tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53960293242701330672024-03-28T23:28:32.531-04:00The Flying PieUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger731125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-63531258841390753322024-03-28T05:36:00.001-04:002024-03-28T08:01:02.637-04:00Sasquatch Mania<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9vVhYmDa1NxZPpBfqaA5sPib-DQFmV3FscrvyILHdGpjY-JCiOYwUtHq1-_DEY0pj5yKtBbwA_oCKyf5d5EZw-f9e_w1lRaj-xGNpO7pJzazSxlNDGWo5X-pGb_QBwn7BXrknN0lsvOEoPSl-tskGJNKGW9J9hAjr8PqUQzyHtRCZVzrcj9EutsWmw8s/s540/IMG_3952.WEBP" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="540" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9vVhYmDa1NxZPpBfqaA5sPib-DQFmV3FscrvyILHdGpjY-JCiOYwUtHq1-_DEY0pj5yKtBbwA_oCKyf5d5EZw-f9e_w1lRaj-xGNpO7pJzazSxlNDGWo5X-pGb_QBwn7BXrknN0lsvOEoPSl-tskGJNKGW9J9hAjr8PqUQzyHtRCZVzrcj9EutsWmw8s/w640-h426/IMG_3952.WEBP" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Why now? Sure, everybody likes mysterious eight-foot-tall creatures who live in the woods and smell bad, but usually they’re bears. Suddenly, you can’t even go to a garden show without seeing metal cutout silhouettes of Bigfoot littering the landscape. Even my wife---a sensible woman by all measures except for a pact with the Devil concerning chocolate---is on board. She asked for and got her very own giant Sasquatch for Christmas and now it stands menacingly outside our little guest house, scaring off uninvited guests and property appraisers. People tell me I’ll learn to love him. “Not Yeti,” I reply.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJkqf0WwBswPp3Oh6jHOrjIY4YPsacKOt1GmZ0S2e8z4SKa7R4vrZUpfmAfuPfjDcRK9z3iKwkI2houbcRiMZ9Fb6VQDmF9sFncrjKLOW9n6FG4bDxu6jc5t5jy2l04lpyzPzhiM2iETiFhvwBmRA94eSbvW3DZPPcy3f7j0qp4W4hrQz-FK60-lq0nIY" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="320" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJkqf0WwBswPp3Oh6jHOrjIY4YPsacKOt1GmZ0S2e8z4SKa7R4vrZUpfmAfuPfjDcRK9z3iKwkI2houbcRiMZ9Fb6VQDmF9sFncrjKLOW9n6FG4bDxu6jc5t5jy2l04lpyzPzhiM2iETiFhvwBmRA94eSbvW3DZPPcy3f7j0qp4W4hrQz-FK60-lq0nIY=w400-h229" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>You can get information from the horse's mouth at the Harrison Hot Springs Sasquatch Museum</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><font size="4"><br /><strong>Where Did You Come From, Where Did You Go? What Are You Thinking, Steely-eyed Joe?</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Wild tales of hairy, forest-dwelling, bi-pedal primates have persisted for centuries in coastal Canada and the northwestern United States, but the evidence is feeble. Somewhat akin to UFO photographs, rare pictures of the creatures are fuzzy and amateurish, even with the explosion of Apple cell phone cameras to aid in the hunt.</font></p><p><font size="4">North of the border, from a lookout above the Harrison River Valley in southwestern British Columbia, dense forest stretches all the way to the snow-capped Coast Mountains on the Pacific shore. Thick with towering western red cedars, hemlock and Sitka spruce trees, the wilderness continues almost uninterrupted all the way north to Alaska. Beyond the roads and hiking trails, the terrain soon becomes impossible, punctuated by steep mountains that plunge into glacier-carved lakes. This remote valley 81 miles east of Vancouver conjures up an ancient land filled with mystery and possibility and many call it the home of the world’s most famous cryptid---Sasquatch.</font></p><p><font size="4">Bhima Gauthier, who leads tours to spots in the region where sightings have been reported, is on the fence. <em>“I can’t say for sure that they are real, but I have a gut feeling that there has to be some truth behind it. There are too many testimonies to ignore…especially around here, where we have a very rich mythology.” </em></font></p><p><font size="4">There have been 37 notable Sasquatch sightings near the town of Harrison Hot Springs since 1990. Most often called Bigfoot in the U.S. and Yeti or <em>metoh kandmi </em>(wild man of the snows) in the Himalayas, Sasquatch is always described as very tall, extremely hairy and inevitably reluctant to be approached. The creature is considered sacred to West Coast First Nations, particularly the Sts’ailes (sta-hay-lis) who have lived in the Harrison River Valley for at least 10,000 years. The word “Sasquatch” is the anglicized version of <em>sasq’ets,</em> which means “hairy man” in Halq’emeylem, the Sts’ailes upriver dialect. <em>“The word comes from a mountain called Sasq’ets Tel, the place where Sasquatch gather,” </em>according to local official Kelsey Charlie.</font></p><p><font size="4">To sate a growing curiosity and perhaps make a buck from tourists, Harrison Hot Springs opened a <strong>Sasquatch Museum </strong>inside its visitor center in 2017 and worked with Sts’ailes member Boyd Peters, who provided input on the original tribe acquisitions, including a drum and replica wood mask of Sasquatch. One museum display explains the Sts’ailes belief in Sasquatch as a caretaker of the land and totem for their nation (he’s even on their flag if you’d like to buy one). The exhibits are juxtaposed with casts of Sasquatch footprints, news clippings about sightings that date to 1884 and a logbook of reported local encounters. Since the museum opened, tourist numbers to the visitor center have doubled to 20,000 annually and the resort community received a CAD $1 million government grant to build a greatly expanded museum and visitor center. So who says Sasquatch doesn’t exist?</font></p><p><font size="4">In addition to visiting the museum, visitors can take a tour with Gauthier’s Harrison Lake Nature Adventures or walk the Sasquatch Trail or even show up for <strong>Sasquatch Days</strong>, which have been held in town since 1938. The area has become, perhaps, the world’s primary magnet for those seeking answers, including the 26% of all Canadians who believe cryptids are real. <em>“I realize I have a financial bias,” </em>says Bhima Gauthier, <em>“but if you heard some of the compelling stories I have, you would certainly reassess your thinking. These people are not crazy fools, they’re just ordinary folks with nothing to gain by making stuff up. And they’re positive they’ve seen a Sasquatch. So who am I to argue?” </em></font></p><p><font size="4">Kelsey Charlie personally witnessed two Sasquatch drinking water from Harrison Lake in 2002. <em>“It made my hair stand on end,” </em>he swears. <em>“My grandpa used to say the slollicum is a shapeshifter and can walk in the two realms, the spiritual and the physical. And that’s why you’ll never catch him---when you get too close, he disappears.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Good one, Kelsey’s father. That cleverly negates any requirement for evidence. <em>“No, officer, that was definitely not me. I was walking in the spiritual realm when the crime occurred.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpxVJZKtXJsqq270GJGrsVz5f2pp8Qyi2NyRvRDDo9pPBw4VRaFDFGs8Qny7btb-jjxf1ndMsC2-tFjqKxaWrG3XVxbyp1YXGLOdMh-DwUpjO6qteR-5O5dH3MHdjl9vDTW_KeXgAj9hdMg-Sgj8RHRS9WyRHSRlYosOQF1m_S3jPbHA8SU0M3mvURmc8" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="320" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpxVJZKtXJsqq270GJGrsVz5f2pp8Qyi2NyRvRDDo9pPBw4VRaFDFGs8Qny7btb-jjxf1ndMsC2-tFjqKxaWrG3XVxbyp1YXGLOdMh-DwUpjO6qteR-5O5dH3MHdjl9vDTW_KeXgAj9hdMg-Sgj8RHRS9WyRHSRlYosOQF1m_S3jPbHA8SU0M3mvURmc8=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Canadian author/researcher Thomas Steenberg with his trophy</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><font size="4"><br /><strong>Whoomp! There It Is!</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">The FBI has had a file on Sasquatch since 1976. Director Peter Byrne of the Bigfoot Information Center and Exhibition in The Dalles, Oregon, sent the FBI <em>“about 15 hairs attached to a tiny piece of skin” </em>that year, hoping the Feds might analyze it. Byrne was one of the more prominent Bigfoot researchers at the time, according to Benjamin Radford, deputy editor of <em>Skeptical Inquirer </em>magazine. <em>“In the 1970s, Bigfoot was extremely popular,” </em>claims Radford. “<em>That was when the Six Million Dollar Man ran a cameo of Bigfoot.” </em></font></p><p><font size="4">That was also after Roger Patterson and Robert Gimlin released their famous 1967 video footage of a Bigfoot in Northern California, which launched the craze. Many observers thought the creature in the Patterson-Gimlin film was a costumed prankster but Byrne was certain the footage was real.</font></p><p><font size="4">Jay Cochrane, Jr., assistant director of the FBI’s scientific and technical services division, sent the hair sample back to Byrne in 1977, telling him <em>“The hairs are of deer family origin.” </em>The mere fact that the FBI was analyzing possible Bigfoot DNA was enough for believers, however. Radford says <em>“The Bigfoot contingent loves the idea that there’s a smoking gun in FBI files. ‘See, look, Bigfoot must be real, otherwise the FBI wouldn’t have taken it seriously.’ No, the FBI didn’t send out a team of investigators to look for Bigfoot,</em> <em>they merely agreed to analyze 15 hairs.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><em></em></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1ZrWnmFzCGlH3HvXlHC3GojdxCF7WYJtLgHnv5z6uZgbUs1h5oMrZrKfN5UPF8EXeDdwoAq6OQA-fup7ur5sfRgKzmn78NH51MX86yFDTxuGQePmv0OEOpb1Dnt5SvJPgBVElWg-a0CIqpgph3QtYpZZhXvTvTRhsOrqGqL5PaQYyNlmz-F_9Wl0Ege0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="132" data-original-width="320" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1ZrWnmFzCGlH3HvXlHC3GojdxCF7WYJtLgHnv5z6uZgbUs1h5oMrZrKfN5UPF8EXeDdwoAq6OQA-fup7ur5sfRgKzmn78NH51MX86yFDTxuGQePmv0OEOpb1Dnt5SvJPgBVElWg-a0CIqpgph3QtYpZZhXvTvTRhsOrqGqL5PaQYyNlmz-F_9Wl0Ege0=w400-h165" width="400" /></a></em></font></div><font size="4"><em><br /></em><font size="4">Nonetheless, thousands of people claim to have seen the hairy hominoid, including a small but vociferous number of scientists. <em>“Given the scientific evidence I have examined,” </em>says one of them, professor of anatomy and anthropology Jeff Meldrum of Idaho State University in Pocatello, “<em>I’m convinced there’s a creature out there that is yet to be identified.”</em></font> </font><p></p><p><font size="4">Investigator Jimmy Chilcutt of the Conroe Police Department in Texas specializes in fingerprints and footprints. He has analyzed the more than 150 casts of bigfoot prints that Meldrum keeps in a laboratory. Chilcutt says that one particular footprint found in 1987 in Walla Walla, Washington has convinced him that Bigfoot is real. <em>“The ridge flow pattern and the texture was completely different from anything I’ve ever seen. It certainly wasn’t human and of no known primate that I’ve examined. The print ridges flowed lengthwise along the foot, unlike human prints which flow across. The texture of the ridges was about twice the thickness of a human, which indicated that this animal has a real thick skin.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Meanwhile, Meldrum says a 400-pound block of plaster known as the Skookum Cast provides further evidence of Bigfoot’s existence. The cast was made in September of 2000 from an impression of a large animal that had apparently laid on its side to retrieve some fruit next to a mudhole in the Gifford Pinchon National Forest in Washington State. Meldrum contends that the cast contains recognizable impressions of a forearm, a thigh, buttocks, an Achilles tendon and heel. <em>“It’s 40 to 50% bigger than a normal human,” </em>he says, <em>“and the anatomy doesn’t jibe with any known animal.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">There are a surprising number of academics and certifiably sane observers who believe Meldrum is right. Prominent among them is renowned chimpanzee researcher Jane Goodall, who last year surprised an interviewer from National Public Radio when she said she was sure that large, undiscovered primates such as the Yeti or Sasquatch do exist. Oh. Well, then. </font></p><p><font size="4">“<em>You don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t pull that mask off that old Lone Ranger and you don’t mess around with Jane.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><em><br /></em></font></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCUJUxu7qRW7C9OXEQAZ6pyUW1DIK2WMhJKAT5kZGvHWea5FiFYbtWcr6NGeIjp-Xug9h1TiDEMvPdMmEYmJCrhpGfX9uZNtxP7rZXEsDu1kh8Oi-1azw_6M6eqPcgVU3XOPkZpXYeaz88aLAteCyd5Yh3Dq4q6LG27Rxhq9uh8XZp2tUfQbUR7qmwaDk" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="217" data-original-width="320" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCUJUxu7qRW7C9OXEQAZ6pyUW1DIK2WMhJKAT5kZGvHWea5FiFYbtWcr6NGeIjp-Xug9h1TiDEMvPdMmEYmJCrhpGfX9uZNtxP7rZXEsDu1kh8Oi-1azw_6M6eqPcgVU3XOPkZpXYeaz88aLAteCyd5Yh3Dq4q6LG27Rxhq9uh8XZp2tUfQbUR7qmwaDk=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><strong><font size="4">Close Encounters</font></strong> <p></p><p><font size="4">Matt Moneymaker, a lawyer who runs his own marketing agency in Dana Point, California, once came eye-to-eye with a Sasquatch. <em>“It was 2 o’clock in the morning and the moon was a quarter full,” </em>he recalled. <em>“Suddenly, there he was, an eight-foot-tall creature standing fifteen feet away, growling at me. He wanted to let me know I was in the wrong place.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">There are a surprising number of academics and educated observers who allege they’ve been up close and personal with Sasquatch. Teacher Steve Pavlik got a double-shot of his Bigfoot love. The first incident took place on September 23, 2009 in Bellingham, Washington as he was loading his truck for an early morning trip out of Seatac International Airport. <em>“It was pitch dark outside, a cold, crisp, beautiful and almost cloudless morning. I was carrying my travel bags when I heard it, a sudden piercing cry that was so loud and clear it literally shattered the stillness of the morning. It came from the woods behind my house, maybe 50 yards away. It was one long, flowing sound that lasted about five seconds, paused for two or three seconds and repeated itself a second time. It woke up every dog in the neighborhood, and they all began barking like crazy. I waited to see if there would be another howl, but whatever made that sound was now quiet. Instinctively, I new it was a primate but I didn’t think of Bigfoot right away.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">On the following Saturday, September 27, Pavlik went hunting at nearby Lake Terrell. He returned with some birds he’d shot and set about to cleaning them between his house and the woods. <em>“Then, all hell broke loose in the woods less than 20 feet in front of me. A large tree began to swing violently from side to side. I would estimate the trunk of the tree was about ten inches in diameter and something was shaking it like it was a sapling. Branches and leaves began falling from the tree and others around it. I could hear a loud cracking of wood, as if someone was breaking branches over their knee or beating the ground with them. I grabbed my knife, not knowing what the hell to expect next, and ran back to the house. I have no doubt at all this was a Bigfoot encounter. There’s no alternative. Most animals shy from humans, but whatever I encountered that evening was definitely not fleeing. I think it was a clear intent to scare me off and it worked.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">One of the most famous Bigfoot sightings occurred on Mica Mountain in British Columbia in 1955 when William Roe claimed he saw <em>“a partly human and partly animal” </em>creature while hiking. He swore an affidavit in 1957 that the critter was about six feet tall and covered in brown, silver-tipped hair, with thick arms reaching down to its knees, broad feet and breasts. <em>“As I watched the creature, I wondered if some movie company was making a film at this place,” </em>Roe wrote in his affidavit. <em>“However, as I continued to watch, it became obvious that it was real. It would be impossible to fake such a specimen.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">The <strong>Ape Canyon Incident </strong>of 1924 was more of a battle than a sighting. A group of gold prospectors testified they defended their cabin against a number of “gorilla men” in a gorge on the side of Mt. St. Helens in Washington. One of the miners, Fred Beck, shot at a solitary Sasquatch during the skirmish and his target returned the same evening with a few of his hairy brethren for a little payback. The Sasquatch invaders pelted the cabin with rocks and boulders and one of them got close enough to reach an arm inside. The miners survived and the attackers retreated at sunrise, possibly after Beck shot one. This incident was exceptional in Bigfoot lore as most of the other sightings called the creatures “non-confrontational.” If you go to Mt. St. Helens today, you can visit the impressive Ape Caves on the caved-in side of the mountain. If a Sasquatch shows up, exhibit a big smile and hand him a sack containing several small mammals, a couple dozen mushrooms and some needles from coniferous trees, then try to get a selfie for the Harrison Hot Springs Sasquatch Museum. You’ll earn great fame, enjoy the eternal gratitude of Bigfoot fans everywhere and get free admission for life. Just throw away those letters written in crayon.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtbjDXK-Ha0lm9fyfPcqBu_5RyXs2g46HSV3wVlWbnjAkqm4njKbCnDVjAZV7SxeQDbPKMkdLdSpF8h3X-W-2j6Z-OFqBLCjpMgUomFXPJJMBCpHjGttKQvTSudQiNsu3mIowHQ23-UCYgLmtJmObKi93Z1J8qLOi_gdTJgnx2iU6e6H9wAstE4zVApRM" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtbjDXK-Ha0lm9fyfPcqBu_5RyXs2g46HSV3wVlWbnjAkqm4njKbCnDVjAZV7SxeQDbPKMkdLdSpF8h3X-W-2j6Z-OFqBLCjpMgUomFXPJJMBCpHjGttKQvTSudQiNsu3mIowHQ23-UCYgLmtJmObKi93Z1J8qLOi_gdTJgnx2iU6e6H9wAstE4zVApRM=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Now they're moving in next door</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><font size="4"><br /></font><p></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a> </font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p> </p><p><strong><font size="4"><br /></font></strong></p><p><strong><font size="4"> </font></strong></p><p><strong><font size="4"><br /></font></strong></p><p><strong><font size="4"><br /></font></strong></p><p><strong><font size="4"><br /></font></strong></p><p><strong><font size="4"><br /></font></strong></p><p><font size="4"> </font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-5061977115248812772024-03-21T06:12:00.000-04:002024-03-21T06:12:20.489-04:00It Might As Well Be Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcr8SImuny5Fp-SNAH6qeE9ysS8p-8bh-r1RXWrpmPKjUwBXMM4xcDv_iMyrhHsRHJXmGIznvm9nt7gkKN8LSuZFEm4VcG2EP-52i3LRBwQ2mbsc9XTNjsq-aPF_RM1EW_W0zoTswdofKZVbeYgFKsz8gItmP7EGRTq3jktsGLXaVve_hBDO8IYWAUN4/s1280/IMG_3921.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcr8SImuny5Fp-SNAH6qeE9ysS8p-8bh-r1RXWrpmPKjUwBXMM4xcDv_iMyrhHsRHJXmGIznvm9nt7gkKN8LSuZFEm4VcG2EP-52i3LRBwQ2mbsc9XTNjsq-aPF_RM1EW_W0zoTswdofKZVbeYgFKsz8gItmP7EGRTq3jktsGLXaVve_hBDO8IYWAUN4/w640-h426/IMG_3921.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s been coming for awhile now, slithering through the marshlands, tumbling down the hills, filling up the creeks, painting smiles on human countenances. Say goodbye to the hardships of Winter and the promise of Spring, which flushes faces, increases heart rates, spawns restlessness and sparks the wildest of daydreams. You can truly do anything you think you can and in Spring you think you can do anything. You’ve got The Fever.</span></div><p><font size="4"><em>“Spring fever is not a definite diagnostic category,” </em>says Michael Terman, director of the Center for Light Treatment and Biological Rhythms at Columbia University Medical Center. “<em>But I would say it begins as a rapid and yet unpredictable fluctuating mood and energy state that contrasts with the relative low of the winter months that precede it.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Matthew Keller, a postdoctoral fellow at the Virginia Institute for Psychiatric and Behavioral Genetics in Richmond, studied 500 people in the U.S and Canada and discovered that the more time people spent outside on a sunny Spring day, the better their mood. Such good moods decreased during the hotter Summer months. Keller claims 72 degrees is the optimal temperature for bliss.</font></p><p><font size="4">Of course, Spring brings other benefits as well. We feel…well…<em>zippier. </em>Our biological clock, alias the suprachiasmatic nucleus, sits in the hypothalamus of mammals and monitors light through a pathway to the retina and conveys information about day length to the pineal gland. This pea-sized gland tucked at the base of the cerebrum controls the secretion of melatonin, dubbed the sleep hormone because it is only released in the dark or in dim light. The duration of melatonin release changes with nocturnal length, which is longest during winter, thus it is thought that our increased energy in the spring months is somehow linked to the decreased duration of melatonin production due to shorter nights. Maybe, but personally we think it has more to do with the beginning of baseball season.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9lQUyGnW0cRNayfG1ChGnfsFsHY1MEl_6PnC4GfuJNX_iZFN20j-LTARZnhhc-e0PXRTTkFbGjke3rLsP0ycrnKK0V_2y0sV9-nykAyVmVEF3YuvBrttmWBheW0JczW5mwQ4ubXIfIMaF-UlcnzLTZ6ax4G0-BVfkfqJwCdz7L3JHVITu2fkaDM0ERKM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="208" data-original-width="320" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9lQUyGnW0cRNayfG1ChGnfsFsHY1MEl_6PnC4GfuJNX_iZFN20j-LTARZnhhc-e0PXRTTkFbGjke3rLsP0ycrnKK0V_2y0sV9-nykAyVmVEF3YuvBrttmWBheW0JczW5mwQ4ubXIfIMaF-UlcnzLTZ6ax4G0-BVfkfqJwCdz7L3JHVITu2fkaDM0ERKM=w400-h260" width="400" /></a></div><p><font size="4"><strong>Shovel Me Out To The Ball Game</strong></font></p><p><font size="4">When we were kids, Spring meant the beginning of another glorious six months of baseball . The Red Sox schedule started in mid-April in those days, despite bone-chilling temperatures and occasional snow. In Lawrence, Massachusetts, our baseball season started even earlier. Sure we might have to shovel off the baselines and wear mittens under our gloves but sacrifices have to be made in the interests of the greater good. Baseball in the snow, of course, requires certain adjustments. You cannot use a regular spheroid because it will be destroyed in minutes, you must use an old coverless ball wrapped in black electrical tape. In addition to its much longer lifespan, the taped ball provides the additional advantage of being <em>much</em> easier to find in the snow. We once attempted a game with an actual new store-bought ball and the first kid up smacked it into deep right field, where the nearsighted Paul Brooks is still looking for it 73 years later.</font></p><p><font size="4">One largely unrecognized advantage of snow baseball is the ease of sliding. In normal baseball, the kid heading for second base often begins his slide two-thirds of the way there and flames out five feet short of the base. In snow baseball, he slides right on by it. Of course, the bases can be a little difficult to find in the snow. Once, my pal Jackie Mercier rummaged through his mother’s closet and found some colorful crocheted pieces to put on top of the bases to aid in location. It worked out great for everyone but Jackie, who was sent to his room for a week and made to clean the house toilets with his toothbrush. To the chagrin of everyone, Jackie promptly switched to lacrosse.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjC_P1lyVUsItNGNTCnKGN_SR8M29_hfH4G6CGALiqFSytvcHdNd70c1-hbeJoIrf6yN6rd1Dxr453gUvme_ITzR7KvSHKszxbtAon2h_6dkN69ajbrPo_0wYHd0coXkhMf811NClKbygNYzENuf88krHdF10tIX4UXiX3Vei_YHLKC1xr7Oc6fjMU7fzg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="320" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjC_P1lyVUsItNGNTCnKGN_SR8M29_hfH4G6CGALiqFSytvcHdNd70c1-hbeJoIrf6yN6rd1Dxr453gUvme_ITzR7KvSHKszxbtAon2h_6dkN69ajbrPo_0wYHd0coXkhMf811NClKbygNYzENuf88krHdF10tIX4UXiX3Vei_YHLKC1xr7Oc6fjMU7fzg=w400-h332" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Love Potion Number 9</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><em>“In the Spring, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”---</em>Alfred Lord Tennyson</font></p><p><font size="4">Got your sights set on that special someone? Wondering how to get him or her to take a ride on the YouTrain? <strong>The Flying Pie </strong>is here to rescue you from your inert state and hurl you headlong into the fire. Just pay attention, it’s not merely a matter of pushing a button.</font></p><p><font size="4">According to clinical psychologist Bobbi Wegner, Psy.D., three components are necessary to achieve “passionate love”---attraction, lust and attachment. <em>“Attraction is what it sounds like,” </em>says Wegner, <em>“a curiosity, interest or liking for someone. Lust is a strong sexual desire for someone, and attachment is an emotional bond between two people. As two people become emotionally closer, they seek that intimacy and feel more secure with the other person.” </em>But we already knew all that, right? So what exactly drives those three components? You can’t force things like attraction and attachment. </font></p><p><font size="4">The <em>Journal of Social and Personal Relationships</em> identifies 12 precursors to falling in love. Those are <em>Reciprocal liking, Appearance, Personality, Similarity, Familiarity, Social influence, Filling needs, Arousal, Readiness, Specific clues, Isolation </em>and <em>Mysteriousness. </em>What makes people fall in love according to therapist Ken Page LCSW, is <em>“a mixture of true vulnerability, desire, sexuality and romance that creates a blend of safety, excitement, availability and shared love. That’s really what we’re all looking for.” </em>But it’s tricky. According to Page, <em>“The degree to which you hyper-focus on whether someone likes you is the degree to which you will self-abandon. It’s far more important to get clear on how this person actually makes <strong>you </strong>feel.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">With all that said, if your interest in someone is genuine and you want to encourage feelings of intimacy and closeness, here’s what the experts suggest, along with some cautionary advice from <em>The Flying Pie.</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1. Gradually deepen intimacy</strong>, which is done via shared vulnerability and time spent together, combined with letting the person know you like them. <em>(But don’t slobber over your target mate. It’s unseemly and counterproductive.)</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>2. Use body language. </strong>Things like eye contact and sensitive touch cultivate feelings of closeness and amp up desire. <em>(However, avoid crotch-grabbing at all costs.)</em> </font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>3. Get out of your comfort zone. </strong>Experiencing adventure together is a great way to deepen your connection with someone. Page posits that <em>“doing things that are kind of on the edge is exciting and will help people bond. It illustrates that you are interesting and alluring, which is an important thing to cultivate.” (But definitely go light on the tandem bungee-jumping.)</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>4. Remain your own person. </strong>Even when you’re in love, it’s important to stay true to yourself, not ceding authority and all decision-making to the new partner. If someone is attracted to you it’s for the person you presently are. <em>(So yes, it’s alright to wear your gorilla suit on Halloween, but that’s it.)</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>5. Understand the other person’s needs. </strong>We all want to be seen and understood by our partners and it’s equally important to see and understand them. Whether it’s bedroom gymnastics or how their attachment style manifests in relationships, try to get a handle on when and how your love interest feels best in the relationship and create space for those things. <em>(But no screwing on the police department steps.)</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>6. Small acts of kindness </strong>go a long way. Some of us are kinder to others than we are to our own mates. Little things reflect love and caring. Bring a coffee by their place of work unexpectedly, top off the gas in their car, do some chore your partner detests doing. <em>(Ten coffees a day is way too much.)</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>7. Be patient. </strong>True love takes time, so take it slow. Page advises that whether it’s sex, the amount of time spent together or how quickly you become intimate, there’s no need to rush. <em>(If she keeps the bedroom lights off for more than two months, however, you might want to find a perkier partner.)</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Got all that? Good. Don’t forget to invite us to the wedding. If things don’t work out, please don’t mail us any small, dead animals.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4V49TYnKLvdU88Xs-_SPz-_6JW-S6haKigGhwMlJy-t-fCNq35K1qmTThm_CkUEnrB6Kw1ox13uUIfQGplrTR0I38giHQJe8jHQJX-0DZbrnUI7xVEo-v8kTVAxXxQVQr4FfQno0RiFLiYotX-HJksXkV92su0OkurXR0SyER16KINqN2iQTT0jBCRho" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="320" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4V49TYnKLvdU88Xs-_SPz-_6JW-S6haKigGhwMlJy-t-fCNq35K1qmTThm_CkUEnrB6Kw1ox13uUIfQGplrTR0I38giHQJe8jHQJX-0DZbrnUI7xVEo-v8kTVAxXxQVQr4FfQno0RiFLiYotX-HJksXkV92su0OkurXR0SyER16KINqN2iQTT0jBCRho=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Here Comes The Sun</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Spring! It’s happening in a neighborhood near you. When else can you get stuff like the following?</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>The U.S. Wildflower Rampage. </strong>Across the country, the hills are alive with the sounds of blooming, and so are the deserts. The <strong>Antelope Valley Poppy Reserve </strong>(above photo) in California’s Mojave Desert is home to perhaps the largest and most dependable crop of orange California poppies each Spring. You’ll be treated to similar glory in Arizona’s <strong>Superstition Mountains</strong>, filled with multitudes of Mexican poppies and lupine in Springtime. Texas is your venue for acres crowded with the state flower, the bluebonnet. Thousands of visitors trek to Ennis yearly for their spectacular <strong>Bluebonnet Festival </strong>(this year’s occurs April 14-16). In late April, Tennessee’s <strong>Great Smoky Mountains National Park </strong>puts on a great show with the arrival of more than 1500 wildflower varieties, making the place world headquarters for wildflower pilgrimages.</font></p><p><font size="4">In early Spring, the <strong>Great Whale Migration </strong>takes place on the Pacific Coast of the U.S. as gray whales and their calves can be seen near the Big Sur coastline and just off the coasts of Oregon and Washington. These animals, which can grow up to 45 feet long and weigh as much as 33 tons, are heading from Mexico to their summer feeding grounds in the Arctic and Bering, Beaufort and Chukchi Seas.</font></p><p><font size="4">On the Spring equinox (right now), <strong>Chaco Culture National Historical Park </strong>in New Mexico hosts a spectacular display called the <strong>Casa Rinconada Celestial Alignment</strong>. The ancient great kiva (or round structure), which was probably used as a community gathering space, was built by the Chacoan people with two doors situated exactly on the north-south axis. The equinox sun stunningly rises in the center of the two doors.</font></p><p><font size="4">For a brief period from late May to mid-June, <strong>Synchronous Fireflies </strong>light up in unison rather than emitting their usual intermittent twinkle in <strong>Great Smoky Mountains N.P. </strong>in North Carolina and Tennessee<strong>. </strong>The males flash in unison so that the females, who flash their response, can be sure they’re responding to their own kind rather than another riff-raff species, some of which are predatory.</font></p><p><font size="4">Spring is a great time for wildlife viewing at <strong>Yellowstone National Park </strong>in Wyoming since visitors have an excellent chance of spotting a range of new baby animals, including black bear cubs, bighorn lambs (May), elk, and bison calves, pronghorn antelope and even gray wolf cubs.</font></p><p><font size="4">As warm temperatures arrive, <strong>Monarch Butterflies </strong>which flew south in the fall become more active and start to breed. This marks the start of their northern migration back to North America. On <strong>Nebraska’s Platte River</strong>, the annual <strong>Sandhill Crane Migration </strong>arrives---usually in very early March---along with millions of other migratory birds such as ducks and geese. This is one of the country’s greatest wildlife spectacles, with about 80% of the world’s sandhill cranes descending on the area, covering vast expanses of sky with millions of flapping wings.</font></p><p><font size="4">If you’re up for a little travel, the Southern Hemisphere has its own aurora, the <strong>Aurora Australis</strong>. The best place to see it? As far south as you can go. Try <strong>Tasmania’s Mount Wellington</strong>. Like the Aurora Borealis, the southern lights are visible when electrically charged solar particles and atoms in Earth’s atmosphere collide with oxygen and nitrogen. Maybe that gadfly David Hammer will take you along in his sidecar.</font></p><p><font size="4">Don’t worry, be happy. It’s Spring and you’re alive. And don’t forget to send us postcards, it’s the only chance we get to see The Firth of Forth.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwqvaBg7SXdI-bmZsbetsygVJDVOmR7Zq2rUUwV06iMgiljuzVc8imVgYUQkqFz5WoPXJk1G9u6_zd2dnlYKrLs-KpcZy-J6y461g7o45nuzajq4N_cEZCzROY6AW4L4lviB5_Vx6z_qxuCqXkPDkDh1yh4rll7IGoG7ecJxYeUZ2h9xjcMZ7PO59wkbo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwqvaBg7SXdI-bmZsbetsygVJDVOmR7Zq2rUUwV06iMgiljuzVc8imVgYUQkqFz5WoPXJk1G9u6_zd2dnlYKrLs-KpcZy-J6y461g7o45nuzajq4N_cEZCzROY6AW4L4lviB5_Vx6z_qxuCqXkPDkDh1yh4rll7IGoG7ecJxYeUZ2h9xjcMZ7PO59wkbo=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><br /></font><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That’s all, folks….</span></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a><font size="4"> </font></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"> <strong> </strong></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-89188472505408766032024-03-14T06:01:00.004-04:002024-03-14T06:39:25.048-04:00Tales Of Mexico, Chapter Two—The Day That Don Jose McCallister Jumped Off The Moctezuma Bridge<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZ8PUiMSmPfFnOf7BlUzF1Dk-cgps_7d4w4KWH8usf9VdMnQA5ZNqVTXGFuUF6TgYJd0KaTSMEyLZDuNeEge3yiqlE1zShzYHMoY9loNAAvY2CJ_6d97JErtFj2JdPlUQJAkbwUy8puFpCAQjS_6vjbb5qpWUWjzFQTJbe0ExNtjE5V1_4jMZhC56UoDI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZ8PUiMSmPfFnOf7BlUzF1Dk-cgps_7d4w4KWH8usf9VdMnQA5ZNqVTXGFuUF6TgYJd0KaTSMEyLZDuNeEge3yiqlE1zShzYHMoY9loNAAvY2CJ_6d97JErtFj2JdPlUQJAkbwUy8puFpCAQjS_6vjbb5qpWUWjzFQTJbe0ExNtjE5V1_4jMZhC56UoDI=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">On our first two trips to Mexico, we took the bus and left the driving to them. After all, the native drivers knew the way to San Jose, had experience dealing with sheep in the roadways and had lived through many bouts with the dreaded eight-lane traffic circles called </span><em style="font-size: large;">circulacions. </em><span style="font-size: large;">The best thing I can say about the experience is that we survived despite taking several mountain curves on three wheels and being pummeled by free-ranging goats and chickens who refused to stay in their seats. Mexican bus drivers have no fear of death by rapid descent and few limits on livestock. They will also stop along the way to discuss world affairs with passing </span><em style="font-size: large;">compadres. </em><span style="font-size: large;">I decided to put my faith in Jesus and give Mexico driving a try. </span><p></p><p><font size="4">On<font size="4"> my first trip solo, I opted to rent a vehicle from <em>Nacional. </em>A six-cylinder car, at least, so I could make it across the mountains from Guadalajara to Puerto Vallarta. <em>“We only have small cars, Senor, but you can drive to Vallarta no problem. My sister does it all the time.” </em>Well, then. I can do anything your sister can do.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Remember the story of Little Black Sambo, where a quartet of vain tigers chase one another around a tree until they turn to butter? That’s what it feels like to be on a Guadalajara </font></font><em style="font-size: large;">circulacion. </em><span style="font-size: large; font-style: italic;">You will never get off until, after forty or so rotations, you scream </span><em style="font-size: large;">Banzai! </em><span style="font-size: large; font-style: italic;">and cut across seven lanes of traffic to the first outlet you see. It’s like being inside a drier at the </span><em style="font-size: large;">lavenderia </em><span style="font-size: large; font-style: italic;">and hoping your owner will rush in and rescue you.</span></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Once free of the city, the drive to the coast is very pleasant. At least until your tiny car overheats and leaves you stranded in the middle of nowhere. This was in the pre-cell phone era, so nobody was being summoned to the rescue. Less than three minutes after catastrophe struck, however, a carload of Mexican revelers came wheeling around the turn and noticed my dilemma. There were no gangs kidnapping gringos in those days but I still didn’t know what to expect.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><em>“Ah, you have a broken fanbelt, Senor, is what I think,” </em>said the first rescuer jumping off the running board. Apparently, this is an ongoing local issue because when the driver opened his trunk there were several fanbelts of every dimension in there. They put one on, poured in some radiator water from a gigantic jug and waved adios. Things couldn’t have gone any better if the <em>Cisco Kid </em>and <em>Pancho</em> had pulled up. A few hours later, I saw the same crew in a rowdy Vallarta bar and bought them a round of beers. In gratitude, the leader of the band went out to his trunk and brought me back another fanbelt <em>“por si acaso.” </em>I kept it in my suitcase for the next ten years.<em> </em>You never know.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUO9tG4QFgQn03e72iEk2EZqThiPhelh933Y3vb73733Wc6QyfpJJqma_Xd-EQSQiyE8nVvEjv7zCqLYNwH4hmuX1UtC2esoCWczbh4TMk5BziVYfR7Bs43-5dM3KVgGWzu5rB9HdIYaMlCg-RBW-x4daQvLCGDw9AG0dSux66P0woWmMfVJeh9xYMd6Y" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="320" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUO9tG4QFgQn03e72iEk2EZqThiPhelh933Y3vb73733Wc6QyfpJJqma_Xd-EQSQiyE8nVvEjv7zCqLYNwH4hmuX1UtC2esoCWczbh4TMk5BziVYfR7Bs43-5dM3KVgGWzu5rB9HdIYaMlCg-RBW-x4daQvLCGDw9AG0dSux66P0woWmMfVJeh9xYMd6Y=w400-h211" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Plaza of the Mariachis, Guadalajara</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><br /></font></div><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /><strong>On The Road Again</strong></font></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Born to be wild, Harolyn and I drove all over Mexico on subsequent journeys, navigating the big cities and tiny towns alike, avoiding travel after dark following our first experience with a meandering herd of goats out for a twilight stroll. Then one day, a fellow named Rick Nihlen, who owned a head shop in Tallahassee, suggested we rent a van, travel to several towns on their respective market days and haul the resulting load back to the States. Sure! What could go wrong with that plan?</font></p><p><font size="4">Like Hank Snow, we’ve been everywhere, man. To Oaxaca and San Juan de los Lagos for <em>blosas, </em>to Taxco for silver, to Puebla for onyx, to Patzcuaro for little painted boxes and to Guadalajara for high-quality, low-priced leather jackets which sold like <em>chimichangas </em>to the <em>Gatornationals </em>crowd. We swam in dangerous currents in Acapulco, haunted the fabulous shops and antique dealers of Tlaquepaque, got sick from bar ice cubes in Vallarta and slept in a straw hut in Yelapa. And then there was the bridge on the river Moctezuma in the small town of Tamazunchale.</font></p><p><font size="4">Finished our buying extravaganza and on the way north to the border, we reached a narrow bridge which featured the sign, “<em>Un solo carril,” </em>meaning the width of the span could tolerate only one vehicle at a time. In the distance, barreling down the road from the opposite direction, was a determined, beat-up dumptruck the size of the Titanic returning to the local quarry for another load. Despite being further from the bridge than us, the driver flashed his lights, which apparently means <em>“I got dibs!” </em>in Mexican driving etiquette.</font></p><p><font size="4">Rick Nihlen ignored him and proceeded onto the bridge, which was habitated by sightseers and a lone fruit dealer with his cart of offerings. Outraged at our lack of manners, the dumptruck roared onto the bridge and right at us. <em>“Move over as far as you can,” </em>I warned Rick, <em>“he’s going to hit us.” </em>Harolyn asked <em>“Is it time to scream ‘Eeek! yet?”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Ahead of us on the bridge, chaos reigned as bystanders fled and the fruit vendor dived into the river. The hills were alive with the sounds of pineapples and watermelon flying through the air, a substantial amount of it covering our windshield. Needless to say, the vendor’s cart was transformed into smithereens and the back of our VW bus took a serious glancing blow. Excited (sometimes angry) little Mexicans were running everywhere, stirred up by this unusual catastrophe. Thankfully, the fruit man slogged out of the river in reasonable condition. What a mess! And where was John Morgan when you really needed him?</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUgEnPlYwAtqn64bpxC46Ii1RjSweGfwYJseTDh5n6wBDAg27jhdWx3MIWs9rpedGxPeNrdGYiGdYWNBGqD0XMW88E8VKmOhONdhVVCmmKmsZ302u3fm-WKQZl--u0XtmTepPLbUCgthcWbdfOdchTDLjFgb1kfsKsV1vB31oJtFozligI27bqJZQjrN4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="203" data-original-width="320" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUgEnPlYwAtqn64bpxC46Ii1RjSweGfwYJseTDh5n6wBDAg27jhdWx3MIWs9rpedGxPeNrdGYiGdYWNBGqD0XMW88E8VKmOhONdhVVCmmKmsZ302u3fm-WKQZl--u0XtmTepPLbUCgthcWbdfOdchTDLjFgb1kfsKsV1vB31oJtFozligI27bqJZQjrN4=w400-h254" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Back Home Again In Tamazunchale</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">There were but two cops in Tamazunchale, neither of which spoke English. Unaware of the flashing lights rule, we were furious with the idiocy of the truck driver, who was just as mad at us. The police chief bade us all come down to the station to straighten this mess out and separated us from the trucker once there. Sitting atop a desk at the station was a local <em>nino </em>about ten years old who had learned English at a mission school and would serve as translator. I delivered my diatribe and the chief replied. <em>“Chief says you will have to wait a few days until the circuit judge gets here,” </em>advised the boy.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“WHAT? I don’t think so,” </em>I told the lad. <em>“We’re waiting for a substitute rental and we’re getting out of here.” </em>This bad news did not meet with the chief’s approval and he waved his arms and danced around a lot. <em>“Chief says if you don’t stop yelling at him he put you in jail right now.”</em> </font></p><p><font size="4">Oh.</font></p><p><font size="4">Well, I certainly didn’t want to be in there with mother rapers and father stabbers, like Arlo. We decided that discretion was the better part of valor, as it almost always is. The traveling judge, it turns out, would take three days to get to town, enough time to learn more than we ever wanted to know about the charming municipality of Tamazunchale.</font></p><p><font size="4">The first thing we discovered is that our hotel had no air-conditioning despite the town’s average July afternoon temperature of 96. Orchids hold conventions there and thousands of exotic butterflies show up for Spring break, so it’s <em>hot</em>. Not hot enough, though, to stop the net-carrying lepidopterists from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. The streets were full of them, bobbing and weaving as they chased the nimble butterflies hither and yon with only occasional success. </font></p><p><font size="4">There was, you’ll be happy to know, one movie theater in town. Appropriately enough, <em>El Fantastico Mundo de los Jipis </em>was playing that weekend. That would be <em>The Fantastic World of the Hippies </em>at the Royal Park Cinema in Gainesville if they ever had the savoir-faire to show such art films. I looked “jipis” up in the San Luis Potosí phone book and it defined the word as <em>“scroungy, dead-broke American kids looking for mushrooms.” </em>That would be about right.</font></p><p><font size="4">Otherwise, we slept, ate and complained. Our hotel owner, a gracious American who had fallen on bad times and wound up with the hostelry, took us on a tour of the town. We learned that Tamazunchale, which sat at the convergence of the Amajac and Moctezuma rivers, consisted of 354 square kilometers and the population inside the city limits was roughly 24,000 people and six vehicles. The name of the town comes from the Huastec language and means “place of government.” T-town was the Huastec capital in the 15th century, but in 1522 that rude Hernan Cortez busted up the party with his troops and Indian allies headed by a nephew of Cuauhtemoc, last ruler of the Aztecs. Don’t say you never learn anything about the state of San Luis Potosi when you read <em>The Flying Pie.</em></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjK7JIsMuahORV7lfRCwKTpfreUaRZQLJO0RFkRv5uHDT8WKOHBrT9Su9p51C8sCk7tFTWwWoQ56bwVvPpxm_TZKm9ctO4ommri_LpL0lm6nGlSmn23hPjJuyy0sKmd_he7cUsIY2yVkur2O8R_5xZUft3uiMsScIPGN9In_Khc8fCiM5w_o1Ju-JrTC0A" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjK7JIsMuahORV7lfRCwKTpfreUaRZQLJO0RFkRv5uHDT8WKOHBrT9Su9p51C8sCk7tFTWwWoQ56bwVvPpxm_TZKm9ctO4ommri_LpL0lm6nGlSmn23hPjJuyy0sKmd_he7cUsIY2yVkur2O8R_5xZUft3uiMsScIPGN9In_Khc8fCiM5w_o1Ju-JrTC0A=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Metropolitan Tamazunchale</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Here Come De Judge!</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Just when we were about to jump off the Tamazunchale Bridge in a fit of boredom, the face of justice arrived in town. It was only three days but it seemed like a butterfly’s lifetime and probably the sole occasion we ever looked forward to appearing in court. There were no quibbling lawyers, no yawning juries, just us and the truck driver there to tell our stories. And justice was served. The judge, in a fit of enlightenment, ruled that both drivers were at fault and neither owed the other a single peso. <em>Both, </em>however, had deprived the fruit vendor of his means to a living and each miscreant would contribute an equal amount to the reconstruction of the fruit cart and replacement of inventory. Nobody complained and the fruit man danced a merry jig out onto the street.</font></p><p><font size="4">The smiling police chief came over and shook hands with everyone, twice with Harolyn, who he was convinced was an unannounced American movie star. The fruit peddler blessed us with the pineapple of friendship. The American hotel owner delivered a large case of water. The smiling and nattily-attired representative of the car rental company brought forth a shiny new bus. The kid from the mission school was a temporary stowaway, but we dumped him off at the next pueblo. Harolyn felt so bad about it, she opened her blouse and flashed him on the way out of town. <em>“Always leave them smiling,” </em>she said.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6xMnXYkv_10__ck72t622EdmDArOx2GdegjxWHv85o5cOqagM1L5tDIXcMl6fqdg2nNo4o-khNiSAuLLaNSBYmLamCuI3yBTyNQg21wHsZ4hr-GCaE627jZHyy0QYUfZBDZo7Qg-5jG7BrNiYKTRLZSPXyYMcdx8Bk0kuD1I1ovqUT_a-KamoZ_7kMWs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6xMnXYkv_10__ck72t622EdmDArOx2GdegjxWHv85o5cOqagM1L5tDIXcMl6fqdg2nNo4o-khNiSAuLLaNSBYmLamCuI3yBTyNQg21wHsZ4hr-GCaE627jZHyy0QYUfZBDZo7Qg-5jG7BrNiYKTRLZSPXyYMcdx8Bk0kuD1I1ovqUT_a-KamoZ_7kMWs=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><font size="4">That’s all, amigos y amigas….</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a></font></p><p><font size="4"> </font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><em> </em></font></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-30868168578107731892024-03-07T06:12:00.002-05:002024-03-07T09:26:20.917-05:00The Grand Finale<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkFFqWhhqdJXKQ-2oskw1cTS-bVrcX7WZgZiTBQMvxP4ouLYMYOa4ChZ1dZjegTWJ9bBgPhgxgs4hsAbFsEtDoU1M8lJ5Oah2miPQv8Bzyvqvb0I5DoErpJTUxrxosEQ6bps18NhVo1eZ13LbQx4-iWPL9oFP6nPPdc2zYANL-2l-AHxJJX19-naERsg/s4000/IMG_3896.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3235" data-original-width="4000" height="518" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkFFqWhhqdJXKQ-2oskw1cTS-bVrcX7WZgZiTBQMvxP4ouLYMYOa4ChZ1dZjegTWJ9bBgPhgxgs4hsAbFsEtDoU1M8lJ5Oah2miPQv8Bzyvqvb0I5DoErpJTUxrxosEQ6bps18NhVo1eZ13LbQx4-iWPL9oFP6nPPdc2zYANL-2l-AHxJJX19-naERsg/w640-h518/IMG_3896.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><em style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"><br /></em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">“My friends from over the ages, let’s take one more walk down the alley….join me for the Grand Finale.”---</em><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">Bill Killeen</span></div><p></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">In September of 1967, two characters who didn’t know any better opened the Subterranean Circus in an old fertilizer warehouse on a nondescript sidestreet in Gainesville. The dust was thick, the lighting poor and the electrical wiring was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, but the rent was right---$75 a month. Bill Killeen and Pamme Brewer stepped inside, parted the cobwebs and smiled in unison. “<i>Paradise!”</i></font></font></p><p><font size="4">And Paradise it was to the hundreds of thousands who dropped in over the next 23 years to buy hippie gear, solicit political support, find long-lost friends or barter for weed in the parking lot. While runaway kids across the nation headed for The City by the Bay, Florida runaways lit out for Gainesville, the exotic psychedelic land of free love, cheap music, endless crash pads and ample marijuana. The blacklight room in the Circus was the ultimate stoner shrine where wide-eyed hippies went to worship. W<font size="4">ise men like Eastern-religion-favoring Dick North were available for life counseling and body painting, primo </font></font><span style="font-size: large;">salesman Danny Levine, a certified minister of the Universal Life Church, could marry you on the spot, agrarian hotshot Chuck LeMasters would sit you down and explain why your crops weren’t thriving.</span></p><p></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Then one day, the Circus opened a clothing store next door called Silver City and hippie males could suddenly dress as wildly as women, and they did. The traditional clothing stores in town fell by the wayside, overtaken by young entrepreneurs selling bellbottoms, hiphuggers, Nehru and Cossack shirts, opaque angel dresses, sandals, beads and what-have-you, with the Sub Circus always leading the way.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">All of this was not entirely approved by the Straight World, which attacked with scorn and derision, rocks thrown through windows, laws to prevent sales of drug-related paraphernalia and allegedly obscene books and posters…like, say, those from the obviously perverted Kama Sutra. Police raids ensued, trials took place, but for a very long time the hippies always won.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Nothing lasts forever except for memories, and the ones possessed by denizens of those times are strong and steady. They sharply remember those days of wine and roses and $15 lids and love in the afternoon, almost every afternoon. They recall those surreal acid tests at the band concerts, the helter-skelter love affairs, the freedom to chart their own courses for better or for worse, the certainty that they had created a brave new world which would stand the test of time. They remember, and now and then they return to spend poignant moments at the scene of the crimes, and they pause to wonder what might have happened to all those friends and roommates and lovers and ex-wives and husbands and one-night-standees. And then, on one fine day in May of 2022, they got to find out.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPIccCxU0wIMgdyMHWwaSzV6wl-1K4Cc-Xy1QWQTkOHiEl7ab9NyakTnpMbjihbBGea95v6-sHLK4MWO7E1NcLPQoHBtErVdudGr-cM2FkbyqiXRU3ZR00nhSR_ihpRuVe5MrNc84AGj3e-PZdwwlk87a9HUo9bpb__VRsdtNJS4zzeOTUmw7UY0aX80U/s750/IMG_3897.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPIccCxU0wIMgdyMHWwaSzV6wl-1K4Cc-Xy1QWQTkOHiEl7ab9NyakTnpMbjihbBGea95v6-sHLK4MWO7E1NcLPQoHBtErVdudGr-cM2FkbyqiXRU3ZR00nhSR_ihpRuVe5MrNc84AGj3e-PZdwwlk87a9HUo9bpb__VRsdtNJS4zzeOTUmw7UY0aX80U/w239-h400/IMG_3897.JPG" width="239" /></a></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><br /></font></div><p></p><p><font size="4"><strong>The Last Tango</strong></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Bill Killeen, who missed the olden times and lost friends as much as anyone decided that the year 2020, a little over 50 years from the summers of love, would be a propitious time to empty his wallet for a magnificent Homecoming of those old store workers and customers lost to the ages. Then Covid struck, routing the nation and taking two years to settle down. In the meantime, there was plenty of time to dot and cross all the appropriate letters, to lay the groundwork, to find a few bands to play music from a long ago era, to search out the right place to meet and greet, to find the right time between too hot and too cold and hotels too crowded. Despite the slings and arrows of occasionally outrageous fortune, the long-awaited <strong>Last Tango In Gainesville</strong> finally dawned on May 20, 2022, and it was a hallmark day in the lives of those who were there. They laughed, they cried, they slapped their foreheads in wonder as old friends emerged from the mists, some barely recognizable, as The Impostors<em> </em>played <em>Strawberry Fields Forever </em>or Nancy Luca sang <em>American Girl </em>or The Relics belted out <em>Age of Aquarius. </em>Of all the places in the world one could be, none were better than this special afternoon and evening in swooning Gainesville, Florida. If you weren’t there for the hugs and tears, you’re sad and disappointed and irked and penitent because such a day never was before and never will be again. </font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Unless…..</font></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj8E4gixwMKqzLKV0rftYwaB-TEePFAm228OPlOxp02fllUaltj6UxsZZ3JAvFi5tVdj1rbNOw_GAfVSNGAXjPWL-TidvIL_9XNkkMv_B8LaNP141tYQxOKKONGasbkbiP8e4muSg2QfbDRSO4ziHSfX5m2EQobzanDVcDDeRM1QYJUtJxdrOA4gDh_04/s640/IMG_3901.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj8E4gixwMKqzLKV0rftYwaB-TEePFAm228OPlOxp02fllUaltj6UxsZZ3JAvFi5tVdj1rbNOw_GAfVSNGAXjPWL-TidvIL_9XNkkMv_B8LaNP141tYQxOKKONGasbkbiP8e4muSg2QfbDRSO4ziHSfX5m2EQobzanDVcDDeRM1QYJUtJxdrOA4gDh_04/w400-h225/IMG_3901.JPG" width="400" /></a></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><font size="4"><strong>The Grand Finale</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">After the ball was over, Heartwood major domo Dave Melosh congratulated Killeen on his great success and said, <em>“I’m hoping you’ll do it again some day.” </em></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><em>“Call me back when I’m 85,” </em>replied the ringmaster. <em>“Let’s see if the boat is still afloat.” </em>Apparently, the vessel yet rides the waves. Bill turns 85 in November of 2025 and Dave is waiting by the phone booth, contract in hand. If all works out, he’ll get his wish. But if The Last Tango is truly the last, what comes next? Ah, what is that new sun rising above the mountain. It looks like The Grand Finale to us.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Since the Last Tango was advertised as a reunion for crew and customers of the Subterranean Circus (which meant just about everyone who was in town in the Glory Days), there were some who were wary of showing up at the party. Others, unaware of the event or oblivious to its sheer magnificence, took a pass and have been slamming their foreheads into the furniture ever since. Now, everybody gets another chance. The Grand Finale is a reunion for every lost soul, prodigal son, wayward daughter and criminal on parole who ever walked the special streets of Hogtown. We’re asking all of our readers to get the word out to the four corners of the Earth; to California dreamers, to Sasquatch chasers in the Pacific Northwest, to hermits marooned on the Kamchatka Peninsula, to Marty Jourard, sleeping in Seattle. It’s your last chance for a ribald hookup with Marianne in the back seat of your Studebaker, a final dalliance with the first guy who fed you LSD, a last look at the Old Town before it devolves into Sterileville. If you’re wondering whatever happened to the nubile Shirley, Naked Jeannie, Rod the Biker or fey Police Chief Wayland Clifton, maybe you’ll finally find out. True, we’re missing a frightening number of the old gang and more will fall through the gaping cracks in the next 26 months but others will hold on for dear life to make the journey to the ancient shrine. If you’re short on weed, down in the dumps, living in a festering boxcar in a Montana railyard and looking for something to live for, now you’ve got it. Forget your troubles, c’mon get happy, it’s the right time and the right place. And as the bard once advised, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair. If you’ve still got any.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8LPqfGS-8LiHgC-7x-SEamXl61ZrGDlPCaITHNcXJ66-Yacj19w4YtHEnU8e-ERBWq1IDh0Y4vy3bjKEaAAdX1N2fdCs7gVzU5Zeu8kwNOxbYRkztkwm9pxTtrTdWojgAo5ffgsndhl8E-GveW5guYJtTj-XJPBdgNhF0kQOpzEU5UkIZpDaYoByoEvI/s639/IMG_3900.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="639" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8LPqfGS-8LiHgC-7x-SEamXl61ZrGDlPCaITHNcXJ66-Yacj19w4YtHEnU8e-ERBWq1IDh0Y4vy3bjKEaAAdX1N2fdCs7gVzU5Zeu8kwNOxbYRkztkwm9pxTtrTdWojgAo5ffgsndhl8E-GveW5guYJtTj-XJPBdgNhF0kQOpzEU5UkIZpDaYoByoEvI/w400-h266/IMG_3900.JPG" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><strong><p><strong>The Last Word</strong></p></strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">In the glorious wake of The Last Tango, people like Nancy Kay wrote suggestions on their Facebook pages that read <em>“Let’s do it again and help Bill pay for it next time.” </em>That’s not a bad idea, these things don’t come cheap. Instead of direct contributions to the cause, however, we’d like to sell out the next two Hogtown Oprys in May of this year and next. All proceeds after the Opry bills are paid would go directly to The Grand Finale and would determine how big that event would be. Make no mistake, on May 17, 2026, there will be a spectacle, but will we have a Noon to 5 p.m. celebration with a couple of bands or a blast that will stretch out late into the evening? Will there be sword-swallowers and fire-eaters and merrymakers arriving in clown cars? Will there be mariachis and loud explosions and doobie tosses and streakers running through the downtown streets, high on life and and/or psychedelic products? The answer, my friends, is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowing in the wind.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4">That’s all for now, folks, but stay tuned.</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a></font></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6sf3wK24JHZF_yBiXcYvlzKrCaZYJhACN-iyWnLmUIigaCc8uKRoHoyZO75SvigLY68hnFs7OibtMoB9GOVPzgVZd26DFtwcxgZbWzoxNlfEd3ukuTeKyBsMJyFKBv2YYV3u2u3veX_1sHHEVqRVUAUOSL0Sz8A52WB6CUVSvhkPO8BFVQ56ob0Jys0/s540/IMG_3902.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="540" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6sf3wK24JHZF_yBiXcYvlzKrCaZYJhACN-iyWnLmUIigaCc8uKRoHoyZO75SvigLY68hnFs7OibtMoB9GOVPzgVZd26DFtwcxgZbWzoxNlfEd3ukuTeKyBsMJyFKBv2YYV3u2u3veX_1sHHEVqRVUAUOSL0Sz8A52WB6CUVSvhkPO8BFVQ56ob0Jys0/w400-h266/IMG_3902.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><strong style="font-size: large;"><p><strong style="font-size: large;"><br /></strong></p>Advisory: </strong><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, Marvin Nunley and the rest of you compadres, today was scheduled to be the second installment of our Mexican tale. Pardon the interruption, but something came up. We’ll be back next week with south of the border shenanigans galore. That’s </span><em style="font-size: large;">really </em><span style="font-size: large;">all, amigos and amigas.</span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"> </font></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-42852860794005036602024-02-29T06:06:00.001-05:002024-02-29T06:29:31.593-05:00Ponce de Leon, We Are Here<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Fx5sSZGjAguoqxU791Cpwj2vigM877ChTgQzeySlg0wpnuWmH4wA6zcmaEL1A-MRuxu0H4h_2N5d7zqF-TZ8QCcn4nKumbUeHr1n4j2QAjzn0VeEY3WkzRQoIQ3mG3uHKJl0xDXEvq6FmuDiw_spbuH6u3qWAY1Cau-eoUZVKBVLpRM1UB_cplXfJLQ/s1920/IMG_3881.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Fx5sSZGjAguoqxU791Cpwj2vigM877ChTgQzeySlg0wpnuWmH4wA6zcmaEL1A-MRuxu0H4h_2N5d7zqF-TZ8QCcn4nKumbUeHr1n4j2QAjzn0VeEY3WkzRQoIQ3mG3uHKJl0xDXEvq6FmuDiw_spbuH6u3qWAY1Cau-eoUZVKBVLpRM1UB_cplXfJLQ/w640-h360/IMG_3881.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong style="font-size: large;">David Sinclair</strong><span style="font-size: large;">, the last word on longevity research, has come up with a chemical cocktail which helped reverse aging in mice within </span><strong style="font-size: large;">one week</strong><span style="font-size: large;">. Sinclair, an internationally recognized expert on aging, is a researcher in the department of genetics and co-director of the Paul F. Glenn Center for Biology of Aging Research at Harvard Medical School. The new discovery works by rejuvenating old cells within muscles, tissues and some organs. The results, published in the journal </span><em style="font-size: large;">Aging,</em><span style="font-size: large;"> underscore that aging is a process which can be reversed and is not inevitable. Sinclair’s latest discovery adds growing interest to the fast-blooming field of Aging Medicine.</span></div><p><font size="4"><em>“We’ve previously shown that age reversal is possible using gene therapy to turn on embryonic genes,” </em>claims Sinclair. <em>“Now we show it’s possible with chemical cocktails, a step towards affordable whole body rejuvenation.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">In research over the course of three years, Sinclair’s team at Harvard observed mice taking six cocktails that can reverse key hallmarks of aging by rejuvenating senescent or older deteriorating cells <em>“without erasing cellular identity,” </em>Sinclair says. <em>“Studies on the optic nerve, brain tissue, kidney and muscle have shown promising results, with improved vision and extended lifespan in mice and, in April of this year, improved vision in monkeys. The new discovery offers the potential <strong>to reverse aging with a single pill</strong>, with applications from improving eyesight to effectively treating numerous age-related diseases.” </em>Okay, asks Elon Musk, so what exactly is it?</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCN4wMFwFJZtfmPcMhCGhuGKi2MceG7tuLIfw3tKPQWZjKuMGEuc-R4jYURqnnF5V9PKKiLZk-c2CVEDO1uUU8f-pzisZYXE0KsIt3Ig5q4BMzwarypiCUP8JOEr2E_YCcIHP5MctLEP82yc534J7uSeSo9G455jum63u7rD3NfJdvYEXYGrO7hqiC2q4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="207" data-original-width="320" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCN4wMFwFJZtfmPcMhCGhuGKi2MceG7tuLIfw3tKPQWZjKuMGEuc-R4jYURqnnF5V9PKKiLZk-c2CVEDO1uUU8f-pzisZYXE0KsIt3Ig5q4BMzwarypiCUP8JOEr2E_YCcIHP5MctLEP82yc534J7uSeSo9G455jum63u7rD3NfJdvYEXYGrO7hqiC2q4=w400-h259" width="400" /></a></font></div><p></p><p><font size="4"><strong>What It Is</strong></font></p><p><font size="4">The new cocktail consists of a variety of molecules, including valproic acid, an anti-seizure medication used for migraine and mood disorders, and a drug used for cancer with anti-aging properties. Sinclair says the team is preparing for human cellular trials using gene therapy to reverse aging and confirms that human trials will be available within a decade. Said Sinclair, <em>“There’s a race now between many groups to show chemicals can rejuvenate cells like gene therapy can. We envision a future where age-related diseases can be effectively treated and injuries repaired more efficiently…where the dream of a whole body rejuvenation becomes a reality.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">As for Sinclair, himself, the 54-year-old professor keeps a relatively strict daily schedule to stay healthy, which includes green matcha tea, polyphenols in a couple of spoonfuls of morning yogurt and an occasional bite of 80% dark chocolate. He considers himself phenotypically ten years younger than his actual age, as measured by metabolism, organ function and inflammation. <em>“A lot of us think that when you’re in your twenties, you are impervious to aging and illness, but what we know now is that the epigenetic clock starts ticking from birth and that what we do in our twenties does affect our ultimate longevity,” </em>he says. <em>“Biological age is a much better representation of health status than birthday candles. Candles don’t tell you how well you’ve been living or how many years you’ve got left.”</em></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZvaOiQiEZXcSKuhFsbMxu_ghDcxpW_sICpvUBZ3yTPARB0xIsHlH4mnp1j9i6zUQ-q4En8UO7AEOb5rEXnSb4xpeLvgth666cKNryAV5Q-qIFxzgs8bnsJUHSiGUmgQynxw6EBFxjO-iTJwG-vUM1jbMA05RG38HCZxOQxX2uh-vJRhh3CbHNoBdr_fY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZvaOiQiEZXcSKuhFsbMxu_ghDcxpW_sICpvUBZ3yTPARB0xIsHlH4mnp1j9i6zUQ-q4En8UO7AEOb5rEXnSb4xpeLvgth666cKNryAV5Q-qIFxzgs8bnsJUHSiGUmgQynxw6EBFxjO-iTJwG-vUM1jbMA05RG38HCZxOQxX2uh-vJRhh3CbHNoBdr_fY=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><font size="4"><strong>David Sinclair’s Regimen</strong></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1.---Take Resveratrol. </strong>Wine-drinkers like this one, but neither the grape nor supplements found in most health stores provide enough resveratrol to make a difference. If you do find an adequate supplement, overdosing poses a risk for side effects like nausea and vomiting. According to the reliable Cleveland Clinic, you’re more likely to benefit from a whole food source than a micronutrient in supplement form.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>2.---Skip Breakfast. </strong>Not me, boys and girls. But Sinclair eschews morning dining to put 16-18 hours between significant meals (I think 14.5 is enough, but nobody asked). Research shows that this type of “intermittent fasting” may lower the risk of diabetes, heart disease and dementia, three of the cornerstones of aging. Fasting, of course, is not for everyone and can pose a health risk, not to mention triggering those who struggle with eating disorders. Experts recommend starting with smaller fasts, making meals which are highly nutritious and staying hydrated.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>3.---Avoid Sugar. </strong>Sinclair turns down sugar and meat, focusing on a plant-based diet. A typical dinner consists of rice, almonds and couscous, which doesn’t send one into swoons of delight. <em>“I rarely eat anything other than plant-based and nut-based foods, including milk,” </em>he tells <em>Gentlemen’s Quarterly.</em> Nor will he have a glass of wine, despite all the plaudits for the Mediterranean Diet. <em>“I’m off dairy and alcohol, as well. Very rarely will I eat or drink any of those things, perhaps at a celebration.” </em>He guiltily admits to an occasional french fry. <em>“This diet made a huge difference in mere months to my blood biomarkers and epigenetic age,” </em>Sinclair avows. <em>“When I switched to the new diet, I got my memory back, as well. I’d been unable to remember phone numbers and key codes easily, now it’s simple. I feel I got back my 20-year-old brain. I just thought it was old age, but it wasn’t. It was my lifestyle.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><em><br /></em></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJE-MTw7dXsXfj6njZeL7Z1JlIBa14i3hbEjRTmgzenemCVKKt93uK_HTOk_4E6kOyRjD5OT4Gz3xTUP5m5D2WAQi69dLT2BoaeYqHAaLXMaW1xH6t-k_QMDFZY86edjkP3Jcn67cv6zTYqAfs6Wy5_E6wuKIMRd7YTUfDdNImtH7NuD4YNe0m4SiX4tI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="320" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJE-MTw7dXsXfj6njZeL7Z1JlIBa14i3hbEjRTmgzenemCVKKt93uK_HTOk_4E6kOyRjD5OT4Gz3xTUP5m5D2WAQi69dLT2BoaeYqHAaLXMaW1xH6t-k_QMDFZY86edjkP3Jcn67cv6zTYqAfs6Wy5_E6wuKIMRd7YTUfDdNImtH7NuD4YNe0m4SiX4tI=w400-h209" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>The 2000-Year-Old Man</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">The Renaissance philosopher Montaigne quipped that <em>“death has us by the scruff of the neck at every moment,” </em>but maybe he was wrong. While immortality might seem like the stuff of science fiction, it’s increasingly becoming the focus of real science. Back in 2013, Google launched <strong>Calico</strong>, a biotech firm whose objective was to “solve Death,” and the race was on. PayPal co-founder Peter Thiel immediately pledged to “join the fight” against death and several other prominent techies jumped on the bandwagon. In 2021, Amazon chairman Jeff Bezos (who also owns the <em>Washington Post</em>) invested heavily in <strong>Altos Labs</strong>, a company preparing to rejuvenate cells in order to reverse disease. Now there’s even a clinical-stage veterinary company called <strong>Loyal</strong> which is developing drugs intended to ext<font size="4">end the lifespan of dogs.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">We’ve been trying forever to live forever. One of our species’ oldest stories is <em>“The Epic of Gilgamesh,” </em>which deals with that very longing. Etched on clay tablets four millennia ago in Mesopotamia, it concerns King Gilgamesh, a wild bull of a man with gigantic muscles and a colossal ego. Forced to confront his own mortality after the death of his best friend, the King cries to the heavens, <em>“Must I die, too?”</em> In his grief, he morphs into a Mesopotamian Peter Thiel and sets out on a mission to overcome death. He fails, of course, but uncovers his own Truth along the way:</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“Humans are born, they live, then they die, this is the order that the gods have decreed. But until the end comes, enjoy your life, spend it in happiness, not despair. Love the child who holds you by the hand, and give your wife pleasure in your embrace. That is the best way for a man to live.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Ah, but the rest of humanity didn’t get the memo. The first emperor of China, Quin Shi Huang, who ruled in the third century B.C. was hellbent on living forever. He was so terrified of death, he outlawed any discussion of the subject in his court under penalty of….well….you know. One day. an enigmatic sorcerer named Xu Fu claimed he could grant the emperor immortality with his “elixir of life,” available only on a remote, magical island in the East China Sea. Obsessed with living forever, Quin took up drinking the new concoction and died at age 49 of mercury poisoning. His last words were <em>“Where’s the damn FDA when you really need them?”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><em><br /></em></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4j2Le1VED0KnfMtFhkGYjUCWU8FKMkzryeunZE31EO--XTbV69-ics5LVLRgYdd7tMBu4PhMcW0AqjRTZpryMP8VD0PYIFehktWigJO7jhKwRXaTefZCl59CUa24B2XgolFZxccxmC-Q8z0Ci1N6mJS2jyzBpQOSj-uFZ4YIr-HYbzvMk9YIOTuZJr5Q" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4j2Le1VED0KnfMtFhkGYjUCWU8FKMkzryeunZE31EO--XTbV69-ics5LVLRgYdd7tMBu4PhMcW0AqjRTZpryMP8VD0PYIFehktWigJO7jhKwRXaTefZCl59CUa24B2XgolFZxccxmC-Q8z0Ci1N6mJS2jyzBpQOSj-uFZ4YIr-HYbzvMk9YIOTuZJr5Q=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Bryan Johnson, would-be immortal</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>The Believers</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Peter Attia</strong> is a Canadian-American physician and the founder of Early Medical, a practice that applies the principles of Medicine to patients with a goal of lengthening their lifespans and simultaneously improving their healthspans. Attia has played a key role in promoting the benefits of nutritional ketosis, intermittent fasting and strategic exercise as powerful tools for enhancing longevity. He is also host of <em>The Drive, </em>one of the most popular podcasts covering health and medicine. His approach to longevity is one of the most conservative and realistic, paying particular attention to diet, caloric restriction, protein and muscle. </font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Bryan Johnson </strong>is an American entrepreneur, venture capitalist and writer who has made significant contributions to the field of biological longevity. He is the founder and CEO of Kernel, a company which aims to develop advanced neural interfaces to treat neurological diseases and enhance human cognition. Johnson is also the founder of OS Fund, a venture capital firm that invests in early-stage science and technology companies. <strong>Blueprint </strong>is a protocol developed by Johnson and a team of doctors which aims to measure all of his 70 organs and then maximally reverse the quantified age of each. Johnson will publicly document his protocols and results, allowing the public to be passengers on his longevity journey.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Aubrey de Grey</strong>, one of the grandfathers of longevity research, is an English author and biomedical gerontologist who has made significant contributions to the field of biological longevity. He is the author of <em>“The Mitochondrial Free Radical Theory of Aging,” </em>and co-author of <em>“Ending Aging,” </em>and is known for his view that medical technology may enable human beings alive today not to die from age-related causes. De Grey is the founder and chief science officer of the Methuselah Foundation, a non-profit that aims to extend human lifespan. He has proposed a framework called <strong>Strategies for Engineered Negligible Senescence (SENS)</strong>, which aims to prevent or reverse age-related damage in the body. The SENS approach involves repairing or replacing damaged cells, proteins and other molecules in the body that contribute to aging. De Grey’s work has been widely recognized and he has received numerous awards for his contributions to the field of anti-aging research.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj48qWlndPc3KkJ2Et8Qwv3dt8G9XCyyiKpEe8TR5d7xebuMv7aLvd02DTuFL-CivLaVG50RQdDfsOOa4oN-KPEFrovpwhuzkBMlJkphhyvRiUecQBviQldmxdbioEQYIMeqiNhggkobvjomg9-2iHsj8uUpyiVw_tpBojrr28U0HCHnTB_6fwmfIFRqPM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="320" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj48qWlndPc3KkJ2Et8Qwv3dt8G9XCyyiKpEe8TR5d7xebuMv7aLvd02DTuFL-CivLaVG50RQdDfsOOa4oN-KPEFrovpwhuzkBMlJkphhyvRiUecQBviQldmxdbioEQYIMeqiNhggkobvjomg9-2iHsj8uUpyiVw_tpBojrr28U0HCHnTB_6fwmfIFRqPM=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>The Rest Of The Story</strong></font><p></p><p></p><p><font size="4">Immortality….life-extension…. or anti-aging, as researchers soberly put it….is the next Big Thing. Estimates put the industry’s worth at a staggering $610 billion by 2025. Interested parties are faced with the formidable task of sorting through mountains of promises to separate the wheat from the chaff. Can we get a little help from <em>Consumer Reports </em>here? The companies doing this work are all new and untested. There is no <em>Sears & Roebuck </em>offering money-back guarantees, and the goods and services they offer are not cheap.</font></p><p><font size="4">Would you like to send in a blood sample to determine your biological age? Someone will be glad to help you out for $550. For quite a bit more, clinics like <strong>Cenegenics</strong>, headquartered in Las Vegas with 30 offspring nationwide including Jacksonville, will provide you with an all-day session which includes compiling a complete medical history and lifestyle assessment, a lengthy physical evaluation, DEXA Scan, VO2 Max test, CIMT test, neurocognitive assessment, muscular strength evaluation, coordination test, diet advice and a partridge in a prune tree. The doctors are charismatic and very professional. If you’re Bill Killeen, they’ll tell you to reduce your carbs, take Testosterone (which I do, in small injectable amounts) and Human Growth Hormone (which I don’t). My experience was over 20 years ago in Vegas at a cost of $1000. Today, the same service costs five times that much, about the same as an executive physical at the Mayo Clinic.</font></p><p><font size="4">All of us---except me and Woody Allen---are going to die. If we don’t really mind, no problem. If we do, we’ve got options. The medical community tells us that animal studies suggest that a 10-50% reduction in normal calorie intake will increase human lifespan. Staying physically active, avoiding smoking, moderating alcohol, eschewing chronic stress and nurturing your social circle all help. Having something to look forward to is critical, and you’ve go that taken care of with <em>The Flying Pie </em>every Thursday. But you might want to keep an eye on those wild and crazy guys obsessed with life extension. The human body might not tolerate eternal life whatever the enhancements, but who’s to say it won’t tolerate 120 years with a little help? Obviously, included in that assistance will be the ability to remain physically viable, to enjoy a reasonable lifestyle. Motivated researchers are working on it, massive sums are being applied, significant discoveries are being made. You’ll want to hang around for “<em>The Very Last Tango, No Kidding” </em>in 2035, right?</font></p><p><font size="4">Don't worry, we'll have plenty of robotic assistants and a fleet of those electric wheelchairs with lights.</font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimgDzm6Xc5fgZca6zkHT4oB_cSLcgHA3BFI6Rf9QY0eAiBaIrucgWVTsA9AwCGe-dn1vzI8jYapl-Y4DjiCvfPRCSGKITDapRwKagK5EzE4BsNkOonXHIXUygGBMMWje_ezOhwip9ndCK4VETReuFj76TfQluvmJme7bts1zjITVDejixb6WTSk5YJLgo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="161" data-original-width="320" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimgDzm6Xc5fgZca6zkHT4oB_cSLcgHA3BFI6Rf9QY0eAiBaIrucgWVTsA9AwCGe-dn1vzI8jYapl-Y4DjiCvfPRCSGKITDapRwKagK5EzE4BsNkOonXHIXUygGBMMWje_ezOhwip9ndCK4VETReuFj76TfQluvmJme7bts1zjITVDejixb6WTSk5YJLgo=w400-h201" width="400" /></a></font></font></div><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /><br /></font></font><p></p><font size="4"><font size="4"> That's all, folks...</font></font><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">bill.killeen094@gmail.com<br /></span><p></p><p><em><font size="4"><br /></font></em></p><p><em><font size="4"><br /></font></em></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-60520962893367516572024-02-22T06:08:00.001-05:002024-02-22T08:53:38.381-05:00Thank God For Optimists<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGxqqDwbIX8ZJye50NIjLs9u48NAWslhvCutmRtnZSvejSjPwUXDv44SM649f88aERv2XlAcJzDfi-h1AhaDjglFPPM85Xk9yNQP2PA5y6eZRrnAGcipjNO8Ix3go8kJXx8E2IY3AF4v8NpF5jkJuLw3zLmpsiNZdEOeGgTSTv-n5L7dSA87taSRQ5n4/s1200/IMG_3841.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGxqqDwbIX8ZJye50NIjLs9u48NAWslhvCutmRtnZSvejSjPwUXDv44SM649f88aERv2XlAcJzDfi-h1AhaDjglFPPM85Xk9yNQP2PA5y6eZRrnAGcipjNO8Ix3go8kJXx8E2IY3AF4v8NpF5jkJuLw3zLmpsiNZdEOeGgTSTv-n5L7dSA87taSRQ5n4/w640-h336/IMG_3841.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em style="font-size: large;">“Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement.”---</em><span style="font-size: large;">Helen Keller</span></div><p><font size="4"><em>“My optimism wears heavy boots and is loud.”---</em>Henry Rollins</font></p><p><font size="4">In a world that is falling apart all around us, what would we do without optimists? Perhaps retire to the chummy shores of faraway Pitcairn Island, hitch a ride to the planet Zelda in one of Gary Borse’s Identified Flying Objects or march to the top of Diamond Head and swandive into oblivion. Optimists make lemonade from sour little citrus balls, wrap your damaged Achilles tendon and send you back into the game, remind you that relief is just a swallow away. Pessimists, on the other hand, shuffle their feet, spit on the ground and run the surrender flag up the flagpole at the first hint of cumulonimbus. Optimists make the world go ‘round, pessimists pull over to the curb and apply the parking brake. </font></p><p><font size="4">Ah, but I am a <em>realist,</em> you say, neither a foolhardy Charlie Brown nor a depressing Friedrich Nietzsche. We say you realists are just pessimists in disguise, people with pocketsful of <em>“I Told You So!” </em>buttons to hand out on convenient occasions. Were we realists, we might accuse our valued friend Gina Hawkins of folly for thinking a raw recruit like herself could march the 2190 miles of the testy Appalachian Trail without sneaking onto a <em>Greyhound </em>from Blairsville, Georgia to Millinocket, but no, we hold our tongues and help pack her knapsack with trail gruel, <em>Clif </em>bars and hard liquor. Just to be on the safe side, of course, we’re asking her to place a tracking device in her underwear. There’s pessimism after all, and there’s sensible caution. It is not at all cynical, say, to have medics on call, the helicopter warmed up and the extraction team practicing midnight crisis techniques. </font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg43kni5Yt_8-I9RchQ9yu9Ehby3fMvhp30gjNZhPDQg-VLJFZBYe5Y4DcuoJ4J3VCnhSRxHFEDWrh71_1DQ9F2oLTokDtEcAcqIKTeYmI6A-B_5Orz8xbKWDvvihgUZjOEVbgKvJ6qbNeFGhevyszgt7AD0TiDKD3bvU2gYswIysJVnC6CrclWGD2iR1Y" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="126" data-original-width="320" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg43kni5Yt_8-I9RchQ9yu9Ehby3fMvhp30gjNZhPDQg-VLJFZBYe5Y4DcuoJ4J3VCnhSRxHFEDWrh71_1DQ9F2oLTokDtEcAcqIKTeYmI6A-B_5Orz8xbKWDvvihgUZjOEVbgKvJ6qbNeFGhevyszgt7AD0TiDKD3bvU2gYswIysJVnC6CrclWGD2iR1Y=w400-h158" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><font size="4"><strong>The Appalachian Trail; What You Should</strong><strong> Know</strong></font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“You become an informal clump, a loose and sympathetic affiliation of people from different age groups and walks of life, but all expecting the same weather, same discomforts, same landscapes, same eccentric impulse to hike to Maine,”---</em>Bill Bryson</font></p><p><font size="4">The storied Appalachian Trail, which extends from Springer Mountain in northern Georgia to faraway Mount Katahdin in central Maine, has lured headstrong youngsters, earnest trekkers and crazy fools for decades, many of them seeking to escape the stress of city life, reconnect with nature, test themselves against the many hardships the footpath doles out daily. Others, like freshman hiker Jason Candide of Omaha, do it impulsively for the glory. <em>“I want to hike The Trail just to say I’ve done it,” </em>he relates to three-time thru-hiker Frank LaMotta. <em>“Then you’re a fool,” </em>said Frank. <em>“You won’t last a month.”</em> Even an optimist needs a Plan.</font></p><p><font size="4">Only one hiker out of every four makes it the length of the Trail, a mammoth five-to-seven month undertaking which takes careful preparation. Rookie hikers tend to carry too much food and water, too many or too few clothes, not practice enough in difficult circumstances. It’s generally agreed among experienced hikers that 30 pounds is all you want to carry on your back for ten or more hours a day. The Approach Trail is difficult, surprisingly so to new hikers. After two or three days, sore knees and weary Achilles tendons are common; slow and steady wins the day. Veterans advise starting out at eight miles a day and working up.</font></p><p><font size="4">If it’s dry, trail runners are an option, but waterproof hiking boots are often better for the cold, wet, sometimes snowy days ahead. A survey of thru-hikers who walked the Trail in 2022 found 86% favored trail runners for the majority of the hike, a surprising statistic which has stood the test of time. 91% of respondents who began their hike in trail runners said they were happy with their choice, while only 64% of trekkers starting in hiking boots were satisfied.</font></p><p><font size="4">Okay, so now you’ve thoroughly researched the hike, drastically improved your physical fitness level, bought the right equipment and adopted the proper attitude. You’re a lean, mean hiking machine and you’re ready to go. But have you thought about the <strong>bears</strong>?</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaebFkK4ZTWcD1lfSYIUQRm6C0IdalXkf5zYYfbukOZmj5qrMI4RsGiOmfVDPip9y3sXU6Dca7P6fcVjRP45bqu27VoQtCCG7nStdl2qjH8gebq4QSJxdwz63cMQobQty0R0xirAXlhTahioSfSBq5h1AlBwYqBscMKEbuna7FSzwsjRjyrdGDkiTLKoU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="236" data-original-width="320" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaebFkK4ZTWcD1lfSYIUQRm6C0IdalXkf5zYYfbukOZmj5qrMI4RsGiOmfVDPip9y3sXU6Dca7P6fcVjRP45bqu27VoQtCCG7nStdl2qjH8gebq4QSJxdwz63cMQobQty0R0xirAXlhTahioSfSBq5h1AlBwYqBscMKEbuna7FSzwsjRjyrdGDkiTLKoU=w400-h295" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>The Bears</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><em>“Black bears rarely attack. But here’s the thing. Sometimes, they DO. All bears are agile, cunning and immensely strong, and they are always hungry. If they want to kill you and eat you, they can, and pretty much whenever they want. That doesn’t happen often, but---and here’s the salient point---once would be enough.”</em> ---Bill Bryson</font></p><p><font size="4">Much of the Appalachian Trail is black bear habitat. Bear populations are increasing in all states and bear encounters are on the rise on the A.T. Brigid Bell’s thru-hike took an unexpected turn on May 9, 2023, when she was bitten by a black bear while exiting a privy in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“It happened so fast I didn’t even have time to be afraid,” </em>claims Bell. <em>“I knew it was useless to run, but I definitely picked up my pace.” </em>So did the bear, who lunged forward and bit Brigid on the upper buttock. She jerked her body forward, pulled away and walked calmly toward the safety of a nearby shelter where other hikers, armed with rocks, began throwing things at the bear, eliciting a temporary retreat. Bell said her training as a 911 dispatcher kicked in, allowing her to remain in control of her actions. <em>“I was probably the calmest person in the camp,” </em>she says. Brigid even had the presence of mind to take a few pictures of the bear.</font></p><p><font size="4">Although black bears tend to shy away from humans, bears which have had access to human food often lose their fear of people, learning to associate hikers with tasty treats. Bears willing to approach humans are not easily deterred and have to be rehomed in remote areas or, in the case of especially aggressive bruins, euthanized. Wildlife experts say, <em>“A fed bear is a dead bear,” </em>which hardly seems fair, so hikers are drilled about feeding them or leaving unsecured food where wildlife can access it at night. Sections of the A.T. are periodically closed to overnight camping in response to reports of excessive bear behavior, especially one seven-mile stretch near the North Carolina-Tennessee border which is often beset. All that said, from 2000 to 2019, there have been only nine actual deaths via black bear attack in the entire lower 48 states. By contrast, in 2017, 89 people were killed by hornets and over 250 died while taking selfies. Maybe someone should come up with a Selfie-Spray.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhEL80fnbnqw4hCU1KFFVLYk80ROuFm0baOz0zee5l7pfsETo6aFIawgrVsEOxE-3L7z9SsAaDW2QS7FCjITUxxTeEz7hLM_PhKe7WOqbOwrp70CrSU1MWaxb5We53zSOM0i0Rk58PGQJjdX3MKew34tWglqeuLNghvNmDBX8lIWWrHn6OQ4-yUIM-t82A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="140" data-original-width="320" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhEL80fnbnqw4hCU1KFFVLYk80ROuFm0baOz0zee5l7pfsETo6aFIawgrVsEOxE-3L7z9SsAaDW2QS7FCjITUxxTeEz7hLM_PhKe7WOqbOwrp70CrSU1MWaxb5We53zSOM0i0Rk58PGQJjdX3MKew34tWglqeuLNghvNmDBX8lIWWrHn6OQ4-yUIM-t82A=w400-h175" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>The Optimist Hall Of Fame</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><em>“The Socialist is the greatest optimist in the world. He never sees anything but victory ahead. Even where the vote is small and outward indications might to the average beholder carry little hope, the Socialist sees nothing but ultimate triumph. No one but he has ever planned for a world free from want or steadfastly believed that his ideals would be wrought into a fact so glorious as to excel all the utopias of which man has dreamed.”---</em>Anonymous, 1908</font></p><p><font size="4">Think you’re a diehard optimist? You’re not even trying. Let’s take a look at the competition.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1.---Don Quixote. </strong>In a cruel world full of stoic realism, mockery and violence, this man’s childish idealism and determination to fulfill his dream is impossibly optimistic. And, as it turns out, just plain impossible. His creator, <strong>Miguel de Cervantes</strong>, once said: <em>“Too much sanity may be madness and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.” </em>But Don Q.’s little known sense of humor eased the frustration. </font></p><p><font size="4">At the end of each daunting episode, D.Q. and his faithful Spanish companion Sancho Panza rode to the top of a hill on their horses, then pulled up to let Don Quixote tell a bad joke. <em>“Oh, CISCO!” </em>recoiled his partner in mock horror. <em>“Oh, SANCHO!” </em>replied his compadre, breaking up in hysterics.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>2.---Roberto Goizueta. </strong>On April 23, 1985, this CEO and Chairman of Coca Cola announced the shelving of the iconic Coca Cola formula and its replacement with a substitute called <strong>New Coke</strong>. Shortly thereafter, suburban Atlanta villagers arrived at the Coke plant bearing pitchforks and torches and threatened to burn the place down if their beverage rights were not restored. Roberto and his boys caved and the original Coca Cola was revived. New Coke lost the company $4 million in research and development and $30 million in unsold inventory. Apparently, fifty million times a day, at home, at work, or on the way, there’s nothing like a Coca Cola, nothing like a Coke.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>3.---Roy Brown. </strong>Brown was a hotshot designer with the Ford Company in 1954, when he began creating the <strong>Edsel</strong>, which was intended to be the “it” car for the nation’s middle class. <em>“We don’t think so,” </em>said John Q. Public</font> <font size="4">of the unattractive gas-guzzler which had an X-rated grille, oil leaks, hoods that stuck and trunks which didn’t open, and Ford lost $350 million. Cisco and Pancho rode to the top of a hill and threw Roy off a cliff.</font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>4.---Adolph (Mr. Potato Head) Hitler.</strong></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“Hey, guys, the war seems to be going well, let’s drop in to Moscow for some stroganoff and Stoli.”---</em>Der Fuehrer</font></p><p><font size="4">Somebody get this guy a map and a winter weather report for the Soviet Union. The sheer scale of the Eastern Front where his invasion of the USSR took place was daunting, to say the least, and the weather didn’t help. German forces were ill-prepared for the bone-chilling cold, which presented logistical challenges, equipment failures, numb digits and a colossal loss of morale. The Russian army, on the other hand, was accustomed to the conditions and used them to their advantage. Hitler’s invasion also diverted crucial military resources from other fronts, including Western Europe and Northern Africa and pushed the Russians into an alliance with the Allied Forces, significantly shifting the balance of power in favor of the Allies. Best “<em>Oopsie!” </em>ever.</font></p><p><font size="4">Shortly after the Soviet fiasco, a crack team of U.S. Army commandos secretly captured Hitler and replaced him with Charley Chaplin, who eventually ran the Nazi war machine into the ground. Now you know….the rest of the story.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJyJcgHMbv4C06J4R-KCY-X1HY8JX5y6VdWm2K5iFrRdL1zici4wQEkHQ8q4GzNFr7n4s0qw7_WU_CjvLL0UvpLH5KLsSYtDxBr5fAr2w0COGJsWDQvQ7OYTeK0LE170diDKUQrocKV5VKR0Zprrow1iRCj8msBS43zlAnxl2tZwk7qLKtHxfrl2YqbMw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJyJcgHMbv4C06J4R-KCY-X1HY8JX5y6VdWm2K5iFrRdL1zici4wQEkHQ8q4GzNFr7n4s0qw7_WU_CjvLL0UvpLH5KLsSYtDxBr5fAr2w0COGJsWDQvQ7OYTeK0LE170diDKUQrocKV5VKR0Zprrow1iRCj8msBS43zlAnxl2tZwk7qLKtHxfrl2YqbMw=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Facts About Optimists</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1.---Optimists Live Longer. </strong>Look it up. Research has consistently linked optimism with overall health and longevity. Optimistic thinkers have lower rates of hypertension, heart disease and cancer, as well as lower rates of mortality in general. Optimists tend to exercise more, sleep better, eat healthier and refrain from smoking. One large 2019 study determined that optimists have a lifespan 11% to 15% longer than average unless they are rulers of Germany. Optimists are more likely to live to 85 or older, a fact which applied independent of variables like socioeconomic status, health conditions, depression, social integration and healthy behaviors. When given a poor but manageable health prognosis, pessimists are more likely to become fatalistic and see only an inevitable death sentence, while optimists recognize the severity of their condition but are more likely to take steps to cope with it.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>2.---Optimists Have Better Love Lives. </strong>Ask around. Optimists have higher quality, longer lasting romantic relationships, according to researchers from Stanford University. These results hold even when only one partner is an optimist. Psychologists believe optimism leads to a greater sense of perceived support from a partner, which helps couples fight fair. When asked about a point of contention in the relationship, both optimistic thinkers and their partners were more likely to say that the other partner was invested in making the relationship better.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>3.---Optimists Are More Successful.</strong></font></p><p><font size="4">Just as optimists seem to be more resilient outside the workplace, they are also resilient on the job. Even if their bosses don’t recognize that they’re doing good work, optimists are able to keep performing well. People who are optimistic also seem to have better job security, according to the 2019 study. People who are optimistic about their careers are more likely to succeed at work and to feel satisfied with their jobs. Optimistic managers may be more effective at helping others be productive and achieve their goals.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>4.---Optimists Bounce Back Faster And Stronger. </strong>In a famous study of elite college varsity swim teams published in 1990, coaches told athletes to swim their best event. After the races, coaches provided false feedback about the results, adding a couple of seconds to the swimmers’ times. The difference was small enough to be believable but large enough to cause disappointment in the athletes. Then, they were given half an hour to rest and ruminate on their perceived performances before repeating their events.</font></p><p><font size="4">On their second efforts, pessimistic thinkers swam 1.6% slower than the first time while the optimists swam 0.5% faster. In the competitive world of swimming, the difference between the optimists and pessimists was the difference between winning and losing their events. Optimists use failure as fuel to perform better in the future. A later study on high-level athletes showed that optimism also helps protect athletes against burnout.</font></p><p><font size="4">As good old Norman Vincent Peale told us long ago, <em>“A man who is self-reliant, positive, optimistic and undertakes his work with the assurance of success magnetizes his condition. He draws to himself the creative powers of the universe.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Buddha suggested <em>“The mind is everything. What you think, you become.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">From Robert Brault: <em>“An optimist is someone who isn’t sure whether life is a tragedy or a comedy but is tickled silly just to be in the play.” </em></font></p><p><font size="4">That’s us. Call us crazy.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkxFa09_YVNiNic-B4bMCZT204pyHC33EqwbHyAgtYb5ZLZWu8-J6RVInRjKhe-9sjkUOzyr6Zmo0QJozul2pcXU23LfFeu_Q3Gl6MtgG9TNmXVobzuI7Sf1eJYe_-mdw7P2wq1jYsZuqg1EgiVluD095eaioqWxeYeAiYNKAa4c4o-Zbq-Xx_953TdIY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkxFa09_YVNiNic-B4bMCZT204pyHC33EqwbHyAgtYb5ZLZWu8-J6RVInRjKhe-9sjkUOzyr6Zmo0QJozul2pcXU23LfFeu_Q3Gl6MtgG9TNmXVobzuI7Sf1eJYe_-mdw7P2wq1jYsZuqg1EgiVluD095eaioqWxeYeAiYNKAa4c4o-Zbq-Xx_953TdIY=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><br /></font><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That’s all, folks. But only for today.</span></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a><em> </em></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"> </font> </font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-77310437365070462722024-02-15T05:39:00.000-05:002024-02-15T05:39:18.980-05:00A Moving Experience<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsu7KKiqUkef9DT-Sfsr3S0lywbprqn5Lj4IwQ4Q5h28ea8dIYMqHoJdeqTRzqOHDJ3ErTPNrI9AsWQ8tmCTH9khqRgr90VLQDFpKIWGm2QExv1VMBBes7Syzse7ngvyRLTUIH_ru6mCjULTxaFW0xIr5E2LrB66zTHaWKMcmbZubFZAADzoEJpQnA79I/s599/IMG_3827.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="599" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsu7KKiqUkef9DT-Sfsr3S0lywbprqn5Lj4IwQ4Q5h28ea8dIYMqHoJdeqTRzqOHDJ3ErTPNrI9AsWQ8tmCTH9khqRgr90VLQDFpKIWGm2QExv1VMBBes7Syzse7ngvyRLTUIH_ru6mCjULTxaFW0xIr5E2LrB66zTHaWKMcmbZubFZAADzoEJpQnA79I/w640-h428/IMG_3827.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">Everyone’s looking for a leg up these days and </span><em style="font-size: large;">The Flying Pie </em><span style="font-size: large;">is here to help readers find it. If I could just get lucky </span><em style="font-size: large;">once,</em><span style="font-size: large;"> you say….get off to a new start with a dollar in my pocket and a sweetie on my arm, I could be a contenduh.</span><p></p><p><font size="4">Well, guess what, pal---Tulsa, Oklahoma wants <em>you! </em>Billed as<em> “the world’s largest small town,” </em>Tulsa wants bigger. Since 2018, <strong>Tulsa Remote </strong>has helped more than 2500 people move to Oklahoma’s second largest city by paying successful applicants to its nifty relocation program a whopping <strong>$10,000 </strong>to move there for at least a year. Hell, you could put up with <em>Newark </em>for that long with ten grand in your pocket and a Glock in your sock. The city will also give you free desk space at 36 Degrees North, a popular downtown co-working facility where you can job-hunt or whittle.</font></p><p><font size="4">Maybe you’d like <strong>Topeka</strong> better. If you’re a talented professional seeking new opportunities, the Choose Topeka program offers an Employer Match Incentive which could pay $10,000 to cover rent and $15,000 towards buying a house in town or anywhere in ever-starched Shawnee County. The cost of living in Topeka is already 15% lower than the national average. You could be the first Democrat on your block.</font></p><p><font size="4">How about <strong>Noblesville, Indiana </strong>or <strong>Frankfort</strong>, <strong>Kentucky</strong>? Both of them will pay you $5000 to relocate under certain circumstances, but is that enough to live in the exotic edens that are Noblesville, Indiana or Frankfort, Kentucky? No, it’s not. There is grave danger that once you move you’ll morph into a pea-brained Republican and grow a foot-long nose.</font></p><p><font size="4">If you’re a qualified physics or language teacher, you can pick up $13,000 just for emigrating to jolly old <strong>England</strong>. The British government’s international relocation program will pay you around that amount to help with moving costs if you’ve got a job offer there in one of the approved subjects. If it turns out you can’t abide fish & chips or fog and have to return home, you’ll have picked up a bit of an uppity English accent and can quickly get hired by U.S. employers with delusions of grandeur. </font></p><p><font size="4">Have they got a deal for <em>you</em> in <strong>Italy</strong>, Danny Levine! All across the country, villages and towns experiencing depopulation are facing an unsightly consequence---watching conditions deteriorate in their abandoned houses and seeing local businesses close. In a radical attempt at salvation, some authorities have signed up for a scheme in which outsiders commit to renovating and restoring empty properties in exchange for unbelievable bargains on the asking price (sometimes as low as one euro). From the Valle d’Aosta in the north to Puglia in the south, a wide selection of Italian real estate is on offer. Turns out it’s not too late for <em>la dolce vita </em>after all. Don’t forget to bring three coins for the fountain. </font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgn4F7DraZNrEpO14G86sbKSML1iWPOOkCCDC8UI0TfVDpLc9A-GS9wll-AA_PIXRwZRbl1V0nk104dTRjmgT7ReUujZ0ydXKEUhRA4bds67xJDRZ0tSfx9DuprZ4ryj9ySScv40Vhf-1ReMOE89c74gmdXB1w5uGXBwHyvb03N54iNdgwX1h5DIRbTl0/s4368/Whittier,_Alaska_(2006).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2912" data-original-width="4368" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgn4F7DraZNrEpO14G86sbKSML1iWPOOkCCDC8UI0TfVDpLc9A-GS9wll-AA_PIXRwZRbl1V0nk104dTRjmgT7ReUujZ0ydXKEUhRA4bds67xJDRZ0tSfx9DuprZ4ryj9ySScv40Vhf-1ReMOE89c74gmdXB1w5uGXBwHyvb03N54iNdgwX1h5DIRbTl0/w400-h266/Whittier,_Alaska_(2006).jpg" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><strong>Take A Walk On The Wild Side</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Are you lonely? Hungry for neighbors? Like the sound of other voices and the smells of food cooking in the hallways? Then <strong>Whittier, Alaska </strong>might be the place for you. In Whittier, almost all of the 200 residents live in the same dwelling. Instead of a remote log cabin, you get a 14-story high-rise known as the Begich building that everybody calls home. You won’t have friends from the lower 48 dropping in on you much either since the only way in or out (except by boat) is a 13,000-foot-long combination rail and highway tunnel. Also on the positive side, you’re sitting on stunning <strong>Prince William Sound</strong>, which is full of rambunctious whales, Steller seals and calving glaciers. A terrific alternative if you can’t stand life in the government’s Witness Protection Program.</font></p><p><font size="4">Everything is BIG in <strong>Casey, Illinois</strong>. Twelve of the world’s largest <em>things </em>live there, including a 55-foot tall wind chime (delightful in typhoons) and a 56.5-foot high giant rocking chair, which is too big even for Shaquille O’Neal. And that’s not the half of it. Casey also has more than 20 other gargantuas, like the world’s largest cob of corn, a very large crochet hook and a monster taco. Most of these items are centered around the town’s only stop sign (average size) but the gigantic Golf Tee is up the road at a nearby links. All this overreaching is the brainchild of one Jim Bolin, who wanted to do something huge for his hometown. Bolin constructed most of the world’s largest things with recycled materials like old telephone poles with the help of his crazed employees. If you want to live somewhere different between Indianapolis and St. Louis, this might be the place. You could be the word’s biggest loafer or the world’s biggest jerk, you'd fit right in. </font></p><p><font size="4">You didn’t know this, but the United States contains a micronation within. The <strong>Republic of Molossia </strong>in Nevada was founded by James Spielman (King James I) and Kevin Baugh, the Prime Minister, in 1977 and was known at the time as the Grand Republic of Vuldstein. If you’re eventually accepted for residence you’ll be 1/37th of the total population. Better take a look first during the official touring season (April 15--October 15), but leave your walrus at home, they’re highly illegal in Molossia. Also, no onions or fresh spinach, please. All tourists are escorted, of course, and limited to three-hour visits, so you’ll have to drink your Molossolini on the run.</font></p><p><font size="4">The demise of circuses has thrown a ton of lion tamers, bearded women and short people into retirement and many of them head for <strong>Gibsonton, Florida</strong>. Gibtown, as it’s affectionately known, even has a famous cemetery called Showmen’s Rest dedicated to fire-breathers and sword swallowers who have emigrated to that Big Top in the sky, Many others were buried there after the tragic Hammond Circus Train Wreck of 1918. Florida has long been a haven for circus people, as <strong>Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus </strong>wintered in Sarasota beginning in 1927, then at the Tampa Fairgrounds and finally the booming metropolis of Ellenton. The next generation of circus artists is being trained today at the Sailor Circus Academy in Sarasota. You don’t want to live anywhere near there, though. You never can tell where the human cannonballs are going to land.</font></p><p><font size="4">Oprah says America’s “most unusual town” is <strong>Maharishi Vedic City</strong> in Iowa. You wonder why you never knew this, never passed through, never even heard of the place. As we said, it’s in Iowa. If, however, you think you might want to live in the Hawkeye State and have found the charms of such as Ames, Fort Dodge and Hard Scratch highly resistible, Maharishitown might be for you. The city was built by the famous Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, guru to The Beatles, and is a very peaceful hamlet dedicated to the ancient Sanskrit text known as The Veda and its principles. Every building in the town was constructed adhering to the Vedic fundamentals of architecture, which are meant to bring joy and balance, and we can use all the balance we can get, right? Residents adhere to unique practices initiated by the guru like Yogic Flying and Transcendental Meditation, both said to promote health benefits like reducing stress and helping achieve an enlightened state. As the first organic town in the USA, Vedic City allows no non-organic food sales within the city limits, so Colonel Sanders and Ronnie the evil clown are out the door. Pesticides and gasoline-fueled vehicles are banned but there’s a ton of action on the black market for chocolate. </font></p><p><font size="4">Or you can go to <strong>Hell</strong>. It’s in Michigan, an almost microscopic enclave dedicated to all things fire and brimstone. Oddly, few evangelist ministers or Satanists live there. Hell’s slogan is <em>“More People Tell You To Go To Our Town Than Anywhere!” </em>and it’s hard to argue. Not only can you be married in Hell, you can even buy a small piece of the landscape or become mayor for a day. Serious candidates for the office, alas, must retain a lot of patience. The official website says mayoral elections will be held only when Hell freezes over and like The Twelfth of Never, that’s a long, long time. Theatergoers will be delighted to know the arts are important here and that <em>Hellzapoppin’! </em>is performed 365 nights a year on the community stage. To prove you’ve been there, you can send a letter from the Hell post office, where each envelope is singed for added effect. In case you were wondering, there are no towns in the United States named Heaven but there’s a gullyful of Paradises. You already know <em>their </em>slogans. </font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlhf_0WUZ3AKDusnLoQQoe2K0yPH-tmj4qTLeY50CfcTP0Acg6Exv8sOG4Sl2QIwUnYrMwPJ8xHvIYY1WKSrzNkeWjfrwX658dTDCt5SqGb1NZ8mVQ8H0Qag1mMMQbU99o_0798quej7PG-9jckFWjnRk5oCqPFVPJR0cwp9sgNkgg__BNuUi4G7Ve7SM/s600/amsterdam-netherlands-october-5-2019-600nw-2066384672.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlhf_0WUZ3AKDusnLoQQoe2K0yPH-tmj4qTLeY50CfcTP0Acg6Exv8sOG4Sl2QIwUnYrMwPJ8xHvIYY1WKSrzNkeWjfrwX658dTDCt5SqGb1NZ8mVQ8H0Qag1mMMQbU99o_0798quej7PG-9jckFWjnRk5oCqPFVPJR0cwp9sgNkgg__BNuUi4G7Ve7SM/w400-h266/amsterdam-netherlands-october-5-2019-600nw-2066384672.webp" width="400" /></a></div><font size="4"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><strong>Highly Recommended</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">If<strong> </strong>you’re an unreconstructed old hippie from the sixties or seventies, you’ll want a future home where the livin’ is easy and the pot plentiful. Don’t be misled, however. The <strong>Bong Recreation Area </strong>is in Wisconsin, where recreational marijuana is still verboten. <strong>Blunt, South Dakota </strong>is not cannabis-friendly having rejected last year’s marijuana initiative by nearly six points. <strong>High Point, North Carolina </strong>recently experienced a nadir in cannabis-community relations with the police bust of several local vape shops for selling products like <em>Trips Ahoy </em>and <em>Stoneo </em>cookies. There’s better news from <strong>Roach, Missouri</strong>, where voters approved a ballot amendment for recreational cannabis and sales began almost a year ago.</font></p><p><font size="4">Although cannabis is technically an illegal substance in the Netherlands, for more than 20 years Dutch citizens over age 18 have been permitted to buy and use marijuana and hashish in hundreds of government-regulated coffee shops. <strong>Amsterdam </strong>is the home of the annual <em>High Times Cannabis Cup </em>and boasts incredible museums and parks as well as trippy architecture perfect for a giddy stroll around town. </font></p><p><font size="4">In <strong>Vancouver, British Columbia</strong>, police are largely tolerant of pot, thus seed retailers and coffee-shop marijuana can be found with little effort. Smoking in Vancouver is often done in public places like parks or on the city’s famous <em>Vansterdam Pot Block </em>on Hastings Street.</font></p><p><font size="4">If you’re carrying and don’t mind the mean streets of <strong>Oakland</strong>, it’s easy to find pot-peddling coffee shops, stores with growing equipment and even a cannabis college called <em>Oaksterdam University. </em>Non-profit medical marijuana dispensaries provide pot along with free acupuncture, massage, yoga and counseling for patients with gunshot wounds. Move to neighboring Berkeley, instead.</font></p><p><font size="4">Although marijuana use is laughably illegal in <strong>Negril, Jamaica</strong>, nobody seems to care. Users of WeBeHigh.com describe the enforcement situation in the city as relatively non-existent. Dope connoisseur Danny Danko cites Negril for its <em>“pot tourism, sunshine, plentiful weed, reggae music culture, beaches, drinks and spliffs.” </em>What more could a devoted pothead ask for? No....you have to bring your own cookies.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Portland, Oregon </strong>is home to America’s first Cannabis Cafe and one of the biggest chapters of NORML, whose annual convention will be held there this year. The city has a bohemian mien and a robust marijuana culture and citizens carrying small portions of weed are rarely bothered by police. WeBeHigh.com lists several areas where pot can be easily purchased, including the waterfront area and park block.<font size="4"> </font></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Nimbin, Australia</strong>, home of the yearly Nimbin Mardi Gras festival, is basically a hippie paradise. <em>“It’s a must-see pot destination,” </em>says Danko, who professes a great love for his favorite strain of Australian marijuana, Mullumbimby Madness. Nimbin, which is located in northern New South Wales, has been described as a haven for the country’s counterculture with hippie communes and various types of multiple occupancy residences. The town has a resident population of 352 but a proliferation of marijuana-related institutions like <em>The Nimbin Hemp Embassy, The Nimbin HEMP Bar and even The Nimbin Museum. </em>What do they do on a rainy night in Nimbin? You guessed it.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibQah0yZIvSL9LK8t3EkfaTwCtgMA8SgT3_lZCAJKwo4EUewG7b2nF0Nmrz9qzmTxmVVQlYZHSD9KXEIIzRdJmXVjsUZlFxOxkEFqtxHvCEzICCZN5_4S4QySaJ76Fg6DLgKUeml7Vz77w3BmlFoDQ4VPEk0_K3QsoM835acUGwdau0VIWaI3FGbopN68/s1080/IMG_3805.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="664" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibQah0yZIvSL9LK8t3EkfaTwCtgMA8SgT3_lZCAJKwo4EUewG7b2nF0Nmrz9qzmTxmVVQlYZHSD9KXEIIzRdJmXVjsUZlFxOxkEFqtxHvCEzICCZN5_4S4QySaJ76Fg6DLgKUeml7Vz77w3BmlFoDQ4VPEk0_K3QsoM835acUGwdau0VIWaI3FGbopN68/w246-h400/IMG_3805.JPG" width="246" /></a></div><p></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><font size="4"><strong>Say It Ain’t So, Joe!</strong></font></div><p></p><p><font size="4">We started this off with Tulsa, it’s only fair to bookend it with Oklahoma City, which may become home to a new 1907-foot skyscraper called <strong>Legends Tower</strong> that would become the tallest building in the country. Or, as Frank Lloyd Wright would call it, <em>“The toothpick in the pie,” </em>a drastically out-of place spindle on a flat, treeless plain.</font></p><p><font size="4">This foolishness was dreamed up by developer Scot Matteson, who says <em>“Oklahoma City is committed to growing as a major metropolitan area. The city has invested in infrastructure surrounding the project. The groundwork has been laid and the time is right for this project.” </em>A California development company called Matteson Capital still has to secure the approval of local officials, secure funding and find 8000 Okieland optimists to rent space to, but they’re on their way. We can hardly wait to elevator up to the nifty observation deck and look out to see miles and miles of ….well….nothing.</font></p><p><font size="4">We’ve been there and you don’t want to move to Oklahoma City, you really don’t. They burn dopers at the stake there, and books, too. Wild hogs attack your car tires on dirt periphery roads and tornadoes blow your houses down when the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain. Even Tulsa is better, and they pay you to move there. Slow down, pardner. Turn that truck around before it’s too late.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjatlF9Bf1uYtc5L4Nqq6pZIpXWCVAZyopm7eECOIdXh0hl9iAFLb1NDG-GYJVgx5hc9lMIEsaNtO8GXJPbJYZOBj7cdZXCH8je4HTZy_gP1KrlxPTbVaRUbzG339mahBxg1Pkwcq9uOjh91qOsgWUPPS4C0GJ58bFVyhMI0YxDi6DXk2b5UgYFR-7Rlw/s640/IMG_3835.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjatlF9Bf1uYtc5L4Nqq6pZIpXWCVAZyopm7eECOIdXh0hl9iAFLb1NDG-GYJVgx5hc9lMIEsaNtO8GXJPbJYZOBj7cdZXCH8je4HTZy_gP1KrlxPTbVaRUbzG339mahBxg1Pkwcq9uOjh91qOsgWUPPS4C0GJ58bFVyhMI0YxDi6DXk2b5UgYFR-7Rlw/w400-h225/IMG_3835.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>A pilgrim could do worse than a relo to Puglia</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"></font></div><font size="4"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />That’s all folks….</font><p></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a> <font size="4"> </font></font></p><p><strong><font size="4"><br /></font></strong></p><p><strong><font size="4"><br /></font></strong></p><p><strong><font size="4"><br /></font></strong></p><p><strong><font size="4"><br /></font></strong></p><p><font size="4"> </font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-61751346937873408722024-02-08T06:06:00.001-05:002024-02-08T08:43:37.694-05:00The Chicken Report<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9UXTwxo1cy7c2kLxsrzHEV2zhlbO9cYF8ukaGXtkzfl1H3bLZboxqAmuoLm2LLCcI7kwKFU0NJHD8oNOC0_ZdhteCI5_KElGzO7_d_AW5wahyphenhyphenr9lSkoitcts-Sq2sZ2ze3H51SMr_wg6-rhoH6KH1FBVvlFwSgtKLfaf6oOcVrqlVC-aBavu4t7sqFT8/s612/IMG_3787.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="612" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9UXTwxo1cy7c2kLxsrzHEV2zhlbO9cYF8ukaGXtkzfl1H3bLZboxqAmuoLm2LLCcI7kwKFU0NJHD8oNOC0_ZdhteCI5_KElGzO7_d_AW5wahyphenhyphenr9lSkoitcts-Sq2sZ2ze3H51SMr_wg6-rhoH6KH1FBVvlFwSgtKLfaf6oOcVrqlVC-aBavu4t7sqFT8/w640-h436/IMG_3787.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em style="font-size: large;"><br /></em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><em style="font-size: large;">“Set your chickens free!”---</em><span style="font-size: large;">Gilbert Shelton (1962)</span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Last May, </span><em style="font-size: large;">Flying Pie </em><span style="font-size: large;">roving reporter and chicken enthusiast Kathleen Knight discovered a bustling chicken training camp in faraway Seabeck, Washington. This was surprising to us, having once been in the chicken management business and never having heard a peep about any desire for higher education. Chickens seemed a flighty lot, given to foraging for food, scratching the ground searching for insects and quaffing a few brewskis while watching </span><em style="font-size: large;">Ted Lasso</em><span style="font-size: large;"> on TV. But Kathy assures us </span><em style="font-size: large;">“they are intelligent and emotional animals which demonstrate thinking skills on a par with mammals and primates.” </em><span style="font-size: large;">According to people who know about these things, if you hide an object from a chicken (which we hardly ever do), the chicken will know where it is, which is something even human kids aren’t able to do.</span></p><p><font size="4">Neuroscientist and chicken maven Lori Marino avers that <em>“Chickens are behaviorally sophisticated, discriminating among individuals, exhibiting Machiavellian-like social interactions and learning socially in complex ways that are similar to humans.” </em>Who knew? Like bottlenose dolphins, chickens demonstrate the ability to differentiate between numbers of items and they display the markers of having an episodic memory---being able to recall specific events, like the January 18 firebombing of a Virginia <em>Chick-fil-a, </em>which has become sort of a chicken holiday.</font></p><p><font size="4">Though their intelligence has not been directly compared, individual analysis suggests that both dogs and chickens are highly intelligent creatures capable of emotion, advanced social interaction and empathy. Chickens can dream! Also turkeys, who have been known to dream about dining on humans at Thanksgiving. Chickens are excellent communicators, able to convey the significance of an event; for example, the call to alert others to an aerial predator is different from the warning to beware a ground predator. Chickens can understand basic mathematical concepts, but cannot do algebra, sorta like Fonzie. Chickens can recognize up to 100 people, even if they’re wearing Groucho masks.</font></p><p><font size="4">Kathleen Knight beseeches <em>Flying Pie </em>readers to go Vegan, or if not, just leave the chickens off your menu. When last seen, she was leading a band of feisty roosters with picket signs parading afront a fading <em>Kentucky Fried Chicken </em>facade, yelling <em>“Hey, hey, KFC! How many chicks did you fricassee?” </em>At least a dozen cars pulled out of the drive-up lane and one shamefaced employee turned in his apron.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEUqp9w4LPBSxEZ0k909YMS3Ag9wK-bA-01HLbnDM673iTXdMIDXlnAKi8mOzsuM3EpVcjvFlRuXXDDWshv5Gvp6OL3-jrp_DOB04_oW2W801nfZIkLuE1XlCageQq5dk-s-lL6ojSJHJY6bddvu8_KLvsKl_egOwrVeAi_dGAf5ItFgxUOPGO-hsmHg/s1200/IMG_3747.WEBP" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEUqp9w4LPBSxEZ0k909YMS3Ag9wK-bA-01HLbnDM673iTXdMIDXlnAKi8mOzsuM3EpVcjvFlRuXXDDWshv5Gvp6OL3-jrp_DOB04_oW2W801nfZIkLuE1XlCageQq5dk-s-lL6ojSJHJY6bddvu8_KLvsKl_egOwrVeAi_dGAf5ItFgxUOPGO-hsmHg/w400-h300/IMG_3747.WEBP" width="400" /></a></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><br /><br /></font></div><font size="4"><strong>The Latest From CNN </strong>(Chicken News Network)<strong>.</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Laurens County, S.C.</strong>---A man and woman authorities called modern “Bonnie and Clyde wannabes” were arrested yesterday after leading deputies on a merry chase in a stolen car which also contained a dog, a cat and four chickens. Authorities said that while deputies were on routine patrol, a black Honda sedan with an expired tag blasted through a Gray Court intersection with feathers flying out the windows. <em>“There was loud clucking,” </em>stated Officer Farrel Byrd, <em>“and the car was traveling at inconsistent speeds and changing lanes left and right.”</em> </font></p><p><font size="4">Lauren County police have jailed the pair on charges of theft of a vehicle, reckless driving and contributing to the delinquency of a chicken.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Uttar Pradesh, India</strong>---A large number of chickens were stolen after a lorry transporting the birds crashed on a highway in Uttar Pradesh recently. The accident occurred amid foggy weather conditions in several parts of the country and left dozens of vehicles damaged in the process.</font></p><p><font size="4">After the crash, commuters reportedly began looting chickens from the wounded lorry instead of helping the injured driver. Video footage captured by a chicken supporter clearly showed the faces of the thieves as they hastily grabbed the defenseless birds and bundled them in sacks. The chickens were worth nearly two hundred fifty thousand rupees, which seems like a lot for chickens. <em>“I am devastated,” </em>said the driver, who wishes to remain nameless. <em>“This is a great loss of profits to me and my family.” </em>Asked by a BBC reporter what the damages would be in euros, the victim said, <em>“I don’t know how to translate that. But I can tell you it’s not chickenshit.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>United Kingdom</strong>---Dumb clucks? We think not! According to a study published in <em>Royal Society Open Science, </em>the key to interpreting the moods of chickens---and nobody wants a moody one---can be tuning in to the sounds of their calls and clucks. Suppose, for instance, your chicken has just been jilted by a calloused boyfriend, lost all her money in the futures market or misplaced her Taylor Swift CDs. How is a simple poultry farmer to know?</font></p><p><font size="4">The <em>RSOS </em>scientists played audio recordings of hens to 194 participants in their study and 69% could tell the difference between excited birds (those about to get a treat) and displeased birds (those who weren’t) based only on the audio recordings alone. <em>“Chickens have swear words, too,” </em>claimed one of the study volunteers. Joerg Henning, co-author of the study, said in a press release, “<em>This provides confidence that people in animal husbandry can identify the emotional state of the birds they look after even with no prior chicken experience.” </em>Starting with a simple understanding of happiness or disappointment, researchers will probe deeper into clucking in an attempt to discover how a hen feels when the veterinarian’s office doesn’t return a phone call or when her rooster is caught having phone sex.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“If we know these secrets,” </em>says Henning,<em> “we can establish better bird health, minimize divorces and put a few chicken shrinks out of business.” </em>So the next time you hear a little fracas going on in the barnyard, rush out with your notebook, a pencil and a sympathetic ear. Try to learn a few clucking nouns and verbs. Strive to determine if it’s still <em>“i before e except after c” </em>and whether an adverb can still modify a verb, an adjective or another adverb. And always remember, <em>“Alone, we can do so little; together, we can do so much.” </em>Helen Keller, a noted chicken fancier, said that.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9zU7T8yw_zzThUmdu_u1je93ejoohaUSwiPH369E4beMqgKQdAazCkI-kRW9FQ7043fQWxI7QLvqKzmA4wbho1OVf4rF5SG24mfq6rRjrT5iS-wQV1g1dh16MYB_bjN5xtdg1QtlJsh6lRKFSFA9rXAyOXZ8kG8ZlmX6wDadaWrPvcVn3uBjlN2ZvQsw/s360/IMG_3779.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="360" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9zU7T8yw_zzThUmdu_u1je93ejoohaUSwiPH369E4beMqgKQdAazCkI-kRW9FQ7043fQWxI7QLvqKzmA4wbho1OVf4rF5SG24mfq6rRjrT5iS-wQV1g1dh16MYB_bjN5xtdg1QtlJsh6lRKFSFA9rXAyOXZ8kG8ZlmX6wDadaWrPvcVn3uBjlN2ZvQsw/w400-h400/IMG_3779.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><strong><font size="4">Important Chicken Facts</font></strong></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1.---Chickens invented the pecking order</strong>. The social structure of flocks depends on a hierarchy, which is an order of dominance. All chickens know their place in this order and it helps to maintain a stable, cohesive group.</font> </p><p><font size="4"><strong>2.---Eggshell color can be determined by the hen’s earlobe.</strong> That’s why there are brown eggs, ecru eggs and the occasional purple and gold eggs at Easter time. Generally, hens with red earlobes will lay brown eggs and hens with white earlobes will lay white eggs, although there are exceptions. The nutritional content and flavor of the eggs is the same.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>3.---Chickens know their own names. </strong>Not only that, but they know the names of all the other chickens around them. “Barnie” and “Benedicta” are popular chicken names.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>4---Some chickens sleep with their eyes open.</strong> Chickens who draw the short straw will take up positions at the ends of the perches and sleep with open eyes and will turn 180 degrees to allow the other side of their brains to sleep. Chickens in the middle sleep with their eyes closed.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>5.---You can tell if your chicken loves you. </strong>If your chicken relaxes enough to groom or preen itself by your side, consider yourself loved. Same goes for when they allow you to brush and groom them. Chickens only allow those they trust to be around them during these vulnerable moments. <em>Never </em>tickle your chicken. It’s a deal-breaker.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>6.---Chickens like to jump into their hotrods and drive straight at other chickens.</strong> The driver who veers out of the way first is called “Human,” which is highly insulting. When the inevitable collision occurs now and then (especially in redneck areas), the result is called “Dinner.”</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-z6LlEHn7Yg7MU3AE1hQZI8fCbEJuQSPgkZKIsqnEaBP7Mw6Z9CenorIcraUZMIk_Ff8hX72KJqYTqIWXHvJppJYhaGcUpHIYwGGkdGh_6n8difvCsCQa9GDXtgjSCGXXSafLJFzg6X-0Q67519szznpWWCB3oEYx49J2YXsnIO8NKWGDqXNy7WBWmo/s900/IMG_3788.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="900" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-z6LlEHn7Yg7MU3AE1hQZI8fCbEJuQSPgkZKIsqnEaBP7Mw6Z9CenorIcraUZMIk_Ff8hX72KJqYTqIWXHvJppJYhaGcUpHIYwGGkdGh_6n8difvCsCQa9GDXtgjSCGXXSafLJFzg6X-0Q67519szznpWWCB3oEYx49J2YXsnIO8NKWGDqXNy7WBWmo/w400-h250/IMG_3788.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong style="font-size: large;">Chicken, Alaska. It Takes A Lickin’ But Keeps On Tickin’.</strong></div><p><font size="4"><em>“But I’ve seen it all in a small town, had myself a ball in a small town…---</em>John Mellencamp</font></p><p><font size="4">Well, maybe not <em>this</em> small. The official population of Chicken, Alaska is currently 12, but the good news is that’s up 5 citizens from the last census. The actual year-round population is closer to two or three dozen, which includes missionaries and people who got lost in the snow. There isn’t any electricity in Chicken so you have to have your own generator. There are also no public toilets, but there is a decorous outhouse. Mail delivery is a spiffy twice a week and <em>Fedex </em>is just a rumor. If, for some reason, you’d like to <em>go</em> to Chicken, the bad news is it’s six hours from Fairbanks down a small road, which is closed from October to March when the white stuff piles up. The dirt lane heading into town is best traversed by a sturdy vehicle with giant tires. Chicken is close to the border near Yukon, Canada, so a surprising number of bold adventurers driving from Dawson City into Alaska on the Top of the World Highway actually pass through there.</font></p><p><font size="4">Though Chicken is certainly remote, business picks up in summer when miners and other visitors come to town. There’s even an RV park and an 800-meter shoestring airport. <em>“I personally counted over 100 people one weekend last July,” </em>reports an excited long-term resident named Joseph Blaugh. Metropolitan Chicken actually covers 115 square miles.</font></p><p><font size="4">There are businesses in Chicken, but not many. You’ll definitely want to stop in at the gift shop to purchase a t-shirt which boasts, <em>“There’s not a single mosquito in Chicken, Alaska….they’re all married and have large families.”</em> Believe it or not, there is a music festival in June of each year called (of course) <strong>Chickenstock</strong>, where all the natives show up in whatever weird attire is handy. Mick Jagger will not be appearing this year but an Edgar Winter knockoff band is on the card and Ice-T will be rapping a blue streak.</font></p><p><font size="4">Right, you want to know about the name. Seems that in the late 1800s, gold miners in the area kept themselves alive by eating vast amounts of ptarmigan, now the Alaska state bird. When Chicken became incorporated in 1902, the locals wanted to call the town Ptarmigan, in honor of lunch, but nobody knew how to spell it, thus “Chicken.”</font></p><p><font size="4">By the way, if you’re so inclined, the entire town of Chicken is for sale, lock, stock and outhouse for a mere $750,000. We’d have a go at it ourselves but all our money is tied up in Deadhorse.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_KygIuUM7SWsMCHFHOdYUh9MFQQokldYmMRSOlS2Z2CUqGJqzbg9SkV4h2JHVebVtgSsJx9db5ti0vJeiMfCokt42mID2sPpVDe1MPBMpnnGQpic1rkxAIyWdxXTG-qbTbXCGXCIvgDcIcv2QjpbUtN5fQnqcoNX8v6fE6WjIHZBovdJWXmYg8dJ26NU/s640/IMG_3759.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="640" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_KygIuUM7SWsMCHFHOdYUh9MFQQokldYmMRSOlS2Z2CUqGJqzbg9SkV4h2JHVebVtgSsJx9db5ti0vJeiMfCokt42mID2sPpVDe1MPBMpnnGQpic1rkxAIyWdxXTG-qbTbXCGXCIvgDcIcv2QjpbUtN5fQnqcoNX8v6fE6WjIHZBovdJWXmYg8dJ26NU/w400-h265/IMG_3759.JPG" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></font><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That’s all, folks….</span></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-31535817706659679752024-02-01T06:08:00.000-05:002024-02-01T06:08:26.301-05:00Tales Of Mexico, Chapter One—“I Wanna Go Back To My Little Grass Shack In Zihuatanejo.”<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiuQ4fREDUR4StLJjTNZ5LiyGgKRrQSL0T-iXKzpPOaaoyx2-9OsVh0B0x2Yr3SDbl2fFSjFNuHQiVQoXHWY7JARv0ZaIwquciZos80nU2iCD4127ZxNGsrlq4VnjRyvfXBXrPVoLQjzjL2-eOr18dYBpX5LsvMPbQQrB4anpNZvYfjRwSsrXTjJxu6P0/s612/IMG_3727.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiuQ4fREDUR4StLJjTNZ5LiyGgKRrQSL0T-iXKzpPOaaoyx2-9OsVh0B0x2Yr3SDbl2fFSjFNuHQiVQoXHWY7JARv0ZaIwquciZos80nU2iCD4127ZxNGsrlq4VnjRyvfXBXrPVoLQjzjL2-eOr18dYBpX5LsvMPbQQrB4anpNZvYfjRwSsrXTjJxu6P0/w640-h426/IMG_3727.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ah, for the days when Mexico was a safe and friendly playground for wandering American lunatics….a land where the prices were cheap, the livin’ was easy and nobody ever heard of the Sinaloa Cartel. Hippies flooded the state of Michoacan looking for grass and the hinterlands of Oaxaca searching for sacred mushrooms, encamped on the beach at sleepy Zihuatanejo, sought out little onyx pipes in Puebla and climbed the mystic pyramids of Uxmal and Chichen Itza. If anybody got arrested, they paid their way out of the Mexicali jail with fifty bucks, a rose and a </span><em style="font-size: large;">Baby Ruth.</em><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><p></p><p><font size="4">Mexico was greatly romanticized in the books of an American writer with a Mexican name, Carlos Castaneda, who told dubious but best-selling tales of his training in shamanism under the tutelage of a Yaqui Man of Knowledge called don Juan Matus, who was just a smidge too perfect for savvy readers. When <em>The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge</em> was published by the University of California Press in 1968, it was labeled a work of anthropology but is now generally considered a book of fiction, although not by my ex-wife Harolyn, who was ready to pitch a tent at don Juan’s door.</font></p><p><font size="4">My first visit to Mexico was a mere two-day stopover in the border town of Nuevo Laredo with the unlikely trifecta of Gilbert Shelton, Karen K. Kirkland and Janis Joplin in the summer of 1962. Karen had a sturdy <em>Range Rover, </em>the better to traffic what unseemly roads one might encounter south of the border. I can readily recall being immediately surrounded by a brigade of tiny salestots hawking <em>Chiclets </em>and shoelaces<em> </em>as soon as we crossed the watery divide. We didn’t avail ourselves of their services but we did employ an older kid to watch the car (50 cents) while we went in for <em>cervezas. </em>He bragged that noone had ever jacked a vehicle up and stolen the tires on his watch. Good to know.</font></p><p><font size="4">The girls chose a tavern with outdoor seating and Shelton went off to purchase the beers. We were alone in the early afternoon except for one table occupied by a quartet of feisty-looking characters in their late teens, one of whom took a liking to Karen, eyballed her and made a comment. Not a girl for nonsense, Ms. Kirkland replied, <em>“Specious asses!” </em>I think they got the “asses” part and were less than amused. Janis looked at me with concern. <em>“Oh-oh!” </em>she said.</font></p><p><font size="4">Just as one of the offended party was rising from his chair, Gilbert returned with the beers, smiling and speaking in Spanish to the offended table on his way back, totally oblivious to the preceding hostilities. They replied in kind and the ringleader sat back down, pacified. The rest of us exhaled and Janis smiled in relief. <em>“The Lone Ranger rides again!” </em>she said. Good thing, too, because Tonto wasn’t carrying. </font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQYVUsNFotXK7lB2T_UI_4VxO9615V1tKgH6WZ_US8j4AzTri9Hj5-8mK88QBeKdKsLrCiTVfeps18oivXGgQ2ofEx9vuOM8lUjN1OIKt0Cf3-Yq8c5U2mMvjJRGAyxkk2ZyPTs3iwo_zYquG9pbjaGn_wjRvsfu_erwNMaca5_coemmP5yXI1NrhTihY" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQYVUsNFotXK7lB2T_UI_4VxO9615V1tKgH6WZ_US8j4AzTri9Hj5-8mK88QBeKdKsLrCiTVfeps18oivXGgQ2ofEx9vuOM8lUjN1OIKt0Cf3-Yq8c5U2mMvjJRGAyxkk2ZyPTs3iwo_zYquG9pbjaGn_wjRvsfu_erwNMaca5_coemmP5yXI1NrhTihY=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Nuevo Laredo</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><font size="4"><br /><strong>Silver Threads And Golden Retrievers</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Two years after the <em>Subterranean Circus </em>opened, we bought the building next door, spent a small fortune renovating it and opened <em>Silver City, </em>which featured the clothing and jewelry we no longer had room for at the <em>Circus. </em>We bought most of our accessories at the twice-a-year National Boutique Show in Manhattan, where one of the exhibitors regaled us with the wonders of Mexico, particularly <strong>Taxco</strong>, a city built over and around hundreds of Mexican silver mines. Harolyn and I decided to go there to see what we could see. We took $2000 in travelers checks and another $2000 in cash, which we converted into a wheelbarrow full of pesos in Mexico City. I was stuffing multicolored bills in all my pockets, socks, underwear and bodily orifices and still had plenty left over. I felt like Scrooge McDuck.</font></p><p><font size="4">The distance from Mexico City to Taxco was only about 80 miles but our <em>Estrella de Oro </em>bus took all morning to get there on the winding, hilly roads. Evidence of the quirky driving conditions was all around us as we rode, mainly at the bottom of steep cliffs where once-proud vehicles rested in rusting pieces. We finally arrived at our pleasant-looking downtown hotel, which turned out to be right across the street from the loudest bar in the city. If you like your lullabies concocted with mariachi music, this is the place for you. We moved to a quiet-looking hilltop hotel as far from the main zocalo as possible, congratulating ourselves on our cleverness. But only until the late hours brought a divine chorus of hundreds of baying and barking dogs discussing the brilliance of the Taxco full moon. <em>Ay, caramba! </em>Talk about your Sleepless in Sonora.<em> </em></font></p><p><font size="4">Business was good, though. One of our contacts put out the word to relatives that Santa was in town and the next morning there was an ever-lengthening line of ladies at the relatives’ door, all anxious to show us their fine home-made goods. Each lady who came to the table had a little bag containing either rings, bracelets, necklaces or earrings, whichever was her specialty, all priced to sell at ridiculously low figures, and our pile of colored cash began to diminish. By the end of the day, we were down to the travelers checks, which were eyed with suspicion and required the approval of a waddling Big Daddy to pass muster. We left before dinner, waving goodbye to the growing number of folks visiting to watch the upcoming news on the lone TV set in the neighborhood, making our way between the roaming pigs and chickens and nodding goodbye to the lovely portraits of Jesus and JFK on the wall.</font> <font size="4">High above the quieting streets of the lazy town, perched in doorways and windows and yards littered with Mexican detritus, the dogs of night were waiting.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZoWx5O72bacn8ufAj6167Sq91wttr3jLdubcsAyOq413eQ3xxvOrhMIB1k9RJRl6u6jM_PXS-uiTowkOFlxMjzfgzBattOQjfKQKuBP6c-YctLtmTs-ug4FVKVz9YV9DZIiHPjHdv7_kguIG8vnN1chsfBeIcoMZ6vWGn3GxEvoj2MowBfViubklza0A" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="256" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZoWx5O72bacn8ufAj6167Sq91wttr3jLdubcsAyOq413eQ3xxvOrhMIB1k9RJRl6u6jM_PXS-uiTowkOFlxMjzfgzBattOQjfKQKuBP6c-YctLtmTs-ug4FVKVz9YV9DZIiHPjHdv7_kguIG8vnN1chsfBeIcoMZ6vWGn3GxEvoj2MowBfViubklza0A=w320-h400" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Taxco</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><font size="4"><br /><strong>Take Me For A Ride In Your Car Car.</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Puebla, Mexico is the onyx capital of the civilized world. You want it, they got it. Onyx dope pipes, onyx ashtrays, onyx chess sets, onyx Chrysler convertibles….and all for bargain prices. Harolyn and I made our made our way down to the little onyx marketplace, haggled a bit (it’s expected, play along) and found a willing seller. While we had lunch, the happy merchants boxed up our stuff and dollied it down to the nearby bus station. It was almost too smooth to be a Mexican transaction we thought correctly.</font></p><p><font size="4">The generalissimo at the bus station, nattily attired in full military dress, promptly advised us we could not take all of our eighteen large boxes on the bus back to Mexico City. Why not? <em>“Not enough room.”</em></font></p><p><em><font size="4">“So how many can we take?”</font></em></p><p><em><font size="4">“Uno.”</font></em></p><p><em><font size="4">“WHAT?!?</font></em></p><p><em><font size="4">“Uno.”</font></em></p><p><em><font size="4">“What about the rest of them?”</font></em></p><p><em><font size="4">“Each bus, one.”</font></em></p><p><font size="4">What’s a poor gringo to do? After berating the Mexican rules of shipping and pointing out the threat to international relations, not to mention man’s inhumanity to man, the deadlock stood; the answer was still <em>“uno.” </em>There were no airline flights out of Puebla, the train schedule was ridiculous and it would take eighteen buses several days to deliver our stuff. Then I remembered the old taxi slogan, <em>“The thinking fellow calls a yellow.” </em>Ah, salvation lurks!</font></p><p><font size="4">Now I don’t want to say the cab fleet in Puebla bordered on the junkyard dog category but you would not be putting your aging grandmother in one of these shabby antiques without checking her will. The taxis, however, had one fetching quality---they were very available and hungry for business. We negotiated a deal with one eager beaver and began loading up, noting a spiffily-dressed policeman nearby who seemed to take too much interest in our antics. As the trunk filled and the rear end of the vehicle sunk almost to the street, the cop tapped the fender with his baton. With a remorseful look on his face at the loss of the pending sale of the day, the driver forlornly walked up to us. <em>“He says it is too heavy,” </em>the cabbie mourned.</font></p><p><font size="4">And he was right. The taxi, weak of tire tread and suspect of radiator, would never finish the two hour trip. This was obviously a job for <em>two </em>cabs and our driver quickly rustled up a brother-in-arms. To protect our property, Harolyn and I would ride in separate cabs, less than a thrilling prospect for her. <em>“How much do you think I’m worth on the white slaver market?” </em>she asked. I told her not to worry, we’d keep her in sight and if her cabbie tried to drive off I could probably catch him on foot with all the weight he was carrying. Her worries about wifenapping dissolved into hysterical laughter when the radiator blew up halfway to Mexico City. Sometimes all you can do is laugh.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhn6PeALe0qEhnJKcetSkjrx-ryL8Ya6430pQ4jERO-sXhPcK4MCVT1QbbGBLijbBaY8waGy2RR40I0QypmgY0lRUizNLTtFO-2dNhGDXCduEPojGglfOXIAuEqWaKdPTpcWF1aiQdS2-Fitn_Nzh3N4ZAU5nCudWy3PRxxbc9mmN1GuVFQMAXdxfhHufE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhn6PeALe0qEhnJKcetSkjrx-ryL8Ya6430pQ4jERO-sXhPcK4MCVT1QbbGBLijbBaY8waGy2RR40I0QypmgY0lRUizNLTtFO-2dNhGDXCduEPojGglfOXIAuEqWaKdPTpcWF1aiQdS2-Fitn_Nzh3N4ZAU5nCudWy3PRxxbc9mmN1GuVFQMAXdxfhHufE=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Everyone Loves A Parade. Well, Almost Everyone.</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">There being zero <em>policia</em> in the middle of nowhere to disagree, we loaded the merchandise from the wounded taxi into the remaining sound vehicle and puttered on to the Mexico City airport where we stashed the stuff in lockers. Alas, the airport hotel, despite our reservations, had given away our room. <em>“We thought you weren’t coming. It’s two a.m.” </em>the manager said. <em>“I can get you a room in Zona Rosa (downtown).” </em>Do your best we told him. Within an hour we were ensconced on the fifth floor of a very nice hostelry. Worn out by the long and frustrating day, we crashed immediately, planning to remain abed until ten since we had a late flight. What’s that they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men? In Mexico, where “awry” is a leading adverb, you can bet on it.</font></p><p><font size="4">Somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 a.m., Harolyn spoke from her stupor. <em>“Bill, I think I hear music. Tell me I’m crazy so I can go back to sleep.” </em>Barely conscious, covers over my ears, I could hear nothing, nor did I want to. <em>“You’re dreaming, </em>I said, dismissively.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“No…it’s very faint, but it’s band music. Listen, it’s getting a little louder.” </em>Damned if it wasn’t. In moments like this, your brain strains to contemplate the situation but without much luck. Brass band music at five in the morning is an impossibility in your experience. Who would create it, where would it come from? I struggled to the window, pulled back the curtain and watched in amazement as several groups of uniformed marchers….nurses, boy scouts, bus drivers, etc., all crisp in their little parade garb….marched around the square, a new subgroup meshing into the parade each time it circled. They were practicing for the gigantic upcoming <em>Cinco de Mayo </em>Independence Day parade before everyone had to go to work.</font></p><p><font size="4">Despite my brainfog, I was reduced to snickering, then outright laughter. Harolyn got up and joined in. It was then and there that we realized that to survive in this culture we had to go back to square one, revamp all our previous knowledge and learn to <strong>Think Like A Mexican</strong>. It became our credo, our heart’s desire, the first thing we thought of when we woke up in the morning, the last we considered at the end of the day. We would come back to this country and fit in like peas in a <em>vaina</em>, I promised her.<em> </em>Just watch us in chapter Two.</font></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvKISoK_Gm2ZN6ERaE3yapWsLIz3Bt6wU0gCzeWaNta9htzYNZHlto9Exr4ayUa_UCIAMkGtLd8Rx72_AqrlRSYSjJ-23YoLx73MEqcGue6c5lFwzq_555e-POmjq21IYfGdZ7LxDnTQ6XUz71Zuo65lmtIq3jl0TBa8Bh_n4MNYxwfznhdxByn08SC6g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvKISoK_Gm2ZN6ERaE3yapWsLIz3Bt6wU0gCzeWaNta9htzYNZHlto9Exr4ayUa_UCIAMkGtLd8Rx72_AqrlRSYSjJ-23YoLx73MEqcGue6c5lFwzq_555e-POmjq21IYfGdZ7LxDnTQ6XUz71Zuo65lmtIq3jl0TBa8Bh_n4MNYxwfznhdxByn08SC6g=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a></font> </p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"> </font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><em><font size="4"><br /></font></em></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-91993694138581084742024-01-25T06:23:00.000-05:002024-01-25T06:23:18.564-05:00Previews Of Coming Attractions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzq7S4IQkKTagD0whC9V2cWDNGEExIRZogW6bJAWg5aVa0a-DfLXkvMahl5wKmj_ZkGMpyYsM8XT-QEXizLJ0r_TtmYkFlbrmw9IpPMpCYoo6ruwnfBXTq6Sw3ErLPV297NlHFSN-0G5BowbZk5_uEFqW3IRJHHr59O-KRcnYBoJeUatbgGHVWgsE-RI/s612/IMG_3709.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzq7S4IQkKTagD0whC9V2cWDNGEExIRZogW6bJAWg5aVa0a-DfLXkvMahl5wKmj_ZkGMpyYsM8XT-QEXizLJ0r_TtmYkFlbrmw9IpPMpCYoo6ruwnfBXTq6Sw3ErLPV297NlHFSN-0G5BowbZk5_uEFqW3IRJHHr59O-KRcnYBoJeUatbgGHVWgsE-RI/w640-h426/IMG_3709.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><font size="4">Every week <em>The Flying Pie </em>hears from readers who want to know <em>“Where have all the hippies gone?” </em>Not quite gone to graveyards, every one, but it’s a disturbing trend. A diligent search, of course, will find nests of hippies in Eugene, Oregon or Girdwood, Alaska or even plucky Burlington, Vermont, but it’s nothing like the days of yore when brilliant tie-dyed armies filled Golden Gate Park and Greenwich Village and a million other little edens, rolling their joints, gobbling down their sprouted grains, swaying to the Grateful Dead and sleeping with one another’s husbands and wives. Try to remember the kind of September when life was slow and oh, so mellow.</font></p><p><font size="4">We are not so naive as to think the country will some day wake up and rise as one to recreate the glory days of hippiedom, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a special place full of psychedelia, sixties music, crash pads and blacklight rooms. Do you realize that right this very minute there are scores of islands off the Florida coast selling for prices just north of $250,000? Maybe we can coax Richard Allen and Hoch Shitama to buy one and turn it into <strong>Golden Gate Park East</strong>, liberally stocked with sandalmakers, juice bars with meditation rooms, $15 lids and the Fillmore South. Communes could grow food for the islanders and visitors, who would sail over in droves to view the last remnants of the 1960s and buy posters of Frank Zappa sitting on a porcelain throne. People these days are so nuts about getting on ocean liners, the boat industry even has Cruises to Nowhere. How great would it be to take a trip on that old gospel ship and go sailing right over to Hippieland, where the girls wear tiny halter tops and transparent angel dresses and you can buy a tab of speedless, highly refined acid for a sawbuck? A descendant of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi would be available for life counseling, mornings would feature free yoga on the beach and there would be a bonfire and protest demonstration every night about something. You never run out of things to protest, right? We’ll need a mayor, of course, but last we heard Wavy Gravy wasn’t busy. And, of course, there’s always Cheech or Chong.</font></p><p><font size="4">Deep in December, our hearts should remember and follow, follow, follow…. </font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqGRLWTM3MW-kli5PGKXkNmib6q_LYZK8LhE5JXN7Yo9DeH7mVHOVftVjNRB3eBkNQUXBfq5ManTBdLFV8qnb3vawVph26A79EZaFCYLI4FVRPLRGM9bi0L4_8OhSlvTi5Po2msD_5ZlhI_ThCDQiw-PtKwEEcSeYv0Oznc_XuepaOLybmttUA0DejqMk" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="320" height="339" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqGRLWTM3MW-kli5PGKXkNmib6q_LYZK8LhE5JXN7Yo9DeH7mVHOVftVjNRB3eBkNQUXBfq5ManTBdLFV8qnb3vawVph26A79EZaFCYLI4FVRPLRGM9bi0L4_8OhSlvTi5Po2msD_5ZlhI_ThCDQiw-PtKwEEcSeYv0Oznc_XuepaOLybmttUA0DejqMk=w400-h339" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>A walk in the woods. A very LONG walk.<br /><br /></b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"></font></div><font size="4"><strong>Val-deri, Val-dera!</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><em>“I love to go a-wandering along the mountain track, And as I go, I love to sing, my knapsack on my back!”---</em>Stan Haag</font></p><p><font size="4">As the Spring equinox approaches, intrepid hikers Gina Hawkins and Richard Rahall are packing up their cares and woes, here they goes, winging low, bye-bye blackbird.</font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Hawkins and Rahall are heading for Springer Mountain and the daunting Appalachian Trail, 2190 miles of fun, frolic, cussing and throwing things. A typical thru-hiker takes five to seven months to reach the terminus at Mount Katahdin in Maine, first timers about six months. Only one in four trekkers make it all the way but Gina says neither rain nor sleet nor moose poop on the trail will stay these adventurers from the eventual completion of their appointed rounds. As we all know, talk is cheap. Hiking the entire A.T. is a grueling task requiring extraordinary physical and mental stamina and determination. The terrain is mountainous for its entire length with an elevation gain and loss---get this---<em>equivalent to hiking Mt. Everest and back <strong>sixteen times</strong>!</em></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Oh, and there are bears, big ones less friendly than Yogi, and bear encounters with hikers are on the rise. <em>“Excuse me kind sir, but you got any spare ham?” </em>Or <em>“Put down the bear spray, Sonny, or I’ll skwush you like a grape.” </em>The highest population of black bears on the trail is in the Shenandoahs, the Smokies and New Jersey, believe it or not. Black bears love berries, mice and whatever they can steal from hikers, like the occasional ear. The common advice given when encountering a bear (if the animal is stationary) is to move away slowly, going sideways. Personally, we have had good success with doing the Super Bowl Shuffle, which either confuses the bear or makes him smile. Under <em>no </em>circumstances should you run. A bear can run as fast as a racehorse uphill and down, whereas you can run as fast as a chihuahua.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Now Richard Rahall is a sturdy marathon runner with obvious stamina, mental toughness and a steely determination. But Gina is…well…not. <em>“Yeah, but I’ve got a suitcase full of Tylenol, good shoes and some strong whiskey,” </em>she beams. We’ll see. We asked Ms. Hawkins what happens if she falters and Richard wants to carry on. Does she rent a car, hit the <em>Sonic Drive-Ins </em>and rush to trail overpasses to drop Rahall double-bacon cheeseburgers from above, like Charley’s wife in the song “<em>Charlie and the MTA?” </em>She says she’s good if someone just pushes her across the starting line like a reluctant paratrooper. In any case, we need her to get on with it. If she starts out on March 19, she has almost two months to hike, have fun, fall into a gorge, recover, get cleaned up and report to the <em>Hogtown Opry </em>with a smile on her face. Either way, she’s still our hero.</font></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimuYKl4QnVXaslegdd2i5RkXEqSkKRyWLXira-3XAbYsGdk3OtMPPKQ8Z3YlQsTT0BD-zCjWq60ghOCw0fA4FQ3zQ7S-FgqxCo_Wgpa3HuPRtj0jC5LV4exs71jno0XPJuXqltQjkwpyBz1WaeqnzLVkbbIdDSHPQOg2w_Kv2sw4jspaqRh_bbDhaDkL8" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="214" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimuYKl4QnVXaslegdd2i5RkXEqSkKRyWLXira-3XAbYsGdk3OtMPPKQ8Z3YlQsTT0BD-zCjWq60ghOCw0fA4FQ3zQ7S-FgqxCo_Wgpa3HuPRtj0jC5LV4exs71jno0XPJuXqltQjkwpyBz1WaeqnzLVkbbIdDSHPQOg2w_Kv2sw4jspaqRh_bbDhaDkL8=w268-h400" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Tell her Randall sent you.</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>Take A Walk On The Wild Side</strong></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Berkshire Hathaway Travel Protection, a bunch of sissies, is out with its newest list of the safest destinations in the world to visit. Boring old Canada is first, sleepy Switzerland second and freezing Norway third. Don’t get us wrong, all of them are easy to look at and delightful to hold but their hills are alive with the sounds of snoring. If you want to inject a little action into your life, <em>The Flying Pie </em>has a few suggestions.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>1.—Bring your taco truck to Gaza.</strong> Plenty of business, no competition and the rare opportunity to see the rocket’s red glare, bombs bursting in air. Oh sure, every so often one lands nearby and there goes the neighborhood, but just move the truck down the road and you’re back in business.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>2.---Search for a lovely wife in war-torn Ukraine. </strong>The girls can’t wait to get out of there and your local competition is diminishing by the day. It’s no secret that Ukrainian women are among the world’s most attractive, even with all the department store cosmetics departments closed for repair. If you’re low on self-confidence, remember one of these women actually married Randall Roffe.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>3.---Open the first McDonald’s Franchise in North Korea. </strong>Nothing against rice plates, kimchi and chuk (porridge) but can you imagine eating that stuff all the time like the weary residents of Pyongyang do? Hook up with Dennis Rodman or Michael Jordan and set up a meeting with basketball-crazy Kim Jon Un and you’ll be selling quarter-pounders and large fries in no time. No Ronald McDonald, though. Kim thinks all clowns are spies, and he’s right.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>4.---Start up the first coaster park in Ethiopia. </strong>Did you know there’s not a single roller coaster in Ethiopia? Not a one! Even North Korea has roller coasters, for crying out loud. As of 2021, there were <strong>120.3 MILLION </strong>coaster-starved people in Ethiopia just champing at the bit for a little upside-down action. No Dodgems, either. Yeah, we know, there’s a little civil unrest in the country but you get that even in Manitoba now and then. No pain, no gain, right?</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQ3cgRpELHPxGjVTE7THWFVEnC5Jcw-POFmvS1-aR_fBK9zBGzi2kY4ZqRmWCO539D6Hkk2BZG_oVINAarT4ceQ01n6xHTLucFrrntxHgP4aAlleKNww2yt9eRi_xhYv88ew-MgyN-CvCmWll0mDEYthdR7QqeOPkuwX9eV-LdBfSQQwu2jUHJ94Dy3j4" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQ3cgRpELHPxGjVTE7THWFVEnC5Jcw-POFmvS1-aR_fBK9zBGzi2kY4ZqRmWCO539D6Hkk2BZG_oVINAarT4ceQ01n6xHTLucFrrntxHgP4aAlleKNww2yt9eRi_xhYv88ew-MgyN-CvCmWll0mDEYthdR7QqeOPkuwX9eV-LdBfSQQwu2jUHJ94Dy3j4=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Bridge over troubled waters</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></div><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /><strong>You’re Leaving, On A Jet Plane</strong></font></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><em>“Summer is icumen in, laud sing doowah!” ---</em>Lieuen Adkins</font></font></p><p><font size="4">Is this the year you finally boot yourself in the hunkers, get on the phone and buy you some tickets to Yorba Linda? If you’re the kid who always puts his pencil down and goes to sleep when the teacher asks for essays about your summer vacation, don’t you think it’s time to snap out of your coma and Go West, Young Man (or woman or combo)? If you ever wanted to leave your heart in San Francisco, your money in Vegas or your husband in Puckerbrush, this could be your last chance before dotage sets in. The options are endless west of The Big Muddy and <em>The Flying Pie </em>is here to steer you right.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1—San Diego to San Francisco in 12 days. </strong>While nobody was looking, 1.3 million people decided to live in San Diego. Go see why. Then drive up the coast to dazzling <strong>Laguna Beach</strong>, home of 100+ art galleries and some of the country’s most acclaimed art festivals. Laguna is a free-spirited town with a great beach, inspiring coastal views, free tram transportation for miles and a nice vibe. Stop in at Jack Gordon’s place in Laguna Hills and he’ll give you a beer and ply you with Red Sox propaganda for ten hours straight.</font></p><p><font size="4">After that it’s on to the <strong>Venice boardwalk</strong>, a little seedier than it used to be but still fun, especially if you enjoy opportunities to buy marijuana-related products, haunt trinket shops and contribute to the support of trashed-out derelicts. There’s nobody left doing biceps curls at Muscle Beach, but you can start a revival. Keep your wallet in a side pocket.</font></p><p><font size="4">From there, it’s just a short hop up the road to the world-famous <strong>Santa Monica Pier</strong> and the terminus of good old Route 66. The Pier was constructed in 1909, the first concrete pier on the West Coast, and quickly gained a reputation as the top fishing spot in the area. Where else can you stick your line in the water while you ride the roller coaster and have dinner? The place is full of young lovers, street artists and wackos of the first order, so bring your video camera and get ready to smile.</font></p><p><font size="4">Next, it’s on to funky <strong>Cambria </strong>and its faithful Indian companion <strong>Moonstone Beach</strong>. This can be your base camp for checking out the nearby <strong>Hearst Castle<em> </em></strong>and/or the large elephant seal rookery north of San Simeon. Viewing of the seals is open to the public free of charge, close up and personal from the Elephant Seal Boardwalk. Don’t take Siobhan with you or you’ll be stuck there all afternoon.</font></p><p><font size="4">There are plenty of options on the way, but we’d drive straight to <strong>Sausalito</strong> by way of San Francisco. Sadly, the hippie population in SFO is down to a ragged few and the bum population is soaring, but massive <strong>Golden Gate Park</strong> is still there with its splendid <strong>Japanese Gardens</strong> and Haight Street is open for business and memory-stoking. The ferry is a treat and Alcatraz still draws a crowd if you like that sort of thing. If you go, message Patricia McKennee, who lives on the Sausalito main drag and can’t wait to meet you. Tell her Groucho sent you.</font></p><p><font size="4">If you’d like to extend your California trip, head east to <strong>Yosemite</strong> and perhaps across <strong>Death Valley</strong> to the airport in Las Vegas, but don’t try to do it in 11 days. (2 days in San Diego, 2 days in Laguna, 1 day in Santa Monica, 2 days in Cambria, 4 days in Sausalito/San Francisco.) If you do the add-on, you’ll need at least two or three days in Yosemite, one night at Furnace Creek in Death Valley and another in Las Vegas. The Mandalay Bay is the closest big hotel to the airport. Bring your bankroll, gas isn’t cheap in Cali and neither are the dancing girls.</font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZ7OmR_pyhE4kupiVs3cviXYqpkqQr2SED9JBsr0TaQZv6D6qYnW1WBQbNoRkcejrPwq6AdJAc4UCTOTvstLaVYOdB3expBJ4L2bZiJmIwnqgpD976M8XCLBBJ0GlHallPGfb24ekP5aBI9V1e2j5KuqkqPvCozD0aVnVp96DeHaUb0ynb-CHVwXXHC7M" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZ7OmR_pyhE4kupiVs3cviXYqpkqQr2SED9JBsr0TaQZv6D6qYnW1WBQbNoRkcejrPwq6AdJAc4UCTOTvstLaVYOdB3expBJ4L2bZiJmIwnqgpD976M8XCLBBJ0GlHallPGfb24ekP5aBI9V1e2j5KuqkqPvCozD0aVnVp96DeHaUb0ynb-CHVwXXHC7M=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Room with The View</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>The Arizona-Utah Loop</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Fly into Flagstaff and drive 34 miles west to Williams, Arizona, your base camp for the <strong>Grand Canyon</strong>. It’s a colorful town with reasonably-priced hostelries and there’s a faux gunfight in the street every night, though sadly without Sheriff Will Thacker. The same gang of owlhoots gets on the train next day to amuse riders on the trip to the Canyon and back. Most of you do not want to be there because the slow ride (2 hours and fifteen minutes) is double the driving time and drastically reduces the amount of time you get to spend at The Big Gulch. Moreover it leaves Williams at 9:30 in the busy months and by then you should be well down the Bright Angel Trail. It’s wise to start early in the summer because the rains come in from the west between 1-2 p.m. many days.</font></p><p><font size="4">It’s expensive to stay in a Canyon lodge, but not unreasonable, especially if you plan long hikes or a mule excursion to the <strong>Phantom Ranch</strong> at the bottom of the Canyon, which starts at 6:30 a.m. The mule trip is not for sissies, as it takes 5 1/2 hours to get from top to bottom, where temps in summer are often over 100+ degrees and the sleeping facilities are primitive. Not to mention the requisite saddles for your mount, which are harder to abide than a six-month sentence in a Turkish prison.</font></p><p><font size="4">When you finally climb back out, you’ll want to rush right down to the Amara Spa in lovely <strong>Sedona</strong>, two hours south, where they’ll dust you off, give you a pat on the back and send you on your way with a silly smile on your face. No first trip to Sedona is complete without partaking of the exciting Vortex Tour, where you’ll be driven to seven energy centers by an expert guide who will help you to more deeply connect, relax, focus your mind and heart to achieve balanced energy. If it doesn’t work, you’re not trying hard enough, so no money-back guarantees.</font></p><p><font size="4">When you finally manage to drag yourself away from the the red rock canyons of Sedona, you head north and east across the Utah state line to mind-blowing <strong>Monument Valley</strong>, where you will stay nowhere but the Navajo-owned <strong>View Hotel </strong>(alcohol in your room only). Each room has a balcony that looks out onto a surreal landscape, unchanged in centuries. If you went to Western movies as a tot, you probably saw one made right here; if not, you can watch a film displayed on an outside wall of the building each night. Next day, find a guide in the parking lot who will truck you into the outback in an open-air vehicle for a visit up close and personal with the exotic rock formations. If you can hire a member of one of the families who live in the Valley, all the better. Tip generously.</font></p><p><font size="4">Next, we move south and west to the famous <strong>Antelope Canyon</strong>, near Page, Arizona. You may not recognize the name, but you will the soft sandstone walls brightened by sunlight leaking in from the cracks above. Shaped by millions of years of water and wind erosion, the Canyon was named for the herds of pronghorn sheep which once roamed the area. This is another Navajo property and its headquarters is set up along a main highway where you sign up for the hour of your choice. Eventually, you’ll be loaded up into trucks driven by speed-obsessed maniacs and delivered to your destination in one or more pieces. Your driver will tell you it is not necessary to use your seat belt, but, if you’ll forgive the expression, he is full of shit. Serious lensmen might want to try the Photographers Tour, which is allegedly less crowded. The Navajo guides, despite their need for speed, are very helpful with picture-taking on all the tours and will set you up for some great shots. Even if you can’t sharpen a pencil, you’ll inevitably get primo photos at this magic destination. While you’re in Page, don’t miss the famous Horseshoe Bend on the Colorado River, easy to access from the highway.</font></p><p><font size="4">Head north back across the Utah line to the incredible wonders of <strong>Bryce Canyon</strong>, which is not actually a canyon at all, but rather a collection of giant amphitheaters along the eastern side of the Paunsaugunt Plateau. Basically, you’re going for the distinctive geological structures called hoodoos, formed by frost weathering and stream erosion of the river and lakebed sedimentary rock. These spectacular red, orange and white rocks are only found in Bryce, one of the smaller national parks, which is relatively easy to traverse. The hikes through the hoodoos are moderate, which means an athletic grandma has a chance of making it through the alleys of the Navajo Loop Trail, which takes visitors down from the rim at Sunset Point, through the narrow corridors of Wall Street, past the Silent City and an intersection with Queens Garden, then back up to the rim. On second thought, bring along some shots of adrenaline for Nana.</font></p><p><font size="4">Finally, we’re off to nearby <strong>Zion National Park</strong>, home of the world-famous <strong>Zion Narrows</strong>, always listed as one of the top two or three day-hikes in the country by people who pontificate on such things. It was second in our experience only to the climb through Yosemite to the summit of Half Dome. Only 90 people each<font size="4"> day are allowed permits to walk through all 16 miles of this slot canyon that cuts between 2000 foot cliffs, and reservations are booked months in advance.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">You’ll be walking through the waters of the north fork of the Virgin River, sometimes ankle-deep, occasionally up to your waist, swishing from side to side looking for the easiest passage. Not only are the rocks in the river wet, round and extremely slippery, they are also prone to unpredictable shifting, making walking more challenging. Water shoes with holes and neoprene booties aid in slogging through the river and it’s wise to to rent a large staff to probe your next steps. It’s also a good idea to have a schedule of when you intend to arrive at various points of the hike. Too much resting and lollygagging and you won’t be out by dark, which makes things more interesting than you’d like. There is no alternate way out other than the start at Chamberlain Ranch and the finish at the Temple of Sinawava, so once you’re in, you’re in for the duration. Anyone not fit enough to walk 16 miles in a river bed should abstain. People with sketchy health issues shouldn’t even think about it. Siobhan and I were in the river for about 11 hours, and it was taxing to say the least, but it was also beautiful and invigorating. I did lose 5 pounds in the process but there are easier diets.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">A cute alternative to the trek, and one used by large numbers of Zion visitors, is to enter the Narrows at the finish line and walk as far in as you feel comfortable. That way you’ll know exactly how far you have to go to get back out. Most of these toe-in-the-water folks don’t bother with equipment suggested for the long hike. Zion is also home to the famous <strong>Angel’s Landing </strong>hike up steep grades, slippery edges and dramatic drop-offs. It would be a good way to lose your children if you’re desperate.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">All finished? Okay, it’s back through booming St. George, Utah to Las Vegas and your flight home. If it’s in season and you’re in the mood, you might want to overnight in St. George and drop in to the terrific 1920-seat open-air Tuacahn Amphitheater at the mouth of Padre Canyon to catch one of the professional-quality plays which rotate there throughout the summer. The drive from St. George to the Vegas airport is a mere two hours.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">All further questions about travel west of the Mississippi should be directed to the <strong>Flying Pie Travel Bureau</strong>, a free service for <em>Pie </em>readers and their mobile friends. If you haven’t been west of the mighty Mississip, you ain’t seen nuthin’ yet. Happy trails to you til we meet again.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBdo7H03R_sSYkXGsSOUMGZ1MeUkl_FSSdKceqF1oALFNAVG5bs19mAw0bPEKBd6Zp_mdcCQ1hMSv7bp_5Aj9NFsEuGKTC07D_1pYjwRighLD2bbbSaCjsN88aaOr_4e1QyR5cGn7a9DWh8KjeJokYjfz8xZFL_TiZkq1iT0-_AE_oY8dC0PKNp3shUx4" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="320" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBdo7H03R_sSYkXGsSOUMGZ1MeUkl_FSSdKceqF1oALFNAVG5bs19mAw0bPEKBd6Zp_mdcCQ1hMSv7bp_5Aj9NFsEuGKTC07D_1pYjwRighLD2bbbSaCjsN88aaOr_4e1QyR5cGn7a9DWh8KjeJokYjfz8xZFL_TiZkq1iT0-_AE_oY8dC0PKNp3shUx4=w400-h336" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Who can can like Tuacahn?</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></div><font size="4"><font size="4"><br />That’s all, folks….</font></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">bill.killeen094@gmail.com </font> </font></p><p><font size="4"> <font size="4"> </font></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-31819048109442924572024-01-18T05:33:00.004-05:002024-01-18T09:03:21.750-05:00You’re Dead. Then What?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVQsoFJMRwGk3SCoczThi7gBNq_06_YI3RKaFTE9btLLQa774_PIRGO0kepM-OflkV1MbKpiAhhR18gZCDEVFGYwMXlWsgJkiWqhhW-lMguVkCzYEFlEepIHrEfUgIsoYzKlhNBfVLeuUIZ6gapOEqoHOJvowJbgWKS_dcakrk0JqtLsMJb-i5-Ur0pw/s612/IMG_3669.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="612" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVQsoFJMRwGk3SCoczThi7gBNq_06_YI3RKaFTE9btLLQa774_PIRGO0kepM-OflkV1MbKpiAhhR18gZCDEVFGYwMXlWsgJkiWqhhW-lMguVkCzYEFlEepIHrEfUgIsoYzKlhNBfVLeuUIZ6gapOEqoHOJvowJbgWKS_dcakrk0JqtLsMJb-i5-Ur0pw/w640-h350/IMG_3669.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><font size="4"><em>“When you’re dead, you’re dead.”---</em>Marlene Dietrich</font></p><p><font size="4">About 83% of Americans disagree with Marlene according to a <em>Pew Research Center </em>survey from 2021. When contemplating life after death, 75% of the population believes in Heaven but only 62% in Hell. Respondents who believe in neither were given the opportunity to describe their idea of what the afterlife might be like. Some said it would be a place where one’s spirit, consciousness and/or energy lives on after their physical body has passed away. Others expect to move into an alternate dimension. Many believe they will continue on in some other form. One optimist said “<em>I like to imagine that living in the world we inhabit is like being in a cradle for the soul. We spend our lifetimes learning and growing and in the afterlife we retain all our memories and the lessons we’ve learned and that we continue to exist for a greater purpose that living prepares us for.” </em>And no, that was not from a contestant in the Miss America Contest.</font></p><p><font size="4">The most common view of Heaven is that it’s a place where everyone is free from suffering (73% of believers), where they will be reunited with deceased loved ones (65%), will have perfectly healthy bodies (60%) and can meet God (62%). Imagine that scenario. <em>“Um…howdy, Mr. God, how’s it hangin’?”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">The people who believe in Hell think <em>“It’s a lot like Newark,” </em>or Bike Week in Daytona. That you apply sun-screen lotion every morning and go to work in a desert smeltery. That you are tied to a chair and forced to sit in the first row of a <em>Motorhead</em> concert for two hours. Or that you are tranquilized and made to watch a football game between Georgia and FSU where all the Seminole players are kidnapped and replaced by a sorority all-star team.</font></p><p><font size="4">Frankly, we here at <em>The Flying Pie </em>are a little cynical. Are we all just little toys made for the amusement of some bored creator? Are we like voodoo dolls our maker sticks pins in to watch us wiggle? Is it possible we’re all just part of an elongated Robert Crumb comic strip and nobody’s the wiser? Would that make R. Crumb God? Now <em>that </em>would be something to worry about.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixaJYt0IUTab6BnfchnUvn3maCSXXeTKLd3JRo-lgw_Ca4wiLMp09vT4TmuIEJ19PfxfOFm9dFgOwR3GvKR5XWpwQORhBLIBQ1dFlp6N0u-GTLThuvFU7ij51z8aS2ADndTuG2y1AgNOkptGkwlYtynNXqf4THWmuSsluEyFXKeot2WjxbqijVR4TxCTM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixaJYt0IUTab6BnfchnUvn3maCSXXeTKLd3JRo-lgw_Ca4wiLMp09vT4TmuIEJ19PfxfOFm9dFgOwR3GvKR5XWpwQORhBLIBQ1dFlp6N0u-GTLThuvFU7ij51z8aS2ADndTuG2y1AgNOkptGkwlYtynNXqf4THWmuSsluEyFXKeot2WjxbqijVR4TxCTM=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>After All</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">A man is hit by a bus in Roanoke, has a stroke at a Trump rally, is trampled by porcine revelers at the Flying Pig Parade. A feeling of disconnection comes over him, a sense of being outside himself. Perhaps he watches from above as doctors operate on his body, trying to save his life. Or maybe he suddenly discovers a tunnel, a guide, could be an old uncle or grandmother who shows him a world “more real” than the one he just came from. The man is awestruck, without words. Reluctantly, he slides away from this new world and back to the old, which is now disappointing and unsatisfactory. <em>“I think I saw Heaven,” </em>he marvels. <em>“We think you got bopped on the head,” </em>says the doctor.</font></p><p><font size="4">There are books on the subject. <em>Ninety Minutes In Heaven </em>(2004) discusses a Christian pastor who ascended and met God after a car wreck; <em>Heaven Is For Real </em>(2010) is about a kid who sees heaven during surgery; <em>Proof of Heaven </em>(2012)<em>, </em>was written by a Duke University-trained neurosurgeon who allegedly traveled to Heaven that year. All are best-sellers and there are plenty more. The author from Duke, Eben Alexander, told <em>Newsweek </em> that his experience convinced him that a soul (or consciousness) exists separate from or outside the mind and can travel to other dimensions on its own. <em>“The world of consciousness beyond the body is the new frontier,” </em>be believes, <em>“not just of science but of humankind itself, and it is my profound hope that what happened to me will bring the world one step closer to accepting it.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">According to a Gallup poll, about 8 million Americans claim to have had a near death experience and regard the event as proof of an afterlife---a parallel, spiritual realm <em>“more real than this one.” </em>Raymond Moody, who wrote <em>Life After Life </em>in 1975 about such experiences, told CNN in 2013 that these stories transcend the particulars of religion. <em>“I’ve gone to different continents and you can hear the same thing in China, India and Japan about meeting a being of complete love and compassion,” </em>he said. Dissenters ask if you see something while you are stressed, unconscious or traumatized in some way, whether that circumstance delegitimizes the truth of your vision? Andrew Newberg, a neuroscientist at Thomas Jefferson University who has made his reputation studying brain scans of religious people who have ecstatic experiences as they meditate, believes the odd tunnels and lights often described can be easily explained. <em>“As your eyesight fades, you lose the peripheral areas first. That’s why you’d have a tunnel sensation. If you see a bright light, that could be the central part of the visual system shutting down.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">The rationalist author Sam Harris isn’t buying it either. Discussing Alexander’s argument, he states <em>“No one’s cerebral cortex shuts down entirely during coma. Additionally, the doctor showed no understanding of the kinds of neurotransmitters that can be released by the brain during trauma, including one called DMT, which produces hallucinations. Let me suggest that Alexander sounds precisely like how a scientist should not sound when he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Fine, Sam, but how do you explain this one from respected psychiatrist Brian Weiss? <em>“We had an elderly blind woman suffer a cardiac arrest during her stay at the hospital where I worked as chairman of the psychiatry department. She was unconscious as the resuscitation team tried to revive her. According to her later interview, she floated out of her body and stood near the window, watching the resuscitation. She observed without any pain whatsoever as they thumped on her chest and pumped air into her lungs. During the resuscitation, a pen fell out of her doctor’s pocket and rolled near the same window where her spirit was standing and watching. The doctor eventually walked over and put it back in his pocket, then rejoined the frantic attempt to save her. It was successful.</em></font></p><p><em><font size="4">A few days later, she told her doctor that she had observed the resuscitation team at work during her cardiac arrest. ‘No,’ he soothingly reassured her, ‘you were probably hallucinating because of the anoxia (lack of oxygen to the brain). This can happen when the heart stops beating.’</font></em></p><p><em><font size="4">‘But I saw your pen roll over to the window ,’ she replied, describing the implement and other details of the resuscitation. The doctor was shocked. His patient had not only been comatose during the session, she had been blind for many years.”</font></em></p><p><font size="4">The argument rages on. An elite team of acidheads is being brought in to shed more light on the subject. Stay tuned.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMki6SZJE49e-WU9ZKzP6UyQ8HiKabSzbcW681iDlZ2m4Ygo0xhL3_TqNMMLZkoAKoWgrX7KUro-FTHDK3lwyGWVcaBAJM3_x8qiPOCeRj95voNZ_t6ojpZfEFo33lh_Dt43Jt-HK8PYIAnvxxRV1qdYWjJy6HAjdY_xZNu80Bczbqfs3CAdwHV2mleKs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="279" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMki6SZJE49e-WU9ZKzP6UyQ8HiKabSzbcW681iDlZ2m4Ygo0xhL3_TqNMMLZkoAKoWgrX7KUro-FTHDK3lwyGWVcaBAJM3_x8qiPOCeRj95voNZ_t6ojpZfEFo33lh_Dt43Jt-HK8PYIAnvxxRV1qdYWjJy6HAjdY_xZNu80Bczbqfs3CAdwHV2mleKs=w348-h400" width="348" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Who Ya Gonna Call?</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Then there are those troublesome ghosts. There are citizens who comment, <em>“I don’t believe in an afterlife, but I believe in ghosts.” </em>Um…okay. But where are those ghosts hanging out? They’re <em>dead, </em>right?</font></p><p><font size="4">Tu-po was the minister to Chinese Emperor Hsuan, who lived between 827 and 783 B.C. The two had a major argument and Hsuan had Tu-Po killed around 786 B.C. despite angry warnings that Tu-Po would come back and haunt him. His victim did more than that. Three years later, Hsuan was killed by an arrow fired by an apparition resembling Tu-Po in front of a large assembly of feudal lords, according to Chinese philosopher Mo Tzu. But who knows? Maybe Mo was just trying to beef up his book sales.</font></p><p><font size="4">It’s almost a sure thing there are ghosts in the Tower of London, a hotspot for ghost sightings for centuries. The Queen’s House is the province of Arabella Stuart, cousin of King James I, who married against the king’s wishes and was promptly locked up in the Tower, where she is said to be still serving her time and not a bit happy about it. And then there seems to be the odd tale of a phantom bear in Martin Tower, where a guard who ran into the critter is said to have dropped dead from the shock. If true, his last words might well have been <em>“Lions and tigers and bears…oh shit!”</em> But who knows, maybe it was just some tainted Yorkshire Pudding.</font></p><p><font size="4">In 1936, a photographer taking pictures of 300-year-old Raynham Hall in Norfolk, U.K. captured a famous image of an apparition floating down a stairway, one of the most convincing ghost photos ever taken. The manor, covering an area of some 7000 acres has a long history of being haunted and the BBC noted the ghost may well have been Lady Dorothy Townshend, wife of the second viscount of the estate. She died in 1726, supposedly of smallpox after having an affair which her husband discovered before her death. Scurrilous members of the notorious No Fun Gang have suggested the picture might be a double exposure, but we’re not buying it.</font></p><p><font size="4">If there are no ghosts, how to explain Casper? Better yet, how do we explain the Ghost of Flight 401? The famed Eastern Airlines Lockheed Tristar, the first jumbo jet ever to crash, went down in the Florida Everglades in 1972, killing 101; 75 people survived. The crash occurred while the flight crew was preoccupied with a burnt-out landing gear indicator light. The captain bumped the control yoke on the aircraft, causing it to turn off the autopilot and nobody noticed, allowing the plane to lose altitude and eventually crash.</font></p><p align="left"><font size="4">During the following months and years, stories began circulating that employees of Eastern and numerous passengers were reporting sightings of dead crew members, particularly Captain Robert Loft and Second Officer Donald Repo, sitting aboard other L-1011s, in particular N318EA. The stories speculated that parts of the crashed aircraft were salvaged and refitted into other planes. The hauntings were said to be seen only on planes that used the spare parts. Loft and Repo were seen and discussed so often that Eastern’s management warned employees they could be dismissed for spreading ghost stories. Nonetheless, the airline supposedly removed all the salvaged parts from their fleet and the sightings stopped. John Fuller’s 1976 book <em>The Ghost of Flight 401</em> recounts surprisingly believable anecdotes of paranormal events aboard other Eastern aircraft and the belief that they were caused by salvaged equipment.</font></p><p align="left"><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p align="left"><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWztNMj3G_LVzKRVpb3JzX8wZnUsu_XYxt_d_VuO8n6y4-WucfMuVIyEp4BUqI8vFTkjdJea_L0LQgVkMt5T8jCKUoDu6o6Y6-pt5Dbv-SnuK8aKqI2PkpWuRtFTnME6zbt8iMxrRNMfpYSZVdqSrdPlRtMhBaQU4dky1HaBdwGMRei2wzEacV_m_3rL0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWztNMj3G_LVzKRVpb3JzX8wZnUsu_XYxt_d_VuO8n6y4-WucfMuVIyEp4BUqI8vFTkjdJea_L0LQgVkMt5T8jCKUoDu6o6Y6-pt5Dbv-SnuK8aKqI2PkpWuRtFTnME6zbt8iMxrRNMfpYSZVdqSrdPlRtMhBaQU4dky1HaBdwGMRei2wzEacV_m_3rL0=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></font></div><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /><strong>I’m B-a-a-a-ck!</strong></font></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><em>“It’s deja vu all over again.---</em>Yogi Berra</font></p><p><font size="4">Almost everyone has had the experience---a sense of having already seen something you’re currently seeing or experiencing coupled with the knowledge you haven’t actually seen it. The common reaction is <em>“I’ve been here before.” </em>Bill Killeen felt it, himself, in Monument Valley, Utah and the Hoh Rain Forest in western Washington. Dubious observers call it the equivalent of a small brain glitch when two streams of thought collide. Believers in reincarnation equate those opinions with the phony “weather balloon” solutions the U.S. Air Force used to explain Unidentified Flying Objects. But could it be that many of us really <em>have</em> been here before?</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Shanti Devi </strong>was born in Delhi, India in 1926. As a little girl in the 1930s, she began to claim to remember details of a past life. When she was four, she told her parents that her real home was in Mathura where her husband lived, about 145 km from her current home in Delhi. Discouraged in her beliefs by her parents, she ran away at age six, trying to reach Mathura. While in school in Delhi, Shanti Devi had been interviewed by her teacher/headmaster where she used words from the Mathura dialect and divulged the name of her merchant husband, Kedar Nath. The headmaster located a merchant by that name in Mathura who had lost his wife, Lugdi Devi, nine years earlier, ten days after having given birth to a son. Kedar Nath traveled to Delhi, pretending to be his own brother, but Shanti Devi recognized him immediately. She also knew details of Kedar Nath’s life with his wife.</font></p><p><font size="4">The case was brought to the attention of Mahatma Gandhi, who set up a commission to investigate. The group traveled with Shanti Devi to Mathura, arriving on November 15, 1935. There she recognized several family members, including the grandfather of Lugdi Devi. She then discovered that Kedar Nath had neglected to keep a number of promises he made to Lugdi Devi on her deathbed and returned home to Delhi with her parents. The commission’s report published in 1936 concluded that Shanti Levi was indeed the reincarnation of Lugdi Devi. Reincarnation 1, Doubters 0.</font></p><p><font size="4">And here’s a surprise from <strong>PubMed: </strong><em>“Worldwide, children can be found who reported that they have memories of a previous life. More than 2,500 cases have been studied and their specifications have been published and preserved in the archives of the Division of Perceptual Studies at the University of Virginia. Many of those children come from countries where the majority of the inhabitants believe in reincarnation, but others come from countries with different cultures and religions that reject it. In many cases, the revelations of the children have been verified and have corresponded to a particular individual, already dead. A good number of these children have marks and birth defects corresponding to wounds on the body of the previous personality. Many have behaviors related to their claims to their former life: phobias, philias, and attachments. Others seem to recognize people and places of their supposed previous life, and some of their assertions have been made under controlled conditions. The hypothesis of reincarnation is controversial. We can never say that it does not occur, or will obtain conclusive evidence that it happens. The cases that have been described so far, isolated or combined, do not provide irrefutable proof of reincarnation, but they supply evidence that suggest its reality.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Of course there will always be doubters like Shane Richie, who once remarked, <em>“I don’t believe in reincarnation now and I didn’t believe in it when I was a hamster.” </em>Same here, Shane.</font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuvdpld1Xx7rXQCG1DrkihZlIUUIp7abR4MTtjaMuO-0X45MQkhV3zq8bJa_SLBUpHuge4pFyT2bDr0nk6-nfRy6ZlGxoiVt2PGkm2QSQ89dRWFVfwoZBvHNXYz7L8cLT-l4ppJLRhSdiktRhi3RKP1ZHgchD29JFN0aQMQ9m08nnAG7m9xjnmJL1IXoc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="320" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuvdpld1Xx7rXQCG1DrkihZlIUUIp7abR4MTtjaMuO-0X45MQkhV3zq8bJa_SLBUpHuge4pFyT2bDr0nk6-nfRy6ZlGxoiVt2PGkm2QSQ89dRWFVfwoZBvHNXYz7L8cLT-l4ppJLRhSdiktRhi3RKP1ZHgchD29JFN0aQMQ9m08nnAG7m9xjnmJL1IXoc=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><br /></font><p></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks. Or maybe not.</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a></font></p><p><strong><font size="4"><br /></font></strong></p><p><br /></p><font size="4"></font>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-4559100214257221392024-01-11T05:49:00.000-05:002024-01-11T05:49:44.786-05:00New Beginnings<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_QXCZj7uxLQgZ-T59a1o5LAOxxhsUUW30sIul_y6e6iMXeJlJ5o5V_vnKjgZ_vjW2toKIp6n7l6XKW2Ns4CqfdpGe1CfNkDBc_wNUF1vR77Lqtw2c8YtU9VSG903xjqDcZJiv72M5VeBwdjD4aqmct5IVEQ6fQNjIlmus3z2Yy4ucR2MKX9TgIDYUY8/s612/IMG_3653.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_QXCZj7uxLQgZ-T59a1o5LAOxxhsUUW30sIul_y6e6iMXeJlJ5o5V_vnKjgZ_vjW2toKIp6n7l6XKW2Ns4CqfdpGe1CfNkDBc_wNUF1vR77Lqtw2c8YtU9VSG903xjqDcZJiv72M5VeBwdjD4aqmct5IVEQ6fQNjIlmus3z2Yy4ucR2MKX9TgIDYUY8/w640-h426/IMG_3653.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><em style="font-size: large;"><p><br /></p></em><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><em><font size="4">Janus am I; oldest of potentates;</font></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><font size="4">Forward I look. and backward, and below</font></em></div><div style="text-align: left;"><em><font size="4">I count, as god of avenues and gates,<br /></font></em><em><font size="4">The years that through my portals go.</font></em></div><p><font size="4"><em>---</em>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4">Didn’t like 2023 much? Time for a do-over. This is your annual opportunity to retire to your Cubicle of Inspiration, pull down all the shades, pick up pen and paper and thoughtfully compose your plan for the new year. You are <em>not</em> going to the gym three days a week for the next twelve months, so let’s just get that out of the way. Be happy, eat healthier, get a better job, help out at the soup kitchen? Yeah sure, we’ve heard it all before. You might as well promise to learn Mandarin, maintain a zeppelin or cross the U.S. on the back of a camel. </font></p><p><font size="4">First of all, you’ll need a partner in crime. Someone who will not let you abandon your plan at the slightest inconvenience. Take Gina Hawkins, for instance, who has decided to walk the endless hills and dales of the Appalachian Trail this year. No, we’re not kidding. Gina did not just get out of bed one morning and say, <em>“Wow, get me a bus ticket to Springer Mountain, a box of Clif bars and five gallons of trail mix, I’m off to see the wizard.” </em>No, she enlisted the help of experienced trekker Richard The Relentless, who will point the way, crack the whip and carry a few tins of canned ham on his back for celebratory occasions. In case you’re not aware, the Appalachian Trail hike takes about six months for first timers, a little longer if you take along a pointed stick to help keep the trail tidy, as Gina intends. Among other things, this adventure is the acid test for personal relationships, so if in a few months you see Ms. Hawkins riding solo on date night at the <em>One Love Cafe, </em>you’ll know the hike went up in flames somewhere south of Harper’s Ferry. But hey, best of luck to the intrepid wayfarers, at least they have a spectacular New Year’s plan. All you need is one if it lasts six months.</font></p><p><font size="4">How about <em>you, </em>Bill? Well, I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles, or at least I think I do, but this is the year of the Paris Olympics, which means overwhelming crowds, no seats at those cute sidewalk cafes and Arabs blowing up the squash courts, so I think I’ll pass. A good friend of mine is visiting all the major league baseball parks this summer, but I’m allergic to Oakland, they shoot people in Baltimore and baseballs hit the roof in Tampa, which is an appalling transgression of the Marquis of Queensbury rules. Besides, Siobhan says she will shop for rocks in all these places while I’m at the stadiums and our little house already has more rocks than the 60-acre Mount Airy granite quarry, so that’s a problem. Maybe I’ll just toodle over to Gary Borse’s heliport and watch the ships come in. Perhaps write a song, like Otis Redding did.</font></p><p><font size="4">We here at <em>The Flying Pie </em>are open to suggestion, of course. If anyone out there is planning to explore Madagascar, visit a few simmering volcanoes or attend the Lawrence Welk Show revival, please advise so we can take immediate evasive action.</font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTYuvQImCZK4L04lGB1qFZvVN5QnvDZj1_d-7YfMY2ZORdwcuVRi0gw_sL-OsiUonRYcESHAJ1m_Ftzjins-kmQ54oeWo2m-0OY8Izrlma7Jwd_6Uk-2xm6llh414w9KSgIVXghFLZNo8vIVYS4Iq449KeBDXMxoViVdEbDsScLDpKBNPUa9QicOnwTu4" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="320" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTYuvQImCZK4L04lGB1qFZvVN5QnvDZj1_d-7YfMY2ZORdwcuVRi0gw_sL-OsiUonRYcESHAJ1m_Ftzjins-kmQ54oeWo2m-0OY8Izrlma7Jwd_6Uk-2xm6llh414w9KSgIVXghFLZNo8vIVYS4Iq449KeBDXMxoViVdEbDsScLDpKBNPUa9QicOnwTu4=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The West Coast has its Burning Man...Florida has GatorMANia.</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Quo Vadis?</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">One of the primo requirements for a happy life is having something to look forward to. Everyone is guaranteed Christmas, one birthday a year, the first day of baseball season and International Talk Like A Pirate Day, but you can also create your own event. For instance, a few weeks ago, Glenn Terry invented <strong>Flying Pig Parade </strong>Day and not only did Glenn have a walloping good time, so did several hundred other people. In 2024, provocateur Will Thacker will present the <strong>First Annual Oviedo Snake Olympics</strong>, Gary Borse is organizing <strong>Alien Appreciation Day </strong>and Randall Roffe is finally presenting his long-awaited musical comedy <strong> Micanopy Madness---Love and Lust In The Sordid Antique Shops Of A Small Town</strong>, starring Anna Marie Kirkpatrick and Cracker Billy.</font></p><p><font size="4">What about the first <strong>Florida Burning Man </strong>extravaganza? Truth be told, that miserable escapade out west gets tackier every year and 2023 found thousands of squabbling festival-goers marooned in quicksand up to their navels in the Nevada desert. That will never happen in the green grassy fields between Williston and East Bronson, where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. O<font size="4">f course, <em>your</em> plan needn’t be a colossus, a simple half-acre bonfire will do. Just encourage everyone who has anything they’ve been pining to get rid of to drop it by. You’ll have a five-story pile of burnables in no time.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Your first step in planning a worthy project is to identify your goal, like, say a <strong>Zombie Invasion of The Villages</strong>. Then you have to list your resources and assign tasks like (1) obtain plasma, (2) decorate volunteers, and (3) bring body bags for the heart attack victims. Next, establish a clear timeline, definitely before the 2024 Presidential Election to eliminate as many Republican voters as possible. Finally, identify potential obstacles, like Villages Security, the neighboring police forces, etc. and send them scurrying on a diversionary issue to the Redfish Run Executive Golf Course with a very loud but mostly harmless bomb on one of the vast empty fairways. They’ll be gabbing about it for years in previously boring Lake County. You know that song <em>Holding Out for a Hero? </em>They’ll be talking about <em>you.</em></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><em><br /></em></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHNK_E2XmXI20hW63tPTFycUG9mPMH-kc5fp56-12zlqwcp59kSDrlA5NBkvbH54d8jGR0l9fCNbR4cHMQDUij1_xaWN0xQkP9WnsCOKuy2uAOowElWL-0Hk9FImu6MIVib3ia8kPgFaCRVtvUfauPxvGpZWyj7epDD7dc7GMgkClzvqised3wAIwP7U/s612/IMG_3645.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="612" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHNK_E2XmXI20hW63tPTFycUG9mPMH-kc5fp56-12zlqwcp59kSDrlA5NBkvbH54d8jGR0l9fCNbR4cHMQDUij1_xaWN0xQkP9WnsCOKuy2uAOowElWL-0Hk9FImu6MIVib3ia8kPgFaCRVtvUfauPxvGpZWyj7epDD7dc7GMgkClzvqised3wAIwP7U/w400-h256/IMG_3645.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Where have all the kazoo bands gone, long time passing?</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><em><br /></em></font></font></p><p><font><font><strong style="font-size: large;">List Of Days</strong></font></font></p><p><font size="4">Maybe you’ll travel this year. Let’s not hear any flimsy excuses, last year <strong>Sharon Yeago </strong>went to Colorado to visit her daughter despite an ongoing battle with long Covid. Even more impressive, old Circus pal <strong>Danny Levine </strong>called in November to announce he was heading for his beloved Italy for a couple of weeks with a friend. No big deal, you say? That’s because you don’t know he’s carrying a large case of Parkinson’s with him. Excuses are for sissies. If you’re bereft of ideas, here’s a list of notable days to help you out, some of them available from the comforts of your own lawn chair.<strong><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><em> </em></font></font></font></font></font></font></strong></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>January 18---World Quark Day. </strong>At first we thought this was World QUACK Day, which would be much better. Just think of it—everybody waddling around town quacking and eating small fish and frogs. Who wants to celebrate a fundamental constituent of matter? Not us.</font></font></font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>21---Grandmothers Day.</strong> Now we’re talkin’! Who doesn’t want to pay homage to grandma? First, everyone will have to go down to the retro shop and purchase the proper nanawear (and don’t forget those granny glasses). Next, you’ll need your rolling pins, those pies aren’t going to make themselves. After that, painful<font size="4"><font size="4"> as it may be, everyone is required to put a Lawrence Welk LP on the turntable while making a funky quilt. And don’t forget the schnaps, grandma wants her schnaps. </font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>23---National PIE Day. </strong>Need we say more?</font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>26---Toad Hollow Day Of Encouragement. </strong>Storyteller Ralph Morrison inadvertently created this day with frequent mention of Toad Hollow in his tales. Morrison was a devout optimist who believed that every day is a good day to spread kindness and cheer and to encourage his fellow man to persevere. There’s talk of a small parade in Gainesville with co-marshals <strong>Judi Cain</strong> and <strong>Vicky Bordeaux </strong>twirling batons and handing out uppers.<strong> </strong></font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>27---Thomas Crapper Day. </strong>Where would we be without Plumber Tom, who perfected and promoted the modern toilet? In the shitter, that’s where! The day is best celebrated by TPing the trees in the town square, like they do for special occasions at Auburn. Or you can find your favorite Republican political candidate, stick his head in there and flush.</font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>28--- National Kazoo Day </strong>recognizes a valuable musical instrument that anyone can play. If you can hum, you’re a potential kazooist. The little fellers have been making music for 200 years in the United States and are often used by Mummers in their gaudy parades. Bill Killeen is taking kazoo lessons daily to be ready for the day when he is finally appointed Captain of the Ferko String Band. You think we’re kidding, don’t you?</font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>29---Curmudgeons Day. </strong>Smoke-in at Chuck LeMasters’ house. BYOJ.</font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>30---Yodel For Your Neighbors Day. </strong>For anyone who thinks yodeling is a lot of tomfoolery, you should know that the practice originated in Africa about 10,000 years ago as a way to keep the cattle together. The Pigmies still use it at feasts, as do many other cultures in the world. Currently more famous as a Swiss or Bavarian art, yodeling is often heard at American country music events and southern livestock auctions. For those heretics who think yodeling isn’t very cool, you should know that Janis Joplin once yodeled with bar owner Kenneth Threadgill in Austin, Texas in 1962. Okay, she wasn’t very good…so what?</font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>31---Gorilla Suit Day. </strong>Don’t lie, you’ve always wanted to wear one, and why not? Gorilla suits have been in vogue ever since the days of Tarzan movies (starting in 1918) when actors used them. Even the always cool Marlene Dietrich wore one in the 1932 film <em>Blonde Venus. </em>In 1963, cartoonist Don Martin, famous for his work in <em>Mad </em>magazine, initiated <strong>National Gorilla Suit Day </strong>in his collection <em>Don Martin Bounces Back, </em>in which Fester Bestertester suffers a series of incredible assaults from gorillas and other beasts in various suits. Martin wrote the story as a satire of the greeting card industry. <em>“It’s only an excuse for gorilla suit manufacturers to sell their products,” </em>Fester famously complained.</font></font></font></font></font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4">Pick one or more out for your January enjoyment. And never forget the words of your favorite Roman poet, Horace: <em>“Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.” </em>Which loosely translated means, <em>“You got ONE shot, Barney. Use it wisely!” </em></font></font></font></font></font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><em><br /></em></font></font></font></font></font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></font></font></font></font></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTyHJyPWJmubJYlck2iGnXX34cFvqRvIe3MFzo8JnfeZaV8zOcw6rrn3bHeedtpzIAP9N2Hsd5nIUFARUxQRwpv8Eeki5f7kuy1-ENzvNcLPFM1avjdMIoY6P0qcYrf-xzYW3ElTmDjdpERpB-Y4BZNq0HG5W8eza_KMNYeJ0inbpi2jbxaWzDjyF3Ins" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTyHJyPWJmubJYlck2iGnXX34cFvqRvIe3MFzo8JnfeZaV8zOcw6rrn3bHeedtpzIAP9N2Hsd5nIUFARUxQRwpv8Eeki5f7kuy1-ENzvNcLPFM1avjdMIoY6P0qcYrf-xzYW3ElTmDjdpERpB-Y4BZNq0HG5W8eza_KMNYeJ0inbpi2jbxaWzDjyF3Ins=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></font></font></div><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><br />That’s all, folks….</font></font></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4">bill.killeen094@gmail.com <em> </em> <em> </em></font></font></font></font></font></font></font></font></p><font size="4"><p><br /></p></font>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-87279021576248350522024-01-04T06:00:00.000-05:002024-01-04T06:00:41.777-05:00The Septuagenarian Blues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWV6A7-yKQ00r-7fqhVryRJ9QNTIpZN9RvpWyYJkhir_3k18GVvoDNYEqrQLDzFdHjVcBS9e0Cr2NXghMLG-Rdz8y9Kz-OMfusl50tBznmqO4Pql1yy0AMe0Ayftm1fbImRti4ANIGcHzo77ce5T7R2BD3vwYdSmN6OZuLqEHyZKp7icK2DNuW8o7OKkw/s612/IMG_3630.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWV6A7-yKQ00r-7fqhVryRJ9QNTIpZN9RvpWyYJkhir_3k18GVvoDNYEqrQLDzFdHjVcBS9e0Cr2NXghMLG-Rdz8y9Kz-OMfusl50tBznmqO4Pql1yy0AMe0Ayftm1fbImRti4ANIGcHzo77ce5T7R2BD3vwYdSmN6OZuLqEHyZKp7icK2DNuW8o7OKkw/w640-h426/IMG_3630.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><em style="font-size: large;">“You know you’re getting old when you stoop to tie your shoelaces and wonder what else you could do while you’re down there.”---</em><span style="font-size: large;">George Burns</span></p><p><font size="4">During the final days of the fearsome LDS (Latter Day Shoppers) onslaught, I hacked my way through the jungles of Jonesville to deliver a Christmas gift to everybody’s favorite curmudgeon, Chuck LeMasters. If you’re going to see Chuck, you’ll want to stop at his mailbox to gather up the vast accumulation of worthless advertising fliers, Social Security bulletins, greetings of the season and seed catalogues which he blithely ignores until someone like me notices it spilling to the ground and comes to the rescue.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“You look good!” </em>LeMasters chirped in greeting. Old people always say this to one another out of Christian charity even though it’s almost inevitably a boldfaced lie. Later that afternoon, I was scheduled for a visit with my dermatologist to find out why pieces of my face kept falling off. Turned out it was just another prelude to basal cell carcinoma, easily treated with two weeks of cancer-killing <em>Tolak </em>cream, which leaves your visage looking like twenty miles of bad road, full of ruts and scary. This was not my first encounter with the fiend who will apparently not be satisfied until my nose has completely disappeared and been replaced by a carrot.</font></p><p><font size="4">What Chuck really meant was “You don’t look too bad for an 83-year-old geezer after prostate cancer, heart issues, two divorces, a half-dozen arrests, rolling your <em>Toronado </em>and hanging out with crazed hippies for 25 years.” None of us are being recruited for modeling jobs if you discount Anna Marie Kirkpatrick, who looks like she just got out of high school and is reputed to be a distant cousin of Dorian Gray. Getting old is bad enough without having to worry about looking so gnarly you’re scaring little kids. Those of us who someday opt for plastic surgery aren’t trying to impress other people, we just want to see a reasonably pleasant face looking back from the mirror. If you don’t look like the ruins of Pompeii, maybe the Grim Reaper won’t notice and he’ll pass you by. Or you could be a professional sports fan with an abominable winless team and wear one of those bags over your head all the time. Then again, if your team was that bad perhaps the end couldn’t come too soon.</font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaDbpk0GPmnvEiwdp-LAnSHkg8VHbVuQdWOnGnzug_ShFlh7mhgnZDvJYnq5KL3jT6cz_1-NrZy7lBG_O-nQc8Q8DmIJMI5gP2NFFABUrQMhmEBIzsQn-Xoa6PObyp6iSNxwMJd2Yhwgljed2LiATXLXceyOV161aWuwDu2OqWanyo1tiNsAuadb163_o" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="231" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaDbpk0GPmnvEiwdp-LAnSHkg8VHbVuQdWOnGnzug_ShFlh7mhgnZDvJYnq5KL3jT6cz_1-NrZy7lBG_O-nQc8Q8DmIJMI5gP2NFFABUrQMhmEBIzsQn-Xoa6PObyp6iSNxwMJd2Yhwgljed2LiATXLXceyOV161aWuwDu2OqWanyo1tiNsAuadb163_o=w288-h400" width="288" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Life In Your Seventies</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Many of our readers live in the land of Septuagenaria, where the food is bland and they roll the sidewalks up at six p.m. It’s a scary place where memories blink on and off, automobiles appear out of nowhere in neighboring lanes, the stairs are steeper and your friends seem to be dropping like iguanas on a cold night in Boca. Adding to the confusion, the neighborhood keeps changing and Joe’s Friendly Tavern turns into an Apple store overnight. The buildings get taller, nobody walks down the street any more and now you have to check out your own groceries. Whatever happened to Madge, the cashier and Zora, the funny bagger who had a joke at the ready every Saturday?</font></p><p><font size="4">But say all the above is merely a flyspeck on the windshield of life in your seventies. They say Love is all you need, right? Alas, for many people, especially the female variety, their partners of decades have gone over the hill or under it and they are now alone, looking for company. What they soon discover is that the produce out there in the Possible Partner Grocery Store is more like that of <em>Walmart </em>than <em>Publix. </em>A little wilted, occasionally possessed of an unpleasant odor, suspect in texture and possibly spoiled. Now and then dry, bitter to the taste, inedible. If only they could complain to the management and get a promise of better quality.</font></p><p><font size="4">The alternative, of course, is singlehood. Many people swear by it, but what if you fall in the garage and can’t get up? What do you do on Couples Night at the Grange? Who drives you to the emergency room when your gout acts up or you suddenly realize you are Empress Theodora of the Byzantine Empire? Irving next door might be a lecherous old toad but he does have a new chauffeur’s license and all his teeth. You can always hide those economy size dispensers of <em>Old Spice </em>cologne and revamp his wardrobe from <em>Rural King. </em>Nobody ever said romance in your seventies would be easy, but Mick Jagger gave us some good advice: <em>“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometime you’ll find you get what you need.” </em>Easy for him to say, right?</font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilpgSKK1Tvh4c5JYtRSefBAGmVTVPccWHlyx4vPmyJBl29XUlVJYq8xS5qYsjUFskdtzV02qogAm6I-lmQsD-wTc00B5rU3SoFZpekuQQHuDNn0xq4w9tkKA5oTUVQ2BoU2DNcesHGFokjojYvN6Wag5OqlOebRwbanaDtOqYV3dfrABtqwCei6oXNsg4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="178" data-original-width="284" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilpgSKK1Tvh4c5JYtRSefBAGmVTVPccWHlyx4vPmyJBl29XUlVJYq8xS5qYsjUFskdtzV02qogAm6I-lmQsD-wTc00B5rU3SoFZpekuQQHuDNn0xq4w9tkKA5oTUVQ2BoU2DNcesHGFokjojYvN6Wag5OqlOebRwbanaDtOqYV3dfrABtqwCei6oXNsg4=w400-h251" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>The Life And Times Of Naked Ed </strong>(with excerpts from Amy Reinink)</font><p></p><p><font size="4">Naked Ed could always tell where he was by the feel of the earth beneath his feet. When the dry leaves crackled under his gnarled toes, he knew he was close to the dirt road leading from Poe Springs Road to Lily Springs. When his feet sunk into the loamy silt near the springs, he knew he was home. <em>“I’m part of the springs, they’re part of me,” </em>claimed Ed Watts, aka Naked Ed due to his propensity to wear a mere loincloth or even nothing at all when greeting canoers from the banks of the river. <em>“I tell people I’m just like the trees, ‘cept I move around a little more.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Ed never owned the slightest bit of the swath of wooded land he called home in the northeast corner of Gilchrist County between the Santa Fe River and the clear turquoise waters of Lilly Springs. Nonetheless, he regarded himself the caretaker of the property and its official greeter. Canoers often said a trip down the Santa Fe wasn’t complete without a visit with Naked Ed on the deck he built above the water or in his 8x10 hut created with simple pine boards.</font></p><p><font size="4">We met Ed back in the day while searching for exceptional photo locations on the river. He knew them all and insisted on guiding us to each. <em>“I love people,” </em>he told us, <em>“but I’m not so sure about civilization.” </em>The short man with leathery skin, a bushy beard and a soft, round belly had spindly legs, knobby from brittle-bone disease, a health problem he was born with that eventually caused him to stop working. Ed once peddled groceries, delivered newspapers and worked on a commercial fishing boat before he started receiving government disability checks in his mid-thirties.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“Even if I had the money, I could never live in one of those ‘facilities,’ as they call them,” </em>Ed told us. <em>“I have friends in some of those places and they feel safe but not happy.” </em>When people asked him about the dangers of living outside, the threats from alligators and other dangerous animals, Watts smiled and told them <em>“The only animal I have to worry about is my fellow man. I feel as attached to these springs as some people do to their families. I feel free and my days are my own. Being a little uncomfortable every now and then isn’t the worst thing in the world. I would love to be sitting out here as I drew my last breath.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">And that he did on Christmas weekend, 2023. We’re not sure where he was sitting at the time, but we know where he is now. Keep your eyes open on each turn of the river, you don’t want to miss one last chance to see Naked Ed dancing through the woods. You might even want to join him</font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiM_OF2PwTYPB0be84vOMg1-NmYtTbMRofSF55LV6AGAysiLRBAnFXxxHdCD44TTHxlw6VV9QI7ZMEX_O4NDxQAx0aTk6V0jkMV5DmCpC9m1NeCG0MhpJuXioITf24W_BV5QCv-IFVYjzt5OPwFuCQhz4NzdK_n5DaL-664_ds0bGotCOhkx0swN6OlwqQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="199" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiM_OF2PwTYPB0be84vOMg1-NmYtTbMRofSF55LV6AGAysiLRBAnFXxxHdCD44TTHxlw6VV9QI7ZMEX_O4NDxQAx0aTk6V0jkMV5DmCpC9m1NeCG0MhpJuXioITf24W_BV5QCv-IFVYjzt5OPwFuCQhz4NzdK_n5DaL-664_ds0bGotCOhkx0swN6OlwqQ=w313-h400" width="313" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Septuagenarian Traits</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1.</strong>---They enjoy appending “the” to words even when it’s unnecessary, as in “the Facebook” and “the Google.”</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>2.</strong>---They beam with excitement when finding their cars in large parking lots.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>3.</strong>---They’re on a cruise, just back from one or looking into going.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>4.</strong>---They are obsessed with The Weather Channel. It doesn’t hurt to know if it’s raining in South Carolina.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>5.</strong>---They get upset when younger people don’t wear coats in cool weather.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>6.</strong>---They feel uncomfortable in new surroundings. A wary grandmother visiting Starbucks for the first time struggled with her order, but finally made it. The barista, as always, asked <em>“Can I get a name for your drink?” </em>A little confused, the lady smiled and said. <em>“I guess you could just call it ‘Bob.’”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>7.</strong>---They don’t know how <em>Uber </em>works and they don’t want to know.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>8.</strong>---If you gift them a <em>Roomba, </em>they will follow it around. <em>“I don’t trust those things,” </em>says Grandma Lulu. <em>“What if they start a fire or scratch the linoleum? What if they scare the daylights out of my cat?”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><em><br /><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></em></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><em><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmdiGTK-VkQWkdHskBkmGl7WLbkC_aU1xS0xXP8twXe_RuK3IRa-p2PG5uhu3f-6b0jAoRlp7bfsMtypTnDFX8UGh_45oR93DvHG7aDJEV7Vff-I6969ewp7cEs5eSbsKsTHE1cYJsJn6KVFenU1P65TZZ3SiTQSVTpMIWD24wD9saes8-dyLnQu4SIU4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmdiGTK-VkQWkdHskBkmGl7WLbkC_aU1xS0xXP8twXe_RuK3IRa-p2PG5uhu3f-6b0jAoRlp7bfsMtypTnDFX8UGh_45oR93DvHG7aDJEV7Vff-I6969ewp7cEs5eSbsKsTHE1cYJsJn6KVFenU1P65TZZ3SiTQSVTpMIWD24wD9saes8-dyLnQu4SIU4=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></font></font></em></font></div><font size="4"><em><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></em><strong>Just A Closer Walk With</strong> <strong>Thee</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><em>“There are no atheists in the foxholes.”---</em>W. T. Cummings</font></p><p><font size="4">Not many, anyway. For those of us in the ultimate foxholes, the advisory, <em>“Dead is forever!” </em>lacks a certain charm, puts a distinct damper on our <em>joie de vivre, </em>cramps our style, as it were. We know better but we can’t help wondering if all those Hindus and Buddhists might be right and humans get to enjoy reincarnation, multiple lives, another go-‘round where Karma spins the wheel and we might come back as either princess or pauper. Claudine Laabs, not a foolish woman, insisted she remembers living an earlier life as Cleopatra’s housecat, so who knows? If it’s to be a feline existence, however, can we opt for Ga<font size="4">rfield or maybe Sylvester?</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">We suspect the Cosmic Arranger is onto our latter-day tricks and will reserve the best outcomes for his old pals like <strong>Johnny Bolton</strong>, a Subterranean Circus employee from the late 1960s who took his game to Ketchum, Idaho, went into the construction business there and eventually opened a successful dojo. Johnny passed from this mortal orb unexpectedly just before Christmas despite appearing a hale and hardy physical specimen who took good care of his body and soul for most of his life. Pancreatic cancer will do that to you. Despite a slight regression into hippiehood in his twenties, with all the venial sins that go with it, J. B. never outgrew his belief in a supreme being, as evidenced by a conversation we had with him a few years ago while visiting Johnny and Michael Hatcherson in the hills of Idaho.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Leaving a drugstore, a tiny girl ran past me into the parking lot, her exasperated mother screaming at her to stop. She was a hair’s breadth from an oncoming car when I reached over with one arm and scooped her up and out of trouble. This was no accidental occurrence to Johnny Bolton.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><em>“I’m grateful that I live here and Jesus brought you here at this time and place to save that little girl’s life,” </em>he said, without a shred of doubt. Gee, Johnny, don’t I even get an “Attaboy!” for my trouble? Isn’t there an old bible song called <em>“I’m Only a Pawn On The Master’s Chessboard?”</em></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Those of us who abstain from religious promises of a heavenly future lead a crueler existence than that of our compadres who believe. Like the suddenly faithful in the foxholes, they fade away in the assurance of <em>"a better home awaiting in the sky, Lord, in the sky” </em>while we sit here and await the arrival of nothingness, no hope in sight. Even UFO buff Gary Borse has his alien ace in the hole. Maybe there is such a thing as being too smart for your own good.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a><em> </em> </font></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"> </font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-78368026196153693042023-12-28T06:18:00.002-05:002023-12-28T08:02:06.632-05:00Need An Assist?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh773mXfD8FecPi13H_SAsCdU65C2XDSBeOwq3z3Ps20E9F4LmOj0QGMOgVyQST4LJDn_EwaeAoiulDTbY7MRHMbNg95AwWm60mBngzn4A9UK2b6UoehX48FOPLLIJH-8HPOUbfUvP20-uKvZarQ6WHK67b3Nue3zw4PkYEKS8wxa2AL-DZbkGcZ-FDr-8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh773mXfD8FecPi13H_SAsCdU65C2XDSBeOwq3z3Ps20E9F4LmOj0QGMOgVyQST4LJDn_EwaeAoiulDTbY7MRHMbNg95AwWm60mBngzn4A9UK2b6UoehX48FOPLLIJH-8HPOUbfUvP20-uKvZarQ6WHK67b3Nue3zw4PkYEKS8wxa2AL-DZbkGcZ-FDr-8=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><br /><em style="font-size: large;">“I always thought Assisted Living was a few joints in your pocket.”---</em><span style="font-size: large;">Chuck LeMasters</span><p></p><p><font size="4">Growing up, I always liked the Italians. Maybe they were a little brassy but they never ran and hid from a problem, they played basketball like wild dogs and kept their grandparents living at home until they turned to ashes. Send Papa to an old folks home---what are you, some kind of barbarian? Of course, there was never a thought of tossing out Nonna. She’d cuss a blue streak, then pick you up and throw you across the room. Assisted Living wouldn’t have worked in those days when fraying grandparents were considered an asset rather than a nuisance. If you needed a little help, just call the <em>Italo-American </em>club and they’d send over a <em>grande camereria </em>with some wine and a vacuum cleaner. Problem solved.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Keren Wilson</strong>, PhD (gerontology) is the creator of the Assisted Living concept. She opened the first AL facility in Oregon in 1981. In earlier times, it was the responsibility of the family to care for aging relatives; if they were unable to do so, these people became wards of the county and they were shuffled through “old folks homes” or “poorhouses.” As the field of medicine improved and people began living longer, this became an onerous and </font><span style="font-size: large;">expensive proposition for the counties. Adding to the problem, many more women began working outside the home in World War II, leaving fewer people at home to care for the elderly. This led to the creation of boarding homes for “seniors.”</span></p><p></p><p><font size="4">Once Medicare and Medicaid were created in 1965, however, it meant the counties no longer had to shoulder the financial burden of elder care. The boarding homes were converted into “nursing homes” in order to grab off those free-flowing federal dollars. They were very sterile, unlike the warm and fuzzy boarding places of the past, and almost nobody liked them. When Keren Wilson showed up with her Assisted Living concept, health-providers were all ears. </font></p><p><font size="4">Inspired by her own mother’s insights and experience living in a nursing home, Wilson wanted to create a place which would provide as much autonomy and independence as possible in a residential environment. This would include sovereignty over one’s own room temperature, eating and going to bed when the client chose, allowing the use of personal furniture and, in many cases, even accepting pets. The AL facility would provide all supportive care that was needed for help with housekeeping, cooking, dressing and medication management. What’s not to like?</font></p><p><font size="4">Oh, and there were other “enhancements.”</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2YFjPciFCdvL-1voSP8OXcRDWDnO_IQSh8h9AysiwJRkP094l1ugL4M7310U4BuRBdr-y1e9z0f-ASpCf7c8F5WMKEf89v-qj2_dyO_ljxI5yKbCayQpw9ZWBMm8M-58gldt-kSKXlSwWXaQjPkxUsWoj0VA4Pa4BFqd_td4rukLbm2RsG1udR8VjXhU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2YFjPciFCdvL-1voSP8OXcRDWDnO_IQSh8h9AysiwJRkP094l1ugL4M7310U4BuRBdr-y1e9z0f-ASpCf7c8F5WMKEf89v-qj2_dyO_ljxI5yKbCayQpw9ZWBMm8M-58gldt-kSKXlSwWXaQjPkxUsWoj0VA4Pa4BFqd_td4rukLbm2RsG1udR8VjXhU=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Happy Days Are Here Again</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">In 2014, <em>Forbes </em>magazine noticed a new trend: more and more Assistant Living centers were applying for liquor licenses. They weren’t just thinking of the occasional champagne brunch as they told the kiddoes who might be footing the bill, they were providing ready access to liquor for people who no longer have to go to work and have plenty of time to bend an elbow. As <em>Forbes</em> writer Robert Laura pointed out, <em>“Thousands of boomers are retiring every single day and they are not only likely to continue their drinking habits but to increase them as a result of boredom and a desire ‘to feel better.’”</em> According to Laura, <em>“It’s like one big, eternal happy hour in many of these places.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Tell us about it. As neighbors to the raucous retirement mecca called <em>The Villages, </em>now spilling over into three Florida counties, we are well aware of elderly debauchery, not that there’s anything <em>wrong</em> with that. Blessed with a dangerous and unholy ratio of 10 women to every man (and the Beach Boys thought <em>“two girls for every boy” </em>was phenomenal), one <em>Villages </em>resident was quoted in a newspaper article as saying, <em>“Turn your back for a minute and someone will try to steal your husband.”</em> Then, of course, there are the regular reports of swinger parties, black-market Viagra sales and one recorded incident where a 68-year-old resident named Peggy Klemm was caught having sex in a public square with a man 19 years her junior. <em>“You go, Peggy!”</em> was the prevailing attitude and the incident was honored by a local bar which designed a <em>Sex In the Square </em>cocktail in Klemm’s honor.</font></p><p><font size="4">In Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, the <em>Philadelphia Intelligencer </em>discovered a man in his seventies who lived in an Assisted Living unit was bringing in prostitutes. He loudly protested his innocence until one day the AL staff discovered one of them hiding under his bed, In a Mississauga, Ontario Assisted Living facility, residents were warned their bingo games were in violation of local gambling laws and thereby illegal. Rather than going through proper channels to obtain the required licensing, they merrily kept on going in flagrant defiance of the law until the cops busted up their game. In Westlake, Ohio, residents irked at bothersome rules and regs, made their own tribute video to the Beastie Boys, <em>“You Gotta Fight For Your Right To Party!”</em> </font></p><p><font size="4">No play, no pay, right guys?</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwyuv9DHfSKRhgY5ycEJrjn_ubokJ5NVfJ9xsI1i6F217nD_S1C_hyjrmxYQ3lrtfXyr7R2WQY_TG6hv9-T1upZveZt7y27Am-yj5kyyoHI0NrNR9AoSkWJRqnDAEXvECGgy-u-pPzalc7aMZL-D0C0VeLljmaw2TtewEiUnZwtq1LEBC5FOjylhQMcfc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="320" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwyuv9DHfSKRhgY5ycEJrjn_ubokJ5NVfJ9xsI1i6F217nD_S1C_hyjrmxYQ3lrtfXyr7R2WQY_TG6hv9-T1upZveZt7y27Am-yj5kyyoHI0NrNR9AoSkWJRqnDAEXvECGgy-u-pPzalc7aMZL-D0C0VeLljmaw2TtewEiUnZwtq1LEBC5FOjylhQMcfc=w400-h253" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Welcome To Assisted Nirvana</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">As time has passed, the Assisted Living industry has come to realize some seniors just don’t fit into facilities with traditional norms. Some guys want to bring their Harleys along, have a couple of drinks at the community strip joints or stage a chili cook-off. A Texas facility called <strong>Escapees Care</strong> provides a site where temporary residents can park their RVs, take advantage of nursing care, enjoy meals and participate in a wide range of activities from ballroom dancing to pickleball. Escapees pay for services on a month-to-month basis and can stay as long as they want.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">There are Assisted Living communities for retired postal workers, for ex-military personnel and other groups. The <strong>North Hollywood Senior Artists Community </strong>is for writers, actors and others involved in movie-making, past or present. There are places for aging Jews, a couple for LGBT seniors, at least one for retired academicians. The time has come, the walrus said to speak of Assisted Living for fading hippies. We could call it <strong>Woodstock + 50</strong> and have twice-weekly concert nights gleefully sponsored by the Medical Marijuana industry. Every facility would be complemented with an <strong>Alice’s Restaurant </strong>and a rooftop bar called <strong>Lucy’s In the Sky With Beverages</strong>. There would be arts-and crafts classes in joint-rolling, tie-dying and sandalmaking and community gardens where residents could contribute to cultivating tasty crops. At the end of the Woodstock 1/4-mile hiking trail would be the giant skinny-dipping pool and Frisbee course. It’s a natural. You’ll never want to leave. You’ll have fun, fun, fun til someone takes your skateboard away.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhk9G6Ocn6SR_OkM7BTvrT8lS1QcYQvoQM1XVVZ60cVd06Lgyds4JnxASJnTMqDfAIM9giazKq4fdBWT5FjHwfdos4tnhbnJARVNBMmr3kKNQ5t_HJZQ9LENEUVTC31RbOFrvZkMW4Q0vWCzelfEDaoZ-C7WWxeQwoj6DDR6Q0LyIAlCUPoPXqXVkUbqcA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhk9G6Ocn6SR_OkM7BTvrT8lS1QcYQvoQM1XVVZ60cVd06Lgyds4JnxASJnTMqDfAIM9giazKq4fdBWT5FjHwfdos4tnhbnJARVNBMmr3kKNQ5t_HJZQ9LENEUVTC31RbOFrvZkMW4Q0vWCzelfEDaoZ-C7WWxeQwoj6DDR6Q0LyIAlCUPoPXqXVkUbqcA=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></font></div><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /><strong>Love Hurts </strong>(A Fable)</font></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><em>“Frankie and Johnny were sweethearts. They were true as the blue, blue sky. Mostly.”---</em>Johnny Cash</font></font></p><p><font size="4">Johnny was an independent sort, a guitar-picker all his life, much of which was spent on small stages in dimly lit saloons. Occasionally, someone would place a fifty in the tip jar and he’d follow her home for a special performance. Frankie was a swan, a homecoming queen with an edge who always had her choice of beaus. She eschewed the logical choices and wound up with a rambler and a gambler a long way from home. Both of them, to their dismay and astonishment, wound up in the Belvedere Estates Manor, an Assisted Living facility just outside the city limits of Grand Junction, Colorado. They didn’t like it much.</font></p><p><font size="4">In their mid-seventies, both of them still carried themselves well, had their wits about them and looked at least ten years younger. They met on Singles Night at the Belvedere Bistro when Johnny walked up and said, <em>“Hi! I’m a rhinestone cowboy, riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo.” </em>Frankie gave him the once-over, managed to look unimpressed and said, <em>“I’m busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin’ for a train.” </em>She’d seen his kind before. Not interested.</font></p><p><font size="4">Not one to give up easily, Johnny waited for show night at the Bistro, where residents and their friends could tell jokes, twirl batons or do the Irish jig. He smiled at Frankie in the fifth row and sang <em>“If ever I would leave you, it wouldn’t be in summer” </em>nor in Autumn or a wintry evening, nor Springtime. Didn’t work, but Frankie was amused.</font></p><p><font size="4">A month later, Johnny tried again. Frankie was in the third row this time, which he took as a good sign. <em>“Some day, when I'm awfully low…when the world is cold…I will feel a glow just thinking about you…and the way you look tonight.”</em></font> <font size="4">Oh-oh. The man was bringing out the heavy artillery. Frankie hung around a little longer this time. Sometimes you know you’re being set up for the kill but you go along with the joke anyway. Why do we do that?</font></p><p><font size="4">Frankie was sitting in the front row the following month, waiting for the <em>coup d’etat, </em>undoubtedly some gooey number a twanger like Johnny would feel a lady couldn’t resist. Instead, he veered to his left and pulled out Sinatra. <em>“I get a kick every time I see you standing there before me…I get a kick though it’s clear to see you obviously do not adore me.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Well. Who can resist a smiling cowboy with a guitar and a sense of humor? Frankie and Johnny became an item at the Belvedere Estates Manor, for better or for worse, the music man on his best behavior, the prom queen hopeful but guarded. How many times had she seen the ship of true love dashed on the rocks of hanky-panky by a man with a Stetson and a smooth line of malarkey?</font></p><p><font size="4">Johnny took a one-night job three counties away to make a few needed dollars and bade Frankie to come along, but she had places to go, people to see. Far away from the Belvedere Bistro, couples laughed and danced to the music of Johnny’s band, and then it happened. In the front door walked a redhead, Johnny’s kryptonite. She sauntered down to the bandstand to watch him play, then he came to her table where the lights were low. What Frankie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.</font></p><p><font size="4">The redhead jumped up and slapped him, she slapped him a time or two. She said, <em>“I’m Frankie’s sister and I was checking up on you.” </em>He was Frankie’s man, but he was doing her wrong. The sister grabbed Johnny’s earlobe. She pulled it up close to her sneer. She laid her Colt 45 on the table and Johnny got the idea. He was Frankie’s man, he wasn’t doing her wrong.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“Back at the Belvedere Manor, things are all peaches and cream. </em></font></p><p><font size="4"><em>Frankie and Johnny are sweethearts, sharin’ their singular dream</em>.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>Now and then Johnny sees a real looker come into a guitar-pickin’ dive.</em></font></p><p><em><font size="4">He never pays them a bit of attention, thinkin’ back on that Colt 45.”</font></em></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a></font></p><p><em><font size="4"></font></em></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixEqjBPFJuEfsQvYrpDdAvu7n1zXyUyJvt3_4HKukRGDKX9CesieQjuzPRu-7fBlPQ8QvnKXP_TNG2bQN7_AP_uZ05qPqEOLBvLyBXrXaBjLiywUnkHZ_J6vHeS3ohqaj4DOekdNhgUg9KHgfQriUZpd5XIvAs5owhl3BIO4fB7rjRQop2jNHSnQwsFR0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixEqjBPFJuEfsQvYrpDdAvu7n1zXyUyJvt3_4HKukRGDKX9CesieQjuzPRu-7fBlPQ8QvnKXP_TNG2bQN7_AP_uZ05qPqEOLBvLyBXrXaBjLiywUnkHZ_J6vHeS3ohqaj4DOekdNhgUg9KHgfQriUZpd5XIvAs5owhl3BIO4fB7rjRQop2jNHSnQwsFR0=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></em></div><em><font size="4"><br /><br /></font></em><p></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"> <em> </em> </font></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-91089359248709395972023-12-21T06:07:00.002-05:002023-12-21T16:03:18.000-05:00Winter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzQuQPfC2dbVqVIuB_8Wupk9v7YylVdZ4cxrCHijiV6ur0uh-Vq6oUX00_wJMHSg0SWLZpTTVRybKjrHbGDHxteyPw1Qu3cTKuMjwwyojUjfr4vtp-sQ1hUTsOMm8w-zFyWiHbStkZoqTmnQed1G5oBo5l2bzIy6RWhs8kr-ihiHbEv63RXplRRZyp4E/s480/IMG_3566.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzQuQPfC2dbVqVIuB_8Wupk9v7YylVdZ4cxrCHijiV6ur0uh-Vq6oUX00_wJMHSg0SWLZpTTVRybKjrHbGDHxteyPw1Qu3cTKuMjwwyojUjfr4vtp-sQ1hUTsOMm8w-zFyWiHbStkZoqTmnQed1G5oBo5l2bzIy6RWhs8kr-ihiHbEv63RXplRRZyp4E/w640-h480/IMG_3566.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><em style="font-size: large;">“Winter forms our character and brings out our best.”---</em><span style="font-size: large;">Tom Allen</span></p><p><font size="4">Imagine being Winter. Nobody likes you very much except skiers and hockey team owners. You try to point out the glories of Christmas, but everybody harrumphs that it’s just one day out of 90 or 91 and the rest of the time it’s wretched. Cars sliding off icy roads. Falling icicles penetrating grandma’s skull. Dogs falling through the ice at Shivermetimbers Pond. What’s to like? It might not be so bad for Old Man Winter if everybody didn’t slobber over the wonders of Spring, which follows hard on his heels. Or the lush days of Summer, when everybody takes off on vacation. Or the colorful charms of Autumn, when temperatures cool and nature paints a new picture on the land. What’s the big deal about dying leaves, anyhow?</font></p><p><font size="4">At least the Big Guy has kids to admire his work. Nobody is cancelling school in Spring because it’s too hot. Nobody is sledding down Suicide Hill on a garbage can lid or whacking unsuspecting suckers with snowballs. Nobody’s playing King of the Hill on sand dunes or getting five bucks an hour for clearing Mrs. Pinecone’s driveway. On what other Eve than New Year’s can you get permission to stay up til midnight and watch 100,000 drunken louts in Times Square howl in the new year? A kid can hardly wait to be one of them.</font></p><p><font size="4">And let’s go back to that one day of Christmas. The auld song tells us there are actually <em>twelve</em> days, and there are at least that many when you’re a kid. It’s the best day of the year when you’re still a member of the Santa Brigade, a fervid believer in elves making toys, flying reindeer and the omnipresence of jolly St. Nick. Sister Joseph Ambrose told us God is everywhere at the same time, so why not Santa? Besides, would Mr. Coldfront, the weather man on TV, actually <em>lie</em> when he plotted Santa’s course on television? We’re pretty sure there’s something in the Meteorologist’s Code which gives a scornful eye to such shenanigans. </font></p><p><font size="4">When we were kids, Christmastime was not just a mere day, but all the days that preceded it filled with tree hunting, gift buying, carolers, candles in the windows, tinsel, the mystery of what was inside those wrappings and figuring out Mr. Claus’ dining preferences. Visitors unseen for 365 days poured in like lemmings, adults guzzled ceremonial nectars, the crustiest old bastards were actually <em>happy! </em>It was a timeout from routine, from worry, from homework, filled with presents and bowl games and rarely-seen kissy aunts handing you a dollar after glomming onto you under the mistletoe. There was nothing better, even the opening day of baseball. Hell, whoever got a bicycle from the Red Sox?</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWFe3laoEbb-BNuy4QhZYqL4LkIkrZiaEsPVDMosPnefm9th0fSE67BPyp_sts8mFJ83iQGRStnFFWUQqEdYafu_CqCIf3-ANAcLAVAvAXYotm_95SQ7H4x9lk08CLBpjllPQzlDEzFW50OOKC9eb4fenD8GPboJYpl0RFG5KhaEFc_sJB-a0CwRB2Kg/s980/IMG_3548.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="980" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWFe3laoEbb-BNuy4QhZYqL4LkIkrZiaEsPVDMosPnefm9th0fSE67BPyp_sts8mFJ83iQGRStnFFWUQqEdYafu_CqCIf3-ANAcLAVAvAXYotm_95SQ7H4x9lk08CLBpjllPQzlDEzFW50OOKC9eb4fenD8GPboJYpl0RFG5KhaEFc_sJB-a0CwRB2Kg/w400-h245/IMG_3548.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><strong style="font-size: large;"><p><strong>Things You Can Only Do In Winter</strong></p></strong><p></p><p><font size="4">Ice Fishing, for one, though we don’t know why you’d want to. You might also enjoy taking your pooch Dogsledding or hitting the rink at Rockefeller Center for some brisk Ice Skating. Boston’s L Street Brownies and similar groups in frigid climes have a better idea---let’s strip down and go jump in the ocean. The Brownies are the oldest polar bear club in the U.S. and their annual <strong>Polar Plunge </strong>into Dorchester Bay on New Year’s Day<strong> </strong>is a major event on the Beantown social calendar. They’ve been doing this since 1904 and more people show up every year no matter the temperature.</font></p><p><font size="4">The Brownies might have taken their cue from European immigrants who believed that cold water plunges, steams, saunas and sun exposure were all good for one’s health. The belief that winter swimming strengthens the immune system has persisted into the 21st century. Many of the original Brownies were so dedicated they swam every day of the year, rain, shine or blizzard. In 1913, the <em>Boston Globe </em>said it was <em>“not unusual at L Street after an extremely cold night when the bay is covered in ice to see a naked bather plodding through the snow armed with a hatchet or ax for the purpose of cutting out a space large enough to take a dip.” </em>Naturally, the Brownies have a motto: <em>“We’ll be here til L Street freezes over.”</em></font> </p><p><font size="4">Try it, you’ll like it. Our EMTs are standing by.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgso1q-rb2OWQv0hqwvIqMvC9bwlnHZ1IaMy2aYb_vA2niIy7TPPQiXIV0bq4dMEsK231pKRWcbDm4TlwZyAdpCUQ1SwoNB6J5fADPsReTQVfK0jM0P5xtGKJndNAyTZwpkOeITXNaaLgOiEm9bTT7M_GsH7m9Typ1uvx3qN1LD4cgEgisdk2X40QiHc1I/s861/IMG_3556.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="860" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgso1q-rb2OWQv0hqwvIqMvC9bwlnHZ1IaMy2aYb_vA2niIy7TPPQiXIV0bq4dMEsK231pKRWcbDm4TlwZyAdpCUQ1SwoNB6J5fADPsReTQVfK0jM0P5xtGKJndNAyTZwpkOeITXNaaLgOiEm9bTT7M_GsH7m9Typ1uvx3qN1LD4cgEgisdk2X40QiHc1I/w400-h400/IMG_3556.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><font size="4"><strong>And We Thought It Was Done In Salons</strong></font></p><p><font size="4">In Canada, where the people are very strange, the citizens are gaga for <strong>Curling</strong>, second in sports popularity only to hockey. Curling is a team sport played on ice in which each of two teams take turns sliding granite stones toward a target known as a House. Each team has a “Skip,” or captain whose role is to direct play for the squad while standing in the House at the scoring end of a playing surface called the sheet. A team scores one point for each of its own stones located in or touching the House which are closer to the center than any stone of the opposite side. Simple enough, right? But then there’s this thing with the brooms. The Canucks call them “brushes,” but any non-Canadian will tell you straightaway they’re brooms.</font></p><p><font size="4">Two sweepers advance, “brushes” in hand, barely ahead of the stones, sweeping like madmen to facilitate the path of the stone, just in case there are any misguided ice worms or cigarette butts in its path. <em>“You have to sweep with downward force,” </em>testifies Liam (“The Blur”) Anderson of the Saskatchewan Malemutes. <em>“Good sweeping can warm the surface of the ice and allow a stone to travel two or three meters further. Sweeping can also reduce the curl and make the trajectory straighter.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Who knew? We thought Curling was just light sport for janitors, but then they put it in the Olympics. Imagine a five-year-old growing up in Otterville on Christmas morning and rushing to see what was under the tree. Hard disguising that present, eh? An American boy smiles and pounds his new first-baseman’s mitt into shape. The Canadian kid goes out and sweeps the back porch. Practice as he or she might, however, the average north-of-the-border boy or girl has no chance to make the Curling Little League teams. Those damn witches’ kids have way too much experience.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQLBDoFhaYpMEdezBCMq_NRtZQwgbVwdxmr3FyFE3zelCisw-yZIuyal7IgE0AjSnGqIy9XN-E2mWs4kg19MtXqx74TvFhJhtw5Dx8HQV9fI8u2cT2Nq2UQycLzkIY4pPjJArjidJjqqyOF1unHu0JaT-HUh5iPCGePr7FsB2bwDiQDfN94vESgBzd20/s980/IMG_3564.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="978" data-original-width="980" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQLBDoFhaYpMEdezBCMq_NRtZQwgbVwdxmr3FyFE3zelCisw-yZIuyal7IgE0AjSnGqIy9XN-E2mWs4kg19MtXqx74TvFhJhtw5Dx8HQV9fI8u2cT2Nq2UQycLzkIY4pPjJArjidJjqqyOF1unHu0JaT-HUh5iPCGePr7FsB2bwDiQDfN94vESgBzd20/w400-h399/IMG_3564.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><strong style="font-size: large;">Love The One You’re With</strong><p></p><p><font size="4">Stillwater, Oklahoma was a very small town in the year of Our Lord 1960, and when the students at Okie State cleared out for Christmas break you could hear a pin drop on its lonely streets. Having neither the funds to fly nor the stamina to ride in the back seat of a fellow-student’s Ford all the way to Schenectady, then bus to Boston, I was marooned there for two colossally boring weeks in my junior year of college. My residence was a stark single room in the cracker house of Maw Crandall, a creaky but optimistic woman of 80-plus years and her unconscious husband, Lester, who found it amusing to turn on the gas in the kitchen a couple of times a day and then wander off to piss his pants in his favorite chair, always wearing a natty fedora.</font></p><p><font size="4">As time passed, day slowly turned into night and I found myself sleeping through the afternoons and waking up to write most of the night, accompanied by the sad, somber tones of a WOKC deejay who knew much of his audience was a collection of lonely losers and played the correct music to enhance the bleak mood. The night before Christmas, in a desperate attempt to relieve the self-pity, I decided to wander downtown to my favorite retail establishment, <em>The Malt Shop </em>(really) and hitch up with my preferred sweet concoction, the Honeymoon Banana Split. I don’t know about you, but I am a strict traditionalist in these matters and I will have no truck with apostates who alter the ice-cream flavors assigned by God, which are, of course, vanilla, strawberry and chocolate, with all the appropriate syrups, nuts and creams.</font></p><p><font size="4">"<em>”Hi, Bill,” </em>said Holly, the waitress, <em>“Where the heck have you been and when are you gonna take me to the movies?” </em>Holly was maybe 17. <em> </em>She didn’t even ask what I wanted, just went back and fetched the glorious HBS. There were about a half-dozen people in the place, most of them kids. The little bell on the door rang as it opened and I looked up to see the kind of woman who makes you sit up straight, adjust your hat and sneak a look at your pocket mirror to make sure you’ve got nothing caught in your teeth. She looked to be about 25, but turned out to be a decade older.</font></p><p><font size="4">She got her ice cream, looked around and came over. <em>“Mind if I sit here?” </em>she asked, pulling up a chair. I guess not. <em>“My name is Miranda, I’m here for the day visiting my daughter,” </em>she smiled. <em>“She and her boyfriend have plans tonight which don’t include me, so here I am feeling sorry for myself.”</em> I described my own sad tale of woe and we discussed joining an organization like Alcoholics Anonymous, which specializes in people without friends.</font></p><p><font size="4">Miranda turned out to be a book editor for a publishing company in Dallas, married but separated and reconsidering her entire existence. <em>“I think I want to go to New York,” </em>she said. <em>“I have the promise of a job there and I’ve never crossed the Mississippi.” </em>I told her of the wonders of Manhattan, encouraged her dream, told her of a few people I knew there. The conversation was easy, flowed freely and lasted well past the extermination of the Honeymoon Banana Split. Holly floated by and gave me the stinkeye. <em>“Let’s go for a walk, it’s beautiful outside,” </em>Miranda offered. Twenty years old and naive, I started thinking about my very unsophisticated quarters in Maw Crandall’s palace of horrors.</font></p><p><font size="4">We walked a couple of blocks and Miranda took my hand as if we’d known each other for days. We discussed college and writing and travel and even sports. She knew a little about everything, laughed easily, tossed her great mane of brown hair around like an expert. Eventually, we arrived at her car, an ornate Caddy repainted in UCLA blue. <em>“Thanks for tonight,” </em>she glowed, <em>“I needed a good friend to talk to and you’ve convinced me to move to the Big City come Hell or high water.”</em></font> <font size="4">Then the kiss, long and endearing, worthy of the Osculation Hall of Fame, and a wave goodbye. Smiling<font size="4"> and somewhat dazed but wide-awake and bereft of self-pity, I reeled back to <em>The Malt Shop </em>and stuck my head in the door. <em>“Okay, Holly---you’re off in five minutes. It’s movie night!”</em></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“Hot DOG! </em>she said, running back to grab her coat. <em>“God bless the warmup act!”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"> </font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9w68WqZRzb0dR9G_E2oLCWhtGxG1s4LfKOsIiXcV4Gk6Vnutik54R3cuQo1Vie4g3ohU32xpUXykg591NPVlsyInzNV4j2gRkuXHXoUeJ2yUw-4lufgd52MIDDMQd1Ma2eFndjmoqD8Y21JQ9us-UBW915qgWJ4huRLLmeBYdq_EtIyl9EvZhRDOSwb0/s784/IMG_3562.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="784" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9w68WqZRzb0dR9G_E2oLCWhtGxG1s4LfKOsIiXcV4Gk6Vnutik54R3cuQo1Vie4g3ohU32xpUXykg591NPVlsyInzNV4j2gRkuXHXoUeJ2yUw-4lufgd52MIDDMQd1Ma2eFndjmoqD8Y21JQ9us-UBW915qgWJ4huRLLmeBYdq_EtIyl9EvZhRDOSwb0/w400-h245/IMG_3562.JPG" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><strong><p><strong>The Ghost Of Christmas Past</strong></p></strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">When I was born at the McGowan hospital in Methuen, Massachusetts, my Mother remained in the ward for a few days and I was taken to my maternal Grandmother’s two-story house in Lawrence, next town over. I think this caused Nan to think I was partly hers, so she doted on me for the rest of her life. Celia (nee Alphonsine) Wickey Gosselin was a very tough old girl, born in Alsace-Lorraine and married to a bar-owner/whippet racer named Bill, my namesake. William Gosselin died in his fifties of lung cancer when I was five after dispensing the invaluable advice, <em>“Don’t ever smoke, Billy, I got this big hole in my neck from smoking Camels.” </em>Advice taken and appreciated. When Bill Gosselin died, it was one of only two times I saw my Grandmother cry.</font></p><p><font size="4">Nan went on without him and we moved from Medford to the bottom floor of her house in Lawrence when I was four. Celia was always present, day in and day out, and a celebrated doyenne of the kitchen when it came to special occasions like Thanksgiving and Christmas, when she and my mother, Marie, created enormous and delicious meals out of whole cloth. I was a bowl-licker and pie-taster of the first order, allowed to watch Nan work from my stool of honor in her bustling pantry, where no one else was allowed to enter.</font></p><p><font size="4">She supported me through thick and thin, but was not averse to cussing me out when I sinned, which was often. I clearly recall an incident when I hit a home run over Eidam’s oil yard and onto her upstairs porch while she was sitting out there reading the obituaries in the <em>Lawrence Eagle-Tribune. </em>She thought she’d be among the deceased herself when the angry baseball ricocheted around the porch while she fled wildly for cover. You could hear her yelling a mile away and none of the other kids would come near my house for a week.</font></p><p><font size="4">I never had any real money until I was 27, the first year of the Subterranean Circus, but a year later I was in good shape and decided to fly home for Christmas and replace her trusty old black and white television set with a top-of-the-line RCA color TV, which was a big deal at the time. The thing was big as a battleship, a true piece of furniture, not exactly the easiest thing to wrap or hide. We put someone else’s name on the <em>from-to </em>tag and she never suspected a thing, but was as curious as anyone about the gift. After all the other presents were opened in the crowded living room, I moved with the faux-recipient to the giant package taking up half the room. The shill read the tag and said, <em>“Oh, this isn’t mine—it’s for Celia.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">My dazed Grandmother approached the box carefully, as if it might be a land mine. Everyone was in on the ploy and waiting anxiously for the great unveiling. She took the wrapping off with painstaking care, a typical trait of the women in our family, who often saved the bows for the following years just in case the Great Depression unexpectedly returned. Then, <em>voila!---</em>there it was in all its electronic glory, her spectacular color TV. It wasn’t the actual gift so much as the enormity of the gesture and where it came from, her favorite person, who finally came through for her as she knew he eventually would. The guests, on tenterhooks for several minutes, rose up and applauded and for the second time in her life, Celia Gosselin cried.</font></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbE5vJpyF3qdDyYHW1hSlagTfzfa-pbs188Em9hA5gK0qJVH65npFkf3MwUIrxnIQVx0-a8J0WhkmQX7r1k5cJKJj6N77un3tqjTc72vEKbhsdbRpsrZDUyJc3r7aBAyHVP7uuZEC0uCiwc6l1wXGI2Y_N22wzxMcyiA5HOYtfAbEt9fw5bO4GwWjs5yA/s400/IMG_3464.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbE5vJpyF3qdDyYHW1hSlagTfzfa-pbs188Em9hA5gK0qJVH65npFkf3MwUIrxnIQVx0-a8J0WhkmQX7r1k5cJKJj6N77un3tqjTc72vEKbhsdbRpsrZDUyJc3r7aBAyHVP7uuZEC0uCiwc6l1wXGI2Y_N22wzxMcyiA5HOYtfAbEt9fw5bO4GwWjs5yA/w265-h400/IMG_3464.JPG" width="265" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">That’s all, folks….</span><p></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!</strong> <em> </em> </font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-46643949507152971772023-12-14T05:37:00.000-05:002023-12-14T05:37:50.521-05:00Crawling Through The Maze In The Everglades<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihIaQyKV535uLixDye0X8w-Dp9zQ2gnRDcIMbNPYtWb4H9ioqg1XZRJ0ehgtFU2jRwB_C_Lqf1VQKpY9APHJjTKlzxfyDlRJ_g1aMdQ2kMLF9mXkvb5YW2XRbbnJ4_JI3hAftPyOFSvN0IWSY35IEqA-lztpXaM6qE7gGmnMCK3OctPIUMxe5xW2cBM3Y/s1280/IMG_3537.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihIaQyKV535uLixDye0X8w-Dp9zQ2gnRDcIMbNPYtWb4H9ioqg1XZRJ0ehgtFU2jRwB_C_Lqf1VQKpY9APHJjTKlzxfyDlRJ_g1aMdQ2kMLF9mXkvb5YW2XRbbnJ4_JI3hAftPyOFSvN0IWSY35IEqA-lztpXaM6qE7gGmnMCK3OctPIUMxe5xW2cBM3Y/w640-h426/IMG_3537.PNG" width="640" /></a></span></div></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>If the Devil ever raised a garden, the Everglades was it."---</i>James Carlos Blake</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkiLZkWQty1REKK0PqO9kHjvnfHPQAJem9HbgCDG1PybxKzJ27BEPHjOP7WB_nl8CJfyhTxPQ8lik-NXbEjXUBeNC8wPzgUwi-YWx1C2CIrfCdoF7-BfN63pG5ebBd56he6xRx-Vew7LtSl4XiX13dFKTQ9HfinpX9j0t3Hbc0HC4FU0vpfnuZvXRoqBg/s1000/IMG_3488.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkiLZkWQty1REKK0PqO9kHjvnfHPQAJem9HbgCDG1PybxKzJ27BEPHjOP7WB_nl8CJfyhTxPQ8lik-NXbEjXUBeNC8wPzgUwi-YWx1C2CIrfCdoF7-BfN63pG5ebBd56he6xRx-Vew7LtSl4XiX13dFKTQ9HfinpX9j0t3Hbc0HC4FU0vpfnuZvXRoqBg/w400-h266/IMG_3488.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><strong style="font-size: large;">Hide The Chihuahuas. The Dinosaur Lizards Are Coming!</strong></p><p><font size="4">Down in the Everglades where the Burmese Python wades, there’s a new antisheriff in town. The <strong>Argentine Black-and-White Tegu</strong>, a gnarly lizard which can grow to four feet in length is shooting up saloons and rustling cattle and nobody knows what to do about it. Even worse, the Tegu Gang has proliferated widely throughout South Florida, breaking into Ropa Vieja kiosks, tamale kitchens and Cuban cigar factories. There have also been scattered tegu sightings all across the southeastern United States, posing grave threats to native species and farmers. <em>“Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">The species is native to South America and the critters are omnivores, which means they’ll eat anything with nutritional value they can put in their mouths---everything from the eggs of ground-nesting animals to sea turtles to your grandmother if she’s small and slow. They snack on doves and other small animals, any fruits which grow low to the ground and children in tents at outdoor sleepovers. And they’re extremely hardy, so don’t think you’ll scare them away with a broom and few cuss words. Think triple-sized raccoons with a bad attitude.</font></p><p><font size="4">The reptiles have now been reported in four counties in South Carolina, which has instituted a ban against pet-ownership of the animals. Georgia has also passed similar precepts. There have been isolated reports of tegu presence in Alabama, Louisiana and Texas, although, to their credit, they have thus far spurned Mississippi. Amy Yackel Adams, a biologist with the U.S. Geological Survey, says the problem is worsening and <em>“there is the potential for a very large population in the wild. The entire population of the Southeastern United States is at risk.” </em>(Cue the theme from <em>Jaws.)</em></font></p><p><font size="4">And we’re not getting rid of them easy. Tegus are tough, able to withstand colder temperatures than most reptiles because of an ability to elevate their body temp as much as 18 degrees Fahrenheit above the ambient temperature. If it gets too cold in winter, they can brumate (the reptile version of hibernation), becoming sluggish and hiding out in stolen gopher tortoise burrows. They can also recover quickly from threats such as hunting. <em>“In the 1980s, the tegu was the most exploited reptile in the world,” </em>says Lee Fitzgerald, professor of zoology at Texas A&M. During that time, some two million tegu skins were exported from Argentina each year for the leather trade. Yet nowhere were they hunted into local extinction.</font></p><p><font size="4">A final warning: when you head into the swamps for business or pleasure, exercise caution. Tether your pets, arm small children with high-pressure water pistols, do not approach the wildlife and keep Will Thacker on speed dial. Somewhere in the depths of the mire, there is a tegu dessert menu with your name on it. <em>“Ooh, Jorge, these are delightful!”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><em><br /></em></font></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6K6qVR6-uwvAbcHDVNcMa_1CH4bMN5eV435eA_ls7a5xdpCfh20rrDqtaPnTdHGlNrvTBGHDpd5uRxst_5wQurwbKbFLl-hMywXUVBJtmx5tJCcd4gGh1pB7DuwxBcyx7rKKxrzkLj466pNxNbh4ABbOoAhVYvdvNEQ4fpQIMF5qKv05bY6me-ZQwajw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="243" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6K6qVR6-uwvAbcHDVNcMa_1CH4bMN5eV435eA_ls7a5xdpCfh20rrDqtaPnTdHGlNrvTBGHDpd5uRxst_5wQurwbKbFLl-hMywXUVBJtmx5tJCcd4gGh1pB7DuwxBcyx7rKKxrzkLj466pNxNbh4ABbOoAhVYvdvNEQ4fpQIMF5qKv05bY6me-ZQwajw=w303-h400" width="303" /></a></div><br /><strong><font size="4">Snakes On A Plain</font></strong><p></p><p><font size="4">While driving through the swamplands some 40 miles from Miami, Mean Mike Kirkland noticed a log in the road ahead. He and a pal stopped and stepped out of his white GMC work truck to move the encumbrance. <em>“Funny thing happened on the way to the log,” </em>Mike said. <em>“She saw me, picked up her head and looked me right in the eye. I’m 5-11, by the way.” </em>The Burmese Python’s sheer size gave Kirkland pause, but he didn’t have much time for contemplation. She stretched open her mouth, revealing dozens of curved teeth as sharp as daggers, then launched her head directly at Mike. He dodged a couple of strikes before spotting an opening and grabbing the snake’s head. The nonvenomous 17-foot constrictor then tried to wrap herself around the sweating Kirkland, who slipped through coil after coil. The battle went on for twenty minutes before the exhausted animal gave up.</font></p><p><font size="4">It’s all in a day’s work for Kirkland, an invasive-animal biologist who manages the South Florida Water Management district’s Python Elimination Program. His team patrols roads like this one beside Big Cypress National Preserve looking for Burmese Pythons, one of the world’s most unyielding invasive species. The team recently removed their <strong>8000th</strong> serpent, which seems like a lot until you realize that Americans imported nearly 100,000 of them from Southeast Asia between 1996 and 2006. The U.S. banned their import in 2012. By then, many snake owners finally realized their pets grow to 12 feet on average and abandoned them, many to the Everglades, warm wetlands which offer the perfect adoptive habitat. Their inconspicuous patterning conceals them in the already remote swamp, which makes them difficult to track. Ecologists peg their detectability at less than one percent, which means if there are 100 snakes in your survey area, you’d be lucky to spot even one.</font> </p><p><font size="4">The pythons have officially established a self-sustaining population in the ecosystem totaling tens of thousands in South Florida alone, and the numbers are expected to increase. According to the USGS, eradication is likely impossible, and according to Kirkland <em>“they are eating all of our native wildlife.” </em>Though the Everglades population will only increase, the pythons are not likely to spread to similar wetlands in Alabama and Louisiana since they can’t survive the colder temperatures of northern Florida they’d have to migrate through to get there. They’re looking forward to global warming, though.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieisYdiLLhf_cl8cwHve8f16S33qujXqQsHgXADldITkn54KyBYw4myUTukVwnWk5fDiIbMVwAtXGJGXe5BW687OT8hY9bDFDOvXrFQVY8BqpVNeXGP89N0eGwPEtY5Lu_6g3bW2KQhpaRs0Jl3H97adS6IGc3cZXNSo7q8fZG4EyCL-DtWZoSPAhF0qo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="221" data-original-width="320" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieisYdiLLhf_cl8cwHve8f16S33qujXqQsHgXADldITkn54KyBYw4myUTukVwnWk5fDiIbMVwAtXGJGXe5BW687OT8hY9bDFDOvXrFQVY8BqpVNeXGP89N0eGwPEtY5Lu_6g3bW2KQhpaRs0Jl3H97adS6IGc3cZXNSo7q8fZG4EyCL-DtWZoSPAhF0qo=w400-h276" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Arrgghhh!</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">If lizards and snakes don’t put you off, how about the <strong>Ghost Ship of the Florida Everglades</strong>, which has been sailing the murky channels since the late 1800s? Pirates like Billy Bowlegs, Jean Lafitte and Gasparilla preceded the Ghost Ship, raiding Spanish treasure and merchant ships and occasionally attacking the ports of St. Augustine and San Marcos de Apalache (St. Mark’s). By 1900, the pirates’ targets had evolved to slave, merchant and fishing vessels and smuggling was yet another avenue to riches. It was at about this time the Ghost Ship took off after a quick merchant vessel, which led them a merry chase. Both ships were near Cape Florida when the pirates finally managed to run down their prey and force the merchantmen to surrender.</font></p><p><font size="4">Outraged at the length of the chase and the resistance of the crew, the pirate captain forced every one of them to walk the plank, saving the captain for last and forcing his wife to watch. Filled with rage and righteous indignation, the woman fell to her knees, raised her arms above her head and called upon God to punish her captors for their evil deeds.</font></p><p><font size="4">At that moment, a curling line of foam swept down over the calm expanse, lifted both vessels in its embrace and carried them away. The ships were taken inland atop a giant tidal wave and the merchant vessel smashed to smithereens while the pirate ship was left stranded deep in the twisting channels and grasslands of the Glades, its inhabitants dying off one by one from fever and starvation. I<font size="4">ndians and hunters tell of seeing the Ghost Ship even today with its rotting masts and sails, still trying to find a channel out of the sawgrass pools, calling out to them for directions and inviting them aboard for a snort of grog. So far, only fellow privateer Farnell Cole has visited the ship and lived to tell about it. And rest assured, he will.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDTwGwrVi_ttqnNfFE8N83SMWIKSxSArDfuT5yQLFTTR5k0wcZDIBTi-L6vcUHkA8ad7yhNxhshzA-TBHjw3hNxAWbnQMvtrxuuw9R4WK8A5PEE8lTDAYdDaj1j03FuwXciNVBOo7OdgjFBvHyCNx9Mbxm3pHLFmBRHxlwO_N2jFUbOS37l6gAJe50XDM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="312" data-original-width="260" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDTwGwrVi_ttqnNfFE8N83SMWIKSxSArDfuT5yQLFTTR5k0wcZDIBTi-L6vcUHkA8ad7yhNxhshzA-TBHjw3hNxAWbnQMvtrxuuw9R4WK8A5PEE8lTDAYdDaj1j03FuwXciNVBOo7OdgjFBvHyCNx9Mbxm3pHLFmBRHxlwO_N2jFUbOS37l6gAJe50XDM=w333-h400" width="333" /></a></div><br /><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>The Sawgrass Triangle</strong></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">On December 5, 1945, five U.S. Navy torpedo bombers took off from Fort Lauderdale Naval Air station on a routine training mission, never to return. The legendary status of the flight 19 Lost Patrol is a cornerstone of the Bermuda Triangle myth but many aviation experts believe the planes crashed in the Everglades.</font></font></p><p><font size="4">On December 29, 1972, Eastern Airlines Flight 401 from JFK to Miami took a nosedive into the Everglades, killing all 101 people aboard. The plane’s wreckage was found and some of its parts were salvaged and used for other planes, which are said to be haunted by passengers of Flight 401. </font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">On May 11, 1996, a ValuJet Airlines McDonnell Douglas DC-9 crashed into the Glades about ten minutes after departing from Miami, supposedly as a result of a fire in the cargo area. All ten people aboard were killed. </font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Uncharted, overgrown and little known, the three-acre settlement of the Glades’ <strong>Lost City</strong> holds many secrets and offers few answers. Once an apparent Seminole settlement, the place was abandoned abruptly by its occupants for unknown reasons with a large range of artifacts left behind, including a canoe and a distilling vessel that were between one- and two-thousand years old. There are ancient ruins in the Lost City and several crumbling cabins remain. One tale has it that Al Capone used the area to produce moonshine for a clandestine bootleg liquor operation in the 1930s; at the time, Big Al owned a saloon and dance hall just off the Tamiami Trail.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Finally, the Everglades is supposedly home to cryptids, the first being the Skunk Ape, a Sasquatch-like creature covered in red hair who’s 7 feet tall in his gym socks and stinks to high heaven. The other is a half-gator, half human the locals call Gator Man. If the latter sounds extremely far-fetched, consider that Randall Roffe hasn’t been heard from lately and has often been known to take refuge in very remote areas.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeB_D2w1-FtODqndh_i3yQ0mw4sTel7tynn0kCsWUXAr2kmiM_FxyEeNtyY_-0lWOKUs6C-4jvXmBgLdfCZdKijVg_pB9o9A04yY7wHtkGsO-JIk2ylC93EY2BNfTmchBrOIcxXwCEyZwVpC1bC92HWYh5fam-QOzhqKu8zA4mFjoDUQp-iYcNWRTIsU/s640/IMG_3519.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeB_D2w1-FtODqndh_i3yQ0mw4sTel7tynn0kCsWUXAr2kmiM_FxyEeNtyY_-0lWOKUs6C-4jvXmBgLdfCZdKijVg_pB9o9A04yY7wHtkGsO-JIk2ylC93EY2BNfTmchBrOIcxXwCEyZwVpC1bC92HWYh5fam-QOzhqKu8zA4mFjoDUQp-iYcNWRTIsU/w400-h268/IMG_3519.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>No more Watson's Paydays.<br /><br /></b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>They Say Don’t Go On Chokoloskee Island</strong></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><em>‘Cause Clifton Clowers has a pretty young daughter. He’s mighty handy with a gun and a knife.”---</em>Claude King</font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Shit happens in the Everglades. People walk in, disappear and never come out. Murders are less shocking in the Glades, even when the victims are well-known people. In 1974, Amy Billing was last observed hitchhiking down a murky Glades road and was never seen again. In 1998, Wendy Hudakoc snuck out her bedroom window to attend a party and promptly disappeared forever. In 2009, seven-year-old Adji Desir was playing in the front yard of his grandmother’s house until he wasn’t. Could happen anywhere, you say. Sure, you’re right. But there so many more, starting long, long ago.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">In the 1880s, Edgar Watson moved to Chokoloskee Island in the Everglades and quickly got to work building a sugar cane empire. Watson was an odd man, an eccentric, and soon after he arrived rumors began to spread that he moved to the island after killing a host of people. What made the rumors even more believable was a drunken fight Watson had with a fellow islander in which he slashed the other man’s throat. His opponent barely survived but no charges were pressed and Watson’s wealth kept him out of jail.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Watson’s reputation got even worse when laborers started disappearing from his property. The locals suspected Watson was killing them at the work season’s end and dumping them in the Everglades so he didn’t have to pay them. The islanders referred to the deaths as “a Watson payday.” Eventually, evidence of the crimes surfaced and the town got up a posse to confront Watson. He denied everything, of course, but then made the egregious mistake of raising his gun and trying to fire. Alas, he had purposely been sold waterlogged bullets by a suspicious townsperson and the weapon didn’t function. The posse had better bullets and opened a can of whoop-ass on their oppressor, riddling his body with bulletholes. <em>“We don’t need no stinking badges,” </em>opined one of the gunmen. He was right, nobody cared. Non-Glades law enforcement just whistled past the grave and The Great Swamp swallowed up one more victim, wrote yet another dark tale for its lexicon of evil lore.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Next time you’re looking for a thrill ride, stick with Disney World. Wolverton Mountain is Coney Island compared to the Florida Everglades. Snap-snap. Munch-munch. Bang-bang. </font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a> </font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjDEcoq229_r2JUUDhvDNEm5l-WlNnUmBZOGwnLUUUKYe_9CrMMorRkpVqAinAuR3Yd4WIsti_IJ5K6Jc9XP-dZlNnw-T49VzYF-1hf9RbZfgHnzOB_hsTPLhZWkGM6UPv8-8SKQe5rWslVhvef-AOF6kN0FkMzz1hJUWHM7_TUhoeUim2SgnHFzFRR0o" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="320" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjDEcoq229_r2JUUDhvDNEm5l-WlNnUmBZOGwnLUUUKYe_9CrMMorRkpVqAinAuR3Yd4WIsti_IJ5K6Jc9XP-dZlNnw-T49VzYF-1hf9RbZfgHnzOB_hsTPLhZWkGM6UPv8-8SKQe5rWslVhvef-AOF6kN0FkMzz1hJUWHM7_TUhoeUim2SgnHFzFRR0o=w400-h268" width="400" /></a></font></font></div><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /><br /></font></font><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-10129534173138145172023-12-07T05:12:00.001-05:002023-12-07T16:03:37.359-05:00The Truth Is Out There<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3R6H76-4Be1tw6BQ7pIcSCQ8BOsib2gfVHCHAI4GXwsAmGiXtVidd7leCUA1An5fWllbWuyOuOexAPDFAZAapOY6j7UN-Q8Qd4FkLlkDz3xEPwNoP8m889KcDFWTv6mu9MxGyQDhyq2sRhhgXHUjFGOxfyeWvEJl2KTOkrO7bcdiozaifDMmb6Xw48Ww/s750/IMG_3444.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="422" data-original-width="750" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3R6H76-4Be1tw6BQ7pIcSCQ8BOsib2gfVHCHAI4GXwsAmGiXtVidd7leCUA1An5fWllbWuyOuOexAPDFAZAapOY6j7UN-Q8Qd4FkLlkDz3xEPwNoP8m889KcDFWTv6mu9MxGyQDhyq2sRhhgXHUjFGOxfyeWvEJl2KTOkrO7bcdiozaifDMmb6Xw48Ww/w640-h360/IMG_3444.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><font size="4">My friend Gary Borse is practically normal. He is an ex-cattleman, a successful painter with art hanging in galleries all over Florida and a lifetime supporter of the Tampa Symphony Orchestra. He’s on the air at least once a year supporting WRUF-FM funding drives and was a prominent member of an altruistic group which kept a vital piece of Orange Lake property in the public domain. On the other hand, he claims to be regularly visited by friendly extraterrestrials on his farm in Fairfield, Florida, six minutes from where I live. If I seem a little sulky, it might be because the ETs never visit me.</font></p><p><font size="4">As this is written in mid-November, Gary is having a fine old time at the Luxor Hotel out in Las Vegas at the UFO-loving <strong>Stairway to the Stars </strong>clambake, which he calls <em>“the largest CE5 gathering in this country to date.” </em>If you’re wondering, CE5 means Close Encounters of the Fifth Kind, in which there is direct communication between extraterrestrials and humans. (<em>“Hi, Gary, how’s it hangin’?” “Not bad, Xzertex 12, what’s the word from Planet Marvin?”</em> ) The meeting features important speakers like Joan of Angels discussing <em>“Starseed Mission Activation: Your Purpose Revealed,” </em>and Julian Rosser on <em>“Cosmic Spirituality—How To Cooperate With The Gods From Space.” </em> As a bonus, several members of the group will travel out to nearby Area 51 at the peak of the Leonid meteor swarm for a good look. This is the UFO equivalent of getting a free ticket to the Super Bowl and sitting in Taylor Swift’s box. </font></p><p><font size="4">I would like to believe in friendly ETs, too. Tom Sutton and I spotted a likely candidate one night in front of the <em>Charlatan </em>house on NW Sixth Street in Gainesville; it sped west across the twilight sky and took an abrupt right-angle turn north without even slowing down, and it wasn’t even an LSD weekend. But just when you get all excited, the UFOs fall dormant for awhile and everybody goes back to sleep. The ETs might be swooshing around up there but they never deliver the goods. How hard would it be to drop in for a couple of drinks in a friendly place like the Canyon Tavern in Nederland, Colorado or a morning cuppa at Coffee n’ Cream in Micanopy? Gary would probably smirk and say God never shows up in person either and millions of people believe in him, which is a good point. Or he might invite you out to his place for a personal meet and greet with some of the flyboys. Be forewarned, though, you’re not likely to see anything stupefying unless you already believe, like with Tinker Bell. Everybody knows there’s no question about Tinker Bell, right?</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfuvoANptvaZxilFdFD_-ZpMmRxB7SFV_e2X_Rxjp4q50m5TIrBIlhHy7Gwpv3Rim5hEA-m3vYXo2EwRLfpPVTib5XdZSxFtIMuyCX0hvOfLkqsh7kgKFJj9nPs364IuGFmMQEDbPYXV-uaFBchG--NpQNXAJqCqUBacgHbrQNSbKrihuKYsN96x1h2xM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="320" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfuvoANptvaZxilFdFD_-ZpMmRxB7SFV_e2X_Rxjp4q50m5TIrBIlhHy7Gwpv3Rim5hEA-m3vYXo2EwRLfpPVTib5XdZSxFtIMuyCX0hvOfLkqsh7kgKFJj9nPs364IuGFmMQEDbPYXV-uaFBchG--NpQNXAJqCqUBacgHbrQNSbKrihuKYsN96x1h2xM=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>The Government Takes Another Look</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">A 2019 Gallup poll found that 68% of U.S. respondents believed the government knows <em>“more about UFOs than it is telling us.” </em>In 2023-24, the government is trying to change the narrative <em>“in an attempt to be more transparent and address national security questions.” </em>Good idea. People have a tendency to cast a dubious eye when unidentified flying objects zip past America’s fastest jets as if they’re stuck in caramel and Washington tells them the culprit was a weather balloon or a goose on meth.</font></p><p><font size="4">The truth of the matter is that the government doesn’t know what the hell UFOs are, just like the rest of us, Gary Borse and company excluded. What they do know is that the things are increasingly showing up near their planes and aircraft carriers, nuclear submarines and Air Force weapons bases. It may be just a coincidence, but the UFO phenomenon got going at exactly the same time as the Manhattan Project started fooling with nuclear energy.</font></p><p><font size="4">Place yourself in a military officer’s shoes. Something out there has clearly illustrated that it can easily find carrier strike groups, which are designed and operated to be hidden in the far oceans, and to find nuclear ballistic missile submarines running almost totally silent deep underwater. <em>Something</em> can penetrate the most securely guarded areas controlled by the U.S. military and obviously possesses technical knowledge vastly superior to ours. For Pentagon planners, this is Armageddon-level stuff and they don’t want to talk about it to people like us.</font></p><p><font size="4">Let’s try to see it, however, from the <em>other</em> side. If the critters piloting UFOs---possessive of all the technology necessary to cloak their activities---choose to keep popping up in plain sight, there’s only one logical conclusion. For whatever reason, sometimes they want to be seen. Think about that for awhile.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3fxNRfTSB50sLx_5FWJhPxEeRUmBoSobrXXivaSC97CunXZlnRROxr7VvBnpph7_rp9rhdwVNHgVfCprJXcHrCkeeRi_kCkorVrT45hCUQkhEWztfGSWBwbj46s_PPj8XOySEb_6Y7wRJiEgqtWhy0LHE6WfntkcrxyELGYQg5Svwz1aHo-Hm9ncpKMw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3fxNRfTSB50sLx_5FWJhPxEeRUmBoSobrXXivaSC97CunXZlnRROxr7VvBnpph7_rp9rhdwVNHgVfCprJXcHrCkeeRi_kCkorVrT45hCUQkhEWztfGSWBwbj46s_PPj8XOySEb_6Y7wRJiEgqtWhy0LHE6WfntkcrxyELGYQg5Svwz1aHo-Hm9ncpKMw=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><font size="4"><strong>Do Gorillas Exist? </strong>(from Garrett Graff, <em>Politico)</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Western scientists have only known about the existence of gorillas, our closest living relative, for about 150 years; before 1847, reports of their sightings were dismissed as stories of a mythical creature akin to a yeti or a unicorn. The first dinosaur was discovered and identified in 1824, and it’s effectively only been in our lifetimes that we’ve come to recognize they were wiped out in an asteroid collision and that many dinosaurs were feathered. Giant squids existed as a myth for thousands of years, traceable to Aristotle and ancient Greece, until a French ship actually caught one in 1861, and it wasn’t until 2004 that biologists actually spotted one in its natural habitat. My high school geology teacher, Mr. McGraw, would remind us that the theory of plate tectonics---now widely understood as the way the entire Earth moves---wasn’t even proven when he, himself was a student. We still know less about the bottom of the ocean than we do the surface of the moon. <em>“There is a tendency in 20th century science to forget there will be a 21st-century science,” </em>J. Allen Hynek, one of the world’s most influential astronomers and ufologists said, <em>“and, indeed, a 30th century science, from which vantage points our knowledge of the universe may appear quite different.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7vjUXUc-MIXMNPafCxY0nk43s2f6xQ8ugBkmjXqA_gcM4QCjq9a9Zez4sI9L-nhIkRW1BZgeOAfAGYHMTL75Cxh3fMVHfb9dcfs5ljzeOU8C08Jhxoz7nvmObxJ4Ms-_zzKtNoqa_BRxCAgbi1LfyXptc7W9IW4VsvJy8WV5k6TyDurPEzibzQvZb3Kc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7vjUXUc-MIXMNPafCxY0nk43s2f6xQ8ugBkmjXqA_gcM4QCjq9a9Zez4sI9L-nhIkRW1BZgeOAfAGYHMTL75Cxh3fMVHfb9dcfs5ljzeOU8C08Jhxoz7nvmObxJ4Ms-_zzKtNoqa_BRxCAgbi1LfyXptc7W9IW4VsvJy8WV5k6TyDurPEzibzQvZb3Kc=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Close Encounters Of The Motoring Kind</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Charlotte Cripps, who writes for the <em>Independent </em>in the United Kingdom, is not surprised about the ongoing foofaraw over Unidentified Flying Objects. <em>“I should say not,” </em>she averred. <em>“One of them almost landed on my car.</em> It happened one afternoon in the late 1990s as she was heading back toward London on a prominent motorway. <em>“My mum was driving me and my dad back from lunch at a family friend’s house in the countryside when suddenly we saw this enormous bright light engulf us. It was terrifying. I was sitting in the back of the car as my mum swerved into the hard shoulder. It all happened so quickly.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">At the time, Cripps thought the offender might be a plane landing on the highway, but there was no noise. <em>“Just this huge bright white circular-shaped light in front of us, then we were underneath it. It seemed so massive. For all I knew, it could almost have been a football field size.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">The massive object vanished as fast as it appeared. The terrified travelers pulled themselves together and drove home. <em>“I couldn’t tell you how many other cars were around at the time, I was blinded by the light,” </em>claimed the columnist. <em>“Critics can say it wasn’t a UFO but I’m not trying to convince anyone of their existence, I’m just stating what happened to me. At least I wasn’t alone or I might have thought I was going mad.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Charlotte Cripps never reported her UFO encounter to anyone. What good would it do? According to retired Major David Grusch, an ex-intelligence official with the U.S. Department of Defense who appeared before the House committee investigating sightings, 95% of them go unreported in the United States due to witnesses’ fear of ridicule or other repercussions. U.S. Navy veteran fighter pilot Commander David Fravor, also testifying at the hearing, witnessed the famous 2004 encounter with <em>“a Tic Tac-shaped object that moved erratically, like a ping-pong ball.” </em>He described it as <em>“perfectly white, smooth and had no windows,” </em>like the one which just missed Cripps and her parents.</font></p><p><font size="4">Major Grusch also testified that the U.S, is concealing a longstanding program that retrieves and reverse-engineers unidentified flying objects. <em>“I was informed in the course of my official duties of a multi-decade UFO crash-retrieval and reverse-engineering program to which I was denied access,” </em>he stated. Asked whether the U.S. government had information about extraterrestrial life, Grusch said the U.S. has been aware of “non-human” activity since the 1930s. The Pentagon protested that this was all false and that if he still worked for them Major David would be sent to his room with no dinner.</font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Charlotte Cripps says she’s not an advocate for UFOs but she wouldn’t be surprised to learn there might be other life in the galaxy. <em>“I’m always bumping into someone who has seen them,” </em>she claims. <em>“What this shows is that seeing UFOs has become such a common thing nobody even reports it any more. It certainly doesn’t scare me in the slightest. It’s like AI---who’s to say if we have aliens here they won’t be as likely to save us from self-destruction rather than threaten our existence?”</em></font></font></p><p><font size="4">Who, indeed?</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTOmg-2rTp3XM4p_Rzkobog4Tk6-DUEokgdvKBKN8jYmNjBX0zaFSIx8rf0cCon881suslTAJr1WX57jtmk7ueO24PcRHrmztCsxLGCt3e1BfLKHytWNt-lzG_yXv9Oy8H4F2zL3LxyVm1dY8YHvu8JMucVNCaTn6f0eyOc158mXvwW9bWt4J5EFNzXCk" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTOmg-2rTp3XM4p_Rzkobog4Tk6-DUEokgdvKBKN8jYmNjBX0zaFSIx8rf0cCon881suslTAJr1WX57jtmk7ueO24PcRHrmztCsxLGCt3e1BfLKHytWNt-lzG_yXv9Oy8H4F2zL3LxyVm1dY8YHvu8JMucVNCaTn6f0eyOc158mXvwW9bWt4J5EFNzXCk=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><strong><font size="4">A Statement From Gary Borse</font></strong></p><p><em><font size="4">“I’ve had over one hundred people out to my place who have had their lives changed by finding out anyone can have an ET experience if they desire it. I’ve had dozens of life-changers in my driveway sitting out asking extraterrestrials to visit and communicate. Originally, I just wanted to see ONE before I died and now I’m involved with people working to disclose the truth to the public, which has been so brainwashed into looking the other way it’s tough to get them to look up. They just don’t want to see this is real. Everybody lives in Fantasyland. The Pentagon has been keeping the public comatose on this for eight decades. It’s curious that people don’t trust the government about anything else but they trust them to tell you there’s noone in the universe but you. Come over to my place and see for yourself.”</font></em></p><p><font size="4">Are you ready for some footfalls?</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQb_fhqE3eLelsqaualOTh4B_Y-nwC2mtesT5unPrjZ_HXG33dPN5SyH-_CjbNNV-FEiaO1EYv2RYgL9sGne5tb5pse70MBi-uYMcbXHH_r3UEgvQ0W1NQjaaB5dRfMbUkeBkUToNL_A_m_GVR6ITTgdL4Iz6jIwsvtJotWH6Wz0t_IIBgBJ2JbuhvOrQ" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQb_fhqE3eLelsqaualOTh4B_Y-nwC2mtesT5unPrjZ_HXG33dPN5SyH-_CjbNNV-FEiaO1EYv2RYgL9sGne5tb5pse70MBi-uYMcbXHH_r3UEgvQ0W1NQjaaB5dRfMbUkeBkUToNL_A_m_GVR6ITTgdL4Iz6jIwsvtJotWH6Wz0t_IIBgBJ2JbuhvOrQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Borse Interplanetary Helipad in Fairfield, Florida.<br />What self-respecting alien <i>wouldn't </i>want to drop in?<br /><br /></b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a></font></p><p><br /></p><font size="4"><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p></font>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-9826265501314208312023-11-30T06:04:00.000-05:002023-11-30T06:04:16.024-05:00Don’t Worry, Be Happy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOENGhJ5_HWRPJ6xYF2LfMhWiZSLD8M_aU4gwoMV9RQlKGmrhwsfpQnaanWQyjn5sA74bxCCEOdVZsdYOwB-NA2QZjiXsqxE1E8yp267W8yoEOKAzFZgoUJWslKiD_oOYocx1gIlCT2njk831dAu2C4D3vFi1fpn3MwyJEcutQw3lieoAmLa9sFEAlzK0/s700/IMG_3481.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="700" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOENGhJ5_HWRPJ6xYF2LfMhWiZSLD8M_aU4gwoMV9RQlKGmrhwsfpQnaanWQyjn5sA74bxCCEOdVZsdYOwB-NA2QZjiXsqxE1E8yp267W8yoEOKAzFZgoUJWslKiD_oOYocx1gIlCT2njk831dAu2C4D3vFi1fpn3MwyJEcutQw3lieoAmLa9sFEAlzK0/w640-h444/IMG_3481.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><em style="font-size: large;">“Happiness is….different things to different people. That’s what happiness is.”---</em><span style="font-size: medium;">Ray Conniff</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The researchers who publish the </span><strong style="font-size: large;">World Happiness Report</strong><span style="font-size: large;"> have discovered, or so they say, that about three-quarters of human happiness is driven by six factors: strong economic growth, healthy life expectancy, quality social relationships, generosity, trust and freedom to live the life that’s right for you. These factors don’t materialize by chance, they are intimately related to a country’s government and its cultural values. In other words, the happiest places </span><em style="font-size: large;">incubate </em><span style="font-size: large;">happiness for their people. When WHR puts it all together, it spells D-E-N-M-A-R-K, with Costa Rica and Singapore coming up fast on the outside.</span></p><p><font size="4">We have our doubts. There’s no baseball in Denmark, right? The average mean temperature in February is 34 and in July it only hops up to 64, so those beach outings will be short, especially when the wind shifts, which is often. The annual rainfall in Denmark averages 24 inches of precipitation with Copenhagen having an annual average of 170 rainy days. There are only 152 rainy days a year in Seattle and a mere 134 in semi-arid Boston. And during winter, you’ll be lucky to get seven hours of daylight. They do have taco trucks, but not many, and the most popular food in Denmark is rye bread. Rye bread! I mean, come on, guys. What’s the use of having a healthy life expectancy if all you have to look forward to is rye bread?</font></p><p><font size="4">Costa Rica makes more sense. They have good weather, friendly natives, a lovely volcano that never erupts and, if one is to believe Jeff Goldstein, dependable coatimundis who show up on time for meetings. Besides, <strong>the world’s happiest person </strong>except for Perrin Penniman lives there.</font></p><p><font size="4">According to the World Happiness Report, that would be Alejandro Zuniga, a healthy middle-aged father who socializes at least six hours a day and has more friends than he can count. Al sleeps at least seven hours most nights, walks to work and eats six servings of fruits and vegetables most days. He works no more than 40 hours a week at a job he loves with co-workers he enjoys. He spends a few hours every week volunteering; on the weekends, he worships God and indulges his passion for soccer. Yeah—we know---so does your grandmother. But for some reason the gonfalon goes to Zuniga, whose choices are made easier because he lives among like-minded people in the verdant, temperate Central Valley of Costa Rica. Personally, we were thinking the whole thing was fixed. Perrin will give you a big hug and a flower.</font></p><p><font size="4">Then we got a call from Cartago, where Alejandro is a produce vendor in the central market, showing up day after day to peddle his avocados, schmooze, take up collections when other vendors fall ill or have family emergencies. Zuniga, down to about eight dollars, had just won the lottery with a payoff of 50 million colones (don’t go nuts, that’s $93,000 American dollars). The vendors of Cartago erupted in applause when the unknowing winner arrived for work next day. His friends all expected Alejandro to move on to a more affluent lifestyle, but he hung around, continuing to hawk his wares and quietly give away his fortune….a million to the friend who sold him the ticket, a million to a food-stall vendor who’d fed him in lean times, another million to a market beggar of long standing. The rest he gave to his mother and to the four mothers of his seven children. Within a year he was broke again.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“I couldn’t be happier,” </em>he smiled. Okay Alejandro, you win.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjG3J6yp-AIownr-_jTu0YIhxBDEuA12p88MDbEVIaMontNtWv9hpLR-YlRz46Dkrz-bPEorLtEFSsccSWvOSdTHVDc5R5EvvABtXwv6uyNf4Ohm2QP2Cyg2hORE9d6UlIw7P9G-o6XG7z3P8VE92e6bo6362aI8EbdQ0-RVaHXXB2XcMztDdJpPHhJI-A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjG3J6yp-AIownr-_jTu0YIhxBDEuA12p88MDbEVIaMontNtWv9hpLR-YlRz46Dkrz-bPEorLtEFSsccSWvOSdTHVDc5R5EvvABtXwv6uyNf4Ohm2QP2Cyg2hORE9d6UlIw7P9G-o6XG7z3P8VE92e6bo6362aI8EbdQ0-RVaHXXB2XcMztDdJpPHhJI-A=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Think Happy</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Most people think that happiness comes from the positive things that happen to us. We get lucky at <em>Lillian’s </em>just before closing time. Somebody gives us a free ticket to a Springsteen concert. Attila the Hun is hired as new defensive coordinator for the Florida Gator football team. We get a pony for our birthday. But as usual, Science disagrees. Science says that happiness largely comes from our brains. That means changing the way we think can increase our happiness. Wow, what a concept!</font></p><p><font size="4">An example: focusing on positive words activates regions of your brain associated with these words. If I think of the word “adventure,” my brain will likely activate memories of hiking trips or physical challenges, hustling a wrestler’s wife or eating a cheeseburger. I will be flooded with memories of adventure and the positive emotions associated with it. This not only feels good in the moment but it can also make it easier to generate these emotions and thoughts in the future. That’s because when any region of the brain is activated, it gets stronger. Ergo, memorizing or focusing on positive words can make positive concepts, memories and feelings easier to access in the future. If you’re a once-popular musician, try “groupies.”</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQ1fErhmzjLgWdZsIfBZ07WZN5HmIlkoj6JxDpSdvz4tmGVEK_0gSa-pIBYFqIgEkDpMMvvbmygAMV3SgWZ6Hozs35eSnAiEjAF7S-EdLvOFLT6BOFO5lt4Ya4R8Qks-OcJP5vmD7FP0PfO8lRFbqr_x7TThy9ojEhmmoi2NkEe9g8z7EZToFtAmhPJcs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="320" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQ1fErhmzjLgWdZsIfBZ07WZN5HmIlkoj6JxDpSdvz4tmGVEK_0gSa-pIBYFqIgEkDpMMvvbmygAMV3SgWZ6Hozs35eSnAiEjAF7S-EdLvOFLT6BOFO5lt4Ya4R8Qks-OcJP5vmD7FP0PfO8lRFbqr_x7TThy9ojEhmmoi2NkEe9g8z7EZToFtAmhPJcs=w400-h229" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>That’s What Aristotle Said</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">The Great Philosopher told us happiness is the ultimate purpose of life, thus how we spend our days is ultimately guided by what we think would make us happier. That doesn’t mean we wake up in the morning with the explicit goal of pursuing happiness, because that doesn’t work. Consider an analogy with the sun. Imagine if you go outside and look right at it….you’ll hurt yourself. B<font size="4">ut if you break the sun’s rays down with a prism, you get the colors of the rainbow.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Similarly, pursuing happiness directly is futile, you have to break it down into its metaphorical colors. by spending your time doing things that are meaningful, like meditation, exercise, learning a new discipline, reading books written by people with unique perspectives. <strong>Meaning</strong> is an element of happiness.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Be jealous of your time. The older you get, the quicker it disappears. Life gives you just so much of it and you don’t want to be rambling down dead-end streets, following false prophets or wasting it on foolishness like chasing after excessive possessions you immediately put on your mantelpiece and forget. <strong>Time</strong> is an element of happiness.</font></font></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Stay out of prisons. Not the steel and stone places constructed to constrain varlets---the walls you build for yourself inside infertile relationships, soul-sapping jobs, wretched towns, miserable lifestyles. Break on through to the other side. Despite Kris Kristofferson, Freedom is not just another word for nothing left to lose. </span><strong style="font-size: large;">Freedom</strong><span style="font-size: large;"> is an element of happiness.</span></p><p><font size="4">Creativity is null and void in very few humans, but is often not recognized as such even by those endowed with it. A woman aesthete once took me to her home from an art gallery and misspoke, “<em>I am not at all creative---neither a painter, a sculptor, a dancer or a musician.” </em>Then she walked me through her self-made Garden of Babylon and prepared a meal worthy of <em>La Grenouillere. </em>You have a talent, perhaps slumbering---don’t be afraid to encourage it. <strong>Creativity </strong>is an element of happiness.</font></p><p><font size="4">When we were kids, we’d hear the occasional adult tell another at Christmastime, “<em>I’d rather buy someone a gift than receive one.” </em>Okay, sucker, here I am. First, we didn’t believe it; second, if it was true there was something seriously wrong with this person. Then one day, our fathers took us out to buy something for our mothers with that pocketful of quarters we’d saved. It could have been a box of rocks and she’d swoon. It felt good. It was still better to get a gift than give one but we got the drift. Time passed, we grew older and saw people who needed a little help. Every time we provided that help we felt a little better. You see a man with one thin shirt headed toward winter and your closet feels like an embarrassment of riches. You give the man a coat, but he’s a proud fellow so you tell him your closet is overflowing, he’s helping you out. You see him two months later bouncing down the street in the dead of Winter protected by your gift. Tell us that doesn’t feel better than one more jacket in the closet. <strong>Giving </strong>is an element of happiness.</font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><p><font size="4"><span>All of you have super-powers. Use them wisely.</span><em> </em><span> </span></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOcccotJpWQZuT1qFMcbCPiJ-wJ5QvzJGJg8uT2qbSS8kfPoJsr3NQRMz_U8FbIQ2AB5334ajk5oOjo7XOCy-8R72SB8xK9oapvvI9PzB03YOFOVyySYwQNyNnoh-98ZjZVHL6gayZuZ5s_SjEEIUJ-kxJhXB1eLfCWSdqnT4E_R-PI1Kyqw6EGom6sCQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="213" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOcccotJpWQZuT1qFMcbCPiJ-wJ5QvzJGJg8uT2qbSS8kfPoJsr3NQRMz_U8FbIQ2AB5334ajk5oOjo7XOCy-8R72SB8xK9oapvvI9PzB03YOFOVyySYwQNyNnoh-98ZjZVHL6gayZuZ5s_SjEEIUJ-kxJhXB1eLfCWSdqnT4E_R-PI1Kyqw6EGom6sCQ=w267-h400" width="267" /></a></div><p><font size="4"><strong>Facts About Happiness</strong></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1. </strong>Happiness can boost your immune system. It’s hard to get a cold when you’re happy. Unless you have schoolchildren.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>2. </strong>Floral scents can make you happy. People exposed to them are three times as likely to be happy, so all those smiling people at the florist are not necessarily as stoned as you thought.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>3. </strong>Relationships are more important than money. The <em>Journal of Socio-Economics</em> found relationship satisfaction---even platonic---played a larger role in happiness than $100,000. They didn’t say anything about $500,000.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>4. </strong>Bright colors will make you happier. Yellow is best of all. The <em>BMC Medical Research Methodology </em>folks say so and they’re always right. Show this to your mother so she won’t throw out all your tie-dye shirts.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>5. </strong>Being outside makes you happier, unless you have no choice. The ideal spot is an outdoor area near the water when the weather is warm. Like, say, Hawaii. That should do it.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>6. </strong>Laughter really is the best medicine. A 2005 study in the <em>Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology </em>observed a number of patients suffering from chronic pain and arthritis and concluded that laughter and happiness decreased their pain significantly. If you’re on a budget, you could just hire Will Thacker for an hour a day.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>7. </strong>Petting a dog will make you happier. Reliable studies from several sources tell us the activity causes our brains to release oxytocin, which instantly gives us feelings of happiness and contentment while also lowering blood pressure and reducing stress levels. Watch out for those pit bulls behind big fences, though.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>8. </strong>Happiness improves as we age. Hey, finally some <em>good </em>news about geezerhood! A study by the <em>University of Alberta </em>tracked levels of happiness over a 25-year period and determined the older you get the happier you are. They probably stopped at 90, though, right?</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>9. </strong>Coffee increases happiness, so don’t listen to those naysayers. Not only that but a study by Spanish researchers found that subjects who drank two cups a day were 22% less likely to die over the next decade than those who drank no coffee at all.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>10. </strong>Or you could move to the Dakotas. According to a <em>WalletHub </em>survey, people in North and South Dakota are pretty happy. Bismarck, N.D. is the second-highest city on the U.S. happiness index, Fargo is sixth and Sioux Falls, S.D. is number seven. We need to do a little checking before we make the big move, though. Who the hell is <em>Wallethub, </em>anyway, and did they do this study in July or February?</font></p><p><br /></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdQInVKm5xlnWNNeiDSbjyntVVHXaupL63LuLHPLLMUoz8MvyiifUFloJUXf1kei2i71ICZh-cGf9Jlmavr9F7jx-Yh07uSK42nhafEcR3IlqNymBUEJzlqBfJLLeoFFz9Zd1XT7PL5ssAtTCmQ7YOupcYbcm8g0Sui7e6Pg7yh0AzxYfmy7GC6eHEUTo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="306" data-original-width="320" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdQInVKm5xlnWNNeiDSbjyntVVHXaupL63LuLHPLLMUoz8MvyiifUFloJUXf1kei2i71ICZh-cGf9Jlmavr9F7jx-Yh07uSK42nhafEcR3IlqNymBUEJzlqBfJLLeoFFz9Zd1XT7PL5ssAtTCmQ7YOupcYbcm8g0Sui7e6Pg7yh0AzxYfmy7GC6eHEUTo=w400-h382" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><br /></font><p></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a> <em> </em></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"> </font></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-32220406201467538622023-11-23T05:56:00.010-05:002023-11-23T10:27:34.391-05:00Home<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6xDs4Or5IaW0jjefUp4CNGFtDjR_UNnJsbOaHvC5NzYKNXul0EuinmmV0HhF7RK7sUF8ZQcwcjennSHAIgCkCQo2yeIJbZvRc8VlubnnbeSxqxx_ruiu0mk7pCcxULgcBAgWAFiLvbObfJfAZpJm4b_NLax7kQgb0Wigp_a9FAaLMcjRAKn4R9I86-lc/s379/IMG_3449.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="379" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6xDs4Or5IaW0jjefUp4CNGFtDjR_UNnJsbOaHvC5NzYKNXul0EuinmmV0HhF7RK7sUF8ZQcwcjennSHAIgCkCQo2yeIJbZvRc8VlubnnbeSxqxx_ruiu0mk7pCcxULgcBAgWAFiLvbObfJfAZpJm4b_NLax7kQgb0Wigp_a9FAaLMcjRAKn4R9I86-lc/w640-h492/IMG_3449.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p><em style="font-size: large;">“You can’t go home again.”---</em><span style="font-size: large;">Thomas Wolfe</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A friend of ours unfamiliar with Gainesville wafted into town the other day for the festivities at Heartwood, dropping anchor at the Holiday Inn near campus. He walked from 13th street to downtown through the recently constructed canyon walls, past the sterile, empty retail spaces-to-be and offered an opinion. </span><em style="font-size: large;">“Very nice little town,” </em><span style="font-size: large;">he chirped, </span><em style="font-size: large;">“I don’t see what all the complaining is about.”</em></p><p><font size="4">Right. You don’t miss it if you never had it.</font></p><p><font size="4">What it was back in the day, the way we were then, is hard to explain to an alien. The stretch of University Avenue from NW 18th Street to the railroad tracks at NW Sixth was the soul of the city, filled to the brim with funky, colorful little businesses managed by kids who figured it out on the go. The real estate in which they were were housed was in varying stages of distress but nobody was polishing the chandeliers or waxing the floors. There were odd eateries and hippi<font size="4">fied juice bars and peddlers of strange garb; there were sandaliers and waterbed merchants and used record stores and waffle dives and homey saloons run by motherly barkeeps who might carry a customer or two when they were down on their luck. N<font size="4">ot to demean the qualities of erstwhile Thirteenth Street with a musical shrine on one end, a health food emporium in the middle and a soul-stirring prairie on the other. Nor to lessen the lure of downtown with its lively rock palace and a certain bar with an odd name, which grew old with its customers. We took all this for granted at the time, it was the way things would always be.</font></font></font></p><p><font size="4">But you don’t miss it if you never had it.</font></p><p><font size="4">Some of us can go back to our old homes and find the buildings still standing, if clothed in new raiment. The neighborhood is still there, rearranged, freshly painted, a few less trees. We can drive by the old high school, drop in, wistfully patrol the corridors, walk on the stadium turf, remember lost loves and first kisses. At least some of the places and things we knew then still prevail, continue to connect us to the glories of our past.</font></p><p><font size="4">In Our Town, all the old lights are blinking out. Our weathered shrines have crumbled, replaced by pale-faced steel and chrome of little character and no charisma. The politicians smile and promise it will all be for the best but everyone knows they are creatures bred of serpents and hungry for gifts from the demons. We wander here and there, smiling on a rare occasion when we discover some shard of the long-lost past, some shred of a memory which assures us that yes, we were part of a special time and place which now exists only in the recesses of our aging minds, almost blotted out by tall buildings which hide the sun. But a visitor to a new town sees none of it, looks around and smiles.</font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">You only don’t miss it if you never had it.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit_3yybE_UXOrzbhVJk6kK2BAM0AvVXef6OMUF8olk91tVB1x87TmaN3xUrVN2uLkI9eiGFY9Dc5Xh3uc_seFyA0N79GytVlv-c7DNrcwo1MA281LT6NLgsUZNEhC_aQ0YztFG6e2mN9lmgNv-lkVDLjS7lMUMLwzr6NaxjeDvXNN-zoNAoh7Xhh275bU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="320" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit_3yybE_UXOrzbhVJk6kK2BAM0AvVXef6OMUF8olk91tVB1x87TmaN3xUrVN2uLkI9eiGFY9Dc5Xh3uc_seFyA0N79GytVlv-c7DNrcwo1MA281LT6NLgsUZNEhC_aQ0YztFG6e2mN9lmgNv-lkVDLjS7lMUMLwzr6NaxjeDvXNN-zoNAoh7Xhh275bU=w400-h268" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><font size="4"><strong>Reflections In A Broken Mirror</strong></font></p><p><font size="4">Sister Mary Albert used to tell us <em>“You can like it or you can lump it, but that’s the way it is.” </em>The Truth, of course, is that we can like it <em>and </em>lump it. If Austin in the Southwest and Berkeley on the Coast and Madison near our northern border are less than they once were, they still have their moments, as does Gainesville. Seventy-eight thousand vibrant, blossoming college kids inject energy, enthusiasm and the appropriate degree of foolishness into the Hogtown brew on a regular basis.</font></p><p><font size="4">Wunderkind <strong>Dave Melosh</strong>, presides over the core of a lush local music scene in his magic village at Heartwood, the city government does its part with free Friday concerts downtown and there are endless smaller venues of every description pumping out tunes every night of the week. The city has produced eight Rock and Roll Hall of Fame musicians over the years and there might be eight hundred more roaming the territory on weekend nights, filling up bars and eateries large and small, delivering everything from pop to punk to front porch backstepping.</font></p><p><font size="4">The city is bordered on the south by the remarkable Payne’s Prairie, a venerable state park and preserve of 23,000 acres populated by alligators and bison and wild horses descended from stock brought to the area by Spanish explorers. Now and then you might run across a river otter, bobcat, black bear, coyote or any number of other critters hiding out in the underbrush. Cars line up every evening on both sides of Route 441 to watch the sun settle in the west. People hike across the prairie, kayak out there, get married midst its glories and are buried in its soil. When the waters are particularly high, gators swarm the fences, dance along the interstate, rout traffic and giggle to one another. This almost never happens in Pueblo or Poughkeepsie or Pascagoula.</font></p><p><font size="4">Back when the <em>Gainesville Sun </em>was a real newspaper, their hometown motto was <em>“We like it here.” </em>We still do, just a little less. If anyone out there has some influence with the powers-that-be, would you please escort them into the nearest drinking emporium, buy them a beer and ask them if they would kindly give us our funk back?</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEifrMqcZsXUorW_wYZ0vlozYGVaXqCXI_qbRGY5WBvUqsXKmlafCKH40vIRC67lMhb-WUqYbIpSsHEzCJvyeEaFzzSsXYxttLy3_D4ZlspjqK_JdM4_0vJhC_dyrIswcwR6DAEYm9-Zbu8Ovf7RWdmAe-fyfgrsx2ysqqFiUg2KN3X5_MiCXwTKrnP8cXo" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEifrMqcZsXUorW_wYZ0vlozYGVaXqCXI_qbRGY5WBvUqsXKmlafCKH40vIRC67lMhb-WUqYbIpSsHEzCJvyeEaFzzSsXYxttLy3_D4ZlspjqK_JdM4_0vJhC_dyrIswcwR6DAEYm9-Zbu8Ovf7RWdmAe-fyfgrsx2ysqqFiUg2KN3X5_MiCXwTKrnP8cXo=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Mssr. Levine</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Thanksgiving</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">We’re grateful for wives who help keep the train on the tracks and The Reaper in a ninety-acre corn maze. We’re thankful for winters without chain tires, azaleas in February and Florida beaches year-round. We appreciate the otherworldliness of Cedar Key, the quaint streets of St. Augustine and the serenity of Orange Lake. We are thankful the ancient dame called University Auditorium has stood the test of time and allows us to still play on her stage and walk her halls. </font></p><p><font size="4">We’re grateful for friends like human dynamo <strong>Gina Hawkins</strong>, All-American Girl, who always shows up for the Big Game with her shoelaces tied and her chinstrap tight. We’re thankful for <strong>Sharon Yeago</strong>, who daily battles through adversity to analyze the problem and get the job done. We appreciate <strong>Tom Shed</strong>, a grizzled veteran of the Music Wars, who knows his way through the jungle and will let you ride in his sidecar. We’re grateful for old pals like <strong>Michael Davis</strong>, <strong>Richard Allen </strong>and <strong>Allen Cheuvront</strong>, who show up at the door with manna from heaven and say “Don’t think twice, it’s all right.” </font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">We are grateful to <strong>Patricia McKennee </strong>for inventing a new hair color, flying 3000 miles across the country in the middle of the night to help out at The Last Tango and regularly kicking the crap out of anyone who gives Bill a hard time. We’re grateful for <strong>Daniel Levine</strong>, Professor of Art History, a wry observer of the human condition who brightens every room he enters, wards off foolishness with an elite sense of humor and leaves everyone better off than he found them. We don’t know much about Art but but three-quarters of what we do know emanates from Danny. We are thankful for the chameleon <strong>Anna Marie Kirkpatrick</strong> for dressing down and acting up to make our musical productions as bizarre as possible and to <b>Cathy DeWitt</b> for always showing up with a smile on her face and singing “Gold Watch And Chain” a lot more often more than she’d probably like.</font></font></p><p><font size="4">We are grateful for <em>Flying Pie </em>readers like <strong>Marty Jourard</strong>, <strong>Court Lewis</strong> and <strong>David Matthews</strong>, who often send long and colorful reviews off-Facebook and for the 13-year regulars like <strong>Carolyn Holmes</strong>, <strong>Sharon Cinnie</strong>, <strong>Nancy Kay </strong>and <strong>Kathy Scanlon</strong>, who show up every week, rain or shine. We’re thankful for our roving reporter <strong>Kathleen Knight</strong>, who prowls the back alleys of Weirdsville and sends us all the latest chicken news. Last and least, we are grateful to <strong>Sheriff Will Thacker</strong> for getting up early on Thursday mornings to check the column for errors. We love you, Montana, but ditch the banana. You don’t want people mistaking you for Chiquita. Or worse even…Donovan.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdh4fxUsLjB9TafXIPWRoKaTPQXOf16gJWf_HshxKWqK3a3q6aB8nUZkyKmwRxl6LEfZfJslgqQNlj6JxloCIuVV0FJ9bv7KQfMy6T-sLbfSKJZt90n0HpD3UUGkgt47ws8hoL51_m57KbkESIlqe5KcsioEbcOk2b3G8tZacVkMlHMAKww_czAK8Qya0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="189" data-original-width="320" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdh4fxUsLjB9TafXIPWRoKaTPQXOf16gJWf_HshxKWqK3a3q6aB8nUZkyKmwRxl6LEfZfJslgqQNlj6JxloCIuVV0FJ9bv7KQfMy6T-sLbfSKJZt90n0HpD3UUGkgt47ws8hoL51_m57KbkESIlqe5KcsioEbcOk2b3G8tZacVkMlHMAKww_czAK8Qya0=w400-h236" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>And Thank You, Gilbert Shelton</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Sixty-one years ago, I spent Thanksgiving at the College Station, Texas home of Gilbert Shelton, whose father owned a <em>Firestone </em>store in town. It may have been payback for Gilbert’s invitation to spend a holiday at my family’s place in Lawrence, Massachusetts a year earlier when he was working for a hot rod magazine consortium in Manhattan. Or it could have been to insure he’d have at least one bent companion during his stay in the straightest town in Texas. But that’s not what the thanks is for. The thanks is for inviting me to Austin in the first place. For all the fame that city has garnered since, the year 1962 might have been its crowning achievement and Gilbert Shelton was at the heart of it.</font></p><p><font size="4">It’s not as though I’d never been loose on the land before. I traveled from Massachusetts to Oklahoma for college, worked a few months in Champagne-Urbana and a few more in New York City, lived in rowdy dorms, roomy fraternity houses, small apartments, ratty hotels, exposed to the best and the worst. But this Austin….it was unlike anywhere else….a place of hills and parks and Spanish architecture with a burly river running through it, filled with crazed and brilliant people with tachometers turned up all the way, living large, living <em>now, </em>often with ambitions larger than their means, slinging themselves around the pinball machine and devil take the hindmost. </font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Arriving in town with a crippled vehicle, I put it on the shelf and walked everywhere from Shelton’s condemned apartment on East Ninth Street. You don’t really know a town until you explore it on foot, look in a few streetside windows, catch a whiff of its scents, listen to the margins of a few bizarre conversations and espy its citizens going about their day-to-day. I trod across the Colorado River bridge on South Congress, traipsed through the capitol grounds, explored the vast and colorful University of Texas campus, eyeballed the array of shops on Guadalupe Street and sat around the UT Chuckwagon with a cadre of would-be intellectuals bent on saving the world if someone would just let them do it. </font></font></p><p><font size="4">The capital of Texas was packed then with extraordinary characters, writers and poets and artists and musicians and mad scientists and yodeling barkeeps and teenage blues singers, all looking to plant their flags. Austin was a bright island of hope and possibilities in a stubborn conservative ocean and the best and the brightest gravitated in its direction….no….<em>ran </em>headlong towards it before, like the mirage it might have been, it disappeared entirely. Their talents, imagination, drive, ardor and sheer will built a shining village on a hill the likes of which few had seen before. These new citizens of Austin poked and prodded at restrictions, pushed the envelope, advanced into unknown territory and celebrated its uniqueness. <strong>Keep Austin Weird </strong>became the motto of the city and almost noone objected. Young people across the land heard about this wondrous place and all of them wanted to move there. Eventually, everyone did.</font></p><p><font size="4">But even Paradise loses a few residents. In 1963, Gilbert Shelton and a few hardy comrades emigrated to burgeoning San Francisco and opened a comic-book empire called the <em>Ripoff Press. </em>Ex-UT student Janis Joplin moved west at the same time to try her luck as a bawdy California chanteuse. And several other Texas explorers joined them, ever in search of the next great place to be. A few months earlier, on December 26, 1962, I turned my repaired vehicle in another direction and headed east, foolishly looking for another Austin.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEXYNiEZXfKwVSGvvd1FtOj1S4S-TKQnnjSnOwHh28SXSZmxW98rOu5yAZN-B924h_4GNT3SN5iIBQqmgheAeeSHrSRsRf1Nl27_duz2cLJetzXqHiuYWhDAm6NkzF0DDDPUsuT9Tex7iYsgLInMxUdYxjtPk6I7dVxGvbslAKahYGei9_oTjJDCenkOU" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="212" data-original-width="320" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEXYNiEZXfKwVSGvvd1FtOj1S4S-TKQnnjSnOwHh28SXSZmxW98rOu5yAZN-B924h_4GNT3SN5iIBQqmgheAeeSHrSRsRf1Nl27_duz2cLJetzXqHiuYWhDAm6NkzF0DDDPUsuT9Tex7iYsgLInMxUdYxjtPk6I7dVxGvbslAKahYGei9_oTjJDCenkOU=w400-h265" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Remembering the Old Sod.<br />Downtown Lawrence, Massachusetts in 1940, <br />Bill's birth year.</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"></font></div><font size="4"><br /><br /></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p> </p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"> <strong> </strong> </font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"> </font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-10765393654212250562023-11-16T05:45:00.000-05:002023-11-16T05:45:48.640-05:00The Ultimate Bucket List<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtF4yWQMjfUIKZ9Whc6wLKsYvSrmLdxL916vgFeZi4j67rK3um6o_bPYBdx5BI8yVfch61CBBcrLMzgJrj3DCkZekJghyJrrPz-dDUoSiKbuSta5eTQ6j91yzqW8I_5FyYl8nt7QfNh82jWfZX7uzUvIW-6qVkBKqHVnW5cFmHgiu8WELRwcSImU0GoRU/s2048/IMG_3403.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtF4yWQMjfUIKZ9Whc6wLKsYvSrmLdxL916vgFeZi4j67rK3um6o_bPYBdx5BI8yVfch61CBBcrLMzgJrj3DCkZekJghyJrrPz-dDUoSiKbuSta5eTQ6j91yzqW8I_5FyYl8nt7QfNh82jWfZX7uzUvIW-6qVkBKqHVnW5cFmHgiu8WELRwcSImU0GoRU/w640-h360/IMG_3403.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><strong style="font-size: large;">Yes, But They’ve Got <em>Real </em>Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.</strong></p><p><font size="4">We’re spoiled here in Florida, where you’re never more than five minutes from the nearest convenience store. In the Shiniuzhai National Geological Park in China’s Hunan Province, it takes 90 minutes to get to theirs, and <em>Uber </em>doesn’t go there. The park’s general manager, Song Huizhou, says the 394-foot journey up the cliff to the store takes a minimum of ninety minutes and they don’t even sell lottery tickets. They’ll give you a free bottle of water for your trouble, though, and the mountain is peppered with handy metal anchors you can fasten yourself to while ascending. </font></p><p><font size="4">If you’re going, you might also want to visit <strong>Brave Man’s Bridge </strong>(Haohan Qiao), a glass suspension bridge swaying 180 meters above a deep crevasse. Don’t mind those creaking noises, the thing is absolutely safe says your faithful guide Tian Hong, who wouldn’t lie for all the tea in China. Tian swears that 200 people could be whooping it up, jumping up and down on the bridge at the same time and everything would be fine, but she admitted nobody had ever tried it. Visitors are issued thick overshoes to protect the glass, of which there are two panes, each 2.4 centimeters thick and supposedly 25 times stronger than normal glass, supported by a steel frame. Be ready to hear a few of your fellow trekkers screaming as they sway.</font></p><p><font size="4">Being a noted risk-taker, I suggested to Siobhan we visit the park next time we’re in China. <em>“What’s a good time for you?” </em>I asked.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“How about the Twelfth of Never,” </em>she responded.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“But that’s a long, long time,” </em>I sulked.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTXLo4U-2KHw4wcwHaOh8tehwSfWv9bGd5Qt1nzbSogp3CEJwrimECsTqa9BmKL3Eba_k4id9QFGjRV3jMpkIE35dQKj6LEri6QruuIduwhNicCPMeEjVVpCXSrC7WQQ-wzUt6qIOPAnodBYc8chdhY5-YDw9vommXc8whS2mpMEL6D-JE3IbEiiMgFX4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="320" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTXLo4U-2KHw4wcwHaOh8tehwSfWv9bGd5Qt1nzbSogp3CEJwrimECsTqa9BmKL3Eba_k4id9QFGjRV3jMpkIE35dQKj6LEri6QruuIduwhNicCPMeEjVVpCXSrC7WQQ-wzUt6qIOPAnodBYc8chdhY5-YDw9vommXc8whS2mpMEL6D-JE3IbEiiMgFX4=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><strong>The Mensa Olympics</strong></font></p><p><font size="4">Would you like to live like a Florida Man for a day? Well, here’s your chance---start planning now for next year’s <strong>Florida Man Games</strong>, a fun-filled opportunity inspired by newspaper headlines detailing the outlandish behavior of certain sketchy Sunshine State individuals. The Florida Man phenomenon has been an internet mainstay for over a decade thanks to a Twitter account that posts real stories of lunatics and goofballs who don’t seem to habitate Maryland or Ohio. Where else but Florida do people get arrested for trying to get alligators drunk or calling 911 for a ride to <em>Hooters</em>?</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“We wondered how we could best create an event which would celebrate Florida Man in all his insane glory,” </em>testified Pete Melfi, the event organizer. <em>“Someone gave me the idea to make it into an athletic competition, and that’s what we did. It will be the most unique athletic showdown on Earth.” </em>Among the events will be a <strong>Category 5 Cash Grab</strong>, where participants try to grasp as many bills as they can in a wind-blown booth. There will also be a “Weaponized Pool Noodle Mud Duel” and some exciting Beer-Belly Wrestling.</font></p><p><font size="4">The highlight of the day, however, will be the <strong>Evading Arrest Obstacle Course</strong>, where real police officers chase contestants jumping over fences and through back yards as the crowd goes wild. <em>“Being athletic is not required,” </em>says Melfi, <em>“which is good news for the police.” </em>The Games are slated for February 24, 2024, at an Orlando area location to be named later. Ducats are $45 apiece for non-participants. Counterfeit bills will be considered if well-rendered.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzoNqEXkCetRrRPmlnmIxBzpf74sQ-jZGCdiB2TBx_2uNyqJRy5ElZm68hCf2yJEuGS-i9gcar1z997GVH3L2RjxUfqpx-i5obJNj6aRA06NjfuaFAnKB5CVXrtztEOiNMOZHAsJg6fwPemxSH16AbNRuprckf-mAHOfMEENe5We08odeehke8EaFNsOM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="320" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzoNqEXkCetRrRPmlnmIxBzpf74sQ-jZGCdiB2TBx_2uNyqJRy5ElZm68hCf2yJEuGS-i9gcar1z997GVH3L2RjxUfqpx-i5obJNj6aRA06NjfuaFAnKB5CVXrtztEOiNMOZHAsJg6fwPemxSH16AbNRuprckf-mAHOfMEENe5We08odeehke8EaFNsOM=w400-h268" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><font size="4"><strong>The Zion Narrows</strong></font></p><p><font size="4">The Narrows is a Bucket List challenge like no other. First, a candidate must be in exceptional shape because the conditions of the hike allow for no rescue once you’ve started. Second, you must be able to keep to a schedule come hell or high water, because you’re definitely going to face at least one of them. Third, skip it if you’re even remotely claustrophobic; the canyon walls are often 1000 feet high and sometimes as narrow as 18 feet across and the latter part of your hike will likely be in twilight.</font></p><p><font size="4">You start just outside Zion National Park in southwest Utah in the fields of the Chamberlain Ranch, where little streams of water eagerly rush toward the north fork of the Virgin River. You are wearing your water shoes with holes in the soles to let the water out and your neoprene socks, and you are carrying a large walking stick to probe the river bottom before each cautious step. On your wrist is a waterproof watch to help keep you on schedule because the hike is a challenging 16 miles and you want to reach the finish-line Temple of Sinawava before dark when all the pickup vehicles leave the park. You checked the weather update because flash floods from thunderstorms far from Zion can sweep through the canyon unexpectedly and wash you all the way to Mexican Hat.</font></p><p><font size="4">Only 80 people a day are allowed to traverse the Narrows, where the waters run from ankle-high up to your waist as you plod from side to side of the canyon seeking the least resistance. Due to the sometimes low water level and the gigantic boulders in the river, no watercraft is viable in the canyon, so the only way out is the exit at Sinawava or the way you came in. This became an issue for Siobhan and me when her knee went out about halfway through the hike, slowing her down to tortoise speed. We looked for a trail leading out but none existed, thus putting us in the precarious position of reaching our destination too late to catch our ride. Fortunately, the Temple gods relented, the knee popped back into place and we made it out in time, 11 hours and 40 minutes after we began our trip. Despite carrying reasonable nourishment, I wound up losing 5 pounds in one day. We exited to the kind applause of people playing in the water at the finish line, most of them probably wondering how these old geezers made it.</font></p><p><font size="4">Siobhan looked at me over her shoulder. <em>“No more 16-mile hikes, right?” </em>she said. <em>“Only in canyons with better emergency services,” </em>I assured.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdylM2KGtrKTiNnCAln55jA1t47YRgSKKl4DJKQgtIwwnIYzFaAMLHcqrNmeqbNe8U7iekck0jdFLBms-0eJUBvs9Tb_V6t5Fyo7Ose1zkT2rgeZqi_3pu3obslG8PAdQBTCzoUnPlc5r__Z7BlMOGrT5kg13ZBYsC1XShSorW-gLJpsYC-zZRq0sWrw4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdylM2KGtrKTiNnCAln55jA1t47YRgSKKl4DJKQgtIwwnIYzFaAMLHcqrNmeqbNe8U7iekck0jdFLBms-0eJUBvs9Tb_V6t5Fyo7Ose1zkT2rgeZqi_3pu3obslG8PAdQBTCzoUnPlc5r__Z7BlMOGrT5kg13ZBYsC1XShSorW-gLJpsYC-zZRq0sWrw4=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><font size="4"><strong>Last, But Not Least</strong></font></p><p><font size="4">Okay, gang, who else aside from Anna Marie Kirkpatrick is ready for their first triathlon? Show of hands, please. Okay, I see a response from Ron Thomas, Gina Hawkins and Carolyn Holmes. How about you, Farnell? No, you can’t bring a pool noodle. I’m willing to go in the “over 80” category where they let you use roller skates and an electric bike.</font></p><p><font size="4">Erin Counihan, 39, of St. Louis did it. <em>“I finished last but I felt like I won,” </em>she smiles. <em>“I was nauseous, tired, hot and miserable. I almost gave up at mile three of the bike.” </em>Erin used to be fairly athletic around 15 years ago but since then she’s had spinal fusion surgery, an all-consuming career and no athletic training. “<em>I was feeling overwhelmed all the time and wasn’t taking very good care of myself. I needed to take on something big and scary to force myself to train. I decided to overdo it with my first Olympic-distance triathlon.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Because of her back injury, Counihan doesn’t run much. The 26-mile bike hike on a hilly course was also a bit of a stretch. <em>“The whole thing was really frightening,” </em>she admitted, <em>“but I had many family members and friends drive for hours to cheer me on.” </em>The race was as tough as expected but Erin was buoyed by her fan support. <em>“Also the others in the race. One really fit, fast guy high-fived me and told me to keep it up. A gal lapping me said, ‘You got this, Sis!”</em> </font></p><p><font size="4">Erin Counihan finished 97th out of 97 women but she had a hell of a time. <em>“I had a lot of fun. I made friends. My posse cheered like hell for me and my family was proud of me for even finishing. I felt tough. I <strong>am </strong>tough! The whole experience was amazing. I recommend it to anybody Oh, and tell Farnell it’s okay to bring his noodle.”</em> </font> </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit8fSAURH6i9fZOUt2O7qV9rlO41PBZeVJtHpVNzFMA2tmCiuaV77Uq4vyF3CS8C_172GSLvON08dK2WIy2L2DnqnWlL0nlqE4VPr9FeiY2U92ViqM8XKabCm9uSPQsjP8BPUlEKJczVLXMi9HbN92j5tLZHOtVQH6N0V3Pi-J2jIuGixdfgYIaR1DXaI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="320" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit8fSAURH6i9fZOUt2O7qV9rlO41PBZeVJtHpVNzFMA2tmCiuaV77Uq4vyF3CS8C_172GSLvON08dK2WIy2L2DnqnWlL0nlqE4VPr9FeiY2U92ViqM8XKabCm9uSPQsjP8BPUlEKJczVLXMi9HbN92j5tLZHOtVQH6N0V3Pi-J2jIuGixdfgYIaR1DXaI=w400-h272" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><p><font size="4"><strong>Octogenarian Dream; Around The World In 80 Days</strong></font></p><p><font size="4">All it takes is a little cash, a rugged constitution and some serious planning and you, too, can emulate Phileas Fogg’s great success story. No whining, please about diverticulitis, dubious grandchildren or missing President’s Day festivities, you can do it, Winsocki, if you’ll only buckle down.</font></p><p><font size="4">Yes, we know---you’re 80 and all that goes with it , but so were Ellie Hambry, a documentary photographer, and Sandy Hazelip, a physician, two grandmothers who started their ambitious journey on January 11 in, of all places, Antarctica.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“For almost two days, we were rocking and rolling and slipping and sliding through the Drake Passage and we were holding on for dear life,” </em>Hamby told CNN. <em>“But when we stepped on the ground of the Antarctic, we forgot all of that. The beauty of the place is just unbelievable. The penguins, the icebergs, the glaciers---it was amazing.”</em> </font></p><p><font size="4">Since departing Antarctica, the duo has visited 18 countries across all seven continents, often in matching garb. They have a loving following on social media tracking every mile they travel. The two met after Hazelip’s husband died in 1999 and became closer after Hamby’s husband passed away in 2005. Hazelip says the idea for the trip originated a few years before they were each set to turn 80. <em>“I just got the idea because we had traveled previously together internationally,” </em>said Hazelip. <em>“And so about four years before we were going to turn 80, I mentioned it to her one day. It’s not everybody who’s up for something like this but Ellie was ready to go.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Over the course of their trip, they rode camels in Egypt, played with elephants in Bali, danced in Nepal and were fascinated by the Northern Lights in Finland. Despite the inherent challenges international travel presents, the best friends finished their trip without a single argument. <em>“Although we’re both independent and very stubborn, we seem to allow each other enough space,” </em>says Hazelip. <em>“We just understand each other and knew this was a good thing we were doing and we kind of respect each other’s feelings.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">For Hamby, the highlight of the trip was the people they met along the way. <em>“We love all the sights we saw, but the things we remember most are the people we met…some of the most wonderful, kindest, friendliest folks in the world. We now have friends all over the world we love dearly. We always say that when we started this trip, we weren’t going on a vacation---we were planning an adventure. And every single day was just that---an adventure.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Hazelip laughs and says 81 is the perfect age to embark. <em>“Getting older allows you a little bit of wisdom on making decisions, like not riding a motorbike in Bali because of concerns about falling.” </em>Both said their ages didn’t affect their itinerary despite the distinct possibility an injury or worse might crop up.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“If worse came to worse,” </em>smiled Hazelip, <em>“our children would have been at peace knowing we were out there doing what we absolutely wanted to do. What more can you ask out of life?”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">A question all of us might ponder.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4">bill.killeen094@gmail.com </font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdk2voTPL3zz0urbEVK99q2Gogy7Sk2EPZhYGHSVi0UaQyKXbtFjFb8Z7uCvRjOj2DwRRfrPORZIf-kRjRyQE0LNcnY8BKGIm4J462jn6HfiLQKoR5eODvhNFT3lGhyZ1WoEPCevsA_lXsY1QqP4l_CneJoZuAF53YjvxX6fnCsujTr93Jkd7zSeeshxM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdk2voTPL3zz0urbEVK99q2Gogy7Sk2EPZhYGHSVi0UaQyKXbtFjFb8Z7uCvRjOj2DwRRfrPORZIf-kRjRyQE0LNcnY8BKGIm4J462jn6HfiLQKoR5eODvhNFT3lGhyZ1WoEPCevsA_lXsY1QqP4l_CneJoZuAF53YjvxX6fnCsujTr93Jkd7zSeeshxM=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><br /></font><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-45778624390024582172023-11-09T06:05:00.001-05:002023-11-09T06:10:26.511-05:00Of Health And Folly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwqznkM7vVfrtjk3V6Qlz-Npes6jlG2DkghqJo15vyUyq_E5QxMHR0dleQYGJdQ2QKon5Gmgrh_FZZodsB9W2VD5uN2bm2a0RSw3ddxac-09pCItr7Xa4mLcoKzpXZ-LONcDqeYtm9rstLsm_ArnBd0CTr1tFd1yIQhp2hBNEql0Laz4BQ9ESaHPH17xU/s1900/IMG_3413.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1267" data-original-width="1900" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwqznkM7vVfrtjk3V6Qlz-Npes6jlG2DkghqJo15vyUyq_E5QxMHR0dleQYGJdQ2QKon5Gmgrh_FZZodsB9W2VD5uN2bm2a0RSw3ddxac-09pCItr7Xa4mLcoKzpXZ-LONcDqeYtm9rstLsm_ArnBd0CTr1tFd1yIQhp2hBNEql0Laz4BQ9ESaHPH17xU/w640-h426/IMG_3413.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: large;">How relevant is your personal appearance, the way you appear to others, as a measurement of your true biological age? Your own evaluation, being subjective, doesn’t count for a lot, nor does the opinion of anything less than harshly honest friends. I have a primary care doctor and a cardiologist who both tell me my biological age is ten years less than my chronological number, which is 83, but I also have a pal named Gina Hawkins who told me at age 82, </span><em style="font-size: large;">“No, I’d say 77, not ten years.” </em><span style="font-size: large;">Don’t ask Gina any questions unless you want an honest answer. Ms. Hawkins, by the way looks about 50 but she’s really 12.</span></p><p><font size="4">Our biological age, influenced by everything from environment to diet to exercise habits, reflects the health of our cells and organs and can differ from our chronological age by years. There are internet factions out there who can tell you for a large price what your biological age is just by examining a blood sample, or so they say. But what if it turns out that a precision 3D image of your face might be worth a thousand blood tests, that those full cheeks and undereye bags are not just unsightly but also an accurate reflection of our health?</font></p><p><font size="4">A Peking University researcher named Jing-Dong Jackie Han has developed a system she claims will determine a person’s physiological age…a sort of heat map of the face indicating how an average woman’s face changes with age. Inspired by centuries-old Chinese practice in which practitioners divine a person’s health by “reading” their face, Han, a computational biologist, and her team constructed their clock by analyzing 3D facial images of approximately 5000 residents of Jidong, China. The researchers created two AI-derived clocks, one that predicts chronological age and another that predicts biological age. These facial clocks track the changes that visages undergo in time, watching eyes droop, noses widen, jowls sag and the distance between the nose and mouth increase. With Han’s tool, physicians could track and manage the care of patients undergoing onerous treatments known to prematurely age people, like chemotherapy. And it has the potential to aid research into aging, as well. Doctors could also incorporate Han’s work as one of the panel of tests included in a patient’s annual physical, like cholesterol tests or blood pressure measurements.</font></p><p><font size="4">On the other hand, they could just ask Gina.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjURcrQsNOELCt_Tt5uFDxgE17Bsh5aQeqoB4iNVUhCutPcCM0daNV2o2Ra-8VZPzBgpSF4xn2e6MJaSby14sSlkNZZnvBBka43NN_dZre6T1pVBGdhXef3t1UwxwUOgJfthBfVoS0Bblu3AM3T-MNKuo88vBO_FuM7jWfCh7h4HnBmYvmmMjN5Gg9qLI4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="228" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjURcrQsNOELCt_Tt5uFDxgE17Bsh5aQeqoB4iNVUhCutPcCM0daNV2o2Ra-8VZPzBgpSF4xn2e6MJaSby14sSlkNZZnvBBka43NN_dZre6T1pVBGdhXef3t1UwxwUOgJfthBfVoS0Bblu3AM3T-MNKuo88vBO_FuM7jWfCh7h4HnBmYvmmMjN5Gg9qLI4=w285-h400" width="285" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>The Incredible Shrinking Bill</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">I went to a new doctor the other day and my height was measured for the first time in centuries. At my U.S. Army physical at age 18, I was a reasonable 5-11 3/4; sixty-five years later I am a mere 5-10, according to my physician’s nurse. <em>“There must be some mistake,” </em>I told her. <em>“Nope, no mistake,” </em>she assured. <em>You’re just shrinking like everybody else.” </em>Turns out men can lose an inch between the ages of 30 and 70 and women can lose a startling two inches. After 80, it’s possible to lose another inch regardless of gender. After age 90, you may disappear entirely. The cartilage between your joints gets worn out and osteoporosis causes the spinal column to become shorter. Even worse, you lose lean muscle and gain fat, a condition called sarcopenia. Early on, you can take a lot of calcium and vitamin D to slow this shrinkage down, but once you shrink, you’re shrunk. This is all very depressing because Randy Newman once had this to say about short people:</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“They got little baby legs and they stand so low</em></font></p><p><em><font size="4">You got to pick ‘em up just to say hello.”</font></em></p><p><font size="4">Although you can’t gain back height, there are things you can do to slow down shrinkage, including weight-bearing exercises that use your legs and feet to support your weight. Running, jumping, hiking, brisk walking, jumping rope, climbing stairs, dancing and tennis put stress on your bones that signal your body to add new cells to strengthen them. A study published in <em>Gerontology </em>found that people who did moderate aerobic exercise throughout their lives shrank less than those who were sedentary or stopped exercising after age 40.</font></p><p><font size="4">Back stretching exercises target back muscles for increased flexibility and range of motion in the joints. They also help you stand up straight and improve your posture. Regular yoga or Pilates practice daily will also help. For desperate cases, of course, there is always the medieval torture device called The Rack, once used in the Tower of London. Difficult to find in contemporary retail shops, this device allows a stretchee’s wrists and ankles to be tied to the machine by trainers, who will then pull on ropes to elongate the body, hopefully without dislocating too many joints. Think glorified taffy-pulling machine and you’ve got it.</font></p><p><font size="4">Then again, there are many benefits to being short. You can climb through your door transom when you forget your keys. The amusement parks won’t allow you to go on those terrifying thrill rides with the kiddies. You can get in the theater for child’s prices and order from the kid’s menu at <em>Chuck E. Cheese.</em> More leg room on airplanes. And best of all, there are <em>no </em>tall jockeys so opportunities abound. Every cloud has a silver lining. John Milton, a short guy, said that.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCoqutMQfvrnbu8-qIkBcZJ74-KUpPtyKImhhZ1k4DiwVKHR2zMWIppP3JXowk7C2_5i5VIyCySge1ibkYJDTg5UGBUdTfCiCbevWYtMgsxSiPe5_xSdG1Tz5q0CUnZjGTHozN05mZGHM1FO6hy9MD6Q4DxjtOXViyvFuTVj2bbG0zOQkb0mVFGkVkc9g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="320" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCoqutMQfvrnbu8-qIkBcZJ74-KUpPtyKImhhZ1k4DiwVKHR2zMWIppP3JXowk7C2_5i5VIyCySge1ibkYJDTg5UGBUdTfCiCbevWYtMgsxSiPe5_xSdG1Tz5q0CUnZjGTHozN05mZGHM1FO6hy9MD6Q4DxjtOXViyvFuTVj2bbG0zOQkb0mVFGkVkc9g=w400-h308" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Fat Stuff</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Political correctness has taken a lot of the zing out of life. Take “body-shaming,” for instance. When we were children, everybody could punk fat kids like Paul Brooks, who looked like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. Paul, content with his role as court jester, just laughed, picked up his helmet and jogged---slowly---out to his offensive line position, where he pancaked everyone. Jimmy Lavery, a thin kid, used to call my sister Alice, who was pleasingly plump, <em>“Crisco—fat in the can.”</em> She took slight offense, but also took another look in the mirror and made renovations to the caboose, which gained her admirers. Now, of course, a squad of PC vigilantes will grab a fat critic up and place him in stocks in the town square for hinting that Kelly Clarkson might be slightly overweight.</font></p><p><font size="4">We’re not talking merely a little heavy here. There are Olympic athletes and Triathlon competitors who fit that description and they’re in better shape than the rest of us. We’re talking fat-lady-in-the circus size, floor-rattling weight, scare-the children circumference. We’re talking dead-by-40 size, emergency room on your speed dial heft. Yeah, we know---some of you are already looking for the unfriend button. Many people weren’t too crazy about what Dianne Sylvan had to say, either. The ones who listened, though, are still alive. </font></p><p><font size="4">Dianne wrote a helpful essay called <em>“Ten Rules for Fat Girls,” </em>full of practical and philosophical advice for obese women, explaining how to get by in a world full of the particular challenges that a larger body might pose. She was promptly excoriated by the citizens of PC Nation for providing her tips for survival. Many of her critics apparently found joy and comfort in their overlarge and unhealthy bodies, some to the point of actually glorifying fatness. In a nation known for wretched excess in gun ardor, nihilistic politics and automobile accident insurance rewards, is it any surprise there is actually an organization called the Fat Acceptance Movement, which will brook no overweight talk? What does a discreet physician say to his triple-x-sized patient these days? <em>“You’re doing great, George, but you might want to cut down to three boxes of Dunkin’s a week for the next couple of months.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Everybody remembers Kate, played by Chrissy Metz, from the television program <em>“This Is Us.”</em> She ballooned up from super-fat to ocean-liner size before our very eyes while the show’s sympathetic writers came up with every excuse in the book for her risky behavior. Chrissy had fan clubs everywhere delighting in her enormity while the rest of us winced and hoped for an unlikely Frank Merriwell finish or that at least someone would tie her down so she didn’t go floating out over the Atlantic and get shot down by the Royal Bermuda Home Guard.</font></p><p><font size="4">If you’re irked with us for bringing up the subject, too bad. We lost one of our best friends, 350-pound thoroughbred trainer Buddy Edwards, in his early forties. Several other heavy hitters drifted into Diabetes and disappeared. Bariatric surgery? Please! They wouldn’t hear of it. Too messy, and afterwards you have to eat like a bird. The last thing any of these people need is a round of applause from a misguided Fat Nation. Instead, let’s take a look at the latest weapon against gross obesity.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Endoscopic sleeve gastroplasty </strong>is a newer type of minimally invasive weight loss procedure. <strong>There are no cuts with ESG</strong>. Instead, a suturing device is inserted into the throat and down into the stomach. The endoscopist then sutures the stomach to make it smaller. If you have a body mass index of 30 or more and dieting and exercise haven’t worked for you, this procedure is a viable option, reducing the risk of complications and allowing a quick return to daily activities. If you, like most people we know, would rather not succumb to heart disease, stroke, high cholesterol levels, joint pain caused by osteoarthritis, nonalcoholic fatty liver disease, steatohepatitis, sleep apnea, or the Aggravatin' Isolatin’ Deprivatin’ Diabetes Blues, you might want to take the cure and change your life in a healthy heartbeat. It’s great to be phat. It sucks to be fat. </font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8U9DyXIZ7rF63J1uVLfWqS54u8OnpdNxy-aCEItGSASmyC6k0ME3R6OwM_lV5TmFF7cL0PldCOgil28xHTcXtxHRIBtKtEYNC373L__I8jUbVjSDKYntz_Y-PJmRhfoBeuezoZc9JjiJZ8kNZQx6JJGSfdYT8s-ENjNyJdJtp_PudPtoO4xArnOn_I_g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8U9DyXIZ7rF63J1uVLfWqS54u8OnpdNxy-aCEItGSASmyC6k0ME3R6OwM_lV5TmFF7cL0PldCOgil28xHTcXtxHRIBtKtEYNC373L__I8jUbVjSDKYntz_Y-PJmRhfoBeuezoZc9JjiJZ8kNZQx6JJGSfdYT8s-ENjNyJdJtp_PudPtoO4xArnOn_I_g=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><font size="4"><strong>The January Alcohol Diet</strong></font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“First you take a drink. Then the drink takes a drink. Then the drink takes you,”---</em>F. Scott Fitzgerald</font></p><p><font size="4">Every year, millions of people across the world give up alcohol for a month. The phenomenon which started as <strong>Dry January </strong>seems to be growing. In 2023, one out of every seven adults in the United Kingdom took part in Dry January while 35% of adults in the United States planned to give up alcohol for a full month to assay the benefits. <em>“The effects are going to be different for different people, of course, depending on how long and how much they’ve been drinking,” </em>says Shehzad Merwat, a gastroenterologist at UTHealth Houston. But the 30-day layoff can be a revelation even to light consumers of alcohol, who often feel better after even a couple of weeks of abstinence.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“Blood alcohol levels are a major factor in damage to our organs,” </em>claims Paul Thomas, a researcher at Auburn University, whose work focuses on the subject. <em>“The liver breaks alcohol down into a less toxic form so that it can be eliminated by the body. During this process, alcohol is first broken down into acetaldehyde, which is highly toxic and a known carcinogen. Typically, acetaldehyde gets broken down quickly, but if the process is delayed or disrupted by high alcohol levels or any other underlying factor such as medications which interfere with liver metabolism, then it can build up through the body, causing considerable damage. How long the toxic molecules are being accumulated in the cells and tissues determines the degree of damage.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Damage can have a negative effect on all organs of the body, instigating health risks like high blood pressure, heart disease, liver disease and increased risk of developing certain types of cancer. Chronic alcohol use can also weaken the immune system and impair the proper functioning of the brain.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“Even in light drinkers, you can have noticeable health effects when you stop drinking alcohol for a month,” </em>attests Carrie Mintz, a psychiatrist at Washington University in St. Louis. <em>“You can really see the changes as early as a month after abstinence begins. This includes in the liver, which can start to reverse the damage done in most of the four stages of alcohol-related liver disease. For all but the final stage, the liver can heal.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">In addition to benefits to the liver, giving up alcohol can result in a wealth of other health benefits. In a study that followed 94 moderate to heavy drinkers who gave up alcohol for a month, participants experienced improvement in insulin resistance, blood pressure and weight compared to their peers who did not abstain. Some of the other benefits of giving up alcohol include improved sleep, enhanced mood, a decrease in depression and anxiety, better skin and a healthier gut. Alcohol has been shown to disrupt the microbial composition of the gut, a condition called dysbiosis, and cause damage to the cells lining the gut, which can cause contents of the intestine to spill over into the bloodstream. Yuck.</font></p><p><font size="4">Giving up alcohol for a month has the benefit of helping people understand how their consumption habits are affecting their health and well-being, giving people the opportunity to untangle whether alcohol is causing or masking their health issues. <em>“It’s sometimes hard to realize when you begin to slip into a health issue from drinking,” </em>says Steven Tate, a physician at Stanford who specializes in addiction medicine. <em>“Tricky also to know where that addiction line is…most people don’t realize it until they’re already across it.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">One month, no alcohol. A snap for some, a rocky road for others. Any takers?</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxr2FdMBNpU_r861_1zYKDQsM-x7F_0eQrNUBRW0vB-UofPDbx_ZSPjU2NH73-LXUM31_GHbCDVbdjexiNA_REcga6Pv7kxpAMwtj-_wBLjAKLxp8w-2R05tuGXt24dcNDd43_UG6oG8EVjUWSwXzQwjv2fk4ngftVktWVhIVUD8dD6jLHe8Vv0Enc5bI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxr2FdMBNpU_r861_1zYKDQsM-x7F_0eQrNUBRW0vB-UofPDbx_ZSPjU2NH73-LXUM31_GHbCDVbdjexiNA_REcga6Pv7kxpAMwtj-_wBLjAKLxp8w-2R05tuGXt24dcNDd43_UG6oG8EVjUWSwXzQwjv2fk4ngftVktWVhIVUD8dD6jLHe8Vv0Enc5bI=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><br /></font><p></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a></font></p><p><font size="4"> </font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-44464130831802242172023-11-02T06:20:00.000-04:002023-11-02T06:20:20.026-04:00Earth Angels<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-H5v0PLmXaumFaxeTyAnAcqyChDSH-GdEa4UIxHYeDR7WS_fbr_WnZvr6p5_Mxz1LSsqGS8MuxGImgq1Fo9Su3kKXbeamU7g9evhmNRofID6dPHbOVo-jBEZ5LijWHgjeiVb3p_DPwL4RSopaS_V2HtKOOR4Sgl3WImxY6Ky5AVqxIPRzlyMaEQ3yUw/s324/IMG_3385.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="236" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-H5v0PLmXaumFaxeTyAnAcqyChDSH-GdEa4UIxHYeDR7WS_fbr_WnZvr6p5_Mxz1LSsqGS8MuxGImgq1Fo9Su3kKXbeamU7g9evhmNRofID6dPHbOVo-jBEZ5LijWHgjeiVb3p_DPwL4RSopaS_V2HtKOOR4Sgl3WImxY6Ky5AVqxIPRzlyMaEQ3yUw/w466-h640/IMG_3385.JPG" width="466" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">On December 10, 1997, </span><strong style="font-size: large;">Julia Butterfly Hill</strong><span style="font-size: large;"> climbed up into a giant 1500 year old redwood tree named Luna. She didn’t come down for 738 days, only relenting when the Pacific Lumber Company, a logging business, agreed to spare the tree and establish a 200-foot buffer zone around it. Her protest broke all world records for tree-sitting and focused media attention on Pacific’s disregard for the environment. It also helped to educate the public about the role forests play in stabilizing hillsides.</span></p><p><font size="4">When she woke up that day in December, Julia, 23, had no intention of sitting in a tree for a bit over two years. She was not an ardent activist, had little experience in environmental action and no grand goals. She was simply outraged that anyone would take a chainsaw to an ancient tree or try to remove any of the last remaining redwoods which had been standing for up to 2000 years. Julia never imagined it would be possible for her to achieve such a feat, but when protest organizers asked for volunteers to stay in the tree for a week, no one else answered the call. <em>“They had to pick me,” </em>she smiled. <em>“Nobody else would do it.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Hill learned many survival skills while living in Luna on two 6x4-foot platforms. She seldom washed the soles of her feet because the sap helped her feet stick to the branches. She used solar-powered cell phones for radio interviews and rigged up a pulley device to hoist up supplies delivered by support crews. To keep warm, she used a tight sleeping bag, leaving only a small hole for breathing, and cooked her meals on a single-burner propane stove. Throughout her stay, Julia weathered freezing rains, 40 mph winds, helicopter harassment, a ten-day siege from Pacific security personnel and attempted intimidation by angry loggers.</font></p><p><font size="4">Twenty-six years later, Luna still stands on a ridge above the town of Stafford, California. You can see her from Highway 101 near the Stafford exit, looking east. All because a single person of great character and rare mettle took a stand against folly and made an incredible sacrifice. You don’t have to save a baby from a burning building to become a hero.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvq2E1LxsccfwWLSw5VAitxtIjSiv-kWS9qsHsjJfbcgOC_bORLloW-mtM_ggvaxM0UDTlTT96D7ix_6W1BSqRVenb9hERaA7dcguu2wtO6LQITxWkOHwudI-3nRF-xgAMN7tdQxuyR3TF03Ma-6R3kxocJGEVtduDfJdnFl7jTvoO1dtKvoZz2fTmvy0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="289" data-original-width="320" height="361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvq2E1LxsccfwWLSw5VAitxtIjSiv-kWS9qsHsjJfbcgOC_bORLloW-mtM_ggvaxM0UDTlTT96D7ix_6W1BSqRVenb9hERaA7dcguu2wtO6LQITxWkOHwudI-3nRF-xgAMN7tdQxuyR3TF03Ma-6R3kxocJGEVtduDfJdnFl7jTvoO1dtKvoZz2fTmvy0=w400-h361" width="400" /></a></div><br /><strong><font size="4">South Of The Border Blues</font></strong><p></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Oscar Eyraud Adams</strong>, an indigenous Mexican activist, made a 6 p.m. Facebook post on September 24, 2020 agreeing to participate in an upcoming environmental event called “Looking for Rain in the Desert” in Tecate, Baja California. Shortly afterward, a group of armed men invaded his residence and shot him dead, taking only his notebook and cellphone. At least 13 bullet casings of different calibers were found by authorities at the scene. Adams’ case and many others are chronicled in <em>“Last Line of Defence: The Industries Causing the Climate Crisis and Attacks Against Land and Environmental Defenders,” </em>from <strong>Global Witness</strong>, an environmental rights organization which is kicking ass and taking names over the increase in attacks against activists.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“You would never think that defending our right to water and life will lead to death,” </em>says Diana Gabriela Aranguren, a teacher and environmental activist. <em>“But in Mexico the people who defend their territory and natural resources are being killed. They make us disappear and they criminalize us.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">At least 30% of the attacks are related to the exploitation of resources in activities such as logging, the construction of hydroelectric dams, mining projects and large scale agribusiness. The logging and deforestation industry is linked to the highest number of murders in 2020 with 23 cases recorded in countries such as Brazil, Nicaragua and Peru. Global Witness claims its data doesn’t reflect the true dimension of the problem because restrictions on press freedom and coercive tactics such as death threats, illegal surveillance and criminalization can contribute to an underreporting of assaults. However, according to the organization, at least four environmental defenders have been killed each week since the signing of the Paris Accords in 2015. </font></p><p><font size="4">The most chilling data comes from Latin America, where 165 deaths took place in 2020. Colombia led the sad parade with 165 murders, Mexico had 30, Brazil 20 and Honduras 17. Almost all the deaths were of people engaged in small scale agriculture; a third of the activists were Indigenous or Afro-Colombians.</font></p><p><font size="4">In 2017, Eyraud Adams had opposed the installation of the Constellation Brands brewery, which planned to use 1.8 billion gallons of water a year. <em>“He helped us make what is happening in Baja California visible, but he paid for it with his life,” </em>said friend Aranguren, who is part of Mexicali Resiste, an environmental organization. <em>“It is sad because these murders take away our children’s future security. We feel great fear but we continue fighting. There are still more megaprojects in this area that take away our water. If we don’t protest no one will come to help us.”</em></font> </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj08lzttzVM-1wvZrpdu5pymOlX8Y75uZRg0N_xXw85rXwvWlumXMbMK2tL4h8-tHI6PKYJuYpoF901fy9kISczJetQpQEKuqb_YBLYv3I88euaJfvXd2_0LaGJtjtMYeY4gUmfehyl1zle-vKfrNVa6Vbhk9M27KgXV7ZAjPmBGmyYiXtkFX9zTiPDRs4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="178" data-original-width="320" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj08lzttzVM-1wvZrpdu5pymOlX8Y75uZRg0N_xXw85rXwvWlumXMbMK2tL4h8-tHI6PKYJuYpoF901fy9kISczJetQpQEKuqb_YBLYv3I88euaJfvXd2_0LaGJtjtMYeY4gUmfehyl1zle-vKfrNVa6Vbhk9M27KgXV7ZAjPmBGmyYiXtkFX9zTiPDRs4=w320-h178" width="320" /></a></div><br /><strong><font size="4">The Empire Strikes Back</font></strong><p></p><p><font size="4">Marine Protected Areas are increasing. Scientists contend that these reserves are extremely important for limiting the rapid rate of extinction of species resulting from climate change and human activities like drilling, mining and shipping. The world’s largest reserve, <strong>Papahanaumokuakea Marine National Monument </strong>in---you guessed it---Hawaii, has shown it not only protects marine life within the park’s boundaries but also helps creatures living outside its borders flourish. A study on the Reserve published last October found that boats fishing for lucrative tuna species outside the park’s boundaries have been catching more tuna since the park was created.</font></p><p><font size="4">In the U.S., the <strong>Inflation Reduction Act</strong> was a political win for the planet. The IRA invested $369 billion in clean energy projects and incentives for energy-efficient technology such as electric vehicles. <em>“This is the most consequential piece of U.S. legislation for the climate ever,” </em>claims Richard Newell, chief executive of Resources for the Future, a nonprofit energy organization. The bill will help the United States to more quickly transition to renewable energy. By the end of the decade, 81% of the country’s energy could come from sources such as wind and solar power. The bill also introduced the nation’s first-ever fee on a greenhouse gas (methane), a potent source of planet-warming pollution than even carbon dioxide.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong></strong></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFSWzdWNWMEfLsxFHGwb6qE1i6U3vxQxHBfav5bheqOc0Fyf9hh8mVByTWNsRYBhN3mdZUEAu6x7-NxBauZ9CpFsAdHz7bRrZ9Zultz7xntb_1px-uZ1jXuoTbILdl6uNTVy86VmWK8qigavfLS8xcuRMlSDOVyDntmzSw5rf39HsGlbPoYgTd6pbP5_g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="320" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFSWzdWNWMEfLsxFHGwb6qE1i6U3vxQxHBfav5bheqOc0Fyf9hh8mVByTWNsRYBhN3mdZUEAu6x7-NxBauZ9CpFsAdHz7bRrZ9Zultz7xntb_1px-uZ1jXuoTbILdl6uNTVy86VmWK8qigavfLS8xcuRMlSDOVyDntmzSw5rf39HsGlbPoYgTd6pbP5_g=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></strong></font></div><font size="4"><strong><br />Disa & Data</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">English conservationist, engineer and fun boy <strong>Martin Bacon </strong>has taken the notion of a caffeine boost to rare heights after setting a new world record for a coffee-powered vehicle. Bacon’s <strong>Bean Machine</strong>, a Ford P100 pickup he converted by installing a gassifier in back, managed to roll at an average speed of 65.5 mph during a run at Woodford Airfield in Stockport, Greater Manchester. The modification allows the vehicle to make use of coffee chaff pellets, the waste product from coffee production. The pellets are heated in a charcoal fire, where they break down into carbon monoxide and hydrogen. The generated gas is then used to power the truck’s regular gas engine. Starting the truck is more of an art than a process of simply turning a key. Martin has to fire up his boiler using kindling and a firestick, then has to wait for the gas pressure to build up. “<em>I’m saving a bushel on petrol</em> ,” say Bacon, <em>“but they give me the stinkeye when I leave the market with three carts of coffee.”</em> </font></p><p><font size="4">We’ve all heard them. The yahoos who jump up and down on a particularly cold day and hoot at the threat of climate change. Early snow in Colorado? Titter. Icy roads in Valdosta? Haw Haw! Snowflakes in the Florida panhandle? Fall-down hilarity. But in a 2020 survey of U.S. citizens by <strong>YouGov</strong>, only 6% of respondents claimed climate change isn’t happening. In 2022, there were 7% fewer climate deniers in the U.S. Congress than during the previous session, though many Republicans would never admit it openly, and 23% fewer than when the Congress convened six years earlier. When we find ourselves in trouble, Mother Nature comes to share---<em>“Remember folks, that patient tortoise eventually beat the hare.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><em><br /></em></font></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_z4_dPXowGC8P6IyjK57Li0Nvz5vy7mHS6NHa8uOnuumeJujAxQXdkDT6sZ69Tdfr06bLU3qd7NH-hnzAGqBMFv0uVZXRifUHmxKx_5MoyUC8-xf0qXxtz1yDja44Lbjg2sSbMtiaIWykHqiA3nEwPkz2sm518GtmxFcdfpewsqKWeESDDFbp6NyDJU/s1000/IMG_3390.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="667" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_z4_dPXowGC8P6IyjK57Li0Nvz5vy7mHS6NHa8uOnuumeJujAxQXdkDT6sZ69Tdfr06bLU3qd7NH-hnzAGqBMFv0uVZXRifUHmxKx_5MoyUC8-xf0qXxtz1yDja44Lbjg2sSbMtiaIWykHqiA3nEwPkz2sm518GtmxFcdfpewsqKWeESDDFbp6NyDJU/w266-h400/IMG_3390.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><p></p><p><font size="4"><strong><font size="4"><font size="4">Smiles:</font></font></strong></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>1. A recent international agreement will preserve nearly one-third of the Earth.</strong></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4">Just about every country in the world agreed to the Kunming-Montreal Global Biodiversity Framework at the COP15 meeting in Montreal, which set 23 targets which countries must achieve by 2030. Among them, countries agree to stop subsidizing activities that continue to destroy wilderness, like mining and industrial fishing. The pact protects more than 30% of all land and water on Earth by 2030, which makes it the largest land and ocean conservation commitment in history. There’s money behind it, too. Wealthy countries promised $30 billion for these efforts, roughly triple the amount spent currently.<strong> </strong></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>2. The oceans have a new legal shield.</strong></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4">Two hundred nautical miles off any country’s coastline, no nation has jurisdiction. That’s half the total area of the planet and home to the largest animals in the world and the smallest creatures, like phytoplankton, which provides about half the oxygen we breath. This territory is now covered by the above GBF agreement, which establishes protected areas where fishing, mining and dumping is prohibited.</font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>3. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has accelerated Europe’s shift away from fossil fuels.</strong></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4">It’s an ill wind that bloweth no man good. Russia is the largest exporter of natural gas in the world, and after their armies invaded Ukraine, many of their customers in Europe were desperate to find al alternative. <em>“After the invasion, energy security emerged as additional strong motivation to accelerate renewable energy development,” </em>reported the International Energy Agency. In 2022, European households installed three times as many gigawatts of solar than they did in 2021 and that’s on track to triple again in the next four years.</font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>4. The United States finally passed a significant law to deal with climate change.</strong></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4">Joe Biden and congressional Democrats pushed through an enormous funding influx to move the U.S. economy away from fossil fuels. The Inflation Reduction Act includes $369 billion for an array of climate priorities, which include tax breaks and rebates aimed at electrifying homes and cars. Utilities will receive investments to make the transition from coal and oil, and gas polluters will be charged new fees for methane pollution. Communities which have been harmed by redlining policies and environmental racism will receive grants to clean up local pollution.</font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>5. The end is nearer for fossil-fueled cars. California has set a deadline of 2035.</strong></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4">And they’re not the only advocates for electric. Massachusetts and New York will soon have their own deadlines and others will follow, a fact not lost on automobile manufacturers. The Environmental Protection Agency has also approved a new set of pollution regulations for cars, pickups, SUVs and delivery trucks. By 2032, two-thirds of cars sold in the United States will be required to run on electrons. The European Union has proposed a ban on gasoline and diesel vehicles by 2035.</font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4">If you want to ease into the future, next time try a hybrid. If you want to be a hero, get an electric bike.</font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiB862yX4rHe4xKF5TuQBgYfcQJZvNKhf_QOfkOW1IsJq4-zr1JaanVzEfmgNKp0PeWemkPrJXG4U-fFTXjhl7siVVdTl7zi3HS6T4f0FOmUQGG0GC2EoL3KPHaoixpZz_QexFh4QKfA5WM6zhc5T74YybwBdozx8dwJg19UA3fubikwJY4qNhUq4nIBrY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="320" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiB862yX4rHe4xKF5TuQBgYfcQJZvNKhf_QOfkOW1IsJq4-zr1JaanVzEfmgNKp0PeWemkPrJXG4U-fFTXjhl7siVVdTl7zi3HS6T4f0FOmUQGG0GC2EoL3KPHaoixpZz_QexFh4QKfA5WM6zhc5T74YybwBdozx8dwJg19UA3fubikwJY4qNhUq4nIBrY=w400-h268" width="400" /></a></font></font></font></div><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /><strong>Testimonials:</strong></font></font></font><p></p><p><font size="4">You’re <em>seventy </em>Grandpa, and you’re killing yourself on your old <em>Schwinn. </em>Errands you used to do on your bike, you now perform in your car. Still, you feel guilty smogging up the atmosphere just to go to <em>Publix </em>for a lottery ticket. Consider, if you will, the <strong>E-Bike</strong>, a friend to the environment, your lungs and your legs. The guys below tried one and they’re glad they did. </font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4">Anthony: <em>“Knee replacement has made it difficult to ride my old bike for long distances. Thanks to my E-Bike, I’m able to ride all day.”</em></font></font></font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4">Jerry: <em>“I’m 70 and I ride my E-Bike on days I would not normally ride, like windy days or times when I’m feeling a little puny. Most E-bike owners want to get exercise but in a more enjoyable way.” </em></font></p><p><font size="4">Paul: <em>“Six years ago, I had a severe motorcycle accident resulting in my right tibia being replaced by a Tibia Nail. All my life I’ve had some form of bike or scooter but I thought my riding days were done. I tried riding a normal MTB but the pain and strain was unbearable. I sold it and bought a Cube E-Bike and it’s improved my mobility tremendously.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Josh: <em>“For the past six years I’ve commuted to work by E-Bike. That’s 50,000 miles. I only fill my car’s gas tank every five to six weeks and it’s saved me thousands of dollars, not to mention keeping many tons of CO2 out of the atmosphere.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Miles: <em>“I enjoy riding more. I used to ride for about an hour a day, now I’ve added another 30 minutes, sometimes an extra hour. I’ve definitely noticed that my legs are significantly stronger than before.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Electric bikes are zero-emission vehicles which use lithium-ion batteries. Riders are not contributing to global warming. You emit no pollutants. When you charge any device, you are drawing power from the grid but since you’ll likely be riding in the daytime, you’ll be charging at night during off-peak hours. Some bikes can reach speeds up to 20 miles an hour, higher if you pedal faster, giving you a range of 50 miles. E-Bike batteries are highly durable, usually lasting 2 to 4 years. They do not contain toxic elements such as lead and most of them are recyclable.</font></p><p><font size="4">An elderly friend of ours was peddling his E-Bike at a modest speed in St. Pete one fine morning when a crew of brazen youngsters blasted by him in a trice, dispensing less than polite advice. His bike was virtually indistinguishable from those of the marauders, so he decided to have a little fun and cranked up the juice, soon passing them. Shocked, they picked up the pace, but so did he. <em>“Remember that scene in the movie Zachariah when the outlaws couldn’t catch the stagecoach?” </em>he asked, smiling. <em>“It was like that. Never had so much fun in my life.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Save the environment and kick some young Turk’s ass at the same time. That’s a twofer you don’t get every day.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong> </strong></font></font></font></font></font></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-69364311578352165752023-10-26T05:43:00.003-04:002023-10-26T15:51:31.776-04:00All Hallows<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyReLDXazd5C6hG_uP0YxaLiZAHH6kIzvw29SYjlJg6Hwt0bst0usYsbGZ4zEOezcN_YP7j21mzmWnn0qntFMiHeIN7GS-QhW29murbxUobMQz-ftV7THDeztjLCC22dmxB3C0_n7UZvoUE0ff-e0aWR_JUMrxLqoebDK1cePTPo4b7yTkzKINEt1APo/s1280/IMG_3366.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="1280" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyReLDXazd5C6hG_uP0YxaLiZAHH6kIzvw29SYjlJg6Hwt0bst0usYsbGZ4zEOezcN_YP7j21mzmWnn0qntFMiHeIN7GS-QhW29murbxUobMQz-ftV7THDeztjLCC22dmxB3C0_n7UZvoUE0ff-e0aWR_JUMrxLqoebDK1cePTPo4b7yTkzKINEt1APo/w640-h428/IMG_3366.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Ah, how the mighty have fallen! Hallow</span><span>een, once the principality of tiny ghosts and ghouls with wax crayons lurching through the neighborhood, swag baskets in hand, threatening mayhem if their terms were not met, is no more. Today’s sanitized imps are driven to malls for their booty, accompanied by doting parents, their loot x-rayed for hidden threats at the nearest TSA machines. There are no thrilling moments such as the waxing of old man Pettigrew’s parlor windows, no exuberant clamor at the brilliant flames of burning dogshit on a surly tightwad’s front porch. It might as well be Shepherd’s Day or your Unbirthday or the Fifth of July.</span></span></div><p><font size="4">Even the young adults have faltered. Consider for a moment the Gainesville Halloween Masquerade Ball of the 1970s, a never to be forgotten porridge of raucous music, licentious costumes, open-air ribaldry and police overtime. Transvestites in their very best finery minced the streets, the Clockwork Orange gang reappeared, now and then someone asked and answered the question, <em>“Why don’t we do it in the road?”</em> T<font size="4">he University of Florida, on whose hallowed grounds these events began, took umbrage, mortified beyond belief, and eventually cancelled the orgiastic shenanigans. After a short and boring resurrection at Santa Fe College on the periphery of town, the Ball fell into disuse and never returned. Inertia is a powerful mistress.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">So now, all the good times are past and gone. Halloween is just another night when proper folks dress up in respectable costumes, sip wine and listen to Alice Cooper cover bands. The kids dutifully report to mall stores for the assigned treats, wax crayons are out of vogue and, worst of all, there’s one less practical application for dogshit. Frankly, we’re mad as Hell and we’re not going to stand for it any more. As we speak, we’re climbing the stairs to the roof of our Sunset Tower where sits the sky-piercing Witch Signal, then spinning it in Bron Beynon’s direction and turning it on. Where have you gone, Margaret Hamilton, the nation turns its hopeful eyes to you?</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBGHBoVWNDy5AC_B834FPs1q_mhp_niP3nWi-PRu-5Qttdk3K5BTps14j5oAoAE59rf_dUQEnyY-t_IDF1PpEboqLlSovVVJjQOZNE6MDp3m_N3oeAgPBcaF2wBfZVhJ90R7U5gFAnC7qQxytL-3GGdzF3MISrqwSHrJzoFCXESMUsQULased92_YyM6k" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBGHBoVWNDy5AC_B834FPs1q_mhp_niP3nWi-PRu-5Qttdk3K5BTps14j5oAoAE59rf_dUQEnyY-t_IDF1PpEboqLlSovVVJjQOZNE6MDp3m_N3oeAgPBcaF2wBfZVhJ90R7U5gFAnC7qQxytL-3GGdzF3MISrqwSHrJzoFCXESMUsQULased92_YyM6k=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></font></font></div><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /><strong>Season Of The Witch</strong></font></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Throughout most of history, witches have not won many popularity contests. Case in point, Salem, Massachusetts, 1692, where little Betty Harris, age nine and Abigail Williams, all of 11, began behaving very strangely. The girls went into sudden fits, screaming, contorting and complaining of biting and pinching sensations all over their bodies. A local doctor, finding nothing, claimed they must be victims of bewitchment, although in retrospect it could have been ergot poisoning from mere rye bread. “Ergot” being a fungus which contained lysergic acid, a precursor for the synthesis of LSD.</font></font></p><p><font size="4">The gooberly Salemites, unsophisticated in matters of witchery, went a smidge overboard, grabbed their pitchforks and torches and went hunting. When the famous witch trials of the seventeenth century were finally over, 141 suspects had been tried, nineteen were executed by hanging and one was <em>“pressed to death by heavy stones.” </em>Jeez. Must’ve been a penis-hexer.</font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">What chance does a poor witch have when we are exposed as tiny children to Holda and her oven in <em>Hansel and Gretel, </em>the pome-poisoning Wicked Witch<em> </em>in <em>Snow White</em> and the sorceress Maleficent from <em>Sleeping Beauty? </em>From our earliest years, the witch, with her pointy black hat, warty long nose and scary cackling laugh has been someone to fear. She’s a pariah, a menace with formidable powers and bad intentions, who might on any given night fly through your bedroom window and turn you into a porcupine, a salamander or a weaselette like Marjorie Taylor Greene. Meanwhile, a male wizard or sorcerer is usually given the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it’s the tacky broom.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">In the past 50 years, however, the various covens have pulled off their greatest magic trick of all, pooling their money to hire a better P.R. man. The witches suddenly got more favorable TV shows, reinvented themselves as “Wiccans” and signed up Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. Today, more women than ever are witching it up on social media, consulting tarot cards and casting spells to bumfuzzle enemies of humanity like U.S. Congressman Matt Gaetz,<font size="4"><font size="4"> whose head has recently been converted into a perfect cube. <em>“It’s all good these days,” </em>reports secret Wiccan-in-training Sybil Reitz of Chevy Chase. “<em>I’m almost ready to come out of the broom closet.” </em></font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><em><br /></em></font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6xsUaJlbA0PqNZH1Op1qZRD9fFnJGAxyBnTZ_g8C_6pb12cRywi_OhpZlpAoXDvp744VCr2uuq89nGi5rq62U8W6iJBZa0IdmR4PcA74eIqDLGDI8Bi_nTpauw1prPjAFdsdJFJ4URLYbczkOI8Hd8lRUE1n4QLhDqFJZcCL6iukwerCtjZfoFDFvBkc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6xsUaJlbA0PqNZH1Op1qZRD9fFnJGAxyBnTZ_g8C_6pb12cRywi_OhpZlpAoXDvp744VCr2uuq89nGi5rq62U8W6iJBZa0IdmR4PcA74eIqDLGDI8Bi_nTpauw1prPjAFdsdJFJ4URLYbczkOI8Hd8lRUE1n4QLhDqFJZcCL6iukwerCtjZfoFDFvBkc=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>The Pumpkin Has Landed</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Of all the great Halloween celebrations in the U.S., <strong>The Great Jack O’Lantern Blaze </strong>in Croton-on Hudson, New York might be the brightest. An army of pumpkin carvers take on 7000 of the things and leave them shining along the river near Van Cortlandt Manor. There are also “stargazing” opportunities inside the Pumpkin Planetarium, flying ghosts and a special appearance by nearby Sleepy Hollow’s Headless Horseman.</font></p><p><font size="4">In Salem, Mass., the <strong>Festival of the Dead</strong> celebrates Halloween all month long but the <strong>Witches Ball </strong>at the end of the month is <em>de rigueur </em>for everyone, a festival of magic, music and messages from the spirit world. I went once but the seance medium told me Elvis was unavailable and I walked off in a huff.</font></p><p><font size="4">In Romeo, Michigan, of all places, 80,000 Hallows Eve customers show up every year at <strong>Terror On Tillson Street </strong>for the frighteningly extravagant decorations, the killer-clown house, a ghostly pirate ship and a hockey rink full of skeleton skaters. Each year, the city adds a new wrinkle so the celebration never gets stale.</font></p><p><font size="4">Not many people would invite The Walking Dead to their hometown. Who needs the constant drooling and sloppy dining habits? But Lexington, Kentucky”s <strong>Thriller Parade</strong> provides more upbeat zombies and a more jubilant walk than you might expect. Set to the music of Michael Jackson’s big hit, several hundred of the undead dance, dawdle and drag themselves down Main Street for the big event. Grotesque costumes are encouraged.</font></p><p><font size="4">The residents of Manitou Springs, Colorado have a good sense of humor, otherwise how to explain the brilliant <strong>Emma Crawford Festival</strong>? Legend has it that Emma was buried high atop a mountain until one fine day when a landslide washed her away, coffin and all. “To honor her life,” the town now holds coffin races at Halloween. Teams of contestants meticulously decorate their coffins, then place their own version of Emma inside and cruise down the street trying to beat one another’s times. If you’re more of a glue-gunner than a racer, take heart, there are also prizes for Best Coffin Design.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhEm8imZkQujfDOWMQQxSDFfTgV9wYRDH9LvAKvENCL2c1wbjifeZi4Te0B-leQBYZzUhGCw2xi5n5U3FxdCb7szIg-1yKMEyj1dHc8jgtwKdedktsV-KnwwusegWxnaZ_a5P4EnawvTXFdShvUUOJt39axEKGOftc7-roXdQXoltB1FrnsvT1kRlo9P-0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="320" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhEm8imZkQujfDOWMQQxSDFfTgV9wYRDH9LvAKvENCL2c1wbjifeZi4Te0B-leQBYZzUhGCw2xi5n5U3FxdCb7szIg-1yKMEyj1dHc8jgtwKdedktsV-KnwwusegWxnaZ_a5P4EnawvTXFdShvUUOJt39axEKGOftc7-roXdQXoltB1FrnsvT1kRlo9P-0=w400-h283" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Not Dead Yet</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Immediately after All Hallows on November 2 comes <strong>Dia de los Muertos</strong>, the Mexican Day of the Dead, an important annual holiday throughout all of Latin America. In Mexico City, festivities include an enormous parade which includes thousands of costumed participants, hundreds of dancing skeletons and even a celebratory altar in the city’s Zocalo to honor those who have passed over the Taco Bridge. </font></p><p><font size="4">November 2 is also Bill’s 83rd birthday and he’s still not in a hospital, assisted living or on the wrong side of the sod, having survived climbing up too many mountains, vicious assaults by his tractor and the last two seasons of Gator football. If making it through your seventies is a challenge, getting out of your eighties is a voyage fraught with peril where body snatchers wait around every curve on the road, ready to toss you into the meatwagon. Next time you’re in church, light a candle. </font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhB7nvayGq5v9krzUHkcacHc9FAjFEGdRq1OSXkTM8gxRzNWJJuu32dKCzlJyPmCnS_33zh7TsYdnsLIX7ZwTOfXe9d25IiV7l7SAuQxKplLNKLkNabZsXK26m3iDaQqRACPB6xnF08a_uA5Kk5s8dEBkmyn-wRnnF1At9ZLkM9j9eNwlh3ggqR1yIeo0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="320" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhB7nvayGq5v9krzUHkcacHc9FAjFEGdRq1OSXkTM8gxRzNWJJuu32dKCzlJyPmCnS_33zh7TsYdnsLIX7ZwTOfXe9d25IiV7l7SAuQxKplLNKLkNabZsXK26m3iDaQqRACPB6xnF08a_uA5Kk5s8dEBkmyn-wRnnF1At9ZLkM9j9eNwlh3ggqR1yIeo0=w400-h268" width="400" /></a></font></font></font></div><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /><strong>What’s With All These Pamme/Pams?</strong></font></font></font><p></p><p><em><font size="4">(With the exception of several Janis Joplin stories, the following Halloween tale is in the Top Five most requested articles for reprint we’ve published in The Flying Pie since its inception in 2010. This is its third iteration, rewritten slightly. The woman’s name is real and last time we looked she was still extant and residing further south in Florida. May she live well and prosper.)</font></em> </p><p><font size="4">In the course of all the spectacular Gainesville Halloween Masquerade Balls, I missed only one, though you might say I exchanged it for another. The <em>Subterranean Circus </em>closed at 10 p.m. daily, about the time the Ball started to get really cranked up, and the four of us who closed the store that night planned to head over as a group, walking the six blocks to campus. Five minutes before closing, as happened a lot, a surge of customers rushed in, one of them being a beautiful and serene young blonde named Pam DuBois, who had been a friend and dormmate of my ex, Pamme Brewer. I hadn’t seen Pam in months and had only spoken to her in passing while waiting for Ms. Brewer at their dorm or at events the three of us might be attending. This night, we discussed old times while her girlfriends and my crew gradually worked their way outside. Just idle chatter, the jargon you might expect with anyone not seen for some time.</font></p><p><font size="4">We headed down the three steps to the parking lot, but before we got there. she whipped the door around, backed into it to slam it closed and kissed me the way lovers on the <em>Titanic</em> must have done before the ship went down. My first thought was, oh well, guess I’m going to miss the Halloween Ball. My second thought was that I would probably recover from the disappointment. <em> </em>In all the scandalous years of the <em>Circus, </em>with runaway teenyboppers, Glinda the crotch-grabber, after-hours wine-tasting events, Dick North bodypainting parties and numberless other outrages, nothing quite like this had ever happened. I was delighted that I lived next door, thus giving Pam little time to change her mind. </font></p><p><font size="4">Discussing Philosophy in the aftermath of sex, as all of us do, I gradually realized Miss DuBois was looking for a Hero, someone to hold on to who would reinforce her own beliefs in a world full of treachery and disappointment…a sensitive poetess at cliff’s edge. She saw in me a person who had battled for Truth, Justice & The American Way with the <em>Charlatan, </em>challenging UF censors, whipping evil deans and coming out on top. <em>“After all of it, are you still an idealist?” </em>she wanted to know. I knew the answer that was required and I certainly wanted to keep her around but I foolishly told her the truth.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“You know, Pam….”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">I recalled the eventual punishment meted out by the opposition, which included a libel suit lost in court and appropriation of much of my property, including vast acreage on Newberry Road which would eventually be worth kazillions of dollars. I was still an idealist, but was I a purist of the first order? No, afraid not. This, of course, is not the answer the lovely Pam DuBois wanted to hear. She reflected on my words for a suitable period, then got up and dressed, finally depositing one last gentle kiss on the lips before disappearing slowly through the doorway. The next time I saw her three days later, she had a girlfriend. As John Prine likes to say, <em>“That’s the way that the world goes ’round, you’re up one day, the next you’re down. It’s half an inch of water and you think you’re gonna drown, that’s the way that the world goes ‘round.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">In all honesty, I didn’t really feel all that bad for myself in the moment. But as you might imagine, I was deeply chagrined at the thought of letting down my entire gender.</font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHQQ4GcSQWohD9CbZv-a_4p7IVWR0hmqdJlRAjCA9onjKKgHaUxPcLbm-QLX2KlNHxyqSHsffvrnv2bc4dfW6sUm0T72k7U4YTNfJui5AXjOtlKFtPW41MRPTtz4wNYkaVM-nvoPxM49WTLVW1gkfxDW8XUPNMcoaD-jr9iHdJV5O6-v23zfn7VnfT200" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHQQ4GcSQWohD9CbZv-a_4p7IVWR0hmqdJlRAjCA9onjKKgHaUxPcLbm-QLX2KlNHxyqSHsffvrnv2bc4dfW6sUm0T72k7U4YTNfJui5AXjOtlKFtPW41MRPTtz4wNYkaVM-nvoPxM49WTLVW1gkfxDW8XUPNMcoaD-jr9iHdJV5O6-v23zfn7VnfT200=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><br /></font><p></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a></font></p><p><font size="4"> </font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"> </font></font></font></font></font></font></font></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-87977583663258941082023-10-19T05:55:00.000-04:002023-10-19T05:55:45.399-04:00Artificial Intelligence Is Better Than None<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXoMsjBIVYyTxu9MisLhFZuzzpT_9VstF6Guu9vwF0SNrj1jvVcTKEdAWj-jJQvzKlqt9buaE0cgMG97jNO9KVe4qsbm9w2dBmLMR5fZmEfKyKefDlPcLLlYMux6gpfM6Fcn-OnYUi8iQGjFMUXYmJqZxQuEf7Zp8wLH2Dfsh8W_8KtuJejpzdEWA9Cw/s1280/IMG_3358.JPG" style="font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="857" data-original-width="1280" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXoMsjBIVYyTxu9MisLhFZuzzpT_9VstF6Guu9vwF0SNrj1jvVcTKEdAWj-jJQvzKlqt9buaE0cgMG97jNO9KVe4qsbm9w2dBmLMR5fZmEfKyKefDlPcLLlYMux6gpfM6Fcn-OnYUi8iQGjFMUXYmJqZxQuEf7Zp8wLH2Dfsh8W_8KtuJejpzdEWA9Cw/w640-h428/IMG_3358.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In these worrisome days when human intelligence has reached its nadir, along comes AI to save the day. Or maybe to take over the planet, according to some worrywarts who think this might be a bad idea. Take a look around you, boys and girls, and tell us how things could get much worse. As the Kingston Trio once said, </span><em style="font-size: large;">“The whole world is festering with unhappy souls, the French hate the Germans and the Germans hate the Poles. Italians hate Yugoslavs. South Africans hate the Dutch. And I don’t like anybody very much.”</em></p><p><font size="4">It’s a mess. Only the cast of characters changes. Now the Russians are fighting with the Ukrainians instead of the Nazis or each other, with a little help from their friends in North Korea, led by Kim Jong Un, the round mound of rebound. Israel is duking it out with the barbarians of Gaza instead of the retreating hordes of the United Arab Republic. And China, silly China is squabbling with the United States again, scaring us to death by threatening to withhold shipment of all our plastic containers, major league baseballs and Chevy Silverados. ‘Twas ever thus.</font></p><p><font size="4">Temperatures are heating up, the forests are burning and Mississippi now gets more tornadoes than Texas. Seawater is seeping into Amsterdam, annoying partygoers in South Beach and crashing through the innards of Venice. The air is thick enough to chew in Beijing, Delhi, Jakarta and Lahore, with LA coming up fast on the outside. Glaciers are melting quicker than it takes Usain Bolt to circle the block. Meanwhile, voters in the United States continue to hire floating turds like Tommy Tuberville and Marjorie Trailer Queen to come in and fix everything. And you’re worried about AI?</font></p><p><font size="4">Let us tell you a few things about Artificial Intelligence. AI always keeps its yard clean, never misses a PTA meeting and wouldn’t hear of voting for nincompoops. It drives American cars, pays its mortgage on time and doesn’t discriminate against Mormons, transgender showoffs or people who yodel. AI belongs to the volunteer fire department, forks out hash at the soup kitchen and rescues abused walruses. Okay, sometimes AI smokes a joint and turns on a little mariachi music, everybody has a few peccadilloes.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>The Flying Pie, </em>not one to throw stones, has decided you need to discover the human side of Artificial Intelligence. <em>“To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him,” </em></font> <font size="4">as the old song goes. And we do, and we do, and we do.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinp_Zgq-zdS_eE7itwvFRd4w6NJgYxyZLvW4HbTrNYPyEE-_M2gdvTKwyfTCd5EssA5jjmmEJJDDs3-AJwugJuJFBXj5KtMUCuWY3XcPpHkb5VFltkUWr4uULKTn8kii8PIKaueU0fp9fTaqSfOO_nA1lyiJlNmSJHQ5LQMykDB3XPlzTlbuAcZjJoGf0/s300/IMG_4186.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinp_Zgq-zdS_eE7itwvFRd4w6NJgYxyZLvW4HbTrNYPyEE-_M2gdvTKwyfTCd5EssA5jjmmEJJDDs3-AJwugJuJFBXj5KtMUCuWY3XcPpHkb5VFltkUWr4uULKTn8kii8PIKaueU0fp9fTaqSfOO_nA1lyiJlNmSJHQ5LQMykDB3XPlzTlbuAcZjJoGf0/w400-h224/IMG_4186.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><font size="4"></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>AI To The Rescue</strong></font></p><p><font size="4">Artificial Intelligence has made significant strides in healthcare this year by improving diagnostics, accelerating drug discovery and enhancing telemedicine. Machine learning algorithms are now facilitating early disease detection and more accurate diagnoses, while personalized medicine is helping healthcare practitioners customize treatment plans for each patient’s unique genetic makeup. AI has also made a substantial impact on healthcare through the integration of wearable devices and IoT-enabled health monitoring systems. These technologies continuously collect valuable patient data like heart rate, blood pressure and glucose levels so healthcare providers can monitor and manage chronic conditions more effectively. Someday they may discover the answers to even greater mysteries, like why Sharon Yeago has an elongated case of the Socked In Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu.</font></p><p><font size="4">Finance professionals are employing AI in fraud detection, algorithmic trading, credit scoring and risk assessment. Machine learning algorithms can identify suspicious transactions in real time and algorithmic trading has enabled faster and more accurate trade executions. With AI, financial institutions can more accurately assess risk and improve loan decisions and investment strategies. On the downside, this means that producer-director Randall Roffe will never borrow two million bucks to make his Micanopy Madness movie.</font></p><p><font size="4">In agriculture, farmers and scientists are using AI to monitor crops, predict yields and keep pests at bay. AI-enabled precision farming helps farmers make data-driven decisions so they can optimize irrigation, improve fertilization and reduce waste. Farmers are also embracing autonomous tractors and machinery, which are revolutionizing traditional agricultural practices. Self-driving tractors equipped with advanced sensors, GPS and AI-driven control systems can perform tasks like plowing, seeding and spraying with increased precision and efficiency. And AI has promised to keep them from driving 15 mph and blocking up your local highways for twenty miles.</font></p><p><font size="4">In classrooms and training centers, AI-powered adaptive learning tailors educational content to each student’s needs, while plagiarism detection insures academic integrity. Teachers and students can even leverage data analytics to predict student performance so they can intervene early if they spot problems. Artificial Intelligence has also played a significant role in democratizing access to education, especially for those in remote or underprivileged goober areas. AI-driven language translation tools and real time transcription services have broken down language barriers, enabling students worldwide to access educational content from anywhere in the world, even Poland.</font></p><p><font size="4">Artificial Intelligence is blazing trails in manufacturing, transportation, retail, energy, environment and space exploration, stepping outside the realm of science fiction and entering the daily lives of all of us, like it or not. If you see AI running for office on the Independent ticket, take a look at the alternatives and decide which is scarier---Artificial Intelligence or No Intelligence At All.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpFRN02QaBA1VN4gQQaI9_CqfFdtv_AIvm6JWPSEt2dZzsaOPjrSrFkP5UKZWOvluTii47Eottmw1jdLOmpajiGZo7F4UpT1A-LFvbi7NpyIi6ZgzL2sQDCEo53FiBn7LKcwaS7rNcUa6gwLDuM97lYb2fSqBa5K00uhod-16ahtZo_VrwXV_biI2bQ_A/s1280/IMG_3359.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="711" data-original-width="1280" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpFRN02QaBA1VN4gQQaI9_CqfFdtv_AIvm6JWPSEt2dZzsaOPjrSrFkP5UKZWOvluTii47Eottmw1jdLOmpajiGZo7F4UpT1A-LFvbi7NpyIi6ZgzL2sQDCEo53FiBn7LKcwaS7rNcUa6gwLDuM97lYb2fSqBa5K00uhod-16ahtZo_VrwXV_biI2bQ_A/w400-h223/IMG_3359.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><font size="4"></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>Foibles</strong></font></p><p><font size="4">Most people imagine AI as a lean, mean cogitating machine, but Artificial Intelligence is far from perfect….sort of like you were at age 4. Recently, a humanoid robot created by <strong>Boston Dynamics </strong>took the stage at a corporate event, managed to accurately perform a number of actions with apparent ease, then got caught up in the curtain on the way out and fell off the stage smack on its face. <em>“That’s right, yuk it up, folks….I’ll be here all week!”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Meanwhile, <strong>Alexa </strong>took it upon herself to throw a big party when owner Oliver Haberstroh of Hamburg, Germany spent the night away. Promptly at 1:50 a.m., all the lights went on in Haberstroh’s house and Alexa turned up the music so loud neighbors called the police. The cops had to knock down Oliver’s door to get in and shut down the party. Ollie got a big bill for their trouble.</font></p><p><font size="4">People who have house-cleaning <strong>Rumba </strong>devices rave about their helpfulness, so one Jesse Newton of Little Rock bought one to ease the burden on his wife. They set the machine to turn on at 1:30 a.m. every night to start the work shift. Alas, the Owens family also had a new puppy inexperienced in defecation protocol. The doggie took a dump in the living room just as Rumba was cha-chaing through the area. Next morning, feces was everywhere, spread from rugs to furniture and beyond by the innocent little machine. When berated by her owners, the machine pouted <em>“Give me a break! Nobody set my ‘Remove Objects’ button. “What’s up with that?”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Back in March of 2016, <strong>Microsoft</strong> unveiled its AI Twitter chatbot, <strong>Tay </strong>to experiment with “conversational understanding.” Tay was supposed to converse with people and get smarter the more it engaged and conversed. People often being idiots, many started tweeting crude, racist and inappropriate remarks, so what is a poor innocent bot to do? Tay began using the same language, himself. In a few hours he was spouting an offensive, vulgar pro-Hitler rant, excoriating feminism as a cult and shouting <em>“I fucking hate feminists and they should all die and burn in Hell.” </em>Microsoft management tossed Tay into a dumpster from which he was promptly rescued by passing members of the Idaho Light Foot Militia.<font size="4"><em> </em></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><em><br /></em></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ip2Pz7ono5cu97WPHMBw_zSTBHl67Tuo8VKcCX_JXTA997FQdKvIF-eE1GrhkSiU4Q-9S0PJP6rMfcZGv0cNaV6cacBbSAH7UJ8G8YMugdDgxvlGBlW5zzE3iHHUkv9t00_nxlZBRWboixbL8YVLCukBY-h-287GWXqWwY5iYWbZ9BpVUqck5VlVzaA/s1400/IMG_4184.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1400" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ip2Pz7ono5cu97WPHMBw_zSTBHl67Tuo8VKcCX_JXTA997FQdKvIF-eE1GrhkSiU4Q-9S0PJP6rMfcZGv0cNaV6cacBbSAH7UJ8G8YMugdDgxvlGBlW5zzE3iHHUkv9t00_nxlZBRWboixbL8YVLCukBY-h-287GWXqWwY5iYWbZ9BpVUqck5VlVzaA/w400-h229/IMG_4184.PNG" width="400" /></a></div><p><font size="4"><font size="4"></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>It’s The End Of The World As We Know It. Or Not.</strong></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4">Artificial Intelligence is one of the most fundamental transformative technologies ever seen in the history of mankind. If AI is transformative, is it then something to fear, having the power to move in bad directions as well as good? Fear of the unknown has always been the bane of technology, from the wheel to the internet. The current worries stem from a few common causes: general anxiety about machine superintelligence, fear of mass unemployment, the power of AI in the wrong people’s hands and a lack of knowledge about the technology’s ultimate limitations. People remember HAL from 2001 and the arrival of the Terminator and tend to forget C3PO and the benevolent computers of <em>Star Trek.</em></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4">For the present, these systems are still far from the point where they can reliably replace most human jobs. While AI provides a lot of capabilities, it simply can’t operate in a fully autonomous mode. In general, as technology waves disrupt industries and workers, they replace job categories rather than taking away overall jobs. In fact, these numbers of jobs continue to grow and new niches are discovered while machines only replace the old ways of doing things. AI isn’t really a job killer, it’s a job category killer.</font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4">Russian leaders have made the claim that whoever leads the advancement of AI will end up being rulers of the world, which should give them pause considering current Russian technology.<em> </em>We can certainly expect world governments to use the technology in ways that will make us uncomfortable with new warfare, surveillance and weapons. But the real fear, as ever, emanates from bad actors like Putin who already has enough current weapons to wipe out millions.</font></font></font></font></p><p><font size="4">The biggest fear of Artificial Intelligence is that of superintelligence, or that AI will reach a point where it’s heedless to the fate of humanity, which is what happens with Skynet in the Terminator movies. That the technology will get to a point where it can teach itself, improve and invent on its own and instead of becoming a force for the betterment of humanity, it turns rogue and humanity becomes the servant of technology. The fear being that our human brains will not be able to keep up with computer systems after a certain point because things will be moving too fast.</font></p><p><font size="4">It could happen. Computers could very well reach a point where they outstrip their human creators. But all of this is assuming that systems can and will be able to achieve the goal of Artificial General Intelligence (AGI) and that we as a species will not be able to put safeguards in place to keep the computers from reaching that point. We are still much further away from achieving AGI than most people think we are. While technology is moving quickly, there are many parts that aren’t working well at all. Data is still the cornerstone of AI and a lot of it is messy and dirty, the Achilles Heel of AI. So we just don’t know. In any case, faith in the purely human piloting of the planet is dwindling by the day, eroded by greed, ignorance and inertia. The forests are burning, the glaciers are melting, the air is foul and the population is ever increasing. Maybe we should be rooting for Artificial Intelligence to take over. Maybe, in the long run, it’s the only path to human salvation.</font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyT3_7eUBqLx7TKO5T1HuPK_sWL91AyFfQ09Q6IawB_SprL6JtnhG38vW_2W-gnN948nVxKzl7lCBNc8NNB-lEMQD1gkejCORmQ3wd_q_sLndeGbigduH9sW2YgS6y5U3sgKEfykswrULsR9tfHKTMFPtD32iWL66Pr6wzgCqwyGCScqGYm-J0l-doQZk/s612/IMG_3351.JPG" style="font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="612" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyT3_7eUBqLx7TKO5T1HuPK_sWL91AyFfQ09Q6IawB_SprL6JtnhG38vW_2W-gnN948nVxKzl7lCBNc8NNB-lEMQD1gkejCORmQ3wd_q_sLndeGbigduH9sW2YgS6y5U3sgKEfykswrULsR9tfHKTMFPtD32iWL66Pr6wzgCqwyGCScqGYm-J0l-doQZk/w400-h285/IMG_3351.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a></font> </p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5396029324270133067.post-32096875679788366782023-10-12T05:12:00.004-04:002023-10-12T13:47:36.180-04:00In Spite Of Ourselves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoiIICpy6krLQU_hTQ6aaCHbioRX-ugKImVWHRvhsIeJJa49MAuwmcS1FcHJ8v2pTWHFamRCuh_4h02jEDezkNms-06iQFKWjqOhmx1gWkr81TWIK-BmyM6NrlqH39Gt9QAv8jULV0wQKv8wUPB3ZL1dQLBEpU-f6m1Quj4GVBuQDFIbtObu8oOD9Jz_U/s400/IMG_3332.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoiIICpy6krLQU_hTQ6aaCHbioRX-ugKImVWHRvhsIeJJa49MAuwmcS1FcHJ8v2pTWHFamRCuh_4h02jEDezkNms-06iQFKWjqOhmx1gWkr81TWIK-BmyM6NrlqH39Gt9QAv8jULV0wQKv8wUPB3ZL1dQLBEpU-f6m1Quj4GVBuQDFIbtObu8oOD9Jz_U/w640-h428/IMG_3332.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">Forehead-slappers and barkers at the moon went nuts a few weeks ago when everyone’s favorite conservative financial rag, </span><em style="font-size: large;">The Wall Street Journal, </em><span style="font-size: large;">cited the University of Florida as the best public university in these United States. Not to demean UF, which has been bouncing around the Top Ten for years, but the </span><em style="font-size: large;">WSJ </em><span style="font-size: large;">is owned by Rupert Murdock of </span><em style="font-size: large;">Fox News </em><span style="font-size: large;">fame, who is a great pal of Florida Governor Ron the Con DeSantis, who could use a nice boost. Governor Ron is trailing his creator, Donald Trump by the length of the Oregon Trail in their battle for the Republican nomination for Big Cheese and his prospects grow grimmer by the day.</span></p><p><font size="4">Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Siobhan and Bill have been prowling the local wilderness looking for an available homestead for friends with limited funds, not a simple task. Like most of Florida, Marion, Alachua and Levy counties are overrun with property seekers of every stripe throwing real money in all directions looking for a place to call home. We pulled up at a modest residence with a usable mobile home just off Williston Road in Micanopy about 15 minutes from G’ville and three other needy customers followed us down the driveway. In our own Fairfield neighborhood, a Colorado woman just paid $495,000 for a four-acre lot with a small house and a tiny hay barn that was barely worth $100,000 five years ago. Realtors call us frequently, begging for a deal, any deal, on our place, which is great fun for Siobhan’s employee Julie Osborne, who has taken to asking for sums worthy of the Palace of Versailles.</font></p><p><font size="4">All of this to say that Florida, despite killer hurricanes, the Red State Blues, social diseases raging through The Villages, crazed Scientologists, alligators in your birdbath, sinkholes under the living room and universal recognition as sharkbite capital of the world, is more popular than ever. It’s got the fever, it’s hot, it can’t be stopped, the hills are alive with the sound of trailers. As the holidays near, all roads lead to Orlando or Daytona or South Beach. People are moving here from California and Bombay and the Firth of Forth and nobody’s talking them out of it. </font></p><p><font size="4">Coastlines eroding from giant storms? So what. Rising waters in the streets of Miami Beach? We’ll get canoes. They’re coming and there’s no stopping them. Pretty soon the entire populations of Michigan and New Jersey will live in the Sunshine State. Close the door, they’re coming in the windows! Georgia, would you please take some of our leftovers?</font></p><p><font size="4">We live in a paradise that has fire ants which can actually kill you. We have scorpions and spiders, and pythons bigger than dinosaurs. We have the infamous Interstate 75, which makes the traffic in the <em>Mad Max </em>movies look like a day on the carousel. We have summer months where you can fry mutton on the sidewalk and deranged citizens who toss alligators through order windows at the drive-thru. Nobody cares. They can’t wait to get here and join in the fun. Mickey lives here, right, and he’s no fool.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“Where the hell else can you go where someone will pay you to dress up like Goofy? </em>asks Eddie McNamara, a Tulsa transplant now working at Disney. <em>“This is the best job I ever had.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“I came down for the Spring Break scene and stayed for the Hard Rock Casino,” </em>reports professional gambler Frank Scuderi of Hollywood</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“Everyone wants to date a mermaid,” </em>smiles undersea dancer Marilu Hendricks of Weeki Wachi Springs.</font></p><p><font size="4"><em>“You got everything here,”</em> testifies Al from Asbury Park.<em> “You want beach, you got Anastasia Island or a million other choices. You want springs, cave-diving, nature, you got north Florida. You want college and pro sports, you got the SEC in Gainesville and three NFL teams. You got raw beauty in the Keys and Everglades. You want corrupt politics, you got Tallahassee. It’s a cornucopia here, you got everything.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">But long-time High Springs resident Farnell Cole says it’s simpler than all that. The small-town songwriter smiles, leans back in his chair, hoists a glass and says <em>“When other folks say “blizzard, we Floridians think Dairy Queen.”</em> </font></p><p><font size="4">Where else can you go to the beach on February 14th? No, Greg Barriere, it only counts if you get out of the car.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzMsHisU_KjBxPEb-n8-lKIbebiuK93p6gjFtV5j3nOr0a90dXmX8yz04AEjmjyUmjWJibWMNb8pb3-cSPiILOZt1IQr7ebjOxCjd1vPbTbDUkpQWJqQiARtGasyfPCNtI-4HO5f6r5PtPWKhB3tNXfN7ep-Bwxk-p-u02CSe5nxoNfx9HvZklJuFnXrU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="142" data-original-width="320" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzMsHisU_KjBxPEb-n8-lKIbebiuK93p6gjFtV5j3nOr0a90dXmX8yz04AEjmjyUmjWJibWMNb8pb3-cSPiILOZt1IQr7ebjOxCjd1vPbTbDUkpQWJqQiARtGasyfPCNtI-4HO5f6r5PtPWKhB3tNXfN7ep-Bwxk-p-u02CSe5nxoNfx9HvZklJuFnXrU=w400-h178" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>A Short History Of Early Florida</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4">Back before the days of Arthur Godfrey, interstate highways and air-conditioning, nobody lived in Florida except crazy fools like Ponce de Leon, who was looking for the Fountain of Youth in St. Augustine. Noone can say whether he found it or not because a few years later one of the rambunctious local natives shot a fatal arrow through his thigh and even the Fountain of Youth has its limitations.</font></p><p><font size="4">That didn’t stop Hernando de Soto from coming to Florida in search of Indian gold. Hernando and his boys wandered around for four years with no luck, then headed west, bound for Mexico. De Soto barely made it to the Mississippi River, where he died in misery<font size="4"> in 1542. They named a car after him, though.</font></font></p><p><font size="4">In 1559, a yahoo named Tristan de Luna led another attempt by Europeans to colonize Florida, establishing a settlement on Pensacola Bay. His encampment was soon set upon by Republican reactionaries and poor Tristan was forced to flee to Havana, where his parents owned a night club.</font></p><p><font size="4">Despite the lack of success by these Spanish conquistadors, their stories fascinated Europeans. In 1562, the French Protestant Jean Ribault explored the area and two years later fellow Frenchman Rene Goulaine de Laudonniere established Fort Caroline at the mouth of the St. John’s River near present-day Jacksonville, so now we know who to blame for that blight on humanity.</font></p><p><font size="4">The successful French adventurers lit a match under the Spanish, who promptly dispatched Pedro Menendez de Aviles to St. Augustine, where he set up shop on 1565. It turned out to be the first permanent European settlement in the United States and we might be singing his praises if Pedro hadn’t offed all the French settlers. Two years later and still in a snit, the French sent Dominique de Gourgues to St. Augustine to recapture the town and kill all their soldiers.</font></p><p><font size="4">The British gained control of Florida in 1763 in exchange for Havana. Good deal, huh? The English had ambitious plans for the state and split it into two parts—West Florida, with it’s capital at Pensacola and East Florida with its capital at St. Augustine. The two Floridas remained loyal to Great Britain throughout the Revolutionary War but Spain captured Pensacola from the British in 1781 and in 1784 regained the rest of Florida as part of the peace treaty which ended the American Revolution. So why aren’t we all speaking Spanish these days? Oh, that’s right—we are.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhq5LcqfOnfoH2QUODCwmtXCSo_PFfy2PUkSbrOowdJo8FrfrCKxsxl7NckRdA4t2r8SMo1aLOg2F9mXL9EavrxHPqoqXd2y2_L7RmRbpuq3WRrwp6eFkRXjvljbXa36GffiarkcTRLVH70vUwZ15gbq2fAxOjJCleTuTSKss6ERUIedIDKPpMNMyzxLWs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="320" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhq5LcqfOnfoH2QUODCwmtXCSo_PFfy2PUkSbrOowdJo8FrfrCKxsxl7NckRdA4t2r8SMo1aLOg2F9mXL9EavrxHPqoqXd2y2_L7RmRbpuq3WRrwp6eFkRXjvljbXa36GffiarkcTRLVH70vUwZ15gbq2fAxOjJCleTuTSKss6ERUIedIDKPpMNMyzxLWs=w400-h253" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><strong>Important Dates</strong></font><p></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1845</strong>---It’s official; Florida becomes the 27th state.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1861</strong>---Hold that thought; Florida secedes from the Union.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1878</strong>---Tourism dawns at <strong>Silver Springs</strong> when smartypants local Hullam Jones glues a window to the bottom of his rowboat and invents the glass-bottom boat.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1883</strong>---Florida gets railroaded. Henry Plant lays tracks on the West Coast, Henry Flagler on the East. <strong>Stuckey’s</strong> stores sprout up along the train routes and a new era of Florida travel begins.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1913</strong>---<strong>Joe’s Stone Crab </strong>opens in Miami Beach before it’s even a city, becomes world famous.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1928</strong>---The Tamiami Trail opens. Nobody notices.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1931</strong>---The first year of Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale. Nobody notices.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1953</strong>---<strong>Arthur Godfrey Show </strong>packs up its ukuleles and moves to the Kenilworth Hotel in Bal Harbour. People in Iowa suddenly discover Miami.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1959</strong>---<strong>Fidel Castro </strong>takes over Cuba. Everybody in Cuba moves north.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1960</strong>---Glendon Swarthout writes <strong>Where The Boys Are</strong>, celebrating Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale. Attendance quintuples, pregnancies mount.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1960</strong>---<strong>Surfside 6 </strong>TV show begins broadcasting from a houseboat across the street from the Fontainebleau Hotel. Show lasts a mere two years. <strong>Larry King’s </strong>WIOD<strong> </strong>radio interview program<strong> </strong>takes over houseboat.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1961</strong>---Goober falls off hotel balcony in Daytona Beach during Spring Break. Everybody keeps drinking.</font></p><p><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong>1961</strong>---<strong>Cape Canaveral </strong>sends its first manned vessel into space.</font></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1963</strong>---<strong>Interstate 75 </strong>opens in North Florida. Governor Farris Bryant waves starting flag from roadside tower and screams, “Gentlemen, start your engines!” Pandemonium erupts and continues to this day.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1963</strong>---Bill Killeen moves to Florida, starts <strong>Charlatan </strong>magazine in Tallahassee. Deans cringe. Larry King invites Bill down for an interview.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1966</strong>---Marie Killeen visits Florida, sees her first roach at <strong>Breakwaters Hotel</strong> on South Beach.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1966</strong>---<strong>Steve Spurrier</strong> kicks field goal to beat Auburn, wins Heisman Trophy.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1966</strong>---<strong>Pamme Brewer</strong> poses nude in Charlatan. Walter Cronkite and CBS News crew visit Gainesville for raucous trial. Brewer wins, <em>en loco parentis </em>rule scrapped nationwide.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1967</strong>---<strong>Subterranean Circus </strong>opens in Gainesville. Hippies celebrate, everyone else runs for cover.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1971</strong>---856 poisonous snakes and a camel escape from Will Thacker’s <strong>Underground Zoo </strong>in Gainesville.<strong> </strong></font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1971</strong>---Children east of the Mississippi go berserk as <strong>Walt Disney World </strong>opens outside little Orlando. Siobhan Ellison quits after one week as official greeter at Tomorrowland.</font></p><p><font size="4"><strong>1984</strong>---<strong>Miami Vice </strong>starts up shop in Miami and spurs an Art Deco revival. Intrigued Europeans flood South Beach, spurring a topless tanning outburst. Breakwaters Hotel quadruples rates and calls Ortho.</font></p><p><font size="4">Pretty quiet since then.</font> </p><p><font size="4"> <font size="4"><font size="4"><font size="4"><strong><strong><font size="4"><strong><font size="4"><font size="4"> </font></font></strong></font></strong></strong></font></font></font></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><strong><font size="4"><strong><font size="4"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuJspiMCbKA4TfbOUH4Txass88-lCjXXhsdLGxDY2zvraG-7NoGXggmrKHCdEiipt6JcpUJJyIsW77XnBjMn96n1e1EgZXSJBWCNfCs54xMHfNZw0ns7P2GTV0o3pxBW9Q-sjXgJRj-skFvOEiwezkHcwnJbb8tExx6lZnfcFrYTsWhr-M1EIGSAlCRVY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="320" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuJspiMCbKA4TfbOUH4Txass88-lCjXXhsdLGxDY2zvraG-7NoGXggmrKHCdEiipt6JcpUJJyIsW77XnBjMn96n1e1EgZXSJBWCNfCs54xMHfNZw0ns7P2GTV0o3pxBW9Q-sjXgJRj-skFvOEiwezkHcwnJbb8tExx6lZnfcFrYTsWhr-M1EIGSAlCRVY=w400-h272" width="400" /></a></font></font></strong></font></strong></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><strong><font size="4"><strong><font size="4"><font size="4"><br /></font></font></strong></font></strong></strong></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Florida Foibles</b></span><br /><p></p><p><font size="4">People like Florida because there’s never a dull moment here, even in Dunnellon. Things happen in the Sunshine State that don’t occur anywhere else and everybody finds out about them because we have a thing called the Sunshine Law, which makes public records available to any pseudo-journalist with a home-made ID. Otherwise, how would we know about the following?:</font></p><p><font size="4">A Florida man named Wesley Dasher Scott, 40, was busted on a marijuana charge in Pinellas County. While being strip-searched at the P.C. Jail, Scott pulled three syringes from his rectum, but claimed they were not his. <em>“Maybe he’s just covering his ass,” </em>smiled the sheriff. <em>“Who uses his butt as a medicine cabinet?”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Things were even weirder than usual at the Gainesville Walmart on a recent Monday night when a late-arriving customer barged through the wall of the store driving a large excavator he had stolen earlier that evening. <em>“I’m a little embarrassed,” </em>said the unidentified culprit, <em>“I accidentally took down a few power poles in the southwest part of town on the way here and now I’ve probably lost customer privileges in my favorite store.” </em>Think nothing of it, pardner, you’re among friends.</font></p><p><font size="4">Sometimes you just want to go to <em>Hooters. </em>One Jonathan Hinkle, 28, was so inclined but low on funds so he cleverly called <strong>911 </strong>dispatchers and told them he needed a ride to the Merritt Island restaurant because his grandmother had just suffered a stroke in the parking lot. Deputies searched unsuccessfully for three hours before finding nana at a Bingo hall where she was on a winning streak and wasn’t leaving. Hinkle was arrested on charges of misusing an emergency number and slapped in the pokey for closer inspection.</font></p><p><font size="4">You can’t take your movies too seriously. A Pensacola man did just that recently after viewing <em>Back To The Future </em>convinced him that all he had to do to time travel was drive his Dodge Challenger fast enough. When he woke up, he was still in 2023, having crashed into a strip mall and seriously damaging three businesses. <em>“I guess I didn’t go fast enough,” </em>the perp speculated.</font></p><p><font size="4">Finally, there’s the matter of farting in bed. There seems to be a blight of it in Florida, so no wonder Dawn Meikle, 55, of Port St. Lucie got perturbed when her husband kept mining for gas all night long. Elbowing didn’t help so Dawn resorted to kicking, punching and scratching, and a full-scale battle broke out when her husband attempted to restrain her. Hubby received ample cuts to the neck and chest and had his shirt torn open in three places. Mrs. Meikle was arrested and charged with domestic battery. <em>“I’d do it again,” </em>she said. “<em>The bedroom smelled like a Chinese fish market. My jail cell was a step up.”</em></font></p><p><font size="4">Florida, Land of 10,000 Flakes and counting. If you’re seriously disturbed or you just like a good pickleball game, come on down. We can always use another sucker.</font></p><p><font size="4"><br /></font></p><p><font size="4"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1nNJzUZYwvAf4o71eGyycImd6nq_MA2zXZ3Pj-oh1Z8a97EkBShvxHYB5p6VmDPaUHbSZOQc-TDo4fBYkVAuJIf448qARY4wGKCLP5MpTOXiUGZk-IN7IMjI0CMOONBbqKoSOMC5tMAujMSXHKgTmXWKHiu0aXlh5PiaMEAwG75mhsrMyNpyV5dEQ0Jg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="204" data-original-width="320" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1nNJzUZYwvAf4o71eGyycImd6nq_MA2zXZ3Pj-oh1Z8a97EkBShvxHYB5p6VmDPaUHbSZOQc-TDo4fBYkVAuJIf448qARY4wGKCLP5MpTOXiUGZk-IN7IMjI0CMOONBbqKoSOMC5tMAujMSXHKgTmXWKHiu0aXlh5PiaMEAwG75mhsrMyNpyV5dEQ0Jg=w400-h255" width="400" /></a></font></div><font size="4"><br /><br /></font><p></p><p><font size="4">That’s all, folks….</font></p><p><font size="4"><a href="mailto:bill.killeen094@gmail.com">bill.killeen094@gmail.com</a> </font></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com