Monday, July 07, 2008
Reading blogs this weekend, I noticed Peter's July 4 post linking to an article on two British schoolboys who were punished for refusing to pray to Allah during a class on religious studies.
It seems to me that for a great long while, British society has been bending over backward to be accommodating and politically correct toward its Muslim citizens. Of course, it's their country, but it's disturbing that they've learned nothing of the lessons of Muslim wag-the-dog Europe in recent years, including threats to cartoonists who depict der Prophet or the Muslim Parisien suburb where the police dare not go.
Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather when I read Sunday that Britain's Minister of International Development said that today's Muslims feel like "the Jews of Europe."
It's amazing that in the same news week where 12 year olds are being chastened for not praying to a deity in which they don't believe, Muslims are whining and likening themselves to the folks who were robbed of their worldly possessions down to and including the very fillings in their teeth and then marched into showers to be gassed to death.
Methinks they doth protest too much.
********************************
On a lighter note, someone I know has a Muslim Kuwaiti relative who married a Jewish girl some years back, both lovely kids. He told me about the wedding, and that the parties of the groom and of the bride faced off across the banquet hall for the reception. The bride's party proceeded to get soused as the groom's teetotaling family looked scornfully across the dance floor, which was teeming with the usual sort of revelry one expects to see at a wedding. He said it was surreal, and one of the most delightful things he'd ever seen. He said he kept waiting for the boil to burst and waves of bilious hostility to come lapping out, but things concluded peacefully, after all.
I saw the couple at a store about 2 months ago, and they look very happy.
Ah, bless!
It seems to me that for a great long while, British society has been bending over backward to be accommodating and politically correct toward its Muslim citizens. Of course, it's their country, but it's disturbing that they've learned nothing of the lessons of Muslim wag-the-dog Europe in recent years, including threats to cartoonists who depict der Prophet or the Muslim Parisien suburb where the police dare not go.
Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather when I read Sunday that Britain's Minister of International Development said that today's Muslims feel like "the Jews of Europe."
It's amazing that in the same news week where 12 year olds are being chastened for not praying to a deity in which they don't believe, Muslims are whining and likening themselves to the folks who were robbed of their worldly possessions down to and including the very fillings in their teeth and then marched into showers to be gassed to death.
Methinks they doth protest too much.
********************************
On a lighter note, someone I know has a Muslim Kuwaiti relative who married a Jewish girl some years back, both lovely kids. He told me about the wedding, and that the parties of the groom and of the bride faced off across the banquet hall for the reception. The bride's party proceeded to get soused as the groom's teetotaling family looked scornfully across the dance floor, which was teeming with the usual sort of revelry one expects to see at a wedding. He said it was surreal, and one of the most delightful things he'd ever seen. He said he kept waiting for the boil to burst and waves of bilious hostility to come lapping out, but things concluded peacefully, after all.
I saw the couple at a store about 2 months ago, and they look very happy.
Ah, bless!
Sunday, July 06, 2008
The sellers decided to go with the cash bidder for their house. They said they would prefer to sell to me, but were eager to close the transaction more quickly than I could have, and they also were fearful that it wouldn't pass the inspection for my financing.
I'm disappointed, but I understand, and I expect it's all for the best. At least I had the paperwork and flurry of faxes with which to interrupt Tuesday's would-have-been perpetual crying jag. That's also the first time I've written and submitted an offer in attempt to buy a house for myself, so I'll be ready next time.
Did you know you can do that, too? I think anyone in Texas can download a pdf of the contract from the TREC(TX real estate commission) site and submit it for themselves, and it's not incredibly difficult. The only kind of tricky part is the legal description of the property, which you need to make absolutely certain you have correct, that being the block and lot(s) of the property. For example, if the property has a double-lot, then you need to be sure you name both lots on the legal line.
Anyhoo. If anyone hears of a great deal on a little house at least an hour or two from Dallas, drop me a line. Something else will come along.
I'm disappointed, but I understand, and I expect it's all for the best. At least I had the paperwork and flurry of faxes with which to interrupt Tuesday's would-have-been perpetual crying jag. That's also the first time I've written and submitted an offer in attempt to buy a house for myself, so I'll be ready next time.
Did you know you can do that, too? I think anyone in Texas can download a pdf of the contract from the TREC(TX real estate commission) site and submit it for themselves, and it's not incredibly difficult. The only kind of tricky part is the legal description of the property, which you need to make absolutely certain you have correct, that being the block and lot(s) of the property. For example, if the property has a double-lot, then you need to be sure you name both lots on the legal line.
Anyhoo. If anyone hears of a great deal on a little house at least an hour or two from Dallas, drop me a line. Something else will come along.
Con Jungle Visits...
A man imprisoned for and who has admitted to killing several [several, as in at least 20] western tourists in various Asian countries may be released on "lack of evidence" from Nepalese detention. His 2004 conviction was for the 1975 murder of a Canadian tourist in Katmandu. He fell in lurve with his court interpreter, and is now confident of his release, at which time he'll travel to France to marry the hot young thing 44 years his junior. Despite his admissions of guilt, it seems he'll be sprung based on a lack of strong evidence and also on procedural error.
Nice.
No word on where the happy couple is registered.
A man imprisoned for and who has admitted to killing several [several, as in at least 20] western tourists in various Asian countries may be released on "lack of evidence" from Nepalese detention. His 2004 conviction was for the 1975 murder of a Canadian tourist in Katmandu. He fell in lurve with his court interpreter, and is now confident of his release, at which time he'll travel to France to marry the hot young thing 44 years his junior. Despite his admissions of guilt, it seems he'll be sprung based on a lack of strong evidence and also on procedural error.
Nice.
No word on where the happy couple is registered.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Parking Lot puddles are the deliciousest.
1993Somewhere in Lake Fork, there's an old fish that tells his grandbasslings about the time the fearsome fur-bearing airbreather gave him a sound licking. SRSLY. She licked and licked and licked and licked, and he didn't seem pleased. We finally put him back in the lake, deeming he'd suffered enough. She, however, was ready for more.
Me and my Gal about 1995.
She doesn't seem particularly pleased with the sack-of-potatoes pose, but she was pretty good-natured about putting up with my crap. So long as I didn't make her wear stupid outfits. In that Rocky Horror fantasie in pink metallic that I posted with my Tuesday tribute, I always fancied I sensed eye-daggers coming my way. Oh, the indignity! She was way too rough-and-tumble to fool about with poncey ribbons-and-bows type crap, ever ready as she was to jump into the fray.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Texas is a state of mind, in a way. People here proudly proclaim their native birth status on bumper stickers and the like. There's also more than a few folks driving around here with bumper stickers saying "I wasn't born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could." It's definitely a state of mind, and Texas is a very big-tent sort of place. The people are friendly and those 
of us of a more *ahem* eccentric bent are often looked kindly upon, if pityingly so, by friends and neighbors. The great thing is that more folks are welcome and embraced as new members of the community.
In 2002 I was living in a loft in the NuGrape soda building on south Ervay in Dallas. This was where Jack Ruby had opened his first Dallas burlesque joint - a seedy dive called the Silver Slipper Lounge. [No, the Ghost of Strippers Past never appeared.] Anyway, the September 11 had happened the year before, and here even 10 months later everyone was still on edge. Although friends and I didn't discuss it, I think many of our lives were limned with a horrid undercurrent of wondering when the next shoe would drop, and things like holidays were anticipated with some degree of trepidation, as though that would be a moment of particular vulnerability.
Anyway, that was the first or second year of a huge firework festival in Dallas called Trinity Riverfest, with an award-winning team having been secured to create a singular firework display. We residents, friends and family gathered on the rooftop deck to watch the light show. Some climbed over the railings to scamper over to the roof of the adjacent art deco theater where they could lay on the slanted roof and watch reclining and in comfort.
We oohed and aahed at all the appropriate moments. The firework display was appropriately spectacular, and I think I wasn't the only one there thinking of how profoundly blessed we were to be here and now, and to enjoy the opportunities and freedoms we have had, and what a precious treasure that really is. When the reporting echoes of the grand finale's final bursts reached us, we stood in silence, the 40 or so of us. I think we were all overcome, and no words seemed big enough.
Over at the back corner, one of the taller among my neighbors, a lovely man named Bradley Bandfield, began to sing "God Bless America" and within 10 words we'd all joined in. It was the perfect ending to July 4th for all of us. For me, it seemed that so much stress and grief and anxiety was instantly washed away in the tide of good feeling pouring forth at that moment.
I knew a little about that song's composer, Irving Berlin, and I knew that he was a staunchly patriotic soul. Born in 1888, his Jewish family came to the USA in 1893 to escape the Russian pogroms. Irving enjoyed massive success with his first hit Alexander's Ragtime Band in 1911, and despite this fame and celebrity, he enlisted in the US Army in WWI. It was during this time he composed God Bless America for a musical he was writing to entertain fellow troops, but he decided not to use it at the time. This song was later revealed to much welcome in 1939. Some at the time even felt that the national anthem should be changed to this song.
Anyway, this was all by way of pulling focus from my then-lately habitude of unsettling thoughts that random haters from the world over wanted to come here and kill Americans for being American, and put the emphasis back in my mind on the fact that at one point or another, nearly all of us came here from somewhere else. I think that intrepid, pioneering spirit forges a bond of kinship amongst those who strive for freedom and excellence in their lives.
It's exciting to think how rather than be eternally hounded by fears and angst after such cruel beginnings, that instead someone like Irving Berlin turned his energy into a wellspring of gratitude and good humour for the nation that welcomed his family to come and take their chances and make a good life out of whatever meagre raw material they could scrounge. July 4, 2002 and since then, I've treasured this memory and have considered the fact that many folks I'm privileged to call fellow Americans were not born here. They just got here as fast as they could. Bless 'em.
And Happy Birthday, America!
of us of a more *ahem* eccentric bent are often looked kindly upon, if pityingly so, by friends and neighbors. The great thing is that more folks are welcome and embraced as new members of the community.In 2002 I was living in a loft in the NuGrape soda building on south Ervay in Dallas. This was where Jack Ruby had opened his first Dallas burlesque joint - a seedy dive called the Silver Slipper Lounge. [No, the Ghost of Strippers Past never appeared.] Anyway, the September 11 had happened the year before, and here even 10 months later everyone was still on edge. Although friends and I didn't discuss it, I think many of our lives were limned with a horrid undercurrent of wondering when the next shoe would drop, and things like holidays were anticipated with some degree of trepidation, as though that would be a moment of particular vulnerability.
Anyway, that was the first or second year of a huge firework festival in Dallas called Trinity Riverfest, with an award-winning team having been secured to create a singular firework display. We residents, friends and family gathered on the rooftop deck to watch the light show. Some climbed over the railings to scamper over to the roof of the adjacent art deco theater where they could lay on the slanted roof and watch reclining and in comfort.
We oohed and aahed at all the appropriate moments. The firework display was appropriately spectacular, and I think I wasn't the only one there thinking of how profoundly blessed we were to be here and now, and to enjoy the opportunities and freedoms we have had, and what a precious treasure that really is. When the reporting echoes of the grand finale's final bursts reached us, we stood in silence, the 40 or so of us. I think we were all overcome, and no words seemed big enough.
Over at the back corner, one of the taller among my neighbors, a lovely man named Bradley Bandfield, began to sing "God Bless America" and within 10 words we'd all joined in. It was the perfect ending to July 4th for all of us. For me, it seemed that so much stress and grief and anxiety was instantly washed away in the tide of good feeling pouring forth at that moment.
I knew a little about that song's composer, Irving Berlin, and I knew that he was a staunchly patriotic soul. Born in 1888, his Jewish family came to the USA in 1893 to escape the Russian pogroms. Irving enjoyed massive success with his first hit Alexander's Ragtime Band in 1911, and despite this fame and celebrity, he enlisted in the US Army in WWI. It was during this time he composed God Bless America for a musical he was writing to entertain fellow troops, but he decided not to use it at the time. This song was later revealed to much welcome in 1939. Some at the time even felt that the national anthem should be changed to this song.
Anyway, this was all by way of pulling focus from my then-lately habitude of unsettling thoughts that random haters from the world over wanted to come here and kill Americans for being American, and put the emphasis back in my mind on the fact that at one point or another, nearly all of us came here from somewhere else. I think that intrepid, pioneering spirit forges a bond of kinship amongst those who strive for freedom and excellence in their lives.
It's exciting to think how rather than be eternally hounded by fears and angst after such cruel beginnings, that instead someone like Irving Berlin turned his energy into a wellspring of gratitude and good humour for the nation that welcomed his family to come and take their chances and make a good life out of whatever meagre raw material they could scrounge. July 4, 2002 and since then, I've treasured this memory and have considered the fact that many folks I'm privileged to call fellow Americans were not born here. They just got here as fast as they could. Bless 'em.
And Happy Birthday, America!
Thursday, July 03, 2008
My first dogless Wednesday morning I was rudely awakened by some activist group marching down a nearby street around 9AM with some guy singing a call-and-response style chant into a bullhorn loudly enough that I could distinguish every word he said from the crumpled morass of pillows and blankies. I think they were foaming-at-the-mouth-supporters of Obama. Keep the change, indeed. Bastards.
I did get a good night of sleep, perhaps in part due to the cumulative exhaustion of more than a week of worry and poor sleep. I made it through the day without crying, except for misting up once at lunch. After work, my heart broke as I slipped my key in the door and I scrambled in to dissolve in private. Must get a grip.
Get a grip I did, as I went to my gun club to meet the lovely gunsmith and get my .38 S&W back from him. It's working much MUCH better now. I fired about 75 rounds through it with none of the former problem, namely a sort of sticking sensation which meant I couldn't pull the trigger all the way through. It's so much more smooth now. I had two types of .38 cartridge with me and the heavier ones I had much better accuracy with. I can't tell you why, but that seems to be the case-- any thoughts? I mean can cartridge weight effect accuracy, or could there have been other factors?
A couple guys introduced themselves to me and one let me shoot his dad's 1950 S&W .22 revolver. It was big, long, heavy and super-sweet, as I shot a group in the space of about a quarter from 10 yards without trying. That was fun. I told him the gunsmith had just done my trigger, and he politely asked if he might try it, because he was curious about the work done by that gunsmith. Turns out, his hands were too big for my .38 so he really didn't get a feel for it, at all, unfortunately. Still it was nice to chat with new people for a few minutes.
I am still loving shooting the Ruger Mark II, but I think my best shooting is with dad's High Standard .22 revolver(and with that other guy's dad's gun!). Plus revolvers are just FUN. Admit it: they're fun to handle and to load, and I don't need an extra accessory like the one I need to help me slip cartridges in the magazine of the Ruger.
Oh, and my blister is back. Someday I'll have a callous there, instead. Never thought I'd see the day when I'd be thrilled to have a callous on my index finger, but now I find I'm quite looking forward to it.
I did get a good night of sleep, perhaps in part due to the cumulative exhaustion of more than a week of worry and poor sleep. I made it through the day without crying, except for misting up once at lunch. After work, my heart broke as I slipped my key in the door and I scrambled in to dissolve in private. Must get a grip.
Get a grip I did, as I went to my gun club to meet the lovely gunsmith and get my .38 S&W back from him. It's working much MUCH better now. I fired about 75 rounds through it with none of the former problem, namely a sort of sticking sensation which meant I couldn't pull the trigger all the way through. It's so much more smooth now. I had two types of .38 cartridge with me and the heavier ones I had much better accuracy with. I can't tell you why, but that seems to be the case-- any thoughts? I mean can cartridge weight effect accuracy, or could there have been other factors?
A couple guys introduced themselves to me and one let me shoot his dad's 1950 S&W .22 revolver. It was big, long, heavy and super-sweet, as I shot a group in the space of about a quarter from 10 yards without trying. That was fun. I told him the gunsmith had just done my trigger, and he politely asked if he might try it, because he was curious about the work done by that gunsmith. Turns out, his hands were too big for my .38 so he really didn't get a feel for it, at all, unfortunately. Still it was nice to chat with new people for a few minutes.
I am still loving shooting the Ruger Mark II, but I think my best shooting is with dad's High Standard .22 revolver(and with that other guy's dad's gun!). Plus revolvers are just FUN. Admit it: they're fun to handle and to load, and I don't need an extra accessory like the one I need to help me slip cartridges in the magazine of the Ruger.
Oh, and my blister is back. Someday I'll have a callous there, instead. Never thought I'd see the day when I'd be thrilled to have a callous on my index finger, but now I find I'm quite looking forward to it.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Of all the gin joints...
The subject of an FBI manhunt suspected of 8 grisly slayings happened into a bar that just so happened to be a local police hangout. He asked the barkeep for a glass of water and went to the little boys' room. Discussion amongst the patrons amounted to "yep. That's our guy."
He was arrested without incident. Nice when they just have to wait for the critters to show up.
The subject of an FBI manhunt suspected of 8 grisly slayings happened into a bar that just so happened to be a local police hangout. He asked the barkeep for a glass of water and went to the little boys' room. Discussion amongst the patrons amounted to "yep. That's our guy."
He was arrested without incident. Nice when they just have to wait for the critters to show up.
I found a little house overlooking a lake a comfortable distance from Dallas. It's not ON the water, so I wouldn't have to pay for waterfront maintenance, but from the porch swing you can see the light on the water as the sun sets. It needs considerable work, but it's got a huge rock fireplace, and NO popcorn ceilings. YAYS! Anyway, I'd be putting a lot of sweat-equity into it, but I think I need a big project, right about now. I offered a contract on it Tuesday night and we'll see if they take me up on it. Sadly, I have a competitor for the house, but I'm still keeping my fingers crossed. It has 3 sheds and a big garage, so I'd definitely have studio space out there. No word on the fishing prospects on the lake, but I'll bet a person could manage to enjoy it, in any case.
Anyway, it has a huge porch as wide as the house, and a double lot that would be great for a dog. Or two. Or a whole pack... If I don't get it, I'll continue to look for something similar outside of town. I'll be philosophical - the sellers seem like lovely people, and they need to do what makes best economic sense for themselves. Still, I hope my offer is more attractive, because I can already see the landscaping I'd do there, and it'd be grand, on a smallish-sort of scale. Plans to remove to remote environs continue apace... If this doesn't work out, something else will come along.
Wish me luck.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
I want to say a hearty thank you to all of you who came by Tuesday to commiserate the loss of my beloved doglet. Thank you, personally, every one of you who came by whether or not you commented. Thank you for sharing your memories and experiences and warm wishes. Making the call to end her suffering was the most anguished decision of my life, but your kind words and sympathy helped ease my grief. One day I'll have another dog, and I'll treasure every moment, and savor the memories of Valentine as I do so. I'll also cherish the kind encouragement you've shown. Thanks again.
Valentine
Much Beloved
Intrepid Soul
&
Fabulous Bitch
31 October 1991 - 1 July 2008
I wrote this 5 days ago during the tear-soaked night I realized you have so little time left with me. You were always such a furry streak of lightning that the thought of you getting old was unfathomable. I always rather fancied that one day you'd expire of sheer exuberance after one of our marathon fetch sessions. Like any mortal creature, though, you have lived long enough to be betrayed by your superb little body. As your back limbs became impaired, you've stalwartly muddled through on what looks like grim determination, and that grit alone has made me never want to let you go. I've prayed every day since I wrote this that today wouldn't be the day I have to choose to let you go. I didn't get the easy option of not choosing, though. In the end it's not a question of my selfish need to keep you but of the intolerable sight of one of the world's most intrepid creatures peering out through a haze of pain and bewilderment.
You taught me so much about life and about love. You made me realize I could love a little dog more than any material possession on earth. You have been the embodiment of what I see as the very best of myself. I know in some ways I haven't been the best mistress, but I've tried to learn as I've gone along and you've always seemed so happy with me. I will always remember fondly and miss that moment every night when you'd curl up under the covers by my feet. I'll always remember the countless funny things you did, our silly little rituals and the quirky secret society populated by you and I alone.
Thank you for everything, Valentine. Thank you for being mine.
If I live to be 100, you'll forever be my one and only little bunny dog. I'll always treasure the memory of you. Life without you will be less sweet, but I'll always remember what you've taught me, and I'll carry you in my heart, always.
woof.
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