StumbleUpon | CallmeSandy's blog posts

http://CallmeSandy.stumbleupon.com/review/9985407/

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 13:31:42 -0700

* * * * W E L C O M E * * * *

TO MY WORLD

I Make Pictures

"Welcome to my world......you expected Disney?"

This is my photo blog, and all pictures are my own.

Meet Chuck

My good friend & a mainstay here. Click Here
or on any "Chuck" pic on this page & go to their 3-page series.
You'll be surprised what's there.

April 14th, and finally, the first peek I get of 'em in 2008.
I wondered if they'd be skinny. Or sluggish.
But they looked none the worse for wear.

He lets me within about 2 feet. No prob. I gots food.

" 'Zat you? " I call out another, and get the answer to my biggest question.
He recognizes me. Hi Chuck.

He reacts to the news that Hillary is history and John McCain will be the publican's standardbearer.

We break bread. There'll be plenty of time for catching up later.

Everybody seems pretty chipper on this seventy-something spring day.

Two

http://CallmeSandy.stumbleupon.com/review/5732026/

Thu, 24 May 2007 07:45:21 -0700

Two other chucks stayed on the far side of a 30' gully separating us...

But had no trouble eating the incoming.

Oh yeah, I had the opportunity to introduce myself to the chuck on my wall.

http://CallmeSandy.stumbleupon.com/review/9985491/

Thu, 24 May 2007 07:39:14 -0700

Click N Go to Vietnam
5 pages, 80 pictures

Operation Eager Yankee

White sands with grains so fine they played havoc with our breathing and our weapons, A bane to both Marine and photographer. Unfortunately I was both. Here the squadleader descends a dune, a couple of his men on his heels. Marines oftentime decorated their helmet and their flak jackets with emblems, slogans or nicknames, and our lead guy had this hideous spider on the face of his helmet. The small plastic bottles attached to helmets with large pieces of rubber was the liquid from the cleaning kits for maintaining rifles. You can see how their steps dug deep into the sinking sands as they stepped along. You can't see the sweat that completely soaked our shirts beneath the flak jackets. We often carried quite a few canteens, and starting right here is where my friends began ribbing me for having the weight of six around my waist and hanging from my flak jacket. But I had a phobia of running out, which started this July and did not stop being part of me until well into my fifties. Never would I leave home without a jar of water or iced coffee beside me in my car or truck.

Life in the Rear

It's easy for me to say that this or that picture is a favorite, because a lot of them hold unique meaning for me. I've always looked at this picture as analogous to the American experience in Vietnam. The clean, self-assured America asking for their cooperation. And Vietnam is bracing, looking with skepticism and not total trust at what we are doing there.

The Night They
Came Through the Wire

Have you ever noticed how the smell of death on a hot summer's day fills the air as if you could just reach out and grab a fistful and put it in your pocket? Thick. Thicker than the smell of Boston's famous Rose Garden not far from Fenway Park and just blocks outside city proper; thicker than the fullness of the magnolias that align Commonwealth Avenue on an unusually sultry late-April afternoon; so much thicker than the many lilacs that would fill the air of my backyard 35 years later. Those three smells on a warm and windless day might by an innocent soul be described as all-encompassing, but no, the smell of human death on a bright and sunny summer's day in Vietnam is all-encompassing and cannot be compared. I can attest to that.

I'd spent the previous day thumbing from Phu Bai, near Hue, heading south the fifty miles back down Rte 1 to the Ist Mar Div photolab in DaNang, and by nightfall had barely caught the last lonely vehicle heading my way, with just enough time to reach the 26th Marines firebase high on a mountaintop just a few miles north of the Hai Van Pass before the roads were turned over to the vc till morning. I'd already made a bunch of friends there, both officers and enlisted, having stopped off a number of times for a night or for a day of shooting pictures and of course everybody loves a photographer, if only for the possibilities. Actually it was the command post that was on this particular mountaintop, and the mortar teams, the 105mm howitzers and 1-5-5s could be seen just below us on a smaller crest. Both flattened peaks were clear of brush, and the dirt and its dust were easily roused, especially by a jeep racing up the rutted and winding dirt road to the top, the ride so bumpy that the jeep would now and then leave the ground and you can just imagine how high you could be thrown off your seat into the air, so high and for so long that you'd wonder if it would still be there when you came down, so that it was a relief when you landed on your ass again, only to be tossed or jounced again. And if you were on your way down while the jeep was bouncing up you could very well get one hell of a jolt, with another right on its heels. Anyway, another Marine and I had once been looking down upon the lower firebase at an ontos, the first time I had seen one or even heard its name, and after witnessing a full barrage of fire I'd asked him if it were possible to get a picture of one as it full-fired into the faraway thickness of jungle as directed by recon or a patrol outside the perimeter. Just weeks from this day there would be a combat operation miles out into the greenness and the entire base would be busy laying down firepower for a couple of weeks straight. Oh yeah, my question. The ontos. The ontos is a what you might call a minitank, treads and all, with much less armor but more speed and agility; it has six 106mm cannons three to a side one almost atop the other on a turret and looking mighty strange indeed, and firing them in unison seemed to shake the sky. "Haha, can't be done," he chuckled. And I believed him, which made it allthemore alluring, and bracing camera and hands hard against a sandbag and adjusting my NikonF to 1/4000th, I waited with my eye and finger at the ready. When it went off I clicked, but the vibration and bucking of the machine and the powerful wave from the explosion taught me something that sunny morning. Can't be done.

I've often wondered if an animal can tell when it's nearing the decaying corpse of its own kind, or if it just smells death, because even if you've never smelled the smell you know without doubt the moment it takes over your senses that it is one of you. I'd bumped into a Marine correspondent whom I knew and was friends with, up on that firebase that night, and now it was about 8am and we'd been dropped off the dry dusty roadside of Rte 1 where it met a smaller dry dusty sideroad leading to where we were heading. As we two marched down its length, with heavy growth on either side of us, each of our steps caused a cloud of fine dust to rise like talc from the perimeter of our boots, which had long since taken on its dull light-grey color. After a while your uniform, your hair, your face would look the same. Then came the smell. I'd seen a dead Vietnamese, and three dead Americans. The first dead Vietnamese I saw in Vietnam had been struck by a six-by in the center of a large dusty intersection that I only remember was not far from the city of DaNang. She'd been lying there facedown for an hour or more in the middle of that intersection awaiting my arrival to take 6 different-angled pictures for the investigation. 'She' was a mamasahn well into her eighties who'd managed to stay alive through all of the years of warfare that had spanned her life; first the looting of the 19th and 20th century French domination, then as US allies the brutality of the Japs during World War Two, the French again after the war up through their defeat by the Viet Minh at Dien Bien Phu in 1954 and eventually the American-Vietnam War. And now she was lying in the dust in the middle of an intersection with passing cars and trucks and those shit-green three-wheeled Viet buses packed full of people and stacked high into the air with baggage and produce and even live chickens so that it'd sway side to side, each time threatening to go over. She wore an off-white button-down loose-fitting cotton top that rested at the thighs of her black loose-fitting silken pants. One of her sandles lay next to her lifeless body and the other was still on her left leg which from the knee down lay some fifty feet away as if the two pieces were not part of the same woman. There was no smell.

As we turned a bend in the road leaving the sight of Rte 1 behind us and nothing but another bend further ahead, it left a eerie feeling of total vulnerability with the thick growth and undergrowth just feet to each side. The message from DaNang had said to go with my correspondent friend to an outpost a very short distance south of the firebase, just off Rte 1 where it begins to rise from the flatland up the side of the mountain at the place we knew as Hai Van. There were several platoons located at the end of other dusty roads all along this area, at outposts with a bunker or two, with foxholes circling just inside the razor-sharp consertinawire perimeter. I'd been to at least one. Further up on the pass I'd stopped once at a very small and spartan outpost manned only by a five-grunt firesquad. They slept there between a number of huge boulders that were grouped together naturally alongside the edge of the road, on the side slanting sharply down all the way down to the South China Sea. All along this stretch of road the high side of the mountain rose up and up through heavy brush dotted with large black boulders. The blackness of rock was unique to this area as far as I knew, standing out like blocks of charred refuse over your right shoulder as you travelled south. What a place for an ambush you'd think as you stood at the front of the open troop-carrier known as a six-by, your arms propped just behind the cab, the warm breeze and the sunshine and the blues of the sky and the distant sea below belying the scattered corpses of previously bombedout and burntout trucks seen at different intervals and different distances where they'd tumbled down the mountainside. I remembered while leaning like that, that the vibration of the truck on the dirt Rte 1, or any dirt road would give me a hardon, and I was astonished and amused one time while riding next to one of my friends he told me same. I admitted my secret and we both laughed but had he not said it first I would never have been so forthcoming. Anyway, I'd asked a grunt at this outpost once if I could spend the night with them, but the guy said I'd have to be nuts to want to do that of my own accord, and pointed out that there really wasn't much to take pictures of there, other than the chance to capture the essence of 5 unshaven dirty-ass grunts that smelled like two-week's worth of sweat and dirt. Actually I thought that was a pretty enticing proposition, as I'd always thought that a picture of that held a certain kind of character all its own. (I would never admit the rush of excitement I'd get when my fellow photogs would come back after a week or more with some combat operation, looking for all the world like survivors of something or other, hell-tired and hungry, and dusty and dirty from head to toe with cameras around their necks and sporting that best feature of all, a heavy growth of facial hair. How I envied the sight, and in months ahead I'd return looking the same, wanting only the lukewarm dribble that we called a shower, a haircut and massage by a certain handsome young Viet barber on our compound, and a hot meal at the messhall. How proud I was if I happened to return from the field at chowtime and marched in to eat before the shower and have all the clerks and cooks see me, the closest thing to a grunt thereabout, standing in the messline trying my best to act natural to hide my pride at looking like my friends had, minus the growth of course, as it took much longer than a few weeks for anything approaching real hair to break from my pussy-ass 19-year-old face). And anyway, that grunt'd told me, the only time something might happen would be at night when I couldn't use flash anyway, and fireteams had been wiped out even recently along this stretch. I could tell he figured this was just about the worst duty a squad could be handed, and by the time he was done with me, I'd totally agreed.

I remembered being awakened with the message that during the night the platoon at the outpost at the end of our road had been overrun, the vc making it through the wire and there'd been casualties. What an awful picture those words painted, overrun.....they came through the wire and the outpost was overrun and there were casualties. It was hard to believe that the smell could be even heavier now than when we'd first been slapped in the face by it. We could see far down the road now a piece of machinery moving, the exhaust smoke rising straight up in the already-hot breezeless morning. Just about a month before this day I'd covered two autopsies a week apart, as part of investigations into the murders of two Marines in two separate incidences from two different outfits, coincidentally killed by a grenade lobbed gently under the cot by a fellow Marine as each slept. I'd only been incountry for a couple of weeks when Gunny'd come to me and quite matter-of-factly told me my assignment. I remembered how my eyes had widened and my face had fallen from my usual relatively-carefree to serious at the thought of losing another piece of innocence, and my heart tightened imagining what I was about to witness. The autopsy room was chilled, each body had been frozen to protect evidence, and each time the defrosting victim lay there naked on the simple stainless steel slab of a workbench that had a slightly raised perimeter to keep fluids from running to the cement floor; the tools of the trade lay on a tray not far away. The first Marine had been a 24-year-old corporal, the story being he'd more or less bullied, if not terrorized the men around him. His 5'8 body was stocky, hefty, the massive muscles of the shoulders and arms and pectorals underscoring why he was feared, but not why he was hated. He'd most recently cheated at cards, went the tale, had been caught, but had refused to give up his cache of bills. It seemed the last straw to one young private; that same night as he slept came a scared and nervous PFC down the center dirt walkway toward each's destiny...the creep up the three steps and the so-slowly-openly screen door at the end of his hooch, the pinless grenade tossed with a ping of the safety grip and bounding awkwardly toward one specific cot. I wondered if its heavy ruckus against the wood-planked floor had awakened him before the blast cast in succession his ugly death, then the investigation, the arrest and me standing in a cold room with the CID investigator and a man with many cutting tools. The corporal looked more like a bull than a man, his black hair and eyebrows and whiskers punctuating the fear that, even dead, the sight emitted. I remember looking at the thick black pubic hairs nearly hiding his circumcised dick, so small as if retracted from the cold. The other victim was a Ist Seargent, a true biggy in the noncommissioned chain of command. He'd been a real hard-ass who rode his men mercilessly, to the point that he too was blown away by an American grenade as he slept. I deduced that you could only fuck with a Marine so far when you were in a combat zone and that each'd crossed the line. He'd survived the initial blast, being found on the floor, and as he lay there in his blood with other Marines around him and holding him, waiting for corpsmen to show up, he'd remarked that he knew he was dying, and of course he did. The investigator and the coroner had marvelled that mortally wounded men so often knew the feeling of life leaving them. As he lay there on that same table naked like the corporal, arms at his side, his huge belly stood high above the rest of his body, and his dick, too, was a tiny copy of what it should be. I marvelled at the seeming absurdity of each autopsy, both bodies pockmarked with a hundred wounds, but the investigator explained that they needed to discern just which entry had caused, or could've caused death, which to me really didn't make it seem any more logical. The coroner would prod each wound with a stainless rod, pushing it deeper until he hit a metal fragment, then notate where it had been and ask for a picture. Or he would take out a vital organ and show where the shrapnel had entered to cause death and I would photograph it with the prod touching the entry hole. And each time too he'd taken hold his little saw that looked like a today's mini-cordless screwdriver, a fist-sized tube that had a circular blade fitted perpendicular to the end. It made a sharp squealing noise that was magnified tenfold to an almost unbearable shriek as it sliced into the bone of the skull and sent wet debris flying everywhere, stopping only when the top of the skull could be lifted away and the greymatter of the brain extracted. In the case of the corporal he took the skin of the head and forehead and peeled it down over the eyes like a mask, with his hair hanging past his nose, and the exposed underside showing the dull yellow of the lifeless skin and colorless outlines of what must've been veins and capillaries. That'd been unimaginable until I saw it for myself. The exact same things had been done to the Ist Seargent, except the mask, but in his case what stood out so starkly was the ugly unhealthy-looking yellowy fat that seemed a foot or more deep as the man sliced through again and again and it spread apart with each go until at last revealing the organs, and I remember swearing to myself that my strong and lean 150-pound body would never sport a thing such as I was seeing.

Those times, too, there was a most unpleasant smell, but it was the smell of the insides as they were opened and exposed to the air and to us. And it was the smell of old death, of a smell waiting to be released from the defrosting corpse, and certainly not to be compared to the stench that was everywhere around us on that road. Nor were either of these the first dead Marine I saw during the month of May, 1968. The very first dead American I saw in Vietnam was from another vehicular accident. A six-by carrying six Marines sitting along benches lining each side in the back, and driven by their friend, all seven holding near-finished cans of warm beer, came speeding down another dusty road when it came upon a wooden bridge. The bridge, like all wooden bridges, had 6X6 railroad ties lining the right and left sides to keep vehicles from careening off, and the truck as it came too fast upon the crossing had hit the face of the tie on the right side of the bridge, sending men flying into the air and toppling the truck right after them. They'd all been thrown far and clear, save one, a Lance Corporal who'd landed on his face in the gully below the bridge with the overturned cab landing atop him, the edge of it lying straight across the base of his skull where it met the neck. When I arrived with the investigator there were some twenty spectators, American and Vietnamese, standing nearby and looking with sickened expressions on what I'd not yet seen. And as I went down, then turned the corner of the face of the cab I met his head, the heavy six-by not seeming to have driven him into any indescribable horror, at least of what could be seen, but just lying atop the back of his neck, his glasses only slightly askew off the side of his face with the dry dirt built up between the lower lens and his cheek. I'd not yet learned how to enter that other world where you accept every horror around you because there's a job to be done and you need to hold a semblance of sanity to live through it, but I was beginning to, not understanding that once safely home comes the infamous post traumatic state from the stark reckoning of what it was you lived. And in the months to come I would know it well. And so I gasped to myself and intellectualized that one could not let oneself be overtaken by such a scene, not with twelve months yet to pass before I could call myself finished with the Vietnam experience. But inside I did freak out, beginning to pray and taking pictures from every conceivable angle. The 4x5 format of my Rolleiflex camera only held 12 shots, and I refilled two times seeing it more as a requiem to his death than an investigation of it. I remember when I turned away finally, ready to leave and still praying fervently for his soul, I made eye contact with a young Marine standing as spectator right in my path. "What a heartless bastard you must be," he said in a tone as heartless as his statement, but I was too overcome and too fully in prayer to respond as I turned sideways to pass him and went up the embankment to our jeep. I guess that back at the photolab Gunny Krueger had understood the reason I showed up with 36 pictures of varying angles of a truck lying upsidedown on the base of a dead young man's skull with the rest of his body hidden beneath its cab, and had simply stated that next time I cover an accident, 6 well-chosen pictures would do the trick.

As we came upon the outpost at long last we could see six young-male Vietnamese bodies laid out side-by-side along the left edge of the road. Each and every Marine there had refused to touch the bodies for burial, as if each of the dead were damned to never know the sanctity of civilized human touch. Therefore a backhoe came scooping them mercilessly into its tub and later dumped them into a pit as if just any disgusting debris. The bodies were bloated and frozen in the grotesque poses you might see in Civil War chronicles of our own ruthless past, and as this scooping took place the bodies would at first be pushed forward plowing the dirt, still frozen in the deadening heat and then roll into the belly of the machine as it moved forward. At one point the pointed barbs at the front of the scoop scraped against the corpse closest to us, splitting the tight greying skin to show a purple second layer and I swear that my mind went back to the disected frogs sitting in front of us on our desks in my highschool science class just two years earlier, the smell of formaldahyde that had killed and preserved them disgusting in its own right. Some of my photolab friends would've been giddy at the thought of having pictures of this to add to their collections, but when they'd asked why I wasn't interested in such I'd just say I don't need them, my pictures are here, pointing to my head. I was as baffled that they'd want them as they were that I didn't.

We turned just to our right from the scene, to the entryway of the small compound of the outpost, where we could see a bunker midcenter and a single man standing between it and us, waiting for us. He was a fullbird colonel but he stood there as a man and not as an honorable officer waiting for his acknowledgement. His face was shock-stricken and serious and drawn from lack of sleep the night before and his demeanor humble, and when he spoke it was the voice of another human being and like I said, not of a man above us. "I know you don't have to listen to me," he said as humbly as he looked, "but I hope you won't report this. I'm ashamed to call them Marines.This is something best left untold." To be honest, I know we both expected a story with its share of horror, of his platoon attacked and overpowered by a ruthless enemy, but what he had to say caught us totally unprepared. "What happened," asked my friend, and the colonel told us the story of the night the vc came through the wire and overran his platoon.

The night was the darkest dark, and was obviouslyly chosen because of that. Every Marine out in the bush knew the feeling of a night like this; I certainly did, pulling guard duty up on the far side of the mountain that strings the perimeter of the Ist Marine Division not far from Freedom Hill. The darkness magnifies the anticipation in the craw of your chest; with no chance of acclimating yourself, your eyes and ears and mind are totally concentrated straight ahead on the blackness blinding you, leaving you certain that any imagined rustle or lack of rustle could only be vc and NVA regulars coming closer to the wire, or through the wire right before you, making them seem more the elusive exaggerations of silent ghosts in the night than mere mortals. "Everyone was in their foxhole, two to a hole" when the mortars flew past the wire into the midst of the little outpost; "and everyone ran to the bunker," save two, propped upon elbows against the dirt sides of their single foxhole firing away, their M-16's on full automatic as the viet cong came through the wire, the ploy of mortars followed immediately by the ground attack in the midst of their own dropping shells that was a so common. In fairness, the men had not run from the fighting, not at all, but had taken cover from the bombardment. For all they knew their outpost was simply being pummelled with incoming. "They knew better. I've told them again and again if you stay in your holes you'll be okay. They knew that, they knew that," and yet nineteen Marines were huddled in that one bunker when the vc came through the wire and one tossed in a single satchel charge that killed them all, and the only survivors of the platoon were the two, unscathed.

"Well what happened with the six gooks, then?" Asked the correspondent. "When we heard the fighting a provisional platoon was dispatched. They were coming down this road when they heard voices coming their way from the other direction and they all hit the bushes on the sides of the road." The vc were singing and laughing, half-dancing down the road with arms around each other's shoulders and weapons over shoulders and when they turned the first of those two bends to exactly where we had felt so uneasy, the platoon opened fire and killed the six. But how did you know what they were doing in the black of the night? "They were cut down before they had a chance to even stop singing," two fell in half-embrace, and the others with their AK-47's falling off their shoulders and landing atop the already dead vc. No one knew if there were more than that in the attack, but other then those firing the mortars, they assumed these were it. They were pulled by the clothes to where they were lined up in the dirt with their stench of death; bloated, discolored and frozen bodies waiting to greet two Marines coming down the road in the early morning heat. We both knew that the bunker before us was the bunker, and neither of us were so callous as to ask if they were still in there, yet for the smell..."It's a story that shouldn't be told," he repeated, and I know we both felt a comeraderie with him that we would've not felt had we met him in any other place, under any other circumstance. We nodded more with our eyes than our heads through our stunned and saddened expressions that we concurred. As we each shook his hand with a look of total solemn empathy, the heartbreak and the loss and the needlessness of it all showed unabashedly on his face. And as we walked away from him and headed silently back down the dusty road toward Rte 1 we both knew we'd left not a proud Marine officer, but just another human being overwhelmed at the loss of people under his command whom he obviously loved. And I was a combat photographer who would never forget the sight and the smell and the words of one hot summer's day in Vietnam, with a story not to be told for forty years. And no picture.

The September Operation

This is one of them "wide openings" I talked about earlier. Same day, same guys, a few minutes later. A Marine fires an M39 grenade launcher toward the tree-line and the village on the other side. Soon we'll cross this field and be there, destroying the village and looking for contraband. The grenade, by the way, looks like one hell of a big bullet, stubby and fat, and makes a pooping sound when it's fired, a hollow, subdued pop as if being released from a vaccuum chamber. It leaves a puff of smoke in its wake. South of DaNang. August 1968

October in the Mountains

I got to know this guy pretty well, and it turned out he was from Peabody Massachusetts, about 20 miles from my hometown. Bumping into someone with any contact to home usually brought instant friendship. There were many superstitions in Vietnam, but I was slave to only a few. Like a lot of others in Nam, I would take out the first cigarette in a freshly opened pack and invert it in the pack. And right now I'm not sure, but I think you gave it away. Escapes me. But I got to practice it here, because my last cigarette got shared with this guy, and we had a number more days to go. So when I got home to the "world" I was able to tell my 20-year-old friends how I'd run out of food and water and, gasp, smoked my last cigarette not knowing if I would live or die on a mountaintop. Hey, I made it home; the least I could have was a little drama with my old pals. In this picture he's taking his turn on a drag. October 1968.

Meade river

Another day, another place to go, another trail of water disappears as we pass. You can see the full packs we carry, socks stuffed with C-ration cans, tied together and hanging from a strap behind us. I remember this day. When we reached dry land I stopped and changed into dry socks and put on my dry spare pair of boots, just to have the feeling, then three minutes later climbed back into the water with the others and continued on, never doubting the worth of my action. The perpetually wet feet eventually left us with what we called immersion foot, where between the toes became so soft that they'd split and bleed; a condition we all lived with. I left the service in early June of '69, and just weeks later found myself sitting on a warm beach at the New Hampshire lake where I grew up knowing the feeling of the closeness of prepubescent friendships. When I stood to go to the water's edge, the sand between my toes brought sharp stabbing pain in the still-open wounds and I fell to sitting again and remarked about what it was. "Get over it Bob," came the voice of a mother sitting not far away, "you're home now; nobody wants to hear about it."

Adela, Dianne and me

Adela was 15 when she'd left a wretchedly unhappy and impoverished life in Guatemala to marry a handsome young US soldier some years older than she. She bore a child and their life was a happy one for a few years, until he went to Vietnam, and returned a different being, haunted soul, abuser, and eventually, monster. Now she was a 40-year-old woman who'd long ago escaped his wrath with her young son, and made her life on her own. She'd obviously been a very beautiful and petit young girl, but the heartache and the years had drawn deep lines of pain into the tight features of her face, and though she could chitchat, and laugh, her face when relaxed fell into a natural frown and her bitterness at her life was not usually far from the surface.

Dianne was 26 years old. She grew up in Boston's north end. Little Italy. She ate her pasta al dente, and her spaghetti sauce was not spaghetti sauce, but gravy. Gravy was homemade tomato sauce and spaghetti was a course, not an entre. And gravy, she'd scolded me, did not have bits, of any size, of hamburg, sausage, pepperoni, green pepper, onion, celery, black olives OR zucchini. Her older brother John was a Marine at the siege of Khe Sahn, and wrote his little sister once that he had gone two months without a shower. He was killed on May 6, 1966, and the dominant memory that the 8-year-old little girl had of her brother's life after he left home was that letter and that shower and the fact that he was killed at Khe Sahn. She'd grown up without her big brother, become a teenager, graduated highschool and lived her life as a Boston native in a very Boston neighborhood where "Aan-thony" was not a farfetched romanticist's tv ad, as names were yelled from balconies often at suppertime, baseballbats dropped and promises made to continue the game after eating, allthewhile racing home through narrow streets to join the family at the supper table and escape a mother's wrath. She'd also spent some years as a fag hag, she'd said, hanging out at a not-far-away gay bar. Now she was an IRS tax examiner like the rest of us, a glorified clerk, semi-engaged to a guy who liked the loving but not the relationship. I'd known Dianne for about a year and liked her immensely. She was citylife-weathered in a stable and quiet way. And she liked light jazz...Coltrane, Blakely and Miles. We often bitched together at the cheap routineness of our life there, and just-as-often I'd said that there has to be way out, "all we need is a schtick," I'd said once, "like the Pet Rock." It only dated us and showed the absurdity of our chances of escape.

And me. The token Vietnam vet of the story. Thirty five years old. Single. Gay. Closeted on the job, asskicking poolplayer at my own favorite gay bar, Chaps, by night.

It was an all-too-average day in a much-too-regular workweek, and the three of us were beginning the long descent of the cement Govt Center stairs to the sidewalk. The unlikely trio, heading for a lunch of pizza slices at nearby Quincy Market, and Adela had just told us in spiteful tone a particularly abusive snippet of the story that I recounted above. I told her I was sorry. "All Vietnam vets are losers," she snapped suddenly and bitterly. "They all should've died in Vietnam."

Well, I'd spent the ten years between leaving the military and reaching 30, hoping only that the third ten years of my life would pass quickly. Somehow I thought that my sacrificing that particular time period would ease my own anger at my government and my society, my disheartenment at my knowledge not just that people could be evil, but that an American person could be, such had been the depth of my teenage innocence. I had some strong feelings about some things I was sure of, and some very foggy feelings about the uncharted things I wanted to know about life and the nature of the human soul. And even fifteen years had not accomplished what I'd wanted from ten. In my heart I knew that the only thing that separated me from the homeless vets was the fact that I had a job waiting for me to continue when I came home, and my life's accomplishment was that I was able to get myself to work each day and trudge through the dreariness for all of these years. And now I was utterly stunned, and my chest took on a tightness of emotion. I was suddenly very angry and very wounded by her words, but all that could come out was a snide but impotent, "Thanks, Adela, I needed that."

It seemed we trotted down endless steps and moments of silence after the exchange, and I was still wondering what words could possibly follow when Dianne said quite matter-of-factly, "I don't think you understand, Adela. They all did die in Vietnam." That was the very first time I realized there was a human being who understood the pain that I'd carried in my heart these 15 years, and also just why I liked her so much.
font>

"There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,

That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes."
- Emily Dickinson

"But it's March 30th!! :)" you say, "Not even late winter..."

Tell that to the daffodils, I say.
And to the tulips.
And to me.

We'll all drop the longjohns
when the ground's a little
easier to see.

_______________________________

Chicken N Sharp Cheese Dish

Fini, and not quite as brown as I wanted. Baked covered @ 350 for 20 minutes (double recipe),
then uncovered for 30. When you see the bubbling reaching the top layer, you're about home.

9X9 caserole dish
2-3 lbs chicken breast
1 1/2 bunches (2 lbs?) fresh asparagus
8oz sharp cheese
1 can cream of chicken soup
2 tbs sherry (real, not cooking cherry)
No seasoning

Boil chicken breasts till barely done; boil asparagus, undercooking a little
Grate cheese
Heat chicken soup (condensed) in a pan, stirring
Add cheese slowly and stir pretty constantly
In that 9X9, make a bed of asparagus
Break up chicken by hand, into large bite-sizes covering the asparagus
Spread 1/2 the cheese sauce over chicken, and repeat layer
Dribble the 2 tbs of sherry all over the top
Bake covered @ 350 for 10 minutes, uncovered for 20 or more - Crank
up the temp and/or leave it in longer if you want the top browned.

There are lotsa variations, like skipping the sherry; layer cooked, sliced
potatoes over the top; use any other vegie from green beans to broccoli
(but asparagus is best); or double the ingredients for the proverbial army.

Below, is my variation

I've doubled the recipe, skipped the sherry (it, too, makes the dish) & spread
mashed potatoes over the top. I saved a bit of the sauce to cover the top.

Adding the grated cheese to the soup. Everything
else has been precooked, the previous day this time.

The first layer. It doesn't seem enough sauce, but it's plenty.

The two layers, reserving a little sauce. Today I had 4-5 potatoes, mashed,
and spread them about 1 1/4" or more thick across the top. Then with a little
of the sauce saved after the two layers, I spread it thinly over the potatoes.

Here's what a serving takes from the dish, not
much. You can feed 8 people easily, I'd say.

_______________________________

April 11th, late in the day, 'n,
shhhhh, spring is about.

April 15th, 2008.

MY BACKYARD

Just a couple of 'em out right now. This was two days ago.

This today. Yeah I watched it unfold through the day.

Don't know what its name is,
but it comes out between the crocuses and the daffodils.

They're only about 4" tall. So I hope you know
I kissed the dirt for this one.

Whenever I see one of these I think
"Pretty Paper." Willy Nelson.

Whenever I see one of these I think I should plant more in the fall.
Pretty paper. Pretty ribbbons. And you.

__________________

My Ode to Lilac

She comes upon a wisp, or is it on a wisper,
"See you in 3 weeks," "then I will be your lover."
I smile. Soon again I'll feel her beauty, breathe her in,
And remember all the reasons I love her.
"We have the perfect romance," she'll say,
And I know she really means it when she smiles her little smile;
And I know she'll never leave me, she

She just goes away for a while.

__________________

http://CallmeSandy.stumbleupon.com/review/9985487/

Thu, 24 May 2007 07:38:38 -0700

The Indian pictures are not mine (I wish - maybe one day),
but the artistique fade effect is.

I got this 1858 map in my favorite secondhand store for 20 bucks; it became a project & keeper for my livingroom. It was tattered & stained, though it would've brought $100 or more in auction. To display and preserve it, I mounted it on plywood -- it's almost 5' square -- then framed it with normal pine moulding, and polyurethaned about 5 coats. You can't see much in the first pic, of course, except by the mere number of notations that the east is literally exploding with development. Cities and riverways and railroads; railroads that have not yet crossed the unsettled/uncertain west to the Pacific Ocean.

Also in 1858......

Theodore roosevelt is born

Russian tsar Nicholas II begins to free serfs
as Russia takes a step out of the Dark Ages

Minnesota becomes a state, siding with the union

Richmond "Daily Dispatch" reports 90 blacks arrested for learning

The Great Base Ball Match of 1858 has 4 interesting firsts

The first nearly complete dinosaur fossil has been found in New Jersey

Frederick Law Olmstead's Greensward plan is chosen for the design of Central Park

After two years & several attempts, the transcontinental cable is finally laid successfully, sort of

Excerpts from the Henry David Thoreau journal he has kept since 1837, including 1845-1847
when he lived at Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts. His final manuscript Wild Fruits, was
left unfinished when he died of tuberculosis at age 44 in 1862. This is a good essay on it.

The west with few markings; names of rivers, state borders & singular lines of
tracks invading open space heading mostly east to California as if there were no
reason to stop anywhere else. Gold had been discovered barely 10 years earlier,
& the far western states were developing fast. The map is interesting...states
missing since they weren't states yet...others huge because they hadn't been
divided...cities as if placed there amongst whatever Indians dominate
their space. Over the next 50 years the wild tracts of Minnesota, Nebraska,
Washington and Oregon, Utah, New Mexico & today's little Kansas will
cede land to give birth to new names like Montana, Wyoming and
Colorado, the Dakotas, Idaho, Nevada and Arizona.

Manifest Destiny.This site has exemplary descriptions & essays. Hit on
Documents on the left of the page and see a timeline of "man's" march
through history toward his end. Hit on Essays and read items ranging from
the "Seven Years War" to "The Velvet Underground & Andy Warhol Connection."
If you're into history, you should like something here.

Also in 1858......

Albert Potts of Philadelphia patents the street mailbox,
the 1st ones are installed in Boston and New York City

Bernadette sees her first apparition at Lourdes

Hamilton Smith patents the rotary washing machine

The US stock market crash spawns an international market crash

Russian mineralogist Andrei Kraslov accidentally discovers what
we'll know as radioactivity while photographing mineral samples

During the spring gold is discovered in the Rockies,
precipitating the Pike's Peak Gold Rush of '59

Darwin goes public with The Origin of Species to be
published in the following year. To his horror he is sent an
essay from Indonesia in 1858, from naturalist Alfred Wallace,
outlining the same theory, but using different words.

Ah yes, the Black Hills of Nebraska, since there were no Dakotas, no Wyoming.
The Big Horn River, and Little Horn, not to be famous for another 18 years when
the Western Indian will make one of his last stands, against the man called Custer.

Massacre at Sand Creek.
A timeline of interaction, treaties & battles, between the Northern Plains Indians
& the white man, with links to particular items and biographies of Indian leaders.

Massacre at Sand Creek.
A column of soldiers & volunteers commanded by Colonel John Chivington
enter a village at Sand Creek intending to kill peaceful Indians. After murdering
the 28 men and 105 women and children, they horribly mutilate their bodies.
Here is a white man's eyewitness testimony, two editorials from the
Rocky Mountain News as well as Chivington's deposition.

Here is a pretty good 3-page Custer biography including the Civil War years
that culminated in his becoming the youngest general at age 23, engendering
his years in the west, & climaxing of course, in his famous battle. (there are a lot
of links in the lower left with good little stories and observations) Not a bad read.

The Black Hills, and Lakota efforts past & present to get their sacred land back.

Also in 1858......

In 1855 Washington governor Isaac Stevens
makes a 14-month whirlwind tour of his
territory, securing treaties with the tribes in
the area. The Stevens Treaty Councils
set strict conditions, ultimately stretched by
the miners & settlers, leading to skirmishes
& eventually, all-out Indian war, including
attacks on the prospectors and settlers.
May 16th, 1858 a column of 150 soldiers led by
Lt Colonel Edward Steptoe is defeated at the
Battle of Tohotonimmee. In retaliation, 2 autumn
confrontations, the Battle of Four Lakes and
3 days later the Battle of Spokane, bring
solid army victories, mostly due to their
longer-range 1855 Springfield solid-bore rifles.
Hostilities end by a treaty taking 90% of Indian
land, 24 Indian leaders & "antagonists" hung
or shot, & the survivors put on reservations.

A HUGE (488pp) personal report from Howard Stansbury, of the details of his Great
Salt Lake expedition, cataloguing discoveries & finding an alternative route to the west.
Along with fellow officer Lt J W Gunnison & "18 men, 5 wagons & 28 animals," he did
topographical surveys, took soil & water samples, & identified wildlife, plants & insects.
Lt Gunnison wrote an intense memoir of his time living among the Mormons.

Lt Gunnison's recollections of the Mormons, the topography, etc. His personal observation in 2 parts, 15 chapters, entitled "THE MORMONS OR LATTER-DAY SAINTS, IN THE VALLEY OF The Great Salt Lake - A HISTORY OF THEIR RISE & PROGRESS, PECULIAR DOCTRINES, PRESENT CONDITION, & PROSPECTS."

John Fremont, his 1845 expedition notated on the map, retraced routes previously explored by others, but did the careful surveying and cateloguing necessary for US expansion. This was his 3rd expedition, exploring around the Great Salt Lake and the Great Basin just west of it, then through the mountains & along the Pacific coast. His fourth and fifth trips, both disastrous, would become his last. During the fourth his party was caught in the Sierra Nevada mountains in the snow, and twelve died before they could break through. His final, 5th trek retraced his previous one, and this time he was trapped again, & lost one man before they were able to make it to a town of Mormons, where they were taken into homes & nursed back to health.

Here's a one-page biography of Fremont that focuses on things other than his expeditions. He had quite a life; he was appointed a Major General during the Civil War & assigned to St Louis, where he oversaw the Western Department. On August 30, 1861, years before the Emancipation Proclamation, he declared that all slaves owned by Confederates in Missouri were free! Lincoln angrily told him to ammend it, but he refused, saying that it would look as though his move was not well thought-out, and indeed it was. Some interesting stuff here.

Also in 1858...

Speculation mounts that the Mountain Meadows Massacre, where a
wagon train of 120 men, women & children were slaughtered, occurred
without provocation, carried out by Mormons dressed as Indians

The Mountain Meadows Massacre festers for 17 years before
one of its Mormon leaders, John D. Lee is arrested. Here is
an account given in The Rocky Mountain News in 1874

The E. F. Beale & Guinn Harris Heaps 1853 expedition route. , At the site, click "read this book."
A journal of their Missouri to the Pacific expedition. They surveyed
for the planned transcontinental railroad, traveled the Old Spanish trail, stopped at Fort Massachusetts
and were the first attempting to survey Death Valley. It's long, but you might find some parts interesting
if you scan through it. I did. It's a log of day-to-day problems & interaction with the Indians.

A brief history of the 1830-48 use of the The Old Spanish Trail
as a trading route between Santa Fe to California.

Fort Massachusetts, to the right of the bottom of the Sierra
Madres.The first army outpost in what would become Colorado.

Fort Garland, 6 miles to the south, replaced Fort
Massachusetts due to its vulnerability to attack.

Photo of Buffalo Soldiers standing outside Fort Garland.

An excellent brief history about the Buffalo Soldiers.

The Buffalo Soldier Museum homepage.

Also in 1858......

Edwin T. Holmes installs 1st electric burglar alarm in Boston, Massachusetts

Gaspar Felix Tournachon climbs into a hotair baloon and takes the

first aerial photograph over the French village of Petit-Becetre

Macy's Department store opens in New York City

The 2nd opium war ends

The French take DaNang and eventually control over the now-separated

Cochin China - South Vietnam, setting up the series of events

that lead to Ho Chi Minh's 20th-century communist

Viet Minh, the end of French domination, and

the eventual engagement of the

United States.

Wellknown names, San Bernadino,
San Pedro, Tucson snuggled amongst
lesserknowns, Pima Village, Indian
Village, Deserted Rancho. The
proudly displayed "Proposed
Southern Pacific RR Route" traver-
sing what will be Colorado, to Fort
Yuma, near the convergence of
the Gila & Colorado Rivers. Yuma,
& Camp Calhoun which it replaced,
sat atop a mesa overlooking the
Colorado. Neither outpost a "walled
fort," they were in California, across
the river from Arizona. An excellent
writeup on Fort Yuma, as well
as old & new drawings & photos.

"Civil War Harper's Weekly, September 20, 1862" has Gen Philip Kearny's obituary,
hero of Indian wars & general in the Army of the Potomac, he was killed instantly in
the battle of Chantilly when he accidently rode his horse into confederate lines. His
notation on the map is of his topographical expedition of the 50's. Harper's Weekly
has a wonderful series of its publications available online from throughout the 1800's.

Here's a fine collection of actual digitized pages from Harper's Weeklies.
You can read Civil War articles as if it were occurring day by day, complete
with great sketches of ships, battlefields & daily life. A good read.

Slavery slices the US like a knife with the 1854
Fugitive Slave Act,a major step toward war

Civil resistance to the Slave Act is strong

Kansas becomes an "free-state" after 4 years
known as "Bleeding Kansas," sparked
by the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act, a direct
cause of the Civil War

The May 19th, 1858 Marais des Cygne Massacre. Pro-slavery Missourians enter Kansas explicitly for that

The death of a slave trader - a true story

My favorite, "Indian Territory," predating Oklahoma, and like the rest of the map,
showing areas predominated by one or another tribe. It's a history lesson on the wall.

A little history of the Antelope Hills Expedition in which the US Army turned to the
hated cannibal Tonkawas to help fight the Comanches, who had made some
viscious attacks against the army and settlers for a number of reasons listed.

How the Butterfield Overland Mail came into existence, "Compiled and written
by Mary Emma Gibson and Iola Potts." Mail from the east had originally been
sent by sailing around Cape Horn, or by stopping in Panama, trekking across
to the other side of the isthmus to a waiting ship, & continuing to California.

Comanches, Kiowas & Wichitas are driven from Texas into Indian Territory
after bad blood between the Indians & whites erupted & the army decided
that the reservations experiment was a failed idea. "Necessity Knows No
Laws" was the banner that 250 settlers carried into the reservation as they
came to confront the soldiers & take several Indians accused of crimes.

Also in 1858......

Lincoln gives his A house Divided speech

Lincoln coins a phrase in a speech: ... "you can
fool some of the people all of the time, all of
the people some of the time, but you can
not fool all of the people all of the time."

Seven Lincoln-Douglas debates take place in
the summer & fall (Douglas was pro-slavery)

John Brown organizes a raid on
the Arsenal at Harper's Ferry

The John Brown Homepage gives family background, chronology, eyewitness accounts, and pictures of some co-conspirators, including 4 of his sons.

John Brown gives an eloquent speech to the court at
his trial. The north lauds him, which incenses the southerners.
His raid & speech are directly linked to the war's cause.

fini

http://CallmeSandy.stumbleupon.com/review/9985403/

Thu, 24 May 2007 07:35:38 -0700

Click N Go to see some Fine Arts

and stuff

3 pages, 170 pictures

A limestone Chinese guardian lion from the Tang dynasty, dated 680 AD, taken from the caves of Longmen, Luoyang, Henan Province. There's a fantastic place in China called the Longmen Grottoes of Luoyang, where it's obvious the stone blocks were carved from a cliff's walls, and next to that spot are 1350 carved-out shallow, as well as deep caves with carved figures on the walls. They are on the east and west walls of the Yishui River, took 500 years of crafting, and stretch for one kilometer !! If you follow any link in this series, I think this'll knock your sox off. Unbelievable. Visit here for pictures: http://pratyeka.org/longmen/ or here for an excellent writeup history and a few more pictures: http://www.sacred-destinations.com/china/longmen-caves.htm

"Watson and the shark," by John Singleton Copley (1738-1815). This oil on canvas is unique in that Copley has chosen a subject with action-in-progress, a departure from scenery and still-lifes of the time, and it awed viewers in it's "immediacy," as well as the violent subject. I have two more pictures, closeup snippets from this painting, plus my narrative of the entire story on page 3. More on the picture, the artist and Watson can be found here: http://www.nga.gov/feature/watson/watsonhome.shtm

Cat on a column, Egyptian Dynasty 26 or later, about 650 BC. The cat as a sacred symbol arrived fairly late in Egyptian history, around 1000 BC, when the female was identified with the goddess Bastet (Bastet was commonly portrayed as a woman with the head of a cat). It might be carried in a religious procession, atop a wooden shaft, or as a decorative finial on furniture. For just a little ditty about Bastet, visit: http://www.touregypt.net/godsofegypt/bast.htm

Display case with early-19th century instruments. On the left is a tenor trombone with a serpent's head that curves up past the player's head. The tongue is attached in such a way that it wags when the piece is played. The middle piece is called a "serpent," made of wood, brass and leather. It was used for low-brass parts in ecclesiastical, military or orchestral settings. The third instrument, on the right, is a bass-horn. Invented in 1790s by a Frenchman, it was adopted only by English players. For a gallery of some other pretty strange and interesting instruments, visit: http://www.oddmusic.com/gallery/

"Houses of Auvers," Vincent Van Gogh, 1890. In May 1890 Van Gogh moved to Auvers-sur-Oise, France, where he worked "feverishly," creating some of his best works in the few months before his suicide that July. For a little more info on Auvers-sur-Oise, visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auvers-sur-Oise

Look what they've done to our flag.

Look What They've Done
Lyrics by me
The Lala Song
Let's lala Them All Back to Hell

Look what they've done to the stars, Ma
Look what they've done to the stripes
Well they've wrapped them up in a pack o' lies
and they fly em upsidedown, Ma
Look what they've done to the stars 'n stripes

Look what they've done to the brave, Ma
Look what they've done to the free
Well, they sent 'em to die in the devil's war
And they took away the free, Ma
Look what they've done to our song

Look what they've done to our laws, Ma
Look what they've done to our rights
Well they picked them like a chicken bone
And made 'em all insane, Ma
Look what they've done to our game

La la lala lala la, la
Look what they've done to our flag
Lalala lala and it's upside down
Lalala lala la la, Ma
Look what they've done to our rag

Look what they've done to The Truth, Ma
Look what they've done to The Word
Well they've spun em like they was just a toy
And turned it all around, Ma
Look what they've done to the Lord

Ils ont chang� notre monde, Ma
Ils ont chang� notre monde
C'est la seule chose que je peux faire
Et �e n'est pas bon, Ma
Ils ont chang� notre chanson

But maybe it'll all be all right, Ma
Maybe it'll all be OK
Well if we get paid for all our tears
We'll all be rich some day, Ma
Seems like we've cried for seven years

Ils ont chang� notre chanson, Ma
La la lala lala la
Well they tied it up in a plastic bag
And they've turned the words around, Ma
La la lala to our song

Wish I could find a big ol' box, Ma
Wish I could find a nice cell
We could skip the return address
And mark it COD, Ma
Then we could ship 'em back to hell

(all together now)

La la lala lala la, Ma
La la lala to our song
Lalala la la lalala la la
And they've gotten it all all wrong, ma
La la lala back to hell

La La lala lalala, la
La la lala lala la
Lalala lala lalala lala
Lalala lala la la, la
Let's lala them all back to hell

(fade out)

La la lala lalala, Ma
La la lala lalala
lalala lala lalala lala
Lalala lala la la la
Let's send them all back to hell

Click N Go to Macro

3 pages, 150 pictures

We gots flowers

Fall wildflowers.

A pink-and-white hibiscus, about 7" in diameter.

'N Bugs

Honeybee up close.

"I'm tellin ya, Mabel, I scoped the place out. There's nobody up here.".

'N Stuff in Between

Reflections of a dewdrop.

Joanne

A Short Story

" JO A N N N N E ! ! ! ! " The sound blew through the open doorway and roared down the wide empty corridor so forcefully that there was not the usual echo created by casual conversation. It caused heads to lift or turn to face their own closed office doors all along the hallway. Conversations stopped. Faces froze and mouths dropped and brows furrowed as eyes tried to make sense of it. It was unnatural, less directed at anyone than to the gods, an exclamation, a denial that what he had just heard could have been said. Not after what they had been, had done, had meant to...hadn't they always, hadn't he always loved her, always told her how he loved her, touched her, with such...kissed her allthetime knowing they would...this was not a possibility; in the weirdest of dreams it could not be happening, and yet she had said it. First that she wouldn't be going to lunch with him today. Why? What's the ma "Because I don't want to be with you anymore. I don't love you anymore." She'd said it while glancing up from her work, glancing up from her paperwork with a pen in her hand and looking him directly in the eyes. And she looked now with that emontionless look, no empathy, no feeling as he'd beseeched the heavens to nullify it. She sat behind her desk amongst travel brochures and contracts, pens and pads, with schedules and destinations flickering on her computer screen, and just looked at him. She with primped hair and makeup, polished fingernails and the deepest red matching lipstick. She so businesslike in her petite dark blue skirt, white blouse and dainty gold necklace, he straight from his own work, Levis, Timberlands and a thrown-on red flannel shirt. She wanted more. She wanted to be more and see more, and have more. She'd met men, there in that office, businessmen, professionals, making their plans, planning their trips. She'd flirted with them. It was part of her job at the agency, after all. "Be friendly and smile readily and don't be afraid to flirt." Hadn't she been told that from the first day? She'd been tempted you know, with compliments, invitations, with offers; she knew she was pretty and she knew there was more. More. More than Chinese dinners or any dinners with a pot-smoking vinyl-siding contractor's helper. Even if one day he really could start his own business. Even if he could become successful, it's all he would be. Ever.

"JO ANNE!!!" This time was different from the first. This time it was thrown right in her face like a cold glass of water because she'd just sat there with that look. Now his cheeks reddened with building anger. His brows lowered and his face tensed as it seemed to move closer, leaning toward her, though he'd not moved, yet. His teeth were tightly clenched and cheekmuscles bulged, and suddenly without warning he was across her wide desk on his stomach and everything adorning it was flying in its own direction and onto the floor. Without forethought his arms went out and his calloused hands went tightly around her throat. The tiniest scream had time to leave her before she was taken by him, swirling sideways in her chair as he slid past her computer screen and partly into her lap. She couldn't do a thing to loosen, let alone escape the anger of his grip. His cocked and flailing right leg sent the monitor crashing to the floor. Suddenly there was a man rounding her doorway. He was a slight man, in a dark blue suit and red tie, who despite his age and size had come straightforth from three doors away, out his own lettered frosted-glass door where his name was neatly printed there in script.
"W-what are you doing?" he yelled as forcefully as he could. "Stop it! We-we've called the police!" Other doors had opened and others of the occupants, mostly women, were moving a step or two into the hallway, still not knowing what was happening or could be awaiting them. They glanced worried looks at each other and then back down the hall. "Stop it!" And suddenly, he did. He just stopped, now with his own empty look piercing through her widened brown eyes with a look of exacted revenge and disgust, past her fear-filled expression, past her disheveled hair and heaving chest and half-limp body slumped into that weaving chair. He stopped because he knew he could've finished it, and he broke from her as his body slid down further and onto the floor, spinning her chair a full 360 where she came back almost facing him again, then he got up, still with that look, and groped himself around the side of her desk and had the slight man not stepped back from the doorjamb he would've most suredly been swept somewhere into the hall. Suddenly people were scrambling back into their offices and doors shut abruptly as they recognized the face of the young man stumbling clumsily out the doorway then breaking into a full run down the long hallway toward the rear exit. And was gone.

When Mr Zinakis arrived from his work he found a smattering of people in the hallway outside that first open doorway; they in turn sidestepped his path whilst with short erratic sentences told him all-at-once tidbits of what had happened and how utterly frightening it had been. He passed through them quickly but deliberately and entered the small office to find two policemen, one jotting as his daughter was finishing her recounting of the ordeal. The slight man was adding details of what he'd witnessed while a lady from further down the hall, a casual friend stood leaning over the back of the victim's chair with her hands on the sides of her shoulders. "He was r-red with rage, I thought he'd never let go of her." "Let me see," said the father almost in monotone and the girl lifted the cold wet compress away from the sides and front of her neck. The towel had soaked her blouse, and the father's eyes widened and he gasped to see the deep red and already-purpling welts circling her throat. His anger couldn't stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks, "Oh, Jo, I'm so sorry we never thought he'd react like thi" "Look Mr Zinakis," said the nearest officer, "You can come on in and have a few words with your daughter, but this kid's still out there and he's not in a very good state. We've gotta get to him before he hurts himself or someone else." The father's face flushed red, "Hurts someo I hope he hurts someone I hope he drives off a fucken bridge." "Mr Zinakis, comeon out here," and the other officer guided him gently out the door and deepthroated whispers could be heard as he tried to calm him down in the hallway as his partner wrapped up his questioning then turned to go... "Is that all?" the father asked in a still excited voice as his eyes darted with astonishment from one cop and back to the other. "Yes, we'll be looking for him and we'll be in touch. You should both come to the station this afternoon when you feel up to it."

Her parents were beside themselves. They'd always treated him courteously, they felt, had him now and then to supper or Sunday dinner. They'd fully accepted that the two would eventually marry, one day. They'd wished, of course...they were Greek, after all; they'd given her so much, wanted so much for her to have a good life. They'd always thought that a professional man, educated...a handsome Greek young man could make her happiest. Hadn't she been brought up that way. Hadn't they told her that now and then these past few years. But they'd started so young; in the beginning he would call every day after school, and visit whenever they'd consent, in the afternoons or, later, after the supper meal. They'd never liked the idea of them being alone in the basement recroom, though. Never liked the idea of that, but of course it was their daughter, whom they trusted. Soon he was coming there nearly every night, the two of them down there in that room. They'd never liked that. And those first few visits, few days had turned to months, then a year, two, three, and four.

Three days had passed. The father and daughter had returned to the police station several times for pictures, interviews, and more interviews. A restraining order of course had been enacted. Charges had been filed. Attempted murder. It seemed so harsh; it all seemed so impossible. The young man had not been seen since he ran heavy-footed down that hallway and out that door, but now they learned that he had gone to the station, walked right into the station wearing the same clothes and looking hell-haggard with ashen unshaved face and red-welted eyes. He'd been incarcerated on the spot, retained a public defender who'd worked feverishly from the beginning trying to get the charges at least lessened, and after two days he'd finally been bonded and released. His parents had placed their home as collateral, and he'd been released to them with the stipulation of course that he have no contact with the principals. Eventually there were preliminary hearings and postponements as his defender tried to mount the defense. Of course it had been temporary insanity, but would it stand. The lawyers of the two parties had conversed, had talked candidly of the unfortunate circumstances and the extreme penalties the young man faced. He'd never been in any trouble whatsoever, after all, and...the Zinakises would hear nothing of proposals, though, and ultimately it would be left to the courts and the people.

On a warm and sunny Saturday morning Charlie Boucher leaned over his rake working the side lawn. His lower back ached, but spring cleanup had him by the collar, he having already cleaned all the leaves and junk behind the huge freestanding six-bay garage. In coming weeks he'd be putting in 52 replacement windows from basement to attic, scraping housetrim and painting. There were large rickety front and rear porches to fix up and spruce up, screens to install on them and much more after that. The place was definitely a fixer-upper. He and one of his younger brothers had lucked out during the recent downturn in the housing market and had scored this big six-unit renter. They'd taken the worst two for themselves, Chad and his girlfriend, Charlie and his wife and baby girl, but they were well along with their preps and had rented three of the remaining four units. Up until this weekend, today really, they'd been pretty sure they'd made the right move, he was thinking, but...young kids playing gleefully in the street scrambled screeching in mock horror while older ones sauntered to the sidewalks as the old red-and-white Chevy pickup turned the corner and neared his house, and he stepped further onto the grass as it crunched along the gravel driveway and coasted to where he was standing. "Hi Uncle Jeff." "Heyy, Chuckie, got your sawz-all for ya." "That's okay, I told'ja I didn't need it back yet." "Well, sometimes it's nice to return something before it's needed." That was Uncle J, allright, always thinking beyond himself. It seemed all the men in the family were carpenters, or sheetrockers or roofers, except him. So what he missed out on behind a desk weekdays, he'd make up for with his own projects on his two free days. He called it having fun, and even though Charlie loved the work and could do most anything with what would start out just a pile of lumber, it was still work to him, at least during his week. The driver's door made creaky cranking noises as it opened and the uncle slid off the seat with the right foot helping ease the left to the ground. "So what's goin on?" "Aagh, we got a problem." "What?" "One o' my renters came home drunk about one o:clock last night an' when he swung inta the driveway he clipped the edge o' the fence over there." As he pointed with a cock of the chin they both looked in that direction to see the rotted paint-bare pickets leaning off-square, where it was apparent they'd already been. "Soo?" "That's what I told him, but he was all upset about it an' kept saying what a loser he was; I kept telling him it was a piece o' crap an' I was gonna tear it up an' replace it this summer anyway. He was so caught up in what he did, I don't even think he was listening ta me. I told 'im I didn't care. He parked his car down the enda the driveway an' staggered up the back stairs an' I figured he'd be asleep pretty soon. He was ripped. I mean, I didn't even hear it, but about a half hour later one o' my other renters comes an' tells me they heard a gunshot. He shot himself in the head." "Wwhat?" "Yeah the police were here all night. He was such a nice kid, too. He was always smiling, always in a good mood. He was the nicest guy." "Wo-ow." "He lost his job about three weeks ago, an' I figured it was prob'ly causa the drinking, an' he had some kinda court case going on since last fall with his girlfriend, but he never talked about it so I thought everything was okay with it an' he told me he had enough money saved ta cover his rent till he got another job. He did siding so I'm sure there was gonna be work for 'im." "What a shame. How old?" "Twenty-two. Chad an' me are looking inta cleaning up places like this. There's a lotta money in it. We were talking ta the cops about it. His brains were all over the place on the walls an' ceiling I don't think there was a spot that was clean, a big puddle o' blood an' blood everywhere all over his bed." The uncle was just about wordstruck as he stared with a crumpled brow and mouth cocked half-open with discomfort and empathy. "His parents are coming over during the week I guess if it's clean by then an' gonna take his stuff. We just got done painting it, and I guess we're gotta repaint it now." "What an awful thing." "Yeah. Chad an' me are thinking about going ta Kuwait for a year or maybe a year-ana-half. We both saw those ads about needing guys for construction an' they pay wicked good money." "Man, Chuck, it's dangerous." "Yeah I know that's the only thing but we could really get ahead on everything I mean really ahead. You don't get a chance like that too often." "Well, I hope you think about it a lot, Chuckie." "Yeah, we're gonna, but we could really catch up on stuff an' get ahead." "Okay. Well, I guess I better get back home," and he climbed back up onto the worn seat, started his truck up and pulled the floor-stick into reverse. As the truck started to move he leaned out the open window past his resting elbow, "I hope you think seriously about that." "Yeah we're gonna, we're only going if we both go." "It's not a very good idea, you know." The sides of Charlie's mouth tightened as he nodded in partial agreement. "Okay then, I'll see ya." "Okay, see ya," And as the truck backed out of the driveway and drove away and around the nearby corner, the kids made way then returned to the street and Charlie arched his back trying to stretch his tender muscles, then turned back to finish up his lawn.

http://CallmeSandy.stumbleupon.com/review/5732024/

Sat, 23 Sep 2006 13:07:01 -0700

Click N Go See My Cats

Gizmo. Giz. All energy. Steals the spotlight. Talks nonstop. Oh, he's orange.

Honey. The feral that I caught in a Have-A-Heart trap in my backyard when she was 8 weeks old, same age as my newly-adopted brother and sister, and imp. She's so timid. A real sweetie.

Monkey. Monk. Low-keyed........um, err, right......

Monkey. Good-natured. A true lapcat. Amen.

Buffy. Buff. Monk's "big" bro (18lbs). Lotsa character.

Jim Patterson
1/20/2008

"Hello?"
"Hi Bob."
"Hi Jimmy!" I smiled.

Jimmy Patterson. Jimbo. He was 34, 3 years younger than me, and I'd known him 2 years, since '85. The night we met he was amongst a small cabal o' guys watching me play Asteroids at Chaps in Boston. My Asteroids phase was much like my pinball phase, but a lot more expensive and short-lived. Both were truly addictive, but whereas with the former I bragged my semi-pro status, as far as the big A went I was definitely a chump. Once I'd learned this pinball machine, and just what it'd accept in the way of t i l t , I'd slip a quarter in and play free all night. With this sucker I'd start with a $10 roll of quarters, and STILL end up going to the bar umpteen times for change. It fired up the tendonitis in my forearms, too. It's got a buncha buttons, and you gotta bapbapbapbap this one to shoot and press the others to maneuver, and I'd shake the tingling numbness out of my hands between rounds.

"How ya doing?"
"Uh, o_kay...sorry I haven't called; I left work in June."

He'd asked if I wanted a beer, which isn't odd in that environment if someone's been humored a while watching you kill rocks, so I said yeah, but when he arrived with another I figured he wanted to make a night of this so I told him, hey, I make a pretty good friend, if you'll accept that, but that's all. He understood and we'd been great friends since. Best friends.

"What's wro-you left work?"
"Yeah, I've had constant headaches. It started at work in early June, around 4 every afternoon, and within a week it was 24 hours, it's awful. I can't think straight, I wake up at night with my hand on top of my head, noises pierce through my temples."

I guess we'd both hit one of those stretches when life's more complicated than you'd wish and you lose track of each other for a while.

"That sucks."
"Yeah, last May they had me answering late-refund calls an' of course everyone's pissed off, and all I could do was tell them this computer code means it'll take ten weeks, and this one guy says 'Jeee-sus Chrrist! Ten weeks what the fuck are you people doing there!' Then he goes,' Tell me where you are and I'll come down there right now and get it' like I've got his check in my drawer. Then I gotta humor him, like, 'Sir you don't even know where I am, I don't have your refund check; something's holding it up. It seems you made a mistake somewhere.' It fucken sucked. It'd take 20 minutes to calm them down and by that time you're exhausted and there's another one waitin for ya. I ended up walking outa there holding my head in my hands, and of course I'm a bad guy now."

Jim and I'd become good friends fast. We'd get together about every Saturday morning and take his old city-beaten red Renault for a ride somewhere outside the city, and since he liked my dog, she'd come along, which was great. We'd smoke a joint and take a walk through the woods somewhere, or go to the beach, or take my canoe out on the Charles, the three of us. We'd smoke a joint and order us up a bucket of Kentucky Fried and, you know, smoke a joint. Sometimes on a rainy day we'd smoke a joint and play chess.

"I couldn't find any help, so last week I went to Beth Israel emergency and told the doctor I had these constant headaches. First she said I shouldn't come there for that, but I told her I had to leave my job and all the places I'd tried and I didn't have a doctor. So she told me to lay on the bed and gave me Tylenol with codeine; I never had it before, and about 15 minutes later she asked how I felt and I sais, 'won derrr full.' 'This is the first relief you've had, isn't it,' and I nodded, realizing it was September and it'd been two and half fucken months. She said, 'I apologize for what I said when you came in; I was wrong.' Then she sais, 'The medical profession's failed you and I want to apologize for that, too. You've done everything right.' She's the first person who believed I wasn't faking it."

I'd been to his house a hundred times for the late breakfasts, all right, brunches that he loved to throw on Sunday mornings, or for cookouts or chess or the proverbial "hanging out." And he'd come to mine as much. And yes, we smoked a joint in all those cases. I'd met his lover and his two mellow cats and knew a number of his other friends from these get-togethers, but it hadn't been until just recently that I learned he played the piano. They had one, but nothing was ever mentioned until one afternoon he sat, and I learned about his knowledge of, love for and pure talent in playing classical music; requiems, waltzes and movements...Bach to Bethoven, as you might say. I don't get a kick out of classical, but you could really tell he loved it and that made it sound beautiful.

Do you believe me?"
"Well, if it was someone else it'd be hard to believe, but because it's you I know it has to be true."
"Thanks Jim, it is real. So how've you been?"
"Not that good."
"How come?"
"Uh-umm, umm; um, what's the worst thing in the world that could possibly happen?" And his voice curiously had taken on a certain feel of shakiness.
"Um, Kevin left you?"
"No-o," and I could hear a nervous little chuckle in his voice and could almost see his wry smile.
"The very worst thing."
"I don't know," I said more seriously.
And then he surprised me with words that had a mix of pronouncement and plea as his voice rose and cracked and took on a near shriek of horror.
"I have AIDS!"

I was heading out for another afternoon with chuck, when....

Click N Go to the Housefire

1 page 60 pictures

Something I'd been thinking about for some time...

I found.

A firefighter ducking from the spray of soot and water.

A lieutenant brings up another hose.

Musings
Dis N Dat
1/25/2008

It's said that the pundits, pollsters and mediamaestros were totally thrown for a loop when Obama's presumed 10% plurality in New Hampshire dissolved into Hill'ry's primary victory, and every airhead on tv announced with broad strokes that the people of the big N H simply do not like being told what they're about to do. Please. Do you honestly think that people previously won over by Senator Obama's charm, style, honesty, seemingly America-loving heart and clean campaign would switch-hit over to Hill's I'll-bring-'em-home-when-it's-safe-and-reasonable-but-for-now-we-must-stay-the-course doubletalk or her smile-for-the-cameras-but-call-him-a-Muslim (or Bill calling him BLACK?)? Or for playing the role of the tearmeister because she saw her sure-thing crowning slipping away? Please. "They" suddenly saw her as real and human and decided she was the one for them? Come on. And somebody better clue her in to the maxim that every politician only gets that act once. Cry once and you're, why, suddenly human; cry twice and you're unstable.

Why do all these talking heads call the people of New Hampshire or Michigan or Oregon "they," and then annoint "them" with a broad personification as if each state were a creature that is crankily independent, true-blue assembly-line American or a little over-the-top-forwardthinking and thus hard to read? They took their 10% gaff and then made themselves look even more foolish with their mea culpas.

Let's see what other broad generalizations that idiots past have bestowed upon the "people" of New Hampshire...

They cuddle with their cattle on cold nights.

Or their chickens when they aren't laying.

They all say "ayuh."

They'd rather Live Free or Die.

They are stubborn and know what they want (which is white folk only. Ayuh).

Yet will let tv jerkoffs influence who they vote for.

Even though no one has a tv.

After those unscrupulous voting machines were caught tallying more check-offs for the big Hill, while those counted by hand leaned toward Obama, Rep Kucinic called for a by-hand recount, and offered to pay for it. Now I don't think anyone believes the Clintons pulled a Bush in New Hampshire, but maybe the recount will expose how "democratic" this gem of progress has made the vote. Hmmm, anyone wanta chip in and shitcan these "machines"?

Now that tax time is near, one good deduction is to get yourself a boarder, or if your kids pay rent and are not a personal deduction for you, THEY are boarders. If the boarder makes two of you in your household, then 1/2 of your mortgage (or rent) and mortgage interest, utilities, insurance, taxes, house depreciation, supplies (for cleaning, tools, paper towels), repairs, landscaping is all deductible. Get yourself a Schedule C at the post office or from the IRS online, and see all the things you can deduct. For the average person, you'll take a "loss" after all your deductions and that comes off your income on the first page (can you tell I worked for them?). Plus there "used" to be a rare taxpayer-friendly stipulation with renters...if they work off part of their rent in chores, shoveling, etc, they don't have to claim that amount for income, and you don't have to claim it as rent received. Kids, anyone? You'd better look into it yourself to be sure of any other rules.You have to file the 1040 long form if you do the Schedules, but it's just a matter of filling in the lines. Also, some people don't know they can "itemize" their deductions. If you have a mortgage, medical expenses including insurance, house taxes, these are the biggest deductibles, and if they all add up to be more than what the govt gives you for a "standard deduction," you can go that way. You need a Schedule A for that. You fill out the schedules first, then put the totals onto the front page of the 1040. I have folders corresponding to each line, or a couple of lines, of each of the schedules, and starting in January put the receipts for all those things where they belong. Then at the end of the year just add them up and put them where they belong (or give them to your tax preparer if you need him, but not to me :).

Everyone who has a house mortgage, especially if you're the "average person" making nominal income, should have an amortization schedule, which shows each of your house payments throughout the life of your mortgage. If you can't get one from your lender, which you should, I'd bet there are places on the internet where you input your own figures and you can print it out. Especially at the beginning of your mortgage, but not at all necessarily, you will not believe the amount of money you can save. Just having the schedule in your possession will give you incentive to pay it down. It will show that on February 1st you will pay $1,100. If it's early in your mortgage it'll be broken down like this:

2/1/2008 $189,000 principal -- $1010 interest -- $90 principal
3/1/2008 $188,910 principal -- $1004 interest -- $96 principal
4/1/2008 $188,814 principal -- $997 interest -- $103 principal

If you paid those 3 principal payments the first month, $289, you just took off 3 months from the life of your mortgage, and saved yourself that interest, $3114 and you can cross those 3 payments off. You make 12 principal payments of, say $1100 and you've taken a year off your mortgage and saved about $11,500! Most mortgages don't have a prepayment penalty, but ask. Some people say, well, if I pay it off, I won't have my mortgage deduction. Personally, paying 12 payments totalling $11500 so that at 15% you'll save $1750 never made much sense to me. When we had about 13 years left to pay on our mortgage I did some adding, and went to my father and said, if we refinance at 4.5% (from the 10% in place in 1989) and pay $20000, we'll be left with a year and a half left to pay on our house. What we did was pay up our 30-year house mortgage in 7 1/2 years (we'd already been making the "accelerated payments"), saved, believe it or not, over $200,000 in interest, and after 1 1/2 years, with the bulk of our monthly payments going to the principal, all of our monthly payment money was in our pockets, never to make house payments again.

Just a couple of words of advice:
Never trust a guy who says trust me.
Or anyone who says think like us and we'll make you happy.
Come to think of it, the last guy I trusted was the last guy I trusted.

I just saw Robert Wagner touting for the umpteen hundredth time, a reverse mortgage scheme that the banks just love. You can pay the lender just the interest, giving you money for spending while you're still alive. And taking nothing, zilch, nada off your principal. Someone I have a lot of faith in is Suzie Orman. Okay, maybe you don't like her personality...I guess she can get a little over-endearing. She didn't need to tell me about this scheme, as I was already on to it, but she was right on when she said stay the hell away. Everything I've heard her say sounds right on to me, about getting rid of credit card debts and such. Common sense, but not everybody has that.

During the early 90's I had a neat male cat who happened to be an outdoor cat. Our driveway is set up such that the deepest parking spot is outside my parents' first floor kitchen window. My cat got into a habit of sitting on the roof of their car and,...well, let my mother tell you like she told me. "Your cat is so funny. He sits on our car roof, and I go to the window, and swing my right hand to tell him to go around the house, and I meet him at the back door and let him in. I've really got him trained." I said, "Wait a minute. The cat sits on the roof till you come and motion him around and let him in, and you say you've got HIM trained???"

I'm still wonderin why that guy left me the simple message, "Seek therapy;" the guy I deleted and blocked lest he emerge again from the fogheads of the right. Gad, I can only hope I haven't come face-to-message with someone who really doesn't think George was in the shed playing with himself (and busying the other hand finger-reading the list of what each of his pals will get of the Clinton surplus) leading up to 911.

Tommy Smothers once said you can measure people by how much clothes they have on. The poor, powerless people are the less-ons, and the rich, powerful people are the more-ons.

How, since 911, every single 'publican in both houses supported every move the Cheney-Bush lowlifes have offered up, from wars to torture to refunds for the poor rich to scrapping that "god-damned piece o' paper," is totally beyond me. Everyone from McCain to Lieberman (he is so too), and no one, no one has an ounce of independent thought, let alone moral fiber, sense of history or patriotism to see or say that any of these past seven years' acts have been treasonous. Cheney, Bush, Rice, Powell, Rumsfeld and all of the shadowy figures behind the scenes should have life sentences for what they've done. How 'bout let's back up the dumptruck, take all of Washington, including the scurrulous Supreme Court and transport them to the Fresh Kills Landfill where they can dwell with the over-exploited 911 victims, and then start all over again.

It's when I worked for the IRS that I was most the "rebel." I worked in Boston's audit section for a couple of years, and I pretty well saw it all. It was shortly after a Washington memo was leaked telling regional offices to go after little taxpayers because they were not represented by lawyers and were easily intimidated. We had an oldtime auditor who took care of "correspondence" audits, where the people just sent their receipts in, instead of having an appointment. That auditor would send out itemized "reports" showing how much they'd substantiated thus far, and how much they owed, plus interest, if they couldn't come up with more verification. And when they would call up shocked or perplexed, she wouldn't tell them there were other things they could do to dwindle down the amount; she'd just say very coldly, "Just sign it and send it in," which meant they agreed to pay. Well, during this time I was put on the phones to answer inquiries about these reports, or someone would want an appointment, and I was just supposed to tell them when they could come in and so forth. But as all humans do, they'd start telling me their story. One lady called to say she and her sister took care of "Daddy," she'd claimed him as a dependent, and was having trouble substantiating that she contributed over 50% of his expenses, the criteria for claiming someone as a deduction. Well, "Daddy" was 96, and was close to having a foot amputated. I spent the longest time getting her to not give in, and go get all her receipts for household expenses, food, recreation, clothes, health care etc. And she did. Another kid, a 20-year-old college kid from Cape Cod, took care of his very sick (terminally, I believe) mother, and claimed her as a deduction, and I helped him the same way..."go to your priest, and tell him it's embarrassing, but you need a letter saying you're a weekly parishioner who gives such-and-such in contributions." That's how piccayune the hoops "we" made them go through to prove deductions. My manager used to call me to her desk, and say I was spending too much time with callers, and I told her outright I didn't believe in what they were doing to these people and if she didn't want me helping them she'd have to take me off the phones. She never did. Because I was right.

After hearing the smug attitude of Bill Clinton as he attacks Obama, I suddenly realized there's a term I don't EVER want to hear again. President Clinton. What a friggin boar. How about we hire a Lewinsky and give him an offer he'd never refuse. That'll get him backstage for a little bit.

Here's what I thought of 3 leading candidates back in Nov '06; not much has changed.

John McCain. You revelled in your role as the Republican rebel before the 2000 election, with the Dems actually courting you to come over, red rover. That's not because they wanted your seat. It's because you seemed to represent some of the liberal sins that would make a conservative into a human being. Those would include putting your honor first, your country second, the people third, and the party line a distant fourth. I remember when you were incensed at Bush for berating Kerry's heroic and selfless bravery in Vietnam. You said something like, "That's what he did to me," remember? And then you backtracked and helped to get this soul-less idiot elected the president of the United States. And you've aided and abetted them ever since instead of speaking out against you-know-what. Unlike Colin Powell and other Vietnam vets, you did not learn the lessons of Vietnam. To me, you show yourself as just another politician, Republican politician. I personally am not angry that you went against your own moral fiber in kow-towing to the neocons over the torture bill. I personally am pissed that you went against the morals of your country as well as the morals of your countrymen, because regardless of whatever of your polls might say, we the people of America do not want ANYONE torturing ANYONE. Got it John? You keep up the straight-shooter act. I can only hope people will see you for what you are. I can only hope you'll never be our president.

Barack Obama. My my my. Senator Obama has told Meet the Press that he is considering a run for president in '08. My my my. A graduate of Columbia and Harvard Law School, he was the first black president of the Harvard Review. Only a Senator since 2004, he became famous for his speech to the Democratic National Convention during the last presidential election. His pet issue is aid to the poor (just like me), and he spoke out against the invasion of Iraq BEFORE the invasion of Iraq (just like me). All the aforementioned paraphrased from CNN. Republican talking heads are already saying it's too early for such a run, that intelligence and good oratory is not a requisite for a job that takes such strong managerial skills. This, the party of Gerald Ford, Ronald Reagan, and the devil. In that I am eternally skeptical of any one man's ability to change the landscape of America, I'll say to this prospect what I have never come close to saying about Georgie-boy---I'll bite.

Hillary Clinton. Sen Clinton had my interest piqued say, 5 years ago. She's a very intelligent person, I think. I knew she would have an interest in things I care about, which would include a national health system, Social Security, as well as other programs for the poor. Fixing social security would probably be on her list. I thought she'd make a good first woman president, and the frosting on that cake would be that it would just drive the Fox and other rightwing icons nuts. "You want sprinkles on that, Mr. Hannity?" "Another slice, Tucker? Oh, here let me help you get that stuff off your bowtie...ew, it's snots, Tuck." Then came the Nazicon wars, and she found herself parrying this way and that to avert the Rovians' pinning any general labels on her, as they've done with other wannabes. She didn't take the Howard Dean tack of attacking the 'Publicans on the war, lest she be labelled a dove. On the contrary, she swung her image to the right, supporting the stay-the-course handling of the war. She's spoken out just a few times, such as calling for Rumsfeld's departure. But she has a tough image to portray, so she has to watch her words, treading oh-so-carefully lest she give the public the impression that she's anything like a generic Democrat. So, that's what's wrong about Hillary. Image first. Okay politician, probably a good senator, but clearly not a person of great moral outspokenness. Especially when we need one. Sorry, I'll pass.

I read an adage a number of years ago that read something like:
"If a young man is not a liberal he has no heart;
and if an old man is not a conservative he has no brain."
Yeah? Horseshit. When it comes to liberal and conservative, rich and poor, fair is fair and unfair is a sin. Take THAT to the bank.

During the republican debate of January 23rd, John McCain was asked by the commentator why Americans should vote for a 'publican when Bush's years have doubled the national debt, taken the Clinton surplus and made that amount a deficit, and unemployment has gone from 4.2% to 5 or above. "Because the democrats will tax and spend," and went into his preplanned diatribe. Sorry, John, but that wasn't the question. Go back to the senate where you don't belong. Sorry I stuck around THAT long.

http://CallmeSandy.stumbleupon.com/review/5732021/

Sat, 23 Sep 2006 13:06:54 -0700

My mother's recipe box, passed down to me, some going back to the 1800's. She was a great baker, pies, cookies, breads, 'n cakes; sixty years of yum. Whatever the pie, apple, lemon meringue, squash, blueberry, she'd make two, and for dessert at suppertime she would cut it in quarters, for my father and her, my sister and me. Then later in the evening, in quarters again, and the two would be gone before next day. The meringue with seered crests; the apple with its top crust looking like a raised roof, was served with vanilla ice cream or sharp cheddar on top (try THAT!), and almost always eaten warm. I have recipes for applesauce bread, banana, cranberry, datenut and even fruitcake (which yeah, I loved, along with the rest). If you're interested in a recipe, just ask.

Below is a cream cheese/canned blueberry (in thick juice, not lite) pie that'll knock your socks off (with cherry it's great, too).

You can see on top of her card what she thinks of it. Let me tell ya, it's rich. But you actually would kill for it, trust me. And note how little "cooking" there is...just the shell. Oh yeah, after adding the blueberry filling, chill again so's it sets.

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Musings
More Dis n Dat
February 15, 2008

Good news for the 'publicans. George Bush the uniter declared on February 10th that if McCain wins the nomination he'll campaign for him. And on February 15th came Daddy-Bush's endorsement. Oh boy.

The republican electorate could not be reached for comment.

Rudy Guiliani spent $49 million dollars on his presidential campaign, and accrued 1 delegate. Congradulations, Rudy. America's mayor. What an opportunist. What a slug.

Blackwater landed their biggest government contracts during the Clinton 90's. We're in more trouble than I thought.

Who actually was the first person(s) who came up with the idea for a "Blackwater," and how the hell did it get off the ground with the blessings of the US government. When did it start to become an army. How did they secretly recruit. I'm assuming that many of its soldiers, if not from America, must not be American citizens...no green card. Where did they get their advanced weaponry, and in such numbers. Aren't they in fact just a very expensive arm of the US government at this point? I'd like to know.

Here's what I think about those questions, in order. Someone within our government, so no blessing required. Basically they started out with our own clandestine operatives who worked in Central America, so let's slip the CIA in here; US servicemen as they left the military; plus those rapists, torturers, murderers and "disappeareds specialists" from ElSalvador, Nicaragua, Chile, Argentina, Kosovo and all proxims, and other longstanding cohorts. The government alleges that the School of the Americas has shut down, sooo, maybe Blackwater has taken over there, too. Most likely it began during the Reagan years, continuing through George I's reign, since so many of the contra freedom fighters, et al would be unemployed and in need of work, in time for the buildup to army size before the Clinton administration gave them their first big gigs. (Remember Ollie North told the congressional committee that CIA director William Casey asked him what he thought of an army, or some such "off the shelve" entity with no answerability, and he'd replied he thought it was "neat?"). Wonder where Ollie's working now. Not really a lot of secret recruiting required. Basically all you needed was a willingness to go into a third-world country (or city in America) with no loyalties to the population, and a propensity for throat-cutting or shooting innocent civillians, in the back if need be. And no, many are not US citizens, and no green card required. They got their weapons from us, the US taxpayer, and their contracts and thus paychecks from us, with plenty left over to slip some back to their neocon backers through campaign contributions. And yes, they are just a very expensive arm of the US government, and now much too intertwined to go away. You think I'm crazy? You are.

There's a free-wheeling revolving door between Blackwater and the US government, including legislators and intelligence officers, including the #2 man at the CIA, and family and friends of both. Just what kind of "intelligence" are these people bringing to the job? Another reason I don't like this thing. I can't imagine our government allowing some of its highest ranked intelligence cheifs to become a part of "Onward Christian Soldiers" without there being a total integration with the CIA and elsewhere.

And it seems there are no laws that relate to them. Don't like it one bit. Can you spell S S?

Blackwater. In New Orleans. There they were, driving around in cars with darkened windows and no license plates. No license plates? That's illegal, isn't it? One reporter said he asked a couple of Blackwater soldiers where he could find more of them, and was told, basically, to "Go to that corner, or go to that corner, " meaning they were utterly everywhere. They had 150,000 "troops" in Iraq, and had enough left over to swarm New Orleans. And no oversight. And the taxpayers paid for it. How much? Said soldiers received $360 A DAY, EACH, PLUS PER DIEM. And Blackwater? Just short of $1,000 a man. Per day. Can you imagine how much a "soldier" makes per day in Iraq? Regardless of what anyone says, I'd guess they don't pay taxes, since these huge amounts would help to identify them. Just a guess. And can you imagine how much the "war" is costing us with Blackwater's 150,000-man army? The Onward-Christian-Soldiers army? There were reports that Blackwater "soldiers" murdered people in New Orleans. Not killed, as in "looters," or in gunfights with streetgangs, which is still a NO-NO as in NOT IN AMERICA. Murdered. As in, MURDERED. Murdered? This "army" is not loyal to any government, and certainly not to you and me, but to Blackwater owner Erik Prince's theology, or their paychecks, and if someone reading this does not believe that "the disappeareds" will be visited upon America in the guise of this army...no, you are.

The dual bombings in Baghdad on February 1st, it's been reported, were carried out by two mentally ill women. Down Syndrome. Their explosive belts were detonated by remote control. It brought me back to the intial taking of Iraq, and in one particular incident the "defenders" stopped a car, taking the mother out, and telling her if she didn't drive over that bridge and blow up that checkpoint, and herself, they'd kill her kids. I'm wondering if some of these "matyrs" aren't concocted by the same types of tactics. Between such things as this, and those beheadings, I just don't think there could be words in any language to describe these evil beings.

What cesspool of humanity has George Bush put our kids, and men and women, into.

I heard a brief newscast that one reason for less fighting between American forces and Sunnis is that different regional leaders were paid millions of dollars to back off. I wonder how far those tentacles reach. And I wonder if those payments are monthly. No wonder so many millions were "misplaced" in Baghdad. And I'm still wondering who quieted down this Sadr character, and with what. Can you say surge? Say it with dollars.

Latest word from US govt "intelligence" is that al quaeda is planning another attack on the US. Now, is this attack "pending," "imminent," or in the planning stage for shortly before McCain gets whooped by Obama. Sorry guys, the last time you pulled all that code-orange they're-planning-to-hit-us bullshit was throughout the 2004 election, every time Kerry seemed to be in a "surge," and not since, and your act is growing old. This time around, let's call it code-negative. I think it's always been all-too-evident that al quaeda is planning, and has been planning things through the years, and I don't think our "intelligence" is going to stop anything more than the negative press once it does happen.

Bushies want us to believe the reason "al quaeda-Iraq" hasn't been heard from is that they've been pretty well "taken out," as Pat Robertson likes to say. That is, until the dems take our troops out, at which time they'll attack America. What, I guess they're even more scary that Bin Laden's al quaeda.

I confess that I believe it is the serious agenda of "Islam" to rule the world. And what a world it would be. The thought of it scares the shit out of me for my country and the American people.

I'm sorry to say what concerns me more than Islam-on-the-move is our own government. I doubt very much that "Homeland Security" is interested in anything much beyond gathering their extensive "database" on Americans, which I hope you all understand has nothing to do with national security and everything to do with the "1984 Syndrome." The first time I heard the name, HS, I thought 1984, revisited. Dostoyevsky, Solzenitzen, UnAmerican. Someone's got something most evil up their sleeves, and it's coming down on YOU and your children.

And these records will be maintained by, whom? The NSA? Homeland Security? The CIA? The FBI? The Census Bureau? Local Police? Each state's RMV? Dick Cheney? His friends? Henry Kissinger, Eliot Abrams and their right-wing thinktanks? Fox TV? The republican or democratic National Committee? How about...Blackwater? After all, we NEED Blackwater. We'll need Blackwater come any hurricane, flood, forest fire, or national catastrophe, race riot, campus unrest or anti-war demonstration. We have no National Guard, and we have no Reserves. That's the idea. Integrate them into the American psyche and they're here for good.

It is, after all, of urgent importance to ID those who would do us harm. Terrorists. And illegal immigrants. And online child predators. And bankrobbers. And tax dodgers. And thieves. And smugglers. And pornography buffs. And street gangs. And drug dealers. And traffic violators. And enemies of America. And pro-choicers, abortionists and abortion seekers. And gun-owners. And homosexuals (except for Dick Cheney's homosexual, or Christian leaders, or senators). And foreign travellers. And organizers. And people who speak out against "the war," which will mean "any war." And left-wing bloggers. And people who browse their sites. And pacifists. And activist judges. And disloyal military and police members. And demonstrators. And questioners. And the poor. And professors and teachers. And not-born-again-Christian-fundamentalists. And democrats. And the mentally ill. And those who would do us harm. Terrorists. And gypsies, vagrants and Jews. And have you seen yourself yet? There's only one reason for the database. And for Real ID. And the reason is you. Nooo....no again. You are.

Do you remember back in the late 90's when DoubleClick was exposed for being in cahoots with the federal government with tracking our internet usage. There was a bit of a bruhaha over it, when we realized our government was indeed "spying" on us, and we were possibly part of a database way back then, so many years before 911 and Bush. Clinton administration again.

Our government has been bought out, that we know, but the worst thing about these non-patriotic whores, from McCain to Clinton and every single legislator in between, is that they wrap themselves in their love for America. How they get away with looking you and me in the eye and saying God bless America we're gonna make your life better, is beyond me. It's like Christmas coming around every twelve months and lasting for three. The hype's the same every single year. Buy toys, buy computers, buy diamonds, bring your wife out the front door of your house to find her new Lexus with the big red bow around it, and let's make this year even better for the retailers or the stocks'll drop. Doesn't it grow old? The keyword will always be change, and though I would like to believe in Obama, it's one thing that is disturbing about him. He might be sincere. But what will a president change when a legislative branch wants only to keep their self-serving status quo of enrichment, by using party alignment to avert change; lobbyists will always wine n dine the legislature and the legislature will always vote against our betterment; the less-wealthy will always die because they can't afford the best that medicine has to offer, sad as it is; and the elderly will always be without enough heat and food and medicine while corporations get richer; same corps will always have headquarters and subsidiaries in the Caymens and pay no taxes, which is all well planned-out and totally acceptable to our president, all of our reps in both houses of congress, everyone working for the IRS and existing American law; huge farming-industry conglomerates will always get the subsidies the legislation had meant for the little farmer; the government will consistently go to their buddies in huge defense-contract-land instead of consistently pumping money into the American economy, by buying their building materials, lumber, hammers and nails, rivets, uniforms, desks and cubicle-dividers, pens and pads of paper, corkboards, sticky-notes, toilets and shitpaper at 100, 1000 times cost; Christian leaders will always damn faggots to hell in the name of OUR God whilest racking up the millions or fucking their secretaries or letting gay escorts fuck them; they'll kill people for killing fetuses and build armies like Blackwater and kill bad American people in ravaged American cities for "looting" food and necessities because FEMA hasn't shown up still; the Abramovs and their bought-off senators and reps will always get two-to-five for totally selling out our government; and the wealthy will always have an "in" with the government to carry on making their millions with their sleazy shananigans while you never will.

Senator John McCain has what I think could be called a ragged biography. He graduated 5th from the bottom of his 1954 Annapolis class, was known as a party animal, a poor flying trainee who lacked the love for it necessary to become a good pilot. He "lost" three jets to crashes during training, including one while en route to an Army-Navy football game, and lost a 4th in the most costly onboard accident in US history (USS Forestal, off Vietnam 133 dead) when an errant rocket hit his jet as he was awaiting takeoff in July, 1967. Three months later, in October, he was shot down over North Vietnam, breaking both arms and a leg when he bailed out. After being stripped, beaten, and mocked as he was being paraded through the streets, he was jailed, untreated. After 4 days he summoned an NVA officer and agreed to exchange medical treatment for military information, including military targets the US was interested in, plus air routes and elevations US jets would be coming in on.
A few links for your reading pleasure:

http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/1999-03-25/news/is-john-mccain-a-war-hero/ ( written by a two-tour Vietnam Vet who thinks McCain is a traitor - a good read)
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1084711/posts (written by McCain - his account of his capture, treatment and collaboration with the enemy - another good read)
http://www.godlikeproductions.com/forum1/message495961/pg1 (an overview of McCain's nonaccomplishments which I used as one of my sources)

Roger Clemens is a republican. And so all republicans in the House Committee hearings except 2, mocked, jabbed, insulted, berated and snickered at Brian Macnamee throughout their questioning. I was going to ask, but I'll just tell ya, this IS what our country has become. A "good friend" of Bush Sr, he was phoned by latter and offered encouragement before his "hearing." And then all the republicans jumped on his bandwagon. Innocence or guilt doesn't matter in a republican world, and there's no such thing as open questioning, or open mind. And there's already talk of an impending presidential pardon before the fact. A presidential pardon for steroid and HGH use by a cheating athlete? Look, the Red Sox are my team. And I watched his career go to shit before he went to the Blue Jays. With his renowned work ethic and his ultra-ego, he would not have faded then unless it were a natural occurance. From memory, I'd say his last two years in Boston were in steady decline, and then came the Blue Jays and Macnamee, then the Yankees, and Macnamee, and what, 4 Cy Youngs? What a disgrace we're living in. He and Bonds and McGuire oughta be selling tickets at the Cooperstown entrance, not dwelling there. This AINT my parents' America. It aint even mine.

And Jeepers, maybe the Yankees oughta give back them three World Series trophies 'n all them rings, since AT LEAST Clemens, Petitte, Jason Giambi and Gary Sheffield were juicing. That's a third their friggin team.

Barry Bonds wishes he had some of Roger Clemens' friends.

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Late afternoon at Hampton Beach NH, and the low-sitting sun lights up only the rising surf.

With glints of sunshine on the breakers' crests.

Gulls sweep the surface, coming toward me. They'll follow the ones that just went by, past that rolling surf and over my left shoulder.

A dune against a pink and purple sky.

Early evening.

Ocean and sky will converge.

A boardwalk structure frames a set of pictures.

High tide is begining to subside...it looks pretty close, to me, and I scampered and stumbled a couple of times evading its reach, but it's nothing the piers haven't seen before.

A moored boat is nearly silhouetted in the nightfall. Time to head home.

MUSINGS

Political, Personal, and sometimes Phunny

Scroll further down this page for more Musings, if you can take it, orClick N Go to my earliest Musings beginning 9/11/2006

November 30th, 2007: R&R, Rants and Raves
Dateline November 27, 2007 NEW YORK -- "Houston oilman Oscar Wyatt was sentenced today to 12 months and a day in prison on a criminal charge stemming from illicit payments to Saddam Hussein's regime under the United Nations Oil-for-Food program t:4afbeeb222b37;src:syndicate" rel="nofollow" target="_new">http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/front/5332693.html)." The "day" gives him extra leniency and thus 55 days off his sentence for "good behavior." Tough on crime, huh? What's he gonna do, stab a stuffed pork chop? Thanks, judge, for standing up for America. So do we rant? Rave? Call names? Condemn? Yes yes yes yes. While we limited Saddam's movements with no-fly zones, bombed air defenses and shot down jets, while we inspected and pressured and embargoed and starved to death "thousands and thousands" of real people, real slovenly filthy and hungry people, Oscar Wyatt was shelling out "secret" bribes and making "secret" shipments and everybody was getting even richer than we can't imagine they already were, and the US government had no idea it was happening. Those giant oil freighters just snuck in under the radar, guys. Yet the US government knows that Bubba phoned his buddy at 12:13pm Saturday noon to brag about getting laid last night and they know that Aunt Kathy's hemmorhoids are worsened or that her Pepto Abysmal isn't working and she can't afford Ex-lax at CVS. They know you ordered that should-be-banned-and-someday-will-be leftwing book criticizing Bill O'Reilly or Fox tv or who-knows-what else (oh yeah, THEY know what else) or the NEW! just-like-the-real-thing blue or green or, gasp, pink vibrating vagina (hey, don't knock it). They know you fork over monthly membership fees to nasty online girl-y or boy-y websites using your Chase Manhattan Mastercard but don't know their own senators are hitting on pages or dropping their pants for things other than passing excrement in airport boysroom stalls. They know anything and everything that they want to know from any correspondence to anyone, and all of this, all of this is forever databased by someone who should not be knowing these things. And yet Oscar Wyatts and hundreds of acredited companies from a myriad of countries such as France, Russia, and the, The United States, and many others, sometimes the countries themselves, paid out millions for a share of Iraqi oil allocations through Iraqi embassies around the world. And every Oscar and Saddam got rich rich rich, and it took the Volcker Committee to finally bring some of them down, including Wyatt. And now Oscar has been sentenced to 12-24---MONTHS while some nigger, spic or white thug (I tried googling for a more offensive word for whites than the first two but I don't think they make em...so will someone PLEASE fill in the blank instead of calling me a racist)---anyone selling any drug on any streetcorner can get thrown face-first on a cruiser hood and get, what, 10, 20 years for being the scum that they are? More? And have their lives ruined even more than they already were? But people of America, please understand, everyone from the defense attorney to the judge who cited the overwhelming number of favorable letters he received as to Wyatt's "character" and "honesty," begs your mercy for this 83-year-old first-offender. But, wait a minute...hasn't Oscar Wyatt always been a cheat, a tax-dodger, a liar, a thief, a briber, a murderer, a republican contributor, a Christian, a believer in America? Hang him, shoot him, inject him, take ALL of his money his house his cars and his possessions, just like you do a drug dealer or anyone who---is this correct?--- anyone who would say something derogatory against the Iraq war while protesting in Washington? Did I really hear that a couple of months ago? Make Oscar penniless, homeless, and without a chance of survival and I'll begin to believe in America again.

A couple of CNBC talking heads a few nights ago were all agog, up-in-arms over a recent speech in which Carl Rove put ultimate blame for the Iraq war on the Dems. But why anyone could give any credence or newstime to anything that Carl Rove would say, outside of the Center for the Overthrow of the American government and its Godddamn Piece of Paper, is beyond me. We all have to admit that they are masters at twisting occurances and history without being called to truth on a thing. I did google the speech, although I'm not sure how much of it I could've taken (I didn't find any reference of it, to my sheer surprise). Anyway, my puke-control button has been bypassed for the last 7 years, and I don't have much upchuck in reserve.

I will admit here that I will remain on the edge of my seat until the election of 2008 and the turning over of our government to the newly-elected. I give not an inch on the thought that something will come about for the nazicons to nullify the election and retain power, claiming only they are best able to protect our beloved America. That indeed may be several years down the pike, but now is the time in American history to call a spade a spade, a lie a lie, and a traitor any member of the United States government who votes an unnecessary war while blocking medical care or prescription drugs, threatening Medicare or Social Security, hampering education, blocking legal voting rights, or turning a blind eye to illegal presidential anything. Tax breaks for the rich. Indeed. Boy, has "America" prospered from that.

I think that it's time to TOTALLY stop the revolving door which is the military-industrial-government entanglement. I don't believe that ANY government official should be able to work in ANY compacity for ANY company doing business with the government. Are they all so imcompetent that only megabucks from these whores can win their services as conduits for freebies at our expense? I'd like to see one of them give up that lobbying opportunity for the chance to bang nails for Habitat for Humanity. To think that Cheney went from numerous extremely high posts for many years, to being the CEO of Halliburton, to the soft seat of vice-president, baffles me. Heck, I had a hard time believing that former head of the CIA, George Bush, with his hands in so many money ventures and misadventures (read: BCCI, Saudi Arabia and of course, the Bin Ladens) could become president of the United States. Sounds familiarly Putinesque. Back to Cheney. He was driving force as Secretary of Defense in outsourcing the support resources for the US government, including protection for officials (Blackwater) and feeding, clothing and supplying the military at huge overcharges (Halliburton), then he swings into the Halliburton CEO-ship only to return and mete out no-bid contracts. As far as I'm concerned, he traded, or traitored his patriotism for big bucks and NEVER should've been allowed back into government service. Whore among whores.

Senator Trent Lott is stepping down from his post in the senate before the end of this year because, according to CNN, he'll be able to start his new job as a lobbyist at age 67 after one year from leaving government. We sure wouldn't want to make a senior citizen do any heavy lifting, would we? After January the law will up the restriction to 2 years, and he'd have to wait till age 68 to be a wage-earner again. Not exactly a Walmart "greeter" trying to supplement Social Security or afford medicines that they stretch by cutting in half, huh (psst - taking your meds every 36 hours instead of daily works just as well, I've found)? Trent's the one who said of his good friend Strom Thurmond as latter sat and stared obliviously in the senate chambers marking his 100th birthday and his impending retirement: "We're proud of him, and if the rest of the country had listened we wouldn't have these problems now." Strom's the guy who at a young and naive age knocked up their black housekeeper (after screwing her God-knows how many times, Strom?), but during his presidential run in the 40's didn't believe they should piss in the same urinals or enter the same doors or sit their black asses in the same schoolroom seat or pray to the same God in the same church as a "white person." God bless you, Strom; I wonder where you are at this minute. And God bless you Trent. And God bless America. Go make a million.

CIA driector Michael Hayden has announced to CIA employees that he has had videotapes of "harsh interrogations" destroyed because they were ""not relevant to any internal, legislative or judicial inquiries" and, if made public, could identify CIA employees who would be vulnerable to retaliation by militants." Gee, ever hear of blocking out faces, Mike?
Well Mike, first of all, they ARE relevant to EVERY type of inquiry, including the public's, not only with relevance to illegal activities which lead past defense secretary Rumsfeld (remember him, arrogant, all-knowing..."we don't go to war with what we want, we go to war with what we have," said by the guy who never went to war?); they lead to Cheney and Bush, just like every illegal activity leads to Cheney and Bush.
The tapes are important for two more reasons.
2)
They are important to public inquiry because, unlike you, all of you, the public still looks upon themselves as Americans. And Americans hold human life and dignity dear. Yup, even those "who would do us harm," as Bush and the rest of you love to say. In one hundred years of human "wars," for example, the US has stayed well above the bar on this issue. At a time when Germans were executing US servicemen in stalags and the Japs were murdering thousands of US servicemen and innocent civilians throughout their realm of conquest as policy (read: the rape of Nanking and the Phillipines, the Bataan Death March and everywhere else) the Americans prided themselves in treating Germans so well that many prisoners were flabagasted. Of course bitter reprecussions were meted out; there are stories, in the Pacific Theater, but not as a course of military policy. In Korea and Vietnam the pr was well established although in the latter at least, the fate of prisoners was much worse than we, the public, were led to believe. Do a little research on Operation Phoenix and find it is the "tip of the iceberg," as they say. You'll find also that the average CIA guy on the ground in Vietnam during Phoenix is now a major player in the US government, especially "intelligence.".
Back to Mike "fair play" and his cohorts...those tapes hold relevance not only to those official inquiries, as well as public opinion, but most of all this reason:
3) Throughout history we have been totally concerned about the treatment of US prisoners of war, and today we're most concerned because our men and women who are taken, are not taken by armies who represent governments, but by "Islamic thugs," another Bushite favorite, if true. Their fate was already pretty well sealed unless they held some value, and one can only imagine what has been done to them when these nonhumans hold no qualms about cutting off an innocent civilian's head because they are American, or Jewish. What your torture policy has done to our serviceman's chances of survival, to say nothing of horrible torture, is destroy all hope. Y'all talk about those who are "in harm's way" as if they somehow found themselves there, instead of being sent by "American thugs" with no moral basis for your actions or concerns for your soldiers. So what should our military personnel, including our citizen-soldiers who you pulled out of weekend guard duty and monthly reserves do when they are faced with capture? I suppose fight to the death or blow their fucken brains out first.

Woe be to America and its citizens if these nazi-christian slugs are not removed completely from everywhere they are in our government, military and public sector.

http://CallmeSandy.stumbleupon.com/review/5732018/

Sat, 23 Sep 2006 13:06:52 -0700

Click N Go to EN PASSANT

Added 2/24/07

3 pages, 300 pictures

A chess term meaning, literally, "in passing," this series is an Ode to Summer, to People, to 2006.

A cute kid on a swing.

A street show being put on outside Faneuil Hall in Boston..

Sometimes it doesn't take much of a prop at all to get a chuckle.
Just cracks me up. Cause that's the kinda guy I am.

FYI
PVC - polyvynil chloride - and Cancer - and Who Doesn't Care

December 16th, 2007 - It'll take a book to talk about this subject, but it has a huge impact on our health. PVC is about the worst carcinogenic product in America, and the EPA estimates there's a 1 in 1000 chance someone will develope cancer from the average American diet. Diet? Yup, those little cookie trays inside the bags that line grocery stores, candy wrappers, bread and frozen-food bags, plastic bottles and cling wraps, as well as meat and cheese wrappings. Children's toys --- toddlers' squeeze toys, teethers, bath toys, baby bottles, knapsacks, umbrellas and raincoats. That smell we all hate when we open a new cheapo shower liner? We all know it's bad for you, but could only guess the reason. How about waste baskets, food containers, trashbags, storage, freezer and sandwich bags. Tupperware? You wonder why it might NOT be microware safe? All of the above products use a secondary substance called adipates and pthalates, just as harmful, that soften the pvc, which can leak out into the food they "protect."

This is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg; 40% of PVC is a petroleum product, 60% chloride. Carcinogens, both.

About 60% of PVC use is in construction. Water and waste pipes. PVC has been called piping's savior, because it's cheap, easy to work with, and nearly indestructible. Really is a great replacement for another deadly scandal that city governments have known about for years but are scared to death to talk about because they'll never have the resources to replace them: aging leaded pipes that have carried our drinking water for 100 years. But PVC is no savior in any sense. Guess what they add to the PVC piping. Lead. Vynil flooring, windows & doors, siding, wallpaper, furniture, those handy storage containers? PVC.

It's been found to be a cause of testicular and a rare liver cancer in workers at PVC manufacturing plants. Inhalation during manufacturing can cause breast cancer. In its manufacture it releases dioxin, the most powerful carcinogen created by man. Dioxin is the main ingredient of Agent Orange, used for defoliation in Vietnam. Made by Dow Chemical, it is the cause of fetal deformations, suppressed immune systems and hormone changes, diabetes and cancers in both the Vietnamese public and US veterans. Another sordid topic of screw you to both groups from the US government. It accumulates in groundwater and soil, then the body fatty tissues of animals and humans, which is why we can also be exposed by eating foods with high fat content: meat, fish, eggs and dairy products.

My guess is that "they" have known about all of this for many years. But why hasn't the use of it ceased, or use even just slowly diminished to eventually, zilch? Money. Just like the US government has allowed harmful products to enter our lives from thirdworld countries; can't you imagine how many companies would have to redo much of their manufacturing, or cease their making of all those ultra-useful products alltogether? Can you see the price impact on going back to more durable & better-tasting glass bottles and "jars" used for soda, water, milk, mayonaise, catsup and you-name-it? . Don't you think these manufacturers knew about the issue when they decided to go plastic some 20 or 30 years ago? "They," government and industry, have known about this for many years, but, truth be told, you the consumer, the citizen, is not what matters in America. Money is. Money money money matters.

Here are links to a number of inclusive nightmares that manufacturers AND the government are hep to, but that discontinuation of would result in economic catastrophe, from most personal care products such as deoderant, hairspray, hair color, air fresheners, lipstick, toothpaste and mouthwash, to most bathroom and other cleaners, drain openers, and products that might say "use in well-ventillated places." How about the interiors of late-model cars? Take ten minutes and you'll see that you and I know a hundred other things, all known cancer sources, and all allowed to be sold.

Harmful Personal Health Care and Household Cleaning Products
The Last Link Has Some Alternatives

http://www.suite101.com/discussion.cfm/partnersandparents/95761
http://antiagingchoices.com/harmful_ingredients/project_censored.htm
http://www.greenpeople.co.uk/info_features_househorrors.aspx
http://ecomall.com/greenshopping/skin.htm

THE STORY OF ERNIE LIDDLE

My First Tale

May, 2006

This ditty is a prime example of missing the picture but getting the story. I came upon this old man in my pickup as he was mowing the front of his property on a winding rural road, & I could tell from his body language that he was all business...he had a task to do and that's what he was doing. Then suddenly as I passed he stopped, straightened, and looked at me and waved...not like he knew me, not like he was afraid he shoulda known me, but that that is what you do when you are mowing and somebody passes your property. I waved back with a nod and an acknowledging smile. And as I made my way out of sight I decided this was going to be the first person that I stop and ask if I can take their picture. I'd just recently started out with my self-appointed task of recording, well, life and stuff. I had no idea of what it would become, so it was not an easy step for me, but I couldn't resist. It would begin here.

When I'd turned back and pulled over as I passed again, he turned, and I got out and walked awkwardly toward him pointing to my camera and to him and when I got within talking distance asked if I could take his picture. Sure, "Are you with someone?" Aaah, no, I said apologetically and hopefully disarmingly..."I was just passing by and liked your no-nonsense way." Well, he'd already turned off his mower, which I'd wished were still sputtering and he pushing with the same abandon, and there I found him standing with his arms behind his back waiting patiently for my click. Click. I walked closer to him, and told him I'd send him copies of my pics, and he seemed agreeable, so I memorized his address, and we started chatting. He'd returned to this town as a young veteran with a young wife, with nothing, really, and neighbors had directed him toward this old beat up little house in the woods, that luckily they ended up getting at a very small price, and had live here ever since. He wasn't sure how much longer he could take care of it, though. A couple of times a car would pass, and he'd gently guide me more toward the roadside, and the arm went up each time as it had with me.

Oh, I said, what's the zip? And I moved past him and turned..."One more?" hoping my question would divert his gaze from the camera, but he turned with me and nodded and smiled and waited. Click. Shit. He said he'd lived here for 60 years, he and his wife, and he couldn't remember his zip code, that he's 87 and that that is one of his problems, and...Oh, I said, remembering my father being 81 when he died 4 years ago...you were in WWII. Yup, 101st Airborn, Band of Brothers he said, in a way that was no different than how long he'd lived there, not a bit of bravado, not a bit of put-on. I said, wow, yes, I'd watched the series again and again and am a bit of a fan of the European theatre. He said he'd been there from the start. At my prompting he said he helped the wounded. "Oh, a medic?" Well, no, all he did was get to them and stop the bleeding and get them to help. Yeah, all he did was stuff gauze in a hole some poor young guy's gut or apply a tourniquet and drag him to safety in the middle of battle. Matter-of-fact, no change in his voice, but I watched his focus change as his eyes went back in time, and I felt him go there. He closed his eyes for just a moment...

Click. He said one time in Holland he went to sleep one night and when they awoke next morning they found themselves surrounded. Stupidly I asked if it were the Battle of the Bulge. No, he said, that was later, in France (damn it, I knew that), after they got out of this mess. He looked down and saw my tattoo. "Were you in the military?" Yes, I said, raising my camera...oh, I was a Marine Corps photographer in Vietnam...I'm just starting to get back to taking pictures and..." "I always figured you guys got a bad deal," he said, and I agreed, "Well, yes." And he jumped right in and said, "You know, I've always just accepted the way life is; you know I've been disabled for a long time, and I was just trying to get a disability from the VA, and the guy handling my case wasn't much help, said I could only get 10%, and of course we never woulda survived on that, and one day I went in to see him and this young guy said he was out that day and this young guy, a Vietnam Vet said well let me take a look at your file and when he got done he'd brought me in front of a bunch of doctors, you know, and he said he'd hafta act like he wasn't on my side, but to trust him and I ended up getting 40%. We woulda starved. I can't remember his name, lived in Topsfield, nice guy, he really cared. Just got my plates last week, with my Bronze Star and Purple Heart." Oh man, I was shrinking more and more into disbelief of what I had found and heard here, and I was just stunned at the last of his story. I'd stopped to take a picture, and found a story just hidden on this back road. And like I said, he was speaking as if telling me...his zip code. He waved as a car passed. Then after too much of a pause, as I was telling him how glad I was that I had stopped and chatted, and how glad I was to have heard his story, he said with the same deadpan that he had told me about his property and his march across Europe, he said, "that was Carl Yazstremski." I said "WHAT??!!??" and he said yeah. I said, "But...why didn't y...uh...Well, I'm really glad I stopped and we chatted, but I've gotta get going, and I'll send you the pictures." "Okay, all right. Stop again." And I was on my way down the road. Daaamn. Daaamn daaamn. I never caught Yaz, hard as I tried. I'd just missed a story and a picture, same as I'd just missed a picture but got a story, all in 15 minutes. Finally I slowed to a legal speed. I stopped once to get a picture of an old New England stone wall that couteously rounded a tree as it moved along down the road beside me. Another was a really nice setting of an old barn, up an inclined trail from me, that passed tall dried grasses and wildflowers, framed with the colorfully-painted orange gate just in front of me. I hadn't stopped with a story in mind, but I couldn't see how it could not be told, and I wondered how I could do him justice. Just keep it simple, I thought. After all, it was just a story of an old man mowing his lawn who stopped to chat with a passing stranger and let him take his picture. By the way, Ernie's pictures are sealed and going out in the morning. I thanked him in a note for chatting with me and for trusting a stranger, and I told him to never forget that he's a hero. Probably doesn't need to hear that, but I needed to tell him.

Justa stone wall snaking through the trees, leading me down the road.

Justa barn scene framed by an orange gate.
More pictures along a windy back road that gave up a story this day.

Click N Go See

A NEW ENGLAND AUTUMN

2 pages, 200 pictures

Mums. My autumn series is in two parts.

Page 1 has foliage, reflections, closeups and scenery.

A blue heron against the autumn reds.

I have a four-shot series of the Taylor Mill, culminating in this one.
Very interesting, something I didn't know. History.

Page 2 is a trip to the Topsfield Fair, a yearly event, where I've tried to capture...
faces...there's a poster-making and punkin-decorating contest for kids,
food and rides and faces of fun. I'm pretty sure you'll like this one.

I don't walk far before I come upon uniforms mounting horses.
He'd seen me biding my time, and just knew the shot I was waiting for.
Hey, you do your thing 'n I'll do mine. Click.

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Sat, 23 Sep 2006 13:06:48 -0700

Click N Go see the Chucks

Dining Out
What We Does Best

180 pictures on 3 pages

We likes celery.

'N lettuce.

But carrots most of all.

And of course, nuts.

Another regular.

He's justa hanger-on, but he's okay.

Musings

Dis N Dat

October 25th, 2007

China. Lead-tainted toys. Poisoned medicine. Poisoned food. Act of war, simple as that. The US government knowing about this for some time (years, I read) but turning their backs due to the enormous marketing opportunities to sell to the most populous country in the world. Exactly whose side is this government on, anyway. Traitorous, from top to bottom. Simple, too. One, we need to at LEAST try to avoid all "Made in China" products. Two, A whole bunch of these bastards in our government should be thrown in jail for a long time. A long time.

When I was in my twenties and thirties I was stuck in a deadend government job, trying to make the best of a hapless life. One day I was at the counter of a neighborhood drugstore, and reached into my ample-change changepocket for...change, when a coin
freed itself from my grip. I snagged it mid-air only to have a louder-than-expected clunk and spin hit the floor. Looking up at the clerk without skipping a beat I said, "Story of my life...catch the dime and drop the quarter."

Joel Osteen, that enigmatic preacher, declares that God wants us to be wealthy and to prosper. He tells us that God says it's okay to be rich. No he doesn't, Joel. You do.

Jesus said the poor will always be among us. That's because he wanted us to know we'd always need the compassion to care for them, NOT just to accept that they'd always be there.

My mother's 88 now, and has just returned from her most recent of hospital stays that have marked 4 tough years of dementia & depression atop the regular ailments. Whatever the reason, each time throws her off-stride, and each time we work together to get back on her feet. Three days ago we started walking outside again, she holding my hand with shuffling steps that haven't yet rebounded from the side-effects of one of her past meds. At one point offering, "let's walk on the lawn," and encouraging her, I said, "doesn't the grass feel nice beneath your feet?" Now there had been times that it was almost impossible for her to even acknowledge a conversation, so when she replied with her new-med-induced cleared mind, "I like the crinkle of the leaves," I smiled and felt a relaxation come over my expression; it calmed my heart as by a poem.

Somebody, everybody, please tell George he is not "born-again," and that we are on to him.

And if we can, we'll investigate and prosecute the things he and his lowlifes have done.

I think it was not too long after 911 I read an op-ed-type piece in one of the online alternative news orgs, where the writer said a meeting had taken place in Europe between Richard Pearl and some Saudi arms-dealer/sleazebag with whom the neocons had done regular business for years. It's alleged that Pearl turned him on to the new big investment venture, "security." I would truly like to know how much personal loot Republicans AND Democrats have "invested" in "security." I suspect all of the nazicons are up to their elbows in "investments." Methinks, afterall, that we are led by simple profiteers.

My Def: Same-sex marriage, is when you get married and the sex is no different than what it was before you got married.

Where is it, Dubais, that Halliburton is moving to? To pay no US taxes, and save on overhead, since the inside scoop from ex-CEO Cheney is that the mideast will be their center of action for many years to come. The first thing "we" should do is declare them a foreign entity, and cease doing business with them.

In March 1968 at age 19 I was on a crosscountry commercial flight to Camp Pendleton, California, the first stop on my trip to Vietnam. I had my Marine Corps dress greens on, shiny globe-and-anchor emblem on my cover, shiny belt-buckle and shoes, and a hollow and heavy heart. A very pretty stewardess stopped with a cart beside me and asked if I'd like a drink. I looked up somberly and said, "I'm sorry, I'm not of age." She still glancing down at me, not smiling, but with the kindest voice said, "I don't card Marines." Forcing the words past the lump in my throat I ordered a C-C and ginger, and I knew the face and the voice would probably fade, but that the words and the gesture would be part of me all of my life.

Blackwater. Be afraid. It's only the beginning.

I guess most people have at least heard of Art Buchwald, the syndicated writer who blessed the pages of, I suppose, hundreds of newspapers, including my own Boston Globe. In those rebellious '70's he and Mary McGrory helped me pass innumerable one-hour, 5-mile rainy-day rides to work on Boston's crowded MBTA trains. Well, a feature that many probably don't know about is one he would toss in intermittently, described as statements overheard at a high-level (or not) Washington dinner and cocktail party, and as you are returning to your table with, say, your 4th gin-and-tonic (that last feature is my own addition), you overhear something he describes as "sure conversation stoppers."

Par exemple:

"You don't need military experience to know how to win a war, for God's sake."

"George told me to FIND a way to spend the surplus, they're just gonna pump it into Medicare, Social Security and who-knows-what-the-hell-else bleeding-heart excuse, and we'll end up taking care of every loser in America."

"So I said, why don't you just start a war somewhere."

"I've got it, we'll hold war games the same day."

"Every time George has a beer he says he could take out Iran with one hand behind his back."

"Don't worry, we'll take care of her. Novak will write anything Cheney tells him to."

"Fuck 'em, if they're suckers enough to join the National Guard and Reserves in the first place they oughta expect to be going to war somewhere."

"McCain's torn between Romney or Guiliani for his runningmate."

"I was skeptical at first, but he assured me they'd fall like a rock from the Washington Monument, and he was right."

"Every cop in Texas knows Cheney can't hit the side of a barn after his fifth beer!"

"Besides, I distinctly heard him yell, 'duck!' "

"Screw the memo, they've believed everything so far. Just tell Condi to go out there and tell them had any of us ever thought that a group of muslim misfits would use a loaded 747 as a missile, we'd have acted quickly and decisively to prevent it.' "

"I don't care about this Mussowi character, Mueller's incommunicado til he meets with Cheney on the 15th."

"Hey Georgie-boy, good ta see ya. Here, have a brewsky."

"Iran's going down next Thursday."

Well, that's almost too many chuckles for me...I'm getting depressed. Have a neofunny day.

Click N Go see My 2007 Travels

2 pages, 150 pictures

There's a small series of sledders. Some are cute.

Some funny.

LOTSA spring flowers.

Lots.

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Sat, 23 Sep 2006 13:06:45 -0700

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Click N Go to Boston
11 pages, 1100 pictures
My long-awaited return to my "other hometown."

A number of times I left my truck at various parts of Boston and hoofed it in one direction then the other to capture street life and buildings that I knew so well when I lived there. Starting in June I visited the Public Garden, then walked up Commonwealth Avenue and down Newbury Street and its posh shops and varied eateries, to Copley Square, checking out the fountain and the buildings and their architecture. In the other direction I hit the Esplanade, the Boston Common, the 2007 Gay Pride Parade, and Old Ironsides, the Tattoo Convention the July 4th Parade
the Holocaust Memorial , then back to my truck for a quick drive to the Fens, where there's the "victory gardens," an area set aside by the city during WWII for people to grow vegetables to help them through the war-rationing years. Today the plots are basically for flowers, or just for a reprieve from city-living. I found a few quiet moments there, as I always did. Nearby the Fens is the Rose Garden, and even though I'd been there dozens of times during the years I lived in the city, I've never found it in such full-bloom as this visit. Must've been the 21+" of rain we had in May and June. These trips to "the city" turned out to be one great way to spend 4 hours.

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Click on any Picture
N Go to that Series

The Public Garden

The swanboats; the face of Boston's Public Garden.

I learned here to just pass out my bread to the cuties, then take my pictures.

Commonwealth Ave

Leaving the Public Garden and the statue of Lafayette, I cross the street to Comm Ave, and....immediately to my left I come across...Lafayette...a green shirt leaning over Lafayette like it is what it was meant to do, and to be doing this day. This scene is solitary, unbothered. Okay, I'm baited. "Can I take your picture?" I say. What's it for?" "Just for me." "What, you just like taking pictures?" Yeah, well, yeah. I was a photgrapher in Vietnam, and I'm getting started again..." "My brother was in Vietnam; he did work for the government; he was everywhere; he had an open visa to go anywhere; he worked on radar and such, secret stuff; he used to write to me about it; finally he got whacked." "Wow." "Yeah well he was gonna get it eventually, doing that stuff. You wanta take a picture, okay." "Okay, just do what you do, and I'll get it." The green shirt leans back over the easel again. Click. "I can send you a copy if you want." "You can? I can pay you for it..." "No, that's okay, I print it myself with my computer, 5x7." Shit, I coulda used some recoup. But, nah, I didn't start this for the money. "Oh, not that big." "That's the size I've got; it's okay."

He leaves the painting and goes into his knapsack. Click. "How long have you been painting? Are you from Boston?" "Oh yeah, I've been painting about 20 years." "Wow, this is really good stuff." "You think so?" "Are you kidding? I admire anyone into the arts; this is great." "Well you just made my day; sometimes I get depressed and wonder if it's worth it." His name is Jim, and he has what seems to me enormous hands, long fingers, artistic, flexible.

Finally he's found what he was looking for, an old notebook held together with about six elastics in two wads. And now he's writing his address. "You paint other places?" I'm thinking he's so talented, and this spot seems like such a cliche. I'm thinking of landscapes, Monet. "Oh yeah, I used to have a girlfriend near Harvard Square. I used to paint there, but it's dangerous there, I wouldn't paint there again." Click. "Hey, you think it's 11:30?" "Yeah, just about...it was 11:20 when I was by the statue." "I've gotta go soon."

Click. "Yeah my brother wrote me once from Vietnam about the German and Japanese tourists who used to go there specifically to watch the wounded being brought off the choppers..." (I near-gasped as my expression dropped and I took on a more serious air as my mind went back there) "He said it was really disgusting." I'd gone to the DaNang hospital to cover a story during a Billy Graham Crusade for the troops, and it'd been requested that he visit a so-handsome 6-foot-something young Marine who'd stepped on a mine and lost all of his limbs. When I walked in one of Graham's aides had relayed that the Marine had asked that no pictures be taken, and I'd stood bedside, looking at the young guy's stunned yet stoic face as they prayed together. A story, and no picture. I hadn't recalled that for so many years, and I hadn't recalled that when I left, alone and engulfed with the saddest of thoughts, I'd seen two young teen or early-twenties girls, giddy and running down to the helopad..."They're coming in," she danced sideways, trying to get her friends to hurry up. A scene I now knew I never wanted to recall.

He hands me his notepad-paper address. "Hey, can you do something for me?" "Sure." "Can you take a picture of the statue for me..." Sure." Just as I have it in my painting?" "Sure." "I've never had that," and he guides me over to a line-up spot as I start to line it up myself. "I think if you stand right here, on this stain, see? The line of the gate has to be just off-center with the horse's leg or it looks too contrived." Ahh, a hint from an artist, from an artist's eye. "Yeah, I see it, I got it," looking back at his picture and back at the statue. Click. "Hey, you said you get depressed...don't you get great feedback painting here?" Yes, I do, from the tourists...but the students, I'm so damned glad Emerson got rid of their dorm, it was right over there." "Yeah, I know." "The students used to walk by and say negative things." "What? Look, this is great stuff." "Well, you really made my day; you made it all worth while."

Click. The last picture I wanted; the artist's tools. "You know my brother was in Afghanistan, during the Soviet war there. It was later he got whacked. I knew they were gonna get him eventually, doing all this secret stuff." "Wow." "Well, I hope to hear from you." I am wrapping up the visit, "Oh, you're going to." "I know that." "I'm gonna print them this afternoon and mail them in the morning." He follows me up Comm Ave about 20 yards, talking more about his brother and how much I'd helped his day. We banter a little more as I walk, and pause, and walk, then I say, "Hey, you've gotta leave, and I've got lotsa stops to make, and if you keep talking I'm coming back to take more pictures." "Okay, okay you're right. Nice talking to you." "Nice talking to you," and he turns and I turn and we are each alone with our day again, with our life. When I get home I'll write him a note, and tell him we are all the same, we who try to capture things...if a day goes by, if a moment goes by...you can start to think, what is the worth of it. But I'll write and tell him he is an artist, and to always try to remember that.

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Just up Comm Ave, I like that; a canopied balcony. That'll add about two-fifty to the rent. Click. You know, I've gotta start telling people I worked for the eff'n circus.

Newbury Street

Newbury Street is lined with outdoor eateries.

When I came upon these 3 little cuties, and asked their mother if I could take their picture, she hit me with kindofa snooty air, "All right, but they don't pose very well." I want to reply, "Lady...they're fucken dogs," but figured one of us might as well exhume some couth, so I say, "That's ok," as I dance backward about ten fancy-steps and shoot. Later when I get home I reflect on my not liking snoot, and wonder how I could make her seem a nicer person. You like?

Copley Square

Two of the city's best-known buildings are across the street from each other...The glass-facade Hancock building complementing the Trinity church..

Even in the city there are niches of solitude from the hubbub.

The Esplanade

The esplanade is a place unto itself, a long strip of grassy and tree-lined land connected to the "mainland" by a series of footbridges that pass over a small lagoon.

Where you'll find sunbathers, strollers, bicyclers, skaters, joggers and things you just wouldn't dream of coming across, all going on with sailboats and windsurfers skimming along the Charles River beside you.

Boston Common

Lotsa unique street musicians everywhere in Boston, but the Common has the trees and the shade and the lunch-hour crowds.

The Frog Pond on Boston Common has a huge fountain that explodes into the air. And yeah, this is just about what everyone thinks of it.

The Gay Pride Parade

I don't know what we'll call her, besides outrageous.

Oohhh. Two innocent bystanders react to a float going by.

This one.

Old Ironsides

The USS Constitution, "Old Ironsides," sits at the Charlestown, Mass Naval base. I got a few pictures of the outside, the main deck, and the two decks below; the second deck is the battle deck, with cannons aligned and cannonballs stacked, while the lowest has the hammocks lined up, hanging from the rafters.

The Tattoo Convention

An artist at work.

This one'll take a while.

The July 4th Parade

I went to Boston on a scalding hot day to get pictures of city-life, and tripped over the 4th of July parade. Some of the spectators, as usual, belonged out in the street.

The Canby, Connecticut fife and drummers were good.

The Haulocaust Memorial

The Haulocaust Memorial consists of a series of six glass columns that list the concentration camp numbers of the six million dead. The sidewalk passes through them, and from a distance it doesn't look all that impressive, but after passing through and reading some of the short epitaphs, the magnitude hits home and you leave somewhat stunned. See the faces.

The Fens

Garden sections of this plot grow vegetables.

Some people have had their plot for years, and use it for flowering, many with benches to while away the day.

A perfect entanglement of flowers, vine and fence.

The Rose Garden

If you hit the city during the second half of June, you'll strike it rich here, with the roses in their prime.

Hundreds of 'em.

A place not to miss on a Boston visit.