen. The composer, Wilhelm
Richard Wagner, led a life characterized by political exile, stormy love
affairs, poverty and repeated flight from his creditors. His Ring Cycle takes
four days to see in its entirety. The story is about the downfall of the Norse
gods and it is a combination of <i>Lord of
the Rings</i>, <i>Sleeping Beauty</i>, <i>The Sword and the Stone, The Towering
Inferno </i>and <i>The Days of Our Lives</i>
(Norse style) all wrapped up into one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXM0jupMDXMFrgjsIqxn8erlGwew15T1xHxOlNgAnZnEM5XwbINGJNQmoZKrYHrlO2yRGxsabN1oRLahJ7y18y8tnsnbNRe3aG5cDMvRSmjSqA60vGOTlngvjAwmEgkFI2vm9B83CL2XdI/s1600/1876Rhinemaidens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXM0jupMDXMFrgjsIqxn8erlGwew15T1xHxOlNgAnZnEM5XwbINGJNQmoZKrYHrlO2yRGxsabN1oRLahJ7y18y8tnsnbNRe3aG5cDMvRSmjSqA60vGOTlngvjAwmEgkFI2vm9B83CL2XdI/s320/1876Rhinemaidens.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rhinemaidens from the original <i>Das Reingold</i> production.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">Part One—<i>Das Reingold</i> (the gold of the Rhine
River) is about three snarky Rhinemaidens who guard a hoard of gold at the
bottom of the Rhine River, and an angry dwarf, Alberich, who steals it from them.
Alberich forges a magical ring and
helmet from the gold, and tries to take over the world. At the same time, the
Norse gods have hired two giants to build Valhalla, a castle on a high mountain
where the gods plan to live. (It is not clear where the gods were sacking out
before then, but they seem pretty excited about having a house.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">Wotan, leader
of the Norse gods, promises the giants one of his daughters, the Goddess of
Youth, as payment for the house. (After all, a woman is a woman, but a castle is
a place with indoor chamber pots and tuberculosis.) Then some of her brothers point out to dad
that if the Goddess of Youth leaves, no one will be able to maintain the enchanted
apple trees which give them all eternal life. (Got to think these things
through, Wotan. Real estate is not always a good investment, especially versus
immortality.) So Wotan and the trickster Fire God, Loge, steal the dwarf’s gold
(after all, it was already stolen) and re-gift it to the giants in lieu of Wotan’s
daughter. (The dwarf, naturally, has cursed the gold ring so whoever wears it
is somewhat doomed.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">One giant
puts the golden ring on his finger, decides he doesn’t want to share the rest
of the gold and kills the other giant, who is his brother. He finds a cave on
the edge of the forest, turns himself into a dragon—because the helmet has
magical powers—and makes a career of guarding his gold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNppA5ldhb7YqhVy2Yp9E7vtUYAUBk4Js9vjX1oBc2gNP4kG3k_9sBESVyfThmRuGHsetK3_Ax17Nn5MGhwfffNSIfyp_74ed4RZyNchBQQX9HxYvzx6uviz01x5VV10rPQPuNomA7YPvD/s1600/lehm016a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNppA5ldhb7YqhVy2Yp9E7vtUYAUBk4Js9vjX1oBc2gNP4kG3k_9sBESVyfThmRuGHsetK3_Ax17Nn5MGhwfffNSIfyp_74ed4RZyNchBQQX9HxYvzx6uviz01x5VV10rPQPuNomA7YPvD/s320/lehm016a.jpg" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 7pt;">The Valkyries, circa 1870: Wotan's
goddess daughters rode</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> into battle to bring the
souls of dead heroes back to Valhalla.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">Part Two—<i>Die Walküre</i> (the Valkyries) is about a
brother, Siegmund, and sister, Sieglinde, who fall in love and want to get
married, but Sieglinde is already married to a horrible man who kidnapped her when
he burned the family house down and killed their mother. And you thought <i>The
Housewives of New Jersey</i> was lurid?
Coincidentally, Siegmund and Sieglinde are the children of Wotan and a woman he
fooled around with behind his wife’s back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">Wotan’s wife, Fricka, who is also
the Goddess of Marriage, is not very happy about the incest thing or the
violation of Sieglinde’s “sacred” marriage. So Fricka makes Wotan promise he
will not help Siegmund in battle against the angry husband. Wotan has left a
magical sword imbedded in a tree trunk—a phallic symbol that only Siegmund can
extract. But Wotan will have to break that sword and let Sieglinde’s horrible husband
impale Siegmund. Eventually, that’s what happens, but not before one of Wotan’s
Valkyrie daughters, Brünnhilde, tries to save the incestuous young lovers
because she knows that’s what her father really wanted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">(Yes, this is very
complex and it gets even worse.) For trying to help the young couple, Brünnhilde
is punished by Wotan. She is stripped of her immortality and left in a sleep
state, and can only be awakened by a man who knows no fear. (In today’s world,
such a man would be known as a psychopath, but in ancient Norse times, he was
revered.) The last thing Brünnhilde does before she is left comatose on a
mountaintop is to send Sieglinde off to a remote forest because she is pregnant
with her dead brother’s baby. (<i>Reality shows be damned!</i>) Thus ends part two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">Part Three—<i>Siegfried</i>, is about that baby. An ugly
dwarf, Mime, steals the baby, Siegfried, from Sieglinde while she lies dying
after childbirth. He also steals the enchanted broken sword from Sieglinde that
Siegfried’s father wielded in his fatal battle. (Coincidentally, Mime is the
brother of the dwarf, Alberich, who originally stole the Reingold.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">Mime knows,
somehow, that Siegfried will grow up to kill the dragon guarding the gold and
he wants to control Siegfried to get to that fortune. Siegfried melts down the broken
sword and forges a new one. Then he runs off and kills the dragon. Upon tasting
the dragon’s blood on his sword, he is imbued with the ability to understand
people’s thoughts, at least for one scene. He learns his dwarf “father,” Mime,
hates him and intends to poison him and take all the gold. So Siegfried runs
him in with the magical sword (like any self-respecting psychopath) and goes
merrily on his way to find his sleeping bride, whom he learned about from a
magical talking bird. He finds Brünnhilde, wakes her with a kiss, and they fall
in love. Naturally, there is much singing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_h4WLi7um0ZXdZdGcup3mGfFoyhplw-pVDUSGSO2thMJpWgTqJBEkB-FZEjW0Z-xMgrjPlVfiifa0Dq8LQjAPYB51uJgQZ8_OmaOuDvl0cHwMB9z2Tr9mvkN5dC-7ZcgONtGKl4pnXXtE/s1600/230px-RichardWagner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_h4WLi7um0ZXdZdGcup3mGfFoyhplw-pVDUSGSO2thMJpWgTqJBEkB-FZEjW0Z-xMgrjPlVfiifa0Dq8LQjAPYB51uJgQZ8_OmaOuDvl0cHwMB9z2Tr9mvkN5dC-7ZcgONtGKl4pnXXtE/s1600/230px-RichardWagner.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wagner in one of his happier moments.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">Part Four—is
<i>Götterdämmerung</i> (the twilight of the
gods). Siegfried gives his cursed gold ring to Brünnhilde and she gives him her steed,
Grane, who has slept along with her all these years. (Grane wakes up when Brünnhilde
does. As far as the viewer knows, Siegfried does not have to revive the horse
with a kiss.) Siegfried rides off into the world to do heroic deeds. He’s given
a potion to forget Brünnhilde by a sister and brother who want to marry Siegfried
and Brünnhilde, respectively. It’s very complicated, but it all boils down to this:
Siegfried is stabbed to death, Brünnhilde builds a funeral a pyre for him and
jumps into it, and Valhalla and the gods are engulfed in fire. The only happy campers
in the end are the Rhinemaidens, who finally, after four days of opera, get their
gold ring back and sing joyfully about it. Karma, I guess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">And there
you have it. So what have we learned from this larger-than-life soap opera of
the gods encompassing sex, power, betrayal, incest, deception, murder and
self-immolation—all sung to 16 hours of powerhouse music? If you’re walking
along the Rhine River in Germany and see three snarky Rhinemaidens goofing off
when they ought to be guarding their gold, back away slowly….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-24275670040419414772012-05-12T05:40:00.000-04:002012-05-12T05:40:19.770-04:00Riding Out in that Shiny Car in the Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</style><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">I
recently saw an article on the Internet that seemed too tabloid-like to be
true. Sadly, it may have some shred of credibility.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Essentially,
the author, <a href="http://www.naturalnews.com/035789_Fukushima_Cesium-137_Plume-Gate.html">Mike Adams of NaturalNews.com wrote</a>: “…Fukushima reactor No. 4… is
on the verge of a catastrophic failure…. The resulting releasing of radiation
would turn North America into a ‘dead zone’… from an earthquake in Japan. Such
an event could result in the release of 85 times the Cesium-137 released by the
Chernobyl catastrophe, say experts.” As you may know, the weather patterns
would carry that deadly radiation over to North America on the wind.</span><br />
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ZHko1TK3QCq8TAjpP9OHswVq2b0FO3J7xwPnFqcdRDfGGWNEfMMjCF20paS-x2w-AHoQwsg5cTO04hK6XwVOCXsGiLuZ97LrJQbmtaqrUbP-PTiqb1fSWMzgbCgmgggUbESnYTgNElzd/s1600/fukushima-japan-nuclear-radiation-disaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ZHko1TK3QCq8TAjpP9OHswVq2b0FO3J7xwPnFqcdRDfGGWNEfMMjCF20paS-x2w-AHoQwsg5cTO04hK6XwVOCXsGiLuZ97LrJQbmtaqrUbP-PTiqb1fSWMzgbCgmgggUbESnYTgNElzd/s320/fukushima-japan-nuclear-radiation-disaster.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><i style="color: #990000;">“The
winds that blow through the wide sky in these mounts, the winds that sweep from
Canada to Mexico, from the Pacific to the Atlantic—have always blown on free
men.”</i>—Franklin D. Roosevelt</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Fortunately,
Japan has been relatively quiet lately in the seismic sense. But what if a
substantial earthquake occurred before the Japanese had a chance to take care
of business at Fukushima reactor No. 4? And what’s taking them so long, anyway?
Since Cesium-137 has a half-life of 30 years, that would make North America
uninhabitable for, oh, say, about 100 or more years. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">That
got me to thinking. Let’s say that North America reaped some strange karma by
being exposed to radiation poisoning by the people who endured the bombing of
Hiroshima and Nagasaki toward the end of World War II. What would be the
consequences of the demise of Canada, the United States and Mexico? Well, I
can’t speak for Canada or Mexico, but here are a few thoughts about a
post-mortem United States of America.</span><br />
<br />
<i style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;">"Despite the goings-on in Congress, I don't believe the USA is bordering on madness. I believe Mexico and Canada are."</span></i><span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><i style="color: #990000;">—</i><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="color: black;">Robert Brault</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Tahoma;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">On
the bright side, as the highest-volume consumers of natural resources, our
extinction would have an immediate, positive impact on the environment.
However, we are by no means the most populated country in the world, and China
and India—fast-developing countries—would eventually fill our shoes in that
respect.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTwL2SlHUB6NIvN8KW5W2opmLNaxyumZrTkSoe2OUnz2BJ20DD03IpHtKQsBADgeDt7cMpuK2jJI9qedk77K0HwMQNrXm3aWCLKU_auaqQ_pa0Unq1C2btzWkKCTVk_M0HPDQIKlNbOeB/s1600/made-in-usa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTwL2SlHUB6NIvN8KW5W2opmLNaxyumZrTkSoe2OUnz2BJ20DD03IpHtKQsBADgeDt7cMpuK2jJI9qedk77K0HwMQNrXm3aWCLKU_auaqQ_pa0Unq1C2btzWkKCTVk_M0HPDQIKlNbOeB/s320/made-in-usa.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Another
high note: Monsanto would be dealt a powerful blow and the possibility exists
that the rest of the world might gang up on whatever Monsanto employees were
left in satellite countries and end their <a href="http://jersey-rants.blogspot.com/2011/06/waiter-theres-fish-in-my-tomato.html">GMO adulteration of our food supplies</a>
for good. Then, at least, we will not have made the ultimate sacrifice in vain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Countries
could form their foreign and monetary policies without worrying about
repercussions from a testy United States. That could be good or bad,
depending on if you are a woman in Afghanistan (our parting agreement there
requires women’s human rights be safeguarded), a Chinese government official
responsible for buying U.S. debt (that will now never be repaid), or a
rival non-USA corporation that will inherit tremendous market
share. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">What
about the joy of blaming the United States for everything bad in the world?
With our country gone, the call for blood-thirsty Death-to-America Jihads and the general
distaste for our arrogant corporate and political agendas would be deflated
like an old party balloon. The remaining world population would have no one to blame
but themselves. Not a pleasant prospect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><i><span style="color: #990000;">“If
you want a symbolic gesture, don't burn the flag; wash it.”</span></i> —Norman Thomas</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">There’s
a lot to resent about the United States, but I think there would also be many
things that people would miss. No more overseas shopping jaunts to New York
City, Chicago or Los Angeles. No more Disneyland or Disneyworld—the parent
company of the overseas versions would be deceased. No more touring our
magnificent western geography or placing your hands in the cement in front of
Grauman’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood. No more blockbuster movies or American
television—good or bad, depending upon your tastes. No more home-grown jazz,
soul or R&B. </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYLBIHE9I8SPrclZ0iWIUXkXLMpONAJER6YwDO1yyzQBNVEzsACZJ3veDyhWqOC09_us0SWF50kJlvH68V-TGtvtS9JEkNxPoWIwcYGbh00b0F7SuWewAvhulxtISZ_QTQLITeiHwdpZBh/s1600/GC3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYLBIHE9I8SPrclZ0iWIUXkXLMpONAJER6YwDO1yyzQBNVEzsACZJ3veDyhWqOC09_us0SWF50kJlvH68V-TGtvtS9JEkNxPoWIwcYGbh00b0F7SuWewAvhulxtISZ_QTQLITeiHwdpZBh/s320/GC3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The magnificent Grand Canyon, Arizona, USA.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Since
the United States is composed not only of native Americans (the people from whom we stole
all the land) but also of people from nearly every nation in the world,
there might be cause for some international grieving. People might even become
sentimental about us, the way people often do at a funeral, regardless of the
deceased's actual character. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">My father’s family arrived here from Hungary. My
best friend in high school was born in Italy. My co-workers were born in India,
Mexico, Egypt, South America, Europe, Japan and China. Americans may be spoiled children, of sorts, but we’re related to just about everyone out there. So,
world, if you lose us, remember, you’re losing a small piece of yourself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><i style="color: #990000;">“Whither
goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?”</i>—Jack Kerouac</span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-80477177270153785962012-05-05T23:38:00.000-04:002012-05-05T23:47:47.873-04:00Buddha in the Window<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="background-color: white;">“Words have the power to both destroy and heal.
When words are both true and kind, they can change our world.</span>”</span></i>—Buddha</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Front: Buddha I spotted when
I was 13.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Right: Wooden Buddha that came
with house. </span></div>
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I really can’t explain why, but I have always been attracted to
Buddha figurines and Buddhist doctrine. They possess some inexplicable lure.
Even when I was only 13 and had no idea what Buddhism was, I was drawn to buy a
small incense burner of Buddha, which I still have to this day. The doctrine
appeals to me because it is nonjudgmental (we’re all on the path to
enlightenment, some people are ahead of us, some behind), teaches personal
responsibility (aka karma) and suggests that it is incumbent upon us all to
relieve the suffering of others if we can (the doctrine of compassion). I can’t
say I’m a devout Buddhist. I’m actually quite a miserable one. But luckily,
there is no requirement to be anything in Buddhism. The goal, in fact, is not
to be. So that works for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisR0HB9DPUwgWlxN1I_4iSEIN8HgIWmhrDp3rM4vwU5-Q9TD42F9g8pLhmCrrRLA-OOxHodBxuNc8bNcu6LmbR1PwseUoGhPJXieRB8r_BvqBXETRmiIj0QsEL0VGbtuh9Lj9O5YmgTeWT/s1600/IMG_1929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisR0HB9DPUwgWlxN1I_4iSEIN8HgIWmhrDp3rM4vwU5-Q9TD42F9g8pLhmCrrRLA-OOxHodBxuNc8bNcu6LmbR1PwseUoGhPJXieRB8r_BvqBXETRmiIj0QsEL0VGbtuh9Lj9O5YmgTeWT/s320/IMG_1929.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buddha with the laughing eyes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It seems wherever I go, Buddha shows up and stares at me with
puppy eyes. “Please take me home,” he seems to say. Always, when I least expect
it. When we moved into our current house, we discovered a wooden Buddha half buried in mud in a shed in the back yard. I washed it off, rubbed it with teak oil and it looked like new. I have no idea how long it had been out there, but the elements did not appear to have damaged it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><i>“Buddha
Shakyamuni, the founder of Buddhism…, was born as a prince in 624 BC in a place
called Lumbini, which was originally in northern India but is now part of Nepal.” </i></span>—<o:p></o:p><a href="http://www.meditateinlondon.org.uk/">http://www.meditateinlondon.org.uk</a> </div>
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This past Saturday, my husband, Steve, and I were wandering around
lower Manhattan. Steve spied a store selling used CDs at very reasonable
prices. Next door was an Asian antique and furniture store going “out of
business.” Yes, I know. Going out of business is a regular business practice in
New York, usually for the benefit of tourists, so one can rarely take it
seriously. But everything in the store was “half-off,” so I decided to browse
in the shop while my husband stalked CD bargains next door.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The antiques—or perhaps nicely crafted reproductions—were like
works of art. There was a large round wooden curio shelf as tall as I am—which admittedly
isn’t all that tall. I admired a carved wooden bed that had its own ceiling. I’m
sure there is a special name for this type of bed, but I don’t know what it is. </div>
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After about 15 minutes of wishing I could afford one of the exquisite pieces of
furniture in the store, I walked out and turned to view their display window
for the first time. There, sitting in the window, was a silver metal incense
burner about the size of a basketball. The sides were surrounded in reliefs of
Buddha figures and one happy Buddha sat on top. It had dog faces for handles
and three clawed feet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><i>“In his early
years (Buddha)… lived as a prince in the royal palace but when he was 29 years
old he retired to the forest where he followed a life of meditation. After six
years he attained enlightenment under the Bodhi Tree in Bodh Gaya, India.”</i></span> —<a href="http://www.meditateinlondon.org.uk/">http://www.meditateinlondon.org.uk</a> <o:p></o:p></div>
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Just as I stood there ogling the piece, my husband emerged from
the CD store, thrilled that he had found the sound track for the 1933 <i>King Kong</i> for only
$6.99. I congratulated him and pointed to the Buddha incense burner. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s probably too expensive,” I apologized, “But I’d like to go
inside and ask about it anyway.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Antique or reproduction? I may never know.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
“Go ahead,” he replied. So we entered the store and I asked the
man working there if we could see the incense burner and if he could tell me
how much it was. He cheerfully retrieved it and showed us the price. The piece was remarkably heavy; even Steve was taken by surprise when I handed it to him to examine. It was priced at a
bit more than I would normally pay for something, but at half-price was within
a range that, if I felt like being self-indulgent, I could afford.<br />
<br />
It has
always been difficult for me to buy anything expensive for myself. I would
gladly spend good money to buy something for a family member. But for some reason,
spending big bucks on my own behalf has always made me feel a tad guilty.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My husband does not share that philosophy. He took one look at it
and said, “Do you really want it? Would it make you happy to have that Buddha
sitting on the shelf at home?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I gazed at it longingly. “It is lovely,” I said. The man in the
store told me it was an antique that had been used in Buddhist temples in China
and was about 80 to 90 years old. Of course, there is a 50-50 chance that it is
merely a well-crafted reproduction, but my reason for buying it wasn’t because
of its possible monetary worth. I thought it was really beautiful—just as
having a nice piece of artwork on the wall might give someone pleasure.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><i>“In the Hinayana teachings Buddha explains how
to attain liberation from suffering for oneself alone, and in the Mahayana
teachings he explains how to attain full enlightenment, or Buddhahood, for the
sake of others. Both traditions flourished in Asia, at first in India and then
gradually in other surrounding countries, including Tibet. Now they are also
beginning to flourish in the West.” </i></span>—<o:p></o:p><a href="http://www.meditateinlondon.org.uk/">http://www.meditateinlondon.org.uk</a> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buddha with laptop (right of center) was a gift from a co-worker.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The last thing I expected to do in New York that day was to
purchase an expensive “antique” Buddha incense burner, but sometimes the
unexpected is what makes life so much fun. After some encouragement from Steve,
I purchased it. The man in the store told me if I rubbed the Buddha’s tummy and
made a wish, it might come true.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He now presides over a small cadre of Buddhas that sit on a shelf
in my bedroom, where they cheerfully greet me every morning and evening. Not a
bad way to begin and end each day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><i><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat repeat;">“Look within, thou art the Buddha.</span>”</i></span>—Buddha <o:p></o:p></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-7359811753430224852012-04-08T23:03:00.003-04:002012-04-09T08:40:56.268-04:00The Good, the Bad and the Oily<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8DnyN8_HmG7YqU3XClsPusnv5loS_L778DAb_YqHgOQi5lF6GVK-8qT11G7XA_LYITvMMW4q6PGicZtmkk5fWEVYspRdPLVGqqJWmnQLmsgafoJ8ezaqdiZscdv4-PHRYESZZXqeWf7g/s1600/IMG_1808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8DnyN8_HmG7YqU3XClsPusnv5loS_L778DAb_YqHgOQi5lF6GVK-8qT11G7XA_LYITvMMW4q6PGicZtmkk5fWEVYspRdPLVGqqJWmnQLmsgafoJ8ezaqdiZscdv4-PHRYESZZXqeWf7g/s400/IMG_1808.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Olive Oil<b>—</b>Godsend or Demon Seed?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>What oils are truly healthy? I began to wonder that when someone on Facebook felt that they had debunked rumors that canola oil is unhealthy. Some sources say it is; some say it isn’t. <i>How do you know who to believe?</i><br />
<br />
So I explored a number of different sources to see what makes a healthy oil or fat and what doesn’t. Those sources included the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA), the Harvard School of Public Health, Dr. Oz of television fame, Mike Adams of NaturalNews.com, internationally known nutritionist Dr. Joel Fuhrman, raw-food guru Gabriel Cousens and a miscellaneous author from the U.K. because I'm an anglophile. Below, I present my confusing results.<br />
<br />
<b>First, some vocabulary words to know:</b><br />
<b>Monounsaturated fats</b>=usually associated with good cardio health, but a small number of nutritionists dispute this<br />
<b>Polyunsaturated fats</b>=also called essential fatty acids, these include the omega 3 and omega 6 fatty acids which are good for you only if eaten in the right ratio<br />
<b>Saturated fats</b>=generally seen as a bad fat<br />
<b>Trans fats</b>=processed fats that are bad for you<br />
<b>Hydrogenated oils</b>=a source of trans fats, these processed oils are bad for you<br />
<br />
Okay, now you’re ready to explore <i>The Good, the Bad and the Oily</i>:<br />
<br />
<b>Our Government—Bastion of All Official Knowledge</b><br />
Let’s begin with the USDA Dietary Guidelines. You may recall that these guidelines have been revised several times in recent years due to gross inaccuracies attributed to lobbyists in the beef and dairy industries. <br />
<br />
According to the USDA, “Oils are fats that are liquid at room temperature, like the vegetable oils used in cooking. Oils come from many different plants and from fish. Oils are NOT a food group, but they provide essential nutrients.” <br />
<br />
Interestingly, the USDA points out that coconut oil, palm oil and palm kernel oil—which have been widely lauded for their positive health effects—are high in saturated fats and for nutritional purposes should be considered to be solid fats. The agency defines solid fats as “fats that are solid at room temperature, like butter and shortening.” Solid fats come from animal foods and can be made from vegetable oils through a process called hydrogenation. A USDA list of solid fats includes:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Butter, milk fat, cream</li>
<li>Pork (lard), beef (tallow, suet) and chicken fat</li>
<li>Stick margarine, shortening</li>
<li>Hydrogenated and partially hydrogenated oils</li>
<li>Coconut oil, palm and palm kernal oils</li>
</ul>The USDA advises consumers that saturated fats and trans fats tend to raise "bad" (LDL) cholesterol levels in the blood, which increases the risk for heart disease. To lower risk, the agency advises cutting back on foods containing saturated fats and trans fats. The foods to cut down on (with apologies to Paula Deen) include:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Many desserts and baked goods, such as cakes, cookies, donuts, pastries and croissants</li>
<li>Many cheeses and foods containing cheese, such as pizza</li>
<li>Sausages, hot dogs, bacon and ribs</li>
<li>Ice cream and other dairy desserts</li>
<li>Fried potatoes (French fries) - if fried in a solid fat or hydrogenated oil</li>
<li>Regular ground beef and cuts of meat with marbling or visible fat</li>
<li>Fried chicken and other chicken dishes with the skin</li>
</ul><i>Good-bye, comfort food.</i><br />
<br />
Having started with the USDA, let’s see what other well-regarded health sources have to say. We’ll begin with a pop culture health authority, Dr. Mehment Oz. <br />
<br />
<b>Into the Land of Oz</b><br />
Dr. Oz is a fairly popular television health guru. He says that in order to protect your heart and lose weight, cook with canola oil. He says canola oil is the best oil to use for cooking, bar none. <br />
<br />
He also touts rice bran oil as a “miracle” oil for cooking. (Sorry, I missed the episode on why.) He says that things labeled “vegetable oil” are no good to eat. He recommends macadamia nut oil for baking, toasted sesame oil for stir fries and walnut oil (which cannot be heated because it is fragile) for salad dressings or as a substitute for butter.<br />
<br />
<b>Going Ivy League</b><br />
Now let’s go to The Harvard School of Public Health. It posted an article about healthy versus unhealthy oils on its site. Here’s what they had to say. “Olive, canola and other plant-based oils are rich in heart-healthy unsaturated fats.” Eat them. Trans fats and hydrogenated oils are bad; don't eat them.<br />
<br />
Eat fatty fish (such as salmon and tuna), walnuts and canola oil because they all provide omega-3 fatty acids, essential fats that our bodies cannot make. Cut back on red meat (beef, pork, lamb), cheese, milk and ice cream. They are high in saturated fat. Instead, choose fish, chicken, nuts or beans. <br />
<br />
<b>Saddling Up with the Health Ranger</b><br />
Then there’s Mike Adams, aka, the Health Ranger, an Internet health columnist with a substantial following who puts out a newsletter on naturalnews.com. Adams says that healthy “good fats” include omega-3 fatty acids, fish oils and monounsaturated fats. He says these fats are found in oily fish, nuts, seeds and avocados. He advises his readers to “give up cheap fats such as the low-cost vegetable oils found in the grocery store, and move to the more expensive fats, such as cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil.” The most important oils to avoid, he cautions, are hydrogenated oils because “hydrogenated oils are the number-one cause of heart disease and a major contributor to neurological disorders in the United States and around the world.”<br />
<br />
What is his opinion on canola oil? Adams says “In addition to the plant having an unpredictable genetically modified (<a href="http://jersey-rants.blogspot.com/2011/06/waiter-theres-fish-in-my-tomato.html">GMO</a>) element, the oil is heated to over 300 degrees as part of a process to remove its extremely unpleasant odor. Processing vegetable oils may include degumming, batch acidulation, bleaching, deodorization, chemical extraction methods using solvents and high-temperature expeller pressing.” He adds that canola oil is monounsaturated, making it easy to promote as a similar but cheaper alternative to olive oil. “But real olive oil is not processed and doesn't contain toxic trans-fatty acids or GMOs. Canola is among the lowest of all oils with essential fatty acids, which happens to be the main health aspect of oils.”<br />
<br />
Independent tests, he says, found some problems with canola oil. In one, piglets were fed a formula using canola oil. Their vitamin E was reduced to dangerous levels, resulting in sticky blood platelets that impeded blood flow. “Other tests have determined various imbalances with micronutrients,” Adams says. He believes that a healthier choice in oils would be cold pressed hemp, flax or olive oil. <br />
<br />
<b>Urban Legends</b><br />
Someone pointed out to me that the trash talk about canola oil was debunked on <a href="http://urbanlegends.about.com/library/blcanola3.htm">http://urbanlegends.about.com/library/blcanola3.htm</a>. So I visited there to see what the site had to say. There were no statements from doctors, dietitians or food scientists. The source they used to back their debunking was a financial and agribusiness writer. But let’s hear what he had to say.<br />
<br />
According to the author: “It is true that canola oil is made from the seeds of rapeseed plants… but not all rapeseed plants grown for this purpose have been genetically engineered. In fact, according to D'Arce McMillan's Market Watch (business and financial website) article on the Western Producer Website (a website dedicated to reporting on Canadian agribusiness), currently only about half of them have been genetically altered….” The rest, apparently, were naturally hybridized through traditional methods. Aha! Only 50 percent of canola oil products on the market have been altered genetically! <i>Wait, is that reassuring?</i><br />
<br />
As for the rat study (wait, our study was with piglets, not rats…) the site says “the natural diet of a rat is made up of grains, raw fruits and vegetables and is very low in fatty acids. Introduce a load of heavier fats into a critter's diet and sure all sorts of health problems might develop.” Apparently, follow-up studies found that cooking oils other than canola (specifically, sunflower seed oil) produced the same results in laboratory rats. Okay, but what about the piglet study?<br />
<br />
<b>The Nutritarian Approach</b><br />
What does medical doctor and nutritional guru Dr. Joel Fuhrman have to say? He believes that all diets are made of macronutrients (fat, carbohydrates and proteins) and micronutrients (vitamins, minerals and phytochemicals). He says that popular diets try to balance fat, carbohydrates and proteins, when in fact, we need less of all of those and more micronutrients. <br />
<br />
That said, he points out that a diet has to have some fat and the amount of fat varies per person depending on their genetic makeup and current state of health. He believes that the most important source of healthy oils is nuts and seeds, not animals or vegetables. He considers all animal fats, trans fats and refined oils (including canola oil) “dangerous fats.” <br />
<br />
Even the sacred cow of olive oil is not good for your heart, according to Dr. Fuhrman, and is just as bad as most other fats that people eat. He says that 15 studies have shown that olive oil is not cardioprotective. “We have to eat less fat, but the fat we eat has to be high-nutrient fat,” he says. Sesame seeds, sunflower seeds, walnuts and flax seeds have a high level of nutrients. <br />
<br />
<b>Going Raw</b><br />
Another viewpoint comes from Gabriel Cousens, a raw-food guru who runs the Tree of Life Rejuvenation Center in Arizona. He believes that a healthy diet is devoid of processed foods, which presumedly would include processed oils—canola, olive, you name it. Instead, he promotes an organic vegan diet consisting of vegetables, fruits, mature seeds, nuts, grains, beans, legumes, sea vegetables and algaes.<br />
<br />
Foods should never be heated above 105 degrees so that all of their enzymes, vitamins and minerals are left intact, for use by the body. He does have an article on his website that touts coconut and palm kernel oils as healthy oils according to ancient Ayurvedic medicine. I assume these oils would need to be unprocessed versions to fit in with his dietary visions.<br />
<br />
<b>Advice from Across the Pond</b><br />
When all else fails, consult the British. If for no other reason than: they seem so dignified. The <i>Daily Mail</i> in the U.K. carried an article about oils. Here is what author Mandy Francis had to say: <br />
<br />
“Yet another piece of research has confirmed the benefits of omega 3 oils. As well as lowering the risk of heart disease and stroke, increasing concentration and helping those suffering from inflammatory conditions, such as rheumatoid arthritis, they may also help prevent Alzheimer's, according to a new American study.” Wait, why isn't she citing a British study? <i>Ah well.</i><br />
<br />
She adds that not all omegas appear to be quite as healthy to eat when it comes to dementia. Researchers found that “overdosing” on oils rich in omega 6, such as sunflower oil, could have the reverse effect, possibly doubling the risk of developing dementia.<br />
<br />
Apparently, most people tend to eat too high a proportion of omega 6 polyunsaturates (found in many vegetable oils, chicken and processed foods) and not enough omega 3 polyunsaturates (found in oily fish, some nuts, seeds and a select few vegetable oils). The general advice is that fats and oils should make up no more than about 33 per cent of our daily calorie intake. That comes to roughly seven tablespoons for a man, five for a woman.<br />
<br />
Here’s how the author reviewed the pros and cons of commonly used oils.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnMP83xjNACQ6NZpBLxknqtyGd3vegx1-H7u1VPIfXp-RLia4Pj-vsV8nwZ_yR0IFyF58rJnX1Q-KRez3Pe7e8sokepC1bdjZaNTkreOwhtrGI2o3zvdKTZ9OUEYL0gSxeuDD6bIKRxEvx/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-04-08+at+8.55.08+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnMP83xjNACQ6NZpBLxknqtyGd3vegx1-H7u1VPIfXp-RLia4Pj-vsV8nwZ_yR0IFyF58rJnX1Q-KRez3Pe7e8sokepC1bdjZaNTkreOwhtrGI2o3zvdKTZ9OUEYL0gSxeuDD6bIKRxEvx/s640/Screen+shot+2012-04-08+at+8.55.08+PM.png" width="469" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
So what have we learned here today? Here’s what most sources agree upon:<br />
<br />
<b>Negative stuff</b><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Don’t eat anything labeled “vegetable oil”</li>
<li>Don’t eat hydrogenated oils or trans fats</li>
<li>Processed foods contain too much fat, so avoid them</li>
<li>Avoid overloading on Omega 6 oils; we don’t eat enough Omega 3 oils and we should</li>
<li>Avoid too much fat or oil, in general—even the good stuff</li>
</ul><b>Positive stuff</b><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Seeds, nuts and avocados are good for you</li>
<li>Raw or lightly cooked fruits and vegetables are good for you</li>
</ul><b>Confusing stuff</b><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Olive oil is good for you according to the USDA, the Harvard School of Public Health, Dr. Oz, the Health Ranger and the writer from the U.K.; it’s bad for you according to Dr. Joel Fuhrman and Gabriel Cousens</li>
<li>Canola oil is safe according to the USDA, the Harvard School of Public Health, Dr. Oz and the writer from the U.K.; it’s dangerous according to the Health Ranger, Dr. Joel Fuhrman and Gabriel Cousens</li>
<li>Urban Legends says it disproved negative rat studies about canola oil, but what about the negative piglet studies? Pigs are closer in metabolism to humans than rats, aren’t they?</li>
<li>Why does Dr. Oz call rice bran oil a “miracle oil”?</li>
<li>Why can’t everyone agree on what’s good to eat?</li>
</ul><br />
<b>Final Distracted Thoughts</b><br />
Well, there you have it. Eat seeds, nuts and avocados, but not too many. Use olive and canola oils at your own risk. Avoid any fat that becomes solid at room temperature. Other than that, I got nothin'. <i>Bon appétit.</i><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-80075986918321314222012-02-27T19:24:00.000-05:002012-02-27T19:24:23.762-05:00Tenacious G Goes Six String<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="color: #990000;"><i> “And the night shall be filled with music,</i></div><div style="color: #990000;"><i> And the cares that infest the day</i></div><div style="color: #990000;"><i> Shall fold their tents like the Arabs</i></div><div style="color: #990000;"><i> And as silently steal away.”</i></div>—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, <i>The Day Is Done</i><br />
<br />
One early memory I have of my mother is of sitting on the living room floor, listening to her tune her acoustic guitar. It seems that everyone of her generation learned a musical instrument, if for no other reason than to be social. During her high school years, she played in a band. Nothing Heavy Metal, mind you. (Rock and roll was still to be born.) It was the early 1940s. They belted out hits like, “You Are My Sunshine” and “Sweet Adeline.”<br />
<br />
Several years ago, Mom’s lovely old guitar broke and couldn’t be fixed—and the music stopped. So I was surprised recently when I showed up to spend our usual Sunday afternoon together and she had a guitar case sitting on her bed. Apparently, one of her fellow residents at the assisted living facility can no longer play it, so it is on permanent loan to Mom.<br />
<br />
Mom asked if I could take her to the local music store to get some picks and a shoulder strap. We hopped in the car and I parked near the door. My 85-year-old mother determinedly tread into the music store past all the aspiring young musicians, guitar case in hand, offering a study in contrasts. She was intently focused on what she wanted, waiting patiently while a mother chatted with the clerk about music lessons for her squirmy son. Mom’s foot was slowly tapping in anticipation. This was serious business.<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #990000;"><i>"I can't listen to Wagner that much. I start getting the urge to conquer Poland." </i></div>—Woody Allen<br />
<br />
The clerk finally turned to Mom and asked what she wanted. “Picks and a guitar strap,” she replied tersely. He tried to sell her on a nice cushioned shoulder strap for $20, but she would have none of it. <br />
<br />
“It’s not my guitar,” she interjected into his sales spiel, “So I’m not spending anything on it.” She settled for the $5 nylon strap. Nothing fancy, but it would get the job done. He told her the guitar strings were worn and should be replaced. She replied that they worked just fine. He suggested that she might want to consider a digital tuner. She responded with a thoroughly disgusted expression on her face, leaving a moment of awkward silence as he rang up her purchase. Not much of a sale that day. Just four 25-cent guitar picks and the strap.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECxXrtR-nX9vvwFqte5ZQLICqYc6PL-GNaSw7u2_uWN7FHcox5tB8H7-ZM5IY1lvNp843iy7iDvniHURNsxEG8PaRp2PvZPrtu-VwemnSaGydmTjQ1AYCz4IpS8ncrFibTWn19aOq4XQS/s1600/IMG_1773.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECxXrtR-nX9vvwFqte5ZQLICqYc6PL-GNaSw7u2_uWN7FHcox5tB8H7-ZM5IY1lvNp843iy7iDvniHURNsxEG8PaRp2PvZPrtu-VwemnSaGydmTjQ1AYCz4IpS8ncrFibTWn19aOq4XQS/s320/IMG_1773.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tenacious G, poised to play.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Mom looked satisfied as we left the store. She hadn’t played in years and was looking forward to having a guitar in her hands again.<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #990000;"><i>"Music is an outburst of the soul."</i></div>—Frederick Delius<br />
<br />
A week later, I stopped by for our regular Sunday outing and asked if she would play something for me. She was a bit sad. She told me she could play all the chords, but was no longer able to put the individual chords together into a song as she used to do without thinking. Apparently, the brain hemorrhage she had back in 2004 had damaged the part of the brain that knits chords into songs. I suggested that if she could play the chords, perhaps we could get a song book that lists the chords for each song, then she could play them that way. That idea perked her up a bit.<br />
<br />
The music store was closed that day, but the song books are on my list of things to do. It should be interesting to see if Mom can coax some music out of her new guitar!<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-78991248352152479882012-01-29T10:29:00.002-05:002012-01-29T10:37:24.844-05:00The Arc of Justice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbKy5l58DIzCs0tNebUQM3z8MwvsSd4ETgzF1xsWo-0dArqwwA0S21g52ByzuFgNUvaUWrWXVAzSnB2VYCoSKAAZk1p28sUntA7LFm5Fg3F5PTjWOg3m7AGcRDhyphenhyphenRVs5U4DZq2VtPOqfCn/s1600/Friedman146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbKy5l58DIzCs0tNebUQM3z8MwvsSd4ETgzF1xsWo-0dArqwwA0S21g52ByzuFgNUvaUWrWXVAzSnB2VYCoSKAAZk1p28sUntA7LFm5Fg3F5PTjWOg3m7AGcRDhyphenhyphenRVs5U4DZq2VtPOqfCn/s320/Friedman146.jpg" width="205" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandmother, Irene Reiner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I am going to say something that may sound a bit outlandish: My interest in social justice began more than a century ago.<br />
<br />
It was 1906. Teddy Roosevelt was president, an earthquake leveled San Francisco and a young girl of 14 named Irene Reiner left a dirt-floor shack in Kolozsvar, Hungary to live in the tenements of Manhattan. <br />
<br />
Irene was my grandmother. At some point in her childhood, the inequity of the world must have touched off a spark inside, because she spent most of her life involved in social activism. She marched for the right of women to vote, and as a blue-collar factory worker, she staunchly backed unions. As a child, my father, Alfred, sat on her lap at public lectures on social issues, presented by some of the most preeminent intellectuals of the day.<br />
<br />
Reared on social justice, Alfred followed in her footsteps. In the 1930s, following the passage of the Wagner Act, which protected the rights of workers to form unions, my father was among the first crop of activists to start a union at his workplace.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl9DgUXIDM8xCN-kTcIeHXzaq-8RfeT457MbhlcMrSSWtPCt_Vy6K38HAICBeTZOiAASqrhL8QsRlgUN7OxGJCartmKzNYs5cicCmpvuFIU4A6hUhIAluN9cFHa6tCCRfcN7_T9d720F6c/s1600/Friedman142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl9DgUXIDM8xCN-kTcIeHXzaq-8RfeT457MbhlcMrSSWtPCt_Vy6K38HAICBeTZOiAASqrhL8QsRlgUN7OxGJCartmKzNYs5cicCmpvuFIU4A6hUhIAluN9cFHa6tCCRfcN7_T9d720F6c/s320/Friedman142.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad, Alfred Friedman, enjoying the view at a park in Virginia.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So not surprisingly, my earliest memories are of sitting on the floor of our living room, surrounded by groups of adults passionately discussing social and political issues. My father supported the Civil Rights movement, equal treatment of women and—despite being a World War II veteran—was opposed to the Vietnam Conflict.<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">“I have never been especially impressed by the heroics of people who are convinced they are about to change the world. I am more awed by those who struggle to make one small difference after another.”</span></i></b>—Ellen Goodman, columnist, 1941-<br />
<br />
You might say that the ancestral chi of my grandmother and father inculcated in me a strong sense of social justice. They taught me about life by being who they were. This is particularly important in a world that seems increasingly motivated by profit over people. Washington DC runs by a system that sells legislation to the highest bidder. The highest bidder can be a corporation because the Supreme Court recently determined that corporations are people and can donate an unlimited amount of money anonymously to the candidates of their choice.<br />
<br />
No matter. My mother told me when I was young that social and political movements tend to swing like pendulums between conservative and liberal, rich and poor. There is always a back and forth between the welfare of the masses versus the welfare of the privileged few. This is nothing new. Look at the Magna Carta from the 13th Century. (The Magna Carta was the first document forced onto an English king by a group of his subjects, the feudal barons, in an attempt to limit his powers by law and protect their privileges.)<br />
<br />
More recently, our grandparents and great-grandparents fought for unions to ensure fair wages, for social safety nets (such as unemployment insurance and social security for the elderly and sick) and for the environment (Scotsman John Muir, in the late 1800s and early 1900s, fought to ensure that Yosemite National Park and its environs were protected from sheep farming and other forms of development).<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">“Here is the test to find whether your mission on earth is finished. If you're alive, it isn't.”</span></i></b>—Richard Bach<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAd89nA7O5f2Leu_nB6SSHeirPJlfb6YMH3eaulzL2dq3M6FZG8eIVs6dPKXJ1pQKRnNEZ1j9vziQ8wecN4B8K7KpcZTAoPV00X5o6T_pbsQxoABk3bMXozwJej_TM03NmtRYZtheO0X4u/s1600/IMG_1393.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAd89nA7O5f2Leu_nB6SSHeirPJlfb6YMH3eaulzL2dq3M6FZG8eIVs6dPKXJ1pQKRnNEZ1j9vziQ8wecN4B8K7KpcZTAoPV00X5o6T_pbsQxoABk3bMXozwJej_TM03NmtRYZtheO0X4u/s320/IMG_1393.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Occupy Wall Street in NYC: reclaiming our country.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I recently read that the Koch brothers—two maniacal billionaires a la the tradition of James Bond villains—have sent funding to more than 150 colleges across the country with the stipulation that they can hire and fire professors and determine curriculum content. So the power elite are now not only controlling the majority of our news media, but also are beginning to indoctrinate college students to their value systems. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>How do we counter that?</i> By taking our power back, and that begins with our government. The most formidable problem facing us today is the unlimited, money-based system in Washington, DC that is undermining our middle class. But that can be changed. Remember, there are more of us—the US populace—than there are of them—rich corporate and private concerns bent on controlling this country. We can get our country back by insisting on election-funding reform. This isn’t about the democrats or republicans. They are both servants to the money-hungry election-funding system that exists today. The polarized debates we see on television between parties is nothing more than a distraction from the real issue of election-funding reform.<br />
<br />
The rich and powerful would like to dilute our efforts to change the current system by throwing out red herrings to distract us. If they can splinter the US populace into smaller groups and pit us against each other, they can quietly take all our jobs and liberties away. These bogus national issues of hatred include:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Immigration issues</li>
<li>Gay marriage issues</li>
<li>Collective bargaining issues</li>
<li>Religious issues</li>
<li>Political party issues </li>
</ul>We have always been a diverse country and that has been our strength. Those in power would like to turn that strength against us. Write to your Congressperson to demand a change in our election-funding rules. Until that happens, nothing will change. Remember, any injustice can be overcome given enough time and effort.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the most profound statement regarding this came from the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. when he said, <i>“The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice. It bends towards justice, but here is the thing: it does not bend on its own. It bends because each of us in our own way puts our hand on that arc and we bend it in the direction of justice...."</i><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-6170475551446477262012-01-26T08:49:00.002-05:002012-01-26T16:09:56.023-05:00Song to My Father<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Hi:<br />
<br />
My father's birthday is coming up in March. He would have been 94 years old. I wrote a song (lyrics below) and uploaded it on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Im-u2BcjtvU">YouTube</a>. Geoff Martyn of Scotland wrote the music and sings the vocal.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5KBVAkK6fCxISED5qcOQC61R_pDA-EULN2iTwIsOA8Zn6ERdvhGZow9y3wJfP-XkeWxmFQAcUg3ogBLWqyyssiR1H-OB4DQ1P6BQ9PJYLUnyjFifHMp1vPljFNMi3hD3cM_Spd3Qbt0eV/s1600/Friedman127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5KBVAkK6fCxISED5qcOQC61R_pDA-EULN2iTwIsOA8Zn6ERdvhGZow9y3wJfP-XkeWxmFQAcUg3ogBLWqyyssiR1H-OB4DQ1P6BQ9PJYLUnyjFifHMp1vPljFNMi3hD3cM_Spd3Qbt0eV/s320/Friedman127.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corporal Al Friedman, 11th Airborne Division</td></tr>
</tbody></table><b>Happy Birthday, Dad!</b><br />
<br />
My father was a veteran, a World War paratrooper<br />
In the Pacific Theater, he fought like Gary Cooper.<br />
<br />
When he returned he married, my mother looked like Grable.<br />
They settled in the suburbs and lived the post-war fable.<br />
<br />
First Tom was born in fifty, then me, the baby, Sally.<br />
Our house was always crowded with activists and rallies<br />
<br />
My Dad, he always taught us, to care for people weaker.<br />
The disenfranchised, homeless, would always need a speaker.<br />
<br />
He marched for rights of others, protested war and violence.<br />
He told us he respected opposition more than silence.<br />
<br />
My father worked a day job; he also worked a night shift,<br />
Yet he was always present, his presence was his best gift.<br />
<br />
He sent me off to college in search of something finer,<br />
I learned to be a writer; I am a data miner.<br />
<br />
I married just like Dad did, he cradled my two daughters.<br />
We taught them social justice, baptized them in those waters.<br />
<br />
No man can live forever; smoke takes its final fee;<br />
His ghost is stale tobacco curling up inside of me.<br />
<br />
For decades Dad’s been gone now, and life has lost its daring.<br />
It seems when he departed the world became less caring.<br />
<br />
We carry on his causes, the poor still need defending.<br />
Their ranks are growing daily. No use in us pretending.<br />
<br />
My father was a veteran, a World War paratrooper<br />
From New Guinea to New Jersey, he fought like Gary Cooper.<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2bR8OFefC0dGV_K-Ytn2o3lGpn-tzbEyr71Qs-BUPFc7pW8D6gsgit5-S-dpVVLIOaYqu8jwFByPE6Gt3jAkVgaM1IzzOLD_IpDxMJ9qFjzznuxkxuuUVkwJv76LI_4c5U0zfBJWdeLNP/s1600/Friedman128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2bR8OFefC0dGV_K-Ytn2o3lGpn-tzbEyr71Qs-BUPFc7pW8D6gsgit5-S-dpVVLIOaYqu8jwFByPE6Gt3jAkVgaM1IzzOLD_IpDxMJ9qFjzznuxkxuuUVkwJv76LI_4c5U0zfBJWdeLNP/s400/Friedman128.jpg" width="287" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alfred William Friedman, March 30, 1918-May, 29, 1995</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4517975954525772490.post-83367910438304082942011-12-25T23:42:00.000-05:002011-12-25T23:42:30.833-05:00What the Frack?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i style="color: #990000;"><b>"No one has the right to use America's rivers and America's Waterways that belong to all the people as a sewer. The banks of a river may belong to one man or one industry or one State, but the waters which flow between the banks should belong to all the people."</b></i>—President Lyndon B. Johnson, signing the 1965 Clean Water Act<br />
<br />
There's been a lot in the news lately about something called “fracking.” The natural gas industry and their customers benefit from it. But environmentalists and people who drink well water are fighting it. To understand why people love or hate it, let’s take a moment to explain just what it is.<br />
<br />
Fracking is a slang term for hydro-fracturing, a process where water, sand and chemicals are injected into the earth at high pressure to fracture rock formations deep underground. This allows access to natural gas deposits that are playing hard to get.<br />
<br />
Traditional drilling methods, used for over a century, brought gas to the surface simply by drilling vertically, with minimal environmental impact. (See "A," below.) However, most gas no longer resides in easily accessible reservoirs. Instead, it lies trapped within small fissures of rock. (See "B.") To extract the gas, vast amounts of water (with various chemicals added) are injected deep underground at extremely high pressure, thereby fracturing the rock (hence the term "fracking") and allowing the gas to escape. Sand injected along with the water helps to prop open the newly-created fissures (see "C.") and the gas can then rise to the surface through the fracking fluid. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Ehkmo7kRF_ynjcqsqOOlol2avTBV7CbRZhaqJRXTDu8-1f-LGwjrSmKw6ChXD0USMadH0C8HtVwwvYGxVIsS4QDH4rUSsURebiEy7jzYicsf_l3ebjxIWujntKWT9vCYEcWlKEWNhS64/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-12-18+at+9.47.14+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Ehkmo7kRF_ynjcqsqOOlol2avTBV7CbRZhaqJRXTDu8-1f-LGwjrSmKw6ChXD0USMadH0C8HtVwwvYGxVIsS4QDH4rUSsURebiEy7jzYicsf_l3ebjxIWujntKWT9vCYEcWlKEWNhS64/s400/Screen+shot+2011-12-18+at+9.47.14+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Illustrations are from from "Hancock and the Marcellus Shale: Gas Extraction Along the Upper Delaware" by The Earth Institute <a href="http://www.urbandesignlab.columbia.edu/?pid=gas_extraction">Columbia University Urban Design Lab</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><b style="color: #990000;"><i>"One effect of benefit-cost analysis is to give any respectable engineer or economist a means for justifying almost any kind of project the national government wants to justify… Exclusive reliance on benefit-cost analysis has been one of the greatest threats to wise decisions in water development."</i></b>—Gilbert F. White, unpublished paper, Columbia University, March 21, 1971<br />
<br />
<b>What are the advantages of fracking?</b><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>An AARP Public Policy Institute analysis of heating costs for seniors found natural gas customers will average $542 to heat their homes this winter, fuel oil customers will average $2,675 and electric heat customers will average around $468, according to an article in the <a href="http://www.nj.com/business/index.ssf/2011/12/love_or_hate_fracking_most_new.html">December 18, 2011 <i>Star Ledger</i></a>. (While oil prices rose in recent years, electric prices are tied to gas because of gas-fired power plants.) The increased supply—and therefore lower cost—of natural gas has come from fracking shale deposits in nearby states such as Pennsylvania</li>
<li>The federal government projects that by 2035, 47 percent of gas produced in the U.S. will come from shale sources. That increased production is especially beneficial to New Jersey residents: 76 percent of New Jersey homes heat with gas, compared with 12 percent using fuel oil and kerosene and 11 percent that use electricity, according to Census Bureau data. (<i>I, unfortunately, belong to the oil-poor group</i>)</li>
</ul><b style="color: #990000;"><i>"Water and air, the two essential fluids on which all life depends, have become global garbage cans."</i></b>—Jacques Cousteau (1910-1997)<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>What are the disadvantages of fracking?</b><br />
<br />
As opposed to traditional drilling, fracking requires:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Vast amounts of water</li>
<li>Various chemical lubricants, many of which are toxic. (<i>Chemicals used in fracking are considered proprietary, and are therefore secret, ie, you're being poisoned on a need-to-know basis</i>)</li>
</ul>So why is the above important?<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>The water used in fracking poses a major disposal problem. It ends up in reservoirs that can leak into groundwater</li>
<li>There have been over a thousand instances of groundwater contamination in areas near fracking sites. <i><a href="http://www.propublica.org/article/the-story-so-far-gas-drillings-environmental-threat">Read all about it! </a></i></li>
<li>Fracking has never been subject to an independent assessment of its environmental impact. (Although a study by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency [EPA] is currently being conducted in Washington, amid the objections from the oil and gas industries)</li>
<li>Fracking isn't subject to federal regulation. (This was accomplished via an EPA exemption pushed through Congress by then Vice-President Dick Cheney in 2005)</li>
<li>The full long-term environmental impact of fracking is unknown. (<i>What better reason to go full-speed ahead!</i>)</li>
</ul><b><i style="color: #990000;">“We believe the natural gas industry should be subject to the same regulations as any other industry in the US. The natural gas in the ground isn't going anywhere. It's been there for millions of years and will remain there until disturbed. Groundwater, on the other hand, can take generations to recover once it's been contaminated. Once the damage is done, it cannot be undone. The safety of our groundwater supply is at risk.”</i></b>—<a href="http://frackaction.com/content/what-fracking">Frackaction.com</a><br />
<br />
<b>What is the stance of our altruistic Congress?</b><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>In a hearing on Capitol Hill last May, Republican members of the House Science, Space and Technology Committee struggled to make the case against an investigation by the EPA into fracking. The agency is already midway into its multi-year study</li>
<li>Rep. Dana Rohrabacher (R-CA) recently protested that the agency should not even be conducting the study. During the hearing, he seemed to suggest that the EPA study wasn’t needed because not enough people have died to warrant an investigation, according to <a href="http://earthjustice.org/blog/2011-may/what-does-fracking-industry-have-to-hide">earthjustice.org</a>. <i>So does that mean the Congressman from California is admitting that some people have died as a result of fracking’s impact on the environment</i><i>—</i><i>but not enough of them?</i></li>
<li>Rep. Brad Miller (D-NC) forced the Republicans’ star witness Michael J. Economides to admit that the oil and gas industry pays him about $1 million a year to testify on their behalf. <i>So do you think he’d show up if the job were pro bono?</i></li>
<li>A week before the May hearing, Duke University researchers unveiled a peer-reviewed study for publication in the <i>Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences</i> that finds high methane levels in groundwater near where fracking has occurred. France’s conservative-controlled lower house of parliament took the first legislative step toward approving a nationwide ban on fracking. (<i>So those pesky academics—and the French—are spoiling the fracking party due to some bothersome things called facts</i>)</li>
</ul><b><i style="color: #990000;">"You don't miss your drinking water until your well runs dry."</i></b>—old country proverb<br />
<br />
<b>Is fracking being done in New Jersey?</b><br />
<br />
Fracking has not yet been approved in New Jersey. It is currently being considered in Trenton, pending additional hearings. Environmentalists fighting the introduction of fracking into our small state have pointed to findings earlier this month by the EPA that fracking could cause groundwater pollution. The Delaware River Basin Commission is also looking into setting rules for fracking to safeguard the Delaware watershed.<br />
<br />
State ratepayer advocate Stefanie Brand, describes cheap natural gas as a wonderful thing for ratepayers—but she wants savings to come with safety. "We have to see better (environmental) practices," Brand said in the <a href="http://www.nj.com/business/index.ssf/2011/12/love_or_hate_fracking_most_new.html"><i>Star Ledger</i></a>, "Because we’re not solving any problem if the end result is contaminating our water supply." <br />
<br />
Everything in life comes at a price. Are you willing to decrease the cost of your heating bills at the risk of contaminating your drinking water? If you go onto YouTube, you can see videos of people in other states lighting the water coming out of their faucets with a match. Not a pretty sight. This is a small state with a limited aquifer for drinking water. The question is: <i>Are you feeling lucky?</i><br />
<br />
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</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(C) Copyright 2011</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18230620834103702024noreply@blogger.com0