PittsburghThoughts

With patriots like these ...

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 17:10:00 +0200

These guys would drag you down into hell rather than admit they are wrong,

John McCain and his handlers, like the peasant's daughter in Rumpelstiltskin's tale of deceit and woe, have been and are busy, night and day, spinning straw into gold, only it's their last straw and fool's gold. You'd have to be a fool to ignore what's actually transpired in favor of McCain's version of an always victorious and just America.

The man, the hand picked Prime Minister of Iraq, Nouri-al Maliki, was twice coroneted, once in our minds by the Iraq People and once by President Jalal Talabani.

Former United States Ambassador to Iraq, Zalmay Khalilzad, has stated that Ibrahim al-Jaafari, who was also a candidate for Prime Minister of Iraq, was forced to withdraw his nomination for premiership for the permanent government because of accusations of weak leadership from United States President George W. Bush.

Bush, who says, and has said all along, that al-Maliki is our man, now, probably wishes he hadn't and that some secret operative could quickly and quietly put a bullet his head, because ... Maliki agrees with Obama:

In an interview with Der Spiegel released on Saturday, Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki made international headlines when he endorsed Sen. Barack Obama’s (D-IL) plan to withdraw U.S. troops from Iraq within 16 months.

But, then, for political reasons, Maliki, through a spokesman, denied he fully agreed with Obama:

On Sunday, however, the U.S. military distributed a vague statement from Iraqi government spokesman Ali al-Dabbagh, saying that Maliki’s words had been “misunderstood and mistranslated.” The clarification, however, failed to cite specific examples of errors.

But, lots of buts in this story, huh?

Yesterday, the New York Times casts further doubt on al-Dabbagh’s excuse. The interpreter for the interview worked for Maliki’s office, not Der Spiegel. The Times also double-checked the translation by obtaining an audio recording of Maliki’s interview, which was conducted in Arabic. Directly translated, it reads:

Obama’s remarks that — if he takes office — in 16 months he would withdraw the forces, we think that this period could increase or decrease a little, but that it could be suitable to end the presence of the forces in Iraq. … Who wants to exit in a quicker way has a better assessment of the situation in Iraq.

We're gone, gone, gone, solid gone. McCain combats this by making fun of Obama's stance on the surge. He maintains that it's worked but for whatever reason we shouldn't reap the fruits of its success by leaving. In fact, succeeding only makes him want to stay longer and longer. WTF does McCain want?

Bush wants a legacy that doesn't contain the words, "War criminal," and to stay out of jail. That's clear. But McCain???

In this world of faux conservative foregone conclusions gone wild, facts are irrelevant and the irrelevancy is redundantly expressed simply by either ignoring the facts or acting like their non-facts trump everything else. I'd like to slap a whole bunch of these war mongering politicos across their two faces, they are monsters and sociopaths created in the laboratories of the rich, by the rich and for the rich.

It turns out we went to war, just to go to war. Hey, all you dead and maimed motherfuckers, all you mothers and fathers scratching to find gas money, food, housing, health care and a reason to keep trying ... the jokes on you. Gene

Home again, home again, jiggity jog

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 13:15:00 +0200

Some pictures to prove we were away! I know how you are! It was in the 90s all weekend, we did a lot, stayed within our budget (sorta) and didn't make a dent on NYC.

Me and my gang

My Gang without me

The Neon Police

Baby Liberty

Ellis Island

Night time street scene

On th boat tour

Waterfall exhibit

The same

An older section of NYC

Neat wall

*Little red lighthouse beneath the George Washington Bridge

**Typhoid Mary's house

At the Sea Side Boardwalk

One kiss my bonny sweetheart!

Mother Gina with the two things she loves; her son and her cigarette

And you know who you are!

*The Little Red Lighthouse stands proudly beneath the George Washington Bridge on the New York shore. She reminds us that all things big or small have a significant place in our world. The children’s book The Little Red Lighthouse and the Big Grey Bridge by Hildegarde Swift taught this lesson well. The Little Red served as a navigational aid before and after the bridge was built.

**Mary Mallon seemed a healthy woman when a health inspector knocked on her door in 1907, yet she was the cause of several typhoid outbreaks. Since Mary was the first "healthy carrier" of typhoid fever in the United States, she did not understand how someone not sick could spread disease -- so she tried to fight back.

After a trial and then a short run from health officials, Mary was recaptured and forced to live in relative seclusion upon North Brother Island off New York.

The new Apple iCar

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 18:07:48 +0200

Thanks to Tony White and the great images he posts,

If I can make it there (without running out of gas or having a meltdown) I can make it anywhere

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 13:00:00 +0200

Pointer Sisters - I'm So Excited.mp3

The last few days have been hectic, yes, even for me. We're planning to visit our daughter in NJ this weekend. She's 20 minutes by train from NYC so we always take advantage of the opportunity to spend some time sight seeing, in fact, without NYC in the mix, I doubt that we'd visit as frequently (sorry Natalie.)

The expenses will be split between the good, ole credit card, mostly for gas, and the even gooder (sic), older cash. We're planning on taking the Circle Line tour boat around Manhattan Island. Think Gilligan's Island and hum, "A three hour tour ... a three hour tour."

That's Saturday, later, we'll go to the Met if we have any starch left in our jeans. Friday and Saturday they're open late. We've been to the Met several times but I still haven't completely wrapped my mind around it. I mean; the general lay-out, the shape and endless galleries that seem to open up at every turn. (Just one little display case of golden artifacts is all I ask.)

It seems mandatory to go to the beach while we're there and Sunday we will.

Thank God our daughter has excellent navigation skills, she instinctively knows which way to go and always makes the right connection. Natalie, this Bud's for you!

We'll return poorer and richer, images burnt into our minds and pixels. This is it, our big summer trip and it's here. Gene

Images

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 12:39:49 +0200

No smoking

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 19:02:47 +0200

Card found in second hand store book

Yes, I'd like some cheese with my whine!

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 13:35:00 +0200

When someone who's led a charmed life tells me what a whiner I am, I want to spit in their eye. Unfortunately, I'd run out of spit before they'd run out of eyes. George Will is the latest pundit to pounce.

George Will Sticks Up For Gramm: Americans Are ‘The Cry Babies Of The Western World’»

Last week, Sen. John McCain’s (R-AZ) economic adviser Phil Gramm sparked controversy by stating that the U.S. is in a “mental recession” created by a “nation of whiners.” In response, McCain quickly tried to distance himself from his long-time friend’s remarks.

Today on ABC’s This Week, conservative columnist George Will acknowledged that the economy had slowed tremendously but nevertheless staunchly defended Gramm’s comments. “Phil Gramm was right of course,” Will declared. “Absolutely”:

WILL: On two points. … We’re not in a recession as commonly defined. That is two consecutive quarters of negative growth.

STEPHANOPOULOS: We may be running there though. Even Bernanke says so.

WILL: We’re not however. Unemployment is just about the post-war average at 5.5 percent. His second point that we’re a nation of whiners: we are the crybabies of the western world. In fact, we have an extraordinarily low pain threshold.

The truth is, that without an outlet for complaints or redress of grievances, any dissension begins to resemble a whine to the ones that have stacked the deck against their workforce, their constituency and the great unwashed, in general. Will counts on a technicality to disqualify us from a recession and then decry's our low pain threshold while nodding in approval as his rich friends and functionaries tighten the vise one more turn on our balls.

I suppose Will would be happier and have more respect if we took up arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing them, end them? Well I would too, but we already did that. I ask the quintessential question; who would Will have sided with 200 plus years ago? The Colonists or the Loyalists? We have an entire government, starting at the very top, comprised of people sharing the same sentiments as the Loyalists.

To them, nothing is messier than having to deal with their nouveau colonies' complaints without resorting to strong arm tactics ... yet. How do you presume to be a democratic society and quash dissent like a bug? Make it seem unmanly to complain ... ?

If Will can find a technicality to release his party from admitting to failed economic policy, shouldn't he be able to torture his intellect and vocabulary skills for a better term than "whiner" and "crybabies of the world?" How about "Patriot?" Gene

My venom flows

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 19:15:00 +0200

Hmmm, let's see, what's on the schedule to write about today ... Disgust with the system? Nope, covered that over and over again. Disgust with the candidates, same deal. Self disgust? Naw, too depressing. Malaise? Ennui? Angst? The heartbreak of psoriasis?

How about a human interest story? There once was a guy that had a puppy and....the puppy....died. Shit.

The puppy frolicked and... the guy died. Double shit. The fucking puppy grew up, turned on his master and ate him. There ... End of story.

**************

On another note, I figured out what the conservatives want. They want to be lied to. NO BAD NEWS ABOUT ANYTHING! They want to be told that America is a fine place and just keeps getting better and better. And, it is for them. They don't want equality or fairness, fuck that, you can't be a rich pig if you're going to be fair!

That's why it's so obvious to those of us who aren't sitting around the pool collecting dividend checks, so obvious that the system is rigged. Why do some conservatives even bother giving lip service to the middle classes. When we're called a nation of whiners, that's how they really see us, but their politicians have the dubious distinction of having to pretend they care.

Today, I watched CNN and of course it was an Obama vs McCain discussion. Pro and con, McCain, Obama, we were shown how their economic plans stack up against one another and how their, tax cuts for the wealthy, or their, tax raises on the over 250,000 set, would be a boon. Both spokespersons talked as if it were possible to find some way out of the mess we're in, neither was corrected by Wolf Blitzer. I say corrected because: we will never be out of the woods economically as long as we owe China and the Saudis 1,000,000,000,000.00 (one trillion) dollars.
>

They bought our bonds and now we OWE THEM. They financed our war and now, there's no money, honey! Geez, wouldn't you think they'd understand something as simple as:

Gene owes Zhu Ken Nuo 100 dollars and Gene wins 50 dollars in the lottery, how much does Gene have?

-50.00 dollars that's minus 50 dollars. I have less then zero. because I owe more than I have or am willing to raise by raising taxes, or fees for drilling for oil or minerals rights on public land.

This supply side fairy tale hasn't worked for you and me, but, it has for the ones at the top, and THEY are the only ones that it was ever truly designed to work for. So don't expect them to rip their blinders off anytime soon. You can expect the same lies that they've been shoving down our throat every time we're stupid enough to give them the chance.

Gene, fulminating on your behalf

This old house of ours

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 22:50:00 +0200

I'll be! ... Algee!

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 06:40:00 +0200

Thanks to daughter, Natalie (and algee)

Pack up all his cares and woes, Rove he goes, slinking low

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 17:25:00 +0200

I pitch my my new HBO series

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 14:50:00 +0200

And here's the pitch ...

It's hilarious, it's a rip snorting comedy of errors that would do Shakespeare proud. Here's the hook, (And the hook brings you back! I ain't telling you no lie!) We, the people, (See it's already funny!) have a candidate running for the highest office in the land who says things but is always contradicted by his advisors, the same advisors that run his campaign and will surely be appointed to important positions once his sham campaign is over and won.

Oh, not only do his advisors constantly contradict him but he also contradicts them. Meanwhile it's never in doubt that he's a serious candidate. It's beyond parody and almost as funny as if it could really happen. It's Bulworth, except instead of not being able to lie, our candidate is constitutionally incapable of telling the truth.

But, and here's where HBO and their astounding feats of daring-do come in: once elected the war becomes funny, sort of like Hogan's Heroes being held by the Nazis. THEN, we'll have his generals and lowly foot soldiers being undercut by him at every turn. Scenes of body parts flying and hitting the camera are followed by statements from the Commander in Chief that Iraq couldn't be going smoother.

It will be an exploration into the mind of a psychotic mass murderer sans depressing self reflection, sans guilt. The country, having committed to an insanity so wrong that it threatens our well being, is, at the same time, impervious to the reality of what's really going on and like a condemned man, jokes on the way to the gallows.

Oh, did I mention the same undercutting happens domestically because their's no money in the budget for anything except making the middle class disapear?

Hahahahaha, what a riot! Whataya think?

Obama, Obama, Where for art thou Obama?

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 16:40:00 +0200

Obama doesn't bear the sword of righteousness after all. He does seem to bear the pen knife of mediocrity though. Just what we need ...

He voted for the FISA bill, a compromised version some say, but the very fact that he's now voted with George Bush sickens me. He's also reconsidering his position on Iraq. He's moving towards the center like the cowardly democrat that he's turning out to be. And, why is moving toward the center, code talk for moving to the right? The majority of people in this country would prefer, once they shed their fear of being branded leftists and socialist, to enjoy the benefits that social democracies all over the world enjoy. Removing the profit motive from medical care, public roads, schools, public transportation that works, paid maternal benefits, vacations, everything that Thom Hartmann refers to as "The commons" should be enough of a concern to enough people to reverse the supply side, disaster capitalism nightmare that's been foisted on us.

So far it hasn't. Those poor rich people, how can we help them get richer and richer at our expense? Obama's performance is long in the tooth and short on substance. Who was it that said, "I'd rather be a mediocre President than a firebrand candidate?" Oh, wait, none of them would actually say it. Gene

P.S. Inspirational by James Cleveland, I'm a soldier in the army of the lord

The Man Who Planted Trees, Part One

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 10:31:26 +0200

First Installment,

JEAN GIONO

The Man Who Planted Trees Translation from french by Peter Doyle

In order for the character of a human being to reveal truly exceptional qualities, we must have the good fortune to observe its action over a long period of years. If this action is devoid of all selfishness, if the idea that directs it is one of unqualified generosity, if it is absolutely certain that it has not sought recompense anywhere, and if moreover it has left visible marks on the world, then we are unquestionably dealing with an unforgettable character.

About forty years ago I went on a long hike, through hills absolutely unknown to tourists, in that very old region where the Alps penetrate into Provence.

This region is bounded to the south-east and south by the middle course of the Durance, between Sisteron and Mirabeau; to the north by the upper course of the Drôme, from its source down to Die; to the west by the plains of Comtat Venaissin and the outskirts of Mont Ventoux. It includes all the northern part of the Département of Basses-Alpes, the south of Drôme and a little enclave of Vaucluse.

At the time I undertook my long walk through this deserted region, it consisted of barren and monotonous lands, at about 1200 to 1300 meters above sea level. Nothing grew there except wild lavender.

I was crossing this country at its widest part, and after walking for three days, I found myself in the most complete desolation. I was camped next to the skeleton of an abandoned village. I had used the last of my water the day before and I needed to find more. Even though they were in ruins, these houses all huddled together and looking like an old wasps' nest made me think that there must at one time have been a spring or a well there. There was indeed a spring, but it was dry. The five or six roofless houses, ravaged by sun and wind, and the small chapel with its tumble-down belfry, were arrayed like the houses and chapels of living villages, but all life had disappeared.

It was a beautiful June day with plenty of sun, but on these shelterless lands, high up in the sky, the wind whistled with an unendurable brutality. Its growling in the carcasses of the houses was like that of a wild beast disturbed during its meal.

I had to move my camp. After five hours of walking, I still hadn't found water, and nothing gave me hope of finding any. Everywhere there was the same dryness, the same stiff, woody plants. I thought I saw in the distance a small black silhouette. On a chance I headed towards it. It was a shepherd. Thirty lambs or so were resting near him on the scorching ground.

He gave me a drink from his gourd and a little later he led me to his shepherd's cottage, tucked down in an undulation of the plateau. He drew his water - excellent - from a natural hole, very deep, above which he had installed a rudimentary windlass.

This man spoke little. This is common among those who live alone, but he seemed sure of himself, and confident in this assurance, which seemed remarkable in this land shorn of everything. He lived not in a cabin but in a real house of stone, from the looks of which it was clear that his own labor had restored the ruins he had found on his arrival. His roof was solid and water-tight. The wind struck against the roof tiles with the sound of the sea crashing on the beach.

His household was in order, his dishes washed, his floor swept, his rifle greased; his soup boiled over the fire; I noticed then that he was also freshly shaven, that all his buttons were solidly sewn, and that his clothes were mended with such care as to make the patches invisible.

He shared his soup with me, and when afterwards I offered him my tobacco pouch, he told me that he didn't smoke. His dog, as silent as he, was friendly without being fawning.

It had been agreed immediately that I would pass the night there, the closest village being still more than a day and a half farther on. Furthermore, I understood perfectly well the character of the rare villages of that region. There are four or five of them dispersed far from one another on the flanks of the hills, in groves of white oaks at the very ends of roads passable by carriage. They are inhabited by woodcutters who make charcoal. They are places where the living is poor. The families, pressed together in close quarters by a climate that is exceedingly harsh, in summer as well as in winter, struggle ever more selfishly against each other. Irrational contention grows beyond all bounds, fueled by a continuous struggle to escape from that place. The men carry their charcoal to the cities in their trucks, and then return. The most solid qualities crack under this perpetual Scottish shower. The women stir up bitterness. There is competition over everything, from the sale of charcoal to the benches at church. The virtues fight amongst themselves, the vices fight amongst themselves, and there is a ceaseless general combat between the vices and the virtues. On top of all that, the equally ceaseless wind irritates the nerves. There are epidemics of suicides and numerous cases of insanity, almost always murderous ...

The Man Who Planted Trees, Part Two

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 10:30:17 +0200

Second Installment,

JEAN GIONO

The Man Who Planted Trees

Translation from french by Peter Doyle

The shepherd, who did not smoke, took out a bag and poured a pile of acorns out onto the table. He began to examine them one after another with a great deal of attention, separating the good ones from the bad. I smoked my pipe. I offered to help him, but he told me it was his own business. Indeed, seeing the care that he devoted to this job, I did not insist. This was our whole conversation. When he had in the good pile a fair number of acorns, he counted them out into packets of ten. In doing this he eliminated some more of the acorns, discarding the smaller ones and those that that showed even the slightest crack, for he examined them very closely. When he had before him one hundred perfect acorns he stopped, and we went to bed.

The company of this man brought me a feeling of peace. I asked him the next morning if I might stay and rest the whole day with him. He found that perfectly natural. Or more exactly, he gave me the impression that nothing could disturb him. This rest was not absolutely necessary to me, but I was intrigued and I wanted to find out more about this man. He let out his flock and took them to the pasture. Before leaving, he soaked in a bucket of water the little sack containing the acorns that he had so carefully chosen and counted.

I noted that he carried as a sort of walking stick an iron rod as thick as his thumb and about one and a half meters long. I set off like someone out for a stroll, following a route parallel to his. His sheep pasture lay at the bottom of a small valley. He left his flock in the charge of his dog and climbed up towards the spot where I was standing. I was afraid that he was coming to reproach me for my indiscretion, but not at all : It was his own route and he invited me to come along with him if I had nothing better to do. He continued on another two hundred meters up the hill.

Having arrived at the place he had been heading for, he begin to pound his iron rod into the ground. This made a hole in which he placed an acorn, whereupon he covered over the hole again. He was planting oak trees. I asked him if the land belonged to him. He answered no. Did he know whose land it was? He did not know. He supposed that it was communal land, or perhaps it belonged to someone who did not care about it. He himself did not care to know who the owners were. In this way he planted his one hundred acorns with great care.

After the noon meal, he began once more to pick over his acorns. I must have put enough insistence into my questions, because he answered them. For three years now he had been planting trees in this solitary way. He had planted one hundred thousand. Of these one hundred thousand, twenty thousand had come up. He counted on losing another half of them to rodents and to everything else that is unpredictable in the designs of Providence. That left ten thousand oaks that would grow in this place where before there was nothing.

It was at this moment that I began to wonder about his age. He was clearly more than fifty. Fifty-five, he told me. His name was Elzéard Bouffier. He had owned a farm in the plains, where he lived most of his life. He had lost his only son, and then his wife. He had retired into this solitude, where he took pleasure in living slowly, with his flock of sheep and his dog. He had concluded that this country was dying for lack of trees. He added that, having nothing more important to do, he had resolved to remedy the situation.

Leading as I did at the time a solitary life, despite my youth, I knew how to treat the souls of solitary people with delicacy. Still, I made a mistake. It was precisely my youth that forced me to imagine the future in my own terms, including a certain search for happiness. I told him that in thirty years these ten thousand trees would be magnificent. He replied very simply that, if God gave him life, in thirty years he would have planted so many other trees that these ten thousand would be like a drop of water in the ocean.

He had also begun to study the propagation of beeches. and he had near his house a nursery filled with seedlings grown from beechnuts. His little wards, which he had protected from his sheep by a screen fence, were growing beautifully. He was also considering birches for the valley bottoms where, he told me, moisture lay slumbering just a few meters beneath the surface of the soil. We parted the next day ...

The Man Who Planted Trees. Part Three

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 10:28:52 +0200

Third Installment,

JEAN GIONO

The Man Who Planted Trees

Translation from french by Peter Doyle

The next year the war of 14 came, in which I was engaged for five years. An infantryman could hardly think about trees. To tell the truth, the whole business hadn't made a very deep impression on me; I took it to be a hobby, like a stamp collection, and forgot about it.

With the war behind me, I found myself with a small demobilization bonus and a great desire to breathe a little pure air. Without any preconceived notion beyond that, I struck out again along the trail through that deserted country.

The land had not changed. Nonetheless, beyond that dead village I perceived in the distance a sort of gray fog that covered the hills like a carpet. Ever since the day before I had been thinking about the shepherd who planted trees. « Ten thousand oaks, I had said to myself, must really take up a lot of space. »

I had seen too many people die during those five years not to be able to imagine easily the death of Elzéard Bouffier, especially since when a man is twenty he thinks of a man of fifty as an old codger for whom nothing remains but to die. He was not dead. In fact, he was very spry. He had changed his job. He only had four sheep now, but to make up for this he had about a hundred beehives. He had gotten rid of the sheep because they threatened his crop of trees. He told me (as indeed I could see for myself) that the war had not disturbed him at all. He had continued imperturbably with his planting.

The oaks of 1910 were now ten years old and were taller than me and than him. The spectacle was impressive. I was literally speechless and, as he didn't speak himself, we passed the whole day in silence, walking through his forest. It was in three sections, eleven kilometers long overall and, at its widest point, three kilometers wide. When I considered that this had all sprung from the hands and from the soul of this one man - without technical aids - , it struck me that men could be as effective as God in domains other than destruction.

He had followed his idea, and the beeches that reached up to my shoulders and extending as far as the eye could see bore witness to it. The oaks were now good and thick, and had passed the age where they were at the mercy of rodents; as for the designs of Providence, to destroy the work that had been created would henceforth require a cyclone. He showed me admirable stands of birches that dated from five years ago, that is to say from 1915, when I had been fighting at Verdun. He had planted them in the valley bottoms where he had suspected, correctly, that there was water close to the surface. They were as tender as young girls, and very determined.

This creation had the air, moreover, of working by a chain reaction. He had not troubled about it; he went on obstinately with his simple task. But, in going back down to the village, I saw water running in streams that, within living memory, had always been dry. It was the most striking revival that he had shown me. These streams had borne water before, in ancient days. Certain of the sad villages that I spoke of at the beginning of my account had been built on the sites of ancient Gallo-Roman villages, of which there still remained traces; archeologists digging there had found fishhooks in places where in more recent times cisterns were required in order to have a little water.

The wind had also been at work, dispersing certain seeds. As the water reappeared, so too did willows, osiers, meadows, gardens, flowers, and a certain reason to live.

But the transformation had taken place so slowly that it had been taken for granted, without provoking surprise. The hunters who climbed the hills in search of hares or wild boars had noticed the spreading of the little trees, but they set it down to the natural spitefulness of the earth. That is why no one had touched the work of this man. If they had suspected him, they would have tried to thwart him. But he never came under suspicion : Who among the villagers or the administrators would ever have suspected that anyone could show such obstinacy in carrying out this magnificent act of generosity?

Beginning in 1920 I never let more than a year go by without paying a visit to Elzéard Bouffier. I never saw him waver or doubt, though God alone can tell when God's own hand is in a thing! I have said nothing of his disappointments, but you can easily imagine that, for such an accomplishment, it was necessary to conquer adversity; that, to assure the victory of such a passion, it was necessary to fight against despair. One year he had planted ten thousand maples. They all died. The next year,he gave up on maples and went back to beeches, which did even better than the oaks.

   To get a true idea of this exceptional character, one must not forget that he worked in total solitude; so total that, toward the end of his life, he lost the habit of talking. Or maybe he just didn't see the need for it.

   In 1933 he received the visit of an astonished forest ranger. This functionary ordered him to cease building fires outdoors, for fear of endangering this natural forest. It was the first time, this naive man told him, that a forest had been observed to grow up entirely on its own. At the time of this incident, he was thinking of planting beeches at a spot twelve kilometers from his house. To avoid the coming and going - because at the time he was seventy-five years old - he planned to build a cabin of stone out where he was doing his planting. This he did the next year.

   In 1935, a veritable administrative delegation went to examine this « natural forest ». There was an important personage from Waters and Forests, a deputy, and some technicians. Many useless words were spoken. It was decided to do something, but luckily nothing was done, except for one truly useful thing : placing the forest under the protection of the State and forbidding anyone from coming there to make charcoal. For it was impossible not to be taken with the beauty of these young trees in full health. And the forest exercised its seductive powers even on the deputy himself.

I had a friend among the chief foresters who were with the delegation. I explained the mystery to him. One day the next week, we went off together to look for Elzéard Bouffier, We found him hard at work, twenty kilometers away from the place where the inspection had taken place.

This chief forester was not my friend for nothing. He understood the value of things. He knew how to remain silent. I offered up some eggs I had brought with me as a gift. We split our snack three ways, and then passed several hours in mute contemplation of the landscape.

The hillside whence we had come was covered with trees six or seven meters high. I remembered the look of the place in 1913 : a desert... The peaceful and steady labor, the vibrant highland air, his frugality, and above all, the serenity of his soul had given the old man a kind of solemn good health. He was an athlete of God. I asked myself how many hectares he had yet to cover with trees.

Before leaving, my friend made a simple suggestion concerning certain species of trees to which the terrain seemed to be particularly well suited. He was not insistent. « For the very good reason, » he told me afterwards, « that this fellow knows a lot more about this sort of thing than I do. » After another hour of walking, this thought having travelled along with him, he added : « He knows a lot more about this sort of thing than anybody - and he has found a jolly good way of being happy !

It was thanks to the efforts of this chief forester that the forest was protected, and with it, the happiness of this man. He designated three forest rangers for their protection, and terrorized them to such an extent that they remained indifferent to any jugs of wine that the woodcutters might offer as bribes.

The forest did not run any grave risks except during the war of 1939. Then automobiles were being run on wood alcohol, and there was never enough wood. They began to cut some of the stands of the oaks of 1910, but the trees stood so far from any useful road that the enterprise turned out to be bad from a financial point of view, and was soon abandoned. The shepherd never knew anything about it. He was thirty kilometers away, peacefully continuing his task, as untroubled by the war of 39 as he had been of the war of 14 ...

The Man Who Planted Trees, Part Four and Final Installment

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 05:48:42 +0200

Final Installment,

JEAN GIONO

The Man Who Planted Trees

Translation from french by Peter Doyle

I saw Elzéard Bouffier for the last time in June of 1945. He was then eighty-seven years old. I had once more set off along my trail through the wilderness, only to find that now, in spite of the shambles in which the war had left the whole country, there was a motor coach running between the valley of the Durance and the mountain. I set down to this relatively rapid means of transportation the fact that I no longer recognized the landmarks I knew from my earlier visits. It also seemed that the route was taking me through entirely new places. I had to ask the name of a village to be sure that I was indeed passing through that same region, once so ruined and desolate. The coach set me down at Vergons. In 1913, this hamlet of ten or twelve houses had had three inhabitants. They were savages, hating each other, and earning their living by trapping : Physically and morally, they resembled prehistoric men . The nettles devoured the abandoned houses that surrounded them. Their lives were without hope, it was only a matter of waiting for death to come : a situation that hardly predisposes one to virtue.

All that had changed, even to the air itself. In place of the dry, brutal gusts that had greeted me long ago, a gentle breeze whispered to me, bearing sweet odors. A sound like that of running water came from the heights above : It was the sound of the wind in the trees. And most astonishing of all, I heard the sound of real water running into a pool. I saw that they had built a fountain, that it was full of water, and what touched me most, that next to it they had planted a lime-tree that must be at least four years old, already grown thick, an incontestable symbol of resurrection.

Furthermore, Vergons showed the signs of labors for which hope is a requirement : Hope must therefore have returned. They had cleared out the ruins, knocked down the broken walls, and rebuilt five houses. The hamlet now counted twenty-eight inhabitants, including four young families. The new houses, freshly plastered, were surrounded by gardens that bore, mixed in with each other but still carefully laid out, vegetables and flowers, cabbages and rosebushes, leeks and gueules-de-loup, celery and anemones. It was now a place where anyone would be glad to live.

From there I continued on foot. The war from which we had just barely emerged had not permitted life to vanish completely, and now Lazarus was out of his tomb. On the lower flanks of the mountain, I saw small fields of barley and rye; in the bottoms of the narrow valleys, meadowlands were just turning green.

   It has taken only the eight years that now separate us from that time for the whole country around there to blossom with splendor and ease. On the site of the ruins I had seen in 1913 there are now well-kept farms, the sign of a happy and comfortable life. The old springs, fed by rain and snow now that are now retained by the forests, have once again begun to flow. The brooks have been channelled. Beside each farm, amid groves of maples, the pools of fountains are bordered by carpets of fresh mint. Little by little, the villages have been rebuilt. Yuppies have come from the plains, where land is expensive, bringing with them youth, movement, and a spirit of adventure. Walking along the roads you will meet men and women in full health, and boys and girls who know how to laugh, and who have regained the taste for the traditional rustic festivals. Counting both the previous inhabitants of the area, now unrecognizable from living in plenty, and the new arrivals, more than ten thousand persons owe their happiness to Elzéard Bouffier.

   When I consider that a single man, relying only on his own simple physical and moral resources, was able to transform a desert into this land of Canaan, I am convinced that despite everything, the human condition is truly admirable. But when I take into account the constancy, the greatness of soul, and the selfless dedication that was needed to bring about this transformation, I am filled with an immense respect for this old, uncultured peasant who knew how to bring about a work worthy of God.

   Elzéard Bouffier died peacefully in 1947 at the hospice in Banon.

The prattle of life

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Wed, 9 Jul 2008 13:40:00 +0200

Even a skipping stone must eventually sink,

God, we live in awful times where truth, or more properly, what passes for truth, can be bought and sold like so many pork bellies. In the current, pervading subtext composed by the main streamers, facts are little realized things to be mythologized in order to perpetuate some easily exploitable personality trait.

Round table discussions have become a coffee clutch of worn media good fellows all vying for the witticism of the day award. Careers and facts are the raw material with which Chris Matthews, or any of the cadre of media darlings, refine, hammer and fit to their supreme visions, while, self satisfied and smug, they dream of their place in the pantheon of media greats.

Don't tell me what I don't want to hear, is our national mantra. Talk of hate and simple minded patriotism, you have an applause sign hung around your neck flashing approval. They needn't bother trying to control your thoughts, you don't have any, only guttural reaction and disdain for what you don't understand. You have been de-humanized and live in a specimen jar. You wanted this, you needed this. First, you sold your courage and then your humanity, all for a lark. You have been cleansed! Hollow and frail you cling to your latest gizmo, to a technology that you will never understand. Chills and spills, a virtual life for the virtually alive.

Old age, sickness and death await, and you can't blame anyone, not the communists, the liberals, not even the homos. What did you miss? Why weren't you prepared? Why didn't anyone tell you? Where are your friends? In the land of the free and home of the brave, people die undisturbed on the sidewalks and in the doorways. The prattle of life hasn't meant a thing, and yet you were led willingly, completely. Gene

Jesse don't like it

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Sun, 6 Jul 2008 18:15:00 +0200

Thanks to Bill for the lyrics and the idea,

Somewhere an old curmudgeon named Jesse Helms died. From the little I've read he was a racist and a petty dictator. I don't care to research his life, it's abhorrent to me. I truly hate people that use their position of power to discriminate, to oppress and to cause harm, whether physical, physiological or cultural, to the less fortunate.

How hard is it, how courageous, to align yourself with the rich and powerful?

I'm not sure of the genesis of this song, I've been trying to download it from my music service but all the files that I've found have been corrupted by a virus. A republican dirty trick?

Jesse Don't LIke It

Loudon Wainwright III

If Jesse don't like it then it's prob'ly not art
Jesse knows what's good Ol' Jesse is smart
And if you don't like that don't feel sad
'Cause the art that you like is probably bad

Grandma Moses, she's OK
Never exposes anything; everything's far away
And that statue of David's all right with Jesse
'Cause Michelangelo gave him such a tiny pee-pee

If Jesse don't like it, it don't stay;
get it out of the museum, get it out of there today
Jesse's fav'rite painting is the one of the clown
with the daisy in his hand and a tear rollin' down

In the kindergarten years ago, Jesse got rude
He took a red Crayola and he drew a nude
And the teacher took a ruler to Jesse's behind
She beat his butt but she ruin'd his mind

Jesse prob'ly didn't like Picasso
But neither did that dictator Franco
And I know about art but I've got to take a hike
If I like somethin' that Jesse don't like

If Jesse don't like it ...

If Jesse thinks it's dirty it don't get any funds
They use that taxpayer's money on tobacco and guns
Your freedom of expression is bein' denied;
But if you're not sure what you like then just let Jesse decide

Don't photograph a penis; don't paint a breast
Don't write about the truth because it might offend Jesse
And don't tell it like it is, and don't show where it's at
'Cause Jesse don't like it and that is that.

My kind of town

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Sat, 5 Jul 2008 14:00:00 +0200

Lo and behold,

The NYT's article, in the travel section today, begins with this picture and this caption:

36 Hours in Pittsburgh

A cable car gives passengers great views of the city.

By JEFF SCHLEGEL, Published: July 6, 2008

The article goes on to outline Pittsburgh's charm and appeal. Who'd a thunk it?

I remember hot, oppresive sidewalks, mountains of snow, crossing the street to avoid bullies, being chastized by any number of adults in any number of languages, exploring the river banks or the hillsides, the brief hippy explosion in the 60s and early 70's, Garage Bands, smoking dope for months on end, working, fights, Laughing beyond the legal limit, crazies, lazies, official harrassment, public schools, losing my innocence, a time warp tunnel world going forwards and backwards, shots in the arm, hepititus, hallucinogens, trips to the museum and library, walking, walking, walking, Downtown, escalators, shoppers rushing home with their presents, Joe Stehle steals a parrot, drug deaths, Getting out before it was too late, adapting my addictions to legal substances, making a family, being an asshole for oh so many years, coming to my senses, looking back at the vast amounts of time, a precious gift, I had and wasted, vowing to waste no more.

The story is different for everyone, but we are intrinsict to the time and place we were born and by all acounts, it was, and, is, a great place. Gene

Patchwork neighborhoods

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Fri, 4 Jul 2008 16:50:00 +0200

Helter Skelter,

My Neanderthal neighbor is surprised that fireworks go boom and beer makes you feel like a God. Every year he goes through this. He shoots them off, before, during and after the 4th. It's a sustained holiday for him and his ilk.

When I was a young man I did the same. Now that I'm a pre-old-man I don't like cars that peel out, motorcycles or fireworks. I'm a flip flopping, ding dong daddy.

My neighbor in the back has been hitting golf balls onto my property since time immemorial, I once picked one up, walked up to his house and ask him if he lost anything, holding up the recently propelled golf ball. He said, "No."

A few years ago I yelled at some kid on a mini bike tearing up the woods next to my house, I was crabby and sick. His grandfather, the same man who owns the property in the back, whose grown adult kids smack golf balls without regard to where they land, also owns the woods next to my house. The next day he was in the woods with his son and a chainsaw cutting branches and marking his property with them. He literally lined up branches along the property line. I suppose he didn't want me maintaining his property by cutting into the woods with my big mower like I had been doing for years, since now I was a child abuser.

The last house bordering my property is a rental. A West Indian family lives there. They aren't friendly or unfriendly, no fireworks, no golf balls. They have a very small yard that they do not maintain and 3 of those battery powered cars that kids drive. I watched a male from their household trying to cut the grass in the rain so their kids could ride their cars. After he finally weed whacked the grass into submission, the kids rode around a bit.

The grass grew back thicker, stronger and longer.

I am semi-proud that I keep my grass cut, that I'm not a nuisance neighbor with the exception of one time in 30 plus years of letting my temper flare at the kid on the mini bike.

I don't talk to my neighbors and I don't like myself for that. I don't understand it, I talk to everyone and anyone. I must be more territorial than I've ever thought myself to be. It's a sickness inherent to a modern society where men haven't evolved in the same place at the same time but move in with different backgrounds, cultures and Neanderthal-like tendencies.

Whatever it is, Happy 4th. Gene

Remember independence?

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Fri, 4 Jul 2008 07:05:00 +0200

IN CONGRESS, JULY 4, 1776

The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America

hen in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security. — Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their Public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected, whereby the Legislative Powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has obstructed the Administration of Justice by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary Powers.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil Power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:

For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:

For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefit of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences:

For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:

For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation, and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & Perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.

He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States, that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. — And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

— John Hancock

Thinking out loud on cyber paper

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Thu, 3 Jul 2008 21:35:00 +0200

Dead Doctors,

I've been wondering about the protocol at the Liver Clinic, this thought may extend to other clinics as well. A typical visit proceeds as follows:

I sign in and sign that form that lets you off the hook.

I wait.

A nurse eventually comes, gets me, takes my vitals and ask, "How have you been feeling?"

She leaves and I sit and wait.

Your intern comes in, asks, "How have you been feeling?" He looks me over, does the stethoscope thing, the deep breath thing and the tap on my stomach where the liver's located thing.

He leaves and I wait.

You come in with intern in tow and ask, "How have you been feeling?" You look me over, do the stethoscope thing, the deep breath thing and the tap on my stomach where the liver's located thing. We discuss my treatment and possible options. You make a judgement call and I go home, after having blood drawn, with:

a. A new prescription for something.

b. An assurance that all I need to do is call if there is anything wrong or I have any questions.

c. An order for some kind of test.

d, Any one, or, combination of the above.

I suggest that you all be in the room at the same time from start to finish. This insures that I won't leave some critical piece of information out of any one of the versions of my thrice repeated story.

Also, you can brainstorm together. (You can hardly brainstorm alone!)

My waiting time will be cut down by 1/3, which is nice for me.

I can walk away with the impression that we are just one big happy family, even though I never know which doctor or which intern will see me. Like a mother, the nurse is usually the last one to abandon her family, therefore, I generally know who she's going to be, with the exception of all the nurses that have been transferred or have left for greener pastures.

If I get frustrated with my treatment, lack thereof, or any of the numerous hoops that I'm expected to jump through, I can tell you in toto to go fuck yourselves. Thank you, Gene

In my youth said the sage ...

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Wed, 2 Jul 2008 14:55:00 +0200

Hey, remember how I like to post stuff that I find while digging through my basement? Funny, I do. Well here's some more of that. These pictures were taken in ~~1980 1984 1987~~, I don't know.

Griff, standing next to me in the underwear picture. my life long friend and blog commentator, might remember, Griff?

I always wanted to explore caves and when I found maps, in the Pennsylvania Room, at the Carnegie Library in Oakland to non-commercial caves about 60 miles from Pittsburgh, I had to go, no rules, no Speleological Society, no brains.

The other numbskull is Dave, one of the smartest, funniest, most absurd, unpredictable (and not always in a good way) comedic geniuses that I've ever known. A downright dangerous man!

That's a coiled Copperhead snake by the way, no wonder they call one of the caves; Copperhead Cave

Dave, Griff, Me

Ropes going down a hole

Me and Griff about to have sex

A Copperhead snake

In a big hole in the ground

More ropes

As John Agar would say, in one of the billion science

fiction movies he made, "Strange rock formations!"

More rocks

More rope

To the Batmobile Robin!

The fabled light at the end of the tunnel

Questions for a brave new world

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Tue, 1 Jul 2008 06:05:00 +0200

Will Bush bomb, bomb, bomb Iran? Will Israel do it for us? Will Putin retaliate on behalf of Iran? Will we have WWIII? Will our way of life ever be the same? How come we're broke all the time? Why does Bush smile? Why hasn't Bush done the honorable thing? Will the news media get in line behind Bush and his war on Iran? (Of course they will, you dope!) Why does war always rear it's ugly head ahead of negotiating? Why can't Bush seem to understand that other nations are as autonomous as we are? Is being a fabulously wealthy American justification for anything and everything? If the US fails because oil trades in Euros, how will having everyone, including us, bombed back to the stone age help? How can a few people being this stupid change the planet so completely? If what goes around, comes around, shouldn't we be hiding under a rock about now? Will there be a bomb shelter revival? Why hasn't our humanity kept up with our technology? Will the republicans, always being able to justify or deny any and all human rights violation, rush to enlist should we become engaged in the ultimate madness? Will Canada open its borders to anti-war peaceniks like it did during Vietnam? Will Mexico tease us by calling us stupid gringos? Will Israel send us foreign aid? Who haven't we pissed off that we'll be able to count on -not so- Great Britain? When the rich flee the country with their carpet bags will we continue our ethnocentric cast system, or will we learn our lesson? Will Reverend Hagee blame it all on the fags? Will I ever stop asking annoying questions?

I have an idea, let's not start a new war until our grandkids have paid for the old one. Gene

This makes too much sense to be ignored, why it's all about oil

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Tue, 1 Jul 2008 05:32:49 +0200

He should be laughed out of the race, what an insult he is to the American people

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Tue, 1 Jul 2008 05:13:35 +0200

There aren't any words anymore,

From behind the mantle

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 15:20:00 +0200

When I was a kid, a very young kid, my father tore down a mantle in our old house on the South Side. It must have been during one of his domestic periods. There were very old artifacts that had slipped behind it, probably propped up, leaning against the wall.

Here are the only two left in existence. I happened to run across them in an old box of photos that for some reason I hadn't looked in since it was put away after my mother died.

The one on the left is an advertisement for a book and shoe store dated 1883, the second, another advertisement, shows an October, 1988 calendar page. Funny how they both have calendars and dates incorporated into their theme. It's as if they wanted to be found 100 years later and saved as a reminder of the past.

Here's the original sales agreement for the house I was raised in, dated 1871.

Are you letting the bastards grind you down?

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 01:10:46 +0200

Acrobat-U2

Don't believe what you hear
Don't believe what you see
If you just close your eyes
You can feel the enemy
When I first met you girl
You had fire in your soul
What happened your face of melting in snow?
Now it looks like this
And you can swallow
Or you can spit
You can throw it up
Or choke on it
And you can dream
So dream out loud
You know that your time is coming 'round
So don't let the bastards grind you down

No, nothing makes sense
Nothing seems to fit
I know you'd hit out
If you only knew who to hit
And I'd join the movement
If there was one I could believe in
Yeah I'd break bread and wine
If there was a church I could receive in
'Cause I need it now

To take the cup
To fill it up
To drink it slow
I can't let you go
I must be an acrobat
To talk like this
And act like that
And you can dream
So dream out loud
And don't let the bastards grind you down

Oh, it hurts baby
What are we going to do? Now it's all been said
No new ideas in the house and every book has been read

And I must be an acrobat
To talk like this
And act like that
And you can dream
So dream out loud
And you can find
Your own way out
And you can build
And I can will
And you can call
I can't wait until
You can stash
And you can seize
In dreams begin
Responsibilities
And I can love
And I can love
And I know that the tide is turning 'round
So don't let the bastards grind you down

Hannity shows his stuff

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 13:05:00 +0200

Watch weasel dick Hannity completely reverse himself on our recent nuclear disarmament treaty with North Korea. First, he hails the agreement as a victory for the Bush administration then asks, "Will the press report it that way?" After Bolton contradicts him and calls it a victory for North Korea, Hannity does a 180 flip, stutters and then shamelessly gives Bolton a full body tongue bath hoping to erase all evidence that he started off praising the agreement .

From Think Progress » Trying To Appease John Bolton, Hannity Flip-Flops On North Korea Deal In 30 Seconds:

On his Fox News show last night, right-wing pundit Sean Hannity originally hailed the agreement as “a clear foreign policy victory” for Bush. But Hannity’s guest John Bolton — a fierce advocate for war over negotiations — disagreed, arguing, “I think it’s actually a clear victory for North Korea.”

Hannity promptly attacked the agreement, reversing his position in less than 30 seconds. After first heralding Bush’s “clear victory,” Hannity concluded by declaring himself to be “perplexed” by Bush’s naiveté:

HANNITY: The news today brings a clear foreign policy victory for the Bush administration. But will the press report it that way? Joining us now for analysis, former ambassador to the U.N. and a Fox News contributor, John Bolton. What do you think this means?

BOLTON: I think it’s actually a clear victory for North Korea. They gain enormous political legitimacy…In return, we get precious little. I think this is North Korea demonstrating again that they can out-negotiate the U.S. without raising a sweat.

HANNITY: Boy I tell you they’ve done it time and time again, and I’m sorta perplexed, Mr. Ambassador, to understand why we keep going back to the well knowing that they haven’t kept the agreements in the past. Whatever happened to Reagan’s “trust but verify”?

This isn't how it's supposed to work, or, Declare victory and leave

noreply@blogspirit.com (Gene) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 07:05:00 +0200

Crisis grows in Iraq over U.S. raid that killed Maliki relative

By Hannah Allam | McClatchy Newspapers

BAGHDAD, Iraq — Senior Iraqi government officials said Saturday that a U.S. Special Forces counterterrorism unit conducted the raid that reportedly killed a relative of Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri al Maliki, touching off a high-stakes diplomatic crisis between the United States and Iraq ... Read more: McClatchy Washington Bureau | 06/28/2008 | Crisis grows in Iraq over U.S. raid that killed Maliki relative