Now to Uganda.....

Amazing!!

'Tis Wren's Day!

This is an Irish thing.  First the video....thanks to Mike Peterson



 Then from http://www.dingle-peninsula.ie/wren.html

The following article and photographs are reproduced with permission from the November/December 1997 issue of "Cara", the Aer Lingus on-board magazine. The article is written by Peter Wood, who is originally from Co. Monaghan, with photography of the Dingle Wren by Christy McNamara, who is originally from Co. Clare. Peter and Christy have collaborated on a book entitled "The Living Note: The Heartbeat of Irish Music", published by O'Brien Press and Robert Rinehart. On St. Stephen's Day, December 26th, crowds of people take to the roads in various parts of Ireland, dressed in motley clothing, wearing masks or straw suits and accompanied by musicians – remembering a festival with antecedents that long predate Christmas. The Wren – sometimes pronounced and written, wran – was once common all over Ireland. In some areas, the Wrenboys are called Mummers and the festival has a strong English influence, incorporating characters like St. George. Birds have great prominence in Irish mythology. They were seen as intermediaries, in pre-Christian times, between this world and the next. The flight patterns of birds, like the wren, were used as auguries by the Druids. Indeed, some believe, the Gaelic word for wren – dreoilín – derives from two words, draoi ean, or Druid bird. When, according to legend, the birds held a parliament, it was decided that whichever of them flew the highest would rule over all the others. The eagle soared higher than any, until it tired and the tiny wren emerged from its tail feathers and climbed far above it. Mysteriously, the wren has a reputation for treachery. A wren is said to have betrayed Irish soldiers fighting the Norsemen by beating its wings on their shields. The wren, too, is blamed for betraying St. Stephen, the first Christian martyr. This is the usual explanation why the wren is the hunted bird on St. Stephen's day. It has also been argued that the antipathy shown towards the bird dates from early Christian opposition to the Druidic rites that surrounded it. Today, the wren – as a feature of the event – survives only in the rhyme and in the name of the day, although, in former times, it was hunted and nailed to a pole at the head of the procession.In West Kerry, the focal point of the Wrenboys parade is a hobby horse. A pantomime-type horse with a wooden head, snapping jaws and a body made from cloth stretched across a timber frame, it is worn on the shoulders of one of the members of the Wren – who whirls and capers at the head of the parade. The horse, for social and military reasons, was of great importance in ancient Ireland. Horses could be both lucky and unlucky, and they had strong associations with the rights to kingship and with fertility. The horse was so important that its introduction to Ireland was credited to the god Lugh. The greatest of the Celtic gods, his name occurs across the continent in placenames like Lyon and Leiden. The cult of the horse was also opposed by the early Christians.The straw suits worn by the Wrenboys also have historical resonances, though more recent ones. In the 18th and 19th centuries, they were worn as disguises by the Whiteboys during Ireland's prolonged agrarian wars. The suit is woven in three parts: head, chest, and skirt. The straw of choice for the suits is that which comes from oats and, since there is little demand for oats, good straw is becoming increasingly difficult to find. In many cases, oats are grown specifically for the Wren. The Wren, in common with many customs in rural Ireland, came close to extinction. From the twenties and thirties onward emigration took a great toll among those who would have taken part. There was strong clerical opposition – the money raised in the collections the Wrenboys took up went towards holding a ball in a local hotel or public house and naturally there was alcohol involved. The Church saw the Wren, as it saw the house dances that kept traditional music alive in those times, as an "occasion of sin."That the Wren survived at all was due to the efforts of a few individuals and small groups of people working in isolation. Nowadays, the Wren is enjoying a revival. Listowel, County Kerry, holds an annual competition. The legendary Wrens of the Dingle Peninsula are the focus of intense local competition. Dublin, too, has a festival, held on Sandymount Green. Whatever its provenance (there is a similar festival in Lerwick on Shetland, and its form finds echoes across Europe in the hobby horse, and the hunting of a small bird on one day of the year) the Wren in Ireland is not fixed in time. Like much else in Irish culture, the Wrenboys have adapted and changed. Their masks and costumes reflect change, and reflect too, perhaps, the current demonology of Irish society – long after her fall from power, former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher still figures prominently in the masks worn in many a Wren. Fundamentally though, the Wren is a local event, reflecting the communities it springs from – whether in the North of the country, or Wexford, Woodford in Galway or the west of Kerry. Th Kerry writer and dramatist, Sigerson Clifford, was all his life a kind of exile in his own country from the town he loved, Cahirciveen. He's best remembered for his great ballad,The Boys of Barr na Straide, two lines of which formed his epitaph. I'll take my sleep in those green fields,the place my life began,Where the boys of Barr na Straidewent hunting for the wren.For many people in more distant exile, the 26th of December holds a special resonance – the day the whistles, fifes and drums thunder like waves, rising in crescendos to drive the dark of winter away. Pagans and Christians forgotten, all the one now. "Up Sraid Eoin! We never died a winter yet," as they say on at least one street in Dingle town. TEXT COPYRIGHT 1997 BY PETER WOODS PHOTOGRAPHY COPYRIGHT 1997 BY CHRISTY McNAMARA

We Write E-mails.....

Today's self-explanatory response to one of the (endless) email solicitations from XE's beloved progressive resources:

Why not run a lottery fund-raiser kind of thing for (NAME)?  I kept wishing when I opened my email and saw "$70,000" in the subject line that it would be a chance to win that much from (NAME).  If I did win, I'd gladly share half with you guys....

Kind regards, and Happy Monday (and NO, I am not going shopping),

(MY name), one of the 99.99%

May the Joy of the Season Touch Your Heart!!

Getting Through the Holidays.....

I got this today from the Feeney kid in West Palm.  If you are offended by the suggestion that any of the disorders named are...disorders...well, you've been a good sport about this so far--especially since you're willing to claim me as a friend.

Happy Hollandaise!!

It feels like Sunday, somehow...and I'm feeling like celebrating.

So here's a video on Ingmar Bergman, as seen through the eyes of Woody Allen.  Ok, Ok...I LIKE Woody Allen, and I love his movies. And I adore Ingmar Bergman. And HIS movies.

Now, come on, don'tcha wonder???

Personally, I am finding this HILARIOUS, considering who's running for president these days....

Happy Monday!  My faucet's fixed!!  Have a nice laugh.....(and thanks to Democracyforbell.com, who found this first)

South Dakota Legislature To The Rescue

South Dakota Legislature To The Rescue

I couldn't resist this post from last year on MurrMurrs. My goodness, but that woman can write, and hoo boy, is she funny!  "Foremorons"--yup. We've all got some of those....

New-s

Sunday a.m. is a good time to share wonderful new things.  Yesterday I came upon a most excellent post in which the blogger celebrates her dear, departed sister. I laughed and cried at the same time, which hardly EVER happens.  I laugh a lot, but I don't cry much at all.  XE welcomes MurrMurrs to her "Blogs I Love" list....

And this morning good ole Sherwood shared some music he loves.  I love it, too, and  I'd never heard or even heard of them before.  Quite wonderful.  Red Molly Band!  And here they are:

Had enough of politics and that??

shabbat shalom

DemocracyforBell.com has the best stuff!

DemocracyforCalifornia.com has spawned the lively DemocracyforBell.com.  They seem to enjoy life along with all their hard work.  This little whale seems to like the music!!

It's That Time Again!

Time for the Snow Post: Diary of A Snow Shoveler...It's December 8, after all.

Diary Of A Snow Shoveler

December 8: 6:00 PM. It started to snow. The first snow of the season and the wife and I took our cocktails and sat for hours by the window watching the huge soft flakes drift down from heaven. It looked like a Grandma Moses print. So romantic we felt like newlyweds again. I love snow!

December 9: We woke to a beautiful blanket of crystal white snow covering every inch of the landscape. What a fantastic sight! Can there be a more lovely place in the Whole World? Moving here was the best idea I've ever had. Shoveled snow for the first time in years and felt like a boy again. I did both our driveway and the sidewalks. This afternoon the snowplow came along and covered up the sidewalks and closed in the driveway, so I got to shovel again. What a perfect life.

December 12: The sun has melted all our lovely snow. Such a disappointment. My neighbor tells me not to worry, we'll definitely have a white Christmas. No snow on Christmas would be awful! Bob says we'll have so much snow by the end of winter, that I'll never want to see snow again. l don't think that's possible. Bob is such a nice man I'm glad he's our neighbor.

December 14: Snow lovely snow! 8" last night. The temperature dropped to -20. The cold makes everything sparkle so. The wind took my breath away, but I warmed up by shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. This is the life! The snowplow came back this afternoon and buried everything again. l didn't realize I would have to do quite this much shoveling, but I'll certainly get back in shape this way. I wish l wouldn't huff and puff so.

December 15: 20 inches forecast. Sold my van and bought a 4x4 Blazer. Bought snow tires for the wife's car and 2 extra shovels. Stocked the freezer. The wife wants a wood stove in case the electricity goes out. I think that's silly. We aren't in Alaska, after all.

December 16: Ice storm this morning. Fell on my ass on the ice in the driveway putting down salt. Hurt like hell. The wife laughed for an hour, which I think was very cruel.

December 17: Still way below freezing. Roads are too icy to go anywhere. Electricity was off for 5 hours. I had to pile the blankets on to stay warm. Nothing to do but stare at the wife and try not to irritate her. Guess I should've bought a wood stove, but won't admit it to her. God I hate it when she's right. I can't believe I'm freezing to death in my own living room.

December 20: Electricity's back on, but had another 14" of damn snow last night. More shoveling. Took all day. Goddamn snowplow came by twice. Tried to find a neighbor kid to shovel, but they said they're too busy playing hockey. I think they're lying. Called the only hardware store around to see about buying a snow blower and they're out. Might have another shipment in March. I think they're lying. Bob says I have to shovel or the city will have it done and bill me. I think he's lying.

December 22: Bob was right about a white Christmas because 13 more inches of the white sh*t fell today, and it's so cold it probably won't melt till August. Took me 45 minutes to get all dressed up to go out to shovel and then I had to piss. By the time I got undressed, pissed and dressed again. I was too tired to shovel. Tried to hire Bob who has a plow on his truck for the rest of the winter; but he says he's too busy. I think the asshole is lying.

December 23: Only 2" of snow today. And it warmed up to 0. The wife wanted me to decorate the front of the house this morning. What is she nuts!!! Why didn't she tell me to do that a month ago? She says she did but I think she's lying.

December 24: 6". Snow packed so hard by snowplow, l broke the shovel. Thought I was having a heart attack. I know the son of a bitch who drives that snowplow hides around the corner and waits for me to finish shoveling and then he comes down the street at a 100 miles an hour and throws snow all over where I've just been! Tonight the wife wanted me to sing Christmas carols with her and open our presents, but I was busy watching for that goddamn snowplow.

December 25: Merry Christmas. 20 more inches of the !=3D@x@!x!x1 slop tonight. Snowed in. The idea of shoveling makes my blood boil. God I hate the snow! Then the snowplow driver came by asking for a donation and I hit him over the head with my shovel. The wife says I have a bad attitude. I think she's an idiot. If I have to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" one more time, I'm going to smack her big ass with the shovel.

December 26: Still snowed in. Why the hell did I ever move here? It was all HER idea. She's really getting on my nerves.

December 27: Temperature dropped to -30 and the pipes froze.

December 28: Warmed up to above -20. Still snowed in. THE B***H is driving me crazy!!!!!

December 29: 10 more inches. Bob says I have to shovel the roof or it could cave in. That's the silliest thing I ever heard. How dumb does he think I am?

December 30: Roof caved in. The snow plow driver is suing me for a million dollars. The wife went home to her mother. 9" predicted.

December 31: Set fire to what's left of the house. No more shoveling.

January 8: I feel so good. I just love those little white pills they keep giving me. Why am I tied to the bed?

-Author Unknown

Newt for Pope?? (repost from March 2011)

News of the US is slow to arrive in Chez XE these days. Only this past week did I read that Newt Gingrich converted to Roman Catholicism two YEARS ago! How could Faux News--or the Huffington Post--miss that?? Newtie and wife #3, Callista, have been visiting various ecclesiastical venues to flog the film they produced about Pope John Paul's role in the collapse of communism in Poland. Surely they're also pushing the DVD for Newt's book Rediscovering God in America II: Our Heritage. (Bummer! Something else I've missed while blogging fearlessly for librulism. What was the first one in this series? Rediscovering God in America I: What a Surprise?) Since receiving this gem of news-gathering, however, I have been amusing myself with What This All Means for Newt's On-and-on-and-ongoing Career Ambitions. He's almost 70 and thrice married, hardly a prime background for a presidential candidate--"I knew Ron Reagan, and you, sir, are no Ron Reagan!"

There can be only one worthy deneuement here: Newt as Pope. Oh, I know. Newt is only a pew-crawling Catholic; he's not a priest, bishop, or more important, a cardinal. In the old days, however, nonpriests could be made cardinals (several), and if the nonpriest cardinal were then elected pope (there was one: Pope John XIX ), they ordained and consecrated him at the same time they made him Pope, ipso fatso. Also, there has never been a Pope John XX! Plus, Pope John XIX's brother and nephew were both popes, and, get this, both named BENEDICT--there ya go, Newtie! Doesn't this sound tailor made for you?

I keep thinking how natural Newt would look in the Pope's garb. The pointy hat (so well suited to his beady eyes), the pudge-flattering cassock with cape, the RED SHOES with matching socks. OMG...Ian Paisley will have a field day: "Auld Red Socks," indeed! I do tend to think of Newt as the AntiChrist. That's tailor made for him, too.

He'll have to do something about Callista (AND wife #2), though. He can't be having her (them) stand beside him when he blesses the faithful from the balcony of St. Peter's. They can stay inside and cook and clean with the nuns. They'll love that.

New Blogs....and Crossword Scoring

Saturday seems like a good day to share goodies. Here are two blogs that I recently discovered (this morning, so they are new for me) and immediately slapped on the adjoining list of Blogs I Love:

The Absense of Alternatives

The Bloggess


Funny, smart, profane, just what I like. Welcome to my resources, ladies!

Also, I don't know if you've had a chance to try the crossword, also adjoining, but it's fun to see how much you can improve your score by doing it over. Most of the time I score in the 1000-3000 range on the first time through. But I have gotten it up to about 7,000 on a subsequent pass. Why do I do this? Because it's a great exercise in TYPING SKILLS. I'm always hitting the wrong key or erasing something that was right the first time. It's fun for me...just sayin.

Home on the Metro. Looking out the window at the sunset.

R.I.P., Gene....

My brother Gene died this morning.  May he rest in peace.  He was born on May 11, 1929, and died on my birthday, Dec 1, 2011.  He was the youngest of my four brothers and the one I knew best. All my other brothers were gone to the Air Force in WWII by the time I was old enough to remember who they were.

Gene and I had polio at the same time in the summer of 1943.  We caught it at Lake Cormorant, where we were visiting my parents' friends' cottage, and we got our milk straight from the cows.  I might have been spared a worse case because I refused to drink the unpasteurized milk, which had a very strong taste.  Gene was being the brave older brother and slugging his milk down with relish.  As a consequence, he had a much worse case of polio than I did, and afterwards, he had to have surgery so he could stand up straight.  He would have been my tallest brother, but after the polio, he was the shortest.

He was in the hospital much longer than I was, and he missed a lot of school.  Finally, the telephone company rigged up a microphone in his classroom at school.  He listened in on a radio at home and kept up with the others in his grade.  He was very smart--as were/are all of my brothers--and he went on to get a degree in administrative engineering at NDAC (now NDSU), which was one of their most difficult offerings. It was like 3 or 4 engineering degrees in one--architectural, mechanical, electrical, et al.

We had our  sibling rivalries as children--he was the youngest boy, very cute, and the pet pig before I came along and ruined his gig.  I was a supreme example of the pesty younger sibling:  I found all his love letters hidden in various places in his closet when he was in college and still at home.  And one night, when I thought he wasn't home and was removing the radio from his bookcase so I could take it to my room, he burst out of the closet and scared me senseless.  (He said afterward he felt bad because I got white as a sheet.) But he also taught me how to drive after my grandfather Dwyer died and we got a car, and he let me use his golf clubs.

Gene and his late wife, Helen, produced three beautiful children:  Tom, a lawyer in California; Anne Dwyer Tranvik, a housewife in Minnesota; and Jim, a pilot for one of the major airlines.

He loved the woods, and when he retired, he moved near the coast of Oregon.  He loved to bake his own bread--shades of our grandfather Redder, who was a baker in Germany before emigrating to Iowa. Rest in peace, Gene.

In paradisum deducant te angeli.
In tuo adventu, suscipiant te Martyres
et perducant te in Civitatem Sanctam Jerusalem
Chorus Angelorum te suscipiat,
et cum Lazaro, quondam paupere,
aeternam habeas requiem.

"

The Chinese Shops of Walmart in Georgetown Mall??

Yesterday (I said this somewhere else on this blog, too) I had to renew my DC drivers license.  As I've done for years, I went to the DC DMV office on the ground floor of the fancy "The Shops of Georgetown" mall on M St. NW, just past the intersection of M and Wisconsin.  It's always been a great place to shop:  J. Crew, Ralph Lauren, Comfort Shoes, F.A.O. Schwarz, Victoria's Secret, Brookstone.  They even had a bookstore there maybe 10 years ago.

Yesterday, the place was almost empty.  No, not because it was the Tuesday afternoon after the Thanksgiving shopping orgy.  The eponymous shops were almost all empty and dark.  Huh?  Was it closing?  Looked like it.  Comfort Shoes was selling out the last of its shoes at $19/pair (or was that apiece??).

Of all the things I've read about or seen in DC the past couple of years, this was the scariest!  I don't remember reading much about this in the WashPost.  Or online.  I contacted the blogger who writes Rebuilding Place in the Urban Space.  What is going on with this?  He replied:

Redev. process is underway.  Not sure what they will do.  It was held up for years in courts between two developer competitors.  Someone else bought the mortgage. 

For the most part, this "mall" doesn't work on the interior, because people go to Georgetown to be outside and walk the streets, not to spend time in a mall.  Because it was unsuccessful, by default it became a place for independents, which is not how malls usually work. 

The mall-ness is likely to be removed, in other words, the interior will be redeveloped into a conglomerated space. 

Hmmm....well, what if WalMart were to take this over and open each of their departments as a SEPARATE SHOP?  And if, as has been suggested, DC's
Chinatown is a lost cause.  It's now mostly "Gallery Place" or the "Verizon Center" with its two pro basketball teams (the Wizards--men--and the Mystics--women) and the Capitols hockey team. WalMart has been running into flak in its move to open a big box store here in DC.

So....how about this?  Let's let WalMart take over the EMPTY Shops of Georgetown mall, make each department a separate shop, and staff it with Chinese workers as befits a store that sells merchandise made mostly in China?  They can call it the "Chinese Shops at WalMart in Georgetown Mall."

All of this has made me think that the so-called "slow/bad economy" is really the result of the 1% watching out for themselves and playing us like a flute.

Better get ready to enjoy fish heads and rice and other 3rd world delicacies.  Goodbye to Clydes and oysters and hamburgers and french fries.

Tranquil Tuesday

I am considering spending at least half of every other day each week out of doors.  Far from my various computing devices, refrigerator, and toaster.  Out among all trees and flowers and growing things (buildings, too, which here seem to be behaving like mushrooms, springing up overnight and multiplying), there to communicate with spirit to whom I belong.  In the company of a little sketch pad and pencil.  Or maybe just nothing....

See how it goes....

Meltdown Monday......

I really lost it today.  I took my weekend visitor down to K Street to wait for the bus to Annapolis.  The schedule said the stop was at "16th St and K St NW, 12:27p."  Fine.

We got to the bus stop, and there was indeed a sign post for the non-Metro buses going toward the Eastern Shore.  The bus we were waiting for (which we had identified in a 2-hour session with the schedules last night) was not listed, but we decided to ask the various bus drivers if they knew where that particular Annapolis bus stopped.  So far, so good.

Bus 1 to Annapolis arrived.  Not the right one, and the driver (of the bus from a different, i.e., wrong, company) did not know where my friend's bus stopped other than to wave his hand and say "Here."

Bus 2 to Annapolis arrived. Again, not the right one, and again, other than to say "Here, I guess," the driver (from yet a third company) did not know where that particular bus would stop.

Bus 3 arrived.  It was the right bus.  It had the right number, was the right company, and was in the right place at...tada...12:27p, but the only reason it stopped was because there was a red light.  I knocked on the glass, and the driver opened the door slightly.  My friend, who has a strong South African accent and is deaf, proceeded to ask him if this was....blah blah blah...and yes, it was, but he set his mouth and shook his head "no" when I asked if he could help her put her BIG suitcase under the bus.  He also shook his head when we asked if she could get on the bus.

I blew up.  "Jesus H. Christ!  This is HER BUS!!!" and at that point, my friend got out her schedule (the RED one, not the brown one) and showed it to him.  He rolled his eyes and stormed off the bus. He yelled at me, "Don't you dare take the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ in vain!!"  Then he tossed my friend's suitcase in the compartment under the bus and waved her on.  He also had a few more choice words for me as he followed her up the steps. I smiled and said "Thank you, sir!"

I don't know what HIS problem was, and I don't think my friend appreciated my loss of composure, but what the eff....she was on the right bus, and she was on her way home, and I wandered off in search of a hotdog because I hadn't even had breakfast yet, and it was almost 1 p.m.

Jesus H. Christ, if you are paying attention, thanks for getting my friend on the right bus home.  Amen.

Saturday Night Cuteness!

Democracy for Bell, a spinoff of Democracy for California, has this tucked into the chat feature.  Isn't this baby-dog combo cute as heck??

Here's Something New....

Lori Skoog's blog always has such gorgeous photos of her farm and surrounding areas, and Lori's of course a dedicated horsewoman, writer, and artist.  This fascinating video was on her blog post today:



Happy Thanksgiving!!

Wow....

Maybe once or twice a year I come upon a blog that makes me want to get up and dance down the aisle of the bus or twirl around one of the poles in the aisle of  the metro.  I found TWO good ones this week, and it's only Monday already.

First is Nailing Jello to the Wall. I actually found that a year ago, but the author took a rather longish hiatus and I forgot about it.  I'm happy to report that she's BACK!!

Second is Suburban Lesbian Housewife. Here's a sample (and the best thing written yet about Penn State):

How many children need to be raped before a University does something? Who could watch a child be raped and do nothing? Nothing at all? 

I see something like that? I'm getting a baseball bat or the heaviest object near me and I'm stopping it. Then, I'm going to the police. But I do not wait and go to my boss.

If someone was murdered, would you wait to tell your boss? Or do you call 9-1-1?

What football program is more important than reporting directly to the police a crime?

My god, what is wrong with this country? Full disclosure: I am a football fan. Love watching, playing, and I've been a Penn State fan for years. My grandfather went there, left a large donation and there's some plaque by a pond on campus with his name on it. I have always respected the graduation rates of football players from Penn State. 

Paterno knew for years. Years. Not a week, or a month, but long enough to have stopped the pain for many more victims. He could have stopped a predator. 

But he didn't. 

I'm suppose to sit here and shed a tear for him? I don't care what he did for how many years. 

And then there's her post "Meet Baby." A smidgen of that:

Meet Baby

I know you all think I'm miserably depressed all the time, and mostly that's true but I do still know how to laugh.

While Zachary and Jake were away on a road trip, I sent them pictures on their phones. Any time I saw a "punch buggy" I sent it to Jake and said, Punch yourself.

He would promptly punch Zachary.

I had found Zachary's "Baby" in the Ogunquit house. It was a gift from a good friend of mine and Zachary did love Baby. That is, when he was a baby. Poor Baby ended up on top of the refrigerator, long forgotten. Until I got Baby, dusted her off and took her on adventures.

Meet Baby.



Now, Baby did get a little annoyed while sitting on the refrigerator for so long.



If you mess with Baby, she will give you the finger.



Baby likes cake.

There's more...more Baby, more astute political comments..Enjoy!

Saturday night blog reading...

Emilie Johnson, whose blog displays her incredible photographs and writing, has a great post today: "Brecht."

A friend, Katelin Wilcox's, one woman show last night, performed at Theater Row on 42nd Street in the United Solo Fest left me thinking thinking thinking. She was stunning in a brilliantly written piece she herself wrote of the tale of Bertolt Brecht (1989-1956), or rather, the tale of his women. She switched between the roles of five fundamental women in the playwright's life - their love, losses and perspectives. These women each not only fueled Brecht's creativity, but were often the literal composers of his work, only eventually to be discarded. It was a feminist tale and one that, unfortunately, could be told countless times across history. One of the women, Elisabeth Hauptmann, literally wrote the piece that launched Brecht's career (The Threepenny Opera) and received next to no credit for having done so. If you look up the piece, she is still often listed, at best, as a 'collaborator' - when 80-90% of the writing was hers. The women in his life were writers, actors, creative forces who were stunted merely because they were women (Brecht seized the opportunity to make use of their force and these women often saw the 'collaboration' as the only way their voices could be heard, having been rejected from publishers and industry heads repeatedly).

The performance and its story were such a great illustrative response to anyone who asks, where were women in history? Artists, writers, thinkers, philosophers - they were there. 

Where are all the women, indeed?  It's always teed me off no end to look up the new videos on TED and see so few women (2 out of 15 on today's first page).  Ditto re the Writer's Almanac, although today's featured writer is poet Sharon Olds, with a marvelous poem about her daughter.  (Keep up the good work, Garrison. Remember, MORE WOMEN....or at least as many as the men.)

And thank you, Ms. Johnson, for blogging so all of us out here can see your spirit.

The Green Man!

Got this from Jimmy Feeney this a.m.  Oh, how wonderful!  I wish I could do this.  I wish I could dye my hair green, too.

Steve Martin's Contribution to Hymnology

Yes, it's funny.....

Christians have their hymns and pages,
Hava Nagila’s for the Jews,
Baptists have the rock of ages,
Atheists just sing the blues.

Romantics play Claire de Lune,
Born agains sing He is risen,
But no one ever wrote a tune,
For godless existentialism.

For Atheists,
There’s no good news,
They’ll never sing a song of faith.

For atheists,
They have a rule,
The “he” is always lowercase.
The “he” is always lowercase.

Some folks sing a Bach cantata,
Lutherans get Christmas trees,
Atheist songs add up to nada,
But they do have Sundays free.

Pentecostalists sing they sing to heaven,
Coptics have the books of scrolls,
Numerologists can count to seven,
Atheists have rock and roll.

For Atheists,
There’s no good news,
They’ll never sing a song of Faith.

In their songs,
They have a rule,
The “he” is always lowercase.
The “he” is always lowercase.

Catholics dress up for Mass,
And listen to, Gregorian chants.

Atheists just take a pass,
Watch football in their underpants.
Watch football in their underpants.

Atheists, Atheists, Atheists,
Don’t have no songs!

Saturday Blogaround While Cooking....

Ok, I have been up since 6:43am preparing dinner for four: roasted chicken, scalloped potatoes & onions, romaine lettuce with olive oil & lemon juice, sweet basil carrots (minus the basil...oops), and apple pie.  I'm doing this for a friend and her partner, who will be entertaining the friend's former partner and her husband. (Oh, go ahead, raise your eyebrows....it's life here in the City of Satan, and I love it). Chop chop chop chop, stir stir stir stir.

The pie is done, ditto the potato dish and the carrots, and the chicken is in the oven with something I've never tried before:  making herb butter and stuffing it under the skin.  I must say the place smells divine!!!  I expect the neighbors will be telling me this when I run into them in the hallway soon.

Meanwhile, however, I'm horsing around online and checking the blogs.  You may enjoy this one in particular, too:  Old Phat Stu, who had a fascinating post yesterday on ejection seats (as in pilots).  Stu was a flight instructor for "going on three decades," and he knows his stuff.  Stu also has a policy of using email for comments.  So I'm sharing my email/comments to & from him with you. He lives far, far away.

My first question regarding his post was this:

But how could he be killed with all those precautionary restraints?  or did he pull the handle himself?  you know SO MUCH!  glory....

To which he replied:

Given that I was a flying instructor for nigh on three decades, Mary, it would be an embuggerance (q.v) if I did NOT Know how an ejection seat works.
 
All technical devices (and even social structures) only work as intended when a (perhaps implicit) set of assumptions are satisfied.
Part of doing risk analyses is identifying those assumptions ( aka drawing a risk tree) and checking they are satisfied.
 
For Fukushima these (should have) included simultaneous earthquake AND tsunami;
uncovering the cores and the dampening pools, loss of electricity for more than 3 days, running out of diesel fuel , etc etc.
 
For crossing the road it includes looking both ways first. We teach our kids specific instances like that one, but as a rule people are not taught how to do General risk assessment.  

And I said:

As I read your note @technology and risk assessment, I am on the Metro going downtown to meet a friend to borrow a pie tin. An ordinary trip that usually takes abt 17 mins. And....tada....the train has stopped. A Metro employee walks through the cars shaking her head. Soon the train backs up to the platform, the doors open, and a bunch of people get on. Did the doors not open at that platform the first time? Now we're moving....and now we're stopped again. Does Metro do this to annoy us? It seems to be the law of technology these days that it always breaks down--whether it's a massive failure involving natural phenomena like Fukushima or just a Saturday morning glitch involving a worn-out switch. Ha. Soon I'll meet my friend, get the pie tin, and go back home to cook Sat. pm dinner--with apple pie. That I can do with my bare hands and my little red-handled knife (and the mostly risk-free assumption that the oven will work and the water in the sink will run).

And so on....then I asked him, since he's also a mathematician and so smart,

OK, so tell me. How do I pick a winning lottery number?

He says:

Buy ALL the tickets!!

Of course he's right. I'm still laughing.  

  

Christmas begins at HOME this year!!

Thanks to Darlene for sending this gem!  I agree....forget the stuff at Walmart or Target. Most of us already have absolutely everything anyone could possibly need.  Try this:

As the holidays approach, the giant non-U.S. factories are kicking into high gear to provide Americans with monstrous piles of cheaply produced goods--merchandise that has been produced at the expense of American labor. This year will be different. This year Americans will give the gift of genuine concern for other Americans. There is no longer an excuse that, at gift giving time, nothing can be found that is produced by American hands. Yes there is!

It's time to think outside the box, people. Who says a gift needs to fit in a shirt box, wrapped in Chinese produced wrapping paper?

Everyone -- yes EVERYONE gets their hair cut. How about gift certificates from your local American hair salon or barber? 

Gym membership? It's appropriate for all ages who are thinking about some health improvement.

Who wouldn't appreciate getting their car detailed? Small, American owned detail shops and car washes would love to sell you a gift certificate or a book of gift certificates.

Are you one of those extravagant givers who think nothing of plonking down the Benjamins on a Chinese made flat-screen? Perhaps that grateful gift receiver would like his driveway sealed, or lawn mowed for the summer, or driveway plowed all winter, or games at the local golf course.

There are a bazillion owner-run restaurants -- all offering gift certificates. And, if your intended isn't the fancy eatery sort, what about a half dozen breakfasts at the local breakfast joint. Remember, folks this isn't about big National chains -- this is about supporting your home town Americans with their financial lives on the line to keep their doors open.

How many people couldn't use an oil change for their car, truck or motorcycle, done at a shop run by the American working guy?

Thinking about a heartfelt gift for mom? Mom would LOVE the services of a local cleaning lady for a day.

My computer could use a tune-up, and I KNOW I can find some young guy who is struggling to get his repair business up and running.

OK, you were looking for something more personal. Local crafts people spin their own wool and knit them into scarves. They make jewelry, and pottery and beautiful wooden boxes.

Plan your holiday outings at local, owner operated restaurants and leave your server a nice tip. And, how about going out to see a play or ballet at your hometown theatre?

Musicians need love too, so find a venue showcasing local bands.

Honestly, people, do you REALLY need to buy another ten thousand Chinese lights for the house? When you buy a five dollar string of light, about fifty cents stays in the community. If you have those kinds of bucks to burn, leave the mailperson, trash collector, or babysitter a nice BIG tip.

You see, Christmas is no longer about draining American pockets so that China can build another glittering city. Christmas is now about caring about US, encouraging American small businesses to keep plugging away to follow their dreams. And, when we care about other Americans, we care about our communities, and the benefits come back to us in ways we couldn't imagine. THIS is the new American Christmas tradition.

Forward this to everyone on your mailing list 

-- post it to discussion groups 

-- throw up a post on Craigslist for your city in the Rants and Raves section

-- send it to the editor of your local paper and radio stations, and TV news departments. 

This is a revolution of caring about each other, and isn't that what Christmas is about?

Yes, you!!

Thanks to http://www.comicstripoftheday.com/ for including this on Nov 5, 2011, and
for all his other wonderful posts.

Visualizing Bach: Alexander Chen’s Impossible Harp

I love this piece, especially the Casals portion.  The room is darkening, it's quiet and peaceful.  Perfect for listening to music.

Visualizing Bach: Alexander Chen’s Impossible Harp

Yup....that's how it goes

HEALTH MESSAGE   (give me a break) It's the tortoise life for me! 1.  If walking/cycling is good for your health, the postman would be immortal. 2.  A whale swims all day, only eats fish, drinks water, and is fat. 3.  A rabbit runs and hops and only lives 15 years. 4.  A tortoise doesn't run and does nothing, yet it lives for 450 years. And you tell me to exercise??  I don't think so. I'm retired.  Go around me!

Wonderful post by Minnesota Matron

Minnesota Matron's current post with sterling advice for Herman Cain came in over Google Reader this evening, and it's too good to keep for myself.  I especially like the part where she says, 

So The next time you have the bully pulpit, forget Congress, forget Wall Street, forget those angry bankers. Save that rage for the sex offenders and you have a sure-fire strategy for success.

You, Mr. Cain, are the Reform Candidate. Starting with yourself.

Hans Rosling Uses Ikea Props to Explain World of 7 Billion People

This is another cool TED talk.  With a few simple props from Ikea, it shows the relationship between the number of people on the planet and lifestyles.  I found it quite interesting.

Hans Rosling Uses Ikea Props to Explain World of 7 Billion People

Natalie Goldberg on Finding Your Inner Sweetheart

I found this last night while noodling around the web.

How to Flourish in Your Writing (Plus Three Writing Prompts)
By Natalie Goldberg
Author of
Writing Down the Bones,
Wild Mind,
Thunder and Lightning, and
Long Quiet Highway

An excellent way to feel fully free and really flourish in your writing is to develop a sweetheart inside you that encourages you and, most importantly, counteracts your monkey mind or inner editor or critic.

My sweetheart isn’t very complicated. As I write and hear from the critic—who says something along the lines of, “Nat, this is stupid, you are dumb, what you are writing makes no sense”—my sweetheart says something along the lines of, “It’s OK, Nat, keep going. Keep going. Like a swimmer, you’ve got to do those laps.”

Keep your sweetheart simple. I know how complicated a critic can be, but if the sweetheart gets complicated, too, then your two voices will start battling and arguing, which is a waste of your time. Don’t give the critic something to latch onto. Keep it simple; keep writing.

And of course, you have to be free to write the worst shit in America in order to write something good. It’s better to keep your hand moving for ten minutes or a half hour than think for a half hour and have three crossed out words. If you’ve read Wild Mind, you know what I always say: keep the hand moving, don’t think, lose control, say what you want to say not what you think you should say.

And use detail. It’s not a tree but a sycamore, not car but Cadillac, not a horse but a palomino. But listening to your sweetheart, do not chastise yourself if you write “city” as opposed to “New Mexico.” You can always come back a week later and define your city, specifying London or Omaha.

Always have great kindness for yourself. Look over your shoulder: there is no one there. No one cares if you write. It has to come from you, from your effort. There is no hierarchy in writing; you elbow your way into the lineage by your human effort. It is democratic and should be in the declaration of independence—the right to liberty, justice, the pursuit of happiness, and writing. Only human beings write. Clouds don’t, ants don’t.

It is your human right to know your own mind and write your own words. Let your life shine. Tell your dark and dirty, mysterious, bloody, real, and glorious story.

Tell your story of love and loneliness. Tell about the moon, the night you realized you were not going to be a doctor, the morning you had to admit you wanted to write more than anything. Tell how you are scared and what you love to eat, your first kiss and your last. As Jack Kerouac said: be submissive to everything, open, listening. Accept loss forever. Write in amazement of yourself. What about rain and no-rain and the street you live on? What about sickness and ice cream? And don’t forget what you lust for.

Let yourself be alive. This is your one true life. I don’t know about any other.

With your sweetheart in tow, use these three ten-minute writing prompts to write right here, right now:

1. Tell me everything you remember about third grade.
If you don’t remember anything begin by telling me that.

2. Give me memories of red, but don’t say the word red, use words that engender red in the mind, for instance, rose, fire, beets.

3. What do you regret?
Be specific.

Connect with Natalie:

Facebook
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[Dear readers, click on that BAR in the preceding line, and it'll take you to Natalie Goldberg's Fan Page. Merci]
nataliegoldberg.com

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We didn't have "the green thing".....

Darlene sent this! Lovely!

In the queue at the store, the cashier told an older woman that she should bring her own grocery bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment.

The woman apologized to him and explained, "We didn't have the green thing back in my day."

The clerk responded, "That's our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment."

He was right -- our generation didn't have the green thing in its day.

Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were recycled. But we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

We walked up stairs, because we didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks. But she was right. We didn't have the green thing in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby's diapers because we didn't have the throw-away kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts -- wind and solar power really did dry the clothes. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing. But that old lady is right; we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house -- not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of the state of Montana . In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used a wadded up old newspaper to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap. Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity. But she's right; we didn't have the green thing back then.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull. But we didn't have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the streetcar or a bus and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service. We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest pizza joint.

But isn't it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn't have the green thing back then?

Remember: Don't make old People mad.

We don't like being old in the first place, so it doesn't take much to tick us off.