Sunday, April 11, 2010
HELLO WORLD
TEST FTP
Saturday, June 17, 2006
The Dixie Chicks Ride Again
I've never been a Dixie Chicks fan. Until now.
I was amused back in '03 when, on the eve of the Irag war, the Chicks caused such an uproar among the country music crowd and industry, but really didn't pay it no mind, after all, they're a little bit country and I'm a whole lot rock 'n roll.
So when Time Magazine ran this cover story a few weeks ago In The Line Of Fire that leads off with "Natalie Maines is one of those people born middle finger first" I downloaded myself a copy of "I'm Not Ready To Make Nice".
Now after listening to it 20 or a 100 times or so, I've got to say, taken in the context that produced it, it's certainly one of the better songs I've heard recently. When Means sings "..it's a sad sad story when a mother will teach her daughter, that she aught to hate a perfect stranger, and how in the world can the words I said, send somebody so over the edge, that they write me a letter saying that I better, shut up and sing or my life will be over" it hits me hard. As a four minute fuck you to the industry and fans that turned it's collective shoulder on The Chicks one couldn't hope for better. That Means and The Chicks were right from the begining only make this song so much the sweeter.
But you know, I'd go 'em one further. They were ashamed that Bush was from Texas. Hell I'm ashamed he's from this country.
Thank you Country Music for the treat. Now that the Dixie Chicks have something to say, I'll be listening.
I was amused back in '03 when, on the eve of the Irag war, the Chicks caused such an uproar among the country music crowd and industry, but really didn't pay it no mind, after all, they're a little bit country and I'm a whole lot rock 'n roll.
So when Time Magazine ran this cover story a few weeks ago In The Line Of Fire that leads off with "Natalie Maines is one of those people born middle finger first" I downloaded myself a copy of "I'm Not Ready To Make Nice".
Now after listening to it 20 or a 100 times or so, I've got to say, taken in the context that produced it, it's certainly one of the better songs I've heard recently. When Means sings "..it's a sad sad story when a mother will teach her daughter, that she aught to hate a perfect stranger, and how in the world can the words I said, send somebody so over the edge, that they write me a letter saying that I better, shut up and sing or my life will be over" it hits me hard. As a four minute fuck you to the industry and fans that turned it's collective shoulder on The Chicks one couldn't hope for better. That Means and The Chicks were right from the begining only make this song so much the sweeter.
But you know, I'd go 'em one further. They were ashamed that Bush was from Texas. Hell I'm ashamed he's from this country.
Thank you Country Music for the treat. Now that the Dixie Chicks have something to say, I'll be listening.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Maggy's Back
MIMO :: In My Secret Life
Maggy's back. Whether that's good or bad I'm not sure. I just know that when Maggy needs to talk she does it best when talking to the world. And boy, can she write.
I first "found" Maggy online years ago, back when the web was young, somewhere around 95-97 or so. I was off of Compuserve by then, and Netscape was about to take over the world, or at least overthrow Microsoft. I'd stay up to 2 or 3 in the morning surfing the web with my 28.8kb modem, when one night I came across Maggy's World. But it was when she wrote {Water} (and oh! what a beautiful site that was!) that I sunk deep into her stories devouring every written moment of her life. Sometimes I laughed, sometimes I cried, all times I was moved. This was the unadultered real life of an intelligent and beautiful but not always so confidant self-styled poly-bisexual immigrant from an eastern-bloc country, with parents, child, lovers and mostly it seems an unrelenting search for love and affirmation and understanding.
It was through Maggy's sites that I realized the greatest asset of the web, one that holds true even more so today, considering the billion or so blogs and myspace pages out there: the web is about people. And Maggy, by opening her life to us all, helped make the web what it is today.
And now she's back. There's been a lot of changes in her life since those early web days. Most, as far as I can tell, have been good. She picks up her story here, seven years after her and Patrick married, Katrina now a teen, and Maxine thoroughly adorable. Of course, this is about Maggy, and Maggy is.. um, complicated. So jump in. Just don't expect to understand everything right away.
Maggy's back. Whether that's good or bad I'm not sure. I just know that when Maggy needs to talk she does it best when talking to the world. And boy, can she write.
I first "found" Maggy online years ago, back when the web was young, somewhere around 95-97 or so. I was off of Compuserve by then, and Netscape was about to take over the world, or at least overthrow Microsoft. I'd stay up to 2 or 3 in the morning surfing the web with my 28.8kb modem, when one night I came across Maggy's World. But it was when she wrote {Water} (and oh! what a beautiful site that was!) that I sunk deep into her stories devouring every written moment of her life. Sometimes I laughed, sometimes I cried, all times I was moved. This was the unadultered real life of an intelligent and beautiful but not always so confidant self-styled poly-bisexual immigrant from an eastern-bloc country, with parents, child, lovers and mostly it seems an unrelenting search for love and affirmation and understanding.
It was through Maggy's sites that I realized the greatest asset of the web, one that holds true even more so today, considering the billion or so blogs and myspace pages out there: the web is about people. And Maggy, by opening her life to us all, helped make the web what it is today.
And now she's back. There's been a lot of changes in her life since those early web days. Most, as far as I can tell, have been good. She picks up her story here, seven years after her and Patrick married, Katrina now a teen, and Maxine thoroughly adorable. Of course, this is about Maggy, and Maggy is.. um, complicated. So jump in. Just don't expect to understand everything right away.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Derek The Great's Coffee Fiasco
Derek Powazek is a genius. I have no doubt that one day, some 50 or a 100 years from now, as Vinton Cerf is known as the Father Of The Internet, Derek will be known as The Soul Of The Internet. Derek is intelligent, good looking and has impeccable taste in women. His prodigious outputs and well-reasoned commentaries are not just food for thought, but rather soul food instead. He is The 21st Century Man.
So when he gave his Great Coffee Soliloquy, I listened. I acted. What else could I do? I purchased a Bodum French Press coffee maker so I too could be a maker of Great Coffee.
And learned two things:
1. Derek The Great is not infallible, and
2. The French are idiots.
I'll leave the first point uncommented, as just the contemplation of such heresy shakes my world to its foundations, and well, point two I've been thinking about for days now.
(For the sake of this diatribe, I'll ignore all the great things the French have done, such as their Revolution, our own Revolution, the Statue of Liberty, wine nearly as good as California's, and of course, cow brain recipies.)
But this is about coffee. And as everybody knows, the French only drink coffee because the English have this thing for tea. (This is somewhat like French Wine - an entire industry, an art even, devoted to what it's not: German Beer.)
So, I'll say it again: The French Are Idiots. Only the French would invent something as contrariun as The French Press Coffee Maker. I've now spent two weeks trying to get this thing to make Great Coffee, and all I've gotten for my efforts is oily slimey ground infested coffee. I've tried various grinds, various pressures pressing, even sheathed the press in a filter, all to no avail. And, AND, the damn thing is a pain-in-the-ass to clean! I've had hemorroids more friendly.
So for now I'll stick with my old, trusty and friendly Melitta #2 cone type coffee maker. Under 6 bucks anywhere. Simple paper filter. Easy clean-up. Great coffee. Just follow the rules - fresh roasted beans, grind fine, good water, splash-soak-pour. In less than 2 minutes great coffee, every time.
As for the Bodum, it does make a nice looking accessory in my kitchen. Perhaps I'll put some flowers in it.
So when he gave his Great Coffee Soliloquy, I listened. I acted. What else could I do? I purchased a Bodum French Press coffee maker so I too could be a maker of Great Coffee.
And learned two things:
1. Derek The Great is not infallible, and
2. The French are idiots.
I'll leave the first point uncommented, as just the contemplation of such heresy shakes my world to its foundations, and well, point two I've been thinking about for days now.
(For the sake of this diatribe, I'll ignore all the great things the French have done, such as their Revolution, our own Revolution, the Statue of Liberty, wine nearly as good as California's, and of course, cow brain recipies.)
But this is about coffee. And as everybody knows, the French only drink coffee because the English have this thing for tea. (This is somewhat like French Wine - an entire industry, an art even, devoted to what it's not: German Beer.)
So, I'll say it again: The French Are Idiots. Only the French would invent something as contrariun as The French Press Coffee Maker. I've now spent two weeks trying to get this thing to make Great Coffee, and all I've gotten for my efforts is oily slimey ground infested coffee. I've tried various grinds, various pressures pressing, even sheathed the press in a filter, all to no avail. And, AND, the damn thing is a pain-in-the-ass to clean! I've had hemorroids more friendly.
So for now I'll stick with my old, trusty and friendly Melitta #2 cone type coffee maker. Under 6 bucks anywhere. Simple paper filter. Easy clean-up. Great coffee. Just follow the rules - fresh roasted beans, grind fine, good water, splash-soak-pour. In less than 2 minutes great coffee, every time.
As for the Bodum, it does make a nice looking accessory in my kitchen. Perhaps I'll put some flowers in it.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Words of Pablo
I doubt there's a writer in the world who wouldn't wish to have written this:
You can say anything you want, yes sir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend . . . I bow to them . . . I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them . . . I love words so much . . . The ones I wait for greedily. . .they glitter like colored stones, they leap like silver fish, they are foam, thread, metal, dew . . . I stalk certain words . . . They are so beautiful that I want to fit them all into my poem . . . I catch them in midflight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives . . . And I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them . . . I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, like pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves . . . Everything exists in the word.
-from the Memoirs of Pablo Neruda, the great Chilean Poet and Nobel Laureate
You can say anything you want, yes sir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend . . . I bow to them . . . I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them . . . I love words so much . . . The ones I wait for greedily. . .they glitter like colored stones, they leap like silver fish, they are foam, thread, metal, dew . . . I stalk certain words . . . They are so beautiful that I want to fit them all into my poem . . . I catch them in midflight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives . . . And I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them . . . I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, like pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves . . . Everything exists in the word.
-from the Memoirs of Pablo Neruda, the great Chilean Poet and Nobel Laureate
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Eye Candy
I work in a most amazing place. All day long women of all shapes and sizes and ages promenade past on their way to the deli or the mail boxes or the parking lot, and it can be quite distracting. But pleasantly so.
Sometimes, they even talk to me.
Sometimes, they even talk to me.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
First Born
It wasn't where I wanted to be, but I wouldn't have had it any other way.
A labor of love: New in Words.
A labor of love: New in Words.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Dori's Story
I sat in the hospital parking lot, still stunned. It was late, an almost fog misting around the street lights but not on the ground. My right arm sore, still shaking, my hands bruised and fingers battered. Tears were sliding down my cheeks.
I have never felt better.
You see, Tyler was born that night.
First Born, coming soon, in Words.
I have never felt better.
You see, Tyler was born that night.
First Born, coming soon, in Words.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Something to Remember
Eisenhower's Military Industrial Complex Speach
Still relevant today. Pertinent passage:
"..In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.
"We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted; only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together."
Today, that would be the military-industrial-oil complex. And Shrub is owned by all of them.
So much for an "alert and knowledgeable citizenry".
Still relevant today. Pertinent passage:
"..In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.
"We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted; only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together."
Today, that would be the military-industrial-oil complex. And Shrub is owned by all of them.
So much for an "alert and knowledgeable citizenry".
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Lynn
Like most men named Lynn, Lynn's a big man. Never met a small Lynn. Not like those guys named Leslie, who are almost always small and frail and effeminate. Bulky and mountain-like, his James Bond grace belies his size. Mount Rushmore in kaki slacks, Lynn can sneak up on potato chips or human beings with equal stealthy ease.
Which does not easily explain his current occupation, unless of course you factor in that 007 quotient, his mystery lunch bag, his short wave radio disguised as a baby boom box (can't fool me), and his decoder ring that looks suspiciously like a wedding band, but *glints* in the sunlight.
I know what's going on.
The big guy's a spy for the Corporation. Probably does side jobs for the CIA, FBI or one of those other alphabet agencies. You can see it on his face, hidden behind that so-so innocent smile or occasional bewildered look, which of course, is a front.
Again, Lynn can sneak up on potato chips or human beings with equal stealthy ease.
Skills in high demand for the right employer.
Beware. After I post this I'll contact the LA Times an
Which does not easily explain his current occupation, unless of course you factor in that 007 quotient, his mystery lunch bag, his short wave radio disguised as a baby boom box (can't fool me), and his decoder ring that looks suspiciously like a wedding band, but *glints* in the sunlight.
I know what's going on.
The big guy's a spy for the Corporation. Probably does side jobs for the CIA, FBI or one of those other alphabet agencies. You can see it on his face, hidden behind that so-so innocent smile or occasional bewildered look, which of course, is a front.
Again, Lynn can sneak up on potato chips or human beings with equal stealthy ease.
Skills in high demand for the right employer.
Beware. After I post this I'll contact the LA Times an
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Burn In Hell
Sometimes you just get lucky. Kind of minding my own business, performing chores in the front of the store, a Man on a Mission enters, apparently intent on spreading the Word while Begging for Bucks. Being my usual cheerful but somewhat contemptuous self, I mearly mentioned my favorite Public Access TV Fantasy: Debating Religious Crackpots, vying for money and souls.
And was told in no uncertain terms I would Burn in Hell.
Gotta tell ya, rode that high for days.
-The most preposterous notion that H. sapiens has ever dreamed up is that the Lord God of Creation, Shaper and Ruler of all the Universes, wants the saccharine adoration of His creatures, can be swayed by their prayers, and becomes petulant if He does not receive this flattery. Yet this absurd fantasy, without a shred of evidence to bolster it, pays all the expenses of the oldest, largest, and least productive industry in all history.-
-Robert A. Heinlein
And was told in no uncertain terms I would Burn in Hell.
Gotta tell ya, rode that high for days.
-The most preposterous notion that H. sapiens has ever dreamed up is that the Lord God of Creation, Shaper and Ruler of all the Universes, wants the saccharine adoration of His creatures, can be swayed by their prayers, and becomes petulant if He does not receive this flattery. Yet this absurd fantasy, without a shred of evidence to bolster it, pays all the expenses of the oldest, largest, and least productive industry in all history.-
-Robert A. Heinlein
Thursday, April 07, 2005
So Long Saturday Nights
My third night at Cajon Speedway I watched Ron Overman hit the wall at a hundred-something miles an hour. The year was 2002, and that was nearly my last race. Now, I almost wish it were.
Except, I would've missed watching Ed Hale rule the Pony's in his Pinto, often starting deep in the pack and weaving (always weaving) his way up front. He was such fun to watch he became my first "favorite" driver. Or, the next year when Hector Leon blew to the front of the pack with his black and purple Mustang, driving with such confidence the other drivers just got out of his way.
(Really wanted to watch Hector do the same with the Mods in '05, maybe going after Danny Gay, who finaly became a respectable (read clean) driver last year.)
Would've missed rooting for Bob Blew, watching his 545 Bomber forever going backwards. Or Brian Fitzgibbons in his rookie year, sponsored by Sid's Auto Body. Damn pretty car. Or last year, Fitz pretty much driving any car he could, to get seat time.
Would've missed the 297 last year, the elation and the depression, being personaly involved with car and driver. Or, if the 297 just wasn't competive that night, maybe rooting for Eric Fergusson. No shame in that.
Then there's Debi Uriosti becoming Debi Chapman. Or that cute little redheaded security guard, I've forgotten her name, but not her face. Or "our" concession lady, she always had a smile and a kind word. Or the kids playing below the stands, always back for "grandpa's" race. Would've missed all that.
Would've missed the pits after the races, the happy and the not-so-happy campers. The teams that did well, it was more than camaraderie, it was brotherhood. For that night, at least. The teams that didn't do so well, well, there was always next week.
Would've have missed the kids in the pits, getting autographs from their heros. Nothing wrong with guys like Brian Collins, Fitzgibbons, or Amber Lee Harmon, being heros. Maybe especially Amber Lee. She never won, but she had no quit in her.
Would've missed learning about the dedication and effort it takes for a team to make 100% participation. Blood, sweat, and tears barely describes the effort required. That "Doc" Harrison's done it 18 years is maybe the highest achievement at Cajon.
It took me a season or so to warm-up to Cajon, learning the rules and the track and the people. And most of all, it was the people that brought me back. Cajon Speedways assets, listed somewhere as lights and grandstands and scoreboards, are nothing, really, without those that brought the place alive, whether in the stands or on the track or in the pits.
My third night at Cajon Speedway I watched Ron Overman hit the wall at a hundred-something miles an hour. I almost never went back. But I'm glad I did. I would've missed so much.
It almost hurts too much, saying goodbye. I'm gonna miss Cajon, for all the things I didn't miss. Thanks for the memories.
(Cajon Speedway, located in El Cajon, California, some 15 miles east of San Diego, shut the gates after some 44 years of Saturday night racing. The racetrack will be converted into an airplane parking lot.)
Except, I would've missed watching Ed Hale rule the Pony's in his Pinto, often starting deep in the pack and weaving (always weaving) his way up front. He was such fun to watch he became my first "favorite" driver. Or, the next year when Hector Leon blew to the front of the pack with his black and purple Mustang, driving with such confidence the other drivers just got out of his way.
(Really wanted to watch Hector do the same with the Mods in '05, maybe going after Danny Gay, who finaly became a respectable (read clean) driver last year.)
Would've missed rooting for Bob Blew, watching his 545 Bomber forever going backwards. Or Brian Fitzgibbons in his rookie year, sponsored by Sid's Auto Body. Damn pretty car. Or last year, Fitz pretty much driving any car he could, to get seat time.
Would've missed the 297 last year, the elation and the depression, being personaly involved with car and driver. Or, if the 297 just wasn't competive that night, maybe rooting for Eric Fergusson. No shame in that.
Then there's Debi Uriosti becoming Debi Chapman. Or that cute little redheaded security guard, I've forgotten her name, but not her face. Or "our" concession lady, she always had a smile and a kind word. Or the kids playing below the stands, always back for "grandpa's" race. Would've missed all that.
Would've missed the pits after the races, the happy and the not-so-happy campers. The teams that did well, it was more than camaraderie, it was brotherhood. For that night, at least. The teams that didn't do so well, well, there was always next week.
Would've have missed the kids in the pits, getting autographs from their heros. Nothing wrong with guys like Brian Collins, Fitzgibbons, or Amber Lee Harmon, being heros. Maybe especially Amber Lee. She never won, but she had no quit in her.
Would've missed learning about the dedication and effort it takes for a team to make 100% participation. Blood, sweat, and tears barely describes the effort required. That "Doc" Harrison's done it 18 years is maybe the highest achievement at Cajon.
It took me a season or so to warm-up to Cajon, learning the rules and the track and the people. And most of all, it was the people that brought me back. Cajon Speedways assets, listed somewhere as lights and grandstands and scoreboards, are nothing, really, without those that brought the place alive, whether in the stands or on the track or in the pits.
My third night at Cajon Speedway I watched Ron Overman hit the wall at a hundred-something miles an hour. I almost never went back. But I'm glad I did. I would've missed so much.
It almost hurts too much, saying goodbye. I'm gonna miss Cajon, for all the things I didn't miss. Thanks for the memories.
(Cajon Speedway, located in El Cajon, California, some 15 miles east of San Diego, shut the gates after some 44 years of Saturday night racing. The racetrack will be converted into an airplane parking lot.)
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Frazzled
On occasion I see this most amazing woman on my way to work in the morning. Her smile leaves me dazzled and just a little frazzled as I climb in my truck and drive away.
She makes my day.
She makes my day.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
The Kid
So I give the BOD-D Award to The Kid, who's working his day off cuz we need the help. Kids' so happy about it he runs over a bush in front of the neighbor's building. Had to first drive over the curb to get there.
My fault. I forgot his other nickname.
Crash.
My fault. I forgot his other nickname.
Crash.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Birth of the BOD-D
It started as a joke, the Olympic style medallion with the Statue Of Liberty Pin and the Multi-Purpose Compass/Thermometer/Whistle Thingy. A way to gently poke fun at my fellow workers and delivery drivers at a busy auto parts store in Southern California.
Napa drivers are pretty much the Rodney Dagerfield of the professional driving world. FedEx and UPS gets the glory. Pizza people get the tips. And the Postal Service gets, well, they get guns. But auto part drivers pretty much get nothing. Little pay and less respect.
But I wasn't thinking of all this when I came up with the Benevolent Order of Delivery Drivers (or BOD-D) Award. All I had in mind was a way to poke fun at my fellows.
Except, the first opportunity to hand out the BOD-D came not from a blunder but from an act of kindness. And the second opportunity came not from a foul-up but an act above the call of duty.
And so, what started as a joke became an accolade, token of appreciation and not least, a nod of respect.
And that's no joke.
Napa drivers are pretty much the Rodney Dagerfield of the professional driving world. FedEx and UPS gets the glory. Pizza people get the tips. And the Postal Service gets, well, they get guns. But auto part drivers pretty much get nothing. Little pay and less respect.
But I wasn't thinking of all this when I came up with the Benevolent Order of Delivery Drivers (or BOD-D) Award. All I had in mind was a way to poke fun at my fellows.
Except, the first opportunity to hand out the BOD-D came not from a blunder but from an act of kindness. And the second opportunity came not from a foul-up but an act above the call of duty.
And so, what started as a joke became an accolade, token of appreciation and not least, a nod of respect.
And that's no joke.
